m 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 
PHILIP  WHALEN  COLLECTION 


THE  PETER  AND  ROSELL  HARVEY 
MEMORIAL  FUND 


THE 


COMPLETE    WORKS 


OF 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE. 


J1MO 


MMJJIW 


/ 


SHAKESPEARE 


P.  F.  COLLIER  &  SON  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


THE 


COMPLETE  WORKS 


OF 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


WITH  AN  ESSAY  ON  SHAKESPEARE  AND  BACON 

BY  SIR  HENRY  IRVING 
AND  A  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION 


P.  F.  COLLIER  &  SON  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


India  Paper 


3H.T 


T3JC 


51ODAH  CI 


A  H1IW 


A  d>lA 


Manufactured  in  Great  Britain 


TO 

SIR  HENRY  IRVING 

WHO,    BY    HIS 
FINE    INTELLECT    AND    SPLENDID    ACCOMPLISHMENT 

HAS,    FOR    MANY    YEARS, 

ILLUMINED    SEVERAL    OF    THE    GREAT    PLAYS- 
OF 

SHAKESPEARE 

THROUGHOUT  THE  STAGES  OF  ENGLAND  AND  AMERICA, 

THIS  VOLUME  IS,  BY  PERMISSION,  AND  AS  A  TOKEN  OF  APPRECIATION 

OF  HIS  MAGNIFICENT  INTERPRETATION  OF 

ENGLAND'S  GREATEST  DRAMATIST 

RESPECTFULLY  DEDICATED 


fl      OHW 


>II3 


as*  A  'ijiu.: 


3HT    'I 

H>I7 
az/,  ar/i/.jo^a  ^o  SSOAH^  SHT  TUOKOTJO/THT 

Kdl'iOT   A    ?.A   aXA   tWOIcrfIMJia<I  YS   <?.!  3MUJO  /  8IHT 

Wi'  TK;nms!QAM  ^IH  10 


•r.  v  t ; 


CONTENTS. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION 

SHAKESPEARE  AND  BACON,  BY  SIR  HENRY  IRVING 

THE  TEMPEST  ...... 

TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA 

MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR      .  .  . 

TWELFTH  NIGHT;   OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL    . 

MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE  .  .         >;?:A 

MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     .  .        3i?3 

A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM  .  , 

LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST    .         ***?         .W 

THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE       .... 

AS  YOU  LIKE  IT 

ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL  .  .        ;;>.;, 

THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW  .  .  .         r* .  / 

THE  WINTER'S  TALE          .  .          \    •        . 

THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS  .          '.    '      V 

KING  JOHN     .          \,;:        ..... 

THE  LIFE  AND* DEATH  OF  KING  RICHARD  II.       .  • 

FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 

SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV.     .        p?^    tf  .J^! 

KING  HENRY  V.        ...          ^^ 

FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI.         . 

SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI.     . 

THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI.       \f^      ^ 

THE  LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF  KING  RICHARD  III. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

KING  HENRY  VIII.  . .716 

TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA.             ...                         ,             .             .  752 

TIMON  OF  ATHENS             ........  791 

CORIOLANUS              .            .  ^    p.T/r        .                                                   .             .  819 

JULIUS  C/ESAR          .            j '"'        .   "*    '    .                          ....  860 

ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA           .         "~7~"        .....  889 

CYMBELINE    ....                                                   .        J^,    <r/>.  929 

TITUS  ANDRONICUS       y^^     y^y.   rH.y                                                .        ^.f-  969 

PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE      .            .                         .             .             .        ,/3T  998 

KING  LEAR j  y                    .             .        ^^  1026 

ROMEO  AND  JULIET           ....        ,)grr/        .         ?Tyj   .{  y,  1065 

MACBETH        .             .             .            •   1    iw  U    >Y'T>    I'/T            •        [OtXI     ITH  IIO° 

HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK           .            .           a>r   2/ai;    Mf)H     [ljy.  1127 

OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE       .            .  ;      nrr(   ^1^    t[y?  (.    r/ .}  1171 

POEMS. 

VENUS  AND  ADONIS           .             .             .             .           \            ,2     J?g    J?  1210 

THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE  .             .             .            .          ...           _.-       ^"/^    ' ":'  1224 

SONNETS         .             .             .             .             .           ".           '.'•".            .           '"!O  1246 

A  LOVER'S  COMPLAINT    .             .             .          J.J3    '   ^    H  JA    ' '  .'^    tW/  1270 

THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM         .             .          *.    '        .^          .           v      "  ".  1274 

SONNETS  TO  SUNDRY  NOTES  OF  MUSIC      .  I 

8 JlOJ-i  .-«:•!  "1C  YQ3MI 
THE  PHOZNIX  AND  THE  TURTLE 


1 


INDEX  TO  THE  CHARACTERS  IN  SHAKESPEARE'S  DRAMATIC 

WORKS               .             .             .                         .             .                     r  ^  1281 

GLOSSARY      .....        IV.  yj    /T3.II     WVA         *            .  1300 

006  •'- •  :             fc  .                                .IY  v;-'. /:::i:i  O'/iJ -L   ••  •  r>iA^  ay  j^a 


III'/.. 


I 


BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION. 


THERE  is  no  name  in  the  world  of  literature  like  the  name  of  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  Homer 
broke  as  a  sudden  dawn  through  the  darkness  of  the  earlier  ages,  and  sang  the  grandest  of 
heroic  songs.  Dante,  when  the  gods  of  Homer  were  no  more,  towered  up,  proud  and  solitary, 
with  his  sad  and  solemn  dreams,  his  fierce  hate,  and  his  majestic  love.  Milton  opened  the  gates 
of  death,  of  heaven,  and  of  hell,  and  saw  visions  such  as  no  man  ever  saw  before  or  will  see 
again.  But  Homer,  Dante,  and  Milton  do  not  live  in  our  heart  of  hearts,  do  not  twine  round 
our  affections,  do  not  satisfy  our  souls  as  SHAKESPEARE  does.  Here  and  there  we  may  find 
touches  of  more  daring  sublimity,  passages  more  steeped  in  learning,  lines  more  instinct  with 
abstract  thought ;  but  the  greatest  and  best  interpreter  of  human  nature,  the  poet  of  the  widest 
sympathies,  of  the  most  delicate  perceptions,  of  the  profoundest  knowledge  of  mankind,  a  greater 
sculptor  than  Phidias,  a  truer  painter  than  Raphael,  came  into  the  world  at  the  pleasant  town  of 
Stratford-upon-Avon  in  April,  1564. 

He  lived  fifty-two  years,  he  wrote  thirty-seven  plays  and  some  miscellaneous  poems,  he  was 
buried  in  the  town  in  which  he  was  born,  and  his  name  has  ever  since  filled  the  world.  His 
works  are  now  one  of  the  luxuries  of  life.  It  would  be  difficult  to  conceive  of  ourselves  as  still 
unacquainted  with  Hamlet,  and  Macbeth,  and  Lear,  and  Othello.  The  realms  of  fancy  would 
appear  uninhabited  if  Shakespeare's  creations  were  withdrawn  from  them.  Men  are  prouder 
of  the  earth  on  which  they  live,  and  of  themselves,  because  he  was  one  of  their  fellow-men. 
Coleridge  called  him  the  "myriad-minded;"  and  well  he  might,  for  there  was  no  mood  or 
phase  of  mind  which  he  did  not  realize.  The  most  absolute  courage,  the  most  perfect  manliness 
were  not  less  inherent  in  him  than  the  most  winning  gentleness,  the  most  exquisite  tenderness. 
The  exuberance  of  his  art  is  only  equalled  by  the  profoundness  of  his  pathos.  As  a  moral  teacher 
he  takes  precedence  of  all  other  uninspired  writers.  Vice  never  looks  so  odious,  nor  crime  so 
execrable,  as  when  placed  under  the  burning  light  of  his  indignation  :  the  simplest  virtue,  the 
humblest  effort  to  do  good,  never  shine  so  fair  as  when  breathed  upon  by  him. 

The  endless  multiplication  of  editions  of  Shakespeare  is  the  natural  consequence  of  the  effect 
he  produces  and  the  benefits  he  confers.  These  benefits  were  felt  in  his  lifetime,  and  have  been 
acknowledged  at  all  times  since  with  an  ever-increasing  enthusiasm.  It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose, 
as  some  writers  have  done,  that  Shakespeare  was  at  any  period  little  read  or  lightly  estimated. 
No  doubt,  as  education  and  habits  of  reading  came  to  be  more  widely  diffused,  the  demand  for 
his  works  increased  ;  but  among  those  who  did  read,  in  the  latter  half  of  the  sixteenth  century 
and  downwards,  Shakespeare  was  from  the  first  and  continuously  felt  to  be  a  new  power  and  a 
new  delight.  All  his  most  distinguished  contemporaries  regarded  him  with  love  and  admiration. 
His  plays  speedily  attained  the  highest  favour  at  Court ;  Queen  Elizabeth  and  her  successor 
James  openly  declared  their  preference  for  them.  When  Shakespeare  died,  Charles  I.  was 
Prince  of  Wales  and  Milton  was  a  child.  One  of  the  favourite  amusements  of  the  prince  was  to 
witness  representations  of  the  Shakesperian  drama  at  Whitehall ;  and  Milton,  unfettered  by  that 
Puritanism  which  rejected  as  evil  everything  connected  with  the  stage,  dedicated  to  the  great 
poet  who  had  preceded  him  one  of  the  noblest  sonnets  in  our  language.  Dryden  followed 
Milton,  and  Pope  came  after  Dryden,  and  in  the  day  and  generation  of  both  Shakespeare's  star 
shone  conspicuous,  worshipped  by  none  more  than  by  the  authors  of  the  "  Religio  Laid  "  and 
the"Dunciad.» 

In  the  year  1623,  within  seven  years  of  Shakespeare's  death,  a  complete  edition  of  his  plays 
was  published,  with  a  glowing  dedication  to  his  friends,  the  Earls  of  Pembroke  and  Montgomery. 
A  second  edition,  in  folio  like  the  first,  was  brought  out  in  1632,  a  third  in  1663,  re-issued  with 
additions  in  1664,  and  a  fourth  in  1685.  Throughout  the  whole  of  the  eighteenth  century  there 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION. 


become  the  mother  of  Shakespeare  :  "how  august  a  title,"  says  De  Quincey,  "to  the  reverence 
of  infinite  generations,  and  of  centuries  beyond  the  vision  of  prophecy  ! "  She  bore  her  husband 
eight  children,  four  sons  and  four  daughters.  The  two  first  were  daughters,  Jone  or  Joan,  and 
Margaret ;  the  third  was  William ;  then  followed  Gilbert,  another  Joan,  Anne,  Richard,  and 
EdiTond,  who  was  born  in  1580,  and  was  therefore  sixteen  years  younger  than  William.  With 
the  exception  of  the  second  Joan,  all  the  poet's  sisters  died  in  childhood  ;  but  his  brothers  attained 
to  mature  age. 

William,  being  the  eldest  son,  and  born  when  his  father's  fortunes  were  in  the  ascendant,  was 
no  doubt  looked  carefully  after.  The  year  of  his  birth  was  one  of  terror  and  of  woe  in  Stratford  ; 
for  the  plague  which  desolated  London  in  1563,  and  still  continued  there,  spread  over  other 
parts  of  England  in  1564,  and  the  red  cross  was  seen  on  many  a  door  in  quiet  country  towns, 
and  was  nowhere  more  alarmingly  frequent  than  in  Stratford.  But,  fortunately  for  mankind, 
the  plague  spared  the  house  of  Shakespeare.  He  lay,  like  Horace — 

"  Sacra 

Lauroque,  collataque  myrto, 
Non  sine  Dis  animosus  infans.' 

They  show  the  room  still  in  which  he  was  born, — a  low-roofed,  antique  apartment,  but  yet  pos- 
sessing an  air  of  comfort,  the  walls  of  which  are,  in  the  words  of  Washington  Irving,  "  covered 
with  names  and  inscriptions  in  every  language,  by  pilgrims  of  all  nations,  ranks,  and  conditions, 
from  the  prince  to  the  peasant ;  and  present  a  simple  but  striking  instance  of  the  spontaneous  and 
universal  homage  of  mankind  to  the  great  poet  of  nature." 

And  when,  in  happy  boyhood,  he  opened  his  eyes  upon  the  world,  and  wandered  out  into  the 
scenes  that  surrounded  his  home,  he  found  them  not  only  full  of  romantic  beauty,  but  ennobled 
by  old  associations  and  poetical  traditions.  The  immediate  neighbourhood  of  Stratford  is 
undulating  and  varied,  with  a  picturesque  variety  of  hill  and  dale,  wood  and  meadowland, 
through  which  the  Avon  flows  in  silver  links.  Dear  was  that  river  to  the  young  poet — dear  no 
doubt  it  was  to  every  boy  in  Stratford ;  but  thoughts  came  to  Shakespeare  by  its  green  bank 
destined  to  shine  as  long  as  its  waters  run  : — 

"  Thou  soft-flowing  Avon,  by  thy  silver  stream 

Of  things  more  than  mortal  sweet  Shakespeare  would  dream." 

He  had  "an  eye  for  all  he  saw."  Under  the  hedgerow,  through  the  meadows,  on  the 
uplands,  and  in  the  beautiful  bosom  of  the  country,  he  noted  every  weed  and  wildflower.  In 
after  years,  when  buried  in  the  heart  of  London,  he  could  see,  when  he  listed, 

"pvj  y<J  'l'-\\&iii'  ij'li;  vr.ij  I:::'-  orfi:*,  tJiJj  Dns  ~««iHW' n<»  ^nloitfp  bsv/ouoi  faaiiqi.J  3«u| 

"  The  winking  Mary -buds  begin 
To  ope  their  golden  eyes ; n 

or, 

"  Daffodils 

That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty ;  violets  dim, 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes 
Or  Cytherea?s  breath. *• 

or  else, 

"A  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme  blows, 

Where  oxlips  and  the  nodding  violet  grows ; 
Quite  over-canopied  with  lush  woodbine, 
With  sweet  musk  roses  and  with  eglantine." 

In  the  dingiest  room,  darkened  by  a  city's  smoke,  he  could  return  at  will  to  the  umbrageous  oaks 
and  elms  beneath  whose  shadows  he  had  so  often  lain,  and  warble,  as  of  old,— - 

"  Under  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me* 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION. 


And  tune  his  merry  throat 

Unto  the  sweet  bird's  note, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither  ; 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather  1 " 

When  he  extended  his  rambles  to  greater  distances,  they  led  him  to  some  grand  old  castle,  or 
famous  battle-field,  or  stately  ecclesiastical  edifice,  inspiring  a  respectful  reverence  not  untouched 
with  awe.  He  was  twelve  years  old  when  Elizabeth  made  her  celebrated  visit  to  the  Earl  of 
Leicester  at  Kenilworth.  The  series  of  princely  entertainments  with  which  the  aspiring  courtier 
welcomed  his  sovereign  attracted  the  whole  surrounding  district,  and  no  doubt  Stratford,  which 
was  only  a  few  miles  off,  sent  its  entire  population  to  testify  their  admiration  and  loyalty.  It  is 
more  than  probable  that  Shakespeare  was  one  of  the  spectators,  and  that  his  imagination  may 
have  been  there  for  the  first  time  fired  with  a  love  of  gorgeous  spectacle,  and  all  the  "  pride, 
pomp,  and  circumstance  "  of  that  great  pageantry. 

There  was  a  good  grammar  or  free  school  at  Stratford  in  Shakespeare's  time.  It  had  been 
founded  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VI.,  and  had  been  patronized  by  Edward  IV.  We  may  take 
it  for  granted  that  the  poet  attended  that  school,  since  he  certainly  lived  at  Stratford  till  after 
his  marriage,  and  there  is  no  trace  of  his  ever  having  been  at  any  other  seminary.  The  educa- 
tion which  the  school  afforded  was  not  solely  rudimental,  but  extended  to  the  classical 
languages.  The  more  advanced  scholars  were  afforded  an  opportunity  of  becoming  familiar 
with  such  authors  as  Terence,  Sallust,  Cicero,  Pliny,  Horace,  and  Virgil.  How  many  years 
Shakespeare  attended  this  school  we  do  not  know,  nor  what  figure  he  made  at  it.  But  we  do 
know  that  he  had  a  quick  and  ready  wit,  a  keen  perception,  and  an  admirable  faculty  in  the 
acquisition  of  knowledge.  Admitting,  therefore,  as  some  have  surmised,  that  all  his  schooling 
took  place  between  his  eighth  and  his  sixteenth  years,  that  was  time  enough"  for  a  youth  of  his 
capacity  to  acquire  a  large  if  not  a  profound  stock  of  learning.  Shakespeare's  first  poems,  the 
"  Venus  and  Adonis,"  the  "  Lucrece,"  and  the  "  Passionate  Pilgrim"  evince  strong  classical 
predilections  ;  and  no  one  could  have  written  them  who  had  not  drunk  at  the  fountain  of  the 
Greek  and  Latin  authors.  His  plays  are  full  of  classical  allusions  and  illustrations.  "  Troilus 
and  Cressida"  possesses  Homeric  touches;  "  Coriolanus  "  and  "Julius  Csesar  "  have  all  the 
fire  of  the  grandest  of  the  Roman  poets,  historians,  and  orators  ;  "  Love's  Labour's  Lost,"  one 
of  his  earliest  comedies,  breathes  throughout  of  the  youthful  scholar  ;  and  the  "  Comedy  of 
Errors"  is  founded,  even  to  minute  details,  on  the  "  Menajchmi"  of  Plautus.  If  Shakespeare 
was  not,  even  when  a  very  young  man,  "  a  scholar,  and  a  ripe  one,"  he  was  at  least  one  who 
had  profited  much  by  the  instructions  of  faithful  teachers.  What  his  ultimate  attainments  as  a 
linguist  were  is  not  perhaps  a  matter  of  great  consequence,  because  he  had  that  within  him 


inferentially  admitted 

Life  of  Shakespeare,  that  in  a  conversation  which  took  place  on  one  occasion  between  Jonson 
and  Sir  John  Suckling  the  latter  said,  most  truly,  that  "  if  Jonson  would  produce  any  one  topic 
finely  treated  by  any  of  the  ancients,  he  (Suckling)  would  undertake  to  show  something  upon 
the  same  subject,  at  least  as  well  written,  by  Shakespeare."  Mr.  Capel  Lofft,  in  the  Introduc- 
tion to  his  work  entitled  Aphorisms  from  Shakespeare,  makes  the  following  noteworthy  observa- 
tions : — "  If  it  were  asked  from  what  sources  Shakespeare  drew  those  abundant  streams  of 
wisdom,  carrying  with  their  current  the  fairest  and  most  unfading  flowers  of  poetry,  I  should 
be  tempted  to  say  he  had  what  would  be  now  considered  a  very  reasonable  portion  of  Latin  ; 
he  was  not  wholly  ignorant  of  Greek  ;  he  had  a  knowledge  of  the  French,  so  as  to  read  it  with 
ease  ;  and,  I  believe,  not  less  of  the  Italian.  He  was  habitually  conversant  in  the  chronicles 
of  his  country.  He  lived  with  wise  and  highly  cultivated  men,  with  Jonson,  Essex,  and 
Southampton,  in  familiar  friendship.  He  had  deeply  imbibed  the  Scriptures ;  and  his  own 
most  acute,  profound,  active,  and  original  genius  (for  there  never  was  a  truly  great  poet  nor  an 
aphoristic  writer  of  excellence  without  these  accompanying  qualities)  must  take  the  lead  in  the 
solution."  Pope,  in  the  valuable  Preface  to  his  edition  of  Shakespeare,  gives  expression  to 
similar  sentiments.  "  There  is  a  vast  difference,"  he  says,  "  between  learning and  languages. 

62 


xn  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

How  far  Shakespeare  was  ignorant  of  the  latter  I  cannot  determine  ;  but  it  is  plain  he  had 
much  reading^  least,  if  they  will  not  call  it  learning  :  nor  is  it  any  great  matter,  if  a  man  has 
knowledge,  whether  he  has  it  from  one  language  or  from  another.  Nothing  is  more  evident 
than  that  he  had  a  taste  of  natural  philosophy,  mechanics,  ancient  and  modern  history,  poetical 
learning,  and  mythology ;  and  that  he  was  very  knowing  in  the  customs,  rites,  and  manners  of 
antiquity," 

Learning  and  the  classics  were  much  cultivated  in  Queen  Elizabeth's  reign,  she  herself  settim? 
an  example  of  predilection  for  them.  Previously  these  studies  had  been  mainly  confined  to  the 
clergy  and  a  few  scholars  by  profession  ;  but  now  a  general  enthusiasm  sprang  up  in  the  cause 
of  letters.  The  Queen,  with  the  aid  of  her  tutor,  Roger  Ascham,  wrote  a  commentary  on 
Plato,  and  translated  from  the  Greek  two  of  the  Orations  of  Isocrates,  a  Play  of  Euripides,  and 
portions  of  Xenophon  and  Plutarch  ;  and  from  the  Latin,  Sallust's  History  of  the  Jugurthine 
War,  Horace's  De  Arte  Poetica,  Boethius'  De  Consolatione  Philosophic,  and  several  of  Cicero's 
and  Seneca's  Epistles.  She  was  also  the  founder  of  Westminster  School,  and  of  Jesus  College, 
Oxford ;  whilst  her  successor  James,  who  loved  to  be  called  the  British  Solomon,  before 
ascending  the  English  throne,  had  given  a  charter  to  the  University  of  Edinburgh.  The  whole 
court  circle,  both  male  and  female,  and  the  upper  classes  generally,  felt  themselves  constrained 
to  follow  in  the  wake  of  royalty ;  and  the  erudition  which  diffused  itself  during  Elizabeth's 
reign  deepened  into  pedantry  in  that  of  James,  About  this  time  also,  and  even  a  little  earlier, 
the  modern  languages — Spanish,  French,  and  Italian — came  much  into  vogue.  Italian,  in 
particular,  was  so  much  affected  that  the  devotion  to  it  almost  rivalled  the  classical  mania  of  the 
day.  Wyatt  and  Surrey  took  Petrarch  for  their  model ;  and  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  who  died  about 
the  time  that  Shakespeare  went  to  London,  and  who  may  be  said  to  have  introduced  pastoral 
poetry  into  England,  was,  in  his  "  Arcadia,"  an  open  imitator  of  Sannazaro.  Most  of  the  lyric 
poems  of  the  time  are  tinctured  with  an  Italian  style.  It  is  traceable  in  several  of  Shakespeare's 
miscellaneous  pieces,  and  particularly  in  the  subtleties  and  ingenuities  with  which  his  Sonnets 
abound.  His  acquaintance  with  the  stores  of  Italian  fiction  supplied  him  with  the  plots  of  some 
of  his  finest  plays ;  and  Italy  may  well  be  proud  of  our  great  bard's  ardent  attachment  to  her 
soil,  and  just  appreciation  of  her  national  and  individual  character. 

As  yet,  however,  he  was  but  a  schoolboy  at  Stratford,  on  whose  young  life  some  shadow  was 
about  to  fall.  His  father's  fortunes  declined.  The  cause  has  not  been  ascertained,  but  the  fact 
seems  indisputable.  His  property  was  mortgaged  ;  debt  pressed  upon  him  ;  he  withdrew  from 
his  municipal  honours  ;  and  the  general  belief  seems  to  be  that,  finding  himself  in  straitened 
circumstances,  he  took  his  son  William  from  school  about  the  year  1578,  and  apprenticed  him 
to  his  own  business.  But  here  again  we  get  upon  debateable  ground.  No  one  knows  as  a  fact 
that  Shakespeare  ever  dabbled  in  the  wool-stapling  business.  Rowe  and  Malone,  on  no  better 
data  apparently  than  the  acquaintance  which  the  poet  has  shown  with  legal  terms,  have  fancied 
that  he  must  have  been  in  an  attorney's  office.  They  might  as  well  have  fancied  that  he  had 
been  bred  a  druggist,  or  a  goldsmith,  or  a  farrier,  or  an  ornithologist,  or  a  sailor,  or  a  watch- 
man, or  any  other  trade  under  the  sun ;  for  there  is  no  trade  under  the  sun  with  the  technicali- 
ties of  which  he  does  not  seem  familiar.  The  probability  is  (and  we  have  nothing  better  than 
probabilities  to  go  upon),  that  till  within  a  year  or  two  of  his  marriage  in  1582,  when  he  was 
eighteen  years  of  age,  he  was  at  his  studies  ;  and  that,  if  his  father  then  "  needed  him  at  home," 
he  gave  his  father  such  aid  in  his  failing  circumstances  as  he  could. 

An  event  happened  in  1580  which  was  calculated  to  make  a  greater  impression  on  the  poet's 
mind  than  all  the  entries  in  the  Glover's  Ledger.  The  Nurse  in  "  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  when 
speaking  to  Lady  Capulet  of  Juliet's  age,  says, — 

"  "Pis  since  the  earthquake  now  eleven  years. 
gsbifloiriD  srij  hi.  ttnsgisv 

This  play  was  written  somewhere  about  eleven  years  after  1580,  and  on  the  6th  of  April  of  that 
year  there  occurred  one  of  the  severest  earthquakes  ever  known  in  England.  Holinshed,  whose 
historical  writings  Shakespeare  apparently  knew  by  heart,  thus  writes  of  it, — "  On  the  6th  of 
April  (1580),  being  Wednesday  in  Easter  weeke,  about  six  of  the  clocke,  toward  evening,  a 
sudden  earthquake  happening  in  London,  and  almost  generallie  throughout  all  England,  caused 
such  an  amazedness  among  the  people  as  was  wonderfull  for  the  time,  and  caused  them  to  make 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION.  xiii 

their  earnest  praiers  to  Almighty  God.  The  great  clocke  bell  in  the  palace  at  Westminster 
strake  of  itselfe  against  the  hammer  with  the  shaking  of  the  earth,  as  diverse  other  clockes  and 
bells  in  the  steeples  of  London  and  elsewhere  did  the  like.  The  gentlemen  of  the  Temple, 
being  then  at  supper,  ran  from  the  tables,  and  out  of  their  halls,  with  their  knives  in  their  hands. 
The  people  assembled  at  the  plaiehouses  in  the  fields  were  so  amazed  that,  doubting  the  mine 
of  the  galleries,  they  made  haste  to  be  gone.  A  piece  of  the  Temple  Church  fell  down  ;  and 
some  stones  fell  from  St.  Paul's  Church,  in  London.  The  tops  of  diverse  chimnies  in  the  citie 
fell  down,  the  houses  were  so  shaken.  A  part  of  the  castell  at  Bishop  Stratford,  in  Essex,  fell 
down.  This  earthquake  indured  in  or  about  London  not  passing  one  minute  of  an  houre,  and 
was  no  more  felt.  But  afterward  in  Kent,  and  on  the  sea-coast,  it  was  felt  three  times  ;  and  at 
Sandwich,  at  six  of  the  clocke,  the  land  not  only  quaked,  but  the  sea  also  foamed,  so  that  the 
ships  tottered.  At  Dover  also,  the  same  houre,  was  the  like,  so  that  a  piece  of  the  cliffe  fell 
into  the  sea,  with  also  a  piece  of  the  castell  wall  there." 

Shakespeare  had  probably  not  lost  his  impression  of  this  earthquake  when  he  made  Othello 
exclaim,  after  the  murder  of  Desdemona, — 

"  Methinks  it  should  be  now  a  huge  eclipse 
Of  sun  and  moon,  and  that  the  affrighted  globe 
Should  yawn  at  alteration.1' 

Or  when  he  put  into  Hotspur's  mouth,  in  "  King  Henry  IV.,"  the  words, — 

"  Diseased  nature  oftentimes  breaks  forth 
In  strange  eruptions  ;  oft  the  teeming  earth 
Is  with  a  kind  of  colic  pinch'd  and  vex'd, 

r'/-mf  ^  .  which,  for  enlargement  striving, 
Shakes  the  old  beldame  earth,  and  topples  down 
Steeples  and  moss-grown  towers." 

Or  when  Lennox,  the  morning  after  the  murder  of  Duncan,  utters  these  graphic  lines,—- 

"  The  night  has  been  unruly ;  where  we  lay 
Our  chimneys  were  blown  down  ;  and,  as  they  say, 
Lamentings  heard  i'  the  air ;  strange  screams  of  death, 
And  prophesying,  with  accents  terrible, 
Of  dire  combustion  and  confus'd  events, 
New  hatched  to  the  woeful  time.     The  obscure  bird 
Clamour'd  the  livelong  night :  some  say  the  earth 
Was  feverous  and  did  shake." 

Manhood  was  now  dawning,  and  the  mightiest  though  the  tenderest  of  human  passions  was 
waiting  in  the  dawn  for  Shakespeare. 

"  As  on  the  sweetest  buds 
The  eating  canker  dwells,  so  eating  love 
Inhabits  in  the  finest  wits  of  all." 

Shottery  is  a  picturesque  hamlet  about  a  mile  distant  from  Stratford.  In  a  cottage  there 
dwelt  Anne  Hathaway,  the  daughter  of  Richard  Hathaway,  a  substantial  yeoman.  "Shottery," 
says  Mr.  Halliwell,  in  his  elaborate  Shakespearian  work,  "is  a  little  hamlet  in  the  parish  of 
Stratford,  situated  about  a  mile  to  the  west  of  the  town  by  a  pathway  across  the  fields.  Some 
years  ago  the  meadows  were  thoroughly  rural,  and  so  was  the  village.  Approaching  the 
hamlet  from  Stratford,  at  the  entrance  of  the  lane  past  the  fields  stands  the  Shakespeare  Inn,  a 
pleasing  example  of  the  old  half-timbered  house  that  must  formerly  have  been  common  in 
Shottery,  and  of  which  a  few  lingering  traces  still  remain,  in  spite  of  innovation.  Proceeding 
down  the  lane,  as  we  arrive  in  sight  of  Anne  Hathaway's  cottage,  a  clear  and  ample  brook 
crossed  the  road,  once  traversed  by  means  of  a  picturesque  wooden  bridge,  composing  a  scene 
that  the  most  prosaic  would  admit  harmonized  with  the  idea  of  the  locality  of  a  poet's  love." 

The   two   families   had  probably  been  long  acquainted,  for   there   is   evidence   that  John 
Shakespeare  and  a  Richard  Hathaway  were  friends  ;  and,  doubtless,  William  often  took  that 


XIV  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION. 


path  by  the  fields.  Whether  Anne  was  in  reality  beautiful  we  know  not ;  but  she  was  to  be  our 
Shakespeare's  wife,  and  therefore  she  has  an  interest  for  all  ages.  Unfortunately,  however,  iu 
the  sober  and  unromantic  matter  of  the  lady's  age  siirgit  aliquid  amari.  She  was  eight  years 
older  than  Shakespeare,  for  she  was  born  in  1556,  so  that  in  the  year  of  their  marriage  (1582) 
she  was  twenty-six,  and  he  was  only  eighteen.  Yet  let  no  fault  be  imputed  to  either.  He  was 
no  doubt  older  for  his  years,  both  in  physical  and  mental  development,  than  any  of  the  youth  of 
Stratford ;  that  he  possessed  great  manly  beauty  is  a  tradition  handed  down  by  A.ubrey,  and 
corroborated  by  the  fact  of  his  early  success  on  the  stage,  and  the  lineaments  of  the  most 
authentic  likenesses  of  him  that  remain.  The  first  love  of  a  glowing  and  intelligent  youth,  who 
suddenly  feels  himself  a  man,  is  commonly  older  than  himself.  The  girls  with  whom  he  ha? 
romped  as  a  boy  are  to  him  still  girls  ;  but,  impressed  with  the  necessity  of  bestowing  his  affec- 
tions somewhere,  he  experiences  a  glow  of  pride  in  finding  them  accepted  by  a  full-grown 
woman.  And  how  should  any  woman  have  shut  her  heart  to  Shakespeare  if  he  chose  to  woo 
her? 

They  were  married  at  the  end  of  November  or  in  December,  1582 ;  and  we  need  not  suppose 
that  the  alliance  was  against  the  wishes  of  either  of  the  families,  or  that  it  was  prompted  by  any 
but  disinterested  motives  and  mutual  attachment.  His  perfect  understanding  of  the  holiness 
and  the  virtue  of  a  well-assorted  marriage  appears  from  many  passages  of  his  works.  How 
finely  Suffolk  says,  in  the  first  part  of  "  King  Henry  VI.," — 

"  A  dower,  my  lords  !  disgrace  not  so  your  king, 
That  he  should  be  so  abject,  base,  and  poor, 
To  choose  for  wealth,  and  not  for  perfect  love. 
Henry  is  able  to  enrich  his  queen, 
And  not  to  seek  a  queen  to  make  him  rich  : 
So  worthless  peasants  bargain  for  their  wives, 
As  market-men  for  oxen,  sheep,  or  horse. 
Marriage  is  a  matter  of  more  worth 
Than  to  be  dealt  in  by  attorneyship  ; 
For  what  is  wedlock  forced  but  a  hell, 
An  age  of  discord  and  continual  strife  ? 
Whereas  the  contrary  bringeth  bliss, 
And  is  a  pattern  of  celestial  peace." 

And  how  pure  and  noble  is  that  n6th  Sonnet,  in  which  he  writes— 

"  Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 

Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 
Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 

Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove  : 
O,  no  !  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark, 

That  looks  on  tempests,  and  is  never  shaken  ; 
It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 

Whose  worth 's  unknown  although  his  height  be  taken. 
Love 's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 

Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come  ; 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 

But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 
If  this  be  error,  and  upon  me  prov'd, 
I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  lov'd." 

The  course  of  Shakespeare's  after-life  took  him  much  away  from  Stratford  ;  but,  for  aught 
that  is  known  to  the  contrary,  he  generally  left  his  wife  and  children  there,  being  unwilling, 
perhaps,  to  expose  them  to  the  perils  of  that  society  in  which  he  was  obliged  to  mingle  in 
London.  We  are  not  entitled  to  suppose  that  he  had  any  cause  to  complain  of  domestic  un- 
happiness.  He  paid  regular  visits  to  Stratford,  and  "  the  wife  of  his  youth  was  the  companion 
of  his  latest  years."  He  had  three  children — Susannah,  Hamnet,  and  Judith — the  two  last 
being  twins.  Susannah  was  born  in  May,  1583,  and  the  other  two  in  January,  1585.  The 
date  of  the  birth  of  the  first  child  being  within  seven  months  of  the  date  of  the  marriage,  has 
led  to  some  scandalous  gossip.  But  an  error  of  some  months  may  have  crept  into  the  dates ; 
and  if  it  has  not,  we  at  all  events  know  that  Shakespeare  behaved  with  honour,  and  kept  the 
troth  he  had  plighted.  His  son  Hamnet  died  in  1596,  when  he  was  eleven  years  and  six 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION.  XV 

months  old.  The  two  daughters  grew  up  to  womanhood,  married,  and  survived  their  father  a 
number  of  years.  They  must  have  been  well  educated  and  well  brought  up ;  for  they  both 
obtained  good  husbanik.  and  lived  in  the  respect  and  esteem  of  those  who  knew  them. 
Susannah  married,  in  1607,  John  Hall,  a  physician  of  considerable  repute  ;  and  when  she  died, 
in  1649,  it  was  recorded  on  her  tombstone,  apparently  with  truth,  that  she  was  "witty  above 
her  sex,"  and  "  wise  to  salvation."  She  was  the  mother  of  only  one  child,  Elizabeth,  who  was 
born  in  February,  1608, — so  that  the  poet  became  a  grandfather  at  forty-five.  His  grand- 
daughter married,  in  1626,  Mr.  Thomas  Nash,  a  country  gentleman  of  independent  fortune. 
On  his  death,  in  1647,  she  again  married,  in  1649,  Sir  John  Barnard,  Knight,  of  Abington. 
She  died  in  1669,  and  left  no  issue  by  either  of  her  husbands.  Judith,  Shakespeare's  younger 
daughter,  married  Mr.  Thomas  Quiney,  a  vintner  or  wine  merchant  at  Stratford,  a  month  or 
two  before  her  father's  death.  She  had  by  him  three  children  ;  but  they  all  died  young  ;  and 
she  herself  followed  them  to  the  grave  in  1662.  The  death,  therefore,  of  Lady  Barnard,  in 
1669,  terminated  the  lineal  descendants  of  Shakespeare.  The  collateral  kindred,  through  his 
sister  Joan,  had  a  much  longer  succession  ;  but  it,  too,  came  to  an  end  about  forty  years  ago. 
Joan  married,  in  1599,  William  Hart,  an  honest  tradesman,  to  whom  she  bore  children;  and 
they  and  their  descendants  continued  to  live  at  Stratford  for  two  hundred  and  thirty  years. 
None  of  the  family  ever  achieved  any  distinction,  except  a  grandchild,  Charles  Hart,  who  rose 
as  an  actor  to  the  first  honours  of  the  stage.  One  of  the  last  of  the  Harts  was  an  aged  maiden, 
who,  in  1825,  occupied  the  house  in  which  her  great  ancestor  was  born,  and  showed  visitors 
some  relics,  together  with  a  manuscript  play  written  by  herself,  but  of  very  humble  merit. 

In  a  very  few  years  after  his  marriage,  perhaps  when  he  was  twenty-two  years  of  age, — 
a  young  husband  and  a  young  father,— certainly  not  more  than  three  or  four  years  later,  he 
determined  on  going  to  London  to  push  his  fortune.  There  is  a  story,  which  is  now  almost 
stereotyped  into  his  biography,  that  he  was  induced  to  take  this  step  in  consequence  of  having 
got  himself  into  trouble  by  some  unlawful  meddling  with  the  deer  in  the  parks  of  Fullbroke 
or  Charlecote,  belonging  to  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  a  neighbouring  country  gentleman.  That 
Shakespeare  knew  every  nook  and  corner,  every  sequestered  dingle  and  romantic  recess  of  those 
old  woods  ;  that  he  had  a  thousand  times  dived  into  their  depths,  and  made  himself  famil'ar  with 
all  the  winged  and  four-footed  animals  that  inhabited  them,  treasuring  up  those  fancies  and 
visions  to  which  he  afterwards  gave  such  exquisite  realization  in  his  "  As  You  Like  It,"  no  one 
need  doubt.  But  that  Shakespeare  ever  crossed  the  green  paths  as  a  vulgar  stealer  of  deer,  was 
ever  convicted  of  theft,  and  personally  chastised  for  it,  is  a  base  and  idle  tale,  to  be  treated  with 
the  "  summary  indignation "  which  De  Quincey  has  so  well  bestowed  upon  it.  In  the  first 
place,  it  seems  to  be  ascertained,  through  the  researches  of  Malone,  that  though  Sir  Thomas 
Lucy  had  noble  and  extensive  grounds,  he  had  no  deer  park.  In  the  next  place,  if  it  is  neces- 
sary to  say  more,  the  only  punishment  which  could  be  imposed  under  the  statute  then  in  force 
(the  5th  of  Elizabeth,  cap.  21)  for  the  suppression  of  deer-stealing  was  imprisonment  for  three 
months,  and  a  fine  payable  to  the  party  offended.  Whipping  was  out  of  the  question ;  and 
there  is  not  the  slightest  tradition  or  rumour  that  Shakespeare  was  ever  imprisoned.  Not  one 
of  his  literary  rivals,  some  of  whom  tried  to  pick  flaws  in  him  at  first,  ever  twitted  him  with  any 
such  offence  or  its  consequences.  In  the  third  place,  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  was  High  Sheriff  of 
Warwickshire,  and  Shakespeare  was  the  oldest  son  of  a  chief  magistrate  of  Stratford,  with  whom 
it  is  more  than  probable  the  Sheriff  was  on  familiar  terms,  and  it  is  therefore  most  zVwprobable 
that  the  one  would  commit  the  offence,  or  the  other  prosecute  it.  Rowe,  his  first  biographer, 
is  responsible  for  having  given  circulation  to  the  calumny,  without  any  sufficient  warrant.  He 
says,  with  much  coolness,  and  a  sort  of  vulgar  familiarity, — "  Shakespeare  had,  by  a  misfortune 
common  enough  to  young  fellows,  fallen  into  ill  company  ;  and  amongst  them  some,  that  made 
a  frequent  practice  of  deer-stealing,  engaged  him  more  than  once  in  robbing  a  park  that  belonged 
to  Sir  Thomas  Lucy."  Aubrey,  an  older  authority  than  Rowe,  is  wholly  silent  on  this  scandal; 
but  a  scribbler  of  the  name  of  Davies  improves  considerably  upon  Rowe's  version.  He  says, — 
•'  Shakespeare  was  much  given  to  all  unlawfulness  in  stealing  'venison  and  rabbits,  particularly 
from  Sir  Lucy,  who  had  him  oft  whipped,  and  sometimes  imprisoned,  and  at  last  made  him  fly 
his  native  country."  And  thus  the  rolling  stone  gathered  moss,  in  spite  of  the  proverb  ;  and 
then  there  came  an  adjunct  to  it,  that  the  first  verses  Shakespeare  ever  wrote  were  a  lampoon 
on  Sir  Thomas,  and  that  these  bred  him  further  grief.  The  verses  are  still  more  apochryphal 


xvi  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

than  the  story.  They  were  produced  for  the  first  time  so  late  as  1778,  by  Steevens,  from  the 
manuscript  of  the  antiquary  Oldys,  who  died  in  1761.  They  are  stupid  and  vulgar,  beginning 
with  the  lines, — 

'  A  parliamente  member,  a  justice  of  peace, 
At  home  a  poor  scare-crowe.  at  London  an  asse  ;  " 

which,  as  De  Quincey  remarks,  resemble  more  a  production  of  Charles  II. 's  reign,  and  were  no 
doubt  levelled  by  an  irritated  poetaster  at  some  other  and  later  Lucy.  It  was  contrary  to 
Shakespeare's  whole  nature  to  write  epigrams  or  lampoons  against  anyone.  The  epithet 
"  gentle  "  has  been  indissolubly  united  with  "his  name.  He  was  full  of  a  gracious  benignity. 
He  gave  wilful  offence  to  no  nian.  He  had,  assuredly,  no  unpleasant  reminiscence  of  any 
incident  in  his  own  life  connected  with  the  "poor  sequestered  stag"  when  he  penned  that 
exquisite  description  of  the  wounded  deer  that  came  to  languish 

"  Under  an  oak,  whose  antique  root  peeps  out 
Upon  the  brook  that  brawls  along  this  wood  ;" 

or  when  he  made  the  Duke  say,  in  the  Forest  of  Ardennes, — 

"  Come,  shall  we  go  and  kill  us  venison  ? 
And  yet  it  irks  me,  the  poor  dappled  fools, — 
Being  native  burghers  of  this  desert  city, — 
Should  in  their  own  confines,  with  forked  Leads, 
Have  their  round  haunches  gor'd." 

It  may  be — although  of  this  there  is  no  substantial  evidence — that  some  youthful  adventure, 
prompted  by  no  ignoble  motive,  but  by  the  simple  love  of  adventure,  in  which  Shakespeare  did 
not  keep  altogether  on  the  windy  side  of  the  law,  was  one  of  the  causes  which  led  to  his  leaving 
Stratford.  The  truth,  however,  more  probably  is,  that  the  hour  had  arrived  when  his  expand- 
ing mind  began  to  aspire  after  greater  things  than  the  narrow  sphere  of  a  small  provincial  town, 
—when  he  felt  the  "  wild  pulsation  "  which  genius  so  often  feels  before  the  tumult  of  life 
begins, — 

"  Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that  the  coming  years  would  yield, 
Eager-hearted  as  a  boy  when  first  he  leaves  his  father's  field. 


it  leaps  _ 

Underneath  the  light  he  looks  at.  in  among  the  throngs  of  men." 

So  he  bade  farewell,  doubtless  with  a  throbbing  heart,  and  not  without  some  "  natural  tears," 
to  Anne  Hathaway,  Susannah,  Hamnet,  and  Judith,  making  such  arrangements  for  their  com- 
fort as  his  means  afforded  ;  and,  with  the  dauntless  resolution  of  the  soldier  who  is  ever  ready 
to  exclaim, — 

"  Why,  then,  the  world's  mine  oyster 
Which  I  with  sword  will  open," 

he  turned  his  back  upon  the  humble  houses  ol  Stratford,  and  all  the  scenes  of  his  earlier  days, 
and  plunged  with  a  vague  hope  into  the  great  Babel  "  among  the  throngs  of  men,"  as  so  many 
thousands  and  thousands  of  youthful  pilgrims  have  done  from  generation  to  generation. 

Whether  he  had  any  direct  and  immediate  intention  of  going  upon  the  stage  cannot  now  be 
known.  His  first  poetical  pieces  did  not  take  a  dramatic  shape,  but  were  rather  didactic  and 
lyrical ;  and  there  was  no  occasion  to  go  to  London  to  write  them.  Old  Aubrey,  however, 
saw  no  mystery  in  the  matter.  lie  simply  says, — "  This  William,  being  inclined  naturally  to 
poetry  and  acting,  came  to  London."  It  is  possible  that  the  visits  of  the  players  to  Stratford 
between  the  years  1579  and  1557  had  some  influence  upon  his  resolution.  Whatever  was  the 
inducing  cause,  he  became  an  actor  ;  and  continued  in  that  profession  for  eighteen  or  twenty 
years — namely,  from  1586  to  1606.  or  thereby.  Yet  it  would  appear  that  there  were  moments 
when  he  regretted  he  had  ever  condescended  to  tread  the  boards.  In  his  91  st  Sonnet  he 
touchingly  says, — 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION.  XV11 

"  O,  for  my  sake,  do  you  with  Fortune  chide, 

The  guilty  goddess  of  my  harmful  deeds, 
That  did  not  better  for  my  life  provide 

Than  public  means,  which  public  manners  breeds, 
Hence  comes  it  that  my  name  receives  a  brand, 

And  almost  then  my  nature  is  subdued 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  hand." 

And  again,  in  the  Iioth  Sonnet, — 

"  Alas  !  'tis  true,  I  have  gone  here  and  there, 
And  made  myself"  a  motley  to  the  view." 

Eut  this  was  not  the  normal  state  of  Shakespeare's  cheerful  and  unselfish  mind.  After  alluding, 
in  the  29th  Sonnet,  to  his  occasional  despondency,  when  he  fancies  himself  "  in  disgrace  with 
fortune  and  men's  eyes,"  he  finely  reverts  at  the  close  to  the  consolation  derived  from  the 
assured  affection  of  the  friend  to  whom  it  is  addressed, — 

"  Vet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 

Haply  I  think  on  chee,  and  then  my  state, — 
Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 

From  sullen  earth, — sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate, 
For  thy  sweet  love  remember1  d  such  wealth  brings 

That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings." 

In  1593  his  contemporary,  Chettle,  praised  the  excellence  of  his  acting.  Aubrey  says  ot  him, — 
"  He  did  act  exceedingly  well."  It  is  on  record  that  two  of  his  parts  were,  the  Ghost  in  his 
own  "  Hamlet,"  and  Adam  in  "As  You  Like  It,"  the  first  of  which  affords  scope  for  great 
elocutionary  powers,  and  the  latter  for  the  delineation  of  some  fine  points  of  character.  It  is 
also  handed  down  that  he  occasionally  appeared  in  "  kingly  parts  — being,  no  doubt,  well 
adapted  for  them  by  his  graceful  and  manly  bearing.  Queen  Elizabeth  and  James,  who  were 
both  fond  of  theatrical  entertainments,  must  frequently  have  seen  him  act ;  and  Ben  Jonson  no 
doubt  alludes  to  their  estimation  of  him,  both  as  an  actor  and  a  writer,  in  the  well-known  lines, 
forming  part  of  his  tribute  to  the  memory  of  his  "  beloved  Master  William  Shakespeare," — 

"  Sweet  swan  of  Avon  !  whit  a  sight  it  were 
To  see  thee  on  our  waters  yet  appear, 
And  make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of  Thames 
That  so  did  take  Eliza  and  our  James. ' 

Whatever  his  powers  as  an  actor  were,  one  thing  is  clear,  that  no  man  ever  understood  better 
the  correct  theory  of  acting,  or  had  a  profounder  appreciation  of  what  constitute  its  defects  and 
its  excellences  ;  witness  Hamlet's  address  to  the  players,  and  other  passages,  full  of  the  soundest 
precepts  and  most  correct  practical  rules. 

It  is  provoking  that  we  are  here  obliged  to  notice  another  idle  and  trumpery  legend  about 
Shakespeare,  to  which  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  seems  to  have  given  credence,  namely,  that  he  sup- 
ported himself,  on  first  going  to  London,  by  holding  the  horses  of  those  who  rode  to  the  play. 
The  great  lexicographer's  version  of  this  fiction,  which  he  says  came  from  Mr.  Pope,  is  as 
follows  : — "  In  the  time  of  Elizabeth,  coaches  being  yet.  uncommon,  and  hired  eoache*  not  at 
all  in  use,  those  who  were  too  proud,  too  tender,  or  top  idle  to  walk,  went  on  horseback  to  any 
distant  business  or  diversion.  Many  came  on  horseback  to  the  play,  and  when  Shakespeare 
fled  to  London  from  the  terror  of  a  criminal  prosecution,  his  first  expedient  was  to  wait  at  the 
door  of  the  playhouse,  and  hold  the  horses  of  those  who  had  no  servants,  that  they  might  be 
ready  again  after  the  performance.  In  this  office  he  became  so  conspicuous  for  his  care  and 
readiness  that  in  a  short  time  every  man,  as  he  alighted,  called  for  Will  Shakespeare,  and 
scarcely  any  other  waiter  was  trusted  with  a  horse  while  Will  Shakespeare  could  be  had.  This 
was  the  first  dawn  of  better  fortune.  Shakespeare,  finding  more  horses  put  into  his  hand  than 
he  could  hold,  hired  boys  to  wait  under  his  inspection,  who,  when  Will  Shakespeare  was  sum- 
moned, were  immediately  to  present  themselves,  /  am  Shakespeare's  boy^  sir."  This  is  a  piece  of 
transparent  twaddle  from  beginning  to  end.  It  is  not  true  that  persons  rode  on  horseback  to 


xviii  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

the  play ;  and  if  they  had,  it  is  ridiculous  to  suppose  that  they  would  have  entrusted  their 
horses  to  be  held  in  the  street  in  all  weathers  for  a  period  of  three  or  four  hours.  It  is  a 
contemptible  calumny  that  Shakespeare  ever  sunk  so  low  as  to  stand  shivering  night  after  night 
holding  a  horse,  or,  as  the  Doctor  would  have  us  believe,  half-a-dozen  horses,  for  the  sake  of  a 
few  pence  haughtily  bestowed  by  town  gallants  who  had  been  sitting  at  their  ease  witnessing 
some  play  of  Greene  or  of  Marlowe,  while  Shakespeare,  forsooth,  already  a  man  of  two-ana" 
twenty,  brimming  over  with  the  highest  fancies,  consorted  as  a  stable-boy  with  the  lowest  dregs' 
of  the  street.  This  precious  canard  first  appeared  in  a  worthless  book  entitled  The  Lives  of  the 
Poets,  published  as  the  work  of  Theophilus  Gibber,  but  said  to  be  written  by  a  Scotchman  of 
the  name  of  Shiels,  who  was  an  amanuensis  of  Dr.  Johnson.  Even  Rowe  rejected  the  story, 
and  there  is  not  a  shadow  of  foundation  for  it. 

A  theatre,  considered  merely  in  its  aspect  as  a  place  ot  amusement,  was  a  very  different  thing 
in  the  time  of  Shakespeare  from  what  it  has  become  since.  With  the  increase  of  wealth,  civil- 
isation, and  luxury,  gorgeous  theatres  sprang  up  a  century  later  in  every  populous  city  of  Europe. 
Architecture  lent  its  most  elaborate  graces  ;  decorative  art  was  exhausted  to  furnish  the  richest 
embellishments  ;  every  new  mechanical  appliance  was  made  available  to  enhance  the  delusion 
and  increase  the  interest  of  the  scene  ;  skilfully  painted  canvas  realized  the  locality  in  which  the 
action  was  laid  ;  lights,  unknown  to  our  ancestors,  brilliant  as  the  day,  yet  capable  of  being 
tempered  to  any  strength,  illuminated  the  scene  ;  music,  instrumental  and  vocal,  of  the  most 
perfect  kind, — marbles,  mirrors,  gildings,  draperies, — every  conceivable  adjunct  was  present 
calculated  to  add  to  sensuous  delight  ;  and,  finally,  "fair  women  and  brave  men,"  in  every 
variety  of  attractive  and  picturesque  costume,  seemed  to  tread  enchanted  ground  in  presence  of 
a  rapt  and  breathless  audience*  Such  is  what  a  theatre, — a  San  Carlo  or  La  Scala, — latterly 
became.  When  Shakespeare  went  to  London  it  was  a  circular  wooden  booth,  in  many  instances 
open  to  the  sky,  except  over  the  stage  and  gallery,  where  it  was  roofed  in  from  the  weather. 
Some  lanterns  shed  a  dim  light  through  the  body  of  the  house,  and  a  few  branches,  with  candles 
stuck  into  them,  hung  over  the  stage.  The  orchestra,  if  so  it  might  be  called,  was  composed  of 
several  trumpets,  cornets,  and  hautboys.  The  stage  itself  was  generally  strewed  with  rushes, 
except  on  extraordinary  occasions,  when  it  was  matted.  It  had  a  fixed  roof,  painted  blue  to 
represent  the  sky  ;  and  when  tragedies  were  performed  it  was  generally  hung  with  black. 
There  was  little  or  no  movable  painted  scenery.  A  board  was  hung  up  containing  the  name  of 
the  place  where  the  action  was  supposed  to  be.  The  stage  properties  were  of  the  humblest 
description.  The  exhibition  of  a  bedstead  indicated  a  bedchamber  ;  a  table  with  pen  and  ink,  a 
sitting-room.  A  few  rude  models  or  drawings  of  towers,  walls,  trees,  tombs,  and  animals,  were 
sometimes  introduced.  No  such  phenomenon  as  a  female  actress  existed,  or  would  have  been 
tolerated.  All  female  parts  were  played  by  boys  or  young  men,  who  frequently  wore  masks  or 
visards.  The  performance  was  often  by  daylight,  beginning  at  three  o'clock  P.M.  The  prices 
of  admission  varied  from  a  shilling  (or  rather  more)  to  a  penny.  At  the  conclusion  of  each 
performance  the  actors  knelt  on  the  stage  and  offered  up  a  prayer  for  the  Queen. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney,  in  a  treatise  published  in  1583,  graphically  alludes  to  the  rough  and  simple 
condition  of  the  stage.  He  says, — "  In  most  pieces  the  player,  when  he  comes  in,  must  ever 
begin  with  telling  where  he  is,  or  else  the  tale  will  not  be  conceived.  Now  you  shall  have  three 
ladies"  (that  is,  boys  in  female  attire)  "walk  to  gather  flowers,  and  then  we  must  believe  the 
stage  to  be  a  garden  ;  by  and  by  we  hear  news  of  a  shipwreck  in  the  same  place,  then  we  are  to 
blame  if  we  accept  it  not  for  a  rock.  Upon  the  back  of  that  comes  out  a  hideous  monster,  with 
fire  and  smoke,  and  then  the  miserable  beholders  are  bound  to  take  it  for  a  cave  ;  while  in  the 
meantime  two  armies  fly  in,  represented  with  four  swords  and  bucklers,  and  then  what  hard 
heart  will  not  receive  it  for  a  pitched  field?"  Shakespeare  himself,  in  his  prologue  to  '4  King 
Henry  the  Fifth,"  asks  pardon  for  the  spirit 

"  that  hath  dar'd  ?'v;/b) 

On  this  unworthy  scaffold  to  bring  forth 
So  great  an  object :  can  this  cockpit  hold 
The  vasty  fields  of  France  ?  or  may  we  civ 


asty  fields  of  France  ?  or  may  we  cram 
n  this  wooden  O  the  very  casques 
That  did  affright  the  air  at  Agincourt?' 


Within  this  wooden  O  the  very  casques  ^ 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION.  xix 

It  is  one  of  the  glories  of  Shakespeare  that  all  this  poverty  of  mechanical  aid  was  to  him  a 
matter  of  perfect  indifference,  and  that,  though  professionally  connected  with  the  stage,  he  never 
wrote  a  single  line  that  smelt  of  the  footlights  and  of  stage  varnish.  His  muse  soared  to  the 
"  brightest  heaven  of  invention  ;"  he  wrote  to  suit  no  actor  ;  he  adapted  himself  to  no  stage 
conventionalities  ;  he  never  stooped  to  think  whether  his  plays  would  be  performed  or  not.  All 
that  wondrous  poetry  emanated  from  him  as  light  does  from  the  sun,  or  music  from  an  ./Eolian 
harp. 

It  might  have  been  a  painful  thought  to  a  lesser  genius  that  a  painted  or  visared  youth  was  to 
desecrate  Desdemona,  caricature  Ophelia,  and  render  Juliet  ludicrous.  But  it  irked  him  not  a 
jot.  He  saw  those  radiant  shapes  in  his  mind's  eye,  and  they  were  his  and  ours  for  evermore, 
incapable  of  obscuration  or  debasement.  What  gratitude  can  be  excessive,  what  love  too  much 
for  the  man  who  has  given  us  not  only  "  the  gentle  lady  married  to  the  Moor  " — not  only  the 
fair  Ophelia — not  only  the  exquisite  daughter  of  the  Capulets, — but  Imogen,  Hermione,  Perdita, 
Miranda,  Viola,  Isabella,  Rosalind,  Constance,  Portia,  Cordelia  !  Thank  heaven !  it  was  not 
that  they  might  "strut  their  hour"  upon  the  stage  that  he  conceived  of  beings  such  as  these, 
warmer,  purer,  and  more  tenderly  human  than  the  finest  prototypes  of  classical  antiquity.  The 
Antigones,  the  Electras,  the  Iphigenias — beautiful  impersonations  though  they  be — are  cold,  and 
stately,  and  statuesque,  beside  the  flesh  and  blood  realities  of  Shakespeare.  He  delighted  not  to 
paint  abstraction, — he  dealt  with  the  sensibilities  which  throb  in  every  bosom, — he  touched 
"  the  very  pulse  of  the  machine."  The  creature  he  presented  to  us  was,  as  one  of  the  greatest 
of  his  successors  has  said, — 

*  A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  between  life  and  death, 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill, 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command  ; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  angelic  light." 

If  there  be  one  thing  more  wonderful  than  another  in  Shakespeare's  genius,  it  is  his  delicate  and 
profound  appreciation  of  female  character  through  every  variety  of  shade,  every  gradation  of 
beauty.  And  he  had  his  reward,  though  no  Siddons  or  O'Neil,  no  Madame  Mars,  Pasta,  Rachel 
or  Ristori  ever  gladdened  his  eye,  or  led  him  to  anticipate  that  the  portraits  he  had  hung  up  in 
the  hearts  of  all  the  world  might  yet  walk  from  their  frames  and  speak  his  words  to  ravished 
ears. 

About  the  time  when  Shakespeare  came  to  London,  the  taste  for  stage  representations  had  so 
much  increased  that  there  were  already  several — probably  six — distinct  companies  of  players  in 
London,  besides  two  of  children.  It  was  only  by  becoming  a  member  of  a  regularly  licensed 
company  that  a  player  could  escape  being  considered,  in  the  phraseology  of  the  statute  law,  a 
"  vagabond."  The  Lord  Chamberlain  had  the  power  of  issuing,  in  favour  of  certain  of  the 
court  nobility,  licenses  which  entitled  the  granter  to  incorporate  a  company  of  players.  In  this 
way  were  founded  the  companies  of  Lords  Leicester,  Warwick,  Howard,  Essex,  Derby,  and 
Arundel  (afterwards  the  Lord  Admiral's),  and  others. 

The  company  which  Shakespeare  first  joined  is  held  to  have  been  that  of  Lord  Strange.  This 
was,  however,  afterwards  absorbed  into  that  which  was  the  most  distinguished  both  then  and 
afterwards.  It  was  first  called  Lord  Hunsdon's,  then  (after  his  appointment  to  the  office)  the 
Lord  Chamberlain's,  and  afterwards  (in  1603)  the  King's.  James  Burbage  was  manager  and 
head  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  company,  and  it  was  he  who,  in  1599,  built  the  Globe  Theatre, 
whither  his  company  now  removed.  In  1613  they  began  acting  at  the  Blackfriars,  between  St. 
Paul's  and  Blackfriars'  Bridge,  which  Burbage  had  converted  into  a  theatre  in  1596.  The 
Blackfriars  was  a  winter  theatre,  and  was  therefore  roofed  in,  differing  in  that  respect  from  the 
Globe,  where  Shakespeare  likewise  continued  to  act.  The  Burbages,  whose  then  company  (the 
Queen's)  had  visited  Stratford  in  1587,  were  in  all  probability  of  Warwickshire  descent,  and  may 
have  been  early  acquaintances  of  Shakespeare.  If  this  conjecture  be  correct,  his  introduction 
to  their  theatre  would  not  be  a  matter  of  any  difficulty.  He  would  be  welcomed  all  the  more 
readily  if  known  to  be  himself  a  composer ;  for  at  that  period  there  was  a  close  alliance  between 


XX  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

dramatic  poetry  and  histrionic  art.  It  was  indeed  almost  an  understood  thing  that  the  dramatist 
should  aid  in  the  representation  of  his  own  pieces.  Such  men  as  Greene,  Marlowe,  Ben  Jonson, 
Heywood,  Webster,  and  others,  united  both  arts. 

Richard  Burbage,  the  son  of  James,  who  was  born  three  years  later  than  Shakespeare,  and 
died  three  years  after  him,  was  a  devoted  friend  of  the  poet,  and,  according  to  all  tradition,  as 
fine  a  Shakespearian  actor  as  the  stage  has  ever  seen.  It  is  said  that  his  just  and  truthful  re- 
presentation of  almost  all  Shakespeare's  leading  characters  first  riveted  public  attention  on  them. 
He  was  not  of  large  stature,  but,  in  the  words  of  one  of  his  admiring  contemporaries,  he  was 
"  beauty  to  the  eye  and  music  to  the  ear."  He  did  not  appear  in  comic  parts  ;  but  he  had  a 
wide  range  of  histrionic  talent ;  for  it  is  recorded  of  him  that  he  was  equally  delightful  in  the 
youthful  Pericles  and  the  aged  Lear,  and  that  he  achieved  great  success  in  Hamlet,  Richard  III., 
Shylock,  Romeo,  Brutus,  Othello,  Macbeth,  and  Coriolanus.  An  old  writer  says, — "  One  of 
his  chief  parts  wherein,  beyond  the  rest,  he  moved  the  heart,  was  the  grieved  Moor," — a  well- 
chosen  epithet,  and  indicative  that  the  actor  had  a  delicate  appreciation  of  the  character.  It 
may  readily  be  believed  that  dearer  to  the  heart  of  Richard  Burbage  than  all  contemporary  praise 
were  the  four  words  in  Shakespeare's  last  will,  bequeathing  to  him  a  ring  in  token  of  the  poet's 
loving  remembrance. 

By  the  time  James  I.  ascended  the  throne,  Shakespeare's  company  was,  as  we  have  seen,  in 
possession  of  both  the  Globe  and  Blackfriars'  theatres.  James  adopted  the  company  as  his  own, 
and  its  members  were  then  for  the  first  time  designated  His  Majesty's  servants.  He  granted 
in  their  favour  a  royal  license  in  the  year  1603,  in  which  he  licenses  and  authorizes  Laurence 
Fletcher,  William  Shakespeare,  Richard  Burbage,  John  Hemings,  and  the  rest  of  their  associates, 
"  freely  to  use  and  exercise  the  art  and  faculty  of  playing  comedies,  tragedies,  histories,  inter- 
ludes, morals,  pastorals,  stage  plays,  and  such  like  other  as  they  have  already  studied,  or  here- 
after shall  use  or  study,  as  well  for  the  recreation  of  our  loving  subjects  as  for  our  solace  and 
pleasure  when  we  shall  think  good  to  see  them."  This  license  was  the  more  valuable  that 
it  was  not  limited  to  "  their  now  usual  house,  called  the  Globe,"  but  entitled  them  "to  show 
and  exercise  publicly,  to  their  best  commodity,  within  any  townhall  or  moute-halls,  or  other 
convenient  places  within  the  liberties  and  freedom  of  any  other  city,  university  town,  or  burgh 
whatsoever,  within  our  said  realms  and  dominions." 

Shakespeare  held  shares  possibly  in  the  Blackfriars,  certainly  in  the  Globe,  the  one  being 
principally  used  as  a  summer  and  the  other  as  a  winter  theatre.  It  is  worthy  of  remark  that 
the  brothers  Burbage  mention  him  before  their  other  fellow-shareholders  in  a  document  referring 
to  the  Globe  theatre,  and  that,  in  the  King's  license  in  1603,  his  name  stands  second.  Laurence 
Fletcher,  who  is  mentioned  before  Shakespeare,  and  had  succeeded  James  Burbage  in  the 
management,  had  performed  before  King  James  in  Scotland,  where  he  was  with  his  company 
from  October,  1599,  to  December,  1601.  Fletcher  must  have  taken  the  company  to  different 
towns  in  Scotland,  and  must  have  conducted  himself  in  a  creditable  manner,  for  the  municipal 
records  of  Aberdeen  instruct  that  he  was  presented  with  the  freedom  of  the  city  on  October 
22nd,  1601,  and  was  entered  as  a  burgess  under  the  designation  of  "  Comedian  to  His  Majesty." 
This  suggests  the  interesting  inquiry,  whether  Shakespeare  did  not  also  visit  Scotland  as  one  ot 
Fletcher's  associates.  Sir  John  Sinclair,  in  his  statistical  account,  when  referring  to  the  local 
traditions  respecting  Macbeth's  castle  at  Dunsinnan,  infers  from  their  coincidence  with  the 
drama  that  Shakespeare,  "in  his  capacity  of  actor,  travelled  in  Scotland  in  1599,  and  collected 
on  the  spot  materials  for  the  exercise  of  his  imagination."  A  subsequent  writer  objects  that 
Shakespeare  could  not  have  heard  the  country  people  pronounce  the  word  Dunsinnan,  as  they 
always  put  the  accent  on  the  second  syllable,  whereas  he  throws  it  on  the  last.  It  is  true  thai 
he  does  so  frequently,  but  not  always,  as  witness  the  lines, — 

"  Macbeth  shall  never  vancjuish'd  be  until 
Great  Birnam  wood  to  high  Dunsinnan  hill 
Shall  come  against  him." 

Mr.  Charles  Knight  argues  strongly  in  favour  of  the  probability  of  Shakespeare  having  been  in 
Scotland.  He  contends  that  the  company  which  James  patronized  in  Scotland,  and  the 
manager  of  which  is  there  recognized  as  "  His  Majesty's  Comedian,"  was  the  same  to  which 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION.  xxi 

he  granted  the  letters  patent  in  1603.  If  so,  Shakespeare  was  a  leading  member  of  it  as  well 
in  1601  as  in  1603,  and  could  not  be  spared  when  an  expedition  was  undertaken  to  Scotland. 
Being  also  by  this  time  a  poet  of  distinction,  Mr.  Knight  thinks  that  his  presence  would  operate 
as  an  additional  inducement  to  the  worthy  magistrates  of  Aberdeen  to  confer  the  freedom  of  the 
city  on  the  head  of  the  company.  All  this  is  very  conjectural ;  but  yet  all  Scotchmen  must 
wish  to  believe  that  the  poet  saw  with  his  own  eyes  their  glens  and  mountains,  heard  their 
ancient  tongue,  inquired  concerning  their  national  superstitions,  and  listened,  not  unmoved,  to 
some  of  their  old-world  stories  of  witches  and  weird  women. — 

"  Posters  of  the  sea  and  land." 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  believe  that  he  had  himself  observed  the  "  temple-haunting  martlet" 
making  its  "  pendant  bed  and  procreant  cradle  "  among  the  ruins  of  Macbeth's  castle  ;  that  he 
had  breathed  the  air  of  Birnam  wood,  and  stood  on  the  breezy  forehead  of  Dunsinnan  hill. 

The  supernatural  machinery  interwoven  with  the  tragedy  of  "  Macbeth  "  is  founded  on  a 
superstitious  belief  which  was  entertained  during  Shakespeare's  lifetime  by  all  classes  both  in 
England  and  Scotland.  In  a  sermon  which  Bishop  Jewel  preached  before  Elizabeth,  he 
beseeched  Her  Grace  to  understand  that  witches  and  sorcerers  had  marvellously  increased 
within  the  realm,  and  that  through  their  malevolence  Her  Grace's  subjects  often  pined  away 
even  unto  death  ;  their  colour  fading,  their  flesh  rotting,  their  speech  denied,  and  their  senses 
obscured.  If  any  adversity,  grief,  sickness,  loss  of  children,  of  corn,  cattle,  or  other  posses- 
sions, happened  to  any  one,  witches  were  blamed  for  it.  The  Queen  herself,  "  being  under 
excessive  anguish  by  pains  of  her  teeth^  in  so  much  that  she  took  no  rest  for,  divers  nights,"  a 
Mrs.  Dier  was  accused  of  having  brought  on  the  affliction  by  conjuration  and  witchcraft.  If 
there  was  a  thunderstorm  or  a  gale  of  wind  one  or  two  witches  were  seized  and  burned  as  a 
preventative  for  the  future.  This  popular  frenzy  was  much  encouraged  by  the  publication,  at 
Edinburgh,  in  1597,  of  a  work  entitled  Daemonologie,  by  no  less  an  author  than  King  James 
himself.  This  treatise  owed  its  origin,  it  was  said,  to  a  discovery  which  the  King  had  made, 
that  when  he  went  to  Denmark,  in  1590,  there  was  a  conspiracy  of  two  hundred  witches  to 
drown  him  on  his  return.  A  London  edition  of  the  Daemonologie  was  issued  in  1603,  the 
preface  to  which  speaks  of  "  the  fearful  abounding  at  this  time  in  this  country  of  these  detest- 
able slaves  of  the  devil,  the  witches  or  enchanters."  The  legislature  lent  its  sanction  to  the 
belief :  in  a  statute  against  witches,  which  was  passed  soon  after  the  accession  of  James,  and 
was  not  repealed  till  1736,  it  was  enacted  that  any  one  who  should  practise  any  invocation  or 
conjuration  of  any  evil  or  wicked  spirit,  or  consult,  covenant  with,  entertain  or  employ,  feed  or 
reward  any  such  evil  or  wicked  spirit  ;  or  who  should  take  up  any  dead  man,  woman,  or  child 
out  of  the  grave,  or  the  skin,  bone,  or  other  part  of  any  dead  person,  to  be  employed  in  any 
manner  of  witchcraft,  sorcery,  charm,  or  enchantment,  whereby  any  person  shall  be  killed, 
destroyed,  wasted,  consumed,  pined,  or  lamed  in  body  ;  such  offenders,  on  being  duly  con- 
victed, shall  suffer  death.  The  persons  suspected  of  witchcraft  were  for  the  most  part  old,  lame, 
blear-eyed,  and  wrinkled  women,  who  led  sullen  and  solitary  lives.  They  were  credited  with 
the  power  of  inducing  on  whom  they  chose,  apoplexies,  epilepsies,  convulsions,  fevers,  and  all 
the  other  ills  "  that  flesh  is  heir  to."  They  could  also  raise  spirits,  dry  up  springs,  turn  the 
course  of  running  waters,  go  in  and  out  without  the  aid  of  doors,  and  sail  in  shells  and  cock- 
boats through  and  under  tempestuous  seas.  James  informs  us  in  his  book  that  they  likewise 
made  images  in  wax  or  clay,  which  they  wasted  before  a  slow  fire,  giving  them  the  names  of 
particular  persons,  who  forthwith  melted  or  dried  away  without  knowing  the  cause  of  their 
sickness.  Spenser,  in  his  great  poem,  describes  the  abode  of  a  witch  : — 

"  There  in  a  gloomy  hollow  glen  she  found 
A  little  cottage,  built  of  sticks  and  reeds 
In  homely  wise,  and  wall'd  with  sods  around, 
In  which  a  witch  did  dwell  in  loathly  weeds 
And  wilful  want,  all  careless  of  her  needs  ; 
So  choosing  solitary  to  abide 
Far  from  all  neighbours,  that  her  devilish  deeds 
And  hellish  arts  from  people  she  might  hide, 
And  hurt  far  off,  unknown,  whomever  she  envied." 


xxii  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

Shakespeare,  with  higher  power,  invests  the  witches  in  "  Macbeth  "  with  a  sort  of  mysterious 
grandeur,  whilst  he  at  the  same  time  strictly  conforms  to  the  current  superstitions  regarding 
them  : — 

"  What  are  these, 

So  wither'd,  and  so  wild  in  their  attire, 
That  look  not  like  the  inhabitants  of  earth, 
And  yet  are  on 't  ?    Live  you  ?  or  are  you  aught 
That  man  may  question  ?    You  seem  to  understand  rne, 
By  each  at  once  her  choppy  finger  laying 
Upon  her  skinny  lips  : — you  should  be  women, 
And  yet  your  beards  forbid  me  to  interpret 
That  you  are  so." 

The  caldron  scene  in  the  fourth  act  is  of  the  wildest  and  most  imaginative  description,  and 
though  frequently  adulterated  on  the  modern  stage  by  the  introduction  of  sheer  buffoonery, 
must  have  thrilled  with  awe  the  unsceptical  spectators  to  whom  it  was  originally  presented. 
Macbeth  himself,  like  his  successor  King  James,  believed  in  the  "  unknown  power  "  : — 

"  I  conjure  you,  by  that  which  you  profess, — 
Howe'er  you  come  to  know  it, — answer  me  r 
Though  you  untie  the  winds,  and  let  them  fight 
Against  die  churches  ;  though  the  yesty  waves 
Confound  and  swallow  navigation  up  ; 
Thofgh  bladed  corn  be  lodg'd  and  trees  blown  down  ; 
Though  castles  topple  on  their  warders*  heads  : 
Though  palaces  and  pyramids  do  slope 
Their  heads  to  their  foundations  ;  though  the  treasure 
Of  nature's  germins  tumble  all  together, — 
Even  till  destruction  sicken. — answer  me 
To  what  I  ask." 

Shakespeare  found  another,— a  gentler  and  more  loveable  superstition, — In  the  fairy 
mythology,  which  he  turned  to  such  delightful  account,  especially  in  his  "  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream."  The  popular  creed  concerning  fairies  seems  to  have  been  of  Scandinavian  origin,  and 
was  more  pagan  in  character  than  those  other  beliefs  in  the  supernatural,  for  which  some 
warrant  was  found  in  Scripture.  Shakespeare  added  a  new  grace  to  fairy  lore  ;  he  almost 
remodelled  and  re-invented  it.  The  places  to  which  fairies  were  supposed  to  be  most  attached, 
--the  green  knoll,  the  opening  in  the  wood,  the  crystal  fountain  ;  the  ornaments  and  costume 

printless 

hanging 

"  cankers  in  the  musk  rosebuds,"  their  keeping 

wondered  at  them,  their  singing  their  Queen  Titania  asleep,  their  stealing  the  honey-bags  from 

the  humble  bees,  and  plucking  the  wings  from  painted  butterflies,  their  bringing  "jewels  from 

the  deep  "  for  the  bewildered  Bottom,  and  feeding  him  with  dew-berries,  their  putting  a  girdle 

"  round  about  the  earth  in  forty  minutes," — all  these,  and  many  other  traits  of  fairy  life  and 

customs,  we  learn  from  him,  and  are  indebted  for  the  knowledge  to  the  captivating  enthusiasm 

with  which  he  entered  into  this  ideal  world,  and  sported  with  those  favourite  children  of  his 

fancy.     The  very  names  he  gave  his  fairies  carry  a  charm  with  them, — Oberon,  Titania,  Puck 

or  Robin  Goodfellow,  Peasblossom,  Cobweb,  Moth,  Mustardseed,  Cricket,  Queen  Mab  ;  to 

which  let  us  add  Ariel,  who  slept  in  a  cowslip's  bell,  and  lived  so  merrily  "  under  the  blossom 

that  hangs  on  the  bough."     He,  like  Prospero,  was  known  to  you  all,  and  was  your  familiar 

friend — 

''  Ye  elves  of  hills,  brooks,  standing  lakes,  and  groves. 

And  ye  that  on  the  sands  with  printless  foot 

Do  chase  the  ebbing  Neptune  I 

A  graver  superstition,  if  so  it  must  be  called,  which  takes  the  form  of  a  belief  in  ghosts  and 
apparitions,  and  the  reappearance  of  the  spirits  of  the  departed,  was  and  is  too  deeply  enwoven 
with  human  nature  to  have  been  overlooked  by  Shakespeare.  He  dealt  with  it  sparingly,  but 
with  wonderful  power,  not  unmixed  with  reverence.  The  supernatural  visitation  to  Hamlet  is 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION.  xxiii 

conducted  with  a  solemn  grandeur  and  air  of  reality  throughout  that  has  never  been  equalled  in 
poetry.  It  is  impossible  to  read  the  scene  in  which  the  ghost  of  the  dead  king  appears,  with- 
out feeling  convinced  that  it  all  happened  as  described.  If  ever  a  ghost  was  permitted  to  walk 
the  earth,  and  to  hold  communion  with  human  beings,  we  cannot  conceive  of  more  perfectly 
appropriate  action  and  language  than  Shakespeare  has  used.  Nor  in  any  after-scene  of  the 
play  can  it  be  forgot  that  Hamlet  has  gone  through  the  ordeal  of  receiving  that  terrible 
revelation  from  another  world.  He  thenceforth  looks  at  Ophelia,  his  mother,  his  stepfather, 
with  the  eyes  of  one  who  has  seen  the  dead.  He  has  heard  the  "  eternal  blazon,"  and  all  other 
"motives  and  cues  for  action"  affect  his  mind  subserviently. — Scarcely  less  awful,  though  less 
elaborately  conducted,  are  the  spectral  appearances  in  "Julius  Caesar,"  in  "Macbeth,"  and  in 
"  Richard  the  Third."  Most  touching  and  thrilling  is  the  scene  in  which  the  ghost  of  Caesar 
so  suddenly  appears  to  Brutus.  There  is  a  sort  of  retributive  justice  in  it,  which  gives  it  a 
naturalness  and  a  probability.  Brutus  is  alone  in  his  tent  on  the  night  before  the  decisive 
battle.  He  has  had  a  quarrel  with  his  best  friend,  Cassius,  and  he  has  unexpectedly  received 
the  mournful  intelligence  of  the  death  of  Portia.  A  sadness  has  gathered  upon  him,  against 
which  he  contends  proudly,  but  it  overmatches  his  stoicism.  His  page,  Lucius,  from  whom  he 
had  asked  for  some  music,  has  fallen  asleep  over  his  lute.  Brutus  resumes  a  book  he  had  been 
reading,  having  found  the  place  where  he  had  turned  down  the  leaf.  It  is  midnight,  and  he 
is  seated  beside  a  solitary  taper.  He  has  just  remarked  how  ill  it  burns,  when  the  sudden  ghost 
of  the  man  he  had  stabbed  stands  before  him  : — 

"  Ha  !  who  comes  here  ? 
I  think  it  is  the  weakness  of  mine  eyes 
That  shapes  this  monstrous  apparition. 
It  comes  upon  me. — Art  thou  anything  ? 
Art  thou  some  god,  some  angel,  or  some  devil, 
That  mak'st  my  blood  cold  and  my  hair  to  stare  ? 
Speak  to  me  what  thou  art. 

Ghost.  Thy  evil  spirit,  Brutus. 

Bru.  Why  com  st  thou? 

Ghost.  To  tell  thee  thou  shall  see  me  at  Philippi. 

Bru.  Well; 
Then  I  shall  see  thee  again. 

Ghost.  Ay,  at  Philippi.  (Exit  Ghost. 

Whether  we  take  this  as  a  reality,  or  as  a  spectral  illusion  visible  only  to  a  diseased  and  over- 
wrought brain,  no  pale  Nemesis  ever  made  a  ghastlier  annunciation  of  approaching  disaster  and 
death. 

Dramatic  literature  in  England  before  Shakespeare  was  in  its  infancy,  and  it  was  not  an 
Herculean  infancy.  The  first  original  play  regularly  divided  into  acts  and  scenes,  and  making 
pretension  to  a  consistent  action  and  a  poetical  delineation  of  character,  was  the  tragedy  of 
"Gorboduc,"  or  "Ferrex  and  Porrex,"  by  Thomas  Sackville,  Lord  Buckhurst,  produced  in 
1561,  just  three  years  before  Shakespeare  was  born.  Prior  to  that  period  there  were  no  plays 
properly  so  called.  There  were  itinerant  jesters,  who  amused  the  common  people  with  the 
recitation  of  vulgar  dialogue,  there  were  interludes,  as  they  were  called,  of  a  rather  more 
advanced  kind,  and  there  were  a  few  rude  farces,  such  as  "  Ralph  Roister  Doister,"  hardly  any 
of  which  have  come  down  to  us.  "Gammer  Gurton's  Needle,  which  made  a  slight  advance 
towards  comedy,  was  acted  not  long  before  1575,  several  years  after  the  "  Ferrex  and  Porrex." 
There  had  existed,  it  is  true,  from  an  earlier  time,  religious  plays  in  rhyme,  which  the  Church, 
prior  to  the  Reformation,  did  not  generally  discourage,  and  which  were  known  by  the  names  of 
" Mysteries,"  "  Moralities,"  and  "Miracle"  plays.  The  Mysteries  and  Miracle  plays  dealt 
almost  exclusively  with  scriptural  narratives  and  personages,  in  a  manner  which  nowadays 
would  be  considered  not  a  little  profane :  the  Moralities  did  not  present  real,  but  allegorical 
persons. 

When  the  ice,  however,  was  at  length  broken,  and  a  play,  bearing  some  remote  resemblance 
to  the  ancient  models  of  Greece  and  Rome,  was  successfully  produced,  others  speedily  followed, 
and  something  like  a  national  drama  arose.  Richard  Edwardes  brought  out  his  "  Damon  and 
Pythias"  and  "  Palamon  and  Arcite  ;"  Robert  Wilmot  and  others,  the  "  Tragedie  of  Tancred 
and  Gismond  ;"  Thomas  Garter,  the  "Commedy  of  the  Most  Virtuous  and  Godlv  Susanna  ; " 


xxiv  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

George  Peele,  who  was  educated  at  Oxford,  "Edward  the  First"  (one  of  the  species  called 
Chronicle  Histories),  "The  Old  Wives'  Tale,"  and  other  plays  ;  John  Lilly,  "Sappho  and 
Phaon,"  "Endymion,"  and  many  other  pieces;  Thomas  Kyd,  "The  Spanish  Tragedy,"  a 
continuation  of  "Jeronimo,"  perhaps  also  written  by  him  ;  and  Robert  Greene,  "  Friar  Bacon" 
and  "James  the  Fourth  slain  at  Flodden."  Though  some  of  these  writers  were  not  without 
vigour  and  poetical  spirit,  they  have  achieved  little  general  reputation  beyond  that  of  being  our 
earliest  dramatists.  Christopher  Marlowe  took  a  higher  flight,  and  was  beyond  doubt  the  most 
eminent  dramatic  poet  anterior  to  Shakespeare.  His  life,  however,  was  vicious  ;  and  no  poet 
with  a  corrupted  mind  can  ever  produce  the  highest  poetry.  His  plays,  containing,  as  they  do, 
some  vivid  though  imperfect  delineations  of  character,  and  frequent  passages  of  considerable 
power,  which,  nevertheless,  hardly  justify  Ben  Jonson's  phrase  of  "Marlowe's  mighty  line," 
are  much  disfigured, with  bombast,  and  are  full  of  forced  and  unnatural  incident.  His  principal 
pieces  are  "  Tamburlane  the  Great,"  in  two  parts,  "Doctor  Faustus,"  "The  Jew  of  Malta," 
and  "  Edward  the  Second."  Of  these  "Doctor  Faustus"  is  the  most  remarkable  for  origin- 
ality and  boldness.  It  contains  a  good  deal  of  the  fire  at  which  Goethe  afterwards  lighted  his 
lamp.  As  a  whole,  however,  Marlowe's  writings  have  hardly  as  yet  taken  hold  of  the  general 
mind,  and  cannot  be  said  to  enjoy  any  wide  popularity  in  the  present  day. 

Shakespeare's  immediate  contemporaries  and  followers,  catching  apparently  fresh  inspiration 
from  him,  and  soaring  far  above  the  writers  who  had  preceded  them,  formed  a  school  of 
dramatic  literature  which  has  never  been  equalled  since,  and  which  constitutes  the  chief  glory 
of  the  Elizabethan  era.  Around  Shakespeare,  the  great  central  luminary,  we  find  collected  the 
shining  names  of  Ben  Jonson,  Massinger,  Fletcher,  Beaumont,  Ford,  Webster,  Middleton, 
Decker,  and  Chapman.  A  wonderful  richness  of  power  and  matter  is  prominent  in  the  works 
of  all  these  poets.  We  owe  them  much  for  many  a  noble  thought  and  many  a  finely  conceived 
character.  Their  chief  fault  lay  in  a  want  of  control  over  their  own  strength  ;  their  freedom 
and  power  were  often  misused ;  the  sense  of  moderation  is  wanting ;  exuberance  of  fancy  is 
counted  better  than  a  high  moral  aim ;  bombast  is  sometimes  mistaken  for  sublimity.  Like 
certain  portrait  painters,  they  endeavour  to  intensify  the  likeness  by  exaggerating  the  character- 
istic features,  and  they  thus  "overstep  the  modesty  of  nature."  The  learned  German  critic, 
Gervinus,  speaks  truly  of  them  when  he  says, — "  Everything  in  the  minds  engaged  testifies  of 
sap  and  vigour,  of  life  and  motion,  of  luxuriant  creative  genius,  of  ready  ability  to  satisfy  a 
glaring  taste  with  glaring  effects ;  but  the  plastic  hand  of  that  master  is  absent  who  created  his 
works  according  to  the  demands  of  the  highest  ideal  of  art."  Shakespeare  as  Dryden  long  ago 
remarked,  stands  as  high  above  them, — 

"  Quantum  lenta  sclent  inter  viburna  cupressi.** 

Nevertheless,  there  is  a  mine  of  wealth  in  their  works  from  which  hundreds  of  feebler  poets 
have  furtively  enriched  themselves,  and  in  which  the  careful  student  will  always  find  much 
precious  ore,  easily  separable  from  the  surrounding  alloy. 

The  twenty  years  which  Shakespeare  spent  in  London  cannot  but  have  passed  pleasantly 
in  the  society  that  surrounded  and  caressed  him.  He  had  his  choice  of  all  that  was  most 
intellectual  and  all  that  was  most  refined.  His  moral  character  was  without  reproach  ;  his 
disposition  magnanimous  and  gentle  ;  his  manner  open  and  unassuming.  "  I  loved  the^man," 
says  Ben  Jonson,  "  and  do  honour  his  memory 
indeed  honest,  and  of  an  open  and  free  nature." 
ness  of  dealing,"  his  "  generosity  of  mind  and 
candour."  Aubrey,  in  his  plain,  prosaic  way,  says, — "  He  was  a  handsome,  well-shaped  man, 
very  good  company,  and  of  a  very  ready  and  pleasant  smooth  wit."  His  "sugared  sonnets 


cated  all  the  affection  that  was  lavished  on  him,  for  it  is  evident  from  his  writings  that  friend- 
ship was  the  chief  solace  of  his  life.  It  was  friends  who  were  "  precious  "  to  him  that  filled  his 
heart,— 

"  When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 
He  summoned  up  remembrance  of  things  past." 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION.  xxv 

The  Earis  of  Southampton,  Pembroke,  and  Montgomery,  especially  the  first,  were  his  cherished 
and  constant  companions.  The  only  two  letters  written  by  Shakespeare  which  have  come  down 
to  us,  and  which  possess,  therefore,  a  heightened  interest,  are  those  in  which  he  dedicates  to 
Southampton  his  "  Venus  and  Adonis  "  and  his  "  Rape  of  Lucrece."  The  first  was  published 
in  1593,  and  its  style  indicates  that  the  friendship  was  then  only  in  its  bud  which  afterwards 
ripened  so  fully.  It  is  as  follows  : — 

"  To  the  Right  Honourable  HENRY  WRIOTHESLY,  Earl  of  Southampton  and  Baron  of  Tichfield. 

"  RIGHT  HONOURABLE, 

"  I  know  not  how  I  shall  offend  in  dedicating  my  unpolished  lines  to  your  lordship, 
nor  how  the  world  will  censure  me  for  choosing  so  strong  a  prop  to  support  so  weak  a  burden  : 
only,  if  your  honour  seem  but  pleased,  I  account  myself  highly  praised,  and  vow  to  take  advan- 
tage of  all  idle  hours  till  I  have  honoured  you  with  some  graver  labour.  But  if  the  first  heir  of 
my  invention  prove  deformed,  I  shall  be  sorry  it  had  so  noble  a  godfather,  and  never  after  ear 
(cultivate]  so  barren  a  land,  for  fear  it  yield  me  still  so  bad  a  harvest.  I  leave  it  to  your  honour- 
able survey,  and  your  honour  to  your  heart's  content  ;  which  I  wish  may  always  answer  your 
own  wish  and  the  world's  hopeful  expectation.  Your  honour's  in  all  duty, 

"WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE." 

The  "  Lucrece  "  was  published  in  May,  1594,  and  the  more  familiar  style  of  the  letter  pre- 
fixed to  it  indicates  the  rapid  progress  which  had  been  made  in  the  personal  relationships  of  the 
earl  and  the  poet.  It  runs  thus  : — 

"  The  love  I  dedicate  to  your  lordship  is  without  end,  whereot  this  pamphlet,  without 
beginning,  is  but  a  superfluous  moiety  (portion).  The  warrant  I  have  of  your  honourable 
disposition,  not  the  worth  of  my  untutored  lines,  makes  it  assured  of  acceptance.  What  I  have 
done  is  yours  ;  what  I  have  to  do  is  yours  :  being  part  in  all  I  have  devoted  yours.  Were  my 
worth  greater  my  duty  would  show  greater  :  meantime,  as  it  is,  it  is  bound  to  your  lordship  ; 
to  whom  I  wish  long  life,  still  lengthened  with  all  happiness.  Your  lordship's  in  all  duty, 

"  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE." 

Southampton  was  an  enthusiastic  lover  ot  the  drama  ;  spent  much  time  at  the  theatre  ;  and 
no  doubt  frequently  mingled  with  Shakespeare's  friends  there.  He  might  meet  sometimes  with 
Spenser  and  Bacon,  with  Raleigh  and  Pembroke,  with  Ben  Jonson,  Selden,  Carew,  and  Mas- 
singer.  With  some  of  these  and  Shakespeare  he  may  have  adjourned  to  that  famous  club  at 
the  Mermaid,  in  Cornhill,  where  Fuller  says  there  were  many  wit-combats  between  Shakespeare 
and  Jonson  ;  and  of  which  Beaumont  writes, — 

"  What  things  have  we  seen 

Done  at  the  Mermaid  !  heard  words  that  have  been 
So  nimble,  and  so  full  of  subtle  flame, 
As  if  that  every  one  from  whom  they  came 
Had  meant  to  put  his  whole  soul  in  a  jest. 
We  left  an  air  behind  us,  which  alone 
Was  able  to  make  the  two  next  companies 
Right  witty,  tho*  but  downright  fools." 

Nor  did  that  "  merrie  com  panic  "  confine  itself  to  the  Mermaid.  Shakespeare  has  himseK 
immortalized  the  Boar's  Head  in  Eastcheap  and  the  Garter  at  Windsor  ;  and  Herrick  asks 
affectionately  of  Jonson, — 

"  Ah,  Ben  ! 

Say  how  or  when 

Shall  we  thy  guests 
Meet  at  those  lyric  feasts 

Made  at  the  Sun, 
The  Dog,  the  Triple  Tun  I 


xxvi  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

Where  we  such  clusters  had 
As  made  us  nobly  wild,  not  mad  ; 

And  yet  each  verse  of  thine 
Outdid  the  meat,  outdid  the  frolic  wine  ! " 

He  had  also  his  annual,  if  not  more  frequent,  visits  to  Stratford,  round  which  all  his  early 
associations  centred,  and  where  his  family  lived.  His  father  did  not  die  till  1601,  and  his 
mother  survived  for  seven  years  later,  having  reached  the  ripe  age  of  seventy.  His  brother 
Gilbert  had  grown  into  manhood  ;  his  sister  Joan  was  passing  through  her  teens  ;  Richard  was 
at  school  ;  and  Edmond,  his  youngest  brother,  was  still  so  young  as  to  be  a  playmate  for  his 
daughter  Susannah.  Anne  Hathaway  watched  over  his  two  girls  and  his  son  Hamnet  till  the 
sad  year  1596,  when  the  dark  shadow  crossed  their  threshold,  and  the  boy  was  taken  from  them 
on  the  nth  August.  Shakespeare  no  doubt  attended  the  funeral  with  a  saddened  heart  :  but 
in  general  his  visits  must  have  been  occasions  of  great  happiness  to  himself  and  his  relatives. 
He  was  rising  in  the  world  ;  he  had  gained  a  handsome  independence  ;  his  name  was  becoming 
famous.  Rumours  had  reached  Stratford  that  he  was  beloved  by  great  nobles,  and  that 
the  Queen  herself  had  smiled  upon  him.  Sentiments  of  wonder  and  admiration  would 
mingle  with  the  affection  of  his  old  friends  :  in  him,  however,  they  would  find  no  change, — 
no  lofty  airs,  no  paltry  affectation, — the  same  simplicity,  the  same  gentle  earnestness.  How 
should  the  passing  breath  of  popular  applause  excite  any  complacent  vanity  in  one  who  was 
too  great  to  be  conscious  of  effort,  too  full  of  immortality  to  be  dependent  on  the  "ignorant 
present  ! " 

Some  striking  historical  events  happened  during  Shakespeare's  residence  in  London.  There 
were,  or  had  been  immediately  before,  religious  wars  in  France  and  the  Netherlands  ;  conquests 
in  the  West  Indies ;  discoveries  in  most  quarters  of  the  globe  ;  Drake's  voyage  round  the 
world  ;  a  firmer  establishment  of  English  dominion  in  Ireland  ;  and  the  overthrow  of  the 
ancient  form  of  faith,  and  of  the  youthful  Queen  who  was  at  its  head,  in  Scotland.  He 
witnessed  the  cruelties  which  attended  the  execution  of  Babington  and  his  thirteen  fellow-con- 
spirators. He  heard  the  proclamation  of  the  sentence  of  death  against  Mary  Queen  of  Scots ; 
and  he  must  have  shuddered  over  the  details  of  the  remorseless  execution  at  Fotheringay  on 
the  8th  of  February,  1587.  He  beheld  the  gorgeous  pageant  at  the  public  funeral  of  Sir 
Philip  Sydney,  the  brightest  star  of  English  chivalry.  He  mingled  in  all  the  excitement  of  the 
threatened  invasion  of  the  land  by  Philip  of  Spain.  He  saw  the  camp  formed  at  Tilbury,  and 
the  thousands  of  citizens  who  flocked  to  it  as  volunteers  in  aid  of  the  regular  army  ;  for  neither 
then  nor  ever  did  Great  Britain  acquiesce  in  the  possibility  of  a  foreign  invader  taking  possession 
of  one  acre  of  her  soil.  The  news  of  the  approach  of  the  mighty  armament  sounded  in  his 
ears  ;  but  the  God  of  battles  fought  on  the  side  of  England,  and  the  foe  was  scattered  to  the 
winds.  Was  our  Shakespeare  in  St.  Paul's  when  Elizabeth  gave  thanks  on  her  bended  knees, 
surrounded  by  Raleigh,  and  Hawkins,  and  Frobisher,  and  Drake,  and  Howard  of  ErBngham  ? 
By  and  by,  he  perhaps  followed  the  body  of  Elizabeth  herself,  "  covered  with  purple  velvet, 
and  borne  in  a  chariot,"  to  her  last  resting-place  in  Westminster  Abbey.  And  in  other  lands, 
agitated  with  their  own  events,  Tasso  was,  during  the  same  period,  weaving  his  epic  song ; 
Cervantes  was  composing  his  deathless  story  ;  Lope  de  Vega  was  filling  the  stage  of  Spain  with 
his  romantic  dramas  ;  and  Galileo  was  fathoming  the  scheme  of  the  universe.  It  is  somewhat 
marvellous  that  to  not  one  of  these  great  contemporary  incidents  is  there  any  direct  allusion  in 
the  writings  of  Shakespeare.  The  explanation  must  be,  that  he  so  entirely  threw  himself  into 
the  scenes  and  characters  he  selected  for  his  own  themes,  that  his  mind,  intensifying  itself  upon 
them,  shut  out  for  the  time  all  that  was  foreign  to  them. 

The  order  in  which  Shakespeare's  plays  were  written,  and  the  precise  dates  at  which  they 
successively  appeared,  have  given  rise  to  much  ingenious  discussion.  His  ability  as  a  dramatist 
gradually  matured  itself :  he  did  not  start  up,  full-armed,  at  once.  The  satirical  writer,  Greene, 


our  feathers,  that  with  '  his  tiger's  heart  wrapped 
a  player's  hide '"  (a  parody  of  a  line  in  the  Third  Part  of  "  King  Henry  the  Sixth  ")  "  supposes 
he  is  as  well  able  to  bombaste  out  a  blank  verse  as  the  best  of  you  ;  and  being  an  absolute 
Joannes  factotum,  is  in  his  own  conceit  the  only  Shake- scene  in  a  countrey."  We  are  entitled, 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION.  xxvii 

to  conclude  from  this  passage  that  Shakespeare  had  written  for  the  stage  before  the  year  1592, 
and  that  he  had  most  probably  altered  and  adapted  some  of  the  earlier  dramas.  Drake  is  of 
opinion  that  Shakespeare's  first  entire  play  was  "  Pericles,"  and  that  it  was  written  in  1590. 
Malone,  on  the  other  hand,  influenced  partly  by  the  fact  that  in  the  first  two  folios  of  Shake- 
speare's collected  plays  (and  the  first  edition  of  the  third)  "  Pericles"  is  not  included,  omits  it 
altogether  from  his  enumeration,  and  puts  at  the  head  of  his  list  the  First,  Second,  and  Third 
Parts  of  "  King  Henry  the  Sixth,"  assigning  the  First  to  the  year  1589,  when  Shakespeare  was 
twenty-five,  and  the  Second  and  Third  to  1591.  Knight,  in  his  turn,  thinks  "  Titus  Androni- 
cus  "  was  the  first  play,  which  he  believes,  in  opposition  to  Coleridge  and  some  other  writers, 
to  have  been  written  by  Shakespeare.  De  Quincey  names  the  "  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  "  as 
the  earliest,  and  calls  it  the  least  characteristically  marked  of  all  his  plays,  and,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  "  Love's  Labour's  Lost,"  the  least  interesting.  Gervinus  comes  probably  pretty  near 
the  mark  when  he  says  that  the  seven  pieces  which  lie  at  the  outset  of  Shakespeare's  career  are, 
"Titus  Andronicus,"  "  Pericles,"  the  Three  Parts  of  "  King  Henry  the  Sixth,"  the  "Comedy 
of  Errors,"  and  the  "  Taming  of  the  Shrew." 

In  the  original  folio  editions  no  chronological  order  is  attempted,  the  plays  being  simply 
divided  into  three  classes,  under  the  respective  names  of  Comedies,  Histories,  and  Tragedies. 
The  edition  of  1623,  and  the  two  editions  which  followed,  include,  "Titus  Andronicus  ;"  and 
of  all  the  thirty-seven  plays  now  attributed  to  Shakespeare,  they  omit  "  Pericles"  alone.  That 
play,  however,  is  now  commonly  ranked  as  his  with  less  hesitation  than  the  drama  which  con- 
tains the  revolting  parts  of  Aaron  and  Tamora.  The  horror  which  is  accumulated  upon  horror 
in  "Titus  Andronicus"  exceeds  all  bounds ;  yet  it  was  not  out  of  keeping  with  the  immature 
and  sensational  dramatic  tastes  of  the  period  immediately  preceding  Shakespeare.  The  most 
probable  theory  is  that  Shakespeare  was  requested  to  work  the  piece  up  from  a  version  already 
existing,  and  that  he  threw  in  numerous  passages  which  even  Coleridge  admits  could  have  been 
written  by  no  one  else.  Horror  is  an  element  of  the  tragic ;  but  the  horror  which  consists  in 
presenting  to  the  eyes  of  the  spectators  the  mutilation  of  limbs,  the  cutting  of  throats,  and  the 
eating  of  the  baked  flesh  of  murdered  enemies,  smells  too  much  of  the  shambles.  Shakespeare, 
it  may  be  supposed,  performed  reluctantly  the  task  assigned  to  him,  and  felt  strongly  what  he 
makes  one  of  the  characters  express, — 

"  Twill  vex  thy  soul  to  hear  what  I  shall  speak  ; 
For  I  must  talk  of  murders,  rapes,  and  massacres, 
Acts  of  black  night,  abominable  deeds, 
Complots  of  mischief,  treason,  villanies, 
Ruthful  to  hear,  yet  piteously  performed." 

It  has  been  clearly  ascertained  that  in  his  "  Henry  the  Sixth,"  which  is  the  feeblest  of  all  his 
historical  dramas,  Shakespeare  did  little  more  than  revise  and  dress  up  two  earlier  pieces,  which 
have  recently  been  published  in  the  Transactions  of  the  Shakespeare  Society,  under  the  editor- 
ship of  Mr.  Halliwell.  "  Pericles,"  on  the  other  hand,  though  an  early  production,  is  essenti- 
ally Shakespearian.  It  is  a  long  romance,  dramatized  upon  a  principle  to  which  Shakespeare 
always  adhered. — that  a  play  admits  of  as  much  progressive  action,  lapse  of  time,  and  change  of 
locality,  as  an  epic  narrative.  The  liberties  which  are  taken  both  with  time  and  place  are  so 
great  that  the  ancient  poet  Gower  (from  whose  Confessio  Amantium  the  incidents  of  the  play 
are  borrowed)  has  to  be  introduced  at  the  commencement  of  each  act,  to  inform  the  reader  of  a 
variety  of  events  supposed  to  have  occurred,  but  which  are  not  represented  in  the  play.  This 
was  going  to  the  very  verge  of  dramatic  license,  and  was  indicative  of  a  hand  still  somewhat 
inexperienced ;  yet  how  fresh  and  vigorous  and  full  of  poetry  many  of  the  scenes  are,  and 
how  well  the  interest  is  sustained  throughout ! 

If  Shakespeare  did  not  know  the  full  strength  of  his  wing  till  he  had  made  some  lower 
flights,  it  was  not  long  ere 

"  None  that  beheld  him  but,  like  lesser  lights 
Did  vail  their  crowns  to  his  supremacy. 

Between  1589  and  1613  he  poured  out  upon  the  astonished  world  tne  following  works: — 

COMEDIES.—"  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  ; "  "  The  Comedy  of  Errors  ; "  "The  Taming 


xxvui  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

of  the  Shrew;"  "Love's  Labour's  Lost;"  "All's  Well  that  Ends  Well;"  "  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream;"  "Much  Ado  about  Nothing;"  "  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor;"  "Twelfth 
Night." 

TRAGI-COMEDIES. — "Merchant  of  Venice;"  "  Measure  for  Measure ;"  "  Troilus  and 
Cressida  ; "  "  Timon  of  Athens." 

HISTORICAL  PLAYS. — First,  Second,  and  Third  Parts  of  "  King  Henry  the  Sixth  ;"  "  King 
John;"  "Richard  the  Second;"  "Richard  the  Third;"  First  and  Second  Parts  of  "King 
Henry  the  Fourth  ;  "  "  King  Henry  the  Fifth  ;  "  "  King  Henry  the  Eighth." 

ROMANTIC  DRAMAS. — "  Pericles  ; "  "  Cymbeline  ; "  "  As  You  Like  It ; "  "  Winter's  Tale ;" 
"The  Tempest." 

TRAGEDIES. — "Titus  Andronicus;"  "Romeo  and  Juliet;"  "Hamlet;"  "Othello;" 
"Lear;"  "Macbeth;"  and  the  Roman  Tragedies,— "  Coriolanus ; "  "Julius  Caesar;" 
"  Antony  and  Cleopatra." 

The  precise  order  in  which  these  thirty-seven  plays  appeared  is  not,  after  all,  of  much  conse- 
quence, and  no  two  writers  have  exactly  agreed  regarding  it.  A  collected  edition  of  his  works 
was  not  issued  during  his  lifetime,  but  a  good  many  of  his  plays  were  published  separately.  It 
has  been  ascertained  that  these  came  out  in  the  following  order,  which,  however,  is  no  certain 
indication  of  the  order  in  which  they  were  written,  since  the  title-page  frequently  bears  that  the 
piece  had  been  acted  for  some  time  before  it  was  printed  : — 1st,  "  Titus  Andronicus,"  1593  ; 
2nd,  "  Richard  the  Third,"  1594;  3rd,  "  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  1596;  4th,  "Love's  Labour's 
Lost,"  1598;  5th,  "Henry  the  Fifth,"  1600;  6th,  First  Part  of  "King  Henry  the  Fourth," 
1598  ;  ;th,  Second  Part  of  "  King  Henry  the  Fourth,"  1600  ;  8th,  "  The  Merchant  of  Venice," 
1600;  9th,  "Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  1600;  loth,  "Much  Ado  about  Nothing,"  1600; 
lith,  "Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,"  1602;  I2th,  "Hamlet,"  1603;  I3th,  "King  Lear,"  1608; 
I4th,  "  Pericles,"  1609  ;  and  I5th,  "  Troilus  and  Cressida,"  1609.  It  is  not  known  that  any  of 
the  remaining  twenty-two  plays  appeared  in  print  till  six  years  after  his  death.  But  such  was  the 
prestige  which  already  attached  to  his  name,  that  numerous  attempts  were  made  to  impose  upon 
the  public  spurious  plays  as  his.  The  deception  partially  succeeded  for  a  time  ;  but  until  lately 
almost  all  critics,  with  the  single  exception  of  Schlegel,  have  given  their  verdict  against  the 
genuineness  of  any  of  these  productions.  The  names  of  the  most  prominent  are  "  Edward  the 
Third;"  "  Arden  of  Feversham;"  "Locrine;"  the  First  Part  of  "Sir  John  Oldcastle;" 
"  The  Life  and  Death  of  Thomas,  Lord  Cromwell ; "  "  The  Merry  Devil  of  Edmonton  ; "  and 
"  The  Yorkshire  Tragedy."  Shakespeare  may  have  had  some  slight  hand  in  several  of  these, — 
he  may  have  sketched  in  a  scene  or  a  character  ;  but  that  he  was,  in  the  proper  sense,  the  author 
of  any  of  them  cannot  be  credited.  Others  are  "  Macedorrus  ; "  "The  London  Prodigal;" 
"The  Puritan;"  and  "Fair  Em."  There  is  better  reason  for  believing  that  he  took  a  less 
inconsiderable  part  in  the  composition  of  the  "  Two  Noble  Kinsmen,"  though  that  play  is 
commonly  attributed  to  Fletcher,  and  was  probably  written  mainly  by  him. 

There  are  two  ways  in  which  the  Shakespearian  student  may  read  his  historical  plays.  He 
may  take  them  either  in  the  order  in  which  they  were  probably  written,  with  the  view  of  tracing 
the  development  of  the  poet's  style  and  manner  ;  or  he  may  peruse  them  in  chronological  sequence 
as  illustrative  of  the  successive  periods  with  which  they  deal.  In  the  first  case  they  would  be 
read  in  the  following  order  : — The  First,  Second,  and  Third  Parts  of  "  King  Henry  the  Sixth;" 
"King  John;"  "King  Richard  the  Second;"  "  King  Richard  the  Third;"  The  First  and 
Second  Parts  of"  King  Henry  the  Fourth  ;"  "  King  Henry  the  Fifth  ;"  and  "  King  Henry 
the  Eighth."  In  the  order  of  history,  on  the  other  hand,  "  King  John  "  comes  first,  his  period 
being  from  119910  1216;  then  "Richard  the  Second,"  1377  to  1399;  "Henry  the  Fourth, 
1399  to  1413  ;  "  Henry  the  Fifth,"  1413  to  1422  ;  "  Henry  the  Sixth,"  1422  to  1461  ;  "  Richard 
the  Third,"  1483  to  1485  ;  and  "  Henry  the  Eighth,"  1509  to  1547. 

Shakespeare  wrote  on  an  average  a  play  every  six  months  for  nearly  twenty  years.  The 
variety  is  infinite  ;  the  multiplication  of  human  portraiture  is  unparalleled.  The  gayest  fancy, 
the  broadest  humour,  the  most  piercing  wit,  alternate  with  the  deepest  pathos,  the  strongest 
passion,  the  truest  philosophy.  It  was  human  life,  not  a  stilted  conventionality,  not  an 
academical  rule,  that  Shakespeare  cared  for.  He  refused  to  be  bound  by  the  dogmas  of  a 
school ;  he  felt  that  no  other  unity  was  essential  if  there  was  unity  of  impression — harmony  of 
general  conception.  The  Attic  severity  of  the  Greek  drama  repelled  him  ;  he  may  have 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION.  xxix 

acknowledged  the  art  that  pervaded  it,  but  he  missed  the  free  movement  of  actual  existence. 
He  saw  that  comedy  and  tragedy  are  blended  indissolubly  in  man's  life  ;  that  tears  and  laughter 
have  one  common  source,  and  flow  in  the  same  channel.  He  recognised  the  truth  that  in  our 
mundane  condition  the  greatest  moral  lessons  are  taught  in  the  midst  of  those  conflicting 
emotions  which  shed  upon  surrounding  objects  alternate  gloom  and  sunshine.  The  heart  and 
the  head  alike  confess  that  he  was  right.  He  had  made  it  apparent  to  the  whole  world  that 
yEschylus,  Sophocles,  and  Euripides, — Corneille,  Racine,  and  Voltaire,  great  as  they  were, 
took  a  narrower  and  feebler  view  of  the  true  scope  and  aim  of  the  drama,  "  whose  end,  both 
at  the  first  and  now,  was  and  is,  to  hold  as  'twere  the  mirror  up  to  nature,  to  show  virtue  her 
own  feature,  scorn  her  own  image,  and  the  very  age  and  body  of  the  time  her  form  and  pur- 
pose." Hence  it  was  that  he  fearlessly  mingled  the  tragic  with  the  comic  element,  that  he 
gave  its  silver  lining  to  the  cloud,  that  he  brought  "  sceptre  and  crown  "  face  to  face  with  the 
"  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade,"  that  he  made  nature  predominant  over  accident. 

He  had  no  models  ;  he  had  nothing  to  guide  him  but  his  own  perspicacity.  Chaucer  was 
the  greatest  of  his  predecessors,  but  he  has  drawn  little  from  Chaucer.  Neither  can  it  be  said 
that  his  writings  were  a  reflex  of  his  own  age.  High  literature  and  high  art  rarely  or  never 
reflect  their  own  age.  Just  because  Shakespeare's  are  the  finest  plays  the  world  has  ever  seen, 
the  special  characteristics  of  the  Elizabethan  era  are  not  to  be  found  in  them.  They  suit  all 
ages ;  they  are  universal,  not  national.  It  is  the  boast  of  sculpture  that  in  producing  the  per- 
fection of  ideal  form  it  links  itself  with  no  particular  time  or  place.  So  it  is  with  Shakespeare  ; 
he  grasps  the  essential,  and  cares  little  for  the  adventitious.  His  men  and  women  are  human 
beings  ;  it  matters  not  whether  they  wear  the  Greek  peplos  or  the  Roman  toga, — the  rirfF  and 
stomacher  of  Elizabeth,  or  the  jerkin  and  collar  of  James.  Yet  he  ever  takes  care  not  to 
generalise  too  much,  or  to  forget  in  the  typical  the  special  features  of  character.  His  portraits 
are  not  shadowy  abstractions  ;  they  are  intensely  individual  ;  but  they  present  to  us  what  is 
inherent  and  permanent,  not  what  is  superficial  and  transitory. 

No  poet  ever  more  entirely  sunk  himself  in  his  own  conceptions.  He  comes  before  us  as 
Hamlet  or  Falstaff,  Macbeth  or  Malvolio,  Othello  or  Launcelot  Gobbo, — never  as  Shakespeare. 
He  is  whatever  he  chooses  to  be,  from  Coriolanus  to  Caliban.  He  finds  a  heap  of  dry  bones, 
and  infuses  vitality  into  them.  He  rarely  or  never  takes  the  trouble  of  inventing  a  plot ;  but 
when  he  lights  upon  an  insipid  tale  by  Cinthio,  or  a  ballad  by  some  unknown  chapman,  he 
touches  it,  as  with  Ithuriel's  spear,  and  it  starts  up  into  a  shining  comedy  or  a  heart-consuming 
tragedy.  Building,  as  he  often  did,  on  the  foundation  of  some  ancient  chronicle  or  ,half- for- 
gotten legend,  it  was  he  alone  who  supplied  the  scene  with  thought  and  action,  filled  it  with 
breath,  and  peopled  it  with  living  beings,  whom  once  to  know  is  to  remember  for  ever.  A 
halfpenny  broadside  told  the  "  Pityfull  Historic  of  Two  Loving  Italians,"  or  "of  a  Jew  who 
would  for  his  Debt  have  a  Pound  of  the  Flesh  of  a  Christian,"  and  Shakespeare's  genius,  by  a 
magic  alchemy,  transmuted  such  materials  as  these  into  Romeo  and  Juliet,  and  Shy  lock. 

But  had  Shakespeare  no  faults  ? — The  answer  must  be  that  perfection  is  not  given  to  mortals. 
Such  faults  as  he  had  were  the  faults  of  one  who  had  his  feet  entangled  in  the  meshes  of  a 
semi-enlightened  age,  and  who  was  diffident  of  his  right  to  set  himself  free  at  once  by  his  own 
strength.  Some  of  the  scenes  and  dialogues  are  repulsive  to  the  taste  of  the  present  day,  but 
were  not  so  when  he  wrote.  Coarseness  of  language  does  not  necessarily  imply  immorality  of 
principle.  Shakespeare  is  ahead  of  all  other  writers  of  his  time  in  this,  that  he  never  indulges 
in  coarseness  for  its  own  sake,  but  introduces  it  either  with  the  view  of  illustrating  character,  or 
of  bringing  us  back  with  increased  relish  to  the  expression  of  higher  and  purer  thoughts.  He 
adopts  no  story  which  has  in  itself  a  vicious  tendency.  He  is  not  indeed  always  careful,  as 
more  commonplace  moralists  may  be,  to  make  virtue  triumph  ;  he  sometimes  carries  his  persons, 
as  if  indifferently,  through  right  and  wrong.  But  the  impression  which  every  one  of  his  works 
leaves,  is  that  its  perusal  has  contributed  to  a  healthy  tone  of  feeling  and  to  moral  invigoration. 

A  few  of  his  plots  are  loosely  formed,  and  want  regularity  of  design.  He  not  only  does  not 
avoid,  but  seems  rather  to  rejoice  in  anachronisms.  He  gives  to  one  age  or  nation  the  customs 
and  institutions  of  another.  He  intermixes  the  features  of  the  heroic  and  feudal  times.  He 
puts  the  names  of  the  Roman  gods  in  the  mouths  of  the  Druids  ;  he  makes  Hector  auote 
Aristotle  ;  and  he  introduces  cannon  in  the  reign  of  King  John.  These  things  may  be  dis- 
agreeable to  the  antiquary,  but  they  are  only  motes  in  the  sunshine  of  Shakespeare's  genius. 


XXX  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

Another  fault  is  imputed  to  him,  traceable  to  the  imitation  of  the  manner  of  the  Italian  poets, 
so  prevalent  in  the  latter  half  of  the  sixteenth  century.  It  consists  in  a  playful  twisting  of  the 
meaning  of  words,  suggested  sometimes  by  their  sound,  and  sometimes  by  their  juxtaposition. 
Shakespeare  evidently  found  pleasure  in  these  concetti,  or  what  Dr.  Johnson  calls  "  idle  conceits 
and  contemptible  equivocations."  "  A  quibble,"  says  the  Doctor,  who  had  somewhat  ponder- 
ous notions  of  humour,  "is  to  Shakespeare  what  luminous  vapours  are  to  the  traveller  ;  he 
follows  it  at  all  adventures  ;  it  is  sure  to  lead  him  out  of  his  way,  and  sure  to  engulf  him  in  the 
mire.  It  has  some  malignant  power  over  his  mind,  and  its  fascinations  are  irresistible.  What- 
ever be  the  dignity  or  profundity  of  his  disquisition,  whether  he  be  enlarging  knowledge  or 
exalting  affection,  whether  he  be  arousing  attention  with  incidents  or  enchaining  it  in  suspense, 
let  but  a  quibble  spring  up  before  him  and  he  leaves  his  work  unfinished.  A  quibble,  poor 
and  barren  as  it  is,  gave  him  such  delight  that  he  was  content  to  purchase  it  by  the  sacrifice  of 
reason,  propriety,  and  truth."  They  who  choose  may  agree  with  this  Johnsonian  criticism  ; 
but  do  not  let  them  forget  that  Shakespeare,  being  himself 

"  A  fellow  of  infinite  jest,  of  most  excellent  fancy," 

;.-.-  o  iibrirmftw 

one  who  was  "  not  only  witty  in  himself,  but  the  cause  that  wit  is  in  other  men,"  cared  as  little 
for  "  quibbles  "  as  Dr.  Johnson.  They  suited  the  times,  and  he  therefore  gave  them  "  as  thick 
as  Tewkesbury  mustard  ; "  but  he  fails  not  to  say,  through  Lorenzo,  in  the  "  Merchant  of 
Venice," — "  How  every  fool  can  play  upon  the  word  !  I  think  the  best  grace  of  wit  will 
shortly  turn  into  silence,  and  discourse  grow  commendable  in  none  only  but  parrots." 

In  Germany,  Shakespeare's  supremacy  as  a  dramatic  poet  has  long  been  admitted.  Lessing, 
Herder,  Goethe,  Schlegel,  Tieck,  Gervinus,  Ulrici,  and  others,  have  done  much  to  naturalise 
him  among  their  countrymen,  and  to  kindle  enthusiasm  for  his  genius.  In  France,  on  the 
other  hand,  it  is  comparatively  recently  that  he  has  met  with  a  reception  worthy  of  the  intellect 
of  that  country.  Before  Shakespeare  could  be  thoroughly  understood  in  France  a  system  had  , 
to  be  overturned,— the  battle  of  the  orders  had  to  be  fought,  Aristotle  and  the  unities  had  to  be 
weighed  in  the  balance.  Voltaire  allowed  Shakespeare  the  praise  only  of  a  clever  "barbarian;" 
and  La  Harpe  dragged  him  by  the  heels  behind  the  triumphal  car  of  Racine.  The  French 
poets  were  unable  to  conceive  of  a  tragic  drama  not  founded  on  the  Greek  model,  of  which 
they  produced  highly  successful  imitations  ;  but,  as  was  likely  to  happen  with  imitations,  they 
were  colder  and  more  pompous  than  the  originals.  In  ancient  Greece,  where  there  were  fewer 
shades  and  diversities  of  character  than  there  came  to  be  as  the  world  got  older,  there  was  a 
stately  grandeur,  which  to  a  certain  extent  atoned  for  its  monotony,  in  the  scenic  representation 
of  an  illustrious  house  contending  in  vain  against  the  inexorable  decrees  of  destiny.  But  when 
the  same  stateliness  and  severity  of  artistic  rule  was  transferred  on  the  French  stage  to  the  halls 
of  the  Cid  and  the  courts  of  Bajazet  and  Mahomet,  it  was  certain  that  human  nature  would 
sooner  or  later  rebel,  and  that,  as  hair-powder  and  furbelows  went  out,  Shakespeare  and  real 
life  would  come  in.  The  film  fell  from  the  eyes  of  Le  Mercier,  Madame  De  Stael,  and  Guizot ; 
and  France  at  length  owns  that  Voltaire,  who  said  of  Shakespeare  that  "he  was  without  the 
least  spark  of  good  taste,  and  without  the  slightest  knowledge  of  rules,"  must  "pale  his 
uneffectual  fire  "  before  the  author  of  "  Hamlet. 

If  taste  consists  in  a  quick  and  accurate  appreciation  of  all  that  is  graceful  and  harmonious, 
not  in  artificial  life  alone,  but  in  the  world  as  God  made  it,  no  Frenchman,  great  or  small,  had 
ever  half  the  taste  of  Shakespeare.  Taste  is,  indeed,  too  low  and  technical  a  term  for  his 
intuitive  perception  of  the  true  and  the  beautiful,  and  his  exquisite  delight  in  them.  In  reading 
a  play  by  Voltaire  we  imagine  of  a  man  "  who  has  lived  for  a  long  time  in  apartments  lighted 
only  by  wax  candles,  chandeliers,  or  coloured  glasses — who  has  only  breathed  in  the  faint, 
suffocating  atmosphere  of  drawing-rooms — who  has  seen  only  the  cascades  at  the  opera,  calico 
mountains,  and  garlands  of  artificial  flowers."  In  reading  a  play  by  Shakespeare  we  imagine 
of  a  man  who  was  ever  in  the  pure  air  that  encompasses  the  sights  and  sounds  of  external 
nature,  and  who  found  at  will — 

"  Tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brook, 

Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything." 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION.  xxxi 

Of  his  fellow-beings  his  thoughts  were, — 

"What  a  piece  of  work  is  man  !     How  noble  in  reason  I  how  infinite  in  faculties  !  in  form  and  moving,  how 
express  and  admirable  !  in  action,  how  like  an  angel  !  in  apprehension,  bow  like  a  god  !  the  beauty  of  the  world  1 

the  paragon  of  animals  ! " 

In  the  starry  wilderness  of  space  he  recognised  the  music  of  eternity, — 

"  Look,  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold  i 
There 's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  behold'st 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-ey'd  cherubins  : 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls 
But  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  cl  se  us  in,  we  cannot  hear  it." 

In  the  changing  seasons  his  feeling  was  but  of  one  description  of  beauty  passing  into  another, — 

"  Hoary-headed  frosts 
Fall  in  the  fresh  lap  of  the  crimson  rose  ; 
And  on  old  Hyem's  chin  and  icy  crown 
An  odorous  chaplet  of  sweet  summer  buds 
Is,  as  in  mockery,  set." 

In  the  works  of  man,  no  less  than  in  the  works  of  God,  he  took  deep  delight, — the  "cloud- 
capp'd  towers,"  the  "gorgeous  palaces,"  the  "  solemn  temples."  Of  the  Fine  Arts  he  was  an 
earnest  votary.  Music,  in  particular,  was  a  never-ending  delight  to  him.  His  eloquent 
denunciation  of  those  who  "are  not  moved  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds"  is  written  in  a 
thousand  hearts.  To  his  ear  music  was  "  the  food  of  love"  :  he  claims  for  it  the  distinction  of 
having  been  "  ordained  to  refresh  the  mind  of  man."  In  that  most  exquisite  scene  at  Belmont, 
in  the  Fifth  Act  of  the  "  Merchant  of  Venice,"  music  intensifies  the  happiness  of  the  youthful 
lovers,— 

"  How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank  ! 

Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 

Creep  in  our  ears,  soft  stillness  and  the  night 

Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony." 

And  Jessica  only  deepens  into  tenderness  when  she  breathes  into  the  ear  of  Lorenzo, — 
"  I  am  never  merry  when  I  hear  sweet  music." 

With  what  truth  of  feeling  the  Duke,  in  "The  Twelfth  Night,"  asks  for  a  repetition  of  the 
music  he  has  just  heard  !— 

•jjoi     ii;i      '.   i  '  •  .'..:•;[  <•:  ^ndaa  od  ,;.«oad  TOJicW --.'r8'»!r»  jnu;  ;  b-uibmfe    ;  ••^--  /i  arri^o-:!!  -->.' 
'•  That  strain  again  ;— it  had  a  dying  fall : 

O,  it  came  o'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  south, 

That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets, 

Stealing  and  giving  odour.'' 
And  again, — 

"  That  old  and  antique  song  we  heard  last  night: 

Methought  it  did  relieve  my  passion  much, 

More  than  light  airs  and  recollected  tunes 

Of  these  most  brisk  and  giddy-paced  times. " 

Such  examples  could  be  largely  multiplied  ;  but  take  as  the  only  other  the  lines  put  into  the 
lips  of  Oberon,— 

"  My  gentle  Puck,  come  hither  :  thou  remember 'st 

Since  once  I  sat  upon  a  promontory. 

And  heard  a  mermaid,  on  a  dolphin  s  back, 

Uttering  such  dulcet  and  harmonious  breath 

That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her  song  ; 

And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres, 

To  hear  the  sea-maid's  music." 


xxxn  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

Not  contented  with  thus  celebrating  the  charms  of  music,  Shakespeare  gave  to  be  wedded  to  it 
some  of  the  most  delicious  of  our  English  songs.  They  sparkle  through  his  plays  in  rich  pro- 
fusion,— many  of  them  light,  airy,  and  fanciful,  like  his  own  sprites, — others  full  of  a  divine 
melancholy.  Painting  and  sculpture  were  hardly  less  prized  by  him  ;  and  he  had  evidently  a 
learned  knowledge  of  both.  Of  painting  he  says,  "  It  tutors  nature."  Neither  Titian,  nor 
Velasquez,  nor  he,  greater  than  either,  -who  designed  the  Sibyls  on  the  dome  of  the  Sistine 
Chapel,  ever  painted  a  nobler  portrait  than  Hamlet  does  of  the  "buried  Majesty  of  Denmark." 
Raphael,  on  his  most  impassioned  canvas,  never  exceeded  the  beauty  of  the  description  of 
"fair  Portia's  counterfeit,"  given  by  the  enamoured  Bassanio.  Perhaps  Shakespeare  had 
before  him  a  work  of  Julio  Romano,  for  whom  he  is  known  to  have  entertained  great  admira- 
tion, when  he  makes  the  Poet  say  of  the  picture  exhibited  by  the  Painter  in  the  first  scene  of 
"  Timon  of  Athens," — 

"  Admirable  t     How  this  grace 
Speaks  his  own  standing  !  what  a  mental  power 
This  eye  shoots  forth  !  how  big  imagination 
Moves  in  this  lip  !  to  the  dumbness  of  the  gesture 
One  might  interpret." 

As  regards  sculpture,  his  understanding  of  the  chief  excellences  of  that  art  is  sufficiently  attested 
by  the  language  used  when  Paulina,  in  the  "  Winter's  Tale,"  unvails  to  Leontes  the  supposed 
statue  of  Hermione  ; — 

' '  Prepare 

To  see  the  life  as  lively  mock'd  as  ever 
Still  sleep  mock'd  death. 

Masterly  done : 

The  very  life  seems  warm  upon  her  lip, 
The  fixture  of  her  eye  has  motion  in 't  ; 
There  is  an  air  comes  from  her  J  what  fine  chisel 
Could  ever  yet  cut  breath  ?" 

And  this  was  the  semi-barbarian  who,  as  the  French  scoffer  declared,  had  no  spark  of  taste  ! 
Thomas  Carlyle  spoke  truer  words  when  he  said, — "The  noblest  thing  we  men  of  England 
have  produced  has  been  this  Shakespeare." 

After  some  years  of  persevering  industry  in  London,  Shakespeare  found  himself  the  possessor 
of  handsome  means,  which,  as  there  is  every  reason  to  believe,  continued  steadily  to  increase. 
Besides  his  partnership  in  the  profits  of  the  Globe  Theatre,  he  may  have  been  a  shareholder  in 
the  Blackfriars,  and,  in  any  case,  he  enjoyed  his  part  of  the  actors'  profits  in  both.  To  this 
may  have  been  added  a  proportion  of  the  gains  accruing  from  the  successful  representation  of 
his  plays.  De  Quincey  is  of  opinion  that  Shakespeare  was  the  first  man  of  letters  in  Great 
Britain  who  realized  a  fortune  by  literature,  Pope  being  the  second,  and  Sir  Walter  Scott  the 
third.  However  this  may  be,  it  is  certain  that  as  soon  as  Shakespeare  had  money  to  invest, 
his  thoughts  reverted  to  Stratford  ;  and,  like  Sir  Walter  Scott,  he  seems  to  have  been  ambitious 
of  giving  stability  to  his  family  by  the  acquisition  of  landed  rights.  In  the  year  1597  he  pur- 
chased the  best  house  in  Stratford,  known  by  the  name  of  New  Place,  and  in  1602  he  bought, 
at  a  considerable  cost,  one  hundred  and  seven  acres  of  land  adjoining  the  house.  On  Shake- 
speare's death,  New  Place  went  to  his  daughter,  Mrs.  Hall,  in  liferent,  and  then  to  her  only 
daughter,  Elizabeth,  afterwards  Lady  Barnard,  in  fee.  It  was  sold  in  1675  to  Sir  Edward 
Walker,  Garter  King-at-Anns.  From  him  it  passed  to  his  grandson,  Sir  John  Clopton,  who, 
about  the  year  1702,  made  extensive  alterations  on  it,  and  modernized  its  aspect  both  internally 
and  externally.  Sir  Hugh  Clopton's  son-in-law,  Henry  Talbot,  brother  to  the  Lord  Chancellor 
Talbot,  sold  New  Place,  in  the  year  1756,  to  the  Rev.  Francis  Gastrell,  Vicar  of  Frodsham,  in 
Cheshire.  Of  this  reverend  gentleman  we  fear  it  must  be  said  that 

"  The  motions  of  his  spirit  were  dull  as  night, 
And  his  affections  dark  as  Erebus." 

He  must  have  known  that  he  had  the  honour  to  own  a  house  which  was  dear  to  Stratford  and 
sacred  to  all  England  ;  and  yet,  in  a  fit  of  paltry  rage  at  being  forced  to  pay  a  poor's-rate  on  it 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION.  XXXlll 

though  he  resided  a  part  of  the  year  at  Lichfield,  he  declared,  in -the  year  1759,  that  New  Place 
should  never  be  assessed  again,  and  forthwith  razed  the  building  to  the  ground,  sold  off  the 
materials,  and  took  his  departure  from  Stratford  amidst  the  execrations  of  its  inhabitants. 
Nor  was  this  the  only  offence  of  this  same  Mr.  Gastrell :  he  had  committed  three  years  before 
another  act  of  sacrilege  hardly  less  atrocious.  Shakespeare  planted  with  his  own  hand,  in 
1609,  or  thereby,  in  the  garden  at  New  Place,  a  mulberry  tree,  which  grew  to  a  goodly  size, 
and  produced  abundant  fruit.  "  The  planting  of  this  tree  by  Shakespeare,"  says  Malone,  "  is 
as  well  authenticated  as  anything  of  that  nature  can  be.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Davenport  informed 
me  that  Mr.  Hugh  Taylor,  the  father  of  his  clerk,  who  was  in  1790  eighty-five  years  old,  and 
an  alderman  of  Warwick,  told  him  that  he  lived,  when  a  boy,  at  the  next  house  to  New  Place  ; 
that  his  family  had  inhabited  the  house  for  almost  three  hundred  years  ;  that  it  was  transmitted 
from  father  to  son,  during  the  last  and  present  century,  that  this  tree  (of  the  fruit  of  which  he 
had  often  eaten  in  his  younger  days,  some  of  its  branches  hanging  over  his  father's  garden)  was 
planted  by  Shakespeare  ;  and  that  till  this  was  planted  there  was  no  mulberry  tree  in  that 
neighbourhood."  A  similar  tradition  was  preserved  in  the  Clopton  family;  and  in  1742  Sir 
Hugh  Clopton  entertained  the  two  celebrated  actors,  Garrick  and  MackUn,  under  the  flourish- 
ing and  time-honoured  branches.  The  aforesaid  Vicar  of  Frodsham,  however,  the  Rev. 
Francis  Gastrell,  took  a  dislike  to  the  tree,  on  account  of  its  popularity,  which  exposed  his 
reverence  to  frequent  requests  to  permit  strangers  to  see  it.  This  interruption  to  his  own  ease 
was  intolerable  ;  so  the  leaden-souled  priest,  who  had  never  drawn  one  breath  of  inspiration  in 
the  garden  where  Shakespeare  had  walked,  ordered  the  tree,  in  the  year  1756,  when  it  was  at 
its  full  growth  and  of  remarkable  beauty,  to  be  cut  down  and  cleft  into  pieces  for  firewood. 
When  the  assertion  is  made  that  a  man  may  do  what  he  likes  with  his  own,  it  may  be  well  to 
remember  that  the  slave-owner  lashes  the  negro  to  within  an  inch  of  his  life,  and  that  the  Rev. 
Francis  Gastrell  cut  down  Shakespeare's  mulberry  tree  and  demolished  his  house.  The  New 
Place  property  was,  in  1862,  purchased  by  a  public  subscription,  due  to  the  exertions  of  Mr. 
Hall i well,  and  placed  in  charge  of  the  Stratford  corporation. 

After  his  purchase  of  New  Place  and  the  adjacent  lands,  Shakespeare's  relationships  with 
Stratford  became  closer  and  more  constant.  There  is  evidence  that  he  at  one  time  thought  of 
buying  a  messuage  at  Shottery,  in  remembrance,  perhaps,  of  his  youthful  days  of  love-making 
there.  He  farmed  some  land  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  Stratford,  which  was  probably 
managed  for  him  by  his  brother  Gilbert.  The  books  of  the  local  Burgh  Court  show  that  decrees 
were  once  or  twice  issued  at  Shakespeare's  instance  for  the  price  of  corn  and  other  farm  produce 
owing  to  him.  In  the  year  1 596  application  was  made  to  the  Herald's  College  for  a  grant  of  a 
coat  of  arms  to  John  Shakespeare  ;  and  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  this  was  done  at  the 
instigation  of  his  eldest  son.  The  grant  was  not  obtained  till  1599.  It  bears  in  gremio  that  the 
reasons  for  conceding  it  were  that  John  Shakespeare's  ' '  parentes  and  late  antecessors  "  (above 
which  word  is  written  "  grandfather")  had  done  "  faithful  and  valiant  service  to  the  late  most 
prudent  prince,  King  Henry  VII.,"  for  which  they  had  by  him  been  "  advanced  and  rewarded"; 
that  since  that  time  they  had  continued  in  these  parts,  "  being  of  good  reputation  and  credit," 
and  that  the  said  John  Shakespeare  had  married  "  the  daughter  and  one  of  the  heirs  of  Robert 
Arden  of  Wilmcote,  in  the  said  county,  esquire."  In  consideration  of  these  premises,  "  and  for 
the  encouragement  of  his  posterity,"  a  shield  and  coat  of  arms  were  assigned.  The  arms  of  the 
Shakespeare  family  were, — in  a  field  of  gold  upon  a  bend  sable,  a  spear  of  the  first,  the  point 
upward,  headed  argent ;  and  for  a  crest  or  cognizance,  a  falcon  with  his  wings  displayed,  stand- 
ing on  a  wreath  of  his  colours,  supporting  a  spear  headed  or  steeled  silver.  These  arms  were 
impaled  upon  another  escutcheon  with  the  ancient  arms  of  Arden  of  Wilmscote,  and  the  whole 
were  surmounted  by  the  motto,  "  Non  sanz  droict" 

It  was  probably  not  long  after  the  year  1604  that  Shakespeare  transferred  his  headquarters 
from  London  to  Stratford.  In  that  year  his  name  still  appears  among  the  players  of  the  King's 
company  ;  but  he  is  not  known  to  have  acted  after  1603,  when  he  was  one  of  the  actors  in  Ben 
Jonson's  "  Sejanus,"  which  was  produced  at  the  Globe  in  that  year  ;  he  did  not  perform  in  the 
same  author's  "  Volpone,"  which  was  brought  out  in  1605.  In  1604  the  London  theatres  were 
closed  for  a  time  on  account  of  the  plague,  and  it  is  likely  that  Shakespeare  then  went  to  Strat- 
ford. In  a  diary  written  in  1662  by  the  Rev.  John  Ward,  Vicar  at  Stratfocd,  the  author  says, — 
"  Mr.  Shakespeare  frequented  the  plays  all  his  younger  time,  but  in  his  older  days  he  lived  at 


xxxiv  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

Stratford,  and  supplied  the  stage  with  two  plays  every  year,  and  for  that  had  an  allowance  so 
large  that  he  spent  at  the  rate  of  ^"1,000  a  year." 

Some  events  which  took  place  in  the  Shakespearian  circle  early  in  the  seventeenth  century 
must  have  occasioned  alternate  pain  and  pleasure.  In  September,  1601,  his  father  died  ;  in 
June,  1607,  his  daughter  Susannah  married  Dr.  John  Hall  ;  on  the  last  day  of  the  same  year  he 
buried,  at  the  Church  of  St.  Saviour's,  Southwark,  his  youngest  brother  Edmond,  who  died  at 
the  early  age  of  twenty-seven,  after  a  brief  career  as  an  actor  ;  in  February,  1608,  he  became  a 
grandfather  by  the  birth  of  a  daughter  to  Mrs.  Hall ;  in  the  September  following  he  lost  his 
mother,  Mary  Arden  or  Shakespeare  ;  on  3rd  February,  1612,  his  brother  Gilbert,  and  on  4th 
February,  1613,  his  brother  Richard,  were  buried  at  Stratford. 

Among  the  plays  which  Shakespeare  wrote  between  the  years  1605  and  1613  are  generally 
included  "  King  Lear,"  "  Macbeth,"  "Julius  Caesar,"  "  Antony  and  Cleopatra,"  "  Coriolanus," 
"  Troilus  andCressida,"  "Cymbeline,"  "  The  Winter's  Tale,"  "Othello,"  and  "The  Tempest." 
It  was  believed  by  Thomas  Campbell,  De  Quincey,  and  others,  that  "  The  Tempest "  was  his 
last  play ;  and  this  would,  as  Campbell  says,  give  it  "a  sort  of  sacredness."  Campbell  further 
suggests  that  Shakespeare  may  be  regarded  as  in  some  sort  typified  in  Prospero,  the  potent  and 
benevolent  magician  ;  and  De  Quincey,  following  up  the  same  idea,  conjectures  that  it  was  with 
a  prophetic  feeling  of  the  end  that  Shakespeare  makes  Prospero  "  solemnly  and  for  ever  renounce 
his  mysterious  functions,  symbolically  break  his  enchanter's  wand,  and  declare  that  he  will  bury 
his  books,  his  science,  and  his  secrets 

'  Deeper  than  did  ever  plummet  sound.'  " 

It  is  not  within  the  scope  of  the  present  biographical  sketch  to  enter  into  any  critical  analysis 
of  Shakespeare's  separate  plays;  but  if  "  The  Tempest "  was  written  in  his  forty-ninth  year,  it 
affords  the  completest  evidence  that  his  fancy  retained  all  its  freshness.  None  of  his  creations 
are  more  original  than  Caliban  and  Ariel,  none  more  beautiful  than  Miranda,  none  more  lofty 
than  Prospero.  It  is  difficult  to  say  that  "  The  Tempest  "  is  finer,  as  a  romantic  drama,  than 
"  As  You  Like  It,"  "  Cymbeline,"  or  "  The  Winter's  Tale,"  but  it  takes  rank  with  these,  and 
is  as  luminous  with  poetry  as  any  of  them. 

The  last  eight  or  nine  years  of  Shakespeare's  life  were  probably  among  the  happiest  which  he 
spent  on  this  "bank  and  shoal  of  time."  His  mind  was  matured,  his  passions  were  softened, 
the  fever  of  expectation  was  over  ;  he  had  won  his  position,  he  had  fulfilled  the  mission  which 
the  Almiguty  had  assigned  to  him.  And  with  how  much  tranquil  earnestness  had  he  done  his 
work !  He  had  involved  himself  in  no  hatreds  ;  stood  aloof  from  all  brawls  and  cavillings. 
Party  spirit  was  unknown  to  him  ;  polemics  were  distasteful.  His  works  betray  neither  political 
nor  religious  bias  ;  yet  they  teach,  with  the  force  almost  of  inspiration,  the  duties  we  owe  to 
society,  and  the  homage  that  is  due  to  religion.  The  advantages  and  the  disadvantages  of  the 
democratic,  the  aristocratic,  and  the  monarchical  elements,  both  in  a  state  and  in  men,  are  treated 
by  him  with  the  utmost  impartiality.  He  fights  a  noble  battle  against  class  prejudices.  He 
delights  in  showing  sympathy  for  the  poor  and  the  destitute,  and  "  he  makes  the  mighty  of  the 
earth,  who  have  forgotten  poverty,  remember  it  in  their  own  adversity."  His  patriotic  love  for 
"  our  sea- walled  garden," — 

"  This  precious  stone  set  in  the  silver  sea,"— 

and  the  grand  words  in  which  he  has  given  expression  to  the  sentiment,  have  quickened  the 
pulses  of  hundreds  of  thousands  of  his  countrymen.  His  religion  is  catholic,  not  sectarian.  He 
teaches  that  the  service  of  God  is  above  the  service  of  all  lords  and  princes.  He  never  alludes 
to  the  great  truths  of  Christianity  except  with  the  most  profound  reverence.  When  Angelo  says 
to  Isabella — 

"  Your  brother  is  a  forfeit  of  the  law," 
the  answer  is,— 

"Alas!  alasl 

Why,  all  the  souls  that  were,  were  forfeit  once, 

And  HE  that  might  the  'vantage  best  have  took. 

Found  out  the  remedy.     How  would  you  be 

If  He  which  is  the  top  of  judgment  should 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION.  xxxv 

But  judge  you  as  you  are?    O,  think  on  that, 
And  mercy  then  will  breathe  within  your  lips, 
Like  man  new  made." 
IBM  £>B|#0  A  :,iA\\vs:  -     .ttebf  i-nA     -,%nwj 

"  Shakespeare  contented  himself,"  says  his  loving  and  intelligent  commentator,  Mr.  Cowden 
Clarke,  *c  with  the  simple  mission  of  teaching  mankind  a  cheerful  reliance  upon  the  mercy  and 
benevolence  of  our  good  God  ;  to  be  just  and  kind  to  all  men ;  to  seek  out  the  good  in  things 
evil,  and  not,  after  the  new  philosophy,  to  ferret  out  whatever  of  evil  may  lurk  in  things  good. 
He  strove  to  make  men  wiser  and  better,  and  therefore  happier." 

May  we  not  imagine  him  once  more  among  the  woods  round  Stratford,  or  upon  the  turfy  up- 
lands, weaving  into  shape  the  scenes  of  "  Macbeth  "  or  "Julius  Caesar,"  or  filling  his  imagina- 
tion with  "Cleopatra,"  "  Coriolanus,"  or  "Othello"?  May  we  not  follow  him  home  to  his 
wife  and  children,  all  unconscious  of  his  fine  frenzies,  his  lofty  meditations,  but  looking  on  with 
smiles  as  he  takes  his  granddaughter  in  his  arms,  and  remembering,  perhaps,  his  lines, — 

"  Thy  grandsire  lovM  thee  well ; 
Many  a  time  he  danc'd  thee  on  his  knee, 
Sung  thee  asleep,  his  loving  breast  thy  pillow  ; 
Many  a  matter  hath  he  told  to  thee 
Meet  and  agreeing  with  thy  infancy?" 


In  such  scenes  as  these  may  we  not  fancy  him  asking  himself  the  question,— 

"  Hath  not  old  custom  made  this  life  more  sweet 
Than  that  of  painted  pomp?    Are  not  these  woods 
More  free  from  peril  than  the  envious  court  ?  " 

Or  saying  to  some  pleasant  neighbour, — 


"So  we'll  live,  "  '.( 

And  pray,  and  sing,  and  tell  old  tales,  and  laugh 
At  gilded  butterflies,  and  hear  poor  rogues 
Talk  of  court  news  ;  and  we  '11  talk  with  them  too, 
Who  loses  and  who  wins  ;  who 'sin,  who's  out ; 
And  take  upon's  the  mystery  of  things, 
As  if  we  were  God's  spies  ?  " 

During  the  four  last  years  of  Shakespeare's  life  few  traces  of  him  can  be  discovered.  In  1614 
there  was  a  great  fire  in  Stratford,  which,  aided  by  a  strong  wind,  consumed,  in  less  than  two 
hours,  fifty-four  dwelling-houses  ;  but  New  Place  was  not  one  of  them.  On  the  loth  of 
February,  1616,  which  was  to  be  the  year  in  which  he  was  to  be  withdrawn  from  the  world, 
his  younger  daughter,  Judith,  was  married  to  Mr.  Thomas  Quiney.  This  event,  with  other 
considerations,  probably  led  to  his  making  his  Will,  which  was  executed  on  the  25th  March 
following  ;  he  being  then  "  in  perfect  health  and  memory." 

His  Will  is  one  of  the  very  few  private  and  personal  writings  of  Shakespeare  which  have  come 
down.  The  following  particulars  of  the  document  are  worthy  of  note  : — First,  The  devout 
spirit  in  which  it  commences,—"  I  commend  my  soul  into  the  hands  of  God  my  Creator,  hop- 
ing and  assuredly  believing,  through  the  only  merits  of  Jesus  Christ  my  Saviour,  to  be  made 
partaker  of  life  everlasting ;  and  my  body  to  the  earth  whereof  it  is  made."  Second,  The  be- 
quest of  a  handsome  marriage  portion  to  his  daughter  Judith,  and  a  further  bequest  of  the  like 
amount  in  the  event  of  her  surviving  three  years  from  the  date  of  the  Will,  which  she  did. 
Third,  A  legacy  of  twenty  pounds  (equal  to  about  ^100  of  present  money)  to  his  sister  Joan 
Hart,  together  with  all  his  wearing  apparel,  and  the  house  in  which  she  dwelt.  Fourth,  Small 
legacies  to  each  of  Joan  Hart's  three  sons.  Fifth,  All  his  plate,  except  his  "  broad  silver  and 
gilt  bowl,"  to  his  grand-daughter  Elizabeth  Hall.  Sixth,  A  legacy  of  a  sum  of  money  to  the 
poor  of  Stratford  ;  of  his  sword  to  Mr.  Thomas  Combe,  who  was  then  in  his  twenty-seventh 
year,  and  was  the  son  of  an  old  acquaintance,  John  Combe  ;  and  of  ten  small  sums  to  ten 
intimate  friends,  "  to  buy  them  rings,"  in  memoriam,  among  which  friends  were  Hamlet  or 
Hamnet  Sadler,  who  had  been  godfather  to  Shakespeare's  only  son,— William  Walker,  to  whom 


xxxvi  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

Shakespeare  had  himself  been  godfather, — Anthony  Nash,  the  father  of  Mr.  Thomas  Nash,  who 
afterwards  married  the  poet's  granddaughter, — and  "  my  fellows,"  that  is,  his  brother  actors, 
John  Hemings,  Richard  Burbage,  and  Henry  Condell.  Seventh,  A  bequest  to  his  daughter 
Susannah  Hall  of  "  that  capital  messuage  or  tenement"  called  the  New  Place,  together  with 
other  two  tenements  in  Henley  Street,  and  "  all  my  barns,  stables,  orchards,  gardens,  lands, 
tenements,  and  hereditaments  whatsoever,"  in  Stratford-upon-Avon,  Old  Stratford,  Bishopton, 
and  Welcombe,  and  the  messuage  or  tenement  "  in  the  Blackfriars  in  London,  near  the  Ward- 
robe," and  to  the  oldest  lawful  son  of  her  body,  whom  failing,  the  next  oldest  in  regular  suc- 
cession ;  whom  all  failing,  to  his  granddaughter  Elizabeth  Hall,  and  the  heirs  male  of  her  body; 
whom  failing,  to  his  daughter  Judith,  and  the  heirs  male  of  her  body  ;  whom  failing,  to  his  heirs 
whatsoever.  Eighth,  A  legacy  to  his  wife  of  his  "  second-best  bed  with  the  furniture."  Ninth, 
A  legacy  of  his  "  broad  silver  gilt  bowl "  to  his  daughter  Judith  ;  and,  Tenth,  A  bequest  of  all 
the  rest  of  his  "goods,  chattels,  leases,  plate,  jewels,  and  household  stuff  whatsoever,"  after 
payment  of  his  debts,  and  legacies,  and  funeral  expenses,  to  his  son-in-law,  John  Hall,  who, 
along  with  his  wife  Susannah,  are  appointed  executors. 

The  leading  feature  of  this  Will  is  the  desire  manifested  in  it  to  found  a  family  by  a  strict 
entail  of  almost  the  whole  real  estate  in  favour,  first,  of  the  heirs  male  of  his  elder,  and,  next,  of 
his  younger  daughter,  his  only  son  having  predeceased.  This  desire,  however,  was  frustrated 
by  the  death  of  Susannah  Hall  with  no  issue  except  Elizabeth,  who  died  childless,  and  by  all 
Judith  Quiney's  children  predeceasing  her,  so  that  the  estates  were  scattered  after  the  second 
generation. — There  is  another  peculiarity  of  the  Will  which  has  attracted  even  more  attention — 
namely,  that  it  bequeath es  to  his  wife  only  a  second-best  bed,  and  that,  as  originally  written 
out,  she  was  not  mentioned  in  it  at  all,  the  bequest  being  introduced  by  an  ex  post  facto  inter- 
lineation. Malone  drew  unpleasant  conclusions  from  this,  which,  however,  seem  groundless. 
Mr.  Charles  Knight  has  pointed  out  that  the  wife  was  entitled  to  dower,  and  was  thus  amply 
provided  for  by  the  ordinary  operation  of  the  law.  Her  provision  would  be  all  the  greater  from 
the  fact  that,  with  a  single  exception,  Shakespeare's  estates  were  not  copyhold,  but  freehold.  A 
handsome  life-interest  thus  accrued  to  his  widow,  which  rendered  any  testamentary  bequest  un- 
necessary. It  was  therefore  solely  from  an  affectionate  desire  to  show  that  she  was  not  out  of 
the  testator's  mind  that  she  was  put  down  as  a  legatee.  The  best  bed  was  one  of  those  chattels 
which  the  law  gives  to  the  heir  along  with  the  mansion-house  ;  but  the  second-best  bed  could 
be  disponad  as  the  owner  desired.  And  who  knows,  as  Steevens  suggests,  but  that  it  was  far 
more  valued  by  Shakespeare  and  Anne  than  the  newer  heirloom  ?  Who  knows  but  that  thirty 
years  before  it  had  been  their  bridal  bed  ?  Both  Knight  and  Halliwell  have  shown  that  in  the 
Wills  of  many  men  of  substance  executed  about  the  same  period,  nothing  but  a  very  trifling 
legacy  was  bequeathed  to  their  wives,  it  being  notorious  that  they  were  well  and  richly  provided 
for  otherwise.  Had  Anne  Hathaway  been  little  regarded  either  by  her  husband  or  her  children, 
— had  she  dwelt  "  but  in  the  suburbs  of  their  good  pleasure,"  she  would  not  have  been  buried 
beside  Shakespeare  when  she  died,  seven  years  after  him,  nor  would  a  loving  inscription,  in 
which  she  is  specially  designed  as  the  "  wife  of  William  Shakespeare,"  been  placed  upon  her 
tombstone  by  her  daughters.  We  may  fairly,  therefore,  cherish  the  belief  that  he  who  wrote 
"Julius  Caesar  "  could  say  with  Brutus, — 


"  You  are  my  true  and  honourable  wife  ; 
As  dear  to  me  as  are  the  ruddy  drops 
That  visit  my  sad  heart." 

Shakespeare  had  no  old  age.  He  had  barely  reached  his  fifty-third  year  when  he  died. 
Within  a  month  of  his  decease  he  had  declared  himself  to  be  "in  perfect  health  and  memory, 
God  be  praised ! "  What  his  last  illness  was,  or  how  it  was  contracted,  remains  unknown. 
There  is  an  apocryphal  tradition  that  his  friends  Ben  Jonson  and  the  poet  Drayton,  who  was 
afterwards  deemed  worthy  of  a  tomb  in  Westminster  Abbey,  had  come  upon  a  visit,  and  that 
Shakespeare's  hospitality  so  overflowed  that  a  fever  supervened,  which  ran  a  short  course  to  a 
fatal  termination.  This  may  or  may  not  be  true.  Had  the  world  known  then,  so  well  as  it 
knows  now,  whom  it  was  losing,  a  thousand  chroniclers  would  have  recorded  the  minutest  par- 
ticulars of  the  parting  scene.  As  matters  are,  all  that  we  know  is  the  bare  fact  that  he  expired 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION.  xxxvii 

at  New  Place  on  the  23rd  April,  1616,  and  was  interred  on  the  25th  in  the  chancel  of  Stratford 
Church.  "  That  church,"  says  Washington  Irving,  "  stands  on  the  banks  of  the  Avon,  on  an 
embowered  point,  and  separated  by  adjoining  gardens  from  the  suburbs  of  the  town.  The 
situation  is  quiet  and  retired,  and  the  river  runs  murmuring  at  the  foot  of  the  churchyard,  and 
the  elms  which  grow  upon  its  banks  droop  their  branches  into  its  clear  bosom.  Small  birds 
have  built  their  nests  among  the  cornices  and  fissures  of  the  walls,  and  keep  up  a  continual 
flutter  and  chirping,  and  rooks  are  sailing  and  cawing  about  its  lofty  gray  spire."  It  is  there 
that  Shakespeare  "  quiet  consummation  "  hath. 

A  flat  stone  covers  his  grave,  bearing  the  well-known  inscription, — 

"  Good  friend,  for  Jesus'  sake,  forbear 
To  dig  the  dust  enclosed  here  ; 
Blest  be  the  man  that  spares  these  stones 
And  curst  be  he  that  moves  my  bones." 

Whether  these  lines  were  or  were  not  Shakespeare's,  they  are  at  all  events  of  an  ancient  date  ; 
for  Dugdale  quotes  them  in  1656  as  his  epitaph,  cut  on  "a  plain  free-s:one,  underneath  which 
his  body  is  buried."  Some  writers  have  characterized  them  as  doggerel ;  but  the  author  of  the 
Sketch  Book  says  they  "  have  in  them  something  extremely  awful,  and  show  that  solicitude  about 
the  quiet  of  the  grave  which  seems  natural  to  fine  sensibilities  and  thoughtful  minds."  They 
had  the  merit,  at  any  rate,  of  achieving  their  purpose,  since  they  have  secured  for  his  native 
place  the  permanent  possession  of  his  remains. 

A  few  years  after  his  death,  and  before  1623,  a  commemorative  monument  was  erected  on 
the  north  wall  of  the  chancel,  near  the  grave.  The  design  evinces  some  taste  ;  but  the  poetical 
inscription,  which  is  partly  in  Latin  and  partly  in  English,  possesses  little  merit.  The  most 
interesting  portion  of  the  monument  is  a  bust  of  Shakespeare,  the  size  of  life,  formed  out  of  a 
block  of  soft  stone.  The  sculptor  was  one  Gerard  Johnson,  a  "  tomb-maker,"  and  contem- 
porary of  Shakespeare.  The  late  Sir  Francis  Chantrey  was  of  opinion  that  Johnson  had 
probably  modelled  the  features  from  a  cast  of  Shakespeare's  face  taken  after  death.  Such  a 
cast  may  have  been  procured  by  his  son-in-law,  Dr.  Hall,  who  was  in  London  within  a  few 
weeks  of  his  death,  and  may  then  have  placed  the  cast  in  Johnson's  hands.  It  is  to  be  feared, 
however,  that  Johnson's  knowledge  of  his  art  was  not  great.  He  painted  over  the  whole  work, 
and  produced  a  coloured  image  rather  than  a  piece  of  sculpture.  The  hands  and  face  were  of 
flesh-colour,  the  eyes  of  a  light  hazel,  the  hair  and  beard  auburn,  the  doublet  scarlet,  and  the 
gown  or  tabard  black  ;  the  upper  part  of  the  cushion  on  which  the  arms  rest  was  green,  the 
under  half  crimson,  and  the  tassels  gilt.  Those  colours  all  faded  in  the  course  of  time  ;  they 
were  renovated  in  1749;  but  in  1793  tne  entire  bust  was  covered  with  one  or  more  coats  of 
white  paint,  which  destroyed  its  original  character,  and  altered  the  expression  of  the  face.  The 
colours  have  since  been  carefully  restored.  This  bust  is  the  earliest,  and,  on  the  whole,  the 
most  authentic  portrait  which  exists ;  and  there  is  an  individuality  in  the  features,  and  in 
the  unmistakable  forehead,  which  leads  to  the  belief  that  it  presents  a  general,  though  defective 
resemblance  of  the  great  original. 

There  is  only  one  other  well-established  contemporary  likeness  of  Shakespeare,  and  that  is 
the  print  by  Martin  Droeshout,  prefixed  to  the  folio  edition  of  1623.  The  original  engraving 
was  poorly  executed  ;  and  as  impressions  were  taken  from  the  plate  for  three  subsequent 
editions,  the  copies  now  commonly  met  with  are  much  deteriorated.  Considerable  interest, 
however,  attaches  to  them,  when  it  is  recollected  that  the  print  was  brought  out  by  and  for 
persons  who  had  seen  Shakespeare,  and  who  would  have  rejected  it  if  altogether  unlike.  Ben 
Jonson  so  far  attests  its  accuracy  in  some  lines  which  were  printed  under  it,  beginning, — 


igure  that  thou  here  see'st  put 
5  for  gentle  Shakespeare  cut : 
ein  the  graver  had  a  strife 


This  fij 

It  was: 

Wherein  the  graver  had  a  str 

With  nature,  to  outdo  the  life." 


There  is  a  good  deal  of  resemblance  between  this  engraving  and  the  bust,  a  fact  which  corrobo- 
rates the  authenticity  of  both. — Various  other  Shakespearian  portraits  have  from  time  to  time 


xxxvill  -BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

been  brought  forward  as  genuine ;  but  these  have  in  no  instance  been  proved  to  have  been 
executed  from  the  life,  and  their  value  is  consequently  extremely  problematical. 

Cervantes  and  Shakespeare  were  taken  from  the  world  within  ten  days  of  each  other — the 
former  on  the  23d  of  April,  new  style,  and  the  latter  on  the  same  date,  old  style.  The  greatest 
genius  whom  the  authors  of  Don  Quixote  and  King  Lear  left  behind  them  was  John  Milton  ; 
but  he  was  only  seven  years  of  age  when  they  passed  away.  Another  remarkable  man  was 
approaching  maturity,  through  whose  instrumentality  events,  involving  both  good  and  evil, 
were  preparing  for  England.  The  long  succession  of  her  kings  was  to  be  broken,  her  con- 
stitutional monarchy  was  to  be  overthrown,  and  a  commonwealth  was  to  be  set  up  on  its  ruins. 
Oliver  Cromwell,  however,  was  entering  at  college  on  the  very  day  of  Shakespeare's  death  ; 
and  no  dream  of  coming  regicide  and  civil  war  disturbed  the  poet's  dying  hours,  or  mingled 
with  the  grief  of  those  who  surrounded  his  deathbed,  and  in  whose  breasts  the  predominant 
sentiment  must  have  been, — 


"  This  was  the  noblest  Roman  of  them  all. 
His  life  was  gentle  ;  and  the  elements 


So  mix'd  in  him  that  nature  might  stand  up 
And  say  to  all  the  world,  This  was  a  man  !  » 

bet  us  not  think  that  he  died  "  an  untimely  death."  Who  had  ever  done  so  much  in  fifty- 
two  years  ?  He  gave  expression  to  as  many  high  and  remarkable  thoughts  in  that  time  as  would 
have  graced  and  dignified  a  hundred  ordinary  lives,  protracted  to  the  longest  span.  No  fruit 
could  have  been  expected  from  "the  golden  autumn  of  such  a  mind  "  superior  to  what  its  spring 
and  summer  had  produced.  If  wisdom  be  often  found  under  "  the  silver  livery  of  advised  age," 
it  was  equally  found  in  Shakespeare's  unblanched  manhood.  It  was  better  that  he  sank  beneath 
the  horizon  at  once,  like  the  broad-orbed  sun,  than  that  he  should  have  waned  into  gradual 
dimness.  If  the  spirits  of  the  departed  are  cognizant,  as  we  fondly  trust  they  are,  of  the  senti- 
ments which  animate  the  "  breathers  of  this  world,"  Shakespeare's  may  well  be  filled  with 
profoundest  love  and  gratitude  in  the  perception  of  how  much  it  was  permitted  to  contribute 
towards  the  elevation  and  refinement  of  the  world. 

To  the  young,  who  may  yet  be  unacquainted  with  his  works,  this  Volume  will  be  as  a 
newly-discovered  mine,  filled  with  inconceivable  riches.  To  the  more  advanced  it  will  afford 
the  means  of  reverting  again  and  again  to  old-established  loves  and  friendships,  which  only  grow 
the  stronger  with  every  fresh  opportunity  of  renewed  intercourse.  The  absence  of  notes  and 
commentaries  need  not  be  regretted.  These,  if  wanted,  can  be  found  elsewhere  in  super-abun- 
dance ;  but  Samuel  Johnson,  erroneous  as  many  of  his  own  commentaries  were,  never  gave 
sounder  advice  than  when  he  recommended  that  they  who  wished  to  become  fully  acquainted 
with  the  powers  of  Shakespeare,  and  who  desired  to  feel  the  highest  pleasure  that  the  drama  can 
give,  should  read  every  play  from  the  first  scene  to  the  last,  "with  utter  negligence  of  all  his 
commentators."  When  fancy  is  once  on  the  wing,  as  the  Doctor  truly  says,  it  should  not  stoop 
at  correction  or  explanation  :  when  the  attention  is  strongly  engaged  with  Shakespeare,  let  it 
not  turn  aside  to  the  name  of  Theobald  or  of  Pope.  Particular  passages  may  be  cleared  by 
notes  ;  but  the  general  effect  is  weakened  by  the  interruption.  Obscurities  and  niceties  may  be 
investigated  when  time  permits  and  inclination  prompts ;  but  in  the  beginning  and  in  the  end  it 
is  best  and  safest  to  allow  Shakespeare  to  speak  for  himself. 


-1* 


SHAKESPEARE  AND   BACON. 


'  ;;:1  '  •  .riOlICjSOnOD  r  •-<•'•  iHinf  l®.:!«lJJiUIT£tifl  9ft|  i/'^r.Kijjj 

IT  has  occurred  to  me  that  the  opinion  of  a  player  (for  Shakespeare  was  both  player  and  play- 
wright) may  have  some  interest  in  the  controversy  which  seems  to  make  a  perennial  appeal  to 
the  curiosity  of  the  public.  I  am  encouraged  to  express  this  opinion  by  Judge  Allen,  of  Boston, 
who,  at  the  end  of  his  able  treatise  on  "  The  Bacon -Shakespeare  Question,"  does  me  the  honour 
of  summing  up  the  debate  in  some  words  of  my  own.  "  When  the  Baconians  can  show  that  Ben 
Jonson  was  either  a  fool  or  a  knave,  or  that  the  whole  world  of  players  and  playwrights  at  that 
time  was  in  a  conspiracy  to  palm  off  on  the  ages  the  most  astounding  cheat  in  history,  they  will 
be  worthy  of  serious  attention." 

I  submit  that  this  is  exactly  how  the  matter  stands.  Has  any  attempt  been  made  to  give 
even  the  semblance  of  reason  to  the  assumption  that  Bacon  induced  the  whole  world  of  players 
and  playwrights,  and  all  his  contemporaries  who  had  relations  with  the  theatre — men  like 
Southampton  and  Herbert,  and  the  officials  of  the  Court,  who  were  brought  into  constant  and 
close  contact  with  the  players — to  bolster  up  the  fiction  that  Shakespeare  wrote  the  masterpieces 
for  which  he  had  the  credit  and  the  profit,  and  to  keep  the  secret  so  close  that  nobody  breathed  a 
word  of  it,  nobody  kept  any  memorandum  of  it,  and  everybody  carried  it  to  the  grave? 
Shakespeare  was  a  man  whose  rapid  advancement  had  excited  bitter  jealousies.  He  was 
stigmatized  by  Robert  Greene  as  the  "Johannes  Factotum"  who  was  monopolizing  the  play- 
wright's business.  He  was  "  the  upstart  crow,  beautified  with  our  feathers;"  that  is  to  say,  the 
jealous  Greene  saw  him  handling,  re-writing,  and  vastly  improving  plays  which,  according  to  the 
theatrical  custom  of  the  time,  were  wholly  at  the  disposal  of  the  manager  who  had  bought  them. 
Young  Shakespeare  was  called  in  to  revise  these  works,  and  Greene  cried  aloud  to  all  the 
supplanted  that  such  presumption  was  not  to  be  borne ;  and  why  was  it  not  proclaimed  then,  that 
Shakespeare  could  not  write,  that  he  was  virtually  illiterate,  and  that  the  plays  he  presumed  to 
turn  from  commonplace  to  genius  were  conveyed  by  him  to  Bacon,  who  laid  the  magic  spell  upon 
them  ?  What  spell  did  Bacon  employ  to  prevent  Greene  from  declaring  the  truth  ?  I  am  aware 
that  Bacon  is  said  to  have  disclosed  in  the  wondrous  cipher  that  he  wrote  the  plays  of  Greene. 
This  makes  the  complication  still  more  entertaining.  First,  Bacon  writes  Greene ;  then  he  beautifies 
Shakespeare  with  Greene's  feathers  and  makes  Greene  very  angry  ;  but  he  will  not  let  Greene 
denounce  Shakespeare  as  an  impostor,  for  Greene  is  himself  an  impostor.  Greene  is  entitled  to 
our  sympathies,  because  it  is  obvious  that  in  his  name  Bacon  wrote  poor  stuff,  whereas  in 
Shakespeare's  name  he  wrote  magnificently.  Why  this  wanton  injustice  to  poor  Greene?  The 
cipher  might  tell  us ;  but  this  point  is  beneath  its  notice  ;  and  when  you  consider  that  its  chief 
business  is  to  stagger  us  with  the  revelation  that  Bacon  was  the  "  legitimate  son  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,"  you  cannot  expect  more  light  on  anybody  so  trivial  as  Greene. 

The  only  explanation  I  can  conjecture  is  that  when  Bacon  suspected  any  writer  as  a  likely 
man  to  find  Shakespeare  out,  he  proceeded  to  bribe  that  person  with  his  multifarious  talents.  I 
cannot  fit  this  process  exactly  to  Greene's  case,  but  who  can  fit  any  parts  of  this  amazing  story  / 
Still,  Bacon  is  alleged  to  have  written,  in  addition  to  Shakespeare  and  Greene,  the  works  of  Ben 
Jonson  and  Marlowe,  Spenser's  "Faerie  Queene,"  and  Burton's  "Anatomy  of  Melancholy." 
This  is  pretty  well,  but  it  is  not  enough.  There  were  Shakespeare's  collaborators  in  his 
historical  plays  to  be  reckoned  with  ;  so  Bacon  must  have  done  the  collaboration  himself  or 
silenced  the  collaborators.  There  was  Fletcher,  for  example,  whose  hand  is  perceptible  in 
"  King  Henry  VIII."  To  square  Fletcher,  Bacon  had  also  to  square  Beaumont ;  so  we  had 
better  add  the  works  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  to  Bacon's  account.  If  he  did  not  bribe  all  these 
people  in  this  fashion,  how  else  could  he  have  secured  their  complicity  ?  He  had  no  money  even 
for  his  own  needs.  He  had  very  little  influence  for  the  greater  part  of  his  career.  Although  he 
was  the  "legitimate  son  of  Queen  Elizabeth,"  his  unnatural  mother  showed  not  the  smallest 


xl  SHAKESPEARE  AND   BACON. 

desire  to  advance  his  interests.  What  could  he  do,  then,  for  the  various  poets  and  dramatists 
who  were  privy  to  his  authorship  of  Shakespeare,  except  write  their  plays  and  poems  ?  Is  it 
probable  that  they  would  have  held  their  tongues  on  such  terms  ? 

The  Baconian  theory  requires  our  belief  in  a  confederacy,  the  like  of  which  never  entered  the 
wildest  imagination.  All  the  plots  in  history  pale  beside  it.  How  vain  and  childlike  seem  all 
the  secret  societies  compared  with  this  brotherhood,  which,  to  oblige  Bacon,  foisted  Shakespeare 
on  the  centuries  as  the  supreme  genius  of  our  literature  !  I  don't  think  the  Baconians  have  fully 
grasped  the  magnitude  of  their  own  conception.  They  are  still  apt  to  suggest  that  Shakespeare 
was  very  little  known  to  his  contemporaries.  A  critic  in  "The  National  Review"  for  August, 
1902,  tells  us  "there  is  not  a  rag  of  evidence  that  Shakespeare  could  write  at  all;"  whereas 
there  is  abundant  evidence  of  what  Webster,  his  fellow-dramatist,  called  his  "copious  industry." 
His  first  editors,  Heminge  and  Condell,  his  friends  and  fellow-actors,  report  that  he  wrote  almost 
without  a  blot.  Ben  Jonson,  repeating  that  testimony,  expresses  the  wish  that  Shakespeare  had 
blotted  a  good  deal.  Jonson  thought  the  greater  poet  had  too  much  facility  and  too  little  art. 
We  are  asked  to  believe  that  these  opinions  were  designed  to  deceive  the  world,  that  Heminge 
and  Condell  deliberately  lied,  that  Jonson  blamed  Shakespeare's  fluency  the  better  to  hide  the 
fact  that  he  could  not  write  a  line  ;  that,  when  Jonson  said  Shakespeare  had  "  small  Latin  and 
less  Greek,"  this  was  to  prevent  the  world  from  learning  that  Shakespeare  never  went  to  school, 
knew  neither  Greek  nor  Latin,  could  barely  scrawl  an  illegible  signature,  and  did  not  know  the 
correct  spelling  of  his  own  name.  The  name  is  spelt  in  the  municipal  records  of  Stratford  in 
sixteen  ways  ;  therefore  the  Corporation  of  Stratford  in  those  days  was  an  illiterate  body,  and  the 
contemporary  records  were  written  by  Bacon.  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  spelt  his  name  in  five  ways  ; 
therefore  he  was  illiterate,  and  Bacon  wrote  his  works.  No  writer  of  that  period  appears  to  have 
any  fixed  spelling  for  his  name  ;  therefore  Bacon  wrote  all  the  Elizabethan  literature.  But  he 
sometimes  spelt  his  name  with  a  "k;"  whence  springs  a  horrid  suspicion  that  he  may  have  been 
illiterate,  and  that  we  have  yet  to  learn  who  wrote  Bacon. 

Is  this  a  whit  more  extravagant  than  the  whole  basis  of  the  Baconian  theory  ?  The  moment  it 
is  touched  at  any  point  it  discloses  the  grossest  absurdities.  I  defy  any  man  to  give  me  a 
coherent  account  of  the  conceivable  circumstances  in  which  Bacon  acquired  that  mastery  of  the 
stage  without  which  the  Shakespearean  drama  could  not  have  been  written.  The  plays  were  not 
evolved  by  a  recluse  in  a  closet.  Some  were  based  on  earlier  pieces  never  published,  and 
belonging  solely  to  the  theatres.  How  did  Bacon  come  by  them  ?  The  plays  were  frequently 
altered,  and  this  must  have  needed  close  consultation  with  the  players.  How  did  Bacon  manage 
that  ?  How  did  he  manage  the  collaboration  with  other  writers  in  the  historical  dramas  ?  Many 
of  the  dramatists  then  were  actors,  and  one  of  Shakespeare's  most  striking  qualities  is  consummate 
stagecraft.  What  did  Bacon  know  about  the  stage  ?  His  life  is  as  well  known  to  us  as  the  life 
of  any  statesman  or  philosopher  of  our  own  time  ;  and  where  is  there  a  particle  of  evidence  that 
he  took  even  the  smallest  interest  in  the  theatre  ?  You  may  be  the  mightiest  genius  that  ever 
breathed,  but  if  you  have  not  studied  the  art  of  writing  for  the  stage,  you  will  never  write  a  good 
acting  play.  Of  this  technique  there  is  no  more  striking  example  than  "Othello."  It  is  a 
masterpiece  of  pure  exposition,  which  could  have  been  achieved  only  by  a  man  who  had  spent 
years  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  theatre.  The  Baconians  cannot  grasp  the  elementary  fact  that  the 
Shakespearean  plays  were  written  exclusively  for  the  stage  by  a  playwright  who  was  in  the  very 
centre  and  heart  of  theatrical  life,  and  not  by  an  inspired  outsider.  The  inspired  outsider  may 
have  an  admirable  story  admirably  written,  but  without  any  knowledge  of  the  stage  how  is  he  to 
get  his  characters  on  and  off?  You  see  the  craft  of  Shakespeare  in  his  exits  and  his  entrances. 
The  knocking  at  the  gate  in  "  Macbeth,"  after  the  murder  of  Duncan,  is  one  of  those  dramatic 
incidents  that  hold  you  breathless.  It  is  the  stroke  of  fate,  heralding  the  entrance  of  Macduff, 
and  the  disclosure  of  the  crime.  An  essay  might  be  written  on  Shakespeare's  exits  alone.  You 
remember  Shylock,  when  he  leaves  his  house  in  Jessica's  charge,  and  murmurs,  with  no  suspicion 
of  treachery : 

"  Fast  bind,  fast  find ;  f> 
A  proverb  never  stale  in  thrifty  mind." 

That  takes  him  off  the  stage  effectively.     Equally  characteristic  is  lago's  exit : 

"  This  is  the  night 
•That  either  makes  me  or  fordoes  me  quite." 


SHAKESPEARE  AND   BACON.  xli 


No  actor  ever  had  reason  to  complain  that  Shakespeare  sent  him  tamely  off,  or  brought  him 
feebly  on.  Apart  from  the  genius  of  the  poet,  you  have  the  irresistible  evidence  that  Shakespeare 
was  a  great  dramatic  constructor,  who  knew  the  stage  as  intimately  as  a  watchmaker  knows  the 
mechanism  of  a  watch.  How  could  Bacon  acquire  this  experience  ? 

Shakespeare  acquired  it  because  he  was  an  actor,  and  the  hand  of  the  actor  is  visible  in  all  his 
dramatic  work.  The  plays  are  full  of  images  drawn  from  the  player's  art.  Laborious  efforts 
have  been  made  to  show  that  only  Bacon  could  have  known  the  law,  philosophy,  and  natural 
history  that  abound  in  Shakespeare's  illustrations  ;  but  how  could  Bacon  have  known  or  cared  for 
the  letter  and  spirit  of  the  actor's  calling,  which  are  still  more  conspicuous?  These  meet  us 
at  every  turn.  A  mimic  play  within  a  play  is  one  of  the  dramatist's  favourite  devices.  He 
employs  it  in  "  Hamlet"  with  evident  relish.  He  makes  Hamlet  a  born  actor,  and  an  accom- 
plished dramatic  critic,  whose  dissertations  on  the  art  of  acting  and  on  theatrical  affairs  have  a 
point  that  must  have  come  much  nearer  home  than  Elsinore.  Here  is  a  passage  between  Hamlet 
and  Horatio : 

"  Would  not  this,  sir,  and  a  forest  of  feathers— if  the  rest  of  my  fortunes  turn  Turk  with  me— with 
two  Provincial  roses  on  my  razed  shoes,  get  me  a  fellowship  in  a  cry  of  players,  sir  ? 
Half  a  share. 
A  whole  one,  I." 

This,  as  Judge  Allen  says,  "  refers  to  the  custom  of  paying  players  not  by  fixed  sums,  but  in 
proportion  to  the  receipts."  "  Haifa  share  !"  Even  if  Bacon  had  been  acquainted  with  such  a 
custom,  what  possible  interest  could  it  have  had  for  him  ?  Why  should  he  have  introduced  it 
into  a  dialogue?  Not  "Hamlet"  alone,  but  all  the  plays  are  charged  with  these  theatrical 
associations.  There  is  an  apology  in  "  Henry  V."  for  the  limited  resources  of  the  stage  properties 
for  representing  the  field  of  Agincourt.  This  comes  naturally  from  Shakespeare,  but  why  should 
it  trouble  Bacon?  In  "  Romeo  and  Juliet"  we  are  reminded  of  the  time-limit  of  the  play — "  the 
two  hours'  traffic  of  our  stage."  What  had  Bacon  to  do  witk  such  a  detail?  Shakespeare  often 
remarks  upon  the  characteristics  of  audiences.  Thus  in  "  King  Henry  VIII."  : 

"  There  are  the  youths  that  thunder  at  a  play-house,  and  fight  for  bitten  apples  ;  that  no  audience, 
but  the  Tribulation  of  Tower  Hill,  or  the  Limbs  of  Limehouse,  their  dear  brothers,  are  able  to  endure." 

Again  in  the  same  play  : 

"  'Tis  ten  to  one  this  play  can  never  please 
All  that  are  here  :  some  come  to  take  their  ease 
And  sleep  an  act  or  two ;  but  those  we  fear 
We  have  frighted  with  our  trumpets." 

These  genial  observations  are  natural  to  an  actor,  and  especially  to  an  actor-manager ;  but  is  it 
likely  that  Bacon  would  have  bantered  the  somnolent  pittites,  or  remarked  the  kindred  spirits 
between  the  lads  of  Tower  Hill  and  the  "limbs  of  Limehouse?"  Would  he  have  rebuked  the 
public  taste  for  child  actors  in  "  Hamlet"? 

"There  is,  sir,  an  eyrie  of  children,  little  eyases,  that  cry  out  on  the  top  of  the  question,  and 
most  tyrannically  clapped  for  it :  these  are  now  the  fashion." 

Here  are  topics  of  the  theatre  in  theatrical  parlance  ;  but  in  the  so-called  parallels  of  thought  and 
expression  between  Shakespeare  and  Bacon  they  make  no  figure.  There  is  not  the  smallest 
reason  to  suppose  that  Bacon  ever  heard  of  them.  The  interests  of  the  theatrical  profession  had 
no  concern  for  him.  He  was  not  the  man  to  write— 

"  Good  my  lord,  will  you  see  the  players  well  bestowed?  Do  you  hear,  let  them  be  well  used  ;  for 
they  are  the  aostract  and  brief  chronicles  of  the  time :  after  your  death  you  were  better  have  a  bad 
epitaph  than  their  ill  report  while  you  live." 

It  is  this  constant  pre-occupation  with  the  actor's  work,  vicissitudes,  merits,  and  shortcomings, 
which  run  through  Shakespeare's  imagery.  Macbeth  figures  life  as  "a  walking  shadow,"  and 
man  as  the  player  who  "struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage."  "All  the  world's  a  stage, 
and  the  men  and  women  merely  players."  Hamlet  ma^ks  the  player's  simulated  grief  for 


are 


xlii  SHAKESPEARE  AND   BACON. 


Hecuba,  and  asks  what  he  would  do  "  had  he  the  motive  and  the  cue  for  passion  that  I  have." 
The  cue  is  a  perpetual  symbol  in  Shakespeare,  but  not  in  Bacon  : 

"  Had  you  not  come  upon  your  cue,  my  lord." 
"  Now  we  speak  upon  our  cue,  and  our  voice  is  imperial." 
"  '  Deceiving  me '  is  Thisby's  cue :  she  is  to  enter  now," 
"  You  speak  all  your  part  at  once,  cues  and  all." 
Who  but  an  actor-playwright  would  harp  upon  the  cue  like  this  ? 

"  When  my  cue  comes,  call  me,  and  I  will  answer." 

Assuredly  Bacon  does  not  answer.     Look  where  you  will,  these  theatrical  allusions  spring  to  the 
eye.     Take  "  Coriolanus": 

"  It  is  a  part  that  I  shall  blush  in  acting." 

"You  have  put  me  now  to  such  a  part,  which 
Never  I  shall  discharge  to  the  life." 

"  Come,  come,  we'll  prompt  you." 

I  have  forgo,  my  '^^X™ 
Even  to  a  lull  disgrace." 

In  "  King  Richard  II."  we  have  this  signal  tribute  to  the  actor  who  is  not  dull : 

"As  in  a  theatre,  the  eyes  of  men, 
After  a  well-graced  actor  leaves  the  stage, 
Are  idly  bent  on  him  that  enters  next, 
Thinking  his  prattle  to  be  tedious  ; 
Even  so,  or  with  much  more  contempt,  men's  eyes 
Did^cowl  on  gentle  Richard." 

Bacon  was  a  historian.     Is  this  the  kind  of  parallel  that  would  be  likely  to  strike  his  mind  in 
commemorating  the  misfortunes  of  a  king  ? 

In  the  technicalities  of  the  stage  Shakespeare  is  always  accurate  ;  but  when  he  employs  legal 
terms,  he  is  often  wrong.  In  geography  he  gave  Bohemia  a  coast,  much  to  the  distress  of  Ben 
Jonson.  In  navigation,  he  starts  a  ship  from  the  gates  of  Milan.  His  knowledge  of  law  was 
supposed  to  be  wonderful  by  Lord  Campbell,  but  does  not  commend  itself  to  Judge  Allen.  I 
understand  that  the  trial  scene  in  "The  Merchant  of  Venice"  bears  no  resemblance  to  any 
judicial  procedure  that  ever  was  recorded  in  legal  annals.  It  is  evident  that  Shakespeare  did  not 
care  a  jot  for  judicial  procedure,  and  that  the  law  which  authorized  Shylock  to  cut  his  pound  of 
Antonio's  flesh,  but  forbade  him  to  shed  one  drop  of  blood,  was  not  sanctioned  by  the  judgment 
of  Bacon.  Campbell  was  not  at  the  pains  to  discover  how  much  law  was  known  to  Shakespeare's 
contemporaries  in  playwriting.  Judge  Allen  shows  that  legal  terms  abounded  in  ail  the 
Elizabethan  plays,  and  that  Shakespeare's  contemporaries  used  them  even  more  freely  than  he 
did.  Ben  Jonson,  Middleton,  Chapman,  Massinger,  Peele,  Wilkins,  Webster,  Sir  Thomas 
Wyat,  Dekker,  Barry,  and  Spenser,  all  made  use  of  legal  phraseology  that  is  not  to  be  found  in 
Shakespeare.  Are  these  writers  to  be  taken  simply  as  emanations  of  Bacon's  prodigal  genius  ? 
If  not,  what  becomes  of  the  hypothesis  that  Bacon  must  have  written  Shakespeare  because 
Shakespeare  so  often  quoted  the  jargon  of  lawyers  ?  There  is  no  more  reason  for  the  contention 
that  Shakespeare's  mind  must  be  Bacon's  because  they  have  ideas  and  expressions  in  common. 
Shakespeare  was  an  original  genius,  but  he  was  also  a  chartered  borrower.  He  was  the 
microcosm  of  his  time.  He  held  Goethe's  large  views  about  plagiarism.  Goethe  said  that  Scott 
borrowed  from  him,  and  that  he  borrowed  from  Scott,  and  he  applauded  both  transactions. 
Shakespeare  seldom  invented  a  plot,  and  it  is  impossible  to  measure  the  whole  of  his  indebtedness 
to  old  plays.  Sometimes  he  quoted  Marlowe  with  acknowledgment,  and  sometimes  the 
acknowledgment  was  omitted.  It  is  clear  that  he  had  a  great  respect  for  Marlowe,  who  was  his 
model  in  several  ways.  If  the  Baconian  enthusiasts  explain  this  by  assuming  that  Bacon  wrote 
both  Shakespeare  and  Marlowe,  they  must  produce  something  more  rational  than  the  cipher 
story  to  account  for  the  incredible  connivance  at  Bacon's  protean  secrecy.  In  the  first  of  Bacon's 


SHAKESPEARE   AND  BACON.  xliii 

essays,  he  uses  the  expression,  "discoursing  wits,  for  people  of  giddy  minds."  Ford  writes 
"  discoursing  brains  "  in  exactly  the  same  connection.  Must  Ford  be  added  to  the  list  of  Bacon's 
conquests?  I  am  told  that  because  Bacon  uses  the  word  "eager"  in  the  sense  employed  by 
Hamlet  ("  It  is  a  nipping  and  an  eager  air  "),  therefore  Hamlet  must  be  Bacon's  creation.  Apply 
this  sort  of  reasoning  to  the  whole  Elizabethan  drama,  and  you  will  involve  the  authorship  of  that 
period  in  a  tangle  from  which  no  cipher  will  rescue  any  intelligible  fact. 

What  is  the  secret  of  Shakespeare's  grasp  of  life  ?  Simply  his  prodigious  faculty  of  assimila- 
tion. He  took  in  everything  at  the  pores.  He  had  no  great  scholarship.  The  translated 
Plutarch  served  him  so  well  that  he  turned  whole  passages  into  dramatic  speeches  without 
changing  a  word.  This,  by  the  way,  ought  to  prove  that  Plutarch  wrote  Shakespeare  ;  and  if  it 
be  urged  that  Plutarch  had  been  dead  some  time,  that  cannot  be  a  valid  objection  in  the  eyes  of 
people  who  believe  that  Bacon  was  the  "legitimate  son  of  Queen  Elizabeth."  They  ought  to 
swallow  anything,  provided  that  it  robs  the  hated  Shakespeare  of  his  glory. 

But  without  great  scholarship,  and  with  absolutely  careless  notions  about  law  and  geography 
and  historical  accuracy,  Shakespeare  had  an  immeasurable  receptivity  of  all  that  concerned 
human  character.  An  oracle  lately  dismissed  the  idea  that  a  great  poet  could  have  been  a 
poacher  in  his  youth  and  could  have  consorted  with  topers.  Where,  then,  did  he  study  the 
tavern  company  who  flourish  at  the  Boar's  Head  in  Eastcheap?  What  gave  him  his  relish  for 
the  escapades  of  Prince  Hal  ?  Why  did  he  make  Falstaff  a  hoary  but  lovable  scamp  ?  Why  did 
he  glory  in  Bardolph's  nose  ?  What  had  Bacon  to  do  with  Bardolph's  nose  ?  I  have  examined 
the  cipher  for  some  information  on  this  point,  but  the  "  legitimate  son  of  Queen  Elizabeth  "  never 
mentions  it.  Sprung  from  the  people,  Shakespeare  had  the  most  intimate  and  sympathetic 
knowledge  of  country  folk  and  country  life  that  our  literature  can  show.  His  plays  are  a  mine  of 
popular  sayings,  songs,  customs,  and  legends.  He  uses  profusely  Warwickshire  names, 
Warwickshire  traditions,  Warwickshire  places.  Such  names  as  De  Bois,  Jaques,  Audrey, 
Bardolph,  Peto,  were  all  among  the  patronymics  of  Stratford.  Is  it  pretended  that  Bacon, 
anywhere  in  his  voluminous  writings,  exhibits  this  quality  of  sympathy,  this  interest  in  song  and 
story,  this  familiarity  with  Warwickshire  ?  What  charm  had  folklore  for  the  intellect  which,  at 
the  age  of  twenty-four,  was  addressing  a  great  State  paper  to  the  Queen  ?  Is  it  possible  to 
conceive  two  master  minds  with  characters,  temperaments,  and  training  so  absolutely  divergent 
as  those  of  Bacon  and  Shakespeare  ?  As  Tennyson  said,  the  philosopher  who,  in  his  Essay  on 
"  Love,"  described  it  as  a  "  weak  passion  "  fit  only  for  stage  comedies,  and  deplored  and  despised 
its  influence  over  the  world's  noted  men,  could  never  have  written  "  Romeo  and  Juliet." 
And  here  I  may  say  that  nothing  angered  Tennyson  more  than  the  attempt  to  dethrone 
Shakespeare.  In  his  house  at  Freshwater  on  one  occasion,  when  a  guest  had  argued  the 
Baconian  hypothesis,  Tennyson  rose  from  the  table  exclaiming,  as  he  hastily  left  the  room,  "I 
can't  listen  to  you — you,  who  would  pluck  the  laurels  from  the  brow  of  the  dead  Christ."  It 
was  no  more  possible  for  Bacon's  genius  and  endowment  to  produce  Shakespeare  than  for 
Shakespeare  to  write  the  "Novum  Organum." 

For,  as  the  Baconians  assiduously  forget,  Shakespeare  was  the  greatest  of  poets,  and  Bacon 
could  not  write  a  decent  verse.  Shakespeare  was  the  supreme  creator  of  dramatic  character,  and 
Bacon  has  given  us  no  more  reason  to  suppose  that  he  could  create  a  character  than  that  he  could 
construct  a  play.  Shakespeare  is  mentioned  in  every  contemporary  list  of  poets,  and  Bacon  is 
mentioned  as  a  poet  only  once.  It  is  clear  from  this  that  he  must  have  made  some  poetical 
efforts,  and  that  the  critics  had  a  poor  opinion  of  them.  This  is  not  surprising  when  we  consider 
the  sort  of  poetry  that  Bacon  thought  it  worthy  of  his  fame  to  bequeath  to  posterity.  The  year 
before  his  death,  when  he  was  in  possession  of  all  his  faculties,  he  wrote  his  metrical  translations 
of  the  Psalms.  They  do  not  contain  a  line  that  is  above  the  level  of  Dr.  Watts. 

In  "  The  Return  from  Parnassus,"  a  play  that  was  published  in  1606,  there  is  a  scene  between 
Kemp  and  Burbage,  two  of  Shakespeare's  fellow-actors.  They  are  represented  as  giving 
dramatic  hints  to  a  couple  of  university  students.  Says  Kemp  : 

"  Few  of  the  University  pen  plays  well :  they  smell  too  much  of  that  writer  Ovid,  and  that  writer 
Metamorphosis,  and  talk  too  much  of  Proserpina  and  Jupiter.  Why,  here's  our  fellow  Shakespeare 
puts  them  all  down— ay,  and  Ben  Tonson  too.  O  that  Ben  Jonson  is  a  pestilent  fellow !  He  brought 
up  Horace  giving  the  poets  a  pill,  but  our  fellow  Shakespeare  hath  given  him  a  purge  that  made  him 
bewray  his  credit." 

This  suggests  that  if  any  attempt  had  been  made  in  that  day  to  class  Bacon's  Watts-like  Muse 


xliv  SHAKESPEARE  AND  BACON. 

with  the  inspiration  of  the  "  Sonnets,"  somebody  would  have  been  rude  enough  to  give  Bacon 
"a  purge."  And  how  do  the  people  who  tell  us  glibly  that  Shakespeare  was  illiterate  explain 
this  evidence  that  he  was  regarded  as  the  master  of  the  playwright's  craft  ? 

Still  more  noteworthy  is  the  absence  of  any  plausible  excuse  for  Bacon's  fond  preservation  of 
his  worthless  rhymes,  and  his  neglect  of  the  masterpieces  that  went  by  Shakespeare's  name. 
He  gave  the  most  minute  directions  for  the  publication  of  his  literary  remains.  His  secretary, 
Dr.  Rawley,  was  intrusted  with  this  responsibility,  and  faithfully  discharged  it.  Thirty  years 
after  Bacon's  death,  Rawley  published  the  first  biography  of  his  early  patron,  but  said  never  a 
word  of  Bacon's  creation  of  Shakespeare.  Why  not  ?  As  so  many  people  were  privy  to  the 
glorious  secret,  Rawley  must  have  known  it.  After  thirty  years  there  could  have  been  no  motive 
for  concealing  it.  Why  was  not  Rawley  instructed  to  make  it  known,  an  obviously  surer  way  of 
establishing  Bacon's  fame  than  burying  it  in  a  cipher?  And  where  are  the  manuscripts? 
Shakespeare  left  none,  and  this  circumstance  is  pleaded  against  him  by  persons  who  do  not  take 
the  trouble  to  note  that  no  other  dramatic  writer  of  the  period  left  any  manuscripts  of  plays. 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher  died  in  serene  indifference  to  the  fate  of  their  works,  which  were  not 
published  until  they  had  been  dead  many  years.  Heywood  left  on  record  the  reluctance  with 
which  he  consented  to  the  publication  of  his  own  works.  And  we  should  remember  there  was 
no  Dramatic  Authors'  Society  in  those  days  for  the  protection  of  playwrights.  The  Elizabethan 
dramatists  could  not  see  what  they  had  to  gain  by  publication.  This  may  seem  odd  to  us,  but  it 
was  an  oddity  clearly  not  confined  to  Shakespeare.  Bacon,  on  the  other  hand,  had  an  eye  on 
posterity.  Hence  his  scrupulous  care  to  secure  a  literary  executor.  Hence  the  certainty  that  if 
he  had  written  Shakespeare,  he  would  have  preserved  the  manuscripts.  Hence  the  certainty  that 
he  was  not  Shakespeare. 

Bacon  died  in  1626,  and  the  First  Folio  of  Shakespeare  was  published  in  1623.  Now  it  is  in 
the  First  Folio  that  we  have  the  blessed  cipher.  The  theory  is  that  Bacon  edited  the  Folio  in  order 
to  introduce  the  cipher  into  the  printing,  but  I  ask  any  man  who  has  ever  written  a  book  whether 
he  really  believes  that  any  author,  in  revising  his  proofs,  would  allow  all  the  obscure  passages 
to  go  uncorrected?  The  First  Folio,  as  Judge  Allen  says,  is  "a  badly  and  carelessly  printed 
book  ; "  it  is  much  more  imperfect  than  some  of  the  quartos  that  preceded  it  ;  and  yet  we  are 
called  upon  to  believe  that  Bacon  either  did  not  notice  this,  or  did  not  care  about  it !  The 
translations  from  the  Psalms  were  accurately  printed  ;  but  the  First  Folio  might  go  down  to 
posterity  with  all  its  imperfections  on  its  head  !  And  it  never  occurred  to  Bacon  to  instruct  his 
faithful  executor  to  prepare  a  revised  edition  ! 

To  any  intelligent  mind,  unprejudiced  by  the  nonsense  about  Shakespeare's  illiteracy,  it  is 
plain  that  the  First  Folio  was  not  edited  by  its  author,  for  the  simple  reason  that  the  author  was 
dead.  The  players,  Heminge  and  Condell,  were  not  experts  in  editing,  and  they  lamented  that 
Shakespeare  had  not  lived  for  that  task.  That  their  testimony  to  the  authorship  is  to  be  over- 
thrown by  the  grotesque  gabble  of  the  cipher  is  not,  I  fancy,  a  contingency  that  will  occupy  any 
serious  historical  student.  When  some  historian  like  Mr.  Morley  or  Mr.  Gardiner,  when  some 
accomplished  scholar  like  Major  Martin  Hume,  who  has  made  the  secret  archives  of  the 
Elizabethan  period  his  special  study,  when  some  authority  like  the  late  beloved  John  Fiske, 
whose  contempt  for  the  Baconian  figment  did  not  lack  explicitness— when  a  writer  of  this 
distinction  and  calibre  thinks  it  worth  while  to  consider  whether  Bacon,  whose  family  history  is 
as  well  known  to  us  as  that  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  was  the  "  legitimate  son  of  Queen  Elizabeth, " 
then  I  shall  humbly  await  his  judgment.  Until  that  happens,  we  need  not  pay  much  attention  to 
the  higgledy-piggledy  of  lettering  by  which  the  Donnellys  and  the  Gallups  construct  the  wonderful 
cipher.  Nothing  could  be  easier  than  to  make  an  equally  impressive  cipher  which  would  show 
that  Darwin  wrote  Tennyson,  Dickens,  Thackeray,  Bulwer  Lytton,  and  Harrison  Ainsworth. 
But  it  would  be  more  to  the  purpose  if  the  Baconians  would  tell  us  why  on  earth  Bacon  could  not 
let  the  world  know  in  his  lifetime  that  he  had  written  Shakespeare.  If  it  was  beneath  the  dignity 
of  a  rising  lawyer  to  acknowledge  that  he  was  the  first  poet  and  dramatist  of  his  time,  why  was  it 
beneath  the  dignity  of  a  fallen  Lord  Chancellor  ?  If  men  of  good  family  like  Surrey  and  Wyat 
could  publish  romantic  poetry  without  shame,  why  not  Francis  Bacon  ?  If  Bacon  could  write  a 
masque  for  the  Court  (and  he  appears  to  have  tried  his  hand  in  this  line  of  theatricals),  why 
should  his  dignity  forbid  him  to  claim  credit  for  the  humours  of  Falstaff,  for  all 

"  Those  flights  upon  the  banks  of  Thames, 
That  so  did  take  Eliza  and  our  James  "  ? 


SHAKESPEARE  AND   BACON.  xlv 

I  return  to  the  point  from  which  I  started.  Until  it  can  be  shown  how  the  most  alert  intellectual 
world  of  Elizabeth  lent  itself  to  a  gigantic  imposture  of  which  there  is  no  evidence  except  a  silly 
cipher,  we  cannot  take  the  Baconians  with  the  gravity  they  demand.  When  they  say  it  is 
incredible  that  a  man  of  Shakespeare's  education  and  upbringing  could  have  written  his  plays, 
3,nd  tell  us  that  Bacon  wrote  not  only  his  own  works  but  all  Shakespeare  and  an  ever-increasing 
list  of  other  authors  as  well,  they  ignore  both  the  sense  of  proportion  and  the  sense  of  the 
ridiculous.  I  say  little  of  the  wanton  eagerness  with  which  they  smirch  the  characters  of  men 
who  lived  and  died  in  the  esteem  of  their  fellows.  There  can  be  no  reasonable  doubt  that 
Shakespeare  inspired  the  warmest  admiration  and  personal  affection.  Ben  Jonson's  witness  on 
that  score  is  emphatic.  I  fear  that  the  desire  to  drag  down  Shakespeare  from  his  pedestal,  and 
to  treat  the  testimony  of  his  personal  friends  as  that  of  lying  rogues,  is  due  to  that  antipathy  to 
the  actor's  calling  which  has  its  eccentric  manifestations  even  to  this  day.  Some  people,  I 
believe,  are  spiritually  comforted  by  the  notion  that  the  plays  which  they  misread  at  home,  but 
would  on  no  account  see  enacted,  were  written  not  by  a  vagabond  player  who  stole  a  deer  in  his 
hot  youth,  and  kept  company  with  Bardolph's  nose,  but  by  a  statesman,  a  philosopher,  and  a 
judge,  who  was  convicted  of  taking  money  from  suitors,  and  degraded  in  his  old  age.  I  make 
no  complaint  of  this  singular  frame  of  mind,  for  its  lack  of  charity  touches  not  only  Shakespeare 
and  his  fellow-actors,  men  like  Burbage  and  Edward  Alleyn,  on  whose  fame  there  is  no 
reproach.  It  gathers  under  one  comprehensive  anathema  a  whole  society  of  distinguished  men 
in  all  ranks  of  life,  poets  and  patrons,  courtiers  and  critics.  They  all  knew  Shakespeare  and  his 
work,  and  they  are  all  accused  as  fools  who  were  deceived  by  an  illiterate  mountebank,  or  as 
knaves  who  were  hired  by  the  penniless,  but  "  legitimate  son  of  Queen  Elizabeth."  I  have  too 
much  respect  for  Shakespeare,  for  the  stage  to  which  he  gave  splendid  and  imperishable  renown, 
and  for  the  calling  in  which  all  actors  reverently  follow  his  footsteps — to  suppose  that  he  needs  to 
be  shielded  against  ignorance  or  malice. 

HENRY   IRVING. 


THE  TEMPEST. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


ALONSO,  King  of  Naples. 

SEBASTIAN,  his  brother. 

PROSPERO,  the  rightful  Duke  of  Milan. 

ANTONIO,  his  brother,  the  usurping  Duke  of 

Milan. 

FERDINAND,  son  to  the  King  of  Naples. 
GONZALO,  an  honest  old  Counsellor  of  Naples 
ADRIAN,         )  T     , 
FRANCISCO,    {  Lords' 
CALIBAN,  a  savage  and  deformed  Slave. 
TRINCULO,  a  Jester. 
STEPHANO,  a  drunken  Butler. 


Master  of  a  Ship,  Boatswain,  ana  Mariners. 
MIRANDA,  daughter  to  PROSPERO. 

ARIEL,  an  airy  Spirit. 

IRIS,        -v 

CERES, 

JUNO,        \Spirits. 

Nymphs, 

Reapers^  j 

Other  Spirits  attending  on  PROSPERO. 


SCENE, —  The  Sea,  with  a  Ship:  afterwards  an  uninhabited  Island. 


ACT  I.     O,T: 

SCENE  I. — On  a  Ship  at  Sea. — A  Storm, 
with  Thunder  and  Lightning. 

Enter  a  Shipmaster  and  a  Boatswain. 

Master.   Boatswain, — 

Boats.   Here,  master:  what  cheer? 

Master.  Good :  Speak  to  the  mariners :  fall 
to 't  yarely,  or  we  run  ourselves  aground ; 
bestir,  bestir.  [Exit. 

Enter  Mariners. 

Boats.  Heigh,  my  hearts;  cheerly,  cheerly, 
my  hearts;  yare,  yare:  take  in  the  top-sail; 
'Tend  to  the  master's  whistle. — Blow  till  thou 
burst  thy  wind,  if  room  enough  ! 

Enter  ALONSO,  SEBASTIAN,  ANTONIO, 
FERDINAND,  GONZALO,  and  others. 

A  Ion.  Good  Boatswain,  have  care.  Where's 
the  master?  Play  the  men. 

Boats.   I  pray  now,  keep  below. 

Ant.  Where  is  the  master,  Boatswain? 

Boats.  Do  you  not  hear  him?  You  mar 
our  labour;  keep  your  cabins:  you  do  assist 
the  storm. 

Gon.   Nay,  good,  be  patient. 

Boats.  When  the  sea  is.  Hence!  What 
care  these  roarers  for  the  name  of  king?  To 
cabin :  silence :  trouble  us  not. 

Gon.  Good ;  yet  remember  whom  thou  hast 
aboard. 

Boats.  None  that  I  more  love  than  myself. 
You  are  a  counsellor:  if  you  can  command 


these  elements  to  silence,  and  work  the  peace 
of  the  present,  we  will  not  hand  a  rope  more ; 
use  your  authority.  If  you  cannot,  give  thanks 
you  have  lived  so  long,  and  make  yourself 
ready  in  your  cabin  for  the  mischance  of  the 
hour,  if  it  so  hap. — Cheerly,  good  hearts.— 
Out  of  our  way,  I  say.  [Exit. 

Gon.  I  have  great  comfort  from  this  fellow : 
methinks  he  hath  no  drowning  mark  upon  him ; 
his  complexion  is  perfect  gallows.  Stand  fast, 
good  fate,  to  his  hanging!  make  the  rope  of 
his  destiny  our  cable,  for  our  own  doth  little 
advantage !  If  he  be  not  born  to  be  hanged, 
our  case  is  miserable.  [Exeunt. 

Re-enter  Boatswain. 

Boats.  Down  with  the  top- mast;  yare; 
lower,  lower;  bring  her  to  try  with  main- 
course.  [A  cry  within.]  A  plague  upon  this 
howling !  They  are  louder  than  the  weather, 
or  our  office. — 

Re-enter  SEBASTIAN,  ANTONIO,  and  GONZALO. 

Yet  again?  what  do  you  here?  Shall  we  give 
o'er,  and  drown?  Have  you  a  mind  to  sink? 

Seb.  A  pox  o'  your  throat!  you  bawling, 
blasphemous,  incharitable  dog ! 

Boats.  Work  you,  then. 

Ant.  Hang,  cur,  hang !  you  whoreson,  in- 
solent noise-maker,  we  are  less  afraid  to  be 
drowned  than  thou  art. 

Gon.  I  Ml  warrant  him  from  drowning ; 
though  the  ship  were  no  stronger  than  a  nut- 
shell, and  as  leaky  as  an  unstanch'd  wench. 


THE  TEMPEST. 


[ACT  i. 


Boats.  Lay  her  a-hold,  a-hold:  set  her  two 
courses;  off  to  sea  again,  lay  her  off. 

Enter  Mariners,  wet. 

Mar.  All  lost!  to  prayers,  to  prayers!  all 
lost !  \Exeunt. 

Boats.  What,  must  our  mouths  be  cold? 

Gon.  The  king  and  prince  at  prayers !  let  us 

assist  them, 
For  our  case  is  as  theirs. 

Seb.  I  am  out  of  patience. 

Ant.  We  are  merely  cheated  of  our  lives  by 

drunkards. — 
This     wide  -  chapp'd     rascal ;  —  Would     thou 

mightst  lie  drowning, 
The  washing  of  ten  tides ! 

Gon.  He  '11  be  hanged  yet ; 
Though  every  drop  of  water  swear  against  it, 
And  gape  at  wid'st  to  glut  him. 
[A  confused  noise  within.  ] — Mercy  on  us !     We 
split,  we  split ! — Farewell,  my  wife  and  children ! 
Farewell,   brother ! — We   split,   we  split,  we 
split ! — 

Ant.  Let 's  all  sink  with  the  king.       [Exit. 

Seb.  Let 's  take  leave  of  him.  [Exit. 

Gon.  Now  would  I  give  a  thousand  furlongs 
of  sea  for  an  acre  of  barren  ground ;  long  heath, 
brown  furze,  any  thing:  The  wills  above  be 
done !  but  I  would  fain  die  a  dry  death.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II.— The  Island;  before  the  Cell  of 

PROSPERO. 

,j?,el  briKtri     .?.//;'  r  ooixsJqcnoD^iri 

Enter  PROSPERO  and  MIRANDA. 

Mira.  If  by  your  art,  my  dearest  father,  you 

have 

Put  the  wild  waters  in  this  roar,  allay  them : 
The  sky,  it  seems,  would  pour  down  stinking 

pitch, 
But  that  the  sea,  mounting   to   the  welkin's 

cheek, 

Dashes  the  fire  out.     O,  I  have  suffer'd 
With  those  that  I  saw  suffer !  a  brave  vessel, 
Who  had,  no  doubt,  some  noble  creatures  in  her, 
Dash'd  all  to  pieces.     O,  the  cry  did  knock 
Against    my   very   heart !    poor    souls !    they 

perish'd. 

Had  I  been  any  god  of  power,  I  would 
Have  sunk  the  sea  within  the  earth,  or  e'er 
It  should  the  good  ship  so  have  swallowed,  and 
The  freighting  souls  within  her. 

Pro.  Be  collected; 

No  more  amazement ;  tell  your  piteous  heart, 
There  's  no  harm  done. 

Mira.  O,  woe  the  day ! 

Pro.  No  harm. 

I  have  done  nothing  but  in  care  of  thee, 


(Of  thee,  my  dear  one !  thee,  my  daughter !)  who 
Art  ignorant  of  what  thou  art,  nought  knowing 
Of  whence  I  am ;  nor  that  I  am  more  better 
Than  Prospero,  master  of  a  full  poor  cell, 
And  thy  no  greater  father. 

Mira.  More  to  know 

Did  never  meddle  with  my  thoughts. 

Pro.  'Tis  time 

I  should  inform  thee  further.     Lend  thy  hand, 

And  pluck  my  magic  garment  from  me. — So; 

[Lays  down  his  mantle. 

Lie  there  my  art. — Wipe  thou  thine  eyes ;  have 

comfort. 

The  direful  spectacle  of  the  wreck,  which  touch'd 
The  very  virtue  of  compassion  in  thee, 
I  have  with  such  provision  in  mine  art 
So  safely  order'd,  that  there  is  no  soul — 
No,  not  so  much  perdition  as  an  hair, 
Betid  to  any  creature  in  the  vessel 
Which  thou  heard'st   cry,  which  thou  saw'st 

sink.     Sit  down ; 
For  thou  must  now  know  further. 

Mira.  You  have  often 

Begun  to  tell  me  what  I  am ;  but  stopp'd, 
And  left  me  to  a  bootless  inquisition ; 
Concluding,  Stay,  not  yet. — 

Pro.  The  hour 's  now  come ; 

The  very  minute  bids  thee  ope  thine  ear; 
Obey,  and  be  attentive.     Canst  thou  remember 
A  time  before  we  came  unto  this  cell?         [not 
I  do  not  think  thou  canst ;  for  then  thou  wast 
Out  three  years  old. 

Mira.  Certainly,  sir,  I  can. 

Pro.  By  what  ?  by  any  other  house,  or  person  ? 
Of  any  thing  the  image  tell  me,  that 
Hath  kept  with  thy  remembrance. 

Mira.  'Tis  far  off; 

And  rather  like  a  dream  than  an  assurance 
That  my  remembrance  warrants:  Had  I  not 
Four  or  five  women  once,  that  tended  me? 

Pro.  Thou  hadst,  and  more,  Miranda:  But 
how  is  it,  [else 

That  this  lives  in  thy  mind?    What  seest  thou 
In  the  dark  backward  and  abysm  of  time? 
If  thou  remember'st  aught,  ere  thou  cam'st  here, 
How  thou  cam'st  here,  thou  mayst. 

Mira.  But  that  I  do  not. 

Pro.  Twelve   years  since,  Miranda,  twelve 

years  since, 

Thy  father  was  the  Duke  of  Milan,  and 
A  prince  of  power. 

Mira.  Sir,  are  not  you  my  father? 

Pro.  Thy  mother  was  a  piece  of  virtue,  and 
She   said — thou  wast   my  daughter;   and   thy 

father 

Was  Duke  of  Milan  ;  and  his  only  heir 
A  princess  ;  no  worse  issued. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  TEMPEST. 


Mira.  O,  the  heavens  ! 

Whatfoul  play  had  we  that  we  came  from  thence; 
Or  blessed  was 't,  we  did  ? 

Pro.  Both,  both,  my  girl ; 

By  foul  play  as  thou  say'st,  were  we  heaved 

thence ; 
But  blessedly  holp  hither. 

Mira.  O,  my  heart  bleeds 

To  think  o'  the  teen  that  I  have  turn'd  you  to, 
Which  is  from  my  remembrance  !     Please,  you, 
further. 

Pro.    My    brother,   and    thy    uncle,    call'd 

Antonio — 

I  pray  thee,  mark  me, — that  a  brother  should 
Be  so  perfidious  ! — he  whom,  next  thyself, 
Of  all  the  world  I  loved,  and  to  him  put 
The  manage  of  my  state  ;  as,  at  that  time, 
Through  all  the  signiories  it  was  the  first, 
And  Prospero  the  prime  duke ;  being  so  reputed 
In  dignity,  and,  for  the  liberal  arts, 
Without  a  parallel :  those  being  all  my  study, 
The  government  I  cast  upon  my  brother, 
And  to  my  state  grew  stranger,  being  transported 
And  rapt  in  secret  studies.     Thy  false  uncle — 
Dost  thou  attend  me  ? 

Mira.  Sir,  most  heedfully. 

Pro.  Being  once  perfected  how  to  grant  suits, 
How  to  deny  them ;   whom  to  advance,  and 

whom 

To  trash  for  over-topping  ;  new  created 
The  creatures  that  were  mine ;  I  say,  or  chang'd 

them, 

Or  else  new  form'd  them  ;  having  both  the  key 
Of  officer  and  office,  set  all  hearts 
To  what  tune  pleased  his  ear  ;  that  now  he  was 
The  ivy,  which  had  hid  my  princely  trunk, 
And   suck'd    my    verdure   out   on't. — Thou 

attend'st  not ; 
I  pray  thee,  mark  me. 

Mira.  O  good  sir,  I  do.         [dedicate 

Pro.    I   thus    neglecting   worldly   ends,    all 
To  closeness,  and  the  bettering  of  my  mind 
With  that,  which,  but  by  being  so  retired, 
O'er-prized  all  popular  rate,  in  my  false  brother 
Awaked  an  evil  nature  :  and  my  trust, 
Like  a  good  parent,  did  beget  of  him 
A  falsehood,  in  its  contrary  as  great 
As  my  trust  was  ;  which  had,  indeed,  no  limit, 
A  confidence   sans    bound.       He  being   thus 

lorded, 

Not  only  with  what  my  revenue  yielded, 
But  what  my  power  might  else  exact, — like  one, 
Who  having,  unto  truth,  by  telling  of  it, 
Made  such  a  sinner  of  his  memory, 
To  credit  his  own  lie, — he  did  believe 
He  was  the  duke  ;  out  of  the  substitution, 
And  executing  the  outward  face  of  royalty, 


With  all  prerogative  : — Hence  his  ambition 
Growing, — Dost  hear  ? 

Mira.       Your  tale,  sir,  would  cure  deafness. 

Pro.  To  have  no  screen  between  this  part  he 


And  him  he  play'd  it  for,  he  needs  will  be 
Absolute  Milan  :  Me,  poor  man  ! — my  library 
Was  dukedom  large  enough ;  of  temporal  royalties 
He  thinks  me  now  incapable :  confederates 
(So  dry  he  was  for  sway)  with  the  king  of  Naples, 
To  give  him  annual  tribute,  do  him  homage  ; 
Subject  his  coronet  to  his  crown,  and  bend 
The  dukedom,  yet  unbowed,  (alas,  poor  Milan !) 
To  most  ignoble  stooping. 

Mira.  O  the  heavens  ! 

Pro.    Mark  his  condition,  and  the  event ;  then 
If  this  might  be  a  brother.  [tell  me, 

Mira.  I  should  sin 

To  think  but  nobly  of  my  grandmother : 
Good  wombs  have  borne  bad  sons. 

Pro.  Now  the  condition. 

This  king  of  Naples  being  an  enemy 
To  me  inveterate,  hearkens  my  brother's  suit ; 
Which  was  that  he  in  lieu  o'  the  premises, — 
Of  homage,  and  I  know  not  how  much  tribute,— 
Should  presently  extirpate  me  and  mine 
Out  of  the  dukedom  ;  and  confer  fair  Milan, 
With  all  the  honours,  on  my  brother :  Whereon, 
A  treacherous  army  levied,  one  midnight 
Fated  to  the  purpose,  did  Antonio  open 
The  gates  of  Milan ;  and  i'  the  dead  of  darkness, 
The  ministers  for  the  purpose  hurried  thence 
Me,  and  thy  crying  self. 

Mira.  Alack,  for  pity  ! 

I,  not  rememb'ring  how  I  cried  out  then, 
Will  cry  it  o'er  again  :  it  is  a  hint, 
That  wrings  mine  eyes  to 't. 

Pro.  Hear  a  little  further, 

And  then  I  '11  bring  thee  to  the  present  business 
Which  now 's  upon  us  ;  without  the  which,  this 
Were  most  impertinent.  [story 

Mira.  Wherefore  did  they  not, 

That  hour,  destroy  us  ? 

Pro.  Well  demanded,  wench  ; 

My  tale  provokes  that  question.     Dear,  they 

durst  not ; 

(So  dear  the  love  my  people  bore  me)  nor  set 
A  mark  so  bloody  on  the  business  ;  but 
With  colours  fairer  painted  their  foul  ends. 
In  few,  they  hurried  us  aboard  a  bark  ; 
Bore  us  some  leagues  to  sea;  where  they  prepar'd 
A  rotten  carcass  of  a  boat,  not  rigg'd, 
Nor  tackle,  sail,  nor  mast ;  the  very  rats 
Instinctively  had  quit  it :  there  they  hoist  us. 
To  cry  to  the  sea  that  roar'd  to  us ;  to  sigh 
To  the  winds,  whose  pity,  sighing  back  again, 
Did  us  but  loving  wrong. 


THE  TEMPEST. 


[ACT  i. 


Alack  !  what  trouble 


Mira. 
Was  I  then  to  you  ! 

Pro.  O  !  a  cherubim 

Thou  wast,  that  did  preserve  me !    Thou  didst 

smile, 

Infused  with  a  fortitude  from  heaven, 
When  I  have  deck'd  the  sea  with  drops  full  salt ; 
Under  my  burden  groan'd ;  which  raised  in  me 
An  undergoing  stomach,  to  bear  up 
Against  what  should  ensue. 

Mira.  How  came  we  ashore  ? 

Pro.  By  Providence  divine. 
Some  food  we  had,  and  some  fresh  water,  that 
A  noble  Neapolitan,  Gonzalo, 
Out  of  his  charity,  (who  being  then  appointed 
Master  of  this  design,)  did  give  us;  with 
Rich  garments,  linens,  stuffs,  and  necessaries, 
Which  since  have  steaded  much  ;   so,   of  his 

gentleness, 

Knowing  I  loved  my  books,  he  furnish'd  me, 
From  my  own  library,  with  volumes  that 
I  prize  above  my  dukedom. 

Mira.  Would  I  might 

But  ever  see  that  man  ! 

Pro.  Now  I  arise  : — 

Sit  still,  and  hear  the  last  of  our  sea-sorrow. 
Here  in  this  island  we  arrived  ;  and  here 
Have  I,  thy  schoolmaster,  made  thee  more  profit 
Than  other  princes  can,  that  have  more  time 
For  vainer  hours,  and  tutors  not  so  careful. 

Mira.  Heavens  thank  you  for 't !    And  now, 

I  pray  you,  sir, 

(For  still  'tis  beating  in  my  mind,)  your  reason 
For  raising  this  sea-storm  ? 

Pro.  Know  thus  far  forth. — 

By  accident  most  strange,  bountiful  Fortune, 
Now  my  dear  lady,  hath  mine  enemies 
Brought  to  this  shore  :  and  by  my  prescience 
I  find  my  zenith  doth  depend  upon 
A  most  auspicious  star  ;  whose  influence 
If  now  I  court  not,  but  omit,  my  fortunes 
Will  ever  after  droop. — Here  cease  more  ques- 
tions, 

Thou  art  inclin'd  to  sleep  ;  'tis  a  good  dulness, 

And  give  it  way; — I  know  thou  canst  not  choose. 

[MIRANDA  sleeps. 

Come  away,  servant,  come  :  I  am  ready  now  ; 
Approach,  my  Ariel ;  come. 

.tibna  If, 

Enter  ARIEL.  [come 

Art.    All  hail,  great  master !  grave  sir,  hail !  I 
To  answer  thy  best  pleasure ;  be 't  to  fly, 
To  swim,  to  dive  into  the  fire,  to  ride 
On  the  curFd  clouds ;  to  thy  strong  bidding,  task 
Ariel,  and  all  his  quality. 

Pro.  Hast  thou,  spirit, 

Perform'd  to  point  the  tempest  that  I  bade  thee? 


Ari.  To  every  article. 

I  boarded  the  king's  ship ;  now  on  the  beak, 
Now  in  the  waist,  the  deck,  in  every  cabin, 
I  flamed  amazement :  Sometimes,  I  'd  divide, 
And  burn  in  many  places  ;  on  the  top-mast, 
The  yards,  and  bowsprit,  would  I  flame  dis- 
tinctly, 
Then  meet  and  join :    Jove's   lightnings,   the 

precursors 

O'  the  dreadful  thunder-claps,  more  momentary 
And  sight-out-running  were  not :  The  fire,  and 

cracks 

Of  sulphurous  roaring,  the  most  mighty  Neptune 
Seem'd  to  besiege,  and  make  his  bold  waves 
Yea,  his  dread  trident  shake.  [tremble, 

Pro.  My  brave  spirit  ! 

Who  was  so  firm,  so  constant,  that  this  coil 
Would  not  infect  his  reason  ? 

Ari.  Not  a  soul, 

But  felt  a  fever  of  the  mad,  and  play'd 
Some  tricks  of  desperation  :  All,  but  mariners; 
Plung'd  in  the  foaming  brine,  and  quit  the  vessel, 
Thenall afire withme:  the king'sson,  Ferdinand, 
With  hair  up-staring  (then  like  reeds,  not  hair), 
Was  the  first  man  that  leap'd  ;  cried,  Hell  is 
And  all  the  devils  are  here  !  [empty, 

Pro.  Why,  that 's  my  spirit  ! 

But  was  not  this  nigh  shore  ? 

Ari.  Close  by,  my  master. 

Pro.  But  are  they,  Ariel,  safe  ? 

Ari.  Not  a  hair  perish'd  ; 

On  their  sustaining  garments  not  a  blemish, 
But  fresher  than  before :  and,  as  thou  bad'st  me, 
In  troops  I  have  dispersed  them  'bout  the  isle ; 
The  king's  son  have  I  landed  by  himself; 
Whom  I  left  cooling  of  the  air  with  sighs, 
In  an  odd  angle  of  the  isle,  and  sitting, 
His  arms  in  this  sad  knot. 

Pro.  Of  the  king's  ship, 

The  mariners,  say,  how  thou  hast  disposed, 
And  all  the  rest  o'  the  fleet  ? 

Ari.  Safely  in  harbour 

Is  the  king's  ship ;  in  the  deep  nook,  where  once 
Thou  call'dst  me  up  at  midnight  to  fetch  dew 
From  the  still- vex'd Bermoothes,  there  she's  hid: 
The  mariners  all  under  hatches  stow'd  : 
Whom,   with  a  charm  join'd  to  vneir  suffer'd 

labour, 

I  have  left  asleep  :  and  for  the  rest  o'  the  fleet, 
Which  I  dispersed,  they  all  have  met  again  ; 
And  are  upon  the  Mediterranean  flote, 
Bound  sadly  home  for  Naples  ; 
Supposing  that  they  saw  the  king's  ship  wreck'd, 
And  his  great  person  perish. 

Pro.  Ariel,  thy  charge 

Exactly  is  performed ;  but  there 's  more  work : 
What  is  the  time  o'  the  day  ? 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  TEMPEST. 


5 


Art.  Past  the  mid  season. 

Pro.  At  least  two  glasses :  The  time  'twixt 

six  and  now 
Must  by  us  both  be  spent  most  preciously. 

Ari.   Is  there  more   toil?     Since  thou  dost 

give  me  pains, 

Let  me  remember  thee  what  thou  hast  promis'd, 
Which  is  not  yet  perform'd  me. 

Pro.  How  now?  moody? 

What  is  't  thou  canst  demand? 

Art.  My  liberty. 

Pro.   Before  the  time  be  out?    No  more  ! 

Ari.  I  pray  thee 

Remember,  I  have  done  thee  worthy  service ; 
Told  thee  no  lies,  made  no  mistakings,  serv'd 
Without  or  grudge  or  grumblings :  thou  didst 

promise 
To  bate  me  a  full  year. 

Pro.  Dost  thou  forget 

From  what  a  torment  I  did  free  thee? 

Ari.  No. 

Pro.  Thou  dost ;  and  think'st 
It  much  to  tread  the  ooze  of  the  salt  deep; 
To  run  upon  the  sharp  wind  of  the  north  ; 
To  do  me  business  in  the  veins  o'  the  earth, 
When  it  is  bak'd  with  frost. 

Ari.  I  do  not,  sir. 

Pro.  Thou    liest,    malignant   thing !      Hast 

thou  forgot  [envy, 

The  foul  witch,   Sycorax,  who,  with  age  and 

Was  grown  into  a  hoop?  hast  thou  forgot  her? 

Ari.   No,  sir. 

Pro.  Thou    hast:    Where  was  she 

born  ?  speak  ;  tell  me. 

Ari.  Sir,  in  Argier. 

Pro.  Oh,  was  she  so?     I  must, 

Once  in  a  month,  recount  what  thou  hast  been, 
Which   thou   forget'st.      This   damn'd   witch, 

Sycorax, 

For  mischiefs  manifold,  and  sorceries  terrible 
To  enter  human  hearing,  from  Argier, 
Thou  know'st,   was  banished;    for  one  thing 

she  did, 
They  would  not  take  her  life:  Is  not  this  true? 

Ari.  Ay,  sir. 

Pro.  This  blear-eyed  hag  was  hither  brought 
with  child,  [slave, 

And  here  was  left  by  the  sailors:  Thou,  my 
As  thou  report'st  thyself,  wast  then  her  servant : 
And,  for  thou  wast  a  spirit  too  delicate 
To  act  her  earthy  and  abhorr'd  commands, 
Refusing  her  grand  'hests,  she  did  confine  thee, 
By  help  of  her  more  potent  ministers, 
And  in  her  most  unmitigable  rage, 
Into  a  cloven  pine  ;  within  which  rift 
Imprisoned,  thou  didst  painfully  remain 
A  dozen  years  •  within  which  space  she  died, 


And  left  thee  there :  where  thou  didst  vent  thy 

groans, 
As  fast  as  mill-wheels  strike:   Then  was  this 

island, 

(Save  for  the  son  that  she  did  litter  here, 
A  freckled  whelp,  hag-born,)  not  honour'd  with 
A  human  shape. 

Ari.  Yes :  Caliban  her  son. 

Pro.   Dull  thing,  I  say  so;  he,  that  Caliban, 
Whom  now  I  keep  in  service.  Thou  best  know'st 
What  torment  I  did  find  thee  in :  thy  groans 
Did  make  wolves  howl ,  and  penetrate  the  breasts 
Of  ever-angry  bears ;  it  was  a  torment 
To  lay  upon  the  damn'd,  which  Sycorax 
Could  not  again  undo ;  it  was  mine  art, 
When  I  arriv'd,  and  heard  thee,  that  made  gape 
The  pine,  and  let  thee  out. 

Ari.  I  thank  thee,  master. 

Pro.  If  thou  more  murmur'st  I  will  rend  an 
And  peg  thee  in  his  knotty  entrails,  till  [oak, 
Thou  hast  howl'd  away  twelve  winters. 

Ari.  Pardon,  master: 

I  will  be  correspondent  to  command, 
And  do  my  sprit  ing  gently. 

Pro.  Do  so ;  and  after  two  days 

I  will  discharge  thee. 

Ari.  That 's  my  noble  master.' 

What  shall  I  do?  say  what?  what  shall  I  do? 

Pro.  Go,  make  thyself  like  to  a  nymph  o' 

the  sea ; 

Be  subject  to  no  sight  but  mine ;  invisible 
To  every  eye-ball  else.     Go,  take  this  shape 
And  hither  come  in 't :  hence,  with  diligence. 

[Exit  ARIEL. 

Awake,  dear  heart,  awake  !  thou  hast  slept  well ; 
Awake ! 

Mira.  The  strangeness  of  your  story  put 
Heaviness  in  me. 

Pro.  Shake  it  off;  Come  on ; 

We  '11  visit  Caliban,  my  slave,  who  never 
Yields  us  kind  answer. 

Mira.  'Tis  a  villain,  sir, 

I  do  not  love  to  look  on. 

Pro.  But,  as  'tis, 

We  cannot  miss  him :  he  does  make  our  fire, 
Fetch  in  our  wood ;  and  serves  in  offices 
That  profit  us.     What  ho !  slave !  Caliban ! 
Thou  earth,  thou  !  speak. 

Cal.  [  Within.}  There 's  wood  enough  within, 

Pro.  Come  forth,  I  say;  there's  other  busi- 
ness for  thee : 
Come  forth,  thou  tortoise!  when? 

Re-enter  ARIEL,  like  a  water-nymph. 

Fine  apparition  !     My  quaint  Ariel, 
Hark  in  thine  ear. 

Ari.          My  lord,  it  shall  be  done.     [Exit. 


THE  TEMPEST. 


[ACT  I. 


Pro.  Thou  poisonous  slave,  got  by  the  devil 

himself 
Upon  thy  wicked  dam,  come  forth  ! 

Enter  CALIBAN. 
Cat.    As  wicked  dew  as   e'er  my  mother 

brush'd 

With  raven's  feather  from  unwholesome  fen, 
Drop  on  you  both  !  a  south-west  blow  on  ye, 
And  blister  you  all  o'er. 

Pro.  For  this,  be  sure,  to-night  thou  shalt 

have  cramps, 
Side-stitches   that   shall   pen   thy   breath   up ; 

urchins 

Shall,  for  that  vast  of  night  that  they  may  work, 
All  exercise  on  thee  ;  thou  shalt  be  pinch'd 
As  thick  as  honey-combs,  each  pinch  more 

stinging 
Than  bees  that  made  them. 

Cal.  I  must  eat  my  dinner. 

This  island 's  mine,  by  Sycorax  my  mother, 
Which  thou  tak'st  from  me.  When  thou 

earnest  first, 
Thou  strok'dst  me,  and  mad'st  much  of  me ; 

wouldst  give  me 

Water  with  berries  in 't ;  and  teach  me  how 
To  name  the  bigger  light,  and  how  the  less, 
That  burn  by  day  and  night :  and  then  I  lov'd 

thee, 

And  shew'd  thee  all  the  qualities  o'  the  isle, 
The  fresh  springs,  brine  pits,  barren  place,  and 

fertile  ; 

Cursed  be  I  that  did  so  ! — All  the  charms 
Of  Sycorax,  toads,  beetles,  bats,  light  on  you  ! 
For  I  am  all  the  subjects  that  you  have, 
Which  first  was  mine  own  king  ;  and  here  you 

sty  me 

In  this  hard  rock,  whiles  you  do  keep  from  me 
The  rest  of  the  island. 

Pro.  Thou  most  lying  slave, 

Whom  stripes  may  move,  not  kindness  :  I  have 

used  thee,  [thee 

Filth  as  thou  art,  with  human  care  ;  and  lodged 
In  mine  own  cell,  till  thou  didst  seek  to  violate 
The  honour  of  my  child. 

Cal.  O  ho,  O  ho  !— would  it  had  been  done ! 
Thou  didst  prevent  me  ;  I  had  peopled  else 
This  isle  with  Calibans. 

Pro.  Abhorred  slave ; 

Which  any  print  of  goodness  will  not  take, 
Being  capable  of  all  ill !  I  pitied  thee, 
Took  pains  to  make  thee  speak,  taught  thee 

each  hour  [savage, 

One  thing  or  other :  when  thou  didst  not, 
Know  thine  own  meaning,  but  wouldst  gabble 

like 
A  thing  most  brutish,  I  endow'd  thy  purposes 


With  words  that  made  them  known  :  But  thy 
vile  race,  [good  natures 

Though  thou  didst  learn,  had  that  in 't  which 
Could  not  abide  to  be  with  :  therefore  wast  thou 
Deservedly  confined  into  this  rock, 
Who  hadst  deserved  more  than  a  prison. 

Cal.    You   taught   me    language;    and   my 

profit  on 't 

Is,  I  know  how  to  curse ;  the  red  plague  rid  you, 
For  learning  me  your  language  ! 

Pro.  Hag-seed,  hence  ! 

Fetch  us  in  fuel ;  and  be  quick,  thou  wert  best, 
To  answer   other    business.       Shrug'st   thou, 

malice  ? 

If  thou  neglect'st,  or  dost  unwillingly 
What  I  command,  I  '11  rack  thee  withold  cramps; 
Fill  all  thy  bones  with  aches  ;  make  thee  roar, 
That  beasts  shall  tremble  at  thy  din. 

Cal.  No,  pray  thee  ! — 

I  must  obey :  his  art  is  of  such  power,   [Aside. 
It  would  control  my  dam's  god,  Setebos, 
And  make  a  vassal  of  him. 

Pro.  So,  slave  ;  hence  ! 

[Exit  CALIBAN. 
Re-enter  ARIEL  invisible,  playing  and  singing; 


ARIEL'S  SONG. 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 

And  then  take  hands  : 
Court'sied  when  you  have,  and  kiss'd, 

(The  wild  waves  whist,) 
Foot  it  featly  here  and  there  ; 
And  sweet  sprites,  the  burden  bear. 

Hark,  hark  ! 
Bur,  Bowgh,  wowgh,  [Dispersedly. 

The  watch-dogs  bark : 
Bur,  Bowgk,  wowgh.  [Disfersectly. 

Hark,  hark  !  I  hear 
The  strain  of  strutting  chanticlere 
Cry,  Cock-a-doodle-doo. 

Fer.  Where  should  this  music  be  ?  i'  the  air, 

or  the  earth  ? 

It  sounds  no  more  : — and  sure  it  waits  upon 
Some  god  of  the  island.     Sitting  on  a  bank 
Weeping  again  the  king  my  father's  wreck, 
This  music  crept  by  me  upon  the  waters  ; 
Allaying  both  their  fury,  and  my  passion, 
With  its  sweet  air  :  thence  I  have  follow'd  it, 
Or  it  hath  drawn  me  rather  : — But  'tis  gone. 
No,  it  begins  again. 

ARIEL  sings. 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies ; 
Of  his  bones  are  coral  made  ; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes : 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell : 

[Burden,  ding-dong. 
Hark  !  now  I  hear  them, — ding-dong  bell. 


SCENE  II.  J 


THE  TEMPEST. 


Fer.  The  ditty  does  remember  my  drown'd 

father : — 

This  is  no  mortal  business,  nor  no  sound 
That  the  earth  owes  : — I  hear  it  now  above  me, 

Pro.  The  fringed  curtains  of  thine  eye  advance, 
And  say,  what  thou  seest  yond'.  .fo£. 

Mira.  What  is 't  ?  a  spirit  ? 

Lord,  how  it  looks  about !     Believe  me,  sir, 
It  carries  a  brave  form  : — But  'tis  a  spirit. 

Pro.  No,  wench ;    it  eats  and  sleeps,  and 
hath  such  senses  [seest, 

As  we  have,  such :  This  gallant,  which  thou 
Was  in  the  wreck  :    and  but  he 's  something 
stain'd  [call  him 

With  grief,  that 's  beauty's  canker,  thou  might'st 
A.  goodly  person  :  he  hath  lost  his  fellows, 
And  strays  about  to  find  them. 

Mira.  I  might  call  him 

A  thing  divine  ;  for  nothing  natural 
I  ever  saw  so  noble. 

Pro.  It  goes  on,  [Aside. 

As  my  soul  prompts  it : — Spirit,  fine  spirit !  I'll 

free  thee 
Within  two  days  for  this. 

Fer.  Most  sure  the  goddess 

On  whom  these  airs  attend  ! — Vouchsafe,  my 

prayer 

May  know,  if  you  remain  upon  this  island  ; 
And  that  you  will  some  good  instruction  give, 
How  I  may  bear  me  here  :  My  prime  request, 
Which  I  do  last  pronounce,  is,  O  you  wonder  ! 
If  you  be  maid  or  no  ? 

Mira.  No  wonder,  sir ; 

But  certainly  a  maid. 

Fer.  My  language !  heavens ! — 

I  am  the  best  of  them  that  speak  this  speech, 
Were  I  but  where  'tis  spoken. 

Pro.  How  !  the  best  ? 

What  wert  thou,  if  the  king  of  Naples  heard  thee? 

Fer.  A  single  thing,  as  I  am  now,  that  wonders 
To  hear  thee  speak  of  Naples :  He  does  hear  me; 
And,  that  he  does,  I  weep  :  myself  am  Naples  ; 
Who  with  mine  eyes,  ne'er  since  at  ebb,  beheld 
The  king  my  father  wreck'd. 

Mira.  Alack,  for  mercy ! 

Fer.  Yes,  faith,  and  all  his  lords  :  the  Duke  of 
And  his  brave  son,  being  twain.  [Milan, 

Pro.  The  Duke  of  Milan, 

And  his  more  braver  daughter,  could  control 
thee,  [Aside. 

If  now  'twere  fit  to  do 't : — At  the  first  sight 
They  have  changed  eyes  : — Delicate  Ariel, 
I'll  set  thee  free  for  this  ! — A  word,  good  sir ; 
I  fear  you  have  done  yourself  some  wrong  :  a 
word. 

Mira.  Why  speaks  my  father  so  ungently  ? 
This 


Is  the  third  man  that  e'er  I  saw  ;  the  first 
That  e'er  I  sigh'd  for  :  pity,  move  my  father 
To  be  inclined  my  way  ! 

Fer.  O,  if  a  virgin, 

And  your  affection  not  gone  forth,  I  '11  make  you 
The  queen  of  Naples. 

Pro.  Soft,  sir ;  one  word  more. — 

They  are  both  in  cither's  powers  ;  but  this  swift 

business 

I  must  uneasy  make,  lest  too  light  winning  [Aside. 
Make  the  prize  light. — One  word  more ;  I  charge 

thee, 

That  thou  attend  me  :  thou  dost  here  usurp 
The  name  thou  ow'st  not ;  and  hast  put  thyself 
Upon  this  island,  as  a  spy,  to  win  it 
From  me,  the  lord  on  't. 

Fer.  No,  as  I  am  a  man. 

Mira.  There 's  nothing  ill  can  dwell  in  such  a 
If  the  ill  spirit  have  so  fair  an  house,  [temple : 
Good  things  will  strive  to  dwell  with 't. 

Pro.  Follow  me. — 

[To  FERD. 

Speak  not  you  for  him  ;  he 's  a  traitor. — Come. 
I  '11  manacle  thy  neck  and  feet  together  : 
Sea-water  shall  thou  drink  ;  thy  food  shall  be 
The  fresh -brook  muscles,  wither'd  roots,  and 

husks 
Wherein  the  acorn  cradled  :  Follow. 

Fer.  No ; 

I  will  resist  such  entertainment,  till 
Mine  enemy  has  more  power.  [He  draws. 

Mira.  O  dear  father, 

Make  not  too  rash  a  trial  of  him,  for 
He 's  gentle,  and  not  fearful. 

Pro.  What,  I  say. 

My  foot  my  tutor  !  Put  thy  sword  up,  traitor  ; 
Who  makest  a  show,  but  darest  not  strike,  thy 

conscience 

Is  so  possess'd  with  guilt :  come  from  thy  ward; 
For  I  can  here  disarm  thee  with  this  stick, 
And  make  thy  weapon  drop. 

Mira.  Beseech  you,  father  ! 

Pro.  Hence  ;  hang  not  on  my  garments. 
Mira.  Sir,  have  pity  ; 

I  '11  be  his  surety. 

Pro.  Silence  !  one  word  more 

Shall  make  me  chide  thee,  if  not  hate  thee. 

What! 

An  advocate  for  an  impostor  ?  hush  ! 
Thou  think'st  there  are  no  more  such  shapes 
as  he,  [wench  ! 

Having  seen   but  him  and  Caliban  :    Foolish 
To  the  most  of  men  this  is  a  Caliban, 
And  they  to  him  are  angels. 

Mira.  My  affections 

Are  then  most  humble  ;  I  have  no  ambition 
To  see  a  goodlier  man. 


THE  TEMPEST. 


[ACT  II. 


Pro.  Come  on  ;  obey  :  [To  FERD. 

Thy  nerves  are  in  their  infancy  again, 
And  have  no  vigour  in  them. 

Fer.  So  they  are : 

My  spirits,  as  in  a  dream,  are  all  bound  up. 
My  father's  loss,  the  weakness  which  I  feel, 
The  wreck  of  all  my  friends,  or  this  man's 

threats, 

To  whom  I  am  subdued,  are  but  light  to  me, 
Might  I  but  through  my  prison  once  a  day 
Behold  this  maid  :  all  corners  else  o'  the  earth 
Let  liberty  make  use  of ;  space  enough 
Have  I,  in  such  a  prison. 

Pro.  It  works  : — Come  on. — 

Thou  hast  done  well,  fine  Ariel ! — Follow  me. — 

[To  FERD.  and  MIR. 

Hark,  what  thou  else  shall  do  me.   [To  ARIEL. 

Mira.  Be  of  comfort ; 

My  father 's  of  a  better  nature,  sir. 
Than  he  appears  by  speech  ;  this  is  unwonted, 
Which  now  came  from  him. 

Pro.  Thou  shalt  be  as  free 

As  mountain  winds :  but  then  exactly  do 
All  points  of  my  command. 

Art.  To  the  syllable. 

Pro.  Come,  follow  :  speak  not  for  him. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  II. 
SCENE  I. — Another  part  of  the  Island. 

Enter  A-LOKSO,  SEBASTIAN,  ANTONIO, 
GONZALO,  ADRIAN,  FRANCISCO,  and  others. 

Gon.  Beseech  you,  sir,  be  merry :  you  have 
(So  have  we  all)  of  joy  ;  for  our  escape    [cause 
Is  much  beyond  our  loss  :  Our  hint  of  woe 
Is  common  ;  every  day,  some  sailor's  wife, 
The    masters    of    some    merchant,    and     the 

merchant, 

Have  just  our  theme  of  woe :  but  for  the  miracle, 
I  mean  our  preservation,  few  in  millions 
Can  speak  like  us  :  then  wisely,  good  sir,  weigh 
Our  sorrow  with  our  comfort. 

A  Ion.  Pr'ythee,  peace. 

Seb.  lie  receives  comfort  like  cold  porridge. 

Ant.  The  visitor  will  not  give  him  o'er  so. 

Seb.  Look,  he 's  winding  up  the  watch  of  his 
By  and  by  it  will  strike.  [wit ; 

Gon.  Sir,— 

Seb.  One,— Tell.  [offer'd, 

Gon.  When  every  grief  is  entertain'd,  that's 
Comes  to  the  entertainer — 

Seb.  A  dollar. 

Gon.    Dolour   comes   to  him,  indeed ;    you 
have  spoken  truer  than  you  purposed. 

Seb.  You  have  taken  it  wiselier  than  I  meant 
you  should. 


Gon.  Therefore,  my  lord, — 

Ant.  Fye,   what  a  spendthrift  is  he  of  his 
tongue  ! 

Alon.  I  pr'ythee  spare. 

Gon.  Well,  I  have  done  :  But  yet — 

Seb.   He  will  be  talking. 

Ant.  Which  of  them,  he,  or  Adrian,  for  a 
good  wager,  first  begins  to  crow  ? 

Seb.  The  old  cock. 

Ant.  The  cockrel. 

Seb.  Done  :  the  wager  ? 

Ant.  A  laughter. 

Seb.  A  match. 

Adr.  Though  this  island  seem  to  be  desert, — 

Seb.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Ant.  So,  you've  paid.  [sible, — • 

Adr.    Uninhabitable,    and    almost    inacces- 

Seb.  Yet,— 

Adr.  Yet,— 

Ant.  He  could  not  miss  it. 

Adr.  It  must  needs  be  of  subtle,  tender,  and 
delicate  temperance. 

Ant.  Temperance  was  a  delicate  wench. 

Seb.  Ay,  and  a  subtle  ;  as  he  most  learnedly 
delivered.  [sweetly. 

Adr.  The  air  breathes  upon  us  here  most 

Seb.  As  if  it  had  lungs,  and  rotten  ones. 

Ant.  Or,  as  'twere  perfumed  by  a  fen. 

Gon.  Here  is  everything  advantageous  to  life. 

Ant.  True  ;  save  means  to  live. 

Seb.  Of  that  there  's  none,  or  little,     [green! 

Gon.  How  lush  and  lusty  the  grass  looks !  how 

Ant.  The  ground,  indeed,  is  tawny. 

Seb.  With  an  eye  of  green  in 't. 

Ant.  He  misses  not  much. 

Seb.  No;  he  doth  but  mistake  the  truth  totally. 

Gon.  But  the  rarity  of  it  is  (which  is  indeed 
almost  beyond  credit) — 

Seb.  As  many  vouch'd  rarities  are. 

Gon.  That  our  garments,  being,  as  they  were, 
drenched  in  the  sea,  hold,  notwithstanding,  their 
freshness  and  glosses  ;  being  rather  new  dyed, 
than  stained  with  salt  water. 

Ant.  If  but  one  of  his  pockets  could  speak, 
would  it  not  say,  he  lies  ? 

Seb.  Ay,  or  very  falsely  pocket  up  his  report 

Gon.  Methinks,  our  garments  are  now  as 
fresh  as  when  we  put  them  on  first  in  Africk, 
at  the  marriage  of  the  king's  fair  daughter 
Claribel  to  the  king  of  Tunis. 

Seb.  'Twas  a  sweet  marriage,  and  we  pros- 
per well  in  our  return. 

Adr.  Tunis  was  never  graced  before  with 
such  a  paragon  to  their  queen. 

Gon.  Not  since  widow  Dido's  time. 

Ant.  Widow  ?  a  pox  o'  that  !  How  came 
that  widow  in  ?  Widow  Dido  ! 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  TEMPEST, 


Seb.  What  if  he  had  said,  widower  yEneas 
too  ?  good  lord,  how  you  take  it  ! 

Adr.  Widow  Dido,  said  you  ?  you  make  me 
study  of  that :  She  was  of  Carthage,  not  of  Tunis. 

Gon.  This  Tunis,  sir,  was  Carthage. 

Adr.  Carthage? 

Gon.  I  assure  you,  Carthage. 

Ant.  His  word  is  more  than  the  miraculous 
harp. 

Seb.  He  hath  raised  the  wall,  and  houses  too. 

Ant.  What  impossible  matter  will  he  make 
easy  next  ? 

Seb.  I  think  he  will  carry  this  island  home  in 
his  pocket,  and  give  it  his  son  for  an  apple. 

Ant.  And,  sowing  the  kernels  of  it  in  the 
sea,  bring  forth  more  islands. 

Gon.  Ay  ? 

Ant.  Why,  in  good  time. 

Gon.  Sir,  we  were  talking,  that  our  garments 
seem  now  as  fresh  as  when  we  were  at  Tunis  at 
the  marriage  of  your  daughter,  who  is  nowqueen. 

Ant.  And  the  rarest  that  e'er  came  there. 
'    Seb.  'Bate,  I  beseech  you,  widow  Dido. 

Ant.  O,  widow  Dido ;  ay,  widow  Dido. 

Gon.  Is  not,  sir,  my  doublet  as  fresh  as  the 
first  day  I  wore  it  ?  I  mean,  in  a  sort. 

Ant.  That  sort  was  well  fish'd  for. 

Gon.    When    I  wore  it  at  your   daughter's 
marriage  ? 

Alon.  You  cram  these  words  into  mine  ears, 

against 

The  stomach  of  my  sense :  Would  I  had  never 
Married  my  daughter  there !  for,  coming  thence, 
My  son  is  lost ;  and,  in  my  rate,  she  too, 
Who  is  so  far  from  Italy  removed, 
I  ne'er  again  shall  see  her.     O  thou  mine  heir 
Of  Naples  and  of  Milan,  what  strange  fish 
Hath  made  his  meal  on  thee  ! 

Fran.  Sir,  he  may  live  ; 

I  saw  him  beat  the  surges  under  him, 
And  ride  upon  their  backs  ;  he  trod  the  water, 
Whose  enmity  he  flung  aside,  and  breasted 
The  surge  most  swoln  that  met  him ;  his  bold 

head 

'Bove  the  contentious  waves  he  kept,  and  oar'd 
Himself  with  his  good  arms  in  lusty  stroke 
To  the  shore,  that  o'er  his  wave-worn  basis  bow'd, 
As  stooping  to  relieve  him  ;  I  not  doubt 
He  came  alive  to  land. 

Alon.  .      No,  no,  he 's  gone. 

Seb.  Sir,  you  may  thank  yourself  for   this 
great  loss  ;  [daughter, 

That  would  not  bless  our  Europe  with  your 
But  rather  lose  her  to  an  African  ; 
Where  she,  at  least,  is  banish'd  from  your  eye, 
Who  hath  cause  to  wet  the  grief  on 't. 

-Alon.  Pr'ythee,  peace. 


Seb.  You  were  kneel'd  to,  and  importun'd 

otherwise 

By  all  of  us  ;  and  the  fair  soul  herself 
Weigh'd,  between  lothness  and  obedience,  at 
Which  end  o'  the  beam  she  'd  bow.     We  have 

lost  your  son, 

I  fear,  for  ever  :  Milan  and  Naples  have 
More  widows  in  them  of  this  business'  making, 
Than  we  bring  men  to  comfort  them :  the  fault 's 
Your  own. 

Alon.  So  is  the  dearest  of  the  loss. 

Gon.  My  lord  Sebastian, 

The  truth  you  speak  doth  lack  some  gentleness, 
And  time  to  speak  it  in  ;  you  rub  the  sore, 
When  you  should  bring  the  plaster. 

Seb.  Very  well. 

Ant.  And  most  chirurgeonly. 

Gon.  It  is  foul  weather  in  us  all,  good  sir, 
When  you  are  cloudy. 

Seb.  Foul  weather  ? 

Ant.  Very  foul. 

Gon.  Had  I  a  plantation  of  this  isle,  my  lord, — 

Ant.  He  'd  sow  it  with  nettle-seed. 

Seb.  Or  docks,  or  mallows. 

Gon.  And  were  the  king  of  it,  what  would  I  do? 

Seb.  'Scape  being  drunk,  for  want  of  wine. 

Gon.   I'  the  commonwealth,  I  would  by  con- 
traries 

Execute  all  things  :  for  no  kind  of  traffic 
Would  I  admit ;  no  name  of  magistrate  ; 
Letters  should  not  be  known ;  no  use  of  service, 
Of  riches,  or  of  poverty  ;  no  contracts, 
Successions;  bound  of  land,  tilth,  vineyard,  none: 
No  use  of  metal,  corn,  or  wine,  or  oil : 
No  occupation  ;  all  men  idle,  all ; 
And  women  too  ;  but  innocent  and  pure  : 
No  sovereignty  : — 

Seb.  And  yet  he  would  be  king  on  't. 

Ant.  The  latter  end  of  his  commonwealth 
forgets  the  beginning.  [duce 

Gon.  All  things  in  common  nature  should  pro- 
Without  sweat  or  endeavour :  treason,  felony, 
Sword,  pike,  knife,  gun,  or  need  of  any  engine, 
Would  I  not  have ;  but  nature  should  bring  forth, 
Of  its  own  kind,  all  foison,  all  abundance, 
To  feed  my  innocent  people. 

Seb.  No  marrying  'mong  his  subjects  ? 
.     Ant.  None,  man;  all  idle;  whores  and  knaves. 

Gon.  I  would  with  such  perfection  govern,  sir. 
To  excel  the  golden  age. 

Seb.  Save  his  majesty  ! 

Ant.  Long  live  Gonzalo  ! 

Gon.  And,  do  you  mark  me,  sir  ? — 

Alon.  Pr'ythee,    no   more:    thou  dost   talk 
nothing  to  me. 

Gon.  I  do  well  believe  your  highness ;  and 
did  it  to  minister  occasion  to  these  gentlemen, 


10 


THE  TEMPEST. 


[ACT  ii. 


who  are  of  such  sensible  and  nimble  lungs,  that 
they  always  use  to  laugh  at  nothing. 

Ant.  'Twas  you  we  laugh'd  at. 

Gon.  Who,  in  this  kind  of  merry  fooling,  am 
nothing  to  you :  so  you  may  continue,  and 
laugh  at  nothing  still. 

Ant.  What  a  blow  was  there  given  ! 

Seb.  An  it  had  not  fallen  flat-long. 

Gon.  You  are  gentlemen  of  brave  mettle ;  you 
would  lift  the  moon  out  of  her  sphere,  if  she 
would  continue  in  it  five  weeks  without  changing. 

Enter  ARIEL  invisible^  playing  solemn  music. 

Seb.  We  would  so,  and  then  go  a  bat-fowling. 

Ant.  Nay,  good  my  lord,  be  not  angry. 

Gon.  No,  I  warrant  you  ;  I  will  not  adven- 
ture my  discretion  so  weakly.  Will  you  laugh 
me  asleep,  for  I  am  very  heavy  ? 

Ant.  Go  sleep,  and  hear  us. 

[All  sleep  but  ALON.  SEB.  and  ANT. 

Alon.  What,  all  so  soon  asleep !  I  wish  mine 
eyes  [I  find 

Would,  with  themselves,  shut  up  my  thoughts : 
They  are  inclined  to  do  so. 

Seb.  Please  you,  sir, 

Do  not  omit  the  heavy  offer  of  it : 
It  seldom  visits  sorrow  ;  when  it  doth, 
It  is  a  comforter. 

Ant.  We  two,  my  lord, 

Will  guard  your  person,  while  you  take  your  rest, 
And  watch  your  safety. 

Alon.  Thank  you  :  wondrous  heavy. — 

[ALONSO  sleeps.     Exit  ARIEL. 

Seb.   What  a   strange   drowsiness  possesses 
them? 

Ant.  It  is  the  quality  o'  the  climate. 

Seb.  Why 

Doth  it  not  then  our  eyelids  sink  !  I  find  not 
Myself  disposed  to  sleep. 

Ant.  Nor  I ;  my  spirits  are  nimble. 

They  fell  together  all,  as  by  consent ; 
They  dropp'd,  as  by  a  thunder-stroke.     What 
might,  [more : — 

Worthy   Sebastian? — O,    what    might? — No 
And  yet,  methinks,  I  see  it  in  thy  face, 
What  thou  shouldst  be:   the  occasion  speaks 

thee ;  and 

My  strong  imagination  sees  a  crown 
Dropping  upon  thy  head. 

Seb.  What,  art  thou  waking  ? 

Ant.  Do  you  not  hear  me  speak  ? 

Seb.  I  do  ;  and,  surely, 

It  is  a  sleepy  language  ;  and  thou  speak'st 
Out  of  thy  sleep  :  What  is  it  thou  didst  say  ? 
This  is  a  strange  repose,  to  be  asleep          [ing, 
With  eyes  wide  open,  standing,  speaking,  mov- 
And  yet  so  fast  asleep. 


Ant.  Noble  Sebastian,       [wink'st 

Thou    lett'st.   thy  fortune   sleep — die   rather  ; 
Whiles  thou  art  waking. 

Seb.  Thou  dost  snore  distinctly  ; 

There 's  meaning  in  thy  snores. 

Ant.  I  am  more  serious  than  my  custom :  you 
Must  be  so  too,  if  heed  me  ;  which  to  do 
Trebles  thee  o'er. 

Seb.  Well,  I  am  standing  water. 

Ant.  I  '11  teach  you  how  to  flow. 

Seb.  Do  so :  to  ebb, 

Hereditary  sloth  instructs  me. 

Ant.  O, 

If  you  but  knew,  how  you  the  purpose  cherish, 
Whiles  thus  you  mock  it  !  how,  in  stripping  it, 
You  more  invest  it  !     Ebbing  men,  indeed, 
Most  often  do  so  near  the  bottom  run, 
By  their  own  fear,  or  sloth. 

Seb.  Pr'ythee,  say  on  : 

The  setting  of  thine  eye,  and  cheek,  proclaim 
A  matter  from  thee  ;  and  a  birth,  indeed, 
Which  throes  thee  much  to  yield. 

Ant.  Thus,  sir : 

Although  this  lord  of  weak  remembrance,  this, 
Who  shall  be  of  as  little  memory 
When  he  is  earth'd,  hath  here  almost  persuaded 
(For  he 's  a  spirit  of  persuasion  only) 
The  king,  his  son 's  alive  :  'tis  as  impossible 
That  he's  undrown'd  as  he  that  sleeps  here 

Seb.  I  have  no  hope  [swims. 

That  he's  undrown'd. 

Ant.  O,  out  of  that  no  hope, 

What  great  hope  have  you !  no  hope,  that  way,  is 
Another  way  so  high  an  hope,  that  even 
Ambition  cannot  pierce  a  wink  beyond, 
But  doubts  discovery  there.     Will  you  grant, 

with  me, 
That  Ferdinand  is  drown'd  ? 

Seb.  He 's  gone. 

Ant.  Then,  tell  me, 

Who 's  the  next  heir  of  Naples  ? 

Seb.  Claribel. 

Ant.  She  that  is  queen  of  Tunis:  shethatdwells 
Ten  leagues  beyond  man's  life  ;  she  that  from 

Naples 

Can  have  no  note,  unless  the  sun  were  post 
(The  man  i'  the  moon's  too  slow,)  till  new-born 
Be  rough  and  razorable ;  she,  from  whom  [chins 
We  were  all  sea-swallow'd,  though  some  cast 

again  ; 

And,  by  that,  destined  to  perform  an  act, 
Whereof  what's  past  is  prologue ;  what  to  come, 
In  yours  and  my  discharge. 

Seb.  What  stuff  is  this  ? — How  say  you  ? 
'Tis  true,  my  brother's  daughter's  queen  of  Tunis: 
So  is  she  heir  of  Naples  ;  'twixt  which  regions 
There  is  some  space. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  TEMPEST. 


ii 


Ant.  A  space  whose  every  cubit 

Seems  to  cry  out,  How  shall  that  Claribel 
Measure  tis  back  to  Naples  ? — Keep  in  Tunis, 
And  let  Sebastian  wake  ! — Say,  this  were  death 
That  now  hath  seized  them  ;  why,  they  were 

no  worse 
Than  now  they  are:  There  be,  that  can  rule 

Naples, 

As  well  as  he  that  sleeps ;  lords,  that  can  prate 
As  amply  and  unnecessarily 
As  this  Gonzalo  ;  I  myself  could  make 
A  chough  of  as  deep  chat.     O,  that  you  bore 
The  mind  that  I  do  !  what  a  sleep  were  this 
For  your  advancement!  Do  you  understand  me? 

Seb.   Methinks,  I  do. 

Ant.  And  how  does  your  content 

Tender  your  own  good  fortune  ? 

Seb.  I  remember, 

You  did  supplant  your  brother  Prospero. 

Ant.  True : 

And,  look,  how  well  my  garments  sit  upon  me  ; 
Much  feater  than  before  :  My  brother's  servants 
Were  then  my  fellows,  now  they  are  my  men. 

Seb.  But,  for  your  conscience — 

Ant.  Ay,  sir ;  where  lies  that  ?  if  it  were  a 

kybe, 

'Twould  put  me  to  my  slipper  :  But  I  feel  not 
This  deity  in  my  bosom  ;  twenty  consciences, 
That  stand  'twixt  me  and    Milan,  candied  be 
they,  [brother, 

And  melt,  ere  they  molest !      Here  lies  your 
No  better  than  the  earth  he  lies  upon, 
If  he  were  that  which  now  he 's  like  :  whom  I, 
With  this  obedient  steel,  three  inches  of  it, 
Can  lay  to  bed  for  ever  :  whiles  you,  doing  thus 
To  the  perpetual  wink  for  aye  might  put 
This  ancient  morsel,  this  Sir  Prudence,  who 
Should  not  upbraid  our  course.    For  all  the  rest, 
They  '11  take  suggestion,  as  a  cat  laps  milk  ; 
They  '11  tell  the  clock  to  any  business  that 
We  say  befits  the  hour. 

Seb.  Thy  case,  dear  friend, 

Shall  be  my  precedent ;  as  thou  gott'st  Milan, 
I  '11  come  by  Naples.      Draw  thy  sword  :  one 
stroke  [pay'st ; 

Shall  free  thee  from  the  tribute  which  thou 
And  I  the  king  shall  love  thee. 

Ant.  Draw  together : 

And  when  I  rear  my  hand,  do  you  the  like, 
To  fall  it  on  Gonzalo. 

Seb.  O,  but  one  word. 

[  They  converse  apart. 

Music.     Re-enter  ARIEL,  invisible. 
Art.   My  master  through  his  art  foresees  the 
danger  [forth,— 

That  these  his  friends,  are  in ;  and  sends  me 


For  else  his  project  dies,— to  keep  the  living. 
[Sings  in  GONZALO'S  ear. 

While  you  here  do  snoring  lie. 
Open-eyed  conspiracy 

His  time  doth  take  : 
If  of  life  you  keep  a  care, 
Shake  off  slumber,  and  beware  : 

Awake  !  Awake  ! 

Ant.  Then  let  us  both  be  sudden. 

Con.  Now,  good  angels,  preserve  the  king  ! 
[  They  awake. 

Alon.  Why,  how  now,  ho  !  awake  !     Why 

are  you  drawn  ? 
Wherefore  this  ghastly  looking  ? 

Gon.  What's  the  matter  ? 

Seb.    Whiles  we   stood  here  securing  your 

repose, 

Even  now,  we  heard  a  hollow  burst  of  bellowing 
Like  bulls,  or  rather  lions ;  did  it  not  wake  you? 
It  struck  mine  ear  most  terribly. 

Alon.  I  heard  nothing. 

Ant.  O,  'twas  a  din  to  fright  a  monster's  ear; 
To  make  an  earthquake  !  sure  it  was  the  roar 
Of  a  whole  herd  of  Jions. 

Alon.  Heard  you  this,  Gonzalo  ? 

Gon.    Upon   mine   honour,  sir,    I   heard   a 

humming,  [me : 

And  that  a  strange  one  too,  which  did  awake 

I  shaked  you,  sir,  and  cried ;  as  mine  eyes  open'd, 

I  saw  their  weapons  drawn  : — there  was  a  noise, 

That 's  verity  :  'Best  stand  upon  our  guard  ; 

Or  that  we  quit   this  place  :    let 's  draw  our 

weapons.  [further  search 

Alon.  Lead  off  this  ground  ;  and  let 's  make 
For  my  poor  son. 

Gon.      Heavens  keep  him  from  these  beasts  ! 
For  he  is,  sure,  i'  the  island. 

Alon.  Lead  away. 

Ari.  Prospero  my  lord  shall  know  what  I 

have  done :  [Aside. 

So,  king,  go  safely  on  to  seek  thy  son.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Another  part  of  the  Island. 
Enter  CALIBAN,  with  a  burden  of  wood. 

A  noise  of  thunder  heard. 
Cal.  All  the  infections  that  the  sun  sucks  up 
From  bogs,  fens,  flats,   on   Prosper  fall,  and 

make  him 

By  inch-meal  a  disease  !     His  spirits  hear  me, 
And  yet  I  needs  must  curse.     But  they  '11  nor 
pinch,  [mire, 

Fright  me  with  urchin-shows,  pitch  me  i'  the 
Nor  lead  me,  like  a  firebrand,  in  the  dark 
Out  of  my  way,  unless  he  bid  them  ;  but 
For  every  trifle  they  are  set  upon  me  : 
Sometime  like  apes,  that  moe  and  chatter  at  me, 


12 


THE  TEMPEST. 


[ACT  ii. 


And  after,  bite  me ;  then  like  hedge-hogs,  which 
Lie  tumbling  in  my  bare-foot  way,  and  mount 
Their  pricks  at  my  foot-fall ;  sometime  am  I 
All  wound    with  adders,   who,   with    cloven 

tongues, 
Do  hiss  me  into  madness  : — Lo  !  now  !  lo  ! 

Enter  TRINCULO. 

Here  comes  a  spirit  of  his  ;  and  to  torment  me, 
For  bringing  wood  in  slowly  :  I'll  fall  flat ; 
Perchance  he  will  not  mind  me. 

Trin.  Here's  neither  bush  nor  shrub,  to  bear 
off  any  weather  at  all,  and  another  storm  brew- 
ing ;  I  hear  it  sing  i'  the  wind  ;  yond  same 
black  cloud,  yond  huge  one,  looks  like  a  foul 
bumbard  that  would  shed  his  liquor.  If  it 
should  thunder,  as  it  did  before,  I  know  not 
where  to  hide  my  head  :  yond  same  cloud  can- 
not choose  but  fall  by  pailfuls. — What  have  we 
here  ?  a  man  or  a  fish  ?  dead  or  alive  ?  A  fish: 
he  smells  like  a  fish :  a  very  ancient  and  fish- 
like  smell ;  a  kind  of,  not  of  the  newest,  Poor- 
John.  A  strange  fish  !  Were  I  in  England 
now  (as  once  I  was),  and  had  but  this  fish 
painted,  not  a  holiday  fool  there  but  would  give 
a  piece  of  silver :  there  would  this  monster 
make  a  man  ;  any  strange  beast  there  makes  a 
man  :  when  they  will  not  give  a  doit  to  relieve 
a  lame  beggar,  they  will  lay  out  ten  to  see  a 
dead  Indian.  Legg'd  like  a  man  !  and  his  fins 
like  arms  !  Warm,  o'  my  troth  !  I  do  now 
let  loose  my  opinion,  hold  it  no  longer  ;  this  is 
no  fish,  but  an  islander,  that  hath  lately  suffered 
by  a  thunder-bolt.  [Thunder.'}  Alas!  the 
storm  is  come  again  :  my  best  way  is  to  creep 
under  his  gaberdine  ;  there  is  no  other  shelter 
hereabout :  Misery  acquaints  a  man  with 
strange  bedfellows.  I  will  here  shroud,  till 
the  dregs  of  the  storm  be  past. 

Enter  STEPHANO  singing ;  a  bottle  in  kis  hand. 

Ste.  I  shall  no  more  to  sea,  to  sea, 

Here  shall  I  die  ashore  5 — 

This  is  a  very  scurvy  tune  to  sing  at  a  man's 
funeral :  Well,  here's  my  comfort.        [Drinks. 

The  master,  the  swabber,  the  boatswain,  and  I, 
The  gunner,  and  his  mate, 

Lov'd  Mall,  Meg,  and  Marian,  and  Margery,. 
But  none  of  us  car'd  for  Kate  : 
For  she  had  a  tongue  with  a  tang, 
Would  cry  to  a  sailor,  Go,  hang; 

She  lov'd  not  the  savour  of  tar  nor  of  pitch, 

Yet  a  tailor  might  scratch  her  where'er  she  did  itch  : 
Then  to  sea,  boys,  and  let  her  go  hang. 

This  is  a  scurvy  tune  too :  But  here 's  my  comfort. 

Cat.  Do  not  torment  me  :  Oh  !        [Drinks. 

Ste.  What's  the  matter?  Have  we  devils 
here  ?  Do  you  put  tricks  upon  us  with  savages, 
and  men  of  Inde  ?  Ha  !  I  have  not  'scaped 


drowning,  to  be  afeard  now  of  your  four  legs  ; 
for  it  hath  been  said,  As  proper  a  man  as  ever 
went  on  four  legs  cannot  make  him  give  ground: 
and  it  shall  be  said  so  again,  while  Stephano 
breathes  at  nostrils. 

Cat.  The  spirit  torments  me  :  Oh  ! 

Ste.  This  is  some  monster  of  the  isle,  with 
four  legs  :  who  hath  got,  as  I  take  it,  an  ague  : 
Where  the  devil  should  he  learn  our  language  ? 
I  will  give  him  some  relief,  if  it  be  but  for  that : 
If  I  can  recover  him,  and  keep  him  tame,  and 
get  to  Naples  with  him,  he 's  a  present  for  any 
emperor  that  ever  trod  on  neat's  leather. 

Cal.  Do  not  torment  me,  pr'ythee  ; 
I  '11  bring  my  wood  home  faster. 

Ste.  He 's  in  his  fit  now  ;  and  does  not  talk 
after  the  wisest.  He  shall  taste  of  my  bottle  : 
if  he  have  never  drunk  wine  afore,  it  will  go 
near  to  remove  his  fit.  If  I  can  recover  him, 
and  keep  him  tame,  I  will  not  take  too  much 
for  him  :  he  shall  pay  for  him  that  hath  him, 
and  that  soundly.  [wilt 

Cal.  Thou  dost  me  yet  but  little  hurt ;  thou 
Anon  ;  I  know  it  by  thy  trembling  ; 
Now  Prosper  works  upon  thee. 

Ste.  Come  on  your  ways  ;  open  your  mouth: 
here  is  that  which  will  give  language  to  you, 
cat;  open  your  mouth:  this  will  shake  your  shak- 
ing, I  can  tell  you,  and  that  soundly :  you  cannot 
tell  who 's  your  friend  :  open  your  chaps  again. 

Trin.  I  should  know  that  voice :  It  should 
be — But  he  is  drowned  ;  and  these  are  devils : 
Oh  !  defend  me  ! — 

Ste.  Four  legs  and  two  voices  ;  a  most  deli- 
cate monster  !  His  forward  voice  now  is  to 
speak  well  of  his  friend  ;  his  backward  voice  is 
to  utter  foul  speeches,  and  to  detract.  If  all 
the  wine  in  my  bottle  will  recover  him,  I  will 
help  his  ague  :  Come — Amen !  I  will  pour  some 
in  thy  other  mouth. 

Trin.  Stephano, — 

Ste.  Doth  thy  other  mouth  call  me?  Mercy! 
mercy  !  This  is  a  devil,  and  no  monster :  I 
will  leave  him  ;  I  have  no  long  spoon. 

Trin.  Stephano  ! — if  thou  beest  Stephano, 
touch  me,  and  speak  to  me  ;  for  I  am  Trinculo; 
— be  not  afeard, — thy  good  friend  Trinculo. 

Ste.  If  thou  beest  Trinculo,  come  forth  ;  I'll 
pull  thee  by  the  lesser  legs  :  if  any  be  Trinculo's 
legs,  these  are  they.  Thou  art  very  Trinculo 
indeed  :  How  cam'st  thou  to  be  the  siege  of 
this  moon-calf?  Can  he  vent  Trinculos  ? 

Trin.  I  took  him  to  be  killed  with  a  thunder- 
stroke : — But  art  thou  not  drowned,  Stephano  ? 
I  hope,  now,  thou  art  not  drowned.  Is  the 
storm  over-blown  ?  I  hid  me  under  the  dead 
moon-calf  s  gaberdine  for  fear  of  the  storm. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  TEMPEST. 


And  art  thou  living,  Stephano  ?     O  Stephano, 
two  Neapolitans  'scaped  ! 

Ste.  Pr'ythee,  do  not  turn  me  about ;  my 
stomach  is  not  constant.  [sprites, 

CaL  These  be  fine  things,  and  if  they  be  not 
That 's  a  brave  god,  and  bears  celestial  liquor  : 
I  will  kneel  to  him. 

Ste.  How  didst  thou  'scape?  how  cam'st 
thou  hither?  swear  by  this  bottle,  how  thou 
cam'st  hither.  I  escaped  upon  a  butt  of  sack, 
which  the  sailors  heaved  overboard,  by  this 
bottle  !  which  I  made  of  the  bark  of  a  tree, 
with  mine  own  hands,  since  I  was  cast  ashore. 

CaL   I  '11  swear,  upon  that  bottle,  to  be  thy 
True  subject ;  for  the  liquor  is  not  earthly. 

Ste.   Here  ;  swear  then  how  thou  escap'dst. 

Trin.  Swam  ashore,  man,  like  a  duck  ;  I 
can  swim  like  a  duck,  I'll  be  sworn. 

Ste.  Here,  kiss  the  book :  Though  thou 
canst  swim  like  a  duck,  thou  art  made  like  a 
goose. 

Trin.  O  Stephano,  hast  any  more  of  this  ? 

Ste.  The  whole  butt,  man  ;  my  cellar  is  in  a 
rock  by  the  sea-side,  where  my  wine  is  hid. 
How  now,  moon-calf?  how  does  thine  ague? 

Cat.   Hast  thou  not  dropped  from  heaven  ? 

Ste.  Out  o'  the  moon,  I  do  assure  thee :  I 
was  the  man  i'  the  moon,  when  time  was. 

Cat.  I  have  seen  thee  in  her,  and  I  do  adore 

thee  ; 

My  mistress  showed  me  thee,  and  thy  dog  and 
bush. 

Ste.  Come,  swear  to  that ;  kiss  the  book  :  I 
will  furnish  it  anon  with  new  contents  :  swear. 

Trin.  By  this  good  light,  this  is  a  very  shal- 
low monster: — I  afeard  of  him?  a  very  weak 
monster  ; — The  man  i'  the  moon  ! — a  most  poor 
credulous  monster:  Well  drawn,  monster,  in 
good  sooth. 

CaL  I  '11  show  thee  every  fertile  inch  o'  the 

island ; 
And  kiss  thy  foot :  I  pr'ythee,  be  my  god. 

Trin.  By  this  light,  a  most  perfidious  and 
drunken  monster ;  when  his  god 's  asleep,  he  '11 
rob  his  bottle. 

CaL   I  '11  kiss  thy  foot :  I  '11  swear  myself  thy 
subject. 

Ste.  Come  on,  then  ;  down,  and  swear. 

Trin.  I  shall  laugh  myself  to  death  at  this 
puppy- headed  monster :  a  most  scurvy  monster ! 
I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  beat  him, — 

Ste.  Come,  kiss. 

Trin.  — but  that  the  poor  monster's  in  drink; 
An  abominable  monster  ! 

CaL    I  '11  show  thee  the  best  springs ;  I  '11 

pluck  thee  berries ; 
I  '11  fish  for  thee,  and  get  thee  wood  enough. 


A  plague  upon  the  tyrant  that  I  serve  ! 

I  '11  bear  him  no  more  sticks,  but  follow  thee, 

Thou  wondrous  man. 

Trin.  A  most  ridiculous  monster  !  to  make 
a  wonder  of  a  poor  drunkard. 

CaL  I  pr'ythee,    let   me  bring  thee  where 

crabs  grow  ; 

And  I  with  my  long  nails  will  dig  thee  pig-nuts; 
Show  thee  a  jay's  nest,  and  instruct  thee  how 
To  snare  the  nimble  marmozet ;  I  '11  bring  thee 
To  clust'ring  filberts,  and  sometimes  I  '11  get  thee 
Young  sea-mells  from  the  rock  :  Wilt  thou  go 

with  me  ? 

Ste.  I  pr'ythee  now  lead  the  way,  without 
any  more  talking. — Trinculo,  the  king  and  all 
our  company  else  being  drowned,  we  will  in- 
herit here.— Here  ;  [To  CAL.]  bear  my  bottle. 
Fellow  Trinculo,  we  '11  fill  him  by  and  by  again. 
CaL  Farewell^  master :  farewell,  farewell. 

[Sings  drunkenly. 

Trin.  A  howling  monster;  a  drunken  monster. 
CaL  No  more  dams  I '//  make  for  fish  / 
Nor  fetch  in  firing 
At  requiring, 

Nor  scrape  trencher,  nor  wash  dish  ; 
'Ban  'Ban,  Ca-  -Caliban, 
Has  a  new  master —  Get  a  new  man. 
Freedom,  hey-day !  hey-day,  freedom !  freedom, 

hey-day,  freedom  ! 
Ste.  O  brave  monster !  lead  the  way.  {Exeunt. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — Before  PROSPERO'S  Cell. 
Enter  FERDINAND,  bearing  a  log. 

Fer.  There  be  some  sports  are  painful,  and 

their  labour 

Delight  in  them  sets  off:  some  kinds  of  baseness 
Are  nobly  undergone ;  and  most  poor  matters 
Point  to  rich  ends.    This  my  mean  task  would  be 
As  heavy  to  me,  as  'tis  odious  ;  but 
The  mistress  which  I  serve  quickens  what 's  dead, 
And  makes  my  labours  pleasures  :  Oh,  she  is 
Ten  times  more  gentle  than  her  father's  crabbed; 
And  he's  composed  of  harshness.   I  must  remove 
Some  thousands  of  these  logs,  and  pile  them  up, 
Upon  a  sore  injunction  :  My  sweet  mistress 
Weeps  when  she  sees  me  work ;  and  says  such 

baseness 

Had  never  like  executor.  I  forget :  [labours  ; 
But  these  sweet  thoughts  do  even  refresh  my 
Most  busy,  least  when  I  do  it. 

Enter  MIRANDA,  and  PROSPERO  at  a  distance. 
Mira.  Alas,  now  !  pray  you, 

Work  not  so  hard  :  I  would  the  lightning  had 


THE  TEMPEST. 


[ACT  in. 


Burnt  up  those  logs  that  you  are  enjoin'd  to  pile ! 
Pray,  set  it  down,  and  restyou :  when  this  burns, 
'Twill  weep  for  having  wearied  you.     My  father 
Is  hard  at  study ;  pray,  now,  rest  yourself; 
He 's  safe  for  these  three  hours. 

Fer.  O  most  dear  mistress, 

The  sun  will  set  before  I  shall  discharge 
What  I  must  strive  to  do. 

Mir  a.  If  you  '11  sit  down, 

I  '11  bear  your  logs  the  while  :  pray,  give  me  that; 
I  '11  carry  it  to  the  pile. 

Fer.  No,  precious  creature : 

I  had  rather  crack  my  sinews,  break  my  back, 
Than  you  should  such  dishonour  undergo, 
While  I  sit  lazy  by. 

Mira.  It  would  become  me 

As  well  as  it  does  you :  and  I  should  do  it 
With  much  more  ease ;  for  my  good  will  is  to  it, 
And  yours  against. 

Pro.  [Aside.']  Poor  worm !  thou  art  infected ; 
This  visitation  shows  it. 

Mira.  You  look  wearily. 

Fer.  No,  noble  mistress ;  'tis  fresh  morning 

with  me 

When  you  are  by  at  night.     I  do  beseech  you, 
Chiefly  that  I  might  set  it  in  my  prayers, 
What  is  your  name? 

Mira.  Miranda : — O  my  father, 

I  have  broke  your  'hest  to  say  so  ! 

Fer.  Admh'd  Miranda ! 

Indeed  the  top  of  admiration ;  worth 
What 's  dearest  to  the  world !    Full  many  a  lady 
I  have  eyed  with  best  regard ;  and  many  a  time 
The  harmony  of  their  tongues  hath  into  bondage 
Brought  my  too  diligent  ear :  for  several  virtues 
Have  I  lik'd  several  women :  never  any 
With  so  full  soul,  but  some  defect  in  her 
Did  quarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she  owed, 
And  put  it  to  the  foil :  but  you,  O  you, 
So  perfect  and  so  peerless,  are  created 
Of  every  creature's  best. 

Mira.  I  do  not  know 

One  of  my  sex !  no  woman's  face  remember, 
Save,  from  my  glass,  mine  own ;  nor  have  I  seen 
More  that  I  may  call  men,  than  you,  good  friend, 
And  my  dear  father :  how  features  are  abroad, 
I  am  skill-less  of;  but,  by  my  modesty, — 
The  jewel  in  my  dower, — I  would  not  wish 
Any  companion  in  the  world  but  you ; 
Nor  can  imagination  form  a  shape, 
Besides  yourself,  to  like  of.     But  I  prattle 
Something  too  wildly,  and  my  father's  precepts 
Therein  forget. 

Fer.  I  am,  in  my  condition, 

A  prince,  Miranda ;  I  do  think,  a  king, — 
I  would,  not  so ! — and  would  no  more  endure 
This  wooden  slavery  than  I  would  suffer 


The  flesh-fly  blow  my  mouth.     Hear  my  soul 

speak : 

The  very  instant  that  I  saw  you,  did 
My  heart  fly  to  your  service  ;  there  resides, 
To  make  me  slave  to  it ;  and  for  your  sake 
Am  I  this  patient  log-man. 

Mira.  Do  you  love  me? 

Fer.  O  heaven,  O  earth,  bear  witness  to  this 

sound, 

And  crown  what  I  profess  with  kind  event, 
If  I  speak  true  !  if  hollowly,  invert 
What  best  is  boded  me  to  mischief!     I, 
Beyond  all  limit  of  what  else  i'  the  world, 
Do  love,  prize,  honour  you. 

Mira.  I  am  a  fool 

To  weep  at  what  I  am  glad  of. 

Pro.  [Aside.]  Fair  encounter 

Of  two  most  rare  affections  !  Heavens  rain  grace 
On  that  which  breeds  between  them ! 

Fer.  Wherefore  weep  you? 

Mira.  Atmineunworthiness,  that  dare  not  offer 
What  I  desire  to  give ;  and  much  less  take 
What  I  shall  die  to  want.     But  this  is  trifling : 
And  all  the  more  it  seeks  to  hide  itself, 
The  bigger  bulk  it  shows.     Hence,  bashful  cun- 
ning; 

And  prompt  me,  plain  and  holy  innocence ! 
I  am  your  wife,  if  you  will  marry  me ; 
If  not,  I  '11  die  your  maid :  to  be  your  fellotf 
You  may  deny  me ;  but  I  '11  be  your  servant 
Whether  you  will  or  no. 

Fer.  My  mistress,  dearest, 

And  I  thus  humble  ever. 

Mira.  My  husband,  then  ? 

Fer.  Ay,  with  a  heart  as  willing 
As  bondage  e'er  of  freedom :  here 's  my  hand. 

Mira.   And  mine,  with  my  heart  in't:  and 

now  farewell 
Till  half  an  hour  hence. 

Fer.  A  thousand !  thousand  ! 

[Exeunt  FERD.  and  MIRA. 

Pro.  So  glad  of  this  as  they  I  cannot  be, 
Who  are  surprised  withal ;  but  my  rejoicing 
At  nothing  can  be  more.     I  '11  to  my  book ; 
For  yet,  ere  supper  time,  must  I  perform 
Much  business  appertaining.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II. — Another  part  of  the  Island. 

Enter  STEPHANO  and  TRINCULO  ;   CALIBAN 
following  with  a  bottle. 

Ste.  Tell  not  me ; — when  the  butt  is  out,  we 
will  drink  water ;  not  a  drop  before :  therefore 
bear  up,  and  board  'em:  Servant-monster, 
drink  to  me. 

Trin.  Servant-monster!  the  folly  of  this 
island!  They  say  there's  but  five  upon  this 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  TEMPEST. 


isle :  we  are  three  of  them ;  if  the  other  two  be 
brained  like  us,  the  state  totters. 

Sle.  Drink,  servant-monster,  when  I  bid  thee: 
thy  eyes  are  almost  set  in  thy  head. 

Trin.  Where  should  they  be  set  else?  he 
were  a  brave  monster  indeed,  if  they  were  set 
in  his  tail. 

Sle.  My  man-monster  hath  drowned  his 
tongue  in  sack:  for  my  part,  the  sea  cannot 
drown  me :  I  swam,  ere  I  could  recover  the 
shore,  five-and-thirty  leagues,  off  and  on,  by 
this  light.  — Thou  shalt  be  my  lieutenant,  mon- 
ster, or  my  standard.  [standard. 

Trin.  Your  lieutenant,  if  you  list;  he's  no 

Ste.  We  '11  not  run,  monsieur-monster. 

Trin.  Nor  go  neither :  but  you  '11  lie,  like 
dogs;  and  yet  say  nothing  neither. 

Ste.  Moon-calf,  speak  once  in  thy  life,  if  thou 
beest  a  good  moon-calf. 

Cal.  How  does  thy  honour?     Let  me  lick 

thy  shoe. 
I  '11  not  serve  him ;  he  is  not  valiant. 

Trin.  Thou  liest,  most  ignorant  monster:  I 
am  in  case  to  justle  a  constable.  Why,  thou 
deboshed  fish  thou,  was  there  ever  a  man  a 
coward  that  hath  drunk  so  much  sack  as  I  to- 
day? Wilt  thou  tell  a  monstrous  lie,  being 
but  half  a  fish  and  half  a  monster? 

Cal.  Lo,  how  he  mocks  me !  wilt  thou  let 
him,  my  lord? 

Trin.  Lord,  quoth  he ! — that  a  monster 
should  be  such  a  natural ! 

Cal.  Lo,  loagain  !  bite  him  to  death,  I  pr'y  thee. 

Ste.  Trinculo,  keep  a  good  tongue  in  your 
head :  if  you  prove  a  mutineer,  the  next  tree. — 
The  poor  monster 's  my  subject,  and  he  shall 
not  suffer  indignity. 

Cal.  I  thank  my  noble  lord.  Wilt  thou  be 
pleased  to  hearken  once  again  to  the  suit  I 
made  thee? 

Ste.  Marry  will  I:  kneel  and  repeat  it;  I 
will  stand,  and  so  shall  Trinculo. 

Enter  ARIEL,  invisible. 

Cal.  As  I  told  thee  before,  I  am  subject  to  a 
tyrant;  a  sorcerer,  that  by  his  cunning  hath 
cheated  me  of  this  island. 

Ari.  Thou  liest. 

Cal.  Thou  liest,  thou  jesting  monkey,  thou ; 
I  would  my  valiant  master  would  destroy  thee! 
I  do  not  lie. 

Ste.  Trinculo,  if  you  trouble  him  any  more 
in  his  tale,  by  this  hand,  I  will  supplant  some 
of  your  teeth. 

Trin.  Why,  I  said  nothing. 

Ste.  Mum,then,and  no  more.  — [  To  CALIBAN.  ] 
Proceed. 


Cal.   I  say,  by  sorcery  he  got  this  isle ; 
From  me  he  got  it.     If  thy  greatness  will 
Revenge  it  on  him — for  I  know  thou  dar'st, 
But  this  thing  dare  not. 

Ste.  That 's  most  certain. 

Cal.  Thou  shalt  be  lord  of  it,  and  I  '11  serve  thee. 

Ste.  How  now  shall  this  be  compassed? 
Canst  thou  bring  me  to  the  party?  [asleep, 

Cal.  Yea,  yea  my  lord ;  I  '11  yield  him  thee 
Where  thou  mayst  knock  a  nail  into  his  head. 

Ari.  Thou  liest ;  thou  canst  not. 

Cal.  What  a  pied  ninny 's  this?  Thou  scurvy 

patch ! — 

I  do  beseech  thy  greatness,  give  him  blows, 
And  take  his  bottle  from  him  :  when  that 's  gone 
He  shall  drink  nought  but  brine;  for  I '11  not 

show  him 
Where  the  quick  freshes  are. 

Ste.  Trinculo,  run  into  no  further  danger; 
interrupt  the  monster  one  word  further,  and, 
by  this  hand,  I  '11  turn  my  mercy  out  of  doors, 
and  make  a  stock -fish  of  thee. 

Trin.  Why,  what  did  I?  I  did  nothing. 
I  '11  go  further  off. 

Ste.  Didst  thou  not  say,  he  lied? 

Ari.  Thou  liest. 

Ste.  Do  I  so?  take  thou  that.  [Strikes  htm.} 
As  you  like  this,  give  me  the  lie  another  time. 

Trin.   I  did  not  give  the  lie. — Out  o'  your 

wits  and  hearing  too? A  pox  o'  your  bottle ! 

this  can  sack  and  drinking  do. — A  murrain  on 
your  monster,  and  the  devil  take  your  fingers ! 

Cal.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Ste.  Now,  forward  with  your  tale.  Pr'ythee, 
stand  further  off. 

Cal.   Beat  him  enough :  after  a  little  time, 
I  '11  beat  him  too. 

Ste.  Stand  further. — Come,  proceed. 

Cal.  Why,  as  I  told  thee,  'tis  a  custom  with  him 
I'  the  afternoon  to  sleep:  there  thou  mayst  brain 

him, 

Having  first  seized  his  books ;  or  with  a  log 
Batter  his  skull,  or  paunch  him  with  a  stake, 
Or  cut  his  wezand  with  thy  knife.     Remember, 
First  to  possess  his  books ;  for  without  them 
He 's  but  a  sot,  as  I  am,  nor  hath  not 
One  spirit  to  command :  they  all  do  hate  him 
As  rootedly  as  I.     Burn  but  his  books. 
He  has  brave  utensils, — for  so  he  calls  them, — 
Which,  when  he  has  a  house,  he  '11  deck  withaf. 
And  that  most  deeply  to  consider  is 
The  beauty  of  his  daughter ;  he  himself 
Calls  her  a  nonpareil ;  I  never  saw  woman, 
But  only  Sycorax  my  dam  and  she ; 
But  she  as  far  surpasseth  Sycorax, 
As  great'st  does  least. 

Ste.  Is  it  so  brave  a  lass? 


i6 


THE  TEMPEST. 


[ACT  III. 


Cal.  Ay,  lord;  she  will  become  thy  bed,  I  war- 
rant, 
And  bring  thee  forth  brave  brood. 

Ste.  Monster,  I  will  kill  this  man :  his 
daughter  and  I  will  be  king  and  queen  ; — save 
our  graces  ! — and  Trinculo  and  thyself  shall  be 
viceroys. — Dost  thou  like  the  plot,  Trinculo  ? 

Trin.  Excellent. 

Ste.  Give  me  thy  hand ;  I  am  sorry  I  beat 
thee :  but  while  thou  livest,  keep  a  good  tongue 
in  thy  head. 

Cal.  Within  this  half  hour  will  he  be  asleep  ; 
Wilt  thou  destroy  him  then  ? 

Ste.  Ay,  on  mine  honour. 

Ari.  This  will  I  tell  my  master. 

Cal.  Thou  mak'st  me  merry :  I  am  full  of 

pleasure ; 

Let  us  be  jocund  :  will  you  troll  the  catch 
You  taught  me  but  while-ere  ? 

Ste,  At  thy  request,  monster,  I  will  do  reason, 
any  reason.  Come  on,  Trinculo,  let  us  sing. 

[Sings. 

Flout  'em,  and  scout  'em;  and  scout  'em  and  flout '  em; 
Thought  is  free. 

Cal.  That 's  not  the  tune. 
[ARiEL//<ay/.r  the  tune  on  a  tabor  and  pipe. 

Ste.  What  is  this  same  ? 

Trin.  This  is  the  tune  of  our  catch,  played 
by  the  picture  of  Nobody. 

Ste.  If  thou  beest  a  man,  show  thyself  in  thy 
likeness  :  if  thou  beest  a  devil,  take  't  as  thou 
list. 

Trin.  O,  forgive  me  my  sins  ! 

Ste.  He  that  dies,  pays  all  debts:  I  defy 
thee  : — Mercy  upon  us  ! 

Cal.  Art  thou  afeard  ? 

Ste.  No,  monster,  not  I. 

Cal.  Be  not  afeard  ;  the  isle  is  full  of  noises, 
Sounds,  and  sweet  airs,  that  give  delight  and 

hurt  not. 

Sometimes  a  thousand  twangling  instruments 
Will  hum  about  mine  ears;  and  sometimes  voices, 
That,  if  I  then  had  waked  after  long  sleep, 
Will   make    me    sleep  again ;    and   then,    in 
dreaming,  [riches 

The  clouds,  methought,  would  open  and  show 
Ready  to  drop  upon  me  :  that,  when  I  waked, 
I  cried  to  dream  again. 

Ste.  This  will  prove  a  brave  kingdom  to  me, 
where  I  shall  have  my  music  for  nothing. 

Cal.  When  Prospero  is  destroyed. 

Ste.  That  shall  be  by  and  by :  I  remember 
the  story. 

Trin.  The  sound  is  going  away :  let 's  follow 
it,  and  after,  do  our  work. 

Ste.  Lead,  monster,  we  '11  follow. — I  would 
I  could  see  this  taborer :  he  lays  it  on. 


Trin.  Wilt  come  ?  I  '11  follow,  Stephano. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — Another  part  of  the  Island. 

Enter  ALONSO,  SEBASTIAN,  ANTONIO, 
GONZALO,  ADRIAN,  FRANCISCO,  and  others. 

Gon.  By'r  lakin,  I  can  go  no  further,  sir  ; 
My  old  bones  ache :  here 's  a  maze  trod,  indeed, 
Through  forth-rights  and  meanders  !   by  your 
I  needs  must  rest  me.  [patience. 

Alon.  Old  lord,  I  cannot  blame  thee, 

Who  am  myself  attach'd  with  weariness, 
To  the  dulling  of  my  spirits  :  sit  down,  and  rest. 
Even  here  I  will  put  off  my  hope,  and  keep  it 
No  longer  for  my  flatterer  :  he  is  drown'd 
Whom  thus  we  stray  to  find  :  and  the  sea  mocks 
Our  frustrate  search  on  land.     Well,  let  him  go. 

Ant.  I  am  right  glad  that  he 's  so  out  of  hope. 
{Aside  to  SEE. 

Do  not,  for  one  repulse,  forego  the  purpose 
That  you  resolved  to  effect. 

Seb.  The  next  advantage 

Will  we  take  thoroughly.  {Aside  to  ANT. 

Ant.  [Aside  to  SEE.]     Let  it  be  to-night ; 
For,  now  they  are  oppress'd  with  travel,  they 
Will  not,  nor  cannot,  use  such  vigilance, 
As  when  they  are  fresh. 

Seb.  [Aside  to  ANT.  ]  I  say  to-night ;  no  more. 
Solemn    and  strange    music ;   and  PROSPERO 

above,    invisible.      Enter    several    strange 

Shapes,  bringing  in  a  banquet ;  they  dance 

about  it  with  gentle  actions  of  salutation, 

and  inviting  the   King,   &c.,  to  eat,  they 

depart. 

Alon.    What   harmony  is   this?      My  good 
friends  hark  ! 

Gon.  Marvellous  sweet  music ! 

Alon.  Give  us  kind  keepers,  heavens  !    What 
were  these  ? 

Seb.  A  living  drollery  :  now  I  will  believe, 
That  there  are  unicorns  ;  that,  in  Arabia 
There  is  one  tree,  the  phoenix'  throne  ;    one 
At  this  hour  reigning  there.  [phoenix 

Ant.  I'll  believe  both  ; 

And  what  does  else  want  credit,  come  to  me, 
And  I  '11  be  sworn 'tis  true :  travellers  ne'er  did  lie, 
Though  fools  at  home  condemn  them. 

Gon.  If  in  Naples 

I  should  report  this  now,  would  they  believe  me? 
If  I  should  say,  I  saw  such  islanders, — 
For,  certes,  these  are  people  of  the  island, — 
Who,  though  they  are  of  monstrous  shape,  yet, 

note, 

Their  manners  are  more  gentle-kind  than  of 
Our  human  generation  you  shall  find 
Many,  nay,  almost  any. 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  TEMPEST. 


Pro.  Honest  lord, 

Thou  hast  said  well;   for  some  of  you  there 

present 
Are  worse  than  devils.  [Aside. 

Alon.  I  cannot  toe  much  muse, 

Such  shapes,  such  gesture,  and  such  sound, 

expressing, — , 

Although  they  want  the  use  of  tongue, — a  kind 
Of  excellent  dumb  discourse. 

Pro.  Praise  in  departing.  [A side. 

Fran.  They  vanish'd  strangely. 

Seb.  No  matter,  since 

They  have  left  their  viands  behind ;  for  we  have 

stomachs, — 
Will 't  please  you  taste  of  what  is  here? 

Alon.  Not  I. 

Gon.  Faith,  sir,  you  need  not  fear.     When 
we  were  boys,  [eers, 

Who  would  believe  that  there  were  mountain- 
Dew-lapp'd  like  bulls,  whose  throats  had  hang- 
ing at  them 

Wallets  of  flesh?  or  that  there  were  such  men, 
Whose  heads  stood  in  their  breasts?  which  now 

we  find, 

Each  putter-out  of  one  for  five,  will  bring  us 
Good  warrant  of. 

Alon.  I  will  stand  to,  and  feed, 

Although  my  last :  no  matter,  since  I  feel, 
The  best  is  past: — Brother,  my  lord  the  duke, 
Stand  to,  and  do  as  we. 

Thunder  and  lightning.  Enter  ARIEL  like  a 
harpy ;  claps  his  wings  upon  the  table,  and 
with  a  quaint  device  the  banquet  vanishes. 

Art.  You  are  three  men  of  sin,  whom  destiny, — 
That  hath  to  instrument  this  lower  world, 
And  what  is  in  't, — the  never-surfeited  sea 
Hath  caused  to  belch  up ;  and  on  this  island 
Where  man  doth  not  inhabit ;  you  'mongst  men 
Being  most  unfit  to  live.   I  have  made  you  mad ; 
And  even  with  such  like  valour,  men  hang  and 
Their  proper  selves.  [drown 

[ALON.,  SEB.  &c.,  draw  thtir  swords. 
You  fools!  I  and  my  fellows 
Are  ministers  of  fate ;  the  elements, 
Of  whom  your  swords  are  temper'd,  may  as  well 
Wound  the  loud  winds,  orwithbemock'd-at  stabs 
Kill  the  still-closing  waters,  as  diminish 
One  dowle  that 's  in  my  plume ;  my  fellow- 
ministers 

Are  like  invulnerable ;  if  you  could  hurt, 
Your  swords  are  now  too  massy  for  your  strengths, 
And  will  not  be  uplifted.     But,  remember, — 
For  that 's  my  business  to  you, — that  you  three 
From  Milan  did  supplant  good  Prospero ; 
Expos'd  unto  the  sea,  which  hath  requit  it, 
Him,  and  his  innocent  child  :  for  which  foul  deed 


The  powers,  delaying,  not  forgetting  have 
Incensed    the   seas  and   shores,    yea,  all    the 

creatures. 

Against  your  peace :  Thee,  of  thy  son,  Alonso, 
They  have  bereft ;  and  do  pronounce  by  me, 
Ling'ring  perdition, — worse  than  any  death 
Can  be  at  once, — shall  step  by  step  attend 
You  and  your  ways;  whose  wraths  to  guard 

you  from, — 

Which  here,  in  this  most  desolate  isle ;  else  falls 
U  pon  your  heads, — is  nothing  but  heart's  sorrow, 
And  a  clear  life  ensuing, 

He  vanishes  in  thunder:  then,  to  soft  music, 
enter  the  Shapes  again,  and  dance  with  mops 
and  mows,  and  carry  out  the  table. 

Pro.  [Aside.]  Bravely  the  figure  of  this  harpy 

hast  thou 

Perform'd,  my  Ariel ;  a  grace  it  had  devouring : 
Of  my  instruction  hast  thou  nothing  'bated, 
In  what  thou  hadst  to  say:  so,  with  good  life, 
And  observation  strange,  my  meaner  ministers 
Their  several  kinds  have  done :  my  high  charms 
And  these,  mine  enemies,  are  all  knit  up  [work, 
In  their  distractions :  they  now  are  in  my  power ; 
And  in  these  fits  I  leave  them,  whilst  I  visit 
Young  Ferdinand, — who  they  suppose  is 
And  his  and  my  loved  darling.  [drown'd, — 
[Exit  PROSPERO  from  above. 

Gon.  I'  the  name  of  something  holy,  sir,  why 
In  this  strange  stare?  [stand  you 

Alon.  O,  it  is  monstrous!  monstrous! 

Methought  the  billows  spoke,  and  told  me  of  it; 
The  winds  did  sing  it  to  me ;  and  the  thunder, 
That  deep  and  dreadful  organ-pipe,  pronounced 
The  name  of  Prosper ;  it  did  bass  my  trespass. 
Therefore  my  son  i'  the  ooze  is  bedded ;  and 
I  '11  seek  him  deeper  than  e'er  plummet  sounded. 
And  with  him  there  lie  mudded.  [Exit. 

Seb.  But  one  fiend  at  a  time, 

I  '11  fight  their  legions  o'er. 

Ant.  I  '11  be  thy  second. 

[Exeunt  SEB.  and  ANT. 

Gon.  All  three  of  them  are  desperate ;  their 

great  guilt, 

Like  poison  given  to  work  a  great  time  after, 
Now  'gins  to  bite  the  spirits : — I  do  beseech  you 
That  are  of  suppler  joints,  follow  them  swiftly, 
And  hinder  them  from  what  this  ecslacy 
May  now  provoke  them  to. 

Adr.  Follow,  I  pray  you.     [Exeunt. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — Before  PROSPERO'S  Cell. 

Enter  PROSPERO,  FERDINAND,  ^ZW^MIRANDA. 

Pro.  If  I  have  too  austerely  punished  you, 


i8 


THE  TEMPEST. 


[ACT  iv. 


Your  compensation  makes  amends  ;  for  I 
Have  given  you  here  a  thread  of  mine  own  life, 
Or  that  for  which  I  live ;  who  once  again 
I  tender  to  thy  hand  :  all  thy  vexations 
Were  but  my  trials  of  thy  love,  and  thou 
Hast  strangely  stood  the  test:  here,  afore  Heaven, 
I  ratify  this  my  rich  gift.     O  Ferdinand, 
Do  not  smile  at  me,  that  I  boast  her  off, 
Fbr  thou  shalt  find  she  will  outstrip  all  praise, 
And  make  it  halt  behind  her. 

Fer.  I  do  believe  it, 

Against  an  oracle. 

Pro.   Then,    as    my  gift,    and    thine    own 

acquisition 

Worthily  purchas'd,  take  my  daughter :  But 
If  thou  dost  break  her  virgin  knot  before 
All  sanctimonious  ceremonies  may 
With  full  and  holy  rite  be  minister'd, 
No  sweet  aspersion  shall  the  heavens  let  fal! 
To  make  this  contract  grow  :  but  barren  hate, 
Sour-eyed  disdain,  and  discord,  shall  bestrew 
The  union  of  your  bed  with  weeds  so  loathly, 
That  you  shall  hate  it  both  :    therefore,  take 
As  Hymen's  lamps  shall  light  you.  [heed, 

Fer.  As  I  hope 

For  quiet  days,  fair  issue,  and  long  life, 
With  such  love  as  'tis  now;  the  murkiest  den, 
The  most  opportune  place,  the  strong' st  sugges- 
Our  worser  Genius  can,  shall  never  melt    [tion 
Mine  honour  into  lust ;  to  take  away 
The  edge  of  that  day's  celebration,  [foundev'd, 
When   I   shall  -think,    or   Phoebus'  steeds  are 
Or  night  kept  chain'd  below. 

Pro.  Fairly  spoke : 

Sit,  then,  and  talk  with  her,  she  is  thine  own. — 
What,  Ariel ;  my  industrious  servant,  Ariel ! 

Enter  ARIEL. 

Art.  What  would  my  potent  master?  here 
I  am.  [service 

Pro.  Thou  and  thy  meaner  fellows  your  last 
Did  worthily  perform  ;  and  I  must  use  you 
In  such  another  trick  :  go,  bring  the  rabble, 
O'er  whom  I  give  thee  power,  here,  to  this  place: 
Incite  them  to  quick  motion  ;  for  I  must 
Bestow  upon  the  eyes  of  this  young  couple 
Some  vanity  of  mine  art ;  it  is  my  promise, 
And  they  expect  it  from  me. 

Art.  Presently? 

Pro.  Ay,  with  a  twink. 

Ari.  Before  you  can  say,  Come  and  go, 
And  breathe  twice ;  and  cry,  so,  so; 
Each  one,  tripping  on  his  toe, 
Will  be  here  with  mop  and  mow  : 
Do  you  love  me,  master  ?  no  ?  [approach 

Pro.   Dearly,   my  delicate  Ariel.      Do   not 
Till  thou  dost  hear  me  call. 


Ari.  Well  I  conceive.  \*Exit. 

Pro.  Look  thou  be  true:  do  not  give  dalliance 
Too  much  the  rein :  the  strongest  oaths  are  straw 
To  the  fire  i'  the  blood  :  be  more  abstemious, 
Or  else,  good  night  your  vow ! 

Fer.  I  warrant  you,  sir. 

The  white  cold  virgin  snow  upon  my  heart 
Abates  the  ardour  of  my  liver. 

Pro.  Well.— 

Now  come,  my  Ariel :  bring  a  corollary, 
Rather  than  want  a  spirit :  appear,  and  pertly.  — 
No  tongue  ;  all  eyes  ;  be  silent.       [Soft  music. 
A  Masqtte.     Enter  IRIS. 

Iris.  Ceres,  most  bounteous  lady,  thy  rich  leas 
Of  wheat,  rye,  barley,  vetches,  oats,  and  pease  ; 
Thy  turfy  mountains,  where  live  nibbling  sheep, 
Andflat  meads  thatch  dwith  stover,  themtokeep; 
Thy  banks  with  peonied  and  lilied  brims, 
Which  spongy  April  at  thy  'hest  betrims, 
To  make  cold  nymphs  chaste  crowns ;  and  thy 

broom  groves, 

Whose  shadow  the  dismissed  bachelor  loves, 
Being  lass-lorn  ;  thy  pole-clipt  vineyard  ; 
And  thy  sea-marge,  sterile  and  rocky-hard, 
Where  thou  thyself  dost  air:  The  queen  o'  the  sky 
Whose  watery  arch,  and  messenger,  am  I, 
Bids  thee  leave  these  ;  and  with  her  sovereign 

grace, 

Here  on  this  grass-plot,  in  this  very  place, 
To  come  and  sport :  her  peacocks  fly  amain » 
Approach,  rich  Ceres,  her  to  entertain. 
Enter  CERES. 

Cer.  Hail,   many-colour'd   messenger,   that 

ne'er 

Dost  disobey  the  wife  of  Jupiter ; 
Who,  with  thy  saffron  wings,  upon  my  flowers 
Diffusest  honey  drops,  refreshing  showers  ; 
And  with  each  end  of  thy  blue  bow  dost  crown 
My  bosky  acres,  and  my  unshrubb'd  down, 
Rich  scarf  to  my  proud  earth  ; — why  hath  thy 

queen 
Summon'd  me  hither,  to  this  short-grass'd  green? 

Iris.  A  contract  of  true  love  to  celebrate  ; 
And  some  donation  freely  to  estate 
On  the  bless'd  lovers. 

Cer,  Tell  me,  heavenly  bow, 

If  Venus,  or  her  son,  as  thou  dost  know, 
Do  now  attend  the  queen?  since  they  did  plot 
The  means,  that  dusky  Dis  my  daughter  got, 
Her  and  her  blind  boy's  scandal'd  company 
I  have  forsworn. 

Iris.  Of  her  society 

Be  not  afraid.     I  met  her  deity 
Cutting  the  clouds  towards  Paphos  ;  and  her  son 
Dove-drawn  with  her ;  here  thought  they  to  have 
done 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  TEMPEST. 


Some  wanton  charm  upon  this  man  and  maid, 
Whose  vows  are  that  no  bed-rite  shall  be  paid 
Till  Hymen's  torch  be  lighted ;  but  in  vain ; 
Mars'  hot  minion  is  return'd  again ; 
Her  waspish-headed  son  has  broke  his  arrows, 
Swears  he  will  shoot  no  more,  but  play  with 
And  be  a  boy  right  out.  [sparrows, 

Cer.  Highest  queen  of  state, 

Great  Juno  comes ;  I  know  her  by  her  gait. 

Enter  JUNO. 

fun.  How  does  my  bounteous  sister?    Go 

with  me, 

To  bless  this  twain,  that  they  may  prosperous  be, 
And  honour'd  in  their  issue. 

SONG. 

fun.— Honour,  riches,  marriage-blessing, 
Long  continuance,  and  increasing, 
Hourly  joys  be  still  upon  you  ! 
Juno  sings  her  blessings  on  you. 

Cer. — Earth's  increase,  and  foison  plenty, 
Barns  and  garners  never  empty  ; 
Vines,  with  clust'ring  bunches  growing  ; 
Plants,  with  goodly  burden  bowing ; 
Spring  come  to  you,  at  the  farthest, 
In  the  very  end  of  harvest  ! 
Scarcity  and  want  shall  shun  you 
Ceres'  blessing  so  is  on  you. 

Per.  This  is  a  most  majestic  vision,  and 
Harmonious  charmingly:  May  I  be  bold 
To  think  these  spirits? 

Pro.  Spirits,  which  by  mine  art 

I  have  from  their  confines  called  to  enact 
My  present  fancies. 

Fer.  Let  me  live  here  ever; 

So  rare  a  wonder'd  father,  and  a  wise, 
Makes  this  place  Paradise. 

QUNO  and  CERES  whisper,  and 
send  IRIS  on  employment. 

Pro.  Sweet  now,  silence ; 

Juno  and  Ceres  whisper  seriously ; 
There 's  something  else  to  do ;  hush,  and  be  mute, 
Or  else  our  spell  is  marr'd. 

Iris.  You   nymphs,    call'd   Naiads,    of    the 
wind'ring  brooks,  [looks, 

With  your  sedged  clowns,  and  ever  harmless 
Leave  your  crisp  channels,  and  on  this  green  land 
Answer  your  summons :  Juno  does  command. 
Come,  temperate  nymphs,  and  help  to  celebrate 
A  contract  of  true  love  ;  be  not  too  late. 

Enter  certain  Nymphs. 

You  sun-burn'd  sicklemen,  of  August  weary, 
Come  hither  from  the  furrow,  and  be  merry ; 
Make  holiday :  your  rye-straw  hats  put  on, 
And  these  fresh  nymphs  encounter  every  one 
In  country  footing. 


Enter  certain  Reapers,  properly  habited ;  they 

join  with  the  Nymphs  in  a  graceful  dance; 

towards  the  end  whereof  PROSPERO  starts 

suddenly,    and   speaks;    after  which,    to   a 

strange,    hollow,   and  confused  noise,   they 

heavily  vanish. 

Pro.  [Aside.]  I  had  forgot  that  foul  conspiracy 
Of  the  beast  Caliban  and  his  confederates 
Against  my  life;  the  minute  of  their  plot-'^ 
Is  almost  come.  — [  To  the  Spirits.  ]    Well  done ; 
— avoid  ; — no  more.  [passion 

Fer.  This  is  strange :  your  father 's  in  some 
That  works  him  strongly. 

Mira.  Never  till  this  day, 

Saw  I  him  touch'd  with  anger  so  distemper'd. 

Pro.  You  do  look,  my  son,  in  a  moved  sort, 
As  if  you  were  dismay'd :  be  cheerful,  sir : 
Our  revels  now  are  ended :  these  our  actors, 
As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 
Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air: 
And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision 
The  cloud-capp'd  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve, 
And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded, 
Leave  not  a  rack  behind :  We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep. — Sir,  I  am  vex'd; 
Bear  with  my  weakness ;  my  old  brain  is  troubled, 
Be  not  disturb'd  with  my  infirmity ; 
If  you  be  pleased,  retire  into  my  cell, 
And  there  repose  ;  a  turn  or  two  I  'II  walk, 
To  still  my  beating  mind. 

Fer.  Mira.  We  wish  your  peace. 

[Exeunt. 

Pro.  Come,  with  a  thought: — I  thank  you; 
— Ariel,  come. 

Enter  ARIEL. 
Art.  Thy  thoughts  I  cleave  to :  What 's  thy 

pleasure? 

Pro.  Spirit, 

We  must  prepare  to  meet  with  Caliban. 

Art.  Ay,  my  commander ;  when  I  presented 

Ceres, 

I  thought  to  have  told  thee  of  it ;  but  I  fear'd 

Lest  I  might  anger  thee.  [varlets? 

Pro.  Say  again,  where  didst  thou  leave  these 

Art.  I  told  you,  sir,  they  were  red-hot  with 

drinking : 

So  full  of  valour  that  they  smote  the  air 
For  breathing  in  their  faces ;  beat  the  ground 
For  kissing  of  their  feet ;  yet  always  bending 
Towards  their  project :  Then  I  beat  my  tabor, 
At  which,  like  unback'd  colts,  they  prick'd  their 

ears, 
Advanced  their  eyelids,  lifted  up  their  noees, 


20 


THE  TEMPEST. 


[ACT  v. 


As  they  smelt  music ;  so  I  charm'd  their  ears, 
That,  calf-like,  they  my  lowing  follow'd  through 
Tooth'd  briers,  sharp  furzes,  pricking  goss,  and 

thorns, 

Which  enter 'd  their  frail  shins :  at  last  I  left  them 
I'  the  filthy  mantled  pool  beyond  your  cell, 
There  dancing  up  to  the  chills,  that  the  foul  lake 
O'erstunk  their  feet. 

•Pro.  This  was  well  done,  my  bird ; 

Thy  shape  invisible  retain  thou  still : 
The  trumpery  in  my  house,  go,  bring  it  hither, 
For  stale  to  catch  these  thieves. 

Art.  I  go,  I  go.     [Exit. 

Pro.  A  devil,  a  born  devil,  on  whose  nature 
Nurture  can  never  stick ;  on  whom  my  pains, 
Humanely  taken,  all,  all  lost,  quite  lost: 
And  as,  with  age,  his  body  uglier  grows, 
So  his  mind  cankers:  I  will  plague  them  all, 

Re-enter  ARIEL,  loaden  with  glistering 
apparel,  &c. 

Even  to  roaring : — Come,  hang  them  on  this  line. 

PROSPERO  and  ARIEL  remain  invisible.    Enter 
CALIBAN,  STEPHANO,  awaTTRiNCULO,  all  wet. 

Cal.  Pray  you,  tread  softly,  that  the  blind 

mole  may  not 
Hear  a  footfall :  we  now  are  near  his  cell. 

Ste.  Monster,  your  fairy,  which  you  say  is  a 
harmless  fairy,  has  done  little  better  than 
played  the  Jack  with  us. 

Trin.  Monster,  I  do  smell  all  horse-piss  ;  at 
which  my  nose  is  in  great  indignation. 

Ste.  So  is  mine.  Do  you  hear,  monster  r  If  I 
should  take  a  displeasure  against  you ;  look  you, — 

Trin.  Thou  wert  but  a  lost  monster. 

Cal.  Good,  my  lord,  give  me  thy  favour  still : 
Be  patient,  for  the  prize  I  '11  bring  thee  to 
Shall  hood- wink  this  mischance :  therefore  speak 
All 's  hush'd  as  midnight  yet.  [softly, 

Trin.  Ay,  but  to  lose  our  bottles  in  the  pool— 

Ste.  There  is  not  only  disgrace  and  dis- 
honour in  that,  monster,  but  an  infinite  loss. 

Trin.  That 's  more  to  me  than  my  wetting  : 
yet  this  is  your  harmless  fairy  monster. 

Ste.  I  will  fetch  off  my  bottle,  though  I  be 
o'er  ears  for  my  labour.  [here, 

Cal.  Pr  'ythee,  my  king,  be  quiet :  Seest  thou 
This  is  the  mouth  o'  the  cell :  no  noise,  and  enter. 
Do  that  good  mischief,  which  may  make  this 

island 

Thine  own  for  ever,  and  I,  thy  Caliban, 
For  aye  thy  foot-licker. 

Ste.  Give  me  thy  hand  :  I  do  begin  to  have 
bloody  thoughts. 

Trin.  O  king  Stephano  !  O  peer  !  O  worthy 
Stephano !  look,  what  a  wardrobe  here  is  for  thee. 


Cal.   Let  it  alone,  thou  fool ;  it  is  but  trash. 

Trin.  O,  ho,  monster  ;  we  know  what  be- 
longs to  a  frippery. — O  king  Stephano  ! 

Ste.  Put  off  that  gown,  Trinculo ;  by  this 
hand,  I  '11  have  that  gown. 

Trin.   Thy  grace  shall  have  it.  [mean, 

Cal.  The  dropsy  drown  this  fool  !  what  do  you 
To  dote  thus  on  such  luggage  ?     Let 's  along, 
And  do  the  murder  first :  if  he  awake, 
From  toe  to  crown  he'll  fill  our  skins  with 

pinches ; 
Make  us  strange  stuff. 

Ste.  Be  you  quiet,  monster. — Mistress  line, 
is  not  this  my  jerkin  ?  Now  is  the  jerkin  under 
the  line  :  now,  jerkin,  you  are  like  to  lose  your 
hair,  and  prove  a  bald  jerkin. 

Trin.  Do,  do :  We  steal  by  line  and  level, 
ain  't  like  your  grace. 

Ste.  I  thank  thee  for  that  jest :  here 's  a 
garment  for 't :  wit  shall  not  go  unrewarded 
while  I  am  king  of  this  country  :  Steal  by  line 
and  level,  is  an  excellent  pass  of  pate  ;  there 's 
another  garment  for't. 

Trin.  Monster,  come,  put  some  lime  upon 
your  fingers,  and  away  with  the  rest.  [time, 

Cal.   I  will  have  none  on 't :  we  shall  lose  our 
And  all  be  turned  to  barnacles,  or  to  apes 
With  foreheads  villanous  low. 

Ste.  Monster,  lay  to  your  fingers  ;  help  to  bear 
this  away  where  my  hogshead  of  wine  is,  or  I  '11 
turn  you  out  of  my  kingdom  :  go  to,  carry  this. 

Trin.  And  this. 

Ste.  Ay,  and  this. 

A  noise  of  hunters  heard.  Enter  divers  Spirits, 
in  shape  of  hounds^  and  hunt  them  about. 
PROSPERO  and  ARIEL  setting  them  on. 

Pro.  Hey,  Mountain ,  hey ! 

Ari.  Silver !  there  it  goes,  Silver!     [hark  ! 

Pro.  Fury,  Fury!  there,  Tyrant,  there !  hark, 
[CAL.,  STE.,  and  TRIN.  are  driven  out. 
Go,  charge  mygoblins  that  they  grind  their  joints 
With  dry  convulsions  ;  shorten  up  their  sinews 
Withaged  cramps;  and  more  pinch-spotted  make 
Than  pard  or  cat  o'  mountain.  [them, 

Ari.  Hark,  they  roar. 

Pro.  Let  them  be  hunted  soundly :  At  this 
Lie  at  my  mercy  all  mine  enemies  :  [hour 

Shortly  shall  all  my  labours  end,  and  thou 
Shalt  have  the  air  at  freedom  :  for  a  little 
Follow,  and  do  me  service.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  1. — Before  the  Cell  of  PROSPERO. 
Enter  PROSPEROZW  his  magic  robes;  and  ARIEL. 
Pro.  Now  does  my  project  gather  to  a  head  : 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  TEMPEST. 


21 


My  charms  crack  not ;  my  spirits  obey ;  and  time 
Goes  upright  with  his  carriage.    How 's  the  day? 

Ari.   On  the  sixth  hour  ;  at  which  time,  my 
You  said  our  work  should  cease.  [lord, 

Pro,  I  did  say  so, 

When  first  I  raised  the  tempest.     Say,  my  spirit, 
How  fares  the  king  and 's  followers  ? 

Ari.  Confin'd  together 

In  the  same  fashion  as  you  gave  in  charge  ; 
Just  as  you  left  them,  sir  ;  all  prisoners 
In  the  lime-grove  which  weather-fends  your  cell; 
They  cannot  budge  till  your  release.    The  king, 
His  brother,  and  yours,  abide  all  three  distracted; 
And  the  remainder  mourning  over  them, 
Brimful  of  sorrow  and  dismay  ;  but  chiefly 
Him  you  termed,  sir,  The  good  old  lord  Gonzalo; 
His  tears  run  down  his  beard,  like  winter's  drops 
From  eaves  of  reeds  :  your  charm  so  strongly 

works  them, 

That  if  you  now  beheld  them,  your  affections 
Would  become  tender. 

Pro.  Dost  thou  think  so,  spirit? 

Ari.   Mine  would,  sir,  were  I  human. 

Pro.  And  mine  shall. 

Hast  thou,  which  art  but  air,  a  touch,  a  feeling 
Of  their  afflictions  ?  and  shall  not  myself, 
One  of  their  kind,  that  relish  all  as  sharply 
Passion  as  they,  l>e  kindlier  moved  than  thou  art? 
Though  with  their  high  wrongs  I  am  struck  to 

the  quick, 

Yet,  with  my  nobler  reason,  'gainst  my  fury 
Do  I  take  part :  the  rarer  action  is 
In  virtue  than  in  vengeance:  they  being  penitent, 
The  sole  drift  of  my  purpose  doth  extend 
Not  a  frown  further.     Go,  release  them,  Ariel ; 
My  charms  I  '11  break,  their  senses  I  '11  restore, 
And  they  shall  be  themselves. 

Ari.  I '11  fetch  them,  sir.    [Exit. 

Pro.  Ye  elves  of  hills,  brooks,  standing  lakes, 

and  groves  ; 

And  ye  that  on  the  sands  with  printless  foot 
Do  chase  the  ebbing  Neptune,  and  do  fly  him 
When  he  comes  back  ;  you  demi-puppets  that 
By  moonshine  do  the  green  sour  ringlets  make, 
Whereof  the  ewe  not  bites;  and  you  whose  pastime 
Is  to  make  midnight  mushrooms,  that  rejoice 
To  hear  the  solemn  curfew  ;  by  whose  aid, — 
Weak  masters  though  ye  be, — I  have  bedimm'd 
The  noontide  sun,  call'd  forth  the  mutinous  winds, 
And  'twixt  the  green  sea  and  the  azured  vault 
Set  roaring  war :  to  the  dread  rattling  thunder 
Have  I  given  fire,  and  rifted  Jove's  stout  oak 
With  his  own  bolt :  the  strong-based  promontory 
Have  I  made  shake :  and  by  the  spurs  pluck'd  up 
The  pine  and  cedar  :  graves,  at  my  command, 
Have  waked  their  sleepers,  oped,  and  let  them 
forth 


By  my  so  potent  art.     But  this  rough  magic 
I  here  abjure  :  and,  when  I  have  required 
Some  heavenly  music, — which  even  now  I  do, — 
To  work  mine  end  upon  their  senses,  that 
This  airy  charm  is  for,  I  '11  break  my  staff, 
Bury  it  certain  fathoms  in  the  earth,  . 
And  deeper  than  did  ever  plummet  sound 
I  '11  drown  my  book.  [Solemn  music. 

Re-enter  ARIEL  :  after  him  ALONSO,  with  a 
frantic gesture ,  attended  by  GONZALO;  SEBAS- 
TIAN and  ANTON  10  in  like  manner,  attended  by 
ADRIAN  and  FRANCISCO  :  they  all  enter  the 
circle  which  PROSPERO  had  made,  and  there 
stand  charmed ;  which  PROSPERO  observing, 
speaks. 

A  solemn  air,  and  the  best  comforter 
To  an  unsettled  fancy,  cure  thy  brains,     [stand, 
Now  useless,  boil'd  within  thy  skull  !     There 
For  you  are  spell-stopp'd. — 
Holy  Gonzalo,  honourable  man, 
Mine  eyes,  even  sociable  to  the  show  of  thine, 
Fall  fellowly  drops.  — The  charm  dissolves  apace ; 
And  as  the  morning  steals  upon  the  night, 
Melting  the  darkness,  so  their  rising  senses 
Begin  to  chase  the  ignorant  fumes  that  mantle 
Their  clearer  reason. — O  good  Gonzalo, 
My  true  preserver,  and  a  loyal  sir 
To  him  thou  follow'st ;  I  will  pay  thy  graces 
Home,  both  in  word  and  deed. — Most  cruelly 
Didst  thou,  Alonso,  use  me  and  my  daughter  : 
Thy  brother  was  a  furtherer  in  the  .act ; — 
Thou  'rt  pinch 'd  for 't  now,  Sebastian,  flesh  and 

blood. — 

You  brother  mine,  that  entertain  ambition, 
Expell'd  remorse  and  nature ;  who,  with  Sebas- 
tian,—  [strong, — 
Whose    inward    pinches    therefore    are    most 
Would  here  have  kill'd  your  king  ;  I  do  forgive 
thee,  [ing 
Unnatural  though  thou  art. — Their  understand- 
Begins  to  swell ;  and  the  approaching  tide 
Will  shortly  fill  the  reasonable  shore 
That  now  lies  foul  and  muddy.    Not  one  of  them 
That  yet  looks  on  me,  or  would  know  me. — Ariel, 
Fetch  me  the  hat  and  rapier  in  my  cell ; 

[Exit  ARIEL. 

I  will  disease  me,  and  myself  present 
As  I  was  sometime  Milan  :  quickly,  spirit ; 
Thou  shalt  ere  long  be  free. 

ARIEL  re-enters,  singing,  and  helps  to  attire 
PROSPERO. 

Art.  Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I  ; 
In  the  cowslip's  bell  I  lie  : 
There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry. 
On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 
After  summer  merrily : 
Merrily,  merrily  shall  I  live  now, 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 


22 


THE  TEMPEST. 


[ACT  v. 


Pro.  Why,  that  3s  my  dainty  Ariel :  I  shall 

miss  thee; 

But  yet  thou  shalt  have  freedom :  so,  so,  so.  — 
To  the  king's  ship,  invisible  as  thou  art : 
There  shalt  thou  find  the  mariners  asleep 
Under  the  hatches ;  the  master  and  the  boatswain 
Being  awake,  enforce  them  to  this  place  ; 
And  presently,  I  pr'ythee. 

Ari.  I  drink  the  air  before  me,  and  return 
Or  e'er  your  pulse  twice  beat.       [Exit  ARIEL. 

Gon,  All    torment,    trouble,    wonder,    and 

amazement 

Inhabits  here.     Some  heavenly  power  guide  us 
Out  of  this  fearful  country ! 

Pro.  Behold,  sir  king, 

The  wronged  Duke  of  Milan,  Prospero : 
For  more  assurance  that  a  living  prince 
Does  now  speak  to  thee,  I  embrace  thy  body ; 
And  to  thee  and  thy  company  I  bid 
A  hearty  welcome. 

Alon.  Whether  thou  beest  he  or  no, 

Or  some  enchanted  trifle  to  abuse  me, 
As  late  I  have  been,  I  not  know :  thy  pulse 
Beats,  as  of  flesh  and  blood ;  and,  since  I  saw 

thee, 

The  affliction  of  my  mind  amends,  with  which, 
I  fear,  a  madness  held  me:  this  must  crave, — 
An  if  this  be  at  all, — a  most  strange  story. 
Thy  dukedom  I  resign ;  and  do  entreat 
Thou  pardon  me  my  wrongs. — But  how  should 

Prospero 
Be  living  and  be  here? 

Pro.  First,  noble  friend, 

Let  me  embrace  thine  age,  whose  honour  cannot 
Be  measured  or  confined. 

Gon.  Whether  this  be 

Or  be  not,  I  '11  not  swear. 

Pro.  You  do  yet  taste 

Some  subtilties  o'  the  isle,  that  will  not  let  you 
Believe  things  certain. — Welcome,  my  friends, 
all : —  [Aside  to  SEE.  and  ANT. 

But  you,  my  brace  of  lords,  were  I  so  minded, 
I  here  could  pluck  his  highness'  frown  upon  you, 
And  justify  you  traitors ;  at  this  time 
I  '11  tell  no  tales. 

Seb.  The  devil  speaks  in  him.  [Aside. 

Pro.  No: 

For  you,  most  wicked  sir,  whom  to  call  brother 
Would  even  infect  my  mouth,  I  do  forgive 
Thy  rankest  fault, — all  of  them;  and  require 
My  dukedom  of  thee,  which,  perforce,  I  know 
Thou  must  restore. 

Alon.  If  thou  beest  Prospero, 

Give  us  particulars  of  thy  preservation : 
How  thov.  hast  met  us  here,  who  three  hours  since 
Were  wreck'd  upon  this  shore ;  where  I  have 
lost- 


How  sharp  the  point  of  this  remembrance  is !-" 
My  dear  son  Ferdinand. 

Pro.  I  am  woe  for 't,  sir. 

Alon.  Irreparable  is  the  loss ;  and  patience 
Says  it  is  past  her  cure. 

Pro.  I  rather  think 

You  have  not  sought  her  help ;  of  whose  soft  grace 
For  the  like  loss  I  have  her  sovereign  aid, 
And  rest  myself  content. 

Alon.  You  the  like  loss? 

Pro.   As  great  to  me  as  late ;  and,  supportable 
To  make  the  dear  loss,  have  I  means  much  weaker 
Than  you  may  call  to  comfort  you ;  for  I 
Have  lost  my  daughter. 

Alon.  •  A  daughter ! 

0  heavens,  that  they  were  living  both  in  Naples, 
The  king  and  queen  there !  that  they  were,  I  wish 
Myself  were  mudded  in  that  oozy  bed 
Where  my  son  lies.     When  did  you  lose  your 

daughter?  [lords 

Pro.  In  this  last  tempest.     I  perceive  these 
At  this  encounter  do  so  much  admire 
That  they  devour  their  reason,  and  scarce  think 
Their  eyes  do  offices  of  truth,  their  words 
Are  natural  breath :  but,  howsoe'er  you  have 
Been  justled  from  your  senses,  know  for  certain 
That  I  am  Prospero,  and  that  very  duke 
Which  was  thrust  forth  of  Milan;   who  most 

strangely  [landed, 

Upon  this  shore,  where  you  were  wreck'd,  was 
To  be  the  lord  on 't.     No  more  yet  of  this ; 
For  'tis  a  chronicle  of  day  by  day, 
Not  a  relation  for  a  breakfast,  nor 
Befitting  this  first  meeting.     Welcome,  sir ; 
This  cell 's  my  court :  here  have  I  few  attendants, 
And  subjects  none  abroad:  pray  you,  look  in. 
My  dukedom  since  you  have  given  me  again, 

1  will  requite  you  with  as  good  a  thing : 

At  least  bring  forth  a  wonder,  to  content  ye 
As  much  as  me  my  dukedom. 

The  entrance  of  the  Cell  opens  ^  and  discovers 
FERDINAND  and  MIRANDA  playing  at  chess. 

Mira.  Sweet  lord,  you  play  me  false. 
Fer.  No,  my  dearest  love, 

I  would  not  for  the  world. 

Mira.  Yes,  for  a  score  of  kingdoms  you  should 

wrangle, 
And  I  would  call  it  fair  play. 

Alon.  If  this  prove 

A  vision  of  the  island,  one  dear  son 
Shall  I  twice  lose. 

Seb.  A  most  high  miracle  ! 

Fer.  Though  the  seas  threaten,  they  are  merci- 
ful: 
I  have  cursed  them  without  cause. 

[FfiRD.  kneels  to  ALON. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  TEMPEST. 


A  Ion.  Now  all  the  blessings 

Of  a  glad  fatner  compass  thee  about  I 
Arise  and  say  how  thou  cam'st  here. 

Mira.  O,  wonder ! 

How  many  goodly  creatures  are  there  here  ! 
How  beauteous  mankind  is !  O  brave  new  world, 
That  hath  such  people  in  \  ! 

Pro.  'Tis  new  to  thee. 

Alon.  What  is  this  maid,  with  whom  thou 

wast  at  play  ? 

Your  eld'st  acquaintance  cannot  be  three  hours: 
Is  she  the  goddess  that  hath  sever'd  us, 
And  brought  us  thus  together  ? 

Fer.  Sir,  she 's  mortal ; 

But  by  immortal  providence  she  's  mine  ; 
I  chose  her  when  T  could  not  ask  my  father 
For  his  advice,  nor  thought  I  had  one  :  she 
Is  daughter  to  this  famous  Duke  of  Milan, 
Of  whom  so  often  I  have  heard  renown 
But  never  saw  before  ;  of  whom  I  have 
Received  a  second  life  ;  and  second  father 
This  lady  makes  him  to  me. 

A  Ion.  I  am  hers : 

But  O,  how  oddly  will  it  sound  that  I 
Must  ask  my  child  forgiveness  ! 

Pro.  There,  sir,  stop  ; 

Let  us  not  burden  our  remembrances 
With  a  heaviness  that 's  gone. 

Gon.  I  have  inly  wept, 

Or  should  have  spoke  ere  this.    Look  down,  you 

gods, 

And  on  this  couple  drop  a  blessed  crown ; 
For  it  is  you  that  have  chalk'd  forth  the  way 
Which  brought  us  hither  ! 

Alon.  I  say,  Amen,  Gonzalo  ! 

Gon.  Was  Milan  thrust  from  Milan,  that  his 

issue 

Should  become  kings  of  Naples  ?     O,  rejoice 
Beyond  a  common  joy  ;  and  set  it  down 
With  gold  on  lasting  pillars  :  in  one  voyage 
Did  Claribel  her  husband  find  at  Tunis  ; 
And  Ferdinand,  her  brother,  found  a  wife 
Where  he  himself  was  lost ;  Prospero  his  duke- 
In  a  poor  isle  ;  and  all  of  us  ourselves       [dom 
When  no  man  was  his  own. 

Alon.  Give  me  your  hands  : 

[70FERD.  and  MIR. 

Let  grief  and  sorrow  still  embrace  his  heart 
That  doth  not  wish  you  joy  ! 

Gon.  Be 't  so  !    Amen  ! 

Re-enter  ARIEL,  with  the  Master  and  Boat- 
swain amazedly  following. 

0  look,  sir,  look,  sir  ;  here  are  more  of  us  ! 

1  prophesied,  if  a  gallows  were  on  land, 

This  fellow  could  not  drown.    Now,  blasphemy, 


That  swear'st  grace  o'erboard,  not  an  oath  on 

shore? 

I  last  thou  no  mouth  by  land  ?  What  is  the  news  ? 
Boats.  The  best  news  is,  that  we  have  safely 

found 

Our  king  and  company  :  the  next,  our  ship, — 
Which,  but  three  glasses  since,  we  gave  out  split, 
Is  tight,  and  yare,  and  bravely  rigg'd,  as  when 
We  first  put  out  to  sea. 

Ari.  Sir,  all  this  service  "| 

Have  I  done  since  I  went.  \  Aside. 

Pro.  My  tricksy  spirit !  j 

Alon.  These  are  not   natural  events ;   they 

strengthen  [hither  ? 

From  strange  to  stranger : — Say,  how  came  you 

Boats.  If  I  did  think,  sir,  I  were  well  awake, 

I  'd  strive  to  tell  you.     We  were  dead  of  sleep, 

And, — how,  we  know  not,— all  clapp'd  under 

hatches,  [noises 

Where,  but  even  now,  with  strange  and  several 
Of  roaring,  shrieking,  howling,  jingling  chains, 
And  more  diversity  of  sounds,  all  horrible, 
We  were  awaked  ;  straightway,  at  liberty : 
Where  we,  in  all  her  trim,  freshly  beheld 
Our  royal,  good,  and  gallant  ship ;  our  master 
Capering  to  eye  her :  on  a  trice,  so  please  you, 
Even  in  a  dream,  were  we  divided  from  them, 
And  were  brought  moping  hither. 
Ari.  Was 't  well  done?] 

Pro.  Bravely,  my  diligence.     Thou  > Aside. 

shalt  be  free.  J 

Alon.  This  is  as  strangeamaze  as  e'er  men  trod: 
And  there  is  in  this  business  more  than  nature 
Was  ever  conduct  of:  some  oracle 
Must  rectify  our  knowledge. 

Pro.  Sir,  my  liege, 

Do  not  infest  your  mind  with  beating  on 
The  strangeness  of  this  business:  atpick'd  leisure, 
Which  shall  be  shortly,  single  I  '11  resolve  you, — 
Which  to  you  shall  seem  probable, — of  ever)' 
These  happen'd  accidents:  till  when,  be  cheerful, 
And  think  of  each  thing  well. — Come  hither, 

spirit ;  [Aside. 

Set  Caliban  and  his  companions  freai 
Untie  the  spell.     [Exit  ARIEL.]    How  fares 

my  gracious  sir  ? 

There  are  yet  missing  of  your  company 
Some  few  odd  lads  that  you  remember  not. 

Re-enter  ARIEL,  driving  in  CALIBAN,  STE- 
PHANO,  and  TRINCULO,  in  their  stolen 
apparel. 

Ste.  Every  man  shift  for  all  the  rest,  and  let 
no  man  take  care  for  himself;  for  all  is  but  for- 
tune : — Coragio,  bully-monster,  coragio  ! 

Trin.  If  these  be  true  spies  which  I  wear  in 
my  head,  here  's  a  goodly  sight. 


THE  TEMPEST. 


[ACT  v. 


Cal.  O  Setebos,  these  be  brave  spirits  indeed ! 
How  fine  my  master  is !  I  am  afraid 
He  will  chastise  me. 

Seb.  Ha,  ha; 

What  things  are  these,  my  lord  Antonio ! 
Will  money  buy  them  ? 

Ant.  Very  like ;  one  of  them 
Is  a  plain  fish,  and,  no  doubt,  marketable. 

Pro.   Mark  but  the  badges  of  these  men,  my 

lords,  [knave, 

Then  say  if  they  be  true. — This  mis-shapen 
His  mother  was  a  witch ;  and  one  so  strong 
That  could  control  the  moon,  make  flows  and 

ebbs, 

And  deal  in  her  command,  without  her  power : 
These  three  have  robb'd  me:  and  this  demi- 

devil, — 

For  he 's  a  bastard  one, — had  plotted  with  them 
To  take  my  life :  two  of  these  fellows  you 
Must  know  and  own  ;  this  thing  of  darkness  I 
Acknowledge  mine. 

Cal.  I  shall  be  pinch'd  to  death. 

A  Ion.  Is  not  this  Stephano,  my  drunken  butler? 

Seb.  He  is  drunk  now :  where  had  he  wine  ? 

Alon.  And  Trinculo  is  reeling  ripe:  where 

should  they 

Find  this  grand  liquor  that  hath  gilded  them? — 
How  cam'st  thou  in  this  pickle? 

Trin.  I  have  been  in  such  a  pickle  since  I 
saw  you  last  that,  I  fear  me,  will  never  out  of 
my  bones  :  I  shall  not  fear  fly-blowing. 

Seb.  Why,  how  now,  Stephano  ? 

Ste.  O,  touch  me  not ;  I  am  not  Stephano, 
but  a  cramp. 

Pro.  You'd  be  king  of  the  isle,  sirrah  ! 

Ste.  I  should  have  been  a  sore  one  then. 

Alon.  This  is  as  strange  a  thing  as  e'er  I 
look'd  on.         {Pointing  to  CALIBAN. 

Pro.  He  is  as  disproportioned  in  his  manners 
As  in  his  shape.  — Go,  sirrah,  to  my  cell ; 
Take  with  you  your  companions  ;  as  you  look 
To  have  my  pardon,  trim  it  handsomely. 

Cal.  Ay,  that  I  will ;  and  I  '11  be  wise  here- 
after, 

And  seek  for  grace.     What  a  thrice-double  ass 
Was  I  to  take  this  drunkard  for  a  god, 
And  worship  this  dull  fool  ! 

Pro.  Go  to ;  away ! 

Alon.     Hence,   and    bestow   your    luggage 
where  you  found  it. 


Seb.  Or  stole  it,  rather. 

{Exeunt  CAL.,  STE.*,  an 

Pro.  Sir,  I  invite  your  highness  and  your  train 
To  my  poor  cell :  where  you  shall  take  your  rest 
For  this  one  night ;  which  (part  of  it)  I'll  waste 
With  such  discourse  as,  I  not  doubt,  shall 

make  it 

Go  quick  away, — the  story  of  my  life, 
And  the  particular  accidents  gone  by 
Since  I  came  to  this  isle  :  and  in  the  morn 
I  '11  bring  you  to  your  ship,  and  so  to  Naples. 
Where  I  have  hope  to  see  the  nuptial 
Of  these  our  dear-beloved  solemniz'd  ; 
And  thence  retire  me  to  my  Milan,  where 
Every  third  thought  shall  be  my  grave. 

Alon.  I  long 

To  hear  the  story  of  your  life,  which  must 
Take  the  ear  strangely. 

Pro.  I  '11  deliver  all ; 

And  promise  you  calm  seas,  auspicious  gales, 
And  sail  so  expeditious,  that  shall  catch 
Your  royal  fleet  afar  off. — My  Ariel, — chick, — 
That  is  thy  charge  :  then  to  the  elements 
Be  free,  and  fare  thou  well ! — {Aside.  ]     Please 
you,  draw  near.  {Exeunt. 


EPILOGUE. 

SPOKEN    BY    PROSPERO. 


Now  my  charms  are  all  o'erthrown, 
And  what  strength  I  have 's  mine  own. — 
Which  is  most  faint :  now  'tis  true, 
I  must  be  here  confined  by  you, 
Or  sent  to  Naples.      Let  me  not, 
Since  I  have  my  dukedom  got, 
And  pardon'd  the  deceiver,  dwell 
In  this  bare  island  by  your  spell ; 
But  release  iue  from  my  bands 
With  the  help  of  your  good  hands. 
Gentle  breath  of  yours  my  sails 
Must  fill,  or  else  my  project  fails, 
Which  was  to  please.     Now  I  want 
Spirits  to  enforce,  art  to  enchant ; 
And  my  ending  is  despair 
Unless  I  be  relieved  by  prayer ; 
Which  pierces  so,  that  it  assaults 
Mercy  itself,  and  frees  all  faults. 
As  you  from  crimes  would  pardon'd  be, 
Let  your  indulgence  set  me  free. 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 
DUKE  OF  MILAN,  Father  to  SILVIA. 


ANTONIO,  Father  to  PROTEUS. 
THURIO,  a  foolish  Rival  to  VALENTINE. 
EGLAMOUR,  Agent  for  SILVIA  in  her  escape. 
SPEED,  a  clownish  Servant  to  VALENTINE. 
LAUNCE,  Servant  to  PROTEUS. 
PANTHINO,  Servant  to  ANTONIO. 


Host,  where  JULIA  lodges  in  Milan. 
Outlaws. 

JULIA,  a  Lady  of  Verona,  beloved  by  PROTEUS. 
SILVIA,    the    Duke's    daughter t    beloved    by 

VALENTINE. 
LUCETTA,  Waiting-woman  to  JULIA. 

Servants.     Musicians. 


SCENE, — Sometimes  in  VERONA  ;  sometimes  in  MILAN  ;  and  on  the  frontiers  </ MANTUA. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  \.-An  open  place  in  VERONA. 
Enter  VALENTINE  and  PROTEUS. 

VaL  Cease  to  persuade,  my  loving  Proteus  ; 
Home-keeping  youth  have  ever  homely  wits ; 
Wer  't  not  affection  chains  thy  tender  days 
To  the  sweet  glances  of  thy  honour'd  love, 
I  rather  would  entreat  thy  company 
To  see  the  wonders  of  the  world  abroad, 
Than,  living  dully  siuggardiz'd  at  home, 
Wear  out  thy  youth  with  shapeless  idleness. 
But  since  thoulov'st,  love  still,  and  thrive  therein, 
Even  as  I  would,  when  I  to  love  begin,  [adieu ! 
Pro.  Wilt  thou  be  gone  ?     Sweet  Valentine, 
Think  on  thy  Proteus,  when  thou  haply  seest 
Some  rare  noteworthy  object  in  thy  travel : 
Wish  me  partaker  in  thy  happiness 
When  thou  dost  meet  good  hap  :  and  in  thy 

danger, 

If  ever  danger  do  environ  thee, 
Commend  thy  grievance  to  my  holy  prayers, 
For  I  will  be  thy  beadsman,  Valentine. 

VaL  And  on  a  love-book  pray  for  my  success. 
Pro.  Upon  some  book  I  love  I  '11  pray  for  thee. 

Val.  That'sonsomeshallowstory  of  deep  love, 
How  young  Leander  cross'd  the  Hellespont. 

Pro.  That 's  a  deep  story  of  a  deeper  love  ; 
For  he  was  more  than  over  shoes  in  love. 

VaL  'Tis  true ;  for  you  are  over  boots  in  love, 
And  yet  you  never  swam  the  Hellespont. 

Pro.  Over  the  boots  !  nay,  give  me  not  the 
boots. 

VaL  No,  I  will  not,  for  it  boots  thee  not. 

Pro.  What  ? 

Val.  To  be  in  love,  where  scorn  is  bought 
with  groans ; 


Coy  looks  with  heart-sore  sighs  ;  one  fading 

moment's  mirth 

With  twenty  watchful,  weary,  tedious  nights : 
If  haply  won,  perhaps  a  hapless  gain  ; 
If  lost,  why  then  a  grievous  labour  won  ; 
However,  but  a  folly  bought  with  wit, 
Or  else  a  wit  by  folly  vanquished.  [fool. 

Pro.  So,  by  your  circumstance,  you  call  me 
VaL  So,  by  your  circumstance,  I  fear  you'll 
ve. 


Pro.  'Tis  love  you  cavil  at ;  I  am  not  Love. 

Val.  Love  is  your  master,  for  he  masters  you : 
And  he  that  is  so  yoked  by  a  fool, 
Methinks  should  not  be  chronicled  for  wise. 

Pro.  Yet  writers  say,  As  in  the  sweetest  bud 
The  eating  canker  dwells,  so  eating  love 
Inhabits  in  the  finest  wits  of  all.  [bud 

VaL  And  writers  say,  As  the  most  forward 
Is  eaten  by  the  canker  ere  it  blow, 
Even  so  by  love  the  young  and  tender  wit 
Is  turn'd  to  folly  ;  blasting  in  the  bud, 
Losing  his  verdure  even  in  the  prime, 
And  all  the  fair  effects  of  future  hopes. 
But  wherefore  waste  I  time  to  counsel  thee 
That  art  a  votary  to  fond  desire  ? 
Once  more  adieu  :  my  father  at  the  road 
Expects  my  coming,  there  to  see  me  shipp'd. 

Pro.  And  thither  will  I  bring  thee,  Valentine. 

VaL  Sweet  Proteus,  no ;  now  let  us  take  our 

leave. 

At  Milan  let  me  hear  from  thee  by  letters 
Of  thy  success  in  love,  and  what  news  else 
Betideth  here  in  absence  of  thy  friend  ; 
And  I  likewise  will  visit  thee  with  mine. 

Pro.  All  happiness  bechance  to  thee  in  Milan ! 

VaL  As  much  to  you  at  home  !  and  so  fare- 
well. [Exit  VALENTINE. 

Pro.  He  after  honour  hunts,  I  after  love : 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


[ACT  i. 


He  leaves  his  friends  to  dignify  them  more  ; 
I  leave  myself,  my  friends,  and  all  for  love. 
Thou,  Julia,  thou  hast  metamorphos'd  me  ; 
Made  me  neglect  my  studies,  lose  my  time, 
War  with  good  counsel,  set  the  world  at  nought : 
Made  wit  with  musing  weak,  heart  sick  with 
thought. 

Enter  SPEED. 

Speed.  Sir  Proteus,  save  you.     Saw  you  my 
master  ? 

Fro.  But  now  he  parted  hence,  to  embark  for 
Milan. 

Speed.    Twenty  to  one,  then,  he  is  shipp'd 

already ; 
And  I  have  play'd  the  sheep  in  losing  him. 

Pro.   Indeed  a  sheep  doth  very  often  stray 
An  if  the  shepherd  be  awhile  away. 

Speed.  You   conclude   that   my  master   is  a 
shepherd,  then,  and  I  a  sheep  ? 

Pro.  I  do. 

Speed.  Why,  then,  my  horns  are  his  horns 
whether  I  wake  or  sleep. 

Pro.  A  silly  answer,  and  fitting  well  a  sheep. 

Speed.  This  proves  me  still  a  sheep. 

Pro.  True  ;  and  thy  master  a  shepherd. 

Speed.  Nay  ;  that  I  can  deny  by  a  circum- 
stance. 

Pro.  It  shall  go  hard  but  I  '11  prove  it  by 
another. 

Speed.  The  shepherd  seeks  the  sheep,  and  not 
the  sheep  the  shepherd  ;  but  I  seek  my  master, 
and  my  master  seeks  not  me  :  therefore,  I  am 
no  sheep. 

Pro.  The  sheep  for  fodder  follow  the  shep- 
herd, the  shepherd  for  food  follows  not  the 
sheep ;  thou  for  wages  followest  thy  master, 
thy  master  for  wages  follows  not  thee :  there- 
fore, thou  art  a  sheep. 

Speed.  Such  another  proof  will  make  me  cry 
baa. 

Pro.  But  dost  thou  hear?  gav'st  thou  my 
letter  to  Julia  ? 

Speed.  Ay,  sir ;  I,  a  lost  mutton,  gave  your 
letter  to  her,  a  laced  mutton  ;  and  she,  a  laced 
mutton,  gave  me,  a  lost  mutton,  nothing  for 
my  labour  ! 

Pro.  Here 's  too  small  a  pasture  for  such  a 
store  of  muttons. 

Speed.  If  the  ground  be  overcharged  you 
were  best  stick  her  ? 

Pro.  Nay  ;  in  that  you  are  astray ;  'twere 
best  pound  you. 

Speed.  Nay,  sir;  less  than  a  pound  shall 
serve  me  for  carrying  your  letter. 

Pro.  You  mistake;  I  mean  the  pound,  a 
pinfold. 


Speed.  From  a  pound  to  a  pin  ?  fold  it  over 

and  over,  [your  lover. 

'Tis  threefold  too  little  for  carrying  a  letter  to 

Pro.  But  what  said  she  ?  did  she  nod  ? 

Speed.     {Nodding.}    Ay. 

Pro.  Nod — Ay — why,  that 's  noddy. 

Speed.  You  mistook,  sir  ;  I  say  she  did  nod  : 
and  you  ask  me  if  she  did  nod  ;  and  I  say,  Ay. 

Pro.  And  that  set  together  is — noddy. 

Speed.  Now  you  have  taken  the  pains  to  set 
it  together,  take  it  for  your  pains. 

Pro.  No,  no ;  you  shall  have  it  for  bearing 
the  letter. 

Speed.  Well,  I  perceive  I  must  be  fain  to 
bear  with  you. 

Pro.  Why,  sir,  how  do  you  bear  with  me  ? 

Speed.  Marry,  sir,  the  letter  very  orderly  : 
having  nothing  but  the  word  noddy  for  my 
pains. 

Pro.  Beshrew  me,  but  you  have  a  quick  wit. 

Speed.  And  yet  it  cannot  overtake  your  slow 
purse. 

Pro.  Come,  come  ;  open  the  matter  in  brief: 
what  said  she  ? 

Speed.  Open  your  purse,  that"  the  money  and 
the  matter  may  be  both  at  once  delivered. 

Pro.  Well,  sir,  here  is  for  your  pains  :  what 
said  she? 

Speed.  Truly,  sir,  I  think  you  '11  hardly  win 
her. 

Pro.  Why,  couldst  thou  perceive  so  much 
from  her  ? 

Speed.  Sir,  I  could  perceive  nothing  at  all 
from  her ;  no,  not  so  much  as  a  ducat  for  de- 
livering your  letter :  and  being  so  hard  to  me 
that  brought  your  mind,  I  fear  she  '11  prove  as 
hard  to  you  in  telling  her  mind.  Give  her  no 
token  but  stones  ;  for  she  's  as  hard  as  steel. 

Pro.  What!  said  she  nothing  ? 

Speed.  No,  not  so  much  as — Take  this  for  thy 
pains.  To  testify  your  bounty,  I  thank  you, 
you  have  testern'd  me  ;  in  requital  whereof, 
hei._'eforth  carry  your  letters  yourself:  and  so, 
sir,  I  '11  commend  you  to  my  master,  [wreck, 

Pro.  Go,  go  ;  begone,  to  save  your  ship  from 
Which  cannot  perish,  having  thee  aboard, 
Being  destined  to  a  drier  death  on  shore. 
I  must  go  send  some  better  messenger : 
I  fear  my  Julia  would  not  deign  my  lines, 
Receiving  them  from  such  a  worthless  post. 

[Exeuril. 

SCENE  II.-—  The  same.     Garden  of  JULIA'S 

House. 

Enter  JULIA  and  LUCETTA. 

Jul.  But  say,  Lucetta,  now  we  are  alone, 

Wouldst  thou  then  counsel  me  to  fall  in  love  ? 


SCENE  II.] 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


Luc.  Ay,  madam ;  so  you  stumble  not  un- 

heedfully. 

Jul.  Of  all  the  fair  resort  of  gentlemen 
That  every  day  with  parle  encounter  me, 
In  thy  opinion  which  is  worthiest  love? 

Luc.  Please  you,  repeat   their  names ;    I  '11 

show  my  mind 

According  to  my  shallow  simple  skill. 
Jul.  What    think'st    thou    of    the    fair    Sir 
Eglamour  ?  [fine  ; 

Luc.  As  of  a  knight  well-spoken,  neat,  and 
But,  were  I  you,  he  never  should  be  mine. 
Jul.  What  think'st  thou  of  the  rich  Mercatio? 
Lite.  Well  of  his  wealth ;  but  of  himself,  so  so. 
Jtd.  What  think'st  thou  of  the  gentle  Proteus? 
Luc.  Lord,  lord  !  to  see  what  folly  reigns 

in  us  ! 

Jul.  How  now  !  what  means  this  passion  at 
his  name  ?  [shame 

Luc.  Pardon,   dear   madam ;    'tis  a  passing 
That  I,  unworthy  body  as  I  am, 
Should  censure  thus  on  lovely  gentlemen. 
Jul.  Why  not  on  Proteus,  as  of  all  the  rest  ? 
L^^c.  Then  thus :  of  many  good  I  think  him  best. 
Jttl.  Your  reason  ? 

Luc.  I  have  no  other  but  a  woman's  reason  ; 

I  think  him  so,  because  I  think  him  so. 

Jul.  And  wouldst  thou  have  me  cast  my  love 

on  him  ?  [away. 

Luc,  Ay,  if  you  thought  your  love  not  cast 

Jul.  Why,   he   of  all   the   rest   hath   never 

moved  me.  [loves  ye. 

Luc.  Yet  he  of  all  the  rest,  I  think,  best 

Jul.  His  little  speaking  shows  his  love  but 

small. 

Luc.  Fire  that  is  closest  keptburnsmost  of  all. 
Jul.  They  do  not  love  that  do  not  show  their 
love.  [their  love. 

Luc.  O,  they  love  least  that  let  men  know 
Jul.   I  would  I  knew  his  mind. 
Luc.  Peruse  this  paper,  madam. 

[  Gives  a   letter. 

Jttl.  [reads']  '  To  Julia? — Say,  from  whom? 
Luc.  That  the  contents  will  show. 
Jul.  Say,  say  ;  who  gave  it  thee  ? 
Luc.  Sir  Valentine's  page;  and  sent,  I  think, 
from  Proteus :  [the  way, 

He  would  have  given  it  you  ;  but  I,  being  in 
Did  in  your  name  receive  it ;  pardon  the  fault, 

I  pray. 

Jul.  Now,  by  my  modesty,  a  goodly  broker  ! 
Dare  you  presume  to  harbour  wanton  lines  ? 
To  whisper  and  conspire  against  my  youth  ? 
Now,  trust  me,  'tis  an  office  of  great  worth, 
And  you  an  officer  fit  for  the  pkce. 
There,  take  the  paper  ;  see  it  be  return'd  ; 
Or  else  return  no  more  into  my  sight. 


Luc.  To  plead  for  love  deserves  more  fee 

Jul.  Will  you  be  gone  ?  [than  hate. 

Luc.  That  you  may  ruminate.  [Exit. 

Jul.  And  yet,  I  would  I  had  o'erlook'd  the 
It  were  a  shame  to  call  her  back  again,       [letter. 
And  pray  her  to  a  fault  for^  which  I  chid  her. 
What  fool  is  she,  that  knows  I  am  a  maid, 
And  would  not  force  the  letter  to  my  view  ? 
Since  maids,  in  modesty,  say  No  to  that 
Which  they  would  have  the  profferer  construe  Ay. 
Fie,  fie  !  how  wayward  is  this  foolish  love, 
That,  like  a  testy  babe,  will  scratch  the  nurse, 
And  presently,  all  humbled,  kiss  the  rod  ! 
How  churlishly  I  chid  Lucetta  hence, 
When  willingly  I  would  have  had  her  here  ! 
How  angrily  I  taught  my  brow  to  frown, 
When  inward  joy  enforced  my  heart  to  smile  ! 
My  penance  is  to  call  Lucetta  back, 
And  ask  remission  for  my  folly  past : — 
What,  ho  !  Lucetta  ? 

Re-enter  LUCETTA. 

Luc.  What  would  your  ladyship  ? 

Jul.  Is  it  near  dinner  time  ? 

Luc.  I  would  it  were  ; 

That  you  might  kill  your  stomach  on  your  mtat, 
And  not  upon  your  maid. 

Jul.  What  is 't  you  took  up 

So  gingerly  ? 

Luc.  Nothing. 

Jul.  Why  didst  thou  stoop  then  ? 

Luc.  To  take  a  paper  up  that  I  let  fall. 

Jul.  And  is  that  paper  nothing  ? 

Luc.  Nothing  concerning  me. 

Jul.  Then  let  it  lie  for  those  that  it  concerns. 

Luc.  Madam,  it  will  not  lie  where  it  concerns, 
Unless  it  have  a  false  interpreter. 

Jul.  Some  love  of  yours  hath  writ  to  you  in 
rhyme. 

Luc.  That  I  might  sing  it,  madam,  to  a  tune : 
Give  me  a  note  :  your  ladyship  can  set. 

Jul.  As  little  by  such  toys  as  may  be  possible ; 
Best  sing  it  to  the  tune  of  Light  o'  love. 

Luc.  It  is  too  heavy  for  so  light  a  tune. 

Jul.   Heavy!  belike  ithath  some  burden,  then. 

Luc.  Ay  ;  and  melodious  were  it,  would  you 
sing  it. 

Jul.  And  why  not  you  ? 

Lite.  I  cannot  reach  so  high. 

Jul.  Let 's  see  your  song.  —  How  now, 
minion  ?  [it  out : 

Luc.  Keep  tune  there  still,  so  you  will  sing 
And  yet  methinks  I  do  not  like  this  tune. 

Jul.  You  do  not  ? 

Luc.  No,  madam  ;  it  is  too  sharp. 

Jul.  You,  minion,  are  too  saucy. 

Luc.  Nay,  now  you  are  too  flat, 


28 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


[ACT  I. 


And  mar  the  concord  with  too  harsh  a  descant ; 
There  wanteth  but  a  mean  to  fill  your  song. 
Jul.  The  mean  is  drown'd  with  your  unruly 

base. 

Luc.  Indeed,  I  bid  the  base  for  Proteus,    [me. 
Jul.  This  babble  shall  not  henceforth  trouble 
Here  is  a  coil  with  protestation  ! — 

\Tears  the  letter. 

Go,  get  you  gone  ;  and  let  the  papers  lie  : 
You  would  be  fingering  them,  to  anger  me. 
Lw.  She  makes  it  strange ;  but  she  would 

be  best  pleased 

To  be  so  anger'd  with  another  letter.      [Exit. 
Jul.  Nay,  would  I  were  so  anger'd  with  the 
same  ! 

0  hateful  hands,  to  tear  such  loving  words  ! 
Injurious  wasps  !  to  feed  on  such  sweet  honey, 
And  kill  the  bees  that  yield  it,  with  your  stings ! 

1  '11  kiss  each  several  paper  for  amends. 

And  here  is  writ — kind  Julia; — unkind  Julia! 
As  in  revenge  of  thy  ingratitude, 
I  throw  thy  name  against  the  bruising  stones, 
Trampling  contemptuously  on  thy  disdain. 
Look,  here  is  writ — love-wounded  Proteus : — 
Poor  wounded  name  !  my  bosom,  as  a  bed, 
Shall  lodge  thee  till  thy  wound  be  throughly 

heal'd ; 

And  thus  I  search  it  with  a  sovereign  kiss, 
But  twice  or  thrice  was  Proteus  written  d  >wn  : 
Be  calm,  good  wind,  blow  not  a  word  away 
Till  I  have  found  each  letter  in  the  letter,    [bear 
Except  mine  own  name  ;  that  some  whirlwind 
Unto  a  ragged,  fearful,  hanging  rock, 
And  throw  it  thence  into  the  raging  sea ! 
Lo,  here  in  one  line  is  his  name  twice  writ, — 
Poor  forlorn  Proteus,  passionate  Proteus, 
To  the  sweet  Julia;  that  I  '11  tear  away; 
And  yet  I  will  not,  sith  so  prettily 
He  couples  it  to  his  complaining  names. 
Thus  will  I  fold  them  one  upon  another  ; 
Now  kiss,  embrace,  contend,  do  what  you  will. 

Re-enter  LUCETTA.  [stays. 

Luc.  Madam,  dinner  's  ready,  and  your  father 
ful.  Well,  let  us  go. 

Luc.  What  !  shall  these  papers  lie  like  tell- 
tales here?  [up. 
Jul.  If  you  respect  them,  best  -to  take  them 
Luc.  Nay,  I  was  taken  up  for  laying  them 

down  ; 

Yet  here  they  shall  not  lie  for  catching  cold. 
Jul.  I  see  you  have  a  month's  mind  to  them. 
Luc.  Ay,  madam,  you  may  say  what  sights 

you  see ; 

I  see  things  too,  although  you  judge  I  wink. 
Jul.  Come,  come  ;  wilt  please  you  go  ? 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.  —  The  same.     A  Room  in 
ANTONIO'S  Hotise. 

Enter  ANTONIO  and  PANTHINO. 

Ant.  Tell  me,  Panthino,  what  sad  talk  was 

that 
Wherewith  my  brother  held  you  in  the  cloister? 

Pan.  'Twas  of  his  nephew  Proteus,  your  son. 

Ant.  Why,  what  of  him? 

Pan.  He  wonder'd  that  your  lordship 

Would  suffer  him  to  spend  his  youth  at  home, 
While  other  men,  of  slender  reputation, 
Put  forth  their  sons  to  seek  preferment  out : 
Some  to  the  wars,  to  try  their  fortune  there ; 
Some  to  discover  islands  far  away  ; 
Some  to  the  studious  universities. 
For  any,  or  for  all  these  exercises, 
He  said  that  Proteus,  your  son,  was  meet ; 
And  did  re  ;uest  me  to  importune  you 
To  1  t  him  spend  his  time  no  more  at  home, 
Which  would  be  great  impeachment  to  his  age, 
In  having  known  no  travel  in  his  youth,     [that 

Ant.  Nor  need'st  thou  much  importune  me  to 
Whereon  this  month  I  have  been  hammering. 
I  have  consider'd  well  his  loss  of  time, 
And  how  he  cannot  be  a  perfect  man, 
Not  being  tried  and  tutor'd  in  the  world  : 
Experience  is  by  industry  achieved, 
And  perfected  by  the  swift  course  of  time : 
Then  tell  me,  whither  were  I  best  to  send  him? 

Pan.   I  think  your  lordship  is  not  ignorant 
How  his  companion,  youthful  Valentine, 
Attends  the  emperor  in  his  royal  court. 

Ant.   I  know  it  well.  [him  thither: 

Pan.  'Twere  good,  I  think,  your  lordship  sent 
There  shall  he  practise  tilts  and  tournaments, 
Hear  sweet  discourse,  converse  with  noblemen, 
And  be  in  eye  of  every  exercise 
Worthy  his  youth  and  nobleness  of  birth. 

Ant.  I  like  thy  counsel;  well  hast  thou  advised: 
And  that  thou  may'st  perceive  how  well  I  like  it, 
The  execution  of  it  shall  make  known  ; 
Even  with  the  speediest  execution 
I  will  dispatch  him  to  the  emperor's  court. 

Pan.  To-morrow,  may  it  please  you,  Don  Al- 
With  other  gentlemen  of  good  esteem,   [phonso, 
Are  journeying  to  salute  the  emperor, 
And  to  comrnend  their  service  to  his  will. 

Ant.  Good  company;  with  them  shall  Pro- 
teus go.  [him. 
And — in  good  time  ; — now  will  we  break  with 

•ts<I 


Enter  PROTEUS. 


Pro.  Sweet  love  !  sweet  lines  !  sweet  life  ! 
Here  is  her  hand,  the  agent  of  her  heart ; 
Her<-  is  her  oath  for  love,  her  honour's  pawn  : 
O  that  our  fathers  would  applaud  our  loves, 


SCENE  II.] 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


29 


To  seal  our  happiness  with  their  consents  ! 

0  heavenly  Julia  !  [there  ? 
Ant.  How  now?  what  letter  are  you  reading 
Pro.  May 't  please  your  lordship,  'tis  a  word  or 

Of  commendation  sent  from  Valentine,        [two 
Deliver'd  by  a  friend  that  came  from  him. 

Ant.  Lend  me  the  letter;  let  me  see  what  news. 

Pro.  There  is  no  news,  my  lord  ;  but  that  he 

writes 

How  happily  he  lives,  how  well-beloved 
And  daily  graced  by  the  emperor ; 
Wishing  me  with  him,  partner  of  his  fortune. 

Ant.  And  how  stand  you  affected  to  his  wish? 

Pro.  As  one  relying  on  your  lordship's  will, 
And  not  depending  on  his  friendly  wish. 

Ant.  My  will  is  something  sorted  with  his  wish . 
Muse  not  that  I  thus  suddenly  proceed  ; 
For  what  I  will,  I  will,  and  there  an  end. 

1  am  resolved  that  thou  shalt  spend  some  time 
With  Valentinus  in  the  emperor's  court ; 
What  maintenance  he  from  his  friends  receives, 
Like  exhibition  shalt  thou  have  from  me. 
To-morrow  be  in  readiness  to  go  : 

Excuse  it  not,  for  I  am  peremptory. 

Pro.  My  lord,  I  cannot  be  so  soon  provided; 
Please  you,  deliberate  a  day  or  two.     [after  thee : 

Ant.  Look,  what  thou  want'st  shall  be  sent 
No  more  of  stay  ;  to-morrow  thou  must  go. — 
Come  on,  Panthino  ;  you  shall  be  employ 'd 
To  hasten  on  his  expedition. 

{Exeunt  ANT.  and  PAN. 

Pro.  Thus  have  I  shunn'd  the  fire,  for  fear  of 
burning,  [drown'd ; 

And   drench'd   me   in   the   sea,    where   I   am 
I  fear'd  to  show  my  father  Julia's  letter, 
Lest  he  should  take  exceptions  to  my  love ; 
And  with  the  vantage  of  mine  own  excuse 
Hath  he  excepted  most  against  my  love. 
O,  how  this  spring  of  love  resembleth 
The  uncertain  glory  of  an  April  day  ; 
Which  now  shows  all  the  beauty  of  the  sun, 
And  by  and  by  a  cloud  takes  all  away  ! 

Re-enter  PANTHINO. 

Pan.  Sir  Proteus,  your  father  calls  for  you  ; 
He  is  in  haste  ;  therefore,  I  pray  you,  go. 

Pro.  Why,  this  it  is!  my  heart  accords  thereto; 
And  yet  a  thousand  times  it  answers  no. 

{Exeunt. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — MILAN.     An  apartment  in  the 
DUKE'S  Palace. 

Enter  VALENTINE  and  SPEED. 
Speed.    [Picking  ttp  a  glove.]  Sir,  your  glove. 
Val.  Not  mine  ;  my  gloves  are  on. 


Speed.  Why,  then,  this  may  be  yours;  for  this 
is  but  one.  [mine  : — 

Val.  Ha  !  let  me  see  :  ay,  give  it  me  ;  it 's 
Sweet  ornament  that  decks  a  thing  divine  ! 
Ah,  Silvia  !  Silvia  !  [Silvia  ! 

Speed.  [Calling.']     Madam  Silvia !     Madam 

Val.  How  now,  sirrah  ? 

Speed.  She  is  not  within  hearing,  sir. 

Val.  Why,  sir,  who  bade  you  call  her? 

Speed.  Your  worship,  sir ;  or  else  I  mistook. 

Val.  Well,  you  '11  still  be  too  forward. 

Speed.  And  yet  I  was  last  chidden  for  being  too 
slow.  [Silvia  ? 

Val.  Go  to, sir;  tell  me,  do  you  know  Madam 

Speed.  She  that  your  worship  loves  ? 

Val.  Why,  how  know  you  that  I  am  in  love? 

Speed.  Marry,  by  these  special  marks :  first 
you  have  learned,  like  Sir  Proteus,  to  wreath  your 
arms  like  a  mal-content ;  to  relish  a  love-song, 
like  a  robin  redbreast ;  to  walk  alone,  like  one 
that  had  the  pestilence;  to  sigh,  like  a  school -boy 
that  had  lost  his  A  B  C  ;  to  weep,  like  a  young 
wench  that  had  buried  her  grandam  ;  to  fast,  like 
one  that  takes  diet ;  to  watch,  like  one  that  fears 
robbing  ;  to  speak  puling,  like  a  beggar  at  Hal- 
lowmas. You  were  wont,  when  you  laughed,  to 
crow  like  a  cock ;  when  you  walked,  to  walk  like 
one  of  the  lions;  when  you  fasted,  it  was  presently 
after  dinner  ;  when  you  looked  sadly,  it  was  for 
want  of  money:  and  now  you  are  metamorphosed 
with  a  mistress,  that,  when  I  look  on  you,  I  can 
hardly  think  you  my  master. 

Val.  Are  all  these  things  perceived  in  me  ? 

Speed.  They  are  all  perceived  without  you. 

Val.  Without  me  ?  they  cannot. 

Speed.  Without  you  ?  nay,  that 's  certain ;  for, 
without  you  were  so  simple,  none  else  would:  but 
you  are  so  without  these  follies,  that  these  follies 
are  within  you,  and  shine  through  you  like  the 
water  in  a  urinal  ;  that  not  an  eye  that  sees  you 
but  is  a  physician  to  comment  on  your  malady. 

Val.  But  tell  me,  dost  thou  know  my  lady 
Silvia? 

Speed.  She  that  you  gaze  on  so,  as  she  sits  at 
supper  ? 

Val.  Hast  thou  observed  that?  even  she  I  mean. 

Speed.  Why,  sir,  I  know  her  not. 

Val.  Dost  thou  know  her  by  my  gazing  on 
her,  and  yet  knowest  her  not  ? 

Speed.   Is  she  not  hard  favoured,  sir  ? 

Val.  Not  so  fair,  boy,  as  well  favoured. 

Speed.   Sir,  I  know  that  well  enough. 

Val.  What  dost  thou  know  ? 

Speed.  That  she  is  not  so  fair  as  (of  you)  well 
favoured. 

Val.  I  mean  that  her  beauty  is  exquisite,  but 
her  favour  infinite. 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


[ACT  ii. 


Speed.  That 's  because  the  one  is  painted  and 
the  other  out  of  all  count. 

Val.  How  painted?  and  how  out  of  count? 

Speed.  Marry,  sir,  so  painted,  to  make  her 
fair,  that  no  man  counts  of  her  beauty. 

Val.  How  esteemest  thou  me  ?  I  account  of 
her  beauty. 

Speed.  You  never  saw  her  since  she  was  de- 
formed. 

Val.  How  long  hath  she  been  deformed? 

Speed.  Ever  since  you  loved  her. 

Val.  I  have  loved  her  ever  since  I  saw  her ; 
and  still  I  see  her  beautiful. 

Speed.  If  you  love  her,  you  cannot  see  her. 

Val.  Why? 

Speed.  Because  love  is  blind.  O  that  you  had 
mine  eyes ;  or  your  own  eyes  had  the  lights  they 
were  wont  to  have  when  you  chid  at  Sir  Pro- 
teus for  going  ungartered  ! 

Val.  What  should  I  see  then  ? 

Speed.  Your  own  present  folly  and  her  pass- 
ing deformity  ;  for  he,  being  in  love,  could  not 
see  to  garter  his  hose  ;  and  you,  being  in  love, 
cannot  see  to  put  on  your  hose. 

Val.  Belike,  boy,  then  you  are  in  love:  for  last 
morning  you  could  not  see  to  wipe  my  shoes. 

Speed.  True,  sir ;  I  was  in  love  with  my  bed ; 
I  thank  you,  you  swinged  me  for  my  love,  which 
makes  me  the  bolder  to  chide  you  for  yours. 

Val.  In  conclusion,  I  stand  affected  to  her. 

Speed.  I  would  you  were  set ;  so  your  affec- 
tion would  cease. 

Val.  Last  night  she  enjoined  me  to  write 
some  lines  to  one  she  loves. 

Speed.  And  have  you  ? 

Val.  I  have. 

Speed.  Are  they  not  lamely  writ  ? 

Val.  No,  boy,  but  as  well  as  I  can  do  them ; — 
Peace  ;  here  she  comes. 

Speed.  O  excellent  motion  !  O  exceeding 
puppet !  now  will  he  interpret  to  her. 

Enter  SILVIA. 

Val.  Madam  and  mistress,  a  thousand  good- 
morrows. 

Speed.  O,  give  you  good  even  ! — Here's  a 
million  of  manners.  [Aside. 

Sil.  Sir  Valentine  and  servant,  to  you  two 
thousand. 

Speed.  He  should  give  her  interest,  and  she 
gives  it  him.  [Aside. 

Val.  As  you  enjoin'd  me,  I  have  writ  your  letter 
Unto  the  secret  nameless  friend  of  yours  ; 
Which  I  was  much  unwilling  to  proceed  in 
But  for  my  duty  to  your  ladyship. 

Stl.  I  thank  you , gentle  servant ;  'tis  very  clerkly 
done. 


Val.  Now  trust  me,  madam,  it  came  hardly  off; 
For,  being  ignorant  to  whom  it  goes 
I  writ  at  random,  very  doubtfully.  [pains  ? 

Sil.  Perchance  you  think  too  much  of  so  much 

Val.  No,  madam;  so  it  stead  you,  I  will  write, 
Please  you  command,  a  thousand  times  as  much; 
And  yet ; — 

Sil.  A  pretty  period !  Well,  I  guess  the  sequel; 
And  yet  I  will  not  nameit: — and  yet  I  care  not; — 
And  yet  take  this  again  ; — and  yet  I  thank  you  ; 
Meaning  henceforth  to  trouble  you  no  more. 

Speed.  And  yet  you  will;  and  yet  another  yet. 

[Aside. 

Val.  What  means  your  ladyship?  do  you  not 
like  it  ? 

Sil.  Yes,  yes;  the  lines  are  very  quaintly  writ: 
But  since  unwillingly,  take  them  again  ; 
Nay,  take  them.  [Gives  back  the  letter. 

Val.  Madam,  they  are  for  you. 

Sil.  Ay,  ay,  you  writ  them,  sir,  at  my  request; 
But  I  will  none  of  them  ;  they  are  for  you  : 
I  would  have  had  them  writ  more  movingly. 

Val.   Please   you,    I  '11  write   your  ladyship 
another.  [over ; 

Sil.  And  when  it 's  writ,  for  my  sake  read  it 
And  if  it  please  you,  so  ;  if  noty  why,  so. 

Val.  If  it  please  me,  madam  !  what  then  ? 

Stl.  Why,  if  it  please  you,  take  it  for  your 

labour. 
And  so  good  morrow,  servant.     [Exit  SILVIA. 

Speed.  O  jest  unseen,  inscrutable,  invisible, 
As  a  nose  on  a  man's  face,  or  a  weather-cock  on 

a  steeple  ! 
My  master  sues  to  her ;  and  she  hath  taught  her 

suitor, 

He  being  her  pupil,  to  become  her  tutor. 
O  excellent  device!  was  there  ever  heard  a  better? 
That  my  master,  being  scribe,  to  himself  should 
write  the  letter  ? 

Val.  How  now,  sir  ?  what  are  you  reasoning 
with  yourself? 

Speed.  Nay,  I  was  rhyming:  'tis  you  that  have 
the  reason. 

Val.  To  do  what  ? 

Speed.  To  be  a  spokesman  from  Madam  Silvia? 

Val.  To  whom  ? 

Speed.  To  yourself :  why,  she  woos  you  by  a 
figure. 

Val.  What  figure  ? 

Speed.  By  a  letter,  I  should  say. 

Val.  Why,  she  hath  not  writ  to  me  ? 

Speed.  What  need  she  when  she  hath  made 

you  write  to  yourself?   Why,  do  you  not  perceive 

Val.  No,  believe  me.  [the  jest  ? 

Speed.  No  believing  you  indeed,  sir.  But  did 
you  perceive  her  earnest  ? 

Val.  She  gave  me  none  except  an  angry  word. 


SCENE  II.  J 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF    VERONA. 


Speed.  Why,  she  hath  given  you  a  letter. 

Val.  That 's  the  letter  I  writ  to  her  friend. 

Speed.  And  that  letter  hath  she  deliver'd, 
and  there  an  end. 

Val.   I  would  it  were  no  worse. 

Speed.  I  '11  warrant  you  'tis  as  well. 
For  often  you  have  writ  to  her  ;  and  she,  in 

modesty, 
Or  else  for  want  of  idle  time,  could  not  again 

reply; 

Or  fearing  else  some  messenger  that  might  her 
mind  discover,  [her  lover. — 

Herself  hath  taught  her  love  himself  to  writeunto 
All  this  I  speak  in  print,  for  in  print  I  found  it. — 
Why  muse  you,  sir  ?  'tis  dinner  time. 

Val.   I  have  dined. 

Speed.  Ay,  but  hearken,  sir ;  though  the 
cameleon  Love  can  feed  on  the  air,  I  am  one  that 
am  nourished  by  my  victuals,  and  would  fain 
have  meat ;  O,  be  not  like  your  mistress ;  be 
moved,  be  moved.  [Exetint. 

SCENE  II. — VERONA.     A  Room  in  JULIA'S 
House. 

Enter  PROTEUS  and  JULIA. 

Pro.   Have  patience,  gentle  Julia. 

Jul.   I  must,  where  is  no  remedy. 

Pro.  When  possibly  I  can  I  will  return. 

Jul.  If  you  turn  not  you  will  return  the  sooner: 
Keep  this  remembrance  for  thy  Julia's  sake. 

{Giving a  ring. 

Pro.  Why,  then,  we  '11  make  exchange ;  here, 
take  you  this. 

Jul.  And  seal  the  bargain  with  a  holy  kiss. 

Pro.   Here  is  my  hand  for  my  true  constancy; 
And  when  that  hour  o'erslips  me  in  the  day 
Wherein  I  sigh  not,  Julia,  for  thy  sake, 
The  next  ensuing  hour  some  foul  mischance 
Torment  me  for  my  love's  forgetfulness  ! 
My  father  stays  my  coming  ;  answer  net : 
The  tide  is  now :  nay,  not  thy  tide  of  tears  ; 
That  tide  will  stay  me  longer  than  I  should  : 

[Exit  JULIA. 

Julia,  farewell. — What  !  gone  without  a  word? 
Ay ;  so  true  love  should  do  :  it  cannot  speak  ; 
For  truth  hath  better  deeds  than  words  to  grace  it. 

Enter  PANTHINO. 
Pan.  Sir  Proteus,  you  are  stay'd  for. 
Pro.  Go  ;  I  come,  I  come  : — 
Alas  !  this  parting  strikes  poor  lovers  dumb. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  same.     A  Street. 

Enter  LAUNCE,  hading  a  dog. 
Latin.  Nay,  'twill  be  this  hour  ere  I  have  done 
weeping ;  all  the  kind  of  the  Launces  have  this 


very  fault :  I  have  received  my  proportion,  like 
the  prodigiou.'  son,  and  am  going  with  Sir  Pro- 
teus to  the  Imperial's  court.  I  think  Crab  my 
dog  be  the  sourest-natured  dog  that  lives :  my 
mother  weeping,  my  father  wailing,  my  sister 
crying,  our  maid  howling,  our  cat  wringing  her 
hands,  and  all  our  house  in  a  great  perplexity ; 
yet  did  not  this  cruel -hearted  cur  shed  one  tear : 
he  is  a  stone,  a  very  pebble  stone,  and  has  no 
more  pity  in  him  than  a  dog :  a  Jew  would  have 
wept  to  have  seen  our  parting ;  why,  my  grand- 
am  having  no  eyes,  look  you,  wept  herself  blind 
at  my  parting.  Nay,  I  '11  show  you  the  manner 
of  it :  this  shoe  is  my  father ; — no,  this  left  shoe 
is  my  father; — no,  no,  this  left  shoe  is  my 
mother ;  nay,  that  cannot  be  so  neither ;  yes,  it 
is  so,  it  is  so ;  it  hath  the  worser  sole.  This  shoe 
with  the  hole  in  it  is  my  mother,  and  this  my 
father.  A  vengeance  on  't !  there  'tis.  Now, 
sir,  this  staff  is  my  sister ;  for,  look  you,  she  is 
as  white  as  a  lily  and  as  small  as  a  wand ;  this 
hat  is  Nan  our  maid ;  I  am  the  dog  : — no,  the 
dog  is  himself,  and  I  am  the  dog, — O,  the  dog 
is  me,  and  I  am  myself ;  ay,  so,  so.  Now  come 
I  to  my  father;  Father,  your  blessing ; — now 
should  not  the  shoe  speak  a  word  for  weeping ; 
now  should  I  kiss  my  father ;  well,  he  weeps  on : 
— now  come  I  to  my  mother  (O,  that  she  could 
speak  now !)  like  a  wood  woman ; — well,  I  kiss 
her : — why  there  'tis ;  here 's  my  mother's  breath 
up  and  down ;  now  come  I  to  my  sister ;  mark 
the  moan  she  makes :  now  the  dog  all  this  while 
sheds  not  a  tear,  nor  speaks  a  word ;  but  see 
how  I  lay  the  dust  with  my  tears. 

Enter  PANTHINO. 

Pan.  Launce,  away,  away  about d ;  thy  mas- 
ter is  shipped,  and  thou  art  to  jpost  after  with 
oars.  What 's  the  matter !  why  weep'st  thou, 
man?  Away,  ass;  you  will  lose  the  tide  if  you 
tarry  any  longer. 

Laun.  It  is  no  matter  if  the  tied  were  lost ; 
for  it  is  the  unkindest  tied  that  ever  man  tied. 

Pan.  What's  the  unkindest  tide?  [dog. 

Laun.  Why,  he  that 's  tied  here :  Crab,  my 

Pan.  Tut,  man ;  I  mean  thou  'It  lose  the  flood  : 
and,  in  losing  the  flood,  lose  thy  voyage ;  and,  in 
losing  thy  voyage,  lose  thy  master ;  and  in  los- 
ing thy  master,  lose  thy  service  ;  and,  in  losing 
thy  service, — Why  dost,  thou  stop  my  mouth  ? 

Laun.  For  fear  thou  shouldst  lose  thy  tongue. 

Pan.  Where  should  I  lose  my  tongue  ? 

Laun.   In  thy  tale. 

Pan.  In  thy  tail  ? 

Laun.  Lose  the  tide,  and  the  voyage,  and  the 
master,  and  the  service  ?  The  tide  !  Why, 
man,  if  the  river  were  dry,  I  am  able  to  fill  it 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


[ACT  II. 


with  my  tears  ;  if  the  wind  were  down,  I  could 
drive  the  boat  with  my  sighs. 

Pan.  Come,  come  away,  man ;  I  was  sent 
to  call  thee. 

Laun.  Sir,  call  me  what  thou  darest. 

Pan.     Wilt  thou  go  ? 

Laun.  Well,  I  will  go.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — MILAN.     An  Apartment  in  the 

DUKE'S  Palace. 

Enter  VALENTINE,  SILVIA,  THURIO,  and 
SPEED. 

Sil.  Servant — 

Val.  Mistress? 

Speed.  Master,  Sir  Thurio  frowns  on  you. 

Val.  Ay,  boy,  it 's  for  love. 

Speed.  Not  of  you. 

Val.  Of  my  mistress,  then. 

Speed.  'Twere  good  you  knocked  him. 

Sil.  Servant,  you  are  sad. 

Val.  Indeed,  madam,  I  seem  so. 

Thu.  Seem  you  that  you  are  not  ? 

Val.  Haply  I  do. 

Thu.  So  do  counterfeits. 

Val.  So  do  you. 

Thu.  What  seem  I  that  I  am  not  ? 

Val.  Wise. 

Thu.  What  instance  of  the  contrary  ? 

Val.  Your  folly. 

Thu.  And  how  quote  you  my  folly  ? 

Val.  I  quote  it  in  your  jerkin. 

Thu.  My  jerkin  is  a  doublet. 

Val.  Well,  then,  I  '11  double  your  folly. 

Thu.  How? 

Sil.  What,  angry,  Sir  Thurio?  do  you  change 
Colour  ? 

Val.  Give  him  leave,  madam :  he  is  a  kind  of 
cameleon. 

Thu.  That  hath  more  mind  to  feed  on  your 
blood  than  live  in  your  air. 

Val.  You  have  said,  sir. 

Thu.  Ay,  sir,  and  done  too,  for  this  time. 

Val.  I  know  it  well,  sir  ;  you  always  end  ere 
you  begin.  [quickly  shot  off. 

Sil.  A  fine  volley  of  words,  gentlemen,  and 

Val.  'Tis  indeed,  madam;  we  thank  the  giver. 

Sil.  Who  is  that,  servant  ?      . 

Val.  Yourself,  sweet  lady  ;  for  you  gave  the 
fire.  Sir  Thurio  borrows  his  wit  from  your 
ladyship's  looks,  and  spends  what  he  borrows 
kindly  in  your  company. 

Thu.  Sir,  if  you  spend  word  for  word  with 
me,  I  shall  make  your  wit  bankrupt. 

Val.  I  know  it  well,  sir ;  you  have  an  ex- 
chequer of  words,  and,  I  think,  no  other  trea- 
sure to  give  your  followers;  for  it  appears  by  their 
bare  liveries  that  they  live  by  your  bare  words. 


Sil.  No  more,  gentlemen,  no  more  ;  here 
comes  my  father. 

Enter  DUKE. 

Duke.  Now,  daughter  Silvia,  you  are  hard 

beset. 

Sir  Valentine,  your  father 's  in  good  health : 
What  say  you  to  a  letter  from  your  friends 
Of  much  good  news  ? 

Val.  My  lord,  I  will  be  thankful 

To  any  happy  messenger  from  thence. 

Duke.  Knowyou  Don  Antonio,  your  country- 
man ?  [man 

Val.  Ay,  my  good  lord  ;  I  know  the  gentle- 
To  be  of  worth,  and  worthy  estimation, 
And  not  without  desert  so  well  reputed. 

Duke.  Hath  he  not  a  son  ?  [serves 

Val.  Ay,  my  good  lord ;  a  son  that  well  de- 
The  honour  and  regard  of  such  a  father. 

Duke.  You  know  him  well  ? 

Val.  I  knew  him  as  myself;  for  from  our  infancy 
We  have  con  versed  and  spent  our  hours  together; 
And  though  myself  have  been  an  idle  truant, 
Omitting  the  sweet  benefit  of  time 
To  clothe  mine  age  with  angel-like  perfection. 
Yet  hath  Sir  Proteus — for  that 's  his  name — 
Made  use  and  fair  advantage  of  his  days  ; 
His  years  but  young,  but  his  experience  old  ; 
His  head  unmellow'd,  but  his  judgment  ripe  ; 
And,  in  a  word, — for  far  behind  his  worth 
Come  all  the  praises  that  I  now  bestow, — 
He  is  complete  in  feature  and  in  mind, 
With  all  good  grace  to  grace  a  gentleman. 

Duke.  Beshrew  me,  sir,  but  if  he  make  this 
He  is  as  worthy  for  an  empress'  love        [good, 
As  meet  to  be  an  emperor's  counsellor. 
Well,  sir  ;  this  gentleman  is  come  to  me, 
With  commendation  from  great  potentates  ; 
And  here  he  means  to  spend  his  time  awhile : 
I  think  'tis  no  unwelcome  news  to  you.        [he. 

Val.  Should  I  have  wished  a  thing  it  had  been 

Duke.  Welcome  him,  then,  according  to  his 

worth ; 

Silvia,  I  speak  to  you  ;  and  you,  Sir  Thurio:- 
For  Valentine,  I  need  not  'cite  him  to  it : 
I  '11  send  him  hither  to  you  presently. 

[Exit  DUKE. 

Val.  This  is  the  gentleman  I  told  your  lady sh  i  p 
Had  come  along  with  me,  but  that  his  mistress 
Did  hold  his  eyes  lock'd  in  her  crystal  looks. 

Sil.  Belike  that  now  she  hath  enfranchised 
Upon  some  other  pawn  for  fealty.  [them 

Val.  Nay,    sure,    I   think   she   holds    them 
prisoners  still.  [blind, 

Sil.  Nay,  then,  he  should  be  blind ;  and,  being 
How  could  he  see  his  way  to  seek  out  you  ? 

Val.  Whyr  lady,  love  hath  twenty  pair  of  eyes. 


SCENE  IV.] 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


Thu.  They  say  that  love  hath  not  an  eye  at  all. 
VaL  To  see  such  lovers,  Thurio,  as  yourself ; 
Upon  a  homely  object  love  can  wink. 

Enter  PROTEUS. 

SiL  Have  done,  have  done  ;  here  comes  the 
gentleman.  [seech  you 

VaL  Welcome,  dear  Proteus!— Mistress,  I  be- 
Confirm  his  welcome  with  some  special  favour. 

SiL  His  worth  is  warrant  for  his  welcome 

hither, 
If  this  be  he  you  oft  have  wish'd  to  hear  from. 

VaL  Mistress,  it  is:  sweet  lady,  entertain  him 
To  be  my  fellow-servant  to  your  ladyship. 

SiL  Too  low  a  mistress  for  so  high  a  servant. 

Pro.  Not  so,  sweet  lady;  but  toomeanaservant 
To  have  a  look  of  such  a  worthy  mistress. 

VaL   Leave  off  discourse  of  disability:— 
Sweet  lady,  entertain  him  for  your  servant. 

Pro.  My  duty  will  I  boast  of,  nothing  else. 

SiL  And  duty  never  yet  did  want  his  meed. 
Servant,  you  are  welcome  to  a  worthless  mistress. 

Pro.  I  '11  die  on  him  that  says  so  but  yourself. 

SiL  That  you  are  welcome  ? 

Pro.  No  ;  that  you  are  worthless. 

Enter  Servant 
Ser.  Madam ,  my  lord  your  father  would  speak 

with  you. 

SiL   I '11  wait  upon  his  pleasure.  [Exit  Servant. 
Come,  Sir  Thurio, 

Go  with  me.  — Once  more,  new  servant,  welcome. 

I  '11  leave  you  to  confer  of  home  affairs  ; 

When  you  have  done  we  look  to  hear  from  you. 

Pro.  We  '11  both  attend  upon  your  ladyship. 

[Exeunt  SIL.,  THU.,  and  SPEED. 

VaL  Now,  tell  me,  how  do  all  from  whence 

you  came  ?  [much  commended. 

Pro.  Your  friends  are  well,  and  have  them 

VaL  And  how  do  yours  ? 

Pro.  I  left  them  all  in  health. 

VaL  How  does  your  lady  ?  and  how  thrives 

your  love  ? 

Pro.  My  tales  of  love  were  wont  to' weary  you; 
I  know  you  joy  not  in  a  love-discourse. 

VaL  Ay,  Proteus;  but  that  life  is  alter'd  now: 
I  have  done  penance  for  contemning  love  ; 
Whosehighimperiousthoughtshave  punish'd  me 
With  bitter  fasts,  with  penitential  groans, 
With  nightly  tears,  and  daily  heart-sore  sighs  ; 
For,  in  revenge  of  my  contempt  of  love, 
Love  hath  chased  sleep  from  my  enthralled  eyes, 
And  made  them  watchers  of  mine  own  heart's 

sorrow. 

O,  gentle  Proteus,  love's  a  mighty  lord  ; 
And  hath  so  humbled  me,  as  I  confess, 
There  is  no  woe  to  his  correction, 


Nor,  to  his  service,  no  such  joy  on  earth  ! 
Now  no  discourse,  except  it  be  of  love  ; 
Now  can  I  break  my  fast,  dine,  sup,  and  sleep, 
Upon  the  very  naked  name  of  love. 

Pro.  Enough;  I  read  your  fortune  in  your  eye: 
Was  this  the  idol  that  you  worship  so  r 

VaL  Even  she ;  and  is  she  not  a  heavenly  saint? 

Pro.  No  ;  but  she  is  an  earthly  paragon. 

VaL  Call  her  divine. 

Pro.  I  will  not  natter  her. 

VaL  O,  flatter  me;  for  love  delights  in  praises. 

Pro.  When  I  was  sick  you  gave  me  bitter  pills, 
And  I  must  minister  the  like  to  you. 

VaL  Then  speak  the  truth  by  her;  if  not  divine, 
Yet  let  her  be  a  principality, 
Sovereign  to  all  the  creatures  on  the  earth. 

Pro.  Except  my  mistress. 

VaL  Sweet,  except  not  any, 

Except  thou  wilt  except  against  my  love. 

Pro.  Have  I  not  reason  to  prefer  mine  own? 

VaL  And  I  will  help  thee  to  prefer  her  too  : 
She  shall  be  dignified  with  this  high  honour- 
To  bear  my  lady's  train,  lest  the  base  earth 
Should  from  her  vesture  chance  to  steal  a  kiss, 
And,  of  so  great  a  favour  growing  proud, 
Disdain  to  root  the  summer-swelling  flower, 
And  make  rough  winter  everlastingly.       [this  ? 

'Pro.  Why,  Valentine,  what  braggardism  is 

VaL  Pardon  me,  Proteus :  all  I  can  is  nothing 
To  her  whose  worth  makes  other  worthies 
She  is  alone,  [nothing  ; 

Pro,  Then  let  her  alone.  [own ; 

VaL  Not  for  the  world;  why,  man,  she  is  mine 
And  I  as  rich  in  having  such  a  jewel 
As  twenty  seas,  if  all  their  sand  were  pearl, 
The  water  nectar,  and  the  rocks  pure  gold. 
Forgive  me  that  I  do  not  dream  on  thee 
Because  thou  seest  me  dote  upon  my  loveojp.sfir 
My  foolish  rival,  that  her  father  likes 
Only  for  his  possessions  are  so  huge, 
Is  gone  with  her  along  ;  and  I  must  after, 
For  love,  thou  know*st  is  full  of  jealousy. 

Pro.  But  she  loves  you  ? 

VaL  Ay,  we  are  betroth'd  : 

Nay,  more  ;  our  marriage  hour, 
With  all  the  cunning  manner  of  our  flight, 
Determined  of :  how  I  must  climb  her  window, 
The  ladder  made  of  cords ;  and  all  the  means 
Plotted  and  'greed  on  for  my  happiness.  • 
Good  Proteus,  go  with  me  to  my  chamber, 
In  these  affairs  to  aid  me  with  thy  counsel. 

Pro.  Go  on  before ;  I  shall  inquire  you  forth : 
I  must  unto  the  road  to  disembark 
Some  necessaries  that  I  needs  must  use ; 
And  then  I'll  presently  attend  you, 

VaL  Will  you  make  haste  ? 

Pre.  I  will.—  [Exit  VAL. 


34 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


[ACT  ii. 


Even  as  one  heat  another  heat  expels,    o^yio1 
Or  as  one  nail  by  strength  drives  out  another, 
So  the  remembrance  of  my  former  love 
Is  by  a  newer  object  quite  forgotten. 
Is  it  mine  eye,  or  Valentinus'  praise, 
Her  true  perfection,  or  my  false  transgression, 
That  makes  me,  reasonless,  to  reason  thus  ? 
She's  fair;  and  so  is  Julia  that  I  love,— 
That  I  did  love,  for  now  my  love  is  thaw'd  ; 
Which  like  a  waxen  image  'gainst  a  fire 
Bears  no  impression  of  the  thing  it  was. 
Methinks  my  zeal  to  Valentine  is  cold, 
And  that  I  love  him  not  as  I  was  wont  t 

0  !  but  I  love  his  lady  too,  too  much  ; 
And  that 's  the  reason  I  love  him  so  little. 
How  shall  I  dote  on  her  with  more  advice, 
That  thus  without  advice  begin  to  love  her  ? 
'Tis  but  her  picture  I  have  yet  beheld, 
And  that  hath  dazzled  my  reason's  light ; 
But  when  I  look  on  her  perfections, 
There  is  no  reason  but  I  shall  be  blind. 

If  I  can  check  my  erring  love,  I  will  : 

If  not,  to  compass  her  I  '11  use  my  skill.  [Exit. 

SCENE  V.— The  same.     A  Street. 
,-,•:,     Enter  SPEED  and  LAUNCE. 
Speed.  Launce  !  by  mine  honesty,  welcome 
to  Milan. 

Laun.  Forswear  not  thyself,  sweet  youth ;  for 

1  am  not  welcome.     I  reckon  this  always — that 
a  man  is  never  undone  till  he  be  hanged  ;  nor 
never  welcome  to  a  place  till  some  certain  shot 
be  paid  and  the  hostess  say,  welcome. 

Speed.  Come  on,  you  madcap  ;  I  '11  to  the 
ale-house  with  you  presently ;  where,  for  one 
shot  of  fivepence,  thou  shalt  have  five  thou- 
sand welcomes.  But,  sirrah,  how  did  thy 
master  part  with  Madam  Julia  ? 

Laun.  Marry,  after  they  closed  in  earnest 
they  parted  very  fairly  in  jest. 

Speed.  But  shall  she  marry  him  ? 

Laun.  No. 

Speed.  How,  then  ?  shall  he  marry  her  ? 

Laun.  No,  neither. 

Speed.  What  !  are  they  broken  ? 

Laun.  No ;  they  are  both  as  whole  as  a  fish. 

Speed.  Why,  then,  how  stands  the  matter 
with  them  ? 

Laun.  Marry,  thus ;  when  it  stands  well 
with  him  it  stands  well  with  her. 

Speed.  What  an  ass  art  thou  ?  I  understand 
thee  not. 

Laun.  What  a  block  art  thou,  that  thou 
canst  not  !  My  staff  understands  me. 

Speed.  What  thou  say'st  ? 

Laun.  Ay,  and  what  I  do,  too  ;  look  thee, 
I  '11  but  lean,  and  my  staff  understands  me. 


Speed.   It  stands  under  thee,  indeed.       [one. 

Laun.  Why,  stand  under  and  understand  is  all 

Speed.  But  tell  me  true,  wili't  be  a  match  ? 

Laun.  Ask  my  dog :  if  he  say  ay,  it  will ;  if 
he  say  no,  it  will ;  if  he  shake  his  tail  and  say 
nothing,  it  will. 

Speed.  The  conclusion  is,  then,  that  it  will. 

Laun.  Thou  shalt  never  get  such  a  secret 
from  me  but  by  a  parable. 

Speed.  'Tis  well  that  I  get  it  so.  But, 
Launce,  how  say'st  thou — that  my  master  is 
become  a  notable  lover? 

Laun.   I  never  knew  him  otherwise. 

Speed.  Than  how? 

Laun.  A  notable  lubber  as  thou  reportest 
him  to  be. 

Speed.  Why,  thou  whoreson  ass,  thou  mis- 
takest  me. 

Laun.  Why,  fool,  I  meant  not  thee,  I  meant 
thy  master. 

Speed.  I  tell  thee,  my  master  is  become  a 
hot  lover. 

Laun.  Why,  I  tell  thee  I  care  not  though  he 
burn  himself  in  love.  If  thou  wilt  go  with  me 
to  the  ale-house,  so ;  if  not,  thou  art  an  Hebrew, 
a  Jew,  and  not  worth  the  name  of  a  Christian. 

Speed.  Why? 

Laun.  Because  thou  hast  not  so  much  charit) 
in  thee  as  to  go  to  the  ale  with  a  Christian. 
Wilt  thou  go  ? 

Speed.   At  thy  service.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI. — The  same.     An  Apartment  in 

the  Palace. 
Enter  PROTEUS. 

Pro.  To  leave  my  Julia,  shall  I  be  forsworn : 
To  love  fair  Silvia  shall  I  be  forsworn  ; 
To  wrong  my  friend,  I  shall  be  much  forsworn; 
And  even  that  power  which  gave  me  first  my  oath 
Provokes  me  to  this  threefold  perjury. 
Love  bade  me  swear,  and  love  bids  me  forswear : 

0  sweet-suggesting  love,  if  thou  hast  sinn'd, 
Teach  me,  thy  tempted  subject,  to  excuse  it. 
At  first  I  did  adore  a  twinkling  star, 

But  now  I  worship  a  celestial  sun. 
Unheedful  vows  may  needfully  be  broken  ; 
And  he  wants  wit  that  wants  resolved  will 
To  learn  his  wit  to  exchange  the  bad  for  better.— 
Fie,  fie,  unreverend  tongue  !  to  call  her  bad, 
Whose  sovereignty  so  oft  thou  hast  preferr'd 
With  twenty-thousand-soul-confirming  oaths. 

1  cannot  leave  to  love,  and  yet  I  do ; 

But  there  I  leave  to  love  where  I  should  love. 
Julia  I  lose,  and  Valentine  I  lose  : 
If  I  keep  them,  I  needs  must  lose  myself; 
If  I  lose  them,  thus  find  I  by  their  loss, 
For  Valentine,  myself  ;  for  Julia,  Silvia. 


SCENE  VII.] 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


35 


I  to  myself  am  dearer  than  a  friend  : 
For  love  is  still  more  precious  in  itself :  [fair  ! — 
And    Silvia — witness    heaven,   that  made   her 
Shows  Julia  but  a  swarthy  Ethiope. 
I  will  forget  that  Julia  is  alive, 
Rememb'ring  that  my  love  to  her  is  dead  ; 
And  Valentine  I  '11  hold  an  enemy, 
Aiming  at  Silvia  as  a  sweeter  friend. 
I  cannot  now  prove  constant  to  myself 
Without  some  treachery  used  to  Valentine  : — 
This  night  he  meaneth  with  a  corded  ladder 
To  climb  celestial  Silvia's  chamber-window — 
Myself  in  counsel,  his  competitor  : 
Now  presently  I  '11  give  her  father  notice 
Of  their  disguising  and  pretended  flight ; 
Who,  all  enraged,  will  banish  Valentine  ; 
For  Thurio,  he  intends,  shall  wed  his  daughter: 
But,  Valentine,  being  gone,  I  '11  quickly  cross, 
By  some  sly  trick,  blunt  Thurio'sdull  proceeding. 
Love,  lend  me  wings  to  make  my  purpose  swift, 
As  thou  hast  lent  me  wit  to  plot  this  drift !  [Exit. 

SCENE  VII. — VERONA.     A  Room  in  JULIA'S 

House. 

Enter  JULIA  and  LUCETTA. 
Jttl.  Counsel,  Lucetta !  gentle  girl,  assist  me ! 
And,  even  in  kind  love,  I  do  conjure  thee, — 
Who  art  the  table  wherein  all  my  thoughts 
Are  visibly  character'd  and  engraved, — 
To  lesson  me  ;  and  tell  me  some  good  mean, 
How,  with  my  honour,  I  may  undertake 
A  journey  to  my  loving  Proteus. 

L^lc.  Alas  !  the  way  is  wearisome  and  long. 
Jnl.  A  true-devoted  pilgrim  is  not  weary 
To  measure  kingdoms  with  his  feeble  steps  ; 
Much  less  shall  she  that  hath  love's  wings  to  fly, 
And  when  the  flight  is  made  to  one  so  dear, 
Of  such  divine  perfection,  as  Sir  Proteus. 
Luc.  Better  forbear  till  Proteus  make  return. 
Jul.  O,  know'st  thou  not  his  looks  are  my 

soul's  food  ? 

Pity  the  dearth  that  I  have  pined  in 
By  longing  for  that  food  so  long  a  time. 
Didst  thou  but  know  the  inly  touch  of  love, 
Thou  wouldst  as  soon  go  kindle  fire  with  snow 
As  seek  to  quench  the  fire  of  love  with  words. 

Luc.  I  do  not  seek  to  quench  your  love's  hot 

But  qualify  the  fire's  extreme  rage,  [fire  ; 

Lest  it  should  burn  above  the  bounds  of  reason. 

Jul.  The  more  thou  damm'st  it  up,  the  more 

it  burns ; 

The  current  that  with  gentle  murmur  glides, 
Thou  know'st,  being  stopp'd,  impatiently  doth 

rage; 

But  when  his  fair  course  is  not  hindered, 
He  makes  sweet  music  with  theenamell'd  stones, 
Giving  a  gentle  kiss  to  every  sedge 


/« 

Wit! 


/* 

Wha 


He  overtaketh  in  his  pilgrimage  ; 

And  so  by  many  winding  nooks  he  strays, 

With  willing  sport,  to  the  wild  ocean. 

Then  let  me  go,  and  hinder  not  my  course  : 

I  '11  be  as  patient  as  a  gentle  stream, 

And  make  a  pastime  of  each  weary  step, 

Till  the  last  step  have  brought  me  to  my  love  ; 

And  there  I  '11  rest  as,  after  much  turmoil, 

A  blessed  soul  doth  in  Elysium. 

Luc.  But  in  what  habit  will  you  go  along  ? 

Jul.  Not  like  a  woman ;  for  I  would  prevent 
The  loose  encounters  of  lascivious  men  ; 
Gentle  Lucetta,  fit  me  with  such  weeds 
As  may  beseem  some  well-reputed  page.  [hair. 

Luc.  Why,  then,  your  ladyship  must  cut  your 

Jul.  No,  girl ;  I'll  knit  it  up  in  silken  strings, 

ith  twenty  odd-conceited  true-love  knots  : 
To  be  fantastic  may  become  a  youth 
Of  greater  time  than  I  shall  show  to  be. 

Luc.   What  fashion,  madam,  shall  I  make 
your  breeches  ?  [lord, 

Tul.  That  fits  as  well  as — "  Tell  me,  good  my 

hat  compass  will  you  wear  your  farthingale?" 
Why,  even  that  fashion  thou  best  lik'st,  Lucetta. 

Luc.  You  must  needs  have  them  with  a  cod- 
piece, madam. 

Jul.  Out,  out,  Lucetta!  that  will  be  ill-favour'd. 

Luc.  A  round  hose,  madam,  now 's  not  worth 

a  pin, 
Unless  you  have  a  cod-piece  to  stick  pins  on. 

Jul.  Lucetta,  as  thou  lov'st  me,  let  me  have 
What  thou  think'st  meet,  and  is  most  mannerly : 
But  tell  me,  wench,  how  will  the  world  repute  me 
For  undertaking  so  unstaid  a  journey  ? 
I  fear  me  it  will  make  me  scandaliz'd.  [go  not. 

Luc.  If  you  think  so,  then  stay  at  home,  and 

Jul.  Nay,  that  I  will  not. 

Luc.  Then  never  dream  on  infamy,  but  go. 
If  Proteus  like  your  journey  when  you  come, 
No  matter  who 's  displeas'd  when  you  are  gone : 
I  fear  me  he  will  scarce  be  pleased  withal. 

Jttl.  That  is  the  least,  Lucetta,  of  my  fear  : 
A  thousand  oaths,  an  ocean  of  his  tears, 
And  instances  as  infinite  of  love, 
Warrant  me  welcome  to  my  Proteus. 

Luc.  All  these  are  servants  to  deceitful  men. 

Jul.  Base  men,  that  use  them  to  so  base  effect  f 
But  truer  stars  did  govern  Proteus'  birth  : 
His  words  are  bonds,  his  oaths  are  oracles  ; 
His  love  sincere,  his  thoughts  immaculate  ; 
His  tears  pure  messengers  sent  from  his  heart ; 
His  heart  as  far  from  fraud  as  heaven  from  earth. 

Luc.    Pray  heaven  he  prove  so  when  you 
come  to  him  !  [wrong, 

Jttl.  Now,  as  thou  lov'st  me,  do  him  not  that 
To  bear  a  hard  opinion  of  his  truth  ; 
Only  deserve  my  love  by  loving  him, 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


[ACT  in. 


1  presently  go  with  me  to  my  chamber, 
take  a  note  of  what  I  stand  in  need  of 


And 

To 

To  furnish  me  upon  my  longing  journey. 

All  that  is  mine  I  leave  at  thy  dispose, 

My  goods,  my  lands,  my  reputation  ; 

Only,  in  lieu  thereof,  dispatch  me  hence  : 

Come,  answer  not,  but  to  it  presently ; 

I  am  impatient  of  my  tarriance.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  III. 
SCENE  I.— MILAN.      An  Ante-room  in  the 

DUKE'S  Palace. 
Enter  DUKE,  THURIO,  and  PROTEUS. 

Duke.  Sir  Thurio,  give  us  leave,  I  pray,  awhile; 
We  have  some  secrets  to  confer  about. 

[Exit  THURIO. 

Now,  tell  me,  Proteus,  what 's  your  will  with 
me  ?  [discover, 

Pro.   My  gracious  lord,  that  which  I  would 
The  law  of  friendship  bids  me  to  conceal ; 
But,  when  I  call  to  mind  your  gracious  favours 
Done  to  me,  undeserving  as  I  am, 
My  duty  pricks  me  on  to  utter  that  [me. 

Which  else  no  worldly  good  should  draw  from 
Know,  worthy  prince,  Sir  Valentine,  my  friend, 
This  night  intends  to  steal  away  your  daughter ; 
Myself  am  one  made  privy  to  the  plot. 
I  know  you  have  determined  to  bestow  her 
On  Thurio,  whom  your  gentle  daughter  hates  ; 
And  should  she  thus  be  stolen  a\vay  from  you, 
It  would  be  much  vexation  to  your  age. 
Thus,  for  my  duty's  sake,  I  rather  chose 
To  cross  my  friend  in  his  intended  drift, 
Than,  by  concealing  it,  heap  on  your  head 
A  pack  of  sorrows,  which  would  press  you  down, 
Being  unprevented,  to  your  timeless  grave. 

Duke.  Proteus,  I  thank  thee  for  thine  honest 

care; 

Which  to  requite,  command  me  while  I  live. 
This  love  of  theirs  myself  have  often  seen, 
Haply  when  they  have  judged  me  fast  asleep  ; 
And  oftentimes  have  purposed  to  forbid 
Sir  Valentine  her  company  and  my  court : 
But,  fearing  lest  my  jealous  aim  might  err, 
And  so,  unworthily,  disgrace  the  man, — 
A  rashness  that  I  ever  yet  have  shunn'd,— 
I  gave  him  gentle  looks  ;  thereby  to  find 
That  which  thyself  hast  now  disclos'd  to  me. 
And,  that  thou  may'st  perceive  my  fear  of  this, 
Knowing  that  tender  youth  is  soon  suggested, 
I  nightly  lodge  her  in  an  upper  tower, 
The  key  whereof  myself  have  ever  kept ; 
And  thence  she  cannot  be  conveyed  away,  [mean 

Pro.  Know,  noble  lord,  they  have  devised  a 
How  he  her  chamber-window  will  ascend, 
And  with  a  corded  ladder  fetch  her  down ; 


For  which  the  youthful  lover  now  is  gone, 
And  this  way  comes  he  with  it  presently ; 
Where,  if  it  please  you,  you  may  intercept  him. 
But,  good  my  lord,  do  it  so  cunningly, 
That  my  discovery  be  not  aimed  at ; 
For  love  of  you,  not  hate  unto  my  friend, 
Hath  made  me  publisher  of  this  pretence. 

Duke.  Upon  mine  honour,  he  shall  never  know 
That  I  had  any  light  from  thee  of  this. 

Pro.  Adieu,  my  lord  ;  Sir  Valentine  is  com- 
ing. [Exit. 

Enter  VALENTINE. 

Duke.  Sir  Valentine,  whither  away  so  fast  ? 

Val.  Please  it  your  grace,  there  is  a  messenger 
That  stays  to  bear  my  letters  to  my  friends, 
And  I  am  going  to  deliver  them. 

Duke.  Be  they  of  much  import  ? 

Val.  The  tenor  of  them  doth  but  signify 
My  health  and  happy  being  at  your  court. 

Duke.  Nay,  then,  no  matter;  stay  with  mo 

awhile ; 

I  am  to  break  with  thee  of  some  affairs 
That  touch  me  near,  wherein  thou  must  be  secret. 
'Tis  not  unknown  to  thee  that  I  have  sought 
To  match  my  friend,  Sir  Thurio,  to  my  daughter. 

Val.  I  know  it  well,  my  lord ;  and,  sure,  the 
match  [man 

Were  rich  and  honourable ;  besides,  the  gentle- 
Is  full  of  virtue,  bounty,  worth,  and  qualities 
Beseeming  such  a  wife  as  your  fair  daughter  : 
Cannot  your  grace  win  her  to  fancy  him  ? 

Duke.  No,  trust  me;  she  is  peevish,  sullen, 

froward, 

Proud,  disobedient,  stubborn,  lacking  duty  ; 
Neither  regarding  that  she  is  my  child 
Nor  fearing  me  as  if  I  were  her  father : 
And,  may  I  say  to  thee,  this  pride  of  hers, 
Upon  advice,  hath  drawn  my  love  from  her  ; 
And,  where  I  thought  the  remnant  of  mine  age 
Should  have  been  cherished  by  her  child-like 

duty, 

I  am  now  full  resolved  to  take  a  wife, 
And  turn  her  out  to  who  will  take  her  in  : 
Then  let  her  beauty  be  her  wedding-dower ; 
For  me  and  my  possession  she  esteems  not. 

Val.  What  would  your  grace  have  me  to  do 
in  this? 

Duke.  There  is  a  lady,  sir,  in  Milan,  here, 
Whom  I  affect ;  but  she  is  nice,  and  coy, 
And  nought  esteems  my  aged  eloquence  : 
Now,  therefore,  would  I  have  thee  to  my  tutor, — 
For  long  agone  I  have  forgot  to  court : 
Besides,  the  fashion  of  the  time  is  chang'd  ; — • 
How  and  which  way  I  may  bestow  myself. 
To  be  regarded  in  her  sun-bright  eye. 

Val.  Win  her  with  gifts,if  she  respect  not  words; 


SCENE  I.] 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


37 


Dumb  jewels  often,  in  their  silent  kind, 
More  than  quick  words  do  move  a  woman's  mind. 

Duke,  But  she  did  scorn  a  present  that  I  sent 
her.  [contents  her : 

Val.  A  woman  sometimes  scorns  what  best 
Send  her  another  ;  never  give  her  o'er  ; 
For  scorn  at  first  makes  after-love  the  more. 
If  she  do  frown,  'tis  not  in  hate  of  you, 
But  rather  to  beget  more  love  in  you  : 
If  she  do  chide,  'tis  not  to  have  you  gone ; 
For  why,  the  fools  are  mad  if  left  alone. 
Take  no  repulse  whatever  she  doth  say  : 
For,  get  you  gone,  she  doth  not  mean  away : 
Flatter  and  praise,  commend,  extol  their  graces ; 
Though  ne'er  so  black ,  say  they  have  angels'  faces. 
That  man  that  hath  a  tongue,  I  say,  is  no  man, 
If  with  his  tongue  he  cannot  win  a  woman. 

Duke.  But  she  I  mean  is  promised  by  her 

friends 

Unto  a  youthful  gentleman  of  worth  ; 
And  kept  severely  from  resort  of  men, 
That  no  man  hath  access  by  day  to  her. 

Val.  Why,  then,  I  would  resort  to  her  by  night. 

Duke.  Ay,  but  the  doors  be  lock'd,  and  keys 

kept  safe, 
That  no  man  hath  recourse  to  her  by  night. 

Val.   What  lets  but  one  may  enter  at  her 
window  ?  [ground  ; 

Duke.  Her  chamber  is  aloft,  far  from  the 
And  built  so  shelving,  that  one  cannot  climb  it 
Without  apparent  hazard  of  his  life.  [cords, 

Val.  Why,  then,  a  ladder,  quaintly  made  of 
To  cast  up  with  a  pair  of  anchoring  hooks, 
Would  serve  to  scale  another  Hero's  tower, 
So  bold  Leander  would  adventure  it. 

Duke.  Now,  as  thou  art  a  gentleman  of  blood, 
Advise  me  where  I  may  have  such  a  ladder. 

Val.  When  would  you  use  it?  pray,  sir,  tell  me 
that. 

Duke.  This  very  night ;  for  love  is  like  a  child, 
That  longs  for  everything  that  he  can  come  by. 

Val.  Byseven  o'clock  I '11  get  you  such  a  ladder. 

Duke.  But,  hark  thee ;  I  will  go  to  her  alone; 
How  shall  I  best  convey  the  ladder  thither  ? 

Val.  It  will  be  light,  my  lord,  that  you  may 

bear  it 
Under  a  cloak  that  is  of  any  length.          [turn. 

D^tke.  A  cloak  as  long  as  thine  will  serve  the 

Val.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Duke.  Then  let  me  see  thy  cloak  : 
I  '11  get  me  one  of  such  another  length,     [lord. 

Val.  Why,  any  cloak  will  serve  the  turn,  my 

Duke.    How  shall  I  fashion  me  to  wear  a 

cloak  ?— 

I  pray  thee,  let  me  feel  thy  cloak  upon  me. — 
What  letter  is  this  same  ?     What 's  here  I—To 
Silvia  ? 


And  here  an  engine  fit  for  my  proceeding  ! 
I  '11  be  so  bold  to  break  the  seal  for  once.  [Reads. 

My  thoughts  do  harbour  with  my  Silvia  nightly  ; 
And  slaves  they  are  to  me,  that  send  them  fly  ing. 
O,  cmtld  their  master  come  and  go  as  lightly, 
Himself  would  lodge  where  senseless  they  are 

lying. 

My  herald  thoughts  in  thy  piire  bosom  rest  them, 
While  I,  their  king,  that  thither  them  impor- 
tune, 
Do  curse  the  grace  that  -with  such  grace  hath 

bless1  d  them, 

Becaitse  myself  do  want  my  servants' 'fortune: 
I  ctirse  myself,  for  they  are  sent  by  me, 
That  they  shmild  harbour  where   their  lord 
should  be. 

What's  here  ? 

Silvia,  this  night  I  will  enfranchise  thee : 
'Tis  so  ;  and  here  's  the  ladder  for  the  purpose. 
Why,  Phaeton, — for  thou  art  Merops'  son, — 
Wilt  thou  aspire  to  guide  the  heavenly  car, 
And  with  thy  daring  folly  burn  the  world  ? 
Wilt  thou  reach  stars  because  they  shine  on  thee? 
Go,  base  intruder  !  over-weening  slave  ! 
Bestow  thy  fawning  smiles  on  equal  mates  ; 
And  think  my  patience,  more  than  thy  desert, 
Is  privilege  for  thy  departure  hence  : 
Thank  me  for  this,  more  than  for  all  the  favours 
Which,  all  too  much,  I  have  bestow'd  on  thee. 
But  if  thou  linger  in  my  territories 
Longer  than  swiftest  expedition 
Will  give  thee  time  to  leave  our  royal  court, 
By  heaven,  my  wrath  shall  far  exceed  the  love 
I  ever  bore  ray  daughter  or  thyself. 
Begone,  I  will  not  hear  thy  vain  excuse, 
But,  as  thou  lov'st  thy  life,  make  speed  from 

hence.  [Exit  DUKE. 

Val.  And  why  not  death,  rather  than  living 

torment  ? 

To  die  is  to  be  banish'd  from  myself ; 
And  Silvia  is  myself :  banish'd  from  her 
Is  self  from  self :  a  deadly  banishment  ! 
What  light  is  light  if  Silvia  be  not  seen  ? 
What  joy  is  joy  if  Silvia  be  not  by  ? 
Unless  it  be  to  think  that  she  is  by*  >rr  uxi 
And  feed  upon  the  shadow  of  perfection. 
Except  I  be  by  Silvia  in  the  night 
There  is  no  music  in  the  nightingale  ; 
Unless  I  look  on  Silvia  in  the  day 
There  is  no  day  for  me  to  look  upon  : 
She  is  my  essence  ;  and  I  leave  to  be, 
If  I  be  not  by  her  fair  influence 
Foster'd,  illumined,  cherish'd,  kept  alive, 
I  fly  not  death  to  fly  his  deadly  doom  : 
Tarry  I  here  I  but  attend  on  death  ; 
But  fly  I  hence  I  fly  away  from  life. 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


[ACT  in. 


Enter  PROTEUS  and  LAUNCE. 

Pro,   Run,  boy,  run,  run,  and  seek  him  out. 

Laun.  So-ho  !  so-ho  ! 

Pro.  What  seest  thou  ? 

Laun.  Him  we  go  to  find:  there's  not  a  hair 
on 's  head  but  'tis  a  Valentine. 

Pro.  Valentine  ? 

Val.  No. 

Pro.  Who  then  ?  his  spirit  ? 

Val.  Neither. 

Pro.  What  then.? WUM 

Val.  Nothing.  [strike? 

Laun.  Can  nothing  speak?  master,  shall  I 

Pro.  Whom  wouldst  thou  strike  ? 

Laun.  Nothing. 

Pro.  Villain,  forbear.  [you, — 

Laun.  Why,  sir,  I  '11  strike  nothing :  I  pray 

Pro.  Sirrah,  I  say,  forbear :  Friend  Valentine, 
a  word.  [good  news, 

Val.   My  ears  are  stopp'd,  and  cannot  hear 
So  much  of  bad  already  hath  possess'd  them. 

Pro.  Then  in  dumb  silence  will  I  bury  mine, 
For  they  are  harsh,  untuneable,  and  bad. 

Val.  Is  Silvia  dead  ? 

Pro.  No,  Valentine. 

Val.  No  Valentine,  indeed,  for  sacred  Silvia! — 
Hath  she  forsworn  me  ? 

Pro.  No,  Valentine.  [me  ! — 

Val.  No  Valentine,  if  Silvia  have  forsworn 
What  is  your  news  ? 

Laun.  Sir,  there 's  a  proclamation  that  you 
are  vanish'd.  [news  ; 

Pro.  That  thou  art  banished  ;  O,  that 's  the 
From  hence,  from  Silvia,  and  from  me  thy  friend. 

Val.  O,  I  have  fed  upon  this  woe  already, 
And  now  excess  of  it  will  make  me  surfeit. 
Doth  Silvia  know  that  I  am  banished  ? 

Pro.  Ay,  ay ;  and  she  hath  offer'd   to  the 

doom, — 

Which,  unreversed,  stands  in  effectual  force, — 
A  sea  of  melting  pearl,  which  some  call  tears  : 
Those  at  her  father's  churlish  feet  she  tender'd 
With  them,  upon  her  knees,  her  humble  self ; 
Wringing  her  hands,  whose  whiteness  so  became 

them, 

As  if  but  now  they  waxed  pale  for  woe  : 
But  neither  bended  knees,  pure  hands  held  up, 
Sad  sighs,  deep  groans,  nor  silver-shedding  tears, 
Could  penetrate  her  uncompassionate  sire  ; 
But  Valentine,  if  he  be  ta'en,  must  die. 
Besides,  her  intercession  chafed  him  so, 
When  she  for  thy  repeal  was  suppliant, 
That  to  close  prison  he  commanded  her, 
With  many  bitter  threats  of  'biding  there. 

Val.  No  more  ;  unless  the  next  word  that 

thou  speak'st 
Have  some  malignant  power  upon  my  life : 


If  so,  I  pray  thee,  breathe  it  in  mine  ear, 

As  ending  anthem  of  my  endless  dolour,     [help, 

Pro.  Cease  to  lament  for  that  thou  canst  not 
And  study  help  for  that  which  thou  lament'st. 
Time  is  the  nurse  and  breeder  of  all  good. 
Here  if  thou  stay  thou  canst  not  see  thy  love  ; 
Besides,  thy  staying  will  abridge  thy  life. 
Hope  is  a  lover's  staff ;  walk  hence  with  that, 
And  manage  it  against  despairing  thoughts. 
Thy  letters  may  be  here  though  thou  art  hence : 
Which,  being  writ  to  me,  shall  be  deliver'd 
Even  in  the  milk-white  bosom  of  thy  love. 
The  time  now  serves  not  to  expostulate  : 
Come,  I  '11  convey  thee  through  the  city  gate  ; 
And,  ere  I  part  with  thee,  confer  at  large 
Of  all  that  may  concern  thy  love  affairs  : 
As  thou  lov'st  Silvia,  though  not  for  thyself, 
Regard  thy  danger,  and  along  with  me. 

Val.  I  pray  thee,  Launce,  an  if  thou  seest 

my  boy,  [gate. 

Bid  him  make  haste  and  meet  me  at  the  north 

Pro.    Go,    sirrah,    find    him    out.      Come, 
Valentine. 

Val.  O  my  dear  Silvia,  hapless  Valentine  ! 
\Exeitnt  VAL.  and  PRO. 

Laun.  I  am  but  a  fool,  look  you  ;  and  yet  I 
have  the  wit  to  think  my  master  is  a  kind  of 
knave :  but  that 's  all  one  if  he  be  but  one  knave. 
He  lives  not  now  that  knows  me  to  be  in  love  : 
yet  I  am  in  love  ;  but  a  team  of  horse  shall  not 
pluck  that  from  me  ;  nor  who  'tis  I  love,  and 
yet  'tis  a  woman  :  but  what  woman  I  will  not 
tell  myself;  and  yet  'tis  a  milkmaid;  yet  'tis 
not  a  maid,  for  she  hath  had  gossips  :  yet  'tis  a 
maid,  for  she  is  her  master's  maid,  and  serves 
for  wages.  She  hath  more  qualities  than  a 
water-spaniel, — which  is  much  in  a  bare  Chris- 
tian. Here  is  the  cat-log  [Pulling  out  a  paper} 
of  her  conditions.  Imprimis,  She  can  fetch' and 
carry.  Why,  a  horse  can  do  no  more  :  nay,  a 
horse  cannot  fetch,  but  only  carry  ;  therefore  is 
she  better  than  a  jade.  Item,  She  can  milk  ; 
look  you,  a  sweet  virtue  in  a  maid  with  clean 
hands. 

Enter  SPEED. 

Speed.  How  now,  Signior  Launce?  what  news 
with  your  mastership  ? 

Laim.  With  my  master's  ship?  why,  it  is  at  sea. 

Speed.  Well,  your  old  vice  still ;  mistake  the 

word. 
What  news,  then,  in  your  paper  ?        [heard'st. 

Laun.    The   blackest   news  that  ever  thou 

Speed.  Why,  man,  how  black  ? 

Laun.  Why,  as  black  as  ink. 

Speed.  Let  me  read  them.  [read. 

Laun.  Fie  on  thee,  jolthead;  thou  canst  not 

Speed.  Thou  liest,  I  can. 


SCENE  II.] 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


39 


Laun.  I  will  try  thee  :  Tell  me  this :  Who 
begot  thee  ? 

Speed.   Marry,  the  son  of  my  grandfather. 

Laun.  O  illiterate  loiterer !  it  was  the  son  of 
thy  grandmother :  this  proves  that  thou  canst 
not  read. 

Speed.  Come,  fool,  come:  try  me  in  thy  paper. 

Laun.  There ;  and  St.  Nicholas  be  thy  speed  ! 

Speed.   Imprimis,  She  can  milk. 

Laun.  Ay,  that  she  can. 

Speed.   Item,  She  brews  good  ale. 

Laun.  And  thereof  comes  the  proverb,— 
Blessing  of  your  heart,  you  brew  good  ale. 

Speed.   Item,  She  can  sew. 

Laun.  That 's  as  much  as  to  say,  can  she  so? 

Speed.   Item,  She  can  knit. 

Laun.  What  need  a  man  care  for  a  stock 
with  a  wench,  when  she  can  knit  him  a  stock. 

Speed.   Item,  She  can  wash  and  scour. 

Laun.  A  special  virtue  ;  for  then  she  need 
not  be  washed  and  scoured. 

Speed.   Item,  She  can  spin. 

Laun.  Then  may  I  set  the  world  on  wheels, 
when  she  can  spin  for  her  living. 

Speed.  Item,  She  hath  many  nameless  virtues. 

Laun.  That 's  as  much  as  to  say,  bastard 
virtues  ;  that,  indeed,  know  not  their  fathers, 
and  therefore  have  no  names. 

Speed.  Here  follow  her  vices. 

Laun.  Close  at  the  heels  of  her  virtues. 

Speed.  Item,  She  is  not  to  be  kissed  fasting, 
in  respect  of  her  breath. 

Laun.  Well,  that  fault  may  be  mended  with 
a  breakfast.  Read  on. 

Speed.   Item,  She  hath  a  sweet  mouth. 

Laun.  That  makes  amends  for  her  sour  breath. 

Speed.   Item,  She  doth  talk  in  her  sleep. 

Laun.  It 's  no  matter  for  that,  so  she  sleep 
not  in  her  talk. 

Speed.  Item,  She  is  slow  in  words. 

Laun.  O  villain,  that  set  this  down  among 
her  vices  !  To  be  slow  in  words  is  a  woman's 
only  virtue:  I  pray  thee,  out  with't;  and  place 
it  for  her  chief  virtue. 

Speed.  Item,  She  is  proud. 

Laun.  Out  with  that  too ;  it  was  Eve's 
legacy,  and  cannot  be  ta'en  from  her. 

Speed.  Item,  She  hath  no  teeth. 

Laun.  I  care  not  for  that  neither,  because  I 
love  crusts. 

Speed.  Item,  She  is  curst. 
Laun.  Well ;  the  best  is,  she  hath  no  teeth  to 
bite. 

Speed.  Item,  She  will  often  praise  her  liquor. 
Laun.  If  her  liquor  be  good,  she  shall :   if 
she  will  not,  I  will ;  for  good  things  should  be 
praised. 


Speed.   Item,  She  is  too  liberal. 

Latin.  Of  her  tongue  she  cannot ;  for  that 's 
writ  down  she  is  slow  of:  of  her  purse  she 
shall  not ;  for  that  I  '11  keep  shut :  now  of  an- 
other thing  she  may ;  and  that  I  cannot  help. 
Well,  proceed. 

Speed.  Item,  She  hath  more  Jiair  than  wit, 
and  more  faults  than  hairs,  and  more  -wealth 
than  faults. 

Laun.  Stop  there  ;  I  '11  have  her :  she  was 
mine,  and  not  mine,  twice  or  thrice  in  that  last 
article.  Rehearse  that  once  more. 

Speed.   Item,  She  hath  more  hair  than  wit, — 

Laun.  More  hair  than  wit, — it  may  be  ;  I  '11 
prove  it :  The  cover  of  the  salt  hides  the  salt, 
and  therefore  it  is  more  than  the  salt ;  the  hair 
that  covers  the  wit  is  more  than  the  wit ;  for  the 
greater  hides  the  less.  What 's  next  ? 

Speed. — And  more  faults  than  hairs  j — 

Laun.  That's  monstrous:  O,  that  that  were 
out  ! 

Speed. — And  more  wealth  than  faults. 

Laun.  Why,  that  word  makes  the  faults 
gracious.  Well,  I  '11  have  her  :  and  if  it  be  a 
match,  as  nothing  is  impossible. 

Speed.  What  then  ? 

Latin.  Why,  then  will  I  tell  thee, — that  thy 
master  stays  for  thee  at  the  north  gate. 

Speed.  For  me  ? 

Laun.  For  thee?  ay:  who  art  thou?  he  hath 
stay'd  for  a  better  man  than  thee. 

Speed.  And  must  I  go  to  him  ? 

Laun.  Thou  must  run  to  him,  for  thou  hast 
stay'd  so  long  that  going  will  scarce  serve  the  turn. 

Speed.  Why  didst  not  tell  me  sooner  ?  'pox 
of  your  love-letters  !  [Exit. 

Laun.  Now  will  he  be  swinged  for  reading 
my  letter.  An  unmannerly  slave  that  will  thrust 
himself  into  secrets !— I  '11  after,  to  rejoice  in  the 
boy's  correction.  [Exit. 

r  «bftfjn»!>;v/  rr^»>  svo!  ^rf  bsov/  arfJ  *{• 
SCENE    II. — The  same.      A  Room   in  the 
DUKE'S  Palace. 

Enter  DUKE  and  THURIO  ;  PROTEUS  behind. 

Duke.   Sir  Thurio,  fear  not  but  that  she  will 

love  you 
Now  Valentine  is  banish'd  from  her  sight. 

Thu.  Since  his  exile  she  hath  despised  me 

most, 

Forsworn  my  company  and  rail'd  at  me, 
That  I  am  desperate  of  obtaining  her. 

Duke.  This  weak  impress  of  love  is  as  a  figure 
Trenched  in  ice  ;  which  with  an  hour's  heat 
Dissolves  to  water  and  doth  lose  his  form. 
A  little  time  will  melt  her  frozen  thoughts, 
And  worthless  Valentine  shall  be  forgot.  •HbnA 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


[ACT  iv. 


How  now,  Sir  Proteus  ?     Is  your  countryman, 
According  to  our  proclamation,  gone  ? 

Pro.  Gone,  my  good  lord. 

Duke.  My  daughter  takes  his  going  grievously. 

Pro.  A  little  time,  my  lord,  will  kill  that  grief. 

Duke.  So  I  believe;  but  Thurio  thinks  not  so. — 
Proteus,  the  good  conceit  I  hold  of  thee. — 
For  thou  hast  shown  some  sign  of  good  desert, — 
Makes  me  the  better  to  confer  with  thee. 

Pro.  Longer  than  I  prove  loyal  to  your  grace, 
Let  me  not  live  to  look  upon  your  grace,  [effect 

Duke.  Thou  know'st,  how  willingly  I  would 
The  match  between  Sir  Thurio  and  my  daughter. 

Pro.  I  do,  my  lord. 

Duke.  And  also  I  think,  thou  art  not  ignorant 
How  she  opposes  her  against  my  will. 

Pro.  She  did,  my  lord,  when  Valentine  was 
here. 

Duke.  Ay,  and  perversely  she  persevers  so. 
What  might  we  do  to  make  the  girl  forget 
The  love  of  Valentine  and  love  Sir  Thurio  ? 

Pro.  The  best  way  is  to  slander  Valentine 
With  falsehood,  cowardice,  and  poor  descent ; 
Three  things  that  women  highly  hold  in  hate. 

Duke.  Ay,  but  she  '11  think  that  it  is  spoke  in 
hate. 

Pro.  Ay,  if  his  enemy  deliver  it : 
Therefore  it  must,  with  circumstance,  be  spoken 
By  one  whom  she  esteemeth  as  his  friend,  [him. 

Duke.  Then  you  must  undertake  to  slander 

Pro.  And  that,  my  lord,  I  shall  be  loth  to  do : 
'Tis  an  ill  office  for  a  gentleman  ; 
Especially  against  his  very  friend.        [tage  him 

Duke.  Where  your  good  word  cannot  advan- 
Your  slander  never  can  endamage  him  ; 
Therefore,  the  office  is  indifferent, 
Being  entreated  to  it  by  your  friend.  [it 

Pro.  You  have  prevail'd,  my  lord :  if  I  can  do 
By  aught  that  I  can  speak  in  his  dispraise, 
She  shall  not  long  continue  love  to  him. 
But  say  this  weed  her  love  from  Valentine, 
It  follows  not  that  she  will  love  Sir  Thurio. 

Thu.   Therefore,  as  you  unwind  her  love 

from  him. 

Lest  it  should  ravel,  and  be  good  to  none, 
You  must  provide  to  bottom  it  on  me  : 
Which  must  be  done  by  praising  me  as  much 
A.S  you  in  worth  dispraise  Sir  Valentine. 

Duke.  And,  Proteus,  we  dare  trust  you  in 

this  kind ; 

Because  we  know,  on  Valentine's  report, 
You  are  already  love's  firm  votary, 
And  cannot  soon  revolt  and  change  your  mind. 
Upon  this  warrant  shall  you  have  access 
Where  you  with  Silvia  may  confer  at  large  ; 
For  she  is  lumpish,  heavy,  melancholy, 
And,  for  your  friend's  sake,  will  be  glad  of  you ; 


Where  you  may  temper  her  by  your  persuasion 
To  hate  young  Valentine  and  love  my  friend. 

Pro.  As  much  as  I  can  do  I  will  effect : — 
But  you,  Sir  Thurio,  are  not  sharp  enough  ; 
You  must  lay  lime  to  tangle  her  desires 
By  wailful  sonnets,  whose  composed  rhymes 
Should  be  full  fraught  with  serviceable  vows. 

Duke.    Ay,  much  the  force  of  heaven-bred 
poesy. 

Pro.  Say  that  upon  the  altar  of  her  beauty 
You  sacrifice  your  tears,  your  sighs,  your  heart; 
Write  till  your  ink  be  dry  ;  and  with  your  tears 
Moist  it  again  ;  and  frame  some  feeling  line 
That  may  discover  such  integrity  : 
For  Orpheus'  lute  was  strung  with  poets'  sinews; 
Whose  golden  touch  could  soften  steel  and 

stones. 

Make  tigers  tame  and  huge  leviathans 
Forsake  unsounded  deeps  to  dance  on  sands, 
After  your  dire  lamenting  elegies, 
Visit  by  night  your  lady's  chamber-window 
With  some  sweet  concert :  to  their  instruments 
Tune  a  deploring  dump ;  the  night's  dead  silence 
Will  well  become  such  sweet  complaining  griev- 
ance. 
This,  or  else  nothing,  will  inherit  her. 

Duke.  This  discipline  shows  thou  hast  been 
in  love.  [practice  : 

Thu.  And  thy  advice  this  night  I  '11  put  in 
Therefore,  sweet  Proteus,  my  direction-giver, 
Let  us  into  the  city  presently 
To  sort  some  gentlemen  well  skill'd  in  music : 
I  have  a  sonnet  that  will  serve  the  turn 
To  give  the  onset  to  thy  good  advice. 

Duke.  About  it,  gentlemen,  [supper  : 

Pro.  We  '11  wait  upon  your  grace  till  after 
And  afterward  determine  our  proceedings. 

Duke.  Even  now  about  it ;  I  will  pardon  you. 

[Exeunt. 
ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — A  Forest  near  MANTUA. 
Enter  certain  Outlaws. 

1  Out.  Fellows,  stand  fast ;  I  see  a  passenger. 

2  Out.  If  there  be  ten,  shrink  not,  but  down 

with  'em. 

Enter  VALENTINE  and  SPEED. 

3  Out.  Stand,  sir,  and  throw   us   that  you 

have  about  you  ; 
If  not,  we  '11  make  you  sit,  and  rifle  you. 

Speed.  Sir,   we  are  undone  !   these  are  the 

villains 

That  all  the  travellers  do  fear  so  much. 
Val.  My  friends,— 

1  Out.  That 'snot  so,  sir;  we  are  your  enemies. 

2  Out.  Peace  ;  we  '11  hear  him. 


SCENE  II.] 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


3  Out.  Ay,  by  my  beard,  will  we  ; 
For  he 's  a  proper  man.  [lose  ; 

Val.  Then  know  that  I  have  little  wealth  to 
A  man  I  am  crossed  with  adversity  ; 
My  riches  are  these  poor  habiliments, 
Of  which  if  you  should  here  disfurnish  me, 
You  take  the  sum  and  substance  that  I  have. 

2  Out.  Whither  travel  you  ? 
Val.  To  Verona. 

I  Out.   Whence  came  you  ? 
Val.  From  Milan. 

3  Out.  Have  you  long  sojourn'd  there  ? 
Val.  Some  sixteen  months ;  and  longer  might 

have  stay'd 
If  crooked  fortune  had  not  thwarted  me. 

1  Out.  What  !  were  you  banish'd  thence  ? 
Val.  I  was. 

2  Out.  For  what  offence  ?  [hearse  ; 
Val.  For  that  which  now  torments  me  to  re- 

I  kill'd  a  man,  whose  death  I  much  repent ; 
But  yet  I  slew  him  manfully  in  fight, 
Without  false  vantage  or  base  treachery. 

1  Out.  Why,  ne'er  repent  it,  if  it  were  done  so. 
But  were  you  banish'd  for  so  small  a  fault  ? 

Val.  I  was,  and  held  me  glad  of  such  a  doom. 

2  Out.   Have  you  the  tongues  ?  [happy  ; 
Val.   My  youthful    travel   therein  made  me 

Or  else  I  often  had  been  miserable.  [friar, 

3  Out.  By  the  bare  scalp  of  Robin  Hood's  fat 
This  fellow  were  a  king  for  our  wild  faction. 

1  Out.  We  '11  have  him  ;  sirs,  a  word. 
Speed.  Master,  be  one  of  them  ; 

It  is  an  honourable  kind  of  thievery. 

Val.  Peace,  villain  !  [take  to  ? 

2  Out.  Tell  us  this.     Have  you  anything  to 
Val.  Nothing  but  my  fortune.  [men  ; 

3  Out.  Know,  then,  that  some  of  us  are  gentle- 
Such  as  the  fury  of  ungovern'd  youth 
Thrust  from  the  company  of  awful  men  : 
Myself  was  from  Verona  banish'd 

For  practising  to  steal  away  a  lady, 
An  heir,  and  near  allied  unto  the  duke. 

2  Out.  And  I  from  Mantua,  for  a  gentleman, 
Whom,  in  my  mood,  I  stabb'd  unto  the  heart. 

1  Out.  Andlforsuch  like  petty  crimes  as  these. 
But  to  the  purpose, — for  we  cite  our  faults 
That  they  may  hold  excused  our  lawless  lives, — 
And,  partly,  seeing  you  are  beautified 

With  goodly  shape,  and  by  your  own  report 
A  linguist,  and  a  man  of  such  perfection 
As  we  do  in  our  quality  much  want ; — 

2  Out.  Indeed,  because  you  are  a  banish'd 

man, 

Therefore,  above  the  rest,  we  parley  to  you. 
Are  you  content  to  be  our  general  ? 
To  make  a  virtue  of  necessity, 
And  live,  as  we  do,  in  this  wilderness  ? 


3    Out.  What  say'st  thou  ?  wilt  thou  be  of  our 

consort  ? 

Say  ay,  and  be  the  captain  of  us  all : 
We  '11  do  thee  homage,  and  be  ruled  by  thee, 
Love  thee  as  our  commander  and  our  king. 

1  Out.  But  if  thou  scorn  our  courtesy  thou 

diest.  [have  offer'd. 

2  Out.  Thou  shalt  not  live  to  brag  what  we 
Val.  I  take  your  offer,  and  will  live  with  you, 

Provided  that  you  do  no  outrages 
On  silly  women  or  poor  passengers. 

3  Out.  No ;  we  detest  such  vile  base  practices. 
Come,  go  with  us,  we'll  bring  thee  to  our  crews, 
And  show  thee  all  the  treasure  we  have  got ; 
Which,  with  ourselves,  all  rest  at  thy  dispose. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — MILAN.     Court  of  the  Palace. 
Enter  PROTEUS. 

Pro.  Already  have  I  been  false  to  Valentine, 
And  now  I  must  be  as  unjust  to  Thurio. 
Under  the  colour  of  commending  him 
I  have  access  my  own  love  to  prefer  ; 
But  Silvia  is  too  fair,  too  true,  too  holy, 
To  be  corrupted  with  my  worthless  gifts. 
When  I  protest  true  loyalty  to  her 
She  twits  me  with  my  falsehood  to  my  friend  : 
When  to  her  beauty  I  commend  my  vows 
She  bids  me  think  how  I  have  been  forsworn 
In  breaking  faith  with  Julia  whom  I  loved  : 
And,  notwithstanding  all  her  sudden  quips, 
The  least  whereof  would  quell  a  lover's  hope, 
Yet,  spaniel-like,  the  more  she  spurns  my  love 
The  more  it  grows,  and  fawneth  on  her  still. 
But  here  comes  Thurio  :  now  must  we  to  her 

window, 
And  give  some  evening  music  to  her  ear. 

Enter  THURIO  and  Musicians. 

Thu.  How  now,  Sir  Proteus  ?  are  you  crept 
before  us  ?  [love 

Pro.  Ay,  gentle  Thurio  ;  for  you  know  that 
Will  creep  in  service  where  it  cannot  go.  [here. 

Thu.  Ay,  but  I  hope,  sir,  that  you  love  not 

Pro.  Sir,  but  I  do  ;  or  else  I  would  be  hence. 

Thu.  Whom?    Silvia? 

Pro.  Ay,  Silvia — for  your  sake.  [men, 

Thu.  I  thank  you  for  your  own.  Now,  gentle- 
Let's  tune,  and  to  it  lustily  awhile. 

Enter  HOST,  at  a  distance  ;  and  JULIA,  in 
boy's  clothes. 

Host.    Now,    my    young    guest  !    methinks 
you're  allycholly  ;  I  pray  you,  why  is  it  ? 
Jul.  Marry,  mine  host,  because  I  cannot  be 

merry. 
Host.  Come,  we'll  have  you  merry :  I'll  bring 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


LACT  iv. 


you  where  you  shall  hear  music,  and  see  the 
gentleman  that  you  ask'd  for. 

Jul.  But  shall  I  hear  him  speak  ? 

Host.  Ay,  that  you  shall. 

ful.  That  will  be  music.  [ Mrisic  plays. 

Host.   Hark  !  hark  ! 

/if/.   Is  he  among  these  ? 

Host.  Ay  ;  but  peace,  let 's  hear  'em.. 

SONG. 
Who  is  Silvia  ?  what  is  she, 

That  all  our  swains  commend  her? 
Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she, 

The  heavens  such  grace  did  lend  her, 
That  she  might  admired  be. 

Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair  ? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness  : 
Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair, 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness  ; 
And,  being  help'd,  inhabits  there. 

Then  to  Silvia,  let  us  sing, 

That  Silvia  is  excelling  ; 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling  . 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 

Host.   How  now  ?  are  you  sadder  than  you 

were  before  ? 
How  do  you,  man  !  the  music  likes  you  not. 

Jul.  You  mistake ;  the  musician  likes  me  not. 

Host.  Why,  my  pretty  youth  ? 

Jul.  He  plays  false,  father. 

Host.  How  !  out  of  tune  on  the  strings  ? 

Jul.  Not  so  ;  but  yet  so  false  that  he  grieves 
njy  very  heart-strings. 

Host.  You  have  a  quick  ear. 

Jul.  Ay,  I  would  I  were  deaf !  it  makes  me 
have  a  slow  heart. 

Host.  I  perceive  you  delight  not  in  music. 

Jul.  Not  a  whit,  when  it  jars  so. 

Host.  Hark,  what  fine  change  is  in  the  music. 

Jul.  Ay  ;  that  change  is  the  spite. 

Host.  You  would  have  them  always  play  but 
one  thing  ?  [thing. 

Jul.  I  would  always  have  one  play  but  one 
But,  host,  doth  this  Sir  Proteus,  that  we  talk 
on,  often  re&ort  unto  this  gentlewoman? 

Host.  I  '11  tell  you  what,  Launce,  his  man, 
told  me  he  loved  her  out  of  all  nick. 

Jul.  Where  is  Launce  ? 

Host.  Gone  to  seek  his  dog  ;  which,  to- 
morrow, by  his  master's  command,  he  must 
carry  for  a  present  to  his  lady. 

Jul.  Peace !  stand  aside !  the  company  parts. 

Pro.  Sir  Thurio,  fear  not  you !  I  will  so  plead 
That  you  shall  say  my  cunning  drift  excels. 
Thu.  Where  meet  we  ? 

Pro.  At  Saint  Gregory's  well. 

Thu.  Farewell. 

{Exeunt  THURIO  and  Musicians. 


SILVIA  appears  above,  at  her  window. 

Pro.   Madam,  good  even  to  your  ladyship. 

Sil.    I  thank  you  for  your  music,  gentlemen : 
Who  is  that  that  spake  ?  [truth, 

Pro.   One,  lady,  if  you  knew  his  pure  heart's 
You'd  quickly  learn  to  know  him  by  his  voice. 

Sil.   Sir  Proteus,  as  I  take  it.  [vant. 

Pro.  Sir  Proteus,  gentle  lady,  and  your  ser- 

Sil.  What  is  your  will  ? 

Pr  .  That  I  may  compass  yours. 

Sil.  You  have  your  wish;  my  will  is  even  this, — 
That  presently  you  hie  you  home  to  bed, 
Thou  subtle,  perjured,  false,  disloyal  man  ! 
Think'st  thou  I  am  so  shallow,  so  conceitless, 
To  be  seduced  by  thy  flattery, 
That  hast  deceived  so  many  with  thy  vows  ? 
Return,  return,  and  make  thy  love  amends. 
For  me, — by  this  pale  queen  of  night  I  swear 
I  am  so  far  from  granting  thy  request 
That  I  despise  thee  for  thy  wrongful  suit, 
And  by  and  by  intend  to  chide  myself 
Even  for  this  time  I  spend  in  talking  to  thee. 

Pro.  I  grant,  sweet  love,  that  I  did  love  a  lady ; 
But  she  is  dead. 

Jul.  'Twere  false  if  I  should  speak  it ; 
For  I  am  sure  she  is  not  buried.  [Aside. 

Sil.  Say  that  she  be;  yet  Valentine,  thy  friend, 
Survives  ;  to  whom,  thyself  art  witness, 
I  am  betrothed.     And  art  thou  not  ashamed 
To  wrong  him  with  thy  importiinacy  ? 

Pro.  I  likewise  hear  that  Valentine  is  dead. 

Sil.  And  so  suppose  am  I ;  for  in  his  grave 
Assure  thyself  my  love  is  buried. 

Pro.  Sweet  lady,  let  me  rake  it  from  the  earth. 

Sil.  Go  to  thy  lady's  grave,  and  call  hers  thence ; 
Or,  at  the  least,  in  hers  sepulchre  thine. 
Jul,   He  heard  not  that.  [Aside. 

Pro.   Madam,  if  your  heart  be  so  obdurate, 
Vouchsafe  me  yet  your  picture  for  my  love  ; 
The  picture  that  is  hanging  in  your  chamber  ; 
To  that  I  '11  speak,  to  that  I  '11  sigh  and  weep  : 
For,  since  the  substance  of  your  perfect  self 
Is  else  devoted,  I  am  but  a  shadow  : 
And  to  your  shadow  I  will  make  true  love. 
Jul.  If 'twere  a  substance,  you  would,  sure, 

deceive  it, 
And  make  it  but  a  shadow,  as  I  am.       [Aside. 

Sil.   I  am  very  loth  to  be  your  idol,  sir ; 
But,  since  your  falsehood  shall  become  you  well 
To  worship  shadows  and  adore  false  shapes, 
Send  to  me  in  the  morning,  and  I  '11  send  it : 
And  so,  good  rest. 

Pro.  As  wretches  have  o'er-night. 

That  wait  for  execution  in  the  morn. 

[Exeunt  PRO.;  and  SIL. ,  from  above. 
Jul.  Host,  will  you  go  ? 


SCENE  1II.J 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


43 


Host.  By  my  hallidom,  I  was  fast  asleep. 

Jttl.   Pray  you,  where  lies  Sir  Proteus  ? 

Host.   Marry,   at  my  house.       Trust  me,   I 
think  'tis  almost  day. 

JuL  Not  so ;  but  it  hath  been  the  longest  night 
That  e'er  I  watch'd,  and  the  most  heaviest. 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  same. 

Enter  EGLAMOUR. 

Egl.  This  is  the  hour  that  Madam  Silvia 
Entreated  me  to  call  and  know  her  mind  ; 
There's  some  great  matter  she'd  employ  me  in. — 
Madam,  madam  ! 

SILVIA  appears  above,  at  her  window. 

Sil.  Who  calls  ? 

Egl.  Your  servant  and  your  friend  ; 

One  that  attends  your  ladyship's  command. 

Sil.  Sir  Eglamour,  a  thousand  times  good 
morrow. 

Egl.  As  many,  worthy  lady,  to  yourself. 
According  to  your  ladyship's  impose, 
I  am  thus  early  come  to  know  what  service 
It  is  your  pleasure  to  command  me  in. 

Sil.  O  Eglamour,  thou  art  a  gentleman, — 
Think  not  I  flatter,  for  I  swear  I  do  not, — 
Valiant,  wise,  remorseful,  well  accomplish'd. 
Thou  art  not  ignorant  what  dear  good  will 
I  bear  unto  the  banish'd  Valentine  ; 
Nor  how  my  father  would  enforce  me  marry 
Vain  Thurio,  whom  my  very  soul  abhorr'd. 
Thyself  hast  loved  ;  and  I  have  heard  thee  say 
No  grief  did  ever  come  so  near  thy  heart 
As  when  thy  lady  and  thy  true  love  died, 
Upon  whose  grave  thou  vow'dst  pure  chastity. 
Sir  Eglamour,  I  would  to  Valentine, 
To  Mantua,  where,  I  hear,  he  makes  abode  ; 
And,  for  the  ways  are  dangerous  to  pass, 
I  do  desire  thy  worthy  company, 
Upon  whose  faith  and  honour  I  repose. 
Urge  not  my  father's  anger,  Eglamour, 
But  think  upon  my  grief,  a  lady's  grief ; 
And  on  the  justice  of  my  flying  hence, 
To  keep  me  from  a  most  unholy  match, 
Which  heaven  and  fortune  still  reward  with 
I  do  desire  thee,  even  from  a  heart      [plagues. 
As  full  of  sorrows  as  the  sea  of  sands, 
To  bear  me  company,  and  go  with  me : 
If  not,  to  hide  what  I  have  said  to  thee, 
That  I  may  venture  to  depart  alone. 

Egl.  Madam,  I  pity  much  your  grievances  ; 
Which,  since  I  know  they  virtuously  are  placed, 
I  give  consent  to  go  along  with  you  ; 
Recking  as  little  what  betideth  me 
As  much  I  wish  all  good  befortune  you. 
When  will  you  go  ? 


Sil.  This  evening  coming. 

EgL  Where  shall  I  meet  you  ? 
Sil.  At  Friar  Patrick's  cell, 

Where  I  intend  holy  confession. 

Egl.   I  will  not  fail  your  ladyship  : 
Good  morrow,  gentle  lady. 

SiL  Good  morrow,  kind  Sir  Eglamour. 

{Exeunt. 

MiW  I  .TIE  .-n-j^f-.    \.wA 
SCENE  IV.— The  same. 

Enter  LAUNCE,  with  his  dog. 

Latin.  When  a  man's  servant  shall  play  the 
cur  with  him,  look  you,  it  goes  hard  :  one  that 
I  brought  up  of  a  puppy  one  that  I  saved 
from  drowning,  when  three  of  four  of  his  blind 
brothers  and  sisters  went  to  it  !  I  have  taught 
him — even  as  one  would  say  precisely,  Thus  I 
would  teach  a  dog.  I  was  sent  to  deliver  him 
as  a  present  to  Mistress  Silvia  from  my  master ; 
and  I  came  no  sooner  into  the  dining-chamber 
but  he  steps  me  to  her  trencher  and  steals  her 
capon's  leg.  O,  'tis  a  foul  thing  when  a  cur 
cannot  keep  himself  in  all  companies !  I  would 
have,  as  one  should  say,  one  that  takes  upon 
him  to  be  a  dog  indeed,  to  be,  as  it  were,  a  dog 
at  all  things.  If  I  had  not  had  more  wit  than 
he,  to  take  a  fault  upon  me  that  he  did,  I  think 
verily  he  had  been  hang'd  for 't ;  sure  as  I  live 
he  had  suffer'd  for't  ;  you  shall  judge.  He 
thrusts  me  himself  into  the  company  of  three 
or  four  gentleman-like  dogs  under  the  duke's 
table  :  he  had  not  been  there — bless  the  mark 
— a  pissing  while,  but  all  the  chamber  smelt 
him.  Out  with  the  dog,  says  one  ;  What  cui 
is  that  ?  says  another ;  Whip  him  out,  says  a 
third  ;  Hang  him  up,  says  the  duke.  I,  hav- 
ing been  acquainted  with  the  smell  before, 
knew  it  was  Crab ;  and  goes  me  to  the  fellow 
that  whips  the  dogs  :  Friend,  quoth  I,  you 
mean  to  whip  the  dog  ?  Ay,  marry  do  I,  quoth 
he.  You  do  him  the  more  wrong,  quoth  I  ; 
'twas  I  did  the  thing  yott  wot  of.  He  makes 
me  no  more  ado,  but  whips  me  out  of  the 
chamber.  How  many  masters  would  do  this 
for  their  servant  ?  Nay,  I  '11  be  sworn,  I  have 
sat  in  the  stocks  for  puddings  he  hath  stolen, 
otherwise  he  had  been  executed  :  I  have  stood 
on  the  pillory  for  geese  he  hath  killed,  other- 
wise he  had  suffer'd  for 't :  thou  thinkest  not  of 
this  now  ! — Nay,  I  remember  the  trick  you 
served  me  when  I  took  my  leave  of  Madam 
Silvia ;  did  not  I  bid  thee  still  mark  me  and  do 
as  I  do  ?  When  didst  thou  see  me  heave  up 
my  leg  and  make  water  against  a  gentle- 
woman's farthingale?  didst  thou  ever  see  me 
do  such  a  trick  ? 


44 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


[ACT  iv. 


Enter  PROTEUS  and  JULIA. 

Pro.  Sebastian  is  thy  name  ?     I  like  thee  well, 

And  will  employ  thee  in  some  service  presently. 

JuL  In  whatyou  please ; — I  willdo  what  I  can. 

Pro.  I  hope  thou  wilt.  — How  now,  you  whore- 
son peasant?  \To  LAUNCE. 
Where  have  you  been  these  two  days  loitering? 

Laun.  Marry,  sir,  I  carried  Mistress  Silvia 
the  dog  you  bade  me. 

Pro.  And  what  says  she  to  my  little  jewel? 

Laun.  Marry,  she  says  your  dog  was  a  cur ; 
and  tells  you  currish  thanks  is  good  enough  for 
such  a  present. 

Pro.    But  she  received  my  dog? 

Laun.  No,  indeed,  she  did  not ;  here  have  I 
brought  him  back  again. 

Pro.  What !  didst  thou  offer  her  this  from  me  ? 

Laun.  Ay,  sir ;  the  other  squirrel  was  stolen 
from  me  by  the  hangman's  boys  in  the  market- 
place :  and  then  I  offer'd  her  mine  own ;  who 
is  a  dog  as  big  as  ten  of  yours,  and  therefore 
the  gift  the  greater. 

Pro.  Go,  get  thee  hence  andfindmy  dogagain, 
Or  ne'er  return  again  into  my  sight. 
Away,  I  say.     Stay'st  thou  to  vex  me  here? 
A  slave,  that  still  an  end  turns  me  to  shame. 

[Exit  LAUNCE. 

Sebastian,  I  have  entertain'd  thee, 
Partly  that  I  have  need  of  such  a  youth 
That  can  with  some  discretion  do  my  business, 
For  'tis  no  trusting  to  yond  foolish  lout ; 
But,  chiefly,  for  thy  face  and  thy  behaviour, 
Which — if  my  augury  deceive  me  not — 
Witness  good  bringing  up,  fortune,  and  truth : 
Therefore,  know  thou,  for  this  I  entertain  thee. 
Go  presently,  and  take  this  ring  with  thee, 
Deliver  it  to  Madam  Silvia : 
She  loved  me  well  deliver'd  it  to  me. 

ful.  It  seems  you  loved  not  her,  to  leave  her 

token : 
She 's  dead,  belike. 

Pro.  Not  so :  I  think  she  lives. 

Jul.  Alas! 

Pro.  Why  dost  thou  cry,  Alas ! 

Jul.  I  cannot  choose  but  pity  her. 

Pro.  Wherefore  shouldst  thou  pity  her? 

Jul.  Because,  methinks,  that  she  loved  you 

as  well 

As  you  do  love  your  lady  Silvia : 
She  dreams  on  him  that  has  forgot  her  love ; 
You  dote  on  her  that  cares  not  for  your  love. 
'Tis  pity  love  should  be  so  contrary ; 
And  thinking  on  it  makes  me  cry,  Alas ! 

Pro.  Well,  give  her  that  ring,  and  therewithal 
This  letter ;~ that . 's  her  chamber.  —Tell  my  lady 
I  claim  the  promise  for  her  heavenly  picture. 


Your  message  done,  hie  home  unto  my  chamber, 
Where  thou  shalt  find  me  sad  and  solitary. 

[Exit  PROTEUS. 
JuL  How  many  women  would  do  such  a 

message  ? 

Alas,  poor  Proteus !  thou  hast  entertain'd 
A  fox  to  be  the  shepherd  of  thy  lambs ; 
Alas,  poor  fool !  why  do  I  pity  him 
That  with  his  very  heart  despiseth  me? 
Because  he  loves  her,  he  despiseth  me ; 
Because  I  love  him,  I  must  pity  him. 
This  ring  I  gave  him,  when  he  parted  from  me, 
To  bind  him  to  remember  my  good  will : 
And  now  am  I — unhappy  messenger — 
To  plead  for  that  which  I  would  not  obtain ; 
To  carry  that  which  I  would  have  refused ; 
To  praise  his  faith,  which  I  would  have  dispraised. 
I  am  my  master's  true  confirmed  love, 
But  cannot  be  true  servant  to  my  master 
Unless  I  prove  false  traitor  to  myself. 
Yet  will  I  woo  for  him ;  but  yet  so  coldly 
As,  heaven  it  knows,  I  woxtld  not  have  him  speed. 

Enter  SILVIA,  attended. 

Gentlewoman,  good  day!  Iprayyou,  bemy  mean 
To  bring  me  where  to  speak  with  Madam  Silvia. 

Sil.  What  would  you  with  her  if  that  I  be  she? 

Jul.  If  you  be  she  I  do  entreat  your  patience 
To  hear  me  speak  the  message  I  am  sent  on. 
Sil.  From  whom? 

JuL   From  my  master,  Sir  Proteus,  madam, 

Siil.  Oh  ! — he  sends  you  for  a  picture  ? 

JuL  Ay,  madam. 

Sil.   Ursula,  bring  my  picture  there. 

[Picture  brought. 

Go,  give  your  master  this :  tell  him  from  me, 
One  Julia,  that  his  changing  thoughts  forget, 
Would  better  fit  his  chamber  than  this  shadow. 

Jul.   Madam,  please  you  peruse  this  letter. 
Pardon  me,  madam ;  I  have  unadvised 
Delivered  you  a  paper  that  I  should  not. 
This  is  the  letter  to  your  ladyship. 

Sil.  I  pray  thee,  let  me  look  on  that  again. 

Jul.  It  may  not  be  ;  good  madam,  pardon  me- 

Sil.  There,  hold. 

I  will  not  look  upon  your  master's  lines : 
I  know  they  are  sturFd  with  protestations, 
And  full  of  new-found  oaths;  which  he  will  break 
As  easily  as  I  do  tear  his  paper.  [ring. 

JuL    Madam,  he  sends  your   ladyship  this 

Sil.  The  more  shame  for  him  that  he  sends 

it  me; 

For  I  have  heard  him  say  a  thousand  times 
His  Julia  gave  it  him  at  his  departure : 
Though  his  false  finger  have  profaned  the  ring, 
Mine  shall  not  do  his  Julia  so  much  wrong, 

JuL  She  thanks  you. 


SCENE  IV. 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


45, 


/* 

Whe 


Wh« 


Sil.  What  say'st  thou  ? 

Jul,   I  thank  you,  madam,  that  you  tender  her : 
Poor  gentle  woman !  my  master  wrongs  her  much. 

Sil.  Dost  thou  know  her  ? 

Jul.     Almost  as  well  as  I  do  know  myself : 
To  think    pon  her  woes,  I  do  protest, 
That  I  have  wept  an  hundred  several  times. 

Sil.  Belike  she  thinks  that  Proteus  hath  for- 
sook her.  [sorrow. 

/«/.  I  think  she  doth,  and  that 's  her  cause  of 

Sil.  Is  she  not  passing  fair  ? 

Tul  She  hath  been  fairer,  madam ,  than  she  is : 
Then  she  did  think  my  master  loved  her  well, 
She,  in  my  judgment,  was  as  fair  as  you  ; 
But  since  she  did  neglect  her  looking-glass, 
And  threw  her  sun-expelling  mask  away, 
The  air  hath  starv'd  the  roses  in  her  cheeks, 
And  pinch'd  the  lily-tincture  of  her  face, 
That  now  she  is  become  as  black  as  I. 

Sil.  How  tall  was  she  ? 

l.  About  my  stature  :  for  at  Pentecost, 
fhen  all  our  pageants  of  delight  were  play'd, 
Our  youth  got  me  to  play  the  woman's  part, 
And  I  was  trimm'd  in  Madam  Julia's  gown  ; 
Which  serv'd  me  as  fit,  by  all  men's  judgment, 
As  if  the  garment  had  been  made  for  me  : 
Therefore,  I  know  she  is  about  my  height. 
And  at  that  time  I  made  her  weep  a-good, 
For  I  did  play  a  lamentable  part ; 
Madam,  'twas  Ariadne,  passioning 
For  Theseus'  perjury  and  unjust  flight ; 
Which  I  so  lively  acted  with  my  tears 
That  my  poor  mistress,  moved  therewithal, 
Wept  bitterly;  and  would  I  might  be  dead 
If  I  in  thought  felt  not  her  very  sorrow ! 

Sil,  She  is  beholden  to  thee,  gentle  youth  ! — 
Alas,  poor  lady  !  desolate  and  left  ! — 
I  weep  myself,  to  think  upon  thy  words. 
Here,  youth,  there  is  my  purse :  I  give  thee  this 
For  thy  sweet  mistress'  sake,  because  thou  lov'st 

her. 
Farewell.  {Exit  SILVIA. 

Jul.  And  she  shall  thank  you  for 't  if  e'er  you 

know  her. 

A  virtuous  gentlewoman,  mild  and  beautiful. 
I  hope  my  master's  suit  will  be  but  cold, 
Since  she  respects  my  mistress'  love  so  much. 
Alas,  how  love  can  trifle  with  itself ! 
Here  is  her  picture.     Let  me  see  ;  I  think, 
If  I  had  such  a  tire,  this  face  of  mine 
Were  full  as  lovely  as  is  this  of  hers : 
And  yet  the  painter  flatter'd  her  a  little, 
Unless  I  flatter  with  myself  too  much. 
Her  hair  is  auburn,  mine  is  perfect  yellow  : 
If  that  be  all  the  difference  in  his  love, 
I  '11  get  me  such  a  colour'd  periwig. 
Her  eyes  are  grey  as  glass ;  and  so  are  mine  : 


Ay,  but  her  forehead  's  low,  and  mine 's  as  high. 
What  should  it  be  that  he  respects  in  her 
But  I  can  make  respective  in  myself, 
If  this  fond  love  were  not  a  blinded  god  ? 
Come,  shadow,  come,  and  take  this  shadow  up, 
For  'tis  thy  rival.     O  thou  senseless  form, 
Thou  shalt  be  worshipp'd,  kiss'd,  lov'd,   and 

ador'd ; 

And  were  there  sense  in  his  idolatry 
My  substance  should  be  statue  in  thy  stead. 
I  '11  use  thee  kindly  for  thy  mistress*  sake, 
That  used  me  so  ;  or  else,  by  Jove  I  vow, 
I  should  have  scratch'd  out  your  unseeing  eyes, 
To  make  my  master  out  of  love  with  thee. 

{Exit. 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — The  same.-    An  Abbey. 
Enter  EGLAMOUR. 

Egl.  The  sun  begins  to  gild  the  western  sky  : 
And  now  it  is  about  the  very  hour 
That  Silvia  at  Patrick's  cell  should  meet  me. 
She  will  not  fail     for  love     break  not  hours, 
Unless  it  be  to  come  before  their  time  ; 
So  much  they  spur  their  expedition. 

Enter  SILVIA. 

See  where  she  comes  :  Lady,  a  happy  evening! 

Sil.  Amen,  amen  !  go  on,  good  Eglamour  ! 
Out  at  the  postern  by  the  abbey  wall ; 
I  fear  I  am  attended  by  some  spies.  [off! 

Egl.  Fear  not :  the  forest  is  not  three  leagues 
If  we  recover  that,  we  are  sure  enough. 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — The  same.     An  Apartment  in  the 
DUKE'S  Palace. 

: :  f    i - r; R  J. V!  *t\'j9"-:  J'.T  t~'  • ' '    1  ••  t<f-  •  f fl  1  ( i i •  I 

Enter  THURIO,  PROTEUS,  and  JULIA. 
Thu.  Sir  Proteus,  what  says  Silvia  to  my  suit  ? 
Pro,  O,  sir,  I  find  her  milder  than  she  was  ; 
And  yet  she  takes  exceptions  at  your  person. 
Thu.  What !  that  my  leg  is  too  long  ? 
Pro.  No  ;  that  it  is  too  little.  [rounder. 

Thu.   I  '11  wear  a  boot  to  make  it  somewhat 
Pro.  But  love  will  not  be  spurr'd  to  what  it 

loaths. 

Thu.  What  says  she  to  my  face  ? 

Pro.  She  says  it  is  a  fair  one.  [black. 

Thu.  Nay,  then,  the  wanton  lies  ;  my  face  is 

Pro.  But  pearls  are  fair ;  and  the  old  saying  is, 

Black  men  are  pearls  in  beauteous  ladies'  eyes. 

Jul.  'Tis  true,  such  pearls  as  put  out  ladies 

eyes; 
For  I  had  rather  wink  than  look  on  them. 

>J  wod  5>ra  b'ai£&^W(h 


46 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


[ACT  v. 


Thu.   How  likes  she  my  discourse? 
Pro.  Ill  when  you  talk  of  war.  [peace  ? 

Thu.  But  well  when  I  discourse  of  love  and 
JuL  But  better,  indeed,  when  you  hold  your 

peace.  [Aside. 

Thu.  What  says  she  to  my  valour? 
Pro.  O,  sir,  she  makes  no  doubt  of  that. 
JuL  She    needs    not, .  when    she    knows   it 

cowardice.  [Aside. 

Thu.  What  says  she  to  my  birth  ? 
Pro.  That  you  are  well  derived. 
JuL  True;fromagentlemantoafool.    [Aside. 
Thu.  Considers  she  my  possessions  ? 
Pro.  O,  ay  ;  and  pities  them. 
Thu.  Wherefore  ? 

JuL  That  such  an  ass  should  owe  them.  [Aside. 
Pro.  That  they  are  out  by  lease. 
JuL  Here  comes  the  Duke. 

Enter  DUKE. 

Duke.  How  now,  Sir  Proteus?  how  now, 

Thurio  ? 
Which  of  you  saw  Sir  Eglamour  of  late  ? 

Thu.  Not  I. 

Pro.  Nor  I. 

Duke.  Saw  you  my  daughter  ? 

Pro.  Neither. 

Duke.  Why,  then  she 's  fled  unto  that  peasant 

Valentine  ; 

And  Eglamour  is  in  her  company. 
'Tis  true  ;  for  Friar  Lawrence  met  them  both, 
As  he  in  penance  wander'd  through  the  forest : 
Him  he  knew  well,  and  guess'd  that  it  was  she ; 
But,  being  mask'd,  he  was  not  sure  of  it : 
Besides,  she  did  intend  confession 
At  Patrick's  cell  this  even ;  and  there  she  was  not : 
These  likelihoods  confirm  her  flight  from  hence : 
Therefore,  I  pray  you,  stand  not  to  discourse, 
But  mount  you  presently  ;  and  meet  with  me 
Upon  the  rising  of  the  mountain -foot 
That  leads  to  wards  Mantua,  whither  they  are  fled. 
Dispatch,  sweet  gentlemen,  and  follow  me.  [Exit. 

Thu.  Why,  this  it  is  to  be  a  peevish  girl, 
That  flies  her  fortune  when  it  follows  her  : 
I  '11  after  ;  more  to  be  revenged  on  Eglamour 
Than  for  the  love  of  reckless  Silvia.          [Exit. 

Pro.  And  I  will  follow,  more  for  Silvia's  love 
Than  hate  of  Eglamour  that  goes  with  her.  [ Exit. 

JuL  And  I  will  follow,  more  to  cross  that  love 
Than  hate  for  Silvia,  that  is  gone  for  love.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III.  —Frontiers  of  MANTUA.  The  Forest. 
Enter  SILVIA,  and  Outlaws. 

i   Out.  Come,  come  ; 
Be  patient ;  we  must  bring  you  to  our  captain. 

SiL  A  thousand  more  mischances  than  this  one 
Have  learn'd  me  how  to  brook  this  patiently. 


2  Out.   Come,  bring  her  away. 

1  Out.  Where  is  the  gentleman  that  was  with 

her  ?  [us, 

2  Out.  Being  nimble-footed,  he  hath  out-run 
But  Moyses  and  Valerius  follow  him. 

Go  thou  with  her  to  the  west  end  of  the  wood  ; 
There  is  our  captain :  we'll  follow  him  that's  fled. 
The  thicket  is  beset ;  he  cannot  'scape. 

I   Out.  Come,  I  must  bring  you  to  our  cap- 
tain's cave  ; 

Fear  not ;  he  bears  an  honourable  mind, 
And  will  not  use  a  woman  lawlessly. 

SiL   O  Valentine,  this  I  endure  for  thee. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IN. —Another  part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  VALENTINE. 

Val.  How  use  doth  breed  a  habit  in  a  man  ! 
This  shadowy  desert,  unfrequented  woods, 
I  better  brook  than  flourishing  peopled  towns  • 
Here  can  I  sit  alone,  unseen  of  any, 
And  to  the  nightingale's  complaining  notes 
Tune  my  distresses  and  record  my  woes. 
O  thou  that  dost  inhabit  in  my  breast, 
Leave  not  the  mansion  so  long  tenantless; 
Lest,  growing  ruinous,  the  building  fall, 
And  leave  no  memory  of  what  it  was  ! 
Repair  me  with  thy  presence,  Silvia  ; 
Thou  gentle  nymph,  cherish  thy  forlorn  swain ! — 
What  halloing  and  what  stir  is  this  to-day !   [law, 
These  are  my  mates,  that  make  their  wills  their 
Have  some  unhappy  passenger  in  chase  : 
They  love  me  well ;  yet  I  have  much  to  do 
To  keep  them  from  uncivil  outrages. 
Withdraw  thee,  Valentine;  who's  this  comes 
here  ?  [Steps  aside. 

Enter  PROTEUS,  SILVIA,  and  JULIA. 
Pro.   Madam,  this  service  I  have  done  for 

you,—  [doth,— 

Though  you  respect  not  aught  your  servant 
To  hazard  life,  and  rescue  you  from  him  [love. 
That  would  have  forced  your  honour  and  your 
Vouchsafe  me,  for  my  meed,  but  one  fair  look  ; 
A  smaller  boon  than  this  I  cannot  beg, 
And  less  than  this,  I  am  sure,  you  cannot  give. 
Val.  How  like  a  dream  is  this  I  see  and  hear  J 
Love,  lend  me  patience  to  forbear  awhile. 

[Aside. 

SiL  O  miserable,  unhappy  that  I  am  ! 
Pro.   Unhappy  were  you,  madam,  ere  I  came ; 
But,  by  my  coming,  I  have  made  you  happy. 
SiL  By  thy  approach  thou  makest  me  most 

unhappy. 

/#/.  And  me,  when  he  approacheth  to  your 
presence.  [Aside. 

SiL  Had  I  been  seized  by  a  hungry  lion, 


SCENE  IV.] 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


47 


I  would  have  been  a  breakfast  to  the  beast, 
Rather  than  have  false  Proteus  rescue  me. 
O,  heaven  be  judge  how  I  love  Valentine, 
Whose  life  's  as  tender  to  me  as  my  soul ; 
And  full  as  much, — for  more  there  cannot  be, — 
I  do  detest  false,  perjured  Proteus  : 
Therefore  begone  :  solicit  me  no  more. 

Pro.  What  dangerous  action,  stood  it  next  to 

death, 

Would  I  not  undergo  for  one  calm  look  ? 
O,  'tis  the  curse  in  love,  and  still  approved, 
When  women  cannot  love  where  they  're  be- 
loved, [beloved. 

SiL  When  Proteus  cannot  love  where  he's 
Read  over  Julia  's  heart,  thy  first  best  love, 
For  whose  dear  sake  thou  didst  then  rend  thy  faith 
Into  a  thousand  oaths  ;  and  all  those  oaths 
Descended  into  perjury,  to  love  me.  [two, 

Thou  hast  no  faith  left  now,  unless  thou  hadst 
And  that 's  far  worse  than  none ;  better  have  none 
Than  plural  faith,  which  is  too  much  by  one : 
Thou  counterfeit  to  thy  true  friend  ! 

Pro.  In  love, 

Who  respects  friends  ? 

SiL  All  men  but  Proteus. 

Pro.  Nay,  if  the  gentle  spirit  of  moving  words 
Can  no  way  change  you  to  a  milder  form, 
I  '11  woo  you  like  a  soldier,  at  arms'  end ;     [you. 
And  love  you  'gainst  the  nature  of  love — force 

Sil.   O  heaven  ! 

Pro.  I  '11  force  thee  yield  to  my  desire. 

VaL   Ruffian,  let  go  that  rude  uncivil  touch ; 
Thou  friend  of  an  ill  fashion  ! 

Pro.  Valentine  ! 

VaL  Thou  common  friend,   that 's  without 

faith  or  love, — 

For  such  is  a  friend  now  ; — treacherous  man  ! 
Thou  hast  beguil'd  my  hopes  ;  nought  but  mine 

eye 

Could  have  persuaded  me.     Now  I  dare  not  say 
I  have  one  friend  alive ;  thou  wouldst  disprove 
me.  [hand 

Who  should  be  trusted  now,  when  one's  right 
Is  perjured  to  the  bosom  ?     Proteus, 
I  am  sorry  I  must  never  trust  thee  more, 
But  count  the  world  a  stranger  for  thy  sake, 
f  he  private  wound  is  deepest:  O  time,  most  curst! 
'Mongstall  foes,  that  a  friend  should  be  the  worst. 

Pro.  My  shame  and  guilt  confound  me. — 
Forgive  me,  Valentine  :   if  hearty  sorrow 
Be  a  sufficient  ransom  for  offence, 
I  tender  it  here  ;  I  do  as  truly  suffer 
As  e'er  I  did  commit. 

VaL  Then  I  am  paid  ; 

And  once  again  I  do  receive  thee  honest. — 
Who  by  repentance  is  not  satisfied 
Is  nor  of  heaven  nor  earth ;  for  these  are  pleased; 


By  penitence  the  Eternal's  wrath  's  appeas'd : — 
And,  that  my  love  may  appear  plain  and  free, 
All  that  was  mine  in  Silvia  I  give  thee. 

Jul.  O,  me,  unhappy  !  [Faints. 

Pro.  Look  to  the  boy.  [is  the  matter  ? 

VaL  Why,  boy !  why,  wag  !  how  now?  what 
Look  up ;  speak. 

Jul.  O  good  sir,  my  master  charged  me 

To  deliver  a  ring  to  Madam  Silvia  ; 
Which,  out  of  my  neglect,  was  never  done. 
Pro.  Where  is  that  ring,  boy? 

Jul.  Here  'tis  :  this  is  it. 

[Gives  a  ring. 

Pro.   How  !  let  me  see  : 
Why,  this  is  the  ring  I  gave  to  Julia. 

Jiil.   O,  cry  you  mercy,  sir,  I  have  mistook  ; 
This  is  the  ring  you  sent  to  Silvia. 

[Shows  another  ring. 

Pro.  But  how  earnest  thou  by  this  ring  ?  at 

my  depart 
I  gave  this  unto  Julia. 

Jul.  And  Julia  herself  did  give  it  me  ; 
And  Julia  herself  hath  brought  it  hither. 

Pro.    How  !  Julia  ! 

Jul.  Behold  her  that  gave  aim  to  all  thy  oaths, 
And  entertain'd  them  deeply  in  her  heart : 
How  oft  hast  thou  with  perjury  cleft  the  root  ? 
O  Proteus,  let  this  habit  make  thee  blush  ! 
Be  thou  asham'd  that  I  have  took  upon  me 
Such  an  immodest  raiment ;  if  shame  live 
In  a  disguise  of  love : 

It  is  the  lesser  blot,  modesty  finds,         [minds. 
Women  to  change  their  shapes,  than  men  their 

Pro.   Than  men  their  minds  !   'tis  true ;   O 

heaven  !  were  man 

But  constant,  he  were  perfect :  that  one  error 
Fills  him  with  faults  ;  makes  him  run  through 

all  th'  sins  : 

Inconstancy  falls  off  ere  it  begins  : 
What  is  in  Silvia's  face  but  I  may  spy 
More  fresh  in  Julia's  with  a  constant  eye  ? 
VaL   Come,  come,  a  hand  from  either  : 
Let  me  be  blest  to  make  this  happy  close : 
'Twere  pity  two  such  friends  should  be  long  foes. 

Pro.  Bear  witness,  Heaven,  I  have  my  wish 
for  ever. 

Jul.  And  I  have  mine. 

Enter  Outlaws,  with  DUKE  and  THURIO. 

Out.  A  prize,  a  prize,  a  prize '. 

VaL  Forbear,  I  say ;  it  is  my  lord  the  duke. 
Your  grace  is  welcome  to  a  man  disgrac'd, 
Banished  Valentine. 

Duke.  Sir  Valentine  ! 

Thu.  Yonder  is  Silvia  ;  and  Silvia 's  mine. 

VaL  Thurio,  give  back,  or  else  embrace  thy 
death ; 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


[ACT  v. 


Come  not  within  the  measure  of  my  wrath  : 
Do  not  name  Silvia  thine  ;  if  once  again, 
Milan  shall  not  behold  thee.     Here  she  stands, 
Take  but  possession  of  her  with  a  touch  ;  — 
I  dare  thee  but  to  breathe  upon  my  love.  — 

Thu.  Sir  Valentine,  I  care  not  for  her,  I  ; 
I  hold  him  but  a  fool  that  will  endanger 
His  body  for  a  girl  that  loves  him  not  : 
I  claim  her  not,  and  therefore  she  is  thine. 

Duke.  The  more  degenerateand  baseart  thou, 
To  make  such  means  for  her  as  thou  hast  done, 
And  leave  her  on  such  slight  conditions.  — 
Now,  by  the  honour  of  my  ancestry, 
I  do  applaud  thy  spirit,  Valentine, 
And  think  thee  worthy  of  an  empress'  love. 
Know  then,  I  here  forget  all  former  griefs, 
Cancel  all  grudge,  repeal  thee  home  again.  — 
Plead  a  new  state  in  thy  unrivall'd  merit, 
To  which  I  thus  subscribe,  —  Sir  Valentine, 
Thou  art  a  gentleman,  and  well  derived  ; 
Take  thou  thy  Silvia,  for  thou  hast  deserv'd  her. 

Val.  I  thank  your  grace  :  the  gift  hath  made 

me  happy. 

I  now  beseech  you,  for  your  daughter's  sake, 
To  grant  one  boon  that  I  shall  ask  of  you. 

Duke.  I  grant  it  for  thine  own,  whate'er  it  be. 


i'V  i/oj  te 


rwrm^t  Jzabommi  OB  rfonr: 


T:  . 


Val.  These  banish'd  men,  that  I  have  kept 

withal, 

Are  men  endued  with  worthy  qualities  ; 
Forgive  them  what  they  have  committed  here, 
And  let  them  be  recall'd  from  their  exile : 
They  are  reform'd,  civil,  full  of  good, 
And  fit  for  great  employment,  worthy  lord. 

Duke.  Thou  hast  prevail'd  ;  I  pardon  them. 

and  thee ; 

Dispose  of  them  as  thou  know'st  their  deserts. 
Come,  let  us  go  ;  we  will  include  all  jars 
With  triumphs,  mirth,  and  rare  solemnity. 

Val.  And,  as  we  walk  along,  I  dare  be  bold 
With  our  discourse  to  make  your  grace  to  smile: 
What  think  you  of  this  page,  my  lord  ? 

Duke.   I  think  the  boy  hath  grace  in  him ;  he 
blushes.  [than  boy. 

Val.   I  warrant  you,  my  lord ;  more  grace 

Duke.  What  mean  you  by  that  saying  ? 

Val.  Please  you,  I'll  tell  you,  as  we  passalong, 
That  you  will  wonder  what  hath  fortuned. — 
Come,  Proteus  :  'tis  your  penance,  but  to  hear 
The  story  of  your  loves  discovered  : 
That  done,  our  day  of  marriage  shall  be  yours  ; 
One  feast,  one  house,  one  mutual  happiness. 

[Exeunt, 
ft  on  'uO 

:;{?1i*>-tl  11*1 


ilweO 
vcd  1 

off// 
Li 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


T.  >r 


SIR  JOHN  FALSTAFF. 

FENTON. 

SHALLOW,  a  Country  Justice. 

SLENDER,  Cousin  to  SHALLOW. 

MR.  FORD,  j  two    Gentlemen    dwelling 

MR.  PAGE,  (      Windsor. 

WILLIAM  PAGE,  a  boy,  Son  to  MR.  PAGE. 

SIR  HUGH  EVANS,  a  Welsh  Parson. 

DR.  CAIUS,  a  French  Physician. 

Host  of  the  Garter  Inn. 

BARDOLPH,  ) 

PISTOL,        \  Followers  ^FALSTAFF. 

NYM,  ) 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

ROBIN,  Page  to  FALSTAFF. 
SIMPLE,  Servant  to  SLENDER. 
RUGBY,  Servant  to  DR.  CAIUS. 


at 


MRS.  FORD. 
MRS.  PAGE. 

MRS.  ANNE  PAGE,  her  Daughter,  in  to 
with  FENTON. 


MRS.  QUICKLY,  Servant  to  DR.  CAIUS. 
Servants  to  PAGE,  FORD,  &c. 


SCENE,— WINDSOR  ;  and  the  parts  adjacent. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — WINDSOR.     Before  PAGE'S  House. 

Enter  Justice  SHALLOW,  SLENDER,  and  Sir 
HUGH  EVANS. 

Shal.  Sir  Hugh,  persuade  me  not ;  I  will 
make  a  Star-chamber  matter  of  it ;  if  he  were 
twenty  Sir  John  Falstaffs  he  shall  not  abuse 
Robert  Shallow,  esquire. 

Slen.  In  the  county  of  Gloster,  justice  of 
peace,  and  coram. 

Shal.  Ay,  cousin  Slender,  and  Custalorum. 

Slen.  Ay,  and  Ratolorum  too  ;  and  a  gentle- 
man born,  master  parson  ;  who  writes  himself 
Arniigero ;  in  any  bill,  warrant,  quittance,  or 
obligation, — Armigero  ! 

Shal.  Ay,  that  we  do ;  and  have  done  any 
time  these  three  hundred  years. 

Slen.  All  his  successors,  gone  before  him, 
have  done 't ;  and  all  his  ancestors,  that  come 
after  him,  may:  they  may  give  the  dozen  white 
luces  in  their  coat. 

Shal.  It  is  an  old  coat. 

Eva.  The  dozen  white  louses  do  become  an 
old  coat  well ;  it  agrees  well,  passant :  it  is  a 
familiar  beast  to  man,  and  signifies — love. 

Shal.  The  luce  is  the  fresh  fish  :  the  salt  fish 
is  an  old  coat. 

Slen.  I  may  quarter,  coz  ? 

Shal.  You  may,  by  marrying. 

Eva.  It  is  marrying  indeed,  if  he  quarter  it. 

Shal.  Not  a  whit. 

Eva.  Yes,  py'r  lady ;  if  he  has  a  quarter  of 
your  coat,  there  is  but  three  skirts  for  yourself, 


in  my  simple  conjectures :  but  this  is  all  one. 
If  Sir  John  Falstaff  have  committed  disparage- 
ments unto  you,  I  am  of  the  church,  and  will 
be  glad  to  do  my  benevolence  to  make  atone- 
ments and  compromises  between  you. 

Shal.  The  Council  shall  hear  it ;  it  is  a  riot. 

Eva.  It  is  not  meet  the  Council  hear  a  riot ; 
there  is  no  fear  of  Got  in  a  riot ;  the  Council,  look 
you,  shall  desire  to  hear  the  fear  of  Got,  and  not 
to  hear  a  riot ;  take  your  vizaments  in  that. 

Shal.  Ha !  o'  my  life,  if  I  were  young  again, 
the  sword  should  end  it. 

Eva.  It  is  petter  that  friends  is  the  sword, 
and  end  it :  and  there  is  also  another  device  in 
my  prain,  which,  peradventure,  prings  goot  dis- 
cretions with  it.  There  is  Anne  Page,  which 
is  daughter  to  Master  George  Page,  which  is 
pretty  virginity. 

Slen.  Mistress  Anne  Page?  She  has  brown 
hair,  and  speaks  small  like  a  woman. 

Eva.  It  is  that  fery  person  for  all  the  'orld, 
as  just  as  you  will  desire ;  and  seven  hundred 
pounds  of  monies,  and  gold,  and  silver,  is  her 
grandsire,  upon  his  death's  bed,  (Got  deliver  to 
a  joyful  resurrection !)  give,  when  she  is  able 
to  overtake  seventeen  years  old :  it  were  a  goot 
motion  if  we  leave  our  pribbles  and  prabbles 
and  desire  a  marriage  between  Master  Abraham 
and  Mistress  Anne  Page. 

Shal.  Did  her  grandsire  leave  her  seven 
hundred  pound?  [penny. 

Eva.  Ay,  and  her  father  is  make  her  a  petter 

Shal.  I  know  the  young  gentlewoman ;  she 
has  good  gifts. 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


[ACT  i. 


Eva.  Seven  hundred  pounds,  and  possibili- 
ties, is  goot  gifts. 

Shal.  Well,  let  us  see  honest  Master  Page. 
Is  Falstaff  there  ? 

Eva.  Shall  I  tell  you  a  lie  ?  I  do  despise  a 
liar  as  I  do  despise  one  that  is  false  ;  or,  as  I 
despise  one  that  is  not  true.  The  knight,  Sir 
John,  is  there  ;  and,  I  beseech  you,  be  ruled 
by  your  well-willers.  I  will  peat  the  door 
[knocks]  for  Master  Page.  What,  hoa  !  Got 
pless  your  house  here  ! 


Enter  . 

Page.  Who's  there  ? 

Eva.  Here  is  Got's  plessing,  and  your  friend, 
and  Justice  Shallow  :  and  here  young  Master 
Slender;  that,  peradventures,  shall  tell  you 
another  tale,  if  matters  grow  to  your  likings. 

Page.  I  am  glad  to  see  your  worships  well  : 
I  thank  you  for  my  venison,  Master  Shallow. 

Shal.  Master  Page,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  ; 
much  good  do  it  your  good  heart  !  I  wished 
your  venison  better;  it  was  ill  killed:  —  How 
doth  good  Mistress  Page?  —  and  I  love  you 
always  with  my  heart,  la  ;  with  my  heart. 

Page.  Sir,  I  thank  you. 

Shal.  Sir,  I  thank  you  ;  by  yea  and  no,  I  do. 

Page.  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  good  Master 
Slender. 

Slen.  How  does  your  fallow  greyhound,  sir  ? 
I  heard  say  he  was  outrun  on  Cotsale. 

Page.   It  could  not  be  judged,  sir. 

Slen.  You  '11  not  confess  ;  you  '11  not  confess. 

Shal.  That  he  will  not  ;  —  'tis  your  fault  ;  'tis 
your  fault  :  —  'Tis  a  good  dog. 

Page.  A  cur,  sir. 

Shal.  Sir,  he  's  a  good  dog,  and  a  fair  dog. 
Can  there  be  more  said  ?  he  is  good,  and  fair. 
Is  Sir  John  Falstaff  here  ? 

Page.  Sir,  he  is  within  ;  and  I  would  I  could 
do  a  good  office  between  you. 

Eva.   It  isspoke  asaChristians  oughttospeak. 

Shal.   He  hath  wronged  me,  Master  Page. 

Page.  Sir,  he  doth  in  some  sort  confess  it. 

Shal.  If  it  be  confessed,  it  is  not  redressed; 
is  not  that  so,  Master  Page?  He  hath  wronged 
me;  indeed  he  hath;  —  at  a  word  he  hath;  — 
believe  me  ;  Robert  Shallow,  esquire,  saith  he 
is  wronged. 

Page.  Here  comes  Sir  John. 

Enter  Sir  JOHN  FALSTAFF,  BARDOLPH,  NYM, 
and  PISTOL. 

Fal.  Now,  Master  Shallow  ;  you  '11  complain 
of  me  to  the  king  ? 

Shal.  Knight,  you  have  beaten  my  men,  killed 
my  deer,  and  broke  open  my  lodge. 


Fal.  But  not  kissed  your  keeper's  daughter  ? 

Shal*  Tut,  a  pin  !  this  shall  be  answered. 

Fal.  I  will  answer  it  straight ; — I  have  done 
all  this : — That  is  now  answered. 

Shal.  The  Council  shall  know  this. 

Fal.  'Twere  better  for  you  if  it  were  known 
in  counsel  :  you  '11  be  laughed  at. 

Eva.  Pauca  verba,  Sir  John,  goot  worts. 

Fal.  Good  worts  !  good  cabbage. — Slender, 
I  broke  your  head ;  what  matter  have  you 
against  me  ? 

Slen.  Marry,  sir,  I  have  matter  in  my  head 
against  you  ;  and  against  your  coney-catching 
rascals,  Bardolph,  Nym,  and  Pistol.  They 
carried  me  to  the  tavern,  and  made  me  drunk, 
and  afterwards  picked  my  pocket. 

Bard.  You  Banbury  cheese  ! 

Slen.  Ay,  it  is  no  matter. 

Pist.  How  now,  Mephostophilus  ? 

Slen.  Ay,  it  is  nc  matter. 

Nym.  Slice,  I  say !  pauca^pauca;  slice !  that 's 
my  humour.  [tell,  cousin  ? 

Slen.  Where 's  Simple,   my  man  ? — can  you 

Eva.  Peace:  I  pray  you!  Now  let  us  under- 
stand. There  is  three  umpires  in  this  matter, 
as  I  understand:  that  is — Master  Page,yW<?//«V, 
Master  Page ;  and  there  is  myself,  fidelidt,  my- 
self;  and  the  three  party  is,  lastly  and  finally, 
mine  host  of  the  Garter.  [tween  them. 

Page.  We  three  to  hear  it,  and  end  it  be- 

Eva.  Fery  goot.  I  will  make  a  prief  of  it  in 
my  note-book;  and  we  will  afterwards  'ork  upon 
the  cause,  with  as  great  discreetly  as  we  can. 

Fal.  Pistol,— 

Pist.  He  hears  with  ears. 

Eva.  The  tevil  and  his  tarn  !  what  phrase  is 
this,  He  hears  with  ear?  Why,  it  is  affectations. 

Fal.  Pistol,  did  you  pick  Master  Slender's 
purse  ? 

Slen.  Ay,  by  these  gloves,  did  he,  (or  I  would 
I  might  never  come  in  mine  own  great  chamber 
again  else,)  of  seven  groats  in  mill-sixpences, 
and  two  Edward  shovel -boards,  that  cost  me 
two  shilling  and  two  pence  a-piece  of  Yead 
Miller,  by  these  gloves. 

Fal.  Is  this  true,  Pistol  ? 

Eva.  No ;  it  is  false,  if  it  is  a  pick-purse. 

Pist.  Ha,    thou   mountain  -  foreigner !  —  Sir 

John,  and  master  mine, 
I  combat  challenge  of  this  latten  bilbo: 
Word  of  denial  in  thy  labras  here ; 
Word  of  denial :  froth  and  scum,  thou  liest. 

Slen.  By  these  gloves,  then,  'twas  he. 

Nym.  Beadvised,  sir,  and  pass  good  humours: 
I  will  say,  marry  trap,  with  you,  if  you  run  the 
nuthook's  humour  on  me:  that  is  the  very  note 
of  it 


SCENE  I.] 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


Slen.  By  this  hat,  then,  he  in  the  red  face 
had  it :  for  though  I  cannot  remember  what  I 
did  when  you  made  me  drunk,  yet  I  am  not 
altogether  an  ass. 

Fal.  What  say  you,  Searlet  and  John  ? 

Bard.  Why,  sir,  for  my  part,  I  say  the  gentle- 
man had  drunk  himself  out  of  his  five  sentences. 

Eva.  It  is  his  five  senses  ;  fie,  what  the  igno- 
rance is  ! 

Bard.  And  being  fap,  sir,  was,  as  they  say, 
cashiered:  and  so  conclusions  passed  the  careires. 

Slen.  Ay,  you  spake  in  Latin  then  too;  but  'tis 
no  matter :  I  '11  ne'er  be  drunk  whilst  I  live  again, 
but  in  honest,  civil ,  godly  company,  for  this  trick. 
If  I  be  drunk,  I  'll  be  drunk  with  those  that  have 
the  fear  of  God,  and  not  with  drunken  knaves. 

Eva.  So  Got  'udge  me,  that  is  a  virtuousmind. 

Fal.  You  hear  all  these  matters  denied,  gentle- 
men ;  you  hear  it. 

Enter  Mrs.  ANNE  PAGE  with  wine ,  Mrs. 
FORD  and  Mrs.  PAGE  following. 

Page.  Nay,  daughter,  carry  the  wine  in ;  we'll 
drink  within.  [Exit  ANNE  PAGE. 

Slen.  O  heaven  !  this  is  Mistress  Anne  Page. 

Page.  How  now,  Mistress  Ford  ? 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford,  by  my  troth,  you  are  very 
well  met:  by  your  leave,  good  mistress. 

[Kissing  her. 

Page.  Wife,  bid  these  gentlemen  welcome : — 
Come,  we  have  a  hot  venison  pasty  to  dinner  ; 
come,  gentlemen,  I  hope  we  shall  drink  down 
all  unkindness. 

[Exenn(  all  but  SHAL.  ,  SLEN.  , 
and  EVANS. 

Slen,  I  had  rather  than  forty  shillings  I  had 
my  Book  of  Songs  and  Sonnets  here. — 

Enter  SIMPLE. 

How  now,  Simple  !  Where  have  you  been  ?  I 
must  wait  on  myself,  must  I?  You  have  not  The 
Book  of  Riddles  about  you,  have  you? 

Situ.  Book  of  Riddles  !  why,  did  you  not  lend 
it  to  Alice  Shortcake  upon  All-hallowmas  last,  a 
fortnight  afore  Michaelmas  ? 

Shal.  Come,  coz ;  come,  coz ;  we  stay  for  you. 
A  word  with  you,  coz;  marry  this,  coz;  there  is, 
as  'twere,  a  tender,  a  kind  of  tender,  made  afar 
off  by  Sir  Hugh  here.— Do  you  understand  me? 

Slen.  Ay,  sir,  you  shall  find  me  reasonable;  if 
it  be  so,  I  shall  do  that  that  is  reason. 

Shal.  Nay,  but  understand  me. 

Slen.  So  I  do,  sir. 

Eva.  Give  ear  to  his  motions,  Master  Slender : 
I  will  description  the  matter  to  you,  if  you  be 
capacity  of  it. 

Slen.  N  ay ,  I  will  do  as  my  cousin  Shallow  says : 


I  pray  you,  pardon  me ;  he 's  a  justice  of  peace 
in  his  couatry,  simple  though  I  stand  here. 

Eva.  But  this  is  not  the  question ;  the  question 
is  concerning  ycur  marriage. 

Shal.  Ay,  there  ;s  the  point,  sir. 

Eva.  Marry  is  it ;  the  very  point  of  it ;  to 
Mistress  Anne  Page. 

Slen.  Why,  if  it  be  so,  I  will  marry  her  upon 
any  reasonable  demands. 

Eva.  But  can  you  affection  the 'oman?  Let  us 
command  to  know  that  of  your  mouth,  or  of  your 
lips  ;  for  divers  philosophers  hold  that  the  lips 
is  parcel  of  the  mouth. — Therefore,  precisely, 
can  you  carry  your  good  will  to  the  maid  ? 

Shal.  Cousin  Abraham  Slender,  can  you  love 
her? 

Slen.  I  hope,  sir, — I  will  do  as  it  shall  be- 
come one  that  would  do  reason. 

Eva.  Nay,  Got's  lords  and  his  ladies,  you 
must  speak  possitable  if  you  can  carry  her  your 
desires  towards  her. 

Shal.  That  you  must.  Will  you,  upon  good 
dowry,  marry  her  ? 

Slen.  I  will  do  a  greater  thing  than  that  upon 
your  request,  cousin,  in  any  reason. 

Shal.  Nay,  conceive  me,  conceive  me,  sweet 
coz ;  what  I  do  is  to  pleasure  you,  coz.  Can 
you  love  the  maid? 

Slen.  I  will  marry  her,  sir,  atyour  request ;  but 
if  there  be  no  great  love  in  the  beginning,  yet 
Heaven  may  decrease  it  upon  better  acquaint- 
ance, when  we  are  married,  and  have  more  oc- 
casion to  know  one  another.  I  hope,  upon 
familiarity  will  grew  more  contempt :  but  if  you 
say,  marry  her,  I  will  marry  her,  that  I  am  freely 
dissolved,  and  dissolutely. 

Eva.  It  is  a  fery  discretion  answer  ;  save,  ihe 
faul'  is  in  the  'ort  dissolutely  :  the  'ort  is,  accord- 
ing to  our  meaning,  resolutely  ; — his  meaning  is 
good. 

Shal.  Ay,  I  think  my  cousin  meant  well.  [la. 

Slen.  Ay,  or  else  I  would  I  might  be  hanged, 

Re-enter  ANNE  PAGE. 

Shal  Here  comes  fair  Mistress  Anne. — Would 
I  were  young  for  your  sake,  Mistress  Anne  ! 

Anne.  The  dinner  is  on  the  table  ;  my  father 
desires  your  worships'  company. 

Shal.  I  will  wait  on  him,  fair  Mistress  Anne. 

Eva.  Od's  plessed  will !  I  will  not  be  absence 
at  the  grace. 

[Exeunt  SHAL.  and  Str  H.  EVANS. 

Ann*  Will 't  please  your  worship  to  come  in, 
sir?  [am  very  well. 

Sltn.  No,  I  thank  you,  forsooth,  heartily  ;  I 

Anne.  The  dinner  attends  you,  sir. 

Sten.  I  am  not  a-hungry ,  I  thank  you,  forsooth. 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


[ACT  i. 


Go,  sirrah,  for  all  you  are  my  man,  go  wait  upon 
my  cousin  Shallow.  [Exit  SIMPLE.  ]  A  justice 
of  peace  sometime  may  be  beholden  to  his 
friend  for  a  man. — I  keep  but  three  men  and  a 
boy  yet,  till  my  mother  be  dead :  but  what 
though  ?  yet  I  live  like  a  poor  gentleman  born. 

Anne.  I  may  not  go  in  without  your  worship ; 
they  will  not  sit  till  you  come. 

Slen.  I'  faith,  I  '11  eat  nothing ;  I  thank  you 
as  much  as  though  I  did. 

Anne.   I  pray  you,  sir,  walk  in. 

Slen.  I  had  rather  walk  here,  I  thank  you ;  I 
bruised  my  shin  the  other  day  with  playing  at 
sword  and  dagger  with  a  master  of  fence,  three 
veneys  for  a  dish  of  stewed  prunes ;  and,  by  my 
troth,  I  cannot  abide  the  smell  of  hot  meat  since. 
Why  do  your  dogs  bark  so  ?  be  there  bears  i' 
the  town  ?  [talked  of. 

Anne.  I  think  there  are,  sir  ;   I  heard  them 

Slen.  I  love  the  sport  well ;  but  1  shall  as  soon 
quarrel  at  it  as  any  man  in  England  : — You  are 
afraid,  if  you  see  the  bear  loose,  are  you  not  ? 

Anne.  Ay,  indeed,  sir. 

Slen.  That'smeatanddrinktomenow.  I  have 
seen  Sackerson  loose  twenty  times ;  and  have 
taken  him  by  the  chain:  but,  I  warrant  you,  the 
women  have  so  cried  and  shrieked  at  it  that  it 
passed : — but  women,  indeed,  cannot  abide  'em ; 
they  are  very  ill-favoured  rough  things. 

Re-enter  PAGE. 

Page.  Come,  gentle  Master  Slender,  come  ; 
we  stay  for  you. 

Slen,  I  '11  eat  nothing,  I  thank  you,  sir. 

Page.  By  cock  and  pye,  you  shall  not  choose, 
sir:  come,  come. 

Slen.  Nay,  pray  you,  lead  the  way. 

Page.  Come  on,  sir. 

Slen.  Mistress  Anne,  yourself  shall  go  first. 

Anne.  Not  I,  sir  ;  pray  you,  keep  on. 

Slen.  Truly,  I  will  not  go  first ;  truly,  la :  I 
will  not  do  you  that  wrong. 

Anne.   I  pray  you,  sir. 

Slen.  I  '11  rather  be  unmannerly  than  trouble- 
some :  you  do  yourself  wrong  indeed,  la. 

^Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — The  same. 
Enter  Sir  HUGH  EVANS  and  SIMPLE. 

Eva.  Go  your  ways,  and  ask  of  Doctor  Caius' 
house  which  is  the  way:  and  there  dwells  one 
Mistress  Quickly,  which  is  in  the  manner  of  his 
nurse,  or  his  dry  nurse,  or  his  cook,  or  his 
laundry,  his  washer,  and  his  wringer. 

Simp.  Well,  sir. 

Eva.  Nay,  it  is  petter  yet: — give  her  this 
letter ;  for  it  is  a  'oman  that  altogether  "s  acquain- 
tance with  Mistress  Anne  Page  t  and  the  letter 


is,  to  desire  and  require  her  to  solicit  your  master's 
desires  to  Mistress  Anne  Page  :  I  pray  you,  be- 
gone ;  I  will  make  an  end  of  my  dinner  ;  there 's 
pippins  and  cheese  to  come.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — A  Room  in  the  GARTER  INN. 

Enter  FALSTAFF,  HOST,  BARDOLPH, 
PISTOL,  and  ROBIN. 

- 

Fal.  Mine  host  of  the  Garter, — 

Host.  What  says  my  bully-rook?  Speak 
scholarly  and  wisely. 

FaL  Truly,  mine  host,  I  must  turn  away  some 
of  my  followers. 

Host.  Discard,  bully  Hercules  ;  cashier  :  let 
them  wag  ;  trot,  trot. 

Fal.  I  sit  at  ten  pounds  a-week. 

Host.  Thou  'rt  an  emperor,  Caesar,  Keisar,  and 
Pheezar.  I  will  entertain  Bardolph  ;  he  shall 
draw,  he  shall  tap  :  said  I  well,  bully  Hector  ? 

Fal.  Do  so,  good  mine  host. 

Host.  I  have  spoke  ;  let  him  follow.  Let  me 
see  thee  froth  and  lime:  I  am  at  a  word :  follow. 

[Exit  HOST. 

Fal.  Bardolph,  follow  him :  a  tapster  is  a  good 
trade  :  an  old  cloak  makes  a  new  jerkin  ;  a 
withered  servingman  a  fresh  tapster.  Go ;  adieu. 

Bard.  It  is  a  life  that  I  have  desired  ;  I  will 
thrive.  [Exit  BARDOLPH. 

Pist.  O  base  Gongarian  wight  !  wilt  thou 
the  spigot  wield  ? 

Nym.  He  was  gotten  in  drink :  is  not  the 
humour  conceited?  His  mind  is  not  heroic, 
and  there 's  the  humour  of  it. 

Fal.  I  am  glad  I  am  so  acquit  of  this  tinder- 
box  ;  his  thefts  were  too  open ;  his  filching  was 
like^an  unskilful  singer  ;  he  kept  not  time. 

Nym.  The  good  humour  is,  to  steal  at  a 
minute's  rest. 

Pist.  Convey,  the  wise  it  call :  Steal !  foh ;  a 
fico  for  the  phrase  ! 

Fal.  Well,  sirs,  I  am  almost  out  at  heels. 

Pist.  Why,  then,  let  kibes  ensue. 

Fal.  There  is  no  remedy;  I  must  coney- 
catch  ;  I  must  shift. 

Pist.  Young  ravens  must  have  food. 

Fal.  Which  of  you  know  Ford  of  this  town? 

Pist.  I  ken  the  wight ;  he  is  of  substance  good. 

Fal.  My  honest  lads,  I  will  tell  you  what  I 
am  about. 

Pist.  Two  yards,  and  more. 

Fal.  No  quips  now,  Pistol.  Indeed  I  am  in 
the  waist  two  yards  about :  but  I  am  now  about 
no  waste ;  I  am  about  thrift.  Briefly,  I  do  mean 
to  make  love  to  Ford's  wife ;  I  spy  entertainment 
in  her ;  she  discourses,  she  carves,  she  gives  the 
leer  of  invitation  :  I  can  construe  the  action  of 


SCENE  IV.] 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


her  familiar  style  ;  and  the  hardest  voice  of  her 
behaviour,  to  be  English'd  rightly,  is,  /  am  Sir 
John  Falstaff' s. 

Pi  si.  He  hath  studied  her  well,  and  translated 
her  well ;  out  of  honesty  into  English,  [pass? 

Nj'ni,  The  anchor  is  deep:  will  that  humour 

Fal.  Now,  the  report  goes,  she  has  all  the  rule 
of  her  husband's  purse;  she  hath  legions  of  angels. 

Pist.  As  many  devils  entertain ;  and,  To  her, 
day,  say  L 

Nym.  The  humour  rises ;  it  is  good :  humour 
me  the  angels. 

Fal.  I  have  writ  me  here  a  letter  to  her  :  and 
here  another  to  Page's  wife ;  who  even  now  gave 
me  good  eyes  too,  examined  my  parts  with  most 
judicious  eyliads :  sometimes  the  beam  of  her 
view  gilded  my  foot,  sometimes  my  portly  belly. 

Pist.  Then  did  the  sun  on  dunghill  shine. 

Nym.  I  thank  thee  for  that  humour. 

FaL  O,  she  did  so  course  o'er  my  exteriors 
with  such  a  greedy  intention,  that  the  appetite 
of  her  eye  did  seem  to  scorch  me  up  like  a  burn- 
ing-glass J  Here's  another  letter  to  her:  she 
bears  the  purse  too;  she  is  a  region  in  Guiana, 
all  gold  and  bounty.  I  will  be  cheater  to  them 
both,  and  they  shall  be  exchequers  to  me;  they 
shall  be  my  East  and  West  Indies,  and  I  will 
trade  to  them  both.  Go,  bear  thou  this  letter 
to  Mistress  Page;  and  thou  this  to  Mistress 
Ford;  we  will  thrive,  lads,  we  will  thrive. 

Pist.  Shall  I  Sir  Pandarus  of  Troy  become, 
And  bymyside  wear  steel?  then,  Lucifer  take  all ! 

Nym.  I  will  run  no  base  humour:  here,  take 
the  humour  letter ;  I  will  keep  the  'haviour  of 
reputation.  [letters  tightly ; 

FaL  Hold,  sirrah,  [to  ROB.,]  bear  you  these 
Sail  like  my  pinnace  to  these  golden  shores. — 
Rogues,  hence,  avaunt  1  vanish  like  hailstones, 
go ;  [pack  ! 

Trudge,  plod,  away,  o'  the  hoof ;  seek  shelter, 
Falstaff  will  learn  the  humour  of  this  age, 
French  thrift,  you  rogues ;  myself,  and  skirted 


page. 


[Exeunt  FAL.  and  ROB. 


Pist.  Let  vultures  gripe  thy  guts  !  for  gourd 

and  fullam  holds, 

And  high  and  low  beguile  the  rich  and  poor  ; 
Tester  I'll  have  in  pouch  when  thou  shalt  lack, 
Base  Phrygian  Turk  ! 

Nym.   I  have  operations  in  my  head,  which 
be  humours  of  revenge. 

Pist.  Wilt  thou  revenge  ? 

Nym.  By  welkin,  and  her  star  ! 

Pist.  With  wit  or  steel  ? 

Nym.  With  both  the  humours,  I : 
I  will  discuss  the  humour  of  this  love  to  Page. 

Pist.  And  I  to  Ford  shall  eke  unfold, 
How  Falstaff,  varlet  vile, 


His  dove  will  prove,  his  gold  will  hold, 

And  his  soft  couch  defile. 
Nym.  My  humour  shall  not  cool :  I  will  in- 
cense Page  to  deal  with  poison  ;  I  will  possess 
him  with  yellowness,  for  the  revolt  of  mien  is 
dangerous  :  that  is  my  true  humour. 

Pist.  Thou  art  the  Mars  of  malcontents :  I 
second  thee  ;  troop  on.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — A  Room  in  Dr.  CAIUS'S  House. 
Enter  Mrs.  QUICKLY,  SIMPLE,  and  RUGBY. 

Quick.  What:  John  Rugby! — I  pray  thee  go  to 
the  casement  and  see  if  you  can  see  my  master, 
Master  Doctor  Caius,  coming :  if  he  do,  i'  faith, 
and  find  anybody  in  the  house,  here  will  be  an 
old  abusing  of  God's  patience  and  the  king's 
English. 

Rug.  I  '11  go  watch.  [Exit  RUGBY. 

Quick.  Go ;  and  we  '11  have  a  posset  for 't  soon 
at  night,  in  faith,  at  the  latter  end  of  a  sea-coal 
fire.  An  honest,  willing,  kind  fellow,  as  ever 
servant  shall  come  in  house  withal ;  and  I  war- 
rant you,  no  tell-tale,  nor  no  breed-bate :  his 
worst  fault  is  that  he  is  given  to  prayer  ;  be  is 
something  peevish  that  way ;  but  nobody  but 
has  his  fault ; — but  let  that  pass.  Peter  Simple, 
you  say  your  name  is  ? 

Sim.  Ay,  for  fault  of  a  better. 

Quick.  And  Master  Slender  ys  your  master  ? 

Sim.  Ay,  forsooth. 

Quick.  Does  he  not  wear  a  great  round  beard, 
like  a  glover's  paring-knife  ? 

Sim.  No,  forsooth:  he  hath  but  a  little  wee  face, 
with  a  little  yellow  beard ;  a  Cain-colouredbeard. 

Quick.  A  softly-sprighted  man,  is  he  not  ? 

Sim.  Ay,  forsooth :  but  he  i?  as  tall  a  man  of 
his  hands  as  any  is  between  this  and  his  head :  he 
hath  fought  with  a  warrener. 

Quick.  How  say  you  ? — O ,  I  should  remember 
him.  Does  he  not  hold  up  his  head,  as  it  were? 
and  strut  in  his  gait  ? 

Sim.  Yes,  indeed  does  he. 

Quick.  Well,  heaven  send  Anne  Page  no  worse 
fortune !  Tell  Master  Parson  Evans,  I  will  do 
what  I  can  for  your  master :  Anne  is  a  good  girl, 
and  I  wish — 

Re-enter  RUGBY. 

Rug.  Out,  alas  !  here  comes  my  master. 

Quick.  We  shall  all  be  shent.  Run  in  here, 
good  young  man ;  go  into  this  closet.  [Shuts 
SIMPLE  in  the  closet. ]  He  will  not  stay  long. — 
What,  John  Rugby  !  John,  what  John,  I  say ! 
— Go,  John,  go  inquire  for  my  master ;  I  doubt 
he  be  not  well  that  he  comes  not  home  : — and 
downt  down,  adown-a,  &c.  \Sings. 


54 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


[ACT  I. 


Enter  Dr.  CAIUS. 

Caius.  Vat  is  you  sing?  I  do  not  like  dese 
toys.  Pray  you,  go  and  vetch  me  in  my  closet 
un  bottier  verd  ;  a  box,  a  green-a  box.  Do 
intend  vat  I  speak  ?  a  green-a  box. 

Quick.  Ay,forsooth,I'll  fetch  it  you.  lamglad 
he  went  not  in  himself:  if  he  had  found  theyoung 
man,  he  would  have  been  horn-mad.  [Aside. 

Caius.  Fe)fe,fc,fe!  mafoi,  il fait  fort  chaud. 
fe  irfen  vats  a  la  Coury — la  grande  affaire. 

Quick.   Is  it  this,  sir  ? 

Caius.  Ouy;  incite  leau  mon  pocket :  depeche, 
quickly : — Vere  is  dat  knave,  Rugby  ? 

Quick.  What,  John  Rugby  !     John  ? 

Rug.  Here,  sir. 

Caius.  You  are  John  Rugby,  and  you  are  Jack 
Rugby.  Come,  take-a  your  rapier,  and  come 
after  my  heel  to  de  court. 

Rug.  'Tis  ready,  sir,  here  in  the  porch. 

Caius.  By  my  trot,  I  tarry  too  long: — Od'sme ! 
Qrfayf  oublie?  dere  is  some  simples  in  my  closet 
dat  I  viil  not  for  the  varld  I  shall  leave  behind. 

Quick.  Ah  me!  he'll  find  the  young  man 
there,  and  be  mad  ! 

Caius.  Odiable,  diable  !  vat  is  in  my  closet? — 
Villany!  larron!  {Pulling SIMPLE  out.}  Rugby, 
my  rapier. 

Quick.  Good  master,  be  content. 

Caius.  Verefore  shall  I  be  content-a  ! 

Quick.  The  young  man  is  an  honest  man. 

Caius.  Vat  shall  de  honest  mando  in  my  closet  ? 
dere  is  no  honest  man  dat  shall  come  in  my  closet. 

Quick.  I  beseech  you,  be  not  so  phlegmatic ; 
hear  the  truth  of  it.  He  came  of  an  errand  to 
me  from  Parson  Hugh. 

Caius.  Veil? 

Sim.  Ay,  forsooth,  to  desire  her  to — 

Quick.  Peace,  I  pray  you.  [tale. 

Caius.    Peace-a  your  tongue : — Speak -a  your 

Sim.  To  desire  this  honestgentlewoman,  your 
maid,  tospeakagood  word toMistress  Anne  Page 
for  my  master,  in  the  way  of  marriage. 

Quick.  This  is  all,  indeed,  la;  but  I'll  ne'er 
put  my  finger  in  the  fire,  and  need  not. 

Caius.  Sir  Hugh  send-a  you  ? — Rugby,  baillez 
me  some  paper.  Tarry  you  a  little-a  while. 

[Writes. 

Quick.  I  am  glad  he  is  so  quiet :  if  he  had  been 
thoroughly  moved,  you  should  have  heard  him  so 
loud,  and  so  melancholy;— but  notwithstanding, 
man,  I  '11  do  your  master  whatgood  I  can:  and  the 
very  yea  and  the  no  is,  the  French  doctor,  my 
master, — I  may  call  him  my  master,  look  you,  for 
I  keep  his  house :  and  I  wash,  wring,  brew,  bake, 
scour,  dress  meat  and  drink,  make  the  beds,  and 
do  all  myself : — 


Sim.  'Tis  a  great  charge  to  come  under  one 
body's  hand. 

Quick.  Are  you  avised  o'  that?  you  shall  find 
it  a  great  charge :  and  to  be  up  early  and  down 
late; — but  notwithstanding, — to  tell  you  in 
your  ear ;  I  would  have  no  words  of  it, — my 
master  himself  is  in  love  with  Mistress  Anne 
Page :  but  notwithstanding  that,  —  I  know 
Anne's  mind, — that's  neither  here  nor  there. 

Caius.  You  jack'nape  ;  give-a  dis  letter  to  Sir 
Hugh  ;  by  gar,  it  is  a  shallenge  ;  I  will  cut  his 
troat  in  de  park  ;  and  I  vill  teach  a  scurvy  jack  - 
a-nape  priest  to  meddle  or  make : — you  may  be 
gone ;  it  is  not  good  you  tarry  here : — by  gar, 
I  vill  cut  all  his  two  stones  ;  by  gar,  he  shall 
not  have  a  stone  to  trow  at  his  dog. 

[Exit  SIMPLE. 

Quick.  Alas,  he  speaks  but  for  his  friend. 

Caius.  It  is  no  matter -a  for  dat: — do  not 
you  tell-a  me  dat  I  shall  have  Anne  Page  for 
myself?  —  by  gar,  I  will  kill  de  Jack  priest; 
and  I  have  appointed  mine  host  of  de  Jar- 
terre  to  measure  our  weapon  : — by  gar,  I  vill 
myself  have  Anne  Page. 

Quick.  Sir,  the  maid  loves  you,  and  all  shall 
be  well :  we  must  give  folks  leave  to  prate. 
What,  the  good-jer ! 

C«ius.  Rugby,  come  to  de  court  vit  me. — By 

gar,  if  I  have  not  Anne  Page,  I  shall  turn  your 

head  out  of  my  door  : — follow  my  heels,  Rugby. 

[Exeunt  CAIUS  and  RUGBY. 

Quick.  You  shall  have  An  fool's-head  of  your 
own.  No,  I  know  Anne's  mind  for  that :  never  a 
woman  in  Windsor  knows  more  of  Anne's  mind 
than  I  do  ;  nor  can  do  more  than  I  do  with  her,  I 
thank  heaven. 

Pent.  [  Within.'}  Who's  within  there  ?  ho  ! 

Quick.  Who's  there,  I  trow?  Come  near  the 
house,  I  pray  you. 

Enter  FENTON. 

Pent.  How  now,  good  woman;  how  dost  thou  ? 

Quick.  The  better  that  it  pleases  your  good 
worship  to  ask.  [Anne  ? 

Pent.  What  news  ?    How  does  pretty  Mistress 

Quick.  In  truth,  sir,  and  she  is  pretty,  and 
honest,  and  gentle ;  and  one  that  is  your  friend,  I 
can  tell  you  that  by  the  way  ;  I  praise  heaven  for 
it.  [Shall  I  not  lose  my  suit  ? 

Pent.  Shall  I  do  any  good,  think'st  thou? 

Quick.  Troth,  sir,  all  is  in  his  hands  above: 
but  notwithstanding,  Master  Fenton,  I  '11  be 
sworn  on  a  book  she  loves  you  : — Have  not  your 
worship  a  wart  above  your  eye  ? 

Pent.  Yes,  marry,  have  I ;  what  of  that  ? 

Quick.  Well,  thereby  hangs  a  tale ;  good  faith, 
it  is  such  another  Nan ; — but,  I  detest,  an  honest 


SCENE  IV.] 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


55 


maid  as  ever  broke  bread.  We  had  an  hour's  talk 
of  that  wart : — I  shall  never  laugh  but  in  that 
maid's  company  !  But,  indeed,  she  is  given  too 
much  to  allicholly  and  musing  :  But  for  you— 
Well,  go  to. 

Pent.  Well,  I  shall  see  her  to-day.  Hold, 
there's  money  for  thee  ;  let  me  have  thy  voice 
in  my  behalf :  if  thou  seest  her  before  me,  com- 
mend me — 

Quick.  Will  I  ?  i'  faith,  that  we  will ;  andl  will 
tell  your  worship  more  of  the  wart  the  next  time 
we  have  confidence  ;  and  of  other  wooers. 

Pent.  Well,  farewell ;  I  am  in  great  haste 
now.  [Exit. 

Quick.  Farewell  to  your  worship. — Truly,  an 
honest  gentleman ;  but  Anne  loves  him  not ;  for 
I  know  Anne's  mind  as  well  as  another  does : — 
Out  upon't  I  what  have  I  forgot?  [Exit. 

:'l?b.T"  v  ?^mo?  oriw  »Jio<xI  ^ 331050  ^snriiD 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — Before  PAGE'S  House. 
Enter  Mrs.  PAGE,  with  a  letter. 

Mrs.  Page.  What !  have  I  'scaped  love-letters 
in  the  holiday  time  of  my  beauty,  and  am  I  now 
a  subject  for  them  ?  Let  me  see  :  [Reads. 

Ask  me  no  reason  why  I  love  you ;  for  though  love 
use  reason  for  his  precisian  he  admits  him  net  for  his 
counsellor.  You  are  not  young  ;  no  more  am  I;  go  to  then, 
there  s sympathy;  you  are  merry;  so  am  I.  Halhalthen 
there's  more  sympathy  ;  you  love  sack,  and  so  do  I. 
Would  you  desire  better  sympathy  ?  Let  it  suffice  thee, 
Mistress  Page,  (at  the  least,  if  the  love  of  a  soldier  can 
suffice,)  that  I  love  thee.  I  will  not  say,  pity  me  :  'tis  not 
a  soldier-like  phrase  :  but  I  says  love  me.  By  me, 

Thine  own  true  knight, 

By  day  or  night, 

Or  any  kind  of  light, 

With  all  his  might, 

For  thee  to  fight,      JOHN  FALSTAFF. 

What  a  Herod  of  Jewry  is  this  ? — O  wicked, 
wicked  world ! — one  that  is  well-nigh  worn  to 
pieces  with  age  to  show  himself  a  young  gallant ! 
What  an  un  weighed  behaviour  hath  this  Flemish 
drunkard  picked  (with  the  devil's  name)  out  of 
my  conversation,  that  he  dares  in  this  manner 
assay  me  ?  Why,  he  hath  not  been  thrice  in  my 
company ! — What  should  I  say  to  him  ? — I  was 
then  frugal  of  my  mirth : — heaven  forgive  me  ! 
—Why,  I  '11  exhibit  a  bill  in  the  parliament 
for  the  putting  down  of  men.  How  shall  I  be 
revenged  on  him?  for  revenged  I  will  be,  as 
sure  as  his  guts  are  made  of  puddings. 

Enter  Mrs.  FORD. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Mistress  Page  1  trust  me,  I  was 
going  to  your  house  1 


Mrs.  Page.  And,  trust  me,  I  was  coming  to 
you.  You  look  very  ill. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  I'll  ne'er  believe  that;  I 
have  to  show  to  the  contrary. 

Mrs.  Page.  'Faith,  but  you  do,  in  my 
mind. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Well,  I  do,  then;  yet,  I  say,  I 
could  show  you  to  the  contrary.  O,  Mistress 
Page,  give  me  some  counsel ! 

Mrs.  Page.  What 's  the  matter,  woman  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  O  woman,  if  it  were  not  for  one 
trifling  respect,  I  could  come  to  such  honour  ! 

Mrs.  Page.  Hang  the  trifle,  woman ;  take  the 

honour.  What  is  it  ? dispense  with  trifles ; — 

what  is  it  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  If  I  would  but  go  to  hell  for  an 
eternal  moment,  or  so,  I  could  be  knighted. 

Mrs.  Page.  What?  thou  liest!  — Sir  Alice 
Ford ! — These  knights  will  hack ;  and  so  thou 
shouldst  not  alter  the  article  of  thy  gentry. 

Mrs.  Ford.  We  burn  day-light : — here,  read, 
read; — perceive  how  I  might  be  knighted. — I 
shall  think  the  worse  of  fat  men  as  long  as  I  have 
an  eye  to  make  difference  of  men's  liking.  And 
yet  he  would  not  swear  ;  praised  women's  mod- 
esty :  and  gave  such  orderly  and  well-behaved 
reproof  to  all  uncomeliness,  that  I  would  have 
sworn  his  disposition  would  have  gone  to  the 
truth  of  his  words ;  but  they  do  no  more  ad- 
here and  keep  place  together  than  the  hundreth 
psalm  to  the  tune  of  Green  sleeves.  What  tem- 
pest, I  trow,  threw  this  whale,  with  so  many 
tuns  of  oil  in  his  belly,  ashore  at  Windsor? 
How  shall  I  be  revenged  on  him?  I  think  the 
best  way  were  to  entertain  him  with  hope  till 
the  wicked  fire  of  lust  have  melted  him  in  his 
own  grease. — Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Letter  for  letter;  but  that  the  name 
of  Page  and  Ford  differs  ! — To  thy  great  comfort 
in  this  mystery  of  ill  opinions,  here 's  the  twin- 
brother  of  thy  letter  :  but  let  thine  inherit  first ; 
for,  I  protest,  mine  never  shall.  I  warrant  he 
hath  a  thousand  of  these  letters,  writ  with  blank 
space  for  different  names,  (sure  more,)  and  these 
are  of  the  second  edition.  He  will  print  them 
out  of  doubt ;  for  he  cares  not  what  he  puts 
into  the  press  when  he  would  put  us  two.  I 
had  rather  be  a  giantess,  and  lie  under  Mount 
Pelion.  Well,  I  will  find  you  twenty  lascivious 
turtles  ere  one  chaste  man. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  this  is  the  very  same ;  the 
very  hand,  the  very  words.  What  doth  he  think 
of  us? 

Mrs.  Page.  Nay,  I  know  not ;  it  makes  me 
almost  ready  to  wrangle  with  mine  own  honesty. 
I  '11  entertain  myself  like  one  that  I  am  not  ac- 
quainted withal :  for,  sure,  unless  he  know  some 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


[ACT  n. 


strain  in  me  that  I  know  not  myself,  he  would 
never  have  boarded  me  in  this  fury. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Boarding,  call  you  it  ?  I  '11  be 
sure  to  keep  him  above  deck. 

Mrs.  Page.  So  will  I ;  if  he  come  under  my 
hatches,  I  '11  never  to  sea  again.  Let 's  be  re- 
venged on  him  :  let 's  appoint  him  a  meeting  ; 
give  him  a  show  of  comfort  in  his  suit ;  and  lead 
him  on  with  a  fine  baited  delay,  till  he  hath 
pawned  his  horses  to  mine  host  of  the  Garter. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  I  will  consent  to  act  any  vil- 

lany  against  him  that  may  not  sully  the  chariness 

of  our  honesty.     O,  that  my  husband  saw  this 

letter !  it  would  give  eternal  food  to  his  jealousy. 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  look  where  he  comes ;  and 

tny  good  man  too ;  he 's  as  far  from  jealousy  as 

I  am  from  giving  him  cause ;  and  that,  I  hope, 

is  an  unmeasurable  distance. 

Mrs.  Ford,  You  are  the  happier  woman. 

Mrs.  Page.  Let's  consult  together  against  this 

greasy  knight:  Come  hither.         {They  retire. 

Enter  FORD,  PISTOL,  PAGE,  and  NYM. 

Ford.  Well,  I  hope  it  be  not  so. 

Pist.  Hope  is  a  curtail  dog  in  some  affairs: 
Sir  John  affects  thy  wife. 

Ford*  Why,  sir,  my  wife  is  not  young. 

Pist.  He  woos  both  high  and  low,  both  rich 

and  poor, 

Both  young  and  old,  one  with  another,  Ford ; 
He  loves  thy  gally-mawfry ;  Ford,  perpend. 

Ford.  Love  my  wife?  [go  them, 

Pist.-  With  liver  burning  hot.  Prevent,  or 
Like  Sir  Actaeon  he,  with  Ring-wood  at  thy 
O,  odious  is  the  name.  [heels : — 

Ford.  What  name,  sir? 

Pist.  The  horn,  I  say.     Farewell. 
Take  heed  ;  have  open  eye ;  for  thieves  do  foot 
by  night :  [do  sing. — 

Take  heed,  ere  summer  comes,  or  cuckoo  birds 

Away,  Sir  Corporal  Nym. 

Believe  it,  Page  j  he  speaks  sense. 

{Exit  PISTOL. 

Ford.  I  will  be  patient ;  I  will  find  out  this. 

Nym.  And  this  is  true  {to  PAGE].  I  like  not 
the  humour  of  lying.  He  hath  wronged  me 
in  some  humours ;  I  should  have  borne  the 
humoured  letter  to  her ;  but  I  have  a  sword, 
and  it  shall  bite  upon  my  necessity.  He  loves 
your  wife  j  there 's  the  short  and  the  long.  My 
name  is  Corporal  Nym  ;  I  speak,  and  I  avouch. 
'Tis  true  : — my  name  is  Nym,  and  Falstaff  loves 
your  wife. — Adieu  !  I  love  not  the  humour  of 
bread  and  cheese ;  and  there 's  the  humour  of 
it.  Adieu.  {Exit  NYM. 

Page.  The  humour  of  it,  quotha !  here 's  a 
fellow  frights  humour  out  of  his  wits. 


Ford.  I  will  seek  out  Falstaff. 

Page.  I  never  heard  such  a  drawling,  affect- 
ing rogue. 

Ford.  If  I  do  find  it,  well. 

Page.  I  will  not  believe  such  a  Catalan  though 
the  priest  of  the  town  commended  him  for  a 
true  man. 

Ford.  'Twas  a  good  sensible  fellow.     Well. 

Page.  How  now,  Meg  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Whither  go  you,  George  ? — Hark 
you. 

Mrs.  Ford.  How  now,  sweet  Frank?  why 
art  thou  melancholy? 

Ford.  I  melancholy !  I  am  not  melancholy.— 
Get  you  home ;  go. 

Mrs.  Ford.  'Faith,  thou  hast  some  crotchets 
in  thy  head  now. — Will  you  go,  Mistress  Page  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Have  with  you. — You  '11  come  to 

dinner,  George?    Look,  who  comes  yonder: 

she  shall  be  our  messenger  to  this  paltry  knight. 

{Aside  to  Mrs.  FORD. 

Enter  Mrs.  QUICKLY. 
Mrs.  Ford.  Trust  me,  I  thought  on  her: 
she '11  fit  it. 

Mrs.  Page.  You  are  come  to  see  my  daughter 
Anne? 

Quick.  Ay,  forsooth ;  and,  I  pray,  how  does 
good  Mistress  Anne  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Go  in  with  us  and  see ;  we  have 
an  hour's  talk  with  you. 

[Exeunt  Mrs.  PAGE,  Mrs.  FORD, 
and  Mrs.  QUICKLY. 

Page.  How  now,  Master  Ford  ? 

Ford.  You  heard  what  this  knave  told  me ; 
did  you  not  ? 

Page.  Yes ;  and  you  heard  what  the  other 
told  me  ? 

Ford.  Do  you  think  there  is  truth  in  them  ? 

Page.  Hang  'em  slaves ;  I  do  not  think  the 
knight  would  offer  it :  but  these  that  accuse  him 
in  his  intent  towards  our  wives  are  a  yoke  of 
his  discarded  men :  very  rogues,  now  they  be 
out  of  service. 

Ford.  Were  they  his  men  ? 

Page.  Marry,  wer^  they. 

Ford.  I  like  it  never  the  better  for  that. — 
Does  he  lie  at  the  Garter  ? 

Page.  Ay,  marry,  does  he.  If  he  should 
intend  this  voyage  towards  my  wife,  I  would 
turn  her  loose  to  him  ;  and  what  he  gets  of  her 
more  than  sharp  words,  let  it  lie  on  my  head. 

Ford.  I  do  not  misdoubt  my  wife ;  but  I 
would  be  loath  to  turn  them  together.  A  man 
may  be  too  confident :  I  would  have  nothing  lie 
on  my  head  :  I  cannot  be  thus  satisfied. 

Page.  Look  where  my  ranting  host  of  the 


SCENE  II.] 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


57 


Garter  comes  :  there  is  either  liquor  in  his  pate 
or  money  in  his  purse  when  he  looks  so 
merrily.  —  How  now,  mine  host? 

' 


Enter  HOST  a  nd  SHALLOW. 

Host.  How  now,  bully-rook  !  thou  'rt  a  gentle- 
man :  cavalero-justice,  I  say. 

ShaL  I  follow,  mine  host,  I  follow.—  Good 
even,  and  twenty,  good  Master  Page  !  Master 
Page,  will  you  go  with  us?  we  have  sport  in 
hand. 

Host.  Tell  him,  cavalero-justice  ;  tell  him, 
bully-rook. 

ShaL  Sir,  there  is  a  fray  to  be  fought  be- 
tween Sir  Hugh  the  Welsh  priest  and  Caius  the 
French  doctor. 

Ford.  Good  mine  host  o'  the  Garter,  a  word 
with  you. 

Host.  What  say'st  thou,  bully-rook  ? 

[  TJiey  go  aside. 

ShaL  Will  you  \to  PAGE]  go  with  us  to  be- 
hold it  ?  My  merry  host  hath  had  the  measur- 
ing of  their  weapons  ;  and,  I  think,  he  hath 
appointed  them  contrary  places  :  for,  believe 
me,  I  hear  the  parson  is  no  jester.  Hark,  I 
will  tell  you  what  our  sport  shall  be. 

Host.  Hast  thou  no  suit  against  my  knight, 
my  guest-cavalier. 

Ford.  None,  I  protest  :  but  I  '11  give  you  a 
pottle  of  burnt  sack  to  give  me  recourse  to  him, 
and  tell  him  my  name  is  Brook  ;  only  for  a  jest. 

Host.  My  hand,  bully  :  thou  shalt  have  egress 
and  regress  ;  said  I  well  ?  and  thy  name  shall 
be  Brook  :  it  is  a  merry  knight  —  Will  you  go 
on,  hearts  ? 

ShaL  Have  with  you,  mine  host. 

Page.  I  have  heard  the  Frenchman  hath  good 
skill  in  his  rapier. 

ShaL  Tut,  sir,  I  could  have  told  you  more. 
In  these  times  you  stand  on  distance,  your  passes, 
stoccadoes,  and  I  know  not  what  :  'tis  the  heart, 
Master  Page  ;  'tis  here,  'tis  here.  I  have  seen 
the  time  with  my  long  sword  I  would  have 
made  you  four  tall  fellows  skip  like  rats. 

Host.   Here,  boys,  here,  here  !  shall  we  wag? 

Page.  Have  with  you  :—  I  had  rather  hear 
them  scold  than  fight. 

[Exeunt  HOST,  SHAL.,  and  PAGE. 

Ford.  Though  Page  beasecurefool,  andstands 
so  firmly  on  his  wife's  frailty,  yet  I  cannot  put  off 
my  opinion  so  easily.  She  was  in  his  company 
at  Page's  house  ;  and  what  they  made  there  I 
know  not.  Well,  I  will  look  further  into  't  :  and 
I  have  a  disguise  to  sound  Falstaff  :  if  I  find  her 
honest,  I  lose  not  my  labour  ;  if  she  be  otherwise, 
'tis  labour  well  bestowed.  I  ovaii  \JExit. 


SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 
Enter  FALSTAFF  and  PISTOL. 

Fal.  I  will  not  lend  thee  a  penny. 

Pist.  Why,  then  the  world 's  mine  oyster, 
Which  I  with  sword  will  open. — 
I  will  retort  the  sum  in  equipage. 

Fal.  Not  a  penny.  I  have  been  content,  sir, 
you  should  Jay  my  countenance  to  pawn  :  I  have 
grated  upon  my  good  friends  for  three  reprieves 
for  you  and  your  coach-fellow,  Nym ;  or  else  you 
had  looked  through  the  grate,  like  a  geminy  of 
baboons.  I  am  damned  in  hell  for  swearing  to 
gentlemen  my  friends  you  were  good  soldiers  and 
tall  fellows  :  and  when  Mistress  Bridget  lost  the 
handle  of  her  fan,  I  took  't  upon  mine  honour 
thou  hadst  it  not.  [fifteen  pence  ? 

Pist.  Didst  thou  not  share?  hadst  thou  not 

Fal.  Reason,  you  rogue,  reason.  Think'st 
thou  I  '11  endanger  my  soul  gratis  ?  At  a  word, 
hang  no  more  about  me,  I  am  no  gibbet  for 
you; — go. — A  short  knife  and  a  throng; — to  your 
manor  of  Pick  thatch,  go. — You  '11  not  bear  a 
letter  for  me,  you  rogue  ! — you  stand  upon  your 
honour ! — Why,  thou  unconfinable  baseness,  it  is 
as  much  as  I  can  do  to  keep  the  terms  of  my 
honour  precise.  I,  I,  I  myself  sometimes,  leaving 
the  fear  of  heaven  on  the  left  hand,  and  hiding 
mine  honour  in  my  necessity,  am  fain  to  shuffle, 
to  hedge,  and  to  lurch;  and  yet  you,  rogue,  will 
ensconce  your  rags,  your  cat-a-mountain  looks, 
your  red  lattice  phrases,  and  your  bold-beating 
oaths,  under  the  shelter  of  your  honour  \  You 
will  not  do  it,  you  ?  [of  man  ? 

Pist.  I  do  relent.     What  wouldst  thou  more 

*«fcr  ROBIN. 

Rob.  Sir,  here 's  a  woman  would  speak  with 
you. 

Fal.  Let  her  approach. 

Enter  Mrs.  QUICKLY. 

Quick.  Give  your  worship  good-morrow. 

Fal.  Good-morrow,  good  wife. 

Quick.  Not  so,  an 't  please  your  worship. 

Fal.  Good  maid,  then. 

Quick.  I '11  be  sworn;  as  my  mother  was,  the 
first  hour  I  was  born. 

Fal.  I  do  believe  the  swearer.    What  with  me? 

Quick.  Shall  I  vouchsafe  your  worship  a  word 
or  two  ? 

Fal.  Two  thousand,  tair  woman  !  and  I  '11 
vouchsafe  thee  the  hearing. 

Quick.  There  is  one,  Mistress  Ford,  sir  ; — I 
pray,  come  a  little  nearer  this  ways  :— I  myself 
dwell  with  Master  Doctor  Caius. 

Fal.  Well,  on  :  Mistress  Ford,  you  say, 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


[ACT  ii. 


Quick.  Your  worship  says  very  true  :  I  pray 
your  worship  come  a  little  nearer  this  ways. 

Fal.  I  warrant  thee  nobody  hears;  —  mine 
own  people,  mine  own  people. 

Quick.  Are  they  so?  Heaven  bless  them,  and 
make  them  his  servants  ! 

Fal.  Well :  Mistress  Ford  ;— what  of  her  ? 

Quick.  Why,  sir,  she 's  a  good  creature.  Lord, 
lord  !  your  worship 's  a  wanton.  Well,  heaven 
forgive  you,  and  all  of  us,  I  pray  ! 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford; — come,  Mistress  Ford, — 

Quick.  Marry,  this  is  the  short  and  the  long  of 
it ;  you  have  brought  her  into  such  a  canaries  as 
'tis  wonderful.  The  best  courtier  of  them  all, 
when  the  court  lay  at  Windsor,  could  never  have 
brought  her  to  such  a  canary.  Yet  there  has  been 
knights,  and  lords,  and  gentlemen,  with  their 
coaches ;  I  warrant  you,  coach  after  coach,  letter 
after  letter,  gift  after  gift ;  smelling  so  sweetly, 
(all  musk)  and  so  rushling,  I  warrant  you,  in  silk 
and  gold ;  and  in  such  alligant  terms ;  and  in  such 
wine  and  sugar  of  the  best,  and  the  fairest,  that 
would  have  won  any  woman's  heart ;  and,  I  war- 
rant you,  they  could  never  get  an  eye-wink  of 
her.— I  had  myself  twenty  angels  given  me  this 
morning ;  but  I  defy  all  angels,  (in  any  such  sort, 
as  they  say,)  but  in  the  way  of  honesty : — and,  I 
warrant  you,  they  could  never  get  her  so  much  as 
sip  on  a  cup  with  the  proudest  of  them  all :  and 
yet  there  has  been  earls,  nay,  which  is  more, 
pensioners ;  but,  T  warrant  you,  all  is  one 
with  her. 

Fal.  But  what  says  she  to  me  ?  be  brief,  my 
good  she  Mercury. 

Quick.  Marry,  she  hath  received  your  letter ; 
for  the  which  she  thanks  you  a  thousand  times ; 
and  she  gives  you  to  notify  that  her  husband  will 
be  absence  from  his  house  between  ten  and  eleven. 

Fal.  Ten  and  eleven  ? 

Quick.  Ay,  forsooth ;  and  then  you  may  come 
and  see  the  picture,  she  says,  that  you  wot  of? — 
Master  Ford,  her  husband,  will  be  from  home. 
Alas  !  the  sweet  woman  leads  an  ill  life  with 
him ;  he 's  a  very  jealousy  man :  shs  leads  a  very 
frampold  life  with  him,  good  heart. 

Fal.  Ten  and  eleven.  Woman,  commend 
me  to  her  ;  I  will  not  fail  her. 

Quick.  Why,  you  say  well :  but  I  have  an- 
other messenger  to  your  worship.  Mistress  Page 
hath  her  hearty  commendations  to  you  too; — and 
let  me  tell  you  in  your  ear,  she 's  as  fartuous  a 
civil,  modest  wife,  and  one  (I  tell  you)  that  will 
not  miss  you  morning  nor  evening  prayer,  as  any 
is  in  Windsor,  whoe'er  be  the  other :  and  she 
bade  me  tell  your  worship  that  her  husband  is 
seldom  from  home;  but  she  hopes  there  will 
come  a  time.  I  never  knew  a  woman  so  dote 


upon  a  man  ;  surely  I  think  you  have  charms, 
la ;  yes,  in  truth. 

Fal.  Not  I,  I  assure  thee ;  setting  the  attraction 
of  my  good  parts  aside,  I  have  no  other  charms. 

Quick.  Blessing  on  your  heart  for 't ! 

F*l.  But,  I  pray  thee,  tell  me  this:  has  Ford's 
wife  and  Page's  wife  acquainted  each  other  how 
they  love  me  ? 

Quick.  That  were  a  jest  indeed ! — they  have 
not  so  little  grace,  I  hope: — that  were  a  trick 
indeed  !  But  Mistress  Page  would  desire  you  to 
sendher  your  little  page,  of  all  loves :  her  husband 
has  a  marvellous  infection  to  the  little  page :  and, 
truly,  Master  Page  is  an  honest  man.  Never  a 
wife  in  Windsor  leads  a  better  life  than  she  does ; 
do  what  she  will,  say  what  she  will,  take  all,  pay 
all,  go  to  bed  when  she  list,  rise  when  she  list,  all 
is  as  she  will ;  and,  truly,  she  deserves  it :  for  if 
there  be  a  kind  woman  in  Windsor,  she  is  one. 
You  must  send  her  your  page  ;  no  remedy. 

Fal.  Why,  I  will. 

Quick.  Nay,  but  do  so  then :  and,  look  you,  he 
may  come  and  go  between  you  both ;  and  in  any 
case  have  a  nay- word  that  you  may  know  one 
another's  mind,  and  the  boy  never  need  to  under- 
stand any  thing  ;  for  'tis  not  good  that  children 
should  know  any  wickedness :  old  folks,  you 
know,  have  discretion,  as  they  say,  and  know 
the  world. 

Fal.  Fare  thee  well :  commend  me  to  them 
both  :  there 's  my  purse  ;  I  am  yet  thy  debtor. — 

Boy,  go  along  with  this  woman. This  news 

distracts  me  ! 

[Exeunt  QUICKLY  and  ROBIN. 

Pist.  This  punk  is  one  of  Cupid's  carriers  : — 
Clap  on  more  sails ;  pursue ;  up  with  your 
fights ;  give  fire ;  she  is  my  prize,  or  ocean  whelm 
them  all !  [Exit  PISTOL. 

Fal.  Say'st  thou  so,  old  Jack  !  go  thy  ways  ; 
I'll  make  more  of  thy  old  body  than  I  have 
done.  Will  they  yet  look  after  thee?  Wilt 
!:hou,  after  the  expense  of  so  much  money,  be 
now  a  gainer  ?  Good  body,  I  thank  thee.  Let 
them  say  'tis  grossly  done ;  so  it  be  fairly 
done,  no  matter. 

.Ew&rBARDOLPH. 

Bard.  Sir  John,  there's  one  Master  Brook 
below  would  fain  speak  with  you,  and  be  ac- 
quainted with  you  ;  and  hath  sent  your  worship 
a  morning's  draught  of  sack. 

Fal.  Brook  is  his  name? 

Bard.   Ay,  sir. 

Fal.  Call  him  in  ;  [Exit  BARDO1PH.]  Such 
Brooks  are  welcome  to  me  that  o'erflow  such 
liquor.  Ah  !  ha  !  Mistress  Ford  and  Mistress 
Page,  have  I  encompassed  you  ?  go  to ;  via\ 


SCENE  II.] 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


59 


Re-enter  BARDOLPH,  -with  FORD  disguised. 

Ford.  Bless  you,  sir.  [me? 

Fal.  And  you,  sir.     Would  you  speak  with 

Ford.  I  make  bold  to  press  with  so  little 
preparation  upon  you. 

Fal.  You  're  welcome ;  what 's  your  will  ? 
Give  us  leave,  drawer.  [Exit  BARDOLPH. 

Ford.  Sir,  I  am  a  gentleman  that  have  spent 
much  ;  my  name  is  Brook. 

Fal.  Good  Master  Brook,  I  desire  more 
acquaintance  of  you. 

Ford.  Good  Sir  John,  I  sue  for  yours :  not  to 
charge  you ;  for  I  must  let  you  understand  I 
think  myself  in  better  plight  for  a  lender  than 
you  are :  the  which  has  something  emboldened 
me  to  this  unseasoned  intrusion :  for  they  say  if 
money  go  before,  all  ways  do  lie  open.  [on. 

Fal.   Money  is  a  good  soldier,  sir,  and  will 

Ford.  Troth,  and  I  have  a  bag  of  money  here 
troubles  me;  if  you  will  help  me  to  bear  it,  Sir 
^ohn,  take  all  or  half  for  easingme  of  the  carriage. 

Fal.  Sir,  I  know  not  how  I  may  deserve  to 
be  your  porter. 

Ford.  I  will  tell  you,  sir,  if  you  will  give  me 
the  hearing. 

Fal.  Speak,  good  Master  Brook ;  I  shall  be 
glad  to  be  your  servant. 

Ford.  Sir,  I  hear  you  are  a  scholar, — I  will  be 

brief  with  you, and  you  have  been  a  man 

long  known  to  me,  though  I  had  never  so  good 
means  as  desire  to  make  myself  acquainted  with 
you.  I  shall  discover  a  thing  to  you,  wherein  I 
must  very  much  lay  open  mine  own  imperfection: 
but,  good  Sir  John,  as  you  have  one  eye  upon  my 
follies,  as  you  hear  them  unfolded,  ti  rn  another 
into  the  register  of  your  own :  that  I  may  pass 
with  a  reproof  the  easier,  sith  you  yourself  know 
how  easy  it  is  to  be  such  an  offender. 

Fal.  Very  well,  sir;  proceed. 

Ford.  There  is  a  gentlewoman  in  this  town, 
her  husband's  name  is  Ford. 

Fal.  Well,  sir. 

Ford.  I  have  long  loved  her,  and  I  protest  to 
you  bestowed  much  on  her ;  followed  her  with 
a  doting  observance;  engrossed  opportunities 
to  meet  her;  fee'd  every  slight  occasion  that 
could  but  niggardly  give  me  sight  of  her;  not 
only  bought  many  presents  to  give  her,  but  have 
given  largely  to  many  to  know  what  she  would 
have  given :  briefly,  I  have  pursued  her  as  love 
hath  pursued  me ;  which  hath  been  on  the  wing 
of  all  occasions.  But  whatsoever  I  have  merited, 
either  in  my  mind  or  in  my  means,  meed,  I  am 
sure,  I  have  received  none ;  unless  experience  be 
a  jewel ;  that  I  have  purchased  at  an  infinite  rate; 
and  that  hath  taught  me  to  say  this : 


Love  like  a  shadow  flies ;  when  substance  love 

pursues  ; 
Pur  suing  that  that  flies,  and  flying  what  pursues. 

Fal.  Have  you  received  no  promise  of  satis- 
faction at  her  hands? 

Ford.  Never.  [pose? 

Fal.  Have  you  importuned  her  to  such  a  pur- 

Ford.  Never. 

Fal.  Of  what  quality  was  your  love,  then? 

Ford.  Like  a  fair  house  built  upon  another 
man's  ground ;  so  that  I  have  lost  my  edifice  by 
mistaking  the  place  where  I  erected  it. 

Fal.  To  what  purpose  have  you  unfolded  this 
to  me? 

Ford.  Wfcen  I  have  told  you  that,  I  have  told 
you  all.  Some  say  that  though  she  appear  honest 
to  me,  yet  in  other  places  she  enlargeth  her  mu  h 
so  far  that  there  is  shrewd  construction  made  of 
her.  Now,  Sir  John,  here  is  the  heart  of  my 
purpose.  You  are  a  gentleman  of  excellent 
breeding,  admirable  discourse,  of  great  admit- 
tance, authentic  in  your  place  and  person, 
generally  allowed  for  your  many  war-like,  court- 
like,  and  learned  preparations. 

Fal.  O,  sir! 

Ford.  Believe  it,  for  you  know  it : — There  is 
money;  spend  it,  spend  it;  spend  more;  spend 
all  I  have ;  only  give  me  so  much  of  your  time  in 
exchange  of  it  as  to  lay  an  amiable  siege  to  the 
honesty  of  this  Fords  wife;  use  your  art  of 
wooing,  win  her  to  consent  to  you ;  if  any  man 
may,  you  may  as  soon  as  any. 

Fal.  Would  it  apply  well  to  the  vehemency 
of  your  affection,  that  I  should  win  what  you 
would  enjoy?  Methinks  you  prescribe  to  your- 
self very  preposterously. 

Ford.  O,  understand  my  drift !  She  dwells  so 
securely  on  the  excellency  of  her  honour  that  the 
folly  of  my  soul  cares  not  present  itself;  she  istoo 
bright  to  be  looked  against.  Now,  could  I  come 
to  her  with  any  ,  election  in  my  hand,  my  desires 
had  instance  and  argument  to  commend  them- 
selves ;  I  could  drive  her  then  from  the  ward  of 
her  purity,  her  reputation,  her  marriage  vow,  and 
a  thousand  other  her  defences,  which  now  are  too 
strongly  embattled  against  me.  What  say  you 
to 't,  Sir  John  ? 

Fal.  Master  Brook,  I  will  first  make  bold  with 
your  money;  next,  give  me  your  hand  :  and  last, 
as  I  am  a  gentleman,  you  shall,  if  you  will,  en- 
joy Ford's  wife. 

Ford.  O  good  sir  ! 

Fal.  Master  Brook,  I  say  you  shall. 

Ford.  Want  no  money,  Sir  John,  you  shall 
want  none. 

Fal.  Want  no  Mistress  Ford,  Master  Brook, 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


[ACT  II. 


you  shall  want  none.  I  shall  be  with  her  (I  may 
tell  you)  by  her  own  appointment :  even  as  you 
came  in  to  me  her  assistant,  or  go-between,  parted 
from  me :  I  say,  I  shall  be  with  her  between  ten 
and  eleven;  for  at  that  time  the  jealous  rascally 
knave,  her  husband,  will  be  forth.  Come  you 
to  me  at  night ;  you  shall  know  how  I  speed. 

Ford.  I  am  blest  in  your  acquaintance.  Do 
you  know  Ford,  sir? 

Fal.  Hang  him,  poor  cuckoldly  knave !  I 
know  him  not : — yet  I  wrong  him  to  call  him 
poor;  they  say  the  jealous  wittolly  knave  hath 
masses  of  money ;  for  the  which  his  wife  seems 
to  me  well-favoured.  I  will  use  her  as  the  key 
of  the  cuckoldly  rogue's  coffer ;  and  there 's  my 
harvest-home. 

Ford.  I  would  you  knew  Ford,  sir ;  that  you 
might  avoid  him  if  you  saw  him. 

Fal.  Hang  him,  mechanical  salt-butter  rogue! 
I  will  stare  him  out  of  his  wits ;  I  will  awe  him 
with  my  cudgel :  it  shall  hang  like  a  meteor  o'er 
the  cuckold's  horns :  Master  Brook,  thou  shalt 
know,  I  will  predominate  o'er  the  peasant,  and 
thou  shalt  lie  with  his  wife.— Come  to  me  soon 
at  night: — Ford  's  a  knave,  and  I  will  aggravate 
his  stile ;  thou,  Master  Brook,  shalt  know  him 
for  a  knave  and  cuckold  : — come  to  me  soon  at 
tlight.  \Exit. 

Ford.  What  a  damned  Epicurean  rascal  is  his! 
— My  heart  is  ready  to  crack  with  impatience. — 
Who  says  this  is  improvident  jealousy?  My  wife 
hath  sent  to  him,  the  hour  is  fixed,  the  match  is 
made.  Would  any  man  have  thought  this?— See 
the  hell  of  having  a  false  woman !  my  bed  shall  be 
abused,  my  coffers  ransacked,  my  reputation 
gnawn  at;  and  I  shall  not  only  receive  this 
villanous  wrong,  but  stand  under  the  adoption  of 
abominable  terms,  and  by  him  that  does  me  this 

wrong.  Terms !  names ! Amaimon  sounds 

well ;  Lucifer,  well ;  Bar  bason,  well ;  yet  they 
are  devils'  additions,  the  names  of  fiends :  but 
cuckold !  wittol-cuckold !  the  devil  himself  hath 
not  such  a  name.  Page  is  an  ass,  a  secure  ass ! 
he  will  trust  his  wife ;  he  will  not  be  jealous !  I 
will  rather  trust  a  Fleming  with  my  butter,  Parson 
Hugh  the  Welshman  with  my  cheese,  an  Irish- 
man with  my  aqua-viiae  bottle,  or  a  thief  to  walk 
my  ambling  gelding,  than  my  wife  with  herself: 
then  she  plots,  then  she  ruminates,  then  she 
devises :  and  what  they  think  in  their  hearts  they 
may  effect,  they  will  break  their  hearts  but  they 
will  effect.  Heaven  be  praised  for  my  j  ealousy ! — 
Eleven  o'clock  the  hour : — I  will  prevent  this, 
detect  my  wife,  be  revenged  on  Falstaft,  and 
laugh  at  Page.  I  will  about  it;  better  three 
hours  too  soon  than  a  minute  too  late.  Fie,  fie, 
fie!  cuckold!  cuckold!  cuckold!  [Exit. 


SCEN E  II I. — Windsor  Park. 
Enter  CAIUS  and  RUGBY. 

Cants.  Jack  Rugby ! 

Rug.  Sir? 

Cams.  Vat  is  de  clock,  Jack  ? 

Rtig.  'Tis  past  the  hour,  sir,  that  Sir  Hugh 
promised  to  meet. 

Caius.  By  gar,  he  has  save  his  soul,  dat  he  is 
no  come ;  he  has  pray  his  Pible  veil,  dat  he  is  no 
come :  by  gar,  Jack  Rugby,  he  is  dead  already, 
if  he  be  come. 

Rug.  He  is  wise,  sir ;  he  knew  your  worship 
would  kill  him  if  he  came. 

Caius.  By  gar,  de  herring  is  no  dead,  so  as  I 
vill  kill  him.  Take  your  rapier,  Jack;  I  vill 
tell  you  how  I  vill  kill  him. 

Rtig.  Alas,  sir,  I  cannot  fence. 

Caius.  Villany,  take  your  rapier. 

Rug.   Forbear ;  here 's  company. 

Enter  HOST,  SHALLOW,  SLENDER,  and  PAGE. 

Host.   Bless  thee,  bully  doctor. 

Shal.  Save  you,  Master  Doctor  Caius. 

Page.  Now,  good  master  doctor ! 

Slen.  Give  you  good  morrow,  sir. 

Caius.  Vat  be  all  you,  one,  two,  tree,  four, 
come  for? 

Host.  To  see  thee  fight,  to  see  thee  foin,  to  see 
thee  traverse,  to  see  thee  here,  to  see  thee  there ; 
to  see  thee  pass  thy  punto,  thy  stock,  thy  reverse, 
thy  distance,  thy  montant.  Is  he  dead,  my  Ethi- 
opian? is  he  dead,  my  Francisco?  ha,  bully! 
What  says  my  ^Esculapius  ?  my  Galen?  my  heart 
of  elder  ?  ha !  is  he  dead,  bully  Stale  ?  is  he  dead  ? 

Caius.  By  gar,  he  is  de  coward  Jack  priest  of 
the  vorld ;  he  is  not  show  his  face. 

Host.  Thou  art  a  Castilian  King  Urinal! 
Hector  of  Greece,  my  boy ! 

Caius.  I  pray  you,  bear  vitness  that  me 
have  stay  six,  or  seven,  two,  tree  hours  for  him, 
and  he  is  no  come. 

Shal.  He  is  the  wiser  man,  master  doctor :  he 
is  a  curer  of  souls,  and  you  a  curer  of  bodies ;  if 
you  should  fight,  you  go  against  the  hair  of  your 
professions;  is  it  not  true,  Master  Page? 

Page.  Master  Shallow,  you  have  yourself  been 
a  great  fighter,  though  now  a  man  of  peace. 

Shal.  Bodikins,  Master  Page,  though  I  now 
be  old,  and  of  the  peace,  if  I  see  a  sword  out  my 
finger  itches  to  make  one :  though  we  are  justices, 
and  doctors,  and  churchmen,  Master  Page,  we 
have  some  salt  of  our  youth  in  us;  we  are  the 
sons  of  women,  Master  Page. 

Page.  'Tis  true,  Master  Shallow. 

Shal.  It  will  be  found  so,  Master  Page.  Mas- 
ter Doctor  Caius,  I  am  come  to  fetch  you  home. 


SCENE  III.] 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


61 


I  am  sworn  of  the  peace ;  you  have  showed  your- 
self a  wise  physician,  and  Sir  Hugh  hath  shown 
himself  a  wise  and  patient  churchman :  you  must 
go  with  me,  master  doctor. 

Host.  Pardon,  guest  justice: — A  word,  Mon- 
sieur Muck -water. 

Cams.   Muck-vater  !  vat  is  dat  ? 

Host.  Muck-water,  in  our  English  tongue,  is 
valour,  bully. 

Caius.   By  gar,  then  I  have  as  much  muck- 

vater  as  de  Englishman  : Scurvy  jack-dog 

priest !  by  gar,  me  vill  cut  his  ears. 

Host.  He  will  clapper-claw  thee  tightly,  bully. 

Caius.   Clapper -de-claw  !  vat  is  dat? 

Host.  That  is,  he  will  make  thee  amends. 

Caius.  By  gar,  me  do  look  he  shall  clapper- 
de-claw  me  ;  for,  by  gar,  me  vill  have  it. 

Host.  And  I  will  provoke  him  to 't,  or  let  him 
wag. 

Caius.   Me  tank  you  for  dat. 

Host.  And,  moreover,  bully,  —  But  first, 
master  guest,  and  Master  Page,  and  eke  Caval- 
ero  Slender,  go  you  through  the  town  to  Frog- 
more.  [Aside  to  them. 

Page.  Sir  Hugh  is  there,  is  he  ? 

Host.  He  is  there :  see  what  humour  he  is  in ; 
and  I  will  bring  the  doctor  about  by  the  fields. 
Will  it  do  well  ? 

Shal.  We  will  do  it. 

Page>  Shal.)  and  Slen.  Adieu,  good  master 
doctor.  [Exeunt  PAGE,  SHAL.,  <z«d?SLEN. 

Caius.  By  gar,  me  vill  kill  de  priest :  for  he 
speak  for  a  jack -an -ape  to  Anne  Page. 

Host.  Let  him  die  ;  but  first  sheathe  thy  im- 
patience ;  throw  cold  water  on  thy  choler ;  go 
about  the  fields  with  me  through  Frogmore ;  I 
will  bring  thee  where  Mistress  Anne  Page  is, 
at  a  farm-house,  a-feasting  ;  and  thou  shall  woo 
her.  Cryed  game,  said  I  well  ? 

Caius.  By  gar,  me  tank  you  for  dat :  by  gar, 
I  love  you  ;  and  I  shall  procure-a  you  de  good 
guest,  de  earl,  de  knight,  de  lords,  de  gentle- 
men, my  patients. 

Host.  For  the  which  I  will  be  thy  adversary 
towards  Anne  Page  ;  said  I  well  ? 

Caius.   By  gar,  'tis  good  :  veil  said. 

Host.   Let  us  wag,  then. 

Caius.  Come  at  my  heels,  Jack  Rugby. 

[Exeunt. 
ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — A  Field  near  Frogmore. 
Enter  Sir  HUGH  EVANS  and  SIMPLE. 

Eva.  I  pray  you  now,  good  Master  Slender's 
serving-man,  and  friend  Simple  by  your  name, 
which  way  have  you  looked  for  Master  Caius, 
that  calls  himself  Doctor  of  Physick? 


Sim.  Marry,  sir,  the  city-ward,  the  park- 
ward,  every  way  ;  old  Windsor  way,  and  every 
way  but  the  town  way.  [also  look  that  way. 

Eva.  I  most  fehemently  desire  you,  you  will 

Sim.  I  will,  sir. 

Eva.  'Pless  my  soul !  how  full  of  cholers  I  am, 
and  trempling  of  mind  ! — I  shall  be  glad  if  he 
have  deceived  me  : — how  melancholies  I  am  ! — 
I  will  knog  his  urinals  about  his  knave's  cos- 
tard when  I  have  good  opportunities  for  the 
'ork — 'pless  my  soul !  [Sings. 

To  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals  ; 
There  will  we  make  our  peds  of  roses, 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies. 
To  shallow 

Mercy  on  me !  I  have  a  great  dispositions  to  cry. 

Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals — 

When  as  I  sat  in  Pabylon 

And  a  thousand  vagram  posies. 
To  shallow 

Sim.  Yonder  he  is,  coming  this  way,  Sir  Hugh. 
Eva.  He's  welcome  : 

To  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 

Heaven  prosper  the  right ! — What  weapons  is 
he? 

Sim.  No  weapons,  sir.  There  comes  my 
master,  Master  Shallow,  and  another  gentle- 
man, from  Frogmore,  over  the  stile,  this  way. 

Eva.  Pray  you,  give  me  my  gown  ;  or  else 
keep  it  in  your  arms. 

Enter  PAGE,  SHALLOW,  and  SLENDER. 

Shal.  How  now,  master  parson  ?  Good- 
morrow,  good  Sir  Hugh.  Keep  a  gamester 
from  the  dice,  and  a  good  student  from  his  book, 
and  it  is  wonderful. 

Slen.  Ah,  sweet  Anne  Page  ! 

Page.  Save  you,  good  Sir  Hugh  ! 

Eva.  'Pless  you  from  his  mercy  sake,  all  of  you ! 

Shal.  What !  the  sword  and  the  word  !  Do 
you  study  them  both,  master  parson? 

Page.  And  youthful  still,  in  your  doublet  and 
hose,  this  raw  rheumatic  day? 

Eva.  There  is  reasons  and  causes  for  it. 

Page.  We  are  come  to  you  to  do  a  good  office, 
master  parson. 

Eva.  Fery  well :  what  is  it  ? 

Page.  Yonder  is  a  most  reverend  gentleman, 
who,  belike  having  received  wrong  by  some 
person,  is  at  most  odds  with  his  own  gravity 
and  patience  that  ever  you  saw. 

Shal.  I  have  lived  fourscore  years  and  up- 
ward ;  I  never  heard  a  man  of  his  place,  gra- 
vity, and  learning,  so  wide  of  his  own  respect. 


62 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


[ACT   III. 


Eva.  What  is  he  ? 

Page.  I  think  you  know  him ;  Master  Doctor 
Caius,  the  renowned  French  physician. 

Eva.  Got's  will,  and  his  passion  of  my  heart ! 
I  had  as  lief  you  would  tell  me  of  a  mess  of 
porridge. 

Page.  Why? 

Eva.  He  has  no  more  knowledge  in  Hibo- 
crates  and  Galen, — and  he  is  a  knave  besides  ; 
a  cowardly  knave,  as  you  would  desires  to  be 
acquainted  withal. 

Page.  I  warrant  you  he's  the  man  should 
fight  with  him. 

Slen.  O,  sweet  Anne  Page  ! 

Skal.  It  appears  so,  by  his  weapons. — Keep 
them  asunder  ;— here  comes  Doctor  Caius. 

Enter  HOST,  CAIUS,  and  RUGBY. 

Page.  Nay,  good  master  parson,  keep  in  your 
weapon. 

Shal.  So  do  you,  good  master  doctor. 

Host.  Disarm  them,  and  let  them  question  ; 
let  them  keep  their  limbs  whole  and  hack  our 
English. 

Caius.  I  pray  you,  let-a  me  speak  a  word  vit 
your  ear.  Verefore  vill  you  not  meet -a  me  ? 

Eva.  Pray  you  use  your  patience:  in  good  time. 

Cains.  By  gar,  you  are  de  coward,  de  Jack 
dog,  John  ape. 

Eva.  Pray  you,  let  us  not  be  laughing-stogs 
to  other  men's  humours  ;  I  desire  you  in  friend- 
ship, and  I  will  one  way  or  another  make  you 
amends  : — I  will  knog  your  urinals  about  your 
knave's  cogscomb,  for  missing  your  meetings 
and  appointments. 

Caius.  Diable  ! — -Jack  Rugby, — mine  Host 
de  Jarterre,  have  I  not  stay  for  him  to  kill  him, 
have  I  not,  at  de  place  I  did  appoint  ? 

Eva.  As  I  am  a  Christians  soul,  now,  look 
you,  this  is  the  place  appointed.  I  '11  be  judg- 
ment by  mine  host  of  the  Garter. 

Host.  Peace,  I  say,  Gallia  and  Gaul,  French 
and  Welsh  ;  soul-curer  and  body-curer. 

Caius.  Ay,  dat  is  very  good  !  excellent ! 

Host.  Peace,  I  say ;  hear  mine  host  of  the 
Garter.  Am  I  politic  ?  am  I  subtle  ?  am  I  a 
Machiavel  ?  Shall  I  lose  my  doctor  ?  no  ;  he 
gives  me  the  potions  and  the  motions.  Shall  I 
lose  my  parson?  my  priest?  my  Sir  Hugh?  no; 
he  gives  me  the  proverbs  and  the  no-verbs.  Give 
me  thy  hand,  terrestrial ;  so  : — Give  me  thy 
hand,  celestial,  so. — Boys  of  art,  I  have  deceived 
you  both  ;  I  have  directed  you  to  wrong  places ; 
your  hearts  are  mighty,  your  skins  are  whole, 
and  let  burnt  sack  be  the  issue. — Come,  lay 
their  swords  to  pawn : — Follow  me,  lad  of 
peace  ;  follow,  follow,  follow. 


Shal.  Trust  me,  a  mad  host : — Follow,  gentle- 
men, follow. 

Slen.  O,  sweet  Anne  Page  ! 
[Exeunt  SHAL.,  SLEN.,  PAGE,  and  HOST. 

Caius.  Ha  !  do  I  perceive  dat  ?  have  you 
make-a  de  sot  of  us  ?  ha,  ha  ! 

Eva.  Thisiswell;  hehasmadeushisvlouting- 
stog, — I  desire  you  that  we  may  be  friends ;  and 
let  us  knog  our  prains  together,  to  be  revenge 
on  this  same  scall,  scurvy,  cogging  companion, 
the  host  of  the  Garter. 

Caiiis.  By  gar,  vit  all  my  heart ;  he  promise 
to  bring  me  vere  is  Anne  Page  ;  by  gar,  he  de- 
ceive me  too. 

Eva.  Well,  I  will  smite  his  noddles  : — Pray 
you,  follow.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  Street  in  Windsor. 
Enter  Mrs.  PAGE  and  ROBIN. 

Mrs.  Page.  Nay,  keep  your  way,  little  gal- 
lant ;  you  were  wont  to  be  a  follower,  but  now 
you  are  a  leader.  Whether  had  you  rather  lead 
mine  eyes  or  eye  your  master's  heels  ? 

Rob.  I  had  rather,  forsooth,  go  before  you 
like  a  man  than  follow  him  like  a  dwarf. 

Mrs.  Page.  O  you  are  a  flattering  boy ;  now, 
I  see,  you  '11  be  a  courtier. 

Enter  FORD. 

Ford.  Well  met,  Mistress  Page.  Whither 
go  you  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Truly,  sir,  to  see  your  wife.  Is 
she  at  home  ? 

Ford.  Ay ;  and  as  idle  as  she  may  hang  to- 
gether, for  want  of  company ;  I  think,  if  your 
husbands  were  dead,  you  two  would  marry. 

Mrs.  P&ge.  Be  sure  of  that, — two  other  hus- 
bands, [cock  ? 

Ford.  Where  had  you  this  pretty  weather- 

Mrs.  Page.  I  cannot  tell  what  the  dickens 
his  name  is  my  husband  had  him  off:  What 
do  you.  call  your  knight's  name,  sirrah  ! . 

Rob.  Sir  John  Falstaff. 

Ford.   Sir  John  Falstaff ! 

Mrs.  Page.  He,  he  ;  I  can  never  hit  on  's 
name.  There  is  such  a  league  between  my  good 
man  and  he  ! — Is  your  wife  at  home  indeed  ? 

Ford.   Indeed  she  is. 

Mrs.  Page.  By  your  leave,  sir  ; — I  am  sick 
till  I  see  her.  [Exeitnt  Mrs.  PAGE  and  ROBIN. 

Ford.  Has  Page  any  brains?  hath  he  any  eyes? 
hath  he  any  thinking?  Sure,  they  sleep ;  he  hath 
no  use  of  them.  Why,  this  boy  will  carry  a  letter 
twenty  miles  as  easy  as  a  cannon  will  shoot  point- 
blank  twelve  score.  He  pieces  out  his  wife's  in- 
clination ;  he  gives  her  folly  motion  and  advan- 
tage :  and  now  she 's  going  to  my  wife.,  and 


SCENE  III.] 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


Falstaff  s  boy  with  her.  A  man  may  hear  this 
shower  sing  in  the  wind  ! — and  Falstaffs  boy 
with  her  ! — Good  plots  ! — they  are  laid  ;  and 
our  revolted  wives  share  damnation  together. 
Well ;  I  will  take  him,  then  torture  my  wife, 
pluck  the  borrowed  veil  of  modesty  from  the  so 
seeming  Mistress  Page,  divulge  Page  himself  for 
a  secure  and  wilful  Actseon  ;  and  to  these  vio- 
lent proceedings  all  my  neighbours  shall  cry  aim. 
[Clock  strikes.}  The  clock  gives  me  my  cue, 
and  my  assurance  bids  me  search  ;  there  I  shall 
find  Falstaff :  I  shall  be  rather  praised  for  this 
than  mocked  ;  for  it  is  as  positive  as  the  earth 
is  firm  that  Falstaff  is  there.  I  will  go. 

Enter  PAGE,  SHALLOW,  SLENDER,  HOST, 
Sir  HUGH  EVANS,  CAIUS,  and  RUGBY. 

Shal.,  Page,  &c.  Well  met,  Master  Ford. 

Ford.  Trust  me,  a  good  knot :  I  have  good 
cheer  at  home;  and,  I  pray  you,  all  go  with  me. 

Shal.   I  must  excuse  myself,  Master  Ford. 

Slen.  And  so  must  I,  sir;  we  have  appointed 
to  dine  with  Mistress  Anne,  and  I  would  not 
break  with  her  for  more  money  than  I  '11  speak  of. 

Shal.  We  have  lingered  about  a  match  be- 
tween Anne  Page  and  my  cousin  Slender,  and 
fhis  day  we  shall  have  our  answer.  [Page. 

Slen.    I  hope  I  have  your  good  will,  father 

Page.  You  have,  Master  Slender ;  I  stand 
wholly  for  you  : — but  my  wife,  master  doctor, 
is  for  you  altogether. 

Caius.  Ay,  by  gar  ;  and  de  maid  is  love 
a-me  ;  my  nursh-a  Quickly  tell  me  so  mush. 

Host.  What  say  you  to  young  Master  Fenton? 
he  capers,  he  dances,  he  has  eyes  of  youth,  he 
writes  verses,  he  speaks  holiday,  he  smells 
April  and  May ;  he  will  carry 't,  he  will  carry 't ; 
'tis  in  his  buttons ;  he  will  carry 't. 

Page.  Not  by  my  consent,  I  promise  you. 
The  gentleman  is  of  no  having:  he  kept  com- 
pany with  the  wild  Prince  and  Poins  ;  he  is  of 
too  high  a  region,  he  knows  too  much.  No;  he 
shall  not  knit  a  knot  in  his  fortunes  with  the 
finger  of  my  substance  :  if  he  take  her,  let  him 
take  her  simply;  the  wealth  I  have  waits  on  my 
consent,  and  my  consent  goes  not  that  way. 

ford.  I  beseech  you,  heartily,  some  of  you  go 
home  with  me  to  dinner  :  besides  your  cheer, 
you  shall  have  sport ;  I  will  show  you  a  mon- 
ster.— Master  doctor,  you  shall  go  ;— so  shall 
you,  Master  Page  ; — and  you,  Sir  Hugh. 

Shal.  Well,  fare  you  well : — we  shall  have 
the  freer  wooing  at  Master  Page's. 

[Exeunt  SHAL.  and  SLEN. 

Cains.  Go  home,  John  Rugby;  I  come  anon. 
[Exit  RUGBY. 

Host.    Farewell,  my   hearts,  I  will  to  my 


honest  knight  Falstaff,  and  drink  canary  with 
him.  [Exit  HOST. 

Ford.  [Aside.~\  I  think  I  shall  drink  in  pipe- 
wine  first  with  him  ;  I  '11  make  him  dance. 
Will  you  go,  gentles  ? 

All.   Have  with  you,  to  see  this  monster. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — A  Room  in  FORD'S  House. 

Enter  Mrs.  FORD  and  Mrs.  PAGE. 
Mrs.  Ford.  What,  John  !  what,  Robert ! 
Mrs.  Page.   Quickly,  quickly  :     Is  the  buek- 

basket — 
Afrs.  Ford.  I  warrant : — What,  Robin,  I  say. 

Enter  Servants,  with  a  basket. 

Mrs.  Page.  Come,  come,  come. 

Mrs.  Ford.   Here,  set  it  down. 

Mrs.  Page.  Give  your  men  the  charge ;  we 
must  be  brief. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Marry,  as  I  told  you  before,  John, 
and  Robert,  be  ready  here  hard  by  in  the  brew- 
house;  and  when  I  suddenly  call  you,  come  forth, 
and,  without  any  pause  or  staggering,  take  this 
basket  on  your  shoulders :  that  done,  trudge  with 
it  in  all  haste,  and  carry  it  among  the  whitsters 
in  Datchet  mead,  and  there  empty  it  in  the 
muddy  ditch,  close  by  the  Thames  side. 

Mrs.  Page.  You  will  do  it  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  have  told  them  over  and  over  ; 
they  lack  no  direction.  Begone,  and  come  when 
you  are  sailed.  [Exeunt  Servants. 

Mrs.  Page.   Here  comes  little  Robin. 

Enter  ROBIN. 

Mrs.  Ford.  How  now,  my  eyas -musket? 
what  news  with  you  ? 

Rob.  My  master,  Sir  John,  is  come  in  at  your 
back-door,  Mistress  Ford,  and  requests  your 
company.  [been  true  to  us  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  You  little  Jack-a-lent,  have  you 

Rob.  Ay,  I  '11  be  sworn.  My  master  knows 
not  of  your  being  here ;  and  hath  threatened  to 
put  me  into  everlasting  liberty,  if  I  tell  you  of  it ; 
for  he  swears  he  '11  turn  me  away. 

Mrs.  Page.  Thou 'rt  a  good  boy ;  this  secrecy  of 
thine  shall  be  a  tailor  to  thee,  and  shall  make  thee 
a  new  doublet  and  hose.  — I  '11  go  hide  me. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Do  so. — Go  tell  thy  master  I  am 
alone.  Mrs.  Page,  remember  you  your  cue. 

[Exit  ROBIN. 

Mrs.  Page.  I  warrant  thee  ;  if  I  do  not  act 
it,  hiss  me.  [Exit  Mrs.  PAGE. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Go  to  then;  we  '11  use  this  un- 
wholesome humidity,  this  gross  watery  pum- 
pion; — we'll  teach  him  to  know  turtles  from 
jays. 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


[ACT  in. 


Enter  FALSTAFF. 

FaL  Have  1 'caught thee,  my  heavenly  jewel '? 
Why,  now  let  me  die,  for  I  have  lived  long 
enough  ;  this  is  the  period  of  my  ambition  :  O 
'  this  blessed  hour  ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  O  sweet  Sir  John  ! 

FaL  Mistress  Ford,  I  cannot  cog,  I  cannot 
prate,  Mrs.  Ford.  Now  shall  I  sin  in  my  wish. 
I  would  thy  husband  were  dead  ;  I  '11  speak  it 
before  the  best  lord,  I  would  make  thee  my  lady. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  your  lady,  Sir  John  !  alas,  I 
should  be  a  pitiful  lady. 

FaL  Let  the  court  of  France  show  me  such 
another  ;  I  see  how  thine  eye  would  emulate  the 
diamond :  thou  hast  the  right  arched  bent  of  the 
brow,  that  becomes  the  ship-tire,  the  tire-valiant, 
or  any  tire  of  Venetian  admittance. 

Mrs.  Ford.  A  plain  kerchief,  Sir  John :  my 
brows  become  nothing  else;  nor  that  well  neither. 

FaL  Thou  art  a  traitor  to  say  so :  thouwouldst 
make  an  absolute  courtier ;  and  the  firm  fixture  of 
thy  foot  would  give  an  excellent  motion  to  thy 
gait,  in  a  semi-circled  farthingale.  I  see  what 
thou  wert,  if  fortune  thy  foe  were  not ;  nature  is 
thy  friend.  Come,  thou  canst  not  hide  it. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Believe  me,  there 's  no  such  thing 
in  me. 

FaL  What  made  me  love  thee  ?  let  that  per- 
suade thee,  there 's  something  extraordinary  in 
thee.  Come,  I  cannot  cog,  and  say  thou  art  this 
and  that,  like  a  many  of  these  lisping  hawthorn 
buds  that  come  like  women  in  men's  apparel,  and 
smell  like  Buckler's- bury  in  simple-time  ;  I  can- 
not :  but  I  love  thee  ;  none  but  thee  ;  and  thou 
deservest  it. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Do  not  betray  me,  sir ;  I  fear 
you  love  Mrs.  Page. 

FaL  Thou  mightst  as  well  say  I  love  to  walk 
by  the  counter-gate  ;  which  is  as»hateful  to  me 
as  the  reek  of  a  lime-kiln. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Well,  heaven  knows  how  I  love 
you  ;  and  you  shall  one  day  find  it. 

FaL  Keep  in  that  mind  ;  I  '11  deserve  it. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  I  must  tell  you,  so  you  do, 
or  else  I  could  not  be  in  that  mind. 

Rob.  [Within.}  Mistress  Ford,  Mistress  Ford! 
here 's  Mrs.  Page  at  the  door,  sweating,  and 
blowing,  and  looking  wildly,  and  would  needs 
speak  with  you  presently. 

FaL  She  shall  not  see  me ;  I  will  ensconce 
me  behind  the  arras. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Pray  you,  do  so  :  she 's  a  very 
tattling  woman. —  [FALSTAFF  hides  himself. 

Enter  Mrs.  PAGE  and  ROBIN. 
What 's  the  matter  ?  how  now  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  O  Mistress  Ford,  what  have  you 


done  ?  You  're  shamed,  you  are  overthrown, 
you  are  undone  for  ever. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What 's  the  matter,  good  Mistress 
Page? 

Mrs.  Page.  O  well-a-day,  Mistress  Fora! 
having  an  honest  man  to  your  husband,  to  give 
him  such  cause  of  suspicion  ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  What  cause  of  suspicion  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  What  cause  of  suspicion  ! — out 
upon  you  !  how  am  I  mistook  in  you  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  alas  !  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Your  husband's  coming  hither, 
woman,  with  all  the  officers  in  Windsor,  to 
search  for  a  gentleman  that,  he  says,  is  here  now 
in  the  house,  by  your  consent,  to  vake  an  ill 
advantage  of  his  absence  :  you  are  undone. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Speak  louder. — [Aside.] — 'Tis 
not  so,  I  hope. 

Mrs.  Page.  Pray  heaven  it  be  not  so,  that 
you  have  such  a  man  here  ;  but  'tis  more  certain 
your  husband's  coming  with  half  Windsor  at 
his  heels,  to  search  for  such  a  one.  I  come  be- 
fore to  tell  you :  if  you  know  yourself  clear,  why, 
I  am  glad  of  it ;  but  if  you  have  a  friend  here, 
convey,  convey  him  out.  Be  not  amazed  ;  call 
all  your  senses  to  you  ;  defend  your  reputation, 
or  bid  farewell  to  your  good  life  for  ever. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What  shall  I  do?— There  is  a 
gentleman,  my  dear  friend ;  and  I  fear  not  mine 
own  shame  so  much  as  his  peril :  I  had  rather 
than  a  thousand  pounds  he  were  out  of  the  house. 

Mrs.  Page.  For  shame,  never  stand  you  had 
ratlier,  and  you  had  rather;  your  husband's 
here  at  hand,  bethink  you  of  some  conveyance : 
in  the  house  you  cannot  hide  him. — O,  how 
have  you  deceived  me ! — Look,  here  is  a  basket ; 
if  he  be  of  any  reasonable  stature,  he  may  creep 
in  here  ;  and  throw  foul  linen  upon  him,  as  if  it 
were  going  to  bucking  :  or,  it  is  whiting-time, 
send  him  by  your  two  men  to  Datchet  mead. 

Mrs.  Ford.  He 's  too  big  to  go  in  there. 
What  shall  I  do? 

I'Sife 


Re-enter  FALSTAFF. 


FaL  Let  me  see 't,  let  me  see  't !  O  let  me 
see 't !  I  '11  in,  I  '11  in  ;  follow  your  friend's 
counsel : — I  '11  in. 

Mrs.  Page.  What !  Sir  John  Falstaff !  Are 
these  your  letters,  knight  ? 

FaL  I  love  thee,  and  none  but  thee ;  help 
me  away  :  let  me  creep  in  here  ;  I  '11  never — 
[He  goes  into  the  basket ;  they  cover  him 
-with  foul  linen. 

Mrs.  Page.  Help  to  cover  your  master,  boy. 
Call  your  men,  Mistress  Ford :  —  You  dis- 
sembling knight ! 

Mrs.  Ford.   What,   John  !    Robert !   John  \ 


SCENE  IV.] 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


[Exit  ROBIN.  Re-enter  Servants.]  Go  take 
up  these  clothes  here,  quickly ;  where 's  the 
cowl-staff  ?  look,  how  you  drumble :  carry  them 
to  the  laundress  in  Datchet  mead;  quickly,  come. 

Enter  FORD,  PAGE,  CAIUS,  and  Sir  HUGH 
EVANS. 

Ford.  Pray  you,  come  near :  if  I  suspect 
without  cause,  why,  then  make  sport  at  me, 
then  let  me  be  your  jest ;  I  deserve  it. — How 
now  ?  whither  bear  you  this  ? 

Serv.  To  the  laundress,  forsooth. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  what  have  you  to  do 
whither  they  bear  it  ?  You  were  best  meddle 
with  buck-washing 

Ford.  Buck  ?  I  would  I  could  wash  myself 
of  the  buck  !  Buck,  buck,  buck  ?  Ay,  buck  ; 
I  warrant  you,  buck  ;  and  of  the  season  too  ;  It 
shall  appear.  [Exeunt  Servants  with  the 
basket."]  Gentlemen,  I  have  dreamed  to-night ; 
I  '11  tell  you  my  dream.  Here,  here,  here  be  my 
keys :  ascend  my  chambers,  search,  seek,  find 
out :  I  '11  warrant  we  '11  unkennel  the  fox  : — Let 
me  stop  this  way  first : — so,  now  uncape. 

Page.  Good  Master  Ford,  be  contented  : 
you  wrong  yourself  too  much. 

Ford.  True,  Master  Page. — Up,  gentlemen  ; 
you  shall  see  sport  anon :  follow  me,  gentle- 
men. [Exit. 

Eva.  This  is  fery  fantastical  humours  and 
jealousies. 

Caius.  By  gar,  'tis  no  de  fashion  of  France  : 
it  is  not  jealous  in  France. 

Page.  Nay,  follow  him,  gentlemen  ;  see  the 
issue  of  his  search. 

[Exeunt  EVANS,  PAGE,  and  CAIUS. 

Mrs.  Page.  Is  there  not  a  double  excellency 
in  this  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  know  not  which  pleases  me 
better,  that  my  husband  is  deceived,  or  Sir  John. 

Mrs.  Page.  What  a  taking  was  he  in  when 
your  husband  asked  who  was  in  the  basket ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  am  half  afraid  he  will  have 
need  of  washing ;  so  throwing  him  into  the 
w'ater  will  do  him  a  benefit. 

Mrs.  Page.  Hang  him,  dishonest  rascal  !  I 
would  all  of  the  same  strain  were  in  the  same 
distress. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  think  my  husband  hath  some 
special  suspicion  of  Falstaff's  being  here  ;  for  I 
never  saw  him  so  gross  in  his  jealousy  till 
now. 

Mrs.  Page.  I  will  lay  a  plot  to  try  that :  and 
we  will  yet  have  more  tricks  with  Falstaff :  his 
dissolute  disease  will  scarce  obey  this  medicine. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Shall  we  send  that  foolish  carrion, 
Mrs.  Quickly,  to  him,  and  excuse  his  throwing 


into  the  water ;  and  give  him  another  hope,  tc 
betray  him  to  another  punishment  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  We'll  do  it;  let  him  be  sent  for 
to-morrow  eight  o'clock,  to  have  amends. 

Re-enter  FORD,  PAGE,  CAIUS,  and  Sir  HUGH 
EVANS. 

Ford.  I  cannot  find  him :  maybe  the  knave 
bragged  of  that  he  could  not  compass. 

Mrs.  Page.   Heard  you  that  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  Ay,  ay,  peace  : — You  use  me 
well,  Master  Ford,  do  you  ? 

Ford.  Ay,  I  do  so.  [your  thoughts  ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  Heaven   make  you  better  than 

Ford.  Amen.  [Master  Ford. 

Mrs.  Page.  You  do  yourself  mighty  wrong, 

Ford.  Ay,  ay  ;  I  must  bear  it. 

Eva.  If  there  be  any  pody  in  the  house,  and  in 
the  chambers,  and  in  the  coffers,and  in  the  presses, 
heaven  forgive  my  sins  at  the  day  of  judgment ! 

Caius.  By  gar,  nor  I  too ;  dere  is  no — bodies. 

Page.  Fie,  fie,  Master  Ford  !  are  you  not 
ashamed?  What  spirit,  what  devil  suggests  this 
imagination  ?  I  would  not  have  your  distemper 
in  this  kind  for  the  wealth  of  Windsor  Castle. 

Ford.  Tis  my  fault,  Master  Page:  Isufferforit. 

Eva.  You  suffer  for  a  pad  conscience  :  your 
wife  is  as  honest  a  'omans  as  I  will  desires 
among  five  thousand,  and  five  hundred  too. 

Caius.  By  gar,  I  see  'tis  an  honest  woman. 

Ford.  Well ; — I  promised  you  a  dinner  :— 
Come,  come,  walk  in  the  park:  I  pray  you,  pardon 
me ;  I  will  hereafter  make  known  to  you  why  I  have 
done  this. — Come,  wife ; — come,  Mistress  Page ; 
I  pray  you ,  pardon  me ;  pray  heartily,  pardon  me. 

Page.  Let's  go  in,  gentlemen;  but,  trust  me, 
we'll  mock  him.  I  do  invite  you  to-morrow 
morning  to  my  house  to  breakfast ;  after,  we  '11 
a-birding  together  ;  I  have  a  fine  hawk  for  the 
bush.  Shall  it  be  so  ? 

Ford.  Any  thing.  [company. 

Eva.  If  there  is  one,  I  shall  make  two  in  the 

Caius.  If  there  be  one  or  two,  I  shall  make-a 
de  turd. 

Eva.  In  your  teeth  :  for  shame. 

Ford.   Pray  you  go,  Master  Page. 

Eva.  I  pray  you  now,  remembrance  to- 
morrow on  the  lousy  knave,  mine  host. 

Caius.  Dat  is  good  ;  by  gar,  vit  all  my  heart. 

Eva.  A  lousy  knave  ;  to  have  his  gibes  and 
his  mockeries.  [Exettnt. 

SCENE  IV. — A  Room  in  PAGE'S  House. 
Enter  FENTON  and  Mrs.  ANNE  PAGE. 

Fent.  I  see,  I  cannot  get  thy  father's  love  ; 
Therefore,  no  more  turn  me  to  him,  sweet  Nan. 

c 


66 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


[ACT  ni. 


Anne.  Alas  1  how  then? 

Pent.  Why,  thou  must  be  thyself. 

He  doth  object  I  am  too  great  of  birth  ; 
And  that,  my  state  being  gall'd  with  my  expense, 
I  seek  to  heal  it  only  by  his  wealth. 

Besides  these,  other  bars  he  lays  before  me, 

My  riots  past,  my  wild  societies  ; 
And  tells  me  'tis  a  thing  impossible 
I  should  love  thee  but  as  a  property. 

Anne.  Maybe  he  tells  you  true? 

Pent.  No ;  heaven  so  speed  me  in  my  time  to 

come  ! 

Albeit,  I  will  confess,  thy  father's  wealth 
Was  the  first  motive  that  I  woo'd  thee,  Anne  : 
Yet,  wooing  thee,  I  found  thee  of  more  value 
Than  stamps  in  gold,  or  sums  in  sealed  bags  ; 
And  'tis  the  very  riches  of  thyself 
That  now  I  aim  at. 

Anne.  Gentle  Master  Fenton, 

Yet  seek  my  father's  love ;  still  seek  it,  sir: 
If  opportunity  and  humblest  suit 
Cannot  attain  it,  why  then.— Hark  you  hither. 
{They  converse  apart, 

Enter  SHALLOW,  SLENDER,  and 
Mrs.  QUICKLY. 

Shat.  Break  their  talk,  Mistress  Quickly; 
my  kinsman  shall  speak  for  himself. 

Slen  I  '11  make  a  shaft  or  a  bolt  on 't ;  'slid, 
'tis  but  venturing. 

Skal.  Be  not  dismayed. 

Slen.  No ;  she  shall  not  dismay  me.  I  care 
not  for  that, — but  that  I  am  afeard. 

Quick.  Hark  ye;  Master  Slender  would  speak 
a  word  with  you.  [choice. 

Anne.  I  come  to  him. — This  is  my  father's 
O,  what  a  world  of  vile  ill-fa vour'd  faults 
Looks  handsome  in  three  hundred  pounds  a- 
year  !  [Aside. 

Quick.  And  how  does  good  Master  Fenton  ? 
Pray  you,  a  word  with  you. 

Shal.  She's  coming;  to  her,  coz.  O  boy, 
thou  hadst  a  father  J 

Slen.  I  had  a  father,  Mistress  Anne— my  uncle 
can  tell  you  good  jestsof  him : — Pray  you,  uncle, 
tell  Mistress  Anne  the  jest,  how  my  father  stole 
two  geese  out  of  a  pen,  good  uncle. 

Shal.  Mistress  Anne,  my  cousin  loves  you. 

Slen.  Ay,  that  I  do ;  as  well  as  I  love  any 
woman  in  Gloucestershire.  [woman. 

Shal.   He  will  maintain  you  like  a  gentle- 

Slen.  Ay,  that  I  will,  come  cut  and  long-tail, 
under  the  degree  of  a  'squire. 

Shal.  He  will  make  you  a  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  jointure.  [tor  himself. 

Anne.  Good  Master  Shallow,  let  him  woo 

Shal.  Marry,  I  thank  you  for  it;  I  thank  you 


for  that  good  comfort.  She  calls  you,  coz;  I  '11 
leave  you. 

Anne.  Now,  Master  Slender. 

Slen.  Now,  good  Mistress  Anne. 

Anne.  What  is  your  will  ? 

Slen.  My  will?  'od's  heartlings,  that 's  a  pretty 
jest  indeed  !  I  ne'er  made  my  will  yet,  I  thank 
heaven ;  I  am  not  such  a  sickly  creature,  I  give 
heaven  praise.  [you  with  me? 

Anne.  I  mean,  Master  Slender,  what  would 

Slen.  Truly,  for  mine  own  part  I  would  little 
or  nothing  with  you.  Your  father  and  my 
uncle  have  made  motions :  if  it  be  my  luck,  so : 
if  not,  happy  man  be  his  dole  !  They  can  tell 
you  how  things  go  better  than  I  can.  You 
may  ask  your  father  ;  here  he  comes. 


Enter  PAGE  and  Mrs.  PAGE. 


Page.   Now,   Master  Slender :— Love  him, 

daughter  Anne. — 

Why,  how  now  !  what  does  Master  Fenton  here  ? 

You  wrong  me,  sir,  thus  still  to  haunt  my  house : 

I  told  you,  sir,  my  daughter  is  disposed  of. 

Fent.  Nay,  Master  Page,  be  not  impatient. 

Mrs.  Page.  Good  Master  Fenton,  come  not 

to  my  child. 

Page.  She  is  no  match  for  you. 
Fent.  Sir,  will  you  hear  me  ? 
Page.  No,  good  Master  Fenton. 

Come,   Master  Shallow;   come,  son  Slender, 
in : —  [Fenton. 

Knowing  my  mind,   you   wrong  me,  Master 
\Exeunt  PAGE,  SHAL.,  <zm/SLEN. 
Quick.  Speak  to  Mrs.  Page. 
Fent.  Good  Mistress  Page,  for  that  I  love 

your  daughter 

In  such  a  righteous  fashion  as  I  do,          [ners, 
Perforce,  against  all  checks,  rebukes,  and  man- 
I  must  advance  the  colours.of  my  love, 
And  not  retire.      Let  me  have  your  good  will. 
Anne.   Good  mother,  do  not  marry  me  to 
yond  fool.  [better  husband. 

Mrs.  Page.  I  mean  it  not ;    I  seek  you  a 
Quick.  That 's  my  master,  master  doctor. 
Anne.  Alas !  I  had  rather  be  set  quick  i'  the 

earth, 

And  bowled  to  death  with  turnips. 
Mrs.   Page.    Come,    trouble   not    yourself. 

Good  Master  Fenton, 
I  will  not  be  your  friend,  nor  enemy : 
My  daughter  will  I  question  how  she  loves  you, 
And  as  I  find  her,  so  am  I  affected  ; 
Till  then,  farewell,  sir :— She  must  needs  go  in ; 
Her  fatter  will  be  angry. 

^Exeunt  Mrs.  PAGE  and  ANNE. 
Tint.  Farewell,  gentle  mistress;   farewell, 
Nan. 


SCENE  V.] 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


Quick.  This  is  my  doing,  now  : — Nay,  said 
I,  will  you  cast  away  your  child  on  a.  fool,  and 
a  physician  ?  Look  on  Master  Fenton  : — this 
is  my  doing.  [to-night 

Pent.   I  thank  thee  ;  and  I  pray  thee,  once 

Give  my  sweet  Nan  this  ring.     There 's  for  thy 

pains.  [Exit. 

Quick.  Now  heaven  send  thee  good  fortune  ! 
A  kind  heart  he  hath  :  a  woman  would  run 
through  fire  and  water  for  such  a  kind  heart. 
But  yet  I  would  my  master  had  Mistress  Anne : 
or  I  would  Master  Slender  had  her  :  or,  in 
sooth,  I  would  Master  Fenton  had  her  :  I  will 
do  what  I  can  for  them  all  three  ;  for  so  I  have 
promised,  and  1 :11  be  as  good  as  my  word  ;  but 
speciously  for  Master  Fenton.  Well,  I  must 
of  another  errand  to  Sir  John  Falstaff  from  my 
two  mistresses.  What  a  beast  am  I  to  slack 
it !  [Exit. 

SCENE  V. — A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 
Enter  FALSTAFF  and  BARDOLPH. 

Fal.  Bardolph,  I  say, — 

Bard.   Here,  sir. 

Fal.  Go  fetch  me  a  quart  of  sack  ;  put  a 
toast  in 't.  [Exit  BARD.  ]  Have  I  lived  to  be 
carried  in  a  basket,  like  a  barrow  of  butcher's 
offal  ;  and  to  be  thrown  into  the  Thames  ? 
Well,  if  I  be  served  such  another  trick,  I  '11 
have  my  brains  ta'en  out  and  butter'd,  and  give 
them  to  a  dog  for  a  new  year's  gift.  The  rogues 
slighted  me  into  the  river  with  as  little  remorse 
as  they  would  have  drowned  a  bitch's  blind 
puppies,  fifteen  i'  the  litter  :  and  you  may  know 
by  my  size  that  I  have  a  kind  of  alacrity  in 
sinking ;  if  the  bottom  were  as  deep  as  hell 
I  should  down.  I  had  been  drowned  but  that 
the  shore  was  shelvy  and  shallow  :  a  death  that 
I  abhor  ;  for  the  water  swells  a  man  ;  and  what 
a  thing  should  I  have  been  when  I  had  been 
swelled  !  I  should  have  been  a  mountain  of 
mummy. 

Re-enter  BARDOLPH,  with  the  wine. 

Bard.  Here 's  Mistress  Quickly,  sir,  to  speak 
with  you. 

Fal.  Come,  let  me  pour  in  some  sack  to  the 
Thames  water  ;  for  my  belly 's  as  cold  as  if  I  had 
swallowed  snow-balls  for  pills  to  cool  the  reins. 
Call  her  in. 

Bard.  Come  in,  woman. 

Enter  Mrs.  QUICKLY. 

Quick.  By  your  leave ;  I  cry  you  mercy. 
Give  your  worship  good-morrow. 

Fal.  Take  away  these  chalices.  Go,  brew 
me  a  pottle  of  sack  finely. 


Bard.  With  eggs,  sir  ? 

Fal.  Simple  of  itself ;  I '11  no  pullet-sperm  in 
my  brewage. — [Exit  Bardolph.] — How  now? 

Quick.  Marry,  sir,  I  come  to  your  worship 
from  Mistress  Ford. 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford  !  I  have  had  ford  enough : 
I  was  thrown  into  the  ford  :  I  have  my  belly 
full  of  ford. 

Quick.  Alas  the  day  !  good  heart,  that  was 
not  her  fault :  she  does  so  take  on  with  her  men  ; 
they  mistook  their  erection. 

Fal.  So  did  I  mine,  to  build  upon  a  foolish 
woman's  promise. 

Quick.  Well,  she  laments,  sir,  for  it,  that  it 
would  yearn  your  heart  to  see  it.  Her  husband 
goes  this  morning  a-birding ;  she  desires  you 
once  more  to  come  to  her  between  eight  and 
nine ;  I  must  carry  her  word  quickly :  she  '11 
make  you  amends,  I  warrant  you. 

Fal.  Well,  I  will  visit  her.  Tell  her  so  ;  and 
bid  her  think  what  a  man  is :  let  her  consider 
his  frailty,  and  then  judge  of  my  merit. 

Quick.   I  will  tell  her.  [thou  ? 

Fal.  Do  so.     Between  nine  and  ten,  say'st 

Quick.  Eight  and  nine,  sir. 

Fal.  Well,  begone  :  I  will  not  miss  her. 

Quick.   Peace  be  with  you,  sir.  [Exit. 

Fal.  I  marvel  I  hear  not  of  Master  Brook  ; 
he  sent  me  word  to  stay  within :  I  like  his  money 
well.  O,  here  he  comes. 

Enter  FORD. 

Ford.  Bless  you,  sir  ! 

Fal.  Now,  Master  Brook  ?  you  come  to  know 
what  hath  passed  between  me  and  Ford's  wife. 

Ford.  That,  indeed,  Sir  John,  is  my  business. 

Fal.  Master  Brook,  I  will  not  lie  to  you  ;  I 
was  at  her  house  the  hour  she  appointed  me. 

Ford.  And  how  sped  you,  sir  ? 

Fal.  Very  ill-favouredly,  Master  Brook. 

Ford.  How  so,  sir?  Did  she  change  her 
determination  ? 

Fal.  No,  Master  Brook ;  but  the  peaking  cor- 
nuto  her  husband,  Master  Brook,  dwelling  in  a 
continual  'larum  of  jealousy,  comes  me  in  the 
instant  of  our  encounter,  after  we  had  embraced, 
kissed,  protested,  and,  as  it  were,  spoke  the  pro- 
logue of  our  comedy  ;  and  at  his  heels  a  rabble 
of  his  companions,  thither  provoked  and  insti- 
gated by  his  distemper,  and  forsooth,  to  search 
his  house  for  his  wife's  love. 

Ford.  What !  while  you  were  there  ? 

Fal.  While  I  was  there.  [not  find  you  ? 

Ford.  And  did  he  search  for  you  and  could 

Fal.  You  shall  hear.  As  good  luck  would 
have  it,  comes  in  one  Mistress  Page  ;  gives  in- 
telligence  of  Ford's  approach  ;  and,  by  her  in- 


68 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


[ACT  iv. 


vention  and  Ford's  wife's  distraction,  they  con- 
veyed me  into  a  buck-basket. 

Ford.  A  buck-basket ! 

Fal.  By  the  Lord,  a  buck-basket :  rammed 
me  in  with  foul  shirts  and  smocks,  socks,  foul 
stockings,  and  greasy  napkins ;  that,  Master 
Brook,  there  was  the  rankest  compound  of  vil- 
lanous  smell  that  ever  offended  nostril. 

Ford.  And  how  long  lay  you  there  ? 

Fal.  Nay,  you  shall  hear,  Master  Brook,  what 
I  have  suffered  to  bring  this  woman  to  evil  for 
your  good.  Being  thus  crammed  in  the  basket, 
a  couple  of  Ford's  knaves,  his  hinds,  were  called 
forth  by  their  mistress  to  carry  me  in  the  name 
of  foul  clothes  to  Datchet-lane  :  they  took  me  on 
their  shoulders ;  met  the  jealous  knave  their 
master  in  the  door  ;  who  asked  them  once  or 
twice  wnat  they  had  in  their  basket :  I  quaked  for 
fear  lest  the  lunatic  knave  would  have  searched 
it ;  but  fate,  ordaining  he  should  be  a  cuckold, 
held  his  hand.  Well :  on  went  he  for  a  search, 
and  away  went  I  for  foul  clothes.  But  mark  the 
sequel,  Master  Brook  ;  I  suffered  the  pangs  of 
three  several  deaths  :  first,  an  intolerable  fright 
to  be  detected  with  a  jealous  rotten  bell-wether  : 
next,  to  be  compassed,  like  a  good  bilbo,  in  the 
circumference  of  a  peck,  hilt  to  point,  heel  to 
head  :  and  tnen,  to  be  stopped  in,  like  a  strong 
distillation,  with  stinking  clothes  that  fretted  in 
their  own  grease  :  think  of  that, — a  man  of  my 
kidney, — think  of  that :  thatam  as  subject  to  heat 
as  butter ;  a  man  of  continual  dissolution  and 
thaw ;  it  was  a  miracle  to  'scape  suffocation.  And 
in  the  height  of  this  bath,  when  I  was  more  than 
half-stewed  in  grease,  like  a  Dutch  dish,  to  be 
thrown  into  the  Tham  es ,  and  cooled ,  glowing  hot , 
in  that  surge,  like  a  horse-shoe  ;  think  of  that, — 
hissing  hot, — think  of  that,  Master  Brook. 

Ford.  In  good  sadness,  sir,  I  am  sorry  that  for 
my  sake  you  have  suffered  all  this.  My  suit,  then , 
is  desperate  ;  you  '11  undertake  her  no  more. 

Fal.  Master  Brook,  I  will  be  thrown  into  Etna, 
as  I  have  been  into  Thames,  ere  I  will  leave  her 
thus.  Her  husband  is  this  morning  gone  a- 
birding  :  I  have  received  from  her  another  em- 
bassy of  meeting  ;  'twixt  eight  and  nine  is  the 
hour,  Master  Brook. 

Ford*  'Tis  past  eight  already,  sir. 

Fal.  Is  it  ?  I  will  then  address  me  to  my  ap- 
pointment. Come  to  me  at  your  convenient 
leisure,  and  you  shall  know  how  I  speed ;  and  the 
conclusion  shall  be  crowned  with  your  enjoying 
her.  Adieu.  You  shall  have  her,  Master  Brook  ; 
Master  Brook,  you  shall  cuckold  Ford.  [Exit. 

Ford.  Hum  !  ha  !  is  this  a  vision  ?  is  this  a 
dream  I  do  I  sleep?  Master  Ford,  awake;  awake, 
Master  Ford  :  there's  a  hole  made  in  your  best 


coat,  Master  Ford.  This  'tis  to  be  married !  this 
'tistohave  linen  and  buck-baskets ! — Well,  I  will 
proclaim  myself  what  I  am :  I  will  now  take  the 
lecher  ;  he  is  at  my  house :  he  cannot  'scape  me  j 
'tis  impossible  he  should ;  he  cannot  creep  into  a 
halfpenny  purse  nor  into  a  pepper  box  ;  but,  lest 
the  devil  that  guides  him  should  aid  him,  I  will 
search  impossible  places.  Though  what  I  am  1 
cannot  avoid,  yet  to  be  what  I  would  not  shall 
not  make  me  tame ;  if  I  have  horns  to  make 
one  mad,  let  the  proverb  go  with  me,  I  '11  be 
horn  mad.  [Exit. 

ACT  IV. 
SCENE  I. — The  Street. 

Enter  Mrs.  PAGE,  Mrs.  QUICKLY,  and 
WILLIAM. 

Mrs.  Page.  Is  he  at  Master  Ford's  already, 
think'st  thou  ? 

Quick.  Sure  he  is  by  this ;  or  will  be  pre- 
sently :  but  truly  he  is  very  courageous  mad 
about  his  throwing  into  the  water.  Mistress 
Ford  desires  you  to  come  suddenly. 

Mrs.  Page.  I  '11  be  with  her  by  and  by  ;  I  '11 
but  bring  my  young  man  here  to  school.  Look, 
where  his  master  comes ;  'tis  a  playing  day,  I  see* 

Enter  Sir  HUGH  EVANS. 
How  now,  Sir  Hugh  ?  no  school  to-day  ? 

Eva.  No ;  Master  Slender  is  let  the  boys 
leave  to  play. 

Quick.  Blessing  of  his  heart  ! 

Mrs.  Page.  Sir  Hugh,  my  husband  says  my 
son  profits  nothing  in  the  world  at  his  book  ;  I 
pray  you  ask  him  some  questions  in  his  accidence. 

Eva.  Come  hither,  William  ;  hold  up  your 
head  ;  come. 

Mrs.  Page.  Come  on,  sirrah  :  hold  up  your 
head  ;  answer  your  master ;  be  not  afraid. 

Eva.  William,  how  many  numbers  is  in  nouns? 

Will.  Two. 

Quick.  Truly,  I  thought  there  had  been  one 
number  more  ;  because  they  say  od's  nouns. 

Eva.  Peace  your  tattlings.  What  is  fair, 
William  ? 

Will.  Pulcher. 

Quick.  Polecats  !  there  are  fairer  things  than 
polecats,  sure. 

Eva.  You  are  a  very  simplicity,  'oman  ;  I 
pray  you,  peace.  What  is  lapis,  William  ? 

Will.  A  stone. 

Eva.  And  what  is  a  stone,  William  ? 

Will.  A  pebble. 

Eva.  No,  it  is  lapis :  I  pray  you  remember 
in  your  prain. 

Will.  Lapis. 


SCENE  II.] 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


69 


Eva.  That  is  good,  William.  What  is  he, 
William,  that  does  Jend  articles  ? 

Will.  Articles  are  borrowed  of  the  pronoun ; 
and  be  thus  declined,  Singulariter,  nominative, 
hie,  hac,  hoc. 

Eva.  Nominative,  hig,  hag,  hog : — pray  you, 
mark  :  genitivo,  huj^^,s.  Well,  what  is  your 
accusative  case  ? 

Will.  Accusative,  hinc. 

Eva.  I  pray  you,  have  your  remembrance, 
child.  Acctisativo,  hing,  hang,  hog.  [rant  you. 

Quick.   Hang  hog  is  Latin  for  bacon,  I  war- 

Eva.  Leave  your  prabbles,  'oman.  What  is 
the  focative  case,  William  ? 

Will.  Q—vocativo,  O. 

Eva.  Remember,  William,  focative  is  caret. 

Quick.  And  that 's  a  good  root. 

Eva.  'Oman,  forbear. 

Mrs.  Page.  Peace. 

Eva.  What  is  your  genitive  case  plural, 
William  ? 

Will.   Genitive  case  ? 

Eva.  Ay. 

Will.   Genitive, — horum,  harum,  horum. 

Quick.  'Vengeance  of  Jenny's  case  !  fie  on 
her  ! — never  name  her,  child,  if  she  be  a  whore. 

Eva.  For  shame,  'oman. 

Quick.  You  do  ill  to  teach  the  child  such 
words  :  he  teaches  him  to  hick  and  to  hack, 
which  they  '11  do  fast  enough  of  themselves,  and 
to  call  horum  :  fie  upon  you  ! 

Eva.  'Oman,  art  thou  lunatics  ?  hast  thou  no 
understandings  for  thy  cases,  and  the  numbers 
of  the  genders  ?  Thou  art  as  foolish  Christian 
creatures  as  I  would  desires. 

Mrs.  Page.  Pr'ythee,  hold  thy  peace. 

Eva.  Show  me  now,  William,  some  declen- 
sions of  your  pronouns. 

Will.  Forsooth,  I  have  forgot. 

Eva.  It  is  ki,  kce,  cod;  if  you  forget  your 
kies,  your  kees,  and  your  cods,  you  must  be 
preeches.  Go  your  ways  and  play,  go. 

Mrs.  Page.  He  is  a  better  scholar  than  I 
thought  he  was.  .  ™  ,1 

Eva.  He  is  a  good  sprag  memory.  Fare- 
well, Mistress  Page. 

Mrs.  Page.  Adieu,  good  Sir  Hugh.  [Exit 
Sir  HUGH.]  Get  you  home,  boy. — Come,  we 
stay  too  long.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  FORD'S  House. 
Enter  FALSTAFF  and  Mrs.  FORD. 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford,  your  sorrow  hath  eaten 
up  my  sufferance  :  I  see  you  are  obsequious  in 
your  love,  and  I  profess  requital  to  a  hair's 
breadth ;  not  only,  Mistress  Ford,  in  the  simple 


office  of  love,  but  in  all  the  accoutrement,  com- 
plement, and  ceremony  of  it.  But  are  you  sure 
of  your  husband  now  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.   He  is  a-birding,  sweet  Sir  John. 

Mrs.  Page.  [Within.'}  What  hoa,  gossip 
Ford,  what  hoa  ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  Step  into  the  chamber,  Sir  John. 
[Exit  FALSTAFF. 

Enter  Mrs.  PAGE. 

Mrs.  Page.  How  now,  sweetheart  ?  who 's  at 
home  beside  yourself? 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  none  but  mine  own  people. 

Mrs.  Page.  Indeed  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  No,  certainly  ; — Speak  louder. 

[Aside. 

Mrs.  Page.  Truly  I  am  so  glad  you  have 
nobody  here. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  woman,  your  husband  is  in 
his  old  lunes  again  :  he  so  takes  on  yonder  with 
my  husband  ;  so  rails  against  all  married  man- 
kind :  so  curses  all  Eve's  daughters,  of  what 
complexion  soever  ;  and  so  buffets  himself  on 
the  forehead,  crying  Peer-out, peer-out!  that  any 
madness  I  ever  yet  beheld  seemed  but  lameness, 
civility,  and  patience,  to  this  his  distemper  he  is 
in  now :  I  am  glad  the  fat  knight  is  not  here. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why?  does  he  talk  of  him? 

Mrs.  Page.  Of  none  but  him  ;  and  swears  he 
was  carried  out,  the  last  time  he  searched  for 
him,  in  a  basket:  protests  to  my  husband  he  is  now 
here ;  and  hath  drawn  him  and  the  rest  of  their 
company  from  their  sport  to  make  another  experi- 
ment of  his  suspicion ;  but  I  am  glad  the  knight 
is  not  here ;  now  he  shall  see  his  own  foolery. 

Mrs.  Ford.  How  near  is  he,  Mistress  Page  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Hard  by  ;  at  street  end  ;  he  will 
be  here  anon.  [here. 

Mrs.  Ford.     I  am  undone ! — The  knight  is 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  then,  you  are  utterly 
ashamed,  and  he 's  but  a  dead  man.  What  a 
woman  are  you  ! — Away  with  him,  away  with 
him  ;  better  shame  than  murder. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Which  way  should  he  go?  How 
should  I  bestow  him  ?  Shall  I  put  him  into 
the  basket  again  ? 

Re-enter  FALSTAFF. 

Fal.  No,  I  '11  come  no  more  i'  the  basket. 
May  I  not  go  out  ere  he  come  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Alas  !  three  of  Master  Ford's 
brothers  watch  the  door  with  pistols,  that 
none  shall  issue  out  :  otherwise  you  might  slip 
away  ere  he  came.  But  what  make  you  here  ? 

Fal.  What  shall  I  do  ? — I  Ml  creep  up  into 
the  chimney. 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


[ACT  iv. 


Mrs.  Ford.  There  they  always  used  to  discharge 
their  birding  pieces.  Creep  into  the  kiln -hole. 

Fal.   Where  is  it  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  He  will  seek  there,  on  my  word. 
Neither  press,  coffer,  chest,  trunk,  well,  vault, 
but  he  hath  an  abstract  for  the  remembrance 
of  such  places,  and  goes  to  them  by  his  note. 
There  is  no  hiding  you  in  the  house. 

Fal.  I  '11  go  out  then. 

Mrs.  Page.  If  you  go  out  in  your  own  sem- 
blance, you  die,  Sir  John.  Unless  you  go  out 
disguised, — 

Mrs.  Ford.   How  might  we  disguise  him  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Alas  the  day,  I  know  not.  There 
is  no  woman's  gown  big  enough  for  him ;  other- 
wise he  might  put  on  a  hat,  a  muffler,  and  a 
kerchief,  and  so  escape. 

Fal.  Good  hearts,  devise  something :  any 
extremity  rather  than  a  mischief. 

Mrs.  Ford.  My  maid's  aunt,  the  fat  woman 
of  Brentford,  has  a  gown  above. 

Mrs.  Page.  On  my  word,  it  will  serve  him  ; 
she 's  as  big  as  he  is  :  and  there 's  her  thrummed 
hat,  and  her  muffle  too.  Run  up,  Sir  John. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Go,  go,  sweet  Sir  John.  Mistress 
Page  and  I  will  look  some  linen  for  your  head. 

Mrs.  Page.  Quick,  quick;  we'll  come  dress 
you  straight :  put  on  the  gown  the  while. 

[Exit  FALSTAFF. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  would  my  husband  would  meet 
him  in  this  shape  :  he  cannot  abide  the  old 
woman  of  Brentford  ;  he  swears  she 's  a  witch, 
forbade  her  my  house,  and  hath  threatened  to 
beat  her. 

Mrs.  Page.  Heaven  guide  him  to  thy  husband's 
cudgel ;  and  the  devil  guide  his  cudgel  after  wards ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  But  is  my  husband  coming  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Ay,  in  good  sadness  is  he  ;  and 
he  talks  of  the  basket  too,  howsoever  he  hath 
had  intelligence. 

Mrs.  Ford.  We  '11  try  that ;  for  I  '11  appoint 
my  men  to  carry  the  basket  again  to  meet  him 
at  the  door  with  it  as  they  did  last  time. 

Mrs.  Page.  Nay,  but  he  '11  be  here  presently : 
let 's  go  dress  him  like  the  witch  of  Brentford. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  '11  first  direct  my  men  what  they 
shall  do  with  the  basket.  -  Go  up,  I  '11  bring 
linen  for  him  straight.  [Exit. 

Mrs.  Page.  Hang  him,  dishonest  varlet !  we 
cannot  misuse  him  enough. 

We  '11  leave  a  proof,  by  that  which  we  will  do, 
Wives  may  be  merry  and  yet  honest  too  : 
We  do  not  act  that  often  jest  and  laugh  ; 
"Tis  old  but  true,  Still  swine  eat  all  the  draff. 

[Exit. 

Re-enter  Mrs.  FORD,  with  two  Servants. 
Mrs.  Ford.  Go,  sirs,  take  the  basket  again 


on  your  shoulders  :  your  master  is  hard  at  door ; 
if  he  bid  you  set  it  down,  obey  him  :  quickly, 
despatch.  [Exit. 

1  Serv.  Come,  come,  take  it  up. 

2  Serv.   Pray  heaven  it  be  not  full  of  the 
knight  again.  [much  lead. 

i  Serv.  I  hope  not ;  I  had  as  lief  bear  so 

Enter  FORD,  PAGE,  SHALLOW,  CAIUS,  and 
Sir  HUGH  EVANS. 

Ford.  Ay,  but  if  it  prove  true,  Master  Page, 
have  you  any  way  then  to  unfool  me  again  ?— 
Set  down  the  basket,  villain  : — Somebody  call 
my  wife. — You,  youth  in  a  basket,  come  out 
here ! — O,  you  panderly  rascals !  there 's  a  knot, 
a  gin,  a  pack,  a  conspiracy  against  me.  Now 
shall  the  devil  be  shamed.  What !  wife,  I  say ! 
come,  come  forth  ;  behold  what  honest  clothes 
you  send  forth  to  bleaching. 

Page.  Why,  this  passes !  Master  Ford,  you  are 
not  to  go  loose  any  longer ;  you  must  be  pinioned. 

Eva.  Why,  this  is  lunatics  !  this  is  mad  as  a 
mad  dog  ! 

Shal.  Indeed,  Master  Ford,  this  is  not  well : 
indeed. 

Enter  Mrs.  FORD. 

Ford.  So  say  I  too,  sir. — Come  hither,  Mis- 
tress Ford;  Mistress  Ford,  the  honest  woman, 
the  modest  wife,  the  virtuous  creature,  that  hath 
the  jealous  fool  to  her  husband  ! — I  suspect 
without  cause,  mistress,  do  I  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  Heaven  be  my  witness,  you  do, 
if  you  suspect  me  in  any  dishonesty. 

Ford.  Well  said,  brazen-face;  hold  it  out. — 
Come  forth,  sirrah. 

[Pulls  the  clothes  out  of  the  basket. 

Page.  This  passes  !  [clothes  alone. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Are  you  not  ashamed  ?     Let  the 

Ford.   I  shall  find  you  anon. 

Eva.  'Tis  unreasonable  !  Will  you  take  up 
your  wife's  clothes  ?  Come  away. 

Ford.  Empty  the  basket,  I  say. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  man,  why, — 

Ford.  Master  Page,  as  I  am  a  man,  there  was 
one  conveyed  out  of  my  house  yesterday  in  this 
basket.  Why  may  not  he  be  there  again  ?  In  my 
house  I  am  sure  he  is :  my  intelligence  is  true :  my 
jealousy  is  reasonable.  Pluck  me  out  all  the  linen. 

Mrs.  Ford.  If  you  find  a  man  there  he  shall 
die  a  flea's  death. 

Page.  Here 's  no  man. 

Shal.  By  my  fidelity,  this  is  not  well,  Master 
Ford  ;  this  wrongs  you. 

Eva.  Master  Ford,  you  must  pray,  and  not 
follow  the  imaginations  of  your  own  heart :  this 
is  jealousies. 


SCENE  II.] 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


Ford.   Well,  he  's  not  here  I  seek  for. 

Page.  No,  nor  no  where  else  but  in  your  brain. 

Ford.  Help  to  search  my  house  this  one  time : 
if  I  find  not  what  I  seek,  show  no  colour  for  my 
extremity ;  let  me  for  ever  be  your  table  sport ; 
let  them  say  of  me,  As  jealous  as  Ford,  that 
searched  a  hollow  walnut  for  his  wife's  leman. 
Satisfy  me  once  more;  once  more  search  with  me. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What,  hoa,  Mistress  Page  !  come 
you  a"d  the  old  woman  down ;  my  husband 
will  come  into  the  chamber. 

Ford.  Old  woman!  What  old  woman  's  that? 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  it  is  my  maid's  aunt  of 
Brentford. 

Ford.  A  witch,  a  quean,  an  o'd  cozening  quean ! 
Have  I  not  forbid  her  my  house  ?  She  comes  of 
errands,  does  she?  We  are  simple  men  ;  we  do 
not  know  v/hat  's  brought  to  pass  under  the  pro- 
fession of  fortune  telling.  She  works  by  charms, 
by  spells,  by  the  figure,  and  such  daubery  as 
this  is ;  beyond  our  element :  we  know  nothing. 

Come  down,  you  witch,  you  hag  you ;  come 

down,  I  say. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  good,  sweet  husband; — good 
gentlemen,  let  him  not  strike  the  old  woman. 

Enter  FALSTAFF  in  women's    clothes,  led  by 
Mrs.  PAGE. 

Mrs.  Page.  Gome,  Mother  Prat,  come;  give 
me  your  hand. 

Ford.   I  '11  prat  her : Out  of  my  door, 

you  witch,  [beats  hini\  you  rag,  you  baggage, 
you  polecat,  you  ronyon !  out !  out !  I'll  conjure 
you,  I  '11  fortune-tell  you.  [Exit  FALSTAFF. 

Mrs.  Page.  Are  you  not  ashamed?  I  think 
you  have  killed  the  poor  woman. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  he  will  do  it: — Tis  a  goodly 
credit  for  you. 

Ford.   Hang  her,  witch ! 

Eva.  By  yea  and  no,  I  think  the  'oman  is  a 
witch  indeed:  I  like  not  when  a 'oman  has  a  great 
peard ;  I  spy  a  great  peard  under  her  muffler. 

Ford.  Will  you  follow,  gentlemen?  I  be- 
seech you  follow;  see  but  the  issue  of  my 
jealousy :  if  I  cry  out  thus  upon  no  trail,  never 
trust  me  when  I  open  again. 

Page.  Let 's  obey  his  humour  a  little  farther. 
Come,  gentlemen. 

[Exeunt  PAGE,  FORD,  SHAL.,  and  EVANS. 

Mrs.  Page.  Trust  me,  he  beat  him  most 
pitifully. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  by  the  mass,  that  he  did 
not ;  he  beat  him  most  unpitifully  methought. 

Mrs.  Page.  I  '11  have  the  cudgel  hallowed 
And  hung  o'er  the  altar;  it  hath  done  meritori- 
ous service. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What  think  you?     May  we,  with 


the  warrant  of  womanhood  and  the  witness  of  a 
good  conscience,  pursue  him  with  any  further 
revenge  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  The  spirit  of  wantonness  is,  sure, 
scared  out  of  him ;  if  the  devil  have  him  not  in 
fee-simple,  with  fine  and  recovery,  he  will  never, 
I  think,  in  the  way  of  waste,  attempt  us  again. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Shall  we  tell  our  husbands  how 
we  have  served  him  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Yes,  by  all  means ;  if  it  be  but  to 
scrape  the  figures  out  of  your  husband's  brains. 
If  they  can  find  in  their  hearts  the  poor  unvirtu- 
ous  fat  knight  shall  be  any  further  afflicted,  we 
two  will  still  be  the  ministers. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I'll  warrant  they'll  have  him 
publicly  shamed :  and  methinks  there  would  be 
no  period  to  the  jest  should  he  not  be  publicly 
shamed. 

Mrs.  Page.  Come,  to  the  forge  with  it  then, 
shape  it:  I  would  not  have  things  cool.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.—  A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 
Enter  HOST  and  BARDOLPH. 

Bard.  Sir,  the  Germans  desire  to  have  three 
of  your  horses:  the  duke  himself  will  be  to- 
morrow at  court,  and  they  are  going  to  meet  him. 

Host.  What  duke  should  that  be  comes  so  se- 
cretly? I  hear  not  of  him  in  the  court.  Let  me 
speak  with  the  gentlemen ;  they  speak  English. 

Bard.  Ay,  sir ;  I  '11  call  them  to  you. 

Host.  They  shall  have  my  horses ;  but  I  '11 
make  them  pay ;  I  '11  sauce  them :  they  have  had 
my  houses  a  week  at  command ;  I  have  turned 
away  my  other  guests :  they  must  come  off;  I'll 
sauce  them.  Come.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — A  Room  in  FORD'S  House. 

Enter  PAGE,  FORD,  Mrs.  PAGE,  Mrs.  FORD, 
and  Sir  HUGH  EVANS. 

Eva.  'Tis  one  of  the  pest  discretions  of  a 
'oman  as  ever  I  did  look  upon. 

Page.  And  did  he  send  you  both  these  letters 
at  an  instant? 

Mrs.  Page.   Within  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Ford.   Pardon   me,    wife.      Henceforth,   do 

what  thou  wilt ; 

I  rather  will  suspect  the  sun  with  cold 
Than  thee   with   wantonness:    now  doth  thy 

honour  stand, 

In  him  that  was  of  late  an  heretic, 
As  firm  as  faith. 

Page.  'Tis  well,  'tis  well ;  no  more. 

Be  not  as  extreme  in  submission 
As  in  offence ; 
But  let  our  plot  go  forward :  let  our  wives 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


[ACT  iv. 


Yet  once  again,  to  make  us  public  sport, 
Appoint  a  meeting  with  this  old  fat  fellow, 
Where  we  may  take  him  and  disgrace  him  for  it. 
Ford.  There  is  no  better  way  than  that  they 

spoke  of. 

Page.  How  !  to  send  him  word  they  '11  meet 
him  in  the  park  at  midnight ;  fie,  fie ;  he  '11 
never  come. 

Eva.  You  say  he  has  been  thrown  into  the 
rivers ;  and  has  been  grievously  peaten  as  an  old 
'oman  ;  methinks  there  should  be  terrors  in  him 
that  he  should  not  come  ;  methinks  his  flesh  is 
punished,  he  shall  have  no  desires. 

Page.  So  think  I  too.  [when  he  comes, 

Mrs.  Ford.   Devise  but  how  you  '11  use  him 
And  let  us  two  devise  to  bring  him  thither. 
Mrs.  Page.  There  is  an  old  tale  goes,  that 

Herne  the  hunter, 

Sometime  a  keeper  here  in  Windsor  forest, 
Doth  all  the  winter  time,  at  still  midnight, 
Walk  roundaboutan  oak,  with  great  ragg'dhorns; 
And  there  he  blasts  the  tree,  and  takes  the  cattle, 
And  makes  milch-kine  yield  blood,  and  shakes 

a  chain 

In  a  most  hideous  and  dreadful  manner  :  [know 
You  have  heard  of  such  a  spirit ;  and  well  you 
The  superstitious  idle-headed  eld 
Received,  and  did  deliver  to  our  age, 
This  tale  of  Herne  the  hunter  for  a  truth,  [fear 
Page.  Why,  yet  there  want  not  many  that  do 
In  deep  of  night  to  walk  by  this  Herne's  oak  : 
But  what  of  this  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  Marry,  this  is  our  device  ; 
That  Falstaff  at  that  oak  shall  meet  with  us, 
Disguised,  like  Herne,  with  huge  horns  on  his 

head.  [come, 

Page.  Well,  let  it  not  be  doubted  but  he  '11 

And  in  this  shape.    When  you  have  brought  him 

thither, 

What  shall  be  done  with  him?  what  is  your  plot? 
Mrs.  Page.  That  likewise  have  we  thought 

upon,  and  thus : 

Nan  Page  my  daughter,  and  my  little  son, 
And  three  or  four  more  of  their  growth,  we  '11 

dress  [white, 

Like  urchins,   ouphes,  and  fairies,  green  and 
With  rounds  of  waxen  tapers  on  their  heads, 
And  rattles  in  their  hands  ;  upon  a  sudden, 
As  Falstaff,  she,  and  I,  are  newly  met, 
Let  them  from  forth  a  saw- pit  rush  at  once 
With  some  diffused  song  ;  upon  their  sight 
We  two  in  great  amazedness  will  fly : 
Then  let  them  all  encircle  him  about, 
And  fairy-like,  to  pinch  the  unclean  knight ; 
And  ask  him  why  that  hour  of  fairy  revel 
In  their  so  sacred  paths  he  dares  to  tread 
In  shape  profane. 


Mrs.  Ford.         And  till  he  tell  the  truth, 
Let  the  supposed  fairies  pinch  him  sound, 
And  burn  him  with  their  tapers. 

Mrs.  Page.  The  truth  being  known, 

We  '11  all  present  ourselves,  dis-horn  the  spirit, 
And  mock  him  home  to  Windsor. 

Ford.  The  children  must 

Be  practised  well  to  this  or  they'll  ne'er  do't. 

Eva.  I  will  teach  the  children  their  behavi- 
ours ;  and  I  will  be  like  a  jack-an-apes  also,  to 
burn  the  knight  with  my  taber. 

Ford.  That  will  be  excellent.  I'll  go  buy 
them  vizards.  [all  the  fairies, 

Mrs.  Page.  My  Nan  shall  be  the  queen  of 
Finely  attired  in  a  robe  of  white.  [time 

Page.  That  silk  will  I  go  buy; — and  in  that 
Shall  Master  Slender  steal  my  Nan  away.  [A  side. 
And  marry  her  at  Eton. Go,  send  to  Fal- 
staff straight.  [Brook ; 

Ford.  Nay,  I  '11  to  him  again,  in  name  of 
He  '11  tell  me  all  his  purpose.  Sure,  he  '11  come. 

Mrs.  Page.  Fear  not  you  that.     Go,  get  us 

properties, 
And  tricking  for  our  fairies. 

Eva.  Let  us  about  it.  It  is  admirable  plea- 
sures, and  fery  honest  knaveries. 

[Exeunt  PAGE,  FORD,  and  EVANS 

Mrs.  Page.  Go,  Mistress  Ford, 
Send  quickly  to  Sir  John  to  know  his  mind. 

[Exit  Mrs.  FORD. 

I  '11  to  the  doctor  ;  he  hath  my  good-will, 
And  none  but  he,  to  marry  with  Nan  Page. 
That  Slender,  though  well  landed,  is  an  idiot ; 
And  he  my  husband  best  of  all  affects  : 
The  doctor  is  well  money'd,  and  his  friends 
Potent  at  court ;  he,  none  but  he,  shall  have  her, 
Though  twenty  thousand  worthier  come  to  crave 
her.  [Exit. 

SCENE  V. — A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 
Enter  HOST  and  SIMPLE. 

Host.  What  wouldst  thou  have,  boor  ?  what, 
thick-skin?  speak,  breathe,  discuss;  brief,  short, 
quick,  snap. 

Sim.  Marry,  sir,  I  come  to  speak  with  Sir 
John  Falstaff  from  Master  Slender. 

Host.  There's  his  chamber,  hishouse,hiscastle, 
his  standing-bed  and  truckle-bed ;  'tis  painted 
about  with  the  story  of  the  Prodigal,  fresh  and 
new.  Go,  knock  and  call ;  he  '11  speak  like  an 
Anthropophaginian  unto  thee.  Knock,  I  say. 

Sim.  There 's  an  old  woman,  a  fat  woman, 
gone  up  into  his  chamber  ;  I  '11  be  so  bold  as 
stay,  sir,  till  she  come  down  ;  I  come  to  speak 
with  her,  indeed. 

Host.  Ha  !  a  fat  woman  !  the  knight  may  be 


SCENE  V.] 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


robbed  :  I  '11  call.— Bully  knight  !  Bully  Sir 
John  !  speak  from  thy  lungs  military.  Art  thou 
there  ?  it  is  thine  host,  thine  Ephesian,  calls. 

Fal.  [Above.]  How  now,  mine  host? 

Host.  Here 's  a  Bohemian-Tartar  tarries  the 
coming  down  of  thy  fat  woman.  Let  her  descend , 
bully,  let  her  descend ;  my  chambers  are  honour- 
able. Fie  !  privacy  ?  fie  ! 

Enter  FALSTAFF. 

Fal.  There  was,  mine  host,  an  old  fat  woman 
even  now  with  me  ;  but  she 's  gone. 

Sim.  Pray  you,  sir,  was 't  not  the  wise  woman 
of  Brentford  ? 

Fal.  Ay,  marry  was  it,  muscle-shell.  What 
would  you  with  her  ? 

Sim.  My  master,  sir,  my  Master  Slender,  sent 
to  her,  seeing  her  go  thorough  the  streets,  to 
know,  sir,  whether  one  Nym,  sir,  that  beguiled 
him  of  a  chain  had  the  chain  or  no. 

Fal.  I  spake  with  the  old  woman  about  it. 

Sim.  And  what  says  she,  I  pray,  sir  ? 

Fal.  Marry,  she  says  that  the  very  same  man 
chat  beguiled  Master  Slender  of  his  chain  cozened 
him  of  it. 

Sim.  I  would  I  could  have  spoken  with  the 
woman  herself ;  I  had  other  things  to  have  spoken 
with  her  too,  from  him. 

Fal.  What  are  they  t  let  us  know. 

Host.  Ay,  come  ;  quick. 

Sim.  I  may  not  conceal  them,  sir. 

Fal.  Conceal  them,  or  thou  diest. 

Sim.  Why,  sir,  they  were  nothing  but  about 
Mistress  Anne  Page ;  to  know  if  it  were  my  mas- 
ter's fortune  to  have  her  or  no. 

Fal.  'Tis,  'tis  his  fortune. 

Sim.  What,  sir  ? 

Fal.  To  have  her, — or  no.  Go ;  say  the 
woman  told  me  so. 

Sim.  May  I  be  so  bold  to  say  so,  sir  ? 

Fal.  Ay,  Sir  Tike  ;  who  more  bold  ? 

Sim.  I  thank  your  worship:  I  shall  make  my 
master  glad  with  these  tidings.  [Ex  SIMPLE. 

Host.  Thou  art  clerkly,  thou  art  clerkly,  Sir 
John.  Was  there  a  wise  woman  with  thee  ? 

Fal.  Ay,  that  there  was,  mine  host ;  one  that 
hath  taught  me  more  wit  than  ever  I  learned 
before  in  my  life  :  and  I  paid  nothing  for  it 
neither,  but  was  paid  for  my  learning. 

Enter  BARDOLPH. 

Bard.  Out,  alas,  sir !  cozenage !  mere  cozenage ! 

Host.  Where  be  my  horses?  speak  well  of 
them,  varletto. 

Bard.  Run  away  with  the  cozeners :  for  so 
soon  as  I  came  beyond  Eton  they  threw  me  off 
from  behind  one  of  them  in  a  slough  of  mire  ; 


and  set  spurs   and  away,  like  three  German 
devils,  three  Doctor  Faustuses. 

Host.  They  are  gone  but  to  meet  the  duke, 
villain  :  do  not  say  they  be  fled  ;  Germans  are 
honest  men. 

Enter  Sir  HUGH  EVANS. 

Eva.  Where  is  mine  host  ? 

Host.  What  is  the  matter,  sir  ? 

Eva.  Have  a  care  of  your  entertainments : 
there  is  a  friend  of  mine  come  to  town  tells  me 
there  is  three  couzin  germans  that  has  cozened 
all  the  hosts  of  Readings,  of  Maidenhead,  of 
Colebrook,  of  horses  and  money.  I  tell  you 
for  good-will,  look  you  :  you  are  wise,  and  full 
of  gibes  and  vlouting-stogs  ;  and  'tis  not  con- 
venient you  should  be  cozened :  fare  you  well. 

[Exit. 
Enter  Dr.  CAIUS. 

Caius.  Vere  is  mine  Host  de  Jarterre  ? 

Host.  Here,  master  doctor,  in  perplexity 
and  doubtful  dilemma. 

Caius.  I  cannot  tell  vat  is  dat :  but  it  is  tell- 
a  me  dat  you  make  grand  preparation  for  a 
duke  dejarmany :  by  my  trot  dere  is  no  duke 
dat  de  court  is  know  to  come ;  I  tell  you  for 
good-vill :  adieu.  [Exit. 

Host.  Hue  and  cry,  villain,  go  : — assist  me, 
knight;  I  am  undone:  fly,  run,  hue  and  cry, 
villain  !  I  am  undone  ! 

[Exeunt  HOST  and  BARD. 

Fal.  I  would  all  the  world  might  be  cozened ; 
for  I  have  been  cozened  and  beaten  too.  If  it 
should  come  to  the  ear  of  the  court  how  I  have 
been  transformed,  and  how  my  transformation 
hath  been  washed  and  cudgelled,  they  would 
melt  me  out  of  my  fat,  drop  by  drop,  and  liquor 
fishermen's  boots  with  me ;  I  warrant  they 
would  whip  me  with  their  fine  wits  till  I  were 
as  crest-fallen  as  a  dried  pear.  I  never  pros- 
pered since  I  foreswore  myself  at  trimero. 
Well,  if  my  wind  were  but  long  enough  to  say 
my  prayers,  I  would  repent. — 

Ente   Mrs.  QUICKLY. 
Now  !  whence  come  you  ? 

Quick.  From  the  two  parties,  forsooth. 

Fal.  The  devil  take  one  party  and  his  dam 
the  other,  and  so  they  shall  be  both  bestowed  ! 
I  have  suffered  more  for  their  sakes,  more  than 
the  villanous  inconstancy  of  man's  disposition 
is  able  to  bear. 

Quick.  And  have  not  they  suffered  ?  Yes,  I 
warrant ;  speciously  one  of  them ;  Mistress 
Ford,  good  heart,  is  beaten  black  and  blue, 
that  you  cannot  see  a  white  spot  about  her. 

Fal.  What  tell'st  thou  me  of  black  and  blue? 


74 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


[ACT  v. 


I  was  beaten  myself  into  all  the  colours  of  the 
rainbow ;  and  I  was  like  to  be  apprehended 
for  the  witch  of  Brentford ;  but  that  my  ad- 
mirable dexterity  of  wit,  my  counterfeiting  the 
action  of  an  old  woman,  delivered  me,  the 
knave  constable  had  set  me  i'  the  stocks,  i'  the 
common  stocks,  for  a  witch. 

Quick.  Sir,  let  me  speak  with  you  in  your 
chamber :  you  shall  hear  how  things  go ;  and,  I 
warrant,  to  your  content.  Here  is  a  letter  will 
say  somewhat.  Good  hearts,  what  ado  here  is 
to  bring  you  together  !  Sure,  one  of  you  does 
not  serve  heaven  well,  that  you  are  so  crossed. 

Fal.  Come  up  into  my  chamber.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI. — Another  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 
Enter  FENTON  and  HOST. 

Host.  Master  Fen  ton,  talk  not  to  me;  my  mind 
is  heavy,  I  will  give  over  all.  [purpose, 

Pent.  Yet  hear  me  speak.     Assist  me  in  my 
And,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I'll  give  thee 
A  hundred  pound  in  gold,  more  than  your  loss. 

Host.  I  will  hear  you,  Master  Fenton ;  and 
I  will,  at  the  least,  keep  your  counsel. 

Pent.  From  time  to  time  I  have  acquainted  you 
With  the  dear  love  I  bear  to  fair  Anne  Page ; 
Who,  mutually,  hath  answer'd  my  affection, — 
So  far  forth  as  herself  might  be  her  chooser, — 
Even  to  my  wish  :  I  have  a  letter  from  her 
Of  such  contents  as  you  will  wonder  at ; 
The  mirth  whereof  so  larded  with  my  matter 
That  neither,  singly,  can  be  manifested 
Without  the  show  of  both; — wherein  fat  Falstaff 
Hath  a  great  scene  :  the  image  of  the  jest 

{Showing  the  letter. 

I  '11  show  you  here  at  large.     Hark,  good  mine 
host,  [one, 

To-night  at  Herne's  oak,  just  'twixt  twelve  and 
Must  my  sweet  Nan  present  the  fairy  queen  : 
The  purpose  why  is  here  ;  in  which  disguise, 
While  other  jests  are  something  rank  on  foot, 
Her  father  hath  commanded  her  to  slip 
Away  with  Slender,  and  with  him  at  Eton 
Immediately  to  marry  :  she  hath  consented  : 
Now,  sir, 

Her  mother,  ever  strong  against  that  match, 
And  firm  for  Doctor  Caius,  hath  appointed 
That  he  shall  likewise  shuffle  her  away 
While  other  sports  are  tasking  of  their  minds, 
And  at  the  deanery,  where  a  priest  attends, 
Straight  marry  her  :  to  this  her  mother's  plot 
She,  seemingly  obedient,  likewise  hath 
Made  promise  to  the  doctor: — Now  thus  it  rests; 
Her  father  means  she  shall  be  all  in  white  ; 
And  in  that  habit,  when  Slender  sees  his  time 
To  take  her  by  the  hand  and  bid  her  go, 


She  shall  go  with  him :  her  mother  hath  intended, 
The  better  to  denote  her  to  the  doctor,— 
For  they  must  all  be  mask'd  and  vizarded, — 
That,  quaint  in  green,  she  shall  be  loose  enrobed, 
With  ribands  pendant,  flaring  'bout  her  head; 
And  when  the  doctor  spies  his  vantage  ripe, 
To  pinch  her  by  the  hand,  and,  on  that  token, 
The  maid  hath  given  consent  to  go  with  him. 

Host.  Which  means  she  to  deceive?  father 
or  mother  ? 

Pent.  Both,  my  good  host,  to  go  along  with  me: 
And  here  it  rests, — that  you  '11  procure  the  vicar 
To  stay  for  me  at  church,  'twixt  twelve  and  one, 
And,  in  the  lawful  name  of  marrying, 
To  give  our  hearts  united  ceremony.       [vicar  : 

Host.  Well,  husband  your  device;  I  '11  to  the 
Bring  you  the  maid,  you  shall  not  lack  a  priest. 

Pent.  So  shall  I  evermore  be  bound  to  thee; 
Besides,  I  '11  make  a  present  recompense. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 
Enter  FALSTAFF  and  Mrs.  QUICKLY. 

Fal.  Pr'ythee,  no  more  prattling: — go. 

I  '11  hold.  This  is  the  third  time ;  I  hope  good 
luck  lies  in  odd  numbers.  Away,  go ;  they 
say  there  is  divinity  in  odd  numbers,  either  in 
nativity,  chance,  or  death. — Away. 

Quick.  I  '11  provide  you  a  chain :  and  I  '11 
do  what  I  can  to  get  you  a  pair  of  horns. 

Fal.  Away,  I  say ;  time  wears :  hold  up  your 
head,  and  mince.  [Exit  Mrs.  QUICKLY. 

Enter  FORD. 

How  now,  Master  Brook  ?  Master  Brook,  the 
matter  will  be  known  to-night  or  never.  Be 
you  in  the  Park  about  midnight,  at  Herne's 
oak,  and  you  shall  see  wonders. 

Ford.  Went  you  not  to  her  yesterday,  sir,  as 
you  told  me  you  had  appointed. 

Pal.  I  went  to  her,  Master  Brook,  as  you 
see,  like  a  poor  old  man ;  but  I  came  from  her, 
Master  Brook,  like  a  poor  old  woman.  That 
same  knave,  Ford  her  husband,  hath  the  finest 
mad  devil  of  jealousy  in  him,  Master  Brook, 
that  ever  governed  frenzy.  I  will  tell  you. — 
He  beat  me  grievously,  in  the  shape  of  a 
woman;  for  in  the  shape  of  man,  Master 
Brook,  I  fear  not  Goliath  with  a  weaver's 
beam ;  because  I  know  also  life  is  a  shuttle.  I 
am  in  haste  ;  go  along  with  me  ;  I  '11  tell  you 
all,  Master  Brook.  Since  I  plucked  geese, 
played  truant,  and  whipped  top,  I  knew  not 
what  it  was  to  be  beaten  till  lately.  Follow 
me :  I  '11  tell  you  strange  things  of  this  knave 


SCENE  II.] 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


75 


Ford,  on  whom  to-night  I  will  be  revenged, 
and  I  will  deliver  his  wife  into  your  hand. — 
Follow.  Strange  things  in  hand,  Master 
Brook  !  follow.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Windsor  Park. 
Enter  PAGE,  SHALLOW,  and  SLENDER. 

Page.  Come,  come ;  we  '11  couch  i*  the 
castle-ditch  till  we  see  the  light  of  our  fairies. 
— Remember,  son  Slender,  my  daughter. 

Slen.  Ay,  forsooth  ;  I  have  spoke  with  her, 
and  we  have  a  nay-word  how  to  know  one 
another ;  I  come  to  her  in  white  and  cry  mum  ; 
she  cries  budget ;  and  by  that  we  know  one 
another. 

ShaL  That 's  good  too :  but  what  needs  either 
your  mum  or  her  budget?  the  white  will  decipher 
her  well  enough. — It  hath  struck  ten  o'clock. 

Page.  The  night  is  dark  ;  light  and  spirits 
will  become  it  well.  Heaven  prosper  our 
sport !  No  man  means  evil  but  the  devil,  and 
we  shall  know  him  by  his  horns.  Let 's  away  ; 
follow  me.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  Street  in  Windsor. 
Enter  Mrs.  PAGE,  Mrs.  FORD,  and  Dr.  CAIUS. 

Mrs.  Page.  Master  doctor,  my  daughter  is 
in  green :  when  you  see  your  time,  take  her  by 
the  hand,  away  with  her  to  the  deanery,  and 
dispatch  it  quickly.  Go  before  into  the  park  ; 
we  two  must  go  together. 

Cams.  I  know  vat  I  have  to  do  ;  adieu. 

Mrs.  Page.  Fare  you  well,  sir.  [Exit 
CAIUS.]  My  husband  will  not  rejoice  so  much 
at  the  abuse  of  Falstaff  as  he  will  chafe  at  the 
doctor's  marrying  my  daughter :  but  'tis  no 
matter';  better  a  little  chiding  than  a  great  deal 
of  heart-break. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Where  is  Nan  now,  and  her 
troop  of  fairies  ?  and  the  Welsh  devil,  Hugh  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  They  are  all  couched  in  a  pit 
hard  by  Herne's  oak,  with  obscured  lights ; 
which,  at  the  very  instant  of  FalstafFs  and  our 
meeting,  they  will  at  once  display  to  the  night. 

Mrs.  Ford.  That  cannot  choose  but  amaze 
him. 

Mrs.  Page.  If  he  be  not  amazed  he  will  be 
mocked  ;  if  he  be  amazed  he  will  every  way  be 
mocked. 

Mrs.  Ford.  We  '11  betray  him  finely. 

Mrs.  Page.  Against  such  lewdsters  and  their 

lechery, 
Those  that  betray  them  do  no  treachery. 

Mrs.  Ford.  The  hour  draws  on.  To  the 
oak,  to  the  oak  !  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.  —Windsor  Park. 

Enter  Sir  HUGH  EVANS,  and  Fairies. 

Eva.  Trib,  trib,  fairies;  come;  and  remember 

your  parts  :  be  pold,  I  pray  you  ;  follow  me  into 

the  pit  ;  and  when  I  give  the  watch-'ords,  do  as 

I  pid  you.     Come,  come  ;  trib,  trib.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  Another  part  of  the  Park. 

Enter  FALSTAFF  disguised,  with  a  buck's 
•"']  head  on. 

Fal.  The  Windsor  bell  hath  struck  twelve  ; 
the  minute  draws  on.  Now  the  hot-blooded 
gods  assist  me  :  —  Remember,  Jove,  thou  wast 
a  bull  for  thy  Europa  ;  love  set  on  thy  horns. 
—  O  powerful  love  !  that  in  some  respects 
makes  a  beast  a  man  ;  in  some  other  a  man  a 
beast.  —  You  were  also,  Jupiter,  a  swan,  for  the 
love  of  Leda  :  —  O  omnipotent  love  !  how  near 
the  god  drew  to  the  complexion  of  a  goose  ?  — 
A  fault  done  first  in  the  form  of  a  beast  :  —  O 
Jove,  a  beastly  fault  !  and  then  another  fault  in 
the  semblance  of  a  fowl  ;  think  on  't,  Jove  ;  a 
foul  fault.  —  When  gods  have  hot  backs  what 
shall  poor  men  do  ?  For  me,  I  am  here  a 
Windsor  stag  ;  and  the  fattest,  I  think,  i'  the 
forest.  Send  me  a  cool  rut-time,  Jove,  or  who 
can  blame  me  to  piss  my  tallow  ?  Who  comes 
here  ?  my  doe  ? 

Enter  Mrs.  FORD  and  Mrs.  PAGE. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Sir  John  ?  art  thou  there,  my 
deer  ?  my  male  deer  ? 

Fal.  My  doe  with  the  black  scut  ?  —  Let  the 
sky  rain  potatoes  ;  let  it  thunder  to  the  tune  of 
Green  Sleeves;  hail  kissing-comfits,  and  snow 
eringoes  ;  let  there  come  a  tempest  of  provoca- 
tion, I  will  shelter  me  here.  [Embracing  her. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Mistress  Page  is  come  with  me, 
sweetheart. 

Fal.  Divide  me  like  a  bribe-buck,  each  a 
haunch  :  I  will  keep  my  sides  to  myself,  my 
shoulders  for  the  fellow  of  this  walk,  and  my 
horns  I  bequeath  your  husbands.  Am  I  a 
woodman  ?  ha  !  Speak  I  like  Herne  the 
hunter?  —  Why,  now  is  Cupid  a  child  of  con- 
science; he  makes  restitution.  As  I  am  a  true 
spirit,  welcome  !  [Noise  within. 

Mrs.  Page.  Alas  !  what  noise  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  Heaven  forgive  our  sins  ! 

Fal.  What  should  this  be  ? 


ge.  >-    {.Theyrunoff. 

Fal.  I  think  the  devil  will  not  have  me 
damned  lest  the  oil  that  is  in  me  should  set  hell 
on  fire  ;  he  would  never  else  cross  me  thus. 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


[ACT  v. 


Enter  Sir  HUGH  EVANS,  like  a  satyr ;  Mrs. 
QUICKLY  and  PISTOL  ;  ANNE  PAGE,  as  the 
Fairy  Queen,  attended  by  her  brother  and 
others,  dressed  like  fairies,  with  waxen  tapers 
on  their  heads. 

Quick.  Fairies,  black,  gray,  green,  and  white, 
You  moonshine  revellers  and  shades  of  night, 
You  orphan-heirs  of  fixed  destiny, 
Attend  your  office  and  your  quality. 
Crier  Hobgoblin,  make  the  fairy  o-yes. 

Pist.  Elves,  list  your  names ;  silence,  you  airy 

toys. 

Cricket,  to  Windsor  chimneys  shalt  thou  leap : 
Where  fires  thou  find'st  unrak'd,  and  hearths  un- 

swept, 

There  pinch  the  maids  as  blue  as  bilberry  : 
Our  radiant  queen  hates  sluts  and  sluttery. 
Fal.  They  are  fairies ;  he  that  speaks  to  them 
shall  die :  [eye. 

I  '11  wink  and  couch :  no  man  their  works  must 
[Lies  down  upon  his  face. 
Eva.  Where's  Pede? — Go  you,  and  where 

you  find  a  maid 

That,  ere  she  sleep,  has  thrice  her  prayers  said, 
Raise  up  the  organs  of  her  fantasy, 
,  Sleep  she  as  sound  as  careless  infancy  ; 
But  those  as  sleep  and  think  not  on  their  sins, 
Pinch  them,  arms,  legs,  backs,  shoulders,  sides, 

and  shins. 

Qttick.  About,  about ; 

Search  Windsor  castle,  elves,  within  and  out : 
Strew  good  luck,  ouphes,  on  every  sacred  room  ; 
That  it  may  stand  till  the  perpetual  doom, 
In  state  as  wholesome  as  in  state  'tis  fit, 
Worthy  the  owner  and  the  owner  it. 
The  several  chairs  of  order  look  you  scour 
With  juice  of  balm  and  every  precious  flower  ; 
Each  fair  instalment,  coat,  and  several  crest, 
With  loyal  blazon  evermore  be  blest  ! 
And  nightly,  meadow-fairies,  look  you  sing, 
Like  to  the  Garter's  compass,  in  a  ring  : 
The  expressure  that  it  bears,  green  let  it  be, 
More  fertile-fresh  than  all  the  field  to  see  ; 
And,  Hony  soit  ytii  mal y  pense  write, 
In  emerald  tufts,  flowers  purple,  blue  and  white : 
Like  sapphire,  pearl,  and  rich  embroidery, 
Buckled  below  fair  knighthood's  bending  knee  : 
Fairies  use  flowers  for  their  charactery. 
Away ;  disperse  :  but,  'tis  one  o'clock, 
Our  dance  of  custom,  round  about  the  oak 
Of  Herne  the  hunter,  let  us  not  forget. 

Eva.  Pray  you,  lock  hand  in  hand ;   your- 
selves in  order  set : 

And  twenty  glow-worms  shall  our  lanterns  be, 
To  guide  our  measure  round  about  the  tree. 
But,  stay  :  I  smell  a  man  of  middle  earth. 


Fal.  Heavens  defend  me  from  that  Welsh 
fairy !  lest  he  transform  me  to  a  piece  of  cheese ! 

Pist.  Vile  worm,  thou  wast  o'erlook'd  even 
in  thy  birth. 

Quick.  With  trial-fire  touch  me  his  finger  end: 
If  he  be  chaste,  the  flame  will  back  descend 
And  turn  him  to  no  pain  ;  but  if  he  start, 
It  is  the  flesh  of  a  corrupted  heart. 

Pist.  A  trial,  come. 

Eva.  Come,  will  this  wood  take  fire  ? 

[  They  burn  him  with  their  tapers. 

Fal.  Oh,  oh,  oh  ! 

Quick.  Corrupt,  corrupt,  and  tainted  in  desire ! 
About  him,  fairies  ;  sing  a  scornful  rhyme  ; 
And,  as  you  trip,  still  pinch  him  to  your  time. 

Eva.  It  is  right ;  indeed  he  is  full  of  lecheries 
and  iniquity. 

SONG. 

Fye  on  sinful  fantasy ! 

Fye  on  lust  and  luxury  ! 

Lust  is  but  a  bloody  fire, 

Kindkd  with  unchaste  desire, 

Fed  in  heart ;  whose  flames  aspire, 

As  thoughts  do  blow  them,  higher  and  higher. 

Pinch  him,  fairies,  mutually  ; 

Pinch  him  for  his  villany  ; 
Pinch  him,  and  burn  him,  and  turn  him  about, 
Till  candles,  and  star-light,  and  moonshine  be  out. 

During  this  song  tJie  fairies  pinch  FALSTAFF. 
DffctorCAivs  comes  one  way,  and  steals  away 
a  fairy  in  green  ;  SLENDER  another  way,  and 
takes  o^" a  fairy  in  white  ;  and  FENTON  comes, 
and  steals  away  Mrs.  ANNE  PAGE.  A  noise 
of  hunting  is  made  within.  A II  the  fairies 
run  away.  FALSTAFF  pulls  off  his  buck's 
head  and  rises. 

Enter  PAGE,  FORD,  Mrs.  PAGE,  and  Mrs. 
FORD.      They  lay  hold  on  him. 

Page.  Nay,   do  not  fly ;    I  think  we  have 

watch'd  you  now : 
Will  none  but  Herne  the  hunter  serve  your  turn  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  I  pray  you  come ;   hold  up  the 

jest  no  higher  : — 

Now,  good  Sir  John,  how  like  you  Windsor  wives? 
See  you  these,  husband  ?  do  not  these  fair  yokes 
Become  the  forest  better  than  the  town  ? 

Ford.  Now,  sir,  who 's  a  cuckold  now  ? — • 
Master  Brook,  Falstaff's  a  knave,  a  cuckoldly 
knave ;  here  are  his  horns,  Master  Brook  :  and, 
Master  Brook,  he  hath  enjoyed  nothing  of  Ford's 
but  his  buck -basket,  his  cudgel,  and  twenty 
pounds  of  money ;  which  must  be  paid  to 
Master  Brook  ;  his  horses  are  arrested  for  it, 
Master  Brook. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Sir  John,  we  have  had  ill  luck  ; 
we  could  never  meet.  I  will  never  take  you 
for  my  love  again,  but  I  will  always  count  you 
my  deer. 


SCENE  V.] 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


77 


Fal.  I  do  begin  to  perceive  that  I  am  made 
an  ass. 

Ford.  Ay,  and  an  ox  too ;  both  the  proofs 
are  extant. 

Fal.  And  these  are  not  fairies  ?  I  was  three 
or  four  times  in  the  thought  they  were  not 
fairies  :  and  yet  the  guiltiness  of  my  mind,  the 
sudden  surprise  of  my  powers,  drove  the  gross- 
ness  of  the  foppery  into  a  received  belief,  in  de- 
spite of  the  teeth  of  all  rhyme  and  reason,  that 
they  were  fairies.  See  now  how  wit  may  be 
made  a  Jack-a-lent  when  'tis  upon  ill  employ- 
ment. 

Eva.  Sir  John  Falstaff,  serve  Got  and  leave 
your  desires,  and  fairies  will  not  pinse  you. 

Ford.  Well  said,  fairy  Hugh. 

Eva.  And  leave  you  your  jealousies  too,  I 
pray  you. 

Ford.  I  will  never  mistrust  my  wife  again, 
till  thou  art  able  to  woo  her  in  good  English. 

Fal.  Have  I  laid  my  brain  in  the  sun,  and 
dried  it,  that  it  wants  matter  to  prevent  so  gross 
o'er-reaching  as  this?  Am  I  ridden  with  a 
Welsh  goat  too  ?  Shall  I  have  a  coxcomb  of 
frize  ?  'Tis  time  I  were  choked  with  a  piece  of 
toasted  cheese. 

Eva.  Seese  is  not  good  to  give  putter  ;  your 
pelly  is  all  putter. 

Fal.  Seese  and  putter  !  have  I  lived  to  stand 
at  the  taunt  of  one  that  makes  fritters  of  English? 
This  is  enough  to  be  the  decay  of  lust  and  late- 
walking  through  the  realm. 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  Sir  John,  do  you  think, 
though  we  would  have  thrust  virtue  out  of  our 
hearts  by  the  head  and  shoulders,  and  have  given 
ourselves  without  scruple  to  hell,  that  ever  the 
devil  could  have  made  you  our  delight  ? 

Ford.  What !  a  hodge-puddirig?  a  bag  of  flax? 

Mrs.  Page.  A  puffed  man  ? 

Page.  Old,  cold,  withered,  and  of  intolerable 
entrails  ? 

Ford.  And  one  that  is  as  slanderous  as  Satan  ? 

Page.  And  as  poor  as  Job  ? 

Ford.  And  as  wicked  as  his  wife  ? 

Eva.  And  given  to  ornications,  and  to 
taverns,  and  sack,  and  wine,  and  metheglins, 
and  to  drinkings,  and  swearings,  and  starings, 
pribbles,  and  prabbles  ? 

Fal.  Well,  I  am  your  theme :  you  have  the 
start  of  me  ;  I  am  dejected  ;  I  am  not  able  to 
answer  the  Welsh  flannel :  ignorance  itself  is  a 
plummet  o'er  me  ;  use  me  as  you  will. 

Ford.  Marry,  sir,  we  '11  bring  you  to  Windsor, 
to  one  Master  Brook,  that  you  have  cozened  of 
money,  to  whom  you  should  have  been  a  pander: 
over  and  above  that  you  have  suffered,  I  think, 
to  repay  that  money  will  be  a  biting  affliction. 


Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,   husband,  let  that  go  to 

make  amends : 
Forgive  that  sum,  and  so  we  '11  all  be  friends. 

Ford.  Well,  here 's  my  hand  ;  all 's  forgiven 
at  last. 

Page.  Yet  be  cheerful,  knight :  thou  shall  eat 
a  posset  to-night  at  my  house  ;  where  I  will  de- 
sire thee  to  laugh  at  my  wife,  that  now  laughs 
at  thee.  Tell  her  Master  Slender  hath  married 
her  daughter. 

Mrs.  Page.  Doctors  doubt  that :  if  Anne 
Page  be  my  daughter,  she  is  by  this  Doctor 
Caius'  wife.  {Aside. 

Enter  SLENDER. 

Slen.  Who— ho  !  ho  !  father  Page  ! 

Page.  Son  !  how  now?  how  now,  son  ?  have 
you  dispatched  ? 

Slen.  Dispatched  ! — I  '11  make  the  best  in 
Gloucestershire  know  on 't ;  would  I  were 
hanged,  la,  else. 

Page.  Of  what,  son  ? 

Slen.  I  cai:.e  yonder  at  Eton  to  marry  Mis- 
tress Aune  Page,  and  she's  a  great  lubberly 
boy.  If  it  had  not  been  i'  the  church  I  would 
have  swinged  him,  or  he  should  have  swinged 
me.  If  I  did  not  think  it  had  been  Anne  Page, 
would  I  might  never  stir,  and  'tis  a  postmaster's 
boy. 

Page.   Upon  my  life  then  you  took  the  wrong. 

Slen.  What  need  you  tell  me  that  ?  I  think 
so,  when  I  took  a  boy  for  a  girl.  If  I  had  been 
married  to  him,  for  all  he  was  in  woman's  ap- 
parel, I  would  not  have  had  him. 

Page.  Why,  this  is  your  own  folly.  Did  not 
I  tell  you  how  you  should  know  my  daughter 
by  her  garments  ? 

Slen.  I  went  to  her  in  white  and  cried  mum, 
and  she  cried  budget,  as  Anne  and  I  had  ap- 
pointed ;  and  yet  it  was  not  Anne,  but  a  post- 
master's boy. 

Eva.  Jeshu  !  Master  Slender,  cannot  you  see 
but  marry  boys  ? 

Page.  Oh,  I  am  vexed  at  heart :  what  shal  lido? 

Mrs.  Page.  Good  George,  be  not  angry :  I 
knew  of  your  purpose  ;  turned  my  daughter  into 
green  ;  and,  indeed,  she  is  now  with  the  doctor 
at  the  deanery,  and  there  married. 

Enter  CAIUS. 

Caius.  Vere  is  Mistress  Page?  By  gar,  I 
am  cozened  ;  I  ha'  married  un  garfon,  a  boy  ; 
tin  paisan,  by  gar,  a  boy ;  it  is  not  Anne  Page : 
by  gar,  I  am  cozened. 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  did  you  take  her  in  green  ? 

Caius.  Ay,  by  gar,  and  'tis  a  boy :  by  gar, 
I  '11  raise  all  Windsor.  {Exit  CAIUS. 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


[ACT  v. 


Ford.  This  is  strange.  Who  hath  got  the 
right  Anne  ? 

Page.  My  heart  misgives  me  : — here  comes 
Master  Fenton. 

Enter  FENTON  and  ANNE  PAGE. 

How  now,  Master  Fenton  ? 

Anne.  Pardon,  good  father !  good  my  mother, 
pardon  ! 

Page.  Now,  Mistress,  how  chance  you  went 
not  with  Master  Slender  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Why  went  you  not  with  master 
doctor,  maid? 

Pent.  You  do  amaze  her  :  Hear  the  truth  of  it. 
You  would  have  married  her  most  shamefully, 
Where  there  was  no  proportion  held  in  love. 
The  truth  is,  she  and  I,  long  since  contracted, 
Are  now  so  sure  that  nothing  can  dissolve  us. 
The  offence  is  holy  that  she  hath  committed  : 
And  this  deceit  loses  the  name  of  craft, 
Of  disobedience,  or  unduteous  title  ; 
Since  therein  she  doth  evitate  and  shun 
A  thousand  irreligious  cursed  hours,  [her. 

Which  forced  marriagewould  have  brought  upon 


Ford.  Stand  not  amazed :  here  isno  remedy: — 
In  love,  the  heavens  themselves  do  guide  the 

state ; 

Money  buys  lands,  and  wives  are  sold  by  fate. 
Fal.  I  am  glad,  though  you  have  ta'en  a 
special  stand  to  strike  at  me,  that  your  arrow 
hath  glanced. 

Page.  Well,  what  remedy?    Fenton,  heaven 

give  thee  joy ! 

What  cannot  be  eschewed  must  be  embraced. 
Fal.  When  night-dogs  run  all  sorts  of  deer 

are  chased. 
Eva.  I  will  dance  and  eat  plums  at  your 

wedding. 
Mrs.  Page.  Well,  I  will  muse  no  further  : — 

Master  Fenton, 

Heaven  give  you  many,  many  merry  days  ! — 
Good  husband,  let  us  every  one  go  home, 
And  laugh  this  sport  o'er  by  a  country  fire ; 
Sir  John  and  all. 

Ford.  Let  it  be  so  :— Sir  John, 
To  Master  Brook  you  yet  shall  hold  your  word ; 
For  he,  to-night,  shall  lie  with  Mistress  Ford. 

{Exeunt. 


'v't'Ciont  ifftAi  :ysqai 


TWELFTH  NIGHT;  OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


PERSONS   REPRESENTED. 


ORSINO,  .£>#&?  of  Illyria. 

SEBASTIAN,  a  young  Gentleman,  brother  to 
VIOLA. 

ANTONIO,  a  Sea  Captain,  friend  to  SEBAS- 
TIAN. 

A  SEA  CAPTAIN,  friend  to  VIOLA. 

VALENTINE,  \  Gentlemen    attending  on  the 

CURIO,  /          Duke. 

SIR  TOBY  BELCH,  Uncle  <?/ OLIVIA. 

SIR  ANDREW  AGUE-CHEEK. 


MALVOLIO,  Steward  to  OLIVIA. 
CLOWN,*    \   Servants  to  Ql^i^ 

OLIVIA,  a  rich  Countess. 
VIOLA,  in  love  with  the  Duke. 
MARIA,  OLIVIA'S  Woman. 

Lords,   Priests,    Sailors,    Officers,    Musicians, 
and  other  Attendants. 


SCENE, — A  City  in  ILLYRIA  ;  and  the  Sea-coast  near  it. 


ACT  I. 


SCENEI.—  An  Apartment  in  //fcDuKE's  Palace. 

Enter   DUKE,   CURIO,    Lords ;    Musicians 
attending. 

Duke.  If  music  be  the  food  of  love,  play  on, 
Give  me  excess  of  it ;  that,  surfeiting, 
The  appetite  may  sicken  and  so  die. — 
That  strain  again  ; — it  had  a  dying  fall  ; 
O,  it  came  o'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  south, 
That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets, 
Stealing,  and  giving  odour. — Enough;  no  more  ; 
'Tis  not  so  sweet  now  as  it  was  before. 
O  spirit  of  love,  how  quick  and  fresh  art  thou  ! 
That,  notwithstanding  thy  capacity 
Receiveth  as  the  sea,  nought  enters  there, 
Of  what  validity  and  pitch  soever, 
But  falls  into  abatement  and  low  price 
Even  in  a  minute  !  so  full  of  shapes  is  fancy, 
That  it  along  is  high-fantastical. 

Cur.  Will  you  go  hunt,  my  lord  ? 

Duke.  What,  Curio? 

Cur.  The  hart. 

Duke.  Why,  so  I  do,  the  noblest  that  I  have  : 
O,  when  mine  eyes  did  see  Olivia  first, 
Methought  she  purg'd  the  air  of  pestilence  ; 
That  instant  was  I  tum'd  into  a  hart ; 
And  my  desires,  like  fell  and  cruel  hounds, 
E'er   since    pursue    me.  —  How    now  ?    what 
news  from  her  ? 

Enter  VALENTINE. 

VaL  So  please  my  lord,  I  might  not  be  ad- 
mitted, 

But  from  her  handmaid  do  return  this  answer : 
The  element  itself,  till  seven  years'  heat, 
Shall  not  behold  her  face  at  ample  view ; 


But,  like  a  cloistress,  she  will  veiled  walk, 
And  water  once  a-day  her  chamber  round 
With  eye-o  ending  brine  :  all  this  to  season 
A  brother's  dead  love,  which  she  would  keep  fresh 
And  lasting  in  her  sad  remembrance.      [frame, 
Duke.  O,  she  that  hath  a  heart  of  that  fine 
To  pay  this  debt  of  love  but  to  a  brother, 
How  will  she  love  when  the  rich  golden  shaft 
Hath  kill'd  the  flock  of  all  affections  else 
That  live  in  her  !  when  liver,  brain,  and  heart, 
These  sov'reign  thrones,  are  all  supplied  and 

fill'd,- 

Her  sweet  perfections, — with  one  self  king  !— 
Away  before  me  to  sweet  beds  of  flowers  ; 
Love- thoughts    lie  rich   when   canopied  with 

bowers.  {Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — The  Sea-coast. 
Enter  VIOLA,  Captain,  and  Sailors. 
Vio.  What  country,  friends,  is  this  ? 
Cap.  Illyria,  lady. 

Vio.  And  what  should  I  do  in  Illyria  ? 
My  brother  he  is  in  Elysium. 
Perchance  he  is  not  drown'd  : — What   think 
you,  sailors?  [sav'd. 

Cap.  It  is  perchance  that  you  yourself  were 
Vio.  O  my  poor  brother  !  and  so  perchance, 
may  he  be.  [with  chance, 

Cap.  True,  madam;   and,   to  comfort  you 
Assure  yourself,  after  our  ship  did  split, 
When  you,  and  that  poor  number  sav'd  with  you, 
Hung  on  our  driving  boat,  I  saw  your  brother, 
Most  provident  in  peril,  bind  himself, — 
Courage  and  hope  both  teaching  him  the  prac- 
tice,— 

To  a  strong  mast  that  liv'd  upon  the  sea ; 
Where,  like  Arion  on  the  dolphin's  back, 


So 


TWELFTH  NIGHT ;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


(ACT 


I  saw  him  hold  acquaintance  with  the  waves 
So  long  as  I  could  see. 

Vio.  For  saying  so,  there 's  gold  : 

Mine  own  escape  unfoldeth  to  my  hope, 
Whereto  thy  speech  serves  for  authority, 
The  like  of  him.  Know'st  thou  this  country? 

Cap.  Ay,  madam,  well ;  for  I  was  bred  and 

born 
Not  three  hours'  travel  from  this  very  place. 

Vio.  Who  governs  here  ? 

Cap.  A  noble  duke,  in  nature 

As  in  his  name. 

Vio.  What  is  his  name  ? 

Cap.  Orsino. 

Vio.  Orsino  !  I  have  heard  my  father  name 

him. 
He  was  a  bachelor  then. 

Cap.  And  so  is  now, 

Or  was  so  very  late  :  for  but  a  month 
Ago  I  went  from  hence  ;  and  then  'twas  fresh 
In  murmur, — as  you  know,  what  great  ones  do, 
The  less  will  prattle  of,— that  he  did  seek 
The  love  of  fair  Olivia. 

Vio.  What's  she? 

Cap.  A  virtuous  maid,  the  daughter  of  a  count 
That  died  some  twelvemonth  since  ;  then  leav- 
ing her 

In  the  protection  of  his  son,  her  brother, 
Who  shortly  also  died  :  for  whose  dear  love, 
They  say,  she  hath  abjured  the  company 
And  sight  of  men. 

Vio.  O  that  I  served  that  lady  ! 

And  might  not  be  delivered  to  the  world, 
Till  I  had  made  mine  own  occasion  mellow 
What  my  estate  is. 

Cap.  That  were  hard  to  compass  : 

Because  she  will  admit  no  kind  of  suit, 
No,  not  the  duke's. 

Vio.  There  is  a  fair  behaviour  in  thee,  captain ; 
And  though  that  nature  with  a  beauteous  wall 
Doth  oft  close  in  pollution,  yet  of  thee 
I  will  believe  thou  hast  a  mind  that  suits 
With  this  thy  fair  and  outward  character. 
I  pray  thee,  and  I  '11  pay  thee  bounteously, 
Conceal  me  what  I  am  ;  and  be  my  aid 
For  such  disguise  as,  haply,  shall  become 
The  form  of  my  intent.     I  '11  serve  this  duke  ; 
Thou  shalt  present  me  as  an  eunuch  to  him  ; 
It  may  be  worth  thy  pains  ;  for  I  can  sing, 
And  speak  to  him  in  many  sorts  of  music 
That  will  allow  me  very  worth  his  service. 
What  else  may  hap  to  time  I  will  commit ; 
Only  shape  thou  thy  silence  to  my  wit. 

Cap.  Be  you  his  eunuch  and  your  mute  I  '11  be ; 
When  my  tongue  blabs,  then  let  mine  eyes  not  see  ! 

Vio.  I  thank  thee.     Lead  me  on. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. — A  Room  in  OLIVIA'S  House. 
Enter  Sir  TOBY  BELCH  and  MARIA. 

Sir  To.  What  a  plague  means  my  niece,  to 
take  the  death  of  her  brother  thus  ?  I  am  sure 
care 's  an  enemy  to  life. 

Mar.  By  my  troth,  Sir  Toby,  you  must  come 
in  earlier  o'  nights  ;  your  cousin,  my  lady,  takes 
great  exceptions  to  your  ill  hours. 

Sir  To.  Why,  let  her  except,  before  excepted. 

Mar.  Ay,  but  you  must  confine  yourself 
within  the  modest  limits  of  order. 

Sir  To.  Confine?  I '11  confine  myself  no  finer 
than  I  am  :  these  clothes  are  good  enough  to  drink 
in,  and  so  be  these  boots  too  ;  an  they  be  not, 
let  them  hang  themselves  in  their  own  straps. 

Mar.  That  quaffing  and  drinking  will  undo 
you  :  I  heard  my  lady  talk  of  it  yesterday ;  and 
of  a  foolish  knight  that  you  brought  in  one 
night  here  to  be  her  wooer. 

Sir  To.  Who  ?     Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek  ? 

Mar.  Ay,  he. 

Sir  To.  He 's  as  tall  a  man  as  any 's  in  Illyria. 

Mar.  What 's  that  to  the  purpose  ? 

Sir  To.  Why,  he  has  three  thousand  ducats 
a-year. 

Mar.  Ay,  but  he  '11  have  but  a  year  in  all 
these  ducats  ;  he 's  a  very  fool,  and  a  prodigal. 
Sir  To.  Fye,  that  you  '11  say  so  !  he  plays  o' 
the  viol-de-gambo,  and  speaks  three  or  four 
languages  word  for  word  without  book,  and 
hath  all  the  good  gifts  of  nature. 

Mar.  He  hath,  indeed, — almost  natural :  for, 
besides  that  he 's  a  fool,  he's  a  great  quarreller  ; 
and,  but  that  he  hath  the  gift  of  a  coward  to 
allay  the  gust  he  hath  in  quarrelling,  'tis 
thought  among  the  prudent  he  would  quickly 
have  the  gift  of  a  grave. 

Sir  To.  By  this  hand,  they  are  scoundrels  and 
substractors  that  say  so  of  him.  Who  are  they  ? 

Mar.  They  that  add,  moreover,  he 's  drunk 
nightly  in  your  company. 

Sir  To.  With  drinking  healths  to  my  niece  ; 
I  '11  drink  to  her  as  long  as  there  is  a  passage  in 
my  throat  and  drink  in  Illyria.  He 's  a  coward 
and  a  coystril  that  will  not  drink  to  my  niece 
till  his  brains  turn  o'  the  toe  like  a  parish-top. 
What,  wench  ?  Castiliano-vulgo !  for  here 
comes  Sir  Andrew  Ague-face. 

Enter  Sir  ANDREW  AGUE-CHEEK. 
Sir  And.  Sir  Toby  Belch  !  how  now,  Sir 
Toby  Belch  ? 

Sir  To.  Sweet  Sir  Andrew  ? 

Sir  And.  Bless  you,  fair  shrew. 

Mar.  And  you  too,  sir. 

Sir  To.  Accost,  Sir  Andrew,  accost 


SCENE  in.]         TWELFTH  NIGHT;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


81 


Sir  And.  What 's  that  ? 

Sir  To.  My  niece's  chamber-maid. 

Sir  And.  Good  Mistress  Accost,  I  desire 
better  acquaintance. 

Mar.  My  name  is  Mary,  sir. 

Sir  And.  Good  Mistress  Mary  Accost, — 

Sir  To.  You  mistake,  knight :  accost  is, 
front  her,  board  her,  woo  her,  assail  her. 

Sir  And.  By  my  troth,  I  would  not  under- 
take her  in  this  company.  Is  that  the  meaning 
of  accost  ? 

Mar.  Fare  you  well,  gentlemen. 

Sir  To.  An  thou  let  part  so,  Sir  Andrew, 
would  thou  mightst  never  draw  sword  again. 

Sir  And.  An  you  part  so,  mistress,  I  would 
I  might  never  draw  sword  again.  Fair  lady, 
do  you  think  you  have  fools  in  hand  ? 

Mar.  Sir,  I  have  not  you  by  the  hand. 

Sir  And.  Marry,  but  you  shall  have ;  and 
here 's  my  hand. 

Mar.  Now,  sir,  thought  is  free.  I  pray  you, 
bring  your  hand  to  the  buttery-bar  and  let  it 
drink. 

Sir  And.  Wherefore,  sweetheart?  what's 
your  metaphor  ? 

Mar.  It's  dry,  sir. 

Sir  And.  Why,  I  think  so ;  I  am  not  such 
an  ass  but  I  can  keep  my  hand  dry.  But 
what 's  your  jest  ? 

Mar.  A  dry  jest,  sir. 

Sir  And.  Are  you  full  of  them  ? 

Mar.  Ay,  sir ;  I  have  them  at  my  fingers' 
ends :  marry,  now  I  let  go  your  hand  I  am  barren. 

[Exit  MARIA. 

Sir  To.  O  knight,  thou  lack'st  a  cup  of 
canary :  When  did  I  see  thee  so  put  down  ? 

Sir  And.  Never  in  your  life,  I  think  ;  unless 
you  see  canary  put  me  down.  Methinks  some- 
times I  have  no  more  wit  than  a  Christian  or  an 
ordinary  man  has  ;  but  I  am  a  great  eater  of 
beef,  and,  I  believe,  that  does  harm  to  my  wit. 

Sir  To.  No  question. 

Sir  And.  An  I  thought  that,  I  'd  forswear  it. 
I  '11  ride  home  to-morrow,  Sir  Toby. 

Sir  To.  Pourquoy,  my  dear  knight  ? 

Sir  And.  What  is  pourquoy  ?  do  or  not  do  ? 
I  would  I  had  bestowed  that  time  in  the  tongues 
that  I  have  in  fencing,  dancing,  and  bear-bait- 
ing. O,  had  I  but  followed  the  arts  ! 

Sir  To.  Then  hadst  thou  had  an  excellent 
head  of  hair. 

Sir  And.  Why,  would  that  have  mended  my 
hair? 

Sir  To.  Past  question  ;  for  thou  seest  it  will 
not  curl  by  nature. 

Sir  And.  But  it  becomes  me  well  enough, 
does't  not? 


Sir  To.  Excellent ;  it  hangs  like  ilax  on  a 
distaff ;  and  I  hope  to  see  a  housewife  take  thee 
between  her  legs  and  spin  it  off. 

Sir  And.  Faith,  I  '11  home  to-morrow,  Sir 
Toby ;  your  niece  will  not  be  seen  ;  or,  if  she 
be,  it 's  four  to  one  she  '11  none  of  me ;  the  count 
himself  here  hard  by  woos  her. 

Sir  To.  She  '11  none  o'  the  count ;  she  '11  not 
match  above  her  degree,  neither  in  estate,  years, 
nor  wit ;  I  have  heard  her  swear  it.  Tut,  there's 
life  in  't,  man. 

Sir  And.  I'll  stay  a  month  longer.  I  am 
a  fellow  o'  the  strangest  mind  i'  the  world ;  I 
delight  in  masques  and  revels  sometimes  alto- 
gether. 

Sir  To.  Art  thou  good  at  these  kick-shaws, 
knight  ? 

Sir  And.  As  any  man  in  Illyria,  whatsoever  he 
be,  under  the  degree  of  my  betters  ;  and  yet  I 
will  not  compare  with  an  old  man. 

Sir  To.  What  is  thy  excellence  in  a  galliard, 
knight  ? 

Sir  And.  Faith,  I  can  cut  a  caper. 

Sir  To.  And  I  can  cut  the  mutton  to  't. 

Sir  And.  And,  I  think,  I  have  the  back-trick 
simply  as  strong  as  any  man  in  Illyria. 

Sir  To.  Wherefore  are  these  things  hid  ? 
wherefore  have  these  gifts  a  curtain  before  them? 
are  they  like  to  take  dust,  like  Mistress  Mall's 
picture  ?  why  dost  thou  not  go  to  church  in  a 
galliard  and  come  home  in  a  coranto  ?  My  very 
walk  should  be  a  jig  ;  I  would  not  so  much  as 
make  water  but  in  a  sink-a-pace.  What  dost 
thou  mean  ?  is  it  a  world  to  hide  virtues  in  ?  I 
did  think,  by  the  excellent  constitution  of  thy 
leg,  it  was  formed  under  the  star  of  a  galliard. 

Sir  And.  Ay,  'tis  strong,  and  it  does  indiffer- 
ent well  in  a  flame-coloured  stock.  Shall  we 
set  about  some  revels? 

Sir  To.  What  shall  we  do  else  ?  were  we  not 
born  under  Taurus  ? 

Sir  And.  Taurus  ?  that 's  sides  and  heart. 

Sir  To.  No,  sir ;  it  is  legs  and  thighs.  Let 
me  see  thee  caper  :  ha  !  higher  :  ha,  ha  ! — ex- 
cellent !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — A  Room  in  the  DUKE'S  Palace. 
Enter  VALENTINE,  and  VIOLA  in  man's  attire. 

VaL  If  the  duke  continue  these  favours  to- 
wards you,  Cesario,  you  are  like  to  be  much  ad- 
vanced ;  he  hath  known  you  but  three  days,  and 
already  you  are  no  stranger. 

Via.  You  either  fear  his  humour  or  my  negli- 
gence, that  you  call  in  question  the  continuance 
of  his  love.  Is  he  inconstant,  sir,  in  his  favours  ? 

Val.  No,  believe  me. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT ;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


[ACT  i. 


Enter  DUKE,  CURIO,  and  Attendants. 

Vio.  I  thank  you.     Here  comes  the  count. 

Duke.  Who  saw  Cesario,  ho  ? 

Vio.  On  your  attendance,  my  lord  ;  here. 

Duke.  Stand  you  awhile  aloof. — Cesario, 
Thou  know'st  no  less  but  all ;  I  have  unclasp'd 
To  thee  the  book  even  of  my  secret  soul : 
Therefore,  good  youth,  address  thy  gait  unto  her ; 
Be  not  denied  access,  stand  at  her  doors, 
And  tell  them  there  thy  fixed  foot  shall  grow 
Till  thou  have  audience. 

Vio.  Sure,  my  noble  lord, 

If  she  be  so  abandon'd  to  her  sorrow 
As  it  is  spoke,  she  never  will  admit  me. 

Duke.  Be  clamorous,  and  leap  all  civil  bounds, 
Rather  than  make  unprofited  return. 

Vio.  Say  I   do  speak  with  her,   my  lord. 
What  then? 

Duke.  O,  then  unfold  the  passion  of  my  love, 
Surprise  her  with  discourse  of  my  dear  faith  : 
It  shall  become  thee  well  to  act  my  woes  ; 
She  will  attend  it  better  in  thy  youth 
Than  in  a  nuncio  of  more  grave  aspect. 

Vio.  I  think  not  so,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Dear  lad,  believe  it, 

For  they  shall  yet  belie  thy  happy  years 
That  say  thou  art  a  man  :  Diana's  lip 
Is  not  more  smooth  and  rubious ;  thy  small  pipe 
Is  as  the  maiden's  organ,  shrill  and  sound, 
And  all  is  semblative  a  woman's  part. 
I  know  thy  constellation  is  right  apt 
For  this  affair : — Some  four  or  five  attend  him  : 
All,  if  you  will ;  for  I  myself  am  best 
When  least  in  company  : — Prosper  well  in  this 
And  thou  shalt  live  as  freely  as  thy  lord, 
To  call  his  fortunes  thine. 

Vio.  I  '11  do  my  best 

To  woo  your  lady  :  yet,  \aside\  a  barful  strife  ! 
Whoe'er  I  woo,  myself  would  be  his  wife. 

SCENE  V. — A  Room  in  OLIVIA'S  House. 
Enter  MARIA  and  CLOWN. 

Mar.  Nay  ;  either  tell  me  where  thou  hast 
been,  or  I  will  not  open  my  lips  so  wide  as  a 
bristle  may  enter  in -way  of  thy  excuse  :  my  lady 
will  hang  thee  for  thy  absence. 

Clo.  Let  her  hang  me  :  he  that  is  well  hanged 
in  this  world  needs  to  fear  no  colours. 

Mar.  Make  that  good. 

Clo.  He  shall  see  none  to  fear. 

Mar.  A  good  lenten  answer :  I  can  tell  thee 
where  that  saying  was  born,  of,  I  fear  no  colours. 

Clo.  Where,  good  Mistress  Mary  ? 

Mar.  In  the  wars  ;  and  that  may  you  be  bold 
to  say  in  your  foolery. 

Clo,  Well,  God  give  them  wisdom  that  have 


it ;  and  those  that  are  fools,  let  them  use  their 
talents. 

Mar.  Yet  you  will  be  hanged  for  being  so 
long  absent :  or,  to  be  turned  away ;  is  not 
that  as  good  as  a  hanging  to  you  ? 

Clo.  Many  a  good  hanging  prevents  a  bad 
marriage ;  and  for  turning  away,  let  summer 
bear  it  out. 

Mar.  You  are  resolute,  then  ? 

Clo.  Not  so  neither :  but  I  am  resolved  on 
two  points. 

Mar.  That,  if  one  break,  the  other  will  hold ; 
or,  if  both  break,  your  gaskins  fall. 

Clo.  Apt,  in  good  faith ;  very  apt !  Well, 
go  thy  way ;  if  Sir  Toby  would  leave  drinking, 
thou  wert  as  witty  a  piece  of  Eve's  flesh  as  any 
in  Illyria. 

Mar.  Peace,  you  rogue ;  no  more  o'  that ; 
here  comes  my  lady  :  make  your  excuse  wisely ; 
you  were  best.  [Exit. 

Enter  OLIVIA  and  MALVOLIO. 

Clo.  Wit,  and  't  be  thy  will,  put  me  into  good 
fooling  !  Those  wits  that  think  they  have  thee, 
do  very  oft  prove  fools ;  and  I,  that  am  sure  I 
lack  thee,  may  pass  for  a  wise  man.  For  what 
says  Quinapalus?  Better  a  witty  fool  than  a 
foolish  wit. --God  bless  thee,  lady  ! 

OK.  Take  the  fool  away.  [the  lady 

Clo.  Do  you  not  hear,  fellows?     Take  awa^. 

OK.  Go  to,  you  're  a  dry  fool ;  I  '11  no  more 
of  you  :  besides,  you  grow  dishonest. 

Clo.  Two  faults,  madonna,  that  drink  and 
good  counsel  will  amend  :  for  give  the  dry  fool 
drink,  then  is  the  fool  not  dry  ;  bid  the  dis- 
honest man  mend  himself :  if  he  mend,  he  is  no 
longer  dishonest ;  if  he  cannot,  let  the  botcher 
mend  him.  Anything  that's  mended  is  but 
patched ;  virtue  that  transgresses  is  but  patched 
with  sin ;  and  sin  that  amends  is  but  patched 
with  virtue.  If  that  this  simple  syllogism  will 
serve,  so ;  if  it  will  not,  what  remedy  ?  As 
there  is  no  true  cuckold  but  calamity,  so  beauty's 
a  flower  : — the  lady  bade  take  away  the  fool ; 
therefore,  I  say  again,  take  her  away. 

Oli.  Sir,  I  bade  them  take  away  you. 

Clo.  Misprision  in  the  highest  degree ! — Lady, 
Cucullus  non  facit  monachum  ;  that 's  as  much 
as  to  say,  I  wear  not  motley  in  my  brain.  Good 
madonna,  give  me  leave  to  prove  you  a  fool. 

Oli.   Can  you  do  it  ? 

Clo.  Dexterously,  good  madonna. 

Oli.  Make  your  proof. 

Clo.  I  must  catechise  you  for  it,  madonna. 
Good  my  mouse  of  virtue,  answer  me. 

OK.  Well,  sir,  for  want  of  other  idleness, 
I  '11  'bide  your  proof. 


SCENE  V.] 


TWELFTH  NIGHT;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


do.  Good  madonna,  why  mourn'st  thou  ? 

Oli.  Good  fool,  for  my  brother's  death. 

Clo.  I  think  his  soul  is  in  hell,  madonna. 

OK.   I  know  his  soul  is  in  heaven,  fool. 

Clo.  The  more  fool  you,  madonna,  to  mourn 
for  your  brother's  soul  being  in  heaven. — Take 
away  the  fool,  gentlemen. 

OH.  What  think  you  of  this  fool,  Malvolio  ? 
doth  he  not  mend  ? 

Mai.  Yes;  and  shall  do,  till  the  pangs  of 
death  shake  him.  Infirmity,  that  decays  the 
wise,  doth  ever  make  the  better  fool. 

Clo.  God  send  you,  sir,  a  speedy  infirmity, 
for  the  better  increasing  your  folly  !  Sir  Toby 
will  be  sworn  that  I  am  no  fox  ;  but  he  will  not 
pass  his  word  for  twopence  that  you  are  no 
fool. 

OH.  How  say  you  to  that,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  I  marvel  your  ladyship  takes  delight  in 
such  a  barren  rascal  ;  I  saw  him  put  down  the 
other  day  with  an  ordinary  fool  that  has  no  more 
brain  than  a  stone.  Look  you  now,  he 's  out 
of  his  guard  already  ;  unless  you  laugh  and 
minister  occasion  to  him,  he  is  gagged.  I  pro- 
test, I  take  these  wise  men,  that  crow  so  at  these 
set  kind  of  fools,  no  better  than  the  fools' 
zanies. 

Oli.  O,  you  are  sick  of  self-love,  Malvolio, 
and  taste  with  a  distempered  appetite.  To  be 
generous,  guiltless,  and  of  free  disposition,  is  to 
take  those  things  for  bird-bolts  that  you  deem 
cannon-bullets.  There  is  no  slander  in  an 
allowed  fool,  though  he  do  nothing  but  rail ; 
nor  nc  railing  in  a  known  discreet  man,  though 
he  do  nothing  but  reprove. 

Clo.  Now  Mercury  endue  thee  with  leasing, 
for  thou  speakest  well  of  fools  ! 

Re-enter  MARIA. 

Mar.  Madam,  there  is  at  the  gate  a  young 
gentleman  much  desires  to  speak  with  you. 

Oli.  From  the  Count  Orsino,  is  it  ? 

Mar.  I  know  not,  madam  ;  'tis  a  fair  young 
man,  and  well  attended. 

Oli.  Who  of  my  people  hold  him  in  delay  ? 

Mar.  Sir  Toby,  madam,  your  kinsman. 

OK.  Fetch  him  off,  I  pray  you  ;  he  speaks 
nothing  but  madman.  Fie  on  him!  [Exit 
MARIA.]  Go  you,  Malvolio  ;  if  it  be  a  suit 
from  the  count,  I  am  sick,  or  not  at  home ;  what 
you  will  to  dismiss  it.  {Exit  MALVOLIO.] 
Now  you  see,  sir,  how  your  fooling  grows  old, 
and  people  dislike  it. 

Clo.  Thou  hast  spoke  for  us,  madonna,  as  if 
thy  eldest  son  should  be  a  fool :  whose  skull 
Jove  cram  with  brains,  for  here  he  comes,  one 
of  thy  kin,  has  a  most  weak/m  mater. 


Enter  Sir  TOBY  BELCH. 

Oli.  By  mine  honour,  half  drunk. — What  is 
he  at  the  gate,  cousin  ? 

Sir  To.  A  gentleman. 

Oli.  A  gentleman  ?    What  gentleman  ? 

Sir  To.  'Tis  a  gentleman  here — A  plague  o' 
these  pickle-herrings  ! — How  now,  sot  ? 

Clo.  .Good  Sir  Toby,  - 

Oli.  Cousin,  cousin,  how  have  you  come  so 
early  by  this  lethargy  ? 

Sir  To.  Lechery  !  I  defy  lechery.  There 's 
one  at  the  gate. 

Oli.  Ay,  marry ;  what  is  he  ? 

Sir  To.  Let  him  be  the  devil  an  he  will,  I 
care  not :  give  me  faith,  say  I.  Well,  it 's  all 
one.  [Exit. 

OK.  What 's  a  drunken  man  like,  fool  ? 

Clo.  Like  a  drowned  man,  a  fool,  and  a  mad- 
man :  one  draught  above  heat  makes  him  a  fool ; 
the  second  mads  him ;  and  a  third  drowns  him. 

OK.  Go  thou  and  seek  the  coroner,  and  let 
him  sit  o'  my  coz ;  for  he  is  in  the  third  degree 
of  drink  ;  he 's  drowned  :  go,  look  after  him. 

Clo.  He  is  but  mad  yet,  madonna ;  and  the 
fool  shall  look  to  the  madman.  [Exit  CLOWN. 

Re-enter  MALVOLIO. 

Mai.  Madam,  yond  young  fellow  swears  he 
will  speak  with  you.  I  told  him  you  were  sick ; 
he  takes  on  him  to  understand  so  much,  and 
therefore  comes  to  speak  with  you  ;  I  told  him 
you  were  asleep;  he  seems  to  have  a  fore- 
knowledge of  that  too,  and  therefore  comes  to 
speak  with  you.  What  is  to  be  said  to  him, 
lady  ?  he 's  fortified  against  any  denial. 

OK.  Tell  him,  he  shall  not  speak  with  me. 

Mai.  He  has  been  told  so ;  and  he  says  he  '11 
stand  at  your  door  like  a  sheriff's  post,  and  be 
the  supporter  of  a  bench,  but  he  '11  speak  with 
you. 

OK.  What  kind  of  man  is  he  ? 

Mai.  Why,  of  mankind. 

OK.  What  manner  of  man  ? 

Mai.  Of  very  ill  manner ;  he  '11  speak  with 
you,  will  you  or  no. 

Ofa  .  Of  what  personage  and  years  is  he  ? 

Mai.  Not  yet  old  enough  for  a  man,  nor 
young  enough  for  a  boy  ;  as  a  squash  is  before 
'tis  a  peascod,  or  a  codling,  when  'tis  almost  an 
apple :  'tis  with  him  e'en  standing  water,  be- 
tween boy  and  man.  He  is  very  well-favoured, 
and  he  speaks  very  shrewishly ;  one  would 
think  his  mother's  milk  were  scarce  out  of  him. 

Oli.  Let  him  approach.  Call  in  my  gentle- 
woman. 

Mai.  Gentlewoman,  my  lady  calls.      [Exit. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT ;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


[ACT  1. 


Re-enter  MARIA. 
OK,  Give  me  my  veil :  come,  throw  it  o'er 

my  face ; 
We  '11  once  more  hear  Orsino's  embassy. 

Enter  VIOLA. 

Vio.  The  honourable  lady  of  the  house, 
which  is  she  ? 

OK.  Speak  to  me,  I  shall  answer  for  her. 
Your  will  ? 

Vio.  Most  radiant,  exquisite,  and  unmatchable 
beauty, — I  pray  you,  tell  me  if  this  be  the  lady  of 
the  house,  for  I  never  saw  her  :  I  would  be  loath 
to  cast  away  my  speech  ;  for,  besides  that  it  is 
excellently  well  penned.  I  have  taken  great 
pains  to  con  it.  Good  beauties,  let  me  sustain 
no  scorn;  I  am  very  comptible,  even  to  the 
least  sinister  usage. 

OIL  Whence  came  you,  sir  ? 

Vio.  I  can  say  little  more  than  I  have  studied, 
and  that  question 's  out  of  my  part.  Good  gentle 
one,  give  me  modest  assurance,  if  you  be  the  lady 
of  the  house,  that  I  may  proceed  in  my  speech. 

OH.  Are  you  a  comedian  ? 

Vio.  No,  my  profound  heart :  and  yet,  by 
the  very  fangs  of  malice,  I  swear  I  am  not  that 
I  play.  Are  you  the  lady  of  the  house  ? 

OIL  If  I  do  not  usurp  myself,  I  am. 

Vio.  Most  certain,  if  you  are  she,  you  do 
usurp  yourself;  for  what  is  yours  to  bestow  is  not 
yours  to  reserve.  But  this  is  from  my  commis- 
sion :  I  will  on  with  my  speech  in  your  praise, 
and  then  show  you  the  heart  of  my  message. 

OIL  Come  to  what  is  important  in 't :  I  for- 
give you  the  praise. 

Vio.  Alas,  I  took  great  pains  to  study  it, 
and  'tis  poetical. 

OIL  It  is  the  more  like  to  be  feigned  ;  I  pray 
you  keep  it  in.  I  heard  you  were  saucy  at  my 
gates ;  and  allowed  your  approach,  rather  to 
wonder  at  you  than  to  hear  you.  If  you  be  not 
mad,  be  gone  ;  if  you  have  reason,  be  brief: 
'tis  not  that  time  of  moon  with  me  to  make 
one  in  so  skipping  a  dialogue.  [way. 

Mar.  Will  you  hoist  sail,  sir  ?  here  lies  your 

Vio.  No,  good  swabber  ;  I  am  to  hull  here 
a  little  longer. — Some  mollification  for  your 
giant,  sweet  lady. 

OIL  Tell  me  your  mind. 

Vio,  I  am  a  messenger. 

OIL  Sure,  you  have  some  hideous  matter  to 
deliver,  when  the  courtesy  of  it  is  so  fearful. 
Speak  your  office. 

Vio.  It  alone  concerns  your  ear.  I  bring  no 
overture  of  war,  no  taxation  of  homage  ;  I  hold 
the  olive  in  my  hand  :  my  words  are  as  full  of 
peace  as  matter. 


Oli.  Yet  you  began  rudely.  What  are  you  ? 
what  would  you  ? 

Vio.  The  rudeness  that  hath  appeared  in  me 
have  I  learned  from  my  entertainment.  What 
I  am  and  what  I  would  are  as  sacred  as  maiden- 
heads': to  your  ears,  divinity ;  to  any  other's, 
profanation. 

OIL  Give  us  the  place  alone  :  we  will  hear 
this  divinity.  [Exit  MARIA.]  Now,  sir,  what 
is  your  text  ? 

Vio.  Most  sweet  lady, 

OK.  A  comfortable  doctrine,  and  much  may 
be  said  of  it.  Where  lies  your  text  ? 

Vio.  In  Orsino's  bosom. 

Oli.  In  his  bosom  ?  In  what  chapter  of  his 
bosom  ? 

Vio.  To  answer  by  the  method,  in  the  first 
of  his  heart. 

OK.  O,  I  have  read  it ;  it  is  heresy.  Have 
you  no  more  to  say  ? 

Vio.  Good  madam,  let  me  see  your  face. 

Oli.  Have  you  any  commission  from  your  lord 
to  negotiate  with  my  face?  you  are  now  out  of 
your  text :  but  we  will  draw  the  curtain  and  show 
you  the  picture.  Look  you,  sir,  such  a  one  as  I 
was  this  present.  Is 't  not  well  done  ? 

[  Unveiling. 

Vio.  Excellently  done,  if  God  did  all. 

OK.  'Tis  in  grain,  sir;  'twill  endure  wind 
and  weather.  [white 

Vio.  'Tis  beauty  truly  blent,  whose  red  and 
Nature's  own  sweet  and  cunning  hand  laid  on : 
Lady,  you  are  the  cruel'st  she  alive, 
If  you  will  lead  these  graces  to  the  grave, 
And  leave  the  world  no  copy. 

OK.  O,  sir,  I  will  not  be  so  hard-hearted ;  I 
will  give  out  divers  schedules  of  my  beauty.  It 
shall  be  inventoried;  and  every  particle  and  uten- 
sil labelled  to  my  will :  as,  item,  two  lips  indif- 
ferent red;  item,  two  gray  eyes  with  lids  to 
them  ;  item,  one  neck,  one  chin,  and  so  forth. 
Were  you  sent  hither  to  praise  me  ?  [proud  ; 

Vio.  I  see  you  what  you  are  :  you  are  too 
But  if  you  were  the  devil,  you  are  fair. 
My  lord  and  master  loves  you.      O,  such  love 
Could  be  but  recompens'd  though  you  were 

crown'd 
The  nonpareil  of  beauty  ! 

OK.  How  does  he  love  me  ? 

Vio.  With  adorations,  with  fertile  tears, 
With  groans  that  thunder  love,  with  sighs  of  fire. 

OK.  Your  lord  does  know  my  mind,  I  can- 
not love  him  : 

Yet  I  suppose  him  virtuous,  know  him  noble, 
Of  great  estate,  of  fresh  and  stainless  youth  ; 
In  voices  well  divulged,  free,  learn'd  and  valiant, 
And,  in  dimension  and  the  shape  of  nature. 


SCENE  V.] 


TWELFTH  NIGHT ;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


A  gracious  person  :  but  yet  I  cannot  love  him; 
He  might  have  took  his  answer  long  ago. 

Vio.  If  I  did  love  you  in  my  master's  flame, 
With  such  a  suffering,  such  a  deadly  life, 
In  your  denial  I  would  find  no  sense, 
I  would  not  understand  it. 

OH.  Why,  what  would  you  ? 

Vio.  Make  me  a  willow  cabin  at  your  gate, 
And  call  upon  my  soul  within  the  house  ; 
Write  loyal  cantons  of  contemned  love, 
And  sing  them  loud,  even  in  the  dead  of  night; 
Holla  your  name  to  the  reverberate  hills, 
And  make  the  babbling  gossip  of  the  air 
Cry  out  Olivia  !     O,  you  should  not  rest 
Between  the  elements  of  air  and  earth, 
But  you  should  pity  me.  [parentage  ? 

OIL  You   might  do   much.     What   is  your 

Vio.  Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well: 
I  am  a  gentleman. 

OH.  Get  you  to  your  lord  ; 

I  cannot  love  him  :  let  him  send  no  more  ; 
Unless,  perchance,  you  come  to  me  again, 
To  tell  me  how  he  takes  it.     Fare  you  well  : 
I  thank  you  for  your  pains  :  spend  this  for  me. 

Vio.  I  am  no  fee'd  post,  lady;  keep  your  purse; 
My  master,  not  myself,  lacks  recompense. 
Love  make  his  heart  of  flint  that  you  shall  love; 
And  let  your  fervour,  like  my  master's,  be 
Placed  in  contempt !     Farewell,  fair  cruelty. 

[Exit. 

OH.  What  is  your  parentage  ? 
Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well : 

I  am  a  gentleman. 1  '11  be  sworn  thou  art; 

Thy  tongue,  thy  face,  thy  limbs,  actions,  and 
spirit,  [soft  !  soft  ! 

Do  give  thee  fivefold  blazon.     Not  too  fast  :— 
Unless  the  master  were  the  man. — How  now  ? 
Even  so  quickly  may  one  catch  the  plague  ? 
Methinks  I  feel  this  youth's  perfections 
With  an  invisible  and  subtle  stealth 
To  creep  in  at  mine  eyes.     Well,  let  it  be. — 
What,  ho,  Malvolio  !— 


Re-enter  MALVOLIO. 


Mai. 


Here,  madam,  at  your  service. 

OH.  Run  after  that  same  peevish  messenger, 
The  county's  man  :  he  left  this  ring  behind  him, 
Would  I,  or  not ;  tell  him  I  '11  none  of  it. 
Desire  him  not  to  flatter  with  his  lord, 
Nor  hold  him  up  with  hopes  ;  I  am  not  for  him: 
If  that  the  youth  will  come  this  way  to-morrow, 
I  '11  give  him  reasons  for 't.    Hie  thec,  Malvolio. 

Mai.  Madam,  I  will.  [Exit. 

OH.  I  do  I  know  not  what :  and  fear  to  find 
Mine  eye  too  great  a  flatterer  for  my  mind. 
Fate,  show  thy  force.    Ourselves  we  do  not  owe: 
What  is  decreed  must  be ;  and  be  this  so!  f Exit. 


ACT    II. 

SCENE  I.—T/ie  Sea-coast. 

Enter  ANTONIO  and  SEBASTIAN. 

Ant.  Will  you  stay  no  longer  ?  nor  will  you 
not  that  I  go  with  you  ? 

Seb.  By  your  patience,  no  :  my  stars  shine 
darkly  over  me  ;  the  malignancy  of  my  fate 
might,  perhaps,  distemper  yours  ;  therefore  I 
shall  crave  of  you  your  leave  that  I  may  bear  my 
evils  alone.  It  were  a  bad  recompense  for  your 
love,  to  lay  any  of  them  on  you. 

Ant.  Let  me  yet  know  of  you  whither  you 
are  bound. 

Seb.  No,  'sooth,  sir;  my  determinate  voyage 
is  mere  extravagancy.  But  I  perceive  in  you  so 
excellent  a  touch  of  modesty,  that  you  will  not 
extort  from  me  what  I  am  willing  to  keep  in ; 
therefore  it  charges  me  in  manners  the  rather  to 
express  myself.  You  must  know  of  me  then, 
Antonio,  my  name  is  Sebastian,  which  I  called 
Rodorigo ;  my  father  was  that  Sebastian  of 
Messaline  whom  I  know  you  have  heard  of:  he 
left  behind  him  myself  and  a  sister,  both  bom 
in  an  hour.  If  the  heavens  had  been  pleased, 
would  we  had  so  ended !  but  you,  sir,  altered 
that ;  for  some  hours  before  you  took  me  from 
the  breach  of  the  sea  was  my  sister  drowned. 

Ant.  Alas  the  day  ! 

Seb.  A  lady,  sir,  though  it  was  said  she  much 
resembledme,  wasyet  of  many  accounted  beauti- 
ful :  but  though  I  could  not,  with  such  estimable 
wonder,  overfar  believe  that,  yet  thus  far  I  will 
boldly  publish  her, — she  bore  a  mind  that  envy 
could  not  but  call  fair.  She  is  drowned  already, 
sir,  with  salt  water,  though  I  seem  to  drown 
her  remembrance  again  with  more. 

Ant.  Pardon  me,  sir,  your  bad  entertainment. 

Seb.  O,  good  Antonio,  forgive  me  your  trouble. 

Ant.  If  you  will  not  murder  me  for  my  love, 
let  me  be  your  servant. 

Seb.  If  you  will  not  undo  what  you  have  done 
— that  is,  kill  him  whom  you  have  recovered — 
desire  it  not.  Fare  ye  well  at  once;  my  bosom  is 
full  of  kindness ;  and  I  am  yet  so  near  the  man- 
ners of  my  mother  that,  upon  the  least  occasion 
more,  mine  eyes  will  tell  tales  of  me.  I  am  bound 
to  the  Count  Orsino's  court :  farewell.  [Exit. 

Ant.  The  gentleness  of  all  the  gods  go  with 

thee  ! 

I  have  many  enemies  in  Orsino's  court, 
Else  would  I  very  shortly  see  thee  there  : 
But  come  what  may,  I  do  adore  thee  so 
That  danger  shall  seem  sport,  and  I  will  go. 

[Exit. 


86 


TWELFTH  NIGHT ;    OK,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


[ACT  ii. 


SCENE  II.— A  Street. 
Enter  VIOLA  ;  MALVOLIO  following. 
Mai.  Were  not  you  even  now  with  the  Coun- 
tess Olivia  ? 

Vio.  Even  now,  sir  ;  on  a  moderate  pace  I 
have  since  arrived  but  hither. 

Mai  She  returns  this  ring  to  you,  sir  ;  you 
might  have  saved  me  my  pains,  to  have  taken 
it  away  yourself.  She  adds  moreover,  that  you 
should  put  your  lord  into  a  desperate  assurance 
she  will  none  of  him  :  and  one  thing  more;  that 
you  be  never  so  hardy  to  come  again  in  his 
affairs,  unless  it  be  to  report  your  lord's  taking 
of  this.  Receive  it  so. 

Vio.  She  took  the  ring  of  me :  I  '11  none  of  it. 

Mai,  Come,  sir,  you  peevishly  threw  it  to  her ; 

and  her  will  is,  it  should  be  so  returned.    If  it  be 

worth  stooping  for,  there  it  lies  in  your  eye  ;  if 

not,  be  it  his  that  finds  it  [Exit. 

Vio.  I  left  no  ring  with  her.     What  means 

this  lady  ? 

Fortune  forbid  my  outside  have  not  charm'd  her! 
She  made  good  view  of  me  ;  indeed,  so  much, 
That,  sure,  methought  her  eyes  had  lost  her 

tongue, 

For  she  did  speak  in  starts  distractedly. 
She  loves  me,  sure ;  the  cunning  of  her  passion 
Invites  me  in  this  churlish  messenger. 
None  of  my  lord's  ring!  why,  he  sent  her  none. 
I  am  the  man  ; — if  it  be  so, — as  'tis, — 
Poor  lady,  she  were  better  love  a  dream. 
Disguise,  I  see,  thou  art  a  wickedness 
Wherein  the  pregnant  enemy  does  much. 
How  easy  is  it  for  the  proper-false 
In  women's  waxen  hearts  to  set  their  forms  ! 
Alas,  our  frailty  is  the  cause,  not  we ; 
For,  such  as  we  are  made  of,  such  we  be. 
How  will  this  fadge?    My  master  loves  her 

dearly, 

And  I,  poor  monster,  fond  as  much  on  him  ; 
And  she,  mistaken,  seems  to  dote  on  me. 
What  will  become  of  this  ?    As  I  am  man, 
My  state  is  desperate  for  my  master's  love  ; 
As  I  am  woman,  now  alas  the  day  ! 
What  thriftless  sighs  shall  poor  Olivia  breathe? 
O  time,  thou  must  untangle  this,  not  I ; 
It  is  too  hard  a  knot  for  me  to  untie.        [Exit. 

SCENE  III. — A  Room  in  OLIVIA'S  House. 

Enter  Sir  TOBY  BELCH  and  Sir  ANDREW 
AGUE-CHEEK. 

Sir  To.  Approach,  Sir  Andrew:  not  to  be 
a-bed  after  midnight  is  to  be  up  betimes  ;  and 
dilttculo  surgert)  thou  know'st. 


Sir  And.  Nay ;  by  my  troth,  I  know  not : 
but  I  know  to  be  up  late  is  to  be  up  late. 

Sir  To.  A  false  conclusion ;  I  hate  it  as  an 
unfilled  can.  To  be  up  after  midnight,  and  to 
go  to  bed  then  is  early :  so  that  to  go  to  bed 
after  midnight  is  to  go  to  bed  betimes.  Do 
not  our  lives  consist  of  the  four  elements? 

Sir  And.  Faith,  so  they  say  ;  but  I  think  it 
rather  consists  of  eating  and  drinking. 

Sir  To.  Thou  art  a  scholar ;  let  us  therefore  eat 
and  drink. — Marian,  I  say ! a  stoop  of  wine. 

Enter  CLOWN. 

Sir  And.  Here  comes  the  fool,  i'  faith. 

Clo.  How  now,  my  hearts  ?  Did  you  never 
see  the  picture  of  we  three  ?  [catch. 

Sir  To.  Welcome,  ass.      Now  let 's  have  a 

Sir  And.  By  my  troth,  the  fool  has  an  ex- 
cellent breast.  I  had  rather  than  forty  .shillings 
I  had  such  a  leg  ;  and  so  sweet  a  breath  to  sing 
as  the  fool  has.  In  sooth,  thou  wast  in  very 
gracious  fooling  last  night  when  thou  spokest  of 
Pigrogromitus,  of  the  Vapians  passing  the  equi- 
noctial of  Queubus  ;  'twas  very  good,  i'  faith. 
I  sent  thee  sixpence  for  thy  leman.  Hadst  it  ? 

Clo.  I  did  impeticos  thy  gratillity  ;  for  Mal- 
volio's  nose  is  no  whipstock.  My  lady  has  a 
white  hand,  and  the  Myrmidons  are  no  bottle- 
ale  houses. 

Sir  And.  Excellent !  Why,  this  is  the  best 
fooling,  when  all  is  done.  Now,  a  song. 

Sir  To.  Come  on  ;  there  is  sixpence  for  you  : 
let 's  have  a  song. 

Sir  And.  There 's  a  testril  of  me  too :  if  one 
knight  give  a 

Clo.  Would  you  have  a  love-song,  or  a  song 
of  good  life  ? 

Sir  To.  A  love-song,  a  love-song. 

Sir  And.  Ay,  ay  ;  I  care  not  for  good  life. 

SONG. 

Clo.        O,  mistress  mine,  where  are" you  roaming  ? 
O  stay  and  hear ;  your  true  love 's  coining, 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low  : 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting  ; 
Journeys  end  in  lovers'  meeting, 
Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

Sir  And.  Excellent  good,  i'  faith. 
Sir  To.  Good,  good. 

Clo.  What  is  love?  'tis  not  hereafter  ; 

Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter  ; 

What's  to  come  is  still  unsure  : 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty  ; 
Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet  and  twenty, 

Youth 's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 

Sir  And.  A  mellifluous  voice,  as  I  am  true 
knight. 
Sir  To.  A  contagious  breath. 


SCENE  III.] 


TWELFTH  NIGHT ;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


Sir  And.  Very  sweet  and  contagious,  i'  faith. 

Sir  To.  To  hear  by  the  nose,  it  is  dulcet  in 
contagion.  But  shall  we  make  the  welkin  dance 
indeed  ?  Shall  we  rouse  the  night-owl  in  a  catch 
that  will  draw  three  souls  out  of  one  weaver  ? 
shall  we  do  that  ? 

Sir  And.  An  you  love  me,  let 's  do 't :  I  am 
dog  at  a  catch. 

Clo.  By'r  lady,  sir,  and  some  dogs  will 
catch  well. 

Sir  And.  Most  certain  :  let  our  catch  be, 
Thou  knave. 

Clo.  Hold  thy  peace ',  thou  knave,  knight?  I 
shall  be  constrained  in't  to  call  thee  knave, 
knight. 

Sir  And.  'Tis  not  the  first  time  I  have  con- 
strained one  to  call  me  knave.  Begin,  fool;  it 
begins  Hold  thy  peace. 

Clo.   I  shall  never  begin  if  I  hold  my  peace. 

Sir  And.  Good,  i'  faith  !     Come  begin. 

[They  sing  a  catch. 

Enter  MARIA. 

Mar.  What  a  caterwauling  do  you  keep  here ! 
If  my  lady  have  not  called  up  her  steward,  Mal- 
volio,  and  bid  him  turn  you  out  of  doors,  never 
trust  me. 

Sir  To.  Mylady'sa  Catalan,  we  are  politicians; 
Malvolio  's  a  Peg-a-Ramsay,  and  Three  merry 
men  be  we.  Am  not  I  consanguineous?  am  I  not 
of  her  blood?  Tilly- valley,  lady !  There  dwelt  a 
man  in  Babylon,  lady,  lady.  [Singing. 

Clo.  Beshrew  me,  the  knight 's  in  admirable 
fooling. 

Sir  And.  Ay,  he  does  well  enough  if  he  be 
disposed,  and  so  do  I  too ;  he  does  it  with  a 
better  grace,  but  I  do  it  more  natural. 

Sir  To.   O,  the  twelfth  day  of  December ; — 

[Singing. 

Mar.   For  the  love  o'  God,  peace. 

Enter  MALVOLIO. 

Mai.  My  masters,  are  you  mad  ?  or  what  are 
you  ?  Have  you  no  wit,  manners,  nor  honesty, 
but  to  gabble  like  tinkers  at  this  time  of  night  ? 
Do  ye  make  an  ale-house  of  my  lady's  house, 
that  ye  squeak  out  your  coziers'  catches  without 
any  mitigation  or  remorse  of  voice  ?  Is  there 
no  respect  of  place,  persons,  nor  time,  in  you  ? 

Sir  To.  We  did  keep  time,  sir,  in  our  catches. 
Sneck  up  ! 

Mai.  Sir  Toby,  I  must  be  round  with  you. 
My  lady  bade  me  tell  you  that  though  she  har- 
bours you  as  her  kinsman  she 's  nothing  allied 
to  your  disorders.  If  you  can  separate  yourself 
and  your  misdemeanours,  you  are  welcome  to 
the  house  ;  if  not,  an  it  would  please  you  to 


take  leave  of  her,  she  is  very  willing  to  bid  you 
farewell. 

Sir  To.  Farewell,  dear  heart,  since  I  rmtst 
needs  be  gone. 

Mar.  Nay,  good  Sir  Toby. 

Clo.  His  eyes  do  show  his  days  are  almost  done. 

Mai.  Is 't  even  so  ? 

Sir  To.  But  I  will  never  die. 

Clo.  Sir  Toby,  there  you  lie. 

Mai.  This  is  much  credit  to  you. 

Sir  To.  Shall  I  bid  him  go  ?  [Singing. 

Clo.    What  an  if  you  do  ? 

Sir  To.  Shall  I  bid  him  go  and  spare  not  ? 

Clo.   O  no,  no,  no,  no,  you  dare  not. 

Sir  To.  Out  o'  tune  ?  sir,  ye  lie. — Art  any 
more  than  a  steward  ?  Dost  thou  think,  because 
thou  art  virtuous,  there  shall  be  no  more  cakes 
and  ale  ? 

Clo.  Yes,  by  Saint  Anne ;  and  ginger  shall 
be  hot  i'  the  mouth  too. 

Sir  To.  Thou'rt  i'  the  right. — Go,  sir,  rub  your 
chain  with  crumbs  : — A  stoop  of  wine,  Maria  ! 

Mai.  Mistress  Mary,  if  you  prized  my  lady's 
favour  at  anything  more  than  contempt,  you 
would  not  give  means  for  this  uncivil  rule  ;  she 
shall  know  of  it,  by  this  hand.  [Exit. 

Mar".  Go  shake  your  ears. 

Sir  And.'  'Twere  as  good  a  deed  as  to  drink 
when  a  man 's  a-hungry,  to  challenge  him  to  the 
field,  and  then  to  break  promise  with  him  and 
make  a  fool  of  him. 

Sir  To.  Do 't,  knight ;  I  '11  write  thee  a  chal- 
lenge ;  or  I  '11  deliver  thy  indignation  to  him  by 
word  of  mouth. 

Mar.  Sweet  Sir  Toby,  be  patient  for  to-night ; 
since  the  youth  of  the  count's  was  to-day  with 
my  lady  she  is  much  out  of  quiet.  For  Monsieur 
Malvolio,  let  me  alone  with  him  :  if  I  do  not  gull 
him  into  a  nay  word,  and  make  him  a  common 
recreation,  do  not  think  I  have  wit  enough  to  lie 
straight  in  my  bed.  I  know  I  can  do  it. 

Sir  To.  Possess  us,  possess  us ;  tell  us  some- 
thing of  him. 

Mar.  Marry,  sir,  sometimes  he  is  a  kind  of 
Puritan. 

Sir  And.  O,  if  I  thought  that,  I  'd  beat  him 
like  a  dog. 

Sir  To.  What,  for  being  a  Puritan?  thy 
exquisite  reason,  dear  knight  ? 

Sir  And.  I  have  no  exquisite  reason  for 't,  but 
I  have  reason  good  enough. 

Mar.  The  devil  a  Puritan  that  he  is,  or  any- 
thing constantly  but  a  time  pleaser :  anaffection'd 
ass  that  cons  state  without  book  and  utters  it  by 
great  swarths ;  the  best  persuaded  of  himself,  so 
crammed,  as  he  thinks,  with  excellences,  that  it 
is  his  ground  of  faith  that  all  that  look  on  him 


88 


TWELFTH  NIGHT;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


[ACT  ii. 


love  him  ;  and  on  that  vice  in  him  will  my  re- 
venge find  notable  cause  to  work. 

Sir  To.  What  wilt  thou  do  ? 

Mar.  I  will  drop  in  his  way  some  obscure 
epistles  of  love  ;  wherein,  by  the  colour  of  his 
beard,  the  shape  of  his  leg,  the  manner  of  his 
gait,  the  expressure  of  his  eye,  forehead,  and 
complexion,  he  shall  find  himself  most  feelingly 
personated.  I  can  write  very  like  my  lady,  your 
niece ;  on  a  forgotten  matter  we  can  hardly 
make  distinction  of  our  hands. 

Sir  To.  Excellent  !     I  smell  a  device. 

Sir  And.  I  have 't  in  my  nose  too. 

Sir  To.  He  shall  think,  by  the  letters  that 
thou  wilt  drop,  that  they  come  from  my  niece, 
and  that  she  is  in  love  with  him.  [colour. 

Mar.  My  purpose  is,  indeed,  a  horse  of  that 

Sir  And.  And  your  horse  now  would  make 
him  an  ass. 

Mar.  Ass,  I  doubt  not. 

Sir  And.  O  'twill  be  admirable. 

Mar.  Sport  royal,  I  warrant  you.  I  know 
my  physic  will  work  with  him.  I  will  plant 
you  two,  and  let  the  fool  make  a  third,  where 
he  shall  find  the  letter ;  observe  his  construc- 
tion of  it.  For  this  night,  to  bed,  and  dream 
on  the  event.  Farewell.  [Exit. 

Sir  To.  Good-night,  Penthesilea1. 

Sir  And.  Before  me,  she  's  a  good  wench. 

Sir  To.  She's  a  beagle,  true  bred,  and  one 
that  adores  me.  What  o*  that  ? 

Sir  And.  I  was  adored  once  too. 

Sir  To.  Let's  to  bed,  knight. — Thou  hadst 
need  send  for  more  money. 

Sir  And.  If  I  cannot  recover  your  niece  I 
am  a  foul  way  out. 

Sir  To.  Send  for  money,  knight ;  if  thou  hast 
her  not  i'  the  end,  call  me  Cut. 

Sir  And.  If  I  do  not,  never  trust  me  ;  take 
it  how  you  will. 

Sir  To.  Come,  come ;  I  '11  go  burn  some 
sack  ;  'tis  too  late  to  go  to  bed  now :  come, 
knight ;  come,  knight.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — A  Room  in  the  DUKE'S  Palace. 
Enter  DUKE,  VIOLA,  CURIO,  and  others. 

Duke.  Give  me  some  music : — Now,  good 

morrow,  friends  : 

Now,  good  Cesario,  but  that  piece  of  song, 
That  old  and  antique  song  we  heard  last  night ; 
Methought  it  did  relieve  my  passion  much  ; 
More  than  light  airs  and  recollected  terms 

Of  these  most  brisk  and  giddy-paced  times  : 

Come,  but  one  verse. 

Cur.  He  is  not  here,  so  please  your  lordsh'ip, 
that  should  sing  it. 


Duke.  Who  was  it  ? 

Cur.  Feste,  the  jester,  my  lord  ;  a  fool  that 
the  Lady  Olivia's  father  took  much  delight  in  : 
he  is  about  the  house.  -^.  -t 

Duke.  Seek  him  out,  and  play  the  tune  the 
while.  [Exit  CURIO. — Music. 

Come  hither,  boy.     If  ever  thou  shalt  love, 
In  the  sweet  pangs  of  it  remember  me  : 
For,  such  as  I  am,  all  true  lovers  are  ; 
Unstaid  and  skittish  in  all  motions  else, 
Save  in  the  constant  image  of  the  creature 
That  is  belov'd. — How  dost  thou  like  this  tune  ? 

Vio.  It  gives  a  very  echo  to  the  seat 
Where  Love  is  throned. 

Duke.  Thou  dost  speak  masterly  : 
My  life  upon 't,  young  though  thou  art,  thine  eye 
Hath  stayed  upon  some  favour  that  it  loves  ; 
Hath  it  not,  boy  ? 

Vio.  A  little,  by  your  favour. 

Duke.  What  kind  of  woman  is 't  ? 

Vio.  Of  your  complexion. 

Ditke.  She  is  not  worth  thee,  then.     What 
years,  i'  faith? 

Vio.   About  your  years,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Too  old,  by  heaven.      Let  still  the 

woman  take 

An  elder  than  herself ;  so  wears  she  to  him, 
So  sways  she  level  in  her  husband's  heart. 
For,  boy,  however  we  do  praise  ourselves, 
Our  fancies  are  more  giddy  and  unfirm, 
More  longing,  wavering,  sooner  lost  and  worn 
Than  women's  are. 

Vio.  I  think  it  well,  my  lord. 

Dttke.  Then  let  thy  love  be  younger  than  thy- 

self. 

Or  thy  affection  cannot  hold  the  bent : 
For  women  are  as  roses,  whose  fair  flower, 
Being  once  display'd,  doth  fall  that  very  hour. 

Vio.  And  so  they  are  :  alas,  that  they  are  so  ; 
To  die  even  when  they  to  perfection  grow  ! 

Re-enter  CURIO  and  CLOWN. 
Duke.  O  fellow,  come,  the  song  we  had  last 

night : — 

Mark  it,  Cesario ;  it  is  old  and  plain  : 
The  spinsters  and  the  knitters  in  the  sun, 
And  the  free  maids,  that  weave  their  thread  with 

bones, 

Do  use  to  chant  it :  it  is  silly  sooth, 
And  dallies  with  the  innocence  of  love 
Like  the  old  age. 

Clo.  Are  you  ready,  sir  ? 
Duke.  Ay  ;  pr'ythee,  sing. 

SONG. 

Clo.        Come  away,  come  away,  death. 
And  in  sad  cypress  let  me  be  laid ; 

Fly  away,  fly  away,  breath ; 
I  am  slain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid. 


[Music. 


SCENE  IV.] 


TWELFTH  NIGHT;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


89 


My  shroud  of  white,  stuck  all  with  yew, 

O  prepare  it ; 
My  part  of  death  no  one  so  true 

Did  share  it. 

Not  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet, 
On  my  black  coffin  let  there  be  strown : 

Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet 
My  poor  corpse  where  my  bones  shall  be 

thrown : 
A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save, 

Lay  me,  O,  where 
Sad  true  lover  never  find  my  grave, 
To  weep  there. 

Duke,  There 's  for  thy  pains.  [sir. 

Clo.  No  pains,  sir  ;  I  take  pleasure  in  singing, 

Duke.  I  '11  pay  thy  pleasure,  then. 

Clo.  Truly,  sir,  and  pleasure  will  be  paid  one 
time  or  another. 

Duke.  Give  me  now  leave  to  leave  thee. 

Clo.  Now,  the  melancholy  god  protect  thee  ; 
and  the  tailor  make  thy  doublet  of  changeable  taf- 
fata,  for  thy  mind  is  a  very  opal ! — I  would  have 
men  of  such  constancy  put  to  sea,  that  their  busi- 
ness might  be  everything,  and  their  intent  every- 
where ;  for  that 's  it  that  always  makes  a  good 
voyage  of  nothing. — Farewell.  [Exit  CLOWN. 

Duke.  Let  all  the  rest  give  place. 

[Exeunt  CURIO  and  Attendants. 
Once  more,  Cesario, 
Get  thee  to  yon  same  sovereign  cruelty  : 
Tell  her  my  love,  more  noble  than  the  world, 
Prizes  not  quantity  of  dirty  lands  ; 
The  parts  that  fortune  hath  bestow'd  upon  her, 
Tell  her,  I  hold  as  giddily  as  fortune  ; 
But  'tis  that  miracle  and  queen  of  gems 
That  Nature  pranks  her  in  attracts  my  soul. 

Via.  But  if  she  cannot  love  you,  sir  ? 

Duke.  I  cannot  be  so  answer'd. 

Vio.  'Sooth,  but  you  must. 

Say  that  some  lady,  as  perhaps  there  is, 
Hath  for  your  love  as  great  a  pang  of  heart 
As  you  have  for  Olivia :  you  cannot  love  her  ; 
You  tell  her  so.    Must  she  not  then  be  answer'd  ? 

Duke.  There  is  no  woman's  sides 
Can  bide  the  beating  of  so  strong  a  passion 
As  love  doth  give  my  heart :  no  woman's  heart 
So  big  to  hold  so  much  ;  they  lack  retention. 
Alas,  their  love  may  be  called  appetite, — 
No  motion  of  thejiver,  but  the  palate, — 
That  suffer  surfeit,  cloyment,  and  revolt ; 
But  mine  is  all  as  hungry  as  the  sea, 
And  can  digest  as  much  :  make  no  compare 
Between  that  love  a  woman  can  bear  me 
And  that  I  owe  Olivia. 

Vio.  Ay,  but  I  know, — 

Duke.  What  dost  thou  know? 

Vio.  Too  well  what  love  women  to  men  may 
owe. 


In  faith,  they  are  as  true  of  heart  as  we. 
My  father  had  a  daughter  loved  a  man, 
As  it  might  be,  perhaps,  were  I  a  woman, 
I  should  your  lordship. 

Duke.  And  what 's  her  history  ? 

Vio.  A  blank,  my  lord.     She  never  told  her 

love, 

But  let  concealment,  like  a  worm  i'  the  bud, 
Feed  on  her  damask  cheek :  she  pined  in  thought ; 
And,  with  a  green  and  yellow  melancholy, 
She  sat  like  patience  on  a  monument, 
Smiling  at  grief.     Was  not  this  love,  indeed  ? 
We  men  may  say  more,  swear  more ;  but,  indeed, 
Our  shows  are  more  than  will ;  for  still  we  prove 
Much  in  our  vows,  but  little  in  our  love. 

Duke.  But  died  thy  sister  of  her  love,  my  boy? 

Vio.  I  am  all  the  daughters  of  my  father's 

house, 

And  all  thebrothers  too ; — and  yet  I  know  not.— 
Sir,  shall  I  to  this  lady  ? 

Duke.  Ay,  that 's  the  theme. 

To  her  in  haste  :  give  her  this  jewel ;  say 
My  love  can  give  no  place,  bide  no  denay. 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — OLIVIA'S  Garden. 

Enter  Sir  TOBY  BELCH,  Sir  ANDREW  AGUE- 
CHEEK,  and  FABIAN. 

Sir  To.  Come  thy  ways,  Signior  Fabian. 

Fab.  Nay,  I  '11  come  ;  if  I  lose  a  scruple  of  this 
sport  let  me  be  boiled  to  death  with  melancholy. 

Sir  To.  Wouldst  thou  not  be  glad  to  have 
the  niggardly  rascally  sheep-biter  come  by  some 
notable  shame  ? 

Fab.  I  would  exult,  man:  you  know  he  brought 
me  out  o'  favour  with  my  lady  about  a  bear-bait- 
ing here. 

Sir  To.  To  anger  him  we'll  have  the  bear 
again  ;  and  we  will  fool  him  black  and  blue  : — 
Shall  we  not,  Sir  Andrew  ? 

Sir  And.  An  we  do  not,  it  is  pity  of  our  lives. 

Enter  MARIA. 

Sir  To.  Here  comes  the  little  villain  :— How 
now,  my  nettle  of  India? 

Mar.  Get  ye  all  three  into  the  box-tree :  Mal- 
volio's  coming  down  this  walk ;  he  has  been 
yonder  i'  the  sun,  practising  behaviour  to  his  own 
shadow  this  half -hour  :  observe  him,  for  the  love 
of  mockery  ;  for  I  know  this  letter  will  make  a 
contemplative  idiot  of  him.  Close,  in  the  name 
of  j  esting !  [  The  men  hide  themselves.  ]  Lie  thou 
there  ;  [throws  down  a  letter]  for  here  comes  the 
trout  that  must  be  caught  with  tickling. 

[Exit  MARIA. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT ;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


[ACT  ii. 


Enter  MALVOLIO. 

Mai.  'Tis  but  fortune ;  all  is  fortune.  Maria 
once  told  me  she  did  affect  me  :  and  I  have  heard 
herself  come  thus  near,  that,  should  she  fancy,  it 
should  be  one  of  my  complexion.  Besides,  she 
uses  me  with  a  more  exalted  respect  than  anyone 
else  that  follows  her.  What  should  I  think  on 't  ? 

Sir  To.  Here 's  an  overweening  rogue  ! 

Fab.  O,  peace  !  Contemplation  makes  a  rare 
turkey-cock  of  him  ;  how  he  jets  under  his  ad- 
vanced plumes  ! 

Sir  And.  'Slight,  I  could  so  beat  the  rogue  :— 

Sir  To.  Peace,  I  say. 

Mai.  To  be  Count  Malvolio ; — 

Sir  To.  Ah,  rogue  ! 

Sir  And.   Pistol  him,  pistol  him. 

Sir  To.  Peace,  peace. 

Mai.  There  is  example  for 't ;  the  lady  of  the 
Strachy  married  the  yeoman  of  the  wardrobe. 

Sir  And.  Fie  on  him,  Jezebel  ! 

Fab.  O,  peace  !  now  he 's  deeply  in ;  look 
how  imagination  blows  him. 

Mai.  Having  been  three  months  married  to 
her,  sitting  in  my  state, —  [eye  ! 

Sir  To.  O  for  a  stone-bow  to  hit  him  in  the 

Mai.  Calling  my  officers  about  me  in  my 
branched  velvet  gown ;  having  come  from  a  day- 
bed,  where  I  have  left  Olivia  sleeping. 

Sir  To.  Fire  and  brimstone  ! 

Fab.  O,  peace,  peace. 

Mai.  And  then  to  have  the  humour  of  state : 
and  after  a  demure  travel  of  regard, — telling 
them  I  know  my  place  as  I  would  they  should 
do  theirs, — to  ask  for  my  kinsman  Toby. 

Sir  To.  Bolts  and  shackles  ! 

Fab.  O,  peace,  peace,  peace!  now,  now. 

Mai.  Seven  of  my  people,  with  an  obedient 
start,  make  out  for  him  :  I  frown  the  while  ;  and 
perchance,  wind  up  my  watch,  or  play  with  some 
rich  jewel.  Toby  approaches  ;  court'sies  there 
to  me : 

Sir  To.  Shall  this  fellow  live  ? 

Fab.  Though  our  silence  be  drawn  from  us 
with  cars,  yet  peace. 

Mai.  I  extend  my  hand  to  him  thus,  quench- 
ing my  familiar  smile  with  an  austere  regard  of 
control:: 

Sir  To.  And  does  not  Toby  take  you  a  blow 
o'  the  lips  then  ? 

Mai.  Saying,  Cousin  Toby,  my  fortunes  hav- 
ing cast  me  on  your  niece,  give  me  this  preroga- 
tive of  speech : — 

Sir  To.  What,  what? 

Mai.    You  must  amend  your  drunkenness. 

Sir  To.  Out,  scab  !  [of  our  plot. 

Fab.  Nay,  patience,  or  we  break  the  sinews 


Mai.  Besides,  you  waste  the  treasure  of  your 
time  with  a  foolish  knight  / 

Sir  And.  That 's  me,  I  warrant  you. 

Mai.    One  Sir  Andrew  : 

Sir  And.  I  knew  'twas  I ;  for  many  do  call 
me  fool. 

Mai.  What  employment  have  we  here  ? 

[  Taking  up  the  letter. 

Fab.  Now  is  the  woodcock  near  the  gin. 

Sir  To.  O,  peace  !  and  the  spirit  of  humours 
intimate  reading  aloud  to  him  ! 

Mai.  By  my  life,  this  is  my  lady's  hand :  these 
be  her  very  C's,  her  £/'s,  and  her  7°s ;  and  thus 
makes  she  her  great  P's.  It  is  in  contempt  of 
question,  her  hand. 

Sir  And.  Her  C"s,  her  £/'s,  and  her  T's. 
Why  that  ? 

Mai.  {reads.'}  To  the  unknown  beloved,  this, 
and  my  good  wishes:  her  very  phrases !— By  your 
leave,  wax. — Soft ! — and  the  impressure  her 
Lucrece,  with  which  she  uses  to  seal :  'tis  my 
lady.  To  whom  should  this  be  ? 

Fab.  This  wins  him,  liver  and  all. 

Mai.  [reads.  ~\   Jove  knows  I  love : 

But  -who  ? 
Lips  do  not  move, 
No  man  must  know. 

No  man  must  know. — What  follows?  the 
numbers  altered  ! — No  man  must  know : — If 
this  should  be  thee,  Malvolio  ? 

Sir  To.   Marry,  hang  thee,  brock  ! 

Mai.   2  may  command  where  I  adore : 

But  silence,  like  a  Lucrece  knife, 
With  bloodless  stroke  my  heart  doth  gore; 
M,  O,  A,  1,  doth  sway  my  life. 

'-,";   '; 

Fab,  A  fustian  riddle  ! 

Sir  To.  Excellent  wench,  say  I. 

Mai.  M,  O,  A,  I,  doth  sway  my  life.— Nay, 
but  first  let  me  see, — let  me  see, — let  me 
see. 

Fab.  What  a  dish  of  poison  hath  she  dressed 
him  ! 

Sir  To.  And  with  what  wing  the  stannyel 
checks  at  it ! 

Mai.  I  may  command  where  I  adore.  Why, 
she  may  command  me  :  I  serve  her,  she  is  my 
lady.  Why,  this  is  evident  to  any  formal 
capacity.  There  is  no  obstruction  in  this  ; — 
And  the  end, — What  should  that  alphabetical 
position  portend  ?  If  I  could  make  that  re- 
semble something  in  me, — Softly  ! — M,  O,  A, 
/.— 

Sir  To.  O,  ay  !  make  up  that : — he  is  now 
at  a  cold  scent. ' 

Fab.  Sowter  will  cry  upon't  for  all  this, 
though  it  be  as  rank  as  a  fox. 


SCENE  V.] 


TWELFTH  NIGHT;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


Mai.  My — Malvolio; — M, — why,  that  begins 
my  name. 

Fab.  Did  not  I  say  he  would  work  it  out  ? 
the  cur  is  excellent  at  faults. 

Mai.  M, — But  then  there  is  no  consonancy 
in  the  sequel ;  that  suffers  under  probation : 
A  should  follow,  but  O  does. 

Fab.  And  O  shall  end,  I  hope,    [him  cry  O. 

Sir  To.  Ay,  or  I  '11  cudgel  him,  and  make 

Mai.  And  then  /  comes  behind. 

Fab.  Ay,  an  you  had  any  eye  behind  you, 
you  might  see  more  detraction  at  your  heels 
than  fortunes  before  you. 

Mai.  M,  0,  A)  I ; — This  simulation  is  not  as 
the  former : — and  yet,  to  crush  this  a  little,  it 
would  bow  to  me,  for  every  one  of  these  letters 
are  in  my  name.  Soft ;  here  follows  prose. — 
If  this  fall  into  thy  hand,  revolve.  In  my  stars 
I  am  above  thee  ;  but  be  not  afraid  of  greatness. 
Some  are  born  great,  some  achieve  greatness, 
and  some  have  greatness  thrust  upon  them. 
Thy  fates  open  their  hands  ;  let  thy  blood  and 
spirit  embrace  them.  And,  to  inure  thyself  to 
what  thou  art  like  to  be,  cast  thy  humble  slough 
and  appear  fresh.  Be  opposite  with  a  kinsman, 
surly  with  servants  :  let  thy  tongue  tang  argu- 
ments of  state ;  put  thyself  into  the  trick  of 
singularity :  She  thus  advises  thee  that  sighs 
for  thee.  Remember  who  commended  thy  yellow 
stockings,  and  wished  to  see  thee  ever  cross- 
gartered.  I  say,  remember.  Go  to  /  thou  art 
made,  if  thou  desirest  to  be  so  ;  if  'not ',  let  me  see 
thee  a  steward  still,  the  fellow  of  sen>ants,  and 
not  worthy  to  touch  forttine's  fingers.  Fare- 
well. She  that  would  alter  services  with  thee, 
The  fortiinate  unhappy. 

Daylight  and  champian  discovers  not  more  : 
this  is  open.  I  will  be  proud,  I  will  read 
politic  authors,  I  will  baffle  Sir  Toby,  I  will 
wash  off  gross  acquaintance,  I  will  be  point -de- 
vice, the  very  man.  I  do  not  now  fool  myself 
to  let  imagination  jade  me ;  for  every  reason 
excites  to  this,  that  my  lady  loves  me.  She 
did  commend  my  yellow  stockings  of  late,  she 
did  praise  my  leg  being  cross-gartered  ;  and  in 
this  she  manifests  herself  to  my  love,  and,  with 
a  kind  of  injunction,  drives  me  to  these  habits 
of  her  liking.  I  thank  my  stars  I  am  happy. 
I  will  be  strange,  stout,  in  yellow  stockings, 
and  cross-gartered,  even  with  the  swiftness  of 
putting  on.  Jove  and  my  stars  be  praised  ! — 
Here  is  yet  a  postscript.  Thou  canst  not  choose 
but  know  who  I  am.  If  thou  entertainest  my 
love,  let  it  appear  in  thy  smiling;  thy  smiles 
become  the&  well:  therefore  in  my  presence  still 
smile,  dear  my  sweet,  I  pSythce.  Jove,  I 


thank  thee. — I  will   smile :    I  will   do  every- 
thing that  thou  wilt  have  me.  [Exit. 

Fab.  I  will  not  give  my  part  of  this  sport  for  a 
pension  of  thousands  to  be  paid  from  the  Sophy. 

Sir  To.  I  could  marry  this  wench  for  this 
device : 

Sir  And.  So  could  I  too. 

Sir  To.  And  ask  no  other  dowry  with  her 
but  such  another  jest. 

Enter  MARIA. 

Sir  And.  Nor  I  neither. 

Fab.  Here  comes  my  noble  gull-catcher. 

Sir  To.   Wilt  thou  set  thy  foot  o'  my  neck  ? 

Sir  And.  Or  o'  mine  either  ? 

Sir  To.  Shall  I  play  my  freedom  at  tray- 
trip,  and  become  thy  bond-slave  ? 

Sir  And.   I'  faith,  or  I  either. 

Sir  To.  Why,  thou  hast  put  him  in  such  a 
dream,  that,  when  the  image  of  it  leaves  him, 
he  must  run  mad. 

Mar.  Nay,  but  say  true  ;  does  it  work  upon 
him? 

Sir  To.  Like  aqua-vitae  with  a  midwife. 

Mar.  If  you  will  then  see  the  fruits  of  the 
sport,  mark  his  first  approach  before  my  lady : 
he  will  come  to  her  in  yellow  stockings,  and 
'tis  a  colour  she  abhors ;  and  cross-gartered,  a 
fashion  she  detests;  and  he  will  smile  upon 
her,  which  will  now  be  so  unsuitable  to  her 
disposition,  being  addicted  to  a  melancholy  as 
she  is,  that  it  cannot  but  turn  him  into  a  notable 
contempt :  if  you  will  see  it,  follow  me. 

Sir  To.  To  the  gates  of  Tartar,  thou  most 
excellent  devil  of  wit ! 

Sir  And.  I  '11  make  one  too.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  III. 
SCENE  I.— OLIVIA'S  Garden. 

Enter  VIOLA,  and  CLOWN  with  a  tabor. 

Via.  Save  thee,  friend,  and  thy  music.  Dost 
thou  live  by  thy  tabor  ? 

Clo.  No,  sir,  I  live  by  the  church. 

Vio.  Art  thou  a  churchman  ? 

Clo.  No  such  matter,  sir ;  I  do  live  by  the 
church;  for  I  do  live  at  my  house,  and  my 
house  doth  stand  by  the  church. 

Vio.  So  thou  mayst  say,  the  king  lies  by  a 
beggar,  if  a  beggar  dwell  near  him ;  or  the 
church  stands  by  thy  tabor,  if  thy  tabor  stand 
by  the  church. 

Clo.  You  have  said,  sir. — To  see  this  age  ! — 
A  sentence  ig  but  a  cheveril  glove  to  a  good  wit. 
How  quickly  the  wrong  side  may  be  turned 
outward  1 


TWELFTH  NIGHT;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


[ACT  in. 


Vio.  Nay,  that  :s  certain ;  they  that  dally  nicely 
with  words  may  quickly  make  them  wanton. 

Clo.  I  would,  therefore,  my  sister  had  had 
no  name,  sir. 

Vio.  Why,  man? 

Clo.  Why,  sir,  her  name 's  a  word  ;  and  to 
dally  with  that  word  might  make  my  sister 
wanton.  But  indeed,  words  are  very  rascals, 
since  bonds  disgraced  them. 

Vio.  Thy  reason,  man  ? 

Clo.  Troth,  sir,  I  can  yield  you  none  without 
words ;  and  words  are  grown  so  false,  I  am 
loath  to  prove  reason  with  them. 

Vio.  I  warrant,  thou  art  a  merry  fellow,  and 
carest  for  nothing. 

Clo.  Not  so,  sir,  I  do  care  for  something  :  but 
irt  my  conscience,  sir,  I  do  not  care  for  you  ;  if 
that  be  to  care  for  nothing,  sir,  I  would  it  would 
make  you  invisible. 

Vio.  Art  not  thou  the  Lady  Olivia's  fool  ? 

Clo.  No,  indeed,  sir  ;  the  Lady  Olivia  has  no 
folly :  she  will  keep  no  fool,  sir,  till  she  be 
married  ;  and  fools  are  as  like  husbands  as 
pilchards  are  to  herrings,  the  husband's  the 
bigger  ;  I  am,  indeed,  not  her  fool,  but  her 
corrupter  of  words. 

Vio.  I  saw  thee  late  at  the  Count  Orsino's. 

Clo.  Foolery,  sir,  does  walk  about  the  orb 
like  the  sun  ;  it  shines  everywhere.  I  would 
be  sorry,  sir-,  but  the  fool  should  be  as  oft  with 
your  master  as  with  my  mistress  :  I  think  I  saw 
your  wisdom  there. 

Vio.  Nay,  an  thou  pass  upon  me,  I'll  no 
more  with  thee.  Hold,  there's  expenses  for 
thee. 

Clo.  Now  Jove,  in  his  next  commodity  of 
hair,  send  thee  a  beard  ! 

Vio.  By  my  troth,  I  '11  tell  thee,  I  am  almost 
sick  for  one  ;  though  I  would  not  have  it  grow 
on  my  chin.  Is  thy  lady  within  ? 

Clo.  Would  not  a  pair  of  these  have  bred,  sir  ? 

Vio.  Yes,  being  kept  together  and  put  to  use. 

Clo.  I  would  play  Lord  Pandarus  of  Phrygia, 
sir,  to  bring  a  Cressida  to  this  Troilus. 

Vio.  I  understand  you,  sir  ;  'tis  well  begged. 

Clo.  The  matter,  I  hope,  is  not  great,  sir, 
begging  but  a  beggar  :  Cressida  was  a  beggar. 
My  lady  is  within,  sir.  I  will  construe  to  them 
whence  you  come  ;  who  you  are  and  what  you 
would  are  out  of  my  welkin  :  I  might  say  ele- 
ment ;  but  the  word  is  overworn.  [Exit. 

Vio.  This  fellow's  wise  enough  to  play  the 

fool; 

And,  to  do  that  well,  craves  a  kind  of  wit : 
He  must  observe  their  mood  on  whom  he  jests, 
The  quality  of  persons,  and  the  time  j 
And,  like  the  haggard,  check  at  every  feather 


That  comes  before  his  eye.     This  is  a  practice 

As  full  of  labour  as  a  wise  man's  art : 

For  folly,  that  he  wisely  shows,  is  fit ; 

But  wise  men,  folly-fallen,  quite  taint  their  wit. 

Enter  Sir  TOBY  BELCH,  and  Sir  ANDREW 
AGUE-CHEEK. 

Sir  To.  Save  you,  gentleman. 

Vio.  And  you,  sir. 

Sir  And.  Dieu  vous  garde,  monsieur. 

Vio.  Et  vous  aussi:  votre  seiviteur. 

Sir  And.  I  hope,  sir,  you  are ;  and  I  am  yours. 

Sir  To.  Will  you  encounter  the  house  ?  my 
niece  is  desirous  you  should  enter,  if  your  trade 
be  to  her. 

Vio.  I  am  bound  to  your  niece,  sir  :  I  mean, 
she  is  the  list  of  my  voyage. 

Sir  To.  Taste  your  legs,  sir;  put  them  to 
motion. 

Vio.  My  legs  do  better  understand  me,  sir, 
than  I  understand  what  you  mean  by  bidding 
me  taste  my  legs. 

Sir  To.  I  mean  to  go,  sir,  to  enter. 

Vio.  I  will  answer  you  with  gait  and  en- 
trance :  but  we  are  prevented. 

Enter' OLIVIA  and  MARIA. 

Most  excellent  accomplished  lady,  the  heavens 
rain  odours  on  you. 

Sir  And.  That  youth  's  a  rare  courtier ! 
Rain  odours  !  well. 

Vio.  My  matter  hath  no  voice,  lady,  but  to 
your  own  most  pregnant  and  vouchsafed  ear. 

Sir  And.  Odours,  pregnant,  and  vouch- 
safed: — I  '11  get  'em  all  three  ready. 

OH.  Let  the  garden  door  be  shut,  and  leave 
me  to  my  hearing. 

{Exeunt  Sir  To.,  Sir  AND.,  and  MAR. 
Give  me  your  hand,  sir.  [service. 

Vio.  My  duty,   madam,  and  most   humble 

Oli.  What  is  your  name  ?  [princess. 

Vio.  Cesario   is   your   servant's   name,    fair 

Oli.  My  servant,  sir  !     'Twas  never  merry 

world, 

Since  lowly  feigning  was  call'd  compliment : 
You  are  servant  to  the  Count  Orsino,  youth. 

Vio.  And  he  is  yours,  and  his  must  needs  be 

yours ; 
Your  servant's  servant  is  your  servant,  madam. 

Oli.  For  him,  I  think  not  on  him :  for  his 

thoughts,  [me  ! 

Would  they  were  blanks  rather  than  fill'd  with 

Vio.  Madam,  I  come  to  whet  your  gentle 

thoughts 
On  his  behalf:— 

Oli.  O,  by  your  leave,  I  pray  you ; 

I  bade  you  never  speak  again  of  him : 


SCENE  I.] 


TWELFTH  NIGHT;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


93 


But,  would  you  undertake  another  suit, 
I  had  rather  hear  you  to  solicit  that 
Than  music  from  the  spheres. 

Vio.  Dear  lady, 

Oli.  Give  me  leave,  I  beseech  you :  I  did  send, 
After  the  last  enchantment  you  did  here, 
A  ring  in  chase  of  you  ;  so  did  I  abuse 
Myself,  my  servant,  and,  I  fear  me,  you  : 
Under  your  hard  construction  must  I  sit ; 
To  force  that  on  you,  in  a  shameful  cunning, 
Which  you  knew  none  of  yours.     What  might 

you  think  ? 

Have  you  not  set  mine  honour  at  the  stake, 
And  baited  it  with  all  the  unmuzzl'd  thoughts 
That  tyrannous  heart  can  think?     To  one  of 

your  receiving 

Enough  is  shown  ;  a  Cyprus,  not  a  bosom, 
Hides  my  poor  heart :  so  let  me  hear  you  speak. 

Vio.  I  pity  you. 

Oli.  That 's  a  degree  to  love. 

Vio.  No,  not  a  grise  ;  for  'tis  a  vulgar  proof 
That  very  oft  we  pity  enemies.  [again  : 

Oli.  Why,  then,  methinks  'tis  time  to  smile 

0  world,  how  apt  the  poor  are  to  be  proud  ! 
If  one  should  be  a  prey,  how  much  the  better 
To  fall  before  the  lion  than  the  wolf ! 

[Clock  strikes. 

The  clock  upbraids  me  with  the  waste  of  time. — 
Be  not  afraid,  good  youth,  I  will  not  have  you  : 
And  yet,  when  wit  and  youth  is  come  to 

harvest, 

Your  wife  is  like  to  reap  a  proper  man. 
There  lies  your  way  due-west. 

Vio.  Then  westward-ho  : 

Grace  and  good  disposition  'tend  your  ladyship  ! 
You  '11  nothing,  madam,  to  my  lord  by  me  ? 

Oli.   Stay: 

1  pr'ythee  tell  me  what  thou  think'st  of  me. 

Vio.  That  you  do  think  you  are  not  what  you 
are. 

Oli.  If  I  think  so,  I  think  the  same  of  you. 

Vio.  Then  think  you  right ;  I  am  not  what 
I  am. 

Oli.  I  would  you  were  as  I  would  have  you  be ! 

Vio.  Would  it  be  better,  madam,  that  I  am, 
I  wish  it  might ;  for  now  I  am  your  fool. 

Oli.  O  what  a  deal  of  scorn  looks  beautiful 
In  the  contempt  and  anger  of  his  lip  ! 
A  murd'rous  guilt  shows  not  itself  more  soon 
Than  love  that  would  seem  hid  :  love's  night  is 

noon. 

Cesario,  by  the  roses  of  the  spring, 
By  maidhood,  honour,  truth,  and  everything, 
I  love  thee  so  that,  maugre  all  thy  pride, 
Nor  wit,  nor  reason,  can  my  passion  hide  : 
Do  not  extort  thy  reasons  from  this  clause, 
For,  that  I  woo,  thou  therefore  hast  no  cause : 


But,  rather,  reason  thus  with  reason  fetter : 
Love  sought  is  good,  but  given  unsought  is 

better. 

Vio.  By  innocence  I  swear,  and  by  my  youth, 
I  have  one  heart,  one  bosom,  and  one  truth. 
And  that  no  woman  has  ;  nor  never  none 
Shall  mistress  be  of  it,  save  I  alone. 
And  so  adieu,  good  madam  ;  never  more 
Will  I  my  master's  tears  to  you  deplore. 

Oli.  Yet   come   again  :    for   thou,    perhaps, 

mayst  move 

That  heart,  which  now  abhors,  to  like  his  love. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.—  A  Room  in  OLIVIA'S  House. 

Enter  Sir  TOBY  BELCH,  Szr  ANDREW  AGUE- 
CHEEK,  and  FABIAN. 

Sir  And.  No,  faith,  I  '11  not  stay  a  jot  longer. 

Sir  To.  Thy  reason,  dear  venom:  give  thy 
reason. 

Fab.  You  must  needs  yield  your  reason,  Sir 
Andrew. 

Sir  And.  Marry,  I  saw  your  niece  do  more 
favours  to  the  count's  serving  man  than  ever  she 
bestowed  upon  me  ;  I  saw 't  i'  the  orchard. 

Sir  To.  Did  she  see  thee  the  while,  old  boy  ? 
tell  me  that. 

Sir  And.  As  plain  as  I  see  you  now. 

Fab.  This  was  a  great  argument  of  love  in  her 
toward  you. 

Sir  Ana.  'Slight !  will  you  make  an  ass  o'  me  ? 

Fab.  I  will  prove  it  legitimate,  sir,  upon  the 
oaths  of  judgment  and  reason. 

Sir  To.  And  they  have  been  grand  jurymen 
since  before  Noah  was  a  sailor. 

Fab.  She  did  show  favour  to  the  youth  in  your 
sight  only  to  exasperate  you,  to  awake  your  dor- 
mouse valour,  to  put  fire  in  your  heart  and  brim- 
stone in  your  liver.  You  should  then  have  ac- 
costed her  ;  and  with  some  excellent  jests,  fire- 
new  from  the  mint,  you  should  have  banged  the 
youth  into  dumbness.  This  was  looked  for  at 
your  hand,  and  this  was  baulked :  the  double  gilt 
of  this  opportunity  you  let  time  wash  oft,  and  you 
are  now  sailed  into  the  north  of  my  lady's 
opinion  ;  where  you  will  hang  like  an  icicle  on  a 
Dutchman's  beard,  unless  you  do  redeem  it  by 
some  laudable  attempt,  either  of  valour  or  policy. 

Sir  And.  And 't  be  any  way,  it  must  be  with 
valour :  for  policy  I  hate ;  I  had  as  lief  be  a 
Brownist  as  a  politician. 

Sir  To.  Why,  then,  build  me  thy  fortunes 
upon  the  basis  of  valour.  Challenge  me  the 
count's  youth  to  fight  with  him ;  hurt  him  in 
eleven  places ;  my  niece  shall  take  note  of  it : 
and  assure  thyself  there  is  no  love-broker  in  the 


94 


TWELFTH  NIGHT;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


[ACT  III. 


world  can  more  prevail  in  man's  commenda- 
tion with  woman  than  report  of  valour. 

Fab.  There  is  no  way  but  this,  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  And.  Will  either  of  you  bear  me  a  chal- 
lenge to  him  ? 

Sir  To.  Go,  write  it  in  a  martial  hand ;  be  curst 
and  brief ;  it  is  n<5  matter  how  witty,  so  it  be  elo- 
quent and  full  of  invention;  taunt  him  with  the 
licence  of  ink:  if  thou  thorfst  him  some  thrice, 
it  shall  not  be  amiss;  and  as  many  lies  as  will  lie 
in  thy  sheet  of  paper,  although  the  sheet  were 
big  enough  for  the  bed  of  Ware  in  England, 
set  'em  down  ;  go  about  it.  Let  there  be  gall 
enough  in  thy  ink;  though  thou  write  with  a 
goose-pen,  no  matter.  About  it. 

Sir  And.  Where  shall  I  find  you  ? 

Sir  To.  We  '11  call  thee  at  the  cubiculo.  Go. 
[Exit  Sir  ANDREW. 

Fab.  This  is  a  dear  manikin  toyou,  Sir  Toby. 

Sir  To.  I  have  been  dear  to  him,  lad  ;  some 
two  thousand  strong,  or  so.  , 

Fab.  We  shall  have  a  rare  letter  from  him  : 
but  you  '11  not  deliver  it. 

Sir  To.  Never  trust  me  then;  and  by  all  means 
stir  on  the  youth  to  an  answer.  I  think  oxen 
and  wainropes  cannot  hale  them  together.  For 
Andrew,  if  he  were  opened,  and  you  find  so  much 
blood  in  his  liver  as  will  clog  the  foot  of  a  flea, 
I  '11  eat  the  rest  of  the  anatomy. 

Fab.  And  his  opposite,  the  youth,  bears  in 
his  visage  no  great  presage  of  cruelty. 

Enter  MARIA. 

Sir  To.  Look  where  the  youngest  wren  of 
nine  comes. 

Mar.  If  you  desire  the  spleen,  and  will  laugh 
yourselves  into  stitches,  follow  me :  yon  gull, 
Malvolio,  is  turned  heathen,  a  very  renegade; 
for  there  is  no  Christian,  that  means  to  be  saved 
by  believing  rightly,  can  ever  believe  such  im- 
possible passages  of  grossness.  He 's  in  yellow 
stockings. 

Sir  To.  And  cross-gartered  ? 

Mar.  Most  villanously  ;  like  a  pedant  that 
keeps  a  school  i*  the  church. — I  have  dogged 
him  like  his  murderer.  He  does  ooey  every 
point  of  the  letter  that  I  dropped  to  betray 
him.  He  does  smile  his  face  into  more  lines 
than  are  in  the  new  map,  with  the  augmenta- 
tion of  the  Indies  :  you  have  not  seen  such  a 
thing  as  'tis ;  I  can  hardly  forbear  hurling 
things  at  him.  I  know  my  lady  will  strike 
him ;  if  she  do,  he  '11  smile,  and  take 't  for  a 
great  favour. 

Sir  To.  Come,  bring  us,  bring  us  where  he 
is.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.—  A  Street. 
Enter  ANTONIO  and  SEBASTIAN. 

Seb.  I  would  not  by  my  will  have  troubled 

you; 

But,  since  you  make  your  pleasure  of  your  pains, 
I  will  no  further  chide  you.  >  rr:  ar 

Ant.   I  could  not  stay  behind  you;  my  desire, 
More  sharp  than  filed  steel,  did  spur  me  forth ; 
And  not  all  love  to  see  you, — though  so  much, 
As  might  have  drawn  one  to  a  longer  voyage,— 
But  jealousy  what  might  befall  your  travel, 
Being  skilless  in  these  parts;  which  to  astranger, 
Unguided  and  unfriended,  often  prove 
Rough  and  unhospitable.     My  willing  love, 
The  rather  by  these  arguments  of  fear, 
Set  forth  in  your  pursuit. 

Seb.  My  kind  Antonio, 

I  can  no  other  answer  make  but  thanks, 
And  thai  iks,  and  ever  thanks.     Often  good  turns 
Are  shuffled  off  with  such  uncurrent  pay; 
But  were  my  worth,  as  is  my  conscience,  firm, 
You  should  find  better  dealing.    What's  to  do? 
Shall  we  go  see  the  reliques  of  this  town  ? 

Ant.    To-morrow,  sir ;    best,  first,  go  see 
your  lodging. 

Seb.  I  am  not  weary,  and  'tis  long  to  night; 
I  pray  you,  let  us  satisfy  our  eyes 
With  the  memorials  and  the  things  of  fame 
That  do  renown  this  city. 

Ant.  Would  you  'd  pardon  me  : 

I  do  not  without  danger  walk  these  streets  : 
Once,  in  a  sea-fight,    'gainst  the  count,   his 

galleys, 

I  did  some  service  ;  of  such  note,  indeed, 
That  were  I  ta'en  here,  it  would  scarce  be 
answered.  [people. 

Seb.    Belike  you  slew  great  number  of  his 

Ant.   The  offence  is  not  of  such  a  bloody 

nature ; 

Albeit  the  quality  of  the  time  and  quarrel 
Might  well  have  given  us  bloody  argument. 
It  might  have  since  been  answered  in  repaying 
What  we  took  from  them  ;  which,  for  traffic's 

sake, 

Most  of  our  city  did  :  only  myself  stood  out : 
For  which,  if  I  be  lapsed  in  this  place, 
I  shall  pay  dear. 

Seb.  Do  not  then  walk  too  open. 

Ant.  It  doth  not  fit  me.     Hold,  sir,  here 's 

my  purse  ; 

In  the  south  suburbs,  at  the  Elephant, 
Is  best  to  lodge  :  I  will  bespeak  our  diet 
Whiles  you  beguile   the  time  and  feed  your 

knowledge 

With  viewing  of  the  town;  there  shall  you  have 
'me. 


SCENE  IV.] 


TWELFTH  NIGHT ;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


95 


Seb.  Why  I  your  purse  ?  [toy 

Ant.  Haply  your  eye  shall  light  upon  some 
You  have  desire  to  purchase  ;  and  your  store, 
I  think,  is  not  for  idle  markets,  sir. 

Seb,  I  '11  be  ycur  purse-bearer,  and  leave  you 
for  an  hour. 

Ant.  To  the  Elephant.— 

Seb.  I  do  remember. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — OLIVIA'S  Garden. 
Enter  OLIVIA  and  MARIA. 

Oli.  I  have  sent  after  him.     He  says  he  '11 

come  ; 

How  shall  I  feast  him  ?  what  bestow  on  him  ? 
For  youth  is  bought  more  oft  than  begged  or 
borrowed. 

I  speak  too  loud. 

Where  is  Malvolio  ? — he  is  sad  and  civil, 
And  suits  well  for  a  servant  with  my  fortunes; — 
Where  is  Malvolio  ? 

Mar.  He 's  coming,  madam  : 

But  in  strange  manner.     He  is  sure  possessed. 

Oli.  Why,  what 's  the  matter  ?  does  he  rave  ? 

Mar.  No,  madam, 

He  does  nothing  but  smile  :  your  ladyship 
Were  best  have  guard  about  you  if  he  come  ; 
For,  sure,  the  man  is  tainted  in  his  wits. 

Oli.  Go  call  him  hither. — I  'm  as  mad  as  he, 
If  sad  and  merry  madness  equal  be. — 

Enter  MALVOLIO. 
How  now,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  Sweet  lady,  ho,  ho. 

[Smiles  fantastically. 

Oli.  Smil'st  thou  ? 
I  sent  for  thee  upon  a  sad  occasion. 

Mai.  Sad,  lady  ?  I  could  be  sad  :  this  does 
make  some  obstruction  in  the  blood,  this  cross- 
gartering.  But  what  of  that ;  if  it  please  the 
eye  of  one,  it  is  with  me  as  the  very  true  sonnet 
is  :  Please  one  and  please  all. 

Oli.  Why,  how  dost  thou,  man?  what  is  the 
matter  with  thee  ? 

Mai.  Not  black  in  my  mind,  though  yellow 
in  my  legs.  It  did  come  to  his  hands,  and 
commands  shall  be  executed.  I  think  we  do 
know  the  sweet  Roman  hand. 

Oli.  Wilt  thou  go  to  bed,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  To  bed  ?  ay,  sweetheart ;  and  I  '11 
come  to  thee. 

Oli.  God  comfort  thee  !  Why  dost  thou 
smile  on,  and  kiss  thy  hand  so  oft  ? 

Mar.   How  do  you,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  At  your  request?  Yes;  nightingales 
answer  daws. 


Mar.  Why  appear  you  with  this  ridiculous 
boldness  before  my  lady  ? 

Mai.  Be  not  afraid  of  greatness: — 'twas  well 
writ. 

Oli.  What  meanest  thou  by  that,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  Some  are  born  great, — 

Oli.  Ha? 

Mai.  Some  achieve  greatness^ — 

Oli.  What  say'st  thou  ? 

Mai.  And  some  have  greatness  thrust  upon 
them. 

Oli.  Heaven  restore  thee  ! 

Mai.  Remember  who  commended  thy  yellow 
stockings  ; — 

Oli.  Thy  yellow  stockings  ? 

Mai.  And  wished  to  see  thee  cross -gartered. 

Oli.  Cross-gartered  ? 

Mai.  Go  to:  thou  art  made,  if  thou  desirest 
to  be  so : — 

Oli.  Am  I  made  ? 

Mai.  If  not,  let  me  see  thee  a  servant  still. 

Oli.  Why,  this  is  very  midsummer  madness. 

Enter  Servant. 

Ser.  Madam,  the  young  gentleman  of  the 
Count  Orsino's  is  returned ;  I  could  hardly 
entreat  him  back ;  he  attends  your  ladyship's 
pleasure. 

Oli.  I'll  come  to  him.  [Exit  Servant.] 
Good  Maria,  let  this  fellow  be  looked  to. 
Where  's  my  cousin  Toby  ?  Let  some  of  my 
people  have  a  special  care  of  him ;  I  would  not 
have  him  miscarry  for  the  half  of  my  dowry. 

[Exeunt  OLIVIA  and  MARIA. 

Mai.  Oh,  ho  !  do  you  come  near  me  now  ? 
no  worse  man  than  Sir  Toby  to  look  to  me  ? 
This  concurs  directly  with  the  letter  :  she  sends 
him  on  purpose  that  I  may  appear  stubborn  to 
him  ;  for  she  incites  me  to  that  in  the  letter. 
Cast  thy  humble  slough,  says  she  ; — be  oppositt 
with  a  kinsman,  surly  with  servants, — let  thy 
tongue  tang  with  arguments  of  state, — put  thy- 
self into  the  trick  of  singularity  ; and,  con- 
sequently, sets  down  the  manner  how;  as,  a 
sad  face,  a  reverend  carriage,  a  slow  tongue,  in 
the  habit  of  some  sir  of  note,  and  so  forth.  I 
have  limed  her ;  but  it  is  Jove's  doing,  and 
Jove  make  me  thankful !  And,  when  she 
went  away  now,  Let  this  fellow  be  looked  to : 
Fellow  !  not  Malvolio,  nor  after  my  degree, 
but  fellow.  Why,  everything  adheres  together; 
that  no  dram  oi  a  scruple,  no  scruple  of  a 
scruple,  no  obstacle, ,  no  incredulous  or  unsafe 
circumstance, — What  can  be  said?  Nothing, 
that  can  be,  can  come  between  me  and  the  full 
prospect  of  my  hopes.  Well,  Jove,  not  I,  is 
the  doer  of  this,  and  he  is  to  be  thanked. 


96 


TWELFTH  NIGHT;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


[ACT  in. 


Re-enter  MARIA,  with  Sir  TOBY  BELCH  and 
FABIAN. 

Sir  To.  Which  way  is  he,  in  the  name  of 
sanctity  ?  If  all  the  devils  of  hell  be  drawn  in 
little,  and  Legion  himself  possessed  him,  yet 
I '11  speak  to  him. 

Fab.  Here  he  is,  here  he  is  : — How  is 't  with 
you,  sir  ?  how  is 't  with  you,  man  ? 

Mai.  Go  off ;  I  discard  you  ;  let  me  enjoy 
my  private;  go  off. 

Mar.  Lo,  how  hollow  the  fiend  speaks  with- 
in him  !  did  not  I  tell  you  ? — Sir  Toby,  my 
lady  prays  you  to  have  a  care  of  him. 

Mai.  Ah,  ah  !  does  she  so  ? 

Sir  To.  Go  to,  go  to  ;  peace,  peace,  we 
must  deal  gently  with  him  ;  let  me  alone. 
How  do  you,  Malvolio  ?  how  is 't  with  you  ? 
What,  man  !  defy  the  devil :  consider,  he 's  an 
enemy  to  mankind. 

Mai.  Do  you  know  what  you  say  ? 

Mar.  La  you,  an  you  speak  ill  of  the  devil, 
how  he  takes  it  at  heart  !  Pray  God  he  be  not 
bewitched. 

Fab.  Carry  his  water  to  the  wise  woman. 

Mar.  Marry,  and  it  shall  be  done  to-morrow 
morning,  if  I  live.  My  lady  would  not  lose 
him  for  more  than  I  '11  say. 

Mai.  How  now,  mistress  ? 

Mar.  O  lord  ! 

Sir  To.  Pr'ythee,  hold  thy  peace  ;  this  is 
not  the  way.  Do  you  not  see  you  move  him  ? 
let  me  alone  with  him. 

Fab.  No  way  but  gentleness;  gently,  gently: 
the  fiend  is  rough,  and  will  not  be  roughly  used. 

Sir  To.  Why,  how  now,  my  bawcock?  how 
dost  thou,  chuck. 

Mai.  Sir? 

Sir  To.  Ay,  Biddy,  come  with  me.  What, 
man  !  'tis  not  for  gravity  to  play  at  cherry-pit 
with  Satan.  Hang  him,  foul  collier  ! 

Mar.  Get  him  to  say  his  prayers  ;  good  Sir 
Toby,  get  him  to  pray. 

Mai.  My  prayers,  minx  ? 

Mar.  No,  I  warrant  you,  he  will  not  hear 
of  godliness. 

Mai.  Go,  hang  yourselves  all  !  you  are  idle 
shallow  things  :  I  am  not  of  your  element ; 
you  shall  know  more  hereafter.  [Exit. 

Sir  To.  Is 't  possible  ? 

Fab.  If  this  were  played  upon  the  stage  now, 
I  could  condemn  it  as  an  improbable  fiction. 

Sir  To.  His  very  genius  hath  taken  the  in- 
fection of  the  device,  man. 

Mar.  Nay,  pursue  him  now  ;  lest  the  device 
take  air  and  taint. 

Fab.  Why,  we  shall  make  him  mad  indeed. 


Mar.  The  house  will  be  the  quieter. 

Sir  To.  Come,  we  '11  have  him  in  a  dark  room 
and  bound.  My  niece  is  already  in  the  belief 
that  he  is  mad  ;  we  may  carry  it  thus,  for  our 
pleasure  and  his  penance,  till  our  very  pastime, 
tired  out  of  breath,  prompt  us  to  have  mercy  on 
him  :  at  which  time  we  will  bring  the  device 
to  the  bar,  and  crown  thee  for  a  finder  of  mad- 
men. But  see,  but  see. 

Enter  Sir  ANDREW  AGUE-CHEEK. 

Fab.  More  matter  for  a  May  morning. 

Sir  And.  Here 's  the  challenge,  read  it ;  I 
warrant  there 's  vinegar  and  pepper  in 't. 

Fab.   Is  't  so  saucy  ? 

Sir  And.  Ay  is  it,  I  warrant  him  ;  do  but 
read. 

Sir  To.  Give  me.  [Reads.  ]  Youth,  whatso- 
ever thou  art,  thou  art  but  a  scurvy  fellow. 

Fab.  Good  and  valiant. 

Sir  To.  Wonder  not,  nor  admire  not  in  thy 
mind,  why  I  do  call  thee  so,  for  I  will  show  thee 
no  reason  for'' t. 

Fab.  A  good  note  :  that  keeps  you  from  the 
blow  of  the  law. 

Sir  To.  Thou  contest  to  the  Lady  Olivia,  and 
in  my  sight  she  uses  thee  kindly :  but  thou  liest 
in  thy  throat ;  that  is  not  the  matter  I  challenge 
thee  for.  [less. 

Fab.  Very  brief,  and  exceeding  good  sense- 

Sir  To.  I  will  way  lay  thee  going  home;  where 
if  it  be  thy  chance  to  kill  me, 

Fab.  Good. 

Sir  To.  Thou  killest  me  like  a  rogue  and  a 
villain. 

Fab.  Still  you  keep  o'  the  windy  side  of  the 
law.  Good. 

Sir  To.  Fare  thee  well ;  and  God  have  mercy 
upon  one  of  our  souls  !  He  may  have  mercy  upon 
mine  ;  but  my  hope  is  better,  and  so  look  to  thy- 
self. Thy  fmnd,  as  thou  usest  him,  and  thy 
sworn  enemy,  ANDREW  AGUE-CHEEK. 

Sir  To.  If  this  letter  move  him  not,  his  legs 
cannot :  I  '11  give 't  him. 

Mar.  You  may  have  very  fit  occasion  for 't ; 
he  is  now  in  some  commerce  with  my  lady,  and 
will  by  and  by  depart. 

Sir  To.  Go,  Sir  Andrew  ;  scout  me  for  him 
at  the  corner  of  the  orchard,  like  a  bum-bailiff ; 
so  soon  as  ever  thou  seest  him,  draw  ;  and,  as 
thou  drawest,  swear  horrible  ;  for  it  comes  to 
pass  oft  that  a  terrible  oath,  with  a  swaggering 
accent  sharply  twanged  off,  gives  manhood  more 
approbation  than  ever  proof  itself  would  have 
earned  him.  Away. 

Sir  And.  Nay,  let  me  alone  for  swearing. 

[Exit. 


SCENE  IV.] 


TWELFTH  NIGHT ;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


97 


Sir  To.  Now  will  not  I  deliver  his  letter  ;  for 
the  behaviour  of  the  young  gentleman  gives  him 
out  to  be  of  good  capacity  and  breeding ;  his  em- 
ployment between  his  lord  and  my  niece  con- 
firms no  less  ;  therefore  this  letter,  being  so 
excellently  ignorant,  will  breed  no  terror  in  the 
yomh  :  he  will  find  it  comes  from  a  clodpole. 
But,  sir,  I  will  deliver  his  challenge  by  word  of 
mouth,  set  upon  Ague-cheek  a  notable  report  of 
valour,  and  drive  the  gentleman, — as  I  know  his 
youth  will  aptly  receive  it, — into  a  most  hideous 
opinion  of  his  rage,  skill ,  fury,  and  impetuosity. 
This  will  so  fright  thenr  both  that  they  will  kill 
one  another  by  the  look,  like  cockatrices. 

A  -  •£•  '        •'        ^  •  ''  '  '     ^  .•      .  -     '    ,  *  ilj--  i{.      .  Vt '-  *•..  '>  V.  * 

Enter  OLIVIA  and  VIOLA. 

Fab.  Here  he  comes  with  your  niece ;  give 
them  way  till  he  take  leave,  and  presently  after 
him. 

Sir  To.  I  will  meditate  the  while  upon  some 
horrid  message  for  a  challenge. 

[Exeunt  Sir  To.,  FAB.,  and  MAR. 

Oli.  I  have  said  too  much  unto  a  heart  of 

stone, 

And  laid  mine  honour  too  unchary  on  it : 
There 's  something  in  me  that  reproves  my  fault; 
But  such  a  headstrong  potent  fault  it  is 
That  it  but  mocks  reproof.  [bears 

Vio.  With  the  same  'haviour  that  your  passion 
Go  on  my  master's  griefs.  [picture  ; 

Oli.  Here,  wear  this  jewel  for  me,  'tis  my 
Refuse  it  not,  it  hath  no  tongue  to  vex  you  : 
And,  I  beseech  you,  come  again  to-morrow. 
What  shall  you  ask  of  me  that  I  '11  deny, 
That,  honour  saved,  may  upon  asking  give  ? 

Vio.  Nothing  but  this,  your  true  love  for  my 
master.  [that 

Oli.  How  with  mine  honour  may  I  give  him 
Which  I  have  given  to  you  ? 

Vio.  I  will  acquit  you. 

Oli.    Well,   come   again  to-morrow.      Fare 

thee  well ; 
A  fiend  like  thee  might  bear  my  soul  to  hell. 

\^£LXlf. 

TOieimvjU  *:m';t  ^>r=  -^\      <'->.  ;,-  .-;,•.»•..••.;  -.jSjsJ  nfi^ 

Re-enter  Sir  TOBY  BELCH  and  FABIAN. 

Sir  To.  Gentleman,  God  save  thee. 

Vio.  And  you,  sir. 

Sir  To.  That  defence  thou  hast,  betake  thee 
to 't.  Of  what  nature  the  wrongs  are  thou  hast 
done  him,  I  know  not;  but  thy  intercepter, 
full  of  despight,  bloody  as  the  hunter,  attends 
thee  at  the  orchard  end  :  dismount  thy  tuck, 
be  yare  in  thy  preparation,  for  thy  assailant  is 
quick,  skilful,  and  deadly. 

Vio.  You  mistake,  sir  ;  I  am  sure  no  man 


hath  any  quarrel  to  me  ;  my  remembrance  is 
very  free  and  clear  from  any  image  of  offence 
done  to  any  man. 

Sir  To.  You'll  find  it  otherwise,  I  assure 
you  :  therefore,  if  you  hold  your  life  at  any 
price,  betake  you  to  your  guard  ;  for  your  op- 
posite hath  in  him  what  youth,  strength,  skill, 
and  wrath  can  furnish  man  withal. 

Vio.  I  pray  you,  sir,  what  is  he  ? 

Sir  To.  He  is  a  knight,  dubbed  with  un- 
hacked  rapier,  and  on  carpet  consideration  ; 
but  he  is  a  devil  in  private  brawl ;  souls  and 
bodies  hath  he  divorced  three ;  and  his  in- 
censement  at  this  moment  is  so  implacable  that 
satisfaction  can  be  none  but  by  pangs  of  death 
and  sepulchre :  hob,  nob,  is  his  word  ;  give 't 
or  take 't. 

Vio.  I  will  return  again  into  the  house  and 
desire  some  conduct  of  the  lady.  I  am  no 
fighter.  I  have  heard  of  some  kind  of  men 
that  put  quarrels  purposely  on  others  to  taste 
their  valour :  belike  this  is  a  man  of  that  quirk. 

Sir  To.  Sir,  no  ;  his  indignation  derives  it- 
self out  of  a  very  competent  injury  ;  therefore, 
get  you  on,  and  give  him  his  desire.  Back  you 
shall  not  to  the  house,  unless  you  undertake 
that  with  me  which  with  as  much  safety  you 
might  answer  him  :  therefore  on,  or  strip  you* 
sword  stark  naked ;  for  meddle  you  must, 
that's  certain,  or  forswear  to  wear  iron  about 
you. 

Vio.  This  is  as  uncivil  as  strange.  I  be- 
seech you,  do  me  this  courteous  office  as  to 
know  of  the  knight  what  my  offence  to  him  is ; 
it  is  something  of  my  negligence,  nothing  of 
my  purpose. 

Sir  To.  I  will  do  so.  Signior  Fabian,  stay 
you  by  this  gentleman  till  my  return. 

{Exit  Sir  TOBY. 

Vio.  Pray  you,  sir,  do  you  know  of  this 
matter  ? 

Fab.  I  know  the  knight  is  incensed  against 
you,  even  to  a  mortal  arbitrement ;  but  nothing 
of  the  circumstance  more. 

Vio.  I  beseech  you,  what  manner  of  man  is 
he? 

Fab.  Nothing  of  that  wonderful  promise,  to 
read  him  by  his  form,  as  you  are  like  to  find 
him  in  the  proof  of  his  valour.  He  is  indeed, 
sir,  the  most  skilful,  bloody,  and  fatal  opposite 
that  you  could  possibly  have  found  in  any  part 
of  Illyria.  Will  you  walk  towards  him?  I 
will  make  your  peace  with  him  if  I  can. 

Vio.  I  shall  be  much  bound  to  you  for 't.  I 
am  one  that  would  rather  go  with  sir  priest 
than  sir  knight :  I  care  not  who  knows  so 
much  of  my  mettle.  [Exeunt. 

D 


TWELFTH  NIGHT ;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


[ACT  III. 


Re-enter  Sir  TOBY  with  Sir  ANDREW. 

Sir  To.  Why,  man,  he's  a  very  devil;  I 
have  not  seen  such  a  virago.  I  had  a  pass  with 
him,  rapier,  scabbard,  and  all,  and  he  gives  me 
the  stuck-in  with  such  a  mortal  motion  that  it 
is  inevitable  ;  and  on  the  answer,  he -pays  you 
as  surely  as  your  feet  hit  the  ground  they  step 
on.  They  say  he  has  been  fencer  to  the 
Sophy. 

Sir  And.  Pox  on 't,  I  '11  not  meddle  with  him. 

Sir  To.  Ay,  but  he  will  not  now  be  pacified : 
Fabian  can  scarce  hold  him  yonder. 

Sir  And.  Plague  on 't ;  an  I  thought  he  had 
been  valiant,  and  so  cunning  in  fence,  I  'd  have 
seen  him  damned  ere  I  'd  have  challenged  him. 
Let  him  let  the  matter  slip  and  I  '11  give  him 
my  horse,  gray  Capilet. 

Sir  To.  I  '11  make  the  motion.  Stand  here, 
make  a  good  show  on  't ;  this  shall  end  without 
the  perdition  of  souls.  Marry,  I  '11  ride  your 
horse  as  well  as  I  ride  you.  [Aside. 

Re-enter  FABIAN  and  VIOLA. 

I  have  his  horse  [to  FAB.]  to  take  up  the  quarrel; 
I  have  persuaded  him  the  youth  ;s  a  devil. 

Fab.  He  is  as  horribly  conceited  of  him  ; 
and  pants  and  looks  pale,  as  if  a  bear  were  at 
his  heels. 

Sir  To.  There 's  no  remedy,  sir ;  he  will 
fight  with  you  for  his  oath  sake:  marry,  he 
hath  better  bethought  him  of  his  quarrel,  and 
he  finds  that  now  scarce  to  be  worth  talking 
of :  therefore  draw,  for  the  supportance  of  his 
vow  ;  he  protests  he  will  not  hurt  you. 

Via.  Pray  God  defend  me  !  A  little  thing 
would  make  me  tell  them  how  much  I  lack  of 
a  man.  [Aside. 

Fab.  Give  ground  if  you  see  him  furious. 

Sir  To.  Come,  Sir  Andrew,  there 's  no  re- 
medy;  the  gentleman  will,  for  his  honour's 
sake,  have  one  bout  with  you:  he  cannot  by 
the  duello  avoid  it ;  but  he  has  promised  me, 
as  he  is  a  gentleman  and  a  soldier,  he  will  not 
hurt  you.  Come  on  :  to 't. 

Sir  And.  Pray  God,  he  keep  his  oath. 

[Draws. 

Enter  ANTONIO. 

Via.   I  do  assure  you  'tis  against  my  will. 

[Draws. 
Ant.   Put  up  your  sword  :— if  this   young 

gentleman 

Have  done  offence,  I  take  the  fault  on  me ; 
If  you  offend  him  I  for  him  defy  you. 

[Drawing. 
Sir  To.  You,  sir  ?  why,  what  are  you  ? 


Ant.  One,  sir,  that  for  his  love  dares  yet  do 

more 
Than  you  have  heard  him  brag  to  you  he  will. 

Sir  To.  Nay,  if  you  be  an  undertaker  I  am 
for  you.  [Draws. 

Enter  two  Officers. 

Fab.  O  good  Sir  Toby,  hold ;  here  come 
the  officers. 

Sir  To.  I  '11  be  with  you  anon. 

[To  ANTONIO. 

Via.  Pray,  sir,  put  up  your  sword,  if  you 
please.  [To  Sir  ANDREW. 

Sir  And.  Marry,  will  I,  sir ;  and,  for  that  I 
promised  you,  I  '11  be  as  good  as  my  word.  He 
will  bear  you  easily  and  reins  well. 

1  Off.  This  is  the  man  ;  do  thy  office. 

2  Off.  Antonio,  I  arrest  thee  at  the  suit 
Of  Count  Orsino. 

Ant.  You  do  mistake  me,  sir. 

1  Off.  No,  sir,  no  jot ;  I  know  your  favour 

well,  [head.— 

Though  now  you  have  no  sea-cap  on  your 
Take  him  away ;  he  knows  I  know  him  well. 
Ant.  I  must  obey.  — This  comes  from  seeking 

you; 

But  there 's  no  remedy  ;  I  shall  answer  it. 
What  will  you  do  ?    Now  my  necessity       [me 
Makes  me  to  ask  you  for  my  purse.     It  grieves 
Much  more  for  what  I  cannot  do  for  you 
Than  what  befalls  myself.     You  stand  amazed ; 
But  be  of  comfort. 

2  Off.  Come,  sir,  away.  [money. 
Ant.    I  must  entreat  of  you  some  of  that 

Vio.  What  money,  sir  ? 

For  the  fair  kindness  you  have  showed  me  here, 
And   part   being   prompted   by   your    present 

trouble, 

Out  of  my  lean  and  low  ability  [much  ; 

I'll  lend  you  something;   my  having  is   not 
I  '11  make  division  of  my  present  with  you  : 
Hold,  there  is  half  my  coffer. 

Ant.  Will  you  deny  me  now  ? 

Is 't  possible  that  my  deserts  to  you 
Can  lack  persuasion  ?     Do  not  tempt  my  misery 
Lest  that  it  make  me  so  unsound  a  man 
As  to  upbraid  you  with  those  kindnesses 
That  I  have  done  for  you. 

Vio.  I  know  of  none, 

Nor  know  I  you  by  voice  or  any  feature  : 
I  hate  ingratitude  more  in  a  man 
Than  lying,  vainness,  babbling,  drunkenness, 
Or  any  taint  of  vice  whose  strong  corruption 
Inhabits  our  frail  blood. 

Ant.  O  heavens  themselves  I 

2  Off.  Come,  sir,  I  pray  you  go. 


SCENE  IV.] 


TWELFTH  NIGHT ;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


99 


Ant.   Let  me  speak  a  little.     This  youth  that 

you  see  here 
I  snatched  one  half  out  of  the  jaws  of  death, 

Relieved  him  with  such  sanctity  of  love, 

And  to  his  image,  which  methought  did  promise 
Most  venerable  worth,  did  I  devotion. 

i  Off.  What 's  that  to  us  ?    The  time  goes 
by;  away. 

Ant.  But  O  how  vile  an  idol  proves  this  god  ! 
Thou  hast,  Sebastian,  done  good  feature  shame. 
In  nature  there 's  no  blemish  but  the  mind  ; 
None  can  be  call'd  deform'd  but  the  unkind  : 
Virtue  is  beauty  ;  but  the  beauteous-evil 
Are  empty  trunks  o'erflourish'd  by  the  devil. 

I  Off.  The  man  grcws  mad;  away  with  him. 
Come,  come,  sir. 

Ant.  Lead  me  on. 

{Exeunt  Officers  with  ANTONIO. 

Via.    Methinks    his   words    do    from    such 

passion  fly 

That  he  believes  himself ;  so  do  not  I. 
Prove  true,  imagination  ;  O  prove  true, 
That  I,  dear  brother,  be  now  ta'en  for  you  ! 

Sir  To.  Come  hither,  knight ;  come  hither, 
Fabian  ;  we  '11  whisper  o'er  a  couple  or  two  of 
most  sage  saws. 

Vio.   He  named  Sebastian;  I  my  brother  know 
Yet  living  in  my  glass  ;  even  such  and  so 
In  favour  was  my  brother  ;  and  he  went 
Still  in  this  fashion,  colour,  ornament, 
For  him  I  imitate.     O,  if  it  prove, 
Tempests  are  kind,  and  salt  waves  fresh  in  love! 

[Exit. 

Sir  To.  A  very  dishonest  paltry  boy,  and 
more  a  coward  than  a  hare :  his  dishonesty  ap- 
pears in  leaving  his  friend  here  in  necessity, 
and  denying  him  ;  and  for  his  cowardship,  ask 
Fabian. 

Fab.  A  coward,  a  most  devout  coward,  re- 
ligious in  it.  [him. 

Sir  And.  'Slid,  I  '11  after  him  again  and  beat 

Sir  To.  Do,  cuff  him  soundly,  but  never 
draw  thy  sword. 

Sir  And.  An'  I  do  not, —  [Exit. 

Fab.  Come,  let 's  see  the  event. 

Sir  To.  I  dare  lay  any  money  'twill  be  no- 
thing yet.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 
SCENE  \.~The  Street  before  OLIVIA'S  House. 

Enter  SEBASTIAN  and  CLOWN. 
Clo.  Will  you  make  me  believe  that  I  am 
not  sent  for  you  ? 

Seb.  Go  to,  go  to,  thou  art  a  foolish  fellow  j 
Let  me  be  clear  of  thee. 


Clo.  Well  held  out,  i'  faith  !  No,  I  do  not 
know  you  ;  nor  I  am  not  sent  to  you  by  my 
lady,  to  bid  you  come  speak  with  her  ;  nor 
your  name  is  not  Master  Cesario ;  nor  this  is 
not  my  nose  neither. — Nothing  that  is  so  is  so. 

Seb.  I  pr'ythee,  vent  thy  folly  somewhere 
else.  Thou  knowst  not  me. 

Clo.  Vent  my  folly  !  he  has  heard  that  word 
of  some  great  man,  and  now  applies  it  to  a  fool. 
Vent  my  folly  !  I  am  afraid  this  great  lubber, 
the  world,  will  prove  a  cockney. — I  pr'ythee 
now,  ungird  thy  strangeness,  and  tell  me  what 
I  shall  vent  to  my  lady.  Shall  I  vent  to  her 
that  thou  art  coming  ? 

Seb.  I  pr'ythee,  foolish  Greek,  depart  from  me ; 
There 's  money  for  thee  ;  if  you  tarry  longer 
I  shall  give  worse  paymant. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  thou  hast  an  open  hand  : 
— These  wise  men  that  give  fools  money  get 
themselves  a  good  report  after  fourteen  years' 
purchase. 

Enter  Sir  ANDREW,  Sir  TOBY,  and  FABIAN. 

Sit  And.  Now,  sir,  have  I  met  you  again  ? 

there 's  for  you.  [Striking  SEBASTIAN. 

Seb.  Why,  there 's  for  thee,  and  there,  and 

there. 
Are  all  the  people  mad  ? 

[Beating  Sir  ANDREW. 

Sir  To.  Hold,  sir,  or  I  '11  throw  your  dagger 
o'er  the  house. 

Clo.  This  will  I  tell  my  lady  straight.  I  would 
not  be  in  some  of  your  coats  for  twopence. 

[Exit  CLOWN. 
Sir  To.  Come  on,  sir  ;  hold. 

[Holding  SEBASTIAN. 

Sir  And.  Nay,  let  him  alone  ;  I  '11  go  an- 
other way  to  work  with  him  ;  I  '11  have  an 
action  of  battery  against  him,  if  there  be  any 
law  in  Illyria  :  though  I  struck  him  first,  yet 
it 's  no  matter  for  that. 
Seb.  Let  go  thy  hand. 

Sir  To.  Come,  sir,  I  will  not  let  you  go. 
Come,  my  young  soldier,  put  up  your  iron :  you 
are  well  fleshed  ;  come  on. 

Seb.  I  will  be  free  from  thee.     What  wouldst 

thou  now  ? 

If  thou  dar'st  tempt  me  further,  draw  thy  sword. 

[Draws. 

Sir  To.  What,  what?  Nay,  then  I  must 
have  an  ounce  or  two  of  this  malapert  blood 
from  you.  [Draws. 

Enter  OLIVIA. 

Oli.   Hold,  Toby;  on  thy  life,  I  charge  thee, 

hold. 
Sir  To.   Madam  ? 


100 


TWELFTH  NIGHT ;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


[ACT  iv. 


OIL  Will  it  be  ever  thus?    Ungracious  wretch, 
Fit  for  the  mountains  and  the  barbarous  caves, 
Where  manners  ne'er  were  preach'd  !     Out  of 
my  sight  ! 

Be  not  offended,  dear  Cesario  ! 

Rudesby,  be  gone  ! — I  pr'ythee,  gentle  friend, 
[Exeunt  Sir  To.,  Sir  AND.,  and  FAB. 
Let  thy  fair  wisdom,  not  thy  passion,  sway 
In  this  uncivil  and  unjust  extent 
Against  thy  peace.      Go  with  me  to  my  house, 
And  hear  thou  there  how  many  fruitless  pranks 
This  ruffian  hath  botch'd  up,  that  thou  thereby 
Mayst  smile  at  this:  thou  shalt  not  choose  but  go; 
Do  not  deny.     Beshrew  his  soul  for  me, 
He  started  one  poor  heart  of  mine  in  thee. 

Seb.  What  relish  is  in  this?  how  runs  the  stream? 
Or  am  I  mad  ?  or  else  this  is  a  dream  :- 
Let  fancy  still  my  sense  in  Lethe  steep  ; 
If  it  be  thus  to  dream,  still  let  me  sleep  ! 

Oli.  Nay,  come,  I  pr'ythee.    Would  thou  'dst 
be  ruled  by  me  ! 

Seb.  Madam,  I  will. 

Oli.  O,  say  so,  and  so  be  ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  OLIVIA'S  House. 
Enter  MARIA  and  CLOWN. 

Mar.  Nay,  I  pr'ythee,  put  on  this  gown  and 
this  beard ;  make  him  believe  thou  art  Sir 
Topas  the  curate ;  do  it  quickly  :  I  '11  call  Sir 
Toby  the  whilst.  [Exit  MARIA. 

Clo.  Well,  I'll  put  it  on,  and  I  will  dissemble 
myself  in 't ;  and  I  would  I  were  the  first  that 
ever  dissembled  in  such  a  gown.  I  am  not  fat 
enough  to  become  the  function  well :  nor  lean 
enough  to  be  thought  a  good  student :  but  to  be 
said,  an  honest  man  and  a  good  housekeeper, 
goes  as  fairly  as  to  say,  a  careful  man  and  a 
great  scholar.  The  competitors  enter. 

Enter  Sir  TOBY  BELCH  and  MARIA. 

Sir  To.  Jove  bless  thee,  master  parson. 

Clo.  Bonos  dies,  Sir  Toby:  for  as  the  old 
hermit  of  Prague,  that  never  saw  pen  and  ink, 
very  wittily  said  to  a  niece  of  King  Gorboduc, 
That  that  is,  is:  so  I,  being  master  parson,  am 
master  parson  :  for  what  is  that  but  that  ?  and 
is  but  is  ? 

Sir  To.  To  him,  Sir  Topas. 

Clo.  What,  hoa,  I  say, — Peace  in  this  prison! 

Sir  To.  The  knave  counterfeits  well ;  a  good 
knave.  [there  ? 

Mai.    [In  an  inner   chamber. ~\    Who  calls 

Clo.  Sir  Topas  the  curate,  who  comes  to 
visit  Malvolio  the  lunatic. 

Mai.  Sir  Topas,  Sir  Topas,  good  Sir  Topas, 
go  to  my  lady. 


Clo.  Out,  hyperbolical  fiend  !  how  vexest 
thou  this  man  ?  talkest  thou  nothing  but  of 
ladies  ? 

Sir  To.  Well  said,  master  parson. 

Mai.  Sir  Topas,  never  was  man  thus 
wronged  :  good  Sir  Topas,  do  not  think  I  am 
mad;  they  have  laid  me  here  in  hideous  darkness. 

Clo.  Fie,  thou  dishonest  Sathan  !  I  call  thee 
by  the  most  modest  terms ;  for  I  am  one  of  those 
gentle  ones  that  will  use  the  devil  himself  with 
courtesy.  Say'st  thou  that  house  is  dark  ? 

Mai.  As  hell,  Sir  Topas. 

Clo.  Why,  it  hath  bay-windows,  transparent 
as  barricadoes,  and  the  clear  storeys  towards 
the  south-north  are  as  lustrous  as  ebony;  and 
yet  complainest  thou  of  obstruction  ? 

Mai.  I  am  not  mad,  Sir  Topas;  I  say  to  you 
this  house  is  dark. 

Clo.  Madman,  thou  errest.  I  say  there  is  no 
darkness  but  ignorance;  in  which  thou  art  more 
puzzled  than  the  Egyptians  in  their  fog. 

Mai.  I  say  this  house  is  as  dark  as  ignor- 
ance, though  ignorance  were  as  dark  as  hell ; 
and  I  say  there  was  never  man  thus  abused.  I 
am  no  more  mad  than  you  are  ;  make  the  trial 
of  it  in  any  constant  question. 

Clo.  What  is  the  opinion  of  Pythagoras  con- 
cerning wild-fowl  ? 

Mai.  That  the  soul  of  our  grandam  might 
haply  inhabit  a  bird. 

Clo.  What  thinkest  thou  of  his  opinion  ? 

Mai.  I  think  nobly  of  the  soul,  and  no  way 
approve  of  his  opinion. 

Clo.  Fare  thee  well.  Remain  thou  still  in 
darkness :  thou  shalt  hold  the  opinion  of 
Pythagoras  ere  I  will  allow  of  thy  wits  ;  and 
fear  to  kill  a  woodcock  lest  thou  dispossess  the 
soul  of  thy  grandam.  Fare  thee  well. 

Mai.  Sir  Topas,  Sir  Topas  ! 

Sir  To.   My  most  exquisite  Sir  Topas  ! 

Clo.  Nay,  I  am  for  all  waters. 

Mar.  Thou  mightst  have  done  this  without 
thy  beard  and  gown  ;  he  sees  thee  not. 

Sir  To.  To  him  in  thine  own  voice,  and 
bring  me  word  how  thou  findest  him  :  I  would 
we  were  well  rid  of  this  knavery.  If  he  may  be 
conveniently  delivered,  I  would  he  were  ;  for  I 
am  now  so  far  in  offence  with  my  niece  that  I 
cannot  pursue  with  any  safety  this  sport  to  the 
upshot.  Come  by  and  by  to  my  chamber. 

[Exeunt  Sir  To.  and  MAR. 


Clo. 


Hey,  Robin,  jolly  Robin, 

Tell  me  how  thy  lady  does.     [Singing. 


Mai.  Fool, — 

Clo.  My  lady  is  unkind,  perdy, 

Mai.  Fool, — 


SCENE  II.] 


TWELFTH  NIGHT ;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


101 


Clo.  Alas,  why  is  she  so? 

Mai.  Fool,  I  say  ; — • 

Clo.  She  loves  another — Who  calls,  ha  ? 

Mai.  Good  fool,  as  ever  thou  wilt  deserve 
well  at  my  hand,  help  me  to  a  candle,  and  pen, 
ink,  and  paper ;  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  will 
live  to  be  thankful  to  thee  for 't. 

Clo.  Master  Malvolio  ! 

Mai.  Ay,  good  fool. 

Clo.  Alas,  sir,  how  fell  you  besides  your  five 
wits  ? 

Mai.  Fool,  there  was  never  man  so  notori- 
ously abused  ;  I  am  as  well  in  my  wits,  fool,  as 
thou  art. 

Clo.  But  as  well  ?  then  you  are  mad  indeed, 
if  you  be  no  better  in  your  wits  than  a  fool. 

Mai.  They  have  here  propertied  me  ;  keep 
me  in  darkness,  send  ministers  to  me,  asses,  and 
do  all  they  can  to  face  me  out  of  my  wits. 

Clo.  Advise  you  what  you  say  ;  the  minister 
is  here.  —  Malvolio,  Malvolio,  thy  wits  the 
heavens  restore  !  endeavour  thyself  to  sleep, 
and  leave  thy  vain  bibble-babble. 

Mai.  Sir  Topas, 

Clo.  Maintain  no  words  with  him,  good  fellow. 
Who,  I,  sir?  not  I,  sir.  God  b'  wi'  you,  good 
Sir  Topas. — Marry,  amen. — I  will,  sir,  I  will. 

Mai.   Fool,  fool,  fool,  I  say, — 

Clo.  Alas,  sir,  be  patient.  What  say  you, 
sir  ?  I  am  shent  for  speaking  to  you. 

Mai.  Good  fool,  help  me  to  some  light  and 
some  paper  ;  I  tell  thee  I  am  as  well  in  my 
wits  as  any  man  in  Illyria. 

Clo.  Well-a-day, — that  you  were,  sir  ! 

Mai.  By  this  hand,  I  am  :  Good  fool,  some 
ink,  paper,  and  light,  and  convey  what  I  will 
set  down  to  my  lady ;  it  shall  advantage  thee 
more  than  ever  the  bearing  of  letter  did. 

Clo.  I  will  help  you  to 't.  But  tell  me  true,  are 
you  not  mad  indeed?  or  do  you  but  counterfeit? 

Mai.  Believe  me,  I  am  not ;  I  tell  thee  true. 

Clo.  Nay,  I  '11  ne'er  believe  a  madman  till  I 
see  his  brains.  I  will  fetch  you  light,  and 
paper,  and  ink. 

Mai.  Fool,  I  '11  requite  it  in  the  highest  de- 
gree :  I  pr'ythee,  be  gone. 

Clo.  I  am  gone,  sir, 

And  anon,  sir, 
I  '11  be  with  you  again, 
In  a  trice. 

Like  to  the  old  vice, 
Your  need  to  sustain  ; 

Who  with  dagger  of  lath, 
In  his  rage  and  his  wrath, 

Cries  ah,  ha  !  to  the  devil : 
Like  a  mad  lad, 
Pare  thy  nails,  dad, 

Adieu,  goodman  drivel. 

[Exit. 


SCENE  III.— OLIVIA'S  Garden. 
Enter  SEBASTIAN. 

Seb.  This  is  the  air ;  that  is  the  glorious  sun ; 
This  pearl  she  gave  me,  I  do  feel 't,  and  see 't : 
And  though  'tis  wonder  that  enwraps  me  thus, 
Yet  'tis  not  madness.    Where 's  Antonio,  then  ? 
I  could  not  find  him  at  the  Elephant ; 
Yet  there  he  was  ;  and  there  I  found  this  credit, 
That  he  did  range  the  town  to  seek  me  out. 
His  counsel  now  might  do  me  golden  service  : 
For  though  my  soul  disputes  well  with  my  sense, 
That  this  may  be  some  error,  but  no  madness, 
Yet  doth  this  accident  and  flood  of  fortune 
So  far  exceed  all  instance,  all  discourse, 
That  I  am  ready  to  distrust  mine  eyes 
And  wrangle  with  my  reason,  that  persuades  me 
To  any  other  trust  but  that  I  am  mad, 
Or  else  the  lady  's  mad  ;  yet  if  'twere  so, 
She  could  not  sway  her  house,  command  her 

followers, 

Take  and  give  back  afiairs  and  their  despatch 
With  such  a  smooth,  discreet,  and  stable  bearing 
As  I  perceive  she  does :  there 's  something  in  '\ 
That  is  deceivable.    But  here  comes  the  lady. 

Enter  OLIVIA  and  a  Priest. 

Oli.  Blame  not  this  haste  of  mine.     If  you 

mean  well, 

Now  go  with  me  and  with  this  holy  man 
Into  the  chantry  by  :  there,  before  him 
And  underneath  that  consecrated  roof, 
Plight  me  the  full  assurance  of  your  faith, 
That  my  most  jealous  and  too  doubtful  soul 
May  live  at  peace.     He  shall  conceal  it 
Whiles  you  are  willing  it  shall  come  to  note  ; 
What  time  we  will  our  celebration  keep 
According  to  my  birth. — What  do  you  say  ? 
Seb.   I  '11  follow  this  good  man,  and  go  with 

you  ; 
And,  having  sworn  truth,  ever  will  be  true. 

Oli.  Then  lead  the  way,  good  father ; 

And  heavens  so  shine 
That  they  may  fairly  note  this  act  of  mine  ! 

[Exeunt. 

••.  V^JBE  .  ACT  V. 
SCENE  I. — The  Street  before  OLIVIA'S  House. 

Enter  CLOWN  and  FABIAN. 
Fab.  Now,  as  thou  lovest  me,  let  me  see  his 
letter. 

Clo.  Good  Master  Fabian,  grant  me  another 
request. 

Fab.     Anything. 

Clo.  Do  not  desire  to  see  this  letter. 


102 


TWELFTH  NIGHT ;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


[ACT  v. 


Fab.  That  is  to  give  a  dog  ;  and  in  recom- 
pense, desire  my  dog  again. 

Enter  DUKE,  VIOLA,  and  Attendants. 

Duke.  Belong  you  to  the  Lady  Olivia, 
friends  ? 

Clo.  Ay,  sir  ;  we  are  some  of  her  trappings. 

Duke.  I  know  thee  well.  How  dost  thou, 
my  good  fellow  ? 

Clo.  Truly,  sir,  the  better  for  my  foes  and 
the  worse  for  my  friends.  [friends. 

Duke.  Just  the  contrary ;  the  better  for  thy 

Clo.  No,  sir,  the  worse. 

Duke.  How  can  that  be  ? 

Clo.  Marry,  sir,  they  praise  me,  and  make 
an  ass  of  me ;  now  my  foes  tell  me  plainly  I 
am  an  ass  :  so  that  by  my  foes,  sir,  I  profit  in 
the  knowledge  of  myself,  and  by  my  friends  I 
am  abused  :  so  that,  conclusions  to  be  as  kisses, 
if  your  four  negatives  make  your  two  affirma- 
tives, why  then,  the  worse  for  my  friends  and 
the  better  for  my  foes. 

Duke.  Why,  this  is  excellent. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  sir,  no ;  though  it  please 
you  to  be  one  of  my  friends. 

Duke.  Thou  shalt  not  be  the  worse  for  me  ; 
there 's  gold. 

Clo.  But  that  it  would  be  double-dealing, 
sir,  I  would  you  could  make  it  another. 

Duke.  O,  you  give  me  ill  counsel. 

Clo.  Put  your  grace  in  your  pocket,  sir,  for 
this  once,  and  let  your  flesh  and  blood  obey  it. 

Duke.  Well,  I  will  be  so  much  a  sinner  to 
be  a  double-dealer  :  there 's  another. 

Clo.  Primo,  secundo,  tertio,  is  a  good  play ; 
and  the  old  saying  is,  the  third  pays  for  all ;  the 
triplex,  sir,  is  a  good  tripping  measure  ;  or  the 
bells  of  St.  Bennet,  sir,  may  put  you  in  mind  ; 
One,  two,  three. 

Duke.  You  can  fool  no  more  money  out  of 
me  at  this  throw :  if  you  will  let  your  lady  know 
I  am  here  to  speak  with  her,  and  bring  her 
along  with  you,  it  may  awake  my  bounty 
further. 

Clo.  Marry,  sir,  lullaby  to  your  bounty  till  I 
come  again.  I  go,  sir  ;  but  I  would  not  have 
you  to  think  that  my  desire  of  having  is  the  sin 
of  covetousness :  but,  as  you  say,  sir,  let  your 
bounty  take  a  nap,  I  will  awake  it  anon. 

{Exit  CLOWN. 

Enter  ANTONIO  and  Officers. 

Vio.  Here  comes  the  man,  sir,  that  did 
rescue  me. 

Duke.  That  face  of  his  I  do  remember  well : 
Yet,  when  I  saw  it  last,  it  was  besmeared 
As  black  as  Vulcan  in  the  smoke  of  war  : 


A  bawbling  vessel  was  he  captain  of, 
For  shallow  draught  and  bull:  unprizable  ; 
With  which  such  scathful  grapple  did  he  make 
With  the  most  noble  bottom  of  our  fleet, 
That  very  envy  and  the  tongue  of  loss 
Cried  fame  and  honour  on  him. — What's  the 

matter? 

I  Off.  Orsino,  this  is  that  Antonio    [Candy  : 
That  took  the  Phcenix  and  her  fraught  from 
And  this  is  he  that  did  the  Tiger  board 
When  your  young  nephew  Titus  lost  his  leg  : 
Here  in  the  streets,  desperate  of  shame  and  state, 
In  private  brabble  did  we  apprehend  him. 
Vio.  He  did  me  kindness,  sir ;  drew  on  my 

side  ; 

But,  in  conclusion,  put  strange  speech  upon  me, 
I  know  not  what  'twas,  but  distraction. 

Duke.  Notable  pirate  !  thou  salt-water  thief ! 
What  foolish  boldness  brought  thee  to  their 

mercies, 

Whom  thou,  in  terms  so  bloody  and  so  dear, 
Hast  made  thine  enemies  ? 

Ant.  Orsino,  noble  sir, 

Be  pleased  that  I  shake  off  these  names  you  give 

me ; 

Antonio  never  yet  was  thief  or  pirate, 
Though,  I  confess,  on  base  and  ground  enough, 
Orsino's  enemy.    A  witchcraft  drew  me  hither : 
That  most  ingrateful  boy  there,  by  your  side, 
From  the  rude  sea's  enraged  and  foamy  mouth 
Did  I  redeem  ;  a  wreck  past  hope  he  was  : 
His  life  I  gave  him,  and  did  thereto  add 
My  love,  without  retention  or  restraint, 
All  his  in  dedication  :  for  his  sake, 
Did  I  expose  myself,  pure  for  his  love, 
Into  the  danger  of  this  adverse  town  ; 
Drew  to  defend  him  when  he  was  beset : 
Where  being  apprehended,  his  false  cunning,— 
Not  meaning  to  partake  with  me  in  danger, — • 
Taught  him  to  face  me  out  of  his  acquaintance, 
And  grew  a  twenty-years-removed  thing 
While  one  would  wink  ;  denied  me  mine  own 

purse, 

Which  I  had  recommended  to  his  use 
Not  half  an  hour  before. 

Vio.  How  can  this  be 

Duke.  When  came  he  to  this  town  ? 

Ant.  To-day,  my  lord;  and  for  three  months 

before, — 

No  interim,  not  a  minute's  vacancy, — 
Both  day  and  night  did  we  keep  company. 

Enter  OLIVIA  and  Attendants. 

Dttke.     Here    comes    the    countess  ;    now 

heaven  walks  on  earth. 

But  for  thee,  fellow,  fellow,  thy  words  are 
madness : 


SCENE  I.] 


TWELFTH  NIGHT ;    OK,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


103 


Three  months  this  youth  hath   tended   upon 
me ; 

But  more  of  that  anon. Take  him  aside. 

OIL  What  would  my  lord,  but  that  he  may 

not  have, 

Wherein  Olivia  may  seem  serviceable  ! — 
Cesario,  you  do  not  keep  promise  with  me. 
Vio.  Madam? 

Duke.  Gracious  Olivia, 

Oli.   What  do  you  say,  Cesario? Good 

my  lord, [me. 

Vio.  My  lord  would  speak,  my  duty  hushes 
Oli.  If  it  be  aught  to  the  old  tune,  my  lord, 
It  is  as  fat  and  fulsome  to  mine  ear 
As  howling  after  music. 

Duke.  Still  so  cruel  ? 

Oli.  Still  so  constant,  lord.  [lady, 

Duke.  What  !  to  perverseness?  you  uncivil 
To  whose  ingrate  and  unauspicious  altars 
My  soul  the  faithfull'st  offerings  hath  breathed 

out 

That  e'er  devotion  tender'd !    What  shall  I  do  ? 
Oli.  Even  what  it  please  my  lord,  that  shall 
become  him.  [to  do  it. 

Duke.  Why  should  I  not,  had  I  the  heart 
Like  to  the  Egyptian  thief,  at  point  of  death, 
Kill  what  I  love  ;  a  savage  jealousy          [this  : 
That  sometime  savours  nobly? — But  hear  me 
Since  you  to  non-regardance  cast  my  faith, 
And  that  I  partly  know  the  instrument 
That  screws  me  from  my  true  place  in  your 

favour, 

Live  you  the  marble -breasted  tyrant  still ; 
But  this  your  minion,  whom  I  know  you  love, 
And  whom,  by  heaven  I  swear,  I  tender  dearly, 
Him  will  I  tear  out  of  that  cruel  eye 
Where  he  sits  crowned  in  his  master's  sprite. — 
Come,  boy,  with  me  ;  my  thoughts  are  ripe  in 

mischief: 

I  '11  sacrifice  the  lamb  that  I  do  love, 
To  spite  a  raven',  heart  within  a  dove. 

{Going. 

Vio.  And  I,  most  jocund,  apt,  and  willingly, 
To  do  you  rest,  a  thousand  deaths  would  die. 

{Following. 

Oli.  Where  goes  Cesario  ? 
Vio.  After  him  I  love 

More  than  I  love  these  eyes,  more  than  my  life, 
More,  by  all  mores,  than  e'er  I  shall  love  wife ; 
If  I  do  feign,  you  witnesses  above 
Punish  my  life  for  tainting  of  my  love  ! 

Oli.  Ah  me,  detested  !  how  am  I  beguiled  ? 

Vio.  Who  does  beguile  you?  who  does  do 

you  wrong  ?  [long  ?— 

Oli.   Hast  thou  forgot  thyself?      Is   it   so 

Call  forth  the  holy  father. 

[Exit  an  Attendant. 


Duke.  Come  away.     [To  VIOLA. 

Oli.  Whither,  my  lord?    Cesario,  husband, 
stay. 

Duke.  Husband? 

Oli.  Ay,  husband,  can  he  that  deny  ? 

Duke.  Her  husband,  sirrah  ? 

Vio.  No,  my  lord,  not  I. 

Oli.  Alas,  it  is  the  baseness  of  thy  fear 
That  makes  thee  strangle  thy  propriety : 
Fear  not,  Cesario,  take  thy  fortunes  up  ; 
Be  that  thou  know'st  thou  art,  and  then  thou 
art  [father ! 

As  great  as  that   thou  fear'st — O,  welcome, 

Re-enter  Attendant  and  Priest. 

Father,  I  charge  thee,  by  thy  reverence, 
Here  to  unfold, — though  lately  we  intended 
To  keep  in  darkness  what  occasion  now 
Reveals  before  'tis  ripe, — what  thou  dost  know 
Hath  newly  past  between  this  youth  and  me. 

Priest.  A  contract  of  eternal  bond  of  love, 
Confirmed  by  mutual  joinder  of  your  hands, 
Attested  by  the  holy  close  of  lips, 
Strengthen'd  by  interchangement  of  your  rings  ; 
And  all  the  ceremony  of  this  compact 
Sealed  in  my  function,  by  my  testimony : 
Since  when,  my  watch  hath  told  me,  toward 

my  grave 
I  have  travelled  but  two  hours.  [thou  be, 

Duke.  O  thou  dissembling  cub !  what  wilt 
When  time  hath  sowed  a  grizzle  on  thy  case  ? 
Or  will  not  else  thy  craft  so  quickly  grow 
That  thine  own  trip  shall  be  thine  overthrow  ? 
Farewell,  and  take  her  ;  but  direct  thy  feet 
Where  thou  and  I  henceforth  may  never  meet. 

Vio.  My  lord,  I  do  protest, — 

Oli.  O,  do  not  swear  ; 

Hold  little  faith,  though  thou  hast  too  much  fear. 

Enter  Sir  ANDREW  AGUE-CHEEK,  with  his 
head  broke. 

Sir  And.  For  the  love  of  God,  a  surgeon  ; 
send  one  presently  to  Sir  Toby. 

Oli.  What's  the  matter? 

Sir  And.  He  has  broke  my  head  across,  and 
has  given  Sir  Toby  a  bloody  coxcomb  too  :  for 
the  love  of  God,  your  help  :  I  had  rather  than 
forty  pound  I  were  at  home. 

Oli.  Who  has  done  this,  Sir  Andrew  ? 

Sir  And.  The  count's  gentleman,  one 
Cesario  :  we  took  him  for  a  coward,  but  he  's 
the  very  devil  incardinate. 

Duke.  My  gentleman,  Cesario  ? 

Sir  And.  Od's  lifelings,  here  he  is  : — You 
broke  my  head  for  nothing ;  and  that  that  I  did 
I  was  set  on  to  do 't  by  Sir  Toby.  [hurt  you : 

Vio.  Why  do  you  speak  to  me?     I  never 


104 


TWELFTH  NIGHT;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


[ACT  \. 


YOH  drew  your  sword  upon  me  without  cause  ; 
But  I  bespake  you  fair  and  hurt  you  not. 

Sir  And.  If  a  bloody  coxcomb  be  a  hurt, 
you  have  hurt  me  ;  I  think  you  set  nothing  by 
a  bloody  coxcomb. 

Enter  Sir  TOBY  BELCH  drunk,  led  by  the 
CLOWN. 

Here  comes  Sir  Toby  halting ;  you  shall  hear 
more :  but  if  he  had  not  been  in  drink  he  would 
have  tickled  you  othergates  than  he  did. 

Duke.  How  now,  gentleman  ?  how  is 't  with 
you? 

Sir  To.  That 's  all  one ;  he  has  hurt  me,  and 
there  's  the  end  on  't.— Sot,  didst  see  Dick 
surgeon,  sot? 

Clo.  O  he's  drunk,  Sir  Toby,  an  hour  agone ; 
his  eyes  were  set  at  eight  i'  the  morning. 

Sir  To.  Then  he 's  a  rogue.  After  a  passy- 
measure,  or  a  pavin,  I  hate  a  drunken  rogue. 

Oli.  Away  with  him.  Who  hath  made  this 
havoc  with  them  ? 

Sir  And.  I  '11  help  you,  Sir  Toby,  because 
we  '11  be  dressed  together. 

Sir  To.  Will  you  help  an  ass-head,  and  a  cox- 
comb, and  a  knave?  a  thin-faced  knave,  a  gull? 

Oli.  Get  him  to  bed,  and  let  his  hurt  be 
looked  to. 

.  [Exeunt  CLOWN,  Sir  To.,  and  Sir  AND. 
;;rv  ;•-.  '.;  .vntvi 

OXKO  v<1t  a.  Enter  SEBASTIAN. 

Seb.  I  am  sorry,  madam,  I  have  hurt  your 

kinsman  ; 

But,  had  it  been  the  brother  of  my  blood, 
I  must  have  done  no  less,  with  wit  and  safety. 
You  throw  a  strange  regard  upon  me,  and 
By  that  I  do  perceive  it  hath  offended  you  ; 
Pardon  me,  sweet  one,  even  for  the  vows 
We  made  each  other  but  so  late  ago. 

Duke.  One  face,  one  voice,  one  habit,  and 

two  persons ; 
A  natural  perspective,  that  is,  and  is  not. 

Seb.  Antonio,  O  my  dear  Antonio  ! 
How  have  the  hours  rack'd  and  tortur'd  me 
Since  I  have  lost  thee. 

Ant.  Sebastian  are  you  ? 

Seb.  Fear'st  thou  that,  Antonio  ? 

Ant.   How  have  you  made  division  of  your- 
self?— 

An  apple,  cleft  in  two,  is  not  more  twin 
Than  these  two  creatures.    Which  is  Sebastian? 

Oli.   Most  wonderful  ! 

Seb.  Do  I  stand  there  ?   I  never  had  a  brother : 
Nor  can  there  be  that  deity  in  my  nature 
Of  here  and  everywhere.     I  had  a  sister 
Whom  the  blind  waves  and  surges  have  de- 
voured : — 


Of  charity,  what  kin  are  you  to  me?    [  To  VIOLA. 
What  countryman?  what  name?  what  parentage? 

Via.  Of  Messaline :  Sebastian  was  my  father ; 
Such  a  Sebastian  was  my  brother  too  ; 
So  went  he  suited  to  his  watery  tomb  : 
If  spirits  can  assume  both  form  and  suit, 
You  come  to  fright  us. 

Seb.  A  spirit  I  am  indeed  : 

But  am  in  that  dimension  grossly  clad, 
Which  from  the  womb  I  did  participate. 
Were  you  a  woman,  as  the  rest  goes  even, 
I  should  my  tears  let  fall  upon  your  cheek, 
And  say — Thrice  welcome,  drowned  Viola  ! 

Vio.   My  father  had  a  mole  upon  his  brow. 

Seb.  And  so  had  mine. 

Vio.  And  died  that  day  when  Viola  from  her 

birth 
Had  numbered  thirteen  years. 

Seb.  O,  that  record  is  lively  in  my  soul  ! 
He  finished,  indeed,  his  mortal  act 
That  day  that  made  my  sister  thirteen  years. 

Vio.   If  nothing  lets  to  make  us  happy  both 
But  this  my  masculine  usurp'd  attire, 
Do  not  embrace  me  till  each  circumstance 
Of  place,  time,  fortune,  do  cohere,  and  jump, 
That  I  am  Viola  :  which  to  confirm, 
I  '11  bring  you  to  a  captain  in  this  town,    [help 
Where  lie  my  maiden's  weeds ;  by  whose  gentle 
I  was  preserv'd  to  serve  this  noble  count ; 
All  the  occurrence  of  my  fortune  since 
Hath  been  between  this  lady  and  this  lord. 

Seb.  So  comes  it,  lady,  you  have  been  mis- 
took:  [BOLIVIA. 
But  nature  to  her  bias  drew  in  that. 
You  ~vould  have  been  contracted  to  a  maid  ; 
Nor  are  you  therein,  by  my  life,  deceived  ; 
You  are  betroth'd  both  to  a  maid  and  man. 

Duke.  Be  not  amazed ;   right  noble  is  his 

blood.— 

If  this  be  so,  as  yet  the  glass  seems  true, 
I  shall  have  share  in  this  most  happy  wreck  : 
Boy,  thou  hast  said  to  me  a  thousand  times, 

[To  VIOLA. 
Thou  never  shouldst  love  woman  like  to  me. 

Vio.  And  all  those  sayings  will  I  over-swear ; 
And  all  those  swearings  keep  as  true  in  soul 
As  doth  that  orbed  continent  the  fire 
That  severs  day  from  night. 

Duke.  Give  me  thy  hand  ; 

And  let  me  see  thee  in  thy  woman's  weeds. 

Vio.  The  captain  that  did  bring  me  first  on 
shore  [action, 

Hath  my  maid's   garments :    he,   upon   some 
Is  now  in  durance,  at  Malvolio's  suit ; 
A  gentleman  and  follower  of  my  lady's. 

Oli.   He  shall  enlarge  him  : — Fetch  Malvolio 
hither : — 


SCENE  I.] 


TWELFTH  NIGHT ;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


105 


And  yet,  alas,  now  I  remember  me, 

They  say,  poor  gentleman,  he 's  much  distract. 

Re-enter  CLOWN,  with  a  letter. 

A  most  extracting  frenzy  of  mine  own 

From  my  remembrance  clearly  banished  his. — 

How  does  he,  sirrah  ? 

Clo.  Truly,  madam,  he  holds  Beelzebub  at 
the  stave's  end  as  well  as  a  man  in  his  case  may 
do :  he  has  here  writ  a  letter  to  you  ;  I  should 
have  given  it  you  to-day  morning ;  but  as  a 
madman's  epistles  are  no  gospels,  so  it  skills  not 
much  when  they  are  delivered. 
Oli.  Open  it,  and  read  it. 
Clo.  Look  then  to  be  well  edified  when  the  fool 
delivers  the  madman : — By  the  Lord,  madam, — 
Oli.  How  now  !  art  thou  mad  ? 
Clo.  No,  madam,  I  do  but  read  madness  :  an 
your  ladyship  will  have  it  as  it  ought  to  be,  you 
must  allow  vox. 

Oli.  Pr'ythee,  read  i'  thy  right  wits. 
Clo.  So  I  do,  madonna ;  but  to  read  his  right 
wits  is  to  read  thus :   therefore  perpend,  my 
princess,  and  give  ear. 

Oli.  Read  it  you,  sirrah.  [To  FABIAN. 

Fab.  [reads.]  By 'the  Lord ',  madam, you  wrong 
me,  and  the  world  shall  know  it :  though  you 
have  put  me  into  darkness  and  given  your 
drunken  cousin  rule  over  me,  yet  have  J  the 
benefit  of  my  senses  as  well  as  your  ladyship.  I 
have  your  own  letter  that  induced  me  to  the 
semblance  I  ptit  on  ;  with  the  which  I  doubt  not 
but  to  do  myself  much  right  or  you  nnich  shame. 
Think  of  me  as  you  please.  I  leave  my  duty  a 
little  unthought  of,  and  speak  out  of  my  injury. 

The  madly  used  MALVOLIO. 
Oli.  Did  he  write  this  ? 
Clo.  Ay,  madam. 

Duke.   This  savours  not  much  of  distraction. 

Oli.  See  him  delivered,  Fabian  :  bring  him 

hither.  [Exit  FABIAN. 

My  lord,  so  please  you,  these  things  further 

thought  on, 

To  think  me  as  well  a  sister  as  a  wife, 
One  day  shall  crown  the  alliance  on 't,  so  please 

you, 

Here  at  my  house,  and  at  my  proper  cost. 
Duke.  Madam,  I  am  most  apt  to  embrace  your 
offer. —  [service  done  him, 

Your  master  quits  you ;  [to  VIOLA]  and,  for  your 
So  much  against  the  metal  of  your  sex, 
So  far  beneath  your  soft  and  tender  breeding, 
And  since  you  called  me  master  for  so  long, 
Here  is  my  hand  ;  you  shall  from  this  time  be 
Your  master's  mistress. 

Oli.  A  sister  ? — you  are  she. 

' 


Re-enter  FABIAN  with  MALVOLIO. 

Duke.   Is  this  the  madman  ? 
Oli.  Ay,  my  lord,  this  same  ; 

How  now,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.         Madam,  you  have  done  me  wrong, 
Notorious  wrong. 

Oli.  Have  I,  Malvolio?  no. 

Mai.   Lady,  you  have.     Pray  you,  peruse  that 

letter : 

You  must  not  now  deny  it  is  your  hand, 
Write  from  it,  if  you  can,  in  hand  or  phrase  ; 
Or  say,  'tis  not  your  seal,  nor  your  invention  : 
You  can  say  none  of  this.    Well,  grant  it  then, 
And  tell  me,  in  the  modesty  of  honour, 
Why  you  have  given  me  such  clear  lights  of 

favour  ; 

Bade  me  come  smiling  and  cross-garter'd  to  you ; 
To  put  on  yellow  stockings,  and  to  frown 
Upon  Sir  Toby  and  the  lighter  people  : 
And,  acting  this  in  an  obedient  hope, 
Why  have  you  suffer'd  me  to  be  imprison'd, 
Kept  in  a  dark  house,  visited  by  the  priest, 
And  made  the  most  notorious  geek  and  gull 
That  e'er  invention  play'd  on  ?  tell  me  why. 

Oli.  Alas,  Malvolio,  this  is  not  my  writing, 
Though,  I  confess,  much  like  the  character  : 
But,  out  of  question,  'tis  Maria's  hand. 
And  now  I  do  bethink  me,  it  was  she 
First  told  me  thou  wast  mad  ;  then  cam'st  in 

smiling, 

And  in  such  forms  which  here  were  presuppos'd 
Upon  thee  in  the  letter.  Pr'ythee,  be  content : 
This  practice  has  most  shrewdly  pass'd  upon 

thee: 
But,  when  we  know  the  grounds  and  authors 

of  it, 

Thou  shalt  be  both  the  plaintiff  and  the  judge 
Of  thine  own  cause. 

Fab.  Good  madam,  hear  me  speak  ; 

And  let  no  quarrel,  nor  no  brawl  to  come, 
Taint  the  condition  of  this  present  hour, 
Which  I  have  wonder'd  at.    In  hope  it  shall  not, 
Most  freely  I  confess,  myself  and  Toby 
Set  this  device  against  Malvolio  here, 
Upon  some  stubborn  and  uncourteous  parts 
We  had  conceiv'd  against  him.     Maria  writ 
The  letter,  at  Sir  Toby's  great  importance  ; 
In  recompense  whereof  he  hath  married  her. 
How  with  a  sportful  malice  it  was  follow'd 
May  rather  pluck  on  laughter  than  revenge, 
If  that  the  injuries  be  justly  weigh'd 
That  have  on  both  sides  past. 

Oli.  Alas,  poor  fool !  how  have  they  baffled 

thee! 

Clo.  Why,  some  are  born  great,  some  achieve 
greatness,  and  some  have  greatness  thrown  upon 


io6 


TWELFTH  NIGHT;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


[ACT  v. 


them.  I  was  one,  sir,  in  this  interlude ;  one  Sir 
Topas,  sir  ;  but  that 's  all  one  : — By  the  Lord, 
fool,  I  am  not  mad ; — But  do  you  remember  ? 
Madam,  why  laugh  you  at  such  a  barren  rascal  t 
an  you  smile  not,  he 's  gagged.  And  thus  the 
whirligig  of  time  brings  in  his  revenges. 

Mai.  I  '11  be  revenged  on  the  whole  pack  of 
you.  [Exit. 

Oli.  He  hath  been  most  notoriously  abus'd. 

Duke.  Pursue  him,   and   entreat  him  to  a 

peace : — 

He  hath  not  told  us  of  the  captain  yet ; 
When  that  is  known,  and  golden  time  convents, 
A  solemn  combination  shall  be  made 
Of  our  dear  souls.  — Meantime,  sweet  sister, 
We    will    not    part    from    hence.  —  Cesario, 

come  : 

For  so  you  shall  be  while  you  are  a  man  ; 
But,  when  in  other  habits  you  are  seen, 
Orsino's  mistress,  and  his  fancy's  queen. 

[Exeunt. 


SONG. 

Clo.  When  that  I  was  and  a  little  tiny  boy, 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 
A  foolish  thing  was  but  a  toy, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

But  when  I  came  to  man's  estate, 
\Vith  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

'Gainst  knave  and  thief  men  shut  their  gate, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

.1     .  rnJaDBi  .~:  t  f'~!l ...' 

But  when  I  came,  alas  !  to  wive, 


,  , 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

By  swaggering  could  I  never  thrive, 

For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 


But  when  I  came  unto  my  bed, 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

With  toss-pots  still  had  drunken  head, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

A  great  while  ago  the  world  began, 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

But  that 's  all  one,  our  play  is  done, 
And  we  Ml  strive  to  please  you  every  day. 

\Exit. 


infill  a'^ 


MtGD  « 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


VICENTIO,  Duke  of  Vienna. 
ANGELO,  Lord  Deputy  in  the  Duke's  absence. 
ESCALUS,  an  ancient  Lordy  joined  with  AN- 
GELO in  the  Deputation. 
CLAUDIO,  a  young  Gentleman. 
Lucio,  a  Fantastic. 
TWO  OTHER   LIKE   GENTLEMEN. 

VARRIUS,  a  Gentleman,  Servant  to  the  Duke. 

PROVOST. 

THOMAS,     \    .       „  . 

PETER,       /  *"»  Friars' 

A  JUSTICE. 

ELBOW,  a  simple  Constable. 


FROTH,  a  foolish  Gentleman. 
CLOWN,  Servant  to  MRS.  OVERDONE. 
ABHORSON,  an  Executioner. 
BARNARDINE,  a  dissolute  Prisoner. 

ISABELLA,  Sister  to  CLAUDIO. 
MARIANA,  betrothed  to  ANGELO. 
JULIET,  beloved  by  CLAUDIO. 
FRANCISCA,  a  Nun. 
MISTRESS  OVERDONE,  a  Bawd. 

Lords,    Gentlemen,   Guards,    Officers,   ana 
other  Attendants. 


SCENE,— VIENNA. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.  —  An  Apartment  in  the  DUKE'S 
Palace. 


KE,  ESCALUS,  Lords,  and  Attendants. 

Duke.   Escalus,  — 

Escal.  My  lord. 

Duke.  Of  government  the  propertiestounfold, 
Would  seem  in  me  to  affect  speech  and  discourse; 
Since  I  am  put  to  know  that  your  own  science 
Exceeds,  in  that,  the  lists  of  all  advice 
My  strength  can  give  you  :  then  no  more  remains 
But  that  to  your  sufficiency,  as  your  worth  isable, 
And  let  them  work.     The  nature  of  our  people, 
Our  city's  institutions,  and  the  terms 
For  common  justice,  you  are  as  pregnant  in 
As  art  and  practice  hath  enriched  any 
That  we  remember.     There  is  our  commission, 
From  which  we  would  not  have  you  warp.  — 

Call  hither, 
I  say,  bid  come  before  us  Angelo.  — 

[Exit  an  Attendant. 

What  figure  of  us  think  you  he  will  bear  ? 
For  you  must  know  we  have  with  special  soul 
Elected  him  our  absence  to  supply  ; 
Lent  him  our  terror,  drest  him  with  our  love, 
And  given  his  deputation  all  the  organs 
Of  our  own  power  :  what  think  you  of  it  ? 

EscaL   If  any  in  Vienna  be  of  worth 
To  undergo  such  ample  grace  and  honour, 
It  is  Lord  Angelo. 

Enter  ANGELO. 
Duke.  Look  where  he  comes. 


Ang.  Always  obedient  to  your  grace's  will, 
I  come  to  know  your  pleasure. 

Duke.  Angelo, 

There  is  a  kind  of  character  in  thy  life, 
That  to  the  observer  doth  thy  history 
Fully  unfold.     Thyself  and  thy  belongings 
Are  not  thine  own  so  proper  as  to  waste 
Thyself  upon  thy  virtues,  they  on  thec. 
Heaven  doth  with  us  as  we  with  torches  do, 
Not  light  them  for  themselves :  for  if  our  virtues 
Did  not  go  forth  of  us,  'twere  all  alike 
As  if  we  had  them  not.     Spirits  are  not  finely 

touch'd 

But  to  fine  issues  :  nor  nature  never  lends 
The  smallest  scruple  of  her  excellence 
But,  like  a  thrifty  goddess,  she  determines 
Herself  the  glory  of  a  creditor, 
Both  thanks  and  use.     But  I  do  bend  my  speech 
To  one  that  can  my  part  in  him  advertise  ; 
Hold,  therefore,  Angelo  ; 
In  our  remove  be  thou  at  full  ourself : 
Mortality  and  mercy  in  Vienna 
Live  in  thy  tongue  and  heart!     Old  Escalus, 
Though  first  in  question,  is  thy  secondary  : 
Take  thy  commission. 

Ang.  Now,  good  my  lord, 

Let  there  be  some  more  test  made  of  my  metal, 
Before  so  noble  and  so  great  a  figure 
Be  stamped  upon  it. 

Duke.  No  more  evasion  : 

We  have  with  a  leaven'd  and  prepared  choice 
Proceeded  to  you  ;  therefore  take  your  honours. 
Our  haste  from  hence  is  of  so  quick  condition 
That  it  prefers  itself,  and  leaves  unquestion'd 


io8 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


LACT  i. 


Matters  of  needful  value.     We  shall  write  to  you 
As  time  and  our  concernings  shall  importune 
How  it  goes  with  us  :  and  do  look  to  know 
What  doth  befall  ycu  here.     So,  fare  you  well : 
To  the  hopeful  execution  do  I  leave  you 
Of  your  commissions. 

Ang.  Yet,  give  leave,  my  lord, 

That  we  may  bring  you  something  on  the  way. 

Duke.   My  haste  may  not  admit  it ; 
Nor  need  you,  on  mine  honour,  have  to  do 
With  any  scruple  :  your  scope  is  as  mine  own  : 
So  to  enforce  or  qualify  the  laws 
As  to  your  soul  seems  good.   Give  me  your  hand ; 
I  '11  privily  away  :  I  love  the  people, 
But  do  not  like  to  stage  me  to  their  eyes  : 
Though  it  do  well,  I  do  not  relish  well 
Their  loud  applause  and  aves  vehement : 
Nor  do  I  think  the  man  of  safe  discretion 
That  does  affect  it.     Once  more,  fare  you  well. 

Ang:  The  heavens  give  safety  to  your  pur- 
poses !  [happiness. 

EscaL   Lead  forth  and  bring  you  back  in 

Duke.   I  thank  you.     Fare  you  well.  [Exit. 

EscaL  I  shall  desire  you,  sir,  to  give  me  leave 
To  have  free  speech  with  you ;  and  it  concerns  me 
To  look  into  the  bottom  of  my  place  : 
A  power  I  have,  but  of  what  strength  and  nature 
I  am  not  yet  instructed.  [together, 

Ang.  'Tis  so  with  me. — Let  us  withdraw 
And  we  may  soon  our  satisfaction  have 
Touching  that  point. 

EscaL  I  '11  wait  upon  your  honour. 

[Exeunt. 

yA'llB  HJS  313WJ     ,3(1  tO  ffetO>  OJJ 

SCENE  II. — A  Street. 
Enter  Lucio  and  two  GENTLEMEN. 

Lucio.  If  the  duke,  with  the  other  dukes, 
come  not  to  composition  with  the  King  of 
Hungary,  why,  then,  all  the  dukes  fall  upon 
the  king.  [the  King  of  Hungary's  ! 

1  Gent.   Heaven  grant  us  its  peace,  but  not 

2  Gent.  Amen. 

Lucio.  Thou  concludest  like  the  sanctimoni- 
ous pirate  that  went  to  sea  with  the  ten  com- 
mandments, but  scraped  one  out  of  the  table. 

2 Gent.  Thou  shalt  not  steal  ? 

Lucio.  Ay,  that  he  razed. 

1  Gent.  Why,  'twas  a  commandment  to  com- 
mand the  captain  and  all  the  rest  from  their 
functions ;   they  put  forth   to  steal.     There 's 
not  a  soldier  of  us  all  that,  in  the  thanksgiving 
before  meat,  doth  relish  the  petition  well  that 
prays  for  peace. 

2  Gent.  I  never  heard  any  soldier  dislike  it. 
Lucio.   I  believe  thee ;  for  I  think  thou  never 

wast  where  grace  was  said. 


2  Gent.  No  ?  a  dozen  times  at  least. 

I  Gent.  What  ?  in  metre  ? 

Lttcio.  In  any  proportion  or  in  any  language. 

I  Gent.  I  think,  or  in  any  religion. 

Lucio.  Ay  !  why  not  ?  Grace  is  grace,  de- 
spite of  all  controversy.  As  for  example  ; — 
thou  thyself  art  a  wicked  villain,  despite  of  all 
grace. 

I  Gent.  Well,  there  went  but  a  pair  of 
shears  between  us. 

Lucio.  I  grant ;  as  there  may  between  the 
lists  and  the  velvet.  Thou  art  the  list. 

i  Gent.  And  thou  the  velvet :  thou  art  good 
velvet ;  thou  art  a  three-piled  piece,  I  warrant 
thee :  I  had  as  lief  be  a  list  of  an  English 
kersey  as  be  piled,  as  thou  art  piled,  for  a 
French  velvet.  Do  I  speak  feelingly  now  ? 

Lucio.  I  think  thou  dost ;  and,  indeed,  with 
most  painful  feeling  of  thy  speech.  I  will,  out 
of  thine  own  confession,  learn  to  begin  thy 
health ;  but,  whilst  I  live,  forget  to  drink  after 
thee. 

1  Gent.   I  think  I  have  done  myself  wrong  ; 
have  I  not  ? 

2  Gent.  Yes,  that  thou  hast ;  whether  thou 
art  tainted  or  free. 

Lucio.  Behold,  behold,  where  Madam  Miti- 
gation comes  !  I  have  purchased  as  many 
diseases  under  her  roof  as  come  to — •  &\£\ 

2  Gent.  To  what,  I  pray  ? 

1  Gent.  Judge. 

2  Gent.  To  three  thousand  dollars  a-year. 
i  Gent.  Ay,  and  more. 

Lucio.  A  French  crown  more. 

I  Gent.  Thou  art  always  figuring  diseases  in 
me,  but  thou  art  full  of  error  ;  I  am  sound. 

Lucio.  Nay,  not  as  one  would  say,  healthy  ; 
but  so  sound  as  things  that  are  hollow :  thy 
bones  are  hollow  :  impiety  has  made  a  feast  of 
thee. 

Enter  BAWD. 

I  Gent.  How  now  !  which  of  your  hips  has 
the  most  profound  sciatica  ? 

Bawd.  Well,  well;  there's  one  yonder  ar- 
rested and  carried  to  prison  was  worth  five 
thousand  of  you  all. 

I  Gent.  Who 's  that,  I  pray  thee  ? 

Bawd.  Marry,  sir,  that's  Claudio,  Signior 
Claudio. 

I  Gent.  Claudio  to  prison  !  'tis  not  so. 

Bawd.  Nay,  but  I  know  'tis  so  :  I  saw  him 
arrested ;  saw  him  carried  away ;  and,  which 
is  more,  within  these  three  days  his  head  's  to 
be  chopped  off. 

Lucio.  But,  after  all  this  fooling,  I  would 
not  have  it  so.  Art  thou  sure  of  this  ? 


SCENE  II.] 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


109 


Bawd.  I  am  too  sure  of  it  :  and  it  is  for 
getting  Madam  Julietta  with  child. 

Lticio.  Believe  me,  this  may  be  :  he  pro- 
mised to  meet  me  two  hours  since  ;  and  he  was 
ever  precise  in  promise-keeping. 

2  Gent.  Besides,  you  know,  it  draws  some- 
thing near  to  the  speech  we  had  to  such  a  pur- 
pose, [proclamation. 

I  Gent.   But  most  of  all  agreeing  with  the 

Lucio.  Away  ;  let 's  go  learn  the  truth  of  it. 
[Exetmt  Lucio  and  GENTLEMEN. 

Bawd.  Thus,  what  with  the  war,  what  with 
the  sweat,  what  with  the  gallows,  and  what 
with  poverty,  I  am  custom-shrunk.  How  now! 
what 's  the  news  with  you  ? 

Enter  CLOWN. 

Clo.  Yonder  man  is  carried  to  prison. 

Bawd.  Well :  what  has  he  done  ? 

Clo.  A  woman. 

Bawd.  But  what 's  his  offence  ? 

Clo.  Groping  for  trouts  in  a  peculiar  river. 

Bawd.  What !  is  there  a  maid  with  child  by 
him? 

Clo.  No;  but  there's  a  woman  with  maid 
by  him.  You  have  not  heard  of  the  proclama- 
tion, have  you  ? 

Bawd.  What  proclamation,  man  ? 

Clo.  All  houses  in  the  suburbs  of  Vienna 
must  be  plucked  down.  [the  city  ? 

Bawd.  And  what  shall  become  of  those  in 

Clo.  They  shall  stand  for  seed  :  they  had 
gone  down  too,  but  that  a  wise  burgher  put  in 
for  them. 

Bawd.  But  shall  all  our  houses  of  resort  in 
the  suburbs  be  pulled  down  ? 

Clo.  To  the  ground,  mistress. 

Bawd.  Why,  here 's  a  change  indeed  in  the 
commonwealth  !  What  shall  become  of  me  ? 

Clo.  Come  ;  fear  not  you  :  good  counsellors 
lack  no  clients  :  though  you  change  your  place 
you  need  not  change  your  trade  ;  I  '11  be  your 
tapster  still.  Courage  ;  there  will  be  pity  taken 
on  you  :  you  that  have  worn  your  eyes  almost 
out  in  the  service,  you  will  be  considered. 
^  Bawd.  What's  to  do  here,  Thomas  Tapster? 
Let 's  withdraw. 

Clo.  Here  comes  Signior  Claudio,  led  by 
the  provost  to  prison  :  and  there 's  Madam 
Juliet.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  The  same. 

Enter  PROVOST,  CLAUDIO,  JULIET,  and 
Officers ;  Lucio  and  two  GENTLEMEN. 

Claud.  Fellow,  why  dost  thou  show  me  thus 

to  the  world  ? 
Bear  me  to  prison,  where  I  am  committed. 


Prov.  I  do  it  not  in  evil  disposition, 
But  from  Lord  Angelo  by  special  charge. 

Claud.  Thus  can  the  demi-god  Authority 
Make  us  pay  down  for  our  offence  by  weight. — 
The  words  of  heaven ; — on  whom  it  will,  it  will ; 
On  whom  it  will  not,  so  ;  yet  still  'tis  just. 

Lucio.  Why,  how  now,  Claudio  ?  whence 
comes  this  restraint  ?  [liberty  : 

Claud.   Frorr  too  much  liberty,  my  Lucio, 
As  surfeit  is  the  father  of  much  fast, 
So  every  scope  by  the  immoderate  use 
Turns  to  restraint.     Our  natures  do  pursue,— 
Like  rats  that  ravin  down  their  proper  bane, — 
A  thirsty  evil ;  and  when  we  drink  we  die. 

Lucio.  If  I  could  speak  so  wisely  under  an 
arrest,  I  would  send  for  certain  of  my  creditors ; 
and  yet,  to  say  the  truth,  I  had  as  lief  have  the 
foppery  of  freedom  as  the  morality  of  imprison- 
ment.—What's  thy  offence,  Claudio? 

Claud.  What  but  to  speak  of  would  offend 
again. 

Lucio.  What,  is  it  murder  ? 

Claud.  No. 

Lucio.   Lechery  ? 

Claud.  Call  it  so. 

Prov.  Away,  sir  ;  you  must  go. 

Claud.  One  word,  good  friend  : — Lucio,  a 
uv*x'v:.  word  with  you.         [  Takes  him  aside. 

Lucio.  A  hundred,  if  they  '11  do  you  any  good. 
Is  lechery  so  looked  after  ? 

Claud.  Thus  it  stands  with  me : — Upon  a 

true  contract 

I  got  possession  of  Julietta's  bed  : 
You  know  the  lady  ;  she  is  fast  my  wife, 
Save  that  we  do  the  denunciation  lack 
Of  outward  order  :  this  we  came  not  to 
Only  for  propagation  of  a  dower 
Remaining  in  the  coffer  of  her  friends  ; 
From  whom  we  thought  it  meet  to  hide  our  love 
Till  time  had  made  them  for  us.     But  it  chances 
The  stealth  of  our  most  mutual  entertainment, 
With  character  too  gross,  is  writ  on  Juliet. 

Lucio.  With  child,  perhaps? 

Claud.   Unhappily,  even  so. 
And  the  new  deputy  now  for  the  duke, — 
Whether  it  be  the  fault  and  glimpse  of  newness, 
Or  whether  that  the  body  public  be 
A  horse  whereon  the  governor  doth  ride, 
Who,  newly  in  the  seat,  that  it  may  know 
He  can  command,  lets  it  straight  feel  the  spur : 
Whether  the  tyranny  be  in  his  place, 
Or  in  his  eminence  that  fills  it  up, 
I  stagger  in. — But  this  new  governor 
Awakes  me  all  the  enrolled  penalties 
Which  have,  like  unscour'd  armour,  hung  by 

the  wall 
So  long  that  nineteen  zodiacs  have  gone  round 


no 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


[ACT  i. 


And  none  of  them  been  worn  ;  and,  for  a  name, 
Now  puts  the  drowsy  and  neglected  act 
Freshly  on  me  ; — 'tis  surely  for  a  name. 

Lucio.  I  warrant  it  is :  and  thy  head  stands 
so  tickle  on  thy  shoulders  that  a  milkmaid,  if 
she  be  in  love,  may  sigh  it  off.  Send  after  the 
duke,  and  appeal  to  him.  [found. 

Clatid.  I  have  done  so,  but  he 's  not  to  be 
I  pr'ythee,  Lucio,  do  me  this  kind  service  : 
This  day  my  sister  should  the  cloister  enter, 
And  there  receive  her  approbation  : 
Acquaint  her  with  the  danger  of  my  state  ; 
Implore  her,  in  my  voice,  that  she  make  friends 
To  the  strict  deputy  ;  bid  herself  assay  him  ; 
I  have  great  hope  ia  that :  for  in  her  youth 
There  is  a  prone  and  speechless  dialect 
Such  as  moves  men  ;  beside,  she  hath  prosper- 
ous art 

When  she  will  play  with  reason  and  discourse, 
And  well  she  can  persuade. 

Lucio.  I  pray  she  may ;  as  well  for  the  en- 
couragement of  the  like,  which  else  would  stand 
under  grievous  imposition,  as  for  the  enjoying  of 
thy  life,  who  I  would  be  sorry  should  be  thus 
foolishly  lost  at  a  game  of  tick-tack.  I  '11  to  her. 

Claud,   I  thank  you,  good  friend  Lucio. 

Lucio.  Within  two  hours, 

Claud.  Come,  officer,  away.  \_Ex9ttnt. 

SCENE  IV. — A  Monastery. 
Enter  DUKE  and  Friar  THOMAS. 

Duke.  No  ;   holy  father ;   throw  away  that 

thought ; 

Believe  not  that  the  dribbling  dart  of  love 
Can  pierce  a  complete  bosom  :  why  I  desire  thee 
To  give  me  secret  harbour  hath  a  purpose 
More  grave  and  wrinkled  than  the  aims  and  ends 
Of  burning  youth. 

Fri.  May  your  grace  speak  of  it  ? 

Duke.  My  holy  sir,  none  better  knows  than 

you 

How  I  have  ever  lov'd  the  life  remov'd, 
And  held  in  idle  price  to  haunt  assemblies 
Where  youth,  and  cost,  and  witless  bra  very  keeps. 
I  have  deliver'd  to  Lord  Angelo, — 
A  man  of  stricture  and  firm  abstinence, — 
My  absolute  power  and  place  here  in  Vienna 
And  he  supposes  me  travel  I'd  to  Poland  ; 
For  so  I  have  strew'd  it  in  the  common  ear, 
And  so  it  is  received.     Now,  pious  sir, 
You  will  demand  of  me  why  I  do  this  ? 

Fri.  Gladly,  my  lord.  [laws, — 

Duke.  We  have  strict  statutes  and  most  biting 
The  needful  bits  and  curbs  for  headstrong 

steeds, — 
Which  for  these  fourteen  years  we  have  let  sleep, 


Even  like  an  o'ergrown  lion  in  a  cave, 

That  goes  not   out  to  prey.      Now,  as  fond 

fathers, 

Having  bound  up  the  threat'ning  twigs  of  birch, 
Only  to  stick  it  in  their  children's  sight 
For  terror,  not  to  use,  in  time  the  rod 
Becomes  more  mock  'd  than  fear'd :  so  our  decrees , 
Dead  to  infliction,  to  themselves  are  dead  ; 
And  liberty  plucks  justice  by  the  nose  ; 
The  baby  beats  the  nurse,  and  quite  athwart 
Goes  all  decorum. 

Fri.  It  rested  in  your  grace 

To  unloose  this  tied-up  justice  when  you  pleas'd : 
And  it  in  you  more  dreadful  would  have  seem'd 
Than  in  Lord  Angelo. 

Duke.  I  do  fear,  too  dreadful  : 

Sith  'twas  my  fault  to  give  the  people  scope, 
'Twould  be  my  tyranny  to  strike  and  gall  them 
For  what  I  bid  them  do :  for  we  bid  this  be  done 
When  evil  deeds  have  their  permissive  pass 
And  not  the  punishment.     Therefore,  indeed, 

my  father, 

I  have  on  Angelo  impos'd  the  office  ; 
Who  may,  in  the  ambush  of  my  name,  strikehome, 
And  yet  my  nature  never  in  the  fight, 
To  do  it  slander.     And  to  behold  his  sway, 
I  will,  as  'twere  a  brother  of  your  order, 
Visit   both   prince   and   people  :    therefore,    I 

pr'ythee, 

Supply  me  with  the  habit,  and  instruct  me 
How  I  may  formally  in  person  bear  me 
Like  a  true  friar.     More  reasons  for  this  action 
At  our  more  leisure  shall  I  render  you  ; 
Only,  this  one  : — Lord  Angelo  is  precise  ; 
Stands  at  a  guard  with  envy ;  scarce  confesses 
That  his  blood  flows,  or  that  his  appetite 
Is  more  to  bread  than  stone  :  hence  shall  we  see, 
If  power  change  purpose,  what  our  seemers  be. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — A  Nunnery. 
Enter  ISABELLA  and  FRANCISCA. 

Isab.  And  have  you  nuns  no  further  privileges? 

Fran.  Are  not  these  large  enough  ? 

Isab.  Yes,  truly:  I  speak  not  as  desiring  more, 
But  rather  wishing  a  more  strict  restraint 
Upon  the  sisterhood,  the  votaries  of  St.  Clare. 

Lucio.  Ho!  Peace  be  in  this  place!     \Within. 

Isab.  Who 's  that  which  calls  ? 

Fran.  It  is  a  man's  voice.     Gentle  Isabella, 
Turn  you  the  key,  and  know  his  business  of  him ; 
You  may,  I  may  not ;  you  are  yet  unsworn  : 
When  you  have  vow'd,  you  must  not  speak  with 

men 

But  in  the  presence  of  the  prioress  ;  [face  ; 
Then,  if  you  speak,  you  must  not  show  your 


SCENE  V.] 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


in 


Or,  if  you  show  your  /ace,  you  must  not  speak. 
He  calls  again  ;  I  pray  you  answer  him. 

[Exit  FRANCISCA. 

I  sab.   Peace  and  prosperity  !     Who  is 't  that 
calls  ? 

_ 
Enter  LuciO. . 

Lucio.   Hail,    virgin,    if  you   be ;    as   those 

cheek-roses 

Proclaim  you  are  no  less !    Can  you  so  stead  me 
As  bring  me  to  the  sight  of  Isabella, 
A  novice  of  this  place,  and  the  fair  sister 
To  her  unhappy  brother  Claudio  ? 

Isab.  Why  her  unhappy  brother?  let  me  ask ; 
The  rather,  for  I  now  must  make  you  know 
I  am  that  Isabella,  and  his  sister. 

Lucio.  Gentle  and  fair,  your  brother  kindly 

greets  you  : 
Not  to  be  weary  with  you,  he 's  in  prison. 

Isab.  Woe  me  !     For  what  ? 

Lucio.  For  that  which,  if  myself  might  be  his 

judge, 

He  should  receive  his  punishment  in  thanks  : 
He  hath  got  his  friend  with  child. 

Isab.  Sir,  make  me  not  your  story. 

Lucio.  It  is  true. 

I  would  not — though  'tis  my  familiar  sin 
With  maids  to  seem  the  lapwing,  and  to  jest 
Tongue  far  from  heart — play  with  all  virgins  so : 
I  hold  you  as  a  thing  ensky'd  and  sainted ; 
By  your  renouncement  an  immortal  spirit ; 
And  to  be  talk'd  with  in  sincerity, 
As  with  n  saint.  [me. 

Isab.  You  do  blaspheme  the  good  in  mocking 

Lucio.  Do   not   believe   it.       Fewness    and 

truth, 'tis  thus: 

Your  brother  and  his  lover  have  embraced  : 
As  those  that  feed  grow  full :  as  blossoming  time, 
That  from  the  seedness  the  bare  fallow  brings 
To  teeming  foison ;  even  so  her  plenteous  womb 
Expresseth  his  full  tilth  and  husbandry. 

Isab.  Some  one  with  child   by  him  ? — My 
cousin  Juliet  ? 

Lucio.   Is  she  your  cousin  ? 

Isab.  Adoptedly ;    as    schoolmaids    change 

their  names 
By  vain  though  apt  affection. 

Lucio.  She  it  is. 

Isab.  O,  let  him  marry  her  ! 

Lucio.  This  is  the  point. 

The  duke  is  very  strangely  gone  from  hence  ; 
Bore  many  gentlemen,  myself  being  one, 
In  hand,  and  hope  of  action  :  but  we  do  learn 
By  those  that  know  the  very  nerves  of  state, 
His  givings  out  were  of  an  infinite  distance 
From  his  true-meant  design.     Upon  his  place, 
And  with  full  line  of  his  authority, 


Governs  Lord  Angelo  :  a  man  whose  blood 
Is  very  snow-broth  ;  one  who  never  feels 
The  wanton  stings  and  motions  of  the  sense. 
But  doth  rebate  and  blunt  his  natural  edge 
With  profits  of  the  mind,  study,  and  fast. 
He, — to  give  fear  to  use  and  liberty, 
Which  have  for  long  run  by  the  hideous  law, 
As  mice  by  lions, — hath  pick'd  out  an  act, 
Under  whose  heavy  sense  your  brother's  life 
Falls  into  forfeit  :  he  arrests  him  on  it ; 
And  follows  close  the  rigour  of  the  statute 
To  make  him  an  example  ;  all  hope  is  gone. 
Unless  you  have  the  grace  by  your  fair  prayer 
To  soften  Angelo  :  and  that 's  my  pith 
Of  business  'twixt  you  and  your  poor  brother. 

Isab.  Doth  he  so  seek  his  life  ? 

Lucio.  Has  censur'd  him 

Already ;  and,  as  I  hear,  the  provost  hath 
A  warrant  for  his  execution. 

Isab.  Alas  !  what  poor  ability 's  in  me 
To  do  him  good. 

Lucio.  Assay  the  power  you  have. 

Isab.   My  power  !  alas,  I  doubt, — 

Lucio.  Our  doubts  are  traitors, 

And  make  us  lose  the  good  we  oft  might  win 
By  fearing  to  attempt.     Go  to  Lord  Angelo, 
And  let  him  learn  to  know,  when  maidens  sue, 
Men  give  like  gods  ;  but  when  they  weep  and 

kneel, 

All  their  petitions  are  as  freely  theirs 
As  they  themselves  would  owe  them. 

Isab.  I  '11  see  what  I  can  do. 

Lucio.  But  speedily. 

Isab.  I  will  about  it  straight ; 
No  longer  staying  but  to  give  the  mother 
Notice  of  my  affair.     I  humbly  thank  you  : 
Commend  me  to  my  brother  :  soon  at  night 
I  '11  send  him  certain  word  of  my  success. 

Lucio.  I  take  my  leave  of  you. 

Isab.  Good  sir,  adieu. 

\_Exeunt. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.—  A  Hall  in  ANGELO'S  House. 

Enter  ANGELO,  ESCALUS,  a  JUSTICE,  PRO- 
VOST, Officers,  and  other  Attendants. 

Ang.  We  must  not  make  a  scarecrow  of  the 

law, 

Setting  it  up  to  fear  the  birds  of  prey, 
And  let  it  keep  one  shape  till  custom  make  it 
Their  perch,  and  not  their  terror. 

Escal.  Ay,  but  yet 

Let  us  be  keen,  and  rather  cut  a  little 
Than   fall  and  bruise  to  death.     Alas  !    this 
gentleman, 


112 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


[ACT  ii. 


Whom  I  would  save,  had  a  most  noble  father. 
Let  but  your  honour  know, — - 
Whom  I  believe  to  be  most  strait  in  virtue,— 
That,  in  the  working  of  your  own  affections, 
Had   time   coher'd  with  place,  or  place  with 

wishing, 

Or  that  the  resolute  acting  of  your  blood 
Could  have  attain'd   the   effect   of  your   own 

purpose, 

Whether  you  had  not  sometime  in  your  life 
Err'd  in  this  point  which  now  you  censure  him, 
And  pull'd  the  law  upon  you. 

Ang.  'Tis  one  thing  to  be  tempted,  Escalus, 
Another  thing  to  fall.     I  not  deny. 
The  jury,  passing  on  the  prisoner's  life, 
May,  in  the  sworn  twelve,  have  a  thief  or  two 
Guiltier   than   him    they   try.      What's   open 

made  to  justice, 

That  justice  seizes.     What  know  the  laws 
That   thieves  do  pass  on  thieves  ?     'Tis  very 

pregnant, 

The  jewel  that  we  find,  we  stoop  and  take  it, 
Because  we  see  it ;  but  what  we  do  not  see 
We  tread  upon,  and  never  think  of  it. 
You  may  not  so  extenuate  his  offence 
For  I  have  had  such  faults ;  but  rather  tell  me, 
When  I,  that  censure  him,  do  so  offend, 
Let  mine  own  judgment  pattern  out  my  death, 
And  nothing  come  in  partial.     Sir,  he  must  die. 

EscaL  Be  it  as  your  wisdom  will. 

Ang.  Where  is  the  provost  ? 

Prov.  Here,  if  it  like  your  honour. 

Ang.  See  that  Claudio 

Be  executed  by  nine  to-morrow  morning  : 
Bring  him  his  confessor  ;  let  him  be  prepared  ; 
For  that 's  the  utmost  of  his  pilgrimage. 

[Exit  PROVOST. 

EscaL  Well,  heaven  forgive  him  !  and  for- 
give us  all ! 

Some  rise  by  sin  and  some  by  virtue  fall :  « 
Some  run  from  brakes  of  vice,  and  answer  none ; 
And  some  condemned  for  a  fault  alone. 

Enter  ELBOW,  FROTH,  CLOWN,  Officers,  &c. 

Elb.  Come,  bring  them  away:  if  these  be 
good  people  in  a  commonweal  that  do  nothing 
but  use  their  abuses  in  common  houses,  I  know 
no  law  ;  bring  them  away. 

Ang.  How  now,  sir  !  What 's  your  name  ? 
and  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Elb.  If  it  please  your  honour,  I  am  the  poor 
duke's  constable,  and  my  n»me  is  Elbow ;  I  do 
lean  upon  justice,  sir,  and  do  bring  in  here  be- 
fore your  good  honour  two  notorious  bene- 
factors. 

Ang.  Benefactors!  Well;  what  benefactors 
are  they?  are  they  not  malefactors? 


Elb.  If  it  please  your  honour,  I  know  not 
well  what  they  are :  but  precise  villains  they 
are,  that  I  am  sure  of ;  and  void  of  all  profana- 
tion in  the  world  that  good  Christians  ought  to 
have.  [officer. 

EscaL  This  comes  off  well ;  here 's  a  wise 

Ang.  Go  to  ; — what  quality  are  they  of  ? 
Elbow  is  your  name  ?  Why  dost  thou  not 
speak,  Elbow? 

Clo.  He  cannot,  sir  ;  he 's  out  at  elbow. 

Ang.  What  are  you,  sir  ? 

Elb.  He,  sir  ?  a  tapster,  sir ;  parcel-bawd  ; 
one  that  serves  a  bad  woman  ;  whose  house, 
sir,  was,  as  they  say,  plucked  down  in  the 
suburbs  ;  and  now  she  professes  a  hot-house, 
which,  I  think,  is  a  very  ill  house  too. 

EscaL   How  know  you  that  ? 

Elb.  My  wife,  sir,  whom  I  detest  before 
heaven  and  your  honour, — 

EscaL  How  !  thy  wife  ! 

Elb.  Ay,  sir ;  who,  I  thank  heaven,  is  an 
honest  woman, — 

EscaL   Dost  thou  detest  her  therefore  ? 

Elb.  I  say,  sir,  I  will  detest  myself  also,  as 
well  as  she,  that  this  house,  if  it  be  not  a 
bawd's  house,  it  is  pity  of  her  life,  for  it  is  a 
naughty  house. 

EscaL   How  dost  thou  know  that,  constable? 

Elb.  Marry,  sir,  by  my  wife  ;  who,  if  she 
had  been  a  woman  cardinally  given,  might 
have  been  accused  in  fornication,  adultery,  and 
all  uncleanliness  there. 

EscaL  By  the  woman's  means? 

Elb.  Ay,  sir,  by  Mistress  Overdone's  means : 
but  as  she  spit  in  his  face,  so  she  defied  him. 

Clo.  Sir,  if  it  please  your  honour,  this  is  not  so. 

Elb.  Prove  it  before  these  varlets  here,  thou 
honourable  man,  prove  it. 

EscaL  Do  you  hear  how  he  misplaces  ? 

[To  ANGELO. 

Clo.  Sir,  she  came  in  great  with  child  ;  and 
longing — saving  your  honour's  reverence — for 
stewed  prunes,  sir  ;  we  had  but  two  in  the 
house,  which  at  that  very  distant  time  stood, 
as  it  were,  in  a  fruit-dish,  a  dish  of  some  three- 
pence ;  your  honours  have  seen  such  dishes  ; 
they  are  not  China  dishes,  but  very  good 
dishes.  [sir. 

EscaL  Go  to,  go  to  ;  no  matter  for  the  dish, 

Clo.  No,  indeed,  sir,  not  of  a  pin  ;  you  are 
therein  in  the  right :  but  to  the  point.  As  I 
say,  this  Mistress  Elbow,  being,  as  I  say,  with 
child,  and  being  great-bellied,  and  longing,  as 
I  said,  for  prunes  ;  and  having  but  two  in  the 
dish,  as  I  said,  Master  Froth  here,  this  very 
man,  having  eaten  the  rest,  as  I  said,  and,  as  I 
say,  paying  for  them  very  honestly  ; — for,  as 


SCENE  I.] 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


you  know,  Master  Froth,  I  could  not  give  you 
threepence  again, — 

Froth.  No,  indeed. 

do.  Very  well  :  you  being  then,  if  you  be 
remembered,  cracking  the  stones  of  the  afore- 
said prunes, — 

Froth.  Ay,  so  I  did,  indeed. 

Clo.  Why,  very  well :  I  telling  you  then,  if 
you  be  remembered,  that  such  a  one  and  such 
a  one  were  past  cure  of  the  thing  you  wot  of, 
unless  they  kept  very  good  diet,  as  I  told 
you, — 

Froth.  All  this  is  true. 

Clo.  Why,  very  well  then. 

Escal.  Come,  you  are  a  tedious  fool :  to  the 
purpose. — What  was  done  to  Elbow's  wife  that 
he  hath  cause  to  complain  of?  Come  me  to 
what  was  done  to  her. 

Clo.  Sir,  your  honour  cannot  come  to  that  yet. 

Escal.  No,  sir,  nor  I  mean  it  not. 

Clo.  Sir,  but  you  shall  come  to  it,  by  your 
honour's  leave.  And,  I  beseech  you,  look  into 
Master  Froth  here,  sir  ;  a  man  of  fourscore 
pound  a-year  ;  whose  father  died  at  Hallow- 
mas:— was't  not  at  Hallowmas,  Master  Froth? 

Froth.  All-hallond  eve. 

Clo.  Why,  very  well ;  I  hope  here  be  truths : 
He,  sir,  sitting,  as  I  say,  in  a  lower  chair,  sir  ; 
—'twas  in  the  Bunch  of  Grapes,  where,  indeed, 
you  have  a  delight  to  sit,  have  you  not  ? — 

Froth.  I  have  so ;  because  it  is  an  open 
room,  and  good  for  winter.  [truths. 

Clo.  Why,  very  well  then  ; — I  hope  here  be 

Ang.  This  will  last  out  a  night  in  Russia, 
When  nights  are  longest  there:  I  '11  take  my  leave, 
And  leave  you  to  the  hearing  of  the  cause  ; 
Hoping  you  '11  find  good  cause  to  whip  them  all. 

Escal.   I  think  no  less.     Good  morrow  to 

your  lordship.  [Exit  ANGBLO. 

Now,  sir,  come  on :  what  was  done  to  Elbow's 

wife,  once  more  ?  [her  once. 

Clo.  Once,  sir?  there  was  nothing  done  to 

Elb.  I  beseech  you,  sir,  ask  him  what  this 
man  did  to  my  wife. 

Clo.  I  beseech  your  honour,  ask  me. 

Escal.  Well,  sir  :  what  did  this  gentleman 
to  her  ? 

Clo.  I  beseech  you,  sir,  look  in  this  gentle- 
man's face. — Good  Master  Froth,  look  upon 
his  honour ;  'tis  for  a  good  purpose. — Doth 
your  honour  mark  his  face  ? 

Escal.  Ay,  sir,  very  well. 

Clo.  Nay,  I  beseech  you,  mark  it  well. 

Escal.  .Well,  I  do  so. 

Clo.  Doth  your  honour  see  any  harm  in  his  face? 

Escal.  Why,  no. 

Cfa.  I  '11  be  supposed  upon  a  book,  his  face 


is  the  worst  thing  about  him.  Good  then  ;  if 
bis  face  be  the  worst  thing  about  him,  how 
could  Master  Froth  do  the  constable's  wife  any 
harm  ?  I  would  know  that  of  your  honour. 

Escal.  He 'sin  the  right. — Constable,  what 
say  you  to  it  ? 

Elb.  First,  an  it  like  you,  the  house  is  a  re- 
spected house  ;  next,  this  is  a  respected  fellow ; 
and  his  mistress  is  a  respected  woman. 

Clo.  By  this  hand,  sir,  his  wife  is  a  more  re- 
spected person  than  any  of  us  all. 

Elb.  Varlet,  thou  liest ;  thou  liest,  wicked 
varlet :  the  time  is  yet  to  come  that  she  was 
ever  respected  with  man,  woman,  or  child. 

Clo.  Sir,  she  was  respected  with  him  before 
he  married  with  her. 

Escal.  Which  is  the  wiser  here  ?  Justice  or 
Iniquity  ? — Is  this  true  ? 

Elb.  O  thou  caitiff  !  O  thou  varlet !  O  thou 
wicked  Hannibal  !  I  respected  with  her  before 
I  was  married  to  her  ?  If  ever  I  was  respected 
with  her,  or  she  with  me,  let  not  your  worship 
think  me  the  poor  duke's  officer. — Prove  this, 
thou  wicked  Hannibal,  or  I  '11  have  mine 
action  of  battery  on  thee. 

Escal.  If  he  took  you  a  box  o'  th'  ear,  you 
might  have  your  action  of  slander  too. 

Elb.  Marry,  I  thank  your  good  worship  for 
it.  What  is 't  your  worship's  pleasure  I  should 
do  with  this  wicked  caitiff? 

Escal.  Truly,  officer,  because  he  hath  some 
offences  in  him  that  thou  wouldst  discover  if 
thou  couldst,  let  him  continue  in  his  courses 
till  thou  knowest  what  they  are. 

Elb.  Marry,  I  thank  your  worship  for  it. — 
Thou  seest,  thou  wicked  varlet,  now,  what 's 
come  upon  thee  ;  thou  art  to  continue  now, 
thou  varlet ;  thou  art  tc  continue. 

Escal.  Where  were  }  >\i  born,  friend  ? 

[To  FROTH. 

Froth.   Here  in  Vienna,  sir. 

Escal.  Are  you  of  fourscore  pounds  a-year  ? 

Froth.  Yes,  an 't  please  you,  sir. 

Escal.  So. — What  trade  are  you  of,  sir  ? 

[To  the  CLOWN. 

Clo.  A  tapster  ;  a  poor  widow's  tapster. 

Escal.  Your  mistress's  name  ? 

Clo.  Mistress  Overdone. 

Escal.  Hath  she  had  any  more  than  one 
husband  ? 

Clo.  Nine,  sir  ;  Overdone  by  the  last. 

Escal.  Nine  ! — Come  hither  to  me,  Master 
Froth.  Master  Froth,  I  would  not  have  you 
acquainted  with  tapsters  :  they  will  draw  you, 
Master  Froth,  and  you  will  hang  them.  Get 
you  gone,  and  let  me  hear  no  more  of  you. 

Froth.    I  thank  your  worship.      For  mine 


114 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


FACT  IT. 


own  part,  I  never  come  into  any  room  in  a  tap- 
house but  I  am  drawn  in. 

Escal.  Well  ;  no  more  of  it,  Master  Froth : 
farewell.  [Exit  FROTH.] — Come  you  hither 
to  me,  master  tapster  ;  what 's  your  name, 
master  tapster  ? 

Clo.  Pompey. 

Escal.  What  else? 

Clo.  Bum,  sir. 

Escal.  'Troth,  and  your  bum  is  the  greatest 
thing  about  you  ;  so  that,  in  the  beastliest 
sense,  you  are  Pompey  the  great.  Pompey, 
you  are  partly  a  bawd,  Pompey,  howsoever 
you  colour  it  in  being  a  tapster.  Are  you  not? 
come,  tell  me  true ;  it  shall  be  the  better  for  you. 

Clo.  Truly,  sir,  I  am  a  poor  fellow  that 
would  live. 

Escal.  How  would  you  live,  Pompey?  by 
being  a  bawd  ?  What  do  you  think  of  the 
trade,  Pompey  ?  is  it  a  lawful  trade  ? 

Clo.  If  the  law  would  allow  it,  sir. 

Escal.  But  the  law  will  not  allow  it,  Pom- 
pey :  nor  it  shall  not  be  allowed  in  Vienna. 

Clo.  Does  your  worship  mean  to  geld  and 
splay  all  the  youth  in  the  city  ? 

Escal.  No,  Pompey. 

Clo.  Truly,  sir,  in  my  poor  opinion,  they 
.vill  to 't  then.  If  your  worship  will  take  order 
for  the  drabs  and  the  knaves,  you  need  not  to 
fear  the  bawds. 

Escal.  There  are  pretty  orders  beginning,  I 
can  tell  you.  It  is  but  heading  and  hanging. 

Clo.  If  you  head  and  hang  all  that  offend 
that  way  but  for  ten  year  together,  you  '11  be 
glad  to  give  out  a  commission  for  more  heads. 
If  this  law  hold  in  Vienna  ten  year,  I  '11  rent 
the  fairest  house  in  it,  after  threepence  a  bay. 
If  you  live  to  see  this  <  ome  to  pass,  say  Pom- 
pey told  you  so. 

Escal.  Thank  you,  *ood  Pompey:  and,  in 
requital  of  your  prophecy,  hark  you, — I  advise 
you,  let  me  not  find  you  before  me  again  upon 
any  complaint  whatsoever,  no,  not  for  dwell- 
ing where  you  do ;  if  I  do,  Pompey,  I  shall 
beat  you  to  your  tent,  and  prove  a  shrewd 
Csesar  to  you  ;  in  plain  dealing,  Pompey,  I 
shall  have  you  whipt :  so  for  this  time,  Pom- 
pey, fare  you  well. 

Clo.  I  thank   your   worship  for  your  good 
counsel ;  but  I  shall  follow  it  as  the  flesh  and 
fortune  shall  better  determine. 
Whip  me  ?   No,  no  ;  let  carman  whip  his  jade ; 
The  valiant  heart's  not  whipt  out  of  his  trade. 

[Exit. 

Escal.  Come  hither  to  me,  Master  Elbow  ; 
come  hither,  Master  Constable.  How  long  have 
you  been  Jn  this  place  of  constable  ? 


Elb.  Seven  year  and  a  half,  sir. 

Escal.  I  thought,  by  your  readiness  in  the 
office,  you  had  continued  in  it  some  time.  You 
say  seven  years  together  ? 

Elb.  And  a  half,  sir. 

Escal.  Alas !  it  hath  been  great  pains  to  you ! — 
They  do  you  wrong  to  put  you  so  oft  upon 't.  Are 
there  not  men  in  your  ward  sufficient  to  serve  it? 

Elb.  Faith,  sir,  few  of  any  wit  in  such  mat- 
ters :  as  they  are  chosen,  they  are  glad  to  choose 
me  for  them ;  I  do  it  for  some  piece  of  money, 
and  go  through  with  all. 

Escal.  Look  you,  bring  me  in  the  names  of 
some  six  or  seven,  the  most  sufficient  of  your 
parish. 

Elb.  To  your  worship's  house,  sir  ? 

Escal.  To  my  house.  Fare  you  well.  [Exit. 
ELBOW.]  What's  o'clock,  think  you  ? 

Just.  Eleven,  sir. 

Escal.   I  pray  you  home  to  dinner  with  me. 

Just.  I  humbly  thank  you. 

Escal.  It  grieves  me  for  the  death  of  Claudio  ; 
But  there 's  no  remedy. 

Just.   Lord  Angelo  is  severe. 

Escal.  It  is  but  needful : 

Mercy  is  not  itself,  that  oft  looks  so ; 
Pardon  is  still  the  nurse  of  second  woe  : 
But  yet, — Poor  Claudio  1 — There 's  no  remedy. 
Come,  sir.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  PROVOST  and  a  Servant. 

Serv.  He 's  hearing  of  a  cause ;  he  will  come 

straight. 
I  '11  tell  him  of  you.  [know 

Prov.   Pray  you  do.     [Exit  Servant.]     I'll 
His  pleasure  ;  may  be  he  will  relent.     Alas, 
He  hath  but  as  offended  in  a  dream  ! 
All  sects,  all  ages,  smack  of  this  vice ;  and  he 
To  die  for  it ! 

•f.*r:'fM fj    .^5 r.-'ffV,    -.      9f/f     fTr  rj •}<    C  -,',;;         .\--,fff) 

Enter  ANGELO. 

Ang.          Now,  what 's  the  matter,  provost? 

Prov.  Is  it  your  will  Claudio  shall  die  to- 
morrow ? 

Ang.  Did  I  not  tell  thee  yea?  hadst   thou 

not  order  ? 
Why  dost  thou  ask  again  ? 

Prov.  Lest  I  might  be  too  rash  : 

Under  your  good  correction,  I  have  seen 
When,  after  execution,  judgment  hath 
Repented  o'er  his  doom. 

Ang.  Go  to ;  let  that  be  mine : 

Do  you  your  office,  or  give  up  your  place, 
And  you  shall  well  be  spared. 

Prov*  I  crave  your  honour's  pardon  : 


SCENE  II.] 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


What  shall  be  done,  sir,  with  the  groaning  Juliet? 
She  3s  very  near  her  hour. 

Ang.  Dispose  of  her 

To  some  more  fitter  place ;  and  that  with  speed. 

Re-enter  Servant. 

Set  v.  Here  is  the  sister  of  the  man  condemned 
Desires  access  to  you. 

Ang.  Hath  he  a  sister  ? 

Prov.  Ay,  my  good  lord ;  a  very  virtuous  maid, 
And  to  be  shortly  of  a  sisterhood, 
If  not  already. 

Ang.  Well,  let  her  be  admitted. 

[Exit  Servant. 

See  you  the  fornicatress  be  remov'd ; 
Let  her  have  needful  but  not  lavish  means  ; 
There  shall  be  order  for  it. 


I 


Enter  Lucio  and  ISABELLA. 


Prov.  Save  your  honour  !  [Offering to  retire. 

Ang.  Stay  a  little  while. — [To  ISAB.]     You 
are  welcome.     What 's  your  will  ? 

Isab.  I  am  a  woeful  suitor  to  your  honour, 
Please  but  your  honour  hear  me. 

Ang.  Well ;  what 's  your  suit  ? 

Isab.  There  is  a  vice  that  most  I  do  abhor, 
And  most  desire  should  meet  the  blow  of  justice ; 
For  which  I  would  not  plead,  but  that  I  must ; 
For  which  I  must  not  plead,  but  that  I  am 
At  war  'twixt  will  and  will  not. 

Ang.  Well ;  the  matter  ? 

Isab.  I  have  a  brother  is  condemn'd  to  die  ; 
I  do  beseech  you,  let  it  be  his  fault, 
And  not  my  brother. 

Prov.  Heaven  give  thee  moving  graces. 

Ang.  Condemn  the  fault  and  not  the  actor  of  it ! 
Why,  every  fault 's  condemn'd  ere  it  be  done  ; 
Mine  were  the  very  cipher  of  a  function, 
To  find  the  fault  whose  fine  stands  in  record, 
And  let  go  by  the  actor. 

Isab.  O  just  but  severe  law  ! 

I  had  a  brother,  then. — Heaven  keep  your  hon- 
our !  [Retiring. 

Lucio.  [To  ISAB.]    Give't  not  o'er  so:  to 

him  again,  entreat  him  ; 

Kneel  down  before  him,  hang  upon  his  gown  ; 
You  are  too  cold  ;  if  you  should  need  a  pin, 
You  could  not  with  more  tame  a  tongue  desire  it : 
To  him,  I  say. 

Isab.  Must  he  needs  die  ? 

Ang<  Maiden,  no  remedy. 

Isab.  Yes  ;  I  do  think  that  you  might  pardon 

him, 
And  neither  heaven  nor  man  grieve  at  the  mercy. 

Ang.  I  will  not  do 't. 

Isab.  But  can  you,  if  you  would  ? 


Ang.  Look,  what  I  will  not,  that  I  cannot  do. 

Isab.  But  might  you  do 't,  and  do  the  world 

no  wrong, 

If  so  your  heart  were  touch'd  with  that  remorse 
As  mine  is  to  him. 

Ang.  He 's  sentenc'd  ;  'tis  too  late. 

Lucio.  You  are  too  cold.        [  To  ISABELLA. 

Isab.  Too  late?  why,  no;  I,  that  do  speak  a 

word, 

May  call  it  back  again.     Well,  believe  this, 
No  ceremony  that  to  great  ones  'longs, 
Not  the  king's  crown  nor  the  deputed  sword, 
The  marshal's  truncheon  nor  the  judge's  robe, 
Become  them  with  one  half  so  good  a  grace 
As  mercy  does.     If  he  had  been  as  you, 
And  you  as  he,  you  would  have  slipp'd  like  him ; 
But  he,  like  you,  would  not  have  been  so  stern. 

Ang.   Pray  you,  be  gone. 

Isab.  I  would  to  heaven  I  had  your  potency. 
And  you  were  Isabel !  should  it  then  be  thus  ? 
No  ;  I  would  tell  what  'twere  to  be  a  judge 
And  what  a  prisoner. 

Lucio.  Ay,  touch  him ;   there 's  the  vein. 

[Aside. 

Ang.  Your  brother  is  a  forfeit  of  the  law, 
And  you  but  waste  your  words. 

Isab.  Alas  !  alas  ! 

Why,  all  the  souls  that  were  were  forfeit  once ; 
And  He  that  might  the  vantage  best  have  took 
Found  out  the  remedy.     How  would  you  be 
If  He,  which  is  the  top  of  judgment,  should 
But  judge  you  as  you  are  ?     O,  think  on  that  ; 
And  mercy  then  wijl  breathe  within  your  lips, 
Like  man  new  made. 

Ang.  Be  you  content,  fair  maid  : 

It  is  the  law,  not  I,  condemns  your  brother  : 
Were  he  my  kinsman,  brother,  or  my  son, 
It  should  be  thus  with  him  ; — he  must  die  to- 
morrow, [him,  spare  him  ! 

Isab.  To-morrow!    O  that 's  sudden !    Spare 
He's   not  prepared  for  death.     Even  for  our 

kitchens 

We  kill  the  fowl  of  season :  shall  we  serve  heaven 
With  less  respect  than  we  do  minister       [you : 
Toour  gross  selves?  Good,  good  my  lord,  bethink 
Who  is  it  that  hath  died  for  this  offence  ? 
There 's  many  have  committed  it. 

Lucio.  Ay,  well  said. 

Ang.  The  law  hath  not  been  dead,  though 

it  hath  slept : 

Those  many  had  not  dared  to  do  that  evil 
If  the  first  man  that  did  the  edict  infringe 
Had  answer'd  for  his  deed  :  now  'tis  awake  ; 
Takes  note  of  what  is  done  ;  and,  like  a  prophet, 
Looks  in  a  glass  that  shows  what  future  evils, — 
Either  now,  or  by  remissness  new-conceiv'd, 
And  so  in  progress  to  be  hatch'd  and  born, — 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


[ACT  ii. 


Are  now  to  have  no  successive  degrees, 
But,  where  they  live,  to  end. 

Isab.  Yet  show  some  pity. 

Ang.   I  show  it  most  of  all  when  I  shjw  justice; 
For  then  I  pity  those  I  do  not  know, 
Which  a  dismiss'd  offence  would  after  gall, 
And  do  him  right  thatj  answering  one  foul  wrong, 
Lives  not  to  act  another.     Be  satisfied  ; 
Your  brother  dies  to-morrow  :  be  content. 

Isab.  So  you  must  be  the  first  that  gives  this 

sentence  ; 

And  he  that  suffers.     O,  it  is  excellent 
To  have  a  giant's  strength  ;  but  it  is  tyrannous 
To  use  it  like  a  giant. 

Lucio.  That 's  well  said. 

Isab.  Could  great  men  thunder 
As  Jove  himself  does,  Jove  would  ne'er  be  quiet, 
For  every  pelting  petty  officer 
Would  use  his  heaven  for  thunder  :  nothing  but 

thunder. 

Merciful  heaven  ! 

Thou  rather,  with  thy  sharp  and  sulphurous  bolt, 
Splitt'st  the  unwedgeable  and  gnarled  oak 
Than  the  soft  myrtle  ; — but  man,  proud  man  ! 
Dress'd  in  a  little  brief  authority, — 
Most  ignorant  of  what  he 's  most  assured, 
His  glassy  essence, — like  an  angry  ape, 
Plays  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  heaven 
As  make  the  angels  weep;  who,  with  our  spleens, 
Would  all  themselves  laugh  mortal. 

Lucio.  O,  to  him,  to  him,  wench :  he  will  re- 
lent; 
He 's  coming  ;  I  perceive 't. 

Prov.  Pray  heaven  she  win  him  ! 

Isab.  We  cannot  weigh  our  brother  with  our- 
self :  [them  ; 

Great  men  may  jest  with   saints  :  'tis    wit   in 
But,  in  the  less,  foul  profanation. 

Lucio.  Thou  'rt  in  the  right,  girl ;  more  o'  that. 

Isab.  That  in  the  captain 's  but  a  choleric  word 
Which  in  the  soldier  is  flat  blasphemy. 

Lucio.  Art  advised  o'  that  ?  more  on 't. 

Ang.  Why  do  you  put  these  sayings  upon  me  ? 

Isab.  Because  authority,  though  it  err   like 

others, 

Hath  yet  a  kind  of  medicine  in  itself 
That  skins  the  vice  o'  the  top.   Go  to  you  r  bosom ; 
Knock  there ;  and  ask  your  heart  what  it  doth 

know 

That's  like  my  brother's  fault;  if  it  confess 
A  natural  guiltiness  such  as  is  his, 
Let  it  not  sound  a  thought  upon  your  tongue 
Against  my  brother's  life. 

Ang.  She  speaks,  and  'tis 

Such  sense  that  my  sense  breeds  with  it. 

Fare  you  well. 

Isab.  Gentle,  my  lord,  turn  back. 


Ang.  I  will  bethink  me  : — Come  again  to- 
morrow, [lord,  turn  back. 

Isab.  Hark  how  I  '11  bribe  you.     Good,  my 

Ang.  How  !  bribe  me  ? 

Isab.  Ay,  with  such  gifts  that  heaven  shall 
share  with  you. 

Lucio.  You  had  marr'd  all  else. 

Isab.  Not  with  fond  shekels  of  the  tested  gold, 
Or  stones,  whose  rates  are  either  rich  or  poor 
As  fancy  values  them  :  but  with  true  prayers, 
That  shall  be  up  at  heaven,  and  enter  there, 
Ere  sunrise  :  prayers  from  preserved  souls, 
From  fasting  maids,  whose  minds  are  dedicate 
To  nothing  temporal. 

Ang.  Well  ;  come  to  me 

To-morrow. 

Lucio.  Go  to  ;  it  is  well ;  away. 

[Aside  to  ISABELLA. 

Isab.  Heaven  keep  your  honour  safe  ! 

Ang.  Amen  :  for  I 

Am  that  waygoing  to  temptation,  [Aside. 

Where  prayers  cross. 

Isab.  At  what  hour  to-morrow 

Shall  I  attend  your  lordship  ? 

Ang.  At  any  time  'fore  noon. 

Isab.  Save  your  honour ! 

[Exeunt  Lucio,  ISAB.  ,  and  PROV. 

Ang.         From  thee ;  even  from  thy  virtue ! — • 
What's  this?  what's  this?     Is  this  her  fault  or 
mine  ?  [Ha  ! 

The  tempter  or  the  tempted,  who  sins  most  ? 
Not  she  ;  nor  doth  she  tempt ;  but  it  is  I 
That,  lying  by  the  violet,  in  the  sun 
Do,  as  the  carrion  does,  not  as  the  flower, 
Corrupt  with  virtuous  season.     Can  it  be 
That  modesty  may  more  betray  our  sense 
Than     woman's     lightness  ?       Having    waste 

ground  enough, 

Shall  we  desire  to  raze  the  sanctuary 
And  pitch  our  evils  there  ?    O,  fie,  fie,  fie  ! 
What  dost  thou  ?  or  what  art  thou,  Angelo  ? 
Dost  thou  desire  her  foully  for  those  things 
That  make  her  good  ?    O,  let  her  brother  live ; 
Thieves  for  their  robbery  have  authority 
When  judges  steal  themselves.     What  !  do  I 

love  her, 

That  I  desire  to  hear  her  speak  again         [on  ? 
And  feast  upon  her  eyes  ?     What  is 't  I  dream 
O  cunning  enemy,  that,  to  catch  a  saint, 
With  saints  dost  bait  thy  hook  !  Most  dangerous 
Is  that  temptation  that  doth  goad  us  on 
Tosin  in  loving  virtue :  never  could  the  strumpet, 
With  all  her  double  vigour,  art,  and  nature, 
Once  stir  my  temper  ;  but  this  virtuous  maid 
Subdues  me  quite. — Ever  till  now, 
When  men  were  fond,  I  smil'd  and  wonder'd 
how.  [Exit. 


SCENE  III,] 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


117 


SCENE  III. — A  Room  in  a  Prison. 

Enter  DUKE,  habited  like  a  Friar ,  and 
PROVOST. 

Duke.   Hail  to  you,  provost !  so  I  think  you 
are.  [good  friar  ? 

Prov.  I  am  the  provost.     What's  your  will, 

Duke.   Bound  by  my  charity  and  my  bless'd 

order, 

I  come  to  visit  the  afflicted  spirits  uh;»i 
Here  in  the  prison  :  do  me  the  common  right 
To  let  me  see  them,  and  to  make  me  know 
The  nature  of  their  crimes,  that  I  may  minister 
To  them  accordingly.  [were  needful. 

Frov.  I  would  do  more  than  that,  if  more 

Enter  JULIET. 

Look,  here  comes  one ;  a  gentlewoman  of  mine, 
Who,  falling  in  the  flames  of  her  own  youth, 
Hath  blister'd  her  report.     She  is  with  child; 
And  he  that  got  it,  sentenc'd  :  a  young  man  ; 
More  fit  to  do  another  such  offence 
Than  die  for  this. 

Duke.  When  must  he  die  ? 

Prov.  As  I  do  think,  to-morrow, — 
I  have  provided  for  you  ;  stay  awhile 

[To  JULIET. 
And  you  shall  be  conducted.  [carry  ? 

Duke.  Repent  you,  fair  one,  of  the  sin  you 

Juliet.    I    do ;    and   bear   the   shame   most 
patiently. 

Duke.   I  '11  teach  you  how  you  shall  arraign 

your  conscience. 

And  try  your  penitence,  if  it  be  sound 
Or  hollowly  put  on. 

Tuliet.     '  I  '11  gladly  learn. 

Duke.  Love  you  the  man  that  wrong'd  you  ? 

Juliet.    Yes,    as    I    love    the   woman    that 
wrong'd  him.  [act 

Duke.  So  then,  it  seems,  your  most  offenceful 
Was  mutually  committed  ? 

Juliet.  Mutually.          [than  his. 

Duke.  Then  was  your  sin  of  heavier  kind 

Juliet.   I  do  confess  it,  and  repent  it,  father. 

Duke.  'Tis  meet  so,  daughter  :  but  lest  you 

do  repent  [shame, — 

As    that   the   sin   hath   brought    you    to   this 

Which  sorrow  is  always  toward  ourselves,  not 

heaven,  [love  it, 

Showing  we  would  not  spare  heaven  as  we 

But  as  we  stand  in  fear, — 

Juliet.  I  do  repent  me  as  it  is  an  evil, 
And  take  the  shame  with  joy. 

Duke.  There  rest. 

Your  partner,  as  I  hear,  must  die  to-morrow, 
And  I  am  going  with  instruction  to  him. — 


Juliet.  Grace  go  with  you  ! 

Duke.  Benedicite!  [Exit. 

Juliet.   Must  die  to-morrow  !     O,  injurious 

law, 

That  respites  me  a  life  whose  very  comfort 
Is  still  a  dying  horror  ! 

Prov.  Tis  pity  of  him  !     [Exeunt. 

Joo  nt»vi  •!<•  iu.-v.  <;ir'  JjsriT 
SCENE  TV.—  A  Room  in  ANGELO'S  House. 

Enter  ANGELO. 
Ang.  When  I  would  pray  and  think,  I  think 

and  pray  [words ; 

To  several  subjects.     Heaven  hath  my  empty 
Whilst  my  invention,  hearing  not  my  tongue. 
Anchors  on  Isabel :  Heaven  in  my  mouth, 
As  if  I  did  but  only  chew  his  name  ; 
And  in  my  heart  the  strong  and  swelling  evil 
Of  my  conception.    The  state  whereon  I  studied 
Is  like  a  good  thing,  being  often  read, 
Grown  sear'd  and  tedious  ;  yea,  my  gravity, 
Wherein — let  no  man  hear  me — I  take  pride, 
Could  I  with  boot  change  for  an  idle  plume, 
Which  the  air  beats  for  vain.     O  place  !     O 

form  ! 

How  often  dost  thou  with  thy  case,  thy  habit, 
Wrench  awe  from  fools,  and  tie  the  wiser  souls 
To  thy  false  seeming  ?     Blood,  thou  still  art 
.  ,,.,          blood: 

Let's  write  good  angel  on  the  devil's  horn, 
'Tis  not  the  devil's  crest. 


Enter  Servant. 


One  Isabel,  a  sister, 


How  now,  who's  there  ? 

Serv. 
Desires  access  to  you. 

Ang.         Teach  her  the  way.       [Exit  Serv. 
O  heavens ! 

Why  does  my  blood  thus  muster  to  my  heart, 
Making  both  it  unable  for  itself 
And  dispossessing  all  the  other  parts 
Of  necessary  fitness  ?  [swoons  ; 

So   play   the    foolish   throngs   with    one    that 
Come  all  to  help  him,  and  so  stop  the  air 
By  which  he  should  revive  :  and  even  so 
The  general,  subject  to  a  well-wished  king, 
Quit  their  own  part,  and  in  obsequious  fondness 
Crowd  to  his  presence,  where  their  untaught  love 
Must  needs  appear  offence. 

Enter  ISABELLA. 
How  now,  fair  maid  ? 

Isab.          I  am  come  to  know  your  pleasure. 

Ang.  That  you  might  know  it,  would  much 

better  please  me  [not  live. 

Than  to  demand  what  'tis.     Your  brother  can- 

hab.  Even  so? — Heaven  keep  your  honour! 

[Retiring. 


iiS 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


[ACT  n. 


Ang.  Yet  may  he  live  awhile :  and,  it  may 

be, 
As  long  as  you  or  I :  yet  he  must  die. 

I  sab.   Under  your  sentence  ? 

Ang.  Yea.  [prieve, 

Isab.  When,  I  beseech  you  ?  that  in  his  re- 
Longer  or  shorter,  he  may  be  so  fitted 
That  his  soul  sicken  not.  [as  good 

Ang.  Ha !     Fie,  these  filthy  vices !     It  were 
To  pardon  him  that  hath  from  nature  stolen 
A  man  already  made,  as  to  remit  [image 

Their  saucy  sweetness  that  do  coin  heaven's 
In  stamps  that  are  forbid  ;  'tis  all  as  easy 
Falsely  to  take  away  a  life  true  made 
As  to  put  metal  in  restrained  means 
To  make  a  false  one.  [earth. 

Isab.  'Tis  set  down  so  in  heaven,  but  not  in 

Ang.  Say  you  so?   then   I  shall  poze  you 

quickly. 

Which  had  you  rather, — that  the  most  just  law 
Now  took  your  brother's  life ;  or,  to  redeem  him 
Give  up  your  body  to  such  sweet  uncleanness 
As  she  that  he  hath  stain'd  ? 

Isab.  Sir,  believe  this, 

I  had  rather  give  my  body  than  my  soul. 

Ang.   I  talk  not  of  your  soul ;  our  compell'd 

sins 
Stand  more  for  number  than  accompt. 

Isab.  How  say  you  ? 

Ang.  Nay,  I  '11  not  warrant  that ;  for  I  can 

speak 

Against  the  thing  I  say.     Answer  to  this  ; — 
I,  now  the  voice  of  the  recorded  law, 
Pronounce  a  sentence  on  your  brother's  life  : 
Might  there  not  be  a  charity  in  sin, 
To  save  this  brother's  life  ? 

Isab.  Please  you  to  do 't, 

I  '11  take  it  as  a  peril  to  my  soul 
It  is  no  sin  at  all,  but  charity. 

Ang.  Pleas'd  you  to  do 't  at  peril  of  your  soul, 
Were  equal  poise  of  sfn  and  charity. 

Isab.  That  I  do  beg  his  life,  if  it  be  sin, 
Heaven  let  me  bear  it !  you  granting  of  my  suit, 
If  that  be  sin,  I  '11  make  it  my  morn  prayer 
To  have  it  added  to  the  faults  of  mine, 
And  nothing  of  your  answer. 

Ang.  Nay,  but  hear  me  : 

Your  sense  pursues  not  mine :  either  you  are 

ignorant 
Or  seem  so,  craftily  ;  and  that 's  not  good. 

Isab.  Let  me  be  ignorant,  and  in  nothing  good 
But  graciously  to  know  I  am  no  better. 

Ang.  Thus  wisdom  wishes  to  appear  most 

bright 

When  it  doth  tax  itself :  as  these  black  masks 
Proclaim  an  enshield  beauty  ten  times  louder 
Than  beauty  could,  displayed. — But  mark  me; 


To  be  received  plain,  I  '11  speak  more  gross  : 
Your  brother  is  to  die. 

Isab.  So. 

Ang.  And  his  offence  is  so,  as  it  appears 
Accountant  to  the  law  upon  that  pain. 

Isab.  True. 

Ang.  Admit  no  other  way  to  save  his  life,— 
As  I  subscribe  not  that,  nor  any  other, 
But  in  the  loss  of  question, — that  you,  his  sister, 
Finding  yourself  desir'd  of  such  a  person, 
Whose  credit  with  the  judge,  or  own  great  place, 
Could  fetch  your  brother  from  the  manacles 
Of  the  all-binding  law  ;  and  that  there  were 
No  earthly  mean  to  save  him  but  that  either 
You  must  lay  down  the  treasures  of  your  body 
To  this  suppos'd,  or  else  let  him  suffer  ; 
What  would  you  do? 

Isab.  As  much  for  my  poor  brother  as  myself: 
That  is,  were  I  under  the  terms  of  death, 
The  impression  of  keen  whips  I  'd  wear  as  rubies, 
And  strip  myself  to  death,  as  to  a  bed 
That  longing  I  have  been  sick  for,  ere  I'd  yield 
My  body  up  to  shame. 

Ang.  Then  must  your  brother  die. 

Isab.  And  'twere  the  cheaper  way  : 
Better  it  were  a  brother  died  at  once 
Than  that  a  sister,  by  redeeming  him, 
Should  die  for  ever.  [sentence 

Ang.  Were  not  you,  then,  as  cruel  as  the 
That  you  have  slandered  so  ? 

Isab.  Ignominy  in  ransom  and  free  pardon 
Are  of  two  houses  ;  lawful  mercy  is 
Nothing  akin  to  foul  redemption.  [tyrant ; 

Ang.  You  seem'd  of  late  to  make  the  law  a 
And  rather  prov'd  the  sliding  of  your  brother 
A  merriment  than  a  vice. 

Isab.  O,  pardon  me,  my  lord ;  it  oft  falls  out, 
To  have  what  we  would  have,  we  speak  not 

what  we  mean  : 

I  something  do  excuse  the  thing  I  hate, 
For  his  advantage  that  I  dearly  love. 

Ang.  We  are  all  frail. 

Isab.  Else  let  my  brother  die, 

If  not  a  feodary,  but  only  he, 
Owe,  and  succeed  by  weakness. 

Ang.  Nay,  women  are  frail  too. 

Isab.  Ay,  as   the  glasses  where  they  view 

themselves ; 

Which  are  as  easy  broke  as  they  make  forms. 
Women ! — Help  heaven !  men  their  creation  mar 
In  profiting  by  them.     Nay,  call  us  ten  times 

frail ; 

For  we  are  soft  as  our  complexions  are, 
And  credulous  to  false  prints. 

Ang.  I  think  it  well : 

And  from  this  testimony  of  your  own  sex,— 
Since*  I  suppose,  we  are  made  to  be  no  stronger 


SCENE  IV.] 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


119 


Than  faults  may  shake  our  frames, — let  me  be 

bold;— 

I  do  arrest  your  words.     Be  that  you  are, 
That  is,  a  woman  ;  if  you  be  more,  you  're  none ; 
If  you  be  one,— as  you  are  well  express'd 
By  all  external  warrants, — show  it  now 
By  putting  on  the  destin'd  livery.  [lord, 

Isab.  I  have  no  tongue  but  one  :  gentle,  my 
Let  me  intreat  you,  speak  the  former  language. 

Ang.  Plainly  conceive,  I  love  you. 

Isab.  My  brother  did  love  Juliet ;  and  you 

tell  me 
That  he  shall  die  for  it. 

Ang.  He  shall  not,  Isabel,  if  you  give  me  love. 

Isab.  I  know  your  virtue  hath  a  license  in 't, 
Which  seems  a  little  fouler  than  it  is, 
To  pluck  on  others. 

Ang.  Believe  me,  on  mine  honour, 

My  words  express  my  purpose. 

Isab.  Ha  !  little  honour  to  be  much  believed, 
And    most    pernici<  -us    purpose  !  —  Seeming, 

seeming  ! — 

I  will  proclaim  thee,  Angelo  ;  look  for 't : 
Sign  me  a  present  pardon  for  my  brother 
Or,  with  anoutstretch'd  throat,  I  '11  tell  the  world 
Aloud  what  man  thou  art. 

Ang.  Who  will  believe  thee,  Isabel  ? 

My  unsoil'd  name,  the  austereness  of  my  life, 
My  vouch  against  you,  and  my  place  i'  the  state 
Will  so  your  accusation  overweigh 
That  you  shall  stifle  in  your  own  report, 
And  smell  of  calumny.     I  have  begun  ; 
And  now  I  give  my  sensual  race  the  rein  : 
Fit  thy  consent  to  my  sharp  appetite  ; 
Lay  by  all  nicety  and  prolixious  blushes 
That  banish  what  they  sue  for :   redeem  thy 

brother 

By  yielding  up  thy  body  to  my  will ; 
Or  else  he  must  not  only  die  the  death, 
But  thy  unkindness  shall  his  death  draw  out 
To  lingering  sufferance  :  answer  me  to-morrow, 
Or,  by  the  affection  that  now  guides  me  most, 
I  '11  prove  a  tyrant  to  him.     As  for  you, 
Say  what  you  can,  my  false  o'erweighs  your 
true.  [Exit. 

Isab.  To  whom  shall  I  complain  ?     Did   I 

tell  this, 

Who  would  believe  me  ?    O  perilous  mouths, 
That  bear  in  them  one  and  the  self-same  tongue 
Either  of  condemnation  or  approof  •! 
Bidding  the  .aw  make  court'sy  to  their  will  ; 
Hooking  both  right  and  wrong  to  the  appetite, 
To  follow  as  it  draws !     I  '11  to  my  brother  : 
Though  he  hath  fallen  by  promptureof  the  blood, 
Yet  hath  he  in  him  such  a  mind  of  honour 
That,  had  he  twenty  heads  to  tender  down 
On  twenty  bloody  blocks,  he  Jd  yield  them  up 


Before  his  sister  should  her  lx>dy  stoop 

To  such  abhorr'd  pollution. 

Then,  Isabel,  live  chaste,  and,  brother,  die : 

More  than  our  brother  is  our  chastity. 

I  '11  tell  him  yet  of  Angelo's  request, 

And  fit  his  mind  to  death  for  his  soul's  rest. 

{Exit. 

A/-T    TTT 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — A  Room  in  the  Prison. 
Enter  DUKE,  CLAUDIO,  and  PROVOST. 

Duke.   So,   then  you  hope  of  pardon  from 

Lord  Angelo  ? 

Claud.  The  miserable  have  no  other  medicine 
But  only  hope  : 

I  have  hope  to  live,  and  am  prepar'd  to  die. 
Duke.  Be  absolute  for  death  ;  either  death  or 

life  [with  life, — 

Shall  thereby  be  the  sweeter.      Reason  thus 
If  I  do  lose  thee,  I  do  lose  a  thing  [art, 

That  none  but  fools  would  keep  :  a  breath  thou 
Servile  to  all  the  skiey  influences 
That  dost  this  habitation,  where  thou  keep'st, 
Hourly  afflict ;  merely,  thou  art  death's  fool ; 
For  him  thou  labour'st  by  thy  flight  to  shun, 
And  yet  runn'st  toward  him  still.     Thou  art  not 

noble  ; 

For  all  the  accommodations  that  thou  bear'st 
Are  nurs'd  by  baseness.     Thou  art  by  no  means 

valiant ; 

For  thou  dost  fear  the  soft  and  tender  fork 
Of  a  poor  worm.     Thy  best  of  rest  is  sleep, 
And  that  thou  oft  provok'st ;  yet  grossly  fear'st 
Thy  death,  which  is  no  more.     Thou  art  not 

thyself: 

For  thou  exist'st  on  many  a  thousand  grains 
That  issue  out  of  dust.     Happy  thou  art  not ; 
For  what  thou  hast  not,  still  thou  striv'st  to  get ; 
And  what  thou  hast,  forgett'st.     Thou  art  not 

certain ; 

For  thy  complexion  shifts  to  strange  effects, 
After  the  moon.     If  thou  art  rich,  thou  art  poor; 
For,  like  an  ass  whose  back  with  ingots  bows, 
Thou  bear'st  thy  heavy  riches  but  a  journey, 
And  death  unloads  thee.      Friend  hast  thou 

none  ; 

For  thine  own  bowels,  which  do  call  thee  sire, 
The  mere  effusion  of  thy  proper  loins, 
Do  curse  the  gout,  serpigo,  and  the  rheum, 
For  ending  thee  no  sooner.     Thou  hast  nor 

youth  nor  age, 

But,  as  it  were,  an  after-dinner's  sleep, 
Dreaming  on  both  :  for  all  thy  blessed  youth 
Becomes  as  aged,  and  doth  beg  the  alms 
Of  palsied  eld  ;  and  when  thou  art  old  and  rich 


120 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


[ACT  III. 


Thou  hast  neither  heat,  affection,  limb,  nor 
beauty,  [this 

To  make  thy  riches  pleasant.     What's  yet  in 
That  bears  the  name  of  life  ?    Yet  in  this  life 
Lie  hid  more  thousand  deaths :  yet  death  we 

fear, 
That  makes  these  odds  all  even. 

Claud.  I  humbly  thank  you. 

To  sue  to  live,  I  find  I  seek  to  die  ; 
And,  seeking  death,  find  life.     Let  it  come  on. 
Isab.  {Within.']    What,    ho!     Peace  here; 

grace  and  good  company  ! 
Prov.  Who 's  there  ?  come  in  :  the  wish  de- 
serves a  welcome. 

Duke.  Dear  sir,  ere  long  I  '11  visit  you  again. 
Claud.  Most  holy  sir,  I  thank  you. 

Enter  ISABELLA. 

Isab.  My  business  is  a  word  or  two  with 
Claudio.  [here 's  your  sister. 

Prov.  And  very  welcome.     Look,  signior, 

Duke.  Provost,  a  word  with  you. 

Prov.  As  many  as  you  please. 

Duke.  Bring  me  to  hear  them  speak  where 
I  may  be  conceal'd. 

{Exeunt  DUKE  and  PROVOST. 

Claud.         Now,  sister,  what 's  the  comfort  ? 

Isab.  Why,  as  all  comforts  are ;  most  good 

in  deed : 

Lord  Angelo,  having  affairs  to  heaven, 
Intends  you  for  his  swift  embassador, 
Where  you  shall  be  an  everlasting  lieger  : 
Therefore,  your  best  appointment  make  with 

speed ; 
To-morrow  you  set  on. 

Claud.  Is  there  no  remedy  ? 

Isab.  None,  but  such  remedy  as,  tosave  a  head. 
To  cleave  a  heart  in  twain. 

Claud.  But  is  there  any  ? 

Isab.  Yes,  brother,  you  may  live  : 
There  is  a  devilish  mercy  in  the  judge, 
If  you  '11  implore  it,  that  will  free  your  life, 
But  fetter  you  till  death. 

Claud.  Perpetual  durance  ? 

Isab.  Ay,  just  perpetual  durance ;  a  restraint, 
Though  all  the  world's  vastidity  you  had, 
To  a  determin'd  scope. 

Claud.  But  in  what  nature  ? 

Isab.  In  such  a  one  as,  you  consenting  to 't, 
Would  bark  your  honour  from  that  trunk  you 

bear, 
And  leave  you  naked. 

Claud.  Let  me  know  the  point. 

Isab.  O,  I  do  fear  thee,  Claudio;  and  I  quake, 
Lest  thou  a  feverous  life  shouldst  entertain, 
And  six  or  seven  winters  more  respect 
Than  a  perpetual  honour..     Dar'st  thou  die  ? 


The  sense  of  death  is  most  in  apprehension  ; 
And  the  poor  beetle  that  we  tread  upon, 
In  corporal  sufferance  finds  a  pang  as  great 
As  when  a  giant  dies. 

Claud.  Why  give  you  me  this  shame  ? 

Think  you  I  can  a  resolution  fetch 
From  flowery  tenderness  ?     If  I  must  die 
I  will  encounter  darkness  as  a  bride, 
And  hug  it  in  mine  arms.  [father's  grave 

Isab.  There  spake  my  brother ;    there   my 
Did  utter  forth  a  voice  !     Yes,  thou  must  die  : 
Thou  art  too  noble  to  conserve  a  life 
In  base  appliances.     This  out  ward -sainted  de- 
puty,— 

Whose  settled  visage  and  deliberate  word 
Nips  youth  i'  the  head,  and  follies  doth  emmew 
As  falcon  doth  the  fowl, — is  yet  a  devil ; 
His  filth  within  being  cast,  he  would  appear 
A  pond  as  deep  as  hell. 

Claud.  The  princely  Angelo  * 

Isab.  O,  'tis  the  cunning  livery  of  hell, 
The  damned'st  body  to  invest  and  cover 
In  princely  guards  !     Dost  thou  think,  Claudio, 
If  I  would  yield  him  my  virginity 
Thou  mightst  be  freed  ? 

Claud.  O  heavens  !  it  cannot  be. 

Isab.  Yes,  he  would  give  it  thee,  from  this 

rank  offence 

So  to  offend  him  still.     This  night 's  the  time 
That  I  should  do  what  I  abhor  to  name, 
Or  else  thou  diest  to-morrow. 

Claud.  Thou  shalt  not  do 't 

Isab.  O,  were  it  but  my  life, 
I  'd  throw  it  down  for  your  deliverance 
As  frankly  as  a  pin. 

Claud.  Thanks,  dear  Isabel. 

Isab.  Be  ready,  Claudio,  for  your  death  to- 
morrow. 

Claud.  Yes. — Has  he  affections  in  him 
That  thus  can  make  him  bite  the  law  by  the  nose 
When  he  would  force  it  ?     Sure  it  is  no  sin  ; 
Or  of  the  deadly  seven  it  is  the  least. 

Isab.  Which  is  the  least  ? 

Claud,  If  it  were  damnable,  he,  being  so  wise, 
Why  would  he  for  the  momentary  trick 
Be  perdurably  fined  ? — O  Isabel ! 

Isab.  What  says  my  brother  ? 

Claud.  Death  is  a  fearful  thing. 

Isab.  And  shamed  life  a  hateful. 

Claud.  Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go  we  know  not 

where ; 

To  lie  in  cold  obstruction,  and  to  rot ; 
This  sensible  warm  motion  to  become 
A  kneaded  clod  ;  and  the  delighted  spirit 
To  bathe  in  fiery  floods  or  to  reside 
In  thrilling  regions  of  thick-ribbed  ice  $ 
To  be  imprison'd  in  the  viewless  winds, 


SCENE  I.] 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


121 


O  you  beast ! 
O  dishonest  wrecch  ! 


And  blown  with  restless  violence  round  about 
The  pendent  world  ;  or  to  be  worse  than  worst 
Of  those  that  lawless  and  incertain  thoughts 
Imagine  howling  ! — 'tis  too  horrible  ! 
The  weariest  and  most  loathed  worldly  life 
That  age,  ache,  penury,  and  imprisonment 
Can  lay  on  nature  is  a  paradise 
To  what  we  fear  of  death. 

Isab.  Alas  !  alas  ! 

Claud.  Sweet  sister,  let  me  live  : 

What  sin  you  do  to  save  a  brother's  life 
Nature  dispenses  with  the  deed  so  far 
That  it  becomes  a  virtue. 

Isab. 

0  faithless  coward  ! 

Wilt  thou  be  made  a  man  out  of  my  vice  ? 
Is 't  not  a  kind  of  incest  to  take  life     [I  think  ? 
From  thine  own  sister's  shame.     What  should 
Heaven  shield  my  mother  play'd  my  father 

fair! 

For  such  a  warped  slip  of  wilderness 
Ne'er  issued  from  his  blood.    Take  my  defiance: 
Die  ;  perish  !  might  but  my  bending  down 
Reprieve  thee  from  thy  fate,  it  should  proceed  : 

1  '11  pray  a  thousand  prayers  for  thy  death, — 
No  word  to  save  thee. 

Claud.  Nay,  hear  me,  Isabel. 

Isab.  O  fie,  fie,  fie  ! 

Thy  sin 's  not  accidental,  but  a  trade  : 
Mercy  to  thee  would  prove  itself  a  bawd  : 
'Tis  best  that  thou  diest  quickly.  [Going. 

Claud.  O  hear  me,  Isabella. 

Re-enter  DUKE. 

Duke.  Vouchsafe  a  word,  young  sister,  but 
one  word. 

Isab.  What  is  your  will  ? 

Dtike.  Might  you  dispense  with  your  leisure 
I  would  by  and  by  have  some  speech  with  you: 
the  satisfaction  I  would  require  is  likewise 
your  own  benefit. 

Isab.  I  have  no  superfluous  leisure  ;  my  stay 
must  be  stolen  out  of  other  affairs  ;  but  I  will 
attend  you  awhile. 

Duke.  [To  CLAUDIO  aside."]  Son,  I  have 
overheard  what  hath  passed  between  you  and 
your  sister.  Angelo  had  never  the  purpose  to 
corrupt  her  ;  only  he  hath  made  an  essay  of  her 
virtue  to  practise  his  judgment  with  the  dis- 
position of  natures ;  she,  having  the  truth  of 
honour  in  her,  hath  made  him  that  gracious 
denial  which  he  is  most  glad  to  receive :  I  am 
confessor  to  Angelo,  and  I  know  this  to  be 
true  ;  therefore  prepare  yourself  to  death.  Do 
not  satisfy  your  resolution  with  hopes  that  are 
fallible :  to-morrow  you  must  die  ;  go  to  your 
knees  and  make  ready. 


Claud.  Let  me  ask  my  sister  pardon.  I  am 
so  out  of  love  with  life  that  I  will  sue  to  be 
rid  of  it. 

Duke.  Hold  you  there.     Farewell. 

[Exit  CLAUDIO. 

-• 
Re-enter  PROVOST. 

Provost,  a  word  with  you. 

Prov.  What's  your  will,  father? 

Duke.  That,  now  you  are  come,  you  will  be 
gone.  Leave  me  a  while  with  the  maid  ;  my 
mind  promises  with  my  habit  no  loss  shall 
touch  her  by  my  company. 

Prov.   In  good  time.  [Exit  PROVOST. 

Duke.  The  hand  that  hath  made  you  fair 
hath  made  you  good :  the  goodness  that  is 
cheap  in  beauty  makes  beauty  brief  in  goodness; 
but  grace,  being  the  soul  of  your  complexion, 
should  keep  the  body  of  it  ever  fair.  The 
assault  that  Angelo  hath  made  to  you,  fortune 
hath  conveyed  to  my  understanding ;  and,  but 
that  frailty  hath  examples  for  his  falling,  I 
should  wonder  at  Angelo.  How  will  you  do 
to  content  this  substitute,  and  to  save  your 
brother  ? 

Isab.  I  am  now  going  to  resolve  him  ;  I  had 
rather  my  brother  die  by  the  law  than  my  son 
should  be  unlawfully  born.  But  O,  how  much 
is  the  good  duke  deceived  in  Angelo  !  If  ever 
he  return,  and  I  can  speak  to  him,  I  will  open 
my  lips  in  vain,  or  discover  his  government. 

Duke.  That  shall  not  be  much  amiss :  yet, 
as  the  matter  now  stands,  he  will  avoid  your 
accusation  ;  he  made  trial  of  you  only. — There- 
fore fasten  your  ear  on  my  advisings  ;  to  the 
love  I  have  in  doing  good  a  remedy  presents 
itself.  I  do  make  myself  believe  that  you  may 
most  uprighteously  do  a  poor  wronged  lady  a 
merited  benefit ;  redeem  your  brother  from  the 
angry  law  ;  do  no  stain  to  your  own  gracious 
person ;  and  much  please  the  absent  duke  if, 
peradventure,  he  shall  ever  return  to  have 
hearing  of  this  business. 

Isab.  Let  me  hear  you  speak  further  ;  I  have 
spirit  to  do  anything  that  appears  not  foul  in 
the  truth  of  my  spirit. 

Duke.  Virtue  is  bold,  and  goodness  never 
fearful.  Have  you  not  heard  speak  of  Mariana, 
the  sister  of  Frederick  the  great  soldier  who 
miscarried  at  sea  ? 

Isab.  I  have  heard  of  the  lady,  and  good 
words  went  with  her  name. 

Duke.  Her  should  this  Angelo  have  married ; 

was  affianced  to  her  by  oath,  and  the  nuptial 

"appointed:  between  which  time  of  the  contract 

and  limit  of  the  solemnity  her  brother  Frederick 

was  wrecked  at  sea,  having  in  that  perished 


112 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


[ACT  in. 


vessel  the  dowry  of  his  sister.  But  mark  how 
heavily  this  befell  to  the  poor  gentlewoman  : 
there  she  lost  a  noble  and  renowned  brother, 
in  his  love  toward  her  ever  most  kind  and 
natural ;  with  him  the  portion  and  sinew  of  her 
fortune,  her  marriage-dowry ;  with  both,  her 
combinate  husband,  this  well-seeming  Angelo. 

Isab.  Can  this  be  so  ?  Did  Angelo  so  leave 
her? 

Duke.  Left  her  in  her  tears,  and  dried  not 
one  of  them  with  his  comfort  ;  swallowed  his 
vows  whole,  pretending,  in  her,  discoveries  of 
dishonour ;  in  few,  bestowed  her  on  her  own 
lamentation,  which  she  yet  wears  for  his  sake  ; 
and  he,  a  marble  to  her  tears,  is  washed  with 
them,  but  relents  not. 

Isab.  What  a  merit  were  it  in  death  to  take 
this  poor  maid  from  the  world  !  What  corrup- 
tion in  this  life  that  it  will  let  this  man  live  ! — 
But  hovr  out  of  this  can  she  avail  ? 

Duke.  It  is  a  rupture  that  you  may  easily 
heal ;  and  the  cure  of  it  not  only  saves  your 
brother,  but  keeps  you  from  dishonour  in  doing 
it. 

Isab.  Show  me  how,  good  father. 

Duke.  This  forenamed  maid  hath  yet  in  her 
the  continuance  of  her  first  affection ;  his  un- 
just unkindness,  that  in  all  reason  should  have 
quenched  her  love,  hath,  like  an  impediment  in 
the  current,  made  it  more  violent  and  unruly.  Go 
you  to  Angelo ;  answer  his  requiring  with  a  plaus- 
ible obedience ;  agree  with  his  demands  to  the 
point:  only  refer  yourself  to  this  advantage, — 
first,  that  your  stay  with  him  may  not  be  long  ; 
that  the  time  may  have  all  shadow  and  silence 
in  it ;  and  the  place  answer  to  convenience :  this 
being  granted  in  course,  now  follows  all.  We 
shall  advise  this  wronged  maid  to  stead  up  your 
appointment,  go  in  your  place  ;  if  the  encounter 
acknowledge  itself  hereafter,  it  may  compel  him 
to  her  recompense  :  and  here,  by  this,  is  your 
brother  saved,  your  honour  untainted,  the  poor 
Mariana  advantaged,  and  the  corrupt  deputy 
scaled'.  The  maid  will  I  frame  and  make  fit 
for  his  attempt.  If  you  think  well  to  carry  this 
as  you  may,  the  doubleness  of  the  benefit  de- 
fends the  deceit  from  reproof.  What  think  you 
of  it? 

Isab.  The  image  of  it  gives  me  content  already ; 
and  I  trust  it  will  grow  to  a  most  prosperous 
perfection. 

Duke.  It  lies  much  in  your  holding  up. 
Haste  you  speedily  to  Angelo :  if  for  this  night 
he  entreat  you  to  his  bed,  give  him  promise  of 
satisfaction.  I  will  presently  to  St.  Luke's ; 
there,  at  the  moated  grange,  resides  this  de- 
jected Mariana.  At  that  place  call  upon  me  ; 


and  despatch  with  Angelo,  that   it   may  be 
quickly. 

Isab.  I  thank  you  for  this  comfort.  Fare 
you  well,  good  father.  [Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  II. — The  Street  before  the  Prison. 

Enter  DUKE,   as  a  Friar ;    to  him  ELBOW, 
CLOWN,  and  Officers. 

Elb.  Nay,  if  there  be  no  remedy  for  it,  but 
that  you  will  needs  buy  and  sell  men  and  women 
like  beasts,  we  shall  have  all  the  world  drink 
brown  and  white  bastard. 

Duke.  O  heavens  !  what  stuff  is  here  ? 

Clo.  'Twas  never  merry  world  since,  of  two 
usuries,  the  merriest  was  put  down,  and  the 
worser  allowed  by  order  of  law  a  furred  gown 
to  keep  him  warm  ;  and  furred  with  fox  and 
lamb-skins,  too,  to  signify  that  craft,  being 
richer  than  innocency,  stands  for  the  facing. 

Elb.  Come  your  way,  sir. — Bless  you,  good 
father  friar. 

Duke.  And  you,  good  brother  father. 
What  offence  hath  this  man  made  you,  sir  ? 

Elb.  Marry,  sir,  he  hath  offended  the  law; 
and,  sir,  we  take  him  to  be  a  thief  too,  sir  ;  for 
we  havefound  upon  him,  sir,  a  strange  picklock, 
which  we  have  sent  to  the  deputy. 

Duke.  Fie,  sirrah  ;  a  bawd,  a  wicked  bawd ! 
The  evil  that  thou  causest  to  be  done, 
That  is  thy  means  to  live.     Do  thou  but  think 
What  'tis  to  cram  a  maw  or  clothe  a  back 
From  such  a  filthy  vice  .  say  to  thyself, — 
From  their  abominable  and  beastly  touches 
I  drink,  I  eat,  array  myself,  and  live. 
Canst  thou  believe  thy  living  is  a  life, 
So  stinkingly  depending  ?    Go  mend,  go  mend. 

Clo.  Indeed,  it  does  stink  in  some  sort,  sir ; 
but  yet,  sir,  I  would  prove 

Duke.  Nay,  if  the  devil  have  given  thee  proofs 

for  sin, 

Thou  wilt  prove  his.  Take  him  to  prison,  officer ; 
Correction  and  instruction  must  both  work 
Ere  this  rude  beast  will  profit. 

Elb.  He  must  before  the  deputy,  sir  ;  he  has 
given  him  warning  :  the  deputy  cannot  abide  a 
whoremaster :  if  he  be  a  whoremonger,  and 
comes  before  him,  he  were  as  good  go  a  mile 
on  his  errand. 

Duke.    That  we  were  all,  as  some  would 

seem  to  be, 

Free  from  our  faults,  as  faults  from  seeming 
free! 

Elb.  His  neck  will  come  to  your  waist,  a  cord, 
sir. 

Clo.  I  spy  comfort;  I  cry  bail !  Here's  \ 
gentleman,  and  a  friend  of  mine. 


SCENE  II.] 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE, 


123 


Enter  Lucio. 

Lucio.  How  now,  noble  Pompey  ?  What,  at 
the  heels  of  Caesar  !  Art  thou  led  in  triumph  ? 
What,  is  there  none  of  Pygmalion's  images, 
newly  made  woman,  to  be  had  now,  for  putting 
the  hand  in  the  pocket  and  extracting  it  clutched? 
What  reply,  ha  ?  What  say'st  thou  to  this  tune, 
matter,  and  method  ?  Is 't  not  drowned  i'  the 
last  rain,  ha  ?  What  say'st  thou  to 't  ?  Is  the 
world  as  it  was,  man  ?  Which  is  the  way  ?  Is 
it  sad,  and  few  words  ?  or  how  ?  The  trick  of  it  ? 

Duke.  Still  thus,  and  thus  !  still  worse  ! 

Lucio.  How  doth  my  dear  morsel,  thy  mis- 
tress? Procures  she  still,  ha? 

Clo.  Troth,  sir,  she  hath  eaten  up  all  her 
beef,  and  she  is  herself  in  the  tub. 

Liicio.  Why,  'tis  good  :  it  is  the  right  of  it  : 
it  must  be  so  :  ever  your  fresh  whore  and  your 
powdered  bawd  :  an  unshunned  consequence  ; 
it  must  be  so.  Art  going  to  prison,  Pompey  ? 

Clo.  Yes,  faith,  sir. 

Lucio.  Why,  'tis  not  amiss,  Pompey.  Fare- 
well ;  go,  say  I  sent  thee  thither.  For  debt, 
Pompey  ?  or  how  ? 

Elb.  For  being  a  bawd,  for  being  a  bawd. 

Lucio.  Well,  then,  imprison  him:  if  imprison- 
ment be  the  due  of  a  bawd,  why,  'tis  his  right ; 
bawd  is  he  doubtless,  and  of  antiquity,  too : 
bawd-born.  Farewell,  good  Pompey.  Com- 
mend me  to  the  prison,  Pompey.  You  will 
turn  good  husband  now,  Pompey;  you  will 
keep  the  house. 

Clo.  I  hope,  sir,  your  good  worship  will  be 
my  bail. 

Liicio.  No,  indeed,  will  I  not,  Pompey ;  it 
is  not  the  wear.  I  will  pray,  Pompey,  to  in- 
crease your  bondage :  if  you  take  it  not  patiently, 
why,  your  mettle  is  the  more.  Adieu,  trusty 
Pompey. — Bless  you,  friar. 

Duke.  And  you. 

Lucio.  Does  Bridget  paint  still,  Pompey,  ha? 

Elb.  Come  your  ways,  sir  ;  come. 

Clo.  You  will  not  bail  me  then,  sir  ? 

Lucio.  Then,  Pompey,  nornow. — What  news 
abroad,  friar  ?  what  news  ? 

Elb.  Come  your  ways,  sir  ;  come. 

Lucio.  Go, — to  kennel,  Pompey,  go  : 

{Exeunt  ELBOW,  CLOWN,  and  Officers. 
Wh^t  news,  friar,  of  the  duke  ? 

Duke.  I  know  none.  Can  you  tell  me  of 
any? 

Lucio.  Some  say  he  is  with  the  Emperor  of 
Russia ;  other  some,  he  is  in  Rome  :  but  where 
is  he,  think  you  ? 

Duke.  I  know  not  where;  but  wheresoever, 
I  wish  him  well. 


Lucio.  It  was  a  mad  fantastical  trick  of  him 
to  steal  from  the  state  and  usurp  the  beggary  he 
was  never  born  to.  Lord  Angelo  dukes  it  well 
in  his  absence  ;  he  puts  transgression  to't. 

Duke.  He  does  well  in 't 

Lucio.  A  little  more  lenity  to  lechery  would 
do  no  harm  in  him  :  something  too  crabbed  that 
way,  friar. 

Duke.  It  is  too  general  a  vice,  and  severity 
must  cure  it. 

Lucio.  Yes,  in  good  sooth,  the  vice  is  of  a 
great  kindred  ;  it  is  well  allied :  but  it  is  im« 
possible  to  extirp  it  quite,  friar,  till  eating  and 
drinking  be  put  down.  They  say  this  Angelo 
was  not  made  by  man  and  woman  after  the  down- 
right way  of  creation  :  is  it  true,  think  you  ? 

Duke.  How  should  he  be  made,  then  ? 

Lucio.  Some  report  a  sea-maid  spawned  him ; 
some,  that  he  was  begot  between  two  stock- 
fishes.— But  it  is  certain  that,  when  he  makes 
water,  his  urine  is  congealed  ice  ;  that  I  know 
to  be  true  :  and  he  is  a  motion  ungenerative  ; 
that 's  infallible. 

Ditke.  You  are  pleasant,  sir,  and  speak  apace. 

Lucio.  Why,  what  a  ruthless  thing  is  this  in 
him,  for  the  rebellion  of  a  cod-piece  to  take  away 
the  life  of  a  man  ?  Would  the  duke  that  is  ab- 
sent have  done  this  ?  Ere  he  would  have  hanged 
a  man  for  the  getting  a  hundred  bastards,  he 
would  have  paid  for  the  nursing  a  thousand. 
He  had  some  feeling  of  the  sport ;  he  knew  the 
service,  and  that  instructed  him  to  mercy. 

Duke.  I  never  heard  the  absent  duke  much 
detected  for  women ;  he  was  not  inclined  that 
way. 

Lucio.  O,  sir,  you  are  deceived. 

Duke.  'Tis  not  possible. 

Lucio.  Who,  not  the  duke?  yes,  your  beggar 
of  fifty  ; — and  his  use  was  to  put  a  ducat  in  her 
clack-dish  :  the  duke  had  crotchets  in  him.  He 
would  be  drunk  too  :  that  let  me  inform  you. 

Duke.  You  do  him  wrong,  surely. 

Lucio.  Sir,  I  was  an  inward  of  his.  A  shy 
fellow  was  the  duke  :  and  I  believe  I  know  the 
cause  of  his  withdrawing. 

Duke.  What,  I  pr'ythee,  might  be  the  cause? 

Lucio.  No, — pardon  ; — 'tis  a  secret  must  be 
locked  within  the  teeth  and  the  lips  :  but  this 
I  can  let  you  understand, — the  greater  file  of 
the  subject  held  the  duke  to  be  wise. 

Duke.  Wise  ?  why,  no  question  but  he  was. 

Lucio.  A  very  superficial,  ignorant,  unweigh- 
ing  fellow. 

Duke.  Either  this  is  envy  in  you,  folly,  or 
mistaking  ;  the  very  stream  of  his  life,  and  the 
business  he  hath  helmed,  must,  upon  a  war. 
ranted  need,  give  him  a  better  proclamation. , 


124 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


[ACT  in. 


Let  him  be  but  testimonied  in  his  own  bring- 
ings  forth,  and  he  shall  appear  to  the  envious  a 
scholar,  a  statesman,  and  a  soldier.  Therefore 
you  speak  unskilfully  -,  or,  if  your  knowledge 
be  more,  it  is  much  darkened  in  your  malice. 

Lucio.  Sir,  I  know  him,  and  I  love  him. 

Duke.  Love  talks  with  better  knowledge, 
and  knowledge  with  dearer  love. 

Lucio.  Come,  sir,  I  know  what  I  know. 

Duke,  I  can  hardly  believe  that,  since  you 
Know  not  what  you  speak.  But,  if  ever  the 
duke  return,— as  our  prayers  are  he  may,— let 
me  desire  you  to  make  your  answer  before  him. 
If  it  be  honest  you  have  spoke,  you  have  courage 
to  maintain  it  :  I  am  bound  to  call  upon  you  ; 
and,  I  pray  you,  your  name  ? 

Lucio.  Sir,  my  name  is  Lucio  ;  well  known 
to  the  duke. 

Duke.  He  shall  know  you  better,  sir,  if  I 
may  live  to  report  you. 

Lucio.   I  fear  you  not. 

Duke.  O,  you  hope  the  duke  will  return  no 
more  ;  or  you  imagine  me  too  unhurtful  an 
opposite.  But,  indeed,  I  can  do  you  little 
harm  :  you  '11  forswear  this  again. 

Lucio.  I  '11  be  hanged  first !  thou  art  deceived 
in  me,  friar.  But  no  more  of  this.  Canst  thou 
tell  if  Claudio  die  to-morrow  or  no  ? 

Duke.  Why  should  he  die,  sir  ? 

Lucio.  Why,  for  filling  a  bottle  with  a  tun- 
dish.  I  would  the  duke  we  talk  of  were  re- 
turned again  :  this  ungenitured  agent  will  un- 
people the  province  with  continency ;  sparrows 
must  not  build  in  his  house-eaves  because  they 
are  lecherous.  The  duke  yet  would  have  dark 
deeds  darkly  answered  ;  he  would  never  bring 
them  to  light :  would  he  were  returned  ! 
Marry,  this  Claudio  is  condemned  for  untrus- 
sing.  Farewell,  good  friar  :  I  pr'ythee,  pray 
for  me.  The  duke,  I  say  to  thee  again,  would 
eat  mutton  on  Fridays.  He  's  now  past  it ;  yet, 
and  I  say  to  thee,  he  would  mouth  with  a  beggar 
though  she  smelt  brown  bread  and  garlic  :  say 
that  I  said  so. — Farewell.  [Exit. 

Duke.  No  might  nor  greatness  in  mortality 
Can  censure  'scape  ;  back-wounding  calumny 
The  whitest  virtue  strikes.   What  king  so  strong 
Can  tie  the  gall  up  in  the  slanderous  tongue  ? 
But  who  comes  here  ? 

EnterEscALUS,  PROVOST,  BAWD,<W^ Officers. 

Escal.  Go,  away  with  her  to  prison. 

Bawd.  Good  my  lord,  be  good  to  me  ;  your 
honour  is  accounted  a  merciful  man  ;  good  my 
lord. 

Escal.  Double  and  treble  admonition,  and 


still  forfeit  in   the  same  kind?     This  would 
make  mercy  swear  and  play  the  tyrant. 

Prov.  A  bawd  of  eleven  years'  continuance, 
may  it  please  your  honour. 

Bawd.  My  lord,  this  is  one  Lucio's  informa- 
tion against  me  :  Mistress  Kate  Keepdown  was 
with  child  by  him  in  the  duke's  time  ;  he  pro- 
mised her  marriage  ;  his  child  is  a  year  and  a 
quarter  old  come  Philip  and  Jacob  :  I  have 
kept  it  myself ;  and  see  how  he  goes  about  to 
abuse  me. 

Escal.  That  fellow  is  a  fellow  of  much 
licence  : — let  him  be  called  before  us. — Away 
with  her  to  prison.  Go  to ;  no  more  words. 
{Exeunt  BAWD  and  Officers.]  Provost,  my 
brother  Angelo  will  not  be  altered,  Claudio 
must  die  to-morrow  :  let  him  be  furnished  with 
divines,  and  have  all  charitable  preparation  : 
if  my  brother  wrought  by  my  pity  it  snould  not 
be  so  with  him. 

Prov.  So  please  you,  this  friar  hath  been 
with  him,  and  advised  him  for  the  entertain- 
ment of  deatu. 

Escal.  Good  even,  good  father. 

Duke.  Bliss  and  goodness  on  you  ! 

Escal.  Of  whence  are  you  ?  [is  now 

Duke.  Not  of  this  country,  though  my  chance 
To  use  it  for  my  time  :  I  am  a  brother 
Of  gracious  order,  late  come  from  the  see 
In  special  business  from  his  holiness. 

Escal.  What  news  abroad  i'  the  world  ? 

Duke.  None,  but  that  there  is  so  great  a  fever 
on  goodness,  that  the  dissolution  of  it  must  cure 
it :  novelty  is  only  in  request ;  and  it  is  as  dan- 
gerous to  be  aged  in  any  kind  of  course  as  it  is 
virtuous  to  be  constant  in  any  undertaking. 
There  is  scarce  truth  enough  alive  to  make 
societies  secure  ;  but  security  enough  to  make 
fellowships  accursed :  much  upon  this  riddle 
runs  the  wisdom  of  the  world.  This  news  is 
old  enough,  yet  it  is  every  day's  news.  I  pray 
you,  sir,  of  what  disposition  was  the  duke  ? 

Escal.  One  that,  above  ail  other  strifes,  con- 
tended especially  to  know  himself. 

Duke.  What  pleasure  was  he  given  to  ? 

Escal.  Rather  rejoicing  to  see  another  merry, 
than  merry  at  anything  which  professed  to  make 
him  rejoice  :  a  gentleman  of  all  temperance. 
But  leave  we  him  to  his  events,  with  a  prayer 
they  may  prove  prosperous  ;  and  let  me  desire 
to  know  how  you  find  Claudio  prepared.  I  am 
made  to  understand  that  you  have  lent  him 
visitation. 

Duke.  He  professes  to  have  received  no  sini- 
ster measure  from  his  judge,  but  most  willingly 
humbles  himself  to  the  determination  of  justice  : 
yet  had  he  framed  to  himself,  by  the  instruction  . 


SCENE  II. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE* 


of  his  frailty,  many  deceiving  promises  of  life  ; 
which  I,  by  my  good  leisure,  have  discredited 
to  him,  and  how  is  he  resolved  to  die. 

EscaL  You  have  paid  the  heavens  your  func- 
tion and  the  prisoner  the  very  debt  of  your  call- 
ing. I  have  laboured  for  the  poor  gentleman 
to  the  extremest  shore  of  my  modesty  ;  but  my 
brother  justice  have  I  found  so  severe  that  he 
hath  forced  me  to  tell  him  he  is  indeed — justice. 

Duke.  If  his  own  life  answer  the  straitness 
of  his  proceeding,  it  shall  become  him  well ; 
wherein  if  he  chance  to  fail,  he  hath  sentenced 
himself. 

EscaL  I    am   going   to   visit   the    prisoner. 
Fare  you  well. 

Duke.   Peace  be  with  you  ! 

[Exeunt  ESCAL.  and  PROV. 
He  who  the  sword  of  heaven  will  bear 
Should  be  as  holy  as  severe  ; 
Pattern  in  himself  to  know, 
Grace  to  stand,  and  virtue  go  ; 
More  nor  less  to  others  paying 
Than  by  self-offences  weighing. 
Shame  to  him  whose  cruel  striking 
Kills  for  faults  of  his  own  liking  ! 
Twice  treble  shame  on  Angelo, 
To  weed  my  vice  and  let  his  grow  ! 
O,  what  may  man  within  him  hide, 
Though  angel  on  the  outward  side  ! 
How  may  likeness,  made  in  crimes, 
Making  practice  on  the  times, 
Draw  with  idle  spiders3  strings 
Most  pond'rous  and  substantial  things  ! 
Craft  against  vice  I  must  apply  ; 
With  Angelo  to-night  shall  He 
His  old  betrothed  but  despis'd  ; 
So  disguise  shall,  by  the  disguis'd, 
Pay  with  falsehood  false  exacting, 
And  perform  an  old  contracting.  [Exit. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.—  A  Room  in  MARIANA'S  House. 
MARIANA  discovered  sitting ;  a  Boy  singing, 

SONG. 
Take,  O  take  those  lips  away, 

That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn  ; 
And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 

Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn  : 
But  my  kisses  bring  again, 

Bring  again  ; 
Seals  of  lovt,  but  seal'd  in  vain, 

Sealed  in  vain. 

Mart.  Break  off  thy  song,  and  haste  thee 

quick  away ; 

Here  comes  a  man  of  comfort,  whose  advice 
Hath  often  still'd  my  brawling  discontent. — 

[Exit  Boy. 


Enter  DUKE. 

I  cry  you  mercy,  sir  ;  and  well  could  wish 
You  had  not  found  me  here  so  musical  : 
Let  me  excuse  me,  and  believe  me  so,       [woe. 
My  mirth  it  much  displeas'd,  but  pleas'd  my 

Duke.  5Tis  good :  though  music*  oft  hath  such 

a  charm 

To  make  bad  good  and  good  provoke  to  harm. 
I  pray  you,  tell  me,  hath  anybody  inquired  for 
me  here  to-day  ?  much  upon  this  time  have  I 
promised  here  to  meet. 

Mart.  You  have  not  been  inquired  after :  I 
have  sat  here  all  day. 

Enter  ISABELLA. 

Duke.  I  do  constantly  believe  you. — The 
time  is  come  even  now.  I  shall  crave  your 
forbearance  a  little  :  may  be  I  will  call  upon 
you  anon,  for  some  advantage  to  yourself. 

Mari.  I  am  always  bound  to  you.        [Exit. 

Duke.  Very  well  met,  and  welcome. 
What  is  the  news  from  this  good  deputy  ? 

Isab.   He  hath  a   garden  circummur'd  with 

brick, 

Whose  western  side  is  with  a  vineyard  back'd  ; 
And  to  that  vineyard  is  a  planched  gate 
That  makes  his  opening  with  this  bigger  key  : 
This  other  doth  command  a  little  door 
Which  from  the  vineyard  to  the  garden  leads  ; 
There  have  I  made  my  promise  to  call  on  him 
Upon  the  heavy  middle  of  the  night. 

Duke.  But  shall  you  on  your  knowledge  find 
this  way  ? 

Isab.  I  have  ta'en  a  due  and  wary  note  upon 't ; 
With  whispering  and  most  guilty  diligence, 
In  action  all  of  precept,  he  did  show  me 
The  way  twice  o'er. 

Duke.  Are  there  no  other  tokens 

Between  you  'greed  concerning  her  observance? 

Isab.  No,  none,  but  only  a  repair  i'  the  dark ; 
And  that  I  have  possess'd  him  my  most  stay 
Can  be  but  brief :  for  I  have  made  him  know 
I  have  a  servant  comes  with  me  along, 
That  stays  upon  me  ;  whose  persuasion  is 
I  come  about  my  brother. 

Duke*  'Tis  well  borne  up. 

I  have  not  yet  made  known  to  Mariana. 
A  word  of  this. — What,  ho !  within !  come  forth. 


Re-enter  MARIANA. 


I  pray  you  be  acquainted  with  this  maid  ; 
She  comes  to  do  you  good. 

Isab.  I  do  desire  the  like. 

Duke.  Do  you  persuade  yourself  that  I  re« 
spect  you  ? 


126 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


[ACT  iv. 


Mart,  Good  friar,   I  know  you  do,  and  I 
have  found  it.  [the  hand, 

Duke.  Take,  then,  this  your  companion  by 
Who  hath  a  story  ready  for  your  ear  : 
I  shall  attend  your  leisure  ;  but  make  haste  ; 
The  vaporous  night  approaches. 
Mart.  Will't  please  you  walk  aside  ? 

[Exeunt  MARL  and  ISAB. 
Dtike.    O  place  and  greatness,  millions  of 

false  eyes 

Are  stuck  upon  thee  !  volumes  of  report 
Run  with  these  false  and  most  contrarious  quests 
Upon  thy  doings  !  thousand  'scapes  of  wit 
Make  thee  the  father  of  their  idle  dream, 
And  rack  thee  in  their  fancies  ! — -Welcome  ! 
How  agreed  ? 

Re-enter  MARIANA  and  ISABELLA. 

hab.  She'll  take  the  enterprise  upon  her, 

father, 
If  you  advise  it. 

Duke.  It  is  not  my  consent, 

But  my  entreaty  too. 

Isab.  Little  have  you  to  say, 

When  you  depart  from  him,  but,  soft  and  low, 
Remember  now  my  brother. 

Marl.  Fear  me  not. 

Duke.  Nor,  gentle  daughter,  fear  you  not  at 

all: 

He  is  your  husband  on  a  pre-contrlct : 
To  bring  you  thus  together  'tis  no  sin, 
Sith  that  the  justice  of  your  title  to  him 
Doth  flourish  the  deceit.     Come,  let  us  go  ; 
Our  corn 's  to  reap,  for  yet  our  tilth 's  to  sow. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  the  Prison. 
Enter  PROVOST  and  CLOWN. 

Prov.  Come  hither,  sirrah.  Can  you  cut  off 
a  man's  head  ? 

Clo.  If  the  man  be  a  bachelor,  sir,  I  can  : 
but  if  he  be  a  married  man,  he  is  his  wife's  head, 
and  I  can  never  cut  off  a  woman's  head. 

Prov.  Come,  sir,  leave  me  your  snatches  and 
yield  me  a  direct  answer.  To-morrow  morning 
are  to  die  Claudio  and  Barnardine.  Here  is  in 
our  prison  a  common  executioner  who  in  his 
office  lacks  a  helper  ;  if  you  will  take  it  on  you 
to  assist  him,  it  shall  redeem  you  from  your 
gyves;  if  not,  you  shall  have  your  full  time  of 
imprisonment,  and  your  deliverance  with  an 
unpitied  whipping  ;  for  you  have  been  a  no- 
torious bawd. 

Clo.  Sir,  I  have  been  an  unlawful  bawd  time 
out  of  mind  ;  but  yet  I  will  be  content  to  be  a 


lawful  hangman.     I  would  be  glad  to  receive 
some  instruction  from  my  fellow-partner. 

Prov.  What  ho,  Abhorson  !  Where's  Ab- 
horson,  there  ? 

Enter  ABHORSON. 

Abhor.  Do  you  call,  sir  ? 

Prov.  Sirrah,  here  's  a  fellow  will  help  you 
to-morrow  in  your  execution.  If  you  think  it 
meet,  compound  with  him  by  the  year,  and  let 
him  abide  here  with  you  ;  if  not,  use  him  for  the 
present,  and  dismiss  him.  He  cannot  plead  his 
estimation  with  you  ;  he  hath  been  a  bawd. 

Abhor.  A  bawd,  sir?  Fie  upon  him  ;  he  will 
discredit  our  mystery. 

Prov.  Go  to,  sir ;  you  weigh  equally  ;  a 
feather  will  turn  the  scale.  [Exit. 

Clo.  Pray,  sir,  by  your  good  favour, — for, 
surely,  sir,  a  good  favour  you  have,  but  that  you 
have  a  hanging  look, — do  you  call,  sir,  your 
occupation  a  mystery  ? 

Abhor.  Ay,  sir  ;  a  mystery. 

Clo.  Painting,  sir,  I  have  heard  say,  is  a  mys- 
tery ;  and  your  whores,  sir,  being  members  of 
my  occupation,  using  painting,  do  prove  my 
occupation  a  mystery  :  but  what  mystery  there 
should  be  in  hanging,  if  I  should  be  hanged,  I 
cannot  imagine. 

Abhor.  Sir,  it  is  a  mystery. 

Clo.  Proof. 

Abhor.  Every  true  man's  apparel  fits  your 
thief :  if  it  be  too  little  for  your  thief,  your  true 
man  thinks  it  big  enough  ;  if  it  be  too  big  for 
your  thief,  your  thief  thinks  it  little  enough  :  so 
every  true  man's  apparel  fits  your  thief. 

Re-enter  PROVOST. 

Prov.  Are  you  agreed  ? 

Clo.  Sir,  I  will  serve  him ;  for  I  do  find  your 
hangman  is  a  more  penitent  trade  than  your 
bawd  ;  he  doth  oftener  ask  forgiveness. 

Prov.  You,  sirrah,  provide  your  block  and 
your  axe  to-morrow  four  o'clock. 

Abhor.  Come  on,  bawd;  I  will  instruct  thee 
in  my  trade  ;  follow. 

Clo.  I  do  desire  to  learn,  sir  ;  and  I  hope,  if 
you  have  occasion  to  use  me  for  your  own  turn, 
you  shall  find  me  yare  :  for,  truly  sir,  for  your 
kindness  I  owe  you  a  good  turn. 

Prov.  Call  hither  Barnardine  and  Claudio. 

[Exeunt  CLO.  and  ABHOR. 
One  has  my  pity  ;  not  a  jot  the  other, 
Being  a  murderer,  though  he  were  my  brother. 

Enter  CLAUDIO. 

Look,  here's  the  warrant,  Claudia,  for  thy  death ; 
'Tis  now  dead  midnight,  and  by  eight  to-morrow 


SCENE  II.] 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


127 


Thou  must  be  made  immortal.     Where 's  Bar- 
nardine  ?  [labour 

Claud.   As  fast  lock'd  up  in  sleep  as  guiltless 
When  it  lies  starkly  in  the  traveller's  bones  : 
He  will  not  wake. 

Prov.  Who  can  do  good  on  him  ? 

Well,  go,  prepare  yourself.     But,  hark  !  what 
noise  ?  [Knocking  within. 

Heaven  give  your  spirits  comfort  ! 

[Exit  CLAUDIO. 
By  and  by  ! — 

I  hope  it  is  some  pardon  or  reprieve 
For  the  most  gentle  Claudio. — Welcome,  father. 

Enter  DUKE. 

Duke.  The  best  and  wholesomest  spirits  of 

the  night  [of  late  ? 

Envelop  you,  good  provost  !     Who  call'd  here 

Prov.  None,  since  the  curfew  rung. 

Duke.  Not  Isabel  ? 

Prov.  No. 

Duke.         They  will,  then,  ere 't  be  long. 

Prov.   What  comfort  is  for  Claudio  ? 

Duke.  There 's  some  in  hope. 

Prov.   It  is  a  bitter  deputy. 

Duke.  Not  so,  not  so  ;  his  life  is  parallel'd 
Even  with  the  stroke  and  lineof  his  great  justice ; 
He  doth  with  holy  abstinence  subdue 
That  in  himself  which  he  spurs  on  his  power 
To  qualify  in  others  :  were  he  meal'd 
With  that  which  he  corrects,  then  were  he 

tyrannous  ; 

But  this  being  so,  he's  just. — Now  are  they  come. 
[Knocking  within. — PROVOST  goes  out. 
This  is  a  gentle  provost :  seldom  when 
The  steeled  gaoler  is  the  friend  of  men. — 
How  now  ?  what  noise  ?  That  spirit 's  possess'd 
with  haste  [strokes. 

That  wounds  the  unsisting  postern  with  these 

PROVOST  returns,  speaking  to  one  at  the  door. 

Prov.  There  he  must  stay  until  the  officer 
Arise  to  let  him  in  ;  he  is  call'd  up.  [yet, 

Dtike.  Have  you  no  countermand  for  Claudio 
But  he  must  die  to-morrow  ? 

Prov.  None,  sir,  none. 

Duke.  As  near  the  dawning,  Provost,  as  it  is, 
You  shall  hear  more  ere  morning. 

Prov.  Happily 

You  something  know ;  yet  I  believe  there  comes 
No  countermand  ;  no  such  example  have  we  : 
Besides,  upon  the  very  siege  of  justice, 
Lord  Angelo  hath  to  the  public  ear 
Profess'd  the  contrary. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
Duke.   This  is  his  lordship's  man. 


Prov.  And  here  comes  Claudio's  pardon. 

Mess.  My  lord  hath  sent  you  this  note  ;  and 
by  me  this  further  charge,  that  you  swerve  not 
from  the  smallest  article  of  it,  neither  in  time, 
matter,  or  other  circumstance.  Good-morrow ; 
for  as  I  take  it,  it  is  almost  day. 

Prov.   I  shall  obey  him.      [Exit  Messenger. 

Duke.  This  is  his  pardon ;  purchas'd  by  such 
sin,  [Aside. 

For  which  the  pardoner  himself  is  in  : 
Hence  hath  offence  his  quick  celerity 
When  it  is  borne  in  high  authority  : 
When  vice  makes  mercy,  mercy's  so  extended 
That  for  the  fault's  love  is  the  offender  friended. — 
Now,  sir,  what  news  ? 

Prov.  I  told  you :  Lord  Angelo,  belike 
thinking  me  remiss  in  mine  office,  awakens  me 
with  this  unwonted  putting  on  ;  methinks 
strangely,  for  he  hath  not  used  it  before. 

Duke.  Pray  you,  let 's  hear. 

Prov.  [Reads.]  Whatsoever  you  may  hear  to 
the  contrary,  let  Claudio  be  executed  by  four  of 
the  clock  ;  and,  in  the  afternoon,  Bamardine  : 
for  my  better  satisfaction,  let  me  have  Claudius 
head  sent  me  by  five.  Let  this  be  duly  per- 
formed;  with  a  thought  that  more  depends  on 
it  thai,  v~e  must  yet  deliver.  Thus  fail  not  to 
do  your  office,  as  you  will  answer  it  at  your  peril. 
What  say  you  to  this,  sir  ? 

Duke.  What  is  that  Barnardine  who  is  to  be 
executed  in  the  afternoon  ? 

Prov.  A  Bohemian  born ;  but  here  nursed 
up  and  bred  :  one  that  is  a  prisoner  nine  years 
old. 

Duke.  How  came  it  that  the  absent  duke  had 
not  either  delivered  him  to  his  liberty  or  executed 
him?  I  have  heard  it  was  ever  his  manner  to  do  so. 

Pro-J.  His  friends  still  wrought  reprieves  for 
him  :  and,  indeed,  his  fact,  till  now  in  the 
government  of  Lord  Angelo,  came  not  to  an 
undoubtful  proof. 

Duke.  Is  it  row  apparent  ? 

Prov.  Most  manifest,  and  not  denied  by  him- 
self. 

Duke.  Hath  he  borne  himself  penitently  in 
prison  ?  How  swems  he  to  be  touched  ? 

Prov.  A  man  that  apprehends  death  no  more 
dreadfully  but  as  a  drunken  sleep ;  careless, 
reakless,  and  fearless  of  what 's  past,  present, 
or  fo  come ;  'nscnsible  of  mortality  and  desper- 
ately mortal. 

Du,le.  He  wants  advice. 

Prov.  He  will  hear  none  ;  he  hath  evermore 
had  the  liberty  of  the  prison ;  give  him  leave  to 
escape  h  nee,  he  would  not :  drunk  many  times 
a-day,  if  not  many  days  entirely  drunk.  We 
have  very  often  awaked  him,  as  if  to  carry  him 


128 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


[ACT  IV. 


to  execution,  and  showed  him  a  seeming  war- 
rant for  it :  it  hath  not  moved  him  at  all. 

Duke.  More  of  him  anon.  There  is  written 
in  your  brow,  Provost,  honesty  and  constancy  : 
if  I  read  it  not  truly,  my  ancient  skill  beguiles 
me  ;  but  in  the  boldness  of  my  cunning  I  will 
lay  myself  in  hazard.  Claudio,  whom  here  you 
have  a  warrant  to  execute,  is  no  greater  forfeit 
to  the  law  than  Angelo  who  hath  sentenced 
him.  To  make  you  understand  this  in  a  mani- 
fested effect,  I  crave  but  four  days'  respite  ;  for 
the  which  you  are  to  do  me  both  a  present  and 
a  dangerous  courtesy. 

Prov,  Pray,  sir,  in  what  ? 

Duke.  In  the  delaying  death. 

Prov.  Alack  !  how  may  I  do  it  ?  having  the 
hour  limited  ;  and  an  express  command,  under 
penalty,  to  deliver  his  head  in  the  view  of 
Angelo  ?  I  may  make  my  case  as  Claudio's, 
to  cross  this  in  the  smallest. 

Duke.  By  the  vow  of  mine  order,  I  warrant 
you,  if  my  instructions  may  be  your  guide. 
Let  this  Barnardine  be  this  morning  executed, 
and  his  head  borne  to  Angelo. 

Prov.  Angelo  hath  seen  them  both,  and  »'ill 
discover  the  favour. 

Duke.  O,  death 's  a  great  disguiser :  and  you 
may  add  to  it.  Shave  the  head  and  tie  the 
beard ;  and  say  it  was  the  desire  of  the  penitent 
to  be  so  bared  before  his  death.  You  know  the 
course  is  common.  If  anything  fall  to  you  upon 
this,  more  than  thanks  and  good  fortune,  by  the 
saint  whom  I  profess,  I  will  plead  against  it 
with  my  life. 

Prov.  Pardon  me,  good  father  ;  it  is  against 
my  oath. 

Duke.  Were  you  sworn  to  the  duke,  or  to 
the  deputy  ? 

Prov.  To  him  and  to  his  substitutes. 

Duke.  You  will  think  you  have  made  no 
offence  if  the  duke  avouch  the  justice  of  your 
dealing  ? 

Prov.  But  what  likelihood  is  in  that  ? 

Duke.  Not  a  resemblance,  but  a  certainty. 
Yet  since  I  see  you  fearful  that  neither  my  coat, 
integrity,  nor  my  persuasion  can  with  ease  at- 
tempt you,  I  will  go  further  than  I  meant,  to 
pluck  all  fears  out  of  you.  Look  you,  sir,  here 
is  the  hand  and  seal  of  the  duke.  You  know 
the  character,  I  doubt  not ;  and  the  signet  is 
not  strange  to  you. 

Prov.  I  know  them  both. 

Duke.  The  contents  of  this  is  the  return  of 
the  duke  ;  you  shall  anon  over-read  it  at  your 
pleasure ;  where  you  shall  find,  within  these 
two  days  he  will  be  here.  This  is  a  thing  that 
Angelo  knows  not :  for  he  this  very  day  receives 


letters  of  strange  tenor :  perchance  of  the  duke's 
death ;  perchance  entering  into  some  monastery ; 
but,  by  chance,  nothing  of  what  is  writ.  Look, 
the  unfolding  star  calls  up  the  shepherd.  Put 
not  yourself  into  amazement  how  these  things 
should  be  :  all  difficulties  are  but  easy  when 
they  are  known.  Call  your  executioner,  and  off 
with  Barnardine's  head  :  I  will  give  him  a  pre- 
sent shrift,  and  advise  him  for  a  better  place. 
Yet  you  are  amazed  :  but  this  shall  absolutely 
resolve  you.  Come  away ;  it  is  almost  clear 
dawn.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  CLOWN. 

do.  I  am  as  well  acquainted  here  as  I  was 
in  our  house  of  profession  :  one  would  think  it 
were  Mistress  Overdone's  own  house,  for  here 
be  many  of  her  old  customers.  First,  here 's 
young  Master  Rash  ;  he 's  in  for  a  commodity 
of  brown  paper  and  old  ginger,  ninescore  and 
seventeen  pounds;  of  which  he  made  five  marks, 
ready  money  :  marry,  then,  ginger  was  not 
much  in  request,  for  the  old  women  were  all 
dead.  Then  is  there  here  one  Master  Caper, 
at  the  suit  of  Master  Threepile  the  mercer,  for 
some  four  suits  of  peach-coloured  satin,  which 
now  peaches  him  a  beggar.  Then  have  we  here 
young  Dizy,  and  young  Master  Deepvow,  and 
Master  Copperspur,  and  Master  Starvelackey 
the  rapier  and  dagger-man,  and  young  Dropheir 
that  killed  lusty  Pudding,  and  Master  Forth- 
right the  tilter,  and  brave  Master  Shoetie  the 
great  traveller,  and  wild  Halfcan  that  s  abbed 
Pots,  and;  I  think,  -orty  more  ;  all  great  doers 
in  our  ti  '.ue,  and  are  now  "  or  the  Lord's  sake." 


Enter  ABHORSON. 


Abhor.  Sirrah,  bring  Barnardine  hither. 

Clo.  Master  Barn,  din,  !  you  must  rise  and 
be  hanged,  Master  Barnardine  ! 

Aohor.  "V.hat,  ho,  Barnardine  ! 

Barnar.  \Within.~}  A  pox  o}  your  throats  ! 
Who  :  lakes  that  noise  there  ?  What  are  you  ? 

Clo.  Your  friend,  sir  ;  the  hangman.  You 
must  be  so  good,  sir,  to  rise  and  be  put  to  death. 

Barnar.  [Within.']  Away,  you  rogue,  away; 
I  am  sleepy. 

Abhor.  Tell  him  he  must  awake,  and  that 
quickly  too. 

Clo.  Pray,  Master  Barnardine,  awake  till 
you  are  executed,  and  sleep  afterwards. 

Abhor.  Go  in  to  him,  and  fetch  him  out. 

Clo.  He  is  coming,  sir,  he  is  coming ;  I  hear 
his  straw  rustle. 


SCENE  III.] 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


129 


Enter  BARNARDINE. 

Abhor.  Is  the  axe  upon  the  block,  sirrah  ? 

Clo.  Very  ready,  sir. 

Barnar.  How  now,  Abhorson  ?  what 's  the 
news  with  you  ? 

Abhor.  Truly,  sir,  I  would  desire  you  to  clap 
into  your  prayers  ;  for,  look  you,  the  warrant 's 
come. 

Barnar.  You  rogue,  I  have  been  drinking 
all  night  ;  I  am  not  fitted  for 't. 

Clo.  O,  the  better,  sir ;  for  he  that  drinks 
all  night  and  is  hanged  betimes  in  the  morning 
may  sleep  the  sounder  all  the  next  day. 

Enter  DUKE. 

Abhor.  Look  you,  sir,  here  comes  your 
ghostly  father.  Do  we  jest  now,  think  you  ? 

Duke.  Sir,  induced  by  my  charity,  and  hear- 
ing how  hastily  you  are  to  depart,  I  am  come  to 
advise  you,  comfort  you,  and  pray  with  you. 

Barnar.  Friar,  not  I ;  I  have  been  drinking 
hard  all  night,  and  I  will  have  more  time  to 
prepare  me,  or  they  shall  beat  out  my  brains 
with  billets  :  I  will  not  consent  to  die  this  day, 
that 's  certain. 

Duke.   O,  six,  you  must  ;  and  therefore,  I 

beseech  you, 
Look  forward  on  the  journey  you  shall  go. 

Barnar.  I  swear  I  will  not  die  to-day  for 
any  man's  persuasion. 

Duke.  But  hear  you, 

Barnar.  Not  a  word  ;  if  you  have  anything 
to  say  to  me,  come  to  my  ward  ;  for  thence 
will  not  I  to-day.  [Exit. 

Duke.  Unfit  to  live  or  die.  O  gravel  heart ! — 
After  him,  fellows  ;  bring  him  to  the  block. 

[Exeunt  ABHOR,  and  CLOWN. 

Enter  PROVOST. 

Prov.  Now,  sir, how  do  you  find  the  prisoner? 

Duke.    A   creature   unprepar'd,    unmeet  for 

death  ; 

And  to  transport  him  in  the  mind  he  is 
Were  damnable. 

Prov.  Here  in  the  prison,  father, 

There  died  this  morning  of  a  cruel  fever 
One  Ragozine,  a  most  notorious  pirate, 
A  man  of  Claudio's  years  ;  his  beard  and  head 
Just  of  his  colour.     What  if  we  do  omit 
This  reprobate  till  he  were  well  inclined  ; 
And  satisfy  the  deputy  with  the  visage 
Of  Ragozine,  more  like  to  Claudio  ? 

Duke.  O,  'tis  an  accident  that  Heaven  pro- 
vides ! 

Despatch  it  presently  ;  the  hour  draws  on 
Prefix'd  by  Angelo  :  see  this  be  done, 


And  sent  according  to  command  ;  whiles  I 
Persuade  this  rude  wretch  willingly  to  die. 

Prov.  This  shall  be  done,  good  father,  pre- 

sently. 

But  Barnardine  must  die  this  afternoon  : 
And  how  shall  we  continue  Claudio, 
To  save  me  from  the  danger  that  might  come 
If  he  were  known  alive  ? 

Duke.  Let  this  be  done  ;  — 

Put  them  in  secret  holds  ;  both  Barnardine  and 
Claudio.  [ing 

Ere  twice  the  sun  hath  made  his  journal  greet- 
To  the  under  generation,  you  shall  find 
Your  safety  manifested. 

Prov.   I  am  your  free  dependent. 

Duke.  Quick,  despatch, 

And  send  the  head  to  Angelo. 

[Exit  PROVOST. 

Now  will  I  write  letters  to  Angelo,  —       [tents 
The  provost,  he  shall  bear  them,  —  whose  con- 
Shall  witness  to  him  I  am  near  at  home, 
And  that,  by  great  injunctions,  I  am  bound 
To  enter  publicly  :  him  I  '11  desire 
To  meet  me  at  the  consecrated  fount, 
A  league  below  the  city  ;  and  from  thence, 
By  cold  gradation  and  weal-balanced  form, 
We  shall  proceed  with  Angelo. 
' 


-       r  .•  . 

Re-enter  PROVOST. 

Prov.   Here  is  the  head  ;  I  '11  carry  it  myself. 

Duke.  Convenient  is  it.  Make  a  swift  return  ; 
For  I  would  commune  with  you  of  such  things 
That  want  no  ear  but  yours. 

Prov.  I  '11  make  all  speed.  [Exit. 

I  sab.  [Within.]  Peace,  ho,  be  here  ! 

Duke.  The  tongue  of  Isabel.  —  She's  come 

to  know 

If  yet  her  brother's  pardon  be  come  hither  : 
But  I  will  keep  her  ignorant  of  her  good, 
To  make  her  heavenly  comforts  of  despair 
When  it  is  least  expected. 

X-id-ptri.'rt  b&A.     , 

Enter  ISABELLA.  ,OT  {ylj:i;il  s 

Isab.  Ho,  by  your  leave  ! 

Duke.  Good  morning  to  you,  fair  and  gracious 

daughter. 

Isab.  The  better,  given  me  by  so  holy  a  man. 

Hath  yet  the  deputy  sent  my  brother's  pardon? 

Duke.  He  hath  released  him,  Isabel,  from 

the  world  : 

His  head  is  off  and  sent  to  Angelo. 
Isab.  Nay,  but  it  is  not  so. 
Duke.  It  is  no  other  : 

Show  your  wisdom,  daughter,  in  your  close 

patience. 

Isab.  O,  I  will  to  him  and  pluck  out  his  eyes. 
Duke.  You  shall  not  be  admitted  to  his  sight- 


130 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


[ACT  iv. 


Isab.  Unhappy  Claudio !  Wretched  Isabel ! 
Injurious  world  !  Most  damned  Angelo  I 

Duke.  This  nor  hurts  him  nor  profits  you  a 

jot: 

Forbear  it,  therefore;  give  your  cause  to  Heaven. 
Mark  what  I  say  ;  which  you  shall  find 
By  every  syllable  a  faithful  verity  : 
The  duke  comes  home  to-morrow  ; — nay,  dry 

your  eyes ; 

One  of  our  convent,  and  his  confessor, 
Gives  me  this  instance.    Already  he  hath  carried 
Notice  to  Escalus  and  Angelo, 
Who  do  prepare  to  meet  him  at  the  gates, 
There  to  give  up  their  power.     If  you  can, 

pace  your  wisdom 

In  that  good  path  that  I  would  wish  it  go, 
And  you  shall  have  your  bosom  on  this  wretch, 
Grace  of  the  duke,  revenges  to  your  heart, 
And  general  honour. 

Isab.  I  am  directed  by  you. 

Duke.  This  letter,  then,  to  Friar  Peter  give ; 
'Tis  that  he  sent  me  of  the  duke's  return  : 
Say,  by  this  token,  I  desire  his  company 
At  Mariana's  house  to-night.     Her  cause  and 

yours 

I  '11  perfect  him  withal ;  and  he  shall  bring  you 
Before  the  duke  ;  and  to  the  head  of  Angelo 
Accuse  him  home,  and  home.    For  my  poor  self, 
I  am  combined  by  a  sacred  vow, 
And  shall  be  absent.    Wend  you  with  this  letter : 
Command  these  fretting  waters  from  your  eyes 
With  a  light  heart ;  trust  not  my  holy  order 
If  I  pervert  your  course. — Who  's  here  ? 

.fo^ocji  lift  'jxsm  II  I .  .ws^V 

Enter  LuciO. 

Lucio.  Good  even, 

Friar  ;  where  is  the  provost  ? 

Duke.  Not  within,  sir. 

Lucie.  O,  pretty  Isabella,  I  am  pale  at  mine 
heart  to  see  thine  eyes  so  red  :  thou  must  be 
patient :  I  am  fain  to  dine  and  sup  with  water 
and  bran;  I  dare  not  for  my  head  fill  my  belly; 
one  fruitful  meal  would  set  me  to 't.  But  they 
say  the  duke  will  be  here  to-morrow.  By  my 
troth,  Isabel,  I  loved  thy  brother.  If  the  old 
fantastical  duke  of  dark  corners  had  been  at 
home,  he  had  lived.  [Exit  ISABELLA. 

Duke.  Sir,  the  duke  is  marvellous  little  be- 
holding to  your  reports  ;  but  the  best  is,  he 
lives  not  in  them. 

Lucio.  Friar,  thou  knowest  not  the  duke  so 
well  as  I  do :  he  's  a  better  woodman  than  thou 
takest  him  for.  [Fare  ye  well. 

Duke.  Well,  you  '11  answer  this  one  day. 

Lucio.  Nay,  tarry ;  I  '11  go  along  with  thee  ; 
I  can  tell  thee  pretty  tales  of  the  duke. 

Duke.  You  have  told  me  too  many  of  him 


already,  sir,  if  they  be  true :  if  not  true,  none 
were  enough. 

Lucio.  I  was  once  before  him  for  getting  a 
wench  with  child. 

Duke.  Did  you  such  a  thing  ? 

L^lcio.  Yes,  marry,  did  I  :  but  was  fain  to 
forswear  it ;  they  would  else  have  married  me 
to  the  rotten  medlar. 

Duke.  Sir,  your  company  is  fairer  than  hon- 
est. Rest  you  well. 

Lucio.  By  my  trot  ,  I  '11  go  with  thee  to  the 
lane's  end.  If  bawdy  talk  offend  you,  we'll 
have  very  little  of  it.  Nay,  friar,  I  am  a  kind 
of  burr  ;  I  shall  stick.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — A  Room  in  ANGELO'S  House. 
Enter  ANGELO  and  ESCALUS. 

Escal.  Every  letter  he  hath  writ  hath  dis- 
vouched  other. 

Ang.  In  most  uneven  and  distracted  manner. 
His  actions  show  much  like  to  madness  ;  pray 
heaven  his  wisdom  be  not  tainted  !  And  why 
meet  him  at  the  gates,  and  re-deliver  our 
authorities  there  ? 

Escal.  I  guess  not. 

Ang.  And  why  should  we  proclaim  it  in  an 
hour  before  his  entering,  that  if  any  crave  re- 
dress of  injustice,  they  should  exhibit  their  peti- 
tions in  the  streets  ? 

Escal.  He  shows  his  reason  for  that :  to  have 
a  despatch  of  complaints  ;  and  to  deliver  us 
from  devices  hereafter,  which  shall  then  have 
no  power  to  stand  against  us. 

Ang.  Well,  I  beseech  you.  let  it  be  pro- 
claimed : 

Betimes  i'  the  morn  I  '11  call  you  at  your  house : 
Give  notice  to  such  men  of  sort  and  suit 
As  are  to  meet  him. 

Escal.       I  shall,  sir  :  fare  you  well.     [Exit. 

Ang.  Good  night. —  [nant, 

This  deed  unshapes  me  quite,  makes  me  unpreg- 
And  dull  to  all  proceedings.  A  deflower'd  maid ! 
And  by  an  eminent  body  that  enforced 
The  law  against  it ! — But  that  her  tender  shame 
Will  not  proclaim  against  her  maiden  loss, 
How  might  she  tongue  me  ?     Yet  reason  dares 

her — no  : 

For  my  authority  bears  a  credent  bulk, 
That  no  particular  scandal  once  can  touch 
But   it  confounds  the  breather.      He   should 
have  liv'd,  [sense, 

Save  that  his  riotous  youth,  with  dangerous 
Might  in  the  times  to  come  have  ta'en  revenge, 
By  so  receiving  a  dishonour'd  life 
With  ransom  of  such  shame.     Would  yet  he 
had  liv'd  J 


SCENE   V.] 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


Alack,  when  once  our  grace  we  have  forgot, 
Nothing  goes  right ;  we  would,  and  we  would 
noi.  {Exit. 

SCENE  V. — Fields  withotit  the  Town. 

Enter  DUKE  in  his  own  habit^  and  Friar 
PETER. 

Duke.  These  letters  at  fit  time  deliver  me. 

{Giving  letters. 

The  provost  knows  our  purpose  and  our  plot. 
The  matter  being  afoot,  keep  your  instruction 
And  hold  you  ever  to  our  special  drift  ; 
Though  sometimes  you  do  blench  from  this  to 
that  [house, 

As  cause  doth  minister.     Go,  call  at  Flavins' 
And  tell  him  where  I  stay  :  give  the  like  notice 
To  Valentinus,  Rowland,  and  to  Crassus, 
And  bid  them  bring  the  trumpets  to  the  gate  ; 
But  send  me  Flavius  first. 

F.  Peter.  It  shall  be  speeded  well. 

{Exit  FRIAR. 
r/sttaw  %  idbi^K  arir^a 

Enter  VARRIUS. 

Duke.  I  thank  thee,  Varrius ;  thou  hast  made 
good  haste  :  [friends 

Come,   we  will  walk.     There  's  other   of  our 
Will  greet  us  here  anon,  my  gentle  Varrius. 

{Exeunt, 

SCENE  VI. — Street  near  the  City  Gate. 
Enter  ISABELLA  and  MARIANA. 

Isab.  To  speak  so  indirectly  I  am  loath  ; 
I  would  say  the  truth  ;  but  to  accuse  him  so, 
That  is  your  part  :  yet  I  'm  advis'd  to  do  it ; 
He  says,  to  'vailfull  purpose. 

Mart.  Be  ruled  by  him. 

Isab.  Besides,  he  tells  me  that,  if  peradven- 

ture 

He  speak  against  me  on  the  adverse  side, 
I  should  not  think  it  strange ;  for  'tis  a  physic 
That 's  bitter  to  sweet  end. 

Mart.   I  would  friar  Peter. — 

Isab.  O,  peace  ;  the  friar  is  come. 

juk orou    >:f    --el  ii' •'•  '•''  •«-r>i  '  --.I      V-.-'~ '"*' 

Enter  Friar  PETER. 

F.  Peter.    Come,   I  have  found  you  out  a 

stand  most  fit^nav-: 

Where  you  may  have  such  vantage  on  the  duke 
He  shall  not  pass  you.     Twice  have  the  trum- 
pets sounded  ; 

The  generous  and  gravest  citizens 
Have  hent  the  gates,  and  very  near  upon 
The  duke  is  entering  ;  therefore,  hence,  away. 

{Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 
SCENE  \.—A  public  Place  near  the  City  Gate. 

MARIANA  (veiled),  ISABELLA,  and  PETER,  at 
a  distance      Enter  at  opposite  doors  DUKE, 
VARRIUS,  Lords;  ANGELO,  ESCALUS,  Lucio, 
PROVOST,  Officers,  and  Citizens. 
Duke.   My  very  worthy  cousin,  fairly  met ; — 
Our  old  and  faithful  friend,  we  are  glad  to  see 
you.  [royal  grace  ! 

Ang.  and  Escal.   Happy  return   be   to  your 
Duke.  Many  and  hearty  thankings  to  you  both. 
We  have  made  inquiry  of  you  ;  and  we  hear 
Such  goodness  of  your  justice  that  our  soul 
Cannot  but  yield  you  forth  to  public  thanks, 
Forerunning  more  requital. 

Ang.  You  make  my  bonds  still  greater. 

Duke.  O,  your  desert  speaks  loud  ;  and  I 

should  wrong  it 

To  lock  it  in  the  wards  of  covert  bosom, 
When  it  deserves,  with  characters  of  brass, 
A  forted  residence  'gainst  the  tooth  of  time 
And  rasure  of  oblivion.     Give  me  your  hand, 
And  let  the  subject  see,  to  make  them  know 
That  outward  courtesies  would  fain  proclaim 
Favours  that  keep  within. — Come,  Escalus  ; 
You  must  walk  by  us  on  our  other  hand  : 
And  good  supporters  are  you. 

PETER  and  ISABELLA  come  forward. 

F.  Peter.  Now  is  your  time  ;   speak  loud, 
and  kneel  before  him.  [regard 

Isab.    Justice,    O   royal   duke  !    Vail    your 
Upon  a  wrong'd,  I  'd  fain  have  said,  a  maid  ! 
O  worthy  prince,  dishonour  not  your  eye 
By  throwing  it  on  any  other  object 
Till  you  have  heard  me  in  my  true  complaint, 
And  give  me  justice,  justice,  justice,  justice  ! 

Duke.  Relate  your  wrongs.     In  what?    By 

whom  ?    Be  brief : 

Here  is  Lord  Angelo  shall  give  you  justice. 
Reveal  yourself  to  him. 

Isab.  O,  worthy  duke. 

You  bid  me  seek  redemption  of  the  devil : 
Hear  me  yourself ;  for  that  which  I  must  speak 
Must  either  punish  me,  not  being  believ'd, 
Or  wring  redress  from  you  ;  hear  me,  O,  hear 
me  here.  [firm  : 

Ang.  My  lord,  her  wits,  I  fear  me,  are  not 
She  hath  been  a  suitor  to  me  for  her  brother, 
Cut  off  by  course  of  justice. 

Isab.  By  course  of  justice  ! 

Ang.  And  she  will  speak  most  bitterly  and 
strange.  [I  speak  : 

Isab.  Most  strange,  but  yet  most  truly,  will 
That  Angelo 's  forsworn,  is  it  not  strange  ? 


132 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


[ACT  v. 


That  Angelo  's  a  murderer,  is 't  not  strange  ? 
That  Angelo  is  an  adulterous  thief, 
An  hypocrite,  a  virgin-violator, 
Is  it  not  strange  and  strange  ? 

Duke.  Nay,  it  is  ten  times  strange. 

Isab.  It  is  not  truer  he  is  Angelo 
Than  this  is  all  as  true  as  it  is  strange  : 
Nay,  it  is  ten  times  true  ;  for  truth  is  truth 
To  the  end  of  reckoning. 

Duke.  Away  with  her  ! — Poor  soul, 

She  speaks  this  in  the  infirmity  of  sense. 

Isab.  O  prince,  I  conjure  thee,  as  thou  believ'st 
There  is  another  comfort  than  this  world, 
That  thou  neglect  me  not  with  that  opinion 
That  I  am  touch'd  with  madness  :  make  not 
impossible  [sible 

That  which  but  seems  unlike  ;  'tis  not  impos- 
But  one,  the  wicked'st  caitiff  on  the  ground, 
May  seem  as  shy,  as  grave,  as  just,  as  absolute 
As  Angelo  ;  even  so  may  Angelo, 
In  all  his  dressings,  characts,  titles,  forms, 
Be  an  arch-villain  ;  believe  it,  royal  prince, 
If  he  be  less,  he 's  nothing  ;  but  he  's  more, 
Had  I  more  name  for  badness. 

Duke.  By  mine  honesty, 

If  she  be  mad,  as  I  believe  no  other, 
Her  madness  hath  the  oddest  frame  of  sense, 
Such  a  dependency  of  thing  on  thing, 
As  e'er  I  heard  in  madness. 

Isab.  O  gracious  duke, 

Harp  not  on  that :  nor  do  not  banish  reason 
For  inequality  ;  but  let  your  reason  serve 
To  make  the  truth  appear  where  it  seems  hid 
And  hide  the  false  seems  true. 

Duke.  Many  that  are  not  mad 

Have,  sure,  more  lack  of  reason. — What  would 
you  say  ? 

Isab.  I  am  the  sister  of  one  Claudio, 
Condemn'd  upon  the  act  of  fornication 
To  lose  his  head  ;  condemn'd  by  Angelo  : 
I,  in  probation  of  a  sisterhood, 
Was  sent  to  by  my  brother  :  one  Lucio 
As  then  the  messenger  ; — 

Lucio.  That 's  I,  an 't  like  your  grace  : 

I  came  to  her  from  Claudio,  and  desir'd  her 
To  try  her  gracious  fortune  with  Lord  Angelo 
For  her  poor  brother's  pardon. 

Isab.  That 's  he,  indeed. 

Duke.  You  were  not  bid  to  speak. 

Lucio.  No,  my  good  lord  : 

Nor  wish'd  to  hold  my  peace. 

Duke.  I  wish  you  now,  then  ; 

Pray  you,  take  note  of  it :  and  when  you  have 
A  business  for  yourself,  pray  Heaven  you  then 
Be  perfect. 

Lucio.  I  warrant  your  honour,  [to  it. 

Duke.  The  warrant 's  for  yourself;  take  heed 


Isab.  This  gentleman  told  somewhat  of  my 
tale. 

Lucio.  Right.  [wrong 

Duke.   It  may  be  right ;  but  you  are  in  the 
To  speak  before  your  time. — Proceed. 

Isab.  I  went 

To  this  pernicious  caitiff  deputy. 

Duke.  That 's  somewhat  madly  spoken. 

Isab.  Pardon  it ; 

The  phrase  is  to  the  matter.  [ceed. 

Duke.  Mended  again.     The  matter  ; — pro- 

hab.  In  brief, — to  set  the  needless  process  by, 
How  I  persuaded,  how  I  pray'd,  and  kneel'd, 
How  he  refell'd  me,  and  how  I  replied, — 
For  this  was  of  much  length, — the  vile  conclusion 
I  now  begin  with  grief  and  shame  to  utter  : 
He  would  not,  but  by  gift  of  my  chaste  body 
To  his  concupiscible  intemperate  lust, 
Release  my  brother;  and,  after  muchdebatement, 
My  sisterly  remorse  confutes  mine  honour, 
And  I  did  yield  to  him.     But  the  next  morn 

betimes, 

His  purpose  surfeiting,  he  sends  a  warrant 
For  my  poor  brother's  head. 

Duke.  This  is  most  likely 

Isab.  O,  that  it  were  as  like  as  it  is  true  ! 

Duke.  By  heaven,  fond  wretch,  thou  know'  st 

not  what  thou  speak'st, 
Or  else  thou  art  suborn'd  against  his  honour 
In  hateful  practice.     First,  his  integrity 
Stands  without  blemish: — next,  it  imports  no 

reason 

That  with  such  vehemency  he  should  pursue 
Faults  proper  to  himself:  if  he  had  so  offended, 
He  would  have  weigh'd  thy  brother  by  himself, 
And  not  have  cut  him  off.     Some  one  hath  set 

you  on ; 

Confess  the  truth,  and  say  by  whose  advice 
Thou  cam'st  here  to  complain. 

Isab.  And  is  this  all  ? 

Then,  O  you  blessed  ministers  above, 
Keep  me  in  patience  ;  and,  with  ripen'd  time, 
Unfold  the  evil  which  is  here  wrapt  up 
In  countenance  ! — Heaven  shield   your   grace 

from  woe, 
As  I,  thus  wrong'd,  hence  unbelieved  go  ! 

Duke.    I    know  you'd  fain   be   gone. — An 

officer  ! 

To  prison  with  her  ! — Shall  we  thus  permit 
A  blasting  and  a  scandalous  breath  to  fall 
On  him  so  near  us?     This  needs  must  be  a 

practice. 
Who  knew  of  your  intent  and  coming  hither  ? 

Isab.  One  that  I  would  were  here,  friar  Lodo- 
wick. 

Duke.  A  ghostly  father,  belike.     Who  knows 
that  Lodowick  ? 


SCENE  I.] 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


133 


Lucio.  My  lord,  I  know  him ;  'tis  a  meddling 

friar.  [lord, 

I  do  not  like  the  man :  had  he  been  lay,  my 

For  certain  words  he  spake  against  your  grace 

In  your  retirement,  I  had  swing'd  him  soundly. 

Duke.    Words  against   me?      This  a   good 

friar,  belike  ! 

And  to  set  on  this  wretched  woman  here 
Against  our  substitute! — Let  this  friar  be  found. 

Lucio.   But  yesternight,  my  lord,  she  and  that 

friar 

I  saw  them  at  the  prison :  a  saucy  friar, 
A  very  scurvy  fellow. 

F.  Peter.  Bless'd  be  your  royal  grace  ! 

I  have  stood  by,  my  lord,  and  I  have  heard 
Your  royal  ear  abus'd.     First,  hath  this  woman 
Most  wrongfully  accus'd  your  substitute  ; 
Who  is  as  free  from  touch  or  soil  with  her 
As  she  from  one  ungot. 

Duke.  We  did  believe  no  less. 

Know  you  that  friar  Lodowick  that  she  speaks 

of?  [holy; 

F.  Peter.  I  know  him  for  a  man  divine  and 
Not  scurvy,  nor  a  temporary  meddler, 
As  he 's  reported  by  this  gentleman  ; 
And,  on  my  trust,  a  man  that  never  yet 
Did,  as  he  vouches,  misreport  your  grace. 

Lucio.   My  lord,  most  villanously ;  believe  it. 

F.  Peter.  Well,  he  in  time  may  come  to  clear 

himself ; 

But  at  this  instant  he  is  sick,  my  lord, 
Of  a  strange  fever.     Upon  his  mere  request, — 
Being  come  to  knowledge  that  there  was  com- 
plaint 

Intended  'gainst  Lord  Angelo, — came  I  hither 
To  speak,  as  from  his  mouth,  what  he  doth  know 
Is  true  and  false  ;  and  what  he,  with  his  oath 
And  all  probation,  will  make  up  full  clear, 
Whensoever  he 's  convented.     First,   for  this 

woman — 

To  justify  this  worthy  nobleman, 
So  vulgarly  and  personally  accus'd, — 
Her  shall  you  hear  disproved  to  her  eyes, 
Till  she  herself  confess  it. 

Duke.  Good  friar,  let 's  hear  it. 

[ISABELLA  is  carried  off",  guarded ;  and 

MARIANA  comes  forward. 
Do  you  not  smile  at  this,  Lord  Angelo  ? — 
O  heaven  !  the  vanity  of  wretched  fools  ! 
Give  us  some  seats. — Come,  cousin  Angelo  ; 
In  this  I  '11  be  impartial ;  be  you  judge 
Of  your  own  cause. — Is  this  the  witness,  friar? 
First,  let  her  show  her  face,  and  after  speak. 

Mart.  Pardon,  my  lord  ;  I  will  not  show  my 

face 
Until  my  husband  bid  me. 

Duke.  What !  are  you  married  ? 


Mari.  No,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Are  you  a  maid  ? 

Mari.  No,  my  lord. 

Dttke.  A  widow,  then  ? 

Mari.  Neither,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Why,  you 

Are  nothing  then  : — neither  maid,  widow,  nor 
wife? 

Lucio.   My  lord,  she  may  be  a  punk;  for  many 
of  them  are  neither  maid,  widow,  nor  wife. 

Duke.  Silence  that  fellow :  I  would  he  had 

some  cause 
To  prattle  for  himself. 

Lucio.  Well,  my  lord.  [married  ; 

Mari.  My  lord,   I  do  confess  I  ne'er  was 
And  I  confess,  besides,  I  am  no  maid  : 
I  have  known  my  husband ;  yet  my  husband 

knows  not 
That  ever  he  knew  me. 

Lucio.   He  was  drunk,  then,  my  lord;  it  can 
be  no  better. 

Duke.  For  the  benefit  of  silence,  would  thou 
wert  so  too. 

Lucio.  Well,  my  lord. 

Duke.  This  is  no  witness  for  Lord  Angelo. 

Mari.  Now  I  come  to 't,  my  lord  : 
She  that  accuses  him  of  fornication, 
In  self-same  manner  doth  accuse  my  husband  ; 
And  charges  him,  my  lord,  with  such  a  time 
When  I  '11  depose  I  had  him  in  mine  arms, 
With  all  the  effect  of  love. 

Ang.  Charges  she  more  than  me  ? 

Man.  Not  that  I  know. 

Duke.  No  ?  you  say,  your  husband. 

Mari.  Why,  just,  my  lord,  and  that  is  Angelo, 
Who  thinks  he  knows  that  he  ne'er  knew  my 

body, 
But  knows  he  thinks  that  he  knows  Isabel's. 

Ang.  This  is  a  strange  abuse. — Let 's  see  thy 
face.  [mask. 

Mari.  My  husband  bids  me  ;  now  I  will  un- 

\Unveiling. 

This  is  that  face,  thou  cruel  Angelo,  [on  : 

Which  once  thou  swor'st  was  worth  the  looking 
This  is  the  hand  which,  with  a  vow'd  contract, 
Was  fast  belock'd  in  thine  :  this  is  the  body 
That  took  away  the  match  from  Isabel, 
And  did  supply  thee  at  thy  garden-house 
In  her  imagin'd  person. 

Duke.  Know  you  this  woman  ? 

Lucio.  Carnally,  she  says. 

Duke.  Sirrah,  no  more. 

Lucio.  Enough,  my  lord.  [woman  ; 

Ang.  My  lord,  I  must  confess  I  know  this 
And  five  years  since  there  was  some  speech  of 

marriage 
Betwixt  myself  and  her  ;  which  was  broke  off, 


134 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


[ACT  v. 


Partly  for  that  her  promis'd  proportions 
Came  short  of  composition  ;  but  in  chief 
For  that  her  reputation  was  disvalued 
In  levity  :  since  which  time  of  five  years    [her, 
I  never  spake  with  her,  saw  her,  nor  heard  from 
Upon  my  faith  and  honour. 

Mart.  Noble  prince, 

As  there  comes  light  from  heaven  and  words 

from  breath, 

As  there  is  sense  in  truth  and  truth  in  virtue, 
I  am  affianc'd  this  man's  wife  as  strongly 
As  words  could  make  up  vows :  and,  my  good 
lord,  [house, 

But  Tuesday  night  last  gone,  in  his  garden- 
He  knew  me  as  a  wife.     As  this  is  true, 
Let  me  in  safety  raise  me  from  my  knees, 
Or  else  for  ever  be  confixed  here, 
A  marble  monument ! 

Ang.  I  did  but  smile  till  now  : 

Now,  good   my  lord,  give   me  the  scope  of 

justice  j 

My  patience  here  is  touch'd.     I  do  perceive 
These  poor  informal  women  are  no  more 
But  instruments  of  some  more  mightier  member 
That  sets  them  on.     Let  me  have  way,  my  lord, 
To  find  this  practice  out. 

Duke.  Ay,  with  my  heart ; 

And  punish  them  unto  your  height  of  pleasure. — 
Thou  foolish  friar,  and  thou  pernicious  woman, 
Compact  with  her  that 's  gone,  thinkst  thou  thy 
oaths,  [saint, 

Though  they  would  swear  down  each  particular 
Were  testimonies  against  his  worth  and  credit, 
That 's  seal'd  in  approbation  ? — You,  Lord 

Escalus, 

Sit  with  my  cousin  ;  lend  him  your  kind  pains 
To  find  out  this  abuse,  whence  'tis  deriv'd. — 
There  is  another  friar  that  set  them  on ;  r>r  ,iua 
Let  him  be  sent  for.  {he  indeed 

F.  Peter.  Would  he  were  here,  my  lord  ;  for 
Hath  set  the  women  on  this  complaint : 
Your  provost  knows  the  place  where  he  abides, 
And  he  may  fetch  him. 

Duke.  Go,  do  it  instantly.—  [Exit  PROVOST. 
And  you,  my  noble  and  well-warranted  cousin, 
Whom  it  concerns  to  hear  this  matter  forth, 
Do  with  your  injuries  as  seems  you  best 
In  any  chastisement.     I  for  awhile  [well 

Will  leave  you  :  but  stir  not  you  till  you  have 
Determined  upon  these  slanderers. 

Escal.  My  lord,  we  '11  do  it  thoroughly.  {Exit 
DUKE.  ] — Signior  Lucio,  did  notyou  say  you  knew 
that  friar  Lodowick  to  be  a  dishonest  person  ? 

Litcio.  Cucullus  non  facit  monachum:  honest 
in  nothing  but  in  his  clothes  ;  and  one  that  hath 
spoke  most  villanous  speeches  of  the  duke. 

Escal.  We  shall  entreat  you  to  abide  here  till 


he  come,  and  enforce  them  against  him:  we  shall 
find  this  friar  a  notable  fellow. 

Lucio.  As  any  in  Vienna,  on  my  word. 

Escal.  Call  that  same  Isabel  here  once  again 
\to  an  Attendant];  I  would  speak  with  her. 
Pray  you,  my  lord,  give  me  leave  to  question  ; 
you  shall  see  how  I  handle  her. 

Lucio.  Not  better  than  he,  by  her  own  report. 

Escal.  Say  you  ? 

Lucio.  Marry,  sir,  I  think  if  you  handled  her 
privately  she  would  sooner  confess  :  perchance, 
publicly,  she  '11  be  ashamed. 

Re-enter  Officers,  with  ISABELLA. 

Escal.   I  will  go  darkly  to  work  with  her. 

Lucio.  That  !s  the  way  ;  for  women  are  light 
at  midnight. 

Escal.  Come  on,  mistress  [to  ISABELLA]  : 
here 's  a  gentlewoman  denies  all  that  you  have 
said. 

Re-enter  the  DUKE,  in  the  Friar's  habity 
and  PROVOST. 

Lucio.  My  lord ,  here  comes  the  rascal  I  spoke 
of;  here  with  the  provost. 

Escal.  In  very  good  time  : — speak  not  you  to 
him  till  we  call  upon  you. 

Lucio.  Mum. 

EscaL  Come,  sir  :  did  you  set  these  women 
on  to  slander  Lord  Angel o  ?  they  have  confessed 
you  did.  .f)Tof  v« 

Duke.  'Tis  false.  n.xiV 

EscaL  How  !  know  you  where  you  are  ? 

Duke.   Respect  to  your  great  place  !  and  let 

the  devil 

Be  sometime  honour'd  for  his  burning  throne!— 
Where  is  the  duke?  'tis  he  should  hear  me  speak. 

Escal.  The  duke's  in  us ;  and  we  will  hear 

you  speak : 
Look  you  speak  justly. 

Duke.     Boldly,  at  least.     But,  O,  poor  souls, 
Come  you  to  seek  the  lamb  here  of  the  fox, 
Good  night  to  your  redress  !     Is  the  duke  gone? 
Then  is  your  cause  gone  too.    The  duke 's  unjust 
Thus  to  retort  your  manifest  appeal, 
And  put  your  trial  in  the  villain's  mouth 
Which  here  you  come  to  accuse.  [of. 

Lucio.  This  is  the  rascal  ;  this  is  he  I  spoke 

EscaL  Why,  thou  unreverend  and  unhallow'd 

friar  ! 

Is 't  not  enough  thou  hast  suborn'd  these  women 
To  accuse  this  worthy  man,  but,  in  foul  mouth, 
And  in  the  witness  of  his  proper  ear, 
To  call  him  villain  ? 

And  then  to  glance  from  him  to  the  duke  him- 
self, 
To  tax  him  with  injustice  ?    Take  him  hence ; 


SCENE  I.] 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


135 


To  the  rack  with  him. — We'll  touze  you  joint 

by  joint, 
But  we  will  know  this  purpose. — What!  unjust? 

Duke.  Be  not  so  hot ;  the  duke 
Dare  no  more  stretch  this  finger  of  mine  than  he 
Dare  rack  his  own  ;  his  subject  am  I  not. 
Nor  here  provincial.     My  business  in  this  state 
Made  me  a  looker-on  here  in  Vienna, 
Where  I  have  seen  corruption  boil  and  bubble 
Till  it  o'errun  the  stew  :  laws  for  all  faults, 
But  faults  socountenanc'dthat  the  strong  statutes 
Stand  like  the  forfeits  in  a  barber's  shop, 
As  much  in  mock  as  mark. 

Escal.  Slander  to  the  state  !    Away  with  him 
to  prison  ! 

Ang.  What  can  you  vouch  against  him,  Signior 

Lucio  ? 
Is  this  the  man  that  you  did  tell  us  of  ? 

Lucio.  'Tis  he,  my  lord.  Come  hither,  good- 
man  bald-pate.  Do  you  know  me  ? 

Duke.  I  remember  you,  sir,  by  the  sound  of 
your  voice.  I  met  you  at  the  prison,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  the  duke. 

Lucio.  O  did  you  so  ?  And  do  you  remember 
what  you  said  of  the  duke  ? 

Duke.   Most  notedly,  sir. 

Lucio.  Do  you  so,  sir  ?  And  was  the  duke  a 
fleshmonger,  a  fool,  and  a  coward,  as  you  then 
reported  him  to  be  ? 

Duke.  You  must,  sir,  change  persons  with  me 
ere  you  make  that  my  report :  you,  indeed,  spoke 
so  of  him  ;  and  much  more,  much  worse. 

Lucio.  O  thou  damnable  fellow !  Did  not  I 
pluck  thee  by  the  nose  for  thy  speeches  ? 

Duke.  I  protest  I  love  the  duke  as  I  love 
myself. 

Ang.  Hark  how  the  villain  would  gloze  now, 
after  his  treasonable  abuses  ! 

Escal.  Such  a  fellow  is  not  to  be  talked  withal. 
Away  with  him  to  prison ! — Where  is  the  provost  ? 
— Away  with  him  to  prison !  lay  bolts  enough 
upon  him  :  let  him  speak  no  more. — Away  with 
those  giglots  too,  and  with  the  other  confederate 
companion  ! 

[The  PROVOST  lays  hands  on  the  DUKE. 

Duke.  Stay,  sir  ;  stay  awhile. 

Ang.  What !  resists  he  ? — Help  him,  Lucio. 

Lucio.  Come,  sir ;  come,  sir !  come,  sir ;  foh, 
sir.  Why,  you  bald-pated,  lying  rascal !  you 
must  be  hooded,  must  you  ?  Show  your  knave's 
visage,  with  a  pox  to  you  !  show  your  sheep- 
biting  face,  and  be  hanged  an  hour  !  Will 't 
not  off? 

[Pulls  off  the  Friar's  hood,  and  discovers 
the  DUKE. 

Duke.  Thou  art  the  first  knave  that  e'er  made 
a  duke. 


F'rst,  Provost,  let  me  bail  these  gentle  three : 

Sneak  not  away,  sir  [to  Lucio] ;  for  the  friar  and 

you 
Musthave  a  word  anon : — Lay  hold  on  him. 

Lucio.  This  may  prove  worse  than  hanging. 

Duke.  What  you  have  spoke  I  pardon  ;  sit 

you  down. [To  ESCALUS. 

We  '11  borrow  place  of  him. — Sir,  by  your  leave : 

[To  ANGELO. 

Hast  thou  or  word,  or  wit,  or  impudence 
That  yet  can  do  thee  office  ?     If  thou  hast, 
Rely  upon  it  till  my  tale  be  heard, 
And  hold  no  longer  out. 

Ang.  O  my  dread  lord, 

I  should  be  guiltier  than  my  guiltiness, 
To  think  I  can  be  undiscernible, 
WTien  I  perceive  your  grace,  like  power  divine, 
Hath  look'dupon  my  passes.  Then,  good  prince, 
No  longer  session  hold  upon  my  shame, 
But  let  my  trial  be  mine  own  confession  : 
Immediate  sentence  then,  and  sequent  death, 
Is  all  the  grace  I  beg. 

Duke.  Come  hither,  Mariana  : — 

Say,  wast  thou  e'er  contracted  to  this  woman  ? 

Ang.  I  was,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Go,  take  her  hence  and  marry  her  in- 
stantly. 

Do  you  the  office,  friar  ;  which  consummate, 
Return  him  here  again. — Go  with  him,  Provost. 
[Exeunt  ANG.,  MARL,  PET.,  and  PROV. 

Escal.  My  lord,  I  am  more  amazed  at  his 

dishonour 
Than  at  the  strangeness  of  it. 

Duke.  Come  hither,  Isabel : 

Your  friar  is  now  your  prince.     As  I  was  then 
Advertising  and  holy  to  your  business, 
Not  changing  heart  with  habit,  I  am  still 
Attorney'd  at  your  service. 

Isab.  O  give  me  pardon, 

That  I,  your  vassal,  have  employ 'd  and  pain'd 
Your  unknown  sovereignty. 

Duke.  You  are  pardon'd,  Isabel. 

And  now,  dear  maid,  be  you  as  free  to  us. 
Your  brother's  death,  I  know,  sits  at  your  heart ; 
And  you  may  marvel  why  I  obscur'd  myself, 
Labouring  to  save  his  life,  and  would  not  rather 
Make  rash  remonstrance  of  my  hidden  power 
Than  let  him  so  be  lost.     O  most  kind  maid, 
It  was  the  swift  celerity  of  his  death, 
Which  I  did  think  with  slower  foot  came  on. 
That  brain'd  my  purpose.     But  peace  be  with 

him! 

That  life  is  better  life,  past  fearing  death, 
Than  that  which  lives  to  fear:  make  it  your 

comfort, 
So  happy  is  your  brother. 

Isab.  I  do,  my  lord. 


136 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


[ACT  v. 


Re-enter  ANGELO,  MARIANA,  PETER,  and 
PROVOST. 

Duke.  For  this  new-married  man  approaching 

here, 

Whose  salt  imagination  yet  hath  wrong'd 
Your  well-defended  honour,  you  must  pardon 
For  Mariana's  sake:  but  as  he  adjudg'd  your 

brother, — 

Being  criminal,  in  double  violation 
Of  sacred  chastity  and  of  promise -breach 
Thereon  dependent,  for  your  brother's  life, — 
The  very  mercy  of  the  law  cries  out 
Most  audible,  even  from  his  proper  tongue, 
An  Angela  for  Claudia,  death  for  death. 
Haste  still  pays  haste,  and  leisure  answers  leisure ; 
Like  doth  quit  like,  and  measure  still  for  measure. 
Then,  Angelo,  thy  fault  thus  manifested, — 
Which  though  thou  wouldst  deny,  denies  thee 

vantage, — 

We  do  condemn  thee  to  the  very  block 
Where  Claudio  stoop'd  to  death,  and  with  like 

haste. — 
Away  with  him. 

Mart.  O  my  most  gracious  lord, 

I  hope  you  will  not  mock  me  with  a  husband ! 
Duke.  It  is  your  husband  mock'd  you  with  a 

husband,    w  }  « 

Consenting  to  the  safeguard  of  your  honour, 
I  thought  your  marriage  fit ;  else  imputation, 
For  that  he  knew  you,  might  reproach  your  life, 
And  choke  your  good  to  come  :  for  his  posses- 
sions, 

Although  by  confiscation  they  are  ours, 
We  do  instate  and  widow  you  withal, 
To  buy  you  a  better  husband. 

Mart.  O  my  dear  lord, 

I  crave  no  other,  nor  no  better  man. 

Duke.  Never  crave  him  ;  we  are  definitive. 
Mari.  Gentle,  my  liege, —  [Kneeling. 

Duke.  You  do  but  lose  your  labour.  — 

Away  with  him  to  death. — Now,  sir  \to  Lucio], 

to  you.  [my  part ; 

Mari.  O  my  good  lord ! — Sweet  Isabel,  take 
Lend  me  your  knees,  and  all  my  life  to  come 
I  '11  lend  you  all  my  life  to  do  you  service. 

Duke.  Against  all  sense  you  do  importune  her: 
Should  she  kneel  down,  in. mercy  of  this  fact, 
Her  brother's  ghost  his  paved  bed  would  break, 
And  take  her  hence  in  horror. 

Mari.  Isabel, 

Sweet  Isabel,  do  yet  but  kneel  by  me  ; 
Holdup  your  hands,  say  nothing, — I'll  speak  all. 
They  say,  best  men  are  moulded  out  of  faults  ; 
And,  for  the  most,  become  much  more  the  better 
For  being  a  little  bad  :  so  may  my  husband, 
O  Isabel,  will  you  not  lend  a  knee  ? 


Duke.  He  dies  for  Claudio's  death. 

Isab.  Most  bounteous  sir,     [Kneeling, 

Look,  if  it  please  you,  on  this  man  condemn'd, 
As  if  my  brother  liv'd  :  I  partly  think 
A  due  sincerity  govern'd  his  deeds 
Till  he  did  look  on  me  ;  since  it  is  so, 
Let  him  not  die.     My  brother  had  but  justice, 
In  that  he  did  the  thing  for  which  he  died  : 
For  Angelo, 

His  act  did  not  o'ertake  his  bad  intent, 
And  must  be  buried  but  as  an  intent       [jects  ; 
That  perish'd  by  the  way  :  thoughts  are  no  sub- 
Intents  but  merely  thoughts. 

Mari.  Merely,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Your  suit 's  unprofitable  ;  stand  up,  I 

say.— 

I  have  bethought  of  another  fault. — 
Provost,  how  came  it  Claudio  was  beheaded 
At  an  unusual  hour  ? 

Prov.  It  was  commanded  so. 

Duke.    Had  you   a  special  warrant  for  the 
deed  ?  [message. 

Prov.  No,  my  good  lord  ;  it  was  by  private 

Duke.  For  which  I  do  discharge  you  of  your 

office  : 
Give  up  your  keys. 

Prov.  Pardon  me,  noble  lord  : 

I  thought  it  was  a  fault,  but  knew  it  not ; 
Yet  did  repent  me,  after  more  advice  : 
For  testimony  whereof,  one  in  the  prison, 
That  should  by  private  order  else  have  died, 
I  have  reserved  alive. 

Duke.  What 'she? 

Prov.  His  name  is  Barnardine. 

Duke.     I   would    thou   hadst   done    so    by 

Claudio. — 
Go  fetch  him  hither  ;  let  me  look  upon  him. 

[Exit  PROVOST. 

Escal.   I  am  sorry  one  so  learned  and  so  wise 
As  you,  Lord  Angelo,  have  still  appear'd, 
Should  slip  so  grossly,  both  in  the  heat  of  blood 
And  lack  of  temper'd  judgment  afterward. 

Ang.  I  am  sorry  that  such  sorrow  I  procure : 
And  so  deep  sticks  it  in  my  penitent  heart 
That  I  crave  death  more  willingly  than  mercy  ; 
'Tis  my  deserving,  and  I  do  entreat  it. 

Re-enter  PROVOST,  with  BARNARDINE, 
CLAUDIO  (muffled},  aw</ JULIET. 

Duke.  Which  is  that  Barnardine  ? 

Prov.  This,  my  lord. 

Duke.  There  was   a   friar  told   me  of  this 

man  : — 

Sirrah,  thou  art  said  to  have  a  stubborn  soul, 
That  apprehends  no  further  than  this  world, 
And  squar'st  thy  life  according.     Thou  'rt  con- 
demn'd ; 


SCENE  I.J 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


137 


But,  for  those  earthly  faults,  I  quit  them  all, 
And  pray  thee  take  this  mercy  to  provide 

For  better  times  to  come : Friar,  advise  him ; 

I   leave   him   to   your    hand.— What    muffled 
fellow 's  that  ? 

Prov.  This  is  another  prisoner  that  I  sav'd, 
Who  should  have  died  when  Claudio  lost  his 

head; 
As  like  almost  to  Claudio  as  himself. 

[  Unmuffles  CLAUDIO. 

Duke.    If    he    be    like    your    brother,    \to 

ISABELLA],  for  his  sake 
Is  he  pardon'd  ;  and,  for  your  lovely  sake, 
Give  me  your  hand,  and  say  you  will  be  mine; 
He  is  my  brother  too  :  but  fitter  time  for  that. 
By  this  Lord  Angelo  perceives  he  ''s  safe  ; 
Methinks  I  see  a  quick'ning  in  his  eye. — 
Well,  Angelo,  your  evil  quits  you  well  : 
Look  that  you  love  your  wife ;  her  worth  worth 

yours. — 

I  find  an  apt  remission  in  myself; 
And  yet  here's  one  in  place  I  cannot  pardon. — 
You,  sirrah  \io  Lucio],  that  knew  me  for  a 

fool,  a  coward, 

One  all  of  luxury,  an  ass,  a  madman  ; 
Wherein  have  I  so  deserved  of  you 
That  you  extol  me  thus  ? 

Lucio.  'Faith,  my  lord,  I  spoke  it  but 
according  to  the  trick.  If  you  will  hang  me 
for  it,  you  may;  but  I  had  rather  it  would 
please  you  I  might  be  whipped. 

Duke.  Whipp'd  first,  sir,  and  hang'd  after. — 
Proclaim  it,  Provost,  round  about  the  city, 
If  any  woman 's  wrong'd  by  this  lewd  fellow, — 
As  I  have  heard  him  swear  himself  there 's  one 


Whom  he  begot  with  child, — let  her  appear, 
And  he  shall  marry  her  :  the  nuptial  finish'd, 
Let  him  be  whipp'd  and  hang'd. 

Lucio.    I    beseech    your   highness,    do    not 

marry  me  to  a  whore  !     Your  highness  said 

even  now  I  made  you  a  duke  ;  good  my  lord, 

do  not  recompense  me  in  making  me  a  cuckold. 

Duke.  Upon  mine  honour,  thou  shalt  marry 

her. 

Thy  slanders  I  forgive  ;  and  therewithal 
Remit  thy  other  forfeits. — Take  him  to  prison; 
And  see  our  pleasure  herein  executed. 

Lucio.   Marrying  a  punk,  my  lord,  is  press- 
ing to  death,  whipping,  and  hanging. 

Duke.   Slandering  a  prince  deserves  it. — 

[Exeunt  Officers  with  LUCIO. 
She,  Claudio,  that  you  wrong'd,  look  you  re- 
store.— 

Joy  to  you,  Mariana  ! — Love  her,  Angelo ; 
I  have  confess'd  her,  and  I  know  her  virtue. — 
Thanks,   good   friend    Escalus,   for   thy  much 

goodness 

There 's  more  behind  that  is  more  gratulate. 
Thanks,  Provost,  for  thy  care  and  secrecy ; 
We  shall  employ  thee  in  a  worthier  place. — 
Forgive  him,  Angelo,  that  brought  you  home 
The  head  of  Ragozine  for  Claudio's  : 
The  offence  pardons  itself. — Dear  Isabel, 
I  have  a  motion  much  imports  your  good  ; 
Whereto  if  you  '11  a  willing  ear  incline, 
What's  mine  is  yours,  and   what  is  yours  is 

mine  : — 

So,  bring  us  to  our  palace  ;  where  we  '11  show 

What 's  yet  behind  that 's  meet  you  all  should 

know.  \Exeunt. 


one 

rft^rf 


'i  fnof  r,  oj  y 
?  oJ  bwi  /-. 

onorf  Iljs.ijii 
»ru  ,oa  zl  Jl 


>&  sgorLr  narfj  wnl  eoo-rr!  err  ^ 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


DON  PEDRO,  Prince  of  Arragon. 
DON  JOHN,  his  bastard  Brother, 
CLAUDIO,  a  young  Lord  of  Florence,  favourite 

to  DON  PEDRO. 
BENEDICK,  a  young  Lord  of  Padua,  favourite 

likewise  </DoN  PEDRO. 
LEONATO,  Govemo r  of  Messina. 
ANTONIO,  his  Brother. 
BALTHAZAR,  Servant  to  DON  PEDRO. 


BORACHIO, 

CONRADE, 


\  Followers  of  DON  JOHN. 


j-  two  foolish  Officers. 
* 


tJrfW 


DOGBERRY, 
VERGES, 
A  SEXTON. 
A  FRIAR. 
A  BOY. 


HERO,  Daughter  to  LEONATO. 
BEATRICE,  Niece  to  LEONATO. 
MARGARET,  \  Gentiewomen  attendingon  HERO. 

URSULA,        J 


Messengers,  Watch,  and  Attendants. 


SCENE,— MESSINA. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.— Before  LEONATO'S  House. 

Enter  LEONATO,  HERO,  BEATRICE,  and 
others,  with  a  Messenger. 

Leon.  I  learn  in  this  letter  that  Don  Pedro 
of  Arragon  comes  this  night  to  Messina. 

Mess.  He  is  very  near  by  this ;  he  was  not 
three  leagues  off  when  I  left  him. 

Leon.  How  many  gentlemen  have  you  lost 
in  this  action  ? 

Mess.  But  few  of  any  sort,  and  none  of  name. 

Leon.  A  victory  is  twice  itself  when  the 
achiever  brings  home  full  numbers.  I  find 
here  that  Don  Pedro  hath  bestowed  much 
honour  on  a  young  Florentine  called  Claudio. 

Mess.  Much  deserved  on  his  part,  and 
equally  remembered  by  Don  Pedro.  He  hath 
borne  himself  beyond  the  promise  of  his  age  ; 
doing,  in  the  figure  of  a  lamb,  the  feats  of  a 
lion  :  he  hath,  indeed,  better  bettered  expecta- 
tion than  you  must  expect  of  me  to  tell  you 
how. 

Leon.  He  hath  an  uncle  here  in  Messina 
will  be  very  much  glad  of  it. 

Mess.  I  have  already  delivered  him  letters, 
and  there  appears  much  joy  in  him  ;  even  so 
much  that  joy  could  not  show  itself  modest 
enough  without  a  badge  of  bitterness. 

Leon.  Did  he  break  out  into  tears  ? 

Mess.  In  great  measure. 

Leon.  A  kind  overflow  of  kindness.  There 
are  no  faces  truer  than  those  that  are  so  washed. 


How  much  better  is  it  to  weep  at  joy  than  to 
joy  at  weeping  ? 

Beat.  I  pray  you,  is  Signior  Montanto  re- 
turned from  the  wars  or  no  ? 

Mess.  I  know  none  of  that  name,  lady ;  there 
was  none  such  in  the  army  of  any  sort. 

Leon.  What  is  he  that  you  ask  for,  niece  ? 

Hero.  My  cousin  means  Signior  Benedick  of 
Padua. 

Mess.  O,  he  is  returned,  and  as  pleasant  as 
ever  he  was. 

Beat.  He  set  up  his  bills  here  in  Messina, 
and  challenged  Cupid  at  the  flight:  and  my 
uncle's  fool,  reading  the  challenge,  subscribed 
for  Cupid,  and  challenged  him  at  the  bird-bolt. 
— I  pray  you,  how  many  hath  he  killed  and 
eaten  in  these  wars  ?  But  how  many  hath  he 
killed  ?  for,  indeed,  I  promised  to  eat  all  of  his 
killing. 

Leon.  Faith,  niece,  you  tax  Signior  Bene- 
dick too  much ;  but  he  '11  be  meet  with  you,  I 
doubt  it  not. 

Mess.  He  hath  done  good  service,  lady,  in 
these  wars. 

Beat.  You  had  musty  victual,  and  he  hath 
holp  to  eat  it :  he  is  a  very  valiant  trencher- 
man  ;  he  hath  an  excellent  stomach. 

Mess.  And  a  good  soldier  too,  lady. 

Beat.  And  a  good  soldier  to  a  lady :  but 
what  is  he  to  a  lord  ? 

Mess.  A  lord  to  a  lord,  a  man  to  a  man  ; 
stuffed  with  all  honourable  virtues. 

Beat.  It  is  so,  indeed  :  he  is  no  less  than  a 
stuffed  man :  but  for  the  stuffing, — well,  we 
are  all  mortal. 


SCENE  I.] 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


139 


Leon.  You  must  not,  sir,  mistake  my  niece  : 
there  is  a  kind  of  merry  war  betwixt  Signior 
Benedick  and  her :  they  never  meet  but  there 
is  a  skirmish  of  wit  between  them. 

Beat.  Aias,  he  gets  nothing  by  that.  In 
our  last  conflict  four  of  his  five  wits  went  halt- 
ing off,  and  now  is  the  old  man  governed  with 
one  :  so  that  if  he  have  wit  enough  to  keep 
himself  warm,  let  him  bear  it  for  a  difference 
between  himself  and  his  horse  ;  for  it  is  all  the 
wealth  that  he  hath  left,  to  be  known  a  reason- 
able creature. — Who  is  his  companion  now? 
He  hath  every  month  a  new  sworn  brother. 

Mess.  Is  it  possible  ? 

Beat.  Very  eas'ly  possible:  he  wears  his 
faith  but  as  the  fashion  of  his  hat ;  it  ever 
changes  with  the  next  block. 

Mess.  I  see,  lady,  the  gentleman  is  not  in 
your  books. 

Beat.  No  :  an  he  were  I  would  burn  my 
study.  But,  I  pray  you,  who  is  his  companion? 
Is  there  no  young  squarer,  now,  that  will  make 
a  voyage  with  him  to  the  devil  ? 

Mess.  He  is  most  in  the  company  of  the 
right  noble  Claudio. 

Beat.  O  Lord  !  he  will  hang  upon  him  like 
a  disease  :  he  is  sooner  caught  than  the  pestil- 
ence, and  the  taker  runs  presently  mad.  God 
help  the  noble  Claudio  !  if  he  have  caught  the 
Benedick,  it  will  cost  him  a  thousand  pound  ere 
he  be  cured. 

Mess.  I  will  hold  friends  with  you,  lady. 

Beat.   Do4  good  friend. 

Leon.  You  will  never  run  mad,  niece. 

Beat.  No,  not  till  a  hot  January. 

Mess.  Don  Pedro  is  approached. 

Enter  Don  PEDRO,  attended  by  BALTHAZAR 
and  others,  Don  JOHN,  CLAUDIO,  and  BENE- 
DICK. 

D.  Pedro.  Good  Signior  Leonato,  you  are 
come  to  meet  your  trouble  :  the  fashion  of  the 
world  is  to  avoid  cost,  and  you  encounter  it. 

Leon.  Never  came  trouble  to  my  house  in 
the  likeness  of  your  grace ;  for  trouble  being 
gone,  comfort  should  remain  ;  but  when  you 
depart  from  me,  sorrow  abides,  and  happiness 
takes  his  leave. 

Z>.  Pedro.  You  embrace  your  charge  too 
willingly. — I  think  this  is  your  daughter. 

Leon.  Her  mother  hath  many  times  told  me 
sc.  [her? 

Bene.  Were  you  in  doubt,  sir,  that  you  asked 

Leon.  Signior  Benedick,  no  ;  for  then  were 
you  a  child. 

D.  Pedro.  You  have  it  full,  Benedick :  we 


may  guess  by  this  what  you  are,  being  a  man. 
Truly,  the  lady  fathers  herself. — Be  happy, 
lady  !  for  you  are  like  an  honourable  father. 

Bene.  If  Signior  Leonato  be  her  father,  she 
would  not  have  his  head  on  her  shoulders  for 
all  Messina,  as  like  him  as  she  is. 

Beat.  I  wonder  that  you  will  still  be  talking, 
Signior  Benedick  ;  nobody  marks  you. 

Bene.  What,  my  dear  lady  Disdain  !  are  you 
yet  living  ? 

Beat.  Is  it  possible  disdain  should  die  while 
she  hath  such  meet  food  to  feed  it  as  Signior 
Benedick  ?  Courtesy  itself  must  convert  to 
disdain  if  you  come  in  her  presence. 

Bene.  Then  is  courtesy  a  turn-coat. — But  it 
is  certain  I  am  loved  of  all  ladies,  only  you  ex- 
cepted  :  and  I  would  I  could  find  in  my  heart 
that  I  had  not  a  hard  heart :  for,  truly,  I  love 
none. 

Beat.  A  dear  happiness  to  women ;  they 
would  else  have  been  troubled  with  a  pernicious 
suitor.  I  thank  God,  and  my  cold  blood,  I  am 
of  your  humour  for  that :  I  had  rather  hear  my 
dog  bark  at  a  crow  than  a  man  swear  he  loves 
me. 

Bene.  God  keep  your  ladyship  still  in  that 
mind  !  so  some  gentleman  or  other  shall  'scape 
a  predestinate  scratched  face. 

Beat.  Scratching  could  not  make  it  worse  an 
'twere  such  a  face  as  yours  were. 

Bene.  Well,  you  are  a  rare  parrot-teacher. 

Beat.  A  bird  of  my  tongue  is  better  than  a 
beast  of  yours. 

Bene.  I  would  my  horse  had  the  speed  of 
your  tongue,  and  so  good  a  continuer.  But 
keep  your  way  o'  God's  name  ;  I  have  done. 

Beat.  You  always  end  with  a  jade's  trick  ;  I 
know  you  of  old. 

D.  Pedro.  This  is  the  sum  of  all :  Leonato, 
— Signior  Claudio,  and  Signior  Benedick, — my 
dear  friend  Leonato  hath  invited  you  all.  I 
tell  him  we  shall  stay  here  at  the  least  a  month ; 
and  he  heartily  prays  some  occasion  may  de- 
tain us  longer  :  I  dare  swear  he  is  no  hypocrite, 
but  prays  from  his  heart. 

Leon.  If  you  swear,  my  lord,  you  shall  not 
be  forsworn. — Let  me  bid  you  welcome,  my 
lord :  being  reconciled  to  the  prince  your 
brother,  I  owe  you  all  duty. 

D.  John.  I  thank  you  :  I  am  not  of  many 
words,  but  I  thank  you. 

Leon.  Please  it  your  grace  lead  on  ? 

D.  Pedro.  Your  hand,  Leonato  ;  we  will  go 
together. 

[Exeunt  all  but  BENE.  ,  and  CLAUD. 

Claud.  Benedick,  didst  thou  note  the  daugh- 
ter of  Signior  Leonato  ? 


140 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


[ACT  I. 


Bene.   I  noted  her  not,  but  I  looked  on  her. 

Claud.  Is  she  not  a  modest  young  lady  ? 

Bene.  Do  you  question  me,  as  an  honest 
man  should  do,  for  my  simple  true  judgment ; 
or  would  you  have  me  speak  after  my  custom, 
as  being  a  professed  tyrant  to  their  sex  ? 

Claud.  No,  I  pray  thee,  speak  in  sober 
judgment. 

Bene.  Why,  i'  faith,  methinks  she  is  too  low 
for  a  high  praise,  too  brown  for  a  fair  praise, 
and  too  little  for  a  great  praise  :  only  this  com- 
mendation I  can  afford  her ;  that  were  she 
other  than  she  is,  she  were  unhandsome ;  and 
being  no  other  but  as  she  is,  I  do  not  like  her. 

Claud.  Thou  thinkest  I  am  in  sport :  I  pray 
thee,  tell  me  truly  how  thou  likest  her. 

Bene.  Would  you  buy  her,  that  you  inquire 
after  her  ? 

Claud.  Can  the  world  buy  such  a  jewel  ? 

Bene.  Yea,  and  a  case  to  put  it  into.  But 
speak  you  this  with  a  sad  brow  ?  or  do  you  play 
the  flouting  Jack,  to  tell  us  Cupid  is  a  good  hare- 
finder,  and  Vulcan  a  rare  carpenter  ?  Come, 
in  what  key  shall  a  man  take  you  to  go  in  the 
song? 

Claud.  In  mine  eye,  she  is  the  sweetest  lady 
that  ever  I  looked  on. 

Bene.  I  can  see  yet  without  spectacles,  and 
I  see  no  such  matter  :  there 's  her  cousin,  an 
she  were  not  possessed  with  a  fury,  exceeds  her 
as  much  in  beauty  as  the  first  of  May  doth  the 
last  of  December.  But  I  hope  you  have  no  in- 
tent to  turn  husband,  have  you  ? 

Claud.  I  would  scarce  trust  myself,  though  I 
had  sworn  the  contrary,  if  Hero  would  be  my 
wife. 

Bene.  Is  it  come  to  this,  i'  faith  ?  Hath  not 
the  world  one  man  but  he  will  wear  his  cap 
with  suspicion  ?  Shall  I  never  see  a  bachelor 
of  threescore  again  ?  Go  to,  i'  faith  ;  an  thou 
wilt  needs  thrust  thy  neck  into  a  yoke,  wear 
the  print  of  it,  and  sigh  away  Sundays.  Look, 
Don  Pedro  is  returned  to  seek  you. 

Re-enter  Don  PEDRO. 

D.  Pedro.  What  secret  hath  held  you  here, 
that  you  followed  not  to  Leonato's  ? 

Bene.  I  would  your  grace  would  constrain 
me  to  tell. 

D.  Pedro.  I  charge  thee  on  thy  allegiance. 

Bene.  You  hear,  Count  Claudio :  I  can  be 
secret  as  a  dumb  man, — I  would  have  you  think 
so ;  but  on  my  allegiance, — mark  you  this, — 
on  my  allegiance : — He  is  in  love.  With  who? 
— Now  that  is  your  grace's  part. — Mark  how 
short  his  answer  is : — With  Hero,  Leonato's 
short  daughter. 


Claud.  If  this  were  so,  so  were  it  uttered. 

Bene.  Like  the  old  tale,  my  lord  :  "It  is 
not  so,  nor  'twas  not  so  ;  but,  indeed,  God  for- 
bid it  should  be  so." 

Claud.  If  my  passion  change  not  shortly, 
God  forbid  it  should  be  otherwise. 

D.  Pedro.  Amen,  if  you  love  her ;  for  the 
lady  is  very  well  worthy. 

Claud.  You  speak  this  to  fetch  me  in,  my 
lord? 

D.  Pedro.  By  my  troth,  I  speak  my  thought. 

Claiid.  And,  in  faith,  my  lord,  I  spoke  mine. 

Bene.  And,  by  my  two  faiths  and  troths,  my 
lord,  I  spoke  mine. 

Claud.  That  I  love  her,  I  feel. 

D.  Pedro.  That  she  is  worthy,  I  know. 

Bene.  That  I  neither  feel  how  she  should  be 
loved,  nor  know  how  she  should  be  worthy,  is 
the  opinion  that  fire  cannot  melt  out  of  me  :  I 
will  die  in  it  at  the  stake. 

D.  Pedro.  Thou  wast  ever  an  obstinate 
heretic  in  the  despite  of  beauty. 

Claud.  And  never  could  maintain  his  part 
but  in  the  force  of  his  will. 

Bene.  That  a  woman  conceived  me,  I  thank 
her ;  that  she  brought  me  up,  I  likewise  give 
her  most  humble  thanks  ;  but  that  I  will  have 
a  recheat  winded  in  my  forehead,  or  hang  my 
bugle  in  an  invisible  baldrick,  all  women  shall 
pardon  me.  Because  I  will  not  do  them  the 
wrong  to  mistrust  any,  I  will  do  myself  the 
right  to  trust  none  ;  and  the  fine  is, — for  the 
which  I  may  go  the  finer, — I  «will  live  a 
bachelor. 

D.  Pedro.  I  shall  see  thee,  ere  I  die,  look 
pale  with  love. 

Bene.  With  anger,  with  sickness,  or  with 
hunger,  my  lord ;  not  with  love :  prove  that 
ever  I  lose  more  blood  with  love  than  I  will 
get  again  with  drinking,  pick  out  mine  eyes 
with  a  ballad-maker's  pen,  and  hang  me  up  at 
the  door  of  a  brothel-house,  for  the  sign  of 
blind  Cupid. 

D.  Pedro.  Well,  if  ever  thou  dost  fall  from 
this  faith,  thou  wilt  prove  a  notable  argument. 

Bene.  If  I  do,  hang  me  in  a  bottle  like  a  cat, 
and  shoot  at  me  ;  and  he  that  hits  me,  let  him 
be  clapped  on  the  shoulder  and  called  Adam. 

D.  Pedro.  Well,  as  time  shall  try  : 
In  time  the  savage  bull  doth  bear  the  yoke. 

Bene.  The  savage  bull  may  ;  but  if  ever  the 
sensible  Benedick  bear  it,  pltick  off  the  bull's 
horns  and  set  them  in  my  forehead :  and  let  me 
be  vilely  painted  ;  and  in  such  great  letters  as 
they  write  Here  is  good  horse  to  hire,  let  them 
signify  under  my  sign, — Here  you  may  see  Bene- 
dick the  married  man. 


SCENE  II.] 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


141 


Claud.  If  this  should  ever  happen,  thou 
wouldst  be  horn-mad. 

D.  Pedro.  Nay,  if  Cupid  have  not  spent  all 
his  quiver  in  Venice,  thou  wilt  quake  for  this 
shortly. 

Bene.  I  look  for  an  earthquake  too,  then. 

D.  Pedro.  Well,  you  will  temporise  with  the 
hours.  In  the  meantime,  good  Signior  Bene- 
dick, repair  to  Leonato's  ;  commend  me  to 
him,  and  tell  him  I  will  not  fail  him  at  supper ; 
for,  indeed,  he  hath  made  great  preparation. 

Bene.  I  have  almost  matter  enough  in  me 
for  such  an  embassage ;  and  so  I  commit  you — 

Claud.  To  the  tuition  of  God :  From  my 
house, — if  I  had  it — 

D.  Pedro.  The  sixth  of  July.  Your  loving 
friend,  Benedick. 

Bene.  Nay,  mock  not,  mock  not.  The  body 
of  your  discourse  is  sometime  guarded  with 
fragments,  and  the  guards  are  but  slightly 
basted  on  neither  :  ere  you  flout  old  ends  any 
further,  examine  your  conscience  ;  and  so  I 
leave  you.  [Exit  BENEDICK. 

Claud.  My  liege,  your  highness  now  may  do 
me  good. 

D.  Pedro.  My  love  is  thine  to  teach ;  teach 

it  but  how, 

And  thou  shalt  see  how  apt  it  is  to  learn 
Any  hard  lesson  that  may  do  thee  good. 

Clatid.   Hath  Leonato  any  son,  my  lord  ? 

D.  Pedro.  No  child  but  Hero,  she 's  his  only 

heir : 
Dost  thou  affect  her,  Claudio  ? 

Claud.  O  my  lord, 

When  you  went  onward  on  this  ended  action, 
I  looked  upon  her  with  a  soldier's  eye, 
That  liked,  but  had  a  rougher  task  in  hand 
Than  to  drive  liking  to  the  name  of  love : 
But  now  I  am  return'd,  and  that  war-thoughts 
Have  left  their  places  vacant,  in  their  rooms 
Come  thronging  soft  and  delicate  desires, 
All  prompting  me  how  fair  young  Hero  is, 
Saying,  I  liked  her  ere  I  went  to  wars. 

D.  Pedro.  Thou  wilt  be  like  a  lover  presently, 
And  tire  the  hearer  with  a  book  of  words : 
If  thou  dost  love  fair  Hero,  cherish  it ; 
And  I  will  break  with  her,  and  with  her  father, 
And  thou  shalt  have  her.    Was 't  not  to  this  end 
That  thou  began'st  to  twist  so  fine  a  story? 

Claud.  How  sweetly  do  you  minister  to  love, 
That  know  love's  grief  by  his  complexion  ! 
But  lest  my  liking  might  too  sudden  seem, 
I  would  have  salv'd  it  with  a  longer  treatise. 

D.    Pedro.    What   need    the   bridge    much 

broader  than  the  flood  ! 
The  fairest  grant  is  the  necessity. 
Look,  what  will  serve  is  fit :  'tis  once,  thou  lov'st; 


And  I  will  fit  thee  with  the  remedy. 

I  know  we  shall  have  revelling  to-night : 

I  will  assume  thy  part  in  some  disguise, 

And  tell  fair  Hero  I  am  Claudio  ; 

And  in  her  bosom  I  '11  unclasp  my  heart, 

And  take  her  hearing  prisoner  with  the  force 

And  strong  encounter  of  my  amorous  tale : 

Then,  after,  to  her  father  will  I  break  ; 

And  the  conclusion  is,  she  shall  be  thine : 

In  practice  let  us  put  it  presently.        [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  LEONATO'S  House. 
Enter ,  severally ,  LEONATO  and  ANTONIO. 

Leon.  How  now,  brother!  Where  is  my  cousin, 
your  son?  Hath  he  provided  this  music? 

Ant.  He  is  very  busy  about  it.  But, 
brother,  I  can  tell  you  strange  news  that  you 
yet  dreamed  not  of. 

Leon.  Are  they  good  ? 

Ant.  As  the  event  stamps  them  ;  but  they 
have  a  good  cover  ;  they  show  well  outward. 
The  prince  and  Count  Claudio,  walking  in  a 
thick-pleached  alley  in  my  orchard,  were  thus 
much  overheard  by  a  man  of  mine  :  the  prince 
discovered  to  Claudio  that  he  loved  my  niece 
your  daughter,  and  meant  to  acknowledge  it 
this  night  in  a  dance  ;  and,  if  he  found  her  ac- 
cordant, he  meant  to  take  the  present  time  by 
the  top,  and  instantly  break  with  you  of  it. 

Leon.  Hath  the  fellow  any  wit  that  told  you 
this? 

Ant.  A  good  sharp  fellow ;  I  will  send  for 
him,  and  question  him  yourself. 

Leon.  No,  no  ;  we  will  hold  it  as  a  dream, 
till  it  appear  itself:— but  I  will  acquaint  my 
daughter  withal,  that  she  may  be  the  better 
prepared  for  an  answer,  if  peradventure  this  be 
true.  Go  you  and  tell  her  of  it.  [Several persons 
cross  the  stage.]  Cousins,  you  know  what  you 
have  to  do. — O,  I  cry  you  mercy,  friend  :  you 
go  with  me,  and  I  will  use  your  skill. — Good 
cousin,  have  a  care  this  busy  time.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — Another  Room  in  LEONATO'S 
House. 

Enter  Don  JOHN  and  CONRADE. 

Con.  What  the  good-year,  my  lord  !  why  are 
you  thus  out  of  measure  sad  ? 

D.  John.  There  is  no  measure  in  the  oc- 
casion that  breeds  it ;  therefore  the  sadness  is 
without  limit. 

Con.  You  should  hear  reason. 

D.John.  And  when  I  have  heard  it,  what 
blessing  bringeth  it  ?  [sufferance. 

Con.  If  not  a  present  remedy,  yet  a  patient 


142 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


[ACT  II. 


D.  John.  I  wonder  that  thou,  being — as  thou 
say'st  thou  art — born  under  Saturn,  goest  about 
to  apply  a  moral  medicine  to  a  mortifying  mis- 
chief. I  cannot  hide  what  I  am :  I  must  be 
sad  when  I  have  cause,  and  smile  at  no  man's 
jests  ;  eat  when  I  have  stomach,  and  wait  for 
no  man's  leisure  ;  sleep  when  I  am  drowsy,  and 
'tend  to  no  man's  business  ;  laugh  when  I  am 
merry,  and  claw  no  man  in  his  humour. 

Con.  Yea,  but  you  must  not  make  the  full 
show  of  this  till  you  may  do  it  without  control- 
ment.  You  have  of  late  stood  out  against  your 
brother,  and  he  hath  ta'en  you  newly  into  his 
grace  ;  where  it  is  impossible  you  should  take 
true  root  but  by  the  fair  weather  that  you  make 
yourself:  it  is  needful  that  you  frame  the 
season  for  your  own  harvest. 

D.  John.  I  had  rather  be  a  canker  in  a  hedge 
than  a  rose  in  his  grace  ;  and  it  better  fits  my 
blood  to  be  disdained  of  all  than  to  fashion  a 
carriage  to  rob  love  from  any  :  in  this,  though 
I  cannot  be  said  to  be  a  flattering  honest  man, 
it  must  not  be  denied  that  I  am  a  plain-dealing 
villain.  I  am  trusted  with  a  muzzle  and  en- 
franchised with  a  clog  :  therefore  I  have  de- 
creed not  to  sing  in  my  cage.  If  I  had  my 
mouth  I  would  bite  ;  if  I  had  my  liberty  I 
would  do  my  liking  :  in  the  meantime  let  me 
be  that  I  am,  and  seek  not  to  alter  me. 

Con.  Can  you  make  no  use  of  your  discontent  ? 

D.  John.  I  make  all  use  of  it,  for  I  use  it  only. 
Who  comes  here  ?  What  news,  Borachio  ? 

Enter  BORACHIO. 

Bora.  I  came  yonder  from  a  great  supper  : 
the  prince,  your  brother,  is  royally  entertained 
by  Leonato  ;  and  I  can  give  you  intelligence  of 
an  intended  marriage. 

D.John.  Will  it  serve  for  any  model  to 
build  mischief  on  ?  What  is  he  for  a  fool  that 
betroths  himself  to  unquietness  ? 

Bora.   Marry,  it  is  your  brother's  right  hand. 

D.  John.  Who !  the  most  exquisite  Claudio? 

Bora.  Even  he. 

D.  John.  A  proper  squire  !  And  who,  and 
who  ?  which  way  looks  he  ? 

Bora.  Marry,  on  Hero,  the  daughter  and 
heir  of  Leonato. 

D.  John.  A  very  forward  March-chick  ! 
How  came  you  to  this  ? 

Bora.  Being  entertained  for  a  perfumer,  as  I 
was  smoking  a  musty  room,  comes  me  the 
prince  and  O  audio  hand  in  hand,  in  sad  con- 
ference. I  whipt  me  behind  the  arras,  and 
there  heard  it  agreed  upon  that  the  prince 
should  woo  Hero  for  himself,  and,  having 
obtained  her,  give  her  to  Count  Claudio. 


D.  John.  Come,  come,  let  us  thither ;  this 
may  prove  food  to  my  displeasure  :  that  young 
start-up  hath  all  the  glory  of  my  overthrow. 
If  I  can  cross  him  any  way,  I  bless  myself  every 
way.  You  are  both  sure,  and  will  assist  me  ? 

Con.  To  the  death,  my  lord. 

D.  John.  Let  us  to  the  great  supper  :  their 
cheer  is  the  greater  that  I  am  subdued.  Would 
the  cook  were  of  my  mind  ! — Shall  we  go  prove 
what 's  to  be  done  ? 

Bora.  We  '11  wait  upon  your  lordship. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  II. 
SCENE  I. — A  Hall  in  LEONATO'S  House. 

Enter  LEONATO,  ANTONIO,  HERO,  BEATRICE, 
and  others. 

Leon.  Was  not  Count  John  here  at  supper  ? 

Ant.  I  saw  him  not. 

Beat.  Plow  tartly  that  gentleman  looks  !  I 
never  can  see  him  but  I  am  heart-burned  an 
hour  after. 

Hero.  He  is  of  a  very  melancholy  disposition. 

Beat.  He  were  an  excellent  man  that  were 
made  just  in  the  mid-way  between  him  and 
Benedick  :  the  one  is  too  like  an  image,  and 
says  nothing  ;  and  the  other  too  like  my  lady's 
eldest  son,  evermore  tattling. 

Leon.  Then  half  Signior  Benedick's  tongue 
in  Count  John's  mouth,  and  half  Count  John's 
melancholy  in  Signior  Benedick's  face, — 

Beat.  With  a  good  leg  and  a  good  foot,  uncle, 
and  money  enough  in  his  purse,  such  a  man 
would  win  any  woman  in  the  world, — if  he 
could  get  her  good-will. 

Leon.  By  my  troth,  niece,  thou  wilt  never 
get  thee  a  husband  if  thou  be  so  shrewd  of  thy 
tongue. 

Ant.  In  faith,  she  is  too  curst. 

Beat.  Too  curst  is  more  than  curst.  I  shall 
lessen  God's  sending  that  way  :  for  it  is  said, 
God  sends  a  curst  cow  short  horns ;  but  to  a 
cow  too  curst  he  sends  none. 

Leon.  So,  by  being  too  curst,  God  will  send 
you  no  horns. 

Beat.  Just  if  he  send  me  no  husband  ;  for  the 
which  blessing  I  am  at  him  upon  my  knees  every 
morning  and  evening.  Lord  !  I  could  not  en- 
dure a  husband  with  a  beard  on  his  face  :  I  had 
rather  lie  in  the  woollen. 

Leon.  You  may  light  upon  a  husband  that 
hath  no  beard. 

Beat.  What  should  I  do  with  him  ?  dress  him 
in  my  apparel,  and  make  him  my  waiting  gentle- 
woman ?  He  that  hath  a  beard  is  more  than  a 
youth ;  and  he  that  hath  no  beard  is  less  than  a 


SCENE  I.] 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


143 


man  :  and  he  that  is  more  than  a  youth  is  not  for 
me  ;  and  he  that  is  less  than  a  man  I  am  not  for 
him :  therefore  I  will  even  take  sixpence  in  earnest 
of  the  bear-ward,  and  lead  his  apes  into  hell. 

Leon.  Well  then,  go  you  into  hell  ? 

Beat.  No ;  but  to  the  gate ;  and  there  will 
the  devil  meetme,  like  an  old  cuckold,  with  horns 
on  his  head,  and  say,  Get  you  to  heaven,  Beatrice; 
get  you  to  heaven :  here  '.r  no  place  for  you  maids  : 
so  deliver  I  up  my  apes  and  away  to  Saint  Peter 
for  the  heavens  ;  he  shows  me  where  the  bache- 
lors sit,  and  there  live  we  as  merry  as  the  day 
is  long. 

Ant.  Well,  niece  [to  HERO],  I  trust  you  will 
be  ruled  by  your  father. 

Beat.  Yes,  faith;  it's  my  cousin's  duty  to  make 
courtesy,  and  say,  Father,  as  it  please  you : — but 
yet  for  all  that,  cousin,  let  him  be  a  handsome 
fellow,  or  else  make  another  courtesy,  and  say, 
Father,  as  it  please  me. 

Leon.  Well,  niece,  I  hope  to  see  you  one  day 
fitted  with  a  husband. 

Beat.  Not  till  God  make  men  of  some  other 
metal  than  earth.  Would  it  not  grieve  a  woman 
to  be  over-mastered  with  a  piece  of  valiant  dust ! 
to  make  an  account  of  her  life  to  a  clod  of  way- 
ward marl?  No,  uncle,  I  '11  none :  Adam's  sons 
are  my  brethren  ;  and,  truly,  I  hold  it  a  sin  to 
match  in  my  kindred. 

Leon.  Daughter,  remember  what  I  told  you  : 
if  the  prince  do  solicit  you  in  that  kind,  you 
know  your  answer. 

Beat.  The  fault  will  be  in  the  music,  cousin,  if 
you  be  not  wooed  in  good  time  :  if  the  prince  be 
too  important,  tell  him  there  is  measure  in  every- 
thing, and  so  dance  out  the  answer.  For,  hear 
me,  Hero,  wooing,  wedding,  and  repenting  is  as 
a  Scotch  jig,  a  measure,  and  a  cinque-pace  :  the 
first  suit  is  hot  and  hasty,  like  a  Scotch  jig,  and 
full  as  fantastical;  the  wedding,  mannerly  modest 
as  a  measure,  full  of  state  and  ancientry ;  and 
then  comes  repentance,  and,  with  his  bad  legs, 
falls  into  the  cinque-pace  faster  and  faster,  till 
he  sink  into  his  grave. 

Leon.  Cousin,  you  apprehend  passing 
shrewdly. 

Beat.  I  have  a  good  eye,  uncle  ;  I  can  see  a 
church  by  daylight. 

Leon.  The  revellers  are  entering,  brother; 
make  good  room. 

Enter  Don  PEDRO,  CLAUDJO,  BENEDICK,  BAL- 
THAZAR ;  Don  JOHN,  BORACHIO,  MARGARET, 
URSULA,  and  others,  masked. 
D.  Pedro.  Lady,  will  you  walk  about  with 

your  friend  ? 
Hero.  So  you  walk  softly,  and  look  sweetly, 


and  say  nothing,  I  am  yours  for  the  walk  ;  and, 
especially,  when  I  walk  away. 

D.  Pedro.  With  me  in  your  company  ? 

Hero.  I  may  say  so,  when  I  please. 

D.  Pedro.  And  when  please  you  to  say  so  ? 

Hero.  When  I  like  your  favour  ;  for  God  de- 
fend the  lute  should  be  like  the  case  1 

D.  Pedro.  My  visor  is  Philemon's  roof ;  with- 
in the  house  is  Jove. 

Hero.  Why,  then,  your  visor  should  be 
thatched. 

D.  Pedro.  Speak  low,  if  you  speak  love. 

[  Takes  her  aside. 

Balth.  Well,  I  would  you  did  like  me. 

Marg.  So  would  not  I,  for  your  own  sake ; 
for  I  have  many  ill  qualities. 

Balth.  Which  is  one  ? 

Marg.  I  say  my  prayers  aloud. 

Balth.  I  love  you  the  better ;  the  hearers 
may  cry  Amen. 

Marg.  God  match  me  with  a  good  dancer  ! 

Balth.  Amen. 

Marg.  And  God  keep  him  out  of  my  sight 
when  the  dance  is  done  ! — Answer,  clerk. 

Balth.  No  more  words  ;  the  clerk  is  answered. 

Urs.  I  know  you  well  enough  ;  you  are  Sig- 
nior  Antonio. 

Ant.  At  a  word,  I  am  not. 

Urs.  I  know  you  by  the  waggling  of  your  head. 

Ant.  To  tell  you  true,  I  counterfeit  him. 

Urs.  You  could  never  do  him  so  ill-well  un- 
less you  were  the  very  man.  Here 's  his  dry  hand 
up  and  down  :  you  are  he  ;  you  are  he. 

Ant.  At  a  word,  I  am  not. 

Urs.  Come,  come ;  do  you  think  I  do  not 
know  you  by  your  excellent  wit?  Can  virtue 
hide  itself?  Go  to  ;  mum  ;  you  are  he  :  graces 
will  appear,  and  there 's  an  end. 

Beat.  Will  you  not  tell  me  who  told  you  so  ? 

Bene.  No,  you  shall  pardon  me. 

Beat.  Nor  will  you  not  tell  me  who  you  are  ? 

Bene.  Not  now. 

Beat.  That  I  was  disdainful !— and  that  I  had 
my  good  wit  out  of  the  Hundred  Merry  Tales  ! — 
Well,  this  was  Signior  Benedick  that  said  so. 

Bene.  What  'she? 

Beat.  I  am  sure  you  know  him  well  enough. 

Bene.  Not  I,  believe  me. 

Beat.  Did  he  never  make  you  laugh  ? 

Bene.  I  pray  you,  what  is  he  ? 

Beat.  Why,  he  is  the  prince's  jester  :  a  very 
dull  fool ;  only  his  gift  is  in  devising  impossible 
slanders :  none  but  libertines  delight  in  him ;  and 
the  commendation  is  not  in  his  wit  but  in  his  vil- 
lany ;  for  he  both  pleaseth  men  and  angers  them, 
and  then  they  laugh  at  him  and  beat  him.  I  am 
sure  he  is  in  the  fleet :  I  would  he  had  boarded  me. 


144 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


[ACT  ii. 


Bene.  When  I  know  the  gentleman  I  '11  tell 
him  what  you  say. 

Beat.  Do,  do :  he  '11  but  break  a  comparison  or 
two  on  me  ;  which,  perad venture,  not  marked, 
or  not  laughed  at,  strikes  him  into  melancholy  ; 
and  then  there 's  a  partridge  wing  saved,  for  the 
fool  will  eat  no  supper  that  night.  [Music  with- 
in.] We  must  follow  the  leaders. 

Bene.   In  every  good  thing. 

Beat.  Nay,  if  they  lead  to  any  ill,  I  will  leave 
them  at  the  next  turning. 

[Dance.     Then  exeunt  all  but  Don  JOHN, 
BORACHIO,  and  CLAUDIO. 

D.John.  Sure,  my  brother  is  amorous  on  Hero, 
and  hath  withdrawn  her  father  to  break  with 
him  about  it.  The  ladies  follow  her,  and  but 
one  visor  remains.  [his  bearing. 

Bora.  And  that  is  Claudio.     I  know  him  by 

D.  fohn.  Are  not  you  Signior  Benedick  ? 

Claud.  You  know  me  well ;  I  am  he. 

D.  John.  Signior,  you  are  very  near  my  brother 
in  his  Icve :  he  is  enamoured  on  Hero ;  I  pray  you 
dissuade  him  from  her  ;  she  is  no  equal  for  his 
birth :  you  may  do  the  part  of  an  honest  man  in  it. 

Claud.  How  know  you  he  loves  her  ? 

D.  John.  I  heard  him  swear  his  affection. 

Bora.  So  did  I  too  ;  and  he  swore  he  would 
marry  her  to-night. 

D.  John.  Come,  let  us  to  the  banquet. 

[Exeunt  Don  JOHN  and  BORACHIO. 

Claud.  Thus  answer  I  in  name  of  Benedick, 
But  hear  these  ill  news  with  the  ears  of  Claudio. 
'Tis  certain  so ; — the  prince  woos  for  himself. 
Friendship  is  constant  in  all  other  things 
Save  in  the  office  and  affairs  of  love  : 
Therefore,  all  hearts  in  love  use  their  own  tongues : 
Let  every  eye  negotiate  for  itself, 
And  trust  no  agent :  for  beauty  is  a  witch, 
Against  whose  charms  faith  melteth  into  blood. 
This  is  an  accident  of  hourly  proof,        [Hero  ! 
Which  I  mistrusted   not:    farewell,  therefore, 

Re-enter  BENEDICK. 

Bene.  Count  Claudio  ? 

Claud.  Yea,  the  same. 

Bene.  Come,  will  you  go  with  me  ? 

Claud.   Whither? 

Bene.  Even  to  the  next  willow,  about  your  own 
business,  count.  What  fashion  will  you  wear 
the  garland  of?  About  your  neck,  like  an 
usurer's  chain?  or  under  your  arm  like  a  lieu- 
tenant's scarf?  You  must  wear  it  one  way,  for 
the  prince  hath  got  your  Hero. 

Claud.  I  wish  him  joy  of  her. 

Bene.  Why,  that's  spoken  like  an  honest 
drover;  so  they  sell  bullocks.  But  did  you 
think  the  prince  would  have  served  you  thus  ? 


Claud.  I  pray  you,  leave  me. 

Bene.  Ho  !  now  you  strike  like  the  blind  man; 
'twas  the  boy  that  stole  your  meat,  and  you  '11 
beat  the  post. 

Claud.  If  it  will  not  be,  I  '11  leave  you.    [Exit. 

Bene.  Alas,  poor  hurt  fowl !  Now  will  he  creep 

into  sedges. But,  that  my  Lady  Beatrice 

should  know  me,  and  not  know  me !  The  prince's 
fool !— Ha,  it  may  be  I  go  under  that  title  because 
I  am  merry. — Yea,  but  so  I  am  apt  to  do  myself 
wrong  :  I  am  not  so  reputed  :  it  is  the  base,  the 
bitter  disposition  of  Beatrice  that  puts  the  world 
into  her  person,  and  so  gives  me  out.  Well, 
I  '11  be  revenged  as  I  may. 

Re-enter  Don  PEDRO. 

D.  Pedro.  Now,  signior,  where 's  the  count  ? 
Did  you  see  him  ? 

Bene.  Troth,  my  lord,  I  have  played  the  part 
of  Lady  Fame.  I  found  him  here  as  melancholy 
as  a  lodge  in  a  warren  ;  I  told  him,  and  I  think 
I  told  him  true,  that  your  grace  had  got  the 
good-will  of  this  young  lady  ;  and  I  offered  him 
my  company  to  a  willow  tree,  either  to  make  him 
a  garland,  as  being  forsaken,  or  to  bind  him  up 
a  rod,  as  being  worthy  to  be  whipped. 

D.  Pedro.  To  be  whipped  !  What 's  his  fault  ? 

Bene.  The  flat  transgression  of  a  school-boy, 
who,  being  overjoyed  with  rinding  a  bird's  nest, 
shows  it  his  companion,  and  he  steals  it. 

D.  Pedro.  Wilt  thou  make  a  trust  a  transgres- 
sion ?  The  transgression  is  in  the  stealer. 

Bene.  Yet  it  had  not  been  amiss  the  rod  had 
been  made,  and  the  garland  too  ;  for  the  garland 
he  might  have  worn  himself ;  and  the  rod  he 
might  have  bestowed  on  you,  who,  as  I  take  it, 
have  stolen  his  bird's  nest. 

D.  Pedro.  I  will  but  teach  them  to  sing,  and 
restore  them  to  the  owner. 

Bene.  If  their  singing  answer  your  saying, 
by  my  faith,  you  say  honestly. 

D.  Pedro.  The  Lady  Beatrice  hath  a  quarrel 
to  you  ;  the  gentleman  that  danced  with  her 
told  her  she  is  much  wronged  by  you. 

Bene.  O,  she  misused  me  past  the  endurance  of 
a  block  ;  an  oak  but  with  one  green  leaf  on  it 
would  have  answered  her  ;  my  very  visor  began 
to  assume  life  and  scold  with  her  :  she  told  me, — 
not  thinking  I  had  been  myself, — that  I  was  the 
prince's  jester  ;  that  I  was  duller  than  a  great 
thaw  ;  huddling  jest  upon  jest  with  such  impos- 
sible conveyance  upon  me,  that  I  stood  like  a  man 
at  a  mark,  with  a  whole  army  shooting  at  me. 
She  speaks  poniards,  and  every  word  stabs  :  if 
her  breath  were  as  terrible  as  her  terminations, 
there  were  no  living  near  her  ;  she  would  infect 
to  the  north  star.  I  would  not  marry  her  though 


SCENE  I.] 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


145 


she  were  endowed  with  all  that  Adam  had  left 
him  before  he  transgressed  :  she  would  have 
made  Hercules  have  turned  spit  ;  yea,  and  have 
cleft  his  club  to  make  the  fire  too.  Come,  talk 
not  of  her  :  you  shall  find  her  the  infernal  Ate 
in  good  apparel.  I  would  to  God  some  scholar 
would  conjure  her  ;  for  certainly,  while  she  is 
here,  a  man  may  live  as  quiet  in  hell  as  in  a 
sanctuary ;  and  people  sin  upon  purpose,  be- 
cause they  would  go  thither  ;  so,  indeed,  all 
disquiet,  horror,  and  perturbation  follows  her. 
D.  Pedro.  Look,  here  she  comes. 

Re-enter  CLAUDIO  and  BEATRICE,  LEONATO 
and  HERO. 

Bene.  Will  your  grace  command  me  any  ser- 
vice to  the  world's  end  ?  I  will  go  on  the 
slightest  errand  now  to  the  antipodes  that  you 
can  devise  to  send  me  on  ;  I  will  fetch  you  a 
toothpicker  now  from  the  farthest  inch  of  Asia ; 
bring  you  the  length  of  Prester  John's  foot ; 
fetch  you  a  hair  off  the  great  Cham's  beard ;  do 
you  any  embassage  to  the  Pigmies  ; — rather 
than  hold  three  words'  conference  with  this 
harpy.  You  have  no  employment  for  me  ? 

D.  Pedro.  None,  but  to  desire  your  good 
company. 

Bene.  O  God,  sir,  here 's  a  dish  I  love  not  ; 
I  cannot  endure  my  Lady  Tongue.  [Exit. 

D.  Pedro.  Come,  lady,  come ;  you  have  lost 
the  heart  of  Signior  Benedick. 

Beat.  Indeed,  my  lord,  he  lent  it  me  awhile  ; 
and  I  gave  him  use  for  it, — a  double  heart  for 
his  single  one  :  marry,  once  before  he  won  it 
of  me  with  false  dice,  therefore  your  grace  may 
well  say  I  have  lost  it. 

D.  Pedro.  You  have  put  him  down,  lady, 
you  have  put  him  down. 

Beat.  So  I  would  not  he  should  do  me,  my 
lord,  lest  I  should  prove  the  mother  of  fools. 
I  have  brought  Count  Claudio,  whom  you  sent 
me  to  seek.  [fore  are  you  sad  ? 

D.  Pedro.  Why,  how  now,  count  !    where- 

Claud.  Not  sad,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.  How  then  ?     Sick  ? 

Clattd.  Neither,  my  lord. 

Beat.  The  count  is  neither  sad,  nor  sick,  nor 
merry,  nor  well  :  but  civil,  count ;  civil  as  an 
orange,  and  something  of  that  jealous  com- 
plexion. 

D.  Pedro.  V  faith,  lady,  I  think  your  blazon 
to  be  true  ;  though  I  '11  be  sworn,  if  he  be  so, 
his  conceit  is  false.  Here,  Claudio,  I  have 
wooed  in  thy  name,  and  fair  Hero  is  won.  I 
have  broke  with  her  father,  and  his  good-will 
obtained  :  name  the  day  of  marriage,  and  God 
give  thee  joy ! 


Leon.  Count,  take  of  me  my  daughter,  and 
with  her  my  fortunes  ;  his  grace  hath  made  the 
match,  and  all  grace  say  Amen  to  it ! 

Beat.   Speak,  count,  'tis  your  cue. 

Claud.  Silence  is  the  perfectest  herald  of  joy: 
I  were  but  little  happy  if  I  could  say  how  much. 
— Lady,  as  you  are  mine,  I  am  yours :  I  give 
away  myself  for  you,  and  dote  upon  the  ex- 
change. 

Beat.  Speak,  cousin ;  or,  if  you  cannot,  stop 
his  mouth  with  a  kiss,  and  let  not  him  speak 
neither.  [heart. 

D.  Pedro.   In  faith,  lady,  you  have  a  merry 

Beat.  Yea,  my  lord  ;  I  thank  it,  poor  fool, 
it  keeps  on  the  windy  side  of  care. — My  cousin 
tells  him  in  his  ear  that  he  is  in  her  heart. 

Claud.  And  so  she  doth,  cousin. 

Beat.  Good  lord,  for  alliance  ! — Thus  goes 
every  one  to  the  world  but  I,  and  I  am  sun- 
burnt ;  I  may  sit  in  a  corner  and  cry  heigh- 
ho  !  for  a  husband. 

D.  Pedro.  Lady  Beatrice,  I  will  get  you  one. 

Beat.  I  would  rather  have  one  of  your  father's 
getting.  Hath  your  grace  ne'er  a  brother  like 
you  ?  Your  father  got  excellent  husbands,  if  a 
maid  could  come  by  them. 

D.  Pedro.  Will  you  have  me,  lady  ? 

Beat.  No,  my  lord,  unless  I  might  have 
another  for  working-days ;  your  grace  is  too 
costly  to  wear  every  day.  But,  I  beseech  your 
grace,  pardon  me  ;  I  was  born  to  speak  all 
mirth  and  no  matter. 

D.  Pedro.  Your  silence  most  offends  me,  and 
to  be  merry  best  becomes  you ;  for,  out  of 
question,  you  were  born  in  a  merry  hour. 

Beat.  No,  sure,  my  lord,  my  mother  cried  ; 
but  then  there  was  a  star  danced,  and  under 
that  was  I  born.  Cousins,  God  give  you  joy  ! 

Leon.  Niece,  will  you  look  to  those  things  I 
told  you  of? 

Beat.  I  cry  you  mercy,  uncle. — By  your 
grace's  pardon.  [Exit  BEATRICE. 

D.  Pedro.  By  my  troth,  a  pleasant-spirited 
lady. 

Leon.  There 's  little  of  the  melancholy  ele- 
ment in  her,  my  lord  :  she  is  never  sad  but 
when  she  sleeps  ;  and  not  ever  sad  then  ;  for  I 
have  heard  my  daughter  say  she  hath  often 
dreamed  of  unhappiness,  and  waked  herself 
with  laughing. 

D.  Pedro.  She  cannot  endure  to  hear  tell  of 
a  husband. 

Leon.  O,  by  no  means  •  she  mocks  all  her 
wooers  out  of  suit.  [Benedick. 

D.  Pedro.  She   were   an  excellent  wife   for 

Leon.  O  Lord,  my  lord,  if  they  were  but  a 
week  married,  they  would  talk  themselves  mad. 


146 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


[ACT  ii. 


D.  Pedro.  Count  Claudio,  when  mean  you  to 
go  to  church? 

Claud.  To-morrow,  my  lord.  Time  goes  on 
crutches  till  love  have  all  his  rites. 

Leon.  Not  till  Monday,  my  dear  son,  which 
is  hence  a  just  seven-night ;  and  a  time  too  brief 
too,  to  have  all  things  answer  my  mind. 

D.  Pedro.  Come,  you  shake  the  head  at  so 
long  a  breathing ;  but  I  warrant  thee,  Caudio, 
the  time  shall  not  go  dully  by  us.  I  will  in  the 
interim  undertake  one  of  Hercules'  labours; 
which  is,  to  bring  Signior  Benedick  and  the 
Lady  Beatrice  into  a  mountain  of  affection  the 
one  with  the  other.  I  would  fain  have  it  a 
match ;  and  I  doubt  not  but  to  fashion  it  if  you 
three  will  but  minister  such  assistance  as  I  shall 
give  you  direction. 

Leon.  My  lord,  I  am  for  you,  though  it  cost 
me  ten  nights'  watchings. 

Clattd.  And  I,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.  And  you  too,  gentle  Hero? 

Hero.  I  will  do  any  modest  office,  my  lord, 
to  help  my  cousin  to  a  good  husband. 

D.  Pedro.  And  Benedick  is  not  the  unhope- 
fullest  husband  that  I  know:  thus  far  can  I 
praise  him ;  he  is  of  a  noble  strain,  of  approved 
valour,  and  confirmed  honesty.  I  will  teach 
you  how  to  humour  your  cousin  that  she  shall 
fall  in  love  with  Benedick :— and  I,  with  your 
two  helps,  will  so  practise  on  Benedick,  that, 
in  despite  of  his  quick  wit  and  his  queasy 
stomach,  he  shall  fall  in  love  with  Beatrice. 
If  we  can  do  this,  Cupid  is  no  longer  an  archer ; 
his  glory  shall  be  ours,  for  we  are  the  only  love- 
gods.  Go  in  with  me,  and  I  will  tell  you  my 
drift.  {Exeunt. 

i-j'bnij  .  -  ix\<  R  xu'-v  Via/ft  narfr  iwf 

SCENE  II.— Another  Room  in  LEONATO'S 
House. 

Enter  Don  JOHN  and  BORACHIO. 
- 

D.John.  It  is  so:  the  Count  Claudio  shall 
marry  the  daughter  of  Leonato. 

Bora.  Yea,  my  lord,  but  I  can  cross  it. 

D.John.  Any  bar,  any  cross,  any  impedi- 
ment will  be  medicinal  to  me;  I  am  sick  in 
displeasure  to  him ;  and  whatsoever  comes 
athwart  his  affection  ranges  evenly  with  mine. 
How  canst  thou  cross  this  marriage? 

Bora.  Not  honestly,  my  lord ;  but  so  covertly 
that  no  dishonesty  shall  appear  in  me. 

D.  John.  Show  me  briefly  how. 

Bora.  I  think  I  told  your  lordship  a  year 
since  how  much  I  am  in  the  favour  of  Margaret, 
the  waiting-gentlewoman  to  Hero. 

D.  John.  I  remember. 

Bora.  I  can  at  any  unseasonable  instant  of 


the  night  appoint  her  to  look  out  at  her  lady's 
chamber-window. 

D.  John.  What  life  is  in  that,  to  be  the  death 
of  this  marriage? 

Bora.  The  poison  of  that  lies  in  you  to  tem- 
per. Go  you  to  the  prince  your  brother  ;  spare 
not  to  tell  him  that  he  hath  wronged  his  honour 
in  marrying  the  renowned  Claudio — whose  esti- 
mation do  you  mightily  hold  up — to  a  con- 
taminated stale,  such  a  one  as  Hero. 

D.  John.  What  proof  shall  I  make  of  that? 

Bora.  Proof  enough  to  misuse  the  prince,  to 
vex  Claudio,  to  undo  Hero,  and  kill  Leonato. 
Look  you  for  any  other  issue? 

D.John.  Only  to  despite  them  I  will  en- 
deavour anything. 

Bora.  Go,  then ;  find  me  a  meet  hour  to  draw 
Don  Pedro  and  the  Count  Claudio  alone :  tell 
them  that  you  know  that  Hero  loves  me ;  intend 
a  kind  of  zeal  both  to  the  prince  and  Claudio, 
as, — in  love  of  your  brother's  honour,  who  hath 
made  this  match,  and  his  friend's  reputation, 
who  is  thus  like  to  be  cozened  with  the  sem- 
blance of  a  maid, — that  you  have  discovered 
thus.  They  will  scarcely  believe  this  without 
trial:  offer  them  instances;  which  shall  bear 
no  less  likelihood  than  to  see  me  at  her  chamber- 
window  ;  hear  me  call  Margaret  Hero  ;  hear 
Margaret  term  me  Borachio;  and  bring  them 
to  see  this  the  very  night  before  the  intended 
wedding :  for,  in  the  meantime  I  will  so  fashion 
the  matter  that  Hero  shall  be  absent;  and  there 
shall  appear  such  seeming  truth  of  Hero's  dis- 
loyalty that  jealousy  shall  be  called  assurance, 
and  all  the  preparation  overthrown. 

D.  John.  Grow  this  to  what  adverse  issue  it 
can,  I  will  put  it  in  practice.  Be  cunning  in 
the  working  this,  and  thy  fee  is  a  thousand 
ducats. 

Bora.  Be  you  constant  in  the  accusation,  and 
my  cunning  shall  not  shame  me. 

D.  John.  I  will  presently  go  learn  their  day 
of  marriage.  ^Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — LEONATO'S  Garden. 
Enter  BENEDICK  and  a  Boy. 

Bene.  Boy, — 

Boy.  Signior. 

Bene.  In  my  chamber- window  lies  a  book ; 
bring  it  hither  to  me  in  the  orchard. 

Boy.  I  am  here  already,  sir. 

Bene.  I  know  that;  but  I  would  have  thee 
hence  and  here  again.  [Exit  Boy.]  I  do 
much  wonder  that  one  man,  seeing  how  much 
another  man  is  a  fool  when  he  dedicates  his 
behaviours  to  love,  will|  after  he  hath  laughed 


SCENE  III.] 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


147 


at  such  shallow  follies  in  others,  become  the 
argument  of  his  own  scorn  by  falling  in  love. 
And  such  a  man  is  Claudio.  I  have  known 
when  there  was  no  music  with  him  but  the  drum 
and  fife  ;  and  now  had  he  rather  hear  the  tabor 
and  the  pipe  :  I  have  known  when  he  would 
have  walked  ten  mile  afoot  to  see  a  good 
armour  ;  and  now  will  he  lie  ten  nights  awake 
carving  the  fashion  of  a  new  doublet.  He  was 
wont  to  speak  plain  and  to  the  purpose,  like  an 
honest  man  and  a  soldier;  and  now  is  he  turned 
orthographer  ;  his  words  are  a  very  fantastical 
banquet,  just  so  many  strange  dishes.  May  I 
be  so  converted,  and  see  with  these  eyes  ?  I 
cannot  tell ;  I  think  not  :  I  will  not  be  sworn 
but  Love  may  transform  me  to  an  oyster  ;  but 
I  '11  take  my  oath  on  it,  till  he  have  made  an 
oyster  of  me  he  shall  never  make  me  such  a 
fool.  One  woman  is  fair  ;  yet  I  am  well :  an- 
other is  wise  ;  yet  I  am  well :  another  virtuous; 
yet  I  am  well :  but  till  all  graces  be  in  one 
woman,  one  woman  shall  not  come  in  my  grace. 
Rich  she  shall  be,  that 's  certain  ;  wise,  or  I  '11 
none ;  virtuous,  or  I  '11  never  cheapen  her  ; 
fair,  or  I  '11  never  look  on  her  ;  mild,  or  come 
not  near  me  ;  noble,  or  not  I  for  an  angel  ;  of 
good  discourse,  an  excellent  musician,  and  her 
hair  shall  be  of  what  colour  it  please  God.  Ha! 
the  prince  and  Monsieur  Love  !  I  will  hide 
me  in  the  arbour.  [  Withdraws. 

Enter  Don  PEDRO,  LEONATO,  and  CLAUDIO. 

D.  Pedro.  Come,  shall  we  hear  this  music  ? 
Claud.  Yea,  my  good  lord. — How  still  the 

evening  is, 

As  hushed  on  purpose  to  grace  harmony  ! 
D.  Pedro.  See  you  where  Benedick  hath  hid 
himself?  [ended, 

Clattd.  O,  very  well,  my  lord :  the  music 
We  '11  fit  the  kid-fox  with  a  pennyworth. 

Enter  BALTHAZAR,  with  Music. 

D.  Pedro.  Come,  Balthazar,. we '11  hear  that 
song  again.  [voice 

Balth.  O,  good  my  lord,  tax  not  so  bad  a 
To  slander  music  any  more  than  once. 

D.  Pedro.  It  is  the  witness  still  of  excellency 
To  put  a  strange  face  on  his  own  perfection : — 
I  pray  thee,  sing,  and  let  me  woo  no  more. 

Balth.  Because  you  talk  of  wooing,   I  will 

sing: 

Since  many  a  wooer  doth  commence  his  suit 
To  her  he  thinks  not  worthy  ;  yet  he  woos  ; 
Yet  will  he  swear  he  loves. 

D.  Pedro.  Nay,  pray  thee,  come  : 

Or,  if  thou  wilt  hold  longer  argument, 
Do  it  in  notes. 


Baltk.  Note  this  before  my  notes, 

There 's  not  a  note  of  mine  that 's  worth  the 
noting.  [he  speaks ; 

D.  Pedro.  Why,  these  are  very  crotchets  that 
Note  notes,  forsooth,  and  noting  !  [Music. 

Bene.  Now,  divine  air !  now  is  his  soul 
ravished  !  Is  it  not  strange  that  sheeps'  guts 
should  hale  souls  out  of  men's  bodies  ? — Well, 
a  horn  for  my  money,  when  all 's  done. 


BALTHAZAR  sings. 


Sigh  no  mure,  ladies,  sigh  no  more  ; 

Men  were  deceivers  ever  ; 
One  foot  in  sea  and  one  on  shore, 
To  one  thing  constant  never  ; 
Then  sigh  not  so, 
But  let  them  go, 
And  be  you  blithe  and  bonny  ; 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 
Into.  Hey  nonny,  nonny. 


Sing  no  more  ditties,  sing  no  mo 
Of  dumps  so  dull  and  heavy  ; 

The  fraud  of  men  was  ever  so 
Since  summer  first  was  leavy. 
Then  sigh  not  so,  &c. 

D.  Pedro.  By  my  troth,  a  good  song. 

Balth.  And  an  ill  singer,  my  lord. 

Claud.  Ha,  no  ;  no,  faith  ;  thou  singesfwell 
enough  for  a  shift. 

Bene.  [Aside.}  An  he  had  been  a  dog  that 
should  have  howled  thus  they  would  have 
hanged  him  :  and  I  pray  God  his  bad  voice 
bode  no  mischief !  I  had  as  lief  have  heard  the 
night-raven,  come  what  plague  could  have  come 
after  it. 

D.  Pedro.  Yea,  marry  [to  CLAUDIO]. — Dost 
thou  hear,  Balthazar  !  I  pray  thee  get  us  some 
excellent  music  ;  for  to-morrcw  night  we  would 
have  it  at  the  lady  Hero's  chamber-window. 

Balth.  The  best  I  can,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.  Do  so:  farewell.  [Exeunt  BAL- 
THAZAR and  MusL.~\  Come  hither,  Leonato. 
What  was  it  you  told  me  ot  to-day, — that  your 
niece  Beatrice  was  in  love  with  Signior  Bene- 
dick ? 

Claud.  O  ay  : — stalk  on,  stalk  on  :  the  fowl 
sits  [aside  to  PEDRO].  I  did  never  think  that 
lady  would  have  loved  any  man. 

Leon.  No,  nor  I  neither;  but  most  wonderful 
that  she  should  so  dote  on  Signior  Benedick, 
whom  she  hath  in  all  outward  behaviours  seemed 
ever  to  abhor. 

Bene.  Is 't  possible  ?  Sits  the  wind  in  that 
corner  ?  [Aside. 

Leon.  By  my  troth,  my  lord,  I  cannot  tell 


14* 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


[ACT  ii. 


what  to  think  of  it ;  but  that  she  loves  him  with 
an  enraged  affection, — it  is  past  the  infinite  of 
thought. 

D.  Pedro.   May  be  she  doth  but  counterfeit. 

Clatid.  'Faith,  like  enough. 

Leon.  O  God  !  counterfeit !  There  was 
never  counterfeit  of  passion  came  so  near  the 
life  of  passion  as  she  discovers  it. 

D.  Pedro.  Why,  what  effects  of  passion 
shows  she  ? 

Claud.  Bait  the  hook  well ;  this  fish  will 
bite.  [Aside. 

Leon.  What  effects,  my  lord  !  She  will  sit 
you, — You  heard  my  daughter  tell  you  how. 

Claud.  She  did,  indeed. 

D.  Pedro.  How,  how,  I  pray  you?  You 
amaze  me  :  I  would  have  thought  her  spirit  had 
been  invincible  against  all  assaults  of  affection. 

Leon.  I  would  have  sworn  it  had,  my  lord  ; 
especially  against  Benedick. 

Bene.  \_Aside.~}  I  should  think  this  a  gull,  but 
that  the  white-bearded  fellow  speaks  it :  knav- 
ery cannot,  sure,  hide  itself  in  such  reverence. 

Claud.  He  hath  ta'en  the  infection  ;  hold  it 
up.  [Aside. 

D.  Pedro.  Hath  she  made  her  affection 
known  to  Benedick. 

Leon.  No  ;  and  swears  she  never  will :  that 's 
her  torment. 

Claud.  'Tis  true,  indeed ;  so  your  daughter 
says :  Shall  /,  says  she,  that  have  so  oft  en- 
countered him  with  scorn,  write  to  him  that  I 
love  him? 

Leon.  This  says  she  now,  when  she  is  begin- 
ning to  write  to  him  :  for  she  '11  be  up  twenty 
times  a  night :  and  there  will  she  sit  in  her 
smock  till  she  have  writ  a  sheet  of  paper  :— my 
daughter  tells  us  all. 

Claud.  Now  you  talk  of  a  sheet  of  paper,  I 
remember  a  pretty  jest  your  daughter  told  us  of. 

Leon.  O  ! — When  she  had  writ  it,  and  was 
reading  it  over,  she  found  Benedick  and  Beat- 
rice between  the  sheet  ? — 

Claud.  That. 

Leon.  O  !  she  tore  the  letter  into  a  thousand 
halfpence  ;  railed  at  herself  that  she  should  be 
so  immodest  to  write  to  one  that  she  knew 
would  flout  her.  /  measure  him,  says  she,  by 
my  own  spirit ;  for  I  should  jlout  him  if  he 
writ  to  me  ;  yea^  though  I  love  him,  I  should. 

Claud.  Then  down  upon  her  knees  she  falls, 
weeps,  sobs,  beats  her  heart,  tears  her  hair, 
prays,  curses; — O  sweet  Benedick!  God  give 
me  patience  ! 

Leon.  She  doth  indeed ;  my  daughter  says 
so ;  and  the  ecstasy  hath  so  much  overborne 
her  that  my  daughter  is  sometime  afraid  she 


will  do  a  desperate  outrage  to  herself.  It  is 
very  true. 

D.  Pedro.  It  were  good  that  Benedick  knew 
of  it  by  some  other,  if  she  will  not  discover  it. 

Claud.  To  what  end  ?  He  would  but  make 
a  sport  of  it,  and  torment  the  poor  lady  worse. 

D.  Pedro.  An  he  should,  it  were  an  alms  to 
hang  him.  She 's  an  excellent  sweet  lady  ; 
and,  out  of  all  suspicion,  she  is  virtuous. 

Claud.  And  she  is  exceeding  wise. 

D.  Pedro.  In  everything  but  in  loving  Bene- 
dick. 

Leon.  O  my  lord,  wisdom  and  blood  com- 
bating in  so  tender  a  body,  we  have  ten  proofs 
to  one  that  blood  hath  the  victory.  I  am  sorry 
for  her,  as  I  have  just  cause,  being  her  uncle 
and  her  guardian. 

D.  Pedro.  I  would  she  had  bestowed  this 
dotage  on  me  :  I  would  have  daffed  all  other 
respects  and  made  her  half  myself.  I  pray  you, 
tell  Benedick  of  it,  and  hear  what  he  will  say. 

Leon.  Were  it  good,  think  you  ? 

Claud.  Hero  thinks  surely  she  will  die  ;  for 
she  says  she  will  die  if  he  love  her  not ;  and 
she  will  die  ere  she  makes  her  love  known :  and 
she  will  die  if  he  woo  her,  rather  than  she  will 
'bate  one  breath  of  her  accustomed  crossness. 

D.  Pedro.  She  doth  well ;  if  she  should 
make  tender  of  her  love,  'tis  very  possible  he  '11 
scorn  it :  for  the  man,  as  you  know  all,  hath  a 
contemptible  spirit. 

Claud.  He  is  a  very  proper  man. 

D.  Pedro.  He  hath,  indeed,  a  good  outward 
happiness. 

Claud.  'Fore  God,  and  in  my  mind,  very  wise. 

D.  Pedro.  He  doth,  indeed,  show  some 
sparks  that  are  like  wit. 

Leon.  And  I  take  him  to  be  valiant. 

D.  Pedro.  As  Hector,  I  assure  you :  and  in 
the  managing  of  quarrels  you  may  say  he  is 
wise  ;  for  either  he  avoids  them  with  great  dis- 
cretion, or  undertakes  them  with  a  most 
Christian-like  fear. 

Leon.  If  he  do  fear  God,  he  must  necessarily 
keep  peace  ;  if  he  break  the  peace,  he  ought  to 
enter  into  a  quarrel  with  fear  and  trembling. 

D.  Pedro.  And  so  will  he  do  ;  for  the  man 
doth  fear  God,  howsoever  it  seems  not  in  him 
by  some  large  jests  he  will  make.  Well,  I  am 
sorry  for  your  niece.  Shall  we  go  see  Benedick, 
and  tell  him  of  her  love  ? 

Claud.  Never  tell  him,  my  lord  ;  let  her 
wear  it  out  with  good  counsel. 

Leon.  Nay,  that 's  impossible ;  she  may 
wear  her  heart  out  first. 

D.  Pedro.  Well,  we  '11  hear  further  of  it  by 
your  daughter  :  let  it  cool  the  while.  I  love 


SCENE  III.] 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


149 


Benedick  well :  and  I  could  wish  he  would 
modestly  examine  himself,  to  see  how  much  he 
is  unworthy  to  have  so  good  a  lady. 

Leon.  My  lord,  will  you  walk  ?  dinner  is 
ready. 

Claud.  If  he  do  not  dote  on  her  upon  this,  I 
will  never  trust  my  expectation.  [Aside. 

D.  Pedro.  Let  there  be  the  same  net  spread 
for  her  :  and  that  must  your  daughter  and  her 
gentlewoman  carry.  The  sport  will  be  when 
they  hold  one  an  opinion  of  another's  dotage, 
and  no  such  matter  ;  that 's  the  scene  that  I 
would  see,  which  will  be  merely  a  dumb  show. 
Let  us  send  her  to  call  him  in  to  dinner.  [Aside. 
[Exeunt  Don  PEDRO,  CLAUDIO,  am/LEONATO. 

BENEDICK  advances  from  the  arbour. 

Bene.  This  can  be  no  trick.  The  conference 
was  sadly  borne. — They  have  the  truth  of  this 
from  Hero.  They  seem  to  pity  the  lady  ;  it 
seems  her  affections  have  their  full  bent.  Love 
me  !  why,  it  must  be  requited.  I  hear  how  I 
am  censured :  they  say  I  will  bear  myself 
proudly  if  I  perceive  the  love  come  from  her  ; 
they  say,  too,  that  she  will  rather  die  than  give 
any  sign  of  affection. — I  did  never  think  to 
marry — I  must  not  seem  proud. — Happy  are 
they  that  hear  their  detractions  and  can  put 
them  to  mending.  They  say  the  lady  is  fair  ; 
'tis  a  truth,  I  can  bear  them  witness :  and 
virtuous — 'tis  so,  I  cannot  reprove  it ;  and  wise, 
but  for  loving  me. — By  my  troth,  it  is  no  addi- 
tion to  her  wit ; — nor  no  great  argument  of  her 
folly,  for  I  will  be  horribly  in  love  with  her. — 
I  may  chance  have  some  odd  quirks  and  rem- 
nants of  wit  broken  on  me  because  I  have 
railed  so  long  against  marriage  ;  but  doth  not 
the  appetite  alter  ?  A  man  loves  the  meat  in 
his  youth  that  he  cannot  endure  in  his  age. 
Shall  quips,  and  sentences,  and  these  paper 
bullets  of  the  brain  awe  a  man  from  the  career 
of  his  humour  ?  No  :  the  world  must  be 
peopled.  When  I  said  I  would  die  a  bachelor 
I  did  not  think  I  should  live  till  I  were  married. 
— Here  comes  Beatrice.  By  this  day,  she 's  a 
fair  lady  :  I  do  spy  some  marks  of  love  in  her. 

Enter  BEATRICE. 

Beat.  Against  my  will  I  am  sent  to  bid  you 

come  in  to  dinner.  [pains. 

Bene.  Fair  Beatrice,  I  thank  you  for  your 

Beat.  I  took  no  more  pains  for  those  thanks 

than  you  take  pains  to  thank  me  ;   if  it  had 

been  painful  I  would  not  have  come.        [sage  ? 

Bene.  You  take  pleasure,  then,  in  the  mes- 

Beat.  Yea,  just  so  much  as  you  may  take 


upon  a  knife's  point,  and  choke  a  daw  withal. 
— You  have  no  stomach,  signior ;  faie  you  well. 

[Exit. 

Bene.  Ha  !  Against  my  will  I  am  sent  to  bid 
you  come  to  dinner— there 's  a  double  meaning  in 
that.  /  took  no  more  pains  for  those  thanks 
than  you  took  pains  to  thank  me — that 's  as 
much  as  to  say,  Any  pains  that  I  take  for  you  is 
as  easy  as  thanks. — If  I  do  not  take  pity  of  her. 
I  am  a  villain  ;  if  I  do  not  love  her,  I  am  a 
Jew  :  I  will  go  get  her  picture.  [Exit. 

ACT.  III. 

SCENE  L—  LEONATO'S  Garden. 
Enter  HERO,  MARGARET,  and  URSULA. 

Hero.    Good  Margaret,    run  thee  into   the 

parlour  ; 

There  shall  thou  find  my  cousin  Beatrice 
Proposing  with  the  prince  and  Claudio  : 
Whisper  her  ear,  and  tell  her  I  and  Ursula 
Walk  in  the  orchard,  and  our  whole  discourse 
Is  all  of  her  ;  say  that  thou  overheard'st  us  ; 
And  bid  her  steal  into  the  pleached  bower, 
Where  honeysuckles,  ripen'd  by  the  sun, 
Forbid  the  sun  to  enter  ; — like  favourites, 
Made  proud  by  princes,  that  advance  their  pride 
Against  that  power  that  bred  it : — there  will 

she  hide  her, 

To  listen  our  propose.     This  is  thy  office, 
Bear  thee  well  in  it,  and  leave  us  alone. 

Marg.  I  '11  make  her  come,  I  warrant  you, 
presently.  [Exit. 

Hero.  Now,  Ursula,  when  Beatricedoth  come 
As  we  do  trace  this  alley  up  and  down, 
Our  talk  must  only  be  of  Benedick  : 
When  I  do  name  him,  let  it  be  thy  part 
To  praise  him  more  than  ever  man  did  merit : 
My  talk  to  thee  must  be  how  Benedick 
Is  sick  in  love  with  Beatrice.     Of  this  matter 
Is  little  Cupid's  crafty  arrow  made, 
That  only  wounds  by  hearsay.     Now  begin  ; 

Enter  BEATRICE,  behind. 

For  look  where  Beatrice,  like  a  lapwing,  runs 
Close  by  the  ground,  to  hear  our  conference. 

Urs.  The  pleasant'st  angling  is  to  see  the  fish 
Cut  with  her  golden  oars  the  silver  stream, 
And  greedily  devour  the  treacherous  bait : 
So  angle  we  for  Beatrice  ;  who  even  now 
Is  couched  in  the  woodbine  coverture  : 
Fear  you  not  my  part  of  the  dialogue. 

Hero.  Then  go  we  near  her,  that  her  ear  lose 

nothing 
Of  the  false  sweet  bait  that  we  lay  for  it. — 

[  They  advance  to  the  bower. 


ISO 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


[ACT  III. 


No,  truly,  Ursula,  she  is  too  disdainful ; 
I  know  her  spirits  are  as  coy  and  wild 
As  haggards  of  the  rock. 

Urs.  But  are  you  sure 

That  Benedick  loves  Beatrice  so  entirely  ? 

Hero.  So  says  the  prince  and  my  new-trothed 
lord.  [madam  ? 

Urs.  And  did  they  bid  you  tell  her  of  it, 

Hero.  They  did  entreat  me  to  acquaint  her 

of  it ; 

But  I  persuaded  them,  if  they  lov'd  Benedick, 
To  wish  him  wrestle  with  affection, 
And  never  to  let  Beatrice  know  of  it.         [man 

Urs.  Why  did  you  so  ?     Doth  not  the  gentle- 
Deserve  as  full,  as  fortunate  a  bed 
As  ever  Beatrice  shall  couch  upon  ?  [serve 

Hero.  O  God  of  love  !     I  know  he  doth  de- 
As  much  as  may  be  yielded  to  a  man  : 
But  nature  never  framed  a  woman's  heart 
Of  prouder  stuff  than  that  of  Beatrice  : 
Disdain  and  scorn  ride  sparkling  in  her  eyes, 
Misprizing  what  they  look  on  ;  and  her  wit 
Values  itself  so  highly,  that  to  her 
All  matter  else  seems  weak  :  she  cannot  love, 
Nor  take  no  shape  nor  project  of  affection, 
She  is  so  self-endeared. 

Urs.  Sure,  I  think  so  ; 

And  therefore,  certainly,  it  were  not  good 
She  knew  his  love,  lest  she  make  sport  at  it. 

Hero.  Why,  you  speak  truth  :    I  never  yet 
saw  man,  [featured, 

How   wise,   how  noble,    young,   how    rarely 
But  she  would  spell  him  backward :  if  fair-faced, 
She  'd  swear  the  gentleman  should  be  her  sister ; 
If  black,  why,  Nature,  drawing  of  an  antic, 
Made  a  foul  blot  ;  if  tall,  a  lance  ill-headed  ; 
If  low,  an  agate  very  vilely  cut  : 
If  speaking,  why,  a  vane  blown  with  all  winds ; 
If  silent,  why,  a  block  moved  with  none. 
So  turns  she  every  man  the  wrong  side  out  ; 
And  never  gives  to  truth  and  virtue  that 
Which  simpleness  and  merit  purchaseth. 

Urs.  Sure,  sure,  such  carping  is  not  com- 
mendable, [fashions 

Hero.  No :  not  to  be  so  odd  and  from  all 
As  Beatrice  is,  cannot  be  commendable  : 
But  who  dare  tell  her  so  ?     If  I  should  speak, 
She  'd  mock  me  into  air  ;  O,  she  would  laugh 

me 

Out  of  myself,  press  me  to  death  with  wit. 
Therefore  let  Benedick,  like  covered  fire, 
Consume  away  in  sighs,  waste  inwardly  : 
It  were  a  better  death  than  die  with  mocks  ; 
Which  is  as  bad  as  die  with  tickling.  [say. 

Urs.  Yet  tell  her  of  it ;  hear  what  she  will 

Hero.  No  ;  rather  I  will  go  to  Benedick 
And  counsel  him  to  fight  against  his  passion  : 


And,  truly ,  I  '11  devise  some  honest   slanders 
To  stain  my  cousin  with.     One  doth  not  know 
How  much  an  ill  word  may  empoison  liking. 

Urs.  O,  do  not  do  your  cousin  such  a  wrong. 
She  cannot  be  so  much  without  true  judgment, — 
Having  so  swift  and  excellent  a  wit 
As  she  is  priz'd  to  have, — as  to  refuse 
So  rare  a  gentleman  as  Signior  Benedick. 

Hero.  He  is  the  only  man  of  Italy, 
Always  excepted  my  dear  Claudio. 

Urs.  I  pray  you  be  not  angry  with  me,  madam, 
Speaking  my  fancy  ;  Signior  Benedick, 
For  shape,  for  bearing,  argument,  and  valour, 
Goes  foremost  in  report  through  Italy. 

Hero.    Indeed,  he  hath  an  excellent  good 
name.  [it. — 

Urs.  His  excellence  did  earn  it  ere  he  had 
When  are  you  married,  madam  ?  [go  in  ; 

Hero.  Why,  every  day ; — to-morrow.  Come, 
I  '11  show  thee  some  attires,  and  have  thy  counsel 
Which  is  the  best  to  furnish  me  to-morrow. 

Urs.  [Aside.}  She's  lim'd,  I  warrant  you; 
we  have  caught  her,  madam. 

Hero.  If  it  prove  so,  then  loving  goes  by 

haps : 

Some  Cupid  kills  with  arrows,  some  with  traps. 
[Exeunt  HERO  and  URSULA. 

BEATRICE  advances. 

Beat.  What  fire  is  in  mine  ears  ?     Can  this 
be  true  ?  [much  ? 

Stand  I  condemn'd  for  pride,  and  scorn  so 
Contempt,  farewell  !  and  maiden  pride,  adieu ! 

No  glory  lives  behind  the  back  of  such. 
And,  Benedick,  love  on  ;  I  will  requite  thee  ; 

Taming  my  wild  heart  to  thy  loving  hand  : 
If  thou  dost  love,  my  kindness  shall  incite  thee 

To  bind  our  loves  up  in  a  holy  band  : 
For  others  say  thou  dost  deserve,  and  I 
Believe  it  better  than  reportingly.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  LEONATO'S  House. 

Enter  Don  PEDRO,  CLAUDIO,  BENEDICK,  aitd 
LEONATO. 

D.  Pedro.  I  do  but  stay  till  your  marriage  be 
consummate,  and  then  I  go  toward  Arragon. 

Claud.  I'll  bring  you  thither,  my  lord,  if 
you  '11  vouchsafe  me. 

D.  Pedro.  Nay,  that  would  be  as  great  a  soil 
in  the  new  gloss  of  your  marriage  as  to  show  a 
child  his  new  coat,  and  forbid  him  to  wear  it. 
I  will  only  be  bold  with  Benedick  for  his  com- 
pany ;  for,  from  the  crown  of  his  head  to  the 
sole  of  his  foot,  he  is  all  mirth  ;  he  hath  twice 
or  thrice  cut  Cupid's  bow-string,  and  the  little 
hangman  dare  not  shoot  at  him :  he  hath  a  heart 


SCENE  II.] 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


as  sound  as  a  bell,  and  his  tongue  is  the  clapper ; 
for  what  his  heart  thinks  his  tongue  speaks. 

Bene.  Gallants,  I  am  not  as  I  have  been. 

Lewi.  So  say  I  ;  methinks  you  are  sadder. 

Claud.  I  hope  he  be  in  love. 

D.Pedro.  Hang  him,  truant;  there's  no 
true  drop  of  blood  in  him  to  be  truly  touched 
with  love  :  if  he  be  sad  he  wants  money. 

Bene.  I  hav    the  toothache. 

D.  Pedro.  Draw  it. 

Bene.   Hang  it  ! 

Claud.  You  must  hang  it  first  and  draw  it 
afterwards. 

D.  Pedro.  What,  sigh  for  the  toothache  ! 

Leon.  Where  is  but  a  humour  or  a  worm  I 

Bene.  Well,  every  one  can  master  a  grief  but 
he  that  has  it. 

Claud.  Yet,  say  I,  he  is  in  love. 

D.  Pedro.  There  is  no  appearance  of  fancy 
in  him,  unless  it  be  a  fancy  that  he  hath  to 
strange  disguises ;  as,  to  be  a  Dutchman  to-day, 
a  Frenchman  to-morrow,  or  in  the  shape  of  two 
countries  at  once,  as  a  German  from  the  waist 
downward,  all  slops,  and  a  Spaniard  from  the 
hip  upward,  no  doublet.  Unless  he  have  a 
fancy  to  this  foolery,  as  it  appears  he  hath,  he 
is  no  fool  for  fancy,-  as  you  would  have  it  appear 
he  is. 

Claud.  If  he  be  not  in  love  with  some  woman 
there  is  no  believing  old  signs  :  he  brashes  his 
hat  o'  mornings  :  what  should  that  bode  ? 

D.  Pedro.  Hath  any  man  seen  him  at  the 
barber's? 

Claud.  No,  but  the  barber's  man  hath  been 
seen  with  him  ;  and  the  old  ornament  of  his 
cheek  hath  already  stuffed  tennis-balls. 

Leon.  Indeed,  he  looks  younger  than  he  did, 
by  the  loss  of  a  beard. 

D.  Pedro.  Nay,  he  rubs  himself  with  civet. 
Can  you  smell  him  out  by  that  ? 

Claud.  That 's  as  much  as  to  say  the  sweet 
youth 's  in  love. 

D.  Pedro.  The  greatest  note  of  it  is  his 
melancholy.  [face  ? 

Claud.  And  when  was  he  wont  to  wash  his 

D.  Pedro.  Yea,  or  to  paint  himself?  for  the 
which  I  hear  what  they  say  of  him. 

Claud.  Nay,  but  his  jesting  spirit ;  which  is 
now  crept  into  a  lute-string,  and  now  governed 
by  stops. 

D.  Pedro.  Indeed,  that  tells  a  heavy  tale  for 
him  :  conclude,  conclude,  he  is  in  love. 

Claud.  Nay,  but  I  know  who  loves  him. 

D.  Pedro.  That  would  I  know  too ;  I  war- 
rant one  that  knows  him  not. 

Claud.  Yes,  and  his  ill  conditions  ;  and,  in 
despite  of  all,  dies  for  him. 


D.  Pedro.  She  shall  be  buried  with  her  face 
upwards. 

Bene.  Yet  is  this  no  charm  for  the  toothache. 

— Old  signior,  walk   aside  with  me  ;    I  have 

studied  eight  or  nine  wise  words  to  speak  to 

you,  which  these  hobby-horses  must  not  hear. 

{Exeunt  BENEDICK  and  LEONATO. 

D.  Pedro.  For  my  life,  to  break  with  him 
about  Beatrice. 

Claud.  'Tis  even  so  :  Hero  and  Margaret 
have  by  this  played  their  parts  with  Beatrice  ; 
and  then  the  two  bears  will  not  bite  one  another 
when  they  meet. 

' 


Enter  Don  JOHN. 

D.  John.  My  lord  and  brother,  God  save  you. 

D.  Pedro.  Good  den,  brother. 

D.  John.  If  your  leisure  served,  I  would 
speak  with  you. 

D.  Pedro.   In  private  ? 

D.  John.  If  it  please  you ;— yet  Count 
Claudio  may  hear  ;  for  what  I  would  speak  of 
concerns  him. 

D.  Pedro.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

D.  John.  Means  your  lordship  to  be  married 
to-morrow.  ?  [  To  CLAUDIO. 

D.  Pedro.  You  know  he  does. 

D.  John.  I  know  not  that,  when  he  knows 
what  I  know. 

Claud.  If  there  be  any  impediment,  I  pray 
you  discover  it. 

D.  John.  You  may  think  I  love  you  not ;  let 
that  appear  hereafter,  and  aim  better  at  me  by 
that  I  now  will  manifest.  For  my  brother,  I 
think  he  holds  you  well,  and  in  dearness  of 
heart  hath  holp  to  effect  your  ensuing  marriage ; 
surely  suit  ill  spent,  and  labour  ill  bestowed  ! 

D.  Pedro.  Why,  what 's  the  matter? 

D.  John.  I  came  hither  to  tell  you  :  and, 
circumstances  shortened, — for  she  hath  been  too 
long  a-talking  of, — the  lady  is  disloyal. 

Claud.  Who?     Hero? 

D.  John.  Even  she  ;  Leonato's  Hero,  your 
Hero,  every  man's  Hero. 

Claud.   Disloyal? 

D.  John.  The  word  is  too  good  to  paint  out 
her  wickedness  ;  I  could  say  she  were  worse  : 
think  you  of  a  worse  title  and  I  will  fit  her  to 
it.  Wonder  not  till  further  warrant :  go  but 
with  me  to-night,  you  shall  see  her  chamber- 
window  entered,  even  the  night  before  her 
wedding-day  :  if  you  love  her  then,  to-morrow 
wed  her ;  but  it  would  better  fit  your  honour 
to  change  your  mind. 

Claud.  May  this  be  so? 

D.  Pedro.  I  will  not  think  it. 

D.  John.  If  you  dare  not  trust  that  you  see, 


152 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


[ACT  III. 


confess  not  that  you  know  :  if  you  will  follow 
me  I  will  show  you  enough  ;  and  when  you 
have  seen  more,  and  heard  more,  proceed 
accordingly. 

Claud.  If  I  see  anything  to-night  why  I 
should  not  marry  her  to-morrow,  in  the  con- 
gregation where  I  should  wed,  there  will  I 
shame  her. 

D.  Pedro.  And,  as  I  wooed  for  thee  to  ob- 
tain her,  I  will  join  with  thee  to  disgrace  her. 

D.  John.  I  will  disparage  her  no  farther  till 
you  are  my  witnesses :  bear  it  coldly  but  till 
midnight,  and  let  the  issue  show  itself. 

D.  Pedro.  O  day  untowardly  turned  ! 

Claud.  O  mischief  strangely  thwarting  ! 

D.  John.  O  plague  right  well  prevented  ! 
So  will  you  say  when  you  have  seen  the  sequel. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.—  A  Street. 

Enter  DOGBERRY  and  VERGES,  with  the 
Watch. 

Dogb.  Are  you  good  men  and  true  ? 

Verg.  Yea,  or  else  it  were  pity  but  they 
should  suffer  salvation,  body  and  soul. 

Dogb.  Nay,  that  were  a  punishment  too  good 
for  them,  if  they  should  have  any  allegiance  in 
them,  being  chosen  for  the  prince's  watch. 

Verg.  Well,  give  them  their  charge,  neigh- 
bour Dogberry. 

Dogb.  First,  who  think  you  the  most  desert- 
less  man  to  be  constable  ? 

1  Watch.    Hugh   Oatcake,  sir,    or    George 
Seacoal ;  for  they  can  write  and  read. 

Dogb.  Come  hither,  neighbour  Seacoal :  God 
hath  blessed  you  with  a  good  name  :  to  be  a 
well-favoured  man  is  the  gift  of  fortune :  but  to 
write  and  read  comes  by  nature. 

2  Watch.  Both  which,  master  constable, 


Dogb.  You  have  ;  I  knew  it  would  be  your 
answer.  Well,  for  your  favour,  sir,  why,  give 
God  thanks,  and  make  no  boast  of  it ;  and  for 
your  writing  and  reading,  let  that  appear  when 
there  is  no  need  of  such  vanity.  You  are 
thought  here  to  be  the  most  senseless  and  fit 
man  for  the  constable  of  the  watch  ;  therefore 
bear  you  the  lantern.  This  is  your  charge  ; — 
you  shall  comprehend  all  vagrom  men  ;  you 
are  to  bid  any  man  stand,  in  the  prince's  name. 

2   Watch.   How  if  'a  will  not  stand  ? 

Dogb.  Why,  then,  take  no  note  of  him,  but 
let  him  go ;  and  presently  call  the  rest  of  the 
watch  together,  and  thank  God  you  are  rid  of 
a  knave. 

Verg.  If  he  will  not  stand  when  he  is  bidden, 
he  is  none  of  the  prince's  subjects. 


Dogb.  True,  and  they  are  to  meddle  with 
none  but  the  prince's  subjects. — You  shall  also 
make  no  noise  in  the  streets  ;  for  for  the  watch 
to  babble  and  talk  is  most  tolerable  and  not  to 
be  endured. 

2  Watch.  We  will  rather  sleep  than  talk  ; 
we  know  what  belongs  to  a  watch. 

Dogb.  Why,  you  speak  like  an  ancient  and 
most  quiet  watchman  ;  for  I  cannot  see  how 
sleeping  should  offend  :  only,  have  a  care  that 
your  bills  be  not  stolen. — Well,  you  are  to  call 
at  all  the  ale-houses,  and  bid  them  that  are 
drunk  get  them  to  bed. 

2   Watch.   How  if  they  will  not  ? 

Dogb.  Why,  then,  let  them  alone  till  they 
are  sober  ;  if  they  make  you  not  then  the 
better  answer,  you  may  say  they  are  not  the 
men  you  took  them  for. 

2   Watch.  Well,  sir. 

Dogb.  If  you  meet  a  thief,  you  may  suspect 
him,  by  virtue  of  your  office,  to  be  no  true  man : 
and,  for  such  kind  of  men,  the  less  you  meddle 
or  make  with  them,  why,  the  more  is  for  your 
honesty. 

2  Watch.  If  we  know  him  to  be  a  thief, 
shall  we  not  lay  hands  on  him  ? 

Dogb.  Truly,  by  your  office  you  may  ;  but  I 
think  they  that  touch  pitch  will  be  defiled :  the 
most  peaceable  way  for  you,  if  you  do  take  a 
thief,  is  to  let  him  show  himself  what  he  is,  and 
steal  out  of  your  company. 

Verg.  You  have  been  always  called  a  merci- 
ful man,  partner. 

Dogb.  Truly,  I  would  not  hang  a  dog  by  my 
will  ;  much  more  a  man  who  hath  any  honesty 
in  him. 

Verg.  If  you  hear  a  child  cry  in  the  night 
you  must  call  to  the  nurse  and  bid  her  still  it. 

2  Watch.  How  if  the  nurse  be  asleep  and 
will  not  hear  us  ? 

Dogb.  Why,  then,  depart  in  peace,  and  let 
the  child  wake  her  with  crying  :  for  the  ewe 
that  will  not  hear  her  lamb  when  it  baas  will 
never  answer  a  calf  when  he  bleats. 

Verg.  'Tis  very  true. 

Dogb.  This  is  the  end  of  the  charge.  You, 
constable,  are  to  present  the  prince's  own  per- 
son ;  if  you  meet  the  prince  in  the  night  you 
may  stay  him. 

Verg.  Nay,  by  Jr  lady,  that  I  think  'a  cannot. 

Dogb.  Five  shillings  to  one  on 't,  with  any 
man  that  knows  the  statues,  he  may  stay  him  : 
marry,  not  without  the  prince  be  willing  :  for, 
indeed,  the  watch  ought  to  offend  no  man ;  and 
it  is  an  offence  to  stay  a  man  against  his  will. 

Verg.  By  'r  lady,  I  think  it  be  so. 

Dogb.    Ha,  ha,  ha!     Well,  masters,  good 


SCENE  111.] 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


153 


night :  an  there  be  any  matter  of  weight 
chances,  call  up  me :  keep  your  fellows' 
counsels  and  your  own,  and  good  night. — 
Come,  neighbour. 

2  Watch.  Well,  masters,  we  hear  our 
charge  :  let  us  go  sit  here  upon  the  church- 
bench  till  two,  and  then  all  to  bed. 

Dogb.  One  word  more,  honest  neighbours  : 
I  pray  you,  watch  about  Signior  Leonato's 
door  ;  for  the  wedding  being  there  to-morrow, 
there  is  a  great  coil  to-night.  Adieu,  be  vigi- 
lant, I  beseech  you. 

[Exeunt  DOGBERRY  and  VERGES. 

Enter  BORACHIO  and  CONRADE. 

Bora.  What,  Conrade  ! — 

Watch.  Peace,  stir  not.  [Aside. 

Bora.  Conrade,  I  say  ! 

Con.   Here,  man,  I  am  at  thy  elbow. 

Bora.  Mass,  and  my  elbow  itched;  I  thought 
there  would  a  scab  follow. 

Con.  I  will  owe  thee  an  answer  for  that ;  and 
now  forward  with  thy  tale. 

Bora.  Stand  thee  close  then  under  this  pent- 
house, for  it  drizzles  rain  ;  and  I  will,  like  a 
true  drunkard,  utter  all  to  thee. 

Watch.  [Aside.]  Some  treason,  masters; 
yet  stand  close. 

Bora.  Therefore  know,  I  have  earned  of  Don 
John  a  thousand  ducats.  [so  dear  ? 

Con.  Is  it  possible  that  any  villany  should  be 

Bora.  Thou  shouldst  rather  ask  if  it  were 
possible  any  villany  should  be  so  rich;  for  when 
rich  villains  have  need  of  poor  ones,  poor  ones 
may  make  what  price  they  will. 

Con.  I  wonder  at  it. 

Bora.  That  shows  thou  ait  unconfirmed. 
Thou  knowest  that  the  fashion  of  a  doublet,  or 
a  hat,  or  a  cloak  is  nothing  to  a  man. 

Con.  Yes,  it  is  apparel. 

Bora.  I  mean  the  fashion. 

Con.  Yes,  the  fashion  is  the  fashion. 

Bora.  Tush  !  I  may  as  well  say  the  fool 's 
the  fool.  But  seest  thou  not  what  a  deformed 
thief  this  fashion  is  ? 

Watch.  I  know  that  Deformed  ;  'a  has  been 
a  vile  thief  this  seven  year  ;  'a  goes  up  and 
down  like  a  gentleman :  I  remember  his  name. 

Bora.  Didst  thou  not  hear  somebody  ? 

Con.  No  ;  'twas  the  vane  on  the  house. 

Bora.  Seest  thou  not,  I  say,  what  a  deformed 
thief  this  fashion  is  ?  how  giddily  he  turns  about 
all  the  hot  bloods  between  fourteen  and  five- 
and-thirty  ?  sometimes  fashioning  them  like 
Pharaoh's  soldiers  in  the  reechy  painting;  some- 
times like  god  Bel's  priests  in  the  old  church 
window  ;  sometimes  like  the  shaven  Hercules 


in  the  smirched  worm-eaten  tapestry,  where  his 
cod-piece  seems  as  massy  as  his  club  ? 

Con.  All  this  I  see  ;  and  see  that  the  fashion 
wears  out  more  apparel  than  the  man.  But  art 
not  thou  thyself  giddy  with  the  fashion  too,  that 
thou  hast  shifted  out  of  thy  tale  into  telling  me 
of  the  fashion  ? 

Bora.  Not  so  neither  ;  but  know  that  I  have 
to-night  wooed  Margaret,  the  Lady  Hero's 
gentlewoman,  by  the  name  of  Hero  ;  she  leans 
me  out  at  her  mistress's  chamber-window,  bids 
me  a  thousand  times  good  night, — I  tell  this 
tale  vilely  : — I  should  first  tell  thee,  how  the 
prince,  Claudio,  and  my  master,  planted  and 
placed  and  possessed  by  my  master  Don  John, 
saw  afar  off  in  the  orchard  this  amiable  en- 
counter. 

Con.  And  thought  they  Margaret  was  Hero? 

Bora.  Two  of  them  did,  the  prince  and 
Claudio ;  but  the  devil  my  master  knew  she 
was  Margaret ;  and  partly  by  his  oaths,  which 
first  possessed  them,  partly  by  the  dark  night, 
which  did  deceive  them,  but  chiefly  by  my 
villany,  which  did  confirm  any  slander  that 
Don  John  had  made,  away  went  Claudio  en- 
raged ;  swore  he  would  meet  her,  as  he  was 
appointed,  next  morning  at  the  temple,  and 
there,  before  the  whole  congregation,  shame 
her  with  what  he  saw  over-night,  and  send  her 
home  again  without  a  husband. 

1  Watch.    We  charge   you   in   the   prince's 
name,  stand. 

2  Watch.  Call  up  the  right  master  constable: 
we  have  here  recovered  the  most   dangerous 
piece  of  lechery  that  ever  was  known  in  the 
commonwealth. 

1  Watch.  And  one  Deformed  is  one  of  them; 
I  know  him,  'a  wears  a  lock. 

Con.  Masters,  masters ! 

2  Watch.  You'll  be  made  bring  Deformed 
forth,  I  warrant  you. 

Con.  Masters, — 

I  Watch.  Never  speak  ;  we  charge  you,  let 
us  obey  you  to  go  with  us. 

Bora.  We  are  like  to  prove  a  goodly  commo- 
dity, being  taken  up  of  these  men's  bills. 

Con.  A  commodity  in  question,  I  warrant 
you.  Come,  we  '11  obey  you.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — A  Room  in  LEONATO'S  House. 
Enter  HERO,  MARGARET,  and  URSULA. 

Hero.  Good  Ursula,  wake  my  cousin  Beat- 
rice, and  desire  her  to  rise. 
Urs.   I  will,  lady. 

Hero.  And  bid  her  come  hither. ;  o»V 
UTS.  Well.  {Exit  URSULA, 


154 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


[ACT  HI. 


Marg.  Troth,  I  think  your  other  rabato  were 
better.  [this. 

Hero.  No,  pray  thee,  good  Meg,  I  '11  wear 

Marg.  By  my  troth,  it 's  not  so  good  ;  and  I 
warrant  your  cousin  will  say  so. 

Hero.  My  cousin 's  a  fool,  and  thou  art  an- 
other ;  I  '11  wear  none  but  this. 

Marg.  I  like  the  new  tire  within  excellently, 
if  the  hair  were  a  thought  browner  :  and  your 
gown 's  a  most  rare  fashion,  i'  faith.  I  saw  the 
Duchess  of  Milan's  gown  that  they  praise  so. 

Hero.  O,  that  exceeds,  they  say. 

Marg.  By  my  troth,  it 's  but  a  night-gown  in 
respect  of  yours.  Cloth  of  gold,  and  cuts,  and 
laced  with  silver;  set  with  pearls,  down-sleeves, 
side-sleeves,  and  skirts  round,  underborne  with 
a  blueish  tinsel :  but  for  a  fine,  quaint,  graceful, 
and  excellent  fashion,  yours  is  worth  ten  on 't. 

Hero.  God  give  me  joy  to  wear  it,  for  my 
heart  is  exceeding  heavy  ! 

Marg.  'Twill  be  heavier  soon,  by  the  weight 
of  a  man. 

Hero.  Fie  upon  thee  !  art  not  ashamed  ? 

Marg.  Of  what,  lady  ?  of  speaking  honour- 
ably ?  Is  not  marriage  honourable  in  a  beggar? 
Is  not  your  lord  honourable  without  marriage? 
I  think,  you  would  have  me  say,  saving  your 
reverence, — a  husband:  an  bad  thinking  do  not 
wrest  true  speaking  I  '11  offend  nobody.  Is 
there  any  harm  in — the  heavier  for  a  husband? 
None,  I  think,  an  it  be  the  right  husband  and 
the  right  wife ;  otherwise  'tis  light,  and  not 
heavy.  Ask  my  Lady  Beatrice  else, — here  she 
comes. 

Enter  BEATRICE. 

Hero.  Good  morrow,  coz. 

Beat.  Good  morrow,  sweet  Hero. 

Hero.  Why,  how  now  !  do  you  speak  in  the 
sick  tune  ? 

Beat.  I  am  out  of  all  other  tune,  methinks. 

Marg.  Clap 's  into  Light  a'  love ;  that  goes 
without  a  burden  :  do  you  sing  it  and  I  '11  dance 
it. 

Beat.  Yea,  Light  o'  love,  with  your  heels  ! — 
then  if  your  husband  have  stables  enough,  you  Ml 
see  he  shall  lack  no  barns. 

Marg.  O  illegitimate  construction  !  1  scorn 
that  with  my  heels. 

Beat.  'Tis  almost  five  o'clock,  cousin ;  'tis 
time  you  were  ready.  By  my  troth,  I  am  ex- 
ceeding ill : — hey-ho  ! 

Marg.  For  a  hawk,  a  horse,  or  a  husband  ? 

Beat.  For  the  letter  that  begins  them  all,  H. 

Marg.  Well,  an  you  be  not  turned  Turk, 
there 's  no  more  sailing  by  the  star. 

Beat.  What  means  the  fool,  trow  ? 


Marg.  Nothing  I ;  but  God  send  every  one 
their  heart's  desire  ! 

Hero.  These  gloves  the  count  sent  me  ;  they 
are  an  excellent  perfume. 

Beat.  I  am  stuffed,  cousin,  I  cannot  smell. 

Marg.  A  maid  and  stuffed  !  there 's  goodly 
catching  of  cold. 

Beat.  O,  God  help  me  !  God  help  me  !  how 
long  have  you  professed  apprehension  ? 

Marg.  Ever  since  you  left  it : — doth  not  my 
wit  become  me  rarely  ? 

Beat.  It  is  not  seen  enough;  you  should  wear 
it  in  your  cap. — By  my  troth,  I  am  sick. 

Marg.  Get  you  some  of  this  distilled  Carduus 
Benedictus  and  lay  it  to  your  heart ;  it  is  the 
only  thing  for  a  qualm. 

Hero.  There  thou  prick'st  her  with  a  thistle. 

Beat.  Benedictus!  why  Benedictus?  you  have 
some  moral  in  this  Benedictus. 

Marg.  Moral  ?  no,  by  my  troth,  I  have  no 
moral  meaning ;  I  meant  plain  holy-thistle. 
You  may  think,  perchance,  that  I  think  you  are 
in  love :  nay,  by  'r  lady,  I  am  not  such  a  fool 
to  think  what  I  list ;  nor  I  list  not  to  think  what 
I  can  ;  nor,  indeed,  I  cannot  think,  if  I  would 
think  my  heart  out  of  thinking,  that  you  are  in 
love,  or  that  you  will  be  in  love,  or  that  you 
can  be  in  love  :  yet  Benedick  was  such  another, 
and  now  is  he  become  a  man  :  he  swore  he 
would  never  marry  ;  and  yet  now,  in  despite  of 
his  heart,  he  eats  his  meat  without  grudging : 
and  how  you  may  be  converted  I  know  not ; 
but  methinks  you  look  with  your  eyes  as  other 
women  do.  [keeps? 

Beat.    What  pace  is  this   that   thy  tongue 

Marg.  Not  a  false  gallop. 

Re-enter  URSULA. 

Urs.  Madam,  withdraw;  the  prince,  the 
count,  Signior  Benedick,  Don  John,  and  all 
the  gallants  of  the  town  are  come  to  fetch  you 
to  church. 

Hero.  Help  to  dress  me,  good  coz,  good 
Meg,  good  Ursula.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.—  Another  Room  in   LEONATO'S 
House. 

Enter  LEONATO,  with  DOGBERRY  and  VERGES. 

Leon.  What  would  you  with  me,  honest 
neighbour  ? 

Dogb.  Marry,  sir,  I  would  have  some  confi- 
dence with  you  that  decerns  you  nearly. 

Leon.  Brief,  I  pray  you ;  for  you  see  'tis  a 
busy  time  with  me. 

Dogb.  Marty,  this  it  is,  sir. 

Verg.  Yes,  in  truth  it  is,  sir. 


SCENE  V.] 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


Leon.   What  is  it,  my  good  friends  ? 

Dogb.  Goodman  Verges,  sir,  speaks  a  little 
off  the  matter  :  an  old  man,  sir,  and  his  wits 
are  not  so  blunt  as,  God  help,  I  would  desire 
they  were  ;  but,  in  faith,  honest  as  the  skin 
between  his  brows. 

Verg.  Yes,  I  thank  God  I  am  as  honest  as 
any  man  living  that  is  an  old  man  and  no 
honester  than  J. 

Dogb.  Comparisons  are  odorous :  palabras, 
neighbour  Verges. 

Leon.  Neighbours,  you  are  tedious. 

Dogb.  It  pleases  your  worship  to  say  so,  but 
we  are  the  poor  duke's  officers  :  but,  truly,  for 
mine  own  part,  if  I  were  as  tedious  as  a  king,  I 
could  find  in  my  heart  to  bestow  it  all  of  year 
worship. 

Leon.  All  thy  tediousness  on  me  !  ha  ! 

Dogb.  Yea,  and  'twere  a  thousand  times  more 
than  'tis :  for  I  hear  as  good  exclamation  on 
your  worship  as  of  any  man  in  the  city  ;  and 
though  I  be  but  a  poor  man,  I  am  glad  to  hear 
it. 

Verg.  And  so  am  I.  [say. 

Leon.   I  would  fain  know  what  you  have  to 

Verg.  Marry,  sir,  our  watch  to-night,  except- 
ing your  worship's  presence,  have  ta'en  a  couple 
of  as  arrant  knaves  as  any  in  Messina. 

Dogb.  A  good  old  man,  sir  ;  he  will  be  talk- 
ing ;  as  they  say,  When  the  age  is  in  the  wit  is 
out ;  God  help  us  !  if  is  a  world  to  see  ! — Well 
said,  i'  faith,  neighbour  Verges: — well,  God 's  a 
good  man  ;  an  two  men  ride  of  a  horse,  one 
must  ride  behind. — An  honest  soul,  i'  faith,  sir; 
by  my  troth  he  is.  as  ever  broke  bread:  but  God 
is  to  be  worshipped.  All  men  are  not  alike, — 
alas,  good  neighbour  !  [of  you. 

Leon.  Indeed,  neighbour,  he  comes  too  short 

Dogb.  Gifts  that  God  gives. 

Leon.   I  must  leave  you. 

Dogb.  One  word,  sir :  our  watch,  sir,  have 
indeed  comprehended  two  auspicious  persons, 
and  we  would  have  them  this  morning  examined 
before  your  worship. 

Leon.  Take  their  examination  yourself,  and 
bring  it  me  ;  I  am  now  in  great  haste,  as  it  may 
appear  unto  you. 

Dogb.  It  shall  be  suffigance.  [well. 

Leon.  Drink  some  wine  ere  you  go:  fare  you 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord,  they  stay  for  you  to  give  your 
daughter  to  her  husband. 

Leon.  I  will  wait  upon  them  ;  I  am  ready. 

[Exeunt  LEON,  and  Messenger. 

Dogb.    Go,  good   partner,   go,  get  you   to 

Francis  Seacoal ;  bid  him  bring  his  pen  and 


inkhorn  to  the  gaol :  we  are  now  to  examina- 
tion these  men. 

Verg.  And  we  must  do  it  wisely. 
Dogb.  We  will  spare  for  no  wit,  I  warrant 
you;  here's  that  [touching  his  forehead]  shall 
drive  some  of  them  to  a  non  com  .  only  get  the 
learned  writer  to  set  down  our  excommunication, 
and  meet  me  at  the  gaol.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.— The  inside  of  a  Chunk. 

Enter  Don  PEDRO,  Don  JOHN,  LEONATO, 
FRIAR,  CLAUDIO.  BENEDICK.  HERO,  and 
BEATRICE,  &-'<. 

Leon.  Come,  Friar  Francis,  be  brief ;  only 
to  the  plain  form  of  marriage,  and  you  shall  re- 
count their  particular  duties  afterwards. 

Friar.  You  come  hither,  my  lord,  to  marry 
this  lady  ? 

Claud.  No.  [to  marry  her. 

Leon.  To  be  married  to  her,  friar  ;  you  come 

Friar.  Lady,  you  come  hither  to  be  married 
to  this  count? 

Hero.  I  do. 

Friar.  If  either  of  you  know  any  inward  im- 
pediment why  you  should  not  be  conjoined  J 
charge  you,  on  your  souls,  to  utter  it. 

Claud.  Know  you  any,  Hero  ? 

Hero.  None,  my  lord. 

Friar    Know  you  any,  count  ? 

Leon.   I  dare  make  his  answer,  none. 

Claud.  O,  what  men  dare  do  !  what  men 
may  do  !  what  men  daily  do  !  not  knowing 
what  they  do  ! 

Bene.  How  now  !  Interjections  ?  Why; 
then,  some  be  of  laughing,  as,  ha  !  ha  !  he  5 

Claud.    Stand  thee   by,  friar  : — Father,  by 

your  leave  ; 

Will  you  with  free  and  unconstrained  scui 
Give  me  this  maid,  your  daughter  ? 

Leon.  As  freely,  son,  as  God  did  give  her  me. 

Claud.  And  what  have  I  to  give  you  back, 

whose  worth 
May  counterpoise  this  rich  and  precious  gift  ? 

D.  Pedro.    Nothing,  unless  you  render  her 
again.  [thankfulness. — 

Claud.   Sweet  prince,  you  learn  me  noble 
There,  Leonato,  take  her  back  again  ; 
Give  not  this  rotten  orange  to  your  friend  ; 
She 's    but  the   sign    and    semblance  of  her 

honour. — 

Behold,  how  like  a  maid  she  blushes  here  1 
O,  what  authority  and  show  of  truth 
Can  cunning  sin  cover  itself  withal  ! 
Comes  not  that  blood  as  modest  evidence 


156 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


[ACT  iv. 


To  witness  simple  virtue?  Would  you  notswear, 
All  you  that  see  her,  that  she  were  a  maid, 
By  these  exterior  shows  ?     But  she  is  none  : 
She  knows  the  heat  of  a  luxurious  bed  : 
Her  blush  is  guiltiness;  not  modesty. 

Leon.  What  do  you  mean,  my  lord  ? 

Claud.  Not  to  be  married, 

Not  to  knit  my  soul  to  an  approved  wanton. 

Leon.  Dear,  my  lord,  if  you,  in  your  own 

proof, 

Have  vanquish'd  the  resistance  of  her  youth, 
And  made  defeat  of  her  virginity, 

Claud.  I  know  what  you  would  say  :  if  I 

have  known  her, 

You  '11  say,  she  did  embrace  me  as  a  husband, 
And  so  extenuate  the  'forehand  sin  : 
No,  Leonato, 

I  never  tempted  her  with  word  too  large  ; 
But,  as  a  brother  to  his  sister,  show'd 
Bashful  sincerity  and  comely  love. 

Hero.  And  seem'd  I  ever  otherwise  to  you  f 

Claud.  Out  on  thy  seeming  !     I  will  write 

against  it : 

You  seem  to  me  as  Dian  in  her  orb  ; 
As  chaste  as  is  the  bud  ere  it  be  blown  ; 
But  you  are  more  intemperate  in  your  blood 
Than  Venus,  or  those  pamper'd  animals 
That  rage  in  savage  sensuality.  [so  wide  ? 

Hero.   Is  my  lord  well,  that  he  doth  speak 

Claud.   Sweet  prince,  why  speak  not  you  ? 

D.  Pedro.  What  should  I  speak  ? 

I  stand  dishonour'd,  that  have  gone  about 
To  link  my  dear  friend  to  a  common  stale. 

Leon.  Are  these  things  spoken  ?  or  do  I  but 
dream  ? 

D.John.    Sir,    they  are  spoken,  and  these 
things  are  true. 

Bene.  This  looks  not  like  a  nuptial. 

Hero.  True  !— O  God  ! 

Claud.  Leonato,  stand  I  here  ?  [brother  ? 
Is  this  the  prince  ?  Is  this  the  prince's 
Is  this  face  Hero's  ?  Are  our  eyes  our  own  ? 

Leon.  All  this  is  so  ;  but  what  of  this,  my 
lord  ?  [your  daughter  ; 

Claud.    Let  me  but  move  one  question  to 
And,  by  that  fatherly  and  kindly  power 
That  you  have  in  her,  bid  her  answer  truly. 

Leon.   I  charge  thee  do  so,  as  thou  art  my 
child. 

Hero.  O  God  defend  me !  how  am  I  beset ! — 
What  kind  of  catechising  call  you  this  ? 

Claud.  To  make  you  answer  truly  to  your 
name.  [name 

Hero.  Is  it  not  Hero  ?  Who  can  blot  that 
With  any  just  reproach  ? 

Claud.  Marry,  that  can  Hero  ; 

Hero  itself  can  blot  out  Hero's  virtue. 


What  man  was  he  talk'd  with  you  yesternight 
Out  at  your  window,  betwixt  twelve  and  one  ? 
Now,  if  you  are  a  maid,  answer  to  this. 

Hero.  I  talk'd  with  no  man  at  that  hour,  my 
lord.  [Leonato, 

D.  Pedro.   Why,  then  are  you  no  maiden. — 
I  am  sorry  you  must  hear  :  upon  mine  honour, 
Myself,  my  brother,  and  this  grieved  count, 
Did  see  her,  hear  her,  at  that  hour  last  night, 
Talk  with  a  ruffian  at  her  chamber-window  ; 
Who  hath,  indeed,  most  like  a  liberal  villain, 
Confess'd  the  vile  encounters  they  have  had 
A  thousand  times  in  secret. 

D.  John.  Fie,  fie  !  they  are 

Not  to  be  named,  my  lord,  not  to  be  spoke  of ; 
There  is  not  chastity  enough  in  language, 
Without  offence,  to  utter  them.     Tnus,  pretty 

lady, 
I  am  sorry  for  thy  much  misgovernment. 

Claud.  O  Hero  !   what  a  Hero  hadst  thou 

been 

If  half  thy  outward  graces  had  been  placed 
About  thy  thoughts  and  counsels  of  thy  heart ! 
But  fare  thee  well,  most  foul,  most  fair !  fare- 
well, 

Thou  pure  impiety  and  impious  purity  ! 
For  thee  I  '11  lock  up  all  the  gates  of  love, 
And  on  my  eyelids  shall  conjecture  hang, 
To  turn  all  beauty  into  thoughts  of  harm, 
And  never  shall  it  more  be  gracious. 

Leon.   Hath  no  man's  dagger  here  a  point 
for  me  ?  [HERO  swoons. 

Beat.  Why,   how  now,    cousin  ?    wherefore 
sink  you  down  ? 

D.  John.    Come,  let  us  go :    these  things. 

come  thus  to  light, 
Smother  her  spirits  up. 

[Exeunt  D.  PEDRO,  D.  JOHN,  and  CLAUD. 

Bene.  How  doth  the  lady  ? 

Beat.  Dead,  I  think  ; — help,  uncle  ; — 

Hero  !    why,  Hero  ! — Uncle  ! — Signior  Bene- 
dick ! — friar  ! 

Leon.  O  fate,  take  not  away  thy  heavy  hand  ! 
Death  is  the  fairest  cover  for  her  shame 
That  may  be  wish'd  for. 

Beat.  How  now,  cousin  Hero  ? 

Friar.   Have  comfort,  lady. 

Leon.  Dost  thou  look  up  ? 

Friar.  Yea  ;  wherefore  should  she  not  ? 

Leon.    Wherefore  !      Why,   doth  not  every 

earthly  thing 

Cry  shame  upon  her  ?     Could  she  here  deny 
The  story  that  is  printed  in  her  blood  ? — 
Do  not  live,  Hero  ;  do  not  ope  thine  eyes  : 
For  did  I  think  thou  wouldst  not  quickly  die, 
Thought  I  thy  spirits  were  stronger  than  thy 
shames, 


SCENE  I.] 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


157 


Myself  would,  on  the  rearward  of  reproaches, 
Strike  at  thy  life.     Griev'd  I  I  had  but  one  ? 
Chid  I  for  that  at  frugal  nature's  frame  ? 
O,  one  too  much  by  thee  !     Why  had  I  one  ? 
Why  ever  wast  thou  lovely  in  my  eyes  ? 
Why  had  I  not,  with  charitable  hand, 
Took  up  a  beggar's  issue  at  my  gates  ; 
Who,  smirched  thus  and  mir'd  with  infamy, 
I  might  have  said,  No  part  of  it  is  mine  ; 
This  shame  derives  itself  from  unknown  loins  ? 
But  mine,  and  mine  I  lov'd,  and  mine  I  prais'd, 
And  mine  that  I  was  proud  on  ;  mine  so  much 
That  I  myself  was  to  myself  not  mine, 
Valuing  of  her  ;  why,  she — O,  she  is  fallen 
Into  a  pit  of  ink,  that  the  wide  sea 
Hath  drops  too  few  to  wash  her  clean  again, 
And  salt  too  little,  which  may  season  give 
To  her  foul  tainted  flesh  ! 

Bene.  Sir,  sir,  be  patient : 

For  my  part,  I  am  so  attir'd  in  wonder 
I  know  not  what  to  say. 

Beat.  O,  on  my  soul,  my  cousin  is  belied  ! 

Bene.    Lady,  were  you  her   bedfellow  last 
night  ?  [night » 

Beat.    No,   truly  not :    although,  until  last 
I  have  this  twelvemonth  been  her  bedfellow. 

Leon.   Confirm'd,    confirm'd  !     O,    that    is 

stronger  made 

Which  was  before  barr'd  up  with  ribs  of  iron  ! 
Would  the  two  princes  lie  ?  and  Claudio  lie, 
Who  lov'd  her  so  that,  speaking  of  her  foulness, 
Wash'd  it  with  tears  ?     Hence  from  her  !  let 
her  die. 

Friar.  Hear  me  a  little  ; 
For  I  have  only  been  silent  so  long, 
And  given  way  unto  this  course  of  fortune, 
By  noting  of  the  lady  :  I  have  mark'd 
A  thousand  blushing  apparitions  start 
Into  her  face  ;  a  thousand  innocent  shames 
In  angel  whiteness  bear  away  those  blushes  ; 
And  in  her  eye  there  hath  appear'd  a  fire 
To  burn  the  errors  that  these  princes  hold 
Against  her  maiden  truth.     Call  me  a  fool  j 
Trust  not  my  reading,  nor  my  observation, 
Which  with  experimental  seal  doth  warrant 
The  tenor  of  my  book  ;  trust  not  my  age, 
My  reverence,  calling,  nor  divinity, 
If  this  sweet  lady  lie  not  guiltless  here 
Under  some  biting  error. 

Leon.  Friar,  it  cannot  be  : 

Thou  seest  that  all  the  grace  that  she  hath  left 
Is  that  she  will  not  add  to  her  damnation 
A  sin  of  perjury  ;  she  not  denies  it : 
Why  seek'st  thou  then  to  cover  with  excuse 
That  which  appears  in  proper  nakedness  ? 

Friar.    Lady,    what    man   is    he    you    are 
accused  of? 


Hero.  They  know   that   do  accuse   me  ;    I 

know  none : 

If  I  know  more  of  any  man  alive 
Than  that  which  maiden  modesty  doth  warrant, 
Let  all  my  sins  lack  mercy  ! — O  my  father, 
Prove  you  that  any  man  with  me  convers'd 
At  hours  unmeet,  or  that  I  yesternight 
Maintained    the   change    of  words   with    any 

creature, 
Refuse  me,  hate  me,  torture  me  to  death  ! 

Friar.  There  is  some  strange  misprision  in 
the  princes.  [honour  ; 

Bene.  Two  of  them  have  the  very  bent  of 
And  if  their  wisdoms  be  misled  in  this, 
The  practice  of  it  lives  in  John  the  bastard, 
W'hose  spirits  toil  in  frame  of  villanies. 

Leon.  I  know  not.      If  they  speak  but  truth 
of  her,  [honour, 

These  hands  shall  tear  her  ;  if  they  wrong  her 
The  proudest  of  them  shall  well  hear  of  it. 
Time  hath  not  yet  so  dried  this  blood  of  mine, 
Nor  age  so  eat  up  my  invention, 
Nor  fortune  made  such  havoc  of  my  means, 
Nor  my  bad  life  reft  me  so  much  of  friends, 
But  they  shall  find,  awak'd  in  such  a  kind, 
Both  strength  of  limb  and  policy  of  mind, 
Ability  in  means  and  choice  of  friends, 
To  quit  me  of  them  throughly. 

Friar.  Pause  awhile, 

And  let  my  counsel  sway  you  in  this  case. 
Your  daughter  here  the  princes  left  for  dead  ; 
Let  her  awhile  be  secretly  kept  in, 
And  publish  it  that  she  is  dead  indeed  : 
Maintain  a  mourning  ostentation, 
And  on  your  family's  old  monument 
Hang  mournful  epitaphs,  and  do  all  rites 
That  appertain  unto  a  burial. 

Leon.    What  shall  become  of  this?      What 
will  this  do  ?  [behalf 

Friar.   Marry,  this,  well  carried,  shall  on  her 
Change  slander  to  remorse ;  that  is  some  good ; 
But  not  for  that  dream  I  on  this  strange  course, 
But  on  this  travail  look  for  greater  birth. 
She  dying,  as  it  must  be  so  maintain'd, 
Upon  the  instant  that  she  was  accus'd, 
Shall  be  lamented,  pitied,  and  excus'd 
Of  every  hearer :  for  it  so  falls  out 
That  what  we  have  we  prize  not  to  the  worth 
Whiles  we  enjoy  it  ;  but  being  lack'd  and  lost, 
Why,  then  we  rack  the  value  ;  then  we  find 
The  virtue  that  possession  would  not  show  us 
Whiles  it  was  ours.     So  will  it  fare  with  Claudio : 
When  he  shall  hear  she  died  upon  his  words, 
The  idea  of  her  life  shall  sweetly  creep 
Into  his  study  of  imagination  ; 
And  every  lovely  organ  of  her  life 
Shall  come  apparell'd  in  more  precious  habit 


158 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


[ACT  iv. 


More  moving  delicate,  and  full  of  life, 
Into  the  eye  and  prospect  of  his  soul, 
Than  when  she  liv'd  indeed  : — then  shall  he 

mourn, — 

If  ever  love  had  interest  in  his  liver, — 
And  wish  he  had  not  so  accused  her  ; 
No,  though  he  thought  his  accusation  true. 
Let  this  be  so,  and  doubt  not  but  success 
Will  fashion  the  event  in  better  shape 
Than  I  can  lay  it  down  in  likelihood. 
But  if  all  aim  but  this  be  levell'd  false, 
The  supposition  of  the  lady's  death 
Will  quench  the  wonder  of  her  infamy  : 
And,  if  it  sort  not  well,  you  may  conceal  her, — 
As  best  befits  her  wounded  reputation, — 
In  some  reclusive  and  religious  life, 
Out  of  all  eyes,  tongues,  minds,  and  injuries. 

Bene.  Signior  Leonato,  let  the  friar  advise 

you  ; 

And  though  you  know  my  inwardness  and  love 
Is  very  much  unto  the  prince  and  Claudio, 
Yet,  by  mine  honour,  I  will  deal  in  this 
As  secretly  and  justly  as  your  soul 
Should  with  your  body. 

Leon.  Being  that  I  flow  in  grief 

The  smallest  twine  may  lead  me. 

Friar.  'Tis  well  consented ;  presently  away ; 

For  to  strange  sores  strangely  they  strain  the 

cure. — 
Come,  lady,  die  to  live  :  this  wedding-day 

Perhaps  is  but  prolonged ;  have  patience,  and 
endure. 
[Exeunt  FRIAR,  HERO,  and  LEON. 

Bene.  Lady  Beatrice,  have  you  wept  all  this 
while  ? 

Beat.  Yea,  and  I  will  weep  a  while  longer. 

Bene.  I  will  not  desire  that. 

Beat.  You  have  no  reason  ;  I  do  it  freely. 

Bene.  Surely,  I  do  believe  your  fair  cousin 
is  wrong'd. 

Beat.  Ah,  how  much  might  the  man  deserve 
of  me  that  would  right  her  ! 

Bene.  Is  there  any  way  to  show  such  friend- 
ship? 

Beat.  A  very  even  way,  but  no  such  friend. 

Bene.  May  a  man  do  it  ? 

Beat.   It  is  a  man's  office,  but  not  yours. 

Bene.  I  do  love  nothing  in  the  world  so  well 
as  you.  Is  not  that  strange  ? 

Beat.  As  strange  as  the  thing  I  know  not. 
It  were  as  possible  for  me  to  say  I  loved  noth- 
ing so  well  as  you  :  but  believe  me  not  ;  and 
yet  I  lie  not ;  I  confess  nothing,  nor  I  deny 
nothing. — I  am  sorry  for  my  cousin. 

Bene.  By  my  sword,  Beatrice,  thou  lovest  me. 

Beat.  Do  not  swear  by  it  and  eat  it. 

Bene.  I  will  swear  by  it  that  you  love  me  ; 


and  I  will  make  him  eat  it  that  says  I  love  not 
you. 

Beat.  Will  you  not  eat  your  word  ?      I  £»j 

Bene.  With  no  sauce  that  can  be  devised  to 
it :  I  protest  I  love  thee. 

Beat.  Why,  then,  God  forgive  me  ! 

Bene.  What  offence,  sweet  Beatrice  ? 

Beat.  You  have  stayed  me  in  a  happy  hour  : 
I  was  about  to  protest  I  loved  you. 

Bene.  And  do  it  with  all  thy  heart  ? 

Beat.  I  love  you  with  so  much  of  my  heart 
that  none  is  left  to  protest. 

Bene.   Come,  bid  me  do  anything  for  thee. 

Beat.   Kill  Claudio. 

Bene.    Ha  !  not  for  the  wide  world. 

Beat.  You  kill  me  to  deny  it.     Farewell. 

Bene.   Tarry,  sweet  Beatrice. 

Beat.  I  am  gone  though  I  am  here  ; — there 
is  no  love  in  you  : — nay,  I  pray  you,  let  me  go. 

Bene.   Beatrice, — 

Beat.    In  faith,  I  will  go. 

Bene.  We  '11  be  friends  first. 

Beat.  You  dare  easier  be  friends  with  me 
than  fight  with  mine  enemy. 

Bene.   Is  Claudio  thine  enemy  ? 

Beat.  Is  he  not  approved  in  the  height  a 
villain  that  hath  slandered,  scorned,  dishonoured 
my  kinswoman  ? — O  that  I  were  a  man  ! — 
What  !  bear  her  in. hand  until  they  come  to 
take  hands,  and  then  with  public  accusation, 
uncovered  slander,  unmitigated  rancour, — O 
God,  that  I  were  a  man  !  I  would  eat  his  heart 
in  the  market-place  ! 

Bene.  Hear  me,  Beatrice  ; — 

Beat.  Talk  with  a  man  out  at  a  window  ! — a 
proper  saying  ! 

Bene.  Nay  but,  Beatrice  ; — 

Beat.  Sweet  Hero  ! — she  is  wronged,  she  is 
slandered,  she  is  undone. 

Bene.   Beat— 

Beat.  Princes  and  counties !  Surely,  a 
princely  testimony,  a  goodly  count. -confect ;  a 
sweet  gallant,  surely  !  O  that  I  were  a  man 
for  his  sake  !  or  that  I  had  any  friend  would  be 
a  man  for  my  sake  !  But  manhood  is  melted 
into  courtesies,  valour  into  compliment,  and 
men  are  only  turned  into  tongue,  and  trim  ones 
too  :  he  is  now  as  valiant  as  Hercules  that  only 
tells  a  lie  and  swears  it. — I  cannot  be  a  man 
with  wishing,  therefore  I  will  die  a  woman 
with  grieving.  [I  love  thee. 

Bene.  Tarry,  good  Beatrice.     By  this  hand, 

Beat.  Use 'it  for  my  love  some  other  way 
than  swearing  by  it. 

Bene.  Think  you  in  your  soul  the  Count 
Claudio  hath  wronged  Hero  ?  [soul. 

Beat.  Yea,  as  sure  as  I  have  a  thought  or  a 


SCENE  II.] 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


159 


Bene.  Enough,  I  am  engaged ;  I  will  chal- 
lenge him  ;  I  will  kiss  your  hand  and  so  leave 
you.  By  this  hand,  Claudio  shall  render  me  a 
dear  account.  As  you  hear  of  me,  so  think  of 
me.  Go,  comfort  your  cousin  ;  I  must  say  she 
is  dead  ;  and  so,  farewell.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — A  Prison. 

Enter  DOGBERRY,  VERGES,  and  SEXTON,  in 
gowns  ;  and  the  Watch,  with  CONRADE  and 
BORACHIO. 

Dogb.   Is  our  whole  dissembly  appeared  ? 

Verg.  O,  a  stool  and  a  cushion  for  the 
sexton  ! 

Sexton.  Which  be  the  malefactors  ? 

Dogb.   Marry,  that  am  I  and  my  partner  r 

Verg.  Nay,  that 's  certain  ;  we  have  the  ex- 
hibition to  examine. 

Sexton.  But  which  are  the  offenders  that  are 
to  be  examined  ?  let  them  come  before  master 
constable. 

Dogb.  Yea,  marry,  let  them  come  before  me. 
— What  is  your  name,  friend  ? 

Bora.  Borachio. 

Dogb.  Pray  write  down  —  Borachio. 

Yours,  sirrah?  [Conrade. 

Con.  I  am  a  gentleman,  sir,  and  my  name  is 

Dogb.  Write  down — master  gentleman  Con- 
rade. — Masters,  do  you  serve  God  ? 

Con.      \**T        •          -L. 
Bora.     j  Yea,  sir,  we  hope. 

Dogb.  Write  down — that  they  hope  they 
serve  God  : — and  write  God  first ;  for  God  de- 
fend but  God  should  go  before  such  villains  ! — 
Masters,  it  is  proved  already  that  you  are  little 
better  than  false  knaves  ;  and  it  will  go  near  to 
be  thought  so  shortly.  How  answer  you  for 
yourselves  ? 

Con.  Marry,  sir,  we  say  we  are  none. 

Dogb.  A  marvellous  witty  fellow,  I  assure 
you  ;  but  I  will  go  about  with  him. — Come  you 
hither,  sirrah  :  a  word  in  your  ear,  sir  ;  I  say 
to  you,  it  is  thought  you  are  false  knaves. 

Bora.  Sir,  I  say  to  you,  we  are  none. 

Dogb.  Well,  stand  aside. — 'Fore  God,  they 
are  both  in  a  tale.  Have  you  writ  down — that 
they  are  none  ? 

Sexton.  Master  constable,  you  go  not  the 
way  to  examine ;  you  must  call  forth  the  Watch 
that  are  their  accusers. 

Dogb.  Yea,  marry,  that's  the  eftest  way. — 
Let  the  Watch  come  forth. — Masters,  I  charge 
you  in  the  prince's  name,  accuse  these  men. 

I  Watch.  This  man  said,  sir,  that  Don  John, 
the  prince's  brother,  was  a  villain. 

Dogb.  Write  down — Prince  John  a  villain. — 


Why,  this  is  flat  perjury,  to  call  a  prince's 
brother  villain. 

Bora.   Master  constable, — 

Dogb.  Pray  thee,  fellow,  peace  ;  I  do  not 
like  thy  look,  I  promise  thee. 

Sexton.  What  heard  you  him  say  else  ? 

2  Watch.  Marry,  that  he  had  received  a 
thousand  ducats  off  Don  John  for  accusing  the 
Lady  Hero  wrongfully. 

Dogb.  Flat  burglary  as  ever  was  committed. 

Verg.  Yea,  by  the  mass,  that  it  is. 

Sexton.  What  else,  fellow? 

1  Watch.    And    that    Count    Claudio    did 
mean,  upon  his  words,  to  disgrace  Hero  before 
the  whole  assembly,  and  not  marry  her. 

Dogb.  O  villain  !   thou  wilt  be  condemned 
into  everlasting  redemption  for  this. 
Sexton.  What  else  ? 

2  Watch.  This  is  all. 

Sexton.  And  this  is  more,  masters,  than  you 
can  deny.  Prince  John  is  this  morning  secretly 
stolen  away;  Hero  was  in  this  manner  accused, 
in  this  very  manner  refused,  and  upon  the  grief 
of  this  suddenly  died. — Master  constable,  let 
these  men  be  bound  and  brought  to  Leonato's ; 
I  will  go  before  and  show  him  their  examina- 
tion. [Exit. 

Dogb.  Come,  let  them  be  opinioned. 

Verg.  Let  them  be  in  band. 

Con.  Off,  coxcomb ! 

Dogb.  God 's  my  life  !  where 's  the  sexton  ? 
let  him  write  down — the  prince's  officer,  cox- 
comb.— Come,  bind  them. Thou  naughty 

varlet  ! 

Con.  Away  !  you  are  an  ass,  you  are  an  ass. 

Dogb.  Dost  thou  not  suspect  my  place? 
Dost  thou  not  suspect  my  years  ? — O  that  he 
were  here  to  write  me  down  an  ass  !  but, 
masters,  remember,  that  I  am  an  ass  ;  though 
it  be  not  written  down,  yet  forget  not  that  I  am 
an  ass. — No,  thcu  villain,  thou  art  full  of  piety, 
as  shall  be  proved  upon  thee  by  good  witness. 
I  am  a  wise  fellow  ;  and,  which  is  more,  an 
officer  ;  and,  which  is  more,  a  householder  ; 
and,  which  is  more,  as  pretty  a  piece  of  flesh 
as  any  is  in  Messina  :  and  one  that  knows  the 
law,  go  to  ;  and  a  rich  fellow  enoughr  go  to  ; 
and  a  fellow  that  hath  had  losses  ;  and  one 
that  hath  two  gowns,  and  everything  handsome 
about  him. — Bring  him  away.  O  that  I  had 
been  writ  down  an  ass  !  [Exeunt. 

ACT  V. 
SCENE  I. — Before  LEONATO'S  House. 

Enter  LEONATO  and  ANTONIO. 
Ant.  If  you  go  on  thus  you  will  kill  yourself ; 


i6o 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


[ACT  V. 


And  'tis  not  wisdom  thus  to  second  grief 
Against  yourself. 

Leon.  I  pray  thee,  cease  thy  counsel, 

Which  falls  into  mine  ears  as  profitless 
As  water  in  a  sieve  :  give  not  me  counsel ; 
Nor  let  no  comforter  delight  mine  ear 
But  such  a  one  whose  wrongs  do  suit  with  mine. 
Bring  me  a  father  that  so  lov'd  his  child, 
Whose  joy  of  her  is  overwhelm'd  like  mine, 
And  bid  him  speak  of  patience  ;  [mine, 

Measure  his  woe  the   length  and  breadth  of 
And  let  it  answer  every  strain  for  strain  ; 
As  thus  for  thus,  and  such  a  grief  for  such, 
In  every  lineament,  branch,  shape,  and  form  : 
If  such  a  one  will  smile,  and  stroke  his  beard, 
Cry — sorrow,  wag  !  and  hem  when  he  should 
groan,  [drunk 

Patch  grief  with   proverbs,   make   misfortune 
With  candle-wasters, — bring  him  yet  to  me, 
And  I  of  him  will  gather  patience. 
But  there  is  no  such  man  :  for,  brother,  men 
Can  counsel  and  speak  comfort  to  that  grief 
Which  they  themselves  not  feel ;  but,  tasting  it, 
Their  counsel  turns  to  passion,  which  before 
Would  give  preceptial  medicine  to  rage, 
Fetter  strong  madness  in  a  silken  thread, 
Charm  ache  with  air  and  agony  with  words  : 
No,  no  ;  'tis  all  men's  office  to  speak  patience 
To  those  that  wring  under  the  load  of  sorrow  ; 
But  no  man's  virtue  nor  sufficiency 
To  be  so  moral  when  he  shall  endure          [sel  : 
The  like  himself :  therefore,  give  me  no  coun- 
My  griefs  cry  louder  than  advertisement. 
Ant.  Therein  do  men  from  children  nothing 
differ.  [blood ; 

Leon.  I  pray  thee,  peace ;  I  will  be  flesh  and 
For  there  was  never  yet  philosopher 
That  could  endure  the  toothache  patiently, 
However  they  have  writ  the  style  of  gods, 
And  make  a  pish  at  chance  and  sufferance. 
Ant.  Yet  bend  not  all  the  harm  upon  your- 
self; 

Make  those  that  do  offend  you  suffer  too. 
Leon.  There  thou  speak'st  reason  :   nay,  I 

will  do  so. 

My  soul  doth  tell  me  Hero  is  belied  ; 
And  that  shall  Claudio  know ;    so  shall  the 

prince, 
And  all  of  them  that  thus  dishonour  her. 

Ant.    Here   comes  the  prince  and  Claudio 
hastily. 

Enter  Don  PEDRO  and  CLAUDIO. 

D.  Pedro.   Good  den,  good  den. 

Claud.  Good  day  to  both  of  you. 

Leon.   Hear  you,  my  lords, — 

Pedro.       We  have  some  haste,  Leonato. 


Leon.  Some  haste,  my  lord  ! — well,  fare  you 

well,  my  lord  : — 

Are  you  so  hasty  now  ? — well,  all  is  one. 
D.  Pedro.  Nay,  do  not  quarrel  with  us,  good 
old  man.  [ling, 

Ant.  If  he  could  right  himself  with  quarrel- 
Some  of  us  would  lie  low. 

Claud.  Who  wrongs  him  ? 

Leon.   Marry,  thou  dost  wrong  me :  thou  dis- 
sembler, thou  : — 

Nay,  never  lay  thy  hand  upon  thy  sword — 
I  fear  thee  not. 

Claud.  Marry,  beshrew  my  hand 

If  it  should  give  your  age  such  cause  of  fear  : 
In  faith,  my  hand  meant  nothing  to  rny  swoid. 
Leon.   Tush,  tush,  man;  never  fleer  and  jest 

at  me; 

I  speak  not  like  a  dotard  nor  a  fool ; 
As,  under  privilege  of  age,  to  brag  [do 

What  I  have  done  being  young,  or  what  would 
Were  I  not  old.  Know,  Claudio,  to  thy  head. 
Thou  hast  so  wrong'd  mine  innocent  child  and 

me 

That  I  am  forc'd  to  lay  my  reverence  by, 
And  with  gray  hairs  and  bruise  of  many  days, 
Do  challenge  thee  to  trial  of  a  man. 
I  say  thou  hast  belied  mine  innocent  child  ; 
Thy  slander  hath  gone  through  and  through  her 

heart, 
And  she  lies  buried  with  her  ancestors, — 

0  !  in  a  tomb  where  never  scandal  slept, 
Save  this  of  hers,  fram'd  by  thy  villany. 

Claud.  My  villany ! 

Leon.  Thine,  Claudio  ;  thine,  I  say. 

D.  Pedro.  You  say  not  right,  old  man. 
Leon.  My  lord,  my  lord, 

1  '11  prove  it  on  his  body  if  he  dare, 
Despite  his  nice  fence  and  his  active  practice, 
His  May  of  youth  and  bloom  of  lustihood. 

Claud.  Away  !  I  will  not  have  to  do  with 
you. 

Leon.  Canst  thou  so  daff  me  ?     Thou  hast 

kill'd  my  child  ; 
If  thou  kill'st  me,  boy,  thou  shalt  kill  a  man. 

Ant.  He  shall  kill  two  of  us,  and  men  indeed ; 
But  that 's  no  matter  ;  let  him  kill  one  first  ;— 
Win  me  and  wear  me, — let  him  answer  me. — 
Come,  follow  me,  boy ;  come,  boy,  follow  me: 
Sir  boy,  I  '11  whip  you  from  your  foining  fence; 
Nay,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  will. 

Leon.  Brother, —  [my  niece  ; 

Ant.  Content  yourself.     God  knows  I  lov'd 
And  she  is  dead,  slander'd  to  death  by  villains, 
That  dare  as  well  answer  a  man,  indeed, 
As  I  dare  take  a  serpent  by  the  tongue  : 
Boys,  apes,  braggarts,  Jacks,  milksops  ! — 

Leon*  Brother  Antony, — 


SCENE  I.] 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


161 


Ant.   Hold  you  content.     What,  man  !     I 
know  them,  yea,  [scruple, — 

And  what    they  weigh,  even    to    the   utmost 
Scambling,  out-facing,  fashion-mong'ring  boys, 
That  he,  and  cog,  and  flout,  deprave  and  slander, 
Go  anticly,  and  show  outward  hideousness, 
And  speak  off  half  a  dozen  dangerous  words, 
How  they  might  hurt  their  enemies,  if  they 

durst ; 
And  this  is  all. 

Leon.  But,  brother  Antony, — 

Ant.  Come,  'tis  no  matter  ; 

Do  not  you  meddle,  let  me  deal  in  this. 

D.  Pedro.  Gentlemen  both,  we  will  not  wake 

your  patience. 

My  heart  is  sorry  for  your  daughter's  death  ; 
But,  on  my  honour,  she  was  charg'd  with  nothing 
But  what  was  true,  and  very  full  of  proof, 

Leon.   My  lord,  my  lord, — 

D.  Pedro.  I  will  not  hear  you. 

Leon.  No  ? 

Come,  brother,  away.— I  will  be  heard  ; — 

Ant.  And  shall, 

Or  some  of  us  will  smart  for  it. 

{Exeunt  LEON,  and  ANT. 

D.  Pedro.  See,  see ;  here  comes  the  man  we 
went  to  seek. 

Enter  BENEDICK. 

Claud.  Now,  signior  !  what  news  ? 

Bene.  Good  day,  my  lord. 

D.Pedro.  Welcome,  signior:  you  are  almost 
come  to  part  almost  a  fray. 

Claud.  We  had  like  to  have  had  our  two  noses 
snapped  off  with  two  old  men  without  teeth. 

D.  Pedro.  Leonato  and  his  brother.  What 
think'st  thou  ?  Had  we  fought,  I  doubt  we 
should  have  been  too  young  for  them. 

Bene.  In  a  false  quarrel  there  is  no  true 
valour.  I  came  to  seek  you  both. 

Claud.  We  have  been  up  and  down  to  seek 
thee ;  for  we  are  high  proof  melancholy,  and 
would  fain  have  it  beaten  away.  Wilt  thou  use 
thy  wit  ? 

Bene.   It  is  in  my  scabbard  :  shall  I  draw  it  ? 

D.  Pedro.  Dost  thou  wear  thy  wit  by  thy 
side? 

Claud.  Never  any  did  so,  though  very  many 
have  been  beside  their  wit.  — I  will  bid  thee 
draw,  as  we  do  the  minstrels;  draw,  to  pleasure 
us. 

D.  Pedro.  As  I  am  an  honest  man,  he  looks 
pale. — Art  thou  sick  or  angry  ? 

Claud.  What!  courage,  man  !  What  though 
care  killed  a  cat,  thou  hast  mettle  enough  in 
thee  to  kill  care. 

Bene.  Sir,  I  shall  meet  your  wit  in  the  career, 


an  you  charge  it  against  me. — I  pray  you,  choose 
another  subject. 

Claud.  Nay,  then,  give  him  another  staff; 
this  last  was  broke  cross. 

D.  Pedro.  By  this  light,  he  changes  more 
and  more  ;  I  think  he  be  angry  indeed. 

Claud.  If  he  be,  he  knows  how  to  turn  his 
girdle. 

Bene.   Shall  I  speak  a  word  in  your  ear  ? 

Claud.  God  bless  me  from  a  challenge  1 

Bene.  You  are  a  villain; — I  jest  not: — I  will 
make  it  good  how  you  dare,  with  what  you 
dare,  and  when  you  dare. — Do  me  right,  or  I 
will  protest  your  cowardice.  You  have  killed 
a  sweet  lady,  and  her  death  shall  fall  heavy  on 
you.  Let  me  hear  from  you. 

Claud.  Well,  I  will  meet  you,  so  I  may  have 
good  cheer. 

D.  Pedro.  What,  a  feast  ?  a  feast  ? 

Claud.  T  faith,  I  thank  him;  he  hath  bid  me 
to  a  calf  s  head  and  a  capon,  the  which  if  I  do 
not  carve  most  curiously,  say  my  knife's  naught. 
— Shall  i  not  find  a  woodcock  too  ? 

Bene.  Sir,  your  wit  ambles  well ;  it  goes 
easily. 

D.  Pedro.  I  '11  tell  thee  how  Beatrice  praised 
thy  wit  the  other  day :  I  said  thou  hadst  a 
fine  wit ;  True,  says  she,  a  fine  little  one.  No, 
said  I,  a  great  wit ;  Right,  says  she,  a  great 
gross  one.  Nay,  said  I,  a  good  wit.  Just, 
said  she,  it  hurts  nobody.  Nay,  said  I,  the 
gentleman  is  wise.  Certain,  said  she,  a  "wise 
gentleman.  Nay,  said  I,  he  hath  the  tongues* 
That  I  believe,  said  she,  for  he  swore  a  thing 
to  me  on  Monday  night  which  he  foreswore  on 
Tuesday  morning ;  there 's  a  double  tongue; 
there's  two  tongues.  Thus  did  she,  an  hour 
together,  trans-shape  thy  particular  virtues ;  yet, 
at  last,  she  concluded,  with  a  sigh,  thou  wast 
the  properest  man  in  Italy.  v  ,\h 

Claud.  For  the  which  she  wept  heartily,  and 
said  she  cared  not. 

D.  Pedro.  Yea,  that  she  did ;  but  yet,  for 
all  that,  an  if  she  did  not  hate  him  deadly,  she 
would  love  him  dearly  :  the  old  man's  daughter 
told  us  all. 

Claud.  All,  all ;  and,  moreover,  God  saw  him 
when  he  was  hid  in  the  garden. 

D.  Pedro.  But  when  shall  we  set  the  savage 
bull's  horns  on  the  sensible  Benedick's  head  ? 

Claud.  Yea,  and  text  underneath,  Here 
dwells  Benedick  the  married  man  ? 

Bene.  Fare  you  well,  boy ;  you  know  my 
mind.  I  will  leave  you  now  to  your  gossip- 
like  humour  :  you  break  jests  as  braggarts  do 
their  blades,  which,  God  be  thanked,  hurt  not. 
— My  lord,  for  your  many  courtesies  I  thank 

F 


162 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


[ACT  v. 


you :  I  must  discontinue  your  company :  your 
brother  the  bastard  is  fled  from  Messina:  you 
have  among  you  killed  a  sweet  and  innocent 
lady.  For  my  Lord  Lackbeard  there,  he  and 
I  shall  meet ;  and  till  then,  peace  be  with  him. 
[Exit  BENEDICK. 

D.  Pedro.   He  is  in  earnest. 

Claud.  In  most  profound  earnest ;  and  I  '11 
warrant  you  for  the  love  of  Beatrice. 

D.  Pedro.  And  hath  challenged  thee? 

Claud.  Most  sincerely. 

D.  Pedro.  What  a  pretty  thing  man  is  when 
he  goes  in  his  doublet  and  hose,  and  leaves  off 
his  wit ! 

Claud.  He  is  then  a  giant  to  an  ape:  but 
then  is  an  ape  a  doctor  to  such  a  man. 

D.  Pedro.  But,  soft,  you,  let  be;  pluck  up, 
my  heart,  and  be  sad!  Did  he  not  say  my 
brother  was  fled? 

Enter  DOGBERRY,  VERGES,  a:td  the  Watch, 
with  CONRADE  and  BORACHIO. 

Dogb.  Come,  you,  sir ;  if  justice  cannot  tame 
you,  she  shall  ne'er  weigh  more  reasons  in  her 
balance;  nay,  an  you  be  a  cursing  hypocrite 
once,  you  must  be  looked  to. 

D.  Pedro.  How  now !  two  of  my  brother's 
men  bound !  Borachio  one ! 

Claud.   Hearken  after  their  offence,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.  Officers,  what  offence  hath  these 
men  done? 

Dogb.  Marry,  sir,  they  have  committed  false 
report;  moreover,  they  have  spoken  untruths; 
secondarily,  they  are  slanders ;  sixth  and  lastly, 
they  have  belied  a  lady;  thirdly,  they  have 
verified  unjust  things:  and,  to  conclude,  they 
are  lying  knaves. 

D.  Pedro.  First,  I  ask  thee  what  they  have 
done ;  thirdly,  I  ask  thee  what 's  their  offence ; 
sixth  and  lastly,  why  they  are  committed ;  and, 
to  conclude,  what  you  lay  to  their  charge? 

Claud.  Rightly  reasoned,  and  in  his  own 
division ;  and,  by  my  troth,  there 's  one  mean- 
ing well  suited. 

D.  Pedro.  Whom  have  you  offended,  masters, 
that  you  are  thus  bound  to  your  answer?  this 
learned  constable  is  too  cunning  to  be  under- 
stood. What's  your  offence? 

Bora.  Sweet  prince,  let  me  go  no  further  to 
mine  answer ;  do  you  hear  me,  and  let  this  count 
kill  me.  I  have  deceived  even  your  very  eyes : 
what  your  wisdoms  could  not  discover  these 
shallow  fools  have  brought  to  light;  who,  in 
the  night,  overheard  me  confessing  to  this  man 
how  Don  John  your  brother  incensed  me  to 
slander  the  Lady  Hero ;  how  you  were  brought 
into  the  orchard,  and  saw  me  court  Margaret  in 


Hero's  garments ;  how  you  disgraced  her,  when 
you  should  marry  her :  my  villany  they  have 
upon  record ;  which  I  had  rather  seal  with  my 
death  than  repeat  over  to  my  shame.  The 
lady  is  dead  upon  mine  and  my  master's  false 
accusation  ;  and,  briefly,  I  desire  nothing  but 
the  reward  of  a  villain. 

D.  Pedro.  Runs  not  this  speech  like  iron 
through  your  blood  ?  [it. 

Claiid.  I  have  drunk  poison  whiles  he  uttered 

D.  Pedro.  But  did  my  brother  set  thee  on  to 
this? 

Bora.  Yea,  and  paid  me  richly  for  the  prac- 
tice of  it.  [treachery : 

D.  Pedro.  He  is  compos'd  and  fram'd  of 
And  fled  he  is  upon  this  villany.  [appear 

Claud.  Sweet  Hero!,  now  thy  image  doth 
In  the  rare  semblance  that  I  lov'd  it  first. 

Dogb.  Come,  bring  away  the  plaintiffs ;  by 
this  time  our  sexton  hath  reformed  Signior 
Leonato  of  the  matter  :  and,  masters,  do  not 
forget  to  specify,  when  time  and  place  shall 
serve,  that  I  am  an  ass. 

Verg.  Here,  here  comes  master  Signior 
Leonato  and  the  sexton  too. 

Re-enter  LEONATO  and  ANTONIO,  with  the 
SEXTON. 

Leon.  Which  is  the  villain  ?  let  me  see  his 

eyes, 

That  when  I  note  another  man  like  him 
I  may  avoid  him  :  which  of  these  is  he  ? 

Bora.  If  you  would  know  your  wronger,  look 
on  me. 

Leon.  Art   thou   the    slave    that   with    thy 

breath  hast  kill'd 
Mine  innocent  child  ? 

Bora.  Yea,  even  I  alone. 

Leon.  No,  not  so,  villain ;  thou  bely'st  thyself: 
Here  stand  a  pair  of  honourable  men — 
A  third  is  fled — that  had  a  hand  in  it. — 
I  thank  you,  princes,  for  my  daughter's  death ; 
Record  it  with  your  high  and  worthy  deeds ; 
'Twas  bravely  done,  if  you  bethink  you  of  it. 

Claud.  I  know  not  how  to  pray  your  patience, 
Yet  I  must  speak.     Choose  your  revenge  your- 
self; 

Impose  me  to  what  penance  your  invention 
Can  lay  upon  my  sin  :  yet  sinned  I  not 
But  in  mistaking. 

D.  Pedro.          By  my  soul,  nor  I ; 
And  yet,  to  satisfy  this  good  old  man, 
I  would  bend  under  any  heavy  weight 
That  he  '11  enjoin  me  to. 

Leon.  I  cannot  bid  you  bid  my  daughter  live — 
That  were  impossible  ;  but,  I  pray  you  both, 
Possess  the  people  in  Messina  here 


SCENE  I.] 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


163 


wrong, 


How  innocent  she  died  :  and,  if  your  love 

Can  labour  aught  in  sad  invention, 

Hang  her  an  epitaph  upon  her  tomb, 

And  sing  it  to  her  bones  ;  sing  it  to-nieht : — 

To-morrow  morning  come  you  to  my  house  ; 

And  since  you  could  not  be  my  son-in-law, 

Be  yet  my  nephew :  my  brother  hath  a  daughter, 

Almost  the  copy  of  my  child  that's  dead. 

And  she  alone  is  heir  to  both  of  us  ; 

Give  her  the  right  you  should  have  given  her 

cousin, 
And  so  dies  my  revenge. 

Claud.  O,  noble  sir, 

Your  overkindness  doth  wring  tears  from  me  ! 
I  do  embrace  your  offer  ;  and  dispose 
For  henceforth  of  poor  Claudio. 

Leon.  To-morrow,  then,  I  will  expect  your 

coming  ; 

To-night  I  take  my  leave. — This  naughty  man 
Shall  face  to  face  be  brought  to  Margaret 
Who,  I  believe,  was  pack'd  in  all  this  wr< 
Hir'd  to  it  by  your  brother. 

Bora.  No,  by  my  soul,  she  was  not ; 

Nor  knew  not  what  she  did  when  she  spoke  to 

me ; 

But  always  hath  been  just  and  virtuous 
In  anything  that  I  do  know  by  her. 

Dogb.  Moreover,  sir, — which,  indeed,  is  not 
under  white  and  black, — this  plaintiff  here,  the 
offender,  did  call  me  ass:  I  beseech  you,  let  it 
be  remembered  in  his  punishment.  And  also, 
the  Watch  heard  them  talk  of  one  Deformed  : 
they  say  he  wears  a  key  in  his  ear  and  a  lock 
hanging  by  it,  and  borrows  money  in  God's 
name ;  the  which  he  hath  used  so  long,  and 
never  paid,  that  now  men  grow  hard-hearted, 
and  will  lend  nothing  for  God's  sake :  pray 
you,  examine  him  upon  that  point. 

Leon.  I  thank  thee  for  thy  care  and  honest 
pains. 

Dogb.  Your  worship  speaks  like  a  most  thank- 
ful and  reverend  youth,  and  I  praise  God  for  you. 

Leon.  There 's  for  thy  pains. 

Dogb.  God  save  the  foundation  ! 

Leon.  Go  ;  I  discharge  thee  of  thy  prisoner, 
and  I  thank  thee. 

Dogb.  I  leave  an  arrant  knave  with  your  wor- 
ship ;  which  I  beseech  your  worship  to  correct 
yourself,  for  the  example  of  others.  God  keep 
your  worship ;  I  wish  your  worship  well ;  God 
restore  you  to  health  ;  I  humbly  give  you  leave 
to  depart;  and  if  a  merry  meeting  may  be  wished, 
God  prohibit  it. — Come,  neighbour. 

{Exeunt  DOGB.,  VERG.,  and  Watch. 

Leon.  Until  to-morrow  morning,  lords,  fare- 
well, [to-morrow. 

Ant.  Farewell,  my  lords ;  we  look  for  you 


D.  Pedro.  -We  will  not  fail. 

Claud.  To-night  I  '11  mourn  with  Hero. 

[Exeunt  D.  PEDRO  and  CLAUD. 
Leon.  Bring  you  these  fellows  on  :  we  '11  talk 

with  Margaret 

How  her  acquaintance  grew  with  this  lewd  fellow. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — LEONATO'S  Garden. 
Enter  BENEDICK  and  MARGARET,  meeting. 

Bene.  Pray  thee,  sweet  Mistress  Margaret, 
deserve  well  at  my  hands  by  helping  me  to  the 
speech  of  Beatrice. 

Marg.  Will  you  then  write  me  a  sonnet  in 
praise  of  my  beauty  ? 

Bene.  In  so  high  a  style,  Margaret,  that  no 
man  living  shall  come  over  it ;  for,  in  most 
comely  truth,  thou  deservest  it. 

Marg.  To  have  no  man  come  over  me?  why, 
shall  I  always  keep  below  stairs  ? 

Bene.  Thy  wit  is  as  quick  as  the  greyhound's 
mouth ;  it  catches. 

Marg.  And  yours  as  blunt  as  the  fencer's 
foils,  which  hit,  but  hurt  not. 

Bene.  A  most  manly  wit,  Margaret ;  it  will 
not  hurt  a  woman  ;  and  so,  I  pray  thee,  call 
Beatrice  :  I  give  thee  the  bucklers. 

Marg.  Give  us  the  swords ;  we  have  bucklers 
of  our  own. 

Bene.  If  you  use  them,  Margaret,  you  must 
put  in  the  pikes  with  a  vice  ;  and  they  are  dan- 
gerous weapons  for  maids. 

Marg.  Well,  I  will  call  Beatrice  to  you,  who, 
I  think,  hath  legs.  {Exit  MARGARET. 

Bene.  And  therefore  will  come.      [Singing. 

The  god  of  love, 
That  sits  above, 
And  knows  me,  and  knows  me, 
How  pitiful  I  deserve,— 

I  mean  in  singing ;  but  in  loving — Leander  the 
good  swimmer,  Troilus  the  first  employer  of  pan- 
ders, and  a  whole  book  full  of  these  quondam 
carpet-mongers,  whose  names  yet  run  smoothly 
in  the  even  road  of  a  blank  verse,  why,  they  were 
never  so  truly  turned  over  and  over  as  my  poor 
self  in  love.  Marry,  I  cannot  show  it  in  rhyme; 
I  have  tried ;  I  can  find  out  no  rhyme  to  lady  but 
baby — an  innocent  rhyme  ;  for  scorn,  horn — a 
hard  rhyme ;  for  school,  fool — a  babbling  rhyme ; 
very  ominous  endings.  No,  I  was  not  born 
under  a  rhyming  planet,  nor  I  cannot  woo  in 
festival  terms. 

Enter  BEATRICE. 

Sweet  Beatrice,  wouldst  thou  come  when  I 
called  thee  ? 


|64 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


IACTV. 


Beat.  Yea,  signior,  and  depart  when  you  bid 
me. 

Bene.  O,  stay  but  till  then  ! 

Beat.  Then,  is  spoken  ;  fare  you  well  now  : — 
and  yet,  ere  I  go,  let  me  go  with  .hat  I  came 
for,  which  is,  with  knowing  what  hath  passed 
between  you  and  Claudio, 

Bene.  Only  foul  words  j  and  thereupon  I 
will  kiss  thee. 

Beat.  Foul  words  is  but  foul  wind  and  foul 
wind  is  but  foul  breath,  and  foul  breath  is  noi- 
some ;  therefore  I  will  depart  unkissed. 

Bene.  Thou  hast  frighted  the  word  out  of  his 
right  sense,  so  forcible  is  thy  wit.  But,  I  must 
tell  thee  plainly,  Claudio  undergoes  my  challenge ; 
and  either  I  must  shortly  hear  from  him,  or  I 
will  subscribe  him  a  coward.  And,  I  pray  thee 
now,  tell  me,  for  which  of  my  bad  parts  didst 
thou  first  fail  in  love  with  me? 

Beat.  For  them  all  together ;  which  main- 
tained so  politic  a  state  of  evil  that  they  will 
not  admit  any  good  part  to  intermingle  with 
them.  But  for  which  of  my  good  parts  did  you 
first  suffer  love  for  me  ? 

Bene.  Suffer  love  ;  a  good  epithet !  I  do  suffer 
love,  indeed,  for  I  love  thee  against  my  will. 

Beat.  In  soite  of  your  heart,  I  think ;  alas  ! 
poor  heart  !  If  you  spite  it  for  my  sake,  I  will 
spite  it  for  yours ;  for  I  will  never  love  that 
which  my  friend  hates.  [ably. 

Bene.  Thou  and  I  are  too  wise  to  woo  peace- 

Beat.  Itappears  not  in  this  confession?  there's 
not  one  wise  man  among  twenty  that  will  praise 
himself. 

^  Bene.  An  old,  an  old  instance,  Beatrice,  that 
lived  in  the  time  of  good  neighbours :  if  a  man 
do  not  erect  in  this  age  his  own  tomb  ere  he  dies, 
he  shall  live  no  longer  in  monument  than  the 
bell  rings  and  the  widow  weeps. 

Beat.  And  how  long  is  that,  think  you  ? 

Bene.  Question  : — why,  an  hour  in  clamour, 
and  a  quarter  in  rheum :  therefore  it  is  most 
expedient  for  the  wise  (if  Don  Worm,  his  con- 
science, find  no  impediment  to  the  contrary)  to 
be  the  trumpet  of  his  own  virtues,  as  I  am  to 
myself.  So  much  for  praising  myself,  who,  I 
myself  will  bear  witness,  is  praiseworthy,  and 
now  tell  me,  how  doth  your  cousin  ? 

Beat.  Very  ill. 

Bene.  And  how  do  you  ? 

Beat.  Very  ill  too. 

bene.  Serve  Gody  love  me,  and  mend :  there 
will  I  leave  you  too,  for  here  comes  one  in  naste. 

Enter  URSULA. 

Urs.  Madam,  you  must  come  to  your  uncle. 
Yonder 's  old  coil  at  home :  it  is  proved  my 


Lady  Hero  hath  been  falsely  accused,  the  prince 
and  Clauaio  mightily  abused ;  and  Don  John 
is  the  author  of  all,  who  is  fled  and  gone.  Will 
you  come  presently  ? 

Beat.   Will  you  go  hear  this  news,  signior  ? 

Bene.  I  will  live  in  thy  heart,  die  in  thy  lap, 
and  be  buried  in  thy  eyes  ;  and,  moreover,  I  will 
go  with  thee  to  thy  uncle's.  [Exeunt* 

SCENE  III.— The  inside  of  a  Church. 

Enter  Don,  PEDRO,  CL/UDIO,  and  Attendants, 

with  music  and  tapers. 
Claud.  Is  thi   the  monument  of  Leonato  ? 
Atten.   It  is,  my  lord. 
C/aud.    reads  from  a  scroll.] 

Done  to  death  by  slanderous  tongues 

Was  the  Hero  that  here  lies  : 
Death   in  guerdon  ot  her  wrongs, 

Givus  her  fame  which  never  dies  : 
So  the  life,  that  died  with  shame, 
Lives  in  death  with  glorious  fame. 

Hantr  thou  there  upon  the  tomb,     {affixing  it. 
Praising  her  when  I  am  dumb. — 

Now,  music,  sound,  and  sing  your  solemn  hymn, 

SONG. 

Pardon,  Goddess  of  the  night, 
Those  that  slew  thy  virgin  knight ; 
For  the  which,  with  songs  of  woe, 
Round  about  her  tomb  they  go. 

Midnight,  assist  our  moan  ! 

Help  us  to  sigh  and  groan, 
Heavily,  heavily; 

Graves,  yawn,  and  yiild  your  dead, 

Till  death  be  uttered, 
Heavily,  heavily. 

Claud.  Now  unto  thy  bones  goocl  night : 

Yearly  will  I  do  this  rite. 
D.  Pedro.  Good  morrow,  masters ;  put  youi 

torches  out : 

The  wol  veb  have  prey 'd ;  and  look ,  the  gen  tie  day, 
Before  the  wheels  of  Phoebus,  round  about 

Dapples  the  drowsy  east  with  spots  of  gray. 

Thanks  to  you  all,  and  leave  us  :  fare  you  well. 

Ctaud.    Good   morrow,   masters;    each   his 

several  way.  [other  weeds  ; 

D.  Pedro.  Come,  let  us  hence,  and  put  on 

And  then  to  Leonato's  we  will  go.          [speeds 

Claud.  And  Hymen  now  with  luckier  issue 

Than  this,  for  whom  we  render'd  up  this  woe  1 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.—  A  Room  in  LEONATO'S  House. 

Enter  LEONATO,  ANTONIO,  BENEDICK,  BEAT- 
RICE, MARGARET,  URSULA,  FRIAR,  and 

HERO. 

Frtar.  Did  I  not  tell  you  she  was  innocent  ? 
Leon.  So  are  the  prince  and  Claudio,  who 
accus'd  her 


SCENE  I  V.I 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING, 


165 


Upon  the  error  that  you  heard  debated  i 
But  Margaret  was  in  some  fault  for  this, 
Although  against  her  will,  as  it  appeals 
In  the  true  course  of  all  the  question. 

Ant.  Well,  I  am  glad  that  all  things  sort  so 
well. 

Bene.  And  so  am  I,  being  else  by  faith  enforc'd 
To  call  young  Claudio  to  a  reckoning  for  it. 

Leon.  Well,  daughter,  and  you  gentlewomen 

all, 

Withdraw  into  a  chamber  by  yourselves  ; 
And  when  I  send  for  you,  come  hither  mask'd  : 
The  prince  and  Claudio  promis'd  by  this  hour 
To  visit  me. — You  know  your  office,  brother  ; 
You  must  be  father  to  your  brother's  daughter, 
And  give  her  to  young  Claudio. 

[Exeunt  Ladies. 

Ant.  Which  I  will  do  with  confirm 'd  coun- 
tenance. 

Bene.  Friar,  I  must  entreat  your  pains,  I  think. 

Friar.  To  do  what,  signior? 

Bene.  To  bind  me,  or  undo  me,  one  of  them. — 
Signior  Leonato,  truth  it  is,  good  signior, 
Your  niece  regards  me  with  an  eye  of  favour. 

Leon.  That  eye  my  daughter  lent  her.      Tis 
most  true. 

Bene.  And  I  do  with  an  eye  of  love  requite  her. 

Leon.  The  sight  whereof,  I  think,  you  had 

from  me, 

From  Claudio,  and  the  prince.    But  what 's  your 
will? 

Bene.  Your  answer,  sir,  is  enigmatical : 
But,  for  my  will,  my  will  is  your  good-will 
May  stand  with  ours,  this  day  to  be  conjoin'd 
In  the  estate  of  honourable  marriage  ; — 
In  which,  good  friar,  I  shall  desire  your  help. 

Leon.     My  heart  is  with  your  liking. 

Friar.  And  my  help. — 

Here  come  the  prince  and  Claudio. 

Enter  Don  PEDRO  and  CLAUDIO,  with  Attend- 
ants. 

D.  Pedro.  Good  morrow  to  this  fair  assembly. 
Leon.  Good  morrow,  prince ;  good  morrow, 

Claudio ; 

We  here  attend  you.     Are  you  yet  determin'd 

To-day  to  marry  with  my  brother's  daughter  ? 

Claud.  I  '11  hold  my  mind  were  she  an  Kthiope 

Leon.  Call  her  forth,  brother  ;  here's  the  friar 

ready.  [Exit  ANTONIO. 

D.  Pedro.  Good  morrow,  Benedick.     Why, 

what 's  the  matter, 
That  you  have  such  a  February  face, 
So  full  of  frost,  of  storm,  and  cloudiness  ? 

Claud.  Ithhikhethinksuponthesavagebull. — 
Tush,  fear  not,  man  ;  we  '11  tip  thy  horns  with 
gold, 


And  all  Europa  shall  rejoice  at  thee, 
As  once  Europa  did  at  lusty  Jove, 
When  he  would  play  the  noble  beast  in  love. 
Bene.  Bull  Jove,  sir,  had  an  amiable  low  ; 
And  some  such  strange  bull  leap'd  your  father's 

cow, 

And  got  a  calf  in  that  same  noble  feat 
Much  like  to  you,  for  you  have  just  his  bleat. 

Re-enter  ANTONIO,  with  the  Ladies  masked. 

Claud.  For  this  I  owe  you  :  here  come  other 

reckonings. 

Which  is  the  lady  I  must  seize  upon  ? 
Ant.  This  same  is  she,  and  I  do  give  you  her. 
Claud.  Why,  then,  she 's  mine.     Sweet,  let 
me  see  your  face.  [hand 

Leon   No,  that  you  shall  not,  till  you  take  her 
Before  this  friar,  and  swear  to  marry  her. 
Claud.  Give  me  your  hand  before  this  holy 

friar ; 

I  am  your  husband  if  you  lik '  ot  me. 
Hero.  And  when  I  lived  I  was  your  other  wife: 
[  Unmasking. 

And  when  you  lov'd  you  were  my  other  husband. 
Claud.  Another  Hero? 
Hero.  Nothing  certainer  : 

One  Hero  died  defil'd  ;  but  I  do  live, 
And,  surely  as  I  live,  I  am  a  maid.          [dead  ! 
D.  Pedro.  The  former  Hero  !     Hero  that  is 
Leon.  She  died,  my  lord,   but  whiles  her 

slander  liv'd. 

Friar.  All  this  amazement  can  I  qualify  ; 
When,  after  that  the  holy  rites  are  ended, 
I'll  tell  you  largely  of  fair  Hero's  death : 
Meantime  let  wonder  seem  familiar, 
And  to  the  chapel  let  us  presently. 

Bene.  Soft  and  lair,  friar. — Which  is  Beatrice  ? 
Beat.  I  answer  to  that  name;    [Unmasking. 
What  is  your  will  ? 

Bene.  Do  not  you  love  me  ? 

Beat.  No,  no  more  than  reason. 

Bene.  Why,  then  your  uncle,  and  the  prince, 

and  Claudio 

Have  been  deceived  ;  for  they  swore  you  did. 
Beat.  Do  not  you  love  me  ? 
Bene.  No,  no  more  than  reason. 

Beat.  Why,  then  my  cousin,  Margaret,  and 

Ursula, 

Are  much  deceived ;  for  they  did  swear  you  did. 

Bene.  They  swore  that  you  were  almost  sick 

for  me.  [dead  for  me. 

Beat.  They  swore  that  you  were  well-nigh 

Bene.  'Tis  no  such  matter. — Then  you  do 

not  love  me  ? 

Beat.  No,  truly,  but  in  friendly  recompense. 
Leon.  Come,  cousin,  I  am  sure  you  love  the 
gentleman. 


166 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


[ACT  v. 


Claud.   And  I  '11  be  sworn  upon  't  that  he 

loves  her  ; 

For  here  's  a  paper  written  in  his  hand  — 
A  halting  sonnet  of  his  own  pure  brain, 
Fashion'd  to  Beatrice. 

Hero.  And  here  's  another, 

Writ   in   my  cousin's  hand,   stolen   from   her 

pocket, 
Containing  her  affection  unto  Benedick. 

Bene.  A  miracle  !  —  here  's  our  own  hands 
against  our  hearts  !  —  Come,  I  will  have  thee  ; 
but,  by  this  light,  I  take  thee  for  pity. 

Beat.  I  would  not  deny  you  ;  —  but,  by  this 
good  day,  I  yield  upon  great  persuasion  ;  and 
partly  to  save  your  life,  for  I  was  told  you  were 
in  a  consumption. 

Bene.  Peace  ;  I  will  stop  your  mouth. 

\Kissing  her. 

D.   Pedro.    How  dost   thou,   Benedick   the 
married  man  ? 

Bene.  I  'li  tell  thee  what,  prince  ;  a  college 
of  wit-crackers  cannot  flout  me  out  of  my 
humour.  Dost  thou  think  I  care  for  a  satire, 
or  an  epigram  ?  No  :  if  a  man  will  be  beaten 
with  brains,  he  shall  wear  nothing  handsome 
about  him.  In  brief,  since  I  do  purpose  to 
marry,  I  will  think  nothing  to  any  purpose  that 
the  vrorld  can  say  against  it;  and  therefore 


never  flout  at  me  for  what  I  have  said  against 
it  ;  for  man  is  a  giddy  thing,  and  this  is  my 
conclusion.  —  For  thy  part,  Claudio,  I  did  think 
to  have  beaten  thee  ;  but  in  that  thou  art  like 
to  be  my  kinsman,  live  unbruised,  and  love  my 
cousin. 

Claud.  I  had  well  hoped  thou  wouldst  have 
denied  Beatrice,  that  I  might  have  cudgelled 
thee  out  of  thy  single  life,  to  make  thee  a 
double  dealer  ;  which,  out  of  question  thou 
wilt  be  if  my  cousin  do  not  look  exceeding 
narrowly  to  thee. 

Bene.  Come,  come,  we  are  friends  :  —  let  's 
have  a  da,nce  ere  we  are  married,  that  we  may 
lighten  our  own  hearts  and  our  wives'  heels. 

Leon.  We  '11  have  dancing  afterwards. 

Bene.  First,  o'  my  word  ;  therefore,  play, 
music.  —  Prince,  thou  art  sad  ;  get  thee  a  wife, 
get  thee  a  wife  :  there  is  no  staff  more  reverend 
than  one  tipped  with  horn. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
Mess.  My  lord,  your  brother  John  is  ta'en  in 

flight, 

And  brought  with  arm'd  men  back  to  Messina. 

Bene.  Think  not  on  him  till  to-morrow  :  I  '11 

devise  thee  brave  punishments  for  him.  —  Strike 

up,  pipers.  \Dance.     Exeunt. 


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A' MIDSUMMER  NIGHTS  DREAM. 

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PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


THESEUS,  Duke  of  Athens. 
EGEUS,  Father  to  HERMIA. 


PHILOSTRATE,  Masterofthe  Revels  to  THESEUS. 

QUINCE,  the  Carpenter. 

SNUG,  the  Joiner. 

BOTTOM,  the  Weaver. 

FLUTE,  the  Bellows  -mender. 

SNOUT,  the  Tinker. 

STARVELING,  the  Tailor. 

HIPPOLYTA,  Queen  of  the  Amazons^  betrothed 

to  THESEUS. 
HERMIA,  Daughter  to  EGEUS,  in  love  with 

LYSANDER. 
HELENA,  in  love  with  DEMETRIUS. 


OBERON,  King  of  tJie  F'airies. 
TITAN  i A,  ^M<?^W  of '  tJie  Fairies. 
PUCK,  ^  ROBIN  GOODFELLOW,  a 
PEASBLOSSOM,  ^ 

?,°™EB'      ^-^. 


MOTH, 
MUSTARDSEED,J 


PYRAMUS, 

THISBE, 

WALL, 

MOONSHINE, 

LION, 


Characters   in   the  Interlude 
performed  by  the  Clowns. 

acra  VOY  3-K^-nno  oh.  I  ^C\A.  . 


Other  Fairies  attending  their  King  ana  Queen. 
Attendants  on  THESEUS  and  HIPPOLYTA. 


SCENE, — ATHENS,  and  a  Wood  not  far  from  it. 


ACT  I. 


Kfirt  vrn  .• 


SCENE  I.— ATHENS.     A  Room  in  the  Palace 
of  THESEUS. 

Enter  THESEUS,  HIPPOLYTA,  PHILOSTRATE, 
and  Attendants. 

The.  Now,  fair  Hippolyta,  our  nuptial  hour 
Draws  on  apace  ;  four  happy  days  bring  in 
Another  moon :  but,  oh,  methinks,  how  slow 
This  old  moon  wanes  !  she  lingers  my  desires, 
Like  to  a  step-dame  or  a  dowager, 
Long  withering  out  a  young  man's  revenue. 

Hip.  Four  days  will  quickly  steep  themselves 

in  nights ; 

Four  nights  will  quickly  dream  away  the  time ; 
And  then  the  moon,  like  to  a  silver  bow 
New  bent  in  heaven,  shall  behold  the  night 
Of  our  solemnities. 

The.  Go,  Philostrate, 

Stir  up  the  Athenian  youth  to  merriments  ; 
Awake  the  pert  and  nimble  spirit  of  mirth  ; 
Turn  melancholy  forth  to  funerals — 
The  pale  companion  is  not  ibr  our  pomp. — 

[Exit  PHILOSTRATE. 
Hippolyta,  I  woo'd  thee  with  my  sword, 
And  won  thy  love  doing  thee  injuries  ; 
But  I  will  wed  thee  in  another  key, 
With  pomp,  with  triumph,  and  with  revelling. 


Enter  EGEUS,  HERMIA,  LYSANDER,  and 

DEMETRIUS. 

Ege.  Happy  be  Theseus,  our  renowned  dukef 
The.  Thanks,  good  Egeus :  what 's  the  news 

with  thee  ? 

Ege.  Full  of  vexation  come  I,  with  complaint 
Against  my  child,  my  daughter  Hermia. — 
Stand  forth,  Demetrius. — My  noble  lord, 
This  man  hath  my  consent  to  marry  her  : — 
Stand  forth,  Lysander ; — and,  my  gracious  duke. 
This  hath  bewitch'd  the  bosom  of  my  child. 
Thou,  thon,   Lysander,  thou   hast  given   her 

rhymes, 

And  interchang'd  love-tokens  with  my  child  : 
Thou  hast  by  moonlight  at  her  window  sung, 
With  feigning  voice,  verses  of  feigning  love  ; 
And  stol'n  the  impression  of  her  fantasy 
With  bracelets  of  thy  hair,  rings,  gawds,  con- 
ceits, [sengers, 
Knacks,  trifles,   nosegays,  sweatmeats, — mes- 
Of  strong  prevailment  in  unharden'd  youth  ; — 
With  cunning  hast  thou  filch'd  my  daughter's 

heart; 

Turned  her  obedience,  which  is  due  to  me, 
To   stubborn    harshness. — And,    my   gracious 

duke, 

Be  it  so  she  will  not  here  before  your  grace 
Consent  to  marry  with  Demetrius, 
I  beg  the  ancient  privilege  of  Athens, — 


168 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


[ACT  i. 


As  she  is  mine  I  may  dispose  of  her  : 
Which  shall  be  either  to  this  gentleman 
Or  to  her  death ;  according  to  our  law 
Immediately  provided  in  that  case. 

The.    What  say  you,  Hermia?   be  advis'd, 

fair  maid  : 

To  you  your  father  should  be  as  a  god  ; 
One  that  compos'd  your  beauties  ;  yea,  and  one 
To  whom  you  are  but  as  a  form  in  wax, 
By  him  imprinted,  and  within  his  power 
To  leave  the  figure,  or  disfigure  it. 
Demetrius  is  a  worthy  gentleman. 

Her.  So  is  Lysander. 

The.  In  himself  he  is  : 

But,  in  this  kind,  wanting  your  father's  voice, 
The  other  must  be  held  the  worthier.        [eyes. 

Her.  I  would  my  father  look'd  but  with  my 

The.  Rather  your  eyes  must  with  his  judg- 
ment look. 

Her.  I  do  entreat  your  grace  to  pardon  me. 
I  know  not  by  what  power  I  am  made  bold, 
Nor  how  it  may  concern  my  modesty 
In  such  a  presence  here  to  plead  my  thoughts  : 
But  I  beseech  your  grace  that  I  may  know 
The  worst  that  may  befall  me  in  this  case 
If  I  refuse  to  wed  Demetrius. 

The.  Either  to  die  the  death,  or  to  abjure 
For  ever  the  society  of  men. 
Therefore,  fair  Hermia,  question  your  desires, 
Know  of  your  youth,  examine  well  your  blood, 
Whether,  if  you  yield  not  to  your  father's  choice, 
You  can  endure  the  livery  of  a  nun  ; 
For  aye  to  be  in  shady  cloister  mew'd, 
To  live  a  barren  sister  aJl  your  life, 
Chanting  faint  hymns  to  the  cold,  fruitless  moon. 
Thrice  blessed  they  that  master  so  their  blood 
To  undergo  such  maiden  pilgrimage  : 
But  earthlier  happy  is  the  rose  distill'd, 
Than  that  which,  withering  on  the  virgin  thorn, 
Grows,  lives,  and  dies  in  single  blessedness. 

Her.  So  will  I  grow,  so  live,  so  die,  my  lord, 
Ere  I  will  yield  my  virgin  patent  up 
Unto  his  lordship,  whose  unwished  yoke 
My  soul  consents  not  to  give  sovereignty. 

The.  Take  time  to  pause ;  and  by  the  next 

new  moon, — 

The  sealing-day  betwixt  my  love  and  me, 
For  everlasting  bond  of  fellowship, — 
Upon  that  day  either  prepare  to  die 
For  disobedience  to  your  father's  will ; 
Or  else  to  wed  Demetrius,  as  he  would ; 
Or  on  Diana's  altar  to  protest 
For  aye  austerity  and  single  life.         [der,  yield 

Dem.  Relent,  sweet  Hermia  ; — and,  Lysan- 
Thy  crazed  title  to  my  certain  right. 

Lys.  You  have  her  father's  love,  Demetrius ; 
Let  me  have  Hermia's  :  do  you  marry  him. 


Ege.   Scornful  Lysander!  true,  he  hath  my 

love  ; 

And  what  is  mine  my  love  shall  render  him  ; 
And  she  is  mine  ;  and  all  my  right  of  her 
I  do  estate  unto  Demetrius. 

Lys.  I  am,  my  lord,  as  well  deriv'd  as  he, 
As  well  possess'd ;  my  love  is  more  than  his  ; 
My  fortunes  every  way  as  fairly  rank'd, 
If  not  with  vantage,  as  Demetrius's  ; 
And,  which  is  more  than  all  these  boasts  can  be, 
I  am  belov'd  of  beauteous  Hermia  : 
Why  should  not  I  then  prosecute  my  right  ? 
Demetrius,  I  '11  avouch  it  to  his  head, 
Made  love  to  Nedar's  daughter,  Helena, 
And  won  her  soul ;  and  she,  sweet  lady,  dotes. 
Devoutly  dotes,  dotes  in  idolatry, 
Upon  this  spotted  and  inconstant  man. 

The.  I  must  confess  that  I  have  heard  so  much, 
And  with    Demetrius  thought   to  have  spoke 

thereof ; 

But,  being  over-full  of  self-affairs, 
My  mind  did  lose  it. — But,  Demetrius,  come  ; 
And  come,  Egeus  ;  you  shall  go  with  me  ; 
I  have  some  private  schooling  for  you  both. — 
For  you,  fair  Hermia,  look  you  arm  yourself 
To  fit  your  fancies  to  your  father's  will, 
Or  else  the  law  of  Athens  yields  you  up, — 
Which  by  no  means  we  may  extenuate, — 
To  death,  or  to  a  vow  of  single  life. — 
Come,  my  Hippolyta :  what  cheer,  my  love  ? 
Demetrius,  and  Egeus,  go  along  : 
I  must  employ  you  in  some  business 
Against  our  nuptial,  and  confer  with  you 
Of  something  nearly  that  concerns  yourselves. 

Ege.  With  duty  and  desire  we  follow  you. 
[Exeunt  THES.  ,  HIP.,  EGE.,  DEM.,  and  Train. 

Lys.  How  now,  my  love  !  why  is  your  cheek 

so  pale  ? 
How  chance  the  roses  there  do  fade  so  fast  ? 

Her.  Belike  for  want  of  rain,  which  I  could 

well 
Beteem  them  from  the  tempest  of  mine  eyes. 

Lys.  Ah  me !  for  aught  that  ever  I  could  read, 
Could  ever  hear  by  tale  or  history, 
The  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth  : 
But  either  it  was  different  in  blood, [low  ! 

Her.  O  cross  !  too  high  to  be  enthrall 'd  to 

Lys.  Or  else  misgraffed  in  respect  of  years ; — 

Her.  O  spite !  too  old  to  be  engag'd  to  young ! 

Lys.  Or  else  it  stood  upon   the   choice   of 
friends : 

Her.  O  hell  !  to  choose  love  by  another's 
eye  ! 

Lys.   Or,  if  there  were  a  sympathy  in  choice, 
War,  death,  or  sickness,  did  lay  siege  to  it, 
Making  it  momentary  as  a  sound, 
Swift  as  a  shadow,  short  as  any  dream  ; 


SCENE  I.] 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


169 


Brief  as  the  lightning  in  the  collied  night 
That,  in  a  spleen,  unfolds  both  heaven  and  earth, 
And  ere  a  man  hath  power  to  say,  Behold  ! 
The  jaws  of  darkness  do  devour  it  up : 
So  quick  bright  things  come  to  confusion. 

Her.  If,  then,  true   lovers  have   been  ever 

cross'd, 

It  stands  as  an  edict  in  destiny  : 
Then  let  us  teach  our  trial  patience, 
Because  it  is  a  customary  cross ;  [sighs, 

As  due  to  love  as  thoughts,  and  dreams,  and 
Wishes,  and  tears,  poor  fancy's  followers. 

Lys.  A  good  persuasion ;  therefore,  hear  me, 

Hermia. 

I  have  a  widow  aunt,  a  dowager 
Of  great  revenue,  and  she  hath  no  child  : 
From  Athens  is  her  house  remote  seven  leagues ; 
And  she  respects  me  as  her  only  son. 
There,  gentle  Hermia,  may  I  marry  thee ; 
And  to  that  place  the  sharp  Athenian  law 
Cannot  pursue  us.     If  thou  lov'st  me,  then, 
Steal  forth  thy  father's  house  to-morrow  night ; 
And  in  the  wood  a  league  without  the  town, 
Where  I  did  meet  thee  once  with  Helena, 
To  do  observance  to  a  morn  of  May, 
There  will  I  stay  for  thee. 

Her.  My  good  Lysander  ! 

I  swear  to  thee  by  Cupid's  strongest  bow, 
By  his  best  arrow  with  the  golden  head, 
By  the  simplicity  of  Venus'  doves, 
By  that  which  knitteth  souls  and  prospers  loves, 
And  by  that   fire  which  burn'd  the  Carthage 

queen, 

When  the  false  Trojan  under  sail  was  seen, — 
By  all  the  vows  that  ever  men  have  broke, 
In  number  more  than  ever  woman  spoke, — 
In  that  same  place  thou  hast  appointed  me, 
To-morrow  truly  will  I  meet  with  thee. 

Lys.  Keep  promise,  love.    Look,  here  comes 
Helena. 

Enter  HELENA. 

Her.  God  speed  fair  Helena  !  Whither  away? 
HeL   Call  you  me  fair  ?  that  fair  again  unsay. 
Demetrius  loves  your  fair.     O  happy  fair  ! 
Your  eyes  are  lode-stars ;  and  your  tongue 's 

sweet  air 

More  tuneable  than  lark  to  shepherd's  ear, 
When  wheat  is  green,  when  hawthorn  buds 

appear. 

Sickness  is  catching  :  O,  were  favour  so, 
Yours  would  I  catch,  fair  Hermia,  ere  I  go  ; 
My  ear  should  catch  your  voice,  my  eye  your 

eye,  [melody. 

My  tongue  should  cacch  your  tongue's  sweet 
Were  the  world  mine,  Demetrius  being  bated, 
The  rest  I  '11  give  to  be  to  you  translated. 


O,  teach  me  how  you  look  ;  and  with  what  art 
You  sway  the  motion  of  Demetrius'  heart. 

Her.  I  frown  upon  him,  yet  he  loves  me  still. 

Hel.  O  that   your   frowns  would  teach  my 
smiles  such  skill ! 

Her.  I  give  him  curses,  yet  he  gives  me  love. 

Hel.   O  that  my  prayers  could  such  affection 
move  !  [me. 

Her.  The  more  I  hate,  the  more  he  follows 

Hel.   The  more  I  love,  the  more  he  hateth  me. 

Her.   His  folly,  Helena,  is  no  fault  of  mine. 

HeL  None,  but  your  beauty :  would  that  fault 
were  mine  !  [face  ; 

Her.  Take  comfort ;  he  no  more  shall  see  my 
Lysander  and  myself  will  fly  this  place..-wrM) 
Before  the  time  I  did  Lysander  see, 
Seem'd  Athens  like  a  paradise  to  me : 
O  then,  what  graces  in  my  love  do  d-.vell, 
That  he  hath  turn'd  a  heaven  unto  hell ! 

Lys.  Helen,  to  you  our  minds  we  will  unfold : 
To-morrow  night,  when  Phoebe  doth  behold 
Her  silver  visage  in  the  watery  glass, 
Decking  with  liquid  pearl  the  bladed  grass, — 
A  time  that  lovers'  flights  doth  still  conceal, — 
Through  Athens'  gates  have  we  devis'd  to  steal. 

Her.  And  in  the  wood  where  often  you  and  I 
Upon  faint  primrose  beds  were  wont  to  lie, 
Emptying  our  Losoms  of  their  counsel  sweet, 
There  my  Lysander  and  myself  shall  meet : 
And  thence  from  Athens  turn  away  our  eyes, 
To  seek  new  friends  and  stranger  companies. 
Farewell,  sweet  playfellow  :  pray  thou  for  us, 
And  good  luck  grant  thee  thy  Demetrius  ! — 
Keep  word,  Lysander  :  we  must  starve  our  sight 
From  lovers'  food,  till  morrow  deep  midnight. 

Lys.  I  will,  my  Hermia.        {Exit  HERMIA. 

Helena  adieu : 
As  you  on  him,  Demetrius  dote  on  you  ! 

{Exit  LYS. 

Hel.  How  happy  some  o'er  other  some  can  be  \ 
Through  Athens  I  am  thought  as  fair  as  she. 
But  what  of  that  ?     Demetrius  thinks  not  so  ; 
He  will  not  know  what  all  but  he  do  know. 
And  as  he  errs,  doting  on  Hermia's  eyes, 
So  I,  admiring  of  his  qualities. 
Things  base  and  vile,  holding  no  quantity, 
Love  can  transpose  to  form  and  dignity. 
Love  looks  not  with  the  eyes,  but  with  the  mind : 
And  therefore  is  wing'd  Cupid  painted  blind. 
Nor  hath  love's  mind  of  any  judgment  taste ; 
Wings  and  no  eyes  figure  unheedy  haste  : 
And  therefore  is  love  said  to  be  a  child, 
Because  in  choice  he  is  so  oft  beguil'd. 
As  waggish  boys  in  game  themselves  forswear, 
So  the  boy  Love  is  perjur'd  everywhere : 
For  ere  Demetrius  look  d  on  Hermia's  eyne, 
He  hail'd  down  oaths  that  he  was  only  mine ; 


170 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


[ACT  i. 


And  when  this  hail  some  heat  from  Hermia  felt, 
So  he  dissolv'd,  and  showers  of  oaths  did  melt. 
I  will  go  tell  him  of  fair  Hermia's  flight ; 
Then  to  the  wood  will  he  to-morrow  night 
Pursue  her  ;  and  for  this  intelligence 
If  I  have  thanks,  it  is  a  dear  expense  : 
But  herein  mean  I  to  enrich  my  pain, 
To  have  his  sight  thither  and  back  again. 

\_Exit. 

SCENE  II. — The  Same.    A  Room  in  a  Cottage. 

Enter    SNUG,     BOTTOM,     FLUTE,     SNOUT, 
QUINCE,  and  STARVELING. 

Quin.  Is  all  our  company  here  ? 

Bot.  You  were  best  to  call  them  generally, 
man  by  man,  according  to  the  scrip. 

Quin.  Here  is  the  scroll  of  every  man's  name, 
which  is  thought  fit,  through  all  Athens,  to  play 
in  our  interlude  before  the  duke  and  duchess  on 
his  wedding-day  at  night. 

Bot.  First,  good  Peter  Quince,  say  what  the 
play  treats  on;  then  read  the  names  of  the 
actors  ;  and  so  grow  to  a  point. 

Quin.  Marry,  our  play  is — The  most  lament- 
able comedy,  and  most  cruel  death  of  Pyramus 
and  Thisby. 

Bot.  A  very  good  piece  of  work,  I  assure  you, 
and  a  merry. — Now,  good  Peter  Quince,  call 
forth  your  actors  by  the  scroll. — Masters,  spread 
yourselves.  [the  weaver. 

Quin.  Answer,  as  I  call  you. — Nick  Bottom, 

Bot.  Ready.  Name  what  part  I  am  for,  and 
proceed.  [Pyramus. 

Quin.  You,  Nick  Bottom,  are  set  down  for 

Bot.  What  is  Pyramus  ?  a  lover,  or  a  tyrant? 

Quin.  A  lover,  that  kills  himself  most  gal- 
lantly for  love. 

Bot.  That  will  ask  some  tears  in  the  true  per- 
forming of  it.  If  I  do  it,  let  the  audience  look 
to  their  eyes  ;  I  will  move  storms  ;  I  will  con- 
dole in  some  measure.  To  the  rest : — yet  my 
chief  humour  is  for  a  tyrant :  I  could  play  Ercles 
rarely,  or  a  part  to  tear  a  cat  in,  to  make  all 
split. 

The  raging  rocks,  And  Phibbus*  car 

With  shivering  shocks,  Shall  shine  from  far,    ' 

Shall  break  the  locks  And  make  and  mar 

Of  prison  gates  :  .     The  foolish  Fates. 

This  was  lofty  ! — Now,  name  the  rest  of  the 
players. — This  is  Ercles'  vein,  a  tyrant's  vein ; 
— a  lover  is  more  condoling. 

Quin.  Francis  Flute,  the  bellows-mender. 

Flu.  Here,  Peter  Quince. 

Quin.   You  must  take  Thisby  on  you. 

Flu.  What  is  Thisby  ?  a  wandering  knight  ? 

Quin.  It  is  the  lady  that  Pyramus  must  love. 


Flu.  Nay,  faith,  let  me  not  play  a  woman  ; 
I  have  a  beard  coming. 

Quin.  That 's  all  one  ;  you  shall  play  it  in  a 
mask,  and  you  may  speak  as  small  as  you  will. 

Bot.  An  I  may  hide  my  face,  let  me  play 
Thisby  too :  I  '11  speak  in  a  monstrous  little 
voice; — Thisne^  Thisne.-—Ah^  Pyramus ,  my 
lover  dear ;  thy  Thisby  dear!  and  lady  dear  I 

Quin.  No,  no,  you  must  play  Pyramus ;  and, 
Flute,  you  Thisby. 

Bot.  Well,  proceed. 

Quin.  Robin  Starveling,  the  tailor. 

Star.  Here,  Peter  Quince. 

Quin.  Robin  Starveling,  you  must  play 
Thisby 's  mother. — Tom  Snout,  the  tinker. 

Snout.  Here,  Peter  Quince. 

Quin.  You,  j  Pyramus's  father  ;  myself, 
Thisby's  father; — Snug,  the  joiner,  you,  the 
lion's  part : — and,  I  hope,  here  is  a  play  fitted. 

Snug.  Have  you  the  lion's  part  written?  pray 
you,  if  it  be,  give  it  me,  for  I  am  slow  of  study. 

Quin.  You  may  do  it  extempore,  for  it  is 
nothing  but  roaring. 

Bot.  Let  me  play  the  lion  too  :  I  will  roar, 
that  I  will  do  any  man's  heart  good  to  hear  me  5 
I  will  roar,  that  I  will  make  the  duke  say,  Let 
him  roar  again,  let  him  roar  again. 

Quin.  An  you  should  do  it  too  terribly  you 
v/ould  fright  the  duchess  and  the  ladies,  that 
they  would  shriek  ;  and  that  were  enough  to 
hang  us  all. 

All.  That  would  hang  us  every  mother's  son. 

Bot.  I  grant  you,  friends,  if  that  you  should 
fright  the  ladies  out  of  their  wits,  they  would 
have  no  more  discretion  but  to  hang  us  :  but  I 
will  aggravate  my  voice  so  that  I  will  roar  you 
as  gently  as  any  sucking  dove ;  I  will  roar  you 
an  'twere  any  nightingale. 

Quin.  You  can  play  no  part  but  Pyramus . 
for  Pyramus  is  a  sweet-faced  man ;  a  proper 
man,  as  one  shall  see  on  a  summer's  day  ;  a 
most  lovely,  gentleman -like  man;  therefore 
you  must  needs  play  Pyramus. 

Bot.  Well,  I  will  undertake  it.  What  beard 
were  I  best  to  play  it  in  ? 

Quin.  Why,  what  you  will. 

Bot.  I  will  discharge  it  in  either  your  straw- 
coloured  beard,  your  orange-tawny  beard,  your 
purple-in-grain  beard,  or  your  French-crown- 
colour  beard,  your  perfect  yellow. 

Quin.  Some  of  your  French  crowns  have  no 
hair  at  all,  and  then  you  will  play  barefaced. — 
But,  masters,  here  are  your  parts  :  and  I  am  to 
entreat  you,  request  you,  and  desire  you,  to 
con  them  by  to-morrow  night ;  and  meet  me  in 
the  palace  wood,  a  mile  without  the  town,  by 
moonlight ;  there  will  we  rehearse :  for  if  we 


SCENE  II.] 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHTS  DREAM. 


171 


meet  in  the  city,  we  shall  be  dogg'd  with  com- 
pany, and  our  devices  known.  In  the  mean- 
time I  will  draw  a  bill  of  properties,  such  as 
our  play  wants.  I  pray  you,  fail  me  not. 

Bot.  We  will  meet ;  and  there  we  may  re- 
hearse more  obscenely  and  courageously.  Take 
pains  ;  be  perfect ;  adieu. 

Quin.  At  the  duke's  oak  we  meet. 

Bot.  Enough  ;  hold,  or  cut  bow-strings. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — A  Wood  near  Athens. 
Enter  a  Fairy  at  one  door,  and  PUCK  at  another. 
Puck.  How  now,  spirit !  whither  wander  you  ? 
Fai.  Over  hill,  over  dale, 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  brier, 
Over  park,  over  pale, 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 
I  do  wander  everywhere, 
Swifter  than  the  moon's  sphere  ; 
And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen, 
To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  careen. 
The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be : 
In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see  ; 
Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favours, 
In  those  freckles  live  their  savours : 
I  must  go  seek  some  dew-drops  here, 
And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 
Farewell,  thou  lob  of  spirits  ;  I  '11  be  gone  : 
Omr  queen  and  all  our  elves  come  here  anon. 
Puck.  The  king  doth  keep  his  revels  here  to- 
night ; 

Take  heed  the  queen  come  not  within  his  sight. 
For  Oberon  is  passing  fell  and  wrath, 
Because  that  she,  as  her  attendant,  hath 
A  lovely  boy,  stol'n  from  an  Indian  king  ; 
She  never  had  so  sweet  a  changeling  : 
And  jealous  Oberon  would  have  the  child 
Knight  of  his  train,  to  trace  the  forests  wild  : 
But  she  perforce  withholds  the  loved  boy, 
Crowns  him  with  flowers,  and  makes  him  all 

her  joy : 

And  now  they  never  meet  in  grove  or  green, 
By  fountain  clear  or  spangled  starlight  sheen, 
But  they  do  square ;  that  all  their  elves,  for  fear, 
Creep  into  acorn  cups,  and  hide  them  there. 
Fai.  Ekher  I  mistake  your  shape  and  mak- 
ing quite, 

Or  else  you  are  that  shrewd  and  knavish  sprite 
CalPd  Robin  Goodfellow :  are  you  not  he 
That  frights  the  maidens  of  the  villagery; 
Skim  milk,  and  sometimes  labour  in  the  quern, 
And   bootless   make  the  breathless  housewife 

churn ; 
And  sometime  make  the  drink  to  bear  no  barm ; 


M  islead  night- wanderers,  laughing  at  their  harm  ? 
Those  that  Hobgoblin  call  you,  and  sweet  Puck, 
You  do  their  work,  and  they  shall  have  good  luck: 
Are  not  you  he  ? 

Puck.  Thou  speak'st  aright ; 

I  am  that  merry  wanderer  of  the  night. 
I  jest  to  Oberon,  and  make  him  smile, 
When  I  a  fat  and  bean-fed  horse  beguile, 
Neighing  in  likeness  of  a  filly  foal : 
And  sometime  lurk  I  in  a  gossip's  bowl, 
In  very  likeness  of  a  roasted  crab  ; 
And,  when  she  drinks,  against  her  lips  I  bob, 
And  on  her  wither'd  dew-lap  pour  the  ale. 
The  wisest  aunt,  telling  the  saddest  tale, 
Sometime  for  three -foot  stool  mistaketh  me  ; 
Then  slip  I  from  her  bum,  down  topples  she, 
And  tailor  cries,  and  falls  into  a  cough  ; 
And  then  the  whole  quire  hold  their  hips  and 

loffe, 

And  waxen  in  their  mirth,  and  neeze,  and  swear 
A  merrier  hour  was  never  wasted  there. — 
But  room,  fairy,  here  comes  Oberon.          _v<iT 
Fai.  And  here  my  mistress. — Would  that  lie 

were  gone  ! 

SCENE  II. 

Enter  OBERON  at  one  door,  -with  his  Train, 
a/fc/TlTANIA,  at  ano  her,  with  hers. 

Obe.  Ill  met  by  moonlight,  proud  Titania. 

Tita.  What,  jealous  Oberon  !     Fairies,  skip 

hence  ; 
I  have  forsworn  his  bed  and  company. 

Obe.  Tarry,  rash  wanton :  am  not  I  thy  lord? 

Tita.  Then  I  must  be  thy  lady :  but  I  know 
When  thou  hast  stol'n  away  from  fairy-land, 
And  in  the  shape  of  Corin  sat  all  day, 
Playing  on  pipes  of  corn,  and  versing  love 
To  amorous  Phillida.     Why  art  thou  here, 
Come  from  the  farthest  steep  of  India  ? 
But  that,  forsooth,  the  bouncing  Amazon, 
Your  buskin'd  mistress  and  your  warrior  love, 
To  Theseus  must  be  wedded  ;  and  you  come 
To  give  their  bed  joy  and  prosperity. 

Obe.    How   can'st   thou    thus,     or    shame, 

Titania, 

Glance  at  my  credit  with  Hippolyta, 
Knowing  I  know  thy  love  to  Theseus  ? 
Didst  thou  not  lead  him  through  the  glimmer- 
ing night 

From  Perigenia,  whom  he  ravish'd? 
And  make  him  with  fair  ^£gle  break  his  faith, 
With  Ariadne  and  Antiopa  ? 

Tita.  These  are  the  forgeries  of  jealousy  : 
And  never,  since  the  middle  summer's  spring, 
Met  we  on  hill,  in  dale,  forest,  or  mead, 
By  paved  fountain,  or  by  rushy  brook, 
Or  on  the  beached  margent  of  the  sea. 


172 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


[ACT  ii. 


To  dance  our  ringlets  to  the  whistling  wind, 
But  with  thy  brawls  thou  hast  disturb'd  our 

sport. 

Therefore  the  winds,  piping  to  us  in  vain, 
As  in  revenge,  have  suck'd  up  from  the  sea 
Contagious  fogs ;  which,  falling  in  the  land, 
Have  every  pelting  river  made  so  proud 
That  they  have  overborne  their  continents: 
The  ox  hath  therefore  stretch'd  his  yoke  in  vain, 
The  ploughman  lost  his  sweat ;  and  the  green 

corn 

Hath  rotted  ere  his  youth  attain'd  a  beard : 
The  fold  stands  empty  in  the  drowned  field, 
And  crows  are  fatted  with  the  murrain  flock ; 
The  nine  men's  morris  is  fill'd  up  with  mud ; 
And  the  quaint  mazes  in  the  wanton  green, 
For  lack  of  tread,  are  undistinguishable : 
The  human  mortals  want  their  winter  here ; 
No  night  is  now  with  hymn  or  carol  blest : — 
Therefore  the  moon,  the  governess  of  floods, 
Pale  in  her  anger,  washes  all  the  air, 
That  rheumatic  diseases  do  abound : 
And  thorough  this  distemperature  we  see 
The  seasons  alter :  hoary-headed  frosts 
Fall  in  the  fresh  lap  of  the  crimson  rose ; 
And  on  old  Hyem's  chin  and  icy  crown 
An  odorous  chaplet  of  sweet  summer  buds 
Is,  as  in  mockery,  set :  the  spring,  the  summer, 
The  childing  autumn,  angry  winter,  change 
Their  wonted  liveries ;  and  the  maz'd  world, 
By  their   increase,  now   knows   not  which   is 

which : 

And  this  same  progeny  of  evils  comes 
From  our  debate,  from  our  dissension : 
We  are  their  parents  and  original. 

Obe.  Do  you  amend  it,  then:  it  lies  in  you: 
Why  should  Titania  cross  her  Oberon? 
I  do  but  beg  a  little  changeling  boy 
To  be  my  henchman. 

Tita.  Set  your  heart  at  rest ; 

The  fairy- land  buys  not  the  child  of  me. 
His  mother  was  a  vot'ress  of  my  order : 
And,  in  the  spiced  Indian  air,  by  night, 
Full  often  hath  she  gossip'd  by  my  side ; 
And  sat  with  me  on  Neptune's  yellow  sands, 
Marking  the  embarked  traders  on  the  flood ; 
When  we  have  laugh'd  to  see  the  sails  conceive, 
And  grow  big-bellied  with  the  wanton  wind : 
Which  she,  with  pretty  and  with  swimming  gait, 
Following, — her   womb    then    rich   with    my 

young  squire, — 

Would  imitate  ;  and  sail  upon  the  land, 
To  fetch  me  trifles,  and  return  again, 
As  from  a  voyage,  rich  with  merchandise. 
But  she,  being  mortal,  of  that  boy  did  die; 
And  for  her  sake  I  do  rear  up  her  boy : 
And  for  her  sake  I  will  not  part  with  him. 


Obe.  How  long  within  this  wood  intend  you 


stay? 


Lday. 


Tita.  Perchance  till  after  Theseus'  wedding- 
If  you  will  patiently  dance  in  our  round, 
And  see  our  moonlight  revels,  go  with  us  ; 
If  not,  shun  me,  and  I  will  spare  your  haunts. 
Obe.  Give  me  that  boy  and  I  will  go  with  thee. 
Tita.  Not  for  thy  fairy  kingdom.     Fairies, 

away : 
We  shall  chide  downright  if  I  longer  stay. 

[Exit  TITANIA  and  her  Train. 
Obe.  Well,  go  thy  way:  thou  shalt  not  from 

this  grove 

Till  I  torment  thee  for  this  injury. — 
My  gentle  Puck,  come  hither:  thou  remember' st 
Since  once  I  sat  upon  a  promontory, 
And  heard  a  mermaid,  on  a  dolphin's  back, 
Uttering  such  dulcet  and  harmonious  breath, 
That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her  song, 
And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres 
To  hear  the  sea-maid's  music. 

Puck.  I  remember. 

Obe.    That    very  time    I    saw, — but    thou 

couldst  not, — 

Flying  between  the  cold  moon  and  the  earth, 
Cupid  all  arm'd  :  a  certain  aim  he  took 
At  a  fair  vestal,  throned  by  the  west ; 
And  loos'd  his  love-shaft  smartly  from  his  bow, 
As  it  should  pierce  a  hundred  thousand  hearts  : 
But  I  might  see  young  Cupid's  fiery  shaft 
Quench'd  in  the  chaste  beams  of  the  watery 

moon  ; 

And  the  imperial  votaress  passed  on, 
In  maiden  meditation,  fancy-free. 
Yet  mark'd  I  where  the  bolt  of  Cupid  fell : 
It  fell  upon  a  little  western  flower, — 
Before    milk-white,    now    purple   with    love's 

wound, — 

And  maidens  call  it  love-in-idleness. 
Fetch  me  that  flower  ;  the  herb  I  show'd  thee 

once  : 

The  juice  of  it  on  sleeping  eyelids  laid 
Will  m  tke  or  man  or  woi.mn  madly  dote 
Upon  the  next  live  creature  that  it  sees. 
Fetch  me  this  herb  .  and  be  thou  here  again 
Ere  the  leviathan  can  swim  a  league. 

Puck.   I  '11  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  earth 
In  forty  minutes.  [Exit  PUCK. 

Obe.  Having  once  this  juice, 

I  '11  watch  Titania  when  she  is  asleep, 
And  drop  the  liquor  of  it  in  her  eyes  : 
The  next  thing  then  she  waking  looks  upon, — 
Be  it  on  lion,  bear,  or  wolf,  or  bull, 
On  meddling  monkey,  or  on  busy  ape, — 
She  shall  pursue  it  with  the  soul  of  love. 
And  ere  I  take  this  charm  off  from  her  sight,— 
As  I  can  take  it  with  another  herb,  -*?rnog 


SCENE  II.] 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


173 


I  '11  make  her  render  up  her  page  to  me. 
But  who  comes  here?     I  am  invisible  ; 
And  I  will  overhear  their  conference. 

Enter  DEMETRIUS,  HELEN  &  following  hint. 

Dem.  I  love  thee  not,  therefore  pursue  me 

not. 

Where  is  Lysander  and  fair  Hermia  ? 
The  one  I  '11  slay,  the  other  slayeth  me. 
Thou  told'st  me  they  were  stol'n  into  this  wood, 
And  here  am  I,  and  wood  within  this  wood, 
Because  I  cannot  meet  with  Hermia. 
Hence,  get  thee  gone,  and  follow  me  no  more. 

Hel.  You  draw  me,  you  hard-hearted  ada- 
mant ; 

But  yet  you  draw  not  iron,  for  my  heart 
Is  true  as  steel.     Leave  you  your  power  to  draw, 
And  I  shall  have  no  power  to  follow  you. 

Dem.  Do  I  entice  you?     Do  I  speak  you  fair  ? 
Or,  rather,  do  I  not  in  plainest  truth 
Tell  you  I  do  not,  nor  I  cannot  love  you  ? 

HeL  And  even  for  that  do  I  love  you  the  more. 
I  am  your  spaniel ;  and,  Demetrius, 
The  more  you  beat  me,  I  will  fawn  on  you  : 
Use  me  but  as  your  spaniel,  spurn  me,  strike  me, 
Neglect  me,  lose  me  ;  only  give  me  leave, 
Unworthy  as  I  am,  to  follow  you. 
What  worser  place  can  I  beg  in  your  love, 
And  yet  a  place  of  high  respect  with  me, — 
Than  to  be  used  as  you  use  your  dog  ? 

Dem.  Tempt  not  too  much  the  hatred  of  ray 

spirit ; 
For  I  am  sick  when  I  do  look  on  thee. 

Hel.  And  I  am  sick  when  I  look  not  on  you. 

Dem.  You  do  impeach  your  modesty  too  much, 
To  leave  the  city,  and  commit  yourself 
Into  the  hands  of  one  that  loves  you  not ; 
To  trust  the  opportunity  of  night, 
And  the  ill  counsel  of  a  desert  place, 
With  the  rich  worth  of  your  virginity. 

HeL  Your  virtue  is  my  privilege  for  that. 
It  is  not  night  when  I  do  see  your  face, 
Therefore  I  think  I  am  not  in  the  night  : 
Nor  doth  this  wood  lack  worlds  of  company  ; 
For  you,  in  my  respect,  are  all  the  world  : 
Then  how  can  it  be  said  I  am  alone 
When  all  the  world  is  here  to  look  on  me  ? 

Dem.  I  '11  run  from  thee,  and  hide  me  in  the 

brakes, 
And  leave  thee  to  the  mercy  of  wild  beasts. 

Hel.  The  wildest  hath  not  such  a  heart  as  you. 
Run  when  you  will,  the  story  shall  be  chang'd  ; 
Apollo  flies,  and  Daphne  holds  the  chase  ; 
The  dove  pursues  the  griffin  ;  the  mild  hind 
Makes  speed  to  catch  the  tiger, — bootless  speed, 
When  cowardice  pursues  and  valour  flies. 

Dem.  I  will  not  stay  thy  questions  ;  let  me  go  : 


Or,  if  thou  follow  me,  do  not  believe 
But  I  shall  do  thee  mischief  in  the  wood. 

HeL  Ay,  in  the  temple,  in  the  town,  the  field, 
You  do  me  mischief.     Fie,  Demetrius  ! 
Your  wrongs  do  set  a  scandal  on  my  sex  : 
We  cannot  fight  for  love  as  men  may  do  : 
We  should  be  woo'd,  and  were  not  made  to  woo. 
I  '11  follow  thee,  and  make  a  heaven  of  hell, 
To  die  upon  the  hand  1  love  so  well. 

[Exeunt  DEM.  and  HEL. 

Obe.  Far-  thee  well,  nymph  :  ere  he  do  leave 

this  grove, 
Thou  shalt  fly  him,  and  he  shall  seek  thy  love. — 

Re-enter  PUCK. 
Hast  thou  the  flower  there  ?  Welcome,  wanderer. 

Puck.  Ay,  there  it  is. 

Obe.  I  pray  thee,  give  it  me. 

I  know  a  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme  blows, 
Where  ox-lips  and  the  nodding  violet  grows  ; 
Quite  over-canopied  with  lush  woodbine, 
With  sweet  musk  roses,  and  with  eglantine  : 
There  sleeps  Titan ia  sometime  of  the  night, 
Lulled  in  these  flowers  witn  dances  and  delight ; 
And  there  the  snake  throws  her  enamell'd  skin, 
Weed  wide  enough  to  wrap  a  fairy  in  : 
And  with  the  juice  of  this  I  '11  streak  her  eyes, 
And  make  her  full  of  hateful  fantasies. 
Take  thou  some  of  it,  and  seek  through  thisgrove: 
A  sweet  Athenian  lady  is  in  love 
With  a  disdainful  youth  :  anoint  his  eyes  ; 
But  do  it  when  the  next  thing  he  espies 
May  be  the  lady  :  thou  shalt  know  the  man 
By  the  Athenian  garments  he  hath  on. 
Effect  it  with  some  care,  that  he  may  prove 
More  lond  on  her  than  she  upon  her  love  : 
And  look  thou  meet  me  ere  the  first  cock  crow. 

Puck.  Fear  not,  my  lord,  your  servant  shall 
do  so.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.—  Another  part  of  the  Wood. 

Enter  TlTANlA,  -with  her  Train. 
Tita.  Come,  now  a  roundel  and  a  fairy  song  ; 
Then,  for  the  third  part  of  a  minute,  hence  ; 
Some  to  kill  cankers  in  the  musk-rose  buds ; 
Some  war  with  rere -mice  for  their  leathern  wings, 
To  make  my  small  elves  coats  ;  and  some  keep 
back  [wonders 

The   clamorous   owl,   that  nightly   hoots   and 
At  our  quaint  spirits.     Sing  me  now  asleep  ; 
Then  to  your  offices,  and  let  me  rest. 

SONG. 

i. 
I  Fat.   You  spotted  snakes,  with  double  tongue, 

Thorny  hedgehogs,  be  not  seen  ; 
Newts  and  blind-worms  do  no  wrong ; 
Come  not  near  our  fairy  queen : 


174 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


[ACT  ii. 


tence 


CHORUS. 

Philomel,  with  melody, 
Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby  : 
Lulla,  lulla,  lullaby  ;  lulla,  lulla,  lullaby : 
Never  harm,  nor  spell,  nor  charm, 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh  ; 
So,  good-night,  witu  lullaby; 

II. 
!  Fai.    Weaving  spiders,  come  not  here ; 

Hence,  you  long-legg'd  spinners,  hi 
Beetles  black,  approach  not  near  ; 
Worm  nor  snail  do  no  offence. 

CHORUS. 

Philomel,  with  melody,  &c. 


I  Fai.  Hence,  away  ;  now  all  is  well : 
One,  aloof,  stand  sentinel. 

[Exeunt  Fairies.     TITANIA  sleeps. 

Enter  OBERON. 

Obe.  What  thou  seest,  when  thou  dost  wake, 
[Squeezes  the  flower  on  TITANIA'S  eyelids. 
Do  it  for  thy  true-love  take  ; 
Love  and  languish  for  his  sake  ; 
Be  it  ounce,  or  cat,  or  bear, 
Pard,  or  boar  with  bristled  hair, 
In  thy  eye  that  shall  appear 
When  thou  wak'st,  it  is  thy  dear  ; 
Wake  when  some  vile  thing  is  near.         \_Exit. 

Enter  LYSANDER  and  HERMIA. 

Lys.  Fair  love,  you  faint  with  wandering  in 
the  wood  ; 

And,  to  speak  troth,  I  have  forgot  our  way ; 
We  '11  rest  us,  Hermia,  if  you  think  it  good, 

And  tarry  for  the  comfort  of  the  day. 

Her.  Be  it  so,  Lysander  :  find  you  out  a  bed, 
For  I  upon  this  bank  will  rest  my  head. 

Lys.  One  turf  shall  serve  as  pillow  for  us  both; 
One  heart,  one  bed,  two  bosoms,  and  one  troth. 

Her.  Nay,  good  Lysander ;  for  my  sake,  my 

dear, 
Lie  farther  off  yet,  do  not  lie  so  near. 

Lys.  O,  take  the  sense,  sweet,  of  my  innocence; 
Love  takes  the  meaning  in  love's  conference. 
I  mean,  that  my  heart  unto  yours  is  knit ; 
So  that  but  one  heart  we  can  make  of  it : 
Two  bosoms  interchained  with  an  oath  ; 
So  then  two  bosoms  and  a  single  troth. 
Then  by  your  side  no  bed-room  me  deny  ; 
For  lying  so,  Hermia,  I  do  not  lie. 

Her.   Lysander  riddles  very  prettily : — 
Now  much  beshrew  my  manners  and  my  pride 
If  Hermia  meant  to  say  Lysander  lied. 
But,  gentle  friend,  for  love  and  courtesy 
Lie  farther  off;  in  human  modesty, 
Such  separation  as  may  well  be  said 


Becomes  a  virtuous  bachelor  and  a  maid  : 

So  far  be  distant ;  and,  good  night,  sweet  friend: 

Thy  love  ne'er  alter  till  thy  sweet  life  end  ! 

Lys.  Amen,  amen,  to  that  fair  prayer,  say  I; 
And  then  end  life  when  I  end  loyalty  ! 
Here  is  my  bed  :  Sleep  give  thee  all  his  rest ! 

Her.  With  half  that  wish  the  wisher's  eyes  be 
pressed!  \Theysleep. 


Enter  PUCK. 


I)fiA 


Puck.  Through  the  forest  have  I  gone, 
But  Athenian  found  I  none, 
On  whose  eyes  I  might  approve 
This  flower's  force  in  stirring  love. 
Night  and  silence  !  who  is  here  ? 
Weeds  of  Athens  he  doth  wear  : 
This  is  he,  my  master  said, 
Despised  the  Athenian  maid  ; 
And  here  the  maiden,  sleeping  sound, 
On  the  dank  and  dirty  ground. 
Pretty  soul !  she  durst  not  lie 
Near  this  lack-love,  this  kill-courtesy 
Churl,  upon  thy  eyes  I  throw 
All  the  power  this  charm  doth  owe  ; 
When  thou  wak'st  let  love  forbid 
Sleep  his  seat  on  thy  eyelid  : 
So  awake  when  I  am  gone  ; 
For  I  must  now  to  Oberon.        \Exit. 

Enter  DEMETRIUS  and  HELENA,  running. 

Hel.  Stay,  though  thou  kill  me,  sweet  Deme- 
trius. 

Dem.  I  charge  thee,  hence,  and  do  not  haunt 
me  thus. 

HeL  O,  wilt  thou  darkling  leave  me?  donotso. 

Dem.   Stay  on  thy  peril ;  I  alone  will  go. 

\Exit  DEMETRIUS. 

Hel.  O,  I  am  out  01  breath  in  this  fond  chase ! 
The  more  my  prayer  the  lesser  is  my  grace. 
Happy  is  Hermia,  wheresoe'er  she  lies, 
For  she  hath  blessed  and  attractive  eyes. 
How  came  her  eyes  so  bright  ?  Not  with  salt  tears: 
If  so,  my  eyes  are  oftener  wash'd  than  hers. 
No,  no,  I  am  as  ugly  as  a  bear  ; 
For  beasts  that  meet  me  run  away  for  fear : 
Therefore  no  marvel  though  Demetrius 
Do,  as  a  monster,  fly  my  presence  thus. 
What  wicked  and  dissembling  glass  of  mine 
Made  me  com  pare  with  Hermia's  sphery  eyne  ? — 
But  who  is  here  ? — Lysander  !  on  the  ground  ! 
Dead?  or  asleep?  I  see  no  blood,  no  wound. 
Lysander,  if  you  live,  good  sir,  awake. 

Lys.  And  run  through  fire  I  will  for  thy  sweet 

sake.  [  Waking. 

Transparent  Helena  !     Nature  here  shows  art, 

That  through  thy  bosom  makes  me  see  thy  heart. 


SCENE  III.] 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHrS  DREAM. 


'75 


Where  is  Demetrius  ?  O,  how  fit  a  word 
Is  that  vile  name  to  perish  on  my  sword  ! 

Hel.  Do  not  say  so,  Lysander  ;  say  not  so  : 
What  though  he  love  your  Hermia?      Lord, 

what  though  ? 
Yet  Hermia  still  loves  you  :  then  be  content. 

Lys.  Content  with  Hermia?    No  :  I  do  repent 
The  tedious  minutes  I  with  her  have  spent. 
Not  Hermia  but  Helena  I  love  : 
Who  will  not  change  a  raven  for  a  dove  ? 
The  will  of  man  is  by  his  reason  sway'd  ; 
And  reason  says  you  are  the  worthier  maid. 
Things  growing  are  not  ripe  until  their  season  ; 
So  I,  being  young,  till  now  ripe  not  to  reason  ; 
And  touching  now  the  point  of  human  skill, 
Reason  becomes  the  marshal  to  my  will, 
And  leads  me  to  your  eyes,  where  I  o'erlook 
Love's  stories,  written  in  love's  richest  book. 
Hel.  Wherefore  was  I  to  this  keen  mockery 

born  ? 

When  at  your  hands  did  I  deserve  this  scorn  ? 
Is 't  not  enough,  is  't  not  enough,  young  man, 
That  I  did  never,  no,  nor  never  can 
Deserve  a  sweet  look  from  Demetrius'  eye, 
But  you  must  flout  my  insufficiency  ? 
Good  troth,  you  do  me  wrong, — good  sooth, 

you  do — 

In  such  disdainful  manner  me  to  woo. 
But  fare  you  well :  perforce  I  must  confess, 
I  thought  you  lord  of  more  true  gentleness. 
O,  that  a  lady  of  one  man  refus'd, 
Should  of  another  therefore  be  abus'd  !    [Exit. 
Lys.  She  sees  not  Hermia  : — Hermia,  sleep 

thou  there ; 

And  never  mayst  thou  come  Lysander  near  ! 
For,  as  a  surfeit  of  the  sweetest  things 
The  deepest  loathing  to  the  stomach  brings  ; 
Or,  as  the  heresies  that  men  do  leave 
Are  hated  most  of  those  they  did  deceive  ; 
So  thou,  my  surfeit  and  my  heresy, 
Of  all  be  hated,  but  the  most  of  me  ! 
And,  all  my  powers,  address  your  love  and  might 
To  honour  Helen,  and  to  be  her  knight !    [Exit. 
Her.    [Starting.'}   Help  me,  Lysander,  help 

me!  do  thy  best 

To  pluck  this  crawling  serpent  from  my  breast ! 
Ah  me,  for  pity  ! — what  a  dream  was  here  ! 
Lysander,  look  how  I  do  quake  with  fear  ! 
Methought  a  serpent  eat  my  heart  away, 
And  you  sat  smiling  at  his  cruel  prey. — 
Lysander  !  what,  removed  ?  Lysander  !  lord  ! 
What,  out  of  hearing?  gone?  no  sound,  no  word? 
Alack,  where  are  you?  speak,  an  if  you  hear  ; 
Speak,  of  all  loves  !  I  swoon  almost  with  fear. 
No  ?— then  I  well  perceive  you  are  not  nigh  : 
Either  death  or  you  1 311  find  immediately. 

[Exit. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — The  Wood.     The  Queen  of  Fairies 
lying  asleep. 

Enter    QUINCE,    SNUG,    BOTTOM,    FLUTE, 
SNOUT,  and  STARVELING. 

Bot.  Are  we  all  met  ? 

Qttin.  Pat,  pat ;  and  here  s  a  marvellous  con- 
venient place  for  our  rehearsal.  This  green  plot 
shall  be  our  stage,  this  hawthorn  brake  our 
tiring-house  ;  and  we  will  do  it  in  action,  as  we 
will  do  it  before  the  duke. 

Bot.  Peter  Quince, — 

Quin.  What  say'st  thou,  bully  Bottom  ? 

Bot.  There  are  things  in  this  comedy  of  Pyra* 
mus  and  Thisby  that  will  never  please.  First, 
Pyramus  must  draw  a  sword  to  kill  himself; 
which  the  ladies  cannot  abide.  How  answer 
you  that? 

Snout.  By'r  lakin,  a  parlous  fear. 

Star.  I  believe  you  must  leave  the  killing  out, 
when  all  is  done. 

Bot.  Not  a  whit :  I  have  a  device  to  make  all 
well.  Write  me  a  prologue  ;  and  let  the  pro- 
logue seem  to  say,  we  will  do  no  harm  with  our 
swords,  and  that  Pyramus  is  not  killed  indeed  : 
and  for  the  more  better  assurance,  tell  them 
that  I  Pyramus  am  not  Pyramus,  but  Bottom 
the  weaver  :  this  will  put  them  out  of  fear. 

Quin.  Well,  we  will  have  such  a  prologue  ; 
and  it  shall  be  written  in  eight  and  six. 

Bot.  No,  make  it  two  more  ;  let  it  be  written 
in  eight  and  eight. 

Snozit.  Will  not  the  ladies  be  afeard  of  the 
lion? 

Star.  I  fear  it,  I  promise  you. 

Bot.  Masters,  you  ought  to  consider  with 
yourselves  :  to  bring  in,  God  shield  us  !  a  lion 
among  ladies  is  a  most  dreadful  thing  :  for  there 
is  not  a  more  fearful  wild-fowl  than  your  lion 
living  ;  and  we  ought  to  look  to  it. 

Snout.  Therefore  another  prologue  must  tell 
he  is  not  a  lion. 

Bot.  Nay,  you  must  name  his  name,  and  half 
his  face  must  be  seen  through  the  lion's  neck ; 
and  he  himself  must  speak  through,  saying  thus, 
or  to  the  same  defect, — "Ladies,"  or  "  Fair 
Ladies  !  I  would  wish  you,  or,  I  would  request 
you,  or,  I  would  entreat  you,  not  to  fear,  not 
to  tremble  :  my  life  for  yours.  If  you  think  I 
come  hither  as  a  lion,  it  were  pity  of  my  life. 
No,  I  am  no  such  thing  ;  I  am  a  man  as  other 
men  are : " — and  there,  indeed,  let  him  name 
his  name,  and  tell  them  plainly  he  is  Snug  the 
joiner. 

Quin.  Well,  it  shall  be  so.     But  there  is  two 


176 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


[ACT  in. 


hard  things  ;  that  is,  to  bring  the  moonlight  into 
a  chamber:  for,  you  know,  Pyramus  and  Thisby 
meet  by  moonlight. 

Snug.  Doth  the  moon  shine  that  night  we 
play  our  play  ? 

Bot.  A  calendar,  a  calendar  !  look  in  the 
almanack  ;  find  out  moonshine,  find  out  moon- 
shine. 

Quin.  Yes,  it  doth  shine  that  night 

Bot.  Why,  then  you  may  leave  a  casement 
of  the  great  chamber-window,  where  we  play, 
open  ;  and  the  moon  may  shine  in  at  the  case- 
ment. 

Quin.  Ay  ;  or  else  one  must  come  in  with  a 
bush  of  thorns  and  a  lantern,  and  say  he  comes 
to  disfigure  or  to  present  the  person  of  moon- 
shine. Then  there  is  another  thing :  we  must 
have  a  wall  in  the  great  chamber  ;  for  Pyramus 
and  Thisby,  says  the  story,  did  talk  through  the 
chink  of  a  wall. 

Snug.  You  never  can  bring  in  a  wall. — What 
say  you,  Bottom  ? 

Bot.  Some  man  or  other  must  present  wall : 
and  let  him  have  some  plaster,  or  some  loam, 
or  some  rough-cast  about  him,  to  signify  wall ; 
or  let  him  hold  his  fingers  thus,  and  through 
that  cranny  shall  Pyramus  and  Thisby  whisper. 

Quin.  If  that  may  be,  then  all  is  well.  Come, 
sit  down,  every  mother's  son,  and  rehearse  your 
parts,  Pyramus,  you  begin :  when  you  have 
spoken  your  speech,  enter  into  that  brake  ;  and 
so  every  one  according  to  his  cue. 

Ji  rJ,  ;.^>'W         ,  r .   ,     .cVt 
Enter  PUCK  behind. 


Puck.  What  hempenhomespunshave  we  swag- 
gering here, 

So  near  the  cradle  of  the  fairy  queen  ? 
What,  a  play  toward  !  I  '11  be  an  auditor  j 
An  actor  too,  perhaps,  if  I  see  cause. 

Quin.  Speak,  Pyramus. — Thisby,  stand  forth. 

Pyr*   Thisby)  the  flowers  of  odious  savours 
sweety 

Quin.  Odours,  odours. 

Pyr.  odours  savours  sweet : 

So  doth  thy  breathy  my  dearest  Thisby  dear. — 
Bttt  harky  a  voice  /  stay  thou  but  here  awhile^ 

And  by  and  by  I  will  to  thee  appear.    [Exit. 

Puck.  A  stranger  Pyramus  than  e'er  played 
here  !  [Aside.— Exit. 

This.  Must  I  speak  now  ? 

Quin.  Ay,  marry,  must  you  :  for  you  must 
understand  he  goes  but  to  see  a  noise  that  he 
heard,  and  is  to  come  again. 

This.  Most  radiant  Pyramus ',  most  lily  white 
of  hue, 

Of  colour  like  the  red  rose  on  triumphant  brier, 
Most  brisky  Juvenal^  and  eke  most  lovely  Jew, 


As  true  as  truest  horsey  that  yet  would  never 

tire, 
/'//  meet  1heet  Pyramus ,  at  Ninny 's  tomb. 

Quin.  Ninus3  tomb,  man  :  why,  you  must 
not  speak  that  yet :  that  you  answer  to  Pyramus. 
You  speak  all  your  part  at  once,  cues  and  all. — 
Pyramus  enter :  your  cue  is  past ;  it  is,  never 
tire. 

J?e-enterP\JCK,atid'BoTTOM.  with  anass'shead. 
This.  O, — As  true  as  truest  horse,  that  yet 

would  never  tire. 
Pyr.   If  I  were  fairy    Thisby ,  /  were  only 

thine : — 

Quin.  O   monstrous  !    O   strange  !   we  are 

haunted.    Pray,  masters  !  fly,  masters  !— Help ! 

[Exeunt  Clowns. 

Puck.  I  '11  follow  you  ;  I  '11  lead  you  about  a 
round,  [through  brier ; 

Through  bog,  through  bush,  through  brake, 
Sometime  a  horse  I  '11  be,  sometime  a  hound, 

A  hog,  a  headless  bear,  sometime  a  fire  ; 
And  neigh,  and  bark,  and  grunt,  and  roar,  and 

burn, 

Like  horse,  hound,  hog,  bear,  fire,  at  every  turn. 

[Exit. 

Bot.  Why  do  they  run  away?  this  is  a  knavery 
of  them  to  make  me  afeard. 

„  0        -lyff  uov 

Re-enter  SNOUT,,:  . 

Snout.  O  Bottom,  thou  art  changed !  what 
do  I  see  on  thee  ? 

Bot.  What  do  you  see  ?  you  see  an  ass-head 
of  your  own,  do  you  ? 

t  ..£.  ,   •jjjytfj  fo-l/i 

Re-enter  QUINCE. 

Quin.  Bless  thee,  Bottom  !  bless  thee!  thou 
art  translated.  [Exit. 

Bot.  I  see  their  knavery;  this  is  to  make 
an  ass  of  me ;  to  fright  me,  if  they  could.  But 
I  will  not  stir  from  this  place,  do  what  they  can : 
I  will  walk  up  and  down  here,  and  I  will  sing, 
that  they  shall  hear  I  am  not  afraid.  [Singst 

The  ousel-cock,  so  black  of  hue, 

With  orange-tawny  bill, 
The  throstle  with  bis  note  so  true, 

The  wren  with  Httle  quilt 

Tita.  What  angel  wakes  me  from  my  flowery 
bed?  [Waking* 

Bot.      The  finch,  the  sparrow,  and  the  lark, 

The  plain-song  cuckoo  gray, 
Whose  note  full  many  a  man  doth  mark. 
And  dares  not  answer  nay  ; — 

for,  indeed,  who  would  set  his  wit  to  so  fool- 
ish a  bird?  who  would  give  a  bird  the  lie,  though 
he  cry  cuckoo  never  so  ? 


SCENE  I.] 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


177 


Tito.  I  pray  thee,  gentle  mortal,  sing  again : 
Mine  ear  is  much  enamour'd  of  thy  note. 
So  is  mine  eye  enthralled  to  thy  shape  ;     [me, 
And  thy  fair  virtue's  force  perforce  doth  move 
On  the  first  view,  to  say,  to  swear,  I  love  thee. 

Bot.  Methinks,  mistress,  you  should  have 
little  reason  for  that :  and  yet,  to  say  the  truth, 
reason  and  love  keep  little  company  together 
now-a-days  :  the  more  the  pity  that  some  honest 
neighbours  will  not  make  them  friends.  Nay, 
I  can  gleek  upon  occasion. 

Tito.  Thou  art  as  wise  as  thou  art  beautiful. 

Bot.  Not  so,  neither :  but  if  I  had  wit  enough 
to  get  out  of  this  wood,  I  have  enough  to  serve 
mine  own  turn. 

Tito,.  Out  of  this  wood  do  not  desire  to  go  ; 
Thou  shalt  remain  here  whether  thou  wilt  or  no. 
I  am  a  spirit  of  no  common  rate, — 
The  summer  still  doth  tend  upon  my  state  ; 
And  I  do  love  thee  :  therefore,  go  with  me, 
I  '11  give  thee  fairies  to  attend  on  thee  ; 
And  they  shall  fetch  thee  jewels  from  the  deep, 
And  sing,  while  thou  on  pressed  flowers  dost 

sleep : 

And  I  will  purge  thy  mortal  grossneos  so 
That  thou  shalt  like  an  airy  spirit  go.— 
Peasblossom !    Cobweb  !    Moth !  and  Mustard- 
seed  ! 

Enter  Four  Fairies. 

1  Fai.  Ready. 

2  Fai.  And  I. 

3  Fai.  And  I. 

4  Fai.  Where  shah  we  go? 
Tito.   Be  kind  and  courteous  to  this  gentle- 
man ; 

Hop  in  his  walks  and  gambol  in  his  eyes ; 
Feed  him  with  apricocks  and  dewberries, 
With  purple  grapes,  green  figs,  and  mulberries  ; 
The  honey  bags  steal  from  the  humble-bees, 
And,  for  night-tapers,  crop  their  waxen  thighs, 
And  light  them  at  the  fiery  glow-worm's  eyes, 
To  have  my  love  to  bed  and  to  arise  ; 
And  pluck  the  wings  from  painted  butterflies, 
To  fan  the  moonbeams  from  his  sleeping  eyes : 
Nod  to  him,  elves,  and  do  him  courtesies. 

1  Fai.   Hail,  mortal  ! 

2  Fai.  Hail  ! 

3  Fai.   Hail  ! 

4  Fai.  Hail ! 

Bot.  I  cry  your  worship's  mercy  heartily. — I 
beseech  your  worship's  name. 

Cob.  Cobweb. 

Bot.  I  shall  desire  you  of  more  acquaintance, 
good  Master  Cobweb.  If  I  cut  my  finger  I 
shall  make  bold  with  you. — Your  name,  honest 
gentleman  ? 


Peas.  Peasblossom. 

Bot.  1  pray  you,  commend  me  to  Mistress 
Squash,  your  mother,  and  to  Master  Peascod, 
your  father.  Good  Master  Peasblossom,  I  shall 
desire  you  of  more  acquaintance  too. — Your 
name,  I  beseech  you,  sir  ? 

Mus.   Mustardseed. 

Bot.  Good  Master  Mustardseed,  I  know  your 
patience  well :  that  same  cowardly  giant-like 
ox-beef  hath  devoured  many  a  gentleman  of 
your  house  :  I  promise  you,  your  kindred  hath 
made  my  eyes  water  ere  now.  I  desire  you 
more  acquaintance,  good  Master  Mustardseed. 

Tita.  Come,  wait  upon  him ;  lead  him  to  my 
bower. 

The  moon,  methinks,  looks  with  a  watery  eye  ; 
And  when  she  weeps,  weeps  every  little  flower, 

Lamenting  some  enforced  chastity. 

Tie  up  my  love's  tongue,  bring  him  silently. 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Another  part  of 'the  Wood. 

<*j  ttr**   --\  ^Tit    -^  iiTT /• -vipj  *-"*'f    tei  t  T:    ffr rf **  "W/H 

Enter  OBERON. 

Obe.   I  wonder  if  Titania  be  awak'd  ; 
Then  what  it  was  that  next  came  in  her  eye, 
Which  she  must  dote  on  in  extremity. 

»   :  sin  c-J  wl  fA 
Enter  PUCK. 

Here  comes  my  messenger. — How  now,  mad 

spirit  ? 

What  night-rule  now  about  this  haunted  grove? 
Puck.   My  mistress  with  a  monster  is  in  love. 
Near  to  her  close  and  consecrated  bower, 
While  she 'was  in  her  dull  and  sleeping  hour, 
A  crew  of  patches,  rude  mechanicals, 
That  work  for  bread  upon  Athenian  stalls, 
Were  met  together  to  rehearse  a  play 
Intended  for  great  Theseus'  nuptial  day. 
The  shallowest  thickskin  of  that  barren  sort 
Who  Pyramus  presented  in  their  sport, 
Forsook  his  scene  and  enter'd  in  a  brake  ; 
When  I  did  him  at  this  advantage  take, 
An  ass's  nowl  I  fixed  on  his  head  ; 
Anon,  his  Thisbe  must  be  answered,         [spy, 
And  forth  my  mimic  comes.     When  they  him 
As  wild  geese  that  the  creeping  fowler  eye, 
Or  russet-pated  choughs,  many  in  sort, 
Rising  and  cawing  at  the  gun's  report, 
Sever  themselves,  and  madly  sweep  the  sky, 
So  at  his  sight  away  his  fellows  fly : 
And  at  our  stamp  here  o'er  and  o'er  one  falls  ; 
He  murder  cries,  and  help  from  Athens  calls. 
Their  sense,  thus  weak,  lost  with  their  fears, 

thus  strong, 

Made  senseless  things  begin  to  do  them  wrong  ? 
For  briers  and  tboms  at  their  apparel  snatch ; 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


[ACT  in. 


Some  sleeves,  some   hats :   from   yielders  all 

things  catch. 

I  led  them  on  in  this  distracted  fear, 
And  left  sweet  Pyramus  translated  there  : 
When  in  that  moment, — so  it  came  to  pass, — 
Titania  wak'd,  and  straightway  lov'd  an  ass. 

Obe.  This  fails  out  better  than  I  could  devise. 
But  hast  thou  yet  latch'd  the  Athenian's  eyes 
With  the  love-juice,  as  I  did  bid  thee  do  ? 

Puck.  I  took  him  sleeping, — that  is  finish'd 

too,— 

And  the  Athenian  woman  by  his  side  ; 
That,  when  he  wak'd,  of  force  she  must  be  ey'd. 

Enter  DEMETRIUS  and  HERMIA. 
Obe.  Stand  close  ;  this  is  the  same  Athenian. 
Puck.  This  is  the  woman,  but  not  this  the 
man.  [so  ? 

Dem.  O,  why  rebuke  you  him  that  loves  you 
Lay  breath  so  bitter  on  your  bitter  foe. 
Her.  Now  I  but  chide,  but  I  should  use  thee 

worse; 

For  thou,  I  fear,  hast  given  me  cause  to  curse. 
If  thou  hast  slain  Lysander  in  his  sleep, 
Being  o'er  shoes  in  blood,  plunge  in  the  deep, 
And  kill  me  too. 

The  sun  was  not  so  true  unto  the  day 
As  he  to  me  :  would  he  have  stol'n  away 
From  sleeping  Hermia  ?     I  '11  believe  as  soon 
This  whole  earth  may  be  bor'd  ;  and  that  the 

moon 

May  through  the  centre  creep,  and  so  displease 
Her  brother's  noontide  with  the  antipodes. 
It  cannot  be  but  thou  hast  murder'd  him  ; 
So  should  a  murderer  look  ;  so  dead,  so  grim. 
Dem.  So  should  the  murder'd  look  ;  and  so 

should  I, 
Pierc'd    through    the    heart   with   your    stern 

cruelty : 

Yet  you,  the  murderer,  look  as  bright,  as  clear, 
As  yonder  Venus  in  her  glimmering  sphere. 
Her.     What 's  this  to  my  Lysander  ?  where 

is  he? 

Ah,  good  Demetrius,  wilt  thou  give  him  me  ? 
Dem.   I  had  rather  give  his  carcass  to  my 

hounds. 

Her.   Out,  dog  !  out,  cur  !  thou  driv'st  me 
past  the  bounds  [then? 

Of  maiden's  patience.     Hast  thou  slain  him, 
Henceforth  be  never  number'd  among  men  ! 
Oh !  once  tell  true,  tell  true,  even  for  my  sake ; 
Durst  thou  have  look'd  upon  him,  being  awake, 
And  hast  thou  kill'd  him  sleeping  ?     O  brave 

touch  ! 

Could  not  a  worm,  an  adder,  do  so  much  ? 
An  adder  did  it ;  for  with  doubler  tongue 
Than  thine,  thou  serpent,  never  adder  stung. 


Dem.  You  spend  your  passion  on  a  mispris'd 

mood  : 

I  am  not  guilty  of  Lysander's  blood  ; 
Nor  is  he  dead,  for  aught  that  I  can  tell. 
Her.  I  pray  thee,  tell  me,  then,  that  he  is  well. 
Dem.  An  if  I  could,  what  should  I  get  there- 
fore ? 

Her.  A  privilege  never  to  see  me  more. — 
And  from  thy  hated  presence  part  I  so : 
See  me  no  more  whether  he  be  dead  or  no. 

[Exit. 
Dem.  There  is  no  following  her  in  this  fierce 

vein  : 

Here,  therefore,  for  awhile  I  will  remain. 
So  sorrow's  heaviness  doth  heavier  grow 
For  debt  that  bankrupt  sleep  doth  sorrow  owe ; 
Which  now  in  some  light  measure  it  will  pay, 
If  for  his  tender  here  I  make  some  stay. 

[Lies  down. 

Obe.  What  hast  thou  done  ?  thou  hast  mis- 
taken quite,  [sight : 
And   laid    the    love- juice  on  some  true-love's 
Of  thy  misprision  must  perforce  ensue 
Some  true-love  turn'd,  and  not  a  false  turn'd 
true.                                [holding  troth, 
Puck.  Then  fate  o'er-rules,  that,  one   man 
A  million  fail,  confounding  oath  on  oath. 
Obe.  About  the  wood  go,  swifter  than  the 

wind, 

And  Helena  of  Athens  look  thou  find  : 
All  fancy-sick  she  is,  and  pale  of  cheer, 
With  sighs  of  love,  that  cost  the  fresh  blood 

dear. 

By  some  illusion  see  thou  bring  her  here  ; 
I  '11  charm  his  eyes  against  she  do  appear. 

Puck.   I  go,  I  go  ;  look  how  I  go, — 
Swifter  than  arrow  from  the  Tartar's  bow. 

[Exit. 

Obe.   Flower  of  this  purple  dye, 
Hit  with  Cupid's  archery, 
Sink  in  apple  of  his  eye  ! 
When  his  love  he  doth  espy, 
Let  her  shine  as  gloriously 
As  the  Venus  of  the  sky. — 
When  thou  wak'st,  if  she  be  by, 
Beg  of  her  for  remedy. 

_     rn.JisH   .«ft.  l 
Re-enter  PUCK. 

Puck.  Captain  of  our  fairy  band, 

Helena  is  here  at  hand, 

And  the  youth  mistook  by  me 

Pleading  for  a  lover's  fee  ; 

Shall  we  their  fond  pageant  see  ? 

Lord,  what  fools  these  mortals  be  .' 
Obe.  Stand  aside  :  the  noise  they  make 

Will  cause  Demetrius  to  awake. 
Puck.  Then  will  two  at  once  woo  one, — 


SCENE  II.  j 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


179 


That  must  needs  be  sport  alone ; 
And  those  things  do  best  please  me 
That  befall  preposterously. 

Enter  LYSANDER  and  HELENA. 

Lys.    Why  should  you  think  that  I  should 
woo  in  scorn  ? 

Scorn  and  derision  never  come  in  tears. 
Look,  when  I  vow,  I  weep ;  and  vows  so  born, 

In  their  nativity  all  truth  appears. 
How  can  these  things  in  me  seem  scorn  to  you, 
Bearing  the  badge  of  faith,  to  prove  them  true? 

Hel.  You  do   advance  your   cunning   more 
and  more. 

When  truth  kills  truth,  O  devilish-holy  fray ! 
These  vows  are  Hermia's  :  will  you  give  her 
o'er? 

Weigh  oath  with  oath  and  you  will  nothing 

weigh  : 

Your  vows  to  her  and  me,  put  in  two  scales, 
Will  even  weigh  ;  and  both  as  light  as  tales. 

Lys.  I  had  no  judgment  when  to  her  I  swore. 

HeL  Nor  none,  in  my  mind,  now  you  give 
her  o'er.  [you. 

Lys.   Demetrius  loves  her,  and  he  loves  not 

Dem.  [Awaking.]  O  Helen,  goddess,  nymph, 

perfect,  divine  ! 

To  what,  my  love,  shall  I  compare  thine  eyne? 
Crystal  is  muddy.  O,  how  ripe  in  show 
Thy  lips,  those  kissing  cherries,  tempting  grow  ! 
That  pure  congealed  white,  high  Taurus'  snow, 
Fann'd  with  the  eastern  wind,  turns  to  a  crow 
When  thou  hold'st  up  thy  hand :  O  let  me  kiss 
This  princess  of  pure  white,  this  seal  of  bliss  ! 

HeL  O  spite !  O  hell !  I  see  you  all  are  bent 
To  set  against  me  for  your  merriment. 
If  you  were  civil,  and  knew  courtesy, 
You  would  not  do  me  thus  much  injury. 
Can  you  not  hate  me,  as  I  know  you  do, 
But  you  must  join  in  souls  to  mock  me  too  ? 
If  you  were  men,  as  men  you  are  in  show, 
You  would  not  use  a  gentle  lady  so; 
To  vow,  and  swear,  and  superpraise  my  parts, 
When  I  am  sure  you  hate  me  with  your  hearts. 
You  both  are  rivals,  and  love  Hermia  ; 
And  now  both  rivals,  to  mock  Helena  : 
A  trim  exploit,  a  manly  enterprise, 
To  conjure  tears  up  in  a  poor  maid's  eyes 
With  your  derision  !     None  of  noble  sort 
Would  so  offend  a  virgin,  and  extort 
A  poor  soul's  patience,  all  to  make  you  sport. 

Lys.  You  are  unkind,  Demetrius ;  be  not  so ; 
For  you  love  Hermia  :  this  you  know  I  know  : 
And  here,  with  all  good  will,  with  all  my  heart, 
In  Hermia's  love  I  yield  you  up  my  part ; 
And  yours  of  Helena  to  me  bequeath, 
Whom  I  do  love,  and  will  do  to  my  death. 


Hel.  Never  did  mockers  waste  more  idle 
breath.  [none : 

Dem.  Lysander,  keep  thy  Hermia ;    I  will 
If  e'er  I  lov'd  her,  all  that  love  is  gone. 
My  heart  with  her  but  as  guest-wise  sojourn'd ; 
And  now  to  Helen  is  it  home  return'd, 
There  to  remain. 

Lys.  Helen,  it  is  not  so. 

Dem.  Disparage  not  the  faith  thou  dost  not 

know, 

Lest,  to  thy  peril,  thou  aby  it  dear. — 
Look  where  thy  love  comes ;  yonder  is  thy  dear. 

Enter  HERMIA. 

Her.  Dark  night,  that  from  the  eye  his  func- 
tion takes, 

The  ear  more  quick  of  apprehension  makes  ; 
Wherein  it  doth  impair  the  seeing  sense, 
It  pays  the  hearing  double  recompense  : — 
Thou  art  not  by  mine  eye,  Lysander,  found  ; 
Mine  ear,  I  thank  it,  brought  me  to  thy  sound. 
But  why  unkindly  didst  thou  leave  me  so  ? 

Lys.  Why  should  he  stay  whom  love  doth 
press  to  go  ? 

Her.  What  love  could  press  Lysander  from 
my  side  ?  [bide, — 

Lys.  Lysander's  love,  that  would  not  let  him 
Fair  Helena, — who  more  engilds  the  night 
Than  all  yon  fiery  oes  and  eyes  of  light. 
Why  seek'st  thou  me?    could  not  this  make 

thee  know 
The  hate  I  bare  thee  made  me  leave  thee  so? 

Her.  You  speak  not  as  you  think  ;  it  cannot 
be. 

Hel.   Lo,  she  is  one  of  this  confederacy  ! 
Now  I  perceive  they  have  conjoin'd  all  three 
To  fashion  this  false  sport  in  spite  of  me. 
Injurious  Hermia  !  most  ungrateful  maid  ! 
Have  you  conspir'd,  have  you  with  these  con- 

triv'd 

To  bait  me  with  this  foul  derision  ? 
Is  all  the  counsel  that  we  two  have  shar'd, 
The  sisters'  vows,  the  hours  that  we  have  spent, 
When  we  have  chid  the  hasty-footed  time 
For  parting  us, — O,  is  all  forgot  ? 
All  school -days'  friendship,  childhood  innocence? 
We,  Hermia,  like  two  artificial  gods, 
Have  with  our  neelds  created  both  one  flower, 
Both  on  one  sampler,  sitting  on  one  cushion, 
Both  warbling  of  one  song,  both  in  one  key  ; 
As  if  our  hands,  our  sides,  voices,  and  minds 
Had  been  incorporate.     So  we  grew  together, 
Like  to  a  double  cherry,  seeming  parted  ; 
But  yet  a  union  in  partition, 
Two  lovely  berries  moulded  on  one  stem  : 
So,  with  two  seeming  bodies,  but  one  heart, 
Two  of  the  first,  like  coats  in  heraldry, 


i8o 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


[ACT  in. 


Due  but  to  one,  and  crowned  with  one  crest. 
And  will  you  rent  our  ancient  love  asunder, 
To  join  with  men  in  scorning  your  poor  friend? 
It  is  not  friendly,  'tis  not  maidenly  : 
Our  sex,  as  well  as  I,  may  chide  you  for  it, 
Though  I  alone  do  feel  the  injury. 

Her.   I  am  amazed  at  your  passionate  words : 
I  scorn  you  not ;  it  seems  that  you  scorn  me. 

Hel.  Have  you  not  sent  Lysander,  as  in  scorn, 
To  follow  me,  and  praise  my  eyes  and  face  ? 
And  made  your  other  love,  Demetrius,— 
Who  even  but  now  did  spurn  me  with  his  foot, — 
To  call  me  goddess,  nymph,  divine,  and  rare, 
Precious,  celestial  ?     Wherefore  speaks  he  this 
To  her  he  hates  ?  and  wherefore  doth  Lysander 
Deny  your  love,  so  rich  within  his  soul, 
And  tender  me,  forsooth,  affection, 
But  by  your  setting  on,  by  your  consent  ? 
What  though  I  be  not  so  in  grace  as  you, 
So  hung  upon  with  love,  so  fortunate  ; 
But  miserable  most,  to  love  unlov'd  ? 
This  you  should  pity,  rather  than  despise. 

Her.  I  understand  not  what  you  mean  by 
this. 

Hel.  Ay,  do  persever,  counterfeit  sad  looks, 
Make  mows  upon  me  when  I  turn  my  back  ; 
Wink  at  each  other  ;  hold  the  sweet  jest  up  : 
This  sport,  well  carried,  shall  be  chronicled. 
If  you  have  any  pity,  grace,  or  manners, 
You  would  not  make  me  such  an  argument. 
But,  fare  ye  well :  'tis  partly  mine  own  fault ; 
Which  death,  or  absence,  soon  shall  remedy. 

Lys.  Stay,  gentle  Helena  ;  hear  my  excuse  ; 
My  love,  my  life,  my  soul,  fair  Helena  ! 

Hel.  O  excellent  ! 

Her.  Sweet,  do  not  scorn  her  so. 

Dem.  If  she  cannot  entreat,  I  can  compel. 

Lys.  Thou  canst  compel  no  more  than  she 

entreat ; 
Thy  threats  have  no  more  strength  than  her 

weak  prayers. — 

Helen,  I  love  thee  ;  by  my  life  I  do  ; 
I  swear  by  that  which  I  will  lose  for  thee 
To  prove  him  false  that  says  I  love  thee  not. 

Dem.   I  say  I  love  thee  more  than  he  can  do. 

Lys.  If  thou  say  so,  withdraw,  and  prove  it 
too. 

Dem.  Quick,  come, — 

Her.  Lysander,  whereto  tends  all  this  ? 

Lys.  Away,  you  Ethiope  ! 

Dem.  No,  no,  sir : — he  will 

Seem  to  break  loose ;  take  on  as  you  would 

follow  : 
But  yet  come  not.     You  are  a  tame  man ;  go  ! 

Lys.    Hang  off,   thou  cat,   thou  burr:   vile 

thing,  let  loose, 
Or  I  will  shake  thee  from  me  like  a  serpent. 


Her.  Why  are  you   grown   so  rude?  what 

change  is  this, 
Sweet  love? 

Lys.         Thy  love  ?  out,  tawny  Tartar,  out  ! 
Out,  loath'd  medicine  !  hated  potion,  hence  ! 

Her.  Do  you  not  jest? 

Hel.  Yes,  'sooth  ;  and  so  do  you. 

Lys.  Demetrius,  I  will  keep  my  word  with 
thee. 

Dem.  I  would  I  had  your  bond ;  for  I  perceive 

A  weak  bond  holds  you ;  I  '11  not  trust  your 

word.  [kill  her  dead? 

Lys.  What  !  should  I  hurt  her,  strike  her, 
Although  I  hate  her  I  '11  not  harm  her  so. 

Her.   What !  can  you  do  me  greater  harm 
than  hate  ?  [love  ? 

Hate  me  !  wherefore  ?  O  me  !  what  news,  my 
Am  not  I  Hermia  ?  Are  not  you  Lysander  ? 
I  am  as  fair  now  as  I  was  ere  while,  [left  me  : 
Since  night  you  lov'd  me  ;  yet  since  night  you 
Why,  then,  you  left  me, — O,  the  gods  forbid ! — 
In  earnest,  shall  I  say  ? 

Lys.  Ay,  by  my  life  ; 

And  never  did  desire  to  see  thee  more. 
Therefore  be  out  of  hope,  of  question,  doubt, 
Be  certain,  nothing  truer  ;  'tis  no  jest 
That  I  do  hate  thee  and  love  Helena. 

Her.    O    me !    you    juggler !    you    canker- 
blossom  !  [night, 
You  thief  of  love  !     What !  have  you  come  by 
And  stol'n  my  love's  heart  from  him  ? 

Hel.  Fine,  i'  faith  J 

Have  you  no  modesty,  no  maiden  shame, 
No  touch  of  bashfulness?     What !  will  you  tear 
Impatient  answers  from  my  gentle  tongue  ? 
Fie,  fie  !  you  counterfeit,  you  puppet,  you  ! 

Her.  Puppet !  why  so  ?    Ay,  that  way  goes 

the  game. 

Now  I  perceive  that  she  hath  made  compare 
Between  our  statures ;  she  hath  urg'd  her  height  j 
And  with  her  personage,  her  tall  personage, 
Her  height,  forsooth,  she  hath  prevail'd  with 

him. — 

And  are  you  grown  so  high  in  his  esteem 
Because  I  am  so  dwarfish  and  so  low  ? 
How  low  am  I,  thou  painted  maypole  ?  speak ; 
How  low  am  I  ?  I  am  not  yet  so  low 
But  that  my  nails  can  reach  unto  thine  eyes. 

Hel.  I  pray  you,  though  you  mock  me,  gentle- 
men, 

Let  her  not  hurt  me.     I  was  never  curst ; 
I  have  no  gift  at  all  in  shrewishness ; 
I  am  a  right  maid  for  my  cowardice ; 
Let  her  not  strike  me.     You  perhaps  may  think 
Because  she 's  something  lower  than  myself, 
That  I  can  match  her. 

Her.  Lower  1  hark,  again. 


SCENE  II.] 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHTS  DREAM. 


181 


Bel.  Good  Hermia,  do  not  be  so  bitter  with  me. 
I  evermore  did  love  you,  Hermia  ; 
Did  ever  keep  your  counsels ;  never  wrong' d  you; 
Save  that,  in  love  unto  Demetrius, 
I  told  him  of  your  stealth  unto  this  wood  : 
He  follow'd  you  ;  for  love  I  follow'd  him  ; 
But  he  hath  chid  me  hence,  and  threaten'd  me 
To  strike  me,  spurn  me,  nay,  to  kill  me  too  : 
And  now,  so  you  will  let  me  quiet  go, 
To  Athens  will  I  bear  my  folly  back, 
And  follow  you  no  farther.     Let  me  go-. 
You  see  how  simple  and  how  fond  I  am. 

Her.  Why,  get  you  gone  :  who  is 't  that  hin- 
ders you  ? 

Hel.  A  foolish  heart  that  I  leave  here  behind. 

Her.  What !  with  Lysander  ? 

Hel.  With  Demetrius. 

Lys.  Be  not  afraid  :  she  shall  not  harm  thee, 
Helena. 

Dem.  No,  sir,  she  shall  not,  though  you  take 
her  part. 

Hel.  O,  when  she 's  angry,  she  is  keen  and 

shrewd : 

She  was  a  vixen  when  she  went  to  school ; 
And,  though  she  be  but  little,  she  is  fierce. 

Her.  Little  again!  nothing  but  low  and  little! — 
Why  will  you  suffer  her  to  flout  me  thus  ? 
Let  me  come  to  her. 

Lys.  Get  you  gone,  you  dwarf ; 

You  minimus,  of  hind'ring  knot-grass  made  ; 
You  bead,  you  acorn. 

Dem.  You  are  too  officious 

In  her  behalf  that  scorns  your  services. 
Let  her  alone  :  speak  not  of  Helena  ; 
Take  not  her  part ;  for  if  thou  dost  intend 
Never  so  little  show  of  love  to  her, 
Thou  shalt  aby  it. 

Lys.  Now  she  holds  me  not ; 

Now  follow,  if  thou  dar'st,  to  try  whose  right, 
Or  thine  or  mine,  is  most  in  Helena. 

Dem.  Follow  1  nay,  I  '11  go  with  thee,  cheek 
by  jole.          {Exeunt  LYS.  and  DEM. 

Her.  You,  mistress,  all  this  coil  is  'long  of  you: 
Nay,  go  not  back. 

Hel.  I  will  not  trust  you,  I ; 

Nor  longer  stay  in  your  curst  company. 
Your  hands  than  mine  are  quicker  for  a  fray  ; 
My  legs  are  longer  though,  to  run  away. 

{Exit. 

Her.  I  am  amaz'd,  and  know  not  what  to  say. 
[Exit,  pursuing  HELENA. 

Obe.  This  is  thy  negligence :  still  thou  mis- 

tak'st, 
Or  else  commit'st  thy  knaveries  wilfully. 

Puck.  Believe  me,  king  of  shadows,  I  mistook. 
Did  not  you  tell  me  I  should  know  the  man 
By  the  Athenian  garments  he  had  on  ? 


And  so  far  blameless  proves  my  enterprise, 
That  I  have  'nointed  an  Athenian's  eyes  : 
And  so  far  am  I  glad  it  so  did  sort, 
As  this  their  jangling  I  esteem  a  sport. 

Obe.  Thou  seest  these  lovers  seek  a  place  to 

fight: 

Hie  therefore,  Robin,  overcast  the  night ; 
The  starry  welkin  cover  thou  anon 
With  drooping  fog,  as  black  as  Acheron  • 
And  lead  these  testy  rivals  so  astray, 
As  one  come  not  within  another's  way. 
Like  to  Lysander  sometime  frame  thy  tongue, 
Then  stir  Demetrius  up  with  bitter  wrong  ; 
And  sometime  rail  thou  like  Demetrius ; 
And  from  each  other  look  thou  lead  them  thus, 
Till  o'er  their  brows  death -counterfeiting  sleep 
With  leaden  legs  and  batty  wings  doth  creep : 
Then  crush  this  herb  into  Lysandei's  eye  ; 
Whose  liquor  hath  this  virtuous  property, 
To  take  from  thence  all  error  with  his  might, 
And  make  his  eyeballs  roll  with  wonted  sight 
When  they  next  wake,  all  this  derision 
Shall  seem  a  dream  and  fruitless  vision  ; 
And  back  to  Athens  shall  the  lovers  wend, 
With  league  whose  date  till  death  shall  never  end. 
Whiles  I  in  this  affair  do  thee  employ, 
I  '11  to  my  queen,  and  beg  her  Indian  boy  ; 
And  then  I  will  her  charmed  eye  release 
From  monster's  view,  and  all  things  shall  be 
peace. 

Puck.  My  fairy  lord,  this  must  be  done  with 

haste, 

For  night's  swift  dragons  cut  the  clouds  full  fast; 
And  yonder  shines  Aurora's  harbinger, 
At  whose  approach  ghosts,  wandering  here  and 

there, 

Troop  home  to  churchyards  :  damned  spirits  all, 
That  in  cross- ways  and  floods  have  burial, 
Already  to  their  wormy  beds  are  gone  ; 
For  fear  lest  day  should  look  their  shames  upofc 
They  wilfully  exile  themselves  from  light, 
And  must  for  aye  consort  with  black-brow'd 
night. 

Obe.  But  we  are  spirits  of  another  sort  ? 
I  with  the  morning's  love  have  oft  made  sport ; 
And,  like  a  forester,  the  groves  may  tread 
Even  till  the  eastern  gate,  all  fiery-red, 
Opening  on  Neptune  with  fair  blessed  beams, 
Turns  into  yellow  gold  his  salt-green  streams. 
But,  notwithstanding,  haste  ;  make  no  delay : 
We  may  effect  this  business  yet  ere  day. 

[Exit  OBE. 

Puck.   Up  and  down,  up  and  down  ; 

I  will  lead  them  up  and  down : 

I  am  fear'd  in  field  and  town  ; 

Goblin,  lead  them  up  and  down. 
Here  comes  one. 


1 82 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


[ACT  IV. 


Enter  LYSANDER. 

Lys.  Where  art  thou,  proud  Demetrius?  speak 
thou  now.  [art  thou? 

Puck.  Here,  villain ;  drawn  and  ready.  Where 
Lys.  I  will  be  with  thee  straight. 
Puck.  Follow  me,  then, 

To  plainer  ground. 

[Exit  LYS.  as  following  the  voice. 

Enter  DEMETRIUS. 

Dem.  Lysander  !  speak  again. 

Thou  runaway,  thou  coward,  art  thou  fled  ? 
Speak.     In  some  bush  ?  where  dost  thou  hide 
thy  head  ?  [stars, 

Puck.  Thou  coward,  art  thou  bragging  to  the 
Telling  the  bushes  that  thou  look'st  for  wars, 
And  wilt  not  come  ?     Come,  recreant ;  come, 

thou  child ; 

I  '11  whip  thee  with  a  rod  :  he  is  defiled 
That  draws  a  sword  on  thee. 

Dem.  Yea,  art  thou  there  ? 

Puck.  Follow  my  voice  ;  we  '11  try  no  man- 
hood here.  [Exeunt, 

Re-enter  LYSANDER. 

Lys.  He  goes  before  me,  and  still  dares  me  on; 
When  I  come  where  he  calls,  then  he  is  gone. 
The  villain  is  much  lighter  heeled  than  I : 
I  follow'd  fast,  but  faster  he  did  fly ; 
That  fallen  am  I  in  dark  uneven  way, 
And  here  will  rest  me.     Come,  thou  gentle  day! 

[Lies  down. 

For  if  but  once  thou  show  me  thy  gray  light, 
I  '11  find  Demetrius,  and  revenge  this  spite. 

[Sleeps. 

Re-enter  PUCK  and  DEMETRIUS. 

Puck.  Ho,  ho !  ho,  ho !    Coward,  why  com'st 

thou  not  ? 

Dem.  Abide  me  if  thou  dar'st ;  for  well  I  wot 
Thou  runn'st  before  me,  shifting  every  place  ; 
And  dar'st  not  stand,  nor  look  me  in  the  face. 
Where  art  thou  ? 

Pttck.  Come  hither ;  I  am  here. 

Dem.  Nay,  then,  thou  mock'st  me.     Thou 

shalt  buy  this  dear, 
If  ever  I  thy  face  by  daylight  see  : 
Now,  go  thy  way.     Faintness  constraineth  me 
To  measure  out  my  length  on  this  cold  bed. — 
By  day's  approach  look  to  be  visited. 

[Lies  down  and  sleeps. 

Enter  HELENA. 

Hel.  O  weary  night,  O  long  and  tedious  night, 
Abate  thy  hours !    Shine  comforts  from  the  east, 


That  I  may  back  to  Athens  by  daylight, 
From  these  that  my  poor  company  detest : — 
And  sleep,  that  sometimes  shuts  up  sorrow's  eye, 
Steal  me  awhile  from  mine  own  company. 

[Sleeps. 
Puck.  Yet  but  three  ?     Come  one  more  ; 

Two  of  both  kinds  makes  up  four. 

Here  she  comes,  curst  and  sad  :— 

Cupid  is  a  knavish  lad, 

Thus  to  make  poor  females  mad. 

Enter  HERMIA. 

Her.  Never  so  weary,  never  so  in  woe, 
Bedabbled  with  the  dew,  and  torn  with  briers ; 
I  can  no  farther  crawl,  no  farther  go  ; 

My  legs  can  keep  no  pace  with  my  desires. 
Here  will  I  rest  me  till  the  break  of  day. 
Heaven  shield  Lysander,  if  they  mean  a  fray  ! 

[Lies  down. 
Puck.  On  the  ground 
Sleep  sound : 
I  '11  apply 
To  your  eye, 
Gentle  lover,  remedy. 
[Squeezing  the  juice  on  LYSANDER'S  eye. 
When  thou  wak'st, 
Thou  tak'st 
True  delight 
In  the  sight 

Of  thy  former  lady's  eye  : 
And  the  country  proverb  known, 
That  every  man  should  take  his  own, 
In  your  waking  shall  be  shown  : 
Jack  shall  have  Jill; 
Nought  shall  go  ill ;        [be  well. 
The  man  shall  have  his  mare  again,  and  all  shall 
[Exit  PUCK.— DEM.,  HEL.,  &-V,  sleep. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.— The  Wood. 

Enter  TITANIA  and  BOTTOM,  Fairies  attend- 
ing ;  OBERON  behind,  unseen. 

Tita.  Come,  sit  thee  down  upon  this  flowery 
bed, 

While  I  thy  amiable  cheeks  do  coy, 
And  stick  musk-roses  in  thy  sleek  smooth  head, 

And  kiss  thy  fair  large  ears,  my  gentle  joy. 

Bot.  Where 's  Peasblossom  ? 

Peas.   Ready. 

Bot.  Scratch     my     head,     Peasblossom. — 
Where 's  Monsieur  Cobweb  ? 

Cob.  Ready. 

Bot.  Monsieur  Cobweb ;  good  monsieur,  get 
your  weapons  in  your  hand  and  kill  me  a  red-hip- 
ped humble-bee  on  the  top  of  a  thistle;  and,  good 


SCENE  I.] 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


monsieur,  bring  me  the  honey- bag.  Do  not  fret 
yourself  too  much  in  the  action,  monsieur ;  and, 
good  monsieur,  have  a  care  the  honey-bag  break 
not ;  I  would  be  loath  to  have  you  over-flown 
with  a  honey-bag,  signior. — Where's  Monsieur 
Mustardseed  ? 

Must.   Ready.  [seed. 

Bot.  Give  me  your  neif,  Monsieur  Mustard- 
Pray  you,  leave  your  courtesy,  good  monsieur. 

Must.  What 's  your  will  ? 

Bot.  Nothing,  good  monsieur,  but  to  help 
Cavalero  Cobweb  to  scratch.  I  must  to  the  bar- 
ber's, monsieur  ;  for  methinks  I  am  marvellous 
hairy  about  the  face  :  and  I  am  such  a  tender  ass, 
if  my  hair  do  but  tickle  me  I  must  scratch. 

Tito.  What,  wilt  thou  hear  some  music,  my 
sweet  love  ? 

Bot.  I  have  a  reasonable  good  ear  in  music  ; 
let  us  have  the  tongs  and  the  bones.  [eat. 

Tit  a.  Or  say,  sweet  love,  what  thou  desir'st  to 

Bot.  Truly,  a  peck  of  provender ;  I  could 
munch  your  good  dry  oats.  Methinks  I  have  a 
great  desire  to  a  bottle  of  hay  :  good  hay,  sweet 
hay,  hath  no  fellow. 

Tita.  I  have  a  venturous  fairy  that  shall  seek 
The  squirrel's  hoard,  and  fetch  thee  new  nuts. 

Bot.  I  had  rather  have  a  handful  or  two  of 
dried  peas.  But,  I  pray  you,  let  none  of  your 
people  stir  me ;  I  have  an  exposition  of  sleep 
come  upon  me.  [arms. 

Tita.  Sleep  thou,  and  I  will  wind  thee  in  my 
Fairies,  be  gone,  and  be  all  ways  away. 
So  doth  the  woodbine  the  sweet  honeysuckle 
Gently  en  twist, — the  female  ivy  so 
Enrings  the  barky  fingers  of  the  elm. 
O,  how  I  love  thee  !  how  I  dote  on  thee  ! 

[They  sleep. 

OBERON  advances.     Enter  PUCK. 
Obe.  Welcome,  good  Robin.     Seest  thou  this 

sweet  sight  ? 

Her  dotage  now  I  do  begin  to  pity. 
For,  meeting  her  of  late  behind  the  wood, 
Seeking  sweet  savours  for  this  hateful  fool, 
I  did  upbraid  her,  and  fall  out  with  her : 
For  she  his  hairy  temples  then  had  rounded 
With  coronet  of  fresh  and  fragrant  flowers  ; 
And  that  same  dew,  which  sometime  on  the  buds 
Was  wont  to  swell  like  round  and  orient  pearls, 
Stood  now  within  the  pretty  fiow'rets'  eyes, 
Like  tears  that  did  their  own  disgrace  bewail. 
When  I  had,  at  my  pleasure,  taunted  her, 
And  she,  in  mild  terms,  begg'd  my  patience, 
I  then  did  ask  of  her  her  changeling  child  ; 
Which  straight  she  gave  me,  and  her  fairy  sent 
To  bear  him  to  my  bower  in  fairy-land. 
And  now  I  have  the  boy,  I  will  undo 


This  hateful  imperfection  of  her  eyes. 
And,  gentle  Puck,  take  this  transformed  scalp 
From  off  the  head  of  this  Athenian  swain  ; 
That  he  awaking  when  the  other  do, 
May  all  to  Athens  back  again  repair, 
And  think  no  more  of  this  night's  accidents 
But  as  the  fierce  vexation  of  a  dream. 
But  first  I  will  release  the  fairy  queen. 
Be  as  thou  wast  wont  to  be  ; 

[  Touching  her  eyes  -with  an  herb. 
See  as  thou  wast  wont  to  see  : 
Dian's  bud  o'er  Cupid's  flower 
Hath  such  force  and  blessed  power. 
Now,  my  Titania  ;  wake  you,  my  sweet  queen. 
Tita.   My  Oberon !  what  visions  have  I  seen ! 
Methought  I  was  enamour'd  of  an  ass. 
Obe.  There  lies  your  love. 
Tita.  How  came  these  things  to  pass  ? 

O,  how  mine  eyes  do  loathe  his  visage  now  ! 
Obe.   Silence  awhile. — Robin,  take  off  this 

head. 

Titania,  music  call ;  and  strike  more  dead 
Than  common  sleep,  of  all  these  five,  the  sense. 
Tita.   Music,  ho !  music ;  such  as  charmeth 

sleep. 
Puck.  Now,  when  thou  wak'st,  with  thine 

own  fool's  eyes  peep. 
Obe.     ound,  music.     [Still  untsic.}     Come, 

my  queen,  take  hands  with  me, 
And  rock  the  ground  whereon  these  sleepers  be. 
Now  thou  and  I  are  new  in  amity, 
And  will  to-morrow  midnight  solemnly 
Dance  in  Duke  Theseus'  house  triumphantly, 
And  bless  it  to  all  fair  posterity  : 
There  shall  the  pairs  of  faithful  lovers  be 
Wedded,  with  Theseus,  all  in  jollity. 
Puck.   Fairy  king,  attend  and  mark  ; 

I  do  hear  the  morning  lark. 
Obe.  Then,  my  queen,  in  silence  sad, 
Trip  we  after  the  night's  shade  : 
We  the  globe  can  compass  soon, 
Swifter  than  the  wand'ring  moon. 
Tita.   Come,  my  lord  ;  and  in  our  flight, 
Tell  me  how  it  came  this  night 
That  I  sleeping  here  was  found, 
With  these  mortals  on  the  ground. 

[Exeunt. 
[Horns  sound  within. 

Enter  THESEUS,     HIPPOLYTA,   EGEUS,  and 
Train. 

The.  Go,  one  of  you,  find  out  the  forester ; — 
For  now  our  observation  is  perform'd  ; 
And  since  we  have  the  vaward  of  the  day, 
My  love  shall  hear  the  music  of  my  hounds, — 
Uncouple  in  the  western  valley ; .  go  : — 
Despatch,  I  say,  and  find  the  forester.— 


184 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


[ACT  iv. 


We  will,  fair  queen,  up  to  the  mountain's  top, 
And  mark  the  musical  confusion 
Of  hounds  and  echo  in  conjunction. 

Hip.  I  was  with  Hercules  and  Cadmus  once, 
When  in  a  wood  of  Crete  they  bay'd  the  bear 
With  hounds  of  Sparta :  never  did  I  hear 
Such  gallant  chiding  ;  for,  besides  the  groves, 
The  skies,  the  fountains,  every  region  near 
Seem'd  all  one  mutual  cry :  I  never  heard 
So  musical  a  discord,  such  sweet  thunder. 
The.   My  hounds  are  bred  out  of  the  Spartan 

kind, 

So  flew'd,  so  sanded  ;  and  their  heads  are  hung 
With  ears  that  sweep  away  the  morning  dew  ; 
Crook-kneed  and   dew-lap'd   like    Thessalian 

bulls  ; 

Slow  in  pursuit,  but  match'd  in  mouth  like  bells, 
Each  under  each.     A  cry  more  tuneable 
Was  never  holla'd  to,  nor  cheer'd  with  horn, 
In  Crete,  in  Sparta,  nor  in  Thessaly  : 
Judge  when  you  hear. — But,  soft,  what  nymphs 
are  these  ?  [asleep ; 

Ege.  My  lord,   this   is   my   daughter   here 
And  this  Lysander  ;  this  Demetrius  is  ; 
This  Helena,  old  Nedar's  Helena  : 
I  wonder  of  their  being  here  together. 

The.  No  doubt,  they  rose  up  early  to  observe 
The  rite  of  May ;  and,  hearing  our  intent, 
Came  here  in  grace  of  our  solemnity. — 
But  speak,  Egeus ;  is  not  this  the  day 
That  Hermia  should  give  answer  of  her  choice? 
Ege.  It  is,  my  lord. 
The.  Go,  bid  the  huntsmen  wake  them  with 

their  horns. 

\Horns,  and  shout  within.     DEM.,  LYS., 

HER.,  and  HEL.,  awake  and  start  tip. 

The.  Good-morrow,  friends.   Saint  Valentine 

is  past ; 

Begin  these  wood-birds  but  to  couple  now  ? 
Lys.  Pardon,  my  lord. 

\He  and  the  rest  kneel  to  THESEUS. 
The.  I  pray  you  all,  stand  up. 

I  know  you  two  are  rival  enemies ; 
How  comes  this  gentle  concord  in  the  world, 
That  hatred  is  so  far  from  jealousy 
To  sleep  by  hate,  and  fear  no  enmity  ? 

Lys.  My  lord,  I  shall  reply  amazedly, 
Half  'sleep,  half  waking:  but  as  yet,  I  swear, 
I  cannot  truly  say  how  I  came  here : 
But,  as  I  think, — for  truly  would  I  speak—- 
And now  I  do  bethink  me,  so  it  is, — 
I  came  with  Hermia  hither :  our  intent         [be 
Was  to  be  gone  from  Athens,  where  we  might 
Without  the  peril  of  the  Athenian  law. 
Ege.  Enough,  enough,  my  lord;  you  have 

enough ; 
I  beg  the  law",  the  law  upon  his  head. — 


They  would   have   stol'n   away,   they  would, 

Demetrius, 

Thereby  to  have  defeated  you  and  me  : 
You  of  your  wife,  and  me  of  my  consent, — 
Of  my  consent  that  she  should  be  your  wife. 

Dem.  My  lord,  fair  Helen  told  me  of  their 

stealth, 

Of  this  their  purpose  hither  to  this  wood  ; 
And  I  in  fury  hither  follow'd  them, 
Fair  Helena  in  fancy  following  me. 
But,  my  good  lord,  I  wot  not  by  what  power, — 
But  by  some  power  it  is,' — my  love  to  Hermia 
Melted  as  doth  the  snow — seems  to  me  now 
As  the  remembrance  of  an  idle  gawd 
Which  in  my  childhood  I  did  dote  upon : 
And  all  the  faith,  the  virtue  of  my  heart, 
The  object  and  the  pleasure  of  mine  eye, 
Is  only  Helena.     To  her,  my  lord, 
Was  I  betroth'd  ere  I  saw  Hermia  : 
But,  like  in  sickness,  did  I  loathe  this  food ; 
But,  as  in  health,  come  to  my  natural  taste, 
Now  do  I  wish  it,  love  it,  long  for  it, 
And  will  for  evermore  be  tiue  to  it.  ,.;/,;>  • 

The.  Fair  lovers,  you  arc  fortunately  met : 
Of  this  discourse  we  more  will  hear  anon. — 
Egeus,  I  will  overbear  your  will ; 
For  in  the  temple,  by  and  by  with  us, 
These  couples  shall  eternally  be  knit. 
And,  for  the  morning  now  is  something  worn, 
Our  purpos'd  hunting  shall  be  set  aside. — 
Away  with  us  to  Athens  three  and  three, 
We  '11  hold  a  feast  in  great  solemnity. — 
Come,  Hippolyta. 

[Exeunt  THE.,  HIP.,  EGE.,  and  Train. 

Dem.  These  things  seem  small  and  undistin- 

guishable, 
Like  far-off  mountains  turned  into  clouds. 

Her.  Methinks  I  see  these  things  with  parted 

eye, 
When  everything  seems  double. 

Hel.  So  methinks : 

And  I  have  found  Demetrius  like  a  jewel. 
Mine  own,  and  not  mine  own. 

Dem.  It  seems  to  me 

That  yet  we  sleep,  we  dream. — Do  you  not 

think 
The  duke  was  here,  and  bid  us  follow  him  ? 

Her.  Yea,  and  my  father. 

Hel.  And  Hippolyta. 

Lys.  And  he  did  bid  us  follow  to  the  temple. 

Dem.  Why,  then,  we  are  awake :  let 's  follow 

him; 
And  by  the  way  let  us  recount  our  dreams. 

[Exeunt. 

As  they  go  out,  BOTTOM  awa&es. 
Bot.  When  my  cue  comes,  call  me,  and  I  will 


SCENE  1 1.  J 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


185 


answer : — my  next  is,  Most  fair  Pyramus. 

Heigh-ho  ! — Peter  Quince  !  Flute,  the  bellows- 
mender!  Snout,  the  tinker !  Starveling!  God's 
my  life,  stolen  hence,  and  left  me  asleep  !  I 
have  had  a  most  rare  vision.  I  have  had  a 
dream — past  the  wit  of  man  to  say  what  dream 
it  was. — Man  is  but  an  ass  if  he  go  about  to  ex- 
pound this  dream.  Methought  1  was — there  is 
no  man  can  tell  what.  Methought  I  was,  and 
methought  I  had, — But  man  is  but  a  patched 
fool,  if  he  will  offer  to  say  what  methought  I  had. 
The  eye  of  man  hath  not  heard,  the  ear  of  man 
hath  not  seen  ;  man's  nand  is  not  able  to  taste, 
his  tongue  to  conceive,  nor  his  heart  to  report 
what  my  dream  was.  I  will  get  Peter  Quince 
to  write  a  ballad  of  this  dream  :  it  shall  be  called 
Bottom's  Dream,  because  it  hath  no  bottom  ; 
and  I  will  sing  it  in  the  latter  end  of  a  play,  be- 
fore the  duke  :  peradventure,  to  make  it  the 
more  gracious,  I  shall  sing  it  at  her  death.  {Exit. 

SCENE  II. — ATHENS.  A  Room  in  QUINCE'S 
House. 

Enter  QUINCE,  FLUTE,  SNOUT,  and  STARVE- 
LING. 

Quin.  Have  you  sent  to  Bottom's  house  ?  is 
he  come  home  yet  ? 

Star.  He  cannot  be  heard  of.  Out  of  doubt, 
he  is  transported. 

Flu.  If  he  come  not,  then  the  play  is  marred ; 
it  goes  not  forward,  doth  it  ? 

Quin.  It  is  not  possible  :  you  have  not  a  man 
in  all  Athens  able  to  discharge  Pyramus  but  he. 

Flu.  No ;  he  hath  simply  the  best  wit  of  any 
handicraft  man  in  Athens. 

Quin.  Yea,  and  the  best  person  too :  and  he 
is  a  very  paramour  for  a  sweet  voice. 

Flu.  You  must  say  paragon  :  a  paramour  is, 
God  bless  us,  a  thing  of  naught. 

Enter  SNUG. 

Snug.  Masters,  the  duke  is  coming  from  the 
temple ;  and  there  is  two  or  three  lords  and 
ladies  more  married  :  if  our  sport  had  gone  for- 
ward we  had  all  been  made  men. 

Flu.  O  sweet  bully  Bottom  !  Thus  hath  he 
lost  sixpence  a-day  during  his  life ;  he  could  not 
have  'scaped  sixpence  a-day :  an  the  duke  had 
not  given  him  sixpence  a-day  for  playing  Pyra- 
mus, I'll  be  hanged;  he  would  have  deserved 
it :  sixpence  a-day  in  Pyramus,  or  nothing. 

Enter  BOTTOM. 

Bot.  Where  are  these  lads  ?  where  are  these 
hearts? 

Quin.  Bottom  !— O  most  courageous  day  ! 
O  most  happy  hour  1 


Bot.  Masters,  I  am  to  discourse  wonders: 
but  ask  me  not  what ;  for  if  I  tell  ,  ou,  I  am  no 
true  Athenian.  I  will  tell  you  everything,  right 
as  it  fell  out. 

Quin.  Let  us  hear,  sweet  Bottom. 

Bot.  Not  a  word  of  me.  All  that  I  will  tell 
you  is,  that  the  duke  hath  dined.  Get  your 
apparel  together  ;  good  strings  to  your  beards, 
new  ribbons  to  your  pumps  ;  meet  presently  at 
the  palace  ;  every  man  look  over  his  part ;  for, 
the  short  and  the  long  is,  our  play  is  preferred. 
In  any  case,  let  Thisby  have  clean  linen ;  and 
let  not  him  that  plays  the  lion  pare  his  nails,  for 
they  shall  hang  out  for  the  lion's  claws.  And, 
most  dear  actors,  eat  no  onions  nor  garlick  ;  for 
we  are  to  utter  sweet  breath;  and  I  do  not 
doubt  but  to  hear  them  say  it  is  a  sweet  comedy. 
No  more  words  :  away  !  go  ;  away  !  \Exetmi. 

navj 
ACT  V 

SCENE   I. — ATHENS.     An  Apartment  in  the 
Palace  of  THESEUS. 

Entet  THESEUS,  HIPPOLYTA,  PHILOSTRATE, 
Lords  and  Attendants. 

Hip.  'Tis  strange,  my  Theseus,  that  these 
lovers  speak  of. 

The.  More  strange  than  true.     I  never  may 

believe 

These  antique  fables,  nor  these  fairy  toys. 
Lovers  and  madmen  have  such  seething  brains, 
Such  shaping  fantasies,  that  apprehend 
More  than  cool  reason  ever  comprehends. 
The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet 
Are  of  imagination  all  compact : 
One  sees  more  devils  than  vast  hell  can  hold ; 
That  is  the  madman  :  the  lover,  all  as  frantic^ 
Sees  Helen's  beauty  in  a  brow  of  Egypt : 
The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling, 
Doth  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth 

to  heaven, 

And,  as  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name. 
Such  tricks  hath  strong  imagination, 
That,  if  it  would  but  apprehend  some  joy, 
It  comprehends  some  bringer  of  that  joy ; 
Or  in  the  night,  imagining  some  fear, 
How  easy  is  a  bush  supposed  a  bear  ? 

Hip.  But  all  the  story  of  the  night  told  over. 
And  all  their  minds  transfigur'd  so  together, 
More  witnessed!  than  fancy's  images, 
And  grows  to  something  of  great  constancy  % 
But,  howsoever,  Strange  and  admirable. 


1 86 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


[ACT  v. 


Enter  LYSANDER,  DEMETRIUS,  HERMIA,  and 

HELENA. 

-  - 3t;iJ 

The.  Here  comfc  the  lovers,  full  of  joy  and 

mirth. — 

Joy,  gentle  friends  !  joy  and  fresh  days  of  love 
Accompany  your  hearts  ! 

LyS,  More  than  to  us 

Wait  on  your  royal  walks,  your  board,  your  bed ! 

The.  Come  now ;  what  masques,  what  dances 

shall  we  have, 

To  wear  away  this  long  age  of  three  hours 
Between  our  after-supper  and  bed-time  ? 
Where  is  our  usual  manager  of  mirth  ? 
What  revels  are  in  hand  ?     Is  there  no  play, 
To  ease  the  anguish  of  a  torturing  hour  ? 
Call  Philostrate. 

Philost.  Here,  mighty  Theseus. 

The.  Say,  what  abridgment  have  you  for  this 

evening  ? 
What  masque?   what  music?     How  shall  we 

beguile 
The  lazy  time,  if  not  with  some  delight  ? 

Philost.  There  is  a  brief  how  many  sports 

are  ripe  ; 

Make  choice  of  which  your  highness  will  see 
first.  [Giving  a  paper. 

The.  [reads.'}  The  battle  with  the  Centaurs, 
to  be  siing 

By  an  Athenian  eunuch  to  the  harp. 
We  '11  none  of  that :  that  I  have  told  my  love, 
In  glory  of  my  kinsman  Hercules. 

The  riot  of  the  tipsy  Bacchanals, 

Tearing  the  Thracian  singer  in  their  rage. 
That  is  an  old  device,  and  it  was  play'd 
When  I  from  Thebes  came  last  a  conqueror. 

The  thrice-three  Muses  mourning  for  the  death 

Of  learning,  late  deceased  in  beggary  * 
That  is  some  satire,  keen  and  critical, 
Not  sorting  with  a  nuptial  ceremony. 

A  tedious  brief  scene  of  young  Pyramus, 

And  his  love  Thisbe  ;  very  tragical  mirth. 
Merry  and  tragical  !  tedious  and  brief ! 
That  is,  hot  ice  and  wondrous  strange  snow. 
How  shall  we  find  the  concord  of  this  discord  ? 

Philost.  A  play  there  is,  my  lord,  some  ten 

words  long, 

Which  is  as  brief  as  I  have  known  a  play  ; 
But  by  ten  words,  my  lord,  it  is  too  long, 
Which  makes  it  tedious  :  for  in  all  the  play 
There  is  not  one  word  apt,  one  player  fitted  : 
And  tragical,  my  noble  lord,  it  is  ; 
For  Pyramus  therein  doth  kill  himself: 
Which  when  I  saw  rehears'd,  I  must  confess, 
Made  mine  eyes  water ;  but  more  merry  tears 
The  passion  of  loud  laughter  never  shed. 

The.  What  are  they  that  do  play  it  ? 


Philost.    Hard-handed    men    that    work    in 

Athens  here, 

Which  never  labour'd  in  their  minds  till  now ; 
And  now  have  toil'd  their  unbreath'd  memories 
With  this  same  play  against  your  nuptial. 

The.  And  we  will  hear  it. 

Philost.  No,  my  noble  lord, 

It  is  not  for  you  :  I  have  heard  it  over, 
And  it  is  nothing,  nothing  in  the  world  ; 
Unless  you  can  find  sport  in  their  intents, 
Extremely  stretch'd,  and  conn'd  with  cruel  pain, 
To  do  you  service. 

The.  I  will  hear  that  play  ; 

For  never  anything  can  be  amiss 
When  simpleness  and  duty  tender  it. 
Go,  bring  them  in :  and  take  your  places,  ladies. 
[Exit  PHILOSTRATE. 

Hip.  I  love  not  to  see  wretchedness  o'er- 

charged, 
And  duty  in  his  service  perishing.  [thing. 

The.  Why,  gentle  sweet,  you  shall  see  no  such 

Hip.  He  says  they  can  do  nothing  in  this  kind. 

The.  The  kinder  we,  to  give  them  thanks 

for  nothing. 

Our  sport  shall  be  to  take  what  they  mistake  : 
And  what  poor  duty  cannot  do, 
Noble  respect  takes  it  in  might,  not  merit. 
Where  I  have  come,  great  clerks  have  purposed 
To  greet  me  with  premeditated  welcomes  ; 
Where  I  have  seen  them  shiver  and  look  pale, 
Make  periods  in  the  midst  of  sentences, 
Throttle  their  practis'd  accent  in  their  fears, 
And,  in  conclusion,  dumbly  have  broke  off, 
Not  paying  me  a  welcome.     Trust  me,  sweet, 
Out  of  this  silence  yet  I  pick'd  a  welcome 
And  in  the  modesty  of  fearful  duty 
I  read  as  much  as  from  the  rattling  tongue 
Of  saucy  and  audacious  eloquence. 
Love,  therefore,  and  tongue-tied  simplicity 
In  least  speak  most  to  my  capacity. 

Enter  PHILOSTRATE. 

Philost.   So  please  your  grace,  the  prologue 

is  address'd. 
The.  Let  him  approach. 

[Flourish  of  Trumpets. 

Enter  Prologue. 

Prol.  If  we  offend,  it  is  with  our  good  will. 

That  you  should  think  we  come  not  tc  offend 
But  with  good  will.     To  shyw  our  simple  skill^ 

That  is  the  true  beginning  of  our  end. 
Consider,  then,  we  come  but  in  despite. 

We  do  not     me  as  minding  to  content  you. 
Our  true  intent  is.     All  for  your  delight 

We  are  not  here.     That  you  should  here  re 
pentyou. 


SCENE  I.] 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


i87 


The  actors  are  at  hand:  and,  by  their  show, 
You  shall  know  all  that  you  are  like  to  know. 

The.  This  fellow  doth  not  stand  upon  points. 

Lys.  He  hath  rid  hL  prologue  like  a  rough 
c»lt ;  he  knows  not  the  stop.  A  good  moral, 
my  lord  :  it  is  not  enough  to  speak,  but  to 
speak  true. 

Hip.  Indeed  he  hath  played  on  this  prologue 
like  a  child  on  a  recorder ;  a  sound,  but  not  in 
government. 

The.  His  speech  was  like  a  tangled  chain  ; 
nothing  impaired,  but  all  disordered.  Who  is 
next? 

Enter  PYRAMUS  and  THISBE,  WALL,  MOON- 
SHINE, and  LlON,  as  in  dumb  show. 

Prol.   Gentles,  perchance  you  wonder  at  this 
show ;  [plain. 

But  wonder  on,  till  truth  make  all  things 
This  man  is  Pyramus,  if  you  would  know  ; 

This  beauteous  lady  Thisby  is,  certain. 
This  man,  with  lime  and  rough-cast,  doth  per- 
sent  [sunder : 

Wall,  that  vile  Wall  which  did  these  lovers 
And  through  Wall's  chink,  poor  souls,  they  are 
content 

To  whisper,  at  the  which  let  no  man  wonder. 
This  man,  with  lantern,  dog,  and  bush  of  thorn, 

Presenteth  Moonshine :  for,  if  you  will  know, 
By  moonshine  did  these  lovers  think  no  scorn 

To  meet  at  Ninus'  tomb,  there,  there  to  woo. 
This  grisly  beast,  which  by  name  Lion  hight, 
The  trusty  Thisby,  coming  first  by  night, 
Did  scare  away,  or  rather  did  affright : 
And  as  she  fled,  her  mantle  she  did  fall ; 

Which  Lion  vile  with  bloody  mouth  did  stain : 
Anon  comes  Pyramus,  sweet  youth,  and  tall, 

And  finds  his  trusty  Thisby's  mantle  slain  ; 
Whereat  with  blade,  with  bloody  blameful  blade, 

He  bravely  broach'd  his  boiling  bloody  breast ; 
And  Thisby,  tarrying  in  mulberry  shade, 

His  dagger  drew,  and  died.     For  all  the  rest, 
Let  Lion,  Moonshine,  Wall,  and  lovers  twain 
At  large  discourse  while  here  they  do  remain. 
{Exeunt  Prol.,  THIS.,  LION,  and  MOON. 

The.   I  wonder  if  the  lion  be  to  speak, 

Dem.  No  wonder,  my  lord :  one  lion  may, 
when  many  asses  do. 

Wall.  In  this  same  interlude  it  doth  befall 
That  I,  one  Snout  by  name,  present  a  wall : 
And  such  a  wall  as  I  would  have  you  think 
That  had  in  it  a  crannied  hole  or  chink, 
Through  which  the  lovers,  Pyramus  and  Thisby, 
Did  whisper  often  very  secretly.  [show 

This  loam,  this  rough-cast,  and  this  stone  doth 
That  I  am  that  same  wall ;  the  truth  is  so : 


And  this  the  cranny  is,  right  and  sinister, 
Through  which  the  fearful  lovers  are  to  whisper. 

The.  Would  you   desire   lime  and  hair   to 
speak  better  ? 

Dem.  It  is  the  wittiest  partition  that  ever  I 
heard  discourse,  my  lord. 

The.  Pyramus  draws  near  the  wall :  silence ! 

Enter  PYRAMUS. 

Pyr.  O  grim-look'd  night !      O  night  with 
hue  so  black  ! 

0  night,  which  ever  art  when  day  is  not ! 
O  night,  O  night,  alack,  alack,  alack, 

1  fear  my  Thisby's  promise  is  forgot ! — 
And  thou,  O  wall,  O  sweet,  O  lovely  wall, 

That   stand'st   between  her  father's  ground 

and  mine  ; 

Thou  wall,  O  wall,  O  sweet  and  lovely  wall, 
Show  me  thy  chink,  to  blink  through  with 
mine  eyne. 

[WALL  holds  up  his  fingers. 
Thanks,  courteous  wall :  Jove  shield  thee  well 

for  this! 

But  what  see  I?     No  Thisby  do  I  see. 
O  wicked  wall,  through  whom  I  see  no  bliss ; 
Curst  be  thy  stones  for  thus  deceiving  me ! 
The.  The  wall,    methinks,    being  sensible, 
should  curse  again. 

Pyr.  No,  in  truth,  sir,  he  should  not.  De~ 
ceiving  me  is  Thisby's  cue :  she  is  to  enter  now, 
and  I  am  to  spy  her  through  the  wall.  You 
shall  see  it  will  fall  pat  as  I  told  you. — Yonder 
she  comes. 

Enter  THISBE. 

This.  O  wall,  full  often  hast  thou  heard  my 

moans, 

For  parting  my  fair  Pyramus  and  me : 
My  cherry  lips  have  often  kiss'd  thy  stones : 
Thy  stones  with  lime  and  hair  knit  up  in  thee. 
Pyr.  I  see  a  voice ;  now  will  I  to  trie  chink, 
To  spy  an  I  can  hear  my  Thisby's  face. 
Thisby ! 

This.   My  love !  thou  art  my  love,  I  think. 
Pyr.  Think  what  thou  wilt,  I  am  thy  lover's 

grace : 
And  like  Limander  am  I  trusty  still. 

This.  And  I  like  Helen,  till  the  fates  me  kill. 
Pyr.  Not  Shafalus  to  Procrus  was  so  true. 
This.  As  Shafalus  to  Procrus,  I  to  you. 
Pyr.  O,  kiss  me  through  the  hole  of  this 

vile  wall. 

This.  I  kiss  the  wall's  hole,  not  your  lips  at  all. 
Pyr.  Wilt  thou  at  Ninny's  tomb  meet  me 

straightway? 
This.  'Tide  life,  'tide  death,  I  come  without 

delay. 


1 88 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


[ACT  v. 


Wall.  Thus  have  I,  wall,  my  part  discharged 

so; 
And,  being  done,  thus  wall  away  doth  go. 

[Exeunt  WALL,  PYR.,  andTms. 

The.  Now  is  the  mural  down  between  the 
two  neighbours. 

Dem.  No  remedy,  my  lord,  when  walls  are 
so  wilful  to  hear  without  warning. 

Hip.  This  is  the  silliest  stuff  that  ever  I  heard. 

The.  The  best  in  this  kind  are  but  shadows ; 
and  the  worst  are  no  worse,  if  imagination 
amend  them.  [not  theirs. 

Hip.  It  must  be  your  imagination  then,  and 

The.  If  we  imagine  no  worse  of  them  than 
they  of  themselves,  they  may  pass  for  excellent 
men.  Here  come  two  noble  beasts  in,  a  moon 
and  a  lion. 

_         T  , ,  ••  Jin  .v  noiiT 

Enter  LION  and  MOONSHINE. 

Lion.  You,  ladies,  you,  whose  gentle  hearts 
do  fear  [floor, 

The  smallest  monstrous  mouse  that  creeps  on 
May  now,  perchance,  both  quake  and  tremble 
here, 

When  lion  rough  in  wildest  rage  doth  roar. 
Then  know  that  I,  one  Snug,  the  joiner,  am 
A  lion  fell,  nor  else  no  lion's  dam : 
For  if  I  should  as  lion  come  in  strife 
Into  this  place,  'twere  pity  of  my  life. 

The.  A  very  gentle  beast,  and  of  a  good  con- 
science, [e'er  I  saw. 

Dem.  The  very  best  at  a  beast,  my  lord,  that 

Lys.  This  lion  is  a  very  fox  for  his  valour. 

The.  True ;  and  a  goose  for  his  discretion. 

Dem.  Not  so,  my  lord ;  for  his  valour  can- 
not carry  his  discretion;  and  the  fox  carries 
the  goose. 

The.  His  discretion,  I  am  sure,  cannot  carry 
his  valour;  for  the  goose  carries  not  the  fox. 
It  is  well :  leave  it  to  his  discretion,  and  let  us 
listen  to  the  moon. 

Moon.  This  lantern  doth  the  horned  moon 
present:  [head. 

Dem.  He  should  have  worn  the  horns  on  his 

The.  He  is  no  crescent,  and  his  horns  are 
invisible  within  the  circumference. 

Moon.  This  lantern  doth  the  horned  moon 

present ; 
Myself  the  man  i'  the  moon  do  seem  to  be. 

The.  This  is  the  greatest  error  of  all  the  rest : 
the  man  should  be  put  into  the  lantern.  How 
is  it  else  the  man  i'  the  moon? 

Dem.  He  dares  not  come  there  for  the  candle : 
for,  you  see,  it  is  already  in  snuff. 

Hip.  I  am  weary  of  this  moon:  would  he 
would  change  \ 

The.  It  appears,  by  his  small  light  of  discre- 


tion, that  he  is  in  the  wane:  but  yet,  in 
courtesy,  in  all  reason,  we  must  stay  the  time. 

Lys.   Proceed,  moon. 

Moon.  All  that  I  have  to  say,  is  to  tell  you 
that  the  lantern  is  the  moon ;  I,  the  man  in  the 
moon;  this  thorn-bush,  my  thorn-bush;  and 
this  dog,  my  dog. 

Dem.  Why,  all  these  should  be  in  the 
lantern ;  for  all  these  are  in  the  moon.  But, 
silence ;  here  comes  Thisbe. 

~          _,  .imrrujjiavoji 

Enter  THISBE. 

This.  This  is  old  Ninny's  tomb.     Where  is 
my  love? 

Lion.  Oh  ! 

[The  LION  roars. — THISBE  rims  off. 

Dem.  Well  roared,  lion. 

The.  Well  run,  Thisbe. 

Hip.  Well  shone,  moon. — Truly,  the  moon 
shines  with  a  good  grace. 

The.  Well  moused,  lion. 

[The  LION  tears  THISBE'S  mantle  and  exit. 

Dem.  And  so  comes  Pyramus. 

Lys.  And  then  the  lion  vanishes. 
gtS'ff- 

Enter  PYRAMUS. 

Pyr.  Sweet  moon,    I   thank    thee  for  thy 
sunny  beams  ;  [bright : 

I   thank   thee,    moon,    for   shining  now  so 
For,  by  thy  gracious,  golden,  glittering  streams. 
I  trust  to  taste  of  truest  Thisby's  sight, 
But  stay  ; — O  spite  ! 
But  mark, — poor  knight, 
What  dreadful  dole  is  here  ! 
Eyes,  do  you  see  ? 
How  can  it  be  ? 
O  dainty  duck  !  O  dear  ! 
Thy  mantle  good, 
What !  stained  with  blood  ? 
Approach,  ye  furies  fell ! 
O  fates  !  come,  come  ; 
Cut  thread  and  thrum  ; 
Quail,  rush,  conclude,  and  quell ! 
The.  This  passion,  and  the  death  of  a  deai 
friend,  would  go  near  to  make  a  man  look  sad. 
Hip.  Beshrew  my  heart,  but  I  pity  the  man. 
Pyr.  O  wherefore,  nature,  didst  thou  lions 

frame  ? 

Since  lion  vile  hath  here  deflower'd  my  dear  : 
Which  is — no,  no — which  was  the  fairest  dame 
That  liv'd,  that  Wd,  that  lik'd,  that  look'd 
with  cheer. 

Come,  tears,  confound ; 
Out,  sword,  and  wound 
The  pap  of  Pyramus  : 
Ay,  that  left  pap, 
Where  heart  doth  hop  :— 


SCENE  I.] 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


Thus  die  I,  thus,  thus,  thus. 
Now  am  I  dead, 
Now  am  I  fled  ; 
My  soul  is  in  the  sky  : 

Tongue,  lose  thy  light ! 
Moon,  take  thy  flight  ! 
New  die,  die,  die,  die,  die. 

[Dies. — Exit  MOONSHINE. 

Dem.  No  die,  but  an  ace,  ior  him  ;  for  he  is 

but  one.  [he  is  nothing. 

Lys.   Less  than  an  ace,  man  ;  for  he  is  dead; 

7'he.  With  the  help  of  a  surgeon  he  might 

yet  recover  and  prove  an  ass. 

Hip.  How  chance  moonshine  is  gone  before 
Thisbe  comes  back  and  finds  her  lover  ? 

The.  She  will  find  him  by  starlight. — Here 
she  comes ;  and  her  passion  ends  the  play. 

Enter  THISBE. 

Hip.  Methinks  she  should  not  use  a  long 
one  for  such  a  Pyramus  :  I  hope  she  wiil  be 
brief. 

Dem.  A  mote  will  turn  the  balance,  which 
Pyramus,  which  Thisbe,  is  the  better. 

Lys.  She  hath  spied  him  already  with  those 
sweet  eyes. 

Dem.  And  thus  she  moans,  videlicet. 

This.       Asleep,  my  love  ? 

What,  dead,  my  dove  ? 
O  Pyramus,  arise, 

Speak,  speak.     Quite  dumb? 
Dead,  dead  ?    A  tomb 
Must  cover  thy  sweet  eyes. 
These  lily  brows, 
This  cherry  nose, 
These  yellow  cowslip  cheeks, 
Are  gone,  are  gone  : 
Lovers,  make  moan  ! 
His  eyes  were  green  as  leeks. 
O  Sisters  Three, 
Come,  come  to  me, 
With  hands  as  pale  as  milk  ; 
Lay  them  in  gore, 
Since  you  have  shore 
With  shears  his  thread  of  silk. 
Tongue,  not  a  word  : — 
Come,  trusty  sword ; 
Come,  blade,  my  breast  imbrue  : 
And  farewell,  friends  : — 
Thus  Thisby  ends  * 

Adieu,  adieu,  adieu.  {Dies. 

The.  Moonshine  and  lion  are  left  to  bury 
the  dead. 

Dem.  Ay,  and  wall  too. 
JBot.  No,  I  assure  you ;   the  wall  is  down 
that  parted  their  fathers.     Will  it  please  you  to 


see  the  epilogue,  or  to  hear  a  Bergomask  dance 
between  two  of  our  company. 

The.  No  epilogue,  I  pray  you  ;  for  your  play 
needs  no  excuse.  Never  excuse  ;  for  when  the 
players  are  all  dead  there  need  none  to  be 
blamed.  Marry,  if  he  that  writ  it  had  played 
Pyramus,  and  hanged  himself  in  Thisbe's 
garter,  it  would  have  been  a  fine  tragedy  :  and 
so  it  is,  truly  ;  and  very  notably  discharged. 
But  come,  your  Bergomask  :  let  your  epilogue 
alone.  [Here  a  dance  of  CLOWNS. 

The  iron  tongue  of  midnight  hath  told  twelve:  — 
Lovers,  to  bed  ;  'tis  almost  fairy  time. 
I  fear  we  shall  out-sleep  the  coming  morn, 
As  much  as  we  this  night  have  overwatch'd. 
This  palpable-gross  play  hath  well  beguil'd 
The  heavy  gait  of  night.  —  Sweet  friends,  to  bed.  — 
A  fortnight  hold  we  this  solemnity, 
In  nightly  revels  and  new  jollity.         {Exeunt. 
' 


SCENE  II. 
Enter  PUCK. 

Pttck.  Now  the  hungry  lion  roars, 

And  the  wolf  behowls  the  moon  ; 
Whilst  the  heavy  ploughman  snores, 

All  with  weary  task  fordone. 
Now  the  wasted  brands  do  glow, 

Whilst  the  scritch-owl,  scritching  loud, 
Puts  the  wretch  that  lies  in  woe 

In  remembrance  of  a  shroud. 
Now  it  is  the  time  of  night 

That  the  graves,  all  gaping  wide, 
Every  one  lets  forth  its  sprite, 

In  the  church-way  paths  to  glide  : 
And  we  fairies,  that  do  run 

By  the  triple  Hecate's  team, 
From  the  presence  of  the  sun 

Following  darkness  like  a  dream, 
Now  are  frolic  ;  not  a  mouse 

Shall  disturb  this  hallow'd  house: 
I  am  sent  with  broom  before, 

To  sweep  the  dust  behind  the  door. 


Enter  OBERON  aw^/TiTANiA,  with  /^zr  Train. 

Obe.  Through   this   house   give  glimmering 
light, 

By  the  dead  and  drowsy  fire  : 
Every  elf  and  fairy  sprite 

Hop  as  light  as  bird  from  brier  : 
And  this  ditty,  after  me, 
Sing  and  dance  it  trippingly. 
Tita.  First,  rehearse  your  song  by  rote, 
To  each  word  a  warbling  note, 
Hand  in  hand,  with  fairy  grace, 
Will  we  sing,  and  bless  this  place. 


190 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


[ACT  V. 


SONG  AND  DANCE. 

Obe.  Now,  until  the  break  of  day, 
Through  this  house  each  fairy  stray, 
To  the  best  bride-bed  will  we, 
Which  by  us  shall  blessed  be  "r 
And  the  issue  there  create 
Ever  shall  be  fortunate. 
So  shall  all  the  couples  three 
Ever  true  in  loving  be  ; 
And  the  blots  of  Nature's  hand 
Shall  not  in  their  issue  stand  : 
Never  mole,  hare-lip,  nor  scar, 
Nor  mark  prodigious,  such  as  are 
Despised  in  nativity, 
Shall  upon  their  children  be. — 
With  this  field-dew  consecrate, 
Every  fairy  take  his  gate  ; 
And  each  several  chamber  bless, 
Through  this  palace,  with  sweet  peace  ; 
E'er  shall  it  in  safety  rest, 


And  the  owner  of  it  biest. 
Trip  away : 
Make  no  stay : 
Meet  me  all  by  break  of  day. 

{Exeunt  OBE.,  TITA.,  and  Train. 
Puck.   If  we  shadows  have  offended, 
Think  but  this — and  all  is  mended — 
That  you  have  but  slumber'd  here 
While  these  visions  did  appear. 
And  this  weak  and  idle  theme, 
No  more  yielding  but  a  dream, 
Gentles,  do  not  reprehend  ; 
If  you  pardon,  we  will  mend. 
And,  as  I'm  an  honest  Puck, 
If  we  have  unearned  luck 
Now  to  'scape  the  serpent's  tongue, 
We  will  make  amends  ere  long ; 
Else  the  Puck  a  liar  call : 
So,  good  night  unto  you  all. 
Give  me  your  hands,  if  we  be  friends, 
And  Robin  shall  restore  amends.      [Exit* 


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LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 

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PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


FERDINAND,  King  of  Navarre. 

BIRON,  ) 

LONGAVILLE,   \  Lords  attending  on  the  KING. 

DUMAIN.  ) 

BOYET,         \  Lords  attending  on  the  PRINCESS 


MERCADE,  /  OF  FRANCE. 

DON  ADRIANO  DE  ARMADO,  a  Fantastical 

Spaniard. 

SIR  NATHANIEL,  a  Curate. 
HOLOFERNES,  a  Schoolmaster 
DULL,  a  Constable. 
COSTARD,  a  Clown. 

SCENE, — NAVARRE. 


fw.  ^fauts  oi—  f»j*rfj 

;  feix-.i -.ti\f.  xi*&3n&&3£i£il  oj  j  H-jjiT 
MOTH,  Page  to  ARMADO. 
A  Forester. 

,'.\':i:-''  ^n-i'J^fJJ-;  •£•££:'•-•<•  ' 

PRINCESS  OF  FRANCE. 
ROSALINE, 


,M&  oi  '{hmH 
M  ,         Ladies  attending  on  the 

1>1AK.1A,  >  PRTlMriS-<;<I 

KATHARINE,  J  'f  ^  ™, 

JAQUENETTA,  a  Country  Wench. 


Officers  and  Others,  Attendants  on  the  KING 
and  PRINCESS. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.  —  NAVARRE.     A  Park>  with  a  Palace 
in  it. 

Enter  the  KING,  BIRON,   LONGAVILLE,  and 
DUMAIN. 

King.  Let  fame,  that  all  hunt  after  in  their 

lives, 

Live  register'd  upon  our  brazen  tombs, 
And  then  grace  us  in  the  disgrace  of  death  ; 
When,  spite  of  cormorant  devouring  time, 
The  endeavour  of  this  present  breath  may  buy 
That  honour  which  shall  bate  his  scythe's  keen 

edge, 

And  make  us  heirs  of  all  eternity. 
Therefore,  brave  conquerors,  —  for  so  you  are, 
That  war  against  your  own  affections, 
And  the  huge  army  of  the  world's  desires,  — 
Our  late  edict  shall  strongiy  stand  in  force  : 
Navarre  shall  be  the  wonder  of  the  world  ; 
Our  court  shall  be  a  little  Academe, 
Still  and  contemplative  in  living  art. 
You  three,  Bir<5n,  Dumain,  and  Longaville, 
Have  sworn  for  three  years'  term  to  live  with  me 
My  fellow-scholars,  and  to  keep  those  statutes 
That  are  recorded  in  this  schedule  here  : 
Your  oaths  are  pass'd  ;  and  now  subscribe  your 

names, 

That  his  own  hand  may  strike  his  honour  down 
That  violates  the  smallest  branch  herein  : 
If  you  are  arm'd  to  do  as  sworn  to  do, 
Subscribe  to  your  deep  oaths,  and  keep  it  too. 
Long.   I  am  resolved  ;  'tis  but  a  three  years' 

fast: 


The  mind  shall  banquet  though  the  body  pine  : 
Fat  paunches  have  lean  pates  ;  and  dainty  bits 
Make  rich  the  ribs,  but  bankrupt  quite  the  wits. 

Dutn.   My  loving  lord,  Dumain  is  mortified: 
The  grosser  manner  of  these  world's  delights 
He  throws  upon  the  gross  world's  baser  slaves  : 
To  love,  to  wealth,  to  pomp,  I  pine  and  die  ; 
With  all  these  living  in  philosophy. 

Biron.  I  can  but  say  their  protestation  over  ; 
So  much,  dear  liege,  I  have  already  sworn, 
That  is,  to  live  and  study  here  three  years. 
But  there  are  other  strict  observances  : 
As,  not  to  see  a  woman  in  that  term  ; 
Which  I  hope  well  is  not  enrolled  there  : 
And  one  day  in  a  week  to  touch  no  food, 
And  but  one  meal  on  every  day  beside  ; 
The  which  I  hope  is  not  enrolled  there  : 
And  then,  to  sleep  but  three  hours  in  the  night, 
And  not  be  seen  to  wink  of  all  the  day,  — 
When  I  was  wont  to  think  no  harm  all  night, 
And  make  a  dark  night  too  of  half  the  day,  — 
Which  I  hope  well  is  not  enrolled  there  : 
O,  these  are  barren  tasks,  too  hard  to  keep  ; 
Not  to  see  ladies  —  study  —  fast  —  not  sleep. 

King.   Your  oath  is  pass'd  to  pass  away  from 
these.  [please  ; 

Biron.  Let  me  say  no,  my  liege,  an  if  you 
I  only  swore  to  study  with  your  grace, 
And  stay  here  in  your  court  for  three  years'  space. 

Long.  You  swore  to  that,  Biron,  and  to  the 
rest.  [Jest.— 

Biron.   By  yea  and  nay,  sir,  then  I  swore  in 
What  is  the  end  of  study  ?  let  me  knew. 

King.  Why,  that  to   know  which  else  we 
should  not  know. 


192 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


[ACT  i. 


Biron.    Things  hid  and  barr'd,  you  mean, 
from  common  sense  ? 

King.  Ay,  that  isStudy's  god-like  recompense. 

Biron.  Come  on,  then,  I  will  swear  to  study 

so, 

To  know  the  thing  I  am  forbid  to  know  : 
As  thus, — to  study  where  I  well  may  dine, 

When  I  to  feast  expressly  am  forbid  ; 
Or  study  where  to  meet  some  mistress  fine, 

When  mistresses  from  common  sense  are  hid  : 
Or,  having  sworn  too-hard-a-keeping  oath, 
Study  to  break  it,  and  not  break  my  troth. 
If  study's  gain  be  thus,  and  this  be  so, 
Study  knows  that  which  yet  it  doth  not  know  : 
Swear  me  to  this,  and  I  will  ne'er  say  no. 

King.  These  be  the  stops  that  hinder  study 

quite. 
And  train  our  intellects  to  vain  delight. 

Biron.  Why,  all  delights  are  vain  ;  but  that 

most  vain 

Which,  with  pain  purchas'd,  doth  inherit  pain: 
As  painfully  to  pore  upon  a  book  [while 

To  seek  the  light  of  truth  ;  while  truth  the 
Doth  falsely  blind  the  eyesight  of  his  look  : 

Light,  seeking  light,  doth  light  of  light  beguile. 
So,  ere  you  find  where  light  in  darkness  lies, 
Your  light  grows  dark  by  losing  of  your  eyes. 
Study  me  how  to  please  the  eye  indeed, 

By  fixing  it  upon  a  fairer  eye  ; 
Who  dazzling  so,  that  eye  shall  be  his  heed, 

And  give  him  light  that  it  was  blinded  by. 
Study  is  like  the  heaven's  glorious  sun. 

That  will  not  be  deep-search'd  with  saucy 

looks; 
Small  have  continual  plodders  ever  won, 

Save  base  authority  from  others'  books, 
These  earthly  godfathers  of  heaven's  lights, 

That  give  a  name  to  every  fixed  star, 
Have  no  more  profit  of  their  shining  nights 

Than  those  that  walk  and  wot  not  what  they 

are. 

Too  much  to  know  is  to  know  naught  but  fame ; 
And  every  godfather  can  give  a  name. 

King.  How  well  he 's  read,  to  reason  against 
reading  ! 

Dum.  Proceeded  well,  to  stop  all  good  pro- 
ceeding ! 

Long.  He  weeds  the  corn,  and  still  lets  grow 
the  weeding. 

Biron.  The  spring  is  near,  when  green  geese 
are  a-breeding. 

Dum.  How  follows  that  ? 

Biron.  Fit  in  his  place  and  time. 

Dum.   In  reason  nothing. 

Biron.  Something  then  in  rhyme. 

Long.   Biron  is  like  an  envious  sneaping  frost, 

That  bites  the  first-born  infants  of  the  spring. 


Biron.  Well,  say  I  am  ;  why  should  proud 

summer  boast 

Before  the  birds  have  any  cause  co  sing  ? 
Why  should  I  joy  in  an  abortive  birth  ? 
At  Christmas  I  no  more  desire  a  rose 
Than  wish  a  snow  in  May's  new-fangled  shows ; 
But  like  of  each  thing  that  in  season  grows. 
So  you,  to  study  now  it  is  too  late, 
Climb  o'er  the  house  to  unlock  the  little  gate. 

King.  Well,  sit  you  out  :  go  home,  Bir6n  : 
adieu.  [stay  with  you  : 

Biron.  No,  my  good  'ord  ;  I  have  sworn  to 
And,  though  I  have  for  barbarism  spoke  more 

Than  for  that  angel  knowledge  you  can  say, 
Yet  confident  I  '11  keep  what  I  have  swore, 

And  bide  the  penance  of  each  three  years'  day. 
Give  me  the  paper,  let  me  read  the  same  ; 
And  to  the  strict'st  decrees  I  '11  write  my  name. 

King.  How  well  this  yielding  rescues  thee 
from  shame  ! 

Biron.  \reads.  ]  Item,  That  no  woman  shall 
come  within  a  mile  of  my  court. - 
And  hath  this  been  proclaim 'd  ? 

Long.  Four  days  ago. 

Biron.   Let 's  see  the  penalty. 
\_Read s.~\ — On  pain  of  losing  her  tongtte. 

Whodevis'dthisi 

Long.  Marry,  that  did  I. 

Biron.   Sweet  lord,  and  why  ?          [penalty. 

Long.  To  fright  them  hence  with  that  dread 

Biron.  A  dangerous  law  against  gentility. 

\_Reads.~\  Item,  If  any  man  be  seen  to  talk 
with  a  woman  within  the  term  of  three  years, 
he  shall  endure  such  public  shame  as  the  rest  of 
the  court  can  possibly  devise. — 
This  article,  my  liege,  yourself  must  break  ; 

For  well  you  know  here  comes  in  embassy 
The  French  king's  daughter,  with  yourself  to 
«3T;fc  j.    speak, — 

A  maid  of  grace  and  complete  majesty. — 
About  surrender-up  of  Aquitain 

To  her  decrepit,  sick,  and  bed-rid  father  : 
Therefore  this  article  is  made  in  vain, 

Or  vainly  comes  the  admired  princess  hither 

King.   What  say  you,  lords  ?  why,  this  was 
quite  forgot^ 

Biron.   So  study  evermore  is  over-shot ; 
While  it  doth  study  to  have  what  it  would, 
It  doth  forget  to  do  the  thing  it  should  : 
And  when  it  hath  the  thing  it  hunteth  most, 
'Tis  won  as  towns  with  fire, — so  won,  so  lost. 

King.  We  must,  of  force,  dispense  with  this 

decree  ; 
She  must  He  here  on  mere  necessity. 

Biron.  Necessity  will  make  us  all  forsworn 

Three  thousand  times  within  this  three  years' 
space  : 


SCENE  I.j 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


193 


For  every  man  with  his  affects  is  born  ; 

Not  by  might  master'd,  but  by  special  grace : 
If  I  break  faith,  this  word  shall  speak  for  me, 
I  am  forsworn  on  mere  necessity. — 
So  to  the  laws  at  large  I  write  my  name  : 

[Subscribes. 

And  he  that  breaks  them  in  the  least  degree 
Stands  in  attainder  of  eternal  shame. 

Suggestions  are  to  others  as  to  me  ; 
But  I  believe,  although  I  seem  so  loath  ; 
I  am  the  last  that  will  last  keep  his  oath. 
But  is  there  no  quick  recreation  granted  ? 

King.  Ah,  that  there  is :  our  court,  you  know, 
is  haunted 

With  a  refined  traveller  of  Spain  ; 
A  man  in  all  the  world's  new  fashion  planted, 

That  hath  a  mint  of  phrases  in  his  brain  : 
One  whom  the  music  of  his  own  vain  tongue 

Doth  ravish,  like  enchanting  harmony  ; 
A  man  of  complements,  whom  right  and  wrong 

Have  chose  as  umpire  of  their  mutiny : 
This  child  of  fancy,  that  Armado  hight, 

For  interim  to  our  studies,  shall  relate, 
In  high-born  words,  the  worth  of  many  a  knight 

From  tawny  Spain,  lost  in  the  world's  debate. 
How  you  delight,  my  lords,  I  know  not,  I  ; 
But,  I  protest,  I  love  to  hear  him  lie, 
And  I  will  use  him  for  my  minstrelsy. 

Biron.  Armado  is  a  most  illustrious  wight, 
A  man  of  fire-new  words,  fashion's  own  knight. 

Long.  Costard,  the  swain,  and  he  shall  be 

our  sport ; 
And  so  to  study — three  years  is  but  short. 

Enter  DULL  with  a  letter,  and  COST \RD. 

Dull.  Which  is  the  duke's  own  person  ? 

Biron.  This,  fellow  ;  what  wouldst  ? 

Dull.  I  myself  reprehend  his  own  person, 
for  I  am  his  grace's  tharborough  :  but  I  would 
see  his  own  person  in  flesh  and  blood. 

Biron.  This  is  he. 

Dull.  Signior  Arme — Arme — commends  you. 
There's  villany  abroad  :  this  letter  will  tell  you 
more. 

Cost.  Sir,  the  contempts  thereof  are  as  touch- 
ing me. 

King.  A  letter  from  the  magnificent  Armado. 

Biron.  How  low  soever  the  matter,  I  hope 
in  God  for  high  words. 

Long.  A  high  hope  for  a  low  heaven :  God 
grant  us  patience  ! 

Biron.  To  hear  ?  or  forbear  laughing  ? 

Long.  To  hear  meekly,  sir,  and  to  laugh 
moderately  ;  or  to  forbear  both. 

Biron.  Well,  sir,  be  it  as  the  style  shall  give 
us  cause  to  climb  in  the  merriness. 

Cost.  The  matter  is  to  me,  sir,  as  concerning 


Jaquenetta.  The  manner  of  it  is,  I  was  taken 
with  the  manner. 

Biron.  In  what  manner  ? 

Cost.  In  manner  and  form  following,  sir,  all 
those  three :  I  was  seen  with  her  in  the  manor 
house,  sitting  with  her  upon  the  form,  and  taken 
following  her  into  the  park ;  which,  put  together, 
is  in  manner  and  form  following.  Now,  sir,  for 
the  manner, — it  is  the  manner  of  a  man  to  speak 
to  a  woman  :  for  the  form, — in  some  form. 

Biron.  For  the  following,  sir  ? 

Cost.  As  it  shall  follow  in  my  correction :  and 
God  defend  the  right  ! 

King.  Will  you  hear  this  letter  with  attention  ? 

Biron.  As  we  would  hear  an  oracle. 

Cost.  Such  is  the  simplicity  of  man  to 
hearken  after  the  flesh. 

King,  [reads.']  Great  deputy,  the  welkin's 
vicegerent  and  sole  dominator  of  Navarre,  my 
soul  s  earth's  God  and  body's  fostering  patron, — • 

Cost.  Not  a  word  of  Costard  yet. 

King,  [reads.]  So  it  is, — 

Cost.  It  may  be  so  :  but  if  he  say  it  is  so,  he 
is,  in  telling  true,  but  so  so. 

King.  Peace  ! 

Cost.  — be  to  me,  and  every  man  that  dares 
not  fight  ! 

King.  No  words  ! 

Cost.  — of  other  men's  secrets,  I  beseech  you. 

King,  [reads.]  So  it  is,  besieged  with  sable- 
coloured  melancholy,  I  did  commend  the  black- 
oppressing  humour  to  the  most  wholesome  physic 
of  thy  health-giving  air ;  and,  as  I  am  a  gentle- 
man, betook  myself  to  walk.  The  time  when  ? 
About  the  sixth  hour  ;  when  beasts  most  graze, 
birds  best  peck,  and  men  sit  down  to  that  nourish- 
ment which  is  called  supper :  so  much  for  the 
time  when.  Now  for  the  ground  which ;  which, 
I  mean,  I  walked  upon :  it  is  ycleped  thy  park. 
Then  for  the  place  where ;  where,  I  mean,  I  did 
encounter  that  obscene  and  most  preposterous 
event  that  draweth  from  my  snow-white  pen  the 
ebon-coloured  ink,  which  here  thou  viewest,  be- 
holdest,  surveyest,  or  seest:  but  to  the  place 
where, — it  standeth  north-north-east  and  by- 
east  from  the  west  corner  of  thy  curious-knotted 
garden.  There  did  I  see  that  low-spirited 
swain,  that  base  minnow  of  thy  mirth, — 

Cost.  Me.  [soul,— 

King.     — that     unlettered     small-knowing 

Cost.  Me. 

King.  — that  shallow  vassal, — 

Cost.  Still  me.  [tard, — 

King.  — which,  as  I  remember,  hight  Cos- 

Cost.  O,  me. 

King.  — sorted  and  consorted,  contrary  to 
thy  established  proclaimed  edict  and  continent 


194 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


[ACT  i. 


canon,  with — with,— O,  with— but  with  this  I 
passion  to  say  wherewith,— 

Cost.  With  a  wench. 

King.  — with  a  child  of  our  grandmother  Eve, 
a  female ;  or,  for  thy  more  sweet  understanding, 
a  woman.  Him, — I  as  my  ever  esteemed  duty 
pricks  me  on, — have  sent  to  thee,  to  receive  the 
meed  of  punishment,  by  thy  sweet  grace's 
officer,  Antony  Dull,  a  man  of  good  repute, 
carriage,  bearing,  and  estimation. 

Dull.  Me,  an't  shall  please  you;  I  am 
Antony  Dull. 

King,  [reads.'}  For  Jaquenetta, — so  is  the 
weaker  vessel  called,  which  I  apprehended  with 
the  aforesaid  swain, — I  keep  her  as  a  vessel  of 
thy  law's  fury ;  and  shall,  at  the  least  of  thy 
sweet  notice,  bring  her  to  trial.  Thine,  in  all 
compliments  of  devoted  and  heart-burning  heat 
of  duty,  DON  ADRIANO  DE  ARMADO. 

Biron.  This  is  not  so  well  as  I  looked  for, 
but  the  best  that  ever  I  heard. 

King.  Ay,  the  best  for  the  worst.  But, 
sirrah,  what  say  you  to  this  ? 

Cost.  Sir,  I  confess  the  wench. 

King.  Did  you  hear  the  proclamation  ? 

Cost.  I  do  confess  much  of  the  hearing  it, 
but  little  of  the  marking  of  it. 

King.  It  was  proclaimed  a  year's  imprison- 
ment, to  be  taken  with  a  wench. 

Cost.  I  was  taken  with  none,  sir  ;  I  was 
taken  with  a  damosel. 

King.  Well,  it  was  proclaimed  damosel. 

Cost.  This  was  no  damosel  neither,  sir  ;  she 
was  a  virgin.  [virgin. 

King.  It  is  so  varied  too ;  for  it  was  proclaimed 

Cost.  If  it  were,  I  deny  her  virginity  ;  I  was 
taken  with  a  maid. 

King.  This  maid  will  not  serve  your  turn,  sir. 

Cost.  This  maid  will  serve  my  turn,  sir. 

King.  Sir,  I  will  pronounce  your  sentence  : 
you  shall  fast  a  week  with  bran  and  water. 

Cost.  I  had  rather  pray  a  month  with  mutton 
and  porridge. 

JCing.  And    Don    Armado  shall    be    your 

keeper. — • 

My  Lord  Biron,  see  him  delivered  over. — 
And  go  we,  lords,  to  put  in  practice  that 

Which  each  to  other  hath  so  strongly  sworn. — 
[Exeunt  KING,  LONG.,  and DUM. 

Biron.  I  '11  lay  my  head  to  any  good  man'shat, 

These  oaths  and  laws  will  prove  an  idle  scorn.  — 
Sirrah,  come  on. 

Cost.  I  suffer  for  the  truth,  sir :  for  true  it  is,  I 
was  taken  with  Jaquenetta,  and  Jaquenetta  is  a 
truegirl ;  and  therefore,  Welcome  the  sour  cup  of 
prosperity  1  Affliction  may  one  day  smile  again, 
and  till  then,  Sit  thee  down,  sorrow !  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. — Another  part  of  the  Park. 
Enter  ARMADO  and  MOTH. 

Arm.  Boy,  what  sign  is  it  when  a  man  of 
great  spirit  grows  melancholy  ? 

Moth.  A  great  sign,  sir,  that  he  will  look  sad. 

Arm.  Why,  sadness  is  one  and  the  self-same 
thing,  dear  imp. 

Moth.  No,  no  ;  O  lord,  sir,  no. 

Arm.  How  canst  thou  part  sadness  and 
melancholy,  my  tender  juvenal  ? 

Moth.  By  a  familiar  demonstration  of  the 
working,  my  tough  senior. 

Arm.  Why  tough  senior?  why  tough  senior? 

Moth.  Why  tender  juvenal?  why  tender 
juvenal  ? 

Arm.  I  spoke  it,  tender  juvenal,  as  a  con- 
gruent epitheton  appertaining  to  thy  young 
days,  which  we  may  nominate  tender. 

Moth.  And  I,  tough  senior,  as  an  appertinent 
title  to  your  old  time,  which  we  may  name  tough. 

Arm.   Pretty,  and  apt. 

Moth.  How  mean  you,  sir  ;  I  pretty,  and  my 
saying  apt  ?  or  I  apt,  and  my  saying  pretty  ? 

Arm.  Thou  pretty,  because  little. 

Moth.  Little  pretty,  because  little.  Where- 
fore apt  ? 

Arm.  And  therefore  apt,  because  quick. 

Moth.  Speak  you  this  in  my  praise,  master  ? 

Arm.  In  thy  condign  praise. 

Moth.  I  will  praise  an  eel  with  the  same  praise. 

Arm.  What,  that  an  eel  is  ingenious  ? 

Moth.  That  an  eel  is  quick. 

Arm.  I  do  say  thou  art  quick  in  answers : 
thou  heatest  my  blood. 

Moth.   I  am  answered,  sir. 

Arm.  I  love  not  to  be  crossed. 

Moth.  He  speaks  the  mere  contrary ; 
crosses  love  not  him.  [Aside. 

Arm.  I  have  promised  to  study  three  years 
with  the  duke. 

Moth.  You  may  do  it  in  an  hour,  sir. 

Arm.   Impossible. 

Moth.  How  many  is  one  thrice  told  ? 

Arm.  I  am  ill  at  reckoning  ;  it  fitteth  the 
spirit  of  a  tapster.  [sir. 

Moth.  You  are  a  gentleman  and  a  gamester, 

Arm.  I  confess  both, — they  are  both  the 
varnish  of  a  complete  man. 

Moth.  Then,  I  am  sure,  you  know  how  much 
the  gross  sum  of  deuce -ace  amounts  to. 

Arm.  It  doth  amount  to  one  more  than  two. 

Moth.  Which  the  base  vulgar  do  call  three. 

Arm.  True. 

Moth.  Why,  sir,  is  this  such  a  piece  of  study? 
Now  here  is  three  studied  ere  you'll  thrice 


SCENB  II.] 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


195 


wink :  and  how  easy  it  is  to  put  years  to  the 
word  three,  and  study  three  years  in  two  words, 
the  dancing  horse  will  tell  you. 

Arm.  A  most  fine  figure  I 

Moth.  To  prove  you  a  cipher.  [Aside. 

Arm.  I  will  hereupon  confess  I  am  in  love  : 
and,  as  it  is  base  for  a  soldier  to  love,  so  am  I  in 
love  with  a  base  wench.  If  drawing  my  sword 
against  the  humour  of  affection  would  deliver 
me  from  the  reprobate  thought  of  it,  I  would 
take  desire  prisoner,  and  ransom  him  to  any 
French  courtier  for  a  new  devised  courtesy.  I 
think  scorn  to  sigh  ;  methinks,  I  should  out- 
swear  Cupid.  Comfort  me,  boy  :  what  great 
men  have  been  in  love  ? 

Moth.   Hercules,  master. 

Arm.  Most  sweet  Hercules  ! — More  author- 
ity, dear  boy,  name  more ;  and,  sweet  my  child, 
let  them  be  men  of  good  repute  and  carriage. 

Moth.  Samson,  master ;  he  was  a  man  of  good 
carriage,  great  carriage, — for  he  carried  the  town- 
gates  on  his  back  like  a  porter :  and  he  was  in 
love. 

Arm.  O  well-knit  Samson  !  strong-jointed 
Samson  !  I  do  excel  thee  in  my  rapier  as  much 
as  thou  didst  me  in  carrying  gates.  I  am  in 
love  too  : — who  was  Samson's  love,  my  dear 
Moth? 

Moth.  A  woman,  master. 

Arm.  Of  what  complexion  ? 

Moth.  Of  all  the  four,  or  the  three,  or  the 
two  ;  or  one  of  the  four. 

Arm.  Tell  me  precisely  of  what  complexion. 

Moth.  Of  the  sea-water  green,  sir. 

Arm.  Is  that  one  of  the  four  complexions  ? 

Moth.  As  I  have  read,  sir :  and  the  best  of 
them  too. 

Arm.  Green,  indeed,  is  the  colour  of  lovers; 
but  to  have  a  love  of  that  colour,  methinks 
Samson  had  small  reason  for  it.  He  surely 
affected  her  for  her  wit. 

Moth.  It  was  so,  sir ;  for  she  had  a  green  wit. 

Arm.  My  love  is  most  immaculate  white  and 
red. 

Moth.  Most  maculate  thoughts,  master,  are 
masked  under  such  colours. 

Arm.   Define,  define,  well-educated  infant. 

Moth.  My  father's  wit  and  my  mother's 
tongue,  assist  me  ! 

Arm.  Sweet  invocation  of  a  child  ;  most 
pretty,  and  pathetical  ! 

Moth.  If  she  be  made  of  white  and  red, 

Her  faults  will  ne'er  be  known ; 
For  blushing  cheeks  by  faults  are  bred, 

And  fears  by  pale  white  shown  : 
Then  if  she  fear,  or  be  to  blame, 
By  this  you  shall  not  know ; 


For  still  her  cheeks  possess  the  same 

Which  native  she  doth  owe. 
A  dangerous  rhyme,  master,  against  the  reason 
of  white  and  red. 

Arm.  Is  there  not  a  ballad,  boy,  of  the  King 
and  the  Beggar. 

Moth.  The  world  was  very  guilty  of  such  a 
ballad  some  three  ages  since :  but,  I  think,  now 
'tis  not  to  be  found;  or,  if  it  were,  it  would 
neither  serve  for  the  writing  nor  the  tune. 

Arm.  I  will  have  the  subject  newly  writ  o'er, 
that  I  may  example  my  digression  by  some 
mighty  precedent.  Boy,  I  do  love  that  coun- 
try girl  that  I  took  in  the  park  with  the  rational 
hind  Costard :  she  deserves  well. 

Moth.  To  be  whipped :  and  yet  a  better  love 
than  my  master.  [Aside. 

Arm.  Sing,  boy;  my  spirit  grows  heavy  in 
love.  [light  wench. 

Moth.  And    that's   great   marvel,   loving  a 

Arm.   I  say,  sing. 

Moth.  Forbear  till  this  company  be  past. 

*irf  :-?o/i  >bt£-,p-!  :v:  .  :!*>;j:    ->rf:  ,*Oii   ••-•"<&yi  -j;i 

Enter  DULL,  CosTARD,  and  JAQUENETTA. 

Dull.  Sir,  the  duke's  pleasure  is,  that  you 
keep  Costard  safe  :  and  you  must  let  him  take 
no  delight  nor  no  penance;  but  'a  must  fast 
three  days  a-week.  For  this  damsel,  I  must 
keep  her  at  the  park:  she  is  allowed  for  the 
day-woman.  Fare  you  well.  [Maid. 

Arm.  I  do  betray  myself  with  blushing. — 

Jaq.   Man. 

Arm.  I  will  visit  thee  at  the  lodge. 

Jaq.  That 's  here  by. 

Arm.  I  know  where  it  is  situate. 

Jaq.  Lord,  how  wise  you  are ! 

Arm.  I  will  tell  thee  wonders. 

Jaq.  With  that  face? 

Arm.   I  love  thee. 

Jaq.     So  I  heard  you  say. 

Arm.  And  so  farewell. 

Jaq.  Fair  weather  after  you  ! 

Dull.  Come,  Jaquenetta,  away. 

{Exeunt  DULL  and  JAQUENETTA. 

Arm.  Villain  thou  shalt  fast  for  thy  offences 
ere  thou  be  pardoned.  •<*  \*& 

Cost.  Well,  sir,  I  hope,  when  I  do  it  I  shall 
do  it  on  a  full  stomach. 

Arm.  Thou  shalt  be  heavily  punished. 

Cost.  I  am  more  bound  to  you  than  your 
fellows,  for  they  are  but  lightly  rewarded. 

Arm.  Take  away  this  villain  ;  shut  him  up. 

Moth.  Come,  you  transgressing  slave  :  away. 

Cost.  Let  me  not  be  pent  up,  sir ;  I  will  fast, 
being  loose. 

Moth.  No,  sir ;  that  were  fast  and  loose  :  thou 
shalt  to  prison. 


196 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


[ACT  II, 


Cost.  Well,  if  ever  I  do  see  the  merry  days  of 
desolation  that  I  have  seen,  some  shall  see — 

Muth.  What  shall  some  see  ? 

Cost.  Nay,  nothing,  Master  Moth,  but  what 
they  look  upon.  It  is  not  for  prisoners  to  be  too 
silent  in  their  words ;  and  therefore  I  will  say 
nothing  :  I  thank  God  I  have  as  little  patience 
as  anotner  man  ;  and  therefore  I  can  be  quiet. 
[Exeunt  MOTH  and  COSTARD. 

Arm.  I  do  affect  the  very  ground,  which  is 
base,  where  her  shoe,  which  is  baser,  guided  by 
her  foot,  which  is  basest,  doth  tread.  I  shall  be 
forsworn, — which  is  a  great  argument  of  false- 
hood,— if  I  love.  And  how  can  that  be  true  love 
which  is  falsely  attempted?  Love  is  a  familiar ; 
love  is  a  devil :  there  is  no  evil  angel  but  love. 
Yet  Samson  was  so  tempted, — and  he  had  an 
excellent  strength  :  yet  was  Solomon  so  seduced, 
— and  he  had  a  very  good  wit.  Cupid's  butt-shaft 
is  too  hard  for  Hercules's  club,  and  therefore  too 
much  odds  jp3r  a  Spaniard's  rapier.  The  first  and 
second  cause  will  not  serve  my  turn  ;  the  passado 
he  respects  not,  the  duello  he  regards  not :  his 
disgrace  is  to  be  called  boy  ;  but  his  glory  is  to 
subdue  men.  Adieu,  valour  !  rust,  rapier  !  be 
still,  drum  !  for  your  manager  is  in  love  ;  yea, 
he  loveth.  Assist  me,  some  extemporal  god  of 
rhyme,  for  I  am  sure  I  shall  turn  sonneteer. 
Devise,  wit ;  write-  pen ;  for  I  am  for  whole 
volumes  in  folio.  [Exit. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — Another  part  of  the  Park.     A  Pavi- 
lion and  Tents  at  a  distance. 

Enter  the  PRINCESS  OF  FRANCE,  ROSALINE, 
MARIA,  KATHARINE,  BOYET,  Lords,  and 
other  Attendants. 

Boyet.  Now,  madam,  summon  up  your  dear- 
est spirits : 

Consider  who  the  king  your  father  sends ; 
To  whom  he  sends  ;  and  what 's  his  embassy  : 
Yourself,  held  precious  in  the  world's  esteem, 
To  parley  with  the  sole  inheritor 
Of  all  perfections  that  a  man  may  owe, 
Matchless  Navarre  ;  the  plea  of  no  less  weight 
Than  Aquitain, — a  dowry  for  a  queen. 
Be  now  as  prodigal  of  all  dear  grace 
As  nature  was  in  making  graces  dear 
When  she  did  starve  the  general  world  beside, 
And  prodigally  gave  them  all  to  you. 

Prin.  Good  Lord  Boyet,  my  beauty,  though 

but  mean, 

Needs  not  the  painted  flourish  of  your  praise  ; 
Beauty  is  bought  by  judgment  of  the  eye, 
Not  utter'd  by  base  sale  of  chapmen's  tongues  : 


I  am  less  proud  to  hear  you  tell  my  worth 
Than  you  much  willing  to  be  counted  wise 
In  spending  your  wit  in  the  praise  of  mine. 
But  now  to  task  the  tasker  : — good  Boyet, 
You  are  not  ignorant,  all-telling  fame 
Doth  noise  abroad,  Navarre  hath  made  a  vow, 
Till  painful  study  shall  out-wear  three  years 
No  woman  may  approach  his  silent  court  : 
Therefore  to  us  seemeth  it  a  needful  course, 
Before  we  enter  his  forbidden  gates, 
To  know  his  pleasure  ;  and  in  that  behalf, 
Bold  of  your  worthiness,  we  single  you 
As  our  best -moving  fair  solicitor. 
Tell  him  the  daughter  of  the  King  of  France, 
On  serious  business,  craving  quick  despatch, 
Importunes  personal  conference  with  his  grace. 
Haste,  signify  so  much  ;  while  we  attend, 
Like  humbly-visag'd  suitors,  his  high  will. 

Boyet.   Proud  of  employment,  willingly  I  go. 

Prin.  All  pride  is  willing  pride,  and  yours  is 
so. —  [Exit  BOYET. 

Who  are  the  votaries,  my  loving  lords, 
That  are  vow-fellows  with  this  virtuous  duke  ? 

I  Lord.  Longaville  is  one. 

Prin.  Know  you  the  man  ? 

Mar.  I  know  him,  madam ;  at  a  marriage  feast, 
Between  Lord  Perigort  and  the  beauteous  heii 
Of  Jaques  Falconbridge,  solemnized 
In  Normandy,  saw  I  this  Longaville  : 
A  man  of  sovereign  parts  he  is  esteem'd  ; 
Well  fitted  in  the  arts,  glorious  in  arms  : 
Nothing  becomes  him  ill  that  he  would  well. 
The  only  soil  of  his  fair  virtue's  gloss, — 
If  virtue's  gloss  will  stain  with  any  soil, — 
Is  a  sharp  wit  matched  with  too  blunt  a  will ; 
Whose  edge  Rath  power  to  cut,  whose  will  still 

wills 
It  should  none  spare  that  come  within  his  power. 

Prin.  Some  merry  mocking  lord,  belike ;  is 't 
so? 

Mar.  They  say  so  most  that  most  his  humours 
know. 

Prin.  Such  short-liv'd  wits  do  wither  as  they 

grow. 
Who  are  the  rest  ?  [youth, 

Kath.  The  young  Dumain,  awell-accomplish'd 
Of  all  that  virtue  love  for  virtue  lov'd  : 
Most  power  to  do  most  harm,  least  knowing  ill; 
For  he  hath  wit  to  make  an  ill  shape  good, 
And  shape  to  win  grace  though  he  had  no  wit. 
I  saw  him  at  the  Duke  Alenson's  once  ; 
And  much  too  little  of  that  good  I  saw 
Is  my  report  to  his  great  worthiness. 

Ros.  Another  of  these  students  at  that  time 
Was  there  with  him :  if  I  have  heard  a  truth, 
Biron  they  call  him ;  but  a  merrier  man, 
Within  the  limit  of  becoming  mirth, 


SCENE  I.] 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


197 


I  never  spent  an  hour's  talk  withal : 
His  eye  begets  occasion  for  his  wit : 
For  every  object  that  the  one  doth  catch, 
The  other  turns  to  a  mirth-moving  jest ; 
Which  his  fair  tongue — conceit's  expositor — 
Delivers  in  such  apt  and  gracious  words 
That  aged  ears  play  truant  at  his  tales, 
And  younger  hearings  are  quite  ravished ; 
So  sweet  and  voluble  is  his  discourse. 

Prin.  God  bless  my  ladies !  are  they  all  in  love, 
That  every  one  her  own  hath  garnished 
With  such  bedecking  ornaments  of  praise? 

Mar.   Here  comes  Boyet. 

Re-enter  BOYET. 

Prin.  Now,  what  admittance,  lord? 

Boyet.   Navarre  had  notice  of  your  fair  ap- 
proach ; 

And  he  and  his  competitors  in  oath 
Were  all  address'd  to  meet  you,  gentle  lady, 
Before  I  came.  Marry,  thus  much  I  have  learnt, — 
He  rather  means  to  lodge  you  in  the  field, 
Like  one  that  comes  here  to  besiege  his  court, 
Than  seek  a  dispensation  for  his  oath, 
To  let  you  enter  his  unpeopled  house. 
Here  comes  Navarre.  {The  Ladies  mask. 

Enter  KING,  LONGAVILLE,  DUMAIN,  BIRON, 
and  Attendants. 

King.  Fair  princess,  welcome  to  the  court  of 

Navarre. 

Prin.  Fair,  I  give  you  back  again  ;  and  wel- 
come I  have  not  yet :  the  roof  of  this  court  is  too 
high  to  be  yours ;  and  welcome  to  the  wide  fields 
too  base  to  be  mine.  [court. 

King.  You  shall  be  welcome,  madam,  to  my 
Prin.  I  will  be  welcome  then ;  conduct  me 
thither.  [oath. 

King.  Hear  me,  dear  lady, — I  have  sworn  an 
Prin.  Our  lady  help  my  lord !  he  '11  be  for- 
sworn, [will. 
King.  Not  for  the  world,  fair  madam,  by  my 
Prin.  Why,  will  shall  break  it ;  will,  and  no- 
thing else. 

King.  Your  ladyship  is  ignorant  what  it  is. 
Prin.  Were  my  lord  so,  his  ignorance  were 

wise, 

Where  now  his  knowledge  must  prove  ignorance. 
I  hear  your  grace  hath  sworn-out  housekeeping : 
'Tis  deadly  sin  to  keep  that  cath,  my  lord, 
And  sin  to  break  it : 
But  pardon  me,  I  am  too  sudden  bold ; 
To  teach  a  teacher  ill  beseemeth  me. 
Vouchsafe  to  read  the  purpose  of  my  coming, 
And  suddenly  resolve  me  in  my  suit. 

[Gives  a  paper. 
King.  Madam,  I  will,  if  suddenly  I  may. 


Prin.  You  will  the  sooner  that  I  were  away ; 
For  you  '11  prove  perjur'd  if  you  make  me  stay. 

Biron.   Did  not  I  dance  with  you  in  Brabant 
once? 

Ros.  Did  not  I  dance  with  you  in  Brabant  once? 

Biron.   I  know  you  did. 

Ros.  How  needless  was  it  then 

To  ask  the  question  ! 

Biron.  You  must  not  be  so  quick. 

Ros.  'Tis  'long  of  you,  that  spur  me  with  such 
questions. 

Biron.  Your  wit 's  too  hot,  it  speeds  too  fast, 
'twill  tire. 

Ros.  Not  till  it  leave  the  rider  in  the  mire. 

Biron.  What  time  o'  day? 

Ros.  The  hour  that  fools  should  ask, 

Biron.  Now  fair  befall  your  mask ! 

Ros.  Fair  fall  the  face  it  covers ! 

Biron.  And  send  you  many  lovers ! 

Ros.  Amen,  so  you  be  none. 

Biron.  Nay,  then  will  I  be  gone. 

King.  Madam,  your  father  here  doth  intimate 
The  payment  of  a  hundred  thousand  crowns ; 
Being  but  the  one-half  of  an  entire  sum 
Disbursed  by  my  father  in  his  wars. 
But  say  that  he  or  we, — as  neither  have, — 
Receiv'd  that  sum,  yet  there  remains  unpaid 
A  hundred  thousand  more;    in  surety  of  the 

which, 

One  part  of  Aquitain  is  bound  to  us, 
Although  not  valued  to  the  money's  worth. 
If,  then,  the  king  your  father  will  restore 
But  that  one-half  which  is  unsatisfied, 
We  will  give  up  our  right  in  Aquitain, 
And  hold  fair  friendship  with  his  majesty. 
But  that,  it  seems,  he  little  purposeth, 
For  here  he  doth  demand  to  have  repaid 
An  hundred  thousand  crowns;  and  not  demands, 
On  payment  of  a  hundred  thousand  crowns, 
To  have  his  title  live  in  Aquitain ; 
Which  we  much  rather  had  depart  withal, 
And  have  the  money  by  our  father  lent, 
Than  Aquitain  so  gelded  as  it  is. 
Dear  princess,  were  not  his  requests  so  far 
From  reason's  yielding,  your  fair  self  should  make 
A  yielding,  'gainst  some  reason,  in  my  breast, 
And  go  well  satisfied  to  France  again. 

Prin.  You  do  the  king  my  father  too  much 

wrong, 

And  wrong  the  reputation  of  your  name, 
In  so  unseeming  to  confess  receipt 
Of  that  which  hath  so  faithfully  been  paid. 

King.  I  do  protest  I  never  heard  of  it ; 
And  if  you  prove  it,  I  '11  repay  it  back, 
Or  yield  up  Aquitain. 

Prin.  We  arrest  your  word : — 

Boyet,  you  can  produce  acquittances 


I98 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


[ACT  ii. 


For  such  a  sum  from  special  officers 
Of  Charles  his  father. 

King.  Satisfy  me  so.      [come, 

Boyet.  So  please  your  grace,  the  packet  is  not 
Where  that  and  other  specialties  are  bound ; 
To-morrow  you  shall  have  a  sight  of  them. 

King.  It  shall  suffice  me ;  at  which  interview 
All  liberal  reason  I  will  yield  unto. 
Meantime  receive  such  welcome  at  my  hand 
As  honour,  without  breach  of  honour,  may 
Make  tender  of  to  thy  true  worthiness  : 
You  may  not  come,  fair  princess,  in  my  gates ; 
But  here  without  you  shall  be  so  receiv'd 
As  you  shall  deem  yourself  lodg'd  in  my  heart, 
Though  so  denied  fair  harbour  in  my  house. 
Your  own  good  thoughts  excuse  me,  ana  farewell : 
To-morrow  shall  we  visit  you  again. 

Prin.  Sweet  health  and  fair  desires  consort 
your  grace !  [place ! 

King.  Thy  own  wish  wish  I  thee  in  every 
[Exeunt  KING  and  his  Train. 

Biron.  Lady,  I  will  commend  you  to  my  own 
heart. 

Ros.  Pray  you,  do  my  commendations;   I 
would  be  glad  to  see  it. 

Biron.  I  would  you  heard  it  groan. 

Ros.  Is  the  fool  sick? 

Biron.  Sick  at  heart. 

Ros.  Alack,  let  it  blood. 

Biron.  Would  that  do  it  good  ? 

Ros.  My  physic  says  ay. 

Biron.  Will  you  prick 't  with  your  eye? 

Ros.  No  poynt>  with  my  knife. 

Biron.  Now,  God  save  thy  life  ! 

Ros.  And  yours  from  long  living ! 

Biron.  I  cannot  stay  thanksgiving. 

[Retiring. 

Dum.  Sir,  I  pray  you,  a  word !   what  lady  is 
that  same? 

Boyet.  The  heir  of  Alen9on,  Katharine  her 
name. 

Dum.  A  gallant  lady!  Monsieur,  fare  you  well. 

[Exit. 

Long.  I  beseech  you  a  word :  what  is  she  in 
the  white?  [the  light. 

Boyet.  A  woman  sometimes,  an  you  saw  her  in 

Long.  Perchance,  light  in  the  light.     I  desire 
her  name. 

Boyet.  She  hath  but  one  for  herself ;  to  desire 
that  were  a  shame. 

Long.   Pray  you,  sir,  whose  daughter? 

Boyet.  Her  mother's,  I  have  heard. 

Long.  God's  blessing  on  your  beard  T. 

Boyet.  Good  sir,  be  not  offended : 
She  is  an  heir  of  Falconbridge. 

Long.  Nay,  my  choler  is  ended. 
She  is  a  most  sweet  lady. 


Boyet.  Not  unlike,  sir :  that  may  be. 

[Exit  LONG. 

Biron.  What's  her  name  in  the  cap? 

Boyet.  Rosaline,  by  good  hap. 

Biron.  Is  she  wedded  or  no  ? 

Boyet.  To  her  will,  sir,  or  so. 

Biron.  You  are  welcome,  sir :  adieu  !   [you. 

Boyet.  Farewell  to  me,  sir,  and  welcome  to 
[Exit  BIRON. — Ladies  unmask. 

Mar.  That  last  is  Biron,  the  merry  mad-cap 

lord; 
Not  a  word  with  him  but  a  jest. 

Boyet.  And  every  jest  but  a  word. 

Prin.  It  was  well  done  of  you  to  take  him  at 
his  word.  [board. 

Boyet.  I  was  as  willing  to  grapple  as  he  was  to 

Mar.  Two  hot  sheeps,  marry ! 

Boyet.  And  wherefore  not  ships  I 

No  sheep,  sweet  lamb,  unless  we  feed  on  your 

lips.  [finish  the  jest  ? 

Mar.  You  sheep  and  I  pasture :  shall  that 

Boyet.  So  you  grant  pasture  for  me. 

[Offering to  kiss  her. 

Mar.  Not  so,  gentle  beast ; 

My  lips  are  no  common,  though  several  they  be. 

Boyet.  Belonging  to  whom  ? 

Mar.  To  my  fortunes  and  me. 

Prin.  Good    wits  will    be    jangling:    but, 

gentles,  agree : 

The  civil  war  of  wits  were  much  better  used 
On  Navarre  and  his  book-men ;  for  here  'tis 
abus'd.  [lies,— 

Boyet.  If  my  observation, — which  very  seldom 
By  the  heart's  still  rhetoric  disclos'd  with  eyes, 
Deceive  me  not  now,  Navarre  is  infected. 

Prin.  With  what  ?  [affected. 

Boyet.  With  that  which  we  lovers  entitle 

Prin.  Your  reason  ?  [retire 

Boyet.  Why,  all  his  behaviours  did  make  their 
To  the  court  of  his  eye,  peeping  thorough  de- 
sire : 
His  heart,  like  an  agate,  with  your  print  im- 

press'd, 

Proud  with  his  form,  in  his  eye  pride  express'd : 
His  tongue,  all  impatient  to  speak  and  not  see, 
Did  stumble  with  haste  in  his  eye-sight  to  be  ; 
All  senses  to  that  sense  did  make  their  repair, 
To  feel  only  looking  on  fairest  of  fair: 
Methought  all  his  senses  were  lock'd  in  his  eye, 
As  jewels  in  crystal  for  some  prince  to  buy  ; 
Who,  tend' ring  their  own  worth  from  where  they 

were  glass'd, 

Did  point  you  to  buy  them,  along  as  you  pass'd. 
His  face's  own  margent  did  quote  such  amazes 
That  all  eyes  saw  his  eyes  enchanted  with  gazes : 
I  '11  give  you  Aquitain,  and  all  that  is  his, 
An  you  give  him  for  my  sake  but  one  loving  kiss. 


SCENE  I.] 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


'99 


Prin.  Come  to  our  pavilion:  Boyet  is  dis- 

pos'd —  [eye  hath  disclos'd  : 

Boyet.  But  to  speak  that  in  words  which  his 

I  only  have  made  a  mouth  of  his  eye, 

By  adding  a  tongue  which  I  know  will  not  lie. 

Ros.  Thou  art  an  old    love -monger,   and 

speak'st  skilfully.  [news  of  him. 

Mar.  He  is  Cupid's  grandfather,  and  learns 

Ros.  Then  was  Venus  like  her  mother ;  for 

her  father  is  but  grim. 
Boyet.  Do  you  hear,  my  mad  wenches  ? 
Mar.  No. 

Boyet.  What,  then  ;  do  you  see  ? 

Ros.  Ay,  our  way  to  be  gone. 
Boyet.  You  are  too  hard  for  me. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.— A  part  of  the  Park. 
Enter  ARMADO  and  MOTH. 

Arm.  Warble,  child ;   make  passionate  my 
sense  of  hearing. 

Moth.   Concolinel [Singing. 

Arm.  Sweet  air  ! — Go,  tenderness  of  years  ! 
take  this  key,  give  enlargement  to  the  swain, 
bring  him  festinately  hither ;  I  must  employ  him 
in  a  letter  to  my  love. 

Moth.  Master,  will  you  win  your  love  with  a 
French  brawl  ? 

Arm.  How  mean'st  thou  ?  brawling  in  French  ? 

Moth.  No,  my  complete  master:  but  to  jig 
off  a  tune  at  the  tongue's  end,  canary  to  it  with 
your  feet,  humour  it  with  turning  up  your  eye- 
lids ;  sigh  a  note  and  sing  a  note ;  sometime 
through  the  throat,  as  if  you  swallowed  love  with 
singing  love  ;  sometime  through  the  nose,  as  if 
you  snuffed  up  love  by  smelling  love  ;  with  your 
hat  penthouse-like,  o'er  the  shop  of  your  eyes ; 
with  your  arms  crossed  on  your  thin  belly- 
doublet,  like  a  rabbit  on  a  spit ;  or  your  hands 
in  your  pocket,  like  a  man  after  the  old  paint- 
ing ;  and  keep  not  too  long  in  one  tune,  but  a 
snip  and  away.  These  are  complements,  these 
are  humours ;  these  betray  nice  wenches — that 
would  be  betrayed  without  these;  and  make 
them  men  of  note, — do  you  note  me? — that  most 
are  affected  to  these.  [ence  ? 

Arm.  How  hast  thou  purchased  this  experi- 

Moth.   By  my  penny  of  observation. 

Arm.  But  O, — but  O — 

Moth.  — the  hobby-horse  is  forgot. 

Arm.  Callest  thou  my  love  hobby-horse  ? 

Moth.  No,  master ;  the  hobby-horse  is  but  a 
colt,  and  your  love  perhaps  a  hackney.  But  have 
you  forgot  your  love? 

Arm.  Almost  I  had. 


Moth.  Negligent  student  1  learn  her  by  heart. 

Arm.  By  heart  and  in  heart,  boy. 

Moth.  And  out  of  heart,  master :  all  those 
three  I  will  prove. 

Arm.  What  wilt  thou  prove? 

Moth.  A  man,  if  I  live ;  and  this,  by,  in,  and 
without,  upon  the  instant:  by  heart  you  love 
her,  because  your  heart  cannot  come  by  her ;  in 
heart  you  love  her,  because  your  heart  is  in  love 
with  her ;  and  out  of  heart  you  love  her,  being 
out  of  heart  that  you  cannot  enjoy  her. 

Arm.  I  am  all  these  three. 

Moth.  And  three  times  as  much  more,  and 
yet  nothing  at  all. 

Arm.  Fetch  hither  the  swain ;  he  must  carry 
me  a  letter. 

Moth.  A  message  weW  sympathized ;  a  horse 
to  be  amba&iador  for  an  ass  1 

Arm.  Ha,  ha!  what  sayest  thou? 

Moth.  Many,  sir,  you  must  send  the  ass  upon 
the  horse,  for  he  is  very  slow-gaited.  But  I  go. 

Arm.  The  way  is  but  short :  away. 

Moth.  As  swift  as  lead,  sir. 

Arm.  Thy  meaning,  pretty  ingenious  ? 
Is  not  lead  a  metal  heavy,  dull,  and  slow? 

Moth.  Minime,  honest  master;  or  rather, 
master,  no. 

Arm.  I  say  lead  is  slow. 

Moth.  You  are  too  swift,  sir,  to  say  so: 
Is  that  lead  slow  which  is  fired  from  a  gun  ? 

Arm.  Sweet  smoke  of  rhetoric !  [he : — 

He  reputes  me  a  cannon  ;  and  the  bullet,  that 's 
I  shoot  thee  at  the  swain. 

Moth.  Thump,  then,  and  I  flee. 

[Exit. 

Arm.  A  most  acute  Juvenal;  voluble  and 

free  of  grace !  [face : 

By  thy  favour,  sweet  welkin,  I  must  sigh  in  thy 

Most  rude  melancholy,  valour  gives  thee  place. 

My  herald  is  return'd. 

Re-enter  MOTH  with  COSTARD. 

Moth.  A  wonder,  master  ;  here 's  a  Costard 
broken  in  a  shin. 

Arm.  Some  enigma,  some  riddle:  come, — • 
thy  r envoy  ; — begin. 

Cost.  No  egma,  no  riddle,  no  V envoy  ; — no 
salve  in  the  mail,  sir :  O,  sir,  plantain,  a  plain 
plantain ;  no  I 'envoy -,  no  F  envoy  ^  no  salve,  sir, 
but  a  plantain ! 

Arm.  By  virtue  thou  enforcest  laughter ;  thy 
silly  thought,  my  spleen;  the  heaving  of  my 
lungs  provokes  me  to  ridiculous  smiling:  O, 
pardon  me,  my  stars !  Doth  the  inconsiderate 
take  salve  for  fenvoy^  and  the  word  F envoy  for 
a  salve  ?  [V envoy  a  salve  \ 

Moth.  Do  the  wise  think  them  other?  is  not 


200 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


[ACT  in. 


No,  page:   it  is  an  epilogue  or  dis- 
course, to  make  plain  [sain. 
Some  obscure  precedence  that  hath  tofore  been 
I  will  example  it : 

The  fox,  the  ape,  and  the  humble-bee 
Were  still  at  odds,  being  but  three. 
There 's  the  moral.     Now  the  I' envoy,    [again. 
Moth.  I  will  add  the  f  envoy.     Say  the  moral 
Arm.  The  fox,  the  ape,  and  the  humble-bee 

Were  still  at  odds,  being  but  three : 
Moth.  Until  the  goose  came  out  of  door, 

And  stay'd  the  odds  by  adding  four. 
Now  will  I  begin  your  moral,  and  do  you  follow 
with  my  V envoy. 

The  fox,  the  ape,  and  the  humble-bee, 
Were  still  at  odds,  being  but  three : 
Arm.  Until  the  goose  came  out  of  door, 

Staying  the  odds  by  adding  four. 
Moth.  A  good  P envoy )  ending  in  the  goose  ; 
Would  you  desire  more? 

Cost.  The  boy  hath  sold  him  a  bargain,  a 

goose,  that's  flat: —  [fat. — 

Sir,  your  pennyworth  is  good,  an  your  goose  be 

To  sell  a  bargain  well  is  as  cunning  as  fast  and 

loose : 

Let  me  see  a  fat  V envoy  ;  ay,  that 's  a  fat  goose. 
Arm.  Come  hither,  come  hither.     How  did 

this  argument  begin  ? 
Moth.  By  saying  that  a  Costard  was  broken  in 

a  shin. 
Then  call'd  you  for  the  V envoy. 

Cost.  True,  and  I  for  a  plantain :  thus  came 
your  argument  in  ;  [bought ; 

Then  the  boy's  fat  V  envoy,  the  goose  that  you 
And  he  ended  the  market. 

Arm.  But  tell  me ;  how  was  there  a  Costard 
broken  in  a  shin  ? 

Moth.  I  will  tell  you  sensibly. 
Cost.  Thou  hast  no  feeling  of  it,  Moth;    I 
will  speak  that  V envoy. 

I,  Costard,  running  out,  that  was  safely  within, 
Fell  over  the  threshold  and  broke  my  shin. 
Arm.  We  will  talk  no  more  of  this  matter. 
Cost.  Till  there  be  more  matter  in  the  shin. 
Arm.  Sirrah,  Costard,  I  will  enfranchise  thee. 
Cost.  O,  marry  me  to  one  Frances ; — I  smell 
some  F  envoy,  some  goose  in  this. 

Arm.  By  my  sweet  soul,  I  mean  setting  thee 
at  liberty,  enfreedoming  thy  person ;  thou  wert 
immured,  restrained,  captivated,  bound. 

Cost.  True,  true;  and  now  you  will  be  my 
purgation,  and  let  me  loose. 

Arm.  I  give  thee  thy  liberty,  set  thee  from 
durance ;  and,  in  lieu  thereof,  impose  on  thee 
nothing  but  this : — bear  this  significant  to  the 
country  maid  Jaquenetta :  there  is  remuneration 
\giving  him  money} ;  for  the  best  ward  of  mine 


honour  is  rewarding  my  dependents.     Moth, 

follow.  [Exit. 

Moth.  Like  the  sequel,  I.— Signior  Costard, 

adieu. 

Cost.  My  sweet  ounce  of  man's  flesh  !  my  in- 
cony  Jew !  [Exit  MOTH. 
Now  will  I  look  to  his  remuneration.  Remun- 
eration !  O,  that 's  the  Latin  word  for  three 
farthings:  three  farthings  —  remuneration. — 
What's  the  price  of  this  inkle? — A  penny. — 
No, I*  II give  you  a  remuneration :  why,  it  carries 
it. — Remuneration! — why,  it  is  a  fairer  name 
than  French  crown.  I  will  never  buy  and  sell 
out  of  this  word. 

Enter  BIRON. 

Biron.  O,  my  good  knave  Costard !  exceed- 
ingly well  met. 

Cost.  Pray  you,  sir,  how  much  carnation 
ribbon  may  a  man  buy  for  a  remuneration? 

Biron.  What  is  a  remuneration? 

Cost.  Marry,  sir,  halfpenny  farthing,      [silk. 

Biron.  O,  why  then,  three-farthings-worth  of 

Cost.  I  thank  your  worship:   God  be  with 
you! 

Biron.  O,  stay,  slave ;  I  must  employ  thee ; 
As  thou  wilt  win  my  favour,  good  my  knave, 
Do  one  thing  for  me  that  I  shall  entreat. 

Cost.  When  would  you  have  it  done,  sir? 

Biron.  O,  this  afternoon. 

Cost.  Well,  I  will  do  it,  sir :  fare  you  well. 

Biron.  O,  thou  knowest  not  what  it  is. 

Cost.  I  shall  know,  sir,  when  I  have  done  it. 

Biron.  Why,  villain,  thou  must  know  first. 

Cost.  I  will  come  to  your  worship  to-morrow 
morning. 

Biron.  It    must    be   done    this    afternoon. 

Hark,  slave,  it  is  but  this ; — 
The  princess  comes  to  hunt  here  in  the  park, 
And  in  her  train  there  is  a  gentle  lady ; 
When  tongues  speak  sweetly,  then  they  name 

her  name, 

And  Rosaline  they  call  her :  ask  for  her ; 
And  to  her  white  hand  see  thou  do  commend 
This  seal'd-up  counsel.     There 's  thy  guerdon ; 
go.  [Gives  him  money. 

Cost.  Garden, — O  sweet  garden !  better  than 
remuneration;  elevenpence  farthing  better: 
most  sweet  gardon ! — I  will  do  it,  sir,  in  print. 
— Gardon — remuneration.  [Exit. 

Biron.  O  !--and  I,  forsooth,  in  love  !  I,  that 

have  been  love's  whip ; 
A  very  beadle  to  a  humorous  sigh  ; 
A  critic ;  nay,  a  night-watch  constable  ; 
A  domineering  pedant  o'er  the  boy, 
Than  whom  no  mortal  so  magnificent ! 
This  wimpled,  whining,  purblind,  wayward  boy; 


SCENE  T. 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


201 


This  senior-junior,  giant-dwarf,  Dan  Cupid  : 

Regent  of  love-rhymes,  lord  of  folded  arms, 

The  anointed  sovereign  of  sighs  and  groans, 

Liege  of  all  loiterers  and  malcontents, 

Dread  prince  of  plackets,  king  of  codpieces, 

Sole  imperator,  and  great  general 

Of  trotting  paritors  :  O  my  little  heart ! — • 

And  I  to  be  a  corporal  of  his  field, 

And  wear  his  colours  like  a  tumbler's  hoop  ! 

What !  I !  I  love  !  I  sue !  I  seek  a  wife ! 

A  woman,  that  is  like  a  German  clock, 

Still  a-repairing  ;  ever  out  of  frame  ; 

And  never  going  aright,  being  a  watch, 

But  being  watch'd  that  it  may  still  go  right ! 

Nay,  to  be  perjur'd,  which  is  worst  of  all ; 

And,  among  three,  to  love  the  worst  of  all ; 

A  whitely  wanton  with  a  velvet  brow, 

With  two  pitch  balls  stuck  in  her  face  for  eyes  ; 

Ay,  and,  by  heaven,  one  that  will  do  the  deed, 

Though  Argus  were  her  eunuch  and  her  guard  : 

And  I  to  sigh  for  her  !  to  watch  for  her  ! 

To  pray  for  her  !     Go  to  ;  it  is  a  plague 

That  Cupid  will  impose  for  my  neglect 

Of  his  almighty  dreadful  little  might. 

Well,  I  will  love,  write,  sigh,  pray,  sue,  watch, 

groan  ; 

Some  men  must  love  my  lady,  and  some  Joan. 

{Exit. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.— A  part  of  the  Park. 

Enter  the  PRINCESS,  ROSALINE,  MARIA, 
KATHARINE,  BOYET,  Lords,  Attendants, 
and  a  Forester. 

Prin.  Was  that  the  king  that  spurr'd  his  horse 

so  hard 
Against  the  steep  uprising  of  the  hill  ? 

Boyet.  I  know  not ;  but  I  think  it  was  not  he. 

Prin.  Whoe'er  he  was,  he  show'd  a  mount- 
ing mind. 

Well,  lords,  to-day  we  shall  have  our  despatch ; 
On  Saturday  we  will  return  to  France. — 
Then,  forester,  my  friend,  where  is  the  bush 
That  we  must  stand  and  play  the  murderer  in  ? 

For.  Here  by,  upon  the  edge  of  yonder  cop- 
pice; 
A  stand  where  you  may  make  the  fairest  shoot. 

Prin.  I  thank  my  beauty,  I  am  fair  that  shoot, 
And  thereupon  thou  speak'st  the  fairest  shoot. 

For.  Pardon  me,  madam,  for  I  meant  not  so. 

Prin.  What,    what?    first    praise   me,   and 

again  say  no  ? 
O  short-livM  pride  !     Not  fair  ?  alack  for  woe  ! 

For.   Yes,  madam,  fair. 

Prin.  Nay,  never  paint  me  now  j 


Where  fair  is  not,  praise  cannot  mend  the  brow. 

Here,  good  my  glass,  take  this  for  telling  true  ; 

{Giving  him  money. 

Fair  payment  for  foul  words  is  more  than  due. 

For.  Nothing  but  fair  is  that  which  you  in- 
herit, [merit. 

Prin.  See,  see,  my  beauty  will  be  sav'd  by 
O  heresy  in  fair,  fit  for  these  days  !     [praise. — 
A  giving  hand,   though  foul,   shall  have   fair 
But  come,  the  bow  : — now  mercy  goes  to  kill, 
And  shooting  well  is  then  accounted  ill. 
Thus  will  I  save  my  credit  in  the  shoot : 
Not  wounding,  pity  would  not  let  me  do 't ; 
If  wounding,  then  it  was  to  show  my  skill, 
That  more  for  praise  than  purpose  meant  to  kill. 
And,  out  of  question,  so  it  is  sometimes, — 
Glory  grows  guilty  of  detested  crimes  ;      [part, 
WThen,  for  fame's  sake,  for  praise,  an  outward 
We  bend  to  that  the  working  of  the  heart : 
As  I,  for  praise  alone,  now  seek  to  spill       [ill. 
The  poor  deer's  blood,  that  my  heart  means  no 

Boyet.  Do  not  curst  wives  hold  that  self- 
sovereignty 

Only  for  praise'  sake,  when  they  strive  to  be 
Lords  o'er  their  lords  ?  [afford 

Prin.  Only  for  praise :  and  praise  we  may 
To  any  lady  that  subdues  a  lord. 
Here  comes  a  member  of  the  commonwealth. 

Enter  COSTARD. 

Cost.  God  dig-you-den  all !  Pray  you,  which 
is  the  head-lady  ?  [that  have  no  heads. 

Prin.  Thou  shall  know  her,  fellow,  by  the  rest 

Cost.  Which  is  the  greatest  lady,  the  highest? 

Prin.  The  thickest  and  the  tallest. 

Cost.  The  thickest  and  the  tallest !  it  is  so ; 

truth  is  truth.  [wit, 

An  your  waist,  mistress,  were  as  slender  as  my 

One  of  these  maids'  girdles  for  your  waist  should 

be  fit.  [est  here. 

Are  not  you  the  chief  woman?  you  are  the  thick - 

Prin.  What 's  your  will,  sir?  what 's  your 
will?  [one  Lady  Rosaline. 

Cost.   I  have  a  letter  from  Monsieur  Biron,  to 

Prin.  O,  thy  letter,  thy  letter ;  he  's  a  good 
friend  of  mine  :  [carve  ; 

Stand  aside,    good   bearer. — Boyet,   you   can 
Break  up  this  capon. 

Boyet.  I  am  bound  to  serve. — 

This  letter  is  mistook,  it  importeth  none  here  f 
It  is  writ  to  Jaquenetta. 

Prin.  We  will  read  it,  I  swear : 

Break  the  neck  of  the  wax,  and  every  one  give 
ear. 

Boyet.  [reads.]  By  heaven,  that  thou  art  fair 
is  most  infallible ;  true  that  thou  art  beauteous ; 
truth  itself  that  thou  art  lovely.  More  fairer  than 


202 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


[ACT  iv. 


fair,  beautiful  than  beauteous,  truer  than  truth 
itself:  have  commiseration  on  thy  heroical 
vassal !  The  magnanimous  and  most  illustrious 
king  Cophetua  set  eye  upon  the  pernicious  and 
indubitate  beggar  Zenelophon;  and  he  it  was 
that  might  rightly  say,  veni,  vidi,  vici ;  which  to 
anatomize  in  the  vulgar, — O  base  and  obscure 
vulgar ! — videlicet,  he  came,  saw,  and  overcame : 
he  came  one ;  saw  two ;  overcame  three.  Who 
came?  the  king:  why  did  he  come?  to  see:  why 
did  he  see?  to  overcome :  to  whom  came  he?  to 
the  beggar:  what  saw  he?  the  beggar:  who 
overcame  he?  the  beggar.  The  conclusion  is 
victory;  on  whose  side?  the  king's:  the  cap- 
tive is  enriched;  on  whose  side?  the  beggar's: 
the  catastrophe  is  a  nuptial;  on  whose  side? 
the  king's? — no  on  both  in  one,  or  one  in  both. 
I  am  the  king ;  for  so  stands  the  comparison : 
thou  the  beggar ;  for  so  witnesseth  thy  lowliness. 
Shall  I  command  thy  love?  I  may:  shall  I  en- 
force thy  love?  I  could:  shall  I  entreat  thy  love? 
I  will.  What  shalt  thou  exchange  for  rags? 
robes :  for  tittles  ?  titles :  for  thyself?  me. 
Thus,  expecting  thy  reply,  I  profane  my  lips  on 
thy  foot,  my  eyes  on  thy  picture,  and  my  heart 
on  thy  every  part. 

Thine  in  the  dearest  design  of  industry, 
DON  ADRIANO  DE  ARMADO. 
Thus  dost  thou  hear  the  Nemean  lion  roar 

'Gainst  thee,  thou  lamb,  that  standest  as  his 

prey; 
Submissive  fall  his  princely  feet  before, 

And  he  from  forage  will  incline  to  play : 
But  if  thou  strive,  poor  soul,  what  art  thou  then  ? 
Food  for  his  rage,  repasture  for  his  den. 

Prin.  What  plume  of  feathers  is  he  that  in- 
dited this  letter? 

What  vane?  what  weather-cock?  did  you  ever 
hear  better? 

Boyet.  I  am  much  deceiv'd  but  I  remember 
the  style.  [erewhile. 

Prin.  Else  your  memory  is  bad,  going  o'er  it 

Boyet.  This  Armado  is  a  Spaniard,  that  keeps 
here  in  court ;  [sport 

A  phantasm,  a  Monarcho,  and  one  that  makes 
To  the  prince  and  his  book-mates. 

Prin.  Thou  fellow,  a  word : 

Who  gave  thee  this  letter? 

Cost.  I  told  you ;  my  lord. 

Prin.  To  whom  shouldst  thou  give  it? 

Cost.  From  my  lord  to  my  lady. 

Prin.  From  which  lord  to  which  lady? 

Cost.  From  my  Lord  Biron,  a  good  master  of 

mine, 
To  a  lady  of  France  that  he  call'd  Rosaline. 

Prin.  Thou  hast  mistaken  this  letter.    Come, 
lords,  away. 


Here,  sweet,  put  up  this ;  'twill  be  thine  another 
day.      [Exeunt  PRINCESS  and  Train. 
Boyet.  Who  is  the  shooter?  who  is  the  shooter? 
Ros.  Shall  I  teach  you  to  know? 
Boyet.  Ay,  my  continent  of  beauty. 
Ros.  Why,  she  that  bears  the  bow. 

Finely  put  off!  [thou  marry, 

Boyet.   My  lady  goes  to  kill  horns;  but,  if 
Hang  me  by  the  neck  if  horns  that  year  mis- 
carry. 
Finely  put  on ! 

Ros.  Well  then,  I  am  the  shooter. 

Boyet.  And  who  is  your  deer? 

Ros.  If  we  choose  by  the  horns,  yourself: 

come  near. 
Finely  put  on  indeed ! — 

Mar.  You  still  wrangle  with  her,  Boyet,  and 

she  strikes  at  the  brow.        [her  now? 

Boyet.  But  she  herself  is  hit  lower :  have  I  hit 

Ros.  Shall  I  come  upon  thee  with  an  old  say. 

ing,  that  was  a  man  when  King  Pepin  of  France 

was  a  little  boy,  as  touching  the  hit  it? 

Boyet.  So  I  may  answer  thee  with  one  as  old, 
that  was  a  woman  when  Queen  Guinever  of 
Britain  was  a  little  wench,  as  touching  the  hit  it. 

[Singing. 

Ros.       Thou  canst  not  hit  it,  hit  it,  hit  it, 
Thou  canst  not  hit  it,  my  good  man. 
Boyet.  An  I  cannot,  cannot,  cannot, 
An  I  cannot,  another  can. 

[Exeunt  Ros.  and  KATH. 
Cost.  By  my  troth,  most  pleasant !  how  both 

did  fit  it ! 
Mar.  A  mark  marvellous  well  shot ;  for  they 

both  did  hit  it. 

Boyet.  A  mark !    O,  mark  but  that  mark !    A 

mark,  says  my  lady !  [it  may  be. 

Let  the  mark  have  a  prick  in  }t,  to  mete  at,  if 

Mar.  Wide  p'  the  bow-hand !     I'  faith  your 

hand  is  out. 
Cost.  Indeed,  'a  must  shoot  nearer,  or  he  '11 

ne'er  hit  the  clout. 

Boyet.  And  if  my  hand  be  out,  then  belike 

your  hand  is  in.  [the  pin. 

Cost.  Then  will  she  get  the  upshot  by  cleaving 

Mar.  Come,  come,  you  talk  greasily,  your 

lips  grow  foul. 
Cost.  Shei  too  hard  for  you  at  pricks,  sir; 

challenge  her  to  bowl. 

Boyet.  lifear  too  much  rubbing ;  good-night, 
my  good  owl. 

[Exeunt  BOYET  and  MARIA. 

Cost.  By  my  soul,  a  swain !  a  most  simple 

clown !  [down ! 

Lord,  lord !  how  the  ladies  and  I  have  put  him 

O'  my  troth,  most  sweet  jests!  most  incony 

vulgar  wit ! 


SCENE  II.] 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


When  it  comes  so  smoothly  off,  so  obscenely,  as 

it  were,  so  fit. 
Armador  o'  the  one  side, — O,  a  most  dainty 

man !  [fan ! 

To  see  him  walk  before  a  lady  and  to  bear  her 
To  see  him  kiss  his  hand !  and  how  most  sweetly 

'a  will  swear ! — 

And  his  page  o'  t'other  side,  that  handful  of  wit ! 
Ah,  heavens,  it  is  a  most  pathetical  nit  1 
Sola,  sola !  [Shouting  -within. 

[Exit  COSTARD  running. 

SCENE  II. — Another  part  of  the  Park. 

Enter  HOLOFERNES,  Sir  NATHANIEL,  and 
DULL. 

Nath.  Very  reverend  sport,  truly ;  and  done 
in  the  testimony  of  a  good  conscience. 

Hoi.  The  deer  was,  as  you  know,  sanguis,— 
in  blood ;  ripe  as  a  pomewater,  who  now  hang- 
eth  like  a  jewel  in  the  ear  of  ccelo, — the  sky,  the 
welkin,  the  heaven ;  and  anon  falleth  like  a  crab 
on  the  face  of  terra ^ — the  soil,  the  land,  the 
earth. 

Nath.  Truly,  Master  Holoternes,  the  epithets 
are  sweetly  varied,  like  a  scholar  at  the  least: 
but,  sir,  I  assure  ye  it  was  a  buck  of  the  first 
head. 

Hoi.  Sir  Nathaniel,  haud  credo. 

Dull.  'Twas  not  a  haud  credo;  'twas  a  pricket. 

Hoi.  Most  barbarous  intimation  !  yet  a  kind 
of  insinuation,  as  it  were,  in  via,  in  way,  of 
explication ;  facere^  as  it  were,  replication, 
or,  rather,  ostentare,  to  show,  as  it  were,  his 
inclination, — after  his  undressed,  unpolished, 
uneducated,  unpmned,  untrained,  or,  rather, 
unlettered,  or,  ratherest,  unconfirmed  fashion, — 
to  insert  again  my  haud  credo  for  a  deer. 

Dull.  I  said  the  deer  was  not  a  haud  credo ; 
'twas  a  pricket. 

Hoi.  Twice  sod  simplicity,  bis  coctusl— 
O  thou  monster  Ignorance,  how  deformed  dost 
thou  look ! 

Nath.  Sir,  he  hath  never  fed  of  the  dainties 

that  are  bred  in  a  book ; 

He  hath  not  eat  paper,  a.->  it  were ;  he  hath  not 
drunk  ink ;  his  intellect  is  not  replenished ;  he 
is  only  an  animal,  only  sensible  in  the  duller 
parts ; 
And  such  barren  plants  are  set  before  us  that 

we  thankful  should  be, — 
Which  we  of  taste  and  feeling  are, — for  those 
parts  that  do  fructify  in  us  more  than  he. 
For  as  it  would  ill  become  me  to  be  vain,  in- 
discreet, or  a  fool, 

So,  were  there  a  patch  set  on  learning,  to  see 
him  in  a  school : 


But,  omne  bene,  say  I  ;  being  of  an  old  father's 

mind,  [wind. 

Matty  can  brook  the  weather  that  love  not  the 

Dull.  You  two  are  book-men :  can  you  tell 

by  your  wit 

What  was  a  month  old  at  Cain's  birth  that 's  not 
five  weeks  old  as  yet  ? 

Hoi.  Dictynna,  good  man  Dull ;  Dictynna, 
good  man  Dull. 

Dull.  What  is  Dictynna  ? 

Nath.  A  title  to  Phoebe,  to  Luna,  to  the  moon. 

Hoi.  The  moon  was  a  month  old  when  Adam 
was  no  more,  [five-score. 

And  raught  not  to  five  weeks  when  he  came  to 
The  allusion  holds  in  the  exchange. 

Dull.  'Tis  true  indeed ;  the  collusion  holds 
in  the  exchange. 

Hoi.  God  comfort  thy  capacity  !  I  say  the 
allusion  holds  in  the  exchange. 

Dull.  And  I  say  the  pollusion  holds  in  the 
exchange;  for  the  moon  is  never  but  a  month 
old  :  and  I  say  beside,  that  'twas  a  pricket  that 
the  orincess  killed. 

Hoi.  Sir  Nathaniel,  will  you  hear  an  extem- 
poral  epitaph  on  the  death  of  the  deer  ?  and,  to 
humour  the  ignorant,  I  have  called  the  deer  the 
princess  killed  a  pricket. 

Nath.  Perge,  good  Master  Holo femes,  flerge ; 
so  it  shall  please  you  to  abrogate  scurrility. 

Hoi.  I  will  something  affect  the  letter  ;  for 
it  argues  facility. 

The  praiseful  princess  pierc'd  and  prick'd  a 
pretty  pleasing  pricket ; 

Some  say  a  sore ;  but  not  a  sore,  till  now 

made  sore  with  shooting. 
The:  dogs  did  yell ;  put  1  to  sore,  then  sorel 
jumps  from  thicket ;  [a-hooting. 

Or  pricket,  sore,  or  else  sorel ;  the  people  fall 

If  sore  be  sore,  then  1  to  sore  makes  fifty  sores ; 

O  sore  1  !  [one  more  1. 

Of  one  sore  I  an  hundred  make  by  adding  but 

Nath.  A  rare  talent  ! 

Dull.  If  a  talent  be  a  claw,  look  how  he 
claws  him  with  a  talent. 

Hoi.  This  is  a  gift  that  I  have,  simple,  simple ; 
a  foolish  extravagant  spirit,  full  of  forms, 
figures,  shapes,  objects,  ideas,  apprehensions, 
motions,  revolutions:  these  are  begot  in  the 
ventricle  of  memory,  nourished  in  the  womb  of 
pia  mater ^  and  delivered  upon  the  mellowing 
of  occasion.  But  the  gift  is  good  in  those  in 
whom  it  is  acute,  and  I  am  thankful  for  it. 

Nath.  Sir,  I  praise  the  Lord  for  you ;  and 
so  may  my  parishioners  ;  for  their  sons  are  well 
tutored  by  you,  and  their  daughters  profit  very 
greatly  under  you  :  you  are  a  good  member  of 
the  commonwealth. 


204 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


I  ACT  iv. 


HoL  Meherc&y  if  their  sons  be  ingenious, 
they  shall  want  no  instruction :  if  their  daughters 
be  capable,  I  will  put  it  to  them :  but,  vir 
sapit  qui pauca  loquitur :  a  soul  feminine  salut- 
eth  us. 

Enter  JAQUENETTA  and  COSTARD. 

Jaq.  God  give  you  good-morrow,  master 
person. 

Hoi.  Master  person, — quasi  pers-on.  And 
if  one  should  be  pierced,  which  is  the  one  ? 

Cost.  Marry,  master  schoolmaster,  he  that  is 
likest  to  a  hogshead. 

Hoi.  Of  piercing  a  hogshead !  a  good  lustre 
of  conceit  in  a  turf  of  earth ;  fire  enough  for  a 
flint,  pearl  enough  for  a  swine;  'tis  pretty;  it  is 
well. 

Jaq.  Good  master  person,  be  so  good  as 
read  me  this  letter ;  it  was  given  me  by  Costard, 
and  sent  me  from  Don  Armado :  I  beseech  you, 
read  it. 

Hoi.  Fauste,  precor  gelidd  quando pecus  omne 

nib  umbrd  [Mantuan ! 

Ruminat, — and    so    forth.       Ah,    good    old 

I  may  speak  of  thee  as  the  traveller  doth  of 

Venice : 

Vinegia,  Vinegia, 

Chi  non  te  vede,  ei  non  te  pregia. 
Old  Mantuan!  old  Mantuan!  who  under- 
standeth  thee  not,  loves  thee  not? — Ut,  re,  sel, 
fa,  mi,  fa. — Under  pardon,  sir,  what  are  the 
contents?  or  rather,  as  Horace  says  in  his — 
What,  my  soul,  verses? 

Nath.  Ay,  sir,  and  very  learned. 
Hoi.  Let  me  hear  a  staff,  a  stanza,  a  verse ; 
Lege,  domine. 

Nath.  [reads.]  If  love   make   me  forsworn, 
how  shall  I  swear  to  love  ?      [vow'd ! 
Ah,  never  faith  could  hold  if  not  to  beauty 
Though  to  myself  forsworn,  to  thee  I  '11  faith- 
ful prove ; 
Those  thoughts  to  me  were  oaks,  to  thee 

like  osiers  bow'd. 
Study  his  bias  leaves,  and  makes  his  book 

thine  eyes; 
Where  all   those  pleasures   live   that   art 

would  comprehend: 

If  knowledge  be  the  mark,  to  know  thee 

shall  suffice ;  [thee  commend : 

Well  learned  is  that  tongue  that  well  can 

All  ignorant  that  soul  that  sees  thee  without 

wonder, — 
Which  is  to  me  some  praise  that  I  thy 

parts  admire, — 

Thy  eye  Jove's  lightning  bears,  thy  voice  his 

dreadful  thunder,  [sweet  fire. 

Which,  not  to  anger  bent,  is  music  and 


Celestial  as  thou  art,  O  pardon,  love,  this 
wrong, 

That  sings  heaven's   praise  with  such    an 
earthly  tongue. 

Hoi.  You  find  not  the  apostrophes,  and  so 
miss  the  accent :  let  me  supervise  the  canzonet 
Here  are  only  numbers  ratified;  but,  for  the 
elegancy,  facility,  and  golden  cadence  of  poesy, 
caret.  Ovidius  Naso  was  the  man :  and  why, 
indeed,  Naso ;  but  for  smelling  out  the  oderi- 
ferous  flowers  of  fancy,  the  jerks  of  invention? 
Imitari  is  nothing:  so  doth  the  hound  his 
master,  the  ape  his  keeper,  the  tired  horse  his 
rider.  But  damosella  virgin,  was  this  directed 
to  you  ? 

Jaq.  Ay,  sir,  from  one  Monsieur  Biron,  one 
of  the  strange  queen's  lords. 

hoi.  I  will  overglance  the  superscript. 

To  the  snow-white  hand  of  the  most  beauteous 
Lady  Rosaline. 

I  will  look  again  on  the  intellect  of  the  letter, 
for  the  nomination  of  the  party  writing  to  the 
person  written  unto: 

Your  Ladyship's  in  all  desired  employment, 

BIRON. 

Sir  Nathaniel,  this  Biron  is  one  of  the  votaries 
with  the  king;  and  here  he  hath  framed  a 
letter  to  a  sequent  of  the  stranger  queen's, 
which  accidentally,  or  by  the  way  of  pro- 
gression, hath  miscarried. — Trip  and  go,  my 
sweet ;  deliver  this  paper  into  the  royal  hand  of 
the  king;  it  may  concern  much.  Stay  not  thy 
compliment ;  I  forgive  thy  duty :  adieu. 

Jaq.  Good  Costard,  go  with  me. — Sir,  God 
save  your  life ! 

Cost.  Have  with  thee,  my  girl. 

{Exeunt  COST,  and  JAQ. 

Nath.  Sir,  you  have  done  this  in  the  fear  of 
God,  very  religiously ;  and,  as  a  certain  father 
saith 

Hoi.  Sir,  tell  not  me  of  the  father ;  I  do  fear 
colourable  colours.  But  to  return  to  the  verses: 
did  they  please  you,  Sir  Nathaniel  ? 

Nath.   Marvellous  well  for  the  pen. 

Hoi.  I  do  dine  to-day  at  the  father's  of  a 
certain  pupil  of  mine ;  where  if,  before  repast, 
it  shall  please  you  to  gratify  the  table  with  a 
grace,  I  will,  on  my  privilege  I  have  with  the 
parents  of  the  foresaid  child  or  pupil,  under- 
take your  ben  venuto;  where  I  will  prove  those 
verses  to  be  very  unlearned,  neither  savouring 
of  poetry,  wit,  nor  invention :  I  beseech  your 
society. 

Nath.  And  thank  you  too :  for  society,  saith 
the  text,  is  the  happiness  of  life. 

Hoi.  And  certes,  the  text  most  infallibly 
concludes  it. — Sir  \to  DULL],  I  do  invite  you 


SCENE  III.] 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


205 


too;  you  shall  not  say  me  nay:  pauca  verba. 
Away ;  the  gentles  are  at  their  game,  and  we 
will  to  our  recreation.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Another  part  of 'the  Park. 
Enter  BiRON,  with  a  paper. 

Biron.  The  king  he  is  hunting  the  deer;  I 
am  coursing  myself :  they  have  pitched  a  toil; 
I  am  toiling  in  a  pitch, — pitch  that  defiles: 
defile!  a  foul  word.  Well,  sit  thee  down, 
sorrow !  for  so  they  say  the  fool  said,  and  so 
say  I,  and  I  the  fool.  Well  proved,  wit !  By 
the  Lord,  this  love  is  as  mad  as  Ajax :  it  kills 
sheep;  it  kills  me,  I  a  sheep:  well  proved 
again  on  my  side !  I  will  not  love :  if  I  do, 
hang  me ;  i'  faith,  I  will  not.  O,  but  her  eye, 
—by  this  light,  but  for  her  eye  I  would  not 
love  her;  yes,  for  her  two  eyes.  Well,  I  do 
nothing  in  the  world  but  lie,  and  lie  in  my 
throat.  By  heaven,  I  do  love:  and  it  hath 
taught  me  to  rhyme,  and  to  be  melancholy; 
and  here  is  part  of  my  rhyme,  and  here  my 
melancholy.  Well,  she  hath  one  o'  my  sonnets 
already ;  the  clown  bore  it,  the  fool  sent  it,  and 
the  lady  hath  it:  sweet  clown,  sweeter  fool, 
sweetest  lady !  By  the  world,  I  would  not  care 
a  pin  if  the  other  three  were  in.  Here  comes 
one  with  a  paper;  God  give  him  grace  to 
groan.  [Gets  up  into  a  tree. 

Enter  the  KING,  with  a  paper. 

King.  Ah  me ! 

Biron.  [aside.  ]  Shot,  by  heaven ! — Proceed, 
sweet  Cupid ;  thou  hast  thumped  him  with  thy 
bird-bolt  under  the  left  pap ; — I'  faith,  secrets. — 

King,  [reads.]  So  sweet  a  kiss  the  golden  sun 
gives  not 

To  those  fresh  morning  drops  upon  the  rose, 

As  thy  eyebeams,  when  their  fresh  rays  have 

smote  [flows : 

The  night  of  dew  that  on  my  cheeks  down 
Nor  shines  the  silver  moon  one  half  so  bright 

Through  the  transparent  bosom  of  the  deep, 
As  doth  thy  face  through  tears  of  mine  give  light: 

Thou  shin'st  in  every  tear  that  I  do  weep ; 
No  drop  but  as  a  coach  doth  carry  thee ; 

So  ridest  thou  triumphing  in  my  woe. 
Do  but  behold  the  tears  that  swell  in  me, 

And  they  thy  glory  through  my  grief  will  show: 
But  do  not  love  thyself;  then  thou  wilt  keep 
My  tears  for  glasses,  and  still  make  me  weep. 
O  queen  of  queens,  how  far  dost  thou  excel ! 
No  thought  can  thinknor  tongue  of  mortal  tell. — 
How  shall  she  know  my  griefs?  I'll  drop  the 

paper; 

Sweet  leaves,  shade  folly.   Who  is  he  comes  here? 

[Steps  aside. 


Enter  LONGAVILLE,  with  a  paper. 

What,  Longaville ;  and  reading !  listen,  ear. 

Biron.  Now,  in  thy  likeness,  one  more  fool, 

appear !  [Aside. 

Long.  Ah  me !  I  am  forsworn. 

Biron.   Why,   Le  comes  in  like  a  perjure, 

tearing  papers.  [Aside. 

King.  In  love,  I  hope:  sweet  fellowship  in 

shame !  [Aside. 

Biron.  One  drunkard  loves  another  of  the 

name.  [Aside. 

Long.  Am  I  the  first  that  have  been  perjur'd  so  ? 

Biron.  [aside.'}  I  could  put  thee  in  comfort; 

not  by  two  that  i  know : 
Thou  mak'st  the  triumviry,  the  corner  cap  of 

society, 
The  shape  of  Love's  Tyburn  that  hangs  up 

simplicity. 
Long.  I  fear  these  stubborn  lines  lack  power 

to  move : — 

O  sweet  Maria,  empress  of  my  love ! 
These  numbers  will  I  tear  and  write  in  prose. 
Biron.   [aside.]  O,   rhymes  are  guards  on 

wanton  Cupid's  hose : 
Disfigure  not  his  slop.  . 

Long.  This  same  shall  go. — 

[He  reads  the  sonnet. 

Did  not  the  heavenly  rhetoric  of  thine  eye, — 
'Gainst  whom  the  world  cannot  hold  argu- 
ment,— 
Persuade  my  heart  to  this  false  perjury? 

Vows  for  thee  broke  deserve  not  punishment. 
A  woman  I  forswore :  but  I  will  prove, 

Thou  being  a  goddess,  I  forswore  not  thee ; 
My  vow  was  earthly,  thou  a  heavenly  love ; 

Thy  grace  beinggain'd  curesall  disgrace  in  me. 
Vows  are  but  breath,  and  breath  a  vapour  is : 
Then  thou,  fair  sun,  which  on  my  earth  dost 

shine, 

Exhal'st  this  vapour  vow ;  in  thee  it  is : 
If  broken,  then  it  is  no  fault  of  mine : 
If  by  me  broke,  what  fool  is  not  so  wise 
To  lose  an  oath  to  win  a  paradise? 

Biron.  [aside.']  This  is  the  liver  vein,  which 

makes  flesh  a  deity, 

A  green  goose  a  goddess :  pure,  pure  idolatry. 
Go4  amend  us,  God  amend !  we  are  much  out 

o'  the  way. 

Long.   By  whom  shall  I  send   this? — Com- 
pany! stay.  [Stepping  aside. 
Biron.  [aside.]  All  hid,  all  hid,  an  old  infant 

play. 

Like  a  demi-god  here  sit  I  in  the  sky, 
And  wretched  fools'  secrets  heedfully  o'er-eye. 
More  sacks  to  the  mill  1  O  heavens,  I  have  my 
wish! 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


[ACT  iv. 


Enter  DUMAIN,  with  a  paper. 

Dumain  transform'd :  four  woodcocks  in  a  dish ! 
Dum.  O  most  divine  Kate  ! 
Biron  O  most  profane  coxcomb ! 

{Aside. 

Dum.  By  heaven,  the  wonder  of  a  mortal  eye ! 

Biron.  By  earth,  she  is  but  corporal :  there 

you  lie.  {Aside. 

Dum.  Her  amber  hairs  for  foul  have  amber 

quoted. 

Biron.    An  amber-colour'd  raven  was  well 
noted.  [Aside. 

Dum.  As  upright  as  the  cedar. 
J3iron.  Stoop,  I  say; 

Her  shoulder  is  with  child.  {Aside. 

Dum.  As  fair  as  day. 

Biron.  Ay,  as  some  days ;  but  then  no  sun 
must  shine.  {Aside. 

Dum.  O  that  I  had  my  wish ! 
Long.  And  I  had  mine  ! 

{Aside. 

King.  And  I  mine  too,  good  Lord !   {Aside. 
Biron.  Amen,  so  I  had  mine :  is  not  that  a 
good  word?  {Aside. 

Dum.   I  would  forget  her ;  but  a  fever  she 
Reigns  in  my  blood,  and  will  remember'd  be. 
Biron.  A  fever  in  your  blood?   why,  then 

incision 

Would  let  her  out  in  saucers :  sweet  misprision ! 

{Aside. 
Dum.  Once  more  I  '11  read  the  ode  that  I 

have  writ. 

Biron.  Once  more  I  '11  mark  how  love  can 
vary  wit.  {Aside. 

Dum.  {reads.]  On  a  day,— alack  the  day ! 
Love,  whose  month  is  ever  May, 
Spied  a  blossom  passing  fair 
Playing  in  the  wanton  air : 
Through  the  velvet  leaves  the  wind 
All  unseen,  can  passage  find ; 
That  the  lover,  sick  to  death, 
Wish'd  himself  the  heaven's  breath. 
Air,  quoth  he,  thy  cheeks  may  blow : 
Air,  would  I  might  triumph  so  ! 
But,  alack,  my  hand  is  sworn 
Ne'er  to  pluck  thee  from  thy  thorn : 
Vow,  alack,  for  youth  unmeet; 
Youth  so  apt  to  pluck  a  sweet. 
Do  not  call  it  sin  in  me 
That  I  am  forsworn  for  thee : 
Thou  for  whom  even  Jove  would  swear 
Juno  but  an  Ethiope  were ; 
And  deny  himself  for  Jove, 
Turning  mortal  for  thy  love. — 
This  will  I  send ;  and  something  else  more  plain, 
That  shall  express  my  true  love*s  fasting  pain. 


O,  would  the  King,  Biron,  and  Longaville, 
Were  lovers  too !     Ill,  to  example  ill, 
Would  from  my  forehead  wipe  a  perjur'd.note; 
For  none  offend  where  all  alike  do  dote. 

Long.  Dumain  {advancing],  thy  love  is  faf 

from  charity, 

That  in  love's  grief  desir'st  society : 
You  may  look  pale,  but  I  should  blush,  I  know, 
To  be  o'erheard  and  taken  napping  so. 

King.  Come,  sir  {advancing],  you  blush ;  as 

his  your  case  is  such ; 

You  chide  at  him,  offending  twice  as  much: 
You  do  not  love  Maria;  Longaville 
Did  never  sonnet  for  her  sake  compile ; 
Nor  never  lay  his  wreathed  arms  athwart 
His  loving  bosom,  to  keep  down  his  heart. 
I  have  been  closely  shrouded  in  this  bush, 
And  mark'd  you  both,  and  for  you  both  did 
blush.  [fashion ; 

I   heard   your  guilty   rhymes,    observ'd    your 
Saw  sighs  reek  from  you,  noted  well  your  passion: 
Ah  me !  says  one  ;  O  Jove !  the  other  cries ; 
One  her  hairs  were  gold,  crystal  the  other's  eyes; 
You  would  for  paradise  break  faith  and  troth ; 

{To  LONG. 

And  Jove  for  your  love  would  infringe  an  oath. 

{To  DUMAIN. 

What  will  Bir6n  say  when  that  he  shall  hear 
A  faith  infring'd  which  such  a  zeal  did  swear? 
How  will  he  scorn !  how  will  he  spend  his  wit ! 
How  will  he  triumph,  leap,  and  laugh  at  it ! 
For  all  the  wealth  that  ever  I  did  see 
I  would  not  have  him  know  so  much  by  me. 
Biron.  Now  step  I  forth  to  whi  p  hypocrisy.  — 
{Descends  from  the  tree 
Ah,  good  my  liege,  I  pray  thee  pardon  me. 
Good  heart,  what  grace  hast  thou,  thus  to  re- 
prove 

These  worms  for  loving,  that  art  most  in  love? 
Your  eyes  do  make  no  coaches ;  in  your  tears 
There  is  no  certain  princess  that  appears : 
You'll  not  be  perjur'd   'tis  a  hateful  thing; 
Tush,  none  but  minstrels  like  of  sonneting. 
But  are  you  not  asham'd  ?  nay,  are  you  not, 
All  three  of  you,  to  be  thus  much  o'ershot? 
You  found  his  mote ;  the  king  your  mote  did  see ; 
But  I  a  beam  do  find  in  each  of  three. 
O,  what  a  scene  of  foolery  I  have  seen, 
Of  sighs,  of  groans,  of  sorrow,  and  of  teen ! 
O  me,  with  what  strict  patience  have  I  sat 
To  see  a  king  transformed  to  a  gnat ! 
To  see  great  Hercules  whipping  a  gig, 
And  profound  Solomon  tuning  a  jig, 
And  Nestor  play  at  push-pin  with  the  boys, 
And  critic  Timon  laugh  at  idle  toys ! 
Where  lies  thy  grief,  O,  tell  me,  good  Dumain? 
And,  gentle  Longaville,  where  lies  thy  pain? 


SCENE  III.] 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


207 


And  where  my  liege's?  all  about  the  breast: — 
A  caudle,  ho ! 

King.  Too  bitter  is  thy  jest. 

Are  we  betray'd  thus  to  thy  over- view? 

Biron.  Not  you  to  me,  but  I  betray'd  by  you : 
I,  that  am  honest;  I,  that  hold  it  sin 
To  break  the  vow  I  am  engaged  in ; 
I  am  betray'd  by  keeping  company 
With  moon -like  men  of  strange  inconstancy. 
When  shall  you  see  me  write  a  thing  in  rhyme? 
Or  groan  for  Joan?  or  spend  a  minute's  time 
In  pruning  me?    When  shall  you  hear  that  I 
Will  praise  a  hand,  a  foot,  a  face,  an  eye, 
A  gait,  a  state,  a  brow,  a  breast,  a  waist, 
A  leg,  a  limb? — 

King.  Soft !  whither  away  so  fast? 

A  true  man  or  a  thief  that  gallops  so? 

Biron.  I  post  from  love ;  good  lover,  let  me 

go- 
Enter  JAQUENETTA  and  COSTARD. 

faq.  God  bless  the  king ! 
King.  What  present  hast  thou  there? 

Cost.  Some  certain  treason. 
King.  What  makes  treason  here? 

Cost.  Nay,  it  makes  nothing,  sir. 
King.  If  it  mar  nothing  neither, 

The  treason  and  you  go  in  peace  away  together. 
/ay.   I  beseech  your  grace,  let  this  letter  be 

read; 

Our  parson  misdoubts  it ;  'twas  treason  he  said. 
King.  Biron,  read  it  over. 

[Giving  him  the  letter. 
Where  hadst  thou  it? 
faq.  Of  Costard. 
King.  Where  hadst  thou  it? 
Cost.  Of  Dun  Adramadio,  Dun  Adramadio. 
King.   How  now !  what  is  in  you?  why  dost 

thou  tear  it? 

Biron.  A  toy,  my  liege,  a  toy:  your  grace 
needs  not  fear  it. 

Long.    It  did  move  him  to    passion,   and 

therefore  let's  hear  it. 

Dum.  It  is  Birdn's  writing,  and  here  is  his 

name.  [Picks  up  the  pieces. 

Biron.  Ah,   you  whoreson    loggerhead    \to 

COSTARD],  you  were  born  to  do  me 

shame. — 

Guilty,  my  lord,  guilty ;  I  confess,  I  confess. 
King.   What? 
Biron.  That  you  three  fools  lack'd  me  fool 

to  make  up  the  mess ; 
He,  he,  and  you,  my  liege,  and  I, 
Are  pick-purses  in  love,  and  we  deserve  to  die. 
O,  dismiss  this  audience,  and  I  shall  tell  you 

more. 
Dum.  Now  the  number  is  even. 


Biron.  True,  true;  we  are  four; — 

Will  these  turtles  be  gone? 

King.  Hence,  sirs,  away. 

Cost.  Walk  aside  the  true  folk,  and  let  the 
traitors  stay. 

{Exeunt  COST.  anetjAQ. 

Biron.  Sweet  lords,  sweet  lovers,  O  let  us 
embrace ! 

As  true  we  are  as  flesh  and  blood  can  be ; 
The  sea  will  ebb  and  flow,  heaven  show  his  face ; 

Young  blood  will  not  obey  an  old  decree : 
We  cannot  cross  the  cause  why  we  were  born ; 
Therefore  of  all  hands  must  we  be  forsworn. 

King*  What !  did  these  rent  lines  show  some 
love  of  thine? 

Biron.  Did  they,  quoth  you?    Who  sees  the 

heavenly  Rosaline 
That,  like  a  rude  and  savage  man  of  Inde 

At  the  first  opening  of  the  gorgeous  east, 
Bows  not  his  vassal  head ;  and,  strucken  blind, 

Kisses  the  base  ground  with  obedient  breast  ? 
What  peremptory  eagle-sighted  eye 
Dares  look  upon  the  heaven  of  her  brow, 
That  is  not  blinded  by  her  majesty? 

King.    What  zeal,  what  fury  hath  inspir'd 

thee  now? 

My  love,  her  mistress,  is  a  gracious  moon, 
She  an  attending  star,  scarce  seen  a  light. 

Biron.  My  eyes  are  then  no  eyes,  nor  I  Bir6n : 

O,  but  for  my  love,  day  would  turn  to  night ! 
Of  all  complexions  the  cull'd  sovereignty 

Do  meet,  as  at  a  fair,  in  her  fair  cheek; 
Where  several  worthies  make  one  dignity ; 

Where  nothing  wants  that  want  itself  doth 

seek. 
Lend  me  the  flourish  of  all  gentle  tongues, — 

Fie,  painted  rhetoric !     O,  she  needs  it  not ; 
To  things  of  sale  a  seller's  praise  belongs ; 

She  passes  praise :  then  praise  too  short  doth 

blot. 
A  wither'd  hermit,  five-score  winters  worn, 

Might  shake  off  fifty,  looking  in  her  eye: 
Beauty  doth  varnish  age,  as  if  new-born, 

And  gives  the  crutch  the  cradle's  infancy. 
O,  'tis  the  sun,  that  maketh  all  things  shine ! 

King.  By  heaven,  thy  love  is  black  as  ebony. 

Biron.  Is  ebony  like  her?    O  wood  divine! 

A  wife  of  such  wood  were  felicity. 
O,  who  can  give  an  oath?  where  is  a  book? 

That  I  may  swear  beauty  doth  beauty  lack 
If  that  she  learn  not  of  her  eye  to  look : 

No  face  is  fair  that  is  not  full  so  black. 

King.  O  paradox!    Black  is  the  badge  of  hell, 

The  hue  of  dungeons,  and  the  scowl  of  night; 
And  beauty's  crest  becomes  the  heavens  welL 

Biron.    Devils    soonest    tempt,   resembling 
spirits  of  light. 


208 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


[ACT  iv. 


O,  if  in  black  my  lady's  brows  be  deckt, 

It  mourns  that  painting  and  usurping  hair 
Should  ravish  doters  with  a  false  aspect ; 

And  therefore  is  she  born  to  make  black  fair. 
Her  favour  turns  the  fashion  of  the  days  ; 

For  native  blood  is  counted  painting  now  ; 
And  therefore  red,  that  would  avoid  dispraise, 
Paints  itself  black,  to  imitate  her  brow. 
Dum.  To  look  like  her  are  chimney-sweepers 
black.  [bright. 

Long.  And,  since  her  time,  are  colliers  counted 
King.  And  Ethiopes  of  their  sweet  complex- 
ion crack.  [is  light. 
Dum.  Dark  needs  no  candles  now,  for  dark 
Biron.  Your  mistresses  dare  never  come  in 
;•  v&i  rain, 

For  fear  their  colours  should  be  washed  away. 
King.  'Twere  good  yours  did;   for,  sir,  to 

tell  you  plain, 

I  '11  find  a  fairer  face  not  wash'd  to-day. 
Biron.  I  '11  prove  her  fair,  or  talk  till  dooms- 
day here. 

King.  No  devil  will  fright  thee  then  so  much 

as  she.  [dear. 

Dum.   I  never  knew  man  hold  vile  stuff  so 

Long.   Look,  here 's  thy  love :  my  foot  and 

her  face  see.  {Showing  his  shoe. 

Biron.  O,  if  the  streets  were  paved  with 

thine  eyes 

Her  feet  were  much  too  dainty  for  such  tread ! 
Dum.  O  vile !  then,  as  she  goes,  what  up- 
ward lies 

The  street  should  see  as  she  walk'd  over  head. 
King.  But  what  of  this?  are  we  not  all  in 
love?  [forsworn. 

Biron.  O,  nothing  so  sure ;  and  thereby  all 
King.    Then   leave    this   chat;    and,    good 

Bir6n,  now  prove 

Our  loving  lawful,  and  our  faith  not  torn. 
Dum.  Ay,  marry,  there; — some  flattery  for 

this  evil. 

Long.  O,  some  authority  how  to  proceed ; 
Some  tricks,  some  quillets,  how  to  cheat  the 

devil. 

Dum.  Some  salve  for  perjury. 
Biron.  O,  'tis  more  than  need ! — 

Have  at  you,  then,  affection's  men-at-arms : 
Consider  what  you  first  did  swear  unto ; — 
To  fast, — to  study, — and  to  see  no  woman ; — 
Flat  treason  'gainst  the  kingly  state  of  youth. 
Say,  can  you  fast?  your  stomachs  are  too  young, 
And  abstinence  engenders  maladies. 
And  where  that  you  have  vow'd  to  study,  lords, 
In  that  each  of  you  hath  forsworn  his  book, — 
Can  you  still  dream,  and  pore,  and  thereon  look  ? 
Why,  universal  plodding  prisons  up 
The  nimble  spints  in  the  arteries, 


As  motion  and  long-during  action  tires 
The  sinewy  vigour  of  the  traveller. 
Now,  for  not  looking  on  a  woman's  face, 
You  have  in  that  forsworn  the  use  of  eyes, 
And  study,  too,  the  causer  of  your  vow  : 
For  when  would  you,  my  liege,  or  you,  or  you, 
In  leaden  contemplation,  have  found  out 
Such  fiery  numbers  as  the  prompting  eyes 
Of  beauteous  tutors  have  enrich'd  you  with  ? 
Other  slow  arts  entirely  keep  the  brain, 
And  therefore,  finding  barren  practisers, 
Scarce  show  a  harvest  of  their  heavy  toil ; 
But  love,  first  learned  in  a  lady's  eyes, 
Lives  not  alone  immured  in  the  brain, 
But,  with  the  motion  of  all  elements, 
Courses  as  swift  as  thought  in  every  power, 
And  gives  to  every  power  a  double  power 
Above  their  functions  and  their  offices. 
It  adds  a  precious  seeing  to  the  eye : 
A  lover's  eyes  will  gaze  an  eagle  blind ; 
A  lover's  ear  will  hear  the  lowest  sound, 
When  the  suspicious  head  of  theft  is  stopp'd ; 
Love's  feeling  is  more  soft  and  sensible 
Than  are  the  tender  horns  of  cockled  snails ; 
Love's  tongue  proves  dainty  Bacchus  gross  in 

taste : 

For  valour,  is  not  love  a  Hercules, 
Still  climbing  trees  in  the  Hesperides? 
Subtle  as  sphinx ;  as  sweet  and  musical 
As  bright  Apollo  s  lute,  strung  with  his  hair? 
And  when  love  speaks,  the  voice  of  all  the  gods 
Make/ heaven  drowsy  with  the  harmony. 
Never  durst  poet  touch  a  pen  to  write 
Until  his  ink  were  temper'd  with  love's  sighs : 
O,  then  his  lines  would  ravish  savage  ears, 
And  plant  in  tyrants  mild  humility. 
From  women's  eyes  this  doctrine  I  derive : 
They  sparkle  still  the  right  Promethean  fire ; 
They  are  the  books,  the  arts,  the  academes, 
That  show,  contain,  and  nourish  all  the  world, 
Else  none  at  all  in  aught  proves  excellent. 
Then  fools  you  were  these  women  to  forswear ; 
Or,  keeping  what  is  sworn,  you  will  prove  fools. 
For  wisdom's  sake — a  word  that  all  men  love, 
Or  for  love's  sake — a  word  that  loves  all  men, 
Or  for  men's  sake,  the  authors  of  these  women, 
Or  women's  sake,  by  whom  we  men  are  men, 
Let  us  once  lose  our  oaths  to  find  ourselves, 
Or  else  we  lose  ourselves  to  keep  our  oaths : 
It  is  religion  to  be  thus  forsworn ; 
For  charity  itself  fulfils  the  law, 
And  who  can  sever  love  from  charity? 

King.  Saint  Cupid,  then!  and,  soldiers,  to 
the  field !  [them,  lords ; 

Biron.  Advance  your  standards,  and  upon 
Pell-mell,  down  with  them  !  but  be  first  advis'd 
In  conflict  that  you  get  the  sun  of  them- 


SCENE  III.] 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


209 


Ijmg.  Now  to  plain-dealing ;  lay  these  glozes 

by; 

Shall  we  resolve  to  woo  these  girls  of  France? 
King.  And  win  them  too:  therefore  let  us 

devise 

Some  entertainment  for  them  in  their  tents. 
Biron.  First,  from  the  park  let  us  conduct 

them  thither; 

Then  homeward  every  man  attach  the  hand 
Of  his  fair  mistress :  in  the  afternoon 
We  will  with  some  strange  pastime  solace  them, 
Such  as  the  shortness  of  the  time  can  shape ; 
For  revels,  dances,  masks,  and  merry  hours, 
Forenm  fair  Love,  strewing  her  way  with  flowers. 
King,  Away,  away !  no  time  shall  be  omitted, 
That  will  be  time,  and  may  by  us  be  fitted. 
Biron.  Allans!      A  lions  ! — Sow'd     cockle 

reap'd  no  corn ; 

And  justice  always  whirls  in  equal  measure : 
Light  wenches  may  prove  plagues  to  men 

forsworn ; 
If  so,  our  copper  buys  no  better  treasure. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  V. 
SCENE  I. — Another  part  of  the  Park. 

Enter  HOLOFERNES,  Sir  NATHANIEL,  and 
DULL. 

Hoi.  Satis  quod  sufficit. 

Nath.  I  praise  God  for  you,  sir :  your  reasons 
at  dinner  have  been  sharp  and  sententious; 
pleasant  without  scurrility,  witty  without  affec- 
tion, audacious  without  impudency,  learned 
without  opinion,  and  strange  without  heresy. 
I  did  converse  this  quondam  day  with  a  com- 
panion of  the  king's,  who  is  intituled,  nomin- 
ated, or  called,  Don  Adriano  de  Armado. 

Hoi.  Novi  hominem  tanquam  te :  his  humour 
is  lofty,  his  discourse  peremptory,  his  tongue 
filed,  his  eye  ambitious,  his  gait  majestical,  and 
his  general  behaviour  vain,  ridiculous,  and 
thrasonical.  He  is  too  picked,  too  spruce,  too 
affected,  too  odd,  as  it  were,  too  peregrinate, 
as  I  may  call  it. 

Nath.  A  most  singular  and  choice  epithet. 
[  Takes  out  his  table-book. 

Hoi.  He  draweth  out  the  thread  of  his  ver- 
bosity finer  than  the  staple  of  his  argument.  I 
abhor  such  fanatical  fantasms,  such  insociable 
and  point-devise  companions;  such  rackers  of 
orthography,  as  to  speak  dout,  fine,  wnen  he 
should  say  doubt;  det,  when  he  should  pro- 
nounce debt,  d,  e,  b,  t,  not  d,  e,  t:  he  clepeth 
a  calf,  cauf;  half,  hauf;  neighbour  vocatur 
nebour ;  neigh  abbreviated  ne.  This  is  abho- 
minable  (which  he  would  call  abominable),  it 


insinuateth  me  of  insanie :  Ne  inUlligis,dominc? 
to  make  frantic,  lunatic. 

Nath.  Laus  Deot  bone  intelligo. 

Hoi.  Bone! bone  for  bene:  Priscian  a 

little  scratched ;  'twill  serve. 

Nath.    Videsne  quis  venit? 

Hoi.    Video )  et  gaudeo. 

Enter  ARMADO,  MOTH,  and  COSTARD. 

Arm.  Chirra!  [To  MOTH. 

Hoi.   Quare  Chirra,  not  sirrah? 

Arm.   Men  of  peace,  well  encountered. 

Hoi.   Most  military  sir,  salutation. 

Moth.  They  have  been  at  a  great  feast  of  lan- 
guages and  stolen  the  scraps. 

[  To  COSTARD,  aside. 

Cost.  O,  they  have  lived  long  on  the  alms- 
basket  of  words !  I  marvel  thy  master  hath  not 
eaten  thee  for  a  word  ;  for  you  art  not  so  long 
by  the  head  as  honorificabilitudinitatibus :  thou 
art  easier  swallowed  than  a  flap-dragon. 

Moth.   Peace ;  the  peal  begins.  [tered? 

Arm.  Monsieur  [to  HOL.],  are  you  not  let- 

Moth.  Yes,  yes;  he  teaches  boys  the  horn- 
book ;— What  is  a,  b,  spelt  backward  with  the 
horn  on  his  head. 

Hoi.  Ba,  pueritta,  with  a  horn  added. 

Moth.  Ba,  most  silly  sheep,  with  a  horn.— 
You  hear  his  learning. 

Hoi.  QtiiS)  quiz,  thou  consonant? 

Moth.  The  third  of  the  five  vowels,  if  you 
repeat  them ;  or  the  fifth,  if  I. 

Hoi.  I  will  repeat  them,  a,  e,  i. — 

Moth.  The  sheep ;  the  other  two  concludes 
it ;  o,  u. 

Arm.  Now,  by  the  salt  wave  of  the  Mediter- 
raneum,  a  sweet  touch,  a  quick  venew  of  wit : 
snip,  snap,  quick  and  home;  it  rejoiceth  my 
intellect :  true  wit.  [which  is  wit-old. 

Moth.  Offered  by  a  child  to  an  old  man; 

Hoi.  What  is  the  figure?  what  is  the  figure? 

Moth.  Horns.  [thy  gig. 

Hoi.  Thou  disputest  like  an  infant :  go  whip 

Moth.  Lend  me  your  horn  to  make  one,  and 
I  will  whip  about  your  infamy  circum  circa;  a 
gig  of  a  cuckold's  horn ! 

Cost.  An  I  had  but  one  penny  in  the  world 
thou  shouldst  have  it  to  buy  gingerbread :  hold, 
there  is  the  very  remuneration  I  had  of  thy 
master,  thou  halfpenny  purse  of  wit,  thou  pigeon- 
egg  of  discretion.  O,  an  the  heavens  were  so 
pleased  that  thou  wert  but  my  bastard,  what  a 
joyful  father  wouldst  thou  make  me !  Go  to ; 
thou  hast  it  ad  dunghill,  at  the  fingers'  ends,  as 
they  say.  [unguem. 

Hoi.  O,  I  smell  false  Latin;   dunghill  for 

Arm,  Arts-man,  pr&ambula;    we  will    be 


210 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


[ACT  V. 


singled  from  the  barbarous.  Do  you  not  edu- 
cate youth  at  the  charge-house  on  the  top  of 
the  mountain? 

Hoi.  Or  mons,  the  hill.  [tain. 

Arm.  At  your  sweet  pleasure,  for  the  moun- 

HoL  I  do,  sans  question. 

Arm.  Sir,  it  is  the  king's  most  sweet  pleasure 
and  affection  to  congratulate  the  princess  at  her 
pavilion,  in  the  posteriors  of  this  day;  which 
the  rude  multitude  call  the  afternoon. 

Hoi.  The  posterior  of  the  day,  most  generous 
sir,  is  liable,  congruent,  and  measurable  for  the 
afternoon:  the  word  is  well  culled,  choice; 
sweet  and  apt,  I  do  assure  you,  sir,  I  do  assure. 

Arm.  Sir,  the  king  is  a  noble  gentleman,  and 
my  familiar,  I  do  assure  you,  very  good  friend : — 
For  what  is  inward  between  us,  let  it  pass : — I 
do  beseech  thee,  remember  thy  courtesy : — I  be- 
seech thee,  apparel  thy  head; — and  among 
other  importunate  and  most  serious  designs, — 
and  of  great  import  indeed  too ; — but  let  that 
pass ; — for  I  must  tell  thee,  it  will  please  his  grace, 
by  the  world,  sometime  to  lean  upon  my  poor 
shoulder;  and  with  his  royal  finger,  thus,  dally 
with  my  excrement,  with  my  mustachio:  but, 
sweet  heart,  let  that  pass.  By  the  world,  I  re- 
count no  fable ;  some  certain  special  honours  it 
pleaseth  his  greatness  to  impart  to  Armado,  a 
soldier,  a  man  of  travel,  that  hath  seen  the  world : 
but  let  that  pa^s. — The  very  all  of  all  is, — but, 
sweet  heart,  I  do  implore  secrecy, — that  the  king 
would  have  me  present  the  princess,  sweet  chuck, 
with  some  delightful  ostentation,  or  show,  or 
pageant,  or  antic,  or  fire-work.  Now,  under- 
standing that  the  curate  and  your  sweet  self  are 
good  at  such  eruptions  and  sudden  breaking  out 
of  mirth,  as  it  were,  I  have  acquainted  you 
withal,  to  the  end  to  crave  your  assistance. 

Hoi.  Sir,  you  shall  present  before  her  the  nine 
worthies. — Sir  Nathaniel,  as  concerning  some 
entertainment  of  time,  some  show  in  the  pos- 
terior of  this  day,  to  be  rendered  by  our  assist- 
ance,— die  king's  command,  and  this  most 
gallant,  illustrate,  and  learned  gentleman, — be- 
fore the  princess;  I  say,  none  so  fit  as  to 
present  the  nine  worthies. 

Nath.  Where  will  you  find  men  worthy 
enough  to  present  them? 

Hoi.  Joshua,  yourself;  myself,  or  this  gal- 
lant  gentleman,  Judas  Maccabaeus ;  this  swain, 
because  of  his  great  limb  or  joint,  shall  pass 
Pompey  the  Great ;  the  page,  Hercules. 

Arm.  Pardon,  sir ;  error :  he  is  not  quantity 
enough  for  that  worthy's  thumb :  he  is  not  so 
big  as  the  end  of  his  club. 

Hoi.  Shall  I  have  audience?  he  shall  pre- 
sent Hercules  in  minority :  his  enter  and  exit 


shall  be  strangling  a  snake;  and  I  will  have 
an  apology  for  that  purpose. 

Moth.  An  excellent  device!  so,  if  any  of 
the  audience  hiss,  you  may  cry:  Well  done, 
Hercules!  now  thou  crushest  the  snake!  that 
is  the  way  to  make  an  offence  gracious,  though 
few  have  ihe  grace  to  do  it. 

Arm.  For  the  rest  of  the  worthies? — 

Hoi.   I  will  play  three  myself. 

Moth.  Thrice-worthy  gentleman ! 

Arm.  Shall  I  tell  you  a  thing? 

Hoi.  We  attend. 

Arm.  We  will  have,  if  this  fadge  not,  an 
antic.  I  beseech  you,  follow. 

Hoi.  Via,  goodman  Dull !  thou  hast  spoken 
no  word  all  this  while 

Dull.  Nor  understood  none  neither,  sir, 

Hoi.  Allans!  we  will  employ  thee. 

Dull.  I  '11  make  one  in  a  dance,  or  so ;  or  I 
will  play  on  the  tabor  to  the  worthies,  and 
let  them  dance  tne  hay. 

Hoi.  Most  dull,  honest  Dull ! — to  our  sport, 
away.  [Exeunt. 


Park, 
^avilion. 


SCENE  II. — Another  part  of  the 
Before  the  PRINCESS'S  Pavilio 

Enter  the  PRINCESS,  KATHARINE,  ROSALINE, 

and  MARIA. 
Prin.  Swfiet  hearts,  we  shall  be  rich  ere  we 

depart, 

If  fairings  come  thus  plentifully  in : 
A  lady  wall'd  about  with  diamonds ! 
Look  you  what  I  have  from  the  loving  king. 
Ros.  Madam,  came  nothing  else  along  with 
that?  [in  rhyme 

Prin.  Nothing  but  this?  yes,  as  much  love 
As  would  be  cramm'd  up  in  a  sheet  of  paper, 
Writ  on  both  sides  the  leaf,  margent  and  all ; 
That  he  was  fain  to  seal  on  Cupid's  name. 
Ros.  That  was  the  way  to  make  his  godhead 

wax; 

For  he  hath  been  five  thousand  years  a  boy. 
Kath.  Ay,  and  a  shrewd  unhappy  gallows  too. 
Ros.  You  '11  ne'er  be  friends  with  him ;  he 
kill'd  your  sister.  [heavy ; 

Kath.  He  made  her  melancholy,  sad,  and 
And  so  she  died :  had  she  been  light,  like  you, 
Of  such  a  merry,  nimble,  stirring  spirit, 
She  might  have  been  a  grandam  ere  she  died : 
And  so  may  you ;  for  a  light  heart  lives  long. 
Ros.  What 's  your  dark  meaning,  mouse,  of 

this  light  word? 

Kath.  A  light  condition  in  a  beauty  dark. 
Ros.  We  need  more  light  to  find  your  mean- 
ing  out.  [snuff ; 

Kath.  You  '11  mar  the  light  by  taking  it  in 
Therefore,  I  Ml  darkly  end  the  argument. 


SCENE  II.] 


LOVE'S   LABOUR'S  LOST. 


211 


Ros.  Look  what  you  do,  you  do  it  still  i'  the 
dark.  [wench. 

Kath.  So  do  not  you;  for  you  are  a  light 

Ros.  Indeed,  I  weigh  not  youj  and  there- 
fore light. 

Kath.   You  weigh  me  not  ?     O,  that 's  you 
care  not  for  me.  [care. 

Ros.  Great  reason  ;  for,  Past  cure  is  still  past 

Prin.  Well  bandied  both ;  a  set  of  wit  well 

play'd. 

But,  Rosaline,  you  have  a  favour  too: 
Who  sent  it?  and  what  is  it? 

Ros.  I  would  you  knew  ! 

An  if  my  face  were  but  as  fair  as  yours. 
My  favour  were  as  great ;  be  witness  this, 
Nay,  I  have  verses  too,  I  thank  Biron : 
The  numbers  true ;  and,  were  the  numbering  too, 
I  were  the  fairest  goddess  on  the  ground : 
I  am  compar'd  to  twenty  thousand  fairs. 
O,  he  hath  drawn  my  picture  in  his  letter ! 

Prin.  Anything  like? 

Ros.  Much  in  the  letters;  nothing  in  the  praise. 

Prin.  Beauteous  as  ink ;  a  good  conclusion. 

Kath.   Fair  as  a  text  B  in  a  copy-book. 

Ros.  'Ware  pencils,  ho !  let  me  not  die  your 

debtor. 

My  rod  dominical,  my  golden  letter: 
O  that  your  face  were  not  so  full  of  O's ! 

Kath.  A  pox  of  that  jest!  and  beshrew  all 
shrows!  [from  fair  Dumain? 

Prin.   But,  Katharine,  what  was  sent  to  you 

Kath.   Madam,  this  glove. 

Prin.  Did  he  not  send  you  twain? 

Kath.  Yes,  madam  ;  and,  moreover, 
Some  thousand  verses  of  a  faithful  lover ; 
A  huge  translation  of  hypocrisy, 
Vilely  compil'd,  profound  simplicity. 

Mar.  This,  and   these   pearls,  to  me   sent 

Lpngaville ; 
The  letter  is  too  long  by  half  a  mile.        [heart 

Prin.  I  think  no  less.     Dost  thou  not  wish  in 
The  chain  were  longer  and  the  letter  short  ? 

Mar.  Ay,  or   I  would   these  hands  might 
never  part. 

Prin.  We  are  wise  girls  to  mock  our  lovers  so. 

Ros.  They  are  worse  fools  to  purchase  mock- 
ing so. 

That  same  Biron  I  '11  torture  ere  I  go. 
O  that  I  knew  he  were  but  in  by  the  week ! 
How  I  would  make  him  fawn,  and  beg,  and  seek, 
And  wait  the  season,  and  observe  the  times, 
And  spend  his  prodigal  wits  in  bootless  rhymes, 
And  shape  his  service  wholly  to  my  'hests, 
And  make  him  proud  to  make  me  proud  that 

jests ! 

So  portent-like  would  I  o'ersway  his  state 
That  he  should  be  my  fool  and  I  his  fate. 


Prin.  None  are  so  surely  caught,  when  they 

are  catch'd, 

As  wit  turn'd  fool :  folly,  in  wisdom  hatch'd, 
Hath  wisdom's  warrant,  and  the  help  of  school, 
And  wit's  own  grace  to  grace  a  learned  fool. 

Ros.  The  blood  of  youth  burns  not  with  such 

excess 
As  gravity's  revolt  to  wantonness. 

Mar.   Folly  in  fools  bears  not  so  strong  a  note 
As  foolery  in  the  wise,  when  wit  doth  dote, 
Since  all  the  power  thereof  it  doth  apply 
To  prove,  by  wit,  worth  in  simplicity.       [face. 

Prin.  Here  comes  Boyet,  and  mirth  is  in  his 

Enter  BOYET. 

Boyet.    O,    I    am    stabb'd    with    laughter! 
Where's  her  grace? 

Prin.  Thy  news,  Boyet? 

Boyet.  Prepare,  madam,  prepare! — 

Arm,  wenches,  arm  !  encounters  mounted  are 
Against  your  peace :    Love  doth  approach  dis- 

guis'd, 

Armed  in  arguments ;  you  '11  be  surpris'd : 
Muster  your  wits :  stand  in  your  own  defence ; 
Or  hide  your  heads  like  cowards,  and  fly  hence. 

Prin.  Saint  Dennis  to  Saint  Cupid !     What 

are  they  [say» 

That  charge  their  breath  against  us?  say,  scout, 

Boyet.   Under  the  cool  shade  of  a  sycamore 
I  thought  to  close  mine  eyes  some  half  an  hour ; 
When,  lo !  to  interrupt  my  purpos'd  rest, 
Toward  that  shade  I  might  behold  addrest 
The  king  and  his  companions :  warily 
1  stole  into  a  neighbour  thicket  by, 
And  overheard  what  you  shall  overhear, 
That,  by  and  by,  disguis'd  they  will  be  here. 
Their  herald  is  a  pretty  knavish  page, 
That  well  by  heart  hath  conn'd  his  embassage  : 
Action  and  accent  did  they  teach  him  there ; 
Thus  must  thou  speak  and  thus  thy  body  bear\ 
And  ever  and  anon  they  made  a  doubt 
Presence  majestical  would  put  him  out; 
For,  quoth  the  king,  an  angel  s  halt  thou  see; 
Yet  fear  not  thou,  but  speak  audaciously. 
The  boy  reply 'd,  An  angel  is  not  evil; 
I  should  have  fear1  d  her  had  she  been  a  devil. 
With  that  all  laugh'd,  and  clapp'd  him  on  the 

shoulder, 

Making  the  bold  wag  by  their  praises  bolder. 
One  rubb'd  hiselbow,  thus,  andfleer'd,  andswore 
A  better  speech  was  never  spoke  before: 
Another  with  his  finger  and  his  thumb 
Cried,  Via  !  we  will  do 't,  come  what  will  come: 
The  third  he  caper'd,  and  cried,  All  goes  well. 
The  fourth  turn'd  on  the  toe,  and  down  he  fell 
With  that  they  all  did  tumble  on  the  ground, 
With  such  a  zealous  laughter,  so  profound. 


212 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


[ACT  v. 


That  in  this  spleen  ridiculous  appears, 

To  check  their  folly,  passion's  solemn  tears. 

Prin.    But  what,  but  what,   come  they  to 
visit  us?  [thus, — 

Boyet.  They  do,  they  do  ;  and  are  apparel'd 
Like  Muscovites,  or  Russians,  as  I  guess ; 
Their  purpose  is  to  parle,  to  court,  and  dance ; 
And  every  one  his  love-suit  will  advance 
Unto  his  several  mistress ;  which  they  '11  know 
By  favours  several  which  they  did  bestow. 

Prin.  And  will  they  so?  the  gallants  shall 

be  task'd : — 

For,  ladies,  we  will  every  one  be  mask'd ; 
And  not  a  man  of  them  shall  have  the  grace, 
Despite  of  suit,  to  see  a  lady's  face. — 
Hold,  Rosaline,  this  favour  thou  shalt  wear ; 
And  then  the  king  will  court  thee  for  his  dear ; 
Hold,  take  thou  this,  my  sweet,  and  give  me 

thine ; 

So  shall  Biron  take  me  for  Rosaline. — 
And  change  your  favours  too ;  so  shall  your  loves 
Woo  contrary,  deceiv'd  by  these  removes. 

Ros.  Come  on,  then ;  wear  the  favours  most 
in  sight.  [tent? 

Kath.  But,  in  this  changing,  what  is  your  in- 

Prin.  The  effect  of  my  intent  is  to  cross  theirs : 
They  do  it  but  in  mocking  merriment ; 
And  mock  for  mock  is  only  my  intent. 
Their  several  counsels  they  unbosom  shall 
To  loves  mistook ;  and  so  be  mock'd  withal 
Upon  the  next  occasion  that  we  meet 
With  visages  display'd  to  talk  and  greet. 

Ros.  But  shall  we  dance  if  they  desire  us  to 't  ? 

Prin.  No ;  to  the  death  we  will  not  move  a 

foot: 

Nor  to  their  penn'd  speech  render  we  no  grace : 
But  while  'tis  spoke,  each  turn  away  her  face. 

Boyet.   Why,   that    contempt  will   kill  the 

speaker's  heart, 
And  quite  divorce  his  memory  from  his  part. 

Prin.  Therefore  I  do  it ;  and  I  make  no  doubt 
The  rest  will  ne'er  come  in  if  he  be  out. 
There 's  no  such  sport  as  sport  by  sport  o'er- 

thrown ; 

To  make  theirs  ours,  and  ours  none  but  our  own : 
So  shall  we  stay,  mocking  intended  ^Sme ; 
And  they,  well  mock'd,  depart  away  with  shame. 
[  Trumpets  sound  within. 

Boyet.  The  trumpet  sounds ;  be  mask'd ;  the 
maskers  come.        [The  Ladies  mask. 

Enter  the  KING,  BIRON,  LONGAVILLE,  and 
DUMAIN,  in  Russian  habits  and  masked; 
MOTH,  Musicians,  and  Attendants. 

Moth.  All  hail  the  richest  beauties  on  the  earth  ! 
Boyet.  Beauties  no  richer  than  rich  taffeta. 


Moth.  A  holy  parcel  of  the  fairest  dames  ! 

[  The  Ladies  turn  their  backs  to  hint. 
That  ever  turn 'd their — backs — to  mortal  views! 
Biron.    Their  eyes,  villain,  their  eyes. 
Moth.    T/fat  ever  t^^rn'>d  their  eyes  to  mortal 

views! 
Out— 

Boyet.  True ;  out  indeed.  [vouchsafe 

Moth.   Out  of  your  favours,  heavenly  spirits 
Not  to  behold— 

Biron.   Once  to  behold,  rogue. 

Moth.   Once  to  behold  with  your  sun-beamed 

eyes, with  your  sun-beamed  eyes — 

Boyet.  They  will  not  answer  to  that  epithet ; 
You  were  best  call  it  daughter  beameu  eyes. 
Moth.  They  do  not  mark  me,  and  that  brings 

me  out. 

Biron.  Is  this  your  perfectness?  begone,  you 

rogue.  [Exit  MOTH. 

Ros.  What  would  these  strangers?     Know 

their  minds,  Boyet : 

If  they  do  speak  our  language,  'tis  our  will 
That  some  plain  man  recount  our  purposes : 
Know  what  they  would. 
Boyet.  What  would  you  with  the  princess? 
Biron.  Nothing  but  peace  and  gentle  visita- 
tion. 

Ros.  What  would  they,  say  they?          [tion. 
Boyet.  Nothing  but  peace  and  gentle  visita- 
Ros.  Why,  that  they  have ;  and  bid  them  so 
be  gone.  [gone. 

Boyet.  She  says  you  havfc  it,  and  you  may  be 
King.  Say  to  her  we  have  measured  many 

miles 

To  tread  a  measure  with  her  on  this  grass. 
Boyet.  They  say  that   they  have   measured 

many  a  mile 
To  tread  a  measure  with  you  on  this  grass. 

Ros.  It  is  not  so.    Ask  them  how  many  inches 
Is  in  one  mile :  if  they  have  measur'd  many, 
The  measure,  then,  of  one  is  easily  told. 

Boyet.  If  to  come  hither  you  have  measur'd 

miles, 

And  many  miles,  the  princess  bids  you  tell 
How  many  inches  do  fill  up  one  mile.     [step*. 
tliron.  Tell  her  we  measure  them  by  weary 
Boyet.  She  hears  herself. 
Ros.  How  many  weary  steps, 

Of  many  weary  miles  you  have  o'ergone, 
Are  number'd  in  the  travel  of  one  mile? 

Biron.  We  number  nothing  that  we  spend 

for  you ; 

Our  duty  is  so  rich,  so  infinite, 
That  we  may  do  it  still  without  accompt. 
Vouchsafe  to  show  the  sunshine  of  your  face, 
That  we,  like  savages,  may  worship  it. 

Ros.  My  face  is  but  a  moon,  and  clouded  toa 


SCENE  II.] 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


213 


King.   Blessed  are  clouds,   to  do  as  such 
clouds  do !  [shine, — 

Vouchsafe,  bright  moon,  and  these  thy  stars,  to 
Those  clouds  removed, — upon  our  wat'ry  eyne. 
Ros.  O  vain  petitioner !  beg  a  greater  matter ; 
Thou  now  request's!  but  moonshine  in  the  water. 
King.  Then,  in  our  measure  do  but  vouch- 
safe one  change : 

Thou  bid'st  me  beg ;  this  begging  is  not  strange. 

Ros.  Play  music,  then :  nay,  you  must  do  it 

soon.  [Music  plays. 

Not  yet ; — no  dance : — thus  change  I  like  the 

moon. 
King.  Will  you  not  dance?     How  come  you 

thus  estrang'd? 

Ros.  You  took  the  moon  at  fill  1;   but  now 

she 's  chang'd.  [man. 

King.  Yet  still  she  is  the  moon  and  I  the 

The  music  plays ;  vouchsafe  some  motion  to  it. 

Ros.  Our  ears  vouchsafe  it. 

King.  But  your  legs  should  do  it. 

Ros.  Since  you  are  strangers,  and  come  here 

by  chance,  [dance. 

We'll  not  be  nice;  take  hands; — we  will  not 

King.  Why  take  we  hands,  then? 

Ros.  Only  to  part  friends ; — 

Court'sy,  sweet  hearts;  and  so  the  measure 

ends.  [nice. 

King.  More  measure  of  this  measure ;  be  not 

Ros.  We  can  afford  no  more  at  such  a  price. 

King.  Prize  you  yourselves :  what  buys  your 

company? 

Ros.  Your  absence  only. 

King.  That  can  never  be. 

Ros.  Then  cannot  we  be  bought:  and   so 

adieu ; 

Twice  to  your  visor  and  half  once  to  you ! 
King.  If  you  deny  to  dance,  let  }s  hold  more 

chat. 

Ros.  In  private  then. 

King.  I  am  best  pleas'd  with  that. 

[  They  converse  apart. 

Biron.  White-handed   mistress,   one    sweet 

word  with  thee.  [three. 

Prin.  Honey,  and  milk,  and  sugar;  there  is 

Biron.  Nay,   then,   two    treys, — an  if  you 

grow  so  nice, —  [dice ! 

Metheglin,   wort,   and    malmsey; — well    run, 

There 's  half  a  dozen  sweets. 

Prin.  Seventh  sweet,  adieu  ! 

Since  you  can  cog,  I  '11  play  no  more  with  you. 
Biron.  One  word  in  secret. 
Prin.  Let  it  not  be  sweet. 

Biron.  Thou  griev'st  my  gall. 
Prin.  Gall?  bitter. 

Therefore  meet. 
\  They  converse  apart. 


Duni.  Will  you  vouchsafe  with  me  to  cnange 

a  word? 
Alar.  Name  it. 
Duni.  Fair  lady, — 

Mar.  Say  you  so?     Fair  lord, — 

Take  that  for  your  fair  lady. 

Duni.  Please  it  you, 

As  much  in  private,  and  I  '11  bid  adieu. 

[  They  converse  apart. 
Kath.  What,  was  your  visard  made  without 

a  tongue? 

Long.  I  know  the  reason,  lady,  why  you  ask. 

Kath.  O  for  your   reason !   quickly,  sir ;   I 

long.  [your  mask, 

Long.  You    have   a   double    tongue   within 

And  would  afford  my  speechless  visard  half. 

Kath.  Veal,  quoth  the  Dutchman; — is  not 

veal  a  calf? 

Long.  A  calf,  fair  lady ! 
Kath.  No,  a  fair  lord  calf. 

Long.  Let 's  part  the  word. 
Kath.  No,  I  '11  not  be  your  half : 

Take  all,  and  wean  it ;  it  may  prove  an  ox. 
Long.   Look  how  you  butt  yourself  in  these 

sharp  mocks ! 

Will  you  give  horns,  chaste  lady?  do  not  so. 
Kath.  Then  die  a  calf,  before  your  horns  do 

§row. 
ne  word  in  private  with  you  ere  I  die. 
Kath.  Bleat  softly,  then ;  the  butcher  hears 
you  cry.  [  They  converse  apart. 

Boyet.  The  tongues  of  mocking  wenches  are 

as  keen 

As  is  the  razor's  edge  invisible, 
Cutting  a  smaller  hair  than  may  be  seen ; 

Above  the  sense  of  sense ;  so  sensible 

Seemeth  their  conference;  their  conceits  have 

wings,  [swifter  things. 

Fleeter  than  arrows,  bullets,  wind,  thought, 

Ros.  Not  one  word  more,  my  maids  ;  break 

off,  break  off.  [scoff! 

Biron.  By  heaven,  all  dry-beaten  with  pure 

King.  Farewell,    mad   wenches;   you  have 

simple  wits. 

[Exeunt  KING,  LORDS,  Music,  and  Attendants. 
Prin.    Twenty   adieus,    my   frozen    Musco- 
vites.— 

Are  these  the  breed  of  wits  so  wonder'd  at? 
Boyet.  Tapers    they   are,    with    your  sweet 

breaths  puffed  out. 
Ros.  Well  -  liking    wits    they    have ;    gross, 

gross;  fat,  fat. 

Prin.  O  poverty  in  wit,  kingly- poor  flout ! 
Will  they  not,  think  you,  hang  themselves  to- 
night ? 

Or  ever,  but  in  visards,  show  their  faces? 
This  pert  Biron  was  out  of  countenance  quite. 


214 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


[ACT  v. 


Ros.  O,  they  were  all  in  lamentable  cases ! 
The  king  was  weeping-ripe  for  a  good  word. 

Prin.  Bir6n  did  swear  himself  out  of  all  suit. 

Mar.  Dumain  was  at  my  service,  and  his 

sword :  [mute. 

No  point,  quoth  I;   my  servant  straight  was 

Kath.  Lord  Longaville  said  I  came  o'er  his 

heart ; 
And  trow  you  what  he  called  me? 

Prin.  Qualm,  perhaps. 

Kath.  Yes,  in  good  faith. 

Prin.  Go,  sickness  as  thou  art ! 

Ros.  Well,    better   wits    have    worn    plain 

statue-caps. 
But  will  you  hear?  the  king  is  my  love  sworn. 

Prin.  And  quick  Bir6n  hath  plighted  faith 
to  me.  [born. 

Kath.  And  Longaville  was  for  my  service 

Mar.  Dumain  is  mine,  as  sure  as  bark  on 
tree.  [ear : 

Boyet.  Madam,  and  pretty  mistresses,  give 
Immediately  they  will  again  be  here 
In  their  own  shapes ;  for  it  can  never  be 
They  will  digest  this  harsh  indignity. 

Prin.  Will  they  return? 

Boyet.         They  will,  they  will,  God  knows, 

And  leap  for  joy,  though  they  are  lame  with 

blows ;  [repair, 

Therefore,  change   favours ;  and,  when  they 

Blow  like  sweet  roses  in  this  summer  air. 

Prin.  How  blow?  how  blow?  speak  to  be 
understood.  -[bud: 

Boyet.  Fair  ladies  mask'd  are  roses  in  their 
Dismask'd,    their    damask    sweet    commixture 

shown, 
Are  angels  vailing  clouds,  or  roses  blown. 

Prin.  Avaunt,  perplexity  !  What  shall  we  do 
If  they  return  in  their  own  shapes  to  woo? 

Ros.  Good  madam,  if  by  me  you  '11  be  advis'd, 
Let's  mock  thessi  still,  as  well  known  as  dis- 

guis'd : 

Let  us  Complain  to  them  what  fools  were  here, 
Disguis'd  like  Muscovites,  in  shapeless  gear ; 
And  wonder  what  they  were,  and  to  what  end 
Their  shallow  shows  and  prologue  vilely  penn'd, 
And  their  rough  carriage  so  ridiculous, 
Should  be  presented  at  our  tent  to  us.      [hand. 

Boyet.  Ladies,  withdraw ;  the  gallants  are  at 

Prin.  Whip  to  our  tents,  as  roes  run  over  land. 
[Exeunt  PRIN.,  Ros.,  KATH..  «W</MAR. 

Re-enter  the  KING,  BIRON,  LONGAVILLE,  and 
DUMAIN,  in  their  proper  habits. 

King.  Fair  sir,  God  save  you !     Where  is  the 
princess  ?  [maj  esty 

Boyet.  Gone   to  her  tent.     Please  it  your 
Command  me  any  service  to  her  thither? 


King.  That  she  vouchsafe  me  audience  for 
one  word. 

Boyet.  I  will ;  and  so  will  she,  I  know,  my 
lord.  {Exit. 

Biron.  This  fellow  pecks  up  wit  as  pigeons 

peas, 

And  utters  it  again  when  God  doth  please : 
He  is  wit's  pedlar,  and  retails  his  wares 
At  wakes,  and  wassels,  meetings,  markets,  fairs ; 
And  we  that  sell  by  gross,  the  Lord  doth  know, 
Have  not  the  grace  to  grace  it  with  such  show. 
This  gallant  pins  the  wenches  on  his  sleeve, — 
Had  he  been  Adam,  he  had  tempted  Eve: 
He  can  carve  too,  and  lisp :  why  this  is  he 
That  kiss'd  away  his  hand  in  courtesy: 
This  is  the  ape  of  form,  monsieur  the  nice, 
That,  when  he  plays  at  tables,  chides  the  dice 
In  honourable  terms ;  nay,  he  can  sing 
A  mean  most  meanly ;  and  in  ushering, 
Mend  him  who  can :  the  ladies  call  him  sweet ; 
The  stairs,  as  he  treads  on  them,  kiss  his  feet : 
This  is  the  flower  that  smiles  on  every  one, 
To  show  his  teeth  as  white  as  whale's  bone : 
And  consciences  that  will  not  die  in  debt 
Pay  him  the  due  of  honey-tongu'd  Boyet. 

King.  A  blister  on  his  sweet  tongue,  with  my 

heart, 
That  put  Armado's  page  out  of  his  part ! 

Biron.  See  where  it  comes! — Behaviour,  what 

wert  thou  [now? 

Till  this  man  show'd  thee?  and  what  art  thou 

Re-enter  the  PRINCESS,  ushered  by  BOYET; 
ROSALINE,  MARIA,  KATHARINE,  and  At- 
tendants. 

King.  All  hail,  sweet  madam,  and  fair  time 

of  day ! 

Prin.  Fair,  in  all  hail,  is  foul,  as  I  conceive. 
King.  Construe  my  speeches  better,  if  you 

may. 
Prin.  Then  wish  me  better,  I  will  give  you 

leave. 

King.  We  came  to  visit  you ;  and  purpose  now 
To  lead  you  to  our  court :  vouchsafe  it  then. 
Prin.  This  field  shall  hold  me ;  and  so  hold 

your  vow: 

Nor  God,  nor  I,  delight  in  perjur'd  men. 
King.  Rebuke  me  not  for  that  which  you 

provoke ; 

The  virtue  of  your  eye  must  break  my  oath. 
Prin.  You  nickname  virtue :  vice  you  should 

have  spoke; 

For  virtue's  office  never  breaks  men's  troth. 
Now,  by  my  maiden  honour,  yet  as  pure 

As  the  unsullied  lily;  I  protest, 
A  world  of  torments  though  I  should  endure, 
I  would  not  yield  to  be  your  house's  guest: 


SCENE  II.] 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


So  much  I  hate  a  breaking  cause  to  DC 
Of  heavenly  oaths,  vow'd  with  integrity. 
King.  O,  you  have  liv'd  in  desolation  here, 
Unseen,  un visited,  much  to  our  shame. 
Prin.  Not  so,  my  lord ;  it  is  not  so,  I  swear ; 
We  have  had  pastime  here,  and  pleasant  game; 
A  mess  of  Russians  left  us  but  of  late. 
King.  How,  madam !  Russians ! 
Prin.  Ay,  in  truth,  my  lord ; 

Trim  gallants,  full  of  courtship  and  of  state. 
Ros.  Madam,  speak  true. — It  is  not  so,  my 

lord; 

My  lady, — to  the  manner  of  the  days, — 
In  courtesy,  gives  undeserving  praise. 
We  four,  indeed,  confronted  here  with  four 
In  Russian  habit ;  here  they  stayM  an  hour 
And  talk'd  apace;  and  in  that  hour,  my  lord, 
They  did  not  bless  us  with  one  happy  word. 
I  dare  not  call  them  fools ;  but  this  I  think, 
When  they  are  thirsty,  fools  would  fain  have 
drink.  [sweet, 

Biron.  This  jest  is  dry  to  me. — Fair,  gentle 
Your  wit  makes  wise  things  foolish ;  when  we 

greet 

With  eyes  best  seeing  heaven's  fiery  eye, 
By  light  we  lose  light :  your  capacity 
Is  of  that  nature,  that  to  your  huge  store 
Wise  things  seem  foolish  and  rich  things  but 
poor  [my  eye, — 

Ros.  This  proves  you  wise  and  rich,  for  in 
Biron.  I  am  a  fool,  and  full  of  poverty. 
Ros.  But  that  you  take  what  doth  to  you 

belong, 

It  were  a  fault  to  snatch  words  from  my  tongue. 
Biron.  O,  I  am  yours,  and  all  that  I  possess. 
Ros.  All  the  fool  mine? 
Biron.  I  cannot  give  you  less. 

Ros.  Which  of  the  visards  was  it  that  you 

wore?  • 

Biron.  Where?  when?  what  visard?  why  de- 
mand you  this?  [ous  case 
Ros.  There,  then,  that  visard ;  that  superflu- 
That  hid  the  worse  and  show'd  the  better  face. 
King.  We  are  descried :  they  '11  mock  us  now 

downright. 

Dum.  Let  us  confess,  and  turn  it  to  a  jest. 
Prin.  Amaz'd,  my  lord?  why  looks  your  high- 
ness sad? 
Ros.  Help,  hold  his   brows !   he  '11  swoon ! 

Why  look  you  pale? — 
Sea-sick,  I  think,  coming  from  Muscovy. 
Biron.  Thus  pour  the  stars  down  plagues  for 

perjury. 

Can  any  face  of  brass  hold  longer  out? — 
Here  stand  I,  lady:  dart  thy  skill  at  me; 
Bruise  me  with  scorn,  confound  me  with  a 
flout; 


Thrust  thy  sharp  wit  quite  through  my  ignor- 
ance; 

Cut  me  to  pieces  with  thy  keen  conceit ; 
And  I  will  wish  thee  never  more  to  dance, 

Nor  never  more  in  Russian  habit  wait. 
O,  never  will  I  trust  to  speeches  penn'd, 

Nor  to  the  motion  of  a  school-boy's  tongue ; 
Nor  never  come  in  visard  to  my  friend ; 

Nor  woo  in  rhyme,  like  a  blind  harper's  song : 
Taffeta  phrases,  silken  terms  precise, 

Three-pil'd  hyperboles,  spruce  affectation, 
Figures  pedantical ;  these  summer-flies 

Have  blown  me  full  of  maggot  ostentation ; 
I  do  forswear  them :  and  I  here  protest, 

By  this  white  glove,-— how  white  the  hand, 

God  knows! — 
Henceforth  my  wooing  mind  shall  be  express'd 

In  russet  yeas,  and  honest  kersey  noes : 
And,  to  begin,  wench, — so  God  help  me,  la! — 
My  love  to  thee  is  sound,  sans  crack  or  flaw. 

Ros.  Sans  sans,  I  pray  you. 

Biron.  Yet  I  have  a  trick 

Of  the  old  rage : — bear  with  me,  I  am  sick ; 
I  '11  leave  it  by  degrees.     Soft,  let  us  see ; — 
Write,  Lord  have  mercy  on  us,  on  those  three; 
They  are  infected;  in  their  hearts  it  lies: 
They  have  the  plague,  and  caught  it  of  your 

eyes: 

These  lords  are  visited ;  you  are  not  free, 
For  the  Lord's  tokens  on  you  do  I  see. 

Prin.  No,  they  are  free  that  gave  these  tokens 
to  us.  [undo  us. 

Biron.  Our  states  are  forfeit :   seek  not  to 

Ros.   It  is  not  so ;  for  how  can  this  be  true, 
That  you  stand  forfeit,  being  those  that  sue? 

Biron.   Peace ;  for  I  will  not  have  to  do  with 
you. 

Ros.  Nor  shall  not,  if  I  do  as  I  intend. 

Biron.  Speak  for  yourselves ;  my  wit  is  at  an 
end.  [transgression 

King.  Teach  us,  sweet  madam,  for  our  rude 
Some  fair  excuse. 

Prin.  The  fairest  is  confession. 

Were  you  not  here  but  even  now,  disguis'd  ? 

King.  Madam,  I  was. 

Prin.  And  were  you  well  advis'd? 

King.  I  was,  fair  madam. 

Prin.  When  you  then  were  here, 

What  did  you  whisper  in  your  lady's  ear? 

King.  That  more  than  all  the  world  I  did  re- 
spect her.  [reject  her. 

Prin.  When  she  shall  challenge  this  you  will 

King.  Upon  mine  honour,  no. 

in.  Peace,  peace,  forbear; 

Your  oath  once^  broke,  you  force  not  to  forswear. 

King.  Despise  me  when  I  break  this  oath  of 
mine. 


216 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


[ACT  v. 


Prin,  I  will :  and  therefore  keep  it : — Rosa- 
line, 
What  did  the  Russian  whisper  in  your  ear  ? 

Ros.  Madam,  he  swore  that  he  did  hold  me 

dear 

As  precious  eyesight ;  and  did  value  me 
Above  this  world  :  adding  thereto,  moreover, 
That  he  would  wed  me,  or  else  die  my  lover. 

Prin.  God  give  thee  joy  of  him !  the  noble 

lord 
Most  honourably  doth  uphold  his  word. 

King.  What  mean  you,  madam  ?  by  my  life, 

my  troth, 
I  never  swore  this  lady  such  an  oath,     [plain  ; 

Ros.  By  heaven  you  did  ;  and,  to  confirm  it 
You  gave  me  this  :  but  take  it,  sir,  again. 

King.  My  faith  and  this  the  princess  I  did 

give; 
I  knew  her  by  this  jewel  on  her  sleeve. 

Prin.  Pardon  me,  sir;  this  jewel  she  did  wear; 
And  Lord  Bir6n,  I  thank  him,  is  my  dear : — 
What ;  will  you  have  me,  or  your  pearl  again? 

Biron.    Neither   of  either ;    I    remit    both 

twain. — 

I  see  the  trick  on 't ; — here  was  a  consent, 
Knowing  aforehand  of  our  merriment, 
To  dash  it  like  a  Christmas  comedy  :       [zany, 
Some  carry-tale,  some  please-man,  some  slight 
Some    mumble-news,    some    trencher-knight, 
some  Dick, —  [trick 

That  smiles  his  cheek  in  years,  and  knows  the 
To  make  my  lady  laugh  when  she 's  dispos'd, — 
Told  our  intents  before  :  which  once  disclos'd, 
The  ladies  did  change  favours ;  and  then  we, 
Following  the  signs,  woo'd  but  the  sign  of  she. 
Now,  to  our  perjury  to  add  more  terror, 
We  are  again  forsworn, — in  will  and  error. 
Much  upon  this  it  is  : — and  might  not  you 

[To  BOYET. 

Forestal  our  sport,  to  make  us  thus  untrue  ? 
Do  not  you  know  my  lady's  foot  by  the  squire, 

And  laugh  upon  the  apple  of  her  eye  ? 
And  stand  between  her  back,  sir,  and  the  fire, 

Holding  a  trencher,  jesting  merrily  ? 
You  put  our  page  out :  go,  you  are  allpw'd  ; 
Die  when  you  will,  a  smock  shall  be  your  shroud. 
You  leer  upon  me,  do  you?  there 's  an  eye 
Wounds  like  a  leaden  sword. 

Boyet.  Full  merrily 

Hath  this  brave  manage,  this  career,  been  run. 

Biron.  Lo,  he  is  tilting  straight !    Peace  ;  I 
have  done. 

Enter  COSTARD. 

Welcome,  pure  wit !  thou  partest  a  fair  fray. 

Cost.  O  Lord,  sir,  they  would  know 
Whether  the  three  worthies  shall  come  in  or  no. 


Biron.  What,  are  there  but  three  ? 

Cost.  No,  sir  ;  but  it  is  vara  fine, 

For  every  one  pursents  three. 

Biron.  And  three  times  thrice  is  nine. 

Cost.  Not  so,  sir ;  under  correction,  sir  ;  I 

hope  it  is  not  so  : 
You  cannot  beg  us,  sir,  I  can  assure  you,  sir : 

we  know  what  we  know  ; 
I  hope,  sir,  three  times  thrice,  sir, — 

Biron.  Is  not  nine. 

Cost.  Under  correction,  sir,  we  know  where- 
until  it  doth  amount.  [for  nine. 

Biron.  By  Jove,  I  always  took  three  threes 

Cost.  O  Lord,  sir,  it  were  pity  you  should 
get  your  living  by  reckoning,  sir. 

Biron.  How  much  is  it  ? 

Cost.  O  Lord,  sir,  the  parties  themselves, 
the  actors,  sir,  will  show  whereuntil  it  doth 
amount ;  for  my  own  part,  I  am,  as  they  say, 
but  to  parfect  one  man  in  one  poor  man ; 
Pompion  the  Great,  sir. 

Biron.  Art  thou  one  of  the  worthies  ? 

Cost.  It  pleased  them  to  think  me  worthy  of 
Pompion  the  Great :  for  mine  own  part,  I 
know  not  the  degree  of  the  worthy  ;  but  I  am 
to  stand  for  him. 

Biron.  Go,  bid  them  prepare. 

Cost.  We  will  turn  it  finely  off,  sir  ;  we  will 
take  some  care.          [Exit  COSTARD. 

King.  Biron,  they  will  shame  us ;  let  them 
not  approach. 

Biron.  We  are  shame-proof,  my  lord :  and 

'tis  some  policy 

To  have  one  show  worse  than  the  king's  and 
his  company. 

King.  I  say  they  shall  not  come.         [now  : 

Prin.  Nay,  my  good  lord,  let  me  o'errule  you 
That  sport  best  pleases  that  doth  least  know  how; 
Where  zeal  strives  to  content,  and  the  contents 
Die  in  the  zeal  of  them  which  it  presents, 
Their  form  confounded  makes  mostform  in  mirth, 
When  great  things  labouring  perish  in  their  birth. 

Biron.  A  right  description  of  our  sport,  my 
lord. 

Enter  ARMADO. 

Arm.  Anointed,  I  implore  so  much  expense 
of  thy  royal  sweet  breath  as  will  utter  a  brace  of 
words.  [ARMADO  converses  -with  the  KING, 
and  delivers  him  a  paper. 

Prin.  Doth  this  man  serve  God  ? 

Biron.  Why  ask  you  ?  [making. 

Prin.  He  speaks  not  like  a  man  of  God  s 

Arm.  That 's  all  one,  my  fair,  sweet,  honey 
monarch :  for,  I  protest,  the  schoolmaster  is  ex- 
ceeding fantastical ;  too,  too  vain ;  too,  too  vain : 
but  we  will  put  it,  as  they  say,  to  fortuna  della 


SCENE  II.] 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


217 


guerra.     I  wish  you  the  peace  of  mind,  most 
royal  couplement !  [Exit  ARMADO. 

King.  Here  is  like  to  be  a  good  presence  of 
worthies.  He  presents  Hector  of  Troy ;  the 
swain,  Pompey  the  Great ;  the  parish  curate, 
Alexander ;  Armado's  page,  Hercules ;  the 
pedant,  Judas  Maccaboeus. 
And  if  these  four  worthies  in  their  first  show 
thrive,  [other  five. 

These  four  will  change  habits  and  present  the 

Biron.  There  is  five  in  the  first  show. 

King.  You  are  deceived,  'tis  not  so. 

Biron.  The  pedant,  the  braggart,  the  hedge- 
priest,  the  fool,  and  the  boy; —  [again 
Abate  throw  at  novum ;  and  the  whole  world 
Cannot  prick  out  five  such,  take  each  one  in  his 
vein.                                [comes  amain. 

King.  The  ship  is  under  sail,  and  here  she 
[Seats  brought  for  the  KING,  PRIN.,  &>c. 

Pageant  of  the  Nine  Worthies. 
Enter  COSTARD,  armed,  for  Pompey. 

Cost.  I  Pompey  am 

Boyet.  You  lie,  you  are  not  he. 

Cost.  I  Pompey  am 

Boyet.  With  libbard's  head  on  knee. 

Biron.  Well  said,  old  mocker;  I  must  needs 
be  friends  with  thee.  [Big, — 

Cost.  I  Pompey  am,  Pompey  sur named  the 

Dum.  The  Great. 

Cost.   It  is  Great,  sir ; — Pompey  stirnamed  the 

Great, 

That  oft  infield,  with  targe  and  shield,  did  make 

my  foe  to  sweat ;  [chance, 

And  travelling  along  this  coast,  I  here  am  come  by 

And  lay  my  arms  before  the  legs  of  this  sweet  lass 

of  France.  [had  done. 

If  your  ladyship  would  say,  Thanks,  Pompey,  I 

Prin.  Great  thanks,  great  Pompey. 

Cost.  'Tis  not  so  much  worth ;  but  I  hope  I 
was  parfect :  I  made  a  little  fault  in  Great. 

Biron.  My  hat  to  a  halfpenny,  Pompey  proves 
the  best  worthy. 

Enter  Sir  NATHANIEL,  armed,  for  Alexander. 

Nath.    When  in  the  world  I  liifd,  I  was  the 

worlds  commander  ; 

By  east,  west,  north,  and  south  I  spread  my  con- 
quering might : 
My' scutcheon  plain  declares  that  lamAlisandcr. 

Boyet.  Your  nose  says,  no,  you  are  not;  for  it 
stands  too  right. 

Biron.    Your  nose  smells  no  in  this,  most 
tender-smelling  knight. 
The  conqueror  is  dismay'd.— Proceed, 
good  Alexander. 


Nath.  When  in  the  world  I  li??d,  I  was  the 
world's  commander : —  [sander. 

Boyet.  Most  true,  'tis  right ;  you  were  so,  Ali- 

Biroit.  Pompey  the  Great, — 

Cost.  Your  servant,  and  Costard. 

Biron.  Take  away  the  conqueror,  take  away 
Alisander. 

Cost.  O,  sir  [to  NATH.],  you  have  overthrown 
Alisander  the  conqueror !  You  will  be  scraped 
out  of  the  painted  cloth  for  this :  your  lion,  that 
holds  his  ptoll-ax  sitting  on  a  close  stool,  will  be 
given  to  Ajax :  he  will  be  the  ninth  worthy.  A 
conqueror  and  afeard  to  speak !  run  away  for 
shame,  Alisander.  [S/rNATH.  retires.]  There, 
an 't  shall  please  you ;  a  foolish  mild  man ;  an 
honest  man,  look  you,  and  soon  dashed  !  he  is  a 
marvellous  good  neighbour,  insooth ;  and  a  very 
good  bowler :  but,  for  Alisander, — alas,  you  see, 
how  'tis, — a  little  o'erparted. — But  there  are 
worthies  a-coming  will  speak  their  mind  in  some 
other  sort. 

Prin.  Stand  aside,  good  Pompey. 

Enter  HOLOFERNES,  armed,  for  Judas ;  and 
MOTH,  armed,  for  Hercules. 

Hoi.   Great  Hercules  is  presented  by  this  imp, 

Whose  club  kitfd  Cerberus,  that  three-headed 

canus ; 
And  when  he  was  a  babe,  a  child,  a  shrimp, 

Thus  did  he  strangle  serpents  in  his  manus: 
Quoniam  he  seemeth  in  minority, 
Ergo  I  come  with  this  apology.— 
Keep  some  state  in  thy  exit,  and  vanish. 

[MOTH  retires. 
Judas  I  am, — 

Dum.  A  Judas  ! 

Hoi.  Not  Iscariot,  sir, — 
Judas  I  am,  yckped  Maccabaus. 

Dum.  Judas  Maccabaeus  clipt  is  plain  Judas. 

Biron.  A  kissing  traitor.  How  art  thou 
proved  Judas? 

Hoi.  Judas  I  am, — 

Dum.  The  more  shame  for  you,  Judas. 

Hoi.  What  mean  you,  sir  ? 

Boyet.  To  make  Judas  hang  himself. 

Hoi.  Begin,  sir ;  you  are  my  elder. 

Biron.  Well  followed :  Judas  was  hanged  on 
an  elder. 

Hoi.  I  will  not  be  put  out  of  countenance. 

Biron.  Because  thou  hast  no  face. 

Hoi.  What  is  this? 

Boyet.  A  cittern  head. 

Dum.  The  head  of  a  bodkin. 

Biron.  A  death's  face  in  a  ring.  [seen. 

Long.  The  face  of  an  old  Roman  coin,  scarce 

Boyet.  The  pummel  of  Caesar's  faulchion. 

Dum.  The  carvM-bone  face  on  a  flask. 


218 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


LACT  v. 


Biron.  St.  George's  half-cheek  in  a  brooch. 

Dwn.  Ay,  and  in  a  brooch  of  lead. 

Biron.  Ay,  and  worn  in  the  cap  of  a  tooth- 
drawer  ; 

And  now,  forward;  for  we  have  put  thee  in  coun- 
tenance. 

HoL  You  have  put  me  out  of  countenance 

Biron.  False :  we  have  given  thee  faces. 

Hoi.  But  you  have  outfaced  them  all. 

Biron.  An  thou  wert  a  lion  we  would  do  so. 

Boyet.  Therefore,  as  he  is  an  ass,  let  him  go. 
And  so  adieu,  sweet  Jude  1  nay,  why  dost  thou 
stay? 

Ditm.  For  the  latter  end  of  his  name. 

Biron.  For  the  ass  to  the  Jude ;  give  it  him: — 
Jud-as,  away. 

Hoi.  This  is  not  generous,  not  gentle,  not 
humble. 

Boyet.  A  light  for  Monsieur  Judas !  it  grows 
dark,  he  may  stumble.  [baited ! 

Prin.  Alas,  poor  Maccabaeus,  how  hath  he  been 

Enter  ARMADO,  armed,  for  Hector. 

Biron.  Hide  thy  head,  Achilles :  here  comes 
Hector  in  arms. 

Dunt.  Though  my  mocks  come  home  by  me, 

1  will  now  be  merry.  [this. 

King.  Hector  was  but  a  Trojan  in  respect  of 

Boyet.  But  is  this  Hector? 

Dum.  I   think    Hector  was  not  so  clean  - 
timbered. 

Long.  His  leg  is  too  big  for  Hector. 

Dum.  More  calf,  certain. 

Boyet.  No ;  he  is  best  indued  in  the  small. 

Biron.  This  cannot  be  Hector.  [faces. 

Dum.  He 's  a  god  or  a  painter,  for  he  makes 

Arm.  The  armipotent  Mars,  of  lances  the  al- 
mighty, 
Gave  Hector  a  gift, — 

Ditm.  A  gilt  nutmeg. 

Biron.  A  lemon. 

Long.  Stuck  with  cloves. 

Dum.  No,  cloven. 

Arm.  Peace ! 
The  armipotent  Mars,  of  lances  the  almighty, 

Gave  Hector  a  gift,  the  heir  of  I  lion  ;  \_yea, 
A  man  so  breathed,  that  certain  he  would  fight, 

From  morn  till  night,  out  of  his  pavilion. 

2  am  that  flower, — 

Dum.  That  mint. 

Long.  That  columbine. 

Arm.  Sweet  Lord  Longaville,  rein  thy  tongue. 

Long.  I  must  rather  give  it  the  rein,  for  it  runs 
against  Hector. 

Dum,  Ay,  and  Hector 's  a  greyhound, 

Arm.  The  sweet  war-man  is  dead  and  rotten ; 
sweet  chucks,  beat  not  the  bones  of  the  buried : 


when  he  breathed,  he  was  a  man. — But  I  will 

forward  with  my  device.     Sweet  royalty  [to  the 

PRINCESS],  bestow  on  me  the  sense  of  hearing. 

[BiRON  whispers  COSTARD. 

Prin.  Speak,  brave  Hector :  we  are  much  de* 
lighted. 

Arm.   I  do  adore  thy  sweet  grace's  slipper. 

Boyet.  Loves  her  by  the  foot. 

Dum.  He  may  not  by  the  yard.  \bal, — • 

Arm.    This  Hector  far  surmounted  Hanni- 

Cost.  The  party  is  gone,  fellow  Hector ;  she 
is  gone :  she  is  two  months  on  her  way. 

Arm.  What  meanest  thou? 

Cost.  Faith,  unless  you  play  the  honest  Trojan, 
the  poor  wench  is  cast  away :  she 's  quick ;  the 
child  brags  in  her  belly  already ;  'tis  yours. 

Arm.  Dost  thou  infamonize  me  among  poten- 
tates? thou  shalt  die. 

Cost.  Then  shall  Hector  be  whipped  for  Jaque- 
netta  that  is  quick  by  him,  and  hanged  for  Pom- 
pey  that  is  dead  by  him. 

Dum.  Most  rare  Pompey ! 

Boyet.   Renowned  Pompey! 

Biron.  Greater  than  great,  great,  great,  great 
Pompey !  Pompey  the  Huge ! 

Dum.   Hector  trembles. 

Biron.  Pompey  is  mov'd. — More  Ates,  more 
Ates !  stir  them  on  !  stir  them  on ! 

Dum.  Hector  will  challenge  him. 

Biron.  Ay,  if  he  have  no  more  man's  blood 
in 's  belly  than  will  sup  a  flea. 

Arm.  By  the  north  pole,  I  do  challenge  thee. 

Cost.  I  will  not  fight  with  a  pole,  like  a  northern 
man:  I'll  slash;  I'll  do  it  by  the  sword.— I 
pray  you,  let  me  borrow  my  arms  again. 

Dum.  Room  for  the  incensed  worthies. 

Cost.   I  '11  do  it  in  my  shirt. 

Dum.  Most  resolute  Pompey ! 

Moth.  Master,  let  me  take  you  a  button-hole 
lower.  Do  you  not  see  Pompey  is  uncasing  for 
the  combat?  What  mean  you?  you  will  lose 
your  reputation. 

Arm.  Gentlemen  and  soldiers,  pardon  me;  I 
will  not  combat  in  my  shirt. 

Dum.  You  may  not  deny  it :  Pompey  hath 
made  the  challenge. 

Arm.  Sweet  bloods,  I  both  may  and  will. 

Biron.  What  reason  have  you  for 't? 

Arm.  The  naked  truth  of  it  is,  I  have  no  shirt; 
I  go  wool  ward  for  penance. 

Boyet.  True,  and  it  was  enjoined  him  in  Rome 
for  want  of  linen ;  since  when,  I  '11  be  sworn,  he 
wore  none  but  a  dish-clout  of  Jaquenetta's ;  and 
that  'a  wears  next  his  heart  for  a  favour. 

Enter  MERCADE. 
Mer.  God  save  you,  madam ! 


SCENE  II.] 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


219 


Prin.  Welcome,  Mercade ; 
But  that  thou  interrupt'st  our  merriment. 

Mer.  I  am  sorry,  madam ;   for  the  news  I 

bring 
Is  heavy  in  my  tongue.    The  king  your  father, — 

Prin.  Dead,  for  my  life ! 

Mer.  Even  so ;  my  tale  is  told.  [cloud. 

hiron.  Worthies,  away;  the  scene  begins  to 

Arm.  For  mine  own  part,  I  breathe  free 
breath :  I  have  seen  the  day  of  wrong  through 
the  little  hole  of  discretion,  and  I  will  right  my- 
self like  a  soldier.  [Exeunt  Worthies. 

King.  How  fares  your  Majesty? 

Prin.  Boyet,  prepare  ;  I  will  away  to-night. 

King.  Madam,  not  so;  I  do  beseech  you, 
stay.  [lords, 

Prin.  Prepare,  I  say. — I  thank  you,  gracious 
For  all  your  fair  endeavours ;  and  entreat 
Out  of  a  new-sad  soul,  that  you  vouchsafe, 
In  your  rich  wisdom,  to  excuse  or  hide 
The  liberal  opposition  of  our  spirits ; 
If  over-boldly  we  have  borne  ourselves 
In  the  converse  of  breath,  your  gentleness 
Was  gui  ty  of  it. — Farewell,  worthy  lord  ; 
A  heavy  heart  bears  not  a  nimble  tongue : 
Excuse  me  so,  coming  so  short  of  thanks 
For  my  great  suit  so  easily  obtain'd.          [form 

King.  The  extreme  parts  of  time  extremely 
All  causes  to  the  purpose  of  his  speed ; 
And  often,  at  his  very  loose,  decides 
That  which  long  process  could  not  arbitrate : 
And  though  the  mourning  brow  of  progeny 
Forbid  the  smiling  courtesy  of  love 
The  holy  suit  which  fain  it  would  convince, 
Yet,  since  love's  argument  was  first  on  foot, 
Let  not  the  cloud  of  sorrow  justle  it 
From  what  it  purpos'd :  since  to  wail  friends  lost 
Is  not  by  much  so  wholesome-profitable 
As  to  rejoice  at  friends  but  newly  found. 

Prin.  I  understand  you  not  •  my  griefs  are 
dull.  [of  grief;— 

Biron,  Honest  plain  words  best  pierce  the  ear 
And  by  these  badges  understand  the  king. 
For  your  fair  sakes  have  we  neglected  time, 
Play'd  foul  play  with  our  oaths ;  your  beauty, 

ladies, 

Hath  much  deform 'd  us,  fashioning  our  humours 
Even  to  the  opposed  end  of  our  intents : 
And  what  in  us  hath  seem'd  ridiculous, — 
As  love  is  full  of  unbefitting  strains, — 
All  wanton  as  a  child,  skipping,  and  vain  ; 
Form'd  by  the  eye,  and  therefore,  like  the  eye, 
Full  of  strange  shapes,  of  habits,  and  of  forms, 
Varying  in  subjects  as  the  eye  doth  roll 
To  every  varied  object  in  his  glance : 
Which  party-coated  presence  of  loose  love 
Put  on  by  us,  if  in  your  heavenly  eyes 


Have  misbecom'd  our  oaths  and  gravities, 
Those  heavenly  eyes  that  look  into  these  faults 
Suggested  us  to  make.     Therefore,  ladies, 
Our  love  being  yours,  the  error  that  love  makes 
Is  likewise  yours :  we  to  ourselves  prove  false, 
By  being  once  false,  for  ever  to  be  true 
To  those  that  make  us  both — fair  ladies,  you : 
And  even  that  falsehood,  in  itself  a  sin, 
Thus  purifies  itself  and  turns  to  grace,      [love ; 

Prin.  We  have  receiv'd  your  letters,  full  of 
Your  favours,  the  ambassadors  of  love ; 
And,  in  our  maiden  council,  rated  them 
At  courtship,  pleasant  jest,  and  courtesy, 
As  bombast,  and  as  lining  to  the  time : 
But  more  devout  than  this  in  our  respects 
Have  we  not  been ;  and  therefore  met  your  loves 
In  their  own  fashion,  like  a  merriment. 

Dum.  Our  letters,  madam,  show'dmuch  more 
than  jest. 

Long.  So  did  our  looks. 

Ros.  We  did  not  quote  them  so. 

King.  Now,  at  the  latest  minute  of  the  hour, 
Grant  us  your  loves. 

Prin.  A  time,  methinks,  too  short 

To  make  a  world-without-end  bargain  in. 
No,  no,  my  lord,  your  grace  is  perjur'd  much, 
Full  of  dear  guiltiness ;  and  therefore  this, — 
If  for  my  love — as  there  is  no  such  cause — 
You  will  do  aught,  this  shall  you  do  for  me : 
Your  oath  I  will  not  trust ;  but  go  with  speed 
To  some  forlorn  and  naked  hermitage, 
Remote  from  all  the  pleasures  of  the  world ; 
There  stay  until  the  twelve  celestial  signs 
Have  brought  about  their  annual  reckoning. 
If  this  austere  insociable  life 
Change  not  your  offer,  made  in  heat  of  blood , 
If  frosts  and  fasts,  hard  lodging  and  thin  weeds, 
Nip  not  the  gaudy  blossoms  of  your  love, 
But  that  it  bear  this  trial,  and  last  love, 
Then,  at  the  expiration  of  the  year, 
Come,  challenge,  challenge  me  by  these  deserts, 
And,  by  this  virgin  palm  now  kissing  thine, 
I  will  be  thine ;  and,  till  that  instant,  shut 
My  woeful  self  up  in  a  mournful  house, 
Raining  the  tears  of  lamentation 
For  the  remembrance  of  my  father's  death. 
If  this  thou  do  deny,  let  our  hands  part, 
Neither  intitled  in  the  other's  heart. 

King.  If  this,  or  more  than  this,  I  would  deny, 

To  flatter  up  these  powers  of  mine  with  rest, 
The  sudden  hand  of  death  close  up  mine  eye ! 

Hence  ever,  then,  my  heart  is  in  thy  breast. 

Biron.  And  what  to  me,  my  love?  and  what~ 
to  me?  [rank ; 

Ros.  You  must  be  purged  too ;  your  sins  are 
You  are  attaint  with  faults  and  perjury ; 
Therefore,  if  you  my  favour  mean  to  get, 


22O 


1   A  twelvemonth  shall  you  spend,  and  never  rest, 
But  seek  the  weary  beds  of  people  sick. 
"    Dum.  But  what  to  me,  my  love  ?  but  what 

to  me? 
Kath.  A  wife  !— A  beard,  fair  health,  and 

honesty ; 

With  threefold  love  I  wish  you  all  these  three. 
Dum.  O,  shall  I  say  I  thank  you,  gentle 

wife? 

Kath.    Not  so,    my  lord ; — a   twelvemonth 

and  a  day  [say  : 

I  '11  mark  no  words  that  smooth-fac'd  wooers 

Come  when  the  king  doth  to  my  lady  come, 

Then,  if  I  have  much  love  I  '11  give  you  some. 

Dum.  I  '11  serve  thee  true  and  faithfully  till 

then. 
Kath.  Yet  swear  not,  lest  you  be  forsworn 

again. 

Long.  What  says  Maria? 
Mar.  At  the  twelvemonth's  end 

I  '11  change  my  black  gown  for  a  faithful  friend. 
Long.  I  '11  stay  with  patience  ;  but  the  time 

is  long. 

Mar.  The  liker  you ;  few  taller  are  so  young. 
Biron.  Studies  my  lady?  mistress,  look  on 

me; 

Behold  the  window  of  my  heart,  mine  eye, 
What  humble  suit  attends  thy  answer  there  ! 
Impose  some  service  on  me  for  thy  love. 
Ros.    Oft  have  I  heard  of  you,  my  Lord 

Biron, 

Before  I  saw  you :  and  the  world's  large  tongue 
Proclaims  you  for  a  man  replete  with  mocks, 
Full  of  comparisons  and  wounding  flouts, 
Which  you  on  all  estates  will  execute 
That  lie  within  the  mercy  of  your  wit. 
To  weed   this  wormwood  from  your  fruitful 

brain, 

And  therewithal  to  win  me,  if  you  please, — 
Without  the  which  I  am  not  to  be  won, — 
You  shall  this  twelvemonth  term  from  day  to 

day 

Visit  the  speechless  sick,  and  still  converse 
With  groaning  wretches ;  and  your  task  shall  be, 
With  all  the  fierce  endeavour  of  your  wit 
To  enforce  the  pained  impotent  to  smile. 
Biron.  To  move  wild  laughter  in  the  throat 

of  death ! 

It  cannot  be  ;  it  is  impossible  : 
Mirth  cannot  move  a  soul  in  agony. 

Ros.  Why,  that 's  the  way  to  choke  a  gibing 

spirit, 

Whose  influence  is  begot  of  that  loose  grace 
Which  shallow  laughing  hearers  give  to  fools  : 
A  jest's  prosperity  lies  in  the  ear 
Of  him  that  hears  it,  never  in  the  tongue 
Of  him  that  makes  it :  then,  if  sickly  ears, 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


[ACT  v. 


Deaf  d  with  the  clamours  of  their  own  dear 

groans, 

Will  hear  your  idle  scorns,  continue  them, 
And  I  will  have  you  and  that  fault  withal ; 
But  if  they  will  not,  throw  away  that  spirit, 
And  I  shall  find  you  empty  of  that  fault, 
Right  joyful  of  your  reformation. 
Biron.  A  twelvemonth  !   well,  befall  what 

will  befall, 

I  '11  jest  a  twelvemonth  in  an  hospital. 
Prin.  Ay,  sweet  my  lord ;  and  so  I  take  my 
leave.  {To  the  KING. 

King.  No,  madam :   we  will  bring  you  on 
your  way.  [play ; 

Biron.  Our  wooing  doth  not  end  like  an  old 
Jack  h&th  not  Jill :  these  ladies'  courtesy 
Might  well  have  made  out-  sport  a  comedy. 
King.  Come,  sir,  it  wants  a  twelvemonth 

and  a  day, 
And  then  'twill  end. 

Biron.  That 's  too  long  for  a  play. 

Enter  ARMADO. 

Arm.  Sweet  majesty,  vouchsafe  me,-— 

Prin.  Was  not  that' Hector? 

Dum.  The  worthy  knight  of  Troy. 

Arm.  I  will  kiss  thy  royal  finger,  and  take 
leave  :  I  am  a  votary ;  I  have  vowed  to  Jaquen- 
etta  to  hold  the  plough  for  her  sweet  love  three 
years.  But,  most  esteemed  greatness,  will  you 
hear  the  dialogue  that  the  two  learned  men  have 
compiled  in  praise  of  the  owl  and  the  cuckoo  ? 
it  should  have  followed  in  the  end  of  our  show. 

King.  Call  them  forth  quickly,  we  will  do  so. 

Arm.  Holla  !  approach. 

Enter  HOLOFERNES;  NATHANIEL,  MOTH, 
COSTARD,  and  others. 

This  side  is  Hiems,  Winter — this  Ver,  the 
Spring  j  the  one  maintained  by  the  owl,  the 
other  by  the  cuckoo.  Vcr,  begin. 

SONG. 

i. 

Spring.  When  daisies  pied,  and  violets  blue, 
And  lady-smocks  all  silver-white, 
And  cuckoo-buds  of  yellow^ hue, 

Do  paint  the  meadows  with  delight, 
The  cuckoo  then,  on  every  tree, 
Mocks  married  men,  for  thus  sings  he — 

Cuckoo ; 

Cuckoo,  cuckoo,— O  word  of  fear, 
Unpleasing  to  a  married  ear  ! 

••:&&  !o  \\iii 
II. 
When  shepherds  pipe  on  oaten  straws, 

And  merry  larks  are  ploughmen's  clocks, 
When  turtles  tread,  and  rooks  and  daws, 
And  maidens  bleach  their  summer  smocks, 


SCENE  II.] 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


221 


The  cuckoo  then,  on  every  tree, 
Mocks  married  men,  for  thus  sings  be— 

Cuckoo ; 

Cuckoo,  cuckoo,— O  word  of  fear, 
Unpleasing  to  a  married  ear  ! 


Winter.  When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall, 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 

And  milk  comes  Irozen  home  in  pail, 
When  blood  is  nipp'd  and  ways  be  foul, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl — 

To-who ; 

Tu-whit,  to-who,  a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 


When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow, 

And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw, 
And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 

And  Marions  nose  looks  red  and  raw, 
When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl — 

To-who ; 

Tu-whit,  to-who,  a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

Arm.  The  words  of  Mercury  are  harsh  after 
the  songs  of  Apollo.  You  that  way ;  we  this 
way.  [Exeunt. 


THE  MERCHANT   OF  VENICE. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


DUKE  OF  VENICE. 

PRINCE  OF  MOROCCO.  )  0   ., 

PRINCE  OF  ARRAGON!  }  Smtors  *°  PORTIA' 

ANTONIO,  the  Merchant  of  Venice. 

BASSANIO,  his  Friend. 

SAL!RINO 

bALARINO, 

GRATIANO, 
LORENZO,  in  love  -with  JESSICA. 
SHYLOCK,  a  Jew. 
TUBAL,  a  Jew,  his  Friend. 
LAUNCELOT    GOBBO,   a    Clown>   Servant  to 
SHYLOCK. 


Friends    to    ANTONIO     and 


OLD  GOBBO,  Father  to  LAUNCELOT. 
SALERIO,  a  Messenger  from  Venice. 
LEONARDO,  Servant  to  BASSANIO. 
BALTHAZAR, 
STEPHANO, 


\Servants  to  PORTIA. 


PORTIA,  a  rich  Heiress. 
NERISSA,  her  Waiting-maid. 
JESSICA,  Daughter  to  SHYLOCK. 

Magnificoes  of  Venice,  Officers  of  the  Court  of 
Justice,  Gaoler,  Servants,  and  other  Atten- 
dants. 


SCENE, — Partly  at  VENICE,  and  partly  at  BELMONT,  the  Seat  0/ PORTIA,  on  the  Continent. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — VENICE.     A  Street. 
Enter  ANTONIO,  SALARINO,  and  SOLANIO. 

Ant.   In  sooth,  I  know  not  why  I  am  so  sad : 
It  wearies  me  ;  you  say  it  wearies  you  ; 
But  how  I  caught  it,  found  it,  or  came  by  it, 
What  stuff  'tis  made  of,  whereof  it  is  born, 
I  am  to  learn ; 

And  such  a  want-wit  sadness  makes  of  me 
That  I  have  much  ado  to  know  myself. 

Salar.  Your  mind  is  tossing  on  the  ocean  ; 
There,  where  your  argosies,  with  portly  sail, — 
Like  signiors  and  rich  burghers  of  the  flood, 
Or,  as  it  were,  the  pageants  of  the  sea, — 
Do  overpeer  the  petty  traffickers 
That  curt'sy  to  them,  do  them  reverence, 
As  they  fly  by  them  with  their  woven  wings. 

Solan.  Believe  me,  sir,had  I  such  venture  forth, 
The  better  part  of  my  affections  would 
Be  with  my  hopes  abroad.     I  should  be  still 
Plucking  the  grass,   to   know  where  sits  the 

wind  ; 

Peering  in  maps  for  ports,  and  piers,  and  roads  ; 
And  every  object  that  might  make  me  fear 
Misfortune  to  my  ventures,  out  of  doubt 
Would  make  me  sad. 

Salar.  My  wind,  cooling  my  broth, 

Would  blow  me  to  an  ague  when  I  thought 
What  harm  a  wind  too  great  might  do  at  sea. 
I  should  not  see  the  sandy  hour-glass  run 
But  I  should  think  of  shallows  and  of  flats 


And  see  my  wealthy  Andrew  dock'd  in  sand, 
Vailing  her  high-top  lower  than  her  ribs, 
To  kiss  her  burial.     Should  I  go  to  church, 
And  see  the  holy  edifice  of  stone, 
And  not  bethink  me  straight  of  dangerous  rocks, 
Which,  touching  but  my  gentle  vessel's  side, 
Would  scatter  all  her  spices  on  the  stream, 
Enrobe  the  roaring  waters  with  my  silks, 
And,  in  a  word,  but  even  now  worth  this, 
And  now  worth  nothing?     Shall  I  have  the 

thought 

To  think  on  this ;  and  shall  I  lack  the  thought 
That  such  a  thing  bechanc'd  would  make  me 

sad? 

But  tell  not  me  ;  I  know  Antonio 
Is  sad  to  think  upon  his  merchandize.  [it, 

Ant.   Believe  me,  no :  I  thank  my  fortune  for 
My  ventures  are  not  in  one  bottom  trusted, 
Nor  to  one  place  ;  nor  is  my  whole  estate 
Upon  the  fortune  of  this  present  year  : 
Therefore  my  merchandize  makes  me  not  sad. 

Solan.  Why,  then  you  are  in  love. 

Ant.  Fie,  fie! 

Solan.  Not  in  love  neither  ?    Then  let 's  say 

you  are  sad 

Because  you  are  not  merry  :  and  'twere  as  easy 
For  you  to  laugh,  and  leap,  and  say  you  are 
merry,  [Janus, 

Because  you  are  not  sad.     Now,  by  two-headed 
Nature  hath  framed  strange  fellows  in  her  time : 
Some  that  will  evermore  peep  through  their  eyes, 
And  laugh,  like  parrots,  at  a  bag-piper : 
And  other  of  such  vinegar  aspect, 


SCENE  I.J 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


223 


That  they  '11  not  show  their  teeth  in  way  of  smile, 
Though  Nestor  swear  the  jest  be  laughable. 
Here  comes  Bassanio,  your  most  noble  kinsman, 
Gratiano  and  Lorenzo.     Fare  ye  well ; 
We  leave  you  now  with  better  company. 

Salar.  I  would  have  stayM  till  I  had  made 

you  merry. 
If  worthier  friends  had  not  prevented  me. 

Ant.  Your  worth  is  very  dear  in  my  regard. 
I  take  it  your  own  business  calls  on  you, 
And  you  embrace  the  occasion  to  depart. 

Enter  BASSANIO,  LORENZO,  and  GRATIANO. 

Salar.  Good-morrow,  my  good  lords. 

Bass.   Good   signiors   both,   when  shall   we 

laugh?  say,  when? 
You  grow  exceeding  strange:  must  it  be  so? 

Solar.  We  '11  make  our  leisures  to  attend  on 
yours.     {Exeunt  SALAR.  and  SOLAN. 

Lor.  My   Lord    Bassanio,    since   you   have 

found  Antonio, 

We  two  will  leave  you ;  but  at  dinner-time, 
I  pray  you,  have  in  mind  where  we  must  meet. 

Bass.   I  will  not  fail  you. 

Gra.  You  look  not  well,  Signior  Antonio ; 
You  have  too  much  respect  upon  the  world : 
They  lose  it  that  do  buy  it  with  much  care. 
Believe  me,  you  are  marvellously  chang'd. 

Ant.   I  hold  the  world  but  as   the  world, 

Gratiano — 

A  stage,  where  every  man  must  play  a  part, 
And  mine  a  sad  one. 

Gra.  Let  me  play  the  fool : 

With  mirth  and  laughter  let  old  wrinkles  come ; 
And  let  my  liver  rather  heat  with  wine 
Than  my  heart  cool  with  mortifying  groans. 
Why  should  a  man,  whose  blood  is  warm  within, 
Sit  like  his  grandsire  cut  in  alabaster? 
Sleep  when  he  wakes?    and  creep  into  the 

jaundice 

By  being  peevish?  I  tell  thee  what,  Antonio, — 
I  love  thee,  and  it  is  my  love  that  speaks, — 
There  are  a  sort  of  men  whose  visages 
Do  cream  and  mantle  like  a  standing  pond, 
And  do  a  wilful  stillness  entertain, 
With  purpose  to  be  dress'd  in  an  opinion 
Of  wisdom,  gravity,  profound  conceit ; 
As  who  should  say,  I  am  Sir  Oracle, 
And,  when  I  ope  my  lips,  let  no  dog  bark  ! 
O,  my  Antonio,  I  do  know  of  these, 
That  therefore  only  are  reputed  wise 
For  saying  nothing ;  who,  I  am  very  sure, 
If  they  should  speak,  would  almost  damn  those 
ears  [fools. 

Which,  hearing  them,  would  call  their  brothers 
I  '11  tell  thee  more  of  this  another  time : 
But  fish  not,  with  this  melancholy  bait, 


For  this  fool's  gudgeon,  this  opinion.— 
Come,  good  Lorenzo.— Fare  ye  well  awhile; 
I  '11  end  my  exhortation  after  dinner.       [time  : 

Lor.  Well,  we  will  leave  you  then  till  dinner- 
I  must  be  one  of  these  same  dumb  wise  men, 
For  Gratiano  never  lets  me  speak.  [moe, 

Gra.  Well,  keep  me  company  but  two  years 
Thou  shah  not  know  the  sound  of  thine  own 
tongue. 

Ant.  Farewell:  I'llgrowatalkerforthisgear. 

Gra.  Thanks,   i' faith;    for  silence  is  only 

commendable  [dible. 

In  a  neat's  tongue  dried  and  a  maid  not  ven- 

\Exeunt  GRA.  and  LOR. 

Ant.  Is  that  anything  now? 

Bass.  Gratiano  speaks  an  infinite  deal  of 
nothing,  more  than  any  man  in  all  Venice. 
His  reasons  are  as  two  grains  of  wheat  hid  in 
two  bushels  of  chaff:  you  shall  seek  all  day  ere 
you  find  them;  and,  when  you  have  them, 
they  are  not  worth  the  search.  [same 

Ant.  Well ;  tell  me  now,  what  lady  is  this 
To  whom  you  swore  a  secret  pilgrimage, 
That  you  to-day  promis'd  to  tell  me  of? 

Bass.  'Tis  not  unknown  to  you,  Antonio, 
How  much  I  have  disabled  mine  estate 
By  something  showinf  a  more  swelling  port 
Than  my  faint  means  would  grant  continuance: 
Nor  do  I  now  make  moan  to  be  abridg'd 
From  such  a  noble  rate ;  but  my  chief  care 
Is  to  come  fairly  off  from  the  great  debts 
Wherein  my  time,  something  too  prodigal, 
Hath  left  me  gag'd.     To  you,  Antonio, 
I  owe  the  most,  in  money  and  in  love; 
And  from  your  love  I  have  a  warranty 
To  unburthen  all  my  plots  and  purposes 
How  to  get  clear  of  all  the  debts  I  owe.       [it  * 

Ant.  I  pray  you,  good  Bassanio,  let  me  know 
And  if  it  stand,  as  you  yourself  still  do, 
Within  the  eye  of  honour,  be  assur'd 
My  purse,  my  person,  my  extremest  means 
Lie  all  unlock'd  to  your  occasions.  [shaft, 

Bass.  In  my  school-days,  when  I  had  lost  one 
I  shot  his  fellow  of  the  self-same  flight 
The  self-same  way,  with  more  advised  watch, 
To  find  the  other  forth ;  and  by  advent'ring  both 
I  oft  found  both:  I  urge  this  childhood  proof, 
Because  what  follows  is  pure  innocence. 
I  owe  you  much ;  and,  like  a  wilful  youth, 
That  which  I  owe  is  lost :  but  if  you  please 
To  shoot  another  arrow  that  self-way      .ttf\ 
Which  you  did  shoot  the  first,  I  do  not  doubt, 
As  I  will  watch  the  aim,  or  to  find  both 
Or  bring  your  latter  hazard  back  again, 
And  thankfully  rest  debtor  for  the  first,     [time 

Ant.  You  know  me  well,  and  herein  spent  but 
To  wind  about  my  love  with  circumstance ; 


224 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  i. 


And  out  of  doubt  you  do  me  now  more  wrong, 
In  making: question  of  my  uttermost, 
Than  if  you  had  made  waste  of  all  I  have. 
Then  do  but  say  to  me  what  I  should  do, 
That  in  your  knowledge  may  by  me  be  done, 
And  I  am  press'd  unto  it :  therefore,  speak. 

Bass.  In  Belmont  is  a  lady  richly  left, 
And  she  is  fair,  and  fairer  than  that  word, 
Of  wondrous  virtues :  sometimes  from  her  eyes 
I  did  receive  fair  speechless  messages : 
Her  name  is  Portia ;  nothing  undervalued 
To  Cato's  daughter,  Brutus'  Portia. 
Nor  is  the  wide  world  ignorant  of  her  worth ; 
For  the  four  wind?  blow  in  from  every  coast 
Renowned  suitors    and  her  sum  y  locks 
Hang  on  her  temples  like  a  golden  fleece ; 
Which  makes  her  seat  of  Belmont  Colchos' 

strand, 
And  many  Jasons  come  in  quest  of  her. 

0  my  Antonio,  had  I  but  the  means 
To  hold  a  rival  place  with  one  of  them, 

1  have  a  mind  presages  me  such  thrift 

That  I  should  questionless  be  fortunate,     [sea; 
Ant.  Thou  know'st  that  all  my  fortunes  are  at 
Neither  have  I  money  nor  commodity 
To  raise  a  present  sum :  therefore  go  forth ; 
Try  what  my  credit  can  in  Venice  do : 
That  shall  be  rack'd,  even  to  the  uttermost, 
To  furnish  thee  to  Belmont,  to  fair  Portia, 
Go,  presently  inquire,  and  so  will  I, 
Where  money  is ;  and  I  no  question  make 
To  have  it  of  my  trust  or  for  my  sake. 

[Exeunt. 

•;3YoI  ni  bns  '{.yflora  ni  tj£<;ci  e.'Ij  uwo  I. 
SCENE  II. — BELMONT.    A  Room  in  PORTIA'S 
House. 

Enter  PORTIA  and  NERISSA. 

For.  By  my  troth,  Nerissa,  my  little  body  is 
a- weary  of  this  great  world. 

Ner.  You  would  be,  sweet  madam,  if  your 
miseries  were  in  the  same  abundance  as  youi 
good  fortunes  are :  and  yet  for  aught  I  see,  they 
are  as  sick  that  surfeit  with  too  much  as  they 
that  starve  with  nothing.  It  is  no  mean  happi- 
ness, therefore,  to  be  seated  in  the  mean  : 
superfluity  comes  sooner  by  white  hairs,  but 
competency  lives  longer. 

For.  Good  sentences,  and  well  pronounced. 

Ner.  They  would  be  better  if  well  followed. 

For.  If  to  do  were  as  easy  as  to  know  what 
were  good  to  do,  chapels  had  been  churches, 
and  poor  men's  cottages  princes'  palaces.  It  is 
a  good  divine  that  follows  his  own  instructions : 
I  can  easier  teach  twenty  what  were  good  to  be 
done,  than  be  one  of  the  twenty  to  follow  mine 
own  teaching.  The  brain  may  devise  laws  for 


the  blood,  but  a  hot  temper  leaps  over  a  cold 
decree ;  such  a  hare  is  madness,  the  youth,  to 
skip  o'er  the  meshes  of  good  council,  the  cripple. 
But  this  reasoning  is  not  in  the  fashion  to  choose 
me  a  husband. — O  me,  the  word  choose!  I 
may  neither  choose  whom  I  would  nor  refuse 
whom  I  dislike;  so  is  the  will  of  a  living 
daughter  curbed  by  the  will  of  a  dead  father. — • 
Is  it  not  hard,  Nerissa,  that  I  cannot  choose 
one,  nor  refuse  none? 

Ner.  Your  lather  was  ever  virtuous;  and 
holy  men,  at  their  death,  have  good  inspirations ; 
therefore,  the  lottery  that  he  hath  devised  in 
these  three  chests,  of  gold,  silver,  and  lead, — 
whereof  who  chooses  his  meaning  chooses  you, 
— will,  no  doubt,  never  be  chosen  by  any  rightly 
but  one  who  you  shall  rightly  love.  But  what 
warmth  is  there  in  your  affection  towards  any 
of  these  princely  suitors  that  are  already  come? 

For.  I  pray  thee,  over-name  them ;  and  as 
thou  namest  them,  I  will  describe  them;  and 
according  to  my  description,  level  at  my  affec- 
tion. 

Ner.  First,  there  is  the  Neapolitan  prince. 

For.  Ay,  that 's  a  colt  indeed,  for  he  doth 
nothing  but  talk  of  his  horse ;  and  he  makes  it 
a  great  appropriation  to  his  own  good  parts  that 
he  can  shoe  him  himself:,  I  am  much  afraid  my 
lady  his  mother  played  false  with  a  smith. 

Ner.  Then  is  there  the  County  Palatine. 

For.  He  doth  nothing  but  frown;  as  who 
should  say,  An  if  you  will  not  have  me,  choose: 
he  hears  merry  talcs  and  smiles  not :  I  fear  he 
will  prove  the  weeping  philosopher  when  he 
grows  old,  being  so  full  of  unmannerly  sadness 
in  his  youth.  I  had  rather  be  married  to  a 
death's  head  with  a  bone  in  his  mouth  than  to 
either  of  these.  God  defend  me  from  these  two! 

Ner.  How  say  you  by  the  French  lord, 
Monsieur  Le  Bon? 

For.  God  made  him,  and  therefore  let  him 
pass  for  a  man.  In  truth,  I  know  it  is  a  sin  to 
be  a  mocker:  but,  he!  why,  he  hath  a  horse 
better  than  the  Neapolitan's ;  a  better  bad  habit 
of  frowning  than  the  Count  Palatine:  he  is 
every  man  and  no  man ;  if  a  throstle  sing  he  falls 
straight  a-capering ;  he  will  fence  with  his  own 
shadow :  if  I  should  marry  him  I  should  marry 
twenty  husbands.  If  he  would  despise  me  1 
would  forgive  him ;  for  if  he  love  me  to  mad- 
ness I  shall  never  requite  him. 

Ner.  What  say  you  then  to  Falconbridgc, 
the  young  baron  of  England? 

For.  You  know  I  say  nothing  to  him ;  for  he 
understands  not  me,  nor  I  him :  he  hath  neither 
Latin,  French,  nor  Italian ;  and  you  will  come 
into  the  court  and  swear  that  I  have  a  poor 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


225 


pennyworth  in  the  English.  He  is  a  proper 
man's  picture ;  but,  alas !  who  can  converse 
with  a  dumb  show?  How  oddly  he  is  suited ! 
I  think,  he  bought  his  doublet  in  Italy,  his 
round  hose  in  France,  his  bonnet  in  Germany, 
and  his  behaviour  everywhere. 

Ner.  What  think  you  of  the  Scottish  lord, 
his  neighbour? 

For.  That  he  hath  a  neighbourly  charity  in 
him ;  for  he  borrowed  a  box  of  the  ear  of  the 
Englishman,  and  swore  he  would  pay  him  again 
when  he  was  able :  I  think  the  Frenchman  be- 
came his  surety,  and  sealed  under  for  another. 

Ner.  How  like  you  the  young  German,  the 
Duke  of  Saxony's  nephew? 

For.  Very  vilely  in  the  morning  when  he  is 
sober ;  and  most  vilely  in  the  afternoon  when 
he  is  drunk ;  when  he  is  best  he  is  a  little  worse 
than  a  man ;  and  when  he  is  worst,  he  is  little 
better  than  a  beast.  An  the  worst  fall  that  ever 
fell,  I  hope  I  shall  make  shift  to  go  without 
him. 

Ner.  If  he  should  offer  to  choose,  and  choose 
the  right  casket,  you  should  refuse  to  perform 
your  father's  will  if  you  should  refuse  to  accept 
him. 

For.  Therefore,  for  fear  of  the  worst,  I  pray 
thee  set  a  deep  glass  of  Rhenish  wine  on  the 
contrary  casket :  for,  if  the  devil  be  within  and 
that  temptation  without,  I  know  he  will  choose 
it.  I  will  do  anything,  Nerissa,  ere  I  will  be 
married  to  a  sponge. 

Ner.  You  need  not  fear,  lady,  the  having  any 
of  these  lords ;  they  have  acquainted  me  with 
their  determinations;  which  is  indeed,  to  return 
to  their  home,  and  to  trouble  you  with  no  more 
suit,  unless  you  may  be  won  by  some  other 
sort  than  your  father's  imposition,  depending 
on  the  caskets. 

For.  If  I  live  to  be  as  old  as  Sibylla,  I  will 
die  as  chaste  as  Diana,  unless  I  be  obtained  by 
the  manner  of  my  father's  will.  I  am  glad  this 
parcel  of  wooers  are  so  reasonable ;  for  there  is 
not  one  among  them  but  I  dote  on  his  very 
absence,  and  I  pray  God  grant  them  a  fair 
departure. 

Ner.  Do  you  not  remember,  lady,  in  your 
father's  time,  a  Venetian,  a  scholar  and  a 
soldier,  that  came  hither  in  company  of  the 
Marquis  of  Montferrat? 

For.  Yes,  yes,  it  was  Bassanio ;  as  I  think, 
so  was  he  called. 

Ner.  True,  madam ;  he,  of  all  the  men  that 
ever  my  foolish  eyes  looked  upon,  was  the  best 
deserving  a  fair  lady. 

For.  I  remember  him  well ;  and  I  r*m«mber 
him  worthy  of  thy  praise. — 


Enter  a  Servant. 
How  now  !  what  news? 

Serv.  The  four  strangers  seek  for  you,  madam, 
to  take  their  leave ;  and  there  is  a  forerunner 
come  from  a  fifth,  the  prince  of  Morocco,  who 
brings  word,  the  prince  his  master  will  be  here 
to-night. 

For.  If  I  could  bid  the  fifth  welcome  with  so 
good  heart  as  I  can  bid  the  other  four  farewell, 
I  should  be  glad  of  his  approach :  if  he  have 
the  condition  of  a  saint  and  the  complexion  of 
a  devil,  I  had  rather  he  should  shrive  me  than 
wive  me. 

Come,  Nerissa. — Sirrah,  go  before. — 
Whiles  we  shut   the  gate   upon  one   wooer, 
another  knocks  at  the  door.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— VENICE.    A  Public  Place. 
Enter  BASSANIO  and  SHYLOCK. 

Shy.  Three  thousand  ducats, — well. 

Bass.  Ay,  sir,  for  three  months. 

Shy.  For  three  months, — well. 

Bass.  For  the  which,  as  I  told  you,  Antonio 
shall  be  bound. 

Shy.  Antonio  shall  become  bound, — well. 

Bass.  May  you  stead  me?  Will  you  plea- 
sure me?  Shall  I  know  your  answer? 

Shy.  Three  thousand  ducats  for  three  months, 
and  Antonio  bound. 

Bass.  Your  answer  to  that. 

Shy.  Antonio  is  a  good  man. 

Bass.  Have  you  heard  any  imputation  to  the 
contrary? 

Shy.  Ho,  no,  no ;  no,  no ; — my  meaning,  in 
saying  he  is  a  good  man,  is  to  have  you  under- 
stand me  that  he  is  sufficient:  yet  his  means 
are  in  supposition :  he  hath  an  argosy  bound  to 
Tripolis,  another  to  the  Indies;  I  understand, 
moreover,  upon  the  Rialto,  he  hath  a  third  at 

Mexico,  a  fourth  for   England, and  other 

ventures  he  hath,  squandered  abroad.  But 
ships  are  but  boards,  sailors  but  men :  there  be 
land-rats  and  water-rats,  water-thieves  and  land- 
thieves  ;  I  mean  pirates ;  and  then  there  is  the 
peril  of  waters,  winds,  and  rocks.  The  man 
is,  notwithstanding,  sufficient ; — three  thousand 
ducats : — I  think  I  may  take  his  bond. 

Bass.  Be  assured  you  may. 

Shy.  I  will  be  assured  I  may;  and,  that  I 
may  be  assured,  I  will  bethink  me.  May  I 
speak  with  Antonio? 

Bass.   If  it  please  you  to  dine  with  us. 

Shy.  Yes,  to  smell  pork ;  to  eat  of  the  habi- 
tation which  your  prophet,  the  Nazarite,  con- 
jured the  devil  into;  I  will  buy  with  you,  sell 
with  you,  talk  with  you,  walk  with  you,  and  so 

H 


220 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  r. 


following;  but  I  will  not  eat  with  you,  drink 
with  you,  nor  pray  with  you. — What  news  on 
the  Rialto? — Who  is  he  conies  here? 

Enter  ANTONIO. 

Bass.  This  is  Signior  Antonio. 

Shy.  [Aside.]  How  like  a  fawning  publican 

he  looks! 

I  hate  him  for  he  is  a  Christian ; 
But  more  for  that,  in  low  simplicity, 
He  lends  out  money  gratis,  and  brings  down 
The  rate  of  usance  here  with  us  in  Venice. 
If  I  can  catch  him  once  upon  the  hip, 
I  will  feed  fat  the  ancient  grudge  I  bear  him. 
He  hates  our  sacred  nation ;  and  he  rails, 
Even  there  where  merchants  most  do  congregate, 
On  me,  my  bargains,  and  my  well-won  thrift, 
Which  he  calls  interest.     Cursed  be  my  tribe 
If  I  forgive  him ! 

Bass.  Shylock,  do  you  hear? 

Shy.  I  am  debating  of  my  present  store : 
And,  by  the  near  guess  of  my  memory, 
I  cannot  instantly  raise  up  the  gross 
Of  full  three  thousand  ducats.     What  of  that? 
Tubal,  a  wealthy  Hebrew  of  my  tribe, 
Will  furnish  rne.     But  soft !  how  many  months 
Do  you  desire? — Rest  you  fair,  good  signior: 

[  To  ANTONIO. 
Your  worship  was  the  last  man  in  our  mouths. 

Ant.  Shylock,   albeit    I    neither   lend   nor 

borrow, 

By  taking  nor  by  giving  of  excess, 
Yet,  to  supply  the  ripe  wants  of  my  friend, 
I  '11  break  a  custom. — Is  he  yet  possess'd 
How  much  he  would? 

Shy.  Ay,  ay,  three  thousand  ducats. 

Ant.  And  for  three  monthc.  [me  so. 

Shy.  I  had  forgot, — three  months ;  you  told 

Well  then,  your  bond;  and,  let  me  see, 

But  hear  you : 

Methought  you  said  you  neither  lend  nor  borrow 
Upon  advantage. 

Ant.  I  do  never  use  it. 

Shy.  When  Jacob  graz'd  his  uncle  Laban's 

sheep,— 

This  Jacob  from  our  holy  Abraham  was — 
As  his  wise  mother  wrought  in  his  behalf— 
The  third  possessor ;  ay,  he  was  the  third, — 

Ant.  And  what  of  him  ?  did  he  take  interest? 

Shy.  No,   not  take  interest;    not,   as  you 

would  say, 

Directly  interest :  mark  what  Jacob  did. 
When  Laban  and  himself  were  compromis'd 
That  all  the  eaniings  which  were  streak'd  and 
pied  [rank, 

Should  fall  as  Jacob's  hire;  the  ewes,  being 
In  end  of  autumn  turned  to  the  rams : 


And  when  the  work  of  generation  was 
Between  these  woolly  breeders  in  the  act, 
The  skilful  shepherd  peel'd  me  certain  wands, 
And,  in  the  doing  of  the  deed  of  kind, 
He  stuck  them  up  before  the  fulsome  ewes, 
Who,  then  conceiving,  did  in  eaning  time 
Fall    party-colour'd    lambs,   and    those   were 

Jacob's. 

This  was  a  way  to  thrive,  and  he  was  blest; 
And  thrift  is  blessing  if  men  steal  it  not. 

Ant.    This  was  a  venture,   sir,  that  Jacob 

serv'd  for ; 

A  thing  not  in  his  power  to  bring  to  pass, 
But  sway'd  and  fashion'd  by  the  hand  of  heaven. 
Was  this  inserted  to  make  interest  good? 
Or  is  your  gold  and  silver  ewes  and  rams? 

Shy.  I  cannot  tell ;  I  make  it  breed  as  fast : — 
But  note  me,  signior. 

Ant.  Mark  you  this,  Bassanio, 

The  devil  can  cite  scripture  for  his  purpose. 
An  evil  soul  producing  holy  witness 
Is  like  a  villain  with  a  smiling  cheek — 
A  goodly  apple  rotten  at  the  heart : 
O,  what  a  goodly  outside  falsehood  hath ! 

Shy.  Three    thousand   ducats, — 'tis  a  good 

round  sum.  [rate. 

Three  months  from  twelve,  then  let  me  see  the 

Ant.  Well,  Shylock,  shall  we  be  beholden 
to  you? 

Shy.  Signior  Antonio,  many  a  time  and  oft, 
In  the  Rialto,  you  have  rated  me 
About  my  moneys  and  my  usances : 
Still  have  I  borne  it  with  a  patient  shrug ; 
For  sufferance  is  the  badge  of  all  our  tribe : 
You  call  me  misbeliever,  cut-throat  dog, 
And  spit  upon  my  Jewish  gaberdine,    • 
And  all  for  use  of  that  which  is  mine  own. 
Well,  then,  it  now  appears  you  need  my  help  : 
Go  to,  then ;  you  come  to  me,  and  you  say, 
Shylocky  we  would  have  moneys: — you  say  so ; 
You,  that  did  void  your  rheum  upon  my  beard, 
And  foot  me  as  you  spurn  a  stranger  cur 
Over  your  threshold :  moneys  is  your  suit. 
What  should  I  say  to  you?    Should  I  not  say, 
Hath  a  dog  money?  is  it  possible 
A  cur  can  lend  three  thousand  ducats?  or 
Shall  I  bend  low,  and  in  a  bondman's  key, 
With  'bated  breath  and  whispering  humbleness, 

Say  this? 

Fair  sir,  you  spit  on  me  on  Wednesday  last 
You  spurted  me  such  a  day ;  another  time 
You  called  me  dog;  and  for  these  courtesies 
/'//  lend  you  thus  much  moneys. 

Ant.  I  am  as  like  to  call  thee  so  again, 
To  spit  on  thee  again,  to  spurn  thee  too. 
If  thou  wilt  lend  this  money,  lend  it  not 
As  to  thy  friends,  (for  when  did  friendship  take 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


227 


A  breed  for  barren  metal  of  his  friend  ?) 
But  lend  it  rather  to  thine  enemy, 
Who  if  he  break,  thou  mayst  with  better  face 
Exact  the  penalty. 

Shy.  Why,  look  you,  how  you  storm  ! 

I  would  be  friends  with  you,  and  have  your  love, 
Forget  the  shames  that  you  have  stain'd  me  with, 
Supply  your  present  wants,  and  take  no  doit 
Of  usance  for  my  moneys,  and  you  '11  not  hear  me : 
This  is  kind  I  offer. 

Bass.  This  were  kindness. 

Sky.  This  kindness  will  I  show. — 

Go  with  me  to  a  notary,  seal  me  there 
Your  single  bond ;  and,  in  a  merry  sport, 
If  you  repay  me  not  on  such  a  day, 
In  such  a  place,  such  sum  or  sums  as  are 
Express'd  in  the  condition,  let  the  forfeit 
Be  nominated  for  an  equal  pound 
Of  your  fair  flesh,  to  be  cut  off  and  taken 
In  what  part  of  your  body  pleaseth  me.     [bond, 

Ant.  Content,  in  faith :  I  Ml  seal  to  such  a 
And  say  there  is  much  kindness  in  the  Jew. 

Bass.  You  shall  not  seal  to  such  a  bond  for 

me: 
I'll  rather  dwell  in  my  necessity.  [it ; 

Ant.   Why  fear  not,  man ;  I  will  not  forfeit 
Within  these  two  months — that 's  a  month  before 
This  bond  expires— I  do  expect  return 
Of  thrice  three  times  the  value  of  this  bond. 

Shy.  O  father  Abraham,  what  these  Chris- 
tians are, 

Whose  own  hard  dealings  teaches  them  suspect 
The  thoughts  of  others  1  Pray  you,  tell  me  this ; 
If  he  should  break  his  day,  what  should  I  gain 
By  the  exaction  of  the  forfeiture? 
A  pound  of  man's  flesh,  taken  from  a  man, 
Is  not  so  estimable,  profitable  neither, 
As  flesh  of  muttons,  beefs,  or  goats.     I  say, 
To  buy  his  favour  I  extend  this  friendship ; 
If  he  will  take  it,  so;  if  not,  adieu; 
And  for  my  love,  I  pray  you  wrong  me  not. 

Ant.  Yes,  Shylock,  I  will  seal  unto  this  bond. 

Shy.  Then  meet  me  forthwith  at  the  notary's ; 
Give  him  direction  for  this  merry  bond, 
And  I  will  go  and  purse  the  ducats  straight, 
See  to  my  house,  left  in  the  fearful  guard 
Of  an  unthrifty  knave,  and  presently 
I  will  be  with  you. 

Ant.  Hie  thee,  gentle  Jew; 

[Exit  SHYLOCK. 

This  Hebrew  will   turn  Christian:   he  grows 
kind.  [mind. 

Bass.  I  like   not  fair   terms  and  a  villain's 

Ant.  Come  on;   in   this  there  can   be  no 

dismay ; 

My  ships  come  home  a  month  before  the  day. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — BELMONT.    A  Room  in  PORTIA'S 
House. 

Flourish  of  Garnets.  Enter  the  PRINCE  OF 
MOROCCO  and  his  Train;  PORTIA,  NERISSA, 
and  other  of  her  Attendants. 

Mor.  Mislike  me  not  for  my  complexion, 
The  shadow'd  livery  of  the  burnish'd  sun, 
To  whom  I  am  a  neighbour,  and  near  bred. 
Bring  me  the  fairest  creature  northward  born, 
Where  Phoebus'  fire  scarce  thaws  the  icicles, 
And  let  us  make  incision  for  your  love, 
To  prove  whose  blood  is  reddest,  his  or  mine. 
I  tell  thee  lady,  this  aspect  of  mine 
Hath  fearM  the  valiant ;  by  my  love,  I  swear, 
The  best-regarded  virgins  of  our  clime 
Have  lov'd  it  too  :  I  would  not  change  this  hue, 
Except  to  steal  your  thoughts,  my  gentle  queen. 

For.  In  terms  of  choice  I  am  not  solely  led 
By  nice  direction  of  a  maiden's  eyes : 
Besides,  the  lottery  of  my  destiny 
Bars  me  the  right  of  voluntary  choosing: 
But,  if  my  father  had  not  scanted  me, 
And  hedg'd  me  by  his  wit,  to  yield  myself 
His  wife  who  wins  me  by  that  means  I  told  you, 
Yourself,  renowned  prince,  then  stood  as  fair 
As  any  comer  I  have  look'd  on  yet 
For  my  affection. 

Mor.  Even  for  that  I  thank  you ; 

Therefore,  I  pray  you,  lead  me  to  the  caskets, 
To  try  my  fortune.     By  this  scimitar, — 
That  slew  the  Sophy,  and  a  Persian  prince 
That  won  three  fields  of  Sultan  Solyman,— 
I  would  out-stare  the  sternest  eyes  that  look, 
Out-brave  the  heart  most  daring  on  the  earth, 
Pluck  the  young  sucking  cubs  from  the  she-bear, 
Yea,  mock  the  lion  when  he  roars  for  prey, 
To  win  thee,  lady.     But,  alas  the  while ! 
If  Hercules  and  Lichas  play  at  dice 
Which  is  the  better  man,  the  greater  throw 
May  turn  by  fortune  from  the  weaker  hand : 
So  is  Alcides  beaten  by  his  page ; 
And  so  may  I,  blind  fortune  leading  me, 
Miss  that  which  one  unworthier  may  attain, 
And  die  with  grieving. 

For.  You  must  take  your  chance ; 

And  either  not  attempt  to  choose  at  all, 
Or  swear  before  you  choose,  if  you  choose  wrong, 
Never  to  speak  to  lady  afterward 
In  way  of  marriage ;  therefore  be  advis'd. 

Mor.  Nor  will  not;  come,  bring  me  unto 
my  chance. 

For.  First,   forward    to  the   temple:    after 

dinner 
Your  hazard  shall  be  mad«. 


22$ 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


CACT  ii. 


Mor.  Good  fortune  then  ! 

To  make  me  blest  or  cursed'st  among  men. 

[Cornets  and  exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— VENICE.     A  Street. 

--jfi   jr  "^  iVcruv-i.  . 

Enter  LAUNCELOT  GOBBO. 

Laun.  Certainly  my  conscience  will  serve  me 
to  run  from  this  Jew,  my  master.  The  fiend  is 
at  mine  elbow,  and  tempts  me,  saying  to  me, 
Gobbo,  Launcelot  Gobbo,  good  Launcelot,  or  good 
Gobbo,  or  good  Launcelot  Gobbo,  use  your  legs, 
take  the  start,  run  away.  My  conscience  says, 
— No;  take  heed,  honest  Launcelot ;  take  heed, 
honest  Gobbo:  or  as  aforesaid,  honest  Launce- 
let  Gobbo ;  do  not  run,  scorn  running -with  thy 
heels.  Well,  the  most  courageous  fiend  bids 
me  pack:  Via!  says  the  fiend ;  away!  says  the 
fiend,  for  the  heavens ;  rouse  up  a  brave  mind, 
says  the  fiend,  and  run.  Well,  my  conscience, 
hanging  about  the  neck  of  my  heart,  says  very 
wisely  to  me, — My  honest  friend,  Launcelot, 
being  an  honest  man's  son,  or  rather  an  honest 
woman's  son ; — for  indeed,  my  father  did 
something  smack,  something  grow  to,  he  had  a 
kind  of  taste; — well,  my  conscience  says,  Launce- 
lot, budge  not.  Budge,  says  the  fiend.  Budge 
not,  says  my  conscience.  Conscience,  say  I, 
you  counsel  well;  fiend,  say  I,  you  counsel 
well :  to  be  ruled  by  my  conscience,  I  should 
stay  with  the  Jew,  my  master,  who  (God  bless 
the  mark  !)  is  a  kind  of  devil ;  and,  to  run  away 
from  the  Jew,  I  should  be  ruled  by  the  fiend, 
who,  saving  your  reverence,  is  the  devil  him- 
self. Certainly  the  Jew  is  the  very  devi.  incar- 
nation :  and,  in  my  conscience,  my  conscience 
is  but  a  kind  of  hard  conscience,  to  offer  to 
counsel  me  to  stay  with  the  Jew.  .  The  fiend 
gives  the  more  friendly  counsel:  I  will  run, 
fiend ;  my  heels  are  at  your  commandment ;  I 
will  run. 

Enter  Old  GOBBO,  with  a  basket. 

Gob.  Master  young  man,  you,  I  pray  you, 
which  is  the  way  to  master  Jew's? 

Laun.  [Aside.]  O  heavens,  this  is  my  true 
begotten  father!  who,  being  more  than  sand- 
blind,  high-gravel  blind,  knows  me  not: — I 
will  try  confusions  with  him. 

Gob.  Master  young  gentleman,  I  pray  you, 
which  is  the  way  to  Master  Jew's? 

Laun.  Turn  up  on  your  right  hand  at  the  next 
turning,  but,  at  the  next  turning  of  all,  on  your 
left;  marry,  at  the  very  next  turning,  turn  of  no 
hand,  but  turn  down  indirectly  to  the  Jew's 
house. 

Gob,  By  God's  sonties,  'twill  be  a  hard  way  to 


hit.  Can  you  tell  me  whether  one  Launcelot, 
that  dwells  with  him,  dwell  with  him  or  no? 

Laun.  Talk  you  of  young  Master  Launcelot? 
— [Aside.]  Mark  me  now;  now  will  I  raise  the 
waters. — Talk  you  of  young  Master  Launcelot? 

Gob.  No  master,  sir,  but  a  poor  man's  son : 
his  father,  though  I  say  it,  is  an  honest  exceeding 
poor  man,  and,  God  be  thanked,  well  to  live. 

Laun.  Well,  let  his  father  be  what  'a  will, 
we  talk  of  young  Master  Launcelot.  [sir. 

Gob.  Your  worship's  friend,  and  Launcelot, 

Laun.  But  I  pray  you,  ergo,  old  man,  ergo,  I 
beseech  you,  talk  you  of  young  Master  Launce- 
lot? [ship- 

Gob.   Of  Launcelot,  an 't  please  your  master- 

Laun.  Ergo,  Master  Launcelot.  Talk  not 
of  Master  Launcelot,  father;  for  the  young 
gentleman, — according  to  Fates  and  Destinies, 
and  such  odd  sayings,  the  Sisters  Three,  and 
such  branches  of  learning, — is  indeed  deceased : 
or.  as  you  would  say  in  plain  terms,  gone  to 
heaven. 

Gob.  Marry,  God  forbid!  the  boy  was  the 
very  staff  of  my  age,  my  very  prop. 

Laun.  Do  I  look  like  a  cudgel  or  a  hovel- 
post,  astaff  or  a  prop? — Do  you  know  me,  father? 

Gob.  Alack  the  day,  I  know  you  not,  young 
gentleman:  but,  I  pray  you,  tell  me,  is  my  boy 
(God  rest  his  soul !)  alive  or  dead? 

Laun.  Do  you  not  know  me,  father? 

Gob.  Alack,  sir,  I  am  sand-blind,  I  know 
you  not. 

Laun.  Nay,  indeed,  if  you  had  your  eyes  you 
might  fail  of  the  knowing  me :  it  is  a  wise  father 
that  knows  his  own  child.  Well,  old  man,  I  will 
tell  you  news  of  your  son.  Give  me  your  bles- 
sing ;  truth  will  come  to  light ;  murder  cannot 
be  hid  long:  a  man's  son  may;  but,  in  the  end, 
truth  will  out. 

Gob.  Pray  you,  sir,  stand  up;  I  am  sure  you 
are  not  Launcelot,  my  boy. 

Laun.  Pray  you,  let 's  have  no  more  fooling 
about  it,  but  give  me  your  blessing;  I  am 
Launcelot,  your  boy  that  was,  your  son  that  is, 
your  child  that  shall  be. 

Gob.  I  cannot  think  you  are  my  son. 

Laun.  I  know  not  what  I  shall  think  of  thaf, 
but  I  am  Launcelot,  the  Jew's  man ;  and  I  am 
sure  Margery  your  wife  is  my  mother. 

Gob.  Her  name  is  Margery,  indeed :  I  '11  be 
sworn,  if  thou  be  Launcelot,  thou  art  mine  own 
flesh  and  blood.  Lord  worshipped  might  he  be ! 
what  a  beard  hast  thou  got!  thou  hast  got  more 
hair  on  thy  chin  than  Dobbin  my  thill-horse  has 
on  his  tail. 

Laun.  It  should  seem,  then,  that  Dobbin's 
tail  grows  backward;  I  am  sure  he  had  more 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


229 


itn.     nu  mm,  lauici. 

b.  God  bless  your  worship!  [me? 

55.  Gramercy:  wouldst  thou  aught  with 


hair  of  his  tail  than  I  have  of  my  face  when  I  last 
saw  him. 

Gob.  Lord,  how  art  thou  changed!  How 
dost  thou  and  thy  master  agree  ?  I  have  brought 
him  a  present.  How  'gree  you  now? 

Latin.  Well,  well;  but,  for  mine  own  part,  as 
I  have  set  up  my  rest  to  run  away,  so  I  will  not 
rest  till  I  have  run  some  ground.  My  master 's 
a  very  Jew :  give  him  a  present !  give  him  a 
halter :  I  am  famished  in  his  service ;  you  may 
tell  every  finger  I  have  with  my  ribs.  Father,  I 
am  glad  you  are  come ;  give  me  your  present  to 
one  Master  Bassanio,  who  indeed  gives  rare  new 
liveries :  if  I  serve  not  him,  I  will  run  as  far  as 
God  has  any  ground. — O  rare  fortune !  here  comes 
the  man ; — to  him,  father;  for  I  am  a  Jew  if  I 
serve  the  Jew  any  longer. 

Enter  BASSANIO,  with  LEONARDO,  and 
other  Followers. 

Bass.  You  may  do  so ; — but  let  it  be  so  hasted 
that  supper  be  ready  at  the  farthest  by  five  of  the 
clock.  See  these  letters  delivered;  put  the 
liveries  to  making ;  and  desire  Gratiano  to  come 
anon  to  my  lodging.  [Exit  a  Servant. 

Laun.  To  him,  father. 

Gob. 

Bass. 

Gob.  Here 's  my  son,  sir,  a  poor  boy, — 

Lann.  Not  a  poor  boy,  sir,  but  the  rich  Jew's 
man,  that  would,  sir,  as  my  father  shall  specify, — 

Gob.  He  hath  a  great  infection,  sir,  as  one 
would  say,  to  serve, — 

Laun.  Indeed,  the  short  and  the  long  is,  I 
serve  the  Jew,  and  have  a  desire,  as  my  father 
shall  specify, — 

Gob.  His  master  and  he, — saving  your  wor- 
ship's reverence, — are  scarce  cater-cousins, — 

Latin.  To  be  brief,  the  very  truth  is,  that  the 
Jew  having  done  me  wrong,  doth  cause  me,  as 
my  father,  being  I  hope  an  old  man,  shall 
frutify  unto  you, — 

Gob.  I  have  here  a  dish  of  doves  that  I  would 
bestow  upon  your  worship ;  and  my  suit  is, — 

Laun.  In  very  brief,  the  suit  is  impertinent 
to  myself,  as  your  worship  shall  know  by  this 
honest  old  man ;  and,  though  I  say  it,  though 
old  man,  yet,  poor  man,  my  father. 

Bass.  One  speak  for  both.  — What  would  you? 

Laun.  Serve  you,  sir. 

Gob.  That  is  the  very  defect  of  the  matter,  sir. 

Bass.  I  know  thee  well ;  thou  hast  obtain'd 

thy  suit : 

Shylock,  thy  master,  spoke  with  me  this  day, 
And  hath  preferr'd  thee — if  it  be  preferment 
To  leave  a  rich  Jew's  service,  to  become 
The  follower  of  so  poor  a  gentleman. 


Laun.  The  old  proverb  is  very  well  parted 
between  my  master,  Shylock,  and  you,  sir;  you 
have  the  grace  of  God,  sir,  and  he  hath  enough. 

Bass.  Thou  speak'st  it  well.      Go,  father, 

with  thy  son. — 

Take  leave  of  thy  old  master,  and  inquire 
My  lodging  out. — Give  him  a  livery 

[To  his  Followers. 
More  guarded  than  his  fellows' :  see  it  done. 

Laun.  Father,  in. — I  cannot  get  a  service, 
no: — I  have  ne'er  a  tongue  in  my  head. — 
Well ;  [looking  on  his  palni\  if  any  man  in  Italy 
have  a  fairer  table  which  doth  offer  to  swear 
upon  a  book,  I  shall  have  good  fortune ! — Go 
to,  here '3  a  simple  line  of  life!  here 's  a  small 
trifle  of  wives:  alas,  fifteen  wives  is  nothing, 
eleven  widows  and  nine  maids  is  a  simple  com- 
ing in  for  one  man  1  and  then  to  'scape  drown- 
ing thrice,  and  to  be  in  peril  of  my  life  with 
the  edge  of  a  feather-bed; — here  are  simple 
'scapes !  Well,  if  Fortune  be  a  woman,  she 's 
a  good  wench  for  this  gear. — Father,  come: 
I  '11  take  my  leave  of  the  Tew  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye.  [Exeunt  LAUN.  and  Old  GOB. 

Bass.  I  pray  thee,  good  Leonardo,  think  on 
this:  [stowM, 

These  things  being  bought  and  orderly  be- 
Return  in  haste,  for  I  dp  feast  to-night 
My  best  esteem'd  acquaintance;  hie  thee,  go. 

Leon.  My  best  endeavours  shall  be  done 

herein. 

.yuano!  fin  nfi&ua  fi>:-.»i — !  U3ibA  .swaX 
Enter  GRATIANO. 

Gra.  Where  is  your  master? 

Leon.  Yonder,  sir,  he  walks.     [Exit. 

Gra.  Signior  Bassanio, 

Bass.  Gratiano! 

Gra.  I  have  a  suit  to  you. 

Bass.  You  have  obtain'd  it 

Gra.  You  must  not  deny  me:    I  must  go 
with  you  to  Belmont.          [Gratiano; 

Bass.  Why,  then  you  must. — But  hear  thee, 
Thou  art  too  wild,  too  rude,  and  bold  of  voice;— 
Parts  that  become  thee  happily  enough, 
And  in  such  eyes  as  ours  appear  not  faults ; 
But  where  thou  art  not  known,  why,  there 

they  show 

Something  too  liberal.     Pray  thee,  take  pain 
To  allay  with  some  cold  drops  of  modesty 
Thy  skipping  spirit;  lest,  through  thy  wUd  be- 
haviour, 

I  be  misconstrued  in  the  place  I  go  to, 
And  lose  my  hopes. 

Gra.  Signior  Bassanio,  hear  me : 

If  I  do  not  put  on  a  sober  habit, 
Talk  with  respect,  and  swear  but  now  and  then, 
Wear  prayer-books  inmy  pocket,  look  demurely, 


230 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  ii. 


Nay  more,  while  grace  is  saying,  hood  mine  eyes 

Thus  with  my  hat,  and  sigh,  and  say  amen, 

Use  all  the  observance  of  civility, 

Like  one  well  studied  in  a  sad  ostent 

To  please  his  grandam,  never  trust  me  more. 

Bass.  Well,  we  shall  see  your  bearing. 

Gra.  Nay,  but  I  bar  to-night ;  you  shall  not 

gage  me 
By  what  we  do  to-night. 

Bass.  No,  that  were  pity ; 

I  would  entreat  you  rather  to  put  on 
Your  boldest  suit  of  mirth,  for  we  have  friends 
That  purpose  merriment.     But  fare  you  well : 
I  have  some  business. 

Gra.   And  I  must  to  Lorenzo  and  the  rest ; 
But  we  will  visit  you  at  supper-time. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  same.    A  Room  in  SHY- 
LOCK'S  House. 

Enter  JESSICA  and  LAUNCELOT. 

Jes.  I  am  sorry  thou  wilt  leave  my  father  so : 
Our  house  is  hell ;  and  thou,  a  merry  devil, 
Didst  rob  it  of  some  taste  of  tediousness. 
But  fare  thee  well ;  there  is  a  ducat  for  thee : 
And,  Launcelot,  soon  at  supper  shalt  thou  see 
Lorenzo,  who  is  thy  new  master's  guest : 
Give  him  this  letter ;  do  it  secretly ; — 
And  so  farewell :  I  would  not  have  my  father 
See  me  in  talk  with  thee. 

Laun.  Adieu  ! — tears  exhibit  my  tongue. — 
Most  beautiful  pagan,  most  sweet  Jew!  if  a 
Christian  did  not  play  the  knave,  and  get  thee, 
I  am  much  deceived.  But,  adieu  !  these  foolish 
drops  do  somewhat  drown  my  manly  spirit ; 
adieu !  [Exit. 

Jes.  Farewell,  good  Launcelot. 
Alack,  what  heinous  sin  is  it  in  me 
To  be  asham'd  to  be  my  father's  child ! 
But  though  I  am  a  daughter  to  his  blood, 
I  am  not  to  his  manners.     O  Lorenzo, 
If  thou  keep  promise,  I  shall  end  this  strife, — 
Become  a  Christian,  and  thy  loving  wife. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  IV. — The  same.     A  Street. 

Enter  GRATIANO,  LORENZO,  SALARINO,  and 
SOLANIO. 

Lor.  Nay,  we  will  slink  away  in  supper-time ; 
Disguise  us  at  my  lodging,  and  return 
All  in  an  hour. 

Gra.  We  have  not  made  good  preparation. 

Salar.  We  have  not  spoke  us  yet  of  torch  - 
bearers.  [order'd ; 

Solan.  'Tis  vile,  unless  it  may  be  quaintly 
And  better,  in  my  mind,  not  undertook. 


Lor.  'Tis  now  but  four  o'clock ;  we  have  two 

hours 
To  furnish  us ; — 

Enter  LAUNCELOT,  with  a  letter. 

Friend  Launcelot,  what's  the  news? 

Laun.  An  it  shall  please  you  to  break  up 
this,  it  shall  seem  to  signify. 

Lor.  Iknowthehand:  in  faith, 'tis  a  fair  hand; 
And  whiter  than  the  paper  it  writ  on 
Is  the  fair  hand  that  writ. 

Gra.  Love-news,  in  faith. 

Laun.  By  your  leave,  sir. 

Lor.  Whither  goest  thou? 

Laun.  Marry,  sir,  to  bid  my  old  master,  the 
Jew,  to  sup  to-night  with  my  new  master,  the 
Christian.  [Jessica 

Lor.    Hold    here,    take    this :— tell    gentle 
I  will  not  fail  her; — speak  it  privately;  go. — 
Gentlemen,  [Exit  LAUNCELOT. 

Will  you  prepare  you  for  this  masque  to-night? 
I  am  provided  of  a  torch-bearer. 

Salar.  Ay,  marry,  I  '11  be  gone  about  it  straight. 

Solan.  And  so  will  I. 

Lor.  Meet  me  and  Gratiano 

At  Gratiano's  lodging  some  hour  hence. 

Salar.  'Tis  good  we  do  so. 

[Exeunt  SALAR.  and  SOLAN. 

Gra.  Was  not  that  letter  from  fair  Jessica? 

Lor.  I  must  needs  tell  thee  all.     She  hath 

directed 

How  I  shall  take  her  from  her  father's  house ; 
What  gold  and  jewels  she  is  furnish'd  with; 
What  page's  suit  she  hath  in  readiness. 
If  e'er  the  Jew  her  father  come  to  heaven, 
It  will  be  for  his  gentle  daughter's  sake : 
And  never  dare  misfortune  cross  her  foot, 
Unless  she  do  it  under  this  excuse, — 
That  she  is  issue  to  a  faithless  Jew. 
Come,  go  with  me ;  peruse  this  as  thou  goest : 
Fair  Jessica  shall  be  my  torch-bearer. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.—The  same.     Before  SHYLOCK'S 

House. 

Enter  SHYLOCK  and  LAUNCELOT. 
Shy.  Well,  thou  shalt  see ;  thy  eyes  shall  be 

thy  judge, 

The  difference  of  old  Shylock  and  Bassanio: — 
What,  Jessica ! — thou  shalt  not  gormandize 
As  thou  hast  done  with  me ; — What,  Jessica ! — 
And  sleep  and  snore,  and  rend  apparel  out  ;— 
Why,  Jessica,  I  say ! 

Laun.  Why,  Jessica !  [call. 

Shy.  Who  bids  thee  call?  I  do  not  bid  thee 
Laun.  Your  worship  was  wont  to  tell  me  I 
could  do  nothing  without  bidding. 


SCENE  V.] 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


231 


Enter  JESSICA. 

Jes.  Call  you?  what  is  your  will? 
Sky.   I  am  bid  forth  to  supper,  Jessica: 
There  are  my  keys.  — But  wherefore  should  I  go? 
I  am  not  bid  for  love ;  they  flatter  me : 
But  yet  I  '11  go  in  hate,  to  feed  upon 
The  prodigal  Christian. — Jessica,  my  girl, 
Look  to  my  house. — I  am  right  "loath  to  go; 
There  is  some  ill  a-brewing  towards  my  rest, 
For  I  did  dream  of  money-bags  to-night. 

Lattn.  I  beseech  you,  sir,  go;    my  young 
master  doth  expect  your  reproach. 
Shy.  So  do  I  his. 

Laun.  And  they  have  conspired  together, — 
I  will  not  say  you  shall  see  a  masque;  but  if 
you  do,  then  it  was  not  for  nothing  that  my 
nose  fell  a-bleeding  on  Black-Monday  last  at 
six  o'clock  i'  the  morning,  falling  out  that  year 
on  Ash-Wednesday  was  four  year  in  the  after- 
noon. 

Shy.  What!  are  there  masques?     Hear  you 

me,  Jessica : 

Lock  up  my  doors;  and  when  you  hear  the  drum, 
And  the  vile  squeaking  of  the  wry-neck'd  fife, 
Clamber  not  you  up  to  the  casements  then, 
Nor  thrust  your  head  into  the  public  street 
To  gaze  on  Christian  fools  with  varnish'd  faces : 
But  stop  my  house's  ears, — I  mean  my  case- 
ments : 

Let  not  the  sound  of  shallow  foppery  enter 
My  sober  house. — By  Jacob's  staff,  I  swear 
I  have  no  mind  of  feasting  forth  to-night : 
But  I  will  go. — Go  you  before  me,  sirrah  ; 
Say  I  will  come. 

Laun.  I  will  go  before,  sir. — 

Mistress,  look  out  at  window  for  all  this  ; 
There  will  come  a  Christian  by 
Will  be  worth  a  Jewess'  eye.  [Exit. 

Shy.  What  says  that   fool   of  Hagar's  off- 
spring, ha?  [nothing  else. 
Jes.    His  words  were,  Farewell,  mistress  ; 
Shy.  The  patch  is  kind  enough,  but  a  huge 

feeder, 

Snail-slow  in  profit,  and  he  sleeps  by  day 
More  than  the  wild  cat :  drones  hive  not  with 

me ; 

Therefore  I  part  with  him  ;  and  part  with  him 
To  one  that  I  would  have  him  help  to  waste 
His  borrowed  purse. — Well,  Jessica,  go  in  ; 
Perhaps  I  will  return  immediately : 
Do  as  I  bid  you  ; 

Shut  doors  after  you  :  fast  bind,  fast  find — 
A  proverb  never  stale  in  thrifty  mind.     [Exit. 
Jes.  Farewell;    and   if  my   fortune   be  not 

cross'd, 
I  have  a  father,  you  a  daughter,  last.      [Extt. 


SCENE  VI. — The  same. 
Enter  GRATIANO  and  SALARINO,  mas/ted. 

Gra.  This  is  the  pent-house  under  which 

Lorenzo 
Desir'd  us  to  make  stand. 

Salar.  His  hour  is  almost  past. 

Gra.  And  it  is  marvel  he  out-dwells  his  hour, 
For  lovers  ever  run  before  the  clock. 

Salar.  O,  ten  times  faster  Venus'  pigeons  fly 
To  seal  love's  bonds  new  made,  than  they  are 

wont 
To  keep  obliged  faith  unforfeited  !  [feast 

Gra.  That  ever  holds;  who  riseth  from  a 
With  that  keen  appetite  that  he  sits  down? 
Where  is  the  horse  that  doth  untread  again 
His  tedious  measures  with  the  unbated  fire 
That  he  did  pace  them  first  ?   All  things  that  are, 
Are  with  more  spirit  chased  than  enjoy'd. 
How  like  a  younker  or  a  prodigal 
The  scarfed  bark  puts  from  her  native  bay, 
Hugg'd  and  embraced  by  the  strumpet  wind ! 
How  like  the  prodigal  doth  she  return, 
With  over-weather' d  ribs  and  ragged  sails, 
Lean,  rent,  and  beggar'd  by  the  strumpet  wind ! 

Solar.  Here  comes  Lorenzo; — more  of  this 
hereafter. 

Enter  LORENZO. 
Lor.  Sweet  friends,  your   patience  for  mj 

long  abode ; 

Not  I,  but  my  affairs,  have  made  you  wait : 
When  you  shall  please  to  play  the  thieves  for  wives 
I  '11  watch  as  long  for  you  then. — Approach ; 
Here  dwells  my  father  Jew. — Ho!  who 's  within? 

Enter  JESSICA,  above^  in  boys  clothes. 

Jes.  Who  are  you?  Tell  me,  for  more  certainty, 
Albeit  I  '11  swear  that  I  do  know  your  tongue. 

Lor.  Lorenzo,  and  thy  love. 

Jes.  Lorenzo,  certain ;  and  my  love  indeed ; 
For  who  love  I  so  much?  and  now  who  knows 
But  you,  Lorenzo,  whether  I  am  yours? 

Lor.  Heaven  and  thy  thoughts  are  witness 
that  thou  art.  [pains. 

Jes.  Here,  catch  this  casket ;  it  is  worth  the 
I  am  glad  'tis  night,  you  do  not  look  on  me, 
For  I  am  much  asham'd  of  my  exchange : 
But  love  is  blind,  and  lovers  cannot  see 
The  pretty  follies  that  themselves  commit ; 
For  if  they  could,  Cupid  himself  would  blush 
Tc  see  me  thus  transformed  to  a  boy. 

Lor.  Descend,  for  you  must  be   my  torch  - 
bearer.  [shames? 

Jes.  What!  must  I  hold  a  candle   to  my 
They  in  themselves,  good  sooth,  are  too,  too 
light. 


232 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  ii. 


Why,  'tis  an  office  of  discovery,  love ; 
And  I  should  be  obscur'd. 

Lor.  So  are  you,  sweet, 

Even  in  the  lovely  garnish  of  a  boy. 
But  come  at  once ; 

For  the  close  night  doth  play  the  runaway, 
And  we  are  stay'd  for  at  Bassanio's  feast. 

fes.  I  will  make  fast  the  doors,  and  gild  my- 
self 

With  some   more  ducats,   and  be  with  you 
straight.  [Exit,  above. 

Gra.  Now,  by  my  hood,  a  Gentile,  and  no 
Jew. 

Lor.  Beshrew  me,  but  I  love  her  heartily : 
For  she  is  wise,  if  I  can  judge  of  her ; 
And  fair  she  is,  if  that  mine  eyes  be  true ; 
And  true  she  is,  as  she  hath  prov'd  herself; 
And  therefore,  like  herself,  wise,  fair,  and  true. 
Shall  she  be  placed  in  my  constant  soul. 

Enter  JESSICA,  below. 

What,  art  thou  come? — On>  gentlemen,  away; 
Our  masquing  mates  by  this  time  for  us  stay. 
[Exit,  with  JES.  and  SALAR. 

Enter  ANTONIO. 

Ant.  Who 's  there? 

Gra.  Signior  Antonio  I 

Ant.  Fie,  fie"^  Gratiano!  where  are  all  the 

rest? 
'Tis  nine   o'clock:    our  friends  all    stay  for 

you:— 

No  mask  to-night :  the  wind  is  come  about ; 
Bassanio  presently  will  go  aboard : 
I  have  sent  twenty  out  to  seek  for  you. 

Gra.  I  am  glad  on 't ;  I  desire  no  more  delight 
Than  to  be  under  sail,  and  gone  to-night. 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII. — BELMONT.    A  Room  in 
PORTIA'S  House. 

Flourish  of  Cornets.     Enter  PORTIA,  with  the 
PRINCE  OF  MOROCCO,  and  their  Trains. 

For.  Go  draw  aside  the  curtains,  and  discover 
The  several  caskets  to  this  noble  prince. — 
Now  make  your  choice. 

Mor.  The  first  of  gold,  who  this  inscription 
bears ; —  [desire. 

Who  chooseth  me  shall  gain  what  many  men 
The  second,  silver,  which  this  promise  carries ; — 
Who.  chooseth  me  shall  get  as  mtich  as  he  deserves. 
This  third,  dull  lead,  with  warning  all  as  blunt; — 
IVho  chooseth  me  must  give  and  hazard  all  he 

hath. 
How  shall  I  know  if  I  do  choose  the  right? 


For.  The  one  of  them  contains  my  picture, 

prince ; 

If  you  choose  that,  then  I  am  yours  withal. 
Mor.  Some  god  direct  my  judgment !     Let 

me  see, . 

I  will  survey  the  inscriptions  back  again : 
What  says  this  leaden  casket? —  [hat fa 

Who  chooseth  me  must  give  and  hazard  all  he 
Must  give— for  what?  for  lead?  hazard  for  lead? 
This  casket  threatens :  men  that  hazard  all 
Do  it  in  hope  of  fair  advantages : 
A  golden  mind  stoops  not  to  shows  of  dross : 
I  '11  then  nor  give  nor  hazard  aught  for  lead. 
What  says  the  silver  with  her  virgin  hue? 
Who  choossth  me  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves. 
As  much  as  he  deserves! — Pause  there,  Morocco, 
And  weigh  thy  value  with  an  even  hand ; 
If  thou  be'st  rated  by  thy  estimation, 
Thou  dost  deserve  enough ;  and  yet  enough 
May  not  extend  so  far  as  to  the  lady ; 
And  yet  to  be  afeard  of  my  deserving 
Were  but  a  weak  disabling  of  myself. 
As  much  as  I  deserve ! — Why,  that 's  the  lad}- : 
I  do  in  birth  deserve  her,  and  in  fortunes, 
In  graces,  and  in  qualities  of  breeding ; 
But  more  than  these,  in  love  I  do  deserve. 
What  if  I  stray'd  no  further,  but  chose  here? — 
Let 's  see  once  more  this  saying  grav'd  in  gold. 
Who  chooseth  me  shall  gain  -what  many  men 
desire.  [her : 

Why,  that's  the  lady:    all    the  world  desires 
From  the  four  corners  of  the  earth  they  come, 
To  kiss  this  shrine,  this  mortal  breathing  saint. 
The  Hyrcanian  deserts  and  the  vasty  wilds 
Of  wide  Arabia  are  as  throughfares  now 
For  princes  to  come  view  fair  Portia : 
The  wat'ry  kingdom,  whose  ambitious  head 
Spits  in  the  face  of  heaven,  is  no  bar 
To  stop  the  foreign  spirits ;  but  they  come, 
As  o'er  a  brook,  to  see  fair  Portia. 
One  of  these  three  contains  her  heavenly  picture, 
Is't  like  that  lead  contains  her?    'Twere  dam- 
nation 

To  think  so  base  a  thought :  it  were  too  gross 
To  rid  her  cerecloth  in  the  obscure  grave. 
Or  shall  I  think  in  silver  she 's  immur'd, 
Being  ten  times  undervalued  to  tried  gold? 
O  sinful  thought !  Never  so  rich  a  gem     [land 
Was  set  in  worse  than  gold.     They  have  in  Eng- 
A  coin  that  bears  the  figure  of  an  angel 
Stamped  in  gold ;  but  that 's  insculp'd  upon ; 
But  here  an  angel  in  a  golden  bed 
Lies  all  within.— Deliver  me  the  key; 
Here  do  I  choose,  and  thrive  I  as  I  may ! 
For.  There,  take  it,  prince ;  and  if  my  form 

lie  there, 
Then  I  am  yours.    [He  opens  the  golden  casket. 


SCENE  VIII.] 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE, 


233 


Mor.  O  hell !  what  have  we  here  ? 
A  carrion  Death,  within  whose  empty  eye 
There  is  a  written  scroll !  I  '11  read  the  writing. 

All  that  glisters  is  not  gold, — 
Often  have  you  heard  that  told  ; 
Many  a  man  his  life  hath  sold 
But  my  outside  to  behold  ; 
Gilded  tombs  do  worms  infold. 
Had  you  been  as  wise  as  bold, 
Young  in  limbs,  in  judgment  old, 
Your  answer  had  not  been  inscroll'd 
Fare  you  well  ;  your  suit  is  cold. 

Cold  indeed,  and  labour  lost : 
Then,  farewell  heat ;  and,  welcome  frost. — 
Portia,  adieu  !  I  have  too  griev'd  a  heart 
To  take  a  tedious  leave :  thus  losers  part. 

[Exit  with  his  Train. 

For.  A  gentle  riddance. Draw  the  cur- 
tains, go. 
Let  all  of  his  complexion  choose  me  so. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VIII.— VENICE.    A  Street. 
Enter  SALARINO  and  SOLANIO. 

Salar.  Why,  man,  I  saw  Bassanio  under  sail ; 
With  him  is  Gratiano  gone  along ; 
And  in  their  ship  I  am  sure  Lorenzo  is  not. 
Solan.  The  villain  Jew  with  outcries  rais'd 

the  duke, 

Who  went  with  him  to  search  Bassanio's  ship. 
Salar.  He  came  too  late,  the  ship  was  under 

sail: 

But  there  the  duke  was  given  to  understand 
That  in  a  gondola  were  seen  together 
Lorenzo  and  his  amorous  Jessica : 
Besides,  Antonio  certify'd  the  duke 
They  were  not  with  Bassanio  in  his  ship. 

Solan.  I  never  heard  a  passion  so  confused, 
So  strange,  outrageous,  and  so  variable 
As  the  dog  Jew  did  utter  in  the  streets : 
My  daughter  ! — O  my  ducats  ! — O  my  daughter! 
Fled  with  a  Christian  ! — O  my  Christian  du- 
cats 1— 

Justice  I  the  law!  my  ducats  and  my  daughter! 
A  sealed  bag,  two  sealed  bags  of  ducats. 
Of  double  ducats,  stolen  from  me  by  my  daughter  ! 
And  jewels, — two  s tones ,  two  rich  and  precious 

stones, 

Stolen  by  my  daughter !— Justice !  findtht  girl! 

She  hath  the  stones  iipon  her  and  the  ducats! 

Salar.  Why,  all  the  boys  in  Venice  follow 

him,  [ducats. 

Crying,— his    stones,   his  daughter,   and    his 

Solan.   Let  good  Antonio  look  he  keep  his 

day, 
Or  he  shall  pay  for  this. 

Marry,  well  remember'd; 


I  reason'd  with  a  Frenchman  yesterday, 
Who  told  me, — in  the  narrow  seas  that  part 
The  French  and  English,  there  miscarried  . 
A  vessel  of  our  country  richly  fraught : 
I  thought  upon  Antonio  when  he  told  me, 
And  wish'd  in  silence  that  it  were  not  his. 

Solan.  You  were  best  to  tell  Antonio  what 

you  hear ; 
Yet  do  not  suddenly,  for  it  may  grieve  him. 

Salar.  A  kinder  gentleman   treads  not  the 

earth. 

I  saw  Bassanio  and  Antonio  part : 
Bassanio  tola  him  he  would  make  some  speed 
Of  'as  return ;  he  answer'd — Do  not  so  ; 
Shibber  not  business  for  my  sake,  Bassanio, 
But  stay  the  very  riping  of  the  time  ;       rfor 
And  for  the  Jew's  bond  which  he  hath  of  me. 
Let  it  not  enter  in  your  mind  of  love : 
Be  merry  ;  and  employ  your  chief est  thoughts 
To  courtship,  and  suck  fair  ostents  of  love 
As  shall  conveniently  become  you  there. 
And  even  there,  his  eye  being  big  with  tears, 
Turning  his  face,  he  put  his  hand  behind  him. 
And  with  affection  wondrous  sensible 
He  wrung  Bassanio's  hand ;  and  so  they  parted. 

Solan.  I  think  he  only  loves  the  world  for  him, 
I  pray  thee,  let  us  go  and  find  him  out, 
And  quicken  his  embraced  heaviness 
With  some  delight  or  other. 

Salar.  Do  we  so.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IX. — BELMONT.    A  Room  in  PORTIA'S 

House. 

i  won 

Enter  NERISSA,  with  a  Servant. 

Ner.  Quick,  quick,  I  pray  thee;  draw  the 

curtain  straight : 

The  Prince  of  Arragon  hath  ta'en  his  oath, 
And  comes  to  his  election  presently. 

Flourish  of  Cornets.      Enter  the  PRTKCE  OF 
ARRAGON,  PORTIA,  and  their  Trains. 

For.  Behold,  there  stand  the  caskets,  noble 

prince. 

If  you  choose  that  wherein  I  am  contain'd, 
Straight  shall  our  nuptial  rites  be  solemniz'd . 
But  if  you  fail,  without  more  speech,  my  lord, 
You  must  be  gone  from  hence  immediately. 

Ar.  I  am  enjoin'd  by  oath  to  observe  three 

things : 

First,  never  to  unfold  to  any  one 
Which  casket  'twas  I  chose ;  next,  if  I  fail 
Of  the  right  casket,  never  in  my  life 
To  woo  a  maid  in  way  of  marriage ;  lastly, 
If  I  do  fail  in  fortune  of  my  choice, 
Immediately  to  leave  you  and  be  gone. 


234 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  in. 


For.    To  these  injunctions  every  one  doth 

swear 

That  comes  to  hazard  for  my  worthless  self. 
Ar.  And  so  have  I  address'd  me.     Fortune 

now  [lead. 

To  my  heart's  hope! — Gold,  silver,  and  base 
Who  chooseth  me  must  give  and  hazard  all  he 

hath: 

You  shall  look  fairer  ere  I  give  or  hazard. 
What  says  the  golden  chest?  ha !  let  me  see : — 
Who  chooseth  me  shall  gain  what  many  men 

desire.  [meant 

What  many  men  desire. — That  many  may  be 
By  the  fool  multitude,  that  choose  by  show, 
Not  learning  more  than  the  fond  eye  doth  teach ; 
Which  pries  not  to  the  interior,  but,  like  the 

martlet, 

Builds  in  the  weather  on  the  outward  wall, 
Even  in  the  force  and  road  of  casualty. 
I  will  not  choose  what  many  men  desire, 
Because  I  will  not  jump  with  common  spirits, 
And  rank  me  with  the  barbarous  multitudes. 
Why,  then,  to  thee,  thou  silver  treasure-house; 
Tell  me  once  more  what  title  thou  dost  bear : 
Who  chooseth  me  shall  get  as  mttch  as  he  deserves: 
And  well  said  too ;  for  who  shall  go  about 
To  cozen  fortune,  and  be  honourable        [snme 
Without  the  stamp  of  merit !     Let  none  pre- 
To  wear  an  undeserved  dignity. 
O,  that  estates,  degrees,  and  offices, 
Were  not  deriv'd  corruptly!    and  that  clear 

honour 

Were  purchas'd  by  the  merit  of  the  wearer ! 
How  many  then  should  cover  that  stand  bare ! 
How  many  be  commanded  that  command ! 
How    much    low   peasantry   would    then    be 

glean'd  [honour 

From  the  true  seed  of  honour !  and  how  much 
Pick'd  from  the  chaff  and  ruin  of  the  times, 
To  be  new  varnish'd !     Well,  but  to  my  choice. 
Who  chooseth   me   shall  get  as   much  as  he 

deserves: 

I  will  assume  desert.  — Give  me  a  key  for  this, 
And  instantly  unlock  my  fortunes  here. 

[He  opens  the  silver  casket. 
For.  Too  long  a  pause  for  that  which  you 

find  there.  [idiot 

Ar.  What 's  here  ?  the  portrait  of  a  blinking 
Presenting  me  a  schedule  !     I  will  read  it. 
How  much  unlike  art  thou  to  Portia  ! 
How  much  unlike  my  hopes  and  my  deservings ! 
Who  choosetk  me  shall  have  as  much  as  he 

deserves. 

Did  I  deserve  no  more  than  a  fool's  head  ? 
Is  that  my  prize  ?  are  my  deserts  no  better  ? 

For.  To  offend  and  judge  are  distinct  offices 
And  of  opposed  natures. 


Ar. 


What  is  here? 


The  fire  seven  limes  tried  this  ; 
Seven  times  tried  that  judgment  is 
That  did  never  choose  amiss  : 
Some  there  be  that  shadows  kiss ; 
Such  have  but  a  shadow's  bliss : 
There  be  fools  alive,  I  wis, 
Silver"  d  o'er  ;  and  so  was  this. 
Take  what  wife  you  will  to  bed, 
I  will  ever  be  your  head : 
So  be  gone  :  you  are  sped. 

Still  more  fool  I  shall  appear 

By  the  time  I  linger  here : 

With  one  fool's  head  I  came  to  woo, 

But  I  go  away  with  two. — 

Sweet,  adieu  !  I  '11  keep  my  oath, 

Patiently  to  bear  my  roth. 

[Exit  with  his  Train. 

For.  Thus  hath  the  candle  singed  the  moth. 
O  these  deliberate  fools !  when  they  do  choose, 
They  have  the  wisdom  by  their  wit  to  lose. 
Ner.  The  ancient  saying  is  no  heresy, — 
Hanging  and  wiving  goes  by  destiny. 
For.  Come,  draw  the  curtain,  Nerissa. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  Where  is  my  lady? 

For.  Here;  what  would  my  lord? 

Serv.  Madam,  there  is  alighted  at  your  gate 
A  young  Venetian,  one  that  comes  before 
To  signify  the  approaching  of  his  lord : 
From  whom  he  bringeth  sensible  regreets ; 
To  wit,  besides  commends  and  courteous  breath, 
Gifts  of  rich  value.     Yet  I  have  not  seen 
So  likely  an  ambassador  of  love : 
A  day  in  April  never  came  so  sweet, 
To  show  how  costly  summer  was  at  hand, 
As  this  forespurrer  comes  before  his  lord. 

For.  No  more,  I  pray  thee ;  I  am  half  afeard 
Thou  wilt  say  anon  he  is  some  kin  to  thee, 
Thou  spend'st  such  high-day  wit  :n  praising 

him. — 

Come,  come,  Nerissa ;  for  I  long  to  see 
Quick  Cupid's  post,  that  comes  so  mannerly. 

Ner.  Bassanio,  lord  Love,  if  thy  will  it  be ! 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — VENICE.     A  Street. 
Enter  SoLANio  and  SALARINO. 

Solan.  Now,  what  news  on  the  Rialto? 

Salar.  Why,  yet  it  lives  there  unchecked, 
that  Antonio  hath  a  ship  of  rich  lading  wrecked 
on  the  narrow  seas ;  the  Goodwins  I  think  they 
call  the  place ;  a  very  dangerous  flat  and  fatal, 
where  the  carcases  of  many  a  tall  ship  lie  buried, 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


335 


as  they  say,  if  my  gossip  report  be  an  honest 
woman  of  her  word. 

Solan.  I  would  she  were  as  lying  a  gossip  in 
that  as  ever  knapped  ginger  or  made  her  neigh- 
bours believe  she  wept  for  the  death  of  a  third 
husband.  But  it  is  true, — without  any  slips  of 
prolixity  or  crossing  the  plain  highway  of  talk, 
— that  the  good  Antonio,  the  honest  Antonio, 

O  that  I  had  a  title  good  enough  to  keep 

his  name  company ! — 

Salar.  Come,  the  full  stop. 

Solan.  Ha, — what  sayest  thou? — Why  the 
end  is,  he  hath  lost  a  ship. 

Salar.  I  would  it  might  prove  the  end  of  his 
losses ! 

Solan.  Let  me  say  amen  betimes,  lest  the 
devil  cross  my  prayer ;  for  here  he  comes  in  the 
likeness  of  a  Jew. 

Enter  SHYLOCK. 

How  now,  Shylock  ?  what  news  among  the  mer- 
chants? 

Shy.  You  knew,  none  so  well,  none  so  well 
as  you,  of  my  daughter's  flight. 

Salar.  That 's  certain :  I,  for  my  part,  knew 
the  tailor  that  made  the  wings  she  flew  withal. 

Solan.  And  Shylock,  for  his  own  part,  knew 
the  bird  was  fledg'd ;  and  then  it  is  the  com- 
plexion of  them  all  to  leave  the  dam. 

Shy.  She  is  damned  for  it. 

Salar.  That 's  certain,  if  the  devil  may  be  her 
judge. 

Shy.  My  own  flesh  and  blood  to  rebel ! 

Solan.  Out  upon  it,  old  carrion  !  rebels  it  at 
these  years? 

Shy.  I  say  my  daughter  is  my  flesh  and  blood. 

Salar.  There  is  more  difference  between  thy 
flesh  and  hers  than  between  jet  and  ivory ;  more 
between  your  bloods  than  there  is  between  red 
wine  and  Rhenish.  — But  tell  us,  do  you  hear 
whether  Antonio  have  had  any  loss  at  sea  or 
no? 

Shy.  There  I  have  another  bad  match:  a 
bankrupt,  a  prodigal,  who  dare  scarce  show  his 
head  on  the  Rialto ; — a  beggar,  that  was  used 
to  come  so  smug  upon  the  mart ; — let  him  look 
to  his  bond  !  he  was  wont  to  call  me  usurer ; — 
let  him  look  to  his  bond !  he  was  wont  to  lend 
money  for  a  Christian  courtesy ; — let  him  look 
to  his  bond. 

Salar.  Why,  I  am  sure  if  he  forfeit  thou  wilt 
not  take  his  flesh.  What 's  that  good  for? 

Shy.  To  bait  fish  withal :  if  it  will  feed  no- 
thing else  it  will  feed  my  revenge.  He  hath 
disgraced  me  and  hindered  me  of  half  a  million ; 
laughed  at  my  losses,  mocked  at  my  gains, 
scorned  my  nation,  thwarted  my  bargains. 


cooled  my  friends,  heated  mine  enemies !  and 
what 's  his  reason?  I  am  a  Jew  !  Hath  not  a 
Jew  eyes?  hath  not  a  Jew  hands,  organs,  di- 
mensions, sensesj  affections,  passions?  fed  with 
the  same  food,  hurt  with  the  same  weapons,  sub- 
ject to  the  same  diseases,  healed  by  the  same 
means,  warmed  and  cooled  by  the  same  winter 
and  summer  as  a  Christian  is  ?  If  you  prick  us, 
do  we  not  bleed?  if  you  tickle  us,  do  we  not 
laugh?  if  you  poison  us,  do  we  not  die?  and  if 
you  wrong  us,  shall  we  not  revenge?  If  we  are 
like  you  in  the  rest,  we  will  resemble  you  in 
that. — If  a  Jew  wrong  a  Christian,  what  is  his 
humility?  revenge.  If  a  Christian  wrong  a  Jew, 
what  should  his  sufferance  be  by  Christian 
example?  why,  revenge.  The  villany  you  teach 
me  I  will  execute ;  and  it  shall  go  hard  but  I 
will  better  the  instruction. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  Gentlemen,  my  master  Antonio  is  at 
his  house,  and  desires  to  speak  with  you  both. 

Salar.  We  have  been  up  and  down  to  seek 
him. 

Solan.  Here  comes  another  of  the  tribe;  a 
third  cannot  be  matched  unless  the  devil  himself 
turn  Jew. 

[Exeunt  SOLAN.,  SALAR.,  aw^Serv. 

Enter  TUBAL. 

Shy.  How  now,  Tubal,  what  news  from 
Genoa?  hast  thou  found  my  daughter? 

Tub.  I  often  came  where  I  did  hear  of  her, 
but  cannot  find  her. 

Shy.  Why  there,  there,  there,  there!  a 
diamond  gone,  cost  me  two  thousand  ducats  in 
Frankfort!  The  curse  never  fell  upon  our 
nation  till  now ;  I  never  felt  it  till  now : — two 
thousand  ducats  in  that;  and  other  precious, 
precious  jewels. — I  would  my  daughter  were 
dead  at  my  foot,  and  the  jewels  in  her  ear! 
would  she  were  hearsed  at  my  foot,  and  the 
ducats  in  her  coffin  !  No  news  of  them  ? — Why, 
so : — and  I  know  not  what 's  spent  in  the  search. 
Why,  thou  loss  upon  loss !  the  thief  gone  with 
so  much,  and  so  much  to  find  the  thief;  and  no 
satisfaction,  no  revenge :  nor  no  ill  luck  stirring 
but  what  lights  o'  my  shoulders ;  no  sighs  but  o' 
my  breathing ;  no  tears  but  o'"  my  shedding. 

Tub.  Yes,  other  men  have  ill  luck  too? 
Antonio,  as  I  heard  in  Genoa, — 

Shy.  What,  what,  what?  ill  luck,  ill  luck? 

Tub.  — hath  an  argosy  cast  away  coming  from 
Tripolis. 

Shy.  I  thank  God,  I  thank  God.— Is  it  true? 
is  it  true? 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  in. 


Tub.  I  spoke  with  some  of  the  sailors  that 
escaped  the  wreck. 

Sky.  I  thank  thee,  good  Tubal. — Good  news, 
good  news:  ha !  ha! — Where?  in  Genoa? 

Tub.  Your  daughter  spent  in  Genoa,  as  I  heard, 
one  night,  fourscore  ducats. 

Sky.  Thou  stick' st  a  dagger  in  me : 1  shall 

never  see  my  gold  again.  Fourscore  ducats  at 
a  sitting !  fourscore  ducats ! 

Tub.  There  came  divers  of  Antonio's  creditor's 
in  my  company  to  Venice  that  swear  he  cannot 
choose  but  break. 

Shy.  I  am  very  glad  of  it :  I  '11  plague  him ; 
I  '11  torture  him :  I  am  glad  of  it. 

Tub.  One  of  them  showed  me  a  ring  that  he 
/lad  of  your  daughter  for  a  monkey. 

Shy.  Out  upon  her!  Thou  torturest  me, 
Tubal.  It  was  my  turquoise :  I  had  it  of  Leah 
when  I  was  a  bachelor :  I  would  not  have  given 
it  for  a  wilderness  of  monkeys. 

Tub.  But  Antonio  is  certainly  undone. 

Shy.  Nay,  that 's  true ;  that 's  very  true.  Go, 
Tubal,  fee  me  an  officer;  bespeak  him  a  fort- 
night before.  I  will  have  the  heart  of  him  if  he 
forfeit ;  for,  were  he  out  of  Venice,  I  can  make 
what  merchandize  I  will.  Go,  go,  Tubal,  and 
meet  me  at  our  synagogue :  go,  good  Tubal ;  at 
our  synagogue,  Tubal.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — BELMONT.     A  Room  in  PORTIA'S 
House.       .,,   .M0i 

Enter  BASSANIO,  PORTIA,  GRATIANO, 
NERISSA,  and  Attendants. 

Por.  I  pray  you,  tarry :  pause  a  day  or  two 
Before  you  hazard ;  for,  in  choosing  wrong, 
I  lose  your  company ;  therefore  forbear  awhile : 
There's  something  tells  me, — butit  isnot  love, — 
I  would  not  lose  you :  and  you  know  yourself 
Hate  counsels  not  in  such  a  quality : 
But  lest  you  should  not  understand  me  well, — 
And  yet  a  maiden  hath  no  tongue  but  thought, — 
I  would  detain  you  here  some  month  or  two 
Before  you  venture  for  me.     I  could  teach  you 
How  to  choose  right,  but  then  I  am  forsworn ; 
So  will  I  never  be ;  so  may  you  miss  me : 
But  if  you  do,  you  '11  make  me  wish  a  sin, 
That  I  had  been  forsworn.     Beshrew  your  eyes, 
They  have  o'erlook'ci  me  and  divided  me ; 

One  half  of  me  isyours,  the  other  half  yours, 

Mine  own,  I  would  say ;  but  if  mine,  then  yours, 
And  so  all  yours.     O !  these  naughty  times 
Put  bars  between  the  owners  and  their  rights ; 
And  so,  though  yours,  not  yours. — Prove  it  so, 
Let  fortune  go  to  hell  for  it, — not  I. 
I  speak  too  long ;  but  'tis  to  peise  the  time, 


To  eke  it,  and  to  draw  it  out  in  length, 
To  stay  you  from  election. 

Bass.  Let  me  choose ; 

For,  as  I  am,  I  live  upon  the  rack. 

Por.  Upon  the  rack,  Bassanio?  then  confess 
What  treason  there  is  mingled  with  your  love. 

Bass.  None  but  that  ugly  treason  of  mistrust, 
Which  makes  me  fear  the  enjoying  of  my  love : 
There  may  as  well  be  amity  and  life 
'Tween  snow  and  fire,  as  treason  and  my  love. 

Por.  Ay,  but  I  fear  you  speak  upon  the  rack, 
Where  men,  enforced,  do  speak  anything. 

Bass.  Promise  me  life,  and  I  '11  confess  the 
truth. 

Por.  Well,  then,  confess  and  live. 

Bass.  Confess  and  love 

Had  been  the  very  sum  of  my  confession : 

0  happy  torment,  when  my  torturer 
Doth  teach  me  answers  for  deliverance  ! 
But  let  me  to  my  fortune  and  the  caskets. 

[Curtain  drawn  from  before  the  caskets. 
Por.  Away,  then.     I  am  lock'd  in  one  ot 

them; 

If  you  do  love  me  you  will  find  me  out.-^X 
Nerissa  and  the  rest,  stand  all  aloof.- — 
Let  music  sound  while  he  doth  make  his  choice; 
Then,  if  he  lose,  he  makes  a  swan-like  end, 
Fading  in  music :  that  the  comparison  [stream 
May  stand  more  proper,  my  eye  shall  be  the 
And  wat'ry  death-bed  for  him.     He  may  win, 
And  what  is  music  then?  then  music  is 
Even  as  the  flourish  when  true  subjects  bow 
To  a  new-crowned  monarch :  such  it  is 
As  are  those  dulcet  sounds  in  break  of  day 
That  creep  into  the  dreaming  bridegroom's  ear 
And  summon  him  to  marriage.     Now  he  goes, 
With  no  less  presence  but  with  much  more  love 
Than  young  Alcides  when  he  did  redeem 
The  virgin  tribute  paid  by  howling  Troy 
To  the  sea-monster.     I  stand  for  sacrifice ; 
The  rest  aloof  are  the  Dardanian  wives, 
With  bleared  visages,  come  forth  to  view 
The  issue  of  the  exploit.     Go,  Hercules ! 
Live  thou,   I  live.— With  much,  much  more 

dismay 

1  view  the  fight  than  thou  that  mak'st  the  fray. 

Music  and  the  following  Song  whilst  BASSANIO 
comments  on  the  caskets  to  himself. 

Tell  me,  where  is  fancy  bred, 
Or  in  the  heart,  or  in  the  head? 
How  begot,  how  nourished? 
Reply,  reply. 

It  is  engender  d  in  the  eyes, 
With  gazing  fed  ;  and  fancy  dies 
In  the  cradle  where  it  lies  : 
Let  us  all  ring  fancy's  knell ; 

I'll  begin  it, Ding,  dong,  bell. 

All.  Ding,  aong,  be!L 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


237 


Bass.  So  may  the  outward  shows  be  least 

themselves ; 

The  world  is  still  deceiv'd  with  ornament. 
In  law,  what  plea  so  tainted  and  corrupt 
But,  being  season'd  with  a  gracious  voice, 
Obscures  the  show  of  evil  ?     In  religion, 
What  damned  error  but  some  sober  brow 
Will  bless  it,  and  approve  it  with  a  text, 
Hiding  the  grossness  with  fair  ornament? 
There  is  no  vice  so  simple  but  assumes 
Some  mark  of  virtue  on  his  outward  parts. 
How  many  cowards,  whose  hearts  are  all  as  false 
As  stairs  of  sand,  wear  yet  upon  their  chins 
The  beards  of  Hercules  and  frowning  Mars  ; 
Who,  inward  search'd,  have  livers  white  as 

milk ! 

And  these  assume  but  valour's  excrement 
To  render  them  redoubted.     Look  on  beauty 
And  you  shall  see  'tis  purchas'd  by  the  weight 
Which  therein  works  a  miracle  in  nature, 
Making  them  lightest  that  wear  most  of  it : 
So  are  those  crisped  snaky  golden  locks, 
Which  make  such  wanton  gam  bols  with  the  wind , 
Upon  supposed  fairness,  often  known 
To  be  the  dowry  of  a  second  head — 
The  skull  that  bred  them  in  the  sepulchre. 
Thus  ornament  is  but  the  guiled  shore 
To  a  most  dangerous  sea  ;  the  beauteous  scarf 
Veiling  an  Indian  beauty  ;  in  a  word, 
The  seeming  truth  which  cunning  times  put  on 
To  entrap  the  wisest.     Therefore,  thou  gaudy 

gold, 

Hard  food  for  Midas,  I  will  none  of  thee : 
Nor  none  of  thee,  thou  pale  and  common  drudge 
'Tween  man  and  man :  but  thou,  thou  meagre 
lead,  [aught, 

Which  rather  threat'nest  than  dost  promise 
Thy  plainness  moves  me  more  than  eloquence, 
And  here  choose  I.     Joy  be  the  consequence  ! 
For.  How  all  the  other  passions  fleet  to  air, 
As  doubtful  thoughts,  and  rash-embrac'd  de- 
spair, 
And  shudd'ring  fear,  and  green-ey*d  jealousy  ! 

0  love,  be  moderate,  allay  thy  ecstacy, 

In  measure  rain  thy  joy,  scant  this  excess  ; 

1  feel  too  much  thy  blessing ;  make  it  less, 
For  fear  I  surfeit ! 

Bass.  What  find  I  here  ? 

[Opening  the  leaden  casket. 
Fair  Portia's  counterfeit  ?    What  demi-god 
Hath  come  so  near  creation  ?    Move  these  eyes  ? 
Or  whether,  riding  on  the  balls  of  mine, 
Seem  they  in  motion  ?    Here  are  sever'd  lips, 
Parted  with  sugar  breath  j  so  sweet  a  bar    [hairs 
Should  sunder  such  sweet  friends.     Here  in  her 
The  painter  plays  the  spider,  and  hath  woven 
A  golden  mesh  to  entrap  the  hearts  of  men, 


Faster  than  gnats  in  cobwebs.  But  her  eyes ! — 
How  could  he  see  to  do  them  ?  having  made  one, 
Methinks  it  should  have  power  to  steal  both  his, 
And  leave  itself  unfurnish'd.  Yet  look  how  far 
The  substance  of  my  praise  doth  wrong  this 

shadow 

In  underprizing  it,  so  far  this  shadow  [scroll, 
Doth  limp  behind  the  substance. — Here's  the 
The  continent  and  summary  of  my  fortune. 

You  that  choose  not  by  the  view, 
Chance  as  fair  and  choose  as  true  ! 
Since  this  fortune  falls  to  you, 
Be  content  and  seek  no  new. 
If  you  be  well  pleased  with  this, 
And  hold  your  fortune  for  your  bliss, 
Turn  you  where  your  lady  is, 
And  claim  her  with  a  loving  kiss. 

A  gentle  scroll. — Fair  lady,  by  your  leave: 

[Kissing  her, 

I  come  by  note,  to  give  and  to  receive. 
Like  one  of  two  contending  in  a  prize, 
That  thinks  he  hath  done  well  in  people's  eyes, 
Hearing  applause  and  universal  shout, 
Giddy  in  spirit,  still  gazing,  in  a  doubt 
Whether  those  peals  of  praise  be  his  or  no, 
So,  thrice  fair  lady,  stand  I  even  so ; 
As  doubtful  whether  what  I  see  be  true, 
Until  confirm'd,  sign'd,  ratified  by  you. 
For.  You  see  me,  Lord  Bassanio,  where  I 

stand, 

Such  as  I  am  :  though  for  myself  alone 
I  would  not  be  ambitious  in  my  wish 
To  wish  myself  much  better  ;  yet  for  you 
I  would  be  trebled  twenty  times  myself ; 
A  thousand  times  more  fair,  ten  thousand  times 
More  rich ; 

That  only  to  stand  high  in  your  account 
I  might  in  virtues,  beauties,  livings,  friends, 
Exceed  account :  but  the  full  sum  of  me 
Is  sum  of  something,  which,  to  term  in  gross, 
Is  an  unlesson'd  girl,  unschool'd,  unpractis'd  : 
Happy  in  this,  she  is  not  yet  so  old 
But  she  may  learn  ;  and  happier  than  this, 
She  is  not  bred  so  dull  but  she  can  learn ; 
Happiest  of  all  is,  that  her  gentle  spirit 
Commits  itself  to  yours  to  be  directed, 
As  from  her  lord,  her  governor,  her  king. 
Myself,  and  what  is  mine,  to  you  and  yours 
Is  now  converted  :  but  now  I  was  the  lord 
Of  this  fair  mansion,  master  of  my  servants, 
Queen  o'er  myself  j  and  even  now,  but  now 
This  house,  these  servants,  and  this  same  my- 
self 

Are  yours,  my  lord ;  I  give  them  with  this  ring, 
Which  when  you  part  from,  lose,  or  give  away, 
Let  it  presage  the  ruin  of  your  love, 
And  be  my  vantage  to  exclaim  on  you. 


238 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  in. 


Bass.  Madam,  you  have  bereft  me  of  all 

words ; 

Only  my  blood  speaks  to  you  in  my  veins  : 
And  there  is  such  confusion  in  my  powers, 
As,  after  some  oration  fairly  spoke 
By  a  beloved  prince,  there  doth  appear 
Among  the  buzzing  pleased  multitude, 
Where  every  something,  being  blent  together, 
Turns  to  a  wild  of  nothing,  save  of  joy,      [ring 
Express'd,  and  not  express'd.     But  when  this 
Parts  from  this  finger,  then  parts  life  from  hence; 
O,  then,  be  bold  to  say  Bassanio's  dead. 

Ner.  My  lord  and  lady,  it  is  now  our  time 
That  have  stood  by  and  seen  our  wishes  prosper 
To  cry,  good  joy.     Good  joy,  my  lord  and  lady ! 

Gra.  My  Lord  Bassanio,  and  my  gentle  lady, 
I  wish  you  all  the  joy  that  you  can  wish ; 
For  I  am  sure  you  can  wish  none  from  me : 
And,  when  your  honours  mean  to  solemnize 
The  bargain  of  your  faith,  I  do  beseech  you, 
Even  at  that  time  I  may  be  married  too. 

Bass.  With  all  my  heart,  so  thou  canst  get 
a  wife. 

Gra.  I  thank  your  lordship;   you  have  get 

me  one. 

My  eyes,  my  lord,  can  look  as  swift  as  yours: 
You  saw  the  mistress,  I  beheld  the  maid ; 
You  lov'd,  I  lov'd ;  for  intermission 
No  more  pertains  to  me,  my  lord,  than  you. 
Your  fortune  stood  upon  the  caskets  there, 
And  so  did  mine  too,  as  the  matter  falls.- 
For  wooing  here  until  I  sweat  again, 
And  swearing  till  my  very  roof  was  dry 
With  oaths  of  love,  at  last, — if  promise  last, — 
I  got  a  promise  of  this  fair  one  here, 
To  have  her  love  provided  that  your  fortune 
Achiev'd  her  mistress. 

For.  Is  this  true,  Nerissa? 

Ner.  Madam,  it  is,  so  you  stand  pleas'd  withal. 

Bass.  And  do  you,  Gratiano,  mean  good  faith? 

Gra.  Yes,  faith,  my  lord. 

Bass.  Our  feast  shall  be  much  honour'd  in 
your  marriage. 

Gra.  We'll  play  with  them,  the  first  boy 
for  a  thousand  ducats. 

Ner.  What,  and  stake  down? 

Gra.  No;  we  shall  ne'er  win  at  that  sport, 

and  stake  down. — 

But  who  comes  here  ?     Lorenzo  and  his  infidel  ? 
What,  and  my  old  Venetian  friend,  Solanio ! 

Enter  LORENZO,  JESSICA,  and  SOLANIO. 

Bass.  Lorenzo  and  Solanio,  welcome  hither, 
If  that  the  youth  of  my  new  interest  here 
Have  power  to  bid  you  welcome. — By  your  leave, 
I  bid  my  very  friends  and  countrymen, 
Sweet  Portia,  welcome. 


For.  So  do  I,  my  lord ; 

They  are  entirely  welcome.  [lord, 

Lor.  I  thank  your  honour. — For  my  part,  my 
My  purpose  was  not  to  have  seen  you  here ; 
But  meeting  with  Solanio  by  the  way, 
He  did  entreat  me  past  all  saying  nay, 
To  come  with  him  along. 

Solan.  I  did,  my  lord, 

And  I  have  reason  for  it.     Signior  Antonio 
Commends  him  to  you. 

[Gives  BASSANIO  a  letter. 

Bass.  Ere  I  ope  his  letter, 

I  pray  you,  tell  me  how  my  good  friend  doth. 

Solan.  Not  sick,  my  lord,  unless  it  be  in  mind; 
Nor  well,  unless  in  mind :  his  letter  there 
Will  show  you  his  estate. 

[BASS,  reads  the  letter. 

Gra.  Nerissa,  cheer  yond  stranger ;  bid  her 
welcome.  [Venice  ? 

Your  hand,  Solanio:    what's  the  news  from 
How  doth  that  royal  merchant,  good  Antonio? 
I  know  he  will  be  glad  of  our  success : 
We  are  the  Jasons ;  we  have  won  the  fleece. 

SoHn.  Would  you  had  won  the  fleece  that 
he  hath  lost !  [same  paper, 

For.  There  are  some  shrewd  contents  in  yond 
That  steal  the  colour  from  Bassanio's  cheek ; 
Some  dear  friend  dead ;  else  nothing  in  the  world 
Could  turn  so  much  the  constitution     [worse  ?— 
Of   any  constant    man.       What,   worse    and 
With  leave,  Bassanio ;  I  am  half  yourself, 
And  I  must  freely  have  the  half  of  anything 
That  this  same  paper  brings  you. 

Bass.  O  sweet  Portia, 

Here  are  a  few  of  the  unpleasant'st  words 
That  ever  blotted  paper  !     Gentle  lady, 
When  I  did  first  impart  my  love  to  you 
I  freely  told  you  all  the  wealth  I  had 
Ran  in  my  veins — I  was  a  gentleman ; 
And  then  I  told  you  true :  and  yet,  dear  lady, 
Rating  myself  at  nothing,  you  shall  see 
How  much  I  was  a  braggart.     When  I  told  you 
My  state  was  nothing,  I  should  then  have  told 

you 

That  I  was  worse  than  nothing;  for,  indeed, 
I  have  engag'd  myself  to  a  dear  friend, 
Engag'd  my  friend  to  his  mere  enemy, 
To  feed  my  means.     Here  is  a  letter,  lady, 
The  paper  as  the  body  of  my  friend, 
And  every  word  in  it  a  gaping  wound, 
Issuing  life-blood.     But  is  it  true,  Solanio? 
Have  all  his  ventures  fail'd?    What!  not  one 

hit? 

From  Tripolis,  from  Mexico,  and  England ; 
From  Lisbon,  Barbary,  and  India? 
And  not  one  vessel  'scape  the  dreadful  touch 
Of  merchant -mar  ring  rocks? 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


239 


Solan.  Not  one,  my  lord. 

Besides,  it  should  appear  that  if  he  had 
The  present  money  to  discharge  the  Jew 
He  would  not  take  it.     Never  did  I  know 
A  creature  that  did  bear  the  shape  of  man 
So  keen  and  greedy  to  confound  a  man : 
He  plies  the  duke  at  morning  and  at  night, 
And  doth  impeach  the  freedom  of  the  state 
If  they  deny  him  justice :  twenty  merchants, 
The  duke  himself,  and  the  magnificoes 
Of  greatest  port  have  all  persuaded  with  him ; 
But  none  can  drive  him  from  the  envious  plea 
Of  forfeiture,  of  justice,  and  his  bond. 

Jes.  When  I  was  with  him  I  have  heard  him 

swear 

To  Tubal  and  to  Chus,  his  countrymen, 
That  he  would  rather  have  Antonio's  flesh 
Than  twenty  times  the  value  of  the  sum 
That  he  did  owe  him;  and  I  know,  my  lord, 
If  law,  authority,  and  power  deny  not, 
It  will  go  hard  with  poor  Antonio. 

Por.  Is  it  your  dear  friend  that  is  thus  in 
trouble? 

Bass.  The  dearest  friend  to  me,  the  kindest 

man, 

The  best  condition'd  and  unwearied  spirit 
In  doing  courtesies ;  and  one  in  whom 
The  ancient  Roman  honour  more  appears 
Than  any  that  draws  breath  in  Italy. 

Por.  What  sum  owes  he  the  Jew? 

Bass.  For  me,  three  thousand  ducats. 

Por.  What !  no  more? 

Pay  him  six  thousand,  and  deface  the  bond ; 
Double  six  thousand,  and  then  treble  that, 
Before  a  friend  of  this  description 
Shall  lose  a  hair  through  Bassanio's  fault 
First,  go  with  me  to  church,  and  call  me  wife, 
And  then  away  to  Venice  to  your  friend ; 
For  never  shall  you  lie  by  Portia's  side 
With  an  unquiet  soul.     You  shall  have  gold 
To  pay  the  petty  debt  twenty  times  over ; 
When  it  is  paid  bring  your  true  friend  along : 
My  maid  Nerissa  and  myself,  meantime, 
Will  live  as  maids  and  widows.     Come,  away ; 
For  you  shall  hence  upon  your  wedding-day : 
Bid  your  friends  welcome,  show  a  merry  cheer : 
Since  you  are  dear  bought,  I  will  love  you 

dear. 
But  let  me  hear  the  letter  of  your  friend. 

Bass.  [Reads.]  Sweet  Bassanio,  my  ships  have 
all  miscarried,  my  creditors  grow  cruel,  my 
estate  is  very  low,  my  bond  to  the  Jew  is  forfeit; 
and  since,  in  paying  it,  it  is  impossible  I 
should  live,  all  debts  are  cleared  between  you 
and  /,  if  I  might  but  see  you  at  my  death:  not- 
withstanding, use  your  pleasure ;  if  your  love 
do  not  persuade  you  to  come,  let  not  my  letter. 


Por.  O  love,  despatch  all  business,  and  be 

gone. 
Bass.  Since  I  have  your  good  leave  to  go 

away, 

I  will  make  haste:  but,  till  I  come  again, 
No  bed  shall  e'er  be  guilty  of  my  stay, 
No  rest  be  interposer  'twixt  us  twain. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— VENICE.     A  Street. 

Enter  SHYLOCK,  SALARINO,  ANTONIO,  and 
Gaoler. 

Shy.  Gaoler,  look  to  him.     Tell  not  me  of 

mercy ; 

This  is  the  fool  that  lent  out  money  gratis. — 
Gaoler,  look  to  him. 

Ant.  Hear  me  yet,  good  Shylock. 

Shy.  I  '11  have  my  bond :  speak  not  against 

my  bond. 

I  have  sworn  an  oath  that  I  will  have  my  bond. 
Thou  call'dst  me  dog  before  thou  hadst  a  cause : 
But,  since  I  am  a  dog,  beware  my  fangs : 
The  duke  shall  grant  me  justice. — I  do  wonder, 
Thou  naughty  gaoler,  that  thou  art  so  fond 
To  come  abroad  with  him  at  his  request. 

Ant.  I  pray  thee,  hear  me  speak. 

Shy.  I'll  have  my  bond;   I  will  not  hear 

thee  speak : 

I'll  have  my  bond ;  and  therefore  speak  no  more. 
I  '11  not  be  made  a  soft  and  dull-ey'd  fool, 
To  shake  the  head,  relent,  and  sigh,  and  yield 
To  Christian  intercessors.     Follow  not ; 
I  '11  have  no  speaking :  I  will  have  my  bond. 

[Exit. 

Salar.  It  is  the  most  impenetrable  cur 
That  ever  kept  with  men. 

Ant.  Let  him  alone ; 

I  '11  follow  him  no  more  with  bootless  prayers. 
He  seeks  my  life ;  his  reason  well  I  know : 
I  oft  deliver'd  from  his  forfeitures 
Many  that  have  at  times  made  moan  to  me ; 
Therefore  he  hates  me. 

Salar.  I  am  sure  the  duke 

Will  never  grant  this  forfeiture  to  hold. 

Ant.  The  duke  cannot  deny  the  course  of  law  ; 
For  the  commodity  that  strangers  have 
With  us  in  Venice,  if  it  be  denied, 
Will  much  impeach  the  justice  of  the  state ; 
Since  that  the  trade  and  profit  of  the  city 
Consisteth  of  all  nations.     Therefore,  go : 
These  griefs  and  losses  have  so  'bated  me 
That  I  shall  hardly  spare  a  pound  of  flesh 

To-morrow  to  my  bloody  creditor. 

Well,  gaoler,  on. — Pray  God,  Bassanio  come 
To  see  me  pay  his  debt,  and  then  I  care  not ! 

[Exeunt. 


240 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  in. 


SCENE  IV. — BELMONT.     A  Room  in  PORTIA'S 

•/A9f  be.        House. 

Enter  PORTIA,  NERISSA,  LORENZO,  JESSICA, 
and  BALTHAZAR. 

Lor.  Madam,  although  I  speak  it  in  your 

presence, 

You  have  a  noble  and  a  true  conceit 
Of  god-like  amity,  which  appears  most  strongly 
In  bearing  thus  the  absence  of  your  lord. 
But  if  you  knew  to  whom  you  show  this  honour, 
How  true  a  gentleman  you  send  relief, 
How  dear  a  lover  of  my  lord  your  husband, 
I  know  you  would  be  prouder  of  the  work 
Than  customary  bounty  can  enforce  you. 

Por.  I  never  did  repent  for  doing  good, 
Nor  shall  not  now :  for  in  companions 
That  do  converse  and  waste  the  time  together, 
Whose  souls  do  bear  an  equal  yoke  of  love, 
There  must  be  needs  a  like  proportion 
Of  lineaments,  of  manners,  and  of  spirit, 
Wnich  makes  me  think  that  this  Antonio, 
Being  the  bosom  lover  of  my  lord, 
Must  needs  be  like  my  lord.     If  it  be  so, 
How  little  is  the  cost  I  have  bestow'd 
In  purchasing  the  semblance  of  my  soul 
From  out  the  state  of  hellish  cruelty ! 
This  comes  too  near  the  praising  of  myself; 
Therefore,  no  more  of  it:  hear  other  things.— 
Lorenzo,  I  commit  into  your  hands 
The  husbandry  and  manage  of  my  house 
Until  my  lord's  return :  for  mine  own  part, 
I  have  toward  heaven  breath'd  a  secret  vow 
To  live  in  prayer  and  contemplation, 
Only  attended  by  Nerissa  here, 
Until  her  husband  and  my  lord's  return : 
There  is  a  monastery  two  miles  off, 
And  there  we  will  abide.     I  do  desire  you 
Not  to  deny  this  imposition, 
The  which  my  love  and  some  necessity 
Now  lays  upon  you. 

Lor.  Madam,  with  all  my  heart 

I  shall  obey  you  in  all  fair  commands. 

Por.  My  people  do  already  know  my  mind, 
And  will  acknowledge  you  and  Jessica 
In  place  of  Lord  Bassanio  and  myself. 
So  fare  you  well  till  we  shall  meet  again. 

Lor.  Fair  thoughts  and  happy  hours  attend  on 
you! 

fes.  I  wish  your  ladyship  all  heart's  content. 

Por.  I  thank  you  for  your  wish,  and  am  well 

pleas'd 

To  wish  it  back  on  you :  fare  you  well,  Jessica. — 
[Exeunt  JESSICA  and  LORENZO. 
Now,  Balthazar, 
As  I  have  ever  found  thee  honest,  true, 


So  let  me  find  thee  still.     Take  this  same  letter, 
And  use  thou  all  the  endeavour  of  a  man 
In  speed  to  Padua;  see  thou  render  thia-i  sdT 
Into  my  cousin's  hand,  Doctor  Bellario  ; 
And,  look,  what  notes  and  garments  he  doth 

give  thee 

Bring  them,  I  pray  thee,  with  imagin'd  speed 
Unto  the  tranect,  to  the  common  ferry  [words, 
Which  trades  to  Venice :— waste  no  time  in 
But  get  thee  gone ;  I  shall  be  there  before  thee. 

Baltk.    Madam,  I  go  with  all  convenient 
speed.  [Exit. 

Por.  Come  on,  Nerissa ;  I  have  work  in  hand 
That  you  yet  know  not  of:  we  '11  see  our  hus- 
bands 
Before  they  think  of  us.    urO  Oj 

Ner.  Shall  they  see  us? 

Por.  They  shall,  Nerissa ;  but  in  such  a  habit 
That  they  shall  think  we  are  accomplished 
With  that  we  lack.     I  '11  hold  thee  any  wager, 
When  we  are  both  accouter'd  like  young  men, 
I  '11  prove  the  prettier  fellow  of  the  two, 
And  wear  my  dagger  with  the  braver  grace ; 
And  speak,  between  the  change  of  man  and  boy, 
With  a  reed  voice;  and  turn  two  mincing  steps 
In*o  a  manly  stride ;  and  speak  of  frays, 
Like  a  fine  bragging  youth :  and  tell  quaint  lies, 
How  honourable  ladies  sought  my  love, 
Which  I  denying,  they  fell  sick  and  died; 
I  could  not  do  withal :  then  I  '11  repent, 
And  wish,  for  all  that,  that  I  had  not  kill'd  them: 
And  twenty  of  these  puny  lies  I  '11  tell, 
That  men  shall  swear  I  have  discontinued  school 
Above  a  twelvemonth. — I  have  within  my  mind 
A  thousand  raw  tricks  of  these  bragging  Jacks 
Which  I  will  practise. 

Ner.  Why,  shall  we  turn  to  men? 

Por,  Fie !  what  a  question  's  that 
If  thou  wert  ne'er  a  lewd  interpreter? 
But  come,  I  '11  tell  thee  all  my  whole  device 
When  I  am  in  my  coach,  which  stays  for  us 
At  the  park -gate ;  and,  therefore,  haste  away, 
For  we  must  measure  twenty  miles  to-day. 

[Exeunt. 

**.   -X^IO'* 

SCENE  V.—Tke  same.     A  Garden. 
Enter  LAUNCELOT  and  JESSICA. 

Laun.  Yes,  truly ; — for,  look  you,  the  sins  of 
the  father  are  to  be  laid  upon  the  children; 
therefore,  I  promise  you,  I  fear  you.  I  was 
always  plain  with  you,  and  so  now  I  speak  my 
agitation  of  the  matter :  therefore,  be  of  good 
cheer;  for,  truly,  I  think  you  are  damned. 
There  is  but  one  hope  in  it  that  can  do  you  any 
good;  and  that  is  but  a  kind  of  bastard  hope 
neither. 


SCENE  V.j 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


241 


Jes.  And  what  hope  is  that,  I  pray  thee  ? 

Laun.  Marry,  you  may  partly  hope  that  your 
father  got  you  not, — that  you  are  not  the  Jew's 
daughter. 

Jes.  That  were  a  kind  of  bastard  hope,  in- 
deed; so  the  sins  of  my  mother  should  be 
visited  upon  me. 

Laiin.  Truly  then  I  fear  you  are  damned  both 
by  father  and  mother:  thus  when  I  shun  Scylla, 
your  father,  I  fall  into  Charybdis,  your,  mother ; 
well,  you  are  gone  both  ways. 

Jes.  I  shall  be  saved  by  my  husband ;  he  hath 
made  me  a  Christian. 

Laun.  Truly,  the  more  to  blame  he :  we  were 
Christians  enow  before ;  e'en  as  many  as  could 
well  live,  one  by  another.  This  making  of 
Christians  will  raise  the  price  of  hogs;  if  we 
grow  all  to  be  pork  eaters  we  shall  not  shortly 
have  a  rasher  on  the  coals  for  money. 

Jes.  I  '11  tell  my  husband,  Launcelot,  what 
you  say ;  here  he  comes. 

Enter  LORENZO. 

••jfjii  ji- •'..'•..  *  173  v/  f.s  v_sm  tfu/ 

Lor.  I  shall  grow  jealous  of  you  shortly, 
Launcelot,  if  you  thus  get  my  wife  into  corners. 

Jes.  Nay,  you  need  not  fear  for  us,  Lorenzo ; 
Launcelot  and  I  are  out :  he  tells  me  flatly  there 
is  no  mercy  for  me  in  heaven,  because  I  am  a 
Jew's  daughter :  and  he  says  you  are  no  good 
member  of  the  commonwealth ;  for,  in  convert- 
ing Jews  to  Christians,  you  raise  the  price  of 
pork. 

Lor.  I  shall  answer  that  better  to  the 
commonwealth  than  you  can  the  getting  up  of 
the  negro's  belly ;  the  Moor  is  with  child  by  you, 
Launcelot. 

Latin.  It  is  much  that  the  Moor  should  be 
more  than  reason:  but  if  she  be  less  than  an 
honest  woman,  she  is  indeed  more  than  I  took 
her  for. 

Lor.  How  every  fool  can  play  upon  the 
word !  I  think  the  best  grace  of  wit  will  shortly 
turn  into  silence,  and  discourse  grow  commend- 
able in  none  only  but  parrots. — Go  in,  sirrah ; 
bid  them  prepare  for  dinner. 

Laun.  That  is  done,  sir;  they  have  all 
stomachs. 

Lor.  Goodly  lord,  what  a  wit-snapper  are 
you !  then  bid  them  prepare  dinner. 

Laun.  That  is  done  too,  sir :  only,  cover  is 
the  word. 

Lor.  Will  you  cover,  then,  sir? 

Laun.  Not  so,  sir,  neither ;  I  know  my  duty. 

Lor.  Yet  more  quarrelling  with  occasion ! 
Wilt  thou  show  the  whole  wealth  of  thy  wit  in 
an  instant?  I  pray  thee,  understand  a  plain 
man  in  his  plain  meaning :  go  to  thy  fellows ; 


bid  them  cover  the  table,  serve  in  the  meat, 
and  we  will  come  in  to  dinner. 

Laun.  For  the  table,  sir,  it  shall  be  served 
in ;  for  the  meat,  sir,  it  shall  be  covered ;  for 
your  coming  in  to  dinner,  sir,  why,  let  it  be  as 
humours  and  conceits  shall  govern.  [Exit. 

Lor.  O  dear  discretion,  how  his  words  are 

suited ! 

The  fool  hath  planted  in  his  memory 
An  army  of  good  words ;  and  I  do  know 
A  many  fools  that  stand  in  better  place, 
Garnish'd  like  him,  that  for  a  tricksy  word 
Defy  the  matter.     How  cheer'st  thou,  Jessica? 
And  now,  good  sweet,  say  thy  opinion, — 
How  dost  thou  like  the  Lord  Bassanio's  wife? 

Jes.  Past  all  expressing.     It  is  very  meet 
The  Lord  Bassanio  live  an  upright  life ; 
For,  having  such  a  blessing  in  his  lady, 
He  finds  the  joys  of  heaven  here  on  earth ; 
And,  il  on  earth  he  do  not  mean  it,  then 
In  reason  he  should  never  come  to  heaven. 
Why,  if  two  gods  should  play  some  heavenly 

match, 

And  on  the  wager  lay  two  earthly  women, 
And  Portia  one,  there  must  be  something  else 
Pawn'd  with  the  other ;  for  the  poor  rude  world 
Hath  not  her  fellow. 

Lor.  Even  such  a  husband 

Hast  thou  of  me  as  she  is  for  a  wife. 

Jes.  Nay,  but  ask  my  opinion  too  of  that. 

Lot.  I  will  anon;  first  let  us  go  to  dinner. 

Jes.  Nay,  let  me  praise  you  while  I  have  a 
stomach. 

Lor.  No,  pray  thee,  let  it  serve  for  table-talk : 
Then,  howsoe'er  thou  speak'st,  'mong  other 

things 
I  shall  digest  it. 

Jes.          Well,  I  '11  set  you  forth.     [Exeunt. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — VENICE,    A  Court  of  Justice. 

Enter  the  DUKE,  the  Magnificoes :  ANTONIO, 
BASSANIO,  GRAfiANo,   SALARINO,  SOLA- 

NIO,  and  others. 
\ 

Duke.  What,  is  Antonio  here? 

Ant.  Ready,  so  please  your  grace. 

Duke.  I  am  sorry  for  thee  j  thou  art  come  to 

answer 

A  stony  adversary,  an  inhuman  wretch 
Uncapable  of  pity,  void  and  empty 
From  any  dram  of  mercy. 

Ant.  I  have  heard 

Your  grace  hath  ta'en  great  pains  to  qualify 
His  rigorous  course;  but  since  he  stands  ob- 
durate. 


242 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  iv. 


And  that  no  lawful  means  can  carry  me 
Out  of  his  envy's  reach,  I  do  oppose 
My  patience  to  his  fury,  and  am  arm'd 
To  suffer,  with  a  quietness  of  spirit, 
The  very  tyranny  and  rage  of  his. 

Duke.  Go  one,  and  call  the  Jew  into  the 
court.  [my  lord. 

Solan.  He's  ready  at  the  door:  he  comes, 

Enter  SHYLOCK. 

Duke.  Make  room,  and  let  him  stand  before 

our  face. — 

Shylock,  the  world  thinks,  and  I  think  so  too, 
That  thou  but  lead'st  this  fashion  of  thy  malice 
To  the  last  hour  of  act ;  and  then,  'tis  thought, 
Thou'lt  show  thy  mercy  and  remorse,  more 

strange 

Than  is  thy  strange  apparent  cruelty ; 
And  where  thou  now  exact' st  the  penalty, — 
Which  is  a  pound  of  this  poor  merchant's  flesh, — 
Thou  wilt  not  only  lose  the  forfeiture, 
But,  touch'd  with  human  gentleness  and  love, 
Forgive  a  moiety  of  the  principal, 
Glancing  an  eye  of  pity  on  his  losses, 
That  have  of  late  so  huddled  on  his  back ; 
Enough  to  press  a  royal  merchant  down, 
And  pluck  commiseration  of  his  state 
From  brassy  bosoms  and  rough  hearts  of  flint, 
From  stubborn  Turks  and  Tartars,  never  train'd 
To  offices  of  tender  courtesy. 
We  all  expect  a  gentle  answer,  Jew. 

Shy.  I  have  possess'd  your  grace  of  what  I 

purpose ; 

And  by  our  holy  Sabbath  have  I  sworn 
To  have  the  due  and  forfeit  of  my  bond. 
If  you  deny  it,  let  the  danger  light 
Upon  your  charter  and  your  city's  freedom. 
You  '11  ask  me  why  I  rather  choose  to  have 
A  weight  of  carrion  flesh  than  to  receive 
Three  thousand  ducats :  I  '11  not  answer  that : 
But  say,  it  is  my  humour.     Is  it  answered? 
What  if  my  house  be  troubled  with  a  rat, 
And  I  be  pleas'd  to  give  ten  thousand  ducats 
To  have  it  baned?   What,  are  you  answer'd  yet  ? 
Some  men  there  are  love  not  a  gaping  pig ; 
Some  that  are  mad  if  they  behold  a  cat ; 
And  others,  when  the  bagpipe  sings  i'  the  nose, 
Cannot  contain  their  urine ;  for  affection, 
Master  of  passion,  sways  it  to  the  mood 
Of  what  it  likes  or  loathes.     Now,  for  your 

answer, 

As  there  is  no  firm  reason  to  be  render'd 
Why  he  cannot  abide  a  gaping  pig ; 
Why  he,  a  harmless  necessary  cat ; 
Why  he,  a  swollen  bagpipe,  but  of  force 
Must  yield  to  such  inevitable  shame 
As  to  offend,  himself  being  offended : 


So  can  I  give  no  reason,  nor  I  will  not, 
More  than  a  lodg'd  hate  and  a  certain  loathing 
I  bear  Antonio,  that  I  follow  thus 
A  losing  suit  against  him.     Are  you  answer'd? 

Bass.  This  is  no  answer,  thou  unfeeling  man, 
To  excuse  the  current  of  thy  cruelty. 

Shy.  I  am  not  bound  to  please  thee  with  my 
answer.  [love? 

Bass.  Do  all  men  kill  the  thing  they  do  not 

Shy.  Hates  any  man  the  thine  he  would  not 
kill? 

Bass.  Every  offence  is  not  a  hate  at  first. 

Shy.  What !  wouldst   thou   have   a  serpent 
sting  thee  twice?  [the  Jew : 

Ant.  I  pray  you,  think  you  question  with 
You  may  as  well  go  stand  upon  the  beach 
And  bid  the  main-flood  bait  his  usual  height ; 
You  may  as  well  use  question  with  the  wolf 
Why  he  hath  made  the  ewe  bleat  for  the  lamb ; 
You  may  as  well  forbid  the  mountain  pines 
To  wag  their  high  tops,  and  to  make  no  noise, 
When  they  are  fretted  with  the  gusts  of  heaven ; 
You  may  as  well  do  anything  most  hard 
As  seek  to  soften  that, — than  which  what's 
harder? —  [you* 

His  Jewish  heart. — Therefore,   I  do  beseech 
Make  no  more  offers,  use  no  further  means, 
But,  with  all  brief  and  plain  conveniency, 
Let  me  have  judgment  and  the  Jew  his  will. 

Bass.  For  thy  three  thousand  ducats  here  is 
six. 

Shy.  If  every  ducat  in  six  thousand  ducats 
Were  in  six  parts,  and  every  part  a  ducat, 
I  would  not  draw  them ;  I  would  have  my  bond. 

Duke.  How   shalt   thou    hope    for    mercy, 
rend'ring  none?  [no  wrong? 

Shy.  What  judgment  shall  I  dread,  doing 
You  have  among  you  many  a  purchas'd  slave, 
Which,  like  your  asses,  and  your  dogs,  and  mules, 
You  use  in  abject  and  in  slavish  parts, 
Because  you  bought  them. — Shall  I  say  to  you, 
Let  them  be  free,  marry  them  to  your  heirs? 
Why  sweat  they  under  burdens?  let  their  beds 
Be  made  as  soft  as  yours,  and  let  their  palates 
Be    season'd  with    such   viands?      You   will 

answer, 

The  slaves  are  ours :— So  do  I  answer  you ; 
The  pound  of  flesh  which  I  demand  of  him 
Is  dearly  bought,  is  mine,  and  I  will  have  it: 
If  you  deny  me,  fie  upon  your  law ! 
There  is  no  force  in  the  decrees  of  Venice. — 
I  stand  for  judgment:  answer:  shall  I  have  it? 

Duke.  Upon  my  power  I  may  dismiss  this 

court, 

Unless  Bellario,  a  learned  doctor, 
Whom  I  have  sent  for  to  determine  this, 
Come  here  to-day. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


243 


Solan.  My  lord,  here  stays  without 

A  messenger  with  letters  from  the  doctor, 
New  come  from  Padua.  [senger. 

Duke.  Bring  us  the  letters; — call  the  mes- 

Bass.  Good   cheer,  Antonio!    What,    man, 
courage  yet !  [and  all, 

The  Jew  shall  have  my  flesh,  blood,  bones, 
Ere  thou  shalt  lose  for  me  one  drop  of  blood. 

Ant.  I  am  a  tainted  wether  of  the  flock, 
Meetest  for  death :  the  weakest  kind  of  fruit 
Drops  earliest  to  the  ground,  and  so  let  me : 
You  cannot  better  be  employ'd,  Bassanio, 
Than  to  live  still,  and  write  mine  epitaph. 

Enter  NERISSA,  dressed  like  a  lawyers  clerk. 

Duke.  Came  you  from  Padua,  from  Bellario? 

Ner.  From  both,  my  lord :  Bellario  greets 

your  grace.  [Presents  a  letter. 

Bass.  Why   dost    thou   whet   thy   knife   so 

earnestly?  [rupt  there. 

Shy.  To  cut  the  forfeiture  from  that  bank- 

Gra.  Not  on  thy  sole,  but  on  thy  soul,  harsh 

Jew, 

Thou  mak'st  thy  knife  keen :  but  no  metal  can, 

No,   not   the   hangman's  axe,   bear   half    the 

keenness  [thee? 

Of  thy  sharp   envy.     Can   no  prayers  pierce 

Shy.  No ;  none  that  thou  hast  wit  enough  to 

make. 

Gra.  O,  be  thou  damn'd,  inexorable  dog ! 
And  for  thy  life  let  justice  be  accus'd. 
Thou  almost  mak'st  me  waver  in  my  faith, 
To  hold  opinion  with  Pythagoras, 
That  souls  of  animals  infuse  themselves 
Into  the  trunks  of  men :  thy  currish  spirit 
Govern'd    a  wolf,   who,   hang'd    for    human 

slaughter, 

Even  from  the  gallows  did  his  fell  soul  fleet, 
And,  whilst  thou  lay'st  in  thy  unhallow'd  dam, 
Infus'd  itself  in  thee ;  for  thy  desires 
Are  wolfish,  bloody,  starv'd,  and  ravenous. 
Shy.  Till  thou  canst  rail  the  seal  from  off 

my  bond 

Thou  but  offend' st  thy  lungs  to  speak  so  loud : 
Repair  thy  wit,  good  youth,  or  it  will  fall 
To  cureless  ruin. — I  stand  here  for  law. 

Duke.    This    letter     from     Bellario     doth 

commend 

A  young  and  learned  doctor  to  our  court : — 
Where  is  he? 

Ner.  He  attendeth  here  hard  by, 

To  know  your  answer,  whether  you  '11  admit 

him. 
Duke.  With  all  my  heart :— some  three  or 

four  of  you 

Go  give  him  courteous  conduct  to  this  place. — 
Meantime,  the  court  shall  hear  Bellario*s  letter. 


[Clerk  reads.}  Your  grace  shall  understand  that,  at 
the  receipt  of  your  letter,  I  am  very  sick ;  but  in  the 
instant  that  your  messenger  came,  in  loving  visitation 
was  with  me  a  young  doctor  of  Rome ;  his  name  is  Balt- 
hazar: I  acquainted  him  with  the  cause  in  controversy 
between  the  Jew  and  Antonio  the  merchant :  we  turned 
o'er  many  books  together  :  he  is  furnish  d  with  my 
opinion  ;  which,  better'd  with  his  own  learning  (the 
greatness  whereof  I  cannot  enough  commend),  comes 


with  him,  at  my  importunity  to  fill  up  your  grace's  re- 
quest in  my  stead.  I  beseech  you,  let  his  lack  of  year 
be  no  impediment  to  let  him  lack  a  reverend  estimation 


for  I  never  knew  so  young  a  body  with  so  old  a  head.  I 
leave  him  to  your  gracious  acceptance,  whose  trial  shall 
better  publish  his  commendation. 

Duke.  You  hear  the  learn'd  Bellario,  what 

he  writes:  . 
And  here,  I  take  it,  is  the  doctor  come.  — 

Enter  PORTIA,  dressed  like  a  doctor  of  laws. 

Give  me  your  hand:    came  you    from    old 
Bellario? 

For.  I  did,  my  lord.  [place. 

Duke.  You  are  welcome  :   take  your 

Are  you  acquainted  with  the  difference 
That  holds  this  present  question  in  the  court  ? 

For.  I  am  informed  throughly  of  the  cause. 
Which  is  the  merchant  here,  and  which  the 
Jew?  [forth. 

Duke.  Antonio  and  old  Shylock,  both  stand 

For.  Is  your  nair  *  Shylock  ? 

Shy.  Shylock  is  my  name. 

For.  Of  a  stiange   nature  is  the  suit  you 

follow  : 

Yet  in  such  rule,  that  the  Venetian  law 
Cannot  impugn  you  as  you  do  proceed.  — 
You  stand  within  his  danger,  do  you  not? 

[To  ANTONIO. 

Ant.  Ay,  so  he  says. 

For.  Do  you  confess  the  bond? 

Ant.  I  do. 

For.  Then  must  the  Jew  be  merciful. 

Shy.  On  what  compulsion  must  I?  tell  me 
that. 

For.  The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strain'd  ; 
It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath  :  it  is  twice  bless'd  ; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives  and  him  that  takes  : 
'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest  ;  it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown; 
His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power, 
The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 
Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings  ; 
Bui  mercy  is  above  this  scepter'd  sway,  — 
It  is  enthroned  in  the  heart  of  kings, 
It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 
And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's 
When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Therefore,  Jew, 
Though  justice  be  thy  plea  consider  this  — 


244 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  IV. 


That  in  the  course  of  justice  none  of  us 
Should  see  salvation :  we  do  pray  for  mercy ; 
And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 
The  deeds  of  mercy.     I  have  spoke  thus  much 
To  mitigate  the  justice  of  thy  plea ; 
Which  if  thou  follow,  this  strict  court  of  Venice 
Must  needs  give  sentence  'gainst  the  merchant 
there.  [law, 

Shy.  My  deeds  upon  my  head !     I  crave  the 
The  penalty  and  forfeit  of  my  bond. 

For.  Is  he  not  able  to  discharge  the  money? 

Bass.  Yes;  here  I  tender  it  for  him  in  the 

court ; 

Yea,  twice  the  sum :  if  that  will  not  suffice 
I  will  be  bound  to  pay  it  ten  times  o'er, 
On  forfeit  of  my  hands,  my  head,  my  heart : 
If  this  will  not  suffice,  it  must  appear        [you, 
That  malice  bears  down  truth.     And  I  beseech 
Wrest  once  the  law  to  your  authority : 
To  do  a  great  right  do  a  little  wrong, 
And  curb  this  cruel  devil  of  his  will.      [Venice 

For.  It  must  not  be;  there  is  no  power  in 
Can  alter  a  decree  established  : 
'Twill  be  recorded  for  a  precedent, 
And  many  an  error,  by  the  same  example, 
Will  rush  into  the  state :  it  cannot  be. 

Shy.  A  Daniel  come  to  judgment!   yea,  a 

Daniel ! 
O  wise  young  judge  1  how  I  do  honour  thee ! 

For.  I  pray  you,  let  me  look  upon  the  bond. 

Shy.  Here  'tis,  most  reverend  doctor;  here 
it  is. 

For.    Shylock,    there's    thrice    thy  money 
offered  thee. 

Shy.  An  oath,  an  oath ;  I  have  an  oath  in 

heaven : 

Shall  I  lay  perjury  upon  my  soul? 
No,  not  for  Venice. 

For.  Why,  this  bond  is  forfeit; 

And  lawfully  by  this  the  Jew  may  claim 
A  pound  of  flesh,  to  be  by  him  cut  oft 
Nearest  the  merchant's  heart. — Be  merciful ! 
Take  thrice  thy  money ;  bid  me  tear  the  bond. 

Shy.  When  it  is  paid  according  to  the  tenor. — 
It  doth  appear  you  are  a  worthy  judge ; 
You  know  the  law;  your  exposition 
Hath  been  most  sound :  I  charge  you  by  the  law, 
Whereof  you  are  a  well-deserving  pillar, 
Proceed  to  judgment :  by  my  soul  I  swear 
There  is  no  power  in  the  tongue  of  man 
To  alter  me.— I  stay  here  on  my  bond. 

Ant.  Most  heartily  I  do  beseech  the  court 
To  give  the  judgment. 

For.  Why  then,  thus  it  is. 

You  must  prepare  your  bosom  for  his  knife : 

Shy.  O  noble  judge!  O  excel  lent  young  man! 

For.  For  the  intent  and  purpose  of  the  law 


Hath  full  relation  to  the  penalty, 

Which  here  appeareth  due  upon  the  bond. 

Shy.  'Tis   very  true:  O   wise  and   upright 

judge, 
How  much  more  elder  art  thou  than  thy  looks! 

For.  Therefore,  lay  bare  your  bosom. 

Shy.  Ay,  his  breast : 

So  says  the  bond; — doth  it  not,  noble  judge? — • 
Nearest  his  heart :  those  are  the  very  words. 

For.  It  is  so.    Are  there  balance  here  to  weigh 
The  flesh? 

Shy.       I  have  them  ready. 

For.  Have  by  some  surgeon,   Shylock,  on 

your  charge, 
To  stop  his  wounds,  lest  he  do  bleed  to  death. 

Shy.  Is  it  so  nominated  in  tne  bond? 

For.  It  is  not  so  express'd ;  but  what  of  that? 
'Twere  good  you  do  so  much  for  charity. 

Shy.  I  cannot  find  it ;  'tis  not  in  the  bond. 

For.  Come,  merchant,  have  you  anything  to 
say? 

Ant.  But  little;  I  am  arm'd  and  well  pre- 

par'd. — 

Give  me  your  hand,  Bassanio ;  fare  you  well ! 
Grieve  not  that  I  am  fallen  to  this  for  you ; 
For  herein  fortune  shows  herself  more  kind 
Than  is  her  custom :  it  is  still  her  use 
To  let  the  wretched  man  out-live  his  wealth, 
To  view  with  hollow  eye  and  wrinkled  brow 
An  age  of  poverty;  from  which  lingering  penance 
Of  such  misery  doth  she  cut  me  off. 
Commend  me  to  your  honourable  wife ; 
Tell  her  the  process  of  Antonio's  end ; 
Say  how  I  lov'd  you ;  speak  me  fair  in  death ; 
And,  when  the  tale  is  told,  bid  her  be  judge 
Whether  Bassanio  had  not  once  a  love. 
Repent  not  you  that  you  shall  lose  your  friend, 
And  he  repents  not  that  he  pays  your  debt ; 
For,  if  the  Jew  do  cut  but  deep  enough, 
I  '11  pay  it  instantly  with  all  my  heart. 

Bass.  Antonio,  I  am  married  to  a  wife 
Which  is  as  dear  to  me  as  life  itself ; 
But  life  itself,  my  wife,  and  all  the  world 
Are  not  with  me  esteem'd  above  thy  life ; 
I  would  lose  all,  ay,  sacrifice  them  all 
Here  to  this  devil,  to  deliver  you. 

For.   Your  wife  would  give  you  little  thanks 

for  that, 
If  she  were  by  to  hear  you  make  the  offer. 

Gra.  I  have  a  wife  whom,  I  protest,  I  love; 
I  would  she  were  in  heaven,  so  she  could 
Entreat  some  power  to  change  this  currish  Jew. 

Ner.  'Tis  well  you  offer  it  behind  her  back ; 
The  wish  would  make  else  an  unquiet  house. 

Shy.  These  be  the  Christian  husbands:  I 

have  a  daughter; 
Would  any  of  the  stock  of  Barrabas 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


245 


Had  been  her  husband,  rather  than  a  Christian  ! 

[Aside. 
We  trifle  time ; — I  pray  thee,  pursue  sentence. 

For.  A  pound  of  that  same  merchant's  flesh 

is  thine ; 
The  court  awards  it  and  the  law  doth  give  it. 

Shy.  Most  rightful  judge !  [his  breast ; 

For.  And  you  must  cut  this  flesh  from  off 
The  law  allows  it  and  the  court  awards  it. 

Shy.  Most     learned    judge! — A    sentence; 
come,  prepare.  [else. — 

For.    Tarry  a    little; — there    is    something 
This  bond  doth  give  thee  here  no  jot  of  blood ; 
The  words  expressly  are  a  pound  of  flesh : 
Take  then  thy  bond,  take  thou  thy  pound  of 

flesh; 

But,  in  the  cutting,  if  thou  dost  shed       [goods 
One  drop  of  Christian  blood,  thy  lands  and 
Are,  by  the  laws  of  Venice,  confiscate 
Unto  the  state  of  Venice.  [learned  judge  ! 

Gra.   O    upright    judge! — Mark,   Jew;— O 

Shy.  Is  that  the  law? 

For.  Thyself  shall  see  the  act : 

For,  as  thou  urgest  justice,  be  assur'd 
Thou  shall  have  justice,  more  than  thou  desir'st. 

Gra.  O    learned    judge! — Mark,    Jew; — a 
learned  judge !  [thrice, 

Shy.  I  take  this  offer  then, — pay  the  bond 
And  let  the  Christian  go. 

Bass.  Here  is  the  money. 

For.  Soft;  [haste:— 

The  Jew  shall    have    all  justice: — soft; — no 
He  shall  have  nothing  but  the  penalty. 

Gra.  O  Jew !   an   upright  judge,  a  learned 
judge !  [flesh. 

For.  Therefore,  prepare  thee  to  cut  off  the 
Shed  thou  no  blood ;  nor  cut  thou  less  nor  more 
But  just  a  pound  of  flesh :  if  thou  tak'st  more 
Or  less  than  a  just  pound, — be  it  but  so  much 
As  makes  it  light  or  heavy  in  the  substance, 
Or  the  division  of  the  twentieth  part 
Of  one  poor  scruple :  nay,  if  the  scale  do  turn 
But  in  the  estimation  of  a  hair,— 
Thou  diest,  and  all  thy  goods  are  confiscate. 

Gra.  A  second  Daniel,  a  Daniel,  Jew ! 
Now,  infidel,  I  have  thee  on  the  hip. 

For.  Why  doth  the  Jew  pause  ?  take  thy  for- 
feiture. 

Shy.  Give  me  my  principal,  and  let  me  go. 

Bass.   I  have  it  ready  for  thee ;  here  it  is. 

For.  He  hath  refus'd  it  in  the  open  court ; 
He  shall  have  merely  justice,  and  his  bond. 

Gra.  A  Daniel,  still  say  I;  a  second  Daniel ! — 
I  thank  thee,  Jew,  for  teaching  me  that  word. 

Shy.  Shall  I  not  have  barely  my  principal  ? 

For.  Thou  shalthave  nothing  but  the  forfeiture 
To  be  so  taken  at  thy  peril,  Jew. 


Shy.  Why,  then  the  devil  give  him  good  of  it ! 
I  '11  stay  no  longer  question. 

For.  Tarry,  Jew* !« 

The  law  hath  yet  another  hold  on  you. 
It  is  enacted  in  the  laws  of  Venice, — 
If  it  be  prov'd  against  an  alien, 
That  by  direct  or  indirect  attempts 
He  seek  the  life  of  any  citizen, 
The  party  'gainst  the  which  he  doth  contrive 
Shall  seize  one  half  his  goods ;  the  other  half 
Comes  to  the  privy  coffer  of  the  state ; 
And  the  offender's  life  lies  in  the  mercy 
Of  the  duke  only,  'gainst  all  other  voice. 
In  which  predicament,  I  say,  thou  stand'st; 
For  it  appears  by  manifest  proceeding, 
That  indirectly,  and  directly  too, 
Thou  hast  contriv'd  against  the  very  life 
Of  the  defendant ;  and  thou  hast  incurr'd 
The  danger  formerly  by  me  rehears'd. 
Down,  therefore,  and  beg  mercy  of  the  duke. 

Gra.  Beg  that  thou  mayst  have  leave  to  hang 

thyself: 

And  yet,  thy  wealth  being  forfeit  to  the  state, 
Thou  hast  not  left  the  value  of  a  cord ; 
Therefore,  thou  must  be  hang'd  at  the  state 
charge.  [spirit, 

Duke.  That  thou  shalt  see  the  difference  of  our 
I  pardon  thee  thy  life  before  thou  ask  it : 
For  half  thy  wealth,  it  is  Antonio's: 
The  other  half  comes  to  the  general  state, 
Which  humbleness  may  drive  unto  a  fine. 

For.  Ay,  for  the  state ;  not  for  Antonio. 

Shy.  Nay,  take  my  life  and  all,  pardon  not  that: 
You  take  my  house  when  you  do  take  the  prop 
That  doth  sustain  my  house ;  you  take  my  life 
When  you  do  take  the  means  whereby  I  live. 

For.  What  mercy  can  you  render  him,  Antonio? 

Gra.  A  halter  gratis ;  nothing  else :  for  God's 
sake. 

Ant.  So  please  my  lord  the  duke,  and  all 

the  court, 

To  quit  the  fine  for  one  half  of  his  goods; 
I  am  content,  so  he  will  let  me  have 
The  other  half  in  use,  to  render  it, 
Upon  his  death,  unto  the  gentleman 
That  lately  stole  his  daughter : 
Two  things  provided  more, — that  for  this  favour, 
He  presently  become  a  Christian ; 
The  other,  that  he  do  record  a  gift, 
Here  in  the  court,  of  all  he  dies  possess'd 
Unto  his  son  Lorenzo  and  his  daughter. 

Duke.  He  shall  do  this ;  or  else  I  do  recant 
The  pardon  that  I  late  pronounced  here. 

For.  Art  thou  contented,  Jew?  what  dost  thou 
say? 

Shy.  I  am  content. 

For.  Clerk,  draw  a  deed  of  gift. 


246 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  IV. 


Shy.  I  pray  you,  give  me  leave  to  go  from 

hence : 

I  am  not  well ;  send  the  deed  after  me 
And  I  will  sign  it. 

Duke.  Get  thee  gone,  but  do  it. 

Gra.  In  christening,  thou  shalt  have  two  god- 
fathers: 
Had  I  been  judge,  thou  shouldst  have  had  ten 

more, 
To  bring  thee  to  the  gallows,  not  the  font. 

[Exit  SHYLOCK. 
Duke.  Sir,  I  entreat  you  home  with  me  to 

dinner. 

For.     I  humbly  do  desire  your  grace  of  par- 
don; 

I  must  away  this  night  toward  Padua ; 
And  it  is  meet  I  presently  set  forth. 

Duke.  I  am  sorry  that  your  leisure  serves  you 

not. 

Antonio,  gratify  this  gentleman ; 
For,  in  my  mind,  you  are  much  bound  to  him. 
[Exeunt  DUKE,  Magnificoes,  and  Train. 
Bass.  Most  worthy  gentleman,  I  and  my  friend 
Have  by  your  wisdom  been  this  day  acquitted 
Of  grievous  penalties ;  in  lieu  whereof, 
Three  thousand  ducats,  due  unto  the  Jew, 
We  freely  cope  your  courteous  pains  withal. 
Ant.  And  stand  indebted,  over  and  above 
In  love  and  service  to  you  evermore. 

Por.  He  is  well  paid  that  is  well  satisfied, 
And  I,  delivering  you,  am  satisfied, 
And  therein  do  account  myself  well  paid : 
My  mind  was  never  yet  more  mercenary. 
I  pray  you,  know  me  when  we  meet  again ; 
I  wish  you  well,  and  so  I  take  my  leave. 

Bass.  Dear  sir,  of  force  I  must  attempt  you 

further ; 

Take  some  remembrance  of  us,  as  a  tribute, 
Not  as  a  fee :  grant  me  two  things,  I  pray  you, 
Not  to  deny  me,  and  to  pardon  me. 

Por.  You  press  me  far,  and  therefore  I  will 

yield. 

Givemeyourglovcs,  1*11  wear  them  foryoursake; 
And,  for  your  love,  I  '11  take  this  ring  from  you: — 
Do  not  draw  back  your  hand ;  I  '11  take  no 

more; 
And  you  in  love  shall  not  deny  me  this. 

Bass.  This  ring,  good  sir, — alas,  it  is  a  trifle; 
I  will  not  shame  myself  to  give  you  this. 

Por.  I  will  have  nothing  else  but  only  this ; 
And  now,  methinks,  I  have  a  mind  to  it. 
Bass.  There  's  more  depends  on  this  than  on 

the  value. 

The  dearest  ring  in  Venice  will  I  give  you, 
And  find  it  out  by  proclamation; 
Only  for  this,  I  pray  you,  pardon  me. 
Por.  I  see,  sir,  you  are  liberal  in  offers: 


You  taught  me  first  to  beg ;  and  now,  methinks, 

You  teach  me  how  a  beggar  should  be  answer'd. 

Bass.  Good  sir,  this  ring  was  given  me  by  my 

wife; 

And,  when  she  put  it  on,  she  made  me  vow 
That  I  should  neither  sell,  nor  give,  nor  lose  it. 
Por.  That  'scuse  serves  many  men  to  save 

their  gifts. 

An  if  your  wife  be  not  a  mad  woman, 
And  know  how  well  I  have  deserv'd  this  ring, 
She  would  not  hold  out  enemy  for  ever, 
For  giving  it  to  me.     Well,  peace  be  with  you! 
[Exeunt  PORTIA  and  NERISSA. 
Ant.  My  Lord  Bassanio,  let  him  have  the  ring: 
Let  his  deservings,  and  my  love  withal, 
Be  valued  'gainst  your  wife's  commandment. 

Bass.  Go,  Gratiano,  run  and  overtake  him, 
Give  him  the  ring ;  and  bring  him,  if  thou  canst. 
Unto  Antonio's  house : — away,  make  haste. 

[Exit  GRATIANO. 

Come,  you  and  I  will  thither  presently ; 
And  in  the  morning  early  will  we  both 
Fly  toward  Belmont.  Come,  Antonio. 

[Exeum 

SCENE  II.— The  same.     A  Street. 
Enter  PORTIA  and  NERISSA. 

Por.  Inquire  the  Jew's  house  out,  give  him 

this  deed, 

And  let  him  sign  it ;  we  '11  away  to-night, 
And  be  a  day  before  our  husbands  home. 
This  deed  will  be  well  welcome  to  Lorenzo. 

Enter  GRATIANO. 

Gra.  Fair  sir,  you  are  well  overta'en : 
My  Lord  Bassanio,  upon  more  advice, 
Hath  sent  you  here  this  ring ;  and  doth  entreat 
Your  company  at  dinner. 

Por.  That  cannot  be : 

His  ring  I  do  accept  most  thankfully. 
And  so,  I  pray  you,  tell  him.     Furthermore, 
I  pray  you,  show  my  youth  old  Shylock's  house. 

Gra.  That  will  I  do. 

Ner.  Sir,  I  would  speak  with  you : — 
I  '11  see  if  I  can  get  my  husband's  ring, 

[To  PORTIA. 
Which  I  did  make  him  swear  to  keep  for  ever. 

Por.  Thou  mayst,  I  warrant.     We  shall  have 

old  swearing 

That  they  did  give  the  rings  away  to  men ; 
But  we  '11  outface  them,  and  outswear  them  too. 
Away,  make  haste ;  thou  know'st  where  I  will 
tarry. 

Ner.  Come,  good  sir,  will  you  show  me  to 
this  house?  [Exeunt. 


SCKNfc  I.] 


THE  MERCHANT  OK  VENICE. 


247 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.  — BELMONT.  .    Pleasure  grounds  of 
PORTIA'S  House. 

Enter  LORENZO  and  JESSICA. 

Lor.  The  moon  shines  bright ! — In  such  a 

night  as  this, 

When  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees, 
And  they  did  make  no  noise  ;  in  such  a  night, 
Troilus,  methinks,  mounted  the  Trojan  walls, 
And  sigh'd  his  soul  toward  the  Grecian  tents, 
Where  Cressid  lay  that  night. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night 

Did  Thisbe  fearfully  o'ertrip  the  dew, 
And  saw  the  lion's  shadow  ere  himself, 
And  ran  dismay'd  away. 

Lor.  In  such  a  night 

Stood  Dido  with  a  willow  in  her  hand 
Upon  the  wild  sea-banks,  and  wav'd  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night 

Medea  gather'd  the  enchanted  herbs 
That  did  renew  old  /Eson. 

Lor.  In  such  a  night 

Did  Jessica  steal  from  the  wealthy  Jew 
And,  with  an  unthrift  love,  did  run  from  Venice 
As  far  as  Belmont. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night 

Did  young  Lorenzo  swear  he  lov'd  her  well — 
Stealing  her  soul  with  many  vows  of  faith, 
And  ne'er  a  true  one. 

Lor.  In  such  a  night 

Did  pretty  Jessica,  like  a  little  shrew, 
Slander  her  love,  and  he  forgave  it  her. 

Jes.  I  would  out-night  you,  did  nobody  come : 
But,  hark,  I  hear  the  footing  of  a  man. 

Enter  STEPHANO. 

Lor.  Who  comes  so  fast  in  silence  of  the  night? 

Steph.  A  friend. 

Lor.  A  friend !  what  friend  ?  your  name,  I 
pray  you,  friend  ? 

Steph.  Stephano  is  my  name;  and  I  bring  word 
My  mistress  will  before  the  break  of  day 
Be  here  at  Belmont ;  she  doth  stray  about 
By  holy  crosses,  where  she  kneels  and  prays 
For  happy  wedlock  hours. 

Lor.  Who  comes  with  her? 

Steph.  None  but  a  holy  hermit  and  her  maid. 
I  pray  you,  is  my  master  yet  return'd? 

Lor.  He  is  not,  nor  we  have  not  heard  from 

him. — 

But  go  we  in,  I  pray  thee,  Jessica, 
And  ceremoniously  let  us  p'repare 
Some  welcome  for  the  mistress  of  the  house. 


Enter  LAUNCELOT. 

Laun.  Sola,  sola,  wo  ha,  ho,  sola,  sola  t 

Lor.  Who  calls? 

Laun.  Sola!  did  you  se«  Master  Lorenzo 
and  Mistress  Lorenzo  ?  sola,  sola  ! 

Ij>r.  Leave  hollaing,  man  :  here. 

Laun.  Sola!  where?  where? 

Lor.  Here. 

Laun.  Tell  him  there 's  a  post  come  from  my 
master  with  his  horn  full  of  good  news  ;  my 
master  will  be  here  ere  morning.  [Exit. 

Lor.  Sweet  soul,  let 's  in,  and  there  expect 

their  coming. 

And  yet  no  matter ; — why  should  we  go  in  ? 
My  friend  Stephano,  signify,  I  pray  you, 
Within  the  house,  your  mistress  is  at  hand  : 
And  bring  your  music  forth  into  the  air. — 

[Exit  STEPHANO. 

How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank ! 
Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears ;  soft  stillness  and  the  night 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica.     Look  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold ; 
There's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  behold'st 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-ey'd  cherubims :         ( 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls ; 
But,  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it — 

Enter  Musicians. 

Come,  ho,  and  wake  Diana  with  a  hymn ; 
With  sweetest  touches  pierce  your  mistress'  ear, 
And  draw  her  home  with  music.  [Music. 

Jes.  I  am  never  merry  when  I  hear  sweet 

music. 

Lor.  The  reason  is,  your  spirits  are  attentive: 
For  do  but  note  a  wild  and  wanton  herd, 
Or  race  of  youthful  and  unhandled  colts, 
Fetching  mad  bounds,  bellowing,  and  neighing 

loud, 

Which  is  the  hot  condition  of  their  blood — 
If  they  but  hear  perchance  a  trumpet  sound, 
Or  any  air  of  music  touch  their  ears, 
You  shall  perceive  them  make  a  mutual  stand, 
Their  savage  eyes  turn'd  to  a  modest  gaze 
By  the  sweet  power  of  music :  therefore  the  poet 
Did  feign  that  Orpheus  drew  trees,  stones,  and 

floods; 

Since  naught  so  stockish,  hard,  and  full  of  rage 
But  music  for  the  time  doth  change  his  nature. 
The  man  that  hath  no  music  in  himself, 
Nor  is  not  mov'd  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds, 
Is  fit  for  treasons,  stratagems,  and  spoils ; 
The  motions  of  his  spirit  are  dull  as  night. 


248 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  v. 


And  his  affections  dark  as  Erebus : 

Let  no  such  man  be  trusted. — Mark  the  music. 

Enter  PORTIA  and  NERISSA,  at  a  distance. 

For.  That  light  we  see  is  burning  in  my 

hall : 

How  far  that  little  candle  throws  his  beams ! 
So  shines  a  good  deed  in  a  naughty  world. 
Ner.  When  the  moon  shone  we  did  not  see 

the  candle. 

For.  So  doth  the  greater  glory  dim  the  less : 
A  substitute  shines  brightly  as  a  king 
Until  a  king  be  by ;  and  then  his  state 
Empties  itself,  as  doth  an  inland  brook 
Into  the  main  of  waters.     Music !  hark ! 
Ner.  It    is    your    music,    madam,    of   the 

house. 

For.  Nothing  is  good,  I  see,  without  respect ; 
Methinks  it  sounds  much  sweeter    than    by 

day. 

Ner.  Silence  bestows  that  virtue  on  it,  madam. 
For.  The  crow  doth  sing  as  sweetly  as  the 

lark 

When  neither  is  attended ;  and,  I  think, 
The  nightingale,  if  she  should  sing  by  day, 
When    every  goose    is    cackling,    would    be 

thought 

No  better  a  musician  than  the  wren. 
How  many  things  by  season  season'd  are 
To  their  right  praise  and  true  perfection ! — 
Peace,  ho !  the  moon  sleeps  with  Endymion, 
And  would  not  be  awaked !          [Music  ceases. 

Lor.  That  is  the  voice, 

Or  I  am  much  deceived,  of  Portia. 
For.  He  knows  me,  as  the  blind  man  knows 

the  cuckoo, 
By  the  bad  voice. 

Lor.  Dear  lady,  welcome  home. 

For.  We  have  been  praying  for  our  husbands' 

welfare, 

Which  speed,  we  hope,  the  better  for  our  words. 
Are  they  return'd? 

Lor.  Madam,  they  are  not  yet ; 

But  there  is  come  a  messenger  before, 
To  signify  their  coming. 

for.        #u  Go  in,  Nerissa,  v^£  7< 

Give  order  to  my  servants  that  they  take 
No  note  at  all  of  our  being  absent  hence ; — 
Nor  you,  Lorenzo  j— Jessica,  nor  you. 

[A  tucket  sounds. 
Lor.  Your  husband  is  at  hand,  I  hear  his 

trumpet : 

We  are  no  tell-tales,  madam ;  fear  you  not. 
For.  This  night  methinks  is  but  the  daylight 

sick — 

It  looks  a  little  paler ;  'tis  a  day 
Such  as  the  day  is  when  the  sun  is  hid, 


Enter  BASSANIO,  ANTONIO,  GRATIANO,  and 
their  followers. 

Bass.  We  should  hold  day  with  the  Antipodes 
If  you  would  walk  in  absence  of  the  sun. 

For.  Let  me  give  light,  but  let  me  not  be 

light; 

For  a  light  wife  doth  make  a  heavy  husband, 
And  never  be  Bassanio  so  for  me ;  [lord. 

But  God  sort  all ! — you  are  welcome  home,  my 

Bass.  I  thank  you,  madam ;  give  welcome  to 

my  friend. — 

This  is  the  man ;  this  is  Antonio, 
To  whom  I  am  so  infinitely  bound.  [him, 

For.  You  should  in  all  sense  be  much  bound  to 
For,  as  I  hear,  he  was  much  bound  for  you. 

Ant.  No  more  than  I  am  well  acquitted  of. 

For.  Sir,  you  are  very  welcome  to  our  house : 
It  must  appear  in  other  ways  than  words, 
Therefore,  I  scant  this  breathing  courtesy. 

[GRA.  and  NER.  seem  to  talk  apart. 

Gra.  By  yonder  moon,  I  swear  you  do  me 

wrong; 

In  faith,  I  gave  it  to  the  judge's  clerk : 
Would  he  were  gelt  that  had  it,  for  my  part, 
Since  you  do  take  it,  love,  so  much  at  heart. 

For.  A  quarrel,    ho,   already?    what's   the 
matter? 

Gra.  About  a  hoop  of  gold,  a  paltry  ring 
That  she  did  give  me ;  whose  posy  was, 
For  all  the  world,  like  cutler's  poetry 
Upon  a  knife,  Love  me,  and  leave  me  not. 

Ner.  What,   talk  you  .of  the  posy,   or  the 

value? 

You  swore  to  me,  when  I  did  give  it  you, 
That  you  would  wear  it  till  your  hour  of  death ; 
And  that  it  should  lie  with  you  in  your  grave : 
Though  not  for  me,  yet  for  your  vehement  oaths 
You  should  have  been  respective,  and  have  kept 

it. 

Gave  it  a  judge's  clerk  ! — no,  God 's  my  judge, 
The  clerk  will  ne'er  wear  hair  on 's  face  that 

,«£.&-=  ted  it. 

Gra.  He  will,  an  if  he  live  to  be  a  man. 

Ner.  Ay,  if  a  woman  live  to  be  a  man. 

Gra.  Now,  by  this  hand,    I   gave  it  to  a 

,cc.  youth,— 

A  kind  of  boy ;  a  little  scrubbed  boy 
No  higher  than  thyself,  the  judge's  clerk ; 
A  prating  boy  that  begg'd  it  as  a  fee ; 
I  could  not  for  my  heart  deny  it  him. 

For.  You  were  to  blame,  I  must  be  plain 

with  you, 

To  part  so  slightly  with  your  wife's  first  gift ; 
A  thing  stuck  on  with  oaths  upon  your  finger, 
And  so  riveted  with  faith  unto  your  flesh. 
I  gave  my  love  a  ring,  and  made  him  swear 


SCENE  I.J 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


249 


Never  to  part  with  it,  and  here  he  stands ; 
I  dare  be  sworn  for  him,  he  would  not  leave  it 
Nor  pluck  it  from  his  finger  for  the  wealth 
That    the  world    masters.       Now,    in  faith, 

Gratiano, 

You  give  your  wife  too  unkind  a  cause  of  grief; 
An  'twere  to  me,  I  should  be  mad  at  it.      [off, 

Bass.  Why,  I  were  best  to  cut  my  left  hand 
And  swear  I  lost  the  ring  defending  it.  [Aside. 

Gra.  My  Lord  Bassanio  gave  his  ring  away 
Unto  the  judge  that  begg'd  it,  and,  indeed, 
Deserv'd  it  too ;  and  then  the  boy,  his  clerk, 
That  took  some  pains  in  writing,  he  begg'd 

mine: 

And  neither  man  nor  master  would  take  aught 
But  the  two  rings. 

For.  What  ring  gave  you,  my  lord? 

Not  that,  I  hope,  which  you  receiv'd  of  me. 

Bass,  If  I  could  add  a  lie  unto  a  fault 
I  would  deny  it ;  but  you  see  my  finger 
Hath  not  the  ring  upon  it ;  it  is  gone. 

For.  Even  so  void  is  your  false  heart  of  truth. 
By  heaven,  I  will  ne'er  come  in  your  bed 
Until  I  see  the  ring. 

Ner.  Nor  I  in  yours 

Till  I  again  see  mine. 

Bass.  Sweet  Portia, 

If  you  did  know  to  whom  I  gave  the  ring, 
If  you  did  know  for  whom  I  gave  the  ring, 
And  would  conceive  for  what  I  gave  the  ring, 
And  how  unwillingly  I  left  the  ring, 
"When  naught  would  be  accepted  but  the  ring, 
You  would  abate  the  strength  of  your  dis- 
pleasure. 

For.   If  you  had  known  the  virtue  of  the  ring, 
Or  half  her  worthiness  that  gave  the  ring, 
Or  your  own  honour  to  contain  the  ring, 
You  would  not  then  have  parted  with  the  ring. 
What  man  is  there  so  much  unreasonable, 
If  you  nad  pleas'd  to  have  defended  it 
With  any  terms  of  zeal,  wanted  the  modesty 
To  urge  the  thing  held  as  a  ceremony? 
Nerissa  teaches  me  what  to  believe ; 
I  '11  die  for  '*,  but  some  woman  had  the  ring. 

Bass.  No,  by  mine  honour,  madam,  by  my 

soul, 

No  woman  had  it,  but  a  civil  doctor, 
Which  did  refuse  three  thousand  ducats  of  me, 
And  begg'd  the  ring ;  the  which  I  did  deny  him, 
And  suffer' d  him  to  go  displeas'd  away ; 
Even  he  that  had  held  up  the  very  life 
Of  my  dear  friend.     What  should  I  say,  sweet 

lady? 

I  was  enforc'd  to  send  it  after  him ; 
I  was  beset  with  shame  and  courtesy: 
My  honour  would  not  let  ingratitude 
So  much  besmear  it.     Pardon  me,  good  lady ; 


For  by  these  blessed  candles  of  the  night, 
Had  you  been  there,  I  think  you  would  have 

begg'd 
The  ring  of  me  to  give  the  worthy  doctor. 

For.  Let  not  that  doctor  e'er  come  near  my 

house: 

Since  he  hath  got  the  jewel  that  I  lovM, 
And  that  which  you  did  swear  to  keep  for  me, 
I  will  become  as  liberal  as  you ; 
I  '11  not  deny  him  anything  I  have, 
No,  not  my  body,  nor  my  husband's  bed : 
Know  him  I  shall,  I  am  well  sure  of  it : 
Lie  not  a  night  from  home;  watch  me  like 

Argus: 

If  you  do  not,  if  I  be  left  alone, 
Now,  by  mine  honour,  which  is  yet  mine  own, 
I  '11  have  that  doctor  for  my  bedfellow. 

Ner.  And  I  his  clerk ;  therefore  be  well  ad- 

vis'd 
How  you  do  leave  me  to  mine  own  protection. 

Gra.  Well,  do  you  so :  let  not  me  take  him 

then; 
For,  if  I  do,  I  '11  mar  the  young  clerk's  pen. 

Ant.  I   am   the  unhappy  subject  of  these 
quarrels.  [notwithstanding. 

For.  Sir,  grieve  not  you ;  you  are  welcome 

Bass.  Portia,  forgive  me  this  enforced  wrong ; 
And,  in  the  hearing  of  these  many  friends, 
I  swear  to  thee,  even  by  thine  own  fair  eyes, 
Wherein  I  see  myself, 

For.  Mark  you  but  that  f 

In  both  my  eyes  he  doubly  sees  himself : 
In  each  eye  one : — swear  by  your  double  self, 
And  there 's  an  oath  of  credit. 

Bass.  Nay,  but  hear  me : 

Pardon  this  fault,  and  by  my  soul  I  swear, 
I  never  more  will  break  an  oath  with  thee. 

Ant.  I  once  did  lend  my  body  for  his  wealth ; 
Which,  but  for  him  that  had  your  husband's  ring, 
Had  quite  miscarried  :  I  dare  be  bound  again, 
My  soul  upon  the  forfeit,  that  your  lord 
Will  never  more  break  faith  advisedly. 

For.  Then  you  shall  be  his  surety :  give  him 

this; 
And  bid  him  keep  it  better  than  the  other. 

Ant.  Here,  Lord  Bassanio;  swear  to  keep 
this  ring.  [doctor ! 

Bass.  By  heaven,  it  is  the  same  I  gave  the 

For.  I  had  it  of  him :  pardon  me,  Bassanio  t 
For  by  this  ring  the  doctor  lay  with  me. 

Ner.  And  pardon  me,  my  gentle  Gratiano  ; 
For  that  same  scrubbed  boy,  the  doctor's  clerk, 
In  lieu  of  this,  last  night  did  lie  with  me. 

Gra.  Why,  this  is  like  the  mending  of  high- 
ways 

In  summer,  where  the  ways  are  fair  enough : 
What !  are  we  cuckolds  ere  we  have  deserved  it? 


250 


THE  MERCHAMT  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  V. 


Por.    Speak  not  so  grossly. — You  are  all 

amaz'd  : 

Here  is  a  letter,  read  it  at  your  leisure  ; 
It  comes  from  Padua,  from  Bellario : 
There  you  shall  find  that  Portia  was  the  doctor ; 
Nerissa  there,  her  clerk :  Lorenzo  here 
Shall  witness  I  set  forth  as  soon  as  you, 
And  but  even  now  return'd  ;  I  have  not  yet 
Enter*d  my  house. — Antonio,  you  are  welcome ; 
And  I  have  better  news  in  store  for  you 
Than  you  expect :  unseal  this  letter  soon ; 
There  you  shall  find  three  of  your  argosies 
Are  richly  come  to  harbour  suddenly :    ion  ' 
You  shall  not  know  by  what  strange  accident 
I  chanced  on  this  letter. 

Ant.  I  am  dumb. 

Bass.  Were  you  the  doctor;  and  I  knew  you 
not?  [cuckold? 

Gra.  Were  you  the  clerk  that  is  to  make  me 

Ner.  Ay,  but  the  clerk  that  never  means  to 

doit, 
Unless  he  live  until  he  be  a  man.  [fellow ; 

Bass.  Sweet  doctor,  you  shall  be  my  bed- 
When  I  am  absent,  then  lie  with  my  wife. 

Ant.    Sweet  lady,   you  have  given  me  life 
and  living ; 


zifeafnrrf  <b3?,'viJu< 

r±lA,,r^.    ..,„-.-,    , 


"*(y\ 

rlJocf  «] 


For  here  I  read  for  certain  that  my  ships 
Are  safely  come  to  road. 

Por.  How  now,  Lorenzo? 

My  clerk  hath  some  good  comforts  too  for  you. 

Ner.  Ay,  and  I  '11  give  them  him  without  a 

fee. — 

There  do  I  give  to  you  and  Jessica, 
From  the  rich  Jew,  a  special  deed  of  gift, 
After  his  death,  of  all  he  dies  possess'd  of. 

Lor.  Fair  ladies,  you  drop  manna  in  the  way 
Of  starved  people. 

Por.  It  is  almost  morning, 

And  yet,  I  am  sure,  you  are  not  satisfied 
Of  these  events  at  full.     Let  us  go  in  ; 
And  charge  us  there  upon  inter'gatories, 
And  we  will  answer  all  things  faithfully. 

Gra.  Let  it  be  so : — the  first  inter'gatory 
That  my  Nerissa  shall  be  sworn  on  is, 
Whether  till  the  next  night  she  had  rathei 

stay, 

Or  go  to  bed  now,  being  two  hours  to  day : 
But  were  the  day  come,  I  should  wish  it  dark, 
That  I  were  couching  with  the  doctor's  clerk. 
Well,  while  I  live,  I  '11  fear  no  other  thing 
So  sore  as  keeping  safe  Nerissa's  ring. 

[Exeunt. 

-•(j%  ' '-'  \1tx&L  ' 

<t  •:   I   !.-;<•  . 

'  ^arVsrfl  qiy^g  I  -nidrfw  :iot  vmnjT  f>ih  "]jo'-(  H 

"   ""jfi  T  ")di  5  V'SQ  1  J-sriw'^ct  sviaofiob^fjltiow  bfiA 

.  ih-ff  tor-  1  vbnifii-Jfcii  v/,;ri  briA 


•X^ni 

Ij^rf^v9toflworiMi» 


rrri  yd  bns  <rtuC 
,29'ru  d rt/r  ffjjso  ni»  jf/^d  Iliw  atom 


tO 


l>  I 


. 
II/2  e  iff  '  •- 


SIM 


bnA 
r;t>v^ 


Tf  .**£> '" 
j?.  nil 


AS  YOU   LIKE   IT. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


DUKE,  Kving  in  exile. 

FREDERICK,  Brother  to  tlu  DUKE,  and  Usurper 
of  his  Dominions. 

AMIENS,   )  Lords  attending  upon  the  DUKE  in 

JAQUES,    J  his  Banishment. 

LE  BEAUV  a  Courtier  attending  upon  FRE- 
DERICK. 

CHARLES,  his  Wrestler. 

OLIVER, 

JAQUES,       \  Sons  o/SiR  ROWLAND  DE  Bois. 

ORLANDO, 

ADAM,      j 

DENNIS,   \ 

TOUCHSTONE,  a  Clown. 


Servants  to  OLIVER, 


SIR  OLIVER  MARTEXT,  a  Vicar. 


WILLIAM,   a   Cotmtry  Fellow^   in  love  tmtA 

AUDREY. 
A  Person  representing-  HYMEN. 

ROSALIND,  Daughter  to  the  banished  DUKE. 
CELIA,  Daughter  to  FREDERICK. 
PHEBE,  a  Shepherdess. 
AUDREY,  a  Country  Wench. 

Lords  belonging  to  the   two  Dukes;    Pages, 
Foresters,  and  other  Attendants. 


The  SCENE  lies  first  near  OLIVER'S  House;  afterwards  partly  in  the  Usurper's  Court  and 
partly  in  the  Forest  of  ARDEN. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — An  Orchard  near  OLIVER'S  House. 
Enter  ORLANDO  and  ADAM. 

Orl.  As  I  remember,  Adam,  it  was  upon 
this  fashion, — bequeathed  me  by  will  but  poor 
a  thousand  crowns,  and,  as  thou  say'st,  charged 
my  brother,  on  his  blessing,  to  breed  me  well : 
and  there  begins  my  sadness.  My  brother 
Jaques  he  keeps  |t  school,  and  report  speaks 
goldenly  of  his  profit :  for  my  part,  he  keeps 
me  rustically  at  home,  or,  to  speak  more  pro- 
perly, stays  me  here  at  home  unkept :  for  call 
you  that  keeping  for  a  gentleman  of  my  birth 
that  differs  not  from  the  stalling  of  an  ox?  His 
horses  are  bred  better;  for,  besides  that  they 
are  fair  with  their  feeding,  they  are  taught  their 
manage,  and  to  that  end  riders  dearly  hired : 
but  I,  his  brother,  gain  nothing  under  him  but 
growth ;  for  the  which  his  animals  on  his  dung- 
hills are  as  much  bound  to  him  as  I.  Besides 
this  nothing  that  he  so  plentifully  gives  me, 
the  something  that  nature  gave  me,  his  coun- 
tenance seems  to  take  from  me:  he  lets  me 
feed  with  his  hinds,  bars  me  the  place  of  a 
brother,  and  as  much  as  in  him  lies,  mines  my 
gentility  with  my  education.  This  is  it,  Adam, 
that  grieves  me ;  and  the  spirit  of  my  father, 
which  I  think  is  within  me,  begins  to  mutiny 
against  this  servitude :  I  will  no  longer  endure 


it,  though  yet  I  know  no  wise  remedy  how  to 
avoid  it 

Adam.  Yonder  comes  my  master,  your 
brother. 

Orl.  Go  apart,  Adam,  and  thou  shalt  hear 
how  he  will  shake  me  up.  [ADAM  retires. 

Enter  OLIVER. 

Oli.  Now,  sir!  what  make  you  here? 

Orl.  Nothing:  I  am  not  taught  to  make 
anything. 

Oli.  What  mar  you  then,  sir? 

Orl.  Marry,  sir,  I  am  helping  you  to  mar 
that  which  God  made,  a  poor  unworthy  brother 
of  yours,  with  idleness. 

Oli.  Marry,  sir,  be  better  employed,  and  be 
naught  awhile. 

Orl.  Shall  I  keep  your  hogs,  and  eat  husk? 
with  them?  What  prodigal  portion  have  I 
spent  that  I  should  come  to  such  penury? 

Oli.  Know  you  where  you  are,  sir? 

Orl.  O,  sir,  very  well :  here  in  your  orchard. 

Oli.  Know  you  before  whom,  sir? 

Orl.  Ay,  better  than  him  I  am  before  knows 
me.  I  know  you  are  my  eldest  brother:  and 
in  the  gentle  condition  of  blood  you  should  so 
know  me.  The  courtesy  of  nations  allows  you 
my  better,  in  that  you  are  the  first-born ;  but 
the  same  tradition  takes  not  away  my  blood, 
were  there  twenty  brothers  betwixt  us :  I  have 
as  much  of  my  father  in  me  as  you ;  albeit,  I 


252 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


[ACT 


confess,  your  coming  before  me  is  nearer  to  his 
reverence. 

Oli.  What,  boy! 

Orl.  Come,  come,  elder  brother,  you  are 
too  young  in  this. 

Oli.  Wilt  thou  lay  hands  on  me,  villain? 

Orl.  I  am  no  villain :  I  am  the  youngest 
son  of  Sir  Rowland  de  Bois :  he  was  my  father; 
and  he  is  thrice  a  villain  that  says  such  a  father 
begot  villains.  Wert  thou  not  my  brother  I 
would  not  take  this  hand  from  thy  throat  till 
this  other  had  pulled  out  thy  tongue  for  saying 
so :  thou  hast  railed  on  thyself. 

Adam.  [Coming forward.}  Sweet  masters,  be 
patient ;  for  your  father's  remembrance,  be  at 
accord. 

OH.  Let  me  go,  I  say. 

Orl.  I  will  not,  till  I  please :  you  shall  hear 
me.  My  father  charged  you  in  his  will  to  give 
me  good  education :  you  have  trained  me  like 
a  peasant,  obscuring  and  hiding  from  me  all 
gentleman- like  qualities :  the  spirit  of  my  father 
grows  strong  in  me,  and  I  will  no  longer  en- 
dure it :  therefore,  allow  me  such  exercises  as 
may  become  a  gentleman,  or  give  me  the  poor 
al lottery  my  father  left  me  by  testament;  with 
that  I  will  go  buy  my  fortunes. 

Oli.  And  what  wilt  thou  do?  beg,  when  that 
is  spent?  Well,  sir,  get  you  in :  I  will  not  long 
be  troubled  with  you:  you  shall  have  some 
part  of  your  will :  I  pray  you,  leave  me. 

Orl.  I  will  no  further  offend  you  than  be- 
comes me  for  my  good. 

Oli.  Get  you  with  him,  you  old  dog. 

Adam.  Is  old  dog  my  reward?  Most  true, 
I  have  lost  my  teeth  in  your  service. — God  be 
with  my  old  master !  he  would  not  have  spoke 
such  a  word.  {Exeunt  ORLANDO  and  ADAM. 

Oli.  Is  it  even  so?  begin  you  to  grow  upon 
me?  I  will  physic  your  rankness,  and  yet  give 
no  thousand  crowns  neither.  Holla,  Dennis ! 

Enter  DENNIS. 

Den.  Calls  your  worship? 

Oli,  Was  not  Charles,  the  duke's  wrestler, 
here  to  speak  with  me? 

Den.  So  please  you,  he  is  here  at  the  door, 
and  importunes  access  to  you. 

Oli.  Call  him  in.  [Exit  DENNIS.]— 'Twill 
be  a  good  way;  and  to-morrow  the  wrestling 
is. 

'A  trov  he-old  la  flohJihaoo 

Enter  CHARLES.  ^^ 

Cha.  Good  morrow  to  your  v/orship. 
Oli.  Good  Monsieur   Charles !— what 's  the 
new  news  at  the  new  court? 

Cha.  There 's  no  news  at  the  courts  sir,  but 


the  old  news ;  that  is,  the  old  duke  is  banished 
by  his  younger  brother  the  new  duke;  and 
three  or  four  loving  lords  have  put  themselves 
into  voluntary  exile  with  him,  whose  lands 
and  revenues  enrich  the  new  duke ;  therefore 
he  gives  them  good  leave  to  wander. 

Oli.  Can  you  tell  if  Rosalind,  the  duke's 
daughter,  be  banished  with  her  father? 

Cha.  O  no;  for  the  duke's  daughter,  her 
cousin,  so  loves  her, — being  ever  from  theii 
cradles  bred  together,— that  she  would  have 
followed  her  exile,  or  have  died  to  stay  behind 
her.  She  is  at  the  court,  and  no  less  beloved 
of  her  uncle  than  his  own  daughter ;  and  never 
two  ladies  loved  as  they  do. 

Oli.  Where  will  the  old  duke  live?  - 

Cha.  They  say  he  is  already  in  the  forest  of 
Arden,  and  a  many  merry  men  with  him ;  and 
there  they  live  like  the  old  Robin  Hood  of 
England:  they  say  many  young  gentlemen 
flock  to  him  every  day,  and  fleet  the  time  care- 
lessly, as  they  did  in  the  golden  world. 

Oli.  What,  you  wrestle  to-morrow  before 
the  new  duke? 

Cha.  Marry,  do  I,  sir;  and  I  came  to  ac- 
quaint you  with  a  matter.  I  am  given,  sir, 
secretly  to  understand  that  your  younger 
brother,  Orlando,  hath  a  disposition  to  come 
in  disguis'd  against  me  to  try  a  fall.  To- 
morrow, sir,  I  wrestle  for  my  credit ;  and  he 
that  escapes  me  without  some  broken  limb  shall 
acquit  him  well.  Your  brother  is  but  young 
and  tender;  and,  for  your  love,  I  would  be 
loath  to  foil  him,  as  I  must,  for  my  own  honour, 
if  he  come  in:  therefore,  out  of  my  love  to 
you,  I  came  hither  to  acquaint  you  withal ;  that 
either  you  might  stay  him  from  his  intendment, 
or  brook  such  disgrace  well  as  he  shall  run 
into;  in  that  it  is  a  thing  of  his  own  search, 
and  altogether  against  my  will. 

Oli.  Charles,  I  thank  thee  for  thy  love  to 
me,  which  thou  shalt  find  I  will  most  kindly 
requite.  I  had  myself  notice  of  my  brother's 
purpose  herein,  and  have  by  underhand  means 
laboured  to  dissuade  him  from  it;  but  he  is 
resolute.  I'll  tell  thee,  Charles,  it  is  the 
stubbornest  young  fellow  of  France;  full  of 
ambition,  an  envious  emulator  of  every  man's 
good  parts,  a  secret  and  villanous  contriver 
against  me  his  natural  brother;  therefore  use 
thy  discretion:  I  had  as  lief  thou  didst  break 
his  neck  as  his  finger.  And  thou  wert  best 
look  to 't ;  for  if  thou  dost  him  any  slight  dis- 
grace, or  if  he  do  not  mightily  grace  himself  on 
thee,  he  will  practise  against  thee  by  poison, 
entrap  thee  by  some  treacherous  device,  and 
never  leave  thee  till  he  hath  ta'en  thy  life  by 


SCENE  II.J 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


253 


some  indirect  means  or  other:  for,  I  assure 
thee,  and  almost  with  tears  I  speak  it,  there  is 
not  one  so  young  and  so  villanous  this  day 
living.  I  speak  but  brotherly  of  him;  but 
should  I  anatomize  him  to  thee  as  he  is,  I  must 
blush  and  weep,  and  thou  must  look  pale  and 
wonder. 

Cha.  I  am  heartily  glad  I  came  hither  to 
you.  If  he  come  to-morrow  I  '11  give  him  his 
payment.  If  ever  he  go  alone  again  I  '11  never 
wrestle  for  prize  more:  and  so,  God  keep 
your  worship !  {Exit. 

OH.  Farewell,  good  Charles. — Now  will  I 
stir  this  gamester :  I  hope  I  shall  see  an  end  of 
him ;  for  my  soul,  yet  I  know  not  why,  hates 
nothing  more  than  he.  Yet  he 's  gentle ;  never 
schooled  and  yet  learned ;  full  of  noble  device ; 
of  all  sorts  enchantingly  beloved ;  and,  indeed, 
so  much  in  the  heart  of  the  world,  and  especially 
of  my  own  people,  who  best  know  him,  that  I 
am  altogether  misprised :  but  it  shall  not  be  so 
long ;  this  wrestler  shall  clear  all :  nothing  re- 
mains but  that  I  kindle  the  boy  thither,  which 
now  I  '11  go  about.  [Exit. 

^gojibifiwiol  ?iti  no  frHo  nw«-  f.i.1  ,  ho'. son  no  •><' 
SCENE  II. — A  Lawn  before  the  DUKE'S  Palace. 

Enter  ROSALIND  and  CELIA. 

Cel.  I  pray  thee,  Rosalind,  sweet  my  coz,  be 
merry. 

Ros.  Dear  Celia,  I  show  more  mirth  than  I 
am  mistress  of;  and  would  you  yet  I  were 
merrier?  Unless  you  could  teach  me  to  forget 
a  banished  father,  you  must  not  learn  me  how 
to  remember  any  extraordinary  pleasure. 

Cel.  Herein  I  see  thou  lovest  me  not  with 
the  full  weight  that  I  love  thee ;  if  my  uncle, 
thy  banished  father,  had  banished  thy  uncle, 
the  duke  my  father,  so  thou  hadst  been  still 
with  me,  I  could  have  taught  my  love  to  take 
thy  father  for  mine;  so  wouldst  thou,  if  the 
truth  of  thy  love  to  me  were  so  righteously 
tempered  as  mine  is  to  thee. 

Ros.  Well,  I  will  forget  the  condition  of  my 
estate,  to  rejoice  in  yours. 

Cel,  You  know  my  father  hath  no  child  but 
I,  nor  none  is  like  to  have ;  and,  truly,  when 
he  dies  thou  shalt  be  his  heir :  for  what  he  hath 
taken  away  from  thy  father  perforce,  I  will 
render  thee  again  in  affection :  by  mine  honour, 
I  will;  and  when  I  break  that  oath,  let  me 
turn  monster;  therefore,  my  sweet  Rose,  my 
dear  Rose,  be  merry. 

Ros.  From  henceforth  I  will,  coz,  and  devise 
sports :  let  me  see ;  what  think  you  of  falling  in 
love? 

Cel.  Marry,  I  pr'ythee,  do,  to  make  sport 


withal :  but  love  no  man  in  good  earnest ;  nor 
no  further  in  sport  neither  than  with  safety  of  a 
pure  blush  thou  mayst  in  honour  come  off  again. 

Ros.  What  shall  be  our  sport,  then? 

Cel.  Let  us  sit  and  mock  the  good  housewife 
Fortunefrom  her  wheel,  that  her  gifts  may  hence- 
forth be  bestowed  equally. 

Ros.  I  would  we  could  do  so ;  for  her  bene- 
fits are  mightily  mispiuced:  and  the  bountiful 
blind  woman  doth  most  mistake  in  her  gifts  to 
women. 

Cel.  'Tis  true :  for  those  that  she  makes  fair 
she  scarce  makes  honest;  and  those  that  she 
makes  honest  she  makes  very  ill-favouredly. 

Ros.  Nay;  now  thou  goest  from  fortune's 
orifice  to  nature's :  fortune  reigns  in  gifts  of  the 
world,  not  in  the  lineaments  of  nature. 

Cel.  No ;  when  nature  hath  made  a  fair  crea- 
ture may  she  not  by  fortune  fall  into  the  fire? — 
Though  nature  hath  given  us  wit  to  flout  at  for- 
tune, hath  not  fortune  sent  in  this  fool  to  cut  off 
the  argument? 

luK>MrtlKAttft& 

hnter  TOUCHSTONE. 

Ros.  Indeed,  there  is  fortune  too  hard  for 
nature,  when  fortune  makes  nature's  natural  the 
cutter  off  of  nature's  wit. 

Cel.  Peradventure  this  is  not  fortune's  work 
neither,  but  nature's,  who  perceiveth  our  natural 
wits  too  dull  to  reason  of  such  goddesses,  and 
hath  sent  this  natural  for  our  whetstone :  for 
always  the  dulness  of  the  fool  is  the  whetstone 
of  the  wits. — How  now,  wit?  whither  wander 
you? 

Touch.  Mistress,  you  must  come  away  to  your 
father. 

Cel.  Were  you  made  the  messenger? 

Touch.  No,  by  mine  honour ;  but  I  was  bid 
to  come  for  you. 

Ros.  Where  learned  you  that  oath,  fool  f 

Touch.  Of  a  certain  knight  that  swore  by  his 
honour  they  were  good  pancakes,  and  swore  by 
his  honour  the  mustard  was  naught :  now,  I  'II 
stand  to  it,  the  pancakes  were  naught  and  the 
mustard  was  good :  and  yet  was  not  the  knight 
forsworn. 

Cel.  How  prove  you  that,  in  the  great  heap  of 
your  knowledge? 

Ros.  Ay,  marry ;  now  unmuzzle  your  wisdom. 

Touch.  S  land  you  both  for  tn  now:  stroke  your 
chins,  and  swear  by  your  beards  that  I  am  a 
knave. 

Cel.  By  our  beards,  if  we  had  them,  thou  art. 

Touch.  By  my  knavery,  if  I  had  it,  then  I  were: 
but  if  you  swear  by  that  that  is  not,  you  are  not 
forsworn :  no  more  was  this  knight,  swearing  by 
his  honour,  for  he  never  had  any;  or  if  he  had. 


254 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


[ACT  i. 


he  had  sworn  it  away  before  ever  he  saw  those 
pancakes  or  that  mustard. 

Cel.  Pr'ythee,  who  is't  that  thou  mean'st? 

Touch.  One  that  old  Frederick,  your  father, 
loves. 

Cel.  My  father's  love  is  enough  to  honour  him 
enough:  speak  no  more  of  him:  you'll  be 
whipp'd  for  taxation  one  of  these  days. 

J^ouch.  The  more  pity  that  fools  may  not  speak 
wisely  what  wise  men  do  foolishly. 

Cel.  By  my  troth,  thou  say'st  true :  for  since 
the  little  wit  that  fools  have  was  silenced,  the 
little  foolery  that  wise  men  have  makes  a  great 
show.  Here  comes  Monsieur  Le  Beau. 

Ros.  With  his  mouth  full  of  news. 

Cel.  Which  he  will  put  on  us  as  pigeons  feed 
their  young. 

Ros.  Then  shall  we  be  news-crammed. 

Cel.  All  the  better;  we  shall  be  the  more 
marketable. 

Enter  LE  BEAU. 

Bonjoitr,  Monsieur  Le  Beau.    What 's  the  news  ? 

Le  Beau.  Fair  princess,  you  have  lost  much 
good  sport. 

Cel.  Sport !  of  what  colour? 

Le  Beatt.  What  colour,  madam?  How  shall 
I  answer  you? 

Ros.  As  wit  and  fortune  will. 

Touch.  Or  as  the  destinies  decree. 

Cel.  Well  said ;  that  was  laid  on  with  a  trowel. 

Touch.  Nay,  if  I  keep  not  my  rank, — 

Ros.  Thou  loosest  thy  old  smell. 

Le  Beau.  You  amaze  me,  ladies:  I  would  have 
told  you  of  good  wrestling,  which  you  have  lost 
the  sight  of. 

Ros.  Yet  tell  us  the  manner  of  the  wrestling. 

Le  Beau.  I  will  tell  you  the  beginning,  and, 
if  it  please  your  ladyships,  you  may  see  the  end ; 
for  the  best  is  yet  to  do ;  and  here,  where  you 
are,  they  are  coming  to  perform  it. 

Cel.  Well, — the  beginning,  that  is  dead  and 
buried. 

Le  Beau.  There  comes  an  old  man  and  his 
three  sons, — 

Cel.  I  could  match  this  beginning  with  an  old 
tale. 

Le  Beau.  Three  proper  young  men,  of  ex- 
cellent growth  and  presence,  with  bills  on  their 
necks, — 

Ros.  Be  it  known  unto  all  men  by  these  pre- 
sents,— 

Le  Beau.  The  eldest  of  the  three  wrestled 
with  Charles,  the  duke's  wrestler;  which  Charles 
in  a  moment  threw  him,  and  broke  three  of  his 
ribs,  that  there  is  little  hope  of  life  in  him :  so 
he  served  the  second,  and  so  the  third.  Yonder 


they  lie ;  the  poor  old  man,  their  father,  making 
such  pitiful  dole  over  them  that  all  the  beholders 
take  his  part  with  weeping. 

Ros.  Alas! 

Touch.  But  what  is  the  sport,  monsieur,  that 
the  ladies  have  lost? 

Le  Beau.  Why,  this  that  I  speak  of. 

Touch.  Thus  men  may  grow  wiser  every  day! 
It  is  the  first  time  that  ever  I  heard  breaking  of 
ribs  was  sport  for  ladies. 

Cel.  Or  I,  I  promise  thee. 

Ros.  But  is  there  any  else  longs  to  see  this 
broken  music  in  his  sides?  is  there  yet  another 
dotes  upon  rib-breaking? — Shall  we  see  this 
wrestling,  cousin? 

Le  Beau.  You  must,  if  you  stay  here:  for  here 
is  the  place  appointed  for  the  wrestling,  and  they 
are  ready  to  perform  it. 

Cel.  Yonder,  sure,  they  are  coming:  let  us 
now  stay  and  see  it. 

Flourish.     Enter  DUKE  FREDERICK,  Lords, 
ORLANDO,  CHARLES,  and  Attendants. 

Duke  F.  Come  on ;  since  the  youth  will  not 
be  entreated,  his  own  peril  on  his  forwardness. 

Ros.  Is  yonder  the  man? 

Le  Beau.  Even  he,  madam. 

Cel.  Alas,  he  is  too  young :  yet  he  looks  suc- 
cessfully. 

Duke  F.  How  now,  daughter,  and  cousin? 
are  you  crept  hither  to  see  the  wrestling? 

Ros.  Ay,  my  liege :  so  please  you  give  us  leave. 

Duke  F.  You  will  take  little  delight  in  it,  I 
can  tell  you,  there  is  such  odds  in  the  men.  In 
pity  of  the  challenger's  youth  I  would  fain  dis- 
suade him,  but  he  will  not  be  entreated.  Speak 
to  him,  ladies ;  see  if  you  can  move  him. 

Cel.  Call  him  hither,  good  Monsieur  Le  Beau. 

Duke  F.  Do  so ;  I  '11  not  be  by. 

[DUKE  F.  goes  apart. 

Le  Beau.  Monsieur  the  challenger,  the  prin- 
cesses call  for  you. 

Orl.  I  attend  them  with  all  respect  and  duty. 

Ros.  Young  man,  have  you  challenged  Charles 
the  wrestler? 

Orl.  No,  fair  princess ;  he  is  the  general  chal- 
lenger :  I  come  but  in,  as  others  do,  to  try  with 
him  the  strength  of  my  youth. 

Cel.  Young  gentleman,  your  spirits  are  too 
bold  for  your  years.  You  have  seen  cruel  proof 
of  this  man's  strength :  if  you  saw  yourself  with 
your  eyes,  or  knew  yourself  with  your  judgment, 
the  fear  of  your  adventure  would  counsel  you  to 
a  more  equal  enterprise.  We  pray  you,  for  your 
own  sake,  to  embrace  your  own  safety,  and  give 
over  this  attempt. 

Ros.  Do,  young  sir ;  your  reputation  shall  not 


SCENE  II.] 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


255 


therefore  be  misprised :  we  will  make  it  our  suit 
to  the  duke  that  the  wrestling  might  not  go  for- 
ward. 

OrL  I  beseech  you,  punish  me  not  with  your 
hard  thoughts:  wherein  I  confess  me  much  guilty, 
to  deny  so  fair  and  excellent  ladies  anything. 
But  let  your  fair  eyes  and  gentle  wishes  go  with 
me  to  my  trial :  wherein  if  I  be  foiled,  there  is 
butoneshamed  thatwasnever  gracious;  if  killed, 
but  one  dead  that  is  willing  to  be  so :  I  shall  do 
my  friends  no  wrong,  for  I  have  none  to  lament 
me:  the  world  no  injury,  for  in  it  I  have  nothing; 
only  in  the  world  I  fill  up  a  place,  which  may 
be  better  supplied  when  I  have  made  it  empty. 

Ros.  The  little  strength  that  I  have,  I  would 
it  were  with  you. 

Cd.  And  mine  to  eke  out  hers. 

Ros.  Fare  you  well.  Pray  heaven,  I  be  de- 
ceived in  you ! 

Cel.  Your  heart's  desires  be  with  you. 

Cha.  Come,  where  is  this  young  gallant  that 
is  so  desirous  to  lie  with  his  mother  earth? 

Orl.  Ready,  sir ;  but  his  will  hath  in  it  a  more 
modest  working. 

Duke  F.  You  shall  try  but  one  fall. 

Cha.  No ;  I  warrant  your  grace,  you  shall  not 
entreat  him  to  a  second,  that  have  so  mightily 
persuaded  him  from  a  first. 

Orl.  You  mean  to  mock  me  after ;  you  should 
not  have  mocked  me  before:  but  come  your 
ways. 

Ros.  Now,  Hercules  be  thy  speed,  young  man! 

Cel.  I  would  I  were  invisible,  to  catch  the 
strong  fellow  by  the  leg. 

[CHARLES  and  ORLANDO  wrestle. 

Ros.  O  excellent  young  man ! 

Cel.  If  I  had  a  thunderbolt  in  mine  eye,  I  can 
tell  who  should  down. 

[CHARLES  is  thrown.     Shout. 

Duke  F.  No  more,  no  more. 

Orl.  Yes,  I  beseech  your  grace;  I  am  not  yet 
well  breathed. 

Duke  F.  How  dost  thou,  Charles? 

Le  Beau.  He  cannot  speak,  my  lord. 

Duke  F.  Bear  him  away. 

[CHARLES  is  borne  out. 
What  is  thy  name,  young  man? 

OrL  Orlando,  my  liege ;  the  youngest  son  of 
Sir  Rowland  de  Bois.  u  [man  else. 

Duke  F.  I  would  thou  hadst  been  son  to  some 
The  world  esteem'd  thy  father  honourable, 
But  I  did  find  him  still  mine  enemy :         [deed 
Thou  shouldst  have  better  pleas'd  me  with  this 
Hadst  thou  descended  from  another  house. 
But  fare  thee  well ;  thou  art  a  gallant  youth ; 
I  would  thou  hadst  told  me  of  another  father. 
{Exeunt  DUKE  F.,  Train,  and  LE  BEAU. 


Cel.  Were  I  my  father,  co2,  would  I  do  this  ? 

Orl,  I  am  more  proud  to  be  Sir  Rowland's  son, 
His  youngest  son ; — and  would  not  change  that 

calling 
To  be  adopted  heir  to  Frederick. 

Ros.  My  father  loved  Sir  Rowland  as  his  soul, 
And  all  the  world  was  of  my  father's  mind : 
Had  I  before  known  this  young  man  his  son, 
I  should  have  given  him  tears  unto  entreaties, 
Ere  he  should  thus  have  ventur'd. 

Cel.  Gentle  cousin, 

Let  us  go  thank  him,  and  encourage  him : 
My  father's  rough  and  envious  disposition 
Sticks  me  at  heart. — Sir,  you  have  well  deserv'd: 
If  you  do  keep  your  promises  in  love 
But  justly,  as  you  have  exceeded  promise, 
Your  mistress  shall  be  happy. 

Ros.  Gentleman, 

[Giving  him  a  chain  from  her  neck. 
Wear  this  for  me ;  one  out  of  suits  with  fortune, 
That  could  give  more,  but  that  her  hand  lacks 

means. — 
Shah  we  go,  coz? 

Cel.         Ay. — Fare  you  well,  fair  gentleman. 

Orl.  Can  I  not  say,  I  thank  you?    My  better 
partsi  solos  [stands  up 

Are  all  thrown  down ;    and  that  which  here 
Is  but  a  quintain,  a  mere  lifeless  block. 

Ros.  He  calls  us  back :  my  pride  fell  with  my 

fortunes : 

I  '11  ask  him  what  he  would.  — Did  you  call,  sir? — 
Sir,  you  have  wrestled  well,  and  overthrown 
More  than  your  enemies. 

Cel.  Will  you  go,  coz? 

Ros.  Have  with  you. — Fare  you  well. 

[Exeunt  ROSALIND  and  CELIA. 

Orl.  What  passion  hangs  these  weights  upon 

my  tongue? 

I  cannot  speak  to  her,  yet  she  urg'd  conference. 
O  poor  Orlando !  thou  art  overthrown : 
Or  Charles,  or  something  weaker,  masters  thee. 

Re-enter  LE  BEAU. 

Le  Beau.  Good  sir,  I  do  in  friendship  counsel 

you 

To  leave  this  place.     Albeit  you  have  deserv'd 
High  commendation,  true  applause,  and  love, 
Yet  such  is  now  the  duke's  condition, 
That  he  misconstrues  all  that  you  have  done. 
The  duke  is  humorous ;  what  he  is,  indeed, 
More  suits  you  to  conceive  than  I  to  speak  of. 

Orl.  I  thank  you,  sir:  and  pray  you,  tellme  this; 
Which  of  the  two  was  daughter  of  the  duke 
That  here  was  at  the  wrestling?          [manners ; 

Le  Beau.  Neither  his  daughter,  if  we  judge  by 
But  yet,  indeed,  the  smaller  is  his  daughter: 
The  other  is  daughter  to  the  banish'd  duke, 


256 


AS  YOU  LIKE  XT. 


[ACT  1. 


And  here  detain'd  by  her  usurping  uncle, 
To  keep  his  daughter  company;  whose  loves 
Are  dearer  than  the  natural  bond  of  sisters. 
But  I  can  tell  you  that  of  late  this  duke 
Hath  ta'en  displeasure  'gainst  his  gentle  niece, 
Grounded  upon  no  other  argument 
But  that  the  people  praise  her  for  her  virtues 
And  pity  her  for  her  good  father's  sake ; 
And,  on  my  life,  his  malice  'gainst  the  lady 
Will  suddenly  break  forth. — Sir,  fare  you  well ! 
Hereafter,  in  a  better  world  than  this, 
I  shall  desire  more  love  and  knowledge  of  you. 
Orl.  I  rest  much  bounden  to  you :  fare  you 
well !  \_Exit  LE  BEAU. 

Thus  must  I  from  the  smoke  into  the  smother; 
From  tyrant  duke  unto  a  tyrant  brother : — 
But  heavenly  Rosalind !  {Exit. 

SCENE  III. — A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  CELIA  and  ROSALIND. 

Cel.  Why,  cousin;  why,  Rosalind ;— Cupid 
have  mercy! — Not  a  word? 

Ros.  Not  one  to  throw  at  a  dog. 

Cel.  No,  thy  words  are  too  precious  to  be 
cast  away  upon  curs,  throw  some  of  them  at  me ; 
come,  lame  me  with  reasons. 

Ros.  Then  there  were  two  cousins  laid  up; 
when  the  one  should  be  lamed  with  reasons  and 
the  other  mad  without  any. 

Cel.  But  is  all  this  for  your  father? 

Ros.  No,  some  of  it  is  for  my  father's  child. 
0,  how  full  of  briers  is  this  working-day  world  ! 

Cel.  They  are  but  burs,  cousin,  thrown  upon 
thee  in  holiday  foolery ;  if  we  walk  not  in  the 
trodden  paths  our  very  petticoats  will  catch  them. 

Ros.  I  could  shake  them  off  my  coat :  these 
burs  are  in  my  heart. 

Cel.  Hem  them  away.  [have  him. 

Ros.   I  would  try,  if  I  could  cry  hem  and 

Cel.  Come,  come,  wrestle  with  thy  affections. 

Ros.  O,  they  take  the  part  of  a  better 
•wrestler  than  myself. 

Cel.  O,  a  good  wish  upon  you !  you  will  try 
in  time,  in  despite  of  a  fall. — But,  turning  these 
jests  out  of  service,  let  us  talk  in  good  earnest : 
is  it  possible,  on  such  a  sudden,  you  should  fall 
into  so  strong  a  liking  with  old  Sir  Rowland's 
youngest  son  ?  [dearly. 

Ros.  The  duke  my  father  loved  his  father 

Cel.  Doth  it  therefore  ensue  that  you  should 
love  his  son  .dearly?  By  this  kind  of  chase  I 
should  hate  him,  for  my  father  hated  his  father 
dearly;  yet  I  hate  not  Orlando. 

Ros.  No,  'faith,  hate  him  not,  for  my  sake. 

CeL  Why  should  I  not?  doth  he  not  deserve 
well? 


Ros.  Let  me  love  him  for  that ;  and  do  you 
love  him  because  I  do.— Look,  here  comes  the 
duke. 

Cel.  With  his  eyes  full  of  anger. 

Enter  DUKE  FREDERICK,  with  Lords. 

Duke  F.  Mistress,  despatch  you  with  you* 

safest  haste,  '  :  ;*«*; 

And  get  you  from  our  court. 

Ros.  Me,  uncle? 

DukeF.  You,  cousin: 

Within  these  ten  days  if  that  thou  be'st  found 
So  near  our  public  court  as  twenty  miles, 
Thou  diest  for  it. 

Ros.  I  do  beseech  your  grace, 

Let  me  the  knowledge  of  my  fault  bear  with  me : 
If  with  myself  I  hold  intelligence, 
Or  have  acquaintance  with  mine  own  desires ; 
If  that  I  do  not  dream,  or  be  not  frantic, — 
As  I  do  trust  I  am  not, — then,  dear  uncle, 
Never  so  much  as  in  a  thought  unborn 
Did  I  offend  your  highness. 

Duke  F.  Thus  do  all  traitors ; 

If  their  purgation  did  consist  in  words, 
They  are  as  innocent  as  grace  itself: — • 
Let  it  suffice  thee  that  I  trust  thee  not. 

Ros.  Yet  your  mistrust  cannot  make  me  a 

traitor : 
Tell  me  whereon  the  likelihood  depends. 

Duke  F.  Thou  art  thy  father's  daughter; 
there 's  enough.  [dukedom ; 

Ros.  So  was  I  when  your  highness  took  his 
So  wa«  I  when  your  highness  banish'd  him: 
Treason  is  not  inherited,  my  lord : 
Or,  if  we  did  derive  it  from  our  friends, 
What's  that  to  me?  my  father  was  no  traitor! 
Then,  good  my  liege,  mistake  me  not  so  much 
To  think  my  poverty  is  treacherous. 

Cel.  Dear  sovereign,  hear  me  speak,    [sake, 

Duke  F.  Ay,  Celia :  we  stay'd  her  for  your 
Else  had  she  with  her  father  rang'd  along. 

Cel.  I  did  not  then  entreat  to  have  her  stay  r 
It  was  your  pleasure,  and  your  own  remorse : 
I  was  too  young  that  time  to  value  her; 
But  now  I  know  her :  if  she  be  a  traitor, 
Why  so  am  I :  we  still  have  slept  together, 
Rose  at  an  instant,  learn'd,  played,  eat  together? 
And  wheresoe'er  we  went,  like  Juno's  swans, 
Still  we  went  coupled  and  inseparable. 

Duke  F.  She  is  too  subtle  for  thee ;  and  her 

smoothness, 

Her  very  silence,  and  her  patience 
Speak  to  the  people,  and  they  pity  her. 
Thou  art  a  fool :  she  robs  thee  of  thy  name ; 
And  thou  wilt  show  more  bright  and  seem 

more  virtuous 
When  she  is  gone :  then  open  not  thy  lips; 


SCENE  III.] 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


257 


Firm  and  irrevocable  is  my  doom 

Which  I  have  pass'd  upon  her ; — she  is  banish'd. 

Cel.  Pronounce  that  sentence,  then,  on  me, 

my  liege: 
I  cannot  live  out  of  her  company.       [yourself: 

Duke  F.  You  are  a  fool.  — You,  niece,  provide 
If  you  outstay  the  time,  upon  mine  honour, 
And  in  the  greatness. of  my  word,  you  die. 

[Exeunt  DUKE  F.  and  Lords. 

Cel.  O  my  poor  Rosalind !  whither  wilt  thou 

go? 

Wilt  thou  change  fathers  ?   I  will  give  thee  mine. 
I  charge  thee,  be  not  thou  more  griev'd  than  I 
am. 

Ros.  I  have  more  cause. 

Cel.  Thou  hast  not,  cousin ; 

TVythee,  be  cheerful:    know'st  thou  not  the 

duke 
Hath  banish'd  me,  his  daughter? 

Ros.  That  he  hath  not. 

Cel.  No  !  hath  not?  Rosalind  lacks,  then,  the 

love 

Which  teacheth  thee  that  thou  and  I  am  one : 
Shall  we  be  sunder'd?  shall  we  part,  sweet  girl? 
No ;  let  my  father  seek  another  heir. 
Therefore  devise  with  me  how  we  may  fly, 
Whither  to  go,  and  what  to  bear  with  us : 
And  do  not  seek  to  take  your  change  upon  you, 
To  bear  your  griefs  yourself,  and  leave  me  out ; 
For,  by  this  heaven,  now  at  our  sorrows  pale, 
Say  what  thou  canst,  I  '11  go  along  with  thee. 

Ros.  Why,  whither  shall  we  go? 

Cel.  To  seek  my  uncle  in  the  forest  of  Arden. 

Ros.  Alas !  what  danger  will  it  be  to  us, 
Maids  as  we  are,  to  travel  forth  so  far? 
Beauty  provoketh  thieves  sooner  than  gold. 

Cel.  I  '11  put  myself  in  poor  and  mean  attire, 
And  with  a  kind  of  umber  smirch  my  face ; 
The  like  do  you ;  so  shall  we  pass  along, 
And  never  stir  assailants. 

Ros.  Were  it  not  better, 

Because  that  I  am  more  than  common  tall, 
That  I  did  suit  me  all  points  like  a  man? 
A  gallant  curtle-axe  upon  my  thigh, 
A  boar  spear  in  my  hand ;  and, — in  my  heart 
Lie  there  what  hidden  woman's  fear  there  will, — 
We  '11  have  a  swashing  and  a  martial  outside, 
As  many  other  mannish  cowards  have 
That  do  outface  it  with  their  semblances. 

Cel.  What  shall  I  call  thee  when  thou  art  a 
man?  [own  page, 

Ros.  I  '11  have  no  worse  a  name  than  Jove's 
And,  therefore,  look  you  call  me  Ganymede. 
But  what  will  you  be  call'd  ?  [state : 

Cel.  Something  that  hath  a  reference  to  my 
No  longer  Celia,  but  Aliena. 

Ros.  But,  cousin,  what  if  we  assay'd  to  steal 


The  clownish  fool  out  of  your  father's  court? 
Would  he  not  be  a  comfort  to  our  travel? 
Cel.  He  '11  go  along  o'er  the  wide  world  with 

me; 

Leave  me  alone  to  woo  him.     Let 's  away, 
And  get  our  jewels  and  our  wealth  together ; 
Devise  the  fittest  time  and  safest  way 
To  hide  us  from  pursuit  that  will  be  made 
After  my  flight.     Now  go  we  in  content 
To  liberty,  and  not  to  banishment.      \Exeunt. 

ACT    II. 
SCENE  I.— The  Forest  of  Arden. 

Enter  DUKE  Senior,  AMIENS,  and  other  Lords, 
in  the  dress  of  Foresters. 

Duke  S.  Now,  my  co-mates  and  brothers  in 

exile, 

Hath  not  old  custom  made  this  life  more  sweet 
Than  that  of  painted  pomp?    Are  not  these 

woods 

More  free  from  peril  than  the  envious  court? 
Here  feel  we  but  the  penalty  of  Adam, — 
The  seasons'  difference :  as  the  icy  fang 
And  churlish  chiding  of  the  winter's  wind, 
Which  when  it  bites  and  blows  upon  my  body, 
Even  till  I  shrink  with  cold,  I  smile  and  say, 
This  is  no  flattery :  these  are  counsellors 
That  feelingly  persuade  me  what  I  am. 
Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity ; 
Which,  like  the  toad,  ugly  and  venomous, 
Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head ; 
And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 
Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  nmning 

brooks, 

Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything. 
I  would  not  change  it. 

Ami.  Happy  is  your  grace, 
That  can  translate  the  stubbornness  cf  lortune 
Into  so  quiet  and  so  sweet  a  style.  [son  ? 

Duke  S.  Come,  shall  we  go  and  kill  us  veni- 
And  yet  it  irks  me,  the  poor  dappled  fools, 
Being  native  burghers  of  this  desert  city, 
Should,  in  their  own  confines,  with  forked  heads 
Have  their  round  haunches  gor'd. 

I  Lord.  Indeed,  my  lord, 

Tha  melancholy  Jaques  grieves  at  that ; 
And,  in  that  kind,  swears  you  do  more  usurp 
Than  doth  your  brother  that  hath  banish'd  you. 
To-day  my  lord  of  Amiens  and  myself 
Did  steal  behind  him  as  he  lay  along 
Under  an  oak,  whose  antique  root  peeps  out 
Upon  the  brook  that  brawls  along  this  wood : 
To  the  which  place  a  poor  sequester'd  stag, 
That  from  the  hunters'  aim  had  ta'en  a  hurt, 
Did  come  to  languish  ;  and,  indeed,  my  lord, 

I 


258 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


[ACT  ii. 


The  wretched  animal  heav'd  forth  such  groans, 
That  their  discharge  did  stretch  his  leathern  coat 
Almost  to  bursting ;  and  the  big  round  tears 
Cours'd  one  another  down  his  innocent  nose 
In  piteous  chase :  and  thus  the  hairy  fool, 
Much  marked  of  the  melancholy  Jaques, 
Stood  on  the  extremest  verge  of  the  swift  brook, 
Augmenting  it  with  tears. 

Duke  S.  But  what  said  Jaques? 

Did  he  not  moralize  the  spectacle? 

1  Lord.   O,  yes,  into  a  thousand  similies. 
First,  for  his  weeping  into  the  needless  stream  ; 
Poor  deer,  quoth  he,  thou  matfst  a  testament 
As  worldlings  do,  wring  thy  sum  of  more 

To  that  which  had  too  much  :  then,  being  there 

alone, 

Left  and  abandoned  of  his  velvet  friends ; 
'  Tis  right,  quoth  he  ;  thus  misery  doth  part 
The  flux  of  company  :  anon,  a  careless  herd, 
Full  of  the  pasture,  jumps  along  by  him, 
And  never  stays  to  greet  him;    Ay,   quoth 

Jaques, 

Sweep  on,  you  fat  and  greasy  citizens  ; 
*  Tis  just  the  fashion :  wherefore  do  you  look 
Upon  that  poor  and  broken  bankrupt  there  ? 
Thus  most  invectively  he  pierceth  through 
The  body  of  the  country,  city,  court, 
Yea,  and  of  this  our  life :  swearing  that  we 
Are  mere  usurpers,  tyrants,  and  what 's  worse, 
To  fright  the  animals,  and  to  kill  them  up 
In  their  assign'd  and  native  dwelling-place. 
Duke  S.  And  did  you  leave  him  in  this  con- 
templation? [menting 

2  Lord.  We  did,  my  lord,  weeping  and  com- 
Upon  the  sobbing  deer. 

Duke  S.  Show  me  the  place : 

I  love  to  cope  him  in  these  sullen  fits, 
For  then  he 's  full  of  matter. 

2  Lord.  I  '11  bring  you  to  him  straight. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  DUKE  FREDERICK,  Lords,  and  Attend- 
ants. 

Duke  F.  Can  it  be  possible  that  no  man  saw 

them? 

It  cannot  be  :  some  villains  of  my  court 
Are  of  consent  and  sufferance  in  this. 

1  Lord.  I  cannot  hear  of  any  that  did  see  her. 
The  ladies,  her  attendants  of  her  chamber, 
Saw  her  a-bed ;  and  in  the  morning  early 
They    found    the    bed    untreasur'd    of   their 

mistress.  [so  oft 

2  Lord.  My  lord,  the  roynish  clown,  at  whom 
Your  grace  was  wont  to  laugh,  is  also  missing. 
Hesperia,  the  princess*  gentlewoman, 


Confesses  that  she  secretly  o'erheard 

Your  daughter  and  her  cousin  much  commend 

The  parts  and  graces  of  the  wrestler 

That  did  but  lately  foil  the  sinewy  Charles  ; 

And  she  believes,  wherever  they  are  gone, 

That  youth  is  surely  in  their  company. 

Duke  F.  Send  to  his   brother;    fetch   that 

gallant  hither:  -.^i 

If  he  be  absent,  bring  his  brother  to  me, 
I  '11  make  him  find  him :  do  this  suddenly; 
And  let  not  search  and  inquisition  quail 
To  bring  again  these  foolish  runaways. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — Before  OLIVER'S  House. 
Enter  ORLANDO  and  ADAM,  meeting. 

Or  I.  Who's  there? 

Adam.  What!    my  young  master? — O,   my 

gentle  master ! 

O,  my  sweet  master  1  O  you  memory 
Of  old  Sir  Rowland  !  why,  what  make  you  here? 
Why  are  you  virtuous?  why  do  people  love  you? 
And  wherefore   are   you  gentle,   strong,  and 

valiant? 

Why  would  you  be  so  fond  to  overcome 
The  bony  prizer  of  the  humorous  duke? 
Your  praise  is  come  too  swiftly  home  before  you. 
Know  you  not,  master,  to  some  kind  of  men 
Their  graces  serve  them  but  as  enemies? 
No  more  do  yours ;  your  virtues,  gentle  master, 
Are  sanctified  and  holy  traitors  to  you. 
O,  what  a  world  is  this,  when  what  is  comely 
Envenoms  him  that  bears  it ! 

Orl.   Why,  what 's  the  matter? 

Adam.  O  unhappy  youth, 

Come  not  within  these  doors ;  within  this  roof 
The  enemy  of  all  your  graces  lives : 
Your  brother, — no,  no  brother ;  yet  the  son — 
Yet  not  the  son ;  I  will  not  call  him  son — 
Of  him  I  was  about  to  call  his  father, — 
Hath  heard  your  praises;  and  this  night   he 

means 

To  burn  the  lodging  where  you  used  to  lie, 
And  you  within  it :  if  he  fail  of  that, 
He  will  have  other  means  to  cut  you  off; 
I  overheard  him  and  his  practices. 
This  is  no  place;  this  house  is  but  a  butchery: 
Abhor  it,  fear  it,  do  not  enter  it.  [me  go? 

Orl.  Why,  whither,  Adam,  wouldst  thou  have 

Adam.  No  matter  whither,  so  you  come  not 
here. 

Orl.  What,  wouldst  thou  have  me  go  and 

beg  my  food? 

Or  with  a  base  and  boisterous  sword  enforce 
A  thievish  living  on  the  common  road? 
This  I  must  do,  or  know  not  what  to  do : 


SCENE  IV.] 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


259 


Yet  this  I  will  not  do,  do  how  I  can : 
I  rather  will  subject  me  to  the  malice 
Of  a  diverted  blood  and  bloody  brother. 

Adam.  But  do  not  so.     I  have  five  hundred 

crowns, 

The  thrifty  hire  I  sav'd  under  your  father, 
Which  I  did  store  to  be  my  foster-nurse 
When  service  should  in  my  old  limbs  lie  lame, 
And  unregarded  age  in  corners  thrown ; 
Take  that :  and  He  that  doth  the  ravens  feed, 
Yea,  providently  caters  for  the  sparrow, 
Be  comfort  to  my  age !     Here  is  the  gold ; 
All  this  I  give  you.     Let  me  be  your  servant ; 
Though  I  look  old,  yet  I  am  strong  and  lusty: 
For  in  my  youth  I  never  did  apply 
Hot  and  rebellious  liquors  in  my  blood ; 
Nor  did  not  with  unbashful  forehead  woo 
The  means  of  weakness  and  debility; 
Therefore  my  age  is  as  a  lusty  winter, 
Frosty,  but  kindly:  let  me  go  with  you; 
I  '11  do  the  service  of  a  younger  man 
In  all  your  business  and  necessities.          [pears 

Orl.  O  good  old  man ;  how  well  in  thee  ap- 
The  constant  service  of  the  antique  world, 
When  service  sweat  for  duty,  not  for  meed  ! 
Thou  art  not  for  the  fashion  of  these  times, 
Where  none  will  sweat  but  for  promotion ; 
And  having  that,  do  choke  their  service  up 
Even  with  the  having:  it  is  not  so  with  thee. 
But,  poor  old  man,  thou  prun'st  a  rotten  tree, 
That  cannot  so  much  as  a  blossom  yield 
In  lieu  of  all  thy  pains  and  husbandry: 
But  come  thy  ways,  we  '11  go  along  together; 
And  ere  we  have  thy  youthful  wages  spent 
We  '11  light  upon  some  settled  low  content. 

Adam.  Master,  go  on ;  and  I  will  follow  thee 
To  the  last  gasp,  with  truth  and  loyalty. — 
From  seventeen  years  till  now  almost  fourscore 
Here  lived  I,  but  now  live  here  no  more. 
At  seventeen  years  many  their  fortunes  seek; 
But  at  fourscore  it  is  too  late  a  week: 
Yet  fortune  cannot  recompense  me  better 
Than  to  die  well,  and  not  my  master's  debtor. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  TV.— The  Forest  of  Arden. 

Enter  ROSALIND  in  boy's  clothes,  CELIA 
dressed  like  a  shepherdess,  and  TOUCHSTONE. 

Ros.  O  Jupiter !  how  weary  are  my  spirits ! 

Touch.  I  care  not  for  my  spirits  if  my  legs 
were  not  weary. 

Ros.  ^  I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  disgrace 
my  man's  apparel,  and  to  cry  like  a  woman : 
but  I  must  comfort  the  weaker  vessel,  as  doub- 
let and  hose  ought  to  show  itself  courageous  to 
petticoat:  therefore,  courage,  good  Aliena 


CcL  I  pray  you,  bear  with  me ;  I  can  go  no 
farther. 

Touch.  For  my  part,  I  had  rather  bear  with 
you  than  bear  you :  yet  I  should  bear  no  cross 
if  I  did  bear  you;  for,  I  think,  you  have  no 
money  in  your  purse. 

Ros.  Well,  this  is  the  forest  of  Arden. 

Touch.  Ay,  now  am  I  in  Arden :  the  more 
fool  I ;  when  I  was  at  home  I  was  in  a  better 
place ;  but  travellers  must  be  content. 

Ros.  Ay,  be  so,  good  Touchstone. — Look 
you,  who  comes  here?  a  young  man  and  an  old 
in  solemn  talk. 

Enter  CORIN  and  SILVIUS. 

Cor.  That  is  the  way  to  make  her  scorn  you 
still.  [love  her ! 

Sit.  O  Corin,  that  thou  knew'st  how  I  do 

Cor.  I  partly  guess ;  for  I  have  lov'd  ere  now. 

Sil.  No,  Corin,  being  old,  thou  canst  not 

guess; 

Though  in  thy  youth  thou  wast  as  true  a  lover 
As  ever  sigh'd  upon  a  midnight  pillow: 
But  if  thy  love  were  ever  like  to  mine, — 
As  sure  I  think  did  never  man  love  so, — 
How  many  actions  most  ridiculous 
Hast  thou  been  drawn  to  by  thy  fantasy? 

Cor.  Into  a  thousand  that  I  have  forgotten. 

Sil.  O,  thou  didst  then  ne'er  love  so  heartily: 
If  thou  remember'st  not  the  slightest  folly 
That  ever  love  did  make  thee  run  into, 
Thou  hast  not  lov'd : 
Or  if  thou  hast  not  sat  as  I  do  now, 
Wearying  thy  hearer  in  thy  mistress'  praise, 
Thou  hast  not  lov'd : 
Or  if  thou  hast  not  broke  from  company 
Abruptly,  as  my  passion  now  makes  me, 
Thou  hast  not  lov'd:  O  Phebe,  Phebe,  Phebe! 
[Exit  SILVIUS. 

Ros.  Alas,  poor  shepherd !  searching  of  thy 

wound, 
I  have  by  hard  adventure  found  mine  own. 

Touch.  And  I  mine.  I  remember,  when  I 
was  in  love  I  broke  my  sword  upon  a  stone, 
and  bid  him  take  that  for  coming  a-night  to 
Jane  Smile :  and  I  remember  the  kissing  of  her 
ballet,  and  the  cow's  dugs  that  her  pretty 
chapp'd  hands  had  milk'd:  and  I  remember 
the  wooing  of  a  peascod  instead  of  her ;  from 
whom  I  took  two  cods,  and,  giving  her  them 
again,  said  with  weeping  tears,  Wear  these  for 
my  sake.  We  that  are  true  lovers  run  into 
strange  capers ;  but  as  all  is  mortal  in  nature, 
so  is  all  nature  in  love  mortal  in  folly.  [of. 

Ros.  Thou  speak'st  wiser  than  thou  art  'ware 

Touch.  Nay,  I  shall  ne'er  be  'ware  of  mine 
own  wit  till  I  break  my  shins  against  it 


260 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


[ACT  ii. 


Ros.  Jove,  Jove !  this  shepherd's  passion 
Is  much  upon  my  fashion.  [stale  with  me. 

Touch.   And  mine :  but  it  grows  something 

Cel.  I  pray  you,  one  of  you  question  yond  man 
If  he  for  gold  will  give  us  any  food: 
I  faint  almost  to  death. 

Touch.  Holla,  you  clown ! 

Ros.         Peace,  fool ;  he 's  not  thy  kinsman. 

Cor.  Who  calls? 

Toiich.  Your  betters,  sir. 

Cor.  Else  are  they  very  wretched. 

Ros.  Peace,  I  say. — 

Good  even  to  you,  friend. 

Cor.   And  to  you,  gentle  sir,  and  to  you  all. 

Ros.  I  pr'ythee,  shepherd,  if  that  love  or  gold 
Can  in  this  desert  place  buy  entertainment, 
Bring  us  where  we  may  rest  ourselves  and  feed : 
Here 's  a  young  maid  with  travel  much  op- 

press'd, 
And  faints  for  succour. 

Cor,  Fair,  sir,  I  pity  her, 

And  wish,  for  her  sake  more  than  for  mine  own, 
My  fortunes  were  more  able  to  relieve  her : 
But  I  am  shepherd  to  another  man, 
And  do  not  shear  the  fleeces  that  I  graze: 
My  master  is  of  churlish  disposition, 
And  little  recks  to  find  the  way  to  heaven 
By  doing  deeds  of  hospitality: 
Besides,  his  cote,  his  flocks,  and  bounds  of  feed 
Are  now  on  sale ;  and  at  our  sheepcote  now, 
By  reason  of  his  absence,  there  is  nothing 
That  you  will  feed  on ;  but  what  is,  come  see, 
And  in  my  voice  most  welcome  shall  you  be. 

Ros.  What  is  he  that  shall  buy  his  flock  and 
pasture?  [but  erewhile, 

Cor.  That  young  swain  that  you  saw  here 
That  little  cares  for  buying  anything. 

Ros.  I  pray  thee,  if  it  stand  with  honesty, 
Buy  thou  the  cottage,  pasture,  and  the  flock, 
And  thou  shalt  have  to  pay  for  it  of  us. 

Cel.  And  we  will  mend  thy  wages.     I  like 

this  place, 
And  willingly  could  waste  my  time  in  it. 

Cor.  Assuredly  the  thing  is  to  be  sold : 
Go  with  me :  if  you  like,  upon  report, 
The  soil,  the  profit,  and  this  kind  of  life, 
I  will  your  very  faithful  feeder  be, 
And  buy  it  with  your  gold  right  suddenly. 

[Exeunt. 
rrorb 

SCENE  V. — Another  part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  AMIENS,  JAQUES,  and  others. 

SONG. 

Ami.  Under  the  greenwood  tree, 

Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 


Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither  ; 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Jaq.   More,  more,  I  pr'ythee,  more. 

Ami.  It  will  make  you  melancholy,  Mon- 
sieur Jaques. 

Jaq.  I  thank  it.  More,  I  pr'ythee,  more. 
I  can  suck  melancholy  out  of  a  song,  as  a 
weasel  sucks  eggs.  More,  I  pr'ythee,  more. 

Ami.  My  voice  is  ragged ;  I  know  I  cannot 
please  you. 

Jaq.  I  do  not  desire  you  to  please  me,  I  do 
desire  you  to  sing.  Come,  more:  another 
stanza:  call  you  them  stanzas? 

Ami.  What  you  will,  Monsieur  Jaques. 

Jaq.  Nay,  I  care  not  for  their  names ;  they 
owe  me  nothing.  Will  you  sing?  [myself. 

Ami.   More  at  your  request  than  to  please 

Jaq.  Well  then,  if  ever  I  thank  any  man,  I  '11 
thank  you:  but  that  they  call  compliment  is 
like  the  encounter  of  two  dog-apes ;  and  when 
a  man  thanks  me  heartily,  methinks  I  have 
given  him  a  penny,  and  he  renders  me  the 
beggarly  thanks.  Come,  sing;  and  you  that 
will  not,  hold  your  tongues. 

Ami.  Well,  I'll  end  the  song. — Sirs,  cover 
the  while:  the  duke  will  drink  under  this  tree: 
— he  hath  been  all  this  day  to  look  you. 

Jaq.  And  I  have  been  all  this  day  to  avoid 
him.  He  is  too  disputable  for  my  company: 
I  think  of  as  many  matters  as  he ;  but  I  give 
heaven  thanks,  and  make  no  boast  of  them. 
Come,  warble,  come. 

SONG. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun,     [A  II  together  here. 

And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 

Seeking  the  food  he  eats, 

And  pleas'd  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither ; 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy. 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Jaq.  I  '11  give  you  a  verse  to  this  note,  that 
I  made  yesterday  in  despite  of  my  invention. 
Ami.  And  I  '11  sing  it 
Jaq.  Thus  it  goes : 

If  it  do  come  to  pass 

That  any  man  turn  ass, 

Leaving  his  wealth  and  ease 

A  stubborn  will  to  please, 
Ducdame,  ducdame,  ducdame; 

Here  shall  he  see 

Gross  fools  as  he, 
An  if  he  will  come  to  Ami. 

Ami.  What's  that  ducdame? 

Jaq.  'Tis  a  Greek  invocation,   to  call  fools 


SCENE  VI.j 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


261 


into  a  circle.     I  '11  go  sleep,  if  I  can ;  if  I  can- 
not. I  '11  rail  against  all  the  first-born  of  Egypt. 
Ami.  And  I  '11  go  seek  the  duke ;  his  ban- 
quet is  prepared.  [Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  VI. — Another  part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  ORLANDO  and  ADAM. 

Adam.  Dear  master,  I  can  go  no  farther :  O, 
I  die  for  food !  Here  lie  I  down,  and  measure 
out  my  grave.  Farewell,  kind  master. 

Orl.  Why,  how  now,  Adam!  no  greater 
heart  in  thee?  Live  a  little;  comfort  a  little; 
cheer  thyself  a  little.  If  this  uncouth  forest 
yield  anything  savage,  I  will  either  be  food  for 
it  or  bring  it  for  food  to  thee.  Thy  conceit  is 
nearer  death  than  thy  powers.  For  my  sake 
be  comfortable :  hold  death  awhile  at  the  arm's 
end :  I  v/ill  here  be  with  thee  presently ;  and 
if  I  bring  thee  not  something  to  eat,  I  '11  give 
thee  leave  to  die:  but  if  thou  diest  before  I 
come,  thou  art  a  mocker  of  my  labour.  Well 
said !  thou  look'st  cheerily:  and  I  '11  be  with 
thee  quickly. — Yet  thou  liest  in  the  bleak  air: 
come,  I  will  bear  thee  to  some  shelter;  and 
thou  shalt  not  die  for  lack  of  a  dinner  if  there 
live  anything  in  this  desert.  Cheerily,  good 
Adam !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII. — Another  part  of  the  Forest. 

A  7  able  set. 

Enter  DUKE  Senior,  AMIENS,  and  others. 
Duke  S.  I  think  he  betransform'd  into  a  beast; 
For  I  can  nowhere  find  him  like  a  man. 

I  Lord.   My  lord,  he  is  but  even  now  gone 

hence; 
Here  was  he  merry,  hearing  of  a  song. 

Duke  S.  If  he,  compact  of  jars,  grow  musical, 
We  shall  have  shortly  discord  in  the  spheres. 
Go,  seek  him ;  tell  him  I  would  speak  with  him. 
I  Lord.   He  saves  my  labour  by  his  own  ap- 
proach. 

Enter  JAQUES. 

Duke  S.  Why,  how  now,  monsieur !  what  a 

life  is  this, 

That  your  poor  friends  must  woo  your  company? 
What !  you  look  merrily. 

Jaq.  A  fool,  a  fool ! 1  met  a  fool  i'  the  forest, 

A  motley  fool ; — a  miserable  world ! — 
As  I  do  live  by  food,  I  met  a  fool, 
Who  laid  him  down  and  bask'd  him  in  the  sun, 
And  rail'd  on  Lady  Fortune  in  good  terms, 
In  good  set  terms, — and  yet  a  motley  fool. 
Good-morrow,  fool,  quoth  I :  No,  sir,  quoth  he, 
Call  me  not  fool  till  heaven  hath  sent  meforttine. 
And  then  he  drew  a  dial  from  his  poke, 


And,  looking  on  it  with  lack-lustre  eye, 
Says  very  wisely,  It  is  ten  o'clock: 
7'/'ius  may  we  see,  quoth  he,  how  the  world  wags. 
'  Tis  but  an  hour  ago  since  it  was  nine  ; 
And  after  one  hour  more  'twill  be  eleven  ; 
And  so,  from  hour  to  hour,  we  ripe  and  ripe, 
And  then,  from  hour  to  hour,  we  rot  and  rot ; 
And  thereby  hangs  a  tale.     When  I  did  hear 
The  motley  fool  thus  moral  on  the  time, 
My  lungs  began  to  crow  like  chanticleer, 
That  fools  should  be  so  deep  contemplative ; 
And  I  did  laugh,  sans  intermission, 
An  hour  by  his  dial. — O  noble  fool ! 
A  worthy  fool ! — Motley 's  the  only  wear. 

Duke  S.  What  fool  is  this?  [courtier, 

Jaq.  O  worthy  fool ! — One  that  hath  been  a 
And  says,  if  ladies  be  but  young  and  fair, 
They  have  the  gift  to  know  it:  and  in  his  brain, — 
Which  is  as  dry  as  the  remainder  biscuit 
After  a  voyage, — he  hath  strange  places  cramm'd 
With  observation,  the  which  he  vents 
In  mangled  forms. — O  that  I  were  a  fool  1 
I  am  ambitious  for  a  motley  coat. 
Duke  S.  Thou  shalt  have  one. 
Jaq.  It  is  my  only  suit, 

Provided  that  you  weed  your  better  judgments 
Of  all  opinion  that  grows  rank  in  them 
That  I  am  wise.     I  must  have  liberty 
Withal,  as  large  a  charter  as  the  wind, 
To  blow  on  whom  I  please;  for  so  fools  ha  vet 
And  they  that  are  most  galled  with  my  folly, 
They  most  must  laugh.     And  why,  sir,  must 

they  so? 

The  why  is  plain  as  way  to  parish  church : 
He  that  a  fool  doth  very  wisely  hit 
Doth  very  foolishly,  although  he  smart, 
Not  to  seem  senseless  of  the  bob;  if  not, 
The  wise  man's  folly  is  anatomiz'd 
Even  by  the  squandering  glances  of  the  fool. 
Invest  me  in  my  motley ;  give  me  leave 
To  speak  my  mind,  and  I  will  through  and  through 
Cleanse  the  foul  body  of  the  infected  world, 
If  they  will  patiently  receive  my  medicine. 
Duke  S.  Fie  on  thee !  I  can  tell  what  thou 

wouldst  do. 

Jaq.  What,  for  a  counter,  would  I  do  but  good? 
Duke  S.  Most  mischievous  foul  sin,  in  chid- 
ing sin : 

For  thou  thyself  hast  been  a  libertine, 
As  sensual  as  the  brutish  sting  itself ; 
And  all  the  embossed  sores  and  headed  evils 
That  thou  with  license  of  free  foot  hast  caught, 
Wouldst  thou  disgorge  into  the  general  world. 

Jaq.  Why,  who  cries  out  on  pride, 
That  can  therein  tax  any  private  party? 
Doth  it  not  flow  as  hugely  as  the  sea, 
Till  that  the  weary  very  means  do  ebb? 


262 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


[ACT  ii. 


What  woman  in  the  city  do  I  name 

When  that  I  say,  The  city-woman  bears 

The  cost  of  princes  on  unworthy  shoulders? 

Who  can  come  in  and  say  that  I  mean  her, 

When  such  a  one  as  she,  such  is  her  neighbour? 

Or  what  is  he  of  basest  function, 

That  says  his  bravery  is  not  on  my  cost, — 

Thinking  that  I  mean  him, — but  therein  suits 

His  folly  to  the  metal  of  my  speech? 

There  then;  how  then?  what  then?    Let  me  see 

wherein 

My  tongue  hath  wrong'd  him  :  if  it  do  him  right, 
Then  he  hath  wrong'd  himself;  if  he  be  free, 
Why  then,  my  taxing  like  a  wild  goose  flies, 
Unclaim'd  of  any  man. — But  who  comes  here? 

Enter  ORLANDO,  with  his  sword  arawn. 

OrL  Forbear,  and  eat  no  more. 

Jaq.  Why,  I  have  eat  none  yet. 

OrL  Nor  shalt  not,  till  necessity  be  serv'd. 

Jaq.  Of  what  kind  should  this  cock  come  of? 

Duke  S.  Art  thou  thus  bolden'd,  man,  by  thy 

distress : 

Or  else  a  rude  despiser  of  good  manners, 
That  in  civility  thou  seem'st  so  empty?     [point 

OrL  You  touch'd  my  vein  at  first:  the  thorny 
Of  bare  distress  hath  ta'en  from  me  the  show 
Of  smooth  civility:  yet  am  I  inland  bred, 
And  know  some  nurture.     But  forbear,  I  say; 
He  dies  that  touches  any  of  this  fruit 
Till  I  and  my  affairs  are  answered. 

Jaq.  An  you  will  not  be  answered  with  reason, 
I  must  die. 

Duke  S.  What  would  you  have?  your  gentle- 
ness shall  force 
More  than  your  force  move  us  to  gentleness. 

OrL   I  almost  die  for  food,  and  let  me  have  it. 

Duke  S.  Sit  down  and  feed,  and  welcome  to 
our  table.  [you: 

OrL  Speak  you  so  gftntly?   Pardon  me,  I  pray 
I  thought  that  all  things  had  been  savage  here; 
And  therefore  put  I  on  the  countenance 
Of  stern  commandment.     But  whate'er  you  are 
That  in  this  desert  inaccessible, 
Under  the  shade  of  melancholy  boughs, 
Lose  and  neglect  the  creeping  hours  of  time; 
If  ever  you  have  look'd  on  better  days, 
If  ever  been  where  bells  have  knoll'd  to  church, 
If  ever  sat  at  any  good  man's  feast, 
If  ever  from  your  eyelids  wip'd  a  tear, 
And  know  what  'tis  to  pity  and  be  pitied, 
Let  gentleness  my  strong  enforcement  be : 
In  the  which  hope  I  blush,  and  hide  my  sword. 

Duke  S.  True  is  it  that  we  have  seen  better 

days, 

And  have  with  holy  bell  been  knoll'd  to  church, 
And  sat  at  good  men's  feasts,  and  wip'd  our  eyes 


Of  drops  that  sacred  pity  hath  engender'd : 
And  therefore  sit  you  down  in  gentleness, 
And  take  upon  command  what  help  we  have, 
That  to  your  wanting  may  be  niinister'd. 

OrL  Then  but  forbear  your  food  a  little  while, 
Whiles,  like  a  doe,  I  go  to  find  my  fawn, 
And  give  it  food.     There  is  an  old  poor  man, 
Who  after  me  hath  many  a  weary  step 
Limp'd  in  pure  love :  till  he  be  first  suffic'd, — 
Oppress' d  with  two  weak  evils,  age  and  hunger,  — 
I  will  not  touch  a  bit. 

Duke  S.  Go  find  him  out, 

And  we  will  nothing  waste  till  you  return. 

OrL  I  thank  ye ;  and  be  bless'd  for  your  good 
comfort !  [Exit. 

Duke  S.  Thou  seest  we  are  not  all  alone  un- 
happy; 

This  wide  and  universal  theatre 
Presents  more  woeful  pageants  than  the  scene 
Wherein  we  play  in. 

Jaq.  All  the  world 's  a  stage, 

And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players ; 
They  have  their  exits  and  their  entrances ; 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts, 
His  acts  being  seven  ages.     At  first  the  infant, 
Mewling  and  puking  in  the  nurse's  arms ; 
Then  the  whining  school-boy,  with  his  satchel 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail 
Unwillingly  to  school.     And  then  the  lover, 
Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  woeful  ballad 
Made  to  his  mistress'  eyebrow.     Then  a  soldier, 
Full  of  strange  oaths,  and  bearded  like  the  pard, 
Jealous  in  honour,  sudden  and  quick  in  quarrel, 
Seeking  the  bubble  reputation 
Even  in  the  cannon's  mouth.     And  then  the 

justice, 

In  fair  round  belly  with  good  capon  lin'd, 
With  eyes  severe  and  beard  of  formal  cut, 
Full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  instances ; 
And  so  he  plays  his  part.     The  sixth  age  shifts 
Into  the  lean  and  slipper'd  pantaloon, 
With  spectacles  on  nose  and  pouch  on  side ; 
His  youthful  hose,  well  sav'd,  a  world  too  wide 
For  his  shrunk  shank ;  and  his  big  manly  voice, 
Turning  again  toward  childish  treble,  pipes 
And  whistles  in  his  sound.     Last  scene  of  all, 
That  ends  this  strange  eventful  history, 
Is  second  childishness  and  mere  oblivion ; 
Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  everything. 

Re-enter  ORLANDO  with  ADAM. 

Dttke  S.  Welcome.    Set  down  your  venerable 

burden, 
And  let  him  feed. 

OrL  I  thank  you  most  for  him. 

Adam.  So  had  you  need : 
I  scarce  can  speak  to  thank  you  for  myself. 


SCENE  VII.] 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


263 


DukeS.  Welcome;  fall  to:  I  will  not  trouble 

you 

As  yet,  to  question  you  about  your  fortunes. — 
Give  us  some  music;  and,  good  cousin,  sing. 

AMIENS  sings. 

SONG. 

i. 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man  s  ingratitude  ; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh-ho  !  sing,  heigh-ho  !  unto  the  green  holly  : 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly  : 
Then,  heigh-ho,  the  holly  ' 
This  life  is  most  jolly. 


Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot  \ 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remember'd  not. 
Heigh-ho  1  sing,  heigh-ho  !  &c. 

Duke  S.  If  that  you  were  the  good  Sir  Row- 
land's son, — 

As  you  have  whisper'd  faithfully  you  were, 
And  as  mine  eye  doth  his  effigies  witness 
Most  truly  limn'd  and  living  in  your  face, — • 
Be  truly  welcome  hither :  I  am  the  duke 
That  lov'd  your  father.     The  residue  of  your 

fortune, 

Go  to  my  cave  and  tell  me. — Good  old  man, 
Thou  art  right  welcome  as  thy  master  is ; 
Support  him  by  the  arm. — Give  me  your  hand, 
And  let  me  all  your  fortunes  understand. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  III. 
SCENE  I. — A  Room  in  the  Palace, 

Enter  DUKE  FREDERICK,  OLIVER,  Lords, 
and  Attendants. 

Duke  F.  Not  see  him  since?     Sir,  sir,  that 

cannot  be : 

But  were  I  not  the  better  part  made  mercy, 
I  should  not  seek  an  absent  argument 
Of  my  revenge,  thou  present.     But  look  to  it : 
Find  out  thy  brother  wheresoe'er  he  is : 
Seek  him  with  candle ;  bring  him  dead  or  living 
Within  this  twelvemonth,  or  turn  thou  no  more 
To  seek  a  living  in  our  territory. 
Thy  lands,  and  all  things  that  thou  dost  call  thine 
Worth  seizure,  do  we  seize  into  our  hands, 
Till  thou  canst  quit  thee  by  thy  brother's  mouth 
Of  what  we  think  against  thee. 


Oli.  O  that  your  highness  knew  my  heart  in 

this! 

I  never  lov'd  my  brother  in  my  life. 
Duke  F.  More  villain  thou. — Well,  push  him 

out  of  doors, 

And  let  my  officers  of  such  a  nature 
Make  an  extent  upon  his  house  and  lands: 
Do  this  expediently,  and  turn  him  going. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — The  Forest  of  Arden. 
Enter  ORLANDO,  with  a  paper. 

Orl.  Hang  there,  my  verse,  in  witness  of  my 
love ;  [vey 

And  thou,  thrice-crowned  queen  of  night,  sur- 
With  thy  chaste  eye,  from  thy  pale  sphere  above, 

Thy  huntress' name,  that  my  full  life  doth  sway. 
O  Rosalind !  these  trees  shall  be  my  books, 

And  in  their  barks  my  thoughts  I  '11  character, 
That  every  eye  which  in  this  forest  looks 

Shall  see  thy  virtue  witness'd  everywhere. 
Run,  run,  Orlando :  carve  on  every  tree, 
The  fair,  the  chaste,  and  unexpressive  she. 

[Exit. 

Enter  CORIN  and  TOUCHSTONE. 

Cor.  And  how  like  you  this  shepherd's  Iife9 
Master  Touchstone? 

Touch.  Truly,  shepherd,  in  respect  of  itself, 
it  is  a  good  life ;  but  in  respect  that  it  is  a  shep- 
herd's life,  it  is  naught.  In  respect  that  it  is 
solitary,  I  like  it  very  well ;  but  in  respect  that 
it  is  private,  it  is  a  very  vile  life.  Now  in  re- 
spect it  is  in  the  fields,  it  pleaseth  me  well 
but  in  respect  it  is  not  in  the  court,  it  is  tedious. 
As  it  is  a  spare  life,  look  you,  it  fits  my  humour 
well ;  but  as  there  is  no  more  plenty  in  it,  it 
goes  much  against  my  stomach.  Hast  any 
philosophy  in  thee,  shepherd? 

Cor.  No  more  but  that  I  know  the  more  one 
sickens  the  worse  at  ease  he  is;  and  that  he 
that  wants  money,  means,  and  content,  is  with- 
out three  good  friends;  that  the  property  of 
rain  is  to  wet,  and  fire  to  burn ;  that  good  pas» 
ture  makes  fat  sheep ;  and  that  a  great  cause 
of  the  night  is  lack  of  the  sun ;  that  he  that 
hath  learned  no  wit  by  nature  nor  art  may  com- 
plain of  good  breeding,  or  comes  of  a  very  dull 
kindred. 

Touch.  Such  a  one  is  a  natural  philosopher. 
Wast  ever  in  court,  shepherd? 

Cor.  No,  truly. 

Touch.  Then  thou  art  damned. 

Cor.  Nay,  I  hope, 

Twch.  Truly,  thou  art  damned ;  like  an  ill- 
roasted  egg,  all  on  one  side. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


[ACT  in. 


Cor.  For  not  being  at  court?    Your  reason. 

Touch.  Why,  if  thou  never  wast  at  court 
thou  never  saw'st  good  manners ;  if  thcu  never 
saw'st  good  manners,  then  thy  manners  must 
be  wicked  j  and  wickedness  is  sin,  and  sin  is 
damnation.  Thou  art  in  a  parlous  state,  shep- 
herd. 

Cor.  Not  a  whit,  Touchstone  :  those  that 
are  good  manners  at  the  court  are  as  ridiculous 
in  the  country  as  the  behaviour  of  the  country 
is  most  mockable  at  the  court.  You  told  me 
you  salute  not  at  the  court,  but  you  kiss  your 
hands;  that  courtesy  would  be  uncleanly  if 
courtiers  were  shepherds. 

Touch.  Instance,  briefly;  come,  instance. 

Cor.  Why,  we  are  still  handling  our  ewes ; 
and  their  fells,  you  know,  are  greasy. 

Touch.  Why,  do  not  your  courtier's  hands 
sweat?  and  is  not  the  grease  of  a  mutton  as 
wholesome  as  the  sweat  of  a  man?  Shallow, 
shallow:  a  better  instance,  I  say;  come. 

Cor.  Besides,  our  hands  are  hard. 

Touch.  Your  lips  will  feel  them  the  sooner. 
Shallow  again:  a  more  sounder  instance  j 
come. 

Cor.  And  they  are  often  tarred  over  with 
the  surgery  of  our  sheep;  and  would  you  have 
us  kiss  tar?  The  courtier's  hands  are  perfumed 
with  civet. 

Touch.  Most  shallow  man !  thou  worms- 
meat,  in  respect  of  a  good  piece  of  flesh,  in- 
deed ! — Learn  of  the  wise,  and  perpend :  civet 
is  of  a  baser  birth  than  tar, — the  very  uncleanly 
flux  of  a  cat.  Mend  the  instance,  shepherd. 

Cor.  You  have  too  courtly  a  wit  for  me: 
I  '11  rest. 

Touch.  Wilt  thou  rest  damned  ?  God  help 
thee,  shallow  man!  God  make  incision  in 
thee!  thou  art  raw. 

Cor.  Sir,  I  am  a  true  labourer:  I  earn  that 
I  eat,  get  that  I  wear ;  owe  no  man  hate,  envy 
no  man's  happiness;  glad  of  other  men's  good, 
content  with  my  harm ;  and  the  greatest  of  my 
pride  is,  to  see  my  ewes  graze  and  my  lambs 
suck. 

Touch.  That  is  another  simple  sin  in  you;  to 
bring  the  ewes  and  the  rams  together,  and  to 
offer  to  get  your  living  by  the  copulation  of 
cattle :  to  be  bawd  to  a  bell-wether ;  and  to 
betray  a  she-lamb  of  a  twelvemonth  to  a 
crooked-pated,  old,  cuckoldly  ram,  out  of  all 
reasonable  match.  If  thou  be'st  not  damned 
for  this,  the  devil  himself  will  have  no  shep- 
herds; I  cannot  see  else  how  thou  shouldst 
'scape. 

Cor.  Here  comes  young  Master  Ganymede, 
my  new  mistress'?;  brother. 


Enter  ROSALIND,  reading  a  paper. 

JRos.       From  the  east  to  western  Ind, 
No  jewel  is  like  Rosalind. 
Her  worth,  being  mounted  on  the  wind, 
Through  all  the  world  bears  Rosalind. 
All  the  pictures  fairest  lin'd 
Are  but  black  to  Rosalind. 
Let  no  face  be  kept  in  mind 
But  the  fair  of  Rosalind. 

Touch.  I  '11  rhyme  you  so  eight  years  to- 
gether, dinners,  and  suppers,  and  sleeping 
hours  excepted :  It  is  the  right  butter-woman's 
rank  to  market. 

Ros.  Out,  fool ! 

Touch.  For  a  taste : 

If  a  hart  do  lack  a  hind, 

Let  him  seek  out  Rosalind. 

If  the  cat  will  after  kind, 

So,  be  sure,  will  Rosalind. 

Winter  garments  must  be  lin'd, 

So  must  slender  Rosalind. 

They  that  reap  must  sheaf  and  bind,-=« 

Then  to  cart  with  Rosalind. 

Sweetest  nut  hath  sourest  rind, 

Such  a  nut  is  Rosalind. 

He  that  sweetest  rose  will  find 

Must  find  love's  prick,  and  Rosalind. 

This  is  the  very  false  gallop  of  verses:  why  do 
you  infect  yourself  with  them? 

Ros.  Peace,  you  dull  fool !  I  found  them  on 
a  tree. 

Touch.  Truly,  the  tree  yields  bad  fruit. 

Ros.  I  '11  graff  it  with  you,  and  then  I  shall 
graff  it  with  a  medlar:  then  it  will  be  the 
earliest  fruit  in  the  country:  for  you'll  be 
rotten  ere  you  be  half  ripe,  and  that 's  the  right 
virtue  of  the  medlar. 

Touch.  You  have  said;  but  whether  wisely 
or  no,  let  the  forest  judge. 

Enter  CELI  A,  reading  a  paper. 

Ros.  Peace! 
Here  comes  my  sister,  reading :  stand  aside  ! 

Cel.       Why  should  this  a  desert  be? 

For  it  is  unpeopled  ?    No ; 
Tongues  I  '11  hang  on  every  tree, 

That  shall  civil  sayings  show : 
Some,  how  brief  the  life  of  man 

Runs  his  erring  pilgrimage, 
That  the  stretching  of  a  span 

Buckles  in  his  sum  of  age. 
Some,  of  violated  vows 

'Twixt  the  souls  of  friend  and  friend; 
But  upon  the  fairest  boughs, 

Or  at  every  sentence*  end, 
Will  I  Rosalinda  write, 

Teaching  all  that  read  to  know 
The  quintessence  of  every  sprite 

Heaven  would  in  little  show. 
Therefore  heaven  nature  charg'd 

That  one  body  should  be  fill'd 
With  all  graces  wide  enlarg'd: 

Nature  presently  distill'd 


SCENE  II.] 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


265 


Helen's  cheek,  but  not  her  heart; 

Cleopatra's  majesty; 
Atalanta's  better  part; 

Sad  Lucretia's  modesty. 
Thus  Rosalind  of  many  parts 

By  heavenly  synod  was  devis'd, 
Of  many  faces,  eyes,  and  hearts, 

To  have  the  touches  dearest  priz'd. 
Heaven  would  that  she  these  gifts  should  have, 
And  I  to  live  and  die  her  slave. 

Ros.  O  most  gentle  Jupiter  ! — what  tedious 
homily  of  love  have  you  wearied  your  parish- 
ioners withal,  and  never  cried,  Have  patience, 

CeL  How  now !  back,  friends ; — shepherd, 
go  off  a  little : — go  with  him,  sirrah. 

Touch.  Come,  shepherd,  let  us  make  an 
honourable  retreat ;  though  not  with  bag  and 
baggage,  yet  with  scrip  and  scrippage. 

[Exeunt  CORIN  and  TOUCH. 

CeL   Didst  thou  hear  these  verses? 

Ros.  O  yes,  I  heard  them  all,  and  more 
too ;  for  some  of  them  had  in  them  more  feet 
than  the  verses  would  bear. 

CeL  That 's  no  matter ;  the  feet  might  bear 
the  verses. 

Ros.  Ay,  but  the  feet  were  lame,  and  could 
not  bear  themselves  without  the  verse,  and 
therefore  stood  lamely  in  the  verse. 

CeL  But  didst  thou  hear  without  wondering 
how  thy  name  should  be  hanged  and  carved 
upon  these  trees? 

Ros.  I  was  seven  of  the  nine  days  out  of  the 
wonder  before  you  came ;  for  look  here  what  I 
found  on  a  palm  tree:  I  was  never  so  be- 
rhymed since  Pythagoras'  time,  that  I  was  an 
Irish  rat,  which  I  can  hardly  remember. 

CeL  Trow  you  who  hath  done  this? 

Ros.  Is  it  a  man? 

Cel.  And  a  chain,  that  you  once  wore,  about 
his  neck.  Change  you  colour? 

Ros.   I  pray  thee,  who? 

Cel.  O  lord,  lord !  it  is  a  hard  matter  for 
friends  to  meet :  but  mountains  may  be  re- 
moved with  earthquakes,  and  so  encounter. 

Ros.  Nay,  but  who  is  it? 

CeL  Is  it  possible? 

Ros.  Nay,  I  pr'ythee  now,  with  most  peti- 
tionary vehemence,  tell  me  who  it  is. 

Cel.  O  wonderful,  wonderful,  and  most 
wonderful  wonderful !  and  yet  again  wonderful, 
and  after  that,  out  of  all  whooping! 

Ros.  Good  my  complexion!  dost  thou  think, 
though  I  am  caparisoned  like  a  man,  I  have 
a  doublet  and  hose  in  my  disposition?  One 
inch  of  delay  more  is  a  South-sea  of  discovery. 
I  pr'ythee,  tell  me,  who  is  it?  quickly,  and 
speak  apace.  I  would  thou  couldst  stammer, 
that  thou  mightst  pour  this  concealed  man  out 


of  thy  mouth,  as  wine  comes  out  of  a  narrow- 
mouthed  bottle;  either  too  much  at  once  or 
none  at  all.  I  pr'ythee  take  the  cork  out  of 
thy  mouth,  that  I  may  drink  thy  tidings. 

CeL  So  you  may  put  a  man  in  your  belly. 

Ros.  Is  he  of  God's  making?  What  manner 
of  man?  Is  his  head  worth  a  hat  or  his  chin 
worth  a  beard? 

Cel.  Nay,  he  hath  but  a  little  beard. 

Ros.  Why,  God  will  send  more  if  the  man 
will  be  thankful :  let  me  stay  the  growth  of 
his  beard  if  thou  delay  me  not  the  knowledge 
of  his  chin. 

CeL  It  is  young  Orlando,  that  tripped  up  the 
wrestler's  heels  and  your  heart  both  in  an  in- 
stant. 

Ros.  Nay,  but  the  devil  take  mocking :  speak 
sad  brow  and  true  maid. 

CeL  F  faith,  coz,  'tis  he. 

Ros.  Orlando? 

CeL  Orlando. 

Ros.  Alas  the  day !  what  shall  I  do  with  my 
doublet  and  hose? — What  did  he  when  thou 
saw'st  him?  What  said  he?  How  look'd  he? 
Wherein  went  he?  What  makes  he  here? 
Did  he  ask  for  me  ?  Where  remains  he  ?  How 
parted  he  with  thee  ?  and  when  shalt  thou  see 
him  again?  Answer  me  in  one  word. 

CeL  You  must  borrow  me  Gargantua's 
mouth  first:  'tis  a  word  too  great  for  any 
mouth  of  this  age's  size.  To  say  ay  and  no  to 
these  particulars  is  more  than  to  answer  in  a 
catechism. 

Ros.  But  doth  he  know  that  I  am  in  this 
forest,  and  in  man's  apparel?  Looks  he  as' 
freshly  as  he  did  the  day  he  wrestled? 

CeL  It  is  as  easy  to  count  atomies  as  to  re- 
solve the  propositions  of  a  lover: — but  take  a 
taste  of  my  finding  him,  and  relish  it  with  good 
observance.  I  found  him  under  a  tree,  like  a 
dropped  acorn. 

Res.  It  may  well  be  called  Jove's  tree, 
when  it  drops  forth  such  fruit. 

CeL  Give  me  audience,  good  madam. 

Ros.  Proceed. 

CeL  There  lay  he,  stretched  along  like  a 
wounded  knight. 

Ros.  Though  it  be  pity  to  see  such  a  sight, 
it  well  becomes  the  ground. 

CeL  Cry,  holla!  to  thy  tongue,  I  pr'ythee; 
it  curvets  unseasonably.  He  was  furnished 
like  a  hunter. 

Ros.  O,  ominous !  he  comes  to  kill  my  heart. 

CeL  I  would  sing  my  song  without  a  bur- 
den :  thou  bring'st  me  out  of  tune. 

Ros.  Do  you  not  know  I  am  a  woman?  when 
I  think,  I  must  speak.  Sweet,  say  on. 


266 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


[ACT  in. 


Cel.  You  bring  me  out. — Soft!  comes  he  not 
here? 

Ros.  'Tis  he:  slink  by,  and  note  him. 

[CELIA  and  ROSALIND  retire. 

Enter  ORLANDO  and  JAQUES. 

Jaq.  I  thank  you  for  your  company;  but, 
good  faith,  I  had  as  lief  have  been  myself 
alone. 

OrL  And  so  had  I;  but  yet,  for  fashion's  sake, 
I  thank  you  too  for  your  society.  [as  we  can. 

faq.  God  be  with  you:  let's  meet  as  little 

OrL  I  do  desire  we  may  be  better  strangers. 

Jaq.  I  pray  you,  mar  no  more  trees  with 
writing  love-songs  in  their  barks. 

OrL  I  pray  you,  mar  no  more  of  my  verses 
with  reading  them  ill-favouredly. 

Jaq.   Rosalind  is  your  love's  name? 

OrL  Yes,  just. 

Jaq.  I  do  not  like  her  name. 

OrL  There  was  no  thought  of  pleasing  you 
when  she  was  christened. 

Jaq.  What  stature  is  she  of? 

OrL  Just  as  high  as  my  heart. 

Jaq.  You  are  full  of  pretty  answers.  Have 
you  not  been  acquainted  with  goldsmiths' 
wives,  and  conned  them  out  of  rings? 

OrL  Not  so ;  but  I  answer  you  right  painted 
cloth,  from  whence  you  have  studied  your 
questions. 

Jaq.  You  have  a  nimble  wit :  I  think  it  was 
made  of  Atalanta's  heels.  Will  you  sit  down 
with  me?  and  we  two  will  rail  against  our 
mistress  the  world,  and  all  our  misery. 

OrL  I  will  chide  no  breather  in  the  world 
but  myself,  against  whom  I  know  most  faults. 

Jaq.  The  worst  fault  you  have  is  to  be  in 
love. 

OrL  'Tis  a  fault  I  will  not  change  for  your 
best  virtue.  I  am  weary  of  you. 

Jaq.  By  my  troth,  I  was  seeking  for  a  fool 
when  I  found  you. 

OrL  He  is  drowned  in  the  brook ;  look  but 
in,  and  you  shall  see  him. 

Jaq.  There  I  shall  see  mine  own  figure. 

OrL  Which  I  take  to  be  either  a  fool  or  a 
cipher. 

Jaq.  I  '11  tarry  no  longer  with  you  :  farewell, 
good  Signior  Love. 

OrL  I  am  glad  of  your  departure :  adieu,  good 
Monsieur  Melancholy. 

[ZfcwVjAQ. — CEL.  and  Ros.  come  forward. 

Ros.  I  will  speak  to  him  like  a  saucy  lacquey, 
and  under  that  habit  play  the  knave  with  him. — 
Do  you  hear,  forester  ? 

OrL  Very  well :  what  would  you  ? 

Ros.  I  pray  you,  what  is't  o'clock? 


OrL  You  should  ask  me  what  time  o'  day ; 
there 's  no  clock  in  the  forest. 

Ros.  Then  there 's  no  true  lover  in  the  forest, 
else  sighing  every  minute  and  groaning  every 
hour  would  detect  the  lazy  foot  of  time  as  well 
as  a  clock. 

OrL  And  why  not  the  swift  foot  of  time  ?  had 
not  that  been  as  proper? 

Ros.  By  no  means,  sir.  Time  travels  in 
divers  paces  with  divers  persons.  I  will  tell 
you  who  time  ambles  withal,  who  time  trots 
withal,  who  time  gallops  withal,  and  who  he 
stands  still  withal. 

OrL  I  pr'ythee,  who  doth  he  trot  withal? 

Ros.  Marry,  he  trots  hard  with  a  young  maid 
between  the  contract  of  her  marriage  and  the 
day  it  is  solemnized ;  if  the  interim  be  but  a 
se'nnight,  time's  pace  is  so  hard  that  it  seems 
the  length  of  seven  years. 

OrL  Who  ambles  time  withal? 

Ros.  With  a  priest  that  lacks  Latin  and  a 
rich  man  that  hath  not  the  gout :  for  the  one 
sleeps  easily,  because  he  cannot  study;  and  the 
other  lives  merrily,  because  he  feels  no  pain ; 
the  one  lacking  the  burden  of  lean  and  wasteful 
learning ;  the  other  knowing  no  burden  of  heavy 
tedious  penury.  These  time  ambles  withal. 

OrL  Who  doth  he  gallop  withal? 

Ros.  With  a  thief  to  the  gallows ;  for  though 
he  go  as  softly  as  foot  can  fall,  he  thinks  himselt 
too  soon  there. 

OrL  Who  stays  it  still  withal? 

Ros.  With  lawyers  in  the  vacation ;  for  they 
sleep  between  term  and  term,  and  then  they 
perceive  not  how  time  moves. 

OrL  Where  dwell  you,  pretty  youth? 

Ros.  With  this  shepherdess,  my  sister ;  here 
in  the  skirts  of  the  forest,  like  fringe  upon  a 
petticoat. 

OrL  Are  you  native  of  this  place? 

Ros.  As  the  coney,  that  you  see  dwell  where 
she  is  kindled. 

OrL  Your  accent  is  something  finer  than  you 
could  purchase  in  so  removed  a  dwelling. 

Ros.  I  have  been  told  so  of  many :  but  in- 
deed an  old  religious  uncle  of  mine  taught  me 
to  speak,  who  was  in  his  youth  an  inland  man ; 
one  that  knew  courtship  too  well,  for  there  he 
fell  in  love.  I  have  heard  him  read  many 
lectures  against  it;  and  I  thank  God  I  am  not 
a  woman,  to  be  touched  with  so  many  giddy 
offences  as  he  hath  generally  taxed  their  whole 
sex  withal. 

OrL  Can  you  remember  any  of  the  principal 
evils  that  he  laid  to  the  charge  of  women  ? 

Rot.  There  were  none  principal ;  they  were 
all  like  one  another  as  halfpence  are;  every  one 


SCENE  II.] 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


267 


fault  seeming  monstrous  till  his  fellow  fault  came 
to  match  it. 

Orl.   I  pr'ythee,  recount  some  of  them. 

Ros.  No ;  I  will  not  cast  away  my  physic  but 
on  those  that  are  sick.  There  is  a  man  haunts 
the  forest  that  abuses  our  young  plants  with 
carving  Rosalind  on  their  barks;  hangs  odes 
upon  hawthorns,  and  elegies  on  brambles  ;  all, 
forsooth,  deifying  the  name  of  Rosalind :  if  I 
could  meet  that  fancymonger  I  would  give  him 
some  good  counsel,  for  he  seems  to  have  the 
quotidian  of  love  upon  him. 

Orl.  I  am  he  that  is  so  love-shaked:  I  pray 
you,  tell  me  your  remedy. 

Ros.  There  is  none  of  my  uncle's  marks  upon 
you  :  he  taught  me  how  to  know  a  man  in  love; 
in  which  cage  of  rushes  I  am  sure  you  are  not 
prisoner. 

Orl.  What  were  his  marks  ? 

Ros.  A  lean  cheek;  which  you  have  not:  a 
blue  eye  and  sunken;  which  you  have  not:  an 
unquestionable  spirit;  which  you  have  not:  a 
beard  neglected;  which  you  have  not:  but  I 
pardon  you  for  that ;  for  simply  your  having  in 
beard  is  a  younger  brother'srevenue: — then  your 
hose  should  be  ungartered,  your  bonnet  un- 
banded,  your  sleeve  unbuttoned,  your  shoe  un- 
tied, and  everything  about  you  demonstrating 
a  careless  desolation.  But  you  are  no  such  man; 
you  are  rather  point-device  in  your  accoutre- 
ments; as  loving  yourself  than  seeming  the  lover 
of  any  other. 

Orl.  Fair  youth,  I  would  I  could  make  thee 
believe  I  love. 

Ros.  Me  believe  it !  you  may  as  soon  make 
her  that  you  love  believe  it ;  which,  I  warrant, 
she  is  apter  to  do  than  to  confess  she  does:  that 
is  one  of  the  points  in  the  which  women  still 
give  the  lie  to  their  consciences.  But,  in  good 
sooth,  are  you  he  that  hangs  the  verses  on  the 
trees,  wherein  Rosalind  is  so  admired  ? 

Orl.  I  swear  to  thee,  youth,  by  the  white 
hand  of  Rosalind,  I  am  that  he,  that  unfortun- 
ate he. 

Ros.  But  are  you  so  much  in  love  as  your 
rhymes  speak  ? 

Orl.  Neither  rhyme  nor  reason  can  express 
how  much. 

Ros.  Love  is  merely  a  madness  ;  and,  I  tell 
you,  deserves  as  well  a  dark  house  and  a  whip 
as  madmen  do :  and  the  reason  why  they  are 
not  so  punished  and  cured  is,  that  the  lunacy  is 
so  ordinary  that  the  whippers  are  in  love  too. 
Yet  I  profess  curing  it  by  counsel. 

Orl.  Did  you  ever  cure  any  so  ? 

Ros.  Yes,  one  ;  and  in  this  manner.  He  was 
to  imagine  me  his  love,  his  mistress ;  and  I  set 


him  every  day  to  woo  me  :  at  which  time  would 
I,  being  but  a  moonish  youth,  grieve,  be  effem- 
inate, changeable,  longing,  end  liking  ;  proud, 
fantastical,  apish,  shallow,  inconstant,  full  of 
tears,  full  of  smiles;  for  every  passion  something, 
and  for  no  passion  truly  anything,  as  boys  and 
women  are  for  the  most  part  cattle  of  this 
colour :  would  now  like  him,  now  loath  him  ; 
then  entertain  him,  then  forswear  him  ;  now 
weep  for  him,  then  spit  at  him  ;  that  I  drave 
my  suitor  from  his  mad  humour  of  love  to  a 
loving  humour  of  madness  ;  which  was,  to  for- 
swear the  full  stream  of  the  world,  and  to  live 
in  a  nook  nearly  monastic.  And  thus  I  cured 
him ;  and  this  way  will  I  take  upon  me  to  wash 
your  liver  as  clean  as  a  sound  sheep's  heart,  that 
there  shall  not  be  one  spot  of  love  in 't. 

Orl.  I  would  not  be  cured,  youth. 

Ros.  I  would  cure  you  if  you  would  but  call 
me  Rosalind,  and  come  every  day  to  my  cote 
and  woo  me. 

Orl.  Now,  by  the  faith  of  my  love,  I  will : 
tell  me  where  it  is. 

Ros.  Go  with  me  to  it,  and  I  '11  show  it  you  : 
and,  by  the  way,  you  shall  tell  me  where  in  the 
forest  you  live.  Will  you  go  ? 

Orl.  With  all  my  heart,  good  youth. 

Ros.  Nay,  you  must  call  me  Rosalind. — 
Come,  sister,  will  you  go  ?  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — Another  part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  TOUCHSTONE  and  AUDREY  ;  JAQUES  at 
a  distance  observing  them. 

Touch.  Come  apace,  good  Audrey;  I  will 
fetch  up  your  goats,  Audrey.  And  how,  Audrey? 
am  I  the  man  yet?  Doth  my  simple  feature 
content  you  ? 

Aud.  Your  features !  Lord  warrant  us !  what 
features? 

Touch.  I  am  here  with  thee  and  thy  goats, 
as  the  most  capricious  poet,  honest  Ovid,  was 
among  the  Goths. 

Jaq.  O  knowledge  ill-inhabited !  worse  than 
Jove  in  a  thatch'd  house.  [Aside. 

Touch.  When  a  man's  verses  cannot  be  under- 
stood, nor  a  man's  good  wit  seconded  with  the 
forward  child  understanding,  it  strikes  a  man 
more  dead  than  a  great  reckoning  in  a  little 
room. — Truly,  I  would  the  gods  had  made  thee 
poetical. 

Aud.  I  do  not  know  what  poetical  is :  is  it 
honest  in  deed  and  word?  is  it  a  true  thing? 

Touch.  No,  truly :  for  the  truest  poetry  is  the 
most  feigning ;  and  lovers  are  given  to  poetry ; 
and  what  they  swear  in  poetry  may  be  said,  as 
lovers,  they  do  feign. 


268 


AS  VOU  LIKE  IT. 


[ACT 


Attd.  Do  you  wish,  then,  that  the  gods  had 
made  me  poetical? 

Touch.  I  do,  truly,  for  thou  swear'st  to  me 
thou  art  honest;  now,  if  thou  wert  a  poet  I 
might  have  some  hope  thou  didst  feign. 

Aud.  Would  you  not  have  me  honest? 

Touch.  No,  truly,  unless  thou  wert  hard- 
favoured  ;  for  honesty  coupled  to  beauty  is  to 
have  honey  a  sauce  to  sugar. 

Jaq.  A  material  fool !  [Aside. 

Aud.  Well,  I  am  not  fair;  and  therefore  I 
pray  the  gods  make  me  honest ! 

Touch.  Truly,  and  to  cast  away  honesty  upon 
a  foul  slut  were  to  put  good  meat  into  an  unclean 
dish. 

And.  I  am  not  a  slut,  though  I  thank  the 
gods  I  am  foul. 

Touch.  Well ,  praised  be  the  gods  for  thy  foul- 
ness !  sluttishness  may  come  hereafter.  But  be 
it  as  it  may  be,  I  will  many  thee :  and  to  that 
end  I  have  been  with  Sir  Oliver  Martext,  the 
vicar  of  the  next  village ;  who  hath  promised  to 
meet  me  in  this  place  of  the  forest,  and  to 
couple  us. 

faq.   I  would  fain  see  this  meeting.     [Aside, 

Aud.  Well,  the  gods  give  us  joy ! 

Touch.  Amen.  A  man  may,  if  he  were  of  a 
fearful  heart,  stagger  in  this  attempt ;  for  here 
we  have  no  temple  but  the  wood,  no  assembly 
but  horn-beasts.  But  what  though?  Courage  ! 
As  horns  are  odious,  they  are  necessary.  It  is 
said, — Many  a  man  knows  no  end  of  his  goods : 
right ;  many  a  man  has  good  horns  and  knows 
no  end  of  them.  Well,  that  is  the  dowry  of  his 
wife;  'tis  none  of  his  own  getting.  Horns? 

Ever  to  poor  men  alone  ? No,  no;  the  noblest 

deer  hath  them  as  huge  as  the  rascal.  Is  the 
single  man  therefore  blessed?  No:  as  a  walled 
town  is  more  worthier  than  a  village,  so  is  the 
forehead  of  a  married  man  more  honourable 
than  the  bare  brow  of  a  bachelor :  and  by  how 
much  defence  is  better  than  no  skill,  by  so  much 
is  a  horn  more  precious  than  to  want.  Here 
comes  Sir  Oliver. 

Enter  Sir  OLIVER  MARTEXT. 

Sir  Oliver  Martext,  you  are  well  met.  Will 
you  despatch  us  here  under  this  tree,  or  shall 
we  go  with  you  to  your  chapel?  [woman  ? 

Sir  Oli.   Is   there    none   here    to    give   the 

Touch.   I  will  not  take  her  on  gift  of  any  man. 

Sir  Oli.  Truly,  she  must  be  given,  or  the 
marriage  is  not  lawful. 

Jaq.  [Discovering  himself.]  Proceed,  pro- 
ceed ;  I  '11  give  her. 

Touch.  Good  even,  good  Master  Whai-ye- 
call't:  how  do  you,  sir?  You  are  very  well 


met :  God  'ild  you  for  your  last  company :  I 
am  very  glad  to  see  you : — even  a  toy  in  hand 
here,  sir : — nay ;  pray  be  covered. 

faq.  Will  you  be  married,  motley? 

Touch.  As  the  ox  hath  his  bow,  sir,  the  horse 
his  curb,  and  the  falcon  her  bells,  so  man  hath 
his  desires ;  and  as  pigeons  bill,  so  wedlock 
would  be  nibbling. 

Jaq.  And  will  you,  being  a  man  of  your 
breeding,  be  married  under  a  bush,  like  a 
beggar?  Get  you  to  church  and  have  a  good 
priest  that  can  tell  you  what  marriage  is :  this 
fellow  will  but  join  you  together  as  they  join 
wainscot :  then  one  of  you  will  prove  a  shrunk 
panel,  and  like  green  timber,  warp,  warp. 

Touch.  I  am  not  in  the  mind  but  I  were 
better  to  be  married  of  him  than  of  another :  for 
he  is  not  like  to  mai'ry  me  well ;  and  not  being 
well  married,  it  will  be  a  good  excuse  for  me 
hereafter  to  leave  my  wife.  [Aside. 

Jaq.  Go  thou  with  me,  and  let  me  counsel 
thee. 

Touch.  Come,  sweet  Audrey; 
We  must  be  married  or  we  must  live  in  bawdry. 
Farewell,  good  master  Oliver  ! — Not, — 


O  sweet  Oliver; 

O  brave  Oliver, 

Leave  me  not  behind  thee  ; 


But,- 


Wind  away, 

Begone  I  say, 
I  will  not  to  wedding  with  thee. 

[Exeunt  JAQ. ,  TOUCH.,  and  AUD. 
Sir  Oli.  'Tis  no  matter ;  ne'er  a  fantastical 
knave  of  them  all  shall  flout  me  out  of  my  call- 
ing. [Exit. 

SCENE  IV.— Another  part  of  the  Forest.     Be- 
fore a  Cottage. 

Enter  ROSALIND  and  CELIA. 

Ros.  Never  talk  to  me;  I  will  weep. 

Cel.  Do,  I  pr'ythee ;  but  yet  have  the  grace 
to  consider  that  tears  do  not  become  a  man. 

Ros.  But  have  I  not  cause  to  weep? 

Cel.  As  good  cause  as  one  would  desire;  there- 
fore weep. 

Ros.  His  very  hair  is  of  the  dissembling  colour. 

Cel.  Something  browner  than  Judas's:  marry, 
his  kisses  are  Judas's  own  children. 

Ros.   I'  faith,  his  hair  is  of  a  good  colour. 

Cel.  An  excellent  colour :  your  chestnut  was 
ever  the  only  colour. 

Ros.  And  his  kissin  is  as  full  of  sanctity  as 
the  touch  of  holy  bread. 

Cel.  He  hath  bought  a  pair  of  cast  lips  of 
Diana :  a  nun  of  winter's  sisterhood  kisses  not 


SCENE  V.] 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


269 


more  religiously ;  the  very  ice  of  chastity  is  in 
them. 

Ros.  But  why  did  he  swear  he  would  come  this 
morning,  and  comes  not  ? 

CeL  Nay,  certainly,  there  is  no  truth  in  him. 

jRos.  Do  you  think  so  ? 

CeL  Yes ;  I  think  he  is  not  a  pickpurse  nor 
a  horse-stealer ;  but  for  his  verity  in  love,  I  do 
think  him  as  concave  as  a  covered  goblet  or  a 
worm-eaten  nut. 

Ros.  Not  true  in  love?  [in. 

CeL  Yes,  when  he  is  in ;  but  I  think  he  is  not 

Ros.  You  have  heard  him  swear  downright  he 
was. 

CeL  Was  is  not  is :  besides,  the  oath  of  a  lover 
is  no  stronger  than  the  word  of  a  tapster ;  they 
are  both  the  confirmers  of  false  reckonings.  He 
attendshere  in  the  forest  on  the  duke,  your  father. 

Ros.  I  met  the  duke  yesterday,  and  had  much 
question  with  him.  He  asked  me  of  what  par- 
entage I  was ;  I  told  him,  of  as  good  as  he ;  so 
he  laughed  and  let  me  go.  But  what  talk  we  of 
fathers  when  there  is  such  a  man  as  Orlando  ? 

CeL  O,  that 's  a  brave  man  !  he  writes  brave 
erses,  speaks  brave  words,  swears  brave  oaths, 
and  breaks  them  bravely,  quite  traverse,  athwart 
the  heart  of  his  lover ;  as  a  puny  tilter,  that  spurs 
lis  horse  but  on  one  side,  breaks  his  staff  like  a 
noble  goose:  but  all 's  brave  that  youth  mounts 
and  folly  guides. — Who  comes  here? 

Enter  CoRIN. 

Cor.  Mistress  and  master,  you  have  oft  inquired 
After  the  shepherd  that  complain'd  of  love, 
Who  you  saw  sitting  by  me  on  the  turf, 
Praising  the  Droud  disdainful  shepherdess 
That  was  his  mistress. 

CeL  Well,  and  what  of  him? 

Cor.  If  you  will  see  a  pageant  truly  play'd, 
Between  the  pale  complexion  of  true  love 
And  the  red  glow  of  scorn  and  proud  disdain, 
Go  hence  a  little,  and  I  shall  conduct  you, 
If  you  will  mark  it. 

Ros.  O,  come,  let  us  remove : 

The  sight  of  lovers  feedeth  those  in  love. 

say 
Exeunt. 


Bring  us  unto  this  sight,  and  you  shall  sa 
I  '11  prove  a  busy  actor  in  their  play.     [E 


SCENE  V. — Another  part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  SILVIUS  and  PHEBE. 

SiL  Sweet  Phebe,  do  not  scorn  me ;  do  not, 

Phebe: 

Say  that  you  love  me  not ;  but  say  not  so 
In  bitterness.     The  common  executioner, 
Whose  heart  the  accustom'd  sight  of  death  makes 
hard, 


Falls  not  the  axe  upon  the  humbled  neck 
But  first  begs  pardon.     Will  you  sterner  be 
Than  he  that  dies  and  lives  by  bloody  drops? 

Enter  ROSALIND,  CELIA,  and  CORIN,  at  a 
distance. 

V.'i.  l\  ~A     ,?cOT  1  >  I .';  i     .  I  JJcf 

Phe.   I  would  not  be  thy  executioner : 
I  fly  thee,  for  I  would  not  injure  thee. 
Thou  tell'st  me  there  is  murder  in  mine  eye : 
'Tis  pretty,  sure,  and  very  probable, 
That  eyes, — that  are  the  frail'st  and  softest  things, 
Who  shut  their  coward  gates  on  atomies, — 
Should  be  called  tyrants,  butchers,  murderers! 
Now  I  do  frown  on  thee  with  all  my  heart ; 
And  if  mine  eyes  can  wound,  now  let  them  kill 

thee: 

Now  counterfeit  to  swoon ;  why,  now  fall  down  ; 
Or,  if  thou  canst  not,  O,  for  shame,  for  shame, 
Lie  not,  to  say  mine  eyes  are  murderers. 
Now  show  the  wound  mine  eye  hath  made  in  thee: 
Scratch  thee  but  with  a  pin,  and  there  remains 
Some  scar  of  it ;  lean  but  upon  a  rush, 
The  cicatrice  and  capable  impressure        [eyes, 
Thy  palm  some  moment  keeps ;  but  now  mine 
Which  I  have  darted  at  thee,  hurt  thee  not ; 
Nor,  I  am  sure,  there  is  no  force  in  eyes 
That  can  do  hurt. 

SiL  O  dear  Phebe, 

If  ever, — as  that  ever  may  be  near, — 
You  meet  in  some  Iresh  cheek  the  power  of  fancy, 
Then  shall  you  know  the  wounds  invisible 
That  love's  keen  arrows  make. 

Phe.  But  till  that  time 

Come  not  thou  near  me ;  and  when  that  time 

comes 

Afflict  me  with  thy  mocks,  pity  me  not ; 
As  till  that  time  I  shall  not  pity  thee. 

Ros.  [Advancing.]  And  why,  I  pray  you?  Who 

might  be  your  mother, 
That  you  insult,  exult,  and  all  at  once, 
Over  the  wretched?    What  though  you  have  nc 

beauty, — 

As,  by  my  faith,  I  see  no  more  in  you 
Than  without  candle  may  go  dark  to  bed, — 
Must  you  be  therefore  proud  and  pitiless? 
Why,  what  means  this?  Why  do  you  look  on  me? 
I  see  no  more  in  you  than  in  the  ordinary 
Of  nature's  sale-work :— Od's  my  little  life, 
I  think  she  means  to  tangle  my  eyes  too  !— 
No,  faith,  proud  mistress,  hope  not  after  it ; 
'Tis  not  your  inky  brows,  your  black  silk  hair, 
Your  bugle  eyeballs,  nor  your  cheek  of  cream, 
That  can  entame  my  spirits  to  your  worship. — 
You  foolish  shepherd,  wherefore  do  you  follow 

her, 

Like  foggy  south,  puffing  with  wind  and  rain? 
You  are  a  thousand  times  a  properer  man 


270 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


[ACT  IV. 


Than  she  a  woman.     'Tis  such  fools  as  you 
That  make  the  world  full  of  ill-favour3 d  children: 
'Tis  not  her  glass,  but  you  that  flatters  her; 
And  out  of  you  she  sees  herself  more  proper 
Than  any  of  her  lineaments  can  show  ner ; — 
But,  mistress,  know  yourself;   down  on  your 

knees, 

And  thank  heaven,  fasting,  for  a  good  man's  love : 
For  I  must  tell  you  friendly  in  your  ear, — 
Sell  when  you  can;  you  are  not  for  all  markets: 
Cry  the  man  mercy;  love  him;  take  his  offer: 
Foul  is  most  foul,  being  foul  to  be  a  scoffer. 
So  take  her  to  thee,  shepherd ; — fare  you  well. 

Phe.  Sweet  youth,  I  pray  you  chide  a  year  to- 
gether: 
I  had  rather  hear  you  chide  than  this  man  woo. 

Ros.  He 's  fallen  in  love  with  her  foulness,  and 
she  '11  fall  in  love  with  my  anger.  If  it  be  so,  as 
fast  as  she  answers  thee  with  frowning  looks, 
I  '11  sauce  her  with  bitter  words. — Why  look  you 
so  upon  me  ? 

Phe.  For  no  ill-will  I  bear  you. 

Ros.   I  pray  you,  do  not  fall  in  love  with  me, 
For  I  am  falser  than  vows  made  in  wine : 
Besides,  I  like  you  not. — If  you  will  know  my 

house, 

'Tis  at  the  tuft  of  olives  here  hard  by. — 
Will  you  go,  sister  ? — Shepherd,  ply  her  hard. — 
Come,  sister. — Shepherdess,  look  on  him  better, 
And  be  not  proud ;  though  all  the  world  could 

see, 

None  could  be  so  abus'd  in  sight  as  he. 
Come  to  our  flock. 

{Exeunt  Ros.,  CEL.,  and COR. 

Phe.  Dead  shepherd !  now  I  find  thy  saw  of 

might ; 
Who  ever  lov'd  that  lorfd  not  at  first  sight  ? 

Sil.  Sweet  Phebe,-— 

Phe.  Ha !  what  say'st  thou,  Silvius? 

Sil.  Sweet  Phebe,  pity  me. 

Pke.  Why,  I  am  sorry  for  thee,  gentle  Silvius. 

Sil.  Wherever  sorrow  is,  relief  would  be  : 
If  you  do  sorrow  at  my  grief  in  love, 
By  giving  love,  your  sorrow  and  my  griet 
Were  both  extermin'd.  [bourly  ? 

Pke.  Thou  hast  my  love :  is  not  that  neigh- 

Sil.  I  would  have  you. 

Phe.  Why,  that  were  covetousness. 

Silvius,  the  time  was  that  I  hated  thee ; 
And  yet  it  is  not  that  I  bear  thee  love : 
But  since  that  thou  canst  talk  of  love  so  well, 
Thy  company,  which  erst  was  irksome  to  me, 
I  will  endure ;  and  I  '11  employ  thee  too  : 
But  do  not  look  for  further  recompense 
Than  thine  own  gladness  that  thou  art  employ'd. 

Sil.  So  holy  and  so  perfect  is  my  love, 
And  I  in  such  a  poverty  of  grace, 


That  I  shall  think  it  a  most  plenteous  crop 
To  glean  the  broken  ears  after  the  man 
That  the  main  harvest  reaps  :  lose  now  and  then 
A  scatter'd  smile,  and  that  I  '11  live  upon. 

Phe.  Know'st  thou  the  youth  that  spoke  to 
me  erewhile  ? 

Sil.  Not  very  well  ;  but  I  have  met  him  oft  ; 
And  he  hath  bought  the  cottage  and  the  bounds 
That  the  old  carlot  once  was  master  of.  [him; 

Phe.  Think  not  I  love  him,  though  I  ask  for 
'Tis  but  a  peevish  boy  :  —  yet  he  talks  well  ;  — 
But  what  care  I  for  words  ?  yet  words  do  well 
When  he  that  speaks  them  pleases  those  that  hear. 
It  is  a  pretty  youth:  —  not  very  pretty:  —     [him: 
But,  sure,  he  's  proud;  and  yet  his  pride  becomes 
He  '11  make  a  proper  man:  the  best  thing  in  him 
Is  his  complexion;  and  faster  than  his  tongue 
Did  make  offence,  his  eye  did  heal  it  up. 
He  is  not  tall;  yet  for  his  years  he  's  tall  ; 
His  leg  is  but  so-so;  and  yet  'tis  well: 
There  was  a  pretty  redness  in  his  lip; 
A  little  riper  and  more  lusty  red 
Than  that  mix'd  in  his  cheek;    'twas  just  the 

difference 

Betwixt  the  constant  red  and  mingled  damask. 
There  be  some  women,  Silvius,  had  they  mark'd 

him 

In  parcels  as  I  did,  would  have  gone  near 
To  fall  in  love  with  him:  but,  for  my  part, 
I  love  him  not,  nor  hate  him  not;  and  yet 
I  have  more  cause  to  hate  him  than  to  love  him  : 
For  what  had  he  to  do  to  chide  at  me  ? 
He  said  mine  eyes  were  black,  and  my  hair  black; 
And,  now  I  am  remember'd,  scorn'd  at  me  : 
I  marvel  why  I  answer  'd  not  again  : 
But  that  's  all  one;  ommittance  is  not  quittance. 
I  '11  write  to  him  a  very  taunting  letter, 
And  thou  shalt  bear  it:  wilt  thou,  Silvius? 

Sil.  Phebe,  with  all  my  heart. 

Phe.  I  '11  write  it  straight, 

The  matter  's  in  my  head  and  in  my  heart: 
I  will  be  bitter  with  him,  and  passing  short: 
Go  with  me,  Silvius.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  \.-ForestofArden. 
Enter  ROSALIND,  CELIA,  and  JAQUES. 

Jaq.  I  pr'ythee,  pretty  youth,  let  me  be  better 
acquainted  with  the  2. 

j?os.  They  say  you  are  a  melancholy  fellow. 

Jaq.  I  am  so;  I  do  love  it  better  than  laughing. 

Ros.  Those  that  are  in  extremity  of  either  are 
abominable  fellows,  and  betray  themselves  to 
every  modern  censure  worse  than  drunkards. 

Jaq.  Why,  'tis  good  to  be  sad  and  say  nothing. 


SCENE  I.] 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


271 


Ros.  Why,  then,  'tis  good  to  be  a  post. 

Jaq.  I  have  neither  the  scholar's  melancholy, 
which  is  emulation;  nor  the  musician's,  which  is 
fantastical ;  nor  the  courtier's,  which  is  proud; 
nor  the  soldier's,  which  is  ambitious;  nor  the 
lawyer's  which  is  politic ;  nor  the  lady's, 
which  is  nice  ;  nor  the  lover's,  which  is  all 
these :  but  it  is  a  melancholy  of  mine  own,  com- 
pounded of  many  simples,  extracted  from  many 
objects :  and,  indeed,  the  sundry  contemplation 
of  my  travels,  in  which  my  often  rumination 
wraps  me  in  a  most  humorous  sadness. 

Ros.  A  traveller !  By  my  faith,  you  have  great 
reason  to  be  sad :  I  fear  you  have  sold  your  own 
lands  to  see  other  men's;  then,  to  have  seen  much, 
and  to  have  nothing,  is  to  have  rich  eyes  and  poor 
hands. 

Jaq.  Yes,  I  have  gained  my  experience. 

Ros.  And  your  experience  makes  you  sad :  I 
had  rather  have  a  fool  to  make  me  merry  than 
experience  to  make  me  sad ;  and  to  travel  for  it 
too. 

Enter  ORLANDO. 

Or  I.  Good  day,  and  happiness,  dear  Rosalind! 
Jaq.  Nay,  then,  God  be  wi'  you,  an  you  talk 
in  blank  verse. 

Ros.  Farewell,  monsieur  traveller :  look  you 
lisp  and  wear  strange  suits ;  disable  all  the  bene- 
fits of  your  own  country ;  be  out  of  love  with 
your  nativity,  and  almost  chide  God  for  making 
you  that  countenance  you  are ;  or  I  will  scarce 
think  you  have  swam  in  a  gondola.  \Exit 
TAQUES.]  Why,  how  now,  Orlando!  where 
have  you  been  all  this  while  ?  You  a  lover ! — 
An  you  serve  me  such  another  trick,  never  come 
in  my  sight  more. 

Orl.  My  fair  Rosalind,  I  come  within  an  hour 
of  my  promise. 

Ros.  Break  an  hour's  promise  in  love!  He  that 
will  divide  a  minute  into  a  thousand  parts,  and 
break  but  a  part  of  a  thousandth  part  of  a  minute 
in  the  affairs  of  love,  it  may  be  said  of  him  that 
Cupid  hath  clapped  him  o'  the  shoulder,  but 
I  warrant  him  heart-whole. 

Orl.   Pardon  me,  dear  Rosalind. 

Ros.  Nay,  an  you  be  so  tardy,  come  no 
more  in  my  sight :  I  had  as  lief  be  woo'd  of  a 
snail. 

Orl.  Of  a  snail ! 

Ros.  Ay,  of  a  snail}  for  though  he  comes 
slowly,  he  carries  his  house  on  his  head;  a 
better  jointure,  I  think,  than  you  can  make  a 
woman :  besides,  he  brings  his  destiny  with  him. 

Orl.  What's  that? 

Ros.  Why,  horns;  which  such  as  you  are 
feun  to  be  beholden  to  your  wives  for :  but  he 


comes  armed  in  his  fortune,  and  prevents  the 
slander  of  his  wife. 

Orl.  Virtue  is  no  horn-maker ;  and  my  Rosa- 
lind is  virtuous. 

Ros.  And  I  am  your  Rosalind. 

Cel.  It  pleases  him  to  call  you  so;  but  he 
hath  a  Rosalind  of  a  better  leer  than  you. 

Ros.  Come,  woo  me,  woo  me ;  for  now  I  am 
in  a  holiday  humour,  and  like  enough  to  con- 
sent.— What  would  you  say  to  me  now,  an  I 
were  your  very  very  Rosalind? 

Orl.  I  would  kiss  before  I  spoke. 

Ros.  Nay,  you  were  better  speak  first ;  and 
when  you  were  gravelled  for  lack  of  matter, 
you  might  take  occasion  to  kiss.  Very  good 
orators,  when  they  are  out,  they  will  spit ;  and 
for  lovers  lacking, — God  warn  us! — matter, 
the  cleanliest  shift  is  to  kiss. 

Orl.  How  if  the  kiss  be  denied? 

Ros.  Then  she  puts  you  to  entreaty,  and 
there  begins  new  matter. 

Orl.  Who  could  be  out,  being  before  his  be' 
loved  mistress? 

Ros.  Marry,  that  should  you,  if  I  were  your 
mistress ;  or  I  should  think  my  honesty  ranker 
than  my  wit. 

Orl.  What,  of  my  suit? 

Ros.  Not  out  of  your  apparel,  and  yet  out  of 
your  suit.  Am  not  I  your  Rosalind? 

Orl.  I  take  some  joy  to  say  you  are,  because 
I  would  be  talking  of  her.  [you. 

Ros.  Well,  in  her  person,  I  say,  I  will  not  have 

Orl.  Then,  in  mine  own  person,  I  die. 

Ros.  No,  faith,  die  by  attorney.  The  poor 
world  is  almost  six  thousand  years  ola,  and  in 
all  this  time  there  was  not  any  man  died  in  his 
own  person,  videlicet,  in  a  love-cause.  Troilus 
had  his  brains  dashed  out  with  a  Grecian  club ; 
yet  he  did  what  he  could  to  die  before ;  and  he 
is  one  of  the  patterns  of  love.  Leander,  he 
would  have  lived  many  a  fair  year,  though  Hero 
had  turned  nun,  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  hot 
midsummer-night;  for,  good  youth,  he  went 
but  forth  to  wash  him  in  the  Hellespont,  and, 
being  taken  with  the  cramp,  was  drowned ;  and 
the  foolish  chroniclers  of  that  age  found  it  was 
— Hero  of  Sestos.  But  these  are  all  lies ;  men 
have  died  from  time  to  time,  and  worms  have 
eaten  them,  but  not  for  love. 

Orl.  I  would  not  have  my  right  Rosalind  of 
this  mind ;  for,  I  protest,  her  frown  might  kill 
me. 

Ros.  By  this  hand,  it  will  not  kill  a  fly.  But 
come,  now  I  will  be  your  Rosalind  in  a  more 
coming-on  disposition ;  and  ask  me  what  you 
will,  I  will  grant  it. 

OrL  Then  love  me,  Rosalind. 


272 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


[ACT  iv. 


Ros.  Yes,  faith  will  I,  Fridays  and  Satur- 
days, and  all. 

OrL  And  wilt  thou  have  me? 

Ros.  Ay,  and  twenty  such. 

OrL  What  say'st  thou? 

Ros.  Are  you  not  good? 

OrL  I  hope  so. 

Ros.  Why,  then,  can  one  desire  too  much  of 
a  good  thing? — Come,  sister,  you  shall  be  the 
priest,  and  marry  us. — Give  me  your  hand, 
Orlando : — What  do  you  say,  sister? 

OrL  Pray  thee,  marry  us. 

Cel.  I  cannot  say  the  words. 

Ros.  You  must  begin, Will  you,  Or- 
lando', — 

Cel.  Go  to : Will  you,  Orlando,  have  to 

wife  this  Rosalind? 

OrL  I  will. 

Ros.  Ay,  but  when? 

OrL  Why,  now;  as  fast  as  she  can  marry  us. 

Ros.  Then  you  must  say, — /  take  thee,  Rosa- 
lind, for  wife. 

OrL  I  take  thee,  Rosalind,  for  wife. 

Ros.  I  might  ask  you  for  your  commission ; 
but, — I  do  take  thee,  Orlando,  for  my  husband: 
— there's  a  girl  goes  before  the  priest;  and, 
certainly,  a  woman's  thoughts  run  before  her 
actions. 

OrL  So  do  all  thoughts ;  they  are  winged. 

Ros.  Now  tell  me  how  long  you  would  have 
her,  after  you  have  possessed  her. 

OrL   For  ever  and  a  day. 

Ros.  Say  a  day,  without  the  ever.  No,  no, 
Orlando:  men  are  April  when  they  woo, 
Decemoer  when  they  wed:  maids  are  May 
when  they  are  maids,  but  the  sky  changes  when 
they  are  wives.  I  will  be  more  jealous  of  thee 
than  a  Barbary  cock-pigeon  over  his  hen ;  more 
clamorous  than  a  parrot  against  rain;  more 
new-fangled  than  an  ape;  more  giddy  in  my 
desires  than  a  monkey :  I  will  weep  for  nothing, 
like  Diana  in  the  fountain,  and  I  will  do  that 
when  you  are  disposed  to  be  merry ;  I  will 
laugh  like  a  hyen,  and  that  when  thou  art  in- 
clined to  sleep. 

OrL  But  will  my  Rosalind  do  so? 

Ros.  By  my  life,  she  will  do  as  I  do. 

OrL  O,  but  she  is  wise. 

Ros.  Or  else  she  could  not  have  the  wit  to 
do  this:  the  wiser,  the  way  warder:  make  the 
doors  upon  a  woman's  wit,  and  it  will  out  at 
the  casement ;  shut  that,  and  it  will  out  at  the 
keyhole;  stop  that,  'twill  fly  with  the  smoke 
out  at  the  chimney. 

OrL  A  man  that  had  a  wife  with  such  a  wit, 
he  might  say, —  Wit,  -whither  wilt? 

Ros.  Nay,  you  might  keep  that  check  for  it, 


till  you  met  your  wife's  wit  going  to  your  neigh- 
bour's bed.  [that? 

OrL  And  what  wit  could  wit  have  to  excuse 

Ros.  Marry,  to  say, — she  came  to  seek  you 
there.  You  shall  never  take  her  without  her 
answer,  unless  you  take  her  without  her  tongue. 
O,  that  woman  that  cannot  make  her  fault  her 
husband's  occasion,  let  her  never  nurse  her 
child  herself,  for  she  will  breed  it  like  a  fool. 

OrL  For  these  two  hours,  Rosalind,  I  will 
leave  thee.  [hours ! 

Ros.  Alas,  dear  love,  I  cannot  lack  thee  two 

OrL  I  must  attend  the  duke  at  dinner:  by 
two  o'clock  I  will  be  with  thee  again. 

Ros.  Ay,  go  your  ways,  go  your  ways;  I 
knew  what  you  would  prove ;  my  friends  told 
me  as  much,  and  I  thought  no  less: — that 
flattering  tongue  of  yours  won  me: — 'tis  but 
one  cast  away,  and  so, — come,  death! — Two 
o'clock  is  your  hour? 

OrL  Ay,  sweet  Rosalind. 

Ros.  By  my  troth,  and  in  good  earnest,  and 
so  God  mend  me,  and  by  all  pretty  oaths  that 
are  not  dangerous,  if  you  break  one  jot  of  your 
promise,  or  come  one  minute  behind  your  hour, 
I  will  think  you  the  most  pathetical  break- 
promise,  and  the  most  hollow  lover,  and  the 
most  unworthy  of  her  you  call  Rosalind,  that 
may  be  chosen  out  of  the  gross  band  of  the  un- 
faithful :  therefore  beware  my  censure,  and  keep 
your  promise. 

OrL  With  no  less  religion  than  if  thou  wert 
indeed  my  Rosalind:  so,  adieu! 

Ros.  Well,  time  is  the  old  justice  that  ex- 
amines all  such  offenders,  and  let  time  try: 
adieu!  \Exit  ORLANDO. 

Cel.  You  have  simply  misus'd  our  sex  in 
your  love-prate:  we  must  have  your  doublet 
and  hose  plucked  over  your  head,  and  show 
the  world  what  the  bird  hath  done  to  her  own 
nest. 

Ros.  O  coz,  coz,  coz,  my  pretty  little  coz, 
that  thou  didst  know  how  many  fathom  deep  I 
am  in  love!  But  it  cannot  be  sounded:  my 
affection  hath  an  unknown  bottom,  like  the 
bay  of  Portugal. 

Cel.  Or  rather,  bottomless;  that  as  fast  as 
you  pour  affection  in,  it  runs  out. 

Ros.  No;  that  same  wicked  bastard  of 
Venus,  that  was  begot  of  thought,  conceived  of 
spleen,  and  born  of  madness;  that  blind  rascally 
boy,  that  abuses  every  one's  eyes,  because  his 
own  are  out,  let  him  be  judge  how  deep  I  am 
in  love: — I  '11  tell  thee,  Aliena,  I  cannot  be  out 
of  the  sight  of  Orlando :  I  '11  go  find  a  shadow, 
and  sigh  till  he  come. 

Cel.  And  I'll  sleep,  {Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.] 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


273 


SCENE  II. — Another  part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  JAQUES  and  Lords,  in  the  habit  of 

Foresters. 
Jaq.  Which  is  he  that  killed  the  deer  ? 

1  Lord.  Sir,  it  was  I. 

Jaq.  Let 's  present  him  to  the  duke,  like  a 
Roman  conqueror  ;  and  it  would  do  well  to  set 
the  deer's  horns  upon  his  head  for  a  branch  of 
victory. — Have  you  no  song,  forester,  for  this 
purpose  ? 

2  Lord.   Yes,  sir. 

Jaq.  Sing  it;  'tis  no  matter  how  it  be  in 
tune,  so  it  make  noise  enough. 

SONG. 

1.  What  shall  he  have  that  kill'd  the  deer? 

2.  His  leather  skin  and  horns  to  wear. 

i.     Then  sing  him  home: 

[  The  rest  shall  bear  this  burden. 
Take  thou  no  scorn  to  wear  the  horn; 
It  was  a  crest  ere  thou  wast  born. 

1.  Thy  father's  father  wore  it; 

2.  And  thy  father  bore  it: 

All.     The  horn,  the  horn,  the  lusty  horn, 

Is  not  a  thing  to  laugh  to  scorn.         [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Another  part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  ROSALIND  and  CELIA. 

Ros.  How  say  you  now?  Is  it  not  past  two 
o'clock  ?  And  here  much  Orlando ! 

Cel.  I  warrant  you,  with  pure  love  and 
troubled  brain,  he  hath  ta'en  his  bow  and 
arrows,  and  is  gone  forth — to  sleep.  Look, 
who  comes  here. 

Enter  SlLVlUS. 

Sil.  My  errand  is  to  you,  fair  youth ; — 
My  gentle  Phebe  bid  me  give  you  this : 

{Giving  a  letter. 

I  know  not  the  contents ;  but,  as  I  guess 
By  the  stern  brow  and  waspish  action 
Which  she  did  use  as  she  was  writing  of  it, 
It  bears  an  angry  tenor :  pardon  me, 
I  am  but  as  a  guiltless  messenger.  [letter, 

Ros.  Patience  herself  would  startle  at   this 
And  play  the  swaggerer ;  bear  this,  bear  all : 
She  says  I  am  not  fair ;  that  I  lack  manners ; 
She  calls  me  proud,  and  that  she  could  not 

love  me, 

Were  man  as  rare  as  Phoenix.     Od's  my  will ! 
Her  love  is  not  the  hare  that  I  do  hunt- 
Why  writes  she  so  to  me? — Well,  shepherd,  well, 
This  is  a  letter  of  your  own  device. 

Sil.  No,  I  protest,  I  know  not  the  contents: 
Phebe  did  write  it. 

Ros.  Come,  come,  you  are  a  fool, 

And  turn'd  into  the  extremity  of  love. 
I  saw  her  hand:  she  has  a  leathern  hand, 


A  freestone-colour'd  hand:  I  verily  did  think 
That  her  old  gloves  were  on,   but  'twas  her 

hands ; 

She  has  a  huswife's  hand:  but  that 's  no  matter : 
I  say  she  never  did  invent  this  letter: 
This  is  a  man's  invention,  and  his  hand. 

Sil.  Sure,  it  is  hers. 

Ros.  Why,  'tis  a  boisterous  and  a  cruel  style ; 
A  style  for  challengers :  why,  she  defies  me, 
Like  Turk  to  Christian :  woman's  gentle  brain 
Could  not  drop  forth  such  giant-rude  invention, 
Such  Ethiop  words,  blacker  in  their  effect 
Than  in  their  countenance.— Will  you  hear  the 
letter? 

Sil.  So  please  you,  for  I  never  heard  it  yet; 
Yet  heard  too  much  of  Phebe's  cruelty. 

Ros.  She  Phebes  me :  mark  how  the  tyrant 
writes.     [Reads.'} 

Art  thou  god  to  shepherd  turn'd, 
That  a  maiden's  heart  hath  burn'd? 

Can  a  woman  rail  thus? 
Sil.  Call  you  this  railing  ? 

Ros.      Why,  thy  godhead  laid  apart, 

Warr'st  thou  with  a  woman's  heart? 

Did  you  ever  hear  such  railing  ? 

Whiles  the  eye  of  man  did  woo  me, 
That  could  do  no  vengeance  to  me. — 

Meaning  me  a  beast. — 

If  the  scorn  of  your  bright  eyne 
Have  power  to  raise  such  love  in  mine, 
Alack,  in  me  what  strange  effect 
Would  they  work  in  mild  aspect? 
Whiles  you  chid  me  I  did  love  ; 
How  then  might  your  prayers  move  ? 
He  that  brings  this  love  to  thee 
Little  knows  this  love  in  me  : 
And  by  him  seal  up  thy  mind ; 
Whether  that  thy  youth  and  kind 
Will  .he  faithful  offer  take 
Of  me,  and  all  that  I  can  make  ; 
Or  else  by  him  my  love  deny, 
And  then  1  '11  study  how  to  die. 

Sil.  Call  you  this  chiding  ? 

Cel.  Alas,  poor  shepherd! 

Ros.  Do  you  pity  him  ?  no,  he  deserves  no 
pity. — Wilt  thou  love  such  a  woman? — What, 
to  make  thee  an  instrument,  and  play  false 
strains  upon  thee !  Not  to  be  endured ! — Well, 
go  your  way  to  her, — for  I  see  love  hath  made 
thee  a  tame  snake, — and  say  this  to  her; — that 
if  she  love  me,  I  charge  her  to  love  thee:  if  she 
will  not,  I  will  never  have  her,  unless  thou  en- 
treat for  her. — If  you  be  a  true  lover,  hence, 
and  not  a  word;  for  here  comes  more  company. 
[Exit  SILVIUS. 
_  i  ,*-J  .'.v> 

Enter  OLIVER. 

Oli.  Good-morrow,  fair  ones:  pray  you,  if 
you  know 


274 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


[ACT  iv. 


Where  in  the  purlieus  of  this  forest  stands 
A  sheep-cote  fenc'd  about  with  olive  trees? 
Cel.  West  of  this  place,  down  in  the  neigh- 
bour bottom : 

The  rank  of  osiers,  by  the  murmuring  stream, 
.Left  on  your  right  hand,  brings  you  to  the  place. 
But  at  this  hour  the  house  doth  keep  itself; 
There 's  none  within. 

OK.  If  that  an  eye  may  profit  by  a  tongue, 
Then  should  I  know  you  by  description ; 
Such  garments,  and  such  years.    The  boy  is  fair •, 
Of  female  favoiir^  and  bestows  hivtself 
Like  a  ripe  sister  :  the  woman  low. 
And  browner  than  her  brother.     Are  not  you 
The  owner  of  the  house  I  did  inquire  for? 
Cel.  It  is  no  boast,  being  ask'd,  to  say  we  are. 
Oli.  Orlando  doth  commend  him  to  you  both ; 
And  to  that  youth  he  calls  his  Rosalind 
He  sends  this  bloody  napkin: — are  you  he? 
Ros.  I  am :    what  must  we  understand  by 

this? 
Oli.  Some  of  my  shame ;  if  you  will  know  of 

me 

What  man  I  am,  and  how,  and  why,  and  where 
This  handkerchief  was  stain'd. 

Cel.  I  pray  you,  tell  it. 

Oli.  When  last  the  young  Orlando  parted 

from  you, 

He  left  a  promise  to  return  again 
Within  an  hour ;  and,  pacing  through  the  forest, 
Chewing  the  food  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancy, 
Lo,  what  befell !  he  threw  his  eye  aside, 
And,  mark,  what  object  did  present  itself! 
Under  an  oak,  whose  boughs  were  moss'd  with 

age, 

And  high  top  bald  with  dry  antiquity, 
A  wretched  ragged  man,  o'ergrown  with  hair, 
Lay  sleeping  on  his  back :  about  his  neck 
A  green  and  gilded  snake  had  wreath'd  itself, 
Who,  with  her  head,  nimble  in  threats,  ap- 

proach'd 

The  opening  of  his  mouth ;  but  suddenly, 
Seeing  Orlando,  it  unlink'd  itself, 
And  with  indented  glides  did  slip  away 
Into  a  bush :  under  which  bush's  shade 
A  lioness,  with  udders  all  drawn  dry, 
Lay  couching,  head  on  ground,  with  cat-like 

watch,  ['tis 

When  that  the  sleeping  man  should  stir;  for 
The  royal  disposition  of  that  beast 
To  prey  on  nothing  that  doth  seem  as  dead : 
This  seen,  Orlando  did  approach  the  man, 
And  found  it  was  his  brother,  his  elder  brother. 
Cel.  O,  I  have  heard  him  speak  of  that  same 

brother ; 

And  he  did  render  him  the  most  unnatural 
That  liv'd  'mongst  men. 


Oli.  And  well  he  might  so  do, 

For  well  I  know  he  was  unnatural.          [there, 

Ros.  But,  to  Orlando: — did  he  leave  him 
Food  to  the  suck'd  and  hungry  lioness? 

Oli.  Twice  did  he  turn  his  back,  and  pur- 

pos'd  so ; 

But  kindness,  nobler  ever  than  revenge, 
And  nature,  stronger  than  his  just  occasion, 
Made  him  give  battle  to  the  lioness, 
Who  quickly  fell  before  him ;  in  which  hurtling 
From  miserable  slumber  I  awak'd. 

Cel.  Are  you  his  brother? 

Ros.  Was  it  you  he  rescued? 

Cel.  Was't  you  that  did  so  oft  contrive  to 
kill  him? 

Oli.  'Twas  I ;  but  'tis  not  I :  I  do  not  shame 
To  tell  you  what  I  was,  since  my  conversion 
So  sweetly  tastes,  being  the  thing  I  am. 

Ros.  But,  for  the  bloody  napkin? — 

Oli.  By  and  by. 

When  from  the  first  to  last,  betwixt  us  two, 
Tears  our  recountments  had  most  kindly  bath'd, 
As,  how  I  came  into  that  desert  place; — 
In  brief,  he  led  me  to  the  gentle  duke, 
Who  gave  me  fresh  array  and  entertainment, 
Committing  me  unto  my  brother's  love, 
Who  led  me  instantly  unto  his  cave, 
There  stripp'd  himself,  and  here  upon  his  arm 
The  lioness  had  torn  some  flesh  away, 
Which  all  this  while  had  bled ;  and  now  he 

fainted, 

And  cried,  in  fainting,  upon  Rosalind. 
Brief,  I  recover'd  him,  bound  up  his  wound, 
And,  after  some  small  space,  being  strong  at 

heart, 

He  sent  me  hither,  stranger  as  I  am, 
To  tell  this  story,  that  you  might  excuse 
His  broken  promise,  and  to  give  this  napkin, 
Dy'd  in  his  blood,  unto  the  shepherd-youth 
That  he  in  sport  doth  call  his  Rosalind. 

Cel.    Why,   how    now,    Ganymede !    sweet 
Ganymede !  [ROSALIND  faints. 

Oli.  Many  will  swoon  when  they  do  look  on 
blood. 

Cel.  There  is  more  in  it: — Cousin — Gany- 
mede! 

Oli.  Look,  he  recovers. 

Ros.  I  would  I  were  at  home. 

Cel.  We  '11  lead  you  thither  :— 
I  pray  you,  will  you  take  him  by  the  arm? 

Oli.  Be  of  good  cheer,  youth : — you  a  man  ? — 
You  lack  a  man's  heart. 

Ros.  I  do  so,  I  confess  it.  Ah,  sir,  a  body 
would  think  this  was  well  counterfeited.  I  pray 
you,  tell  your  brother  how  well  I  counterfeited. 
—Heigh-ho!— 

Oli.  This  was  not  counterfeit  \  there  is  too 


SCENE  III.] 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


275 


great  testimony  in  your  complexion  that  it  was 
a  passion  of  earnest. 

Ros.  Counterfeit,  I  assure  you. 

OH.  Well,  then,  take  a  good  heart,  and 
counterfeit  to  be  a  man. 

ffos.  So  I  do  :  but,  i'  faith,  I  should  have 
been  a  woman  by  right. 

CeL  Come,  you  look  paler  and  paler :  pray 
you,  draw  homewards. — Good  sir,  go  with  us. 

OIL  That  will  I,  for  I  must  bear  answer  back 
How  you  excuse  my  brother,  Rosalind. 

Ros.  I  shall  devise  something:  but,  I  pray 
you,  commend  my  counterfeiting  to  him. — Will 
you  go?  [Exeunt. 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — The  Forest  of  Arden. 
Enter  TOUCHSTONE  and  AUDREY. 

Touch.  We  shall  find  a  time,  Audrey; 
patience,  gentle  Audrey. 

And.  Faith,  the  priest  was  good  enough,  for 
all  the  old  gentleman's  saying. 

Touch.  A  most  wicked  Sir  Oliver,  Audrey,  a 
mosf  vile  Martext.  But,  Audrey,  there  is  a 
youth  here  in  the  forest  lays  claim  to  you. 

Aud.  Ay,  I  know  who  'tis :  he  hath  no  in- 
terest in  me  in  the  world :  here  comes  the  man 
you  mean. 

Enter  WILLIAM. 

Touch.  It  is  meat  and  drink  to  me  to  see  a 
clown :  By  my  troth,  we  that  have  good  wits 
have  much  to  answer  for ;  we  shall  be  flouting ; 
we  cannot  hold. 

Will.  Good  even,  Audrey. 

Aud.  God  ye  good  even,  William. 

Will.  And  good  even  to  you,  sir. 

Touch.  Good  even,  gentle  friend.  Cover 
thy  head,  cover  thy  head;  nay,  pr'ythee,  be 
covered.  How  old  are  you,  friend? 

Will.   Five-and-twenty,  sir. 

Touch.  A  ripe  age.     Is  thy  name  William? 

Will.  William,  sir. 

Touch.  A  fair  name.  Wast  born  i'  the  forest 
here? 

Will.  Ay,  sir,  I  thank  God.  [rich? 

Touch.  Thank  God ; — a  good  answer.     Art 

Will.   Faith,  sir,  so-so. 

Touch.  So-so  is  good,  very  good,  very  excel- 
lent good : — and  yet  it  is  not ;  it  is  but  so-so. 
Art  thou  wise? 

Will.  Ay,  sir,  I  have  a  pretty  wit. 

Touch.  Why,  thou  say'st  well.  I  do  now  re- 
member a  saying ;  The  fool  doth  think  he  is  wise, 
but  the  wise  man  knows  himself  to  be  a  fool. 


The  heathen  philosopher,  when  he  had  a  desire 
to  eat  a  grape,  would  open  his  lips  when  he  put 
it  into  his  mouth ;  meaning  thereby  that  grapes 
were  made  to  eat  and  lips  to  open.  You  do 
love  this  maid  ? 

Will.  I  do,  sir. 

Totich.  Give  me  your  hand.  Art  thou  learned  ? 

Will.  No,  sir. 

Touch.  Then  learn  this  of  me : — to  have  is 
to  have  ;  for  it  is  a  figure  in  rhetoric  that  drink, 
being  poured  out  of  a  cup  into  a  glass,  by  filling 
the  one  doth  empty  the  other ;  for  all  your 
writers  do  consent  that  ipse  is  he  ;  now,  you  are 
not  ipse^  for  I  am  he. 

Will.  Which  he,  sir? 

Touch.  He,  sir,  that  must  marry  this  woman. 
Therefore,  you  clown,  abandon, — which  is  in 
the  vulgar,  leave, — the  society, — which  in  the 
boorish  is  company, — of  this  female, — which  in 
the  common  is  woman, — which  together  is 
abandon  the  society  of  this  female  ;  or,  clown, 
thou  perishest ;  or,  to  tay  better  understanding, 
diest ;  or,  to  wit,  I  kill  thee,  make  thee  away, 
translate  thy  life  into  death,  thy  liberty  into 
bondage  :  I  will  deal  in  poison  with  thee,  or  in 
bastinado,  or  in  steel ;  I  will  bandy  with  thee 
in  faction  ;  I  will  o'er-run  thee  with  policy  ;  I 
will  kill  thee  a  hundred  and  fifty  ways  ;  there- 
fore tremble,  and  depart. 

Aud.  Do,  good  William. 

Will.  God  rest  you  merry,  sir.  [Exit. 

Enter  CORIN. 

Cor.  Our  master  and  mistress  seek  you ; 
come  away,  away  I 

Touch.  Trip,  Audrey,  trip,  Audrey ; — I  at- 
tend, I  attend.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Another  part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  ORLANDO  and  OLIVER. 

Orl.  Is 't  possible  that,  on  so  little  acquaint- 
ance, you  should  like  her?  that,  but  seeing, 
you  should  love  her?  and,  loving,  woo?  and, 
wooing,  she  should  grant?  and  will  you  per- 
se ver  to  enjoy  her  ? 

Oli.  Neither  call  the  giddiness  of  it  in  ques- 
tion, the  poverty  of  her,  the  small  acquaintance, 
my  sudden  wooing,  nor  her  sudden  consenting; 
but  say  with  me,  I  love  Aliena ;  say,  with  hei; 
that  she  loves  me  ;  consent  with  both,  that  we 
may  enjoy  each  other  :  it  shall  be  to  your  good; 
for  my  father's  house,  and  all  the  revenue  that 
was  old  Sir  Rowland's,  will  I  estate  upon  you, 
and  here  live  and  die  a  shepherd. 

Orl.  You  have  my  consent.  Let  your  wedding 
be  to-morrow :  thither  will  I  invite  the  duke 


276 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


[ACT  v. 


and  all  his  contented  followers.  Go  you  and 
prepare  Aliena  ;  for,  look  you,  here  comes  my 
Rosalind. 

Enter  ROSALIND. 

Ros.  God  save  you,  brother. 

OIL  And  you,  fair  sister.  [Exit. 

Ros.  O,  my  dear  Orlando,  how  it  grieves  me 
to  see  thee  wear  thy  heart  in  a  scarf. 

Orl.  It  is  my  arm. 

Ros,  I  thought  thy  heart  had  been  wounded 
with  the  claws  of  a  lion. 

Orl.  Wounded  it  is,  but  with  the  eyes  of  a 
lady. 

Ros.  Did  your  brother  tell  you  how  I  counter- 
feited to  swoon  when  he  show'd  me  your  hand- 
kercher. 

Orl.  Ay,  and  greater  wonders  than  that. 

Ros.  O,  I  know  where  you  are : — nay,  'tis 
true :  there  was  never  anything  so  sudden  but 
the  fight  of  two  rams  and  Caesar's  thrasonical 
brag  of — /  came,  saw,  and  overcame :  for  your 
brother  and  my  sister  no  sooner  met,  but  they 
looked ;  no  sooner  looked,  but  they  loved ;  no 
sooner  loved,  but  they  sighed ;  nc  sooner  signed, 
but  they  asked  one  another  the  reason;  no 
sooner  knew  the  reason,  but  they  sought  the 
remedy :  and  in  these  degrees  have  they  made 
a.  pair  of  stairs  to  marriage,  which  they  will 
climb  incontinent,  or  else  be  incontinent  be- 
fore marriage :  they  are  in  the  very  wrath  of 
love,  and  they  will  together :  clubs  cannot  part 
them. 

Orl.  They  shall  be  married  to-morrow ;  and 
I  will  bid  the  duke  to  the  nuptial.  But  O,  how 
bitter  a  thing  it  is  to  look  into  happiness  through 
another  man's  eyes !  By  so  much  the  more  shall 
I  to-morrow  be  at  the  height  of  heart-heaviness, 
by  how  much  I  shall  think  my  brother  happy 
in  having  what  he  wishes  for. 

Ros.  Why,  then,  to-morrow  I  cannot  serve 
your  turn  for  Rosalind? 

Orl.  I  can  live  no  longer  by  thinking. 

Ros.  I  will  weary  you,  then,  no  longer  with 
idle  talking.  Know  of  me,  then, — for  now  I 
speak  to  some  purpose, — that  I  know  you  are  a 
gentleman  of  good  conceit :  I  speak  not  this  that 
you  should  bear  a  good  opinion  of  my  know- 
ledge, insomuch  I  say  I  know  you  are ;  neither 
do  I  labour  for  a  greater  esteem  than  may  in 
some  little  measure  draw  a  belief  from  you,  to 
do  yourself  good,  and  not  to  grace  me.  Believe, 
then,  if  you  please,  that  I  can  do  strange  things : 
I  have,  since  I  was  three  year  old,  conversed 
with  a  magician,  most  profound  in  his  art,  and 
yet  not  damnable.  If  you  do  love  Rosalind  so 
near  the  heart  as  your  gesture  cries  it  out,  when 


your  brother  marries  Aliena,  shall  you  marry 
her : — I  know  into  what  straits  of  fortune  she  is 
driven ;  and  it  is  not  impossible  to  me,  if  it  ap- 
pear not  inconvenient  to  you,  to  set  her  before 
your  eyes  to-morrow,  human  as  she  is,  and 
without  any  danger. 

Orl.  Speak'st  thou  in  sober  meanings? 

Ros.  By  my  life,  I  do ;  which  I  tender  dearly, 
though  I  say  I  am  a  magician.  Therefore,  put 
you  in  your  best  array,  bid  your  friends ;  for  if 
you  will  be  married  to-morrow,  you  shall ;  and 
to  Rosalind,  if  you  will.  Look,  here  comes  a 
lover  cf  mine,  and  a  lover  of  hers. 

Enter  SILVIUS  and  PHEBE. 

Phe.  Youth,   you  have  done  me   much  un- 

gentleness, 
To  show  the  letter  that  I  writ  to  you. 

Ros.  I  care  not,  if  I  have :  it  is  my  study 
To  seem  despiteful  and  ungentle  to  you : 
You  are  there  follow'd  by  a  faithful  shepherd ; 
Look  upon  him,  love  him  ;  he  worships  you. 

Phe.  Good  shepherd,  tell  this  youth  what  'tis 
to  love. 

Sil.  It    is    to    be    all   made   of    sighs    and 

tears; — 
And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

Phe.  And  I  for  Ganymede. 

Orl.  And  I  for  Rosalind. 

Ros.  And  I  for  no  woman. 

Sil.  It  is  to  be  all  made  of  faith  and  service  ;-— 
And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

Phe.  And  I  for  Ganymede. 

Orl.  And  I  for  Rosalind. 

Ros.  And  I  for  no  woman. 

Sil.   It  is  to  be  all  made  of  fantasy, 
All  made  of  passion,  and  all  made  of  wishes ; 
All  adoration,  duty,  and  obedience, 
All  humbleness,  all  patience,  and  impatience, 
All  purity,  all  trial,  all  observance ; — 
And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

Phe.  And  so  am  I  for  Ganymede. 

Orl.   And  so  am  I  for  Rosalind. 

Ros.  And  so  am  I  for  no  woman. 

Phe.  If  this  be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to 
love  you?  \_To  ROSALIND. 

Sil.  If  this   be  so,  why  blame   you   me  to 
love  you ?  .[To  PHEBE. 

Orl.   If  this  be  so,  why  blame   you  me  to 
love  you? 

Ros.  Why  do  you  speak  too, —  Why  blame 
you  me  to  love  you? 

Orl.  To  her  that  is  not  here,  nor  doth  not 
hear. 

Ros.  Pray  you,  no  more  of  this ;  'tis  like  the 
howling  of  Irish  wolves  against  the  moon.' — I 
will  help  you  [to  SILVIUS]  if  I  can: — I  would 


SCENE  III.] 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


277 


love  you  [to  PHEBE]  if  I  could.  —  To-morrow 
meet  me  all  together.  —  I  will  marry  you  [to 
PHEBE]  if  ever  I  marry  woman,  and  I  '11  be 
married  to-morrow:  —  I  will  satisfy  you  [to  OR- 
LANDO] if  ever  I  satisfied  man,  and  you  shall 
be  married  to-morrow  :  —  I  will  content  you  [to 
SILVIUS]  if  what  pleases  you  contents  you,  and 
you  shall  be  married  to-morrow.  —  As  you  [to 
ORLANDO]  love  Rosalind,  meet  ;  —  as  you  [to 
SILVIUS]  love  Phebe,  meet  ;  and  as  I  love  no 
woman,  I  '11  meet.  —  So,  fare  you  well;  I  have 
left  you  commands. 

Sil.   I  '11  not  fail,  if  I  live. 

Phe.  Nor  I. 

Or/.  Nor  I. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  Another  part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  TOUCHSTONE  and  AUDREY. 

Touch.  To-morrow  is  the  joyful  day,  Audrey; 
to-morrow  will  we  be  married. 

And.  I  do  desire  it  with  all  my  heart  ;  and 
I  hope  it  is  no  dishonest  desire  to  desire  to  be 
a  woman  of  the  world.  Here  come  two  of  the 
banished  duke's  pages. 

Enter  two  Pages. 

1  Page.  Well  met,  honest  gentleman. 
Touch.   By  my  troth,  well  met.     Come  sit, 

sit,  and  a  song. 

2  Page.  We  are  for  you  :  sit  i'  the  middle. 

I  Page.  Shall  we  clap  into't  roundly,  with- 
out hawking,  or  spitting,  or  saying  we  are 
hoarse,  which  are  the  only  prologues  to  a  bad 
voice  ? 

.  2  Page,  r  faith,  i'  faith  ;  and  both  in  a  tune, 
like  two  gipsies  on  a  horse. 

SONG. 
i. 

It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass, 
With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 

That  o!er  the  green  corn-field  did  pass 

In  the  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time, 
When  birds  do  sing,  hty  ding  a  ding,  ding  : 

Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 


Between  the  acres  of  the  rye, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 
These  pretty  country  folks  would  lie, 

In  the  spring  time,  &c. 


This_ carol  they  began  that  hour, 
With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino. 

How  that  a  life  was  but  a  flower 
In  the  spring  time,  &c. 


And  therefore  take  the  present  time, 
With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 

For  love  is  crowned  with  the  prime 
In  the  spring  time,  &c. 

Touch.  Truly,  young  gentlemen,  though 
there  was  no  great  matter  in  the  ditty,  yet  the 
note  was  very  untimeable. 

I  Page.  You  are  deceived,  sir;  we  kept 
time,  we  lost  not  our  time. 

Touch.  By  my  troth,  yes ;  I  count  it  but 
time  lost  to  hear  such  a  foolish  song.  God  be 
with  you ;  and  God  mend  your  voices  !  Come, 
Audrey.  [Exeunt. 

••-j?amt  ri.Ulo  sloiiO  •*;«'  ni  Iwirv.JO 
I)-fii'-.-.j    fvjij  •;•••'' ror  a  •••-{  J"    va>\ 

SCENE  IV. — Another  part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  DUKE  Senior^  AMIENS,  JAQUES,  OR- 
LANDO, OLIVER,  and  CELIA. 

Duke  S.  Dost   thou   believe,  Orlando,  that 

the  boy 
Can  do  all  this  that  he  hath  promised? 

Ori.  I  sometimes  do  believe  and  sometimes 

do  not ;  [fear. 

As  those  that  fear  they  hope,  and  know  they 

Enter  ROSALIND,  SILVIUS,  and  PHEBE. 

Ros.  Patience  once  more,  whiles  our  com- 
pact is  urg'd : 

You  say,  if  I  bring  in  your  Rosalind, 

[To  the  DUKE. 
You  will  bestow  her  on  Orlando  here? 

Duke  S.  That  would  I,  had  I  kingdoms  to 
give  with  her. 

Ros.  And  you  say  you  will  have  her,  when 

I  brinor  her?  [To  ORLANDO. 

Orl.  That  would  I,  were  I  of  all  kingdoms 

king. 

Ros.  You  say  you  '11  marry  me  if  I  be  willing? 

[To  PHEBE. 

Phe.  That  will  I,  should  I  die  the  hour  after. 
Ros.   But  if  you  do  refuse  to  marry  me, 
You  '11  give  yourself  to  this  most  faithful  shep- 
herd ? 

Phe.  So  is  the  bargain. 

Ros.  You  say  that  you'll  have  Phebe,  if  she 

will?  [To  SILVIUS. 

Sil.  Though  to  have  her   and  death  were 

both  one  thing. 
Ros.  I  have  promis'd  to  make  all  this  matter 

even. 
Keep  you  your  word,   O  duke,  to  give  your 

daughter ; — 

You  yours,  Orlando,  to  receive  his  daughter ; — • 
Keep    you    your  word,    Phebe,    that    you'll 
marry  me ; 


278 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


[ACT  v. 


Or  else,  refusing  me,  to  wed  this  shepherd : — 
Keep  your  word,  Silvius,  that  you  '11  marry  her 
If  she  refuse  me : — and  from  hence  I  go, 
To  make  these  doubts  all  even. 

[Exeunt  ROSALIND  and  CELIA. 

Duke  S.  I  do  remember  in  this  shepherd-boy 
Some  lively  touches  of  my  daughter's  favour. 

Or!.  My  lord,  the  first  time  that  I  ever  saw 

him, 

Methought  he  was  a  brother  to  your  daughter : 
But,  my  good  lord,  this  boy  is  forest-born, 
And  hath  been  tutor'd  in  the  rudiments 
Of  many  desperate  studies  by  his  uncle, 
Whom  he  reports  to  be  a  great  magician, 
Obscured  in  the  circle  of  this  forest. 

Jaq.  There  is,  sure,  another  flood  toward, 
and  these  couples  are  coming  to  the  ark.  Here 
comes  a  pair  of  very  strange  beasts,  which  in 
all  tongues  are  called  fools. 

Enter  TOUCHSTONE  and  AUDREY. 

Touch.  Salutation  and  greeting  to  you  all ! 

Jaq.  Good  my  lord,  bid  him  welcome.  This 
is  the  motley-minded  gentleman  that  I  have  so 
often  met  in  the  forest :  he  hath  been  a  courtier, 
he  swears. 

Touch.  If  any  man  doubt  that,  let  him  put 
me  to  my  purgation.  I  have  trod  a  measure  ; 
I  have  flattered  a  lady;  I  have  been  politic  with 
my  friend,  smooth  with  mine  enemy;  I  have 
undone  three  tailors ;  I  have  had  four  quarrels, 
and  like  to  have  fought  one. 
Jaq.  And  how  was  that  ta'en  up? 

Touch.  Faith,  we  met,  and  found  the  quarrel 
was  upon  the  seventh  cause. 

Jaq.  How  seventh  cause?  Good  my  lord, 
like  this  fellow. 

Duke  S.  I  like  him  very  well. 

Touch.  God  'ild  you,  sir ;  I  desire  you  of  the 
like.  I  press  in  here,  sir,  amongst  the  rest  of 
the  country  copulatives,  to  swear  and  to  for- 
swear ;  according  as  marriage  binds  and  blood 
breaks: — A  poor  virgin,  sir,  an  ill-favoured 
thing,  sir,  but  mine  own;  a  poor  humour  of 
mine,  sir,  to  take  that  that  no  man  else  will : 
rich  honesty  dwells  like  a  miser,  sir,  in  a  poor- 
house  ;  as  your  pearl  in  your  foul  oyster. 

Duke  S.  By  my  faith,  he  is  very  swift  and 
sententious. 

Touch.  According  to  the  fool's  bolt,  sir,  and 
such  dulcet  diseases. 

Jaq.  But,  for  the  seventh  cause;  how  did 
you  find  the  quarrel  on  the  seventh  cause? 

Touch.  Upon  a  lie  seven  times  removed ; — 
bear  your  body  more  seeming,  Audrey : — as 
thus,  sir,  I  did  dislike  the  cut  of  a  certain 
courtier's  beard ;  he  sent  me  word,  if  I  said  his 


beard  was  not  cut  well,  he  was  in  the  mind  it 
was :  this  is  called  the  Retort  courteous.  If  I 
sent  him  word  again,  it  was  not  well  cut,  he 
would  send  me  word  he  cut  it  to  please  himself: 
this  is  called  the  Quip  modest.  If  again,  it  was 
not  well  cut,  he  disabled  my  judgment :  this  is 
called  the  Reply  churlish.  If  again,  it  was  not 
well  cut,  he  would  answer,  I  spake  not  true : 
this  is  called  the  Reproof  valiant.  If  again,  it 
was  not  well  cut,  he  would  say,  I  lie:  this  is 
called  the  Countercheck  quarrelsome:  and  so, 
to  the  Lie  circumstantial,  and  the  Lie  direct. 

Jaq.  And  how  oft  did  you  say  his  beard  was 
not  well  cut? 

Touch.  I  durst  go  no  farther  than  the  Lie 
circumstantial^  nor  he  durst  not  give  me  the 
Lie  direct ;  and  so  we  measured  swords  and 
parted. 

Jaq.  Can  you  nominate  in  order  now  the  de- 
grees of  the  lie? 

Touch.  O,  sir,  we  quarrel  in  print  by  the 
book,  as  you  have  books  for  good  manners :  I 
will  name  you  the  degrees.  The  first,  the  Re- 
tort courteous;  the  second,  the  Quip  modest: 
the  third,  the  Reply  churlish ;  the  fourth,  the 
Reproof  valiant ;  the  fifth,  the  Countercheck 
quarrelsome;  the  sixth,  the  Lie  with  circum- 
stance ;  the  seventh,  the  Lie  direct.  All  these 
you  may  avoid  but  the  lie  direct ;  and  you  may 
avoid  that  too  with  an  If.  I  knew  when  seven 
justices  could  not  take  up  a  quarrel ;  but  when 
the  parties  were  met  themselves,  one  of  them 
thought  but  of  an  7f,  as  If  you  said  so,  then  2 
said  so;  and  they  shook  hands,  and  swore 
brothers.  Your  If\s  the  only  peace-maker: — 
much  virtue  in  If. 

Jaq.  Is  not  this  a  rare  fellow,  my  lord?  he 's 
as  good  at  anything,  and  yet  a  fool. 

Duke  S.  He  uses  his  folly  like  a  stalking- 
horse,  and  under  the  presentation  of  that  he 
shoots  his  wit. 

Enter  HYMEN,  hading  ROSALIND  in  woman's 
clothes;  and  CELIA. 

Still  Music. 

Hym.  Then  is  there  mirth  in  heaven, 
When  earthly  things  made  even 

Atone  together. 

Good  duke,  receive  thy  daughter : 
Hymen  from  heaven  brought  her, 

Yea,  brought  her  hither. 
That  thou  mightst  join  her  hand  with  his, 
Whose  heart  within  her  bosom  is. 

Ros.  To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  air  yours. 

[To  DUKE  S. 
To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am  yours. 

[To  ORLANDO. 


SCENE  IV.] 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


279 


Duke  S.  If  there  be  truth  in  sight,  you  are 

my  daughter. 
OrL  If  there  be  truth  in  sight,  you  are  my 

Rosalind. 

Phe.  If  sight  and  shape  be  true, 
Why,  then,  my  love,  adieu  ! 

Ros.  I  '11  have  no  father,  if  you  be  not  he : — 
[To  DUKE  S. 
i  '11  have  no  husband,  if  you  be  not  he : — 

[To  ORLANDO. 
Nor  e'er  wed  woman,  if  you  be  not  she. 

[To  PHEBE. 

Hym.  Peace,  ho !  I  bar  confusion : 
'Tis  I  must  make  conclusion 

Of  these  most  strange  events : 
Here 's  eight  that  must  take  hands, 
To  join  in  Hymen's  bands, 

If  truth  holds  true  contents. 
You  and  you  no  cross  shall  part : 

[To  ORLANDO  and  ROSALIND. 
You  and  you  are  heart  in  heart : 

[To  OLIVER  and  CELIA. 
You  to  his  love  must  accord,     [  To  PHEBE. 
Or  have  a  woman  to  your  lord : — 
You  and  you  are  sure  together, 

[To  TOUCHSTONE  and  AUDREY. 
As  the  winter  to  foul  weather. 
Whiles  a  wedlock -hymn  we  sing, 
Feed  yourselves  with  questioning, 
That  reason  wonder  may  diminish, 
How  thus  we  met,  and  these  things  finish. 

SONG. 
Wedding  is  great  Juno's  crown  ; 

P  blessed  bond  of  board  and  bed  ! 
'Tis  Hymen  peoples  every  town  ; 

High  wedlock,  then,  be  honoured  ; 
Honour,  high  honour  and  renown, 
To  Hymen,  god  of  every  town  1 

Duke  S.  O  my  dear  niece,  welcome  thou  art 

to  me! 

Even  daughter,  welcome  in  no  less  degree. 
Phe.  I  will  not  eat  my  word,  now  thou  art 

mine; 
Thy  faith  my  fancy  to  thee  doth  combine. 

[To  SILVIUS. 

Enter  JAQUES  DE  Bois. 

Jaq.  de  B.  Let  me  have  audience  for  a  word 

or  two ; 

I  am  the  second  son  of  old  Sir  Rowland, 
That  bring  these  tidings  to  this  fair  assembly : — 
J)uke  Frederick,  hearing  how  that  every  day 
Men  of  great  worth  resorted  to  this  forest, 
Address'd  a  mighty  power ;  which   were  on 

foot, 
In  his  own  conduct,  purposely  to  take 


His  brother  here,  and  put  him  to  the  sword : 
And  to  the  skirts  of  this  wild  wood  he  came ; 
Where,  meeting  with  an  old  religious  man, 
After  some  question  with  him,  was  converted 
Both  from  his  enterprise  and  from  the  world ; 
His  crown  bequeathing  to  his  banish'd  brother, 
And  all  their  lands  restored  to  them  again 
That  were  with  him  exil'd.     This  to  be  true 
I  do  engage  my  life. 

Duke  S.  Welcome,  young  man : 

Thou  offer' st  fairly  to  thy  brother's  wedding : 
To  one,  his  lands  withheld ;  and  to  the  other, 
A  land  itself  at  large,  a  potent  dukedom. 
First,  in  this  forest,  let  us  do  those  ends 
That  here  were  well  begun  and  well  begot : 
And  after,  every  of  this  happy  number, 
That  have  endur'd  shrewd  days  and  nights  with 

us, 

Shall  share  the  good  of  our  returned  fortune, 
According  to  the  measure  of  their  states. 
Meantime,  forget  this  new-fall'n  dignity, 
And  fall  into  our  rustic  revelry : — 
Play,  music ! — and  you,  brides  and  bridegrooms 

all, 
With  measure  heap'd  in  joy,  to  the  measures 

fall. 
faq.  Sir,  by  your  patience.     If  I  heard  you 

rightly, 

The  duke  hath  put  on  a  religious  life, 
And  thrown  into  neglect  the  pompous  court? 
Jaq.  de  B.  He  hath. 

Jaq.  To  him  will  I :  out  of  these  convertites 
There  is  much  matter  to  be  heard  and  learn* d. — 
You  to  your  former  honour  I  bequeath  ; 

[To  DUKE  S. 
Your  patience  and  your  virtue  well  deserves 

it:— 
You  [to  ORLANDO]  to  a  love  that  your  true 

faith  doth  merit : — 
You  [to  OLIVER]  to  your  land,  and  love,  and 

great  allies: — 
You  [to  SILVIUS]  to  a  long  and  well-deserved 

bed: — 
And  you  [to  TOUCHSTONE]  to  wrangling;  for 

thy  loving  voyage 
Is  but  for  two  months  victual'd. — So  to  your 

pleasures ; 

I  am  for  other  than  for  dancing  measures. 
Duke  S.  Stay,  Jaques,  stay. 
Jaq.  To  see  no  pastime  I :  what  you  would 

have 
I  '11  stay  to  know  at  your  abandon'd  cave. 

[Exit. 
Duke  S.  Proceed,  proceed:   we  will  begin 

these  rites, 
As  we  do  trust  they  '11  end,  in  true  delights. 

[A  dance 


280 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


[ACT  v. 


EPILOGUE. 

tfos.  It  is  not  the  fashion  to  see  the  lady  the 
epilogue ;  but  it  is  no  more  unhandsome  than 
to  see  the  lord  the  prologue.  If  it  be  true  that 
good  wine  needs  no  bush,  'tis  true  that  a  good 
play  needs  no  epilogue.  Yet  to  good  wine 
they  do  use  good  bushes ;  and  good  plays  prove 
the  better  by  the  help  of  good  epilogues.  What 
a  case  am  I  in,  then,  that  am  neither  a  good 
epilogue  nor  cannot  insinuate  with  you  in  the 
behalf  of  a  good  play !  I  am  not  furnished  like 
a  beggar :  therefore  to  beg  will  not  become  me: 


my  way  is  to  conjure  you ;  and  I  '11  begin  with 
the  women.  I  charge  you,  O  women,  for  the 
love  you  bear  to  men,  to  like  as  much  of  this 
play  as  please  you :  and  I  charge  you,  O  men, 
for  the  love  you  bear  to  women, — as  I  perceive 
by  your  simpering,  none  of  you  hates  them, — - 
that  between  you  and  the  women  the  play  may 
please.  If  I  were  a  woman,  I  would  kiss  as 
many  of  you  as  had  beards  that  pleased  me, 
complexions  that  liked  me,  and  breaths  that  I 
defied  not .  and,  I  am  sure,  as  many  as  have 
good  beards,  or  good  faces,  or  sweet  breaths, 
will,  for  my  kind  offer,  when  I  make  curtsy, 
bid  me  farewell.  [Exeunt. 


aw J  .icft  itud  ?.l 

I  cllUoKslq 

n-siif  istffjQ  *ot  ma  1 


A  .v*\ 

-:;di  ra£  I 

•Midi  Mil 


•  i  .  ^;; 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT   ENDS  WELL. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


KING  OF  FRANCE. 

DUKE  OF  FLORENCE. 

BERTRAM,  Count  of  Rousillon. 

LAFEU,  an  old  Lord. 

PAROLLES,  a  follower  <?/ BERTRAM. 

Several  young  French  Lords,  that  serve  with 

BERTRAY  in  the  Florentine  War. 
Steward,    )  Servants  to  the  COUNTESS  OF  Rou- 
MHO* 


COUNTESS  OF  ROUSILLON,  Mother  to  BER 

TRAM 

HELENA,   a    Gentlewoman  protected    by    tht 

COUNTESS. 

An  old  Widow  of  Florence. 
DIANA,  Daughter  to  the  Widow. 
VIOLENTA,  1  Neighbours   and  F 
MARIANA,  f     Widow. 

Lords    a-ttending     on    the     KING  ;     Officers , 
Soldiers,  &c.,  French  and  Florentine. 


SCENE,— Partly  in  FRANCE,  and  partly  in  TUSCANY. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE    I. — ROUSILLON.      A    Room    in   the 
COUNTESS'S  Palace. 

Enter  BERTRAM,  the  COUNTESS  OF  ROUSIL- 
LON, HELENA,  and  LAFEU,  in  mounting. 

Count.  In  delivering  my  son  from  me,  I  bury 
a  second  husband. 

Ber.  And  I,  in  going,  madam,  weep  o'er  my 
father's  death  anew:  but  I  must  attend  his 
majesty's  command,  to  whom  I  am  now  in 
ward,  evermore  in  subjection. 

Laf.  You  shall  find  of  the  king  a  husband, 
madam ; — you,  sir,  a  father :  he  that  so  gener- 
ally is  at  all  times  good,  must  of  necessity  hold 
his  virtue  to  you  ;  whose  worthiness  would  stir 
it  up  where  it  wanted,  rather  than  lack  it 
where  there  is  such  abundance. 

Count.  What  hope  is  there  of  his  majesty's 
amendment  ? 

Laf.  He  hath  abandoned  his  physicians, 
madam ;  under  whose  practices  he  hath  perse- 
cuted time  with  hope ;  and  finds  no  other  ad- 
vantage in  the  process  but  only  the  losing  of 
hope  by  time. 

Count.  This  young  gentlewoman  had  a 
father — O,  that  had!  how  sad  a  passage  'tis ! — 
whose  skill  was  almost  as  great  as  his  honesty ; 
had  it  stretched  so  far,  would  have  made  nature 
immortal,  and  death  should  have  play  for  lack 
of  work.  Would,  for  the  king's  sake,  he  were 
living !  I  think  it  would  be  \he  death  of  the 
king's  disease. 

Laf.  How  called  you  the  man  you  speak  of, 
madam? 


Count.  He  was  famous,  sir,  in  his  profession, 
and  it  was  his  great  right  to  be  so, — Gerard  de 
Narbon. 

Laf.  He  was  excellent,  indeed,  madam :  the 
king  very  lately  spoke  of  him  admiringly  and 
mourningly  :  he  was  skilful  enough  to  have 
lived  still,  if  knowledge  could  be  set  up  against 
mortality. 

Ber.  What  is  it,  my  good  lord,  the  king  lan- 
guishes of? 

Laf.  A  fistula,  my  lord. 

Ber.  I  heard  not  of  it  before. 

Laf.  I  would  it  were  not  notorious. — Was 
this  gentlewoman  the  daughter  of  Gerard  de 
Narbon? 

Count.  His  sole  child,  my  lord;  and  be- 
queathed to  my  overlooking.  I  have  those 
hopes  of  her  good  that  her  education  promises  : 
her  dispositions  she  inherits,  which  make  fair 
gifts  fairer ;  for  where  an  unclean  mind  carries 
virtuous  qualities,  there  commendations  go  with 
pity, — they  are  virtues  and  traitors  too :  in  her 
they  are  the  better  for  their  simpleness;  she 
derives  her  honesty,  and  achieves  her  goodness. 

Laf.  Your  commendations,  madam,  get  from 
her  tears. 

Count.  'Tis  the  best  brine  a  maiden  can 
season  her  praise  in.  The  remembrance  of  her 
father  never  approaches  her  heart  but  the  tyr- 
anny of  her  sorrows  takes  all  livelihood  from 
her  cheek.  No  more  of  this,  Helena, — go  to, 
no  more ;  lest  it  be  rather  thought  you  affect  a 
sorrow  than  to  have. 

Hel.  I  do  affect  a  sorrow  indeed ;  but  I  have 
it  too. 

Laf.  Moderate  lamentation  is  the  right  of 


282 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


[ACT  r. 


the  dead;   excessive  grief  the  enemy  to  the 
living. 

Count.  If  the  living  be  enemy  to  the  grief, 
the  excess  makes  it  soon  mortal. 

Ber.  Madam,  I  desire  your  holy  wishes. 

Laf.  How  understand  we  that? 

Count    Be  thou  blest,  Bertram !  and  succeed 

thy  father 

In  manners,  as  in  shape !  thy  blood  and  virtue 
Contend  for  empire  in  thee,  and  thy  goodness 
Share  with  thy  birthright !  Love  all,  trust  a  few, 
Do  wrong  to  none :  be  able  for  thine  enemy 
Rather  in  power  than  use ;  and  keep  thy  friend 
Under  thy  own  life's  key:  be  check'd  for  silence, 
But  never  tax'd  for  speech.    What  heaven  more 
will,  [down, 

That  thee  may  furnish  and  my  prayers  pluck 
Fall  on  thy  head !     Farewell. — My  lord, 
'Tis  an  unseason'd  courtier ;  good  my  lord, 
Advise  him. 

Laf.          He  cannot  want  the  best 
That  shall  attend  his  love. 

Count.  Heaven  bless  him! — Farewell,  Ber- 
tram. [Exit  COUNTESS. 
Ber.  The  best  wishes  that  can  be  "orged  in 
your  thoughts  \to  HELENA]  be  servants  to  you ! 
Be  comfortable  to  my  mother,  your  mistress, 
and  make  much  of  her. 

Laf.  Farewell,  pretty  lady:  you  must  hold 
the  credit  of  your  father. 

[Exeunt  BER.  and  LAF. 
Hel.  O,  were  that  all ! — I  think  not  on  my 
father;  [more 

And  these  great  tears  grace  his  remembrance 
Than  those  I  shed  for  him.    What  was  he  like? 
I  have  forgot  him ;  my  imagination 
Carries  no  favour  in't  but  Bertram's. 
I  am  undone :  there  is  no  living,  none, 
If  Bertram  be  away.     It  were  all  one 
That  I  should  love  a  bright  particular  star, 
And  think  to  wed  it,  he  is  so  above  me : 
In  his  bright  radiance  and  collateral  light 
Must  I  be  comforted,  not  in  his  sphere. 
The  ambition  in  my  love  thus  plagues  itself: 
The  hind  that  would  be  mated  by  the  lion 
Must  die  for  love.     JTwas  pretty,  though  a 

plague, 

To  see  him  every  hour ;  to  sit  and  draw 
His  arched  brows,  his  hawking  eye,  his  curls, 
In  our  heart's  table, — heart  too  capable 
Of  every  line  and  trick  of  his  sweet  favour : 
But  now  he 's  gone,  and  my  idolatrous  fancy 
Must  sanctify  his  relics.     Who  comes  here? 
One  that  goes  with  him:  I  love  him  for  his 

sake; 

And  yet  I  know  him  a  notorious  liar, 
Think  him  a  great  way  fool,  solely  a  coward; 


Yet  these  fix'd  evils  sit  so  fit  in  him 

That  they  take  place  when  virtue's  steely  bone,'? 

Look  bleak  i'  the  cold  wind :  withal,  full  oft 

we  see 
Cold  wisdom  waiting  on  superfluous  folly. 

Enter  PAROLLES. 


Par.  Save  you,  fair  queen ! 

Hel.  And  you,  monarch ! 

Par.  No. 

Hel.  And  no. 

Par.  Are  you  meditating  on  virginity? 

Hel,  Ay.  You  have  some  stain  of  soldier  in 
you :  let  me  ask  you  a  question.  Man  is  enemy 
to  virginity  j  how  may  we  barricado  it  against 
him? 

Par.  Keep  him  out. 

Hel.  But  he  assails ;  and  our  virginity,  though 
valiant  in  the  defence,  yet  is  weak :  unfold  to 
us  some  warlike  resistance. 

Par.  There  is  none:  man,  sitting  down  be- 
fore you,  will  undermine  you,  and  blow  you  up. 

Hel.  Bless  our  poor  virginity  from  under- 
miners  and  blowers-up! — Is  there  no  military 
policy  how  virgins  might  blow  up  men? 

Par.  Virginity  being  blown  down,  man  will 
quicklier  be  blown  up:  marry,  in  blowing  him 
down  again,  with  the  breach  yourselves  made, 
you  lose  your  city.  It  is  not  politic  in  the 
commonwealth  of  nature  to  preserve  virginity. 
Loss  of  virginity  is  rational  increase ;  and  there 
was  never  virgin  got  till  virginity  was  first  lost. 
That  you  were  made  of  is  metal  to  make  virgins. 
Virginity,  by  being  once  lost,  may  be  ten  times 
found ;  by  being  ever  kept,  it  is  ever  lost :  'tis 
too  cold  a  companion ;  away  with  it ! 

Hel.  I  will  stand  for  't  a  little,  though  there- 
fore I  die  a  virgin. 

Par.  There's  little  can  be  said  in't;  'tis 
against  the  rule  of  nature.  To  speak  on  the 
part  of  virginity  is  to  accuse  your  mothers; 
which  is  most  infallible  disobedience.  He  that 
hangs  himself  is  a  virgin :  virginity  murders 
itself;  and  should  be  buried  in  highways,  out 
of  all  sanctified  limit,  as  a  desperate  offendress 
against  nature.  Virginity  breeds  mites,  much 
like  a  cheese ;  consumes  itself  to  the  very  par- 
ing, and  so  dies  with  feeding  his  own  stomach 
Besides,  virginity  is  peevish,  proud,  idle,  made 
of  self-love ;  which  is  the  most  inhibited  sin  in 
the  canon.  Keep  it  not;  you  cannot  choose 
but  lose  by 't :  out  with 't !  within  ten  years  it 
will  make  itself  ten,  which  is  a  goodly  increase ; 
and  the  principal  itself  not  much  the  worse : 
away  with  it ! 

Hel.  How  might  one  do,  sir,  to  lose  it  to  her 
own  liking? 


SCENE  I.J 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


283 


Par.  Let  me  see :  marry,  ill,  to  like  him  that 
ne'er  it  likes.  'Tis  a  commodity  will  lose  the 
gloss  with  lying ;  the  longer  kept,  the  less  worth : 
off  with 't  while  'tis  vendible :  answer  the  time 
of  request.  Virginity,  like  an  old  courtier,  wears 
her  cap  out  of  fashion;  richly  suited,  but  un- 
suitable: just  like  the  brooch  and  the  tooth- 
pick which  wear  not  now.  Your  date  is  better 
in  your  pie  and  your  porridge  than  in  your  cheek. 
And  your  virginity,  your  old  virginity,  is  like 
one  of  our  French  withered  pears ;  it  looks  ill, 
it  eats  drily ;  marry,  'tis  a  withered  pear ;  it  was 
formerly  better ;  marry,  yet  'tis  a  withered  pear. 
Will  you  anything  with  it? 

Hel.  Not  my  virginity  yet. 
There  shall  your  master  have  a  thousand  loves, 
A  mother,  and  a  mistress,  and  a  friend, 
A  phoenix,  captain,  and  an  enemy, 
A  guide,  a  goddess,  and  a  sovereign, 
A  counsellor,  a  traitress,  and  a  dear : 
His  humble  ambition,  proud  humility, 
His  jarring  concord,  and  his  discord  dulcet, 
His  faith,  his  sweet  disaster ;  with  a  world 
Of  pretty,  fond,  adoptious  Christendoms, 
That  blinking  Cupid  gossips.     Now  shall  he — 
I  know  not  what  he   shall: — God  send   him 

well  !— 
The  court 's  a  learning-place ; — and  he  is  one, — 

Par.  What  one,  i' faith? 

Hel.  That  I  wish  well.— 'Tis  pity— 

Par.  What'spi^y? 

Hel.  That  wishing  well  had  not  a  body  in 't 
Which  might  be  felt ;  that  we,  the  poorer  born, 
Whose  baser  stars  do  shut  us  up  in  wishes, 
Might  with  effects  of  them  follow  our  friends, 
And  show  what  we  alone  must  think ;  which 

never 
Returns  us  thanks. 

Enter  a  Page. 

Page.  Monsieur  Parolles,  my  lord  calls  for 
you.  [Exit  Page. 

Par.  Little  Helen,  farewell :  if  I  can  re- 
member thee,  I  will  think  of  thee  at  court. 

Hel.  Monsieur  Parolles,  you  were  born  under 
a  charitable  star. 

Par.   Under  Mars,  I. 

Hel.  I  especially  think,  under  Mars. 

Par.  Why  under  Mars? 

Hel.  The  wars  have  so  kept  you  under  that 
you  must  needs  be  born  under  Mars. 

Par.  When  he  was  predominant. 

Hel.  When  he  was  retrograde,  I  think,  rather. 

Par.  Why  think  you  so?  [fight. 

Hel.  You  go  so  much  backward  when  you 

Par.  That 's  for  advantage. 

Hel.  So  is  running  away,  when  fear  proposes 


the  safety :  but  the  composition  that  your  valour 
and  fear  makes  in  you  is  a  virtue  of  a  good  wing, 
and  I  like  the  wear  well. 

Par.  I  am  so  full  of  businesses  I  cannot  answer 
thee  acutely.  I  will  return  perfect  courtier ;  in 
the  which  my  instruction  shall  serve  to  natural- 
ize thee>  so  thou  wilt  be  capable  of  a  courtier's 
counsel,  and  understand  what  advice  shall 
thrust  upon  thee ;  else  thou  diest  in  thine  un- 
thankfulness,  and  thine  ignorance  makes  thee 
away:  farewell.  When  thou  hast  leisure,  say 
thy  prayers;  when  thou  hast  none,  remember 
thy  friends :  get  thee  a  good  husband,  and  use 
him  as  he  uses  thee :  so,  farewell.  [Exit. 

Hel.  Our  remedies  oft  in  ourselves  do  lie, 
Which  we  ascribe  to  heaven :  the  fated  sky 
Gives  us  free  scope ;  only  doth  backward  pull 
Our  slow  designs  when  we  ourselves  are  dull. 
What  power  is  it  which  mounts  my  love  so 

high — 

That  makes  me  see,  and  cannot  feed  mine  eye? 
The  mightiest  space  in  fortune  nature  brings 
To  join  like  likes,  and  kiss  like  native  things. 
Impossible  be  strange  attempts  to  those 
That  weigh  their  pains  in  sense,  and  do  suppose 
What  hath  been  cannot  be  :  who  ever  strove 
To  show  her  merit  that  did  miss  her  love? 
The  king's  disease, — my  project  may  deceive 

me, 

But  my  intents  are  fix'd,  and  will  not  leave  me. 

[Exit. 


SCENE  II. 


-PARIS.     A  Room  in  the  KING'S 
Palace. 


Flourish  of  cornets.  Enter  the  KING  OF 
FRANCE,  with  Letters ;  Lords  and  others 
attending. 

King.  The  Florentines  and  Senoys  are  by  the 

ears; 

Have  fought  with  equal  fortune,  and  continue 
A  braving  war. 

I  Lord.          So  'tis  reported,  sir. 

King.  Nay,  'tis  most  credible;  we  here  re- 
ceive it 

A  certainty,  vouch'd  from  our  cousin  Austria, 
With  caution  that  the  Florentine  will  move  us 
For  speedy  aid  ;  wherein  our  dearest  friend 
Prejudicates  the  business,  and  would  seem 
To  have  us  make  denial. 

I  Lord.  His  love  and  wisdom, 

Approv'd  so  to  your  majesty,  may  plead 
For  amplest  credence. 

King.  He  hath  arm'd  our  answer, 

And  Florence  is  denied  before  he  comes: 
Yet,  foi  our  gentlemen  that  mean  to  see 


284 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


[ACT  I. 


The  Tuscan  service,  freely  have  they  leave 
To  stand  on  either  part. 

2  Lord.  It  well  may  serve 

A  nursery  to  our  gentry,  who  are  sick 
For  breathing  and  exploit. 

King.  What 's  he  comes  here  ? 

Enter  BERTRAM,  LAFEU,  and  PAROLLES. 

I  Lord.   It  is  the  Count  Rousillon,  my  good 

lord, 
Young  Bertram. 

King.  Youth,  thou  bear'st  thy  father's  face ; 
Frank  nature,  rather  curious  than  in  haste, 
Hath  well  compos'd  thee.     Thy  father's  moral 

parts 
Mayst  thou  inherit  too !     Welcome  to  Paris. 

Ber.  My  thanks  and  duty  are  your  majesty's. 

King.   I  would  I  had  that  corporal  soundness 

now, 

As  when  thy  father  and  myself  in  friendship 
First  tried  our  soldiership !     He  did  look  far 
Into  the  service  of  the  time,  and  was 
Discipled  of  the  bravest :  he  lasted  long ; 
But  on  us  both  did  haggish  age  steal  on, 
And  wore  us  out  of  act.     It  much  repairs  me 
To  talk  of  your  good  father.     In  his  youth 
He  had  the  wit  which  I  can  well  observe 
To-day  in  our  young  lords ;  but  they  may  jest 
Till  their  own  scorn  return  to  them  unnoted, 
Ere  they  can  hide  their  levity  in  honour 
So  like  a  courtier :  contempt  nor  bitterness 
Were  in  his  pride  or  sharpness ;  if  they  were, 
His  equal  had  awak'd  them ;  and  his  honour, 
Clock  to  itself,  knew  the  true  minute  when 
Exception  bid  him  speak,  and  at  this  time 
His  tongue  obey'd  his  hand :  who  were  be'.ow 

him 

He  us'd  as  creatures  of  another  place ; 
And  bow'd  his  eminent  top  to  their  low  ranks 
Making  them  proud  of  his  humility, 
In  their  poor  praise  he  humbled.     Such  a  man 
Might  be  a  copy  to  these  younger  times;  [now 
Which,  follow'd  well,  would  demonstrate  them 
But  goers  backward. 

Ber.  His  good  remembrance,  sir, 

Lies  richer  in  your  thoughts  than  on  his  tomb ; 
So  in  approof  lives  not  his  epitaph 
As  in  your  royal  speech.  [always  say, — 

King.  Would  I  were  with  him !     He  would 
Methinks  I  hear  him  now ;  his  plausive  words 
He  scatter'd  not  in  ears,  but  grafted  them, 
To  grow  there,  and  to  bear, — Let  me  not  live, — 
Thus  his  good  melancholy  oft  began, 
On  the  catastrophe  and  heel  of  pastime, 
When  it  was  out, — Let  me  not  live,  quoth  he, 
After  my  flame  lacks  oil,  to  be  the  snuff 
Of  younger  spirits  j  whose  apprehensive  senses 


All  bttt  new  things  disdain;  whose  judgments 
are  \stancies 

Mere  fathers  of  their  garments ;    whose  con- 
Expire  before  their  fashions  : — This  he  wish'd: 
I,  after  him,  do  after  him  wish  too, 
Since  I  nor  wax  nor  honey  can  bring  home, 
I  quickly  were  dissolv'd  from  my  hive, 
To  give  some  labourers  room. 

2  Lord.  You  are  lov'd,  sir : 

They  that  least  lend  it  you  shall  lack  you  first. 

King.  I  fill  a  place,  I  know't. — How  long 

is't,  count, 

Since  the  physician  at  your  father's  died? 
He  was  much  fam'd. 

Ber.  Some  six  months  since,  my  lord. 

King.  If  he  were  living  I  would  try  him  yet; — 
Lend  me  an  arm ; — the  rest  have  worn  me  out 
With  several  applications : — nature  and  sickness 
Debate  it  at  their  leisure.     Welcome,  count ; 
My  son  's  no  dearer. 

Ber.  Thank  your  majesty. 

\Exeunt.     Flotirish. 

SCENE    III. — ROUSILLON.     A   Room  in  thi 
Palace. 

Enter  COUNTESS,  Steward,  and  Clown. 

Count.  I  will  now  hear :  what  say  you  of  this 
gentlewoman? 

Ste-v.  Madam,  the  care  I  have  had  to  even 
your  content,  I  wish  might  be  found  in  the 
calendar  of  my  past  endeavours;  for  then  we 
wound  our  modesty,  and  make  foul  the  clear- 
ness of  our  deservings,  when  of  ourselves  we 
publish  them. 

Count.  What  does  this  knave  here?  Gel 
you  gone,  sirrah :  the  complaints  I  have  heard 
of  you  I  do  not  at  all  believe ;  'tis  my  slowness 
that  I  do  not ;  for  I  know  you  lack  not  folly  ta 
commit  them,  and  have  ability  enough  to  make 
such  knaveries  yours. 

Clo.  'Tis  not  unknown  to  you,  madam,  I  am 
a  poor  fellow. 

Count.  Well,  sir. 

Clo.  No,  madam,  'tis  not  so  well  that  I  am 
poor;  though  many  of  the  rich  are  damned: 
but  if  I  may  have  your  ladyship's  good  will  to 
go  to  the  world,  Isbel  the  woman  and  I  will  do 
as  we  may. 

Count.  Wilt  thou  needs  be  a  beggar? 

Clo.  I  do  beg  your  good  will  in  this  case. 

Count.   In  what  case? 

Clo.  In  Isbel's  case  and  mine  own.  Service 
is  no  heritage :  and  I  think  I  shall  never  have 
the  blessing  of  God  till  I  have  issue  of  my  body; 
for  they  say  bairns  are  blessings.  [marry. 

Count.  Tell  me  thy  reason  why  thou  wilt 


SCENE  III.] 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL, 


285 


Clo.  My  poor  body,  madam,  requires  it:  I 
am  driven  on  by  the  flesh;  and  he  must  needs 
go  that  the  devil  drives. 

Count.   Is  this  all  your  worship's  reason? 

Clo.  Faith,  madam,  I  have  other  holy 
reasons,  such  as  they  are. 

Count.   May  the  world  know  them  ? 

Clo.  I  have  been,  madam,  a  wicked  creature, 
as  you  and  all  flesh  and  blood  are;  and,  in- 
deed, I  do  marry  that  I  may  repent. 

Count.  Thy  marriage,  sooner  than  thy  wicked- 
ness. 

Clo.  I  am  out  of  friends,  madam ;  and  I  hope 
to  have  friends  for  my  wife's  sake. 

Count.  Such  friends  are  thine  enemies,  knave. 

Clo.  You  are  shallow,  madam,  in  greal 
friends :  for  the  knaves  come  to  do  that  for  me 
which  I  am  a-weary  of.  He  that  ears  my  land 
spares  my  team,  and  gives  me  leave  to  inn  the 
crop :  if  I  be  his  cuckold,  he 's  my  drudge :  he 
that  comforts  my  wife  is  the  cherisher  of  my 
flesh  and  blood ;  he  that  cherishes  my  flesh 
and  blood  loves  my  flesh  and  blood ;  he  that 
loves  my  flesh  and  blood  is  my  friend ;  ergo, 
he  that  kisses  my  wife  is  my  friend.  If  men 
could  be  contented  to  be  what  they  are,  there 
were  no  fear  in  marriage ;  for  young  Charbon 
the  puritan  and  old  Poysam  the  papist,  how- 
some'er  their  hearts  are  severed  in  religion, 
their  heads  are  both  one ;  they  may  joll  homs 
together  like  any  deer  i'  the  herd. 

Count.  Wilt  thou  ever  be  a  foul-mouthed  and 
calumnious  knave? 

Clo.  A  prophet  I,  madam ;  and  I  speak  the 
truth  the  next  way: 

For  I  the  ballad  will  repeat, 
Which  men  full  true  shall  find  ; 

Your  marriage  comes  by  destiny, 
Your  cuckoo  sings  by  kind. 

Count.  Get  you  gone,  sir ;  I  '11  talk  with  you 
more  anon. 

Stew.  May  it  please  you,  madam,  that  he 
bid  Helen  come  to  you  ;  of  her  I  am  to  speak. 

Count.  Sirrah,  tell  my  gentlewoman  I  would 
speak  with  her ;  Helen  I  mean. 

Clo.  [Singmg.]Vfa&  this  fair  face  the  cause,  quoth 
she, 

Why  the  Grecians  sacked  Troy? 
Fond  done,  done  fond, 

Was  this  Kin?  Priam's  joy? 
With  that  she  sighed  as  she  stood, 
With  that  she  sighed  as  she  stood, 

And  gave  this  sentence  then : — 
Among  nine  bad  if  one  be  good, 
Among  nine  bad  if  one  be  good, 

There 's  yet  one  good  ia  ten. 

Count.  What,  one  good  in  ten?  you  corrupt 
the  song,  sirrah. 


Clo.  One  good  woman  in  ten,  madam,  which 
is  a  purifying  o'  the  song:  would  God  would 
serve  the  world  so  all  the  year !  we  5d  find  no 
fault  with  the  tithe-woman  if  I  were  the  parson: 
one  in  ten,  quoth  a' !  an  we  might  have  a  good 
woman  born  but  for  every  blazing  star,  or  at  an 
earthquake,  'twould  mend  the  lottery  well:  a 
man  may  draw  his  heart  out  ere  he  pluck  one. 

Count.  You  'II  be  gone,  sir  knave,  and  do  as 
I  command  you ! 

Clo.  That  man  should  be  at  woman's  com- 
mand, and  yet  no  hurt  done  ! — Though  honesty 
be  no  puritan,  yet  it  will  do  no  hurt ;  it  will 
wear  the  surplice  of  humility  over  the  black 
gown  of  a  big  heart. — I  am  going,  forsooth: 
the  business  is  for  Helen  to  come  hither. 

[Exit. 

Count.  Well,  now. 

Stew.  I  know,  madam,  you  love  your  gentle- 
woman entirely. 

Count.  Faith,  I  do:  her  father  bequeathed 
her  to  me ;  and  she  herself,  without  other  ad- 
vantage, may  lawfully  make  title  to  as  much 
love  as  she  finds :  there  is  more  owing  her  than 
is  paid ;  and  more  shall  be  paid  her  than  she  '11 
demand. 

Stew.  Madam,  I  was  very  late  more  near  her 
than  I  think  she  wished  me:  alone  she  was, 
and  did  communicate  to  herself  her  own  words 
to  her  own  ears ;  she  thought,  I  dare  vow  for 
her,  they  touched  not  any  stranger  sense.  Her 
matter  was,  she  loved  your  son:  Fortune,  she 
said,  was  no  goddess,  that  had  put  such  differ- 
ence betwixt  their  two  estates ;  Love  no  god, 
that  would  not  extend  his  might  only  where 
qualities  were  level :  Diana  no  queen  of  virgins, 
that  would  suffer  her  poor  knight  surprise,  with- 
out rescue  in  the  first  assault,  cr  ransom  after- 
ward. This  she  delivered  in  the  most  bitter 
touch  of  sorrow  that  e'er  I  heard  virgin  ex- 
claim in :  which  I  held  my  duty  speedily  to  ac- 
quaint you  withal;  sithence,  in  the  loss  that 
may  happen,  it  concerns  you  Something  to  know 
it. 

Count.  You  have  discharged  this  honestly; 
keep  it  to  yourself:  many  likelihoods  informed 
me  of  this  before,  which  hung  so  tottering  in 
the  balance  that  I  could  neither  believe  nor 
misdoubt.  Pray  you,  leave  me:  stall  this  in 
your  bosom ;  and  I  thank  you  for  your  honest 
care :  I  will  speak  with  you  further  anon. 

[Exit  Steward. 

Count.  Even  so  it  was  with  me  when  I  was 
young :  [thorn 

If  ever  we  are  nature's,  these  are  ours ;  this 
Doth  to  our  rose  of  youth  rightly  belong ; 

Our  blood  to  us,  this  to  our  blood  is  born,- 


286 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


[ACT  I. 


It  is  the  show  and  seal  of  nature's  truth, 
Where  love's  strong   passion   is  impress'd  in 

youth : 

By  our  remembrances  of  days  foregone, 
Such  were  our  faults : — or  then  we  thought  them 

none. 

Enter  HELENA. 

Her  eye  is  sick  on 't ; — I  observe  her  now. 

Hel.  What  is  your  pleasure,  madam? 

Count.  You  know,  Helen, 

I  am  a  mother  to  you. 

Hel.  Mine  honourable  mistress. 

Count.  Nay,  a  mother: 

Why  not  a  mother?    When  I  said  a  mother, 
Methought    you    saw  a  serpent:    what's    in 

mother, 

That  you  start  at  it?     I  say  I  am  your  mother; 
And  put  you  in  the  catalogue  of  those 
That  were  emwombed  mine.     'Tis  often  seen 
Adoption  strives  with  nature ;  and  choice  breeds 
A  native  slip  to  us  from  foreign  seeds : 
You  ne'er  oppress'd  me  with  a  mother's  groan, 
Yet  I  express  to  you  a  mother's  care : — 
God's  mercy,  maiden !  does  it  curd  thy  blood 
To  say  I  am  thy  mother?     What's  the  matter, 
That  this  distemper'd  messenger  of  wet, 
The  many-colour'd  iris,  rounds  thine  eye? 
Why,— that  you  are  my  daughter? 

Hel.  That  I  am  not. 

Count.  I  say,  I  am  your  mother. 

Hel.  Pardon,  madam; 

The  Count  Rousillon  cannot  be  my  brother : 
I  am  from  humble,  he  from  honour'd  name ; 
No  note  upon  my  parents,  his  all  noble ; 
My  master,  my  dear  lord  he  is ;  and  I 
His  servant  live,  and  will  his  vassal  die : 
He  nvist  not  be  my  brother. 

Count.  Nor  I  your  mother  ? 

Hel.  You  are  my  mother,  madam;   would 

you  were, — 

So  that  my  lord  your  son  were  not  my  brother, — • 
Indeed  my  mother! — or  were  you  both  our 

mothers, 

I  care  no  more  for  than  I  do  for  heaven, 
So  I  were  not  his  sister.     Can't  no  other, 
But,  I  your  daughter,  he  must  be  my  brother? 

Count.  Yes,     Helen,    you    might    be    my 
daughter-in-law :  [mother 

God  shield  you  mean  it  not!    daughter  and 
So  strive  upon  your  pulse.     What !  pale  again? 
My  fear  hath  catch' d  your  fondness :  now  I  see 
The  mystery  of  your  loneliness,  and  find 
Your  salt  tears'  head.     Now  to  all  sense  'tis 

gross 

You  love  my  son ;  invention  is  asham'd, 
Against  the  proclamation  of  thy  passion, 


To  say  thou  dost  not :  therefore  tell  me  true ; 
But  tell  me  then,  'tis  so; — for,  look,  thy  cheeks 
Confess  it,  one  to  the  other ;  and  thine  eyes 
See  it  so  grossly  shown  in  thy  be1  •  aviours, 
That  in  their  kind  they  speak  it ;  only  sin 
And  heDish  obstinacy  tie  thy  tongue,  [so? 

That  truth  should  be  suspected.     Speak,  is't 
If  it  be  so,  you  have  wound  a  goodly  clue ; 
If  it  be  not,  forswear 't :  howe'er,  I  charge  thee, 
As  heaven  shall  work  in  me  for  thine  avail, 
To  tell  me  truly. 

Hel.  Good  madam,  pardon  me ! 

Count.  Do  you  love  my  son? 

Hel.  Your  pardon,  noble  mistress ! 

Count.   Love  you  my  son? 

Hel.  Do  not  you  love  him,  madam? 

Count.  Go  not  about ;  my  love  hath  in  't  a 
bond,  [disclose 

Whereof  the  world  takes  note:  come,  come, 
The  state  of  your  affection ;  for  your  passions 
Have  to  the  full  appeach'd. 

Hel.  Then  I  confess, 

Here  on  my  knee,  before  high  heaven  and  you, 
That  before  you,  and  next  unto  high  heaven, 
I  love  your  son : — 

My  friends  were  poor,  but  honest ;  so 's  my  love : 
Be  not  offended ;  for  it  hurts  not  him 
That  he  is  lov'd  of  me :  I  follow  him  not 
By  any  token  of  presumptuous  suit ; 
Nor  would  I  have  him  till  I  do  deserve  him ; 
Yet  never  know  how  that  desert  should  be. 
I  know  I  love  in  vain,  strive  against  hope ; 
Yet  in  this  captious  and  intenible  sieve 
I  still  pour  in  the  waters  of  my  love, 
And  lack  not  to  lose  still :  thus,  Indian-like, 
Religious  in  mine  error,  I  adore 
The  sun,  that  looks  upon  his  worshipper, 
But  knows  of   him    no    more.     My  dearest 

madam, 

Let  not  your  hate  encounter  with  my  love, 
For  loving  where  you  do;  but,  if  yourself, 
Whose  aged  honours  cites  a  virtuous  youth, 
Did  ever,  in  so  true  a  frame  of  liking, 
Wish  chastely,  and  love  dearly,  that  your  Dian 
Was  both  herself  and  love ;  O,  then,  give  pity 
To  her  whose  state  is  such  that  cannot  choose 
But  lend  and  give  where  she  is  sure  to  lose ; 
That  seeks  not  to  find  that  her  search  implies. 
But,  riddle-like,  lives  sweetly  where  she  dies ! 

Count.  Had  you  not  lately  an  intent, — spea» 

truly, — 
To  go  to  Paris? 

Hel.  Madam,  I  had. 

Count.  Wherefore?  tell  true. 

Hel.  I  will  tell  truth ;  by  grace  itself  I  swear. 
You  know  my  father  left  me  some  prescriptions 
Of  rare  and  prov'd  effects,  such  as  his  reading 


SCENE  III.] 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


287 


And  manifest  experience  had  collected 

For  general  sovereignty  ;  and  that  he  will'd  me 

In  heedfulest  reservation  to  bestow  them, 

As  notes  whose  faculties  inclusive  were 

More  than  they  were  in  note :  amongst  the  rest 

There  is  a  remedy,  approv'd,  set  down, 

To  cure  the  desperate  languishings  whereof 

The  king  is  render'd  lost. 

Count.  This  was  your  motive 

For  Paris,  was  it?  speak.  [this; 

HeL   My  lord  your  son  made  me  to  think  of 
Else  Paris,  and  the  medicine,  and  the  king, 
Had  from  the  conversation  of  my  thoughts 
Haply  been  absent  then. 

Count.  But  think  you,  Helen, 

If  you  should  tender  your  supposed  aid, 
He  would  receive  it?     He  and  his  physicians 
Are  of  a  mind;  he,  that  they  cannot  help  him, 
They,  that  they  cannot  help:  how  shall  they 

credit 

A  poor  unlearned  virgin,  when  the  schools, 
Embowell'd  of  their  doctrine,  have  left  off 
The  danger  to  itself? 

HeL  There 's  something  in 't 

More  than  my  father's  skill,  which  was  the 

greatest 

Of  his  profession,  that  his  good  receipt 
Shall,  for  my  legacy,  be  sanctified 
By  the  luckiest  stars  in  heaven:  and,  would 

your  honour 

But  give  me  leave  to  try  success,  I  'd  venture 
The  well-lost  life  of  mine  on  his  grace's  cure 
ty  such  a  day  and  hour. 

Count.  Dost  thou  believe 't? 

HeL  Ay,  madam,  knowingly. 

Count.  Why,    Helen,  thou  shalt  have  my 

leave,  and  love, 

Means,  and  attendants,  and  my  loving  greetings 
To  those  of  mine  in  court :  I  '11  stay  at  home, 
And  pray  God's  blessings  into  thy  attempt : 
Be  gone  to-morrow ;  and  be  sure  of  this, 
"Vhat  I  can  help  thee  to  thou  shalt  not  miss. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — PARIS.    A  Room  in  the  KING'S 
Palace. 

Flourish.     Enter  KING,   with   young  Lords 
taking  leave  for  the  Florentine  war;  BER- 
TRAM, PAROLLES,  and  Attendants. 
King.  Farewell,  young  lord;  these  warlike 
prin  ciples  [fare  wel  1 : — 

Do  not  throw  from  you: — and  you,  my  lord, 
Share  the  advice  betwixt  you ;  if  both  gain  all, 
The  gift  doth  stretch  itself  as  'tis  received, 
And  is  enough  for  both. 


1  Lord.  It  is  our  hope,  sir, 
After  well-enter'd  soldiers,  to  return 
And  find  your  grace  in  health. 

King.  No,  no,  it  cannot  be ;  and  yet  my  heart 
Will  not  confess  he  owes  the  malady 
That  doth  my  life  besiege.  Farewell,  young  lords; 
Whether  I  live  or  die,  be  you  the  sons 
Of  worthy  Frenchmen ;  let  higher  Italy, — 
Those  bated  that  inherit  but  the  fall 
Of  the  last  monarchy, — see  that  you  come 
Not  to  woo  honour,  but  to  wed  it ;  when 
The  bravest  questant  shrinks,  find  what  you 

seek, 
That  fame  may  cry  you  loud :  I  say,  farewell. 

2  Lord.   Health,  at  your  bidding,  serve  your 

majesty ! 

King.  Those  girls  of  Italy,  take  heed  of  them; 
They  say  our  French  lack  language  to  deny, 
If  they  demand :  beware  of  being  captives 
Before  you  serve. 

Both.          Our  hearts  receive  your  warnings. 
King.  Farewell. — Come  hither  to  me. 

[The  KING  retires  to  a  couch. 

1  Lord.  O  my  sweet  lord,  that  you  will  stay 

behind  us ! 
Par.  'Tis  not  his  fault ;  the  spark 

2  Lord.  O,  tis  brave  wars! 
Par.  Most  admirable:    I  have  seen  those 

wars.  [with, 

Ber.  I  am  commanded  here,  and  kept  a  coil 

Too  young,  and  the  next  year -,  and  'tis  too  early. 

Par.  An  thy  mind  stand  to  it,  boy,  steal 

away  bravely.  [smock, 

Ber.  I  shall  stay  here  the  forehorse  to  a 

Creaking  my  shoes  on  the  plain  masonry, 

Till  honour  be  bought  up,  and  no  sword  worn 

But  one  to  dance  with !     By  heaven,  I  '11  steal 

away. 

1  Lord.  There 's  honour  in  the  theft. 

Par.  Commit  it,  count. 

2  Lord.  I  am  your  accessary;  and  so  fare- 

well, [tured  body. 

Ber.  I  grow  to  you,  and  our  parting  is  a  tor- 

1  Lord.  Farewell,  captain. 

2  Lord.  Sweet  Monsieur  Parolles! 

Par.  Noble  heroes,  my  sword  and  yours  are 
kin.  Good  sparks  and  lustrous,  a  word,  good 
metals. — You  shall  find  in  the  regiment  of  the 
Spinii  one  Captain  Spurio,  with  his  cicatrice,  an 
emblem  of  war,  here  on  his  sinister  cheek;  it 
was  this  very  sword  entrenched  it :  say  to  him 
I  live ;  and  observe  his  reports  for  me. 

2  Lord.  We  shall,  noble  captain. 

Par.  Mars  dote  on  you  for  his  novices  1 
[Exeunt  Lords.]  What  will  ye  do? 

Ber.  Stay ;  the  king 

Par.  Use  a  more  spacious  ceremony  to  the 


288 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


[ACT  n. 


noble  lords ;  you  have  restrained  yourself  with- 
in the  list  of  too  cold  an  adieu:  be  more  ex- 
pressive to  them ;  for  they  wear  themselves  in 
the  cap  of  the  time ;  there  do  muster  true  gait, 
eat,  speak,  and  move  under  the  influence  of  the 
most  received  star ;  and  though  the  devil  lead 
the  measure,  such  are  to  be  followed:  after 
them,  and  take  a  more  dilated  farewell. 

Ber.  And  I  will  do  so. 

Par.  Worthy  fellows ;  and  like  to  prove  most 
sinewy  sword-men. 

\Exeunt  BERTRAM  and  PAROLLES. 

Enter  LAFEU. 

Laf.  Pardon,    my   lord   \kneeling\    for  me 
and  for  my  tidings. 

King.   I  '11  fee  thee  to  stand  up. 

Laf.  Then  here's  a  man  stands  that  has 

bought  his  pardon.  [mercy ; 

I  would  you  had  kneel'd,  my  lord,  to  ask  me 

And  that,  at  my  bidding,  you  could  so  stand  up. 

King.  I  would  I  had;  so  I  had  broke  thy 

pate, 
And  ask'd  thee  rnercy  for 't. 

Laf.  Good  faith,  across ; 

But,  my  good  lord,  'tis  thus :  Will  you  be  cured 
Of  your  infirmity? 

King.  No. 

Laf.  O,  will  you  eat 

No  grapes,  my  royal  fox?  yes,  but  you  will 
My  noble  grapes,  and  if  my  royal  fox 
Could  reach  them :  I  have  seen  a  medicine 
That 's  able  to  breathe  life  into  a  stone, 
Quicken  a  rock,  and  make  you  dance  canary 
With  spritely  fire  and  motion  j  whose  simple 

touch 

Is  powerful  to  araise  King  Pipin,  nay, 
To  give  great  Charlemain  a  pen  in  his  hand 
And  write  to  her  a  love-line. 

King.  What  her  is  that? 

Laf.  Why,  doctor  she:  my  lord,  there 's  one 
arriv'd,  [honour, 

If  you  will  see  her, — now,  by  my  faith  and 
If  seriously  I  may  convey  my  thoughts 
In  this  my  light  deliverance,  I  have  spoke 
With  one  that  in  her  sex,  her  years,  profession, 
Wisdom,  and  constancy  hath  amaz'd  me  more 
Than  I  dare  blame  my  weakness :  will  you  see 
her,—  [ness? 

For  that  is  her  demand, — and  know  her  busi- 
That  done,  laugh  well  at  me. 

King.  Now,  good  Lafeu, 

Bring  in  the  admiration ;  that  we  with  thee 
May  spend  our  wonder  too,  or  take  off  thine 
By  wondering  how  thou  took'st  it. 

Laf.  Nay,  I  '11  fit  you, 

And  not  be  all  day  neither,          \Exit  LAFEU. 


King.  Thus  he  his  special  nothing  ever  pro- 
logues. 

Re-enter  LAFEU  with  HELENA. 

Laf.  Nay,  come  your  ways. 

King.  This  haste  hath  wings  indeed. 

Laf.  Nay,  come  your  ways ; 
This  is  his  majesty :  say  your  mind  to  him : 
A  traitor  you  do  look  like ;  but  such  traitors 
His  majesty  seldom  fears :  I  am  Ciessid's  uncle, 
That  dare  leave  two  together:  fare  you  well. 

(.Exit. 

King.  Now,  fair   one,   does   your  business 
follow  us?  [was 

Hel.  Ay,  my  good  lord.     Gerard  cle  Narbon 
My  father ;  in  what  he  did  profess  well  found. 

King.  I  knew  him. 

Hel.  The  rather  will  I  spare  my  praises  to- 
wards him. 

Knowing  him  is  enough.     On  his  bed  of  death 
Many  receipts  he  gave  me ;  chiefly  one, 
Which,  as  the  dearest  issue  of  his  practice, 
And  of  his  old  experience  the  only  darling, 
He  bade  me  store  up  as  a  triple  eye,  [so 

Safer  than  mine  own  two,  more  dear :  I  have 
And,  hearing  your  high  majesty  is  touch'd 
With  that  malignant  cause  wherein  the  honour 
Of  my  dear  father's  gift  stands  chief  in  power, 
I  come  to  tender  it,  and  my  appliance, 
With  all  bound  humbleness. 

King.  We  thank  you,  maiden; 

But  may  not  be  so  credulous  of  cure, — 
When  our  most  learned  doctors  leave  us,  and 
The  congregated  college  have  concluded 
That  labouring  art  can  never  ransom  nature 
From  her  inaidable  estate, — I  say  we  must  not 
So  stain  our  judgment,  or  corrupt  our  hope, 
To  prostitute  our  past-cure  malady 
To  empirics ;  or,  to  dissever  so 
Our  great  self  and  our  credit,  to  esteem 
A  senseless  help,  when  help  past  sense  we  deem. 

Hel.  My  duty,  then,  shall  pay  me  for  rny 

pains: 

I  will  no  more  enforce  mine  office  on  you ; 
Humbly  entreating  from  your  royal  thoughts 
A  modest  one  to  bear  me  back  again. 

King.  I  cannot  give  thee  less,  to  be  call'd 
grateful.  [I  give 

Thou  thought'st  to  help  me ;  and  such  thanks 
As  one  near  death  to  those  that  wish  him  live: 
But  what  at  full  I  know,  thou  know'st  no  part; 
I  knowing  all  my  peril,  thott  no  art. 

Hel.  What  I  can  do  can  do  no  hurt  to  try, 
Since  you  set  up  your  rest  'gainst  remedy. 
He  that  of  greatest  works  is  finisher 
Oft  does  them  by  the  weakest  minister : 
So  holy  writ  in  babes  hath  judgment  shown. 


SCENE  I.] 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


When  judges  have  been  babes.     Great  floods 

have  flown 

From  simple  sources ;  and  great  seas  have  dried 
When  miracles  have  by  the  greatest  been  denied. 
Oft  expectation  fails,  and  most  oft  there 
Where  most  it  promises ;  and  oft  it  hits 
Where  hope  is  coldest,  and  despair  most  fits. 

King.  I  must  not  hear  thee :  fare  thee  well, 

kind  maid; 

Thy  pains,  not  used,  must  by  thyself  be  paid : 
Proffers,  not  took,  reap  thanks  for  their  reward. 

Hel.   Inspired  merit  so  by  breath  is  barred : 
It  is  not  so  with  Him  that  all  things  knows, 
As  'tis  with  us  that  square  our  guess  by  shows : 
But  most  it  is  presumption  in  us  when 
The  help  of  heaven  we  count  the  act  of  men. 
Dear  sir,  to  my  endeavours  give  consent : 
Of  heaven,  not  me,  make  an  experiment. 
I  am  not  an  impostor,  that  proclaim 
Myself  against  the  level  of  mine  aim ; 
But  know  I  think,  and  think  I  know  most  sure, 
My  art  is  not  past  power  nor  you  past  cure. 

King.  Art  thou  so  confident?     Within  what 

space 
Hop'st  thou  my  cure? 

Hel.  The  greatest  grace  lending  grace, 

Ere  twice  the  horses  of  the  sun  shall  bring 
Their  fiery  torcher  his  diurnal  ring ; 
Ere  twice  in  murk  and  occidental  damp 
Moist  Hesperus  hath  quench'd  his  sleepy  lamp; 
Or  four-and-twenty  times  the  pilot's  glass 
Hath  told  the  thievish  minutes  how  they  pass ; 
What  is  infirm  from  your  sound  parts  shall 

fly, 

Health  shall  live  free,  and  sickness  freely  die. 

King.   Upon  thy  certainty  and  confidence, 
What  dar'st  thou  venture? 

Hel.  Tax  of  impudence, — 

A  strumpet's  boldness,  a  divulged  shame, — 
Traduc'a  by  odious  ballads ;  my  maiden's  name 
Sear'd  otherwise ;  ne  worse  of  worst  extended, 
With  vilest  torture  let  my  life  be  ended. 

King.  Methinks  in  thee  some  blessed  spirit 

doth  speak ; 

His  powerful  sound  within  an  organ  weak : 
And  what  impossibility  would  slay 
In  common  sense,  sense  saves  another  way. 
Thy  life  is  dear ;  for  all  that  life  can  rate 
Worth  name  of  life  in  thee  hath  estimate: 
Youth,  beauty,  wisdom,  courage,  all 
That  happiness  in  prime  can  happy  call ; 
Thou  this  to  hazard  needs  must  intimate 
Skill  infinite,  or  monstrous  desperate. 
Sweet  practiser,  thy  physic  I  will  try : 
That  ministers  thine  own  death  if  I  die. 

Hel.  If  I  break  time,  or  flinch  in  property 
Of  what  I  spoke,  unpitied  let  me  die ; 

' 


And  well  deserv'd.     Not  helping,  death's  my 

fee; 

But,  if  I  help,  what  do  you  promise  me? 
King.  Make  thy  demand. 
Hel.  But  will  you  make  it  even? 

King.  Ay,  by  my  sceptre  and  my  hopes  of 

heaven.  [hand, 

Hel.  Then  shall  thou  give  me,  with  thy  kingly 
What  husband  in  thy  power  I  will  command: 
Exempted  be  from  me  the  arrogance 
To  choose  from  forth  the  royal  blood  of  France, 
My  low  and  humble  name  to  propagate 
With  any  branch  or  image  of  thy  state : 
But  such  a  one,  thy  vassal,  whom  I  know 
Is  free  for  me  to  ask,  thee  to  bestow. 
King.  Here  is  my  hand;  the  premises  ob- 

serv'd, 

Thy  will  by  my  performance  shall  be  serv'd ; 
So  make  the  choice  of  thy  own  time,  for  I, 
Thy  resolv'd  patient,  on  thee  still  rely. 
More  should   I   question    thee,   and  more   I 

must, — 
Though  more  to  know  could  not  be  more  to 

trust, — 
From  whence  thou  cam'st,  how  tended  on.— 

But  rest  - 

Unquestion'd  welcome  and  undoubted  blest. — 

Give  me  some  help  here,  he  ! — If  thou  proceed 

As  high  as  ,*rord,  my  deed  shall  match  thy  deed. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— ROUSILLON.    A  Room  in  the 
COUNTESS'S  Palace. 

Enter  COUNTESS  and  CLOWN. 

Count.  Come  on,  sir ;  I  shall  now  put  yon  to 
the  height  of  your  breeding. 

Clo.  I  will  show  myself  highly  fed  and  lowly 
taught :  I  know  my  business  is  but  to  the  court. 

Count.  To  the  court !  why,  what  place  make 
you  special,  when  you  put  off  that  with  such 
contempt?  But  to  the  court ! 

Clo.  Truly,  madam,  if  God  have  lent  a  man 
any  manners,  he  may  easily  put  it  off  at  court : 
he  that  cannot  make  a  leg,  put  off  's  cap,  kiss 
his  hand,  and  say  nothing,  has  neither  leg, 
hands,  lip,  nor  cap;  and,  indeed,  such  a 
fellow,  to  say  precisely,  were  not  for  the  court: 
but,  for  me,  I  have  an  answer  will  serve  all 
men. 

Count.  Marry,  that 's  a  bountiful  answer  that 
fits  all  questions. 

Clo.  It  is  like  a  barber's  chair,  that  fits  all 
buttocks, — the  pin-buttock,  the  quatch-buttock, 
the  brawn -buttock,  or  any  buttock . 

Count,  Will  your  answer  serve  fit  to  all  ques- 
tions? 


290 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


[ACT  II. 


Clo.  As  fit  as  ten  groats  is  for  the  hand  of  an 
attorney,  as  your  French  crown  for  your  taffeta 
punk,  as  Tib's  rush  for  Tom's  forefinger,  as  a 
pancake  for  Shrove-Tuesday,  a  morris  for  May- 
day, as  the  nail  to  his  hole,  the  cuckold  to  his 
horn,  as  a  scolding  quean  to  a  wrangling  knave, 
as  the  nun's  lip  to  the  friar's  mouth;  nay,  as  the 
pudding  to  his  skin. 

Count.  Have  you,  I  say,  an  answer  of  such 
fitness  for  all  questions? 

Clo.  From  below  your  duke  to  beneath  your 
constable,  it  will  fit  any  question. 

Count.  It  must  be  an  answer  of  most  mon- 
strous size  that  must  fit  all  demands. 

Clo.  But  a  trifle  neither,  in  good  faith,  if  the 
learned  should  speak  truth  of  it :  here  it  is,  and 
all  that  belongs  to't.  Ask  me  if  I  am  a 
courtier :  it  shall  do  you  no  harm  to  learn. 

Count.  To  be  young  again,  if  we  could :  I 
will  be  a  fool  in  question,  hoping  to  be  the  wiser 
by  your  answer.  I  pray  you,  sir,  are  you  a 
courtier? 

Clo.  O  Lord,  sir ! — There 's  a  simple  putting 
off; — more,  more,  a  hundred  of  them. 

Count.  Sir,  I  am  a  poor  friend  of  yours,  that 
Joves  you.  [me. 

Clo.  O  Lord,  si*  ! — Thick,  thick ;  spare  not 

Count.  I  think,  sir,  you  can  eat  none  of  this 
homely  meat. 

Clo.  O  Lord,  sir!— Nay,  put  me  to't,  I 
warrant  you. 

Count.  You  were  lately  whipped,  sir,  as  I 
think. 

Clo.  O  Lord,  sir ! — spare  not  me. 

Count.  Do  you  cry,  O  Lord,  sir!  at  your 
whipping,  and  spare  not  me?  Indeed,  your  O 
Lord,  sir!  is  very  sequent  to  your  whipping : 
you  would  answer  very  well  to  a  whipping,  if 
you  were  but  bound  to 't. 

Clo.  I  ne'er  had  worse  luck  in  my  life  in  my 
— 0  Lord,  sir!  I  see  things  may  serve  long,  but 
not  serve  ever. 

Count.  I  play  the  noble  housewife  with  the 
time,  to  entertain  it  so  merrily  with  a  fool. 

Clo.  O  Lord,  sir ! — Why,  there 't  serves  well 
again. 

Count.  An  end,  sir,  to  your  business.     Give 

Helen  this, 

And  urge  her  to  a  present  answer  back : 
Commend  me  to  my  kinsmen  and  my  son : 
This  is  not  much. 

Clo.  Not  much  commendation  to  them. 

Count.  Not  much  employment  for  you :  you 
understand  me? 

Clo.  Most  fruitfully :  I  am  there  before  my 
l£gs. 

Count.   Haste  you  again.  [Exeunt  severally. 


SCENE  III. — PARIS.  A  Room  in  the  KING'S 

Palace. 

Enter  BERTRAM,  LAFEU,  and  PAROLLES. 

Laf.  They  say  miracles  are  past ;  and  we  have 
our  philosophical  persons  to  make  modern  and 
familiar  things  supernatural  and  causeless. 
Hence  is  it  that  we  make  trifles  of  terrors,  en- 
sconcing ourselves  into  seeming  knowledge 
when  we  should  submit  ourselves  to  an  unknown 
fear. 

Par.  Why,  'tis  the  rarest  argument  of  wonder 
that  hath  shot  out  in  our  latter  times. 

Ber.  And  so  'tis. 

Laf.  To  be  relinquish'd  of  the  artists, — 

Par.  So  I  say ;  both  of  Galen  and  Paracelsus. 

Laf.  Of  all  the  learned  and  authentic  fel- 
lows,— 

Par.  Right;  so  I  say. 

Laf.  That  gave  him  out  incurable,—  - 

Par.  Why,  there  'tis ;  so  say  I  too. 

Laf.  Not  to  be  helped,— 

Par.   Right ;  as  'twere  a  man  assured  of  a, — 

Laf.   Uncertain  life  and  sure  death.       [said. 

Par.  Just;  you  say  well:  so  would  I  have 

Laf.  I  may  truly  say,  it  is  a  novelty  to  the 
world. 

Par.  It  is  indeed :  if  you  will  have  it  in  show- 
ing, you  shall  read  it  in, — What  do  you  call 
there? — 

Laf.  A  showing  of  a  heavenly  effect  in  an 
earthly  actor.  [same. 

Par.  That 's  it  I  would  have  said ;  the  very 

Laf.  Why,  your  dolphin  is  not  lustier :  'fore 
me,  I  speak  in  respect, — 

Par.  Nay,  'tis  strange,  'tis  very  strange ;  that 
is  the  brief  and  the  tedious  of  it ;  and  he  is  of  a 
most  facinorous  spirit  that  will  not  acknowledge 
it  to  be  the, — 

Laf.  Very  hand  of  heaven. 

Par.  Ay;  so  I  say. 

Laf.  In  a  most  weak, — 

Par.  And  debile  minister,  great  power,  great 
transcendence:  which  should,  indeed,  give  us 
a  further  use  to  be  made  than  alone  the  recovery 
of  the  king,  as  to  be, — 

Laf.  Generally  thankful. 

Par.  I  would  have  said  it;  you  say  well. 
Here  comes  the  king. 

Enter  KING,  HELENA,  and  Attendants. 

Laf.  Lustic,  as  the  Dutchman  says :  I  '11  like 
a  maid  the  better,  whilst  I  have  a  tooth  in  my 
head :  why,  he 's  able  to  lead  her  a  coranto. 

Par.  Mort  du  Vinaigrel  is  not  this  Helen? 

Laf.  'Fore  God,  I  think  so. 


SCENE  II!.] 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL, 


291 


King:  Go,  call  before  me  all  the  lords   in 
court. —  \Exit  an  Attendant. 

Sit,  my  preserver,  by  thy  patient's  side ; 
And  with  this  healthful  hand,  whose  banish'd 

sense 

Thou  hast  repeal'd,  a  second  time  receive 
The  confirmation  of  my  promis'd  gift, 
Which  but  attends  thy  naming. 

Enter  several  Lords. 

Fair  maid,  send  forth  thine  eye:  this  youthful 

parcel 

Of  noble  bachelors  stand  at  my  bestowing, 
O'er  whom  both  sovereign  power  and  father's 

voice 

I  have  to  use :  thy  frank  election  make ; 

Thou  hast  power  to  choose,  and  they  none  to 

forsake.  [mistress 

Hel.  To  each  of  you  one  fair  and  virtuous 

Fall,  when  love  please! — marry,  to  each,  but 

one! 

Laf.  I  'd  give  bay  Curtal,  and  his  furniture, 
My  mouth  no  more  were  broken  than  these  boys', 
And  writ  as  little  beard. 

King.  Peruse  them  well : 

Not  one  of  those  hut  had  a  noble  father. 

Hel.  Gentlemen, 

Heaven  hath,  through  me,  restor'd  the  king  to 

health.  [you. 

AIL  We  understand  it,  and  thank  heaven  for 

Hel.  I    am   a    simple    maid,    and    therein 

wealthiest 

That  I  protest  I  simply  am  a  maid. — 
Please  it,  your  majesty,  I  have  done  already : 
The  blushes  in  my  cheeks  thus  whisper  me — 
We  blush  that  thou  shouldst  choose ;  but>  be  re- 

fus'd, 

Let  the  white  death  sit  on  thy  cheek  for  ever; 
We '//  n£er  come  there  again. 

King.  Make  choice ;  and,  see, 

Who  shuns  thy  love  shuns  all  his  love  in  me. 

Hel.  Now,  Dian,  from  thy  altar  do  I  fly, 
And  to  imperial  Love,  that  god  most  high, 
Do  my  sighs  stream. — Sir,  will  you  hear  my 
suit? 

1  Lord.  And  grant  it. 

Hel.  Thanks,  sir ;  all  the  rest  is  mute. 

Laf.   I  had  rather  be  in  this  choice  than  throw 
ames-ace  for  my  life.  [eyes, 

Hel.  The  honour,  sir,  that  flames  in  your  fair 
Before  I  speak,  too  threateningly  replies: 
Love  make  your  fortunes  twenty  times  above 
Her  that  so  wishes,  and  her  humble  love  ! 

2  Lord.  No  better,  if  you  please. 

Hel.  My  wish  receive, 

Which  great  Love  grant !   and  so  I  take  my 
leave. 


Laf  Do  all  they  deny  her?  An  they  were 
sons  of  mine  I  'd  have  them  whipped ;  or  I 
would  send  them  to  the  Turk  to  make  eunuchs 
of. 

Hel.  [To  third  Lord.]  Be  not  afraid  that  I 

your  hand  should  take ; 
I  '11  never  do  you  wrong  for  your  own  sake : 
Blessing  upon  your  vows !  and  in  your  bed 
Find  fairer  fortune,  if  you  ever  wed ! 

Laf  These  boys  are  boys  of  ice ;  they  Ml  none 
have  her :  sure,  they  are  bastards  to  the  English ; 
the  French  ne'er  got  them.  [good 

Hel.  You  are  too  young,  too  happy,  and  too 
To  make  yourself  a  son  out  of  my  blood. 

4  Lord.   Fair  one,  I  think  not  so. 

Laf.  There's  one  grape  yet, — I  am  sure  thy 
father  drank  wine.  — But  if  thou  beest  not  an  ass, 
I  am  a  youth  of  fourteen  ;  I  have  known  thee 
already. 

Hel.  [To  BERTRAM.]  I  dare  not  say  I  take 

you ;  but  I  give 

Me  and  my  service,  ever  whilst  I  live, 
Into  your  guiding  power. — This  is  the  man. 

King.  Why,  then,  young  Bertram,  take  her ; 
she 's  thy  wife.  [highness, 

Ber.   My  wife,  my  liege  !  I  shall  beseech  your 
In  such  a  business  give  me  leave  to  use 
The  help  of  mine  own  eyes. 

King.  Know'st  thou  not,  Bertram, 

What  she  has  done  for  me? 

Ber.  Yes,  my  good  lord; 

But  never  hope  to  know  why  I  should  marry 

her.  [my  sickly  bed. 

King.  Thou  know'st  she  has  rais'd  me  from 

Ber.  But  follows  it,  my  lord,  to  bring  me 

down 

Must  answer  for  your  raising  ?    I  know  her  well ; 
She  had  her  breeding  at  my  father's  charge : 
A  poor  physician's  daughter  my  wife  ! — Disdain 
Rather  corrupt  me  ever !  [the  which 

King.  'Tis  only  title  thou  disdain'st  in  her, 
I  can  build  up.     Strange  is  it  that  our  bloods, 
Of  colour,  weight,  and  heat,  pour'd  all  together, 
Would  quite  confound  distinction,  yet  stand  off 
In  differences  so  ttighty.      If  she  be 
All  that  is  virtuous, — save  what  thou  dislik'st, 
A  poor  physician's  daughter, — thou  dislik'st 
Of  virtue  for  the  name :  but  do  not  so : 
From  lowest  place  when  virtuous  things  proceed, 
The  place  is  dignified  by  the  doer's  deed : 
Where  great  additions  swell  's,  and  virtue  none, 
It  is  a  dropsied  honour :  good  alone 
Is  good  without  a  name ;  vileness  is  so : 
The  property  by  what  it  is  should  go, 
Not  by  the  title.     She  is  young,  wise,  fair ; 
In  these  to  nature  she  's  immediate  heir ; 
And  these  breed  honour:  that  is  honour's  scorn 


292 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


[ACT  ii. 


Which  challenges  itself  as  honour's  born, 
And  is  not  like  the  sire :  honours  thrive, 
When  rather  from  our  acts  we  them  derive 
Than  our  fore-goers :  the  mere  word 's  a  slave, 
Debauch'd  on  every  tomb ;  on  every  grave 
A  lying  trophy ;  and  as  oft  is  dumb 
Wftere  dust  and  damn'd  oblivion  is  the  tomb 
Of  honour5  d  bones  indeed.     What  should  be 

said? 

If  thou  canst  like  this  creature  as  a  maid, 
I  can  create  the  rest :  virtue  and  she 
Is  her  own  dower ;  honour  and  wealth  from  me. 
Ber.  I  cannot  love  her,  nor  will  strive  to  do't. 
King.  Thou  wrong'st  thyself,  if  thou  shouldst 

strive  to  choose.  [am  glad  : 

Hel.  That  you  are  well  restor'd,  my  lord,  I 

Let  the  rest  go.  [defeat, 

King.  My  honour 's  at  the  stake ;  which  to 

I  must  produce  my  power.     Here,  take  her 

hand, 

Proud  scornful  boy,  unworthy  this  good  gift ; 
That  dost  in  vile  misprision  shackle  up 
My  love  and  her  desert ;  that  canst  not  dream 
We,  poising  us  in  her  defective  scale, 
Shall  weigh  thee  to  the  beam;  that  wilt  not 

know 

It  is  in  us  to  plant  thine  honour  where 
We  please  to  have  it  grow.     Check  thy  con- 
tempt : 

Obey  our  will,  which  travails  in  thy  good : 
Believe  not  thy  disdain,  but  presently 
Do  thine  own  fortunes  that  obedient  right 
Which  both  thy  duty  owesand  our  power  claims 
Or  I  will  throw  thee  from  my  care  for  ever, 
Into  the  staggers  and  the  careless  lapse      [hate 
Of  youth  and  ignorance ;  both  my  revenge  and 
Loosing  upon  thee  in  the  name  of  justice, 
Without  all   terms  of  pity.      Speak! — thine 

answer ! 

Ber.   Pardon,  my  gracious  lord ;  for  I  submit 
My  fancy  to  your  eyes :  when  I  consider 
What  great  creation,  and  "What  dole  of  honour 
Flies  where  you  bid  it,  I  find  that  she,  which 

late 

Was  in  my  nobler  thoughts  most  base,  is  now 
The  praised  of  the  king  ;  who,  so  ennobled, 
Is  as  'twere  born  so. 

King.  Take  her  by  the  hand, 

And  tell  her  she  is  thine:  to  whom  I  promise 
A  counterpoise ;  if  not  to  thy  estate, 
A  balance  more  replete. 

Ber.  I  take  her  hand. 

King.  Good  fortune  and  the  favou*of  the  king 
Smile  upon  this  contract ;  whose  ceremony 
Shall  seem  expedient  on  the  now-born  brief, 
And  be  performed  to-night :  the  solemn  feast 
Shall  more  attend  upon  the  coming  space, 


Expecting  absent  friends.     As  thou  lov'st  her, 
Thy  love 's  to  me  religious ;  else,  does  err. 

[Exeunt  KING,  BER.,  HEL.,  Lords, 
and  Attendants. 

Laf.  Do  you  hear,  monsieur?  a  word  with 
you. 

Par,  Your  pleasure,  sir? 

Laf.  Your  lord  and  master  did  well  to  make 
his  recantation. 

Par.  Recantation  ! — My  lord !  my  master ! 

Laf.  Ay;  is  it  not  a  language  I  speak? 

Par.  A  most  harsh  one,  and  not  to  be  under- 
stood without  bloody  succeeding.  My  master ! 

Laf.  Are  you  companion  to  the  Count 
Rousillon?  [is  man. 

Par.  To  any  count ;  to  all  counts ;  to  what 

Laf.  To  what  is  count's  man :  count's  master 
is  of  another  style. 

Par.  You  are  too  old,  sir;  let  it  satisfy  you, 
you  are  too  old. 

Laf,  I  must  tell  thee,  sirrah,  I  write  man; 
to  which  title  age  cannot  bring  thee. 

Par.  What  I  dare  too  well  do,  I  dare  not  do. 

Laf  I  did  think  thee,  for  two  ordinaries,  to 
be  a  pretty  wise  fellow ;  thou  didst  make  toler- 
able vent  of  thy  travel ;  it  might  pass :  yet  the 
scarfs  and  the  bannerets  about  thee  did  mani- 
foldly dissuade  me  from  believing  thee  a  vessel 
of  too  great  a  burden.  I  have  now  found  thee ; 
when  I  lose  thee  again  I  care  not :  yet  art  thou 
good  for  nothing  but  taking  up ;  and  that  thou 
art  scarce  worth. 

Par.  Hadst  thou  not  the  privilege  of  antiquity 
upon  thee, — 

Laf.  Do  not  plunge  thyself  too  far  in  anger, 
lest  thou  hasten  thy  trial ;  which  if — Lord  have 
mercy  on  thee  for  a  hen !  So,  my  good  window 
of  lattice,  fare  thee  well :  thy  casement  I  need 
not  open,  for"  I  look  through  thee.  Give  me 
thy  hand.  [indignity. 

Par.  My  lord,  you  give  me  most  egregious 

Laf.  Ay,  with  all  my  heart;  and  thou  art 
worthy  of  it. 

Par.  I  have  not,  my  lord,  deserved  it. 

Laf.  Yes,  good  faith,  every  dram  of  it :  and 
I  will  not  bate  thee  a  scruple. 

Par.  Well,  I  shall  be  wiser. 

Laf.  E'en  as  soon  as  thou  canst,  for  thou  hast 
to  pull  at  a  smack  o'  the  contrary.  If  ever  thou 
beest  bound  in  thy  scarf  and  beaten,  thou  shalt 
find  what  it  is  to  be  proud  of  thy  bondage.  I 
have  a  desire  to  hold  my  acquaintance  with  thee, 
or  rather  my  knowledge,  that  I  may  say,  in  the 
default,  he  is  a  man  I  know. 

Par.  My  lord,  you  do  me  most  insupportable 
vexation. 

Laf.  I  would  it  were  hell-pains  for  thy  sake, 


SCENE  III.  j 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


293 


and  my  poor  doing  eternal :  for  doing  I  am  past ; 
as  I  will  by  thee,  in  what  motion  age  will  give 
me  leave.  [Exit. 

Par.  Well,  thou  hast  a  son  shall  take  this 
disgrace  off  me;  scurvy,  old,  filthy,  scurvy  lord  I 
— Well,  I  must  be  patient ;  there  is  no  fettering 
of  authority.  I  '11  beat  him,  by  my  life,  if  I  can 
meet  him  with  any  convenience,  an  he  were 
double  and  double  a  lord.  I  '11  have  no  more 
pity  of  his  age  than  I  would  have  of — I  '11  beat 
him,  an  if  I  could  but  meet  him  again. 

Re-enter  LAFEU. 

Laf.  Sirrah,  your  lord  and  master 's  married ; 
there 's  news  for  you ;  you  have  a  new  mistress. 

Par.  I  most  unfeignedly  beseech  your  lord- 
ship to  make  some  reservation  of  your  wrongs : 
he  is  my  good  lord :  whom  I  serve  above  is  xny 
master. 

Laf.  Who?    God? 

Par.  Ay,  sir. 

Laf.  The  devil  it  is  that 's  thy  master.  Why 
dost  thou  garter  up  thy  arms  o'  this  fashion? 
dost  make  hose  of  thy  sleeves?  do  other  servants 
so?  Thou  wert  best  set  thy  lower  part  where 
thy  nose  stands.  By  mine  honour,  if  I  were 
but  two  hours  younger  I  'd  beat  thee :  methink'st 
thou  art  a  general  offence,  and  every  man  should 
beat  thee.  I  think  thou  wast  created  for  men 
to  breathe  themselves  upon  thee. 

Par.  This  is  hard  and  undeserved  measure, 
my  lord. 

Laf.  Go  to,  sir ;  you  were  beaten  in  Italy  for 
picking  a  kernel  out  of  a  pomegranate ;  you  are 
a  vagabond,  and  no  true  traveller :  you  are  more 
saucy  with  lords  and  honourable  personages  than 
the  heraldry  of  your  birth  and  virtue  gives  you 
commission.  You  are  not  worth  another  word, 
else  I  'd  call  you  knave.  I  leave  you.  [Exit. 

Par.  Good,  very  good ;  it  is  so  then. — Good, 
very  good ;  let  it  be  concealed  awhile. 

Enter  BERTRAM. 

Ber.  Undone,  and  forfeited  to  cares  for  ever ! 
Par.  What  is  the  matter,  sweet  heart? 
Ber.  Although  before  the  solemn  priest   I 

have  sworn, 
I  will  not  bed  her. 

Par.  What,  what,  sweet  heart? 
Ber.  O  my  Parolles,  they  have  married  me ! — 
I  '11  to  the  Tuscan  wars,  and  never  bed  her. 
Par.  France  is  a  dog-hole,  and  it  no  more 

merits 

The  tread  of  a  man's  foot : — to  the  wars ! 
Ber.  There 's  letters  from  my  mother ;  what 

the  import  is 
I  know  not  yet, 

1 


Par.  Ay,  that  would  be  known.  To  the  wars, 

my  ix>y,  to  the  wars  1 
He  wears  his  honour  in  a  box  unseen 
That  hugs  his  kicksy-wicksy  here  at  home, 
Spending  his  manly  marrow  in  her  arms, 
Which  should  sustain  the  bound  and  high  curvet 
Of  Mars's  fiery  steed.     To  other  regions ! 
France  is  a  stable;  we,  that  dwell  in 't,  jades; 
Therefore,  to  the  war !  [house, 

Ber.  It  shall  be  so;    I'll  send  her  to  my 
Acquaint  my  mother  with  my  hate  to  her, 
And  wherefore  I  am  fled;  write  to  the  king 
That  which  I  durst  not  speak :  his  present  gift 
Shall  furnish  me  to  these  Italian  fields 
Where  noble  fellows  strike :  war  is  no  strife 
To  the  dark  house  and  the  detested  wife. 

Par.  Will  this  caprichio  hold  in  thee,  art 
sure?  [me. 

Ber.  Go  with  me  to  my  chamber  and  advise 
I  '11  send  her  straight  away :  to-morrow 
I  '11  to  the  wars,  she  to  her  single  sorrow. 

Par.  Why,  these  balls  bound ;  there 's  noise 

in  it.     'Tis  hard ; 

A  young  man  married  is  a  man  that 's  marr'd : 
Therefore  away,  and  leave  her  bravely;  go: 
The  king  has  done  you  wrong:  but,  hush!  'tis 
so.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —The  same.    Atwther  Room  in  the 
same. 

Enter  HELENA  and  Clown. 

Hel.  My  mother  greets  me  kindly:  is  she 
well? 

Clo.  She  is  not  well;  but  yet  she  has  her 
health:  she's  very  merry;  but  yet  she  is  not 
well :  but  thanks  be  given,  she 's  very  well,  and 
wants  nothing  i'  the  world;  but  yet  she  is  not 
well. 

Hel.  If  she  be  very  well,  what  does  she  ail, 
that  she 's  not  very  well? 

Clo.  Truly,  she 's  very  well  indeed,  but  for 
two  things. 

Hel.   What  two  things? 

Clo.  One,  that  she 's  not  in  heaven,  whither 
God  send  her  quickly !  the  other,  that  she 's  in 
earth,  from  whence  God  send  her  quickly ! 

Enter  PAROLLES. 

Par.  Bless  you,  my  fortunate  lady ! 

HeL  I  hope,  sir,  I  have  your  good  will  to 
have  mine  own  good  fortunes. 

Par.  You  had  my  prayers  to  lead  them  on ; 
and  to  keep  them  on,  have  them  still.  O,  my 
knave, — how  does  my  old  lady? 

Clo.  So  that  you  had  her  wrinkles  and  I  her 
money,  I  would  she  did  as  you  say. 


294 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


[ACT  II. 


Par.  Why,  I  say  nothing. 
Clo.  Marry,  you  are  the  wiser  man ;  for  many 
a  man's  tongue  shakes  out  his  master's  undoing : 
to  say  nothing,  to  do  nothing,  to  know  nothing, 
and  to  have  nothing,  is  to  be  a  great  part  of  your 
title ;  which  is  within  a  very  little  of  nothing. 

Par.  Away !  thou  'rt  a  knave. 

Clo.  You  should  have  said,  sir,  before  a 
knave  thou  art  a  knave ;  that  is,  before  me  thou 
art  a  knave :  this  had  been  truth,  sir. 

Par.  Go  to,  thou  art  a  witty  fool;  I  have 
found  thee. 

Clo.  Did  you  find  me  in  yourself,  sir?  or 
were  you  taught  to  find  me?  The  search,  sir, 
was  profitable ;  and  much  fool  may  you  find  in 
you,  even  to  the  world's  pleasure  and  the  in- 
crease of  laughter. 

Par.  A  good  knave,  i' faith,  and  well  fed. — 
Madam,  my  lord  will  go  away  to-night : 
A  very  serious  business  calls  on  him. 
The  great  prerogative  antS  right  of  love, 
Which,  as  your  due,  time  claims,  he  does  ac- 
knowledge ; 

But  puts  it  off  to  a  compell'd  restraint ; 
Whose  want  and  whose  delay  is  strew'd  with 

sweets ; 

Which  they  distil  now  in  the  curbed  time, 
To  make  the  coming  hour  o'erflow  with  joy, 
And  pleasure  drown  the  brim. 

Hel.  What's  his  will  else? 

Par.  That  you  will  take  your  instant  leave  o' 
the  king,  [ing, 

And  make  this  haste  as  your  own  good  proceed- 
Strengthen'd  with  what  apology  you  think 
May  make  it  probable  need. 

Hel.  What  more  commands  he? 

Par.  That,   having  this  obtain'd,  you  pre- 
sently 
Attend  his  further  pleasure. 

Hel.   In  everything  I  wait  upon  his  will. 

Par.   I  shall  report  it  so. 

Hel.  I  pray  you. — Come,  sirrah. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  LAFEU  and  BERTRAM. 

Laf.  But  I  hope  your  lordship  thinks  not  him 
a  soldier.  [proof. 

Ber.  Yes,  my  lord,  and  of  very  valiant  ap- 

Laf.  You  have  it  from  his  own  deliverance. 

Ber.  And  by  other  warranted  testimony. 

Laf.  Then  my  dial  goes  not  true :  I  took  this 
lark  for  a  bunting. 

Ber.  I  do  assure  you,  my  lord,  he  is  very 
great  in  knowledge,  and  accordingly  valiant. 

Laf.  I  have,  then,  sinned  against  his  experi- 


ence and  transgressed  against  his  valour ;  and 
my  state  that  way  is  dangerous,  since  I  cannot 
yet  find  in  my  heart  to  repent.  Here  he  comes : 
I  pray  you,  make  us  friends ;  I  will  pursue  the 
amity. 

Enter  PAROLLES. 

Par.  These  things  shall  be  done,  sir. 

\To  BER. 

Laf.   Pray  you,  sir,  who  's  his  tailor? 

Par.   Sir! 

Laf.  O,  I  know  him  well,  I,  sir ;  he,  sir.  is 
a  good  workman,  a  very  good  tailor. 

Ber.  Is  she  gone  to  the  king?   [Aside  to  PAR. 

Par.  She  is. 

Ber.  Will  she  away  to-night? 

Par.  As  you  '11  have  her.  [treasure, 

Ber.  I  have  writ  my  letters,   casketed   my 
Given  order  for  our  horses ;  and  to-night, 
When  I  should  take  possession  of  the  bride, 
End  ere  I  do  begin. 

Laf.  A  good  traveller  is  something  at  the 
latter  end  of  a  dinner;  but  one  that  lies  three- 
thirds  and  uses  a  known  truth  to  pass  a  thou- 
sand nothings  with,  should  be  once  heard  and 
thrice  beaten. — God  save  you,  captain. 

Ber.  Is  there  any  unkindness  between  my 
lord  and  you,  monsieur? 

Par.  I  know  not  how  I  have  deserved  to  run 
into  my  lord's  displeasure. 

Laf.  You  have  made  shift  to  run  into 't,  boots 
and  spurs  and  all,  like  him  that  leaped  into  the 
custard ;  and  out  of  it  you  '11  run  again,  rather 
than  suffer  question  for  your  residence,  [lord. 

Ber.  It  may  be  you  have  mistaken  him,  my 

Laf.  And  shall  do  so  ever,  though  I  took  him 
at  his  prayers.  Fare  you  well,  my  lord ;  and 
believe  this  of  me,  there  can  be  no  kernel  in 
this  light  nut ;  the  soul  of  this  man  is  his  clothes : 
trust  him  not  in  matter  of  heavy  consequence  ; 
I  have  kept  of  them  tame,  and  know  their 
natures. — Farewell,  monsieur:  I  have  spoken 
better  of  you  than  you  have  or  will  deserve  at 
my  hand ;  but  we  must  do  good  against  evil. 

[Exit. 

Par.  An  idle  lord,  I  swear. 

Ber.   I  think  so. 

Par.  Why,  do  you  not  know  him?    [speech 

Ber.  Yes,  I  do  know  him  well ;  and  common 
Gives  him  a  worthy  pass.  Here  comes  my  clog. 

Enter  HELENA. 

Hel.  I  have,  sir,  as  I  was  commanded  from 
you,  [leave 

Spoke  with   the  king,  and  have  procured  his 
For  present  parting ;  only,  he  desires 
Some  private  speech  with  you. 


SCENE  V.  I 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  END'S  WELL. 


295 


Ber.  I  shall  obey  his  will. 

You  must  not  marvel,  Helen,  at  my  course, 
Which  holds  not  colour  with  the  time,  nor  does 
The  ministration  and  required  office 
On  my  particular.     Prepared  I  was  not 
For  such  a  business  j  therefore  am  I  found 
So  much  unsettled:  this  drives  me  to  entreat 

you 

That  presently  you  take  your  way  for  home, 
And  rather  muse  than  ask  why  I  entreat  you : 
For  my  respects  are  better  than  they  seem ; 
And  my  appointments  have  in  them  a  need 
Greater  than  shows  itself  at  the  first  view 
To  you   that   know  them   not.     This   to   my 
mother :  [  Giving  a  letter. 

'Twill  be  two  days  ere  I  shall  see  you ;  so 
I  leave  you  to  your  wisdom. 

Hel.  Sir,  I  can  nothing  say 

But  that  I  am  your  most  obedient  servant. 

Ber.  Come,  come,  no  more  of  that. 

Hel.  And  ever  shall 

With  true  observance  seek  to  eke  out  that 
Wherein  toward  me  my  homely  stars  have  fail'd 
To  equal  my  great  fortune. 

Ber.  Let  that  go : 

My  haste  is  very  great.     Farewell ;  hie  home. 

Hel.   Pray,  sir,  your  pardon. 

Ber.  Well,  what  would  you  say? 

Hel.  I  am  not  worthy  of  the  wealth  I  owe ; 
Nor  dare  I  say  'tis  mine,  and  yet  it  is ;      [steal 
But,   like  a  timorous  thief,   most  fain  would 
What  law  does  vouch  mine  own. 

Ber.  What  would  you  have? 

Hel.  Something ;  and  scarce  so  much : — no- 
thing, indeed. —  [faith,  yes; — 
I  would  not  tell  you  what  I  would,  my  lord : — 
Strangers  and  foes  do  sunder  and  not  kiss. 

Ber.  I  pray  you,  stay  not,  but  in  haste  to 
horse.  [my  lord. 

Hel.   I  shall  not  break  your  bidding,  good 

Ber.  Where  are  my  other  men,  monsieur? — 

Farewell,    '  [Exit  HELENA. 

Go  thou  toward  home,  where  I  will  never  come 

Whilst  I  can   shake   my  sword   or   hear   the 

drum: — 
Away,  and  for  our  flight. 

Par.  Bravely,  coragio !  {Exeunt. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — FLORENCE.     A  Room  in  the 
DUKE'S  Palace. 

Flourish.     Enter  the  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE, 
attended;  two  French  Lords,  and  Soldiers. 

Duke.  So  that,  from  point   to  point,  now 
have  you  heard 


Th**  fundamental  reasons  of  this  war ; 

WThose  great  decision  hath  much  blood  let  forth, 

And  more  thirsts  after. 

I  Lord.  Holy  seems  the  quarrel 

Upon  your  grace's  part ;  black  and  fearful 
On  the  opposer.  [France 

Ditke.  Therefore  we  marvel  much  our  cousin 
Would,  in  so  just  a  business,  shut  his  bosom 
Against  our  borrowing  prayers. 

1  Lord.  Good  my  lord, 
The  reasons  of  our  state  I  cannot  yield, 

But  like  a  common  and  an  outward  man 
That  the  great  figure  of  a  council  frames 
By  self-unable  motion :  therefore  dare  not 
Say  what  I  think  of  it,  since  I  have  found 
Myself  in  my  uncertain  grounds  to  fail 
As  often  as  I  guess'd. 

Duke.  Be  it  his  pleasure. 

2  Lord.  But  I  am  sure  the  younger  of  our 

nature, 

That  surfeit  on  their  ease,  will  day  by  day 
Come  here  for  physic. 

Duke.  Welcome  shall  they  be; 

And  all  the  honours  that  can  fly  from  us 
Shall  on  them  settle.     You  know  your  places 

well; 

When  better  fall,  for  your  avails  they  fell : 
To-morrow  to  the  field.     {Flourish.     Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — ROUSILLON.     A  Room  in  the 
COUNTESS'S  Palace. 

Enter  COUNTESS  and  CLOWN. 

Count.  It  hath  happened  all  as  I  would  have 
had  it,  save  that  he  comes  not  along  with  her. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  I  take  my  young  lord  to 
be  a  very  melancholy  man. 

Count.  By  what  observance,  I  pray  you? 
.  Clo.  Why,  he  will  look  upon  his  boot  and 
sing;  mend  the  ruff  and  sing;  ask  questions 
and  sing;  pick  his  teeth -and  sing.  I  know  a 
man  that  had  this  trick  of  melancholy  sold  a 
goodly  manor  for  a  song. 

Count.  Let  me  see  what  he  writes,  and  when 
he  means  to  come.  {Opening  a  letter. 

Clo.  I  have  no  mind  to  Isbel,  since  I  was  at 
court:  our  old  ling  and  our  Isbels  o'  the 
country  are  nothing  like  your  old  ling  and  your 
Isbels  o'  the  court :  the  brains  of  my  Cupid 's 
knocked  out;  and  I  begin  to  love,  as  an  old 
man  loves  money,  with  no  stomach. 

Count.  What  have  we  here? 

Clo.  E'en  that  you  have  there.  {Exit. 

Count.  {Reads .]  /  have  sent  you  a  daughter- 
in-law:  she  hath  recovered  the  king  and  undone 
me.  I  have  wedded  hery  not  bedded  her ;  and 
sworn  to  make  the  not  eternal*  You  shall  hear 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


[ACT  III. 


/  am  run  away:  know  it  before  the  report  come. 
If  there  be  breadth  enough  in  the  world  I  will 
hold  a  long  distance.  My  duty  to  you. 

Your  unfortunate  son, 

BERTRAM. 

This  is  not  well,  rash  and  unbridled  boy, 
To  fly  the  favour?  Qf  so  good  a  king ; 
To  pluck  his  indignation  on  thy  head 
By  the  misprizing  of  a  maid  too  virtuous 
For  the  contempt  of  empire. 

Re-enter  Clown. 

Clo.  O  madam>  yonder  is  heavy  news  within, 
between  two  soldiers  and  my  young  lady. 

Count.  What  is  the  matter? 

Clo.  Nay,  there  is  some  comfort  in  the  news, 
some  comfort ;  your  son  will  not  be  killed  so 
soon  as  I  thought  he  would. 

Count.  Why  should  he  be  killed? 

Clo.  So  say  I,  madam,  if  he  run  away,  as  I 
hear  he  does :  the  danger  is  in  standing  to  't ; 
that 's  the  loss  of  men,  though  it  be  the  getting 
of  children.  Here  they  come  will  tell  you 
more :  for  my  part,  I  only  hear  your  son  was 
run  away.  [Exit. 

Enter  HELENA  and  two  Gentlemen. 

1  Gent.  Save  you,  good  madam. 

Hel.  Madam,  my  lord  is  gone,  for  ever  gone. 

2  Gent.  Do  not  say  so.  [gentlemen, — 
Count.  Think    upon    patience. — Pray   you, 

I  have  felt  so  many  quirks  of  joy  and  grief 
That  the  first  face  of  neither,  on  the  start, 
Can  woman  me  unto 't. — Where  is  my  son,  I 
pray  you?  [of  Florence : 

2  Gent.  Madam,  he 's  gone  to  serve  the  duke 
We  met  him  thitherward ;  for  thence  we  came, 
And,  after  some  despatch  in  hand  at  court, 
Thither  we  bend  again.  •  [passport. 

Hel.  Look  on  his  letter,  madam ;  here 's  my 
[Reads. 1  When  thou  canst  get  the  ring  upon  my 

finger,  which  never  shall  come  off,  and  show 

me  a  child  begotten  of  thy  body  that  I  am 

father  to,  then  call  me  husband;  but  in  such 

a  then  /  write  a  never. 
This  is  a  dreadful  sentence. 

Count.  Brought  you  this  letter,  gentlemen? 

1  Gent.  Ay,  madam; 
And,  for  the  contents'  sake,  are  sorry  for  our 

pains. 

Count.   I  pr'ythee,  lady,  have  a  better  cheer; 
If  thou  engrossest  all  the  griefs  are  thine, 
Thou  robb'st  me  of  a  moiety.     He  was  my  son : 
But  I  do  wash  his  name  out  of  my  blood, 
And  thou  art  all  my  child. — Towards  Florence 

is  he? 

2  Gent.  Ay,  madam. 


Count.  And  to  be  a  soldier? 

2  Gent.  Such  is  his  noble  purpose :  and,  be- 
lieve 't, 

The  duke  will  lay  upon  him  all  the  honour 
That  good  convenience  claims. 

Count.  Return  you  thither? 

i  Gent.  Ay,  madam,  with  the  swiftest  wing 

of  speed. 

If  el.  [Reads.]  Till  I  have  no  wife \  T  have  no- 
thing in  France. 
'Tis  bitter. 

Count.  Find  you  that  there? 

Hel.  Ay,  madam. 

I  Gent.  'Tis  but  the  boldness  of  his  hand. 

haply, 
Which  his  heart  was  not  consenting  to. 

Count.  Nothing  in  France  until  he  have  no 

wife! 

There 's  nothing  here  that  is  too  good  for  him 
But  only  she ;  and  she  deserves  a  lord 
That  twenty  such  rude  boys  might  tend  upon, 
And  call  her  hourly  mistress.     Who  was  with 

him? 

I  Gent.  A  servant  only,  and  a  gentleman 
Which  I  have  sometime  known. 

Count.  Parolles,  was't  not? 

I  Gent.  Ay,  my  good  lady,  he. 

Count.  A  very  tainted  fellow,  and  full   of 

wickedness. 

My  son  corrupts  a  well -derived  nature 
With  his  inducement. 

1  Gent.  Indeed,  good  lady, 
The  fellow  has  a  deal  of  that  too  much, 
Which  iolds  him  much  to  have. 

Count.  You  are  welcome,  gentlemen, 
I  will  entreat  you,  when  you  see  my  son, 
To  tell  him  that  his  sword  can  never  win 
The  honour  that  he  loses :  more  I  '11  entreat  you 
Written  to  bear  along. 

2  Gent.  We  serve  you,  madam, 
In  that  and  all  your  worthiest  affairs,      [tesies. 

Count.  Not  so,  but  as  we  change  our  cour- 
Will  you  draw  near? 

[Exeunt  COUNT,  and  Gentlemen. 

Hel.    Till  I  have  no  wife,  I  have  nothing  in 

France. 

Nothing  in  France  until  he  has  no  wife  ! 
Thou  shalthave  none,  Rousillon,  none  in  France; 
Then  hast  thou  all  again.      Poor  lord !  is 't  I 
That  chase  thee  from  thy  country,  and  expose 
Those  tender  limbs  of  thine  to  the  event 
Of  the  none-sparing  war?  and  is  it  I          [thou 
That  drive  thee  from  the  sportive  court,  where 
Wast  shot  at  with  fair  eyes,  to  be  the  mark 
Of  smoky  muskets?     O  you  leaden  messengers, 
That  ride  upon  the  violent  speed  of  fire. 
Fly  with  false  aim :  move  the  still-peering  air, 


SCENE  III.] 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


297 


That  sings  with  piercing ;  do  not  touch  my  lord! 
Whoever  shoots  at  him,  I  set  him  there ; 
Whoever  charges  on  his  forward  breast, 
I  am  the  caitiff  that  do  hold  him  to  it ; 
And,  though  I  kill  him  not,  I  am  the  cause 
His  death  was  so  effected :  better  'twere 
I  met  the  ravin  lion  when  he  roar'd 
With  sharp  constraint  of  hunger ;  better  'twere 
That  all  the  miseries  which  nature  owes 
Were  mine  at  once.     No ;  come  thou  home, 

Rousillon, 

Whence  honour  but  of  danger  wins  a  scar, 
As  oft  it  loses  all.     I  will  be  gone : 
My  being  here  it  is  that  holds  thee  hence  i 
Shall  I  stay  here  to  do't?  no,  no,  although 
The  air  of  paradise  did  fan  the  house, 
And  angels  offic'd  all :  I  will  be  gone, 
That  pitiful  rumour  may  report  my  flight, 
To  consolate  thine  ear.    Come,  night ;  end,  day! 
For  with  the  dark,  poor  thief,  I  '11  steal  away. 

{Exit. 

SCENE  III.— FLORENCE.     Before  the  DUKE'S 
Palace. 

Flourish.      Enter  the  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE, 
"BERTRAM,     PAROLLES,     Lords,     Officers, 
Soldiers,  and  others. 

Duke.  The  general  of  our  horse  thou  art; 

and  we, 

Great  in  our  hope,  lay  our  best  love  and  credence 
Upon  thy  promising  fortune. 

Ber.  Sir,  it  is 

A  charge  too  heavy  for  my  strength ;  but  yet 
We  '11  strive  to  bear  it,  for  your  worthy  sake, 
To  the  extreme  edge  of  hazard. 

Duke.  Then  go  thou  forth ; 

And  fortune  play  upon  thy  prosperous  helm, 
As  thy  auspicious  mistress ! 

Ber.  This  very  day, 

Great  Mars,  I  put  myself  into  thy  file ; 
Make  me  but  like  my  thoughts,  and  I  shall  prove 
A  lover  of  thy  drum,  hater  of  love.      {Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — ROUSILLON.     A  Room  in  the 
COUNTESS'S  Palace. 

Enter  COUNTESS  and  Steward. 

Count.  Alas  !  and  would  you  take  the  letter 
of  her?  [done, 

Might  you  not  know  she  would  do  as  she  has 
By  sending  me  a  letter?     Read  it  again. 

Stew.  [Reads.]  I  am  St.  Jaques*  pilgrim , 

thither  gone: 

Ambitious  love  hath  so  in  me  offended 
That  barefoot  plod  I  the  cold  ground  upon, 
With  sainted  vow  my  faults  to  have  amended. 


Write,  write,  that  from  the  bloody  course  ofwa* 

My  dearest  maste/t  your  dear  son,  may  hie: 
Bless  him  at  home  in  peace,  whilst  I  from  far 

His  name  with  zealous  fc/votir  sanctify: 
His  taken  labours  bid  him  me  forgive; 

I,  his  despiteful  Juno,  sent  him  forth 
From  courtly  friends,  with  camping  foes  to  live, 

Where  death  and  danger   dog  the  heels  cj 

worth: 

He  is  too  good  and  fair  for  death  and  me; 
Whom  I  myself  embrace,  to  set  him  free. 

Count.    Ah,  what  sharp    stings  are  in  her 

mildest  words ! — 

Rinaldp,  you  did  never  lack  advice  so  much 
As  letting  her  pass  so ;  had  I  spoke  with  her, 
I  could  have  well  diverted  her  intents, 
Which  thus  she  hath  prevented. 

Stew.  Pardon  me,  madam: 

If  I  had  given  you  this  at  over-night,  [writes, 
She  might  have  been  o'erta'en;  and  yet  she 
Pursuit  would  be  but  vain. 

Count.  What  angel  shall 

Bless  this  unworthy  husband?  he  cannot  thrive, 
Unless  her  prayers,  whom  heaven  delights  to 

hear, 

And  loves  to  grant,  reprieve  him  from  the  wrath 
Of  greatest  justice. — Write,  write,  Rinaldo, 
To  this  unworthy  husband  of  his  wife : 
Let  every  word  weigh  heavy  of  her  worth, 
That  he  does    weigh  too  light:    my  greatest 

grief, 

Though  little  he  do  feel  it,  set  down  sharply. 
Despatch  the  most  convenient  messenger: — 
When,  haply,  he  shall  hear  that  she  is  gone 
He  will  return ;  and  hope  I  may  that  she, 
Hearing  so  much,  will  speed  her  foot  again, 
Led  hither  by  pure  love :  which  of  them  both 
Is  dearest  to  me  I  have  no  skill  in  sense 
To  make  distinction: — provide    this   messen- 
ger:— 

My  heart  is  heavy,  and  mine  age  is  weak ; 
Grief  would  have  tears,  and  sorrow  bids  me 
speak.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.— Without  the  Walls  of  FLORENCE, 

Enter  an  old  Widow  of  Florence,  DIANA,  Vio- 
LENTA,  MARIANA,  and  other  Citizens. 

Wid.  Nay,  come;  for  if  they  do  approach 
the  city  we  shall  lose  all  the  sight. 

Dia.  They  say  the  French  count  has  done 
most  honourable  service. 

Wid.  It  is  reported  that  he  has  taken  their 
greatest  commander;  and  that  with  his  own 
hand  he  slew  the  duke's  brother.  [A  tucket 
afar  off .}  We  have  lost  our  labour;  they  are 


298 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


[ACT  III. 


gone  a  contrary  way :  hark  !  you  may  know  by 
their  trumpets. 

Mar.  Come,  let's  return  again,  and  suffice 
ourselves  with  the  report  of  it.  Well,  Diana, 
take  heed  of  this  French  earl :  the  honour  of  a 
maid  is  her  name ;  and  no  legacy  is  so  rich  as 
honesty. 

Wid.  I  have  told  my  neighbour  how  you  have 
been  solicited  by  a  gentleman  his  companion. 

Mar.  I  know  that  knave;  hang  him!  one 
Parolles :  a  filthy  officer  he  is  in  those  sugges- 
tions for  the  young  earl. — Beware  of  them, 
Diana;  their  promises,  enticements,  oaths, 
tokens,  and  all  these  engines  of  lust,  are  not 
the  things  they  go  under :  many  a  maid  hath 
been  seduced  by  them;  and  the  misery  is, 
example,  that  so  terrible  shows  in  the  wreck  of 
maidenhood,  cannot  for  all  that  dissuade  suc- 
cession, but  that  they  are  limed  with  the  twigs 
that  threaten  them.  I  hope  I  need  not  to  ad- 
vise you  further ;  but  I  hope  your  own  grace 
will  keep  you  where  you  are,  though  there 
were  no  further  danger  known  but  the  modesty 
which  is  so  lost. 

Dia.  You  shall  not  need  to  fear  me. 

Wid.  I  hope  so. — Look,  here  comes  a  pil- 
grim :  I  know  she  will  lie  at  my  house :  thither 
they  send  one  another;  I  '11  question  her. — 

Enter  HELENA  in  the  dress  of  a  pilgrim. 

God  save  you,  pilgrim !  Whither  are  you  bound  ? 

Hel.  To  Saint  Jaques-le-Grand. 
Where  do  the  palmers  lodge,  I  do  beseech  you? 

Wid.  At  the  Saint  Francis  here,  beside  the 
port. 

Hel.  Is  this  the  way? 

Wid.  Ay,  marry,  is  it. — Hark  you!     They 
come  this  way.         [A  march  afar  off. 
If  you  will  tarry,  holy  pilgrim, 
But  till  the  troops  come  by, 
I  will  conduct  you  where  you  shall  be  lodg'd ; 
The  rather  for  I  think  I  know  your  hostess 
As  ample  as  myself. 

Hel.  Is  it  yourself? 

Wid.   If  you  shall  please  so,  pilgrim. 

Hel.  I  thank  you,  and  will  stay  upon  your 
leisure. 

Wid.  You  came,  I  think,  from  France? 

Hel.  I  did  so. 

Wid.  Here  you  shall  see   a  countryman  of 

yours 
That  has  done  worthy  service. 

Hel.  His  name,  I  pray  you. 

Dia.  The  Count  Rousillon :  know  you  such 
a  one?  [of  him: 

Hel.  But  by  the  ear,  that  hears  most  nobly 
His  face  I  know  not. 


Dia.  Whatsoe'er  he  is, 

He's   bravely   taken    here.      He    stole   from 

France, 

As  'tis  reported,  for  the  king  had  married  him 
Against  his  liking:  think  you  it  is  so? 

Hel.  Ay,   surely,  mere  the  truth;    I  know 
his  lady.  [count 

Dia.  There  is  a  gentleman  that  serves  the 
Reports  but  coarsely  of  her. 

Hel.  What's  his  name? 

Dia.   Monsieur  Parolles. 

Hel.  O,  I  believe  with  him, 

In  argument  of  praise,  or  to  the  worth 
Of  the  great  count  himself,  she  is  too  mean 
To  have  her  name  repeated ;  all  her  deserving 
Is  a  reserved  honesty,  and  that 
I  have  not  heard  examin'd. 

Dia.  Alas,  poor  lady  I 

'Tis  a  hard  bondage  to  become  the  wife 
Of  a  detesting  lord. 

Wid.    Ay,    right;    good   creature,  whereso- 

e'er  she  is 
Her  heart   weighs   sadly :     this   young    maid 

might  do  her 
A  shrewd  turn  if  she  pleas'd. 

Hel.  How  do  you  mean? 

May  be,  the  amorous  count  solicits  her 
In  the  unlawful  purpose. 

Wid.  He  does,  indeed; 

And  brokes  with  all  that  can  in  such  a  suit 
Corrupt  the  tender  honour  of  a  maid ; 
But  she  is  arm'd  for  him,  and  keeps  her  guard 
In  honestest  defence. 

Mar.  The  gods  forbid  else  ! 

Wid.  So,  now  they  come : — 

Enter,  with  a  drum  and  colours,  a  party  of  the 
Florentine  army,  BERTRAM,  and  PAROLLES. 

That  is  Antonio,  the  duke's  eldest  son ; 
That,  Escalus. 

Hel.  Which  is  the  Frenchman? 

Dia.  He ; 

That  with  the  plume :  'tis  a  most  gallant  fellow. 
I  would  he  lov'd  his  wife:  if  he  were  honester 
He  were  much  goodlier : — is 't  not  a  handsome 

fentleman  ? 
ike  him  well.  [same  knave 

Dia.  'Tis  pity  he  is  not  honest?  yond's  that 
That  leads  him  to  these  places ;  were  I  his  lady 
I  'd  poison  that  vile  rascal. 

Hel.  Which  is  he  ? 

Dia.  The  jack-an-apes  with  scarfs.  Why  is 
he  melancholy? 

Hel.   Perchance  he 's  hurt  i'  the  battle. 

Par.  Lose  our  drum  !  well. 

Mar.  He  's  shrewdly  vexed  at  something : 
look,  he  has  spied  us. 


SCENE  VI.] 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


299 


Wid.  Marry,  hang  you  ! 

Mar.  And  your  courtesy,  for  a  ring-carrier ! 

\Exeunt  BER.,  PAR.,  Officers,  and  Soldiers. 

Wid.  The  troop  is  past.     Come,  pilgrim,  I 

will  bring  you 

Where  you  shall  host :  of  enjoin'd  penitents 
There  3s  four  or  five,  to  great  Saint  Jacques 

bound, 
Already  at  my  house. 

Hel.  I  humbly  thank  you : 

Please  it  this  matron  and  this  gentle  maid 
To  eat  with  us  to-night ;  the  charge  and  thanking 
Shall  be  for  me :  and,  to  requite  you  further, 
I  will  bestow  some  precepts  on  this  virgin, 
Worthy  the  note. 

Both.  We  '11  take  vour  offer  kindly. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  \\.~-Camp  before  FLORENCE. 
Enter  BERTRAM,  and  the  two  French  Lords. 

1  Lord.  Nay,  good  my  lord,  put  him  to 't ; 
let  him  have  his  way. 

2  Lord.   If  your  lordship  find  him  not  a  hild- 
ing,  hold  me  no  more  in  your  respect. 

I  Lord.  On  my  life,  my  lord,  a  bubble. 
Ber.  Do  you  think  I  am  so  far  deceived  in 
him? 

1  Lord.  Believe  it,   my  lord,  in  mine  own 
direct  knowledge,  without  any  malice,  but  to 
speak  of  him  as  my  kinsman,  he 's  a  most  not- 
able coward,  an  infinite  and  endless   liar,  an 
hourly  promise-breaker,  the  owner  of  no  one 
good  quality  worthy  your  lordship's  entertain- 
ment. 

2  Lord.   It  were  fit  you  knew  him ;  lest,  re- 
posing too  far  in  his  virtue,  which  he  hath  not, 
he  might,  at  some  great  and  trusty  business,  in 
a  main  danger,  fail  you. 

Ber.  I  would  I  knew  in  what  particular 
action  to  try  him. 

2  Lord.  None  better  than  to  let  him  fetch  off 
his  drum,  which  you  hear  him  so  confidently 
undertake  to  do. 

i  Lord.  I,  with  a  troop  of  Florentines,  will 
suddenly  surprise  him ;  such  I  will  have,  whom 
I  am  sure  he  knows  not  from  the  enemy :  we 
will  bind  and  hoodwink  him  so  that  he  shall 
suppose  no  other  but  that  he  is  carried  into  the 
leaguer  of  the  adversaries  when  we  bring  him 
to  our  tents.  Be  but  your  lordship  present  at 
his  examination :  if  he  do  not,  for  the  promise 
of  his  life,  and  in  the  highest  compulsion  of 
base  fear,  offer  to  betray  you,  and  deliver  all 
the  intelligence  in  his  power  against  you,  and 
that  with  the  divine  forfeit  of  his  soul  upon 
oath,  never  trust  my  judgment  in  anything. 


2  Lord.  O,  for  the  love  of  laughter,  let  him 
fetch  off  his  drum ;  he  says  he  has  a  stratagem 
for  '"t :  when  your  lordship  sees  the  bottom  of 
his  success  in 't,  and  to  what  metal  this  counter- 
feit lump  of  ore  will  be  melted,  if  you  give  him 
not  John  Drum's  entertainment,  your  inclining 
cannot  be  removed.  Here  he  comes. 

1  Lord.  O,  for  the  love  of  laughter,  hinder 
not  the  humour  of  his  design  :  let  him  fetch  off 
his  drum  in  any  hand. 

Enter  PAROLLES. 

Ber.  How  now,  monsieur?  this  drum  sticks 
sorely  in  your  disposition. 

2  Lord.  A  pox  on  't ;   let  it  go ;  'tis  but  a 
drum. 

Par.  But  a  drum!  Is't  but  a  drum?  A 
drum  so  lost ! — There  was  an  excellent  com- 
mand !  to  charge  in  with  our  horse  upon  our 
own  wings,  and  to  rend  our  own  soldiers. 

2  Lord.  That  was  not  to  be  blamed  in  the 
command  of  the  service  ;  it  was  a  disaster  oi 
war  that  Csesar  himself  could  not  have  pre- 
vented, if  he  had  been  there  to  command. 

Ber.  Well,  we  cannot  greatly  condemn  our 
success :  some  dishonour  we  haa  in  the  loss  ol 
that  drum;  but  it  is  not  to  be  recovered.. 

Par.   It  might  have  been  recovered. 

Ber.  It  might,  but  it  is  not  now. 

Par.  It  is  to  be  recovered:  but  that  the 
merit  of  service  is  seldom  attributed  to  the  trur 
and  exact  performer,  I  would  have  that  drum 
or  another,  or  hie  jacet. 

Ber.  Why,  if  you  have  a  stomach  to 't,  mon- 
sieur, if  you  think  your  mystery  in  stratagem 
can  bring  this  instrument  of  honour  again  into 
his  native  quarter,  be  magnanimous  in  the  en- 
terprise, and  go  on ;  I  will  grace  the  attempt 
for  a  worthy  exploit ;  if  you  speed  well  in  it, 
the  duke  shall  both  speak  of  it,  and  extend  to 
you  what  further  becomes  his  greatness,  even 
to  the  utmost  syllable  of  your  worthiness. 

Par.  By  the  hand  of  a  soldier,  I  will  under- 
take it. 

Ber.   But  you  must  not  now  slumber  in  it. 

Par.  I  '11  about  it  this  evening :  and  I  will 
presently  pen  down  my  dilemmas,  encourage 
myself  in  my  certa  ity,  put  myself  into  my 
mortal  preparation,  and,  by  midnight,  look  to 
hear  further  from  me. 

Ber.  May  I  be  bold  to  acquaint  his  grace 
you  are  gone  about  it? 

Par.  I  know  not  what  the  success  will  be, 
my  lord,  but  the  attempt  I  vow. 

Ber.  I  know  thou  art  valiant;  and,  to  the 
possibility  of  thy  soldiership,  will  subscribe  for 
thee.  Farewell. 


300 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


[ACT  iv. 


Par.  I  love  not  many  words.  [Exit. 

1  Lord.   No  more  than  a  fish  loves  water. — 
Is  not  this  a  strange  fellow,  my  lord?  that  so 
confidently  seems  to  undertake  this  business, 
which  he  knows  is  not  to  be  done ;  damns  him- 
self to  do,  and  dares  better  be  damned  than  to 
do't. 

2  Lord.  You  do  not  know  him,  my  lord ,  as 
we  do :  certain  it  is  that   he  will  steal  himself 
into  a  man's  favour,  and  for  a  week  escape  a 
great  deal  of  discoveries ;   but  when  you  find 
him  out,  you  have  him  ever  after. 

Ber.  Why,  do  you  think  he  will  make  no 
deed  at  all  of  this,  that  so  seriously  he  does 
address  himself  unto? 

1  Lord.  None  in  the  world ;  but  return  with 
an  invention,  and  clap  upon  you  two  or  three 
probable  lies :  but  we  have   almost  embossed 
him, — you  shall  see  his  fall  to-night :  for  indeed 
he  is  not  for  your  lordship's  respect. 

2  Lord.    We  '11  make  you  some  sport  with 
the  fox  ere  we  case  him.     He  was  first  smoked 
by  the  old  Lord  Lafeu :  when  his  disguise  and 
he  is  parted,  tell  me  wnat  a  sprat  you  shall  find 
him ;  which  you  shall  see  this  very  night. 

i  Lord.  I  must  go  look  my  twigs ;  he  shall 
be  caught. 
Ber.  Your  brother,  he  shall  go  along  with  me. 

1  Lord.  As 't  please  your  lordship :  I '11  leave 
you.  [Exit. 

Ber.  Now  will  I  lead  you  to  the  house,  and 

show  you 
The  lass  I  spoke  of. 

2  Lord.  But  you  say  she's  honest. 
Ber.  That 's  all  the  fault :  I  spoke  with  her 

but  once,  [her, 

And  found  her  wondrous  cold ;  but  I  sent  to 
By  this  same  coxcomb  that  we  have  i'  the  wind, 
Tokens  and  letters  which  she  did  re-send ; 
And  this  is  all  I  have  done.      She's  a  fair 

creature ; 
Will  you  go  see  her? 

2  Lord.  With  all  my  heart,  my  lord. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII. — FLORENCE.     A   Room  in  the 
Widow's  House. 

Enter  HELENA  and  Widow. 

Hel.  If  you  misdoubt  me  that  I  am  not  she, 
I  know  not  how  I  shall  assure  you  further, 
But  I  shall  lose  the  grounds  I  work  upon. 

Wid*    Though  my  estate  be  fallen,   I  was 

well  born, 

Nothing  acquainted  with  these  businesses ; 
And  would  not  put  my  reputation  now 
In  any  staining  act. 


Hel.  Nor  would  I  wish  you. 

First  give  me  trust,  the  count  he  is  my  husband, 
And  what  to  your  sworn  counsel  I  have  spoken 
Is  so  from  word  to  word ;  and  then  you  cannot, 
By  the  good  aid  that  I  of  you  shall  borrow, 
Err  in  bestowing  it. 

Wid.  I  should  believe  you ; 

For  you  have   show'd  me    that  which  well 

approves 
You  're  great  in  fortune. 

Hel.  Take  this  purse  of  gold, 

And  let  me  buy  your  friendly  help  thus  far, 
Which  I  will  over-pay,  and  pay  again, 
When  I  have  found  it.     The  count  he  wooes 

your  daughter, 

Lays  down  his  wanton  siege  before  her  beauty, 
Resolv'd  to  carry  her :  let  her,  in  fine,  consent, 
As  we  '11  direct  her  how  'tis  best  to  bear  it, 
Now  his  important  blood  will  naught  deny 
That  she  '11  demand :  a  ring  the  county  wears, 
That  downward  hath  succeeded  in  his  house 
From  son  to  son,  some  four  or  five  descents 
Since  the  first  father  wore  it :  this  ring  he  holds 
In  most  rich  choice ;  yet,  in  his  idle  fire, 
To  buy  his  will,  it  would  not  seem  too  dear, 
Howe'er  repented  after. 

Wid.  Now  I  see 

The  bottom  of  your  purpose. 

Hel.  You  see  it  lawful  then :  it  is  no  more 
But  that  your  daughter,  ere  she  seems  as  won, 
Desires  this  ring ;  appoints  him  an  encounter ; 
In  fine,  delivers  me  to  fill  the  time, 
Herself  most  chastely  absent ;  after  this, 
To  marry  her,  I  '11  add  three  thousand  crowns 
To  what  is  past  already. 

Wid.  I  have  yielded: 

Instruct  my  daughter  how  she  shall  persevei, 
That  time  and  place,  with  this  deceit  so  lawful, 
May  prove  coherent.     Every  night  he  comes 
With  musics  of  all  sorts,  and  songs  compos'd 
To  her  unworthiness :  it  nothing  steads  us 
To  chide  him  from  our  eaves ;  for  he  persists, 
As  if  his  life  lay  on  't. 

Hel.  Why,  then,  to-night 

Let  us  assay  our  plot ;  which,  if  it  speed, 
Is  wicked  meaning  in  a  lawful  deed, 
And  lawful  meaning  in  a  lawful  act ; 
Where  both  not  sin,  and  yet  a  sinful  fact : 
But  let 's  about  it.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — Without  the  FLORENTINE  Camp. 

Enter  first  Lord,  with  five  or  six  Soldiers  in 
ambush. 

I  Lord.  He  can  come  no  other  way  but  by 
this  hedge-corner.     When  you  sally  upon  him 


SCENE  I.] 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


301 


speak  what  terrible  language  you  will ;  though 
you  understand  it  not  yourselves,  no  matter; 
for  we  must  not  seem  to  understand  him,  un- 
less some  one  among  us,  whom  we  must  pro- 
duce for  an  interpreter. 

i  Sold.  Good  captain,  let  me  be  the  inter- 
preter. 

i  Lord.  Art  not  acquainted  with  him?  knows 
he  not  thy  voice? 

I  Sold.  No,  sir,  I  warrant  you. 

I  Lord.  But  what  linsey-woolsey  hast  thou 
to  speak  to  us  again? 

I  Sold.  Even  such  as  you  speak  to  me. 

I  Lord.  He  must  think  us  some  band  of 
strangers  i'  the  adversary's  entertainment. 
Now  he  hath  a  smack  of  all  neighbouring  lan- 
guages; therefore  we  must  every  one  be  a  man 
of  his  own  fancy,  not  to  know  what  we  speak 
to  one  another;  so  we  seem  to  know,  is  to 
know  straight  our  purpose :  chough's  language, 
gabble  enough,  and  good  enough.  As  for  you, 
interpreter,  you  must  seem  very  politic.  But 
couch,  ho!  here  he  comes;  to  beguile  two 
hours  in  a  sleep,  and  then  to  return  and  swear 
the  lies  he  forges. 

iiiJtoUJryi  •••--/• 
Enter  PAROLLES. 

Par.  Ten  o'clock  :  within  these  three  hours 
'twill  be  time  enough  to  go  home.  What  shall 
I  say  I  have  done?  It  must  be  a  very  plausive 
invention  that  carries  it :  they  begin  to  smoke 
me:  and  disgraces  have  of  late  knocked  too 
often  at  my  door.  I  find  my  tongue  is  too 
foolhardy;  but  my  heart  hath  the  fear  of  Mars 
before  it,  and  of  his  creatures,  not  daring  the 
reports  of  my  tongue. 

I  Lord.  This  is  the  first  truth  that  e'er  thine 
own  tongue  was  guilty  of.  [Aside. 

Par.  What  the  devil  should  move  me  to 
undertake  the  recovery  of  this  drum ;  being  not 
ignorant  of  the  impossibility,  and  knowing  I 
had  no  such  purpose?  I  must  give  myself  some 
hurts,  and  say  I  got  them  in  exploit :  yet  slight 
ones  will  not  carry  it :  they  will  say,  Came  you 
off  with  so  little?  and  great  ones  I  dare  not 

five.  Wherefore,  what *s  the  instance?  Tongue, 
must  put  you  into  a  butter-woman's  mouth, 
and  buy  myself  another  of  Bajazet's  mule,  if 
you  prattle  me  into  these  perils. 

I  Lord.  Is  it  possible  he  should  know  what 
he  is,  and  be  that  he  is  ?  [Aside. 

Par.  I  would  the  cutting  of  my  garments 
would  serve  the  turn,  or  the  breaking  of  my 
Spanish  sword. 

I  Lord.  We  cannot  afford  you  so.       [Azidi. 

Par.  Or  the  baring  of  my  beard;  and  to  say 
it  was  in  stratagem. 


I  Lord.  'T would  not  do.  [Aside. 

Par.  Or  to  drown  my  clothes,  and  say  I  was 
stripped. 

i  Lord.  Hardly  serve.  [Aside. 

Par.    Though  I  swore  I  leaped  from  the 
window  of  the  citadel, — 

I  Lord.   How  deep?  [Aside. 

Par.  Thirty  fathom. 

i  Lord.    Three  great  oaths  would    scarce 
make  that  be  believed.  [Aside. 

Par.  I  would  I  had  any  drum  of  the  enemy's  j 
I  would  swear  I  recovered  it. 

I  Lord.  You  shall  hear  one  anon.       [Aside. 

Par.  A  dram  now  of  the  enemy's ! 

[Alarum  within. 

I  Lord.  Throca  movousus,  cargo,  cargo,  cargo. 

All.   Cargo,  cargo,  cargo, villianda  par  corbo, 
cargo. 

Par.    O !    ransom,   ransom : — Do   not  hide 
mine  eyes.  [  They  seize  and  blindfold  him. 

1  Sold.  Boskos  throimildo  boskos. 

Par.  I  know  you  are  the  Musko's  regiment, 
And  I  shall  lose  my  life  for  want  of  language : 
If  there  be  here  German-  or  Dane,  low  Dutch, 
Italian,  or  French,  let  him  speak  to  me ; 
I  will  discover  that  which  shall  undo 
The  Florentine. 

2  Sold.  Boskos  vauvado  : 

I  understand  thee,  and  can  speak  thy  tongue : — 

Kerelybonto : Sir, 

Betake  thee  to  thy  faith,  for  seventeen  poniards 
Are  at  thy  bosom. 

Par.    '  Oh ! 

I  Sold.  O,  pray,  pray,  pray.— 

Manka  revania  dulche. 

I  Lord.  Oscorbi  dulchos  volivorco. 

i  Sold.  The  general  is  content  to  spare  thee 

yet; 
And,  hoodwink'd  as  thou  art,  will  lead  thee 

on 

To  gather  from  thee :  haply  thou  mayst  inform 
Something  to  save  thy  Hie. 

Par.  O,  let  me  live, 

And  all  the  secrets  of  our  camp  I  '11  show, 
Their  force,  their  purposes :  nay,  I  '11  speak  that 
Which  you  will  wonder  at. 

I  Sold.  But  wilt  thou  faithfully? 

Par.  If  I  do  not,  damn  me. 

I  Sold.  Acordo  linta. 

Come  on ;  thou  art  granted  space. 

[Exit,  with  PAROLLES  guarded. 

1  Lord.  Go,  tell  the  Count  Rousillon  and 

my  brother 
We  have  caught  the  woodcock,  and  will  keep 

him  muffled 
Till  we  do  hear  from  them. 

2  Sold.  Captain,  I  will 


302 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


[ACT  iv. 


1  Lord.    He   will   betray  us  all  unto  our- 

selves ; — 
Inform  'em  that. 

2  Sold.  So  I  will,  sir. 

I  Lord.  Till  then  I  '11  keep  him  dark,  and 
safely  lock'd.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — FLORENCE.     A  Room  in  the 
Widow's  House. 

Enter  BERTRAM  and  DIANA. 

Ber.  They   told  me   that  your  name  was 
Fontibell. 

Dia.  No,  my  good  lord,  Diana. 

Ber.  Titled  goddess ; 

And  worth  it,  with  addition !     But,  fair  soul, 
In  your  fine  frame  hath  love  no  quality? 
If  the  quick  fire  of  youth  light  not  your  mind, 
You  are  no  maiden,  but  a  monument ; 
When  you  are  dead,  you  should  be  such  a  one 
As  you  are  now,  for  you  are  cold  and  stern ; 
And  now  you  should  be  as  your  mother  was 
When  your  sweet  self  was  got. 

Dia.  She  then  was  honest. 

Ber.  So  should  you  be. 

Dia.  No : 

My  mother  did  but  duty ;  such,  my  lord, 
As  you  owe  to  your  wife. 

Ber.  No  more  of  that ! 

I  pr'ythee,  do  not  strive  against  my  vows : 
I  was  compell'd  to  her ;  but  I  love  thee 
By  love's  own  sweet  constraint,  and  will  for  ever 
Do  thee  all  rights  of  service. 

Dia.  Ay,  so  you  serve  us 

Till  we  serve  you :  but  when  you  have  our  roses 
You  barely  leave  our  thorns  to  prick  ourselves, 
And  mock  us  with  our  bareness. 

Ber.  How  have  I  sworn? 

Dia.  'Tis  not  the  many  oaths  that  make  the 

truth, 

But  the  plain  single  vow  that  is  vow'd  true. 
What  is  not  holy,  that  we  swear  not  by, 
But  take  the  Highest  to  witness:  then,  pray 

you,  tell  me, 

If  I  should  swear  by  Jove's  great  attributes 
I  lov'd  you  dearly,  would  you  believe  my  oaths, 
When  I  did  love  you  ill?  this  has  no  holding, 
To  swear  by  him  whom  I  protest  to  love, 
That  I  will  work  against  him:  therefore  your 

oaths 

Are  words  and  poor  conditions ;  but  unseal'd, — 
At  least  in  my  opinion. 

Ber.  Change  it,  change  it ; 

Be  not  so  holy-cruel :  love  is  holy ; 
And  my  integrity  ne'er  knew  the  crafts        [off, 
That  y^u  do  charge  men  with.     Stand  no  more 
But  give  thyself  unto  my  sick  desires, 


Who  then  recover :  say  thou  art  mine,  and  ever 
My  love  as  it  begins  shall  so  persever.      [case, 

Dia.  I  see  that  men  make  hopes,  in  such  a 

That  we'll  forsake  ourselves.     Give  me  that 

ring.  [power 

Ber.  I  '11  lend  it  thee,  my  dear,  but  have  no 
To  give  it  from  me. 

Dia.  Will  you  not,  my  lord? 

Ber.   It  is  an  honour  'longing  to  our  house, 
Bequeathed  down  from  many  ancestors ; 
Which  were  the  greatest  obloquy  i'  the  world 
In  me  to  lose. 

Dia.  Mine  honour 's  such  a  ring : 

My  chastity  's  the  jewel  of  our  house, 
Bequeathed  down  from  many  ancestors ; 
Which  were  the  greatest  obloquy  i'  the  world 
In  me  to  lose.     Thus  your  own  proper  wisdom 
Brings  in  the  champion  honour  on  my  part, 
Against  your  vain  assault. 

Ber.  Here,  take  my  ring : 

My  house,  mine  honour,  yea,  my  life  be  thine, 
And  I  '11  be  bid  by  thee. 

Dia.    When  midnight  comes  knock  at  my 

chamber- window ; 

I  '11  order  take  my  mother  shall  not  hear. 
Now  will  I  charge  you  in  the  band  of  truth, 
When  you  have  conquer'd  my  yet  maiden-bed, 
Remain  there  but  an  hour,  nor  speak  to  me: 
My  reasons  are  most  strong;   and  you  shall 

know  them 

When  back  again  this  ring  shall  be  deliver'd  ; 
And  on  your  finger,  in  the  night,  I  '11  put 
Another  ring;  that  what  in  time  proceeds 
May  token  to  the  future  our  past  deeds. 
Adieu  till  then ;  then  fail  not.     You  have  won 
A  wife  of  me,  though  there  my  hope  be  done. 

Ber.  A  heaven  on  earth  I  have  won  by  woo- 
ing thee.  [Exit. 

Dia.  For  which   live   long   to  thank   both 
heaven  and  me ! 

You  may  so  in  the  end. 

My  mother  told  me  just  how  he  would  woo, 
As  if  she  sat  in  his  heart ;  she  says  all  men 
Have  the  like  oaths :  he  hath  sworn  to  marry  me 
When  his  wife 's  dead ;  therefore  I  '11  lie  with  him 
When  I  am  buried.     Since  Frenchmen  are  so 

braid, 

Marry  that  will,  I  '11  live  and  die  a  maid : 
Only,  in  this  disguise,  I  think 't  no  sin 
To  cozen  him  that  would  unjustly  win.    [Exit. 

SCENE  III. — The  Florentine  Camp. 

Enter  the  two  French  Lords,  and  two  QT  three 
Soldiers. 

i  Lord.  You  have  not  given  him  his  mother's 
letter? 


SCENE  III.] 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


303 


2  Lord.  I  have  delivered  it  an  hour  since : 
there  is  something  in 't  that  stings  his  nature ; 
for,  on  the  reading  it,  he  changed  almost  into 
another  man. 

1  Lord.  He  has  much  worthy  blame  laid  upon 
him  for  shaking  off  so  good  a  wife  and  so  sweet 
a  lady. 

2  Lord.  Especially  he  hath  incurred  the  ever- 
lasting displeasure  of  the  king,  who  had  even 
tuned  his  bounty  to  sing  happiness  to  him.     I 
will  tell  you  a  thing,  but  you  shall  let  it  dwell 
darkly  with  you. 

1  Lord.  When  you  have  spoken  it,  'tis  dead, 
and  I  am  the  grave  of  it. 

2  Lord.   He  hath  perverted  a  young  gentle- 
woman here  in  Florence,  of  a  most  chaste  re- 
nown ;  and  this  night  he  fleshes  his  will  in  the 
spoil  of  her  honour:    he  hath  given   her  his 
monumental  ring,  and  thinks  himself  made  in 
the  unchaste  composition. 

1  Lord.  Now,  God  delay  our  rebellion:  as 
we  are  ourselves,  what  things  are  we ! 

2  Lord.  Merely  our  own  traitors.     And  as  in 
the  common  course  of  all  treasons,  we  still  see 
them  reveal  themselves,  till  they  attain  to  their 
abhorred  ends ;  so  he  that  in  this  action  con- 
trives against  his  own  nobility,  in  his  proper 
stream  o'erflows  himself. 

1  Lord.   Is  it  not  meant  damnable  in  us  to  be 
trumpeters  of  our  unlawful  intents?    We  shall 
not  then  have  his  company  to-night? 

2  Lord.  Not  till  after  midnight;    for  he  is 
dieted  to  his  hour. 

1  Lord.  That   approaches  apace:    I  would 
gladly  have  him  see  his  company  anatomized, 
that  he  might  take  a  measure  of  his  own  judg- 
ments, wherein  so  curiously  he  had  set  this 
counterfeit. 

2  Lord.  We  will  not  meddle  with  him  till  he 
come ;  for  his  presence  must  be  the  whip  of  the 
other.  [these  wars? 

1  Lord.  In  the  meantime,  what  hear  you  of 

2  Lord.   I  hear  there  is  an  overture  of  peace. 

1  Lord.  Nay,  I  assure   you,  a   peace  con- 
cluded. 

2  Lord.   What  will  Count  Rousillon  do  then? 
will   he   travel   higher,    or   return   again   into 
France? 

1  Lord.  I  perceive,  by  this  demand,  you  are 
not  altogether  of  his  council. 

2  Lord.  Let  it  be  forbid,  sir ;  so  should  I  be 
a  great  deal  of  his  act. 

i  Lord.  Sir,  his  wife,  some  two  months  since, 
fled  from  his  house :  her  pretence  is  a  pilgrim- 
age to  St.  Jaques-le-Grand  ;  which  holy  under- 
taking, with  most  austere  sanctimony,  she  ac- 
complished; and,  there  residing,  the  tenderness 


of  her  nature  became  as  a  prey  to  her  grief;  in 
fine,  made  a  groan  of  her  last  breath ;  and  now 
she  sings  in  heaven. 

2  Lord.   How  is  this  justified  ? 

1  Lord.  The  stronger  part  of  it  by  her  own 
letters,  which  make  her  story  true  even  to  the 
point  of  her  death :  her  death  itself,  which  could 
not  be  her  office  to  say  is  come,  was  faithfully 
confirmed  by  the  rector  of  the  place. 

2  Lord.  Hath  the  count  all  this  intelligence? 

1  Lord.  Ay,  and  the  particular  confirmations, 
point   from  point,   to  the  full  arming  of  the 
verity. 

2  Lord.  I   am  heartily  sorry  that   he  '11  be 
glad  of  this. 

1  Lord.   How  mightily,  sometimes,  we  make 
us  comforts  of  our  losses ! 

2  Lord.  And  how  mightily,  some  other  times, 
we  drown  our  gain  in  tears !    The  great  dignity 
that  his  valour  hath  here  acquired  for  him  shall 
at  home  be  encountered  with  a  shame  as  ample. 

1  Lord.  The  web  of  our  life  is  of  a  mingled 
yarn,  good  and  ill  together :  our  virtues  would 
be  proud  if  our  faults  whipped  them  not ;  and 
our   crimes   would   despair   if  they  were   not 
cherished  by  our  virtues. — 

Enter  a  Servant. 

How  now?  where's  your  master? 

Serv.  He  met  the  duke  in  the  street,  sir ;  of 
whom  he  hath  taken  a  solemn  leave :  his  lord- 
ship will  next  morning  for  France.  The  duke 
hath  offered  him  letters  of  commendations  to 
the  king. 

2  Lord.  They  shall  be  no  more  than  needfu/ 
there,  if  they  were  more  than  they  can  com- 
mend. 

1  Lord.  They  cannot  be  too  sweet  for  the 
king's  tartness.     Here 's  his  lordship  now. 

Enter  BERTRAM. 

How  now,  my  lord,  is't  not  after  midnight? 

Ber.  I  have  to-night  despatched  sixteen  busi- 
nesses, a  month's  length  a- piece,  by  an  abstract 
of  success :  I  have  conge'd  with  the  duke,  done 
my  adieu  with  his  nearest;  buried  a  wife, 
mourned  for  her  ;  writ  to  my  lady-mother  I  am 
returning;  entertained  my  convoy;  and,  be- 
tween these  main  parcels  of  despatch,  effected 
many  nicer  needs:  the  last  was  the  greatest, 
but  that  I  have  not  ended  yet. 

2  Lord.  If  the  business  be  of  any  difficulty, 
and  this  morning  your  departure  hence,  it  re- 
quires haste  of  your  lordship. 

Ber.  I  mean,  the  business  is  not  ended,  as 
fearing  to  hear  of  it  hereafter.  But  shall  we 
have  this  dialogue  between  the  fool  and  the 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


[ACT  iv. 


soldier? Come,  bring  forth  this  counterfeit 

model :  has  deceived  me  like  a  double-meaning 
prophesier. 

2  Lord.  Bring  him  forth.  [Exeunt  Soldiers.  ] 
Has  sat  in  the  stocks  all  night,  poor  gallant 
knave. 

Ber.  No  rratter;  his  heels  have  deserved  it, 
in  usurping  his  spurs  so  long.  How  does  he 
carry  himself? 

1  Lord.  I  have  told  your  lordship  already; 
the  stocks  carry  him.     But  to  answer  you  as 
you  would   be   understood;   he  weeps  like  a 
wench  that  had  shed  her  milk :  he  hath  con- 
fessed himself  to  Morgan,  whom  he  supposes  to 
be  a  friar,  from  the  time  of  his  remembrance 
to  this  very  instant  disaster  of  his  setting  i'  the 
stocks:  and  what  think  you  he  hath  confessed? 

Ber.  Nothing  of  me,  has  he? 

2  Lord.  His  confession  is  taken,  and  it  shall 
be  read  to  his  face :  if  your  lordship  be  in 't,  as 
I  believe  you  are,  you  must  have  the  patience  to 
hear  it. 

Re-enter  Soldiers,  with  PAROLLES. 

Ber.  A  plague  upon  him !  muffled !  he  can 
3ay  nothing  of  me ;  hush,  hush  ! 

I  Lord.   Hoodman  comes !    Porto  tartarossa. 

I  Sold.  He  calls  for  the  tortures :  what  will 
you  say  without  'em? 

Par.  I  will  confess  what  I  know  without  con- 
straint ;  if  ye  pinch  me  like  a  pasty  I  can  say 
no  more. 

i  Sold.  Bosko  chimurco. 

I  Lord.  Boblibindo  chicurmurco. 

i  Sold.  You  are  a  merciful  general: — Our 
general  bids  you  answer  to  what  I  shall  ask  you 
out  of  a  note. 

Par.  And  truly,  as  I  hope  to  live. 

i  Sold.  First  demand  of  him  how  many  horse 
the  duke  is  strong.  What  say  you  to  that  ? 

Par.  Five  or  six  thousand;  but  very  weak 
and  unserviceable :  the  troops  are  all  scattered, 
and  the  commanders  very  poor  rogues,  upon 
my  reputation  and  credit,  and  as  I  hope  to  live. 

i  Sold.  Shall  I  set  down  your  answer  so? 

Par.  Do;  I'll  take  the  sacrament  on't,  how 
and  which  way  you  will.  [slave  is  this ! 

Ber.  All 's  one  to  him.     What  a  past-saving 

1  Lord.  You  are  deceived,  my  lord ;  this  is 
Monsieur  Parolles,  the  gallant  militarist  (that 
was  his  own  phrase),  that  had  the  whole  theoric 
of  war  in  the  knot  of  his  scarf,  and  the  practice 
in  the  chape  of  his  dagger. 

2  Lord.  I  will  never  trust  a  man  again  for 
keeping  his  sword  clean;  nor  believe  he  can 
have  everything  in  him  by  wearing  his  apparel 
neatly. 


I  Sold.  Well,  that 's  set  down. 

Par.  Five  or  six  thousand  horse,  I  said, — I 
will  say  true, — or  thereabouts,  set  down, — for 
I  '11  speak  truth. 

I  Lord.  He 's  very  near  the  truth  in  this. 

Ber.  But  I  con  him  no  thanks  for 't  in  the 
nature  he  delivers  it. 

Par.  Poor  rogues,  I  pray  you  say. 

I  Sold.  Well,  that 's  set  down. 

Par.  I  humbly  thank  you,  sir:  a  truth's  a 
truth,  the  rogues  are  marvellous  poor. 

I  Sold.  Demand  of  him  of  what  strength  they 
are  a-foot.  What  say  you  to  that? 

Par.  By  my  troth,  sir,  if  I  were  to  live  this 
present  hour  I  will  tell  true.  Let  me  see : 
Spurio  a  hundred  and  fifty,  Sebastian  so  many, 
Corambus  so  many,  Jacques  so  many ;  Guiltian, 
Cosmo,  Lodowick,  and  Gratii,  two  hundred 
fifty  each:  mine  own  company,  Chitopher, 
Vaumond,  Bentii,  two  hundred  fifty  each :  so 
that  the  muster-file,  rotten  and  sound,  upon  my 
life,  amounts  not  to  fifteen  thousand  poll ;  half 
of  the  which  dare  not  shake  the  snow  from  off 
their  cassocks  lest  they  shake  themselves  to 
pieces. 

Ber.  What  shall  be  done  to  him? 

i  Lord.  Nothing,  but  let  him  have  thanks. 
Demand  of  him  my  condition,  and  what  credit 
I  have  with  the  duke. 

i  Sold.  Well,  that 's  set  down.  You  shall 
demand  of  him  whether  one  Captain  Dumain 
be  £  the  camp,  a  frenchman;  what  his  reputa- 
tion is  with  the  duke,  what  his  valour,  honesty, 
expertness  in  wars  ;  or  whether  he  thinks  it  were 
not  possible,  with  well-weighing  sums  of  gold,  to 
corrupt  him  to  a  revolt. 
What  say  you  to  this?  what  do  you  know  of  it? 

Par.  I  beseech  you,  let  me  answer  to  the 
particular  of  the  inter'gatories :  demand  them 
singly. 

I  Sold.  Do  you  know  this  Captain  Dumain? 

Par.  I  know  him:  he  was  a  botcher's 
'prentice  in  Paris,  from  whence  he  was  whipped 
for  getting  the  shrieve's  fool  with  child :  a  dumb 
innocent  that  could  not  say  him  nay. 

[i  Lord  lifts  up  his  hand  in  anger. 

Ber.  Nay,  by  your  leave,  hold  your  hands ; 
though  I  know  his  brains  are  forfeit  to  the  next 
tile  that  falls. 

i  Sold.  Well,  is  this  captain  in  the  Duke  of 
Florence's  camp? 

Par.  Upon  my  knowledge,  he  is,  and  lousy. 

I  Lord.  Nay,  look  not  so  upon  me ;  we  shall 
hear  of  your  lordship  anon. 

I  Sold.  What  is  his  reputation  with  the  duke? 

Par.  The  duke  knows  him  for  no  other  but 
a  poor  officer  of  mine  j  and  writ  to  me  this  other 


SCENE  111.7 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


305 


day  to  turn  him  out  o'  the  band :  I  think  I  have 
his  letter  in  my  pocket. 

I  Sold.   Marry,  we  '11  search. 

Par.  In  good  sadness,  I  do  not  know ;  either 
it  is  there  or  it  is  upon  a  file,  with  the  duke's 
other  letters,  in  my  tent. 

i  Sold.  Here  'tis;  here's  a  paper.  Shall  I 
read  it  to  you  ? 

Par.  I  do  not  know  if  it  be  it  or  no. 

Ber.  Our  interpreter  does  it  well. 

I  Lord.  Excellently. 

I  Sold.  [Reads.  ]  Dian,  the  Count 's  a  fool,  and 
full  of  gold, — 

Par.  That  is  not  the  duke's  letter,  sir ;  that 
is  an  advertisement  to  a  proper  maid  in  Florence, 
one  Diana,  to  take  heed  of  the  allurement  of 
one  Count  Rousillon,  a  foolish,  idle  boy,  but, 
for  all  that,  very  ruttish :  I  pray  you,  sir,  put  it 
up  again. 

1  Sold.  Nay,  I'll  read  it  first,  by  your  favour. 
Par.  My  meaning  in 't,  I  protest,  was  very 

honest  in  the  behalf  of  the  maid ;  for  I  knew  the 
young  count  to  be  a  dangerous  and  lascivious 
boy,  who  is  a  whale  to  virginity,  and  devours 
up  all  the  fry  it  finds. 

Ber.  Damnable !  both  sides  rogue ! 

.      I  Sold.  [^Mfc.]Whenheswearsoaths,bidhimdrop 

gold,  and  take  it : 

After  he  scores,  he  never  pays  the  score  ; 
Half  won  is  match  well  made  ;  match,  and  well  make  it; 

He  ne'er  pays  after -debts,  take  it  before  ; 
And  say  a  soldier,  Dian,  told  thee  this, 
Men  are  to  mell  with,  boys  are  not  to  kiss  ; 
For  count  of  this,  the  count 's  a  fool,  I  know  it, 
Who  pays  before,  but  not  when  he  does  owe  it. 
Thine,  as  he  vow'd  to  thee  in  thine  ear, 

PAROLLES. 

Ber.  He  shall  be  whipped  through  the  army 
with  this  rhyme  in  his  forehead. 

2  Lord.  This  is  your  devoted  friend,  sir,  the 
manifold  linguist,  and  the  armipotent  soldier. 

Ber.  I  could  endure  anything  before  but  a 
cat,  and  now  he  's  a  cat  to  me. 

I  Sold.  I  perceive,  sir,  by  our  general's  looks 
we  shall  be  fain  to  hang  you. 

Par.  My  life,  sir,  in  any  case :  not  that  I  am 
afraid  to  die,  but  that,  my  offences  being  many, 
I  would  repent  out  the  remainder  of  nature : 
let  me  live,  sir,  in  a  dungeon,  i'  the  stocks,  or 
anywhere,  so  I  may  live. 

i  Sold.  We  '11  see  what  may  be  done,  so  you 
confess  freely;  therefore,  once  more  to  this 
Captain  Dumain :  you  have  answered  to  his  re- 
putation with  the  duke,  and  to  his  valour :  what 
is  his  honesty  ? 

Par.  He  will  steal,  sir,  an  egg  out  of  a 
cloister ;  for  rapes  and  ravishments  he  parallels 
Nessus.  He  professes  not  keeping  of  oaths; 


in  breaking  them  he  is  stronger  than  Hercules. 
He  will  lie,  sir,  with  such  volubility  that  you 
would  think  truth  were  a  fool :  drunkenness  is 
his  best  virtue,  for  he  will  be  swine-drunk ;  and 
in  his  sleep  he  does  little  harm,  save  to  his  bed- 
clothes about  him ;  but  they  know  his  conditions 
and  lay  him  in  straw.  I  have  but  little  more 
to  say,  sir,  of  his  honesty ;  he  has  everything 
that  an  honest  man  should  not  have ;  what  an 
honest  man  should  have  he  has  nothing. 

I  Lord.  I  begin  to  love  him  for  this. 

Ber.  For  this  description  of  thine  honesty? 
A  pox  upon  him  for  me ;  he  is  more  and  more 
a  cat. 

i  Sold.  What  say  you  to  his  expertness  in 
war? 

Par.  Faith,  sir,  has  led  the  drum  before  the 
English  tragedians,— to  belie  him  I  will  not, — 
and  more  of  his  soldiership  I  know  not,  except 
in  that  country  he  had  the  honour  to  be  the 
officer  at  a  place  there  called  Mile-end,  to  in- 
struct for  the  doubling  of  files :  I  would  do  the 
man  what  honour  I  can,  but  of  this  I  am  not 
certain. 

I  Lord.  He  hath  out-villanied  villany  so  far 
that  the  rarity  redeems  him. 

Ber.  A  pox  on  him !  he 's  a  cat  still. 

I  Sold.  His  qualities  being  at  this  poor  price, 
I  need  not  to  ask  you  if  gold  will  corrupt  him 
to  revolt. 

Par.  Sir,  for  a  quart  (fecit  he  will  sell  the 
fee-simple  of  his  salvation,  the  inheritance  oi 
it ;  and  cut  the  entail  from  all  remainders,  and 
a  perpetual  succession  for  it  perpetually. 

1  Sold.  What 's  his  brother,  the  other  Cap- 
tain  Dumain? 

2  Lord.  Why  does  he  ask  him  of  me? 
I  Sold.  What  'she? 

Par.  E'en  a  crow  of  the  same  nest ;  not  al- 
together so  great  as  the  first  in  goodness,  but 
greater  a  great  deal  in  evil.  He  excels  his 
brother  for  a  coward,  yet  his  brother  is  reputed 
one  of  the  best  that  is :  in  a  retreat  he  outruns 
any  lackey ;  marry,  in  coming  on  he  has  the 
cramp. 

I  Sold.  If  your  life  be  saved,  will  you  under- 
take to  betray  the  Florentine? 

Par.  Ay,  and  the  captain  of  his  horse,  Count 
Rousillon. 

i  Sold.  I'll  whisper  with  the  general,  and 
know  his  pleasure. 

Par.  I  '11  no  more  drumming ;  a  plague  of  all 
drums !  Only  to  seem  to  deserve  well,  and  to 
beguile  the  supposition  of  that  lascivious  young 
boy,  the  count,  have  I  run  into  this  danger: 
yet  who  would  have  suspected  an  ambush  where 
I  was  taken?  {Aside. 


306 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


[ACT  rv. 


i  Sold.  There  is  no  remedy,  sir,  but  you 
must  die :  the  general  says,  you  that  have  so 
traitorously  discovered  the  secrets  of  your  army, 
and  made  such  pestiferous  reports  of  men  very 
nobly  held,  can  serve  the  world  for  no  honest 
use;  therefore  you  must  die.  Come,  heads- 
man, off  with  his  head. 

Par.  O  Lord !  sir,  let  me  live,  or  let  me  see 
my  death. 

1  Sold.   That  shall  you,  and  take  your  leave 
of  all  your  friends.  [  Unmuffling  him. 
So  look  about  you :  know  you  any  here? 

Ber.  Good  morrow,  noble  captain. 

2  Lord.   God  bless  you,  Captain  Parolles. 

1  Lord.   God  save  you,  noble  captain. 

2  Lord.  Captain,  what  greeting  will  you  to 
my  Lord  Lafeu?  I  am  for  France. 

I  Lord.  Good  captain,  will  you  give  me  a 

copy  of  the  sonnet  you  writ  to  Diana  in  behalf 

of  the  Count  Rousillon?  an  I  were  not  a  very 

coward  I  'd  compel  it  of  you ;  but  fare  you  well. 

[Exeunt  BERTRAM,  Lords,  &c. 

I  Sold.  You  are  undone,  captain:  all  but 
your  scarf ;  that  has  a  knot  on 't  yet. 

Par.  Who  cannot  be  crushed  with  a  plot? 

I  Sold.  If  you  could  find  out  a  country  where 
but  women  were  that  had  received  so  much 
shame,  you  might  begin  an  impudent  nation. 
Fare  you  well,  sir ;  I  am  for  France  too :  we 
shall  speak  of  you  there.  [Exit. 

Par.  Yet  I  am  thankful :  if  my  heart  were 

great, 
'Twould   burst   at  this.      Captain   I  '11   be  no 

more; 

But  I  will  eat  and  drink,  and  sleep  as  soft 
As  captain  shall :  simply  the  thing  I  am 
Shall  make  me  live.     Who  knows  himself  a 

braggart, 

Let  him  fear  this ;  for  it  will  come  to  pass 
That  every  braggart  shall  be  found  an  ass. 
Rust,  sword !  cool,  blushes !  and,  Parolles,  live 
Safest  in  shame !  being  fool'd,  by  foolery  thrive ! 
There 's  place  and  means  for  every  man  alive. 
I  '11  after  them.  [Exit. 

SCENE  IV. — FLORENCE.     A  Room  in  the 
Widow's  House. 

Enter  HELENA,  Widow,  and  DIANA. 

Hel.  That  you  may  well  perceive  I  have  not 

wrong'd  you, 

One  of  the  greatest  in  the  Christian  world 
Shall  be  my  surety;   'fore  whose  throne  'tis 

needful, 

Ere  I  can  perfect  mine  intents,  to  kneel : 
Time  was  I  did  him  a  desired  office, 
Dear  almost  as  his  life;  which  gratitude 


Through  flinty  Tartar's  bosom  would  peep  forth, 
And  answer,  thanks :  I  duly  am  informed 
His  grace  is  at  Marseilles ;  to  which  place 
We  have  convenient  convoy.     You  must  know 
I  am  supposed  dead :  the  army  breaking, 
My  husband  hies  him  home;  where,  heaven 

aiding, 

And  by  the  leave  of  my  good  lord  the  king, 
We  '11  be  before  our  welcome. 

Wid.  Gentle  madam, 

You  never  had  a  servant  to  whose  trust 
Your  business  was  more  welcome. 

Hel.  Nor  you,  mistress, 

Ever  a  friend  whose  thoughts  more  truly  labour 
To  recompense  your  love :  doubt  not  but  heaven 
Hath  brought  me  up  to  be  your  daughter's 

dower, 

As  it  hath  fated  her  to  be  my  motive 
And  helper  to  a  husband.     But,  O  strange  men ! 
That  can  such  sweet  use  make  of  what  they 

hate, 

When  saucy  trusting  of  the  cozen'd  thoughts 
Defiles  the  pitchy  night !  so  lust  doth  play 
With  what  it  loathes,  for  that  which  is  away: 
But  more  of  this  hereafter. — You,  Diana, 
Under  my  poor  instructions  yet  must  suffer 
Something  in  my  behalf. 

Dia.  Let  death  and  honesty 

Go  with  your  impositions,  I  am  yours 
Upon  your  will  to  suffer. 

Hel.  Yet,  I  pray  you : 

But   with   the  word   the   time  will   bring  on 

summer, 

When  briers  shall  have  leaves  as  well  as  thorns, 
And  be  as  sweet  as  sharp.     We  must  away ; 
Our  waggon  is  prepar'd,  and  time  revives  us : 
All 's  well  that  ends  well :  still  the  fine 's  the 

crown : 
Whate'er  the  course,  the  end  is  the  renown. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — ROUSILLON.     A  Room  in  the 
COUNTESS'S  Palace. 

Enter  COUNTESS,  LAFEU,  and  Clown. 

Laf.  No,  no,  no,  your  son  was  misled  with 
a  snipt-taffeta  fellow  there,  whose  villanous 
saffron  would  have  made  all  the  unbaked  and 
doughy  youth  of  a  nation  in  his  colour :  your 
daughter-in-law  had  been  alive  at  this  hour, 
and  your  son  here  at  home,  more  advanced  by 
the  king  than  by  that  red-tailed  humble-bee  I 
speak  of. 

Count.  I  would  I  had  not  known  him !  it 
was  the  death  of  the  most  virtuous  gentlewoman 
that  ever  nature  had  praise  for  creating :  if  she 
had  partaken  of  my  flesh,  and  cost  me  the 


SCENS   V.] 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


307 


dearest  groans  of  a  mother,  I  could  not  have 
owed  her  a  more  rooted  love. 

Laf.  'Twas  a  good  lady,  'twas  a  good  lady : 
we  may  pick  a  thousand  salads  ere  we  light  on 
such  another  herb. 

Clo,  Indeed,  sir,  she  was  the  sweet  mar- 
joram of  the  salad,  or  rather,  the  herb  of  grace. 

Laf.  They  are  not  salad-herbs,  you  knave  ; 
they  are  nose-herbs. 

Clo.  I  am  no  great  Nebuchadnezzar,  sir  ;  I 
have  not  much  skill  in  grass. 

Laf.  Whether  dost  thou  profess  thyself, — a 
knave  or  a  fool  ? 

Clo.  A  fool,  sir,  at  a  woman's  service,  and  a 
knave  at  a  man's. 

Laf.  Your  distinction  ? 

Clo.  I  would  cozen  the  man  of  his  wife,  and 
do  his  service.  [deed. 

Laf.   So  you  were  a  knave  at  his  service,  in- 

Clo.  And  I  would  give  his  wife  my  bauble, 
sir,  to  do  her  service. 

Laf.  I  will  subscribe  for  thee ;  thou  art  both 
knave  and  fool. 

Clo.  At  your  service. 

Laf.  No,  no,  no. 

Clo.  Why,  sir,  if  I  cannot  serve  you,  I  can 
serve  as  great  a  prince  as  you  are. 

Laf.  Who 's  that  ?  a  Frenchman  ? 

Clo.  Faith,  sir,  'a  has  an  English  name ;  but 
his  phisnomy  is  more  hotter  in  France  than 
there. 

Laf.  What  prince  is  that? 

Clo.  The  black  prince,  sir ;  alias,  the  prince 
of  darkness ;  alias,  the  devil. 

Laf.  Hold  thee,  there's  my  purse:  I  give 
thee  not  this  to  suggest  thee  from  thy  master 
thou  talkest  of;  serve  him  still. 

Clo.  I  am  a  woodland  fellow,  sir,  that  al- 
ways loved  a  great  fire ;  and  the  master  I  speak 
of  ever  keeps  a  good  fire.  But,  .sure,  he  is  the 
prince  of  the  world ;  let  his  nobility  remain  in 
his  court.  I  am  for  the  house  with  the  narrow 
gate,  which  I  take  to  be  too  little  for  pomp  to 
enter:  some  that  humble  themselves  may;  but 
the  many  will  be  too  chill  and  tender;  and 
they  '11  be  for  the  flow'ry  way  that  leads  to  the 
broad  gate  and  the  great  fire. 

Laf.  Go  thy  ways,  I  begin  to  be  a- weary  of 
thee ;  and  I  tell  thee  so  before,  because  I  would 
not  fall  out  with  thee.  Go  thy  ways ;  let  my 
horses  be  well  looked  to,  without  any  tricks. 

Clo.  If  I  put  any  tricks  upon  'em,  sir,  they 
shall  be  jades'  tricks;  which  are  their  own 
right  by  the  law  of  nature.  [Exit. 

Laf.  A  shrewd  knave,  and  an  unhappy. 

Count.  So  he  is.  My  lord  that 's  gone  made 
himself  much  sport  out  of  him :  by  his  authority 


he  remains  here,  which  he  thinks  is  a  patent 
for  his  sauciness ;  and,  indeed,  he  has  no  pace, 
but  runs  where  he  will. 

Laf.  I  like  him  well;  'tis  not  amiss.  And 
I  was  about  to  tell  you,  since  I  heard  of  the 
good  lady's  death,  and  that  my  lord  your  son 
was  upon  his  return  home,  I  moved  the  king 
my  master  to  speak  in  the  behalf  of  my  daugh- 
ter; which,  in  the  minority  of  them  both,  his 
majesty,  out  of  a  self-gracious  remembrance, 
did  first  propose :  his  highness  hath  promised 
me  to  do  it :  and,  to  stop  up  the  displeasure  he 
hath  conceived  against  your  son,  there  is  no 
fitter  matter.  How  does  your  ladyship  like  it? 

Count.  With  very  much  content,  my  lord; 
and  I  wish  it  happily  effected. 

Laf.  His  highness  comes  post  from  Mar- 
seilles, of  as  able  body  as  when  he  numbered 
thirty ;  he  will  be  here  to-morrow,  or  I  am  de- 
ceived by  him  that  in  such  intelligence  hath 
seldom  failed. 

Count.  It  rejoices  me  that  I  hope  I  shall  see 
him  ere  I  die.  I  have  letters  that  my  son  will 
be  here  to-night :  I  shall  beseech  your  lordship 
to  remain  with  me  till  they  meet  together. 

Laf.  Madam,  I  was  thinking  with  what 
manners  I  might  safely  be  admitted. 

Count.  You  need  but  plead  your  honourable 
privilege. 

Laf.  Lady,  of  that  I  have  made  a  bold  char- 
ter ;  but,  I  thank  my  God,  it  holds  yet. 

Re-enter  Clown. 

Clo.  O  madam,  yonder 's  my  lord  your  son 
with  a  patch  of  velvet  on 's  face ;  whether  there 
be  a  scar  under  it  or  no,  the  velvet  knows ;  but 
'tis  a  goodly  patch  of  velvet :  his  lelt  cheek  is  a 
cheek  of  two  pile  and  a  half,  but  his  right  cheek 
is  worn  bare. 

Laf.  A  scar  nobly  got,  or  a  noble  scar,  is  a 
good  livery  of  honour;  so  belike  is  that. 

Clo.  But  it  is  your  carbonadoed  face. 

Laf.  Let  us  go  see  your  son,  I  pray  you;  I 
long  to  talk  with  the  young  noble  soldier. 

Clo.  Faith,  there's  a  dozen  of  'em,  with 
delicate  fine  hats,  and  most  courteous  feathers, 
which  bow  the  head  and  nod  at  every  man. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — MARSEILLES.     A  Street. 

Enter  HELENA,  Widow,  and  DIANA,  with 

two  Attendants. 
Hel.  But   this   exceeding   posting  day  and 

night 
Must  wear  your  spirits  low :  we  cannot  help  it • 


3o8 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


[ACT  v. 


But  since  you  have  made  the  days  and  nights 

as  one, 

To  wear  your  gentle  limbs  in  my  affairs, 
Be  bold  you  do  so  grow  in  my  requital 
As  nothing  can  unroot  you.     In  happy  time ; — 

Enter  a  Gentleman. 

This  man  may  help  me  to  his  majesty's  ear, 
If  he  would  spend  his  power. — God  save  you, 
sir. 

Gent.  And  you. 

Hel.  Sir,  I  have  seen  you  in  the  court  of 
France. 

Gent.  I  have  been  sometimes  there. 

Hel.   I  do  presume,   sir,   that  you  are  not 

fallen 

From  the  report  that  goes  upon  your  goodness ; 
And  therefore,  goaded  with  most  sharp  occasions, 
Which  lay  nice  manners  by,  I  put  you  to 
The  use  of  your  own  virtues,  for  the  which 
I  shall  continue  thankful. 

Gent.  What 's  your  will? 

Hel.  That  it  will  please  you 
To  give  this  poor  petition  to  the  king ; 
And  aid  me  with  that  store  of  power  you  have 
To  come  into  his  presence. 

Gent.  The  king 's  not  here. 

Hel.  Not  here,  sir? 

Gent.  Not  indeed : 

He  hence  remov'd  last  night,  and  with  more 

haste 
Than  is  his  use. 

Wid.  Lord,  how  we  lose  our  pains ! 

HeL  All 's  well  that  ends  well  yet, 
Though  time  seem  so  adverse  and  means  unfit. — 
I  do  beseech  you,  whither  is  he  gone? 

Gent.  Marry,  as  I  take  it,  to  Rousillon; 
Whither  I  am  going. 

Hel.  I  do  beseech  you,  sir, 

Since  you  are  like  to  see  the  king  before  me, 
Commend  the  paper  to  his  gracious  hand ; 
Which  I  presume  shall  render  you  no  blame, 
But  rather  make  you  thank  your  pains  for  it : 
I  will  come  after  you,  with  what  good  speed 
Our  means  will  make  us  means. 

Gent.  This  I  '11  do  for  you. 

Hel.  And  you  shall  find  yourself  to  be  well 

thank'd, 

Whate' erf  alls  more. — We  must  to  horse  again; — 
Go,  go,  provide.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — ROUSILLON.     The  inner  Court  of 
the  COUNTESS'S  Palace. 

Enter  Clown  and  PAROLLES. 

Par.  Good  Monsieur  Lavatch,  give  my  Lord 
Lafeu  this  letter :    I  have  ere  now,  sir,  been 


better  known  to  you,  when  I  have  held  famili- 
arity with  fresher  clothes ;  but  I  am  now,  sir, 
muddied  in  fortune's  mood,  and  smell  some- 
what strong  of  her  strong  displeasure. 

Clo.  Truly,  fortune's  displeasure  is  but  slut- 
tish if  it  smell  so  strongly  as  thou  speakest  of: 
I  will  henceforth  eat  no  fish  of  fortune's  butter- 
ing. Pr'ythee,  allow  the  wind. 

Par.  Nay,  you  need  not  to  stop  your  nose, 
sir ;  I  spake  but  by  a  metaphor. 

Clo.  Indeed,  sir,  if  your  metaphor  stink,  I 
will  stop  my  nose ;  or  against  any  man's  meta- 
phor. Pr'ythee,  get  thee  further. 

Par.  Pray  you,  sir,  deliver  me  this  paper. 

Clo.    Foh,   pr'ythee,   stand   away:    a  paper 
from  fortune's  close-stool  to  give  to  a  noble- 
man !     Look,  here  he  comes  himself. 
.1/33 •-•:•  .wivfse  aid  oh 

Enter  LAFEU. 


Here  is  a  pur  of  fortune's,  sir,  or  of  for- 
tune's cat  (but  not  a  musk-cat),  that  has  fallen 
into  the  unclean  fishpond  of  her  displeasure, 
and,  as  he  says,  is  muddied  withal :  pray  you, 
sir,  use  the  carp  as  you  may ;  for  he  looks  like 
a  poor,  decayed,  ingenious,  foolish,  rascally 
knave.  I  do  pity  his  distress  in  my  smiles  of 
comfort,  and  leave  him  to  your  lordship. 

[Exit. 

Par.  My  lord,  I  am  a  man  whom  fortune 
hath  cruelly  scratched. 

Laf.  And  what  would  you  have  me  to  do? 
'tis  too  late  to  pare  her  nails  now.  Wherein 
have  you  played  the  knave  with  fortune,  that 
she  should  scratch  you,  who  of  herself  is  a  good 
lady,  and  would  not  have  knaves  thrive  long 
under  her?  There's  a  quart  a* ecu  for  you: 
let  the  justices  make  you  and  fortune  friends; 
I  am  for  other  business. 

Par.  I  beseech  your  honour  to  hear  me  one 
single  word. 

Laf.  You  beg  a  single  penny  more :  come, 
you  shall  ha't :  save  your  word. 

Par.   My  name,  my  good  lord,  is  Parolles. 

Laf.  You  beg  more  than  one  word  then. — 
Cox'  my  passion  !  give  me  your  hand : — how 
does  your  drum? 

Par.  O  my  good  lord,  you  were  the  first 
that  found  me. 

Laf.  Was  I,  in  sooth?  and  I  was  the  first 
that  lost  thee. 

Par.  It  lies  in  you,  my  lord,  to  bring  me  m 
some  grace,  for  you  did  bring  me  out. 

Laf.  Out  upon  thee,  knave !  dost  thou  put 
upon  me  at  once  both  the  office  of  God  and 
the  devil?  one  brings  thee  in  grace,  and  the 
other  brings  thee  out.  [Trumpets  sound.'] 
The  king's  coming;  I  know  by  his  trumpets. 


SCENE  III.] 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


309 


— Sirrah,  inquire  further  after  me;  I  had  talk 
of  you  last  night :  though  you  are  a  fool  and  a 
knave,  you  shall  eat :  go  to ;  follow. 

Par.   I  praise  God  for  you.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — The  same.     A  Room  in  the 
COUNTESS'S  Palace. 

Flourish.     Enter  KING,  COUNTESS,  LAFEU, 
Lords,  Gentlemen,  Guards,  &C. 

King.  We  lost  a  jewel  of  her ;  and  our  esteem 
Was  made  much  poorer  by  it :  but  your  son, 
As  mad  in  folly ,  lack'd  the  sense  to  know 
Her  estimation  home. 

Count.  'Tis  past,  my  liege : 

And  I  beseech  your  majesty  to  make  it 
Natural  rebellion,  done  i'  the  blaze  of  youth, 
When  oil  and  fire,  too  strong  for  reason's  force, 
O'erbears  it,  and  burns  on. 

King.  My  honour'd  lady, 

I  have  forgiven  and  forgotten  all ; 
Though  my  revenges  were  high  bent  upon  him, 
And  watch'd  the  time  to  shoot. 

Laf.  This  I  must  say, — 

But  first,  I  beg  my  pardon, — the  young  lord 
Did  to  his  majesty,  his  mother,  and  his  lady, 
Offence  of  mighty  note ;  but  to  himself 
The  greatest  wrong  of  all :  he  lost  a  wife 
Whose  beauty  did  astonish  the  survey 
Of  richest  eyes;   whose  words  all  ears  took 

captive ; 
Whose  dear  perfection  hearts  that  scorn'd  to 

serve 
Humbly  call'd  mistress. 

King.  Praising  what  is  lost 

Makes  the  remembrance  dear. — Well,  call  him 

hitner ; — 

We  are  reconcil'd,  and  the  first  view  shall  kill 
All  repetition : — let  him  not  ask  our  pardon ; 
The  nature  of  his  great  offence  is  dead, 
And  deeper  than  oblivion  do  we  bury 
The  incensing  relics  of  it ;  let  him  approach, 
A  stranger,  no  offender ;  and  inform  him, 
So  'tis  our  will  he  should. 

Gent.  I  shall,  my  liege. 

[Exit  Gentleman. 

King.  What  says  he  to  your  daughter?  have 
you  spoke? 

Laf.  All  that  he  is  hath  reference  to  your 
highness. 

King.  Then  shall  we  have  a  match.     I  have 

letters  sent  me 
That  set  him  high  in  fame. 

Enter  BERTRAM. 

Laf.  He  looks  well  on 't. 

King.  I  am  not  a  day  of  season, 


For  thou  mayst  see  a  sunshine  and  a  hail 
In  me  at  once :  but  to  the  brightest  beams 
Distracted  clouds  give  way ;  so  stand  thou  forth, 
The  time  is  fair  again. 

Ber.  My  high-repented  blames, 

Dear  sovereign,  pardon  to  me. 

King.  All  is  whole  ; 

Not  one  word  more  of  the  consumed  time. 
Let 's  take  the  instant  by  the  forward  top ; 
For  we  are  old,  and  on  our  quick'st  decrees 
The  inaudible  and  noiseless  foot  of  time 
Steals  ere  we  can  effect  them.     You  remetnbel 
The  daughter  of  this  lord? 

Ber.  Admiringly,  my  liege :  at  first 
I  stuck  my  choice  upon  her,  ere  my  heart 
Durst  make  too  bold  a  herald  of  my  tongue : 
Where  the  impression  of  mine  eye  infixing, 
Contempt  his  scornful  perspective  did  lend  me, 
Which  warp'd  the  line  of  every  other  favour; 
Scorned  a  fair  colour,  or  express'd  it  stolen ; 
Extended  or  contracted  all  proportions 
To  a  most  hideous  object :  thence  it  came 
That  she  whom  all   men  prais'd,  and  whom 

myself, 

Since  I  have  lost,  have  lov'd,  was  in  mine  eye 
The  dust  that  did  offend  it. 

King.  Well  excused : 

That  thou  didst  love  her,  strikes  some  serves 

away 
From  the  great  compt :  but  love  that  comes  too 

late, 

Like  a  remorseful  pardon  slowly  carried, 
To  the  great  sender  turns  a  sour  offence, 
Crying,  That's  good  that's  gone.  Our  rash 

feults 

Make  trivial  price  of  serious  things  we  have, 
Not  knowing  them  until  we  know  their  grave ". 
Oft  our  displeasures,  to  ourselves  unjust, 
Destroy  our  friends,  and  after  weep  their  dust : 
Our  own  love  waking  cries  to  see  what 's  donet. 
While  shameful  hate  sleeps  out  the  afternoon. 
Be  this  sweet  Helen's  knell,  and  now  forget  her. 
Send  forth  your  amorous  token  for  fair  Maudlin : 
The  main  consents  are  had ;  and  here  we  '11  stay 
To  see  our  widower's  second  marriage-day. 

Count.  Which  better  than  the  first,  O  dear 

heaven,  bless ! 
Or,  ere  they  meet,  in  me,  O  nature,  cesse ! 

Laf.  Come  on,  my  son,  in  whom  my  house's 

name 

Must  be  digested,  give  a  favour  from  you, 
To  sparkle  in  the  spirits  of  my  daughter, 
That  she  may  quickly  come. — 

[BERTRAM  gives  a  ring  to  LAFEU. 
By  my  old  beard  7 

And  every  hair  that's  on't,  Helen,  that's  dead, 
Was  a  sweet  creature :  such  a  ring  as  this, 


3io 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


[ACT  v. 


The  last  that  e'er  I  took  her  leave  at  court, 
I  saw  upon  her  finger. 
Ber.  Her's  it  was  not. 

King.   Now,   pray  you,  let  me  see  it;   for 

mine  eye, 

While  I  was  speaking,  oft  was  fasten'd  to  it. — 
This  ring  was  mine,  and  when  I  gave  it  Helen 
I  bade  her,  if  her  fortunes  ever  stood 
Necessitated  to  help,  that  by  this  token 
I  would  relieve  her.     Had  you  that  craft  to 

'reave  her 
Of  what  should  stead  her  most? 

Ber.  My  gracious  sovereign, 

Howe'er  it  pleases  you  to  take  it  so, 
The  ring  was  never  hers. 

Count.  Son,  on  my  life, 

I  have  seen  her  wear  it ;  and  she  reckon'd  it 
At  her  life's  rate. 

Laf.  I'm  sure  I  saw  her  wear  it. 

Ber.  You  are  deceiv'd,  my  lord ;  she  never 

saw  it: 

In  Florence  was  it  from  a  casement  thrown  me, 
Wrapp'd  in  a  paper,  which  contain'd  the  name 
Of  her  that  threw  it:  noble  she  was,  and 

thought 

I  stood  engag'd :  but  when  I  had  subscrib'd 
To  mine  own  fortune,  and  inform'd  her  fully 
I  could  not  answer  in  that  course  of  honour 
As  she  had  made  the  overture,  she  ceas'd, 
In  heavy  satisfaction,  and  would  never 
Receive  the  ring  again. 

King.  Plutus  himself, 

That  knows  the  tinct  and  multiplying  medicine, 
Hath  not  in  nature's  mystery  more  science 
Than   I  have  in  this  ring:  'twas  mine,  'twas 

Helen's, 

Whoever  gave  it  you.     Then,  if  you  know 
That  you  are  well  acquainted  with  yourself, 
Confess   'twas  hers,   and   by  what  rough  en- 
forcement 
You  got  it  from  her:  she  call'd  the  saints  to 

surety 

That  she  would  never  put  it  from  her  finger 
Unless  she  gave  it  to  yourself  in  bed, — 
Where  you  have  never  come, — or  sent  it  us 
Upon  her  great  disaster. 

Ber.  She  never  saw  it. 

King.    Thou  speak'st  it  falsely,   as   I  love 

mine  honour; 

And  mak'st  conjectural  fears  to  come  into  me 
Which  I  would  fain  shut  out.     If  it  should  prove 
That  thou  art  so  inhuman, — 'twill  not  prove 

so: — 
And  yet   I  know  not: — thou   didst  hate  her 

deadly. 

And  she  is  dead  ;  which  nothing,  but  to  close 
Her  eyes  myself,  could  win  me  to  believe 


More  than  to  see  this  ring. — Take  him  away. — 
[Guards  seize  BERTRAM. 
My  fore-past  proofs,  howe'er  the  matter  fall, 
Shall  tax  my  fears  of  little  vanity, 
Having  vainly  fear'd   too   little. — Away  with 

him; — 
We  '11  sift  this  matter  further. 

Ber.  If  you  shall  prove 

This  ring  was  ever  hers,  you  shall  as  easy 
Prove  that  I  husbanded  her  bed  in  Florence, 
Where  yet  she  never  was.          {Exit,  guarded. 

King.  I  am  wrapp'd  in  dismal  thinkings. 

Enter  a  Gentleman. 

Gent.  Gracious  sovereign, 

Whether  I  have  been  to  blame  or  no,  I  know 

not: 

Here 's  a  petition  trom  a  Florentine^ 
Who  hath,  for  four  or  five  removes,  come  short 
To  tender  it  herself.     I  undertook  it, 
Vanquish'd  thereto  by  the  fair  grace  and  speech 
Of  the  poor  suppliant,  who  by  this,  I  know, 
Is  here  attending :  her  business  looks  in  her 
With  an  importing  visage ;  and  she  told  me, 
In  a  sweet  verbal  brief,  it  did  concern 
Your  highness  with  herself. 

King.  [Reads.  ]  Upon  his  many  protestations 
to  marry  me,  when  his  wife  was  dead,  I  blush 
to  say  it,  he  won  me.  Now  is  the  Cottnt  Rou~ 
sillon  a  widower  ;  his  vows  are  forfeited  to  me, 
and  my  honour's  paid  to  him.  He  stole  from 
Florence,  taking  no  leave,  and  I  follow  him  to 
his  country  for  justice:  grant  it  me,  O  king ; 
in  you  it  best  lies ;  otherwise  a  seducer  flourishes, 
and  a  poor  maid  is  undone. 

DIANA  CAPULET. 

Laf.  I  will  buy  me  a  son-in-law  in  a  fair, 
and  toll  this :  I  '11  none  of  him. 

King.  The  heaven's  have  thought  well  on  thee, 

Lafeu, 
To   bring   forth    this   discovery. — Seek    these 

suitors: — 
Go  speedily,  and  bring  again  the  count. 

[Exeunt  Gentleman,  and  some  Attendants. 
I  am  afeard  the  life  of  Helen,  lady, 
Was  foully  snatch'd. 

Count.  Now,  justice  on  the  doers  ! 

Enter  BERTRAM,  gtiarded. 

King.  I  wonder,  sir,  since  wives  are  mon- 
sters to  you, 

And  that  you  fly  them  as  you  swear  them 
lordship, 

Yet  you  desire  to  marry. — What  woman 's  that? 

Re-enter  Gentleman,  with  Widow  and  DIANA. 
Dia.  I  am,  my  lord,  a  wretched  Florentine, 


SCENE  III.] 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


Derived  from  the  ancient  Capulet ; 
My  suit,  as  I  do  understand,  you  know, 
And  therefore  know  how  far  I  may  be  pitied. 
Wid.   I  am  her  mother,  sir,  whose  age  and 

honour 

Both  suffer  under  this  complaint  we  bring, 
And  both  shall  cease,  without  your  remedy. 
King.  Come  hither,  count ;   do   you   know 

these  women  ? 

Ber.  My  lord,  I  neither  can  nor  will  deny 
But  that   I  know  them  :    do  they  charge  me 

further  ? 
Dia.  Why  do  you  look  so  strange  upon  your 

wife. 

Ber.  She  's  none  of  mine,  my  lord. 
Dia.  If  you  shall  marry, 

You  give  away  this  hand,  and  that  is  mine  ; 
You  give  away  heaven's  vows,  and  those  are 

mine  ; 

You  give  away  myself,  which  is  known  mine ; 
For  I  by  vow  am  so  embodied  yours 
That  she  which  marries  you  must  marry  me, 
Either  both  or  none. 

Laf.  [To  BERTRAM.]  Your  reputation  comes 
too  short  for-my  daughter ;  you  are  no  husband 
for  her. 

Ber.   My  lord,  this  is  a  fond  and  desperate 

creature 
Whom  sometimes  I  have  laugh'd  with :  let  your 

highness 

Lay  a  more  noble  thought  upon  mine  honour 
Than  for  to  think  that  I  would  sink  it  here. 
King.  Sir,  for  my  thoughts,  you  have  them 

ill  to  friend 
Till  your  deeds  gain  them :  fairer  prove  your 

honour 
Than  in  my  thought  it  lies ! 

Dia.  Good,  my  lord, 

Ask  him  upon  his  oath,  if  he  does  think 
He  had  not  my  virginity. 

King.  What  say'st  thou  to  her? 
Ber.  She 's  impudent,  my  lord ; 

And  was  a  common  gamester  to  the  camp. 
Dia.  He  does  me  wrong,  my  lord ;  if  I  were 

so 

He  might  have  bought  me  at  a  common  price : 
Do  not  believe  him.     O,  behold  this  ring, 
Whose  high  respect  and  rich  validity 
Did  lack  a  parallel ;  yet,  for  all  that, 
He  gave  it  to  a  commoner  o'  the  camp, 
If  I  be  one. 

Count.     He  blushes,  and  'tis  it: 
Of  six  preceding  ancestors,  that  gem, 
Conferred  by  testament  to  the  sequent  issue, 
Hath  it   been  ow'd   and  worn.      This   is  his 

wife; 
That  ring 's  a  thousand  proofs. 


King.  Methought  you  said 

You  saw  one  here  in  court  could  witness  it. 

Dia.  I  did,  my  lord,  but  loath  am  to  produce 
So  bad  an  instrument ;  his  name 's  Parolles. 

Laf.   I  saw  the  man  to-day,  if  man  he  be. 

King.  Find  him,  and  bring  him  hither. 

[Exit  an  Attendant. 

Ber.  What  of  him? 

He 's  quoted  for  a  most  perfidious  slave, 
With  all  the  spots  o'  the  world  tax'd  and  de- 

bosh'd : 

Whose  nature  sickens  but  to  speak  a  truth : 
Am  I  or  that  or  this  for  what  he  '11  utter, 
That  will  speak  anything? 

King.  She  hath  that  ring  of  yours. 

Ber.  I  think  she  has:   certain  it  is  I  lik'd 

her, 

And  boarded  her  i'  the  wanton  way  of  youth : 
She  knew  her  distance,  and  did  angle  for  me, 
Madding  my  eagerness  with  her  restraint, 
As  all  impediments  in  fancy's  course 
Are  motives  of  more  fancy ;  and,  in  fine, 
Her  infinite  coming  with  her  modern  grace, 
Subdued  me  to  her  rate :  she  got  the  ring ; 
And  I  had  that  which  any  inferior  might 
At  market-price  have  bought. 

Dia.  I  must  be  patient ; 

You  that  have  turn'd  off  a  first  so  noble  wife 
May  justly  diet  me.     I  pray  you  yet, — 
Since  you  lack  virtue,  I  will  lose  a  husband,— 
Send  for  your  ring,  I  will  return  it  home, 
And  give  me  mine  again. 

Ber.  I  have  it  not 

King.  What  ring  was  yours,  I  pray  you? 

Dia.  Sir,  much  like 

The  same  upon  your  finger, 

King.  Know  you  this  ring?   this  ring  was 
his  of  1  .te. 

Dia.  And  this  was  it  I  gave  him,  being  a-bed. 

King.  The  story,  then,  goes  false  you  threw 

it  him 
Out  of  a  casement. 

Dia.  I  have  spoke  the  truth. 

Ber.  My  lord,  I  do  confess  the  ring  was  hers. 

King.  You  boggle  shrewdly;  every  feather 
starts  you. — 

Re-enter  Attendant,  with  PAROLLES. 

Is  this  the  man  you  speak  of? 

Dia.  Ay,  my  lord. 

King.  Tell  me,  sirrah,  but  tell  me  true,  I 

charge  you, 

Not  fearing  the  displeasure  of  your  master, — 
Which,  on  your  just  proceeding,  I  '"11  keep  off, — 
By  him  and  by  this  woman  here  what  know 

you?      1  , . 
Par.  So  please  y6ur  majesty,  my  master  hath 


312 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


[ACT  V. 


been  an  honourable  gentleman  ;  tricks  he  hath 
had  in  him,  which  gentlemen  have. 

King.  Come,  come,  to  the  purpose  :  did  he 
love  this  woman  ? 

Par.  Faith,  sir,  he  did  love  her  ;  but  how  ? 

King.  How,  I  pray  you  ? 

Par.  He  did  love  her,  sir,  as  a  gentleman 
loves  a  woman. 

King.  How  is  that  ? 

Par.  He  loved  her,  sir,  and  loved  her  not. 

King.  As  thou  art  a  knave  and  no  knave. — 
What  an  equivocal  companion  is  this  ! 

Par.  I  am  a  poor  man,  and  at  your  majesty's 
command. 

Laf.  He's  a  good  drum,  my  lord,  but  a 
naughty  orator. 

Dia.  Do  you  know  he  promised  me  marriage? 

Par.  Faith,  I  know  more  than  I  '11  speak. 

King.  But  wilt  thou  not  speak  all  thou 
know'st  ? 

Par.  Yes,  so  please  your  majesty;  I  did  go 
between  them,  as  I  said  ;  but  more  than  that, 
he  loved  her, — for,  indeed,  he  was  mad  for 
her,  and  talked  of  Satan,  and  of  limbo,  and  of 
furies,  and  I  know  not  what :  yet  I  was  in  that 
credit  with  them  at  that  time  that  I  knew  of 
their  going  to  bed  ;  and  of  other  motions,  as 
promising  her  marriage,  and  things  which  would 
derive  me  ill-will  to  speak  of;  therefore  I  will 
not  speak  what  I  know. 

King.  Thou  hast  spoken  all  already,  unless 
thou  canst  say  they  are  married  :  but  thou  art 
too  fine  in  thy  evidence ;  therefore  stand  aside. — 
Thif  ring,  you  say,  was  yours  ? 

Dia.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

King.  Where  did  you  buy  it?  or  who  gave 
it  you  ?  [it. 

Dia.  It  was  not  given  me,  nor  I  did  not  buy 

King.  Who  lent  it  you  ? 

Dia.  It  was  not  lent  me  neither. 

King.  Where  did  you  find  it  then  ? 

Dia.  I  found  it  not. 

King.  If  it  were  yours  by  none  of  all  these 

ways, 
How  could  you  give  it  him  ? 

Dia.  I  never  gave  it  him. 

Laf.  This  woman 's  an  easy  glove,  my  lord  ; 
she  goes  off  and  on  at  pleasure. 

King.  This  ring  was  mine,  I  gave  it  his  first 
wife. 

Dia.  It  might  be  yours  or  hers,  for  aught  I 
know. 

King.  Take  her  away,  I  do  not  like  her  now ; 
To  prison  with  her  :  and  away  with  him.— 
Unless  thou  tell'st  me  where  thou  hadst  this 

"ng> 
Thou  diest  within  this  houft 


Dia.  I  '11  never  tell  you. 

King.  Take  her  away. 

Dia.  I  '11  put  in  bail,  my  liege. 

King.  I  think  thee  now  some  common  cus- 

tomer. 

Dia.  By  Jove,  if  ever  I  knew  man,  'twas  you. 
King.  Wherefore  hast  thou  accus'd  him  all 

this  while  ? 

Dia.  Because  he  's  guilty,  and  he  is  not  guilty: 
He  knows  I  am  no  maid,  and  he  '11  swear  to  't  : 
I  '11  swear  I  am  a  maid,  and  he  knows  not. 
Great  king,  I  am  no  strumpet,  by  my  life  ; 
I  am  either  maid,  or  else  this  old  man's  wife. 

[Pointing  to  LAFEU. 

King.  She  does  abuse  our  ears  ;  to  prison 

with  her.  [sir  ; 

Dia.  Good  mother,  fetch  my  bail.  —  Stay,  royal 

{Exit  Widow. 

The  jeweller  that  owes  the  ring  is  sent  for, 
And  he  shall  surety  me.  But  for  this  lord, 
Who  hath  abus'd  me,  as  he  knows  himself, 
Though  yet  he  never  harm'd  me,  here  I  quit 

him  : 

He  knows  himself  my  bed  he  hath  defil'd  ; 
And  at  that  time  he  got  his  wife  with  child. 
Dead  though  she  be,  she  feels  her  young  onf 

kick; 

So  there  's  my  riddle  —  One  that  's  dead  is  quick  ; 
And  now  behold  the  meaning. 

Re-enter  Widow  with  HELENA. 


King. 


Is  there  no  exorcist 


Beguiles  the  truer  office  of  mine  eyes  ? 
Is  't  real  that  I  see  ? 

Hel.  No,  my  good  lord  ; 

'Tis  but  the  shadow  of  a  wife  you  see  — 
The  name,  and  not  the  thing. 

Ber.  Both,  both  ;  O,  pardon  ! 

Hel.  O,  my  good  lord,  when  I  was  like  this 

maid  ; 

I  found  you  wondrous  kind.     There  is  your  ring, 
And,   look  you,  here's  your  letter.     This  it 

says, 

When  from  my  finger  you  can  get  this.  ring, 
And  are  by  me  with  child,  &"c.  —  This  is  done; 
Will  you  be  mine,  now  you  are  doubly  won  ? 

Ber.  If  she,  my  liege,  can  make  me  know 

this  clearly, 
I  '11  love  her  dearly,  ever,  ever  dearly. 

Hel.  If  it  appear  not  plain,  and  prove  untrue, 
Deadly  divorce  step  between  me  and  you  !  — 
O,  my  dear  mother,  do  I  see  you  living  ? 

Laf.  Mine  eyes  smell  onions  ;  I  shall  weep 
anon  :  —  Good  Tom  Drum  {to  PAROLLES],  lend 
me  a  handkercher  :  so,  I  thank  thee  ;  wait  on 
me  home,  I  '11  make  sport  with  thee  :  let  thy 
courtesies  alone,  they  are  scurvy  ones. 


SCENE  III.] 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  END'S  WELL. 


313 


Kin%.     Let  us  from  point  to  point  this  story 

know, 

To  make  the  even  truth  in  pleasure  flow: — 
If  thou  be'st  yet  a  fresh  uncropped  flower, 

[  To  DIANA. 
Choose  thou  thy  husband,  and  I'll  pay  thy 

dower ; 

For  I  can  guess  that,  by  thy  honest  aid, 
Thou  kept'st  a  wife  herself,  thyself  a  maid. — 
Of  that  and  all  the  progress,  more  and  less, 
Resolvedly  more  leisure  shall  express  : 


All  yet  seems  well ;  and  if  it  end  so  meet, 
The  bitter  past,  more  welcome  is  the  sweet 

{Flourish. 

The  king's  a  beggar,  now  the  play  is  done  : 
All  is  well-ended  if  this  suit  be  won, 
That  you  express  content ;  which  we  will  pay, 
With  strife  to  please  you,  day  exceeding  day : 
Ours  be  your  patience  then,  and  yours  our 

parts; 

Your  gentle  hands  lend  us,  and  take  our  hearts. 

{Exeunt. 


br-A 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


AT-  > 

A  Lord.  ^ 

CHRISTOPHER    SLY,    a   drunken      Persons 

Tinker.  \-     in  the 

Hostess,  Page,  Players,  Huntsmen,  I  Induction. 

and  Servants. 

BAPTISTA,  a  rich  Gentleman  of  Padua. 
VINCENT  10,  an  old  Gentleman  of  Pisa. 
LUCENTIO,  Son  to  VINCENTIO,  in  love  with 

BIANCA. 
PETRUCHIO,  a  Gentleman  of  Verona,  a  Suitor 

to  KATHARINA. 

HORTEN'SIO,    }**"  »  B— 


*"»"*>  LUCENTIO. 


LANDELLO,  . 

CURTIS?  }s»va*ts  te  PETRUCHIO. 
Pedant,  an  old  fellow  set  up  to  personate  VlN- 
CENTIO. 

KATHARINA,  the  Shrew,   \Daughters  to  BAP- 
BIANCA,  j          TISTA. 

Widow. 

Tailor,  Haberdasher,  and  Servants  attending 
on  BAPTISTA  and  PETRUCHIO. 


SCENE, — Sometimes  in  PADUA,  and  sometimes  in  PETRUCHIO'S  House  in  the  Country. 


INDUCTION. 

SCENE  I. — Before  an  Alehouse  on  a  Heath. 
Enter  Hostess  and  SLY. 

Sly.  I  '11  pheeze  you,  in  faith. 

Host.  A  pair  of  stocks,  you  rogue ! 

Sly.  Y'are  a  baggage:  the  Slys  are  no 
rogues;  look  in  the  chronicles;  we  came  in 
with  Richard  Conqueror.  Therefore,  paucas 
pallabris ;  let  the  world  slide:  sessa! 

Host.  You  will  not  pay  for  the  glasses  you 
have  burst? 

Sly.  No,  not  a  denier.  Go  by,  Saint  Jer- 
onimy, — go  to  thy  cold  bed  and  warm  thee. 

Host.  I  know  my  remedy;  I  must  go  fetch 
the  thirdborough.  {Exit. 

Sly.  Third,  or  fourth,  or  fifth  borough,  I  '11 
answer  him  by  law:  I'll  not  budge  an  inch, 
boy :  let  him  come,  and  kindly. 

[Lies  down  on  the  ground  and  falls  asleep. 

Horns  winded.     Enter  a  Lord  from  hunting, 
with  Huntsmen  and  Servants. 

Lord.  Huntsman,  I  charge  thee,  tender  well 

my  hounds: 

Brach  Merriman, — the  poor  cur  is  emboss'd, 
And  couple  Clowder  with  the  deep-mouth'd 

brach. 

Saw'st  thou  not,  boy,  how  Silver  made  it  good 
At  the  hedge-corner,  in  the  coldest  fault? 
I  would  not  lose  the  do&fix  twenty  pound. 


I  Hun.  Why,  Belman  is  as  good  as  he,  my 

lord; 

He  cried  upon  it  at  the  merest  loss, 
And  twice  to-day  pick'd  out  the  dullest  scent: 
Trust  me,  I  take  him  for  the  better  dog. 

Lord.  Thou  art  a  fool :  if  Echo  were  as  fleet, 
I  would  esteem  him  worth  a  dozen  such. 
But  sup  them  well,  and  look  unto  them  all : 
To-morrow  I  intend  to  hunt  again. 

1  Hun.  1  will,  my  lord. 

Lord.  What's   here?   one   dead,  or  drunk? 
See,  doth  he  breathe? 

2  Hun.  He  breathes,  my  lord.    Were  he  not 

warm'd  with  ale, 

This  were  a  bed  but  cold  to  sleep  so  soundly. 
Lord.  O  monstrous  beast !  how  like  a  swine 

he  lies !  [image ! 

Grim  death,  how  foul  and  loathsome  is  thine 
Sirs,  I  will  practise  on  this  drunken  man. 
What  think  you,  if  he  were  convey'd  to  bed, 
Wrapp'd  in  sweet  clothes,  rings  put  upon  his 

fingers, 

A  most  delicious  banquet  by  his  beet, 
And  brave  attendants  near  him  when  he  wakes, 
Would  not  the  beggar  then  forget  himself  ? 

1  Hun.  Believe  me,  lord,  I  think  he  cannot 

choose. 

2  Hun.  It  would  seem  strange  unto  him  when 

he  wak'd.  [less  fancy. 

Lord.  Even  as  a  flattering  dream  or  worth- 
Then  take  him  up,  and  manage  well  the  jest  :— 
Carry  him  gently  to  my  fairest  chamber, 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


315 


And  hang  it  round  with  all  my  wanton  pictures : 
Balm  his  foul  head  in  warm  distilled  waters. 
And  burn  sweet  wood  to  make  the  lodging 

sweet : 

Procure  me  music  ready  when  he  wakes, 
To  make  a  dulcet  and  a  heavenly  sound ; 
And  if  he  chance  to  speak,  be  ready  straight, 
And,  with  a  low,  submissive  reverence, 
Say, — What  is  it  your  honour  will  command? 
Let  one  attend  him  with  a  silver  basin 
Full  of  rose-water  and  bestrew'd  with  flowers ; 
Another  bear  the  ewer,  the  third  a  diaper, 
And  say, — Will 't  please  your  lordship  cool  your 

hands? 

Some  one  be  ready  with  a  costly  suit, 
And  ask  him  what  apparel  he  will  wear  ; 
Another  tell  him  of  his  hounds  and  horse, 
And  that  his  lady  mourns  at  his  disease : 
Persuade  him  that  he  hath  been  lunatic ; 
And,  when  he  says  he  is,  say  that  he  dreams, 
For  he  is  nothing  but  a  mighty  lord. 
This  do,  and  do  it  kindly,  gentle  sirs : 
It  will  be  pastime  passing  excellent, 
If  it  be  husbanded  with  modesty. 

I  Hun.  My  lord,  I  warrant  you,  we  '11  play 

our  part, 

As  he  shall  think,  by  our  true  diligence, 
He  is  no  less  than  what  we  say  he  is.        [him  ; 
Lord.  Take  him  up  gently,  and  to  bed  with 
And  each  one  to  his  office  when  he  wakes. 

[Some  bear  ottt  SLY.     A  trumpet  sotmds. 

Sirrah,  go  see  what  trumpet  'tis  that  sounds : — 

[Exit  Servant. 

Belike,  some  noble  gentleman,  that  means, 
Travelling  some  journey,  to  repose  him  here. 

Re-enter  a  Servant. 
How  now !  who  is  it? 

Serv.  An  it  please  your  honour, 

Players  that  offer  service  to  your  lordship. 
Lord.   Bid  them  come  near. 
Enter  Players. 
Now,  fellows,  you  are  welcome. 

1  Play.  We  thank  your  honour. 

Lord.  Do  you  in  tend  to  stay  with  me  to-night  ? 

2  Play.  So  please  your  lordship  to  accept  our 

duty.  [member, 

Lord.  With  all  my  heart. — This  fellow  I  re- 
Since  once  he  play'd  a  farmer's  eldest  son : — 
'Twas  where   you  woo'd  the  gentlewoman  so 

well: 

I  have  forgot  your  name ;  but,  sure,  that  part 
Was  aptly  fitted  and  naturally  perform'd. 
I  Play.  I  think  'twas  Soto  that  your  honour 

means. 

Lord.  'Tis  very  true :  thou  didst  it  excellent. — 
Well,  you  are  come  to  me  in  happy  time ; 


The  rather  for  I  have  some  sport  in  hand, 
Wherein  your  cunning  can  assist  me  much. 
There  is  a  lord  will  hear  you  play  to-night: 
But  I  am  doubtful  of  your  modesties ; 
Lest,  over-eying  of  his  odd  behaviour, — 
For  yet  his  honour  never  heard  a  play, — 
You  break  into  some  merry  passion, 
And  so  offend  him ;  for  I  tell  you,  sirs, 
If  you  should  smile,  he  grows  impatient. 

I  Play.   Fear  not,  my  lord ;  we  can  contain 

ourselves, 
Were  he  the  veriest  antic  in  the  world. 

Lord.  Go,  sirrah,  take  them  to  the  buttery, 
And  give  them  friendly  welcome  every  one : 
Let  them  want  nothing  that  my  house  affords. 
[Exeunt  Servant  and  Players. 
Sirrah,  go  you  to  Barthol'mew  my  page, 

[To  a  Servant. 

And  see  him  dress'd  in  all  suits  like  a  lady : 
That   done,    conduct   him   to   the    drunkard's 

chamber ; 

And  call  him  madam,  do  him  obeisance. 
Tell  him  from  me, — as  he  will  win  my  love, — 
He  bear  himself  with  honourable  action, 
Such  as  he  hath  observ'd  in  noble  ladies 
Unto  their  lords,  by  them  accomplished: 
Such  duty  to  the  drunkard  let  him  do, 
With  soft  low  tongue  and  lowly  courtesy; 
And  say, — What  is't  your  honour  will  com- 
mand, 

Wherein  your  lady  and  your  humble  wife 
May  show  her  duty  and  make  known  her  love? 
And  then, — with  kind  embracements,  tempting 

kisses, 

And  with  declining  head  into  his  bosom, — 
Bid  him  shed  tears,  as  being  overjoy'd 
To  see  her  noble  lord  restor'd  to  health, 
Who  for  this  seven  years  hath  esteemed  him 
No  better  than  a  poor  and  loathsome  beggar : 
And  if  the  boy  have  not  a  woman's  gift, 
To  rain  a  shower  of  commanded  tezrs, 
An  onion  will  do  well  for  such  a  shift ; 
Which  in  a  napkin  being  close  conveyed, 
Shall  in  despite  enforce  a  watery  eye.     [canst : 
See  this  despatch'd  with  all  the  haste  thou 
Anon  I  '11  give  thee  more  instructions. 

[Exit  Servant 

I  know  the  boy  will  well  usurp  the  grace, 
Voice,  gait,  and  action  of  a  gentlewoman : 
I  long  to  hear  him  call  the  drunkard  husband  ; 
And  how  my  men  will  stay  themselves  from 

laughter 

When  they  do  homage  to  this  simple  peasant. 
I  '11  in  to  counsel  them :  haply  my  presence 
May  well  abate  the  over-merry  spleen, 
Which  otherwise  would  grow  into  extremes. 

[Exeunt. 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


[INDUCTION. 


SCENE    II.  —  A  Bedchamber  in  the   Lord's 
House. 

SLY  is  discovered  in  a  rich  nightgown,  with 
Attendants ;  some  with  apparel,  others  with 
basin ,  ewer,  and  other  appurtenances.  Enter 
Lord,  dressed  like  a  Servant. 

Sly.  For  God's  sake,  a  pot  of  small  ale. 

1  Serv.   Will 't  please  your  lordship  drink  a 

cup  of  sack?  [these  conserves? 

2  Serv.  Will 't  please  your  honour  taste  of 

3  Serv.  What  raiment  will  your  honour  wear 

to-day? 

Sly.  I  am  Christophero  Sly  j  call  not  me 
honour  nor  lordship :  I  ne'er  drank  sack  in  my 
life ;  and  if  you  give  me  any  conserves,  give  me 
conserves  of  beef:  ne'er  ask  me  what  raiment 
I'll  wear;  for  I  have  no  more  doublets  than 
backs,  no  more  stockings  than  legs,  nor  no  more 
shoes  than  feet, — nay,  sometime  more  feet  than 
shoes,  or  such  shoes  as  my  toes  look  through 
the  overleather.  [honour ! 

Lord.  Heaven  cease  this  idb  humour  in  your 
O,  that  a  mighty  man,  of  such  descent, 
Of  such  possessions,  and  so  high  esteem, 
Should  be  infused  with  so  foul  a  spirit ! 

Sly.  What,  would  you  make  me  mad?  Am 
not  I  Christopher  Sly,  old  Sly's  son  of  Burton- 
heath  ;  by  birth  a  pedler,  by  education  a  card- 
maker,  by  transmutation  a  bear -herd,  and  now 
by  present  profession  a  tinker?  Ask  Marian 
Hacketj  the  fat  ale-wife  of  Wincot,  if  she  know 
me  not :  if  she  say  I  am  not  fourteen-pence  on 
the  score  for  sheer  ale,  score  me  up  for  the 
lyingest  knave  in  Christendom.  What !  I  am 
not  bestraught :  here's —  [mourn! 

1  Serv.  O,  this  it  is  that  makes  your  lady 

2  Ssrv.  O,  this  it  is  that  makes  your  servants 

droop !  [your  house, 

Lord.  Hence  comes  it  that  your  kindred  shuns 
As  beaten  hence  by  your  strange  lunacy. 
O  noble  lord,  bethink  thee  of  thy  birth ! 
Call  home  thy  ancient  thoughts  from  banish- 
ment, 

And  banish  hence  these  abject  lowly  dreams. 
Look  how  thy  servants  do  attend  on  thee, 
Each  in  his  office  ready  at  thy  beck. 
Wilt  thou  have  music?  hark  !  Apollo  plays, 

{Music. 

And  twenty  caged  nightingales  do  sing : 
Or  wilt  thou  sleep?  we'll  have  thee  to  a  couch 
Softer  and  sweeter  than  the  lustful  bed 
On  purpose  trimm'd  up  for  Semiramis. 
Say  thou  wilt  walk ;  we  will  bestrew  the  ground : 
Or  wilt  thou  ride?  thy  horses  shall  be  trapp'd, 
Their  harness  studded  all  with  gold  and  pearl. 


Dost  thou  love  hawking?  thou  hast  hawks  wil) 

soar 

Above  the  morning  lark :  or  wilt  thou  hunt? 
Thy   hounds   shall   make   the  welkin   answe* 

them, 
And  fetch  shrill  echoes  from  the  hollow  earth. 

1  Serv.  Say  thou  wilt  course ;  thy  greyhounds 

are  as  swift 
As  breathed  stags ;  ay,  fleeter  than  the  roe. 

2  Serv.    Dost  thou  love  pictures :    we  will 

fetch  thee  straight 
Adonis  painted  by  a  running  brook, 
And  Cytherea  all  in  sedges  hid,  [breath, 

Which  seem   to  move  and  wanton  with  her 
Even  as  the  waving  sedges  play  with  wind. 

Lord.  We  '11  show  thee  lo  as  she  was  a  maid, 
And  how  she  was  beguiled  and  surpris'd, 
As  lively  painted  as  the  deed  was  done. 

3  Serv.    Or    Daphne    roaming    through    a 

thorny  wood,  [bleeds ; 

Scratching  her  legs,  that  one  shall  swear  she 
And  at  that  sight  shall  sad  Apollo  weep, 
So  workmanly  the  blood  and  tears  are  drawn. 
Lord.   Thou  art  a  lord,  and  nothing  but  a 

lord : 

Thou  hast  a  lady  far  more  beautiful 
Than  any  woman  in  this  waning  age.  [for  thee, 

1  Se-v.  And,  till  the  tears  that  she  hath  shed 
Like  envious  floods,  o'er-run  her  lovely  face, 
She  was  the  fairest  creature  in  the  world ; 
And  yet  she  is  inferior  to  none. 

Sly.  Am  I  a  lord?  and  have  I  such  a  lady? 
Or  do  I  dream?  or  have  I  dream'd  till  now? 
I  do  not  sleep :  I  see,  I  hear,  I  speak ; 
I  smell  sweet  savours,  and  I  feel  soft  things:— 
Upon  my  life,  I  am  a  lord  indeed ; 
And  not  a  tinker,  nor  Christophero  Sly.-~ 
Well,  bring  our  lady  hither  to  our  sight ; 
And  once  again,  a  pot  o'  the  smallest  ale. 

2  Serv.  Will't  please  your  mightiness  to 

wash  your  hands? 

[Servants  present  a  ewer,  fiasin,  and  napkin. 
O,  how  we  joy  to  see  your  wit  restor'd  ! 
O,  that  once  more  you  knew  but  what  you  are! 
These  fifteen  years  you  have  been  in  a  dream ; 
Or,  when  you  wak'd,  so  wak'd  as  if  you  slept. 

Sly.    These   fifteen    years !    by   my   fay,   a 

goodly  nap. 
But  did  I  never  speak  of  all  that  time? 

I  Serv.  O  yes,  my  lord ;  but  very  idle  words : 
For  though  you  lay  here  in  this  goodly  chamber, 
Yet  would  you  say,  ye  were  beaten  out  of  door ; 
And  rail  upon  the  hostess  of  the  house ; 
And  say,  you  would  present  her  at  the  leet, 
Because  she  brought  stone  jugs  and  no  seal'd 

quarts : 
Sometimes  you  would  call  out  for  Cicely  Hacket 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


317 


Slv.  Ay,  the  woman's  maid  of  the  house. 

3  Serv.  Why,  sir,  you  know  no  house,  nor 

no  such  maid ; 

Nor  no  such  men  as  you  have  reckon'd  up,— 
As  Stephen  Sly,  and  old  John  Naps  of  Greece, 
And  Peter  Turf,  and  Henry  Pimpernell; 
And  twenty  more  such  na,  ics  and  msn  as  these, 
Which  never  were,  nor  no  man  ever  saw. 

Sly.  Now,   Lord  be  thanked  for  my  good 
amends. 

All.  Amen. 

Sly.  I  thank  thee :  thou  shalt  not  lose  by  it. 

Enter  the  Page  as  a  lady>  with  Attendants. 

Page.  How  fares  my  noble  lord?     [enough. 

Sly.  Marry,  I  fare  well;  for  here  is  cheer 
Where  is  my  wife  ? 

Page.  Here,  noble  lord:   what  is  thy  will 
with  her? 

Sly.  Are  you   my  wife,  and  will  not  call  me 

husband?  [man. 

My  men  should  call  me  lord :  I  am  your  good- 

Page.  My  husband  and  my  lord,  my  lord 

and  husband ; 
I  am  your  wife  in  all  obedience. 

Sly.  I  know  it  well. — What  must  I  call  her? 

Lord.  Madam. 

Sly.  Al'ce  madam,  or  Joan  madam? 

Lord.  Madam,  and  nothing  else:    so  lords 
call  ladies.  [dream'd, 

Sly.  Madam  wife,  they  say  that  I  have 
And  slept  aoove  some  fifteen  year  or  more. 

Page.  Ay,  and  the  time  seems  thirty  unto  me, 
Being  all  this  time  abandoned  from  your  bed. 

Sly.    'Tis  much. — Servants,  leave  me  and 

her  alone. — 
Madam,  undress  you,  and  come  now  to  bed. 

Page.  Thrice  noble  lord,  let  me  entreat  of  you 
To  pardon  me  yet  for  a  night  or  two ; 
Or,  if  not  so,  until  the  sun  be  set : 
For  your  physicians  have  expressly  charg'd. 
In  peril  to  incur  your  former  malady, 
That  I  should  yet  absent  me  from  your  bed : 
I  hope  this  reason  stands  for  my  excuse. 

Sly.  Ay,  it  stands  so,  that  I  may  hardly 
tarry  so  long.  But  I  would  be  loath  to  fall 
into  my  dreams  again:  I  will  therefore  tarry, 
in  despite  of  the  flesh  and  the  blood. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  Your  honour's  players,  hearing  your 

amendment, 

Are  come  to  play  a  pleasant  comedy ; 
For  so  your  doctors  hold  it  very  meet, 
Seeing  too  much  sadness  hath  congeal'd  your 

blood, 
And  melancholy  is  the  nurse  of  frenzy: 


Therefore  they  thought  it  good  you  hear  a  play, 
And  frame  your  mind  to  mirth  and  merriment, 
Which  bars  a  thousand  harms  and  lengthens  life. 

Sly.  Marry,  I  will ;  let  them  play  it.  Is  not 
a  commonty  a  Christmas  gambol  or  a  tumbling- 
trick?  [stuff. 

Page.   No,  my  good  lord ;  it  is  more  pleasing 

Sly.  What,  household  stuff? 

Page.  It  is  a  kind  of  history. 

Sly.  Well,  we'll  see 't.  Come,  madam 
wife,  sit  by  my  side,  and  let  the  world  slip :  w» 
shall  nc  er  be  younger.  \They  sit  down. 


ACT  1. 

SCENE  I. — PADUA.     A  public  Place. 
Enter  LUCENTIO  and  TRANIO. 

Luc.  Tranio,  since,  for  the  great  desire  I  had 
To  see  fair  Padua,  nursery  of  arts, 
I  am  arriv'd  for  fruitful  Lombardy, 
The  pleasant  garden  of  great  Italy ; 
And,  by  my  father's  love  and  leave,  am  arm'd 
With  his  good-will  and  thy  good  company, 
My  trusty  servant,  well  approv'd  in  all ; 
Here  let  us  breathe,  and  haply  institute 
A  course  of  learning  and  ingenious  studies. 
Pisa,  renowned  for  grave  citizens, 
Gave  me  my  being,  and  my  father  first, 
A  merchant  of  great  traffic  through  the  world, 
Vincentio,  come  of  the  Bentivolii. 
Vincentio's  son,  brought  up  in  Florence, 
It  shall  become,  to  serve  all  hopes  conceiv'd, 
To  deck  his  fortune  with  his  virtuous  deeds: 
And  therefore,  Tranio,  for  the  time  I  study, 
Virtue,  and  that  part  of  philosophy 
Will  I  apply  that  treats  of  happiness 
By  virtue  specially  to  be  achieved. 
Tell  me  thy  mind ;  for  I  have  Pisa  left, 
And  am  to  Padua  come,  as  he  that  leaves 
A  shallow  plash  to  plunge  him  in  the  deep, 
And  with  satiety  seeks  to  quench  his  thirst. 

Tra.  Mi  perdonate^  gentle  master  mine, 
I  am  in  all  affected  as  yourself; 
Glad  that  you  thus  continue  your  resolve 
To  suck  the  sweets  of  sweet  philosophy. 
Only,  good  master,  while  we  do  admire 
This  virtue  and  this  moral  discipline, 
Let 's  be  no  stoics  nor  no  stocks,  I  pray; 
Or  so  devote  to  Aristotle's  ethics 
As  Ovid  be  an  outcast  quite  abjur'd : 
Balk  logic  with  acquaintance  that  you  have, 
And  practise  rhetoric  in  your  common  talk; 
Music  and  poesy  use  to  quicken  you ; 
The  mathematics  and  the  metaphysics, 
Fall  to  them  as  you  find  your  stomach  serves 
you; 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


[ACT  S. 


No  profit  grows  where  is  no  pleasure  ta'en : 
In  brief,  sir,  study  what  you  most  affect. 

Lite.    Gramercies,   Tranio,  well   dost   thou 

advise. 

If  Biondello  now  were  come  ashore 
We  could  at  once  put  us  in  readiness, 
And  take  a  lodging  fit  to  entertain 
Such  friends  as  time  in  Padua  shall  beget. 
But  stay  awhile:  what  company  is  this? 

Tra.  Master,  some  show,  to  welcome  us  to 

town. 

Enter  BAPTISTA,  KATHARINA,  BIANCA, 
GREMIO,  and  HORTENSIO.  LUCENTIO 
and  TRANIO  stand  aside. 

Bap.  Gentlemen,  importune  me  no  further, 
For  how  I  firmly  am  resolv'd  you  know ; 
That  is,  not  to  bestow  my  youngest  daughter 
Before  I  have  a  husband  for  the  elder : 
If  either  of  you  both  love  Katharina, 
Because  I  know  you  well,  and  love  you  well, 
Leave   shall  you   have   to  court  her  at  your 
pleasure.  [for  me. — 

Gre.  To  cart  her  rather :    she 's  too  rough 
There,  there,  Hortensio,  will  you  any  wife  ? 

Kath.  [To  BAP.]  I  pray  you,  sir,  is  it  your 

will 
To  make  a  stale  of  me  amongst  these  mates  ? 

Hor.  Mates,  maid !  how  mean  you  that  ?  no 

mates  for  you, 
Unless  you  were  of  gentler,  milder  mould. 

Kath.  V  faith,  sir,  you  shall  never  need  to 

fear; 

I  wis  it  is  not  half-way  to  her  heart ; 
But  if  it  were,  doubt  not  her  care  should  be 
To  comb  ycur  noddle  with  a  three-legg'd  stool, 
And  paint  your  face,  and  use  you  like  a  fool. 

Hor.  From  all  such  devils,  good  Lord  de- 
liver us ! 

Gre.  And  me  too,  good  Lord ! 

Tra.  Hush,  master !  here  is  some  good  pas- 
time toward ; 
That  wench  is  stark  mad,  or  wonderful  fro  ward. 

Luc.  But  in  the  other's  silence  do  I  see 
Maid's  mild  behaviour  and  sobriety. 
Peace,  Tranio !  [your  fill. 

Tra.  Well  said,  master ;   mum !   and   gaze 

Bap.  Gentlemen,  that  I  may  soon  make  good 
What  I  have  said, — Bianca,  get  you  in: 
And  let  it  not  displease  thee,  good  Bianca ; 
For  I  will  love  thee  ne'er  the  less,  my  girl. 

Kath.  A  pretty  peat !  it  is  best 
Put  finger  in  the  eye, — an  she  knew  why. 

Bian.  Sister,  content  you  in  my  discontent. — 
Sir,  to  your  pleasure  humbly  I  subscribe : 
My  books  and  instruments  shall  be  my  company, 
On  them  to  look,  and  practise  by  myself. 


Luc. 


Hark,    Tranio !     thou     mayst     hear 
Minerva  speak.  [Aside. 

If  or.  Signior  Baptista,  will  you  be  so  strange  ? 
Sorry  am  I  that  our  good- will  effects 
Bianca's  grief. 

Gre.  Why  will  you  mew  her  up, 

Signior  Baptista,  for  :his  fiend  of  hell, 
And  make  her  bear  tiie  penance  of  her  tongue? 

Baf.  Gentlemen,  content  ye ;  I  am  resolv'd  :— 
Go  in,  Bianca : —  [Exit  BIANCA. 

And  for  I  know  she  taketh  most  delight 
In  music,  instruments,  and  poetry, 
Schoolmasters  will  I  keep  within  my  house, 
Fit  to  instruct  her  youth. — If  you,  Hortensio, — 
Or,  Signior  Gremio,  you, — know  any  such, 
Prefer  them  hither ;  for  to  cunning  men 
I  will  be  very  kind,  and  liberal 
To  mine  own  children  in  good  bringing-up : 
And  so,  farewell.     Katharina,  you  may  stay; 
For  I  have  more  to  commune  with  Bianca. 

[Exit. 

Kath.  Why,  and  I  trust  I  may  go  too,  may 

I  not?  .  [belike, 

What !  shall  I  be  appointed  hours ;  as  though, 

I  knew  not  what  to  take  and  what  to  leave? 

Ha !  [Exit. 

Gre.  You  may  go  to  the  devil's  dam ;  your 
gifts  are  so  good  here  is  none  will  hold  you. 
Their  love  is  not  so  great,  Hortensio,  but  we 
may  blow  our  nails  together,  and  fast  it  fairly 
out ;  our  cake 's  dough  on  both  sides.  Fare- 
well;— yet,  for  the  love  I  bear  my  sweet 
Bianca,  if  I  can  by  any  means  light  on  a  fit 
man  to  teach  her  that  wherein  she  delights,  I 
will  wish  him  to  her  father. 

Hor.  So  will  I,  Signior  Gremio ;  but  a 
word,  I  pray.  Though  the  nature  of  our 
quarrel  yet  never  brooked  parle,  know  now, 
upon  advice,  it  toucheth  us  both — that  we  may 
yet  again  have  access  to  our  fair  mistress,  and 
be  happy  rivals  in  Bianca's  love — to  labour  and 
effect  one  thing  specially. 

Gre.  What 's  that,  I  pray?  [sister. 

Hor.  Marry,  sir,  to  get  a  husband  for  her 

Gre.  A  husband !  a  devil. 

Hor.  I  say,  a  husband. 

Gre.  I  say,  a  devil.  Thinkest  thou,  Hor- 
tensio, though  her  father  be  very  rich,  any  man 
is  so  very  a  fool  to  be  married  to  hell? 

Hor.  Tush,  Gremio,  though  it  pass  your 
patience  and  mine  to  endure  her  loud  alarums, 
why,  man,  there  be  good  fellows  in  the  world, 
an  a  man  could  light  on  them,  would  take  her 
with  all  faults  and  money  enough.  i  jol 

Gre.  I  cannot  tell ;  but  I  had  as  lief  take  her 
dowry  with  this  condition, — to  be  whipped  at 
the  high-cross  every  morning. 


I.J 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


319 


Hor.  Faith,  as  you  say,  there 's  small  choice 
in  rotten  apples.  But,  come ;  since  this  bar  in 
law  makes  us  friends,  it  shall  be  so  far  forth 
friendly  maintained,  till,  by  helping  Baptista's 
eldest  daughter  to  a  husband,  we  set  his 
youngest  free  for  a  husband,  and  then  have  to't 
afresh. — Sweet  Bianca! — Happy  man  be  his 
dole !  He  that  runs  fastest  gets  the  ring. 
How  say  you,  Signior  Gremio? 

Gre.  I  am  agreed :  and  would  I  had  given 
him  the  best  horse  in  Padua  to  begin  his  woo- 
ing, that  would  thoroughly  woo  her,  wed  her, 
and  bed  her,  and  rid  the  house  of  her.  Come 
on.  [Exeunt  GRE.  and  HOR. 

Tra.  [Advancing.~\  I  pray,  sir,  tell  me, — is 

it  possible 
That  love  should  of  a  sudden  take  such  hold  ? 

Luc.  O  Tranio,  till  I  found  it  to  be  true, 
I  never  thought  it  possible  or  likely; 
But  see  !  while  idly  I  stood  looking  on 
I  found  the  effect  of  love  in  idleness : 
And  now  in  plainness  do  confess  to  thee,— 
That  art  to  me  as  secret  and  as  dear 
As  Anna  to  the  Queen  of  Carthage  was, — 
Tranio,  I  burn,  I  pine,  I  perish,  Tranio, 
If  I  achieve  not  this  young  modest  girl : 
Counsel  me,  Tranio,  for  I  know  thou  canst ; 
Assist  me,  Tranio,  for  I  know  thou  wilt. 

Tra.  Master,  it  is  no  time  to  chide  you  now ; 
Affection  is  not  rated  from  the  heart ;  [so, — 
If  love  have  touch'd  you,  nought  remains  but 
Redime  te  captum  quam  queas  minimo. 

Luc.  Gramercies,  lad ;  go  forward ;  this  con- 
tents : 

The  rest  will  comfort,  for  thy  counsel 's  sound. 
Tra.   Master,  you  look'd  so   longly  on  the 

maid, 

Perhaps  you  mark'd  not  what 's  the  pith  of  all. 

Luc.  O  yes,  I  saw  sweet  beauty  ir  her  face, 

Such  as  the  daughter  of  Agenor  had,        [hand, 

That  made  great  Jove  to  humble  him  to  her 

When  with  his  knees  he  kiss'd  the  Cretan  strand. 

Tra.  Saw  you  no  more?  mark'd  you  not  how 

her  sister 

Began  to  scold,  and  raise  up  such  a  storm, 
That  mortal  ears  might  hardly  endure  the  din? 

Luc.  Tranio,  I  saw  her  coral  lips  to  move, 
And  with  her  breath  she  did  perfume  the  air ; 
Sacred  and  sweet  was  all  I  saw  in  her. 

Tra.   Nay,  then,  'tis  time  to  stir  him  from 

his  trance. 

I  pray,  awake,  sir.     If  you  love  the  maid, 
Bend  thoughts  and  wits  to  achieve  her.     Thus 

it  stands : — 

Her  eldest  sister  is  so  curst  and  shrewd 
That,  till  the  father  rid  his  hands  of  her, 
Master,  your  love  must  live  a  maid  at  home; 


And  therefore  has  he  elosely  mew'd  her  up, 
Because  she  will  not  be  annoy'd  with  suitors. 

Luc.  Ah,  Tranio,  what  a  cruel  lather 's  he ! 
But  art  thou  not  advis'd  he  took  some  care 
To  get  her  cunning  schoolmasters  to  instruct 
her?  [plotted. 

Tra.  Ay,  marry,  am   I,  sir;    and  now  'tis 

Luc.  I  have  it,  Tranio. 

Tra.  Master,  for  my  hand, 

Both  our  inventions  meet  and  jump  in  one. 

Lut.  Tell  me  thine  first. 

Tra,  You  will  be  schoolmaster. 

And  undertake  the  teaching  of  the  maid : 
That 's  your  device. 

Luc.  It  is:  may  it  be  done? 

Tra.  Not  possible ;  for  who  shall  bear  your 

part, 

And  be  in  Padua  here  Vincentio's  son ; 
Keep  house,  and  ply  his  book;   welcome  his 

friends ; 
Visit  his  countrymen  and  banquet  them? 

Luc.  Basta ;  content  thee ;  for  I  have  it  full. 
We  have  not  yet  been  seen  in  any  house; 
Nor  can  we  be  distinguished  by  our  faces 
For  man  or  master :  then  it  follows  thus: — 
Thou  shalt  be  master,  Tranio,  in  my  stead, 
Keep  house,  and  port,  and  servants,  as  I  should  r 
I  will  some  other  be ;  some  I  .orentine, 
Some  Neapolitan,  or  meaner  man  of  Pisa. 
'Tis  hatch'd,  and  shall  be  Sw  :•  -  Tranio,  at  once 
Uncase  thee  ;  take  my  colour'd  hat  and  cloak : 
When  Biondello  comes  he  waits  on  thee ; 
But  I  will  charm  him  first  to  Keep  his  tongue. 

Tra.  So  y»u  had  need. 

[  They  exchange  habits. 
In  brief,  then,  sir,  sith  it  your  pleasure  is, 
And  I  am  tied  to  be  obedient, — 
For  so  your  father  charg'd  me  at  our  parting; 
Be  serviceable  to  my  son,  quoth  he, 
Although,  I  think,  'twas  in  another  sense, — 
I  am  content  to  be  Lucentio, 
Because  so  well  I  love  Lucentio. 

Luc.  Tranio,  be  so,  because  Lucentio  loves: 
And  let  me  be  a  slave,  to  achieve  that  maid 
Whose  sudden  sight  hath  thrall'd  my  wounded 

eye. 
Here  comes  the  rogue. 

Enter  BIONDELLO. 

Sirrah,  where  hare  you  been? 

Bion.  Where  have  I  been?    Nay,  how  now ! 

where  are  you? 

Master,  has  my  fellow  Tranio  stolen  your  clothes? 
Or  you  stolen  his?  or  both?  pray,  what's  the 

news? 

Luc.  Sirrah,  come  hither ;  'tis  no  time  to  iest, 
And  therefore  frame  your  manners  to  the  time. 


320 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


[ACT  t. 


Your  fellow  Tranio  here,  to  save  my  life, 
Puts  my  apparel  and  my  countenance  on, 
And  I  for  my  escape  have  put  on  his ; 
For  in  a  quarrel,  since  I  came  ashore, 
I  kill'd  a  man,  and  fear  I  was  descried. 
Wait  you  on  him,  I  charge  you,  as  becomes, 
While  I  make  way  from  hence  to  save  my  life : 
You  understand  me? 

Bion.  I,  sir  j  ne'er  a  whit. 

Luc.   And  not  a  jot  of  Tranio  in  your  mouth ; 
Tranio  is  chang'd  into  Lucentio.  [too ! 

Bion.   The  better  for  him ;  would  I  were  so 

Tra.  So  could  I,  faith,  boy,  to  have  the  next 
wish  after, —  [daughter. 

That  Lucentio  indeed  had  Baptista's  youngest 
But,  sirrah, — not  for  my  sake,  but  your  master's, 
I  advise  [companies: 

You  use  your  manners  discreetly  in  all  kind  of 
When  I  am  alone,  why,  then  I  am  Tranio; 
But  in  all  places  else,  your  master  Lucentio. 

Luc.  Tranio,  let 's  go : — 
One  thing  more  rests,  that  thyself  execute, — 
To  make  one  among  these  wooers.    If  thou  ask 

me  why, — 

Sufficeth,   my    reasons    are    both    good    and 
weighty.  [Exeunt. 

[i  Serv.  My  lord,  you  nod ;  you  do  not  mind 
the  play. 

Sly.  Yes,  by  Saint  Anne  do  I.  A  good 
matter,  surely;  comes  there  any  more  of  it? 

Page.   My  lord,  'tis  but  begun. 

Sly.  'Tis  a  very  excellent  piece  of  work, 
madam  lady ;  would  'twere  done !] 


SCENE  II. — The  same.     Before  HORTENSIO'S 
House. 

Enter  PETRUCHIO  and  GRUMIO. 

Pet.  Verona,  for  awhile  I  take  my  leave, 
To  see  my  friends  in  Paduf  J  but,  of  all, 
My  best  beloved  and  approved  friend, 
Hortensio ;  and,  I  trow,  this  is  his  house : — 
Here,  sirrah  Grumio  ;  knock,  I  say. 

Gru.  Knock,  sir!  whom  should  I  knock  ?  is 
there  any  man  has  rebused  your  worship? 

Pet.  Villain,  I  say,  knock  me  here  soundly. 

Gru.   Knock  you  here-   sir?  why,   sir,  what 
am  I,  sir,  that  I  should  knock  you  here,  sir? 

Pet.  Villain,  I  say,  knock  me  at  this  gate, 
And  rap  me  well,  or  I  '11  knock  your  knave's 
pate. 

Gru.  My  master  is  grown  quarrelsome:    I 

should  knock  you  first, 
And  then  I  know  after  who  comes  by  the  worst. 

Pet.  Will  it  not  be? 


Faith,  sirrah,  an  you  '11  not  knock  I  '11  wring  it: 
I  '11  try  how  you  can  so!,  fa,  and  sing  it. 

[He  wrings  GRUMIO  by  the  ears. 
Gru.  Help,  masters,  help !  my  master  is  mad. 
Pet.  Now,  knock  when  I  bid  you;    sirran 
villain ! 

Enter  HORTENSIO. 

Hor.  How  now!  what's  the  matter? — My 
old  friend  Grumio!  and  my  good  friend 
Petruchio ! — How  do  you  all  at  Verona? 

Pet.  Signior  Hortensio,  come  you  to  part  the 
fray?  Con  tutto  il  core  bene  trovato,  may  I  say. 

Hor.    Alia  nostra  casa  bene  venuto,  moltc 
honorato  Signor  mio  Petruchio. 
Rise,  Grumio,  rise;  we  will  compound   this 
quarrel. 

Gru.  Nay,  'tis  no  matter,  sir,  what  he  'leges 
in  Latin. — If  this  be  not  a  lawful  cause  for  me 
to  leave  his  service, — look  you,  sir, — he  bid  me 
knock  him,  and  rap  him  soundly,  sir:  well,  was 
it  fit  for  a  servant  to  use  his  master  so ;  being, 
perhaps, — for  ought  I  see, — two  and  thirty, — a 
pip  out? 

Whom  would  to  God  I  had  well  knock'd  at  first, 
Then  had  not  Grumio  come  by  the  worst. 

Pet.  A  senseless  villain !— Good  Hortensio, 
I  bade  the  rascal  knock  upon  your  gate, 
And  could  not  get  him  for  my  heart  to  do  it. 

Gru.   Knock  at  the  gate !— O  heavens ! 
Spake  you   not   these   words   plain, — Strrah, 

knock  me  here, 
Rap  me  here,  knock  me  well,  and  knock  me 

soundly? 
And  come  you  now  with — knocking  at  the  gate  ? 

Pet.  Sirrah,  be  gone,  or  talk  not,  I  advise 
you.  [pledge : 

Hor  Petruchio,  patience;  I  am  Grumio's 
Why,  .his'  a  heavy  chance  'twixt  him  and  you, 
Your  ancient,  trusty,  pleasant  servant  Grumio. 
And  tell  me  now,  sweet  friend,  what  happy  gale 
Blows  you  to  Padua  here  from  old.  Verona? 

Pet,    Such    wind    as    scatters    young   men 

through  the  world, 

To  seek  their  fortunes  further  than  at  home, 
Where  small  experience  grows.    But,  in  a  few, 
Signior  Hortensio,  thus  it  stands  with  me : — 
Antonio,  my  father,  is  deceas'd; 
And  I  have  thrust  myself  into  this  maze, 
Haply  to  wive  and  thrive  as  best  I  may : 
Crowns  in  my  purse  I  have,  and  goods  at  home, 
And  so  am  come  abroad  to  see  the  world. 

Hor.  Petruchio,  shall  I  then  come  roundly 

to  thee, 

And  wish  thee  to  a  shrewd  ill-favour'd  wife? 
Thou  'dst  thank  me  but  a  little  for  my  counsel 
And  yet  I  '11  promise  thee  she  shall  be  rich, 


SCENE  II.  J 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


321 


And   very   rich: — but   thou'rt   too   much  my 

friend, 
And  I  '11  not  wish  thee  to  her.  [we 

Pet.  Signior  Hortensio,  'twixt  such  friends  as 
Few  words  suffice ;  and,  therefore,  if  thou  know 
One  rich  enough  to  be  Petruchio's  wife, — 
As  wealth  is  burden  of  my  wooing  dance,— 
Be  she  as  foul  as  was  Florentius'  love, 
As  old  as  Sibyl,  and  as  curst  and  shrewd 
As  Socrates'  Xantippe,  or  a  worse, 
She  moves  me  not,  or  not  removes,  at  least, 
Affection's  edge  in  me — were  she  as  rough 
As  are  the  swelling  Adriatic  seas: 
I  come  to  wive  it  wealthily  in  Padua; 
If  wealthily,  then  happily  in  Padua. 

Gru.  Nay,  look  you,  sir,  he  tells  you  flatly 
what  his  mind  is :  why,  give  him  gold  enough 
and  marry  him  to  a  puppet  or  an  aglet-baby ; 
or  an  old  trot  with  ne'er  a  tooth  in  her  head, 
though  she  have  as  many  diseases  as  two  and 
fifty  horses:  why,  nothing  comes  amiss,  so 
money  comes  withal.  [far  in, 

Hor.  Petruchio,  since  we  have  stepp'd  thus 
I  will  continue  that  I  broach'd  in  jest. 
I  can,  Petruchio,  help  thee  to  a  wife 
With  wealth  enough,  and  young  and  beauteous ; 
Brought  up  as  best  becomes  a  gentlewoman ; 
Her  only  fault, — and  that  is  faults  enough, — 
Is — that  she  is  intolerably  curst, 
And    shrewd,    and    forward;    so  beyond  all 

measure, 

That,  were  my  state  far  worser  than  it  is, 
I  would  not  wed  her  for  a  mine  of  gold. 

Pet.    Hortensio,   peace !    thou  know'st  not 

gold's  effect : — 

Tell  me  her  father's  name,  and  'tis  enough ; 
For  I  will  board  her  though  she  chide  as  loud 
As  thunder,  when  the  clouds  in  autumn  crack. 

Hor.   Her  father  is  Baptista  Minola, 
An  affable  and  courteous  gentleman : 
Her  name  is  Katharina  Minola, 
Renown'd  in  Padua  for  her  scolding  tongue. 

Pet.  I  know  her  father,  though  I  know  not 

her; 

And  he  knew  my  deceased  father  well : 
I  will  not  sleep,  Hortensio,  till  I  see  her ; 
And  therefore  let  me  be  thus  bold  with  you, 
To  give  you  over  at  this  first  encounter, 
Unless  you  will  accompany  me  thither. 

Gru.  I  pray  you,  sir,  let  him  go  while  the 
humour  lasts.  O'  my  word,  an  she  knew  him 
as  well  as  I  do,  she  would  think  scolding  would 
do  little  good  upon  him.  She  may,  perhaps, 
call  him  half  a  score  knaves,  or  so:  why,  that 's 
nothing ;  an  he  begin  once,  he  '11  rail  in  his  rope- 
tricks.  I  '11  tell  you  what,  sir, — an  she  stand 
him  but  a  little,  he  will  throw  a  figure  in  her 


face,  and  so  disfigure  her  with  it  that  she  shall 
have  no  more  eyes  to  see  withal  than  a  cat. 
You  know  him  not,  sir. 

Hor.  Tarry,  Petruchio,  I  must  go  with  thee; 
For  in  Baptista's  keep  my  treasure  is: 
He  hath  the  jewel  of  my  life  in  hold, 
His  youngest  daughter,  beautiful  Bianca ; 
And  her  withholds  from  me,  and  other  more, 
Suitors  to  her  and  rivals  in  my  love : 
Supposing  it  a  thing  impossible, — 
For  those  defects  I  have  before  rehears'd,— 
That  ever  Katharina  will  be  woo'd, 
Therefore  this  order  hath  Baptista  ta'en ; 
That  none  shall  have  access  unto  Bianca 
Till  Katharine  the  curst  have  got  a  husband. 

Gru.  Katharine  the  curst ! 
A  title  for  a  maid,  of  all  titles  the  worst. 

Hor.  Now  shall  my  friend  Petruchio  do  me 

grace; 

And  offer  me  disguis'd  in  sober  robes 
To  old  Baptista  as  a  schoolmaster(3W  t 
Well  seen  in  music,  to  instruct  Bianca ; 
That  so  I  may,  by  this  device,  at  least 
Have  leave  and  leisure  to  make  love  to  her, 
And,  unsuspected,  court  her  by  herself. 

Gru.  [Aside.]  Here's  no  knavery!  See,  to 
beguile  the  old  folks,  how  the  young  folks  lay 
their  heads  together ! 

Enter  GREMIO  ;  with  him  LUCENTIO  dis- 
guised, with  books  under  his  arm. 

Master,   master,   look  about  you:   who  goes 
there,  ha? 

Hor.  Peace,  Grumio !  'tis  the  rival  of  my  love. 
Petruchio,  stand  by  awhile. 

Gru.  A  proper  stripling,  and  an  amorous ! 
[They  retire. 

Gre.  O,  very  well :  I  have  perused  the  note. 
Hark  you,  sir;  I'll  have  them  very  fairly 

bound: 

All  books  of  love,  see  that  at  any  hand ; 
And  see  you  read  no  other  lectures  to  her : 
You  understand  me  > — over  and  beside 
Signior  Baptista's  liberality,  [too, 

I  '11  mend  it  with  a  largess : — take  your  papers 
And  let  me  have  them  very  well  perfum'd ; 
For  she  is  sweeter  than  perfume  itself,       [her? 
To  whom  they  go  to.     What  will  you  read  to 

Lite.  Whate'er  I  read  to  her  I  '11  plead  for 

you 

As  for  my  patron, — stand  you  so  assur'dj- 
As  firmly  as  yourself  were  still  in  place : 
Yea,  and  perhaps  with  more  successful 
Than  you,  unless  you  were  a  scholar,  SHV    , 

Gre.  O  this  learning !  what  a  thing  h  is ! 

Gru.  O  this  woodcock  I  what  an  ass  it  is  I 

Pa.  Peace,  sirrah  1 


322 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


[ACT  i. 


Hor.   Grumio,    mum! — [Coming  forward.] 
God  save  you,  Signior  Gremio ! 

Gre.  And  you  're  well  met,  Signior  Hortensio. 
Trow  you  whither  I  am  going? — To  Baptista 

Minola. 

I  promis'd  to  inquire  carefully 
About  a  schoolmaster  for  the  fair  Bianca : 
And,  by  good  fortune,  I  have  lighted  well 
On  this  young  man,  for  learning  and  behaviour 
Fit  for  her  turn ;  well  read  in  poetry 
And  other  books, — good  ones,  I  warrant  you. 

Hor.  'Tis  well ;  and  I  have  met  a  gentleman 
Hath  promis'd  me  to  help  me  to  another, 
A  fine  musician  to  instruct  our  mistress ; 
So  shall  I  no  whit  be  behind  in  duty 
To  fair  Bianca,  so  belov'd  of  me.  [prove. 

Gre.  Belov'd  of  me, — and  that  my  deeds  shall 

Gru.  And  that  his  bags  shall  prove.     [Aside. 

Hor.  Gremio,  'tis  now  no  time  to  vent  our 

love: 

Listen  to  me,  and  if  you  speak  me  fair 
I  '11  tell  you  news  indifferent  good  for  either. 
Here  is  a  gentleman,  whom  by  chance  I  met, 
Upon  agreement  from  us  to  his  liking, 
Will  undertake  to  woo  curst  Katharine ; 
Yea,  and  to  marry  her,  if  her  dowry  please. 

Gre.  So  said,  so  done,  is  well : — 
Hortensio,  have  you  told  him  all  her  faults? 

Pet.  I   know  she   is  an  irksome  brawling 

scold ; 
If  that  be  all,  masters,  I  hear  no  harm. 

Gre.    No,    say'st    me    so,    friend?      What 
countryman? 

Pet.  Born  in  Verona,  old  Antonio's  son : 
My  father  dead,  my  fortune  lives  for  me; 
And  I  do  hope  good  days  and  long  to  see. 

Gre.  O,  sir,  such  a  life,  with  such  a  wife, 

were  strange : 

But  if  you  have  a  stomach,  to 't  o'  God's  name; 
You  shall  have  me  assisting  you  in  all. 
But  will  you  woo  this  wild-cat? 

Pet.  Will  I  live? 

Gru.  Will  he  woo  her?  ay,  or  I  '11  hang  her. 

Pet.  Why  came  T  hither  but  to  that  intent? 
Think  you  a  little  din  can  daunt  mine  ears? 
Have  I  not  in  my  time  heard  Hons  roar? 
Have  I  not  heard  the  sea,  puft  u  up  with  winds, 
Rage  like  an  angry  boar  chafed  with  sweat? 
Have  I  not  heard  great  ordnance  in  the  field, 
And  heaven's  artillery  thunder  in  the  skies? 
Have  I  not  in  a  pitched  battle  heard      [clang? 
Loud  'larums,  neighing  steeds,  and  trumpets 
And  do  you  tell  me  of  a  woman's  tongue ; 
That  gives  not  half  so  great  a  blow  to  hear, 
As  will  a  chestnut  in  a  farmer's  fire? 
Tush !  tush !  fear  boys  with  bugs. 

Gru.  For  he  fears  none. 


Gre.  Hortensio,  hark: 
This  gentleman  is  happily  arriv'd, 
My  mind  presumes,  for  his  own  good  and  ours. 

Hor.  I  promis'd  we  would  be  contributors, 
And  bear  his  charge  of  wooing,  whatsoe'er. 

Gre.  And  so  we  will — provided  that  he  win 
her. 

Gru.  I  would  I  were  as  sure  of  a  good  dinner. 

Enter  TRANIO,  bravely  apparelled,  and 
BlONDELLO. 

Tra.  Gentlemen,  God  save  you !     If  I  may 
be  bold,  [way 

Tell  me,  I  beseech  you,  which  is  the  readiest 
To  the  house  of  Signior  Baptista  Minola? 

Bion.   He  that  has  the  two  fair  daughters : — 
is 't  {aside  to  TRANIO]  he  you  mean? 

Tra.  Even  he,  Biondello ! 

Gre.  Hark  you,  sir ;  you  mean  not  her  to, — 

Tra.  Perhaps,  him  and  her?  sir;  what  have 
you  to  do?  [pray. 

Pet.  Not  her  that  chides,  sir,  at  any  hand,  I 

Tra.  I  love  no  chiders,  sir ;  Biondello,  let 's 
away. 

Luc.  Well  begun,  Tranio.  [Aside. 

Hor.  Sir,  a  word  ere  you  go; —          [or  no? 
Are  you  a  suitor  to  the  maid  you  talk  of,  yea 

Tra.  An  if  I  be,  sir,  is  it  any  offence? 

Gre.  No ;  if  without  more  words  you  will  get 
you  hence.  [free 

Tra.  Why,  sir,  I  pray,  are  not  the  streets  as 
For  me  as  for  you? 

Gre.  But  so  is  not  she. 

Tra.  For  what  reason,  I  beseech  you? 

Gre.  For  this  reason,  if  you  '11  know, — 
That  she 's  the  choice  love  of  Signior  Gremio. 

Hor.    That    she's    the   chosen   of   Signior 
Hortensio.  [men 

Tra.  Softly,  my  masters !  if  you  be  gentle- 
Do  me  this  right, — hear  me  with  patience. 
Baptista  is  a  noble  gentleman, 
To  whom  my  father  is  not  all  unknown, 
And,  were  his  daughter  fairer  than  she  is, 
She  may  more  suitors  have,  and  me  for  one. 
Fair  Leda's  daughter  had  a  thousand  wooers; 
Then  well  one  more  may  fair  Bianca  have : 
And  so  she  shall ;  Lucentio  shall  make  one, 
Though  Paris  came  in  hope  to  speed  alone. 

Gre.  What !  this  gentleman  will  out-talk  us 
all.  [jade. 

Luc.  Sir,  give  him  head ;  I  know  he  '11  prove  a 

Pet.  Hortensio,  to  what  end  are  all  these 
words? 

Hor.  Sir,  let  me  be  so  bold  as  ask  you, 
Did  you  yet  ever  see  Baptista's  daughter? 

Tra.  No,  sir;  but  hear  I  do  that  he  hath 
two; 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


323 


The  one  as  famous  fcr  a  scoldirg  tongue 
As  is  the  other  for  beauteous  modesty. 

Pet.  Sir,  sir,  the  first 's  for  me ;  let  her  go  by. 

Gre.  Yea,  leave  that  labour  to  great  Hercules; 
And  let  it  be  more  than  Alcides'  twelve. 

Pet.  Sir,  understand  you  this  of  me,  in  sooth : 
The  youngest  daughter,  whom  you  hearken  for, 
Her  father  keeps  from  all  access  of  suitors, 
And  will  not  promise  her  to  any  man 
Until  the  elder  sister  first  be  wed? 
The  younger  then  is  free,  and  not  before. 

Tra.   If  it  be  so,  sir,  that  you  are  the  man 
Must  stead  us  all,  and  me  amongst  the  rest; 
And  if  you  break  the  ice,  and  do  this  feat, — 
Achieve  the  elder,  set  the  younger  free       [her 
For  our  access, — whose  hap  shall  be  to  have 
Will  not  so  graceless  be  to  be  ingrate. 

Hor.  Sir,   you  say  well,   and  well  you  do 

conceive ; 

And  since  you  do  profess  to  be  a  suitor, 
Yo-  must,  as  we  do,  gratify  this  gentleman, 
To  whom  we  all  rest  generally  beholding,     [of, 

Tra.  Sir,  I  shall  not  be  slack :  in  sign  where- 
Please  ye  we  may  contrive  this  afternoon, 
And  quaff  carouses  to  our  mistress'  health ; 
And  do  as  adversaries  do  in  law, — 
Strive  mightily,  but  eat  and  drink  as  friends. 

Gru.  Bion.  O  excellent  motion!     Fellows, 
let 's  Le  gone.  [so ; — 

Hor.  The  motion 's  good  indeed,  and  be  it 
Petruchio,  I  shall  be  your  ben  venuto. 

[Exeunt. 
Mi  ni  tts  ?r  Jsrft  fol  ^sVolSSfl1  ,?J  jjerlT 

ACT  II 

SCENE  I. — The  same.     A  Room  in  BAP- 
TISTA'S  House. 

Enter  KATHARINA  and  BIANCA. 

Bian.    Good    sister,   wrong  me    not,    nor 

wrong  yourself, 

To  make  a  bondmaid  and  a  slave  of  me ; 
That  I  disdain :  but  for  these  other  gawds, 
Unbind  my  hands,  I  '11  pull  them  off  myself, 
Yea,  all  my  raiment,  tc  my  petticoat ; 
Or  what  you  will  command  me  will  I  do, 
So  well  I  know  my  duty  to  my  elders. 

Kath.  Of  all  thy  suitors,  here  I  charge  thee, 

tell 
Whom  thou  lov'st  best :  see  thou  dissemble  not. 

Bian.  Believe  me,  sister,  of  all  the  men  alive, 
I  never  yet  beheld  that  special  face 
Which  I  could  fancy  more  than  any  other. 

Kath.  Minion,  thou  liest ;  is 't  not  Hortensio? 

Bian.  If  you  affect  him,  sister,  here  I  swear 
I  '11  plead  for  you  myself,  but  you  shall  have 
him. 


Kath.  O  then,  belike,  you  fancy  riches  more  ; 
You  will  have  Gremio  to  keep  you  fair. 

Bian.   Is  it  for  hii.i  you  do  envy  me  so? 
Nay,  then  you  jest  ;  and  now  I  well  perceive 
You  have  but  jested  with  me  all  this  while  : 
I  pr'ythee,  sister  Kate,  untie  my  hands. 

Kath.  If  that  be  jest,  then  all  the  rest  was  so. 
[Strikes  her. 


Bap.  Why,  how  now,  dame  !  whence  grows 

this  insolence?  — 

Bianca,  stand  aside;  —  poor  girl  !  she  weeps:  — 
Go  ply  thy  needle;  meddle  not  with  her.  — 
For  shame,  thou  hilding  of  a  devilish  spirit, 
Why  dost  thou  wrong  her  that  did  ne'er  wrong 

thee? 

When  did  she  cross  thee  with  a  bitter  word? 

Kath.  Her  silence  flouts  me,  and  I  '11  be  re- 

veng'd.  [Flies  after  BIANCA. 

Bap.  What,  in  my  sight?  —  Bianca,  get  thee 

in.  [Exit  BIANCA. 

Kath.  What,  will  you  not  suffer  me?    Nay, 

now  I  see 

She  is  your  treasure,  she  must  have  a  husband; 
I  must  dance  bare-foot  on  her  wedding-day, 
And  for  your  love  to  her  lead  apes  in  hell. 
Talk  not  to  me  ;  I  will  go  sit  and  weep, 
Till  I  can  find  occasion  of  revenge. 

[Exit  KATHARINA. 

Bap.  Was  ever  gentleman  thus  grieved  as  I? 
But  who  comes  here? 

Enter  GREMIO,  with  LUCENTIO  in  the  habit 
of  a  mean  man;  PETRUCHIO,  with  HOR- 
TENSIO  as  a  musician;  and  TRANIO,  with 
BlONDELLO  bearing  a  lute  and  books. 

Gre.  Good-morrow,  neighbour  Baptista. 

Bap.  Good-morrow,  neighbour  Gremio  :  God 
save  you,  gentlemen  !  [a  daughter 

Pet.  And  you,  good  sir  !    Pray,  have  you  not 
Call'd  Katharina,  fair  and  virtuous? 

Bap.  I  have  a  daughter,  sir,  call'd  Katharina. 

Gre.  You  are  too  blunt:  go  to  it  orderly. 

Pet.  You  wrong  me,  Signior  Gremio:  give 

me  leave.  — 

I  am  a  gentleman  of  Verona,  sir, 
That,  —  hearing  of  her  beauty  and  her  wit, 
Her  affability  and  bashful  modesty, 
Her  wondrous  qualities  and  mild  behaviour,  — 
Am  bold  to  show  myself  a  forward  guest 
Within  your  house,   to  make  mine   eye  the 

witness 

Of  that  report  which  I  so  oft  have  heard. 
And,  for  an  entrance  to  my  entertainment, 
I  do  present  you  with  a  man  of  mine, 

[Presenting  HORTENSIO. 


324 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


[ACT  II. 


Cunning  in  music  and  the  mathematics. 
To  instruct  hei  fmly  in  those  sciences, 
Whereof  I  know  she  is  net  ignorant: 
Accept  of  him,  or  else  you  do  me  wrong : 
His  name  is  Licio,  born  in  Mantua. 

Bap.  You're  welcome,  sir;   and  he  for  your 

good  sake ; 

But  for  my  daughter  Katharine, — this  I  know, 
She  is  not  for  your  turn,  the  more  my  grief. 

Pet.  I  see  you  do  not  mean  to  part  with  her ; 
Or  else  you  like  not  of  my  company. 

Bap.   Mistake  me  not,  I  speak  but  as  I  find. 
Whence  are  you,  sir?   what  may  I  call  your 
name? 

Pet.  Petruchio  is  my  name ;  Antonio's  son, 
A  man  well  known  throughout  all  Italy. 

Bap.  I  know  him  well :  you  are  welcome  for 
his  sake. 

Gre.  Saving  your  tale,  Petruchio,  I  pray, 
Let  us,  that  are  poor  petitioners,  speak  too : 
Baccare !  you  are  marvellous  forward. 

Pet.    O,    pardon   me,    Signior    Gremio;    I 
would  fain  be  doing. 

Gre.  I  doubt  it  not,  sir ;  but  you  will  curse 

your  wooing. — 

Neighbour,  this  is  a  gift  very  grateful,  I  am  sure 
of  it.  To  express  the  like  kindness  myself,  that 
have  been  more  kindly  beholding  to  you  than 
any,  I  freely  give  unto  you  this  young  scholar 
{presenting  LUCENTIO],  that  hath  been  long 
studying  at  Rlisims;  as  cunning  in  Greek, 
Latin,  and  other  languages,  as  the  other  in 
music  and  mathematics :  his  name  is  Cambio ; 
pray,  accept  his  service. 

Bap.  A  thousand  thanks,  Signior  Gremio: 
welcome,  good  Cambio. — But,  gentle  sir  {to 
TRANIO],  methinks  you  walk  like  a  stranger. 
May  I  be  so  bold  to  know  the  cause  of  your 
coming?  [own ; 

Tra.  Pardon  me,  sir,  the  boldness  is  mine 
That,  being  a  stranger  in  this  city  here, 
Do  make  myself  a  suitor  to  your  daughter, 
Unto  Bianca,  fair  and  virtuous. 
Nor  is  your  firm  resolve  unknown  to  me, 
In  the  preferment  of  the  eldest  sister. 
This  liberty  is  all  that  I  request, — 
That,  upon  knowledge  of  my  parentage, 
I  may  have  welcome  'mongst  the  rest  that  woo, 
And  free  access  and  favour  as  the  rest. 
And,  toward  the  education  of  your  daughters, 
I  here  bestow  a  simple  instrument, 
And  this  small  packet  of  Greek  and  Latin  books; 
If  you  accept  them,  then  their  worth  is  great. 

Bap.  Lucentio  is  your  name?  of  whence,  I 
pray? 

Tra.  Of  Pisa,  sir ;  son  to  Vincentio. 

Bap.  A  mighty  man  of  Pisa :  by  report 


I  know  him  v/ell :  you  ai";  very  welcome,  sir.— 
Take  you  {to  HOR.]  ^he  lute,  and  you  [to  Luc.] 

the  set  of  books ; 

You  shall  go  see  your  pupils  presently. 
Holla,  within ! 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Sirrah,  lead  these  gentlemen 
To  my  daughters ;  and  tell  them  both, 
These  are  their  tutors ;  bid  them  use  them  well. 
{Exit  Sorv.,  with  HOR.,  Luc.,  atuiBioi*. 
We  will  go  walk  a  little  in  the  orchard, 
And  then  to  dinner.    You  are  passing  welcome, 
And  so  I  pray  you  all  to  think  yourselves. 
Pet.    Signior  Baptista,  my  business  asketh 

haste, 

And  every  day  I  cannot  come  to  woo. 
You  knew  my  father  well ;  and  in  him,  me, 
Left  solely  heir  to  all  his  lands  and  goods, 
Which  I  have  better'd  rather  than  decreas'd : 
Then  tell  me, — if  I  get  your  daughter's  love. 
What  dowry  shall  I  have  with  her  to  wife? 
Bap.  After   my  death,  the  one  half  of  my 

lands 
And,  in  possession,  twenty  thousand  crowns. 

Pet.  And  for  that  dowry,  I  '11  assure  her  of 
Her  widowhood, — be  it  that  she  survive  me, — 
In  all  my  lands  and  leases  whatsoever : 
Let  specialties  be  therefore  drawn  between  us, 
That  covenants  may  be  kept  on  either  hand. 
Bap.  Ay,  when  the  special  thing  is  well  ob- 

tain'd, 

That  is,  her  love ;  for  that  is  all  in  all. 
Pet.  WThy,  that  is  nothing;  for  I  tell  you, 

father, 

I  am  as  peremptory  as  she  proud-minded  ; 
And  where  two  raging  fires  meet  together, 
They  do  consume  the  thing  that  feeds  their  fury : 
Though  little  fire  grows  great  with  little  wind, 
Yet  extreme  gusts  will  blow  out  fire  and  all : 
So  I  to  her,  and  so  she  yields  to  me ; 
For  I  am  rough,  and  woo  not  like  a  babe. 
Bap.  Well  mayst  thou  woo,  and  happy  be 

thy  speed ! 

But  be  thou  arm'd  for  some  unhappy  words. 
Pet.  Ay.  to  the  proof;  as  mountains  are  for 

winds, 
That  shake  not  though  they  blow  perpetually. 

Re-enter  HORTENSIO,  with  his  head  broken. 

Bap.  How  now,  my  friend !  why  dost  thou 

look  so  pale? 

Hor.  For  fear,  I  promise  you,  if  I  look  pale. 
Bap.  What,  will  my  daughter  prove  a  good 

musician? 

ffor.  I  think  she  '11  sooner  prove  a  soldier.- 
Iron  may  hold  with  her,  but  never  lutes. 


I.] 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


3*5 


Bap.  Why,  then  thou  canst  not  break  her  to 
the  lute?  [tome. 

Hor.  Why,  no  ;  for  she  ?  .ath  broke  the  lute 
I  did  but  tell  her  she  rruV.ook  her  frets, 
And  bow'd  her  hand  to  teach  her  fingering, 
When,  with  a  most  impatient  devilish  spirit, 
Frets ,  call  you  these?  quoth  she ;  I1  II  fume  with 

them : 

And,  with  that  word,  she  struck  me  on  the  head, 
And  through  the  instrument  my  pate  made  way ; 
And  there  I  stood  amazed  for  awhile, 
As  on  a  pillory,  looking  through  the  lute, 
While  she  did  call  me  rascal  fiddler 
And  twangling  Jack,  with  twenty  such  vile  terms, 
As  she  had  studied  to  misuse  me  so. 

Pet.  Now,  by  the  world,  it  is  a  lusty  wench ; 
I  love  her  ten  times  more  than  e'er  I  did : 
O,  how  I  long  to  have  some  chat  with  her ! 
Bap.  Well,  go  with  me,  and  be  not  so  dis- 
comfited : 

Proceed  in  practice  with  my  younger  daughter : 
She's  apt   to  learn,   and   thankful  for  good 

turns. — 

Signior  Petruchio,  will  you  go  with  us, 
Or  shall  I  send  my  daughter  Kate  to  you? 
Pet.  I  pray  you  do :  I  will  attend  her  here, 
[Exeunt  BAP.,  GRE.,  TRA.,  and  HOR. 
And  woo  her  with  some  spirit  when  she  comes. 
Say  that  she  rail ;  why,  then  I  '11  tell  her  plain 
She  sings  as  sweetly  as  a  nightingale : 
Say  that  she  frown ;  I  '11  say  she  looks  as  clear 
As  morning  roses  newly  washed  with  dew : 
Say  she  be  mute,  and  will  not  speak  a  word ; 
Then  I  '11  commend  her  volubility, 
And  say  she  uttereth  piercing  eloquence : 
If  she  do  bid  me  pack,  I  '11  give  her  thanks, 
As  though  she  bid  me  stay  by  her  a  week : 
If  she  deny  to  wed,  I  '11  crave  the  day 
When  I  shall  ask  the  banns,  and   when  be 

married. — 
But  here  she  comes;  and  now,  Petruchio,  speak. 

Enter  KATHARINA. 

Good-morrow,  Kate;  for  that's  your  name,  I 

hear. 
Kath.  Well  have  you  heard,  but  something 

hard  of  hearing : 

They  call  me  Katharine  that  do  talk  of  me. 
Pet.  You  lie,  in  faith ;  for  you  are  call'd  plain 

Kate, 

And  bonny  Kate,  and  sometimes  Kate  the  curst ; 
But,  Kate,  the  prettiest  Kate  in  Christendom, 
Kate  of  Kate-Hall,  my  super-dainty  Kate, 
For  dainties  are  all  cates ;  and  therefore,  Kate, 
Take  this  of  me,  Kate  of  my  consolation ; — 
Hearing  thy  mildness  prais'd  in  every  town, 
Thy  virtues  spoke  of,  and  thy  beauty  sounded, — 


Yet  not  so  deeply  as  to  thee  belongs,— 
Myself  am  mov'd  to  woo  thee  for  my  wife. 
Kath.  Mov'd !   in  good  time :    let  him  that 

mov'd  you  hither 

Remove  you  hence :  I  knew  you  at  the  first 
You  were  a  movable. 

Pet.  Why,  what 's  a  movable  ? 

Kath.  A  joint-stool. 

Pet.          Thou  hast  hit  it :  come,  sit  on  me. 
Kath.  Asses  are  made  to  bear,  and  so  are 

you.  [you. 

Pet.  Women  are  made  to  bear,  and  so  are 
Kath.  No  such  jade  as  bear  you,  if  me  you 

mean. 

Pet.  Alas,  good  Kate,  I  will  not  burden  thee ! 

For,  knowing  thee  to  be  but  young  and  light, — 

Kath.  Too  light  for  such  a  swain  as  you  to 

catch; 

And  yet  as  heavy  as  my  weight  should  be. 
Pet.  Should  be  !  should  buzz. 
Kath.  Well  ta'en,  and  like  a  buzzard. 

Pet.  O,  slow-wing'd  turtle  I  shall  a  buzzard 

take  thee  ? 

Kath.  Ay,  for  a  turtle, — as  he  takes  a  buzzard. 
Pet.  Come,  come,  you  wasp;  i'  faith,  you 

are  too  angry. 

Kath.  If  I  be  waspish,  best  beware  my  sting. 
Pet.  My  remedy  is  then,  to  pluck  it  out. 
Kath.  Ay,  if  the  fool  could  fu.d  it  where  it 

lies.  [wear  his  sting? 

Pet.    Who  knows  not  where  a  wasp  doth 
In  his  tail. 

Kath.  In  his  tongue. 

Pet.  Whose  tongue? 

Kath.  Yours,  if  you  talk  of  tails;   and  so 

farewell.  [come  again, 

Pet.  What,  with  my  tongue  in  your  tail  ?  nay, 
Good  Kate ;  I  am  a  gentleman. 

Kath.  That  I  '11  try. 

[Striking  him. 

Pet.   I  swear  I  '11  cuff  you,  if  you  strike  again. 
Kath.  So  may  you  lose  your  arms: 
If  you  strike  me,  you  are  no  gentleman ; 
And  if  no  gentleman,  why  then  no  arms. 
Pet.  A  herald,  Kate?    O,   put  me  in   thy 

books! 

Kath.  What  is  your  crest?  a  coxcomb? 
Pet.  A  combless  cock,  so  Kate  will  be  :uy  hen. 
Kath.  No  cock  of  mine;  you  crow  too  like 

a  craven.  [look  so  sour. 

Pet.  Nay,  come,  Kate,  come ;  you  must  not 
Kath.  It  is  my  fashion,  when  I  see  a  crab. 
Pet.  Why,  here's  no  crab;  and  therefore 

look  not  sour. 
Kath.  There  is,  there  is. 
Pet.  Then  show  it  me. 
Kath.  Had  I  a  glass  I  would. 


3*6 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


[ACT  II. 


Pet.  What,  you  mean  my  face? 

Kath.          Well  aim'd  of  such  a  young  one. 

Pet.  Now,  by  Saint  George,  I  am  too  young 

for  you. 

Kath.  Yet  you  are  wither'd. 
Pet.  'Tis  with  cares. 

Kath.  I  care  not. 

Pet.  Nay,  hear  you,  Kate:    in   sooth,  you 

'scape  not  so. 

Kath.  I  chafe  you,  if  I  tarry ;  let  me  go. 
Pet.  No,  not  a  whit:    I  find  you   passing 

gentle. 
'Twas  told  me  you  were  rough,  and  coy,  and 

sullen, 

And  now  I  find  report  a  very  liar;  [teous; 
For  thou  art  pleasant,  gamesome,  passing  cour- 
But  slow  in  speech,  yet  sweet  as  spring-time 

flowers : 

Thou  canst  not  frown,  thou  canst  not  look  as- 
kance, 

Nor  bite  the  lip,  as  angry  wenches  will ; 
Nor  hast  thou  pleasure  to  be  cross  in  talk ; 
But  thou  with  mildness  entertain'st  thy  wooers, 
With  gentle  conference,  soft  and  affable. 
Why  does  the  world  report  that  Kate  doth  limp  ? 

0  slanderous  world  !    Kate,  like  the  hazel-twig, 
Is  straight  and  slender ;  and  as  brown  in  hue 
As  hazel-nuts,  and  sweeter  than  the  kernels. 
O,  let  me  see  thee  walk :  thou  c\ost  not  halt. 

Kath.  Go,  fool,  and  whom  thou  keep'st  com- 
mand. 

Pet.  Did  ever  Dian  so  become  a  grove 
As  Kate  this  chamber  with  her  princely  gait? 
O,  be  thou  Dian,  and  let  her  be  Kate ; 
And  then  let  Kate  be  chaste,  and  Dian  sportful ! 

Kath.  Where  did  you  study  all  this  goodly 
speech  ? 

Pet.  It  is  extempore,  from  my  mother-wit. 

Kath.  A  witty  mother !  witless  else  her  son. 

Pet.  Am  I  not  wise  ? 

Kath.  Yes ;  keep  you  warm. 

Pet.  Marry,  so  I  mean,  sweet  Katharine,  in 

thy  bed: 

And  therefore,  setting  all  this  chat  aside, 
Thus  in  plain  terms: — Your  father  hath  con- 
sented [on ; 
That  you  shall  be  my  wife ;  your  dowry  'greed 
And,  will  you,  nill  you,  I  will  marry  you. 
Now,  Kate,  I  am  a  husband  for  your  turn ; 
For,  by  this  light,  whereby  I  see  thy  beauty, — 
Thy  beauty  that  doth  make  me  like  thee  well  — 
Thou  must  be  married  to  no  man  but  me ; 
For  I  am  he  am  born  to  tame  you,  Kate ; 
And  bring  you  from  a  wild  Kate  to  a  Kate 
Conformable,  as  other  household  Kates. 
Here  comes  your  father ;  never  make  denial ; 

1  must  and  will  have  Katharine  to  my  wife. 


Re-enter  BAPTISTA,  GREMIO,  and  TRANIO. 

Bap.  Now,   £ig..Jor   Petruchio,  how  speed 
you  with  my  daughter? 

Pet.  How  but  well,  sir?  how  but  well? 
It  were  impossible  I  should  speed  amiss. 

Bap.  Why,  how  now,  daughter  Katharine ! 
in  your  dumps?  [y°u 

Kath.  Call  you  me  daughter  ?  now,  I  promise 
You  have  show'd  a  tender  fatherly  regard 
To  wish  me  wed  to  one  half  lunatic ; 
A  mad-cap  ruffian  and  a  swearing  Jack, 
That  thinks  with  oaths  to  face  the  matter  out. 

Pet.  Father,  'tis  thus: — yourself  and  all  the 

world, 

That  talked  of  her,  hath  talk'd  amiss  of  her ; 
If  she  D^  curst,  it  is  for  policy ; 
For  she 's  not  froward,  but  modest  as  the  dove ; 
She  is  not  hot,  but  temperate  as  the  morn; 
For  patience  she  will  prove  a  second  Grissel, 
And  Roman  Lucrece  for  her  chastity : 
And  to  conclude,  we  have  'greed  so  well  to- 
gether, 
That  upon  Sunday  is  the  wedding-day. 

Kath.  I  '11  see  thee  hang'd  on  Sunday  first. 

Gre.  Hark,  Petruchio;   she  says  she'll  see 
thee  hang'd  first. 

Tra.  Is  this  your  speeding?  nay,  then,  good- 
night our  part !  [for  myself; 

Pet.  Be  patient,  gentlemen;    I  choose   her 
If  she  and  I  be  pleas'd,  what 's  that  to  you? 
'Tis  bargain'd  'twixt  us  twain,  being  alone, 
That  she  shall  still  be  curst  in  company. 
I  tell  you,  'tis  incredible  to  believe 
How  much  she  loves  me :  O,  the  kindest  Kate ! — 
She  hung  about  my  neck,  and  kiss  on  kiss 
She  vied  so  fast,  protesting  oath  on  oath, 
That  in  a  twink  she  won  me  to  her  love. 
O,  you  are  novices !  'tis  a  world  to  see, 
How  tame,  when  men  and  women  are  alone, 
A    meacock   wretch   can    make    the  curstest 

shrew. — 

Give  me  thy  hand,  Kate :  I  will  unto  Venice, 
To  buy  apparel  'gainst  the  wedding-day. — 
Provide  the  feast,  father,  and  bid  the  guests ; 
I  will  be  sure  my  Katharine  shall  be  fine. 

Bap.  I  know  not  what  to  say :  but  give  me 

your  hands; 
God  send  you  joy,  Petruchio !  'tis  a  match. 

Gre.  Tra.  Amen,  say  we;   we  will  be  wit- 


Pet.  Father,  and  wife,  and  gentlemen,  adieu; 
I  will  to  Venice;  Sunday  comes  apace: — 
We  will  have  rings,  and  things,  and  fine  array ; 
And,  kiss  me,  Kate,   we  will  be  married  o' 

Sunday. 

[Exeunt  PET.  am/ KATH.,  severally. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


3*7 


Ore.  Was  ever  match  clapp'd  up  so  suddenly? 

Bap.  Faith,  gentlemen,  now  I  play  a  mer- 
chant's part, 
And  venture  madly  on  a  desperate  mart. 

Tra.  'Twas  a  commodity  lay  fretting  by  you ; 
'Twill  bring  you  gain,  or  perish  on  the  seas. 

Bap.  The  gain  I  seek  is  quiet  in  the  match. 

Gre.  No  doubt  but  he  hath  got  a  quiet  catch. 
But  now,  Baptista,  to  your  younger  daughter; — 
Now  is  the  day  we  long  have  looked  for; 
I  am  your  neighbour,  and  was  suitor  first. 

Tra.  And  I  am  one  that  love  Bianca  more 
Than  words  can  witness  or  your  thoughts  can 
guess.  [as  I. 

Gre.  Youngling !  thou  canst  not  love  so  dear 

Tra.  Graybeard  1  thy  love  doth  freeze. 

Gre.  But  thire  doth  fry. 

Skipper,  stand  back ;  'tis  age  that  nourisheth. 

Tra.  But  youth  in  ladies'  eyes  that  flour  - 
isheth.  [this  strife : 

Bap.  Content  you,  gentlemen;  I '11  compound 
'Tis  deeds  must  win  the  piize ;  and  he,  of  both, 
That  can  assure  my  daughter  greatest  dower 
Shall  have  Bianca's  love. — 
Say,  Signior  Gremio,  what  can  you  assure  her? 

Gre.  First,  as  you  know,  my  house  wiihin 

the  city 

Is  richly  furnished  with  plate  and  gold ; 
Basins  and  ewers,  to  lave  her  dainty  hands; 
My  hangings  all  of  Tyrian  tapestry : 
In  ivory  coffers  I  have  stuff'd  my  crowns; 
In  cypress  chests  my  arras  counterpoints, 
Costly  apparel,  tents,  and  canopies, 
Fine  linen,  Turkey  cushions  boss'd  with  pearl, 
Valance  of  Venice  gold  in  needle-work, 
Pewter  and  brass,  and  all  things  that  belong 
To  house  or  housekeeping:  then,  at  my  farm, 
I  have  a  hundred  milch-kine  to  the  pail, 
Six  score  fat  oxen  standing  in  my  stalls, 
And  all  things  answerable  to  this  portion. 
Myself  am  struck  in  years,  I  must  confess ; 
And,  if  I  die  to-morrow  this  is  hers : 
If,  whilst  I  live,  she  will  be  only  mine,      [me : 

Tra.  That  only  came  well  in. — Sir,  list  to 
I  am  my  father's  heir  and  only  son : 
If  I  may  have  your  daughter  to  my  wife, 
I  '11  leave  her  houses  three  or  four  as  good, 
Within  rich  Pisa's  walls,  as  any  one 
Old  Signior  Gremio  has  in  Padua ; 
Besides  two  thousand  ducats  by  the  year 
Of  fruitful  land,  all  which  shall  be  her  join- 
ture.— 

What,  have  I  pinch'd  you,  Signior  Gremio? 
Gre.  Two  thousand  ducats  by  the  year  of 

land! 

My  land  amounts  not  to  so  much  in  alls'  'Tloi 
That  she  shall  have  \  besides  an  argosy, 


That  now  is  lying  in  Marseilles'  road  I—- 
What, have  I  chok'd  you  with  an  argosy? 
Tra.  Gremio,  'tis  known  my  father  hath  no 

less 

Than  three  great  argosies ;  besides  twogalliasses, 
And  twelve  tight  galleys:   these  I  will  assure 

her, 

And  twice  as  much,  what  e'er  thou  offer'st  next. 
Gre.  Nay,   I  have  offer'd  all, — I   have  no 

more; 

And  she  can  have  no  more  than  all  I  have : — - 
If  you  like  me,  she  shall  have  me  and  mine. 
Tra.  Why,  then  the  maid  is  mine  from  all 

the  world. 
By  your  firm  promise :  Gremio  is  out -vied. 

Bap.  I  must  confess  your  offer  is  the  best ; 
And,  let  your  father  make  her  the  assurance, 
She  is  your  own ;  else,  you  must  pardon  me : 
If  you  should  die  before  him,  where 's  her  dower? 
Tra.  That 's  but  a  cavil ;  he  is  old,  I  young. 
Gre.  And  may  not  young  men  die  as  well 

as  old? 

Bap.  Well,  gentlemen, 

I  am  thus  resolv'd : — On  Sunday  next  you  know 
My  daughter  Katharine  is  to  be  married : 
Now,  on  the  Sunday  following  shall  Bianca 
Be  bride  to  you,  if  you  make  this  assurance ; 
If  not,  to  Signior  Gremio : 
And  so  I  take  my  leave,  and  thank  you  both. 
Gre.  Adieu,  good  neighbour. — 

[Exit  BAPTISTA. 
Now  I  fear  thee  not : 

Sirrah  young  gamester,  your  father  were  a  fool 
To  give  thee  all,  and  in  his  waning  age 
Set  foot  under  thy  table.     Tut !  a  toy  ! 
An  old  Italian  fox  is  not  so  kind,  my  boy. 

[Exit. 
Tra.  A  vengeance  on  your  crafty  wither'd 

hide! 

Yet  I  have  faced  it  with  a  card  of  ten. 
'Tis  in  my  head  to  do  my  master  good  y^-t.; 
I  see  no  reason  but  suppos'd  Lucentio 
Must  get  a  father,  call'd — suppos'd  Vincentio ; 
And  that 's  a  wonder :  fathers  commdnly 
Do  get   their   children;    but  in  this  case  of 

wooing, 

A  child  shall  get  a  sire,  if  I  foil  not  of  my 
cunning.  [Exit. 

'".?A  .i'j&— v'on  ^°'i  wciiijl  J ViiosttV?.  ^£vii  •jxiVv 

APT  Tit* 

-•jiq  ,ay£>v—  ,-iori    AUT  111*  j^rf  $£&  ,n\\ 
SCENE  I.— PADUA.    A  Room  in  BAPTISTA'S 
House. 

Enter  LUCENTIO,  HORTENSIO,  and  BIANCA. 

Luc.  Fiddler,  forbear;  you  grow  too  for- 
ward, sir : 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


LACT  in. 


Have  you  so  soon  forgot  the  entertainment 
Her  sister  Katharine  welcom'd  you  withal? 

Hor.  But,  wrangling  pedant,  this  is 
The  patroness  of  heavenly  harmony: 
Then  give  me  leave  to  have  prerogative;  ntrfT 
And  when  in  music  we  have  spent  an  hour, 
Your  lecture  shall  have  leisure  for  as  much. 

Luc.  Preposterous  assl    that  never  read  so 

far 

To  know  the  cause  why  music  was  ordain'd ! 
Was  it  not  to  refresh  the  mind  of  man 
After  his  studies  or  his  usual  pain? 
Then  give  me  leave  to  read  philosophy, 
And  while  I  pause  serve  in  your  harmony. 

Hor.  Sirrah,  I  will  not  bear  these  braves  of 
thine. 

Bian.  Why,  gentlemen,  you  do  me  double 

wrong, 

To  strive  for  that  which  resteth  in  my  choice : 
I  am  no  breeching  scholar  in  the  schools : 
I  '11  not  be  tied  to  hours  nor  'pointed  times, 
But  learn  my  lessons  as  I  please  myself. 
And,  to  cut  off  all  strife,  here  sit  we  down : — 
Take  you  your  instrument,  play  you  the  whiles ; 
His  lecture  will  be  done  ere  you  have  tun'd. 

Hor.  You  '11  leave  his  lecture  when  I  am  in 
tune? 

[  To  BIANCA.     HORTENSIO  retires. 

Luc.  That  will  be  never : — tune  your  instru- 
ment. 

Bian.  Where  left  we  last? 

Luc.  Here,  madam : — 
Hoc  ibat  Sinioi* ;  hie  est  Sigeia  tell  us  ; 
Hie  steterat  Priami  regia  celsa  senis. 

Bian.  Construe  them. 

Luc.  Hoc  ibat,  as  I  told  you  before, — Simois, 
I  am  Lucentio, — hie  est,  son  unto  Vincentio  of 
Pisa, — Sigeia  tellus,  disguised  thus  to  get  your 
love; — Hie  steterat,  and  that  Lucentio  that 
comes  a-wooing, — Priami,  is  my  man  Tranio, 
— regia,  bearing  my  port, — celsa  senis,  that  we 
might  beguile  the  old  pantaloon. 

Hor.  [Coming  forward.]  Madam,  my  instru- 
ment 's  in  tune. 

Bian.  Let 'shear. —  [HORTENSIO  plays. 
O  fie !  the  treble  jars. 

Luc.  Spit  in  the  hole,  man,  and  tune  again. 

Bian.  Now  let  me  see  if  I  can  construe  it : 
— Hac  ibat  Simois,  I  know  you  not, — hie  est 
Sigeia  tellus,  I  trust  you  not; — Hie  steterat 
Priami,  take  heed  he  hear  us  not, — regia,  pre- 
sume not, — celsa  senis,  despair  not. 

Hor.  Madam,  'tis  now  in  tune. 

Luc.  All  but  the  base. 

Hor.  The  base  is  right ;  'tis  the  base  knave 

that  jars. 
How  fiery  and  forward  our  pedant  is  I 


Now,  for  my  life,  the  knave  doth  court  my  love: 
Pedascule,  I  '11  watch  you  better  yet.      [Aside. 
Bian.  In  time  I  may  believe,  yet  I  mistrust. 
Luc.  Mistrust  it  not ;  for,  sure,  ^Eacides 
Was  Ajax, — call'd  so  from  his  grandfather. 
Bian.  I  must  believe  my  master;    else,   I 

promise  you, 

I  should  be  arguing  still  upon  that  doubt : 
But  let  it  rest. — Now,  Licio,  to  you: — 
Good  masters,  take  it  not  unkindly,  pray, 
That    I   have   been   thus    pleasant   with    you 

both. 
Hor.  You  may  go  walk  [to  LUCENTIO],  and 

give  me  leave  awhile ; 
My  lessons  make  no  music  in  three  parts. 
Luc.  Are  you  so  formal,  sir?  well,  I  must 

wait, 

And  watch  withal ;  for,  but  I  be  deceiv'd, 
Our  fine  musician  groweth  amorous.       [Aside. 
Hor.  Madam,  before  you  touch  the  instru- 
ment, 

To  learn  the  order  of  my  fingering, 
I  must  begin  with  rudiments  of  art ; 
To  teach  you  gamut  in  a  briefer  sort, 
More  pleasant,  pithy,  and  effectual, 
Than  hath  been  taught  by  any  of  my  trade : 
And  there  it  is  in  writing,  fairly  drawn. 
Bian.  Why,  I  am  past  my  gamut  long  ago. 
Hor.  Yet  read  the  gamut  of  Hortensio. 
Bian.  [Reads.'}  Gamut  /  am,  the  ground  of 

all  accord, 

A  re,  to  plead  Hortensio1  s  passion  ; 
B  mi,  Bianca,  take  him  for  thy  lord, 

C  fa  ut,  that  loves  with  all  affection  : 
D  sol  re,  one  cliff,  two  notes  have  /; 

E  la  mi,  show  pity,  or  I  die. 
Call  you  this  gamut?  tut,  I  like  it  not: 
Old  fashions  please  me  best ;  I  am  not  so  nice, 
To  change  true  rules  for  odd  inventions. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  Mistress,  your  father  prays  you  leave 

your  books, 

And  help  to  dress  your  sister's  chamber  up: 
You  know  to-morrow  is  the  wedding-day. 
Bian.  Farewell,  sweet  masters,  both;  I  must 
be  gone ! 

[Exeunt  BIANCA  and  Servant. 
Luc.  Faith,  mistress,  then  I  have  no  cause 
to  stay.  [Exit. 

Hor.  But  I  have  cause  to  pry  into  this  pedant; 
Methinks  he  looks  as  though  he  were  in  love : — 
Yet  if  thy  thoughts,  Bianca,  be  so  humble, 
To  cast  thy  wand'rin^  eyes  on  every  stale, 
Seize  thee  that  list :  if  once  I  find  thee  ranging, 
Hortensio  will  be  quit  with  thee  by  changing. 

[Exit. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


329 


SCENE  II. — The  same,    .titfore  BAPTISTA'S 
House . 

Enter  BAPTISTA,  GREMIO,  TRANIO,  KATHAR- 
INA,  BIANCA,  LUCENTIO,  and  Attendants. 
Bap.  Signior  Lucentio  \to  TRANIO],  this  is 

the  'pointed  day  [married, 

That    Katharine    and    Petruchio    should    be 
And  yet  we  hear  not  of  our  son-in-law : 
What  will  be  said?  what  mockery  will  it  be, 
To  want  the  bridegroom  when  the  priest  attends 
To  speak  the  ceremonial  rites  of  marriage? 
What  says  Lucentio  to  this  shame  of  ours? 
Kath.  No  shame  but  mine:  I  must,  forsooth, 

be  forc'd 

To  give  my  hand,  oppos'd  against  my  heart, 
Unto  a  mad-brain  rudesby,  full  of  spleen ; 
Who  woo'd  in  haste,  and  means  to  wed  at 

leisure. 

I  told  you,  I,  he  was  a  frantic  fool, 
Hiding  his  bitter  jests  in  blunt  behaviour : 
And,  to  be  noted  for  a  merry  man, 
He'll   woo    a    thousand,   'point    the  day  of 

marriage, 
Make  friends,  invite  them,  and  proclaim  the 

banns; 

Yet  never  means  to  wed  where  he  hath  woo'd. 
Now  must  the  world  point  at  poor  Katharine, 
And  say,  Lo,  there  is  mad  Petruckio's  wife, 
If  it  would  please  him  come  and  marry  her! 
Tra.  Patience,  good  Katharine,  and  Baptista 

too. 

Upon  my  life,  Petruchio  means  but  well ! 
Whatever  fortune  stays  him  from  his  word : 
Though  he  be  blunt,  I  know  him  passing  wise ; 
Though  he  be  merry,  yet  withal  he 's  honest. 
Katk.  Would  Katharine  had  never  seen  him 

though ! 

[Exit,  weeping  .followed  by  BIANCA  and  others. 
Bap.  Go,  girl;   I  cannot  blame  thee  now  to 

weep; 

For  such  an  injury  would  vex  a  very  saint, 
Much  more  a  shrew  of  thy  impatient  humour. 

Enter  BIONDELLO. 

Bion.  Master,  master!  old  news,  and  such 
news  as  you  never  heard  of!  [be? 

Bap.  Is  it  new  and  old  too?  how  may  that 

Bion.  Why,  is  it  not  news  to  hear  of  Petru- 
chio's  coming? 

Bap.  Is  he  come? 

Bion.  Why,  no,  sir. 

Bap.  What  then? 

Bion.  He  is  coming. 

Bap.  When  will  he  be  here? 

Bion.  When  he  stands  where  I  am,  and 
sees  you  there. 


Tra.  But,  say,  what  to  thine  old  news? 

Bion.  Why,  Petruchio  is  coming,  in  a  new 
hat  and  an  old  jerkin ;  a  pair  of  old  breeches 
thrice  turn'd ;  a  pair  of  boots  that  have  been 
candle-cases,  one  buckled,  another  laced;  an 
old  rusty  sword  ta'en  out  of  the  town  armoury, 
with  a  broken  hilt,  and  chapeless;  with  two 
broken  points :  his  horse  hipped  with  an  old 
mothy  saddle,  and  stirrups  of  no  kindred; 
besides,  possessed  with  the  glanders,  and  like 
to  mose  in  the  chine ;  troubled  with  the  lampass, 
infected  with  the  fashions,  full  of  wind-galls, 
sped  with  spavins,  rayed  with  the  yellows,  past 
cure  of  the  fires,  stark  spoiled  with  the  staggers, 
begnawn  with  the  bots,  swayed  in  the  back,  and 
shoulder-shotten ;  ne'er  legged  before,  and  with 
a  half-checked  bit,  and  a  head-stall  of  sheep's 
leather,  which,  being  restrained  to  keep  him 
from  stumbling,  hath  been  often  burst,  and  now 
repaired  with  knots ;  one  girth  six  times  pieced, 
and  a  woman's  crupper  of  velure,  which  hath 
two  letters  for  her  name,  fairly  set  down  in 
studs,  and  here  and  there  pieced  with  pack- 
thread. 

Bap.  Who  comes  with  him? 

Bion.  O,  sir,  his  lackey,  for  all  the  world 
caparisoned  like  the  horse ;  with  a  linen  stock 
on  one  leg  and  a  kersey  boot-hose  on  the  other, 
gartered  with  a  red  and  blue  list ;  an  old  hat, 
and  The  humour  of  forty  fancies  pricked  in  't 
for  a  feather :  a  monster,  a  very  monster  in  ap- 
parel ;  and  not  like  a  Christian  footboy  or  a 
gentleman's  lackey. 

Tra.  'Tis  some  odd  humour  pricks  him  to 

this  fashion ; 
Yet  oftentimes  he  goes  but  mean  apparell'd. 

Bap.  I  am  glad  he  is  come,  howsoe'er  he 
comes. 

Bion.  Why,  sir,  he  comes  not. 

Bap.  Didst  thou  not  say  he  comes? 

Bion.  Who?  that  Petruchio  came? 

Bap.  Ay,  that  Petruchio  came. 

Bion.  No,  sir ;  I  say  his  horse  comes  with 
him  on  his  back. 

Bap.  Why,  that 's  all  one. 

Bion.  Nay,  by  saint  Jamy, 
I  hold  you  a  penny, 
A  horse  and  a  man 
Is  more  than  one, 
And  yet  not  many. 

Enter  PETRUCHIO  and  GRUMIO. 

Pet.  Come,  where  be  these  gallants  ?  who 's 

at  home? 

Bap.  You  are  welcome,  sir. 
Pet.  And  yet  I  come  not  well. 

Bap.  And  yet  you  halt  not. 


33P 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


[ACT  in. 


Tra.  Not  so  well  apparell'd 

As  I  wish  you  were. 

Pet.  Were  it  better,  I  should  rush  in  thus. 
But  where  is  Kate?  where  is  my  lovely  bride? 
How  does  my  father? — Gentles,  methinks  you 

frown : 

And  wherefore  gaze  this  goodly  company, 
As  if  they  saw  some  wondrous  monument, 
Some  comet  or  unusual  prodigy? 

Bap.  Why,  sir,  you  know  this  is  your  wed- 
ding-day : 

First  were  we  sad,  fearing  you  would  not  come ; 
Now  sadder,  that  you  come  so  unprovided. 
Fie,  doff  this  habit,  shame  to  your  estate, 
An  eye-sore  to  our  solemn  festival ! 

Tra.  And  tell  us,  what  occasion  of  import 
Hath  all  so  long  detain'd  you  from  your  wife, 
And  sent  you  hither  so  unlike  yourself? 

Pet.  Tedious  it  were  to  tell,  and  harsh  to 

hear : 

Sufficeth,  I  am  come  to  keep  my  word, 
Though  in  some  part  enforced  to  digress ; 
Which,  at  more  leisure,  I  will  so  excuse 
As  you  shall  well  be  satisfied  withal. 
But  where  is  Kate?  I  stay  too  long  from  her: 
The  morning  wears,  'tis  time  we  were  at  church. 

Tra.  See  not  your  bride  in  these  unreverent 

robes: 
Go  to  my  chamber,  put  on  clothes  of  mine. 

Pet.  Not  I,  believe  me :  thus  I  '11  visit  her. 

Bap.  But  thus,  I  trust,  you  will  not  marry  her. 

Pet.  Good  sooth,  even  thus;   therefore  ha' 

done  with  words; 

To  me  she  's  married,  not  unto  my  clothes 
Could  I  repair  what  she  will  wear  in  me, 
As  I  can  change  these  poor  accoutrements, 
'Twere  well  for  Kate,  and  better  for  myself. 
But  what  a  fool  am  I  to  chat  with  you, 
When  I  should  bid  good-morrow  to  my  bride, 
And  seal  the  title  with  a  lovely  kiss ! 

[Exeunt  PETRUCHIO  and  GRUMIO. 

Tra.  He  hath  some  meaning  in  his  mad  attire. 
We  will  persuade  him,  be  it  possible, 
To  put  on  better  ere  he  go  to  church. 

Bap.  I  '11  after  him,  and  see  the  event  ot  this. 
[Exeunt  BAP.,  GREM.,  andBlox. 

Tra.  But,  sir,  to  her  love  concerneth  us  to 

add 

Her  father's  liking :  which  to  bring  to  pass, 
As  I  before  imparted  to  your  worship, 
I  am  to  get  a  man, — whate'er  he  be, 
It  skills  not  much ;  we  '11  fit  him  to  our  turn,— 
And  he  shall  be  Vincentio  of  Pisa ; 
And  make  assurance,  here  in  Padua, 
Of  greater  sums  than  I  have  promised. 
So  shall  you  quietly  enjoy  your  hope,      A?fl 
And  marry  sw«et  Bianca  with  consent 


Luc.  Were  it  not  that  my  fellow-schoolmaster 
Doth  watch  Bianca's  steps  so  narrowly, 
'Twere  good,  methinks,  to  steal  our  marriage  ; 
Which  once  perform'd,  let  all  the  world  say  no, 
I  '11  keep  mine  own,  despite  of  all  the  world. 

Tra.  That  by  degrees  we  mean  to  look  into, 
And  watch  our  vantage  in  this  business  : 
We  '11  over-reach  the  graybeard,Gremio, 
The  narrow-prying  father,  Minola; 
The  quaint  musician,  amorous  Licio ; 
All  for  my  master's  sake,  Lucentio. 

Re-enter  GT&M.V*. 

krV.  '  yfi?   j.firfW 

Signior  Gremio,— came  you  from  the  church? 
Gre.  As  willingly  as  e  er  I  came  from  school. 
Tra.  And  is  the  bride  and  bridegroom  com- 
ing home? 

Gre.  A  bridegroom,  say  you  ?  'tis  a  groom  in- 
deed, 

A  grumbling  groom,  and  that  the  girl  shall  find. 
Tra.  Curster  than  she?  why,  'tis  impossible. 
Gre.  Why,  he 's  a  devil,  a  devil,  a  very  fiend. 
Tra.  Why,  she  's  a  devil,  a  devil,  the  devil's 

dam. 

Gre.  Tut,  she 's  a  lamb,  a  dove,  a  fool  to  him! 
I  '11  tell  you,  Sir  Lucentio :  when  the  priest 
Should  ask,  if  Katharine  should  be  his  wife, 
Ay,  by  gogs-wouns,  quoth  he ;  and  swore  so  loud 
That,  all  amaz'd,  the  priest  let  fall  the  book; 
And,  as  he  stoop'd  again  to  take  it  up, 
The  mad-brain'd  bridegroom  took  him  such  a 

cuff 
That  down  fell  priest  and  book,  and  book  and 

priest : 

Now  take  them  up,  quoth  he,  if  any  list. 
Tra.  What  said  the  wench,  when  he  arose 

again? 
Gre.    Trembled   and  shook;    for  why,  he 

stamp'd  and  swore, 

As  if  the  vicar  meant  to  cozen  him.  *  {0£i  / 
But  after  many  ceremonies  done, 
He  calls  for  wine :  A  health  '  quoth  he ;  as  if 
He  had  been  aboard,  carousing  to  his  mates 
After  a  storm :  quaff'd  off  the  muscadel, 
And  threw  the  sops  all  in  the  sexton's  face ; 
Having  no  other  reason 
But  that  his  beard  grew  thin  and  hungerly, 
And  seem'd  to  ask  him  sops  as  he  was  drinking. 
This  done,  he  took  the  bride  about  the  neck, 
And  kiss'd  her  lips  with  such  a  clamorous 

smack 

That,  at  the  parting,  all  the  church  did  echo. 
I,  seeing  this,  came  thence  for  very  shame  ; 
And  after  me,  I  know,  the  rout  is  coming. 
Such  a  mad  marriage  never  was  before : 
Hark,  hark  !  I  hear  the  minstrels  play. 

[Music. 


SCENE  il.j 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


331 


Enter   PETRUCHIO,    KATHARINA,    BIANCA, 
BAPTISTA,  HORTENSIO,  GRUMIO,  and  Train. 

Pet.  Gentlemen  and  friends,  I  thank  you  for 

your  pains : 

I  know  you  think  to  dine  with  me  to-day, 
And  have  prepar'd  great  store  of  wedding  cheer; 
But  so  it  is,  my  haste  doth  call  me  hence, 
And  therefore  here  I  mean  to  take  my  leave. 

Bap.  Is 't  possible  you  will  away  to-night? 

Pet.   I  must  away  to- day,  before  night  come : 
Make  it  no  wonder  ;  if  you  knew  my  business, 
V^ou  would  entreat  me  rather  go  than  stay. 
\nd,  honest  company,  I  thank  you  all, 
That  have  beheld  me  give  away  myself 
To  this  most  patient,  sweet,  and  virtuous  wife : 
Dine  with  my  father,  drink  a  health  to  me ; 
For  I  must  hence  ;  and  farewell  to  you  all. 

Tra.  Let  us  entreat  you  stay  till  after  dinner. 

Pet.  It  may  not  be. 

Gre.  Let  me  entreat  you. 

Pet.  It  cannot  be. 

Kath.  Let  me  entreat  you. 

Pet.  I  am  content. 

Kath.  Are  you  content  to  stay? 

Pet.  I  am  content  you  shall  entreat  me  stay ; 
But  yet  not  stay,  entreat  me  how  you  can. 

Kath.  Now,  if  you  love  me,  stay. 

Pet.  Grumio,  my  horse. 

Grtt.  Ay,  sir,  they  be  ready:  the  oats  have 
eaten  the  horses. 

Kath.  Nay,  then, 

Do  what  thou  canst,  I  will  not  go  to-day; 
No,  nor  to-morrow,  nor  till  I  please  myself. 
The  door  is  open,  sir;  there  lies  your  way; 
You  may  be  jogging  whiles  your  boots  are  green; 
For  me,  I  '11  not  ue  gone  till  I  please  myself: 
'Tis  like  you  '11  prove  a  jolly  surly  groom, 
That  take  it  on  you  at  the  first  so  roundly. 

Pet.  O  Kate,  content  thee;  pr'ythee,  be  not 
angry. 

Kath.  I  will  be  angry;  what  hast  thou  to  do? — 
Father,  be  quiet :  he  shall  stay  my  leisure. 

Gre.  Ay,  marry,  sir,  now  it  begins  to  work. 

Kath.    Gentlemen,    forward   to   the  bridal 

dinner : 

I  see  a  woman  may  be  made  a  fool 
If  she  had  not  a  spirit  to  resist. 

Pet.  They  shall  go  forward,  Kate,  at  thy 

command. — 

Obey  the  bride,  you  that  attend  on  her ; 
Go  to  the  feast,  revel  and  domineer, 
Carouse  full  measure  to  her  maidenhead; 
Be  mad  and  merry, — or  go  hang  yourselves  : 
But  for  my  bonny  Kate,  she  must  with  me. 
Nay,  look  not  big,  nor  stamp,  nor  stare,  nor 
fret- 


I  will  be  master  of  what  is  mine  own : 
She  is  my  goods,  my  chattels ;  she  is  my  house, 
My  household  stuff,  my  field,  my  barn, 
My  horse,  my  ox,  my  ass,  my  anything; 
And  here  she  stands,  touch  her  whoever  dare  ; 
I  '11  bring  mine  action  on  the  proudest  he 
That  stops  my  way  in  Padua. — Grumio, 
Draw  forth  thy  weapon,  we  are  beset  with 

thieves  ; 

Rescue  thy  mistress,  if  thou  be  a  man. — 
Fear  not,  sweet  wench,  they  shall  not  touch  thee, 

Kate; 
I  '11  buckler  thee  against  a  million. 

[Exeunt  PET.,  KATH.,  and  GRU. 
Bap.  Nay,  let  them  go,  a  couple  of  quiet  ones. 
Gre.  Went  they  not  quickly,  I  should  die 

with  laughing. 

Tra.  Of  all  mad  matches,  never  was  the  like ! 
Luc.  Mistress,  what 's  your  opinion  of  your 
sister?  [mated. 

Bian.  That,  being  mad  herself,  she 's  madly 
Gre.  I  warrant  him,  Petruchio  is  Kated. 
Bap.  Neighbours  and  friends,  though  bride 

and  bridegroom  wants, 
For  to  supply  the  places  at  the  table, 
You  know  there  wants  no  junkets  at  the  feast. — 
Lucentio,  you   shall  supply  the  bridegroom's 

place ; 

And  let  Bianca  take  her  sister's  room.          [it? 
Tra.  Shall  sweet  Bianca  practise  how  to  bride 
Bap.  She  shall,   Lucentio. — Come,  gentle- 
men, let 's  go.  [Exeunt. 
;vj;.'V;  ¥fvjv:»  f'n>;    ?j*m;-<'.    •:  v;K' v  TtDrij  .ruBc!'.'.'1 

A/^r  J\T 

?;:ii;I  frjltfpfio  •}          ^          .M  xliir  arfj  Differ 
SCENE  I.— A  Hall  in  PETRUCHIO'S  Country 

house. 

Enter  GRUMIO. 

Gru.  Fie,  fie  on  all  tired  jades,  on  all  mad 
masters,  and  all  foul  ways !  Was  ever  man  so 
beaten?  was  ever  man  so  rayed?  was  ever  man 
so  weary?  I  am  sent  before  to  make  a  fire,  and 
they  are  coming  after  to  warm  them.  Now. 
were  not  I  a  little  pot,  and  soon  hot,  my  very 
lips  might  freeze  to  my  teeth,  my  tongue  to  the 
roof  of  my  mouth,  my  heart  in  my  belly,  ere  I 
should  come  by  a  fire  to  thaw  me : — but  I,  with 
blowing  the  fire,  shall  warm  myself;  for,  con- 
sidering the  weather,  a  taller  man  than  I  will 
take  cold.— Holla,  ho!  Curtis! 

Enter  CURTIS. 

Curt.  Who  is  that  calls  so  coldly? 

Gru.  A  piece  of  ice :  if  thou  doubt  it,  thou 
mayst  slide  from  my  shoulder  to  my  heel  with 
no  greater  a  run  but  my  head  ana  my  neck. 
A  fire,  good  Curtis. 


332 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


TACT  iv. 


Curt.  Is  my  master  and  his  wife  coming, 
Grumio? 

Gru.  O,  ay,  Curtis,  ay:  and  therefore  fire, 
fire ;  cast  on  no  water. 

Curt.  Is  she  so  hot  a  shrew  as  she 's  reported? 

Gru.  She  was,  good  Curtis,  before  this  frost; 
but,  thou  knowest,  winter  tames  man,  woman, 
and  beast ;  for  it  hath  tamed  my  old  master, 
and  my  new  mistress,  and  myself,  fellow  Curtis. 

Curt.  Away,  you  three-inch  fool !  I  am  no 
beast. 

Gru.  Arii  I  but  three  inches?  why,  thy  horn 
is  a  foot ;  and  so  long  am  I,  at  the  least.  But 
wilt  thou  make  a  fire,  or  shall  I  complain  on 
thee  to  our  mistress,  whose  hand, — she  being 
now  at  hand, — thou  shalt  soon  feel,  to  thy  cold 
comfort,  for  being  slow  in  thy  hot  office? 

Curt.  I  pr'ythee,  good  Grumio,  tell  me,  how 
goes  the  world? 

Gru.  A  cold  world,  Curtis,  in  every  office 
but  thine;  and,  therefore,  fire:  do  thy  duty, 
and  have  thy  duty;  for  my  master  and  mistress 
are  almost  frozen  to  death. 

Curt.  There's  fire  ready;  and,  therefore, 
good  Grumio,  the  news? 

Gru.  Why,  Jack  boy!  ho,  boy!  and  as  much 
news  as  thou  wilt.  [ing ! — 

Curt.  Come:  you  are  so  full  of  coney-catch- 

Gru.  Why,  therefore,  fire ;  for  I  have  caught 
extreme  cold.  Where's  the  cook?  is  supper 
ready,  the  house  trimmed,  rushes  strewed,  cob- 
webs swept;  the  serving-men  in  their  new 
fustian,  their  white  stockings,  and  every  officer 
his  wedding-garment  on?  Be  the  jacks  fair 
within,  the  jills  fair  without,  the  carpets  laid, 
and  everything  in  order?  [news? 

Curt.  All  ready ;  and,  therefore,  I  pray  thee, 

Gru.  First,  know,  my  horse  is  tired;  my 
master  and  mistress  fallen  out. 

Curt.  How? 

Gru.  Out  of  their  saddles  into  the  dirt ;  and 
thereby  hangs  a  tale. 

Curt.  Let 's  ha  't,  good  Grumio. 

Gru.  Lend  thine  ear. 

Curt.  Here. 

Gru.  There.  [Striking  him. 

Curt.  This  is  to  feel  a  tale,  not  to  hear  a  tale. 

Gru.  And  therefore  'tis  called  a  sensible 
tale :  and  this  cuff  was  but  to  knock  at  your 
ear,  and  beseech  listening.  Now  I  begin :  Im- 
primis, we  came  down  a  foul  hill,  my  master 
riding  behind  my  mistress : — 

Curt.  Both  of  one  horse? 

Gru.  What's  that  to  thee? 

Curt.  Why,  a  horse. 

Gru.  Tell  thou  the  tale :— but  hadst  thou  not 
crossed  me,  thou  shouldst  have  heard  how  her 


horse  fell,  and  she  under  her  horse ;  thou 
shouldst  have  heard,  in  how  miry  a  place ;  how 
she  was  bemoiled ;  how  he  left  her  with  the 
horse  upon  her ;  how  he  beat  me  because  her 
horse  stumbled;  how  she  waded  through  the 
dirt  to  pluck  him  off  me ;  how  he  swore ;  how 
she  prayed— that  never  pray'd  before ;  how  I 
cried ;  how  the  horses  ran  away ;  how  her  bridle 
was  burst;  how  I  lost  my  crupper;  with  many 
things  of  worthy  memory ;  which  now  shall  die 
in  oblivion,  and  thou  return  unexperienced  to 
thy  grave. 

Curt.  By  this  reckoning,  he  is  more  shrew 
than  she. 

Gru.  Ay ;  and  that  thou  and  the  proudest  of 
you  all  shall  find  when  he  comes  home.  But 
what  talk  I  of  this?— Call  forth  Nathaniel, 
Joseph,  Nicholas,  Philip,  Walter,  Sugarsop, 
and  the  rest :  let  their  heads  be  sleekly  combed, 
their  blue  coats  brushed,  and  their  garters  of  an 
indifferent  knit :  let  them  curtsy  with  their  left 
legs;  and  not  presume  to  touch  a  hair  of  my 
master's  horse-tail  till  they  kiss  their  hands. 
Are  they  all  ready? 

Curt.  They  are. 

Gru.  Call  them  forth. 

Curt.  Do  you  hear,  ho?  you  must  meet  my 
master,  to  countenance  my  mistress. 

Gru.  Why,  she  hath  a  face  of  her  own. 

Curt.  Who  knows  not  that? 

Gru.  Thou,  it  seems,  that  callest  for  com- 
pany to  countenance  her. 

Curt.  I  call  them  forth  to  credit  her. 

Gru.  Why,  she  comes  to  borrow  nothing  of 
them. 


Enter  several  Servants. 


Nath.  Welcome  home,  Grumio ! 

Phil.  How  now,  Grumio ! 

[os.  What,  Grumio! 

Nick.  Fellow  Grumio! 

Nath.  How  now,  old  lad? 

Gru.    Welcome,   you  ; — how  now,   you ; 
what,  you ;— fellow,  you ;— and  thus  much  fdi 
greeting.     Now,  my  spruce  companions,  is  all 
ready,  and  all  things  neat? 

Nath.  All  things  is  ready.  How  near  is  our 
master? 

Gru.  E'en  at  hand,  alighted  by  this;— and 
therefore  be  not, — Cock's  passion,  silence! — 
I  hear  my  master. 

Enter  PETRUCHIO  and  KATHARINA. 

Pet.  Where  be  these  knaves  ?    What,  no  man 

at  door 

To  held  my  stirrup  nor  to  take  my  horse ! 
Where  is  Nathaniel,  Gregory,  Philip?— 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


333 


All  Serv.  Here,  here,  sir ;  here,  sir. 

Pet.  Here,  sir!  here,  sir!  here,  sir!  here, sir ! — 
You  logger-headed  and  unpolish'd  grooms ! 
What,  no  attendance?  no  regard?  no  duty? — 
Where  is  the  foolish  knave  I  sent  before? 

Gni.  Here,  sir  ;  as  foolish  as  I  was  before. 

Pet.  You  peasant  swain !  you  whoreson  malt- 
horse  drudge ! 

Did  I  not  bid  thee  meet  me  in  the  park, 
And  bring  along  these  rascal  knaves  with  thee? 

Gru.    Nathaniel's   coat,    sir,  was  not  fully 
made,  [the  heel  ; 

And   Gabriel's    pumps  were  all   unpink'd    i' 
There  was  no  link  to  colour  Peter's  hat, 
And    Walter's    dagger   was    not   come    from 
sheathing:  [Gregory; 

There  were  none  fine  but  Adam,  Ralph,  and 
The  rest  were  ragged,  old,  and  beggarly; 
Yet,  as  they  are,  here  are  they  come  to  meet  you. 

Pet.  Go,  rascals,  go,  and  fetch  my  supper  in. —  ' 
[Exeunt  some  of  the  Servants. 

Where  is  the,  afe  that  late  I  led —      [Sings. 

Where  are  those Sit  down,  Kate,  and  wel- 
come. 

Soud,  soud, soud,  soud ! 

Re-enter  Servants  with  supper. 

Why,  when,  I  say? — Nay,  good  sweet  Kate, 

be  merry.  [when? 

Off  with  my  boots,  you  rogues!  you  villains, 

It  was  the  friar  of  orders  gray  ; 
As  he  forth  walked  on  his  way  : — 

Out,  you  rogue !  you  pluck  my  foot  awry : 

Take   that,    and   mend   the   plucking   oft"  the 

other. —  [Strikes  him. 

Be  merry,  Kate. — Some  water,  here;    what, 

ho ! —  [hence, 

Where's  my  spaniel  Troilus? — Sirrah,  get  you 

And  bid  my  cousin  Ferdinand  come  hither : — 

[Exit  Servant. 

One,  Kate,  that  you  must  kiss,  and  be  ac- 
quainted with. —  [water? 
Where  are  my  slippers? — Shall  I  have  some 
[A  bason  is  presented  to  him. 
Come,  Kate,  and  wash,  and  welcome  heartily. — 
cjjf*-?     [Servant  lets  the  ewer  fall. 
You  whoreson  villain!  will  you  let  it  fall? 

[Strikes  him. 

Kath.  Patience,  I  pray  you;    'twas  a  fault 

unwilling.  [knave ! 

Pet.  A  whoreson,  beetle-headed,  flap-ear'd 

Come,   Kate,  sit  down;    I  know  you  have  a 

stomach.  [shall  I? — 

Will   you   give  thanks,  sweet  Kate;    cr  else 

What's  this?  mutton?  . 


I  Serv. 
Pet. 


Ay, 

Who  brought  it  ? 


Pet.  'Tis  burnt  ;  and  so  is  all  the  meat. 
What  dogs    are  these?  —  Where   is  the   rascal 
cook  ?  [dresser, 

How   durst   you,  villains,  bring   it   from    the 
And  serve  it  thus  to  me  that  love  it  not? 
There,  take  it  to  you,  trenchers,  cups,  and  all  : 
[Throws  the  meat,  <SrY.,  about  the  stage. 
You  heedless  joltheads  and  unmanner'd  slaves! 
What,  do  you  grumble?      I'll  be  with  you 
straight. 

Kath.  I  pray  you  ,  husband,  be  not  so  disquiet  ; 
The  meat  was  well,  if  you  were  so  contented. 

Pet.  I  tell  thee,  Kate,  'twas  burnt  and  dried 

away; 

And  I  expressly  am  foiLid  to  touch  it, 
For  it  engenders  choler,  planteth  anger  ; 
And  better  'twere  that  both  of  us  did  fast,  — 
Since,  of  ourselves,  ourselves  are  choleric,  — 
Than  feed  it  with  such  over-roasted  flesh. 
Be  patient  ;  to-morrow  't  shall  be  mended, 
And,  for  this  night,  we  '11  fast  for  company  :  — 
Come,  I  will  bring  thee  to  thy  bridal  chamber 
[Exeunt  PET.,.  KATH.,  aWCuRT. 

Nath.  Peter,  didst  ever  see  the  like? 

Peter.  He  kills  her  in  her  own  humour. 

Re-enter  CURTIS. 

Gru.  Where  is  he? 

Curt.  In  her  chamber, 

Making  a  sermon  of  continency  to  her,    [soul, 
And  rails,  and  swears,  and  rates,  that  she,  poor 
Knows  not  which  way  to  stand,  to  look,  to  speak, 
And  sits  as  one  new-risen  from  a  dream. 
Away,  away  !  for  he  is  coming  hither. 

[Exeunt. 

Re-enter  PETRUCHIO. 

Ptt.  Thus  have  I  politicly  begun  my  reign, 
And  'tis  my  hope  to  end  successfully. 
My  falcon  now  is  sharp,  and  passing  empty  ; 
And,  till  she  stoop,  she  must  not  be  full-gorg'd, 
For  then  she  never  looks  upon  her  lure. 
Another  way  I  have  to  man  my  haggard, 
To  make  her  come,  and  knc»v  her  keepers  call, 
That  is,  to  watch  her,  as  we  watch  these  kites 
That  bate,  and  beat,  and  will  not  be  obedient. 
She  eat  no  meat  to-day,  nor  none  shall  eat  ; 
Last  night  she  slept  not,  nor  to-night  she  shall 

not; 

As  with  the  meat,  some  undeserved  fault 
I  '11  find  about  the  making  of  the  bed  ; 
And  here  I  sil  fling  the  pillow,  there  the  bolster, 
This  way  the  coverlet,  another  way  the  sheets  :—  • 
Ay,  and  amid  this  hurly,  I  intend 


334 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


[ACT  iv. 


That  all  is  done  in  reverend  care  of  her  j 
And,  in  conclusion,  she  shall  watch  all  night : 
And,  if  she  chance  to  nod,  I  "li  rail  and  brawl, 
And  with  the  clamour  keep  her  still  awake. 
This  is  a  way  to  kill  a  wife  with  kindness  : 
And  thus  I'll  curb  her   mad  and  headstrong 

humour. 

He  that  knows  better  how  to  tame  a  shrew, 
Now  let  him  speak  ;  'tis  charity  to  show. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  II. — PADUA.     Before  BAPTISTA'S 
House. 

\  ;-.::<   rio/.v     i 

i yi{l.£nter  TRANIO  and  HORTENSIO.      n:rL 

Tra.  Is 't  possible,  friend  Licio,  that  Bianca 
Doth  fancy  any  other  but  Lucentio? 
I  tell  you,  sir,  she  bears  me  fair  in  hand. 

Hor.  Sir,  to  satisfy  you  in  what  I  have  said, 

Stand  by,  and  mark  the  manner  of  his  teaching. 

[  They  stand  aside. 

Enter  BIANCA  and  LUCENTIO. 

Lttf.  Now,  mistress,  profit  you  in  what  you 

read? 
Bian.  What,  master,  read  you  ?  first  resolve 

me  that. 

Luc.  I  read  that  I  profess,  the  Art  to  Love. 
Bian.  And   may  you  prove,  sir,  master   of 

your  art ! 

Luc.  While  you,  sweet  dear,  prove  mistress 

of  my  heart.  [  They  retire. 

Hor.  Quick  proceeders,  marry!    Now,  tell 

me,  I  pray, 

You  that  durst  swear  that  your  Mistress  Bianca 
Lov'd  none  in  the  world  so  well  as  Lucentio. 
Tra.  O  despiteful  love !  unconstant  woman- 
kind !— 
I  tell  thee,  Licio,  this  is  wonderful. 

Hor.  Mistake  no  more :  I  am  not  Licio, 
Nor  a  musician,  as  I  seem  to  be  ; 
But  one  that  scorn  to  live  in  this  disguise, 
For  such  a  one  as  leaves  a  gentleman, 
And  makes  a  god  of  such  a  cullion : 
Know,  sir,  that  I  am  call'd  Hortensio. 

Tra.  Signior  Hortensio,  I  have  often  heard 
Of  your  entire  afiLction  to  Bianca; 
And  since  mine  eyes  are  witness  of  her  lightness, 
I  will  with  you, — if  you  be  so  contented, — 
Forswear  Bianca  and  her  love  for  ever. 

Hor.  See,  how  they  kiss  and  court! — Sig- 
nior Lucentio, 

Here  is  my  hand,  and  here  I  firmly  vow 
Never  to  woo  her  more ;  but  do  forswear  her, 
As  one  unworthy  all  the  former  favours 
That  I  have  fondly  flatter'd  her  withal. 

Tra.  And  here  I  take  the  like  unfeigned  oath, 


Never  to  marry  with  her  though  she  would  en- 
treat :  [him ! 
Fie  on  her!  see,  how  beastly  she  doth  court 
Hor.  Would  all  the  world  but  he  had  quite 

forsworn ! 

For  me,  that  I  may  surely  keep  mine  oath, 
I  will  be  married  to  a  wealthy  widow 
Ere  three  days  pass,  which  hath  as  long  lov'd  me 
As  I  have  lov'd  this  proud  disdainful  haggard : 
And  so  farewell,  Signior  Lucentio. — 
Kindness  in  women,  not  their  beauteous  looks, 
Shall  win  my  love :  and  so  I  take  my  leave, 
In  resolution  as  I  swore  before. 

[Exit  HOR. — Luc.  tf«</BlAN.  advance. 
Tra.  Mistress  Bianca,  bless  you  with  such 

grace 

As  'longeth  to  a  lover's  blessed  case  I 
Nay,  I  have  ta'en  you  napping,  gentle  love ; 
And  have  forsworn  you  with  Hortensio. 

Bian.  Tranio,  you  jest ;  but  have  you  both 

forsvorn  me  ? 
Tra.  Mistress,  we  have. 
Luc.  Th^n  we  are  rid  of  Licio. 

Tra.  I'  faith,  he  '11  have  a  lusty  widow  now, 
That  shall  be  woo'd  and  wedded  in  a  day. 
Bian.  God  give  him  joy  ! 
Tra.  Ay,  and  he  '11  tame  her. 
Bian.  He  says  so,  Tranio. 

Tra.  Faith,  he  is  gone  unto  the  taming-school. 
Bian.  The  taming-school !  what,  is  there  such 

a  place  ? 
Tra.  Ay,   mistress,   and    Petruchio    is  the 

master ; 

That  teacheth  tricks  eleven  and  twenty  long, 
To  tame  a  shrew  and  charm  her  chattering 

tongue. 

..'•uiV  _  — .^arfjo 

Enter  BIONDELLO. 

Bion.  O  master,  master,  I  have  watch'd  so 

long 

That  I  *m  dog-weary ;  but  at  last  I  spied :  bnA 
An  ancient  angel  coming  down  the  hill, 
Will  serve  the  turn. 

Tra.  What  is  he,  Biondello? 

Bion.  Master,  a  mercatante,  or  a  pedant, 
I  know  not  what;  but  formal  in  apparel, 
In  gait  and  countenance  surely  like  a  father. 

Luc.  And  what  of  him,  Tranio? 

Tra.  If  he  be  credulous,  and  trust  my  tale, 
I  '11  make  him  glad  to  seem  Vincentio, 
And  give  assurance  to  Baptista  Minola, 
As  if  he  were  the  right  Vincentio. 
Take  in  your  love,  and  then  let  me  alone. 

[Exeunt  LUCENTIO  and  BIANCA. 

Enter  a  Pedant. 
Fed.  God  save  you,  sir ! 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


335 


Tra.  And  you,  sir  !  you  are  welcome. 

Travel  you  far  on,  or  are  you  at  the  furthest  ? 

Ped.  Sir,  at  the  furthest  for  a  week  or  two  : 
But  then  up  further,  and  as  far  as  Rome  ; 
And  so  to  Tripoli,  if  God  lend  me  life. 

Tra.  What  countryman,  I  pray  ? 

Ped.  Of  Mantua. 

Tra.  Of  Mantua,  sir  ? — marry,  God  forbid  ! 
And  come  to  Padua,  careless  of  your  life?  [hard. 

Ped.  My  life,  sir!  how,  I  pray?  for  that  goes 

Tra.  'Tis  death  for  any  one  in  Mantua 
To  come  to  Padua.     Know  you  not  the  cause  ? 
Your  ships  are  stay'd  at  Venice ;  and  the  duke, — 
For  private  quarrel  'twixt  your  duke  and  him, — 
Hath  publish'd  and  proclaim'd  it  openly : 
'Tis  marvel,  but  that  you  are  but  newly  come, 
You  might  have  heard  it  else  proclaim'd  about. 

Ped.  Alas,  sir,  it  is  worse  for  me  tnan  so  ! 
For  I  have  bills  for  money  by  exchange 
From  Florence,  and  must  here  deliver  them. 

Tra.  Well,  sir,  to  do  you  courtesy, 
This  will  t  do,  and  this  I  will  advise  you : 
First,  tell  me,  have  you  ever  been  at  Pisa? 

Ped.  Ay,  sir,  in  Pisa  have  I  often  been  : 
Pisa,  renowned  for  grave  citizens. 

Tra.  Among  them  know  you  one  Vincentio  ? 

Ped.  I  know  him  not,  but  I  have  heard  of  him ; 
A  merchant  of  incomparable  wealth. 

Tra.  He  is  my  father,  sir  ;  and,  sooth  to  say, 
In  countenance  somewhat  doth  reseiuble  you. 

Bion.  As  much  as  an  apple  doth  an  oyster, 
and  all  one.  [Aside. 

Tra.  To  save  your  life  in  this  extremity, 
This  favour  will  I  do  you  for  his  sake  ; 
And  think  it  not  the  worst  of  all  your  fortunes 
That  you  are  like  to  Sir  Vincentio. 
His  name  and  credit  shall  you  undertake, 
And  in  my  house  you  shall  be  friendly  lodg'd : — 
Look  that  you  take  upon  you  as  you  should  ; 
You  understand  me,  sir : — so  shall  you  stay 
Till  you  have  done  your  business  in  the  city  : 
If  this  be  courtesy,  sir,  accept  of  it. 

Ped.  O,  sir,  I  do  ;  and  will  repute  you  ever 
The  patron  of  my  life  and  liberty.  [good. 

Tra.  Then  go  with  me,  to  make  the  matter 
This,  by  the  way,  I  let  you  understand  ; — 
My  father  is  here  look'd  for  every  day, 
To  pass  assurance  of  a  dower  in  marriage 
'Twixt  me  and  one  Baptista's  daughter  here : 
In  all  these  circumstances  I  '11  instruct  you  : 
Go  with  me,  sir,  to  clothe  you  as  becomes  you. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— A  Room  in  PETRUCHIO'S  House. 

Enter  KATHARINA  and  GRUMIO. 
Gru.  No,  no,  forsooth ;  I  dare  not,  for  my  life. 


Kath.  The  more  my  wrong,  the  more  his 

am  t-   spite  appears  : 
What,  did  he  marry  me  to  famish  me  ? 
Beggars,  that  come  unto  my  father's  doorr> 
Upon  entreaty  have  a  present  alms  ; 
If  not,  elsewhere  they  meet  with  charity  : 
But  I, — who  never  knew  how  to  entreat, 
Nor  never  needed  that  I  should  entreat, — 
Am  starved  for  meat,  giddy  for  lack  of  sleep ; 
With  oaths  kept  waking,  and  with  brawling  fed : 
And  that  which  spites  me  more  than  ail  these 

wants, 

He  does  it  under  name  of  perfect  love  ; 
As  who  would  say,  if  I  should  sleep  or  eat, 
'Twere  deadly  sickness  or  else  present  death. — 
I  pr'ythee  go,  and  get  me  some  repast ; 
I  care  ^ot  what,  so  it  be  wholesome  food. 

Gru.  What  ?ay  you  to  a  neat's  foot  ?        [it. 

Kath.  Tis  passing  good;  I  pr'ythee  let  me  have 

Gru.  I  fear  it  is  too  choleric  a  meat : 
How  say  you  to  a  fat  tripe,  finely  broil'd  ? 

Kath.  I  like  it  well :  good  Grumio,  fetch  it  me. 

Gru.  I  cannot  tell ;  I  fear  'tis  choleric. 
What  say  you  to  a  piece  of  beef  and  mustard  ? 

Kath.  A  dish  that  I  do  love  to  feed  upon. 

Gru.  Ay,  but  the  mustard  is  too  hot  a  little. 

Kath.  Why,  then  the  beef,  and  let  the  mus- 
tard rest.  [the  mustaid, 

Gru.  Nay,  tiien  I  will  not ;  you  shall  have 
Or  else  you  get  no  beef  of  Grumio. 

Kath.  Then  both,  or  one,  or  anything  thou 
wilt. 

Gru.  Why,  then  the  mustard  without  the  beef. 

Kath.  Go,  get  thee  gone,  thou  false  deluding 
slave,  {Beats  him. 

That  feed'st  me  with  the  very  name  of  meat : 
Sorrow  on  thee,  and  all  the  pack  of  you, 
That  triumph  thus  upon  my  misery  I 
Go,  get  thee  gone,  I  say. 

Enter  PETRUCHIO  with  a  disk  of  meat ;  and 

HORTENSIO. 

Pet.  How  fares  my  Kate  ?    What,  sweeting, 

all  amort  ? 

Hor.  Mistress,  what  cheer? 
Kath.  Faith,  as  cold  as  can  be. 

Pet.  Pluck  up  thy  spirits,  look  cheerfully 

upon  me. 

Here,  love  ;  thou  see'st  how  diligent  I  am 
To  dress  thy  meat  myself,  and  bring  it  thee  : 

\Sets  the  dish  on  a  table. 

I  am  sure,  sweet  Kate,  this  kindness  merits 
thanks.  [not ; 

What !  not  a  word  ?    Nay,  then  thou  lov'st  k 
And  all  my  pains  is  sorted  to  no  proo£-^\ 
Here,  take  away  this  dish. 
Kath.  I  pray  you,  let  it  stand. 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


[ACT  iv. 


Pet.  The  poorest  service  is  repaid  with  thanks  ; 
And  so  shall  mine,  before  you  touch  the  meat. 

Kath.  I  thank  you,  sir. 

Hor.  Signior  Petruchio,  fie !  you  are  to  blame ! 
Come,  Mistress  Kate,  I  '11  bear  you  company. 

Pet.  Eat  it  up  all,  Hortensio,  if  thou  lov'st 
me. —  [Aside. 

Much  good  do  it  unto  thy  gentle  heart ! 
Kate,  eat  apace : — and  now,  my  honey-love, 
Will  we  return  unto  thy  father's  house, 
And  revel  it  as  bravely  as  f.he  best, 
With  silken  coats,  and  caps,  and  golden  rings, 
With  ruffs,  and  cuffs,  and  farthingales,  and  things; 
With  scarfs,  and  fans,  and  double   change  of 

bravery, 

Withamber  bracelets,  beads,  and  all  this  knavery. 
What,  hast  thou  din'd?    The  tailor  stays  thy 

leisure, 
To  deck  thy  body  with  his  ruffling  treasure. 

Enter  Tailor. 

Come,  tailor,  let  us  see  these  ornaments ; 
Lay  forth  the  gown. 

Enter  Haberdasher. 

What  news  with  you,  sir? 

Hob.  Here  is  the  cap  your  worship  did  be- 
speak. 

Pet.  Why,  this  was  moulded  on  a  porringer ; 
A  velvet  dish ; — fie,  fie !  'tis  lewd  and  filthy ; 
Why,  'tis  a  cockle  or  a  walnut-shell, 
A  knack,  a  toy,  a  trick,  a  baby's  cap: 
Away  with  it !  come,  let  me  have  a  bigger. 

Kath.  I  '11  have  no  bigger ;  this  doth  fit  the 

time, 
And  gentlewomen  wear  such  caps  as  these. 

Pet.  When  you  are  gentle,  you  shall  have 

one  too, 
And  not  till  then. 

Hor.         That  will  not  be  in  haste.     [Aside. 

Katk.  Why,  sir,  I  trust  I  may  have  leave  to 

speak; 

And  speak  I  will.     I  am  no  child,  no  babe : 
Your  betters  have  endur'd  me  say  my  mind ; 
And  if  you  cannot,  best  you  stop  your  ears. 
My  tongue  will  tell  the  anger  of  my  heart ; 
Or  else  uiy  heart,  concealing  it,  will  break : 
And  rather  than  it  shall,  I  will  be  free 
Even  to  the  uttermost,  as  I  please,  in  words. 

Pet.  Why,  thou  say?st  true ;  it  is  a  paltry  cap, 
A  custard-coffin,  a  bauble,  a  silken  pie : 
I  love  thee  well,  in  that  thou  lik'st  it  not. 

Kath.  Love  me  or  love  me  not,  I  like  the  cap; 
And  it  I  will  have,  or  I  will  have  none. 

Pet.  Thy  gown?  why,  ay; — Come,   tailor, 

let  us  see 't. 
O  mercy,  God !  what  masquing  stuff  is  here? 


What's  this?  a  sleeve?  'tis  like  a  demi-cannon: 
What,  up  and  down,  carv'd  like  an  apple-tart? 
Here 's  snip,  and  nip,  and  cut,  and  slish,  and 

slash, 

Like  to  a  censer  in  a  barber's  shop : —  [this? 
Why,  what,  o'  devil's  name,  tailor,  call'st  thou 

Hor,  I  see  she  's  like  to  have  neither  cap 
nor  gown.  {Aside. 

Tat.  You  bid  me  make  it  orderly  and  well, 
According  to  the  fashion  and  the  time,    [ber'd, 

Pet.   Marry,  and  did ;  but  if  you  be  remem- 
I  did  not  bid  you  mar  it  to  the  time. 
Go,  hop  me  over  every  kennel  home, 
For  you  snail  hop  without  my  custom,  sir: 
I  '11  none  of  it :  hence  !  make  your  best  of  it. 

Kath.  I  never  saw  a  better-fashion'd  gown, 
More  quaint,  more  pleasing,  nor  more  com- 
mendable : 
Belike  you  mean  to  make  a  puppet  of  me. 

Pet.  Why,  true ;  he  means  to  make  a  puppet 
of  thee.  [a  puppet  of  her. 

Tat.  She  says  your  worship  means  to  make 

Pet.  O  monstrous  arrogance!      Thou  liest, 

thou  thread, 

Thou  thimble,  [nail, 

j  Thou  yard,  three-quarters,  half-yard,  quarter, 
Thou  flea,  thou  nit,  thou-winter-cricket  thou! — 
Brav'd  in  mine  own  house  with  a  skien  of  thread? 
Away,  thou  rag,  thou  quantity,  thou  remnant ; 
Or  I  shall  so  be-mete  thee  with  thy  yard, 
As  thou  shall  think  on  prating  whilst  thou 

liv'st ! 
I  tell  thee,  I,  that  thou  hast  marr'd  her  gown. 

Tat.  Your  worship  is  deceiv'd  ;  the  gown  is 

made 

Just  as  my  master  had  direction  : 
Grumio  gave  order  how  it  should  be  done. 

Gru.  I  gave  him  no  order;  I  gave  him  the 
stuff.  [made  ? 

Tat.  But  how  did  you  desire  it  should  be 

Gru.  Marry,  sir,  with  needle  and  thread. 

Tat.  But  did  you  not  request  to  have  it  cut  ? 

Gru.  Thou  hast  faced  many  things. 

Tat.  I  have. 

Gru.  Face  not  me  :  thou  hast  braved  many 
men  ;  brave  not  me  ;  I  will  neither  be  faced  nor 
braved.  I  say  unto  thee,  I  bid  thy  master  cut 
out  the  gown  ;  but  I  did  not  bid  him  cut  it  to 
pieces:  ergo,  thou  liest.  [testify. 

Tat.  Why,  here  is  the  note  of  the  fashion  to 

Pet.  Read  it  [said  so. 

Gru.  The  note  lies  in  his  throat,  if  he  say  I 

Tat.  Imprimis*  a  loose-bodied goivn  : 

Gru.  Master,  if  ever  I  said  loose-bodied 
gown,  sew  me  in  the  skirts  of  it,  and  beat  me 
to  death  with  a  bottom  of  brown  thread :  I  said 
a  gown. 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SilKEW. 


337 


Pet.   Proceed. 

Tat.    With  a  small  compassed  cape: 

Gru.   I  confess  the  cape. 

Tai.    With  a  trunk  sleeve: 

Gru.   I  confess  two  sleeves. 

Tai.    The  sleeves  ctiriously  cut. 

Pet.  Ay,  there  's  the  villany. 

Gru.  Error  i'  the  bill,  sir;  error  i'  the  bill. 
I  commanded  the  sleeves  should  be  cut  out, 
and  sewed  up  again  ;  and  that  I  '11  prove  upon 
thee,  though  thy  little  finger  be  armed  in  a 
thimble. 

Tai.  This  is  true  that  I  say :  an  I  had  thee 
in  place  where,  thou  shouldst  know  it. 

Gru.  I  am  for  thee  straight :  take  thou  the 
bill,  give  me  thy  mete-yard,  and  spare  not  me. 

Hor.  God-a-mercy,  Grumio  !  then  he  shall 
have  no  odds. 

Pet.  Well,  sir,  in  brief,  the  gown  is  not  for  me. 

Gru.  You  are  i'  the  right,  sir;  'tis  for  my 
mistress. 

Pet.  Go,  take  it  up  unto  thy  master's  use. 

Gru.  Villain,  not  for  thy  life !  Take  up  my 
mistress'  gown  for  thy  master's  use ! 

Pet.  Why,  sir,  what 's  your  conceit  in  that? 

Gru.  O,  sir,  the  conceit  is  deeper  than  you 

think  for : 

Take  up  my  mistress'  gown  to  his  master's  use ! 
O  fie,  fie,  fie  ! 

Pet.  Hortensio,  say  thou  wilt  see  the  tailor 
paid. —  [Aside. 

Go  take  it  hence ;  be  gone,  and  say  no  more. 

Hor.  Tailor,  I  '11  pay  thee  for  thy  gown  to- 
morrow. 

Take  no  unkindness  of  his  hasty  words : 
Away,  I  say !  commend  me  to  thy  master. 

[Exeunt  Tailor  and  Haberdasher. 

Pet.  Well,  come,  my  Kate ;  we  will  unto  your 

father's 

Even  in  these  honest  mean  habiliments : 
Our  purses  shall  be  proud,  our  garments  poor ; 
For  'tis  the  mind  that  makes  the  body  rich ; 
And  as  the  sun  breaks  through  the  darkest  clouds, 
So  honour  peereth  in  the  meanest  habit. 
What,  is  the  jay  more  precious  than  the  lark, 
Because  his  feathers  are  more  beautiful? 
Or  is  the  adder  better  than  the  eel, 
Because  his  painted  skin  contents  the  eye? 
O  no,  good  Kate ;  neither  art  thou  the  worse 
For  this  poor  furniture  and  mean  array. 
If  thou  account'st  it  shame,  lay  it  on  me ; 
And  therefore  frolic :  we  will  Iience  forthwith, 
To  feast  and  sport  us  at  thy  father's  house. — 
Go,  call  my  men,  and  let  us  straight  to  him ; 
And  bring  our  horses  unto  Long-lane  end ; 
There  will  we   mount,  and   thither  walk  on 
foot— 


Let  's  see  ;  I  think  'tis  now  some  seven  o'clock, 
And  well  we  may  come  there  by  dinner-time, 

Kath.   I  dare  assure  you,  sir,  'tis  almost  two; 
And  'twill  be  supper-time  ere  yon  come  there. 

Pet.  It  shall  be  seven  ere  I  go  to  horse  : 
Look,  what  I  speak,  or  do,  or  think  to  do, 
You  are  still  crossing  it.  —  Sirs,  let't  alone: 
I  will  not  go  to-day  ;  and  ere  I  do, 
It  shall  be  what  o'clock  I  say  it  is. 

Hor.  Why,  so,  this  gallant  will  command  the 
sun.  {Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.—  PADUA.    Before  BAPTISTA'S 
House. 

Enter  TRANIO,  and  the  Pedant  dressed  like 
VINCENTIO. 

Tra.  Sir,  this  is  the  house  :  please  it  you  that 
I  call? 

Ped.  Ay,  what  else?  and,  but  I  be  deceived, 
Signior  Baptista  may  remember  me, 
Near  twenty  years  ago,  in  Genoa,  where 
We  were  lodgers  at  the  Pegasus.  [case, 

Tra.  'Tis  well;  and  hold  your  own,  in  any 
With  such  austerity  as  'longeth  to  a  father. 

Ped.  I  warrant  you.     But,  sir,  here  comes 

your  boy  ; 
'Twere  good  he  were  school'd. 

Enter  BIONDELLO. 

Tra.  Fear  you  not  him.  —  Sirrah  Biondello, 
Now  do  your  duty  throughly,  I  advise  you  : 
Imagine  'twere  the  right  Vincentio. 

Bion.  Tut  !  fear  not  me.  [tista? 

Tra.  But  hast  thou  done  thy  errand  to  Bap- 

Bion.  I  tolrf  him  that  your  father  was  at 

Venice  ; 
And  that  you  look'd  for  him  this  day  in  Padua. 

Tra.  Thou  'rt  a  tall  fellow  :  hold  thee  that 

to  drink.  [sir.  — 

Here  comes  Baptista:  —  set  your  countenance, 

Enter  BAPTISTA  and  LucENTio. 

:3:%n3   .*  T  ,fc>A 

Signior  Baptista,  you  are  happily  met.  — 

Sir  [to  the  Pedant],  this  is  the  gentleman  I  told 

you  of: 

I  pray  you,  stand  good  father  to  me  now, 
Give  me  Bianca  for  my  patrimony. 

Ped.  Soft,  son  !— 

Sir,  by  your  leave,  having  come  to  Padua 
To  gather  in  some  debts,  my  son  Lucentio 
Made  me  acquainted  with  a  weighty  cause 
Of  love  between  your  daughter  and  himself: 
And,  —  for  the  good  report  I  hear  of  you; 
And  for  the  love  he  beareth  to  your  daughter, 
And  she  to  him,  —  to  stay  him  not  too  long, 
I  am  content,  in  a  good  father's  care, 


338 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


[ACT  iv. 


To  have  him  raatch'd ;  and,— if  you  please  to 

like 

No  worse  than  I, — upon  some  agreement, 
Me  shall  you  find  ready  and  willing 
With  one  consent  to  have  her  so  bestow'd ; 
For  curious  I  cannot  be  with  you, 
Signior  Baptista,  of  whom  I  hear  so  well. 

Bap.  Sir,  pardon  me  in  what  I  have  to  say : 
Your  plainness  and  your  shortness  please  me 

well. 

Right  true  it  is,  your  son  Lucentio  here 
Doth  love  my  daughter,  and  she  loveth  him, 
Or  both  dissemble  deeply  their  affections : 
And  therefore,  if  you  say  no  more  than  this, 
That  like  a  father  you  will  deal  with  him, 
And  pass  my  daughter  a  sufficient  dower, 
The  match  is  made,  and  all  is  done : 
Your  son  shall  have  my  daughter  with  consent. 

Tra.   I  thank  you,  sir.     Where,  then,  do  you 

know  best 

We  be  affied,  and  such  assurance  ta'en 
As  shall  with  either  part's  agreement  stand? 

Bap.  Not  in  my  house,  Lucentio ;  for,  you 

know, 

Pitchers  have  ears,  and  I  have  many  servants : 
Besides,  old  Gremio  is  heark'ning  still ; 
And,  haply,  we  might  be  interrupted. 

Tra.  Then  at  my  lodging,  an  it  like  you : 
There  doth  my  father  lie;  and  there,  this  night, 
We  '11  pass  the  business  privately  and  well : 
Send  for  your  daughter  by  your  servant  here ; 
My  :boy  shall  fetch  the  scrivener  presently. 
The  worst  is  this, — that,  at  so  slender  warning, 
You  are  like  to  have  a  thin  and  slender  pittance. 

Bap.   It   likes  me  well. — Cambio,  hie  you 

home, 

And  bid  Bianca  make  her  ready  straight ; 
And,  if  you  will,  tell  what  hath  happened, — 
Lucentio's  father  is  arriv'd  in  Padua, 
And  how  she  's  like  to  be  Lucentio's  wife. 

Luc.  I  pray  the  gods  she  may,  with  all  my 
heart.  [gone. 

Tra.  Dally  not  with  the  gods,  but  get  thee 
Signior  Baptista,  shall  I  lead  the  way? 
Welcome !  one  mess  is  like  to  be  your  cheer : 
Come,  sir ;  we  '11  better  it  in  Pisa. 

Bap.  I  follow  you. 

[Exeunt  TRA.,  Fed.,  and  BAP. 

Bion.  Cambio. 

Luc.  What  sayest  thou,  Biondello? 

Bion.  You  saw  my  master  wink  and  laugh 
upon  you? 

Luc.  Biondello,  what  of  that? 

Bion.  Faith,  nothing ;  but  has  left  me  here 
behind,  to  expound  the  meaning  or  moral  of 
his  signs  and  tokens. 

Luc,  I  pray  thee,  moralize  them. 


Bion.  Then  thus.  Baptista  is  safe,  talking 
with  the  deceiving  father  of  a  deceitful  son. 

Luc.  And  what  of  him? 

Bion.  His  daughter  is  to  be  brought  by  you 
to  the  supper. 

Luc.  And  then? — 

Bion.  The  old  priest  at  Saint  Luke's  church 
is  at  your  command  at  all  hours. 

Luc.  And  what  of  all  this? 

Bion.  I  cannot  tell ;  expect  they  are  busied 
about  a  counterfeit  assurance.  Take  you  assur- 
ance of  her,  cum  privilegio  ad  imprimendttm 
solum:  to  the  church; — take  the  priest,  clerk, 
and  some  sufficient  honest  witnesses : 
If  this  be  not  that  you  look  for,  I  have  no  more 

to  say, 
But  bid  Bianca  farewell  for  ever  and  a  day. 

[Going. 

Luc.   Hear'st  thou,  Biondello? 

Bion.  I  cannot  tarry:  I  knew  a  wench 
married  in  an  afternoon  as  she  went  to  the 
garden  for  parsley  to  stuff  a  rabbit ;  and  so  may 
you,  sir ;  and  so  adieu,  sir.  My  master  hath 
appointed  me  to  go  to  Saint  Luke's,  to  bid  the 
priest  be  ready  to  come  against  you  come  with 
your  appendix.  [Exit. 

Luc.  I  may,  and  will,  if  she  be  so  contented : 
She  will  be  pleas'd ;  then  wherefore  should  I 

doubt? 

Hap  what  hap  may,  I  '11  roundly  go  about  her ; 
It  shall  go  hard  if  Cambio  go  without  her. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  V.— A  public  Road. 

Enter  PETRUCHIO,  KATHARINA,  and 
HORTENSIO. 

Pet.  Come  on,  o'  God's  name;  once  more 

toward  our  father's. 

Good  Lord,  how  bright  and  goodly  shines  the 
moon !  [tight  now. 

Kath.  The  moon  !  the  sun :  it  is  not  moon- 
Pet.  I  say  it  is  the  moon  that  shines  so  bright. 
Kath.  I  know  it  is  the  sun  that  shines  so  bright. 
Pet.  Now,  by  my  mother's  son,  and  that 's 

myself, 

It  shall  be  moon,  or  star,  or  what  I  list, 
Or  ere  I  journey  to  your  father's  house. — 
Go  one,  and  fetch  our  horses  back  again. — 
Evermore  cross'd  and   cross'd;    nothing  but 

cross'c.  1 

Hor.  Say  as  he  says,  or  we  shall  never  go. 
Katk.   Forward,  I  pray,  since  we  have  come 

so  far, 

And  be  it  moon,  or  sun,  or  what  you  please : 
And  if  you  please  to  call  it  a  rush-candle, 
Henceforth  I  vow  it  shall  be  so  for  me. 


SCENE  V.] 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


339 


Pet.  I  say  it  is  the  moon. 

Kath.  I  know  it  is  the  moon. 

Pet.  Nay,  then  you  lie :  it  is  the  blessed  sun. 

Kath.  Then,   God    be    blessed,   it    is    the 

blessed  sun : 

But  sun  it  is  not,  when  you  say  it  is  not ; 
And  the  moon  changes  even  as  your  mind. 
What  you  will  have  it  nam'd,  even  that  it  is; 
And  so,  it  shall  be  so  for  Katherine. 

Hor.  Petruchio,  go  thy  ways ;  the  field  is  won. 

Pet.  Well,  forward,  forward !  thus  the  bowl 

should  run, 

And  not  unluckily  against  the  bias.  — 
But,  soft  1  company  is  coming  hert. 

Enter  VINCENTIO,  in  a  travelling  dress. 

Good-morrow,  gentle  mistress:  where  away? — • 
[  To  VINCENTIO. 

Tell  me,  sweet  Kate,  and  tell  me  truly  too, 
Hast  thou  beheld  a  fresher  gentlewoman  ? 
Such  war  of  white  and  red  within  her  cheeks ! 
What  stars  do  spangle  heaven  with  such  beauty, 
As  those  two  eyes  become  that  heavenly  face? — 
Fair  lovely  maid,  once  more  good-day  to  thee : — 
Sweet  Kate,  embrace  her  for  her  beauty's  sake. 

Hor.   'A  will  make  the  man  mad,  to  make  a 
woman  of  him. 

Kath.  Young  budding  virgin,  fair  and  fresh 

and  sweet, 

Whither  away ;  or  where  is  thy  abode? 
Happy  the  parents  of  so  fair  a  child; 
Happier  the  man  whom  favourable  stars 
Allot  thee  for  his  lovely  bed-fellow ! 

Pet.  Why,  how  now,  Kate !  I  hope  thou  art 

not  mad : 

This  is  a  man,  old,  wrinkled,  faded,  wither'd ; 
And  not  a  maiden,  as  thou  sayst  he  is. 

Kath.  Pardon,  old  father,  my  mistaking  eyes, 
That  have  been  so  bedazzled  with  the  sun, 
That  everything  I  look  on  seemeth  green : 
Now  I  perceive  thou  art  a  reverend  father ; 
Pardon,  I  pray  thee,  for  my  mad  mistaking. 

Pet.  Do,  good  old  grandsire;    and  withal 

make  known 

Which  way  thou  travel  i'st :  if  along  with  us, 
We  shall  be  joyful  of  thy  company. 

Vin.  Fair  sir,  and  you  my  merry  mistress, 
That  with  your  strange  encounter  much  amaz'd 

me, 

My  name  is  call'd  Vincentio ;  my  dwelling  Pisa ; 
A.nd  bound  I  am  to  Padua ;  there  to  visit 
A  son  of  mine,  which  long  I  have  not  seen. 

Pet.  What  is  his  name? 

Vin.  Lucentio,  gentle  sir. 

Pet.  Happily  met ;  the  happier  for  thy  son. 
And  now  by  law,  as  well  as  reverend  age, 
I  may  entitle  thee  my  loving  father : 


The  sister  to  my  wife,  this  gentlewoman, 
Thy  son  by  this  hath  married.     Wonder  not, 
Nor  be  not  griev'd :  she  is  of  good  esteem, 
Her  dowry  wealthy,  and  of  worthy  birth  j 
Beside,  so  qualified  as  may  beseem 
The  spouse  of  any  noble  gentleman. 
Let  me  embrace  with  old  Vincentio: 
And  wander  we  to  see  thy  honest  son, 
Who  will  of  thy  arrival  be  full  joyous.       [sure, 

Vin.   But  is  this  true?  or  is  it  else  your  plea- 
Like  pleasant  travellers,  to  break  a  jest 
Upon  the  company  you  overtake? 

Hor.  I  do  assure  thee,  father,  so  it  is. 

Pet.  Come,  go  along,  and  see  the  truth  hereof; 

For  our  first  merriment  hahi  made  thee  jealous. 

[Exeunt  PET.,  KATH.,  and  VIN. 

Hor.  Well,  Petruchio,  this  hath  put  me  in 

heart. 

Have  to  my  widow ;  and  if  she  be  forward, 
Then  hast  thou  taught  Hortensio  to  be  un- 
toward. [Exit. 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. —PADUA.    Before  LUCBNTIO'S 
House, 

Enter  on  one  side  BIONDELLO,  LUCENTIO,  and 
BIANCA  ;  GREMIO  walking-  on  the  other  side. 

Bion.  Softly  and  swiftly,  sir ;  for  the  priest 
is  ready. 

Luc.  I  fly,  Biondello :  but  they  may  chance 
to  need  thee  at  home,  therefore  leave  us. 

Bion.  Nay,  faith,  I  '11  see  the  church  o'  your 
back;  and  then  come  back  to  my  master  as 
soon  as  I  can. 

[Exeunt  Luc.,  BIAN.,  and  BION. 

Gre.    I  marvel  Cambio  comes  not  all  this 
while. 

Enter  PETRUCHIO,  KATHARINA,  VINCBNTIO, 
GRUMIO,  and  Attendants. 

Pet.  Sir,  here  's  the  door ;  this  is  Lucentio's 
house :  [place ; 

My  father's  bears  more  toward  the  market- 
Thither  must  I,  and  here  I  leave  you,  sir. 
Vin.  You  shall  not  choose  but  drink  before 

you  go: 

I  think  I  shall  command  your  welcome  here, 
And,  by  all  likelihood,  some  cheer  is  toward. 

[Knocks. 

Gre.  They're  busy  within;  you  were  best 
knock  louder. 

Enter  Pedant  above,  at  a  window. 

Ped.  What's  he  that  knocks  as  he  would 
beat  down  the  gate? 

Vin.  Is  Signior  Lucentio  within,  sir? 


340 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


Fed.  He 's  within,  sir,  but  not  to  be  spoken 
withal. 

Vin.  What  if  a  man  bring  him  a  hundred 
pound  or  two,  to  make  merry  withal? 

Ped.  Keep  your  hundred  pounds  to  yourself: 
he  shall  need  none  so  long  as  I  live. 

Pet.  Nay,  I  told  you  your  son  was  well  be- 
loved in  Padua. — Do  you  hear,  sir? — to  leave 
frivolous  circumstances, — I  pray  you,  tell  Sig- 
nior  Lucentio  that  his  father  is  come  from  Pisa, 
and  is  here  at  the  door  to  speak  with  him. 

Ped.  Thou  liest :  his  father  is  come  from 
Pisa,  and  here  looking  out  at  the  window. 

Vin.  Art  thou  his  father? 

Ped.  Ay,  sir;  so  his  mother  says,  if  I  may 
believe  her. 

Pet.  Why, hownovv, gentleman!  OViNCEN.] 
why,  this  is  flat  knavery,   to  take  upon  you  | 
another  man's  name. 

Ped.  Lay  hands  on  the  villain :  I  believe  'a 
means  to  cozen  somebody  in  this  city  under  my 
countenance. 

Re-enter  BlONDELLO. 

Bion.  I  have  seen  them  in  the  church  to- 
gether: God  send  'em  good  shipping ! — But  who 
is  here?  mine  old  master,  Vincentio!  now  we 
are  undone,  and  brought  to  nothing. 

Vin.  Come  hither,  crack-hemp. 

[Seeing  BlONDELLO. 

Bion.  I  hope  I  may  choose,  sir. 

Vin.  Come  hither,  you  rogue.  What !  have 
you  forgot  me? 

Bion.  Forgot  you !  no,  sir :  I  could  not  for- 
get you,  for  I  never  saw  you  before  in  all  my 
life. 

Vin.  What,  you  notorious  villain,  didst  thou 
never  see  thy  master's  father,  Vincentio? 

Bion.  What,  my  old  worshipful  old  master? 
yes,  marry,  sir:  see  where  he  looks  out  of  the 
window. 

Vin.  Is 't  so,  indeed?      [Seals  BIONDELLO. 

Bion.  Help,  help,  help !  here 's  a  madman 
will  murder  me.  [Exit. 

Ped.  Help,  son!  help,  Signior  Baptista! 

[Exit  from  the  window. 

Pet.  Pr'ythee,  Kate,  let 's  stand  aside,  and  see 
the  end  of  this  controversy.  [  They  retire. 

Re-enter  Pedant  below;  and  BAPTISTA, 
TRANIO,  and  Servants. 

Tra.  Sir,  what  are  you,  that  offer  to  beat  my 
servant? 

Vin.  What  am  I,  sir!  nay,  what  are  you, 
sir? — O  immortal  gods!  O  fine  villain!  A  silken 
doublet !  a  velvet  hose !  a  scarlet  cloak !  and  a 
copatain  hat  1— -O,  I  am  undone  1  I  am  undone! 


while  I  play  the  good  husband  at  home,  my  son 
and  my  servant  spend  all  at  the  university. 

Tra.  How  now!  what 's  the  matter? 

Bap.  What,  is  the  man  lunatic? 

Tra.  Sir,  you  seem  a  sober  ancient  gentleman 
by  your  habit,  but  your  words  show  you  a  mad- 
man. Why,  sir,  what  concerns  it  you  if  I  wear 
pearl  and  gold?  I  thank  my  good  father,  I  am 
able  to  maintain  it. 

Vin.  Thy  father  !  O  villain !  he  is  a  sail- 
maker  in  Bergamo. 

Bap.  You  mistake,  sir ;  you  mistake,  sir. 
Pray,  what  do  you  think  is  his  name? 

Vin.  His  name !  as  if  I  knew  not  his  name ! 
I  have  brought  him  up  ever  since  he  was  three 
years  old,  and  his  name  is  Tranio. 

Ped.  Away,  away,  madass!  his  name  is  Lucen- 
tio; and  he  is  mine  only  son,  and  heir  to  the 
lands  of  me,  Signior  Vincentio. 

Vin.  Lucentio !  O,  he  hath  murdered  his 
master ! — Lay  hold  on  him,  I  charge  you,  in  the 
duke's  name. — O,  my  son,  my  son! — tell  me, 
thou  villain,  where  is  my  son,  Lucentio? 

Tra.  Call  forth  an  officer. 

Enter  one  with  an  Officer. 

Carry  this  mad  knave  to  the  gaoi. — Father 
Baptista,  I  charge  you  see  that  he  be  forthcoming. 

Vin.   Carry  me  to  the  gaol ! 

Gre.   Stay,  officer ;  he  shall  not  go  to  prison. 

Bap.  Talk  not,  Signior  Gremio ;  I  say  he 
shall  go  to  prison. 

Gre.  Take  heed,  Signior  Baptista,  lest  you 
be  coney-catched  in  this  business :  I  dare  swear 
this  is  the  right  Vincentio. 

Ped.  Swear,  if  thou  darest. 

Gre.  Nay,  I  dare  not  swear  it.       [Lucentio. 

Tra.  Then  thou  wert  best  say  that  I  am  not 

Gre.  Yes,  I  know  thee  to  be  Signior  Lucentio. 

Bap.  Away  with  the  dotard !  to  the  gaol  with 
him  ! 

Vin.  Thus  strangers  may  be  haled  and 
abus'd. — O  monstrous  villain  ! 

Re-enter  BIONDELLO,  with  LUCENTIO  and 
BIANCA. 

Bion.  O,  we  are  spoiled  !  and  yonder  he  is : 
deny  him,  forswear  him,  or  else  we  are  all  un- 
done. 

Luc.   Pardon,  sweet  father.  [Kneeling. 

Vin.  Lives  my  sweet  son  ? 

[BiON.,  TRA.,  and  PED.  run  out. 

Bian.  Pardon,  dear  father.  [Kneeling. 

Bap.  How  hast  thou  offended? — 

Where  is  Lucentio?  .-._.. 

Luc.  Here  's  Lucentio, 

Right  son  to  the  right  Vincentio  ; 


SCENE  II.j 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


341 


That  hath  by  marriage  made  thy  daughter  mine, 
While  counterfeit  supposes  blear'd  thine  eyne. 

Gre.  Here 's  packing,  with  a  witness,  to  de- 
ceive us  all ! 

Vin.  Where  is  that  damned  villain,  Tranio, 
That  fac'd  and  brav'd  me  in  this  matter  so? 

Bap.  Why,  tell  me,  is  not  this  my  Cambio? 

Bian.  Cambio  is  chang'd  into  Lucentio. 

Luc.  Love  wrought  these  miracles.    Bianca's 

love 

Made  me  exchange  my  state  with  Tranio, 
While  he  did  bear  my  countenance  in  the  town ; 
And  happily  I  have  arrived  at  the  last 
Unto  the  wished-for  haven  of  my  bliss. 
What  Tranio  did,  myself  enforced  him  to ; 
Then  pardon  him,  sweet  father,  for  my  sake. 

Vin.  I  '11  slit  the  villain's  nose,  that  would 
have  sent  me  to  the  gaol. 

Bap.  But  do  you  hear,  sir?  [to  LUCENTIO] 
Have  you  married  my  daughter  without  asking 
my  good-will?  [go  to: 

Vin.  Fear  not,  Baptista ;  we  will  content  you, 
But  I  will  in,  to  be  revenged  for  this  villany ! 

[Exit. 

Bap.  And  I,  to  sound  the  depth  of  this  knavery. 

[Exit. 

Luc.   Look  not  pale,  Bianca :  thy  father  will 
not  frown.     [Exeunt  Luc.  and  BIAN. 

Gre.   My  cake  is  dough :  but  I  '11  in  among 

the  rest ; 
Out  of  hope  of  all  but  my  share  of  the  feast. 

[Exit. 

•9"HtjU/->'~; !" "  ;  '   '  '•'»"!  TSflJMaViO'^  ij  •  y^f {' i      ,rv^\ 

PETKUCHIO  and  KATHARINA  advance. 

Kath.  Husband,  let 's  follow,  to  see  the  end 

of  this  ado. 

Pet.  First  kiss  me,  Kate,  and  we  will. 
Kath.  What,  in  the  midst  of  the  street? 
Pet.  WThat,  art  thou  ashamed  of  me?     [kiss. 
Kath.  No,  sir ;  God  forbid ;  but  ashamed  to 
Pet.  Why,  then,  let's  home  again. — Come, 

sirrah,  let 's  away. 
Kath.  Nay,  I  will  give  thee  a  kiss :  now,  pray 

thee,  love,  stay. 

Pet.  Is  not  this  well  ? — Come,  my  sweet  Kate; 
Better  once  than  never,  for  never  too  late. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  LUCENTIO'S  House. 

.7  Banquet  set  out.  Enter  BAPTISTA,  VlN- 
CENTIO,  GREMIO,  the  Pedant,  LUCENTIO, 
BIANCA,  PETRUCHIO,  KATHARINA,  HOR- 
TENSIO,  and  Widow.  TRANIO,  BION- 
DELLO,  GRUMIO,  and  others >  attending. 

Luc.  At  last,  though  long,  our  jarring  notes 
agree: 


And  time  it  is,  when  raging  war  is  done, 
To  smile  at  'scapes  and  perils  overblown.— 
My  fair  Bianca,  bid  my  father  welcome, 
While  I  with  self-same  kindness  welcome  thine.  — 
Brother  Petruchio, — sister  Katharina, — 
And  thou,  Hortensio,  with  thy  loving  widow, — 
Feast  with  the  best,  and  welcome  to  my  house : 
My  banquet  is  to  close  our  stomachs  up, 
After  our  great  good  cheer.    Pray  you,  sit  down ; 
For  now  we  sit  to  chat,  as  well  as  eat. 

[They  sit  at  table. 

Pet.  Nothing  but  sit  and  sit,  and  eat  and  eat ! 
Bap.   Padua  affords  this  kindness,  son  Pet- 
ruchio. 

Pet.  Padua  affords  nothing  but  what  is  kind. 
Hor.   For  both  our  sakcs  I  would  that  word 

wervi  true. 
Pet.  Now,  for  my  life,  Hortensio  fears  his 

widow. 

IVid.  Then  never  trust  me  if  I  be  afeard. 
Pet.  You  are  very  sensible,  and  yet  you  miss 

my  sense : 

I  mean  Hortensio  is  afeard  of  you.  [round. 
IVid.  He  that  is  giddy  thinks  the  world  turns 
Pet.  Roundly  replied. 

Kath.  Mistress,  how  mean  you  that? 

IVid.  Thus  I  conceive  by  him.  [that? 

Pet.  Conceives  by  me  !— How  likes  Hortensio 
Hor.  My  widow  says  thus  she  conceives  her 

tale. 
Pet.  Very  well  mended.— Kiss  him  for  that, 

good  widow. 
Kath.  He   that   is  giddy  thinks   the   world 

turns  round : — 

I  pray  you,  tell  me  what  you  meant  by  that. 
Wid.  Your  husband,  being  troubled  with  a 

shrew, 

Measures  my  husband's  sorrow  by  his  woe : 
And  now  you  know  my  meaning. 
Kath.  A  very  mean  meaning. 
Wid.  Right,  I  mean  you. 

Kath.  And  I  am  mean,  indeed,  respecting  you. 
Pet.  To  her,  Kate ! 

Hor.  To  her,  widow  !  [down. 

Pet.  A  hundred  marks,  my  Kale  does  put  her 
Hor.  That 's  my  office. 

Pet.  Spoke  like  an  officer : — ha'  to  thee,  lad. 

[Drinks  to  HORTENSIO. 

Bap.  How  likes  Gremio  these  quick-witted 

folks? 

Gre.  Believe  me,  sir,  they  butt  together  well. 

Bian.  Head  and  butt !  an  hasty-witted  body 

Would  say  your  head  and  butt  were  head  ami 

horn.  [you  ? 

Vin.  Ay,  mistress  bride,  !>ath  that  awaken'd 

Bian.  Ay,  but  not  frighted  me;   therefore 

I  '11  sleep  again. 


342 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


[ACT  V. 


Pet,  Nay,  that  you  shall  not :  since  you  have 

begun, 
Have  at  you  for  a  bitter  jest  or  two.         [bush, 

Bian.  Am  I  your  bird?  I  mean  to  shift  my 
And  then  pursue  me  as  you  draw  your  bow. — 
.  You  are  welcome  all. 

[Exeunt  BIAN.,  KATH.,  and  WID. 

Pet.  She  hath  prevented  me. — Here,  Signior 

Tranio, 

This  bird  you  aim'd  at,  though  you  hit  her  not ; 
Therefore  a  health  to  all  that  shot  and  miss'd. 

Tra.   O,  sir,  Lucentio  slipp'd  me  like  his 

greyhound, 
Which  runs  himself,  and  catches  for  his  master. 

Pet.  A  good   swift    simile,   but  something 
currish.  [self; 

Tra.  'Tis  well,  sir,  that  you  hunted  for  your- 
'Tis  thought  your  deer  does  hold  you  at  a  bay. 

Bap.  O  ho,  Petruchio,  Tranio  hits  you  now. 

IMC.  I  thank  thee  for  that  gird,  good  Tranio. 

Hor.  Confess,  confess,  hath  he  not  hit  you 
here? 

Pet.  'A  has  a  little  gall'd  me,  I  confess; 
And,  as  the  jest  did  glance  away  from  me, 
;Tis  ten  to  one  it  maim'd  you  two  outright. 

Bap.  Now,  in  good  sadness,  son  Petruchio, 
I  think  thou  hast  the  veriest  shrew  of  all. 

Pet.  Well,  I  say  no :  and  therefore,  for  assur- 
ance, 

Let 's  each  one  send  unto  his  wife ; 
And  he  whose  wife  is  most  obedient 
To  come  at  first  when  he  doth  send  for  her, 
Shall  win  the  wager  which  we  will  propose. 

Hor.  Content.     What  is  the  wager? 

Luc.  ,<f  jnse  Twenty  crowns. 

Pet.  Twenty  crowns ! 

I  '11  venture  so  much  on  my  hawk  or  hound, 
But  twenty  times  so  much  upon  my  wife. 

Luc.  A  hundred  then. 

Hor.  Content. 

Pet.  A  match !  'tis  done. 

Hor.  Who  shall  begin? 

Luc.  That  will  I. — 
Go,  Biondello,  bid  your  mistress  come  to  me. 

Bion.  I  go.  [Exit. 

Bap.  Son,  I  will  be  your  half,  Bianca  comes. 

Luc.  I  '11  have  no  halves ;  I  '11  bear  it  all  my- 
self. 

Re-enter  BIONDELLO. 

How  now !  what  news? 

Bion.  Sir,  my  mistress  sends  you  word 

That  she  is  busy,  and  she  cannot  come. 

Pet.  How !  she  is  busy,  and  she  cannot  come ! 
Is  that  an  answer? 

Gre.  Ay,  and  a  kind  one  too : 

Pray  God,  sir,  your  wife  send  you  not  a  worse. 


Pet.   I  hope  better. 

Hor.  Sirrah  Biondello,  go  and  entreat  my 

wife 
To  come  to  me  forthwith.    [Exit  BIONDELLO. 

Pet.  Oh,  ho !  entreat  her  ! 

Nay,  then  she  must  needs  come. 

Hor.  I  am  afraid,  sir, 

Do  what  you  can,  yours  will  not  be  entreated. 

Re-enter  BIONDELLO. 

Now,  where '2  my  wife? 

Bion.  She  says  you  have  some  goodly  jest  in 

hand  : 

She  will  not  come;  she  bids  you  come  to  her. 
Pet.  Worse  and  worse ;  she  will  not  come ! 

O  vile, 

Intolerable,  not  to  be  endur'd ! — 
Sirrah  Grumio,  go  to  your  mistress ; 
Say  I  command  her  come  to  me. 

[Exit  GRUMIO. 
Hor.  I  know  her  answer. 
Pet.  What?- 

Hor.  She  will  not  come. 

Pet,  The  fouler  fortune  mine,  and  there  an 

end. 

Bap.  Now,   by  my  holidame,  here   comes 
Katharina ! 

Enter  KATHARINA. 

Kath.  What  is  your  will,  sir,  that  you  send  for 
me?  [wife? 

Pet.  Where  is  your  sister,  and  Hortensio's 
Kath.  They  sit  conferring  by  the  parlour  fire. 
Pet.  Go,  fetch  them  hither:  if  they  deny  to 

come, 

Swinge  me  them  soundly  forth  unto  their  hus- 
bands : 
Away,  I  say,  and  bring  them  hither  straight. 

[Exit  KATHARINA. 
Lttc.  Here  is  a  wonder,  if  you  talk  of  a 

wonder. 

Hor.  And  so  it  is :  I  wonder  what  it  bodes. 
Pet.  Marry  3  peace  it  bodes,  and  love,  and 

quiet  life, 

An  awful  rule,  and  right  supremacy ;     [happy. 
And,  to  be  short,  what  not,  that's  sweet  and 

Bap.  Now  fair  befall  thee,  good  Petruchio ! 
The  wager  thou  hast  won;  and  I  will  add 
Unto  their  losses  twenty  thousand  crowns; 
Another  dowry  to  another  daughter, 
For  she  is  chang'd,  as  she  had  never  been. 

Pet.   Nay,  i  will  win  my  wager  better  yet  j 
And  show  more  sign  of  her  obedience, 
Her  new-built  virtue  and  obedience. 
See  where  she  comes,  and  brings  your  froward 

wives 
As  prisoners  to  her  womanly  persuasion. — 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW, 


343 


Re-enter  KATHARINA,    with  BIANCA  and 
Widow. 

Katharine,  that  cap  of  yours  becomes  you  not  : 
Off  with  that  bauble,  throw  it  underfoot. 
[KATH.  pulls  off  her  cap  and  throws  it  down. 

Wid.  Lord,  let  me  never  have  a  cause  to  sigh, 
Till  I  be  brought  to  such  a  silly  pass  ! 

Bian.  Fit  !  what  a  foolish  duty  call  you  this? 

Luc.  I  would  your  duty  were  as  foolish  too  : 
The  wisdom  of  your  duty,  fair  Bianca,  [time. 
Hath  cost  me  an  hundred  crowns  since  supper- 

Bian.  The  more  fool  you,  for  laying  on  my 
duty. 

Pet.  Katharine,    I   charge  thee,   tell  these 

headstrong  women 
What  duty  they  do  owt  their  lords  and  husbands. 

Wid.  Come,  come,  you  're  mocking  :  we  will 
have  no  telling.  [her. 

Pet.  Come  on,  I  say  ;  and  first  begin  with 

Wid.  She  shall  not.  [her. 

Pet.  I  say  she  shall;  —  and  first  begin  with 

Kath.  Fie,  fie  !  unknit  that  threat'ning  un- 

kind brow  ; 

And  dart  not  scornful  glances  from  those  eyes, 
To  wound  thy  lord,  thy  king,  thy  governor  : 
It  blots  thy  beauty,  as  frosts  do  bite  the  meads  ; 
Confounds  thy  fame,  as  whirlwinds  shake  fair 

buds; 

And  in  no  sense  is  meet  or  amiable. 
A  woman  mov'd  is  like  a  fountain  troubled  — 
Muddy,  ill-seeming,  thick,  bereft  of  beauty; 
And  while  it  is  so,  none  so  dry  cr  thirsty 
Will  deign  to  sip  or  touch  one  drop  of  it. 
Thy  husband  is  thy  lord,  thy  life,  thy  keeper, 
Thy  head,  thy  sovereign  ;  one  that  cares  for  thee 
And  for  thy  maintenance  ;  commits  his  body 
To  painful  labour  both  by  sea  and  land, 
To  watch  the  night  in  storms,  the  day  in  cold, 
Whilst  thou  liest  warm  at  home,  secure  and  safe  ; 
And  craves  no  other  tribute  at  thy  hands 
But  love,  fair  looks,  and  true  obedience,  — 
Too  little  payment  for  so  great  a  debt  I 


Such  duty  as  the  subject  owes  the  prince, 
Even  such  a  womai  cweth  to  her  husband  ; 
And  when  she  is  froward,  peevish,  sullen,  sour, 
And  not  obedient  to  his  honest  will, 
What  is  she  but  a  foul  contending  rebel, 
And  graceless  traitor  to  her  Icving  lord?  — 
I  am  asham'd  that  women  are  so  simple 
To  offer  war  where  they  should  kneel  for  peace, 
Or  seek  for  rule,  supremacy,  and  sway, 
When  they  are  bound  to  serve,  love,  and  obey. 
Why  are  our  bodies  soft  and  weak,  and  smooth, 
Unapt  to  toil  and  trouble  in  the  world, 
But  that  our  soft  conditions  and  our  hearts 
Should  well  agree  with  our  external  parts? 
Come,  come,  you  froward  and  unable  worms  ! 
My  mind  hath  been  as  big  as  one  of  yours, 
My  heart  as  great  ;  my  reason,  haply,  more, 
To  bandy  word  for  word  and  frown  for  frown  : 
But  now  I  see  our  lances  are  but  straws  ; 
Our  strength  as  weak,  our  weakness  past  com- 

pare,— [are. 

That  seeming  to  be  most,  which  we  indeed  least 
Then  vail  your  stomachs,  for  it  is  no  boot, 
And  place  your  hands  below  your  husband's 

foot: 

In  token  of  which  duty,  if  he  please, 
My  hand  is  ready,  may  it  do  him  ease. 
Pet.  Why,  there  's  a  wench  !  —  Come  on,  and 

kiss  me,  Kate.  [shall  ha  't 

Luc.  Well,  go  thy  ways,  old  lad  ;  for  thou 
Vin.  'Tis  a  good  hearing  when  children  are 

toward.  [froward. 

Luc*  Bui  a  harsh  hearing  when  women  are 
Pet.  Come,  Kate,  we'll  to  bed.— 
We  three  are  married,  but  you  two  are  sped. 
'Twas  I  won  the  wager,  though  you  hit  the 

white  ;  [  To  LUCENTIO. 

And,  being  a  winner,  God  give  you  good-night! 

\Exeunt  PET.  and  KATH. 

Hor.   Now  go  thy  ways  ;  thou  hast  tam'd  a 

curst  shrew. 


Luc.   'Tis  a  wonder,  by  your  leave,  she  will 

be  tam'd  so. 
•rw   *di    €»voTtoo  m 


•_« 


f  Exeunt. 

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ar  31 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


LEONTES,  KingofSicilia. 
M  \MILLI  us,  his  Soft. 
CAMILLO,        \ 

DION, 

Other  Sicilian  Lords. 

Sicilian  Gentlemen. 

Officers  of  a  Court  of Jud^cat^tre. 

POLIXENES,  King  of  Bohemia. 

FLORIZEL,  his  Son. 

ARCHIDAMUS,  a  Bohemian  Lord. 

A  Mariner. 

Gaoler. 

An  Old  Shepherd,  reputed  father  of  TERDITA. 

Clown,  his  Son. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

Servant  to  the  Old  Sliepherd. 
Time,  as 


\&L  .*««& 
I  .^*^. 
mobeiw  sriT 
:  om  *8frjl4ii0f 

HERMIONE,  Queen  to  LEONTES 
PERDITA,  Daughter  to  LEONTES  and  HER- 
MIONE. 

PAULINA,  Wife  to  ANTIGONUS. 
EMILIA,  a  Lady,  \aUenditlg  the  QuEEN. 
Other  Ladies,        / 

MOPSA,     \shetherdesses. 
DORCAS,  / 

Lords,  Ladies,  and  Attendants;  Satyrs /<?/  a 
Dance;  Shepherds,  Shepherdesses,  Guards, 
&c. 


SCENE, — Sometimes  in  SICILIA;  sometimes  in  BOHEMIA. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I. — SICILIA.     An  Antechamber  in 
LEONTES'  Palace. 

Enter  CAMILLO  and  ARCHIDAMUS. 

Arch.  If  you  shall  chance,  Camillo,  to  visit 
Bohemia,  on  the  like  occasion  whereon  my 
services  are  now  on  foot,  you  shall  see,  as  I 
have  said,  great  difference  betwixt  our  Bohemia 
and  your  Sicilia. 

Cam.  I  think  this  coming  summer  the  King 
of  Sicilia  means  to  pay  Bohemia  the  visitation 
which  he  justly  owes  him. 

Arch.  Wherein  our  entertainment  shall  shame 
us  we  will  be  justified  in  our  loves;  for,  in- 
deed,— 

Cam.  Beseech  you, — 

Arch.  Verily,  I  speak  it  in  the  freedom  of 
my  knowledge :  we  cannot  with  such  magnifi- 
cence— in  so  rare— I  know  not  what  to  say. — 
We  will  give  you  sleepy  drinks,  that  your 
senses,  unintelligent  of  our  insufficience,  may, 
though  they  cannot  praise  us,  as  little  accuse  us. 

Cam.  You  pay  a  great  deal  too  dear  for 
what 's  given  freely. 

Arch.  Believe  me,  I  speak  as  my  under- 
standing instructs  me,  and  as  mine  honesty 
puts  it  to  utterance. 


aiold  jl 


;;/ 

Cam.  Sicilia  cannot  show  himself  overkind 
to  Bohemia.  They  were  trained  together  in 
their  childhoods  ;  and  there  rooted  betwixt  them 
then  such  an  affection  which  cannot  choose  but 
branch  now.  Since  their  more  mature  dignities 
and  royal  necessities  made  separation  of  their 
society,  their  encounters,  though  not  personal, 
have  been  royally  attorney  ed,  with  interchange 
of  gifts,  letters,  loving  embassies;  that  they 
have  seemed  to  be  together,  though  absent; 
shook  hands,  as  over  a  vast  ;  and  embraced,  as 
it  were,  from  the  ends  of  opposed  winds.  The 
heavens  continue  their  loves  ! 

Arch.  I  think  there  is  not  in  the  world  either 
malice  or  matter  to  alter  it.  You  have  an 
unspeakable  comfort  of  your  young  Prince 
Mamillius:  it  is  a  gentleman  of  the  greatest 
promise  that  ever  came  into  my  note. 

Cam.  I  very  well  agree  with  you  in  the  hopes 
of  him.  It  is  a  gallant  child  ;  one  that,  indeed, 
physics  the  subject,  makes  old  hearts  fresh: 
they  that  went  on  crutches  ere  he  was  born 
desire  yet  their  life  to  see  him  a  man. 

Arch.  Would  they  else  be  content  to  die? 

Cam.  Yes;  if  there  were  no  other  excuse 
why  they  should  desire  to  live. 

Arch.  If  the  king  had  no  son  they  would 
desire  to  live  on  crutches  till  he  had  one. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


345 


SCENE  II.  —  7^he  same,     A  Room  of  State  in 
the  Palace. 

Enter   LEONTES,    POLIXENES,    HERMIONE, 
MAMILLIUS,  CAMILLO,  and  Attendants. 

Pol.  Nine  changes  of  the  watery  star  have 
been  [throne 

The  shepherd's  note  since  we  have  left  our 
Without  a  burden :  time  as  long  again 
Would  be  fill'd  up,  my  brother,  with  our  thanks ; 
And  yet  we  should,  for  perpetuity, 
Go  hence  in  debt :  and  therefore,  like  a  cipher, 
Yet  standing  in  rich  place,  I  multiply 
With  one  we-thank-you  many  thousands  more 
That  go  before  it. 

Leon.  Stay  your  thanks  awhile, 

And  pay  them  when  you  part. 

Pol.  Sir,  that 's  to-morrow. 

I  am  question'd  by  my  fears,  of  what  may  chance 
Or  breed  upon  our  absence ;  that  may  blow 
No  sneaping  winds  at  nome,  to  make  us  say, 
This  is  put  forth  too  trtily.     Besides,  I  have 

stayed 
To  tire  your  royalty. 

Leon.  We  are  tougher,  brother, 

Than  you  can  put  us  to  3t. 

Pol.  No  longer  stay. 

Leon.  One  seven-night  longer. 

Pol.  Very  sooth,  to-morrow. 

Leon.  We  '11  part  the  time  between 's  then : 

and  in  that 
I  '11  no  gainsaying. 

Pol.  Press  me  not,  beseech  you,  so. 

There  is  no  tongue  that  moves,  none,  none  i' 
the  world  [now, 

So  soon  as  yours,  could  win  me :  so  it  should 
Were  there  necessity  in  your  request,  although 
'Twere  needful  I  denied  it.     My  affairs 
Do  even  drag  me  homeward :  which  to  hinder, 
Were,  in  your  love,  a  whip  to  me ;  my  stay, 
To  you  a  charge  and  trouble :  to  save  both, 
Farewell,  our  brother. 

Leon.  Tongue-tied,  our  queen?    Speak  you. 

Her.   I  had  thought,  sir,  to  have  held  my 

peace  until 
You  had  drawn  oaths  from  him  not  to  stay. 

You,  sir, 

Charge  him  too  coldly.     Tell  him,  you  are  sure 
All  in  Bohemia  's  well :  this  satisfaction 
The  by -gone  day  proclaimed :  say  this  to  him, 
He 's  beat  from  his  best  ward. 

Leon.  Well  said,  Hermione. 

Her.  To  tell  he  longs  to  see  his  son,  were 

strong: 

But  let  him  say  so  then,  and  let  him  go; 
But  let  him  swear  so,  and  he  shall  not  stay, 


We  '11  thwack  him  hence  with  distaffs. — 

Yet  of  your  royal  presence  \to  POLIXENES]  I  '11 

adventure 

The  borrow  of  a  week.     When  at  Bohemia 
You  take  my  lord,  I  '11  give  him  my  commission 
To  let  him  there  a  month  behind  the  gest 
Prefix'd  for  his  parting: — yet,good  deed,  Leontes, 
I  love  thee  not  a  jar  of  the  clock  behind 
What  lady  she  her  lord.— You'll  stay? 

Pol.  No,  madam. 

Her.  Nay,  but  you  will? 

Pol.  I  may  not,  verily. 

Her.  Verily! 

You  put  me  off  with  limber  vows;  but  I, 
Though  you  would  seek  to  unsphere  the  stars 

with  oaths, 

Should  yet  say,  Sir,  no  going.     Verily, 
You  shall  not  go ;  a  lady's  verily  is 
As  potent  as  a  lord's.     Will  you  go  yet? 
Force  me  to  keep  you  as  a  prisoner, 
Not  like  a  guest :  so  you  shall  pay  your  fees 
When  you  depart,  and  save  your  thanks.     How 

say  you? 

My  prisoner  or  my  guest  ?  by  your  dread  verily, 
One  of  them  you  shall  be. 

Pol.  Your  guest,  then,  madam: 

To  be  your  prisoner  should  import  offending ; 
Which  is  for  me  less  easy  to  commit 
Than  you  to  punish. 

Her.  Not  your  gaoler,  then, 

But  your  kind  hostess.     Come,  I  '11  questicn 
you  [boys: 

Of  my  lord's  tricks  and  yours  when  you  were 
You  were  pretty  lordlings  then. 

Pol.  We  were,  fair  queen, 

Two  lads  that  thought  there  were  no  more  behind 
But  such  a  day  to-morrow  as  to-day, 
And  to  be  boy  eternal.  [two? 

Her.  Was  not  my  lord  the  verier  wag  o'  the 

Pol.  We  were   as   twinn'd  lambs  that   did 

frisk  i'  the  sun 
And  bleat  the  one  at  the  other.      What  we 

chang'd 

Was  innocence  for  innocence ;  we  knew  not 
The  doctrine  of  ill-doing,  nor  dream'd 
That  any  did.     Had  we  pursu'd  that  life, 
And  our  weak  spirits  ne'er  been  higher  rear'd 
With  stronger  blood,  we  should  have  answer'd 

heaven 

Boldly,  Not  guilty ;  the  imposition  clear'd 
Hereditary  ours. 

Her.  By  this  we  gather 

You  have  tripp'd  since. 

Pol.  O  my  most  sacred  lady, 

Temptations  have  since  then  been  born  to  'sJ 

for 
In  those  unfledg'd  days  was  my  wife  a  girl ; 


346 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


[ACT  i. 


Your  precious  self  had  then  not  cross'd  the  eye s 
Of  my  young  play-fellow. 

Her.  Grace  to  boot ! 

Of  this  make  no  conclusion,  lest  you  say 
Your  queen  and  I  are  devils  :  yet,  go  on  ; 
The  offences  we  have  made  you  do  we  '11  answer ; 
If  you  first  sinn'd  with  us,  and  that  with  us 
You  did  continue  fault,  and  that  you  slipp'd  not 
With  any  but  with  us. 

Leon.  Is  he  won  yet  ? 

Her.  He  '11  stay,  my  lord. 

Leon.  At  my  request  he  would  not. 

Hermione,  my  dearest,  thou  never  spok'st 
To  better  purpose. 

Her.  Never? 

Leon.  Never  but  once. 

Her.  What !  have  I  twice  said  well  ?  when 

was 't  before?  [make's 

I  pr'ythee,  tell  me :  cram 's  with  praise,  and 

As  fat  as  tame  things :  one  good  deed  dying 

tongueless 

Slaughters  a  thousand  waiting  upon  that. 
Our  praises  are  our  wages  :  you  may  ride 's 
With  one  soft  kiss  a  thousand  furlongs  ere 
With  spur  we  heat  an  acre.     But  to  the  goal : — 
My  last  good  deed  was  to  entreat  his  stay  ; 
What  was  my  first  ?  it  has  an  elder  sister, 
Or  I  mistake  you  :  O,  would  her  name  were 

Grace  ! 

But  once  before  I  spoke  to  the  purpose  :  when? 
Nay,  let  me  have 't ;  I  long. 

Leon.  Why,  that  was  when 

Three  crabbed  months  had  sour'd  themselves 

to  death, 

Ere  I  could  make  thee  open  thy  white  hand, 
And  clap  thyself  my  love  ;  then  didst  thou  utter 
/  am  yours  for  ever. 

Her.  It  is  Grace  indeed. — 

Why,  lo  you  now,  I  have  spoke  to  the  purpose 

twice  ; 

The  one  for  ever  earn'd  a  royal  husband  ; 
The  other  for  some  while  a  friend. 

[Giving  her  hand  to  PoLIkisNES. 

Leon.  Too  hot,  too  hot !  [Aside. 

To  mingle  friendship  far  is  mingling  bloods. 
I  have  tremor  cordis  on  me, — my  heart  dances ; 
But  not  for  joy, — not  joy. — This  entertainment 
May  a  free  face  put  on ;  derive  a  liberty 
From  heartiness,  from  bounty,  fertile  bosom, 
And  well  become  the  agent :  't  may,  I  grant : 
But  to  be  paddling  palms  and  pinching  fingers, 
As  now  they  are ;  and  making  practis'd  smiles, 
As  in  a  looking-glass ;  and  then  to  sigh,  as  'twere 
The  mort  o*  the  deer ;  O,  that  is  entertainment 
My  bosom  likes  not,  nor  my  brows,-— Mamillius, 


Art  thou  my  boy? 
n/r 


Mam. 


Ay,  my  good  lord 


Leon.  I'  fecks ! 

Why,  that 's  my  bawcock.    What !  hast  smutch'd 

thy  nose  ? — 
They  say  it's  a  copy  out  of  mine.     Come, 

captain, 
We   must  be   neat; — not  neat,   but  cleanly, 

captain : 

And  yet  the  steer,  the  heifer,  and  the  calf, 
Are  all  call'd  neat. — Still  virginalling 

[Observing  POL.  and  HER. 
Upon  his  palm  ? — How  now,  you  wanton  calf ! 
Art  thou  my  calf? 

Mam.  Yes,  if  you  will,  my  lord. 

Leon.  Thou  want'st  a  rough  pash,  and  the 

shoots  that  I  have, 

To  be  full  like  me  : — yet  they  say  we  are 
Almost  as  like  as  eggs  ;  women  say  so, 
That  will  say  anything  :  but  were  they  false 
As  o'erdyed  blacks,  as  wind,  as  waters, — false 
As  dice  are  to  be  wish'd  by  one  that  fixes 
No  bourn  'twixt  his  and  mine  ;  yet  were  it  true 
To  say  this  boy  were  like  me. — Come,  sir  page, 
Look  on  me  with  your  welkin-eye :  sweet  villain  J 
Most  dear'st !  my  collop  ! — Can  thy  dam  ? — 

may 't  be  ? 

Affection  !  thy  intention  stabs  the  centre  : 
Thou  dost  make  possible  things  not  so  held, 
Communicat'st   with  dreams ; — how  can   this 

be?— 

With  what 's  unreal  thou  co-active  art, 
And  fellow'st  nothing  :  then  'tis  very  credent 
Thou  mayst  co-join  with  something ;  and  thou 

dost, — 

And  that  beyond  commission  ;  and  I  find  it, — 
And  that  to  the  infection  of  my  brains 
And  hardening  of  my  brows. 

Pol.  What  means  Sicilia  ? 

Her.  He  something  seems  unsettled. 
Pol.  How  !  my  lord  ! 

What  cheer  !  how  is 't  with  you,  best  brother  ? 
Her.  You  look 

As  if  you  held  a  brow  of  much  distraction  : 
Are  you  mov'd,  my  lord  ? 

Leon.  No,  in  good  earnest. — 

How  sometimes  nature  will  betray  its  folly, 
Its  tenderness,  and  make  itself  a  pastime 
To  harder  bosoms  !     Looking  on  the  lines 
Of  my  boy's  face,  methoughts  I  did  recoil 
Twenty-three  years ;  and  saw  myself  unbreech'd, 
In  my  green  velvet  coat ;  my  dagger  muzzled, 
Lest  it  should  bite  its  master,  and  so  prove, 
As  ornaments  oft  do,  too  dangerous. 
How  like,  methought,  I  then  was  to  this  kernel, 
This    quash,    this   gentleman. — Mine    honest 

friend, 

Will  you  take  eggs  for  money  ? 
Mam.  No,  my  lord,  I  '11  fight. 


SCENE  II,  J 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


347 


Leon.  You  will?  why,  happy  man  be 's  dole! 

— My  brother, 

Are  you  so  fond  of  your  young  prince  as  we 
Do  seem  to  be  of  ours  ? 

Pol.  If  at  home,  sir, 

He 's  all  my  exercise,  my  mirth,  my  matter : 
Now  my  sworn  friend,  and  then  mine  enemy  ; 
My  parasite,  my  soldier,  statesman,  all : 
He  makes  a  July's  day  short  as  December  ; 
And  with  his  varying  childness  cures  in  me 
Thoughts  that  would  thick  my  blood. 

Leon.  So  stands  this  squire 

Offic'd  with  me.     We  two  will  walk,  my  lord, 
And  leave  you  to  your  graver  steps.  — Hermione, 
How  thou  lov'st  as  show  in  our  brother's  wel- 
come ; 

Let  what  is  dear  in  Sicily  be  cheap: 
Next  to  thyself  and  my  young  rover,  he  's 
Apparent  to  my  heart. 

Her.  If  you  would  seek  us, 

We  are  your's  i'  the  garden :  shall 's  attend  you 

there?  [be  found, 

Leon.  To  your  own  bents  dispose  you :  you  '11 

Be  you  beneath    the   sky.      [Aside.]      I   am 

angling  now. 

Though  you  perceive  me  not  how  I  give  line. 
Go  to,  go  to  !  [Observing  POL.  and  HER. 

How  she  holds  uo  the  neb,  the  bill  to  him  ! 
And  arms  her  wi  n  the  boldness  of  a  wife 
To  her  allowing  husband  !     Gone  already  ! 

[Exeunt  POL.,  HER.,  and  Attendants. 
Inch-thick,  knee-deep,  o'er  head  and  ears  a 

fork'd  one ! — 

Go,  play,  boy,  play : — thy  mother  plays,  and  I 
Play  too  ;  but  so  disgrac'd  a  part,  whose  issue 
Will   hiss  me  to  my   grave:    contempt   and 
clamour  [have  been, 

Will  be  my  knell. — Go,  play,  boy,  play. — There 
Or  I  am  much  deceiv'd,  cuckolds  ere  now  ; 
And  many  a  man  there  is,  even  at  this  present, 
Now  while  I  speak  this,  holds  his  wire  by  the 
arm,  [absence, 

That  little  thinks  she  has  been  sluic'd  in  his 
And  his  pond  fish'd  by  his  next  neighbour,  by 
Sir  Smile,  his  neighbour  :  nay,  there 's  comfort 
in 't,  [open'd, 

Whiles  other  men  have  gates,  and  those  gates 
As  mine,  against  their  will :  should  all  despair 
That  have  revolted  wives,  the  tenth  of  mankind 
Would  hang  themselves.  Physic  for 't  there  is 

none  ; 

It  is  a  bawdy  planet,  that  will  strike  [it, 

Where  'tis  predominant;  and  'tis  powerful,  think 
from  east,  west,  north,  and  south :  be  it  con- 
cluded, 

No  barricado  for  a  belly  ;  know't2;'  'J 
It  will  let  in  and  out  the  enemy 


With  bag  and  baggage  :  many  a  thousand  of  us 
Have  the  disease,  and  feel 't  not. — How  now, 
boy! 

Mam.  I  am  like  you,  they  say. 

Leon.  Why,  that's  some  comfort.— 

What !  Camillo  there  ? 

Cam.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Leon.  Go  play,  Mamillius ;  thou'rt  an  honest 
man. —  [Exit  MAMILLIUS. 

Camillo,  this  great  sir  will  yet  stay  longer. 

Cam.  You  had  much  ado  to  make  his  anchor 

hold: 
When  you  cast  out,  it  still  came  home. 

Leon.  Didst  note  it  ? 

Cam.  He  would  not  stay  at  your  petitions  ; 

made 
His  business  more  material. 

Leon.  Didst  perceive  it? — 

They  3re  here  with  me  already ;    whispering, 

rounding, 

Sicilia  is  a  so-forth  :  'tis  far  gone 
When  I  shall  gust  it  last.  — How  came 't,  Camillo, 
That  he  did  stay  ? 

Cam.  At  the  good  queen's  entreaty. 

Leon.  At  the  queen's  be 't :  good  should  be 

pertinent ; 

But  so  it  is,  it  is  not.     Was  this  taken 
By  any  understanding  pate  but  thine  ? 
For  thy  conceit  is  soaking,  will  draw  in 
More  than  the  common  blocks : — not  noted,  is't, 
But  of  the  finer  natures?  by  some  severals 
Of  head -piece  extraordinary?  lower  messes, 
Perchance  are  to  this  business  purblind?  say. 

Cam.   Business,  my  lord !  I  think  most  under- 
stand 
Bohemia  stays  here  longer. 

Leon.  Ha ! 

Cam.  Stays  here  longer. 

Leon.  Ay,  but  why?  [treaties 

Cam.  To  satisfy  your  highness,  and  the  en- 
Of  our  most  gracious  mistress. 

Leon.  Satisfy 

The  entreaties  of  your  mistress ! — satisfy ! — 
Let  that  suffice.     I  have  trusted  thee,  Camillo, 
With  all  the  nearest  things  to  my  heart,  as  well 
My  chamber-councils,  wherein,  priest-like,  thou 
Hast  cleans'd  my  bosom  ;  I  from  thee  departed 
Thy  penitent  reform'd  :  but  we  have  been 
Deceiv'd  in  thy  integrity,  deceiv'd 
In  that  which  seems  so. 

Cam.  Be  it  forbid,  my  lord  ! 

Leon.  To  bide  upon 't, — thou  art  not  honest ; 

or, 

If  thou  inclin'st  that  way,  thou  art  a  coward, 
Which  hoxes  honesty  behind,  restraining 
From  course  requird  ;    or  else  thou  must  be 
counted 


348 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE, 


[ACT  i. 


A  servant  grafted  in  my  serious  trust, 
And  therein  negligent;  or  else  a  fool, 
That  seest  a  game  play'd  home,  the  rich  stake 

drawn, 
And  tak'st  it  all  for  jest. 

Cam.  My  gracious  lord, 

I  may  be  negligent,  foolish,  and  fearful ; 
In  every  one  of  these  no  man  is  free, 
But  that  his  negligence,  his  folly,  fear, 
Amongst  the  infinite  doings  of  the  world, 
Sometime  puts  forth :  in  your  affairs,  my  lord, 
If  ever  I  were  wilful -negligent, 
It  was  my  folly ;  if  industriously 
I  play'd  the  fool,  it  was  my  negligence, 
Not  weighing  well  the  end ;  if  ever  fearful 
To  do  a  thing,  where  I  the  issue  doubted, 
Wher  ;iof  the  execution  did  cry  out 
Against  the  non-performance,  'twas  a  fear 
Which  oft  affects  the  wisest :  these,  my  lord, 
Are  such  allow'd  infirmities  that  honesty 
Is  never  free  of.     But,  beseech  your  grace, 
Be  plainer  with  me ;  let  me  know  my  trespass 
By  its  own  visage :  if  I  then  deny  it, 
'Tis  none  of  mine. 

Leon.  Have  you  not  seen,  Camillo,  — 

But  that 's  past  doubt :  you  have,  or  your  eye- 
glass 

Is  thicker  than  a  cuckold's  horn, — or  heard, — 
For,  to  a  vision  so  apparent,  rumour 
Cannot  be  mute, — or  thought, — for  cogitation 
Resides  not  in  that  man  that  does  not  think 

it, — 

My  wife  is  slippery?     If  thou  wilt  confess, — 
Or  else  be  impudently  negative, 
To  have  nor  eyes  nor  ears  nor  thought, — then  say 
My  wife 's  a  hobbyhorse  ;  deserves  a  name 
As  rank  as  any  flax-wench  that  puts  to 
Before  her  troth-plight :  say  't  and  justify 't. 

Cam.  I  would  not  be  a  stander-by  to  hear 
My  sovereign  mistress  clouded  so,  without 
My  present  vengeance  taken :  'shrew  my  heart, 
You  never  spoke  what  did  become  you  less 
Than  this ;  which  to  reiterate  were  sin 
As  deep  as  that,  though  true. 

Leon.  Is  whispering  nothing? 

Is  leaning  cheek  to  cheek?  is  meeting  noses? 
Kissing  with  inside  lip  ?  stopping  the  career 
Of  laughter  with  a  sigh  ? — a  note  infallible 
Of  breaking  honesty ; — horsing  foot  on  foot  ? 
Skulking  in  corners?  wishing  clocks  more  swift? 
Hours,  minutes?  noon,  midnight?  and  all  eyes 
Blind  with  the  pin  and  web,  but  theirs,  theirs 

only, 

That  would  unseen  be  wicked? — is  this  nothing? 
Why,  tnen  the  world  and  all  that 's  in 't  is  no- 
thing ; 
The  covering  sky  is  nothing ;  Bohemia  nothing; 


My  wife  is  nothing  ;  nor  nothing  have  these  no- 
things, 
If  this  be  nothing. 

Cam.  Good  my  lord,  6e  cur'd 

Of  this  diseas'd  opinion,  and  betimes ; 
For  'tis  most  dangerous. 

Leon.  Say  it  be,  'tis  true. 

Cam.  No,  no,  my  lord  ! 

Leon.  It  is  ;  you  lie,  you  lie  i 

I  say  thou  liest,  Camillo,  and  I  hate  thee  ; 
Pronounce  thee  a  gross  lou  ,  a  mindless  slave; 
Or  else  a  hovering  temporizer,  that 
Canst  with  thine  eyes  at  once  see  good  and  evil, 
Inclining  to  them  both. — Were  my  wife's  liver 
Infected  as  her  life,  she  wouid  not  live 
The  running  of  one  glass. 

Cam.  Who  does  infect  her  ? 

Leon.  Why,  he  that  wears  her  like  her  medal, 

hanging 

About  his  neck,  Bohemia:  who — if  I 
Had  servants  true  about  me,  that  bare  eyes 
To  see  alike  mine  honour  as  their  profits, 
Their  own  particular  thrifts, — they  would  do 

that 

Which  should  undo  more  doing :  ay,  and  thou, 
His  cupbearer, — whom  I  from  meaner  form 
Have  bench'd  and  rear'd   to  worship;    who 
mayst  see  [heaven, 

Plainly,  as  heaven  sees  eartl ,  and  earth  sees 
How  I  am  galled, — mightst  bespice  a  cup, 
To  ^ive  mine  enemy  a  lasting  wink ; 
Which  draught  to  me  were  cordial. 

Cam.  Sir,  my  lord, 

I  could  do  this ;  and  that  with  no  rash  potion, 
But  with  a  ling' ring  dram,  that  should  not  work 
Maliciously  like  poison :  but  I  cannot 
Believe  this  crack  to  be  in  my  dread  mistress, 
So  sovereignly  being  honourable.  ;..f  mv/ 

I  have  lov'd  thee, — 

Leon.      Make  that  thy  question,  and  go  rot ! 
Dost  think  I  am  so  muddy,  so  unsettled, 
To  appoint  myself  in  this  vexation ;  sully 
The  purity  and  whiteness  of  my  sheets, — 
Which  to  preserve  is  sleep;  which  being  spotted 
Is  goads,  thorns,  nettles,  tails  of  wasps ; 
Give  scandal  to  the  blood  o'  the  prince  my  son, — 
Who  I  do  think  is  mine,  and  love  as  mine, — 
Without  ripe  moving  to't? — Would  I  do  this? 
Could  man  so  blench  ? 

Cam.  I  must  believe  you,  sir: 

I  do  ;  and  will  fetch  off  Bohemia  for  t ;     [ness 
Provided  that,  when  he 's  remov'd,  your  high- 
Will  take  again  your  queen  as  yours  at  first, 
Even  for  your  son's  sake  ;  and  thereby  for  seal- 
ing 

The  injury  of  tongues  in  courts  and  kingdoms 
Known  and  allied  to  yours. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


349 


Leon.  Thou  dost  advise  me 

Even  so  as  I  mine  own  course  have  set  down  : 
1  '11  give  no  blemish  to  her  honour,  none. 

Cam.   My  lord, 

Go  then  ;  and  with  a  countenance  as  clear 
As  friendship  wears  at  feasts,  keep  with  Bohemia 
And  with  your  queen :  I  am  his  cupbearer. 
If  from  me  he  have  wholesome  beverage 
Account  me  not  your  servant. 

Leon.  This  is  all : 

Do 't  and  thou  hast  the  one-half  of  my  heart ; 
Do 't  not,  thou  splitt'st  thine  own. 

Cam.  I  '11  do  :t,  my  lord. 

Leon.   I    will   seem   friendly,   as   thou    hast 
advis'd  me.  [Exit. 

Cam.  O  miserable  lady  !— But,  for  me, 
What  case  stand  I  in?     I  must  be  the  poisoner 
Of  good  Polixenes:  and  my  ground  to  do't 
Is  the  obedience  to  a  master ;  one 
Who,  in  rebellion  with  himself,  will  have 
All  that  are  his  so  too. — To  do  this  deed, 
Promotion  follows  :  if  I  could  find  example 
Of  thousands  that  had  struck  anointed  kings, 
And  flourish'd  after,  I  'd  not  do 't ;  but  since 
Nor  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  parchment,  bears  not 

one, 

Let  villany  itself  forswear 't.     I  must 
Forsake  the  court :  to  do 't,  or  no,  is  certain 
To  me  a  break-neck.     Happy  star,  reign  now! 
Here  comes  Bohemia. 

Enter  POLIXENES. 

Pol.  This  is  strange !  methinks 

My  favour  here  begins  to  warp.     Not  speak? — 
Good-day,  Camillo. 

Cam.  Hail,  most  royal  sir ! 

Pol.  What  is  the  news  i'  the  court? 

Cam.  None  rare,  my  lord. 

Pol,  The  king  hath  on  him  such  a  counten- 
ance 

As  he  had  lost  some  province,  and  a  region 
Lov'd  as  he  loves  himself:  even  now  I  met 

him 

With  customary  compliment ;  when  he, 
Wafting  his  eyes  to  the  contrary,  and  falling 
A  lip  of  much  contempt,  speeds  from  me  ;  and 
So  leaves  me,  to  consider  what  is  breeding 
That  changes  thus  his  manners. 

Cam.   I  dare  not  know,  my  lord. 

Pol.  Hew !  dare  not !  do  not.     Do  you  know, 

and  dare  not 

Be  intelligent  to  me?  'Tis  thereabouts ; 
For,  to  yourself,  what  you  do  know,  you  must, 
And  cannot  say,  you  dare  not.  Good  Camillo, 
Your  changM  complexions  are  to  me  a  mirror, 
Which  shows  me  mine  chang'd  too ;  for  I  must 
be 


A  party  in  this  alteration,  finding 
Myself  thus  alter'd  with  it. 

Cam.  There  is  a  sicknaes 

Which  puts  some  of  us  in  distemper;  but 
I  cannot  name  the  disease  ;  and  it  is  caught 
Of  you  that  yet  are  well. 

Pol.  How  !  caught  of  me  ! 

Make  me  not  sighted  like  the  basilisk  : 
I  have  look'd  on  thousands,  who  have  sped  the 

better 

By  my  regard,  but  kill'd  none  so.     Camillo, — 
As  you  are  certainly  a  gentleman  ;  thereto 
Clerk-like,  experienc'd,  which  no  less  adorns 
Our  gentry  than  our  parents'  noble  names, 
In  whose  success  we  are  gentle, — I  beseech  you, 
If  you  know  aught   which   does   behove   my 

knowledge 

Thereof  to  be  inform'd,  imprison 't  not 
In  ignorant  concealment. 

Cam.  •         I  may  not  answer. 

Pol.  A  sickness  caught  of  me,  and  yet  I  well! 
I  must  beanswer'd. — Dost  thou  hear,  Camillo, 
I  conjure  thee,  by  all  the  parts  of  man, 
Which  honour  does  acknowledge, — whereof  the 

least 

Is  not  this  suit  of  mine, — that  thou  declare 
What  incidency  thou  dost  guess  of  harm 
Is  creeping  toward  me;  how  far  off,  how  near; 
Which  way  to  be  prevented,  if  to  be  ; 
If  not,  how  best  to  bear  it. 

Cam.  Sir,  I  will  tell  you ; 

Since  I  am  charg'd  in  honour,  and  by  him 
That  I  think  honourable  :  therefore  mark  my 

counsel, 

Which  must  be  even  as  swiftly  follow'd  as 
I  mean  to  utter  it,  or  both  yourself  and  me 
Cry  lost,  and  so  good-night ! 

Pol.  On,  good  Camillo. 

Cam.   I  am  appointed  him  to  murder  you. 

Pol.  By  whom,  Camillo? 

Cam.  By  the  king. 

Pol.  For  what? 

Cam.  He  thinks,  nay,  with  all  confidence  he 

swears, 

As  he  had  seen  't  or  been  an  instrument 
To  vice  you  to  Jt,  that  you  have  touch'd  his  queen 
Forbiddingly. 

Pol.  O,  then  my  best  blood  turn 

To  an  infected  jelly,  and  my  name 
Be  yok'd  with  his  that  did  betray  the  best ! 
Turn  then  my  freshest  reputation  to 
A  savour  that  may  strike  the  dullest  nostril 
Where  I  arrive,  and  my  approach  be  shunn'd, 
Nay,  hated  too,  worse  than  the  great'st  infection 
That  e'er  was  heard  or  read  ! 

Cam.  Swear  his  thought  over 

By  each  particular  star  in  heaven  and 


350 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


[ACT  II. 


By  all  their  influences,  you  may  as  well    m; 
Forbid  the  sea  for  to  obey  the  moon, 
As,  or  by  oath  remove,  or  counsel  shake 
The  fabric  of  his  folly,  whose  foundation 
Is  pil'd  upon  his  faith,  and  will  continue 
The  standing  of  his  body. 

Pol.  How  should  this  grow? 

Cam.   I  know  not :  but  I  am  sure  'tis  safer  to 
Avoid  what's  grown  than  question  how  'tis  born. 
If,  therefore,  you  dare  trust  my  honesty, — 
That  lies  enclosed  in  this  trunk,  which  you 
Shall  bear  along  impawn'd, — away  to-night. 
Your  fo"owers  I  will  whisper  to  the  business; 
And  will,  by  twos  and  threes,  at  several  posterns, 
Clear  them  o'  the  city:  for  myself,  I'll  put 
My  fortunes  to  your  service,  which  are  here 
By  this  discovery  lost.     Be  not  uncertain ; 
For,  by  the  honour  of  my  parents,  I 
Have  utter'd  truth  :  which  if  you  seek  to  prove, 
I  dare  not  stand  by  ;  nor  shall  you  be  safer 
Than  one  condemn'd  by  the  king's  own  mouth, 

thereon 
His  execution  sworn. 

Pol.  I  do  believe  thee; 

I  saw  his  heart  in  his  face.     Give  me  thy  hand; 
Be  pilot  to  me,  and  thy  places  shall 
Still  neighbour  mine.     My  ships  are  ready,  and 
My  people  did  expect  my  hence  departure 
Two  days  ago. — This  jealousy 
Is  for  a  precious  creature  :  as  she 's  rare, 
Must  it  be  great ;  and,  as  his  person's  mighty, 
Must  it  be  violent ;  and  as  he  does  conceive 
He  is  dishonour'd  by  a  man  which  ever 
Profess'd  to  him,  why,  his  revenges  must 
In  that  be  made  more  bitter.     Fear  o'ershades 

me: 

Good  expedition  be  my  friend,  and  comfort 
The  gracious  queen,  part  of  his  theme,  but  no- 
thing 

Of  his  ill-ta'en  suspicion!     Come,  Camillo; 
I  will  respect  thee  as  a  father,  if 
Thou  bear'st  my  life  off  hence :  let  us  avoid. 
Cam.  It  is  in  mine  authority  to  command 
The  keys  of  all  the  posterns :  please  your  high- 
ness 
To  take  the  urgent  hour :  come,  sir,  away. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — SICILIA.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  HERMIONE,  MAMILLIUS,  and  Ladies. 

Her.  Take  the  boy  to  you :  he  so  troubles  me, 
'Tis  past  enduring. 

I  Lady.  Come,  my  gracious  lord, 

Shall  I  be  your  playfellow? 

Mam.  No,  I  *H  none  of  you. 


1  Lady.  Why,  my  sweet  lord  ? 

Mam.  You  '11  kiss  me  hard,  and  speak  to  me 

as  if 
I  were  a  baby  still. — I  love  you  better. 

2  Lady.  And  why  so,  my  lord? 

Mam.  Not  for  because 

Your  brows  are  blacker ;  yet  black  brows,  they 

say, 

Become  some  women  best ;  so  that  there  be  not 
Too  much  hair  there,  but  in  a  semicircle, 
Or  a  half-moon  made  with  a  pen. 

2  Lady.  Who  taught  you  this  ? 

Mam.   I  learn'd  it  out  of  women's  faces. — 

Pray  now, 
What  colour  are  your  eyebrows? 

i  Lady.  Blue,  my  lord. 

Mam.  Nay,  that 's  a  mock :  I  have  seen  a 

lady's  nose 
That  has  been  blue,  but  not  her  eyebrows. 

1  Lady.  Hark  ye ; 
The  queen  your  mother  rounds  apace :  we  shall 
Present  our  services  to  a  fine  new  prince 

One  of  these  days ;  and  then  you  'd  wanton 

with  us, 
If  we  would  have  you. 

2  Lady.  She  is  spread  of  late 
Into  a  goodly  bulk:  good  time  encounter  her! 

Her.    What    wisdom    stirs    amongst    you  ? 

Come,  sir,  now 

I  am  for  you  again :  pray  you,  sit  by  us,    tftaH 
And  tell 's  a  tale. 

Mam.  Merry  or  sad  shall 't  be? 

Her.  As  merry  as  you  will. 

Mam.  A  sad  tale 's  best  for  winter  : 

I  have  one  of  sprites  and  goblins. 

Her.  Let 's  have  that,  good  sir. 

Come  on,  sit  down : — come  on,  and  do  your  best 
To  fright  me  with  your  sprites  :  you  're  power- 
ful at  it. 

Mam.  There  was  a  man, — 

Her.  Nay,  come,  sit  down  :  then  on. 

Mam.   Dwelt  by  a  churchyard  : — I  will  tell 

it  softly ; 
Yond  crickets  shall  not  hear  it. 

Her.  Come  on,  then, 

And  give 't  me  in  mine  ear. 

Enter  LEONTES,  ANTIGONUS,  Lords  and 
Guards. 

Leon.  Was  he  met  there?  his  train?  Camillo 
with  him?  [never 

I  Lord.  Behind  the  tuft  of  pines  I  met  them; 
Saw  I  men  scour  so  on  their  way :  I  ey'd  them 
Even  to  their  ships. 

Leon.  How  bless'd  am  I 

In  my  just  censure,  in  my  true  opinion  I— 
Alack,  for  lesser  knowledge  ! — how  accurs'd, 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


In  being  so  blest ! — There  may  be  in  the  cup 
A  spider  steep'd,  and  one  may  drink,  depart, 
And  yet  partake  no  venom ;  for  his  knowledge 
Is  not  infected :  but  if  one  present 
The  abhorr'd  ingredient  to  his  eye,  make  known 
How  he  hath  drunk,  he  cracks  his  gorge,  his 
sides  [the  spider. 

With  violent  hefts: — I  have  drunk,  and  seen 
Camillo  was  his  help  in  this,  his  pander : — 
There  is  a  plot  against  my  life,  my  crown ; 
All 's  true  that  is  mistrusted : — that  false  villain, 
Whom  I  employ'd,  was  pre-employ'd  by  him: 
He  has  discover'd  my  design,  and  I 
Remain  a  pinch'd  thing ;  yea,  a  very  trick 
For  them   to  play  at   will. — How  came   the 

posterns 
So  easily  open? 

I  Lord.         By  his  great  authority ; 
Which  often  hath  no  less  prevail'd  than  so, 
On  your  command. 

Leon.  I  know 't  too  well. — 

Give  me  the  boy: — I  am  glad   you  did  not 

nurse  him : 

Though  he  does  bear  some  signs  of  me,  yet  you 
Have  too  much  blood  in  him. 

Her.  What  is  this?  sport? 

Leon.  Bear  the   boy  hence;   he  shall   not 

come  about  her ; 
Away  with  him ! — and  let  her  sport  herself 

[Exit  MAMILLIUS,  with  some  of  the  Guards. 
With  that  she 's  big  with ;— for  'tis  Polixenes 
Hath  made  thee  swell  thus. 

Her.  But  I  'd  say  he  had  not, 

And  I  '11  be  sworn  you  would  believe  my  saying, 
Howe'er  you  learn  the  nay  ward. 

Leon.  You,  my  lords, 

Look  on  her,  mark  her  well ;  be  but  about 
To  say,  she  is  a  goodly  lady,  and 
The  justice  of  your  hearts  will  thereto  add, 
*Tis pity  she's  not  honest,  honourable: 
Praise  her  but  for  this  her  without -door  form, — 
Which,  on  my  faith,  deserves  high  speech, — 

and  straight 

The  shrug,  the  hum,  or  ha, — these  petty  brands, 
That  calumny  doth  use : — O,  I  am  out, 
That  mercy  does ;  for  calumny  will  sear 
Virtue  itself: — these  shrugs,  these  hums,  and 

ha's, 

When  you  have  said  she 's goodly,  come  between, 
Ere  you  can  say  she*s  honest:  but  be  it  known, 
From  him  that  has  most  cause  to  grieve  it 

should  be, 
She 's  an  adultress  ! 

Her.  Should  a  villain  say  so, 

The  most  replenish'd  villain  in  the  world, 
He  were  as  much  more  villain :  you,  my  lord, 
Do  but  mistake. 


Leon.  You  have  mistook,  my  lady, 

Polixenes  for  Leontes :  O  thou  thing, 
Which  1 311  not  call  a  creature  of  thy  place, 
Lest  barbarism,  making  me  the  precedent, 
Should  a  like  language  use  to  all  degrees, 
And  mannerly  distinguishment  leave  out 
Betwixt  the  prince  and  beggar ! — I  have  said, 
She  's  an  adultress ;  I  have  said  with  whom  : 
More,  she 's  a  traitor ;  and  Camillo  is 
A  federary  with  ner ;  and  one  that  knows 
What  she  should  shame  to  know  herself 
But  with  her  most  vile  principal,  that  she 's 
A  bed-swerver,  even  as  bad  as  those 
That  vulgars  give  boldest  titles ;  ay,  and  privy 
To  this  their  late  escape. 

Her.  No,  by  my  life, 

Privy  to  none  of  this.  How  wil  1  this  grieve  you, 
When  you  shall  come  to  clearer  knowledge,  that 
You  thus  have  publish:d  me !  Gentle,  my  lord, 
You  scarce  can  right  me  throughly  then,  to  say 
You  did  mistake. 

Leon.  No ;  if  I  mistake 

In  those  foundations  which  I  build  upon, 
The  centre  is  not  big  enough  to  bear 
A  school -boy's  top. — Away  with  her  to  prison  ! 
He  who  shall  speak  for  her  is  afar  off  guilty 
But  that  he  speaks. 

Her.  There 's  some  ill  planet  reigns: 

I  must  be  patient  till  the  heavens  look 
With  an  aspect  more  favourable.— Good  my 

lords, 

I  am  not  prone  to  weeping,  as  our  sex 
Commonly  are;  the  want  of  which  vain  dew 
Perchance  shall  dry  your  pities;  but  I  have 
That  honourable  grief  lodged  here,  which  burns 
Worse  than  tears  drown:  beseech  you  all,  my 

lords, 

With  thoughts  so  qualified  as  your  charities 
Shall  best  instruct  you,  measure  me ; — and  so 
The  king's  will  be  perform 'd ! 

Leon.  Shall  I  be  heard? 

[To  the  Guards. 

Her.  Who  is 't  that  goes  with  me? — Beseech 

your  highness, 

My  women  may  be  with  me ;  for,  you  see, 
My  plight  requires  it. — Do  not  weep,  good  fools; 
There  is  no  cause  :  when  you  shall  know  your 

mistress 

Has  deserv'd  prison,  then  abound  in  tears 
As  I  come  out :  this  action  I  now  go  on 
Is  for  my  better  grace. — Adieu,  my  lord: 
I  never  wish'd  to  see  you  sorry ;  now     [leave. 
I  trust  I  shall. — My  women,  come ;  you  have 

Leon.  Go,  do  our  bidding ;  hence  1 
[Exeunt  QUEEN  and  Ladies,  with  Guards. 

I   Lord.    Beseech  your  highness,   call   the 
queen  again. 


352 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


[ACT  ii. 


Ant.  Be  certain  what  you  do.  sir,  lest  your 

justice 
Prove  violence :  in  the  which  three  great  ones 

suffer, 
Yourself,  your  queen,  your  son. 

I  Lord.  For  her,  my  lord, — 

I  dare  my  life  lay  down,  and  will  do't,  sir, 
Please  you  to  accept  it,  that  the  queen  is  spotless 
F  the  eyes  of  heaven  and  to  you ;  I  mean 
In  this  which  you  accuse  her. 

Ant.  If  it  prove 

She 's  otherwise,  I  '11  keep  my  stables  where 
I  lodge  my  wife ;  I  '11  go  in  couples  with  her ; 
Than  when  I  feel  and  see  her  no  further  trust 

her; 

For  every  inch  of  woman  in  the  world, 
Ay,  every  dram  of  woman's  flesh,  is  false, 
If  she  be. 

Leon.  Hold  your  peaces. 

I  Lord.  Good  my  lord, — 

Ant.  It  is  for  you  we  speak,  not  for  ourselves: 
You  are  abus'd,  and  by  some  putter-on, 
That  will  be  damn'd  for 't :  would  I  knew  the 
villain,  [flaw'd,— 

I   would   land -damn  him.      Be  she  honour- 
I  have  three  daughters ;  the  eldest  is  eleven ; 
The  second  and  the  third,  nine  and  some  five  ; 
If  this  prove  true,  they  '11  pay  for 't :  by  mine 

honour, 

I  '11  geld  'em  all :  fourteen  they  shall  not  see, 
To  bring  false  generations :  they  are  co-heirs ; 
And  I  had  rather  glib  myself  than  they 
Should  not  produce  fair  issue. 

Leon.  Cease ;  no  more. 

You  smell  this  business  with  a  sense  as  cold 
As  is  a  dead  man's  nose :  but  I  do  see  't  and 

feel't, 

As  you  feel  doing  thus ;  and  see  withal 
The  instruments  that  feel. 

Ant.  If  it  be  so, 

We  need  no  grave  to  bury  honesty ; 
There 's  not  a  grain  of  it  the  face  to  sweeten 
Of  the  whole  dungy  earth. 

Leon.  What !  lack  I  credit? 

I  Lord.  I  had  rather  you  did  lack  than  I, 
my  lord,  [me 

Upon  this  ground :  and  more  it  would  content 
To  have  her  honour  true  than  your  suspicion ; 
Be  blam'd  for 't  how  you  might. 

Leon.  Why,  what  need  we 

Commune  with  you  of  this,  but  rather  follow 
Our  forceful  instigation?     Our  prerogative 
Callsnot  your  counsels ;  butournatural  goodness 
Imparts  this:  which,  if  you,— or  stupified 
Or  seeming  so  in  skill, — cannot  or  will  not 
Relish  a  truth,  like  us,  inform  yourselves 
We  need  no  more  of  your  advice :  the  matter, 


The  loss,  the  gain,  the  ordering  on 't,  is  all 
Properly  ours. 

Ant.  And  I  wish,  my  liege, 

You  had  only  in  your  silent  judgment  tried  it, 
Without  more  overture. 

Leon.  How  could  that  be? 

Either  thou  art  most  ignorant  by  age, 
Or  thou  wert  born  a  fool.     Camillo's  flight, 
Added  to  their  familiarity, — 
Which  was  as  gross  as  ever  touch'd  conjecture, 
That  lack'd  sight  only,  naught  for  approbation, 
But  only  seeing,  all  other  circumstances     [ing. 
Made  up  tothedeed, — doth  push  on  this  proceed- 
Yet,  for  a  greater  confirmation, — 
For,  in  an  act  of  this  importance,  'twere  j  -jol 
Most  piteous  to  be  wild, — I  have  despatch'd 

in  post 

To  sacred  Delphos,  to  Apollo's  temple, 
Cleomenes  and  Dion,  whom  you  know 
Of  stuff  d  sufficiency  :  now,  from  the  oracle 
They  will  bring  all ;  whose  spiritual  counsel  had, 
Shall  stop  or  spur  me.     Have  I  done  well? 

I  Lord.  Well  done,  my  lord. 

Leon.  Though  I  am  satisfied ,  and  need  no  more 
Than  what  I  know,  yet  shall  the  oracle 
Give  rest  to  the  minds  of  others  such  as  he 
Whose  ignorant  credulity  will  not  [good 

Come  up  to  the  truth :  so  have  we  thought  it 
From  our  free  person  she  should  be  confin'd ; 
Lest  that  the  treachery  of  the  two  fled  hence 
Be  left  her  to  perform.     Come,  follow  us ; 
We  are  to  speak  in  public ;  for  this  business 
Will  raise  us  all. 

Ant.  [Aside.}  To  laughter,  as  I  take  it, 
If  the  good  truth  were  known.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — The  same.     The  outer  Room  of  a 
Prison. 

Enter  PAULINA  and  Attendants. 

Paul.  The  keeper  of  the  prison, — call  to  him; 
Let  him  have  knowledge  who  I  am. 

[Exit  an  Attendant. 
Good  lady ! 

No  court  in  Europe  is  too  good  for  thee ; 
What  dost  thou,  then,  in  prison? 

Re-enter  Attendant,  with  the  Keeper. 

Now,  good  sir. 

You  know  me,  do  you  not? 

Keep.  For  a  worthy  lady, 

And  one  who  much  I  honour. 

Paul.  Pray  you,  then, 

Conduct  me  to  the  queen. 

Keep.  I  may  not,  madam :  to  the  contrary 
I  have  express  commandment. 

Paul.  Here 's  ado, 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


353 


To  lock  up  honesty  and  honour  from 
The  access  of  gentle  visitors  1 — Is 't  lawful, 
Pray  you,  to  see  her  women  ?  any  of  them  ? 
Emilia? 

Keep.  So  please  you,  madam,  to  put 
Apart  these  your  attendants,  I  shall  bring 
Emilia  forth. 

Paul.         I  pray  now,  call  her. — 
Withdraw  yourselves.  [Exeunt  Attend. 

Keep.  And,  madam, 

I  must  be  present  at  your  conference. 

Paul.  Well ,  be 't  so,  pr*ythee.    [Exit  Keeper. 
Here 's  such  ado  to  make  no  stain  a  stain, 
As  passes  colouring. 

Re-enter  Keeper,  with  EMILIA. 

Dear  gentlewoman,  how  fares  our  gracious  lady  ? 

Emit.  As  well  as  one  so  great  and  so  forlorn 
May  hold  together :  on  her  frights  and  griefs, — 
Which  never  tender  lady  hath  borne  greater,— 
She  is,  something  before  her  time,  deliver'd. 

Paul.  A  boy? 

Emil.  A  daughter ;  and  a  goodly  babe, 

Lusty,  and  like  to  live :  the  queen  receives 
Much  comfort  in't;  says,  My  poor  prisoner, 
I  am  innocent  as  you. 

Paul.  I  dare  be  sworn  ;— 

These  dangerous  unsafe  lunes  i*  the  king,  be- 

shrew  them ! 

He  must  be  told  on 't,  and  he  shall :  the  office 
Becomes  a  woman  best :  I  Ml  take  't  upon  me : 
If  I  prove  honey-mouth'd,  let  my  tongue  blister; 
And  never  to  my  red-look'd  anger  be 
The  trumpet  any  more. — Pray  you,  Emilia, 
Commend  my  best  obedience  to  the  queen ; 
If  she  dares  trust  me  with  her  little  babe, 
I'll  show't  the  king,  and  undertake  to  be 
Her  advocate  to  the  loud'st.     We  do  not  know 
How  he  may  soften  at  the  sight  o'  the  child : 
The  silence  often  of  pure  innocence 
Persuades,  when  speaking  fails. 

Emt'L  Most  worthy  madam, 

Your  honour  and  your  goodness  is  so  evident, 
That  your  free  undertaking  cannot  miss 
A  thriving  issue:  there  is  no  lady  living 
So  meet  for  this  great  errand.     Please  your 

ladyship 

To  visit  the  next  room,  I'll  presently 
Acquaint  the  queen  of  your  most  noble  offer-* 
Who  but  to-day  hammer'd  of  this  design, 
But  durst  not  tempt  a  minister  of  honour, 
Lest  she  should  be  denied. 

Paul.  Tell  her,  Emilia, 

I  '11  use  that  tongue  I  have :  if  wit  flow  from  it, 
As  boldness  from  my  bosom,  let  it  not  be 

I 


Emil.  Now  be  you  bless'd  for  it  I 

I  '11  to  the  queen :  please  you  come  something 
nearer. 

Keep.  Madam,  if 't  please  the  queen  to  send 

the  babe, 

I  know  not  what  I  shall  incur  to  pass  it, 
Having  no  warrant* 

Paul.  You  need  not  fear  it,  sir: 
The  child  was  prisoner  to  the  womb,  and  is, 
By  law  and  process  of  great  nature,  thence 
Freed  and  enfranchis'd ;  not  a  party  to 
The  anger  of  the  king,  nor  guilty  of, 
If  any  be,  the  trespass  of  the  queen. 

Keep.  I  do  believe  it. 

Paul.  Do  not  you  fear :  upon  mine  honour,  I 
Will  stand  'twixt  you  and  danger.       [Exeunt. 

.<  •'''.[  -ft'^fr-ni.}    'rflT 

SCENE  III.— The  same.     A  Room  in  the 
Palace. 

Enter  LEONTES,  ANTIGONUS,  Lords,  and 
ether  Attendants. 

Leon.  Nor  night  nor  day  no  rest :  it  is  but 

weakness 

To  bear  the  matter  thus, — mere  weakness.     If 
The  cause  were  not  in  being,— part  o'  the  cause, 
She  the  adultress ;  for  the  harlot  king 
Is  quite  beyond  mine  arm,  out  of  the  blank 
And  level  of  my  brain,  plot-proof ;  but  she 
I  can  hook  to  me : — say  that  she  were  gone, 
Given  to  the  fire,  a  moiety  of  my  rest 
Might  come  to  me  again. — Who's  there? 

I  At  ten.  [Advancing.]  My  lord? 

Leon.   How  does  the  boy? 

I  Atten.  He  took  good  rest  to-night ; 

Tis  hop'd  his  sickness  is  discharg'd. 

Leon.  To  see  his  nobleness ! 
Conceiving  the  dishonour  of  his  mother, 
He  straight  declin'd,  droop'd,  took  it  deeply, 
Fasten'd  and  fix'd  the  shame  on 't  in  himself, 
Threw  off  his  spirit,  his  appetite,  his  sleep, 
And  downright  languish'd. — Leave  me  solely: 

—go, 
See  how  he  fares.  [Exit  I  Attend.]— Fie,  fie  I 

no  thought  of  him ; 

The  very  thought  of  my  revenges  that  way 
Recoil  upon  me :  in  himself  too  mighty, 
And  in  his  parties,  his  alliance, — let  him  be, 
Until  a  time  may  serve :  for  present  vengeance, 
Take  it  on  her.     Camillo  and  Polixenes 
Laugh  at  me ;  make  their  pastime  at  my  sorrow : 
They  should  not  laugh  if  I  could  reach  them; 

nor 
Shall  she,  within  my  power. 

Enter  PAULINA,  *»itk  a  child. 

,  t*>A.)  «r 

I  Lord.  You  must  not  emer. 

M 


354 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


[ACT  II. 


Paul.  Nay,  rather,  good  my  lords,  be  second 

to  me : 

Fear  you  his  tyrannous  passion  more,  alas, 
Than  the  queen's  life?  a  gracious  innocent  soul, 
More  free  than  he  is  jealous. 

Ant.  That 's  enough. 

2  Attend.    Madam,  he  hath  not  slept  to- 
night; commanded 
None  should  come  at  him. 

Paul.  Not  so  hot,  good  sir ; 

I  come  to  bring  him  sleep.     'Tis  such  as  you, — 
That  creep  like  shadows  by  him,  and  do  sigh 
At  each  his  needless  heavings, — such  as  you 
Nourish  the  cause  of  his  awaking:  I 
Do  come,  with  words  as  med'cinal  as  true, 
Honest  as  either,  to  purge  him  of  that  humour 
That  presses  him  from  sleep. 

Leon.  What  noise  there,  ho? 

Paul.  No  noise,  my  lord?  but  needful  eon- 

ference 
About  some  gossips  for  your  highness, 

Leon.  How ! — 

Away  with  that  audacious  lady  \ — Antigonus, 
I  charg'd  thee  that  she  should  not  come  about 

me: 
I  knew  she  would. 

Ant.  I  told  her  so,  my  lord, 

On  your  displeasure's  peril,  and  on  mine. 
She  should  not  visit  you. 

Lton.  What,  canst  not  rule  her? 

Paul.  From  all  dishonesty,  he  can:  in  this, — 
Unless  he  take  the  course  that  you  have  done, 
Commit  me  for  committing  honour, — trust  it, 
lie  shall  not  rule  me. 

Ant.  La  you  now,  you  hear  \ 

When  she  will  take  the  rein,  I  let  her  mn ; 
But  she'll  not  stumble. 

Paul.  Good  my  liege,  I  come, — 

And,  I  beseech  you,  hear  me,  who  professes 
Myself  your  loyal  servant,  your  physician. 
Your  most  obedient  counsellor ;  yet  that  dares 
Less  appear  so,  in  comforting  your  evils, 
Than  such  as  most  seem  yours : — I  say,  I  come 
From  your  good  queen. 

Leon.  Good  queen? 

Pate/.  Good  queen,  my  lord,  good  queen :  i 

say,  good  queen ; 

And  would  by  combat  make  her  good,  so  were  I 
A  man,  the  worst  about  you. 

Leon.  Force  her  hence  i 

Paul.  Let  him  that  makes  buttriflesof  his  eyes 
First  hand  me :  on  mine  own  accord  I  '11  off ; 
But  first  I  '11  do  my  erranu. — The  good  queen, 
For  she  is  good,  hath  brought  you  forth  a 

daughter ; 
Here  'tis  j  commends  it  to  your  blessing. 

{Laying  drum  tie  child. 


Leon.  Outl 

A  mankind -witch  !  Hence  with  her,  out  o'  door. 
A  most  intelligencing  bawd  1 

PauL  Not  so : 

I  am  as  ignorant  in  that  as  you 
In  so  entitling  me ;  and  no  less  honest      [rant, 
Than  you  are  mad ;  which  is  enough,  I  '11  war- 
As  this  world  goes,  to  pass  for  honest. 

Leon.  Traitors ! 

Will  you  not  push  her  out?     Give  her  the 

bastard : — 
Thou  dotard  [to  ANTIGONUS],  thou  art  woman- 

tir'd,  unroosted 

By  thy  dame  Partlet  here : — take  up  the  bastard; 
Take  't  up,  I  say ;  give 't  to  thy  crone. 

Paul.  For  ever 

Unvenerable  be  thy  hands,  if  thou 
Tak'st  up  the  princess,  by  that  forced  baseness 
Which  he  has  put  upon  't ! 

Leon.  He  dreads  his  wife. 

Paul.  So  I  would  you  did ;  then  'twere  past 

all  doubt, 
You  'd  call  your  children  yours. 

Leon.  A  nest  of  traitors ! 

Antv  I  am  none,  by  this  good  light. 

Paul.  Nor  I ;  nor  any, 

But  one,  that  Js  here ;  and  that's  himself:  for  he 
The  sacred  honour  of  himself,  his  queen's, 
His  hopeful  son's,  his  babe's,  betrays  to  slander, 
Whose  sting  is  sharper  than  the  sword's;  and 

will  not, — 

For,  as  the  case  now  stands,  it  is  a  curse 
He  cannot  be  compell'd  to 't, — once  remove 
The  ro.Tt  of  his  opinion,  which  is  rotten 
As  ever  oak  or  stone  was  sound. 

Leon.  A  cailat 

Of  boundless  tongue,  who  late  hath  beat  her 

husband, 

And  now  baits  me  !-  This  brat  is  none  of  mine  *, 
It  is  the  issue  of  Polixenes : 
Hence  with  it !  and,  together  with  the  dam, 
Commit  them  to  the  fire. 

Paul.  It  is  yours !     [charge, 

And,  might  we  lay  the  old  proverb  to  your 
So  like  you,  'tis  the  worse. — Behold,  my  lords, 
Although  the  print  be  little,  the  whole  matter 
And  copy  of  the  father, — eye,  nose,  lip. 
The  trick  of  his  frown,  his  forehead ;  nay,  the 
valley,  [smiles; 

The  pretty  dimples  of  his  chin  and  cheek;  his 
The  very  mould  and  frame   of   hand,   nail, 
finger: —  [made  it 

And  thou,  good  goddess  Nature,  which  hast 
So  like  to  him  that  got  it,  if  thou  hast 
The  ordering  of  the  mind  too,  'mongst  all  colours 
No  yellow  in 't,  lest  she  suspect,  as  he  does, 
Her  children  not  her  husband's  I 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


355 


Leon,  A  gross  hag ! 

And,  losel,  thou  art  not  worthy  to  be  hang'd, 
That  wilt  not  stay  her  tongue. 

Ant.  Hang  all  the  husbands 

That  cannot  do  that  feat,  you'll  leave  yourself 
Hardly  one  subject. 

Leon.  Once  more,  take  her  hence. 

Paul.  A  most  unworthy  and  unnatural  lord 
Can  do  no  more. 

Leon.  I  '11  have  thee  burn'd. 

PatiL  I  care  not. 

It  is  an  heretic  that  makes  the  fire,        [tyrant ; 
Not  she  which  burns  in 't.     I  '11  not  call  you 
But  this  most  cruel  usage  of  your  queen, — 
Not  able  to  produce  more  accusation     [savours 
Than  your  own  weak-hing?d  fancy, — something 
Of  tyranny,  and  will  ignoble  make  you, 
Yea,  scandalous  to  the  world. 

Leon.  On  your  allegiance, 

Out  of  the  chamber  with  her !  Were  I  a  tyrant. 
Where  were  her  life?  she  durst  not  call  me  so, 
If  she  did  know  me  one.  Away  with  her ! 

Paul.   I  pray  you,  do  not  push  me ;  I  '11  be 

gone. —  [send  her 

Look  to  your  babe,  my  lord ;  'tis  yours :  Jove 

A  better  guiding  spirit! — What   needs   these 

hands? 

You,  that  are  thus  so  tender  o'er  his  follies, 
Will  never  do  him  good,  not  one  of  you. 
So,  so : — farewell ;  we  are  gone.  [Exit. 

Leon.  Thou,  traitor,  hast  set  on  thy  wife  to 

this.-*»flt* 

My  child?  away  with't! — even  thou,  that  hast 
A  heart  so  tender  o'er  it,  take  it  hence, 
And  see  it  instantly  consum'd  with  fire  ; 
Even  thou,  and  none  but  thou.     Take  it  up 

straight : 

Within  this  hour  bring  me  word  'tis  done, — 
And  by  good  testimony, — or  I  '11  seize  thy  life, 
With  what  thou  else  call'st   thine.      If  thou 

refuse, 

And  wilt  encounter  with  my  wrath,  say  so ; 
The  bastard-brains  with  these  my  proper  hands 
Shall  I  dash  out.     Go,  take  it  to  the  fire ; 
For  thou  sett'st  on  thy  wife. 

Ant.  I  did  not,  sir : 

These  lords,  my  noble  fellows,  if  they  please, 
Can  clear  me  in  't. 

i  Lord.  We  can : — my  royal  liege, 

He  is  not  guilty  of  her  coming  hither. 

Leon.  You  are  liars  all.  [credit  : 

I  Lord.  Beseech  your  highness,  give  us  better 
We  have  always  truly  servM  you ;  and  beseech 
So  to  esteem  of  us :  aid  on  our  knees  we  beg, — 
As  recompense  of  our  dear  services, 
Past  and  to  come,— that  you  do  change  this 
purpose. 


Which,  being  so  horrible,  so  bloody,  must 
Lead  on  to  some  foul  issue :  we  all  kneel. 
Leon.  I  am  a  feather    for    each  wind   that 

blows : — 

Shall  I  live  on,  to  see  this  bastard  kneel 
And  call  me  father  ?  better  burn  it  now, 
Than  curse  it  then.     But,  be  it ;  let  it  live  :— 
It  shall  not  neither. — You,  sir,  come  you  hither: 
[  To  ANTIGONUS. 

You  that  have  been  so  tenderly  officious 
With  Lady  Margery,  your  midwife,  there, 
To  save  this  bastard's  life, — for  'tis  a  bastard, 
So  sure  as  thy  beard  's  gray, — what  will  you 

adventure 
To  save  this  brat's  life? 

Ant.  Anything,  my  lord, 

That  my  ability  may  undergo, 
And  nobleness  impose :  at  least,  thus  much ; 
I  '11  pawn  the  little  blood  which  I  have  left, 
To  save  the  innocent : — anything  possible. 
Leon.  It  shall  be  possible.     Swear  by  this 

sword 
Thou  wilt  perform  my  bidding. 

Ant.  I  will,  my  lord. 

Leon.  Mark,  and  perform  it, — seest  thou?  for 

the  fail 

Of  any  point  in 't  shall  not  only  be 
Death  to  thyself,  but  to  thy  lewd-tongu'cl  wife, 
Whom  for  this  time  we  pardon.    We  enjoin  thee, 
As  thou  art  liegeman  to  us,  that  thou  cany 
This  female  bastard  hence  ;  and  that  thou  bear  it 
To  some  remote  and  desert  place,  quite  out 
Of  oui  dominions;  and  that  there  thou  leave  it, 
Without  more  mercy,  to  its  own  protection 
And  favour  of  the  climate.      As  by  strange  for- 
tune 

It  came  to  us,  I  do  in  justice  charge  thee, 
On  thy  soul's  peril  and  thy  body's  torture, 
That  thou  commend  it  strangely  to  some  place, 
Where  chance  may  nurse  or  end  it.    Take  it  up. 
Ant.  I  swear  to  do  this,  though  a  present  death 
Had  been  more  merciful.  — Come  on,  poor  babe : 
Some  powerful  spirit  instruct  the  kites  and  ravens 
To  be  thy  nurses !     Wolves  and  bears,  they  say, 
Casting  their  savagehess  aside,  have  dene 
Like  offices  of  pity.  —Sir,  be  prosperous    [ing, 
In  more  than  this  deed  does  require ! — and  bless- 
Against  this  cruelty,  fight  on  thy  side, 
Poor  thing,  condemned  to  loss ! 

{Exit  with  the  chihl. 

Leon.  No,  I  '11  not  rear 

Another's  issue. 

2  Attend.        Please  your  highness,  posts, 
From  those  you  sent  to  the  oracle,  are  come 
An  hour  since :  Cleomenes  and  Dion, 
Being  well  arriv'd  from  Delphos,  are  both  landed, 
Hasting  to  the  court. 


356 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


[ACT  III. 


I  Lord.  So  please  you,  sir,  their  speed 

Hath  been  beyond  account. 

Leon.  Twenty-three  days 

They  have  been  absent:  'tis  good  speed;  foretells 
The  great  Apollo  suddenly  will  have 
The  truth  of  this  appear.      Prepare  you,  lords ; 
Summon  a  session,  that  we  may  arraign 
Our  most  disloyal  lady ;  for,  as  she  hath 
Been  publicly  accus'd,  so  shall  she  have 
A  just  and  open  trial.     While  she  lives, 
My  heart  will  be  a  burden  to  me.     Leave  me ; 
And  think  upon  my  bidding.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — SICILIA.      A  Street  in  some  Town, 
hnter  CLEOMENES  and  DION. 

Cleo.  The  climate's  delicate;   the  air  most 

sweet ; 

Fertile  the  isle ;  the  temple  much  surpassing 
The  common  praise  it  bears.      bin 

Dion.  I  shall  report, 

For  most  it  caught  me,  the  celestial  habits, — 
Methinks  I  so  should  term   them, — and  the 

reverence 

Of  the  grave  wearers.     O,  the  sacrifice !  /, ; .  v. 
How  ceremonious,  solemn,  and  unearthly 
It  was  i*  the  offering ! 

Cleo.    yorf J  J  But>  of  all»  the  burst 

And  the  ear-deafening  voice  o'  the  oracle, 
Kin  to  Jove's  thunder,  so  surprised  my  sense 
That  I  was  nothing. 

Dion.  If  the  event  o'  the  journey 

Prove  as  successful  to  the  queen, — O,  be  \  so! — 
As  it  hath  been  to  us  rare,  pleasant,  speedy, 
The  time  is  worth  the  use  on't.      :J  Oj  smso  Jl 

Cleo.  Great  Apollo 

Turn  all  to  the  best !     These  proclamations, 
So  forcing  faults  upon  Hermione, 
I  little  like. 

Dion.      The  violent  carriage  of  it 
Will  clear  or  end  the  business:  when  the  oracle,  — 
Thus  by  Apollo's  great  divine  seal'd  up, — 
Shall  the  contents  discover,  something  rare 
Even  then  will  rush  to  knowledge. — Go, — fresh 

horses ; — 
And  gracious  be  the  issue !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — The  same.     A  Court  of  Justice. 

LEONTES,  Lords,  and  Officers  appear^  properly 
seated. 

Leon.  This  sessions, — to  our  great  grief,  we 

pronounce,— 

Even  pushes  'gainst  our  heart  ;*r-the  party  tried, 
The  daughter  of  a  king,  our  wife ;  and  one 


Of  us  too  much  belov'd.     Let  us  be  clear'd 
Of  being  tyrannous,  since  we  so  openly 
Proceed  in  justice ;  which  shall  have  due  course, 
Even  to  the  guilt  or  the  purgation. — 
Produce  the  prisoner. 

Offi.  It  is  his  highness'  pleasure  that  the  queen 
Appear  in  person  here  in  court. — 

Crier.  Silence ! 

HERMIONE  is  brought  in  guarded;  PAULINA 
and  Ladies  attending 

Leon.   Read  the  indictment. 

Offi.  [Reads.]  Hermione,  queen  to  the  worthy 
Leontes,  /foVz^^Sicilia,  thou  art  here  accused  and 
arraigned  of  high  treason^  in  committing  adultery 
with  Polixenes,  king  of  Bohemia  ;  and  conspir- 
ing with  Camillo  to  take  away  the  life  of  our 
sovereigJt  lord  the  kingy  thy  royal  husband :  the 
pretence  whereof  being  by  circtimstances  partly 
laid  open ,  tkouy  Hermione,  contrary  to  the  faith 
and  allegiance  of  a  true  subject \  didst  counsel  and 
aid  them ,  for  their  better  safety ',  to,  fly  away  by 
night. 

Her.  Since  what  I  am  to  say  must  be  but  that 
Which  contradicts  my  accusation,  and 
The  testimony  on  my  part  no  other  [me 

But  what  comes  from  myself,  it  shall  scarce  boot 
To  say,  Not  guilty:  mine  integrity 
Being  counted  falsehood,  shall,  as  I  express  it, 
Be  so  receiv'd.     But  thus, — if  powers  divine 
Behold  our  human  actions, — as  they  do, — 
I  doubt  not,  then,  but  innocence  shall  make 
False  accusation  blush,  and  tyranny    [know, — 
Tremble    at    patience. — You,   my  lord,   best 
Who  least  will  seem  to  do  so, — my  past  life 
Hath  been  as  continent,  as  chaste,  as  true, 
As  I  am  now  unhappy:  which  is  more 
Than  history  can  pattern,  though  devis'd 
And  play'd  to  take  spectators;  for,  behold  me, — 
A  fellow  of  the  royal  bed,  which  owe 
A  moiety  of  the  throne,  a  great  king's  daughter, 
The  mother  to  a  hopeful  prince, — here  standing 
To  prate  and  talk  for  life  and  honour  'fore     [it 
Who  please  to  come  and  hear.     For  life,  I  prize 
As  I  weigh  grief,  which  I  would  spare :  for 

honour, 

'Tis  a  derivative  from  me  to  mine, 
And  only  that  I  stand  for.     I  appeal 
To  your  own  conscience,  sir,  before  Polixenes 
Came  to  your  court,  how  I  was  in  your  grace, 
How  merited  to  be  so  •  since  he  came, 
With  what  encounter  so  uncurrent  I 
Have  strain'd,  to  appear  thus :  if  one  jot  beyond 
The  bound  of  honour,  or  in  act  or  will 
That  way  inclining,  harden'd  be  the  hearts 
Of  all  that  hear  me,  and  my  near'st  of  kin 
Cry,  Fie  upon  my  grave ' 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  WINTER'S  TAl-E. 


357 


Leon.  I  ne'er  heard  yet 

That  any  of  these  bolder  vices  wanted 
Less  impudence  to  gainsay  what  they  did 
Than  to  perform  it  first. 

Her.  That 's  true  enough ; 

Though  'tis  a  saying,  sir,  not  due  to  me. 

Leon.  You  will  not  own  it. 

Her.  More  than  mistress  of 

Which  conies  to  me  in  name  of  fault,  I  must  not 
At  all  acknowledge.     For  Polixenes, — 
With  whom  I  am  accus'd, — I  do  confess 
I  lov'd  him,  as  in  honour  he  rcquir'd ; 
With  such  a  kind  of  love  as  might  become 
A  lady  like  me;  with  a  love  even  such, 
So  and  no  other,  as  yourself  commanded: 
Which  not  to  have  done,  I  think  had  been  in  me 
Both  disobedience  and  ingratitude          [spoke, 
To  you  and  toward  your  friend ;  whose  love  had 
Even  since  it  could  speak,  from  an  infant,  freely, 
That  it  was  yours.     Now,  for  conspiracy, 
I  know  not  how  it  tastes ;  though  it  be  dish'd 
For  me  to  try  how:  all  I  know  of  it; •.• \  3<m  o( 
Is,  that  Camillo  was  an  honest  man ; 
And  why  he  left  your  court,  the  gods  themselves, 
Wotting  no  more  than  I,  are  ignorant. 

Leon.  You  knew  of  his  departure,  as  you  know 
What  you  have  underta'en  to  do  in  's  absence. 

Her.  Sir, 

You  speak  a  language  that  I  understand  not : 
My  life  stands  in  the  level  of  your  dreams, 
Which  I  '11  lay  down. 

Leon.  Your  actions  are  my  dreams ; 

You  had  a  bastard  by  Polixenes,        [shame, — 
And  I  but  dream'd  it : — as  you  were  past  all 
Those  of  your  fact  are  so, — so  past  all  truth : 
Which  to  deny  concerns  more  than  avails ;  for  as 
Thy  brat  hath  been  cast  out,  like  to  itself, 
No  father  owning  it, — which  is,  indeed, 
More  criminal  in  thee  than  it,— so  thou 
Shalt  feel  our  justice ;  in  whose  easiest  passage 
Look  for  no  less  than  death. 

Her.  Sir,  spare  your  threats : 

The  bug  which  you  would  fright  me  with,  I  seek. 
To  me  can  life  be  no  commodity : 
The  crown  and  comfort  of  my  life,  your  favour, 
I  do  give  lost ;  for  I  do  feel  it  gone, 
But  know  not  how  it  went :  my  second  joy, 
And  first-fruits  of  my  body,  from  his  presence 
I  am  barr'd,  like  one  infectious :  my  third  com- 
fort, 

Starr'd  most  unluckily,  is  from  my  breast, — 
The  innocent  milk  in  its  most  innocent  mouth, — 
Hal'd  out  to  murder :  myself  on  every  post 
Proclaim'd  a  strumpet ;  with  immodest  hatred, 
The  child-bed  privilege  denied,  which  'longs 
To  women  of  all  fashion ;  lastly,  hurried 
Here  to  this  place,  i*  the  open  air,  before 


I  have  got  strength  of  limit.     Now,  my  liege> 
Tell  me  what  blessings  I  have  here  alive, 
That  I  should  fear  to  die?    Therefore,  proceed. 
But  yet  hear  this;  mistake  me  not; — no  life, — • 
I  price  it  not  a  straw, — but  for  mine  honour 
(Which  I  would  free),  if  I  shall  be  condemn'd 
Upon  surmises— all  proofs  sleeping  else, 
But  what  your  jealousies  awake — I  tell  you 
'Tis  rigour,  and  not  law. — Your  honours  all, 
I  do  refer  me  to  the  oracle : 
Apollo  be  my  judge  ! 

i  Lord.  This  your  request 

Is  altogether  just :  therefore,  bring  forth, 
And  in  Apollo's  name,  his  oracle  : 

{Exeunt  certain  Officers. 

Her.  The  Emperor  of  Russia  was  my  father  ; 
O  that  he  were  aliv«,  and  here  beholding 
His  daughter's  trial  !  that  he  did  but  see 
The  flatness  of  my  misery  ;  yet  with  eyes 
Of  pity,  not  revenge  ! 

Re-enter  Officers,  with  CLEOMENES  and  DION. 

Offi.  You  here  shall  swear  upon  this  sword 

ofjustice, 

That  you,  Cleomenes  and  Dion,  have 
Been  both  at  Delphos,  and  from  thence  have 

brought 

This  seal'd-up  oracle,  by  the  hand  deliver'd 
Of  great  Apollo's  priest ;  and  that,  since  then, 
You  have  not  dar'd  to  break  the  holy  seal, 
Nor  read  the  secrets  in 't. 

Cleo.  Dion.  All  this  we  swear. 

Leon.  Break  up  the  seals  and  read. 

Offi.  [tfeads.']  Hermione  is  chaste  ;  Polixenes 
blameless ;  Camillo  a  true  subject ;  Leontes  a 
jealous  tyrant ;  his  innocent  babe  truly  begotten; 
and  the  king  shall  live,  without  an  heir,  if  that 
which  is  lost  be  not  found. 

Lords.  Now  blessed  be  the  great  Apollo ! 

Her.  Praised! 

Leon.  Hast  thou  read  truth? 

Oft.  Ay,  my  lord;  even  so 

As  it  is  here  set  down. 

Leon.  There  is  no  truth  at  all  i'  the  oracle : 
The  sessions  shall  proceed :  thisis  mere  falsehood ! 

Enter  a  Servant  hastily. 

Serv.  My  lord  the  king,  the  king ! 

Leon.  What  is  the  business? 

Serv.  O  sir,  I  shall  be  hated  to  report  it : 
The  prince  your  son,  with  mere  conceit  and  fear 
Of  the  queen's  speed,  is  gone. 

Leon.  Howl  gone? 

Serv.  •?  ;yni  Is  dead. 

Leon.  Apollo 's  angry ;  and  the  heavens  them, 
selves 


358 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


[ACT  in. 


Do  strike  at  my  injustice.    [HERMlONE/am/j.  ] 

How  now  there  1 
Pa^t!.  This  news  is  mortal  to  the  queen : — 

Look  down 
And  see  what  death  is  doing. 

Leon.  Take  her  hence : 

Her  heart  is  but  o'ercharg'd ;  she  will  recover. — 
I  have  too  much  believ'd  mine  own  suspicion : — 
Beseech  you,  tenderly  apply  to  her 
Some  remedies  for  life. — Apollo,  pardon 

[Exeunt  PAUL,  and  Ladies,  with  HER. 
My  great  profaneness  'gainst  thine  oracle ! — 
I  '11  reconcile  me  to  Polixenes ; 
New  woo  my  queen ;  recall  the  good  Camillo, 
Whom  I  proclaim  a  man  of  truth,  of  mercy; 
For,  being  transported  by  my  jealousies 
To  bloody  thoughts  and  to  revenge,  I  chose 
Camillo  for  the  minister,  to  poison 
My  friend  Polixenes :  which  had  been  done, 
But  that  the  good  mind  of  Camillo  tardied 
My  swift  command,  though  I  with  death  and 

with 

Reward  did  threaten  and  encourage  him, 
Not  doing  it  and  being  done :  he,  most  humane, 
And  fill'd  with  honour,  to  my  kingly  guest 
Unclasp'd  my  practice ;  quit  his  fortunes  here, 
Which  you  knew  great;    and   to  the  certain 

hazard 

Of  all  incertainties  himself  commended, 
No  richer  than  his  honour : — How  he  glisters 
Thorough  my  rust !  and  how  his  piety 
Does  my  deeds  make  the  blacker ! 

Re-enter  PAULINA. 

A*t  Woe  the  while! 

O,  cut  my  lace,  lest  my  heart,  cracking  it, 
Break  too ! 

i  Lord.  What  fit  is  this,  good  lady? 

Paul.  What  studied  torments,  tyrant,  nast 
for  me?  [boiling 

What    wheels?    racks?    fires?    what   flaying? 
In  leads  or  oils?  what  old  or  newer  torture 
Must  I  receive,  whose  every  word  deserves 
To  taste  of  thy  most  worst?     Thy  tyranny 
Together  working  with  thy  jealousies, — 
Fancies  too  weak  for  boys,  too  green  and  idle 
For  girls  of  nine, — O,  think  what  theyhavedone, 
And  then  run  mad  indeed, — stark  mad !  for  all 
Thy  by-gone  fooleries  were  but  spices  of  it. 
That  thou  betray'dst  Polixenes,  'twas  nothing ; 
That  did  but  show  thee,  of  a  fool,  inconstant, 
And  damnable  ingrateful ;  nor  was 't  much 
Thou  wouldst  have  poison'd  good  Camillo'.s 

honour, 

To  have  him  kill  a  king ;  poor  trespasses, — 
More  monstrous  standing  by :  whereof  I  reckon 
The  casting  forth  to  crows  thy  baby  daughter, 


To  be  or  none,  or  little ;  though  a  devil 
Would  have  shed  water  out  of  fire  ere  done  *t : 
Nor  is 't  directly  kid  to  thee,  the  death 
Of     the     young    prince,     whose     honourable 

thoughts, —  [heart 

Thoughts  high  for  one  so  tender, — cleft  the 
That  could  conceive  a  gross  and  foolish  sire 
Blemish'd  his  gracious  dam  :  this  is  not — no, 
Laid  to  thy  answer :  but  the  last, — O  lords, 
When  I  have  said,  cry,  Woe ! — the  queen,  the 

queen, 
The   sweetest,   dearest   creature's  dead;    and 

vengeance  for 't 
Nor  dropp'd  down  yet. 

I  Lord.  The  higher  powers  forbid ! 

Paul.   I  say  she's  dead:    I'll  swear 't.     If 

word  nor  oath 

Prevail  not,  go  and  see:  if  you  can  bring 
Tincture,  or  lustre,  in  her  lip,  her  eye, 
Heat  outwardly  or  breath  within,  I  '11  serve  you 
As  I  would  do  the  gods. — But,  O  thou  tyrant! 
Do  not  repent  these  things ;  for  they  are  heavier 
Than  all  thy  woes  can  stir ;  therefore  betake  thee 
To  nothing  but  despair.     A  thousand  knees 
Ten  thousand  years  together,  naked,  fasting, 
Upon  a  barren  mountain,  and  still  winter 
In  storm  perpetual,  could  not  move  the  gods 
To  look  that  way  thou  wert. 

Leon.  Go  on,  go  on : 

Thou  canst  not  speak  too  much ;  I  have  deserv'd 
All  tongues  to  talk  their  bitterest ! 

I  Lord.  Say  no  more ; 

Howe'er  the  business  goes,  you  have  made  fault 
I'  the  boldness  of  your  speech. 

Paul.  I  am  sorry  for 't : 

All  faults  I  make,  when  I  shall  come  to  know 

them, 

I  do  repent.     Alas,  I  have  show'd  too  much 
The  rashness  of  a  woman :  he  is  touch'd 
To  the  noble  heart.— What's  gone,  and  what 's 

past  help, 

Should  be  past  grief:  do  not  receive  affliction 
At  my  petition ;  I  beseech  you,  rather 
Let  me  be  punish'd,  that  have  minded  you 
Of  what  you  should  forget.    Now,  good  my  liege, 
Sir,  royal  sir,  forgive  a  foolish  woman : 
The  love  I  bore  your  queen, — lo,  fool  again ! — 
I  '11  speak  of  her  no  more,  nor  of  your  children  j 
I  '11  not  remember  you  of  my  own  lord, 
Who  is  lost  too :  take  your  patience  to  you, 
And  I  '11  say  nothing. 

Leon.  Thou  didst  speak  but  well, 

When  most  the  truth;  which  I  receive  much 

better 

Than  to  be  pitied  of  thee.     Pr'ythee,  bring  me 
To  the  dead  bodies  of  my  queen  and  son : 
One  grave  shall  be  for  both ;  upon  them  shall 


bCENE  III.] 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


359 


The  causes  of  their  death  appear,  unto 
Our  shame  perpetual.     Once  a  day  I  '11  visit 
The  chapel  where  they  lie ;  and  tears  shed  there 
Shall  be  ray  recreation :  so  long  as  nature 
Will  bear  up  with  this  exercise,  so  long 
I  daily  vow  to  use  it. — Come,  and  lead  me 
To  these  sorrows.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —BOHEMIA.     A  desert  Country 
near  the  Sea. 

Enter  ANTIGONUS  with  the  Child,  and  a 
Mariner. 

Ant.  Thou  art  perfect,  then,  our  ship  hath 

touch'd  upon 
The  deserts  of  Bohemia? 

Mar.  Ay,  my  lord ;  and  fear 

We  have  landed  in  ill  time:    the  skies  look 

grimly,  [science, 

And  threaten  present  blusters.      In  my  con- 

The  heavens  with  that  we  have  in  hand  are 

angry, 
And  frown  upon  's. 

Ant.  Their  sacred  wills  be  done ! — Go,  get 

aboard ; 

Look  to  thy  bark :  I  '11  not  be  long  before 
I  call  upon  thee. 

Mar.  Make  your  best  haste ;  and  go  not 
Too  far  i'  the  land :  'tis  like  to  be  loud  weather ; 
Besides,  this  place  is  famous  for  the  creatures 
Of  prey  that  keep  upon  't. 

Ant.  Gothouaway: 

I  '11  follow  instantly. 

Mar.  I  am  glad  at  heart 
To  be  so  rid  o'  the  business.  [Exit. 

Ant.  Come,  poor  babe: — 

I  have  heard  (but  not  believ'd),  the  spirits  of 

the  dead 

May  walk  again  :  if  such  thing  be,  thy  mother 
Appear'd  to  me  last  night ;  for  ne'er  was  dream 
So  like  a  waking.     To  me  comes  a  creature, 
Sometimes  her  head  on  one  side,  some  another : 
I  never  saw  a  vessel  of  like  sorrow, 
So  fill'd  and  so  becoming :  in  pure  white  robes, 
Like  very  sanctity,  she  did  approach 
My  cabin  where  I  lay :  thrice  bo\v?d  before  me ; 
And,  gasping  to  begin  some  speech,  her  eyes 
Became  two  spouts :  the  fury  spent,  anon 
Did  this  break  from  her :   Good  Antigonus, 
Since  fate,  against  thy  better  disposition, 
Hath  made  thy  person  for  the  thrower-cut 
Of  my  poor  babe,  according  to  thine  oath, — 
Places  remote  enough  are  in  Bohemia,         [babe 
There  weep,  and  leave  it  crying;  and,  for  the 
/r  counted  lost  for  ever,  Perdita, 
f  pr'ythee,  call  V.     For  this  ungentle  busintsa, 
Fui  on  thee  l>y  my  lordt  thou  ne'er  shalt  :cc 


Thy  wife  Paulina  mo-re? — and  so,  with  shrieks, 
She  melted  into  air.     Affrighted  much, 
I  did  in  time  collect  myself;  and  thought 
This  was  so,  and  no  slumber.    Dreams  are  toys ; 
Yet,  for  this  once,  yea,  superstitiously, 
I  will  be  squar'd  by  this.     I  do  believe 
Hermione  hath  suffer' d  death ;  and  that 
Apollo  would,  this  being  indeed  the  issue 
Of  King  Polixenes,  it  should  here  be  laid, 
Either  for  life  or  death,  upon  the  earth 
Of  its  right  father.     Blossom,  speed  thee  well ! 
[Laying  down  the  child. 
There  lie ;  and  there  thy  character :  there  these ; 
[Laying  down  a  bundle. 
Which  may  if  fortune  please,  both  breed  thee, 

pretty, 
And  still  rest  thine. — The  storm  begins :. — poor 

wretch, 

That,  for  thy  mother's  fault,  art  thus  expos'd 
To  loss  and  what  may  follow  ! — Weep  I  cannot, 
But  my  heart  bleeds :  and  most  accurs'd  am  I 
To  be  by  oath  enjoin'd  to  this. — Farewell ! 
The  day  frowns  more  and  more : — thou  'rt  like 

to  have 

A  lullaby  too  rough : — I  never  saw 
The  heavens  so  dim  by  day.  A  savage  clamour ! — • 
Well  may  I  get  aboard  ! — This  is  the  chace : 
I  am  gone  for  ever !    [Exit>  pursued  by  a  bear. 

Enter  an  old  Shepherd. 

i.'.txi   :,•;.._ 

Shep.  I  would  there  were  no  age  between 
ten  and  three-and-twenty,  or  that  youth  would 
sleep  out  the  rest ;  for  there  is  nothing  in  the 
between  but  getting  wenches  with  child,  wrong- 
ing the  ancientry,  stealing,  righting. — Hark 
you  now  !• — Would  any  but  these  boiled  brains 
of  nineteen  and  two-and-twenty  hunt  this 
weather?  They  have  scared  away  two  of  my 
best  sh^ep,  which  I  fear  the  wolf  will  sooner 
find  than  the  master:  if  any  where  I  have 
them,  'tis  by  the  sea-side,  browsing  of  ivy. — 
Good  luck,  an't  be  thy  will!  what  have  we 
here?  [Taking  up  the  child."]  Mercy  on's,  a 
bairn ;  a  very  pretty  bairn  !  A  boy  or  a  child, 
I  wonder?  A  pretty  one;  a  very  pretty  one: 
sure,  some  scape:  though  I  am  not  bookish, 
yet  I  can  read  waiting-gentlewoman  in  the 
scape.  This  has  been  some  stair-work,  some 
trunk -work,  some  bchind-door-work :  they 
were  wanner  that  got  this  than  the  poor  thing 
is  here.  I  '11  take  it  up  for  pity :  yet  I  '11 
tarry  till  my  son  comes ;  he  hollaed  but  even 
now. — Whoa,  ho  hoa! 

Ch.  [Within.}  Hilloa,  loa! 

Shep.  What,  art  so  near?  If  thou  'It  see  a 
thing  to  talk  on  when  thou  art  dead  and  rotten, 
conic  hi'.h*!. 


360 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


[ACT  iv. 


Enter  Clown. 

What  ailest  thou,  man? 

Clo.  I  have  seen  two  such  sights,  by  sea  and 
by  land ! — but  I  am  not  to  say  it  is  a  sea,  for  it 
is  now  the  sky :  betwixt  the  firmament  and  it, 
you  cannot  thrust  a  bodkin's  point. 

Shep.  Why,  boy,  how  is  it? 

Clo.  I  would  you  did  but  see  now  it  chafes, 
how  it  rages,  how  it  takes  up  the  shore !  but 
that's  not  to  the  point.  O,  the  most  piteous 
cry  of  the  poor  souls !  sometimes  to  see  'em, 
and  not  to  see  'em ;  now  the  ship  boring  the 
moon  with  her  mainmast,  and  anon  swallowed 
with  yest  and  froth,  as  you  'd  thrust  a  cork  in 
a  hogshead.  And  then  for  the  land  service, — 
to  see  how  the  bear  tore  out  his  shoulder-bone ; 
how  he  cried  to  me  for  help,  and  said  his 
name  was  Antigonus,  a  nobleman. — But  to 
make  an  end  of  the  ship,— to  see  how  the  sea 
flap-dragoned  it : — but,  first,  how  the  poor  souls 
roared,  and  the  sea  mocked  them ; — and  how 
the  poor  gentleman  roared,  and  the  bear 
mocked  him, — both  roaring  louder  than  the 
sea  or  weather. 

Shep.  Name  of  mercy!  when  was  this, 
*  boy? 

Clo.  Now,  now ;  I  have  not  winked  since  I 
saw  these  sights:  the  men  are  not  yet  cold 
under  water,  nor  the  bear  half  dined  on  the 
gentleman ;  he 's  at  it  now. 

Shep.  Would  I  had  been  by  to  have  helped 
the  old  man ! 

Clo.  I  would  you  had  been  by  the  ship-side, 
to  have  helped  her :  there  your  charity  would 
have  lacked  footing.  [Aside. 

Shep.  Heavy  matters!  heavy  matters!  but 
look  thee  here,  boy.  Now  bless  thyself:  thou 
mettest  with  things  dying,  I  with  things  new- 
born. Here  's  a  sight  for  thee ;  look  thee,  a 
bearing-cloth  for  a  squire's  child!  look  thee 
here!  take  up,  take  up,  boy;  open't.  So, 
let 's  see : — it  was  told  me  I  should  be  rich  by 
the  fairies:  this  is  some  changeling: — open't. 
What 's  within,  boy? 

Clo.  You  're  a  made  old  man ;  if  the  sins  of 
your  youth  are  forgiven  you,  you  're  well  to 
live.  Gold!  all  gold! 

Shep.  This  is  fairy-gold,  boy,  and  'twill 
prove  so :  up  with  it,  keep  it  close :  home, 
home,  the  next  way !  We  are  lucky,  boy;  and 
to  be  so  still  requires  nothing  but  secrecy — 
Let  my  sheep  go : — come,  good  boy,  the  next 
way  home. 

Clo.  Go  you  the  next  way  with  your  findings. 
I  '11  go  see  if  the  bear  be  gone  from  the  gentle- 
man, and  how  much  he  hath  eaten :  they  arc 


never  curst  but  when  they  are  hungry :  if  there 
be  any  of  him  left,  I  '11  bury  it. 

Shep.  That 's  a  good  deed.  If  thou  mayest 
discern  by  that  which  is  left  of  him  what  he  is, 
fetch  me  to  the  sight  of  him. 

Clo.  Marry,  will  I;  and  you  shall  help  to 
put  him  i'  the  ground. 

Shep.  'Tis  a  lucky  day,  boy;  and  we'll  do 
good  deeds  on 't.  {Exeunt. 

s»V.<  ACT  IV.  ,  >j_,j'rWjk  ^ta"^ 

Enter  TIME,  as  Chorus. 

Time.  I, — that   please  some,  try  all;  both 

joy  and  terror 

Of  good  and  bad ;  that  make  and  unfold  error, — 
Now  take  upon  me,  in  the  name  of  Time, 
To  use  my  wings.     Impute  it  not  a  crime 
To  me  or  my  swift  passage,  that  I  slide 
O'er  sixteen  years,  and  leave  the  growth  untried 
Of  that  wide  gap,  since  it  is  in  my  power 
To  o'erthrow  law,  and  in  one  self-born  hour 
To  plant  and  o'erwhelm  custom.    Let  me  pass 
The  same  I  am,  ere  ancient'st  order  was, 
Or  what  is  now  received  ••  I  witness  to 
The  times  that  brought  them  in ;  so  shall  I  do 
To  the  freshest  things  now  reigning,  and  make 

nrstale 

The  glistering  of  this  present,  as  my  tale 
Now  seems  to  it.    Your  patience  this  allowing, 
I  turn  my  glass,  and  give  my  scene  such  growing 
As  you  had  slept  between.     Leontes  leaving 
The  effects  of  his  fond  jealousies,  so  grieving 
That  he  shuts  up  himself;  imagine  me, 
Gentle  spectators,  that  I  now  may  be 
In  fair  Bohemia ;  and  remember  well, 
I  mendon'd  a  son  o'  the  king's,  which  Florize. 
I  now  name  to  you ;  and  with  speed  so  pace 
To  speak  of  Perdita,  now  grown  in  grace 
Equal  with  wondering :  what  of  her  ensues, 
I  list  not  prophesy ;  but  let  Time's  news 
Be  known  when  'tis  brought  forth: — a  shep- 
herd's daughter, 

And  what  to  her  adheres,  which  follows  after, 
Is  the  argument  of  Time.     Of  this  allow, 
If  ever  you  have  spent  time  worse  ere  now ; 
If  never,  yet  that  Time  himself  doth  say 
He  wishes  earnestly  you  never  may.        [Exit. 

SCENE  I. — BOHEMIA.     A  Room  in  the  Palace 

of  POLIXENES. 

J 

Enter  POLIXENES  and  CAMILLO. 

Pol.  I  pray  thee,  good  Camillo,  be  no  more 
importunate :  'tis  a  sickness  denying  thee  any- 
thing ;  a  death  to  grant  this. 

Cam.  It  is  fifteen  years  since   I  saw  my 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


361 


country;  though  I  have  for  the  most  part  been 
aired  abroad,  I  desire  to  lay  my  bones  there. 
Besides,  the  penitent  king,  my  master,  hath 
sent  for  me ;  to  whose  feeling  sorrows  I  might 
be  some  allay,  or  I  o'erween  to  think  so, — which 
is  another  spur  to  my  departure. 

Pol.  As  thou  lovest  me,  Camillo,  wipe  not 
out  the  rest  of  thy  services  by  leaving  me  now  : 
the  need  I  have  of  thee,  thine  own  goodness 
hath  made ;  better  not  to  have  had  thee  than 
thus  to  want  thee ;  thou,  having  made  me  busi- 
nesses which  none  without  thee  can  sufficiently 
manage,  must  either  stay  to  execute  them  thy- 
self, or  take  away  with  thee  the  very  services 
thou  hast  done ;  which  if  I  have  not  enough 
considered, — as  too  much  I  cannot, — to  be  more 
thankful  to  thee  shall  be  my  study ;  and  my 
profit  therein  the  heaping  friendships.  Of  that 
fatal  country  Sicilia,  pr'ythee,  speak  no  more ; 
whose  very  naming  punishes  me  with  the  re- 
membrance of  that  penitent,  as  thou  call'st  him, 
and  reconciled  king,  my  brother ;  whose  loss  of 
his  most  precious  queen  and  children  are  even 
now  to  be  afresh  lamented.  Say  to  me,  when 
sawest  thou  the  Prince  Florizel,  my  son?  Kings 
aie  no  less  unhappy,  their  issue  not  being 
gracious,  than  they  are  in  losing  them,  when 
they  have  approved  their  virtues. 

Cam.  Sir,  it  is  three  days  since  I  saw  the 
prince.  What  his  happier  affairs  may  be,  are 
to  me  unknown ;  but  I  have  missingly  noted  he 
is  of  late  much  retired  from  court,  and  is  less 
frequent  to  his  princely  exercises  than  formerly 
he  hath  appeared. 

Pol.  I  have  considered  so  much,  Camillo, 
and  with  some  care ;  so  far,  that  I  have  eyes 
under  my  service  which  look  upon  his  removed- 
ness  ;  from  whom  I  have  this  intelligence, — that 
he  is  seldom  from  the  house  of  a  most  homely 
shepherd;  a  man,  they  say,  that  from  very 
nothing,  and  beyond  the  imagination  of  his 
neighbours,  is  grown  into  an  unspeakable 
estate. 

Cam.  I  have  heard,  sir,  of  such  a  man,  who 
hath  a  daughter  of  most  rare  note :  the  report 
of  her  is  extended  more  than  can  be  thought  to 
begin  from  such  a  cottage. 

Pol.  That 's  likewise  part  of  my  intelligence: 
but  I  fear  the  angle  that  plucks  our  son  thither. 
Thou  shalt  accompany  us  to  the  place;  where 
we  will,  not  appearing  what  we  are,  have  some 
question  with  the  shepherd ;  from  whose  sim- 
plicity I  think  it  not  uneasy  to  get  the  cause 
of  my  son's  resort  thither.  Pr'ythee,  be  my 
present  partner  in  this  business,  and  lay  aside 
the  thoughts  of  Sicilia. 

Cam,  I  willingly  obey  your  command* 


PoL  My  best  CarailloJ— We  must  disguise 
ourselves.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE   II. — The  same.      A   Road  near   the 
Shepherd's  Cottage. 

Enter  AuTOLYCUS,  singing. 

When  daffodils  begin  to  peer, — 
With,  hey  !  the  doxy  over  the  dale, — 

Why,  then  comes  in  the  sweet  o'  the  year  ; 
For  the  red  biood  reigns  in  the  winter's  pale. 

The  white  sheet  bleaching  on  the  hedge, — 
With,  hey  !  the  sweet  birds,  O,  how  they  sing  5— 

Doth  set  my  pugging  tooth  on  edge  ; 
For  a  quart  of  ale  is  a  dish  for  a  king. 

The  lark,  that  tirra-Hrra  chants,— 

With,  hey !  with,  hey !  the  thrush  and  the  jay,— 
Are  summer  songs  for  me  and  my  aunts, 

While  we  lie  tumbling  in  the  hay. 

I  have  served  Prince  Florizel,  and,  in  my  time, 
wore  three-pile ;  but  now  I  am  out  of  service : 

But  shall  I  go  mourn  for  that,  my  dear? 

The  pale  moon  shines  by  night : 
And  when  I  wander  here  and  there, 

I  then  do  most  go  right. 

ti   :  -»9ni  ruiw  Jfol  <•$<!  tMJ  feJa^iai^ 
If  tinkers  may  have  leave  to  live, 

And  bear  the  sow-skin  budget, 
Then  my  account  I  well  may  give 

And  in  the  stocks  avouch  it. 

My  traffic  is  sheets ;  when  the  kite  builds>  look 
to  lesser  linen.  My  father  named  me  Autolycus; 
who  being,  as  I  am,  littered  under  Mercury, 
was  likewise  a  snapper-up  of  unconsidered 
trifles.  With  die  and  drab  I  purchased  this 
caparison;  and  my  revenue  is  the  silly -cheat: 
gallows  and  knock  are  too  powerful  on  the 
highway;  beating  and  hanging  are  terrors  to 
me ;  for  the  life  co  come,  I  sleep  out  the  thought 
of  it. — A  prize !  a  prize  1 

Enter  Clown. 

,. 
Clo.  Let  me  s?e : — every  'leven  wether  tods ; 

every  tod  yields  i>ound  and  odd  shilling ;  fifteen 
hundred  shorn,  what  comes  the  wool  to? 

Aut.  If  the  springe  hold,  the  cock 's  mine. 

[Aside. 

Clo.  I  cannot  do  't  without  counters. — Let 
me  see ;  what  am  I  to  buy  for  our  sheep-shear- 
ing feast?  Three  pound  of  sugar  ;  Jive  pound 
of  currants;  rice — what  will  this  sister  of  mine 
do  with  rice?  But  my  father  hath  made  her 
mistress  of  the  feast,  and  she  lays  it  on.  She 
hath  made  me  four-and-twenty  nosegays  for  the 
shearers,— three-man  song-men  all,  and  very 
good  ones ;  but  they  are  most  of  them  means 
and  bases ;  but  one  puritan  amongst  them,  and 
he  sings  psalms  to  hornpipes.  I  must  have 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


[ACT  iv. 


saffron,  to  colour  the  warden  pies;  mace — dates > 
— none ;  that  }s  out  of  my  note ;  nutmegs,  seven; 
a  race  or  two  of  ginger, — but  that  I  may  beg ; 
four  pound  of  prunes  >  and  as  many  of  raisins 
0'  the  sun. 

Aut.  O  that  ever  I  was  born  ! 

[  Grovelling  on  the  ground. 

Clo.  F  the  name  of  me, — 

Aut.  O,  help  me,  help  me!  pluck  but  off 
these  rags ;  and  then,  death,  death  ! 

Clo.  Alack,  poor  soul !  thou  hast  need  of 
more  rags  to  lay  on  thee,  rather  than  have  these 
off. 

Aut.  O,  sir,  the  loathsomeness  ot  them 
offends  me  more  than  the  stripes  I  have  re- 
ceived, which  are  mighty  ones  and  millions. 

Clo.  Alas,  poor  man !  a  million  of  beating 
may  come  to  a  great  matter. 

Aut.  I  am  robbed,  sir,  and  beaten;  my 
money  and  apparel  ta'en  from  me,  and  these 
detestable  things  put  upon  me. 

Clo.  What,  by  a  horseman  or  a  footman? 

Aut.  A  footman,  sweet  sir,  a  footman. 

Clo.  Indeed,  he  should  be  a  footman,  by  the 
garments  he  has  left  with  thee:  if  this  be  a 
horseman's  coat,  it  hath  seen  very  hot  service. 
Lend  me  thy  hand,  I  '11  help  thee :  come,  lend 
me  thy  hand.  [Helping  him  up. 

Aut.  O,  good  sir,  tenderly,  O ! 

Clo.  Alas,  poor  soul ! 

Aut.  Oh,  good  sir,  softly,  good  sir :  I  fear, 
sir,  my  shoulder  blade  is  out. 

Clo.  How  now!  canst  stand? 

Aut.  Softly,  dear  sir !  [picks  his  pocket}  good 
sir,  softly ;  you  ha*  done  me  a  charitable  office. 

Clo.  Dost  lack  any  money?  I  have  a  little 
money  for  thee. 

Aut.  No,  good  sweet  sir;  no,  I  beseech  you, 
sir:  I  have  a  kinsman  not  past  three  quarters 
of  a  mile  hence,  unto  whom  I  was  going ;  I 
shall  there  have  money  or  anything  I  want: 
offer  me  no  money,  I  pray  you ;  that  kills  my 
heart.  .  [robbed  you? 

Clo.  What  manner  of  fellow  was   he   that 

Aut.  A  fellow,  sir,  that  I  have  known  to  go 
about  with  troll-my-dames :  I  knew  him  once 
a  servant  of  the  prince :  I  cannot  tell,  good  sir, 
for  which  of  his  virtues  it  was,  but  he  was 
certainly  whipped  out  of  the  court. 

Clo.  His  vices,  you  would  say;  there's  no 
virtue  whipped  out  of  the  court :  they  cherish 
it,  to  make  it  stay  there ;  and  yet  it  will  no 
more  but  abide. 

Aut.  Vices,  I  would  say,  sir.  I  know  this 
man  well :  he  hath  been  since  an  ape-bearer ; 
then  a  process-server,  a  bailiff ;  then  he  com- 
passed a  motion  gf  the  Prodigal  Son,  and 


married  a  tinker's  wife  within  a  mile  where  my 
land  and  living  lies;  and,  having  flown  over 
many  knavish  professions,  he  settled  only  in 
rogue :  some  call  him  Autolycus. 

Clo.  Out  upon  him!  prig,  for  my  life,  prig: 
he  haunts  wakes,  fairs,  and  bear-baitings. 

Aut.  Very  true,  sir ;  he,  sir,  he ;  that 's  the 
rogue  that  put  me  into  this  apparel. 

Clo.  Not  a  more  cowardly  rogue  in  all 
Bohemia ;  if  you  had  but  looked  big  and  spit 
at  him,  he  'd  have  run. 

Aut.  I  must  confess  to  you,  sir,  I  am  no 
fighter :  I  am  false  of  heart  that  way ;  and  that 
he  knew,  I  warrant  him. 

Clo.  How  do  you  now? 

Auf.  Sweet  sir,  much  better  than  I  was;  I 
can  stand  and  walk :  I  will  even  take  my  leave 
of  you,  and  pace  softly  towards  my  kinsman's. 

Clo.  Shall  I  bring  thee  on  the  way? 

Aut.  No,  good-faced  sir ;  no,  sweet  sir. 

Clo.  Then  fare  thee  well:  I  must  go  buy 
spices  for  our  sheep-shearing. 

Aut.  Prosper  you,  sweet  sir  !  \Exit  Clown.] 
Your  purse  is  not  hot  enough  to  purchase  your 
spice.  I  '11  be  with  you  at  your  sheep-shearing 
too.  If  I  make  not  this  cheat  bring  out  another, 
and  the  shearers  prove  sheep,  let  me  be  en- 
rolled, and  my  name  put  in  the  book  of  virtue ! 

{Sings. 

Jog  on,  jog  on,  the  footpath  way, 

And  merrily  bent  the  stile-a  : 
A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day, 

Your  sad  tires  in  a  raile-a. 


SCENE  III.  —  The  same.     A  Shepherd's 
Cottage. 

Enter  FLORIZEL  and  PERDITA. 

Flo.  These  your  unusual  weeds  to  each  part 

of  you 

Do  give  a  life :  no  shepherdess,  but  Flora    [ing 
Peering  in  April's  front.    This  your  sheep-shear- 
Is  as  a  meeting  of  the  petty  gods, 
And  you  the  queen  on 't 

Per.  Sir,  my  gracious  lord, 

To  chide  at  your  extremes  it  not  becomes  me, — 
O,  pardon  that  I  name  them ! — your  high  self, 
The  gracious  mark  o'  the  land,  you  have  obscur'd 
With  a  swain's  wearing;  andme,  poor  lowly  maid, 
Most  goddess-like  prank'd  up.   But  that  our  feasts 
In  every  mess  have  folly,  and  the  feeders 
Digest  it  with  a  custom,  I  should  blush 
To  see  you  so  attir'd;  swoon,  I  think, 
To  show  myself  a  glass. 

Flo.  I  bless  the  time 

When  my  good  falcon  made  her  flight  across 
Thy  fathers  ground. 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


363 


Per.  Now  Jove  afford  you  cause ! 

To  me  the  difference  forges  dread:  your  greatness 
Hath  not  been  us'd  to  fear.  Even  now  I  tremble 
To  think  your  father,  by  some  accident, 
Should  pass  this  way,  as  you  did.  O,  the  fates  ! 
How  would  he  look  to  see  his  work,  so  noble, 
Vilely  bound  up?  What  would  he  say?  Or  how 
Should  I,  in  these  my  borrow'd  flaunts,  behold 
The  sternness  of  his  presence? 

Flo.  Apprehend 

Nothing  but  jollity.     The  gods  themselves, 
Humbling  their  deities  to  love,  have  taken 
The  shapes  of  beasts  upon  them  :  Jupiter 
Became  a  bull,  and  bellow'd ;  the  green  Neptune 
A  ram,  and  bleated ;  and  the  fire-rob'd  god, 
Golden  Apollo,  a  poor  humble  swain, 
As  I  seem  now : — their  transformations 
Were  never  for  a  piece  of  beauty  rarer, — 
Nor  in  a  way  so  chaste,  since  my  desires 
Run  not  before  mine  honour,  nor  my  lusts 
Burn  hotter  than  my  faith. 

Per.  O,  but,  sir, 

Your  resolution  cannot  hold,  when  'tis 
Oppos'd,  as  it  must  be,  by  the  power  of  the  king : 
One  of  these  two  must  be  necessities, 
Which  then  will  speak,  that  you  must  change 

this  purpose, 
Or  I  my  life. 

Flo.  Thou  dearest  Perdita,  [not 

With  these  forc'd  thoughts,  I  pr'ythee,  darken 
The  mirth  o'  the  feast :  or  I  '11  be  thine,  my  fair, 
Or  not  my  father's ;  for  I  cannot  be 
Mine  own,  nor  anything  to  any,  if 
I  be  not  thine :  to  this  I  am  most  constant, 
Though  destiny  say  no.     Be  merry,  gentle : 
Strangle  such  thoughts  as  these  with  anything 
That  you  behold  the  while.     Your  guests  are 

coming : 

Lift  up  your  countenance,  as  it  were  the  day 
Of  celebration  of  that  nuptial  which 
We  two  have  sworn  shall  come. 

Per.  O  lady  Fortune, 

Stand  you  auspicious ! 

Flo.  See,  your  guests  approach : 

Address  yourself  to  entertain  them  sprightly, 
And  let 's  be  red  with  mirth. 

Enter  Shepherd,  with  POLIXENES  and  CAM- 
ILLO  disguised;  Clown,  MOPSA,  DORCAS, 
with  others. 

'-.•<  ••-  >  Tjytic. . 
Shep.    Fie,    daughter!   when   my  old   wife 

liv'd,  upon 

This  day  she  was  both  pantler,  butler,  cook  ; 
Both  dame  and  servant ;  welcom'd  all ;  serv'd 
all;  [here 

Would  sing  her  song  and  dance  her  turn ;  now 
At  upper  end  o'  the  table,  now  i'  the  middle ; 


On  his  shoulder,  and  his ;  her  face  o'  fire 
With  labour ;  and  the  thing  she  took  to  quench 

it, 

She  would  to  each  one  sip.     You  are  retired, 
As  if  you  were  a  feasted  one,  and  not 
The  hostess  of  the  meeting:  pray  you,  bid 
These  unknown  friends  to  us  welcome ;  for  it  is 
A  way  to  make  us  better  friends,  more  known. 
Come,  quench  your  blushes,  and  present  your- 
self 
That  which  you  are,  mistress  of  the  feast :  come 

on, 

And  bid  us  welcome  to  your  sheep-shearing, 
As  your  good  flock  shall  prosper. 

Per.  Sir,  welcome!  [To  POL. 

It  is  my  father's  will  I  should  take  on  me 
The  hostess-ship  o'  the  day : — You  're  welcome, 
sir!  [70CAMILLO. 

Give  me  those  flowers  there,  Dorcas. — Rev- 
erend sirs, 

For  you  there 's  rosemary  and  rue ;  these  keep 
Seeming  and  savour  all  the  winter  long : 
Grace  and  remembrance  be  to  you  both, 
And  welcome  to  our  shearing ! 

Pol.  Shepherdess-*-- 

A  fair  one  are  you ! — well  you  fit  our  ages 
With  flowers  of  winter. 

Per*  Sir,  the  year  growing  ancient, — 

Not  yet  on  summer's  death,  nor  on  the  birth 
Of  trembling  winter, — the  fairest  flowers  o'  the 

season 

Are  our  carnations,  and  streak'd  gillyvors, 
Which  some  call  nature's  bastards :  of  that  kind 
Our  rustic  garden 's  barren ;  and  I  care  not 
To  get  slips  of  them. 

Pol.  Wherefore,  gentle  maiden, 

Do  you  neglect  them? 

Per.  For  I  have  heard  it  said 

There  is  an  art  which,  in  their  piedness,  shares 
With  great  creating  nature. 

Pol.  Say  there  be* 

Yet  nature  is  made  better  by  no  mean, 
But  nature  makes  that  mean ;  so,  o'er  that  art 
Which  you  say  adds  to  nature,  is  an  art 
That  nature  makes.     You  see,  sweet  maid,  we 

marry 

A  gentler  scion  to  the  wildest  stock,      "/arf  f 
And  make  conceive  a  bark  of  baser  kind 
By  bud  of  nobler  race.     This  is  an  art 
Which  does  mend  nature, — change  it  rather;  but 
The  art  itself  is  nature. 

Per.  So  it  is. 

Pol.  Then  make  your  garden  rich  in  gillyvors, 
And  do  not  call  them  bastards. 

Per.  I  '11  not  put 

The  dibble  in  earth  to  set  one  slip  of  them ; 

j  No  more  than,  were  I  painted,  I  would  wish 


364 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


[ACT  iv. 


This  youth  would  say,  'twere  well,  and  only 

therefore;  £nlrfj 

Desire  to  breed  by  me.  — Here 's  flowers  for  you; 
Hot  lavender,  mints,  savory,  marjoram ; 
The  marigold,  that  goes  to  bed  with  the  sun, 
And  with  him  rises  weeping ;  these  are  flowers 
Of  middle  summer,  and  I  think  they  are  given 
To  men  of  middle  age.     You  're  very  welcome  ! 
Cam.  I  should  leave  grazing,  were  I  of  your 

flock, 
And  only  live  by  gazing. 

Per.  Out,  alas ! 

You  'd  be  so  lean  that  blasts  of  January 
Would  blow  you  through  and  through. — Now, 

my  fairest  friend,  [might 

I  would  I  had  some  flowers  o'  the  spring  that 
Becomeyour  time  of  day; — and  yours,  and  yours, 
That  wear  upon  your  virgin  branches  yet 
Your  maidenheads  growing. — O  Proserpina, 
For  the  flowers  now,  that,  frighted,  thou  lett'st 

falUm 

From  Dis's  waggon ! — daffodils, 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty;  viokts  dim, 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes 
Or  Cytherea's  breath ;  pale  primroses, 
That  die  unmarried  ere  they  can  behold 
Bright  Phoebus  in  his  strength, — a  malady 
Most  incident  to  maids ;  bold  oxlips,  and 
The  crown-imperial ;  lilies  of  all  kinds, 
The  flower-de-luce  being  one ! — O,  these  I  lack, 
\>  make  you  garlands  of;  and,  my  sweet  friend, 
To  strew  him  o'er  and  o'er ! 
Flo.  What,  like  a  corse? 

Per.  No ;  like  a  bank  for  love  to  lie  and  play 

on; 

Not  like  a  corse ;  or  if, — not  to  be  buried, 
But  quick,  and  in  mine  arms.     Come,  take  your 

flowers ; 

Methinks  I  play  as  I  have  seen  them  do 
In  Whitsun  pastorals :  sure,  this  robe  of  mine 
Does  change  my  disposition. 

Flo.  What  you  do 

Still  betters  what  is  done.     When  you  speak, 

sweet, 

I  'd  have  you  do  it  ever ;  when  you  sing, 
I  'd  have  you  buy  and  sell  so ;  so  give  alms ; 
Pray  so ;  and,  for  the  ordering  your  affairs, 
To  sing  them  too :  when  you  dance,  I  wish  you 
A  wave  o'  the  sea,  that  might  ever  do 
Nothing  but  that ;  move  still,  still  so,  and  own 
No  other  function :  each  your  doing, 
So  singular  in  each  particular, 
Crowns  what  you  are  doing  in  the  present  deeds, 
That  all  your  acts  are  queens. 

Per.    '  O  Doricles, 

Your  praises  are  too  large :  but  that  your  youth, 


And  the  true  blood  which  peeps  fairly  through  it, 
Do  plainly  give  you  out  an  unstained  shepherd, 
With  wisdom  I  might  fear,  my  Doricles, 
You  woo'd  me  the  false  way. 

Flo.  I  think  you  have 

As  little  skill  to  fear  as  I  have  purpose 
To  put  you  to 't. — But,  come ;  our  dance,  I  pray: 
Your  hand,  my  Perdita;  so  turtles  pair 
That  never  mean  to  part. 

Per.  I  '11  swear  for  'em. 

Pol.  This  is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass  that 
ever  [seems 

Ran  on  the  green  sward :  nothing  she  does  or 
But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself, 
Too  noble  for  this  place. 

Cam.  He  tells  her  something  [is 

That  makes  her  blood  look  out :  good  sooth,  she 
The  queen  of  curds  and  cream. 

Clo.  Come  on,  strike  up. 

Dor.  Mopsa  must  be  your  mistress:  marry, 

garlic, 
To  mend  her  kissing  with. 

Mop.  Now,  in  good  time'. 

Clo.  Not  a  word,  a  word ;  we  stand  upon  our 

manners. — 
Come,  strike  up.  [Music. 

Here  a  dance  of  Shepherds  and  Shepherdesses, 

Pol*  Pray,  good  shepherd,  what 
Fair  swain  is  this  which  dances  with  your 
daughter?  [himself 

Shep.  They  call  him  Doricles;  and  boast? 
To  have  a  worthy  feeding :  but  I  have  it 
Upon  his  own  report,  and  I  believe  it ; 
He  looks  like  sooth.     He  says  he  loves  my 

daughter : 

I  think  so  too ;  for  never  gaz'd  the  moon 
Upon  the  water  as  he'll  stand,  and  read, 
As  'twere,  my  daughter's  eyes:  and,  to  be  plain, 
I  think  there  is  not  half  a  kiss  to  choose 
Who  loves  another  best. 

Pol.  She  dances  featly.     [it, 

Shep.  So  she  does  anything ;  though  I  report 
That  should  be  silent :  if  young  Doricles 
Do  light  upon  her,  she  shall  bring  him  that 
Which  he  not  dreams  of. 

x*V»& 
Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  O  master,  if  you  did  but  hear  the  pedlar 
at  the  door,  you  would  never  dance  again  after 
a  tabor  and  pipe;  no,  the  bagpipe  could  not  move 
you :  he  sings  several  tunes  faster  than  you  '11  tell 
money :  he  utters  them  as  he  had  eaten  ballads, 
and  all  men's  ears  grew  to  his  tunes. 

Clo.  He  could  never  come  better:  he  shall 
come  in:  I  love  a  ballad  but  even  too  well;  if 


SCENE  III.J 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


365 


it  be  doleful  matter  merrily  set  down,  or  a  very 
pleasant  thing  indeed  and  sung  lamentably. 

Serv.  He  hath  songs  for  man  or  woman  of 
all  sizes ;  no  milliner  can  so  fit  his  customers 
with  gloves :  he  has  the  prettiest  love-songs  for 
maids ;  so  without  bawdry,  which  is  strange ; 
with  such  delicate  burdens  oidildos  a.u&  fadings, 
jump  her  and  thump  her;  and  where  some 
stretch-mouth' d  rascal  would,  as  it  were,  mean 
mischief,  and  break  a  foul  gap  into  the  matter, 
he  makes  the  maid  to  answer,  Whoop,  do  me 
no  harm,  good  man ;  puts  him  off,  slights  him, 
with  Whoop,  do  me  no  harm,  good  man. 

Pol.  This  is  a  brave  fellow. 

Clo.  Believe  me,  thou  talkest  of  an  admir- 
able conceited  fellow.  Has  he  any  unbraided 
wares? 

Serv.  He  hath  ribands  of  all  the  colours  i' 
the  rainbow ;  points  more  than  all  the  lawyers 
in  Bohemia  can  learnedly  handle,  though  they 
come  to  him  by  the  gross;  inkles,  caddisses, 
cambrics,  lawns :  why  he  sings  'em  over  as 
they  were  gods  or  goddesses ;  you  would  think 
a  smock  were  a  she-angel,  he  so  chants  to  the 
sleeve-hand,  and  the  work  about  the  square 
on't. 

Clo.  Pr'ythee,  bring  him  in ;  and  let  him 
approach  singing. 

Per.  Forewarn  him  that  he  use  no  scurrilous 
words  in  his  tunes.  [Exit  Servant. 

Clo.  You  have  of  these  pedlars  that  have 
more  in  'em  than  you  'd  think,  sister. 

Per.  Ay,  good  brother,  or  go  about  to  think. 

Enter  AuxoLYCUS,  singing. 

Lawn  as  white  as  driven  snow  ; 

Cyprus  black  as  e'er  was  crow  ; 

Gl-.ves  as  sweet  as  damask-roses  ; 

Masks  for  faces  and  for  no>es; 

Bugle-bracelet,  necklace  a'l.ber, 

Perfume  for  a  lady's  chamber; 

Golden  quoifs  and  stomachers, 

For  my  lads  to  give  their  dears; 

Pins  and  poking-sticks  of  steel, 

Wh.t  maids  lack  from  head  to  heeli       -.{   oisrfT 

Come,  buy  of  me,  come  ;  come  buy,  come  buy  ; 

Buy,  lads,  or  else  your  lasses  cry  : 

Come,  buy. 

«fj£,0-(  \<  :-?!  I  5-jyw   ;  , ••iiioW.Jiiuai-'kttJHiT 

Clo.  If  I  were  not  in  love  with  Mopsa,  thou 
shouldst  take  no  money  of  me ;  but  being  en- 
thralled as  I  am,  it  will  also  be  the  bondage  of 
certain  ribands  and  gloves. 

Mop.  I  was  promised  them  against  the  feast ; 
but  they  come  not  too  late  now. 

Dor.  He  hath  promised  you  more  than  that, 
or  there  be  liars. 

Mop.  He  hath  paid  you  all  he  promised  you : 
may  be  he  has  paid  you  more, — which  will 
shame  you  to  give  him  again. 


Clo.  Is  there  no  manners  left  among  maids? 
will  they  wear  their  plackets  where  they  should 
bear  their  faces?  Is  there  not  milking-time, 
when  you  are  going  to  bed.  or  kiln-hole,  to 
whistle  off  these  secrets,  but  you  must  be 
tittle-tattling  before  all  our  guests?  'tis  well 
they  are  whispering.  Clamour  your  tongues, 
and  not  a  word  more. 

Mop.  I  have  done.  Come,  you  promised 
me  a  tawdry  lace,  and  a  pair  of  sweet  gloves. 

Clo.  Have  I  not  told  thee  how  I  was  cozened 
by  the  way,  and  lost  all  my  money? 

Aut.  And,  indeed,  sir,  there  are  cozeners 
abroad  ;  therefore  it  behoves  men  to  be  wary. 

Clo.  Fear  not  thou,  man,  thou  shalt  lose 
nothing  here. 

Aut.  I  hope  so,  sir;  for  I  have  about  me 
many  parcels  of  charge. 

Clo.  What  hast  here?  ballads? 

Mop.  Pray  now,  buy  some :  I  love  a  ballad  in 
print  a-life ;  for  then  we  are  sure  they  are  true. 

Aut.  Here's  one  to  a  very  doleful  tune. 
How  a  usurer's  wife  was  brought  to  bed  of 
twenty  money-bags  at  a  burden,  and  how  she 
longed  to  eat  adders'  heads  and  toads  carbona- 
doed. 

Mop.  Is  it  true,  think  you? 

Aut.  Very  true ;  and  but  a  month  old. 

Dor.  Bless  me  from  marrying  a  usurer ! 

Aut.  Here 's  the  midwife's  name  to 't,  one 
Mistress  Taleporter,  and  five  or  six  honest 
wives  that  were  present.  Why  should  I  carry 
lies  abroad  ? 

Mop.  Pray  you  now,  buy  it. 

Clo.  Come  on,  lay  it  by ;  and  let 's  first  see 
more  ballads;  we'll  buy  the  other  things  anon. 

Aut.  Here 's  another  ballad,  of  a  f.sh  that 
appeared  upon  the  coast  on  Wednesday  the 
fourscore  of  April,  forty  thousand  fathom  above 
water,  and  sung  this  ballad  against  the  hard 
hearts  of  maids:  it  was  thought  she  was  a 
woman,  and  was  turned  into  a  cold  fish  for  she 
would  not  exchange  flesh  with  one  that  loved 
her.  The  ballad  is  very  pitiful,  and  as  true. 

Dor.  Is  it  true  too,  think  you  ? 

Aut.  Five  justices'  hands  at  it;  and  wit- 
nesses more  than  my  pack  will  hold. 

Clo.  Lay  it  by  too :  another. 

Aut.  This  is  a  merry  ballad;  but  a  very 
pretty  one. 

Mop.  Let 's  have  some  merry  ones. 

Aut.  Why,  this  is  a  passing  merry  one,  and 
goes  to  the  tune  of  Two  maids  wooing  a  man: 
there 's  scarce  a  maid  westward  but  she  sings 
it :  'tis  in  request,  I  can  tell  you. 

Mop.  We  can  both  sing  it :  if  thou  'It  bear  a 
pan  thou  shalt  hear ;  'tis  in  three  parts. 


366 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


[ACT  iv. 


Dor.  We  had  the  tune  on 't  a  month  ago. 
Aut.  I  can  bear  my  part ;  you  must  know 
'tis  my  occupation :  have  at  it  with  you. 
Ef  '.-ix-T  ;.rt  gnio'gr1  :,••: 

SONG. 

A.  Get  you  hence,  for  I  must  go  ; 

Where,  it  fits  not  you  to  know. 

D.  Whither?    M.  O,  whither ?    D.  Whither? 
M.  It  becomes  thy  oath  full  well, 

Thou  to  me  thy  secrets  tell : 
i85>v   D,  Me  too,  let  me  go  thither. 

M.  Or  thou  go'st  to  the  grange  or  mill : 
D.  If  to  either,  thou  dost  ill. 

A.  Neither.     D,  What,  neither?    A.  Neither. 
D.  Thou  hast  sworn  my  love  to  be  ; 
M.  Thou  hast  sworn  it  more  to  me  ; 

Then,  whither  go'st  ? — say,  whither  ? 

Clo.  We  '11  have  this  song  out  anon  by  our- 
selves ;  my  father  and  the  gentlemen  are  in  sad  j 
talk,  and  we'll  not  trouble  them. — Come,  bring  I 
away  thy  pack  after  me. — Wenches,  I'll  buy 
for    you   both: — Pedlar,    let's   have   the   first 
choice. — Follow  me,  girls. 

Aut.  And  you  shall  pay  well  for  'em. 

[Aside. 

Will  you  buy  any  tape, 
Or  lace  for  your  cape, 
My  dainty  duck,  my  dear-a? 
Any  silk,  any  thread, 
Any  toys  for  your  head, 
Of  the  new'st  and  fin'st,  fin'st  wear  a? 
Come  to  the  pedlar  ; 
Money  's  a  meddler, 
That  doth  utter  all  men's  ware-a. 

[Exeunt  Clown,  AUT.,  Dor.,  a«</Moi>. 

Re-enter  Servant. 

Serv.  Master,  there  is  three  carters,  three 
shepherds,  three  neat-herds,  three  swine-herds, 
that  have  made  themselves  all  men  of  hair; 
they  call  themselves  saltiers :  and  they  have  a 
dance  which  the  wenches  say  is  a  gallimaufry 
of  gambols,  because  they  are  not  in  't;  but  they 
themselves  are  o'  the  mind  (if  it.  be  not  too 
rough  for  some,  that  know  little  but  bowling) 
it  will  please  plentifully. 

Shep.  Away  !  we  '11  none  on 't :  here  has 
been  too  much  homely  foolery  already. — I 
know,  sir,  we  weary  you. 

Pol.  You  weary  those  that  refresh  us  :  pray, 
let 's  see  these  four  threes  of  herdsmen. 

Serv.  One  three  of  them,  by  their  own  re- 
port, sir,  hath  danced  before  the  king  ;  and 
not  the  worst  of  the  three  but  jumps  twelve 
foot  and  a  half  by  the  squire. 

Shep.  Leave  your  prating :  since  these  good 
men  are  pleased,  let  them  come  in  ;  but  quickly 
now. 

Serv.  Why,  they  stay  at  door,  sir.        [Exit. 


Enter  Twelve  Rustics,  habited  like  Satyrs. 
They  dance,  and  then  exeunt. 

Pol.   O  father,    you  '11   know  more  of  that 

hereafter. — 

Is  it  not  too  far  gone? — 'Tis  time  to  part  them. — 
He's  simple  and  tells  much.  [Aside.']—  How 

now,  fair  shepherd ! 

Your  heart  is  full  of  something  that  does  take 
Your  mind  from  feasting.     Sooth,  when  I  was 

young, 

And  handed  love  as  you  do,  I  was  wont 
To  load  my  she  with  knacks:  I  would  have 

ransack'd 

The  pedlar's  silken  treasury,  and  have  pour'd  it 
To  her  acceptance ;  you  have  let  him  go, 
And  nothing  marted  with  him.     If  your  lass 
Interpretation  should  abuse,  and  call  this 
Your  lack  of  love  or  bounty,  you  were  straited 
For  a  reply,  at  least  if  you  make  a  care 
Of  happy  holding  her. 

Flo.  Old  sir,  I  know 

She  prizes  not  such  trifles  as  these  are : 
The  gifts  she  looks  from   me  are  pack'd  and 

lock'd 

Up  in  my  heart ;  which  I  have  given  already, 
But  not  deliver'd.— O,  hear  me  breathe  my  life 
Before  this  ancient  sir,  who,  it  should  seem, 
Hath  sometime  lov'd, — I  take  thy  hand !  this 

hand, 

As  soft  as  dove's  down,  and  as  white  as  it, 
Or  Ethiopian's  tooth,  or  the  fann'd  snow  that's 

bolted 
By  the  northern  blasts  twice  o'er. 

Pol.  What  follows  this?— 
How  prettily  the  young  swain  seems  to  wash 
The  hand  was  fair  before  ! — I  have  put  you  out: 
But  to  your  protestation ;  let  me  hear 
What  you  profess. 

Flo.  Do,  and  be  witness  to 't. 

Pol.  And  this  my  neighbour,  too? 
Flo.  And  he,  and  more 

Than  he,  and  men, — the  earth,  the  heavens, 

and  all : —  [monarch, 

That, — were  I  crown'd  the  most  imperial 
Thereof  most  worthy  ;  were  I  the  fairest  youth 
That  ever  made  eye  swerve;  had  force  and 

knowledge  [them 

More  than  was  ever  man's, — I  would  not  prize 
Without  her  love  :  for  her  employ  them  all ; 
Commend  them,  and  condemn  them,  to  her 

service, 
Or  to  their  own  perdition. 

Pol.  Fairly  offer'd. 

Cam.  This  show's  a  sound  affection. 
Shep.  But,  my  daughter, 

Say  you  the  like  to  him  ? 


SCENE  III. 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


367 


Per.  I  cannot  speak 

So  well,  nothing  so  well ;  no,  nor  mean  better : 
By  the  pattern  of  mine  own  thoughts  I  cut  out 
The  purity  of  his. 

Shep.  Take  hands,  a  bargain ! — 

And,  friends  unknown,  you  shall  bear  witness 

to't: 

I  give  my  daughter  to  him,  and  will  make 
Her  portion  equal  his. 

Flo.  O,  that  must  be 

I'  the  virtue  of  your  daughter:  one  being  dead, 
I  shall  have  more  than  you  can  dream  of  yet ; 
Enough  then  for  your  wonder:  but  come  on, 
Contract  us  'fore  these  witnesses. 

Shep.  Come,  your  hand  ;— 

And,  daughter,  yours. 

Pol.  Soft,  swain,  awhile,  beseech  you ; 

Have  you  a  father? 

Flo.  I  have  ;  but  what  of  him? 

Pol.  Knows  he  of  this? 

Flo.  He  neither  does  nor  shall. 

Pol.  Metbinks  a  father 

Is,  at  the  nuptial  of  his  son,  a  guest        [more ; 
That  best  becomes  the  table.     Pray  you,  once 
Is  not  your  father  grown  incapable 
Of  reasonable  affairs?  is  he  not  stupid 
With  age  and  altering  rheums?  can  he  speak? 

hear? 

Know  man  from  man?  dispute  his  own  estate? 
Lies  he  not  bed-rid?  and  again  does  nothing 
But  what  he  did  being  childish? 

Flo.  No,  good  sir ; 

He  has  his  health,  and  ampler  strength  indeed 
Than  most  have  of  his  age. 

Pol.  By  my  white  beard, 

You  offer  him,  if  this  be  so,  a  wrong 
Something  unfilial :  reason  my  son 
Should  choose  himself  a  wife ;  but  as  good  reason 
The  father, — all  whose  joy  is  nothing  else 
But  fair  posterity, — should  hold  some  counsel 
In  such  a  business. 

Flo.  I  yield  all  this; 

But,  for  some  other  reasons,  my  grave  sir, 
Which  'tis  not  fit  you  know,  I  not  acquaint 
My  father  of  this  business. 

Pol.  Let  him  know 't 

Flo.  He  shall  not. 

Pol.  Pr'ythee,  let  him. 

Flo.  No,  he  must  not 

Skep.  Let  him,  my  son :  he  shall  not  need  to 

grieve 
At  knowing  of  thy  choice. 

Flo.  Come,  come,  he  must  not. — 

Mark  our  contract. 

Pol.  Mark  your  divorce,  young  sir, 

[Discovering  himself. 
Whom  son  I  dare  not  call ;  thou  art  too  base 


To  be  acknowledged :  thou  a  sceptre'a  heir, 
That   thus  affect'st  a  sheep-hook !— Thou  old 

traitor, 

I  am  sorry  that,  by  hanging  thee,  I  can  but 
Shorten  thy  life  one  week. — And  thou,  fresh 

piece  [know 

Of  excellent  witchcraft,  who,  of  force,  must 
The  royal  fool  then  cop'st  with, — 

Shep.  O,  my  heart ! 

Pol.    I'll  have  thy   beauty  scratched   with 

briers,  and  made  [boy> — 

More  homely  than  thy  state. — For  thee,  fond 
If  I  may  ever  know  thou  dost  but  sigh 
That  thou  no  more  shalt  see  this  knack, — as 

never  [cession ; 

I  mean  thou  shalt, — we  ;11  bar  thee  from  sue- 
Not  hold  thee  of  our  blood,  no,  not  our  kin, 
Far  than  Deucalion  off, — mark  thou  my  words: 
Follow  us  to  the  court. — Thou  churl,  for  this 

time, 

Though  full  of  our  displeasure,  yet  we  free  thee 
From  the  dead  blow  of  it. — And  you,  enchant- 
ment,— 

Worthy  enough  a  herdsman  ;  yea,  him  too 
That  makes  himself,  but  for  our  honour  therein, 
Unworthy  thee, — if  ever  henceforth  thou 
These  rural  latches  to  his  entrance  open, 
Or  hoop  his  body  more  with  thy  embraces, 
I  will  devise  a  death  as  cruel  for  thee 
As  thou  art  tender  to 't.  [Exit 

Per.  Even  here  undone ! 

I  was  not  much  afeard :  for  once  or  twice 
I  was  about  to  speak,  and  tell  him  plainly 
The  self-same  sun  that  shines  upon  his  court 
Hides  not  his  visage  from  our  cottage,  but 
Looks  on  alike. — Will 't  please  you,  sir,  be 

gone?  [To  FLORIZEI.. 

I  told  you  what  would  come  of  this  !     Beseech 

you, 

Of  your  own  state  take  care :  this  dream  of  mine, 
Being  now  awake,  I  '11  queen  it  no  inch  further, 
But  milk  my  ewes,  and  weep. 

Cam.  Why,  how  now,  father! 

Speak  ere  thou  diest 

Shep.  I  cannot  speak,  nor  think, 

Nor  dare  to  know  that  which  I  know. — O,  sir, 

[70FLORIZEL. 

You  have  undone  a  man  of  fourscore- three, 
That  thought  to  fill  his  grave  in  quiet ;  yea, 
To  die  upon  the  bed  my  father  died, 
To  lie  close  by  his  honest  bones  !  but  now 
Some  hangman  must  put  on  my  shroud,  and 

lay  me 
Where  no  priest  shovels  in  dust — O  cursed 

wretch,  [To  PERDITA. 

That  knew'st  this  was  the  prince,  and  wouldst 

adventure 


368 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


[ACT  IV. 


To  mingle  faith  with  him  ! — Undone  !  undone ! 
If  I  might  die  within  this  hour,  I  have  liv'd 
To  die  when  I  desire.  [Exit. 

Flo.  Why  look  you  so  upon  me? 

I  am  but  sorry,  not  afeard ;  delay'd, 
But  nothing  alter'd :  what  I  was,  I  am : 
More  straining   on   for    plucking    back;    not 

following 
My  leash  unwillingly. 

Cam.  Gracious,  my  lord, 

You  know  your  father's  temper :  at  this  time 
He  will  allow  no  speech, — which  I  do  guess 
You  do  not  purpose  to  him ; — and  as  hardly 
Will  he  endure  your  sight  as  yet,  I  fear : 
Then,  till  the  fury  of  his  highness  settle, 
Come  not  before  him. 

Flo.  I  not  purpose  it. 

I  think  Camillo? 

Cam.  Even  he,  my  lord. 

Per.  How  often  have  I  told  you  'twould  be 

thus! 

How  often  said  my  dignity  would  last 
But  till  'twere  known ! 

Flo.  •.  iu\ii  t£  It  cannot  fail  but  by 

The  violation  of  my  faith;  and  then 
Let  nature  crush  the  sides  o'  the  earth  together. 
And  mar  the  seeds  within ! — Lift  up  thy  looks. — 
From  my  succession  wipe  me,  father ;  I 
Am  heir  to  my  affection. 

Cant.  Be  advis'd. 

Flo.   I  am, — and  by  my  fancy:  if  my  reason 
Will  thereto  be  obedient,  I  have  reason ; 
If  not,  my  senses,  better  pleas'd  with  madness, 
Do  bid  it  welcome. 

Cam.  .9xj6jj(         This  is  desperate,  sir. 

Flo.  So  call  it :  but  it  does  fulfil  my  vow ; 
I  needs  must  think  it  honesty.     Camillo, 
Not  for  Bohemia,  nor  the  pomp  that  may 
Be  thereat  glean'd ;  for  all  the  sun  sees  or 
The  close  earth  wombs,  or  the  profound  seas 

hide 

In  unknown  fathoms,  will  I  break  my  oath 
To  this  my  fair  belov'd:  therefore,  I  pray  you, 
As  you  have  ever  been  my  father's  honour'd 
friend  [not 

When  he  shall  miss  me, — as,  in  faith,  I  mean 
To  see  him  any  more, — cast  your  good  counsels 
Upon  his  passion :  let  myself  and  fortune 
Tug  for  the  time  to  come.     This  you  may  know, 
And  so  deliver, — I  am  put  to  sea 
With  her,  whom  here  I  cannot  hold  on  shore ; 
And,  most  opportune  to  our  need,  I  have 
A  vess  A  rides  fast  by,  but  not  prepared 
For  this  design.     What  course  I  mean  to  hold 
Shall  nothing  benefit  your  knowledge,  nor 
Concern  me  the  reporting. 

Cam.  O,  my  lord. 


I  would  your  spirit  were  easier  for  advice, 
Or  stronger  for  your  need. 

Flo.  Hark,  Perdita.  - — [  Takes  her  aside. 

I  '11  hear  you  by  and  by.  [To  CAMILLO. 

Cam.  He's  irremovable, 

Resolv'd  for  flight.     Now  were  I  happy  if 
His  going  I  could  frame  to  serve  my  turn ; 
Save  him  from  danger,  do  him  love  and  honour ; 
Purchase  the  sight  again  of  dear  Sicilia, 
And  that  unhappy  king,  my  master  whom 
I  so  much  thirst  to  see. 

Flo.  Now,  good  Camillo, 

I  am  so  fraught  with  curious  business  that 
I  leave  out  ceremony.  [Going: 

Cam.  Sir,  I  think 

You  have  heard  of  my  poor  services,  i'  the  love 
That  I  have  borne  your  father? 

Flo.  Very  nobly 

Have  you  deserv'd :  it  is  rny  father's  music 
To  speak  your  deeds ;  not  little  of  his  care 
To  have  them  recompens'd  as  thought  on. 

Cam.  Well,  my  lord, 

If  you  may  please  to  think  I  love  the  king. 
And,  through  him,  what  is  nearest  to  him,  which  is 
Your  gracious  self,  embrace  but  my  direction, — 
If  your  more  ponderous  and  settled  project 
May  suffer  alteration, — on  mine  honour      [ing 
I  '11  point  you  where  you  shall  have  such  receiv- 
As  shall  become  your  highness ;  where  you  may 
Enjoy  your  mistress, — from  the  whom,  I  see, 
There 's  no  disjunction  to  be  made,  but  by, 
As  heavens  forfend !  your  ruin, — marry  her ; 
And, — with  my  best  endeavours  in  your  ab- 
sence,— 

Your  discontenting  father  strive  to  qualify, 
And  bring  him  up  to  liking. 

Flo  How,  Camillo, 

May  this,  almost  a  miracle,  be  done? 
That  I  may  call  thee  something  more  than  man, 
And,  after  that,  trust  to  thee. 

Cam.  Have  you  thought  on 

A  place  whereto  you  '11  go? 

Flo.  Not  any  yet : 

But  as  the  unthought-on  accident  is  guilty 
To  what  we  wildly  do ;  so  we  profess 
Ourselves  to  be  the  slaves  of  chance,  and  flies 
Of  every  wind  that  blows,   on  HJ 

Cam.  Then  list  to  me : 

This  follows, — if  you  will  not  change  your  pur- 
pose, 

But  undergo  this  flight, — make  for  Sicilia; 
And  there  present  yourself  and  your  fair  prin- 

cess, — 

For  so,  I  see,  she  must  be, — 'fore  Leontes: 
She  shall  be  habited  as  it  becomes 
The  partner  of  your  bed.     Methinks  I  see 
Leontes  opening  his  free  arms,  and  weeninp 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


369 


His  welcomes  forth;  asks  tbee,  the  son,  forgive- 
ness, 

As  'twere  i'  the  father's  person ;  kisses  the  hands 
Of  your  fresh  princess ;  o'er  and  o'er  divides  him 
'Twixt  his  unkindness  and  his  kindness, — the 

one 

He  chides  to  hell,  and  bids  the  other  grow 
Faster  than  thought  or  time. 

Flo.  Worthy  Camillo, 

What  colour  for  my  visitation  shall  I 
Hold  up  before  him? 

Cant.  Sent  by  the  king  your  father 

To  greet  him  and  to  give  him  comforts.     Sir, 
The  manner  of  your  bearing  towards  him,  with 
What  you,  as  from  your  father,  shall  deliver, 
Things  known  betwixt  us  three,  I  '11  write  you 

down; 

The  which  shall  point  you  forth  at  every  sitting, 
What  you  must  say ;  that  he  shall  not  perceive 
But  that  you  have  your  father's  bosom  there, 
And  speak  his  very  heart. 

Flo.  I  am  bound  to  you : 

There  is  some  sap  in  this. 

Cam.  A  course  more  promising 

Than  a  wild  dedication  of  yourselves     [certain 
To  unpath'd  waters,  undream'd  shores,  most 
To  miseries  enough:  no  hope  to  help  you; 
But,  as  you  shake  off  one,  to  take  another : 
Nothing  so  certain  as  your  anchors ;  who 
Do  their  best  office  if  they  can  but  stay  you 
Where  you  '11  be  loath  to  be :  besides,  you  know 
Prosperity 's  the  very  bond  of  love,         [gether 
Whose  fresh  complexion  and  whose  heart  to- 
Affliction  alters. 

Per.  One  of  these  is  true : 

I  think  affliction  may  subdue  the  cheek, 
But  not  take  in  the  mind. 

Cam.  Yea,  say  you  so? 

There  shall  not,  at  your  father's  house,  these 

seven  years 
Be  bom  another  such. 

Flo.  My  good  Camillo, 

She  is  as  forward  of  her  breeding  as 
She  is  i'  the  rear  our  birth. 

Cam.  I  cannot  say  'tis  pity 

She  lacks  instruction;  for  she  seems  a  mistress 
To  most  that  teach. 

Per.  Your  pardon,  sir,  for  this: 

I  '11  blush  you  thanks. 

Flo.  My  prettiest  Perdita! — 
But,  O,  the  thorns  we  stand  upon ! — Camillo, — 
Preserver  of  my  father,  now  of  me ; 
The  medicine  of  our  house ! — how  shall  we  do? 
We  are  not  furnish'd  like  Bohemia's  son ; 
Nor  shall  appear  in  Sicilia. 

Cam.  My  lord,        [tunes 

Fear  none  of  this:  I  think  you  know  my  for- 


Do  all  lie  there :  it  shall  be  so  my  care         :    : 
To  have  you  royally  appointed  as  if  [sir, 

The  scene  you  play  were  mine.     For  instance, 
That  you  may  know  you  shall  not  want, — one 
word.  \Thcy  talk  aside. 

Re-enter  AUTOLYCUS. 
•duaas   '--•-  "^ 

Aut.  Ha,  ha !  what  a  fool  Honesty  is !  and 
Trust,  his  sworn  brother,  a  very  simple  gentle- 
man! I  have  sold  all  my  trumpery;  not  a 
counterfeit  stone,  not  a  riband,  glass,  pomander, 
brooch,  table-book,  ballad,  knife,  tape,  glove, 
shoe-tie,  bracelet,  horn -ring,  to  keep  my  pack 
from  fasting; — they  throng  who  should  buy 
first,  as  if  my  trinkets  had  been  hallowed,  and 
brought  a  benediction  to  the  buyer:  by  which 
means  I  saw  whose  purse  was  best  in  picture ; 
and  what  I  saw,  to  my  good  use  I  remembered. 
My  clown  (who  wants  but  something  to  be  a 
reasonable  man)  grew  so  in  love  with  the 
wenches'  song  that  he  would  not  stir  his  petti- 
toes till  he  had  both  tune  and  words ;  which  so 
drew  the  rest  of  the  herd  to  me,  that  all  their 
other  senses  stuck  in  ears:  you  might  have 
pinched  a  placket, — it  was  senseless;  'twas 
nothing  to  geld  a  codpiece  of  a  purse ;  I  would 
have  filed  keys  off  that  hung  in  chains :  no  hear- 
ing, no  feeling,  but  my  sir's  song,  and  admir- 
ing the  nothing  of  it.  So  that,  in  this  time  of 
lethargy,  I  picked  and  cut  most  of  their 
festival  purses ;  and  had  not  the  old  man  come 
in  with  a  whoobub  against  his  daughter  and  the 
king's  son,  and  scared  my  choughs  from  the 
chaff,  I  had  not  left  a  purse  alive  in  the  whole 
army.  [CAM.,  FLO.,  andPzu.  come  forward. 

Cam.  Nay,  but  my  letters,  by  this  means 

being  there 
So  soon  as  you  arrive,  shall  clear  that  doubt. 

Flo.  And   those   that  you'll   procure  from 
king  Leontes, — 

Cam.  Shall  satisfy  your  father. 

Per.  Happy  be  you  ! 

All  that  you  speak  shows  fair. 

Cam.  Who  have  we  here? — 

[Seeing  AUTOLYCUS. 
We  '11  make  an  instrument  of  this ;  omit 
Nothing  may  give  us  aid. 

Aut.  If  they  have  overheard  me  now, — why, 
hanging.  :  [Aside. 

Cam.  How  now,  good  fellow  I  why  shakest 
thou  so?  Fear  not,  man;  here's  no  harm  in- 
tended to  thee. 

Aut.  I  am  a  poor  fellow,  sir. 

Cam.  Why,  be  so  still;  here's  nobody  will 
steal  that  from  thee :  yet,  for  the  outside  of  thy 
poverty,  we  must  make  an  exchange ;  therefore, 
disease  thee  instantly,— thou  must  think  there  '* 


370 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


[ACT  iv. 


a  necessity  in't, — and  change  garments  with 
this  gentleman :  though  the  pennyworth  on  his 
side  be  the  worst,  yet  hold  thee,  there 's  some 
boot.  [Giving1  money. 

Aut.  I  am  a  poor  fellow,  sir: — I  know  ye 
well  enough.  [Aside. 

Cam.  Nay,  pr'ythee,  despatch:  the  gentle- 
man is  half- flayed  already. 

Aut.  Are  you  in  earnest,  sir?— I  smell  the 
trick  on 't. —  [Aside. 

Flo.  Despatch,  I  pr'ythee. 

Aut.  Indeed,  I  have  had  earnest ;  but  I  can- 
not with  conscience  take  it. 

Cam.  Unbuckle,  unbuckle. — 

[FLO.  and  AUTOL.  exchange  garments. 
Fortunate  mistress, — let  my  prophecy 
Come  home  to  you  ! — you  must  retire  yourself 
Into  some  covert ;  take  your  sweetheart's  hat, 
And  pluck  it  o'er  your  brows ;  muffle  your  face ; 
Dismantle  you ;  and,  as  you  can,  dislikeu 
The  truth  of  your  own  seeming ;  that  you  may, — 
For  I  do  fear  eyes  over, — to  shipboard 
Get  undescried. 

Per.  I  see  the  play  so  lies 

That  I  must  bear  a  part. 

Cam.  No  remedy. — 

Have  you  done  there? 

Flo.  Should  I  now  meet  my  father, 

He  would  not  call  me  son. 

Cam.  Nay,  you  shall  have  no  hat — 

[Giving  it  to  PERDITA. 
Come,  lady,  come. — Farewell,  my  friend. 

Aut.  Adieu,  sir. 

Flo.  O  Perdita,  what  have  we  twain  forgot? 
Pray  you,  a  word.  [  They  converse  apart. 

Cam.  What  I  do  next,  shall  be  to  tell  the 
king  [Aside. 

Of  this  escape,  and  whither  they  are  bound ; 
Wherein,  my  hope  is,  I  shall  so  prevail 
To  force  him  after :  in  whose  company 
I  shall  review  Sicilia ;  for  whose  sight 
I  have  a  woman's  longing. 

Flo.  Fortune  speed  us ! — 

Thus  we  set  on,  Camillo,  to  the  sea-side. 

Cam.  The  swifter  speed  the  better. 

[Exeunt  FLOR.  ,  PER.  ,  and  CAM. 

Aut.  I  understand  the  business, — I  hear  it: 
to  have  an  open  ear,  a  quick  eye,  and  a  nimble 
hand,  is  necessary  for  a  cut-purse ;  a  good  nose 
is  requisite  also,  to  smell  out  work  for  the  other 
senses.  I  see  this  is  the  time  that  the  unjust 
man  doth  thrive.  What  an  exchange  had  this 
been  without  boot?  what  a  boot  is  here  with  this 
exchange?  Sure,  the  gods  do  this  year  connive 
at  us,  and  we  may  do  anything  extempore.  The 
prince  himself  is  about  a  piece  of  iniquity, — 
stealing  away  from  his  father  with  his  clog  at  his 


heels :  if  I  thought  it  were  a  piece  of  honesty  to 
acquaint  the  king  withal,  I  would  not  do't:  I 
hold  it  the  more  knavery  to  conceal  it;  and 
therein  am  I  constant  to  my  profession. 

Re-enter  Clown  and  Shepherd. 

Aside,  aside ; — here  is  more  matter  for  a  hot 
brain:  every  lane's  end,  every  shop,  church, 
session,  hanging,  yields  a  careful  man  work. 

Clo.  See,  see ;  what  a  man  you  are  now ! 
There  is  no  other  way  but  to  tell  the  king  she 's 
a  changeling,  and  none  of  your  flesh  and  blood. 

Shep.  Nay,  but  hear  me. 

Clo.  Nay,  but  hear  me. 

Shep.  Go  to,  then. 

Clo.  She  being  none  of  your  flesh  and  blood, 
your  flesh  and  blood  has  not  offended  the  king ; 
and  so  your  flesh  and  blood  is  not  to  be  punished 
by  him.  Show  those  things  you  found  about 
her ;  those  secret  things, — all  but  what  she  has 
with  her :  this  being  done,  let  the  law  go  whistle; 
I  warrant  you. 

Shep.  I  will  tell  the  king  all,  every  word, — 
yea,  and  his  son's  pranks  too ;  who,  I  may  say, 
is  no  honest  man  neither  to  his  father  nor  to  me, 
to  go  about  to  make  me  the  king's  brother-in- 
law. 

Clo.  Indeed,  brother-in-law  was  the  furthest 
off  you  could  have  been  to  him ;  and  then  your 
blood  had  been  the  dearer  by  I  know  how  much 
an  ounce. 

Aut.  Very  wisely,  puppies !  [Aside. 

Shep.  Well,  let  us  to  the  king:  there  is  that 
in  this  fardel  will  make  him  scratch  his  beard ! 

Aut.  I  know  not  what  impediment  this  com- 
plaint may  be  to  the  flight  of  my  master.  [Aside. 

Clo.  Pray  heartily  he  be  at  palace. 

Aut.  Though  I  am  not  naturally  honest,  I  am 
so  sometimes  by  chance.  Let  me  pocket  up 
my  pedlar's  excrement.  [A  side  ^  and  takes  ojf 
his  false  beard.} — How  now,  rustics!  whither 
are  you  bound? 

Shep.  To  the  palace,  an  it  like  your  worship. 

Aut.  Your  affairs  there,  what,  with  whom, 
the  condition  of  that  fardel,  the  place  of  your 
dwelling,  your  names,  your  ages,  of  what  hav- 
ing, breeding,  and  anything  that  is  fitting  to  be 
known?  discover. 

Clo.  We  are  but  plain  fellows,  sir. 

Aut.  A  lie ;  you  are  rough  and  hairy.  Let 
me  have  no  lying ;  it  becomes  none  but  trades- 
men, and  they  often  give  us  soldiers  the  lie :  but 
we  pay  them  for  it  with  stamped  coin,  not  stab- 
bing steel ;  therefore  they  do  not  give  us  the  lie. 

Clo.  Your  worship  had  like  to  have  given  us 
one,  if  you  had  not  taken  yourself  with  the 
manner. 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


37' 


Shep.  Are  you  a  courtier,  an 't  like  you,  sir? 

Aut.  Whether  it  like  me  or  no,  I  am  a 
courtier.  Seest  thou  not  the  air  of  the  court  in 
these  enfoldings  ?  hath  not  my  gait  in  it  the 
measure  of  the  court  ?  receives  not  thy  nose 
court-odour  from  me?  reflect  I  not  on  thy  base- 
ness court-contempt?  Thinkest  thou,  for  that 
I  insinuate,  or  toze  from  thee  thy  business,  I 
am  therefore  no  courtier?  I  am  courtier  cap- 
a-pe  ;  and  one  that  will  either  push  on  or  pluck 
back  thy  business  there :  whereupon  I  command 
thee  to  open  thy  affair. 

Shep.   My  business,  sir,  is  to  the  king. 

Aut.  What  advocate  hast  thou  to  him  ? 

Shep.   I  know  not,  an  3t  like  you. 

do.  Advocate 's  the  court-word  for  a  phea- 
sant, say  you  have  none. 

Shep.  None,  sir ;  I  have  no  pheasant,  cock 
nor  hen.  [men  ! 

Aut.  How  bless'd  are  we  that  are  not  simple 
Yet  nature  might  have  made  me  as  these  are, 
Therefore  I  will  not  disdain. 

Clo.  This  cannot  be  but  a  great  courtier. 

Shep.  His  garments  are  rich,  but  he  wears 
them  not  handsomely. 

Clo.  He  seems  to  be  the  more  noble  in  being 
fantastical  :  a  great  man,  I  '11  warrant ;  I  know 
by  the  picking  on 's  teeth. 

Aut.  The  fardel  there?  what's  i'  the  fardel? 
Wherefore  that  box? 

Shep.  Sir,  there  lies  such  secrets  in  this  fardel 
and  box,  which  none  must  know  but  the  king ; 
and  which  he  shall  know  within  this  hour,  if  I 
may  come  to  the  speech  of  him. 

Aut.  Age,  thou  hast  lost  thy  labour. 

Shep.  Why,  sir  ? 

Aut.  The  king  is  not  at  the  palace  ;  he  is 
gone  aboard  a  new  ship  to  purge  melancholy 
and  air  himself :  for,  if  thou  beest  capable  of 
things  serious,  thou  must  know  the  king  is  full 
of  grief. 

Shep.  So  'tis  said,  sir, — about  his  son,  that 
should  have  married  a  shepherd's  daughter. 

Aut.  If  that  shepherd  be  not  in  hand-fast, 
let  him  fly  :  the  curses  he  shall  have,  the  tor- 
tures he  shall  feel,  will  break  the  back  of  man, 
the  heart  of  monster. 

Clo.  Think  you  so,  sir? 

Aut.  Not  he  alone  shall  suffer  what  wit  can 
make  heavy  and  vengeance  bitter ;  but  those 
that  are  germane  to  him,  though  removed  fifty 
times,  shall  all  come  under  the  hangman : 
which,  though  it  be  great  pity,  yet  it  is  neces- 
sary. An  old  sheep-whistling  rogue,  a  ram- 
tender,  to  offer  to  have  his  daughter  come  into 
grace !  Some  say  he  shall  be  stoned  ;  but  that 
death  is  too  soft  for  him,  say  I.  Draw  our 

"* 


throne  into  a  sheep-cote  1 — all  deaths  are  too 
few,  the  sharpest  too  easy. 

Clo.  Has  the  old  man  e'er  a  son,  sir,  do  you 
hear,  an 't  like  you,  sir?  u  f>a«  tfc 

Aut.  He  has  a  son, — who  shall  be  flayed 
alive;  then  'nointed  over  with  honey,  set  on 
the  head  of  a  wasp's  nest ;  then  stand  till  he  be 
three  quarters  and  a  dram  dead ;  then  recovered 
again  with  aquavitae,  or  some  other  hot  infusion ; 
then,  raw  as  he  is,  and  in  the  hottest  day 
prognostication  proclaims,  shall  he  be  set 
against  a  brick-wall,  the  sun  looking  with  a 
southward  eye  upon  him, — where  he  is  to  be- 
hold him  with  flies  blown  to  death.  But  what 
talk  we  of  these  traitorly  rascals,  whose  miseries 
are  to  be  smiled  at,  their  offences  being  so 
capital?  Tell  me, — for  you  seem  to  be  honest 
plain  men, — what  have  you  to  the  king :  being 
something  gently  considered,  I'll  bring  you 
where  he  is  aboard,  tender  your  persons  to  his 
presence,  whisper  him  in  your  behalfs ;  and  if 
it  be  in  man  besides  the  king  to  effect  your 
suits,  here  is  man  shall  do  it. 

Clo.  He  seems  to  be  of  great  authority :  close 
with  him,  give  him  gold ;  and  though  authority 
be  a  stubborn  bear,  yet  he  is  oft  led  by  the  nose 
with  cold :  show  the  inside  of  your  purse  to  the 
outside  of  his  hand,  and  no  more  ado.  Re- 
member,— stoned  and  flayed  alivec/1  arfJ  as  o 

Shep.  An 't  please  you,  sir,  to  undertake  the 
business  for  us,  here  is  that  gold  I  have:  I'll 
make  it  as  much  more,  and  leave  this  young 
man  in  pawn  till  I  bring  it  you. 

Aut.  After  I  have  done  what  I  promised? 

Shep.  Ay,  sir.    u  sbjcwi 

Aut.  Well,  give  me  the  moiety. — Are  you  a 
party  in  this  business? 

Clo.  In  some  sort,  sir :  but  though  my  case 
be  a  pitiful  one,  I  hope  I  shall  not  be  flayed 
out  of  it.  ;<ioe  jloc 

Aut.  O,  that's  the  case  of  the  shepherd's 
son.  Hang  him,  he  '11  be  made  an  example ! 

Clo.  Comfort,  good  comfort!  We  must  to 
the  king,  and  show  our  strange  sights :  he  must 
know  'tis  none  of  your  daughter  nor  my  sister ; 
we  are  gone  else.  Sir,  I  will  give  you  as  much 
as  this  old  man  does,  when  the  business  is  per- 
formed ;  and  remain,  as  he  says,  your  pawn  till 
it  be  brought  you. 

Aut.  I  will  trust  you.  Walk  before  toward 
the  sea-side ;  go  on  the  right-hand :  I  will  but 
look  upon  the  hedge,  and  follow  you. 

Clo.  We  are  blessed  in  this  man,  as  I  may 
say,  even  blessed,  .qti^ 

Shep.  Let's  before,  as  he  bids  us:  he  was 
provided  to  do  us  good. 

[Exeunt  Shepherd  and  Clown. 


372 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


[ACT  v. 


Aut.  If  I  had  a  mind  to  be  honest,  I  see 
Fortune  would  not  suffer  me  :  she  drops  booties 
in  my  mouth.  I  am  courted  now  with  a  double 
occasion, — gold,  and  a  means  to  do  the  prince 
my  master  good  ;  which  who  knows  how  that 
may  turn  back  to  my  advancement?  I  will 
bring  these  two  moles,  these  blind  ones,  aboard 
him  :  if  he  think  it  fit  to  shore  them  again,  and 
that  the  complaint  they  have  to  the  king  con- 
cerns him  nothing,  let  him  call  me  rogue  for 
being  so  far  officious ;  for  I  am  proof  against 
that  title,  and  what  shame  else  belongs  to't. 
To  him  will  I  present  them:  there  may  be 
matter  in  it.  [Exit. 

kshsejinr  38u: 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — SICILIA.     A  Room  in  the  Palace 
of  LEONTES. 

Enter  LEONTES,  CLEOMENES,  DION, 
PAUIJNA,  and  others. 

Cleo.  Sir,  you  have  done  enough,  and  have 

perform'd 

A  saint-like  sorrow  :  no  fault  could  you  make, 
Which  you  have  not  redeem'd ;  indeed,  paid 

down 

More  penitence  than  done  trespass :  at  the  last, 
Do  as  the  heavens  have  done,  forget  your  evil; 
With  them,  forgive  yourself. 

Leon.  Whilst  I  remember 

Her  and  her  virtues,  I  cannot  forget 
My  blemishes  in  them ;  and  so  still  think  of 
The  wrong  I  did  myself:  which  was  so  much 
That  heirless  it  hath  made  my  kingdom,  and 
Destroy'd  the  sweet' st  companion  that  e'er  man 
Bred  his  hopes  out  of. 

Paul.  True,  too  true,  my  lord  ; 

If,  one  by  one,  you  wedded  all  the  world, 
Or  from  the  all  that  are  took  something  good, 
To  make  a  perfect  woman,  she  you  kill'd 
Would  be  unparallel'd. 

Leon.  I  think  so. — Kill'd  ! 

She  I  kill'd  !     I  did  so :  but  thou  strik'st  me 
Sorely,  to  say  I  did :  it  is  as  bitter  [now, 

Upon  thy  tongue  as  in  my  thought :  now,  good 
Say  so  but  seldom. 

Cleo.  Not  at  all,  good  lady  ; 

You  might  have  spoken  a  thousand  things  that 

would 

Have  done  the  time  more  benefit,  and  grac'd 
Your  kindness  better. 

Paul.  You  are  one  of  those 

Would  have  him  wed  again. 

Dion.  If  you  would  not  so, 

You  pity  not  the  state,  nor  the  remembrance 
Of  his  most  sovereign  name ;  consider  little 


What  dangers,  by  his  highness5  fail  of  issue, 
May  drop  upon  his  kingdom,  and  devour 
Incertain  lookers-on.     What  were  more  holy 
Than  to  rejoice  the  former  queen  is  well? 
What  holier  than, — for  royalty's  repair, 
For  present  comfort,  and  lor  future  good, — 
To  bless  the  bed  of  majesty  again 
With  a  sweet  fellow  to't? 

Paul.  There  is  none  worthy, 

Respecting  her  that 's  gone.     Besides,  the  gods 
Will  have  fulfill'd  their  secret  purposes : 
For  has  not  the  divine  Apollo  said, 
Is 't  not  the  tenor  of  his  oracle, 
That  king  Leontes  shall  not  have  an  heir 
Till  his  lost  child  be  found?  which  that  it  shall, 
Is  all  as  monstrous  to  our  human  reason 
As  my  Antigonus  to  break  his  grave, 
And  come  again  to  me ;  who,  on  my  life, 
Did  perish  with  the  infant.     Tis  your  counsel 
My  lord  should  to  the  heavens  be  contrary, 
Oppose  against  their  wills. — Care  not  for  issue ; 

\T&  LEONTES. 

The  crown  will  find  an  heir :  great  Alexander 
Left  his  to  the  worthiest ;  so  his  successor 
Was  like  to  be  the  best. 

Leon.  Good  Paulina, — 

Who  hast  the  memory  of  Hermione, 
I  know,  in  honour, — O,  that  ever  I          [now, 
Had  squar'd  me  to  thy  counsel !— then,  even 
I  might  have  look'd  upon  my  queen's  full  eyes; 
Have  taken  treasure  from  her  lips, — 

Paul.  And  left  them 

More  rich  for  what  they  yielded. 

Leon.  Thou  speak'st  truth. 

No  more  such  wives ;  therefore,  no  wife :  one 

worse, 

And  better  us'd,  would  make  her  sainted  spirit 
Again  possess  her  corpse ;  and,  on  this  stage, — 
Where  we  offend  her  now, — appear,  soul-vexed, 
And  begin,  Why  to  me  ? 

Paul.  Had  she  such  power, 

She  had  just  cause. 

Leon.  She  had  ;  and  would  incense  me 

To  murder  her  I  married. 

Paul.  I  should  so. 

Were  I  the  ghost  that  walk'd,  I  'd  bid  you  mark 
Her  eye,  and  tell  me  for  what  dull  part  in 't 
You  chose  her  :  then  I  'd  shriek,  that  even  your 
ears  [folio  w'd 

Should  rift  to  hear  me;  and  the  words  that 
Should  be,  Remember  mine! 

Leon.  Stars,  stars, 

And  all  eyes  else  dead  coals! — fear  thou  no 

wife; 
I  '11  have  no  wife,  Paulina. 

Paul.  Will  you  swear 

Never  to  marry  but  by  my  free  leave?  i  rfte 


SCENB  I.] 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


373 


Leon.  Never,    Paulina;   so  be    bless'd  my 
spirit !  [his  oath. 

Paul.  Then,  good  my  lords,  bear  witness  to 

Cleo.  You  tempt  him  over-much. 

Paitl,  Unless  another, 

As  like  Hermione  as  is  her  picture, 
Affront  his  eye. 

Cleo.  Good  madam, — 

Paul.  I  have  done. 

Yet,  if  my  lord  will  marry, — if  you  will,  sir, 
No  remedy,  but  you  will, — give  me  the  office 
To  choose  you  a  queen :  she  shall  not  be  so 

young 

As  was  your  former ;  but  she  shall  be  such 
As,  walk'd  your  first  queen's  ghost,  it  should 

take  joy 
To  see  her  in  your  arms. 

Leon.  My  true  Paulina, 

We  shall  not  marry  till  thou  bidd'st  us. 

Paul.  That 

Shall  be  when  your  first  queen 's  again  in  breath: 
Never  till  then. 

.?UV/  Vili  :TJf{7/ 

4h9rf!&  N  ><     Enter  a  Gentleman. 

Gent.  One   that   gives    out  himself  Prince 

Florizel, 

Son  of  Polixenes,  with  his  princess, — she 
The  fairest  I  have  yet  beheld, — desires  access 
To  your  high  presence. 

Leon.  What  with  him?  he  comes  not 

Like  to  his  father's  greatness :  his  approach, 
So  out  of  circumstance  and  sudden,  tells  us 
'Tis  not  a  visitation  fram'd,  but  forc'd 
By  need  and  accident.     What  train? 

Gent.  But  few, 

And  those  but  mean. 

Leon.  His  princess,  say  you,  with  him? 

Gent.  Ay ;  the  most  peerless  piece  of  earth, 

I  think, 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  bright  on. 

Paul.  O  Hermione, 

As  every  present  time  doth  boast  itself 
Above  a  better  gone,  so  must  thy  grave 
Give  way  to  what 's  seen  now.     Sir,  you  your- 
self 

Have  said  and  writ  so, — but  your  writing  now 
Is  colder  than  that  theme, — She  had  not  been, 
Nor  was  not  to  be  equalPd; — thus  your  verse 
Flow'd  with  her  beauty  once;  'tis  shrewdly  ebb'd, 
To  say  you  have  seen  a  better. 

Gent.  Pardon,  madam ! 

The  one  I  have  almost  forgot ; — your  pardon ; — 
The  other,  when  she  has  obtain'd  your  eye, 
Will  have  your  tongue  too.     This  is  a  creature, 
Would  she  begin  a  sect,  might  quench  the  zeal 
Of  all  professors  else ;  make  proselytes 
Of  who  she  but  bid  follow. 


Paul.  Howl  not  women? 

Gent.  Women  will  love  her,  that  she  is  a 

woman 

More  worth  than  any  man ;  men,  that  she  is 
The  rarest  of  all  women. 

Leon.  Go,  Cleomenes; 

Yourself,  assisted  with  your  honour'd  friends, 
Bring  them  to  our  embracement. — Still,  'tis 
strange, 

[Exeunt  CLEO.  ,  Lords,  and  Gent. 
He  thus  should  steal  upon  us. 

Paul.  Had  our  prince, — 

Jewel  of  children, — seen   this    hour,  he  had 

pair'd 

Well  with  this  lord :  there  was  not  full  a  month 
Between  their  births.  [know^st 

Leon.    Pr'ythee,    no    more ;     cease ;     thoii 
He  dies  to  me  again  when  talk'd  of:  sure, 
When  I  shall  see  this  gentleman,  thy  speeches 
Will  bring  me  to  consider  that  which  may 
Unfurnish  me  of  reason. — They  are  come. — 

Re-enter  CLEOMENES,  with  FLORIZEL, 
PERDITA,  and  Attendants. 

Your  mother  was  most  true  to  wedlock,  prince; 
For  she  did  print  your  royal  father  oif, 
Conceiving  you :  were  I  but  twenty-one, 
Your  father's  image  is  so  hit  in  you, 
His  very  air,  that  I  should  call  you  brother, 
As  I  did  him,  and  speak  of  something  wildly 
By  us  perform'd  before.     Most  dearly  welcome  ! 
And  your  fair  princess, — goddess ! — O,  alas ! 
I  lost  a  couple  that  'twixt  heaven  and  earth 
Might  thus  have  stood,  begetting  wonder,  as 
You,  gracious  couple,  do !  and  then  I  lost, — 
All  mine  own  folly, — the  society, 
Amity  too,  of  your  brave  father,  whom, 
Though  bearing  misery,  I  desire  my  life 
Once  more  to  look  on  him. 

Flo.  By  his  command 

Have  I  here  touch'd  Sicilia,  and  from  him 
Give  you  all  greetings  that  a  king,  at  friend, 
Can  3end  his  brother :  and,  but  infirmity, — 
Which  waits  upon  worn   times, — hath  some- 
thing seiz'd 

His  wish'd  ability,  he  had  himself 
The  lands  and  waters  'twixt  your  throne  and  his 
Measur'd,  to  look  upon  you  ;  whom  he  loves, - 
He  bade  me  say  so, — more  than  all  the  sceptres, 
And  those  that  bear  them,  living. 

Leon.  O  my  brother, — 

Good   gentleman! — the  wrongs  I   have  done 

thee  stir 

Afresh  within  me ;  and  these  thy  offices, 
So  rarely  kind,  are  as  interpreters 
Of   my    behind- hand    slackness  !— Welcome 
hither, 


374 


TMi:  WINTER'S  TALE. 


[ACT  v. 


As  is  the  spring  to  the  earth.     And  Ivath  he  too 
Expos'd  this  paragon  to  the  fearful  usage, — 
At  least  ungentle, — of  the  dreadful  Neptune, 
To  greet  a  man  not  worth  her  pains,  much  less 
The  adventure  of  her  person? 

Flo.  Good,  my  lord, 

She  came  from  Libya. 

Leon.  Where  the  warlike  Sinalus, 

That  noble  honour'd  lord,  is  fear'd  and  lov'd? 

Flo.  Most  royal  sir,  from  thence;  from  him, 

whose  daughter 
His  tears   proclaim'd  his,   parting  with  her: 

thence — 
A  prosperous  south  wind  friendly, — we  have 

cross'd, 

To  execute  the  charge  my  father  gave  me, 
For  visiting  your  highness :  my  best  train 
I  have  from  your  Sicilian  shores  dismiss'd ; 
Who  for  Bohemia  bend,  to  signify        I  nsri 
Not  only  my  success  in  Libya,  sir,         ,d  iiiW 
But  my  arrival,  and  my  wife's,  in  safety 
Here,  where  we  are. 

Leon.  The  blessed  gods 

Purge  all  infection  from  our  air  whilst  you 
Do  climate  here !     You  have  a  holy  father, 
A  graceful  gentleman  ;  against  whose  person, 
So  sacred  as  it  is,  I  have  done  sin : 
For  which  the  heavens,  taking  angry  note, 
Have   left   me    issueless;    and    your   father's 

bless'd,— 

As  he  from  heaven  merits  it, — with  you, 
Worthy  his  goodness.    What  might  I  have  been , 
Might  I  a  son  and  daughter  now  have  look'd  on, 
Such  goodly  things  as  you ! 

Enter  a  Lord. 

.       jVI-jHOOJ: 

Lord.      , :\-ff   igrfjjfi          Most  noble  sir, 
That  which  I  shall  report  will  bear  no  credit, 
Were  not  the  proof  so  nigh.    Please  you ,  great  sir, 
Bohemia  greets  you  from  himself  by  me ; 
Desires  you  to  attach  his  son,  who  has, — 
His  dignity  and  duty  both  cast  off, — 
Fled  from  his  father,  from  his  hopes,  and  with 
A  shepherd's  daughter. 

Leon.  Where's  Bohemia?  speak. 

Lord.  Here  in  your  city ;  I  now  came  from 

-id  bfis     him  : 

I  speak  amazedly ;  and  it  becomes 
My  marvel  and  my  message.     To  your  court 
Whiles  he  was  hast'ning, — in  the  chase,  it  seems, 
Of  this  fair  couple, — meets  he  on  the  way 
The  father  of  this  seeming  lady,  and 
Her  brother,  having  both  their  country  quitted 
With  this  young  prince. 

Flo.  Camillo  has  betray*d  me ; 

Whose  honour,  and  whose  honesty,  till  now, 
Endued  all  weathers. 


Lord.  Lay 't  so  to  his  charge ; 

He 's  with  the  king  your  father. 

Leon.  m§Kx   Who?  Camillo? 

Lord.  Camiilo,  sir ;  I  spake  with  him ;  who 

now 

Has  these  poor  men  in  question.     Never  saw  I 
Wretches  so  quake :  they  kneel,  they  kiss  the 

earth ; 

Forswear  themselves  as  cf^en  as  they  speak : 
Bohemia  stops  his  ears,  and  threatens  them 
With  divers  deaths  in  death. 

Per.  O  my  poor  father  !— 

The  heaven  sets  spies  upon  us,  will  not  have 
Our  contract  celebrated. 

Leon.  You  are  married? 

Flo.  We  are  not,  sir,  nor  are  we  like  to 

be; 

The  stars,  I  see,  will  kiss  the  valleys  first:— 
The  odds  for  high  and  low  's  alike*  ^n  llml 

Leon.  My  lord, 

Is  this  the  daughter  of  a  king? 

Flo.  She  is, Sib- 13* 

When  once  she  is  my  wife. 

Leon.  That  once,  I  see,  by  your  good  father's 

speed, 

Will  come  on  very  slowly.     I  am  sorry, 
Most  sorry,  you  have  broken  from  his  liking, 
Where  you  were  tied  in  duty ;  and  as  sorry 
Your  choice  is  not  so  rich  in  worth  as  beauty, 
That  you  might  well  enjoy  her. 

Flo.  Dear,  look  up : 

Though  Fortune,  visible  an  enemy, 
Should  chase  us,  with  my  father,  power  no  jot 
Hath  she  to  change  our  loves. — Beseech  you, 

sir, 

Remember  since  you  ow'd  no  more  to  time 
Than  I  do  now :  with  thought  of  such  affections, 
Step  forth  mine  advocate ;  at  your  request 
My  father  will  grant  precious  things  as  trifles. 

Leon.  Would  he  do  so,  I  'd  beg  your  precious 

mistress, 
Which  he  counts  but  a  trifle.]  jnsa 

Paul.  Sir,  my  liege, 

Your  eye  hath  too  much  youth  in 't :  not  a  month 
'Fore  your  queen  died,  she  was  more  worth 

such  gazes 
Than  what  you  look  on  now. 

Leon.  I  thought  of  her 

Even  in  these  looks  I  made. — But  your  petition 
[7<?  FLORIZEL. 

Is  yet  unanswer'd.     I  will  to  your  father : 
Your  honour  not  o'erthrown  by  your  desires, 
I  am  friend  to  them  and  you:   upon  which 

errand 

I  now  go  toward  him ;  therefore,  follow  me, 
And  mark  what  way  I  make.     Come,  good 
my  lord. 


SCENE  U.] 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


375 


SCENE  II. — The  same~     Before  ilie  Palace* 

Enter  AUTOLYCUS  and  a  Gentleman. 

;  I.1.   .Tqj*.  'jvroe  Dflfi 

Aut.  Beseech  you,  sir,  were  you  present  at 
this  relation? 

I  Gent.  I  was  by  at  the  opening  of  the  far- 
del, heard  the  old  shepherd  deliver  the  manner 
how  he  found  it :  whereupon,  after  a  little 
amazedness,  we  were  all  commanded  out  of  the 
chamber;  only  this,  methought  I  heard  the 
shepherd  say  he  found  the  child.  [it. 

Aut.  I  would  most  gladly  know  the  issue  of 

1  Gent.  I  make  a  broken  delivery  of  the  busi- 
ness ;  but  the  changes  I  perceived  in  the  king 
and  Camillo  were  very  notes  of  admiration : 
they  seemed  almost,  with  staring  on  one  another, 
to  tear  the  cases  of  their  eyes ;  there  was  speech 
in  their  dumbness,  language  in  their  very  ges- 
ture ;  they  looked  as  they  had  heard  of  a  world 
ransomed,  or  one  destroyed:  a  notable  passion 
of  wonder  appeared  in  them ;  but  the  wisest  be- 
holder, that  knew  no  more  but  seeing,  could 
not  say  if  the  importance  were  joy  or  sorrow ; — 
but  in  the  extremity  of  the  one,  it  must  needs 
be.      Here  comes  a  gentleman   that  happily 
knows  more. 

gfefmari  vfi'n«>  4ti>l-b)  titLon  JIB  aortf  wonJ  I  Juti 
Enter  a  Gentleman. 

The  news,  Rogero? 

2  Gent.  Nothing  but  bonfires:  the  oracle  is 
fulfilled ;  the  king  s  daughter  is  found :  such  a 
deal  of  wonder  is  broken  out  within  this  hour 
that  ballad-makers  cannot  be  able  to  express  it. 
Here  comes  the  Lady  Paulina's  steward:    he 
can  deliver  you  more. 

v^iwoia  ^'•^-•^       .7  •   *  r*  iii^'1' 

Enter  a  third  Gentleman. 

How  goes  it  now,  sir?  this  news,  which  is 
called  true,  is  so  like  an  old  tale  that  the  verity 
of  it  is  in  strong  suspicion.  Has  the  king  found 
his  heir? 

3  Gent.  Most  true,  if  ever  truth  were  preg- 
nant by  circumstance:    that  which  you  hear 
you  Ml  swear  you  see,  there  b  such  unity  in  the 
proofs.     The  mantle  of  Queen  Hermione ;  her 
jewel  about  the  neck  of  it ;  the  letters  of  Anti- 
gonus,  found  with  it,  which  they  know  to  be 
his  character ;   the  majesty  of  the  creature  in 
resemblance  of  the  mother;    the  affection  of 
nobleness,  which  nature  shows  above  her  breed- 
ing ;  and  many  other  evidences, — proclaim  her 
with  all  certainty  to  be  the  king's  daughter. 
Did  you  see  the  meeting  of  the  two  kings? 

2  Gent.  No. 

3  Gent.  Then  have  you  lost  a  sight  which 
Was  to  be  seen,  cannot  be  spoken  of.     There 


might  you  have  beheld  one  joy  crown  another, 
so  and  in  such  manner  that  it  seemed  sorrow 
wept  to  take  leave  of  them ;  for  their  joy  waded 
in  tears.  There  was  casting  up  of  eyes,  hold- 
ing up  of  hands,  with  countenance  of  such  dis- 
traction that  they  were  to  be  known  by  garment, 
not  by  favour.  Our  king,  being  ready  to  leap 
out  of  himself  for  joy  of  his  found  daughter,  as 
if  that  joy  were  now  become  a  loss,  cries,  O, 
thy  mother,  thy  mother!  then  asks  Bohemia 
forgiveness;  then  embraces  his  son-in-law; 
then  again  worries  he  his  daughter  with  clipping 
her;  now  he  thanks  the  old  shepherd,  which 
stands  by  like  a  weather-bitten  conduit  of  many 
kings'  reigns.  I  never  heard  of  such  another 
encounter,  which  lames  report  to  follow  it,  and 
undoes  description  to  do  it. 

2  Gent.  What,   pray  you,  became  of  Anti- 
gonus,  that  carried  hence  the  child? 

3  Gent.  Like  an  old  tale  still,  which  will 
have  matter    to   rehearse,   though  credit    be 
asleep,  and  not  an  ear  open.     He  was  torn  to 
pieces  with  a  bear :  this  avouches  the  shepherd's 
son ;  who  has  not  only  his  innocence, — which 
seems  much, — to  justify  him,  but  a  handker- 
chief and  rings  of  his,  that  Paulina  knows. 

I  Gent.  What  became  of  his  bark  and  his 
followers? 

3  Gent.  Wrecked  the  same  instant  of  their 
master's  death,  and  in  the  view  of  the  shepherd : 
so  that  all  the  instruments  which  aided  to  ex- 
pose the  child  were  even  then  lost  when  it  was 
found.  But,  O,  the  noble  combat  that,  'twixt 
joy  and  sorrow,  was  fought  in  Paulina !  She 
had  one  eye  declined  for  the  loss  of  her  husband, 
another  elevated  that  the  oracle  was  fulfilled : 
she  lifted  the  princess  from  the  earth,  and  so 
locks  her  in  embracing,  as  if  she  would  pin  her 
to  her  heart,  that  she  might  no  more  be  in 
danger  of  losing. 

i  Gent.  The  dignity  of  this  act  was  worth 
the  audience  of  kings  and  princes ;  for  by  such 
was  it  acted. 

3  Gent.  One  of  the  prettiest  touches  of  all, 
and  that  which  angled  for  mine  eyes, — caught 
the  water,  though  not  the  fish, — was  when,  at 
the  relation  of  the  queen's  death,  with  the 
manner  how  she  came  to  it, — bravely  confessed 
and  lamented  by  the  king,— how  attentiveness 
wounded  his  daughter;  till,  from  one  sign  of 
dolour  to  another,  she  did,  with  an  alas!  I 
would  fain  say,  bleed  tears ;  for  I  am  sure  my 
heart  wept  blood.  Who  was  most  marble 
there  changed  colour;  some  swooned,  all 
sorrowed :  if  all  the  world  could  have  seen  it, 
the  woe  had  been  universal. 

i  Gent.  Are  they  returned  to  the  court? 


376 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


[ACT  v. 


3  Gent.  No  2  the  princess  hearing  of  her 
mother's  statue,  which  is  in  the  keeeping  of 
Paulina, — a  piece  many  years  in  doing,  and 
now  newly  performed  by  that  rare  Italian 
master,  Julio  Romano,  who,  had  he  himself 
eternity,  and  could  put  breath  into  his  work, 
would  beguile  nature  of  her  custom,  so  perfectly 
he  is  her  ape:  he  so  near  to  Hermione  hath 
done  Hermione,  that  they  say  one  would  speak 
to  her,  and  stand  in  hope  of  answer : — thither 
with  all  greediness  of  affection  are  they  gone ; 
and  there  they  intend  to  sup. 

2  Gent.  I  thought  sne  had  some  great  matter 
there  in  hand ;  for  she  hath  privately  twice  or 
thrice  a  day,  ever  since  the  death  of  Hermione, 
visited  that  removed  house.  Shall  we  thither, 
and  with  our  company  piece  the  rejoicing? 

I  Gent.  Who  would  be  thence  that  has  the 
benefit  of  access?  every  wink  of  an  eye  some 
new  grace  will  be  born :  our  absence  makes  us 
unthrifty  to  our  knowledge.  Let 's  along. 

[Exeunt  Gentlemen. 

Aut.  Now,  had  I  not  the  dash  of  my  former 
life  in  me,  would  preferment  drop  on  my  head. 
I  brought  the  old  man  and  his  son  aboard 
the  prince ;  told  him  I  heard  them  talk  of  a 
fardel,  and  I  know  not  what ;  but  he  at  that 
time  over-fond  of  the  shepherd's  daughter, — so 
he  then  took  her  to  be, — who  began  to  be  much 
sea-sick  and  himself  little  better,  extremity  of 
weather  continuing,  this  mystery  remained  un- 
discovered. But  'tis  all  one  to  me;  for  had  I 
been  the  finder-out  of  this  secret,  it  would  not 
have  relished  among  my  other  discredits. 
Here  come  those  I  have  done  good  to  against 
my  will,  and  already  appearing  in  the  blossoms 
of  their  fortune. 

Enter  Shepherd  and  Clown. 

CU    9»G 

Shep.  Come,  boy ;  I  am  past  more  children, 
but  thy  sons  and  daughters  will  be  all  gentle- 
men born. 

Clo.  You  are  well  met,  sir :  you  denied  to 
fight  with  me  this  other  day,  because  I  was  no 
gentleman  born.  See  you  these  clothes?  say 
you  see  them  not,  and  think  me  still  no  gentle- 
man born :  you  were  best  say  these  robes  are 
not  gentlemen  born.  Give  me  the  lie,  do; 
and  try  whether  I  am  not  now  a  gentleman 
born.  [born. 

Aut.  I  know  you  are  now,  sir,  a  gentleman 

Clo,  Ay,  and  have  been  so  any  time  these 
four  hours. 

Shep.  And  so  have  I,  boy ! 

Clo.  So  you  have :— but  I  was  a  gentleman 
born  before  my  father  ;  for  the  Icing's  son  took 
me  by  the  hand  and  called  me  brother;  and 


then  the  two  kings  called  my  father  brother ; 
and  then  the  prince,  my  brother,  and  the 
princess,  my  sister,  called  my  father  father; 
and  so  we  wept :  and  there  was  the  first  gentle- 
man-like tears  that  ever  we  shed.  '  Awk 

Shep.  We  may  live,  son,  to  shed  many  more. 

Clo.  Ay ;  or  else  'twere  hard  luck,  being  in 
so  preposterous  estate  as  we  are. 

Aut.  \  humbly  beseech  you,  sir,  to  pardon 
me  all  the  faults  I  have  committed  to  your 
worship,  and  to  give  me  your  good  report  to 
the  prince  my  master. 

Shep.  Pr'ythee,  son,  do;  for  we  must  be 
gentle,  now  we  are  gentlemen. 

Clo.  Thou  wilt  amend  thy  life? 

Aut.  Ay,  an  it  like  your  good  worship. 

Clo.  Give  me  thy  hand  :  I  will  swear  to  the 
prince  thou  art  as  honest  a  true  fellow  as  any 
is  in  Bohemia. 

Shep.  You  may  say  it,  but  not  swear  it. 

Clo.  Not  swear  it,  now  I  am  a  gentleman? 
Let  boors  and  franklins  say  it,  I  '11  swear  it. 

Shep.  How  if  it  be  false,  son? 

Clo.  If  it  be  ne'er  so  false,  a  true  gentleman 
may  swear  it  in  the  behalf  of  his  friend. — And 
I  '11  swear  to  the  prince,  thou  art  a  tall  fellow 
of  thy  hands,  and  that  thou  wilt  not  be  drunk; 
but  I  know  thou  art  no  tall  fellow  of  thy  hands, 
and  that  thou  wilt  be  drunk :  but  J  '11  swear  it; 
and  I  would  thou  wouldst  be  a  tall  fellow  of 
thy  hands. 

Aut.  I  will  prove  so,  sir,  to  my  power. 

Clo.  Ay,  by  any  means,  prove  a  tall  fellow: 
if  I  do  not  wonder  how  thou  darest  venture  to 
be  drunk,  not  being  a  tall  fellow,  trust  me 
not.— Hark!  the  kings  and  the  princes,  our 
kindred,  are  going  to  see  the  queen's  picture, 
Come,  follow  us :  we  '11  be  thy  good  masters. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — The  same.     A  Room  in 
PAULINA'S  House. 

Enter  LEONTES,  POLIXENES,  FLORIZEL,  PER- 
DITA,  CAMILLO,  PAULINA,  Lords,  and  At- 
tendants. 

Leon.  O  grave  and  good  Paulina,  the  great 

comfort 
That  I  have  had  of  thee ! 

Paul.  What,  sovereign  sir, 

I  did  not  well,  I  meant  well.     All  my  services 
You  have  paid  home :  but  that  you  have  vouch- 
saf'd,  [traded 

With  your  crown'd  brother,  and  these  your  con- 
Heirs  of  your  kingdoms,  my  poor  house  to  visit, 
It  is  a  surplus  of  your  grace  which  never 
My  life  may  last  to  answer.     .>  raa» 


SCENE  III.J 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


Leon,  O  Paulina, 

We  honour  you  with  trouble : — but  we  came 
To  see  the  statue  of  our  queen :  your  gallery 
Have  we  pass'd  through,  not  without  much  con. 

tent 

In  many  singularities ;  but  we  saw  not 
That  which  my  daughter  came  to  look  upon, 
The  statue  of  her  mother. 

Paul.  As  she  liv'd  peerless, 

So  her  dead  likeness,  I  do  well  believe, 
Excels  whatever  yet  you  look'd  upon, 
Or  hand  of  man  hath  done ;  therefore  I  keep  it 
Lonely,  apart.     But  here  it  is :  prepare 
To  see  the  life  as  lively  mock'd  as  ever    [well. 
Still  sleep  mock'd  death :  behold ;  and  say  'tis 

[PAULINA  undraws  a  curtain,  and  discovers 

HERMIONE  standing  as  a  statue. 
I  like  your  silence, — it  the  more  shows  off 
Your  wonder:  but  yet  speak; — first,  you,  my 

liege. 
Comes  it  not  something  near? 

Leon.  Her  natural  posture ! — 

Chide  me,  dear  stone,  that  I  may  say  indeed, 
Thou  art  Hermione ;  or  rather,  thou  art  she, 
In  thy  not  chiding ;  for  she  was  as  tender 
As  infancy  and  grace. — But  yet,  Paulina,      '- 
Hermione  was  not  so  much  wrinkled ;  nothing 
So  aged,  as  this  seems. 

Pol.  O,  not  by  much. 

Paul.  So  much  the  more  our  carver's  excel- 
lence ;  [her 
Which  lets  go  by  some  sixteen  years,  and  makes 
As  she  liv'd  now. 

Leon.  As  now  she  might  have  done, 

So  much  to  my  good  comfort,  as  it  is 
Now  piercing  to  my  soul.     O,  thus  she  stood, 
Even  with  such  life  of  majesty, — warm  life, 
As  now  it  coldly  stands, — when  first  I  woo'd  her! 
I  am  asham'd :  does  not  the  stone  rebuke  me 
For  being  more  stone  than  it? — O  royal  piece, 
There 's  magic  in  thy  majesty ;  which  has 
My  evils  conjur'd  to  remembrance ;  and 
From  thy  admiring  daughter  took  the  spirits, 
Standing  like  stone  with  thee  ! 

Per.  And  give  me  leave ; 

And  do  not  say  'tis  superstition,  that 
I  kneel,  and  then  implore  her  blessing. — Lady, 
Dear  queen,  that  ended  when  I  but  began, 
Give  me  that  hand  of  yours  to  kiss. 

Paul.  O,  patience ! 

The  statue  is  but  newly  fix'd,  the  colour 's 
Not  dry.  [on, 

Cam.  My  lord,  your  sorrow  was  too  sore  laid 
Which  sixteen  winters  cannot  blow  away, 
So  many  summers  dry:  scarce  any  joy 
Did  ever  so  long  live ;  no  sorrow 
But  kill'd  itself  much  sooner. 


Pol.  Dear  my  brother, 

Let  him  that  was  the  cause  of  this  have  power 
To  take  off  so  much  grief  from  you  as  he 
Will  piece  up  in  himself. 

Paul.  Indeed,  my  lord, 

If  I  had  thought  the  sight  of  my  poor  image 
Would  thus  have  wrought  you, — for  the  stone 

is  mine, — 
I  'd  not  have  showM  it. 

Leon.  Do  not  draw  the  curtain. 

Paul.  No  longer  shall  you  gaze  on't;  lest 

your  fancy 
May  think  anon  it  moves. 

Leon.  Let  be,  let  be.— 

Would  I  weredead,  but  that,  methinks,  already — 
What  was  he  that  did  make  it? — See,  my  lord, 
Would  you  not  deem  it  breath'd?  and  that 

those  veins 
Did  verily  bear  blood? 

Pol.  Masterly  done : 

The  very  life  seems  warm  upon  her  lip. 

Leon.  The  fixture  of  her  eye  has  motion  in 't, 
As  we  are  mock'd  with  art. 

Paul.  I  '11  drew  the  curtain : 

My  lord 's  almost  so  far  transported  that 
He  '11  think  anon  it  lives. 

Leon.  O  sweet  Paulina, 

Make  me  to  think  so  twenty  years  together ! 
No  settled  senses  of  the  world  can  match 
The  pleasure  of  that  madness.     Let 't  alone. 

Paul.   I  am  sorry,  sir,  I  have  thus  far  stirr'd 

you :  but 
I  could  afflict  you  further. 

Leon.  Do,  Paulina; 

For  this  affliction  has  a  taste  as  sweet 
As  any  cordial  comfort. — Still,  methinks, 
There  is  an  air  comes  from  her:    what  fine 
chisel  [me, 

Could  ever  yet  cut  breath?  Let  no  man  mock 
For  I  will  kiss  her ! 

Parti.  Good  my  lord,  forbear : 

The  ruddiness  upon  her  lip  is  wet ; 
You  '11  mar  it  if  you  kiss  it ;  stain  your  own 
With  oily  painting.     Shall  I  draw  the  curtain? 

Leon.  No,  not  these  twenty  years. 

Per.  So  long  could  I 

Stand  by,  a  looker  on. 

Paul.  Either  forbear, 

Quit  presently  the  chapel,  or  resolve  you 
For  more  amazement.     If  you  can  behold 
I  '11  make  the  statue  move  indeed,  descend 
And  take  you  by  the  hand :  but  then  you  '11 

think, — 

Which  I  protest  against, — I  am  assisted 
By  wicked  powers. 

Leon.  What  you  can  make  her  do 

I  am  content  to  look  on :  what  to  speak. 


378 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


[ACT  v. 


I  am  content  to  hear ;  for  'tis  as  easy 
To  make  her  speak  as  move. 

Paul.  It  is  requir'd 

You  do  awake  your  faith.     Then  all  stand  still ; 
Or  those  that  think  it  is  unlawful  business 
I  am  about,  let  them  depart. 

Leon.  Proceed : 

No  foot  shall  stir. 

Paul.      Music,  awake  her :  strike ! — [Music. 
'Tis  time ;  descend ;  be  stone  no  more ;  approach; 
Strike  all  that  look  upon  with  marvel.     Come ; 
I'll  fill  your  grave  up:  stir;  nay,  come  away; 
Bequeath  to  death  your  numbness,  for  from  him 
Dear  life  redeems  you. — You  perceive  she  stirs: 
[HERMIONE  comes  down  from  the  pedestal. 
Start  not ;  her  actions  shall  be  holy  as 
You  hear  my  spell  is  lawful :  do  not  shun  her 
Until  you  see  her  die  again ;  for  then 
You  kill  her  double.     Nay,  present  your  hand: 
When  she  was  young  you  woo'd  her ;  now  in  age 
Is  she  become  the  suitor.       ;/i^a<> 

Leon.        O,  she 's  warm !     [Embracing  her. 
If  this  be  magic,  let  it  be  an  art 
Lawful  as  eating. ,  [{'  \ 

Pol.  She  embraces  him. 

Cam.   She  hangs  about  his  neck : 
If  she  pertain  to  life,  let  her  speak  too. 

Pol.  Ay,  and   make't  manifest  where  she 

has  livM, 
Or  how  stol'n  from  the  dead.?;  }•>  ^. 

Paul.  That  she  is  living, 

Were  it  but  told  you,  should  be  hooted  at 
Like  an  old  tale ;  but  it  appears  she  lives, 
Though  yet  she  speak  not.    Mark  a  little  while. — 
Please  you  to  interpose,  fair  madam :  kneel, 
And  pray  your  mother's  blessing. — Turn,  good 

lady; 
Our  Perdita  is  found. 

[Presenting  PER.,  who  kneels  to  HER. 

ffer.  You  gods,  look  down, 

And  from  your  sacred  vials  pour  your  graces 


.Jrre 


Upon  my  daughter's  head  !  —  Tell  me,  mine  own, 
Where  hast  thou  been  preservM?  where  livM? 

how  found?      \no  lo  f 
Thy  father's  court?  for  thou  shalt  hear   that 

•I, 

Knowing  by  Paulina  that  the  oracle 
Gave  hope  thou  wast  in  being,  —  have  preserv'd 
Myself  to  see  the  issue. 

Paul.  There  's  time  enough  for  that  ; 

Lest  they  desire,  upon  this  push,  to  trouble 
Your  joys  with  like  relation.  —  Go  together, 
You  precious  winners  all  ;  your  exultation 
Partake  to  every  one.     I,  an  old  turtle, 
Will  wing  me  to  some  wither'd  bough,  and  there 
My  mate,  that's  never  to  be  found  again,    III:', 
Lament  till  I  am  lost. 

Leon.  O  peace,  Paulina  ! 

Thou  shouldst  a  husband  take  by  my  consent, 
As  I  by  thine  a  wife  :  this  is  a  match, 
And   made   between  's   by  vows.     Thou   hast 

found  mine  ; 

But  how,  is  to  be  question'd  :  for  I  saw  her, 
As  I  thought,  dead  ;  and  have,  in  vain,  said  many 
A  prayer  upon  her  grave.     I  '11  not  seek  far,  — 
For  him,  I  partly  know  his  mind,  —  to  find  thee 
Ar  honourable  husband.  —  Come,  Camillo, 
And  take  her  by  the  hand,  whose  worth  and 

honesty 

Is  richly  noted,  and  here  justified 
By  us,  a  pair  of  kings.  —  Let  's  from  this  place.  — 
What!    look    upon   my   brother:  —  both  your 

pardons, 

That  e'er  I  put  between  your  holy  looks 
My  ill  suspicion.  —  This  your  son-in-law, 
And  son  unto  the  king,  whom  heavens  directing, 
Is  troth-plight  to  your  daughter.  —  Good  Paulina, 
Lead  us  from  hence  ;  where  we  may  leisurely 
Each  one  demand,  and  answer  to  his  parton?/, 
Perform'd  in  this  wide  gap  of  time,  since  first 
We  were  disseverM  :  hastily  lead  away  !  -ij  -\<J\ 

[Exeunt. 


jiiitp,  9*1  1 


aA 


jib  j;.  :  mot"! 

6 


>  bnA 


tog 


<n  oviO 

b  JoVl 
biSffW 

:  iftl  08 
:~>  btCT 


' ,-  >  mam; 


..  .- 


idfiJ  lol— • -,  sacxri  T  • 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


^ 

\jrti  v/onsl  ,bitA  i  ••  t«.slBU{>33Tgn  I  j}fiii'> 

PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

a  <-,  ut>  1 1  n&biq  #  moii  •  ; ;  ^  ro  f  A 

SOLINUS,  Z?/^<?  of  Ephesus.  PINCH,  a  Schoolmaster  ana  a  Conjurer. 


ST,  a  Merchant  of  Syracuse. 
ANTIPHOLUS  OF  )  ^......  n—i--,  ^  JWJ  ,„ 


BALTHAZAR,  a  Merchant. 
ANGELO,  a  Goldsmith. 

A     Merchant,    Friend   to    ANTIPHOLUS    OF 
SYRACUSE. 


- 

EMILIA,    W#&   to   /EGEON,    «»  '$&$*   * 


ADRIANA,  Wife  to  ANTIPHOLUS  OF  EPHESUS. 
LUCIANA,  her  Sister. 
LUCE,  for  Servant. 

A  Courtezan. 

Gaoler,  Officers,  and  other  Attendants* ri 

ft  liK'di  tcl  8V 


idinfKfi  Sifl«3tK;  ?ri£o-/  /j-j>g?ff^b  J/.     , 

SCENE, — EPHESUS. 

?iit  tot — ,)cr£bn^?m  ?.it(  jsrfT  ;  i  luo  '{tf  \(J9lBa  io"i  Jffgooa  z^niica  i.dT 

;;r»i5i«i{d  ,r.  ^^-    Yet   this   my   comfort, — when    youi 


SCENE  L—  yi  Hall  in  the  DUKE'S 


DUKE,  /EGEON,  Gaoler,  Officers,  and 
other  Attendants. 

Proceed,  Solinus,  to  procure  my  fall, 
And,  by  the  doom  of  death,  end  woes  and  all. 
Duke.  Merchant  of  Syracusa,  plead  no  more  ; 
I  am  not  partial  to  infringe  our  laws: 
The  enmity  and  discord  which  of  late 
Sprung  from  the  rancorous  outrage  of  your  duke 
To  merchants,  our  well-dealing  countrymen,  — 
Who,  wanting  gilders  to  redeem  their  lives, 
Have  sealed  his   rigorous  statutes  with   their 

bloods,— 

Excludes  all  pity  from  our  threat'ning  looks. 
For,  since  the  mortal  and  intestine  jars 
'Twixt  thy  seditious  countrymen  and  us, 
It  hath  in  solemn  synods  been  decreed, 
Both  by  the  Syracusans  and  ourselves, 
To  admit  no  traffic  to  our  adverse  towns: 
Nay,  more, 

If  any  born  at  Ephesus  be  seen 
At  any  Syracusan  marts  and  fairs,  — 
Again,  if  any  Syracusan  born 
Come  to  the  bay  of  Ephesus,  he  dies, 
His  goods  confiscate  to  the  duke's  dispose  ; 
Unless  a  thousand  marks  be  levied, 
To  quit  the  penalty  and  to  ransom  him.  — 
Thy  substance,  valued  at  the  highest  rate, 
Cannot  amount  unto  a  hundred  marks  : 
Therefore,  by  law  thou  art  condemn'd  to  die. 


Yet   this   my   comfort,  —  when    your 
words  are  done, 
My  woes  end  likewise  with  the  evening  sun. 
Duke.  Well,  Syracusan,  say,  in  brief,   the 

cause 

Why  thou  departedst  from  thy  native  home, 
Ana  for  what  cause  thou  cam'st  to  Ephesus. 

have  been 


A  heavier  task  could  not 

impos'd 

Than  I  to  speak  my  griefs  unspeakable  ! 
Yet,  that  the  world  may  witness  that  my  end 
Was  wrought  by  nature,  not  by  vile  offence, 
I  '11  utter  what  my  sorrow  gives  me  leave* 
In  Syracusa  was  I  born  ;  and  wed 
Unto  a  woman,  happy  but  for  me, 
And  by  me  too,  had  not  our  hap  been  bad. 
With  her  I  liv'd  in  joy  ;  our  wealth  increas'd 
By  prosperous  voyages  I  often  made 
To  Epidamnum,  till  my  factor's  death, 
And  he,  —  great  care  of  goods  at  random  left,  — 
Drew  me   from    kind    embracements  of   my 

spouse:  [old, 

From  whom  my  absence  was  not  six  months 
Before  herself,  —  almost  at  fainting  under 
The  pleasing  punishment  that  women  bear,  — 
Had  made  provision  for  her  following  me, 
And  soon  and  safe  arrived  where  I  was. 
There  she  had  not  been  long  but  she  became 
A  joyful  mother  of  two  goodly  sons  }        [°tner 
And,  which  was  strange,  the  one  so  like  the 
As  could  not  be  distinguish'd  but  by  names. 
That  very  hour,  and  in  the  self-same  inn^sf^' 
A  poor  mean  woman  was  delivered 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERROR*. 


[ACT  I. 


Of  such  a  burden,  male  twins,  both  alike : 
Those, — for  their  parents  were  exceeding  poor, — 
I  bought,  and  brought  up  to  attend  my  sons. 
My  wife,  not  meanly  proud  of  two  such  boys, 
Made  daily  motions  for  our  home  return : 
Unwilling  I  agreed ;  alas,  too  soon  ! 
We  came  aboard : 

A  league  from  Epidamnum  had  we  sail'd 
Before  the  always-wind-obeying  deep 
Gave  any  tragic  instance  of  our  harm ; 
But  longer  did  we  not  retain  much  hope : 
For  what  obscured  light  the  heavens  did  grant 
Did  but  convey  unto  our  fearful  minds 
A  doubtful  warrant  of  immediate  death ; 
Which,  though  myself  would  gladly  have  em- 

brac'd, 

Yet  the  incessant  weepings  of  my  wife, 
Weeping  before  for  what  she  saw  must  come, 
And  piteous  plainings  of  the  pretty  babes, 
That  mourn'd  for  fashion,  ignorai 


fear, 


ignorant  what   to 


Forc'd  me  to  seek  delays  for  them  and  me. 
And  this  it  was, — for  other  means  was  none. — 
The  sailors  sought  for  safety  by  our  boat, 
And  left  the  ship,  then  sinking-ripe,  to  us : 
My  wife,  more  careful  for  the  latter-born, 
Had  fasten'd  him  unto  a  small  spare  mast, 
Such  as  sea-faring  men  provide  for  storms : 
To  him  one  of  the  other  twins  was  bound, 
Whilst  I  had  been  like  heedful  of  the  other. 
The  children  thus  dispos'd,  my  wife  and  I, 
Fixing  our  eyes  on  whom  our  care  was  fix'd, 
Fasten'd  ourselves  at  either  end  the  mast ; 
And  floating  straight,  obedient  to  the  stream, 
Were  carried  towards  Corinth,  as  we  thought. 
At  length  the  sun,  gazing  upon  the  earth, 
Dispers'd  those  vapours  that  offended  us ; 
And,  by  the  benefit  jof  his  wish'd  light, 
The  seas  wax'd  calm,  and  we  discover'd 
Two  ships  from  far  making  amain  to  us, — 
Of  Corinth  that,  of  Epidaurus  this: 
But  ere  they  came, — O,  let  me  say  no  more ! — 
Gather  the  sequel  by  that  went  before. 

Duke.  Nay,  forward,  old  man,  do  not  break 
vm   'i-       off  so ; 
For  we  may  pity,  though  not  pardon  thee. 

jEge.  O,  had  the  gods  done  so,  I  had  not  now 
Worthily  terrn'd  them  merciless  to  us ! 
For,  ere   the  ships  could  meet  by  twice  five 

,an     leagues, 

We  were  encounter'd  by  a  mighty  rock, 
Which  being  violently  borne  upon, 
Our  helpful  ship  was  splitted  in  the  midst ; 
So  that,  in  this  unjust  divorce  of  us, 
Fortune  had  left  to  both  of  us  alike 
What  to  delight  in,  what  to  sorrow  for. 
Her  part,  poor  soul !  seeming  as  burdened 


With  lesser  weight,  but  not  with  lesser  woe, 
Was  carried  with  more  speed  before  the  wind ; 
And  in  our  sight  they  three  were  taken  up 
By  fishermen  of  Corinth,  as  we  thought. 
At  length  another  ship  had  seiz'd  on  us ; 
And,  knowing  whom  it  was  their  hap  to  save, 
Gave  helpful   welcome    to   their  shipwreck'd 

guests  ; 

And  would  have  reft  the  fishers  of  their  prey, 
Had  not  their  bark  been  very  slow  of  sail, 
And  therefore  homeward  did  they  bend  their 

course. — 

Thus  have  you  heard  me  sever' d  from  my  bliss ; 
That  by  misfortunes  was  my  life  prolong'd, 
To  tell  sad  stories  of  my  own  mishaps. 

Duke.  And,  for  the  sake  of  them  thou  sor- 

rowest  for, 

Do  me  the  favour  to  dilate  at  full 
What  hath  befall'n  of  them  and  thee  till  now. 
s£ge.  My  youngest  boy,  and  yet  my  eldest 

care, 

At  eighteen  years  became  inquisitive 
After  his  brother,  and  impdrtun'd  me 
That  his  attendant, — for  his  case  was  like, 
Reft  of  his  brother,  but  retain'd  his  name, — 
Might  bear  him  company  in  the  quest  of  him : 
Whom  whilst  I  labour'd  of  a  love  to  see, 
I  hazarded  the  loss  of  whom  I  lov'd. 
Five  summers  have  I  spent  in  furthest  Greece, 
Roaming  clean  through  the  bounds  of  Asia, 
And,  coasting  homeward,  came  to  Ephesus; 
Hopeless  to  find,  yet  loath  to  leave  unsought 
Or  that  or  any  place  that  harbours  men. 
But  here  must  end  the  story  of  my  life ; 
And  happy  were  I  in  my  timely  death, 
Could  all  my  travels  warrant  me  they  live. 
Duke.  Hapless  ^Egeon,  whom  the  fates  have 

mark'd 

To  bear  the  extremity  of  dire  mishap ! 
Now,  trust  me,  were  it  not  against  our  laws, 
Against  my  crown,  my  oath,  my  dignity, 
Which  princes,  would  they,  may  not  disannul. 
My  soul  should  sue  as  advocate  for  thee. 
But  though  thou  art  adjudged  to  the  death, 
And  passed  sentence  may  not  be  recall'd 
But  to  our  honour's  great  disparagement,       ; 
Yet  will  I  favour  thee  in  what  I  can : 
Therefore,  merchant,  I  '11  limit  thee  this  day 
To  seek  thy  help  by  beneficial  help : 
Try  all  the  friends  thou  hast  in  Ephesus : 
Beg  thou,  or  borrow,  to  make  up  the  sum, 
And  live ;  if  not,  then  thou  art  doom'd  to  die.—- 
Gaoler,  take  him  to  thy  custody. 
Gaol.  I  will,  my  lord. 
jEge.  Hopeless  and  helpless  doth  ^Egeon 

wend. 
But  to  procrastinate  his  lifeless  end.    [Exeunt. 


SCENE  H.] 


TUB  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


381 


SCENE  II.-- A  public  Place. 

Enter  ANTIPHOLUS  and  DROMIO  OF 
SYRACUSE,  and  a  Merchant. 

Mer.  Therefore,  give  out  you  are  of  Epi- 

damnum, 

Lest  that  your  goods  too  soon  be  confiscate. 
This  very  day  a  Syracusan  merchant 
Is  apprehended  for  arrival  here ; 
And,  not  being  able  to  buy  out  his  life, 
According  to  the  statute  of  the  town, 
Dies  ere  the  weary  sun  set  in  the  west. — 
There  is  your  money  that  I  had  to  keep. 

Ant.  S\   Go  bear  it  to  the  Centaur,  where 

we  host, 

And  stay  there,  Dromio,  till  I  come  to  thee. 
Within  this  hour  it  will  be  dinner-time : 
Till  that,  I  '11  view  the  manners  of  the  town, 
Peruse  the  traders,  gaze  upon  the  buildings, 
And  then  return  and  sleep  within  mine  inn ; 
For  with  long  travel  I  am  stiff  and  weary. — 
Get  thee  away.  [word, 

Dro.  S.   Many  a  man  would  take  you  at  your 
And  go  indeed,  having  so  good  a  mean. 

[Exit  DROMIO  S. 

Ant.  S.  A  trusty  villain,  sir,  that  very  oft, 
When  I  am  dull  with  care  and  melancholy, 
Lightens  my  humour  with  his  merry  jests. 
What,  will  you  walk  with  me  about  the  town, 
And  then  go  to  my  inn  and  dine  with  me? 

Mer.   I  am  invited,  sir,  to  certain  merchants, 
Of  whom  I  hope  to  make  much  benefit : 
I  crave  your  pardon.     Soon,  at  five  o'clock, 
Please  you,  I  '11  meet  with  you  upon  the  mart, 
And  afterwards  consort  you  until  bed-time : 
My  present  business  calls  me  from  you  now. 

Ant  S.  Farewell  till  then :    I  will  go  lose 

myself,        .I«K»^B 
And  wander  up  and  down  to  view  the  city. 

Mer.  Sir,  I  commend  you  to  your  own  content. 
[Exit  Merchant. 

Ant.  S.   He  that  commends  me  to  mine  own 

content, 

Commends  me  to  the  thing  I  cannot  get. 
I  to  the  world  am  like  a  drop  of  water 
That  in  the  ocean  seeks  another  drop ; 
Who,  failing  there  to  find  his  fellow  forth, 
Unseen,  inquisitive,  confounds  himself: 
So  I,  to  find  a  mother  and  a  brother, 
In  quest  of  them,  unhappy,  lose  myself. 

Enter  DROMIO  OF  EPHESUS. 
Here  comes  the  almanac  of  my  true  date.— 
What  now?    How  chance  thou  art  return'd  so 
soon?  [too  late: 

Dro.  E.  Return'd  so  soon!  rather  approach 'd 


The  capon  burns,  the  pig  falls  from  the  spit ; 
The  clock  hath  strucken  twelve  upon  the  bell— 
My  mistress  made  it  one  upon  my  cheek : 
She  is  so  hot  because  the  meat  is  cold ; 
The  meat  is  cold  because  you  come  not  home  ; 
You  come  not  home  because  you  have  no 

stomach ; 

You  have  no  stomach,  having  broke  your  fast ; 
But  we,  that  know  what  'tis  to  fast  and  pray, 
Are  penitent  for  your  default  to-day.     [I  pray ; 

Ant.  S.  Stop — in  your  wind,  sir;  tell  me  this, 
Where  have  you  left  the  money  that  I  gave  you? 

Dro.  E.  O,— sixpence  that  I  had  o?Wedres- 

day  last 

To  pay  the  saddler  for  my  mistress'  crupper ; — 
The  saddler  had  it,  sir,  I  kept  it  not. 

Ant.  S.  I  am  not  in  a  sportive  humour  now : 
Tell  me,  and  dally  not,  where  is  the  money? 
We  being  strangers  here,  how  dar'st  thou  trust 
So  great  a  charge  from  thine  own  custody? 

Dro.  E.  I  pray  you,  jest,  sir,  as  you  sit  at 

dinner:    fc^ 

I  from  my  mistress  come  to  you  in  post : 
If  I  return,  I  shall  be  post  indeed ; 
For  she  will  score  your  fault  upon  my  pate. 
Methinks  your  maw,  like  mine,  should  be  your 

clock, 
And  strike  you  home  without  a  messenger. 

Ant.  S.  Come,  Dromio,  come,  these  jests  are 

out  of  season ; 

Reserve  them  till  a  merrier  hour  than  this. 
Where  is  the  gold  I  gave  in  charge  to  thee? 

Dro.  E.  To  me,  sir?  why,  you  gave  no  gold 
to  me !  [foolishness, 

Ant.  S.  Come  on,  sir  knave ;  have  done  your 
And  tell  me  how  thou  hastdispos'd  thy  charge. 

Dro.  E.  My  charge  was  but  to  fetch  you  from 

the  mart 

Home  to  your  house,  the  Phoanix,  sir,  to  dinner: 
My  mistress  and  her  sister  stay  for  you. 

Ant.  S.  Now,  as  I  am  a  Christian,  answer  me, 
In  what  safe  place  you  have  bestow'd  my  money: 
Or  I  shall  break  that  merry  sconce  of  yours, 
That  stands  on  tricks  when  I  am  undispos'd; 
Where  is  the  thousand  marks  thou  hadst  of  me? 

Dro.  E.  I  have  some  marks  of  yours  upon  my 

pate, 

Some  of  my  mistress'  marks  upon  my  shoulders, 
But  not  a  thousand  marks  between  you  both.— 
If  I  should  pay  your  worship  those  again, 
Perchance  you  will  not  bear  them  patiently. 

Ant.  S.  Thy  mistress'  marks !  what  mistress, 
slave,  hast  thou? 

Dro.  E.  Your  worship's  wife,  my  mistress  at 

the  Phoenix ; 

Sh«  that  doth  fast  till  you  come  home  to  dinner, 
And  prays  that  you  will  hie  you  home  to  dinner. 


38* 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


[ACT  ii. 


Ant,  S,  What,  wilt  thou  flout  me  thus  unto 

my  face, 
Being  forbid?    There,  take  you  that,  sir  knave. 

Dro.  £.  What  mean  you,  sir?  for  God's  sake, 

hold  your  hands  : 

Nay,  an  you  will  not,  sir,  I  '11  take  my  heels. 
[Exit  DROMIO  E. 

Ant.  S.  Upon  my  life,  by  some  device  or  other, 
The  villain  is  o'er-raught  of  all  my  money. 
They  say  this  town  is  full  of  cozenage  ; 
As,  nimble  jugglers  that  deceive  the  eye, 
Dark-working  sorcerers  that  change  the  mind, 
Soul-killing  witches  that  deform  the  body, 
Disguised  cheaters,  prating  mountebanks, 
And  many  such-like  liberties  of  sin  : 
If  it  prove  so,  I  will  be  gone  the  sooner. 
I  '11  to  the  Centaur,  to  go  seek  this  slave  : 
I  greatly  fear  my  money  is  not  safe.         [Exit. 


Jia  uo.zfi  ii 


.... 

-Mf  -{jnq  I  ,3L  .^Ci 
SCENE  I.  —  A  public  Place. 
_  _  _ 

Enter  ADRIANA  and  LUCIANA. 

Adr.  Neither  my  husband  nor  the  slave  re- 

turn'd, 

That  in  sucn  haste  I  sent  to  seek  his  master  ! 
Sure,  Luciana,  it  is  two  o'clock.  [him, 

Luc.    Perhaps  some  merchant  hath  invited 
And  from   the  mart  be  's  somewhere  gone  to 

dinner. 

Good  sister,  let  us  dine,  and  never  fret{:3"*^ 
A  man  is  master  of  his  liberty; 
Time  is  their  master  ;  and,  when  they  see  time, 
They  '11  go  or  come.     If  so,  be  patient,  sister. 

Adr.   Why  should  their  liberty  than  ours  be 
more?  [door. 

Luc.   Because  their  business  still  lies  out  o' 

Adr.  Look,  when  I  serve  him  so,  he  takes  it 
ill. 

Luc.  O,  know  he  is  the  bridle  of  your  will. 

Adr.  There  's  none  but  asses  will  be  bridled 
so.  [woe. 

Luf.  Why,  headstrong  liberty  is  lash'd  with 
There  's  nothing  situate  under  heaven's  eye 
But  hath  his  bound  in  earth,  in  sea,  in  sky  : 
The  beasts,  the  fishes,  and  the  winged  fowls, 
Are  their  males'  subject,  and  at  their  controls  : 
Men,  more  divine,  the  masters  of  all  these, 
Lords  of  the  wide  world  and  wild  wat'ry  seas, 
Indued  with  intellectual  sense  and  souls 
Of  more  pre-eminence  than  fish  and  fowls, 
Are  masters  to  their  females,  and  their  lords  . 
Then  let  your  will  attend  on  their  accords. 

Adr.  This  servitude  makes  you  to  keep  un- 
wed. [bed. 

Luc.  Not  this,  but  troubles  of  trie  marriage- 


Adr.  But,  were  you  wedded,  you  would  beat 

some  sway. 

Luc.   Ere  I  learn  love,  I  '11  practise  to  obey. 
Adr.   How  if  your  husband  start  some  other 

where? 

Luc.  Till  he  come  home  again  I  would  for- 
bear. 
Adr.  Patience  unmov'd,  no  marvel  though 

she  pause : 

They  can  be  meek  that  have  no  other  cause. 
A  wretched  soul,  bruis'd  with  adversity, 
We  bid  be  quiet  when  we  hear  it  cry ; 
But  were  we  burden'd  with  like  weight  of  pain, 
As  much,  or  more,  we  should  ourselves  com- 
plain :  [thee, 
So  thou,  that  hast  no  unkind  mate  to  grieve 
With  urging  helpless  patience  wouldst  relieve 

me: 

But  if  thou  live  to  see  like  right  bereft, 
This  fool-begg'd  patience  in  thee  will  be  left. 

Luc.  Well,  I  will  marry  one  day,  but  to  try: — 
Here  comes  your  man,  now  is  your  husband  nigh. 

Enter  DROMIO  OF  EPHESUS.    ^.cr 

Adr.  Say,  is  your  tardy  master  now  at  hand? 

Dro.  E.  Nay,  he  is  at  two  hands  with  me,  and 
that  my  two  ears  can  witness. 

Adr.  Say,  didst  thou  speak  with  him?  know's't 
thou  his  mind? 

Dro.  E.  Ay,  ay,  he  told  his  mind  upon  mine 
ear.  Beshrew  his  hand,  I  scarce  could  under- 
stand it. 

Lite.  Spake  he  so  doubtfully  thou  couldst  not 
feel  his  meaning? 

Dro.  E.  Nay,  he  struck  so  plainly  I  could  too 
well  feel  his  blows ;  and  withal  so  doubtfully 
that  I  could  scarce  understand  them. 

Adr.  But  say,  I  pr'ythee,  is  he  coming  home  ? 
It  seems  he  hath  great  care  to  please  his  wife. 

Dro.  E.  Why,  mistress,  sure  my  master  is 
horn-mad. 

Adr.  Horn-mad,  thou  villain  ? 

Dro.  E.  I  mean  not  cuckold-mad  ;  but,  sure, 

he 's  stark-mad. 

When  I  desir'd  him  to  come  home  to  dinner, 
He  ask'd  me  for  a  thousand  marks  in  gold : 
5 Tis  dinner-time,  quoth  I;  My  gold,  quoth  he: 
Your  meat  doth  burn,  quoth  I ;  My  gold,  quoth  he : 
Will  you  come  home?  quoth  I;  My  gold,  quoth  he: 
Where  is  the  thousandmarks  I  gave  thee,  villain? 
The  pig,  quoth  I,  is  burned;  My  gold,  quoth  he : 
My  mistress,  sir,  quoth  I;  Hangup  thy  mistress; 
I  know  not  thy  mistress;  out  on  thy  mistress! 

Luc.  Quoth  who  ? 

Dro.  E.  Quoth  my  master : 
fknow,  quoth  he,  no  house,  no  wife^  no  mistress: 
So  that  my  errand,  due  unto  my  tongue, 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


I  thank  him,  I  bare  home  upon  my  shoulders ; 
For,  in  conclusion,  he  did  beat  me  there. 

Adr.  Go  back  again,  thou  slave,  and  fetch 
him  home.  [home? 

Dro.  E.  Go  back  again !  and  be  new  beaten 
For  God's  sake,  send  some  other  messenger. 

Adr.  Back,  slave,  or  I  will  break  thy  pate 
across.  [other  beating : 

Dro.  E.  And  he  will  bless  that  cross  with 
Between  you  I  shall  have  a  holy  head. 

Adr.   Hence,     prating   peasant;     fetch    thy 
master  home.  [me, 

Dro.  E.  Am  I  so  round  with  you,  as  you  with 
That  like  a  football  you  do  spurn  me  thus? 
You  spurn  me  hence,  and  he  will  spurn  me 

hither : 

If  I  last  in  this  service  you  must  case  me  in 
leather.  {Exit. 

Lttc.  Fie,  how  impatience  low'reth  in  your 
face! 

Adr.  His  company  must  do  his  minions  grace, 
Whilst  I  at  home  starve  for  a  merry  look. 
Hath  homely  age  the  alluring  beauty  took 
From  my  poor  cheek  ?  then  he  hath  wasted  it : 
Are  my  discourses  dull?  barren  my  witfti  jj;ri 
If  voluble  and  sharp  discourse  be  marr'd, 
Unkindness  blunts  it  more  than  marble  hard: 
Do  their  gay  vestments  his  affections  bait? 
That 's  not  my  fault,  he  's  master  of  my  state: 
What  ruins  are  in  me  that  can  be  found 
By  him  not  ruin'd?  then  is  he  the  ground 
Of  my  defeatures :   my  decayed  fair 
A  sunny  look  of  his  would  soon  repair ; 
But,  too  unruly  deer,  he  breaks  the  pale 
And  feeds  from  home ;  poor  I  am  but  his  stale. 

Ltic.  Self-harming    jealousy ! — fie,    beat    it 
hence.  [dispense. 

Adr.   Unfeeling  fools  can  with  such  wrongs 
I  know  his  eye  doth  homage  otherwhere ; 
Or  else  what  lets  it  but  he  would  be  here? 
Sister,  you  know  he  promis'd  me  a  chain ; — 
Would  that  alone,  alone  he  would  detain, 
So  he  would  keep  fair  quarter  with  his  bed ! 
I  see  the  jewel  best  enamelled 
Will  lose  his  beauty ;  and  though  gold  'bides  still 
That  others  touch,  yet  often  touching  will 
Wear  gold ;  and  so  no  man  that  hath  a  name 
But  falsehood  and  corruption  doth  it  shame. 
Since  that  my  beauty  cannot  please  his  eye, 
I  '11  weep  what 's  left  away,  and,  weeping,  die. 

Luc.  How    many    fond    fools    serve    mad 
jealousy !  [Exeunt. 

v  >rton  «o:{  vofljf'  5O;t 
SCENE  II.— The  saute. 

Enter  ANTIPHOLUS  OF  SYRACUSE. 
.-/«#.  51  The  gold  I  gave  to  Dromio  is  laid  np 


Safe  at  the  Centaur ;  and  the  heedful  slave 
Is  wander*  d  forth  in  care  to  seek  me  out 
By  computation  and  mine  host's  report 
I  could  not  speak  with  Dromio  since  at  first 
I  sent  him  from  the  mart.     See,  here  he  comes. 

Enter  DROMIO  OF  SYRACUSE. 

How  now,  sir !  is  your  merry  humour  alter'd? 
As  you  love  strokes,  so  jest  with  me  again. 
You  know  no  Centaur?  you  receiv'd  no  gold? 
Your  mistress  sent  to  have  me  home  to  dinner? 
My  house  was  at  the  Phcenix?     Wast  thou  mad, 
That  thus  so  madly  thou  didst  answer  me? 

Dro.  S.  What  answer,  sir?  when  spake  I  such 
a  word? 

Ant.  S.   Even  now,  even  here,  not  half-an- 
hour  since. 

Dro.  S.  I  did  not  see  you  since  you  sent  me 

hence, 
Home  to  the  Centaur  with  the  gold  you  gave  me. 

Ant.  S.  Villain,  thou  didst  deny  the  gold's 

receipt ; 

And  told'st  me  of  a  mistress  and  a  dinno?  &.--:•;>•* 
For  which,  I  hope,  thou  felt'st  I  was  displeas'd. 

Dro.  S.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  in  this  merry 

vein:  [  bl^ci  £nie- 

What  means  this  jest?  I  pray  you,  master,  tell 

Ant.  S.  Yea,  dost  thou  jeer  and  flout  me  in 

the  teeth? 

Think'st  thou  I  jest?    Hold,  take  thou  that, 
and  that.  [Beating  him. 

Dro.   S.    Hold,  sir,  for  God's  sake:    now 

your  jest  is  earnest : 
Upon  what  bargain  do  you  give  it  me? 

Ant  S.  Because  that  I  familiarly  sometimes 
Do  use  you  for  my  fool,  and  chat  with  you, 
Your  sauciness  will  jest  upon  my  love, 
And  make  a  common  of  my  serious  hours. 
When  the  sun  shines  let  foolish  gnats  make  sport, 
But  creep  in  crannies  when  he  hides  his  beams. 
If  you  will  jest  with  me,  know  my  aspect, 
And  fashion  your  demeanour  to  my  looks, 
Or  I  will  beat  this  method  in  your  sconce. 

Dro.  S.  Sconce,  call  you  it?  so  you  would 
leave  battering,  I  had  rather  have  it  a  head :  an 
you  use  these  blows  long,  I  must  get  a  sconce 
for  my  head,  and  ensconce  it  too;  or  else  I 
shall  seek  my  wit  in  my  shoulders. — But,  I 
pray  sir,  why  am  I  beaten? 

Ant.  S.  Dost  thou  not  know? 

Dro.  S.  Nothing,  sir ;  but  that  I  am  beaten. 

Ant.  S.  Shall  I  tell  you  why? 

Dro.  S.  Ay,  sir,  and  wherefore;  for,  tlwysay, 
every  why  hath  a  wherefore,— 

Ant.  S.    Why,  first, — for  flouting  me ;  tuul 

then,  wherefore,  ;K: .„  m 
For  urging  it  the  second  time  to  me. 


3*4 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


[ACT  1L 


Dro.  S.  Was  there  ever  any  man  thus  beaten 

out  of  season, 
When  in  the  why  and  the  wherefore  is  neither 

rhyme  nor  reason?—- 
Well,  sir,  I  thank  you. 

Ant.  S.  Thank  me,  sir!  for  what? 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  for  this  something  that 
you  gave  me  for  nothing. 

Ant.  S.  I  '11  make  you  amends  next,  to  give 
you  nothing  for  something. — But  say,  sir,  is  it 
dinner-time?  [that  I  have. 

Dro.  S.  No,  sir;    I  think  the -meat  wants 

Ant.  S.   In  good  time,  sir,  what's  that? 

Dro.  S.   Basting. 

Ant.  S.  Well,  sir,  then  'twill  be  dry. 

Dro.  S.  If  it  be,  sir,  I  pray  you  eat  none  of  it. 

Ant.  S.  Your  reason? 

Dro.  S.  Lest  it  make  you  choleric,  and  pur- 
chase me  another  dry  basting. 

Ant.  S.  Well,  sir,  learn  to  jest  in  good  time : 
There 's  a  time  for  all  things. 

Dro.  S.  I  durst  have  denied  that  before  you 
were  so  choleric. 

Ant.  S.  By  what  rule,  sir? 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  by  a  rule  as  plain  as  the 
plain  bald  pate  of  Father  Time  himself. 

Ant.  S.  Let 's  hear  it. 

Dro.  S.  There  's  no  time  for  a  man  to  re- 
jover  his  hair,  that  grows  bald  by  nature. 

Ant.  S.   May  he  not  do  it  by  fine  and  recovery? 

Dro.  S.  Yes,  to  pay  a  fine  for  a  peruke,  and 
recover  the  lost  hair  of  another  man. 

Ant.  S.  Why  is  Time  such  a  niggard  of  hair, 
being,  as  it  is,  so  plentiful  an  excrement? 

Dro.  S.  Because  it  is  a  blessing  that  he  be- 
stows on  beasts :  and  what  he  hath  scanted 
men  in  hair  he  hath  given  them  in  wit. 

Ant.  S.  Why,  but  there 's  many  a  man  hath 
more  hair  than  wit. 

Dro.  S.  Not  a  man  of  those  but  he  hath  the 
wit  to  lose  his  hair. 

Ant.  S.  Why,  thou  didst  conclude  hairy  men 
plain  dealers  without  wit. 

Dro.  S.  The  plainer  dealer  the  sooner  lost : 
yet  he  loseth  it  in  a  kind  of  jollity. 

Ant.  S.  For  what  reason? 

Dro.  S.  For  two ;  and  sound  ones  too. 

Ant.  S.  Nay,  not  sound,  I  pray  you. 

Dro.  S.  Sure  ones,  then. 

Ant.  S.  Nay,  not  sure,  in  a  thing  falsing. 

Dro.  S.  Certain  ones,  then. 

Ant.  S.  Name  them. 

Dro.  S.  The  one,  to  save  the  money  that  he 
spends  in  tiring ;  the  other,  that  at  dinner  they 
should  not  drop  in  his  porridge. 

Ant.  S.  You  would  all  this  time  have  proved 
there  is  no  rime  for  all  things. 


Dro.  S.  Marry,  and  did,  sir;  namely,  no 
time  to  recover  hair  lost  by  nature. 

Ant.  S.  But  your  reason  was  not  substantial 
why  there  is  no  time  to  recover. 

Dro.  S.  Thus  I  mend  it :  Time  himself  is 
bald,  and,  therefore,  to  the  world's  end  will 
have  bald  followers. 

Ant.  S.  I  knew  'twould  be  a  bald  conclusion : 
But,  soft !  who  wafts  us  yonder? 

Enter  ADRIANA  and  LuciANA. 

Adr.  Ay,  ay,  Antipholus,  look  strange  and 

frown ; 

Some  other  mistress  hath  thy  sweet  aspects : 
I  am  not  Adriana,  nor  thy  wife.  [vow 

The  time  was,  once,  when  thou  unurg'd  wouldst 
That  never  words  were  music  to  thine  ear, 
That  never  object  pleasing  in  thine  eye, 
That  never  touch  well  welcome  to  thy  hand, 
That  never  meat  sweet-savour'd  in  thy  taste, 
Unless  I  spake,  look'd,  touch'd,  or  carv'd  to 

thee. 
How  comes  it  now,  my  husband,  oh,  how 

comes  it, 

That  thou  art  then  estranged  from  thyself? 
Thyself  I  call  it,  being  strange  to  me,     'ylov^I 
That  undividable,  incorporate, 
Am  better  than  thy  dear  self's  better  part. 
Ah,  do  not  tear  away  thyself  from  me ; 
For  know,  my  iove,  as  easy  mayst  thou  fall 
A  drop  of  water  in  the  breaking  gulf,     mirf 
And  take  unmingled  thence  that  drop  again, 
Without  addition  or  diminishing, 
As  take  from  me  thyself,  and  not  me  too. 
How  dearly  would  it  touch  thee  to  the  quick 
Shouldst  thou  but  hear  I  were  licentious, 
And  that  this  body,  consecrate  to  thee, 
By  ruffian  lust  should  be  contaminate ! 
Wo-  Idst  thou  not  spit  at  me,  and  spurn  at  me. 
And  hurl  the  name  of  husband  in  my  face, 
And  tear  the  stain'd  skin  off  my  harlot  brow, 
And  from  my  false  hand  cut  the  wedding-ring, 
And  break  it  with  a  deep-divorcing  vow? 
I  know  thou  canst ;  and,  therefore,  see  thou  do  it. 
I  am  possess'd  with  an  adulterate  blot ; 
My  blood  is  mingled  with  the  crime  of  lust : 
For  if  we  two  be  one,  and  thou  play  false, 
I  do  digest  the  poison  of  thy  flesh, 
Being  strumpeted  by  thy  contagion.  [bed ; 

Keep  then  fair  league  and  truce  with  thy  true 
I  live  dis-stain'd,  thou  undishonoured. 
Ant.  S.  Plead  you  to  me,  fair  dame?      I 

know  you  not : 

In  Ephesus  I  am  but  two  hours  old, 
As  strange  unto  your  town  as  to  your  talk ; 
Who,  every  word  by  all  my  wit  being  scann?d, 
Want  wit  in  all  one  word  to  understand, 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


385 


Luc.  Fie,  brother !  how  the  world  is  chang'd 

with  you: 

When  were  you  wont  to  use  my  sister  thus? 
She  sent  for  you  by  Dromio  home  to  dinner. 

Ant.  S.  By  Dromio? 

Dro.  S.  By  me? 

Adr.  By  thee;   and  this  thou  didst  return 

from  him, — 

That  he  did  buffet  thee,  and  in  his  blows 
Denied  my  house  for  his,  me  for  his  wife. 

Ant.  S.    Did   you   converse,    sir,    with    this 

gentlewoman  ? 
What  is  the  course  and  drift  of  your  compact? 

Dro.  S.  I,  sir?  I  never  saw  her  till  this  time. 

Ant.  S.  Villain,    thou    liest;    for   even   her 

very  words 
Didst  thou  deliver  to  me  on  the  mart. 

Dro.  S.   I  never  spake  with  her  in  all  my  life. 

Ant.  S.  How  can  she  thus,  then,  call  us  by 

our  names, 
Unless  it  be  by  inspiration? 

Adr.   How  ill  agrees  it  with  your  gravity 
To  counterfeit  thus  grossly  with  your  slave, 
Abetting  him  to  thwart  me  in  my  mood ! 
Be  it  my  wrong,  you  are  from  me  exempt, 
But  wrong  not  that  wrong  with  a  more  contempt. 
Come,  I  will  fasten  on  this  sleeve  of  thine  : 
Thou  art  an  elm,  my  husband,  I  a  vine, 
Whose  weakness,  married  to  thy  stronger  state, 
Makes  me  with  thy  strength  to  communicate  : 
If  aught  possess  thee  from  me,  it  is  dross, 
Usurping  ivy,  brier,  or  idle  moss  ; 
Who,  all  for  want  of  pruning,  with  intrusion 
Infect  thy  sap,  and  live  on  thy  confusion. 

Ant.  S.  To  me  she  speaks ;  she  moves  me 

for  her  theme  : 

What,  was  I  married  to  her  in  my  dream  ? 
Or  sleep  I  now,  and  think  I  hear  all  this  ? 
What  error  drives  our  eyes  and  ears  amiss  ? 
Until  I  know  this  sure  uncertainty 
I  '11  entertain  the  offer'd  fallacy. 

Luc.  Dromio,  go  bid  the  servants  spread  for 
dinner.  [sinner. 

Dro.  S.  O  for  my  beads  !     I  cross  me  for  a 
This  is  the  fairy  land  ; — O  spite  of  spites  ! 
We  talk  with  goblins,  owls,  and  elvish  sprites ; 
If  we  obey  them  not,  this  will  ensue,        [blue. 
They  '11  suck  our  breath,  or  pinch  us  black  and 

Luc.  Why  prat'st   thou  to  thyself,  and  an- 
swer'st  not?  [sot! 
Dromio,  thou  drone,  thou  snail,  thou  slug,  thou 

Dro.  S.  I  am  transformed,  master,  am  not  I  ? 

Ant.  S.  I  think  thou  art,  in  mind,  and  so  am  I. 

Dro.  S.  Nay,  master,  both  in  mind  and  in 
my  shape. 

Ant.  S.  Thou  hast  thine  own  form. 

Dro.  S.  No,  I  am  an  ape. 


Luc.  If  thou  art  chang'd  to  aught,  'tis  to  an 
ass.  [for  grass. 

Dro.  S.  'Tis  true ;  she  rides  me,  and  I  long 
'Tis  so,  I  am  an  ass ;  else  it  could  never  be 
But  I  should  know  her  as  well  as  she  knows  me. 

Adr.  Come,  come,  no  longer  will  I  be  a  fool, 
To  put  the  finger  in  the  eye  and  weep, 
Whilst   man   and   master   laugh   my  woes  to 
scorn. —  [gate: — 

Come,    sir,    to    dinner; — Dromio,    keep    the 
Husband,  I  '11  dine  above  with  you  to-day, 
And  shrive  you  of  a  thousand  idle  pranks : — 
Sirrah,  if  any  ask  you  for  your  master, 
Say  he  dines  forth,  and  let  no  creature  enter. — 
Come,  sister : — Dromio,  play  the  porter  well. 

Ant.  S.  Am  I  in  earth,  in  heaven,  or  in  hell  ? 
Sleeping  or  waking?  mad,  or  well  advis'd? 
Known  unto  these,  and  to  myself  disguis'd  ? 
I  '11  say  as  they  say,  and  perseVer  so, 
And  in  this  mist  at  all  adventures  go. 

Dro.  S.  Master,  shall  I  be  porter  at  the  gate? 

Adr.  Ay;  and  let  none  enter,  lest  I  break 
your  pate. 

Luc.  Come,  come,  Antipholus,  we  dine  too 
late.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — The  same. 

Enter  ANTIPHOLUS  OF  EPHESUS,  DROMIO  OP 
EPHESUS,  ANGELO,  and  BALTHAZAR. 

Ant.  E.  Good   Signior   Angelo,   you    must 

excuse  us  all. 

My  wife  is  shrewish  when  I  keep  not  hours  : 
Say  that  I  linger'd  with  you  at  your  shop 
To  see  the  making  of  her  carcanet, 
And  that  to-morrow  you  will  bring  it  home. 
But  here 's  a  villain  that  would  face  me  down . 
He  met  me  on  the  mart ;  and  that  I  beat  him, 
And  charg'd  him  with  a  thousand  marks  in  gold ; 
And  that  I  did  deny  my  wife  and  house  : — 
Thou  drunkard,  thou,  what  didst  thou  mean 

by  this  ? 
Dro.  E.  Say  what  you  will,  sir,  but  I  know 

what  I  know  : 
That  you  beat  me  at  the  mart  I  have  your 

hand  to  show : 
If  the  skin  were  parchment,  and  the  blows  you 

gave  were  ink,  [think. 

Your  own  handwriting  would  tell  you  what  I 
Ant.  E.  I  think  thou  art  an  ass. 
Dro.  E.  Marry,  so  it  doth  appear 

By  the  wrongs  I  suffer  and  the  blows  I  bear. 
I  should  kick,  being  kick'd ;  and,  being  at  that 

pass,  [an  ass. 

You  would  keep  from  my  heels,  and  beware  of 

N 


386 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


[ACT  lit. 


Ant.  E.  You  are  sad,   Signior   Balthazar; 

pray  God,  our  cheer  [come  here. 

May  answer  my  good- will  and  your  good  wel- 

Bal.  I  hold  your  dainties  cheap,  sir,  and 

your  welcome  dear. 
Ant.  E.    O,    Signior    Balthazar,   either    at 

flesh  or  fish, 
A   table   full   of  welcome   makes   scarce   one 

dainty  dish. 
BaL  Good  meat,  sir,  is  common ;  that  every 

churl  affords. 
Ant.  E.  And  welcome  more  common;  for 

that 's  nothing  but  words. 

Bal.  Small  cheer  and  great  welcome  makes 

a  merry  feast.  [sparing  guest. 

Ant.  E.  Ay,  to  a  niggardly  host  and  more 

But  though  my  cates  be  mean,  take  them  in 

good  part ;  [heart. 

Better  cheer  may  you  have,  but  not  with  better 

But,  soft ;  my  door  is  lock'd :  go  bid  them  let 

us  in.  [Gillian,  Jen ! 

Dro.  E.    Maud,    Bridget,    Marian,   Cicely, 

Dro.  S.  {Within.]  Mome,  malt-horse,  capon, 

coxcomb,  idiot,  patch! 
Either  get  thee  from  the  door  or  sit  down  at 

the  hatch : 

Dost  thou  conjure  for  wenches,  that  thou  call'st 

for  such  store,  [the  door. 

When  one  is  one  too  many?     Go,  get  thee  from 

Dro.  E.    What   patch  is  made  our  porter? 

My  master  stays  in  the  street. 
Dro.  S.   Let  him  walk  from  whence  he  came, 

lest  he  catch  cold  on 's  feet. 
Ant.  E.  Who  talks  within  there?  ho,  open 

the  door. 
Dro.  S.    Right,  sir,  I'll  tell  you  when  an 

you  '11  tell  me  wherefore. 
Ant.  E.  Wherefore !  for  my  dinner :  I  have 

not  dined  to-day. 
Dro.  S.    Nor    to-day  here  you  must  not; 

come  again  when  you  may. 
Ant.  E.  What  art  thou  that  keep'st  me  out 

from  the  house  I  owe? 
Dro.  S.    The  porter  for  this  time,  sir,  and 

my  name  is  Dromio. 

Dro.  E.    O  villain,   thou   hast   stolen   both 

mine  office  and  my  name ;        [blame. 

The  one  ne'er  got  me  credit,  the  other  mickle 

If  thou  hadst  been  Dromio  to-day  in  my  place, 

Thou  wouldst  have  chang'd  thy  face  for  a  name, 

or  thy  name  for  an  ass. 
•     Luce.    {Within.}    What    a    coil    is    there! 

Dromio,  who  are  those  at  the  gate  ? 
Dro.  E.  Let  my  master  in,  Luce. 
Luce.  Faith,  no ;  he  comes  too  late ; 

And  so  tell  your  master. 

E.  O  Lord,  I  must  laugh  ;— 


Have  at  you  with  a  proverb. — Shall  I  set  in 

my  staff? 
Luce.  Have  at  you  with  another:  that's, — 

When?  can  you  tell? 
Dro.  S.  If  thy  name  be  called  Luce,-r-Luce, 

thou  hast  answer'd  him  well. 
Ant.  E.  Do  you  hear,  you  minion?  you  '11 

let  us  in,  I  hope? 

Luce.  I  thought  to  have  ask'd  you. 
Dro.  S.  And  you  said  no. 

Dro.  E.   So,  come,  help:  well  struck;  there 

was  blow  for  blow. 
Ant.  E.  Thou  baggage,  let  me  in. 
Luce.  Can  you  tell  for  whose  sake  ? 

Dro.  E.  Master,  knock  the  door  hard. 
Luce.  Let  him  knock  till  it  ache. 

Ant.  E.  You  '11  cry  for  this,  minion,  if  I  beat 

the  door  down. 
Luce.  What  needs  all  that,  and  a  pair  of 

stocks  in  the  town? 
Adr.  [  Within.}  Who  is  that  at  the  door,  that 

keeps  all  this  noise? 
Dro.  S.   By  my  troth,  your  town  is  troubled 

with  unruly  boys. 
Ant.  E.  Are  you   there,  wife?  you  might 

have  come  before.  [the  door. 

Adr.  Your  wife,  sir  knave !  go,  get  you  from 
Dro.  E.  If  you  went  in  pain,  master,  this 

knave  would  go  sore. 
Ang.  Here  is  neither  cheer,  sir,  nor  welcome: 

we  would  fain  have  either. 
Bal.  In  debating  which  was  best,  we  shall 

part  with  neither. 
Dro.  E.  They  stand  at  the  door,  master ;  bid 

them  welcome  hither. 
Ant.  E.  There  is  something  in  the  wind,  that 

we  cannot  get  in. 
Dro.  E.  You  would  say  so,  master,  if  your 

garments  were  thin. 
Your  cake  here  is  warm  within ;  you  stand  here 

in  the  cold : 
It  would  make  a  man  mad  as  a  buck,  to  be  so 

bought  and  sold. 
Ant.  E.  Go,  fetch  me  something,  I  '11  break 

ope  the  gate. 
Dro.  S.  Break  any  breaking  here,  and  I  '11 

break  your  knave's  pate. 
Dro.  E.  A  man  may  break  a  word  with  yon, 

sir ;  and  words  are  but  wind ; 
Ay,  and  break  it  in  your  face,  so  he  break  it 

not  behind. 
Dro.  S.  It  seems  thou  wantest  breaking ;  out 

upon  thee,  hind ! 
Dro.  E.  Here 's  too  much  out  upon  thee :  I 

pray  thee,  let  me  in. 
Dro.  S.  Ay,  when  fowls  have  no  feathers 

and  fish  have  no  fin. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


387 


Ant.  E.  Well,  I  '11  break  in ;  go  borrow  me 
a  crow. 

Dro.  E.  A  crow  without  a  feather;  master, 

mean  you  so?  [a  feather: 

For  a  fish  without  a  fin  there 's  a  fowl  without 

If  a  crow  help  us  in,  sirrah,  we  :11  pluck  a  crow 

together.  [crow. 

Ant.  E.  Go,  get  thee  gone ;  fetch  me  an  iron 

Bal.  Have  patience,  sir :  O,  let  it  not  be  so : 
Herein  you  war  against  your  reputation, 
And  draw  within  the  compass  of  suspect 
The  unviolated  honour  of  your  wife. 
Once  this, — your  long  experience  of  her  wisdom, 
Her  sober  virtue,  years,  and  modesty, 
Plead  on  her  part  some  cause  to  you  unknown ; 
And  doubt  not,  sir,  but  she  will  well  excuse 
Why  at  this  time  the  doors  are  made  against  you. 
Be  rul'd  by  me ;  depart  in  patience, 
And  let  us  to  the  Tiger  all  to  dinner : 
And,  about  evening,  come  yourself  alone, 
To  know  the  reason  of  this  strange  restraint.  . 
If  by  strong  hand  you  offer  to  break  in, 
Now  in  the  stirring  passage  of  the  day, 
A  vulgar  comment  will  be  made  of  it ; 
And  that  supposed  by  the  common  rout 
Against  your  yet  ungalled  estimation, 
That  may  with  foul  intrusion  enter  in, 
And  dwell  upon  your  grave  when  you  are  dead : 
For  slander  lives  upon  succession, 
For  ever  hous'd  where  it  once  gets  possession. 

Ant.  E.  You  have  prevail'd.     I  will  depart 

in  quiet, 

And,  in  despite  of  mirth,  mean  to  be  merry. 
I  know  a  wench  of  excellent  discourse, — 
Pretty  and  witty ;  wild,  and  yet,  too,  gentle ; — 
There  will  we  dine:  this  woman  that  I  mean, 
My  wife, — but,  I  protest,  without  desert, — 
Hath  oftentimes  upbraided  me  withal ; 
To  her  will  we  to  dinner. — Get  you  home 
And  fetch  the  chain :  by  this,  I  know,  'tis  made : 
Bring  it,  I  pray  you,  to  the  Porcupine ; 
For  there's  the  house;  thatchainwill  I  bestow, — 
Be  it  for  nothing  but  to  spite  my  wife, — 
Upon  mine  hostess  there :  good  sir,  make  haste : 
Since  mine  own  doors  refuse  to  entertain  me, 
I  '11  knock  elsewhere,  to  see  if  they  '11  disdain  me. 

Ang.  I  '11  meet  you  at  that  place  some  hour 
hence. 

Ant.  E.  Do  so ;  this  jest  shall  cost  me  some 
expense.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. — The  same. 

Enter  LUCIANA  and  ANTIPHOLUS  OF 
SYRACUSE. 

Luc.  And  may  it  be  that  you  have  quite  forgot 
A  husband's  office  ?    Shall,  Antipholus,  hate, 


Even  in  the  spring  of  love,  thy  love-springs  rot  ? 

Shall  love,  in  building,  grow  so  ruinate? 
If  you  did  wed  my  sister  for  her  wealth, 

Then,  for  her  wealth's  sake,  use  her  with 

more  kindness : 
Or,  if  you  like  elsewhere,  do  it  by  stealth ; 

Muffle  your  false  love  with  some  show  of 

blindness : 
Let  not  my  sister  read  it  in  your  eye ; 

Be  not  thy  tongue  thy  own  shame's  orator; 
Look  sweet,  speak  fair,  become  disloyalty; 

Apparel  vice  like  virtue's  harbinger: 
Bear  a  fair  presence  though  your  heart  be  tainted; 

Teach  sin  the  carriage  of  a  holy  saint ; 
Be  secret-false :  what  need  she  be  acquainted  ? 

What  simple  thief  brags  of  his  own  attaint? 
'Tis  double  wrong,  to  truant  with  your  bed 

And  let  her  read  it  in  thy  looks  at  board : — 
Shame  hath  a  bastard-fame,  well  managed ; 

111  deeds  are  doubled  with  an  evil  word. 
Alas,  poor  women !  make  us  but  believe, 

Being  compact  of  credit,  that  you  love  us : 
Though  others  have  the  arm,  show  us  the  sleeve ; 

We  in  your  motion  turn,  and  you  may  move  us. 
Then,  gentle  brother,  get  you  in  again ; 

Comfort  my  sister,  cheer  her,  call  her  wife : 
'Tis  holy  sport  to  be  a  little  vain  [strife. 

When  the  sweet  breath  of  flattery  conquers 

Ant.  S.  Sweet  mistress, — what  your  name  is 
else,  I  know  not, 

Nor  by  what  wonder  do  you  hit  on  mine, — 

Less,  in  your  knowledge  and  your  grace,  you 

show  not  [divine. 

Than  our  earth's  wonder ;  more  than  earth 
Teach  me,  dear  creature,  how  to  think  and  speak ; 

Lay  open  to  my  earthy  gross  conceit, 
Smother'd  in  errors,  feeble,  shallow,  weak, 

The  folded  meaning  of  your  words'  deceit. 
Against  my  soul's  pure  truth  why  labour  you 

To  make  it  wander  in  an  unknown  field? 
Are  you  a  god?  would  you  create  me  new? 

Transform  me,  then,  and  to  your  power  I'll 

yield. 
But  if  that  I  am  I,  then  well  I  know 

Your  weeping  sister  is  no  wife  of  mine, 
Nor  to  her  bed  no  homage  do  I  owe: 

Far  more,  far  more,  to  you  do  I  decline. 
O,  train  me  not,  sweet  mermaid,  with  thy  note, 

To  drown  me  in  thy  sister's  flood  of  tears: 
Sing,  siren,  for  thyself,  and  I  will  dote : 

Spread  o'er  the  silver  waves  thy  golden  hairs, 
And  as  a  bed  I  '11  take  thee,  and  there  lie ; 

And,  in  that  glorious  supposition,  think 
He  gains  by  death  that  hath  such  means  to  die: — 

Let  love,  being  light,  be  drowned  if  she  sink  1 

Luc.  What,  are  you  mad,  that  you  do  reason 
so? 


388 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


[ACT  in. 


Ant.  S.  Not  mad,  but  mated  ;  how,  I  do  not 
know. 

Luc.  It  is  a  fault  that  springeth  from  your  eye. 

Ant.  S.  For  gazing  on  your  beams,  fair  sun, 
being  by. 

Luc.  Gaze  where  you  should,  and  that  will 
clear  your  sight.  [on  night. 

Ant.  S.  As  good  to  wink,  sweet  love,  as  look 

Luc.  Why  call  you  me  love  ?  call  my  sister  so. 

Ant.  S.  Thy  sister's  sister. 

Luc.  That 's  my  sister. 

Ant.  S.  No ; 

It  is  thyself,  mine  own  self's  better  part ; 
Mine  eye's  clear  eye,  my  dear  heart's  dearer  heart; 
Tvly  food,  my  fortune,  and  my  sweet  hope's  aim, 
My  sole  earth's  heaven,  and  my  heaven's  claim. 

Luc.  All  this  my  sister  is,  or  else  should  be. 

Ant.  S.  Call  thyself  sister,  sweet,  for  I  aim 

thee  i'v'f  ,': 

Thee  will  I  love,  an  d  with  thee  lead  my  life : 
Thou  hast  no  hu  band  yet,  nor  I  no  wife ; 
Give  me  thy  hand. 

Luc.  O  soft,  sir,  hold  you  still ; 

I  '11  fetch  my  sister,  to  get  her  good -will. 

[Exit  LUCIANA. 

Enter  from  the  House  ^ANTIPHOLUS  OF 
EPHESUS,  DROMIO  OF  SYRACUSE. 

Ant.  S.  Why,  how  now,  Dromio?  where 
runn'st  thou  so  fast  ? 

Dro.  S.  Do  you  know  me,  sir?  am  I  Dromio? 
am  I  your  man  ?  am  I  myself? 

Ant.  S.  Thou  art  Dromio,  thou  art  my  man, 
thou  art  thyself. 

Dro.  S.  I  am  an  ass,  I  am  a  woman's  man, 
and  beside  myself. 

Ant.  S.  What  woman's  man?  and  how  beside 
thyself? 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  beside  myself,  I  am  due 
to  a  woman;  one  that  claims  me,  one  that 
haunts  me,  one  that  will  have  me. 

Ant.  S.  What  claim  lays  she  to  thee? 

Dro.  S.  Marry  sir,  such  claim  as  you  would 
lay  to  your  horse :  and  she  would  have  me  as  a 
beast ;  not  that,  I  being  a  beast,  she  would  have 
me ;  but  that  she,  being  a  very  beastly  creature, 
lays  claim  to  me. 

Ant.  S.  What  is  she? 

Dro.  S.  A  very  reverent  body;  ay,  such  a 
one  as  a  man  may  not  speak  of  without  he  say 
sir-reverence:  I  have  but  lean  luck  in  the 
match,  and  yet  she  is  a  wondrous  fat  marriage. 

Ant.  S.  How  dost  thou  mean?  —  a  fat 
marriage? 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  she 's  the  kitchen- wench, 
and  all  grease ;  and  I  know  not  what  use  to  put 
her  to,  but  to  make  a  lamp  of  her,  and  run 


from  her  by  her  own  light.  I  warrant,  her 
rags,  and  the  tallow  in  them,  will  burn  a 
Poland  winter :  if  she  lives  till  doomsday,  she  '11 
burn  a  week  longer  than  the  whole  world. 

Ant.  S.  What  complexion  is  she  of? 

Dro.  S.  Swart,  like  my  shoe;  but  her  face 
nothing  like  so  clean  kept :  for  why?  she  sweats, 
a  man  may  go  over  shoes  in  the  grime  of  it. 

Ant.  S.  That 's  a  fault  that  water  will  mend. 

Dro.  S.  No,  sir,  'tis  in  grain;  Noah's  flood 
could  not  do  it. 

Ant.  S.  What's  her  name? 

Dro.  S.  Nell,  sir ; — but  her  name  and  three- 
quarters,  that  is  an  ell  and  three-quarters,  will 
not  measure  her  from  hip  to  hip. 

Ant.  S.  Then  she  bears  some  breadth? 

Dro.  S.  No  longer  from  head  to  foot  than 
from  hip  to  hip :  she  is  spherical,  like  a  globe : 
I  could  find  out  countries  in  her.  [land? 

Ant.  S.   In  what  part  of  her  body  stands  Ire- 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  in  hei  buttocks :  I  found 
it  out  by  the  bogs. 

Ant.  S.  Where  Scotland? 

Dro.  S.  I  found  it  by  the  barrenness;  hard 
in  the  palm  of  the  hand. 

Ant.  S.  Where  France? 

Dro.  S.  In  her  forehead;  armed  and  re- 
verted, making  war  against  her  hair. 

Ant.  S.  Where  England? 

Dro.  S.  I  looked  for  the  chalky  cliffs,  but  I 
could  find  no  whiteness  in  them :  but  I  guess  it 
stood  in  her  chin,  by  the  salt  rheum  that  ran 
between  France  and  it. 

Ant.  S.  Where  Spain? 

Dro.  S.  Faith,  I  saw  it  not ;  but  I  felt  it  hot 
in  her  breath. 

Ant.  S.  Where  America. — the  Indies? 

Dro.  S.  O,  sir,  upon  her  nose,  all  o'er  em- 
bellished with  rubies,  carbuncles,  sapphires, 
declining  their  rich  aspect  to  the  hot  breath  of 
Spain ;  who  sent  whole  armadas  of  carracks  to 
be  ballast  at  her  nose. 

Ant.  S.  Where  stood  Belgia, — the  Nether- 
lands? 

Dro.  S.  O,  sir,  I  did  not  look  so  low. — To 
conclude,  this  drudge  or  diviner  laid  claim  to 
me ;  called  me  Dromio ;  swore  I  was  assured 
to  her ;  told  me  what  privy  marks  I  had  about 
me,  as  the  mark  of  my  shoulder,  the  mole  in 
my  neck,  the  great  wart  on  my  left  arm,  that 
I,  amazed,  ran  from  her  as  a  witch :  and,  I 
think,  if  my  breast  had  not  been  made  of  faith 
and  my  heart  of  steel,  she  had  transformed  me 
to  a  curtail-dog,  and  made  me  turn  i'  the 
wheel.  [road ; 

Ant.  S.  Go,  hie  thee  presently  post  to  the 
And  if  the  wind  blow  any  way  from  shore, 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


389 


I  will  not  harbour  in  this  town  to-night. 
If  any  bark  put  forth,  come  to  the  mart, 
Where  I  will  walk  till  thou  return  to  me. 
If  every  one  knows  us,  and  we  know  none, 
JTis  time,  I  think,  to  trudge,  pack,  and  be  gone. 

Dro.  S.  As  from  a  bear  a  man  would  run  for 

life, 
So  fly  I  from  her  that  would  be  my  wife. 

{Exit. 

Ant.  S.  There 's  none  but  witches  do  inhabit 

here; 

And  therefore  'tis  high  time  that  I  were  hence. 
She  that  doth  call  me  husband,  even  my  soul 
Doth  for  a  wife  abhor;  but  her  fair  sister, 
Possess'd  with  such  a  gentle  sovereign  grace, 
Of  such  enchanting  presence  and  discourse, 
Hath  almost  made  me  traitor  to  myself: 
But,  lest  myself  be  guilty  to  self- wrong, 
I  '11  stop  mine  ears  against  the  mermaid's  song. 

Enter  ANGELO. 

Ang.  Master  Antipholus? 

Ant.  S.  Ay,  that 's  my  name.  [chain  ; 

Ang.  I  know  it  well,  sir.     Lo,  here  is  the 
I  thought  to  have  ta'en  you  at  the  Porcupine  : 
The  chain  unfinish'd  made  me  stay  thus  long. 

Ant.  S.  What  is  your  will  that  I  shall  do  with 
this? 

Ang.  What  please  yourself,  sir ;  I  have  made 
it  for  you. 

Ant.  S.  Made  it  for  me,  sir !  I  bespoke  it  not. 

Ang.  Not  once  nor  twice,  but  twenty  times 

you  have  : 

Go  home  with  it,  and  please  your  wife  withal ; 
And  soon  at  supper-time  I  '11  visit  you, 
And  then  receive  my  money  for  the  chain. 

Ant.  S.  I  pray  you,  sir,  receive  the  money  now, 
For  fear  you  ne'er  see  chain  nor  money  more. 

Ang.  You  are  a  merry  man,  sir ;  fare  you  well. 

{Exit. 

Ant.  S.  What  I  should  think  of  this  I  cannot 

tell: 

But  this  I  think,  there 's  no  man  is  so  vain 
That  would  refuse  so  fair  an  offer'd  chain. 
I  see  a  man  here  needs  not  live  by  shifts, 
When  in  the  street  he  meets  such  golden  gifts. 
I  '11  to  the  mart,  and  there  for  Dromio  stay  ; 
If  any  ship  put  out,  then  straight  away.     {Exit. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — The  same. 
Enter  a  Merchant,  ANGELO,  and  an  Officer. 

Mer.  You  know,  since  Pentecost  the  sum  is 

due, 
And  since  I  have  not  much  importun'd  you ; 


Nor  now  I  had  not,  but  that  I  am  bound 
To  Persia,  and  want  gilders  for  my  voyage ; 
Therefore  make  present  satisfaction, 
Or  I  '11  attach  you  by  this  officer. 

Ang.  Even  just  the  sum  that  I  do  owe  to  you 
Is  growing  to  me  by  Antipholus ; 
And  in  the  instant  that  I  met  with  you 
He  had  of  me  a  chain ;  at  five  o'clock 
I  shall  receive  the  money  for  the  same : 
Pleaseth  you  walk  with  me  down  to  his  house, 
I  will  discharge  my  bond,  and  thank  you  too. 

Enter  ANTIPHOLUS  OF  EPHESUS,  and 
DROMIO  OF  EPHESUS. 

Off.  That  labour  may  you  save :  see  where 
he  comes.  [go  thou 

Ant.  E.  While  I  go  to  the  goldsmith's  house, 
And  buy  a  rupe's  end ;  that  will  I  bestow 
Among  my  wife  and  her  confederates, 
For  locking  me  out  of  doors  by  day. — 
But,  soft ;  I  see  the  goldsmith :  get  thee  gone ; 
Buy  thou  a  rope,  and  bring  it  home  to  me. 
Dro.  E.  I  buy  a  thousand  pound  a  year !     I 
buy  a  rope !  {Exit  DROMIO. 

Ant.  E.  A  man  is  well  holp  up  that  trusts 

to  you: 

I  promised  your  presence,  and  the  chain ; 
But  neither  chain  nor  goldsmith  came  to  me: 
Belike  you  thought  our  love  would  last  too  long, 
If  it  were  chained  together ;  and  therefore  came 
not.  [note, 

Ang.  Saving  your  merry  humour,  here  's  the 
How  much  your  chain  weighs  to  the  utmost 

carat; 

The  fineness  of  the  gold,  and  chargeful  fashion ; 
Which  does  amount  to  three  odd  ducats  more 
Than  I  stand  debted  to  this  gentleman : 
I  pray  you,  see  him  presently  discharg'd, 
For  he  is  bound  to  sea,  and  stays  but  for  it. 
Ant.  E.  I  am  not  furnished  with  the  present 

money ; 

Besides  I  have  some  business  in  the  town : 
Good  Signior,  take  the  stranger  to  my  house, 
And  with  you  take  the  chain,  and  bid  my  wife 
Disburse  the  sum  on  the  receipt  thereo'; 
Perchance  I  will  be  there  as  soon  as  you. 
Ang.  Then  you  will  bring  the  chain  to  her 

yourself? 

Ant.  E.  No;   bear  it  with  you,  lest  I  come 

not  time  enough.  [about  you? 

Ang.  Well   sir,  I  will :    have  you  the  chain 

Ant.  E.  An  if  I  have  not,  sir,  I  hope  you  have, 

Or  else  you  may  return  without  your  money. 

Ang.  Nay,  come,  I  pray  you,  sir,  give  me  the 

chain ; 

Both  wind  and  tide  stays  for  this  gentleman, 
And  I,  to  blame,  have  held  him  here  too  long. 


390 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


[ACT  iv. 


Ant.  E.  Good  lord,  you  use  this  dalliance  to 

excuse 

Your  breach  of  promise  to  the  Porcupine : 
I  should  have  chid  you  for  not  bringing  it, 
But,  like  a  shrew,  you  first  begin  to  brawl. 

Mer.  The  hour  steals  on;  I  pray  you,  sir, 
despatch. 

Ang.  You  hear  how  he  importunes  me :  the 
chain, — 

Ant.  E.  Why,  give  it  to  my  wife,  and  fetch 
your  money.  [now : 

Ang.  Come,  come,  you  know  I  gave  it  you  even 
Either  send  the  chain  or  send  me  by  some  token. 

Ant.  E.  Fie !  now  you  run  this  humour  out 

of  breath :  [it. 

Come,  where  's  the  chain?  I  pray  you,  let  me  see 

Mer.  My  business  cannot  brook  this  dalliance : 
Good  sir,  say  whe'r  you  '11  answer  me  or  no ; 
If  not,  I  '11  leave  him  to  the  officer.  [you? 

Ant.  E.  I  answer  you !   What  should  I  answer 

Ang.  The  money  that  you  owe  me  for  the 
chain.  [chain. 

Ant.  E.   I  owe  you  none  till  I  receive  the 

Ang.  You  know  I  gave  it  you  half-an-hour 
since. 

Ant.  E.  You  gave  me  none:  you  wrong  me 
much  to  say  so. 

Ang.  You  wrong  me  more,  sir,  in  denying  it: 
Consider  how  it  stands  upon  my  credit. 

Mer.  Well,  officer,  arrest  him  at  my  suit. 

Off.  I  do,  and  charge  you  in  the  duke's  name 
to  obey  me. 

Ang.  This  touches  me  in  reputation : 
Either  consent  to  pay  this  sum  for  me, 
Or  I  attach  you  by  this  officer. 

Ant.  E.  Consent  to  pay  thee  that  I  never  had! 
Arrest  me,  foolish  fellow,  if  thou  dar'st. 

Ang.  Here  is  thy  fee ;  arrest  him,  officer : — 
I  would  not  spare  my  brother  in  this  case, 
If  he  should  scorn  me  so  apparently. 

Off.   I  do  arrest  you,  sir :  you  hear  the  suit. 

Ant.  E.  I  do  obey  thee  till  I  give  thee  bail: — 
But,  sirrah,  you  shall  buy  this  sport  as  dear 
As  all  the  metal  in  your  shop  will  answer. 

Ang.  Sir,  sir,  I  shall  have  law  in  Ephesus, 
To  your  notorious  shame,  I  doubt  it  not. 

Enter  DROMIO  OF  SYRACUSE. 

Dro.  S.  Master,  there  is  a  bark  of  Epidam- 

num 

That  stays  but  till  her  owner  comes  aboard, 
And  then,  sir,  bears  away :  our  fraughtage,  sir, 
I  have  convey'd  aboard ;  and  I  have  bought 
The  oil,  the  balsamum,  and  aqua-vitae. 
The  ship  is  in  her  trim ;  the  merry  wind 
Blows  fair  from  land :  they  stay  for  naught  at  all 
But  for  their  owner,  master,  and  yourself. 


Ant.  E.  How  now!  a  madman?     Why,  thou 

peevish  sheep, 
What  ship  of  Epidamnum  stays  for  me? 

Dro.  S.  A  ship  you  sent  me  to,  to  hire  waftage. 
Ant.  E.  Thou  drunken  slave,  I  sent  thee  for 

a  rope ; 

And  told  thee  to  what  purpose  and  what  end. 
Dro.  S.  You  sent  me,  sir,  for  a  rope's  end  as 

soon: 
You  sent  me  to  the  bay,  sir,  for  a  bark. 

Ant.  E.   I  will  debate  this  matter  at  more 

leisure, 

And  teach  your  ears  to  listen  with  more  heed. 
To  Adriana,  villain,  hie  thee  straight: 
Give  her  this  key,  and  tell  her,  in  the  desk 
That 's  cover'd  o'er  with  Turkish  tapestry 
There  is  a  purse  of  ducats ;  let  her  send  it : 
Tell  her  I  am  arrested  in  the  street, 
And  that  shall  bail  me :  hie  thee,  slave ;  be  gone. 
On,  officer,  to  prison  till  it  come. 

[Exeunt  MER.,  ANG.,  Off.,  and  ANT.  E. 
Dro.  S.  To  Adriana !  that  is  where  we  din'd, 
Where  Dowsabel  did  claim  me  for  her  husband: 
She  is  too  big,  I  hope,  for  me  to  compass. 
Thither  I  must,  although  against  my  will, 
For  servants  must  their  masters'  minds  fulfil. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  II.— The  same. 
Enter  ADRIANA  and  LUCIANA. 

Adr.  Ah,  Luciana,  did  he  tempt  thee  so? 

Might'st  thou  perceive  austerely  in  his  eye 
That  he  did  plead  in  earnest,  yea  or  no? 

Look'd  he  or  red  or  pale,  or  sad  or  merrily? 
What  observation  mad'st  thou  in  this  case 
Of  his  heart's  meteors  tilting  in  his  face? 

Luc.  First,  he  denied  you  had  him  in  no 
right.  [my  spite. 

Adr.  He  meant  he  did  me  none ;  the  more 

Luc.  Then  swore  he  that  he  was  a  stranger 
here.  [he  were. 

Adr.  And  true  he  swore,  though  yet  forsworn 

Luc.  Then  pleaded  I  for  you. 

Adr.  And  what  said  he? 

Luc.  That  love  I  begg'd  for  you  he  begg'd 
of  me.  [love? 

Adr.  With  what  persuasion  did  he  tempt  thy 

Luc.    With   words   that   in   an  honest   suit 

might  move. 
First,  he  did  praise  my  beauty,  then  my  speech. 

Adr.   Didst  speak  him  fair? 

Luc.  Have  patience,  I  beseech. 

Adr.  I  cannot,  nor  I  will  not  hold  me  still : 
My  tongue,  though  not  my  heart,  shall  have* 

his  will. 
He  is  deformed,  crooked,  old,  and  sere, 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


Ill-fac'd,  worse  bodied,  shapeless  everywhere ; 
Vicious,  ungentle,  foolish,  blunt,  unkind; 
Stigmatical  in  making,  worse  in  mind.      [one? 

Luc.  Who  would  be  jealous  then  of  such  a 
Np  evil  lost  is  wail'd  when  it  is  gone. 

Adr.  Ah !  but  I  think  him  better  than  I  say, 

And  yet   would   herein    others'   eyes   were 

worse: 
Far  from  her  nest  the  lapwing  cries,  away : 

My  heart  prays  for  him,  though  my  tongue 
do  curse. 

Enter  DROMIO  OF  SYRACUSE. 

Dro,  S.  Here,   go:    the   desk,   the   purse: 

sweet  now,  make  haste. 
Luc.   How  hast  thou  lost  thy  breath? 
Dro.  S.  By  running  fast. 

Adr.  Where  is  thy  master,  Dromio?  is  he 
well?  [hell. 

Dro.  S.  No,  he 's  in  Tartar  limbo,  worse  than 
A  devil  in  an  everlasting  garment  hath  him ; 
One  whose  hard  heart  is  button'd  up  with  steel; 
A  fiend,  a  fairy,  pitiless  and  rough  ; 
A  wolf — nay  worse,  a  fellow  all  in  buff; 
A  back -friend,  a  shoulder-clapper,   one   that 
countermands  [lands ; 

The  passages   of  alleys,   creeks,    and   narrow 
A  hound  that  runs  counter,  and  yet  draws  dry 
foot  well ;  [to  hell. 

One  that,  before  the  judgment,  carries  poor  souls 
Adr.  Why,  man,  what  is  the  matter? 
Dro.  S.  I  do  not  know  the  matter:   he  is 
'rested  on  the  case.  [suit. 

Adr.  What,  is  he  arrested?  tell  me  at  whose 
Dro.  S.    I  know  not  at  whose  suit  he  is 

arrested,  well; 
But  he  's  in  a  suit  of  buff  which  'rested  him, 

that  can  I  tell : 
Will  you  send  him,  mistress,  redemption,  the 

money  in  the  desk  ? 

Adr.  Go  fetch  it,  sister.— This  I  wonder  at, 
[Exit  LUCIANA. 

That  he,  unknown  to  me,  should  be  in  debt. — 
Tell  me,  was  he  arrested  on  a  band? 

Dro.  S.  Not  on  a  band,  but  on  a  stronger 

thing ; 

A  chain,  a  chain :  do  you  not  hear  it  ring? 
Adr.  What,  the  chain?  [gone. 

Dro.  S.  No,  no,  the  bell :  'tis  time  that  I  were 
It  was  two  ere  I  left  him,  and  now  the  clock 

strikes  one. 
Adr.  The  hours  come  back !  that  did  I  never 

hear. 
D*-o.  S.  Oyes.     If  any  hour  meet  a  sergeant, 

'a  turns  back  for  very  fear. 
Adr.  As  if  time  were  in  debt !  how  fondly 
dost  thou  reason ! 


Dro.  S.  Time  is  a  very  bankrupt,  and  owes 
more  than  he 's  worth  to  season. 

Nay,  he  's  a  thief  too :  have  you  not  heard  men 
say 

That  Time  comes  stealing  on  by  night  and  day? 

If  he  be  in  debt  and  theft,  and  a  sergeant  in  the 
way,  [day? 

Hath  he  not  reason  to  turn  back  an  hour  in  a 

Enter  LUCIANA. 

Adr.  Go,  Dromio ;  there 's  the  money,  bear 

it  straight ; 

And  bring  thy  master  home  immediately. — 
Come,  sister :  I  am  press'd  down  with  conceit ; 
Conceit  my  comfort  and  my  injury. 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  The  same. 
Enter  ANTIPHOLUS  OF  SYRACUSE. 
Ant.  S.  There  's  not  a  man  I  meet  but  doth 

salute  me 

As  if  I  were  their  well-acquainted  friend ; 
And  every  one  doth  call  me  by  my  name. 
Some  tender  money  to  me,  some  invite  me ; 
Some  other  give  me  thanks  for  kindnesses ; 
Some  offer  me  commodities  to  buy: 
Even  now  a  tailor  call'd  me  in  his  shop, 
And  show'd  me  silks  that  he  had  bought  for  me, 
And  therewithal  took  measure  of  my  body. 
Sure,  these  are  but  imaginary  wiles, 
And  Lapland  sorcerers  inhabit  here. 

Enter  DROMIO  OF  SYRACUSE. 

Dro.  S.  Master,  here 's  the  gold  you  sent  me 

for. 

What,  have  you  got  the  picture  of  Old  Adam 
new  apparelled? 

Ant.  S.  What  gold  is  this?  What  Adam 
dost  thou  mean? 

Dro.  S.  Not  that  Adam  that  kept  the  para- 
dise, but  that  Adam  that  keeps  the  prison :  he 
that  goes  in  the  calf 's-skin  that  was  killed  for 
the  Prodigal ;  he  that  came  behind  you,  sir,  like 
an  evil  angel,  and  bid  you  forsake  your  liberty. 

Ant.  S.   I  understand  thee  not. 

Dro.  S.  No?  why,  'tis  a  plain  case:  he  that 
went  like  a  base -viol  in  a  case  of  leather;  the 
man,  sir,  that,  when  gentlemen  are  tired,  gives 
them  a  fob,  and  'rests  them ;  he,  sir,  that  takes 
pity  on  decayed  men,  and  gives  them  suits  of 
durance;  he  that  sets  up  his  rest  to  do  more 
exploits  with  his  mace  than  a  morris- pike. 

Ant.  S.  What!  thou  mean'st  an  officer? 

Dro.  S.  Ay,  sir, — the  sergeant  of  the  band : 
he  that  brings  any  man  to  answer  it  that  breaks 
his  band ;  one  that  thinks  a  man  always  going 
to  bed,  and  says,  God  give  you  good  rest! 


393 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


[ACT  iv. 


Ant.  S.  Well,  sir,  there  rest  in  your  foolery. 
Is  there  any  ship  puts  forth  to-night  ?  may  we 
be  gone? 

Dro.  S.  Why,  sir,  I  brought  you  word  an  hour 
since,  that  the  bark  Expedition  put  forth  to- 
night ;  and  then  were  you  hindered  by  the 
sergeant,  to  tarry  for  the  hoy,  Delay :  here  are 
the  angels  that  you  sent  for  to  deliver  you. 

Ant.  S.  The  fellow  is  distract,  and  so  am  I ; 
And  here  we  wander  in  illusions  : 
Some  blessed  power  deliver  us  from  hence  ! 

Enter  a  Courtezan. 

Cour.  Well  met,  well  met,  Master  Antipholus. 
I  see,  sir,  you  have  found  the  goldsmith  now  : 
Is  that  the  chain  you  promis'd  me  to-day  ? 

Ant.  S.   Satan,  avoid  !  I  charge  thee,  tempt 
me  not ! 

Dro.  S.   Master,  is  this  Mistress  Satan? 

Ant.  S.  It  is  the  devil. 

Dro.  S.  Nay,  she  is  worse — she  is  the  devil's 
dam  ;  and  here  she  comes  in  the  habit  of  a  light 
wench ;  and  thereof  comes  that  the  wenches 
say,  God  damn  me — that 's  as  much  as  to  say, 
God  make  me  a  light  wench.  It  is  written,  they 
appear  to  men  like  angels  of  light :  light  is  an 
effect  of  fire,  and  fire  will  burn ;  ergo,  light 
wenches  will  burn  :  come  not  near  her. 

Cour.    Your  man  and  you  are  marvellous 

merry,  sir.  [here. 

Will  you  go  with  me  ?   We  '11  mend  our  dinner 

Dro.  S.  Master,  if  you  do;  expect  spoon-meat, 
or  bespeak  a  long  spoon. 

Ant.  S.  Why,  Dromio? 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  he  must  have  a  long  spoon 
that  must  eat  with  the  devil. 

Ant.  S.  Avoid  then,  fiend !  what  tell'st  thou 

me  of  supping  ? 

Thou  art,  as  you  are  all,  a  sorceress: 
I  conjure  thee  to  leave  me  and  be  gone. 

Cour.  Give  me  the  ring  of  mine  you  had  at 

dinner, 

Or,  for  my  diamond,  the  chain  you  promis'd, 
And  I  '11  be  gone,  sir,  and  not  trouble  you. 

Dro.  S.  Some  devils  ask  but  the  paring  of 

one's  nail, 

A  rush,  a  hair,  a  drop  of  blood,  a  pin, 
A  nut,  a  cherry-stone  ;  but  she,  more  covetous, 
Would  have  a  chain. 
Master,  be  wise  ;  an  if  you  give  it  her, 
The  devil  will  shake  her  chain,  and  fright  us 
with  it. 

Cour.  I  pray  you,  sir,  my  ring,  or  else  the 

chain : 
I  hope  you  do  not  mean  to  cheat  me  so. 

Ant.  S.  Avaunt,  thou  witch !  Come,  Dromio, 
let  us  go. 


Dro.  S.  Fly  pride,  says  the  peacock :  Mistress, 
that  you  know. 

\_Exeunt  ANT.  S.  and  DRO.  S. 

Cour.  Now,  out  of  doubt,  Antipholus  is  mad, 
Else  would  he  never  so  demean  himself: 
A  ring  he  hath  of  mine  worth  forty  ducats, 
And  for  the  same  he  promis'd  me  a  chain; 
Both  one  and  other  he  denies  me  now  : 
The  reason  that  I  gather  he  is  mad, — 
Besides  this  present  instance  of  his  rage, — 
Is  a  mad  tale  he  told  to-day  at  dinner, 
Of  his  own  doors  being  shut  against  his  entrance. 
Belike  his  wife,  acquainted  with  his  fits, 
On  purpose  shut  the  doors  against  his  way. 
My  way  is  now  to  hie  home  to  his  house, 
And  tell  his  wife  that,  being  lunatic, 
He  rush'd  into  my  house,  and  took  perforce 
My  ring  away :  this  course  I  fittest  choose, 
For  forty  ducats  is  too  much  to  lose.        [Exit. 

SCENE  IV. — The  same. 

Enter   ANTIPHOLUS   OF    EPHESUS   and  an 
Officer. 

Ant.  E.  Fear  me  not,  man ;  I  will  not  break 

away: 

I  '11  give  thee,  ere  I  leave  thee,  so  much  money 
To  warrant  thee,  as  I  am  'rested  for. 
My  wife  is  in  a  wayward  mood  to-day; 
And  will  not  lightly  trust  the  messenger 
That  I  should  be  attach'd  in  Ephesus : 
I  tell  you,  'twill  sound  harshly  in  her  e 

Enter  DROMIO  OF  EPHESUS,  -with  a  ropJs  end. 

Here  comes  my  man:  I  think  he  brings  the 

money. 

How  now,  sir !  have  you  that  I  sent  you  for? 
Dro.  E.    Here  's  that,  I  warrant  you,  will 

pay  them  all. 

Ant.  E.  But  where 's  the  money?  [rope. 
Dro.  E.  Why,  sir,  I  gave  the  money  for  the 
Ant.  E.  Five  hundred  ducats,  villain,  for  a 

rope  ?  [the  rate. 

Dro.  E.  I  '11  serve  you,  sir,  five  hundred  at 
Ant.  E.  To  what  end  did  I  bid  thee  hie  thee 

home? 
Dro.  E.  To  a  rope's  end,  sir ;  and  to  that 

end  am  I  return'd. 
Ant.  E.  And  to  that  end,  sir,  I  will  welcome 

you.  [Beating  him. 

Off.  Good  sir,  be  patient. 
Dro.  E.  Nay,  'tis  for  me  to  be  patient ;  I  am 
in  adversity. 

Off.  Good  now,  hold  thy  tongue. 
Dro.  E.  Nay,  rather  persuade  him  to  hold 
his  hands. 

Ant.  E.  Thou  whoreson  senseless  villain  1 


ears. 


SCENE  IV.] 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


393 


Dro.  E.  I  would  I  were  senseless,  sir,  that 
I  might  not  feel  your  blows. 

Ant.  E.  Thou  art  sensible  in  nothing  but 
blows,  and  so  is  an  ass. 

Dro.  E.  I  am  an  ass  indeed :  you  may  prove 
it  by  my  long  ears.  I  have  served  him  from  the 
hour  of  my  nativity  to  this  instant,  and  have 
nothing  at  his  hands  for  my  service  but  blows : 
when  I  am  cold  he  heats  me  with  beating ;  when 
I  am  warm  he  cools  me  with  beating.  I  am 
waked  with  it  when  I  sleep ;  raised  with  it  when 
I  sit;  driven  out  of  doors  with  it  when  I  go 
from  home ;  welcomed  home  with  it  when  I  re- 
turn :  nay,  I  bear  it  on  my  shoulders  as  a  beggar 
wont  her  brat ;  and  I  think,  when  he  hath  lamed 
me,  I  shall  beg  with  it  from  door  to  door. 

Ant.  E.  Come,  go  along ;  my  wife  is  coming 
yonder. 

Enter  ADRIAN  A,  LUCIANA,  and  the  Courtezan, 
with  PINCH  and  others. 

Dro.  E.  Mistress,  respicefinem,  respect  your 
end;  or  rather  the  prophecy,  like  the  parrot, 
Beware  the  ropfs  end. 

Ant.  E.  Wilt  thou  still  talk?       [Seats  htm. 

Cour.  How  say  you  now?  is  not  your  husband 
mad? 

Adr.  His  incivility  confirms  no  less. — 
Good  Doctor  Pinch,  you  are  a  conjurer ; 
Establish  him  in  his  true  sense  again, 
And  I  will  please  you  what  you  will  demand. 

Luc.  Alas,  how  fiery  and  how  sharp  he  looks ! 

Cour.  Mark  how  he  trembles  in  his  ecstacy ! 

Pinch.  Give  me  your  hand,  and  let  me  feel 
your  pulse.  [your  ear. 

Ant.  E.    There  is  my  hand,  and  let  it  feel 

Pinch.   I  charge  thee,  Satan,  hous'd  within 

this  man, 

To  yield  possession  to  my  holy  prayers, 
And  to  thy  state  of  darkness  hie  thee  straight : 
I  conjure  thee  by  all  the  saints  in  heaven. 

Ant.  E.  Peace,  doting  wizard,  peace ;  I  am 
not  mad. 

Adr.  O  that  thou  wert  not,  poor  distressed 
soul!  [customers? 

Ant.  E.  You  minion,  you,  are  these  your 
Did  this  companion  with  the  saffron  face 
Revel  and  feast  it  at  my  house  to-day, 
Whilst  upon  me  the  guilty  doors  were  shut, 
And  I  denied  to  enter  in  my  house?       [home, 

Adr.  O  husband,  God  doth  know  you  din'd  at 
Where  would  you  had  remained  until  this  time, 
Free  from  these  slanders  and  this  open  shame ! 

Ant.  E.  I  din'd  at  home!  Thou  villain, 
what  say'st  thou? 

Dro.  E.  Sir,  sooth  to  say,  you  did  not  dine  at 
home. 


Ant.  E.  Were  not  my  doors  lock'd  up  and  I 

shut  out? 
Dro.  E.  Perdy,  your  doors  were  lock'd  and 

you  shut  out. 

Ant.  E.  And  did  not  she  herself  revile  me 

there?  [there. 

Dro.  E.  Sans  fable,  she  herself  revil'd  you 

Ant.  E.    Did   not    her   kitchen-maid    rail, 

taunt,  and  scorn  me? 
Dro.  E.  Certes,  she  did :  the  kitchen-vestal 

scorn'd  you. 

Ant.  E.  And  did  not  I  in  rage  depart  from 
thence?  [witness, 

Dro.  E.  In  verity,  you  did ; — my  bones  bear 
That  since  have  felt  the  vigour  of  his  rage. 
Adr.  Is 't  good  to  soothe  him  in  these  con- 
traries? [vein, 
Pinch.  It  is  no  shame :  the  fellow  finds  his 
And,  yielding  to  him,  humours  well  his  frenzy. 
Ant.  E.  Thou  hast  suborn'd  the  goldsmith 

to  arrest  me. 

Adr.  Alas !  I  sent  you  money  to  redeem  you, 
By  Dromio  here,  who  came  in  haste  for  it. 
Dro.  E.  Money  by  me !  heart  and  good-will 

you  might, 

But  surely,  master,  not  a  rag  of  money. 
Ant.  E.  Went'st  not  thou  to  her  for  a  purse 

of  ducats? 

Adr.  He  came  to  me,  and  I  deliver'd  it. 
Lttc.  And  I  am  witness  with  her  that  she  did. 
Dro.  E.  God  and  the  rope-maker,  bear  me 

witness 
That  I  was  sent  for  nothing  but  a  rope^. 

Pinch.  Mistress,  both  man  and  master  is 

possess'd ; 

I  know  it  by  their  pale  and  deadly  looks : 
They  must  be  bound,  and  laid  in  some  dark  room. 
Ant.  E.  Say,  wherefore  didst  thou  lock  me 

forth  to-day? — 

And  why  dost  thou  deny  the  bag  of  gold? 
Adr.  I  did  not,  gentle  husband,  lock  thee 

forth. 
Dro.  E.  And,  gentle  master,  I  receiv'd  no 

gold; 

But  I  confess,  sir,  that  we  were  lock'd  out. 
Adr,  Dissembling  villain,  thou  speak'st  false 
in  both.  [all ; 

Ant.  E.  Dissembling  harlot,  thou  art  false  in 
And  art  confederate  with  a  damned  pack, 
To  make  a  loathsome  abject  scorn  of  me: 
But  with  these  nails  I  '11  pluck  out  these  false 

eyes, 

That  would  behold  me  in  this  shameful  sport. 
[PlNCH  and  Assistants  bind  ANT.  E.  and 

DRO.  E. 

Adr.  O,  bind  him,  bind  him;  let  him  not 
come  near  me. 


394 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


[ACT  v. 


Pinch.   More  company  ;  —  the  fiend  is  strong 

within  him.  [looks  ! 

Luc.  Ah  me,  poor  man  !  how  pale  and  wan  he 

Ant.  E.  What,  will  you  murder  me?    Thou 

gaoler,  thou, 

I  am  thy  prisoner  :  wilt  thou  suffer  them 
To  make  a  rescue? 

Off.  Masters,  let  him  go  : 

He  is  my  prisoner,  and  you  shall  not  have  him. 
Pinch.  Go,  bind  this  man,  for  he  is  frantic  too. 
Adr.  What  wilt  thou  do,  thou  peevish  officer? 
Hast  thou  delight  to  see  a  wretched  man 
Do  outrage  and  displeasure  to  himself? 

Off.  He  is  my  prisoner  :  if  I  let  him  go, 
The  debt  he  owes  will  be  requir'd  of  me. 

Adr.  I  will  discharge  thee  ere  I  go  from  thee  : 
Bear  me  forthwith  unto  his  creditor,  [it. 

And,  knowing  how  the  debt  grows,  I  will  pay 
Good  master  doctor,  see  him  safe  convey'd 
Home  to  my  house.  —  O  most  unhappy  day  ! 
Ant.  E.  O  most  unhappy  strumpet  ! 
Dro.  E.  Master,  I  am  here  enter'd  in  bond 

for  you. 

Ant.  E.  Out   on    thee,    villain!    wherefore 

dost  thou  mad  me?  [mad, 

Dro.  E.  Will  you  be  bound  for  nothing?  be 

Good  master;  cry,  the  devil.  —  [talk! 

Luc.  God  help,  poor  souls,  how  idly  do  they 

Adr.  Go  bear  him  hence.  —  Sister,  go  you 

with  me.— 

[Exeunt  PINCH  and  Assistants,  with 

ANT.  E.  and  DRO.  E. 
Say  now,  whose  suit  is  he  arrested  at? 

Off.    One  Angelo,   a   goldsmith;    do    you 
know  him?  [owes? 

Adr.  I  know  the  man  :  what  is  the  sum  he 
Off.  Two  hundred  ducats. 
Adr.  Say,  how  grows  it  due? 

Off.  Due  for  a  chain  your  husband  had  of  him. 
Adr.  He  did  bespeak  ;  chain  for  me,  but  had 

it  not. 
Cour.  When  as  your  husband,  all  in  rage, 

to-day 

Came  to  my  house,  and  took  away  my  ring,  — 
The  ring  I  saw  upon  his  finger  now,  — 
Straight  after  did  I  meet  him  with  a  chain. 

Adr.  It  may  be  so,  but  I  did  never  see  it  : 
Come,  gaoler,  bring  me  where  the  goldsmith  is  • 
I  long  to  know  the  truth  hereof  at  large. 

Enter  ANTIPHOLUS  OF  SYRACUSE,  with  his 
rapier  drawn,  and  DROMIO  OF  SYRACUSE. 

Luc.   God,  for  thy  mercy!   they  are  loose 


Adr.  And  come  with  naked  swords:  let's 

call  more  help, 
To  have  them  bound  again. 


Off.  Away,  they '11  kill  us. 

[Exeunt  Off.,  ADR.,  and'Lvc. 

Ant.  S.  I  see  these  witches  are  afraid  of  swords. 

Dro.  S.  She  that  would  be  your  wife  now 

ran  from  you. 
Ant.  S.  Come  to  the  Centaur;   fetch  our 

stuff  from  thence : 
I  long  that  we  were  safe  and  sound  aboard. 

Dro.  S.  Faith,  stay  here  this  night;  they 
will  surely  do  us  no  harm :  you  saw  they  speak 
us  fair,  give  us  gold :  methinks,  they  are  such 
a  gentle  nation,  that  but  for  the  mountain  of 
mad  flesh  that  claims  marriage  of  me,  I  could 
find  in  my  heart  to  stay  here  still  and  turn  witch. 
Ant.  S.  I  will  not  stay  to-night  for  all  the 

town: 
Therefore  away  to  get  our  stuff  aboard. 

[Exeunt. 

-KiA  *fc»\«3k 
ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.— The  same. 
Enter  Merchant  and  ANGELO. 

Ang.  I  am  sorry,  sir,  that  I  have  hinder  d 

you; 

But  I  protest  he  had  the  chain  of  me, 
Though  most  dishonestly  he  doth  deny  it. 
Mer.  How  is  the  man  esteem'd  here  in  the 

city? 

Ang.  Of  very  reverend  reputation,  sir; 
Of  credit  infinite,  highly  belov'd, 
Second  to  none  that  lives  here  in  the  city: 
His  word  might  bear  my  wealth  at  any  time. 
Mer.  Speak  softly:  yonder,  as  I  think,  he 
walks. 

Enter  ANTIPHOLUS  and  DROMIO  OF 
SYRACUSE. 

Ang.  'Tis  so ;  and  that  self  chain  about  his 

neck 

Which  he  forswore  most  monstrously  to  have. 
Good  sir,  draw  near  to  me,  I  '11  speak  to  him. — • 
Signior  Antipholus,  I  wonder  much     [trouble ; 
That  you  would   put  me  to  this  shame  and 
And  not  without  some  scandal  to  yourself, 
With  circumstance  and  oaths  so  to  deny 
This  chain,  which  now  you  wear  so  openly : 
Besides  the  charge,  the  shame,  imprisonment, 
You  have  done  wrong  to  this  my  honest  friend ; 
Who,  but  for  staying  on  our  controversy, 
Had  hoisted  sail  and  put  to  sea  to-day : 
This  chain  you  had  of  me;  can  you  deny  it? 

Ant.  S.  I  think  I  had :  I  never  did  deny  it. 

Mer.  Yes,  that  you  did,  sir ;  and  forswore  it 
too.  [swear  it? 

Ant.  S.  Who  heard  me  to  deny  it  or  for* 


SCENE  I.j 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


395 


Mer.  These  ears  of  mine,  thou  knowest,  did 

hear  thee. 

Fie  on  thee,  wretch !  'tis  pity  that  thou  liv'st 
To  walk  where  any  honest  men  resort,     [thus : 
Ant.  S.  Thou  art  a  villain   to  impeach  me 
I  '11  prove  mine  honour  and  mine  honesty 
Against  thee  presently,  if  thou  dar'st  stand. 
Mer.   I  dare  and  do  defy  thee  for  a  villain. 
[They  draw. 

Enter  ADRIANA,  LUCIANA,  Courtezan,  and 
others. 

Adr.  Hold,  hurt  him  not,  for  God's  sake; 

he  is  mad : 

Some  get  within  him,  take  his  sword  away : 
Bind  Dromio  too,  and  bear  them  to  my  house. 
Dro.  S.  Run,  master,  run ;  for  God's  sake, 

take  a  house. 

This  is  some  priory ; — in,  or  we  are  spoil'd. 
[Exeunt  ANT.  S.  and  DRO.  S.  to  the  Priory. 

Enter  the  Abbess. 

Abb.  Be  quiet,  people.     Wherefore  throng 
you  hither  ?  [hence  : 

Adr.  To  fetch  my  poor  distracted  husband 
Let  us  come  in,  that  we  may  bind  him  fast, 
And  bear  him  home  for  his  recovery. 

Ang.   I  knew  he  was  not  in  his  perfect  wits. 

Mer.  I  am  sorry  now  that  I  did  draw  on  him. 

Abb.  How  long  hath  this  possession  held  the 
man  ?  [sad, 

Adr.  This  week  he  hath  been  heavy,  sour, 
And  much,  much  different  from  the  man  he  was: 
But  till  this  afternoon  his  passion 
Ne'er  brake  into  extremity  of  rage.         [at  sea? 

Abb.  Hath  he  not  lost  much  wealth  by  wreck 
Buried  some  dear  friend  ?    Hath  not  else  his  eye 
Stray'd  his  affection  in  unlawful  love  ? 
A  sin  prevailing  much  in  youthful  men 
Who  give  their  eyes  the  liberty  of  gazing. 
Which  of  these  sorrows  is  he  subject  to? 

Adr.  To  none  of  these,  except  it  be  the  last; 
Namely,  some  love  that  drew  him  oft  from  home. 

Abb.  You  should  for  that  have  reprehended 
him. 

Adr.  Why,  so  I  did. 

Abb.  Ay,  but  not  rough  enough. 

Adr.  As  roughly  as  my  modesty  would  let  me. 

Abb.   Haply  in  private. 

Adr.  And  in  assemblies  too. 

Abb.  Ay,  but  not  enough. 

Adr.  It  was  the  copy  of  our  conference  : 
In  bed,  he  slept  not  for  my  urging  it ; 
At  board,  he  fed  not  for  my  urging  it ; 
Alone,  it  was  the  subject  of  my  theme  ; 
In  company,  I  often  glanced  it ; 
Still  did  I  tell  him  it  was  vile  and  bad. 


Abb.  And  thereof  came  it  that  the  man  was 

mad  : 

The  venom  clamours  of  a  jealous  woman 
Poison  more  deadly  than  a  mad  dog's  tooth. 
It  seems  his  sleeps  were  hindered  by  thy  railing : 
And  therefore  comes  it  that  his  head  is  light. 
Thou   say'st   his  meat   was   sauc'd   with    thy 

upbraidings : 

Unquiet  meals  make  ill  digestions, 
Thereof  the  raging  fire  of  fever  bred  ; 
And  what 's  a  fever  but  a  fit  of  madness? 
Thou  say'st  his  sports  were  hinder'd  by  thy 

brawls : 

Sweet  recreation  barr'd,  what  doth  ensue 
But  moody  and  dull  melancholy, — 
Kinsman  to  grim  and  comfortless  despair, — 
And,  at  her  heels,  a  huge  infectious  troop 
Of  pale  distemperatures  and  foes  to  life  ? 
In  food,  in  sport,  and  life-preserving  rest 
To  be  disturb' d  would  mad  or  man  or  beast : 
The  consequence  is,  then,  thy  jealous  fits 
Have  scar'd  thy  husband  from  the  use  of 's  wits. 

Luc.  She  never  reprehended  him  but  mildly, 
When  he  demean'd  himself  rough,  rude,  and 

wildly. — 
Why  bear  you  these  rebukes,  and  answer  not  ? 

Adr.  She  did  betray  me  to  my  own  reproof. — 
Good  people,  enter,  and  lay  hold  on  him. 

Abb.  No,  not  a  creature  enters  in  my  house. 

Adr.   Then    let    your    servants    bring    my 
husband  forth. 

Abb.  Neither  :  he  took  this  place  for  sanctu- 
ary, 

And  it  shall  privilege  him  from  your  hands 
Till  I  have  brought  him  to  his  wits  again, 
Or  lose  my  labour  in  assaying  it. 

Adr.  I  will  attend  my  husband,  be  his  nurse, 
Diet  his  sickness,  for  it  is  my  office, 
And  will  have  no  attorney  but  myself ; 
And  therefore  let  me  have  him  home  with  me. 

Abb.  Be  patient ;  for  I  will  not  let  him  stir 
Till  I  have  used  the  approved  means  I  have, 
With    wholesome    syrups,    drugs,    and    holy 

prayers, 

To  make  of  him  a  formal  man  again : 
It  is  a  branch  and  parcel  of  mine  oath, 
A  charitable  duty  of  my  order  ; 
Therefore  depart,  and  leave  him  here  with  me 

Adr.  I  will  not  hence  and  leave  my  husband 

here ; 

And  ill  it  doth  beseem  your  holiness 
To  separate  the  husband  and  the  wife. 

Abb.  Be  quiet,  and  depart :  thou  shalt  not 
have  him.  \Exil  Abbess. 

Luc.  Complain  unto  theduke  of  this  indignity. 

Adr.  Come,  go ;  I  will  fall  prostrate  at  his  feet, 
And  never  rise  until  my  tears  and  prayers 


396 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERROR?. 


[ACT  v. 


Have  won  his  grace  to  come  in  person  hither, 
And  take  perforce  my  husband  from  the  abbess. 

Mer.  By  this,  I  think,  the  dial  points  at  five : 
Anon,  I  am  sure,  the  duke  himself  in  person 
Comes  this  way  to  the  melancholy  vale  ; 
The  place  of  death  and  sorry  execution, 
Behind  the  ditches  of  the  abbey  here. 

Ang.   Upon  what  cause  1 

Mer.  To  see  a  reverend  Syracusan  merchant, 
Who  put  unluckily  into  this  bay, 
Against  the  laws  and  statutes  of  this  town, 
Beheaded  publicly  for  his  offence,      [his  death. 

Ang.  See  where  they  come  :  we  will  behold 

Luc.  Kneel  to  the  duke  before  he  pass  the 
abbey.  $ 

Enter  DUKE,  attended ;  RECKON,  bare-headed; 
with  the  Headsman  and  other  Officers. 

Duke.  Yet  once  again  proclaim  it  publicly, 
If  any  friend  will  pay  the  sum  for  him, 
He  shall  not  die  ;  so  much  we  tender  him. 
Adr.  Justice,  most  sacred  duke,  against  the 

abbess  ! 

Duke.  She  is  a  virtuous  and  a  reverend  lady; 
It  cannot  be  that  she  hath  done  thee  wrong. 
Adr.   May  it  please  your  grace,  Antipholus, 

my  husband, — 

Whom  I  made  lord  of  me  and  all  I  had, 
At  your  important  letters, — this  ill  day 
A  most  outrageous  fit  of  madness  took  him  ; 
That  desperately  he  hurried  through  the  street, — 
With  him  his  bondman,  all  as  mad  as  he, — 
Doing  displeasure  to  the  citizens 
By  rushing  in  their  houses,  bearing  thence 
Rings,  jewels,  anything  his  rage  did  like. 
Once  did  I  get  him  bound,  and  sent  him  home, 
Whilst  to  take  order  for  the  wrongs  I  went, 
That  here  and  there  his  fury  had  committed. 
Anon,  I  wot  not  by  what  strong  escape, 
He  broke  from  those  that  had  the  guard  of  him ; 
And,  with  his  mad  attendant  and  himself, 
Each  one  with  ireful  passion,  with  drawn  swords, 
Met  us  again,  and,  madly  bent  on  us, 
Chased  us  away  ;  till,  raising  of  more  aid, 
We  came  again  to  bind  them  :  then  they  fled 
Into  this  abbey,  whither  we  pursued  them  : 
And  here  the  abbess  shuts  the  gates  on  us, 
And  will  not  suffer  us  to  fetch  him  out, 
Nor  send  him  forth,  that  we  may  bear  him  hence. 
Therefore,  most  gracious  duke,  with  thy  com- 
mand, [help. 
Let  him  be  brought  forth,  and  borne  hence  for 
Duke.  Long  since  thy  husband  serv'd  me  in 

my  wars ; 

And  I  to  thee  engag'd  a  prince's  word, 
When  thou  didst  make  him  master  of  thy  bed, 
To  do  him  all  the  grace  and  good  I  could. — 


Go,  some  of  you,  knock  at  the  abbey-gate, 
And  bid  the  lady  abbess  come  to  me  : 
I  will  determine  this  before  I  stir. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  O   mistress,   mistress,   shift  and  save 

yourself. 

My  master  and  his  man  are  both  broke  loose, 
Beaten  the  maids  a- row,  and  bound  the  doctor, 
Whose  beard  they  have  singed  off  with  brands 

of  fire ; 

And  ever  as  it  blazed  they  threw  on  him 
Great  pails  of  puddled  mire  to  quench  the  hair : 
My  master  preaches  patience  to  him,  while 
His  man  with  scissors  nicks  him  like  a  fool : 
And,  sure,  unless  you  send  some  present  help, 
Between  them  they  will  kill  the  conjurer. 
Adr.  Peace,   fool,   thy  master  and  his  man 

are  here  ; 
And  that  is  false  thou  dost  report  to  us. 

Serv.  Mistress,  upon  my  life,  I  tell  you  true : 
I  have  not  breath'd  almost  since  I  did  see  it. 
He  cries  for  you,  and  vows,  if  he  can  take  you, 
To  scorch  your  face,  and  to  disfigure  you : 

[Cry  -within. 

Hark,  hark,  I  hear  him ;  mistress,  fly ;  be  gone. 
Duke.  Come,   stand  by  me ;    fear  nothing. 

Guard  with  halberds. 

Adr.  Ah  me,  it  is  my  husband  !    Witness  you 
That  he  is  borne  about  invisible. 
Even  now  we  hous'd  him  in  the  abbey  here  ; 
And  now  he 's  there,  past  thought  of  human 
reason. 

Enter  ANTIPHOLUS  and  DROMIO  OF 
EPHESUS. 

Ant.  E.  Justice,   most  gracious  duke ;   oh, 

grant  me  justice  ! 

Even  for  the  service  that  long  since  I  did  thee, 
When  I  bestrid  thee  in  the  wars,  and  took 
Deep  scars  to  save  thy  life  :  even  for  the  blood 
That  then  I  lost  for  thee,  now  grant  me  justice. 
sEge.   Unless  the  fear  of  death  doth  make 

me  dote, 
I  see  my  son  Antipholus  and  Dromio. 

Ant.  E.  Justice,  sweet  prince,  against  that 

woman  there. 

She  whom  thou  gav'st  to  me  to  be  my  wife  ; 
That  hath  abused  and  dishonour'd  me, 
Even  in  the  strength  and  height  of  injury  ! 
Beyond  imagination  is  the  wrong 
That  she  this  day  hath  shameless  thrown  on  me. 
Dtike.  Discover  how,  and  thou  shalt  find  me 

just. 
Ant.  E.  This  day,  great  duke,  she  shut  the 

doors  upon  me, 
While  she  with  harlots  feasted  in  my  house. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


397 


Duke.  A  grievous  fault.     Say,  woman,  didst 

thou  so  ?  [my  sister, 

Adr.  No,  my  good  lord  ; — myself,  he,  and 
To-day  did  dine  together.     So  befall  my  soul 
As  this  is  false  he  burdens  me  withal ! 

Luc.  Ne'er  may  I  look  on  day  nor  sleep  on 

night, 

But  she  tells  to  your  highness  simple  truth  ! 
Ang.    O   perjur'd   woman !    they  are    both 

forsworn. 
In  this  the  madman  justly  chargeth  them. 

Ant.  E.   My  liege,  I  am  advised  what  I  say ; 
Neither  disturb'd  with  the  effect  of  wine, 
Nor,  heady-rash,  provok'd  with  raging  ire, 
Albeit  my  wrongs  might  make  one  wiser  mad. 
This  woman  lock'd  me  out  this  day  from  dinner : 
That  goldsmith  there,  were  he  not  pack'd  with 

her, 

Could  witness  it,  for  he  was  with  me  then ; 
Who  parted  with  me  to  go  fetch  a  chain. 
Promising  to  bring  it  to  the  Porcupine, 
Where  Balthazar  and  I  did  dine  together. 
Our  dinner  done,  and  he  not  coming  thither, 
I  went  to  seek  him.     In  the  street  I  met  him, 
And  in  his  company  that  gentleman.       [down, 
There  did   this    perjur'd  goldsmith  swear  me 
That  I  this  day  of  him  receiv'd  the  chain, 
Which,  God  he  knows,  I  saw  not :  for  the  which 
He  did  arrest  me  with  an  officer. 
I  did  obey,  and  sent  my  peasant  home 
For  certain  ducats  :  he  with  none  return'd. 
Then  fairly  I  bespoke  the  officer 
To  go  in  person  with  me  to  my  house. 
By  the  way  we  met 
My  wife,  her  sister,  and  a  rabble  more 
Of  vile  confederates  :  along  with  them 
They  brought  one  Pinch  ;  a  hungry  lean-faced 

villain, 

A  mere  anatomy,  a  mountebank, 
A  thread-bare  juggler,  and  a  fortune-teller  ; 
A  needy,  hollow-ey'd,  sharp-looking  wretch  ; 
A  living  dead  man  :  this  pernicious  slave, 
Forsooth,  took  on  him  as  a  conjurer ; 
And  gazing  in  mine  eyes,  feeling  my  pulse, 
And  with  no  face,  as  'twere  outfacing  me, 
Cries  out,  I  was  possess'd  :  then  altogether 
They  fell  upon  me,  bound  me,  bore  me  thence ; 
And  in  a  dark  and  dankish  vault  at  home 
There  left  me  and  my  man  both  bound  together ; 
Till,  gnawing  with  my  teeth  my  bonds  in  sunder, 
I  gain'd  my  freedom,  and  immediately 
Ran  hither  to  your  grace  ;  whom  I  beseeech 
To  give  me  ample  satisfaction 
For  these  deep  shames  and  great  indignities. 
Ang.  My  lord,  in  truth,  thus  far  I  witness 

with  him, 
That  he  dined  not  at  home,  but  was  lock'd  out. 


Ditke.  But  had  he  such  a  chain  of  thee,  or  no  ? 
Ang.  He  had,  my  lord  :  and  when  he  ran  in 

here 

These  people  saw  the  chain  about  his  neck. 
Mer.  Besides,  I  will  be  sworn  these  ears  of 

mine 

Heard  you  confess  you  had  the  chain  of  him, 
After  you  first  forswore  it  on  the  mart, 
And  thereupon  I  drew  my  sword  on  you  ; 
And  then  you  fled  into  this  abbey  here, 
From  whence,  I  think,  you  are  come  by  miracle. 
Ant.  E.  I  never  came  within  these  abbey 

walls, 

Nor  ever  didst  thou  draw  thy  sword  on  me : 
I  never  saw  the  chain,  so  help  me  heaven  ! 
And  this  is  false  you  burden  me  withal. 

Duke.  What  an  intricate  impeach  is  this  ! 
I  think  you  all  have  drank  of  Circe's  cup. 
If  here  you  hous'd  him,  here  he  would  have  been: 
If  he  were  mad  he  would  not  plead  so  coldly  : — 
You  say  he  dined  at  home  ;  the  goldsmith  here 
Denies  that  saying  : — Sirrah,  what  say  you  ? 
Dro.  E.  Sir,  he  dined  with  her  there  at  the 
Porcupine.  [that  ring. 

Cour.   Pie  did  ;  and  from  my  finger  snatcrrd 
Ant.  E.  'Tis  true,  my  liege,  this  ring  I  had 
of  her.  [here  ? 

Dztke.  Saw'st  thou  him  enter  at  the  abbey 
Cour.  As  sure,  my  liege,  as  I  do  see  your  grace. 
Duke.  Why,  this  is  strange  : — Go  call  the 

abbess  hither : 
I  think  you  are  all  mated,  or  stark  mad. 

[Exit  an  Attendant. 
ALge.  Most  mighty  duke,  vouchsafe  me  speak 

a  word  ; 

Haply,  I  see  a  friend  will  save  my  life, 
And  pay  the  sum  that  may  deliver  me.      [wilt. 
Duke.  Speak  freely,  Syracusan,  what  thou 
s£ge.  Is  not  your  name,  sir,  call'd  Antipholus? 
And  is  not  that  your  bondman  Dromio  ? 

Dro.  E.  Within  this  hour  I  was  his  bond- 
man, sir, 

But  he,  I  thank  him,  gnaw'd  in  two  my  cords : 
Now  am  I  Dromio  and  his  man,  unbound. 
sEge.  I  am  sure  you  both  of  you  remember  me. 
Dro.  E.  Ourselves  we  do  remember,  sir,  by 

you; 

For  lately  we  were  bound  as  you  are  now. 
You  are  not  Pinch's  patient,  are  you,  sir  ? 
sEge.  Why  look  you  strange  on  me?  you 

know  me  well. 

Ant.  E.  I  never  saw  you  in  my  life,  till  now. 
sEge.  Oh  !  grief  hath  chang'd  me  since  you 

saw  me  last ; 

And  careful  hours,  with  Time's  deformed  hand, 
Have  written  strange  defeatures  in  my  face  : 
But  tell  me  yet,  dost  thou  not  know  my  voice  ? 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


[ACT  v. 


Ant.  E.  Neither. 

sEge.  Dromio,  nor  thou? 

Dro.  E.  No,  trust  me,  sir,  nor  I. 

j&gc.  I  am  sure  thou  dost. 

Dro.  E.  Ay,  sir ;  but  I  am  sure  I  do  not ;  and 
whatsoever  a  man  denies,  you  are  now  bound 
to  believe  him.  [tremity  ! 

^ge.  Not  know  my  voice  !     O,  time's  ex- 
Hast  thou  so  crack'd  and  splitted  my  poor  tongue, 
In  seven  short  years,  that  here  my  only  son 
Knows  not  my  feeble  key  of  untun'd  cares  ? 
Though  now  this  grained  face  of  mine  be  hid 
In  sap-consuming  winter's  drizzled  snow, 
And  all  the  conduits  of  my  blood  froze  up, 
Yet  hath  my  night  of  life  some  memory, 
My  wasting  lamps  some  fading  glimmer  left, 
My  dull  deaf  ears  a  little  use  to  hear  : 
All  these  old  witnesses, — I  cannot  err, — 
Tell  me,  thou  art  my  son  Antipholus. 

Ant.  E.   I  never  saw  my  father  in  my  life. 

&ge.  But  seven  years  since,  in  Syracusa,  boy, 
Thou  know'st  we  parted;  but  perhaps,  my  son, 
Thou  sham'st  to  acknowledge  me  in  misery. 

Ant.  E.  The  duke,  and  all  that  know  me  in 

the  city, 

Can  witness  with  me  that  it  is  not  so : 
I  ne'er  saw  Syracusa  in  my  life. 

Duke.  I  tell  thee,  Syracusan,  twenty  years 
Have  I  been  patron  to  Antipholus, 
During  which  time  he  ne'er  saw  Syracusa  : 
I  see,  thy  age  and  dangers  make  thee  dote. 

Enter  the  Abbess,  with  ANTIPHOLUS  SYRA- 
CUSAN and  DROMIO  SYRACUSAN. 

Abb.  Most  mighty  duke,  behold  a  man  much 

wrong'd.  \_All gather  to  see  him. 

Adr.  I  see  two  husbands,  or  mine  eyes  deceive 

me. 

Duke.  One  of  these  men  is  genius  to  the  other ; 
And  so  of  these.     Which  is  the  natural  man, 
And  which  the  spirit  ?    Who  deciphers  them  ? 
Dro.  S.  I,  sir,  am  Dromio ;  command  him 

away. 

Dro.  E.  I,  sir,  am  Dromio ;  pray  let  me  stay. 
Ant.  S.  ^Egeon,  art  thou  not?  or  else  his 

ghost  ? 
Dro.  S.  O,  my  old  master,  who  hath  bound 

him  here  ? 
Abb.  Whoever  bound  him,  I  will  loose  his 

bonds. 

And  gain  a  husband  by  his  liberty. — 
Speak,  old  ^Egeon,  if  thou  be'st  the  man 
That  hadst  a  wife  once  called  ^Emilia, 
That  bore  thee  at  a  burden  two  fair  sons  : 
O,  if  thou  be'st  the  same  yEgeon,  speak, 
And  speak  unto  the  same  ./Emilia  ! 

</£ge.  If  I  dream  not,  thou  art  ^Emilia : 


If  thou  art  she,  tell  me  where  is  that  son 
That  floated  with  thee  on  the  fatal  raft  ? 

Abb.  By  men  of  Epidamnum,  he  and  I, 
And  the  twin  Dromio,  all  were  taken  up : 
But,  by  and  by,  rude  fishermen  of  Corinth 
By  force  took  Dromio  and  my  son  from  them, 
And  me  they  left  with  those  of  Epidamnum  : 
What  then  became  of  them  I  cannot  tell ; 
I  to  this  fortune  that  you  see  me  in.         [right : 

Duke.  Why,  here  begins  his  morning  story 
These  two  Antipholus's,  these  two  so  like, 
And  these  two  Dromios,  one  in  semblance, — 
Besides  her  urging  of  her  wreck  at  sea, — 
These  are  the  parents  to  these  children, 
Which  accidentally  are  met  together. 
Antipholus,  thou  cam'st  from  Corinth  first  ? 

Ant.  S.  No,  sir,  not  I ;  I  came  from  Syracuse. 

Duke.  Stay,  stand  apart ;  I  know  not  which 
is  which.  [ous  lord. 

Ant.  E.  I  came  from  Corinth,  my  most  graci- 

Dro.  E.  And  I  with  him. 

Ant.  E.  Brought  to  this  town  by  that  most 

famous  warrior, 
Duke  Menaphon,  your  most  renowned  uncle. 

Adr.  Which  of  you  two  did  dine  with  me 
to-day  ? 

Ant.  S.  I,  gentle  mistress. 

Adr.  And  are  not  you  my  husband  ? 

Ant.  E.  No  j  I  say  nay  to  that. 

Ant.  S.  And  so  do  I,  yet  she  did  call  me  so ; 
And  this  fair  gentlewoman,  her  sister  here, 
Did  call  me  brother. — What  I  told  you  then, 
I  hope  I  shall  have  leisure  to  make  good ; 
If  this  be  not  a  dream  I  see  and  hear.         [me. 

Ang.  That  is  the  chain,  sir,  which  you  had  of 

Ant.  S.  I  think  it  be,  sir  :  I  deny  it  not. 

Ant.  E.  And  you,  sir,  for  this  chain  arrested 
me. 

Ang.  I  think  I  did,  sir :  I  deny  it  not. 

Adr.  I  sent  you  money,  sir,  to  be  your  bail, 
By  Dromio  ;  but  I  think  he  brought  it  not. 

Dro.  E.  No,  none  by  me.  [you, 

Ant.  S.  This  purse  of  ducats  I  receiv'd  from 
And  Dromio  my  man  did  bring  them  me  : 
I  see  we  still  did  meet  each  other's  man, 
And  I  was  ta'en  for  him,  and  he  for  me, 
And  thereupon  these  errors  are  arose.       [here. 

Ant.  E.  These  ducats  pawn  I  for  my  father 

Duke.  It  shall  not  need ;  thy  father  hath  his 
life.  [you. 

Cour.  Sir,  I  must  have  that  diamond  from 

Ant.  E.  There,  take  it ;  and  much  thanks 
for  my  good  cheer.  [pains 

Abb.  Renowned  duke,  vouchsafe  to  take  the 
To  go  with  us  into  the  abbey  here, 
And  hear  at  large  discoursed  all  our  fortunes  : — 
And  all  that  are  assembled  in  this  place, 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


399 


That  by  this  sympathized  one  day's  error 
Have  suffer'd  wrong,  go,  keep  us  company, 
And  we  shall  make  full  satisfaction, — 
Twenty-five  years  have  I  but  gone  in  travail 
Of  you,  my  sons  ;  nor  till  this  present  hour 
My  heavy  burdens  are  delivered  : — 
The  duke,  my  husband,  and  my  children  both, 
And  you  the  calendars  of  their  nativity, 
Go  to  a  gossip's  feast,  and  go  with  me  ; 
After  so  long  grief,  such  nativity  !  [feast. 

Duke.  With  all  my  heart,  I  '11  gossip  at  this 
\Exeunt  DUKE,  Abb.,  J$LGE.,  Cour., 

Mer. ,  ANG.  ,  and  Attendants. 

Dro.  S,  Master,  shall  I  fetch  your  stuff  from 

shipboard  ?  [embark'd  ? 

Ant.  E.  Dromio,  what  stuff  of  mine  hast  thou 

Dro.  S.  Your  goods,  that  lay  at  host,  sir,  in 

the  Centaur. 

Ant.  S.  He  speaks  to  me ;  I  am  your  master, 
Dromio : 


Come,  go  with  us  :  we  '11  look  to  that  anon : 
Embrace  thy  brother  there  ;  rejoice  with  him. 
[Exeunt  ANT.  S.  andE.,  ADR.,  and  Luc. 
Dro.  S.  There  is  a  fat  friend  at  your  master's 

house, 

That  kitchen'd  me  for  you'  to-day  at  dinner : 
She  now  shall  be  my  sister,  not  my  wife. 
Dro.  E.   Methinks  you  are  my  glass,  and  not 

my  brother : 

I  see  by  you  I  am  a  sweet-faced  youth. 
Will  you  walk  in  to  see  their  gossiping  ? 
Dro.  S.   Not  I,  sir  ;  you  are  my  elder. 
Dro.  E.   That 's  a  question  :  how  shall  we 

try  it? 

Dro.  S.  We  will  draw  cuts  for  the  senior : 
till  then,  lead  thou  first. 

Dro.  E.  Nay,  then  thus  : 
We  came  into  the  world  like  brother  and  brother : 
And  now  let 's  go  hand  in  hand,  not  one  before 
another.  [Exeunt. 


KING  JOHN. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


-VM 
srtT 


KING  JOHN. 

PRINCE  HENRY,  his  Son;  afterwards  KING 

HENRY  III. 
ARTHUR,  Duke  of  Bretagne,  Son  to  GEFFREY, 

late  Duke  of  Bretagne,  the  Elder  Brother 

to  KING  JOHN. 

WILLIAM  MARESHALL,  Earl  of  Pembroke. 
GEFFREY  FITZ- PETER,  Earl  of  Essex,  Chief 

Justiciary  of  England. 
WILLIAM  LONGSWORD,  Earl  of  Salisbury. 
ROBERT  BIGOT,  Earl  of  Norfolk. 
HUBERT  DE  BURGH,  Chamberlain  to  the  KING. 
ROBERT  FALCONBRIDGE,  Son  to  SIR  ROBERT 

FALCONBRIDGE. 
PHILIP    FALCONBRIDGE,    his    Half-brother, 

Bastard  Son  to  KING  RICHARD  I. 
JAMES  GURNEY,  Servant  to  LADY  FALCON- 
BRIDGE. 
PETER  of '  Pomfret,  a  Prophet. 


PHILIP,  King  of  France. 
Louis,  the  Dauphin. 
ARCHDUKE  OF  AUSTRIA. 
CARDINAL  PANDULPH,  the  Pope's  Legate. 
MELUN,  a  French  Lord. 
CHATILLON,  Ambassador  from  France  to  KING 
JOHN. 

ELINOR,  Widow  of  KING  HENRY  II.,  and 
Mother  to  KING  JOHN. 

CONSTANCE,  Mother  to  ARTHUR. 

BLANCH,  Daughter  to  ALPHONSO,  King  of  Cas- 
tile, and  Niece  to  KING  JOHN. 

LADY  FALCONBRIDGE,  Mother  to  the  BASTARD 
and  ROBERT  FALCONBRIDGE. 

Lords,  Citizens  of  Angiers,  Sheriff,  Heralds, 
Officers,  Soldiers,  Messengers,  and  other 
Attendants. 


SCENE, — Sometimes  in  ENGLAND,  and  sometimes  in  FRANCE. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — NORTHAMPTON.     A  Room  of  State 
in  the  Palace. 

Enter  KING  JOHN,  QUEEN  ELINOR,  PEM- 
BROKE, ESSEX,  SALISBURY,  and  others,  with 
CHATILLON. 

K.John.  Now,  say,  Chatillon,  what  would 
France  with  us?  [of  France, 

Chat.  Thus,  after  greeting,  speaks  the  King 
In  my  behaviour,  to  the  majesty, 
The  borrow'd  majesty  of  England  here. 

Eli.  Astrange  beginning; — borrow'd  majesty ! 

K.  John.  Silence,   good  mother ;    hear  the 
embassy.  [behalf 

Chat.  Philip  of  France,  in  right  and  true 
Of  thy  deceased  brother  Geffrey's  son, 
Arthur  Plantagenet,  lays  most  lawful  claim 
To  this  fair  island,  and  the  territories, — 
To  Ireland,  Poictiers,  Anjou,  Touraine,  Maine; 
Desiring  thee  to  lay  aside  the  sword 
Which  sways  usurpingly  tXese  several  titles, 
And  put  the  same  into  young  Arthur's  hand, 
Thy  nephew  and  right  royal  sovereign. 

K.John.  What  follows,  if  we  disallow  of 
this?  ' 


Chat.  The  proud  control  of  fierce  and  bloody 

war, 

To  enforce  these  rights  so  forcibly  withheld. 
K.John.   Here  have  we   war  for  war,  and 

blood  for  blood, 

Controlment  for  controlment:  so  answer  France. 
Chat.  Then  take  my  king's  defiance  from  my 

mouth, 
The  furthest  limit  of  my  embassy. 

K.  John.   Bear  mine  to  him,  and  so  depart  in 

peace : 

Be  thou  as  lightning  in  the  eyes  of  France ; 
For  ere  thou  canst  report  I  will  be  there, 
The  thunder  of  my  cannon  shall  be  heard : 
So,  hence  !     Be  thou  the  trumpet  of  our  wrath, 
And  sullen  presage  of  your  own  decay. — 
An  honourable  conduct  let  him  have : — 
Pembroke,  look  to 't.     Farewell,  Chatillon. 

{Exeunt  CHATILLON  and  PEMBROKE. 
Eli.  What  now,  my  son !  have  I  not  ever  said 
How  that  ambitious  Constance  would  not  cease 
Till  she  had  kindled  France  and  all  the  world 
Upon  the  right  and  party  of  her  son? 
That  might  have  been  prevented  and  made  whole 
With  very  easy  arguments  of  love ; 
Which  now  the  manage  of  two  kingdoms  must 
With  fearful  bloody  issue  arbitrate. 


SCENE  I.] 


KING  JOHN. 


401 


K.  John.  Our  strong  possession  and  our  right 
for  us.  [your  right, 

Eli.  Your  strong  possession  much  more  than 
Or  else  it  must  go  wrong  with  you  and  me : 
So  much  my  conscience  whispers  in  your  ear, 
Which  none  but  heaven  and  you  and  I  shall 
hear. 

Enter  the  Sheriff  of  Northamptonshire,  who 
whispers  ESSEX. 

Essex.  My  liege,  here  is  the  strangest  con- 
troversy, 

Come  from  the  country  to  be  judg'd  by  you, 
That  e'er  I  heard:  shall  I  produce  the  men? 
K.  John.  Let  them  approach. — 

[Exit  Sheriff. 

Our  abbeys  and  our  priories  shall  pay 
This  expedition's  charge. 

Re-enter  Sheriff,  with  ROBERT  FALCONBRIDGE, 
and  PHILIP,  his  bastard  Brother. 

What  men  are  you? 

Bast.  Your  faithful  subject  I,  a  gentleman 
Born  in  Northamptonshire,  and  eldest  son, 
As  I  suppose,  to  Robert  Falconbridge, — 
A  soldier,  by  the  honour-giving  hand 
Of  Coeur-de-lion  knighted  in  the  field. 

K.  John.  What  art  thou  ? 
-•    Rob.  The  son  and  heir  to  that  same  Falcon- 
bridge,  [the  heir? 

K.  John.  Is   that  the   elder,  and  art  thou 
You  came  not  of  one  mother,  then,  it  seems. 

Bast.  Most  certain  of  one  mother,  mighty 
king, —  [father : 

That  is  well   known;    and,   as  I  think,   one 
But  for  the  certain  knowledge  of  that  truth 
I  put  you  o'er  to  heaven  and  to  my  mother: — 
Of  that  I  doubt,  as  all  men's  children  may. 

Eli.  Out  on  thee,   rude  man !    thou  dost 

shame  thy  mother, 
And  wound  her  honour  with  this  diffidence. 

Bast.  I,  madam?  no,  I  have  no  reason  for 

it,— 

That  is  my  brother's  plea,  and  none  of  mine ; 
The  which  if  he  can  prove,  'a  pops  me  out 
At  least  from  fair  five  hundred  pound  a-year : 
Heaven  guard  my  mother's  honour  and  my  land ! 

K.  John.  A  good  blunt  fellow. — Why,  being 

younger  born, 
Doth  he  lay  claim  to  thine  inheritance? 

Bast.  I  know  not  why,  except  to  get  the  land. 
But  once  he  slander'd  me  with  bastardy : 
But  whe'r  I  be  as  true  begot  or  no, 
That  still  I  lay  upon  my  mother's  head ; 
But,  that  I  am  as  well  begot,  my  liege, — 
Fair  fall  the  bones  that  took  the  pains  for  me ! — 
Compare  our  faces,  and  be  judge  yourself. 


If  old  Sir  Robert  did  beget  us  both, 

And  were  our  father,  and  this  son  like  him, — 

0  old  Sir  Robert,  father,  on  my  knee 

1  give  heaven  thanks  I  was  not  like  to  thee  ! 
K.  John.  Why,  what  a  madcap  hath  heaven 

lent  us  here ! 

Eli.  He  hath  a  trick  of  Cceur-de-lion's  face ; 
The  accent  of  his  tongue  affecteth  him : 
Do  you  not  read  some  tokens  of  my  son 
In  the  large  composition  of  this  man?   ^  [parts, 

K.  John.   Mine  eye  hath  well  examined  his 

And  finds  them  perfect  Richard. — Sirrah,  speak, 

What  doth  move  you  to  claim  your  brother's 

land?  [father ; 

Bast.  Because  he  hath  a  half-face,  like  my 
With  that  half-face  would  he  have  all  my  land : 
A  half-fac'd  groat  five  hundred  pound  a-year  ! 

Rob.  My  gracious  liege,  when  that  my  father 

liv'd, 
Your  brother  did  employ  my  father  much, — 

Bast.  Well,  sir,  by  this  you  cannot  get  my 

land: 
Your  tale  must  be,  how  he  employed  my  mother. 

Rob.  And  once  despatch'd  him  in  an  embassy 
To  Germany,  there  with  the  emperor 
To  treat  of  high  affairs  touching  that  time. 
The  advantage  of  his  absence  took  the  king, 
And  in  the  meantime  sojourn'd  at  my  father's ; 
Where  how  he  did  prevail  I  shame  to  speak, — 
But  truth  is  truth :  large  lengths  of  seas  and  shores 
Between  my  father  and  my  mother  lay, — 
As  I  have  heard  my  father  speak  himself, — 
When  this  same  lusty  gentleman  was  got. 
Upon  his  death-bed  he  by  will  bequeath'd 
His  lands  to  me ;  and  took  it,  on  his  death, 
That  this,  my  mother's  son,  was  none  of  his; 
And  if  he  were,  he  came  into  the  world 
Full  fourteen  weeks  before  the  course  of  time. 
Then,  good  my  liege,  let  me  have  what  is  mine, 
My  father's  land,  as  was  my  father's  will. 

K.  John.  Sirrah,  your  brother  is  legitimate ; 
Your  father's  wife  did  after  wedlock  bear  him  ; 
And  if  she  did  play  false,  the  fault  was  hers ; 
Which  fault  lies  on  the  hazards  of  all  husbands 
That  marry  wives.    Tell  me,  how  if  my  brother, 
Who,  as  you  say,  took  pains  to  get  this  son, 
Had  of  youj  father  claim'd  this  son  for  his? 
In  sooth,  good  friend,  your  father  might  have 

kept 

This  calf,  bred  from  his  cow,  from  all  the  world ; 
In  sooth,   he   might:    then,   if  he  were  my 
brother's,  [father, 

My  brother  might  not  claim  him;  nor  your 
Being   none   of  his,   refuse   him.     This  con- 
cludes,— 

My  mother's  son  did  get  your  father's  heir ; 
Your  father's  heir  must  have  your  father's  land. 


402 


KING  JOHN. 


[ACT  1. 


Rob.  Shall,  then,  my  father's  will  be  of  no 

force 
To  dispossess  that  child  which  is  not  his? 

Bast.  Of  no  more  force  to  dispossess  me,  sir, 
Than  was  his  will  to  get  me,  as  I  think. 

Eli.  Whether  hadst  thou  rather  be  a  Falcon  - 

bridge, 

And  like  thy  brother,  to  enjoy  thy  land, 
Or  the  reputed  son  of  Coeur-de-lion, 
Lord  of  thy  presence,  and  no  land  beside? 

Bast.  Madam,  an  if  my  brother  had  my  shape 
And  I  had  his,  Sir  Robert  his,  like  him ; 
And  if  my  legs  were  two  such  riding-rods, 
My  arms  such  eel-skins  stuffd,  my  face  so  thin 
That  in  mine  ear  I  durst  not  stick  a  rose 
Lest  men  should  say,  Look,  where  three-far- 
things goes! 

And,  to  his  shape,  were  heir  to  all  this  land, 
Would  I  might  never  stir  from  off  this  place, 
I  'd  give  it  every  foot  to  have  this  face ; 
I  would  not  be  Sir  Nob  in  any  case. 

Eli.  I  like  thee  well :  wilt  thou  forsake  thy 

fortune, 

Bequeath  thy  land  to  him,  and  follow  me? 
I  am  a  soldier,  and  now  bound  to  France. 

Bast.  Brother,  take  you  my  land,  I  '11  take 

my  chance : 

Your  face  hath  got  five  hundred,  pound  a-year ; 
Yet  sell  your  face  for  fivepence,  and  'tis  dear. — 
Madam,  I  '11  follow  you  unto  the  death. 

Eli.  Nay,  I  would  have  you  go  before  me 
thither.  [way. 

Bast.  Our  country  manners  give  our  betters 

K.  John.  What  is  thy  name? 

Bast.  Philip,  my  liege ;  so  is  my  name  begun ; 
Philip,  good  old  Sir  Robert's  wife's  eldest  son. 

K.  John.  From   henceforth   bear  his   name 

whose  form  thou  bear'st : 
Kneel  thou  down  Philip,  but  arise  more  great, — 
Arise  Sir  Richard  and  Plantagenet. 

Bast.  Brother  by  the  mother's  side,  give  me 

your  hand : 

My  father  gave  me  honour,  yours  gave  land. — 
Now  blessed  be  the  hour,  by  night  or  day, 
When  I  was  got,  Sir  Robert  was  away ! 

Eli.  The  very  spirit  of  Plantagen-t ! — 
I  am  thy  grandam,  Richard ;  call  nu  so. 

Bast.  Madam,  by  chance,  but  not  by  truth : 

what  though? 
Something  about,  a  little  from  the  right, 

In  at  the  window,  or  else  o'er  the  hatch ; 
Who  dares  not  stir  by  day  must  walk  by  night ; 

And  have  is  have,  however  men  do  catch : 
Near  or  far  off,  well  won  is  still  well  shot ; 
And  I  am  I,  howe'er  I  was  begot. 

K.John.  Go,  Falconbridge ;  now  has.!  thou 
thy  desire; 


A  landless  knight  makes  thee  a  landed  squire. — 
Come,  madam, — and  come,  Richard ;  we  must 

speed 

For  France,  for  France ;  for  it  is  more  than  need. 
Basi.  Brother,  adieu  :  good  fortune  come  to 

thee ! 
For  thou  wast  got  i'  the  way  of  honesty. 

\Exeunt  all  except  the  BASTARD. 
A  foot  of  honour  better  than  I  was ; 
But  many  a  many  foot  of  land  the  worse. 
Well,  now  can  I  make  any  Joan  a  lady: — 
Good  den ,  Sir  Richard: —  God-a-mercy,  fellow : — • 
And  if  his  name  be  George,  I  '11  call  him  Peter : 
For  new-made  honour  doth  forget  men's  names : 
'Tis  too  respective  and  too  sociable 
For  your  conversion.     Now  your  traveller, — 
He  and  his  toothpick  at  my  worship's  mess ; 
And  when  my  knightly  stomach  is  suffic'd, 
Why  then  I  suck  my  teeth,  and  catechize 

My  picked  man  of  countries : My  dear  sir, — 

Thus,  leaning  on  mine  elbow,  I  begin, — 
I  shall  beseech  you — that  is  question  now ; 
And  then  comes  answer  like  an  ABC-book :  — 
O  sir,  says  answer,  at  your  best  command; 
At  your  employment;  at  your  service ,  sir: — 
No  sir,  says  question,  /,  sweet  sir,  at  yours: 
And  so,    ere    answer    knows   what    question 

would, — 

Saving  in  dialogue  of  compliment, 
And  talking  of  the  Alps  and  Apennines, 
The  Pyrenean  and  the  river  Po, — 
It  draws  towards  supper  in  conclusion  so. 
But  this  is  worshipful  society, 
And  fits  the  mounting  spirit  like  myself: 
For  he  is  but  a  bastard  to  the  time, 
That  doth  not  smack  of  observation, — 
And  so  am  I,  whether  I  smack  or  no ; 
And  not  alone  in  habit  and  device, 
Exterior  form,  outward  accoutrement, 
But  from  the  inward  motion  to  deliver 
Sweet,  sweet,  sweet  poison  for  the  age's  tooth: 
Which,  though  I  will  not  practise  to  deceive, 
Yet,  to  avoid  deceit,  I  mean  to  learn ; 
For  it  shall  strew  the  footsteps  of  my  rising. — 
But  who  comes  in  such  haste  in  riding- robes? 
What  woman-post  is  this?  hath  she  no  husband, 
That  will  take  pains  to  blow  a  horn  before  her? 

Enter  LADY  FALCONBRIDGE,  and  JAMES 

GURNEY. 

O  me  !  it  is  my  mother. — How  now,  good  lady  \ 
What  brings  you  here  to  court  so  hastily? 
Lady  F.  Where  is  that  slave,  thy  brother? 

where  is  he 

That  holds  in  chase  mine  honour  up  and  down? 
Bast.  My  brother  Robert?  old  Sir  Robert's 
son? 


SCENE  I.] 


KING  JOHN. 


403 


Colbrand  the  giant,  that  same  mighty  man? 
Is  it  Sir  Robert's  son  that  you  seek  so? 

Lady  F.   Sir  Robert's  son  !      Ay,  thou  un- 

reverend  boy,  [Robert? 

Sir  Robert's  son :    why  scorn'st   thou   at   Sir 

He  is  Sir  Robert's  son  ;  and  so  art  thou. 

Bast,  James  Gurney,  wilt  thou  give  us  leave 

awhile? 

Gur.   Good  leave,  good  Philip. 
Bast.  Philip? — sparrow  ! — James, 

There 's  toys  abroad :  anon  I  '11  tell  thee  more. 
[Exit  GURNEY. 

Madam,  I  was  not  old  Sir  Robert's  son ; 
Sir  Robert  might  have  eat  his  part  in  me 
Upon  Good-Friday,  and  ne'er  broke  his  fast: 
Sir  Robert  could  do  well :  marry,  to  confess, 
Could  not  get  me ;  Sir  Robert  could  not  do  it, — 
We    know    his   handiwork: — therefore,    good 

mother, 

To  whom  am  I  beholding  for  these  limbs? 
Sir  Robert  never  holp  to  make  this  leg. 

Lady   F.     Hast    thou   conspired   with    thy 
brother  too,  [honour? 

That  for  thine  own  gain  shouldst  defend  mine 
What  means  this  scorn,  thou  most  untoward 
knave?  [isco-like : 

Bast.  Knight,  knight,  good  mother, — Basil- 
What !  I  am  dubb'd ;  I  have  it  on  my  shoulder. 
But,  mother,  I  am  not  Sir  Robert's  son ; 
I  have  disclaim'd  Sir  Robert  and  my  land ; 
Legitimation,  name,  and  all  is  gone : 
Then,  good  my  mother,  let  me  knowmy  father, — 
Some  proper  man,  I  hope :  who  was  it,  mother? 
Lady  F.   Hast  thou  denied  thyself  a  Falcon  - 

bridge  ? 

Bast.  As  faithfully  as  I  deny  the  devil. 
Lady  F.  King   Richard   Cceur-de-lion   was 

thy  father : 

By  long  and  vehement  suit  I  was  seduc'd 
To  make  room  for  him  in  my  husband's  bed : — 
Heaven  lay  not  my  transgression  to  my  charge! — 
Thou  art  the  issue  of  my  dear  offence, 
Which  was  so  strongly  urg'd,  past  my  defence. 
Bast.  Now,  by  this  light,  were  I  to  get  again, 
Madam,  1  would  not  wish  a  better  father. 
Some  sins  do  bear  their  privilege  on  earth, 
And  so  doth  yours ;  your  fault  was  not  your 

folly  : 

Needs  must  you  lay  your  heart  at  his  dispose, — 
Subjected  tribute  to  commanding  love, — 
Against  whose  fury  and  unmatched  force 
The  aweless  lion  could  not  wage  the  fight, 
Nor  keep  his  princely  heart  from  Richard's  hand: 
He  that  perforce  robs  lions  of  their  hearts 
May  easily  win  a  woman's.  •  Ay,  my  mother, 
With  all  my  heart  I  thank  thee  for  my  father ! 
Who  lives  and  dares  but  say,  thou  didst  not  well 


When  I  was  got,  I  '11  send  his  soul  to  hell. 
Come,  lady,  I  will  show  thee  to  my  kin ; 

And  they  shall  say,  when  Richard  me  begot, 
If  thou  hadst  said  him  nay,  it  had  been  sin : 

Who  says  it  was,  he  lies ;  I  say  'twas  not. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.— FRANCE.     Before  the   Watts  of 
Angiers. 

Enter,  on  one  side,  the  ARCHDUKE  OF 
AUSTRIA  and  Forces ;  on  the  other, 
PHILIP,  King  of  France,  Louis,  CON- 
STANCE, ARTHUR,  and  Forces. 

Lou.  Before  Angiers  well  met, brave  Austria. — 
Arthur,  that  great  forerunner  of  thy  blood, 
Richard,  that  robb'd  the  lion  of  his  heart, 
And  fought  the  holy  wars  in  Palestine, 
By  this  brave  duke  came  early  to  his  grave : 
And,  for  amends  to  his  posterity, 
At  our  importance  hither  is  he  come 
To  spread  his  colours,  boy,  in  thy  behalf; 
And  to  rebuke  the  usurpation 
Of  thy  unnatural  uncle,  English  John : 
Embrace  him,  love  him,  give  him  welcome 
hither.  [death 

Arth.  God  shall  forgive  you  Coeur-de-lion's 
The  rather  that  you  give  his  offspring  life, 
Shadowing  their  right  under  your  wings  of  war : 
I  give  you  welcome  with  a  powerless  hand, 
But  with  a  heart  full  of  unstained  love, — 
Welcome  before  the  gates  of  Angiers,  duke. 

Lou.  A  noble  boy!     Who  would  not  do 
thee  right?  [kiss, 

Aust.  Upon   thy  cheek   lay  I  this  zealous 
As  seal  to  this  indenture  of  my  love, — 
That  to  my  home  I  will  no  more  return, 
Till  Angiers,  and  the  right  thou  hast  in  France, 
Together  with  that  pale,  that  white-fac'd  shore, 
Whose  foot  spurns  back  the  ocean's  roaring  tides, 
And  coops  from  other  lands  her  islanders, — 
Even  till  that  England,  hedg'd  in  with  the  main, 
That  water-walled  bulwark  still  secure 
And  confident  from  foreign  purposes, — 
Even  till  that  utmost  corner  of  the  west 
Salute  thee  for  her  king:  till  then,  fair  boy, 
Will  I  not  think  of  home,  but  follow  arms. 

Const.    O,    take    his    mother's    thanks,    a 

widow's  thanks, 
Till  your  strong  hand  shall  help  to  give  him 

strength 
To  make  a  more  requital  to  your  love  ! 

Aust.  The  peace  of  heaven  is  theirs  that  lift 

their  swords 
In  such  a  just  and  charitable  war. 


404 


KING  JOHN. 


[ACT  ii. 


K.  Phi.  Well,   then,  to  work:  our  cannon 

shall  be  bent 

Against  the  brows  of  this  resisting  town. — 
Call  for  our  chiefest  men  of  discipline, 
To  cull  the  plots  of  best  advantages : 
We  '11  lay  before  this  town  our  royal  bones, 
Wade  to  the  market-place  in  Frenchman's  blood, 
But  we  will  make  it  subject  to  this  boy. 

Const.  Stay  for  an  answer  to  your  embassy, 
Lest  unadvis'd   you   stain   your   swords   with 

blood: 

My  Lord  Chatillon  may  from  England  bring 
That  right  in  peace,  which  here  we  urge  in 

war; 

And  then  we  shall  repent  each  drop  of  blood 
That  hot  rash  haste  so  indirectly  shed. 

K.   Phi.    A  wonder,   lady! — lo,   upon  thy 

wish, 
Our  messenger  Chatillon  is  arriv'd ! 

Enter  CHATILLON. 

What  England  says,  say  briefly,  gentle  lord ; 
We  coldly  pause  for  thee ;  Chatillon,  speak. 

Chat.  Then  turn  your  forces  from  this  paltry 

siege, 

And  stir  them  up  against  a  mightier  task. 
England,  impatient  of  your  just  demands, 
Hath  put  himself  in  arms :  the  adverse  winds, 
Whose  leisure  I  have  stay'd,  have  given  him 

time 

To  land  his  legions  all  as  soon  as  I ; 
His  marches  are  expedient  to  this  town, 
His  forces  strong,  his  soldiers  confident. 
With  him  along  is  come  the  mother-queen, 
An  Ate,  stirring  him  to  blood  and  strife ; 
With  her  her  niece,  the  Lady  Blanch  of  Spain; 
With  them  a  bastard  of  the  king  deceas'd : 
And  all  the  unsettled  humours  of  the  land, — 
Rash,  inconsiderate,  fiery  voluntaries, 
With  ladies'  faces,  and  fierce  dragons'  spleens, — 
Have  sold  their  fortunes  at  their  native  homes, 
Bearing  their  birthrights  proudly  on  their  backs, 
To  make  a  hazard  of  new  fortunes  here. 
In  brief,  a  braver  choice  of  dauntless  spirits, 
Than  now  the  English  bottoms  have  waft  o'er, 
Did  never  float  upon  the  swelling  tide, 
To  do  offence  and  scath  in  Christendom. 

[Drums  beat  within. 
The  interruption  of  their  churlish  drums 
Cuts  off  more  circumstance :  they  are  at  hand, 
To  parley  or  to  fight :  therefore  prepare. 

K.  Phi.  How  much  unlook'd-for  is  this  ex- 
pedition ! 

Aust.  By  how  much  unexpected,  by  so  much 
We  must  awake  endeavour  for  defence ; 
For  courage  mounteth  with  occasion : 
Let  them  be  welcome,  then ;  we  are  prepar'd. 


Enter  KING  JOHN,   ELINOR,   BLANCH,  the 
BASTARD,  Lords,  and  Forces. 

K.  John.  Peace  be  to  France,  if  France  in 

peace  permit 

Our  just  and  lineal  entrance  to  our  own ! 
If  not,  bleed   France,  and   peace  ascend   to 

heaven ! 

Whiles  we,  God's  wrathful  agent,  do  correct 
Their  proud  contempt  that  beat  his  peace  to 
heaven.  [return 

K.  Phi.  Peace  be  to  England,  if  that  war 
From  France  to  England,  there  to  live  in  peace ! 
England  we  love ;  and  for  that  England's  sake 
With  burden  of  our  armour  here  we  sweat. 
This  toil  of  ours  should  be  a  work  of  thine ; 
But  thou  from  loving  England  art  so  far, 
That  thou  hast  under-wrought  his  lawful  king, 
Cut  off  the  sequence  of  posterity, 
Outfaced  infant  state,  and  done  a  rape 
Upon  the  maiden  virtue  of  the  crown. 
Look  here  upon  thy  brother  Geffrey's  face ; — 
These  eyes,  these  brows,  were  moulded  out  of 

his: 

This  little  abstract  doth  contain  that  large 
Which  died  in  Geffrey  ;  and  the  hand  of  time 
Shall  draw  this  brief  into  as  huge  a  volume. 
That  Geffrey  was  thy  elder  brother  born, 
And  this  his  son ;  England  was  Geffrey's  right, 
And  this  is  Geffrey's  :  in  the  name  of  God, 
How  comes  it  then,  that  thou  art  call'd  a  king, 
When  living  blood  doth  in  these  temples  beat, 
Which  owe  the  crown  that  thou  o'ermasterest  ? 

K.  John.  From  whom  hast  thou  this  great 

commission,  France, 
To  draw  my  answer  from  thy  articles? 

K.  Phi.  From  that  supernal  judge  that  stirs 

good  thoughts 

In  any  breast  of  strong  authority, 
To  look  into  the  blots  and  stains  of  right. 
That  judge  hath  made  me  guardian  to  this  boy : 
Under  whose  warrant  I  impeach  thy  wrong ; 
And  by  whose  help  I  mean  to  chastise  it. 

K.  John.  Alack,  thou  dost  usurp  authority. 

K.  Phi.  Excuse, — it  is  to  beat  usurping  down. 

Eli.  Who  is  it  thou  dost  call  usurper,  France? 

Const.  Let  me  make  answer ; — thy  usurping 
son. 

Eli.  Out,  insolent !  thy  bastard  shall  be  king, 
That  thou  mayst  be  a  queen,  and  check  the 
world ! 

Const.  My  bed  was  ever  to  thy  son  as  true 
As  thine  was  to  thy  husband ;  and  this  boy 
Liker  in  feature  to  his  father  Geffrey  [like 

Than  thou  and  John  in  manners, — being  as 
As  rain  to  water,  or  devil  to  his  dam. 
My  boy  a  bastard  !     By  my  soul,  I  think 


SCENE  I.] 


KING  JOHN. 


405 


His  father  never  was  so  true  begot : 

It  cannot  be,  an  if  thou  wert  his  mother. 

Eli.  There  's  a  good  mother,  boy,  that  blots 
thy  father. 

Const.  There's  a  good  grandam,  boy,  that 
would  blot  thee. 

Aust.  Peace ! 

Bast.  Hear  the  crier. 

Aiist.  What  the  devil  art  thou? 

Bast.  One  that  will  play  the  devil,  sir,  with 

you, 

An  'a  man  catch  your  hide  and  you  alone. 
You  are  the  hare  of  whom  the  proverb  goes, 
Whose  valour  plucks  dead  lions  by  the  beard : 
I  '11  smoke  your  skin-coat  an  I  catch  you  right ; 
Sirrah,  look  to 't ;  i'  faith,  I  will,  i'  faith. 

Blanch.  O,  well  did  he  become  that  lion's 

robe 
That  did  disrobe  the  lion  of  that  robe ! 

Bast.   It  lies  as  sightly  on  the  back  of  him 
As  great  Alcides'  shoes  upon  an  ass : — 
But,  ass,  I  '11  take  that  burden  from  your  back, 
Or  lay  on  that  shall  make  your  shoulders  crack. 

Aust.  What  cracker  is  this  same  that  deafs 

our  ears 
With  this  abundance  of  superfluous  breath  ? 

K.  Phi.  Louis,  determine  what  we  shall  do 
straight.  [ference. — 

Lou.  Women  and  fools,  break  off  your  con- 
King  John,  this  is  the  very  sum  of  all, — 
England  and  Ireland,  Anjou,  Touraine,  Maine, 
In  right  of  Arthur,  do  I  claim  of  thee : 
Wilt  thou  resign  them,  and  lay  down  thy  arms? 

K.  John.  My  life  as  soon : — I  do  defy  thee, 

France. 

Arthur  of  Bretagne,  yield  thee  to  my  hand ; 
And  out  of  my  dear  love,  I  '11  give  thee  more 
Than  e'er  the  coward  hand  of  France  can  win  : 
Submit  thee,  boy. 

Eli.  Come  to  thy  grandam,  child. 

Const.   Do,  child,  go  to  it'  grandam,  child; 
Give  grandam  kingdom,  and  it'  grandam  will 
Give  it  a  plum,  a  cherry,  and  a  fig: 
There  's  a  good  grandam. 

Arth.  Good  my  mother,  pence ! 

I  would  that  I  were  low  laid  in  my  grave: 
I  am  not  worth  this  coil  that 's  made  for  me. 

Eli.   His  mother  shames  him  so,  poor  boy, 
he  weeps.  [  does  or  no ! 

Const.  Now,   shame   upon   you,   whe'r   she 
His  grandam's  wrongs,  and  not  his  mother's 
shames,  [poor  eyes, 

Draw   those   heaven-moving   pearls   from   his 
Which  heaven  shall  take  in  nature  of  a  fee: 
Ay,  with  these  crystal  beads  heaven  shall  be 

brib'd 
To  do  him  justice,  and  revenge  on  you. 


Eli.  Thou  monstrous  slanderer  of  heaven 
and  earth !  [and  earth ! 

Const.  Thou   monstrous   injurer   of  heaven 
Call  not  me  slanderer ;  thou  and  thine  usurp 
The  dominations,  royalties,  and  rights        [son, 
Of  this  oppressed  boy :  this  is  thy  eldest  son's 
Infortunate  in  nothing  but  in  thee : 
Thy  sins  are  visited  in  this  poor  child ; 
The  canon  of  the  law  is  laid  on  him, 
Being  but  the  second  generation 
Removed  from  thy  sin-conceiving  womb. 

K.  John.  Bedlam,  have  done. 

Const.  I  have  but  this  to  say, — 

That  he  is  not  only  plagued  for  her  sin, 
But  God  hath  made  her  sin  and  her  the  plague 
On  this  removed  issue,  plagu'd  for  her, 
And  with  her  plague,  her  sin ;  his  injury 
Her  injury, — the  beadle  to  her  sin ; 
All  punish'd  in  the  person  of  this  child, 
And  all  for  her :  a  plague  upon  her ! 

Eli.  Thou  unadvised  scold,  I  can  produce 
A  will  that  bars  the  title  of  thy  son.  [will ; 

Const.  Ay,  who  doubts  that?  a  will !  a  wicked 
A  woman's  will ;  a  canker'd  grandam's  will ! 

K.  Phi.  Peace,    lady!    pause,   or   be    more 

temperate : 

It  ill  beseems  this  presence  to  cry  aim 
To  these  ill-tuned  repetitions. — 
Some  trumpet  summon  hither  to  the  walls 
These  men  of  Angiers :  let  us  hear  them  speak 
Whose  title  they  admit,  Arthur's  or  John's. 

Trumpet  sounds.      Enter  Citizens   upon  the 
walls. 

I  Cit.  Who  is  it  that  hath  warn'd  us  to  the 
walls? 

K.  Phi.  'Tis  France,  for  England. 

K.  John.  England,  for  itself: — 

You  men  of  Angiers,  and  my  loving  subjects, — 

K.  Phi.  You  loving  men  of  Angiers,  Arthur's 

subjects, 
Our  trumpet  call'd  you  to  this  gentle  parle. 

K.  John.   For  our  advantage ;  therefore  hear 

us  first. 

These  flags  of  France,  that  are  advanced  here 
Before  the  eye  and  prospect  of  your  town, 
Have  hither  march'd  to  your  endamagement : 
The  cannons  have  their  bowels  full  of  wrath, 
And  ready  mounted  are  they  to  spit  forth 
Their  iron  indignation  'gainst  your  walls : 
All  preparation  for  a  bloody  siege 
And  merciless  proceeding  by  these  French 
Confronts  your  city's  eyes,  your  winking  gates; 
And,  but  for  our  approach,  those  sleeping  stones, 
That  as  a  waist  do  girdle  you  about, 
By  the  compulsion  of  their  ordinance 
By  this  time  from  their  fixed  beds  of  lime 


406 


KING  JOHN. 


[ACT  ii. 


Had  been  dishabited,  and  wide  havoc  made 
For  bloody  power  to  rush  upon  your  peace. 
But,  on  the  sight  of  us,  your  lawful  king, — 
Who  painfully,  with  much  expedient  march, 
Have  brought  a  countercheck  before  your  gates, 
To   save    unscratch'd    your   city's    threaten'd 

cheeks, — - 

Behold,  the  French,  amaz'd,  vouchsafe  a  parle ; 
And  now,  instead  of  bullets  wrapp'd  in  fire, 
To  make  a  shaking  fever  in  your  walls, 
They  shoot  but  calm  words,  folded  up  in  smoke, 
To  make  a  faithless  error  in  your  ears  : 
Which  trust  accordingly,  kind  citizens, 
And  let  us  in,  your  king;  whose  labour'd  spirits, 
Forwearied  in  this  action  of  swift  speed, 
Crave  harbourage  within  your  city-walls. 

K.  Phi.  When  I  have  said,  make  answer  to 

us  both. 

Lo,  in  this  right  hand,  whose  protection 
Is  most  divinely  vow'd  upon  the  right 
Of  him  it  holds,  stands  young  Plantagenet, 
Son  to  the  elder  brother  of  this  man, 
And  king  o'er  him  and  all  that  he  enjoys : 
For  this  down-trodden  equity  we  tread 
In  war-like  march  these  greens  before  your  town ; 
Being  no  further  enemy  to  you 
Than  the  constraint  of  hospitable  zeal 
In  the  relief  of  this  oppressed  child 
Religiously  provokes.     Be  pleased,  then, 
To  pay  that  duty  which  you  truly  owe 
To  him  that  owes  it,  namely,  this  young  prince : 
And  then  our  arms,  like  to  a  muzzled  bear, 
Save  in  aspect,  have  all  offence  seal'd  up ; 
Our  cannons'  malice  vainly  shall  be  spent 
Against  the  invulnerable  clouds  of  heaven ; 
And  with  a  blessed  and  unvex'd  retire, 
With  unhack'd  swords  and  helmets  all  nnbruis'd, 
We  will  bear  home  that  lusty  blood  again 
Which  here  we  came  to  spout  against  your  town, 
And  leave  your  children,  wives,  and  you  in 

peace. 

But  if  you  fondly  pass  our  proffer'd  offer, 
'Tis  not  the  rondure  of  your  old-fac'd  walls 
Can  hide  you  from  our  messengers  of  war, 
Though  all  these  English,  and  their  discipline, 
Were  harbour'd  in  their  rude  circumference. 
Then,  tell  us,  shall  your  city  call  us  lord 
Jn  that  behalf  which  we  have  challeng'd  it  ? 
Or  shall  we  give  the  signal  to  our  rage, 
And  stalk  in  blood  to  our  possession  ? 

I  Cit.  In  brief,  we  are  the  King  of  England's 

subjects : 
For  him,  and  in  his  right,  we  hold  this  town. 

X.John.  Acknowledge  then  the  king,  and 
let  me  in. 

i  Cit.  That  can  we  not ;  but  he  that  proves 
the  king, 


To  him  will  we  prove  loyal :  till  that  time 
Have  we  ramm'd  up  our  gates  against  the  world. 
K.John.  Doth  not   the  crown  of  England 

prove  the  king  ? 

And,  if  not  that,  I  bring  you  witnesses, 
Twice   fifteen   thousand   hearts   of  England's 

breed, — 

Bast.  Bastards,  and  else. 
K.  John.  To  verify  our  title  with  their  lives. 
K.  Phi.  As  many  and  as  well-born  bloods 

as  those, — 

Bast.  Some  bastards  too. 
K.  Phi.  Stand  in  his  face,  to  contradict  his 

claim, 
i  Cit.  Till   you   compound  whose   right   is 

worthiest, 

We  for  the  worthiest  hold  the  right  from  both. 
K.John.  Then  God  forgive   the  sin  of  all 

those  souls 

That  to  their  everlasting  residence, 
Before  the  dew  of  evening  fall,  shall  fleet, 
In  dreadful  trial  of  our  kingdom's  king ! 

K.  Phi.  Amen,  Amen  ! — Mount,  chevaliers ! 

to  arms ! 
Bast.  St.  George,  that  swinged  the  dragon, 

and  e'er  since 

Sits  on  his  horse'  back  at  mine  hostess'  door, 
Teach  us  some  fence  ! — Sirrah  \to  AUSTRIA], 

were  I  at  home, 

At  your  den,  sirrah,  with  your  lioness, 
I  would  set  an  ox-head  to  your  lion's  hide, 
And  make  a  monster  of  you. 

Attst.  Peace  !  no  more. 

Bast.  O,  tremble,  for  you  hear  the  lion  roar. 
K.  John.  Up   higher   to  the   plain ;    where 

we  '11  set  forth 
In  best  appointment  all  our  regiments. 

Bast.  Speed,  then,  to  take  advantage  of  the 

field. 
K.  Phi.  It  shall  be  so  ;— [to  Louis]  and  at 

the  other  hill 

Command   the  rest  to  stand. — God  and  our 
right !  [Exeunt  sevemlly. 

After  Excursions  y  enter  a  French  Herald,  with 
trumpets  y  to  the  gates. 

F.  Her.  You   men   of  Angiers,  open   wide 

your  gates, 

And  let  young  Arthur,  Duke  of  Bretagne,  in, 
Who,  by  the  hand  of  France,  this  day  hath  made 
Much  work  for  tears  in  many  an  English  mother, 
Whose  sons  lie  scatter'd  on  the  bleeding  ground  : 
Many  a  widow's  husband  grovelling  lies, 
Coldly  embracing  the  discolour'd  earth  ; 
And  victory,  with  little  loss,  doth  play 
Upon  the  dancing  banners  of  the  French, 
Who  are  at  hand,  triumphantly  displayM. 


SCENE  I.] 


KING  JOHN. 


407 


To  enter  conquerors,  and  to  proclaim 
Arthur  of  Bretagne  England's  king  and  yours. 

Enter  an  English  Herald,  with  trumpets. 

E.  Her.  Rejoice,  you  men  of  Angiers,  ring 
your  bells;  [proach, 

King  John,  your  king  and  England's,  doth  ap- 
Commander  of  this  hot  malicious  day : 
Their  armours,  that  march'd  hence  so  silver- 
bright, 

Hither  return  all  gilt  with  Frenchmen's  blood ; 
There  stuck  no  plume  in  any  English  crest 
That  is  removed  by  a  staff  of  France  . 
Our  colours  do  return  in  those  same  hands 
That  did  display  them  when  we  first  march'd 

forth ; 

And,  like  a  jolly  troop  of  huntsmen,  come 
Our  lusty  English,  all  with  purpled  hands, 
Dy'd  in  the  dying  slaughter  of  their  foes : 
Open  your  gates,  and  give  the  victors  way. 
I  Cit.  Heralds,    from    off   our   towers,    we 

might  behold, 

From  first  to  last,  the  onset  and  retire 
Of  both  your  armies ;  whose  equality 
By  our  best  eyes  cannot  be  censured  : 
Blood  hath  bought  blood,  and  blows  have  an- 

swer'd  blows; 

Strength  match'd  with  strength,  and  power  con- 
fronted power : 

Both  are  alike ;  and  both  alike  we  like. 
One  must  prove  greatest :  while  they  weigh  so 

even 
We  hold  our  town  for  neither  ;  yet  for  both. 

Re-enter,  on  one  side,  KING  JOHN,  ELINOR, 
BLANCH,  the  BASTARD,  and  Forces  ;  at  the 
other,  KING  PHILIP,  Louis,  AUSTRIA,  and 
Forces. 

K.John.  France,  hast  thou  yet  more  blood 

to  cast  away? 

Say,  shall  the  current  of  our  right  run  on  ? 
Whose  passage,  vex'd  with  thy  impediment, 
Shall  leave  his  native  channel,  and  o'erswell 
With  course  disturb'd  even  thy  confining  shores, 
Unless  thou  let  his  silver  water  keep 
A  peaceful  progress  to  the  ocean. 

K.  Phi.  England,  thou  hast  not  sav'd   one 

drop  of  blood, 

In  this  hot  trial,  more  than  we  of  France; 
Rather,  lost  more :  and  by  this  hand  I  swear, 
That  sways  the  earth  this  climate  overlooks, 
Before  we  will  lay  down  our  just-borne  arms, 
We  '11  put  thee  down,  'gainst  whom  these  arms 

we  bear, 

Or  add  a  royal  number  to  the  dead, 
Gracing  the  scroll  that  tells  of  this  war's  loss 
With  slaughter  coupled  to  the  name  of  kings. 


Bast.    Ha,    majesty!    how   high   thy  glory 

towers 

When  the  rich  blood  of  kings  is  set  on  fire ! 
O,  now  doth  Death  line  his  dead  chaps  with 

steel ; 

The  swords  of  soldiers  are  his  teeth,  his  fangs ; 
And  now  he  feasts,  mousing  the  flesh  of  men, 
In  undetermin'd  differences  of  kings. — 
Why  stand  these  royal  fronts  amazed  thus  ? 
Cry,  havoc,  kings  !  back  to  the  stained  field, 
You  equal  potentates,  fiery-kindled  spirits  ! 
Then  let  confusion  of  one  part  confirm 
The  other's  peace;  till  then,  blows,  blood,  and 
death  !  [admit  ? 

K.  John.  Whose  party  do  the  townsmen  yet 

K.  Phi.  Speak,  citizens,  for  England ;  who 's 
your  king  ?  [the  king. 

I  Cit.  The  King  of  England,  when  we  know 

K.  Phi.  Know  him  in  us,  that  here  hold  up 
his  right. 

K.  John.  In  us,  that  are  our  own  great  deputy, 
And  bear  possession  of  our  person  here  ; 
Lord  of  our  presence,  Angiers,  and  of  you. 

I  Cit.  A  greater  power  than  we  denies  all 

this; 

And  till  it  be  undoubted,  we  do  lock 
Our  former  scruple  in  our  strong-barr'd  gates ; 
King'd  of  our  fear,  until  our  fears,  resolv'd, 
Be  by  some  certain  king  purg'd  and  depos'd. 

Bast.  By  heaven,  these  scroyles  of  Angiers 

flout  you,  kings, 

And  stand  securely  on  their  battlements 
As  in  a  theatre,  whence  they  gapa  and  point 
At  your  industrious  scenes  and  acts  of  death. 
Your  royal  presences  be  rul'd  by  me : — 
Do  like  the  mutines  of  Jerusalem, 
Be  friends  awhile,  and  both  conjointly  bend 
Your  sharpest  deeds  of  malice  on  this  town : 
By  east  and  west  let  France  and  England  mount 
Their  battering  cannon,  charged  to  the  mouths, 
Till  their  soul-fearing  clamours  have  brawl'd 

down 

The  flinty  ribs  o/  this  contemptuous  city : 
I  'd  play  incessantly  upon  these  jades, 
Even  till  unfenced  desolation 
Leave  them  as  naked  as  the  vulgar  air. 
That  done,  dissever  your  united  strengths, 
And  part  your  mingled  colours  once  again : 
Turn  face  to  face,  and  bloody  point  to  point ; 
Then,  in  a  moment,  fortune  shall  cull  forth 
Out  of  one  side  her  happy  minion, 
To  whom  in  favour  she  shall  give  the  day, 
And  kiss  him  with  a  glorious  victory. 
How  like  you  this  wild  counsel,  mighty  states? 
Smacks  it  not  something  of  the  policy? 

K.  John.  Now,  by  the  sky  that  hangs  above 
our  heads, 


4o8 


KING*  JOHN. 


CACT  n. 


I   like   it   well. — France,   shall   we  knit  our 

powers, 

And  lay  this  Angiers  even  with  the  ground ; 
Then,  after,  fight  who  shall  be  king  of  it? 

Bast.  An  if  thou  hast  the  mettle  of  a  king, — 
Being  wrong'd,    as   we  are,   by  this  peevish 

town, — 

Turn  thou  the  mouth  of  thy  artillery, 
As  we  will  ours,  against  these  saucy  walls ; 
And  when  that  we  have  dash'd  them  to  the  ground, 
Why,  then  defy  each  other,  and,  pell-mell, 
Make  work  upon  ourselves,  for  heaven  or  hell ! 
K.  Phi.  Let  it  be  so. — Say,  where  will  you 

assault  ?  [struction 

K.John.  We  from  the  west  will  send  de- 
Into  this  city's  bosom. 
Aust.  I  from  the  north. 
K.  Phi.  Our  thunder  from  the  south 

Shall  rain  their  drift  of  bullets  on  this  town. 
Bast.  O  prudent  discipline !     From  north  to 

south, — 

Austria  and  France  shoot  in  each  other's  mouth: 
I  '11    stir  them  to   it.    [Aside.  ] — Come,  away, 

away! 
i  Cit.  Hear  us,  great  kings:  vouchsafe  awhile 

to  stay, 

And  I  shall  show  you  peace  and  fair-fac'd  league; 
Win  you  this  city  without  stroke  or  wound ; 
Rescue  those  breathing  lives  to  die  in  beds, 
That  here  come  sacrifices  for  the  field : 
Persever  not,  but  hear  me,  mighty  kings. 
K.  John.  Speak  on,  with  favour;  we  are  bent 

to  hear.  [Blanch, 

I  Cit.  That  daughter  there  of  Spain,  the  Lady 
Is  niece  to  England: — look  upon  the  years 
Of  Louis  the  Dauphin,  and  that  lovely  maid : 
If  lusty  love  should  go  in  quest  of  beauty, 
Where  should  he  find  it  fairer  than  in  Blanch? 
If  zealous  love  should  go  in  search  of  virtue, 
Where  should  he  find  it  purer  than  in  Blanch? 
If  love  ambitious  sought  a  match  of  birth, 
Whose  veins  bound  richer  blood  than  Lady 

Blanch? 

Such  as  she  is,  in  beauty,  virtue,  birth, 
Is  the  young  Dauphin  every  way  complete, — 
If  not  complete  of,  say  he  is  not  she ; 
And  she  again  wants  nothing,  to  name  want, 
If  want  it  be  not,  that  she  is  not  he : 
He  is  the  half  part  of  a  blessed  man, 
Left  to  be  finished  by  such  a  she ; 
And  she  a  fair  divided  excellence, 
Whose  fulness  of  perfection  lies  in  him. 
O,  two  such  silver  currents,  when  they  join 
Do  glorify  the  banks  that  bound  them  in ; 
And  two  such  shores  to  two  such  streams  made 

one, 
To  su  ch  controlling  bounds  shall  you  be,  kings, 


To  these  two  princes,  if  you  marry  them. 
This  union  shall  do  more  than  battery  can 
To  our  fast-closed  gates ;  for,  at  this  match, 
With  swifter  spleen  than  powder  can  enforce, 
The  mouth  of  passage  shall  we  fling  wide  ope, 
And  give  you  entrance ;  but  without  this  match, 
The  sea  enraged  is  not  half  so  deaf, 
Lions  more  confident,  mountains  and  rocks 
More  free  from  motion ;  no,  not  Death  himself 
In  mortal  fury  half  so  peremptoiy, 
As  we  to  keep  this  city. 

Bast.  Here 's  a  stay, 

That  shakes  the  rotten  carcase  of  old  Death 
Out  of  his  rags !    Here 's  a  large  mouth,  indeed, 
That  spits  forth  death  and  mountains,  rocks 

and  seas ; 

Talks  as  familiarly  of  roaring  lions 
As  maids  of  thirteen  do  of  puppy-dogs  ! 
What  cannoneer  begot  this  lusty  blood? 
He  speaks  plain  cannon, — fire  and  smoke  and 

bounce ; 

He  gives  the  bastinado  with  his  tongue  ; 
Our  ears  are  cudgell'd ;  not  a  word  of  his 
But  buffets  better  than  a  fist  of  France : 
Zounds !  I  was  never  so  bethump'd  with  words 
Since  I  first  called  my  brother's  father  dad. 
Eli.  Son,  list  to  this  conjunction,  make  this 

match ; 

Give  with  our  niece  a  dowry  large  enough  • 
For  by  this  knot  thou  shalt  so  surely  tie 
Thy  now  unsur'd  assurance  to  the  crown, 
That  yon  green  boy  shall  have  no  sun  to  ripe 
The  bloom  that  promiseth  a  mighty  fruit. 
I  see  a  yielding  in  the  looks  of  France ; 
Mark  how  they  whisper :  urge  them  while  their 

K1°UljV.V  K& 

Are  capable  of  this  ambition, 
Lest  zeal,  now  melted  by  the  windy  breath 
Of  soft  petitions,  pity,  and  remorse, 
Cool  and  congeal  again  to  what  it  was. 

I  Cit.  Why  answer  not  the  double  majesties 
This  friendly  treaty  of  our  threaten'd  town? 

K.  Phi.  Speak  England  first,  that  hath  been 

forward  first 
To  speak  unto  this  city :  what  say  you  ? 

K.John.   If  that   the   Dauphin   there,    thy 

princely  son, 

Can  in  this  book  of  beauty  read,  "  I  love," 
Her  dowry  shall  weigh  equal  with  a  queen : 
For  Anjou,  and  fair  Touraine,  Maine,  Poictiers, 
And  all  that  we  upon  this  side  the  sea, — 
Except  this  city  now  by  us  besieg'd, — 
Find  liable  to  our  crown  and  dignity, 
Shall  gild  her  bridal  bed ;  and  make  her  rich 
In  titles,  honours,  and  promotions, 
As  she  in  beauty,  education,  blood, 
Holds  hand  with  any  princess  of  the  world. 


SCENE  I.] 


KING  JOHN. 


409 


K.  Phi.  What  say'st  thou,  boy?  look  in  the 
lady's  face. 

Lou.  I  do,  my  lord,  and  in  her  eye  I  find 
A  wonder,  or  a  wondrous  miracle, 
The  shadow  of  myself  form'd  in  her  eye ; 
Which,  being  but  the  shadow  of  your  son, 
Becomes  a  sun,  and  makes  your  son  a  shadow : 
I  do  protest  I  never  lov'd  myself 
Till  now  infixed  I  beheld  myself 
Drawn  in  the  nattering  table  of  her  eye. 

[  Whispers  with  BLANCH. 

Bast.  [Aside.]  Drawn  in  the  flattering  table 
of  her  eye  ! — 

Hang'd  in  the  frowning  wrinkle  of  her  brow! — 
And  quarter'd  in  her  heart ! — he  doth  espy 

Himself  love's  traitor !     This  is  pity  now, 
That,  hang'd,  and  drawn,  and  quarter'd,  there 

should  be 
In  such  a  love  so  vile  a  lout  as  he. 

Blanch.  My  uncle's  will  in  this  respect  is  mine. 
If  he  see  aught  in  you  that  makes  him  like, 
That  anything  he  sees,  which  moves  his  liking, 
I  can  with  ease  translate  it  to  my  will ; 
Or  if  you  will,  to  speak  more  properly, 
I  will  enforce  it  easily  to  my  love. 
Further,  I  will  not  flatter  you,  my  lord, 
That  all  I  see  in  you  is  worthy  love, 
Than  this, — that  nothing  do  I  see  in  you, 
Though  churlish  thoughts  themselves  should  be 

your  judge, — 
That  I  can  find  should  merit  any  hate. 

K.  John.  What  say  these  young  ones? — What 
say  you,  my  niece?  [do 

Blanch.  That  she  is  bound  in  honour  still  to 
What  you  in  wisdom  still  vouchsafe  to  say. 

K.John.  Speak  then,  Prince  Dauphin;  can 
you  love  this  lady? 

Lou.  Nay,  ask  me  if  I  can  refrain  from  love ; 
For  I  do  love  her  most  unfeignedty. 

K.  John.  Then  do  I  give  Volquessen,  Tou- 

raine,  Maine, 

Poictiers,  and  Anjou,  these  five  provinces, 
With  her  to  thee ;  and  this  addition  more, 
Full  thirty  thousand  marks  of  English  coin. — 
Philip  of  France,  if  thou  be  pleas'd  withal, 
Command  thy  son  and  daughter  to  join  hands. 

K.  Phi.  It  likes  us  well. — Young  princes, 
close  your  hands. 

Aust.  And  your  lips  too ;  for  I  am  well  assur'd 
That  I  did  so  when  I  was  first  assur'd. 

K.  Phi.  Now,  citizens  of  Angiers,  ope  your 

gates, 

Let  in  that  amity  which  you  have  made ; 
For  at  Saint  Mary's  chapel  presently 
The  rites  of  marriage  shall  be  solemniz'd. — 
Is  not  the  Lady  Constance  in  this  troop? 
I  know  she  is  not;  for  this  match  made  up 


Her  presence  would  have  interrupted  much: 
Where  is  she  and  her  son  ?  tell  me,  who  knows. 

Lou.  She  is  sad  and  passionate  at  your  high- 
ness' tent. 

K.  Phi.  And,  by  my  faith,  this  league  that 

we  have  made 

Will  give  her  sadness  very  little  cure. — 
Brother  of  England,  how  may  we  content 
This  widow  lady?     In  her  right  we  came ; 
Which  we,  God  knows,  have  turn'd  another  way, 
To  our  own  vantage. 

K.  John.  We  will  heal  up  all ; 

For  we  '11  create  young  Arthur  Duke  of  Bretagne 
And  Earl  of  Richmond ;  and  this  rich  fair  town 
We  make  him  lord  of. — Call  the  Lady  Con- 
stance : 

Some  speedy  messenger  bid  her  repair 
To  our  solemnity : — I  trust  we  shall, 
If  not  fill  up  the  measure  of  her  will, 
Yet  in  some  measure  satisfy  her  so 
That  we  shall  stop  her  exclamation. 
Go  we,  as  well  as  haste  will  suffer  us, 
To  this  unlook'd-for,  unprepared  pomp. 

[Exeunt  all  but  the  BASTARD.     The  Citizens 
retire  from  the  Walls. 

Bast.  Mad  world !  mad  kings !  mad  composi- 
tion ! 

John,  to  stop  Arthur's  title  in  the  whole, 
Hath  willingly  departed  with  a  part ;  [on, 

And  France, — whose  armour  conscience  buckled 
Whom  zeal  and  charity  brought  to  the  field 
As  God's  own  soldier, — rounded  in  the  ear 
With  that  same  purpose-changer,  that  sly  devil ; 
That  broker,  that  still  breaks  the  pate  of  faith ; 
That  daily  break-vow ;  he  that  wins  of  all, 
Of  kings,  of  beggars,  old  men,  young  men, 

maids, — 

Who  having  no  external  thing  to  lose 
But  the  word  maid,  cheats  the  poor  maid  of  that ; 
That   smooth-fac'd   gentleman,    tickling   com- 
modity,— 

Commodity,  the  bias  of  the  world ; 
The  world,  who  of  itself  is  peised  well, 
Made  to  run  even  upon  even  ground, 
Till  this  advantage,  this  vile-drawing  bias, 
This  sway  of  motion,  this  commodity, 
Makes  it  take  head  from  all  indifferency, 
From  all  direction,  purpose,  course,  intent : 
And  this  same  bias,  this  commodity, 
This  bawd,  this  broker,  this  all-changing  word, 
Clapp'd  on  the  outward  eye  of  fickle  France, 
Hath  drawn  him  from  his  own  determin'd  aid, 
From  a  resolv'd  and  honourable  war, 
To  a  most  base  and  vile-concluded  peace. — 
And  why  rail  I  on  this  commodity? 
But  for  because  he  hath  not  woo'd  me  yet : 
Not  that  I  have  the  power  to  clutch  my  hand 


4io 


KING  JOHN. 


[ACT  in. 


When  his  fair  angels  would  salute  my  palm  ; 
But  for  my  hand,  as  unattempted  yet, 
Like  a  poor  beggar,  raileth  on  the  rich. 
Well,  whiles  I  am  a  beggar,  I  will  rail, 
And  say,  There  is  no  sin  but  to  be  rich ; 
And,  being  rich,  my  virtue  then  shall  be, 
To  say,  There  is  no  vice  but  beggary : 
Since  kings  break  faith  upon  commodity, 
Gain,  be  my  lord ! — for  I  will  worship  thee. 

{Exit. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — FRANCE.    The  French  King's  Tent. 
Enter  CONSTANCE,  ARTHUR,  and  SALISBURY. 

Const.  Gone  to  be  married  !  gone  to  swear  a 

peace ! 
False  blood   to  false  blood  join'd!    gone  to 

be  friends ! 
Shall  Louis  have  Blanch?  and  Blanch  those 

provinces? 

It  is  not  so;  thou  hast  misspoke,  misheard; 
Be  well  advis'd,  tell  o'er  thy  tale  again : 
It  cannot  be ;  thou  dost  but  say  'tis  so : 
I  trust  I  may  not  trust  thee;  for  thy  word 
Is  but  the  vain  breath  of  a  common  man: 
Believe  me,  I  do  not  believe  thee,  man ; 
I  have  a  king's  oath  to  the  contrary. 
Thou  shalt  be  punish'd  for  thus  frighting  me, 
For  I  am  sick,  and  capable  of  fears ; 
Oppress'd  with  wrongs ,  and  therefore  full  of  fears; 
A  widow,  husbandless,  subject  to  fears; 
A  woman,  naturally  born  to  fears ; 
And  though  thou  now  confess  thou  didst  but  jest, 
With  my  vex'd  spirits  I  cannot  take  a  truce, 
But  they  will  quake  and  tremble  all  this  day. 
What  dost  thou  mean  by  shaking  of  thy  head  ? 
Why  dost  thou  look  so  sadly  on  my  son? 
What  means  that  hand  upon  that  breast  of  thine? 
Why  holds  thine  eye  that  lamentable  rheum, 
Like  a  proud  river  peering  o'er  its  bounds? 
Be  these  sad  signs  confirmers  of  thy  words? 
Then  speak  again, — not  all  thy  former  tale, 
But  this  one  word,  whether  thy  tale  be  true. 

Sal.  As  true  as  I  believe  you  think  them  false 
That  give  you  cause  to  prove  my  saying  true. 
Const.  O,  if  thou  teach  me  to  believe  this 

sorrow, 

Teach  thou  this  sorrow  how  to  make  me  die ; 
And  let  belief  and  life  encounter  so 
As  doth  the  fury  of  two  desperate  men, 
Which  in  the  very  meeting  fall  and  die ! — 
Louis  marry  Blanch !     O  boy,  then  where  art 

thou?  [me? — 

France  friend  with  England  !  what  becomes  of 
Fellow,  be  gone :  I  cannot  brook  thy  sight ; 
This  news  hath  made  thee  a  most  ugly  man. 


Sal.  What  other  harm  have  I,  good  lady,  done, 
But  spoke  the  harm  that  is  by  others  done? 

Const.  Which  harm  within  itself  so  heinous  is, 
As  it  makes  harmful  all  that  speak  of  it. 

Arth.  I  do  beseech  you,  madam,  be  content. 

Const.  If  thou,  that  bid'st  me  be  content,  wert 

grim, 

Ugly,  and  slanderous  to  thy  mother's  womb, 
Full  of  unpleasing  blots  and  sightless  stains, 
Lame,  foolish,  crooked,  swart,  prodigious, 
Patch'd  with  foul  molesand  eye-offending  marks, 
I  would  not  care,  I  then  would  be  content ; 
For  then  I  should  not  love  thee ;  no,  nor  thou 
Become  thy  great  birth,  nor  deserve  a  crown. 
But  thou  art  fair;  and  at  thy  birth,  dear  boy, 
Nature  and  fortune  join'd  to  make  thee  great : 
Of  nature's  gifts  thou  mayst  with  lilies  boast, 
And  with  the  half-blown  rose :  but  Fortune,  O  ! 
She  is  corrupted,  chang'd,  and  won  from  thee ; 
She  adulterates  hourly  with  thine  uncle  John ; 
And  with  her  golden  hand  hath  pluck'd  on 

France 

To  tread  down  fair  respect  of  sovereignty, 
And  made  his  majesty  the  bawd  to  theirs. 
France  is  a  bawd  to  Fortune,  and  king  John— 
That  strumpet  Fortune,  that  usurping  John  !— 
Tell  me,  thou  fellow,  is  not  France  forsworn? 
Envenom  him  with  words ;  or  get  thee  gone, 
And  leave  those  woes  alone,  which  I  alone 
Am  bound  to  under-bear. 

Sal.  Pardon  me,  madam, 

I  may  not  go  without  you  to  the  kings. 

Const.  Thou  mayst,  thou  shalt ;  I  will  not  go 

with  thee: 

I  will  instruct  my  sorrows  to  be  proud ; 
For  grief  is  proud,  and  makes  his  honour  stout. 
To  me,  and  to  the  state  of  my  great  grief, 
Let  kings  assemble ;  for  my  grief 's  so  great 
That  no  supporter  but  the  huge  firm  earth 
Can  hold  it  up:  here  I  and  sorrows  sit; 
Here  is  my  throne,  bid  kings  come  bow  to  it. 
{Scats  herself  on  the  ground. 

Enter  KING  JOHN,  KING  PHILIP,  Louis, 
BLANCH,  ELINOR,  BASTARD,  AUSTRIA,  and 
Attendants. 

K.  Phi.  'Tis  true,  fair  daughter;  and  this 

blessed  day 

Ever  in  France  shall  be  kept  festival : 
To  solemnize  this  day  the  glorious  sun 
Stays  in  his  course,  and  plays  the  alchemist, 
Turning,  with  splendour  of  his  precious  eye, 
The  meagre  cloddy  earth  to  glittering  gold : 
The  yearly  course  that  brings  this  day  about 
Shall  never  see  it  but  a  holiday. 

Const.  A  wicked  day,  and  not  a  holy  day ! 

[Rising, 


SCENE  I.] 


KING  JOHN. 


411 


What  hath  this  day  deserv'd  ?  what  hath  it  done, 
That  it  in  golden  letters  should  be  set 
Among  the  high  tides  in  the  calendar? 
Nay,  rather  turn  this  day  out  of  the  week, 
This  day  of  shame,  oppression,  perjury: 
Or,  if  it  must  stand  still,  let  wives  with  child 
Pray  that  their  burdens  may  not  fall  this  day, 
Lest  that  their  hopes  prodigiously  be  cross'd: 
But  on  this  day  let  seamen  fear  no  wreck ; 
No  bargains  break  that  are  not  this  day  made: 
This  day,  all  things  begun  come  to  ill  end,— 
Yea,  faith  itself  to  hollow  falsehood  change  ! 
K.  Phi.   By  heaven,  lady,  you  shall  have  no 

cause 

To  curse  the  fair  proceedings  of  this  day. 
Have  I  not  pawn'd  to  you  my  majesty  ? 

Const.  You  have  beguil'd  me  with  a  counterfeit 
Resembling  majesty ;  which,  being  touch'd  and 

tried, 

Proves  valueless :  you  are  forsworn,  forsworn : 
You  came  in  arms  to  spill  mine  enemies'  blood, 
But  now  in  arms  you  strengthen  it  with  yours : 
The  grappling  vigour  and  rough  frown  of  war 
Is  cold  in  amity  and  painted  peace, 
And  our  oppression  hath  made  up  this  league. — 
Arm,  arm,  you  heavens,  against  these  perjur'd 

kings ! 

A  widow  cries ;  be  husband  to  me,  heavens ! 
Let  not  the  hours  of  this  ungodly  day 
Wear  out  the  day  in  peace ;  but,  ere  sunset, 
Set  armed  discord  'twixt  these  perjur'd  kings ! 
Hear  me,  O,  hear  me  ! 
Aust.  Lady  Constance,  peace. 

Const.  War !  war !  no  peace !  peace  is  to  me 

a  war. 

O  Lymoges !  O  Austria  (  thou  dost  shame 
That  bloody  spoil :  thou  slave,  thou  wretch,  thou 

coward ! 

Thou  little  valiant,  great  in  villany ! 
Thou  ever  strong  upon  the  stronger  side ! 
Thou  Fortune's  champion  that  dost  never  fight 
But  when  her  humorous  ladyship  is  by 
To  teach  thee  safety ! — thou  art  perjur'd  too, 
And  sooth'st  up  greatness.    What  afool  art  thou, 
A  ramping  fool,  to  brag,  and  stamp,  and  swear 
Upon  thy  party !     Thou  cold-blooded  slave, 
Hast  thou  not  spoke  like  thunder  on  my  side? 
Been  sworn  my  soldier?  bidding  me  depend 
Upon  thy  stars,  thy  fortune,  and  thy  strength? 
And  dost  thou  now  fall  over  to  my  foes? 
Thou  wear  a  lion's  hide !  doff  it  for  shame, 
And  hang  a  calf  s-skin  on  those  recreant  limbs ! 
Aust.  O,  that  a  man  should  speak  those  words 

to  me !  [limbs. 

Bast.  And  hang  a  calf  s-skin  on  those  recreant 
Aust.  Thou  dar'st  not  say  so,  villain,  for  thy 

life. 


Bast.  And  hang  a  calf 's-skin  on  those  recreant 

limbs. 
K.  John.  We  like  not  this ;  thou  dost  forget 

thyself.  [pope. 

K.  Phi.  Here  comes  the  holy  legate  of  the 

Enter  PANDULPH. 

Pand.    Hail,    you    anointed     deputies    of 

heaven ! — 

To  thee,  King  John,  my  holy  errand  is. 
I  Pandulph,  of  fair  Milan  cardinal, 
And  from  Pope  Innocent  the  legate  here, 
Do  in  his  name  religiously  demand, 
Why  thou  against  the  church,  our  holy  mother, 
So  wilfully  dost  spurn ;  and,  force  perforce,. 
Keep  Stephen  Langton,  chosen  archbishop 
Of  Canterbury,  from  that  holy  see? 
This,  in  our  foresaid  holy  father's  name, 
Pope  Innocent,  I  do  demand  of  thee. 

K.John.  What  earthly  name  to  interroga- 
tories 

Can  task  the  free  breath  of  a  sacred  king? 
Thou  canst  not,  cardinal,  devise  a  name 
So  slight,  unworthy,  and  ridiculous, 
To  charge  me  to  an  answer,  as  the  pope. 
Tell  him  this  tale;   and  from  the  mouth  of 

England 

Add  thus  much  more, — That  no  Italian  priest 
Shall  tithe  or  toll  in  our  dominions : 
But  as  we  under  heaven  are  supreme  head, 
So,  under  him,  that  great  supremacy, 
Where  we  do  reign,  we  will  alone  uphold, 
Without  the  assistance  of  a  mortal  hand  : 
So  tell  the  pope  ;  all  reverence  set  apart 
To  him  and  his  usurp'd  authority. 

K.  Phi.  Brother  of  England,  you  blaspheme 
in  this.  [Christendom, 

K.  John.  Though  you,  and  all  the  kings  of 
Are  led  so  grossly  by  this  meddling  priest, 
Dreading  the  curse  that  money  may  buy  out ; 
And  by  the  merit  of  vile  gold,  dross,  dust, 
Purchase  corrupted  pardon  of  a  man, 
Who  in  that  sale  sells  pardon  from  himself ; 
Though  you  and  all  the  rest,  so  grossly  led, 
This  juggling  witchcraft  with  revenue  cherish  ; 
Yet  I,  alone,  alone  do  me  oppose 
Against  the  pope,  and  count  his  friends  my  foes. 

Pand.  Then,  by  the  lawful  power  that  I  have, 
Thou  shalt  stand  curs'd  and  excommunicate : 
And  blessed  shall  he  be  that  doth  revolt 
From  his  allegiance  to  an  heretic ; 
And  meritorious  shall  that  hand  be  call'd, 
Canonized,  and  worshipp'd  as  a  saint, 
That  takes  away  by  any  secret  course 
Thy  hateful  life. 

Const.  O,  lawful  let  it  be 

That  I  have  room  with  Rome  to  curse  awhile  I 


412 


KING  JOHN. 


[ACT  in. 


Good  father  cardinal,  cry  thou  amen 
To  my  keen  curses :  for  without  my  wrong 
There  is  no  tongue  hath  power  to  curse  him 
right.  [curse. 

Pand.  There 's  law  and  warrant,  lady,  for  my 

Const.  And  for  mine  too :  when  law  can  do 

no  right, 

Let  it  be  lawful  that  law  bar  no  wrong: 
Law  cannot  give  my  child  his  kingdom  here ; 
For  he  that  holds  his  kingdom  holds  the  law : 
Therefore,  since  law  itself  is  perfect  wrong, 
How  can  the  law  forbid  my  tongue  to  curse? 

Pand.  Philip  of  France,  on  peril  of  a  curse, 
Let  go  the  hand  of  that  arch-heretic ; 
And  raise  the  power  of  France  upon  his  head, 
Unless  he  do  submit  himself  to  Rome. 

Eli.   Look'st  thou  pale,  France ;  do  not  let 
go  thy  hand.  [repent 

Consf.  Look  to  that,  devil ;  lest  that  France 
And,  by  disjoining  hands,  hell  lose  a  soul. 

Aust.  King  Philip,  listen  to  the  cardinal. 

Bast.  And  hang  a  calf's-skin  on  his  recreant 
limbs.  [wrongs, 

Aust.  Well,  ruffian,  I  must  pocket  up  tbe?e 
Because — 

Bast.  Your  breeches  best  may  carry  them. 

K.  John.    Philip,  what  say'st   thou   to   the 
cardinal  ?  [cardinal  ? 

Const.    What    should  he   say,    but   as    the 

Lou.  Bethink  you,  father;  for  the  difference 
Is,  purchase  of  a  heavy  curse  from  Rome, 
Or  the  light  loss  of  England  for  a  friend : 
Forego  the  easier. 

Blanch.  That 's  the  curse  of  Rome. 

Const.  O  Louis,  stand  fast !  the  devil  tempts 

thee  here 
In  likeness  of  a  new  uptrimmed  bride. 

Blanch.    The    Lady   Constance   speaks   not 

from  her  faith, 
But  from  her  need. 

Const.  O,  if  thou  grant  my  need, 

Which  only  lives  but  by  the  death  of  faith, 
That  need  must  needs  infer  this  principle, — 
That  faith  would  live  again  by  death  of  need ! 
O,  then,  tread  down  my  need,  and  faith  mounts 

up; 
Keep  my  need  up,  and  faith  is  trodden  down ! 

K.John.  The  king  is  mov'd,  and   answers 
not  to  this.  [well ! 

Const.  O,  be  remov'd  from  him,  and  answer 

Aust.  Do  so,  King  Philip ;  hang  no  more  in 
doubt.  [sweet  lout. 

Bast.  Hang  nothing  but  a  calf's-skin,  most 

K.  Phi.  I  am  perplex'd,  and  know  not  what 
to  say.  [thee  more, 

Pand.  What  canst  thou  say,  but  will  perplex 
It  thou  stand  excommunicate  and  curs'd? 


K.  Phi.    Good   reverend  father,   make  my 

person  yours, 

And  tell  me  how  you  would  bestow  yourself. 
This  royal  hand  and  mine  are  newly  knit, 
And  the  conjunction  of  our  inward  souls' 
Married  in  league,  coupled  and  link'd  together 
With  all  religious  strength  of  sacred  vows ; 
The  latest  breath  that  gave  the  sound  of  words 
Was  deep-sworn  faith,  peace,  amity,  true  love, 
Between  our  kingdoms  and  our  royal  selves ; 
And  even  before  this  truce,  but  new  before, — 
No  longer  than  we  well  could  wash  our  hands, 
To  clap  this  royal  bargain  up  of  peace, — 
Heaven  knows,  they  were  besmear'd  and  over- 

stain'd 

With  slaughter's  pencil,  where  revenge  did  paint 
The  fearful  difference  of  incensed  kings : 
And  shall  these  hands,  so  lately  purg'd  of  blood, 
So  newly  joined  in  love,  so  strong  in  both, 
Unyoke  this  seizure  and  this  kind  regreet? 
Play  fast  and  loose   with  faith?   so  jest  with 

heaven. 

Make  such  unconstant  children  of  ourselves, 
As  now  again  to  snatch  our  palm  from  palm; 
Unswear  faith  sworn ;  and  on  the  marriage-bed 
Of  smiling  peace  to  march  a  bloody  host, 
And  make  a  riot  on  the  gentle  brow 
Of  true  sincerity?     O,  holy  sir. 
My  reverend  father,  let  it  not  be  so  1 
Out  of  your  grace,  devise,  ordain,  impose 
Some  gentle  order ;  and  then  we  shall  be  bless'd 
To  do  your  pleasure,  and  continue  friends. 

Pand.  All  form  is  formless,  order  orderless, 
Save  what  is  opposite  to  England's  love. 
Therefore,  to  arms!  be  champion  of  our  church! 
Or  let  the  church,  our  mother,  breathe  her 

curse, — • 

A  mother's  curse, — on  her  revolting  son. 
France,  thou  mayst  hold  a  serpent  by  the  tongue, 
A  chafed  lion  by  the  mortal  paw, 
A  fasting  tiger  safer  by  the  tooth,  [hold. 

Than  keep  in  peace  that  hand  which  thou  dost 

K.   Phi.  I  may  disjoin  my  hand,  but  not  my 
faith.  [faith ; 

Pand.  So  mak'st  thou  faith  an   enemy   to 
And,  like  a  civil  war,  sett'st  oath  to  oath, 
Thy  tongue  against  thy  tongue.     O,  let  thy  vow 
First  made  to  heaven,  first  be  to  heaven  per- 

form'd,— 

That  is,  to  be  the  champion  of  our  church ! 
What  since  thou  swor'st  is  sworn  against  thyself, 
And  may  not  be  performed  by  thyself: 
For  that  which  thou  hast  sworn  to  do  amiss 
Is  not  amiss  when  it  is  truly  done ; 
And  being  not  done,  where  doing  tends  to  ill, 
The  truth  is  then  most  done  not  doing  it : 
The  better  act  of  purposes  mistook 


SCENE  I.] 


KING  JOHN. 


413 


Is  to  mistake  again ;  though  indirect, 
Yet  indirection  thereby  grows  direct, 
And  falsehood  falsehood  cures;  as  fire  cools 

fire 

Within  the  scorched  veins  of  one  new  burn'd. 
It  is  religion  that  doth  make  vows  kept ; 
But  thou  hast  sworn  against  religion, 
By  what  thou  swear'st  against  the  thing  thou 

swear'st ; 

And  mak'st  an  oath  the  surety  for  thy  truth 
Against  an  oath :  the  truth  thou  art  unsure 
To  swear,  swears  only  not  to  be  forsworn ; 
Else  what  a  mockery  should  it  be  to  swear ! 
But  thou  dost  swear  only  to  be  forsworn ; 
And  most  forsworn,  to  keep  what   thou  dost 

swear. 

Therefore  thy  latter  vows  against  thy  first 
Is  in  thyself  rebellion  to  thyself ; 
And  better  conquest  never  canst  thou  make 
Than  arm  thy  constant  and  thy  nobler  parts 
Against  these  giddy  loose  suggestions  : 
Upon  which  better  part  our  prayers  come  in, 
If  thou  vouchsafe  them  ;  but  if  not,  then  know 
The  peril  of  our  curses  light  on  thee, 
So  heavy  as  thou  shalt  not  shake  them  oft, 
But  in  despair  die  under  their  black  weight. 
Ausl.  Rebellion,  flat  rebellion  ! 
Bast.  Will 't  not  be  ? 

Will  not  a  calf  s-skin  stop  'ihat  mouth  of  thine  ? 
Lou.  Father,  to  arms  ! 

Blanch.  Upon  thy  wedding-day  ? 

Against  the  blood  that  thou  hast  married  ? 
What,  shall  our  feast  be  kept  with  slaughter'd 

men? 
Shall    braying    trumpets    and     loud    churlish 

drums, — 

Clamours  of  hell, — be  m^acures  to  our  pomp? 
O  husband,  hear  me  ! — ay,  alack,  how  new 
Is  husband  in  my  mouth  ! — even  for  that  name, 
Which  till  this  time  my  tongue  did  ne'er  pro- 
nounce, 

Upon  my  knee  I  beg,  go  not  to  arms 
Against  mine  uncle. 

Const.  O,  upon  my  knee, 

Made  hard  with  kneeling,  I  do  pray  to  thee, 
Thou  virtuous  Dauphin,  alter  not  the  doom 
Forethought  by  heaven. 

Blanch.    Now  shall  I  see  thy  love :    what 

motive  may 

Be  stronger  with  thee  than  the  name  of  wife  ? 
Const.  That  which  upholdeth  him  that  thee 

upholds, 
His  honour :  — O,  thine  honour,  Louis,  thine 

honour ! 

Lou.  I  muse  your  majesty  doth  seem  so  cold, 
When  such  profound  respects  do  pull  you  on. 
Pand.  I  will  denounce  a  curse  upon  his  head. 


K.  Phi.  Thou  shalt  not  need. — England,  I 

will  fall  from  thee. 

Const.  O  fair  return  of  banish'd  majesty ! 
Eli.  O  foul  revolt  of  French  inconstancy ! 
K.  John.  France,  thou  shalt  rue  this  hour 

within  this  hour. 
Bast.  Old  Time  the  clock -setter,  that  bald 

sexton  Time, 

Is  it  as  he  will?  well,  then,  France  shall  rue. 
Blanch.  The  sun 's  o'ercast  with  blood :  fair 

day,  adieu ! 

Which  is  the  side  that  I  must  go  withal? 
I  am  with  both :   each  army  hath  a  hand ; 
And  in  their  rage,  I  having  hold  of  both, 
They  whirl  asunder  and  dismember  me. 
Husband,  I  cannot  pray  that  thou  mayst  win ; 
Uncle,  I  needs  must  pray  that  thou  mayst  lose; 
Father,  I  may  not  wish  the  fortune  thine ; 
Grandam,  I  will  not  wish  thy  wishes  thrive  : 
Whoever  wins,  on  that  side  shall  I  lose ; 
Assured  loss  before  the  match  be  play'd. 
Lou.  Lady,  with  me ;  with  me  thy  fortune  lies. 
Blanch.  There  where  my  fortune  lives,  there 

my  life  dies. 

K.  John.  Cou?in,  go  draw  our  puissance  to- 
gether.—  [Exit  BASTARD. 
France,  I  am  burn'd  up  with  inflaming  wrath  ; 
A  rage  whose  heat  hath  this  condition, 
That  nothing  can  allay,  nothing  but  blood, — 
The  blood,  and  dearest-valu'd  blood  of  France. 
K.  Phi.  Thy  rage  shall  burn  thee  up,  and 

thou  shalt  turn 

To  ashes,  ere  our  blood  shall  quench  that  fire  : 
Look  to  thyself,  thou  art  in  jeopardy. 

K.  John.  No  more  than  he  that  threats. — To 
arms  let 's  hie  !        [Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  II. — The  same.     Plains  near  Angiers. 

Alarums.  Excursions.     Enter  the  BASTARD, 
with  AUSTRIA'S  head. 

Bast.  Now,  by  my  life,  this  day  grows  won- 
drous hot ; 

Some  airy  devil  hovers  in  the  sky,  [there, 

And  pours  down  mischief. — Austria's  head  lie 
While  Philip  breathes. 

Enter  KING  JOHN,  ARTHUR,  and  HUBERT. 

K.John.    Hubert,   keepp  this   boy. — Philip, 

make  up : 

My  mother  is  assailed  in  our  tent, 
And  ta'en,  I  fear. 

Bast.  My  lord,  I  rescu'd  her  ; 

Her  highness  is  in  safety,  fear  you  not : 
But  on,  my  liege  ;  for  very  little  pains 
Will  bring  this  labour  to  an  happy  end. 

[Exeunt. 


414 


KING  JOHN. 


[ACT  in. 


SCENE  III. — The  same. 

Alarums t  Excursions,  Retreat.  Enter  KING 
JOHN,  ELINOR,  ARTHUR,  the  BASTARD, 
HUBERT,  and  Lords. 

K.  John.  So  shall  it  be ;  your  grace  shall  stay 
behind,  [To  ELINOR. 

So  strongly  guarded. — Cousin,  look  not  sad  : 

[To  ARTHUR. 

Thy  grandam  loves  thee ;  and  thy  uncle  will 
As  dear  be  to  thee  as  thy  father  was.       [grief! 

Arth.  O,  this  will  make  my  mother  die  with 

K.  John.  Cousin  [to  the  BASTARD],  away  for 

England  ;  haste  before : 

And,  ere  our  coming,  see  thou  shake  the  bags 
Of  hoarding  abbots ;  imprison'd  angels 
Set  at  liberty :  the  fat  ribs  of  peace 
Must  by  the  hungry  now  be  fed  upon : 
Use  our  commission  in  his  utmost  force. 

Bast.  Bell,  book,  and  candle  shall  not  drive 

me  back, 

When  gold  and  silver  becks  me  to  come  on. 
I  leave  your  highness. — Grandam,  I  will  pray, — 
If  ever  I  remember  to  be  holy; — 
For  your  fair  safety ;  so,  I  kiss  your  hand. 

Eli.  Farewell,  gentle  cousin. 

K.  John.      Coz,  farewell.     [Exit  BASTARD. 

Eli.  Gome  hither,  little  kinsman;  hark  a 
word.  [She  takes  ARTHUR  aside. 

K.  John.    Come    hither,    Hubert.      O   my 

gentle  Hubert, 

We  owe  thee  much !  within  this  wall  of  flesh 
There  is  a  soul  counts  thee  her  creditor, 
And  with  advantage  means  to  pay  thy  love : 
And,  my  good  friend,  thy  voluntary  oath 
Lives  in  this  bosom,  dearly  cherished. 
Give  me  thy  hand.     I  had  a  thing  to  say, — 
But  I  will  fit  it  with  some  better  time. 
By  heaven,  Hubert,  I  am  almost  asham'd 
To  say  what  good  respect  I  have  of  thee. 

Hub.  I  am  much  bounden  to  your  majesty. 

K.  John.  Good  friend,  thou  hast  no  cause  to 
say  so  yet :  [slow, 

But  thou  shalt  have;  and  creep  time  ne'er  so 
Yet  it  shall  come  for  me  to  do  thee  good. 
I  had  a  thing  to  say, — but  let  it  go : 
The  sun  is  in  the  heaven,  and  the  proud  day, 
Attended  with  the  pleasures  of  the  world, 
Is  all  too  wanton  and  too  full  of  gawds 
To  give  me  audience : — if  the  midnight  bell 
Did,  with  his  iron  tongue  and  brazen  mouth, 
Sound  one  unto  the  drowsy  ear  of  night ; 
If  this  same  were  a  churchyard  where  we  stand, 
And  thou  possessed  with  a  thousand  wrongs ; 
Or  if  that  surly  spirit,  melancholy,       [thick, — 
Had  bak'd,  thy  blood,  and  made  it  heavy, 


Which  else  runs  tickling  up  and  down  the  veins, 
Making  that  idiot,  laughter,  keep  men's  eyes, 
And  strain  their  cheeks  to  idle  merriment — 
A  passion  hateful  to  my  purposes ; — 
Or  if  that  thou  couldst  see  me  without  eyes, 
Hear  me  without  thine  ears,  and  make  reply 
Without  a  tongue,  using  conceit  alone, 
Without   eyes,    ears,   and   harmful   sound  of 

words, — 

Then,  in  despite  of  brooded  watchful  day, 
I  would  into  thy  bosom  pour  my  thoughts : 
But,  ah,  I  will  not !— yet  I  love  thee  well ; 
And,  by  my  troth,  I  think  thou  lov'st  me  well. 

Hub.  So  well  that  what  you  bid  me  undertake, 
Though  that  my  death  were  adjunct  to  my  act, 
By  heaven,  I  would  do  it. 

K.  John.          Do  not  I  know  thou  wouldst? 
Good  Hubert,  Hubert,  Hubert,  throw  thine 
eye  [friend, 

On  yon  young  boy:  I'll  tell  thee  what,  my 
He  is  a  very  serpent  in  my  way ; 
And  wheresoe'er  this  foot  of  mine  doth  tread, 
He  lies  before  me: — dost  thou  understand  me? 
Thou  art  his  keeper. 

Hub.  And  I  '11  keep  him  so 

That  he  shall  not  offend  your  majesty. 

K.John.  Death. 

Hub.  My  lord? 

K.  John.  A  grave. 

Hub.  He  shall  not  live. 

K.John.  Enough. — 

I  could  be  merry  now.     Hubert,  I  love  thee : 
Well,  I  '11  not  say  what  I  intend  for  thee : 
Remember. — Madam,  fare  you  well: 
I  '11  send  those  powers  o'er  to  your  majesty. 

Eli.   My  blessing  go  with  thee ! 

K.  John.  For  England,  cousin,  go : 

Hubert  shall  be  your  man,  attend  on  you 
With  all  true  duty.— On  toward  Calais,  ho  ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — The  same.     The  French  King's 
Tent. 

Enter  KING  PHILIP,  Louis,  PANDULPH,  and 
Attendants. 

K.  Phi.    So,  by  a  roaring  tempest  on  the 

flood, 

A  whole  armado  of  convicted  sail 
Is  scatter'd  and  disjoin'd  from  fellowship. 

Pand.  Courage  and  comfort !   all  shall  yet 
go  well.  [run  so  ill? 

K.  Phi.  What  can  go  well,  when  we  have 
Are  we  not  beaten?     Is  not  Angiers  lost? 
Arthur  ta'en  prisoner?  divers  dear  friends  slain? 
And  bloody  England  into  England  gone, 
O'erbearing  interruption,  spite  of  France? 


SCENE  IV.] 


KING  JOHN. 


415 


Lou.  What  he  hath  won,  that  hath  he  forti- 
fied: 

So  hot  a  speed  with  such  advice  dispos'd, 
Such  temperate  order  in  so  fierce  a  cause, 
Doth  want  example :  who  hath  read  or  heard 
Of  any  kindred  action  like  to  this? 

K.  Phi.  Well  could   I   bear   that  England 

had  this  praise, 

So  we  could  find  some  pattern  of  our  shame. — 
Look,  who  comes  here !  a  grave  unto  a  soul ; 
Holding  the  eternal  spirit,  against  her  will, 
In  the  vile  prison  of  afflicted  breath. 

Enter  CONSTANCE. 

I  pr'ythee,  lady,  go  away  with  me.         [peace ! 

Const.  Lo,  now !  now  see  the  issue  of  your 

K.    Phi.    Patience,    good    lady!     comfort, 
gentle  Constance ! 

Const.  No,  I  defy  all  counsel,  all  redress, 
But  that  which  ends  all  counsel,  true  redress, 
Death,  death : — O  amiable  lovely  death ! 
Thou  odoriferous  stench  !  sound  rottenness ! 
Arise  forth  from  the  couch  of  lasting  night, 
Thou  hate  and  terror  to  prosperity, 
And  I  will  kiss  thy  detestable  bones ; 
And  put  my  eyeballs  in  thy  vaulty  brows ; 
And  ring  these  fingers  with  thy  household  worms ; 
And  stop  this  gap  of  breath  with  fulsome  dust, 
And  be  a  carrion  monster  like  thyself: 
Come,  grin  on   me;   and  I  will   think   thou 

smil'st, 

And  buss  thee  as  thy  wife !     Misery's  love, 
O,  come  to  me  ! 

K.  Phi.  O  fair  affliction,  peace ! 

Const.   No,  no,  I  will  not,  having  breath  to 

cry:— 

O,  that  my  tongue  were  in  the  thunder's  mouth  ! 
Then  with  a  passion  would  I  shake  the  world  ; 
And  rouse  from  sleep  that  fell  anatomy 
Which  cannot  hear  a  lady's  feeble  voice, 
Which  scorns  a  modern  invocation. 

Pand.   Lady,   you  utter  madness,  and   not 
sorrow. 

Const.  Thou  art  not  holy  to  belie  me  so ; 
I  am  not  mad :  this  hair  I  tear  is  mine ; 
My  name  is  Constance ;  I  was  Geffrey's  wife ; 
Young  Arthur  is  my  son,  and  he  is  lost : 
I  am  not  mad  ; — I  would  to  heaven  I  were ! 
For  then,  'tis  like  I  should  forget  myself: 
O,  if  I  could,  what  grief  should  I  forget ! — 
Preach  some  philosophy  to  make  me  mad, 
And  thou  shalt  be  canoniz'd,  cardinal ; 
For,  being  not  mad,  but  sensible  of«grief, 
My  reasonable  part  produces  reason       r^v:1 
How  I  may  be  deliver'd  of  these  woes, 
And  teaches  me  to  kill  or  hang  myself: 
If  I  were  mad  I  should  forget  my  son, 


Or  madly  think  a  babe  of  clouts  were  he : 
I  am  not  mad ;  too  well,  too  well  I  feel 
The  different  plague  of  each  calamity. 

K.  Phi.    Bind  up  those   tresses. — O,  what 

love  I  note 

In  the  fair  multitude  of  those  her  hairs  ! 
Where  but  by  chance  a  silver  drop  hath  fallen, 
Even  to  that  drop  ten  thousand  wiry  friends 
Do  glue  themselves  in  sociable  grief; 
Like  true,  inseparable,  faithful  loves, 
Sticking  together  in  calamity. 

Const.  To  England,  if  you  will. 

K.  Phi.  Bind  up  your  hairs. 

Const.  Yes,  that  I  will ;  and  wherefore  will 

I  do  it? 
I  tore  them  from  their  bonds,  and  cried  aloud, 

0  that  these  hands  could  so  redeem  my  son, 
As  they  have  given  these  hairs  their  liberty! 
But  now  I  envy  at  their  liberty, 

And  will  again  commit  them  to  their  bonds, 
Because  my  poor  child  is  a  prisoner. — 
And,  father  cardinal,  I  have  heard  you  say 
That  we  shall  see  and   know  our  friends  in 

heaven : 

If  that  be  true,  I  shall  see  my  boy  again ; 
For  since  the  birth  of  Cain,  the  first  male  child, 
To  him  that  did  but  yesterday  suspire, 
There  was  not  such  a  gracious  creature  born. 
But  now  will  canker  sorrow  eat  my  bud, 
And  chase  the  native  beauty  from  his  cheek, 
And  he  will  look  as  hollow  as  a  ghost, 
As  dim  and  meagre  as  an  ague's  fit ; 
And  so  he'll  die;  and,  rising  so  again, 
When  I  shall  meet  him  in  the  court  of  heaven 

1  shall  not  know  him :  therefore  never,  never 
Must  I  behold  my  pretty  Arthur  more ! 

Pand.  You  hold  too  heinous  a  respect  of  grief. 

Const.  He  talks  to  me  that  never  had  a  son. 

K.  Phi.  You  are  as  fond  of  grief  as  of  your 
child.  [child, 

Const.  Grief  fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent 
Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me, 
Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words, 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts, 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form ; 
Then  have  I  reason  to  be  fond  of  grief. 
Fare  you  well :  had  you  such  a  loss  as  I, 
I  could  give  better  comfort  than  you  do. — 
I  will  not  keep  this  form  upon  my  head, 

[  Tearing  off  her  head-dress. 
When  there  is  such  disorder  in  my  wit. 
O  Lord !  my  boy,  my  Arthur,  my  fair  son  ! 
My  life,  my  joy,  my  food,  my  all  the  world ! 
My  widow-comfort,  and  my  sorrow's  cure  ! 

[Exit. 

K.  Phi.  I  fear  some  outrage,  and  I  '11  follow 
her.  [Exit. 


4i6 


KING  JOHN. 


[ACT  IV. 


Lou.    There's  nothing  in   this  world   can 

make  me  joy : 

Life  is  as  tedious  as  a  twice-told  tale 
Vexing  the  dull  ear  of  a  drowsy  man ;      [taste, 
And  bitter  shame  hath  spoil'd  the  sweet  world's 
That  it  yields  naught  but  shame  and  bitterness. 

Pand.  Before  the  curing  of  a  strong  disease, 
Even  in  the  instant  of  repair  and  health, 
The  fit  is  strongest ;  evils  that  take  leave, 
On  their  departure  most  of  all  show  evil : 
What  have  you  lost  by  losing  of  this  day  ? 

Lou.  All  days  of  glory,  joy,  and  happiness. 

Pand.   If  you  had  won  it,  certainly  you  had. 
No,  no;  when  Fortune  means  to  men  most  good, 
She  looks  upon  them  with  a  threatening  eye. 
'Tis  strange  to  think  how  much  King  John 

hath  lost 

In  this  which  he  accounts  so  clearly  won  : 
Are  not  you  griev'd  that  Arthur  is  his  prisoner? 

Lou.  As  heartily  as  he  is  glad  he  hath  him. 

Pand.  Your  mind  is  all  as  youthful  as  your 

blood. 

Now  hear  me  speak  with  a  prophetic  spirit ; 
For  even  the  breath  of  what  I  mean  to  speak 
Shall  blow  each  dust,  each  straw,  each  little  rub, 
Out  of  the  path  which  shall  directly  lead 
Thy  foot  to  England's  throne ;  and  therefore 

mark. 

John  hath  seiz'd  Arthur  ;  and  it  cannot  be 
That,  whiles  warm  life  plays  in  that  infant's 

veins, 

The  misplac'd  John  should  entertain  an  hour, 
One  minute,  nay,  one  quiet  breath  of  rest: 
A  sceptre  snatch' d  with  an  unruly  hand 
Must  be  as  boisterously  maintain'd  as  gain'd  ; 
And  he  that  stands  upon  a  slippery  place 
Makes  nice  of  no  vile  hole  to  stay  him  up: 
That  John  may  stand,  then  Arthur  needs  must 

fall  ; 
So  be  it,  for  it  cannot  be  but  so.  [fall  ? 

Lou.  But  what  shall  I  gain  by  young  Arthur's 

Pand.  You,   in   the   right   of  Lady  Blanch 

your  wife, 
May  then  make  all  the  ckim  that  Arthur  did. 

Lou.  And  lose  it,  life  and  all,  as  Arthur  did. 

Pand.  How  green  you  are,  and  fresh  in  this 
old  world  !  [you  ; 

John  lays  you  plots ;  the  times  conspire  with 
For  he  that  steeps  his  safety  in  true  blood 
Shall  find  but  bloody  safety  and  untrue. 
This  act,  so  evilly  borne,  shall  cool  the  hearts 
Of  all  his  people,  and  freeze  up  their  zeal, 
That  none  so  small  advantage  shall  step  forth 
To  check  his  reign,  but  they  will  cherish  it ; 
No  natural  exhalation  in  the  sky, 
No  scape  of  nature,  no  distemper'd  day, 
No  common  wind,  no  customed  event, 


But  they  will  pluck  away  his  natural  cause 
And  call  them  meteors,  prodigies,  and  signs, 
Abortives,  presages,  and  tongues  of  heaven, 
Plainly  denouncing  vengeance  upon  John. 

Lou.  May  be  he  will  not  touch  young  Ar- 
thur's life, 
But  hold  himself  safe  in  his  prisonment. 

Pand.  O,  sir,  when  he  shall  hear  of  your  ap- 
proach, 

If  that  young  Arthur  be  not  gone  already, 
Even  at  that  news  he  dies ;  and  then  the  hearts 
Of  all  his  people  shall  revolt  from  him, 
And  kiss  the  lips  of  unacquainted  change ;. 
And  pick  strong  matter  of  revolt  and  wrath 
Out  of  the  bloody  fingers'  ends  of  John. 
Methinks  I  see  this  hurly  all  on  foot : 
And,  O,  what  better  matter  breeds  for  you 
Than  I  have  nam'd  ! — The  bastard  Falconbridge 
Is  now  in  England,  ransacking  the  church, 
Offending  charity  :  if  but  a  dozen  French 
Were  there  in  arms,  they  would  be  as  a  call 
To  train  ten  thousand  English  to  their  side  ; 
Or  as  a  little  snow,  tumbled  about 
Anon  becomes  a  mountain.     O  noble  Dauphin, 
Go  with  me  to  the  king  : — 'tis  wonderful 
What  may  be  wrought  out  of  their  discontent, 
Now  that  their  souls  are  topful  of  offence  : 
For  England  go  : — I  will  whet  on  the  king. 

Lou.  Strong  reasons  make  strong  actions  :  let 

us  go : 
If  you  say  ay,  the  king  will  not  say  no. 

{Exeunt. 
••')  V  ' 
ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — NORTHAMPTON.     A  Room  in  the 
Castk. 

Enter  HUBERT  and  two  Attendants. 

Htib.   Heat  me  these  irons  hot ;  and  look 

thou  stand 

Within  the  arras :  when  I  strike  my  foot 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  ground,  rush  forth, 
And  bind  the  boy  which  you  shall  find  with  me 
Fast  to  the  chair :  be  heedful :  hence,  and  watch. 
I  Attend.  I  hope  your  warrant  will  bear  out 

the  deed. 

Hub.  Uncleanly  scruples  !     Fear  not  you  : 

look  to 't. —         {Exeunt  Attendants. 

Young  lad,  come  forth ;  I  have  to  say  with  you. 

Enter  ARTHUR. 

Arth.  Good-morrow,  Hubert. 
Hub.  Good-morrow-  little  prince. 

Arth.  As  little  prince,  having  so  great  a  title 
To  be  more  prince,  as  may  be. — You  are  sad. 
Hub.  Indeed,  I  have  been  merrier. 


SCENE  I.] 


KING  JOHN. 


417 


Arth.  Mercy  on  me  ! 

Methinks  no  body  should  be  sad  but  I : 
Yet,  I  remember,  when  I  was  in  France, 
Young  gentlemen  would  be  as  sad  as  night, 
Only  for  wantonness.     By  my  Christendom, 
So  I  were  out  of  prison,  and  kept  sheep, 
I  should  be  as  merry  as  the  day  is  long ; 
And  so  I  would  be  here,  but  that  I  doubt 
My  uncle  practices  more  harm  to  me : 
He  is  afraid  of  me,  and  I  of  him : 
Is  it  my  fault  that  I  was  Geffrey's  son? 
No,  indeed,  is 't  not ;  and  I  would  to  heaven 
I  were  your  son,  so  you  would  love  me,  Hubert. 

Hub.  [Aside.]  If  I  talk  to  him,  with  his  in- 
nocent prate 

He  will  awake  my  mercy,  which  lies  dead : 
Therefore  I  will  be  sudden  and  despatch. 

Arth.  Are  you  sick,  Hubert  ?  you  look  pale 

to-day : 

In  sooth,  I  would  you  were  a  little  sick, 
That  I  might  sit  all  night  and  watch  with  you : 
1  warrant  I  love  you  more  than  you  do  me. 

Hub.  [Aside.]  His  words  do  take  possession 

of  my  bosom. — 

Read  here,  young  Arthur.     [Showing  a  paper. 
[Aside.]  How  now,  foolish  rheum  ! 
Turning  dispiteous  torture  out  of  door ! 
I  must  be  briei,  lest  resolution  drop 
Out  at  mine  eyes  in  tender  womanish  tears. — 
Can  you  rot  read  it?  is  it  not  fair  writ? 

Arth.  Too  fairly,  Hubert,  for  so  foul  effect. 
Must  you  with  hot  irono  burn  out  both  mine 
eyes  ? 

Hub.  Young  boy,  I  must. 

Arth.  And  will  you? 

I        Hub.  And  I  will. 

Arth.  H  v   you  the  heart?    When  your  head 
did  but  ache 

I  knit  my  handkerchief  about  your  brows, — 
The  best  I  had,  a  princess  wrought  it  me, — 
And  I  did  never  ask  it  y-u  again  ; 
And  with  my  hand  at  midnight  held  your  head ; 
And,  like  the  watchful  minutes  to  the  hour, 
Still  and  anon  cheer'd  up  the  heavy  time, 
Saying,  What  lack  you?  and,  Where  lies  your 

grief? 

Or,  What  good  love  may  .1  perform  for  you  ? 
Many  a  poor  man's  son  would  have  lien  still, 
And  ne'er  have  spoke  a  loving  word  to  you ; 
But  you  at  your  sick  service  had  a     ince. 
Nay,  you  may  think  my  love  was  crafty  love, 
And  call  it  cunning : — do,  an  if  you  wil  : 
If  heaven  be  pleas'd  that  you  must  use  me  ill, 
Why,  then  you  must. — Will  you  put  out  mine 

eyes? 

These  eyes  that  never  did  nor  never  shall 
So  much  as  frown  on  you? 


I 


Hub.  I  have  sworn  to  do  it ! 

And  with  hot  irons  must  I  burn  them  out. 
Arth.  Ah,  none  but  in  this  iron  age  would 

doit! 

The  iron  of  itself,  though  heat  red  hot, 
Approaching  near  these  eyes,  would  drink  my 

tears, 

And  quench  his  fiery  indignation, 
Even  in  the  matter  of  mine  innocence ; 
Nay,  after  that,  consume  away  in  rust, 
But  for  containing  fire  to  harm  mine  eye. 
Are  you  more  stubborn-hard  than  hammer'd 

iron? 

An  if  an  angel  should  have  come  to  me 
And  told  me  Hubert  should  put  out  mine  eyes, 
I  would  not  have  believ'd  him, — no  tongue  but 

Hubert's. 
Hub.  Come  forth.  [Stamps. 

Re-enter  Attendants,  with  cords,  irons,  &c. 

Do  as  I  bid  you. 
Arth.  O,  save  me,  Hubert,  save  me !  my  eyes 

are  out 

Even  with  the  fierce  looks  of  these  bloody  men. 
Hub.  Give  me  the  iron,  I  say,  and  bind  him 
here.  [rough? 

Arth.  Alas,  what  need  you  be  so  boist'rous- 
I  will  not  struggle,  I  will  stand  stone-still. 
For  heaven's  sake,  Hubert,  let  me  not  be  bound! 
Nay,  hear  me,  Hubert !— drive  these  men  away, 
And  I  will  sit  as  quiet  as  a  lamb ; 
I  will  not  stir,  nor  wince,  nor  speak  a  word, 
Nor  look  upon  the  iron  angerly : 
Thrust  but  these  men  away,  and  I  '11  forgive  you, 
Whatever  torment  you  do  put  me  to.         [him. 
Hub<  Go,  stand  within ;  let  me  alone  with 
I  Attend.  I  am  best  pleas'd  to  be  from  such 
a  deed.  [Exeunt  Attendants. 

Arth.  Alas,  I  then  have  chid  away  my  friend! 
He  hath  a  stern  look  but  a  gentle  heart : — 
Let  him  come  back,  that  his  compassion  may 
Give  life  to  yours. 

Hub.  Come,  boy,  prepare  yourself. 

Arth.  Is  there  no  remedy  ? 
Hub.  None,  but  to  lose  your  eyes. 

Arth.  O  heaven ! — that  there   were  but  a 

mote  in  yours, 

A  grain,  a  dust,  a  gnat,  a  wandering  hair, 
Any  annoyance  in  that  precious  sense ! 
Then,  feeling  what  small  things  are  boisterous 

there, 

Your  vile  intent  must  needs  seem  horrible. 
Hub.  Is  this  your  promise?  go  to,  hold  your 

tongue. 
Arth.  Hubert,  the  utterance  of  a  brace  of 

tongues 

Must  needs  want  pleading  for  a  pair  of  eyes: 

O 


KING  JOHN. 


[ACT  iv. 


Let  me   not  hold   my  tongue, — let  me  not, 

Hubert ! 

Or,  Hubert,  if  you  will,  cut  out  my  tongue, 
So  I  may  keep  mine  eyes  :  O,  spare  mine  eyes, 
Though  to  no  use  but  still  to  look  on  you  !— 
Lo,  by  my  troth,  the  instrument  is  cold, 
And  would  not  harm  me. 

Hub.  I  can  heat  it,  boy. 

Arlh.  No,  in  good  sooth ;  the  fire  is  dead  with 

grief, 

Being  create  for  comfort,  to  be  us'd 
In  undeserv'd  extremes  :  see  else  yourself ; 
There  is  no  malice  in  this  burning  coal ; 
The  breath  of  heaven  hath  blown  his  spirit  out, 
And  strew'd  repentant  ashes  on  his  head. 

Hub.  But  with  my  breath  I  can  revive  it,  boy. 

Arth.  And  if  you  do,  you  will  but  make  it 
blush,  [Hubert : 

And  glow  with    shame   of  your   proceedings, 
Nay,  it,  perchance,  will  sparkle  in  your  eyes ; 
And,  like  a  dog  that  is  compell'd  to  fight, 
Snatch  at  his  master  that  doth  tarre  him  on. 
All  things  that  you  should  use  to  do  me  wrong, 
Deny  their  office  :  only  you  do  lack 
That  mercy  which  fierce  fire  and  iron  extends, 
Creatures  of  note  for  mercy-lacking  uses. 

Hub.  Well,  see  to  live ;  I  will  not  touch  thine 

eyes 

For  all  the  treasure  that  thine  uncle  owes : 
Yet  am  I  sworn,  and  I  did  purpose,  boy, 
With  this  same  very  iron  to  burn  them  out. 

Arth.  O,  now  you  look  like  Hubert !  all  this 

while 
You  were  disguised. 

Hub.  Peace ;  no  more.     Adieu  ! 

Your  uncle  must  not  know  but  you  are  dead  ; 
I  '11  fill  these  dogged  spies  with  false  reports  : 
And,  pretty  child,  sleep  doubtless  and  secure, 
That  Hubert,  for  the  wealth  of  all  the  world, 
Will  not  offend  thee. 

Arth.          O  heaven  !  I  thank  you,  Hubert. 

Hub.  Silence ;  no  more :  go  closely  in  with  me : 
Much  danger  do  I  undergo  for  thee.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — The  same.     A  Room  of  State  in 
the  Palace. 

Enter  KING  JOHN,  crowned;  PEMBROKE, 
SALISBURY,  and  other  Lords.  The  KING 
takes  his  State. 

K*  John.  Here  once  again  we  sit,  once  again 

crown'd, 

And  look'd  upon,  I  hope,  with  cheerful  eyes. 
Pern.  This  once  again,  but  that  your  highness 

pleas'd, 

Was  once  superfluous :  you  were  crown'd  before, 
And  that  high  royalty  was  ne'er  pluck'd  off; 


The  faiths  of  men  ne'er  stained  with  revolt ; 
Fresh  expectation  troubled  not  the  land 
With  any  long'd-for  change  or  better  state. 

Sal.  Therefore,  to  be  possess'd  with  double 

pomp, 

To  guard  a  title  that  was  rich  before, 
To  gild  refined  gold,  to  paint  the  lily, 
To  throw  a  perfume  on  the  violet, 
To  smooth  the  ice,  or  add  another  hue 
Unto  the  rainbow,  or  with  taper-light 
To  seek  the  beauteous  eye  of  heaven  to  garnish, 
Is  wasteful  and  ridiculous  excess.  [done, 

Pern.  But  that  your  royal  pleasure  must  be 
This  act  is  as  an  ancient  tale  new  told  ; 
And  in  the  last  repeating  troublesome, 
Being  urged  at  a  time  unseasonable. 

Sal.  In  this,  the  antique  and  well-noted  face 
Of  plain  old  form  is  much  disfigured  j 
And,  like  a  shifted  wind  unto  a  sail, 
It  makes  the  course  of  thoughts  to  fetch  about ; 
Startles  and  frights  consideration  ; 
Makes  sound  opinion  sick,  and  truth  suspected, 
For  putting  on  so  new  a  fashion'd  robe. 

Pem.  When  workmen  strive  to  do  better 

than  well, 

They  do  confound  their  skill  in  covetousness  ; 
And  oftentimes  excusing  of  a  fault 
Doth  make  the  fault  the  worse  by  the  excuse, — 
As  patches  set  upon  a  little  breach 
Discredit  more  in  hiding  of  the  fault 
Than  did  the  fault  before  it  was  so  patch'd. 

Sal.  To  this  effect,  before  you  were  new- 
crown'd,  [highness 

We  breath'd  our  counsel :  but  it  pleas'd  your 
To  overbear  it ;  and  we  are  all  well  pleas'd, 
Since  all  and  every  part  of  what  we  would 
Doth  make  a  stand  at  what  your  highness  will. 

K.  John.  Some  reasons  of  this  double  corona- 
tion [strong ; 
I  have   possess'd   you  with,  and  think  them 
And  more,  more  strong,  when  lesser  is  my  fear, 
I  shall  indue  you  with  :  meantime  but  ask 
What  you  would  have  reform'd  that  is  not  well, 
And  well  shall  you  perceive  how  willingly 
I  will  both  hear  and  grant  you  your  requests. 

Pem.  Then  I, — as  one  that  am  the  tongue 

of  these, 

To  sound  the  purposes  of  all  their  hearts, — 
Both  for  myself  and  them, — but,  chief  of  all, 
Your  safety,  for  the  which  myself  and  them 
Bend  their  best  studies, — heartily  request 
The  enfranchisement  of  Arthur  ;  whose  restraint 
Doth  move  the  murmuring  lips  of  discontent 
To  break  into  this  dangerous  argument, — 
If  what  in  rest  you  have  in  right  you  hold, 
Why,  then,  your  fears, — which,  as  they  say, 
attend 


SCENE  II.] 


KING  JOHN. 


419 


The  steps  of  wrong, — should  move  you  to  mew 

up 

Vour  tender  kinsman,  and  to  choke  his  days 
With  barbarous  ignorance,  and  deny  his  youth 
The  rich  aa vantage  of  good  exercise? 
That  the  time's  enemies  may  not  have  this 
To  grace  occasions,  let  it  be  our  suit 
That  you  have  bid  us  ask  his  liberty ; 
Which  for  our  goods  we  do  no  further  ask 
Than  whereupon  our  weal,  on  you  depending, 
Counts  it  your  weal  he  have  his  liberty. 

K.  John.  Let  ?t  be  so :  I  do  commit  his  youth 
To  your  direction. 

Enter  HUBERT. 

Hubert,  what  news  with  you  ?  [deed ; 

Pern.  This  is  the  man  should  do  the  bloody 
He  show'd  his  warrant  to  a  friend  of  mine : 
The  image  of  a  wicked  heinous  fault 
Lives  in  his  eye ;  that  close  aspect  of  his 
Doth  show  the  mood  of  a  much-troubled  breast ; 
And  I  do  fearfully  believe  'tis  done 
What  we  so  fear'd  he  had  •>.  charge  to  do.     [go 

Sal.  The  colour  of  the  king  doth  come  and 
Between  his  purpose  and  his  conscience, 
Like  heralds  'twixt  two  dreadful  battles  set: 
His  passion  is  so  ripe  it  needs  must  break. 

Pern.  And  when  it  breaks,  I  fear  will  issue 

thence 
The  foul  corruption  of  a  sweet  child's  death. 

1C.  John.  We  cannot  hold  mortality's  strong 

hand : — 

Good  lords,  although  my  will  to  give  is  living, 
The  suit  which  you  demand  is  gone  and  dead : 
He  tells  us  Arthur  is  deceas'd  to-night. 

Sal.  Indeed,  we  fear'd  his  sickness  was  past 
cure.  [he  was, 

Pern.  Indeed,  we  heard  how  near  his  death 
Before  the  child  himself  felt  he  was  sick : 
This  must  be  answer'd  either  here  or  hence. 

K.  John.    Why  do  you  bend  such  solemn 

brows  on  me? 

Think  you  I  bear  the  shears  of  destiny? 
Have  I  commandment  on  the  pulse  of  life? 

Sal.   It  is  apparent  foul-play ;  and  'tis  shame 
That  greatness  should  so  grossly  offer  it : 
So  thrive  it  in  your  game !  and  so,  farewell. 

Pent.  Stay  yet,  Lord  Salisbury ;  I  '11  go  with 

thee. 

And  find  the  inheritance  of  this  poor  child, 
His  little  kingdom  of  a  forced  grave.          [isle, 
That  blood  which  ow'd  the  breadth  of  all  this 
Three  foot  of  it  doth  hold: — bad  world  the 
while !  [out 

This  must  not  be  thus  borne :  this  will  break 
To  all  our  sorrows,  and  ere  long,  I  doubt 

\Exeunt  Lords. 


K.  John.  They  bum  in  indignation.     I  re- 
pent: 

There  is  no  sure  foundation  set  on  blood; 
No  certain  life  achiev'd  by  other's  death.— 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

A  fearful  eye  thou  hast :  where  is  that  blood 
That  I  have  seen  inhabit  in  those  cheeks? 
So  foul  a  sky  clears  not  without  a  storm : 
Pour  down  thy  weather: — how   goes  all    in 
France?  [a  power 

Mess.  From  France  to  England. — Never  such 
For  any  foreign  preparation 
Was  levied  in  the  body  of  a  land. 
The  copy  of  your  speed  is  learn'd  by  them ; 
For  when  you  should  be  told  they  do  prepare, 
The  tidings  come  that  they  are  all  arriv'd. 

K.John.  O,    where  hath  our    intelligence 

been  drunk?  [care, 

Where  hath  it  slept  ?     Where  is  my  mother's 

That  such  an  army  could  be  drawn  in  France, 

And  she  not  hear  of  it? 

Mess.  My  liege,  her  ear 

Is  stopp'd  with  dust ;  the  first  of  April  died 
Your  noble  mother:  and,  as  I  hear,  my  lord, 
The  Lady  Constance  in  a  frenzy  died     [tongue 
Three   days  before;    but   this  from  rumour's 
I  idly  heard, — if  true  or  false  I  know  not 

K.  John.    Withhold    thy    speed,    dreadful 

occasion ! 

O,  make  a  league  with  me,  till  I  have  pleas'd 
My  discontented  peers ! — What !  mother  dead ! 
How  wildly,  then,  walks  my  estate  in  France  ! — 
Under  whose  conduct  came  those  powers  of 

France 
That  thou  for  truth  giv'st  out  are  landed  here? 

Mess.  Under  the  Dauphin. 

K.  John.  Thou  hast  made  me  giddy 

With  these  ill  tidings. 

Enter  the  BASTARD  and  PETER  of  Pomfret. 

Now,  what  says  the  world 
To  your  proceedings?  do  not  seek  to  stuff 
My  head  with  more  ill  news,  for  it  is  fulL 

Bast.  But  if  you  be  afeared  to  hear  the  worst, 
Then  let  the  worst,  unheard,  fall  on  your  head. 

K.John.  Bear  with  me,  cousin;  for  I  was 

amaz'd 

Under  the  tide :  but  now  I  breathe  again 
Aloft  the  flood ;  and  can  give  audience 
To  any  tongue,  speak  it  of  what  it  will. 

Bast.  How  I  have  sped  among  the  clergymen, 
The  sums  I  have  collected  shall  express. 
But  as  I  travell'd  hither  through  the  land, 
I  find  the  people  strangely  fantasied ; 
Possess'd  with  rumours,  full  of  idle  dreams, 
Not  knowing  what  they  fear,  but  full  of  fears      I 


420 


KING  JOHN. 


[ACT  IV. 


And  here 's  a  prophet  that  I  brought  with  me 
From  forth  the  streets  of  Pomfret,  whom  I  found 
With  many  hundreds  treading  on  his  heels ; 
To  whom   he  sung,  in  rude  harsh -sounding 

rhymes, 

That,  ere  the  next  Ascension-day  at  noon, 
Your  highness  should  deliver  up  your  crown. 
K.  John.    Thou    idle    dreamer,   wherefore 
didst  thou  so?  [out  so. 

Peter.  Foreknowing  that  the  truth  will  fall 
K.  John.  Hubert,  away  with  him ;  imprison 

him; 

And  on  that  day  at  noon,  whereon  he  says 
I  shall  yield  up  my  crown,  let  him  be  hang'd. 
Deliver  him  to  safety;  and  return, 
For  I  must  use  thee. 

[Exit  HUBERT  with  PETER. 

O  my  gentle  cousin, 

Hear'st  thou  the  news  abroad,  who  are  arriv'd? 
Bast.  The  French,  my  lord ;  men's  mouths 

are  full  of  it : 

Besides,  I  met  Lord  Bigot  and  Lord  Salisbury, — 
With  eyes  as  red  as  new-enkindled  fire, — 
And  others  more,  going  to  seek  the  grave 
Of  Arthur,  whom  they  say  is  kill'd  to-night 
On  your  suggestion. 

K.  John.  Gentle  kinsman,  go 

And  thrust  thyself  into  their  companies : 
I  have  a  way  to  win  their  loves  again: 
Bring  them  before  me. 
Bast.  I  will  seek  them  out. 

K.John.  Nay,  but  make  haste;  the  better 

foot  before. 

O,  let  me  have  no  subject  enemies 
When  adverse  foreigners  affright  my  towns 
With  dreadful  pomp  of  stout  invasion  ! 
Be  Mercury,  set  feathers  to  thy  heels, 
And  fly  like  thought  from  them  to  me  again. 
Bast.  The  spirit  of  the  time  shall  teach  me 

speed. 

4       K.  John.  Spoke  like  a  spriteful  noble  gentle- 
man. [Exit  BASTARD. 
Go  after  him ;  for  he  perhaps  shall  need 
Some  messenger  betwixt  me  and  the  peers ; 
And  be  thou  he. 

Mess.       With  all  my  heart,  my  liege.    [Exit. 
K.  John.  My  mother  dead ! 

Re-enter  HUBERT. 

Hub.  My  lord,  they  say  five   moons  were 

seen  to-night ; 

Four  fixed ;  and  the  fifth  did  whirl  about 
The  other  four  in  wondrous  motion. 

K.  John.  Five  moons ! 

Hub.  Old  men  and  beldams  in  the  streets 
Do  prophesy  upon  it  dangerously :  [mouths : 
Young  Arthur's  death  is  common  in  their 


And  when  they  talk  of  him,  they  shake  their 

heads, 

And  whisper  one  another  in  the  ear ; 
And  he  that  speaks  doth  gripe  the  hearer's  wrist ; 
Whilst  he  that  hears  makes  fearful  action, 
With  wrinkled  brows,  with  nods,  with  rolling 

eyes. 

I  saw  a  smith  stand  with  his  hammer,  thus, 
The  whilst  his  iron  did  on  the  anvil  cool, 
With  open  mouth  swallowing  a  tailor's  news ; 
Who,  with  his  shears  and  measure  in  his  hand, 
Standing  on  slippers, — which  his  nimble  haste 
Had  falsely  thrust  upon  contrary  feet, — • 
Told  of  a  many  thousand  warlike  French 
That  were  embattailed  and  rank'd  in  Kent'. 
Another  lean  unwash'd  artificer 
Cuts  off  his  tale,  and  talks  of  Arthur's  death? 
K.John.  Why  seek'st  thou   to  possess  me 

with  these  fears? 

Why  urgest  thou  so  oft  young  Arthur's  death? 
Thy  hand  hath  murder'd  him :  I  had  a  mighty 

cause  [kill  him. 

To  wish  him  dead,   but  thou  hadst  none  to 

Hub.  No  hand,  my  lord !  why,  did  you  not 

provoke  me?  [tended 

K.  John.  It  is  the  curse  of  kings  to  be  at- 
By  slaves  that  take  their  humours  for  a  warrant 
To  break  within  the  bloody  house  of  life ; 
And,  on  the  winking  of  authority, 
To  understand  a  law ;  to  know  the  meaning 
Of  dangerous  majesty,  when  perchance  it  frowns 
More  upon  humour  than  advis'd  respect. 

Hub.  Here  is  your  hand  and  seal  for  what  I 

did. 
.  K.  John.  O,  when   the  last  account  'twixt 

heaven  and  earth 

Is  to  be  made,  then  shall  this  hand  and  seal 
Witness  against  us  to  damnation ! 
How  oft  the  sight  of  means  to  do  ill  deeds 
Make  ill  deeds  done !     Hadst  not  thou  been  by, 
A  fellow  by  the  hand  of  nature  mark'd, 
Quoted,  and  sign'd,  to  do  a  deed  of  shame, 
This  murder  had  not  come  into  my  mind : 
But,  taking  note  of  thy  abhorr'd  aspect, 
Finding  thee  fit  for  bloody  villany, 
Apt,  liable  to  be  employ'd  in  danger, 
I  faintly  broke  with  thee  of  Arthur's  death; 
And  thou,  to  be  endeared  to  a  king, 
Made  it  no  conscience  to  destroy  a  prince. 
Hub.  My  lord,— 
K.  John.  Hadst  thou  but  shook  thy  head, 

or  made  a  pause, 

When  I  spake  darkly  what  I  purpos'd, 
Or  turn'd  an  eye  of  doubt  upon  my  face, 
As  bid  me  tell  my  tale  in  express  words, 
Deep  shame  had  struck  me  dumb,  made  me 

break  off, 


SCENE  III.] 


KING  JOHN. 


421 


And  those  thy  fears  might  have  wrought  fears 

in  me: 

But  thou  didst  understand  me  by  my  signs, 
And  didst  in  signs  again  parley  with  sin ; 
Yea,  without  stop,  didst  let  thy  heart  consent, 
And  consequently  thy  rude  hand  to  act 
The  deed,  which  both  our  tongues  held  vile  to 

name. — 

Out  of  my  sight,  and  never  see  me  more ! 
My  nobles  leave  me ;  and  my  state  is  bravM, 
Even  at  my  gates,  with  ranks  of  foreign  powers : 
Nay,  in  the  body  of  this  fleshly  land, 
This  kingdom,  this  confine  of  blood  and  breath, 
Hostility  and  civil  tumult  reigns 
Between  my  conscience  and  my  cousin's  death. 
Hub.  Arm  you  against  your  other  enemies, 
I  '11  make  a  peace  between  your  soul  and  you. 
Young  Arthur  is  alive :  this  hand  of  mine 
Is  yet  a  maiden  and  an  innocent  hand, 
Not  painted  with  the  crimson  spots  of  blood. 
Within  this  bosom  never  enter'd  yet 
The  dreadful  motion  of  a  murderous  thought ; 
And  you  have  slander'd  nature  in  my  form,— 
Which,  howsoever  rude  exteriorly, 
Is  yet  the  cover  of  a  fairer  mind 
Than  to  be  butcher  of  an  innocent  child. 
K.John.  Doth  Arthur  live?    O,  haste  thee 

to  the  peers, 

Throw  this  report  on  their  incensed  rage, 
And  make  them  tame  to  their  obedience ! 
Forgive  the  comment  that  my  passion  made 
Upon  thy  feature ;  for  my  rage  was  blind, 
And  foul  imaginary  eyes  of  blood 
Presented  thee  more  hideous  than  thou  art. 
O,  answer  not ;  but  to  my  closet  bring 
The  angry  lords  with  all  expedient  haste : 
I  conjure  thee  but  slowly ;  run  more  fast. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  same.     Before  the  Castle. 
Enter  ARTHUR,  on  the  Walls. 

Arth.  The  wall  is  high,  and  yet  will  I  leap 

down : — 

Good  ground,  be  pitiful,  and  hurt  me  not ! — 
There 's  few  or  none  do  know  me :  if  they  did, 
This  ship-boy's  semblance  hath  disguis'd  me 

quite. 

I  am  afraid ;  and  yet  I  '11  venture  it 
If  I  get  down,  and  do  not  break  my  limbs, 
I  '11  find  a  thousand  shifts  to  get  away: 
As  good  to  die  and  go,  as  die  and  stay. 

[Leaps  down. 

O  me !  my  uncle's  spirit  is  in  these  stones : — 
Heaven  take  my  soul,  and  England  keep  my 

bones  I  [Dies. 


Enter  PEMBROKE,  SALISBURY,  and  BIGOT. 

Sal.   Lords,    I    will     meet    him    at    Saint 

Edmund's-Bury : 

It  is  our  safety,  and  we  must  embrace 
This  gentle  offer  of  the  perilous  time. 

Pern.  Who    brought   that   letter    from    the 

cardinal? 

Sal.  The  Count  Melun,  a  noble  lord  of  France; 
Whose  private  with  me  of  the  Dauphin's  love 
Is  much  more  general  than  these  lines  import. 
Big.  To-morrow  morning  let  us  meet  him, 

then. 

Sal.  Or  rather  then  set  forward ;  for  'twill  be 
Two  long  days'  journey,  lords,  or  e'er  we  meet. 

Enter  the  BASTARD. 

Bast.  Once  more  to-day  well  met,  distem- 

per'd  lords ! 
The  king  by  me  requests  your  presence  straight. 

Sal.  The  king  hath  disposse^'d  himself  of  us: 
We  will  not  line  his  thin  bestained  cloak 
With  our  pure  honours,  nor  attend  the  foot 
That  leaves  the  print  of  blood  where'er  it  walks. 
Return  and  tell  him  so :  we  know  the  worst. 

Bast.    Whate'er  you  think,  good  worcb,  I 
think,  were  best.  [now. 

Sal.  Our  griefs,  and  not  our  manners,  reason 

Bast.  But  there  is  little  reason  in  your  grief; 
Therefore  'twere  reason  you  had  manners  now. 

Pern.  Sir,  sir,  impatience  hath  his  privilege. 

Bast^  'Tis  true, — to  hurt  his  master,  no  man 
else. 

SaL  This  is  the  prison : — what  is  he  lies  here? 
[Seeing  ARTHUR. 

Pern.  O  death,  made  proud  with  pure  and 

princely  beauty ! 
The  earth  had  not  a  hole  to  hide  this  deed. 

Sal.   Murder,  as  hating  what  himself  hath 

done, 
Doth  lay  it  open  to  urge  on  revenge.      [grave, 

Big.  Or,  when  he  doom'd  this  beauty  to  a 
Found  it  too  precious-princely  for  a  grave. 

SaL  Sir  Richard,  what  think  you?    Have 

you  beheld, 

Or  have  you  read  or  heard?  or  could  you  think? 
Or  do  you  almost  think,  although  you  see, 
That  you  do  see?  could  thought,  without  this 

object, 

Form  such  another?    This  is  the  very  top, 
The  height,  the  crest,  or  crest  unto  the  crest 
Of  murder's  aims:  this  is  the  bloodiest  shame. 
The  wildest  savagery,  the  vilest  stroke, 
That  ever  wall-ey'd  wrath  or  staring  rage 
Presented  to  the  tears  of  soft  remorse.       [this : 

Pern.  All  murders  past  do  stand  excus'd  in 
And  this,  so  sole  and  so  unmatchable, 


422 


KING  JOHN. 


[ACT  iv. 


Shall  give  a  holiness,  a  purity, 
To  the  yet  un begotten  sin  of  times; 
And  prove  a  deadly  bloodshed  but  a  jest, 
Exampled  by  this  heinous  spectacle. 

Bast.   It  is  a  damned  and  a  bloody  work ; 
The  graceless  action  of  a  heavy  hand, — 
If  that  it  be  the  work  of  any  hand. 

Sal.  If  that  it  be  the  work  of  any  hand? — 
We  had  a  kind  of  light  what  would  ensue : 
It  is  the  shameful  work  of  Hubert's  hand ; 
The  practice  and  the  purpose  of  the  king: — 
From  whose  obedience  I  forbid  my  soul, 
Kneeling  before  this  ruin  of  sweet  life, 
And  breathing  to  his  breathless  excellence 
The  incense  of  a  vow,  a  holy  vow, 
Never  to  taste  the  pleasures  of  the  world, 
Never  to  be  infected  with  delight, 
Nor  conversant  with  ease  and  idleness, 
Till  I  have  set  a  glory  to  this  hand, 
By  giving  it  the  worship  of  revenge.       [words. 

Pern.  Big.  Our  souls  religiously  confirm  thy 

Enter  HUBERT. 

Hub.   Lords,  I  am  hot  with  haste  in  seeking 

you : 
Arthur  doth  live ;  the  king  hath  sent  for  you. 

Sal.  O,  he  is  bold,  and  blushes  not  at  death : — 
Avaunt,  thou  hateful  villain,  get  thee  gone ! 

Hub.  I  am  no  villain. 

Sal.  Must  I  rob  the  law? 

[Drawing  his  sword. 

Bast.  Your  sword  is  bright,  sir;   put  it  up 
again. 

Sal.  Not  till  I  sheathe  it  in  a  murderer's  skin. 

Httb.  Stand   back,    Lord   Salisbury, — stand 
back,  I  say;  [yours: 

By  heaven,  I  think   my  sword's  as  sharp  as 
I  would  not  have  you,  lord,  forget  yourself, 
Nor  tempt  the  danger  of  my  true  defence ; 
Lest  I,  by  marking  of  your  rage,  forget 
Your  worth,  your  greatness,  and  nobility. 

Big.  Out,    dunghill !    dar'st    thou   brave   a 
nobleman  ? 

Hub.  Not  for  my  life :  but  yet  I  dare  defend 
My  innocent  life  against  an  emperor. 

Sal.  Thou  art  a  murderer. 

Hub.  Do  not  prove  me  so ; 

Yet  I  am  none :  whose  tongue  soe'er  speaks  false, 
Not  truly  speaks ;  who  speaks  not  truly,  lies. 

Pern.  Cut  him  to  pieces. 

Bast.  Keep  the  peace,  I  say. 

Sal.  Stand  by,  or  I  shall  gall  you,  Falcon- 
bridge,  [bury : 

Bast.  Thou  wert  better  gall  the  devil,  Salis- 
If  thou  but  frown  on  me,  or  stir  thy  foot, 
Or  teach  thy  hasty  spleen  to  do  me  shame, 
I  '11  strike  thee  dead.    Put  up  thy  sword  betime : 


Or  I  '11  so  maul  you  and  your  toasting-iron 
That  you  shall  think  the  devil  is  come  from  hell. 

Big.  What  wilt  thou  do,  renowned  Falcon- 
bridge? 
Second  a  villain  and  a  murderer? 

Hub.  Lord  Bigot,  I  am  none. 

Big.  Who  kill'd  tfiis  prince? 

Hub.  'Tis  not  an  hour  since  I  left  him  well : 
I  honour'd  him,  I  lov'd  him ;  and  will  weep 
My  date  of  life  out  for  his  sweet  life's  loss. 

SaL  Trust  not  those  cunning  waters  of  his 

eyes, 

For  villany  is  not  without  such  rheum ; 
And  he,  long  traded  in  it,  makes  it  seem 
Like  rivers  of  remorse  and  innocency. 
Away  with  me,  all  you  whose  souls  abhor 
The  uncleanly  savours  of  a  slaughter-house ; 
For  I  am  stifled  with  this  smell  of  sin. 

Big.  Away  toward    Bury,  to   the   Dauphin 
there !  [out. 

Pern.  There,  tell  the  king,  he  may  inquire  us 
[Exeunt  Lords. 

Bast.  Here 's  a  good  world ! — Knew  you  of 

this  fair  work? 

Beyond  the  infinite  and  boundless  reach 
Of  mercy,  if  thou  didst  this  deed  of  death, 
Art  thou  damn'd,  Hubert. 

Hub.  Do  but  hear  me,  sir. 

Bast.   Ha !  I  '11  tell  thee  what ;  [black ; 

Thou'rt  damn'd  as  black — nay,  nothing  is  so 
Thou    art    more    deep  damn'd    than    Prince 

Lucifer : 

There  is  not  yet  so  ugly  a  fiend  of  hell 
As  thou  shalt  be,  if  thou  didst  kill  this  child. 

Htib.   Upon  my  soul, — 

Bast.  If  thou  didst  but  consent 

To  this  most  cruel  act,  do  but  despair ; 
And  if  thou  want'st  a  cord,  the  smallest  thread 
That  ever  spider  twisted  from  her  womb 
Will  serve  to  strangle  thee ;  a  rush  will  be 
A  beam   to   hang  thee   on;   or  wouldst   thou 

drown  thyself, 

Put  but  a  little  water  in  a  spoon, 
And  it  shall  be  as  all  the  ocean, 
Enough  to  stifle  such  a  villain  up. 
I  do  suspect  thee  very  grievously. 

Hub.   If  I  in  act,  consent,  or  sin  of  thought, 
Be  guilty  of  the  stealing  that  sweet  breath 
Which  was  embounded  in  this  beauteous  clay, 
Let  hell  want  pains  enough  to  torture  me ! 
I  left  him  well. 

Bast.  Go,  bear  him  in  thine  arms. — 

I  am  amaz'd,  methinks,  and  lose  my  way 
Among  the  thorns  and  dangers  of  this  world. — 
How  easy  dost  thou  take  all  England  up ! 
From  forth  this  morsel  of  dead  royalty, 
The  life,  the  right,  and  truth  of  all  this  realm 


SCENE  III.] 


KING  JOHN. 


423 


Is  fled  to  heaven ;  and  England  now  is  left 
To  tug  and  scamble,  and  to  part  by  the  teeth 
The  unow'd  interest  of  proud-swelling  state. 
Now  for  the  bare-picVd  bone  of  majesty 
Doth  dogged  war  bristle  his  angry  crest, 
And  snarleth  in  the  gentle  eyes  of  peace : 
Now  powers  from  home  and  discontents  at  home 
Meet  in  one  line ;  and  vast  confusion  waits, 
As  doth  a  raven  on  a  sick-fallen  beast, 
The  imminent  decay  of  wrested  pomp. 
Now  happy  he  whose  cloak  and  cincture  can 
Hold  out  this  tempest. — Bear  away  that  child, 
And  follow  me  with  speed :  I  '11  to  the  king : 
A  thousand  businesses  are  brief  in  hand, 
And  heaven  itself  doth  frown  upon  the  land. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — NORTHAMPTON.     A  Room  in  the 
Palace. 

Enter  KING  JOHN,  PANDULPH  -with  the  crown, 
and  Attendants. 

K.  John.  Thus  have  I  yielded  up  into  your 

hand 
The  circle  of  my  glory. 

Pand.  Take  again 

[Giving  KING  JOHN  the  crown. 
From  this  my  hand,  as  holding  of  the  pope, 
Your  sovereign  greatness  and  authority. 

K.John.    Now  keep  your  holy  word:    go 

meet  the  French ; 

And  from  his  holiness  use  all  your  power 
To  stop  their  marches  'fore  we  are  inflam'd. 
Our  discontented  counties  do  revolt ; 
Our  people  quarrel  with  obedience ; 
Swearing,  allegiance  and  the  love  of  soul 
To  stranger  blood,  to  foreign  royalty. 
This  inundation  of  mistemper'd  humour 
Rests  by  you  only  to  be  qualified. 
Then  pause  not ;  for  the  present  time 's  so  sick 
That  present  medicine  must  be  minister'd, 
Or  overthrow  incurable  ensues. 

Pand.    It   was   my   breath   that    blew    this 

tempest  up, 

Upon  your  stubborn  usage  of  the  pope : 
But  since  you  are  a  gentle  convertite, 
My  tongue  shall  hush  again  this  storm  of  war, 
And  make  fair  weather  in  your  blustering  land. 
On  this  Ascension-day,  remember  well. 
Upon  your  oath  of  service  to  the  pope, 
Go  I  to  make  the  French  lay  down  their  arms. 

[Exit. 

K.  John.    Is  this  Ascension-day?     Did  not 

the  prophet 
Say  that  before  Ascension-day  at  noon 


My  crown  I  should  give  off?     Even  so  I  have: 
I  did  suppose  it  should  be  on  constraint ; 
But,  heaven  be  thank'd,  it  is  but  voluntary. 

Enter  the  BASTARD. 

Bast.  All  Kent  hath  yielded;  nothing  there 

holds  out 

But  Dover  Castle :  London  hath  receiv'd, 
Like  a  kind  host,  the  Dauphin  and  his  powers  : 
Your  nobles  will  not  hear  you,  but  are  gone 
To  offer  service  to  your  enemy ; 
And  wild  amazement  hurries  up  and  down 
The  little  number  of  your  doubtful  friends. 
K.  John.  Would  not  my  lords  return  to  me 

again, 

After  they  heard  young  Arthur  was  alive? 
Bast.  They  found  him  dead,  and  cast  into  the 

streets ; 

An  empty  casket,  where  the  jewel  of  life 
By  some  damn'd  hand  was  robb'd  and  ta'en 

away.  [live. 

K.  John.  That  villain  Hubert  told  me  he  did 
Bast.  So,  on  my  soul,  he  did,  for  aught  he 

knew. 

But  wherefore  do  you  droop?  why  look  you  sad? 
Be  great  in  act,  as  you  have  been  in  thought ; 
Let  not  the  world  see  fear  and  sad  distrust 
Govern  the  motion  of  a  kingly  eye: 
Be  stirring  as  the  time ;  be  fire  with  fire ; 
Threaten  the  threatener,  and  outface  the  brow 
Of  bragging  horror :  so  shall  inferior  eyes, 
That  borrow  their  behaviours  from  the  great, 
Grow  great  by  your  example,  and  put  on 
The  dauntless  spirit  of  resolution. 
Away,  and  glister  like  the  god  of  war 
When  he  intendeth  to  become  the  field : 
Show  boldness  and  aspiring  confidence. 
What,  shall  they  seek  the  lion  in  his  den, 
And  fright  him  there?  and  make  him  tremble 

there? 

O,  let  it  not  be  said ! — Forage,  and  run 
To  meet  displeasure  further  from  the  doors, 
And  grapple  with  him  ere  he  come  so  nigh. 
K.  John.  The  legate  of  the  pope  hath  been 

with  me, 

And  I  have  made  a  happy  peace  with  him ; 
And  he  hath  promis'd  to  dismiss  the  powers 
Led  by  the  Dauphin. 

Bast.  O  inglorious  league  ! 

Shall  we,  upon  the  footing  of  our  land, 
Send  fair-play  orders,  and  make  compromise, 
Insinuation,  parley,  and  base  truce, 
To  arms  invasive?  shall  a  beardless  boy, 
A  cocker'd  silken  wanton,  brave  our  fields, 
And  flesh  his  spirit  in  a  warlike  soil, 
Mocking  the  air  with  colours  idly  spread, 
And  find  no  check  ?     Let  us,  my  liege,  to  arms: 


424 


KING  JOHN. 


[ACT  v. 


Perchance  the  cardinal  cannot  make  your  peace; 
Or,  if  he  do,  let  it  at  least  be  said, 
They  saw  we  had  a  purpose  of  defence. 

K.John.  Have   thou   the  ordering  of  this 
present  time.  [I  know, 

Bast.  Away,  then,  with  good  courage !  yet, 
Our  party  may  well  meet  a  prouder  foe. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Near  ST.  EDMUND'S-BURY. 
The  French  Camp. 

Enter,  in  arms,  Louis,  SALISBURY,  MELUN, 
PEMBROKE,  BIGOT,  and  Soldiers. 

Lou.  My  Lord  Melun,  let  this  be  copied  out, 
And  keep  it  safe  for  our  remembrance : 
Return  the  precedent  to  these  lords  again ; 
That,  having  our  fair  order  written  down, 
Both  they  and  we,  perusing  o'er  these  notes, 
May  know  wherefore  we  took  the  sacrament, 
And  keep  our  faiths  firm  and  inviolable. 

Sal.   Upon  our  sides  it  never  shall  be  broken. 
And,  noble  Dauphin,  albeit  we  swear 
A  voluntary  zeal  and  unurg'd  faith 
To  your  proceedings ;  yet,  believe  me,  prince, 
I  am  not  glad  that  such  a  sore  of  time 
Should  seek  a  plaster  by  contemn'd  revolt, 
And  heal  the  inveterate  canker  of  one  wound 
By  making  many.     O,  it  grieves  my  soul 
That  I  must  draw  this  metal  from  my  side 
To  be  a  widow-maker !     O,  aad  there 
Where  honourable  rescue  and  defence 
Cries  out  upon  the  name  of  Salisbury  i 
But  such  is  the  infection  of  the  time, 
That,  for  the  health  and  physic  of  our  right, 
We  cannot  deal  but  with  the  very  hand 
Of  stern  injustice  and  confused  wrong. — 
And  is 't  not  pity,  O  my  grieved  friends ! 
That  we,  the  sons  and  children  of  this  isle, 
Were  born  to  see  so  sad  an  hour  as  this ; 
Wherein  we  step  after  a  stranger- march 
Upon  her  gentle  bosom,  and  fill  up 
Her  enemies'  ranks — I  must  withdraw  and  weep 
Upon  the  spot  of  this  enforc'd  cause — 
To  grace  the  gentry  of  a  land  remote, 
And  follow  unacquainted  colours  here? 
What,  here? — O  nation,  that  thou  couldst  re- 
move! 

That  Neptune's  arms,  who  clippeth  thee  about, 
Would  bear  thee  from  the  knowledge  of  thyself, 
And  grapple  thee  unto  a  pagan  shore,  [bine 
Where  these  two  Christian  armies  might  com- 
The  blood  of  malice  in  a  vein  of  league, 
And  not  to  spend  it  so  unneighbourly ! 

Lou.  A  noble  temper  dost  thou  show  in  this; 
And  great  affections  wrestling  in  thy  bosom 
Do  make  an  earthquake  of  nobility. 


0,  what  a  noble  combat  hast  thou  fought 
Between  compulsion  and  a  brave  respect ! 
Let  me  wipe  off  this  honourable  dew 
That  silverly  doth  progress  on  thy  cheeks : 
My  heart  hath  melted  at  a  lady's  tears, 
Being  an  ordinary  inundation ; 

But  this  effusion  of  such  manly  drops, 
This  shower,  blown  up  by  tempest  of  the  soul, 
Startles  mine  eyes,  and  makes  me  more  amaz'd 
Than  had  I  seen  the  vanity  top  of  heaven 
Figur'd  quite  o'er  with  burning  meteors. 
Lift  up  thy  brow,  renowned  Salisbury, 
And  with  a  great  heart  heave  away  this  storm  : 
Commend  these  waters  to  those  baby  eyes 
That  never  saw  the  giant  world  enrag'd, 
Nor  met  with  fortune  other  than  at  feasts, 
Full  warm  of  blood,  of  mirth,  of  gossiping. 
Come,  come ;  for  thou  shalt  thrust  thy  hand  as 

deep 

Into  the  purse  of  rich  prosperity 
As  Louis  himself: — so,  nobles,  shall  you  all, 
That  knit  your  sinews  to  the  strength  of  mine. — 
And  even  there,  methinks,  an  angel  spake : 
Look,  where  the  holy  legate  comes  apace, 
To  give  us  warrant  from  the  hand  of  heaven, 
And  on  our  actions  set  the  name  of  right 
With  holy  breath. 

.    Enter  PANDULPH,  attended. 

Pand.  Hail,  noble  prince  of  France ! 

The  next  is  this, — King  John  hath  reconcil'd 
Himself  to  Rome;  his  spirit  is  come  in, 
That  so  stood  out  against  the  holy  church, 
The  great  metropolis  and  see  of  Rome : 
Therefore  thy  threatening  colours  now  wind  up, 
And  tame  the  savage  spirit  of  wild  war, 
That,  like  a  lion  foster'd  up  at  hand, 
It  may  lie  gently  at  the  foot  of  peacef 
And  be  no  further  harmful  than  in  show. 

Lou.  Your  grace  shall  pardon  me,  I  will  not 

back: 

I  am  too  high-born  to  be  propertied, 
To  be  a  secondary  at  control, 
Or  useful  serving-man  and  instrument 
To  any  sovereign  state  throughout  the  world. 
Your  breath  first  kindled  the  dead  coal  of  wars 
Between  this  chastis'd  kingdom  and  myself, 
And  brought  in  matter  that  should  feed  this  fire ; 
And  now  'tis  far  too  huge  to  be  blown  out 
With  that  same  weak  wind  which  enkindled  it. 
You  taught  me  how  to  know  the  face  of  right, 
Acquainted  me  with  interest  to  this  land, 
Yea,  thrust  this  enterprise  into  my  heart ; 
And  come  ye  now  to  tell  me  John  hath  made 
His  peace  with  Rome?     What  is  that  peace  to 
me? 

1,  by  the  honour  of  my  marriage-bed, 


SCENE  II.] 


KING  JOHN. 


425 


After 
And 


r  young  Arthur,  claim  this  land  for  mine ; 
,  now  it  is  half-conquer'd,  must  I  back 
Because  that  John  hath  made  his  peace  with 
Rome?  [borne, 

Am  I  Rome's  slave?     What  penny  hath  Rome 
What  men  provided,  what  munition  sent, 
To  underprop  this  action?     Is't  not  I 
That  undergo  this  charge?  who  else  but  I, 
And  such  as  to  my  claim  are  liable, 
Sweat  in  this  business  and  maintain  this  war. 
Have  I  not  heard  these  islanders  shout  out, 
Vive  le  roi!  as  I  have  bank'd  their  towns? 
Have  I  not  here  the  best  cards  for  the  game, 
To  win  this  easy  match  play'd  for  a  crown  ? 
And  shall  I  now  give  o'er  the  yielded  set? 
No,  no,  on  my  soul,  it  never  shall  be  said. 

Pand.  You  look  but  on  the  outside  of  this 
work. 

Lou.  Outside  or  inside,  I  will  not  return 
Till  my  attempt  so  much  be  glorified 
As  to  my  ample  hope  was  promised 
Before  I  drew  this  gallant  head  of  war, 
And  cull'd  these  fiery  spirits  from  the  world, 
To  outlook  conquest,  and  to  win  renown 
Even  in  the  jaws  of  danger  and  of  death. — 

[  Trumpet  sounds. 
What  lusty  trumpet  thus  doth  summon  us? 

Enter  the  BASTARD,  attended. 

Bast.  According  to  the  fair  play  of  the  world, 
Let  me  have  audience ;  I  am  sent  to  speak : — 
My  holy  lord  of  Milan,  from  the  king 
I  come,  to  learn  how  you  have  dealt  for  him ; 
And,  as  you  answer,  I  do  know  the  scope 
And  warrant  limited  unto  my  tongue. 

Pand.  The  Dauphin  is  too  wilful-opposite, 
And  will  not  temporize  with  my  entreaties; 
He  flatly  says  he  '11  not  lay  down  his  arms. 

Bast.  By  all  the  blood  that  ever  fury  breath'd, 
The  youth  says  well. — Now  hear  our  English 

king;  • 

For  thus  his  royalty  doth  speak  in  me. 
He  is  prepar'd ;  and  reason  too  he  should : 
This  apish  and  unmannerly  approach, 
This  harness'd  masque  and  unadvised  revel, 
This  unhair'd  sauciness  and  boyish  troops, 
The  king  doth  smile  at ;  and  is  well  prepar'd 
To  whip  this  dwarfish  war,  these  pigmy  arms, 
From  out  the  circle  of  his  territories.        [door, 
That  hand  which  had  the  strength,  even  at  your 
To  cudgel  you,  and  make  you  take  the  hatch ; 
To  dive,  like  buckets,  in  concealed  wells; 
To  crouch  in  litter  of  your  stable  planks ; 
To  lie,  like  pawns,  lock'd  up  in  chests  and 

trunks ; 

To  hug  with  swine ;  to  seek  sweet  safety  out 
In  vaults  and  prisons;  and  to  thrill  and  shake 


Even  at  the  crying  of  your  nation's  crow, 
Thinking  his  voice  an  armed  Englishman ; — 
Shall  that  victorious  hand  be  feebled  here, 
That  in  your  chambers  gave  you  chastisement  ? 
No :  know  the  gallant  monarch  is  in  arms ; 
And  li'  e  an  eagle  o'er  his  aery  towers, 
To  souse  annoyance  that  comes  near  his  nest. — 
And  you  degenerate,  you  ingrate  revolts, 
You  bloody  Neroes,  ripping  up  the  womb 
Of  your  dear  mother  England,  blush  for  shame ; 
For  your  own  ladies  and  pale-visag'd  maids, 
Like  Amazons,  come  tripping  after  drums, — 
Their  thimbles  into  armed  gauntlets  chang'd, 
Their  needles  to  lances,  and  their  gentle  hearts 
To  fierce  and  bloody  inclination.        [in  peace ; 

Loti.  There  end  thy  brave,  and  turn  thy  face 
We  grant  thou  canst  outscold  us :  fare  thee  well ; 
We  hold  our  time  too  precious  to  be  spent 
With  such  a  brabbler. 

Pand.  Give  me  leave  to  speak. 

Bast.  No,  I  will  speak. 

Lou.  We  will  attend  to  neither. — 

Strike  up  the  drums ;  and  let  the  tongue  of  war 
Plead  for  our  interest  and  our  being  here. 

Bast.  Indeed,  your  drums,  being  beaten,  will 

cry  out ; 

And  so  shall  you,  being  beaten :  do  but  start 
An  echo  with  the  clamour  of  thy  drum, 
And  even  at  hand  a  drum  is  ready  brac'd 
That  shall  reverberate  all  as  loud  as  thine ; 
Sound  but  another,  and  another  shall, 
As  loud  as  thine,  rattle  the  welkin's  ear, 
And  mock  the  deep-mouth'd  thunder:  for  at 

hand, — 

Not  trusting  to  this  halting  legate  here, 
WThom  he  hath  us'd  rather  for  sport  than  need,— 
Is  warlike  John ;  and  in  his  forehead  sits 
A  bare-ribb'd  death,  whose  office  is  this  day 
To  feast  upon  whole  thousands  of  the  French. 

Lou.  Strike  up  our  drums,  to  find  this  danger 
out. 

Bast.  And  thou  shalt  find  it,  Dauphin,  do  not 
doubt.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  same.     A  Field  of  Battle. 
Alarums.     Enter  KING  JOHN  and  HUBERT. 

K.John.  How  goes  the  day  with  us?    O, 

tell  me,  Hubert. 

Hub.  Badly,  I  fear.     How  fares  your  majesty? 
K.  John.  This  fever,  that  hath  troubled  me 

so  long, 
Lies  heavy  on  me ; — O,  my  heart  is  sick ' 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord,  your  valiant  kinsman,  Falcon- 
bridge, 


426 


KING  JOHN. 


[ACT  v. 


Desires  your  majesty  to  leave  the  field, 

And  send  him  word  by  me  which  way  you  go. 

K.  John.  Tell  him,  toward  Swinstead,  to  the 
abbey  there.  [supply 

Mess.  Be  of  good  comfort;    for   the   great 
That  was  expected  by  the  Dauphin  here 
Are  wreck'd  three  nights  ago  on  Good  win  Sands. 
This  news  was  brought  to  Richard  but  even  now : 
The  French  fight  coldly,  and  retire  themselves. 

K.  John.  Ay  me !  this  tyrant  fever  burns  me 

up, 

And  will  not  let  me  welcome  this  good  news. — 
Set  on  toward  Swinstead :  to  my  litter  straight ; 
Weakness  possesseth  me,  and  I  am  faint. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — The  same.     Another  part  of  the 
same. 

Enter  SALISBURY,  PEMBROKE,  and  others. 

Sal.  I  did  not  think  the  king  so  stor'd  with 

friends. 

Psm.  Up  once  again ;  put  spirit  in  the  French : 
If  they  miscarry  we  miscarry  too. 

Sal.  That  misbegotten  devil,  Falconbridge, 
In  spite  of  spite,  alone  upholds  the  day. 
Pern.  They  say  King  John,  sore  sick,  hath 
left  the  field. 

Enter  MELUN  wounded,  and  led  by  Soldiers. 

Mel.  Lead  me  to  the  revolts  of  England  here. 

Sal.  When  we  were   happy  we   had   other 
names. 

Pern.  It  is  the  Count  Melun. 

Sal.  Wounded  to  death. 

Mel.  Fly,  noble  English,  you  are  bought  and 

sold; 

Unthread  the  rude  eye  of  rebellion, 
And  welcome  home  again  discarded  faith. 
Seek  out  King  John,  and  fall  before  his  feet ; 
For  if  the  French  be  lords  of  this  loud  day, 
He  means  to  recompense  the  pains  you  take 
By  cutting  off  your  heads :  thus  hath  he  sworn, 
And  I  with  him,  and  many  more  with  me, 
Upon  the  altar  at  Saint  Edmund's-Bury ; 
Even  on  that  altar  where  we  swore  to  you 
Dear  amity  and  everlasting  love. 

Sal.  May  this  be  possible?  may  this  be  true? 

Mel.  Have  I  not  hideous  death  within  my 

view, 

Retaining  but  a  quantity  of  life, 
Which  bleeds  away  even  as  a  form  ot  wax 
Resolveth  from  his  figure  'gainst  the  fire? 
What  in  the  world  should  make  me  now  deceive, 
Since  I  must  lose  the  use  of  all  deceit? 
Why  should  I  then  be  false,  since  it  is  true 
That  I  must  die  here,  and  live  hence  by  truth  ? 


I  say  again,  if  Louis  do  win  the  day, 

He  is  forsworn  if  e'er  those  eyes  of  yours 

Behold  another  day  break  in  the  east : 

But  even  this  night, — whose  black  contagious 

breath 

Already  smokes  about  the  burning  crest 
Of  the  old,  feeble,  and  day- wearied  sun, — 
Even  this  ill  night,  your  breathing  shall  expire; 
Paying  the  fine  of  rated  treachery 
Even  with  a  treacherous  fine  of  all  your  lives, 
If  Louis  by  your  assistance  win  the  day. 
Commend  me  to  one  Hubert,  with  your  king ; 
The  love  of  him, — and  this  respect  besides, 
For  that  my  grandsire  was  an  Englishman, — 
Awakes  my  conscience  to  confess  all  this. 
In  lieu  whereof,  I  pray  you,  bear  me  hence 
From  forth  the  noise  and  rumour  of  the  field, 
Where  I  may  think  the  remnant  of  my  thoughts 
In  peace,  and  part  this  body  and  my  soul 
With  contemplation  and  devout  desires,     [soul 
Sal.  We  do  believe  thee: — and  beshrew  my 
But  I  do  love  the  favour  and  the  form 
Of  this  most  fair  occasion,  by  the  which 
We  will  entread  the  steps  of  damned  flight ; 
And,  like  a  bated  and  retired  flood, 
Leaving  our  rankness  and  irregular  course, 
Stoop  low  within  those  bounds  we  have  o'er- 

look'd, 

And  calmly  run  on  in  obedience, 
Even  to  our  ocean,  to  our  great  King  John. — 
My  arm  shall  give  thee  help  to  bear  thee  hence ; 
For  I  do  see  the  cruel  pangs  of  death 
Right  in  thine  eye. — Away,  my  friends!     New 

flight, 
And  happy  newness,  that  intends  old  right. 

\Exeunt>  leading  off "  MELUN. 

SCENE  V.—The  same.     The  French  Camp. 
Enter  Louis  and  his  train. 

Lou.  The  sun  of  heaven  methought  was  loth 

to  set, 

But  stay'd,  and  made  the  western  welkin  blush, 
When  the  English  measur'd  backward  their  own 

ground 

In  faint  retire.     O,  bravely  came  we  off, 
When  with  a  volley  of  our  needless  shot, 
After  such  bloody  toil,  we  bid  good-night; 
And  wound  our  tattering  colours  clearly  up, 
Last  in  the  field,  and  almost  lords  of  it ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Where  is  my  prince,  the  Dauphin? 
Lou.  Here: — what  news? 

Mess.  The  Count  Melun  is  slain ;  the  English 

lords, 
By  his  persuasion  are  again  fallen  off  j 


SCENE  VI.] 


KING  JOHN. 


427 


And  your  supply,  which  you  havewish'd  so  long, 
Are  cast  away  and  sunk  on  Goodwin  Sands. 
Lou.  Ah,  foul  shrewd  news! — beshrew  thy 

very  heart ! — 

I  did  not  think  to  be  so  sad  to-night 
As  this  hath  made  me. — Who  was  he  that  said 
King  John  did  fly  an  hour  or  two  before 
The  stumbling  night  did  part  our  weary  powers? 
Mess.  Whoever  spoke  it,  it  is  true,  my  lord. 
Lou.  Well ;  keep  good  quarter  and  good  care 

to-night ; 

The  day  shall  not  be  up  so  soon  as  I, 
To  try  the  fair  adventure  of  to-morrow. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI. — An  open  Place  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Sivinstead  Abbey. 

Enter  the  BASTARD  and  HUBERT,  meeting. 

Hub.  Who 's  there?  speak,  ho!  speak  quickly, 
or  I  shoot. 

Bast.  A  friend.— What  art  thou? 

Hub.  Of  the  part  of  England. 

Bast.  Whither  dost  thou  go? 

Hub.  What 's  that  to  thee?     Why  may  I  not 

demand 
Of  thine  affairs,  as  well  as  thou  of  mine? 

Bast.  Hubert,  I  think. 

Hub.  Thou  hast  a  perfect  thought : 

I  will,  upon  all  hazards,  well  believe  [well. 
Thou  art  my  friend,  that  know'st  my  tongue  so 
Who  art  thou? 

Bast.          Who  thou  wilt :  an  if  thou  please, 
Thou  mayst  befriend  me  so  much  as  to  think 
I  come  one  way  of  the  Plantagenets. 

Hub.  Unkind  remembrance !  thou  and  eye- 
less night  [me, 
Have  done  me  shame : — brave  soldier,  pardon 
That  any  accent  breaking  from  thy  tongue 
Should  'scrpe  the  true  acquaintance  of  mine  ear. 

Bast.  Come,  come;  sans  compliment,  what 
news  abroad?  [night, 

Hub.  Why,  here  walk  I,  in  the  black  brow  of 
To  find  you  out. 

Bast.         Brief,  then;  and  what's  the  news? 

Hub.  O,  my  sweet  sir,  news  fitting  to  the  night, 
Black,  fearful,  comfortless,  and  horrible. 

Bast.  Show  me  the  very  wound  of  this  ill  news; 
I  am  no  woman,  I  '11  not  swoon  at  it. 

Httb.  The  king,  I  fear,  is  poison'd  by  a  monk : 
I  left  him  almost  speechless  and  broke  out 
To  acquaint  you  with  this  evil,  that  you  might 
The  better  arm  you  to  the  sudden  time, 
Than  if  you  had  at  leisure  known  of  this. 

Bast.  How  did  he  take  it ;  who  did  taste  to 
him? 

Hub.  A  monk,  I  tell  you ;  a  resolved  villain, 


Whose  bowels  suddenly  burst  out :  the  king 
Yet  speaks,  and  peradventure  may  recover. 

Bast.  Who  didst   thou    leave    to  tend  his 
majesty?  [come  back, 

Hub.  Why,  know  you  not?  the  lords  are  all 
And  brought  Prince  Henry  in  their  company ; 
At  whose  request  the  king  hath  pardon'd  them, 
And  they  are  all  about  his  majesty.       [heaven, 

Bast.  Withhold   thine   indignation,    mighty 
And  tempt  us  not  to  bear  above  our  power ! — 
I  '11  tell  thee,  Hubert,  half  my  power  this  night, 
Passing  these  flats,  are  taken  by  the  tide, — 
These  Lincoln  washes  have  devoured  them : 
Myself,  well-mounted,  hardly  have  escap'd. 
Away,  before !  conduct  me  to  the  king ; 
I  doubt  he  will  be  dead  or  ere  I  come. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII. — The  Orchardof Sivinstead  Abbey. 

Enter  PRINCE  HENRY,  SALISBURY,  and 
BIGOT. 

P.  Hen.  It  is  too  late :  the  life  of  all  his  blood 
Is  touch'd  corruptibly;  and  his  pure  brain, — 
Which  some  suppose  the  soul's  frail  dwelling- 
house, — 

Doth,  by  the  idle  comments  that  it  makes, 
Foretell  the  ending  of  mortality. 

Enter  PEMBROKE. 

Pern.    His  highness  yet   doth  speak;    and 

holds  belief 

That,  being  brought  into  the  open  air, 
It  would  allay  the  burning  quality 
Of  that  fell  poison  which  assaileth  him. 

P.  Hen.  Let  him  be  brought  into  the  orchard 

here. — 
Doth  he  still  rage?  [Exit  BIGOT. 

Pern.  He  is  more  patient 

Than  when  you  left  him ;  even  now  he  sung. 

P.  Hen.  O  vanity  of  sickness !  fierce  extremes 
In  their  continuance  will  not  feel  themselves. 
Death,  having  prey'd  upon  the  outward  parts, 
Leaves  them  invisible ;  and  his  siege  is  now 
Against  the  mind,  the  which  he  pricks  and 

wounds 

With  many  legions  of  strange  fantasies, 
Which,  in  their  throng  and  press  to  that  last 
hold,  [should  sing. — 

Confound  themselves.     'Tis  strange  that  death 
I  am  the  cygnet  to  this  pale  faint  swan, 
Who  chants  a  doleful  hymn  to  his  own  death  ; 
And  from  the  organ-pipe  of  frailty  sings 
His  soul  and  body  to  their  lasting  rest,      [born 

Sal.  Be  of  good  comfort,  prince ;  for  you  are 
To  set  a  form  upon  that  indigest 
Which  he  hath  left  so  shapeless  and  so  rude. 


428 


KING  JOHN. 


[ACT  v. 


Re-enter  BIGOT  and  Attendants,  who  bring  in 
KING  JOHN  in  a  chair. 

K.  John.    Ay,    marry,  now   my  soul   hath 

elbow-room ; 

It  would  not  out  at  windows  nor  at  doors. 
There  is  so  hot  a  summer  in  my  bosom 
That  all  my  bowels  crumble  up  to  dust ; 
I  am  a  scribbled  form,  drawn  with  a  pen 
Upon  a  parchment ;  and  against  this  fire 
Do  I  shrink  up. 

P.  Hen.         How  fares  your  majesty? 
K.John.  Poison'd, — ill  fare  ; — dead,  forsook, 

cast  off: 

And  none  of  you  will  bid  the  winter  come, 
To  thrust  his  icy  fingers  in  my  maw ; 
Nor  let  my  kingdom's  rivers  take  their  course 
Through  my  burn'd  bosom ;  nor  entreat  the  north 
To  make  his  bleak  winds  kiss  my  parched  lips, 
And  comfort  me  with  cold  : — I  do  not  ask  you 

much; 

I  beg  cold  comfort ;  and  you  are  so  strait, 
And  so  ingrateful,  you  deny  me  that. 

P.  Hen.  O,  that  there  were  some  virtue  in  my 

tears, 
That  might  relieve  you ! 

K.John.  The  salt  in  them  is  hot. — 

Within  me  is  a  hell ;  and  there  the  poison 
Is,  as  a  fiend,  confin'd  to  tyrannize 
On  unreprievable  condemned  blood. 

Enter  the  BASTARD. 

Bast.  O,  I  am  scalded  with  my  violent  motion, 
And  spleen  of  speed  to  see  your  majesty  ! 
K.  John.  O  cousin,  thou  art  come  to  set  mine 

eye: 

The  tackle  of  my  heart  is  crack'd  and  burn'd  ; 
And  all  the  shrouds,  wherewith  my  life  should 

sail, 

Are  turned  to  one  thread,  one  little  hair  : 
My  heart  hath  one  poor  string  to  stay  it  by, 
Which  holds  but  till  thy  news  be  uttered ; 
And  then  all  this  thou  seest  is  but  a  clod, 
And  model  of  confounded  royalty. 

Bast.  The  Dauphin  is  preparing  hitherward, 
Where  heaven  he  knows  how  we  shall  answer 

him; 

For  in  a  night  the  best  part  of  my  power, 
As  I  upon  advantage  did  remove, 
Were  in  the  washes  all  unwarily 
Devoured  by  the  unexpected  flood. 

\The  KING  dies. 

Sal.  You  breathe  these  dead  news  in  as  dead 

an  ear.  [thus. 

My  liege !  my  lord ! — But  now  a  king, — now 

P.  Hen.  Even  so  must  I  run  on,  and  even  so 

stop, 


What  surety  of  the  world,  what  hope,  what  stay, 
When  this  was  now  a  king,  and  now  is  clay ! 

Bast.  Art  thou  gone  so?  I  do  but  stay  behind 
To  do  the  office  for  thee  of  revenge, 
And  then  my  soul  shall  wait  on  thee  to  heaven, 
As  it  on  earth  hath  been  thy  servant  still. — 
Now,  now,  you  stars  that  move  in  your  right 
spheres,  [faiths ; 

Where  be  your  powers  ?  Show  now  your  mended 
And  instantly  return  with  me  again, 
To  push  destruction  and  perpetual  shame 
Out  of  the  weak  door  of  our  fainting  land. 
Straight  let  us  seek,  or  straight  we  shall  besought; 
The  Dauphin  rages  at  our  very  heels. 

Sal.  It  seems  you  know  not,  then,  so  much 

as  we: 

The  Cardinal  Pandulph  is  within  at  rest, 
Who  half  an  hour  since  came  from  the  Dauphin, 
And  brings  from  him  such  offers  of  our  peace 
As  we  with  honour  and  respect  may  take, 
With  purpose  presently  to  leave  this  war. 

Bast.  He  will  the  rather  do  it  when  he  sees 
Ourselves  well  sinewed  to  our  defence. 

Sal.  Nay,  it  is  in  a  manner  done  already ; 
For  many  carriages  he  hath  despatch 'd 
To  the  sea-side,  and  put  his  cause  and  quarrel 
To  the  disposing  of  the  cardinal : 
With  whom  yourself,  myself,  and  other  lords, 
If  you  think  meet,  this  afternoon  will  post 
To  consummate  this  business  happily. 

Bast.  Let  it  be  so: — And  you,  my  noble  prince, 
With  other  princes  that  may  best  be  spar'd, 
Shall  wait  upon  your  father's  funeral. 

P.  Hen,  At  Worcester  must  his  body  be  in- 

tsrr'd ; 
For  so  he  will'd  it. 

Bast.  Thither  shall  it,  then  : 

And  happily  may  your  sweet  self  put  on 
The  lineal  state  and  glory  of  the  land ! 
To  whom,  with  all  submission,  on  my  knee, 
I  do  bequeath  my  faithful  services 
And  true  subjection  everlastingly. 

Sal.  And  the  like  tender  of  our  love  we  make, 
To  rest  without  a  spot  for  evermore. 

P.  Hen.  I  have  a  kind  soul  that  would  give 

you  thanks, 
And  knows  not  how  to  do  it  but  with  tears. 

Bast.  O,  let  us  pay  the  time  but  needful  woe, 
Since  it  hath  been  beforehand  with  our  griefs. — 
This  England  never  did,  nor  never  shall, 
Lie  at  the  proud  foot  of  a  conqueror, 
But  when  it  first  did  help  to  wound  itself. 
Now  these  her  princes  are  come  home  again, 
Come  the  three  corners  of  the  world  in  arms, 
And  we  shall  shock  them :  nought  shall  make 

us  rue, 
If  England  to  itself  do  rest  but  true.     [Exeunt. 


THE   LIFE   AND   DEATH   OF 
KING  RICHARD  II. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 

EDMUND  OF  LANGLEY,  Duke  of\ 

York.  [Uncles  to 

JOHN  OF  GAUNT,  Duke  of  Lan- 1  the  King, 
caster^  } 

HENRY,  surnamed  BOLINGBROKE,  Duke  of 
Hereford,  Son  to  JOHN  OF  GAUNT,  after- 
wards KING  HENRY  IV. 

DUKE  OF  AUMERLE,  Son  to  the  Duke  of  York. 

THOMAS  MOWBRAY,  Duke  of  Norfolk. 

DUKE  OF  SURREY. 

EARL  OF  SALISBURY. 

EARL  BERKLEY. 

BUSHY,   ) 

BAGOT,    >  Creatures  to  KING  RICHARD. 

GREEN,  ) 

EARL  OF  NORTHUMBERLAND. 

HENRY  PERCY,  his  Son. 


LORD  Ross. 

LORD  WILLOUGHBY. 

LORD  FITZWATER. 

BISHOP  OF  CARLISLE. 

ABBOT  OF  WESTMINSTER. 

Lord  Marshal. 

SIR  PIERCE  OF  EXTON. 

SIR  STEPHEN  SCROOP. 

Captain  of  a  Band  of  Welshmen. 

QUEEN  to  KING  RICHARD. 
DUCHESS  OF  GLOSTER. 
DUCHESS  OF  YORK. 
Lady  attending  on  the  QUEEN. 

Lords,  Heralds,  Officers,  Soldiers,  Two  Gar* 
deners,  Keeper,  Messenger,  Groom,  and 
other  Attendants. 


SCENE, — Dispersediy  in  ENGLAND  and  WALES. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — LONDON.    A  Room  in  the 
Palace. 

Enter  KING  RICHARD,  attended;  JOHN  OF 
GAUNT,  and  other  Nobles. 

K.  Rich.  Old  John  of  Gaunt,  time-honour'd 

Lancaster, 

Hast  thou,  according  to  thy  oath  and  band, 
Brought  hither  Henry  Hereford,  thy  bold  son, 
Here  to  make  good  the  boisterous  late  appeal, 
Which  then  our  leisure  would  not  let  us  hear, 
Against  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  Thomas  Mow- 
bray? 

Gaunt.  I  have,  my  liege.         [sounded  him, 
K.  Rich.    Tell    me,    moreover,   hast    thou 
If  he  appeal  the  duke  on  ancient  malice ; 
Or  worthily,  as  a  good  subject  should, 
On  some  known  ground  of  treachery  in  him? 
Gaunt.  As  near  as  I  could  sift  him  on  that 

argument, — 

On  some  apparent  danger  seen  in  him, 
Aim'd  at  your  highness, — no  inveterate  malice. 
K.  Rich.  Then  call  them  to  our  presence: 
face  to  face. 


And  frowning  brow  to  brow,  ourselves  wiT 

hear 
The  accuser  and  the  accused  freely  speak : — 

[ Exeunt  some  Attendants. 
High-stomach'd  are  they  both,  and  full  of  ire, 
In  rage  deaf  as  the  sea,  hasty  as  fire. 

Re-enter  Attendants,  with  BOLINGBROKE  and 
NORFOLK. 

Baling.  Many  years  of  happy  days  befall 
My  gracious  sovereign,  my  most  loving  liege! 

Nor.  Each  day  still  better  other's  happiness; 
Until  the  heavent,  envying  earth's  good  hap, 
Add  an  immortal  title  to  your  crown  1 

K.  Rich.  We  thank  you  both :  yet  one  but 

flatters  us, 

As  well  appeareth  by  the  cause  you  come ; 
Namely,  to  appeal  each  other  of  high  treason. — 
Cousin  of  Hereford,  what  dost  thou  object 
Against  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  Thomas  Mow- 
bray?  [speech  !— - 

Baling.  First, — heaven  be  the  record  to  my 
In  the  devotion  of  a  subject's  love, 
Tendering  the  precious  safety  of  my  prince, 
And  free  from  other  misbegotten  hate, 
Come  I  appellant  to  this  princely  presence. — 


430 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


[ACT  I. 


Now,  Thomas  Mowbray,  do  I  turn  to  thee ; 
And  mark  my  greeting  well ;  for  what  I  speak, 
My  body  shall  make  good  upon  this  earth. 
Or  my  divine  soul  answer  it  in  heaven. 
Thou  art  a  traitor  and  a  miscreant ; 
Too  good  to  be  so,  and  too  bad  to  live ; 
Since  the  more  fair  and  crystal  is  the  sky, 
The  uglier  seem  the  clouds  that  in  it  fly. 
Once  more,  the  more  to  aggravate  the  note, 
With  a  foul  traitor's  name  stuff  I  thy  throat ; 
And  wish, — so  please  my  sovereign, — ere   I 
move,  [may  prove. 

What  my  tongue  speaks,  my  right-drawn  sword 

Nor.  Let  not  my  cold  words  here  accuse  my 

zeal: 

'Tis  not  the  trial  of  a  woman's  war, 
The  bitter  clamour  of  two  eager  tongues, 
Can  arbitrate  this  cause  betwixt  us  twain  : 
The  blood  is  hot  that  must  be  cool'd  for  this : 
Yet  can  I  not  of  such  tame  patience  boast 
As  to  be  hush'd,  and  naught  at  all  to  say:  [me 
First,  the  fair  reverence  of  your  highness  curbs 
From  giving  reins  and  spurs  to  my  free  speech ; 
Which  else  would  post  until  it  had  return'd 
These  terms  of  treason  doubled  down  his  throat. 
Setting  aside  his  high  blood's  royalty, 
And  let  him  be  no  kinsman  to  my  liege 
I  do  defy  him,  and  I  spit  at  him ; 
Call  him  a  slanderous  coward  and  a  villain : 
Which  to  maintain,  I  would  allow  him  odds ; 
And  meet  him,  were  I  tied  to  run  a-foot 
Even  to  the  frozen  ridges  of  the  Alps, 
Or  any  other  ground  inhabitable, 
Wherever  Englishman  durst  set  his  foot. 
Meantime  let  this  defend  my  loyalty, — 
By  all  my  hopes,  most  falsely  doth  he  lie. 

Baling.  Pale  trembling  coward,  there  I  throw 

my  gage, 

Disclaiming  here  the  kindred  of  the  king ; 
And  lay  aside  my  high  blood's  royalty,     [cept. 
Which  fear,  not  reverence,  makes  thee  to  ex- 
If  guilty  dread  hath  left  thee  so  much  strength 
As  to  take  up  mine  honour's  pawn,  then  stoop: 
By  that  and  all  the  rites  of  knighthood  else, 
Will  I  make  good  against  thee,  arm  to  arm, 
What  I  have  spoke,  or  thou  canst  worst  devise. 

Nor.  I   take  it  up;    and  by  that  sword  I 
swear,  [shoulder, 

Which   gently   laid    my  knighthood    on    my 
I  '11  answer  thee  in  any  fair  degree, 
Or  chivalrous  design  of  knightly  trial : 
And  when  I  mount,  alive  m  y  I  not  light, 
If  I  be  traitor  or  unjustly  fight ! 

K.  Rich.    What    doth    our    cousin    lay   to 

Mowbray's  charge? 
It  must  be  great,  that  can  inherit  us 
So  much  as  of  a  thought  of  ill  in  him. 


Boling.  Look,  what  I  speak  my  life  shall 
prove  it  true ; —  [nobles, 

That  Mowbray  hath  receiv'd  eight  thousand 
In  name  of  lendings  for  your  highness'  soldiers, 
The  which  he  hath  detain'd  for  lewd  employ- 
ments, 

Like  a  false  traitor  and  injurious  villain. 
Besides,  I  say,  and  will  in  battle  prove, — 
Or  here,  or  elsewhere  to  the  farthest  verge 
That  ever  was  survey'd  by  English  eye, — 
That  all  the  treasons  for  these  eighteen  years 
Complotted  and  contrived  in  this  land 
Fetch'd  from  false  Mowbray  their  first  head 

and  spring. 

Further,  I  say, — and  further  will  maintain 
Upon  his  bad  life  to  make  all  this  good, — 
That  he  did  plot  the  Duke  of  Gloster's  death ; 
Suggest  his  soon-believing  adversaries, 
And  consequently,  like  a  traitor  coward, 
Sluic'd  out  his  innocent  soul  through  streams 

of  blood : 

Which  blood,  like  sacrificing  Abel's,  cries, 
Even  from  the  tongueless  caverns  of  the  earth, 
To  me  for  justice  and  rough  chastisement ; 
And,  by  the  glorious  worth  of  my  descent, 
This  arm  shall  do  it,  or  this  life  be  spent ! 
K.  Rich.  How  high  a  pitch  his  resolution 

soars ! — 
Thomas  of  Norfolk,  what  say'st  thou  to  this? 

Nor.  O,  let  my  sovereign  turn  away  his  face, 
And  bid  his  ears  a  little  while  be  deaf, 
Till  I  have  told  this  slander  of  his  blood, 
How  God  and  good  men  hate  so  foul  a  liar. 
K.  Rich.  Mowbray,  impartial  are  our  eyes 

and  ears : 

Were  he  my  brother,  nay,  my  kingdom's  heir, — 
As  he  is  but  my  father's  brother's  son, — 
Now,  by  my  sceptre's  awe,  I  make  a  vow, 
Such  neighbour-nearness  to  our  sacred  blood 
Should  nothing  privilege  him,  nor  partialize 
The  unstooping  firmness  of  my  upright  soul : 
He  is  our  subject,  Mowbray,  so  art  thou ; 
Free  speech  and  fearless  I  to  thee  allow. 

Nor.  Then,  Bolingbroke,  as  low  as  to  thy 
heart,  [liest ! 

Through  the  false  passage  of  thy  throat,  thou 
Three  parts  of  that  receipt  I  had  for  Calais 
Disburs'd  I  duly  to  his  highness'  soldiers ; 
The  other  part  reserv'd  I  by  consent, 
For  that  my  sovereign  liege  was  in  my  debt 
Upon  remainder  of  a  dear  account, 
Since  last  I  went  to  France  to  fetch  his  queen : 
Now  swallow  down  that   lie! — For   Gloster's 

death, — 

I  slew  him  not ;  but,  to  mine  own  disgrace, 
Neglected  my  sworn  duty  in  that  case. — 
For  you,  my  noble  Lord  of  Lancaster, 


SCENE  I.] 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


431 


The  honourable  father  to  my  foe, 

Once  did  I  lay  an  ambush  for  your  life, 

A  trespass  that  doth  vex  my  grieved  soul : 

But,  ere  I  last  receiv'd  the  sacrament, 

I  did  confess  it ;  and  exactly  begg'd 

Your  grace's  pardon,  and  I  hope  I  had  it. 

This  is  my  fault :  as  for  the  rest  appeal'd, 

It  issues  from  the  rancour  of  a  villain, 

A  recreant  and  most  degenerate  traitor : 

Which  in  myself  I  boldly  will  defend ; 

And  interchangeably  hurl  down  my  gage 

Upon  this  overweening  traitor's  foot, 

To  prove  myself  a  loyal  gentleman 

Even  in  the  best  blood  chamber'd  in  his  bosom. 

In  haste  whereof,  most  heartily  I  pray 

Your  highness  to  assign  our  trial  day. 

K.  Rich.  Wrath-kindled  gentlemen,  be  ml'd 

by  me; 

Let 's  purge  this  choler  without  letting  blood : 
This  we  prescribe,  though  no  physician; 
Deep  malice  makes  too  deep  incision : 
Forget,  forgive ;  conclude,  and  be  agreed ; 
Our  doctors  say  this  is  no  time  to  bleed. — 
Good  uncle,  let  this  end  where  it  begun ; 
We  '11  calm  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  you  your  son. 

Gaunt.  To  be  a  make-peace  shall  become 

my  age :—  [gage. 

Throw  down,  my  son,  the  Duke  of  Norfolk's 

K.  Rich.  And,  Norfolk,  throw  down  his. 

Gaunt.  When,  Harry?  when? 

Obedience  bids  I  should  not  bid  again. 

K.  Rich.   Norfolk,    throw   down;    we   bid; 
there  is  no  boot. 

Nor.  Myself  I  throw,  dread  sovereign  at  thy 

foot: 

My  life  thou  shalt  command,  but  not  my  shame : 
The  one  -tiy  duty  owes ;  but  my  fair  name, — 
Despite  of  death,  that  lives  upon  my  grave, — 
To  dark  dishonour's  use  thou  shalt  not  have. 
I  am  disgrac'd,  impeach'd,  and  baffled  here; 
Pierc'd  to  the  soul  with  slander's  venom'd  spear, 
The  which  no  balm  can  cure  but  his  heart-blood 
Which  breath'd  this  poison. 

K.  Rich.  Rage  must  be  withstood : 

Give  me  his  gage : — lions  make  leopards  tame. 

Nor.  Yea,  but  not  change  his  spots:   take 

but  my  shame, 

And  I  resign  my  gage.     My  dear  dear  lord, 
The  purest  treasure  mortal  times  afford 
Is  spotless  reputation ;  that  away, 
Men  are  but  gilded  loam  or  painted  clay. 
A  jewel  in  a  ten-times-barr'd-up  chest 
Is  a  bold  spirit  in  a  loyal  breast. 
Mine  honour  is  my  life ;  both  grow  in  one ; 
Take  honour  from  me,  and  my  life  is  done : 
Then,  dear  my  liege,  mine  honour  let  me  try ; 
In  that  I  live,  and  for  that  will  I  die. 


K.  Rich.  Cousin,  throw  down  your  gage ;  do 
you  begin.  [foul  sin ! 

Doling.  O,  God  defend  my  soul  from  such 
Shall  I  seem  crest-fallen  in  my  father's  sight? 
Or  with  pale  beggar-fear  impeach  my  height 
Before  this  outdar'd  dastard?     Ere  my  tongue 
Shall  wound  mine  honour  with  such  feeble  wrong, 
Or  sound  so  base  a  parle,  my  teeth  shall  tear 
The  slavish  motive  of  recanting  fear ; 
And  spit  it  bleeding  in  his  high  disgrace, 
Where  shame  doth  harbour,   even   in   Mow- 
bray's  face !  [Exit  GAUNT. 

K.  Rich.  We  were  not  born  to  sue,  but  to 

command ; — 

Which  since  we  cannot  do  to  make  you  friends, 
Be  ready,  as  your  lives  shall  answer  it, 
At  Coventry,  upon  Saint  Lambert's  day: 
There  shall  your  swords  and  lances  arbitrate 
The  swelling  difference  of  your  settled  hate: 
Since  we  can  not  atone  you,  we  shall  see 
Justice  design  the  victor's  chivalry. — 
Lord  marshal,  command  our  officers-at-arms 
Be  ready  to  direct  these  home-alarms. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  same.     A  Room  in  the  DUKE 
OF  LANCASTER'S  Palace. 

Enter  GAUNT  and  DUCHESS  OF  GLOSTER. 

Gaunt.  Alas,  the  part  I  had  in  Gloster's  blood 
Doth  more  solicit  me  than  your  exclaims, 
To  stir  against  the  butchers  of  his  life. 
But  since  correction  lieth  in  those  hands 
Which  made  the  fault  that  we  cannot  correct, 
Put  we  our  quarrel  to  the  will  of  heaven ; 
Who,  when  they  see  the  hours  ripe  on  earth, 
Will  rain  hot  vengeance  on  offenders'  heads. 
Duch.  Finds  brotherhood  in  thee  no  sharper 

spur? 

Hath  love  in  thy  old  blood  no  living  fire? 
Edward's  seven  sons,  whereof  thyself  art  one, 
Were  as  seven  vials  of  his  sacred  blood, 
Or  seven  fair  branches  springing  from  one  root: 
Some  of  those  seven  are  dried  by  nature's  course, 
Some  of  those  branches  by  the  Destinies  cut ; 
But  Thomas,  my  dear  lord,  my  life,  my  Glos- 

ter,— 

One  vial  full  of  Edward's  sacred  blood, 
One  flourishing  branch  of  his  most  royal  root, 
Is  crack'd,  and  all  the  precious  liquor  spilt ; 
Is  hack'd  down,  and  his  summer-leaves  all  faded, 
By  envy's  hand  and  murder's  bloody  axe. 
Ah,  Gaunt,  his  blood  was  thine !  that  bed,  that 

womb, 

That  mettle,  that  self-mould,  thatfashion'd  thee, 
Made  him  a  man ;  and  though  thou  liv'st  and 

breath'st, 


432 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


[ACT  i. 


Yet  art  thou  slain  in  him :  thou  dost  consent 
In  some  large  measure  to  thy  father's  death, 
In  that  thou  seest  thy  wretched  brother  die, 
Who  was  the  model  of  thy  father's  life. 
Call  it  not  patience,  Gaunt, — it  is  despair : 
In  suffering  thus  thy  brother  to  be  slaughter'd, 
Thou  show'st  the  naked  pathway  to  thy  life, 
Teaching  stem  murder  how  to  butcher  thee : 
That  which  in  mean  men  we  entitle  patience, 
Is  pale  cold  cowardice  in  noble  breasts. 
What  shall  I  say?  to  safeguard  thine  own  life, 
The  best  way  is  to  venge  my  Gloster's  death. 
Gaunt.  God's  is  the  quarrel ;  for  God's  sub- 
stitute. 

His  deputy  anointed  in  his  sight, 
Hath  caus'd  his  death:  the  which,  if  wrongfully, 
Let  heaven  revenge ;  for  I  may  never  lift 
An  angry  arm  against  his  minister. 

Duck.  Where,  then,  alas,  may  I  complain  my- 
self? 

Gaunt.  To  God,  the  widow's  champion  and 
defence.  [Gaunt. 

Duch.  Why,  then,   I  will.      Farewell,  old 
Thou  go'st  to  Coventry,  there  to  behold 
Our  cousin  Hereford  and  fell  Mowbray  fight : 
O,  sit  my  husband's   wrongs  on    Hereford's 

spear, 

That  it  may  enter  butcher  Mowbray's  breast ! 
Or,  if  misfortune  miss  the  first  career, 
Be  Mowbray's  sins  so  heavy  in  his  bosom 
That  they  may  break  his  foaming  courser's  back, 
And  throw  the  rider  headlong  in  the  lists, 
A  caitiff  recreant  to  my  cousin.  Hereford! 
Farewell,  old  Gaunt ;  thy  sometimes  brother's 

wife, 
With  her  companion  grief  must  end  her  life. 

Gaunt.  Sister,  farewell :  I  must  to  Coventry : 
As  much  good  stay  with  thee  as  go  with  me ! 
Duch.  Yet  one  word  more: — grief  boundeth 

where  it  falls, 

Not  with  the  empty  hollowness,  but  weight : 
I  take  my  leave  before  I  have  begun ; 
For  sorrow  ends  not  when  it  seemeth  done. 
Commend  me  to  my  brother,  Edmund  York. 
Lo,  this  is  all : — nay,  yet  depart  not  so ; 
Though  this  be  all,  do  not  so  quickly  go; 
I  shall  remember  more.     Bid  him — O,  what? — 
With  all  good  speed  at  Flashy  visit  me. 
Alack,  and  what  shall  good  old  York  there  see, 
But  empty  lodgings  and  unfurnish'd  walls, 
Unpeopled  offices,  untrodden  stones? 
And  what  hear  there  for  welcome  but  my  groans? 
Therefore  commend  me ;  let  him  not  come  there 
To  seek  out  sorrow  that  dwells  everywhere. 
Desolate,  desolate,  will  I  hence  and  die : 
The  last  leave  of  thee  takes  my  weeping  eye ! 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. — Gosjord  Green,  near  Coventry. 

Lists  set  out,  and  a  throne.  Heralds,  6-Y., 
attending.  Enter  the  Lord  Marshal,  and 
AUMERLE. 

Mar.  My  Lord  Aumerle,  is  Harry  Hereford 

arm'd?  [in. 

Aum.  Yea,  at  all  points ;  and  longs  to  enter 

Mar.  The  Duke  of  Norfolk,  sprightfully  and 

bold,  [pet. 

Stays  but  the  summons  of  the  appellant's  trum- 

Aum.   Why,  then,  the  champions  are  pre- 

par'd,  and  stay 
For  nothing  but  his  majesty's  approach. 

Flourish  of  trumpets.  Enter  KING  RICHARD, 
who  takes  his  seat  on  his  throne  ;  GAUNT  and 
several  Noblemen,  who  take  their  places.  A 
trumpet  is  sounded,  and  answered  by  another 
trumpet  within.  Then  enter  NORFOLK  in 
armour,  preceded  by  a  Herald. 

K.  Rich.  Marshal,  demand  of  yonder  cham- 
pion 

The  cause  of  his  arrival  here  in  arms : 
Ask  him  his  name ;  and  orderly  proceed 
To  swear  him  in  the  justice  of  his  cause. 

Mar.  In  God's  name  and  the  king's,  say  who 

thou  art, 

And  why  thou  com'st  thus  knightly  clad  in  arms; 
Against  what  man  thou  com'st,  and  what  thy 

quarrel : 

Speak  truly,  on  thy  knighthood  and  thine  oath ; 
And  so  defend  thee  heaven  and  thy  valour ! 
Nor.  My  name  is  Thomas  Mowbray,  Duke  of 

Norfolk; 

Who  hither  come  engaged  by  my  oath, — 
Which  God  defend  a  knight  should  violate ! — 
Both  to  defend  my  loyalty  and  truth 
To  God,  my  king,  and  his  succeeding  issue, 
Against  the  Duke  of  Hereford  that  appeals  me  j 
And,  by  the  grace  of  God  and  this  mine  arm, 
To  prove  him  in  defending  of  myself, 
A  traitor  to  my  God,  my  king,  and  me : 
And  as  I  truly  fight,  defend  me  heaven ! 

Trumpet  sounds.      Enter  BOLINGBROKE   in 
armour,  preceded  by  a  Herald. 

K.  Rich.  Marshal,  ask  yonder  knight  in  arms, 
Both  who  he  is,  and  why  he  cometh  hither 
Thus  plated  in  habiliments  of  war ; 
And  formally,  according  to  our  law, 
Depose  him  in  the  justice  of  his  cause. 

Mar.  What  is  thy  name?    and   wherefore 

com'st  thou  hither, 
Before  King  Richard  in  his  royal  lists? 


SCENE  III.] 


KING  RICHARD  II 


433 


Against  whom  comest  thou?  and  what's  thy 

quarrel? 

Speak  like  a  true  knight,  so  defend  thee  heaven ! 
Baling.  Harry  of  Hereford,  Lancaster,  and 

Derby, 

Am  I ;  who  ready  here  do  stand  in  arms, 
To  prove,  by  God's  grace  and  my  body's  valour, 
In  lists,  on  Thomas  Mowbray,  Duke  of  Norfolk, 
That  he 's  a  traitor,  foul  and  dangerous, 
To  God  of  Heaven,  King  Richard,  and  to  me : 
And  as  I  truly  fight,  defend  me  heaven ! 

Mar.  On  pain  of  death,  no  person  be  so  bold 
Or  daring-hardy  as  to  touch  the  lists, 
Except  the  marshal  and  such  officers 
Appointed  to  direct  these  fair  designs. 

Boling.  Lord  marshal,  let  me  kiss  my  sove- 
reign's hand, 

And  bow  my  knee  before  his  majesty : 
For  Mowbray  and  myself  are  like  two  men 
That  vow  a  long  and  weaiy  pilgrimage ; 
Then  let  us  take  a  ceremonious  leave 
And  loving  farewell  of  our  several  friends. 
Mar.  The  appellant  in  all  duty  greets  your 

highness, 

And  craves  to  kiss  your  hand  and  take  his  leave. 
K.  Rich.  We  will  descend  and  fold  him  in 

our  arms. — 

Cousin  of  Hereford,  as  thy  cause  is  right, 
So  be  thy  fortune  in  this  royal  fight ! 
Farewell,  my  blood ;  which  if  to-day  thou  shed, 
Lament  we  may,  but  not  revenge  thee  dead. 
Boling.  O,  let  no  noble  eye  profane  a  tear 
For  me,  if  I  be  gor'd  with  Mowbray's  spear : 
As  confident  as  is  the  falcon's  flight 
Against  a  bird,  do  I  with  Mowbray  fight. — 
My  loving  lord,  I  take  my  leave  of  you ; — 
Of  you,  my  noble  cousin,  Lord  Aumerle ; 
Not  sick,  although  I  have  to  do  with  death, 
But  lusty,  young,  and  cheerly  drawing  breath. — 
Lo,  as  at  English  feasts,  so  I  regreet 
The  daintiest  last,  to  make  the  end  more  sweet: — 
O  thou,  the  earthly  author  of  my  blood, — 

[To  GAUNT. 

Whose  youthful  spirit,  in  me  regenerate, 
Doth  with  a  twofold  vigour  lift  me  up 
To  reach  at  victory  above  my  head, — 
Add  proof  unto  mine  armour  with  thy  prayers ; 
And  with  thy  blessings  steel  my  lance's  point, 
That  it  may  enter  Mowbray's  waxen  coat, 
And  furbish  new  the  name  of  John  o'  Gaunt, 
Even  in  the  lusty  'haviour  of  his  son.     [perous ! 
Gaunt.  God  in  thy  good  cause  make  thee  pros- 
Be  swift  like  lightning  in  the  execution ; 
And  let  thy  blows,  doubly  redoubled, 
Fall  like  amazing  thunder  on  the  casque 
Of  thy  adverse  pernicious  enemy : 
Rouse  up  thy  youthful  blood,  be  valiant  and  live. 


Boling.  Mine  innocency  and  Saint  George  to 
thrive ! 

Nor.  However  God  or  fortune  cast  my  lot, 
There  lives  or  dies,  true  to  King  Richard's  throne, 
A  loyal,  just,  and  upright  gentleman: 
Never  did  captive  with  a  freer  heart 
Cast  off  his  chains  of  bondage,  and  embrace 
His  golden  uncontroll'd  enfranchisement, 
More  than  my  dancing  soul  doth  celebrate 
This  feast  of  battle  with  mine  adversary. — 
Most  mighty  liege, — and  my  companion  peers, — 
Take  from  my  mouth  the  wish  of  happy  years : 
As  gentle  and  as  jocund  as  to  jest 
Go  I  to  fight :  truth  hath  a  quiet  breast. 

K.  Rich.  Farewell,  my  lord :  securely  I  espy 
Virtue  with  valour  couched  in  thine  eye. — 
Order  the  trial,  marshal,  and  begin.      [Derby, 

Mar.    Harry  of  Hereford,   Lancaster,   and 
Receive  thy  lance ;  and  God  defend  the  right ! 

Boling.  Strong  as  a  tower  in  hope,  I  cry  amen. 

Mar.  Go  bear  this  lance  \to  an  Officer]  to 
Thomas,  Duke  of  Norfolk.      [Derby, 

1  Her.   Harry  of  Hereford,  Lancaster,  and 
Stands  here  for  God,  his  sovereign,  and  himself, 
On  pain  to  be  found  false  and  recreant, 

To  prove  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  Thomas  Mow- 

bray, 

A  traitor  to  his  God,  his  king,  and  him ; 
And  dares  him  to  set  forward  to  the  fight. 

2  Her.   Here   standeth   Thomas    Mowbrav, 

Duke  of  Norfolk, 

On  paiu  to  be  found  false  and  recreant, 
Both  to  defend  himself,  and  to  approve 
Henry  of  Hereford,  Lancaster,  and  Derby, 
To  God,  his  sovereign,  and  to  him  disloyal ; 
Courageously,  and  with  a  free  desire, 
Attending  but  the  signal  to  begin. 

Mar.  Sound,    trumpets;    and   set   forward, 

combatants.  [A  charge  sounded. 

Stay,  the  king  hath  thrown  his  warder  down. 
K.  Rich.  Let  them  lay  by  their  helmets  and 

their  spears, 

And  both  return  back  to  their  chairs  again : — 
Withdraw  with  us : — and  let  the  trumpets  sound 
While  we  return  these  dukes  what  we  decree. — 
[A  long  flourish. 

Draw  near,  [  To  the  combatants. 

And  list  what  with  our  council  we  have  done. 
For  that  our  kingdom's  earth  should  not  be  soil'd 
With  that  dear  blood  which  it  hath  fostered ; 
And  for  our  eyes  do  hate  the  dire  aspect 
Of  civil  wounds  plough'd  up  with  neighbours 

swords ; 

And  for  we  think  the  eagle-winged  pride 
Of  sky-aspiring  and  ambitious  thoughts, 
With  rival-hating  envy,  set  on  you 
To  wake  our  peace,  which  in  our  country's  cradle 


434 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


[ACT  I. 


Draws  the  sweet  infant  breath  of  gentle  sleep; 
Which  so   rous'd  up  with  boisterous  untun'd 

drums, 

With  harsh-resounding  trumpets'  dreadful  bray, 
And  grating  shock  of  wrathful  iron  arms, 
Might  from  our  quiet  confines  fright  fair  peace, 
And  make  us  wade  even  in  our  kindred's  blood; — 
Therefore,  we  banish  you  our  territories : — 
You,  cousin  Hereford,  upon  pain  of  life, 
Till  twice  five  summers  have  enrich1  d  our  fields 
Shall  not  regreet  our  fair  dominions, 
But  tread  the  stranger  paths  of  banishment. 
Beting.    Your  will  be   done:  this  must  my 

comfort  be, —  [me ; 

That  sun  that  warms  you  here  shall  shine  on 
And  those  his  golden  beams  to  you  here  lent 
Shall  point  on  me  and  gild  my  banishment. 
K.  Rich.  Norfolk,  for  thee  remains  a  heavier 

doom, 

Which  I  with  some  unwillingness  pronounce : 
The  sly-slow  hours  shall  not  determinate 
The  dateless  limit  of  thy  dear  exile ; — 
The  hopeless  word  of — never  to  return 
Breathe  I  against  thee,  upon  pain  of  life. 
Nor.  A  heavy  sentence,  my  most  gracious 

liege,  [mouth : 

And    all    unlook'd-for    from    your    highness' 
A  dearer  merit,  not  so  deep  a  maim 
As  to  be  cast  forth  in  the  common  air, 
Have  I  deserved  at  your  highness'  hands. 
The  language  I  have  learn'd  these  forty  years, 
My  native  English,  now  I  must  forego : 
And  now  my  tongue's  use  is  to  me  no  more 
Than  an  unstring'd  viol  or  a  harp ; 
Or  like  a  cunning  instrument  cas'd  up, 
Or,  being  open,  put  into  his  hands 
That  knows  no  touch  to  tune  the  harmony : 
Within  my  mouth  you  have  engaol'd  my  tongue, 
Doubly  portcullis'd  with  my  teeth  and  lips ; 
And  dull,  unfeeling,  barren  ignorance 
Is  made  my  gaoler  to  attend  on  me. 
I  am  too  old  to  fawn  upon  a  nurse, 
Too  far  in  years  to  be  a  pupil  now : 
What  is  thy  sentence,  then,  but  speechless  death, 
Which  robs  my  tongue  from  breathing  native 

breath  ?  [sionate : 

K.  Rich.  It  boots  thee  not  to  be  compas- 
After  our  sentence  plaining  comes  too  late. 
Nor.  Then  thus  I  turn  me  from  my  country's 

light, 
To  dwell  in  solemn  shades  of  endless  night. 

[Retiring. 
K.  Rich.  Return  again,  and  take  an  oath 

with  thee. 

Lay  on  our  royal  sword  your  banish'd  hands ; 
Swear  by  the  duty  that  you  owe  to  God, — 
Our  part  therein  we  banish  with  yourselves, — 


To  keep  the  oath  that  we  administer : — 

You  never  shall — so  help  you  truth  and  God  ! — 

Embrace  each  other's  love  in  banishment; 

Nor  never  look  upon  each  other's  face ; 

Nor  never  write,  regreet,  nor  reconcile 

This  lowering  tempest  of  your  home-bred  hate; 

Nor  never  by  advised  purpose  meet 

To  plot,  contrive,  or  complot  any  ill 

'Gainst  us,  our  state,  our  subjects,  or  our  land. 

Baling.  I  swear. 

Nor.  And  I,  to  keep  all  this. 

Baling.  Norfolk,  so  far  as  to  mine  enemy ; — 
By  this  time,  had  the  king  permitted  us, 
One  of  our  souls  had  wander'd  in  the  air, 
Banish'd  this  frail  sepulchre  of  our  flesh, 
As  now  our  flesh  is  banish'd  from  this  land: 
Confess  thy  treasons,  ere  thou  fly  the  realm ; 
Since  thou  hast  far  to  go,  bear  not  along 
The  clogging  burden  of  a  guilty  soul. 

Nor.  No,  Bolingbroke :  if  ever  I  were  traitor, 
My  name  be  blotted  from  the  book  of  life, 
And  I  from  heaven  banish'd,  as  from  hence ! 
But  what  thou  art,  God,  thou,  and  I  do  know ; 
And  all  too  soon,  I  fear,  the  king  shall  rue. — 
Farewell,  my  liege. — Now  no  way  can  I  stray: 
Save  back  to  England,  all  the  world  's  my  way. 

{Exit. 

K.  Rich.  Uncle,  even  in  the  glasses  of  thine 

eyes 

I  see  thy  grieved  heart :  thy  sad  aspect 
Hath  from  the  number  of  his  banish'd  years 
Pluck'd  four  away. — [To  BoLiNG.]    Six  frozen 

winters  spent, 
Return  with  welcome  home  from  banishment. 

Baling.  How  long  a  time  lies  in  one  little 

word! 

Four  lagging  winters  and  four  wanton  springs 
End  in  a  word :  such  is  the  breath  of  kings. 

Gaunt.  I  thank  my  liege  that  in  regard  of  me 
He  shortens  four  years  of  my  son's  exile: 
But  little  vantage  shall  I  reap  thereby; 
For,  ere  the  six  years  that  he  hath  to  spend 
Can  change  their  moons  and  bring  their  times 

about, 

My  oil -dried  lamp  and  time  be  was  ted  light 
Shall  be  extinct  with  age  and  endless  night ; 
My  inch  of  taper  will  be  burnt  and  done, 
And  blindfold  death  not  let  me  see  my  son. 

K.  Rich.  Why,  uncle,  thou  hast  many  years 
to  live. 

Gaunt.  But  not  a  minute,  king,  that  thou 

canst  give : 

Shorten  my  days  thou  canst  with  sullen  sorrow, 
And  pluck  nights  from  me,  but  not  lend  a 

morrow ; 

Thou  canst  help  time  to  furrow  me  with  age, 
But  stop  no  wrinkle  in  his  pilgrimage ; 


SCENE  III.] 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


435 


Thy  word  is  current  with  him  for  my  death, 
But  dead,  thy  kingdom  cannot  buy  my  breath. 
K.  Rich.   Thy  son  is   banish'd  upon  good 

advice, 

Whereto  thy  tongue  a  party-verdict  gave : 
Why  at  our  justice  seem'st  thou,  then,  to  lower? 
Gaunt.  Things  sweet  to  taste  prove  in  diges- 
tion sour. 

You  urg'd  me  as  a  judge ;  but  I  had  rather 
You  would  have  bid  me  argue  like  a  father. 
O,  had  it  been  a  stranger,  not  my  child, 
To  smooth  his  fault  I  should  have  been  more 

mild: 

A  partial  slander  sought  I  to  avoid, 
And  in  the  sentence  my  own  life  destroy'd. 
Alas,  I  look'd  when  some  of  you  should  say, 
I  was  too  strict  to  make  mine  own  away ; 
But  you  gave  leave  to  mine  unwilling  tongue 
Against  my  will  to  do  myself  this  wrong. 
K.  Rich.  Cousin,  farewell ; — and,  uncle,  bid 

him  so  : 
Six  years  we  banish  him,  and  he  shall  go. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt  K.  RICH,  and  Train. 
Aum.  Cousin,  farewell :  what  presence  must 

not  know, 
From  where  you  do  remain  let  paper  show. 

Mar.  My  lord,  no  leave  take  I ;  for  I  will  ride 
As  far  as  land  will  let  me  by  your  side. 

Gaunt.  O,  to  what  purpose  dost  thou  hoard 

thy  words, 

That  thou  return'st  no  greeting  to  thy  friends  ? 
Baling.  I  have  too  few  to  take  my  leave  of 

you, 

When  the  tongue's  office  should  be  prodigal 

To  breathe  the  abundant  dolour  of  the  heart. 

Gaunt.  Thy  grief  is  but  thy  absence  for  a  time. 

Baling.  Joy  absent,  grief  is  present  for  that 

time.  [gone. 

Gaunt.  What  is  six  winters?  they  are  quickly 

Baling.  To  men  in  joy;  but  grief  makes  one 

hour  ten.  [pleasure. 

Gatmt.  Call  it  a  travel  that  thou  tak'st  for 

Baling.  My  heart  will  sigh  when  I  miscall 

it  so, 
Which  finds  it  an  enforced  pilgrimage. 

Gaunt.  The  sullen  passage  of  thy  weary  steps 
Esteem  a  foil,  wherein  thou  art  to  set 
The  precious  jewel  of  thy  home-return. 

Baling.  Nay,  rather,  every  tedious  stride  I 

make 

Will  but  remember  me  what  a  deal  of  world 
I  wander  from  the  jewels  that  I  love. 
Must  I  not  serve  a  long  apprenticehood 
To  foreign  passages ;  and  in  the  end, 
Having  my  freedom,  boast  of  nothing  else 
But  that  I  was  a  journeyman  to  grief?      [visits 
Gaunt.  All  places  that  the  eye  of  heaven 


Are  to  a  wise  man  ports  and  happy  havens. 
Teach  thy  necessity  to  reason  thus ; 
There  is  no  virtue  like  necessity. 
Think  not  the  king  did  banish  thee, 
But  thou  the  king :  woe  doth  the  heavier  sit 
Where  it  perceives  it  is  but  faintly  borne. 
Go,  say  I  sent  thee  forth  to  purchase  honour 
And  not  the  king  exil'd  thee ;  or  suppose 
Devouring  pestilence  hangs  in  our  air, 
And  thou  art  flying  to  a  fresher  clime : 
Look,  what  thy  soul  holds  dear,  imagine  it 
To  lie  that  way  thou  go'st,  not  whence  thou 

com'st : 

Suppose  the  singing-birds  musicians,    [strew'd, 
The  grass  whereon  thou  tread'st  the  presence 
The  flowers  fair  ladies,  and  thy  steps  no  more 
Than  a  delightful  measure  or  a  dance ; 
For  gnarling  sorrow  hath  less  power  to  bite 
The  man  that  mocks  at  it  and  sets  it  light. 

Baling.  O,  who  can  hold  a  fire  in  his  hand 
By  thinking  on  the  frosty  Caucasus? 
Or  cloy  the  hungry  edge  of  appetite 
By  bare  imagination  of  a  feast  ? 
Or  wallow  naked  in  December  snow 
By  thinking  on  fantastic  summer's  heat? 
O,  no !  the  apprehension  of  the  good 
Gives  but  the  greater  feeling  to  the  worse : 
Fell  sorrow's  tooth  doth  never  rankle  more 
Than  when  it  bites,  but  lanceth  not  the  sore. 

Gaunt.  Come,  come,  my  son,  I  '11  bring  thee 

on  thy  way: 
Had  I  thy  youth  and  cause,  I  would  not  stay. 

Baling.  Then,  England's  ground,  farewell; 

sweet  soil,  adieu; 

My  mother,  and  my  nurse,  that  bears  me  yet ! 
Where'er  I  wander,  boast  of  this  I  can, — 
Though  banish'd,  yet  a  true-born  Englishman. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— The  Court. 

Enter  KING  RICHARD,  BAGOT,  and  GREEN  ; 

AUMERLE  following. 

R.  Rich.  We  did  observe. — Cousin  Aumerle, 

How  far  brought  you  high  Hereford  on  his 

way?  [him  so, 

Aum.  I  brought  high  Hereford,  if  you  call 

But  to  the  next  highway,  and  there  I  left  him. 

K.  Rich.    And   say,   what  store  of  parting 

tears  were  shed?  [east  wind, 

Aum.  Faith,  none  for  me ;  except  the  north- 

Which  then  blew  bitterly  against  our  faces, 

Awak'd  the  sleeping  rheum,  and  so  by  chance 

Did  grace  our  hollow  parting  with  a  tear. 

K.  Rich.  What  said  our  cousin  when  you 

parted  with  him? 
Aum.  "Farewell:" 


436 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


[ACT  ii. 


And,  for  my  heart  disdained  that  my  tongue 
Should  so  profane  the  word,  that  taught  me  craft 
To  counterfeit  oppression  of  such  grief, 
That  words  seem'd  buried  in  my  sorrow's  grave. 
Marry,    would    the    word    "farewell"    have 

lengthen'd  hours, 

And  added  years  to  his  short  banishment, 
He  should  have  had  a  volume  of  farewells ; 
But  since  it  would  not,  he  had  none  of  me. 
K.  Rich.  He  is  our  cousin,  cousin ;  but  'tis 

doubt, 

"When  time  shall  call  him  home  from  banishment, 
Whether  our  kinsman  come  to  see  his  friends. 
Ourself,  and  Bushy,  Bagot  here,  and  Green, 
Observ'd  his  courtship  to  the  common  people ; 
How  he  did  seem  to  dive  into  their  hearts 
With  humble  and  familiar  courtesy ; 
What  reverence  he  did  throw  away  on  slaves ; 
Wooing  poor  craftsmen  with  the  craft  of  smiles, 
And  patient  underbearing  of  his  fortune, 
As  'twere  to  banish  their  affects  with  him. 
Off  goes  his  bonnet  to  an  oyster-wench ; 
A  brace  of  draymen  bid  God  speed  him  well, 
And  had  the  tribute  of  his  supple  knee, 
With    Thanks,    my   coimtrymen,    my    loving 

friends  ; 

As  were  our  England  in  reversion  his, 
And  he  our  subjects'  next  degree  in  hope. 
Green.  Well,  he .  is  gone ;  and  with  him  go 

these  thoughts. 

Now  for  the  rebels  which  stand  out  in  Ireland, — 
Expedient  manage  must  be  made,  my  liege, 
Ere  further  leisure  yield  them  further  means 
For  their  advantage  and  your  highness'  loss. 
K.  Rich.  We  will  ourself  in  person  to  this 

war: 

And,  for  our  coffers, — with  too  great  a  court 
And  liberal  largess, — are  grown  somewhat  light, 
We  are  enforc'd  to  farm  our  royal  realm; 
The  revenue  whereof  shall  furnish  us 
For  our  affairs  in  hand.     If  that  come  short, 
Our   substitutes   at    home   shall    have    blank 

charters ;  [rich, 

Whereto,  when  they  shall  know  what  men  are 
They  shall  subscribe  them  for  large  sums  of  gold, 
And  send  them  after  to  supply  our  wants ; 
For  we  will  make  for  Ireland  presently. 

Enter  BUSHY. 
Bushy,  what  news? 

Bushy.  Old  John  of  Gaunt  is  grievous  sick, 

my  lord, 

Suddenly  taken ;  and  hath  sent  post-haste 
To  entreat  your  majesty  to  visit  him. 
K.  Rich.  Where  lies  he? 
Bushy.  At  Ely  House.  [mind 

K.  Rich.  New  put  it,  God,  in  his  physician's 


To  help  him  to  his  grave  immediately ! 
The  lining  of  his  coffers  shall  make  coats 
To  deck  our  soldiers  for  these  Irish  wars. — 
Come,  gentlemen,  let 's  all  go  visit  him : 
Pray  God  we  may  make  haste,  and  come  too 
late !  [Exettnt. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — LONDON.     A  Room  in  ELY 
HOUSE. 

GAUNT  on  a  couch;  the  DUKE  OF  YORK  and 
others  standing  by  him. 

Gaunt.  Will   the   king   come,    that   I   may 

breathe  my  last 

In  wholesome  counsel  to  his  unstaid  youth? 
York.  Vex  not  yourself,  nor  strive  not  with 

your  breath ; 

For  all  in  vain  comes  counsel  to  his  ear.     [men 
Gaunt.  O,  but  they  say  the  tongues  of  dying 
Enforce  attention  like  deep  harmony : 
Where  words  are  scarce,  they  are  seldom  spent 

in  vain ;  [in  pain. 

For  they  breathe  truth  that  breathe  their  words 
He  that  no  more  must  say  is  listen'd  more 
Than  they  whom  youth  and  ease  have  taught 

to  glose ;  [fore : 

More  are  men's  ends  mark'd  than  their  lives  be- 

The  setting  sun,  and  music  at  the  close, 
As  the  last  taste  of  sweets,  is  sweetest  last, 
Writ  in  remembrance  more  than  things  long 

past :  [hear, 

Though  Richard  my  life's  counsel  would  not 
My  death's  sad  tale  may  yet  undeaf  his  ear.  ^ 
York.  No ;  it  is  stopp'd  with  other  flattering 

sounds, 

As,  praises  of  his  state :  then  there  are  found 
Lascivious  metres,  to  whose  venom-sound 
The  open  ear  of  youth  doth  always  listen  ; 
Report  of  fashions  in  proud  Italy, 
Whose  manners  still  our  tardy  apish  nation 
Limps  after,  in  base  imitation. 
Where  doth  the  world  thrust  forth  a  vanity, — 
So  it  be  new,  there 's  no  respect  how  vile, — 
That  is  not  quickly  buzz'd  into  his  ears? 
Then  all  too  late  comes  counsel  to  be  heard, 
Where  will  doth  mutiny  with  wit's  regard. 
Direct  not  him,  whose  way  himself  will  choose: 
Tis  breath  thou  lack'st,  and  that  breath  wilt 

thou  lose.  [inspir'd, 

Gaunt.     Methinks    I    am    a    prophet    new 
And  thus,  expiring,  do  foretell  of  him : 
His  rash  fierce  blaze  of  riot  cannot  last, 
For  violent  fires  soon  burn  out  themselves; 
Small  showers  last  long,  but  sudden  storms  are 

short? 


SCENE  I.] 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


437 


He  tires  betimes  that  spurs  too  fast  betimes ; 
With  eager  feeding  food  doth  choke  the  feeder : 
Light  vanity,  insatiate  cormorant, 
Consuming  means,  soon  preys  upon  itself. 
This  royal  throne  of  kings,  this  scepter'd  isle 
This  earth  of  majesty,  this  seat  of  Mars, 
This  other  Eden,  demi-paradise ; 
This  fortress  built  by  Nature  for  herself 
Against  infection  and  the  hand  of  war ; 
This  happy  breed  of  men,  this  little  world ; 
This  precious  stone  set  in  the  silver  sea, 
Which  serves  it  in  the  office  of  a  wall, 
Or  as  a  moat  defensive  to  a  house, 
Against  the  envy  of  less  happier  lands ; 
This  blessed  plot,  this  earth,  this  realm,  this 

England, 

This  nurse,  this  teeming  womb  of  royal  kings, 
Fear'd  by  their  breed,  and  famous  by  their  birth, 
Renowned  for  their  deeds  as  far  from  home, — 
For  Christian  service  and  true  chivalry,- 
As  is  the  sepulchre  in  stubborn  Jewry 
Of  the  world's  ransom,  blessed  Mary's  Son; — 
This  land  of  such  dear  souls,  this  dear  dear  land, 
Dear  for  her  reputation  through  the  world, 
Is  now  leas'd  out, — I  die  pronouncing  it, — 
Like  to  a  tenement  or  pelting  farm : 
England,  bound  in  with  the  triumphant  sea, 
Whose  rocky  shore  beats  back  the  envious  siege 
Of  watery  Neptune,  is  now  bound  in  with  shame, 
With  inky  blots,  and  rotten  parchment  bonds : 
That  England,  that  was  wont  to  conquer  others, 
Hath  made  a  shameful  conquest  of  itself. 
Ah,  would  the  scandal  vanish  with  my  life, 
How  happy  then  were  my  ensuing  death  ! 

Enter  KING  RICHARD  and  QUEEN,  AUMERLE, 
BUSHY,  GREEN,  BAGOT,  Ross,  and  WIL- 
LOUGHBY. 

York.  The  king  is  come :  deal  mildly  with 

his  youth ;  [more. 

For  young  hot  colts,  being  rag'd,  do  rage  the 

Queen.  How  fares  our  noble  uncle,  Lancaster? 

K.  Rich.  What  comfort,  man?      How  is  't 
with  aged  Gaunt?  [position  ! 

Gaunt.  O,  how  that  name  befits  my  corn- 
Old  Gaunt,  indeed ;  and  gaunt  in  being  old : 
Within  me  grief  hath  kept  a  tedious  fast ; 
And  who  abstains  from  meat  that  is  not  gaunt? 
For  sleeping  England  long  time  have  I  watch'd ; 
Watching  breeds  leanness,  leanness  is  all  gaunt : 
The  pleasure  that  some  fathers  feeds  upon 
Is  my  strict  fast, — I  mean  my  children's  looks; 
And  therein  fasting,  hast  thou  made  me  gaunt : 
Gaunt  am  I  for  the  grave,  gaunt  as  a  grave, 
Whose  hollow  womb  inherits  naught  but  bones. 

K.  Rich.  Can  sick  men  play  so  nicely  with 
their  names? 


Gaunt.    No,  misery  makes  sport  to  mock 

itself: 

Since  thou  dost  seek  to  kill  my  name  in  me, 
I  mock  my  name,  great  king,  to  flatter  thee. 

K.   Rich.    Should   Hyin^   men   flatter   with 
those  that  live?  [die. 

Gaunt.  No,  no ;  men  living  flatter  those  that 

K.   Rich.   Thou,  now  a-dyin^j,   say'st  thou 
flatter'st  me. 

Gaunt.    O,  no !    thou  diest,  though  I  the 
sicker  be.  [thee  ill. 

K.  Rich.  I  am  in  health,  I  breathe,  and  see 

Gaunt.  Now,   He  that  made  me  knows  I 

see  thee  ill ; 

111  in  mj'self  to  see,  and  in  thee  seeing  ill. 
Thy  death-bed  is  no  lesser  than  ihe  land 
Wherein  thou  liest  in  reputation  sick ; 
And  thou,  too  careless  patient  as  thou  art, 
Committ'st  thy  anointed  body  to  the  cure 
Of  those  physicians  that  first  wounded  thee: 
A  thousand  flatterers  sit  within  thy  crown, 
Whose  compass  is  no  bigger  than  thy  head ; 
And  yet,  encaged  in  so  small  a  verge, 
The  waste  is  no  whit  lesser  than  thy  land. 
O,  had  thy  grandsire,  with  a  prophet's  eye, 
Seen  how  his  son's  son  should  destroy  his  sons, 
From  forth  thy  reach  he  would  have  laid  thy 

shame, 

Deposing  thee  before  thou  wert  possess'd, 
Which  art  possess'd  now  to  depose  thyself. 
Why,  cousin,  wert  thou  regent  of  the  world, 
It  were  a  shame  to  let  this  land  by  lease ; 
But  for  thy  world  enjoying  but  this  land, 
Is  it  not  more  than  shame  to  shame  it  so? 
Landlord  of  England  art  thou  now,  not  king : 
Thy  state  of  law  is  bondslave  to  the  law ; 
And— 

K.  Rich.  And  thou  a  lunatic  lean-witted  fool, 
Presuming  on  an  ague's  privilege, 
Dar'st  with  thy  frozen  admonition 
Make  pale  our  cheek,  chasing  the  royal  blood 
With  fury  from  his  native  residence. 
Now  by  my  seat's  right  royal  majesty, 
Wert  thou  not  brother  to  great  Edward's  son, 
This  tongue  that  runs  so  roundly  in  thy  head 
Should    run   thy   head   from    thy  unreverend 
shoulders.  [son, 

Gaunt.  O,  spare  me  not,  my  brother  Edward's 
For  that  I  was  his  father  Edward's  son ; — 
That  blood  already,  like  the  pelican, 
Hast  thou  tapp'd  out,  and  drunkenly  carous'd : 
My  brother  Gloster,  plain  well-meaning  soul — 
Whom  fair  befall  in  heaven  'mongst  happy 

souls ! — 

May  be  a  precedent  and  witness  good  [blood : 
That  thou  respect'st  not  spilling  Edward's 
Join  with  the  present  sickness  that  I  have ; 


438 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


[ACT  it. 


And  thy  unkindness  be  like  crooked  age, 
To  crop  at  once  a  too-long  wither'd  flower. 
Live  in  thy  shame,  but  die  not  shame  with 

thee  !— 

These  words  hereafter  thy  tormentors  be ! — 
Convey  me  to  my  bed,  then  to  my  grave. 
Love  they  to  live  that  love  and  honour  have. 

\_Exit,  borne  out  by^  his  Attendants. 
K.  Rich.    And  let  them  die  that  age  and 

sullens  have; 

For  both  hast  thou,  and  both  become  the  grave. 
York.    I  do  beseech  your  majesty,  impute 

his  words 

To  wayward  sickliness  and  age  in  him : 
He  loves  you,  on  my  life,  and  holds  you  dear 
As  Harry  Duke  of  Hereford,  were  he  here. 
K.  Rich.  Right,  you  say  true :  as  Hereford's 

love,  so  his ; 
As  theirs,  so  mine ;  and  all  be  as  it  is. 

Enter  NORTHUMBERLAND 

North.   My  liege,  old  Gaunt  commends  him 

to  your  majesty. 
K.  Rich.  What  says  he? 
North.  Nay,  nothing ;  all  is  said : 

His  tongue  is  now  a  stringless  instrument ; 
Words,  life,  and  all,  old  Lancaster  hath  spent. 
York.  Be  York  the  next  that  must  be  bank- 
rupt so ! 

Though  death  be  poor,  it  ends  a  mortal  woe. 
K.  Rich.  The  ripest  fruit  first  falls,  and  so 

doth  he ; 

His  time  is  spent,  our  pilgrimage  must  be : 
So  much  for  that. — Now  for  our  Irish  wars: 
We  must  supplant  those  rough  rug -headed  kerns, 
Which  live  like  venom,  where  no  venom  else, 
But  only  they,  hath  privilege  to  live. 
And  for  these  great  affairs  do  ask  some  charge : 
Towards  our  assistance  we  do  seize  to  us 
The  plate,  coin,  revenues,  and  movables, 
Whereof  our  uncle  Gaunt  did  stand  possess'd. 
York.  How  long  shall  I  be  patient?  ah,  how 

long 

Shall  tender  duty  make  me  suffer  wrong? 
Not  Gloster's  death,  nor  Hereford's  banishment, 
Not  Gaunt's   rebukes,   nor  England's  private 

wrongs, 

Nor  the  prevention  of  poor  Bolingbroke 
About  his  marriage,  nor  my  own  disgrace, 
Have  ever  made  me  sour  my  patient  cheek, 
Or  bend  one  wrinkle  on  my  sovereign's  face. 
I  am  the  last  of  noble  Edward's  sons, 
Of  whom  thy  father,  Prince  of  Wales,  was  first : 
In  war  was  never  lion  rag'd  more  fierce, 
In  peace  was  never  gentle  lamb  more  mild, 
Than  was  that  young  and  princely  gentleman. 
His  face  thou  hast,  for  even  so  look'd  he, 


Accomplish'd  with  the  number  of  thy  hours ; 
But  when  he  frown'd,  it  was  against  the  French, 
And  not  against  his  friends :  his  noble  hand 
Did  win  what  he  did  spend,  and  spent  not  that 
Which  his  triumphant'  father's  hand  had  won : 
His  hands  were  guilty  of  no  kindred's  blood, 
But  bloody  with  the  enemies  of  his  kin. 
O  Richard !  York  is  too  far  gone  with  grief, 
Or  else  he  never  would  compare  between. 

K.  Rich.  Why,  uncle,  what 's  the  matter? 

York.  O  my  liege, 

Pardon  me,  if  you  please ;  if  not,  I,  pleas'd 
Not  to  be  pardon'd,  am  content  withal. 
Seek  you  to  seize,  and  gripe  into  your  hands, 
The  royalties  and  rights  of  banish' d  Hereford? 
Is  not  Gaunt  dead?  and  doth  not  Hereford  live? 
Was  not  Gaunt  just?  and  is  not  Harry  true? 
Did  not  the  one  deserve  to  have  an  heir? 
Is  not  his  heir  a  well-deserving  son?         [Time 
Take  Hereford's  rights  away,  and  take  from 
His  charters  and  his  customary  rights ; 
Let  not  to-morrow,  then,  ensue  to-day; 
Be  not  thyself, — for  how  art  thou  a  king 
But  by  fair  sequence  and  succession? 
Now,  afore  God — God  forbid  I  say  true ! — 
If  you  do  wrongfully  seize  Hereford's  rights, 
Call  in  the  letters-patents  that  he  hath 
By  his  attorneys-general  to  sue 
His  livery,  and  deny  his  offer'd  homage, 
You  pluck  a  thousand  dangers  on  your  head, 
You  lose  a  thousand  well-disposed  hearts, 
And  prick  my  tender  patience  to  those  thoughts 
Which  honour  and  allegiance  cannot  think. 

K.  Rich.  Think  what  you  will,  we  seize  into 

our  hands 
His  plate,  his  goods,  his  money,  and  his  lands. 

York.  I'll  not  be  by  the  while:  my  liege, 

farewell : 

What  will  ensue  hereof,  there 's  none  can  tell  • 
But  by  bad  courses  may  be  understood 
That  their  events  can  never  fall  out  good. 

{Exit. 

K.  Rich.  Go,  Bushy,  to  the  Earl  of  Wilt- 
shire straight : 

Bid  him  repair  to  us  to  Ely  House 
To  see  this  business.     To-morrow  next 
We  will  for  Ireland ;  and  'tis  time,  I  trow : 
And  we  create,  in  absence  of  ourself, 
Our  uncle  York  lord  governor  of  England ; 
For  he  is  just,  and  always  lov'd  us  well. — 
Come  on,  our  queen :  to-morrow  must  we  part ; 
Be  merry,  for  our  time  of  stay  is  short. 

{Flourish.    Exettnt  KING,  QUEEN,  BUSHY, 
AUMERLE,  GREEN,  and  BAGOT. 

North.  Well,  lords,  the  Duke  of  Lancaster 
is  dead.  [duke. 

Ross.  And  living  tooj  for  now  his  son  is 


SCENE  I.] 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


439 


Wilio.   Barely  in  title,  not  in  revenue. 
North.   Richly  in  both,  if  justice  had  her  right. 
Ross.  My  heart  is  great ;  but  it  must  break 

with  silence, 

Ere 't  be  disburden'd  with  a  liberal  tongue. 
North.   Nay,  speak  thy  mind;  and  let  him 

ne'er  speak  more 

That  speaks  thy  words  again  to  do  thee  harm ! 
Willo.  Tends  that  thou  wouldst  speak  to  the 

Duke  of  Hereford? 
If  it  be  so,  out  with  it  boldly,  man ; 
Quick  is  mine  ear  to  hear  of  good  towards  him. 
Ross.  No  good  at  all,  that  I  can  do  for  him ; 
Unless  you  call  it  good  to  pity  him, 
Bereft  and  gelded  of  his  patrimony. 
North.  Now,    afore   God,   'tis  shame  such 

wrongs  are  borne 

In  him,  a  royal  prince,  and  many  more 
Of  noble  blood  in  this  declining  land. 
The  king  is  not  himself,  but  basely  led 
By  flatterers ;  and  what  they  will  inform, 
Merely  in  hate,  'gainst  any  of  us  all, 
That  will  the  king  severely  prosecute 
'Gainst  us,  our  lives,  our  children,  and  our  heirs. 
Ross.   The  commons    hath   he   pill'd   with 

grievous  taxes, 
And  quite  lost  their  hearts :  the  nobles  hath  he 

fin'd 

For  ancient  quarrels,  and  quite  lost  their  hearts. 

Willo.  And  daily  new  exactions  are  devis'd, — 

As  blanks,  benevolences,  and  I  wot  not  what : 

But  what,  o'  God's  name,  doth  become  of  this? 

North.  Wars  hare  not  wasted  it,  for  warr'd 

he  hath  not, 

But  basely  yielded  upon  compromise 
That  which  his  ancestors  achiev'd  with  blows : 
More  hath  he  spent  in  peace  than  they  in  wars. 
Ross.  The  Earl  of  Wiltshire  hath  the  realm 

in  farm. 

Willo.  The  king's  grown  bankrupt,  like  a 
broken  man.  [him. 

North.  Reproach  and  dissolution  hangethover 
Ross.  He  hath  not  money  for  these  Irish  wars, 
His  burdenous  taxations  notwithstanding, 
But  by  the  robbing  of  the  banish'd  duke. 
North.  His  noble  kinsman : — most  degener- 
ate king ! 

But,  lords,  we  hear  this  fearful  tempest  sing, 
Yet  seek  no  shelter  to  avoid  the  storm ; 
We  see  the  wind  set  sore  upon  our  sails, 
And  yet  we  strike  not,  but  securely  perish. 
Ross.  We  see  the  very  wreck  that  we  must 

suffer ; 

And  unavoided  is  the  danger  now, 
For  suffering  so  the  causes  of  our  wreck. 

North.  Not  so;    even  through   the  hollow 
eyes  of  death 


I  spy  life  peering ;  but  I  dare  not  say 
How  near  the  tidings  of  our  comfort  is. 

Willo.  Nay,  let  us   share  thy  thoughts,  as 

thou  dost  ours. 

Ross.  Be  confident  to  speak,  Northumberland: 
We  three  are  but  thyself;  and,  speaking  so, 
Thy  words  are  but  as  thoughts ;  therefore,  be 

bold. 
North.  Then  thus: — I  have  from   Port   le 

Blanc,  a  bay 

In  Brittany,  receiv'd  intelligence         [Cobham, 
That  Harry  Duke  of  Hereford,  Renald  Lord 
That  late  broke  from  the  Duke  of  Exeter, 
His  brother,  Archbishop  late  of  Canterbury, 
Sir  Thomas  Erpingham,  Sir  John  Ramston, 
Sir  John  Norbery,  Sir  Robert  Waterton,  and 

Francis  Quoint, —  [tagne, 

All  these,  well  furnish'd  by  the  Duke  of  Bre- 
With  eight  tall  ships,  three  thousand  men  of  war, 
Are  making  hither  with  all  due  expedience, 
And  shortly  mean  to  touch  our  northern  shore : 
Perhaps  they  had  ere  this,  but  that  they  stay 
The  first  departing  of  the  king  for  Ireland. 
If,  then,  we  shall  shake  off  our  slavish  yoke, 
Imp  out  our  drooping  country's  broken  wing, 
Redeem  from  broking  pawn  the  blemish'd  crown. 
Wipe  off  the  dust  that  hides  our  sceptre's  gilt, 
And  make  high  majesty  look  like  itself, 
Away  with  me  in  post  to  Ravenspurg ; 
But  if  you  faint,  as  fearing  to  do  so, 
Stay  and  be  secret,  and  myself  will  go. 

RJSS.  To  horse,  to  horse !    urge  doubts  to 

them  that  fear. 
Willo.  Hold  out  my  horse,  and  I  will  first 

be  there.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — The  same.    A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  QUEEN,  BUSHY,  and  BAGOT. 

Bushy.  Madam,  your  majesty  is  too  much  sad: 
You  promis'd,  when  you  parted  with  the  king, 
To  lay  aside  life-harming  heaviness, 
And  entertain  a  cheerful  disposition,     [myself, 

Queen.  To  please  the  king,  I  did ;  to  please 
I  cannot  do  it ;  yet  I  know  no  cause 
Why  I  should  welcome  such  a  guest  as  grief, 
Save  bidding  farewell  to  so  sweet  a  guest 
As  my  sweet  Richard :  yet,  again,  methinks 
Some  unborn  sorrow,  ripe  in  fortune's  womb, 
Is  coming  towards  me ;  and  my  inward  soul 
With  nothing  trembles :  at  some  thing  it  grieves, 
More  than  with  parting  from  my  lord  the  king. 

Bushy.  Each  substance  of  a  grief  hath  twenty 

shadows, 

Which  sho v  like  grief  itself,  but  are  not  so ; 
For  sorrow's  eye,  glazed  with  blinding  tears, 
Divides  one  thing  entire  to  many  objects; 


440 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


[ACT  ii. 


Like  perspectives,  which,  rightly  gaz'd  upon, 
Show  nothing  but  confusion, — ey'd  awry, 
Distinguish  form :  so  your  sweet  majesty, 
Looking  awry  upon  your  lord's  departure, 
Finds  shapes  of  grief,  more  than  himself,  to  wail; 
Which,  look'd  on  as  it  is,  is  naught  but  shadows 
Of  what  it  is  not.     Then,  thrice-gracious  queen, 
More  than  your  lord's  departure  weep  not, — 

more's  not  seen; 

Or  if  it  be,  'tis  with  false  sorrow's  eye, 
Which  for  things  true  weeps  things  imaginary. 

Queen.  It  may  be  so ;  but  yet  my  inward  soul 
Persuades  me  it  is  otherwise :  howe'er  it  be, 
I  cannot  but  be  sad ;  so  heavy  sad,      [think, — 
As, — though,   on   thinking,   on  no   thought  I 
Makes  me  with  heavy  nothing  faint  and  shrink. 

Bushy.  'Tis  nothing  but  conceit,  my  gracious 
lady.  [deriv'd 

Queen.  'Tis   nothing   less  :    conceit   is  still 
From  some  forefather  grief;  mine  is  not  so, 
For  nothing  hath  begot  my  something  grief; 
Or  something  hath  the  nothing  that  I  grieve : 
'Tis  in  reversion  that  I  do  possess ; 
But  what  it  is,  that  is  not  yet  known;  what 
I  cannot  name ;  'tis  nameless  woe,  I  wot. 

Enter  GREEN. 

Green.  God  save  your  majesty! — and  well 

met,  gentlemen: — 
I  hope  the  king  is  not  yet  shipp'd  for  Ireland. 

Queen.  Why  hop'st  thou  so?  'tis  better  hope 

he  is; 

For  his  designs  crave  haste,  his  haste  good  hope: 
Then  wherefore  dost  thou  hope  he  is  not  shipp'd? 

Green.  That  he,  our  hope,  might  have  retir'd 

his  power, 

And  driven  into  despair  an  enemy's  hope, 
Who  strongly  hath  set  footing  in  this  land : 
The  banish'd  Bolingbroke  repeals  himself, 
And  with  uplifted  arms  is  safe  arriv'd 
At  Ravenspurg. 

Queen.  Now  God  in  heaven  forbid ! 

Green.  O  madam,  'tis  too  true :  and  that  is 

worse,  [Percy, 

The  Lord  Northumberland,  his  son  young  Henry 

The  Lords  of  Ross,  Beaumond,  and  Willoughby, 

With  all  their  powerful  friends,  are  fled  to  him. 

Bushy.    Why     have     you     not    proclaimed 

Northumberland , 

And  all  the  rest  of  the  revolted  faction, 
Traitors  ?  [Worcester 

Green.  We   have:   whereupon   the   Earl  of 
Hath  broke  his  staff,  resign'd  his  stewardship, 
And  all  the  household  servants  fled  with  him 
To  Bolingbroke.  [woe, 

Queen.  So,  Green,  thou  art  the  midwife  to  my 
And  Bolingbroke  my  sorrow's  dismal  heir : 


Now  hath  my  soul  brought  forth  her  prodigy  ; 
And  I,  a  gasping  new-deliver'd  mother, 
Have  woe  to  woe,  sorrow  to  sorrow  join'd. 

Bushy.  Despair  not,  madam. 

Queen.  Who  shall  hinder  me? 

I  will  despair,  and  be  at  enmity 
With  cozening  hope, — he  is  a  flatterer, 
A  parasite,  a  keeper-back  of  death, 
Who  gently  would  dissolve  the  bands  of  life, 
Which  false  hope  lingers  in  extremity. 

Green.  Here  comes  the  Duke  of  York. 

Queen.  With  signs  of  war  about  his  aged  neck: 
O,  full  of  careful  business  are  his  looks ! 

Enter  YORK. 

Uncle,  for  God's  sake,  speak  comfortable  words. 
York.  Should  I  do   so,  I  should   belie  my 

thoughts : 

Comfort 's  in  heaven;  and  we  are  on  the  earth, 
Where  nothing  lives  but  crosses,  care,  and  grief. 
Your  husband,  he  is  gone  to  save  far  off, 
Whilst  others  come  to  make  him  lose  at  home: 
Here  am  I  left  to  underprop  his  land, 
Who,  weak  with  age,  cannot  support  myself: 
Now  comes  the  sick  hour  that  his  surfeit  made ; 
Now  shall  he  try  his  friends  that  flatter'd  him. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  My  lord,  your  son  was  gone  before  I 

came. 
York.  He  was? — Why,  so! — go  all  which  way 

it  will  !— 
The  nobles  they  are  fled,  the  commons  they  are 

cold, 

And  will,  I  fear,  revolt  on  Hereford's  side. — 
Sirrah,  get  thee  to  Plashy,  to  my  sister  Gloster; 
Bid  her  send  me  presently  a  thousand  pound : — 
Hold,  take  my  ring.  [ship, 

Serv.  My  lord,  I  had  forgot  to  tell  your  lord- 
To-day,  as  I  came  by,  I  called  there  ; — 
But  I  shall  grieve  you  to  report  the  rest. 
York.  What  is 't,  knave  ? 
Serv.  An  hour  before  I  came,  the  duchess  died. 
York.  God  for  his  mercy!  what  a  tide  of  woes 
Comes  rushing  on  this  woeful  land  at  once  ! 
I  know  not  what  to  do  : — I  would  to  God, — 
So  my  untruth  had  not  provok'd  him  to  it, — 
The  king  had  cut  off  my  head  with  my  brother's. 
What,    are    there    no    posts    despatch'd     for 

Ireland?— 

How  shall  we  do  for  money  for  these  wars? — 
Come,    sister, — cousin,    I    would    say, — pray, 

pardon  me. 
Go,  fellow  \to  the  Servant],  get  thee  home 

provide  some  carts, 
And  bring  away  the  armour  that  is  there.—* 

[Exit  Servant 


SCENE  III.] 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


441 


Gentlemen,  will  you  go  muster  men?     If  I 

know 

How  or  which  way  to  order  these  affairs, 
Thus  thrust  disorderly  into  my  hands, 
Never  believe  me.     Both  are  my  kinsmen : — 
The  one 's  my  sovereign,  whom  both  my  oath 
And  duty  bids  defend ;  the  other,  again, 
Is  my  kinsman,  whom  the  king  hath  wrong'd, 
Whom  conscience  and  my  kindred  bids  to  right. 
Well,  somewhat  we  must  do. — Come,  cousin, 
I  '11  [men, 

Dispose  of  you.  —Gentlemen ,  go,  muster  up  your 
And  meet  me  presently  at  Berkley  Castle. 
I  should  to  Flashy  too; — 
But  time  will  not  permit : — all  is  uneven, 
And  everything  is  left  at  six  and  seven. 

[Exeunt  YORK  and  QUEEN. 

Bushy.  The  wind  sits  fair  for  news  to  go  to 

Ireland, 

But  none  returns.     For  us  to  levy  power 
Proportionable  to  the  enemy 
Is  all  impossible.  [love 

Green.  Besides,  our  nearness  to  the  king  in 
Is  near  the  hate  of  those  love  not  the  king. 

Bagot.  And  that's  the  wavering  commons: 

for  their  love 

Lies  in  their  purses;  and  whoso  empties  them, 
By  so  much  fills  their  hearts  with  deadly  hate. 

Bushy.  Wherein  the  king  stands  generally 
condenm'd. 

Bagot.  If  judgment  lie  in  them,  then  so  do  we, 
Because  we  ever  have  been  near  the  king. 

Green.    Well,   I  will  for  refuge  straight  to 

Bristol  Castle: 
The  Earl  of  Wiltshire  is  already  there,     [office 

Bushy.  Thither  will  I  with  you:   for  little 
The  hateful  commons  will  perform  for  us, 
Except  like  curs  to  tear  us  all  to  pieces. — 
Will  you  go  along  with  us? 

Bagot.  No ;  I  will  to  Ireland  to  his  majesty. 
Farewell :  if  heart's  presages  be  not  vain, 
We  three  here  part  that  ne'er  shall  meet  again. 

Bushy.  That 's  as  York  thrives  to  beat  back 
Bolingbroke.  [takes 

Green.  Alas,  poor  duke !  the  task  he  under- 
Is  numbering  sands,  and  drinking  oceans  dry : 
Where  one  on  his  side  rights,  thousands  will  fly. 
Farewell  at  once, — for  once,  for  all,  and  ever. 

Bushy.  Well,  we  may  meet  again. 

Bagot.  I  fear  me,  never.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — The  Wilds  in  Glostershire. 

Enter  BOLINGBROKE  and  NORTHUMBER- 
LAND, with  Forces. 

Baling.  How  far  is  it,  my  lord,  to  Berkley 
now? 


North.  Believe  me,  noble  lord, 
I  am  a  stranger  here  in  Glostershire : 
These  high  wild  hills  and  rough  uneven  ways 
Draw  out  our  miles,  and  make  them  wearisome; 
And  yet  your  fair  discourse  hath  been  as  sugar, 
Making  the  hard  way  sweet  and  delectable. 
But  I  bethink  me  what  a  weary  way 
From  Ravenspurg  to  Cotswold  will  be  found 
In  Ross  and  Willoughby,  wanting  your  company, 
Which,  I  protest,  hath  very  much  beguil'd 
The  tediousness  and  process  of  my  travel : 
But  theirs  is  sweeten'd  with  the  hope  to  have 
The  present  benefit  which  I  possess; 
And  hope  to  joy  is  little  less  in  joy 
Than  hope  enjoy'd :  by  this  the  weary  lords 
Shall  make  their  way  seem  short ;  as  mine  hath 

done 
By  sight  of  what  I  have,  your  noble  company. 

Baling.  Of  much  less  value  is  my  company 
Than  your  good  words. — But  who  comes  here? 

North.  It  is  my  son,  young  Harry  Percy, 
Sent  from  my  brother  Worcester,  whencesoever. 

Enter  HARRY  PERCY. 

Harry,  how  fares  your  uncle  ? 

Percy.    I   had   thought,   my  lord,   to  have 
learned  his  health  of  you. 

North.  Why,  is  he  not  with  the  queen? 

Percy.  No,  my  good  lord ;  he  hath  forsook 

the  court, 

Broken  his  staff  of  office,  and  dispers'd 
The  household  of  the  king. 

North.  What  was  his  reason? 

He  was  not  so  resolv'd  when  last  we  spake  to- 
gether. 

Percy.  Because  your  lordship  was  proclaimed 

traitor. 

But  he,  my  lord,  is  gone  to  Ravenspurg. 
To  offer  service  to  the  Duke  of  Hereford ; 
And  sent  me  o'er  by  Berkley,  to  discover 
What  power  the  Duke  of  York  had  levied  there  • 
Then  with  direction  to  repair  to  Ravenspurg. 

North.  Have  you  forgot  the  Duke  of  Here- 
ford, boy?  [forgot 

Percy.  No,  my  good  lord ;  for  that  is  not 
Which  ne'er  I  did  remember :  to  my  knowledge, 
I  never  in  my  life  did  look  on  him. 

North.  Then  learn  to  know  him  now ;  this 
is  the  duke.  [service, 

Percy.  My  gracious  lord,  I  tender  you  my 
Such  as  it  is,  being  tender,  raw,  and  young ; 
Which  elder  days  shall  ripen,  and  confirm 
To  more  approved  service  and  desert.        [sure 

Baling.  I  thank  thee,  gentle  Percy ;  and  be 
I  count  myself  in  nothing  else  so  happy 
As  in  a  soul  remembering  my  good  friends ; 
And,  as  my  fortune  ripens  with  thy  love* 


442 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


[ACT  n. 


It  shall  be  still  thy  true  love's  recompence : 
My  heart  this  covenant  makes,  my  hand  thus 

seals  it. 

North.  How  far  is  it  to  Berkley?  and  what  stir 

Keeps  good  old  York  there  with  his  men  of  war? 

Percy.  There  stands  the  castle,  by  yon  tuft 

of  trees,  [heard : 

Mann'd  with  three  hundred  men,  as  I  have 

And  in  it  are  the  Lords  of  York,  Berkley,  and 

Seymour, — 

None  else  of  name  and  noble  estimate. 
North.   Here  come  the  Lords  of  Ross  and 

Willoughby, 
Bloody  with  spurring,  fiery-red  with  haste. 

Enter  Ross  and  WILLOUGHBY. 

Baling.  Welcome,   my  lords.      I  wot  your 

love  pursues 

A  banish'd  traitor :  all  my  treasury 
Is  yet  but  unfelt  thanks,  which,  more  enrich'd, 
Shall  be  your  love  and  labour's  recompence. 
.Ross.  Your  presence   makes   us   rich,  most 
noble  lord.  [attain  it. 

Willo.  And   far    surmounts   our   labour    to 
Baling.  Evermore  thanks,  the  exchequer  of 

the  poor; 

Which,  till  my  infant  fortune  comes  to  years, 
Stands  for  my  bounty. — But,  who  comes  here? 
North.  It  is  my  Lord  of  Berkley,  as  I  guess. 

Enter  BERKLEY. 

Berk.  My  Lord  of  Hereford,  my  message  is 
to  you. 

Baling.  My  lord,  my  answer  is — to  Lancaster; 
And  I  am  come  to  seek  that  name  in  England ; 
And  I  must  find  that  title  in  your  tongue, 
Before  I  make  reply  to  aught  you  say. 

Berk.  Mistake  me  not,  my  lord ;  'tis  not  my 

meaning 

To  raze  one  title  of  your  honour  out : — 
To  you,  my  lord,  I  come, — what  lord  you  will, — 
From  the  most  gracious  regent  of  this  land, 
The  Duke  of  York,  to  know  what  pricks  you  on 
To  take  advantage  of  the  absent  time, 
And  fright  our  native  peace  with  self-born  arms. 

Baling.  I  shall  not  need  transport  my  words 

by  you ; 
Here  comes  his  grace  in  person. 

Enter  YORK,  attended. 

My  noble  uncle !      [Kneels. 
York.  Show  me  tky  humble  heart,  and  not 

thy  knee, 

Whose  duty  is  deceivable  and  false, 
Baling.  My  gracious  uncle  ! — 
York.  Tut,  tut ! 

Grace  me  no  grace,  nor  uncle  me  nc  uncle: 


I  am  no  traitor's  uncle ;  and  that  word — grace, 
In  an  ungracious  mouth  is  but  profane. 
Why  have  those  banish'd  and  forbidden  legs 
Dar'd  once  to  touch  a  dust  of  England's  ground? 
But,  then,  more  why, — why  have  they  dar'd  to 

march 

So  many  miles  upon  her  peaceful  bosom, 
Frighting  her  pale-fac'd  villages  with  war 
And  ostentation  of  despised  arms? 
Com'st  thou  because  the  anointed  king  is  hence? 
Why,  foolish  boy,  the  king  is  left  behind, 
And  in  my  loyal  bosom  lies  his  power. 
Were  I  but  now  the  lord  of  such  hot  youth 
As  when  brave  Gaunt  thy  father,  and  myself, 
Rescued  the  Black  Prince,  that  young  Mars  of 

men, 

From  forth  the  ranks  of  many  thousand  French, 
O,  then,  how  quickly  should  this  arm  of  mine, 
Now  prisoner  to  the  palsy,  chastise  thee, 
And  minister  correction  to  thy  fault !        [fault ; 

Baling.   My  gracious  uncle,  let  me  know  my 
On  what  condition  stands  it  and  wherein? 

York.  Even  in  condition  of  the  worst  degree, — 
In  gross  rebellion  and  detested  treason : 
Thou  art  a  banish'd  man ;  and  here  art  come 
Before  the  expiration  of  thy  time, 
In  braving  arms  against  thy  sovereign. 

Baling.  As  I  was  banish'd,  I  was  banish'd 

Hereford ; 

But  as  I  come,  I  come  for  Lancaster. 
And,  noble  uncle,  I  beseech  your  grace 
Look  on  my  wrongs  with  an  indifferent  eye : 
You  are  my  father,  for  methinks  in  you 
I  see  old  Gaunt  alive ;  O,  then,  my  father, 
Will  you  permit  that  I  shall  stand  condemn'd 
A  wandering  vagabond ;  my  rights  and  royalties 
Pluck'd  from  my  irms  perforce,  and  given  away 
To  upstart  unthrifts?     Wherefore  was  I  born? 
If  that  my  cousin  king  be  king  of  England, 
It  must  be  granted  I  am  Duke  of  Lancaster. 
You  have  a  son,  Aumerle,  my  noble  kinsman ; 
Had  you  first  died,  and  he  been  thus  trod  down, 
He  should  have  found  his  uncle  Gaunt  a  father, 
To  rouse  his  wrongs,  and  chase  them  to  the  bay. 
I  am  denied  to  sue  my  livery  here, 
And  yet  my  letters-patents  give  me  leave : 
My  fether's  goods  are  all  distrain'd  and  sold ; 
And  these  and  all  are  all  amiss  employ'd. 
What  would  you  have  me  do?     I  am  a  subject, 
And  challenge  law :  attorneys  are  denied  me ; 
And  therefore  personally  I  lay  my  claim 
To  my  inheritance  of  free  descent.         [abus'd. 

North.  The  noble  duke  hath  been  too  much 

Ross.  It  stands  your  grace  upon  to  do  him 
right. 

Willo.  Base  men  by  his  endowments  are 
made  great. 


SCENE  IV.] 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


443 


York.  My  lords  of  England,  let  me  tell  you 

this : — 

I  have  had  feeling  of  my  cousin's  wrongs, 
And  labour'd  all  I  could  to  do  him  right: 
But  in  this  kind  .to  come,  in  braving  arms, 
Be  his  own  carver,  and  cut  out  his  way, 
To  find  out  right  with  wrong, — it  may  not  be ; 
And  you  that  do  abet  him  in  this  kind 
Cherish  rebellion,  and  are  rebels  all. 
North.  The    noble    duke    hath    sworn  his 

coming  is 

But  for  his  own ;  and  for  the  right  of  that 
We  all  have  strongly  sworn  to  give  him  aid ; 
And  let  him  ne'er  see  joy  that  breaks  that  oath  ! 
York.  Well,  well,  I  see  the  issue  of  these 

arms; — 

I  cannot  mend  it,  I  must  needs  confess, 
Because  my  power  is  weak  and  all  ill  left : 
But  if  I  could,  by  him  that  gave  me  life, 
I  would  attach  you  all,  and  make  you  stoop 
Unto  the  sovereign  mercy  of  the  king ; 
But  since  I  cannot,  be  it  known  to  you 
I  do  remain  as  neuter.     So,  fare  you  well ; — 
Unless  you  please  to  enter  in  the  castle, 
And  there  repose  you  for  this  night. 

Btling.  An  offer,  uncle,  that  we  will  accept : 
But  we  must  win  your  grace  to  go  with  us 
To  Bristol  Castle,  which  they  say  is  held 
By  Bushy,  Bagot,  and  their  complices, 
The  caterpillars  of  the  commonwealth, 
Which  I  have  sworn  to  weed  and  pluck  away. 
York.  It  may  be  I  will  go  with  you: — but 

yet  I  '11  pause ; 

For  I  am  loth  to  break  our  country's  laws. 
Nor  friends  nor  foes,  to  me  welcome  you  are : 
Things  past  redress  are  now  with  me  past  care. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — A  Camp  in  Wales. 
Enter  SALISBURY  and  a  Captain. 

Cap.   My  Lord  of  Salisbury,  we  have  stay'd 

ten  days, 

And  hardly  kept  our  countrymen  together, 
And  yet  we  hear  no  tidings  from  the  king ; 
Therefore  we  will  disperse  ourselves:  farewell. 

Sal.    Stay    yet    another    day,    thou    trusty 

Welshman : 

The  king  reposeth  all  his  confidence 
In  thee.  [not  stay. 

Cap.  'Tis  thought  the  king  is  dead ;  we  will 
The  bay  trees  in  our  country  all  are  wither'd, 
And  meteors  fright  the  fixed  stars  of  heaven ; 
The  pale-fac'd  moon  looks  bloody  on  the  earth, 
And     lean-look'd    prophets    whisper     fearful 
change ;  [leap, — 

Rich  men   look  sad,  and  ruffians  dance  and 


The  one  in  fear  to  lose  what  they  enjoy, 
The  other  to  enjoy  by  rage  and  war: 
These  signs  forerun  the  death  or  fall  of  kings. — 
Farewell :  our  countrymen  are  gone  and  fled, 
As  well  assur'd  Richard  their  king  is  dead. 

[Exit. 
Sal.  Ah,  Richard,  with  the  eyes  of  heavy 

mind, 

I  see  thy  glory,  like  a  shooting  star, 
Fall  to  the  base  earth  from  the  firmament ! 
The  sun  sets  weeping  in  the  lowly  west, 
Witnessing  storms  to  come,  woe,  and  unrest ; 
Thy  friends  are  fled,  to  wait  upon  thy  foes; 
And  crossly  to  thy  good  all  fortune  goes. 

[Exit. 

ACT  III. 
SCENE  I. — BOLINGBROKE'S  Camp  at  Bristol. 

Enter  BOLINGBROKE,  YORK,  NORTHUMBER- 
LAND, PERCY,  WILLOUGHBY,  Ross:  Officers 
behind,  with  BUSHY  and  GREEN,  prisoners. 

Boling.  Bring  forth  these  men. — 
Bushy  and  Green,  I  will  not  vex  your  souls, — . 
Since  presently  your   souls   must    part  your 

bodies, — 

With  too  much  urging  your  pernicious  lives, 
For  'twere  no  charity;  yet,  to  wash  your  blood 
From  off  my  hands,  here,  in  the  view  of  men, 
I  will  unfold  some  causes  of  your  deaths. 
You  have  misled  a  prince,  a  royal  king, 
A  happy  gentleman  in  blood  and  lineaments, 
By  you  unhappied  and  disfigur'd  clean : 
You  have  in  manner  with  your  sinful  hours 
Made  a  divorce  betwixt  his  queen  and  him ; 
Broke  the  possession  of  a  royal  bed, 
And  stain'd  the  beauty  of  a  fair  queen's  cheeks 
With  tears  drawn  from  her  eyes  by  your  foul 

wrongs. 

Myself, — a  prince  by  fortune  of  my  birth, 
Near  to  the  king  in  blood,  and  near  in  love 
Till  you  did  make  him  misinterpret  me, — 
Have  stoop'd  my  neck  under  your  injuries, 
And  sigh'd  my  English  breath  in  foreign  clouds, 
Eating  the  bitter  bread  of  banishment ; 
Whilst  you  have  fed  upon  my  signories, 
Dispark'd  my  parks,  and  fell'd  my  forest-woods, 
From   my  own  windows  torn  my  household 

coat, 

Raz'd  out  my  impress,  leaving  me  no  sign, 
Save  men's  opinions  and  my  living  blood, 
To  show  the  world  I  am  a  gentleman. 
This  and  much  more,  much  more  than  twice 

all  this, 
Condemns  you  to  the  death. — See   them   de- 

liver'd  over 
To  execution  and  the  hand  of  death. 


444 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


[ACT  III. 


Bushy.  More  welcome  is  the  stroke  of  death 

to  me  [well. 

Than  Bolingbroke  to  England. — Lords,  fare- 

Green.  My  comfort  is,  that  heaven  will  take 

our  souls, 

And  plague  injustice  with  the  pains  of  hell. 
Baling.   My  Lord  Northumberland,  see  them 

despatch'd. 

[Exeunt  NORTH,  and  others,  with  Prisoners. 
Uncle,  you  say  the  queen  is  at  your  house ; 
For  God's  sake,  fairly  let  her  be  entreated: 
Tell  her  I  send  to  her  my  kind  commends; 
Take  special  care  my  greetings  be  deliver'd. 

York.  A  gentleman  of  mine  I  have  despatch'd 
With  letters  of  your  love  to  her  at  large. 

Baling.  Thanks,  gentle  uncle. — Come,  lords. 

away, 

To  fight  with  Glendower  and  his  complices : 
Awhile  to  work,  and  after  holiday.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — The  Coast  of  WALES.     A  Castle 
in  view. 

Flourish ;  drums  and  trumpets.  Enter  KING 
RICHARD,  the  BISHOP  OF  CARLISLE, 
Au MERLE,  and  Soldiers. 

K.  Rich.  Barkloughly  Castle  call  they  this 
at  hand? 

Aum.    Yea,   my  lord.      How  brooks  your 

grace  the  air, 
After  your  late  tossing  on  the  breaking  seas? 

K.  Rich.  Needs  must  I  like  it  well :  I  weep 

for  joy 

To  stand  upon  my  kingdom  once  again.— 
Dear  earth,  I  do  salute  thee  with  my  hand, 
Though  rebels  wound  thee  with  their  horses' 

hoofs: 

As  a  long- parted  mother  with  her  child 
Plays  fondly    with    her   tears   and  smiles  in 

meeting, 

So,  weeping-smiling,  greet  I  thee,  my  earth, 
And  do  thee  favour  with  my  royal  hands. 
Feed  not  thy  sovereign's  foe,  my  gentle  earth, 
Nor  with  thy  sweets  comfort  his  rav'nous  sense ; 
But  let  thy  spiders,  that  suck  up  thy  venom, 
And  heavy -gaited  toads,  lie  in  their  way, 
Doing  annoyance  to  the  treacherous  feet 
Which  with  usurping  steps  do  trample  thee : 
Yield  stinging  nettles  to  mine  enemies ; 
And  when  they  from  thy  bosom  pluck  a  flower, 
Guard  it,  I  pray  thee,  with  a  lurking  adder, 
Whose  double  tongue  may  with  a  mortal  touch 
Throw  death  upon  thy  sovereign's  enemies. — 
Mock  not  my  senseless  conjuration,  lords: 
This  earth  shall  have  a  feeling,  and  these  stones 
Prove  armed  soldiers,  ere  her  native  king 
Shall  falter  under  foul  rebellion's  arms ! 


Car.  Fear  not,   my  lord;   that  Power  that 

made  you  king 

Hath  power  to  keep  you  king  in  spite  of  all. 
The  means  that  heaven  yields  must  be  embrac'd 
And  not  neglected ;  else,  if  heaven  would, 
And  we  will  not,  heaven's  offer  we  refuse, 
The  proffer'd  means  of  succour  and  redress. 
Aum.  He  means,  my  lord,  that  we  are  too 

remiss ; 

Whilst  Bolingbroke,  through  our  security, 
Grows  strong  and  great  in  substance  and  in 

friends.  [thou  not 

K.  Rich.    Discomfortable    cousin !    know'st 
That  when  the  searching  eye  of  heaven  is  hid 
Behind  the  globe  that  lights  the  lower  world, 
Then  thieves  and  robbers  range  abroad  unseen, 
In  murders  and  in  outrage,  boldly  here ; 
But  when,  from  under  this  terrestrial  ball, 
He  fires  the  proud  tops  of  the  eastern  pines, 
And  darts  his  light  through  every  guilty  hole, 
Then  murders,  treasons,  and  detested  sins, 
The  cloak  of  night  being  pluck'd  from  off  their 

backs, 

Stand  bare  and  naked,  trembling  at  themselves? 
So  when  this  thief,  this  traitor,  Bolingbroke, — • 
Who  all  this  while  hath  revell'd  in  the  nights 
Whilst  we  were  wandering  with  the  antipodes, — • 
Shall  see  us  rising  in  our  throne,  the  east, 
His  treasons  will  sit  blushing  in  his  face, 
Not  able  to  endure  the  sight  of  day, 
But  self-affrighted  tremble  at  his  sin. 
Not  all  the  water  in  the  rough  rude  sea 
Can  wash  the  balm  from  an  anointed  king ; 
The  breath  of  worldly  men  cannot  depose 
The  deputy  elected  by  the  Lord ; 
For  every  man  that  Bolingbroke  hath  press'd 
To  lift  shrewd  steel  against  our  golden  crown, 
God  for  his  Richard  hath  in  heavenly  pay 
A  glorious  angel :  then,  if  angels  fight,     [right 
Weak  man  must  fall ;  for  heaven  still  guards  the 

Enter  SALISBURY. 

Welcome,  my  lord :  how  far  off  lies  your  power? 
Sal.  Nor  near  nor  further  off,  my  gracious 

lord,  [tongue, 

Than  this  weak  arm :    discomfort  guides  my 
And  bids  me  sp  ak  of  nothing  but  despair. 
One  day  too  late,  I  fear,  my  noble  lord, 
Hath  clouded  all  thy  happy  days  on  earth : 
O,  call  back  yesterday,  bid  time  return, 
And  thou  shalt  have  twelve  thousand  fighting 

men! 

To-day,  to-day,  unhappy  day,  too  late, 
O'erthrows  thy  joys,  friends,  fortune,  and  thy 

state  ; 

For  all  the  Welshmen,  hearing  thou  wert  dead, 
Are  gone  to  Bolingbroke,  dispers'd,  and  fled, 


SCENE  II.] 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


445 


Aum.  Comfort,  ir**-  liege:  why  looks  your 
grace  so  pal6?  [sand  men 

K.  Rich.  But  now  the  blood  of  twenty  thou- 
Dicl  triumph  in  my  face,  and  they  are  fled ; 

And,  till  so  much  blood  thither  come  again, 
Have  I  not  reason  to  look  pale  and  dead? 

All  souls  that  will  be  safe  fly  from  my  side ; 

For  time  hath  set  a  blot  upon  my  pride,  [are. 
Aum.  Comfort,  my  liege ;  remember  who  you 
K.  Rich.  I  had  forgot  myself:  am  I  not  king? 

Awake,  thou  sluggard  majesty!  thou  sleep'st. 

Is  not  the  king's  name  forty  thousand  names? 

Arm,  arm,  my  name  !  a  puny  subject  strikes 

At  thy  great  glory. — Look  not  to  the  ground, 

Ye  favourites  of  a  king:  are  we  not  high? 

High  be  our  thoughts :  I  know  my  uncle  York 

Hath  power  enough  to  serve  our  turn. — But 
who  comes  here? 

Enter  SCROOP. 

Scroop.  More  health  and  happiness  betide 

my  liege 

Than  can  my  care-tun'd  tongue  deliver  him. 
K.   Rich.  Mine  ear  is  open  and  my  heart 

prepar'd : 

The  worst  is  worldly  loss  thou  canst  unfold. 
Say,  is  my  kingdom  lost?  why,  'twas  my  care; 
And  what  loss  is  it  to  be  rid  of  care? 
Strives  Bolingbroke  to  be  as  great  as  we? 
Greater  he  shall  not  be ;  if  he  serve  God, 
We'll  serve  him  too,  and  be  his  fellow  so: 
Revolt  our  subjects?  that  we  cannot  mend ; 
They  break  their  faith  to  God,  as  well  as  us : 
Cry  woe,  destruction,  ruin,  loss,  decay ; 
The  worst  is  death,  and  death  will  have  his  day! 
Scroop.  Glad  am  I  that  your  highness  is  so 

arm'd 

To  bear  the  tidings  of  calamity. 
Like  an  unseasonable  stormy  day, 
Which  makes  the  silver  rivers  drown  their  shores, 
As  if  the  world  were  all  dissolv'd  to  tears; 
So  high  above  his  limits  swells  the  rage 
Of  Bolingbroke,  covering  your  fearful  land 
With  hard  bright  steel,  and  hearts  harder  than 

steel. 

White-beards  have  arm'd  their  thin  and  hair- 
less scalps  [voices, 
Against  thy  majesty;  and  boys,  with  women's 
Strive  to  speak  big,  and  clap  their  female  joints 
In  stiff  unwieldy  arms  against  thy  crown : 
Thy  very  beadsmen  learn  to  bend  their  bows 
Of  double-fatal  yew  against  thy  state ; 
Yea,  distaff-women  manage  rusty  bills 
Against  thy  seat :  both  old  and  young  rebel, 
And  all  goes  worse  than  I  have  power  to  tell. 
JC.  Rick.  Too  well,  too  well  thou  tell'st  a 
tale  so  ill. 


Where  is  the   Earl  of  Wiltshire?    where    is 

Bagot? 

What  is  become  of  Bushy,  where  is  Green  ? 
That  they  have  let  the  dangerous  enemy 
Measure  our  confines  with  such  peaceful  steps? 
If  we  prevail,  their  heads  shall  pay  for  it : 
I  warrant  they  have  made  peace  with  Boling- 
broke. 
Scroop.    Peace   have  they  made  with  him, 

indeed,  my  lord.  [redemption! 

K.  Rich.  O  villains,  vipers,  damn'd  without 
Dogs,  easily  won  to  fawn  on  any  man ! 
Snakes,  in  my  heart-blood  warm'd,  that  sting 

my  heart !  [Judas ! 

Three  Judases,   each   one   thrice  worse   than 

Would  they  make  peace?  terrible  hell  make  war 

Upon  their  spotted  souls  for  this  offence ! 

Scroop.    Sweet   lover    I   see,   changing    his 

property, 

Turns  to  the  sourest  and  most  deadly  hate : — 
Again  uncurse  their  souls ;  their  peace  is  made 
With  heads,  and  not  with  hands :  those  whom 

you  curse 

Have  felt  the  worst  of  death's  destroying  wound, 

And  lie  full  low,  grav'd  in  the  hollow  ground. 

Awn.    Is  Bushy,   Green,   and  the   Earl  of 

Wiltshire  dead?  [heads. 

Scroop.  Yea,  all  of  them  at  Bristol  lost  theff 
Aum.  Where  is  the  duke  my  father  with  his 

power? 
K.  Rich.  No  matter  where ; — of  comfort,  no 

man  speak : 

Let 's  talk  of  graves,  of  worms,  and  epitaphs; 
Make  dust  our  paper,  and  with  rainy  eyes 
Write  sorrow  on  the  bosom  of  the  earth. 
Let's  choose  executors,  and  talk  of  wills: 
And  yet  not  so, — for  what  can  we  bequeath, 
Save  our  deposed  bodies  to  the  ground  ? 
Our  lands,  our  lives,  and  all  are  Bolingbroke's9 
And  nothing  can  we  call  our  own  but  death, 
And  that  small  model  of  the  barren  earth 
Which  serves  as  paste  and  cover  to  our  bones. 
For  God's  sake,  let  us  sit  upon  the  ground, 
And  cell  sad  stories  of  the  death  of  kings : — 
How  some  have  been  depos'd ;  some  slain  in 

war; 

Some  haunted  by  the  ghosts  they  have  depos'd; 
Some  poison'd  by  their  wives;  some  sleeping 

kill'd ; 

All  murder'd : — for  within  the  hollow  crown 
That  rounds  the  mortal  temples  of  a  king 
Keeps  Death  his  court ;  and  there  the  antic  sits 
Scoffing  his  state,  and  grinning  at  his  pomp ; 
Allowing  him  a  breath,  a  little  scene, 
To  monarchize,  be  fear'd,  and  kill  with  looks ; 
Infusing  him  with  self  and  vain  conceit, — 
As  if  this  flesh,  which  walls  about  our  life, 


446 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


[ACT  III. 


Were  brass  impregnable ;  and  humour'd  thus, 
Comes  at  the  last,  and  with  a  little  pin 
Bores  through  his  castle-wall,  and — farewell, 
king !  [blood 

Cover  your  heads,  and  mock  not  flesh  and 
With  solemn  reverence ;  throw  away  respect, 
Tradition,  form,  and  ceremonious  duty ; 
For  you  have  but  mistook  me  all  this  while : 
I  live  with  bread  like  you,  feel  want,  taste  grief, 
Need  friends : — subjected  thus, 
How  can  you  say  to  me,  I  am  a  king? 

Car.  My  lord,  wise  men  ne'er  sit  and  wail 

their  woes, 

But  presently  prevent  the  ways  to  wail. 
To  fear  the  foe,  since  fear  oppresseth  strength, 
Gives,  in  your  weakness,  strength  unto  your  foe, 
And  so  your  follies  fight  against  yourself. 
Fear,  and  be  slain ;  no  worse  can  come  to  fight : 
And  fight  and  die  is  death  destroying  death ; 
Where  fearing  dying  pays  death  servile  breath. 

Aum.  My  father  hath  a  power;  inquire  of 

him; 
And  learn  to  make  a  body  of  a  limb. 

K.  Rich.    Thou    chid'st    me    well: — proud 

Bolingbroke,  I  come  [doom. 

To  change   blows  with   thee   for  our   day  of 

This  ague-fit  of  fear  is  over-blown ; 

An  easy  task  it  is  to  win  our  own. —     [power? 

Say,   Scroop,   where   lies  our   uncle  with  his 

Speak  sweetly,   man,   although  thy  looks   be 

sour.  [sky 

Scroop.  Men  judge  by  the  complexion  of  the 

The  state  and  inclination  of  the  day : 
So  may  you  by  my  dull  and  heavy  eye, 

My  tongue  hath  but  a  heavier  tale  to  say. 
I  play  the  torturer,  by  small  and  small 
To    lengthen    out    the    worst   that    must   be 

spoken: — 

Your  uncle  York  is  join'd  with  Bolingbroke ; 
And  all  your  northern  castles  yielded  up, 
And  all  your  southern  gentlemen  in  arms 
Upon  his  party. 

K.  Rich.         Thou  hast  said  enough. — 
Beshrew  thee,  cousin,  which  didst  lead  me  forth 
\To  AUMERLE. 

Of  that  sweet  way  I  was  in  to  despair ! 
What  say  you  now?  what  comfort  have  we  now? 
By  heaven,  I  '11  hate  him  everlastingly 
That  bids  me  be  of  comfort  any  more. 
Go  to  Flint  Castle :  there  I  '11  pine  away ; 
A  king,  woe's  slave,  shall  kingly  woe  obey. 
That  power  I  have,  discharge  ;  and  let  them  go 
To  ear  the  land  that  hath  some  hope  to  grow, 
For  I  have  none : — let  no  man  speak  again 
To  alter  this,  for  counsel  is  but  vain. 

Aum.   My  liege,  one  word. 

K.  Rich.  He  does  me  double  wrong 


That  wounds  me  with  the  flatteries  of  his  tongue. 
Discharge  my  followers :  let  them  hence  away, 
From  Richard's  night  to  Bolingbroke's  fair  day. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — WALES.     Before  Flint  Castle. 

Enter,  with  drum  and  colours,  BOLINGBROKE 
and  Forces;  YORK,  NORTHUMBERLAND, 
and  others. 

Baling.  So  that  by  this  intelligence  we  learn 
The  Welshmen  are  dispers'd ;  and  Salisbury 
Is  gone  to  meet  the  king,  who  lately  landed 
With  some  few  private  friends  upon  this  coast. 
North.  The  news  is  very  fair  and  good,  my 

lord: 

Richard  not  far  from  hence  hath  hid  his  head. 
York.  It  would  beseem  the  Lord  Northumber- 
land 

To  say,  King  Richard : — alack  the  heavy  day 
When  such  a  sacred  king  should  hide  his  head. 
North.  Your  grace  mistakes ;  only  to  be  brief, 
Left  I  his  title  out. 

York.  The  time  hath  been, 

Would  you  have  been  so  brief  with  him,  he 

would 

Have  been  so  brief  with  you,  to  shorten  you, 

For  taking   so  the  head,  your  whole   head's 

length.  [should. 

Baling.  Mistake  not,  uncle,  further  than  you 

York.  Take  not,  good  cousin,  further  than 

you  should,  [heads. 

Lest  you  mistake:   the  heavens  are  o'er  our 

Baling.  I  know  it,  uncle;   and  oppose  not 

myself 
Against  their  will. — But  who  comes  here? 

Enter  PERCY. 

Well,  Harry:  what,  will  not  this  castle  yield? 

Percy.  The  castle  royally  is  mann'd,  my  lord, 
Against  thy  entrance. 

Baling.  Royally! 
Why,  it  contains  no  king? 

Percy.  Yes,  my  good  lord, 

It  doth  contain  a  king ;  King  Richard  lies 
Within  the  limits  of  yond  lime  and  stone : 
And  with  him  are  the  Lord  Aumerle,  Lord 

Salisbury, 

Sir  Stephen  Scroop ;  besides  a  clergyman 
Of  holy  reverence,  who  I  cannot  learn. 

North.  O,  belike  it  is  the  Bishop  of  Carlisle. 

Baling.  Noble  lord, 

[To  NORTHUMBERLAND. 
Go  to  the  rude  ribs  of  that  ancient  castle ; 
Through  brazen  trumpet  send  the  breath  of  parle 
Into  his  ruin'd  ears,  and  thus  deliver:—- 
Harry  Bolingbroke 


SCENE  III.] 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


447 


On  both  his  knees  doth  kiss  King  Richard's 

hand, 

And  sends  allegiance  and  true  faith  of  heart 
To  his  most  royal  person  ;  hither  come 
Even  at  his  feet  to  lay  my  arms  and  power, 
Provided  that,  my  banishment  repeal'd, 
And  lands  restor'd  again,  be  freely  granted : 
If  not,  I  '11  use  the  advantage  of  my  power, 
And  lay  the  summer's  dust  with  showers  of  blood 
Rain'd  from  the  wounds  of  slaughter'd  English- 
men: 
The   which,    how   far   off  from   the   mind   cf 

Bolingbroke 

It  is,  such  crimson  tempest  should  bedrench 
The  fresh  green  lap  of  fair  King  Richard's  land, 
My  stooping  duty  tenderly  shall  show. 
Go,  signify  as  much,  while  here  we  march 
Upon  the  grassy  carpet  of  this  plain. — 

[NORTH,  advances  to  the  Castle,  with  a 

trumpet. 
Let's  march  without  the  noise  of  threat'ning 

drum, 

That  from  the  castle's  tatter'd  battlements 
Our  fair  appointments  may  be  well  perus'd. 
Methinks  King  Richard  and  myself  should  meet 
With  no  less  terror  than  the  elements 
Of  fire  and  water,  when  their  thund'ring  shock 
At  meeting  tears  the  cloudy  cheeks  of  heaven. 
Be  he  the  fire,  I  '11  be  the  yielding  water : 
The  rage  be  his,  while  on  the  earth  I  rain 
My  waters, — on  the  earth,  and  not  on  him. 
March  on,  and  mark  King  Richard  how  he  looks. 

A  parle  sounded,  and  answered  by  another 
trumpet  within.  Flourish.  Enter  on  the 
walls  KING  RICHARD,  the  BISHOP  OF  CAR- 
LISLE, AUMERLE,  SCROOP,  and  SALISBURY. 

See,  see,  King  Richard  doth  himself  appear, 

As  doth  the  blushing  discontented  sun 

From  out  the  fiery  portal  of  the  east, 

When  he  perceives  the  envious  clouds  are  bent 

To  dim  his  glory,  and  to  stain  the  track 

Of  his  bright  passage  to  the  Occident.         [eye, 

York.  Yet  looks  he  like  a  king :  behold,  his 
As  bright  as  is  the  eagle's,  lightens  forth 
Controlling  majesty: — alack,  alack,  for  woe, 
That  any  harm  should  stain  so  fair  a  show ! 

K.  Rich.  We  are  amaz'd ;  and  thus  long  have 

we  stood 
To  watch  the  fearful  bending  of  thy  knee, 

[To  NORTHUMBERLAND. 
Because  we  thought  ourself  thy  lawful  king  : 
And  if  we  be,  how  dare  thy  joints  forget 
To  pay  their  awful  duty  to  our  presence? 
If  we  be  not,  show  us  the  hand  of  God 
That  hath  dismissed  us  from  our  stewardship ; 
For  well  we  know,  no  hand  of  blood  and  bone 


Can  gripe  the  sacred  handle  of  our  sceptre, 
Unless  he  do  profane,  steal,  or  usurp. 
And  though  you  think  that  all,  as  you  have  done, 
Have  torn  their  souls  by  turning  them  from  us, 
And  we  are  barren  and  bereft  of  friends ; 
Yet  know, — my  master,  God  omnipotent, 
Is  mustering  in  his  clouds,  on  our  behalf, 
Armies  of  pestilence ;  and  they  shall  strike 
Your  children  yet  unborn  and  unbegot, 
That  lift  your  vassal  hands  against  my  head, 
And  threat  the  glory  of  my  precious  crown. 
Tell  Bolingbroke,-    for  yond  methinks  he  is, — 
That  every  stride  he  makes  upon  my  land 
Is  dangerous  treason :  he  is  come  to  ope 
The  purple  testament  of  bleeding  war ; 
But  ere  the  crown  he  looks  for  live  in  peace, 
Ten  thousand  bloody  crowns  of  mothers'  sons 
Shall  ill  become  the  flower  of  England's  face, 
Change  the  complexion  of  her  maid-pale  peace 
To  scarlet  indignation,  and  bedew 
Her  pastures'  grass  with  faithful  English  blood. 

North.  The  king  of  heaven  forbid  our  lord  the 

king 

Should  so  with  civil  and  uncivil  arms 
Be  rush'd  upon !     Thy  thrice-noble  cousin, 
Harry  Bolingbroke,  doth  humbly  kiss  thy  hand ; 
And  by  the  honourable  tomb  he  swears, 
That  stands  upon  your  royal  grandsire's  bones, 
And  by  the  royalties  of  both  your  bloods, — 
Currents  that  spring  from  one  most  gracious 

head, — 

And  by  the  buried  hand  of  warlike  Gaunt, 
And  by  the  worth  and  honour  of  himself, 
Comprising  all  that  may  be  sworn  or  said, — 
His  coming  hither  hath  no  further  scope 
Than  for  his  lineal  royalties,  and  to  beg 
Enfranchisement  immediate  on  his  knees: 
Which  on  thy  royal  party  granted  once, 
His  glittering  arms  he  will  commend  to  rust, 
His  barbed  steeds  to  stables,  and  his  heart 
To  faithful  service  of  your  majesty. 
This  swears  he,  as  he  is  a  prince,  is  just ; 
And,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  credit  him. 

K.  Rich.  Northumberland,  say  thus  the  king 

returns : — 

His  noble  cousin  is  right  welcome  hither; 
And  all  the  number  of  his  fair  demands 
Shall  be  accomplish'd  without  contradiction: 
With  all  the  gracious  utterance  thou  hast 
Speak  to  his  gentle  hearing  kind  commends. — 
We  do  debase  ourself,  cousin,  do  we  not, 

[To  AUMERLE. 

To  look  so  poorly,  and  to  speak  so  fair? 
Shall  we  call  back  Northumberland,  and  send 
Defiance  to  the  traitor,  and  so  die? 

Aum.  No,  good  my  lord;  let's  fight  with 
gentl*  words 


44* 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


[ACT  HI. 


Fill  time  lend  friends,  and  friends  their  helpful 

swords. 
K.  Rich.  O  God,  O  God !  that  e'er  this  tongue 

of  mine, 

That  laid  the  sentence  of  dread  banishment 
On  yond  proud  man,  should  take  it  off  again 
With  words  of  sooth !     O  that  I  were  as  great 
As  is  my  grief,  or  lesser  than  my  name ! 
Or  that  I  could  forget  what  I  have  been ! 
Or  not  remember  what  I  must  be  now ! 
SwelFst  thou,  proud  heart?  I  '11  give  thee  scope 

to  beat, 

Since  foes  have  scope  to  beat  both  thee  and  me. 
Aum.  Northumberland    comes    back    from 

Bolingbroke. 
K.  Rich.  What  must  the  king  do  now?  must 

he  submit? 

The  king  shall  do  it:  must  he  be  depos'd? 
The  king  shall  be  contented :  must  he  lose 
The  name  of  king?  o'  God's  name,  let  it  go: 
I  '11  give  my  jewels  for  a  set  of  beads, 
My  gorgeous  palace  for  a  hermitage, 
My  gay  apparel  for  an  alms-man's  gown, 
My  figur'd  goblets  for  a  dish  of  wood, 
My  sceptre  for  a  palmer's  walking  staff, 
My  subjects  for  a  pair  of  carved. saints, 
And  my  large  kingdom  for  a  little  grave, 
A  little  little  grave,  an  obscure  grave; — 
Or  I  '11  be  buried  in  the  king's  highway, 
Some  way  of  common  trade,  where  subjects'  feet 
May  hourly  trample  on  their  sovereign's  head ; 
For  on  my  heart  they  tread  now  whilst  I  live ; 
And  buried  once,  why  not  upon  my  head? — 
Aumerle,   thou    weep'st, — my    tender-hearted 

cousin ! — 

We  '11  make  foul  weather  with  despised  tears ; 
Our  sighs  and  they  shall  lodge  the  summer  corn, 
And  make  a  dearth  in  this  revolting  land. 
Or  shall  we  play  the  wantons  with  ou»-  woes, 
And  make  some  pretty  match  with  shedding 

tears? 

As  thus; — to  drop  them  still  upon  one  place, 
Till  they  have  fretted  us  a  pair  of  graves 
Within  the  earth;  and,  therein  laid, — there  lies 
Two  kinsmen  digg'd  their  graves  with  weeping 

eyes. 

Would  not  this  ill  do  well?— Well,  well,  I  see 
I  talk  but  idly,  and  you  mock  at  me. — 
Most  mighty  prince,  my  Lord  Northumberland, 
What  says  King  Bolingbroke?  will  his  majesty 
Give  Richard  leave  to  live  till  Richard  die  ? 
You  make  a  leg,  and  Bolingbroke  says  ay. 
North.  My  lord,  in  the  base  court  he  doth 

attend  [down? 

To  speak  with  you  ; — may  it  please  you  to  come 
K.  Rich.  Down,  down  I  come ;  like  glister- 
ing Phaeton, 


Wanting  the  manage  of  unruly  jades. 

[NORTH,  retires  to  BOLING. 
In  the  base  court?    Base  court,  where  kings 

grow  base, 

To  come  at  traitors'  calls,  and  do  them  grace. 
In  the  base  court  ?    Come  down  ?    Down,  court  ! 

down,  king! 

For  night-owls  shriek  where  mounting  larks 
should  sing.          [Exeunt  from  above. 
Baling.  What  says  his  majesty? 
North,  Sorrow  and  grief  of  heart 

Makes  him  speak  fondly,  like  a  frantic  man  : 
Yet  he  is  come. 

Enter  KING  RICHARD,  and  his  Attendants, 
below. 

Baling.  Stand  all  apart, 
And  show  fair  duty  to  his  majesty.  — 
My  gracious  lord,  —  [Kneeling. 

K.  Rich.  Fair  cousin,  you  debase  your  princely 

knee 

To  make  the  base  earth  proud  with  kissing  jt  : 
Me  rather  had  my  heart  might  feel  your  love 
Than  my  unpleas'd  eye  see  your  courtesy. 
Up,  cousin,  up;  —  your  heart  is  up,  I  know, 
Thus  high  at  least  \touching  his  own  head],  al- 
though your  knee  be  low.  [own. 

Baling.  My  gracious  lord,  I  come  but  for  mine 

K.  Rich.  Your  own  is  yours,  and  I  am  yours, 
and  all.  [lord, 

Baling.  So  far  be  mine,  my  most  redoubted 
As  my  true  service  shall  deserve  your  love. 

K.  Rich.  Well  you  deserve:  —  they  well  de- 

serve to  have 

That  know  the  strong'st  and  surest  way  to  get.  — 
Uncle,  give  me  your  hand  :  nay,  dry  your  eyes  ; 
Tears  show  their  love,  but  want  their  remedies.  — 
Cousin,  I  am  too  young  to  be  your  father, 
Though  you  are  old  enough  to  be  my  heir. 
What  you  will  have,  I  '11  give,  and  willing  too  ; 
For  do  we  must  what  force  will  have  us  do.— 
Set  on  towards  London  :  —  cousin,  is  it  so? 

Boling.  Yea,  my  good  lord. 
ich. 


K.  Rich. 


Then  I  must  not  say  no. 
[Ffairish.     Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.  —  LANGLEY.  The  DUKE  OF  YORK'S 
Garden. 

Enter  the  QUEEN  and  two  Ladies. 

Queen.  What  sport  shall  we  devise  here  in 

this  garden, 
To  drive  away  the  heavy  thought  of  care? 

I  Lady.   Madam,  we'll  play  at  bowls. 

Queen.  'Twill  make  me  think 

The  world  is  full  of  rubs,  and  that  my  fortune 
Runs  against  the  bias 


SCENE  1V.J 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


449 


I  Lady.  Madam,  we  '11  dance. 

Queen.  My  legs  can  keep  no  measure  in  de- 
light, 

When  my  poor  heart  no  measure  keeps  in  grief: 
Therefore,  no  dancing,  girl ;  some  other  sport. 

I  Lady.   Madam,  we  '11  tell  tales. 

Queen.  Of  sorrow  or  of  joy? 

I  Lady.  Of  either,  madam. 

Queen.  Of  neither,  girl : 

For  if  of  joy,  being  altogether  wanting, 
It  doth  remember  me  the  more  of  sorrow ; 
Or  if  of  grief,  being  altogether  had, 
It  adds  more  sorrow  to  my  want  of  joy : 
For  what  I  have,  I  need  not  to  repeat ; 
And  what  I  want,  it  boots  not  to  complain. 

i  Lady.  Madam,  I  '11  sing. 

Queen.  'Tis  well  that  thou  hast  cause ; 

But  thou  shouldst  please  me  better  wouldst  thou 

weep.  [you  good. 

I  Lady.  I  could  weep,  madam,  would  it  do 

Queen.  And  I  could  weep,  would  weeping  do 

me  good, 

And  never  borrow  any  tear  of  thee. — 
But  stay.,  here  come  the  gardeners.: 
Let 's  step  into  the  shadow  of  these  trees. 
My  wretchedness  unto  a  row  of  pins, 
They  '11  talk  of  state ;  for  every  one  doth  so 
Against  a  change :  woe  is  forerun  with  woe. 

[QUEEN  and  Ladies  retire. 

Enter  a  Gardener  and  two  Servants. 

Card.  Go,  bind  thou  up  yond  dangling  apri- 

cocks, 

Which,  like  unruly  children,  make  their  sire 
Stoop  with  oppression  of  their  prodigal  weight : 
Give  some  supportance  to  the  bending  twigs. — 
Go  thou,  and  like  an  executioner 
Cut  off  the  heads  of  too-fast-growing  sprays, 
That  look  too  lofty  in  our  commonwealth : 
All  must  be  even  in  our  government. — 
You  thus  employ'd,  I  will  go  root  away 
The  noisome  weeds,  that  without  profit  suck 
The  soil's  fertility  from  wholesome  flowers. 

I  Serv.  Why  should  we,  in  the  compass  of  a 

pale, 

Keep  law  and  form  and  due  proportion, 
Showing,  as  in  a  model,  our  firm  estate, 
When  our  sea- walled  garden,  the  whole  land, 
Is  full  of  weeds ;  her  fairest  flowers  chok'd  up, 
Her  fruit-trees  all  unprun'd,  her  hedges  ruin'd, 
Her  knots  disorder'd,  and  her  wholesome  herbs 
Swarming  with  caterpillars? 

Card.  Hold  thy  peace : — 

He  that  hath  suffer'd  this  disorder'd  spring 
Hath  now  himself  met  with  the  fall  of  leaf: 
The  weeds  that  his  broad -spreading  leaves  did 
shelter, 


That  seem'd  in  eating  him  to  hold  him  up, 
Are  pluck'd  up  root  and  all  by  Bolingbroke,^- 
I  mean  the  Earl  of  Wiltshire,  Bushy,  Green, 
i  Serv.  What,  are  they  dead? 
Card.  They  are ;  and  Bolingbroke 

Hath  seiz'd  the  wasteful  king. — Oh!  what  pity 

is  it 

That  he  had  not  so  trimm'd  and  dress'd  his  land 
As  we  this  garden !     We  at  time  of  year 
Do  wound  the  bark,  the  skin  of  our  fruit-trees, 
Lest,  being  over-proud  in  sap  and  blood, 
With  too  much  richness  it  confound  itself: 
Had  he  done  so  to  great  and  growing  men, 
They  might  have  liv'd  to  bear,  and  he  to  taste 
Their  fruits  of  duty.     Superfluous  branches 
We  lop  away,  that  bearing  boughs  may  live : 
Had  he  done  so,  himself  had  borne  the  crown, 
Which  waste  of  idle  hours  hath  quite  thrown 

down. 
I  Serv.  What,  think  you,  then,  the  king  shall 

bedepos'd? 

Card.  Depress'd  he  is  already ;  and  depos'd 
'Tis  doubt  he  will  be :  letters  came  last  night 
To  a  dear  friend  of  the  good  Duke  of  York's, 
That  tell  black  tidings. 

Queen.  O,  I  am  press'd  to  death  through  want 

of  speaking ! — 
Thou,  old  Adam's  likeness  [coming forward  with 

Ladies],  set  to  dress  this  garden, 
How  dares  thy  harsh-rude  tongue  sound  these 

unpleasing  news? 

What  Eve,  what  serpent,  hath  suggested  thee 
To  make  a  second  fall  of  cursed  man? 
Why  dost  thou  say  King  Richard  is  depos'd? 
Dar'st  thou,  thou  little  better  thing  than  earth, 
Divine  his  downfall?     Say,  where,  when,  and 

how  [wretch. 

Cam'st   thou   by  this  ill  tidings?   speak,  thou 
Gard.   Pardon  me,  madam :  little  joy  have  I 
To  breathe  these  news ;  yet  what  I  say  is  true. 
King  Richard,  he  is  in  the  mighty  hold 
Of   Bolingbroke:     their    fortunes    both    are 

weigh 'd : 

In  your  lord's  scale  is  nothing  but  himself, 
And  some  few  vanities  that  make  him  light ; 
But  in  the  balance  of  great  Bolingbroke, 
Besides  himself,  are  all  the  English  peers, 
And  with  that  odds  he  weighs  King  Richard 

down. 

Post  you  to  London,  and  you'll  find  it  so; 
I  speak  no  more  than  every  one  doth  know. 
Queen.  Nimble  mischance,  that  art  so  light 

of  foot, 

Doth  not  thy  embassage  belong  to  me, 
And  am  I  last  that  knows  it?     O,  thou  think'st 
To  serve  me  last,  that  I  may  longest  keep 
Thy  sorrow  in  my  breast. — Come,  ladies,  go 


45° 


KING  RICHARD  IL 


[ACT  iv. 


To  meet  at  London  London's  king  in  woe. — 
What,  was  I  born  to  this,  that  my  sad  lock 
Should  grace  the  triumph  of  great  Bolingbroke? 
Gardener,  for  telling  me  this  news  of  woe, 
I  would  the  plants  thou  graft'st  may  never  grow. 
{Exeunt  QUEEN  and  Ladies. 
Card.  Poor  queen !  so  that  thy  state  might 

be  no  worse, 

I  would  my  skill  were  subject  to  thy  curse. — 
Here  did  she  fail  a  tear ;  here,  in  this  place, 
I  '11  set  a  bank  of  rue,  sour  herb  of  grace : 
Rue,  even  for  ruth,  here  shortly  shall  be  seen, 
In  the  remembrance  of  a  weeping  queen. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  IV. 

fiv/mo  ?rl:  <k.b  -.ii  brll 

SCENE  I. — LONDON.    Westminster  Hall.    The 

Lords  spiritual  on  the  right  side  of  the  throne  ; 

the  Lords  temporal  on  the  left ;  the  Comments 

below. 

•Cf    \mVt) 
Enter  BOLINGBROKE,    AUMERLE,    SURREY, 

NORTHUMBERLAND,  PERCY,   FITZWATER, 

mother  Lord,  the  BISHOP  OF  CARLISLE,  the 

ABBOT  OF  WESTMINSTER,  and  Attendants. 

Officers  behind,  with  BAGOT. 

Baling.  Call  forth  Bagot.-- 
Now,  Bagot,  freely  speak  thy  mind ; 
What  thou  dost  know  of  noble  Gloster's  death ; 
Who  wrought  it  with  the  king,  and  who  per- 

form'd 
The  bloody  office  of  his  timeless  end. 

Bagot.  Then  set  before  my  face   the   Lord 
Aumerle.  [that  man. 

Baling.   Cousin,  stand  forth,  and  look  upon 

Bagot.  My    Lord   Aumerle,    I   know  your 

daring  tongue 

Scorns  to  unsay  what  once  if  hath  deliver'd. 
In  that  dead  time  when  Gloster's  death  was 

plotted 

I  heard  you  say, — Is  not  my  arm  of  length, 
That  reacheth  from  the  restful  English  Court 
As  far  as  Calais,  to  my  uncle's  head  ? 
Amongst  much  other  talk,  that  very  time, 
I  heard  you  say  that  you  had  rather  refuse 
The  offer  of  an  hundred  thousand  crowns 
Than  Bolingbroke's  return  to  England ; 
Adding  withal,  how  blest  this  land  would  be 
In  this  your  cousin's  death. 

Aum.  Princes,  and  noble  lords, 

What  answer  shall  I  make  to  this  base  man  ? 
Shall  I  so  much  dishonour  my  fair  stars, 
On  equal  terms  to  give  him  chastisement? 
Eithei  I  must,  or  have  mine  honour  soil'd 
With  the  attainder  of  his  slanderous  lips. — 
There  is  my  gage,  the  manual  seal  of  death, 


That  marks  thee  out  for  hell :  I  say,  thou  liest, 
And  will  maintain  what  thou  hast  said  is  false 
In  thy  heart-blood,  though  being  all  too  base 
To  stain  the  temper  of  my  knightly  sword. 

Baling.  Bagot,  forbear ;  thou  shalt  not  take 
it  up.  [best 

Aum.  Excepting  one,  I  would  he  were  the 
In  all  this  presence  that  hath  moved  me  so. 

Fitz.  If  that  thy  valour  stand  on  sympathy, 
There  is  my  gage,  Aumerle,  in  gage  to  thine : 
By  that  fair  sun  that  shows  me  where  thou 
stand'st,  [it, 

I  heard  thee  say,  and  vauntingly  thou  spak'st 
That  thou  wert  cause  of  noble  Gloster's  death. 
If  thou  deny'st  it  twenty  times,  thou  liest ; 
And  I  will  turn  thy  falsehood  to  thy  heart, 
Where  it  was  forged,  with  my  rapier's  point. 

Aum.  Thou  dar'st  not,  coward,  live  to  see 
that  day.  [hour. 

Fitz.  Now,  by  my  soul,  I  would  it  were  this 

Aum.  Fitzwater,  thou  art  damn'd  to  hell  for 
this.  [true 

Percy.  Aumerle,  thou  liest ;  his  honour  is  as 
In  this  appeal  as  thou  art  all  unjust ; 
And  that  thou  art  so,  there  I  throw  my  gage, 
To  prove  it  on  thee  to  the  extremest  point 
Of  mortal  breathing :  seize  it,  if  thou  dar'st. 

Aum.  And  if  I  do  not,  may  my  hands  rot  off, 
And  never  brandish  more  revengeful  steel 
Over  the  glittering  helmet  of  my  foe ! 

Lord.  I  task  the  earth  to  the  like,  forsworn 

Aumerle ; 

And  spur  thee  on  with  full  as  many  lies 
As  may  be  holla'd  in  thy  treacherous  ear 
From  sun  to  sun :  there  is  my  honour's  pawn ; 
Engage  it  to  the  trial,  if  thou  dar'st. 

Aum.  Who  sets  me  else?  by  heaven,  I'll 

throw  at  all : 

I  have  a  thousand  spirits  in  one  breast, 
To  answer  twenty  thousand  such  as  you.    [well 

Surrey.  My  Lord  Fitzwater,  I  do  remember 
The  very  time  Aumerle  and  you  did  talk. 

Fitz.  'Tis  very  true:  you  were  in  presence 

then; 
And  you  can  witness  with  me  this  is  true. 

Surrey.  As  false,  by  heaven,  as  heaven  itself 
is  true. 

Fitz.  Surrey,  thou  liest. 

Surrey.  Dishonourable  boy ! 

That  lie  shall  lie  so  heavy  on  my  sword 
That  it  shall  render  vengeance  and  revenge 
Till  thou  the  lie-giver  and  that  lie  do  lie 
In  earth  as  quiet  as  thy  father's  skull : 
In  proof  whereof,  there  is  mine  honour's  pawn ; 
Engage  it  to  the  trial,  if  thou  dar'st.       [horse ! 
Fitz.  How  fondly  dost  thou  spur  a  forward 
If  I  dare  eat,  or  drink,  or  breathe,  or  live 


SCENE  I.] 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


45* 


I  dare  meet  Surrey  in  a  wilderness, 
And  spit  upon  him,  whilst  I  say  he  lies, 
And  lies,  and  lies :  there  is  my  bond  of  faith, 
To  tie  thee  to  my  strong  correction. — 
As  I  intend  to  thrive  in  this  new  world, 
Aumerle  is  guilty  of  my  true  appeal : 
Besides,  I  heard  the  banish'd  Norfolk  say 
That  thou,  Aumerle,  didst  send  two  of  thy  men 
To  execute  the  noble  duke  at  Calais,     [a  gage, 

Aum.  Some  honest  Christian  trust  me  with 
That  Norfolk  lies :  here  do  I  throw  down  this, 
If  he  may  be  repeal'd,  to  try  his  honour,  [gage 

Baling.  These  differences  shall  all  rest  under 
Till  Norfolk  be  repeal'd:  repeal'd  he  shall  be, 
And,  though  mine  enemy,  restor'd  again 
To  all  his  lands  and  signories :  when  he 's  re- 

turn'd, 
Against  Aumerle  we  will  enforce  his  trial. 

Car.  That  honourable  day   shall  ne'er   be 

seen. — 

Many  a  time  hath  banish'd  Norfolk  fought 
For  Jesu  Christ  in  glorious  Christian  field, 
Streaming  the  ensign  of  the  Christian  cross 
Against  black  pagans,  Turks,  and  Saracens : 
And  toil'd  with  works  of  war,  retir'd  himself 
To  Italy ;  and  there,  at  Venice,  gave 
His  body  to  that  pleasant  country's  earth, 
And  his  pure  soul  unto  his  captain  Christ, 
Under  whose  colours  he  had  fought  so  long. 

Boling.  Why,  bishop,  is  Norfolk  dead? 

Car.  As  surely  as  I  live,  my  lord. 

Boling.  Sweet  peace  conduct  his  sweet  soul 

to  the  bosom 

Of  good  old  Abraham ! — Lords  appellants, 
Your  differences  shall  all  rest  under  gage 
Till  we  assign  you  to  your  days  of  trial. 

Enter  YORK,  attended. 

York.  Great  Duke  of  Lancaster,  I  come  to 
thee  [soul 

From  plume-pluck'd  Richard ;  who  with  willing 
Adopts  thee  heir,  and  his  high  sceptre  yields 
To  the  possession  of  thy  royal  hand : 
Ascend  his  throne,  descending  now  from  him, — 
And  long  live  Henry,  of  that  name  the  fourth ! 
Baling.  In  God's  name,  I  '11  ascend  the  regal 

throne. 

Car.  Marry,  God  forbid  !- 
Worst  in  this  royal  presence  may  I  speak, 
Yet  best  beseeming  me  to  speak  the  truth. 
Would  God  that  any  in  this  noble  presence 
Were  enough  noble  to  be  upright  judge 
Of  noble  Richard  !  then  true  nobless  would 
Learn  him  forbearance  from  so  foul  a  wrong. 
What  subject  can  give  sentence  on  his  king? 
And  who  sits  here  that  is  not  Richard's  subject? 
Thieves  are  not  judg'd  but  they  are  by  to  hear, 


Although  apparent  guilt  be  seen  ir  them ; 
And  shall  the  figure  of  God's  majesty, 
His  captain,  steward,  deputy  elect, 
Anointed,  crowned,  planted  many  years, 
Be  judg'd  by  subject  and  inferior  breath, 
And  he  himself  not  present  ?   O,  forfend  it,  God, 
That,  in  a  Christian  climate,  souls  refin  d 
Should  show  so  heinous,  black,  obscene  a  deed ! 
I  speak  to  subjects,  and  a  subject  speaks, 
Stirr'd  up  by  God,  thus  boldly  for  his  king. 
My  Lord  of  Hereford  here,  whom  you  call  king, 
Is  a  foul  traitor  to  proud  Hereford's  king; 
And  if  you  crown  him,  let  me  prophesy, — 
The  blood  of  English  shall  manure  the  ground, 
And  future  ages  groan  for  this  foul  act ; 
Peace  shall  go  sleep  with  Turks  and  infidels, 
And  in  this  seat  of  peace  tumultuous  wars 
Shall  kin  with  kin  and  kind  with  kind  confound ; 
Disorder,  horror,  fear,  and  mutiny, 
Shall  here  inhabit,  and  this  land  be  call'd 
The  field  of  Golgotha  and  dead  men's  skulls. 
Or,  if  you  raise  this  house  against  this  house, 
It  will  the  woefullest  division  prove 
That  ever  fell  upon  this  cursed  earth, 
Prevent,  resist  it,  let  it  not  be  so, 
Lest  child,  child's  children, cry  against  you  woe ! 

North.  Well  have  you  argu'd,  sirj  and,  for 

your  pains, 

Of  capital  treason  we  arrest  you  here. — 
My  Loid  of  Westminster,  be  it  your  charge 
To  keep  him  safely  till  his  day  of  trial. — 
May 't  please  you,  lords,  to  grant  the  commons' 
suit? 

Boling.  Fetch  hither  Richard,  that  in  common 

view 

He  may  surrender ;  so  we  shall  proceed 
Without  suspicion. 

York.  I  will  be  his  conduct.     [Exit. 

Boling.  Lords,  you  that  are  here  under  our 

arrest, 

Procure  your  sureties  for  your  days  of  answer.— 
Little  are  we  beholden  to  your  love, 

[To  CARLISLE. 
And  little  look'd  for  at  your  helping  hands. 

Re-enter  YORK,  with  KING  RICHARD,  and 
Officers  bearing  the  crown,  <5rV. 

K.  Rich.  Alack,  why  am  I  sent  for  to  a  king, 
Before  I  have  shook  off  the  regal  thoughts 
Wherewith   I   reign'd?      I    hardly  yet    have 

learn'd 

To  insinuate,  flatter,  bow,  and  bend  my  limbs : 
Give  sorrow  leave  awhile  to  tutor  me 
To  this  submission.     Yet  I  well  remember 
The  favours  of  these  men :  were  they  not  mine? 
Did  they  not  sometime  cry,  All  hail  I  to  me? 
So  Judas  did  to  Christ :  but  he,  in  twelve, 


452 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


[ACT  IV. 


Found  truth  in  all  but  one;  I,  in  twelve  thou- 
sand, none. 

God  save  the  king ! — Will  no  man  say  amen? 
Am  I  both  priest  and  clerk?  well  then,  amen. 
God  save  the  king !  although  I  be  not  he ; 
And  yet,  amen,  if  heaven  do  think  him  me. — 
To  do  what  service  am  I  sent  for  hither? 
York.  To  do  that  office  of  thine  own  good- 
will 

Which  tired  majesty  did  make  thee  offer, — 
The  resignation  of  thy  state  and  crown 
To  Henry  Bolingbroke. 

K.  Rich.  Give  me  the  crown. — Here,  cousin, 

seize  the  crown ; 

On  this  side  my  hand,  and  on  that  side  yours. 
Now  is  this  golden  crown  like  a  deep  well 
That  owes  two  buckets,  filling  one  another ; 
The  emptier  ever  dancing  in  the  air, 
The  other  down,  unseen,  and  full  of  water : 
That  bucket  down  and  full  of  tears  am  I, 
Drinking  my  griefs,  whilst  you  mount  up  on 
high.  [resign. 

Baling.  I  thought  you  had  been  willing  to 
K.  Rich.   My  crown  I  am ;  but  still  my  griefs 

are  mine : 

You  may  my  glories  and  my  state  depose, 
But  not  my  griefs;  still  am  I  king  of  those. 
Boling.  Part  of  your  cares  you  give  me  with 

your  crown. 
K.  Rich.  Your  cares  set  up  do  not   pluck 

my  cares  down. 

My  care  is,  loss  of  care,  by  old  care  done ; 
Your  care  is,  gain  of  care,  by  new  care  won : 
The  cares  I  give,  I  have,  though  given  away ; 
They  tend  the  crown,  yet  still  with  me  they 
stay.  [crown? 

Boling.  Are  you   contented   to   resign   the 
K.  Rich.    Ay,    no; — no,    ay;    for   I  must 

nothing  be ; 

Therefore  no  no,  for  I  resign  to  thee. 
Now  mark  me,  how  I  will  undo  myself: — 
I  give  this  heavy  weight  from  off  my  head, 
And  this  unwieldy  sceptre  from  my  hand, 
The  pride  of  kingly  sway  from  out  my  heart ; 
With  mine  own  tears  I  wash  away  my  balm, 
With  mine  own  hands  I  give  away  my  crown, 
With  mine  own  tongue  deny  my  sacred  state, 
With  mine  own  breath  release  all  duty's  rites : 
All  pomp  and  majesty  I  do  forswear; 
My  manors,  rents,  revenues  I  forego ; 
My  acts,  decrees,  and  statutes  I  deny : 
God  pardon  all  oaths  that  are  broke  to  me ! 
God  keep  all  vows  unbroke  that  swear  to  thee ! 
Make  me,  that   nothing  have,  with  nothing 

griev'd, 

And  thou  with  all  pleas'd,  that  hast  all  achiev'd  ! 
Long  mayst  thou  live  in  Richard's  seat  to  sit, 


And  soon  lie  Richard  in  an  earthy  pit ! 
God  save  King  Henry,  unking'd  Richard  says, 
And  send  him  many  years  of  sunshine  days ! — 
What  more  remains? 

North.  No  more,  but  that  you  read 

[Offering  a  paper. 

These  accusations,  and  these  grievous  crimes 
Committed  by  your  person  and  your  followers 
Against  the  state  and  profit  of  this  land ; 
That,  by  confessing  them,  the  souls  of  men 
May  deem  that  you  are  worthily  depos'd. 

K.  Rich.   Must  I  do  so?  and  must  I  ravel  out 
My  weav'd-up  follies?   Gentle  Northumberland, 
If  thy  offences  were  upon  record, 
Would  it  not  shame  thee  in  so  fair  a  troop 
To  read  a  lecture  of  them?     If  thou  wouldst, 
There  shouldst  thou  find  one  heinous  article, — 
Containing  the  deposing  of  a  king, 
And  cracking  the  strong  warrant  of  an  oath, — 
Mark'd  with  a  blot,  damn'd  in  the  book  of 

heaven : — 

Nay,  all  of  you  that  stand  and  look  upon, 
Whilst  that  my  wretchedness  doth  bait  myself, — 
Though  some  of  you,  with  Pilate,  wash  your 

hands, 

Showing  an  outward  pity;  yet  you  Pilates 
Have  here  deliver'd  me  to  my  sour  cross, 
And  water  cannot  wash  away  your  sin. 

North.   My  lord,  despatch;   read  o'er  these 
articles.  [see : 

K.  Rich.  Mine  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  I  cannot 
And  yet  salt  water  blinds  them  not  so  much 
But  they  can  see  a  sort  of  traitors  here. 
Nay,  if  I  turn  mine  eyes  upon  myself, 
I  find  myself  a  traitor  with  the  rest ; 
For  I  have  given  here  my  soul's  consent 
To  undeck  the  pompous  body  of  a  king ; 
Make  glory  base,  and  sovereignty  a  slave, 
Proud  majesty  a  subject,  state  a  peasant. 

North.   My  lord, —  [suiting  man, 

K.  Rich.  No  lord  of  thine,  thou  haught  in- 
Nor  no  man's  lord ;  I  have  no  name,  no  title, — 
No,  not  that  name  was  given  me  at  the  font, — 
But  'tis  usurp'd : — alack  the  heavy  day, 
That  I  have  worn  so  many  winters  out, 
And  know  not  now  what  name  to  call  myself! 
O  that  I  were  a  mockery-king  of  snow, 
Standing  before  the  sun  of  Bolingbroke, 
To  melt  myself  away  in  water-drops ! — 
Good  king, — great  king, — and  yet  not  greatly 

good,— 

And  if  my  word  be  sterling  yet  in  England, 
Let  it  command  a  mirror  hither  straight, 
That  it  may  show  me  what  a  face  I  have, 
Since  it  is  bankrupt  of  his  majesty. 

Boling.  Go  some  of  you  and  fetch  a  looking- 
glass.  [Exit  an  Attendant. 


SCENE  I.] 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


453 


North.   Read  o'er  this  paper  while  the  glass 
doth  come.  [to  hell ! 

K.  Rich.  Fiend,  thoutorment'stme  ere  I  come 
Baling.  Urge  it  no  more,  my  Lord  Northum- 
berland, [fied. 
North.  The  commons  will  not,  then,  be  satis- 
K.  Rich.  They  shall  be  satisfied  •  I  '11  read 

enough, 

When  I  do  see  the  very  book  indeed 
Where  all  my  sins  are  writ,  and  that 's  myself. 

Re-enter  Attendant  with  a  glass. 

Give  me  the  glass,  and  therein  will  I  read. — 
No  deeper  wrinkles  yet?  hath  sorrow  struck 
So  many  blows  upon  this  face  of  mine, 
And  made  no  deeper  wounds?— O  flattering 

glass, 

Like  to  my  followers  in  prosperity, 
Thou  dost  beguile  me !     Was  this  face  the  face 
That  every  day  under  his  household  roof 
Did  keep  ten  thousand  men?     Was  this  the  face 
That,  like  the  sun,  did  make  beholders  wink? 
Was  this  the  face  that  fac'd  so  many  follies, 
And  was  at  last  out-fac'd  by  Bolingbroke? 
A  brittle  glory  shineth  in  this  face : 
As  brittle  as  the  glory  is  the  face ; 

[Dashes  the  glass  against  the  ground. 
For  there  it  is,  crack' d  in  a  hundred  shivers. — 
Mark,  silent  king,  the  moral  of  this  sport, — 
How  soon  my  sorrow  hath  destroy'd  my  face. 

Bo  ling.  The  shadow  of  your  sorrow  hath 

destroy'd 
The  shadow  of  your  face. 

K.  Rich.  Say  that  again. 

The  shadow  of  my  sorrow?     Ha !  let 's  see : — 
'Tis  very  true,  my  grief  lies  all  within ; 
And  these  external  manners  of  laments 
Are  merely  shadows  to  the  unseen  grief 
That  swells  with  silence  in  the  tortur'd  soul ; 
There  lies  the  substance:  and  I  thank  thee,  king, 
For  thy  great  bounty,  that  not  only  giv'st 
Me  cause  to  wail,  but  teachest  me  the  way 
How  to  lament  the  cause,     I  '11  beg  one  boon, 
And  then  be  gone  and  trouble  you  no  more. 
Shall  I  obtain  it? 

Baling.  Name  it,  fair  cousin. 

K.  Rich.  Fair  cousin !     Why,  I  am  greater 

than  a  king : 

For  when  I  was  a  king,  my  flatterers 
Were  then  but  subjects ;  being  now  a  subject, 
I  have  a  king  here  to  my  flatterer. 
Being  so  great,  I  have  no  need  to  beg. 

Baling.  Yet  ask. 

K.  Rich.  And  shall  I  have? 

Baling.  You  shall. 

K.  Rich.  Then  give  me  leave  to  go. 

Baling.  Whither? 


K.  Rich.  Whither  you  will,  so  I  were  from 

your  sights.  [Tower. 

Baling.  Go,  some  of  you  convey  him  to  the 

K.  Rich.  O,  good!     Convey? — conveyers  are 

you  all, 

That  rise  thus  nimbly  by  a  true  king's  fall. 
[Exeunt  K.  RICH.  ,  some  Lords,  and  a  Guard. 
Baling.  On  Wednesday  next  we  solemnly  set 

down 

Our  coronation :  lords,  prepare  yourselves. 
[Exeunt  all  but  the  ABBOT  OF  WESTMINSTER, 

BISHOP  OF  CARLISLE,  and  AUMERLE. 
Abbot.  A  woeful  pageant  have  we  here  beheld. 
Car.  The  woe 's  to  come ;  the  children  yet  un- 
born. 
Shall  feel  this  day  as  sharp  to  them  as  thorn. 

Aunt.  You  holy  clergymen,  is  there  no  plot 
To  rid  the  realm  of  this  pernicious  blot? 

Abbot.  Before  I  freely  speak  my  mind  herein, 
You  shall  not  only  take  the  sacrament 
To  bury  mine  intents,  but  also  to  effect 
Whatever  I  shall  happen  to  devise. 
I  see  your  brows  are  full  of  discontent, 
Your  hearts  of  sorrow,  and  your  eyes  of  tears: 
Come  home  with  me  to  supper ;  I  will  lay 
A  plot  shall  show  us  all  a  merry  day.     [Exeunt. 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — LONDON.     A  Street  leading  to  the 
Tower. 

Enter  QUEEN  and  Ladies. 

Queen.  This  way  the  king  will  come ;  this  is 

the  way 

To  Julius  Caesar's  ill-erected  tower, 
To  whose  flint  bosom  my  condemned  lord 
Is  doom'd  a  prisoner  by  proud  Bolingbroke : 
Here  let  us  rest,  if  this  rebellious  earth 
Have  any  resting  for  her  true  king's  queen. — 
But  soft,  but  see,  or  rather  do  not  see, 
My  fair  rose  wither :  yet  look  up,  behold, 
That  you  in  pity  may  dissolve  to  dew, 
And  wash  him  fresh  again  with  true-love  tears. 

Enter  KING  RICHARD  and  Guards. 

Ah,  thou,  the  model  where  old  Troy  did  stand ; 
Thou  map  of  honour;  thou  King  Richard's  tomb, 
And  not  King  Richard;  thou  most  beauteous 

inn, 

Why  should  hard-favour'd  grief  be  lodg'd  in  thee, 
When  triumph  is  become  an  alehouse  guest? 
K.  Rich.  Join  not  with  grief,  fair  woman,  do 

not  so, 

To  make  my  end  too  sudden :  learn,  good  soul, 
To  think  our  former  state  a  happy  dream ; 
From  which  awak'd,  the  truth  of  what  we  are 


454 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


[ACT  v. 


Shows  us  but  this:  I  am  sworn  brother,  sweet, 
To  grim  Necessity ;  and  he  and  I         [France, 
Will  keep  a  league  till  death.     Hie  thee  to 
And  cloister  thee  in  some  religious  house : 
Our  holy  lives  must  win  a  new  world's  crown, 
Which  our  profane  hours  here  have  stricken 

down.  [and  mind 

Queen.  What,  is  my  Richard  both  in  shape 

Transform'd  and  weaken'd  ?    Hath  Bolingbroke 

Depos'd  thine  intellect?     Hath  he  been  in  thy 

heart? 

The  lion,  dying,  thrusteth  forth  his  paw, 
And  wounds  the  earth,  if  nothing  else,  with  rage 
To  be  o'erpower'd;  and  wilt  thou,  pupil-like, 
Take  thy  correction  mildly,  kiss  the  rod, 
And  fawn  on  rage  with  base  humility, 
Which  art  a  lion  and  a  king  of  beasts? 
K.  Rich.  A  king  of  beasts,  indeed ;  if  aught 

but  beasts, 

I  had  been  still  a  happy  king  of  men. 
Good  sometime  queen,  prepare  thee  hence  for 

France : 

Think  I  am  dead;  and  that  even  here  thou  tak'st, 
As  from  my  death -bed,  my  last  living  leave. 
In  winter's  tedious  nights  sit  by  the  fire 
With  good  old  folks,  and  let  them  tell  thee  tales 
Of  woeful  ages  long  ago  betid ; 
And  ere  thou  bid  good-night,  to  quit  their  grief 
Tell  thou  the  lamentable  tale  of  me, 
And  send  the  hearers  weeping  to  their  beds: 
For  why,  the  senseless  brands  will  sympathize 
The  heavy  accent  of  thy  moving  tongue, 
And  in  compassion  weep  the  fire  out ; 
And  some  will  mourn  in  ashes,  some  coal-black, 
For  the  deposing  of  a  rightful  king. 

Enter  NORTHUMBERLAND  attended. 

North.  My  lord,  the  mind  of  Bolingbroke  is 

changed ; 

You  must  to  Pomfret,  not  unto  the  Tower. — 
And,  madam,  there  is  order  ta'en  for  you ; 
With  all  swift  speed  you  must  away  to  France, 

K.    Rich.     Northumberland,    thou     ladder 

wherewithal 

The  mounting  Bolingbroke  ascends  my  throne, 
The  time  shall  not  be  many  hours  of  age 
More  than  it  is,  ere  foul  sin,  gathering  head, 
Shall  break  into  corruption :  thou  shalt  think, 
Though  he  divide  the  realm,  and  give  thee  half, 
It  is  too  little,  helping  him  to  all ;         [the  way 
And  he  shall  think  that  thou,  which  know'st 
To  plant  unrightful  kings,  wilt  know  again, 
Being  ne'er  so  little  urg'd,  another  way 
To  pluck  him  headlong  from  the  usurped  throne. 
The  love  of  wicked  friends  converts  to  fear ; 
That  fear  to  hate ;  and  hate  turns  one  or  both 
To  worthy  danger  and  deserved  death. 


North.  My  guilt  be  on  my  head,  and  there 

an  end,  [with. 

Take  leave,  and  part ;  for  you  must  part  forth- 

K.  Rich.  Doubly  divorc'd! — Bad  men,  ye 

violate 

A  twofold  marriage, — 'twixt  my  crown  and  me, 
And  then  betwixt  me  and  my  married  wife. — 
Let  me  unkiss  the  oath  'twixt  thee  and  me ; 
And  yet  not  so,  for  with  a  kiss  'twas  made. — 
Part  us,  Northumberland ;  I  towards  the  north, 
Where  shivering  cold  and  sickness   pines  the 
clime ;  [pomp, 

My  wife  to  France,  from  whence,  set  forth  in 
She  came  adorned  hither  like  sweet  May, 
Sent  back  like  Hallowmas  or  short'st  of  day. 
Queen.  And  must  we  be  divided?  must  we 

part? 

K.  Rich.  Ay,  hand  from  hand,  my  love,  and 
heart  from  heart.  [me. 

Queen.  Banish  us  both,  and  send  the  king  with 
North.  That  were  some  love,  but  little  policy. 
Queen.  Then  whither  he  goes  thither  let  me 

r[woe. 
So  two,  together  weeping,  make  one 
Weep  thou  for  me  in  France,  I  for  thee  here  ; 
Better  far  off  than  near,  be  ne'er  the  near. 
Go,  count  thy  way  with  sighs;  I,  mine  with 
groans.  [moans. 

Queen.  So  longest  way  shall  have  the  longest 
K.  Rich.  Twice  for  one  step  I  '11  groan,  the 

way  being  short, 

And  piece  the  way  out  with  a  heavy  heart. 
Come,  come,  in  wooing  sorrow  let 's  be  brief, 
Since,  wedding  it,  there  is  such  length  in  grief. 
One  kiss  shall  stop  our  mouths,  and  dumbly 

part; 
Thus  give  I  mine,  and  thus  take  I  thy  heart. 

[They  kiss. 
Queen.  Give  me  mine  own  again ;  'twere  no 

good  part 
To  take  on  me  to  keep  and  kill  thy  heart. 

[  They  kiss  again. 

So,  now  I  have  mine  own  again,  be  gone, 
That  I  may  strive  to  kill  it  with  a  groan. 
K.  Rich.  We  make  woe  wanton  with  this 

fond  delay  : 
Once  more,  adieu ;  the  rest  let  sorrow  say. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. — The  same.    A  Room  in  the  DUKE 
OF  YORK'S  Palace. 

Enter  YORK  and  his  DUCHESS. 

Duch.  My  lord,  you  told  me  you  would  tell 

the  rest, 

When  weeping  made  you  break  the  story  oft 
Of  our  two  cousins  coming  into  London^ 


SCENE  II.] 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


455 


York.  Where  did  I  leave? 
Duch.  At  that  sad  stop,  my  lord, 

Where  rude  misgovern'd  hands  from  windows' 

tops  [head. 

Threw  dust  and  rubbish  on   King  Richard's 

York.    Then,   as   I    said,    the   duke,   great 

Bolingbroke, — 

Mounted  upon  a  hot  and  fiery  steed, 
Which  his  aspiring  rider  seem'd  to  know, — 
With  slow  but  stately  pace  kept  on  his  course, 
While  all  tongues  cried,  God  save  thee>  Boling- 
broke I 
You  would  have   thought  the  very  windows 

spake, 

So  many  greedy  looks  of  young  and  old 
Through  casements  darted  their  desiring  eyes 
Upon  his  visage;  and  that  all  the  walls 
With  painted  imagery  had  said  at  once, 
fesu preserve  thee!  welcome ,  Bolingbroke! 
"Whilst  he,  from  one  side  to  the  other  turning, 
Bareheaded,  lower  than  his  proud  steed's  neck, 
Bespake  them  thus, — I  thank  you,  countrymen: 
And  thus  still  doing,  thus  he  pass'd  along. 
Duch.  Alas,  poor  Richard!  where  rode  he 

the  whilst? 

York.  As  in  a  theatre  the  eyes  of  men, 
After  a  well-grac'd  actor  leaves  the  stage, 
Are  idly  bent  on  him  that  enters  next, 
Thinking  his  prattle  to  be  tedious ;  [eyes 

Even  so,  or  with  much  more  contempt,  men's 
Did  scowl  on  Richard ;  no  man  cried,  God  save 

him! 

No  joyful  tongue  gave  him  his  welcome  home : 
But  dust  was  thrown  upon  his  sacred  head ; 
Which  with  such  gentle  sorrow  he  shook  off, — 
His  face  still  combating  with  tears  and  smiles, 
The  badges  of  his  grief  and  patience, — 
That  had  not  God,  for  some  strong  purpose, 

steel'd  [melted, 

The  hearts  of  men,  they  must  perforce  have 
And  barbarism  itself  have  pitied  him. 
But  heaven  hath  a  hand  in  these  events, 
To  whose  high  will  we  bound  our  calm  contents. 
To  Bolingbroke  are  we  sworn  subjects  now, 
Whose  state  and  honour  I  for  aye  allow. 
Duch.  Here  comes  my  son  Aumerle. 
York.  Aumerle  that  was; 

But  that  is  lost  for  being  Richard's  friend, 
And,  madam,  you  must  call  him  Rutland  now : 
I  am  in  Parliament  pledge  for  his  truth 
And  lasting  fealty  to  the  new-made  king. 

Enter  Au MERLE. 

Duch.  Welcome,  my  son :  who  are  the  violets 

now 

That  strew  the  green  lap  of  the  new-come 
spring? 


Aum.  Madam,  I  know  not,   nor  I  greatly 

care  not : 
God  knows  I  had  as  lief  be  none  as  one. 

York.  Well,  bear  you  well  in  this  new  spring 

of  time, 

Lest  you  be  cropp'd  before  you  come  to  prime. 
What  news  from  Oxford?  hold  those  justs  and 

triumphs? 

Aum.  For  aught  I  know,  my  lord,  they  do. 
York.  You  will  be  there,  I  know. 
Aum.  If  God  prevent  it  not,  I  purpose  so. 
York.  What  seal  is  that  that  hangs  without 

thy  bosom  ? 

Yea,  look'st  thou  pale?  let  me  see  the  writing. 
Aum.  My  lord,  'tis  nothing. 
York.  No  mutter,  then,  who  sees  it. 

I  will  be  satisfied ;  let  me  see  the  writing. 

Aum.  I  do  beseech  your  grace  to  pardon  me : 
It  is  a  matter  of  small  consequence, 
Which  for  some  reasons  I  would  not  have  seen. 
York.  Which  for  some  reasons,  sir,  I  mean 

to  see. 
I  fear,  I  fear, — 

Duch.  What  should  you  fear? 

'Tis  nothing  but  some  bond  that  he  is  enter'd 

into 

For  gay  apparel  against  the  triumph-day. 
York.  Bound  to  himself!  what  doth  he  with 

a  bond 

That  he  is  bound  to?     Wife,  thou  art  a  fool.— 
Boy,  let  me  see  the  writing. 
Aum.  I  do  beseech  you,  pardon  me ;  I  may 

not  show  it. 

York.  I  will  be  satisfied ;  let  me  see  it,  I  say. 
[Snatches  t't,  and  reads. 

Treason !  foul  treason  ! — villain !  traitor !  slave ! 
Duch.  What's  the  matter,  my  lord? 
York.  Ho!  who's  within  there? 

Enter  a  Servant. 

JJUO^TcS  J<is}  £•£  ishil  v>j  JjjC!  Jo;.  JxJUOP  J 

Saddle  my  horse. 

God  for  his  mercy,  what  treachery  is  here  ! 
Duch.  Why,  what  is't,  my  lord? 
York.  Give  me  my  boots,  I  say;  saddle  my 

horse. — 

Now,  by  mine  honour,  by  my  life,  my  troth, 
I  will  appeach  the  villain.  [Exit  Servant. 

Duch.  What's  the  matter? 

York.  Peace,  foolish  woman. 
Duch.  I  will  not  peace.— What  is  the  matter, 

son? 

Aum.  Good  mother,  be  content ;  it  is  no  more 
Than  my  poor  life  must  answer. 

Duch.  Thy  life  answer  ! 

York.  Bring  me  my  boots : — I  will  unto  the 
king. 


456 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


[ACT  v. 


Re-enter  Servant  with  boots. 

Duck.    Strike    him,    Aumerle. — Poor   boy, 

thou  art  amaz'd. 

Hence,  villain !  never  more  come  in  my  sight. 
[To  the  Servant. 

York.  Give  me  my  boots,  I  say. 

Duck.  Why,  York,  what  wilt  thou  do? 
Wilt  thou  not  hide  the  trespass  of  thine  own  ? 
Have  we  more  sons?  or  are  we  KKC  to  have? 
Is  not  my  teeming  date  drunk  up  with  time  ? 
And  wilt  thou  pluck  my  fair  son  from  mine  age, 
And  rob  me  of  a  happy  mother's  name? 
Is  he  not  like  thee?  is  he  not  thine  own? 

York.  Thou  fond  mad  woman, 
Wilt  thou  conceal  this  dark  conspiracy? 
A  dozen  of  them  here  have  ta'en  the  sacrament, 
And  interchangeably  set  down  their  hands 
To  kill  the  king  at  Oxford. 

Duck.  He  shall  be  none ; 

We  '11  keep  him  here :  then  what  is  that  to  him? 

York.  Away,  fond  woman !  were  he  twenty 

times  my  son 
I  would  appeach  him. 

Duch.  Hadst  thou  groan'd  for  him 

As  I  have  done,  thou  wouldst  be  more  pitiful. 
But  now  I  know  thy  mind ;  thou  dost  suspect 
That  I  have  been  disloyal  to  thy  bed, 
And  that  he  is  a  bastard,  not  thy  son : 
Sweet  York,  sweet  husband,  be  not  of  that  mind: 
He  is  as  like  thee  as  a  man  may  be, 
Not  like  to  me,  nor  any  of  my  kin, 
And  yet  I  love  him. 

York.  Make  way,  unruly  woman ! 

{Exit. 

Duch.    After,  Aumerle!   mount  thee  upon 

his  horse ; 

Spur  post,  and  get  before  him  to  the  king, 
And  beg  thy  pardon  ere  he  do  accuse  thee. 
I  '11  not  be  long  behind ;  though  I  be  old, 
I  doubt  not  but  to  ride  as  fast  as  York ; 
And  never  will  I  rise  up  from  the  ground 
Till  Bolingbroke  have  pardon'd  thee.     Away, 
be  gone !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — WINDSOR.     A  Room  in  the 
Castle. 

Enter  BOLINGBROKE  as  King,  PERCY,  and 
other  Lords. 

Baling.  Can  no  man  tell  of  my  unthrifty  son  ? 
'Tis  full  three  months  since  I  did  see  him  last : — 
If  any  plague  hang  over  us,  'tis  he. 
I  would  to  God,  my  lords,  he  might  be  found : 
Inquire  at  London,  'mongst  the  taverns  there, 
For  there,  they  say,  he  daily  doth  frequent, 
With  unrestrained  loose  companions,—  i 


Even  such,  they  say,  as  stand  in  narrow  lanes. 
And  beat  our  watch,  and  rob  our  passengers ; 
While  he,  young,  wanton,  and  effeminate  boy, 
Takes  on  the  point  of  honour  to  support 
So  dissolute  a  crew.  [prince, 

Percy.  My  lord,  some  two  days  since  I  saw  the 
And  told  him  of  these  triumphs  held  at  Oxford. 

Baling.  And  what  said  the  gallant? 

Percy.  His  answer  was, — he  would  unto  the 

stews, 

And  from  the  common'st  creature  pluck  a  glove, 
And  wear  it  as  a  favour ;  and  with  that 
He  would  unhorse  the  lustiest  challenger. 

Baling.    As    dissolute    as    desperate:    yet 

through  both 

I  see  some  sparkles  of  a  better  hope, 
Which  elder  days  may  happily  bring  forth.— 
But  who  comes  here? 

Enter  AUMERLE  hastily. 

Aum.  Where  is  the  king? 

Baling.  What  means 

Our  cousin,  that  he  stares  and  looks  so  wildly  ? 
Aum.  God  save  your  grace !     I  do  beseech 

your  majesty, 

To  have  some  conference  with  your  grace  alone. 
Baling.  Withdraw  yourselves,  and  leave  us 
here  alone. 

{Exeunt  PERCY  and  Lords. 
What  is  the  matter  with  our  cousin  now? 
Aum.  For  ever  may  my  knees  grow  to  the 
earth,  [Kneels. 

My  tongue  cleave  to  my  roof  within  my  mouth, 
Unless  a  pardon  ere  I  rise  or  speak. 

Baling.  Intended  or  committed  was  this  fault? 
If  but  the  first,  how  heinous  e'er  it  be, 
To  win  thy  after-love  I  pardon  thee. 

Atttn.  Then  give  me  leave  that  I  may  turn 

the  key, 

That  no  man  enter  till  my  tale  be  done. 
Baling.  Have  thy  desire. 

[AUMERLE  locks  the  door. 
York.  [Within.}  My  liege,  beware;  look  to 

thyself; 

Thou  hast  a  traitor  in  thy  presence  there. 
Baling.  Villain,  I  '11  make  thee  safe. 

[Drawing. 

Aum.  Stay  thy  revengeful  hand ; 
Thou  hast  no  cause  to  fear. 

York.    [Within.~\    Open   the  door,   secure, 

foolhardy  king : 

Shall  I,  for  love,  speak  treason  to  thy  face? 
Open  the  door,  or  I  will  break  it  open. 

[BOLING.  opens  the  door  and  locks  it  again. 

Enter  YORK. 
boling.  What  is  the  matter,  uncle?  speak; 


SCENE  III.] 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


457 


Recover  breath ;  tell  us  how  near  is  danger, 
That  we  may  arm  us  to  encounter  it. 

York.  Peruse  this  writing  here,  and  thou  shalt 

know 

The  treason  that  my  haste  forbids  me  show. 
Aum.  Remember,  as  thou  read'st,  thy  pro- 
mise pass'd : 

I  do  repent  me ;  read  not  my  name  there ; 
My  heart  is  not  confederate  with  my  hand. 
York.  It  was,  villain,  ere  thy  hand  did  set  it 

down. — 

I  tore  it  from  the  traitor's  bosom,  king ; 
Fear,  and  not  love,  begets  his  penitence : 
Forget  to  pity  him,  lest  thy  pity  prove 
A  serpent  that  will  sting  thee  to  the  heart. 
Boiing.  O  heinous,  strong,  and  bold  con- 
spiracy ! — 

0  loyal  father  of  a  treacherous  son ! 

Thou  sheer,  immaculate,  and  silver  fountain, 
From  whence  this  stream  through  muddy  pas- 
sages 

Hath  held  his  current  and  defil'd  himself! 
Thy  overflow  of  good  converts  to  bad ; 
And  thy  abundant  goodness  shall  excuse 
This  deadly  blot  in  thy  digressing  son. 

York.  So  shall  my  virtue  be  his  vice's  bawd ; 
And  he  shall  spend  mine  honour  with  his  shame, 
As  thriftless  sons  their  scraping  fathers'  gold. 
Mine  honour  lives  when  his  dishonour  dies, 
Or  my  sham'd  life  in  his  dishonour  lies : 
Thou  kill'st  me  in  his  life ;  giving  him  breath, 
The  traitor  lives,  the  true  man 's  put  to  death. 

Duck.  [Within.]    What  ho,  my  liege!  for 
God's  sake,  let  me  in. 

Boiing.  What  shrill-voic'd  suppliant  makes 
this  eager  cry?  ['tis  I. 

Duck.  A  woman,  and  thine  aunt,  great  king ; 
Speak  with  me,  pity  me,  open  the  door : 
A  beggar  begs  that  never  begg'd  before. 

Boiing.  Our  scene  is  alter'd  from  a  serious 
thing,  [King. — 

And  now  chang'd  to    The  Beggar  and  the 
My  dangerous  cousin,  let  your  mother  in : 

1  know  she 's  come  to  pray  ibr  your  foul  sin. 

[AUMERLE  unlocks  the  door. 
York.  If  thou  do  pardon,  whosoever  pray, 
More  sins,  for  this  forgiveness,  prosper  may. 
This  fester'd  joint  cut  off,  the  rest  rests  sound : 
This  let  alone  will  all  the  rest  confound. 

Enter  DUCHESS. 

Duck.  O  king,  believe  not  this  hard-hearted 

man! 
Love,  loving  not  itself,  none  other  can. 

York.  Thou  frantic  woman,  what  dost  thou 

make  here? 
Shall  thy  old  dugs  once  more  a  traitor  rear? 


Duch.  Sweet  York,  be  patient. — Hear  me, 
gentle  liege.  [Kneels. 

Baling.  Rise  up,  good  aunt. 

Duch.  Not  yet,  I  thee  beseech : 

For  ever  will  I  walk  upon  my  knees, 
And  never  see  day  that  the  happy  sees 
Till  thou  give  joy ;  until  thou  bid  me  joy, 
By  pardoning  Rutland,  my  transgressing  boy. 

Aum.  Unto  my  mother's  prayers  I  bend  my 
knee.  [Kneels. 

York.  Against   them   both,  my  true  joints 
bended  be.  [Kneels. 

Ill  mayst  thou  thrive,  if  thou  grant  any  grace ! 

Duch.  Pleads  he  in  earnest?  look  upon  his 

face ;  [jest ; 

His  eyes  do  drop  no  tears,  his  prayers  are  in 

His  words  come  from  his  mouth,  ours  from  our 

breast : 

He  prays  but  faintly,  and  would  be  denied ; 
We  pray  with  heart  and  soul,  and  all  beside : 
His  weary  joints  would  gladly  rise,  I  know ; 
Our  knees  shall  kneel  till  to  the  ground  they 

grow: 

His  prayers  are  full  of  false  hypocrisy ; 
Ours  of  true  zeal  and  deep  integrity. 
Our  prayers  do  out-pray  his ;  then  let  them  have 
That  mercy  which  true  prayers  ought  to  have. 

Boiing.  Good  aunt,  stand  up. 

Duch.  Nay,  do  not  say  stand  up; 

But  pardon  first,  and  afterwards  stand  up. 
An  if  I  were  thy  nurse,  thy  tongue  to  teach, 
Pardon  should  be  the  first  word  of  thy  speech. 
I  never  long'd  to  hear  a  word  till  now ; 
Say  pardon,  king;  let  pity  teach  thee  how: 
The  word  is  short,  but  not  so  short  as  sweet ; 
No  word  likepardon,  for  kings'  mouths  so  meet. 
York.  Speak  it  in  French,  king;  say/ar- 

donnez-moi. 
Duch.    Dost  thou  teach  pardon  pardon  to 

destroy? 

Ah,  my  sour  husband,  my  hard-hearted  lord, 
That  sett'st  the  word  itself  against  the  word ! — 
Speak  pardon  as  'tis  current  in  our  land; 
The  chopping  French  we  do  not  understand. 
Thine  eye  begins  to  speak,  set  thy  tongue  there: 
Or  in  thy  piteous  heart  plant  thou  thine  ear; 
That  hearing  how  our  plaints  and  prayers  do 

pierce, 
Pity  may  move  thee  pardon  to  rehearse. 

Boiing.  Good  aunt,  stand  up. 

Duch.  I  do  not  sue  to  stand ; 

Pardon  is  all  the  suit  I  have  in  hand.          [me. 

Boiing.   I  pardon  him,  as  God  shall  pardon 

Duch.  O  happy  vantage  of  a  kneeling  knee ! 
Yet  am  I  sick  for  fear :  speak  it  again ; 
Twice  saying  pardon  doth  not  pardon  twain, 
But  makes  one  pardon  strong. 


458 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


[ACT  v. 


Boling.  With  all  my  heart 

I  pardon  him. 

Duck.         A  god  on  earth  thon  art. 

Boling.  But  for  our  trusty  brother-in-law,  and 

the  abbot, 

With  all  the  rest  of  that  consorted  crew, 
Destruction  straight  shall  dog  them  at  the  heels. 
Good  uncle,  help  to  order  several  powers 
To  Oxford,  or  where'er  these  traitors  are  : 
They  shall  not  live  within  this  world,  I  swear, 
But  I  will  have  them,  if  I  once  know  where. 
Uncle,  farewell : — and,  cousin  mine,  adieu : 
Your  mother  well  hath  pray'd,  and  prove  you 
true. 

Duck.  Come,  my  old  son : — I  pray  God  make 
thee  new.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — Another  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  SIR  PIERCE  OF  EXTON  and  a  Servant. 

Exton.  Didst  thou  not  mark  the  king,  what 

words  he  spake? — 

Have  I  no  friend  will  rid  me  of  this  living  fear? 
Was  it  not  so? 

Serv.  Those  were  his  very  words. 

Exton.  Have  I  no  friend?  quoth  he :  he  spake 

it  twice, 
And  urgM  it  twice  together, — did  he  not? 

Serv.  He  did.  [me, 

Exton.  And,  speaking  it,  he  wistly  look'd  on 
As  who  should  say, — I  would  thou  wert  the  man 
That  would  divorce  this  terror  from  my  heart,— 
Meaning  the  king  at  Pomfret.  Come,  let 's  go : 
3  am  the  king's  friend,  and  will  rid  his  foe. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. —POMFRET.     The  Dungeon  of  the 

Castle. 

Enter  KING  RICHARD. 

K.  Rich.  I  have  been  studying  how  I  may 

compare 

This  prison  where  I  live  unto  the  world : 
And,  for  because  the  world  is  populous, 
And  here  is  not  a  creature  but  myself, 
I  cannot  do  it ; — yet  I  '11  hammer 't  out. 
My  brain  I  '11  prove  the  female  to  my  soul, 
My  soul  the  father :  and  these  two  beget 
A  generation  of  still-breeding  thoughts, 
And  these  same  thoughts  people  this  little  world, 
In  humours  like  the  people  of  this  world, 
For  no  thought  is  contented.    The  better  sort , — 
As  thoughts  of  things  divine, — are  intermix'd 
With  scruples,  and  do  set  the  word  itself 
Against  the  word ; 

As  thus, — Come,  little  ones;  and  then  again, — 
ft  is  as  hard  to  come  as  for  a  c&ntfl 


To  thread  the  postern  of  a  needle's  eye. 
Thoughts  tending  to  ambition,  they  do  plot 
Unlikely  wonders  :  how  these  vain  weak  nails 
May  tear  a  passage  through  the  flinty  ribs 
Of  this  hard  world,  my  ragged  prison  walls  ; 
And,  for  they  Cannot,  die  in  their  own  pride. 
Thoughts  tending  to  content  flatter  themselves 
That  they  are  not  the  first  of  fortune's  slaves, 
Nor  shall  not  be  the  last  ;  like  silly  beggars, 
Who,  sitting  in  the  stocks,  refuge  their  shame, 
That  many  have,  and  others  must  sit  there  ; 
And  in  this  thought  they  find  a  kind  of  ease, 
Bearing  their  own  misfortune  on  the  back 
Of  such  as  have  before  endur'd  the  like. 
Thus  play  I,  in  one  person,  many  people, 
And  none  contented  :  sometimes  am  I  king  ; 
Then  treason  makes  me  wish  myself  a  beggar, 
And  so  I  am  :  then  crushing  penury 
Persuades  me  I  was  better  when  a  king  ; 
Then  am  I  king'd  again  :  and  by  and  by 
Think  that  I  am  unking'  d  by  Bolingbroke, 
And  straight  am  nothing  :  —  but  whate'er  I  am, 
Nor  I,  nor  any  man  that  but  man  is, 
With  nothing  shall  be  pleas'd  till  he  be  eas'd 
With  being  nothing.  —  Music  do  I  hear? 

[Music. 

Ha,  ha  !  keep  time  :  —  how  sour  sweet  music  is 
When  time  is  broke  and  no  proportion  kept  ! 
So  is  it  in  the  music  of  men's  lives. 
And  here  have  I  the  daintiness  of  ear 
To  check  time  broke  in  a  disorder'd  string  ; 
But,  for  the  concord  of  my  state  and  time, 
Had  not  an  ear  to  hear  my  true  time  broke. 
I  wasted  time,  and  now  doth  time  waste  me  ; 
For  now  hath  time  made  me  his  numbering 

clock:  [jar 

My  thoughts  are  minutes  ;  and,  with  sighs,  they 
Their  watches  on  unto  mine  eyes,  the  outward 

watch, 

Whereto  my  finger,  like  a  dial's  point, 
Is  pointing  still,  in  cleansing  them  from  tears. 
Now,  sir,  the  sound  that  tells  what  hour  it  is, 
Are  clamorous  groans  that  strike  upon  my  heart, 
Which  is  the  bell  :  so  sighs,  and  tears,  and  groans, 
Show  minutes,  times,  and  hours  :  —  but  my  time 
Runs  posting  on  in  Bolingbroke's  proud  jqy, 
While  I  stand  fooling  here,  his  Jack  o'  the  clock. 
This  music  mads  me  ;  let  it  sound  no  more  ; 
For  though  it  have  holp  madmen  to  their  wits, 
In  me  it  seems  it  will  make  wise  men  mad. 
Yet  blessing  on  his  heart  that  gives  it  me  ! 
For  'tis  a  sign  of  love  ;  and  love  to  Richard 
Is  a  strange  brooch  in  this  all-hating  world. 


Enter 


Groom.  Hail,  royal  prince! 

K.  Rick.  Thanks,  nobte  peer  ; 


SCENE  V.] 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


459 


The  cheapest  of  us  is  ten  groats  too  dear. 
What  art  thou?  and  how  com'st  thou  hither, 
Where  no  man  ever  comes,  but  that  sad  dog 
That  brings  me  food  to  make  misfortune  live? 
Groom.  I  was  a  poor  groom  of  thy  stable,  king, 
When  thou  wert  king ;  who,  travelling  towards 

York, 

With  much  ado  at  length  have  gotten  leave 
To  look  upon  my  sometimes  royal  master's  face. 
O,  how  it  yearn'd  my  heart,  when  I  beheld, 
In  London  streets,  that  coronation-day, 
When  Bolingbroke  rode  on  roan  Barbary, — 
That  horse  that  thou  so  often  hast  bestrid, 
That  horse  that  I  so  carefully  have  dress'd ! 
K.  Rich.   Rode  he  on  Barbary?    Tell  me, 

gentle  friend, 

How  went  he  under  him?  [ground. 

Groom.   So  proudly  as  if  he  disdain  d  the 
K.  Rich.  So  proud  that  Bolingbroke  was  on 

his  back ! 

That  jade  hath  eat  bread  from  my  royal  hand ; 
This  hand  hath  made  him  proud  with  clapping 

him. 

Wouldhe  notstumble?  would  he  not  fall  down, — 
Since  pride  must  have  a  fall, — and  break  the 

neck 

Of  that  proud  man  that  did  usurp  his  back? 
Forgiveness,  horse !  why  do  I  rail  on  thee, 
Since  thou,  created  to  be  aw'd  by  man, 
Wast  born  to  bear?     I  was  not  made  a  horse; 
And  yet  I  bear  a  burden  like  an  ass, 
Spur-gall'd  and  tir'd  by  jauncing  Bolingbroke. 

Enter  Keeper  with  a  dish. 

Keep.  Fellow,  give  place ;  here  is  no  longer 

stay.  [  To  the  Groom. 

K.  Rich.  If  thou  love  me,  'tis  time  thou  wert 

away. 
Groom.  What  my  tongue  dares  not,  that  my 

heart  shall  say.  [Exit. 

Keep.  My  lord,  wilt  please  you  to  fall  to? 
K.  Rich.  Taste  of  it  first  as  thou  art  wont  to 

do.  [ton, 

Keep.  My  lord,  I  dare  not.     Sir  Pierce  of  Ex- 

Who  lately  came  from  the  king,  commands  the 

contrary. 
K.  Rich.  The  devil  take  Henry  of  Lancaster 

and  thee ! 
Patience  is  stale,  and  I  am  weary  of  it. 

[Beats  the  Keeper. 
Keep.  Help,  help,  help ! 

Enter  EXTON  and  Servants,  armed. 

K.  Rich.  How  now!   what  means  death  in 
this  rude  assault?  [strument. 

Villain,  thine  own  hand  yields  thy  death's  in- 
[Snatching  a  weapon^  and  killing  one. 


Go  thou,  and  fill  another  room  in  hell. 

[He  kills  another ;  then  EXTON  strikes 

him  down. 

That  hand  shall  burn  in  never-quenching  fire 
That  staggers   thus  my   person. — Exton,   thy 

fierce  hand 
Hath  with  the  king's  blood  stain'd  the  king's 

own  land. 

Mount,  mount,  my  soul !  thy  seat  is  up  on  high ; 
Whilst  my  gross  flesh  sinks  downward,  here  to 

die.  [Dies. 

Exton.  As  full  of  valour  as  of  royal  blood : 
Both  have  I  spilt ; — O,  would  the  deed  were 


For  now  the  devil,  that  told  me  I  did  well, 
Says  that  this  deed  is  chronicled  in  hell. 
This  dead  king  to  the  living  king  I  '11  bear : — 
Take  hence  the'rest,  and  give  them  burial  here. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE   VI. — WINDSOR.      A   Room  in  the 
Castle. 

Flourish.      Enter    BOLINGBROKE   as    King, 
YORK,  LORDS,  and  Attendants. 

Baling.  Kind  uncle  York,  the  latest  news  we 

hear 

Is  that  the  rebels  have  consum'd  with  fire 
Our  town  of  Cicester  in  Glostershire ; 
But  whether  they  be  ta'en  or  slain  we  hear  not. 

Enter  NORTHUMBERLAND. 
Welcome,  my  lord :  what  is  the  news? 

North.  First,  to  thy  sacred  state  wish  I  all 

happiness. 

The  next  news  is,  I  have  to  London  sent 
The  heads  of  Salisbury,  Spencer,  Blunt,  and 

Kent: 

The  manner  of  their  taking  may  appear 
At  large  discoursed  in  this  paper  here. 

[Presenting  a  paper. 
Baling.  We  thank  thee,  gentle  Percy,  for  thy 

pains; 
And  to  thy  worth  will  add  right  worthy  gains. 

Enter  FITZWATER. 
Fitz.  My  lord,  I  have  from  Oxford  sent  to 

London 

The  heads  of  Brocas  and  Sir  Bennet  Seely  ; 
Two  of  the  dangerous  consorted  traitors 
That  sought  at  Oxford  thy  dire  overthrow. 
Baling.  Thy  pains,  Fitzwater,  shall  not  be 

forgot ; 
Right  noble  is  thy  merit,  well  I  wot. 

Enter  PERCY,  with  the  BISHOP  OF  CARLISLE. 
Percy.  The   grand    conspirator,    Abbot    of 
Westminster, 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


[ACT  V. 


With  clog  of  conscience  and  sour  melancholy, 
Hath  yielded  up  his  body  to  the  grave ; 
But  here  is  Carlisle  living,  to  abide 
Thy  kingly  doom  and  sentence  of  his  pride. 

Boling.  Carlisle,  this  is  your  doom : — 
Choose  out  some  secret  place,  some  reverend 

room, 

More  than  thou  hast,  and  with  it  joy  thy  life ; 
So,  as  thou  liv'st  in  peace,  die  free  from  strife : 
For  though  mine  enemy  thou  hast  ever  been, 
High  sparks  of  honour  in  thee  have  I  seen. 

Enter  EXTON,  with  Attendants,  bearing  a 
coffin. 

Exton.  Great  king,  within  this  coffin  I  pre« 

sent 

Thy  buried  fear :  herein  all  breathless  lies 
The  mightiest  of  thy  greatest  enemieSi 
Richard  of  Bordeaux,  by  me  hither  brought. 
Boling.  Exton,  I  thank  thee  not;  for  thou 
hast  wrought 


A  deed  of  slander,  with  thy  fatal  hand, 
Upon  my  head  and  all  this  famous  land. 
Exton.  From  your  own  mouth,  my  lord,  did 

I  this  deed. 
Boling.  They  love  not  poison  that  do  poison 

need, 

Nor  do  I  thee :  though  I  did  wish  him  dead, 
I  hate  the  murderer,  love  him  murdered. 
The  guilt  of  conscience  take  thou  for  thy  labour, 
But  neither  my  good  word  nor  princely  favour : 
With  Cain  go  wander  through  the  shade  of  night, 
And  never  show  thy  head  by  day  nor  light. — 
Lords,  I  protest,  my  soul  is  full  of  woe, 
That  blood  should  sprinkle  me  to  make  me 

grow: 

Come,  moum  with  me  for  that  I  do  lament. 
And  put  on  sullen  black  incontinent : 
I  '11  make  a  voyage  to  the  Holy  Land, 
To  wash  this  blood  off  from  my  guilty  hand : — 
March  sadly  after ;  grace  my  mournings  here, 
In  weeping  after  this  untimely  bier.    [Exatnh 


mod  j&s 
Ijar  bn 


ii'Xjcjs  'f-fAft  jjjti^jft)  tisdJ  lo  trifi'Mui!  anJS 


<{m  3Js 


lirfj  . 


OV1LS  HO 


FIRST   PART  OF 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


the 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 

HENRY,  Prince  of  Wales, 

PRINCE  JOHN  of  Lancaster, 

EARL  OF  WESTMORELAND,  \Friends    to 

SIR  WALTER  BLUNT,          }         KING. 

THOMAS  PERCY,  Earl  of  Worcester. 

HENRY  PERCY,  Earl  of  Northumberland. 

HENRY  PERCY,  surnamed  HOTSPUR,  his  Son. 

EDMUND  MORTIMER,  Earl  of  March. 

SCROOP,  Archbishop  of  York. 

SIR  MICHAEL,  a  Friend  to  the  Archbishop. 

ARCHIBALD,  Earl  of  Douglas. 

OWEN  GLENDOWER. 

SIR  RICHARD  VERNON. 

SIR  JOHN  FALSTAFF. 


POINS. 
GADSHILL. 
PETO. 
BARDOLPH. 


LADY  PERCY,  Wife  to  HOTSPUR,  and  Sister  to 
MORTIMER. 

LADY  MORTIMER,  Daughter  to  GLENDOWER, 
and  Wife  to  MORTIMER. 

MRS.  QUICKLY,  Hostess  of  a  Tavern  in  East- 
cheap. 

Lords,  Officers,  Sheriff,  Vintner,  Chamberlain, 
Drawers,  Two  Carriers,  Travellers,  and 
Attendants. 


SCENE,— ENGLAND. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I. — LONDON.     A  Room,  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  KING  HENRY,  WESTMORELAND,  SIR 
WALTER  BLUNT,  and  others. 

K.  Hen.  So  shaken  as  we  are,  so  wan  with 

care, 

Find  we  a  time  for  frighted  peace  to  pant, 
And  breathe  short-winded  accents  of  new  broils 
To  be  commenc'd  in  strands  afar  remote. 
No  more  the  thirsty  entrance  of  this  soil 
Shall  daub  her  lips  with  her  own   children's 

blood; 

No  more  shall  trenching  war  channel  her  fields, 
Nor  bruise  her  flowerets  with  the  armed  hoofs 
Of  hostile  paces :  those  opposed  eyes 
Which,  like  the  meteors  of  a  troubled  heaven, 
All  ot  one  nature,  of  one  substance  bred, 
Did  lately  meet  in  the  intestine  shock 
And  furious  close  of  civil  butchery, 
Shall  now,  in  mutual  well-beseeming  ranks, 
March  all  one  way,  and  be  no  more  oppos'd 
Against  acquaintance,  kindred,  and  allies : 
The  edge  of  war,  like  an  ill-sheathed  knife, 
No  more   shall   cut  his  master.      Therefore, 

friends, 
As  far  as  to  the  sepulchre  of  Christ,— 


Whose  soldier  now,  under  whose  blessed  cross 
We  are  impressed  and  engag'd  to  fight, — 
Forthwith  a  power  of  English  shall  we  levy ; 
Whose  arms  were  moulded  in  their  mothers' 

womb 

To  chase  these  pagans  in  those  holy  fields 
Over  whose  acres  walk'd  those  blessed  feet 
Which  fourteen  hundred  years  ago  were  nail'd 
For  our  advantage  on  the  bitter  cross. 
But  this  our  purpose  is  a  twelvemonth  old, 
And  bootless  'tis  to  tell  you  we  will  go : 
Therefore  we  meet  not  now. — Then  let  me  hear 
Of  you,  my  gentle  cousin  Westmoreland, 
What  yesternight  our  council  did  decree 
In  forwarding  this  dear  expedience. 

West.  My  liege,  this  haste  was  hot  in  ques- 
tion, 

And  many  limits  of  the  charge  set  down 
But  yesternight :  when,  all  athwart,  there  came 
A  post  from  Wales  loaden  with  heavy  news ; 
Whose  worst  was, — that  the  noble  Mortimer 
Leading  the  men  of  Herefordshire  to  fight 
Against  the  irregular  and  wild  Glendower, 
Was  by  the  rude  hands  of  that  Welshman  taken, 
A  thousand  of  his  people  butchered ; 
Upon  whose  dead  corpse  there  was  such  mis- 
use, 
Such  beastly,  shameless  transformation, 


462 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


FACT  i. 


By  those  Welshwomen  done,  as  may  not  be 
Without  much  shame  re-told  or  spoken  of. 
K.  Hen.  It  seems,  then,  that  the  tidings  of 

this  broil 

Brake  off  our  business  for  the  Holy  Land. 
West.  This,   match'd  with  other,  did,   my 

gracious  Lord ; 

For  more  uneven  and  unwelcome  news 
Came  from  the  north,  and  thus  it  did  import : 
On  Holy-rood  day,  the  gallant  Hotspur  there, 
Young  Harry  Percy,  and  brave  Archibald, 
That  ever  valiant  and  approved  Scot, 
At  Holmedon  met, 

Where  they  did  spend  a  sad  and  bloody  hour ; 
As  by  discharge  of  their  artillery, 
And  shape  of  likelihood,  the  news  was  told ; 
For  he  that  brought  them,  in  the  very  heat 
And  pride  of  their  contention  did  take  horse, 
Uncertain  of  the  issue  any  way. 
K.  Hen.  Here  is  a  dear  and  true-industrious 

friend, 

Sir  Walter  Blunt,  new  lighted  from  his  horse, 
Stain'd  with  the  variation  of  each  soil 
Betwixt  that  Holmedon  and  this  seat  of  ours; 
And  he  hath  brought  us  smooth  and  welcome 

news. 

The  Earl  of  Douglas  is  discomfited : 
Ten    thousand    bold    Scots,    two-and-twenty 

knights, 

Balk'd  in  their  own  blood,  did  Sir  Walter  see 
On  Holmedon's  plains :  of  prisoners.  Hotspur 

took 

Mordake,  Earl  of  Fife  and  eldest  son 
To  beaten  Douglas ;  and  the  Earls  of  Athol, 
Of  Murray,  Angus,  and  Menteith. 
And  is  not  this  an  honourable  spoil? 
A  gallant  prize?  ha,  cousin,  is  it  not? 

West.  In  faith, 

It  is  a  conquest  for  a  prince  to  boast  of. 
JC.  Hen.  Yea,  there  thou  mak'st  me  sad,  and 

mak'st  me  sin, 

In  envy  that  my  Lord  Northumberland 
Should  be  the  father  to  so  blest  a  son, — 
A  son  who  is  the  theme  of  honour's  tongue; 
Amongst  a  grove,  the  very  straightest  plant ; 
Who  is  sweet  fortune's  minion  and  her  pride : 
Whilst  I,  by  looking  on  the  praise  of  him, 
See  riot  and  dishonour  stain  the  brow 
Of  my  young  Harry.    O  that  it  could  be  prov'd 
That  some  night-tripping  fairy  had  exchang'd 
In  cradle- clothes  our  children  where  they  lay, 
And  calPd  mine  Percy,  his  Plantagenet ! 
Then  would  I  have  his  Harry,  and  he  mine : 
But  let  him  from  my  thoughts. — What  think 

you,  coz, 

Of  this  young  Percy's  pride?    The  prisoners, 
Which  he  in  this  adventure  hath  surpris'd, 


To  his  own  use  he  keeps ;  and  sends  me  word, 
I  shall  have  none  but  Mordake  Earl  of  Fife. 

West.  Th's  is  his  uncle's  teaching,  this  is 

Worcester, 

Malevolent  to  you  in  all  aspects; 
Which  makes  him  prune  himself,  and  bristle  up 
The  crest  of  youth  against  your  dignity. 

K.  Hen.  But  I  have  sent  for  him  to  answer 

this; 

And  for  this  cause  awhile  we  must  neglect 
Our  holy  purpose  to  Jerusalem. 
Cousin,  on  Wednesday  next  our  council  we 
Will  hold  at  Windsor,— so  inform  the  lords: 
But  come  yourself  with  speed  to  us  again ; 
For  more  is  to  be  said  and  to  be  done 
Than  out  of  anger  can  be  uttered. 

West.  I  will,  my  liege.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  same.     Another  Room  in  the 
Palace. 

Enter  PRINCE  HENRY  and  FALSTAFF. 

FaL  Now,  Hal,  what  time  of  day  is  it,  lad? 

P.  Hen.  Thou  art  so  fat-witted,  with  drink- 
ing of  old  sack,  and  unbuttoning  thee  after 
supper,  and  sleeping  upon  benches  after  neon, 
that  thou  hast  forgotten  to  demand  that  truly 
which  thou  wouldst  truly  know.  What  a  devil 
hast  thou  to  do  with  the  time  of  the  day?  unless 
hours  were  cups  of  sack,  and  minutes  capons, 
and  clocks  the  tongues  of  bawds,  and  dials  the 
signs  of  leaping  houses,  and  the  blessed  sun 
himself  a  fair  hot  wench  in  flame-coloured  taf- 
feta,—I  see  no  reason  why  thou  shouldst  be  so 
superfluous  to  demand  the  time  of  the  day. 

Fal.  Indeed,  you  come  near  me  now,  Hal ; 
for  we  that  take  purses  go  by  the  moon  and 
the  seven  stars,  and  not  by  Phoebus, — he,  that 
•wandering  knight  so  fair.  And,  I  pr'ythee, 
sweet  wag,  when  thou  art  king, — as,  God  save 
thy  grace,  (majesty,  I  should  say ;  for  grace 
thou  wilt  have  none,) — 

P.  IJen.  What,  none? 

Fal.  No,  by  my  troth ;  not  so  much  as  will 
serve  to  be  prologue  to  an  egg  and  butter. 

P.  Hen.  Well,  how  then?  come,  roundly, 
roundly. 

Fal.  Marry,  then,  sweet  wag,  when  thou  art 
king,  let  not  us  that  are  squires  of  the  night's 
body  be  called  thieves  of  the  day's  beauty :  let 
us  be  Diana's  foresters,  gentlemen  of  the  shade, 
minions  of  the  moon ;  and  let  men  say  we  be 
men  of  good  government,  being  governed,  as 
the  sea  is,  by  our  noble  and  chaste  mistress  the 
moon,  under  whose  countenance  we  steal. 

P.  Hen.  Thou  sayest  well,  and  it  holds  well 
too ;  for  the  fortune  of  us  that  are  the  moon's 


SCENE  II.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


463 


men  doth  ebb  and  flow  like  the  sea,  being 
governed,  as  the  sea  is,  by  the  moon.  As,  for 
proof,  now:  a  purse  of  gold  most  resolutely 
snatched  on  Monday  night,  and  most  dissolutely 
spent  on  Tuesday  morning ;  got  with  swearing 
lay  by,  and  spent  with  crying  bring  in;  now 
in  as  low  an  ebb  as  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  and 
by  and  by  in  as  high  a  flow  as  the  ridge  of  the 
gallows. 

Fal.  By  the  Lord,  thou  sayest  true,  lad. 
And  is  not  my  hostess  of  the  tavern  a  most 
sweet  wench? 

P.  Hen.  As  the  honey  of  Hybla,  my  old  lad 
of  the  castle.  And  is  not  a  buff  jerkin  a  most 
sweet  robe  of  durance? 

Fal.  How  now,  how  now,  mad  wag !  what, 
in  thy  quips  and  thy  quiddities?  what  a  plague 
have  I  to  do  with  a  buff  jerkin? 

P.  Hen.  Why,  what  a  pox  have  I  to  do  with 
my  hostess  of  the  tavern? 

Fal.  Well,  thou  hast  called  her  to  a  reckon- 
ing many  a  time  and  oft. 

P.  Hen.  Did  I  ever  call  for  thee  to  pay  thy 
part? 

Fal.  No;  Til  give  thee  thy  due,  thou  hast 
paid  all  there. 

P.  Hen.  Yea,  and  elsewhere,  so  far  as  my 
coin  would  stretch;  and  where  it  would  not,  I 
have  used  my  credit. 

Fal.  Yea,  and  so  used  it  that,  were  it  not 
here  apparent  that  thou  art  heir-apparent, — but, 
I  p'rythee,  sweet  wag,  shall  there  be  gallows 
standing  in  England  when  thou  art  king?  and 
resolution  thus  fobbed  as  it  is  with  the  rusty 
curb  of  old  father  antic  the  law?  Do  not  thou, 
when  thou  art  king,  hang  a  thief. 

P.  Hen.  No;  thou  shall. 

Fal.  Shall  I?  O  rare!  By  the  Lord,  I'll 
be  a  brave  judge. 

P.  Hen.  Thou  judgest  false  already :  I  mean, 
thou  shalt  have  the  hanging  of  the  thieves,  and 
so  become  a  rare  hangman. 

Fal.  Well,  Hal,  well;  and  in  some  sort  it 
jumps  with  my  humour  as  well  as  waiting  in  the 
court,  I  can  tell  you% 

P.  Hen.  For  obtaining  of  suits? 

Fal.  Yea,  for  obtaining  of  suits,  whereof  the 
hangman  hath  no  lean  wardrobe.  'Sblood,  I 
am  as  melancholy  as  a  gib-cat  or  a  lugged  bear. 

P.  Hen.  Or  an  old  lion,  or  a  love?s  lute. 

Fal.  Yea,  or  the  drone  of  a  Lincolnshire  bag- 
pipe. 

P.  Hen.  What  sayest  thou  to  a  hare,  or  the 
melancholy  of  Moor-ditch? 

Fal.  Thou  hast  the  most  unsavoury  similes, 
and  art,  indeed,  the  most  comparative,  ras- 
callest,— sweet  young  prince,  —  but,  Hal,  I 


pr'ythee,  trouble  me  no  more  with  vanity.  I 
would  to  God  thou  and  I  knew  where  a  com- 
modity of  good  names  were  to  be  bought.  An 
old  lord  of  the  council  rated  me  the  other  day 
in  the  street  about  you,  sir, — but  I  marked  him 
not ;  and  yet  he  talked  very  wisely, — but  I  re- 
garded him  not ;  and  yet  he  talked  wisely,  and 
in  the  street  too. 

P.  Hen.  Thou  didst  well ;  for  wisdom  cries 
out  in  the  streets,  and  no  man  regards  it. 

Fal.  O,  thou  hast  damnable  iteration,  and 
art,  indeed,  able  to  corrupt  a  saint.  Thou  hast 
done  much  harm  upon  me,  Hal, — God  forgive 
thee  for  it !  Before  I  knew  thee,  Hal,  I  knew 
nothing ;  and  now  am  I,  if  a  man  should  speak 
truly,  little  better  than  one  of  the  wicked.  I 
must  give  over  this  life,  and  I  will  give  it  over; 
by  the  Lord,  an  I  do  not,  I  am  a  villain  :  I  'M 
be  damned  for  never  a  king's  son  in  Christendom. 

P.  Hen.  Where  shall  we  take  a  purse  to- 
morrow, Jack? 

Fal.  Where  thou  wilt,  lad ;  I  '11  make  one ; 
an  I  do  not,  call  me  villain,  and  baffle  me. 

P.  Hen.  I  see  a  good  amendment  of  life  in 
thee, — from  praying  to  purse-taking. 

Enter  POINS  at  a  distance. 

Fal  Why,  Hal,  'tis  my  vocation,  Hal;  'tis 
no  sin  for  a  man  to  labour  in  his  vocation.— 
Poins ! — Now  shall  we  know  if  Gadshill  have 
set  a  match. — O,  if  men  were  to  be  saved  by 
merit,  what  hole  in  hell  were  hot  enough  for 
him?  Tins  is  the  most  omnipotent  villain  that 
ever  cried  stand  to  a  true  man. 

P.  Hen.  Good-morrow,  Ned. 

Poins.  Good-morrow,  sweet  Hal. — What  says 
Monsieur  Remorse  ?  What  says  Sir  John  Sack- 
and-sugar  ?  Jack ,  how  agrees  the  devil  and  thee 
about  thy  soul,  that  thou  soldest  him  on  Good- 
Friday  last  for  a  cup  of  Madeira  and  a  cold 
capon's  le^? 

P.  Hen.  Sir  John  stands  to  his  word, — the 
devil  shall  have  his  bargain ;  for  he  was  never 
yet  a  breaker  of  proverbs, — he  will  give  the 
devil  his  due. 

Poins.  Then  art  thou  damned  for  keeping 
thy  word  with  the  devil. 

P.  Hen.  Else  he  had  been  damned  for  cozen- 
ing the  devil. 

Potns.  But,  my  lads,  my  lads,  to-morrow 
morning,  by  four  o'clock,  early  at  Gadshill ! 
there  are  pilgrims  going  to  Canterbury  with  rich 
offerings,  and  traders  riding  to  London  with  fat 
purses :  I  have  visards  for  you  all ;  you  have 
horses  for  yourselves :  Gadshill  lies  to-night  in 
Rochester:  I  have  bespoke  supper  to-mcrrow 
night  in  Eastcheap :  we  may  do  it  as  secure  as 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  i. 


sleep.  If  you  will  go,  I  will  stuff  your  purses 
full  of  crowns ;  if  you  will  not,  tarry  at  home 
and  be  hanged. 

FaL  Hear  ye,  Yedward ;  if  I  tarry  at  home 
and  go  not,  I  '11  hang  you  for  going. 

Poins.  You  will,  chops? 

FaL  Hal,  wilt  thou  make  one? 

P.  Hen.  Who,  I  rob?  I  a  thief?  not  I,  by 
my  faith. 

FaL  There 's  neither  honesty,  manhood,  nor 
good  fellowship  in  thee,  nor  thou  earnest  not  of 
the  blood  royal,  if  thou  darest  not  stand  for  ten 
shillings. 

P.  Hen.  Well,  then,  cnce  in  my  days  I  '11  be 
a  madcap. 

FaL  Why,  that 's  well  said. 

P.  Hen,  Well,  come  what  will,  I  '11  tarry  at 
home. 

FaL  By  the  Lord,  I'll  be  a  traitor,  then, 
when  thou  art  king. 

P.  Hen.   I  care  not. 

Poins.  Sir  John,  I  pr'ythee,  leave  the  prince 
and  me  alone  :  I  will  lay  him  down  such  reasons 
for  this  adventure  that  he  shall  go. 

FaL  Well,  God  give  thee  the  spirit  of  persua- 
sion, and  him  the  ears  of  profiting,  that  what 
thou  speakest  may  move,  and  what  he  hears 
may  be  believed,  that  the  true  prince  may,  for 
recreation  sake,  prove  a  false  thief;  for  the  poor 
abuses  of  the  time  want  countenance.  Farewell: 
you  shall  find  me  in  Eastcheap. 

P.  Hen.  Farewell,  thou  latter  spring  !  Fare- 
well, All-hallown  summer  !  {Exit  I<ALSTAFF. 

Poins.  Now,  my  good  sweet  honey-lord,  ride 
with  us  to-morrow :  I  have  a  jest  to  execute  that 
I  cannot  manage  alone.  Falstaff,  Bardolph, 
Peto,  and  Gadshill,  shall  rob  those  men  that  we 
have  already  waylaid ;  yourself  and  I  will  not 
be  there ;  and  when  they  have  the  booty,  if  you 
and  I  do  not  rob  them,  cut  this  head  from  my 
shoulders. 

P.  Hen.  But  how  shall  we  part  with  them  in 
setting  forth? 

Poins.  Why,  we  will  set  forth  before  or  after 
them,  and  appoint  them  a  place  of  meeting, 
wherein  it  is  at  our  pleasure  to  fail ;  and  then 
will  they  adventure  upon  the  exploit  themselves; 
which  they  shall  have  no  sooner  achieved,  but 
we  '11  set  upon  them. 

P.  Hen.  Ay,  but  'tis  like  that  they  will  know 
us  by  our  horses,  by  our  habits,  and  by  every 
other  appointment,  to  be  ourselves. 

Poins.  Tut,  our  horses  they  shall  not  see, — 
I  '11  tie  them  in  the  wood ;  our  visards  we  will 
change  after  we  leave  them ;  and,  sirrah,  I  have 
cases  of  buckram  for  the  nonce,  to  immask  our 
noted  outward  garments.  ;i.-; 


P.  Hen.  But  I  doubt  they  will  be  too  hard 
for  us. 

Poins.  Well,  for  two  of  them,  I  know  them 
to  be  as  true-bred  cowards  as  ever  turned  back  ; 
and  for  the  third,  if  he  fight  longer  than  he  sees 
reason,  I  '11  forswear  arms.  The  virtue  of  this 
jest  will  be  the  incomprehensible  lies  that  this 
same  fat  rogue  will  tell  us  when  we  meet  at 
supper:  how  thirty,  at  least,  he  fought  with; 
what  wards,  what  blows,  what  extremities  he 
endured ;  and  in  the  reproof  of  this  lies  the  jest. 

P.  Hen.  Well,  I  '11  go  with  thee :  provide  us 
all  things  necessary,  and  meet  me  to-morrow 
night  in  Eastcheap ;  there  I  '11  sup.  Farewell. 

Poins.   Farewell,  my  lord.         {Exit  POINS. 

P.  Hen.  I  know  you  all,  and  will  awhile 

uphold 

The  unyok  d  humour  of  your  idleness : 
Yet  herein  will  I  imitate  the  sun, 
Who  doth  permit  the  base  contagious  clouds 
To  smother  up  his  beauty  from  the  world, 
That,  when  he  please  again  to  be  himself, 
Being  wanted,  he  may  be  more  wonder'd  at, 
By  breaking  through  the  foul  and  ugly  mists 
Of  vapours  that  did  seem  to  strangle  him. 
If  all  the  year  were  playing  holidays, 
To  sport  would  be  as  tedious  as  to  work ; 
But  when  they  seldom  come,  they  wish'd-for 

come, 

And  nothing  pleaseth  but  rare  accidents. 
So,  when  this  loose  behaviour  I  throw  off, 
And  pay  the  debt  I  never  promised, 
By  how  much  better  than  my  word  I  am, 
By  so  much  shall  I  falsify  men's  hopes ; 
And,  like  bright  metal  on  a  sullen  ground, 
My  reformation,  glittering  o'er  my  fault, 
Shall  show  more  goodly  and  attract  more  eyes 
Than  that  which  hath  no  foil  to  set  it  off. 
I  '11  so  offend,  to  make  offence  a  skill ; 
Redeeming  time  when  men  think  least  I  will. 

[Exit. 

SCENE    III.  —  The  same.     Another  Room  in 
the  Palace. 

Enter  KING  HENRY,  NORTHUMBERLAND, 
WORCESTER,  HOTSPUR,  SIR  WALTER 
BLUNT,  and  others. 

K.  Hen.  My  blood  hath  been  too  cold  and 

temperate, 

Unapt  to  stir  at  these  indignities, 
And  you  have  found  me ;  for  accordingly 
You  tread  upon  my  patience :  but  be  sure 
I  will  from  henceforth  rather  be  myself, 
Mighty  and  to  be  fear'd,  than  my  condition ; 
Which  hath  been  smooth  as  oil,  soft  as  young 

down, 


SCENE  III.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


465 


And  therefore  lost  that  title  of  respect 

Which  the  proud  soul  ne'er  pays  but  to   the 

proud. 
Wor.  Our  house,  my  sovereign  liege,  little 

deserves 

The  scourge  of  greatness  to  be  used  on  it ; 
And  that  same  greatness,  too   which  our  own 

hands 

Have  holp  to  make  so  portly. 
North.   My  lord,— 
K.  Hen.  Worcester,  get  thee  gone ;  for  I  see 

danger 

And  disobedience  in  thine  eye :  O,  sir, 
Your  presence  is  too  bold  and  peremptory 
And  majesty  might  never  yet  endure 
The  moody  frontier  of  a  servant  brow. 
You  have  good  leave  to  leave  us :  when  we  need 
Your  use  and  counsel  we  shall  send  for  you. 

[Exit  WORCESTER. 
You  were  about  to  speak. 

[To  NORTHUMBERLAND. 
North.  Yea,  my  good  lord. 

Those  prisoners  in  your  highness'  name  de- 
manded, 

Which  Harry  Percy  here  at  Holmedon  took, 
Were,  as  he  says,  not  with  such  strength  denied 
As  is  delivered  to  your  majesty : 
Either  envy,  therefore,  or  misprision 
Is  guilty  of  this  fault,  and  not  my  son. 

Hot.   My  liege,  I  did  deny  no  prisoners. 
But  I  remember  when  the  fight  was  done, 
When  I  was  dry  with  rage  and  extreme  toil, 
Breathless  and  faint,  leaning  upon  my  sword, 
Came  there  a  certain  lord,  neat,  trimly  dress'd, 
Fresh  as  a  bridegroom ;  and  his  chin  new  reap'd 
Show'd  like  a  stubble-land  at  harvest-home ; 
He  was  perfum'd  like  a  milliner; 
And  'twixt  his  finger  and  his  thumb  he  held 
A  pouncet-box,  which  ever  and  anon 
He  gave  his  nose,  and  took  't  away  again ; — 
Who  therewith  angry,  when  it  next  came  there, 
Took  it  in  snuff: — and  still  he  smil'd  and  talk'd; 
And  as  the  soldiers  bore  dead  bodies  by, 
He  call'd  them  untaught  knaves,  unmannerly, 
To  bring  a  slovenly  unhandsome  corse 
Betwixt  the  wind  and  his  nobility. 
With  many  holiday  and  lady  terms 
He  question'd  me ;  among  the  rest,  demanded 
My  prisoners  in  your  majesty's  behalf. 
I,  then  all  smarting  with  my  wounds  being  cold, 
To  be  so  pester'd  with  a  popinjay, 
Out  of  my  grief  and  my  impatience, 
Answer'd  neglectingly,  I  know  not  what, — 
He  should,  or  he  should  not ; — for  he  made  me 

mad 

To  see  him  shine  so  brisk,  and  smell  so  sweet, 
And  talk  so  like  a  waiting-gentlewoman 


Of  guns,  and  drums,  and  wounds, — God  save 

the  mark ! — 

And  telling  me  the  sovereign's!  thing  on  earth 
Was  parmaceti  for  an  inward  bniise ; 
And  that  it  was  great  pity,  so  it  was, 
This  villanous  saltpetre  should  be  digg'd 
Out  of  the  bowels  of  the  harmless  earth, 
Which  many  a  good  tall  fellow  had  destroy'd 
So  cowardly ;  and  but  for  these  vile  guns 
He  would  himself  have  been  a  soldier. 
This  bald  unjoin  ted  chat  of  his,  my  lord, 
I  answer'd  indirectly,  as  I  said ; 
And  I  beseech  you,  let  not  his  report 
Come  current  for  an  accusation 
Betwixt  my  love  and  your  high  majesty. 

Blunt.  The  circumstance  consider'd,  good  my 

lord, 

Whatever  Harry  Percy  then  had  said 
To  such  a  person,  and  in  such  a  place, 
At  such  a  time,  with  all  the  rest  re-told, 
May  reasonably  die,  and  never  rise 
To  do  him  wrong,  or  any  way  impeach 
What  then  he  said,  so  he  unsay  it  now. 

K.  Hen.  Why,  yet  he  doth  deny  his  prisoners, 
But  with  proviso  and  exception, — 
That  we  at  our  own  charge  shall  ransom  straight 
His  brother-in-law,  the  foolish  Mortimer; 
Who,  on  my  soul,  hath  wilfully  betray'd 
The  lives  of  those  that  he  did  lead  to  fight 
Against  the  great  magician,  damn'd  Glendower, 
Whose  daughter,  as  we  hear,  that  Earl  of  March 
Hath  lately  married.     Shall  our  coffers,  then, 
Be  emptied  to  redeem  a  traitor  home? 
Shall  we  buy  treason?  and  indent  with  fears, 
When  they  have  lost  and  forfeited  themselves? 
No,  on  the  barren  mountains  let  him  starve; 
For  I  shall  never  hold  that  man  my  friend 
Whose  tongue  shall  ask  me  for  one  penny  cost 
To  ransom  home  revolted  Mortimer. 

Hot.  Revolted  Mortimer ! 
He  never  did  fall  off,  my  sovereign  liege, 
But  by  the  chance  of  war : — to  prove  that  true, 
Needs  no  more  but  one  tongue  for  all  those 

wounds,  [took, 

Those   mouthed  wounds,  which   valiantly  he 
When  on  the  gentle  Severn's  sedgy  bank, 
In  single  opposition,  hand  to  hand, 
He  did  confound  tne  best  part  of  an  hour 
In  changing  hardiment  with  great  Glendower : 
Three  times  they  breath'd,  and  three  times  did 

they  drink, 

Upon  agreement,  of  swift  Severn's  flood ; 
Who  then,  affrighted  with  their  bloody  looks, 
Ran  fearfully  among  the  trembling  reeds, 
And  hid  his  crisp  head  in  the  hollow  bank 
Blood-stained  with  these  valiant  combatants. 
Never  did  base  and  rotten  policy 


466 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  i. 


Colour  her  working  with  such  deadly  wounds ; 
Nor  could  the  noble  Mortimer 
Receive  so  many,  and  all  willingly : 
Then  let  him  not  be  slander'd  with  revolt. 
K.  Hen.  Thou  dost  belie  him,  Percy,  thou 

dost  belie  him ; 

He  never  did  encounter  with  Glendower : 
I  tell  thee, 

He  durst  as  well  have  met  the  devil  alone 
As  Owen  Glendower  for  an  en:my. 
Art  thou  not  asham'd?     But,  drrah,  henceforth 
Let  me  not  hear  you  speak  of  Mortimer : 
Send  me  your   prisoners  with  the  speediest 

means, 

Or  you  shall  hear  in  such  a  kind  from  me 
As  will  displease  you. — My  Lord  Northumber- 
land, 

We  license  your  departure  with  your  son. — 
Send  us  your  prisoners,  or  you  '11  hear  of  it 

\_Exeunt  K.  HENRY,  BLUNT,  and  Train. 
Hot.  And  if  the  devil  come  and  roar  for 

them, 

I  will  not  send  them : — I  will  after  straight, 
And  tell  him  so ;  for  I  will  ease  my  heart, 
Albeit  I  make  a  hazard  of  my  head. 
North.  What,  drunk  with  choler?  stay,  and 

pause  awhile : 
Here  comes  your  uncle. 

Re-enter  WORCESTER. 

Hot.  Speak  of  Mortimer ! 

Zounds,  I  will  speak  of  him ;  and  let  my  soul 
Want  mercy,  if  I  do  not  join  with  him : 
Yea,  on  his  part  I  '11  empty  all  these  veins, 
And  shed  my  dear  blood  drop  by  drop  i'  the 

dust, 

But  I  will  lift  the  down-trod  Mortimer 
As  high  i'  the  air  as  this  unthankful  king, 
As  this  ingrate  and  canker'd  Bolingbroke. 

North.   Brother,  the  king  hath  made  your 
nephew  mad.  [  To  WORCESTER. 

Wor.  Who  struck  this  heat  up  after  I  was 
gone? 

Hot.  He  will,  forsooth,  have  all  my  prisoners ; 
And  when  I  urg'd  the  ransom  once  again 
Of  my  wife's  brother,  then  his  cheek  look'd  pale, 
And  on  my  face  he  turn'd  an  eye  of  death, 
Trembling  even  at  the  name  of  Mortimer. 

Wor.  I  cannot  blame  him :  was  he  not  pro- 

claim'd 
By  Richard  that  dead  is  the  next  of  blood? 

North.  He  was:  I  heard  the  proclamation: 
And  then  it  was  when  the  unhappy  king — 
Whose  wrongs  in  us  God  pardon  !-—did  set  forth 
Upon  his  Irish  expedition ; 
From  whence  he  intercepted  did  return 
To  be  depos'd,  and  shortly  murdered. 


Wor.  And  for  whose  death  we  in  the  world's 

wide  mouth 
Live  scandaliz'd  and  foully  spoken  of.        [then 

Hot.  But,  soft,  I  pray  you ;  did  King  Richard 
Proclaim  my  brother  Edmund  Mortimer 
Heir  to  the  crown? 

North.  He  did ;  myself  did  hear  it. 

Hot.  Nay,  then  I  cannot  blame  his  cousin 

king, 

That  wish'd  him  on  the  barren  mountains  starve. 
But  shall  it  be  that  you  tnat  set  the  crown 
Upon  the  head  of  this  forgetful  man, 
And  for  his  sake  wear  the  detested  blot 
Of  murderous  subornation, — shall  it  be 
That  you  a  world  of  curses  undergo, 
Being  the  agents,  or  base  second  means, 
The  cords,  the  ladder,  or  the  hangman  rather? — 
O,  pardon  me,  that  I  descend  so  low 
To  show  the  line  and  the  predicament 
Wherein  you  range  under  this  subtle  king; — 
Shall  it,  for  shame,  be  spoken  in  these  days, 
Or  fill  up  chronicles  in  time  to  come, 
That  men  of  your  nobility  and  power 
Did  'gage  them  both  in  an  unjust  behalf, — 
As  both  of  you,  God  pardon  it !  have  done, — 
To  put  down  Richard,  that  sweet  lovely  rose, 
Ana  plant  this  thorn,  this  canker,  Bolingbroke? 
And  shall  it,  in  more  shame,  be  further  spoken 
That  you  are  fool'd,  discarded,  and  shook  off 
By  him  for  whom  these  shames  ye  underwent? 
No ;  yet  time  serves,  wherein  you  may  redeem 
Your  banish'd  honours,  and  restore  yourselves 
Into  the  good  thoughts  of  the  world  again, — 
Revenge  the  jeering  and  disdain'd  contempt 
Of  this  proud  king,  who  studies  day  and  night 
To  answer  all  the  debt  he  owes  to  you 
Even  with  the  bloody  payment  of  your  deaths: 
Therefore,  I  say, — 

Wor.  Peace,  cousin ;  say  no  more : 

And  now  I  will  unclasp  a  secret  book, 
And  to  your  quick-conceiving  discontents 
I  '11  read  you  matter  deep  and  dangerous ; 
As  full  of  peril  and  adventurous  spirit 
As  to  o'er-walk  a  current  roaring  loud 
On  the  unsteadfast  footing  of  a  spear. 

Hot.  If  he  fall  in,  good-night ! — or  sink  or 

swim : — 

Send  danger  from  the  east  unto  the  west, 
So  honour  cross  it  from  the  north  to  south, 
And  let  them  grapple. — O,  the  blood  more  stirs 
To  rouse  a  lion  than  to  start  a  hare ! 

North.  Imagination  of  some  great  exploit 
Drives  him  beyond  the  bounds  of  patience. 

Hot.  By  heaven,  methinks  it  were  an  easy  leap 
To  pluck  bright  honour  from  the  pale-fac'd 

moon; 
Or  dive  into  the  bottom  of  the  deep. 


SCENE  III.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


467 


Where  fathom- line  could  never  touch  the  ground, 
And  pluck  up  drowned  honour  by  the  locks ; 
So  he  that  doth  redeem  her  thence  might  wear 
Without  corrival  all  her  dignities : 
But  out  upon  this  half-fac'd  fellowship ! 

Wor.  He  apprehends  a  world  of  figures  here, 
But  not  the  form  of  what  he  should  attend. — 
Good  cousin,  give  me  audience  for  awhile. 

Hot.  I  cry  you  mercy. 

Wor.  Those  same  noble  Scots 

That  are  your  prisoners, — 

Hot.  I  '11  keep  them  all ; 

By  heaven,  he  shall  not  have  a  Scot  of  them ; 
No,  if  a  Scot  would  save  his  soul,  he  shall  not : 
I  '11  keep  them,  by  this  hand. 

Wor.  You  start  away, 

And  lend  no  ear  unto  my  purposes. — 
Those  prisoners  you  shall  keep. 

Hot.  Nay,  I  will ;  that 's  flat  :— 

He  said  he  would  not  ransom  Mortimer ; 
Forbad  my  tongue  to  speak  of  Mortimer ; 
But  I  will  find  him  when  he  lies  asleep, 
And  in  his  ear  I  '11  holla — Mortimer! 
Nay, 

I  '11  have  a  starling  shall  be  taught  to  speak 
Nothing  but  Mortimer,  and  give  it  him, 
To  keep  his  anger  still  in  motion. 

WOT.  Hear  you,  cousin ;  a  word. 

Hot.  All  studies  here  I  solemnly  deiy, 
Save  how  to  gall  and  pinch  this  Bolingbroke : 
And  that  same  sword-and -buckler  Prince  of 

Wales,— 

But  that  I  think  his  father  loves  him  not, 
And  would  be  glad  he  met  with  some  mischance, 
I  'd  have  him  poison'd  with  a  pot  of  ale. 

Wor.  Farewell,  kinsman :  I  will  talk  to  you 
When  you  are  better  temper'd  to  attend. 

North.  Why,  what  a  wasp-tongue  and  im- 
patient fool 

Art  thou  to  break  into  this  woman's  mood, 
Tying  thine  ear  to  no  tongue  but  thine  own  ! 

Hot.  Why,  look  you,   I   am   whipp'd  and 

scourg'd  with  rods, 

Nettled,  and  stung  with  pismires,  when  I  hear 
Of  this  vile  politician,  Bolingbroke. 
In  Richard's  time, — what  do  ye  call  the  place? — 
A  plague  upon  \ — it  is  in  Glostershire ; — 
'Twas  where  the  madcap  duke  his  uncle  kept, — 
His  uncle  York : — where  I  first  bow'd  my  knee 
Unto  this  king  of  smiles,  this  Bolingbroke, 
When  you  and  he  came  back  from  Ravenspurg. 

North.  At  Berkley  Castle. 

Hot.  You  say  true  : — 
Why,  what  a  candy  deal  of  courtesy 
This  fawning  greyhound  then  did  proffer  me ! 
Look,  ivhen  his  infant  fortune  came  to  age, 
And,  gentle  Harry  Percy  >  and,  kind  cousin^ — 


O,  the  devil  take  such  cozeners ! — God  forgive 

me!— 
Good  uncle,  tell  your  tale ;  for  I  have  done. 

Wor.  Nay,  if  you  have  not,  to  't  again ; 
We  '11  stay  your  leisure. 

Hot.  I  have  done,  i'  faith. 

Wor.  Then    once    more   to   your    Scottish 

prisoners. 

Deliver  them  up  without  their  ransom  straight, 
And  make  the  Douglas'  son  your  only  mean 
For   powers  in   Scotland ;   which,   for  divers 

reasons 

Which  I  shall  send  you  written,  be  assur'd, 
Will  easily  be  granted. — You,  my  lord, 

{To  NORTHUMBERLAND. 
Your  son  in  Scotland  being  thus  employ'd, 
Shall  secretly  into  the  bosom  creep 
Of  that  same  noble  prelate,  well  belov'd, 
The  archbishop. 

Hot.  Of  York,  is  't  not? 

Wor.  True ;  who  bears  hard 
His  brother's  death  at  Bristol,  the  Lord  Scroop. 
I  speak  not  this  in  estimation, 
As  what  I  think  might  be,  but  what  I  know 
Is  ruminated,  plotted,  and  set  down, 
And  only  stays  but  to  behold  the  face 
Of  that  occasion  that  shall  bring  it  on. 

Hot.  I  smell  it :  upon  my  life,  it  will  do  well. 

North.  Before  the  game's  a-foot,  thou  still 
lett'st  slip.  [plot : — 

Hot.  Why,  it  cannot  choose  but  be  a  noble 
And  then  the  power  of  Scotland  and  of  York.— 
To  join  with  Mortimer,  ha? 

Wor.  And  so  they  shall. 

Hot.   In  faith,  it  is  exceedingly  well  aim'd. 

Wor.  And  'tis  no  little  reason  bids  us  speed, 
To  save  our  heads  by  raising  of  a  head ; 
For,  bear  ourselves  as  even  as  we  can, 
The  king  will  always  thinl-  him  in  our  debt, 
And  think  we  think  ourselves  unsatisfied, 
Till  he  hath  found  a  time  to  pay  us  home : 
And  see  already  how  he  doth  begin 
To  make  us  strangers  to  his  looks  of  love. 

Hot.  He  does,  he  does :  we  '11  be  revengM  on 
him. 

Wor.  Cousin,  farewell : — no  further  go  in  this 
Than  I  by  letters  shall  direct  your  course. 
When  time  is  ripe, — which  will  be  suddenly, — 
I  '11  steal  to  Glendower  and  Lord  Mortimer; 
Where  you  and  Douglas,  and  our  powers  at 

once, — 

As  I  will  fashion  it, — shall  happily  meet, 
To  bear  our  fortunes  in  our  own  strong  arms, 
Which  now  we  hold  at  much  uncertainty. 

North.  Farewell,    good   brother:    we  shall 
thrive,  I  trust. 

Hot.  Uncle,  adieu :— O,  let  the  hours  be  short, 


468 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  ii. 


Till  fields  and  blows  and  groans  applaud  our 
sport.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — ROCHESTER.     An  Inn  Yard. 
Enter  a  Carrier  with  a  lantern  in  his  hand. 

I  Car.  Heigh-ho !  an  't  be  not  four  by  the 
day,  I  '11  be  hanged :  Charles'  wain  is  over  the 
new  chimney,  and  yet  our  horse  not  packed. — 
What,  ostler ! 

Ost.  [Within.'}  Anon,  anon. 

1  Car.  I  pr'ythee,  Tom,  beat  Cut's  saddle, 
put  a  few  flocks  in  the  point ;  the  poor  jade  is 
wrong  in  the  withers  out  of  all  cess. 

Enter  another  Carrier. 

2  Car.   Peas  and  beans  are  as  dank  here  as  a 
dog,  and  that  is  the  next  way  to  give  poor  jades 
the  bots :  this  house  is  turned  upside  down  since 
Robin  ostler  died. 

1  Car.  Poor  fellow !   never  joyed  since  the 
price  of  oats  rose ;  it  was  the  death  of  him. 

2  Car.  I   think   this  be   the  most   villanous 
house  in  all  London  road  for  fleas :  I  am  stung 
like  a  tench. 

1  Car.  Like  a  tench !  by  the  mass,  there  is 
ne'er  a  king  in  Christendom  could  be  better  bit 
than  I  have  been  since  the  first  cock. 

2  Car.  Why,  they  will  allow  us  ne'er  a  jor- 
den,  and  then  we  leak  in  your  chimney;  and 
your  chamber-lie  breeds  fleas  like  a  loach. 

1  Car.  What,  ostler!    come  away,   and   be 
hanged ;  come  away. 

2  Car.  I  have  a  gammon  of  bacon  and  two 
races  of  ginger,  to  be  delivered  as  far  as  Char- 
ing-cross. 

i  Car.  'Odsbody  !  the  turkeys  in  my  pannier 
are  quite  starved.  —What,  ostler ! — A  plague  on 
thee !  hast  thou  never  an  eye  in  thy  head? 
canst  not  hear?  An  'twere  not  as  good  a  deed 
as  drink,  to  break  the  pate  of  thee,  I  am  a  very 
villain. — Come,  and  be  hanged :— hast  no  faith 
in  thee? 


Enter  GADSHILL. 
Good -morrow,     carriers. 


What 's 


Gads. 
o'clock? 

i  Car.  I  think  it  be  two  o'clock. 

Gads.  I  pr'ythee,  lend  me  thy  lantern,  to  see 
my  gelding  in  the  stable. 

1  Car.  Nay,  soft,  I  pray  ye ;  I  know  a  trick 
worth  two  of  that,  i'  faith. 

Gads.  I  pr'ythee,  lend  me  thine. 

2  Car.   Ay,  when?  canst  tell?— Lend  me  thy 
lantern,  quoth  a?— marry,  I'll  see  thee  hanged 
first. 


Gads.  Sirrah  carrier,  what  time  do  you  mean 
to  come  to  London?  ;u  jforj 

2  Car.  Time  enough  to  go   to  bed  with  a 

candle,    I    warrant   thee.  —  Come,    neighbour 

Mugs,  we  '11  call  up  the  gentlemen :  they  will 

along  with  company,  for  they  have  great  charge. 

[Exeunt  Carriers. 

Gads.  What,  ho !  chamberlain  ! 

Cham.  [Within.'}  At  hand,  quoth  pick-purse. 

Gads.  That 's  even  as  fair  as — at  hand,  quoth 
the  chamberlain ;  for  thou  variest  no  more  from 
picking  of  purses  than  giving  direction  doth 
from  labouring ;  thou  layest  the  plot  how. 

Enter  Chamberlain. 

Cham.  Good-morrow,  Master  Gadshill.  It 
holds  current  that  I  told  you  yesternight: — 
there's  a  franklin  in  the  wild  of  Kent  hath 
brought  three  hundred  marks  with  him  in  gold : 
I  heard  him  tell  it  to  one  of  his  company  last 
night  at  supper ;  a  kind  of  auditor ;  one  that 
hath  abundance  of  charge  too,  God  knows  what. 
They  are  up  already,  and  call  for  eggs  and 
butter :  they  will  away  presently. 

Gads.  Sirrah,  if  they  meet  not  with  Saint 
Nicholas'  clerks,  I  '11  give  thee  this  neck. 

Cham.  No,  I  '11  none  of  it :  I  pr'ythee,  keep 
that  for  the  hangman ;  for  I  know  thou  wor- 
shippest  Saint  Nicholas  as  truly  as  a  man  of 
falsehood  may. 

Gads.  What  talkest  thou  to  me  of  the  hang, 
man  ?  If  I  hang,  I  '11  make  a  fat  pair  of  gallows ; 
for  if  I  hang,  old  Sir  John  hangs  with  me  ;  and 
thou  knowest  he's  no  starveling.  Tut!  there 
are  other  Trojans  that  thou  dreamest  not  of, 
the  which,  for  sport-sake,  are  content  to  do  the 
profession  some  grace ;  that  would,  if  matters 
should  be  looked  into,  for  their  own  credit-sake, 
make  all  whole.  I  am  joined  with  no  foot  land- 
rakers,  no  long-staff  sixpenny  strikers,  none  of 
these  mad  mustachio  purple-hued  malt-worms ; 
but  with  nobility  and  tranquillity ;  burgomasters 
and  great  oneyers,  such  as  can  hold  in,  such  as 
will  strike  sooner  than  speak,  and  speak  sooner 
than  drink,  and  drink  sooner  than  pray:  and 
yet  I  lie ;  for  they  pray  continually  to  their 
saint,  the  commonwealth ;  or,  rather,  not  pray 
to  her,  but  prey  on  her ;  for  they  ride  up  and 
clown  on  her,  and  make  her  their  boots. 

Cham.  What,  the  commonwealth  their  boots? 
will  she  hold  out  water  in  foul  way? 

Gads.  She  will,  she  will ;  justice  hath  liquored 
her.  We  steal  as  in  a  castle,  cock-sure;  we 
have  the  receipt  of  fern-seed, — we  walk  invisible. 

Cham.  Nay,  by  my  faith,  I  think  you  are 
more  beholding  to  the  night  than  to  fern-seed 
for  your  walking  invisible. 


SCENE  II.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


469 


Gads.  Give  me  thy  hand :  thou  shalt  have  a 
share  in  our  purchase,  as  I  am  a  true  man. 

Cham.  Nay,  rather  let  me  have  it,  as  you  are 
a  false  thief. 

Gads.  Go  to ;  homo  is  a  common  name  to  all 
men.  Bid  the  ostler  bring  my  gelding  out  of 
the  stable.  Farewell,  you  muddy  knave. 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  — The  Road  by  Gadshill. 

Enter  PRINCE  HENRY  and  POINS  ;  BARDOLPH 
and  PETO  at  some,  distance. 

Poins.  Come,  shelter,  shelter:  I  have  re- 
moved Falstaff  s  horse,  and  he  frets  like  a 
gummed  velvet. 

P.  Hen.  Stand  close.  {They  retire. 

Enter  FALSTAFF. 

Fal.  Poins !  Poins,  and  be  hanged !  Poins ! 

P.  Hen.  [Coming  forward.]  Peace,  ye  fat- 
kidneyed  rascal !  what  a  brawling  dost  thou 
keep ! 

Fal.  Where's  Poins,  Hal? 

P.  Hen.  He  is  walked  up  to  the  top  of  the 
hill :  I  '11  go  seek  him. 

[Pretends  to  seek  POINS. 

Fal.  I  am  accursed  to  rob  in  that  thief  s 
company :  the  rascal  hath  removed  my  horse, 
and  tied  him  I  know  not  where.  If  I  travel 
but  four  foot  by  the  squire  further  a-foot,  I 
shall  break  my  wind.  Well,  I  doubt  not  but 
to  die  a  fair  death  for  all  this,  if  I  'scape  hanging 
for  killing  that  rogue.  I  have  forsworn  his 
company  hourly  any  time  this  two-and-twenty 
year,  and  yet  I  am  bewitched  with  the  rogue's 
company.  If  the  rascal  have  not  given  me 
medicines  to  make  me  love  him,  I  '11  be  hanged; 
it  could  not  be  else ;  I  have  drunk  medicines. 
— Poins ! — Hal ! — a  plague  upon  you  both ! — 
Bardolph !— Peto !— I  '11  starve,  ere  I  '11  rob  a 
foot  further.  An  'twere  not  as  good  a  deed  as 
drink,  to  turn  true  man,  and  leave  these  rogues, 
I  am  the  veriest  varlet  that  ever  chewed  with  a 
tooth.  Eight  yards  of  uneven  ground  is  three- 
score and  ten  miles  a-foot  with  me;  and  the 
stony-hearted  villains  know  it  well  enough :  a 
plague  upon  't,  when  thieves  cannot  be  true  to 
one  another!  [They  whistle.']  Whew! — a 
plague  upon  you  all !  Give  me  my  horse,  you 
rogues ;  give  me  my  horse,  and  be  hanged. 

P.  Hen.  [Coming  forward.]  Peace,  ye  fat- 
guts!  lie  down;  lay  thine  ear  close  to  the 
ground,  and  list  if  thou  canst  hear  the  tread  of 
travellers. 

Fa!.  Have  you  any  levers  to  lift  me  up  again, 
being  down?  'Sblood,  I '11  not  bear  mine  own 


flesh  so  far  a-foot  again  for  all  the  coin  in  thy 
father's  exchequer.  What  a  plague  mean  ye 
to  colt  me  thus? 

P.  Hen.  Thou  liest;  thou  art  not  colted, 
thou  art  uncolted. 

Fal.  I  pr'ythee,  good  Prince  Hal,  help  me 
to  my  horse,  good  king's  son.  [ostler? 

P.  Hen.   Out,  you  rogue!  shall  I  be  your 

Fal.  Go,  hang  thyself  in  thine  own  heir- 
apparent  garters  !  If  I  be  ta'en,  I  '11  peach  for 
this.  An  I  have  not  ballads  made  on  you  all, 
and  sung  to  filthy  tunes,  let  a  cup  of  sack  be 
my  poison : — when  a  jest  is  so  forward,  and  a- 
foot  too !— I  hate  it. 

Enter  GADSHILL. 

Gads.  Stand. 

Fal.  So  I  do,  against  my  will. 

Poins.  O,  'tis  our  setter :  I  know  his  voice. 
[Coming jorward  with  BARD,  and  PETO. 

Bard.  W.iat  news? 

Gads.  Case  ye,  case  ye;  on  with  your  vis- 
ards :  there 's  money  of  the  king's  coming  down 
the  hill;  'tis  going  to  the  king's  exchequer. 

Fal.  You  lie,  you  rogue;  'tis  going  to  the 
king's  lavern. 

Gads.  There 's  enough  to  make  us  all. 

Fal.  To  be  hanged. 

P.  Hen.  Sirs,  you  four  shall  front  them  in 
the  narrow  lane ;  Ned  Poins  and  I  will  walk 
lower :  if  they  'scape  from  your  encounter,  then 
they  light  on  us. 

Peto.  How  many  be  there  of  them  t 

Gads.  Some  eight  or  ten. 

Fal.  Zounds,  will  they  not  rob  us? 

P.  Hen.  What,  a  coward,  Sir  John  Paunch? 

Fal.  Indeed,  I  am  not  John  of  Gaunt,  your 
grandfather;  but  yet  no  coward,  Hal. 

P.  Hen.  Well,  we  leave  that  to  the  proof. 

Poins.  Sirrah  Jack,  thy  horse  stands  behind 
the  hedge :  when  thou  needest  him,  there  thou 
shalt  find  him.  Farewell,  and  stand  fast. 

Fal.  Now  cannot  I  strike  him,  if  I  should 
be  hanged. 

P.  Hen.  [Aside  to  POINS.}  Ned,  where  are 
our  disguises? 

Poins.  Here,  hard  by :  stand  close. 

[Exeunt.  P.  HENRY  and  POINS. 

Fal.  Now,  my  masters,  happy  man  be  his 
dole,  say  I :  every  man  to  his  business. 

Enter  Travellers. 

I  Trav.  Come,  neighbour:  the  boy  shall 
lead  our  horses  down  the  hill ;  we  '11  walk  a-foot 
awhile,  and  ease  our  legs. 

Fal.t  Gads.,  &f.  Stand! 

Trav.  Jesu  bless  us  1 


470 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  ii. 


Fal.  Strike;  down  with  them;  cut  the 
villains'  throats: — ah,  whoreson  caterpillars! 
bacon-fed  knaves !  they  hate  us  youth : — down 
with  them ;  fleece  them.  [for  ever  ! 

Trav.  O,  "we  are  undone,  both  we  and  ours 
Fal.  Hang  ye,  gorbellied  knaves,  are  ye  un- 
done? No,  ye  fat  chuffs;  I  would  your  store 
were  here !  On,  bacons  on !  What,  ye  knaves ! 
young  men  must  live.  You  are  grand-jurors, 
are  ye?  we'll  jure  ye,  i' faith. 

[Exeunt  FAL.,  &°<r. ,  driving  the 
Travellers  out. 

Re-enter  PRINCE  HENRY  and  POINS. 

P.  Hen.  The  thieves  have  bound  the  true 
men.  Now  could  thou  and  I  rob  the  thieves, 
and  go  merrily  to  London,  it  would  be  argument 
for  a  week,  laughter  for  a  month,  and  a  good 
jest  for  ever. 

Poins.  Stand  close ;  I  hear  them  coming. 

Re-enter  FALSTAFF,  GADSHILL,  BARDOLPH. 
and  PETO. 

Fal.  Come,  my  masters,  let  us  share,  and 
then  to  horse  before  day.  An  the  Prince  and 
Poins  be  not  two  arrant  cowards,  there 's  no 
equity  stirring :  there  's  no  more  valour  in  that 
Poins  than  in  a  wild  duck. 

P.  Hen.  Your  money  ! 

[Rushing  out  upon  them. 

Poins.  Villains! 

[GADS.,  BARD.,  and  PETO  run  away;  and 
FAL.  also,  after  a  blow  or  two,  leaving  the 
booty. 

P.  Hen.  Got  with  much  ease.     Now  merrily 
to  horse :  [fear 

The  thieves  are  scatter'd,  and  possess'd  with 
So  strongly  that  they  dare  not  meet  each  other; 
Each  takes  his  fellow  for  an  officer. 
Away,  good  Ned.     Falstaff  sweats  to  death, 
And  lards  the  lean  earth  as  he  walks  along : 
Were  't  not  for  laughing,  I  should  pity  him. 

Poins.  How  the  rogue  roar'd !         [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — WARKWORTH.     A  Room  in  the 
Castle. 

Enter  HOTSPUR,  reading  a  letter. 

Hot.  — But)  for  mine  own  party  my  lord,  I 
could  be  well  contented  to  be  there,  in  respect 
of  the  love  I  bear  your  house. — He  could  be 
contented, — why  is  he  not,  then?  In  respect 
of  the  love  he  bears  our  house: — he  shows 
in  this,  he  loves  his  own  barn  better  than  he 
loves  our  house.  Let  me  see  some  more. 
The  purpose  yoti  undertake  is  dangerous. — 
Why,  that's  certain:  'tis  dangerous  to  take 


a  cold,  to  sleep,  to  drink ;  but  I  tell  you,  my 
lord  fool,  out  of  this  nettle,  danger,  we  pluck 
this  flower,  safety.  The  purpose  you  undertake 
is  dangerous;  the  friends  you  have  named  un- 
certain; the  time  itself  unsorted;  and  your  whole 
plot  too  light  for  the  counterpoise  of  so  great  an 
opposition. — Say  you  so,  say  you  so?  I  say 
unto  you  again,  you  are  a  shallow,  cowardly 
hind,  and  you  lie.  What  a  lack-brain  is  this! 
By  the  Lord,  our  plot  is  a  good  plot  as  ever  was 
laid ;  our  friends  true  and  constant :  a  good  plot, 
good  friends,  and  full  of  expectation ;  an  excel- 
lent plot,  very  good  friends.  What  a  frosty- 
spirited  rogue  is  this !  Why,  my  Lord  of  York 
commends  the  plot  and  the  general  course  of  the 
action.  Zounds,  an  I  were  now  by  this  rascal, 
I  could  brain  him  with  his  lady's  fan.  Is  there 
not  my  father,  my  uncle,  and  myself?  Lord 
Edmund  Mortimer,  my  Lord  of  York,  and 
Owen  Glendower?  Is  there  not,  besides,  the 
Douglas?  Have  I  not  all  their  letters  to  meet 
me  in  arms  by  the  ninth  of  the  next  month  ?  and 
are  they  not  some  of  them  set  forward  already1,. 
What  a  pagan  rascal  is  this  !  an  infidel !  Ha ! 
you  shall  see  now,  in  very  sincerity  of  fear  and 
cold  heart,  will  he  to  the  king,  and  lay  open  all 
our  proceedings.  O,  I  could  divide  myself,  and 
go  to  buffets,  for  moving  such  a  dish  of  skimmed 
milk  with  so  honourable  an  action !  Hang  him ! 
Let  him  tell  the  king  :  we  are  prepared.  I  will 
set  forward  to-night. 

Enter  LADY  PERCY. 

How  now,  Kate!     I  must  leave  you  within 
these  two  hours.  [alone? 

Lady.  O,  my  good  lord,  why  are  you  thus 
For  what  offence  have  I  this  fortnight  been 
A  banish'd  woman  from  my  Harry's  bed  ? 
Tell  me,  sweet  lord,  what  is 't  that  takes  from 

thee 

Thy  stomach,  pleasure,  and  thy  golden  sleep? 
Why  dost  thou  bend  thine  eyes  upon  the  earth, 
And  start  so  often  when  thou  sitt'st  alone? 
Why  hast  thou  lost  the  fresh  blood  in  thy  cheeks, 
And  given  my  treasures  and  my  rights  of  thee 
To  thick-ey'd  musing  and  curs'd  melancholy? 
In  thy  faint  slumbers  I  by  thee  have  watch'd, 
And  heard  thee  murmur  tales  of  iron  wars ; 
Speak  terms  of  manage  to  thy  bounding  steed ; 
Cry,  Courage! — to  the  field  I — And  thou  hast 

talk'd 

Of  sallies  and  retires,  of  trenches,  tents, 
Of  palisadoes,  frontiers,  parapets, 
Of  basilisks,  of  cannon,  culverin, 
Of  prisoners'  ransom,  and  of  soldiers  slain, 
And  all  the  currents  of  a  heady  fight. 
Thy  spirit  within  thee  hath  been  so  at  war, 


SCENE  III.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


471 


And  thus  hath  so  bestirr'd  thee  in  thy  sleep 
That  beads  of  sweat  have  stood  upon  thy  brow, 
Like  bubbles  in  a  late  disturbed  stream  ; 
And  in  thy  face  strange  motions  have  appear'd, 
Such  as  we  see  when  men  restrain  their  breath 
On  some  great  sudden  hest.     O,  what  portents 

are  these  ? 

Some  heavy  business  hath  my  lord  in  hand, 
And  I  must  know  it,  else  he  loves  me  not. 
Hot.  What,  ho ! 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Is  Gilliams  with  the  packet  gone? 

Serv.  He  is,  my  lord,  an  hour  ago. 

Hot.  Hath  Butler  brought  those  horses  from 
the  sheriff?  [now. 

Serv.  One  horse,  my  lord,  he  brought  even 

Hot.  What  horse?  a  roan,  a  crop-ear,  is  it 
not? 

Serv.  It  is,  my  lord. 

Hot.  That  roan  shall  be  my  throne. 

Well,  I  will  back  him  straight :  O  esperancel — 
Bid  Butler  lead  him  forth  into  the  park. 

[Exit  Servant. 

Lady.  But  hear  you,  my  lord. 

Hot.  What  say'st  thou,  my  lady? 

Lady.  What  is  it  carries  you  away? 

Hot.  Why,  my  horse,  my  love, — my  horse. 

Lady.  Out,  you  mad-headed  ape ! 

A  weasel  hath  not  such  a  deal  of  spleen 
As  you  are  toss'd  with.     In  faith, 
I  'U  know  your  business,  Harry, — that  I  will. 
I  fear  my  brother  Mortimer  doth  stir 
About  his  title,  and  hath  sent  for  you 
To  line  his  enterprise :  but  if  you  go, — 

Hot.  So  far  a-foot,  I  shall  be  weary,  love. 

Lady.  Come,  come,  you  paraquito,  answer  me 
Directly  to  this  question  that  I  ask : 
In  faith,  I '!!  break  thy  little  finger,  Harry, 
An  if  thou  wilt  not  tell  me  all  things  true. 

Hot.  Away, 

Away,  you  trifler! — Love? — I  love  thee  not, 
I  care  not  for  thee,  Kate:  this  is  no  world 
To  play  with  mammets  and  to  tilt  with  lips : 
We  must  have  bloody  noses  and  crack' d  crowns, 
And  pass  them  current  too. — Gods  me,  my 
horse!—  [with  me? 

What  say'st  thou,  Kate?  what  wouldst  thou  have 

Lady.  Do  you  not  love  me?  do  you  not,  in- 
deed? 

Well,  do  not,  then ;  for  since  you  love  me  not, 
I  will  not  love  myself.     Do  you  not  love  me? 
Nay,  tell  me  if  you  speak  in  jest  or  no. 

Hot.  Come,  wilt  thou  see  me  ride? 
And  when  I  am  o'  horseback,  I  will  swear 
I  love  thee  infinitely.     But  hark  you,  Kate ; 
I  must  not  have  you  henceforth  question  me 


Whither  I  go,  nor  reason  whereabout: 
Whither  I  must,  I  must ;  and,  to  conclude, 
This  evening  must  I  leave  you,  gentle  Kate. 
I  know  you  wise ;  but  yet  no  further  wise 
Than  Harry  Percy's  wife :  constant  you  are ; 
But  yet  a  woman :  and  for  secrecy, 
No  lady  closer ;  for  I  well  believe 
Thou  wilt  not  utter  what  thou  dost  not  know, — 
And  so  far  will  I  trust  thee,  gentle  Kate. 
Lady.  How!  so  far?  [Kate: 

Hot.  Not  an  inch  further.     But  hark  you, 
Whither  I  go,  thither  shall  you  go  too ; 
To-day  will  I  set  forth,  to-morrow  you. — 
Will  this  content  you,  Kate? 

Lady.  It  must,  of  force.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — EASTCHEAP.    A  Room  in  the 
Boards  Head  Tavern. 

Enter  PRINCE  HENRY. 

P.  Hen.  Ned,  pr'ythee,  come  out  of  that  fat 
room,  and  lend  me  thy  hand  to  laugh  a  little. 

Enter  POINS. 

Poms.  Where  hast  been,  Hal? 

P.  Hen.  With  three  or  four  loggerheads 
amongst  three  or  fourscore  hogsheads.  I  have 
sounded  the  very  base  string  of  humility. 
Sirrah,  I  am  sworn  brother  to  a  leash  of 
drawers ;  and  can  call  them  all  by  their  Chris- 
tian names,  as — Tom,  Dick,  and  Francis. 
They  take  it  already  upon  their  salvation,  that 
though  I  be  but  Prince  of  Wales,  yet  I  am  the 
king  of  courtesy ;  and  tell  me  flatly  I  am  no 
proud  Jack,  like  Falstaff,  but  a  Corinthian,  a  lad 
of  mettle,  a  good  boy, — by  the  Lord,  so  they  call 
me, — and  when  I  am  king  of  England  I  shall 
command  all  the  good  lads  in  Eastcheap.  They 
call  drinking  deep,  dying  scarlet ;  and  when  you 
breathe  in  your  watering,  they  cry  hem  I  and 
bid  you  play  it  off.  To  conclude,  I  am  so  good 
a  proficient  in  one  quarter  of  an  hour,  that  I 
can  drink  with  any  tinker  in  his  own  language 
during  my  life.  I  tell  thee,  Ned,  thou  hast 
lost  much  honour,  that  thou  wert  not  with  me 
in  this  action.  But,  sweet  Ned, — to  sweeten 
which  name  of  Ned,  I  give  thee  this  penny- 
worth of  sugar,  clapped  even  now  into  my  hand 
by  an  under-skinker ;  one  that  never  spake  other 
English  in  his  life  than,  Eight  shillings  and  six- 
pence, and  You  are  welcome;  with  this  shrill 
addition,  Anon,  anon,  sir!  Score  a  pint  of  bas- 
tard in  the  Half-moon,  or  so.  But,  Ned,  to 
drive  away  the  time  till  Falstaff  come,  I  pr'y- 
thee, do  thou  stand  in  some  by-room,  while  I 
question  my  puny  drawer  to  what  end  he  gave 
me  the  sugar ;  and  do  thou  never  leave  calling 


472 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  33, 


Francis,  that  his  tale  to  me  may  be  nothing  but 
anon.  Step  aside,  and  I'll  show  thee  a  pre- 
cedent. [Exit  POINS. 

Poms.  [Within.]  Francis! 

R  Hen.  Thou  art  perfect. 

Poins.  [Within.]  Francis! 

Enter  FRANCIS. 

Fran.  Anon,  anon,  sir. — Look  down  into  the 
Pomegranate,  Ralph. 

P.  Hen.  Come  hither,  Francis. 

Fran.  My  lord? 

P.  Hen.  How  long  hast  thou  to  serve,  Francis? 

Fran.  Forsooth,  five  years,  and  as  much  as 
to,— 

Poins.  [Within.]  Francis! 

Fran.  Anon,  anon,  sir. 

P.  Hen.  Five  years !  by  'r  lady,  a  long  lease 
for  the  clinking  of  pewter.  But,  Francis,  darest 
thou  be  so  valiant  as  to  play  the  coward  with 
thy  indenture,  and  show  it  a  fair  pair  of  heels 
and  run  from  it? 

Fran.  O  Lord,  sir,  I  '11  be  sworn  upon  all  the 
books  in  England,  I  could  find  in  my  heart, — 

Poins.  [Within.'}  Francis! 

Fran.  Anon,  anon,  sir. 

P.  Hen.  How  old  art  thou,  Francis? 

Fran.  Let  me  see, — about  Michaelmas  next 
I  shall  be,- 

Poins.  {Within.}  Francis! 

Fran.  Anon,  sir.  — Pray  you,  stay  a  little,  my 
lord. 

P.  Hen.  Nay,  but  hark  you,  Francis :  for  the 
sugar  thou  gavest  me, — 'twas  a  pennyworth, 
was't  not? 

Fran.  O  Lord,  sir,  I  would  it  had  been  two ! 

P.  Hen.  I  will  give  thee  for  it  a  thousand 
pound :  ask  me  when  thou  wilt,  and  thou  shall 
have  it. 

Poins.   [Within.]  Francis! 

Fran.  Anon,  anon. 

P.  Hen.  Anon,  Francis?  No,  Francis;  but 
to-morrow,  Francis  ;  or,  Francis,  on  Thursday ; 
or,  indeed,  Francis,  when  thou  wilt.  But, 
Francis, — 

Fran.  My  lord? 

P.  Hen.  Wilt  thou  rob  this  leathern -jerkin, 
crystal-button,  nott-pated,  agate-ring,  puke- 
stocking,  caddis-garter,  smooth-tongue,  Span- 
ish-pouch,— 

Fran.  O  Lord,  sir,  who  do  you  mean? 

P.  Hen.  Why,  then,  your  brown  bastard  is 
your  only  drink ;  for,  look  you,  Francis,  your 
white  canvas  doublet  will  sully:  in  Barbary,  sir, 
it  cannot  come  to  so  much. 

Fran.  What,  sir? 

Poins.  [Within.]  Francis! 


P.  Hen.  Away,  you  rogue !  dost  thou  not 
hear  them  call? 

[Here  they  both  call  him  ;  FRANCIS  stands 
amazed,  not  knowing  which  way  to  go. 

Enter  Vintner. 

Vint.  What,  standest  thou  still,  and  hearest 
such  a  calling?  Look  to  the  guests  within. 
[Exit  FRAN.]  My  lord,  old  Sir  John,  with 
half-a-dozen  more,  are  at  the  door:  shall  I  let 
them  in? 

P.  Hen.  Let  them  alone  awhile,  and  then 
open  the  door.  [Exit  Vintner.]  Poins! 

-+'j> 
Re-enter  POINS. 

Poins.  Anon,  anon,  sir. 

P.  Hen.  Sirrah,  Falstaff  and  the  rest  of  the 
thieves  are  at  the  door:  shall  we  be  merry? 

Poms.  As  merry  as  crickets,  my  lad.  But 
hark  ye;  what  cunning  match  have  you  made 
with  this  jest  of  the  drawer?  come,  what's  the 
issue? 

P.  Hen.  I  am  now  of  all  humours  that  have 
showed  themselves  humours  since  the  old  days 
of  goodman  Adam  to  the  pupil-age  of  this  pre- 
sent twelve  o'clock  at  midnight. — What's 
o'clock,  Francis? 

Fran.  [Within.]  Anon,  anon,  sir. 

P.  Hen.  That  ever  this  fellow  should  have 
fewer  words  than  a  parrot,  and  yet  the  son  of  a 
woman !  His  industry  is  upstairs  and  down- 
stairs ;  his  eloquence  the  parcel  of  a  reckoning. 
I  am  not  yet  of  Percy's  mind,  the  Hotspur  of 
the  north ;  he  that  kills  me  some  six  or  seven 
dozen  Scots  at  a  breakfast,  washes  his  hands, 
and  says  to  his  wife,  Fie  upon  this  quiet  life ! 
I  want  work.  O  my  sweet  Harry,  says  she, 
how  many  hast  thou  killed  to-day?  Give  my 
roan  horse  a  drench,  says  he ;  and  answers,  Some 
fourteen,  an  hour  after, — a  trifle,  a  trifle.  I 
pr'ythee,  call  in  Falstaff:  I  '11  play  Percy,  and 
that  damned  brawn  shall  play  Dame  Mortimer 
his  wife.  Rivo  says  the  drunkard.  Call  in  ribs, 
call  in  tallow. 

Enter  FALSTAFF,  GADSHILL,  BARDOLPH,  and 
PETO  ;  followed  by  FRANCIS  with  wine. 

Poins.  Welcome,  Jack:  where  hast  thou  been? 

Fal.  A  plague  of  all  cowards,  I  say,  and  a 
vengeance  too !  marry,  and  amen ! — Give  me  a 
cup  of  sack,  boy. — Ere  I  lead  this  life  long,  I  '11 
sew  nether-stocks,  and  mend  them  and  foot  them 
too.  A  plague  of  all  cowards ! — Give  me  a  cup 
of  sack,  rogue. — Is  there  no  virtue  extant? 

[He  drinks. 

P.  Hen.  Didst  thou  never  see  Titan  kiss  a 
dish  of  butter?  pitiful-hearted  Titan,  that  melted 


SCENE  l\T.  j 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


473 


at  the  sweet  tale  of  the  sun !  if  thou  didst,  then 
behold  that  compound. 

Fal.  You  rogue,  here 's  lime  in  this  sack  too : 
there  is  nothing  but  roguery  to  be  found  hi  vil- 
lanous  man :  yet  a  coward  is  worse  than  a  cup 
of  sack  with  lime  in  it, — a  villanous  coward. — 
Go  thy  ways,  old  Jack ;  die  when  thou  wilt,  if 
manhood,  good  manhood,  be  not  forgot  upon 
the  face  of  the  earth,  then  am  I  a  shotten  herring. 
There  live  not  three  good  men  unhanged  in 
England ;  and  one  of  them  is  fat,  and  grows  old: 
God  help  the  while !  a  bad  world,  I  say.  I 
would  I  were  a  weaver ;  I  could  sing  psalms  or 
anything.  A  plague  of  all  cowards,  I  say  still. 

P.  Hen.  How  now,  woolsack !  what  mutter 
you? 

Fal.  A  king's  son  !  If  I  do  not  beat  thee  out 
of  thy  kingdom  with  a  dagger  of  lath,  and  drive 
all  thy  subjects  afore  thee  like  a  flock  of  wild 
geese,  I  '11  never  wear  hair  on  my  face  more. 
You  Prince  of  Wales ! 

P.  Hen.  Why,  you  whoreson  round  man, 
what 's  the  matter  ? 

Fal.  Are  you  not  a  coward?  answer  me  to 
that: — and  Poins  there? 

Poms.  Zounds,  ye  fat  paunch,  an  ye  call  me 
coward,  I  '11  stab  thee. 

Fal.  I  call  thee  coward !  I  '11  see  thee  damned 
ere  I  call  thee  coward:  but  I  would  give  a 
thousand  pound  I  could  run  as  fast  as  thou 
canst.  You  are  straight  enough  in  the  shoulders, 
— you  care  not  who  sees  your  back :  call  you 
that  backing  of  your  friends?  A  plague  upon 
such  backing !  give  me  them  that  will  face  me. 
— Give  me  a  cup  of  sack : — I  am  a  rogue  if  I 
drunk  to-day. 

P.  Hen.  O  villain !  thy  lips  are  scarce  wiped 
since  thou  drunkest  last. 

Fal.  All's  one  for  that.  A  plague  of  all 
cowards,  still  say  I.  [ffe  drinks. 

P.  Hen.  What 's  the  matter? 

Fal.  What's  the  matter!  there  be  four  of 
us  here  have  ta'en  a  thousand  pound  this  day 
morning. 

P.  Hen.  Where  is  it,  Jack?  where  is  it? 

Fal.  Where  is  it !  taken  from  us  it  is :  a  hun- 
dred upon  poor  four  of  us. 

P.  Hon.  What,  a  hundred,  man? 

Fal.  I  am  a  rogue,  if  I  were  not  at  half- 
sword  with  a  dozen  of  them  two  hours  to- 
gether. I  have  'scaped  by  miracle.  I  am  eight 
times  thrust  through  the  doublet,  four  through 
the  hose ;  my  buckler  cut  through  and  through ; 
my  sword  hacked  like  a  hand-saw, — tcce  sig- 
num!  I  never  dealt  better  since  I  was  a  man : 
all  would  not  do.  A  plague  of  all  cowards ! — 
Let  them  speak :  if  they  speak  more  or  less  than 


truth,  they  are  villains,  and  the  sons  of  dark' 
ness. 

P.  Hen.  Speak,  sirs;  how  was  it? 

Gads.  We  four  set  upon  some  dozen,— 

Fal.  Sixteen  at  least,  my  lord. 

Gads.  And  bound  them. 

Peto.  No,  no,  they  were  not  bound. 

Fal.  You  rogue,  they  were  bound,  every  man 
of  them ;  or  I  am  a  Jew  else,  an  Ebrew  Jew. 

Gads.  As  we  were  sharing,  some  six  or  seven 
fresh  men  set  upon  us, — 

Fal.  And  unbound  the  rest,  and  then  come 
in  the  other. 

P.  Hen.  What,  fought  ye  with  them  all? 

Fal.  All !  I  know  not  what  ye  call  all ;  but 
if  I  fought  not  with  fifty  of  them,  I  am  a  bunch 
of  radish:  if  there  were  not  two  or  three 
and  fifty  upon  poor  old  Jack,  then  am  I  no 
two-legged  creature. 

P.  Hen.  Pray  God,  you  have  not  murdered 
some  of  them. 

Fat.  Nay,  that's  past  praying  for:  I  have 
peppered  two  of  them ;  two  I  am  sure  I  have 
paid, — two  rogues  in  buckram  suits.  I  tell 
thee  what,  Hal, — if  I  tell  thee  a  lie,  spit  in  my 
face,  call  me  horse.  Thou  knowest  my  old  ward ; 
— here  I  lay,  and  thus  I  bore  my  point.  Four 
rogues  in  buckram  let  drive  at  me, — 

P.  Hen.  What,  four?  thou  saidst  but  two 
even  now. 

Fal.  Four,  Hal ;  I  told  thee  four. 

Poins.  Ay,  ay,  he  said  four. 

Fal.  These  four  came  all  a-front,  and  mainly 
thrust  at  me.  I  made  me  no  more  ado  but  took 
all  their  seven  points  in  my  target,  thus. 

P.  Hen.  Seven?  why,  there  were  but  four 
even  now  in  buckram. 

Poins.  Ay,  four  in  buckram  suits.          [else. 

Fal.  Seven,  by  these  hilts,  or  I  am  a  villain 

P.  Hen.  Pr'ythee,  let  him  alone;  we  shall 
have  more  anon. 

Fal.  Dost  thou  hear  me,  Hal? 

P.  Hen.  Ay,  and  mark  thee  too,  Jack. 

Fal.  Do  so,  for  it  is  worth  the  listening  to. 
These  nine  in  buckram  that  I  told  thee  of, — 

P.  Hen.  So,  two  more  already. 

Fal.  Their  points  being  broken, — • 

Poins.  Down  fell  their  hose. 

Fal.  Began  to  give  me  ground :  but  I  followed 
me  close,  came  in  foot  and  hand ;  and  with  a 
thought  seven  of  the  eleven  I  paid. 

P.  Hen.  O  monstrous !  eleven  buckram  men 
grown  out  of  two ! 

Fal.  But,  as  the  devil  would  have  it,  three 
misbegotten  knaves  in  Kendal  green  came  at  my 
back  and  let  drive  at  me ; — for  it  was  so  dark, 
Hal,  that  thou  couldst  not  see  thy  hand. 


474 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  ii. 


P.  Hen.  These  lies  are  like  the  father  that 
begets  them, — gross  as  a  mountain,  open,  palp- 
able. Why,  thou  clay-brained  guts,  thou  nott- 
pated  fool,  thou  whoreson,  obscene,  greasy 
tallow-keech, — 

Fal.  What,  art  thou  mad?  art  thou  mad?  is 
not  the  truth  the  truth? 

P.  Hen.  Why,  how  couldst  thou  know  these 
men  in  Kendal  green,  when  it  was  so  dark  thou 
couldst  not  see  thy  hand?  come,  tell  us  your 
reason:  what  sayest  thou  to  this? 

Poms.  Come,  your  reason,  Jack, — your 
reason. 

Fal.  What,  upon  compulsion?  No;  were  I 
at  the  strappado,  or  all  the  racks  in  the  world, 
I  would  not  tell  you  on  compulsion.  Give  you 
a  reason  on  compulsion!  if  reasons  were  as 
plenty  as  blackberries  I  would  give  no  man  a 
reason  upon  compulsion,  I. 

P.  Hen.  I  '11  be  no  longer  guilty  of  this  sin ; 
this  sanguine  coward,  this  bed-presser,  this  horse 
back-breaker,  this  huge  hill  of  flesh, — 

FaL  Away,  you  starveling,  you  elf-skin,  you 
dried  neat's  tongue,  bull's  pizzle,  you  stock-fish, 
— O  for  breath  to  utter  what  is  like  thee !— you 
tailor's  yard,  you  sheath,  you  bow-case,  you  vile 
standing-tuck ,  — 

P.  Hen.  Well,  breathe  awhile,  and  then  to  it 
again :  and  when  thou  hast  tired  thyself  in  base 
comparisons,  hear  me  speak  but  this. 

Poms.   Mark,  Jack. 

P.  Hen.  We  two  saw  you  four  set  on  four ; 
you  bound  them,  and  were  masters  of  their 
wealth. — Mark  now,  how  a  plain  tale  shall  put 
you  down. — Then  did  we  two  set  on  you  four; 
and,  with  a  word,  out-faced  you  from  your  prize, 
and  have  it ;  yea,  and  can  show  it  you  here  in 
the  house : — and,  Falstaff,  you  carried  your  guts 
away  as  nimbly,  with  as  quick  dexterity,  and 
roared  for  mercy,  and  still  ran  and  roared,  as 
ever  I  heard  bull-calf.  What  a  slave  art  thou, 
to  hack  thy  sword  as  thou  hast  done,  and  then 
say  it  was  in  fight !  What  trick,  what  device, 
what  starting-hole,  canst  thou  now  find  out  to 
hide  thee  from  this  open  and  apparent  shame? 

Poins.  Come,  let's  hear,  Jack;  what  trick 
hast  thou  now? 

FaL  By  the  Lord,  I  knew  ye  as  well  as  he 
that  made  ye.  Why,  hear  ye,  my  masters :  was 
it  for  me  to  kill  the  heir-apparent?  Should  I 
turn  upon  the  true  prince?  Why,  thou  knowest 
I  am  as  valiant  as  Hercules :  but  beware  instinct; 
the  lion  will  not  touch  the  true  prince.  Instinct 
is  a  great  matter ;  I  was  a  coward  on  instinct.  I 
shall  think  the  better  of  myself  and  thee  during 
my  life ;  I  for  a  valiant  lion,  and  thou  for  a  true 
prince.  But,  by  the  Lord,  lads,  I  am  glad  you 


have  the  money. — Hostess,  clap  to  the  doors 
\to  Hostess  within] : — watch  to-night,  pray  to- 
morrow.— Gallants,  lads,  boys,  hearts  of  gold, 
all  the  titles  of  good  fellowship  come  to  you ! 
What,  shall  we  be  merry?  Shall  we  have  a 
play  extempore? 

P.  Hen.  Content; — and  the  argument  shall 
be  thy  running  away. 

Fal.  Ah,  no  more  of  that,  Hal,  an  thou 
lovest  me ! 

Enter  Hostess. 

Host.  O  Jesu,  my  lord  the  prince, — 

/>.  Hen.  How  now,  my  lady  the  hostess! — 
What  sayest  thou  to  me? 

Host.  Marry,  my  lord,  there  is  a  nobleman 
of  the  court  at  door  would  speak  with  you :  he 
says  he  comes  from  your  father. 

P.  Hen.  Give  him  as  much  as  will  make  him 
a  royal  man,  and  send  him  back  again  to  my 
mother. 

Fal.  What  manner  of  man  is  he? 

Host.  An  old  man. 

Fal.  What  doth  gravity  out  of  his  bed  at 
midnight? — Shall  I  give  him  his  answer? 

P.  Hen.  Pr'ythee,  do,  Jack. 

Fal.  Faith,  and  I  '11  send  him  packing. 

[Exit, 

P.  Hen.  Now,  sirs: — by'r  lady,  you  fought 
fair ; — so  did  you,  Peto ; — so  did  you,  Bardolph : 
you  are  lions  too,  you  ran  away  upon  instinct, 
you  will  not  touch  the  true  prince ;  no, — fie ! 

Bard.  Faith,  I  ran  when  I  saw  others  run. 

P.  Hen.  Tell  me  now  in  earnest,  how  came 
Falstaff's  sword  so  hacked? 

Peto.  Why,  he  hacked  it  with  his  dagger; 
and  said  he  would  swear  truth  out  of  England, 
but  he  would  make  you  believe  it  was  done  in 
fight ;  and  persuaded  us  to  do  the  like. 

Bard.  Yea,  and  to  tickle  our  noses  with  spear- 
grass  to  make  them  bleed;  and  then  to  be- 
slubber  our  garments  with  it,  and  swear  it  was 
the  blood  of  true  men.  I  did  that  I  did  not 
this  seven  year  before, — I  blushed  to  hear  his 
monstrous  devices. 

P.  Hen.  O  villain,  thou  stolest  a  cup  of  sack 
eighteen  years  ago,  and  wert  taken  with  the 
manner,  and  ever  since  thou  hast  blushed  ex- 
tempore. Thou  hadst  fire  and  sword  on  thy 
side,  and  yet  thou  rannest  away :  what  instinct 
hadst  thou  for  it? 

Bard.  My  lord,  do  you  see  these  meteors? 
do  you  behold  these  exhalations? 

P.  Hen.  I  do. 

Bard.  What  think  you  they  portend? 

P.  Hen.  Hot  livers  and  cold  purses. 

Bard.  Choler,  my  lord,  if  rightly  taken. 


SCENE  IV.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


475 


P.  Hen.  No,  if  rightly  taken,  halter. — Here 
comes  lean  Jack,  here  comes  bare-bone. 

Re-enter  FALSTAFF. 

How  now,  my  sweet  creature  of  bombast !  How 
long  is 't  ago,  Jack,  since  thou  sawest  thine  own 
knee? 

Fal.  My  own  knee !  when  I  was  about  thy 
years,  Hal,  I  was  not  an  eagle's  talon  in  the 
waist ;  I  could  have  crept  into  any  alderman's 
thumb-ring:  a  plague  of  sighing  and  grief!  it 
blows  a  man  up  like  a  bladder. — There's 
villanous  news  abroad:  here  was  Sir  John 
Bracy  from  your  father ;  you  must  to  the  court 
in  the  morning.  That  same  mad  fellow  of  the 
north,  Percy;  and  he  of  Wales,  that  gave 
Amaimon  the  bastinado,  and  made  Lucifer 
cuckold,  and  swore  the  devil  his  true  liegeman 
upon  the  cress  of  a  Welsh  hook, — what,  a 
plague,  call  you  him? — 

Poins.  O,  Glendower. 

Fal.  Owen,  Owen, — the  same ;  and  his  son- 
in-law,  Mortimer ;  and  old  Northumberland ; 
and  that  sprightly  Scot  of  Scots,  Douglas,  that 
mns  o'  horseback  up  a  hill  perpendicular, — 

P.  Hen.  He  that  rides  at  high  speed,  and 
with  his  pistol  kills  a  sparrow  flying  ? 

Fed.  You  have  hit  it. 

P.  Hen.  So  did  he  never  the  sparrow. 

Fal.  Well,  that  rascal  hath  good  mettle  in 
him ;  he  will  not  run ; — 

P.  Hen.  Why,  what  a  rascal  art  thou,  then, 
to  praise  him  so  for  running. 

Fal.  O'  horseback,  ye  cuckoo;  but  a-foot  he 
will  not  budge  a  foot. 

P.  Hen.  Yes,  Jack,  upon  instinct. 

Fal.  I  grant  ye,  upon  instinct. — Well,  he  is 
there  too,  and  one  Mordake,  and  a  thousand 
blue-caps  more:  Worcester  is  stolen  away  to- 
night; thy  father's  beard  is  turned  white  with 
the  news :  you  may  buy  land  now  as  cheap  as 
stinking  mackerel. 

P.  Hen.  Why,  then,  it  is  like,  if  there  come 
a  hot  June,  and  this  civil  buffeting  hold,  we  shall 
buy  maidenheads  as  they  buy  hob-nails,  by  the 
hundreds. 

Fed.  By  the  mass,  lad,  thou  sayest  true ;  it  is 
like  we  shall  have  good  trading  that  way. — But 
tell  me,  Hal,  art  thou  not  horribly  afeard?  thou 
being  heir-apparent,  could  the  world  pick  thee 
out  three  such  enemies  again  as  that  fiend 
Douglas,  that  spirit  Percy,  and  that  devil  Glen- 
dower?  Art  thou  not  horribly  afraid?  doth  not 
thy  blood  thrill  at  it? 

P.  Hen.  Not  a  whit,  i' faith;  I  lack  some  of 
thy  instinct. 

Fed.  Well,   thou  wilt  be  horribly  chid  to- 


morrow when  thou  comest  to  thy  father :  if  thou 
love  me,  practise  an  answer. 

P.  Hen.  Do  thou  stand  for  my  father!  and 
examine  me  upon  the  particulars  of  my  life. 

Fal.  Shall  I?  content :— this  chair  shall  be 
my  state,  this  dagger  my  sceptre,  and  this 
cushion  my  crown. 

P.  Hen.  Thy  state  is  taken  for  a  joint-stool, 
thy  golden  sceptre  for  a  leaden  dagger,  and  thy 
precious  rich  crown  for  a  pitiful  bald  crown ! 

Fal.  Well,  an  the  fire  of  grace  be  not  quite 
out  of  thee,  now  shalt  thou  be  moved. — Give 
me  a  cup  of  sack  to  make  mine  eyes  look  red, 
that  it  may  be  thought  I  have  wept ;  for  I  must 
speak  in  passion,  and  I  will  do  it  in  King 
Cambyses'  vein. 

P.  Hen.  Well,  here  is  my  leg. 

Fal.  And  here  is  my  speech. — Stand  aside, 
nobility. 

Host.  O  Jesu,  this  is  excellent  sport,  i'  faith  ! 

Fal.  Weep  not,  sweet  queen;  for  trickling 
tears  are  vain. 

Host.  O,  the  father,  how  he  holds  his  counte- 
nance !  [ful  queen ; 

Fal.  For  God's  sake,  lords,  convey  my  trist- 
For  tears  do  stop  the  floodgates  of  her  eyes. 

Host.  O  Jesu,  he  doth  it  as  like  one  of  these 
harlotry  players  as  ever  I  see ! 

Fal.  Peace,  good  pint-pot;  peace,  good 
tickle-brain. — Harry,  I  do  not  only  marvel 
where  thou  spendest  thy  time,  but  also  how  thou 
art  accompanied :  for  though  the  camomile,  the 
more  it  is  trodden  on,  the  faster  it  grows,  yet 
youth,  the  more  it  is  wasted,  the  sooner  it  wears. 
That  thou  art  my  son,  I  have  partly  thy  mother's 
word,  partly  my  own  opinion ;  but  chiefly  a 
villanous  trick  of  thine  eye,  and  a  foolish  hang- 
ing of  thy  nether  lip,  that  doth  warrant  me. 
If,  then,  thou  be  son  to  me,  here  lies  the 
point; — why,  being  son  to  me,  art  thou  so 
pointed  at?  Shall  the  blessed  sun  of  heaven 
prove  a  micher,  and  eat  blackberries?  a  question 
not  to  be  asked.  Shall  the  son  of  England 
prove  a  thief,  and  take  purses?  a  question  to  be 
asked.  There  is  a  thing,  Harry,  which  thou 
hast  often  heard  of,  and  it  is  known  to  many  in 
our  land  by  the  name  of  pitch:  this  pitch,  as 
ancient  writers  do  report,  doth  defile ;  so  doth 
the  company  thou  keepest :  for,  Harry,  now  I 
do  not  speak  to  thee  in  drink,  but  in  tears ;  not 
in  pleasure,  but  in  passion ;  not  in  words  only, 
but  in  woes  also: — and  yet  there  tea  virtuous 
man  whom  I  have  often  noted  in  thy  company, 
but  I  know  not  his  name. 

P.  Hen.  What  manner  of  man,  an  it  like  your 
majesty? 

Fal*  A  goodly  portly  man,  i' faith,  and  a 


476 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  ii. 


corpulent ;  of  a  cheerful  look,  a  pleasing  eye, 
and  a  most  noble  carriage ;  and,  as  I  think,  his 
age  some  fifty,  or,  by  'r  lady,  inclining  to  three- 
score; and  now  I  remember  me,  his  name  is 
Falstaff:  if  that  man  should  be  lewdly  given, 
he  deceiveth  me ;  for,  Harry,  I  see  virtue  in  his 
looks.  If,  then,  the  tree  may  be  known  by  the 
fruit,  as  the  fruit  by  the  tree,  then,  peremptorily 
I  speak  it,  there  is  virtue  in  that  Falstaff:  him 
keep  with,  the  rest  banish.  And  tell  me  now, 
thou  naughty  varlet,  tell  me,  where  hast  thou 
been  this  month? 

P.  Hen.  Dost  thou  speak  like  a  king?  Do 
thou  stand  for  me,  and  I  '11  play  my  father. 

Fal.  Depose  me?  if  thou  dost  it  half  so 
gravely,  so  majestically,  both  in  word  and 
matter,  hang  me  up  by  the  heels  for  a  rabbit- 
sucker  or  a  poulter's  hare. 

P.  Hen.  Well,  here  I  am  set. 

Fal.  And  here  I  stand :— judge,  my  masters. 

P.  Hen.  Now,  Harry,  whence  come  you? 

Fal.   My  noble  lord,  from  Eastcheap. 

P.  Hen.  The  complaints  I  hear  of  thee  are 
grievous. 

Fal.  'Sblood,  my  lord,  they  are  false : — nay, 
I  '11  tickle  ye  for  a  young  prince,  i'  faith. 

P.  Hen.  Swearest  thou,  ungracious  boy? 
henceforth  ne'er  look  on  me.  Thou  art  violently 
carried  away  from  grace :  there  is  a  devil  haunts 
thee,  in  the  likeness  of  a  fat  old  man, — a  tun  cf 
man  is  thy  companion.  Why  dost  thou  con- 
verse with  that  trunk  of  humours,  that  bolting- 
hutch  of  beastliness,  that  swollen  parcel  of 
dropsies,  that  huge  bombard  of  sack,  that  stiffed 
cloak-bag  of  guts,  that  roasted  Manningtree  ox, 
with  the  pudding  in  his  belly,  that  reverend 
vice,  that  gray  iniquity,  that  father  ruffian,  that 
vanity  in  years?  Wherein  is  he  good,  but  to 
taste  sack  and  drink  it?  wherein  neat  and 
cleanly,  but  to  carve  a  capon  and  eat  it? 
wherein  cunning,  but  in  craft?  wherein  crafty, 
but  in  villany?  wherein  villanous,  but  in  all 
things?  wherein  w  rthy,  but  in  nothing? 

Fal.  I  would  your  grace  would  take  me  with 
you:  whom  means  your  grace? 

P.  Hen.  That  villanous  abominable  mis- 
leader  of  youth,  Falstaff,  that  old  white-bearded 
Satan. 

Fal.  My  lord,  the  man  I  know. 

P.  Hen.  I  know  thou  dost. 

Fal.  But  to  say  I  know  more  harm  in  him 
than  in  myself,  were  to  say  more  than  I  know. 
That  he  is  old, — the  more  the  pity, — his  white 
hairs  do  witness  it ;  but  that  he  is, — saving  your 
reverence, — a  whoremaster,  that  I  utterly  deny. 
If  sack  and  sugar  be  a  fault,  God  help  the 
wicked !  If  to  be  old  and  merry  be  a  sin, 


then  many  an  old  host  that  I  know  is  damned: 
if  to  be  fat  be  to  be  hated,  then  Pharaoh's  lean 
kine  are  to  be  loved.  No,  my  good  lord; 
banish  Peto,  banish  Bardolph,  banish  Poins : 
but,  for  sweet  Jack  Falstaff,  k'ind  Jack  Falstaff, 
true  Jack  Falstaff,  valiant  Jack  Falstaff,  and 
therefore  more  valiant,  being,  as  he  is,  old  Jack 
Falstaff.  banish  not  him  thy  Harry's  company, 
banish  not  him  thy  Harry's  company : — banish 
plump  Jack,  and  banish  all  the  world. 

P.  Hen.   I  do,  I  will.        [A  knocking  heard. 
{Exeunt  Host.,  FRAN.,  awr/BARD. 

Re-enter  BARDOLPH,  running. 

Bard.  O,  my  lord,  my  lord  !  the  sheriff  with 
a  most  monstrous  watch  is  at  the  door. 

Fal.  Out,  you  rogue !— play  out  the  play :  I 
have  much  to  say  in  the  behalf  of  that  Falstaff. 

Re-enter  Hostess,  hastily. 

Host.  O  Jesu,  my  lord,  my  lord, — 

P.  Hen.  Heigh,  heigh !  the  devil  rides  upon 
a  fiddle-stick :  what 's  the  matter? 

Host.  The  sheriff  and  all  the  watch  are  at 
the  door :  they  are  come  to  search  the  house. 
Shall  I  let  them  in? 

Fal.  Dost  thou  hear,  Hal?  never  call  a  true 
piece  of  gold  a  counterfeit:  thou  art  essentially 
mad,  without  seeming  so. 

P.  Hen.  And  thou  a  natural  coward,  without 
instinct. 

Fal.  I  deny  your  major:  if  you  will  deny 
the  sheriff,  so;  if  not,  let  him  enter:  if  I  be- 
come not  a  cart  as  well  as  another  man,  a  plague 
on  my  bringing  up !  I  hope  I  shall  as  soon  be 
strangled  with  a  halter  as  another. 

P.  Hen.  Go,  hide  thee  behind  the  arras: — 
the  rest  walk  up  above.  Now,  my  masters,  for 
a  true  face  and  good  conscience. 

Fal.  Both  which  I  have  had ;  but  their  date 
is  out,  and  therefore  I  '11  hide  me. 

[Exeunt  all  but  the  PRINCE  and  POINS. 

P.  Hen.  Call  in  the  sheriff. 

Enter  Sheriff  and  Carrier. 

Now,  master  sheriff,  what  is  your  will  with  me? 

Sher.  First,  pardon  me,  my  lord.     A  hue  and 

cry 
Hath  followed  certain  men  unto  this  house. 

P.  Hen.  What  men?  [lord,— 

Sher.  One  of  them  is  well  known,  my  gracious 
A  gross  fat  man. 

Car.  As  fat  as  butter. 

P.  Hen.  The  man,  I  do  assure  you,  is  not  here; 
For  I  myself  at  this  time  have  employ'd  him. 
And,  sheriff,  I  will  engage  my  word  to  thee, 
That  I  will,  by  to-morrow  dinner-time, 


SCENE  IV.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


477 


Send  him  to  answer  thee,  or  any  man, 
For  anything  he  shall  be  charg'd  withal : 
And  so,  let  me  entreat  you  leave  the  house. 

Sher.  I  will,  my  lord.     There  are  two  gentle- 
men 
Have  in  this  robbery  lost  three  hundred  marks. 

P.  Hen.  It  may  be  so:    if  he  have  robb'd 

these  men 
He  shall  be  answerable ;  and  so,  farewell. 

Sher.  Good-night,  my  noble  lord. 

P.  Hen.  I  think  it  is  good-morrow,  is  it  not? 

Sher.  Indeed,  my  lord,   I   think  it  be  two 
o'clock.     [Exeunt  Sheriff  and  Carrier. 

P.  Hen.  This  oily  rascal  is  known  as  well  as 
Paul's.  Go,  call  him  forth. 

Poins.  Falstaff ! — fast  asleep  behind  the  arras, 
and  snorting  like  a  horse. 

P.  Hen.  Hark,  how  hard  he  fetches  breath. 
Search  his  pockets.  [PoiNS  searches.]  What 
hast  thou  found? 

Poins.  Nothing  but  papers,  my  lord. 

P.  Hen.  Let 's  see  what  they  be :  read  them. 

Poins.  [Reads.]  Item,  A  capon,  2s.  2d. 
Item,  Sauce,  .  kjii.fi.  *  orr^aoJ  .  os.  4d. 
Item,  Sack,  two  gallons,  .  .  55.  8d. 
Item,  Anchovies  and  sack  after  supper,  2s.  6d. 
Item,  Bread,  .  an«  n?si'..  .  .  os.  o£d. 

P.  Hen.  O  monstrous!  but  one  halfpenny- 
worth of  bread  to  this  intolerable  deal  of  sack  !— 
What  there  is  else,  keep  close ;  we  '11  read  it  at 
more  advantage:  there  let  him  sleep  till  day. 
I'  11  to  the  court  in  the  morning.  We  must  all 
to  the  wars,  and  thy  place  shall  be  honourable. 
I  '11  procure  this  fat  rogue  a  charge  of  foot ;  and 
I  know  his  death  will  be  a  march  of  twelve- 
score.  The  money  shall  be  paid  back  again 
with  advantage.  Be  with  me  betimes  in  the 
morning;  and  so,  good-morrow,  Poins. 

Poins.  Good-morrow,  good  my  lord. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — BANGOR.     A  Room  in  the  ARCH- 
DEACON'S House. 

Enter  HOTSPUR,  WORCESTER,  MORTIMER, 
and  GLEN  DOWER. 

Mort.  These  promises  are  fair,  the  parties 

sure, 
And  our  induction  full  of  prosperous  hope. 

Hot.  Lord    Mortimer, — and    cousin    Glen- 
dower, — 

Will  you  sit  down? — 
And  uncle  Worcester : — a  plague  upon  it ! 
I  have  forgot  the  map. 

Glend.  No,  here  it  is. 

Sit,  cousin  Percy ;  sit,  good  cousin  Hotspur, — 


For  by  that  name  as  oft  as  Lancaster 

Doth  speak  of  you,  his  cheek  looks  pale,  and  with 

A  rising  sigh  he  wishes  you  in  heaven. 

Hot.  And  you  in  hell,  as  often  as  he  hears 
Owen  Glendower  spoke  of. 

Glend.   I  cannot  blame  him :  at  my  nativity 
The  front  of  heaven  was  full  of  fiery  shapes, 
Of  burning  cressets ;  and  at  my  birth 
The  frame  and  huge  foundation  of  the  earth 
Shak'd  like  a  coward. 

Hot.  Why,  so  it  would  have  done, 

At  the  same  season,  if  your  mother's  cat 
Had  but  kitten'd,   though  yourself  had  ne'er 
been  born.  [born. 

Glend.  I  say  the  earth  did  shake  when  I  was 

Hot.  And  I  say  the  earth  was  not  of  my  mind, 
If  you  suppose  as  fearing  you  it  shook. 

Glend.  The  heavens  were  all  on  fire,  the  earth 
did  tremble. 

Hot.  O,  then   the  earth   shook  to  see  the 

heavens  on  fire, 

And  not  in  fear  of  your  nativity. 
Diseased  nature  oftentimes  breaks  forth 
In  strange  eruptions ;  oft  the  teeming  earth 
Is  with  a  kind  of  colic  pinch'd  and  vex'd 
By  the  imprisoning  of  unruly  wind      [striving, 
Within  her   womb;    which,   for  enlargement 
Shakes  the  old  beldame  earth,  and  topples  down 
Steeples  and  moss-grown  towers.    Atyour  birth, 
Our  grandam  earth,  having  this  distemperature, 
In  passion  shook. 

Glend.  Cousin,  of  many  men 

I  do  not  bear  these  crossings.     Give  me  leave 
To  tell  you  once  again  that  at  my  birth 
The  front  of  heaven  was  full  of  fiery  shapes ; 
The  goats  ran  from  the  mountains,  and  the  herds 
Were  strangely  clamorous  to  the  frighted  fields. 
These  signs  have  mark'd  me  extraordinary ; 
And  all  the  courses  of  my  life  do  show 
I  am  not  in  the  roll  of  common  men. 
Where  is  he  living, — clipp'd  in  with  the  sea 
That  chides  the  banks  of  England,  Scotland, 

Wales,— 

Which  calls  me  pupil,  or  hath  read  to  me? 
And  bring  him  out  that  is  but  woman's  son 
Can  trace  me  in  the  tedious  ways  of  art, 
And  held  me  pace  in  deep  experiments. 

Hot.  I  think  there  is  no  man  speaks  better 

Welsh.— 
I  '11  to  dinner.  [mad. 

Mort.  Peace,  cousin  Percy;  you  will  make  him 

Glend.  I  can  call  spirits  from  the  vasty  deep. 

Hot.  Why,  so  can  I,  or  so  can  any  man ; 
But  will  they  come  when  you  do  call  for  them? 

Glend.  Why,   I  can  teach  thee,  cousin,  to 
command 


The  devil. 


478 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


(.ACT  III. 


Hot.  And  I  can  teach  thee,  coz,  to  shame 

the  devil 

By  telling  truth :  tell  truth,  and  shame  the  devil! 
If  thou  have  power  to  raise  him,  bring  him  hither, 
And  I  '11  be  sworn  I  have  power  to  shame  him 
hence.  [devil ! 

O,  while  you  live,  tell  truth,  and  shame  the 

Mort.  Come,  come, 
No  more  of  this  unprofitable  chat. 

Glend.  Three  times  hath  Henry  Bolingbroke 

made  head  [Wye 

Against  my  power;  thrice  from  the  banks  of 

And  sandy-bottom' d  Seven,  have  I  sent  him 

Bootless  home  and  weather-beaten  back,  [too ! 

Hot.  Home  without  boots,  and  in  foul  weather 
How  'scapes  he  agues,  in  the  devil's  name? 

Glend.  Come,   here's    the   map:    shall   we 

divide  our  right 
According  to  our  threefold  order  ta'en? 

Mort.  The  archdeacon  hath  divided  it 
Into  three  limits  very  equally : 
England,  from  Trent  and  Severn  hitherto, 
By  south  and  east  is  to  my  part  assign'd : 
All  westward,  Wales  beyond  the  Severn  shore, 
And  all  the  fertile  land  within  that  bound, 
To  Owen  Glendower: — and,  dear  coz,  to  you 
The  remnant  northward,  lying  off  from  Trent. 
And  our  indentures  tripartite  are  drawn ; 
Which  being  sealed  interchangeably, — 
A  business  that  this  night  may  execute, — 
To-morrow,  cousin  Percy,  you,  and  I, 
And  my  good  Lord  of  Worcester,  will  set  forth 
To  meet  your  father  and  the  Scottish  power, 
As  is  appointed  us,  at  Shrewsbury. 
My  father  Glendower  is  not  ready  yet, 
Nor  shall  we  need  his  help  these  fourteen  days: — 
Within  that  space  \to  GLEND.]  you  may  have 
drawn  together  [men. 

Your  tenants,  friends,  and  neighbouring  gentle- 

Glend.  A  shorter  time  shall  send  me  to  you, 

lords : 

And  in  my  conduct  shall  your  ladies  come ; 
From  whom  you  now  must  steal,  and  take  no 

leave; 

For  there  will  be  a  world  of  water  shed 
Upon  the  parting  of  your  wives  and  you. 

Hot.  Methinks  my  moiety,  north  from  Burton 

here, 

In  quantity  equals  not  one  of  yours : 
See  how  this  river  comes  me  cranking  in, 
And  cuts  me  from  the  best  of  all  my  land 
A  huge  half-moon,  a  monstrous  cantle  out. 
I  '11  have  the  current  in  this  place  damm'd  up ; 
And  here  the  smug  and  silver  Trent  shall  run 
In  a  new  channel,  fair  and  evenly : 
It  shall  not  wind  with  such  a  deep  indent, 
To  rob  me  of  so  rich  a  bottom  here. 


JSlend.  Not  wind !  it  shall,  it  must ;  you  see 
it  doth. 

Mort.  Yea.  [up 

But  mark  how  he  bears  his  course  and  runs  me 
With  like  advantage  on  the  other  side ; 
Gelding  the  opposed  continent  as  much 
As  on  the  other  side  it  takes  from  you. 

Wor.  Yea,  but  a  little  charge  will  trench 

him  here, 

And  on  this  north  side  win  this  cape  of  larki. 
And  then  he  runs  straight  and  even. 

Hot.  I  '11  have  it  so :  a  little  charge  will  do  it. 

Glend.  I  will  not  have  it  alter'd. 

Hot.  Will  not  you? 

Glend.  No,  nor  you  shall  not. 

Hot.  Who  shall  say  me  nay? 

Glend.  Why,  that  will  I. 

Hot.  Let  me  not  understand  you,  then ; 

Speak  it  in  Welsh.  [you ; 

Glend.  I  can  speak  English,  lord,  as  well  as 
For  I  was  train'd  up  in  the  English  court ; 
Where,  being  but  young,  I  framed  to  the  harp 
Many  an  English  ditty,  lovely  well, 
And  gave  the  tongue  a  helpful  ornament, — 
A  virtue  that  was  never  seen  in  you.       [heart : 

Hot.  Marry,  and  I  am  glad  of  it  with  all  my 
I  had  rather  be  a  kitten  and  cry  mew, 
Than  one  of  these  s<*me  metre  ballad-mongers ; 
I  had  rather  hear  a  brazen  candlestick  turn'd, 
Or  a  dry  wheel  grate  on  the  axle-tree ; 
And  that  would  set  my  teeth  nothing  on  edge, 
Nothing  so  much  as  mincing  poetry : — 
'Tis  like  the  forc'd  gait  of  a  shuffling  nag. 

Glend.  Come,  you  shall  have  Trent  turn'd. 

Hot.  I  do  not  care ;  I  '11  give  thrice  so  much 

land 

To  any  well-deserving  friend ; 
But  in  the  way  of  bargain,  mark  ye  me, 
I  '11  cavil  on  the  ninth  part  of  a  hair. 
Are  the  indentures  drawn  ?  shall  we  be  gone? 

Glend.  The  moon  shines  fair;  you  may  away 

by  night : 

I  '11  haste  the  writer,  and  withal 
Break  with  your  wives  of  your  departure  hence : 
I  am  afraid  my  daughter  will  run  mad, 
So  much  she  doteth  on  her  Mortimer.     [Exit. 

Mort.  Fie,  cousin  Percy !  how  you  cross  my 
lather !  [me 

Hot.   I  cannot  choose :  sometimes  he  angers 
With  telling  me  of  the  moldwarp  and  the  ant, 
Of  the  dreamer  Merlin  and  his  prophecies, 
And  of  a  dragon  and  a  finless  fish, 
A  clip-wing'd  griffin  and  a  moulten  raven, 
A  couching  lion  and  a  ramping  cat, 
And  such  a  deal  of  skimble-skamble  stuff 
As  puts  me  from  my  faith.     I  tell  you  what, — 
He  held  me  last  night  at  least  nine  hours 


SCENE  I.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


479 


In  reckoning  up  the  several  devils'  names 
That  were  his  lackeys :  I  cried  hum,  and  well, 

goto, 

But  mark'd  him  not  a  word.     O,  he  :s  as  tedious 
As  is  a  tired  horse,  a  railing  wife ; 
Worse  than  a  smoky  house : — I  had  rather  live 
With  cheese  and  garlic  in  a  windmill,  far, 
Than  feed  on  cates  and  have  him  talk  to  me 
In  any  summer-house  in  Christendom. 

Mart.  In  faith,  he  is  a  worthy  gentleman ; 
Exceedingly  well  read,  and  profited 
In  strange  concealments ;  valiant  as  a  lion, 
And  wondrous  affable ;  and  as  bountiful 
As  mines  of  India.     Shall  I  tell  you,  cousin? 
He  holds  your  temper  in  a  high  respect, 
And  curbs  himself  even  of  his  natural  scope 
When  you  do  cross  his  humour ;  faith,  he  does : 
I  warrant  you,  that  man  is  not  alive 
Might  so  have  tempted  him  as  you  have  done, 
Without  the  taste  of  danger  and  reproof : 
But  do  not  use  it  oft,  let  me  entreat  you. 

Wor.   In  faith,  my  lord,  you  are  too  wilful- 
blame  ; 

And  since  your  coming  hither  have  done  enough 
To  put  him  quite  beside  his  patience. 
You   must  needs  learn,   lord,  to  amend  this 

fault: 
Though  sometimes  it  show  greatness,  courage, 

blood,— 

And  that 's  the  dearest  grace  it  renders  you, — 
Yet  oftentimes  it  doth  present  harsh  rage, 
Defect  of  manners,  want  of  government, 
Pride,  haughtiness,  opinion,  and  disdain : 
The  least  of  which,  haunting  a  nobleman, 
Loseth  men's  hearts,  and  leaves  behind  a  stain 
Upon  the  beauty  of  all  parts  besides, 
Beguiling  them  of  commendation. 
Hot.  Well,   I  am  school'd:   good  manners 

be  your  speed  ! 
Here  come  our  wives,  and  let  us  take  our  leave. 

Re-enter  GLENDOWER,  with  LADY  MORTIMER 
and  LADY  PERCY. 

Mort.  This  is  the  deadly  spite  that  angers 

me, — 

My  wife  can  speak  no  English,  I  no  Welsh. 
Glend.  My  daughter  weeps :  she  will  not  part 

with  you ; 

She  '11  be  a  soldier  too,  she  '11  to  the  wars. 
Mort.  Good  father,  tell  her  that  she  and  my 

aunt  Percy 
Shall  follow  in  your  conduct  speedily. 

[GLEND.  speaks  to  LADY  MORT.  in  Welsh, 

and  she  answers  him  in  the  same. 
Glend.  She 's  desperate  here ;  a  peevish,  self- 

will'd  harlotry, 
One  that  no  persuasion  can  do  good  upon. 


[LADY  MORT.  speaks  to  MORT.  in  Welsh. 

Mort.  I  understand  thy  looks:   that  pretty 
Welsh  [heavens, 

Which  thou  pour'st  down  from  these  welling 
I  am  too  perfect  in ;  and,  but  for  shame, 
In  such  a  parley  should  I  answer  thee. 

[LADY  MORT.  speaks  again. 
I  understand  thy  kisses,  and  thou  mine, 
And  that  Js  a  feeling  disputation : 
But  I  will  never  be  a  truant,  love, 
Till  I  have  learned  thy  language ;  for  thy  tongue 
Makes  Welsh  as  sweet  as  ditties  highly  penn'd, 
Sung  by  a  fair  queen  in  a  summer's  bower, 
With  ravishing  division,  to  her  lute.         [mad. 
Glend.  Nay,  if  you  melt,  then  will  she  run 
[LADY  MORT.  speaks  again. 

Mort.  O,  I  am  ignorance  itself  in  this  1 
Glend.  She  bids  you  on  the  wanton  rushes 

lay  you  down, 

And  rest  your  gentle  head  upon  her  lap, 
And  she  will  sing  the  song  that  pleaseth  you, 
And  on  your  eyelids  crown  the  god  of  sleep, 
Charming  your  blood  with  pleasing  heaviness ; 
Making  such  difference  betwixt  wake  and  sleep 
As  is  the  difference  betwixt  day  and  night, 
The  hour  before  the  heavenly  harness'd  team 
Begins  his  golden  progress  in  the  east,     [sing: 

Mort.  With  all  my  heart  I  '11  sit  and  hear  her 
By  that  time  will  our  book,  I  think,  be  drawn. 

Glend.  Do  so ; 

And  those  musicians  that  shall  play  to  you 
Hang  in  the  air  a  thousand  leagues  from  hence ; 
And  straight  they  shall  be  here :  sit,  and  attend. 

Hot.  Come,  Kate,  thou  art  perfect  in  lying 
down :  come,  quick,  quick,  that  I  may  lay  my 
head  in  thy  lap. 

Lady  P.  Go,  ye  giddy  goose. 

[The  music  plays. 

Hot.  Now  I  perceive  the  devil  understands 

Welsh; 

And  'tis  no  marvel  he 's  so  humorous. 
By  'r  lady,  he 's  a  good  musician. 

Lady  P.  Then  should  you  be  nothing  but 
musical ;  for  you  are  altogether  governed  by 
humours.  Lie  still,  ye  thief,  and  hear  the  lady 
sing  in  Welsh. 

Hot.  I  had  rather  hear  Lady,  my  brach, 
howl  in  Irish. 

Lady  P.  Wouldst  thou  have  thy  head  broken? 

Hot.  No. 

Lady  P.  Then  be  still. 

Hot.  Neither ;  'tis  a  woman's  fault. 

Lady  P.  Now  God  help  thee ! 

Hot.  To  the  Welsh  lady's  bed. 

Lady  P.  What's  that? 

Hot.  Peace !  she  sings. 

[A  Welsh  Song  sung  by  LADY  MORT, 


48o 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  in. 


Hot.  Come,  Kate,  I  '11  have  your  song  too. 

Lady  P.  Not  mine,  in  good  sooth. 

Hot.  Not  yours,  in  good  sooth !     'Heart,  you 
swear  like  a  comfit-maker's  wife  1     Not  you ,  in 
good  sooth;  and,  As  true  as  I  live ;  and,  As  God 
shall  mend  me;  and,  As  sure  as  day: 
And  giv'st  such  sarcenet  surety  for  thy  oaths, 
As  if  thou  never  walk'dst  further  than  Finsbury. 
Swear  me,  Kate,  like  a  lady  as  thou  art, 
A  good  mouth-filling  oath ;  and  leave  in  sooth, 
And  such  protest  of  pepper-gingerbread, 
To  velvet  guards  and  Sunday-citizens. 
Come,  sing. 

Lady  P.  I  will  not  sing. 

Hot.  'Tis  the  next  way  to  turn  tailor,  or  be 
redbreast  teacher.  An  the  indentures  be  drawn, 
I  '11  away  within  these  two  hours ;  and  so,  come 
in  when  ye  will.  [Exit. 

Glend.  Come,  come,  Lord  Mortimer;   you 

are  as  slow 

As  hot  Lord  Percy  is  on  fire  to  go. 
By  this  our  book  is  drawn ;  we  will  but  seal, 
And  then  to  horse  immediately. 

With  all  my  heart. 


Mort. 


[Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. — LONDON.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

>  Enter  KING  HENRY,  PRINCE  HBNRY,  and 
Lords. 

K.  Hen.  Lords,  give  us  leave ;  the  Prince  of 
Wales  and  I  [hand, 

Must  have  some  conference;   but  be  near  at 
For  we  shall  presently  have  need  of  you. 

Exeunt  Lords. 

I  know  not  whether  God  will  have  it  so, 
For  some  displeasing  service  I  have  done, 
That,  in  his  secret  doom,  out  of  my  blood 
He  '11  breed  revengement  and  a  scourge  for  me; 
But  thou  dost,  in  thy  passages  of  life, 
Make  me  believe  that  thou  art  only  mark'd 
For  the  hot  vengeance  and  the  rod  of  heaven 
To  punish  my  mistreadings.     Tell  me  else, 
Could  such  inordinate  and  low  desires, 
Such  poor,  such  bare,  such  lewd,  such  mean 

attempts, 

Such  barren  pleasures,  rude  society, 
&s  thou  art  match'd  withal  and  grafted  to, 
Accompany  the  greatness  of  thy  blood, 
And  hold  their  level  with  thy  princely  heart  ? 
P.  Hen.  So  please  your  majesty,  I  would  I 

could 

Quit  all  offences  with  as  clear  excuse, 
As  well  as  I  am  doubtless  I  can  purge 
Myself  of  many  I  am  charg'd  withal : 
Yet  such  extenuation  let  me  beg, 
&&,  in  reproof  of  many  tales  devis'd,— 


Which  oft  the  ear  of  greatness  needs  must  hear, — 
By  smiling  pick-thanks  and  base  newsmongers, 
I  may,  for  some  things  true,  wherein  my  youth 
Hath  faulty  wander'd  and  irregular, 
Find  pardon  on  my  true  submission. 
K.   Hen.    God   pardon   thee! — yet  let    me 

wonder,  Harry, 

At  thy  affections,  which  do  hold  a  wing 
Quite  from  the  flight  of  all  thy  ancestors. 
Thy  place  in  council  thou  hast  rudely  lost, 
Which  by  thy  younger  brother  is  supplied ; 
And  art  almost  an  alien  to  the  hearts 
Of  all  the  court  and  princes  of  my  blood : 
The  hope  and  expectation  of  thy  time 
Is  ruin'd ;  and  the  soul  of  every  man 
Prophetically  does  forethink  thy  fall. 
Had  I  so  lavish  of  my  presence  been, 
So  common-hackney 'd  in  the  eyes  of  men, 
So  stale  and  cheap  to  vulgar  company, — 
Opinion,  that  did  help  me  to  the  crown, 
Had  still  kept  loyal  to  possession, 
And  left  me  in  reputeless  banishment, 
A  fellow  of  no  mark  nor  likelihood. 
By  being  seldom  seen,  I  could  not  stir 
But,  like  a  comet,  I  was  wonder'd  at ; 
That  men  would  tell  their  children,  This  is  het 
Others  would  say, —  Where^  which  is  Baling- 

broke ? 

And  then  I  stole  all  courtesy  from  heaven, 
And  dress'd  myself  in  such  humility 
That  I  did  pluck  allegiance  from  men's  hearts, 
Loud  shouts  and  salutations  from  their  mouths, 
Even  in  the  presence  of  the  crowned  king. 
Thus  did  I  keep  my  person  fresh  and  new ; 
My  presence,  like  a  robe  pontifical, 
Ne'er  seen  but  wonder'd  at :  and  so  my  state, 
Seldom  but  sumptuous,  showed  like  a  feast, 
And  won  by  rareness  such  solemnity. 
The  skipping  king,  he  ambled  up  and  down 
With  shallow  jesters  and  rash  bavin  wits, 
Soon  kindled  and  soon  burn'd :  carded  his  state; 
Mingled  his  royalty  with  carping  fools ; 
Had  his  great  name  profaned  with  their  scorns ; 
And  gave  his  countenance,  against  his  name, 
To  laugh  at  gibing  boys,  and  stand  the  push 
Of  every  beardless  vain  comparative; 
Grew  a  companion  to  the  common  streets, 
EnfeofFd  himself  to  popularity ; 
That,  being  daily  swallow'd  by  men's  eyes, 
They  surfeited  with  honey,  and  began 
To  loathe  the  taste  of  sweetness,  whereof  a  little 
More  than  a  little  is  by  much  too  much. 
So,  when  he  had  occasion  to  be  seen, 
He  was  but  as  the  cuckoo  is  in  June, 
Heard,  not  regarded, — seen,  but  with  such  eyes, 
As,  sick  and  blunted  with  community, 
Afford  no  extraordinary  gaze, 


SCENE  II.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


4*1 


Such  as  is  bent  on  sun-like  majesty 
When  it  shines  seldom  in  admiring  eyes : 
But  rather  drowz'd,  and  hung  their  eyelidsdown, 
Slept  in  his  face,  and  render'd  such  aspect 
As  cloudy  men  use  to  their  adversaries, 
Being  with  his  presence  glutted,  gorg'd,  and  full. 
And  in  that  very  line,  Harry,  stand' st  thou ; 
For  thou  hast  lost  thy  princely  privilege 
With  vile  participation :  not  an  eye 
But  is  a- weary  of  thy  common  sight, 
Save  mine,  which  hath  desir'd  to  see  thee  more ; 
Which  now  doth  that  I  would  not  have  it  do,-  - 
Make  blind  itself  with  foolish  tenderness. 

P.  Hen.  I  shall  hereafter,  my  thrice-gracious 

lord, 
Be  more  myself. 

K.  Hen.          For  all  the  world, 
As  thou  art  to  this  hour,  was  Richard  then 
When  I  from  France  set  foot  at  Ravenspurg; 
And  even  as  I  was  then  is  Percy  now. 
Now,  by  my  sceptre,  and  my  soul  to  boot, 
He  hath  more  worthy  interest  to  the  state 
Than  thou,  the  shadow  of  succession : 
For,  of  no  right,  nor  colour  like  to  right, 
He  doth  fill  fields  with  harness  in  the  realm ; 
Turns  head  against  the  lion's  armed  jaws ; 
And,  being  no  more  in  debt  to  years  than  thou» 
JLeads  ancient  lords  and  reverend  bishops  on 
To  bloody  battles  and  to  bruising  arms. 
What  never-dying  honour  hath  he  got 
Against  renowned  Douglas !  whose  high  deeds, 
Whose  hot  incursions,  and  great  na*ne  in  arms, 
Holds  from  all  soldiers  chief  majority 
And  military  title  capital  [Christ : 

Through  all  the  kingdoms  that  acknowledge 
Thrice  hath  this  Hotspur  Mars  in  swathing- 

clothes. 

This  infant  warrior,  in  his  enterprises 
Discomfited  great  Douglas ;  ta'en  him  once, 
Enlarged  him,  and  made  a  friend  of  him, 
To  fill  the  mouth  of  deep  defiance  up, 
And  shake  the  peace  and  safety  of  our  throne. 
And  what  say  you  to  this?  Percy,  Northumber- 
land, 
The  Archbishop's   grace  of  York,   Douglas, 

Mortimer, 

Capitulate  against  us,  and  are  up. 
But  wherefore  do  I  tell  these  news  to  thee? 
Why,  Harry,  do  I  tell  thee  of  my  foes, 
Which  art  my  near'st  and  dearest  enemy? 
Thou  that  art  like  enough, — through  vassal  fear, 
Base  inclination,  and  the  start  of  spleen,— 
To  fight  against  me  under  Percy's  pay, 
To  dog  his  heels,  and  court'sy  at  his  frowns, 
To  show  how  much  thou  art  degenerate. 

P.  Hen.  Do  not  think  so,  you  shall  n 
it  so: 


so,  you  shall  not  find 


And  God  forgive  them  that  have  so  muck 

sway'd 

Your  majesty's  good  thoughts  away  from  met 
I  will  redeem  all  this  on  Percy's  head, 
And,  in  the  closing  of  some  glorious  day, 
Be  bold  to  tell  you  that  I  am  your  son ; 
When  I  will  wear  a  garment  all  of  blood, 
And  stain  my  favours  in  a  bloody  mask,       [it: 
Which,  wash'd  away,  shall  scour  my  shame  with 
And  that  shall  be  the  day,  whene'er  it  lights, 
That  this  same  child  of  honour  and  renown, 
This  gallant  Hotspur,  this  all-praised  knight, 
And  your  unthought-of  Harry  chance  to  meet. 
For  every  honou/  sitting  on  his  helm, 
Would  they  were  multitudes,  and  on  my  head 
My  shames  redoubled !  for  the  time  will  come 
That  I  shall  make  this  northern  youth  exchange 
His  glorious  deeds  for  my  indignities, 
Percy  is  but  my  factor,  good  my  lord, 
To  engross  up  glorious  deeds  on  my  behalf; 
And  I  will  call  him  to  so  strict  account, 
That  he  shall  render  every  glory  up, 
Yea,  even  the  slightest  worship  of  his  time, 
Or  I  will  tear  the  reckoning  from  his  heart. 
This,  in  the  name  of  God,  I  promise  here: 
The  which  if  he  be  pleas'd  I  shall  perform, 
I  do  beseech  your  majesty,  may  salve 
The  long-grown  wounds  of  my  intemperances 
If  not,  the  end  of  life  cancels  all  bands ; 
And  I  will  die  a  hundred  thousand  deaths 
Ere  break  the  smallest  parcel  of  this  vow. 
K.  Hen.  A  hundred  thousand  rebels  die  in 
this :—  [herein. 

Thou  shalt  have  charge  and  sovereign  trust 

Enter  SIR  WALTER  BLUNT. 

How  now,  good  Blunt !  thy  looks  are  full  of 

speed.  [speak  of. 

Blunt.  So  hath  the  business  that  I  come  to 
Lord  Mortimer  of  Scotland  hath  sent  word 
That  Douglas  and  the  English  rebels  met 
The  eleventh  of  this  month  at  Shrewsbury: 
A  mighty  and  a  fearful  head  they  are, 
If  promises  be  kept  on  every  hand, 
As  ever  orTer*d  foul  play  in  a  state. 

K.  Hen,  The  Earl  of  Westmoreland  set  forth 

to-day; 

With  him  my  son,  Lord  John  of  Lancaster ; 
For  this  advertisement  is  five  days  old : — 
On  Wednesday  next,  Harry,  you  shall  set  for* 

ward; 

On  Thursday  we  ourselves  will  march : 
Our  meeting  is  Bridgenorth :  and,  Harry,  you 
Shall  march  through  Glostershire ;  by  which 

account, 

Our  business  valued,  some  twelve  days  hence 
Our  general  forces  at  Bridjzenorth  shall  meet. 


482 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  in. 


Our  hands  are  full  of  business  :  let  's  away  ; 
Advantage  feeds  him  fat  while  men  delay. 


SCENE  III.  —  EASTCHEAP.     A  Room  in  the 
Boar's  Head  Tavern. 

Enter  FALSTAFF  and  BARDOLPH. 

Fal.  Bardolph,  am  I  not  fallen  away  vilely 
since  this  last  action?  do  I  not  bate?  do  I  not 
dwindle?  Why,  my  skin  hangs  about  me  like 
an  old  lady's  loose  gown  ;  I  am  withered  like  an 
old  apple-John.  Well,  I  '11  repent,  and  that  sud- 
denly, while  I  am  in  some  liking  ;  I  shall  be  out 
of  heart  shortly,  and  then  I  shall  have  no  strength 
to  repent.  An  I  have  not  forgotten  what  the 
inside  of  a  church  is  made  of,  I  am  a  pepper- 
corn, a  brewer's  horse  :  the  inside  of  a  church  ! 
Company,  villanous  company,  hath  been  the 
spoil  of  me. 

Bard.  Sir  John,  you  are  so  fretful,  you  can- 
not live  long. 

Fal.  Why,  there  is  it  :  come,  sing  me  a  bawdy 
song  ;  make  me  merry.  I  was  as  virtuously  given 
as  a  gentleman  need  to  be  ;  virtuous  enough  ; 
swore  little;  diced  not  above  seven  times  a 
week  ;  went  to  a  bawdy-house  not  above  once 
in  a  quarter  —  of  an  hour  ;  paid  money  that  I 
borrowed  —  three  or  four  times  :  lived  well,  and 
in  good  compass:  and  now  I  live  out  of  all 
order,  out  of  all  compass. 

Bard.  Why,  you  are  so  fat,  Sir  John,  that  you 
must  needs  be  out  of  all  compass,  —  out  of  all 
reasonable  compass,  Sir  John. 

Fal.  Do  thou  amend  thy  face,  and  I  '11  amend 
my  life  :  thou  art  our  admiral,  thou  bearest  the 
lantern  in  the  p  op,  —  but  'tis  in  the  nose  of  thee; 
thou  art  the  Knight  of  the  Burning  Lamp. 

Bard.  Why,  Sir  John,  my  face  does  you  no 
harm. 

Fal.  No,  I  Ml  be  sworn  ;  I  make  as  good  use 
of  it  as  many  a  man  doth  of  a  Death's  head  or  a 
memento  mori:  I  never  see  thy  face  but  I  think 
upon  hell-fire,  and  Dives  that  lived  in  purple  ; 
for  there  he  is  in  his  robes,  burning,  burning. 
If  thou  wert  any  way  given  to  virtue,  I  would 
swear  by  thy  face  ;  my  oath  should  be,  By  this 
fire,  that's  God's  angel;  but  thou  art  altogether 
given  over  ;  and  wert  indeed,  but  for  the  light 
in  thy  face,  the  son  of  utter  darkness.  When 
thou  rannest  up  Gadshill  in  the  night  to  catch 
my  horse,  if  I  did  not  think  thou  hadst  been  an 
ignis  fatuus  or  a  ball  of  wildfire,  there  's  no 
purchase  in  money.  O,  thou  art  a  perpetual 
triumph,  an  everlasting  bonfire  light!  Thou 
hast  saved  me  a  thousand  marks  in  links  and 
torches,  walking  with  thee  in  the  night  betwixt 
tavern  and  tavern  :  but  the  sack  that  thou  hast 


drunk  me  would  have  bought  me  lights  as  good 
cheap  at  the  dearest  chandler's  in  Europe.  I 
have  maintained  that  salamander  of  yours  with 
fire  any  time  this  two-and-thirty  years;  God  re- 
ward me  for  it !  [belly ! 

Bard.  'Sblood,  I  would  my  face  were  in  your 

Fal.  God-a-mercy !  so  should  I  be  sure  to  be 
heart-burn'd. 

Enter  Hostess. 

How  now,  Dame  Partlet  the  hen !  have  you  in- 
quired yet  who  picked  my  pocket? 

Host.  Why,  Sir  John,  what  do  you  think, 
Sir  John?  do  you  think  I  keep  thieves  in  my 
house?  I  have  searched,  I  have  inquired,  so 
has  my  husband,  man  by  man,  boy  by  boy, 
servant  by  servant :  the  tithe  of  a  hair  was  never 
lost  in  my  house  before. 

Fal.  You  lie,  hostess:  Bardolph  was  shaved, 
and  lost  many  a  hair ;  and  I' 11  be  sworn  my 
pocket  was  picked.  Go  to,  you  are  a  woman, 
go. 

Host.  Who,  I?  no;  I  defy  thee:  God's  light, 
I  was  never  called  so  in  mine  own  house  before. 

Fal.  Go  to,  I  know  you  well  enough. 

Host.  No,  Sir  John;  you  do  not  know  me, 
Sir  John.  I  know  you,  'Sir  John  :  you  owe  me 
money,  Sir  John ;  and  now  you  pick  a  quarrel 
to  beguile  me  of  it :  I  bought  you  a  dozen  of 
shirts  to  your  back. 

Fal.  Dowlas,  filthy  dowlas:  I  have  given 
them  away  to  bakers'  wives,  and  they  have  made 
bolters  of  tflem. 

Host.  Now,  as  I  am  a  true  woman,  holland 
of  eight  shillings  an  ell.  You  owe  money  here 
besides,  Sir  John,  for  your  diet  and  by-drinkings, 
and  money  lent  you,  four-and-twenty  pound. 

Fal.  He  had  his  part  of  it ;  let  him  pay. 

Host.  He?  alas,  he  is  poor ;  he  hath  nothing. 

Fal.  How!  poor?  look  upon  his  face ;  what 
call  you  rich?  let  them  coin  his  nose,  let  them 
coin  his  cheeks :  I  '11  not  pay  a  denier.  What, 
will  you  make  a  younker  of  me?  shall  I  not  take 
mine  ease  in  mine  inn,  but  I  shall  have  my 
pocket  picked?  I  have  lost  a  seal-ring  of  my 
grandfather's  worth  forty  mark. 

Host.  O  Jesu,  I  have  heard  the  prince  tell 
him,  I  know  not  how  oft,  that  that  ring  was 
copper ! 

Fal.  How !  the  prince  is  a  Jack,  a  sneak-cup: 
'sblood,  an  he  were  here  I  would  cudgel  him 
like  a  dog  if  he  would  say  so. 
Enter  PRINCE  HENRY  and  POINS,  marching. 

FALSTAFF  meets  the  PRTNCE,  playing  on  his 

truncheon  like  a  fife. 

Fal.  How  now,  lad !  is  the  wind  in  that  door,, 
i' faith?  must  we  all  march? 


SCENE  III.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


483 


Bard.  Yea,  two  and  two,  Newgate-fashion. 

Host.   My  lord,  I  pray  you,  hear  me. 

P.  Hen.  What  sayest  thou,  Mistress  Quickly? 
How  does  thy  husband?  I  love  him  well;  he 
is  an  honest  man. 

Host.  Good  my  lord,  hear  me. 

Fal.  Pr'ythee,  let  her  alone,  and  list  to  me. 

P.  Hen.  What  sayest  thou,  Jack? 

Fal.  The  other  night  I  fell  asleep  here  be- 
hind the  arras,  and  had  my  pocket  picked:  this 
house  is  turned  bawdy-house;  they  pick  pockets. 

P.  Hen.  What  didst  thou  lose,  Jack  ? 

Fal.  Wilt  thou  believe  me,  Hal?  three  or 
four  bonds  of  forty  pound  a-piece,  and  a  seal- 
ring  of  my  grandfather's. 

P.  Hen.  A  trifle,  some  eight-penny  matter. 

Host.  So  I  told  him,  my  lord ;  and  I  said  I 
heard  your  grace  say  so:  and,  my  lord,  he 
speaks  most  vilely  of  you,  like  a  foul-mouthed 
man  as  he  is,  and  said  he  would  cudgel  you. 

P.  Hen.  What !  he  did  not? 

Host.  There 's  neither  faith,  truth,  nor  woman- 
hood in  me  else. 

Fal.  There 's  no  more  faith  in  thee  than  in  a 
stewed  prune ;  nor  no  more  truth  in  thee  than 
in  a  drawn  fox;  and  for  womanhood,  Maid 
Marian  may  be  the  deputy's  wife  of  the  ward  to 
thee.  Go,  you  thing,  go. 

Host.  Say,  what  thing?  what  thing? 

Fal.  What  thing !  why,  a  thing  to  thank  God 
on. 

Host.  I  am  no  thing  to  thank  God  on,  I 
would  thou  shouldst  know  it ;  I  am  an  honest 
man's  wife ;  and,  setting  thy  knighthood  aside, 
thou  art  a  knave  to  call  me  so. 

Fal.  Setting  thy  womanhood  aside,  thou  art 
a  beast  to  say  otherwise. 

Host.  Say,  what  beast,  thou  knave,  thou? 

Fal.  What  beast !  why,  an  otter. 

P.  Hen.  An  otter,  Sir  John !  why  an  otter? 

Fal.  Why,  she 's  neither  fish  nor  flesh ;  a  man 
knows  not  where  to  have  her. 

Host.  Thou  art  an  unjust  man  in  saying  so : 
thou  or  any  man  knows  where  to  have  me,  thou 
knave,  thou ! 

P.  Hen.  Thou  sayest  true,  hostess;  and  he 
slanders  thee  most  grossly. 

Host.  So  he  doth  you,  my  lord ;  and  said  this 
other  day  you  ought  him  a  thousand  pound. 

P.  Hen.  Sirraji,  do  I  owe  you  a  thousand 
pound? 

Fal.  A  thousand  pound,  Hal!  a  million:  thy 
love  is  worth  a  million ;  thou  owest  me  thy  love. 

Host.  Nay,  my  lord,  he  call'd  you  Jack,  and 
said  he  would  cudgel  you. 

Fal.  Did  I,  Bardolph? 

Bard.  Indeed,  Sir  John,  you  said  so. 


Fal.  Yea, — if  he  said  my  ring  was  copper. 

P.  Hen.  I  say  'tis  copper :  darest  thou  be  as 
good  as  thy  word  now  ? 

Fal.  Why,  Hal,  thou  knowest,  as  thou  art 
but  man,  I  dare :  but  as  thou  art  prince,  I  fear 
thee,  as  I  fear  the  roaring  of  the  lion's  whelp. 

P.  Hen.  And  why  not  as  the  lion? 

Fal.  The  king  himself  is  to  be  feared  as  the 
lion :  dost  thou  think  I  '11  fear  thee  as  I  fear  thy 
father?  nay,  an  I  do,  I  pray  God  my  girdle  break. 

P.  Hen.  O,  if  it  should,  how  would  thy  guts 
fall  about  thy  knees !  But,  sirrah,  there 's  no 
room  for  faith,  truth,  nor  honesty,  in  this  bosom 
of  thine, — it  is  all  filled  up  with  guts  and  mid- 
riff. Charge  an  honest  woman  with  picking 
thy  pocket !  Why,  thou  whoreson,  impudent, 
embossed  rascal,  if  there  were  anything  in  thy 
pocket  but  tavern-reckonings,  memorandums  of 
bawdy-houses,  and  one  poor  penny-worth  of 
sugar-candy  to  make  thee  long-winded, — if  thy 
pocket  were  enriched  with  any  other  injuries 
but  these,  I  am  a  villain :  and  yet  you  will  stand 
to  it;  you  will  not  pocket-up  wrong:  art  thou 
not  ashamed? 

Fal.  Dost  thou  hear,  Hal?  thou  knowest  in 
the  state  of  innocency  Adam  fell;  and  what 
should  poor  Jack  Falstaff  do  in  the  days  of 
villany?  Thou  seest  I  have  more  flesh  than  an- 
other man,  and  therefore  more  frailty.  You 
confess,  then,  you  picked  my  pocket? 

P.  Hen.  It  appears  so  by  the  story. 

Fal.  Hostess,  I  forgive  thee :  go,  make  ready 
breakfast;  love  thy  husband,  lock  to  thy 
servants,  cherish  thy  guests  :  thou  shall  find  me 
tractable  to  any  honest  reason :  thou  seest  I  am 
pacified. — Still?  —  Nay,  pr'ythee,  be  gone. 
{Exit  Hostess.]  Now,  Hal,  to  the  news  at 
court :  for  the  robbery,  lad, — how  is  that  an- 
swe-ed? 

P.  Hen.  O,  my  sweet  beef,  I  must  still  be 
g^od  angel  to  thee: — the  money  is  paid  back 
again. 

Fal.  O,  I  do  not  like  that  paying  back ;  'tis 
a  double  labour. 

P.  Hen.  I  am  good  fr  ends  with  my  father, 
and  may  do  anything. 

Fal.  Rob  me  the  exchequer  the  first  thing 
thou  doest,  and  do  it  with  unwashed  hands  too. 

Bard.  Do,  my  lord.  [of  foot. 

P.  Hen.  I  have  procured  thee,  Jack,  a  charge 

Fal.  L  would  it  had  been  of  horse.  Where 
shall  I  find  one  that  can  steal  well?  O  for  a 
fine  thief,  of  the  age  of  two-and -twenty  or 
thereabouts!  I  am  heinously  unprovided. 
Well,  God  be  thanked  for  these  rebels, — they 
offend  none  but  the  virtuous :  I  laud  them,  I 
praise  them. 


484 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  iv. 


P.  Hen.  Bardolph,— 

Bard.  My  lord.  [Lancaster, 

P.  Hen.  Go  bear  this  letter  to  Lord  John  of 
To  my  brother  John ;  this  to  my  Lord  of  West- 
moreland. [Exit  BARDOLPH. 
Go,  Poins,  to  horse,  to  horse;  for  thou  and  I 
Have  thirty  miles  to  ride  yet  ere  dinner-time. — 

[Exit  POINS. 

Jack,  meet  me  to-morrow  in  the  Temple-hall 
At  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon :  [receive 

There  shalt  thou  know  thy  charge,  and  there 
Money  and  order  for  their  furniture. 
The  land  is  burning ;  Percy  stands  on  high ; 
And  either  they  or  we  must  lower  lie.     [Exit. 
Fal.  Rare   words!   brave  world! — Hostess, 

my  breakfast ;  come : — 
O,  I  could  wish  this  tavern  were  my  drum  ! 

[Exit. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — The  Rebel  Camp  near  Shrewsbury. 
Enter  HOTSPUR,  WORCESTER,  and  DOUGLAS. 

Hot.  Well  said,  my  noble  Scot :  if  speaking 

truth 

In  this  fine  age  were  not  thought  flattery, 
Such  attribution  should  the  Douglas  have, 
As  not  a  soldier  of  this  season's  stamp 
Should  go  so  general  current  through  the  world. 
By  heaven,  I  cannot  flatter ;  I  defy 
The  tongues  of  soothers ;  but  a  braver  place 
In  my  heart's  love  hath  no  man  than  yourself: 
Nay,  task  me  to  my  word ;  approve  me,  lord. 

Doug.  Thou  art  the  king  of  honour : 
No  man  so  potent  breathes  upon  the  ground 
But  I  will  beard  him. 

Hot.  Do  so,  and  'tis  well.— 

Enter  a  Messenger  with  letters. 

What  letters  hast  thou  there? — I  can  but  thank 

you. 

Mess.  These  letters  come  from  your  father, — 
Hot.  Letters  from  him !  why  comes  he  not 
himself?  [ous  sick. 

Mess.  He  cannot  come,  my  lord ;  he 's  griev- 
Hot.  Zounds !  how  has  he  the  leisure  to  be 

sick 

In  such  a  justling  time?    Who  leads  his  power? 

Under  whose  government  come  they  along? 

Mess.  His  letters  bear  his  mind,  not  I,  my 

lord.  [bed? 

Wor.  I  pr'ythee,  tell  me,  doth  he  keep  his 

Mess.  He  did,  my  lord,  four  days  ere  I  set 

forth; 

And  at  the  time  of  my  departure  thence 
He  was  much  fear'd  by  his  physicians. 


Wor.   I  would  the  state  of  time  had  first  been 

whole 

Ere  he  by  sickness  had  been  visited : 
His  health  was  never  better  worth  than  n<W. 

Hot,  Sick  now!   droop  now!  this  sickness 

doth  infect 

The  very  life-blood  of  cur  enterprise; 
'Tis  catching  hither,  even  to  our  camp. — 
He  writes  me  here  that  inward  sickness, — 
And  that  his  friends  by  deputation  could  not 
So  soca  be  drawn ;  nor  did  he  think  it  meet 
To  lay  so  dangerous  and  dear  a  trust 
On  any  soul  removed,  but  on  his  own. 
Yet  doth  he  give  us  bold  advertisement, 
That  with  our  small  conjunction  we  should  on; 
To  see  how  fortune  is  dispos'd  to  us ; 
For,  as  he  writes,  there  is  no  quailing  now, 
Because  the  king  is  certainly  possess'd 
Of  all  our  purposes.     What  say  you  to  it? 

Wor.  Your  father's  sickness  is  a  maim  to  us. 

Hot.  A  perilous  gash,  a  very  limb  lopp'd 

And  yet,  in  faith,  'tis  not ;  his  present  want 
Seems  more  than  we  shall  find  it : — were  it  good 
To  set  the  exact  wealth  of  all  our  states 
All  at  one  cast?  to  set  so  rich  a  main 
On  the  nice  hazard  of  one  doubtful  hour? 
It  were  not  good ;  for  therein  should  we  read 
The  very  bottom  and  the  soul  of  hope, 
The  very  list,  the  very  utmost  bound 
Of  all  our  fortunes. 

Drug.  Faith,  and  so  we  should ; 

Where  now  remains  a  sweet  reversion : 
We  may  boldly  spend  upon  the  hope  of  what 
Is  to  come  in: 
A  comfort  of  retirement  lives  in  this. 

Hot.  A  rendezvous,  a  home  to  fly  unto, 
If  that  the  devil  and  mischance  look  big 
Upon  the  maidenhead  of  our  affairs.         [here. 

Wor.  But  yet  I  would  your  father  had  been 
The  quality  and  hair  of  our  attempt 
Brooks  no  division  :  it  will  be  thought 
By  some,  that  know  not  why  he  is  away, 
That  wisdom,  loyalty,  and  mere  dislike 
Of  our  proceedings,  kept  the  earl  from  hence : 
And  think  how  such  an  apprehension 
May  turn  the  tide  of  fearful  faction, 
And  breed  a  kind  of  question  in  our  cause ; 
For  well  you  know  we  of  the  offering  side 
Must  keep  aloof  from  strict  arbitrement, 
And  stop  all  sight-holes,  every  loop  from  whence 
The  eye  of  reason  may  pry  in  upon  us : 
This  absence  of  your  father's  draws  a  curtain 
That  shows  the  ignorant  a  kind  of  fear 
Before  not  dreamt  of. 

Hot.  You  strain  too  far. 

I,  rather,  of  his  absence  make  this  use:— 


SCENE  I.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


485 


It  lends  a  lustre  and  more  great  opinion, 
A  larger  dare  to  our  great  enterprise, 
Than  if  the  earl  were  here :  for  men  must  think, 
If  we,  without  his  help,  can  make  a  head 
To  push  against  the  kingdom,  with  his  help 
We  sh  11  o'erturn  it  topsy-turvy  down. — 
Yet  all  goes  well,  yet  all  our  joints  are  whole. 
Doug.  As  heart  can  think :  there  is  not  such 

a  word 
Spoke  of  in  Scotland  as  this  term  of  fear. 

Enter  SIR  RICHARD  VERNON. 

Hot.  My  cousin  Vemon!  welcome,  by  my 

soul.  [lord. 

Ver.  Pray  God  my  news  be  worth  a  welcome, 

The  Earl  of  Westmoreland,  seven  thousand 

strong, 

Is  marching  hitherwards;  with  him  Prince  John. 
Hot.  No  harm: — what  more? 
Ver.  And  further,  I  have  learn'd 

The  king  himself  in  person  is  set  forth, 
Or  hitherwards  intended  speedily, 
With  strong  and  mighty  preparation.         [son, 
Hot.  He  shall  be  welcome  too.    Where  is  his 
The  nimble-footed  madcap  Prince  of  Wales 
And  his  comrades,  that  daff  d  the  world  aside, 
And  bid  it  pass  ? 

Ver.  All  furnish'd,  all  in  arms ; 

All  plum'd  like  estridges,  that  wing  the  wind ; 
Bated  like  eagles  having  lately  bath'd  ; 
Glittering  in  golden  coats,  like  images ; 
As  full  of  spirit  as  the  month  of  May, 
And  gorgeous  as  the  sun  at  midsummer ; 
Wanton  as  youthful  goats,  wild  as  young  bulls. 
I  saw  young  Harry, — with  his  beaver  on, 
His  cuisses  on  his  thighs,  gallantly  arm'd, — 
Rise  from  the  ground  like  featherd  Mercury, 
And  vaulted  with  such  ease  into  his  seat, 
As  if  an  angel  dropp'd  down  from  the  clouds, 
To  turn  and  wind  a  fiery  Pegasus, 
And  witch  the  world  with  noble  horsemanship. 
Hot.  No  more,  no  more ;  worse  than  the  sun 

in  March, 

This  praise  doth  nourish  agues.  Let  them  come. 
They  come  like  sacrifices  in  their  trim, 
And  to  the  fire-ey'd  maid  of  smoky  war, 
All  hot  and  bleeding,  will  we  offer  them  : 
The  mailed  Mars  shall  on  his  altar  sit, 
Up  to  the  ears  in  blood.     I  am  on  fire 
To  hear  this  rich  reprisal  is  so  nigh. 
And  yet  not  ours.  — Come,  let  me  taste  my  horse, 
Who  is  to  bear  me,  like  a  th.  nderbolt, 
Against  the  bosom  of  the  Prince  of  Wales  : 
Harry  to  Harry  shall,  hot  horse  to  horse, 
Meet,  and  ne'er  part  till  one  drop  down  a 

corse. — 
O  that  Glendower  were  come ! 


Ver.  There  is  more  news: 

I  learn'd  in  Worcester,  as  I  rode  along, 
He  cannot  draw  his  power  this  fourteen  days. 

Doug.  That 's  the  worst  tidings  that  I  hear 
of  yet.  [sound. 

War.  Ay,  by  my  faith,  that  bears  a  frosty 

Hot.  What  may  the  king's  whole  battle  reach 
unto? 

Ver.  To  thirty  thousand. 

Hot.  Forty  let  it  be : 

My  father  and  Glendower  being  both  away, 
The  powers  of  us  may  serve  so  great  a  day. 
Come,  let  us  take  a  muster  speedily : 
Doomsday  is  near ;  die  all,  die  merrily. 

Doug.  Talk  not  of  dying ;  I  am  out  of  fear 
Of  death  or  death's  hand  for  this  one  half-year. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IL — A  public  Road  near  Coventry. 
Enter  FALSTAFF  and  BARDOLPH. 

Fal.  Bardolph,  get  thee  before  to  Coventry ; 
fill  me  a  bottle  of  sack  :  our  soldiers  shall  march 
through ;  we  '11  to  Sutton-Cop-hill  to-night. 

Bard.  Will  you  give  me  money,  captain? 

Fal.  Lay  out,  lay  out. 

Bard.  This  bottle  makes  an  angel. 

Fal.  An  if  it  do,  take  it  for  thy  labour ;  and 
if  it  make  twenty,  take  them  all ;  I  '11  answer 
the  coinage.  Bid  my  lieutenant  Peto  meet  me 
at  the  town's  end. 

Bard.  I  will,  captain:  farewell.  [Exit. 

Fal.  If  I  be  not  ashamed  of  my  soldiers,  I 
am  a  soused  gurnet.  I  have  misused  the  king's 
press  damnably.  I  have  got,  in  exchange  of  a 
hundred  and  fifty  soldiers,  three  hundred  and 
odd  pounds.  I  press  me  none  but  good  house- 
holders, yeomen's  sons;  inquire  me  out  con- 
tracted bachelors,  such  as  had  been  asked  twice 
on  the  bans ;  such  a  commodity  of  warm  slaves 
as  had  as  lief  hear  the  devil  as  a  drum  ;  such  as 
fear  the  report  of  a  caliver  worse  than  a  struck 
fowl  or  a  hurt  wild-duck.  I  pressed  me  none 
but  such  toasts-and-butter,  with  hearts  in  their 
bellies  no  bigger  than  pins'  heads,  and  they 
have  bought  out  their  services ;  and  now  my 
whole  charge  consists  of  ancients,  corporals, 
lieutenants,  gentlemen  of  companies,  slaves  as 
ragged  as  Lazarus  in  the  painted  cloth,  where 
the  glutton's  dogs  licked  his  sores ;  and  such 
as,  indeed,  were  never  soldiers,  but  discarded 
unjust  serving-men,  younger  sons  to  younger 
brothers,  revolted  tapsters,  and  ostlers  trade- 
fallen  ;  the  cankers  of  a  calm  world  and  a  long 
peace;  ten  times  more  dishonourable  ragged 
than  an  old-faced  ancient :  and  such  have  I,  to 
fill  up  the  rooms  of  them  that  have  bought  out 


486 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


{ACT  IV. 


their  services,  that  you  would  think  that  I  had 
a  hundred  and  fifty  tattered  prodigals  lately 
come  from  swine-keeping,  from  eating  draff  and 
husks.  A  mad  fellow  met  me  on  the  way,  and 
told  me  I  had  unloaded  all  the  gibbets,  and 
pressed  the  dead  bodies.  No  eye  hath  seen 
such  scarecrows.  I'll  not  march  through 
Coventry  with  them,  that 's  flat : — nay,  and  the 
villains  march  wide  betwixt  tl  legs,  as  if  they 
had  gyves  on;  for,  indeed,  I  had  the  most  of 
them  out  of  prison.  There 's  but  a  shirt  and  a 
half  in  all  my  company ;  and  the  half-shirt  is 
two  napkins  tacked  together  and  thrown  over 
the  shoulders  like  a  herald's  coat  without 
sleeves;  and  the  shirt,  to  say  the  truth,  stolen 
from  my  host  at  Saint  Alban's,  or  the  red-nose 
innkeeper  of  Daventry.  But  that 's  all  one ; 
they  '11  find  linen  enough  on  every  hedge. 

Enter  FRINGE  HENRY  and  WESTMORELAND. 

P.  Hen.  How  now,  blown  Jack !  how  now, 
quilt ! 

FaL  What,  Hal !  how  now,  mad  wag !  what 
a  devil  dost  thou  in  Warwickshire? — My  good 
Lord  of  Westmoreland,  I  cry  you  mercy:  I 
thought  your  honour  had  already  been  at 
Shrewsbury. 

West.  Faith,  Sir  John,  'tis  more  than  time 
that  I  were  there,  and  you  too ;  but  my  powers 
are  there  already.  The  king,  I  can  tell  you, 
looks  for  us  all :  we  must  away  all  night. 

FaL  Tut,  never  fear  me :  I  am  as  vigilant  as 
a  cat  to  steal  cream. 

P.  Hen.  I  think,  to  steal  cream,  indeed ;  for 
thy  theft  hath  already  made  thee  butter.  But 
tell  me,  Jack,  whose  fellows  are  these  that  come 
after? 

FaL  Mine,  Hal,  mine. 

P.  Hen.  I  did  never  see  such  pitiful  rascals. 

FaL  Tut,  tut ;  good  enough  to  toss ;  food  for 
powder,  food  for  powder ;  they  '11  fill  a  pit  as 
well  as  better :  tush,  man,  mortal  men,  mortal 
men. 

West.  Ay,  but,  Sir  John,  methinks  they  are 
exceeding  poor  and  bare, — too  beggarly. 

FaL  Faith,  for  their  poverty,  I  know  not 
ivhere  they  had  that ;  and  for  their  bareness,  I 
am  sure  they  never  learned  that  of  me. 

P.  Hen.  No  I  '11  be  sworn ;  unless  you  call 
three  fingers  on  the  ribs  bare.  But,  sirrah, 
make  haste :  Percy  is  already  in  the  field. 

FaL  What,  is  the  king  encamped? 

West.  He  is.  Sir  John :  I  fear  we  shall  stay 
too  long. 

FaL  Well,  [a  feast 

To  the  latter  end  of  a  fray  and  the  beginning  of 
Fits  a  dull  fighter  and  a  keen  guest.  \Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. — The  Rebel  Camp  near  Shrews- 
bury. 

Enter  HOTSPUR,  WORCESTER,  DOUGLAS, 
and  VERNON. 

Hot.  We  '11  fight  with  him  to-night. 

Wor.  It  may  not  be. 

Doug.  You  give  him,  then,  advantage. 

Ver.  Not  a  whit. 

Hot.  Why  say  you  so  ?  looks  he  not  for  supply? 

Ver.  So  do  we. 

Hot.  His  is  certain,  ours  is  doubtful. 

Wor.  Good  cousin,  beadvis'd;  stir  not  to-night. 

Ver.  Do  not,  my  lord. 

Doug.  You  do  not  counsel  well : 

You  speak  it  out  of  fear  and  cold  heart. 

Ver.  Do  me  no  slander,  Douglas:   by  my 

life,— 

And  I  dare  well  maintain  it  with  my  life-, — 
If  well-respected  honour  bid  me  on, 
I  hold  as  little  counsel  with  weak  fear 
As  you,  my  lord,  or  any  Scot  that  lives:— 
Let  it  be  seen  to-morrow  in  the  battle 
Which  of  us  fears. 

Doug.  Yea,  or  to-night. 

Ver.  Content 

Hot.  To-nightj  say  I.  [much, 

Ver.  Come,  come,  it  may  not  be.     I  wonde* 
Being  men  of  such  great  leading  as  you  are, 
That  you  foresee  not  what  impediments 
Drag  back  our  expedition :  certain  horse 
Of  my  cousin  Vernon's  are  not  yet  come  up: 
Your  uncle  Worcester's  horse  came  but  to-day ; 
And  now  their  pride  and  mettle  is  asleep, 
Their  courage  with  hard  labour  tame  and  dull, 
That  not  a  horse  is  half  the  half  of  himself. 

Hot.  So  are  the  horses  of  the  enemy 
In  general,  journey-bated  and  brought  low : 
The  better  part  of  ours  is  full  of  rest. 

Wor.  The  number  of  the  king  exceedeth  ours. 
For  God's  sake,  cousin,  stay  till  all  come  in. 

\The  trumpet  sounds  a  parley. 

Enter  SIR  WALTER  BLUNT. 

Blunt.  I  come  with  gracious  offers  from  the 

king, 
If  you  vouchsafe  me  hearing  and  respect. 

Hot.  Welcome,  Sir  Walter  Blunt ;  and  would 

to  God 

You  were  of  our  determination ! 
Some  of  us  love  you  well ;  and  even  those  somr 
Envy  your  great  deservings  and  good  name, 
Because  you  are  not  of  our  quality, 
But  stand  against  us  like  an  enemy,     [stand  so, 

Blunt.  And  God  defend  but  still  I  should 
So  long  as  out  of  limit  and  true  rule 


SCENE  III.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


You  stand  against  anointed  majesty ! 

But,  to  my  charge. — The  king  hath  sent  to 

know 

The  nature  of  your  griefs ;  and  whereupon 
You  conjure  from  the  breast  of  civil  peace 
Such  bold  hostility;  teaching  his  duteous  land 
Audacious  cruelty.     If  that  the  king 
Have  any  way  your  good  deserts  forgot,— 
Which  he  confesseth  to  be  manifold, — 
He  bids  you  name  your  griefs ;  and  with  all  speed 
You  shall  have  your  desires  with  interest, 
And  pardon  absolute  for  yourself,  and  these 
Herein  misled  by  your  suggestion.  [king 

Hot.  The  king  is  kind ;  and  well  we  know  the 
Knows  at  what  time  to  promise,  when  to  pay. 
My  father  and  my  uncle  and  myself 
Did  give  him  that  same  royalty  he  wears; 
And  when  he  was  not  six-and- twenty  strong, 
Sick  in  the  world's  regard,  wretched  and  low, 
A  poor  unminded  outlaw  sneaking  home, 
My  father  gave  him  welcome  to  the  shore ; 
And  when  he  heard  him  swear,  and  vow- to  God, 
He  came  but  to  be  Duke  of  Lancaster, 
To  sue  his  livery  and  beg  his  peace, 
With  tears  of  innocency  and  terms  of  zeal, — 
My  father,  in  kind  heart  and  pity  mov'd, 
Swore  him  assistance,  and  perform'd  it  too. 
Now,  when  the  lords  and  barons  of  the  realm 
Perceiv'd  Northumberland  did  lean  to  him, 
The  more  and  less  came  in  with  cap  and  knee : 
Met  him  in  boroughs,  cities,  villages; 
A  ttended  him  on  bridges,  stood  in  lanes, 
Laid  gifts  before  him,  proffer'd  him  their  oaths, 
Gave  him  their  heirs  as  pages,  follow'd  him 
Even  at  the  heels  in  golden  multitudes. 
He  presently, — as  greatness  knows  itself, -i 
Steps  me  a  little  higher  than  his  vow 
Made  to  my  father,  while  his  blood  was  poor, 
Upon  the  naked  shore  at  Ravenspurg ; 
And  now,  forsooth,  takes  on  him  to  reform 
Some  certain  edicts,  and  some  strait  decrees, 
That  lie  too  heavy  on  the  commonwealth ; 
Cries  out  upon  abuses,  seems  to  weep 
Over  his  country's  wrongs ;  and,  by  this  face, 
This  seeming  brow  of  justice,  did  he  win 
The  hearts  of  all  that  he  did  angle  for: 
Proceeded  further ;  cut  me  off  the  heads 
Of  all  the  favourites  that  the  absent  king 
In  deputation  left  behind  him  here, 
When  he  was  personal  in  the  Irish  war. 

Blunt.  Tut,  I  came  not  to  hear  this. 

Hot.  Then  to  the  point. 

In  short  time  after,  he  depos'd  the  king; 
Soon  after  that,  depriv'd  him  of  his  life ; 
And,  in  the  neck  of  that,  task'd  the  whole  state : 
To    make    that   worse,   suffer'd   his  kinsman 
March,—- 


Who  is,  if  every  owner  were  well  plac'd, 
Indeed  his  knig, — to  be  incag'd  in  Wales 
There  without  ransom  to  lie  forfeited ; 
Disgrac'd  me  in  my  h?ppy  victories; 
Sought  to  entrap  me  by  intelligence; 
Rated  my  uncle  from  the  council-board ; 
In  rage  dismiss'd  my  father  from  the  court ; 
Brock  oath  on  oath,  committed  wrong  on  wrong; 
And,  in  conclusion,  drove  us  to  seek  out 
This  head  of  safety;  and  withal  to  pry 
Into  his  title,  the  which  we  find 
Too  indirect  for  long  continuance. 

Blunt.  Shall  I  return  this  answer  to  the  king? 

Hot.  Not  so,  Sir  Walter:   we'll  withdraw 

awhile. 

Go  to  the  king ;  and  let  there  be  impawn'd 
Some  surety  for  a  safr  return  again, 
And  in  the  morning  early  shall  my  uncle 
Bring  him  our  purposes :  and  so,  farewell. 

Blunt.  I  would  you  would  accept  of  grace 
and  love. 

Hot.  And  may  be  so  we  shall. 

Blunt.  Pray  God  you  do ! 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— YORK.    A  Room  in  the  ARCH- 
BISHOP'S House. 

Enter  the  ARCHBISHOP  OF  YORK,  and  SIR 
MICHAEL. 

Arch.  Hie,  good  Sir  Michael ;  bear  this  sealed 

brief 

With  winged  haste  to  the  lord  marshal ; 
This  to  my  cousin  Scroop ;  and  all  the  rest 
To  whom  they  are  directed.     If  you  knew 
How  much  they  do  import,  you  would  make 
haste. 

Sir  M.  My  good  lord, 
I  guess  their  tenor. 

Arch.  Like  enough  you  do. 

To-morrow,  good  Sir  Michael,  is  a  day 
Wherein  the  fortune  of  ten  thousand  men 
Must  bide  the  touch ;  for,  sir,  at  Shrewsbury, 
As  I  am  truly  given  to  understand, 
The  king,  with  mighty  and  quick-raised  power, 
Meets  with    Lord   Harry:    and    I   fear,   Sir 

Michael, 

What  with  the  sickness  of  Northumberland, — 
Whose  power  was  in  the  first  proportion, — 
And  what  with  Owen  Glendower's  absence 

thence,— 

Who  with  them  was  a  rated  sinew  too, 
And  comes  not  in,  o'erruled  by  prophecies,— 
I  fear  the  power  of  Percy  is  too  weak 
To  wage  an  instant  trial  with  the  king. 

Sir  M.  Why,  my  good  lord,  you  need  not  fear ; 

there  is  Douglas, 
And  Lord  Mortimer. 


488 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  v. 


Arch.  No,  Mortimer  is  not  there. 

Sir  M.  But  there  is  Mordake,  Vernon,  Lord 

Harry  Percy, 

And  there  is  my  Lord  of  Worcester  ;  and  a  head 
Of  gallant  warriors,  noble  gentlemen. 

Arch.  And  so  there  is  ;  but  yet  the  king  hath 

drawn 

The  special  head  of  all  the  land  together  :  — 
The  Prince  of  Wales,  Lord  John  of  Lancaster, 
The  noble  Westmoreland,  and  warlike  Blunt  ; 
And  many  more  corrivals  and  dear  men 
Of  estimation  and  command  in  arms,     [oppos'd. 

Sir  M.  Doubt  not,  my  lord,  they  shall  be  well 

Arch.  I  hope  no  less,  yet  needful  'tis  to  fear  ; 
And,  to  prevent  the  worst,  Sir  Michael,  speed  : 
For  if  Lord  Percy  thrive  not,  ere  the  king 
Dismiss  his  power,  he  means  to  visit  us,  — 
For  he  hath  heard  of  our  confederacy,  — 
And  'tis  but  wisdom  to  make  strong  against  him: 
Therefore  make  haste.     I  must  go  write  again 
To  other  friends  ;  and  so,  farewell,  Sir  Michael. 
[Exeunt  severally. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.  —  The  KING'S  Camp  near  Shrews  - 
biiry. 

Enter  KING  HENRY,  PRINCE  HENRY,  PRINCE 
JOHN  OF  LANCASTER,  SIR  WALTER  BLUNT, 
and  SIR  JOHN  FALSTAFF. 

K.  Hen.  How  bloodily  the  sun  begins  to  peer 
Above  yon  bosky  hill  1  the  day  looks  pale 
At  his  distemperature. 

P.  Hen.  The  southern  wind 

Doth  play  the  trumpet  to  his  purposes  ; 
And  by  his  hollow  whistling  in  me  leaves 
Foretells  a  tempest  and  a  blustering  day. 

1C.  Hen,  Then  with  the  losers  let  it  sympa- 

thize, 

For  nothing  can  seem  foul  to  those  that  win. 
[Trumpet  sounds. 

Enter  WORCESTER  and  VERNON. 

How  now,  my  Lord  of  Worcester  !  'tis  not  well 
That  you  and  I  should  meet  upon  such  terms 
As  now  we  meet.    You  have  deceiv'd  our  trust  ; 
And  made  us  doff  our  easy  robes  of  peace, 
To  crush  our  old  limbs  in  ungentle  steel  ; 
This  is  not  well,  my  lord,  this  is  not  well. 
What  say  you  to  it?  will  you  again  unknit 
This  churlish  knot  of  all-abhorred  war? 
And  move  in  that  obedient  orb  again 
Where  you  did  give  a  fair  and  natural  light  ; 
And  be  no  more  an  exhal'd  meteor, 
A  prodigy  of  fear,  and  a  portent 
Of  broached  mischief  to  the  unborn  times! 


Wor.  Hear  me,  my  liege : 
For  mine  own  part,  I  could  be  well  content 
To  entertain  the  lag-end  of  my  life 
With  quiet  hours ;  for,  I  do  protest, 
I  have  not  sought  the  day  of  this  dislike. 
K.  Hen.  You  have  not  sought  it !  how  comes 
it,  then?  [it. 

Fal.  Rebellion  lay  in  his  way,  and  he  found 
P.  Hen.  Peace,  chewet,  peace !  [looks 

Wor.   It  pleas'd  your  majesty  to  turn  your 
Of  favour  from  myself  and  all  our  house ; 
And  yet  I  must  remember  you,  my  lord, 
We  were  the  first  and  dearest  of  your  friends. 
For  you  my  staff  of  office  did  I  break 
In  Richard's  time ;  and  posted  day  and  night 
To  meet  you  on  the  way,  and  kiss  your  hand, 
When  yet  you  were  in  place  and  in  account 
Nothing  so  strong  and  fortunate  as  I. 
It  was  myself,  my  brother,  and  his  son, 
That  brought  you  home,  and  boldly  did  outdare 
The  dangers  of  the  time :  you  swore  to  us, — 
And  you  did  swear  that  oath  at  Doncaster, — 
That  you  did  nothing  purpose  'gainst  the  state ; 
Nor  claim  no  further  than  your  new-fall'n  right, 
The  seat  of  Gaunt,  dukedom  of  Lancaster : 
To  this  we  swore  our  aid.     But  in  short  space 
It  rain'd  down  fortune  showering  on  your  head ; 
And  such  a  flood  of  greatness  fell  on  you, —     c 
What  with  our  help,  what  with  the  absent  king/ 
What  with  the  injuries  of  a  wanton  time, 
The  seeming  sufferances  that  you  had  borne, 
And  the  contrarious  winds  that  held  the  king 
So  long  in  his  unlucky  Irish  wars 
That  all  in  England  did  repute  him  dead, — 
And,  from  this  swarm  of  fair  advantages, 
You  took  occasion  to  be  quickly  woo'd 
To  gripe  the  general  sway  into  your  hand ; 
Forgot  your  oath  to  us  at  Doncaster ; 
And,  being  fed  by  us,  you  us'd  us  so 
As  that  ungentle  gull,  the  cuckoo's  bird, 
Useth  the  sparrow, — did  oppress  our  nest, 
Grew  by  our  feeding  to  so  great  a  bulk     [sight 
That  even  our  love  durst  not  come  near  your 
For  fear  of  swallowing ;  but  with  nimble  wing 
We  were  enforc'd,  for  safety-sake,  to  fly 
Out  of  your  sight,  and  raise  this  present  head: 
Whereby  we  stand  opposed  by  such  means 
As  you  yourself  have  forg'd  against  yourself; 
By  unkind  usage,  dangerous  countenance, 
And  violation  of  all  faith  and  troth 
Sworn  to  us  in  your  younger  enterprise. 
K.  Hen.  These  things,  indeed,  you  have  ar- 
ticulated, 

Proclaim'd  at  market-crosses,  read  in  churches ; 
To  face  the  garment  of  rebellion 
With  some  fine  colour  that  may  please  the  eye 
Of  fickle  changelings  and  poor  discontents, 


SCENE  I.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


489 


Which  gape  and  rub  the  elbow  at  the  news 

Of  hurlyburly  innovation : 

And  never  yet  did  insurrection  want 

Such  water-colours  to  impaint  his  cause ; 

Nor  moody  beggars,  starving  for  a  time 

Of  pellmell  havoc  and  confusion.  [a  soul 

P.  Hen.  In  both  our  armies  there  is  many 
Shall  pay  full  dearly  for  this  encounter, 
If  once  they  join  in  trial.     Tell  your  nephew, 
The  Prince  of  Wales  doth  join  with  all   the 

world 

In  praise  of  Henry  Percy :  by  my  hopes, 
This  present  enterprise  set  off  his  head, 
I  do  not  think  a  braver  gentleman, 
More  active- valiant  or  more  valiant -young, 
More  daring  or  more  bold,  is  now  alive 
To  grace  this  latter  age  with  noble  deeds. 
For  my  part,  I  may  speak  it  to  my  shame, 
I  have  a  truant  been  to  chivalry; 
And  so  I  hear  he  doth  account  me  too : 
Yet  this  before  my  father's  majesty, — 
I  am  content  that  he  shall  take  the  odds 
Of  his  great  name  and  estimation, 
And  will,  to  save  the  blood  on  either  side, 
Try  fortune  with  him  in  a  single  fight. 

K.  Hen.  And,  Prince  of  Wales,  so  dare  we 

venture  thee, 

Albeit  considerations  infinite 
Do  make  against  it. — No,  good  Worcester,  no, 
We  love  our  people  well ;  even  those  we  love 
That  are  misled  upon  your  cousin's  part ; 
And,  will  they  take  the  offer  of  our  grace, 
Both  he,  and  they,  and  you,  yea,  every  man 
Shall  be  my  friend  again,  and  I  '11  be  his: 
So  tell  your  cousin,  and  bring  me  word 
What  he  will  do :  but  if  he  will  not  yield, 
Rebuke  and  dread  correction  wait  on  us, 
And  they  shall  do  their  office.     So,  be  gone ; 
We  will  not  now  be  troubled  with  reply : 
We  offer  fair ;  take  it  advisedly. 

[Exeunt  WOR.  and  VER. 

P.  Hen.  It  will  not  be  accepted,  on  my  life : 
The  Douglas  and  the  Hotspur  both  together 
Are  confident  against  the  world  in  arms. 

K.  Hen.  Hence,  therefore,  every  leader  to 

his  charge ; 

For,  on  their  answer,  will  we  set  on  them : 
And  God  befriend  us,  as  our  cause  is  just ! 

[Exeunt  KING,  BLUNT,  and  P.  JOHN. 

Fal.  Hal,  if  thou  see  me  down  in  the  battle, 
and  bestride  me,  so ;  'tis  a  point  of  friendship. 

P.  Hen.  Nothing  but  a  colossus  can  do  thee 
that  friendship.    Say  thy  prayers,  and  farewell. 

Fal.  I  would  it  were  bed-time,  Hal,  and  all 
well. 

P.  Hen.  Why,  thou  owest  God  a  death. 

[Exit. 


Fal.  Tis  not  due  yet ;  I  would  be  loth  to 
pay  him  before  his  day.  What  need  I  be  so 
forward  with  him  that  calls  not  on  me  ?  Well, 
tis  no  matter;  honour  pricks  me  on.  Yea,  but 
how  if  honour  prick  me  off  when  I  come  on  ? 
how  then  ?  Can  honour  set-to  a  leg?  no :  or  an 
arm  ?  no :  or  take  away  the  grief  of  a  wound  ? 
no.  Honour  hath  no  skill  in  surgery,  then? 
no.  What  is  honour  ?  a  word.  What  is  in  that 
word,  honour?  What  is  that  honour?  air.  A 
trim  reckoning  !— Who  hath  it  ?  he  that  died  o' 
Wednesday.  Doth  he  feel  it?  no.  Doth  he 
hear  it  ?  no.  Is  it  insensible,  then  ?  yea,  to  the 
dead.  But  will  it  not  live  with  the  living  ?  no. 
Why?  detraction  will  not  suffer  it :— therefore 
I  11  none  of  it :  honour  is  a  mere  scutcheon  • 
and  so  ends  my  catechism.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II. —The  Rebel  Camp. 
Enter  WORCESTER  and  VERNON. 

Wor.  O,  no,  my  nephew  must  not  know,  Sir 

Richard, 
The  liberal  kind  offer  of  the  king. 

Ver.  'Twere  best  he  did. 

Wor.  Then  are  we  all  undone. 

It  is  not  possible,  it  cannot  be, 
The  king  should  keep  his  word  in  loving  us ; 
He  will  suspect  us  still,  and  find  a  time 
To  punish  this  offence  in  other  faults: 
Suspicion  shall  be  all  stuck  full  of  eyes : 
For  treason  is  but  trusted  like  the  fox, 
Who,  ne'er  so  tame,  so  cherish'd,  and  lock'd  up, 
Will  have  a  wild  trick  of  his  ancestors. 
Look  how  we  can,  or  sad  or  merrily, 
Interpretation  will  misquote  our  looks; 
And  we  shall  feed  like  oxen  at  a  stall, 
The  better  cherish'd  still  the  nearer  death. 
My  nephew's  trespass  may  be  well  forgot, — 
It  hath  the  excuse  of  youth  and  heat  of  blood, 
And  an  adopted  name  of  privilege, — 
A  hare-brain'd  Hotspur,  govern'd  by  a  spleen  .• 
All  his  offences  live  upon  my  head 
And  on  his  father's:  we  did  train  him  on; 
And,  his  corruption  being  ta'en  from  us, 
We,  as  the  spring  of  all,  shall  pay  for  all. 
Therefore,  good  cousin,  let  not  Harry  know, 
In  any  case  the  offer  of  the  king. 

Ver.  Deliver  what  you  will,  I  '11  say  'tis  so. 
Here  comes  your  cousin. 

Enter  HOTSPUR  and  DOUGLAS;  Officers  and 
Soldiers  behind. 

Hot.  My  uncle  is  return'd : — deliver  up 
My  Lord  of  Westmoreland. — Uncle,  what  news? 
Wor.  The  king  will  bid  you  battle  presently. 


490 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  v. 


Doug.  Defy  him  by  the  Lord  of  Westmore- 
land. 

Hot.  Lord  Douglas,  go  you  and  tell  him  so. 

Doug.  Marry,  and  shall,  and  very  willingly. 

[Exit. 

Wor.  There  is  no  seeming  mercy  in  the  king. 

Hot.  Did  you  beg  any  ?     God  forbid  ! 

Wor.   I  told  him  gently  of  our  grievances, 
Of  his  oath-breaking ;  which  he  mended  thus, — 
By  now  forswearing  that  he  is  forsworn : 
He  calls  us  rebels,  traitors  ;  and  will  scourge 
With  haughty  arms  this  hateful  name  in  us. 

Re-enter  DOUGLAS. 
Doug.  Arm,  gentlemen ;  to  arms !  for  I  have 

thrown 

A  brave  defiance  in  King  Henry's  teeth, 
And  Westmoreland,  that  was  engag'd,  did  bear 

it; 

Which  cannot  choose  but  bring  him  quickly  on. 
Wor.  The  Prince  of  Wales  stepp'd  forth  be- 
fore the  king, 
And,  nephew,  challeng'd  you  to  single  fight. 

Hot.  O,  would  the  quarrel  lay  upon  our  heads ; 
And  that  no  man  might  draw  short  breath  to- 
day 

But  I  and  Harry  Monmouth !     Tell  me,  tell  me, 
How  show'd  his  tasking?  seem'd  it  in  contempt  ? 

Ver.  No,  by  my  soul :  I  never  in  my  life 
Did  hear  a  challenge  urg'd  more  modestly, 
Unless  a  brother  should  a  brother  dare 
To  gentle  exercise  and  proof  of  arms. 
He  "gave  you  all  the  duties  of  a  man  ; 
Trimm'd  up  your  praises  with  a  princely  tongue; 
Spoke  your  deservings  like  a  chronicle  ; 
Making  you  ever  better  than  his  praise, 
By  still  dispraising  praise  valu'd  with  you : 
And,  which  became  him  like  a  prince  indeed, 
He  made  a  blushing  cital  of  himself; 
And  chid  his  truant  youth  with  such  a  grace, 
As  if  he  master'd  there  a  double  spirit, 
Of  teaching  and  of  learning  instantly. 
There  did  he  pause  :  but  let  me  tell  the  world, — 
If  he  outlive  the  envy  of  this  day, 
England  did  never  owe  so  sweet  a  hope, 
So  much  misconstru'd  in  his  wantonness. 

Hot.  Cousin,  I  think  thou  art  enamoured 
Upon  his  follies :  never  did  I  hear 
Of  any  prince  so  wild  o'  liberty. 
But  be  he  as  he  will,  yet  once  ere  night 
I  will  embrace  him  with  a  soldier's  arm, 
That  he  shall  shrink  under  my  courtesy. — 
Arm,  arm  with  speed  : — and,  fellows,  soldiers, 

friends, 

Better  consider  what  you  have  to  do 
Than  I,  that  have  not  well  the  gift  of  tongue, 
Can  lift  your  blood  u^  with  persuasion. 


Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord,  here  are  letters  for  you. 
Hot.  I  cannot  read  them  now. — 

0  gentlemen,  the  time  of  life  is  very  short ! 
To  spend  that  shortness  basely  were  too  long, 
If  life  did  ride  upon  a  dial's  point, 

Still  ending  at  the  arrival  of  an  hour. 
An  if  we  live,  we  live  to  tread  on  kings ; 
If  die,  brave  death,  when  princes  die  with  us  ! 
Now,  for  our  consciences, — the  arms  are  fair, 
When  the  intent  of  bearing  them  is  just. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 
Mess.  My  lord,  prepare  ;  the  king  comes  on 
apace.  [tale, 

Hot.  I  thank  him  that  he  cuts  me  from  my 
For  I  profess  not  talking  ;  only  this, — 
Let  each  man  do  his  best :  and  here  draw  I 
A  sword,  whose  temper  I  intend  to  stain 
With  the  best  blood  that  I  can  meet  withal 
In  the  adventure  of  this  perilous  day. 
Now, — Esperance! — Percy! — and  set  on. — 
Sound  all  the  lofty  instruments  of  war, 
And  by  that  music  let  us  all  embrace : 
For,  heaven  to  earth,  some  of  us  never  shall 
A  second  time  do  such  a  courtesy. 

[  The  trumpets  sound.     They  embrace ,  and 
exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — Plain  near  Shrewsbury. 
Excursions )  and  parties  fighting.    Alarum  to 
the  battle.    Then  enter  DOUGLAS  and  BLUNT, 
meeting. 

Blunt.  What  is  thy  name,  that  in  the  battle 

thus 

Thou  Grossest  me  ?    What  honour  dost  thou  seek 
Upon  my  head? 

Doug.       Know,  then,  my  name  is  Douglas ; 
And  I  do  haunt  thee  in  the  battle  thus 
Because  some  tell  me  that  thou  art  a  king. 
Blunt.  They  tell  thee  true. 
Doug.  The  Lord  of  Stafford  dear  to-day  hath 

bought 

Thy  likeness ;  for,  instead  of  thee,  King  Harry, 
The  sword  hath  ended  him :  so  shall  it  thee, 
Unless  thou  yield  thee  as  my  prisoner. 

Blunt.  I  was  not  born  a  yielder,  thou  proud 

Scot; 

And  thou  shalt  find  a  king  that  will  revenge 
Lord  Stafford's  death. 

{They  fight,  and  BLUNT  is  slain. 

Enter  HOTSPUR. 

Hot.    O    Douglas,   hadst    thou    fought    at 
Holmedon  thus, 

1  never  had  triumph'd  upon  a  Scot. 


SCENE  III.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


491 


Doug.  All 's  done,  all 's  won  ;  here  breath- 
less lies  the  king. 
Hot.  Where? 
Doug.  Here. 
Hot.  This,  Douglas  ?  no ;  I  know  this  face 

full  well : 

A  gallant  knight  he  was,  his  name  was  Blunt ; 
Semblably  furnish'd  like  the  king  himself. 

Dottg.  A  fool  go  with  thy  soul,  whither  it  goes ! 
A  borrow'd  title  hast  thou  bought  too  dear  : 
Why  didst  thou  tell  me  that  thou  wert  a  king  ? 
Hot.    The  king  hath  many  masking  in  his 

coats. 
Doug.  Now,  by  my  sword,  I  will  kill  all  his 

coats ; 

I  '11  murder  all  his  wardrobe,  piece  by  piece, 
Until  I  meet  the  king. 

Hot.  Up,  and  away ! 

Our  soldiers  stand  full  fairly  for  the  day. 

[Exeunt. 

Other  alarums.     Enter  FALSTAFF. 

Fal.  Though  I  could  'scape  shot-free  at  Lon- 
don, I  fear  the  shot  here :  here 's  no  scoring  but 
upon  the  pate. — Soft!  who  art  thou?  Sir 
Walter  Blunt :— there 's  honour  for  you  :  here 's 
no  vanity ! — I  am  as  hot  as  molten  lead,  and  as 
heavy  too  :  God  keep  lead  out  of  me  !  I  need 
no  more  weight  than  mine  own  bowels. — I  have 
led  my  raggamuffins  where  they  are  peppered  : 
there 's  not  three  of  my  hundred  and  fifty  left 
alive  ;  and  they  are  for  the  town's  end,  to  beg 
during  life. — But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  PRINCE  HENRY. 

P.  Hen.  What,  stand'st  thou  idle  here  ?  lend 

me  thy  sword : 

Many  a  nobleman  lies  stark  and  stiff 
Under  the  hoofs  of  vaunting  enemies, 
Whose  deaths  are  unreveng'd  :  pr'ythee,  lend 
me  thy  sword. 

Fal.  O  Hal,  I  pr'ythee,  give  me  leave  to 
breathe  awhile. — Turk  Gregory  never  did  such 
deeds  in  arms  as  I  have  done  this  day.  I  have 
paid  Percy,  I  have  made  him  sure. 

P.  Hen.  He  is,  indeed ;  and  living  to  kill 
thee.  Lend  me  thy  sword,  I  pr'ythee. 

Fal.  Nay,  before  God,  Hal,  if  Percy  be 
alive  thou  gettest  not  my  sword  ;  but  take  my 
pistol,  if  thou  wilt. 

P.  Hen.  Give  it  me :  what,  is  it  in  the 
case? 

Fal.  Ay,  Hal ;  'tis  hot,  'tis  hot ;  there 's 
that  will  sack  a  city. 

[The  PRINCE  draws  out  a  bottle  of  sack. 

P.  Hen.  What,  is 't  a  time  to  jest  and  dally 
now  ?  \Thrnos  it  at  himt  and  exit. 


Fal.  Well,  if  Percy  be  alive,  I  '11  pierce  him. 
If  he  do  come  in  my  way,  so ;  if  he  do  not,  if 
I  come  in  his  willingly,  let  him  make  a  car- 
bonado of  me.  I  like  not  such  grinning  honour 
as  Sir  Walter  hath :  give  me  life :  which  if  I 
can  save,  so ;  if  not,  honour  comes  unlooked 
for,  and  there 's  an  end.  [Exit. 

SCENE  IV.— Anotlier  part  of  the  Field. 

Alarums.  Excursions.  Enter  KING  HENRY, 
PRINCE  HENRY,  PRINCE  JOHN,  and  WEST- 
MORELAND. 

K.  Hen.   I  pr'ythee, 
Harry,    withdraw   thyself;    thou  bleed'st  too 

much. — 

Lord  John  of  Lancaster,  go  you  with  him. 
P.  John.  Not  I,  my  lord,  unless  I  did  bleed 

too. 

P.  Hen.  I  do  beseech  your  majesty,  make  up, 
Lest  your  retirement  do  amaze  your  friends. 

K.  Hen.  I  will  do  so.— 
My  Lord  of  Westmoreland,  lead  him  to  his 

tent. 
West.  Come,   my  lord,  I  will  lead  you  to 

your  tent. 
P.  Hen.   Lead  me,  my  lord  ?     I  do  not  need 

your  help : 

And  God  forbid  a  shallow  scratch  should  drive 
The  Prince  of  Wales  from  such  a  field  as  this, 
Where  stain'd  nobility  lies  trodden  on, 
And  rebels'  arms  triumph  in  massacres  ! 

P.  John.    We   breathe    too    long  : — come, 

cousin  Westmoreland, 

Our  duty  this  way  lies  ;  for  God's  sake,  come. 

[Exeunt  P.  JOHN  and  WEST. 

P.  Hen.  By  heaven,  thou  hast  deceiv'd  me, 

Lancaster  ; 

I  did  not  think  thee  lord  of  such  a  spirit : 
Before,  I  lov'd  thee  as  a  brother,  John  ; 
But  now  I  do  respect  thee  as  my  soul. 

K.  Hen.  I  saw  him  hold  Lord  Percy  at  the 

point 

With  lustier  maintenance  than  I  did  look  for 
Of  such  an  ungrown  warrior. 

P.  Hen.  O,  this  boy 

Lends  mettle  to  us  all.  [Exit. 


Alarums.     Enter  DOUGLAS. 

Doug.  Another  king !  they  grow  like  Hydra's 

heads : 

I  am  the  Douglas,  fatal  to  all  those 
That  wear  those  colours  on  them : — What  art 

thou, 

That  counterfeit'st  the  person  of  a  king  ? 
K.  Hen.  The  king  himself,  who,  Douglas, 
grieves  at  heart, 


492 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  v. 


So  many  of  his  shadows  thou  hast  met, 
And  not  the  very  king.     I  have  two  boys 
Seek  Percy  and  thyself  about  the  field : 
But,  seeing  thou  fall'st  on  me  so  luckily, 
I  will  assay  thee;  so,  defend  thyself! 

Doug.  I  fear,  thou  art  another  counterfeit ; 
And  yet,  in  faith,  thou  bear'st  thee  like  a  king: 
But  mine  I  am  sure  thou  art,  whoe'er  thou  be, 
And  thus  I  win  thee. 

[They  fight;  the  KING  being  in  danger, 
re-enter  P.  HENRY. 

P.  Hen.  Hold  up  thy  head,  vile  Scot.,  or 

thou  art  like 

Never  to  hold  it  up  again !  the  spirits 
Of  Shirley,  Stafford,  Blunt,  are  in  my  arms : 
It  is  the  Prince  of  Wales  that  threatens  thee ; 
Who  never  promiseth  but  he  means  to  pay. 

[They  fight;  DOUGLAS^.?. 
Cheerly,  my  lord:  how  fares  your  grace? — 
Sir  Nicholas  Gawsey  hath  for  succour  sent, 
And  so  hath  Clifton :  I  '11  to  Clifton  straight. 

K.  Hen.  Stay,  and  breathe  awhile : — 
Thou  hast  redeem'd  thy  lost  opinion ; 
And  show'd  thou  mak'st  some  tender  of  my  life 
In  this  fair  rescue  thou  hast  brought  to  me. 

P.  Hen.  O  God,  they  did  me  too  much  in- 
jury 

That  ever  said  I  hearken'd  for  your  death ! 
If  it  were  so,  I  might  have  let  alone 
The  insulting  hand  of  Douglas  over  you, 
Which  would  have  been  as  speedy  in  your  end 
As  all  the  poisonous  potions  in  the  world, 
And  sav'd  the  treacherous  labour  of  your  son. 

K.  Hen.   Make  up  to  Clifton,   I'll  to  Sir 
Nicholas  Gawsey.  [Exit. 

Enter  HOTSPUR. 

Hot.  If  I  mistake  not,  thou  art  Harry  Mon- 
mouth. 

P.  Hen.  Thou  speak'st  as  if  I  would  deny  my 
name. 

Hot.  My  name  is  Harry  Percy. 

P.  Hen.  Why,  then  I  see 

A  very  valiant  rebel  of  the  name. 
I  am  the  Prince  of  Wales;   and  think  not, 

Percy, 

To  share  with  me  in  glory  any  more : 
Two  stars  keep  not  their  motion  in  one  sphere ; 
Nor  can  one  England  brook  a  double  reign, 
Of  Harry  Percy  and  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

Hot.  Nor  shall  it,  Harry,  for  the  hour  is  come 
To  end  the  one  of  us ;  and  would  to  God 
Thy  name  in  arms  were  now  as  great  as  mine ! 

P.  Hen.  I  '11  make  it  greater  ere  I  part  from 

thee; 

And  all  the  budding  honours  on  thy  crest 
I  '11  crop,  to  make  a  aarland  for  my  head. 


Hot.  I  can  no  longer  brook  thy  vanities. 

[They  fight. 

Enter  FALSTAFF. 

Fal.  Well  said,  Hal !  to  it,  Hal !— Nay,  you 
shall  find  no  boy's  play  here,  I  can  tell  you. 

Re-enter  DOUGLAS  ;  he  fights  with  FALSTAFF, 
who  falls  down  as  if  he  were  dead,  and  exit 
DOUGLAS.  HOTSPUR  is  wounded,  and  falls. 

Hot.  O,  Harry,  thou  hast  robb'd  me  of  my 

youth ! 

I  better  brook  the  loss  of  brittle  life 
Than  those  proud  titles  thou  hast  won  of  me ; 
They  wound  my  thoughts  worse  than  thy  sword 

my  flesh : — 
But  thought 's  the  slave  of  life,  and  life  time's 

fool; 

And  time,  that  takes  survey  of  all  the  world, 
Must  have  a  stop.     O,  I  could  prophesy, 
But  that  the  earthy  and  cold  hand  of  death 
Lies  on  my  tongue : — No,  Percy,  thou  art  dust, 
And  food  for —  [Dies. 

P.  Hen.  For  worms,  brave  Percy :  fare  thee 

well,  great  heart ! — 

Ill-weav'd  ambition,  how  much  art  thou  shrunk ! 
When  that  this  body  did  contain  a  spirit, 
A  kingdom  for  it  was  too  small  a  bound ; 
But  now  two  paces  of  the  vilest  earth 
Is  room  enough: — this  earth  that  bears  thee  dead 
Bears  not  alive  so  stout  a  gentleman. 
If  thou  wert  sensible  of  courtesy, 
I  should  not  make  so  dear  a  show  of  zeal  :— 
But  let  my  favours  hide  thy  mangled  face ; 
And,  even  in  thy  behalf,  I  '11  thank  myself 
For  doing  these  fair  rites  of  tenderness. 
Adieu,  and  take  thy  praise  with  thee  to  heaven  1 
Thy  ignominy  sleep  with  thee  in  the  grave, 
But  not  remember'd  in  thy  epitaph ! — 

[He  sees  FAL.  on  the  ground. 
What,  old  acquaintance !    could  not  all  this 

flesh 

Keep  in  a  little  life?     Poor  Jack,  farewell ! 
I  could  have  better  spar'd  a  better  man. 
O,  I  should  have  a  heavy  miss  of  thee, 
If  I  were  much  in  love  with  vanity. 
Death  hath  not  struck  so  fat  a  deer  to-day, 
Though  many  dearer,  in  this  bloody  fray. 
EmbowelPd  will  I  see  thee  by  and  by: 
Till  then  in  blood  by  noble  Percy  lie.      [Exit. 
Fal.  [Rising  slowly.}  Embowelled!  if  thou 
embowel  me  to-day,  I  '11  give  you  leave  to 
powder  me  and  eat  me  too  to-morrow.    'Sblood , 
'twas  time  to  counterfeit,  or  that  hot  termagant 
Scot  had  paid  me  scot  and  lot  too.     Counter- 
feit?   I  lie,  I  am  no  counterfeit :  to  die  is  to  be 
a  counterfeit ;  for  he  i*  but  the  counterfeit  of  a 


SCENE  IV.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


493 


man  who  hath  not  the  life  of  a  man ;  but  to 
counterfeit  dying,  when  a  man  thereby  liveth, 
is  to  be  no  counterfeit,  but  the  true  and  perfect 
image  of  life  indeed.  The  better  part  of  valour 
is  discretion ;  in  the  which  better  part  I  have 
saved  my  life.  Zounds,  I  am  afraid  of  this 
gunpowder  Percy,  though  he  be  dead ;  how  if 
he  should  counterfeit  too,  and  rise?  I  am 
afraid  he  would  prove  the  better  counterfeit. 
Therefore  I  '11  make  him  sure :  yea,  and  I  '11 
swear  I  killed  him.  Why  may  not  he  rise  as 
well  as  I  ?  Nothing  confutes  me  but  eyes,  and 
nobody  sees  me.  Therefore,  sirrah  [stabbing 
him\  with  a  new  wound  in  your  thigh,  come 
you  along  with  me. 

{Takes  HOTSPUR  on  his  back. 

Re-enter  PRINCE  HENRY  and  PRINCE  JOHN. 

P.  Hen.  Come,  brother  John,  full  bravely 

hast  thou  flesh'd 
Thy  maiden  sword. 

P.  John.  But,  soft !  whom  have  we  here? 
Did  you  not  tell  me  this  fat  man  was  dead  ? 

P.  Hen.  I  did ;  I  saw  him  dead,  breathless 

and  bleeding 
On  the  ground. — 
Art  thou  alive?  or  is  it  fantasy 
That  plays,  upon  our  eyesight?     I  pr'ythee, 

speak; 

We  will  not  trust  our  eyes  without  our  ears : — 
Thou  art  not  what  thou  seem'st. 

Fal.  No,  that 's  certain ;  I  am  not  a  double 
man :  but  if  I  be  not  Jack  Falstaff,  then  am  I 
a  Jack".  There  is  Percy  {throwing  the  body 
down] :  if  your  father  will  do  me  any  honour, 
so ;  if  not,  let  him  kill  the  next  Percy  himself. 
I  look  to  be  either  earl  or  duke,  I  can  assure 
you. 

P.  Hen.  Why,  Percy  I  killed  myself,  and 
saw  thee  dead. 

Fal.  Didst  thou?— Lord,  Lord,  how  this 
world  is  given  to  lying! — I  grant  you  I  was 
down  and  out  of  breath,  and  so  was  he ;  but  we 
rose  both  at  an  instant,  and  fought  a  long  hour 
by  Shrewsbury  clock.  If  I  may  be  believed, 
so ;  if  not,  let  them  that  should  reward  valour 
bear  the  sin  upon  their  own  heads.  I  '11  take 
it  upon  my  death,  I  gave  him  this  wound  in 
the  thigh:  if  the  man  were  alive,  and  would 
deny  it,  zounds,  I  would  make  him  eat  a  piece 
of  my  sword. 

P.  John.  This  is  the  strangest  tale  that  e'er 
I  heard. 

P.  Hen.  This  fc  the  strangest  fellow,  brother 

John.— 

Come,  bring  your  luggage  nobly  on  your  back : 
For  my  part,  if  a  lie  may  do  thee  grace, 


I  '11  gild  it  with  the  happiest  terms  I  have. 

{A  retreat  is  sounded. 

The  trumpet  sounds  retreat ;  the  day  is  ours. 
Come,  brother,  let 's  to  the  highest  of  the  field, 
To  see  what  friends  are  living,  who  are  dead. 

{Exeunt  P.  HENRY  and  P.  JOHN. 
Fal.  I  '11  follow,  as  they  say,  for  reward.  He 
that  rewards  me,  God  reward  him !  If  I  do 
grow  great,  I  '11  grow  ICLS  ;  for  I  '11  purge,  and 
leave  sack,  and  live  cleanly,  as  a  nobleman, 
should  do.  {Exit,  bearing  off  the  body. 

SCENE  \ '.—Another  part  of  the  Field. 

The  Trumpets  sound.  Enter  KING  HENRY, 
PRINCE  HENRY,  PRINCE  JOHN,  WESTMORE- 
LAND, and  others,  with  WORCESTER  and 
VERNON  prisoners. 

K.  Hen.  Thus  ever  did  rebellion  find  rebuke. — 
Ill-spirited  Worcester !  did  we  not  send  grace, 
Pardon,  and  terms  of  love  to  all  of  you  ? 
And  wouldst  thou  turn  our  offers  contrary? 
Misuse  the  tenor  of  thy  kinsman's  trust? 
Three  knights  upon  our  party  slain  to-day, 
A  noble  earl,  and  many  a  creature  else, 
Had  been  alive  this  hour, 
If,  like  a  Christian,  thou  hadst  truly  borne 
Betwixt  our  armies  true  intelligence. 

Wor.  What  I  have  done  my  safety  urg'd  me  to, 
And  I  embrace  this  fortune  patiently, 
Since  not  to  be  avoided  it  falls  on  me. 

K.  Hen.  Bear  Worcester  to  the  death,  and 

Vernon  too : 
Other  offenders  we  will  pause  upon. 

{E:  ntnt  WOR.  and  VER. ,  guarded. 
How  goes  the  field? 

P.  Hen.   The  noble  Scot,    Lord   Douglas, 

when  he  saw 

The  fortune  of  the  day  quite  turn'd  from  him, 
The  noble  Percy  slain,  and  all  his  men 
Upon  the  foot  of  fear, — fled  with  the  rest ; 
And  falling  from  a  hill,  he  was  so  bruis'd 
That  the  pursuers  took  him.     At  my  tent 
The  Douglas  is ;  and  I  beseech  your  grace 
I  may  dispose  of  him. 

K.  Hen.  With  all  my  heart. 

P.  Hen.  Then,  brother  John  of  Lancaster,  to 

you 

This  honourable  bounty  shall  belong : 
Go  to  the  Douglas,  and  deliver  him 
Up  to  his  pleasure,  ransom  less  and  free : 
His  valour,  shown  upon  our  crests  to-day, 
Hath  taught  us  how  to  cherish  such  high  deeds 
Even  in  the  bosom  of  our  adversaries. 

P.  John.  I  thank  your  grace  for  this  high 

courtesy, 
Which  1  shall  give  away  immediately. 


494 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  v. 


K.  Hen.  Then  this  remains, — that  we  divide 

our  power. — 

You,  son  John,  and  my  cousin  Westmoreland, 
Towards  York  shall  bend  you  with  your  dearest 

speed, 
To  meet     Northumberland   and    the    prelate 

Scroop, 
Who,  as  we  hear,  are  busily  in  arms: 


Myself, — and  you,  son  Harry, — will   towards 

Wales, 

To  fight  with  Glendower  and  the  Earl  of  March. 
Rebellion  in  this  land  shall  lose  his  sway, 
Meeting  the  check  of  such  another  day : 
And  since  this  business  so  fair  is  done, 
Let  us  not  leave  till  all  our  own  be  wen. 

[Exeunt. 


495 


SECOND  PART  OF 

KING  HENRY  IV, 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 
HENRY,  Prince  of  Wales,  afterwards* 

KING  HENRY  V., 
THOMAS,  Duke  of  Clarence, 
PRINCE  JOHN  OF  LANCASTER,  after- 

wards  (Henry  V.)  Duke  of  Bedford, 
PRINCE    HUMPHREY   OF   GLOSTER, 

afterwards  (Henry  V.)  Duke  of 


his 
Sons. 


of  the 
KING'S  party. 


EARL  OF  WARWICK, 

EARL  OF  WESTMORELAND, 

EARL  OF  SURREY, 

GOWER, 

HARCOURT, 

Lord  Chief-Justice  of  the  King's  Bench. 

A  Gentleman  attending  on  the  Chief-Justice. 

EARL  OF  NORTHUMBER-- 

LAND, 
SCROOP,     Archbishop     of 

York, 

LORD  MOWBRAY, 
LORD  HASTINGS, 
LORD  BARDOLPH, 
SIR  JOHN  COLEVILE, 


Enemies  to  tfa 
KING. 


TRAVERS  and  MORTON,  Retainers  of  NOR- 
THUMBERLAND. 

FALSTAFF,  BARDOLPH,  PISTOL,  and  Page. 

POINS  and  PETO,  Attendants  on  PRINCE 
HENRY. 

SHALLOW  and  SILENCE,  Country  Justices. 

DAVY,  Servant  to  SHALLOW. 

MOULDY,  SHADOW,  WART,  FEEBLE,  and 
BULLCALF,  Recruits. 

FANG  and  SNARE,  Sheriff's  Officers. 

Rumour. 

A  Porter. 

A  Dancer,  Speaker  of  the  Epilogue. 

LADY  NORTHUMBERLAND. 

LADY  PERCY. 

MISTRESS  QUICKLY,  Hostess  of  a  Tavern  in 

Eastcheap. 
DOLL  TEARSHEET. 


Lords  and  other  Attendants;  Officers,  Soldiers, 
Messengers,  Drawers,  Beadles,  Grooms, 
&c. 


SCENE,— ENGLAN  D. 


INDUCTION. 

WARKWORTH.     Before  NORTHUMBERLAND'S 
Castle. 

Enter  Rumour,  painted  full  of  tongues. 

Riim.  Open  your  ears ;  for  which  of  you  will 

stop 

The  vent  of  hearing  when  loud  Rumour  speaks? 
I,  from  the  orient  to  the  drooping  west, 
Making  the  v/ind  my  post-horse,  still  unfold 
The  acts  commenced  on  this  ball  of  earth : 
Upon  my  tongues  continual  slanders  ride, 
The  which  in  every  language  I  pronounce, 
Stuffing  the  ears  of  men  with  false  reports. 
I  speak  of  peace,  while  covert  enmity, 
Under  the  smile  of  safety,  wounds  the  world : 
Anil  who  but  Rumour,  who  but  only  I, 
Make  fearful  musters  and  prepared  defence; 


Whilst  the  big  year,  swoln  with  some  other  grief; 

Is  thought  with  child  by  the  stern  tyrant  war, 

And  no  such  matter?     Rumour  is  a  pipe 

Blown  by  surmises,  jealousies,  conjectures ; 

And  of  so  easy  and  so  plain  a  stop 

That  the  blunt  monster  with  uncounted  heads, 

The  still-discordant  wavering  multitude, 

Can  play  upon  it.     But  what  need  I  thus 

My  well-known  body  to  anatomize 

Among  my  household?    Why  is  Rumour  here? 

I  run  before  King  Harry's  victory ; 

Who,  in  a  bloody  field  by  Shrewsbury, 

Hath  beaten  down  young  Hotspur  and  his 

troops, 

Quenching  the  flame  of  bold  rebellion 
Even  with  the  rebel's  blood.     But  what  mean  I 
To  speak  so  true  at  first?  my  office  is 
To  noise  abroad  that  Harry  Monmouth  fell 
Under  the  wrath  of  noble  Hotspur's  swords 


496 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


CACTI. 


And  that  the  king  before  the  Douglas'  rage 
Stoop'd  his  anointed  head  as  low  as  death. 
This  have  I  rumour'd  through  the  peasant  towns 
Between  that  royal  field  of  Shrewsbury 
And  this  worm-eaten  hold  of  ragged  stone, 
Where  Hotspur's  father,  old  Northumberland, 
Lies  crafty-sick :  the  posts  come  tiring  on, 
And  not  a  man  of  them  brings  other  news 
Than  they  have  learn'd  of  me :  from  Rumour's 

tongues 
They  bring  smooth  comforts  false,  worse  than 

true  wrongs.  [Exit. 

ACT  I. 

aoi&iafl    •.  ;  „  m, 

SCENE  I.— The  same. 

The  Porter  before  the  Gate;  enter  LORD 

BARDOLPH. 
L.  Bard.  Who  keeps  the  gate  here,  ho? — 

Where  is  the  earl? 
Port.  What  shall  I  say  you  are? 
L.  Bard.  Tell  thou  the  earl 

That  the  Lord  Bardolph  doth  attend  him  here. 
Port.  His  lordship  is  walk'd  forth  into  the 

orchard : 

Please  it  your  honour,  knock  but  at  the  gate, 
And  he  himself  will  answer. 

X.  Bard.  Here  comes  the  earl. 

[Exit  Porter. 

Enter  NORTHUMBERLAND. 

North.  What  news,  Lord  Bardolph?  every 

minute  now 

Should  be  the  father  of  some  stratagem : 
The  times  are  wild ;  contention,  like  a  horse, 
Full  of  high  feeding,  madly  hath  broke  loose 
And  bears  down  all  before  him. 

L.  Bard.  Noble  earl, 

I  bring  you  certain  news  from  Shrewsbury. 

North.  Good,  an  God  will ! 

L.  Bard.  As  good  as  heart  can  wish : — 

The  king  is  almost  wounded  to  the  death ; 
And,  in  the  fortune  of  my  lord  your  son, 
Prince   Harry  slain  outright;    and   both  the 
Blunts  (John, 

Kill'd  by  the  hand  of  Douglas :  young  Prince 
And  Westmoreland,  and  Stafford,  fled  the  field; 
And  Harry  Monmouth's  brawn,  the  hulk  Sir 

John, 

Is  prisoner  to  your  son :  O,  such  a  day, 
So  fought,  so  follow'd,  and  so  fairly  won, 
Came  not  till  now  to  dignify  the  times, 
Since  Caesar's  fortunes ! 

North.  How  is  this  deriv'd  ? 

Saw  you  the  field?  came  you  from  Shrewsbury? 

L.  Bard.  I  spake  with  one,  my  lord,  that 
me  from  thence ; 


A  gentleman  well  bred  and  of  good  name, 
That  freely  render'd  me  these  news  for  true. 

North.  Here  comes  my  servant  Travers,  whom 

I  sent 
On  Tuesday  last  to  listen  after  news. 

Z,,  Bard.  My  lord,  I  over-rode  h^n  on  the  way; 
And  he  is  furnish'd  with  no  certainties 
More  than  he  haply  may  retail  from  me. 

Enter  TRAVERS. 

North.  Now,  Travers,  what  good  tidings  come 
with  you?  [back 

Tra.  My  lord,  Sir  John  Umfrevile  turn'd  me 
With  joyful  tidings ;  and,  being  better  hors'd, 
Out-rode  me.     After  him  came  spurring  hard 
A  gentleman,  almost  forspent  with  speed, 
That  stopp'd  by  me  to  breathe  his  bloodied  horse. 
He  ask'd  the  way  to  Chester ;  and  of  him 
I  did  demand  what  news  from  Shrewsbury. 
He  told  me  that  rebellion  had  bad  luck, 
And  that  young  Harry  Percy's  spur  was  cold. 
With  that,  he  gave  his  able  horse  the  head, 
And,  bending  forward,  struck  his  armed  heels 
.Against  the  panting  sides  of  his  poor  jade 
Up  to  the  rowel-head  ;  and  starting  so, 
He  seem'd  in  running  to  devour  the  way, 
Staying  no  longer  question. 

North.  Ha !— Again : 

Said  he  young  Harry  Percy's  spur  was  cold? 
Of  Hotspur,  coldspur?  that  rebellion 
Had  met  ill-luck? 

L.  Bard.  My  lord,  I  '11  tell  you  what ; 

If  my  young  lord  your  son  have  not  the  day, 
Upon  mine  honour,  for  a  silken  point 
I  '11  give  my  barony :  never  talk  of  it. 

North.  Why  should  the  gentleman  that  rode 

by  Travers 
Give,  then,  such  instances  of  loss? 

L.  Bard.  Who,  he? 

He  was  some  hilding  fellow,  that  had  stolen 
The  horse  he  rode  on ;  and,  upon  my  life, 
Spoke  at  a  venture. — Look,  here  comes  more 
news. 

Enter  MORTON, 

North.  Yea,  this  man's  brow,  like  to  a  title- 
leaf, 

Foretells  the  nature  of  a  tragic  volume : 
So  looks  the  strand,  whereon  the  imperious  flood 
Hath  left  a  witness'd  usurpation, — 
Say,  Morton,  didst  thou  come  from  Shrewsbury? 

Mor.  I  ran  from  Shrewsbury,  my  noble  lord; 
Where  hateful  death  put  on  his  ugliest  mask 
To  fright  our  party. 

North.  How  doth  my  son  and  brother  ? 

Thou  tremblest ;  and  the  whiteness  in  thy  cheek 
Is  apter  than  thy  tongue  to  tell  thy  errand. 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


497 


Even  such  a.  man,  so  faint,  so  spiritless, 
So  dull,  so  dead  in  look,  so  woe-begone, 
Drew  Priam's  curtain  in  the  dead  of  night, 
And  would  have  told  him  half  his  Troy  was 

burn'd; 

But  Priam  found  the  fire  ere  he  his  tongue. 
And  I  my  Percy's  death  ere  thou  report's!  it. 
This  thou  wouldst  say, — Your  son  did  thus  and 

thus; 

Your  brother  thus ;  so  fought  the  noble  Douglas ; 
Stopping  my  greedy  ear  with  their  bold  deeds : 
But' in  the  end  to  stop  mine  ear  indeed, 
Thou  hast  a  sigh  to  blow  away  this  praise, 
Ending  with — brother,  son,  and  all  are  dead. 

Mor.  Douglas  is  living,  and  your  brother,  yet ; 
But,  for  my  lord  your  son, — 

North.  Why,  he  is  dead. 

See  what  a  ready  tongue  suspicion  hath  I 
He  that  but  fears  the  thing  he  would  not  know 
Hath  by  instinct  knowledge  from  others'  eyes 
That  what  he  fear'd  is  chanced.     Yet  speak, 

Morton ; 

Tell  thou  thy  earl  his  divination  lies, 
And  I  will  take  it  as  a  sweet  disgrace, 
And  make  thee  rich  for  doing  me  such  wrong. 

Mor.  You  are  too  grer.t  to  be  by  me  gainsaid : 
Your  spirit  is  too  true,  your  fears  too  certain. 

North.  Yet,  for  all  this,  say  not  that  Percy 's 

dead. 

I  see  a  strange  confession  in  thine  eye : 
Thou  shak'st  thy  head,  and  hold'st  it  fear  or  sin 
To  speak  a  truth.     If  he  be  slain,  say  so; 
The  tongue  offends  not  that  reports  his  death : 
And  he  doth  sin  that  doth  belie  the  dead ; 
Not  he  which  says  the  dead  is  not  alive. 
Yet  the  first  bringer  of  unwelcome  news 
Hath  but  a  losing  office ;  and  his  tongue 
Sounds  ever  after  as  a  sullen  bell, 
Remember'd  knolling  a  departing  friend. 

L.  Bard.  I  cannot  think,  my  lord,  your  son 
is  dead. 

Mor.  I  am  sorry  I  should  force  you  to  believe 
That  which  I  would  to  God  I  had  not  seen; 
But  these  mine  eyes  saw  him  in  bloody  state, 
Rend'ring  faint  quittance,  wearied  and  out- 
breath'd,  [down 

To  Harry  Monmouth ;  whose  swift  wrath  beat 
The  never-daunted  Percy  to  the  earth, 
From  whence  with  life  he  never  more  sprang  up. 
In  few,  his  death, — whose  spirit  leirt  a  fire 
Even  to  the  dullest  peasant  in  his  camp, — 
Being  bruited  once,  took  fire  and  heat  away 
From  the  best-temper'd  courage  in  his  troops ; 
For  from  his  metal  was  his  party  steel'd ; 
Which  once  in  him  abated,  all  the  rest 
Turn'd  on  themselves,  like  dull  and  heavy  lead  i 
And  as  the  thing  that 's  heavy  in  itself, 


Upon  enforcement,  flies  with  greatest  speed, 
So  did  our  men,  heavy  in  Hotspur's  loss, 
Lend  to  this  weight  such  lightness  with  their 

fear, 

That  arrows  fled  not  swifter  toward  their  aim 
Than  did  our  soldiers,  aiming  at  their  safety, 
Fly  from  the  field.  Then  was  that  noble 

Worcester 

Too  soon  ta'en  prisoner ;  and  that  furious  Scot, 
The    bloody  Douglas,   whose    well-labouring 

sword  [king, 

Had  three  times  slain  the  appearance  of  the 
'Gan  vail  his  stomach,  and  did  grace  the  shame 
Of  those  that  turn'd  their  backs;  and  in  his  flight, 
Stumbling  in  fear,  was  took.     The  sum  of  all 
Is,  that  the  king  hath  won ;  and  hath  sent  out 
A  speedy  power  to  encounter  you,  my  lord, 
Under  the  conduct  cf  young  Lancaster 
And  Westmoreland.     This  is  the  news  at  full. 
North.  For  this  I  shall  have  time  enough  to 

mourn. 

In  poison  there  is  physic ;  and  these  news, 
Having  been  well,  that  would  have  made  me 

sick, 

Being  sick,  have  in  some  measure  made  me  well : 
And  as  the  wretch,  whose  fever- weaken'd  joints, 
Like  strengthless  hinges,  buckle  under  life, 
Impatient  of  his  fit,  breaks  like  a  fire 
Out  of  his  keeper's  arms  ;  even  so  my  limbs, 
Weaken'd  with  grief,  being  now  earag'd  with 

grief, 
Are  thrice  themselves.     Hence,  therefore,  thou 

nice  crutch  t 

A  scaly  gauntlet  now,  with  joints  of  steel, 
Must  glove  this  hand :  and  hence,  thou  sickly 

quoif! 

Thou  art  a  guard  too  wanton  for  the  head 
Which  princes,  flesh'd  with  conquest,  aim  to  hit. 
Now  bind  my  brows  with  iron,  and  approach 
The  rugged'st  hour  that  time  and  spite  dare  bring 
To  frown  upon  the  enrag'd  Northumberland  ! 
Let  heav'n  kiss  earth !    Now  let  not  Nature's 

hand 

Keep  the  wild  flood  confined !  let  order  die ! 
And  let  this  world  no  longer  be  a  stage 
To  feed  contention  in* a  lingering  act; 
But  let  one  spirit  of  the  first-born  Cam 
Reign  in  all  bosoms,  that,  each  heart  being  set 
On  bloody  courses,  the  rude  scene  may  end, 
And  darkness  be  the  burier  of  the  dead ! 
Tra.  This  strained  passion  doth  you  wrong, 

my  lord. 
L.  Bard.  Sweet  earl,  divorce  not  wisdom 

from  your  honour. 

Mor.  The  lives  of  all  your  loving  complices 
Lean  on  your  health ;  the  which,  if  you  give  o'er 
To  stormy  passion,  must  perforce  decay. 


49* 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


CACT  i. 


You  cast  the  event  of  war,  my  noble  lord, 
And  suram'd  the  account  of  chance,  before  you 

said, 

Let  us  make  head.     It  was  your  presurmise 
That  in  the  dole  o'  olows  your  son  might 

drop: 

You  knew  he  walk'd  o'er  perils  on  an  edge, 
More  likely  to  fall  in  than  to  get  o'er ; 
You  were  advis'd  his  flesh  was  capable 
Of  wounds  and  scars ;  and  that  his  forward  spirit 
Would  lift  him  where  most  trade  of  danger 

rang'd : 

Yet  did  you  say, — Go  forth ;  and  none  of  this 
Though  strongly  apprehended,  could  restrain 
The  stiff-borne  action.     What  hath,  then,  be- 
fallen, 

Or  what  hath  this  bold  enterprise  brought  forth, 
More  than  that  being  which  was  like  to  be? 

L.  Bard.  We  all  that  are  engaged  to  this  loss 
Knew  that  we  ventur'd  on  such  dangerous  seas, 
That  if  we  wrought  out  life,  'twas  ten  to  one : 
And  yet  we  ventur'd,  for  the  gain  propos'd 
Chok'd  the  respect  of  likely  peril  fear'd ; 
And  since  we  are  o'erset,  venture  again. 
Come,  we  will  all  put  forth,  body  and  goods. 
Mor.  'Tis  more  than  time:   and,  my  most 

noble  lord, 

I  hear  for  certain,  and  do  speak  the  truth, — 
The  gentle  Archbishop  of  York  is  up 
With  well-appointed  powers :  he  is  a  man 
Who  with  a  double  surety  binds  his  followers. 
My  lord  your  son  had  only  but  the  corpse, 
But  shadows  and  the  shows  of  men,  to  fight : 
For  that  same  word,  rebellion,  did  divide 
The  action  of  their  bodies  from  their  souls ; 
And  they  did  fight  with  queasiness,  constraint. 
As  men  drink  potions;  that  their  weapons  only 
Seera'd  on  our  side,  but,  for  their  spirits  and 

souls, 

This  word,  rebellion,  it  had  froze  them  up, 
As  fish  are  in   a   pond.    But  now  the  arch- 
bishop 

Turns  insurrection  to  religion : 
Suppos'd  sincere  and  holy  in  his  thoughts, 
He 's  follow'd  both  with  body  and  with  mind ; 
And  doth  enlarge  his  rising  with  the  blood 
Of  fair  King  Richard,  scrap'd  from   Pomfret 

stones ; 

Derives  from  heaven  his  quarrel  and  his  cause ; 
Tells  them  he  doth  bestride  a  bleeding  land, 
Gasping  for  life  under  great  Bolingbroke ; 
And  more  and  less  do  flock  -  follow  him. 
Worth.  I  knew  of  this  before ;  but,  to  speak 

truth, 

This  present  grief  had  wip'd  it  from  my  mind 
Go  in  with  me ;  and  counsel  every  man 
The  aptest  way  for  safety  and  revenge • 


Get  posts  and  letters,  and  make  mends  with 

speed,— 
Never  so  few,  and  never  yet  more  need. 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — LONDON.     A  Street. 

Enter  SIR  JOHN  FALSTAFF,  with  his  Page 
bearing  his  sword  and  btickler. 

Fal.  Sirrah,  you  giant,  what  says  the  doctor 
to  my  water? 

Page.  He  said,  sir,  the  water  itself  was  a  good 
healthy  water ;  but,  for  the  party  that  owed  it, 
he  might  have  more  diseases  than  he  knew  of. 

Fal.  Men  of  all  sorts  take  a  pride  to  gird  at 
me :  the  brain  of  this  foolish-compounded  clay, 
man,  is  not  able  to  invent  anything  that  tends 
to  laughter,  more  than  I  invent  or  is  invented 
on  me :  I  am  not  only  witty  in  myself,  but  the 
cause  that  wit  is  in  other  men.  I  do  here  walk 
before  thee  like  a  sow  that  hath  overwhelmed 
all  her  litter  but  one.  If  the  prince  put  thee 
into  my  service  for  any  other  reason  than  to  set 
me  off,  why  then  I  have  no  judgment.  Thou 
whoreson  mandrake,  thou  art  fitter  to  be  worn 
in  my  cap  than  to  wait  at  my  heels.  I  was 
never  manned  with  an  agate  till  now :  but  I  will 
set  you  neither  in  gold  nor  silver,  but  in  vile 
apparel,  and  send  you  back  again  to  your  master, 
for  a  jewel, — the  Juvenal,  the  prince  your  master, 
whose  chin  is  not  yet  fledged.  I  will  sooner 
have  a  beard  grow  in  the  palm  of  my  hand  than 
he  shall  get  one  on  his  cheek ;  and  yet  he  will 
not  stick  to  say  his  face  is  a  face-royal :  God  may 
finish  it  when  he  will,  it  is  not  a  hair  amiss  yet: 
he  may  keep  it  still  as  a  face-royal,  for  a  barber 
shall  never  earn  sixpence  out  of  it ;  and  yet  he 
will  be  crowing  as  if  he  had  writ  man  ever  since 
his  father  was  a  bachelor.  He  may  keep  his 
own  grace,  but  he  is  almost  out  of  mine,  I  can 
assure  him.  — What  said  Master  Dumbleton  about 
the  satin  for  my  short  cloak  and  my  slops? 

Page.  He  said,  sir,  you  should  procure  him 
better  assurance  than  Bardolph :  he  would  not 
take  his  bond  and  yours;  he  liked  not  the 
security. 

Fal.  Let  him  be  damned,  like  the  glutton ! 
may  his  tongue  be  hotter ! — A  whoreson  Achi» 
tophel !  a  rascally  yea-forsooth  knave !  to  bear 
a  gentleman  in  hand,  and  then  stand  upon 
security ! — The  whoreson  smooth -pates  do  now 
wear  nothing  but  high  shoes,  and  bunches  of 
keys  at  their  girdles ;  and  if  a  man  is  thorough 
with  them  in  honest  taking  up,  then  they  must 
stand  upon  security.  I  hau  as  lief  they  would 
put  ratsbane  in  my  mouth  as  offer  to  stop  it  with 
security.  I  looked  he  should  have  sent  me  two* 


.SCENE  II.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


499 


and-twenty  yards  of  satin,  as  1  am  a  true  knight, 
and  he  sends  me  security.  Well,  he  may  sleep 
in  security  ;  for  he  hath  the  horn  of  abundance, 
and  the  lightness  of  his  wife  shines  through  it : 
and  yet  cannot  he  see,  though  he  have  his  own 
lantern  to  light  him. — Where's  Bardolph? 

Page.  He 's  gone  into  Smithfield  to  buy  your 
worship  a  horse. 

FaL  I  bought  him  in  Paul's,  and  he  '11  buy 
me  a  horse  in  Smithfield:  an  I  could  get  me 
but  a  wife,  in  the  stews,  I  were  manned,  horsed, 
and  wived. 

Page.  Sir,  here  comes  the  nobleman  that 
committed  the  prince  for  striking  him  about 
Bardolph. 

Fal.  Wait  close ;  I  will  not  see  him. 

Enter  the  Lord  Chief-Justice  and  an  Attendant 

Ch.  Just.  What's  he  that  goes  there? 

Atten.  Falstaff,  an 't  please  your  lordship. 

Ch.  Just.  Pie  that  was  in  question  for  the 
robbery? 

Atten.  He,  my  lord :  but  he  hath  since  done 
good  service  at  Shrewsbury ;  and,  as  I  hear,  is 
now  going  with  some  charge  to  the  Lord  John 
of  Lancaster. 

Ch.Just.  What,  to  York?  Call  him  back 
again. 

Atten.  Sir  John  Falstaff! 

Fal.   Boy,  tell  him,  I  am  deaf.  [deaf. 

Page.  Yon  must  speak  louder;  my  master  is 

Ch.  Just.  I  am  sure  he  is,  to  the  hearing  of 
anything  good. — Go,  pluck  him  by  the  elbow; 
I  must  speak  with  him. 

Atten.  Sir  John, — 

Fal.  What !  a  young  knave,  and  begging ! 
Is  there  not  wars?  is  there  not  employment  ? 
Doth  not  the  king  lack  subjects  ?  Do  not  the 
rebels  need  soldiers  ?  Though  it  be  a  shame  to 
be  on  any  side  but  one,  it  is  worse  shame  to  beg 
than  to  be  on  the  worst  side,  were  it  worse  than 
the  name  of  rebellion  can  tell  how  to  make  it. 

Atten.  You  mistake  me,  sir. 

Fal.  Why,  sir,  did  I  say  you  were  an  honest 
man  ?  setting  my  knighthood  and  my  soldiership 
aside,  I  had  lied  in  my  throat  if  I  had  said  so. 

Atten.  I  pray  you,  sir,  then  set  your  knight- 
hood and  your  soldiership  aside ;  and  give  me 
leave  to  tell  you,  you  lie  in  your  throat,  if  you 
say  I  am  any  other  than  an  honest  man. 

Fal.  I  give  thee  leave  to  tell  me  so!  I  lay 
aside  that  which  grows  to  me !  If  thou  gettest 
any  leave  of  me,  hang  me }  if  thou  takest  leave, 
thou  wert  better  be  hanged.  You  hunt-counter, 
hence!  avaunt! 

Atten.  Sir,  my  lord  would  speak  with  you. 

Ch.  Jzisi,  Sir  John  Falstaff,  a  word  with  you. 


Fal.  My  good  lord ! — God  give  your  lordship 
good  time  01  day.  I  am  glad  to  see  your  lord- 
ship abroad:  I  heard  say  your  lordship  was 
sick:  I  hope  your  lordship  goes  abroad  by 
advice.  Your  lordship,  though  not  clean  past 
your  youth,  hath  yet  some  smack  of  age  in  you, 
some  relish  of  the  saltness  of  time ;  and  I  most 
humbly  beseech  your  lordship  to  have  a  reverend 
care  of  your  health. 

Ch.  Just.  Sir  John,  I  sent  for  you  before  your 
expedition  to  Shrewsbury. 

Fal.  An't  please  your  lordship,  I  hear  his 
majesty  is  returned  with  some  discomfort  from 
Wales. 

Ch.  Just.  I  talk  not  of  his  majesty : — you 
would  not  come  when  I  sent  for  you. 

Fal.^  And  I  hear,  moreover,  his  highness  is 
fallen  into  this  same  whoreson  apoplexy. 

Ch.  Just.  Well,  God  mend  him !  I  pray  you 
let  me  speak  with  you. 

Fal.  This  apoplexy  is,  as  I  take  it,  a  kind  of 
lethargy,  an't  please  your  lordship;  a  kind  of 
sleeping  in  the  blood,  a  whoreson  tingling. 

Ch.  Just.  What  tell  you  me  of  it?  be  it  as  it 
is. 

Fal.  It  hath  its  original  from  much  grief, 
from  study,  and  perturbation  of  the  brain:  I 
have  read  the  cause  of  his  effects  in  Galen  j  it 
is  a  kind  of  deafness. 

Ch.  Just.  I  think  you  are  fallen  into  the 
disease ;  for  you  hear  not  what  I  say  to  you. 

Fal.  Very  well,  my  lord,  very  well:  rather, 
an 't  please  you,  it  is  the  disease  of  not  listening, 
the  malady  of  not  marking,  that  I  am  troubled 
vvithaL 

Ch.Jusf.  To  punish  you  by  the  heels  would 
amend  the  attention  of  your  ears ;  and  I  care 
not  if  I  do  become  your  physician. 

Fal.  I  am  as  poor  as  Job,  my  lord,  but  not 
so  patient:  your  lordship  may  minister  the 
potion  of  imprisonment  to  me  in  respect  of 
poverty ;  but  how  I  should  be  your  patient  to 
follow  your  prescriptions,  the  wise  may  make 
some  dram  of  a  scruple,  or,  indeed,  a  scruple 
itself. 

Ch.Just.  I  sent  for  you  when  there  were 
matters  against  you  for  your  life,  to  come  speak 
with  me. 

Fal.  As  I  was  then  advised  by  my  learned 
counsel  in  the  laws  of  this  land-service,  I  did 
not  come. 

Ch.  Just.  Well,  the  truth  is,  Sir  John,  you 
live  in  great  infamy. 

Fal.  He  that  buckles  him  in  my  belt  cannot 
live  in  less. 

Ch.  Just.  Your  means  are  very  slender,  and 
your  waste  is  great. 


500 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV, 


CACTI. 


Fal.  I  would  it  were  otherwise;  I  would  my 
means  were  greater  and  my  waist  slenderer. 

Ch.  Just.  You  have  misled  the  youthful 
prince. 

Fal.  The  young  prince  hath  misled  me :  I 
am  the  fellow  with  the  great  belly,  and  he  my 


Ik.  fust.  Well,  I  am  loth  to  gall  a  new-healed 
wound :  your  day's  service  at  Shrewsbury  hath 
a  little  gilded  over  your  night's  exploit  on  Gads- 
hill  :  you  may  thank  the  unquiet  time  for  your 
quiet  o'erposting  that  action. 

Fal.  My  lord,— 

Ch.  Just.  But  since  all  is  well,  keep  it  so : 
wake  not  a  sleeping  wolf. 

Fal.  To  wake  a  wolf  is  as  bad  as  to  smell  a 
fox. 

Ch.Just.  What!  you  are  as  a  candle,  the 
better  part  burnt  out. 

Fal.  A  wassail  candle,  my  lord ;  all  tallow : 
if  I  did  say  of  wax,  my  growth  would  approve 
the  truth. 

Ch.  Just.  There  is  not  a  white  hair  on  your 
face  but  should  have  his  effect  of  gravity. 

Fal.  His  effect  of  gravy,  gravy,  gravy. 

Ch.  fust.  You  follow  the  young  prince  up 
and  down,  like  his  ill  angel. 

Fal.  Not  so,  my  lord ;  your  ill  angel  is  light ; 
but  I  hope  he  that  looks  upon  me  will  take  me 
without  weighing:  and  yet,  in  some  respects,  I 
grant,  I  cannot  go: — I  cannot  tell.  Virtue  is 
of  so  little  regard  in  these  costermonger  times 
that  true  valour  is  turned  bear-herd :  pregnancy 
is  made  a  tapster,  and  hath  his  quick  wit  wasted 
in  giving  reckonings:  all  the  other  gifts  ap- 
pertinent  to  man,  as  the  malice  of  this  age  shapes 
them,  are  not  worth  a  gooseberry.  You  that 
are  old  consider  not  the  capacities  of  us  that  are 
young;  you  measure  the  heat  of  our  livers  with 
the  bitterness  of  your  galls:  and  we  that  are  in 
the  vaward  of  our  youth,  I  must  confess,  are 
wags  too. 

Ch.  fust.  Do  you  set  down  your  name  in  the 
scroll  of  youth,  that  are  written  down  old  with 
all  tue  characters  of  age  ?  Have  you  not  a  moist 
eye?  a  dry  hand?  a  yellow  cheek?  a  white  beard? 
a  decreasing  leg?  an  increasing  belly?  Is  not 
your  voice  broken?  your  wind  short?  your  chin 
double?  your  wit  single?  and  every  part  about 
you  blasted  with  antiquity?  and  will  you  yet  call 
yourself  young?  Fie,  fie,  fie,  Sir  John ! 

Fal.  My  lord,  I  was  born  about  three  of  the 
clock  in  the  afternoon,  with  a  white  head,  and 
something  a  round  belly.  For  my  voice, — I 
have  lost  it  with  hollaing  and  singing  of  anthems. 
To  approve  my  youth  further,  I  will  not ;  the 
truth  is,  I  am  only  old  in  judgment  and  under- 


standing ;  and  he  that  will  caper  with  me  for  a 
thousand  marks,  let  him  lend  me  the  money, 
and  have  at  him.  For  the  box  o'  the  ear  that 
the  prince  gave  you, — he  gave  it  like  a  rude 
prince,  and  you  took  it  like  a  sensible  lord.  I 
have  checked  him  for  it;  and  the  young  lion 
repents ;  marry,  not  in  ashes  and  sackcloth,  but 
in  new  silk  and  old  sack. 

Ch.  fust.  Well,  God  send  the  prince  a  better 
companion ! 

Fal.  God  send  the  companion  a  better  prince ! 
I  cannot  rid  my  hands  of  him. 

Ch.fust.  Well,  the  king  hath  severed  you 
and  Prince  Harry:  I  hear  you  are  going  with 
Lord  j  ohn  of  Lancaster  against  the  archbishop 
and  the  Earl  of  Northumberland. 

Fal.  Yea ;  I  thank  your  pretty  sweet  wit  for 
it.  But  look  you,  pray,  ail  you  that  kiss  my 
Lady  Peace  at  home,  that  our  armies  join  not  in 
a  hot  day ;  for,  by  the  Lord,  I  take  but  two  shirts 
out  with  me,  and  I  mean  not  to  sweat  extraordin- 
arily :  if  it  be  a  hot  day,  and  I  brandish  anything 
but  my  bottle,  I  would  I  might  never  spit 
white  again.  There  is  not  a  dangerous  action 
can  peep  out  his  head  but  I  am  thrust  upon  it-. 
well,  I  cannot  last  ever :  but  it  was  alway  yet 
the  trick  of  our  English  nation,  if  they  have  a 
good  thing,  to  make  it  too  common.  If  you 
will  needs  say  I  am  an  old  man,  you  should 
give  me  rest.  I  would  to  God  my  name  were 
not  so  terrible  to  the  enemy  as  it  is :  I  were 
better  to  be  eaten  to  death  with  rust  than  to  be 
scoured  to  nothing  with  perpetual  motion. 

Ch,fust.  Well,  be  honest,  be  honest;  and 
God  bless  your  expedition ! 

Fal.  Will  your  lordship  lend  me  a  thousand 
pound  to  furnish  me  forth? 

Ch.  fust.  Not  a  penny,  not  a  penny;  you 

are  too  impatient  to  bear  crosses.     Fare  you 

well :  commend  me  to  my  cousin  Westmoreland. 

{Exeunt  Chief-Justice  and  Attendant. 

Fal.  If  I  do,  fillip  me  with  a  three-man 
beetle. — A  man  can  no  more  separate  age  and 
covetousness  than  he  can  part  young  limbs  and 
lechery :  but  the  gout  galls  the  one,  and  the 
pox  pinches  the  other ;  and  so  both  the  diseases 
prevent  my  curses. — Boy! — 

Page.  Sir? 

Fal.  What  money  is  in  my  purse? 

Page.  Seven  groats  and  two  pence. 

Fal.  I  can  get  no  remedy  against  this  con- 
sumption of  the  purse :  borrowing  only  lingers 
and  lingers  it  out,  but  the  disease  is  incurable. 
— Go  bear  this  letter  to  my  Lord  of  Lancaster  \ 
this  to  the  prince ;  this  to  the  Earl  of  West- 
moreland; and  this  to  old  Mistress  Ursula, 
whom  I  have  weekly  sworn  to  marry  since  I 


SCENE  III.) 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


50* 


perceived  the  first  white  hair  on  my  chin. 
About  it ;  you  know  where  to  find  me.  \Erit 
Page.]  A  pox  of  this  gout !  or,  a  gout  of  this 
pox !  for  the  one  or  the  other  plays  the  rogue 
with  my  great  toe.  It  is  no  matter  if  I  do 
halt ;  I  have  the  wars  for  my  colour,  and  my 
pension  shall  seem  the  more  reasonable.  A 
good  wit  will  make  use  of  anything.  I  will 
turn  diseases  to  commodity.  {Exit. 

SCENE  III.— YORK.    A  Room  in  the  ARCH- 
BISHOP'S  Palace. 

Enter  the  ARCHBISHOP  OF  YORK,  the  LORDS 
HASTINGS,  MOWBRAY,  and  BARDOLPH. 

Arch.  Thus  have  you  heard  our  cause  and 

know  our  means; 

And,  my  most  noble  friends,  I  pray  you  all 
Speak  plainly  your  opinions  of  our  hopes : — 
And  first,  lord  marshal,  what  say  you  to  it? 

Mowb.  I  well  allow  the  occasion  of  our  arms ; 
But  gladly  would  be  better  satisfied 
How,  in  our  means,  we  should  advance  ourselves 
To  look  with  forehead  bold  and  big  enough 
Upon  the  power  and  puissance  of  the  king. 

Hast.  Our  present  musters  grow  upon  the  file 
To  five-and-twenty  thousand  men  of  choice ; 
And  our  supplies  live  largely  in  the  hope 
Of  great  Northumberland,  whose  bosom  bums 
With  an  incensed  fire  of  injuries. 

L.  Bard.  The  question,  then,  Lord   Hast- 
ings, standeth  thus; — 

Whether  our  present  five-and-twenty  thousand 
May  hold  up  head  without  Northumberland? 

Hast.  With  him,  we  may. 

L.  Bard.          Ay,  marry,  there  Js  the  point : 
But  if  without  him  we  be  thought  too  feeble, 
My  judgment  is,  we  should  not  step  too  far 
Till  we  had  his  assistance  by  the  hand ; 
For,  in  a  theme  so  bloody-fac'd  as  this, 
Conjecture,  expectation,  and  surmise 
Of  aids  uncertain,  should  not  be  admitted. 

Arch.  'Tis  very  true,  Lord  Bardolph;  for, 

indeed, 
It  was  young  Hotspur's  case  at  Shrewsbury. 

L.  Bard.  It  was,  my  lord;  who  lin'd  him- 
self with  hope, 

Eating  the  air  on  promise  of  supply, 
Flattering  himself  with  project  of  a  power 
Much  smaller  than  the  smallest  of  his  thoughts : 
And  so,  with  great  imagination, 
Proper  to  madmen,  led  his  powers  to  death, 
And,  winking,  leap'd  into  destruction.      [hurt 

Hast.  But,  by  your  leav^,  it  never  yet  did 
To  lay  down  likelihoods  and  forms  of  hope. 

L.  Bard.  Yes,  in  this  present  quality  of  war; — 
Indeed,  the  instant  action, — a  cause  on  foot, — 


Lives  so  in  hope,  as  in  an  early  spnng 

We  see  the  appearing  buds;  which,  to  prove 

fruit, 

Hope  gives  not  so  much  warrant,  as  despair 
That  frosts  will  bite  them.     When  we  mean  to 

build, 

We  first  survey  the  plot,  then  draw  the  model ; 
And  when  we  see  the  figure  of  the  houcc. 
Then  must  we  rate  the  cost  of  the  erection ; 
Which,  if  we  find  outweighs  ability, 
What  do  we  then  but  draw  anew  the  model 
In  fewer  offices,  or  at  least  desist         [work, — 
To  build  at  all?     Much  more,  in  this  great 
Which  is  almost  to  pluck  a  kingdom  down 
And  set  another  up, — should  we  survey 
The  plot  of  situation  and  the  model, 
Consent  upon  a  sure  foundation, 
Question  surveyors,  know  our  own  estate, 
How  able  such  a  work  to  undergo, 
To  weigh  against  his  opposite ;  or  else, 
We  fortify  in  paper  and  in  figures, 
Using  the  names  of  men  instead  of  men : 
Like  one  that  draws  the  model  of  a  house 
Beyond  his  power  to  build  it ;  who,  half  through. 
Gives  o'er,  and  leaves  his  part-created  cost 
A  naked  subject  to  the  weeping  clouds, 
And  waste  for  churlish  winter's  tyranny. 
Hast.  Grant  that  our  hopes, — yet  likely  of 

fair  birth, — 

Should  be  still-born,  and  that  we  now  possess'd 
The  utmost  man  of  expectation ; 
I  think  we  are  a  body  strong  enough, 
Even  as  we  are,  to  equal  with  the  king. 
L.  Bard.  What,  is  the  king  but  five-and- 
twenty  thousand? 
Hast.  To  us  no  more ;  nay,  not  so  much,  Lord 

Bardolph; 

For  his  divisions,  as  the  times  do  brawl, 
Are  in  three  heads:  one  power  against  the 

French, 

And  one  against  Glendower ;  perforce  a  third 
Must  take  up  us :  so  is  the  unfirm  king 
In  three  divided ;  and  his  coffers  sound 
With  hollow  poverty  and  emptiness. 
Arch.    That   he   should   draw   his   several 

strengths  together, 

And  come  against  us  in  rail  puissance, 
Need  not  be  dreaded. 

Hast.  If  he  should  do  so, 

He  leaves  his  back  unarm'd,  the  French  and 

Welsh 

Baying  him  at  the  heels:  never  fear  that 
L.  Bard.  Who  is  it  like  should  lead  his  forces 

hither?  Pand ; 

Hast.  The  Duke  of  Lancaster  and  Westmore- 

Against  the  Welsh,  himself  and  Harry  Mon* 

mouth : 


502 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  H. 


But  who  is  substituted  'gainst  the  French, 
I  have  no  certain  notice. 

Arch.  Let  us  on, 

And  publish  the  occasion  of  our  arms. 
The  commonwealth  is  sick  of  their  own  choice ; 
Their  over-greedy  love  hath  surfeited : 
An  habitation  giddy  and  unsure 
Hath  he  that  buildeth  on  the  vulgar  heart. 
O  thou  fond  many !  with  what  loud  applause 
Didst  thou  beat  heaven  with  blessing  Boling- 

broke, 

Before  he  was  what  thou  wouldst  have  him  be ! 
And  being  now  trimm'd  in  thine  own  desires, 
Thou,  beastly  feeder,  art  so  full  of  him 
That  thou  provok'st  thyself  to  cast  him  up. 
So,  so,  thou  common  dog,  didst  thou  disgorge 
Thy  glutton  bosom  of  the  royal  Richard ; 
And  now  thou  wouldst  eat  thy  dead  vomit  up, 
And  howl'st  to  find  it.      What  trust  is  in  these 
times?  [die, 

They  that,  when  Richard  liv'd,  would  have  him 
Are  now  become  enamour'd  on  his  grave: 
Thou,  that  threw'st  dust  upon  his  goodly  head, 
When  through  proud  London  he  came  sighing 

on 

After  the  admired  heels  of  Bolingbroke, 
Cry'st  now,  O  earth  yield  us  that  king  again> 
And  take  thou  this  !    O  thoughts  of  men  accurst ! 
Past,  and  to  come,  seems  best ;  things  present, 
worst.  [set  on? 

Mowb.   Shall  we  go  draw  our  numbers,  and 
Hast.  We  are  time's  subjects,  and  time  bids 
be  gone.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.— LONDON.    A  Street. 

Enter  Hostess,  FANG  and  his  Boy  with  her, 
and  SNARE  following. 

Host.  Master  Fang,  have  you  entered  the 
action  ? 

Fang.   It  is  entered. 

Host.  Where  is  your  yeoman?  Is  it  a  lusty 
yeoman?  will  he  stand  to  it? 

Fang.   Sirrah,  where 's  Snare? 

Host.   O  Lord,  ay !  good  Master  Snare. 

Snare.    Here,  here. 

Fang.  Snare,  we  must  arrest  Sir  John  Falstaff. 

Host.  Yea,  good  Master  Snare ;  I  have  en- 
tered him  and  all. 

Snare.  It  may  chance  cost  some  of  us  our 
lives,  for  he  will  stab. 

Host.  Alas  the  day !  take  heed  of  him ;  he 
stabbed  me  in  mine  own  house,  and  that  most 
beastly :  in  good  faith,  he  cares  not  what  mis- 
chief he  doth,  if  his  weapon  be  out :  he  will  foin 


like  any  devil;  he  will  spare  neither  mar., 
woman,  nor  child. 

Fang.  If  I  can  close  with  him,  I  care  not  fo: 
his  thrust. 

Host.  No,  nor  I  neither :  I  '11  be  at  your  elbow. 

Fang.  An  I  but  fist  him  once ;  an  he  come 
but  within  my  vice, — 

Host.  I  am  undone  by  his  going;  I  warrant 
you,  he  is  an  infinitive  thing  upon  my  score : — 
good  Master  Fang,  hold  him  sure; — good  Master 
Snare,  let  him  not  'scape.  He  comes  continu- 
antly  to  Pie-corner, — saving  your  manhoods, — 
to  buy  a  saddle ;  and  he  is  indited  to  dinner  to  the 
Lubber's  Head  in  Lumbert  Street,  to  Master 
Smooth's  the  silkman:  I  pray  ye,  since  my 
exion  is  entered,  and  my  case  so  openly  known 
to  the  world,  let  him  be  brought  in  to  his 
answer.  A  hundred  mark  is  a  long  one  for  a 
poor  lone  woman  to  bear :  and  I  have  borne, 
and  borne,  and  borne;  and  have  been  fubbed 
off,  and  fubbed  off,  and  fubbed  off,  from  this  daj 
to  that  day,  that  it  is  a  shame  to  be  thought  on. 
There  is  no  honesty  in  such  dealing ;  unless  a 
woman  should  be  made  an  ass  and  a  beast,  to 
bear  every  knave's  wrong.  Yonder  he  comes ; 
and  that  arrant  malmsey-nose  knave,  Bardolph, 
with  him.  Do  your  offices,  do  your  offices, 
Master  Fang  and  Master  Snare ;  do  me,  do  me, 
do  me  your  offices. 

Enter  SIR  JOHN  FALSTAFF,  Page,  and  BAR- 
DOLPH. 

Fal.  How  now!  whose  mare's  dead?  what's 
the  matter? 

Fang.  Sir  John,  I  arrest  you  at  the  suit  of 
Mistress  Quickly. 

Fal.  Away,  varlets !— Draw,  Bardolph:  cut 
me  off  the  villain's  head;  throw  the  quean  in 
the  channel. 

Host.  Throw  me  in  the  channel !  I  '11  throw 
thee  in  the  channel.  Wilt  thou  ?  wilt  thou  ?  thou 
bastardly  rogue ! — Murder,  murder !  O  thou 
honeysuckle  villain!  wilt  thou  kill  God's  officers 
and  the  king's?  O  thou  honey- seed  rogue !  thou 
art  a  honey-seed ;  a  inan-queller  and  a  woman- 
queller. 

Fal.  Keep  them  off,  Bardolph. 

Fang-  A  rescue !  a  rescue ! 

Host.  Good  people,  bring  a  rescue  or  two. — 
Thou. wo 't,  wo't  thou?  thou  wo't,  wo't  thou? 
do,  do,  thou  rogue !  do,  thou  hemp-seed ! 

Fal.  Away,  you  scullion!  you  rampallian!  you 
fustilarian !  I  '11  tickle  your  catastrophe. 

Enter  the  Lord  Chief-Justice,  attended. 

Ch.  Jtist.  What  is  the  matter?  keep  the  peace 
here,  hoi 


SCENE  I.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


503 


Host.  Good  my  lord,  be  good  to  me !  I  be- 
seech you,  stand  to  me ! 

Ch.  fast.  How  now,  Sir  John !  what,  are  you 

brawling  here?  [business? 

Doth  this  become  your  place,  your  time,  and 

You  should  have  been  well  on  your  way  to 

York. —  [on  him? 

Stand  from  him,  fellow:  wherefore  hang'st  thou 

Host.  O  my  most  worshipful  lord,  an 't  please 
your  grace,  I  am  a  poor  widow  of  Eastcheap, 
and  he  is  arrested  at  my  suit. 

Ch.  Just.  For  what  sum  ? 

Host.  It  is  more  than  for  some,  my  lord;  it 
is  for  all, — all  I  have.  He  hath  eaten  me  out 
of  house  and  home ;  he  hath  put  all  my  sub- 
stance  into  that  fat  belly  of  his: — but  I  will  have 
some  of  it  out  again,  or  I  will  ride  thee  o'  nights 
like  the  mare. 

Fal.  I  think  I  am  as  like  to  ride  the  mare,  if 
I  have  any  vantage  of  ground  to  get  up. 

Ch.  Just.  How  comes  this,  Sir  John?  Fie ! 
What  man  of  good  temper  would  endure  this 
tempest  of  exclamation?  Are  you  not  ashamed 
to  enforce  a  poor  widow  to  so  rough  a  course 
to  come  by  her  own  ? 

Fal.  What  is  the  gross  sum  that  I  owe  thee? 

Host.  Marry,  if  thou  wert  an  honest  man, 
thyself  and  the  money  too.  Thou  didst  swear 
to  me  upon  a  parcel-gilt  goblet,  sitting  in  my 
Dolphin-chamber,  at  the  round  table,  by  a  sea- 
coal  fire,  upon  Wednesday  in  Whitsun-week, 
when  the  prince  broke  thy  head  for  liking  his 
father  to  a  singing-man  of  Windsor, — thou  didst 
swear  to  me  then,  as  I  was  washing  thy  wound, 
to  marry  me,  and  make  me  my  lady  thy  wife. 
Canst  thou  deny  it?  Did  not  good  wife  Keech, 
the  butcher's  wife,  come  in  then,  and  call  me 
gossip  Quickly?  coming  in  to  borrow  a  mess  of 
vinegar;  telling  us  she  had  a  good  dish  of 
prawns ;  whereby  thou  didst  desire  to  eat  some ; 
whereby  I  told  thee  they  were  ill  for  a  green 
wound?  And  didst  thou  not,  when  she  was 
gone  down  stairs,  desire  me  to  be  no  more  so 
familiarity  with  such  poor  people ;  saying  that 
ere  long  they  should  call  me  madam?  And 
didst  thou  not  kiss  me,  and  bid  me  fetch  thee 
thirty  shillings?  I  put  thee  now  to  thy  book- 
oath  :  deny  it,  if  thou  canst ! 

Fal.  My  lord,  this  is  a  poor  mad  soul;  and 
she  says,  up  and  down  the  town,  that  her  eldest 
son  is  like  you :  she  hath  been  in  good  case, 
and,  the  truth  is,  poverty  hath  distracted  her. 
But  for  these  foolish  officers,  I  beseech  you  I 
may  have  redress  against  them. 

Ch.  Just.  Sir  John,  Sir  John,  I  am  well  ac- 
quainted with  your  manner  of  wrenching  the 
true  cause  the  false  way.  It  is  not  a  confident 


brow,  ncr  the  throng  of  words  that  come  with 
such  more  than  impudent  sauciness  from  you, 
can  thrust  me  from  a  level  consideration :  you 
have,  as  it  appears  to  me,  practised  upon  the 
easy  yielding  spirit  of  this  woman,  and  made  her 
serve  your  uses  both  in  purse  and  in  person. 

Host.  Yea,  in  troth,  my  lord. 

Ch.  Just.  Pr'ythee,  peace.— Pay  her  the  debt 
you  owe  her,  and  unpay  the  villany  you  have 
done  with  her:  the  one  you  may  do  with  ster- 
ling money,  and  the  other  with  current  repent- 
ance. 

Fal.  My  lord,  I  will  not  undergo  this  sneap 
without  reply.  You  call  honourable  boldness 
impudent  sauciness :  if  a  man  will  make  court'sy, 
and  say  nothing,  he  is  virtuous: — no,  my  lord, 
my  humble  duty  remembered,  I  will  not  be  your 
suitor.  I  say  to  you,  I  do  desire  deliverance 
from  these  officers,  being  upon  hasty  employ- 
ment in  the  king's  affairs. 

Ch.  Just.  You  speak  as  having  power  to  do 
wrong :  but  answer  in  the  effect  of  your  reputa- 
tion, and  satisfy  the  poor  woman. 

Fal.  Come  hither,  hostess.  \Takes her  aside. 

Enter  GOWER. 

Ch.  Just.  Now,  Master  Gower, — what  news? 

Gow.  The  king,  my  lord,  and  Harry  Prince 

of  Wales 
Are  near  at  hand :  the  rest  this  paper  tells. 

[Gives  a  Utter. 

Fal.  As  I  am  a  gentleman, — 

Host.  Nay,  you  said  so  before. 

Fal.  As  I  am  a  gentleman : — come,  no  more 
words  of  it. 

Host.  By  this  heavenly  ground  I  tread  on,  I 
must  be  fain  to  pawn  both  my  plate  and  the 
tapestry  of  my  dining- chambers. 

Fal.  Glasses,  glasses,  is  the  only  drinking: 
and  for  thy  walls, — a  pretty  slight  drollery,  or 
the  story  of  the  Prodigal,  or  the  German  hunt- 
ing in  water-work,  is  worth  a  thousand  of  these 
bed-hangings  and  these  fly-bitten  tapestries. 
Let  it  be  ten  pound,  if  thou  canst.  Come,  an 
it  were  not  for  thy  humours,  there  is  not  a  better 
wench  in  England.  Go,  wash  thy  face,  and 
draw  thy  action.  Come,  thou  must  not  be  in 
this  humour  with  me ;  dost  not  know  me?  come, 
come,  I  know  thou  wast  set  on  to  this. 

Host.  Pray  thee,  Sir  John,  let  it  be  but  twenty 
nobles:  i'  faith,  I  am  loth  to  pawn  my  plate,  so 
God  save  me,  la. 

Fal.  Let  it  alone;  I'll  make  other  shift: 
you  '11  be  a  fool  still. 

Host.  Well,  you  shall  have  it,  though  I  pawn 
my  gown.  I  hope  you'll  come  to  supper. 
You"ll  pay  me  all  together? 


504 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  n. 


Fal.  Will  I  live?— Go,  with  her,  with  her 
\to  BARDOLPH]  ;  hook  on,  hook  on. 

Host.  Will  you  have  Doll  Tearsheet  meet  you 
at  supper? 

Fal.  No  more  words ;  let 's  have  her. 

[##«««/ HOST.,  BARD.,  Officers, 

Ch.  Just.  I  have  heard  better  news. 

Fal.  What 's  the  news,  my  good  lord? 

Ch.Just.  Where  lay  the  king  last  night? 

GOTO.  At  Basingstoke,  my  lord. 

Fal.  I  hope,  my  lord,  all 's  well :  what 's  the 
news,  my  lord? 

Ch.  Just.  Come  all  his  forces  back? 

Gow.  No ;  fifteen  hundred  foot,  five  hundred 

horse, 

Are  march'd  up  to  my  Lord  of  Lancaster, 
Against  Northumberland  and  the  archbishop. 

Fal.  Comes  the  king  back  from  Wales,  my 
noble  lord?  [sently: 

Ch.  Just.  You  shall  have  letters  of  me  pre- 
Come,  go  along  with  me,  good  master  Gower. 

Fal.  My  lord ! 

Ch.  Just.   What 's  the  matter? 

Fal.  Master  Gower,  shall  1  entreat  you  with 
me  to  dinner? 

Gow.  I  must  wait  upon  my  good  lord  here, 
—I  thank  you,  good  Sir  John. 

Ch.  Just.  Sir  John,  you  loiter  here  too  long, 
being  you  are  to  take  soldiers  up  in  counties  as 
you  go. 

Fal.  Will  you  sup  with  me,  Master  Gower? 

Ch.  Just.  What  foolish  master  taught  you 
these  manners,  Sir  John? 

FaL  Master  Gower,  if  they  become  me  not, 
he  was  a  fool  that  taught  them  me. — This  is  the 
right  fencing  grace,  my  lord ;  tap  for  tap,  and 
so  part  fair. 

Ch.  Just.  Now,  the  Lord  lighten  thee !  thou 
art  a  great  fool.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — The  same.     Another  Street. 
Enter  PRINCE  HENRY  and  POINS. 

P.  Hen.  Before  God,  I  am  exceeding  weary. 

Poins.  Is  it  come  to  that?  I  had  thought 
weariness  durst  not  have  attached  one  of  so  high 
blood. 

P.  Hen.  Faith,  it  does  me;  though  it  dis- 
colours the  complexion  of  my  greatness  to  ac- 
knowledge it.  Doth  it  not  show  vilely  in  me 
to  desire  small  beer? 

Poins.  Why,  a  prince  should  not  be  so  loosely 
studiec1  as  to  remember  so  weak  a  composition. 

P.  Hen.  Belike,  then,  my  appetite  was  not 
pre  iseivgot;  for,  by  my  troth,  I  do  now  re- 
uaembe'r  the  poor  creature,  small  beer.  But, 
'indeed,  these  humble  considerations  make  me 


out  of  love  with  my  greatness.  What  a  disgrace 
is  it  to  me  to  remember  thy  name?  or  to  know 
thy  face  to-morrow?  or  to  take  note  how  many 
pair  of  silk  stockings  thou  hast ;  viz. ,  these,  and 
those  that  were  thy  peach-coloured  ones?  or  to 
bear  the  inventory  of  thy  shirts,  as,  one  for 
superfluity,  and  one  other  for  use? — but  that  the 
tennis  court-keeper  knows  better  than  I ;  for  it 
is  a  low  ebb  of  linen  with  thee  when  thou 
keepest  not  racket  there ;  as  thou  hast  not  done 
a  great  while,  because  the  rest  of  thy  low- 
countries  have  made  a  shift  to  eat  up  thy  holland: 
and  God  knows,  whether  those  that  bawl  out 
the  ruins  of  thy  linen  shall  inherit  his  kingdom : 
but  the  midwives  say  the  children  are  not  in  the 
fault;  whereupon  the  world  increases,  and 
kindreds  are  mightily  strengthened. 

Poins.  How  ill  it  follows,  after  you  have 
laboured  so  hard,  you  should  talk  so  idly !  Tell 
me,  how  many  good  young  princes  would  do  so, 
their  fathers  being  so  sick  as  yours  at  this  time 
is? 

P.  Hen.  Shall  I  tell  thee  one  thing,  Poins  ? 

Poins.  Yes,  faith ;  and  let  it  be  an  excellent 
good  thing. 

P.  Hen.  It  shall  serve  among  wits  of  no 
higher  breeding  than  thine. 

Poins.  Go  to ;  I  stand  the  push  of  your  one 
thing  that  you  will  tell. 

P.  Hen.  Marry,  I  tell  thee,— it  is  not  meet 
that  I  should  be  sad,  now  my  father  is  sick : 
albeit  I  could  tell  to  thee, — as  to  one  it  pleases 
me,  for  fault  of  a  better,  to  call  my  friend, — I 
could  be  sad  and  sad  indeed  too. 

Poins.  Very  hardly  upon  such  a  subject. 

P.  Hen.  By  this  hand,  thou  think'st  me  as 
far  in  the  devil's  book  as  thou  and  Palstaff  for 
obduracy  and  persistency :  let  the  end  try  the 
man.  But  I  tell  thee,  my  heart  bleeds  inwardly 
that  my  father  is  so  sick  :  and  keeping  such  vile 
company  as  thou  art  hath  in  reason  taken  from 
me  all  ostentation  of  sorrow. 

Poins.  The  reason  ? 

P.  Hen.  What  wouldst  thou  think  of  me  if 
I  should  weep? 

Poins.  I  would  think  thee  a  most  princely 
hypocrite. 

P.  Hen.  It  would  be  every  man's  thought  ; 
arid  thou  art  a  blessed  fellow  to  think  as  every 
man  thinks :  never  a  man's  thought  in  the  world 
keeps  the  road- way  better  taan  thine  :  every  man 
would  think  me  an  hypocrite  indeed.  And  what 
accites  your  most  worshipful  thought  to  think 
so? 

Poins.  Why,  because  you  have  been  so  lewd, 
and  so  much  engrafted  to  Falstaff. 

P.  Hen.  And  to  thee. 


SCENE  II.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


505 


Poms.  By  this  light,  I  am  well  spoke  on ;  I 
can  hear  it  with  mine  own  ears :  the  worst  that 
they  can  say  of  me  is  that  I  am  a  second  brother, 
and  that  I  am  a  proper  fellow  of  my  hands ;  and 
those  two  things,  I  confess,  I  cannot  help. — By 
the  mass,  here  comes  Bardolph. 

P.  Hen.  And  the  boy  that  I  gave  Falstaff: 
he  had  him  from  me  Christian ;  and  look,  if 
the  fat  villain  have  not  transformed  him  ape. 

Enter  BARDOLPH  and  Page. 

Bard.  God  save  your  grace ! 
P.  Hen.  And  yours,  most  noble  Bardolph ! 
Bard.  Come,  you  virtuous  ass  [to  the  Page], 
you  bashful  fool,  must  you  be  blushing?  where- 
fore blush  you  now?    What  a  maidenly  man-at- 
arms  are  you  become?     Is  it  such  a  matter  to 
get  a  pottle-pot's  maidenhead? 

Page.  He  called  me  even  now,  my  lord, 
through  a  red  lattice,  and  I  could  discern  no  part 
of  his  face  from  the  window :  at  last  I  spied  his 
eyes ;  and  methought  he  had  made  two  holes  in 
the  alewife's  new  red  petticoat,  and  so  peeped 
through. 

P.  Hen.  Hath  not  the  boy  profited? 
Bard.  Away,  you  whoreson  upright  rabbit, 
away ! 

Page.  Away,  you  rascally  Althaea's  dream, 
away! 

P.  Hen.  Instruct  us,  boy;  what  dream,  boy? 
Page.  Marry,  my  lord,  Althaea  dreamed  she 
was  delivered  of  a  fire-brand ;  and  therefore  I 
call  him  her  dream. 

P.  Hen.  A  crown's  worth  of  good  interpre- 
tation:— there  it  is,  boy.       [Gives  him  money. 
Poins.  O  that  this  good  blossom  could  be 
kept  from  cankers ! — Well,  there  is  sixpence  to 
preserve  thee. 

Bard.  An  you  do  not  make  him  be  hanged 
among  you,  the  gallows  shall  have  wrong. 
P.  Hen.  And  how  doth  thy  master,  Bardolph? 
Bard.  Well,  my  lord.     He  heard  of  your 
grace's  coming  to  town;  there's  a  letter  for 
you. 

Poms.  Delivered  with  good  respect. — And 
how  doth  the  martlemas,  your  master? 
Bard.  In  bodily  health,  sir. 
Poins.  Marry,   the  immortal    part   needs  a 
physician;   but  that  moves  not  him:    though 
that  be  sick,  it  dies  not. 

P.  Hen.  I  do  allow  this  wen  to  be  as  familiar 
with  me  as  my  dog :  and  he  holds  his  place ;  for 
look  you  how  he  writes. 

Poins.  [Reads.]  John  Falstaff,  knight, — 
every  man  must  know  that,  as  oft  as  he  has 
occasion  to  name  himself:  even  like  those  that 
are  kin  to  the  king;  for  they  neve*  prick  their 


finger  but  they  say,  There  is  some  of  the  kings 
blood  spilt. — How  comes  that?  says  he,  that 
takes  upon  him  not  to  conceive.  The  answer 
i<5  as  ready  as  a  borrower's  cap,  /  am  the  king's 
poor  cousin,  sir. 

P.  Hen.  Nay,  they  will  be  kin  to  us,  or  they 
will  fetch  it  from  Japhet.  But  to  the  letter : — 

Poins.  [Reads,]  Sir  John  Falstaff,  knight,  to 
the  son  the  king,  nearest  his  father,  Harry 
Prince  of  Wales,  greeting. — Why,  this  is  a 
certificate. 

P.  Hen.  Peace! 

Poins.  [Reads.]  I  will  imitate  the  honourable 
Romans  in  brevity: — sure  he  means  brevity  in 
breath,  short-winded. — /  commend  me  to  thee, 
I  commend  thee,  and  I  leave  thee.  Be  not  too 
familiar  with  Poins ;  for  he  misuses  thy  favours 
so  much  that  he  swears  thou  art  to  marry  his 
sister  Nell.  Repent  at  idle  times  as  thou  mayest, 
and  so,  farewell. 

Thine,  by  yea  and  no,  (which  is  as 
much  as  to  say,  as  thou  usest  himt) 
JACK  FALSTAFF,  with  my  familiars; 
JOHN,  with  my  brothers  and  sisters; 
and  SIR  JOHN  with  all  Europe. 
My  lord,  I  will  steep  this  letter  in  sack,  and 
make  him  eat  it. 

P.  Hen.  That 's  to  make  him  eat  twenty  of 
his  words.  But  do  you  use  me  thus,  Ned? 
must  I  marry  your  sister? 

Poins.  God  send  the  wench  have  no  worse 
fortune !  but  I  never  said  so. 

P.  Hen.  Well,  thus  we  play  the  fools  with 
the  time ;  and  the  spirits  of  the  wise  sit  in  the 
clouds  and  mock  us. — Is  your  master  here  in 
London? 

Bard.  Yes,  my  lord. 

P.  Hen.  Where  sups  he?  doth  the  old  boar 
feed  in  the  old  frank? 

Bard.  At  the  old  place,  my  lord, — in  East- 
cheap. 

P.  Hen.  What  company? 

Page.  Ephesians,  my  lord,— of  the  old  church. 

P.  Hen.  Sup  any  women  with  him  ? 

Page.  None,  my  lord,  but  old  Mistress 
Quickly  and  Mistress  Doll  Tearsheet. 

P.  Hen.  What  pagan  may  that  be? 

Page.  A  proper  gentlewoman,  sir,  and  a 
kinswoman  of  my  master's. 

P.  Hen.  Even  such  kin  as  the  parish  heifers 
are  to  the  town  bull. — Shall  we  steal  upon  them, 
Ned,  at  supper? 

Poins.  I  am  your  shadow,  my  lord;  I'll 
follow  you. 

P.  Hen.  Sirrah,  you  boy, — and  Bardolph, — 
no  word  to  your  master  that  I  am  yet  come  to 
town:  there 's  for  your  silence. 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  ii. 


Bard.  I  have  no  tongue,  sir. 

Page.  And  for  mine,  sir, — I  will  govern  it. 

P.  Hen.  Fare  ye  well ;  go.  [Exeunt  BAR- 
DOLPH  tfw</Page.] — This  Doll  Tearsheet  should 
be  some  road. 

Poms.  I  warrant  you,  as  common  as  the 
way  between  Saint  Alban's  and  London. 

P.  Hen.  How  might  we  see  Falstaff  bestow 
himself  to-night  in  his  true  colours,  and  not 
ourselves  be  seen? 

Poins.  Put  on  two  leathern  jerkins  and 
aprons,  and  wait  upon  him  at  his  table  as 
drawers. 

P.  Hen.  From  a  god  to  a  bull?  a  heavy  de- 
scension!  it  was  Jove's  case.  From  a  prince 
to  a  prentice?  a  low  transformation  !  that  shall 
be  mine;  for  in  everything  the  purpose  must 
weigh  with  the  folly. — Follow  me,  Ned. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — WARKWORTH.    Before  the  Castle. 

Enter  NORTHUMBERLAND,  LADY  NORTHUM- 
BERLAND, and  LADY  PERCY. 

North.  I  pray  thee,  loving  wife,  and  gentle 

daughter, 

Give  even  way  unto  my  rough  affairs : 
Put  not  you  on  the  visage  of  the  times, 
And  be,  like  them,  to  Percy  troublesome. 
Lady  N.  I  have  given  over,  I  will  speak  no 

more: 

Do  what  you  will ;  your  wisdom  be  your  guide. 
North.  Alas,  sweet  wife,  my  honour  is  at 

pawn; 

And,  but  my  going,  nothing  can  redeem  it. 
Lady  P.  O,  yet,  for  God's  sake,  go  not  to 

these  wars ! 

The  time  was,  father,  that  you  broke  your  word, 
When  you  were  more  endear'd  to  it  than  now ; 
When  your  own  Percy,  when  my  heart-dear 

Harry, 

Threw  many  a  northward  look  to  see  his  father 
Bring  up  his  powers ;  but  he  did  long  in  vain. 
Who  then  persuaded  you  to  stay  at  home? 
There  were  two  honours  lost, — yours  and  your 

son's. 

For  yours, — may  heavenly  glory  brighten  it ! 
For  his, — it  stuck  upon  him,  as  the  sun 
In  the  grey  vault  of  heaven :  and  by  his  light 
Did  all  the  chivalry  of  England  move 
To  do  brave  acts  :  he  was,  indeed,  the  glass 
Wherein  the  noble  youth  did  dress  themselves : 
He  had  no  legs  that  practis'd  not  his  gait ; 
And  speaking   thick,  which  nature   made  his 

blemish, 

liecaine  the  accents  of  the  valiant ; 
For  those  that  could  speak  low  and  tardily 


Would  turn  their  own  perfection  to  abuse 
To  seem  like  him :  so  that  in  speech,  in  gait, 
In  diet,  in  affections  of  delight, 
In  military  rules,  humours  of  blood, 
He  was  the  mark  and  glass,  copy  and  book, 
That  fashion'd  others.    And  him, — O  wondrous 
him! 

0  miracle  of  men ! — him  did  you  leave, — 
Second  to  none,  unseconded  by  you, — 
To  look  upon  the  hideous  god  of  war 

In  disadvantage ;  to  abide  a  field 
Where  nothing  but  the  sound  of  Hotspur's  name 
Did  seem  defensible : — so  you  left  him. 
Never,  O  never,  do  his  ghost  the  wrong 
To  hold  your  honour  more  precise  and  nice 
With  others  than  with  him  !  let  them  alone : 
The  marshal  and  the  archbishop  are  strong : 
Had  my  sweet  Harry  had  but  half  their  numbers, 
To-day  might  I,  hanging  on  Hotspur's  neck, 
Have  talk'd  of  Monmouth's  grave. 

North.  Beshrew  your  heart, 

Fair  daughter,  you  do  draw  my  spirits  from  me 
With  new  lamenting  ancient  oversights. 
But  I  must  go,  and  meet  with  danger  there ; 
Or  it  will  seek  me  in  another  place, 
And  find  me  worse  provided. 

Lady  N.  O,  fly  to  Scotland, 

Till  that  the  nobles  and  the  armed  commons 
Have  of  their  puissance  made  a  little  taste. 

Lady  P.   If  they  get  ground  and  vantage  of 

the  king, 

Then  join  you  with  them,  like  a  rib  of  steel, 
To  make  strength  stronger;  but,  for  all  our  loves, 
First  let  them  try  themselves.    So  did  your  son ; 
He  was  so  suffer'd :  so  came  I  a  widow ; 
And  never  shall  have  length  of  life  enough 
To  rain  upon  remembrance  with  mine  eyes, 
That  it  may  grow  and  sprout  as  high  as  heaven, 
For  recordation  to  my  noble  husband. 

North.  Come,  come,  go  in  with  me.     'Tis 

with  my  mind 

As  with  the  tide  swell'd  up  unto  its  height, 
That  makes  a  still-stand,  running  neither  way. 
Fain  would  I  go  to  meet  the  archbishop, 
But  many  thousand  reasons  hold  me  back. 

1  will  resolve  for  Scotland :  there  am  I, 
Till  time  and  vantage  crave  my  company. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — LONDON.     A  Room  in  the  Boar's 
Head  Tavern  in  East-cheap. 

Enter  two  Drawers. 

1  Draw.  What  the  devil  hast  thou  brought 
there?    apple-Johns?    thou   know'st   Sir  John 
cannot  endure  an  apple-John. 

2  Draw.  Mass,  thou  sayest  true.    The  prince 


SCENE  IV.) 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


507 


once  set  a  dish  of  apple-Johns  before  him,  and 
told  him  there  were  five  more  Sir  Johns ;  and, 
putting  off  his  hat,  said,  /  "will  now  take  my 
leave  of  these  six  dry,  round,  old,  withered 
knights.  It  angered  him  to  the  heart :  but  he 
hath  forgot  that. 

1  Draw.  Why,  then,  cover,  and  set  them 
down:  and  see  if  thou  canst  find  out  Sneak's 
noise :  Mistress  Tearsheet  would  fain  hear  some 
music.     Despatch : — the  room  where  they  sup- 
ped is  too  hot;  they'll  come  in  straight. 

2  Draw.  Sirrah,  here  will  be  the  prince  and 
Master  Poins  anon;  and  they  will  put  on  two 
of  our  jerkins  and  aprons ;  and  Sir  John  must 
not  know  of  it :  Bardolph  hath  brought  word. 

1  Draw.  By  the  mass,  here  will  be  old  utis : 
it  will  be  an  excellent  stratagem. 

2  Draw.  I  '11  see  if  I  can  find  out  Sneak. 

[Exit. 

Enter  Hostess  and  DOLL  TEARSHEET. 

Host.  I'  faith,  sweetheart,  methinks  now  you 
Ure  in  an  excellent  good  temperality :  your  pul- 
sidge  beats  as  extraordinarily  as  heart  would 
desire;  and  your  colour,  I  warrant  you,  is  as 
red  as  any  rose :  but,  i'  faith,  you  have  drunk 
too  much  canaries;  and  that's  a  marvellous 
searching  wine,  and  it  perfumes  the  blood  ere 
one  can  say,  What's  this? — How  do  you  now? 

Doll.  Better  than  I  was : — hem. 

Host.  Why,  that 's  well  said ;  a  good  heart 's 
Worth  gold. — Look,  here  comes  Sir  John. 

Enter  FALSTAFF  singing. 

o      o 

Fal.  When  Arthur  first  in  court — Empty 
the  jorden.  {Exit  I  Drawer.] — And  was  a 
worthy  king. — How  now,  Mistress  Doll! 

Host.  Sick  of  a  calm ;  yea,  good  sooth. 

Fal.  So  is  all  her  sect ;  an  they  be  once  in 
a  calm,  they  are  sick. 

Doll.  You  muddy  rascal,  is  that  all  the  com- 
fort you  give  me? 

Fal.  You  make  fat  rascals,  Mistress  Doll. 

Doll.  I  make  them !  gluttony  and  diseases 
make  them ;  I  make  them  not. 

Fal.  If  the  cook  help  to  make  the  gluttony, 
you  help  to  make  the  diseases,  Doll :  we  catch 
of  you,  Doll,  we  catch  of  you ;  grant  that,  my 
poor  virtue,  grant  that. 

Doll.  Yea,  joy, — our  chains  and  our  jewels. 

Fal.  Your  brooches,  pearls,  and  ouches: — for 
to  serve  bravely  is  to  come  halting  off,  you 
know :  to  come  off  the  breach  with  his  pike 
bent  bravely,  and  to  surgery  bravely ;  to  ven- 
ture upon  the  charged  chambers  bravely, — 

Doll.  Hang  yourself,  you  muddy  conger, 
yourself! 


Host.  By  my  troth,  this  is  the  old  fashion ; 
you  two  never  meet  but  you  fall  to  some  discord: 
you  are  both,  in  good  troth,  as  rheumatic  as  two 
dry  toasts ;  yoi1  cannot  one  bear  with  another's 
confirmities.  What  the  good-year!  one  must 
bear,  and  that  must  be  you  \to  DOLL]  :  you  are 
the  weaker  vessel,  as  they  say,  the  emptier 
vessel. 

Doll.  Can  a  weak  empty  vessel  bear  such  a 
huge  full  hogshead?  there 's  a  whole  merchant's 
venture  of  Bourdeaux  stuff  in  him ;  you  have 
not  seen  a  hulk  better  stuffed  in  the  hold. — 
Come,  I  '11  be  friends  with  thee,  Jack :  thou 
art  going  to  the  wars ;  and  whether  I  shall  ever 
see  thee  again  or  no,  there  is  nobody  cares. 

Re-enter  First  Drawer. 

I  Draw.  Sir,  Ancient  Pistol  is  below,  and 
would  speak  with  you. 

Doll.  Hang  him,  swaggering  rascal !  let  him 
not  come  hither :  it  is  the  foul-mouth'dst  rogue 
in  England. 

Host.  If  he  swagger,  let  him  not  come  here : 
no,  by  my  faith;  I  must  live  amongst  my 
neighbours ;  I  '11  no  swaggerers :  I  am  in  good 
name  and  fame  with  the  very  best: — shut  the 
door ; — there  comes  no  swaggerers  here :  I  have 
not  lived  all  this  while  to  have  swaggering  now: 
— shut  the  door,  I  pray  you. 

Fal.  Dost  thou  hear,  hostess? — 

Host.  Pray  you,  pacify  yourself,  Sir  John: 
there  comes  no  swaggerers  here. 

Fal.  Dost  thou  hear?  it  is  mine  ancient. 

Host.  Tilly-fally,  Sir  John,  never  tell  me: 
your  ancient  swaggerer  comes  not  in  my  doors. 
I  was  before  Master  Tisick,  the  deputy,  the  other 
day ;  and,  as  he  said  to  me, — it  wis  no  longer 
ago  than  Wednesday  last, — Neighoour  Quickly, 
says  he ; — Master  Dumb,  our  minister,  was  by 
then ; — Neighbour  Quickly,  says  he,  receive  those 
that  are  civil;  for,  saith  he,  you  are  in  an  ill- 
name; — now  he  said  so,  I  can  tell  whereupon ; 
for,  says  \vz,you  are  an  honest  woman,  and  well 
thought  on;  therefore  take  heed  what  guests  you 
receive:  re  ei  e,  says  he,  no  swaggering  com- 
panions.— There  comes  none  here; — you  would 
bless  you  to  hear  what  he  said : — no,  I  '11  no 
swaggerers. 

Fal.  He's  no  swaggerer,  hostess;  a  tame 
cheater,  i'  faith ;  you  may  stroke  him  as  gently 
as  a  puppy  greyhound :  he  will  not  swagger  with 
a  Barbary  hen,  if  her  feathers  turn  back  in  any 
show  of  resistance. — Call  him  up,  drawer. 

[Exit  I  Drawer. 

Host.  Cheater,  call  you  him?  I  will  bar  no 
honest  man  my  house,  nor  no  cheater :  but  I  do 
not  love  swaggering;  by  mv  troth,  I  am  the 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  n. 


worse  when  one  says  swagger:  feel,  masters, 
how  I  shake  ;  look  you,  I  warrant  you. 

Doll.  So  you  do,  hostess. 

Host.  Do  I  ?  yea,  in  very  truth,  do  I,  an  'twere 
an  aspen  leaf :  I  cannot  abide  swaggerers. 

Enter  PISTOL,  BARDOLPH,  and  PAGE. 

Pist.  God  save  you,  Sir  John ! 

Fal.  Welcome,  Ancient  Pistol.  Here,  Pistol, 
I  charge  you  with  a  cup  of  sack :  do  you  dis- 
charge upon  mine  hostess. 

Pist.  I  will  discharge  upon  her,  Sir  John,  with 
two  bullets. 

'Fal.  She  is  pistol-proof,  sir ;  you  shall  hardly 
offend  her. 

Host.  Come,  I  '11  drink  no  proofs  nor  no  bullets : 
I  '11  drink  no  more  than  will  do  me  good,  for 
no  man's  pleasure,  I. 

Pkt.  Then  to  you,  Mrs.  Dorothy;  I  will 
charge  you. 

Doll.  Charge  me  !  I  scorn  you,  scurvy  com- 
panion. What  I  you  poor,  base,  rascally,  cheat- 
ing, lack-linen  mate !  Away,  you  mouldy  rogue, 
away !  I  am  meat  for  your  master. 

Pist.  I  know  you,  Mistress  Dorothy. 

Doll.  Away,  you  cut-purse  rascal !  you  filthy 
bung,  away !  by  this  wine,  I  '11  thrust  my  knife 
in  your  mouldy  chaps,  an  you  play  the  saucy 
cuttle  with  me.  Away,  you  bottle-ale  rascal  ! 
you  basket-hilt  stale  juggler,  you  ! — Since  when, 
I  pray  you,  sir? — God  s  light,  with  two  points 
on  your  shoulder?  much  ! 

Pist.  I  will  murder  your  ruff  for  this. 

Fal.  No  more,  Pistol ;  I  would  not  have  you 
go  off  here :  discharge  yourself  of  our  company, 
Pistol. 

Host.  No.  good  Captain  Pistol;  not  here, 
sweet  captain. 

Doll.  Captain!  thou  abominable  damned 
cheater,  art  thou  not  ashamed  to  be  called  cap- 
tain? If  captains  were  of  my  mind,  they  would 
truncheon  you  out,  for  taking  their  names  upon 
you  before  you  have  earned  them.  You  a  cap- 
tain! you  slave,  for  what?  for  tearing  a  poor 
whore's  ruff  in  a  bawdy-house? — He  a  captain  ! 
hang  him,  rogue !  He  lives  upon  mouldy  stewed 
prunes  and  dried  cakes.  A  captain!  God's  light, 
these  villains  will  make  the  word  as  odious  as 
the  word  occupy ;  which  was  an  excellent  good 
word  before  it  was  ill -sorted :  therefore  captains 
had  need  look  to  it. 

Bard.  Pray  thee,  go  down,  good  ancient. 

Fal.  Hark  thee  hither,  Mistress  Doll. 

Pist.  Not  I :  I  tell  thee  what,  Corporal  Bar- 
dolph,— I  could  tear  her : — I  '11  be  revenged  on 
her. 

Page.  Pray  thee,  go  down. 


Pist.  I  '11  see  her  damned  first ; — to  Pluto's 
damned  lake,  by  this  hand,  to  the  infernal  deep, 
with  Erebus  and  tortures  vile  also.  Hold  hook 
and  line,  say  I.  Down,  down,  dogs!  down, 
faitors !  Have  we  not  Hiren  here? 

Host.  Good  Captain  Peesel,  be  quiet ;  it  is 
very  late,  i'  faith :  I  beseek  you  now,  aggravate 
your  choler. 

Pist.  These  be  good  humours,  indeed  !    Shall 

packhorses, 

And  hollow  pamper'd  jades  of  Asia, 
Which  cannot  go  but  thirty  miles  a-day, 
Compare  with  Caesars,  and  with  Cannibals, 
And  Trojan  Greeks?  nay,  rather  damn  them 

with 

King  Cerberus ;  and  let  the  welkin  roar. 
Shall  we  fall  foul  for  toys? 

Host.  By  my  troth,  captain,  these  are  very 
bitter  words. 

Bard.  Be  gone,  good  ancient :  this  will  grow 
to  a  brawl  anon. 

Pist.  Die  men  like  dogs !  give  crowns  like 
pins !  Have  we  not  Hiren  here? 

Host.  O'  my  word,  captain;  there's  none 
such  here.  What  the  good-year !  do  you  think 
I  would  deny  her?  for  Godsake,  be  quiet. 

Pist.  Then  feed  and  be  fat,  my  fair  Calipolis. 
Come,  give  me  some  sack. 

Se  fortuna  mi  tormenta,  lo  sperare  mi  con> 

tenta. — 

Fear  we  broadsides?  no,  let  the  fiend  give  fire: 

Give  me  some  sack : — and,  sweetheart,  lie  thou 

there.  [Laying  down  his  sword. 

Come  we  to  full  points  here  ;  and  are  et-ceteras 

nothing? 

Fal.  Pistol,  I  would,  be  quiet. 

Pist.  Sweet  knight,  I  kiss  thy  neif:  what! 
we  have  seen  the  seven  stars. 

Doll.  Thrust  him  downstairs;  I  cannot  endure 
such  a  fustian  rascal. 

Pist.  Thrust  him  down  stairs !  know  we  not 
Galloway  nags? 

Fal.  Quoit  him  down,  Bardolph,  like  a  shove- 
groat  shilling :  nay,  an  he  do  nothing  but  speak 
nothing,  he  shall  be  nothing  here. 

Bard.  Come,  get  you  down  stairs. 

Pist.  What!  shall  we  have  incision?  shall  we 

imbrue  ? —    \Snatching  up  his  sword. 

Then  death  rock  me  asleep,  abridge  my  doleful 

days ! 

Why,  then,  let  grievous,  ghastly,  gaping  wounds 
Untwine  the  Sisters  Three  !    Come,  Atropos,  I 
say  ! 

Host.  Here 's  goodly  stuff  toward  ! 

Fal.  Give  me  my  rapier,  boy. 

Doll.  I  pray  thee,  Jack,  I  pray  thee,  do  not 
draw. 


SCENE  IV.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


509 


Fal.  Get  you  down  stairs. 

[Drawing^  and  driving  PlST.  out. 

Host.  Here 's  a  goodly  tumult !  I  '11  forswear 
keeping  house  afore  I  '11  be  in  these  tirrits  and 
frights.  So;  murder,  I  warrant  now. — Alas, 
alas !  put  up  your  naked  weapons,  put  up  your 
naked  weapons.  [Exeunt  PIST.  and  BARD. 

Doll.  I  pray  thee,  Jack,  be  quiet ;  the  rascal 
is  gone. — Ah,  you  whoreson  little  valiant  villain, 
you ! 

Host.  Are  you  not  hurt  i'  the  groin?  me- 
thought  he  made  a  shrewd  thrust  at  your  belly. 

Re-enter  BARDOLPH. 

Fal.  Have  you  turned  him  out  of  doors? 

Bard.  Yes,  sir.  The  rascal 's  drunk :  you 
have  hurt  him,  sir,  in  the  shoulder. 

Fal.  A  rascal !  to  brave  me  ! 

Doll.  Ah,  you  sweet  little  rogue,  you !  Alas, 
poor  ape,  how  thou  sweatest !  come,  let  me  wipe 
thy  face ; — come  on,  you  whoreson  chops : — ah, 
rogue !  i'  faith,  I  love  thee.  Thou  art  as  valor- 
ous as  Hector  of  Troy,  worth  five  of  Agamem- 
non, and  ten  times  better  than  the  nine  worthies : 
ah,  villain ! 

Fal.  A  rascally  slave !  I  will  toss  the  rogue 
in  a  blanket. 

Doll.  Do,  if  thou  darest  for  thy  heart:  if 
thou  dost,  I  '11  canvass  thee  between  a  pair  of 
sheets. 

Enter  Musicians. 

Page.  The  music  is  come,  sir. 

Fal.  Let  them  play; — play,  sirs. — Sit  on  my 
knee,  Doll. — A  rascal-bragging  slave !  the  rogue 
fled  from  me  like  quicksilver. 

Doll.  I'  faith,  and  thou  followedst  him  like  a 
church.  Thou  whoreson  little  tidy  Bartholomew 
boar-pig,  when  wilt  thou  leave  fighting  o'  days 
and  foining  o'  nights,  and  begin  to  patch  up 
thine  old  body  for  heaven? 

Enter,  behind,  PRINCE  HENRY  and  POINS 
disguised  as  Drawers. 

Fal.  Peace,  good  Doll !  do  not  speak  like  a 
Death's-head;  do  not  bid  me  remember  mine 
end. 

Doll.  Sirrah,  what  humour  is  the  prince  of? 

Fal.  A  good  shallow  young  fellow :  he  would 
have  made  a  good  pantler;  he  would  have 
chipped  bread  well. 

Doll.  They  say  Poins  has  a  good  wit. 

Fal.  He  a  good  wit?  hang  him,  baboon!  his 
wit  is  as  thick  as  Tewksbury  mustard ;  there  is 
no  more  conceit  in  him  than  is  in  a  mallet. 

Doll.  Why  does  the  prince  love  him  so,  then? 


Fal.  Because  their  legs  are  both  of  a  bigness ; 
and  he  plays  at  quoits  well ;  and  eats  conger  and 
fennel;  and  drinks  off  candles'  ends  for  flap- 
dragons ;  and  rides  the  wild  mare  with  the  boys; 
and  jumps  upon  joint-stools ;  and  swears  with  a 
good  grace;  and  wears  his  boot  very  smooth, 
like  unto  the  sign  of  the  leg  ;  and  breeds  no  bate 
with  telling  of  discreet  stories;  and  such  other 
gambol  faculties  he  has,  that  show  a  weak  mind 
and  an  able  body,  for  the  which  the  prince  ad- 
mits him :  for  the  prince  himself  is  such  another ; 
the  weight  of  a  hair  will  turn  the  scales  between 
their  avoirdupois. 

P.  Hen.  Would  not  this  nave  of  a  wheel  have 
his  ears  cut  off? 

Poins.   Let  us  beat  him  before  his  whore. 

P.  Hen.  Look,  whether  the  withered  elder 
hath  not  his  poll  clawed  like  a  parrot. 

Poins.  Is  it  not  strange  that  desire  should  so 
many  years  outlive  performance? 

Fal.  Kiss  me,  Doll. 

P.  Hen.  Saturn  and  Venus  this  year  in  con- 
junction! what  says  the  almanac  to  that? 

Poins.  And,  look,  whether  the  fiery  Trigon, 
his  man,  be  not  lisping  to  his  master's  old  tables, 
his  note-book,  his  counsel-keeper. 

Fal.  Thou  dost  give  me  flattering  busses. 

Doll.  By  ruy  troth,  I  kiss  thee  with  a  most 
constant  heart. 

Fal.  I  am  old,  I  am  old. 

Doll.  I  love  thee  better  than  I  love  e'er  a 
scurvy  young  boy  of  them  all. 

Fal.  What  stuff  wilt  thou  have  a  kirtle  of?  I 
shall  receive  money  on  Thursday;  thou  shall 
have  a  cap  to-morrow.  A  merry  song,  come : 
it  grows  late ;  we  will  to  bed.  Thou  wilt  forget 
me  when  I  am  gone. 

Doll.  By  my  troth,  thou  wilt  set  me  a  weep- 
ing, an  thou  sayest  so  :  prove  that  ever  I  dress 
myself  handsome  till  thy  return : — well,  hearken 
the  end. 

Fal.  Some  sack,  Francis. 

P.  Hen.,  Poins.  Anon,  anon,  sir. 

[Advancing. 

Fal.  Ha !  a  bastard  son  of  the  king's?— And 
art  not  thou  Poins,  his  brother? 

P.  Hen.  Why,  thou  globe  of  sinful  continents, 
what  a  life  dost  thou  lead ! 

Fal.  A  better  than  thou :  I  am  a  gentleman ; 
thou  art  a  drawer. 

P.  Hen.  Very  true,  sir,  and  I  come  to  draw 
you  out  by  the  ears. 

Host.  O,  the  Lord  preserve  thy  good  grace  ! 
by  my  troth,  welcome  to  London.  Now,  the 
Lord  bless  that  sweet  face  of  thine !  O  Jesu, 
are  you  come  from  Wales? 

Fal.  Thou    whoreson    mad    compound    of 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  n. 


majesty, — by  this  light  flesh  and  corrupt  blood, 
thou  art  welcome. 

[Leaning  his  hand  upon  DOLL. 

Doll.  How,  you  fat  fool !  I  scorn  you. 

Poins.  My  lord,  he  will  drive  you  out  of  your 
revenge,  and  turn  all  to  a  merriment,  if  you  take 
not  the  heat. 

P.  Hen.  You  whoreson  candle-mine,  you,  how 
vilely  did  you  speak  of  me  even  now  before  this 
honest,  virtuous,  civil,  gentlewoman! 

Host.  God's  blessing  on  your  good  heart !  and 
so  she  is,  by  my  troth. 

Fal.  Didst  thou  hear  me? 

P.  Hen.  Yes  ;  and  you  knew  me,  as  you  did 
when  you  ran  away  by  Gadshill :  you  knew  I 
was  at  your  back,  and  spoke  it  on  purpose  to 
try  my  patience. 

Fal.  No,  no,  no;  not  so;  I  did  not  think 
thou  wast  within  hearing. 

P.  Hen.  I  shall  drive  you,  then,  to  confess 
the  wilful  abuse,  and  then  I  know  how  to  handle 
you. 

Fal.  No  abuse,  Hal,  on  mine  honour;  no 
abuse. 

P.  Hen.  Not !  to  dispraise  me,  and  call  me 
pantler,  and  bread-chipper,  and  I  know  not 
what! 

Fal.  No  abuse,  Hal. 

Poins.  No  abuse ! 

Fal.  No  abuse,  Ned,  in  the  world;  honest 
Ned,  none.  I  dispraised  him  before  the  wicked, 
that  the  wicked  might  notfall  in  love  with  him; — 
in  which  doing,  I  have  done  the  part  of  a  care- 
ful friend  and  a  true  subject,  and  thy  father  is 
to  give  me  thanks  for  it.  No  abuse,  Hal ; — 
none,  Ned,  none; — no,  faith,  boys,  none. 

P.  Hen.  See  now,  whether  pure  fear  and  en- 
tire cowardice  doth  not  make  thee  wrong  this 
virtuous  gentlewoman  to  close  with  us?  is  she 
of  the  wicked?  is  thine  hostess  here  of  the  wicked? 
or  is  thy  boy  of  the  wicked  ?  or  honest  Bardolph, 
whose  zeal  burns  in  his  nose,  of  the  wicked  ? 

Poins.  Answer,  thou  dead  elm,  answer. 

Fal.  The  fiend  hath  pricked  down  Bardolph 
irrecoverable;  and  his  face  is  Lucifer's  privy- 
kitchen,  where  he  doth  nothing  but  roast  malt- 
worms.  For  the  boy, — there  is  a  good  angel 
about  him ;  but  the  devil  outbids  him  too. 

P.  Hen.  For  the  women? 

Fal.  For  one  of  them, — she  is  in  hell  already, 
and  burns,  poor  soul !  For  the  other, — I  owe 
her  money;  and  whether  she  be  damned  for 
that,  I  know  not. 

Host.  No,  I  warrant  you. 

Fal.  No,  I  think  thou  art  not ;  I  think  thou 
art  quit  for  that.  Marry,  there  is  another  in- 
dictment upon  thee  for  suffering  flesh  to  be 


eaten  in  thy  house,  contrary  to  the  law ;  for  the 
which  I  think  thou  wilt  howl. 

Host.  All  victuallers  do  so :  what 's  a  joint  of 
mutton  or  two  in  a  whole  Lent? 

P.  Hen.  You,  gentlewoman, — 

Doll.  What  says  your  grace? 

Fal.  His  grace  says  that  which  his  flesh  re- 
bels against.  [Knocking  within. 

Host.  Who  knocks  so  loud  at  door?  Look 
to  the  door  there,  Fr?ncis. 

Enter  PETO. 

P.  Hen.   Peto,  how  now  !  what  news? 

Pet.  The  king  your  father  is  at  Westminster; 
And  there  are  twenty  weak  and  wearied  posts 
Come  from  the  north :  and  as  I  came  along 
I  met  and  overtook  a  dozen  captains, 
Bare-headed,  sweating,  knocking  at  the  taverns, 
And  asking  every  one  for  Sir  John  Falstaff. 

P.  Hen.   By  heaven,  Poins,  I  feel  me  much 

to  blame, 

So  idly  to  profane  the  precious  time ; 
When  tempest  of  commotion,  like  the  south, 
Borne  with  black  vapour,  doth  begin  to  melt, 
And  drop  upon  our  bare  unarmed  heads. 
Give  me  my  sword  and  cloak. — Falstaff,  good- 
night. 

[Exeunt  P.  HEN.,  POINS,  PETO,  and  BARD. 

Fal.  Now  comes  in  the  sweetest  morsel  of 
the  night,  and  we  must  hence,  and  leave  it  un- 
picked. [Knocking within.']  More  knocking 
at  the  door ! 

Re-enter  BARDOLPH. 

How  now !  what 's  the  matter? 

Bard.  You  must  away  to  court,  sir,  presently; 
a  dozen  captains  stay  at  door  for  you, 

Fal.  Pay  the  musicians,  sirrah  [to  the  Page]. 
— Farewell,  hostess; — farewell,  Doll. — You  see, 
my  good  wenches,  how  men  of  merit  are  sought 
after :  the  undeserver  may  sleep,  when  the  man 
of  action  is  called  on.  Farewell,  good  wenches : 
if  I  be  not  sent  away  post,  I  will  see  you  again 
ere  I  go. 

Doll.  I  cannot  speak ; — if  my  heart  be  not 
ready  to  burst, — well,  sweet  Jack,  have  a  care 
of  thyself. 

Fal.   Farewell,  farewell. 

[Exeunt  FALSTAFF  and  BARDOLPH. 

Host.  Well,  fare  thee  well:  I  have  known 
thee  these  twenty-nine  years,  come  peascod- 
time ;  but  an  honester  and  truer-hearted  man, — 
well,  fare  thee  well. 

Bard.  [Within.'}  Mistress  Tearsheet,— 

Host.  What 's  the  matter? 

Bard.  [Within.'}  Bid  Mistress  Tearsheet 
come  to  my  master. 


SCENE  I.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


Host.  O,  run,  Doll,  run;  run,  good  DolL 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  IIL 

SCENE  I  — WESTMINSTER.     A  Room  IK  the 

Palace. 

Enter  KING  HENRY  in  his  nightgown,  with  a 
Page. 

K.  Hen.  Go  call  the  Earls  of  Surrey  and  of 

Warwick ;  [letters, 

But,  ere  they  come,  bid  them  o'er- read  these 

And  well  consider  of  them :  make  good  speed. 

[Exit  Page. 

How  many  thousand  of  my  poorest  subjects 
Are  at  this  hour  asleep! — O  sleep,  O  gentle 

sleep, 

Nature's  soft  nurse,  how  have  I  frighted  thee, 
That  thou  no  more  wilt  weigh  my  eyelids  down, 
And  steep  my  senses  in  forgetfulness? 
Why  rather,  sleep,  liest  thou  in  smoky  cribs, 
Upon  uneasy  pallets  stretching  thee,     [slumber, 
And   hush'd  with   buzzing   night-flies   to  thy 
Than  in  the  perfum'd  chambers  of  the  great, 
Under  high  canopies  of  costly  state, 
And  lull'd  with  sounds  of  sweetest  melody? 
O  thou  dull  god,  why  li^st  thou  with  the  vile 
In  loathsome  beds,  and  leav'st  the  kingly  couch 
A  watch-case  or  a  common  'larum  bell? 
Wilt  thou  upon  the  high  and  giddy  mast 
Seal  up  the  ship-boy's  eyes,  and  rock  his  brains 
In  cradle  of  the  rude  imperious  surge, 
And  in  the  visitation  of  the  winds, 
Who  take  the  ruffian  billows  by  the  top, 
Curling  their  monstrous  heads,   and  hanging 

them 

With  de?.fening  clamour  in  the  slippery  shrouds, 
That,  with  the  hurly,  death  itself  awakes? 
Canst  thou,  O  partial  sleep,  give  thy  repose 
To  the  wet  sea-boy  in  an  hour  so  rude ; 
And  in  the  calmest  and  most  stillest  night, 
With  all  appliances  and  means  to  boot, 
Deny  it  to  a  king?    Then,  happy  low,  lie  down ! 
Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  a  crown. 

Enter  WARWICK  and  SURREY. 

War.  Many  good-morrows  to  your  majesty ! 

K.  Hen.  Is  it  good-morrow,  lords? 

War.  'Tis  one  o'clock,  and  past. 

K.  Hen.  Why,  then,  good-morrow  to  you 

all,  my  lords. 
Have  you  read  o'er  the  letters  that  I  sent  you? 

War.  We  have,  my  liege.  [kingdom 

K.  Hen.  Then  you  perceive  the  body  of  our 
How  foul  it  is ;  what  rank  diseases  grow, 
And  with  what  danger,  near  the  heart  of  it. 

War.  It  is  but  us  a  body  yet  distemper'd ; 


Which  to  his  former  strength  may  be  restored 
With  good  advice  and  little  medicine : — 
My  lord  Northumberland  will  soon  be  cool'd. 

K.  Hen.  O  God !  that  one  might  read  the 

book  of  fate, 

And  see  the  revolution  of  the  times 
Make  mountains  level,  and  the  continent,— 
Weary  of  solid  firmness,— melt  itself 
Into  the  sea !  and,  other  times,  to  see 
The  beachy  girdle  of  the  ocean  [mock, 

Too  wide  for   Neptune's  hips;  how  chances 
And  changes  fill  the  cup  of  alteration 
With  divers  liquors !    Oh,  if  this  were  seen, 
The    happiest    youth, — viewing    his  progress 

through, 

What  perils  past,  what  crosses  to  ensue, — 
Would  shut  the  book,  and  sit  him  down  and  die. 
'Tis  not  ten  years  gone  [friends, 

Since    Richard    and    Northumberland,   great 
Did  feast  together,  and  in  two  years  after 
Were  they  at  wars.     It  is  but  eight  years  since 
This  Percy  was  the  man  nearest  my  soul ; 
Who  like  a  brother  toil'd  in  my  affairs, 
And  laid  his  love  and  life  under  my  foot ; 
Yea,  for  my  sake,  even  to  the  eyes  of  Richard 
Gave  him  defiance.    But  which  of  you  was  by, — 
You,  cousin  Nevil,  as  I  may  remember, — 

\To  WARWICK. 

When  Richard, — with  his  eye  brimful  of  tears. 
Then  check'd  and  rated  by  Northumberland, — 
Did  speak  these  words,  now  prov'd  a  prophecy? 
Northumberland^  thou  ladder  by  the  which 
My  cousin  Bolingbroke  ascends  my  throne^ — 
Though  then,  God  knows,  I  had  no  such  intent, 
But  that  necessity  so  bow'd  the  state 
That  I  and  greatness  were  compell'd  to  kiss: — 
The  ~time  shall  come,  thus  did  he  follow  it, 
The  time  will  come,  that  foul  sin,  gathering  head, 
Shall  break  into  corruption  — so  went  on, 
Foretelling  this  same  time's  condition, 
And  the  division  of  our  amity. 

War.   There  is  a  history  in  all  men's  lives, 
Figuring  the  nature  of  the  times  deceas'd ; 
The  which  observ'd,  a  man  may  prophesy, 
With  a  near  aim,  of  the  main  chance  of  tilings 
As  yet  not  come  to  life,  which  in  their  seeds 
And  weak  beginnings  lie  intreasured.       [time; 
Such  things  become  the  hatch  and  brood  of 
And,  by  the  necessary  form  of  this, 
King  Richard  might  create  a  perfect  guess 
That  great  Northumberland,  then  false  to  him, 
Would  of  that  seed  grow  to  a  greater  falseness; 
Which  should  not  find  a  ground  to  root  upon, 
Unless  on  you. 

K.  Hen.  Are  these  things,  then,  necessities  ? 
Then  let  us  meet  them  like  necessities ; — 
And  that  same  word  even  now  cries  out  on  us1 


512 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  in. 


They  say  the  bishop  and  Northumberland 
Are  fifty  thousand  strong. 

War.  It  cannot  be,  my  lord ; 

Rumour  doth  double,  like  the  voice  and  echo, 
The  numbers  of  the  fear'd.     Please  it  your  grace 
To  go  to  bed.     Upon  my  life,  my  lord, 
The  powers  that  you  already  have  sent  forth 
Shall  bring  this  prize  in  very  easily. 
To  comfort  you  the  more,  I  have  receiv'd 
A  certain  instance  that  Glendower  is  dead. 
Your  majesty  hath  been  this  fortnight  ill; 
And  these  unseason'd  hours  perforce  must  add 
Unto  your  sickness. 

K.  Hen.  I  will  take  your  counsel : 

And,  were  these  inward  wars  once  out  of  hand, 
We  would,  dear  lords,  unto  the  Holy  Land. 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Court  before  JUSTICE  SHALLOW'S 
House  in  Gloucestershire. 

Enter  SHALLOW  and  SILENCE,  meeting; 
MOULDY,  SHADOW,  WART,  FEEBLE,  BULL- 
CALF,  and  Servants,  behind. 

Shal.  Come  on,  come  on,  come  on,  sir ;  give 
me  your  hand,  sir,  give  me  your  hand,  sir :  an 
early  stirrer,  by  the  rood.  And  how  doth  my 
good  cousin  Silence? 

SiL  Good-morrow,  good  cousin  Shallow. 

Shal.  And  how  doth  my  cousin,  your  bed- 
fellow ?  and  your  fairest  daughter  and  mine,  my 
god-daughter  Ellen? 

Sil.  Alas,  a  black  ousel,  cousin  Shallow! 

Shal.  By  yea  and  nay,  sir,  I  dare  say  my 
cousin  William  is  become  a  good  scholar :  he 
is  at  Oxford  still,  is  he  not? 

Sil.  Indeed,  sir,  to  my  cost. 

Shal.  He  must,  then,  to  the  inns  of  court 
shortly :  I  was  once  of  Clement's-inn ;  where  I 
think  they  will  talk  of  mad  Shallow  yet. 

Sil.  You  were  called  lusty  Shallow  then,  cousin. 

Shal.  By  the  mass,  I  was  called  anything; 
and  I  would  have  done  anything  indeed,  too, 
and  roundly  too.  There  was  I,  and  little  John 
Doit  of  Staffordshire,  and  black  George  Bare, 
and  Francis  Pickbone,  and  Will  Squele  a  Cots- 
wold  man, — you  had  not  four  such  swinge- 
bucklers  in  all  the  inns  of  court  again :  and,  I 
may  say  to  you,  we  knew  where  the  bona-robas 
were,  and  had  the  best  of  them  all  at  command- 
ment. Then  was  Jack  Falstaff,  now  Sir  John, 
a  boy,  and  page  to  Thomas  Mowbray,  Duke  of 
Norfolk 

Sil.  This  Sir  John,  cousin,  that  comes  hither 
anon  about  soldiers? 

Shal.  The  same  Sir  John,  the  very  same.  I 
saw  him  break  Skogan  s  head  at  the  court  gate, 


when  he  was  a  crack  not  thus  high :  and  the 
very  same  day  did  I  fight  with  one  Sampson 
Stockfish,  a  fruiterer,  behind  Gray's-inn.  Jesu, 
Jesu,  the  mad  days  that  I  have  spent !  and  to 
see  how  many  of  mine  old  acquaintance  are 
dead! 

SiL  We  shall  all  follow,  cousin. 

Shal.  Certain,  'tis  certain ;  very  sure,  very 
sure  :  death,  as  the  Psalmist  saith,  is  certain  to 
all ;  all  shall  die. — How  a  good  yoke  of  bullocks 
at  Stamford  fair? 

Sil.  Truly,  cousin,  I  was  not  there. 

Shal.  Death  is  certain, — Is  old  Double  of 
your  town  living  yet? 

Sil.  Dead,  sir. 

Shal.  Jesu,  Jesu,  dead! — he  drew  a  good 
bow ;  and  dead  ! — he  shot  a  fine  shoot : — John 
of  Gaunt  loved  him  well,  and  betted  much 
money  on  his  head.  Dead ! — he  would  have 
clapp'd  in  the  clout  at  twelve  score,  and  carried 
you  a  forehand  shaft  a  fourteen  and  fourteen 
and  a  half,  that  it  would  have  done  a  man's 
heart  good  to  see. — How  a  score  of  ewes  now? 

Sil.  Thereafter  as  they  be :  a  score  of  good 
ewes  may  be  worth  ten  pounds. 

Shal.  And  is  old  Double  dead? 

Sil.  Here  come  twc  of  Sir  John  Falstaff  C 
men,  as  I  think. 

Enter  BARDOLPH  and  one  with  him. 

Bard.  Good-morrow,  honest  gentlemen:  I 
beseech  you,  which  is  Justice  Shallow? 

Shal.  I  am  Robert  Shallow,  sir,  a  poor  es- 
quire of  this  county,  and  one  of  the  king's 
justices  of  the  peace :  what  is  your  good  plea- 
sure with  me? 

Bard.  My  captain,  sir,  commends  him  to  you; 
my  captain,  Sir  John  Falstaff, — a  tall  gentleman, 
by  heaven,  and  a  most  gallant  leader. 

Shal.  He  greets  me  well,  sir;  I  knew  him  a 
good  backsword  man:  how  doth  the  good 
knight?  may  I  ask  how  my  lady  his  wife  doth? 

Bard.  Sir,  pardon ;  a  soldier  is  better  ac- 
commodated than  with  a  wife. 

Shal.  It  is  well  said,  in  faith,  sir ;  and  it  is 
well  said  indeed  too.  Better  accommodated ! — 
it  is  good ;  yea,  indeed,  is  it :  good  phrases  are 
surely,  and  ever  were,  very  commendable.  Ac- 
commodated ! — it  comes  from  accommodo:  very 
good ;  a  good  phrase. 

Bard.  Pardon  me,  sir;  I  have  heard  the  word. 
Phrase  call  you  it?  By  this  good  day,  I  know 
not  the  phrase ;  but  I  will  maintain  the  word 
with  my  sword  to  be  a  soldier-like  word,  and  a 
word  of  exceeding  good  command.  Accommo- 
dated ;  that  is,  when  a  man  is,  as  they  say,  ac- 
commodated j  or,  when  a  man  is,  being,  whereby 


SCEWE  II.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


513 


he  may  be  thought  to  be  accommodated ;  which 
is  an  excellent  thing. 

ShaL  It  is  very  just. — Look,  here  comes  good 
Sir  John. 

Enter  FALSTAFF. 

Give  me  your  good  hand,  give  me  your  worship's 
good  hand :  by  my  troth,  you  look  well  and  bear 
your  years  very  well :  welcome,  good  Sir  John. 

Fal.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  well,  good  Master 
Robert  Shallow : — Master  Surecard,  as  I  think  ? 

Shal.  No,  Sir  John,  it  is  my  cousin  Siience, 
in  commission  with  me. 

Fal.  Good  Master  Silence,  it  well  befits  you 
should  be  of  the  peace. 

Sil.  Your  good  worship  is  welcome. 

Fal.  Fie!  this  is  hot  weather. — Gentlemen, 
have  you  provided  me  here  half  a  dozen  suffi- 
cient men? 

Shal.  Marry,  have  we,  sir.     Will  you  sit? 

Fal.   Let  me  see  them,  I  beseech  you. 

Shal.  Where's  the  roll?  where 's  the  roll? 
where  's  the  roll  ? — let  me  see,  let  me  see.  So, 
Bo,  so,  so: — yea,  marry,  sir: — Ralph  Mouldy! 
—let  them  appear  as  I  call ;  let  them  do  so,  let 
them  do  so. — Let  me  see;  where  is  Mouldy? 

Moul.  Here,  an 't  please  you. 
^  Shal.  What  think  you,  Sir  John?  a  good 
limbed  fellow;    young,   strong,  and  of  good 
friends. 

Fal.  Is  thy  name  Mouldy? 

Moul.  Yea,  an 't  please  you. 

Fal.  'Tis  the  more  time  thou  wert  used. 

Shal.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  most  excellent,  i' faith ! 
filings  that  are  mouldy  lack  use :  very  singular 
good ! — in  faith,  well  said,  Sir  John ;  very  well 
said. 

Fal.  Prick  him.  \To  SHALLOW. 

Moul.  I  was  pricked  well  enough  before,  an 
vou  could  have  let  me  alone :  my  old  dame  will 
be  undone  now  for  one  to  do  her  husbandry  and 
her  drudgery:  you  need  not  to  have  pricked 
me ;  there  are  other  men  fitter  to  go  out  than  I. 

Fal.  Go  to ;  peace,  Mouldy ;  you  shall  go. 
Mouldy,  it  is  time  you  were  spent. 

Moul.  Spent! 

Shal.  Peace,  fellow,  peace;  stand  aside: 
know  you  where  you  are? — For  the  other,  Sir 
John : — let  me  see ; — Simon  Shadow ! 

Fal.  Yea,  marry,  let  me  have  him  to  sit 
nnder:  he's  like  to  be  a  cold  soldier. 

Shal.  Where's  Shadow? 

Shad.  Here,  sir. 

Fal-.  Shadow,  whose  son  art  thou? 

Shad.  My  mother's  son,  sir. 

Fal,  Thy  mother's  son  !  like  enough ;  and  thy 
father's  shadow :  so  the  son  of  the  female  is  the 


shadow  of  the  male :  it  is  often  so,  indeed ;  but 
not  much  of  the  father's  substance. 

Shal.  Do  you  like  him,  Sir  John? 

Fal.  Shadow  will  serve  for  summer, — prick 
him ;  for  we  have  a  number  of  shadows  to  fill 
up  the  muster-book. 

Shal.  Thomas  Wart ! 

Fal.  Where 'she? 

Wart.  Here,  sir. 

Fal.   Is  thy  name  Wart? 

Wart.  Yea,  sir. 

Fal.  Thou  art  a  very  ragged  wart. 

Shal.  Shall  I  prick  him,  Sir  John? 

Fal.  It  were  superfluous ;  for  his  apparel  is 
built  upon  his  back,  and  the  whole  frame  stands 
upon  pins :  prick  him  no  more. 

Shal.  Ha,  ha,  ha! — you  can  do  it,  sir;  you 
can  do  it:  I  commend  you  well. — Francis 
Feeble  1 

Fee.  Here,  sir. 

Fal.  What  trade  art  thou,  Feeble? 

Fee.  A  woman's  tailor,  sir. 

Shal.  Shall  I  prick  him,  sir? 

Fal.  You  may :  but  if  he  had  been  a  man's 
tailor,  he  would  have  pricked  you. — Wilt  thou 
make  as  many  holes  in  an  enemy's  battle  as  thou 
hast  done  in  a  woman's  petticoat  ? 

Fee.  I  will  do  my  good  will,  sir ;  you  can  have 
no  more. 

Fal*  Well  said,  good  woman's  tailor !  well 
said,  courageous  Feeble!  Thou  wilt  be  as 
valiant  as  the  wrathful  dove  or  most  magnani- 
mous mouse. — Prick  the  woman's  tailor  well, 
Master  Shallow ;  deep,  Master  Shallow. 

Fee.  I  would  Wart  might  have  gone,  sir. 

Fal.  ^  I  would  thou  wert  a  man's  tailor,  that 
thou  mightst  mend  him,  and  make  him  fit  to  go. 
I  cannot  put  him  to  a  private  soldier,  that  is  the 
leader  of  so  many  thousands:  let  that  suffice, 
most  forcible  Feeble. 

Fee.  It  shall  suffice,  sir. 

Fal.  I  am  bound  to  thee,  Reverend  Feeble. 
—Who  is  next? 

Shal.  Peter  Bullcalf  of  the  green ! 

Fal.  Yea,  marry,  let  us  see  Bullcalf. 

Bull.  Here,  sir. 

Fal.  'Fore  God,  a  likely  fellow!— Come,  prick 
me,  Bullcalf,  till  he  roar  again. 

Bull.  O  lord  !  good  my  lord  captain, — 

Fal.  What,  dost  thou  roar  before  thou  art 
pricked? 

Bull.  O  lord,  sir !  I  am  a  diseased  man. 

Fal.  What  disease  hast  thou? 

Bull.  A  whoreson  cold,  sir, — a  cough,  sir, — 
which  I  caught  with  ringing  in  the  king's  affairs 
upon  his  coronation  day,  sir. 

Fal.  Come,  thou  shalt  go  co  the  wars  in  a 


$14 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  in. 


gown ;  we  will  have  away  thy  cold ;  and  I  will 
take  such  order  that  thy  friends  shall  ring  for 
tb.ee.— Is  here  all? 

Shal.  Here  is  two  more  called  than  your 
number;  you  must  have  but  four  here,  sir: — 
and  so,  I  pray  you,  go  in  with  me  to  dinner. 

Fal.  Come,  I  will  go  drink  with  you,  but  I 
cannot  tarry  dinner.  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  by 
my  troth,  Master  Shallow. 

Shal.  O,  Sir  John,  do  you  remember  since 
we  lay  all  night  in  the  windmill  in  Saint  George's 
Fields? 

Fal.  No  more  of  that,  good  Master  Shallow, 
no  more  of  that. 

Shal.  Ha,  it  was  a  merry  night.  And  is  Jane 
Nightwork  alive? 

Fal.  She  lives,  Master  Shallow. 

Shal.  She  never  could  away  with  me. 

Fal.  Never,  never;  she  would  always  say  she 
could  not  abide  Master  Shallow. 

Shal.  By  the  mass,  I  could  anger  her  to  the 
heart.  She  was  then  a  bona-roba.  Doth  she 
hold  her  own  well? 

Fal.  Old,  old,  Master  Shallow. 

Shal.  Nay,  she  must  be  old;  she  cannot 
choose  but  be  old ;  certain  she 's  old ;  and  had 
Robin  Nightwork,  by  old  Nightwork,  before  I 
came  to  Clement's-inn. 

Sil.  That 's  fifty -five  year  ago. 

Shal.  Ha,  cousin  Silence,  that  thou  hadst 
seeii  that  that  this  knight  and  I  have  seen  J — Ha, 
Sir  John,  said  I  well? 

Fal.  We  have  heard  the  chimes  at  midnight, 
Master  Shallow. 

Shal.  That  we  have,  that  we  have,  that  we 
nave ;  in  faith,  Sir  John,  we  have :  our  watch- 
word was,  Hem,  boys  ! — Come,  let 's  to  dinner ; 
come,  let's  to  dinner  : — O,  the  days  that  we  have 
seen! — come,  come. 

[Exeuni  FAL.,  SHAL.,  aw^SiL. 

Bull.  Good  Master  Corporate  Bardolph, 
stand  my  friend;  and  here  is  four  Harry  ten 
shillings  in  French  crowns  for  you.  In  very 
truth,  sir,  I  had  as  lief  be  hanged,  sir,  as  go: 
and  yet,  for  mine  own  part,  sir,  I  do  not  care ; 
but  rather,  because  I  am  unwilling,  and,  for 
mine  own  part,  have  a  desire  to  stay  with  my 
friends ;  else,  sir,  I  did  not  care  for  mine  own 
part,  so  much. 

Bard.  Go  to ;  stand  aside. 

Moul.  And,  good  master  corporal  captain,  for 
my  old  dame's  sake,  stand  my  friend:  she  has 
nobody  to  do  anything  about  her  when  I  am 
gone;  and  she  is  old,  and  cannot  help  herself: 
you  shall  have  forty,  si/. 

Bard.   Go  to ;  stand  aside. 

Fee.   By  my  troth,  I  care  not ;  a  man  can  die 


but  once ;  we  owe  God  a  death :  I  '11  ne'er  bear 
a  base  mind :  an 't  be  my  destiny,  so ;  an  't  be 
not,  so :  no  man 's  too  good  to  serve  his  prince ; 
and,  let  it  go  which  way  it  will,  he  that  dies  this 
year  is  quit  for  the  next. 

Bard.  Well  said ;  thou  'rt  a  good  fellow. 

Fee.  Faith,  I  '11  bear  no  base  mind. 

Re-enter  FALSTAFF  and  Justices. 

Fal.  Come,  sir,  which  men  shall  I  have? 

Shal.  Four  of  which  you  please. 

Bard.  Sir,  a  word  with  you : — I  have  three 
pound  to  free  Mouldy  and  Bullcalf. 

Fal.  Goto;  well. 

Shal.  Come,  Sir  John,  which  four  will  you 
have? 

Fal.  Do  you  choose  for  me. 

Shal.  Marry,  then,  —  Mouldy,  Bullcalf, 
Feeble,  and  Shadow. 

Fal.  Mouldy  and  Bullcalf : — for  you,  Mouldy, 
stay  at  home  till  you  are  past  service :  and  for 
your  part,  Bullcalf, — grow  till  you  come  unto 
it :  I  will  none  of  you. 

Shal.  Sir  John,  Sir  John,  do  not  yourself 
wrong :  they  are  your  likeliest  men,  and  I  would 
have  you  served  with  the  best. 

Fal.  Will  you  tell  me,  Master  Shallow,  how 
to  choose  a  man?  Care  I  for  the  limb,  the 
thews,  the  stature,  bulk,  and  big  assemblance 
of  a  man !  Give  me  the  spirit,  Master  Shallow. 
— Here 's  Wart ; — you  see  what  a  ragged  appear- 
ance it  is:  he  shall  charge  you  and  discharge 
you,  with  the  motion  of  a  pewterer's  hammer; 
come  off,  and  on,  swifter  than  he  that  gibbets- 
on  the  brewer's  bucket.  And  this  same  half- 
faced  fellow,  Shadow, — give  me  this  man :  he 
presents  no  mark  to  the  enemy;  the  foeman 
may  with  as  great  aim  level  at  the  edge  of  a 
penknife.  And,  for  a  retreat, — how  swiftly  will 
this  Feeble,  the  woman's  tailor,  run  off!  O, 
give  me  the  spare  men,  and  spare  me  the  great 
ones. — Put  me  a  caliver  into  Wart's  hand, 
Bardolph. 

Bard.  Hold,  Wart,  traverse;  thus,  thus, 
thus. 

Fal.  Come,  manage  me  your  caliver.  So : — 
very  well: — go  to: — very  good: — exceeding 
g>od. — O,  give  me  always  a  little,  lean,  old, 
chapped,  bald  shot.— Well  said,  i' faith,  Wart; 
thou  'rt  a  good  scab :  hold,  there 's  a  tester  for 
thee. 

Shal.  He  is  not  his  crafts-master,  he  doth  not 
do  it  right.  I  remember  at  Mile-end  Green, — • 
when  I  lay  at  Clement's-inn, — I  was  then  Sir 
Dagonet  in  Arthur3*  show, — there  was  a  little 
quiver  fellow,  and  he  would  manage  you  his 
piece  thus;  and  he  would  about  and  about,  and 


SCENE   II.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


SIS 


come  you  in  and  come  you  in:  rah,  tah,  tah, 
would  he  say ;  bounce  would  he  say ;  and  away 
again  would  he  go,  and  again  would  he  come : 
— I  shall  never  see  such  a  fellow. 

Fal.  These  fellows  will  do  well,  Master 
Shallow. — God  keep  you,  Master  Silence:  I 
will  not  use  many  words  with  you. — Fare  you 
well,  gentlemen  both :  I  thank  you :  I  must  a 
dozen  mile  to-night.  —  Bardolph,  give  the 
soldiers  coats. 

Shal.  Sir  John,  heaven  bless  you,  and  prosper 
your  affairs,  and  send  us  peace !  as  you  return, 
visit  my  house;  let  our  old  acquaintance  be 
renewed  :  peradventure  I  will  with  you  to  the 
court. 

Fal.  'Fore  God,  I  would  you  would,  Master 
Shallow. 

Shal.  Go  to  ;  I  have  spoke  at  a  word.  Fare 
you  well.  [Exeunt  SHAL.  a«*/SiL. 

Fal.  Fare  you  well,  gentle  gentlemen.  On, 
Bardolph ;  lead  the  men  away.  [Exetint  BAR- 
DOLPH, Recruits,  &c.]  As  I  return,  I  will 
fetch  off  these  justices:  I  do  see  the  bottom  of 
Justice  Shallow.  Lord,  Lord,  how  subject  we 
old  men  are  to  this  vice  of  lying !  This  same 
starved  justice  hath  done  nothing  but  prate  to 
me  of  the  wildness  of  his  youth,  and  the  feats 
he  hath  done  about  Turnbull  Street ;  and  every 
third  word  a  lie,  duer  paid  to  the  hearer  than 
the  Turk's  tribute.  I  do  remember  him  at 
Clement's-inn,  like  a  man  made  after  supper  of 
a  cheeze- paring  :  when  he  was  naked,  he  was, 
for  all  the  world,  like  a  forked  radish,  with  a 
head  fantastically  carved  upon  it  with  a  knife : 
he  was  so  forlorn  that  his  dimensions  to  any 
thick  sight  were  invincible:  he  was  the  very 
genius  of  famine ;  yet  lecherous  as  a  monkey, 
and  the  whores  called  him  mandrake  :  he  came 
ever  in  the  rearward  of  the  fashion ;  and  sung 
those  tunes  to  the  overscutched  huswifes  that 
he  heard  the  carmen  whistle,  and  sware  they 
were  his  fancies  or  his  good -nights.  And  now 
is  this  Vice's  dagger  become  a  squire,  and  talks 
as  familiarly  of  John  of  Gaunt  as  if  he  had  been 
sworn  brother  to  him ;  and  I  Ml  be  sworn  he 
never  saw  him  but  once  in  the  Tilt-yard ;  and 
then  he  burst  his  head  for  crowding  among  the 
marshal's  men.  I  saw  it,  and  told  John  of 
Gaunt  he  beat  his  own  name;  for  you  might 
have  thrust  him  and  all  his  apparel  into  an  eel- 
skin;  the  case  of  a  treble  hautboy  was  a 
mansion  for  him,  a  court : — and  now  has  he 
land  and  beeves.  Well,  I  will  be  acquainted 
with  him  if  I  return  ;  and  it  shall  go  hard  but 
I  will  make  him  a  philosopher's  two  stones  to 
me  :  if  the  young  dace  be  a  bait  for  the  old  pike, 
I  see  no  reason,  in  the  law  of  nature,  but  I  may 


snap  at  him.  -  Let  time  shape,  and  there  an 
end.  [Exit. 

ACT  IV. 
SCENE  \.—A  Forest  in  Yorkshire. 

Enter  the  ARCHBISHOP  OF  YORK,  MOWBRAY, 
HASTINGS,  and  others. 

Arch.  What  is  this  forest  call'd  ? 

Hast.  Tis  Gualtree  Forest,  an 't  shall  please 
your  grace. 

Arch.  Here  stand,  my  lords ;  and  send  dis- 
coverers forth 
To  know  the  numbers  of  our  enemies. 

Hast.  We  have  sent  forth  already. 

Arch.  'Tis  well  done. 

My  friends  and  brethren  in  these  great  affairs, 
I  must  acquaint  you  that  I  have  receiv'd 
New-dated  letters  from  Northumberland; 
Their  cold  intent,  tenour,  and  substance,  thus: — 
Here  doth  he  wish  his  person,  with  such  powers 
As  might  hold  sortance  with  his  quality, 
The  which  he  could  not  levy;  whereupon 
He  is  retir'd,  to  ripe  his  growing  fortunes, 
To  Scotland ;  and  concludes  in  hearty  prayers 
That  your  attempts  may  over-live  the  hazard 
And  fearful  meeting  of  their  opposite. 

Mowb.  Thus  do  the  hopes  we  have  in  him 

touch  ground, 
And  dash  themselves  to  pieces. 

•  iJ^^'Jt&TJ^  o^ii  iUfi>/.K  work'    v^n !;  >"    t03 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Hast.  Now,  what  news? 

Mess.  West  of  this  forest,  scarcely  off  a  mile, 
In  goodly  form  comes  on  the  enemy ; 
And,  by  the  ground  they  hide,  I  judge  their 

number 

Upon  or  near  the  rate  of  thirty  thousand. 
Mowb.  The  just  proportion  that  we  gave  them 

out. 

Let  us  sway  on,  and  face  them  in  the  field. 
Arch.  What  well-appointed  leader  fronts  us 

here? 
Mowb.  I  think  it  is  my  Lord  of  Westmoreland. 

Enter  WESTMORELAND. 

West.  Health  and   fair  greeting  from  our 

general 
The  prince,  Lord  John  and  Duke  of  Lancaster. 

Arch.  Say  on,  my  Lord  of  Westmoreland,  in 

peace, 
What  doth  concern  your  coming. 

West.  Then,  my  lord, 

Unto  your  grace  do  I  in  chief  address 
The  substance  of  my  speech.     If  that  rebellion 
Came  like  itself,  in  base  and  abject  routs, 
Led  on  by  bloody  youth,  guarded  with  rags, 


5i6 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  IV. 


And  countenanc'd  by  boys  and  beggary,— 
I  say,  if  damn'd  commotion  so  appear'd, 
In  his  true,  native,  and  most  proper  shape, 
You,  reverend  father,  and  these  noble  lords, 
Had  not  been  here,  to  dress  the  ugly  form 
Of  base  and  bloody  insurrection 
With  your  fair  honours.    You,  lord  archbishop, — 
Whose  see  is  by  a  civil  peace  maintain'd ; 
Whose  beard  the  silver  hand  of  peace  hath 

touch'd ;  [tutor'd ; 

Whose  learning  and  good  letters  peace  hath 
Whose  white  investments  figure  innocence, 
The  dove  and  very  blessed  spirit  of  peace, — 
Wherefore  do  you  so  ill  translate  yourself 
Out  of  the  speech  of  peace,  that  bears  such  grace, 
Into  the  harsh  and  boisterous  tongue  of  war ; 
Turning  your  books  to  greaves,  your  ink  to  blood, 
Your  pens  to  lances,  and  your  tongue  divine 
To  a  loud  trumpet  and  a  point  of  war? 

Arch.  Wherefore  do  I  this? — so  the  question 

stands. 

Briefly  to  this  end : — we  are  all  diseas'd; 
And  with  our  surfeiting  and  wanton  hours 
Have  brought  ourselves  into  a  burning  fever, 
And  we  must  bleed  for  it :  of  which  disease 
Our  late  king,  Richard,  being  infected,  died. 
But,  my  most  noble  Lord  of  Westmoreland, 
I  take  not  on  me  here  as  a  physician ; 
Nor  do  I,  as  an  enemy  to  peace, 
Troop  in  the  throngs  of  military  men ; 
But,  rather,  show  awhile  like  fearful  war, 
To  diet  rank  minds  sick  of  happiness, 
And  purge  the  obstructions  which  begin  to  stop 
Our  very  veins  of  life.     Hear  me  more  plainly. 
I  have  in  equal  balance  justly  weigh'd 
What  wrongs  our  arms  may  do,  what  wrongs 

we  suffer, 

And  find  our  griefs  heavier  than  our  offences. 
We  see  which  way  the  stream  of  time  doth  run, 
And  are  enforc'd  from  our  most  quiet  sphere 
By  the  rough  torrent  of  occasion ; 
And  have  the  summary  of  all  our  griefs, 
When  time  shall  serve,  to  show  in  articles ; 
Which  long  ere  this  we  offer'd  to  the  king, 
And  might  by  no  suit  gain  our  audience : 
When  we  are  wrong'd,  and  would  unfold  our 

griefs, 

We  are  denied  access  unto  his  person     [wrong. 
Even  by  those  men  that  most  have  done  us 
The  dangers  of  the  days  but  newly  gone, — 
Whose  memory  is  written  on  the  earth 
With  yet  appearing  blood, — and  the  examples 
Of  every  minute's  instance, — present  now, — 
Have  put  us  in  these  ill-beseeming  arms; 
Not  to  break  peace,  or  any  branch  of  it, 
But  to  establish  here  a  peace  indeed, 
Concurring  both  in  name  and  quality. 


West.    When    ever    yet   was    your    appeal 

denied ; 

Wherein  have  you  been  galled  by  the  king ; 
What  peer  hath  been  suborn' d  to  grate  on 

you;— 

That  you  should  seal  this  lawless  bloody  book 
Of  forg'd  rebellion  with  a  seal  divine, 
And  consecrate  commotion's  bitter  edge? 

Arch,  ^ybrothergeneral,  the  commonwealth, 
To  brother  born  an  household  cruelty, 
I  make  my  quarrel  in  particular. 

West.   There  is  no  need  of  any  such  redress ; 
Or  if  there  were,  it  not.  belongs  to  you.         [all 
Mowb.   Why  not  to  him  in  part,  and  to  us 
That  feel  the  bruises  of  the  days  before, 
And  suffer  the  condition  of  these  times 
To  lay  a  heavy  and  unequal  hand 
Upon  our  honours? 

West.  O,  my  good  Lord  Mowbray, 

Construe  the  times  to  their  necessities, 
And  you  shall  say  indeed,  it  is  the  time, 
And  not  the  king,  that  doth  you  injuries. 
Yet,  for  your  part,  it  not  appears  to  me, 
Either  from  the  king  or  in  the  present  time, 
That  you  should  have  an  inch  of  any  ground 
To  build  a  grief  on :  were  you  not  restored 
To  all  the  Duke  of  Norfolk's  signiories, 
Your  noble  and  right-well-remember'd  father's? 
Mowb.  What  thing,  in  honour,  had  my  father 

lost, 

That  need  to  be  reviv'd  and  breath'd  in  me? 
The  king,  that  lov'd  him,  as  the  state  stood  then, 
Was,  force  perforce,  compell'd  to  banish  him, 
And  then  that  Henry  Bolingbroke  and  he, — 
Being  mounted  and  both  roused  in  their  seats, 
Their  neighing  coursers  daring  of  the  spur, 
Their  armed  staves  in  charge,  their  beavers  down, 
Their  eyes  of  fire  sparkling  through  sights  of 

steel, 

And  the  loud  trumpet  blowing  them  together, — 
Then,  then,  when  there  was  nothing  could  have 

stay'd 

My  father  from  the  breast  of  Bolingbroke, 
O,  when  the  king  did  throw  his  warder  down, 
His  own  life  hung  upon  the  staff  he  threw ; 
Then  threw  he  down  himself,  and  all  their  lives 
That  by  indictment  and  by  dint  of  sword 
Have  since  miscarried  under  Bolingbroke. 
West.  You  speak,  Lord  Mowbray,  now  you 

know  not  what. 

The  Earl  of  Hereford  was  reputed  then 
In  England  the  most  valiant  gentleman : 
Who  knows  on  whom  fortune  would  then  have 

smil'd? 

But  if  your  father  had  been  victor  there, 
He  ne'er  had  borne  it  out  of  Coventry : 
For  all  the  country,  in  a  general  voice, 


SCENE  I.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


517 


Cried  hate  upon  him ;  and  all  their  prayers  and 

love 

Were  set  on  Hereford,  whom  they  doted  on, 
And  bless'd  and  grac'd  indeed,  more  than  the 

king. 

But  this  is  mere  digression  from  my  purpose. — 
Here  come  I  from  our  princely  general 
To  know  your  griefs ;  to  tell  you  from  his  grace 
That  he  will  give  you  audience ;  and  wherein 
It  shall  appear  that  your  demands  are  just, 
You  shall  enjoy  them, — everything  set  off 
That  might  so  much  as  think  you  enemies. 
Mowb.  But  he  hath  forc'd  us  to  compel  this 

offer; 
And  it  proceeds  from  policy,  not  love. 

West.  Mowbray,  you  overween  to  take  it  so ; 
This  offer  comes  from  mercy,  not  from  fear : 
For,  lo !  within  a  ken,  our  army  lies : 
Upon  mine  honour,  all  too  confident 
To  give  admittance  to  a  thought  of  fear. 
Our  battle  is  more  full  of  names  than  yours, 
Our  men  more  perfect  in  the  use  of  arms, 
Our  armour  all  as  strong,  our  cause  the  best ; 
Then  reason  will  our  hearts  should  be  as  good : 
Say  you  not,  then,  our  offer  is  compell'd. 
Mowb.  Well,  by  my  will  we  shall  admit  no 

parley. 
West.  That  argues  but  the  shame  of  your 

offence : 
A  rotten  case  abides  no  handling. 

Hast.  Hath  the  Prince  John  a  full  commis- 
sion, 

In  very  ample  virtue  of  his  father, 
To  hear  and  absolutely  to  determine 
Of  what  conditions  we  shall  stand  upon? 

West.  That  is  intended  in  the  general's  name: 
I  muse  you  make  so  slight  a  question. 

Arch.  Then  take,  my  Lord  of  Westmoreland, 

this  schedule, 

For  this  contains  our  general  grievances : 
Each  several  article  herein  redress'd, 
All  members  of  our  cause,  both  here  and  hence, 
That  are  insinew'd  to  this  action, 
Acquitted  by  a  true  substantial  form, 
And  present  execution  of  our  wills 
To  us  and  to  our  purposes  consign'd, — 
We  come  within  our  awful  banks  again, 
And  knit  our  powers  to  the  arm  of  peace. 
West.  This  will  I  show  the  general.     Please 

you,  lords, 

In  sight  of  both  our  battles  we  may  meet ; 
And    either  end  in    peace, — which    God    so 

frame ! — 

Or  to  the  place  of  difference  call  the  swords 
Which  must  decide  it. 
Arch.  My  lord,  we  will  do  so. 

[Exit  WESTMORELAND. 


Mowb.  There  is  a  thing  within  my  bosom 

tells  me 
That  no  conditions  of  our  peace  can  stand. 

Hast.  Fear  you  not  that :  if  we  can  make  our 

peace 

Upon  such  large  terms  and  so  absolute 
As  our  conditions  shall  consist  upon, 
Our  peace  shall  stand  as  firm  as  rocky  mountains. 

Mowb.  Ay,  but  our  valuation  shall  be  such, 
That  every  slight  and  false-derived  cause, 
Yea,  every  idle,  nice,  and  wanton  reason, 
Shall  to  the  king  taste  of  this  action  ; 
That,  were  our  royal  faitr  s  martyrs  in  love, 
We  shall  be  winnow'd  wkh  so  rough  a  wind 
That  even  our  corn  shall  seem  as  light  as  chaff, 
And  good  from  bad  find  no  partition. 

Arch.  No,  no,  my  lord.      Note  this, — the 

king  is  weary 

Of  dainty  and  such  picking  grievances : 
For  he  hath  found,  to  end  one  doubt  by  death 
Revives  two  greater  in  the  heirs  of  life  ; 
And  therefore  will  he  wipe  his  tables  clean, 
And  keep  no  teil-tale  to  his  memory, 
That  may  repeat  and  history  his  loss 
To  new  remembrance  :  for  full  well  he  knows 
He  cannot  so  precisely  weed  this  land 
As  his  misdoubts  present  occasion  : 
His  foes  are  so  enrooted  with  his  friends 
That,  plucking  to  unfix  an  enemy, 
He  doth  unfasten  so  and  shake  a  friend. 
So  that  this  land,  like  an  offensive  wife 
That  hath  enrag'd  him  on  to  offer  strokes, 
As  he  is  striking,  holds  his  infant  up, 
And  hangs  resolv'd  correction  in  the  arm 
That  was  uprearM  to  execution.  [rods 

Hast.  Besides,  the  king  hath  wasted  all  his 
On  late  offenders,  that  he  now  doth  lack 
The  very  instruments  of  chastisement : 
So  that  his  power,  like  to  a  fangless  lion, 
May  offer,  but  not  hold. 

Arch.  'Tis  very  true  : 

And  therefore  be  assur'd,  my  good  lord  marshal, 
If  we  do  now  make  our  atonement  well, 
Our  peace  will,  like  a  broken  limb  united, 
Grow  stronger  for  the  breaking. 

Mowb.  Be  it  so, 

Here  is  return'd  my  Lord  of  Westmoreland. 

.     Re-enter  WESTMORELAND. 

West.  The  prince  is  here  at  hand :  pleaseth 

your  lordship 
To  meet  his  grace  just  distance   'tween  our 

armies? 
Mowb.  Your  grace  of  York,  in  God's  name, 

then,  set  forward. 
Arch.  Before,  and  greet  his  grace :— my  lord, 

welcome.  \Exeunt. 


5i8 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  IV. 


SCENE  II. — Another  part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter,  from  one  side,  MOWBRAY,  the  ARCH- 
BISHOP, HASTINGS,  and  others:  from  the 
other  side,  PRINCE  JOHN  OF  LANCASTER, 
WESTMORELAND,  Officers  and  Attendants. 

P.  John.  You  are  well  encounter'd  here,  my 

cousin  Mowbray: 

Good-day  to  you,  gentle  lord  archbishop ; 
And  so  to  you,  Lord  Hastings, — and  to  all. — 
My  Lord  of  York,  it  better  show'd  with  you 
When  that  your  flock,  assembled  by  the  bell, 
Encircled  you  to  hear  with  reverence 
Your  exposition  on  the  holy  text, 
Than  now  to  see  you  here  an  iron  man. 
Cheering  a  rout  of  rebels  with  your  drum, 
Turning  the  word  to  sword,  and  life  to  death. 
That  man  that  sits  within  a  monarch's  heart, 
And  ripens  in  the  sunshine  of  his  favour, 
Would  he  abuse  the  countenance  of  the  king, 
Alack,  what  mischiefs  might  he  set  abroach 
In  shadow  of  such  greatness !     With  you,  lord 

bishop, 

It  is  even  so.     Who  hath  not  heard  it  spoken 
How  deep  you  were  within  the  books  of  God? 
To  us  the  speaker  in  his  parliament; 
To  us  the  imagin'd  voice  of  God  himself; 
The  very  opener  and  intelligencer 
Between  the  grace,  the  sanctities  of  heaven, 
And  our  dull  workings.     O,  who  shall  believe 
But  you  misuse  the  reverence  of  your  place, 
Employ  the  countenance  and  grace  of  heaven, 
As  a  false  favourite  doth  his  prince's  name, 
In  deeds  dishonourable?     You  have  taken  up, 
Under  the  counterfeited  seal  of  God, 
The  subjects  of  his  substitute,  my  father, 
And  both  against  the  peace  of  heaven  and  him 
Have  here  up-swarm'd  them. 

Arch.  Good  my  Lord  of  Lancaster, 

I  am  not  here  against  your  father's  peace ; 
But  as  I  told  my  lord  of  Westmoreland, 
The  time  misorder'd  doth,  in  common  sense, 
Crowd  us  and  crush  us  to  this  monstrous  form, 
To  hold  our  safety  up.     I  sent  your  grace 
The  parcels  and  particulars  of  our  grief, — 
The  which  hath  been  with  scorn  shov'd  from 

the  court, — 

Whereon  this  Hydra  son  of  war  is  born ; 
Whose  dangerous  eyes  may  well  be  charm'd 

asleep 

With  grant  of  our  most  just  and  right  desires, 
And  true  obedience,  of  this  madness  cur'd, 
Stoop  tamely  to  the  foot  of  majesty. 

Mowb.  If  not,  we  ready  are  to  try  our  fortunes 
To  the  last  man. 

Hast.  And  though  we  here  fall  down, 


We  have  supplies  to  second  our  attempt : 
If  they  miscarry,  theirs  shall  second  them ; 
And  so  success  of  mischief  shall  be  born, 
And  heir  from  heir  shall  hold  this  quarrel  up 
Whiles  England  shall  have  generation. 

P.  John.    You  are  too  shallow,   Hastings, 

much  too  shallow, 
To  sound  the  bottom  of  the  after-times. 

West.  Pleaseth  your  grace  to  answer  them 

directly, 
How  far -forth  you  do  like  their  articles. 

P.  John.  I  like  them  all,  and  do  allow  them 

well; 

And  swear  here,  by  the  honour  of  my  blood, 
My  father's  purposes  have  been  mistook ; 
And  some  about  him  have  too  lavishly 
Wrested  his  meaning  and  authority. — 
My  lord;  these  griefs  shall  be  with  speed  re- 
dress'd ;  [you, 

Upon  my  soul,  they  shall.     If  this  may  please 
Discharge  your  powers  unto  their  several  coun- 
ties, 

As  we  will  ours :  and  here,  between  the  armies, 
Let 's  drink  together  friendly,  and  embrace, 
That  all  their  eyes  may  bear  those  tokens  home 
Of  our  restored  love  and  amity. 

Arch.   I  take  your  princely  word  for  these  re 
dresses.  [word: 

P.  John.  I  give  it  you,  and  will  maintain  my 
And  thereupon  I  drink  unto  your  grace. 

Hast.  Go,  captain  [to  an  Officer],  and  deliver 
to  the  army  [part: 

This  news  of  peace;   let  them  have  pay,  and 
I  know  it  will  well  please  them.     Hie  thee, 
captain.  [Exit  Officer. 

Arch.  To  you,  my  noble  Lord  of  Westmore- 
land, [what  pains 
West.  I  pledge  your  grace ;  and,  if  you  knew 
I  have  bestow'd  to  breed  this  present  peace, 
You  would  drink  freely:  but  my  love  to  you 
Shall  show  itself  more  openly  hereafter. 
Arch.  I  do  not  doubt  you. 
West.                                   I  am  glad  of  it.— 
Health  to  my  lord  and  gentle  cousin,  Mowbray. 
Mowb.  You  wish  me  health  in  very  happy 

season ; 
For  I  am,  on  the  sudden,  something  ill. 

Arch.  Against  ill  chances  men  are  ever  merry; 
But  heaviness  foreruns  the  good  event. 

West.  Therefore  be  merry,  coz ;  since  sudden 

sorrow  [morrow. 

Serves  to  say  thus, — Some  good  thing  comes  to- 

Arch.  Believe  me,  I  am  passing  light  in  spirit. 

Mowb.  So  much  the  worse,  if  your  own  rule 

be  true.  •        [Shouts  within. 

P.John.  The  word  of  peace  is  render'd- 

hark,  how  they  shout ! 


SCENE  III.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


519 


Mowb.  This  had  been  cheerful  after  victory. 

Arch.  A  peace  is  of  the  nature  of  a  conquest ; 
For  then  both  parties  nobly  are  subdued, 
And  neither  party  loser. 

P.  John.  Go,  my  lord, 

And  let  our  army  be  discharged  too. 

[Exit  WESTMORELAND. 

And,  good  my  lord,  so  please  you  let  your  trains 
March  by  us,  that  we  may  peruse  the  men 
We  should  have  cop'd  withal. 

Arch.  Go,  good  Lord  Hastings, 

And,  ere  they  be  dismissed,  let  them  march  by. 

[Exit  HASTINGS. 

P.  John,  I  trust,  my  lords,  we  shall  lie  to- 
night together. 

Re-enter  WESTMORELAND. 
Now,  cousin,  wherefore  stands  our  army  still? 
West.  The  leaders,  having  charge  from  you 

to  stand, 

Will  not  go  off  until  they  hear  you  speak. 
P.  John.  They  know  their  duties. 

Re-enter  HASTINGS. 

Hast.  My  lord,  our  army  is  dispers'd  already: 
Like  youthful  steers  unyok'd,  they  take  their 
courses  [up, 

East,  west,  north,  south ;  or,  like  a  school  broke 
Each  hurries  toward  his  home  and  sporting- 
place,  [the  which 
West.  Good  tidings,  my  Lord  Hastings ;  for 
I  do  arrest  thee,  traitor,  of  high  treason : — 
And  you,  lord   archbishop, — and  you,   Lord 

Mowbray. — 

Of  capital  treason  I  attach  you  both. 
Mowb.  Is  this  proceeding  just  and  honourable? 
West.  Is  your  assembly  so? 
Arch.  Will  you  thus  break  your  faith? 
P.  John.  I  pawn'd  thee  none : 

I  promis'd  you  redress  of  these  same  grievances 
Whereof  you  did  complain;  which,  by  mine 

honour, 

I  will  perform  with  a  most  Christian  care. 
But  for  you,  rebels, — look  to  taste  the  due 
Meet  for  rebellion  and  such  acts  as  yours. 
Most  shallowly  did  you  these  arms  commence, 
Fondly  brought  here,  and  foolishly  sent  hence. — 
Strike  up  our  drums,  pursue  the  scatter'd  stray : 
God,  and  not  we,  hath  safely  fought  to-day. — 
Some  guard  these  traitors  to  the  block  of  death, 
Treason's  true  bed  and  yielder-up  of  breath. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.—  Anotlier  part  of  the  Forest. 
Alarums:  excursions.     Enter  FALSTAFF  and 

COLEVILE,  meeting. 

Fal.  What 's  your  name,  sir?  of  what  condi- 
tion are  you,  and  of  what  place,  I  pray? 

•' 


Cole.  I  am  a  knight,  sir;  and  my  name  is 
Colevile  of  the  dale. 

Fal.  Well,  then,  Colevile  is  your  name,  a 
knight  is  your  degree,  and  your  place  the  dale : 
Colevile  shall  be  still  your  name,  a  traitor  your 
degree,  and  the  dungeon  your  dale, — a  dale  deep 
enough;  so  shall  you  be  still  Colevile  of  the 
dale. 

Cole.  Are  not  you  Sir  John  Falstaff? 

Fal.  As  good  a  man  as  he,  sir,  whoe'er  I  am. 
Do  ye  yield,  sir?  or  shall  I  sweat  for  you?  If 
I  do  sweat,  they  are  the  drops  of  thy  lovers,  and 
they  weep  for  thy  death ;  therefore  rouse  up  fear 
and  trembling,  and  do  observance  to  my  mercy. 

Cole.  I  think  you  are  Sir  John  Falstaff;  and 
in  that  thought  yield  me. 

Fal.  I  have  a  whole  school  of  tongues  in  this 
belly  of  mine;  and  not  a  tongue  of  them  all 
speaks  any  other  word  but  my  name.  An  I  had 
but  a  belly  of  any  indifferency,  I  were  simply 
the  most  active  fellow  in  Europe :  my  womb, 
my  womb,  my  womb  undoes  me. — Here  comes 
our  general. 

Enter  PRINCE  JOHN  OF  LANCASTER,  WEST- 
MORELAND, and  others. 

P.  John.  The  heat  is  past,  follow  no  farther 

now: — 

Call  in  the  powers,  good  cousin  Westmoreland. 

[Exit  WESTMORELAND. 

Now,  Falstaff,  where  have  you  been  all  this 

while? 

When  everything  is  ended,  then  you  come : 
These  tardy  tricks  of  yours  will,  on  my  life, 
One  time  or  other  break  some  gallows'  back. 

Fal.  I  would  be  sorry,  my  lord,  but  it  should 
be  thus :  I  never  knew  yet  but  rebuke  and  check 
was  the  reward  of  valour.  Do  you  think  me  a 
swallow,  an  arrow,  or  a  bullet?  have  I,  in  my 
poor  and  old  motion,  the  expedition  of  thought? 
I  have  speeded  hither  with  the  very  extremest 
inch  of  possibility ;  I  have  foundered  nine-score 
and  odd  posts :  and  here,  travel  tainted  as  I  am, 
have,  in  my  pure  and  immaculate  valour,  taken 
Sir  John  Colevile  of  the  dale,  a  most  furious 
knight  and  valorous  enemy.  But  what  of  that? 
he  saw  me,  and  yielded ;  that  I  may  justly  say 
with  the  hook-nosed  fellow  of  Rome, — I  came, 
saw,  and  overcame. 

P.  John.  It  was  more  of  his  courtesy  than 
your  deserving. 

Fal.  I  know  not: — here  he  is,  and  here  I 
yield  him :  and  I  beseech  your  grace,  let  it  be 
booked  with  the  rest  of  this  day's  deeds ;  or, 
by  the  Lord,  I  will  have  it  in  a  particular  ballad 
else,  with  mine  own  picture  on  the  top  of  it, 
Colevile  kissing  my  foot :  to  the  which  course 


520 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  iv. 


if  I  be  enforced,  if  you  do  not  all  show  like  gilt 
two-pences  to  me,  and  I,  in  the  clear  sky  of 
fame,  o'ershine  you  as  much  as  the  full  moon 
doth  the  cinders  of  the  element,  which  show 
like  pins'  heads  to  her,  believe  not  the  word  of 
the  noble :  therefore  let  me  have  right,  and  let 
desert  mount. 

P.  John.  Thine  's  too  heavy  to  mount. 

Fal.  Let  it  shine,  then. 

P.  John.  Thine 's  too  thick  to  shine. 

Fal.  Let  it  do  something,  my  good  lord,  that 
may  do  me  good,  and  call  it  what  you  will. 

P.  John.  Is  thy  name  Colevile  ? 

Cole.  It  is,  my  lord. 

P.  John.  A  famous  rebel  art  thou,  Colevile. 

Fal.  And  a  famous  true  subject  took  him. 

Cole.  I  am,  my  lord,  but  as  my  betters  are 
That  led  me  hither :  had  they  been  rul'd  by  me, 
You  should  have  won  them  dearer  than  you  have. 

Fal.  I  know  not  how  they  sold  themselves : 
but  thou,  like  a  kind  fellow,  gavest  thyself  away 
gratis ;  and  I  thank  thee  for  thee. 

Re-enter  WESTMORELAND. 

P.  John.  Now,  have  you  left  pursuit? 

West.  Retreat  is  made,  and  execution  stay'd. 

P.  John.   Send  Colevile,  with  his  confeder- 
ates, 

To  York,  to  present  execution : —  [sure. 

Blunt,  lead  him  hence ;  and  see  you  guard  him 

[Exeunt  some  with  COLEVILE. 

And  now  despatch  we  toward  the  court,  my 

lords. 

I  hear  the  king,  my  father,  is  sore  sick : 
Our  news  shall  go  before  us  to  his  majesty, — 
Which,  cousin,  you  shall  bear, —  to  comfort  him; 
And  we  with  sober  speed  will  follow  you. 

Fal.  My  lord,  I  beseech  you,  give  me  leave 

to  go  [court, 

Through  Glostershire :  and,  when  you  come  to 

Stand,  my  good  lord,  pray,  in  your  good  report. 

P.  John.  Fare  you  well,  Falstaff :  I,  in  my 

condition, 
Shall  better  speak  of  you  than  you  deserve. 

[Exeunt  all  but  FAL. 

Fal.  I  would  you  had  but  the  wit:  'twere 
better  than  your  dukedom.  Good  faith,  this 
same  young  sober-blooded  boy  doth  not  love 
me ;  nor  a  man  cannot  make  him  laugh ; — but 
that 's  no  marvel ;  he  drinks  no  wine.  There 's 
never  any  of  these  demure  boys  come  to  any 
proof;  for  thin  drink  doth  so  over-cool  their 
blood,  and  making  many  fish-meals,  that  they 
fall  into  a  kind  of  male  green-sickness;  and 
then,  when  they  marry,  they  get  wenches :  they 
are  generally  fools  and  cowards ; — which  some 
of  us  should  be  too,  but  for  inflammation.  A 


good  sherris-sack  hath  a  twofold  operation  in 
it.  It  accends  me  into  the  brain;  dries  me 
there  all  the  foolish  and  dull  and  crudy  vapours 
which  environ  it ;  makes  it  apprehensive,  quick, 
forgetive,  full  of  nimble,  fiery,  and  delectable 
shapes ;  which  delivered  o'er  to  the  voice, — the 
tongue, — which  is  the  birth,  becomes  excellent 
wit.  The  second  property  of  your  excellent 
sherris  is, — the  warming  of  the  blood ;  which, 
before  cold  and  settled,  left  the  liver  white  and 
pale,  which  is  the  badge  of  pusillanimity  and 
cowardice :  but  the  sherris  warms  it,  and  makes 
it  course  from  the  inwards  to  the  parts  extreme : 
it  illumineth  the  face;  which,  as  a  beacon, 
gives  warning  to  all  the  rest  of  this  little  king- 
dom, man,  to  arm;  and  then  the  vital  com- 
moners and  inland  petty  spirits  muster  me  all 
to  their  captain,  the  heart,  who,  great  and 
puffed  up  with  this  retinue,  doth  any  deed  of 
courage :  and  this  valour  comes  of  sherris.  So 
that  skill  in  the  weapon  is  nothing  without 
sack,  for  that  sets  it  a-work;  and  learning,  a 
mere  hoard  of  gold  kept  by  a  devil  till  sack 
commences  it  and  sets  it  in  act  and  use. 
Hereof  comes  it  that  Prince  Harry  is  valiant; 
for  the  cold  blood  he  did  naturally  inherit  of 
his  father,  he  hath,  like  lean,  sterile,  and  bare 
land,  manured,  husbanded,  and  tilled,  with 
excellent  endeavour  of  drinking  good  and  good 
store  of  fertile  sherris,  that  he  is  become  very 
hot  and  valiant.  If  I  had  a  thousand  sons,  the 
first  human  principle  I  would  teach  them  should 
be, — to  forswear  thin  potations,  and  to  addict 
themselves  to  sack. 

Enter  BARDOLPH. 

How  now,  Bardolph ! 

Bard.  The  army  is  discharged  all,  and  gone. 

Fal.  Let  them  go.  I'll  through  Gloster- 
shire: and  there  will  I  visit  Master  Robert 
Shallow,  Esquire :  I  have  him  already  temper- 
ing between  my  finger  and  my  thumb,  and 
shortly  will  I  seal  with  him.  Come  away. 

[Exeunt. 


A  Room  in  the 


SCENE  IV. — WESTMINSTER. 
Palace. 


Enter  KING  HENRY,  CLARENCE,  PRINCE 
HUMPHREY,  WARWICK,  and  others. 

K.  Hen.  Now,  lords,  if  God  doth  give  sue 

cessful  end 

To  this  debate  that  bleedeth  at  our  doors, 
We  will  our  youth  lead  on  to  higher  fields, 
And  draw  no  swords  but  what  are  sanctified. 
Our  navy  is  address'd,  our  power  collected, 
Our  substitutes  in  absence  well  invested, 


SCENE  IV.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


521 


And  everything  lies  level  to  our  wish : 
Only,  we  want  a  little  personal  strength ; 
And  pause  us  till  these  rebels,  now  afoot, 
Come  underneath  the  yoke  of  government. 

War-   Both  which  we  doubt  not  but  your 

majesty 
Shall  soon  enjoy. 

K.  Hen.         Humphrey,  my  son  of  Gloster, 
Where  is  the  prince  your  brother? 

P.  Humph.  I  think  he  's  gone  to  hunt,  my 
lord,  at  Windsor. 

K.  Hen.  And  how  accompanied? 

P.  Humph.  I  do  not  know,  my  lord. 

K.  Hen.    Is   not    his    brother,    Thomas   of 
Clarence,  with  him? 

P.  Humph.  No,   my  good   lord,    he   is   in 
presence  here. 

Cla.  What  would  my  lord  and  father? 

K.  Hen.  Nothing  but  well  to  thee,  Thomas 

of  Clarence. 

How  chance  thou  art  not  with  the  prince  thy 
brother?  [Thomas ; 

He  loves  thee,  and   thou  dost   neglect  him, 
Thou  hast  a  better  place  in  his  affection 
Than  all  thy  brothers :  cherish  it,  my  boy ; 
And  noble  offices  thou  mayst  effect 
Of  mediation,  after  I  am  dead, 
Between  his  greatness  and  thy  other  brethren : 
Therefore  omit  him  not ;  blunt  not  his  love, 
Nor  lose  the  good  advantage  of  his  grace 
By  seeming  cold  or  careless  of  his  will ; 
For  he  is  gracious  if  he  be  observ'd : 
He  hath  a  tear  for  pity,  and  a  hand 
Open  as  day  for  melting  charity: 
Yet  notwithstanding,  being  incens'd,  he 's  flint ; 
As  humorous  as  winter,  and  as  sudden 
As  flaws  congealed  in  the  spring  of  day. 
His  temper,  therefore,  must  be  well  observ'd : 
Chide  him  for  faults,  and  do  it  reverently, 
When  you  perceive  his  blood  inclin'd  to  mirth ; 
But,  being  moody,  give  him  line  and  scope, 
Till  that  his  passions,  like  a  whale  on  ground, 
Confound  themselves  with  working.   Learn  this, 

Thomas, 

And  thou  shalt  prove  a  shelter  to  thy  friends, 
A  hoop  of  gold  to  bind  thy  brothers  in, 
That  the  united  vessel  of  their  blood, 
Mingled  with  venom  of  suggestion, — 
As,  force  perforce,  the  age  will  pour  it  in, — 
Shall  never  leak,  though  it  do  work  as  strong 
As  aconitum  or  rash  gunpowder. 

Cla.  I  shall  observe  him  with  all  care  and  love. 

K.  Hen.  Why  art  thou  not  at  Windsor  with 
him,  Thomas?  [London. 

Cla.  He   is  not  there  to-day ;  he  dines  in 

K.  Hen.    And  how  accompanied  ?  canst  thou 
tell  that? 


Cla.  With  Poins,  and  other  his  continual  fol- 
lowers. 
K.  Hen.   Most  subject  is  the  fattest  soil  to 

weeds; 

And  he,  the  noble  image  of  my  youth, 
Is  overspread  with  them :  therefore  my  grief 
Stretches  itself  beyond  the  hour  of  death : 
The   blood  weeps  from  my  heart  when  I  do 

shape, 

In  forms  imaginary,  the  unguided  days 
And  rotten  times  that  you  shall  look  upon 
When  I  am  sleeping  with  my  ancestors. 
For  when  his  headstrong  riot  hath  no  curb, 
When  rage  and  hot  blood  are  his  counsellors, 
When  means  and  lavish  manners  meet  together, 
O,  with  what  wings  shall  his  affections  fly 
Towards  fronting  peril  and  oppos'd  decay ! 
War.  My  gracious  lord,  you  look  beyond  him 

quite : 

The  prince  but  studies  his  companions 
Like  a  strange  tongue;  wherein,  to  gain  the 

language, 

'Tis  needful  that  the  most  immodest  word 
Be  look'd  upon  and  learn'd ;  which  once  attain'd, 
Your  highness  knows,  comes  to  no  further  use 
But  to  be  known  and  hated.     So,  like  gross 

terms, 

The  prince  will,  in  the  perfectness  of  time, 
Cast  off  his  followers ;  and  their  memory 
Shall  as  a  pattern  or  a  measure  live, 
By  which  his  grace  must  mete  the  lives  of  others, 
Turning  past  evils  to  advantages. 

K.  Hen.  'Tis  seldom  when  the   bee  doth 

leave  her  comb 
In  the  dead  carrion, — 

Enter  WESTMORELAND. 

Who 's  here?    Westmoreland  ? 
West.  Health   to  my  sovereign,    and   new 

happiness 

Added  to  that  that  I  am  to  deliver !        [hand  : 
Prince  John,  your  son,  doth  kiss  your  grace's 
Mowbray,  the  Bishop  Scroop,  Hastings,  and  all, 
Are  brought  to  the  correction  of  your  law ; 
There  is  not  now  a  rebel's  sword  unsheathed, 
But  peace  puts  forth  her  olive  everywhere : 
The  manner  how  this  action  hath  been  borne, 
Here  at  more  leisure  may  your  highness  read, 
With  every  course  in  his  particular. 

K.   Hen.    O,    Westmoreland,    thou    art    a 

summer  bird, 

Which  ever  in  the  haunch  of  winter  sings 
The  lifting-up  of  day.    Look,  here 's  more  news. 

Enter  HARCOURT. 

Har.    From    enemies    heaven    keep    your 
majesty; 


522 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  IV. 


And,  when  they  stand  against  you,  may  they 

fall 

As  those  that  I  am  come  to  tell  you  of ! 
The  Earl  Northumberland  and  the  Lord  Bar- 

dolph, 

With  a  great  power  of  English  and  of  Scots, 
Are  by  the  sheriff  of  Yorkshire  overthrown : 
The  manner  and  true  order  of  the  fight 
This  packet,  please  it  you,  contains  at  large. 
K.  Hen.  And  wherefore  should  these  good 

news  make  me  sick? 

Will  fortune  never  come  with  both  hands  full, 
But  write  her  fair  words  still  in  foulest  letters? 
She  either  gives  a  stomach,  and  no  food, — 
Such  are  the  poor,  in  health ;  or  else  a  feast, 
And  takes  away  the  stomach, — such  are  therich, 
That  have  abundance,  and  enjoy  it  not 
I  should  rejoice  now  at  this  happy  news; 
And  now  my  sight  fails,  and  my  brain  is  giddy: — 
O  me  !  come  near  me,  now  I  am  much  ill. 

\Swoons. 

P.  Humph.  Comfort,  your  majesty  ! 
Cla.  O  my  royal  father ! 

West.  My  sovereign  lord,  cheer  up  yourself, 

look  up. 
War.  Be  patient,  princes ;   you  do  know, 

these  fits 

Are  with  his  highness  very  ordinary.         [well. 

Stand  from  him,  give  him  air ;  he  '11  straight  be 

Cla.  No,  no  :  he  cannot  long  hold  out  these 

pangs: 

The  incessant  care  and  labour  of  his  mind 

Hath  wrought  the  mure,  that  should  confine  it 

in,  [out. 

So  thin,  that  life  looks  through,  and  will  break 

P.  Humph.  The  people  fear  me ;  for  they  do 

observe 

Unfather'd  heirs  and  loathly  births  of  nature : 
The  seasons  change  their  manners,  as  the  year 
Had  found   some  months  asleep,  and  leap'd 
them  over.  [tween ; 

Cla.  The  river  hath  thrice  flow'd,  no  ebb  be- 
And  the  old  folk,  time's  doting  chronicles, 
Say  it  did  so  a  little  time  before  [died. 

That  our  great  grandsire,  Edward,  sick'd  and 
War.   Speak  lower,  princes,  for  the  king  re- 
covers, [end. 
P.  Humph.  This  apoplexy  will  certain  be  his 
K.  Hen.  I  pray  you,  take  me  up,  and  bear 

me  hence 
Into  some  other  chamber:  softly,  pray. 

{They  convey  the  KING  into  an  inner  part  of 

the  room.)  and  place  him  on  a  bed. 
Let  there  be  no  noise  made,  my  gentle  friends; 
Unless  some  dull  and  favourable  hand 
Will  whisper  music  to  my  weary  spirit. 

War.  Call  for  the  music  in  the  other  room. 


K.  Hen.  Set  me  the  crown  upon  my  pillow 

here. 

Cla.  His  eye  is  hollow,  and  he  changes  much. 
War.  Less  noise,  less  noise  ! 

Enter  PRINCE  HENRY. 

P.  Hen.       Who  saw  the  Duke  of  Clarence? 

Cla.   I  am  here,  brother,  full  of  heaviness. 

P.  Hen.  How  now !  rain  within  doors,  and 

none  abroad  ! 
How  doth  the  king  ? 

P.  Humph.  Exceeding  ill. 

P.  Hen.  Heard  he  the  good  news  yet? 

Tell  it  him. 

P.  Humph.  He  alter'd  much  upon  the  hear- 
ing it. 

P.  Hen.   If  he  be  sick 
With  joy,  he  will  recover  without  physic. 

War.  Not  so  much  noise,  my  lords; — sweet 

prince,  speak  low ; 
The  king  your  father  is  dispos'd  to  sleep. 

Cla.  Let  us  withdraw  into  the  other  room. 

War.  Will 't  please  your  grace  to  go  along 
with  us? 

P.  Hen.  No ;  I  will  sit  and  watch  here  by 
the  king.     [Exeunt  all  but  P.  H  EN  R  Y. 
Why  doth  the  crown  lie  there  upon  his  pillow, 
Being  so  troublesome  a  bedfellow? 
O  polish'd  perturbation !  golden  care ! 
That  keep'st  the  ports  of  slumber  open  wide 
To  many  a  watchful  night ! — sleep  with  it  now ! 
Yet  not  so  sound  and  hah0  so  deeply  sweet 
As  he  whose  brow  with  homely  biggin  bound 
Snores  out  the  watch  of  night.     O  majesty ! 
When  thou  dost  pinch  thy  bearer,  thou  dost  sit 
Like  a  rich  armour  worn  in  heat  of  day, 
That  scalds  with  safety.     By  his  gates  of  breath 
There  lies  a  downy  feather  which  stirs  not : 
Did  he  suspire,  that  light  and  weightless  down 
Perforce  must  move. — My  gracious  lord!  my 

father  !— 

This  sleep  is  sound  indeed ;  this  is  a  sleep 
That  from  this  golden  rigol  hath  divorc'd 
So  many  English  kings.     Thy  due  from  me 
Is  tears  and  heavy  sorrows  of  the  blood, 
Which  nature,  love,  and  filial  tenderness 
Shall,  O  dear  father,  pay  thee  plenteously: 
My  due  from  thee  is  this  imperial  crown, 
Which,  as  immediate  from  thy  place  and  blood, 
Derives  itself  to  me.     Lo,  here  it  sits, — 

[Putting  it  on  his  head. 
Which  God  shall  guard  :  and  put  the  world's 

whole  strength 

Into  one  giant  arm,  it  shall  not  force 
This  lineal  honour  from  me  :  this  from  thee 
Will  I  to  mine  leave,  as  'tis  left  to  me.   [Exit. 

K.  Hen.  Warwick  !  Gloster  !  Clarence  ! 


SCENE  IV.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


5*3 


Re-enter  WARWICK  and  the  rest. 

Cla.  Doth  the  king  call  ? 

War.  What  would  your  majesty  ?  how  fares 
your  grace  ?  [my  lords  ? 

K.  Hen.  Why  did  you  leave  me  here  alone, 
Cla.  We  left  the  prince  my  brother  here,  my 

liege, 

Who  undertook  to  sit  and  watch  by  you. 
K.  Hen.  The  Prince  of  Wales !     Where  is 

he?  let  me  see  him  : 
He  is  not  here. 

War.  This  door  is  open ;  he  is  gone  this  way. 
P.  Humph.  He  came  not  through  the  cham- 
ber where  we  stay'd. 
K.  Hen.  Where  is  the  crown  ?  who  took  it 

from  my  pillow  ? 
War.  When  we  withdrew,  my  liege,  we  left 

it  here. 
K.  Hen.  The  prince  hath  ta'en  it  hence  :— 

go,  seek  him  out. 

Is  he  so  hasty  that  he  doth  suppose 
My  sleep  my  death  ? —  [hither. 

Find  him,  my  Lord  of  Warwick ;  chide  him 
[Exit  WARWICK. 

This  part  of  his  conjoins  with  my  disease, 
And  helps  to  end  me. — See,  sons,  what  things 
*>m  you  are  ! 

How  quickly  nature  falls  into  revolt 
When  gold  becomes  her  object  ! 
For  this  the  foolish  over-careful  fathers 
Have  broke   their  sleep  with  thoughts,  their 

brains  with  care, 
Their  bones  with  industry  ; 
For  this  they  have  engrossed  and  pil'd  up 
The  canker'd  heaps  of  strange-achieved  gold  ; 
For  this  they  have  been  thoughtful  to  invest 
Their  sons  with  arts  and  martial  exercises : 
When,  like  the  bee,  tolling  from  every  flower 
The  virtuous  sweets,  [pack'd, 

Our  thighs  with  wax,  our  mouths  with  honey 
We  bring  it  to  the  hive  :  and,  like  the  bees, 
Are  murder'd  for  our  pains.     This  bitter  taste 
Yield  his  engrossments  to  the  ending  father. 

Re-enter  WARWICK. 

Now,  where  is  he  that  will  not  stay  so  long 
Till  his  friend  sickness  hath  determin'd  me  ? 

War.  My  lord,  I  found  the  prince  in  the 

next  room, 

Washing  with  kindly  tears  his  gentle  cheeks  ; 
With  such  a  deep  demeanour  in  great  sorrow, 
That  tyranny,  which  never  quaff'd  but  blood, 
Would,  by  beholding  him,  have  wash'd  his  knife 
With  gentle  eye-drops.     He  is  coming  hither. 

K.  Hen.    But  wherefore  did  he  take  away 
the  crown  ? 


Re-enter  PRINCE  HENRY. 

Lo,  where  he  comes. — Come   hither  to  me, 

Harry. — 
Depart  the  chamber,  leave  us  here  alone. 

[Exeunt  CLAR.,  P.  HUMPH.,  Lords,  &c. 
P.  Hen.  I  never  thought  to  hear  you  speak 

again. 
K.  Hen.  Thy  wish  was  father,  Harry,  to  that 

thought : 

I  stay  too  long  by  thee,  I  weary  thee. 
Dost  thou  so  hunger  for  my  empty  chair 
That  thou  wilt  needs  invest  thee  with  mine 

honours 

Before  thy  hour  be  ripe  ?    O  foolish  youth  ! 
Thou  seek'st  the  greatness  that  will  overwhelm 

thee. 

Stay  but  a  little  ;  for  my  cloud  of  dignity 
Is  held  from  falling  with  so  weak  a  wind 
That  it  will  quickly  drop :  my  day  is  dim. 
Thou  hast  stolen  that  which,  after  some  few 

hours, 

Were  thine  without  offence  ;  and  at  my  death 
Thou  hast  seal'd  up  my  expectation : 
Thy  life  did  manifest  thou  lov'dst  me  not, 
And  thou  wilt  have  me  die  assur'd  of  it. 
Thou  hid'st  a  thousand  daggers  in  thy  thoughts, 
Which  thou  hast  whetted  on  thy  stony  heart, 
To  stab  at  half  an  hour  of  my  life. 
What  1  canst  thou  not  forbear  me  half  an  hour? 
Then,  get  thee  gone,  and  dig  my  grave  thyself; 
And  bid  the  merry  bells  ring  to  thine  ear, 
That  thou  art  crowned,  not  that  I  am  dead. 
Let  all  the  tears  that  should  bedew  my  hearse 
Be  drops  of  balm  to  sanctify  thy  head : 
Only  compound  me  with  forgotten  dust ; 
Give  that  which  gave  thee  life  unto  the  worms. 
Pluck  down  my  officers,  break  my  decrees ; 
For  now  a  time  is  come  to  mock  at  form  : — 
Harry  the  fifth  is  crown'd  : — up,  vanity ! 
Down,  royal  state!  all  you  sage  counsellors, 

hence ! 

And  to  the  English  court  assemble  now, 
From  every  region,  apes  of  idleness  !      [scum  : 
Now,  neighbour  confines,  purge  you  of  your 
Have  you  a  ruffian  that  will  swear,  drink,  dance, 
Revel  the  night,  rob,  murder,  and  commit 
The  oldest  sins  the  newest  kind  of  ways  ? 
Be  happy,  he  will  trouble  you  no  more  ; 
England  shall  double-gild  his  treble  guilt, — 
England  shall  give  him  office,  honour,  might ; 
For  the  fifth  Harry  from  curb'd  license  plucks 
The  muzzle  of  restraint,  and  the  wild  dog 
Shall  flesh  his  tooth  in  every  innocent. 
O  my  poor  kingdom,  sick  with  civil  blows  ! 
When  that  my  care  could  not  withhold  thy  riots, 
What  wilt  thou  do  when  riot  is  thy  care? 


524 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  iv. 


O,  thou  wilt  be  a  wilderness  again, 
Peopled  with  wolves,  thy  old  inhabitants  ! 
P.  Hen.  O,  pardon  me,  my  liege  !  but  for 
my  tears,  [Kneeling. 

The  moist  impediments  unto  my  speech, 
I  had  forestall'd  this  dear  and  deep  rebuke 
Ere  you  with  grief  had  spoke  and  I  had  heard 
The  course  of  it  so  far.     There  is  your  crown  ; 
And  He  that  wears  the  crown  immortally 
Long  guard  it  yours !     If  I  affect  it  more 
Than  as  your  honour  and  as  your  renown, 
Let  me  no  more  from  this  obedience  rise, — 
Which  my  most  inward  and  true  duteous  spirit 
Teacheth, — this  prostrate  and  exterior  bending! 
God  witness  with  me,  when  I  here  came  in, 
And   found   no  course  of  breath  within  your 

majesty, 

How  cold  it  struck  my  heart !     If  I  do  feign, 
O,  let  me  in  my  present  wildness  die, 
And  never  live  to  show  the  incredulous  world 
The  noble  change  that  I  have  purposed  ! 
Coming  to  look  on  you,  thinking  you  dead, — 
And  dead  almost,  my  liege,  to  think  you  were,— 
I  spake  unto  the  crown  as  having  sense,      [ing 
And  thus  upbraided  it :  The  care  on  theedepend- 
Hath  fed  upon  the  body  of  my  father  ; 
Therefore,  thou,  best  of  gold,  art  worst  of  gold: 
Other,  less  fine  in  carat,  is  more  precious, 
Preserving  life  in  medicine  potable  ;     \nowrfd, 
But  thou,  most  fine,  most  honoured,  most  re- 
Hast  eat  thy  bearer  up.     Thus,  my  most  royal 

liege, 

Accusing  it,  I  put  it  on  my  head, 
To  try  with  it, — as  with  an  enemy 
That  had  before  my  face  murder'd  my  father, — 
The  quarrel  of  a  true  inheritor. 
But  if  it  did  infect  my  blood  with  joy, 
Or  swell  my  thoughts  to  any  strain  of  pride  ; 
If  any  rebel  or  vain  spirit  of  mine 
Did  with  the  least  affection  of  a  welcome 
Give  entertainment  to  the  might  of  it, 
Let  God  for  ever  keep  it  from  my  head, 
And  make  me  as  the  poorest  vassal  is, 
That  doth  with  awe  and  terror  kneel  to  it ! 

K.  Hen.  O  my  son, 
God  put  it  in  thy  mind  to  take  it  hence, 
That  thou  mightst  win  the  more  thy  father's  love, 
Pleading  so  wisely  in  excuse  of  it ! 
Come  hither,  Harry,  sit  thou  by  my  bed ; 
And  hear,  I  think,  the  very  latest  counsel 
That  ever  I  shall  breathe.    God  knows,  my  son, 
By  what  by-paths  and  indirect  crook'd  ways 
I  met  this  crown  ;  and  I  myself  know  well 
How  troublesome  it  sat  upon  my  head  : 
To  thee  it  shall  descend  with  better  quiet, 
Better  opinion,  better  confirmation  ; 
For  all  the  soil  of  the  achievement  goes 


With  me  into  the  earth.     It  seem'd  in  me 
But  as  an  honour  snatch'd  with  boisterous  hand; 
And  I  had  many  living  to  upbraid 
My  gain  of  it  by  their  assistances ; 
Which  daily  grew  to  quarrel  and  to  bloodshed, 
Wounding  supposed  peace :  all  these  bold  fears 
Thou  see'st  with  peril  I  have  answered  ; 
For  all  my  reign  hath  been  but  as  a  scene 
Acting  that  argument :  and  now  my  death 
Changes  the  mode ;  for  what  in  me  was  pur- 

chas'd, 

Falls  upon  thee  in  a  more  fairer  sort ; 
So  thou  the  garland  wear'st  successively. 
Yet,   though  thou  stand'st  more  sure   than  I 

could  do, 

Thou  art  not  firm  enough,  since  griefs  are  green ; 
And  all  my  friends,  which  thou  must  make  thy 

friends, 

Have  but  their  stings  and  teeth  newly  ta'en  out; 
By  whose  fell  working  I  was  first  advanc'd, 
And  by  whose  power  I  well  might  lodge  a  fear 
To  be  again  displac'd  :  which  to  avoid, 
I  cut  them  off;  and  had  a  purpose  now 
To  lead  out  many  to  the  Holy  Land, 
Lest  rest  and  lying  still  might  make  them  look 
Too  near  unto  my  state.     Therefore,  my  Harry, 
Be  it  thy  course  to  busy  giddy  minds          [out, 
With  foreign  quarrels  ;  that  action,  hence  borne 
May  waste  the  memory  of  the  former  days. 
More  would  I,  but  my  lungs  are  wasted  so, 
That  strength  of  speech  is  utterly  denied  me. 
How  I  came  by  the  crown,  O  God  forgive ; 
And  grant  it  may  with  thee  in  true  peace  live ! 

P.  Hen.  My  gracious  liege, 
You  won  it,  wore  it,  kept  it,  gave  it  me ; 
Then  plain  and  right  must  my  possession  be : 
Which  I  with  more  than  with  a  common  pain 
'Gainst  all  the  world  will  rightfully  maintain. 
K.  Hen.   Look,  look,  here  comes  my  John  of 

Lancaster. 

Enter  PRINCE  JOHN  OF  LANCASTER,  WAR- 
WICK, Lords,  and  others. 

P.  John.  Health,  peace  and  happiness  to  my 

royal  father  ! 
K.  Hen.  Thou  bring'st  me  happiness  and 

peace,  son  John  f 

But  health,  alack,  with  youthful  wings  is  flown 
From  this  bare  wither'd  trunk  :  upon  thy  sight, 
My  worldly  business  makes  a  period. — 
Where  is  my  Lord  of  Warwick  ? 

P.  Hen.  My  Lord  of  Warwick  ! 

K.  Hen.  Doth  any  name  particular  belong 
Unto  the  lodging  where  I  first  did  swoon  ? 
War.  'Tis  call'd  Jerusalem,  my  noble  lord. 
K.  Hen.  Laud  be  to  God  ! — even  there  my 
life  must  end. 


SCENE  IV.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


It  hath  been  prophesied  to  me  many  years, 
I  should  not  die  but  in  Jerusalem ; 
Which  vainly  I  suppos'd  the  Holy  Land : — 
But  bear  me  to  that  chamber ;  there  I  '11  lie ; 
In  that  Jerusalem  shall  Harry  die.       [Exeunt. 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  L— GLOUCESTERSHIRE.     A  Hall  in 
SHALLOW'S  House, 

Enter  SHALLOW,  FALSTAFF,  BARDOLPH,  and 
Page. 

Shal.  By  cock  and  pie,  sir,  you  shall  not 
away  to-night. — What,  Davy,  I  say! 

Fal.  You  must  excuse  me,  Master  Robert 
Shallow. 

Shal,  I  will  not  excuse  you;  you  shall  not 
be  excused;  excuses  shall  not  be  admitted; 
there  is  no  excuse  shall  serve ;  you  shall  not  be 
excused.  — Why,  Davy ! 

Enter  DAVY. 

Davy.  Here,  sir. 

Shal.  Davy,  Davy,  Davy, — let  me  see, 
Davy;  let  me  see: — yea,  marry,  William  cook, 
bid  him  come  hither. — Sir  John,  you  shall  not 
be  excused. 

Davy.  Marry,  sir,  thus ; — those  precepts  can- 
not be  served :  and,  again,  sir, — shall  we  sow 
the  headland  with  wheat? 

Shal.  With  red  wheat,  Davy.  But  for 
William  cook: — are  there  no  young  pigeons? 

Davy.  Yes,  sir. — Here  is  now  the  smith's 
note  for  shoeing  and  plough -irons. 

Shal.  Let  it  be  cast,  and  paid. — Sir  John, 
you  shall  not  be  excused. 

Davy.  Now,  sir,  a  new  link  to  the  bucket 
must  needs  be  had : — and,  sir,  do  you  mean  to 
stop  any  of  William's  wages  about  the  sack  he 
lost  the  other  day  at  Hinckley  fair? 

Shal.  He  shall  answer  iL, — Some  pigeons, 
Davy,  a  couple  of  short-legged  hens,  a  joint  of 
mutton,  and  any  pretty  little  tiny  kickshaws, 
tell  William  cook. 

Davy.  Doth  the  man  of  war  stay  all  night, 
sir? 

Shal.  Yea,  Davy,  I  will  use  him  well:  a 
friend  i'  the  court  is  better  than  a  penny  in 
purse.  Use  his  men  well,  Davy ;  for  they  are 
arrant  knaves,  and  wi'*'I  backbite. 

Davy.  No  worse  than  they  are  back-bitten, 
sir ;  for  they  have  marvellous  foul  linen. 

Shal.  Well  conceited,  Davy:— about  thy 
business,  Davy. 

Davy.  I  beseech  you,  sir,  to  countenance 
William  Visor  of  Wincot against  Clement  Perkes 
of  the  hill. 


Shal.  There  are  many  complaints,  Davy, 
against  that  Visor:  that  Visor  is  an  arrant 
knave,  on  my  knowledge. 

Davy.  I  grant  your  worship  that  he  is  a  knave, 
sir;  but  yet,  God  forbid,  sir,  but  a  knave  should 
have  some  countenance  at  his  friend's  request. 
An  honest  man,  sir,  is  able  to  speak  for  'himself, 
when  a  knave  is  not.  I  have  served  your,  wor- 
ship truly,  sir,  this  eight  years ;  and  if  I  cannot 
once  or  twice  in  a  quarter  bear  out  a  knave 
against  an  honest  man,  I  have  but  a  very  little 
credit  with  your  worship.  The  knave  is  mine 
honest  friend,  sir;  therefore,  I  beseech  your 
worship,  let  him  be  countenanced. 

Shal.  Go  to ;  I  say,  he  shall  have  no  wrong. 
Look  about,  Davy.  [Exit  DAVY.]  Where  are 
you,  Sir  John?  Come,  come,  come,  off  with 
your  boots. — Give  me  your  hand,  Master  Bar- 
dolph. 

Bard.  I  am  glad  to  see  your  worship. 

Shal.  I  thank  thee  with  all  my  heart,  kind 
Master  Bardolph: — and  welcome,  my  tall 
fellow  [to  the  Page]. — Come,  Sir  John. 

Fal.  I  'II  follow  you,  good  Master  Robert 
Shallow.  [Exit  SHALLOW.]  Bardolph,  look 
to  our  horses.  [Exeunt  BARDOLPH  and  Page.] 
If  I  were  sawed  into  quantities,  I  should  make 
four  dozen  of  such  bearded  hermits'  staves  as 
Master  Shallow.  It  is  a  wonderful  thing  to  see 
the  semblable  coherence  of  his  men's  spirits  and 
his :  they,  by  observing  of  him,  do  bear  them- 
selves like  foolish  justices;  he,  by  conversing 
with  them,  is  turned  into  a  justice-like  serving- 
man  :  their  spirits  are  so  married  in  conjunction 
with  the  participation  of  society  that  they  flock 
together  in  consent,  like  so  many  wild  geese. 
If  I  had  a  suit  to  Master  Shallow,  I  would 
humour  his  men  with  the  imputation  of  being 
near  their  master :  if  to  his  men,  I  would  curry 
with  Master  Shallow  that  no  man  could  better 
command  his  servants.  It  is  certain  that  either 
wise  bearing  or  ignorant  carriage  is  caught,  as 
men  take  diseases,  one  of  ano  her:  therefore, 
let  men  take  heed  of  their  company.  I  will 
devise  matter  enough  out  of  this  Shallow  to 
keep  Prince  Harry  in  continual  laughter  the 
wearing  out  of  six  fashions, — which  is  four 
terms,  or  two  actions, — and  he  shall  laugh 
without  intervallums.  O,  it  is  much  that 
a  lie  with  a  slight  oath,  and  a  jest  with  a 
sad  brow,  will  do  with  a  fellow  that  never 
had  the  ache  in  his  shoulders  !  O,  you  shall 
see  him  laugh  till  his  face  be  like  a  wet  cloak 
ill  laid  up ! 

Shal.  [Within.}  Sir  John  ! 

Fal.  \  come,  Master  Shallow;  I  come, 
Master  Shallow.  [Exit. 


526 


SECOND  PART. OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  v. 


SCENE  II. — WESTMINSTER.    A  Room  in  the 
Palace. 

Enter,  severally,  WARWICK  and  the  Lord 
Chief-Justice. 

War.    How    now,    my  lord    chief-justice! 

whither  away? 

Ch.Just.  How  doth  the  Icing?  [ended. 

War.  Exceeding  well ;  his  cares  are  now  all 
Ch.  Just.  I  hope,  not  dead. 
War.  He 's  walk'd  the  way  of  nature ; 

And  to  our  purposes  he  lives  no  more. 

Ch.  Just.  I  would  his  majesty  had  call'd  me 

with  him: 

The  service  that  I  truly  did  his  life 
Hath  left  me  open  to  all  injuries.         [you  not. 
War.  Indeed  I  think  the  young  king  loves 
Ch.  Just.  I  know  he  doth  not ;  and  do  arm 

myself 

To  welcome  the  condition  of  the  time ; 
Which  cannot  look  more  hideously  upon  me 
Than  I  have  drawn  it  in  my  fantasy. 

War.  Here  come  the  heavy  issue  of  dead 
Harry: 

0  that  the  living  Harry  had  the  temper 

Of  him,  the  worst  of  these  three  gentlemen ! 
How  many  nobles  then  should  hold  their  places, 
That  must  strike  sail  to  spirits  of  vile  sort ! 
Ch.  Just.  O  God,  I  fear  all  will  be  overturn'd. 

Enter  PRINCE  JOHN,  PRINCE  HUMPHREY, 
CLARENCE,  WESTMORELAND,  and  others. 

P.  John.    Good-morrow,   cousin  Warwick, 

good-morrow. 

P.  Humph,,  Cla.  Good -morrow,  cousin. 
P.  John.  We  meet  like  men  that  had  forgot 

to  speak. 

War.  We  do  remember ;  but  our  argument 
Is  all  too  heavy  to  admit  much  talk. 

P.John.   Well,  peace  be  with  him  that  hath 

made  us  heavy ! 

Ch.  Just.  Peace  be  with  us,  lest  we  be  heavier! 
P.  Htimph.  O,  good  my  lord,  you  have  lost 

a  friend  indeed ; 

And  I  dare  swear  you  borrow  not  that  face 
Of  seeming  sorrow, — it  is  sure  your  own. 
P.  John.  Though  no  man  be  assur'd  what 

frace  to  find, 
in  coldest  expectation: 

1  am  the  sorrier ;  would  'twere  otherwise. 

Cla.  Well,  you    must  now  speak  Sir  John 

Falstaff  fair ; 

Which  swims  against  your  stream  of  quality. 
Ch.  Just.  Sweet  princes,  what  I  did,  I  did 

in  honour, 
Led  by  the  impartial  conduct  of  my  soul ; 


And  never  shall  you  see  that  I  will  beg 
A e(j  an(j  forestall'd  remission. 


If  truth  and  upright  innocency  fail  me, 
I  '11  to  the  king  my  master  that  is  dead, 
And  tell  him  who  hath  sent  me  after  him. 
War.  Here  comes  the  prince. 

Enter  KING  HENRY  V. 

Ch.  Just.  Good-morrow;  and  God  save  yo^r 
majesty !  [majesty, 

King.    This   new   and   gorgeous    garment, 
Sits  not  so  easy  on  me  as  you  think. — 
Brothers,  you  mix  your  sadness  with  some  fear : 
This  is  the  English,  not  the  Turkish  court ; 
Not  Amurath  an  Amurath  succeeds, 
But  Harry  Harry.     Yet  be  sad,  good  brothers, 
For,  to  speak  truth,  it  very  well  becomes  you : 
Sorrow  so  royally  in  you  appears 
That  I  will  deeply  put  the  fashion  on, 
And  wear  it  in  my  heart:  why,  then,  be  sad; 
But  entertain  no  more  of  it,  good  brothers, 
Than  a  joint  burden  laid  upon  us  all. 
For  me,  by  heaven,  I  bid  you  be  assur'd, 
I  '11  be  your  father  and  your  brother  too; 
Let  me  but  bear  your  love,  I  '11  bear  your  cares : 
Yet  weep  that  Harry  'c  dead ;  and  so  will  I ; 
But  Harry  lives,  that  shall  convert  those  tears, 
By  number,  into  hours  of  happiness. 

P.John,  <5rV.  We  hope  no  other  from  your 
majesty. 

King.  You  all  look  strangely  on  me: — and 
you  most ;  [  To  the  Chief-Justice. 

You  are,  I  think,  assur'd  I  love  you  not. 

Ch.Just.  I  am   assur'd,  if  I   be  measur'd 

rightly, 
Your  majesty  hath  no  just  cause  to  hate  me. 

King.  No! 

How  might  a  prince  of  my  great  hopes  forget 
So  great  indignities  you  laid  upon  me? 
What !  rate,  rebuke,  and  roughly  send  to  prison 
The  immediate  heir  of  England !   Was  this  easy? 
May  this  be  wash'd  in  Lethe,  and  forgotten? 

Ch.  Just.  I  then  did  use  the  person  of  your 

father; 

The  image  of  his  power  lay  then  in  me : 
And,  in  the  administration  of  his  law, 
Whiles  I  was  busy  for  the  commonwealth, 
Your  highness  pleased  to  forget  my  place, 
And  majesty  and  power  of  law  and  justice, 
The  image  of  the  king  whom  I  presented, 
And  struck  me  in  my  very  seat  of  judgment; 
Whereon,  as  an  offender  to  your  father, 
I  gave  bold  way  to  my  authority, 
And  did  commit  you.     If  the  deed  were  ill, 
Be  you  contented,  wearing  now  the  garland, 
To  have  a  son  set  your  decrees  at  naught, 
To  pluck  down  justice  from  your  awful  benchf 


SCENE  II.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


527 


To  trip  the  course  of  law,  and  bb'nt  the  sword 
That  guards  the  peace  and  safety  of  your  person ; 
Nay,  more,  to  spurn  at  your  most  royal  image, 
And  mock  your  workings  in  a  second  body. 
Question  your  royal  thoughts,  make  the  case 

yours ; 

Be  now  the  father,  and  propose  a  son ; 
Hear  your  own  dignity  so  much  profan'd, 
See  your  most  dreadful  laws  so  loosely  slighted, 
Behold  yourself  so  by  a  son  disdain'd ; 
And  then  imagine  me  taking  your  part, 
And,  in  your  power,  soft  silencing  your  sont 
After  this  cold  ccnsiderance,  sentence  me ; 
And,  as  you  are  a  king,  speak  in  your  state 
What  I  have  done  that  misbecame  my  place, 
My  person,  or  my  liege's  sovereignty. 

King.  You  are  right,  justice,  and  you  weigh 

this  well ; 

Therefore  still  bear  the  balance  and  the  sword : 
And  I  do  wish  your  honours  may  increase 
Till  you  do  live  to  see  a  son  of  mine 
Offend  you,  and  obey  you,  as  I  did. 
So  shall  I  live  to  speak  my  father's  words 
Happy  am  I,  that  have  a  man  so  bold. 
That  dares  do  justice  on  my  proper  son ; 
And  not  less  happy,  having  such  a  son, 
That  would  deliver  up  his  greatness  so 
Into  the  hands  of  justice. — You  did  commit  me : 
For  which  I  do  commit  into  your  hand 
The  unstain'd  sword  that  you  have  us'd  to  bear ; 
With  this  remembrance, — that  you  use  the  same 
With  the  like  bold,  just,  and  impartial  spirit 
As  you  have  done  'gainst  me.    There  is  my  hand; 
You  shall  be  as  a  father  to  my  youth : 
My  voice  shall  sound  as  you  do  prompt  mine  ear; 
And  I  will  stoop  and  humble  my  intents 
To  your  well-practis'd  wise  directions. — 
And,  princes  all,  believe  me,  I  beseech  you ; — 
My  father  is  gone  wild  into  his  grave, 
For  in  his  tomb  lie  my  affections ; 
And  with  his  spirit  sadly  I  survive, 
To  mock  the  expectation  of  the  world, 
To  frustrate  prophecies,  and  to  raze  out 
Rotten  opinion,  who  hath  writ  me  down 
After  my  seeming.     The  tide  of  blood  in  me 
Hath  proudly  flow'd  in  vanity  till  now : 
Now  doth  it  turn,  and  ebb  back  to  the  sea, 
Where  it  shall  mingle  with  *he  state  of  floods, 
And  flow  henceforth  in  formal  majesty. 
Now  call  we  our  high  court  of  parliament: 
And  let  us  choose  such  limbs  of  noble  counsel, 
That  the  great  body  of  our  state  may  go 
In  equal  rank  with  the  best-govern'd  nation ; 
That  war  or  peace,  or  both  at  once,  may  be 
As  things  acquainted  and  familiar  to  us ; 
In  which  you,  father,  shall  have  foremost  hand. 
[  To  the  Lord  Chief- Justice. 


Our  coronation  done,  we  will  accite, 
As  I  before  remember'd,  all  our  state : 
And, — God  consigning  to  my  good  intents, — 
No  prince  nor  peer  shall  have  just  cause  to  say, 
God  shorten  Harry's  happy  life  one  day. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — GLOUCESTERSHIRE.    The  Garden 
of  SHALLOW'S  House. 

Enter  FALSTAFF,  SHALLOW,  SILENCE,  BAR- 
DOLPH,  the  Page,  and  DAVY. 

Shal.  Nay,  you  shall  see  mine  orchard,  where, 
in  an  arbour,  we  will  eat  a  last  year's  pippin  of 
my  own  graffing,  with  a  dish  of  carraways,  and 
so  forth : — come,  cousin  Silence : — and  then  to 
bed. 

Fal.  'Fore  God,  you  have  here  a  goodly 
dwelling  and  a  rich. 

Shal.  Barren,  barren,  barren;  beggars  all, 
beggars  all,  Sir  John : — marry,  good  air. — 
Spread,  Davy;  spread,  Davy:  well  said,  Davy. 

Fal.  This  Davy  serves  you  for  good  uses ;  he 
is  your  serving-man  and  your  husband. 

Shal.  A  good  varlet,  a  good  varlet,  a  very 
good  varlet,  Sir  John: — by  the  mass,  I  have 
drunk  too  much  sack  at  supper : — a  good  varlet. 
Now  sit  down,  now  sit  down : — come,  cousin.  < 

Sil.  Ah,  sirrah !  quoth-a, — we  shall 

Do  nothing  but  eat,  and  make  good  cheer, 

[Singing. 

And  praise  heaven  for  the  merry  year  ; 

When  flesh  is  cheap,  and  females  dear, 

And  lusty  lads  roam  here  and  there, 

So  merrily ', 
And  ever  among  so  merrily. 

Fal.  There 's  a  merry  heart ! — Good  Master 
Silence,  I  '11  give  you  a  health  for  that  anon. 

Shal.  Give  Master  Bardolphsoine  wine,  Davy. 

Davy.  Sweet  sir,  sit  [seating  BARDOLPH  and 
the  Page  at  another  table];  I'll  be  with  you 
anon;  most  sweet  sir,  sit. — Master  Page,  good 
Master  Page,  sit. — Preface!  What  you  want 
in  meat,  we  '11  have  in  drink.  But  you  must 
bear;  the  heart 's  all.  [Exit. 

Shal.  Be  merry,  Master  Bardolph; — and, 
my  little  soldier  there,  be  merry. 

Sil.  Be  merry,  be  merry,  my  wife  has  all; 

[Singing. 

For  women  are  shrews,  both  short  and  tall; 
5  Tis  merry  in  hall  when  beards  wag  all, 

And  welcome  merry  shrove-tide. 
Be  merry,  be  merry,  &c. 

Fal.  I  did  not  think  Master  Silence  had  been 
a  man  of  this  mettle. 

Sil.  Who,  I?  I  have  been  merry  twice  and 
once  ere  now. 


S28 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


[ACT  v. 


Re-enter  DAVY. 

Davy.  There  is  a  dish  of  leather-coats  for 
you.  "  {.Setting  them  before  BARD. 

Shal.   Davy,— 

Davy.  Your  worship? — I'll  be  with  you 
straight  [to  BARD.] — A  cup  of  wine,  sir? 

Sil.  A  cup  of  wine  that 's  brisk  and  fine, 

[Singing. 

And  drink  unto  the  leman  mine; 
And  a  merry  heart  lives  long-a. 

Fal  Well,  said,  Master  Silence. 

Sil.  And  we  shall  be  merry ; — now  comes  in 
the  sweet  of  the  night. 

Fal.  Health  and  long  life  to  you,  Master 
Silence. 

Sil.  Fill  the  cup,  and  let  it  come ;   [Singing. 
I* II  pledge  you  a  mile  to  the  bottom. 

Shal.  Honest  Bardolph,  welcome :  if  thou 
wan  test  anything,  and  wilt  not  call,  beshrew 
thy  heart. — Welcome,  my  little  tiny  thief  [to 
the  Page] ;  and  welcome  indeed  too. — I  '11  drink 
to  Master  Bardolph,  and  to  all  the  cavaleroes 
about  London. 

Davy.  I  hope  to  see  London  once  ere  I  die. 

Bard.  An  I  might  see  you  there,  Davy, — 

Shal.  By  the  mass,  you  '11  crack  a  quart  to- 
gether,— ha!  will  you  not,  Master  Bardolph? 

Bard.  Yea,  sir,  in  a  pottle-pot. 

Shal.  By  God's  liggens,  I  thank  thee :— the 
knave  will  stick  by  thee,  I  can  assure  thee  that : 
he  will  not  out ;  he  is  true  bred. 

Bard.  And  I  '11  stick  by  him,  sir. 

Shal.  Why,  there  spoke  a  king.  Lack  no- 
thing :  be  merry.  [Knocking  heard.  ]  Look 
who's  at  door  there,  ho!  who  knocks? 

[Exit  DAVY. 

Fal.  Why,  now  you  have  done  me  right. 

[To  SIL.,  who  has  drunk  a  bumper. 

Sil.  Do  me  right,  [Singing. 

And  dub  me  knight: 

Samingo. 
Is 't  not  so? 

Fal.  'Tis  so. 

Sil.  Is't  so?  Why,  then,  say  an  old  man 
can  do  somewhat. 

Re-enter  DAVY. 

Davy.  An  it  please  your  worship,  there's 
one  Pistol  come  from  the  court  with  news. 
Fal.  From  the  court !  let  him  come  in. 

Enter  PISTOL, 

How  now,  Pistol ! 

Pist.  Sir  John,  God  save  you  ! 

Fal.  What  wind  blew  you  hither,  Pistol? 

Pist.  Not  the  ill  wind  which  blows  no  man 


to  good.— Sweet  knight,  thou  art  now  one  of 
the  greatest  men  in  the  realm. 

Sil.  By  'r  lady,  I  think  he  be,  but  goodman 
Puff  of  Barson. 

Pist.   Puff? 

Puff  in  thy  teeth,  most  recreant  coward  base !  — 
Sir  John,  I  am  thy  Pistol  and  thy  friend, 
And  helter-skelter  have  I  rode  to  thee ; 
And  tidings  do  I  bring,  and  lucky  joys, 
And  golden  times,  and  happy  news  of  price. 

Fal.  I  pr'ythee  now,  deliver  them  like  a  man 
of  this  world.  [base ! 

Pist.  A  foutra  for  the  world  and  worldlings 
I  speak  of  Africa  and  golden  joys. 

Fal.  O  base  Assyrian  knight,  what  is  thy  news? 
Let  King  Cophetua  know  the  truth  thereof. 

Sil.  And  Robin  Hood,  Scarlet,  and  John. 

[Singing. 

Pist.  Shall  dunghill  curs  confront  the  Heli- 
cons? 

And  shall  good  news  be  baffled? 
Then,  Pistol,  lay  thy  head  in  Furies'  lap. 

Shal.   Honest  gentleman,  I  know  not  your 
breeding. 

Pist.  Why,  then,  lament,  therefore. 

Shal.  Give  me  pardon,  sir : — if,  sir,  you  come 
with  news  from  the  court,  I  take  it  there  is  but 
two  ways ;  either  to  utter  them,  or  to  conceal 
them.  I  am,  sir,  under  the  king,  in  some 
authority. 

Pist.  Under  which  king,  bezonian?  speak, 
or  die. 

Shal.   Under  King  Harry. 

Pist.   Harry  the  fourth?  or  fifth? 

Shal.  Harry  the  fourth. 

Pist.  A  foutra  for  thine  office ! — 

Sir  John,  thy  tender  lambkin  now  is  king ; 
Harry  the  fifth 's  the  man.     I  speak  the  truth : 
When  Pistol  lies,  do  this ;  and  fig  me,  like 
The  bragging  Spaniard. 

Fal.  What!  is  the  old  king  dead? 

Pist.  As  nail  in  door :  the  things  I  speak  are 
just. 

Fal.  Away,  Bardolph !  saddle  my  horse.— 
Master  Robert  Shallow,  choose  what  office  thou 
wilt  in  the  land,  'tis  thine.— Pistol,  I  will  double- 
charge  thee  with  dignities. 

Bard.  O  joyful  day ! 
I  would  not  take  a  knighthood  for  my  fortune. 

Pist.  What,  I  do  bring  good  news? 

Fal.  Carry  Master  Silence  to  bed.— Master 
Shallow,  my  Lord  Shallow,  be  what  thou  wilt ; 
I  am  fortune's  steward.  Get  on  thy  boots: 
we'll  ride  aii  night:— O  sweet  Pistol !— away, 
Bardolph!  [Exit  BARDOLPH.] — Come,  Pistol, 
utter  more  to  me;  and,  withal,  devise  some- 
thing to  do  thyself  good.— Boot,  boot,  Master 


SCENE  IV.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING   HENRY  IV. 


529 


Shallow :  I  know  the  young  king  is  sick  for  me. 
Let  us  take  any  man's  horses ;  the  laws  of  Eng- 
land are  at  my  commandment.  Happy  are 
they  which  have  been  my  friends;  and  woe 
unto  my  Lord  Chief-Justice ! 

Pist.  Let  vultures  vile  seize  on  his  lungs  also ! 
Where  is  the  life  that  late  I  led?  say  they : 
Why,  here  it  is; — welcome  this  pleasant  day! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — LONDON.    A  Street. 

Enter  Beadles,  dragging  in  HOSTESS  QUICKLY 
and  DOLL  TEARSHEET. 

Host.  No,  thou  arrant  knave;  I  would  I 
might  die,  that  I  might  have  thee  hanged :  thou 
hast  drawn  my  shoulder  out  of  joint. 

I  Bead.  The  constables  have  delivered  her 
over  to  me ;  and  she  shall  have  whipping-cheer 
enough,  I  warrant  her :  there  hath  been  a  man 
or  two  lately  killed  about  her. 

Doll.  Nut-hook,  nut-hook,  you  lie.  Come 
on ;  I  'II  tell  thee  what,  thou  damned  tripe- 
visaged  rascal,  an  the  child  I  now  go  with  do 
miscarry,  thou  hadst  better  thou  hadst  struck  thy 
mother,  thou  paper-faced  villain. 

Host.  O  the  Lord,  that  Sir  John  were  come ! 
he  would  make  this  a  bloody  day  to  somebody. 
But  I  pray  God  the  fruit  of  her  womb  miscarry ! 

I  Bead.  If  it  do,  you  shall  have  a  dozen  of 
cushions  again;  you  have  but  eleven  now. 
Come,  I  charge  you  both  go  with  me ;  for  the 
man  is  dead  that  you  and  Pistol  beat  among  you. 

Doll.  I  '11  tell  thee  what,  thou  thin  man  in  a 
censer,  I  will  have  you  as  soundly  swinged  for 
this, — you  blue-bottle  rogue,  you  filthy  fam- 
ished correctioner,  if  you  be  not  swinged,  I  '11 
forswear  half-kirtles. 

I  Bead.  Come,  come,  you  she  knight-errant, 
come.  [might ! 

Host.  O  God,  that  right  should  thus  overcome 
Well,  of  sufferance  comes  ease.  [a  justice. 

Doll.  Come,  you  rogue,  come ;  bring  me  to 

Host.  Ay,  come,  you  starved  bloodhound. 

Doll.  Goodman  death,  goodman  bones ! 

Host.  Thou  atomy,  thou  ! 

Doll.  Come,  you  thin  thing ;  come,  you  rascal. 

I  Bead.  Very  well.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — A  public  Place  near  Westminster 
Abbey. 

Enter  two  Grooms,  strewing  rushes. 

1  Groom.  More  rushes,  more  rushes. 

2  Groom.  The  trumpets  have  sounded  twice. 
I  Groom.  It  will  be  two  o'clock  ere  they  come 

from  the  coronation :  despatch,  despatch. 

[Exeunt. 


Enter  FALSTAFF,  SHALLOW,  PISTOL,  BAR- 
DOLPH,  and  the  Page.* 

Fal.  Stand  here  by  me,  Master  Robert  Shal- 
low ;  I  will  make  the  king  do  you  grace :  I  will 
leer  upon  him,  as  he  comes  by;  and  do  but 
mark  the  countenance  that  he  will  give  me. 

Pist.  God  bless  thy  lungs,  good  knight. 

Fal.  Come  here,  Pistol;  stand  behind  me. — 
O,  if  I  had  had  time  to  have  made  new  liveries, 
I  would  have  bestowed  the  thousand  pound  I 
borrowed  of  you  \to  SHALLOW].  But  'tis  no 
matter ;  this  poor  show  doth  better :  this  doth 
infer  the  zeal  I  had  to  see  him, —  . 

Shal.  It  doth  so. 

Fal.  It  shows  my  earnestness  of  affection, — 

Shal.  It  doth  so. 

Fal.  My  devotion, — 

Shal.  It  doth,  it  doth,  it  doth. 

Fal.  As  it  were,  to  ride  day  and  night ;  and 
not  to  deliberate,  not  to  remember,  not  to  have 
patience  to  shift  me,— 

Shal.  It  is  most  certain. 

Fal.  But  to  stand  stained  with  travel,  and 
sweating  with  desire  to  see  him;  thinking  of 
nothing  else,  putting  all  affairs  else  in  oblivion, 
as  if  there  were  nothing  else  to  be  done  but  to 
see  him. 

Pist.  'Tis  semper  idem,  for  absque  hoc  nthil 
est:  'tis  all  in  every  part. 

Shal.  'Tis  so,  indeed. 

Pist.  My  knight,  I  will  inflame  thy  noble  liver, 
And  make  thee  rage. 

Thy  Doll,  and  Helen  of  thy  noble  thoughts, 
Is  in  base  durance  and  contagious  prison; 
Haul'd  thither 

By  most  mechanical  and  dirty  hand : —  [snake, 
Rouse  up  revenge  from  ebon  den  withfell  Alecto's 
For  Doll  is  in.  Pistol  speaks  naught  but  truth. 

Fal.  I  will  deliver  her. 

{Shouts  within,  and  the  trumpets  sound. 

Pist.  There  roar'd  the  sea,  and  trumpet- 
clangor  sounds. 

Enter  the  KING  and  his  Train,  the  Chief-Justice 
among  them. 

Fal.  God  save  thy  grace,  King  Hal;  my 
royal  Hal ! 

Pist.  The  heavens  thee  guard  and  keep,  most 
royal  imp  of  fame ! 

Fal.  God  save  thee,  my  sweet  boy !      [man. 

King.  My  lord  chief-justice,  speak  to  that  vain 

Ch.  Just.  Have  you  your  wits?  know  you 
what  'tis  you  speak?  [heart ! 

Fal.  My  king !  my  Jove !  I  speak  to  thee,  my 

King.  I  know  thee  not,  old  man :  fall  to  thy 
prayers; 


530 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  v. 


How  ill  white  hairs  become  a  fool  and  jester  ! 
I  have  long  dream'd  of  such  a  kind  of  man, 
So  sul  feit-swell'd,  so  old,  and  so  profane  ; 
But,  being  awake,  I  do  despise  my  dream. 
Make  less  thy  body  hence,  and  more  thy  grace ; 
Leave  gormandizing ;  know  the  grave  doth  gape 
For  thee  thrice  wider  than  for  other  men. — 
Reply  not  to  me  with  a  fool-born  jest : 
Presume  not  that  I  am  the  thing  I  was ; 
For  God  doth  know,  so  shall  the  world  perceive, 
That  I  have  turn'd  away  my  former  self; 
So  will  I  those  that  kept  me  company. 
When  thou  dost  hear  I  am  as  I  have  been, 
Approach  me,  and  thou  shalt  be  as  thou  wast, 
The  tutor  and  the  feeder  of  my  riots  : 
Till  then  I  banish  thee,  on  pain  ot  death, — 
As  I  have  done  the  rest  of  my  misieaders, — 
Not  to  come  near  our  person  by  ten  mile. 
For  competence  of  life  I  will  allow  you, 
That  lack  of  means  enforce  you  not  to  evil : 
And,  as  we  hear  you  do  reform  yourselves, 
We  will,  according  to  your  strength  and  qualities, 
Give  you  advancement.  — Be  it  your  charge,  my 

lord, 

To  see  perform'd  the  tenor  of  our  word.  — 
Set  on.  [Exeunt  KING  and  his  Train. 

Fal.  Master  Shallow,  I  owe  you  a  thousand 
pound. 

Shal.  Yea,  marry,  Sir  John ;  which  I  be- 
seech you  to  let  me  have  home  with  me. 

Fal.  That  can  hardly  be,  Master  Shallow. 
Do  not  you  grieve  at  this  ;  I  shall  be  sent  for 
in  private  to  him  :  look  you,  he  must  seem  thus 
to  the  world :  fear  not  your  advancement ;  I 
will  be  the  man  yet  that  shall  make  you  great. 

Shal.  I  cannot  perceive  how, — unless  you 
give  me  your  doublet,  and  stuff  me  out  with 
straw.  I  beseech  you,  good  Sir  John,  let  me 
have  five  hundred  of  my  thousand. 

Fal.  Sir,  I  will  be  as  good  as  my  word :  this 
that  you  heard  was  but  a  colour.  [Sir  John. 

Shal.  A  colour,  I  fear,  that  you  will  die  in, 

Fal.  Fear  no  colours :  go  with  me  to 
dinner.  Come,  Lieutenant  Pistol  ; — come, 
Bardolph  : — I  shall  be  sent  for  soon  at  night. 

Re-enter  PRINCE  JOHN,  the  Chief-Justice, 
Officers,  &c. 

Ch.  Just.  Go,  carry  Sir  John  Falstaff  to  the 

Fleet ; 
Take  all  his  company  along  with  him. 

Fal.   My  lord,  my  lord, —  [you  soon. — 

Ch.  Jitst.   I  cannot  now  speak :  I  will  hear 

Take  them  away.  \contenta. 

Pist.   Se  fortuna  mi  tormenta,  lo  sperare  mi 

[Exeunt  FAL.,  SHAL.,  PIST.,  BARD., 

Page,  and  Officers. 


P.  John.  I  like  this  fair  proceeding  of  the 

king's : 

He  hath  intent  his  wonted  followers 
Shall  all  be  very  well  provided  for  ; 
But  all  are  banish'd  till  their  conversations 
Appear  more  wise  and  modest  to  the  world. 

Ch.Just.  And  so  they  are. 

P.John.  The  king  hath  call'd  his  parliament, 
my  lord. 

Ch.  Jus!.  He  hath. 

P.  John.   I  will  lay  odds  that,  ere  this  year 

expire, 

We  bear  our  civil  swords  and  native  fire 
As  far  as  France  :  I  heard  a  bird  so  sing, 
Whose  music,  to  my  thinking,  pleas'd  the  king. 
Come,  will  you  hence  ?  [Exeunt. 

EPILOGUE.—  Spoken  by  a  Dancer. 

First  my  fear;  then  my  court'sy ;  last  my 
speech.  My  fear  is,  your  displeasure ;  my 
court'sy,  my  duty  ;  and  my  speech,  to  beg  your 
pardons.  If  you  look  for  a  good  speech  now, 
you  undo  me  :  for  what  I  have-to  say  is  of  mine 
own  making ;  and  what,  indeed,  I  should  say 
will,  I  doubt,  prove  mine  own  marring.  But 
to  the  purpose,  and  so  to  the  venture. — Be  it 
known  to  you, — as  it  is  very  well, — I  was  lately 
here  in  the  end  of  a  displeasing  play,  to  pray 
your  patience  for  it,  and  to  promise  you  a 
better.  I  did  mean,  indeed,  to  pay  you  with 
this  ;  which,  if,  like  an  ill  venture,  it  come  un- 
luckily home,  I  break,  and  you,  my  gentle 
creditors,  lose.  Here  I  promised  you  I  would 
be,  and  here  I  commit  my  body  to  your  mercies: 
bate  me  some,  and  I  will  pay  you  some,  and, 
as  most  debtors  do,  promise  you  infinitely. 

If  my  tongue  cannot  entreat  you  to  acquit  me, 
will  you  command  me  to  use  my  legs  ?  and  yet 
that  were  but  light  payment, — to  dance  out  of 
your  debt.  But  a  good  conscience  will  make 
any  possible  satisfaction,  and  so  will  I.  All 
the  gentlewomen  here  have  forgiven  me :  if 
the  gentlemen  will  not,  then  the  gentlemen  do 
not  agree  with  the  gentlewomen,  which  was 
never  seen  before  in  such  an  assembly. 

One  word  more,  I  beseech  you.  If  you  be 
not  too  much  cloyed  with  fat  meat,  our  humble 
author  will  continue  the  story,  with  Sir  John 
in  it,  and  make  you  merry  with  fair  Katharine 
of  France  :  where,  for  anything  I  know,  Fal- 
staff shall  die  of  a  sweat,  unless  already  he  be 
killed  with  your  hard  opinions ;  for  Oldcastle 
died  a  martyr,  and  this  is  not  the  man.  My 
tongue  is  weary;  when  my  legs  are  too,  I  will 
bid  you  good-night :  and  so  kneel  down  before 
you  ; — but,  indeed,  to  pray  for  the  queen. 


A  T.-V.  ] 


-  •  /. ;  A 


*fc. 


KING  HENRY  V. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 
Chorus. 


DUKE  OF  EXETER,  Uncle  to  the  KING. 

DUKE  OF  YORK,  Cousin  to  the  KING. 

EARLS  OF  SALISBURY,  WESTMORELAND,  and 

WARWICK. 

ARCHBISHOP  OF  CANTERBURY. 
BISHOP  OF  ELY. 


SIR  THOMAS  GREY,      )         the  KlNG* 

SIR  THOMAS  ERPINGHAM,GOWER,FLUELLEN, 

MACMORRIS,    JAMY,    Officers    in    KING 

HENRY'S  Army. 
BATES,  COURT,  WILLIAMS,  Soldiers  in  the 

same. 
NYM,  BARDOLPH,  PISTOL,  formerly  Servants 

to  FALSTAFF,  now  Soldiers  in  the  same. 
Boy,  Servant  to  them. 
A  Herald. 


CHARLES  THE  SIXTH,  King  qf  France. 
Louis,  the  Dauphin. 

DUKES  OF  BURGUNDY,  ORLEANS,  and  BOUR- 
BON. 

The  Constable  of  France. 
RAMBURES  and  GRANDPREE,  French  Lords. 
Governor  of  Harfleur. 
MONTJOY,  a  French  Herald. 
Ambassadors  to  the  King  of  England. 

ISABEL,  Queen  of  France. 

KATHARINE,    Daughter   to    CHARLES    and 

ISABEL. 
ALICE,   a  Lady  attending  en   the   PRINCESS 

KATHARINE. 
QUICKLY,  PISTOL'S  Wife,  an  Hostess. 

Lords,  Ladies,  Officers,  French  and  English 
Soldiers,  Messengers,  and  Attendants. 


SCENE, — At  the  beginning  of  the  Play>  lies  in  ENGLAND  ;  but  afterwards  wholly  in  FRANCE. 


Enter  Chorus. 

Chor.  O  for  a  Muse  of  fire,  that  would  ascend 
The  brightest  heaven  of  invention  ! 
A  kingdom  for  a  stage,  princes  to  act, 
And  monarchs  to  behold  the  swelling  scene  ! 
Then  should  the  warlike  Harry,  like  himself, 
Assume  the  port  of  Mars  ;  and  at  his  heels, 
Leash'd  in  like  hounds,  should  famine,  sword, 
and  fire,  [all, 

Crouch  for  employment.     But  pardon,  gentles 
The  flat  unraised  spirit  that  hath  dar'd 
On  this  unworthy  scaffold  to  bring  forth 
So  great  an  object :  can  this  cockpit  hold 
The  vasty  fields  of  France  ?  or  may  we  cram 
Within  this  wooden  O  the  very  casques 
That  did  affright  the  air  at  Agincourt  ? 
O,  pardon  !  since  a  crooked  figure  may 
Attest  in  little  place  a  million  ; 
And  let  us,  ciphers  to  this  great  acompt, 
On  your  imaginary  forces  work. 
Suppose  within  the  girdle  of  these  walls 
Are  now  confin'd  two  mighty  monarchies, 
Whose  high  upreared  and  abutting  fronts 
The  perilous  narrow  ocean  parts  asunder  : 


Piece  out  our  imperfections  with  your  thoughts : 
Into  a  thousand  parts  divide  one  man, 
And  make  imaginary  puissance  ;  [them 

Think,  when  we  talk  of  horses,  that  you  see 
Printing  their  proud  hoofs  i'  the  receiving  earth  ; 
For  'tis  your  thoughts  that  now  must  deck  our 

kings, 

Carry  them  here  and  there  ;  jumping  o'er  times, 
Turning  the  accomplishment  of  many  years 
Into  an  hour-glass  :  for  the  which  supply, 
Admit  me  Chorus  to  this  history ; 
Who,  prologue- like,  your  humble  patience  pray, 
Gently  to  hear,  kindly  to  judge,  our  play. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — LONDON.     An  Ante-chamber  in 
the  KING'S  Palace. 

Enter  the  ARCHBISHOP  OF  CANTERBURY  and 
the  BISHOP  OF  ELY. 

Cant.  My  lord,  I  '11  tell  you,— that  self  bill 
is  urg'd,  [reign 

Which  in  the  eleventh  year  of  the  last  king's 
Was  like,  and  had  indeed  against  us  pass'd, 


532 


KING  HENRY  V. 


[ACT  i. 


But  that  the  scambling  and  unquiet  time 
Did  push  it  out  of  further  question.  [now? 

Ely.  But  how,  my  lord,  shall  we  resist  it 
Cant.  It   must  be  thought  on.     If  it  pass 

against  us, 

We  lose  the  better  half  of  our  possession  : 
For  all  the  temporal  lands,  which  men  devout 
By  testament  have  given  to  the  church, 
Would  they  strip  from  us;  being  valu'd  thus, — 
As  much    as  would    maintain,   to   the   king's 

honour, 

Full  fifteen  earls  and  fifteen  hundred  knights, 
Six  thousand  and  two  hundred  good  esquires  ; 
And,  to  relief  of  lazars  and  weak  age, 
Of  indigent  faint  souls  past  corporal  toil, 
A  hundred  alms-houses  right  well  supplied  ; 
And  to  the  coffers  of  the  king,  beside,        [bill. 
A  thousand  pounds  by  the  year  :  thus  runs  the 
Ely.  This  would  drink  deep. 
Cant.  'T would  drink  the  cup  and  all. 

.    Ely.  But  what  prevention  ?  [gard. 

Cant.  The  king  is  full  of  grace  and  fair  re- 
Ely.  And  a  true  lover  of  the  holy  church. 
Cant.  The  courses  of  his  youth  promis'dit  not. 
The  breath  no  sooner  left  his  father's  body 
But  that  his  wildness,  mortified  in  him, 
Seem'd  to  die  too  :  yea,  at  that  very  moment, 
Consideration,  like  an  angel,  came,    ;-I  «2&' 
And  whipp'd  the  offending  Adam  out  of  him, 
Leaving  his  body  as  a  paradise, 
To  envelop  and  contain  celestial  spirits. 
Never  was  such  a  sudden  scholar  made  ; 
Never  came  reformation  in  a  flood, 
With  such  a  heady  current,  scouring  faults ; 
Nor  never  Hydra-headed  wilfulness 
So  soon  did  lose  his  seat,  and  all  at  once, 
As  in  this  king. 

Ely.  We  are  blessed  in  the  change. 

Cant.   Hear  him  but  reason  in  divinity, 
And,  all-admiring,  with  an  inward  wish 
You  would  desire  the  king  were  made  a  prelate : 
Hear  him  debate  of  commonwealth  affairs, 
You  would  say,  it  hath  been  all-in-all  his  study : 
List  his  discourse  of  war,  and  you  shall  hear 
A  fearful  battle  render' d  you  in  music : 
Turn  him  to  any  cause  of  policy, 
The  Gordian  knot  of  it  he  will  unloose, 
Familiar  as  his  garter  : — that,  when  he  speaks, 
The  air,  a  charter'd  libertine,  is  still, 
And  the  mute  wonder  lurketh  in  men's  ears. 
To  steal  his  sweet  and  honeyed  sentences ; 
So  that  the  art  and  practice  part  of  life 
Must  be  the  mistress  to  this  theoric :  [it, 

Which  is  a  wonder  how  his  grace  should  glean 
Since  his  addiction  was  to  courses  vain ; 
His  companies  unletter'd,  rude,  and  shallow ; 
His  hours  fill'd  up  with  riots,  banquets,  sports ; 


And  never  noted  in  him  any  study, 

Any  retirement,  any  sequestration 

From  open  haunts  and  popularity.          [nettle, 

Ely.  The  strawberry  grows  underneath  the 
And  wholesome  berries  thrive  and  ripen  best 
Neighbour'd  by  fruit  of  baser  quality : 
And  so  the  prince  obscur'd  his  contemplation 
Under  the  veil  of  wildness  ;  which,  no  doubt, 
Grew  like  the  summer  grass,  fastest  by  night, 
Unseen,  yet  crescive  in  his  faculty. 

Cant.  It  must  be  so ;  for  miracles  are  ceas'd ; 
And  therefore  we  must  needs  admit  the  means 
How  things  are  perfected. 

Ely.  But,  my  good  lord, 

How  now  for  mitigation  of  this  bill 
Urg'd  by  the  commons?     Doth  his  majesty 
Incline  to  it,  or  no  ? 

Cant.  He  seems  indifferent ; 

Or,  rather,  swaying  more  upon  our  part 
Than  cherishing  the  exhibitors  against  us  : 
For  I  have  made  an  offer  to  his  majesty, — 
Upon  our  spiritual  convocation, 
And  in  regard  of  causes  now  in  hand, 
Which  I  have  open'd  to  his  grace  at  large, 
As  touching  France, — to  give  a  greater  sum 
Than  ever  at  one  time  the  clergy  yet 
Did  to  his  predecessors  part  withal.          [lord? 

Ely.   How  did  this  offer  seem  receiv'd,  my 

Cant.  With  good  acceptance  of  his  majesty; 
Save  that  there  was  not  time  enough  to  hear, — 
As,  I  perceiv'd,  his  grace  would  fain  have 

done, — 

The  severals  and  unhidden  passages 
Of  his  true  titles  to  some  certain  dukedoms, 
And,  generally,  to  the  crown  and  seat  of  France, 
Deriv'd  from  Edward,  his  great-grandfather. 

Ely.  What  was  the  impediment  that  broke 
this  off?  [stant 

Cant.  The  French  ambassador  upon  that  in- 
Crav'd  audience :  and  the  hour,  I  think,  is  come 
To  give  him  hearing:  is  it  four  o'clock? 

Ely.  It  is. 

Cant.  Then  go  we  in,  to  know  his  embassy ; 
Which  I  could,  with  a  ready  guess,  declare, 
Before  the  Frenchman  speak  a  word  of  it. 

Ely.   I  '11  wait  upon  you ;  and  I  long  to  hear 
it.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  The  same.     A  Room  of  State  in 
the  same. 

Enter  KING  HENRY,  GLOSTER,  BEDFORD, 
EXETER,  WARWICK,  WESTMORELAND,  and 
Attendants. 

K.  Hen.    Where   is    my   gracious   Lord   of 

Canterbury? 
Exe.  Not  here  in  presence. 


SCENE  H.] 


KING  HENRY  V. 


533 


K.  Hen.  Send  for  him,  good  uncle. 
West.  Shall  we  call  in  the  ambassador,  my 
liege?  [resolv'd, 

K.  Hen.  Not  yet,  my  cousin ;  we  would  be 
Before  we  hear  him,  of  some  things  of  weight, 
That   task   our   thoughts,   concerning   us  and 
France. 

Enter  the  ARCHBISHOP  OF  CANTERBURY  and 
BISHOP  OF  ELY. 

Cant.  God  and  his  angels  guard  your  sacred 

throne, 
And  make  you  long  become  it ! 

K.  Hen.  Sure,  we  thank  you. 

My  learned  lord,  we  pray  you  to  proceed, 
And  justly  and  religiously  unfold 
Why  the  law  Salique,  that  they  have  in  France, 
Or  should,  or  should  not,  bar  us  in  our  claim  : 
And  God  forbid,  my  dear  and  faithful  lord, 
That  you  should  fashion,  wrest,  or  bow  your 

reading, 

Or  nicely  charge  your  understanding  soul 
With  opening  titles  miscreate,  whose  right 
Suits  not  in  native  colours  with  the  truth ; 
For  God  doth  know  how  many,  now  in  health, 
Shall  drop  their  blood  in  approbation 
Of  what  your  reverence  shall  incite  us  to  : 
Therefore   take   heed   how   you   impawn   our 

person, 

How  you  awake  the  sleeping  sword  of  war : 
We  charge  you,  in  the  name  of  God,  take  heed ; 
For  never  two  such  kingdoms  did  contend 
Without  much  fall  of  blood;  whose   guiltless 

drops 

Are  every  one  a  woe,  a  sore  complaint 
'Gainst  him  whose  wrongs  give  edge  unto  the 

swords 

That  make  such  waste  in  brief  mortality. 
Under  this  conjuration,  speak,  my  lord  ; 
For  we  will  hear,  note,  and  believe  in  heart 
That  what  you  speak   is  in  your  conscience 

wash'd 
As  pure  as  sin  with  baptism. 

Cant.  Then  hear  me,  gracious  sovereign, — 

and  you  peers, 

That  owe  yourselves,  your  lives,  and  services 
To  this  imperial  throne. — There  is  no  bar 
To  make  against  your  highness'  claim  to  France 
But  this,  which  theyproducefromPharamond, — 
In  terrain  Salicam  mulieres  ne  succedanf, 
No  woman  shall  succeed  in  Saligue  land: 
Which  Salique  land  the  French  unjustly  gloze 
To  be  the  realm  of  France,  and  Pharamond 
The  founder  of  this  law  and  female  bar. 
Yet  their  own  authors  faithfully  affirm 
That  the  land  Salique  is  in  Germany, 
Between  the  floods  of  Sala  and  of  Elbe ; 


Where  Charles  the  Great,  having  subdu'd  the 

Saxons, 

There  left  behind  and  settled  certain  French  ; 
Who,  holding  in  disdain  the  German  women 
For  some  dishonest  manners  of  their  life, 
Establish'd  then  this  law, — to  wit,  no  female 
Should  be  inheritrix  in  Salique  land  : 
Which  Salique,  as  I  said,  'twixt  Elbe  and  Sala, 
Is  at  this  day  in  Germany  called  Meisen. 
Then  doth  it  well  appear,  the  Salique  law 
Was  not  devised  for  the  realm  of  France  : 
Nor  did  the  French  possess  the  Salique  land 
Until  four  hundred  one-and-twenty  years 
After  defunction  of  King  Pharamond, 
Idly  suppos'd  the  founder  of  this  law  ; 
Who  died  within  the  year  of  our  redemption 
Four  hundred  twenty-six;  and  Charles  the  Great 
Subdu'd  the  Saxons,  and  did  seat  the  French 
Beyond  the  river  Sala,  in  the  year 
Eight  hundred  five.     Besides,  their  writers  say, 
King  Pepin,  which  deposed  Childerick, 
Did,  as  heir  general,  being  descended 
Of    Blithild,    which   was   daughter  to   King 

Clothair, 

Make  claim  and  title  to  the  crown  of  France. 
Hugh  Capet  also, — who  usurp'd  the  crown 
Of  Charles  the  Duke  of  Lorraine,  sole  heir  male 
Of  the  true  line  and  stock  of  Charles  the  Great, — 
To  fine  his  title  with  some  show  of  truth, — 
Though,  in    pure   truth,  it   was  corrupt  and 

naught, — 

Conveyed  himself  as  heir  to  the  Lady  Lingare, 
Daughter  to  Charlemain,  who  was  the  son 
To  Louis  the  emperor,  and  Louis  the  son 
Of  Charles  the  Great.  Also  King  Louis  the  Tenth, 
Who  was  sole  heir  to  the  usurper  Capet, 
Could  not  keep  quiet  in  his  conscience, 
Wearing  the  crown  of  France,  till  satisfied 
That  fair  Queen  Isabel,  his  grandmother, 
Was  lineal  of  the  Lady  Ermengare, 
Daughter  to  Charles  the  foresaid  Duke  of  Lor- 
raine :  [Great 
By  the  which  marriage  the  line  of  Charles  the 
Was  re-united  to  the  Crown  of  France. 
So  that,  as  clear  as  is  the  summer's  sun, 
King  Pepin's  title,  and  Hugh  Capet's  claim, 
King  Louis  his  satisfaction,  all  appear 
To  hold  in  right  and  title  of  the  female : 
So  do  the  kings  of  France  unto  this  day ; 
Howbeit  they  would  hold  up  this  Salique  law 
To  bar  your  highness  claiming  from  the  female ; 
And  rather  choose  to  hide  them  in  a  net 
Than  amply  to  imbar  their  crooked  titles 
Usurp'd  from  you  and  your  progenitors. 

K.  Hen.  May  I  with  right  and  conscience 

make  this  claim  ? 
Cant.  The  sin  upon  my  head,  dread  sovereign ! 


534 


KING  HENRY  V. 


LACT  i. 


For  in  the  book  of  Numbers  is  it  writ,- 
When  the  man  dies,  let  the  inheritance 
Descend  unto  the  daughter.     Gracious  lord, 
Stand  for  your  own ;  unwind  your  bloody  flag ; 
Look  back  unto  your  mighty  ancestors : 
Go,  my  dread  lord,  to  your  great -grandsire's 

tomb, 

From  whom  you  claim ;  invoke  his  warlike  spirit, 
And  your  great-uncle's,    Edward   the    Black 

Prince, 

Who  on  the  French  ground  play'd  a  tragedy, 
Making  defeat  on  the  full  power  of  France, 
Whiles  his  most  mighty  father  on  a  hill 
Stood  smiling  to  behold  his  lion's  whelp 
Forage  in  blood  of  French  nobility. 
O  noble  English,  that  could  entertain 
With  half  their  forces  the  full  pride  of  France, 
And  let  another  half  stand  laughing  by, 
All  out  of  work  and  cold  for  action !         [dead, 

Ely.  Awake  remembrance  of  these  valiant 
And  with  your  puissant  arm  renew  their  feats : 
You  are  their  heir ;  you  sit  upon  their  throne ; 
The  blood  and  courage  that  renowned  them 
Runs  in  your  veins ;  and  my  thrice -puissant  liege 
Is  in  the  very  May- morn  of  his  youth, 
Ripe  for  exploits  and  mighty  enterprises. 

Exe.  Your  brother  kings  and  monarchs  of  the 

earth 

Do  all  expect  that  you  should  rouse  yourself, 
As  did  the  former  lions  of  your  blood. 

West.  They  know  your  grace  hath  cause  and 

means  and  might: — 

So  hath  your  highness ;  never  king  of  England 
Had  nobles  richer  and  more  loyal  subjects, 
Whose  hearts  have  left  their  bodies  here  in 

England, 
And  lie  pavilion'd  in  the  fields  of  France. 

Cant.  O,  let  their  bodies  follow,  my  dear  liege, 
With  blood  and  sword  and  fire  to  win  your  right : 
In  aid  whereof  we  of  the  spiritualty 
Will  raise  your  highness  such  a  mighty  sum 
As  never  did  the  clergy  at  one  time 
Bring  in  to  any  of  your  ancestors.         [French, 

K.  Hen.  We  must  not  only  arm  to  invade  the 
But  lay  down  our  proportions  to  defend 
Against  the  Scot,  who  will  make  road  upon  us 
With  all  advantages.  [reign, 

Cant.  They  of  those  marches,  gracious  sove- 
Shall  be  a  wall  sufficient  to  defend 
Our  inland  from  the  pilfering  borderers. 

K.  Hen.  We   do    not    mean    the   coursing 

snatchers  only, 

But  fear  the  main  intendment  of  the  Scot, 
Who  hath  been  still  a  giddy  neighbour  to  us ; 
For  you  shall  read  that  my  great-grandfather 
Never  went  with  his  forces  into  France 
But  that  the  Scot  on  his  unfurnish'd  kingdom 


Came  pouring,  like  the  tide  into  a  breach, 
With  ample  and  brim  fulness  of  his  force  ; 
Galling  the  gleaned  land  with  hot  essays, 
Girding  with  grievous  siege  castles  and  towns ; 
That  England,  being  empty  of  defence, 
Hath  shook  and  trembled  at  the  ill  neighbour- 
hood. 
Cant.  She  hath  been  then  more  fear'd  than 

harm'd,  my  liege; 

For  hear  her  but  exampled  by  herself: — 
When  all  her  chivalry  hath  been  in  France, 
And  she  a  mourning  widow  of  her  nobles, 
She  hath  herself  not  only  well  defended, 
But  taken,  and  impounded  as  a  stray, 
The  king  of  Scots ;  whom  she  did  send  to  France, 
To  fill  King  Edward's  fame  with  prisoner  kings, 
And  make  her  chronicle  as  rich  with  praise 
As  is  the  ooze  and  bottom  of  the  sea 
With  sunken  wreck  and  sumless  treasuries. 
West.  But  there 's  a  saying,  very  old  and  true, — 
If  that  you  -will  France  win, 
Then  with  Scotland  first  begin  : 
For  once  the  eagle  England  being  in  prey, 
To  her  unguarded  nest  the  weasel  Scot 
Comes  sneaking,  and  so  sucks  her  princely  eggs; 
Playing  the  mouse  in  absence  of  the  cat, 
To  tear  and  havoc  more  than  she  can  eat. 
Exe.  It  follows,  then,  the  cat  must  stay  at 

home: 

Yet  that  is  but  a  curs'd  necessity, 
Since  we  have  locks  to  safeguard  necessaries, 
And  pretty  traps  to  catch  the  petty  thieves. 
While  that  the  armed  hand  doth  fight  abroad, 
The  advised  head  defends  itself  at  home ; 
For  government,  though  high,  and  low,  and 

lower, 

Put  into  parts,  doth  keep  in  one  concent ; 
Congruing  in  a  full  and  natural  close, 
Like  music. 

Cant.       Therefore  doth  heaven  divide 
The  state  of  man  in  divers  functions, 
Setting  endeavour  in  continual  motion ; 
To  which  is  fixed,  as  an  aim  or  butt, 
Obedience :  for  so  work  the  honey  bees ; 
Creatures  that,  by  a  rule  in  nature,  teach 
The  act  of  order  to  a  peopled  kingdom. 
They  have  a  king,  and  officers  of  sorts : 
Where  some,  like  magistrates,  correct  at  home ; 
Others,  like  merchants,  venture  trade  abroad ; 
Others,  like  soldiers,  armed  in  their  stings, 
Make  boot  upon  the  summer's  velvet  buds ; 
Which  pillage  they  with  merry  march   bring 

home 

To  the  tent-royal  of  thek  emperor : 
Who,  busied  in  his  majesty,  surveys 
The  singing  masons  building  roofs  of  gold ; 
The  civil  citizens  kneading  up  the  honey ; 


SCENE  II.] 


KING  HENRY  V. 


535 


The  poor  mechanic  porters  crowding  in 
Their  heavy  burdens  at  his  narrow  gate ; 
The  sad-ey'd  justice,  with  his  surly  hum, 
Delivering  o'er  to  executors  pale 
The  lazy  yawning  drone.     I  this  infer, — 
That  many  things,  having  full  reference 
To  one  concent,  may  work  contrariously : 
As  many  arrows,  loosed  several  ways, 
Fly  to  one  mark ; 

As  many  several  ways  meet  in  one  town ; 
As  many  fresh  streams  meet  in  one  salt  sea ; 
As  many  lines  close  in  the  dial's  centre : 
So  may  a  thousand  actions,  once  afoot, 
End  in  one  purpose, and  be  all  well  borne 
Without  defeat.    Therefore  to  France,  my  liege. 
Divide  your  happy  England  into  four ; 
Whereof  take  you  one  quarter  into  France, 
And  you  withal  shall  make  all  Gallia  shake. 
If  we,  with  thrice  such  powers  left  at  home, 
Cannot  defend  our  own  doors  from  the  dog, 
Let  us  be  worried,  and  our  nation  lose 
The  name  of  hardiness  and  policy. 

K.  Hen.  Call  in  the  messengers   sent  from 
the  Dauphin.        [Exit  an  Attendant. 
Now  are  we  well  resolv'd  t  and,  by  God's  help 
And  yours,  the  noble  sinews  of  our  power, 
France  being  ours,  we  '11  bend  it  to  our  awe, 
Or  break  it  all  to  pieces :  or  there  we  '11  sit, 
Ruling  in  large  and  ample  empery 
O'er  France  and  all  her  almost  kingly  dukedoms, 
Or  lay  these  bones  in  an  unworthy  urn, 
Tombless,  with  no  remembrance  over  them : 
Either  our  history  shall  with  full  mouth 
Speak  freely  of  our  acts,  or  else  our  grave, 
Like  Turkish  mute,  shall  have  a  tongueless 

mouth, 
Not  worshipp'd  with  a  waxen  epitaph. 

Enter  Ambassadors  of  France. 

Now  are  we  well  prepar'd  to  know  the  pleasure 
Of  our  fair  cousin  Dauphin ;  for  we  hear 
Your  greeting  is  from  him,  not  from  the  king. 
i  Amb.  May  it  please  your  majesty  to  give 

us  leave 

Freely  to  render  what  we  have  in  charge ; 
Or  shall  we  sparingly  show  you  far  off 
The  Dauphin's  meaning  and  our  embassy? 
K.  Hen.  We  are  no  tyrant,  but  a  Christian 

king; 

Unto  whose  grace  our  passion  is  as  subject 
As  are  our  wretches  fetter'd  in  our  prisons : 
Therefore  with  frank  and  with  uncurbed  plain- 
ness 
Tell  us  the  Dauphin's  mind. 

i  Amb.  Thus,  then,  in  few. 

Your  highness,  lately  sending  into  France, 
Did  claim  some  certain  dukedoms,  in  the  right 


Of  your  great  predecessor,  King  Edward  the 

Third. 

In  answer  of  which  claim,  the  prince  our  master 
Says,  that  you  savour  too  much  of  your  youth ; 
And  bids  you  be  advis'd  there 's  naught  in  France 
That  can  be  with  a  nimble  galliard  won ; — 
You  cannot  revel  into  dukedoms  there. 
He  therefore  sends  you,  meeter  for  your  spirit, 
This  tun  of  treasure ;  and,  in  lieu  of  this, 
Desires  you  let  the  dukedoms  that  you  claim 
Hear  no  more  of  you.    This  the  Dauphin  speaks. 

K.  Hen.  What  treasure,  uncle? 

Exe.  Tennis-balls,  my  liege. 

K.  Hen.  We  are  glad  the   Dauphin  is  so 

pleasant  with  us; 

His  present  and  your  pains  we  thank  you  for : 
When  we  have  match'd  our  rackets  to  these  balls, 
We  will,  in  France,  by  God's  grace,  play  a  set 
Shall  strike  his  father's  crown  into  the  hazard. 
Tell  him  he  hath  made  a  match  with  such  a 

wrangler 

That  all  the  courts  of  France  will  be  disturb'd 
With  chases.     And  we  understand  him  well, 
How  he  comes  o'er  us  with  our  wilder  days, 
Not  measuring  what  use  we  made  of  them. 
We  never  valu'd  this  poor  seat  of  England ; 
And  therefore,  living  hence,  did  give  ourself 
To  barbarous  license ;  as  'tis  ever  common 
That  men  are  merriest  when  they  are  from  home. 
But  tell  the  Dauphin,  I  will  keep  my  state ; 
Be  like  a  king,  and  show  my  sail  of  greatness, 
When  I  do  rouse  me  in  my  throne  of  France : 
For  that  I  have  laid  by  my  majesty, 
And  plodded  like  a  man  for  working-days ; 
But  I  will  rise  there  with  so  full  a  glory 
That  I  will  dazzle  all  the  eyes  of  France, 
Yea,  strike  the  Dauphin  blind  to  look  on  us. 
And  tell  the  pleasant  prince  this  mock  of  his 
Hath  turn'd  his  balls  to  gun-stones ;  and  his  soul 
Shall  stand  sore  charged  for  the  wasteful  ven- 
geance [widows 
That  shall  fly  with  them ;  for  many  a  thousand 
Shall  this  his  mock  mock  out  of  their  dear 
husbands ;  [down ; 
Mock  mothers  from  their  sons,  mock  castles 
And  some  are  yet  ungotten  and  unborn   [scorn. 
That  shall  have  cause  to  curse  the  Dauphin's 
But  this  lies  all  within  the  will  of  God, 
To  whom  I  do  appeal ;  and  in  whose  name, 
Tell  you  the  Dauphin,  I  am  coming  on, 
To  venge  me  as  I  may,  and  to  put  forth 
My  rightful  hand  in  a  well-hallow'd  cause. 
So,  get  you  hence  in  peace ;  and  tell  the  Dauphin 
His  jest  will  savour  but  of  shallow  wit,     [it. — 
When  thousands  weep,  more  than  did  laugh  at 
Convey  them  with  safe  conduct. — Fare  you  well. 
[Exeunt  Ambassadors. 


536 


KING  HENRY  V. 


[ACT  ir. 


Exe.  This  was  a  merry  message. 

K.  Hen.  We  hope  to  make  the  sender  blush 

at  it. 

Therefore,  my  lords,  omit  no  happy  hour 
That  may  give  furtherance  to  our  expedition  ; 
For  we  have  now  no  thought  in  us  but  France, 
Save  those  to  God,  that  run  before  our  business. 
Therefore  let  our  proportions  for  these  wars 
Be  soon  collected,  and  all  things  thought  upon 
That  may  with  reasonable  swiftness  add 
More  feathers  to  our  wings ;  for,  God  before, 
We  '11  chide  this  Dauphin  at  his  father's  door. 
Therefore  let  every  man  now  task  his  thought, 
That  this  fair  action  may  on  foot  be  brought. 

{Exeunt. 

Enter  Chorus. 

Chor.  Now  all  the  youth  of  England  are  on 

fire, 

And  silken  dalliance  in  the  wardrobe  lies  : 
Now  thrive  the  armourers,  and  honour's  thought 
Reigns  solely  in  the  breast  of  every  man  : 
They  sell  the  pasture  now  to  buy  the  horse  ; 
Following  the  mirror  of  all  Christian  kings, 
With  winged  heels,  as  English  Mercuries, 
For  now  sits  Expectation  in  the  air ; 
And  hides  a  sword  from  hilts  unto  the  point 
With  crowns  imperial,  crowns,  and  coronets, 
Promis'd  to  Harry  and  his  followers. 
The  French,  advis'd  by  good  intelligence 
Of  this  most  dreadful  preparation, 
Shake  in  their  fear  ;  and  with  pale  policy 
Seek  to  divert  the  English  purposes. 
O  England  ! — model  to  thy  inward  greatness, 
Like  little  body  with  a  mighty  heart, — 
What   mightst    thou  do,   that   honour  would 

thee  do, 

Were  all  thy  children  kind  and  natural !     [out 
But  see  thy  fault  !     France  hath  in  thee  found 
A  nest  of  hollow  bosoms,  which  he  fills 
With  treacherous  crowns  ;  and  three  corrupted 
men, —  [second, 

One,  Richard  Earl  of  Cambridge  ;  and  the 
Henry  Lord  Scroop  of  Masham ;  and  the  third, 
Sir  Thomas  Grey,  knight,  of  Northumberland, — 
Have,  for  the  guilt  of  France, — Oguiltindeed! — 
Confirm'd  conspiracy  with  fearful  France  ; 
And  by  their  hands  this  grace  of  kings  must 

die,— 

If  hell  and  treason  hold  their  promises, — 
Ere  he  take  ship  for  France,  and  in  South- 
ampton. 

Linger  your  patience  on  ;  and  well  digest 
The  abuse  of  distance,  while  we  force  a  play. 
The  sum  is  paid  ;  the  traitors  are  agreed  ; 
The  king  is  set  from  London  ;  and  the  scene 
Is  now  transported,  gentles,  to  Southampton,— 


There  is  the  play-house  now,  there  must  you 

sit : 

And  thence  to  France  shall  we  convey  you  safe, 
And  bring  you  back,  charming  the  narrow  seas 
To  give  you  gentle  pass  ;  for,  if  we  may, 
We  '11  not  offend  one  stomach  with  our  play. 
But,  till  the  king  come  forth,  and  not  till  then, 
Unto  Southampton  do  we  shift  our  scene. 

[Exit. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — LONDON.     Before  the  Boar's  HcaoL 
Tavern,  Eastcheap. 

Enter,  severally,  NYM  and  BARDOLPH. 

Bard.  Well  met,  Corporal  Nym. 

Nym.  Good-morrow,  Lieutenant  Bardolph. 

Bard.  What,  are  Ancient  Pistol  and  you 
friends  yet  ? 

Nym.  For  my  part,  I  ca/e  not :  I  say  little  ; 
but  when  time  shall  serve,  there  shall  be  smiles ; 
— but  that  shall  be  as  it  may.  I  dare  not  fight ; 
but  I  will  wink,  and  hold  out  mine  iron  :  it  is 
a  simple  one ;  but  what  though  ?  it  will  toast 
cheese :  and  it  will  endure  cold  as  another 
man's  sword  will,  and  there  's  the  humour  of  it. 

Bard.  I  will  bestow  a  breakfast  to  make  you 
friends  ;  and  we  '11  be  all  three  sworn  brothers 
to  France :  let  it  be  so,  good  Corporal  Nym. 

Nym.  Faith,  I  will  live  so  long  as  I  may, 
that 's  the  certain  of  it ;  and  when  I  cannot  live 
any  longer,  I  will  do  as  I  may :  that  is  my  rest, 
that  is  the  rendezvous  of  it. 

Bard.  It  is  certain,  corporal,  that  he  is 
married  to  Nell  Quickly :  and,  certainly,  she 
did  you  wrong;  for  you  were  troth-plight  to 
her. 

Nym.  I  cannot  tell : — things  must  be  as  they 
may :  men  may  sleep,  and  they  may  have  their 
throats  about  them  at  that  time  ;  and,  some 
say,  knives  have  edges.  It  must  be  as  it  may : 
though  patience  be  a  tired  mare,  yet  she  will 
plod.  Th-re  must  be  conclusions.  Well,  I 
cannot  tell. 

Bard.  Here  comes  Ancient  Pistol  and  his 
wife  : — good  corporal,  be  patient  here. 

Enter  PISTOL  and  Hostess. 

How  now,  mine  host  Pistol  ! 

Fist.  Base  tike,  call'st  thou  me  host  ? 
Now,  by  this  hand,  I  swear,  I  scorn  the  term  ', 
Nor  shall  my  Nell  keep  lodgers. 

Host.  No,  by  my  troth,  not  long ;  for  we 
cannot  lodge  and  board  a  dozen  or  fourteen 
gentlewomen  that  live  honestly  by  the  prick  of 
their  needles,  but  it  will  be  thought  we  keep  a 


SCENE  I.] 


KING  HENRY  V. 


537 


bawdy-house  straight.    [N YM  draws  his  sword.  ] 

0  well-a-day,  Lady,  if  he  be  not  drawn  !  now 
we  shall  see  wilful  adultery  and  murder  com- 
mitted. 

Bard.  Good  lieutenant, — good  corporal, — 
offer  nothing  here. 

Nym.  Pish! 

Pist.    Pish    for    thee,    Iceland   dog !    thou 
prick-ear'd  cur  of  Iceland  ! 

Host.  Good  Corporal  Nym,  show  thy  valour, 
and  put  up  your  sword. 

Nym.  Will  you  shog  off  ?  I  would  have  you 
solus.  [Sheathing  his  sword. 

Pist.  Solus,  egregious  dog  ?     O  viper  vile  ! 
The  solus  in  thy  most  marvellous  face  ; 
The  solus  in  thy  teeth,  and  in  thy  throat, 
And  in  thy  hateful  lungs,  yea,  in  thy  maw,  perdy ; 
And,  which  is  worse,  within  thy  nasty  mouth  ! 

1  do  retort  the  solus  in  thy  bowels ; 
For  I  can  take,  and  Pistol's  cock  is  up, 
And  flashing  fire  will  follow. 

Nym,  I  am  not  Barbason  ;  you  cannot  con- 
jure me.  I  have  an  humour  to  knock  you  in- 
differently well.  If  you  grow  foul  with  me, 
Pistol,  I  will  scour  you  with  my  rapier,  as  I 
may,  in  fair  terms  :  if  you  would  walk  off  I 
would  prick  your  guts  a  little,  in  good  terms, 
as  I  may :  and  that 's  the  humour  of  it. 

Pist.    O  braggart  vile  and  damned  furious 

wight ! 

The  grave  doth  gape  and  doting  death  is  near ; 
Therefore  exhale.        [PiSTOL  and  NYM  draw. 

Bard.  Hear  me,  hear  me  what  I  say : — he 
that  strikes  the  first  stroke  I  '11  run  him  up  to 
the  hilts,  as  I  am  a  soldier.  [Draws. 

Pist.   An  oath  of  mickle  might ;   and  fury 

shall  abate. 

Give  me  thy  fist,  thy  fore-foot  to  me  give  : 
Thy  spirits  are  most  tall. 

Nym.  I  will  cut  thy  throat  one  time  or  other, 
in  fair  terms  :  that  is  the  humour  of  it. 

Pist.   Coupe  la  gorge!  That's  the  word.— I 
thee  defy  again. 

0  hound  of  Crete,  think'st  thou  my  spouse 

to  get  ? 

No  ;  to  the  spital  go, 
And  from  the  powdering  tub  of  infamy 
Fetch  forth  the  lazar  kite  of  Cressid's  kind, 
Doll  Tearsheet  she  by  name,  and  her  espouse  : 

1  have,  and  I  will  hold,  the  quondam  Quickly 
For  the  only  she ;  and — Pauca,  there's  enough. 
Go  to. 

Enter  the  Boy. 

Boy.  Mine  host  Pistol,  you  must  come  to 
my  master, — and  you,  hostess : — he  is  very  sick, 
and  would  to  bed.— Good  Bardolph,  put  thy 


nose  between  his  sheets,  and  do  the  office  of  a 
warming-pan.     Faith,  he 's  very  ill. 

Bard.  Away,  you  rogue. 

Host.  By  my  troth,  he'll  yield  the  crow  a 
pudding  one  of  these  days:  the  king  has 
killed  his  heart. — Good  husband,  come  home 
presently.  [Exeunt  Hostess  and  Boy. 

Bard.  Come,  shall  I  make  you  two  friends? 
We  must  to  France  together  :  why  the  devil 
should  we  keep  knives  to  cut  one  another's 
throats  ? 

Pist.    Let   floods  o'erswell  and  fiends  for 
food  howl  on  ! 

Nym.  You  '11  pay  me  the  eight  shillings  I 
won  of  you  at  betting  ? 

Pist.  Base  is  the  slave  that  pays. 

Nym.  That  now  I  will  have:  that's  the 
humour  of  it. 

Pist.  As   manhood   shall  compound:    push 
home.  [PISTOL  and  NYM  draw. 

Bard.  By  this  sword,  he  that  makes  the 
first  thrust  I'll  kill  him;  by  this  sword,  I 
will. 

Pist.  Sword  is  an  oath,  and  oaths  must  have 
their  course. 

Bard.  Corporal  Nym,  an  thou  wilt  be 
friends,  be  friends:  an  thou  wilt  not,  why,  then, 
be  enemies  with  me  too.  Pr'ythee,  put  up. 

Nym.  I  shall  have  my  eight  shillings  I  won 
of  you  at  betting  ? 

Pist.  A  noble  shall  thou  have,  and  present 

pay; 

And  liquor  likewise  will  I  give  to  thee, 
And  friendship  shall  com  bine,  and  brotherhood: 
I  '11  live  by  Nym  and  Nym  shall  live  by  me ; — 
Is  not  this  just  ? — for  I  shall  sutler  be 
Unto  the  camp,  and  profits  will  accrue. 
Give  me  thy  hand. 

Nym.  I  shall  have  my  noble  ? 

Pist.   In  cash  most  justly  paid. 

Nym.  Well,  then,  that 's  the  humour  of  it. 

Re-enter  Hostess. 

Host.  As  ever  you  came  of  women,  come  in 
^quickly  to  Sir  John.  Ah,  poor  heart !  he  is  so 
shaken  of  a  burning  quotidian  tertian  that  it  is 
most  lamentable  to  behold.  Sweet  men,  come 
to  him. 

Nym.  The  king  hath  run  bad  humours  on  the 
knight ;  that 's  the  even  of  it 

Pist.  Nym,  thou  hast  spoke  the  right ; 
His  heart  is  fracted  and  corroborate. 

Nym.  The  king  is  a  good  king :  but  it  must 
be  as  it  may;  he  passes  some  humours  and 
careers. 

Pist.  Let  us  condole  the  knight ;  for,  lamb- 
kins, we  will  live.  [Exeunt. 


KING  HENRY  V. 


[ACT  ii. 


SCENE  II.—  SOUTHAMPTON.    A  Council 
Chamber. 

Enter  EXETER,  BEDFORD,  and  WESTMORE- 
LAND. 

Bed.  'Fore  God,  his  grace  is  bold,  to  trust 

these  traitors. 

Exe.  They  shall  be  apprehended  by  and  by. 
West.  How  smooth  and  even  they  do  bear 

themselves ! 

As  if  allegiance  in  their  bosom  sat, 
Crowned  with  faith  and  constant  loyalty. 
Red.  The  king  hath  note  of  all  that  they  in- 
tend, 
By  interception  which  they  dream  not  of. 

Exe.  Nay,  but  the  man  that  was  his  bedfellow, 
Whom  he  hath  dull'd  and  cloy'd  with  gracious 

favours, — 

That  he  should,  for  a  foreign  purse,  so  sell 
His  sovereign's  life  to  death  and  treachery ! 

Trumpet  sounds.  Enter'Ki^G  HENRY,  SCROOP, 
CAMBRIDGE,  GREY,  Lords,  and  Attendants. 

K.  Hen.  Now  sits  the  wind  fair,  and  we  will 

aboard. 

My  Lord  of  Cambridge, — and"  my  kind  Lord  of 
Masham, — •  [thoughts : 

And  you,  my  gentle  knight, — give  me  your 
Think  you  not  that  the  powers  we  bear  with  us 
Will  cut  their  passage  through  the  force  of 

France, 

Doing  the  execution  and  the  act 
For  which  we  have  in  head  assembled  them? 
Scroop.  No  doubt,  my  liege,  if  each  man  do 
his  best.  [persuaded 

K.  Hen.  I  doubt  not  that ;  since  we  are  well 
We  carry  not  a  heart  with  us  from  hence 
That  grows  not  in  a  fair  consent  with  ours, 
Nor  leave  not  one  behind  that  doth  not  wish 
Success  and  conquest  to  attend  on  us. 

Cam.  Never  was  monarch  better  fear'd  and 
lov'd  [subject 

Than  is  your  majesty :  there 's  not,  I  think,  a 
That  sits  in  heart-grief  and  uneasiness 
Under  the  sweet  shade  of  your  government. 
Grey.  True:   those  that  were  your  father's 
enemies  [you 

Have  steep'd  their  galls  in  honey,  and  do  serve 
With  hearts  create  of  duty  and  of  zeal. 
K.  Hen.  We  therefore  have  great  cause  of 

thankfulness ; 

And  shall  forget  the  office  of  our  hand 
Sooner  than  quittance  of  desert  and  merit 
According  to  the  weight  and  worthiness. 
Scroop.  So  service  shall  with  steel'd  sinews 
toil, 


And  labour  shall  refresh  itself  with  hope, 
To  do  your  grace  incessant  services. 

K.  Hen.  We  judge  no  less. — Uncle  of  Exeter, 
Enlarge  the  man  committed  yesterday, 
That  rail'd  against  our  person :  we  consider 
It  was  excess  of  wine  that  set  him  on ; 
And  on  his  more  advice  we  pardon  him. 

Scroop.  That 's  mercy,  but  too  much  security: 
Let  him  be  punish'd,  sovereign ;  lest  example 
Breed,  by  his  sufferance',  more  of  such  a  kind. 

K.  Hen.  O,  let  us  yet  be  merciful.          [too. 

Cam.  So  may  your  highness,  and  yet  punish 

Grey.  Sir,  you  show  great  mercy  if  you  give. 

him  life, 
After  the  taste  of  much  correction.  [of  me 

K.  Hen.  Alas,  your  too  much  love  and  care 
Are  heavy  orisons  'gainst  this  poor  wretch ! 
If  little  faults,  proceeding  on  distemper, 
Shall  not  be  wink'd  at,  how  shall  we  stretch 
our  eye  [digested, 

When  capital  crimes,  chew'd,  swal.low'd,  and 
Appear  before  us? — We  '11  yet  enlarge  that  man, 
Though  Cambridge,  Scroop,  and  Grey,  in  their 

dear  care 

And  tender  preservation  of  our  person, 
Would  have  him  punish'd.     And  now  to  out 

French  causes : 
Who  are  the  late  commissioners? 

Cam.  I  one,  my  lord : 
Your  highness  bade  me  ask  for  it  to-day. 

Scroop.  So  did  you  me,  my  liege. 

Grey.  And  me,  my  royal  sovereign. 

K.  Hen.  Then,  Richard  Earl  of  Cambridge, 
there  is  yours ; —  [sir  knight, 

There  yours,  Lord  Scroop  of  Masham ; — and, 
Grey  of  Northumberland,  this  same  is  yours : — 
Read  them,  and  know  I  know  your  worthi- 
ness.—  [eter, — 
My  Lord  of  Westmoreland, — and  uncle  Ex- 
We  will  aboard  to-night. — Why,  how  now, 

gentlemen ' 

What  see  you  in  those  papers,  that  you  lose 
So   much  complexion? — Look  ye,  how   they 
change !  [there 

Their  cheeks  are  paper.— Why,  what  read  you 
That  hath  so  cowarded  and  chas'd  your  blood 
Out  of  appearance? 

Cam.  I  do  confess  my  fault, 

And  do  submit  me  to  your  highness'  mercy. 

Grey,  Scroop.  To  which  we  all  appeal. 

K.  Hen.  The  mercy  that  was  quick  in  us 

but  late 

By  your  own  counsel  is  suppress'd  and  kill'd : 
You  must  not  dare,  for  shame,  to  talk  of  mercy ; 
For  your  own  reasons  turn  into  your  bosoms, 
As  dogs  upon  their  masters,  worrying  you.— 
See  you,  my  princes  and  my  noble  peers, 


SCENE  II.] 


KING  HENRY  V. 


539 


These  English  monsters!     My  Lord  of  Cam- 
bridge here, — 

You  know  how  apt  our  love  was  to  accord 
To  furnish  him  with  all  appertinents 
Belonging  to  his  honour ;  and  this  man 
Hath,  for  a  few  light  crowns,  lightly  conspir'd, 
And  sworn  unto  the  practices  of  France, 
To  kill  us  here  in  Hampton :  to  the  which 
This  knight,  no  less  for  bounty  bound  to  us 
Than  Cambridge   is,  hath  likewise  sworn. — 
But,  O,  [cruel, 

What  shall  I  say  to  thee,  Lord  Scroop?  thou 
Ingrateful,  savage,  and  inhuman  creature! 
Thou  that  didst  bear  the  key  of  all  my  counsels, 
That  knew'st  the  very  bottom  of  my  soul, 
That  almost  mightst  have  coin'd  me  into  gold, 
Wouldst  thou  have  practis'd  on  me  for   thy 

use,— 

May  it  be  possible  that  foreign  hire 
Could  out  of  thee  extract  one  spark  of  evil 
That  might  annoy  my  finger  ?    tis  so  strange 
That,  though  the  truth  of  it  stands  off  as  gross 
As  black  from  white,  my  eye  will  scarcely  see  it. 
Treason  and  murder  ever  kept  together, 
As  two  yoke-devils  sworn  to  cither's  purpose, 
Working  so  grossly  in  a  natural  cause 
That  admiration  did  not  whoop  at  them  t 
But  thou,  'gainst  all  proportion,  didst  bring  in 
Wonder  to  wait  on  treason  and  on  murder: 
And  whatsoever  cunning  fiend  it  was 
That  wrought  upon  thee  so  preposterously 
Hath  got  the  voice  in  hell  for  excellence : 
And  other  devils,  that  suggest  by  treasons, 
Do  botch  and  bungle  up  damnation       [fetch'd 
With  patches,  colours,  and  with  forms  being 
From  glistering  semblances  of  piety ; 
But  he  that  temper'd  thee  bade  thee  stand  up, 
Gave  thee  no  instance  why  thou  shouldst  do 

treason, 

Unless  to  dub  thee  with  the  name  of  traitor. 
If  that  same  demon  that  hath  gull'd  thee  thus 
Should  with  his  lion  gait  walk  the  whole  world, 
He  might  return  to  vasty  Tartar  back, 
And  tell  the  legions,  /  can  never  win 
A  soul  so  easy  as  that  Englishman's. 
O,  how  hast  thou  with  jealousy  infected 
The  sweetness  of  affiance !     Show  men  dutiful  ? 
Why,  so  didst  thou :  seem  they  grave  and  learned? 
Why,  so  didst  thou :  come  they  of  noble  family? 
Why,  so  didst  thou :  seem  they  religious? 
Why,  so  didst  thou :  or  are  they  spare  in  diet ; 
Free  from  gross  passion,  or  of  mirth  or  anger ; 
Constant  in  spirit,  not  swerving  with  the  blood ; 
Garnish'd  and  deck'd  in  modest  complement ; 
Not  working  with  the  eye  without  the  ear, 
And  but  in  purged  judgment  trusting  neither? 
Such  and  so  finely  bolted  didst  thou  seem : 


And  thus  thy  fall  hath  left  a  kind  of  blot, 
To  mark  the  full-fraught  man  and  best  indu'd 
With  some  suspicion.     I  will  weep  for  thee ; 
For  this  revolt  of  thine,  methinks,  is  like 
Another  fall  of  man. — Their  faults  are  open : 
Arrest  them  to  the  answer  of  the  law ; — 
And  God  acquit  them  of  their  practices ! 

Exe.  I  arrest  thee  of  high  treason,  by  the 
name  of  Richard  Earl  of  Cambridge. 

I  arrest  thee  of  high  treason,  by  the  name  of 
Henry  Lord  Scroop  of  Masham. 

I  arrest  thee  of  high  treason,  by  the  name  of 
Thomas  Grey,  knight,  of  Northumberland. 

Scroop.   Our  purposes  God  justly  hath  dis- 

cover'd ; 

And  I  repent  my  fault  more  than  my  death ; 
Which  I  beseech  your  highness  to  forgive, 
Although  my  body  pay  the  price  of  it. 

Cam.  For  me, — the  gold  of  France  did  not 

seduce ; 

Although  I  did  admit  it  as  a  motive 
The  sooner  to  effect  what  I  intended : 
But  God  be  thanked  for  prevention ; 
Which  I  in  sufferance  heartily  will  rejoice, 
Beseeching  God  and  you  to  pardon  me. 

Grey.  Never  did  faithful  subject  more  rejoice 
At  the  discovery  of  most  dangerous  treason 
Than  I  do  at  this  hour  joy  o'er  myself, 
Prevented  from  a  damned  enterprise : 
My  fault,  but  not  my  body,  pardon,  sovereign. 

K.  Hen.  God  quit  you  in  his  mercy !     Hear 

your  sentence. 

You  have  conspir'd  against  our  royal  person, 
Join'd  with  an  enemy  proclaim'd,  and  from  his 

coffers 

Receiv'd  the  golden  earnest  of  our  death ; 
Wherein  you  would  have  sold  your  king  to 

slaughter, 

His  princes  and  his  peers  to  servitude, 
His  subjects  to  oppression  and  contempt, 
And  his  whole  kingdom  into  desolation. 
Touching  our  person  seek  we  no  revenge ; 
But  we  our  kingdom's  safety  must  so  tender, 
Whose  ruin  you  have  sought,  that  to  her  laws 
We  do  deliver  you.     Get  you,  therefore,  hence, 
Poor  miserable  wretches,  to  your  death : 
The  taste  whereof  God  of  his  mercy  give  you 
Patience  to  endure,  and  true  repentance 
Of  all  your  dear  offences! — Bear  them  hence. 

[Exeunt  Conspirators,  guarded. 
Now,  lords,  for  France ;  the  enterprise  whereof 
Shall  be  to  you,  as  us,  like  glorious. 
We  doubt  not  of  a  fair  and  lucky  war : 
Since  God  so  graciously  hath  brought  to  light 
This  dangerous  treason,  lurking  in  our  way 
To  hinder  our  beginnings,  we  doubt  not  now 
But  every  rub  is  smoothed  on  our  way. 


540 


KING  HENRY  V. 


[ACT  n. 


Then,  forth,  dear  countrymen  :  let  us  deliver 
Our  puissance  into  the  hand  of  God, 
Putting  it  straight  in  expedition. 
Cheerly  to  sea ;  the  signs  of  war  advance : 
No  king  of  England,  if  not  king  of  France. 

[Exeunt. 
*.;.          i  3SOJ53SK}  liyttJ  V>  i.-i^rfi  i: 

SCENE  III.— LONDON.     The  Hostess's  House 
in  Eastcheap. 

Enter  PISTOL,  Hostess,  NYM,  BARDOLPH, 
and  Boy. 

Host.  Pr'ythee,  honey-sweet  husband,  let  me 
bring  thee  to  Staines. 

Fist.  No;  for  my  manly  heart  doth  yearn. — 

Bardolph,  be  blithe ; — Nym,  rouse  thy  vaunting 

veins; —  [is  dead, 

Boy,  bristle  thy  courage   up; — for  Falstaff  he 

And  we  must  yearn  therefore. 

Bard.  Would  I  were  with  him,  wheresome'er 
he  is,  either  in  heaven  or  in  hell ! 

Host.  Nay,  sure,  he's  not  in  hell:  he's  in 
Arthur's  bosom,  if  ever  man  went  to  Arthur's 
bosom.  'A  made  a  finer  end,  and  went  away, 
an  it  had  been  any  christom  child ;  'a  parted 
even  just  between  twelve  and  one,  even  at  the 
turning  o'  the  tide :  for  after  I  saw  him  fumble 
with  the  sheets,  and  play  with  flowers,  and  smile 
upon  his  fingers'  ends,  I  knew  there  was  but  one 
way ;  for  his  nose  was  as  sharp  as  a  pen,  and  'a 
babbled  of  green  fields.  How  now,  Sir  John! 
quoth  I :  what,  man !  be  o'  good  cheer.  So  'a 
cried  out — God,  God,  God!  three  or  four  times. 
Now  I,  to  comfort  him,  bid  him  'a  should  not 
think  of  God;  I  hoped  there  was  no  need  to 
trouble  himself  with  any  such  thoughts  yet.  So 
'a  bade  me  lay  more  clothes  on  his  feet :  I  put 
my  hand  into  the  bed  and  felt  them,  and  they 
were  as  cold  as  any  stone ;  then  I  felt  to  his 
knees,  and  so  upward  and  upward,  and  all  was 
as  cold  as  any  stone. 

Nym.  They  say  he  cried  out  of  sack. 

Host.  Ay,  that  'a  did. 

Bard.  And  of  women. 

Host.  Nay,  that  'a  did  not. 

Boy.  Yes,  that  'a  did;  and  said  they  were 
devils  incarnate. 

Host.  'A  could  never  abide  carnation ;  'twas 
a  colour  he  never  liked. 

Boy.  'A  said  once,  the  devil  would  have  him 
about  women. 

Host.  'A  did  in  some  sort,  indeed,  handle 
women ;  but  then  he  was  rheumatic,  and  talked 
of  the  whore  of  Babylon. 

Boy.  Do  you  not  remember,  'a  saw  a  flea 
stick  upon  Bardolph's  nose,  and  'a  said  it  was 
a  black  soul  burning  in  hell? 


Bard.  Well,  the  fuel  is  gone  that  maintained 
that  fire:  that's  all  the  riches  I  got  in  his 
service. 

Nym.  Shall  we  shog?  the  king  will  be  gone 
irom  Southampton.  [thy  lips. 

Pist.   Come,  let 's  away. — My  love,  give  me 
Look  to  my  chattels  and  my  moveables : 
Let  senses  rule ;  the  word  is,  Pitch  and  pay ; 
Trust  none ; 

For  oaths  are  straws,  men's  faiths  are  wafer-cakes, 
And  holdfast  is  the  only  dog,  my  duck : 
Therefore  caveto  be  thy  counsellor. 
Go,  clear  thy  crystals. — Yoke-fellows  in  arms, 
Let  us  to  France ;  like  horse-leeches,  my  boys, 
To  suck,  to  suck,  the  very  blood  to  suck ! 

Boy.  And  that  is  but  unwholesome  food,  they 
say. 

Pist.  Touch  her  soft  mouth  and  march. 

Bard.   Farewell,  hostess.  [Kissing  her. 

Nym.  I  cannot  kiss,  that  is  the  humour  of 
it;  but,  adieu. 

Pist.   Let  housewifery  appear :  keep  close,  I 
thee  command. 

Host.  Farewell;  adieu.  {Exeunt. 

SCENE    IV.  —  FRANCE.      A    Room    in    the 
FRENCH  KING'S  Palace. 

fli.1'"!-  :    uoffj  "cil 

Flourish.  Enter  the  FRENCH  KING,  attended; 
the  DAUPHIN,  the  DUKE  OF  BURGUNDY, 
the  Constable,  and  others. 

Fr.  King.  Thus  come  the  English  with  full 

power  upon  us ; 

And  more  than  carefully  it  us  concerns 
To  answer  royally  in  our  defences. 
Therefore  the  Dukes  of  Berri  and  of  Bretagne, 
Of  Brabant  and  of  Orleans,  shall  make  forth, — 
And  you,  Prince  Dauphin, — with  all  swift  de- 
spatch, 

To  line  and  new  repair  our  towns  of  war 
With  men  of  courage  and  with  means  defendant ; 
For  England  his  approaches  makes  as  fierce 
As  waters  to  the  sucking  of  a  gulf. 
It  fits  us,  then,  to  be  as  provident 
As  fear  may  teach  us,  out  of  late  examples 
Left  by  the  fatal  and  neglected  English 
Upon  our  fields. 

Dau.  My  most  redoubted  father, 

It  is  most  meet  we  arm  us  'gainst  the  foe ; 
For  peace  itself  should  not  so  dull  a  kingdom,— 
Though  war,  nor  no  known  quarrel,  were  in 

question, — 

But  that  defences,  musters,  preparations, 
Should  be  maintain'd,  assembled,  and  collected, 
As  were  a  war  in  expectation. 
Therefore,  I  say,  'tis  meet  we  all  go  forth 
To  view  the  sick  and  feeble  parts  of  France : 


SCENE   IV.] 


KING  HENRY  V. 


And  let  us  do  it  with  no  show  of  fear ; 

No,  with  no  more  than  if  we  heard  that  England 

Were  busied  with  a  Whitsun  morris-dance : 

For,  my  good  liege,  she  is  so  idly  king'd, 

Her  sceptre  so  fantastically  borne 

By  a  vain,  giddy,  shallow,  humorous  youth, 

That  fear  attends  her  not. 

Con.  O  peace,  Prince  Dauphin  ! 

You  are  too  much  mistaken  in  this  king : 
Question  your  grace  the  late  ambassadors, — 
With  what  great  state  he  heard  their  embassy, 
How  well  supplied  with  noble  counsellors, 
How  modest  in  exception,  and  withal 
How  terrible  in  constant  resolution, — 
And  you  shall  find  his  vanities  forespent 
Were  but  the  outside  of  the  Roman  Brutus, 
Covering  discretion  with  a  coat  of  folly ; 
As  gardeners  do  with  ordure  hide  those  roots 
That  shall  first  spring  and  be  most  delicate. 

Dau.  Well,  'tis  not  so,  my  lord  high-constable; 
But  though  we  think  it  so,  it  is  no  matter : 
In  cases  of  defence  'tis  best  to  weigh 
The  enemy  more  mighty  than  he  seems : 
So  the  proportions  of  defence  are  fill'd ; 
Which,  of  a  weak  and  niggardly  projection, 
Doth  like  a  miser  spoil  his  coat  with  scanting 
A  little  cloth. 

Fr.  King.  Think  we  King  Harry  strong ; 
And,  princes,  look  you  strongly  arm  to  meet 

him. 

The  kindred  of  him  hath  been  flesh'd  upon  us ; 
And  he  is  bred  out  of  that  bloody  strain 
That  haunted  us  in  our  familiar  paths : 
Witness  our  too-much  memorable  shame 
When  Cressy  battle  fatally  was  struck, 
And  all  our  princes  captiv'd  by  the  hand 
Of  that  black  name,  Edward  Black  Prince  of 
Wales;  [standing, 

Whiles  that  his  mountain  sire, — on  mountain 
Up  in  the  air,  crown'd  with  the  golden  sun, — 
Saw  his  heroical  seed,  and  smil'd  to  see  him, 
Mangle  the  work  of  nature,  and  deface 
The  patterns  that  by  God  and  by  French  fathers 
Had  twenty  years  been  made.     This  is  a  stem 
Of  that  victorious  stock ;  and  let  us  fear 
The  native  mightiness  and  fate  of  him. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Ambassadors  from  Harry  King  of  Eng- 
land 
Do  crave  admittance  to  your  majesty. 

Fr.  King.  We  '11  give  them  present  audience. 
Go,  and  bring  them. 

{Exeunt  Mess,  and  certain  Lords. 
You  see  this  chase  is  hotly  follow'd,  friends. 

Turn  head  and  stop  pursuit ;  for  coward 
dogs 


Most  spend  their  mouths  when  what  they  seem 

to  threaten 

Runs  far  before  them.     Good  my  sovereign, 
Take  up  the  English  short ;  and  let  them  know 
Of  what  a  monarchy  you  are  the  head : 
Self-love,  my  liege,  is  not  so  vile  a  sin 
As  self-neglecting. 

Re-enter  Lords,  -with  EXETER  and  Train. 

Fr.  King.  From  our  brother  England? 

Exe.  From  him ;    and  thus  he  greets  your 

majesty. 

He  wills  you,  in  the  name  of  God  Almighty, 
That  you  divest  yourself,  and  lay  apart 
The  borrow'd  glories  that  by  gift  of  heaven, 
By  law  of  nature  and  of  nations,  'long 
To  him  and  to  his  heirs ;  namely,  the  crown, 
And  all  wide-stretched  honours  that  pertain, 
By  custom  and  the  ordinance  of  times, 
Unto  the  crown  of  France.     That  you  may  know 
'Tis  no  sinister  nor  no  awkward  claim,     [days, 
Pick'd  from  the  worm-holes  of  long-vanish'd 
Nor  from  the  dust  of  old  oblivion  rak'd, 
He  sends  you  this  most  memorable  line, 

{Gives  a  paper. 

In  every  branch  truly  demonstrative ; 
Willing  you  overlook  this  pedigree : 
And  when  you  find  him  evenly  deriv'd 
From  his  most  fam'd  of  famous  ancestors, 
Edward  the  Third,  he  bids  you  then  resign 
Your  crown  and  kingdom,  indirectly  held 
From  him  the  native  and  true  challenger. 

Fr.  King.  Or  else  what  follows?         [crown 

Exe.  Bloody  constraint ;   for  if  you  hide  the 
Even  in  your  hearts,  there  will  he  rake  for  it : 
Therefore  in  fierce  tempest  is  he  coming, 
In  thunder  and  in  earthquake,  like  a  Jove, — 
That  if  requiring  fail,  he  will  compel ; — 
And  bids  you,  in  the  bowels  of  the  Lord, 
Deliver  up  the  crown ;  and  to  take  mercy 
On  the  poor  souls  for  whom  this  hungry  war 
Opens  his  vasty  jaws :  and  on  your  head 
Turns  he  the  widows'  tears,  the  orphans'  cries, 
The  dead  men's  blood,   the  pining   maidens' 

groans, 

For  husbands,  fathers,  and  betrothed  lovers, 
That  shall  be  swallow'd  in  this  controversy. 
This  is  his  claim,  his  threatening,  and  my  mes- 


Unless  the  Dauphin  be  in  presence  here, 
To  whom  expressly  I  bring  greeting  too. 

Fr.  King.   For  us,  we  will  consider  of  this 

further : 

To-morrow  shall  you  bear  our  full  intent 
Back  to  our  brother  England. 

Dau.  For  the  Dauphin, 

I  stand  here  for  him :  what  to  him  from  England? 


542 


KING  HENRY  V. 


[ACT  in. 


Exe.  Scorn  and  defiance ;  slight  regard,  con- 
tempt, 

And  anything  that  may  not  misbecome 
The  mighty  sender,  doth  he  prize  you  at. 
Thus  says  my  king :  an  if  your  father's  highness 
Do  not,  in  grant  of  all  demands  at  large, 
Sweeten  the  bitter  mock  you  sent  his  majesty, 
He  '11  call  you  to  so  hot  an  answer  for  it 
That  caves  and  womby  vaultages  of  France 
Shall  chide  your  trespass  and  return  your  mock 
In  second  accent  of  his  ordinance. 

Dau.  Say,  if  my  father  render  fair  return, 
It  is  against  my  will ;  for  I  desire 
Nothing  but  odds  with  England :  to  that  end, 
As  matching  to  his  youth  and  vanity, 
I  did  present  him  with  the  Paris  balls. 

Exe.   He  '11  make  your  Paris  Louvre  shake 

for  it, 

Were  it  the  mistress  court  of  mighty  Europe : 
And,  be  assur'd,  you  '11  find  a  difference, — 
As  we,  his  subjects,  have  in  wonder  found, — 
Between  the  promise  of  his  greener  days 
And  these  he  masters  now :  now  he  weighs  time 
Even  to  the  utmost  grain : — that  you  shall  read 
In  your  own  lessees  if  he  stay  in  France. 

Fr.  King.   To-morrow  shall  you  know  our 
mind  at  full.  [king 

Exe.  Despatch  us  with  all  speed,  lest  that  our 
Come  here  himself  to  question  our  delay ; 
For  he  is  footed  in  this  land  already. 

Fr.  King.  You  shall  be  soon  despatch'd  with 

fair  conditions: 

A  night  is  but  small  breath  and  little  pause 
To  answer  matters  of  this  consequence. 

\Exeunt. 

Enter  Chorus. 

Cho.  Thus  with  imagin'd  wing  our  swift  scene 

flies, 

In  motion  of  no  less  celerity  [seen 

Than  that  of  thought.     Suppose  that  you  have 
The  well-appointed  king  at  Hampton  pier 
Embark  his  royalty ;  and  his  brave  fleet 
With  silken  streamers  the  young  Phoebus  fan- 
ning: 

Play  with  your  fancies ;  and  in  them  behold 
Upon  the  hempen  tackle  ship-boys  climbing , 
Hear  the  shrill  whistle  which  doth  order  give 
To  sounds  confus'd ;  behold  the  threaden  sails, 
Borne  with  the  invisible  and  creeping  wind, 
Draw  the  huge  bottoms  through  the  furrow'd  sea, 
Breasting  the  lofty  surge :  O,  do  but  think 
You  stand  upon  the  rivage  and  behold 
A  city  on  the  inconstant  billows  dancing ; 
For  so  appears  this  fleet  majestical, 
Holding  due  course  to  Harfleur.  Follow,  follow ! 
Grapple  your  minds  to  sternage  of  this  navy; 


And  leave  your  England,  as  dead  midnight  still, 
Guarded  withgrandsires,  babies,  and  old  women, 
Either  past  or  not  arrived  to  pith  and  puissance ; 
For  who  is  he,  whose  chin  is  but  enrich'd 
With  one  appearing  hair,  that  will  not  follow 
These    cull'd   and   choice-drawn  cavaliers  to 
France?  [siege; 

Work,  work  your  thoughts,  and  therein  see  a 
Behold  the  ordnance  on  their  carriages, 
With  fatal  mouths  gaping  on  girded  Harfleur. 
Suppose  the  ambassador  from  the  French  comes 

back; 

Tells  Harry  that  the  king  doth  offer  him 
Katharine  his  daughter ;  and  with  her,  to  dowry, 
Some  petty  and  unprofitable  dukedoms. 
The  offer  likes  not :  and  the  nimble  gunner 
With  linstock  now  the  devilish  cannon  touches, 
[Alarum,  and  chambers  go  off,  within. 
And  down  goes  all  before  them.     Still  be  kind, 
And  eke  out  our  performance  with  your  mind. 

[Exit. 

ACT  III. 
SCENE  I. — FRANCE.     Before  Harfteur. 

Alarums.  Enter  KING  HENRY,  EXETER,  BED- 
FORD, GLOSTER,  and  Soldiers,  with  scaling- 
ladders. 

K.  Hen.  Once  more  unto  the  breach,  dear 

friends,  once  more; 

Or  close  the  wall  up  with  our  English  dead ! 
In  peace  there 's  nothing  so  becomes  a  man 
As  modest  stillness  and  humility: 
But  when  the  blast  of  war  blows  in  our  ears, 
Then  imitate  the  action  of  the  tiger ; 
Stiffen  the  sinews,  summon  up  the  blood, 
Disguise  fair  nature  with  hard-favour'd  rage ; 
Then  lend  the  eye  a  terrible  aspect; 
Let  it  pry  through  the  portage  of  the  head 
Like  the  brass  cannon ;  let  the  brow  o'erwhelm 

it 

As  fearfully  as  doth  a  galled  rock 
O'erhang  and  jutty  his  confounded  base, 
Swill'd  with  the  wild  and  wasteful  ocean. 
Now  set  the  teeth  and  stretch  the  nostril  wide ; 
Hold  hard  the  breath,  and  bend  up  every  spirit 
To  his  full  height ! — On,  on,  you  noble  English, 
Whose  blood  is  fet  from  fathers  of  war-proof! — - 
Fathers  that,  like  so  many  Alexanders, 
Have  in  these  parts  from  morn  till  even  fought, 
And  sheath'd   their  swords  for  lack  of  argu- 
ment : — 

Dishonour  not  your  mothers ;  now  attest 
That  those  whom  you  call'd  fathers  did  beget  you ! 
Be  copy  now  to  men  of  grosser  blood, 
And  teach  them  how  to  war !— And  you,  good 
yeomen, 


SCENE  I.] 


KING  HENRY  V. 


543 


Whose  limbs  were  made  in  England,  show  us 

here 

The  mettle  of  your  pasture ;  let  us  swear 
That  you  are  worth  your  breeding:  which  I 

doubt  not ; 

For  there  is  none  of  you  so  mean  and  base, 
That  hath  not  noble  lustre  in  your  eyes. 
I  see  you  stand  like  greyhounds  in  the  slips, 
Straining  upon  the  start.     The  game 's  afoot : 
Follow  your  spirit ;  and  upon  this  charge 
Cry — God    for   Harry !    England !   and   Saint 

George ! 

[Exeunt.      Alarum,   and  chambers  go   off> 
within. 

Enter  NYM,  BARDOLPH,  PISTOL,  and  Boy. 

Bard.  On,  on,  on,  on,  on !  to  the  breach,  to 
the  breach ! 

Nym.  Pray  thee,  corporal,  stay:  the  knocks 
are  too  hot ;  and,  for  mine  own  part,  I  have  not 
a  case  of  lives :  the  humour  of  it  is  too  hot,  that 
is  the  very  plain-song  of  it. 

Pist.  The  plain-song  is  most  just;  for 
humours  do  abound: 

Knocks  go  and  come  ;  God's  vassals  drop  and  die  * 
And  sword  and  shield 
In  bloody  field 
Doth  win  immortal  fr me. 

Boy.  Would  I  were  in  an  alehouse  in  Lon- 
don !  I  would  give  all  my  fame  for  a  pot  of 
ale  and  safety. 

Pist.  And  I : 


If  wishes  would  prevail  with  me, 

My  purpose  should  not  fail  with 

But  thither  would  I  hie. 

Boy.        As  duly,  but  not  as  truly, 

As  bird  doth  sing  on  bough. 

Enter  FLUELLEN. 


Flu.  Up  to  th«  preach,  you  dogs!  avaunt, 
you  cullions!  [Driving  them  forward. 

Pist.  Be  merciful ,  great  duke,  to  men  of  mould ! 
Abate  thy  rage,  abate  thy  manly  rage ! 
Abate  thy  rage,  great  duke !  [chuck ! 

Good  bawcock,  bate  thy  rage !  use  lenity,  sweet 

Nym.  These  be  good  humours ! — your  honour 
wins  bad  humours. 

[Exeunt  NYM,  PISTOL,  and  BARDOLPH, 
followed  by  FLUELLEN. 

Boy.  As  young  as  I  am,  I  have  observed 
these  three  swashers.  I  am  boy  to  them  all 
three:  but  all  they  three,  though  they  would 
serve  me,  could  not  be  man  to  me ;  for,  indeed, 
three  such  antics  do  not  amount  to  a  man.  For 
Bardolph,— he  is  white-livered  and  red-faced ; 
by  the  means  whereof  'a  faces  it  out,  but  fights 
not  For  Pistol, — he  hath  a  killing  tongue  and 


a  quiet  sword ;  by  the  means  whereof  'a  breaks 
words  and  keeps  whole  weapons.  For  Nym, — 
he  hath  heard  that  men  of  few  words  are  the 
best  men;  and  therefore  he  scorns  to  say  his 
prayers  lest  'a  should  be  thought  a  coward :  but 
his  few  bad  words  are  matched  with  as  few 
good  deeds ;  for  'a  never  broke  any  man's  head 
but  his  own,  and  that  was  against  a  post  when 
he  was  drunk.  They  will  steal  anything,  and 
call  it  purchase.  Bardolph  stole  a  lute-case, 
bore  it  twelve  leagues,  and  sold  it  for  three 
halfpence.  Nym  and  Bardolph  are  sworn 
brothers  in  niching ;  and  in  Calais  they  stole  a 
fire-shovel :  I  knew  by  that  piece  of  service  the 
men  would  carry  coals.  They  would  have  me 
as  familiar  with  men's  pockets  as  their  gloves 
or  their  handkerchers :  which  makes  much 
against  my  manhood,  if  I  should  take  from 
another's  pocket  to  put  into  mine ;  for  it  is  plain 
pocketing  up  of  wrongs.  I  must  leave  them, 
and  seek  some  better  service :  their  villany  goes 
against  my  weak  stomach,  and  therefore  I  must 
cast  it  up.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  FLUELLEN,  GO\VER  following. 

Gow.  Captain  Fluellen,  you  must  come  pre- 
sently to  the  mines  ;  the  Duke  of  Gloster  would 
speak  with  you. 

Flu.  To  the  mines  !  tell  you  the  duke  it  is 
not  so  goot  to  come  to  the  mines ;  for,  look 
you,  the  mines  is  not  according  to  the  discip- 
lines of  the  war  :  the  concavities  of  it  is  not 
sufficient ;  for,  look  you,  th'  athversary, — you 
may  discuss  unto  the  duke,  look  you, — is  digt 
himself  four  yard  under  the  countermines  ;  by 
Cheshu,  I  think  'a  will  plow  up  all,  if  there  is 
not  better  directions. 

Gow.  The  Duke  of  Gloster,  to  whom  the 
order  of  the  siege  is  given,  is  altogether  directed 
by  an  Irishman, — a  very  valiant  gentleman,  i' 
faith. 

Flu.  It  is  Captain  Macmorris,  is  it  not  ? 

Gow.   I  think  it  be. 

Flu.  By  Cheshu,  he  is  an  ass,  as  in  the 
'orld :  I  will  verify  as  much  in  his  peard :  he 
has  no  more  directions  in  the  true  disciplines 
of  the  wars,  look  you,  of  the  Roman  disciplines, 
than  is  a  puppy-dog. 

Gow.  Here  'a  comes;  and  the  Scots  captain, 
Captain  Jamy,  with  him. 

Flu.  Captain  Jamy  is  a  marvellous  falorous 
gentleman,  that  is  certain,  and  of  great  expedi- 
tion and  knowledge  in  the  ancient  wars,  upon 
my  particular  knowledge  of  his  directions  :  by 
Cheshu,  he  will  maintain  his  argument  as  well 
as  any  military  man  in  the  'orld,  in  the  discip- 
lines of  the  pristine  wars  of  the  Romans. 


544 


KING  HENRY  V. 


[ACT  in. 


Enter  MACMORRIS  and  JAMY,  at  a  distance. 

Jamy.  I  say  gud-day,  Captain  Fluellen. 

Flu.  God-den  to  your  worship,  goot  Cap- 
tain Jamy. 

Gow.  How  now,  Captain  Macmorris !  have 
you  quit  the  mines?  have  the  pioneers  given  o'er? 

Mac.  By  Chrish  la,  tish  ill  done :  the  work 
ish  give  over,  the  trumpet  sound  the  retreat. 
By  my  hand,  I  swear,  and  by  my  father's  soul, 
the  work  ish  ill  done ;  it  ish  give  over :  I 
would  have  blowed  up  the  town,  so  Chrish  save 
me,  la,  in  an  hour :  O,  tish  ill  done,  tish  ill 
done  ;  by  my  hand,  tish  ill  done  ! 

Flu.  Captain  Macmorris,  I  peseech  you  now, 
will  you  voutsafe  me,  look  you,  a  few  disputa- 
tions with  you,  a"  partly  touching  or  concerning 
the  disciplines  of  the  war,  the  Roman  wars,  in 
the  way  of  argument,  look  you,  and  friendly 
communication ;  partly  to  satisfy  my  opinion, 
and  partly  for  the  satisfaction,  look  you,  of  my 
mind,  as  touching  the  direction  of  the  military 
discipline  ;  that  is  the  point. 

Jamy.  It  sail  be  very  gud,  gud  feith,  gud 
captains  bath  :  and  I  sail  quit  you  with  gud 
leve,  as  I  may  pick  occasion ;  that  sail  I,  mary. 

Mac.  It  is  no  time  to  discourse,  so  Chrish 
Nsave  me  :  the  day  is  hot,  and  the  weather,  and 
the  wars,  and  the  king,  and  the  dukes :  it  is  no 
time  to  discourse.  The  town  is  beseeched,  and 
the  trumpet  call  us  to  the  breach  ;  and  we  talk 
and,  by  Chrish,  do  nothing:  'tis  shame  for  us 
all :  so  God  sa'  me,  'tis  shame  to  stand  still ; 
it  is  shame,  by  my  hand  :  and  there  is  throats 
to  be  cut,  and  works  to  be  done ;  and  there 
ish  nothing  done,  so  Chrish  sa'  me,  la. 

Jamy.  By  the  mess,  ere  theise  eyes  of  mine 
take  themselves  to  slumber,  aile  do  gud  service, 
or  aile  lig  i'  the  grund  for  it ;  ay,  or  go  to  death ; 
and  aile  pay 't  as  valorously  as  I  may,  that  sail 
I  suerly  do,  that  is  the  breffand  the  long.  Mary, 
I  wad  full  fain  heard  some  question  'tween  you 
tway. 

Flu.  Captain  Macmorris,  I  think,  look  you, 
under  your  correction,  there  is  not  many  of 
your  nation, — 

Mac.  Of  my  nation !  What  ish  my  nation? 
what  ish  my  nation?  Who  talks  of  my  nation 
ish  a  villain,  and  a  basterd,  and  a  knave,  and  a 
rascal. 

Flu.  Look  you,  if  you  take  the  matter  other- 
wise than  is  meant,  Captain  Macmorris,  perad- 
venture  I  shall  think  you  do  not  use  me  with 
that  affability  as  in  discretion  you  ought  to  use 
me,  look  you ;  being  as  goot  a  man  as  yourself, 
both  in  the  disciplines  of  war  and  in  the  deriva- 
tion of  my  birth,  and  in  other  particularities. 


Mac.  I  do  not  know  you  so  good  a  man  as 
myself:  so  Chrish  save  me,  I  will  cut  off  your 
head. 

Gow.  Gentlemen  both,  you  will  mistake  each 
other. 

Jamy.  Att!  that's  a  foul  fault. 

\^A  parley  sounded. 

Gow.  The  town  sounds  a  parley. 

Flu.  Captain  Macmorris,  when  there  is  more 
petter  opportunity  to  be  required,  look  you,  I 
will  be  so  pold  as  to  tell  you  I  know  the  dis- 
ciplines of  war ;  and  there  is  an  end.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — The  same.     Before  the  Gates  of 
Harfleur. 

The  Governor  and  some  Citizens  on  the  walls ; 
the  English  Forces  below.  Enter  KING 
HENRY  and  his  Train. 

K.  Hen.  I  low  yet  resolves  the  governor  of 

the  town? 

This  is  the  latest  parley  we  will  admit : 
Therefore,  to  our  best  mercy  give  yourselves ; 
Or  like  to  men  proud  of  destruction, 
Defy  us  to  our  worst :  for  as  I  am  a  soldier, — 
A  name  that,  in  my  thoughts,   becomes  me 

best, — 

If  I  begin  the  battery  once  again, 
I  will  not  leave  the  half-achieved  Harfleur 
Till  in  her  ashes  she  lie  buried. 
The  gates  of  mercy  shall  be  all  shut  up ; 
And  the  flesh'd  soldier, — rough  and  hard  of 

heart, — 

In  liberty  of  bloody  hand  shall  range 
With  conscience  wide  as  hell ;  mowing  like  grass 
Your  fresh-fair  virgins  and  your  flowering  in- 
fants. 

What  is  it  then  to  me  if  impious  war, — 
Array 'd  in  flames,  like  to  the  prince  of  fiends,— 
Do,  with  his  smirch'd  complexion,  all  fell  feats 
Enlink'd  to  waste  and  desolation? 
What  is 't  to  me  when  you  yourselves  are  cause, 
If  your  pure  maidens  fall  into  the  hand 
Of  hot  and  forcing  violation? 
What  rein  can  hold  licentious  wickedness 
When  down  the  hill  he  holds  his  fierce  career? 
We  may  as  bootless  spend  our  vain  command 
Upon  the  enraged  soldiers  in  their  spoil, 
As  send  precepts  to  the  Leviathan  [fleur, 

To  come  ashore.     Therefore,  you  men  of  Har- 
Take  pity  of  your  town  and  of  your  people 
Whiles  yet  my  soldiers  are  in  my  command ; 
Whiles  yet  the  cool  and  temperate  wind  of  grace 
O'erblows  the  filthy  and  contagious  clouds 
Of  heady  murder,  spoil,  and  villany. 
If  not,  why,  in  a  moment  look  to  see 
The  blind  and  bloody  soldier  with  foul  hand 


SCENE  III.] 


KING  HENRY  V. 


545 


Defile    the    locks    of    your    shrill  -  shrieking 

daughters ; 

Your  fathers  taken  by  the  silver  beards, 
And  their  most  reverend  heads  dash'd  to  the 

walls ; 

Your  naked  infants  spitted  upon  pikes, 
Whiles  the  mad  mothers  with  their  howls  con- 

fus'd 

Do  break  the  clouds,  as  did  the  wives  of  Jewry 
At  Herod's  blood*y-hunting  slaughtermen. 
What  say  you?  will  you  yield,  and  this  avoid? 
Or,  guilty  in  defence,  be  thus  destroy'd  ? 

Gov.  Our  expectation  hath  this  day  an  end : 
The  Dauphin,  whom  of  succour  we  entreated, 
Returns  us  that  his  powers  are  not  yet  ready 
To  raise  so  great  a  siege.      Therefore,  great 

king, 

We  yield  our  town  and  lives  to  thy  soft  mercy. 
Enter  our  gates ;  dispose  of  us  and  ours ; 
For  we  no  longer  are  defensible.  [Exeter, 

K.  Hen.   Open  your  gates. — Come,   uncle 
Go  you  and  enter  Harfleur ;  there  remain, 
And  fortify  it  strongly  'gainst  the  French : 
Use  mercy  to  them  all.     For  us,  dear  uncie, — 
The  winter  coming  on,  and  sickness  growing 
Upon  our  soldiers, — we  will  retire  to  Calais. 
To-night  in  Harfleur  will  we  be  your  guest ; 
;  To-morrow  for  the  march  are  we  addrest. 
'  [Flourish.     The  KING,  &°<r.,  enter  the  Town. 

SCENE  III. — ROUEN.    A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  KATHARINE  and  ALICE. 

Kath.  Alice,  tu  as  ett  en  Angleterre,  et  tu 
paries  bien  le  langage. 

Alice.    Un  peu,  madame. 

Kath.  Je  te  prie,  nfenseignez;  il  faut  que 
fapprenne  a  parler.  Comment  appelez-vous  la 
main  en  Anglais? 

Alice.  La  main?  elle  est  appeUe  de  hand. 

Kath.  De  hand.     Et  les  doigts? 

Alice.  Les  doigts?  ma  foi,  f  oublie  les  doigts ; 
mats  je  me  souviendrai.  Les  doigts  ?  je  pense 
quails  sont  appelh  de  fingres ;  out,  de  fingres. 

Kath.  La  main,  de  hand;  les  doigts,  de 
fingres.  Je  pense  que  je  suis  le  bon  ecolier;  fai 
gagnt  deux  mots  a" Anglais  vttement.  Comment 
appelez-vous  les  angles? 

Alice.  Les  angles  ?  les  appelons  de  nails. 

Kath.  De  nails.  Ecoutez;  dites-moi,  si  je 
parle  bien:  de  hand,  de  fingres,  et  de  nails. 

Alice.  C?est  bien  dit,  madame;  il  est  fort  bon 
Anglais. 

Kath.  Dites-moi  F  Anglais  pour  le  bras. 

Alice.   De  arm,  madame. 

Kath.  Et  le  coude? 

Alice.  De  elbow. 


Kath.  De  elbow.  Je  m' en  fat's  la  repetition 
de  tous  les  mots  que  vous  nfavcz  appris  des  a 
present. 

Alice.  II  est  trap  difficile,  madame,  comme  je 
pense. 

Kath.  Excusez-mci,  Alice;  ecoutez:  de  hand, 
de  fingres,  de  nails,  de  arm,  de  bilbow. 

Alice.  De  elbow,  madame. 

Kath.  0  Seigneur  Dieu,  je  m'en  oublie  !  de 
elbow.  Comment  appelez-vous  le  col? 

Alice.  De  neck,  madame. 

Kath.  De  nick.     Et  le  menton  ? 

Alice.  De  chin. 

Kath.  De  sin.  Le  col,  de  nick  ;  le  menton, 
de  sin. 

Alice.  Out.  Sauf  votre  honneur,  en  veritt^ 
vous  prononcez  les  mots  aussi  droit  que  les  natifs 
d1  Angleterre. 

Kath.  Je  ne  doute  point  d*apprendre%  par  la 
grace  de  Dieu,  et  en  peu  de  temps. 

Alice.  N^avez-vous  pas  deja  oublie  ce  que  jt 
vous  at  enseignt  ? 

Kath.  Non,je  reciterai  a  vous promptement : 
de  hand,  de  fingres,  de  mails, — 

Alice.  De  nails,  madame. 

Kath.  De  nails,  de  arm,  de  ilbow. 

Alice.  Sauf  votre  honneur,  de  elbow. 

Kath.  Ainsi  dis-je ;  de  elbow,  de  nick,  et 
de  sin.  Comment  appelez-vous  lepied  et  la  robe  ? 

Alice.  De  foot,  madame  ;  et  de  coun. 

Kath.  De  foot  et  de  coun !  O  Seigneur 
Dieu  !  ce  sont  mots  de  son  mauvais,  corrupt- 
ible, gros,  gt  impudique,  et  non  pour  les  dames 
d? honneur  duser:  je  ne  voudrais  prononcer  ces 
mots  devant  les  seigtieurs  de  France  pour  tout  le 
monde.  II  faut  de  foot  et  de  coun  neanmoins. 
Je  reciterai  une  autre  fois  ma  lecon  ensemble  : 
de  hand,  de  fingres,  de  nails,  de  arm,  de 
elbow,  de  nick,  de  sin,  de  foot,  de  coun. 

Alice.  Excellent,  madame! 

Kath.  Cest  assez  pour  une  fois  :  allons-nous 
a  diner.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IN.— The  same.     Another  Room  in 
the  same. 

Enter  the  FRENCH  KING,  the  DAUPHIN, 
DUKE  OF  BOURBON,  the  Constable  of 
France,  and  others. 

Fr.  King.  'Tis  certain  he  hath  pass'd  the 
river  Somme. 

Con.  And  if  he  be  not  fought  withal,  my  lord, 
Let  us  not  live  in  France  ;  let  us  quit  all, 
And  give  our  vineyards  to  a  barbarous  people. 

Dau.  O  Dieu  vivant!  shall  a  few  sprays  of  us, 
The  emptying  of  our  fathers'  luxury, 
Our  scions,  put  in  wild  and  savage  stock, 

3 


546 


KING  HENRY  V. 


[ACT  III. 


Spurt  up  so  suddenly  into  the  clouds, 
And  overlook  their  grafters? 

Bour.    Normans,    but    bastard    Normans, 

Norman  bastards ! 

Mort  de  ma  vie!  if  they  march  along 
Unfought  withal,  but  I  will  sell  my  dukedom 
To  buy  a  slobbery  and  a  dirty  farm 
In  that  nook-shotten  isle  of  Albion. 

Con.  Dieu  de  batailles!  where  have   they 

this  mettle  ? 

Is  not  their  climate  foggy,  raw,  and  dull ; 
On  whom,  as  in  despite,  the  sun  looks  pale, 
Killing  their  fruit  with  frowns?    Can  sodden 

water,  [broth, 

A  drench  for  sur-rein'd  jades,  their   barley- 
Decoct  their  cold  blood  to  such  valiant  heat? 
And  shall  our  quick  blood,  spirited  v/ith  wine, 
Seem  frosty?    O,  for  honour  of  our  land, 
Let  us  not  hang  like  roping  icicles 
Upon  our  houses'  thatch,  whiles  a  more  frosty 

people  [fields, — 

Sweat   drops  of  gallant    youth    in  our    rich 
Poor  we  may  call  them  in  their  native  lords ! 

Dau.  By  faith  and  honour, 
Our  madams  mock  at  us,  and  plainly  say 
Our  mettle  is  bred  out,  and  they  will  give 
Their  bodies  to  the  lust  of  English  youth 
To  new-store  France  with  bastard  warriors. 
Bour.  They  bid  us  to  the  English  dancing- 
schools, 

And  teach  lavoltas  high  and  swift  corantos; 
Saying  our  grace  is  only  in  our  heels, 
And  that  we  are  most  lofty  runaways. 

Fr.  King.  Where  is  Montjoy,  the  herald? 

speed  him  hence: 

Let  him  greet  England  with  our  sharpdefiance. — 
Up,  princes !  and,  with  spirit  of  honour  edg'd 
More  sharper  than  your  swords,  hie  to  the  field : 
Charles  De-la-bret,  high-constable  of  France ; 
You  Dukes  of  Orleans,  Bourbon,  and  of  Berri, 
Ale^on,  Brabant,  Bar,  and  Burgundy; 
Jaques  Chatillon,  Rambures,  Vaudemont, 
Beaumont,  Grandpree,  Roussi,  and  Fauconberg, 
Foix,Lestrale,  Bouciqualt,  and  Charolois; 
High  dukes,  great  princes,  barons,  lords,  and 

knights,  [shames. 

For  your  great  seats,  now  quit  you  of  great 
Bar  Harry  England,  that  sweeps  through  our 

land 

With  pennons  painted  in  the  blood  of  Harfleur : 
Rush  on  his  host  as  doth  the  melted  snow 
Upon  the  valleys,  whose  low  vassal  seat 
The  Alps  doth  spit  and  void  his  rheum  upon : 
Go  down  upon  him, — you  have  power  enough, — 
And  in  a  captive  chariot  into  Rouen 
Bring  him  our  prisoner, 

Con.  This  becomes  the  great. 


Sorry  am  I  his  numbers  are  so  few, 
His  soldiers  sick,  and  famish'd  in  their  march ; 
For  I  am  sure,  when  he  shall  see  our  army, 
He  '11  drop  his  heart  into  the  sink  of  fear, 
And  for  achievement  offer  us  his  ransom. 

Fr.  King.  Therefore,  lord  constable,  haste 

on  Montjoy; 

And  let  him  say  to  England  that  we  send 
To  know  what  willing  ransom  he  will  give. — 
Prince  Dauphin,  you  shall  stay  with  us  in  Rouen. 

Dau.  Not  so,  I  do  beseech  your  majesty. 

Fr.  King.  Be  patient ;  for  you  shall  remain 

with  us. — 

Now  forth,  lord  constable  and  princes  all, 
And  quickly  bring  us  word  of  England's  fall. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.—The  English  Camp  in  Picardy. 
Enter ;  severally ',  GOWER  and  FLUELLEN. 

Gow.  How  now,  Captain  Fluellen !  come 
you  from  the  bridge? 

Flu.  I  assure  you  there  is  very  excellent  ser- 
vices committed  at  the  pridge. 

Gow.  Is  the  Duke  of  Exeter  safe? 

Flu.  The  Duke  of  Exeter  is  as  magnanimous 
as  Agamemnon;  and  a  man  that  I  love  and 
honour  with  my  soul,  and  my  heart,  and  my 
duty,  and  my  life,  and  my  living,  and  my  utter- 
most power:  he  is  not, — God  be  praised  and 
plessed ! — any  hurt  in  the  'orld ;  but  keeps  the 
pridge  most  valiantly,  with  excellent  discipline. 
There  is  an  auncient  there  at  the  pridge, — I 
think  in  my  very  conscience  he  is  as  valiant  a 
man  as  Mark  Antony ;  and  he  is  a  man  oi  no 
estimation  in  the  'orld ;  but  I  did  see  him  do  as 
gallant  service. 

Gow.  What  do  you  call  him? 

Flu.  He  is  called  Auncient  Pistol. 

Gow.  I  know  him  not. 

Flu.  Here  is  the  man. 

Enter  PISTOL. 

Pist.  Captain,  I  thee  beseech  to  do  me  favours : 
The  Duke  of  Exeter  doth  love  thee  well. 

Fht.  Ay,  I  praise  Got ;  and  I  have  merited 
some  love  at  his  hands.  [heart, 

Pist.  Bardolph,  a  soldier,  firm  and  sound  of 
Of  buxom  valour,  hath  by  cruel  fate 
And  giddy  Fortune's  furious  fickle  wheel,— 
That  goddess  blind, 
That  stands  upon  the  rolling  restless  stone,— 

Flu.  By  your  patience,  Auncient  Pistol. 
Fortune  is  painted  plind,  with  a  muffler  afore 
her  eyes,  to  signify  to  you  that  Fortune  is  plind : 
and  she  is  painted  also  with  a  wheel,  to  signify 
to  you,  which  is  the  moral  of  it,  that  she  is 


SCENE  V.] 


KING  HENRY  V. 


547 


turning,  and  inconstant,  and  mutability,  and 
variation :  and  her  foot,  look  you,  is  fixed  upon 
a  spherical  stone,  which  rolls,  and  rolls  and  rolls. 
— In  good  truth,  the  poet  makes  a  most  excellent 
description  of  it :  Fortune  is  an  excellent  moral. 

Pist.  Fortune  is  Bardolph's  foe,  and  frowns 
on  him ;  [be, — 

For  he  hath  stol'n  a  pax,  and  hanged  must  ?a 
A  damned  death ! 

Let  gallows  gape  for  dog ;  let  man  go  free, 
And  let  not  hemp  his  windpipe  suffocate : 
But  Exeter  hath  given  the  doom  of  death 
For  pax  of  little  price.  [voice ; 

Therefore,  go  speak, — the  duke  will  hear  thy 
And  let  not  Bardolph's  vital  thread  be  cut 
With  edge  of  penny  cord  and  vile  reproach : 
Speak,  captain,  for  his  life,  and  I  will  thee  re- 
quite. 

Flu.  Auncient  Pistol,  I  do  partly  understand 
your  meaning. 

Pist.  Why,  then,  rejoice  therefore. 

Flu.  Certainly,  Auncient,  it  is  not  a  thing  to 
rejoice  at :  for  if,  look  you,  he  were  my  prother 
I  would  desire  the  duke  to  use  his  goot  pleasure, 
and  put  him  to  execution ;  for  discipline  ought 
to  be  used.  [friendship ! 

Pist.  Die  and  be  damn'd !  and  fico  for  thy 

Flu.  It  is  well. 

Pist.  The  fig  of  Spain !  [Exit. 

Flu.  Very  goot. 

Gow.  Why,  thisisan  arrant  counterfeit  rascal ; 
I  remember  him  now;  a  bawd,  a  cutpurse. 

Flu.  I  '11  assure  you,  'a  uttered  as  prave  'ords 
at  the  pridge  as  you  shall  see  in  a  summer's 
day.  But  it  is  very  well ;  what  he  has  spoke 
to  me,  that  is  well,  I  warrant  you,  when  time 
is  serve 

Gow.  Why,  'tis  a  gull,  a  fool,  a  rogue,  that 
now  and  then  goes  to  the  wars,  to  grace  himself, 
at  his  return  into  London,  under  the  form  of  a 
soldier.  And  such  fellows  are  perfect  in  the 
great  commanders'  names :  and  they  will  learn 
you  by  rote  where  services  were  done ; — at  such 
and  such  a  sconce,  at  such  a  breach,  at  such  a 
convoy ;  who  came  off  bravely,  who  was  shot, 
who  disgraced,  what  terms  the  enemy  stood  on ; 
and  this  they  con  perfectly  in  the  phrase  of 
war,  which  they  trick  up  with  new-tuned  oaths : 
and  what  a  beard  of  the  general's  cut,  and  a 
horrid  suit  of  the  camp,  will  do  among  foaming 
bottles  and  ale-washed  wits,  is  wonderful  to  be 
thought  on.  But  you  must  learn  to  know  such 
slanders  of  the  age,  or  else  you  may  be  marvel- 
lously mistook. 

Flu.  I  tell  you  what,  Captain  Gower,  I  do 
perceive  he  is  not  the  man  that  lie  would  gladly 
make  show  to  the  'orld  he  is :  if  I  find  a  hole 


in  his  coat  I  will  tell  him  my  mind.  [Drum 
within.']  Hark  you,  the  king  is  coming;  and 
I  must  speak  with  him  from  the  pridge. 

Enter  KING  HENRY,  GLOSTER,  and  Soldiers. 

Got  bless  your  majesty  ! 

K.  Hen.  How  now,  Fluellen !  cam'st  thou 
from  the  bridge? 

Flu.  Ay,  so  please  your  majesty.  The  Duke 
of  Exeter  has  very  gallantly  maintained  the 
pridge :  the  French  is  gone  off,  look  you ;  and 
there  is  gallant  and  most  prave  passages :  marry, 
th'  athversary  was  have  possession  of  the  pridge ; 
but  he  is  enforced  to  retire,  and  the  Duke  of 
Exeter  is  master  of  the  pridge :  I  can  tell  your 
majesty  the  duke  is  a  prave  man. 

K.  Hen.  What  men  have  you  lost,  Fluellen? 

Flu.  The  perdition  of  th'  athversary  hath  been 
very  great,  reasonable  great :  marry,  for  my  part, 
I  think  the  duke  hath  lost  never  a  man,  but  one 
that  is  like  to  be  executed  for  robbinga  church, — 
one  Bardolph,  if  your  majesty  know  the  man : 
his  face  is  all  bubukles,  and  whelks,  and  knobs, 
and  flames  of  fire;  and  his  lips  plows  at  his 
nose,  and  it  is  like  a  coal  of  fire,  sometimes 
plue  and  sometimes  red;  but  his  nose  is  exe- 
cuted and  his  fire 's  out. 

K.  Hen.  We  would  have  all  such  offenders 
so  cut  off: — and  we  give  express  charge  that  in 
our  marches  through  the  country  there  be  no- 
thing compelled  from  the  villages,  nothing  taken 
but  paid  for,  none  of  the  French  upbraided  or 
abused  in  disdainful  language;  for  when  len- 
ity and  cruelty  play  for  a  kingdom  the  gentler 
gamester  is  the  soonest  winner. 

Tucket  sounds.     Enter  MONTJO&I 

Mont.   You  know  me  by  my  habit. 

K.  Hen.  Well,  then,  I  know  thee:  what 
shall  I  know  of  thee? 

Mont.   My  master's  mind. 

K.  Hen.   Unfold  it. 

Mont.  Thus  says  my  king: — Say  thou  to 
Harry  of  England :  Though  we  seemed  dead 
we  did  but  sleep ;  advantage  is  a  better  soldier 
than  rashness.  Tell  him  we  could  have  re- 
buked him  at  Harfleur,  but  that  we  thought  not 
good  to  bruise  an  injury  till  it  were  full  ripe : — 
now  we  speak  upon  our  cue,  and  our  voice  is 
imperial:  England  shall  repent  his  folly,  see  his 
weakness,  and  admire  our  sufferance.  Bid  him, 
therefore,  consider  of  his  ransom ;  which  must 
proportion  the  losses  we  have  borne,  the  sub- 
jects we  have  lost,  the  disgrace  we  have  digested ; 
which,  in  weight  to  re-answer,  his  pettiness 
would  bow  under.  For  our  losses  his  exchequer 
is  too  poor ;  for  the  effusion  of  our  blood  the 


548 


KING  HENRY  V. 


[ACT  in. 


muster  of  his  kingdom  too  faint  a  number ;  and 
for  our  disgrace  his  own  person,  kneeling  at  our 
feet,  but  a  weak  and  worthless  satisfaction.  To 
this  add  defiance :  and  tell  him,  for  conclusion, 
he  hath  betrayed  his  followers,  whose  condem- 
nation is  pronounced.  So  far  my  king  and 
master ;  so  much  my  office.  [quality. 

K.  Hen.  What  is  thy  name?    I  know  thy 
Mont.   Montjoy.  [thee  back, 

K.  Hen.  Thou  dost  thy  office  fairly.     Turn 
And  tell  thy  king, — I  do  not  seek  him  now ; 
But  could  be  willing  to  march  on  to  Calais 
Without  impeachment :  for,  to  say  the  sooth, — 
Though  'tis  no  wisdom  to  confess  so  much 
Unto  an  enemy  of  craft  and  vantage, — 
My  people  are  with  sickness  much  enfeebled ; 
My  numbers  lessen'd ;  and  those  few  I  have 
Almost  no  better  than  so  many  French ; 
Who,  when  they  were  in  health,  I  tell  thee, 

herald, 

I  thought  upon  one  pair  of  English  legs    [God, 
Did  march  three  Frenchmen. — Yet,  forgive  me, 
That  I  do  brag  thus ! — this  your  air  of  France 
Hath  blown  that  vice  in  me;  I  must  repent. 
Go,  therefore,  tell  thy  master  here  I  am ; 
My  ransom  is  this  frail  and  worthless  trunk ; 
My  army  but  a  weak  and  sickly  guard : 
Yet,  God  before,  tell  him  we  will  come  on, 
Though   France    himself,    and    such    another 
neighbour,  [Montjoy. 

Stand  in  our  way.      There's  for  thy  labour, 
Go,  bid  thy  master  well  advise  himself: 
If  we  may  pass,  we  will ;  if  we  be  hinder'd, 
We  shall  your  tawny  ground  with  your  red  blood 
Discolour :  and  so,  Montjoy,  fare  you  well. 
The  sum  of  ail  our  answer  is  but  this : 
We  would  not  seek  a  battle  as  we  are ; 
Nor  as  we  are,  we  say,  we  will  not  shun  it : 
So  tell  your  master. 

Mont.  I  shall  deliver  so.     Thanks  to  your 
highness.  [Exit. 

Glo.  I  hope  they  will  not  come  upon  us  now. 
K.  Hen.  We  are  in  God's  hand,  brother,  not 
in  theirs.  [night : — 

March  to  the  bridge;   it  now  draws  toward 
Beyond  the  river  we'll  encamp  ourselves; 
And  on  to-morrow  bid  them  march  away. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.— The  French  Camp  near  Agtn- 
court. 

Enter  the  Constable  of  France,  the  LORD 
RAMBURES,  the  DUKE  OF  ORLEANS,  the 
DAUPHIN,  and  others. 

Con.  Tut !   I  have  the  best  armour  of  the 
woild. — Would  it  were  day! 


Orl.  You  have  an  excellent  armour ;  but  let 
my  horse  have  his  due. 

Con.   It  is  the  best  horse  of  Europe. 

Orl.  Will  it  never  be  morning? 

Dau.  My  Lord  of  Orleans  and  my  lord  high- 
constable,  you  talk  of  horse  and  armour, — 

Orl.  You  are  as  well  provided  of  both  as  any 
prince  in  the  world. 

Dau.  What  a  long  night  is  this ! — I  will  not 
change  my  horse  with  any  that  treads  but  on 
four  pasterns.  Ca,  ha!  he  bounds  from  the 
earth  as  if  his  entrails  were  hairs;  le  cheval 
volant,  the  Pegasus,  qui  a  les  nannes  de  feu\ 
When  I  bestride  him  I  soar,  I  am  a  hawk :  he 
trots  the  air ;  the  earth  sings  when  he  touches 
it ;  the  basest  horn  of  his  hoof  is  more  musica\ 
than  the  pipe  of  Hermes. 

Orl.  He's  of  the  colour  of  the  nutmeg. 

Dau.  And  of  the  heat  of  the  ginger.  It  is  a 
beast  for  Perseus :  he  is  pure  air  and  fire ;  and 
the  dull  elements  of  earth  and  water  never  ap- 
pear in  him,  but  only  in  patient  stillness  while 
his  rider  mounts  him :  he  is  indeed  a  horse ;  and 
all  other  jades  you  may  call  beasts. 

Con.  Indeed,  my  lord,  it  is  a  most  absolute 
and  excellent  horse. 

Dau.  It  is  the  prince  of  palfreys ;  his  neigh 
is  like  the  bidding  of  a  monarch,  and  his  coun- 
tenance enforces  homage. 

Orl.  No  more,  cousin. 

Dau.  Nay,  the  man  hath  no  wit  that  cannot, 
from  the  rising  of  the  lark  to  the  lodging  of  the 
lamb,  vary  deserved  praise  on  my  palfrey :  it 
is  a  theme  as  fluent  as  the  sea ;  turn  the  sands 
into  eloquent  tongues,  and  my  horse  is  argu- 
ment for  them  all :  'tis  a  subject  for  a  sovereign 
to  reason  on,  and  for  a  sovereign's  sovereign  to 
ride  on ;  and  for  the  world, — familiar  to  us  and 
unknown, — to  lay  apart  their  particular  func- 
tions and  wonder  at  him.  I  once  wrt  a  sonnet 
in  his  praise,  and  began  thus:  Wonder  of 
nature, — 

Orl.  I  have  heard  a  sonnet  begin  so  to  one's 
mistress. 

Dau.  Then  did  they  imitate  that  which  i 
composed  to  my  courser:  for  my  horse  is  my 
mistress. 

Orl.  You::  mistress  bears  well. 

Dau.  Me  well ;  which  is  the  prescript  praise 
and  perfection  of  a  good  and  particular  mistress. 

Con.  Nay,  for  methought  yesterday  your 
mistress  shrewdly  shook  your  back. 

Dau.  So,  perhaps,  did  yours. 

Con.   Mine  was  not  bridled. 

Dau.  O,  then,  belike  she  was  old  and 
gentle ;  and  you  rode  like  a  kern  of  Ireland, 
your  French  hose  off  arid  in  your  strait  strossers. 


SCENE  VI.] 


KING  HENRY  V. 


549 


Con.  You  have  good  judgment  in  horseman- 
ship. 

Dau.  Be  warned  by  me,  then:  they  that 
ride  so,  and  ride  not  warily,  fall  into  foul  bogs. 
I  had  rather  have  my  horse  to  my  mistress. 

Con.  I  had  as  lief  have  my  mistress  a  jade. 

Dau.  I  tell  thee,  constable,  my  mistress 
wears  his  own  hair. 

Con.  I  could  make  as  true  a  boast  as  that  if 
I  had  a  sow  to  my  mistress. 

Dau.  Le  chien  est  retourne  a  son  propre 
vomissement,  et  la  truie  lavee  au  boiirbier:  thou 
makest  use  of  anything. 

Con.  Yet  do  I  not  use  my  horse  for  my  mis- 
tress ;  or  any  such  proverb  so  little  kin  to  the 
purpose. 

Ram.  My  lord  constable,  the  armour  that  I 
saw  in  your  tent  to-night,  are  those  stars  or 
suns  upon  it? 

Con.  Stars,  my  lord.  [hope. 

Dau.  Some  of  them  will  fall  to-morrow,  I 

Con.  And  yet  my  sky  shall  not  wanti>ijf«V 

Dau.  That  may  be,  for  you  bear  a  many 
superfluously,  and  'twere  more  honour  some 
were  away. 

Con.  Even  as  your  horse  bears  your  praises ; 
who  would  trot  as  well  were  some  of  your 
brags  dismounted. 

Dau.  Would  I  were  able  to  load  him  with 
his  desert! — Will  it  never  be  day? — I  will  trot, 
to-morrow  a  mile,  and  my  way  shall  be  paved 
with  English  faces. 

Con.  I  will  not  say  so,  for  fear  I  should  be 
faced  out  of  my  way:  but  I  would  it  were 
morning  ;  for  I  would  fain  be  about  the  ears  of 
the  English. 

Ram.  Who  will  go  to  hazard  with  me  for 
twenty  prisoners? 

Con.  You  must  first  go  yourself  to  hazard 
ere  you  have  them. 

Dau.  "Tis  midnight ;  I  '11  go  arm  myself. 

[Exit. 

Or  I.  The  Dauphin  longs  for  morning. 

Ram.  He  longs  to  eat  the  English. 

Con.  I  think  he  will  eat  all  he  kills. 

Orl.  By  the  white  hand  of  my  lady,  he 's  a 
gallant  prince. 

Con.  Swear  by  her  foot,  that  she  may  tread 
out  the  oath. 

Orl.  He  is,  simply,  the  most  active  gentle- 
man of  France. 

Con.  Doing  is  activity;  and  he  will  still  be 
doing. 

Orl.  He  never  did  harm  that  I  heard  of. 

Con.  Nor  will  do  none  to-morrow:  he  will 
keep  that  good  name  still. 

Orl.  I  know  him  to  be  valiant 


Con.  I  was  told  that  by  one  that  knows  him 
better  than  you. 

Orl.  What 'she? 

Con.  Marry,  he  told  me  so  himself;  and  he 
said  he  cared  not  who  knew  it. 

Orl.  He  needs  not ;  it  is  no  hidden  virtue  in 
him. 

Con.  By  my  faith,  sir,  but  it  is ;  never  any- 
body saw  it  but  his  lackey :  'tis  a  hooded  valour  • 
and  when  it  appears  it  will  bate. 

Orl.  Ill-will  never  said  well. 

Con.  I  will  cap  that  proverb  with— There  is 
flattery  in  friendship. 

Orl.  And  I  will  take  up  that  with— Give  the 
devil  his  due. 

Con.  Well  placed :  there  stands  your  friend 
for  the  devil :  have  at  the  very  eye  of  that  pro- 
verb with — A  pox  of  the  devil. 

Orl.  You  are  the  better  at  proverbs  by  how 
much — A  fool's  bolt  is  soon  shot. 

Con.  You  have  shot  over. 

Orl.  'Tis  not  the  first  time  you  were  overshot 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord  high-constable,  the  English 
lie  within  fifteen  hundred  paces  of  your  tents. 

Con.  Who  hath  measured  the  ground? 

Mess.  The  Lord  Grandpree. 

Con.  A  valiant  and  most  expert  gentleman. — 
Would  it  were  day ! — Alas,  poor  Harry  of  Eng- 
land !  he  longs  not  for  the  dawning  as  we  do. 

Orl.  What  a  wretched  and  peevish  fellow  is 
this  King  of  England,  to  mope  with  his  fat- 
brained  followers  so  far  out  of  his  knowledge ! 

Con.  If  the  English  had  any  apprehension 
they  would  run  away. 

Orl.  That  they  lack ;  for  if  their  heads  had 
any  intellectual  armour  they  could  never  wear 
such  heavy  head-pieces. 

Ram.  That  island  of  England  breeds  very 
valiant  creatures ;  their  mastiffs  are  of  unmatch- 
able  courage. 

Orl.  Foolish  curs,  that  run  winking  into  the 
mouth  of  a  Russian  bear,  and  have  their  heads 
crushed  like  rotten  apples !  You  may  as  well 
say,  that 's  a  valiant  flea  that  dare  eat  his  break- 
fast on  the  lip  of  a  lion. 

Con.  Just,  just ;  and  the  men  do  sympathize 
with  the  mastiffs  in  robustious  and  rough  com- 
ing-on,  leaving  their  wits  with  their  wives :  and 
then  give  them  great  meals  of  beef,  and  iron  and 
steel,  they  will  eat  like  wolves  and  fight  like 
devils.  [of  beef. 

Orl.  Ay,  but  these  English  are  shrewdly  out 

Con.  Then  shall  we  find  to-morrow  they  have 
only  stomachs  to  eat,  and  none  to  fight.  Now 
is  it  time  to  arm :  come,  shall  we  about  it? 


55° 


KING  HENRY  V. 


[ACT  iv. 


Orl.  It  is  now  two  o'clock :  but,  let  me  see, — 

by  ten 
We  shall  have  each  a  hundred  Englishmen. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  Chorus. 

Chor.  Now  entertain  conjecture  of  a  time 
When  creeping  murmur  and  the  poring  dark 
Fills  the  wide  vessel  of  the  universe. 
From  camp  to  camp,  through  the  foul  womb  of 

night 

The  hum  of  either  army  stilly  sounds, 
That  the  fix'd  sentinels  almost  receive 
The  secret  whispers  of  each  other's  watch : 
Fire  answers  fire,  and  through  their  paly  flames 
Each  battle  sees  the  other's  umber'd  face : 
Steal   threatens   steed,  in   high   and   boastful 

neighs 

Piercing  the  night's  dull  ear ;  and  from  the  tents 
The  armourers,  accomplishing  the  knights, 
With  busy  hammers  closing  rivets  up, 
Give  dreadful  note  of  preparation : 
The  country  cocks  do  crow,  the  clocks  do  toll, 
And  the  third  hour  of  drowsy  morning  name. 
Proud  of  their  numbers  and  secure  in  soul. 
The  confident  and  over- lusty  French 
Do  the  low-rated  English  play  at  dice ; 
And  chide  the  cripple  tardy-gaited  night, 
Who,  like  a  foul  and  ugly  witch,  doth  limp 
So  tediously  away.      The    poor   condemned 

English, 

Like  sacrifices,  by  their  watchful  fires 
Sit  patiently,  and  inly  ruminate 
The  morning's  danger ;  and  their  gesture  sad 
Investing  lank-lean  cheeks  and  war-worn  coats 
Presenteth  them  unto  the  gazing  moon      [hold 
So  many  horrid  ghosts.     O,  now,  who  will  be- 
The  royal  captain  of  this  ruin'd  band        [tent, 
Walking  from  watch   to  watch,  from  tent  to 
Let  him  cry,  Praise  and  glory  on  his  head  ! 
For  forth  he  goes  and  visits  all  his  host; 
Bids  them  good-morrow  with  a  modest  smile, 
And  calls  them  brothers,  friends,  and  country- 
men. 

Upon  his  royal  face  there  is  no  note 
How  dread  an  army  hath  enrounded  him ; 
Nor  doth  he  dedicate  one  jot  of  colour 
Unto  the  weary  and  all-watched  night; 
But  freshly  looks,  and  over-bears  attaint 
With  cheerful  semblance  and  sweet  majesty; 
That  every  wretch,  pining  and  pale  before, 
Beholding  him,  plucks  comfort  from  his  looks : 
A  largess  universal,  like  the  sun, 
His  liberal  eye  doth  give  to  every  one, 
Thawing  cold  fear.     Then,  mean  and  gentle  all , 
Behold,  as  may  unworthiness  define, 
A  little  touch  of  Harry  in  the  night : 


And  so  our  scene  must  to  the  battle  fly ; 
Where, — O  for  pity ! — we  shall  much  disgrace 
With  four  or  five  most  vile  and  ragged  foils, 
Right  ill-dispos'd  in  brawl  ridiculous, 
The  name  of  Agincourt.     Yet  sit  and  see ; 
Minding  true  things  by  what  their  mockeries 
be.  [Exit. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — FRANCE.     The  English  Camp  at 
Agincourt. 

Enter  KING  HENRY,  BEDFORD,  and 
GLOSTER. 

K.  Hen.  Gloster,   'tis  true  that  We   are   in 

great  danger; 

The  greater  therefore  should  our  courage  be. — 
Good-morrow,    brother    Bedford.  —  God   Al- 
mighty ! 

There  is  some  soul  of  goodness  in  things  evil, 
Would  men  observingly  distil  it  out ; 
For  our  bad  neighbour  makes  us  early  stirrers, 
Which  is  both  healthful  and  good  husbandry : 
Besides,  they  are  our  outward  consciences 
And  preachers  to  us  all :  admonishing 
That  we  should  dress  us  fairly  for  our  end. 
Thus  may  we  gather  honey  from  the  weed, 

And  make  a  moral  of  the  devil  himself. 

M"     \  •  €•'  '  r<      L  4*  ff*T/r     f  -4        r    ' i4 

Enter  ERPINGHAMV 

Good-morrow,  old  Sir  Thomas  Erpingham : 
A  good  soft  pillow  for  that  good  white  head 
Were  better  than  a  churlish  turf  of  France. 

Erp.  Not  so,  my  liege :  this  lodging  likes  me 

better, 
Since  I  may  say,  Now  lie  I  like  a  king. 

K.  Hen.  'Tis  good  for  men  to  love  their  pre- 
sent pains 

Upon  example ;  so  the  spirit  is  eas'd : 
And  when  the  mind  is  quicken'd,  out  of  doubt 
The  organs,  though  defunct  and  dead  before, 
Break  up  their  drowsy  grave,  and  newly  move 
With  casted  slough  and  fresh  legerity,      [both, 
Lend   me   thy  cloak,  Sir   Thomas. — Brothers 
Commend  me  to  the  princes  in  our  camp ; 
Do  my  good -morrow  to  them ;  and  anon 
Desire  them  all  to  my  pavilion. 

Glo.  We  shall,  my  liege. 

[Exeunt  GLOSTER  and  BEDFORD. 

Erp.   Shall  I  attend  your  grace? 

K.  Hen.  No,  my  good  knight ; 

Go  with  my  brothers  to  my  lords  of  England : 
I  and  my  bosom  must  debate  awhile, 
And  then  I  would  no  other  company. 

Erp.  The  Lord  in  heaven  bless  thee,  noble 
Harry!  [Exit. 


SCENE  I.] 


KING  HENRY  V. 


55' 


Hen.    God-a-mercy,    old    heart !    thou 
speak'st  cheerfully. 

.H  3--.of 


Enter  PISTOL. 


Pist.   Quivala? 

K.  Hen.  A  friend. 

Pist.  Discuss  unto  me  ;  art  thou  officer  ? 
Or  art  thou  base,  common,  and  popular  ? 

K.  Hen.  I  am  a  gentleman  of  a  company. 

Pist.  Trail'st  thou  the  puissant  pike  ? 

K.  Hen.  Even  so.     What  are  you  ? 

Pist.  As  good  a  gentleman  as  the  emperor. 

K.  Hen.  Then  you  are  a  better  than  the  king. 

Pist.  The  king 's  a  bawcock  and  a  heart  of 

gold, 

A  lad  of  life,  an  imp  of  fame  ; 
Of  parents  good,  of  fist  most  valiant : 
I  kiss  his  dirty  shoe,  and  from  my  heart-strings 
I  love  the  lovely  bully. — What  is  thy  name  ? 

K.  Hen.  Harry  le  Roi. 

Pist.  Le  Roy  !  a  Cornish  name  :  art  thou  of 
Cornish  crew? 

K.  Hen.  No,  I  am  a  Welshman. 

Pist.  Know'st  thou  Fluellen  ? 

K.  Hen.  Yes.  [his  pate 

Pist.  Tell  him,  I'll  knock  his  leek  about 
Upon  Saint  Davy's  day. 

K.  Hen.  Do  not  you  wear  your  dagger  in 
your  cap  that  day,  lest  he  knock  that  about 
yours. 

Pist.  Art  thou  his  friend? 

K.  Hen.  And  his  kinsman  too. 

Pist.  The/<ro  for  thee,  then  ! 

K.  Hen.  I  thank  you  :  God  be  with  you  ! 

Pist.  My  name  is  Pistol  called.  [Exit. 

K.  Hen.  It  sorts  well  with  your  fierceness. 


Enter  FLUELLEN  and  GOWER,  severally. 


Gow.  Captain  Fluellen ! 

Flu.  So!  in  the  name  of  Cheshu  Christ,  speak 
fewer.  It  is  the  greatest  admiration  in  the  uni- 
versal 'orld  when  the  true  and  auncient  prero- 
gatifs  and  laws  of  the  wars  is  not  kept :  if  you 
would  take  the  pains  but  to  examine  the  wars 
of  Pompey  the  Great,  you  shall  find,  I  warrant 
you,  that  there  is  no  tiddle-taddle  nor  pibble- 
pabble  in  Pompey 's  camp  ;  I  warrant  you,  you 
shall  find  the  ceremonies  of  the  wars,  and  the 
cares  of  it,  and  the  forms  of  it,  and  the  sobriety 
of  it,  and  the  modesty  of  it,  to  be  otherwise. 

Gow.  Why,  the  enemy  is  loud  ;  you  hear  him 
all  night. 

Flu.  If  the  enemy  is  an  ass,  and  a  fool,  and 
a  prating  coxcomb,  is  it  meet,  think  you,  that 
we  should  also,  look  you,  be  an  ass,  and  a 
fool,  and  a  prating  coxcomb, — in  your  own 
conscience,  now? 


Gow.  I  will  speak  lower. 
Flu.  I  pray  you  and  peseech  you  that  you  will. 
[Exeunt  GOWER  and  FLUELLEN. 
K.  Hen.  Though  it  appear  a  little  out  of 

fashion, 
There  is  much  care  and  valour  in  this  Welshman. 

Enter  BATES,  COURT,  <wfcf  WILLIAMS. 

Court.  Brother  John  Bates,  is  not  that  the 
morning  which  breaks  yonder  ? 

Bates.  I  think  it  be  :  but  we  have  no  great 
cause  to  desire  the  approach  of  day. 

Will.  We  see  yonder  the  beginning  of  the 
day,  but  I  think  we  shall  never  see  the  end  of 
it. — Who  goes  there? 

K.  Hen.  A  friend. 

Will.   Under  what  captain  serve  you  ? 

K.  Hen.   Under  Sir  Thomas  Erpingham. 

Will.  A  good  old  commander  and  a  most 
kind  gentleman :  I  pray  you,  what  thinks  he 
of  our  estate  ? 

K.  Hen.  Even  as  men  wrecked  upon  a  sand, 
that  look  to  be  washed  off  the  next  tide. 

Bates.  He  hath  not  told  his  thought  to  the 
king? 

K.  Hen.  No  ;  nor  it  is  not  meet  he  should. 
For  though  I  speak  it  to  you,  I  think  the  king 
is  but  a  man  as  I  am  :  the  violet  smells  to  him 
as  it  doth  to  me  ;  the  element  shows  to  him  as 
it  doth  to  me ;  all  his  senses  have  but  human 
conditions :  his  ceremonies  laid  by,  in  his  naked- 
ness he  appears  but  a  man  ;  and  though  his 
affections  are  higher  mounted  than  ours,  yet, 
when  they  stoop,  they  stoop  with  the  like  wing. 
Therefore  when  he  sees  reason  of  fears,  as  we 
do,  his  fears,  out  of  doubt,  be  of  the  same  relish 
as  ours  are  :  yet,  in  reason,  no  man  should 
possess  him  with  any  appearance  of  fear,  lest 
he,  by  showing  it,  should  dishearten  his  army. 

Bates.  He  may  show  what  outward  courage 
he  will  ;  but  I  believe,  as  cold  a  night  as  'tis, 
he  could  wish  himself  in  the  Thames  up  to  the 
neck  ; — and  so  I  would  he  were,  and  I  by  him, 
at  all  adventures,  so  we  were  quit  here. 

K.  Hen.  By  my  troth,  I  will  speak  my  con- 
science of  the  king  :  I  think  he  would  not  wish 
himself  anywhere  but  where  he  is. 

Bates.  Then  I  would  he  were  here  alone  ;  so 
should  he  be  sure  to  be  ransomed,  and  a  many 
poor  men's  lives  saved. 

K.  Hen.  I  dare  say  you  love  him  not  so  ill, 
to  wish  him  here  alone,  howsoever  you  speak 
this,  to  feel  other  men's  minds  :  methinks  I 
could  not  die  anywhere  so  contented  as  in  the 
king's  company, — his  cause  being  just  and  his 
quarrel  honourable. 

Will.  That's  more  than  we  know. 


552 


KING  HENRY  V. 


[ACT  TV, 


Bates.  Ay,  or  more  than  we  should  seek 
after  ;  for  we  know  enough  if  we  know  we  are 
the  king's  subjects  :  if  his  cause  be  wrong,  our 
obedience  to  the  king  wipes  the  crime  of  it  out 
of  us. 

Will.  But  if  the  cause  be  not  good,  the  king 
himself  hath  a  heavy  reckoning  to  make  when 
all  those  legs  and  arms  and  heads,  chopped  off 
in  a  battle,  shall  join  together  at  the  latter  day 
and  cry  all,  We  died  at  such  a  place;  some 
swearing;  some  crying  for  a  surgeon  ;  some  upon 
their  wives  left  poor  behind  them  ;  some  upon 
the  debts  they  owe  ;  some  upon  their  children 
rawly  left.  I  am  afeared  there  are  few  die  well 
that  die  in  a  battle ;  for  how  can  they  charitably 
dispose  of  anything  when  blood  is  their  argu- 
ment ?  Now,  if  these  men  do  not  die  well,  it 
will  be  a  black  matter  for  the  king  that  led 
them  to  it ;  who  to  disobey  were  against  all 
proportion  of  subjection. 

K.  Hen.  So  if  a  son,  that  is  by  his  father 
sent  about  merchandise  do  sinfully  miscarry 
upon  the  sea,  the  imputation  of  his  wickedness, 
by  your  rule,  should  be  imposed  upon  his  father 
that  sent  him  :  or  if  a  servant,  under  his  mas- 
ter's command,  transporting  a  sum  of  money,  be 
assailed  by  robbers,  and  die  in  many  irrecon- 
ciled  iniquities,  vou  may  call  the  business  of  the 
master  the  author  of  the  servant's  damnation : — 
but  this  is  not  so :  the  king  is  not  bound  to 
answer  the  particular  endings  of  his  soldiers,  the 
father  of  his  son,  nor  the  master  of  his  servant ; 
for  they  purpose  not  their  death  when  they 
purpose  their  services.  Besides,  there  is  no 
king,  be  his  cause  never  so  spotless,  if  it  come 
to  the  arbitrement  of  swords,  can  try  it  out  with 
all  unspotted  soldiers:  some  perad venture  have 
on  them  the  guilt  of  premeditated  and  contrived 
murder ;  some  of  beguiling  virgins  with  the 
broken  seals  of  perjury;  some  making  the  wars 
their  bulwark  that  have  before  gored  the  gentle 
bosom  of  peace  with  pillage  and  robbery.  Now, 
if  these  men  have  defeated  the  law  and  outrun 
native  punishment,  though  they  can  outstrip  men 
they  have  no  wings  to  fly  from  God  :  war  is  his 
beadle,  war  is  his  vengeance  ;  so  that  here  men 
are  punished  for  before-breach  of  the  king's 
laws  in  now  the  king's  quarrel :  where  they 
feared  the  death  they  have  borne  life  away ;  and 
where  they  would  be  safe  they  perish  :  then  if 
they  die  unprovided,  no  more  is  the  king  guilty 
of  their  damnation  than  he  was  before  guilty  of 
those  impieties  for  the  which  they  are  now 
visited.  Every  subject's  duty  is  the  king's ;  but 
every  subject's  soul  is  his  own.  Therefore 
should  every  soldier  in  the  wars  do  as  every  sick 
man  in  his  bed,— wash  every  mote  out  of  his 


conscience  :  and  dying  so,  death  is  to  him  ad- 
vantage ;  or  not  dying,  the  time  was  blessedly 
lost  wherein  such  preparation  was  gained  :  and 
in  him  that  escapes  it  were  not  sin  to  think  that, 
making  God  so  free  an  offer,  he  let  him  outlive 
that  day  to  see  his  greatness,  and  to  teach 
others  how  they  should  prepare. 

Will.  'Tis  certain,  every  man  that  dies  ill, 
the  ill  upon  his  own  head, — the  king  is  not  to 
answer  for  it. 

Bales.  I  do  not  desire  he  should  answer  for 
me ;  and  yet  I  determine  to  fight  lustily  for  him. 

K.  Hen.  I  myself  heard  the  king  say  he 
would  not  be  ransomed. 

Will.  Ay,  he  said  so,  to  make  us  fight 
cheerfully  :  but  when  our  throats  are  cut  he 
may  be  ransomed,  and  we  ne'er  the  wiser. 

K.  Hen.  If  I  live  to  see  it  I  will  never  trust 
his  word  after. 

Will.  You  pay  him  then  !  That 's  a  perilous 
shot  out  of  an  elder-gun,  that  a  poor  and  a 
private  displeasure  can  do  against  a  monarch  ! 
you  may  as  well  go  about  to  turn  the  sun  to 
ice  with  fanning  in  his  face  with  a  peacock's 
feather.  You  '11  never  trust  his  word  after  ! 
come,  'tis  a  foolish  saying. 

K.  Hen.  Your  reproof  is  something  too 
round  :  I  should  be  angry  with  you  if  the  time 
were  convenient.  ' 

Will.  Let  it  be  a  quarrel  between  us  if  you 
live. 

K.  Hen.  I  embrace  it. 

Will.  How  shall  I  know  thee  again  ? 

K.  Hen.  Give  me  any  gage  of  thine,  and  I 
will  wear  it  in  my  bonnet  :  then,  if  ever  thou 
darest  acknowledge  it  I  will  make  it  my  quarrel. 

Will,  Here 's  my  glove :  give  me  another  of 
thine. 

K.  Hen.  There. 

Will.  This  will  I  also  wear  in  my  cap :  if 
ever  thou  come  to  me  and  say,  after  to-morrow, 
This  is  my  glove,  by  this  hand  I  will  take  thee 
a  box  on  the  ear.  [lenge  it. 

K.  Hen.  If  ever  I  live  to  see  it  I  will  chal- 

Will.  Thou  darest  as  well  be  hanged. 

K.  Hen.  Well,  I  will  do  it  though  I  take 
thee  in  the  king's  company. 

Will.  Keep  thy  word  :  fare  thee  well. 

Bates.  Be  friends,  you  English  fools,  be 
friends :  we  have  French  quarrels  enow,  if  you 
could  tell  how  to  reckon. 

K.  Hen.  Indeed,  the  French  may  lay  twenty 
French  crowns  to  one  they  will  beat  us ;  for  they 
bear  them  on  their  shoulders:  but  it  is  no  English 
treason  to  cut  French  crowns ;  and  to-morrow 
the  king  himself  will  be  a  clipper. 

\Exeunt  Soldiers. 


SCENE  I.] 


KING 


V. 


553 


Upon  the  king  ! — let  us  our  lives,  our  souls, 
Our  debts,  our  careful  wives,  our  children,  and 
Our  sins  lay  on  the  King  !     We  must  bear  all. 
O  hard  condition,  twin-born  with  greatness, 
Subject  to  the  breath  of  every  fool,  [ing  ! 

Whose  sense  no  more  can  feel  but  his  own  wring- 
What  infinite  heart's-ease  must  kings  neglect 
That  private  men  enjoy ! 
And  what  have  kings  that  privates  have  not  too, 
Save  ceremony, — save  general  ceremony  ? 
And  what  art  thou,  thou  idol  ceremony? 
What  kind  of  god  art  thou,  that  suffer' st  more 
Of  mortal  griefs  than  do  thy  worshippers  ? 
What  are  thy  rents  ?  what  are  thy  comings-in  ? 

0  ceremony,  show  me  but  thy  worth ! 
What  is  thy  soul  of  adoration  ? 

Art  thou  aught  else  but  place,  degree,  and  form, 

Creating  awe  and  fear  in  other  men  ? 

Wherein  thou  art  less  happy  being  fear'd 

Than  they  in  fearing. 

What  drink'st  thou  oft,  instead  of  homage 
sweet, 

But  poison'd  flattery?  O,  be  sick,  great  great- 
ness, 

And  bid  thy  ceremony  give  thee  cure  ! 

Think'st  thou  the  fiery  fever  will  go  out 

With  titles  blown  from  adulation  ? 

Will  It  give  place  to  flexure  and  low  bending  ? 

Canst  thou,  when  thou  command'st  the  beggar's 
knee, 

Command  the  health  of  it?  No,  thou  proud 
dream, 

That  play'st  so  subtly  with  a  king's  repose : 

1  am  a  king  that  find  thee ;  and  I  know 
Tis  not  the  balm,  the  sceptre,  and  the  ball, 
The  sword,  the  mace,  the  crown  imperial, 
The  intertissued  robe  of  gold  and  pearl, 
The  farced  title  running  'fore  the  king, 
The  throne  he  sits  on,  nor  the  tide  of  pomp 
That  beats  upon  the  high  shore  of  this  world, — 
No,  not  all  these,  thrice  gorgeous  ceremony, 
Not  all  these,  laid  in  bed  majestical, 

Can  sleep  so  soundly  as  the  wretched  slave 
Who,  with  a  body  fill'd  and  vacant  mind, 
Gets  him  to  rest,  cramm'd  with  distressful  bread; 
Never  sees  horrid  night,  the  child  of  hell ; 
But,  like  a  lackey,  from  the  rise  to  set 
Sweats  in  the  eye  of  Phoebus,  and  all  night 
Sleeps  in  Elysium ;  next  day,  after  dawn, 
Doth  rise  and  help  Hyperion  to  his  horse ; 
And  follows  so  the  ever-running  year, 
With  profitable  labour,  to  his  grave : 
And  but  for  ceremony,  such  a  wretch, 
Winding  up  days  with  toil  and  nights  with  sleep, 
Had  the  fore-hand  and  vantage  of  a  king. 
The  slave,  a  member  of  the  country's  peace, 
Enjoys  it ;  but  in  gross  brain  little  wots 


What  watch  the  king  keeps  to  maintain  the 

peace 
Whose  hours  the  peasant  best  advantages. 

Enter  ERPINGHAM. 

Erp.  My  lord,  your  nobles,  jealous  of  your 

absence, 
Seek  through  your  camp  to  find  you. 

K.  Hen.  Good  old  knight. 

Collect  them  all  together  at  my  tent : 
I  '11  be  before  thee. 

Erp.  I  shall  do 't,  my  lord.     [Exit. 

K.  Hen.  O  God  of  battles  1  steel  my  soldiers' 

hearts; 

Possess  them  not  with  fear ;  take  from  them  now 
The  sense  of  reckoning,  if  the  opposed  numbers 
Pluck  their  hearts  from  them  ! — Not  to-day,  O 

Lord, 

O,  not  to-day,  think  not  upon  the  fault 
My  father  made  in  compassing  the  crown ! 
I  Richard's  body  have  interred  new, 
And  on  it  have  bestow'd  more  contrite  tears 
Than  from  it  issu'd  forced  drops  of  blood : 
Five  hundred  poor  I  have  in  yearly  pay, 
Who  twice  a  day  their  wither'd  hands  hold  up 
Toward  heaven,  to  pardon  blood ;  and  I  have 

built 

Two  chantries,  where  the  sad  and  solemn  priests 
Sing  still  for  Richard's  soul.     More  will  I  do; 
Though  all  that  I  can  do  is  nothing  worth, 
Since  that  my  penitence  comes  after  all, 
Imploring  pardon. 

Enter  GLOSTER. 
Glo.  My  liege! 

K.  Hen.      My  brother  Gloster's  voice  ?— Ay ; 
I  know  thy  errand,  I  will  go  with  thee : — 
The  day,  my  friends,  and  all  things  stay  for  me. 

\Rxeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  French  Camp. 

Enter  DAUPHIN,  ORLEANS,  RAMBURES,  and 
others* 

Orl.  The  sun  doth  gild  our  armour  ;  up,  my 

lords! 
Dau.  Montez  a  cheval! — My  horse !  v arlet^ 

laquais!  ha! 
Orl.  O  brave  spirit ! 
Dau.    Via  ! — les  eaux  et  la  terre^ — 
Orl.  Rienpuis  ?  Fair  et  lefeu, — 
Dau.  Ciel!  cousin  Orleans. 

Enter  Constable. 

Now,  my  lord  constable ! 

Con.  Hark,  how  our  steeds  for  present  ser- 
vice neigh  I 


554 


KING  HENRY  V. 


[ACT  IV. 


Dau.  Mount  them,  and   make  incision  in 

their  hides, 

That  their  hot  blood  may  spin  in  English  eyes, 
And  dout  them  with  superfluous  courage,  ha ! 
Ram.  What,  will  you  have  them  weep  our 

horses'  blood? 
Ho\\  shall  we,  then,  behold  their  natural  tears? 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  The  English  are  embattled,  you  French 

peers. 
Oon.  To  horse,  you  gallant  princes !  straight 

to  horse ! 

Do  but  behold  yon  poor  and  starved  band, 
And  your  fair  show  shall  suck  away  their  souls, 
Leaving  them  but  the  shales  and  husks  of  men. 
There  is  not  work  enough  for  all  our  hands ; 
Scarce  blood  enough  in  all  their  sicidy  veins 
To  give  each  naked  curtle-axe  a  stain, 
That  our  French  gallants  shall  to-day  draw  out, 
And  sheathe  for  lack  of  sport :  let,  us  but  blow 

on  them, 

The  vapour  of  our  valour  will  o'erturn  them, 
'Tis  positive  'gainst  all  exceptions,  lords, 
That  our  superfluous  lackeys  and  our  peasants, — 
Who  in  unnecessary  action  swarm 
About  our  squares  of  battle, — were  enow 
To  purge  this  field  of  such  a  hilding  foe ; 
Though  we  upon  this  mountain's  basis  by 
Took  stand  for  idle  speculation, — 
But  that  our  honours  must  not.     What 's  to  say? 
A  very  little  little  let  us  do, 
And  all  is  done.     Then  let  the  trumpets  sound 
The  tucket-sonance  and  the  note  to  mount : 
For  our  approach  shall  so  much  dare  the  field 
That  England  shall  couch  down  in  fear  and  yield. 

Enter  GRANDPREE. 

Grand.  Why  do  you  stay  so  long,  my  lords 

of  France? 

Yond  island  carrions,  desperate  of  then-  bones, 
Ill-favouredly  become  the  morning  field: 
Their  ragged  curtains  poorly  are  let  loose, 
And  our  air  shakes  them  passing  scornfully : 
Big  Mars  seems  bankrupt  in  their  beggar 'd  host, 
And  faintly  through  a  rusty  beaver  peeps : 
The  horsemen  sit  like  fixed  candlesticks** 
With  torch-staves  in  their  hand ;  and  their  poor 

jades 
Lob  down  their  heads,  dropping  the  hides  and 

hips, 

Thegjum  down-ropingfrom  their  pale-dead  eyes, 
And  in  their  pale  dull  mouths  the  gimmel-bit 
Lies  foul  with  chew'd  grass,  still  and  motionless; 
And  their  executors,  the  knavish  crows, 
Fly  o'er  them,  all  impatient  for  their  hour. 
Description  cannot  suit  itself  in  words 


To  demonstrate  the  life  of  such  a  battle 
In  life  so  lifeless  as  it  shows  itself. 

Con.  They  have  said  their  prayers  and  they 
stay  for  death.  [fresh  suits, 

Dau.  Shall  we  go  send  them  dinners  and 
And  give  their  fasting  horses  provender, 
And  after  fight  with  them?  [field ! — 

Con.  I   stay  but  for  my  guidon: — to   the 
I  will  the  banner  from  a  trumpet  take, 
And  use  it  for  my  haste.     Come,  come,  away! 
The  sun  is  high,  and  we  outwear  the  day. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  English  Camp. 

Enter  the  English  Host;  GLOSTER,  BEDFORD, 
EXETER,  SALISBURY,  and  WESTMORE- 
LAND. 

Glo.  Where  is  the  king? 

Bed.  The  king  himself  is  rode  to  view  their 

battle. 

West.  Of  fighting  men  they  have  full  three- 
score thousand.  [fresh. 
Exe.  There 's  five  to  one ;  besides,  they  all  are 
Sal.  God's  arm  strike  with  us !  'tis  a  fearful 

odds. 

God  b'  wi'  you,  princes  all;  I  '11  to  my  charge t 
If  we  no  more  meet  till  we  meet  in  heaven, 
Then  joyfully, — my  noble  Lord  of  Bedford, — 
My  dear  Lord  Gloster, — and  my  good  Lord 

Exeter, — 

And  my  kind  kinsman, — warriors  all,  adieu  ! 
Bed.  Farewell,  good   Salisbury;    and  good 
luck  go  with  thee !  [day : 

Exe.  Farewell,  kind  lord;  fight  valiantly  to- 
And  yet  I  do  thee  wrong  to  mind  thee  of  it, 
For  thou  art  fram'd  of  the  firm  truth  of  valour. 
[Exit  SALISBURY. 

Bed*   He  is  as  full  of  valour  as  of  kindness ; 
Princely  in  both. 

West.  O  that  we  now  had  here 

Enter  KING  HENRY. 

But  one  ten  thousand  of  those  men  in  England 
That  do  no  work  to-day ! 

K.  Hen.  What 's  he  that  wishes  so? 

My  cousin  Westmoreland  ? — No,  my  fair  cousin: 
If  we  are  mark'd  to  die,  we  are  enow 
To  do  our  country  loss ;  and  if  to  live, 
The  fewer  men  the  greater  share  of  honour. 
God's  will !  I  pray  thee,  wish  not  one  man  more. 
By  Jove,  I  am  not  covetous  for  gold ; 
Nor  care  I  who  doth  feed  upon  my  cost ; 
It  yearns  me  not  if  men  my  garments  wear ; 
Such  outward  things  dwell  not  in  my  desires: 
But  if  it  be  a  sin  to  covet  honour, 
I  am  the  most  offending  soul  alive. 


SCENE  III.] 


KING   HENRY  V. 


555 


No,  faith,  my  coz,  wish  not  a  man  from  England: 
God's  peace !    I  would   not   lose  so  great   an 

honour,  [me, 

As  one  man  more,  methinks,  would  share  from 
For  the  best  hope  I  have.     O  do  not  wish  one 

more !  [host, 

Rather  proclaim  it,  Westmoreland,  through  my 
That  he  which  hath  no  stomach  to  this  fight, 
Let  him  depart ;  his  passport  shall  be  made, 
And  crowns  for  convoy  put  into  his  purse : 
We  would  not  die  in  that  man's  company 
That  fears  his  fellowship  to  die  with  us. 
This  day  is  call'd  the  feast  of  Crispian : 
He  that  outlives  this  day,  and  comes  safe  home, 
Will  stand  a  tip-toe  when  this  day  is  nam'd, 
And  rouse  him  at  the  name  of  Crispian. 
He  that  shall  live  this  day,  and  see  old  age, 
Will  yearly  on  the  vigil  feast  his  neighbours, 
And  say,  To-morrow  is  Saint  Crispian : 
Then  will  he  strip  his  sleeve  and  show  his  scars, 
And  say,  These  wounds  I  had  on  Crispin's  day. 
Old  men  forget ;  yet  all  shall  be  forgot, 
But  he  '11  remember  with  advantages     [names, 
What  feats  he  did  that  day:    then  shall  our 
Familiar  in  their  mouths  as  household  words, — 
Harry  the  king,  Bedford  and  Exeter, 
Warwick  and  Talbot,  Salisbury  and  Gloster, — 
Be  in  their  flowing  cups  freshly  remember'd. 
This  story  shall  the  good  man  teach  his  son ; 
And  Crispin  Crispian  shall  ne'er  go  by, 
From  this  day  to  the  ending  of  the  world, 
But  we  in  it  shall  be  remembered, — 
We  few,  we  happy  few,  we  band  of  brothers ; 
For  he  to-day  that  sheds  his  blood  with  me 
Shall  be  my  brother ;  be  he  ne'er  so  vile, 
This  day  shall  gentle  his  condition : 
And  gentlemen  in  England  now  a-bed     [here, 
Shall  think  themselves  accurs'd  they  were  not 
And   hold   their   manhoods   cheap  while  any 

speaks 
That  fought  with  us  upon  Saint  Crispin's  day. 

Re-enter  SALISBURY. 

•   .-iC'l---  .W0:i- 

Sal.    My   sovereign    lord,    bestow   yourself 

with  speed : 

The  French  are  bravely  in  their  battles  set, 
And  will  with  all  expedience  charge  on  us. 
K.  Hen.  All  things  are  ready  if  our  minds 

be  so. 

West.  Perish  the  man  whose  mind  is  back- 
ward now! 
K.  Hen.  Thou  dost  not  wish  more  help  from 

England,  coz? 
West.  God's  will !  my  liege,  would  you  and 

I  alone, 
Without  more  help,  could  fight  this  royal  battle ! 


K.  Hen.  Why,  now  thou  hast  unwish'd  five 

thousand  men ; 

Which  likes  me  better  than  to  wish  us  one. — 
You  know  your  places  :  God  be  with  you  all ! 

Tucket.    Enter  MONTJOY. 
Mont.  Once  more  I  come  to  know  of  thee, 

King  Harry, 

If  for  thy  ransom  thou  wilt  now  compound, 
Before  thy  most  assured  overthrow : 
For  certainly  thou  art  so  near  the  gulf 
Thou  needs  must  be  englutted.     Besides,  in 

mercy, 

The  constable  desires  thee  thou  wilt  mind 
Thy  followers  of  repentance  ;  that  their  souls 
May  make  a  peaceful  and  a  sweet  retire 
From  off  these  fields,  where,  wretches,  their 

poor  bodies 
Must  lie  and  fester. 

K.  Hen.  Who  hath  sent  thee  now? 

Mont.  The  constable  of  France.  [back: 

K.  Hen.  I  pray  thee,  bear  my  former  answer 
Bid  them  achieve  me,  and  then  sell  my  bones. 
Good    God !    why    should    they    mock    poor 

fellows  thus? 

The  man  that  once  did  sell  the  lion's  skin 
While  the  beast  liv'd  was  kill'd  with  hunting 

him. 

A  many  of  our  bodies  shall  no  doubt 
Find  native  graves;  upon  the  which,  I  trust, 
Shall  witness  live  in  brass  of  this  day's  work : 
And  those  that  leave  their  valiant   bones  in 

France,  [hills, 

Dying  like  men,  though  buried  in  your  dung- 
They  shall  be  fam'd ;  for  there  the  sun  shall 

greet  them, 

And  draw  their  honours  reeking  up  to  heaven, 
Leaving  their  earthly  parts  to  choke  your  clime, 
The  smell  whereof  shall  breed  a  plague  in 

France. 

Mark,  then,  abounding  valour  in  our  English, 
That,  being  dead,  like  to  the  bullet's  grazing, 
Break  out  into  a  second  course  of  mischief, 
Killing  in  relapse  of  mortality. 
Let  me  speak  proudly : — tell  the  constable 
We  are  but  warriors  for  the  working-day ; 
Our  gayness  and  our  gilt  are  all  besmirch'd 
With  rainy  marching  in  the  painful  field ; 
There 's  not  a  piece  of  feather  in  our  host, — 
Good  argument,  I  hope,  we  will  not  fly, — 
And  time  hath  worn  us  into  slovenry : 
But,  by  the  mass,  our  hearts  are  in  the  trim ; 
And  my  poor  soldiers  tell  me  yet  ere  night 
They  '11  be  in  fresher  robes ;  or  they  will  pluck 
The  gay  new  coats  o'er  the  French  soldiers' 

heads,  [this, — • 

And   turn   them  out  of  service.     If  they  do 


KING  HENRY  V. 


[ACT  iv. 


As,  if  God  please,  they  shall, — my  ransom  then 
Will  soon  be  levied.     Herald,  save  thou  thy 

labour ; 

Come  thou  no  more  for  ransom,  gentle  herald : 
They  shall  have  none,  I  swear,  but  these  my 

joints, — 

Which  if  they  have  as  I  will  leave  'em  them, 
Shall  yield  them  little,  tell  the  constable. 
Mont.  I  shall,  King  Harry.     And  so,  fare 

thee  well : 

Thou  never  shalt  hear  herald  any  more.  [Exit. 
K.  Hen.  I  fear  thou  wilt  once  more  come 
again  for  ransom. 

Enter  the  DUKE  OF  YORK. 

York.  My  Lord,  most  humbly  on  my  knee 

I  beg 

The  leading  of  the  vaward. 
K.  Hen.    Take    it,    brave    York. —Now, 

soldiers,  march  away : — 
And  how  thou  pleasest,  God,  dispose  the  day  ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— The  Field  of  Battle. 

Alarums.    Excursions.    Enter  French  Soldier, 
PISTOL,  and  Boy. 

Pist.  Yield,  cur ! 

Fr.  Sol.  Je  pense  que  vous  foes  le  gentil- 
homme  de  bonne  qualite. 

Pist.  Quality !  Callino,  castore  me !  art  thou 
a  gentleman  ?  what  is  thy  name  ?  discuss. 

Fr.  Sol.   0  Seigneur  Dieu  ! 

Pist.  O,  Signieur  Dew  should  be  a  gentle- 
man:— 
Perpend    my  words,  O  Signieur  Dew,  and 

mark ; — 

O  Signieur  Dew,  thou  diest  on  point  of  fox, 
Except,  O  Signieur,  thou  do  give  to  me 
Egregious  ransom. 

Fr.  Sol.  0  prennez  misericorde  !  ayez  pitie 
de  moil 

Pist.  Moy  shall  not  serve ;  I  will  have  forty 

moys; 

Or  I  will  fetch  thy  rim  out  at  thy  throat 
In  drops  of  crimson  blood. 

Fr.  Sol.  Est-il  impossible  d'echapper  la  force 
de  ton  bras  ? 

Pist.  Brass,  cur ! 

Thou  damned  and  luxurious  mountain-goat, 
Ofier'st  me  brass? 

Fr.  Sol.  O pardonnez-moil  [moys? — 

Pist.  Say'st  thou  me  so?  is  that  a  ton  of 
Come  hither,  boy :  ask  me  this  slave  in  French 
What  is  his  name. 

Boy.  Ecoutez:  comment  etes-vous  appeU? 


Fr.  Sol.  Monsieur  le  Fer. 

Boy.  He  says  his  name  is  Master  Fer. 

Pist.  Master  Fer  !  I  '11  fer  him,  andfirk  him, 
and  ferret  him : — discuss  the  same  in  French 
unto  him. 

Boy.  I  do  not  know  the  French  for  fer,  and 
ferret,  and  firk. 

Pist.  Bid  him  prepare;  for  I  will  cut  his 
throat. 

Fr.  Sol.   Que  dit-il,  monsieur? 

Boy.  II  me  commande  de  vous  dire  que  vous 
faites  vous  pr£t;  car  ce  soldat  id  est  dispose  tout 
a  cette  heure  de  couper  votre  gorge. 

Pist.   Out,  coupe  la  gorge,  par  mafoi,  pesant, 
Unless  thou  give  me  crowns,  brave  crowns ; 
Or  mangled  shalt  thou  be  by  this  my  sword. 

Fr.  Sol.  0,  je  vous  supplie,  pour  F  amour  de 
Dieu,  me  pardonnerl  Je  suis  gentilhomme  de 
bonne  maison:  gardez  ma  vie,  et  ie  vous  don- 
nerai  deux  cents  ecus. 

Pist.  What  are  his  words? 

Boy.  He  prays  you  to  save  his  life :  he  is  a 
gentleman  of  a  good  house ;  and  for  his  ransom 
he  will  give  you  two  hundred  crowns. 

Pist.  Tell  him  my  fury  shall  abate,  and  I 
The  crowns  will  take. 

Fr.  Sol.  Petit  monsieur,  que  dit-il? 

Boy.  Encore  qrfil  est  contre  sonjurement  da 
pardonner  aucun  prisonnier,  neanmoins,  pour 
les  ecus  que  vous  Favez  promts,  il  est  content  de 
vous  donner  la  liberte,  le  franchisement. 

Fr.  Sol.  Sur  mes  genoux  je  vous  donne  mille 
remercimens  ;  et  je  nfestime  heureux  queje  suis 
tomb£  entre  les  mains  dun  chevalier,  je  pense,  le 
plus  brave,  vaillant,  et  tres  distingue  seigneur 
a"  Angleterre. 

Pist.  Expound  unto  me,  boy. 

Boy-  He  gives  you,  upon  his  knees,  a  thou- 
sand thanks ;  and  he  esteems  himself  happy  that 
he  hath  fallen  into  the  hands  of  one, — as  he 
thinks, — the  most  brave,  valorous,  and  thrice- 
worthy  signieur  of  England. 

Pist.  As  I  suck  blood,  I  will  some  mercy 
show. — Follow  me  !  [Exit. 

Boy.  Suivez-vous  le  grand  capitaine.  [Exit 
French  Soldier.]  I  did  never  know  so  full  a 
voice  issue  from  so  empty  a  heart :  but  the  saying 
is  true, — the  empty  vessel  makes  the  greatest 
sound.  Bardolph  and  Nym  had  ten  times  more 
valour  than  this  roaring  devil  i'  the  old  play,  that 
every  one  may  pare  his  nails  with  a  wooden 
dagger ;  and  they  are  both  hanged ;  and  so  would 
this  be  if  he  durst  steal  anything  adventurously. 
I  must  stay  with  the  lackeys,  with  the  luggage 
of  our  camp :  the  French  might  have  a  good  prey 
of  us  if  he  knew  of  it ;  for  there  is  none  to  guard 
it  but  boys.  [Exit, 


SCENE  V.] 


KING  HENRY  V. 


557 


SCENE  V. — Another  part  of  the  Field  of  Battle. 

Alarums.    Enter  DAUPHIN,  ORLEANS,  BOUR- 
BON, Constable,  RAMBURES,  and  others. 

Con.   O  diable! 

Orl.   O  seigneur!  le  jour  est  perdu,  tout  est 
perdu! 

Dau.  Mortde  ma  vie!  all  is  confounded,  all ! 
Reproach  and  everlasting  shame  \tune! — 

Sits  mocking  in  our  plumes. — O  mechante  for- 
Do  not  run  away.  \_A  short  alarum. 

Con.  Why,  all  our  ranks  are  broke. 

Dau.  O  perdurable  shame  ! — let 's  stab  our- 
selves, [for? 
Be  these  the  wretches  that  we  play'd  at  dice 

Orl.  Is  this  the  king  we   sent   to  for  his 
ransom?  [but  shame! 

Bour.  Shame,  and  eternal  shame,  nothing 
Let  us  die  in  honour :  once  more  back  again ; 
And  he  that  will  not  follow  Bourbon  now, 
Let  him  go  hence,  and  with  his  cap  in  hand, 
Like  a  base  pander,  hold  the  chamber-door 
Whilst  by  a  slave,  no  gentler  than  my  dog, 
His  fairest  daughter  is  contaminated.        [now  ! 

Con.  Disorder,  that  hath  spoil'd  us,  friend  us 
Let  us  on  heaps  go  offer  up  our  lives 
Unto  these  English,  or  else  die  with  fame. 

Orl.  We  are  enow  yet  living  in  the  field 
To  smother  up  the  English  in  our  throngs, 
If  any  order  might  be  thought  upon. 

Bour.  The  devil  take  order  now !  I  '11  to  the 

throng : 

Let  life  be  short,  else  shame  will  be  too  long. 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.  —Another  part  of  the  Field. 

Alarums.     Enter  KING  HENRY  and  Forces, 
EXETER,  and  others. 

K.  Hen.  Well  have  we  done,  thrice- valiant 

countrymen :  [field. 

But  all's  not  done;  yet  keep  the  French  the 

Exe.  The  Duke  of  York  commends  him  to 

your  majesty. 
K.  Hen.  Lives  he,  good  uncle?  thrice  within 

this  hour 

I  saw  him  down ;  thrice  up  again,  and  fighting ; 
From  helmet  to  the  spur  all  blood  he  was. 

Exe.  In  which  array,  brave  soldier,  doth  he  lie 
Larding  the  plain ;  and  by  his  bloody  side, — 
Yoke-fellow  to  his  honour-owing  wounds, — 
The  noble  Earl  of  Suffolk  also  lies. 
Suffolk  first  died :  and  York,  all  haggled  over, 
Comes  to  him,  where  in  gore  he  lay  insteep'd, 
And  takes  him  by  the  beard ;  kisses  the  gashes 
That  bloodily  did  yawn  upon  his  face ; 


And  cries  aloud,  Tarry,  dear  cousin  Suffolkl 

My  soul  shall  thine  keep  company  to  heaven; 

Tarry i  sweet  sou/,  for  minet  thenfiy  a-breast; 

As  in  this  glorious  and  ivell-foughten  field 

We  kept  together  in  our  chivalry! 

Upon  these  words  I  came  and  cheer 'd  him  up : 

He  smil'd  me  in  the  face,  raught  me  his  hand, 

And,  with  a  feeble  grip,  says,  Dear  my  lord. 

Commend  my  service  to  my  sovereign. 

So  did  he  turn,  and  over  Suffolk's  neck 

He  threw  his  wounded  arm,  a.id  kiss'd  his  lips; 

And  so,  espous'd  to  death,  with  blood  be  seal'd 

A  testament  of  noble-ending  love. 

The  pretty  and  sweet  manner  of  it  forc'd 

Those  waters  from  me  which  I  would  have 

stopp'd ; 

But  I  had  not  so  much  of  man  in  me, 
And  all  my  mother  came  into  mine  eyes, 
And  gave  me  up  to  tears. 

K.  Hen.  iou  I  blame  you  not; 

For,  hearing  this,  I  must  perforce  compound 
With  mistful  eyes,  or  they  will  issue  t<xxn»-'ifis. 

\Alarutn, 

But,  hark  !  what  new  alarum  is  this  same? — 
The   French    have   reinforc'd   their    scattered 

men : — 

Then  every  soldier  kill  his  prisoners ; 
Give  the  word  through.  \ExtunL 

.^nJ6n.«Jii  302x3 
SCENE  Nil.— Another  part  of  the  Field. 

Alarums.     Enter  FLU  ELLEN  and  COWER. 

Flu.  Kill  the  poys  and  the  luggage !  'tis  ex- 
pressly against  the  law  of  arms :  'tis  as  arrant  a 
piece  of  knavery,  mark  you  now,  as  can  be 
offered;  in  your  conscience,  now,  is  it  not? 

Gow.  'Tis  certain  there 's  not  a  boy  left  alive ; 
and  the  cowardly  rascals  that  ran  from  the  battle 
have  done  this  slaughter:  besides,  they  have 
burned  and  carried  away  all  that  was  in  the 
king's  tent ;  wherefore  the  king,  most  worthily, 
hath  caused  every  soldier  to  cut  his  prisoners 
throat.  O,  'tis  a  gallant  king ! 

Flu.  Ay,  he  was  porn  at  Monmouth,  Captain 
Gower.  What  .call  you  the  town's  name  where 
Alexander  the  pig  was  porn? 

Gow.  Alexander  the  Great. 

Flu.  Why,  I  pray  you,  is  not  pig  great?  the 
pig,  or  the  great,  or  the  mighty,  or  the  huge,  or 
the  magnanimous,  are  all  one  reckonings,  save 
the  phrase  is  a  little  variations. 

Gow.  I  think  Alexander  the  Great  was  born 
in  Macedon:  his  father  was  called  Philip  of 
Macedon,  as  I  take  iL 

Flu.  I  think  it  is  in  Macedon  where  Alex- 
ander is  porn.  I  tell  you,  captain,  if  you  look 
in  the  maps  of  the  'orld,  I  warrant  you  shall 


558 


KING  HENRY  V. 


[ACT  iv. 


find,  in  the  comparisons  between  Macedon  and 
Monmouth,  that  the  situations,  look  you,  is  both 
alike.  There  is  a  river  in  Macedon ;  and  there 
is  also  moreover  a  river  at  Monmouth :  it  is 
called  Wye  at  Monmouth ;  but  it  is  out  of  my 
prains  what  is  the  name  of  the  other  river ;  but 
'tis  all  one,  'tis  alike  as  my  fingers  is  to  my 
fingers,  and  there  is  salmons  in  both.  If  you 
mark  Alexander's  life  well,  Harry  of  Mon- 
mouth's  life  is  come  after  it  indifferent  well ;  for 
there  is  figures  in  all  things.  Alexander, — Got 
knows,  and  you  know, — in  his  rages,  and  his 
furies,  and  his  wraths,  and  his  cholers,  and  his 
moods,  and  his  displeasures,  and  his  indigna- 
tions, and  also  being  a  little  intoxicates  in  his 
prains,  did,  in  his  ales  and  his  angers,  look  you, 
kill  his  pest  friend,  Clytus. 

Gow.  Our  king  is  not  like  him  in  that :  he 
never  killed  any  of  his  friends. 

Flu.  It  is  not  well  done,  mark  you  now,  to 
take  the  tales  out  of  my  mouth  ere  it  is  made 
and  finished.  I  speak  but  in  the  figures  and 
comparisons  of  it :  as  Alexander  is  kill  his  friend 
Clytus,  being  in  his  ales  and  his  cups ;  so  also 
Harry  Monmouth,  being  in  his  right  wits  and 
his  goot  judgments,  turned  away  the  fat  knight 
with  the  great  pelly-doublet :  he  was  full  of  jests, 
and  gipes,  and  knaveries,  and  mocks;  I  have 
forgot  his  name. 

Gow.  Sir  John  Falstaff. 

Flu.  That  is  he : — I  can  tell  you  there  is  goot 
men  porn  at  Monmouth. 

Gow.  Here  comes  his  majesty. 

Alarum.  Enter  KING  HENRY,  with  a  part  of 
the  English  Forces;  WARWICJC,  GLOSTER, 
EXETER,  and  others. 

K.  Hen.  I  was  not  angry  since  I  came  to 

France 

Until  this  instant. — Take  a  trumpet,  herald; 
Ride  thou  unto  the  horsemen  on  yond  hill : 
If  they  will  fight  with  us,  bid  them  come  down, 
Or  void  the  field ;  they  do  offend  our  sight : 
If  they  '11  do  neither,  we  will  come  to  them, 
And  make  them  skirr  away  as  sv.ift  as  stones 
Enforced  from  the  old  Assyrian  slings : 
Besides,  we  '11  cut  the  throats  of  those  we  have ; 
And  not  a  man  of  them  that  we  shall  take 
Shall  taste  our  mercy :— go  and  tell  them  so. 

Exe.   Here  comes  the  herald  of  the  French, 
my  liege.  [be. 

Glo.  His  eyes  are  humbler  than  they  us'd  to 

Enter  MoNTjov. 

K.  Hen.  How  now !  what  means  this,  herald  ? 
know'st  thou  not 


That  I  have  fin'd  these  bones  of  mine  for  ransom? 
Com'st  thou  again  for  ransom? 

Mont.  No,  great  king: 

I  come  to  thee  for  charitable  license, 
That  we  may  wander  o'er  this  bloody  field 
To  book  our  dead,  and  then  to  bury  them ; 
To  sort  our  nobles  from  our  common  men ; 
For  many  of  our  princes, — woe  the  while ! — 
Lie  drown'd  and  soak'd  in  mercenary  blood ; — 
So  do  our  vulgar  drench  their  peasant  limbs 
In  blood  of  princes ; — and  their  wounded  steeds 
Fret  fetlock  deep  in  gore,  and  with  wild  rage 
Yerk  out  their  armed  heels  at  their  dead  masters, 
Killing  them  twice.  O,  give  us  leave,  great  king, 
To  view  the  field  in  safety,  and  dispose 
Of  their  dead  bodies ! 

K.  Hen.  I  tell  thee  truly,  herald, 

I  know  not  if  the  day  be  ours  or  no ; 
For  yet  a  many  of  your  horsemen  peer 
And  gallop  o'er  the  field. 

Mont.  The  day  is  yours. 

K.  Hen.  Praised  be  God,  and  not  our  strength, 

for  it  !— 
What  is  this  castle  call'd  that  stands  hard  by? 

Mont.  They  call  it  Agincourt.  [court, 

K.  Hen.  Then  call  we  this  the  field  of  Agin- 
Fought  on  the  day  of  Crispin  Crispianus. 

Flu.  Your  grandfather  of  famous  memory,  an't 
please  your  majesty,  and  your  great-uncle  Ed- 
ward the  Plack  Prince  of  Wales,  as  I  have  read 
in  the  chronicles,  fought  a  most  prave  pattle 
here  in  France. 

K.  Hen.  They  did,  Fluellen. 

Flu.  Your  majesty  says  very  true:  if  your 
majesties  is  remembered  of  it,  the  Welshmen 
did  goot  service  in  a  garden  where  leeks  did 
grow,  wearing  leeks  in  their  Monmouth  caps ; 
which,  your  majesty  knows,  to  this  hour  is  an 
honourable  padge  of  the  service ;  and  I  do  pe- 
lieve  your  majesty  takes  no  scorn  to  wear  the 
leek  upon  Saint  Tavy's  day. 

K.  Hen.  I  wear  it  for  a  memorable  honour ; 
For  I  am  Welsh,  you  know,  good  countryman. 

Flu.  All  the  water  in  Wye  cannot  wash  your 
majesty's  Welsh  plood  out  of  your  pody,  I  can 
tell  you  that :  Got  pless  it  and  preserve  it  as  long 
as  it  pleases  his  grace  and  his  majesty  too ! 

K.  Hen.  Thanks,  good  my  countryman. 

Flu.  By  Cheshu,  I  am  your  majesty's  country- 
man, I  care  not  who  know  it;  I  will  confess  it 
to  all  the  'orld :  I  need  not  be  ashamed  of  your 
majesty,  praised  be  Got,  so  long  as  your  majesty 
is  an  honest  man.  [with  him : 

K.  Hen.  God  keep  me  so !— Our  heralds  go 
Bring  me  just  notice  of  the  numbers  dead 
On  both  our  parts. — Call  yonder  fellow  hither. 

[Points  to  WILL.    Exetwst  MONT.  andotJurs. 


SCENE  VII.] 


KING  HENRY  V. 


559 


Exe.  Soldier,  you  must  come  to  the  king. 

K.  Hen.  Soldier,  why  wearest  thou  that  glove 
in  thy  cap? 

Will.  An 't  please  your  majesty,  'tis  the  gage 
of  one  that  I  should  fight  withal,  if  he  be  alive. 

K.  Hen.  An  Englishman? 

Will.  An 't  please  your  majesty,  a  rascal  that 
swaggered  with  me  last  night ;  who,  if  alive  and 
ever  dare  to  challenge  this  glove,  I  have  sworn 
to  take  him  a  box  o'  the  ear :  or  if  I  can  see  my 
glove  in  his  cap, — which  he  swore,  as  he  was  a 
soldier,  he  would  wear  if  alive,— I  will  strike  it 
out  soundly. 

K.  Hen.  What  think  you,  Captain  Fluellen? 
is  it  fit  this  soldier  keep  his  oath  ? 

Flu.  He  is  a  craven  and  a  villain  else,  an 't 
please  your  majesty,  in  my  conscience. 

K.  Hen.  It  may  be  his  enemy  is  a  gentleman 
of  great  sort,  quite  from  the  answer  of  his  de- 
gree. 

Flu.  Though  he  be  as  goot  a  gentleman  as  the 
tevil  is,  as  Lucifer  and  Belzebub  himself,  it  is 
necessary,  look  your  grace,  that  he  keep  his  vow 
and  his  oath :  if  he  be  perjured,  see  you  now, 
his  reputation  is  as  arrant  a  villain  and  a  Jack 
sauce  as  ever  his  plack  shoe  trod  upon  Got's 
ground  and  his  earth,  in  my  conscience,  la. 

K.  Hen.  Then  keep  thy  vow,  sirrah,  when 
thou  meetest  the  fellow. 

Will.  So  I  will,  my  liege,  as  I  live. 

K.  Hen.  Who  servest  thou  under? 

Will.  Under  Captain  Gower,  my  liege. 

Flu.  Gower  is  a  goot  captain,  and  is  goot 
knowledge  and  literatured  in  the  wars. 

K.  Hen.  Call  him  hither  to  me,  soldier. 

Will.  I  will,  my  liege.  [Exit. 

K.  Hen.  Here,  Fluellen ;  wear  thou  this 
favour  for  me,  and  stick  it  in  thy  cap:  when 
Alen9on  and  myself  were  down  together  I 
pluck'd  this  glove  from  his  helm :  if  any  man 
challenge  this,  he  is  a  friend  to  Alen9on  and  an 
enemy  to  our  person ;  if  thou  encounter  any  such, 
apprehend  him,  an  thou  dost  love  me. 

Flu.  Your  grace  does  me  as  great  honours  as 
can  be  desired  in  the  hearts  of  his  subjects:  I 
would  fain  see  the  man  that  has  but  two  legs 
that  shall  find  himself  aggriefed  at  this  glove, 
that  is  all ;  but  I  would  fain  see  it  once,  and 
please  Got  of  his  grace  that  I  might  see  it. 

K.  Hen.  Knowest  thou  Gower? 

Flu.  He  is  my  dear  friend,  an  please  you. 

K.  Hen.  Pray  thee,  go  seek  him,  and  bring 
him  to  my  tent. 

Flu.  I  will  fetch  him.  [Exit. 

K.  Hen.  My  Lord  of  Warwick  and  my  brother 

Gloster, 
Follow  Fluellen  closely  at  the  heels : 


The  glove  which  I  have  given  him  for  a  favour 
May  haply  purchase  him  a  box  o'  the  ear; 
It  is  the  soldier's;  I,  by  bargain,  should 
Wear  it  myself.    Follow,  good  cousin  Warwick: 
If  that  the  soldier  strike  him, — as  I  judge 
By  his  blunt  bearing  he  will  keep  his  word, — 
Some  sudden  mischief  may  arise  of  it ; 
For  I  do  know  Fluellen  valiant, 
And,  touch'd  with  choler,  hot  as  gunpowder, 
And  quickly  will  return  an  injury:       [them. — • 
Follow,  and  see  there  be  no  harm  between 
Go  you  with  me,  uncle  of  Exeter.        [Exeunt* 

a/-.  .*\>;i 

"iOI  l&WcftS 

SCENE  VIII.—  Before  KING  HENRY'S  Pavilion. 

Enter  GOWER  and  WILLIAMS. 
Will.  I  warrant  it  is  to  knight  you,  captain. 

Enter  FLUELLEN. 

Flu.  Got's  will  and  his  pleasure,  captain,  I 
peseech  you  now,  come  apace  to  the  king :  there 
is  more  goot  toward  you  peradventure  than  is  in 
your  knowledge  to  dream  of. 

Will.  Sir,  know  you  this  glove?         [glove. 

Flu.  Know  the  glove !  I  know  the  glove  is  a 

Will.  I  know  this;  and  thus  I  challenge  it 
[Strikes  hint. 

Flu.  'Sblood,  an  arrant  traitor  as  any 's  in  the 
universal  'orld,  or  in  France,  or  in  England  I 

Gow.  How  now,  sir !  you  villain ! 

Will.  Do  you  think  I  *11  be  forsworn? 

Flu.  Stand  away,  Captain  Gower ;  I  will  give 
treason  his  payment  into  plows,  I  warrant  you. 

Will.  I  am  no  traitor. 

Flu.  That 's  a  lie  in  thy  throat. —I  charge 
you  in  his  majesty's  name,  apprehend  him :  he 's 
a  friend  of  the  Duke  Alen£on's. 

Enter  WARWICK  and  GLOSTER. 

War.  How  now,  how  now!  what's  the 
matter? 

Flu.  My  Lord  of  Warwick,  here  is, — praised 
be  Got  for  it ! — a  most  contagious  treason  come 
to  light,  look  you,  as  you  shall  desire  in  a 
summer's  day. — Here  is  his  majesty. 

Enter  KING  HENRY  and  EXETER. 

K.  Hen.  I  low  now !  what's  the  matter? 

Flu.  My  liege,  here  is  a  villain  and  a  traitor, 
that,  look  your  grace,  has  struck  the  glove  which 
your  majesty  is  takeout  of  the  helmet  of  Alenc,on. 

Will.  My  liege,  this  was  my  glove ;  here  is 
the  fellow  of  it ;  and  he  that  I  gave  it  to  in 
change  promised  to  wear  it  in  his  cap :  I  pro- 
mised to  strike  him  if  he  did  :  I  met  this  man 


56o 


KING  HENRY  V. 


[ACT  IV. 


with  my  glove  in  his  cap,  and  I  have  been  as 
good  as  my  word. 

Flu.  Your  majesty  hear  now, — saving  your 
majesty's  manhood, — what  an  arrant,  rascally, 
beggarly,  lousy  knave  it  is :  I  hope  your  majesty 
is  pear  me  testimony  and  witness,  and  will 
avouchment,  this  is  the  glove  of  Ale^on  that 
your  majesty  is  give  me,  in  your  conscience,  now. 

K.  Hen.  Give  me  thy  glove,  soldier:  look, 
here  is  the  fellow  of  it. 
'Twas  I,  indeed,  thou  promisedst  to  strike ; 
And  thou  hast  given  me  most  bitter  terms. 

Flu.  An  please  your  majesty,  let  his  neck 
answer  for  it  if  there  is  any  martial  law  in  the 
'orld.  [tion? 

K.  Hen.  How  canst  thou  make  me  satisfac- 

Will.  All  offences,  my  liege,  come  from  the 
heart:  never  came  any  from  mine  that  might 
offend  your  majesty. 

K.  Hen.  It  was  ourself  thou  didst  abuse. 

Will.  Your  majesty  came  not  like  yourself: 
you  appeared  to  me  but  as  a  common  man ; 
witness  the  night,  your  garments,  your  lowli- 
ness; and  what  your  highness  suffered  under 
that  shape  I  beseech  you  take  it  for  your  own 
fault,  and  not  mine :  for  had  you  been  as  I  took 
you  for,  I  made  no  offence ;  therefore,  I  beseech 
your  highness,  pardon  me. 

K.  Hen.  Here,  uncle  Exeter,  fill  this  glove 

with  crowns, 

And  give  it  to  this  fellow. — Keep  it,  fellow; 
And  wear  it  for  an  honour  in  thy  cap 
Till  I  do  challenge  it. — Give  him  the  crowns: — 
And,  captain,  you  must  needs  be  friends  with 
him. 

Flu.  By  this  day  and  this  light,  the  fellow 
has  mettle  enough  in  his  pelly : — hold,  there  is 
twelve  pence  for  you ;  and  I  pray  you  to  serve 
Got,  and  keep  you  out  of  prawls,  and  prabbles, 
and  quarrels,  and  dissensions,  and,  I  warrant 
you,  it  is  the  petter  for  you. 

Will.  I  will  none  of  your  money. 

Flu.  It  is  with  a  goot  will ;  I  can  tell  you  it 
will  serve  you  to  msnd  your  shoes:  come, 
wherefore  should  you  be  so  pashful  ?  your  shoes 
is  not  so  goot :  'tis  a  goot  silling,  I  warrant  you, 
or  I  will  change  it. 

Enter  an  English  Herald. 

K.  Hen.  Now,  herald, — are  the  dead  num- 

ber'd? 
Her.  Here  is  the  number  of  the  slaughter'd 

French.  [Delivers  a  paper. 

K.  Hen.  What  prisoners  of  good  sort  are 

taken,  uncle?  [king; 

Ext.  Charles  Duke  of  Orleans,  nephew  to  the 

John  Duke  of  Bourbon,  and  Lord  Bouciqualt : 


Of  other  lords  and  barons,  knights  and  squires. 
Full  fifteen  hundred,  besides  common  men. 

K.  Hen.    This   note   doth   tell   me   of   ten 
thousand  French  [number, 

That  in  the  field  lie  slain :  of  princes,  in  this 
And  nobles  bearing  banners,  there  lie  dead 
One  hundred  twenty-six  :  added  to  these, 
Of  knights,  esquires,  and  gallant  gentlemen, 
Eight  thousand  and  four  hundred  ;  of  the  which 
Five  hundred  were  but  yesterday  dubb'd  knights : 
So  that,  in  these  ten  thousand  they  have  lost, 
There  are  but  sixteen  hundred  mercenaries  ; 
The  rest  are  princes,  barons,  lords,  knights, 

squires, 

And  gentlemen  of  blood  and  quality. 
The  names  of  those  their  nobles  that  lie  dead, — 
Charles  De-la-bret,  high-constable  of  France  ; 
Jaques  of  Chatillon,  admiral  of  France  ; 
The  master  of  the  cross-bows,  Lord  Rambures; 
Great-master  of  France,  the  brave  Sir  Guischard 
Dauphin ;  [bant, 

John  Duke  of  Alen9on  ;  Antony  Duke  of  Bra- 
The  brother  to  the  Duke  of  Burgundy ; 
And  Edward  Duke  of  Bar  :  of  lusty  earls, 
Grandpree  and  Roussi,  Fauconberg  and  Foix, 
Beaumont  and  Marie,  Vaudemont  and  Lestrale. 
Here  was  a  royal  fellowship  of  death ! — 
Where  is  the  number  of  our  English  dead? 

[Herald  presents  another papef. 
Edward  the  Duke  of  York,  the  Earl  of  Suffolk, 
Sir  Richard  Ketly,  Davy  Gam,  esquire : 
None  else  of  name ;  and  of  all  other  men 
But  five-and-twenty. — O  God,  thy  arm  was  here; 
And  not  to  us,  but  to  thy  arm  alone, 
Ascribe  we  all ! — When,  without  stratagem, 
But  in  plain  shock  and  even  play  of  battle, 
Was  ever  known  so  great  and  little  loss 
On  one  part  and  on  the  other  ? — Take  it,  God, 
For  it  is  none  but  thine  1 

Exe.  'Tis  wonderful ! 

K.  Hen.  Come,  go  we  in  procession  to  the 

village : 

And  be  it  death  proclaimed  through  our  host 
To  boast  of  this,  or  take  that  praise  from  God 
Which  is  his  only. 

Flu.  Is  it  not  lawful,  an  please  your  majesty, 
to  tell  how  many  is  killed  ? 

K.  Hen.  Yes,  captain ;  but  with  this  acknow- 
ledgment, 
That  God  fought  for  us, 

Flu.  Yes,  my  conscience,  he  did  us  great  goot. 

K.  Hen.  Do  we  all  holy  rites : 
Let  there  be  sung  Non  nobis  and  Te  Deum; 
The  dead  with  charity  enclos'd  in  clay : 
We  '11  then  to  Calais ;  and  to  England  then ; 
Where  ne'er  from  France  arriv'd  more  happy 
men.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  VIII.] 


KING  HENRY  V. 


561 


Enter  Chorus. 

Chor.  Vouchsafe  to  those  that  have  not  read 

the  story, 

That  I  may  prompt  t^em :  and  of  such  as  have, 
I  humbly  pray  them  to  admit  the  excuse 
Of  time,  of  numbers,  and  due  course  of  things, 
Which  cannot  in  their  huge  and  proper  life 
Be  here  presented.     Now  we  bear  the  king 
Toward  Calais:  grant  him  there;  there  seen, 
Heave  him  away  upon  your  winged  thoughts 
Athwart  the  sea.     Behold,  the  English  beach 
Pales  in  the  flood  with  men,  with  wives,  and 

boys, 
Whose  shouts  and  claps  out-voice   the  deep- 

mouth'd  sea, 

Which,  like  a  mighty  whiffler,  'fore  the  king 
Seems  to  prepare  his  way :  so  let  him  land ; 
And  solemnly  see  him  set  on  to  London. 
So  swift  a  pace  hath  thought  that  even  now 
You  may  imagine  him  upon  Blackheath ; 
Where  that  his  lords  desire  him  to  have  borne 
His  bruised  helmet  and  his  bended  sword 
Before  him  through  the  city :  he  forbids  it, 
Being    free    from   vainness    and   self-glorious 

pride ; 

Giving  full  trophy,  signal,  and  ostent, 
Quite  from  himself  to  God.     But  now  behold, 
In    the    quick    forge   and   working-house    of 

thought, 

How  London  doth  pour  out  her  citizens ! 
The  mayor  and  all  his  brethren,  in  best  sort, — 
Like  to  the  senators  of  the  antique  Rome, 
With  the  plebeians  swarming  at  their  heels, — 
Go  forth,  and  fetch  their  conquering  Csesar  in : 
As,  by  a  lower  but  by  loving  likelihood, 
Were  now  the   general  of  our  gracious  em- 
press,-— 

As  in  good  time  he  may, — from  Ireland  coming, 
Bringing  rebellion  broached  on  his  sword, 
How  many  would  the  peaceful  city  quit 
To  welcome  him !  much  more,  and  much  more 

cause, 
Did  they  this  Harry.     Now  in  London  place 

him; — 

As  yet  the  lamentation  of  the  French 
Invites  the  King  of  England's  stay  at  home ; 
The  emperor's  coming  in  behalf  of  France, 
To  order  peace  between  them ; — and  omit 
All  the  occurrences,  whatever  chanc'd, 
Till  Harry's  back-return  again  to  France : 
There  must  we  bring  him;  and  myself  have 

pla/d 

The  interim,  by  remembering  you  'tis  past. 
Then  brook  abridgment;  and  your  eyes  advance, 
After  your  thoughts,  straight  back  again  to 

France.  [Exit. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  L— FRANCE.     An  English  Court  of 
Guar*. 

Enter  FLUELLEN  and  GOWER. 

Gow.  Nay,  that 's  right ;  but  why  wear 
you  your  leek  to-day?  Saint  Davy's  day  is 
past. 

Flu.  There  is  occasions  and  causes  why  and 
wherefore  in  all  things :  I  will  tell  you,  as  my 
friend,  Captain  Gower: — the  rascally,  scald, 
peggarly,  lousy,  praggmg  knave,  Pistol, — which 
you  and  yourself,  and  all  the  'orld,  know  to  be 
no  petter  than  a  fellow,  look  you  now,  of  no 
merits, — he  is  come  to  me,  and  prings  me  pread 
and  salt  yesterday,  look  you,  and  pid  me  eat 
my  leek :  it  was  in  a  place  where  I  could  not 
preed  no  contention  with  him ;  but  I  will  be  so 
pold  as  to  wear  it  in  my  cap  till  I  see  him  once 
again,  and  then  I  will  tell  him  a  little  piece  of 
my  desires. 

Gow.  Why,  here  he  comes,  swelling  like  a 
turkey-cock. 

Flu.  'Tis  no  matter  for  his  swellings  nor  his 
turkey-cocks. 

Enter  PISTOL. 

Got  pless  you,  Auncient  Pistol!  you  scurvy, 
lousy  knave,  Got  pless  you ! 

Pist.  Ha !  art  thou  bedlam?  dost  thou  thirst, 

base  Trojan, 

To  have  me  fold  up  Parca's  fatal  web? 
Hence !  I  am  qualmish  at  the  smell  of  leek. 

Flu.  I  peseech  you  heartily,  scurvy,  lousy 
knave,  at  my  desires,  and  my  requests,  and  my 
petitions,  to  eat,  look  you,  this  leek :  because, 
look  you,  you  do  not  love  it,  nor  your  affec- 
tions, and  your  appetites,  and  your  digestions, 
does  not  agree  with  it,  I  would  desire  you  to 
eat  it. 

Pist.  Not  for  Cadwallader  and  all  his  goats. 

Flu.  There  is  one  goat  for  you.  [Strikes 
him.]  Will  you  be  so  goot,  scald  knave,  as 
eat  it? 

Pist.  Base  Trojan,  thou  shalt  die. 

Flu.  You  say  very  true,  scald  knave, — when 
Got's  will  is :  I  will  desire  you  to  live  in  the 
meantime  and  eat  your  victuals :  come,  there  is 
sauce  for  it.  [Striking him  again.]  You  called 
me  yesterday  mountain-squire ;  but  I  will  make 
you  to-day  a  squire  of  low  degree.  I  pray  you, 
fall  to :  if  you  can  mock  a  leek  you  can  eat  a 
leek. 

Gow.  Enough,  captain :  you  have  astonished 
him. 


562 


KING  HENRY  V, 


[ACT  v. 


Flu.  I  say,  I  will  make  him  eat  some  part  of 
my  leek,  or  I  will  peat  his  pate  four  days. — Pite, 
I  pray  you ;  it  is  goot  for  your  green  wound  and 
your  ploody  coxcomb. 

Pist.  Must  I  bite? 

Flu.  Yes,  certainly,  and  out  of  doubt,  and 
out  of  question  too,  and  ambiguities. 

Pist.  By  this  leek,  I  will  most  horribly  re- 
venge :  I  eat,  and  eke,  I  swear — 

Flu.  Eat,  I  pray  you:  will  you  have  some 
more  sauce  to  your  leek?  there  is  not  enough 
leek  to  swear  by. 

Pist.  Quiet  thy  cudgel;  thou  dost  see  I 
eat. 

Flu.  Much  goot  do  you,  scald  knave,  heartily. 
Nay,  pray  you,  throw  none  away;  the  skin  is 
goot  for  your  proken  coxcomb.  When  you  take 
occasions  to  see  leeks  hereafter,  I  pray  you, 
mock  at  'em ;  that  is  all. 

Pist.  Good. 

Flu.  Ay,  leeks  is  goot : — hold  you,  there  is  a 
groat  to  heal  your  pate. 

Pist.  Me  a  groat ! 

Flu.  Yes,  verily  and  in  truth,  you  shall  take 
it ;  or  I  have  another  leek  in  my  pocket  which 
you  shall  eat. 

Pist.  I  take  thy  groat  in  earnest  of  revenge. 

Flu.  If  I  owe  you  anything  I  will  pay  you  in 
cudgels :  you  shall  be  a  woodmonger,  and  buy 
nothing  of  me  but  cudgels.  God  b*  wi'  you, 
and  keep  you,  and  heal  your  pate.  [Exit. 

Pist.  All  hell  shall  stir  for  this. 

Gow.  Go,  go ;  you  are  a  counterfeit  cowardly 
knave.  Will  you  mock  at  an  ancient  tradition, 
— begun  upon  an  honourable  respect,  and  worn 
as  a  memorable  trophy  of  predeceased  valour, — 
and  dare  not  avouch  in  your  deeds  any  of  your 
words  ?  I  have  seen  you  gleeking  and  galling 
at  this  gentleman  twice  or  thrice.  You  thought, 
because  he  could  not  speak  English  in  the 
native  garb,  he  could  not  therefore  handle  an 
English  cudgel:  you  find  it  otherwise;  and 
henceforth  let  a  Welsh  correction  teach  you 
a  good  English  condition.  Fare  ye  well. 

[Exit. 

Pist.  Doth  Fortune  play  the  huswife  with 

me  now? 

News  have  I  that  my  Nell  is  dead  i'  the  spital 
Of  malady  of  France ; 
And  there  my  rendezvous  is  quite  cut  off. 
Old  I  do  wax ;  and  from  my  weary  limbs 
Honour  is  cudgell'd.     Well,  bawd  will  I  turn, 
And  something  lean  to  cutpurse  of  quick  hand. 
To  England  will  I  steal,  and  there  I  '11  steal : 
And  patches  will  I  get  unto  these  scars, 
And  swear  I  got  them  in  the  Gallia  wars. 

[Exit. 


SCENE  II.— TROVES  in  Champagne. 
An  Apartment  in  the  FRENCH  KING'S  Palace. 

Enter  at  one  door,  KING  HENRY,  BEDFORD, 
GLOSTER,  EXETER,  WARWICK,  WESTMORE- 
LAND, and  other  Lords ;  at  another,  the 
FRENCH  KING,  QUEEN  ISABEL,  the  PRIN- 
CESS KATHARINE,  Lords,  Ladies,  &c.t  the 
DUKE  OF  BURGUNDY,  and  his  Train. 

K.  Hen.  Peace  to  this  meeting,  wherefore 

we  are  met ! 

Unto  our  brother  France,  and  to  our  sister, 
Health  and  fair  time  of  day ; — joy  and  good 
wishes  [ine ; — 

To  our  most  fair  and  princely  cousin  Kathar- 
And, — as  a  branch  and  member  of  this  royalty, 
By  whom  this  great  assembly  is  contriv'd,  — 
We  do  salute  you,  Duke  of  Burgundy ; — 
And,  princes  French,  and  peers,  health  to  you 
all !  [your  face, 

Fr.  King.   Right  joyous  are  we  to  behold 
Most  worthy  brother  England ;  fairly  met : — 
So  are  you,  princes  English,  every  one. 

Q.   Isa.    So  happy  be    the  issue,   brother 

England, 

Of  this  good  day  and  of  this  gracious  meeting 
As  we  are  now  glad  to  behold  your  eyes ; 
Your  eyes,  which  hitherto  have  borne  in  them 
Against  the  French,  that  met  them  in  their  bent, 
The  fatal  balls  of  murdering  basilisks : 
The  venom  of  such  looks,  we  fairly  hope, 
Have  lost  their  quality ;  and  that  this  day 
Shall  change  all  griefs  and  quarrels  into  love. 

K.  Hen.  To  cry  amen  to  that,  thus  we  appear. 

Q.  Isa.  YouEnglishprincesall,Idosaluteyou. 

Biir.   My  duty  to  you  both,  on  equal  love. 
Great  Kings  of  France  and  England !     That  I 
have  labour'd  [ours, 

With  all  my  wits,  my  pains,  and  strong  endeav- 
To  bring  your  most  imperial  majesties 
Unto  this  bar  and  royal  interview, 
Your  mightiness  on  both  parts  best  can  witness. 
Since  then  my  office  hath  so  far  prevail'd 
That  face  to  face  and  royal  eye  to  eye 
You  have  congreeted,  let  it  not  disgrace  me 
If  I  demand,  before  this  royal  view, 
What  rub  or  what  impediment  there  is 
Why  that  the  naked,  poor,  and  mangled  Peace, 
Dear  nurse  of  arts,  plenties,  and  joyful  births, 
Should  not,  in  this  best  garden  of  the  world, 
Our  fertile  France,  put  up  her  lovely  visage? 
Alas,  she  hath  from  France  too  long  been  chas'd ! 
And  all  her  husbandry  doth  lie  on  heaps, 
Corrupting  in  its  own  fertility. 
Her  vine,  the  merry  cheerer  of  the  heart, 
Unpruned  dies;  her  hedges  even-pleach'd, 


SCENE  II.] 


KING  HENRY  V. 


563 


Like  prisoners  wildly  overgrown  with  hair, 
Put  forth  disorder'd  twigs ;  her  fallow  leas 
The  darnel,  hemlock,  and  rank  fumitory 
Doth  root  upon,  while  that  the  coulter  rusts, 
That  should  deracinate  such  savagery ; 
The  even  mead,  that  erst  brought  sweetly  forth 
The  freckled  coM'slip,  burnet,  and  green  clover, 
Wanting  the  scythe,  all  uncorrected,  rank, 
Conceives  by  idleness,  and  nothing  teems 
But  hateful  docks,  rough  thistles,  kecksies,  burs, 
Losing  both  beauty  and  utility.  [hedges, 

And   as   our   vineyards,    fallows,    meads,  and 
Defective  in  their  natures,  grow  to  wildness, 
Even  so  our  houses  and  ourselves  and  children 
Have  lost,  or  do  not  learn  for  want  of  time, 
The  sciences  that  should  become  our  country ; 
But  grow,  like  savages, — as  soldiers  will, 
That  nothing  do  but  meditate  on  blood, — 
To  swearing  and  stern  looks,  diffus'd  attire, 
And  everything  that  seems  unnatural. 
Which  to  reduce  into  our  former  favour 
You  are  assembl'd :  and  my  speech  entreats 
That  I  may  know  the  let  why  gentle  Peace 
Should  not  expel  these  inconveniences, 
And  bless  us  with  her  former  qualities. 

K.  Hen.  If,  Duke  of  Burgundy,  you  would 

the  peace 

Whose  want  gives  growth  to  the  imperfections 
Which  you  have  cited,  you  must  buy  that  peace 
With  full  accord  to  all  our  just  demands  ; 
Whose  tenors  and  particular  effects 
You  have,  enschedul'd  briefly,  in  your  hands. 

Bur.    The  king  hath  heard  them;   to  the 

which  as  yet 
There  is  no  answer  made. 

K.  Hen.  Well,  then,  the  peace 

Which  you  before  so  urg'd  lies  in  his  answer. 

Fr.  King.  I  have  but  with  a  cursory  eye 
O'erglanc'd  the  articles :  pleaseth  your  grace 
To  appoint  some  of  your  council  presently 
To  sit  with  us  once  more,  with  better  heed 
To  re-survey  them,  we  will  suddenly 
Pass  our  accept  and  peremptory  answer. 

K.  Hen.    Brother,    we    shall. — Go,    uncle 
Exeter, —  [Gloster, — 

And    brother    Clarence, — and  you,   brother 
Warwick, — and  Huntingdon, — go  with  the  king; 
And  take  with  you  free  power  to  ratify, 
Augment,  or  alter,  as  your  wisdoms  best 
Shall  see  advantageable  for  our  dignity, 
Anything  in  or  out  of  our  demands ; 
And  we'll  consign  thereto. — Will  you,  fair  sister, 
Go  with  the  princes  or  stay  here  with  us? 

Q.  ha.  Our  gracious  brother,  I  will  go  with 

them  ; 

Haply  a  woman's  voice  may  do  some  good 
When  articles  too  nicely  urg'd  be  stood  on. 


K.  Hen.    Yet   leave   our  cousin   Katharine 

here  with  us : 

She  is  our  capital  demand,  compris'd 
Within  the  fore-rank  of  our  articles. 

Q.  Isa.  She  hath  good  leave. 
\_Exeunt  all  but  K.  HEN.,'  KATH.,  and  ALICE. 

K.  Hen.         Fair  Katharine,  and  most  fair  ! 
Will  you  vouchsafe  to  teach  a  soldier  terms 
Such  as  will  enter  at  a  lady's  ear, 
And  plead  his  love-suit  to  her  gentle  heart? 

Kath.  Your  majesty  shall  mock  at  me;  I 
cannot  speak  your  England. 

K.  Hen.  O  fair  Katharine,  if  you  will  love 
me  soundly  with  your  French  heart,  I  will  be 
glad  to  hear  you  confess  it  brokenly  with  your 
English  tongue.  Do  you  like  me,  Kate? 

Kath.  Pardonnez-moi)  I  cannot  tell  vat  is 
like  me. 

K.  Hen.  An  angel  is  like  you,  Kate,  and 
you  are  like  an  angel. 

Kath.  Que  dit-il?  que  je  suis  seniblable  &  les 
anges? 

Alice.  Ouiy  vraiment,  sauf  votre  grace ,  ainsi 
dit-il. 

K.  Hen.  I  said  so,  dear  Katharine;  and  I 
must  not  blush  to  affirm  it. 

Kath.  O  ben  Dieu!  les  langues  dcs  homnics 
sont  pleines  de  tromperies. 

K.  Hen.  What  says  she,  fair  one?  that  the 
tongues  of  men  are  full  of  deceits? 

Alice.  Out,  dat  de  tongues  of  de  mans  is  be 
full  of  deceits, — dat  is  de  princess. 

K.  Hen.  The  princess  is  the  better  English- 
woman.  I' faith,  Kate,  my  wooing  is  fit  for 
thy  understanding :  I  am  glad  thou  canst  speak 
no  better  English;  for  if  thou  couldst,  thou 
wouldst  find  me  such  a  plain  king  that  thou 
wouldst  think  I  had  sold  my  farm  to  buy  my 
crown.  I  know  no  ways  to  mince  it  in  love, 
but  directly  to  say  I  love  you :  then,  if  you  urge 
me  further  than  to  say,  Do  you  in  faith  ?  I  wear 
out  my  suit.  Give  me  your  answer ;  i'  faith, 
do ;  and  so  clap  hands  and  a  bargain :  how  say 
you,  lady? 

Kath.  Saufvotrehonneur,  me  understand  veil. 

K.  Hen.  Marry,  if  you  would  put  me  to 
verses  or  to  dance  for  your  sake,  Kate,  why 
you  undid  me :  for  the  one  I  have  neither  words 
nor  measure,  and  for  the  other  I  have  no 
strength  in  measure,  yet  a  reasonable  measure 
in  strength.  If  I  could  win  a  lady  at  leap-frog, 
or  by  vaulting  into  my  saddle  with  my  armour 
on  my. back,  under  the  correction  of  bragging 
be  it  spoken,  I  should  quickly  leap  into  a  wife. 
Or  if  I  might  buffet  for  my  love,  or  bound  my 
horse  for  her  favours,  I  could  lay  on  like  a 
butcher,  and  sit  like  a  jack -an -apes,  never  off. 


KING  HENRY  V. 


[ACT  v. 


But,  before  God,  Kate,  I  cannot  look  greenly, 
nor  gasp  out  my  eloquence,  nor  I  have  no  cun- 
ning in  protestation;  only  downright  oaths, 
which  I  never  use  till  urged,  nor  never  break 
for  urging.  If  thou  canst  love  a  fellow  of  this 
temper,  Kate,  whose  Face  is  not  worth  sun-burn- 
ing, that  never  looks  in  his  glass  for  love  of  any- 
thing he  sees  there,  let  thine  eye  be  thy  cook. 
I  speak  to  thee  plain  soldier :  if  thou  canst  love 
me  for  this,  take  me ;  if  not,  to  say  to  thee  that 
I  shall  die  is  true, — but  for  thy  love,  by  the 
Lord,  no ;  yet  I  love  thee  too.  And  while  thou 
livest,  dear  Kate,  take  a  fellow  of  plain  and  un- 
coined constancy ;  for  he  perforce  must  do  thee 
right,  because  he  hath  not  the  gift  to  woo  in 
other  places :  for  these  fellows  of  infinite  tongue, 
that  can  rhyme  themselves  into  ladies'  favours, 
they  do  always  reason  themselves  out  again. 
What !  a  speaker  is  but  a  prater ;  a  rhyme  is 
but  a  ballad.  A  good  leg  will  fall ;  a  straight 
back  will  stoop ;  a  black  beard  will  turn  white ; 
a  curled  pate  will  grow  bald ;  a  fair  face  will 
wither ;  a  full  eye  will  wax  hollow :  but  a  good 
heart,  Kate,  is  the  sun  and  the  moon;  or, 
rather,  the  sun,  and  not  the  moon, — for  it 
shines  bright  and  never  changes,  but  keeps  his 
course  truly.  If  thou  would  have  such  a  one, 
take  me :  and  take  me,  take  a  soldier ;  take  a 
soldier,  take  a  king:  and  what  sayest  thou, 
then,  to  my  love?  speak,  my  fair,  and  fairly,  I 
pray  thee. 

Kath.  Is  it  possible  dat  I  should  love  de 
enemy  of  France  ? 

K.  Hen.  No;  it  is  not  possible  you  should 
love  the  enemy  of  France,  Kate :  but  in  loving 
me  you  should  love  the  friend  of  France ;  for  I 
love  France  so  well  that  I  will  not  part  with  a 
village  of  it ;  I  will  have  it  all  mine :  and,  Kate, 
when  France  is  mine  and  I  am  yours,  then 
yours  is  France  and  you  are  mine. 

Kath.  I  cannot  tell  vat  is  dat. 

K.  Hen.  No,  Kate?  I  will  tell  thee  in 
French ;  which  I  am  sure  will  hang  upon  my 
tongue  like  a  new-married  wife  about  her  hus- 
band's neck,  hardly  to  be  shook  off.  Quand 
fai  la  possession  de  France,  et  quand  vous  avez 
la  possession  de  moi, — let  me  see,  what  then? 
Saint  Denis  be  my  speed ! — done  votre  est  France 
et  vous  ties  mienne.  It  is  as  easy  for  me,  Kate, 
to  conquer  the  kingdom  as  to  speak  so  much 
more  French:  I  shall  never  move  thee  in 
French,  unless  it  be  to  laugh  at  me. 

Katk.  Sauf  votre  honneur,  le  Fran$ais  que 
vous  parlez  est  meilleur  que  I  Anglais  lequel  je 
parle. 

K.  Hen.  No,  faith,  is 't  not,  Kate :  but  thy 
speaking  of  my  tongue,  and  I  thine,  most  truly 


falsely,  must  needs  be  granted  to  be  much  at 
one.  But,  Kate,  dost  thou  understand  thus 
much  English, — Canst  thou  love  me? 

Kath.  I  cannot  tell. 

K.  Hen.  Can  any  of  your  neighbours  tell, 
Kate  ?  I  '11  ask  them.  Come,  I  know  thou 
lovest  me :  and  at  night,  when  you  come  into 
your  closet,  you  '11  question  this  gentlewoman 
about  me ;  and  I  know,  Kate,  you  will  to  her 
dispraise  those  parts  in  me  that  you  love  with 
your  heart:  but,  good  Kate,  mock  me  merci- 
fully ;  the  rather,  gentle  princess,  because  I  love 
thee  cruelly.  If  ever  thou  be'st  mine,  Kate, — 
as  I  have  a  saving  faith  within  me  tells  me  thou 
shalt, — I  get  thee  with  scambling,  and  thou  must 
therefore  needs  prove  a  good  soldier-breeder : 
shall  not  thou  and  I,  between  Saint  Denis  and 
Saint  George,  compound  a  boy,  half  French, 
half  English,  that  shall  go  to  Constantinople 
and  take  the  Turk  by  the  beard?  shall  we  not? 
what  sayest  thou,  my  fair  flower-de-luce? 

Kath.   I  do  not  know  dat. 

K.  Hen.  No ;  'tis  hereafter  to  know,  but  now 
to  promise:  do  but  now  promise,  Kate,  you 
will  endeavour  for  your  French  part  of  such  a 
boy ;  and  for  my  English  moiety  take  the  word 
of  a  king  and  a  bachelor.  How  answer  you, 
la  plus  belle  Katharine  du  monde,  mon  tres 
chere  et  divine  deesse? 

Kath.  Your  majeste'&iQfausse  French  enough 
to  deceive  de  most  sage  damoiselle  dat  is  en 
France. 

K.  Hen.  Now,  fie  upon  my  false  French! 
By  mine  honour,  in  true  English,  I  love  thee, 
Kate :  by  which  honour  I  dare  not  swear  thou 
lovest  me ;  yet  my  blood  begins  to  flatter  me 
that  thou  dost,  notwithstanding  the  poor  and 
untempering  effect  of  my  visage.  Now,  beshrew 
my  father's  ambition  !  he  was  thinking  of  civil 
wars  when  he  got  me :  therefore  was  I  created 
with  a  stubborn  outside,  with  an  aspect  of  iron, 
that  when  I  come  to  woo  ladies  I  fright  them. 
But,  in  faith,  Kate,  the  elder  I  wax  the  better 
I  shall  appear :  my  comfort  is  that  old  age,  that 
ill  layer-up  of  beauty,  can  do  no  more  spoil 
upon  my  fece :  thou  hast  me,  if  thou  hast  me, 
at  the  worst ;  and  thou  shalt  wear  me,  if  thou 
wear  me,  better  and  better : — and  therefore  tell 
me,  most  fair  Katharine,  will  you  have  me? 
Put  off  your  maiden  blushes;  avouch  the 
thoughts  of  your  heart  with  the  looks  of  an  em- 
press; take  me  by  the  hand  and  say, — Harry 
of  England,  I  am  thine  :  which  word  thou  shaft 
no  sooner  bless  mine  ear  withal  but  I  will  tell 
thee  aloud,  England  is  thine,  Ireland  is  thine, 
France  is  thine,  and  Henry  Plantagenet  is 
thine ;  who,  though  I  speak  it  before  his  face, 


SCENE  II.j 


KING  HENRY  V. 


if  he  be  not  fellow  with  the  best  king,  thou 
shalt  find  the  best  king  of  good  fellows.  Come, 
your  answer  in  broken  music, — for  thy  voice  is 
music  and  thy  English  broken  ;  therefore,  queen 
of  all,  Katharine,  break  thy  mind  to  me  in 
broken  English, — wilt  thou  have  me  ? 

Kath.  Dat  is  as  it  sail  please  de  roi  monptre. 

K.  Hen.  Nay,  it  will  please  him  well,  Kate, 
—it  shall  please  him,  Kate. 

Kath.  Den  it  sail  also  content  me. 

K,  Hen.  Upon  that  I  kiss  your  hand,  and  I 
call  you  my  queen. 

Kath.  Laissez,  mon  seigneur ;  laissez,  laissez: 
mafoi^je  ne  veux  point  que  vous  abaissez  votre 
grandeur  en  baisant  la  main  dune  votre  indigne 
serviteur ;  excusez-moi,  je  vous  supplie,  mon 
tres  puissant  seigneur. 

K.  Hen.  Then  I  will  kiss  your  lips,  Kate. 

Kath.  Les  dames  et  demoiselles  pour  ftre 
baisees  devant  leur  noces^  il  n'est  pa*  le  coutume 
de  France. 

K.  Hen.  Madam,  my  interpreter,  what  says 
she? 

Alice.  Dat  itis  not  bede  fashion/<?wr les  ladies 
of  France, — I  cannot  tell  vat  is  baiser  en 
Anglish. 

K.  Hen.  To  kiss. 

Alice.  Your  majesty  entendre  bettre  que  mot. 

K.  Hen.  It  is  not  a  fashion  for  the  maids  in 
France  to  kiss  before  they  are  married,  would 
she  say? 

Alice.   Oui,  vraiment. 

K.  Hen.  O  Kate,  nice  customs  court'sy  to 
great  kings.  Dear  Kate,  you  and  I  cannot  be 
confined  within  the  weak  list  of  a  country's 
fashion :  we  are  the  makers  of  manners,  Kate ; 
and  the  liberty  that  follows  our  places  stops  the 
mouth  of  all  find-faults, — as  I  will  do  yours  for 
upholding  the  nice  fashion  of  your  country  in 
denying  me  a  kiss:  therefore,  patiently  and 
yielding.  [Kissing her.]  You  have  witchcraft 
in  your  lips,  Kate :  there  is  more  eloquence  in 
a  sugar  touch  of  them  than  in  the  tongues  of  the 
French  council;  and  they  should  sooner  per- 
suade Harry  of  England  than  a  general  peti- 
tion of  monarchs. — Here  comes  your  father. 

Enter  the  FRENCH  KING  and  QUEEN,  BUR- 
GUNDY, BEDFORD,  GLOSTER,  EXETER, 
WARWICK,  WESTMORELAND,  and  other 
French  and  English  Lords. 
Bur.  God  save  your  majesty!  my  royal 
cousin, 

Teach  you  our  princess  English? 

K.  Hen.  I  would  have  her  learn,  my  fair 

cousin,  how  perfectly  I  love  her;  and  that  is 

good  English. 


Bur.   Is  she  not  apt  ? 

K.  Hen.  Our  tongue  is  rough,  coz,  and  my 
condition  is  not  smooth ;  so  that,  having  neither 
the  voice  nor  the  heart  of  flattery  about  me,  I 
cannot  so  conjure  up  the  spirit  of  love  in  her 
that  he  will  appear  in  his  true  likeness. 

Bur.  Pardon  the  frankness  of  my  mirth  if  I 
answer  you  for  that.  If  you  would  conjure  in 
her  you  must  make  a  circle ;  if  conjure  up  love 
in  her  in  his  true  likeness,  he  must  appear  naked 
and  blind.  Can  you  blame  her,  then,  being  a 
maid  yet  rosed-over  with  the  virgin  crimson  of 
modesty,  if  she  deny  the  appearance  of  a  naked 
blind  boy  in  her  naked  seeing  self?  It  were, 
my  lord,  a  hard  condition  for  a  maid  to  consign 
to. 

K.  Hen.  Yet  they  do  wink  and  yield ;  as  love 
is  blind  and  enforces. 

Bur.  They  are  then  excused,  my  lord,  when 
they  see  not  what  they  do. 

K.  Hen.  Then,  good  my  lord,  teach  your 
cousin  to  consent  winking. 

Bur.  I  will  wink  on  her  to  consent,  my  lord, 
if  you  will  teach  her  to  know  my  meaning  :  for 
maids  well  summered  and  warm  kept  are  like 
flies  at  Bartholomew-tide,  blind,  though  they 
have  their  eyes;  and  then  they  will  endure 
handling,  which  before  would  not  abide  look- 
ing on. 

K.  Hen.  This  moral  ties  me  over  to  time 
and  a  hot  summer ;  and  so  I  shall  catch  the  fly, 
your  cousin,  in  the  latter  end,  and  she  must  be 
blind  too. 

Bur.  As  love  is,  my  lord,  before  it  loves. 

K.  Hen.  It  is  so :  and  you  may,  some  of  you, 
thank  love  for  my  blindness,  who  cannot  see 
many  a  fair  French  city  for  one  fair  French 
maid  that  stands  in  my  way. 

Fr.  King.  Yes,  my  lord,  you  see  them  per- 
spectively,  the  cities  turned  into  a  maid;  for 
they  are  all  girdled  with  maiden  walls  that  war 
hath  never  entered. 

K.  Hen.  Shall  Kate  be  my  wife? 

Fr.  King.  So  please  you. 

K.  Hen.  I  am  content ;  so  the  maiden  cities 
you  talk  of  may  wait  on  her :  so  the  maid  that 
stood  in  the  way  of  my  wish  shall  show  me  the 
way  to  my  will. 

Fr.  King.  We  have  consented  to  all  terms 
of  reason. 

K.  Hen.  Is 't  so,  my  lords  of  England? 

West.  The  king  hath  granted  every  article : — 
His  daughter  first ;  and,  in  sequel,  all, 
According  to  their  firm  proposed  natures. 

Exe.  Only,  he  hath  not  yet  subscribed 
this: — Where  your  majesty  demands  that  the 
King  of  France,  having  any  occasion  to  write 


566 


KING  HENRY  V. 


[ACT  v. 


for  matter  of  grant,  shall  name  your  highness  in 
this  form  and  with  this  addition,  in  French,  — 
Notre  tres  cher  fils  Henry,  roi  d'Angleterre, 
heritierde  France;  and  thus  in  Latin,  Prcedaris- 
simus  filius  noster  Henricus,  rex  Anglice  et 
hares  Francue. 

Fr.  King.  Nor  this  I  have  not,  brother,  so 

denied 

But  your  request  shall  make  me  let  it  pass. 
K.  Hen.  I  pray  you,  then,  in  love  and  dear 

alliance, 

Let  that  one  article  rank  with  the  rest  ; 
And  thereupon  give  me  your  daughter. 

Fr.  King.  Take  her,  fair  son  ;  and  from  her 

blood  raise  up 

Issue  to  me  ;  that  the  contending  kingdoms 
Of  France  and   England,   whose  very  shores 

look  pale 

With  envy  of  each  other's  happiness,  [tion 
May  cease  their  hatred  ;  and  this  dear  conjunc- 
Plant  neighbourhood  and  Christian-like  accord 
In  their  sweet  bosoms,  that  never  war  advance 
His  bleeding  sword  'twixt  England  and  fair 

France. 
All.  Amen  ! 
K.  Hen.  Now,  welcome,  Kate  :  —  and  bear 

me  witness  all, 
That  here  I  kiss  her  as  my  sovereign  queen. 

[Flourish. 

Q.  Isa.  God,  the  best  maker  of  all  marriages, 
Combine  your  hearts  in  one,  your  realms  in  one  ! 
As  man  and  wife,  being  two,  are  one  in  love, 
So  be  there  'twixt  your  kingdoms  such  a  spousal 

.  ?A   .\vvtx 


That  never  may  ill  office  or  fell  jealousy, 
Which  troubles  oft  the  bed  of  blessed  marriage, 
Thrust  in  between  thepaction  of  these  kingdoms, 
To  make  divorce  of  their  incorporate  league  ; 
That  English  may  as  French,  French  English. 

men, 

Receive  each  other  ! — God  speak  this  Amen  ! 
All.  Amen  !  [which  day, 

K.  Hen.   Prepare  we  for  our  marriage  : — on 
My  Lord  of  Burgundy,  we  '11  take  your  oath, 
And  all  the  peers',  for  surety  of  our  leagues. 
Then  shall  I  swear  to  Kate,  and  you  to  me  ; 
And  may  our  oaths  well  kept  and  prosperous 
be !  \_Exetmt. 


Enter  Chorus. 


Chor.  Thus  far,  with  rough  and  all -unable  pen, 

Our  bending  author  hath  pursu'd  the  story  ; 
In  little  room  confining  mighty  men,       [glory. 

Mangling  by  starts  the  full  course  of  their 
Small  time,  but,  in  that  small,  most  greatly  liv'd 

This  star  of  England  :    Fortune   made   his 

sword ; 
By  which  the  world's  best  garden  he  achiev'd, 

And  of  it  left  his  son  imperial  lord. 
Henry  the  Sixth,  in  infant  bands  crown'd  king 

Of  France  and  England,  did  this  king  succeed; 
Whose  state  so  many  had  the  managing 

That  they  lost  France  and  made  his  England 
bleed :  [sake, 

Which  oft  our  stage  hath  shown  ;  and,  for  theii 
In  your  fair  minds  let  this  acceptance  take. 

[Exit. 


rfcfK«'i 


FIRST  PART  OF 

KING   HENRY  VI. 


te'ino  ihi'v  377 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 

DUKE  OF  GLOSTER,  Uncle  to  the  KING,  and 
Protector. 

DUKE  OF  BEDFORD,  Uncle  to  the  KING,  and 
Regent  of  France. 

THOMAS  BEAUFORT,  Duke  of  Exeter,  Great- 
Uncle  to  the  KING. 

HENRY  BEAUFORT,  Great-Uncle  to  the  KING, 
Bishop  of  Winchester,  and  afterwards 
Cardinal. 

JOHN  BEAUFORT,  Earl  of  Somerset,  afterwards 
Duke. 

RICHARD  PLANTAGENET,  Eldest  son  ^RICH- 
ARD, late  Earl  of  Cambridge,  afterwards 
Duke  of  York. 

EARL  OF  WARWICK. 

EARL  OF  SALISBURY. 

EARL  OF  SUFFOLK. 

LORD  TALBOT,  afterwards  Earl  of  Shrewsbury. 

JOHN  TALBOT,  his  Son. 

EDMUND  MORTIMER,  Earl  of  March. 

MORTIMER'S  Keepers. 

A  Lawyer. 

SIR  JOHN  FASTOLFE. 

SIR  WILLIAM  LUCY. 

SIR  WILLIAM  GLANSDALE. 

SIR  THOMAS  GARGRAVE. 

Mayor  of  London. 


WOODVILLE,  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower. 
VERNON,  of  the  White-rose  or  York  faction. 
BASSET,  of  the  Red-rose  or  Lancaster  faction. 

CHARLES,  Dauphin,  and  afterwards  King  of 

France. 
REIGNIER,  Duke  of  Anjou,  and  Titular  King 

of  Naples. 

DUKE  OF  BURGUNDY. 
DUKE  OF  ALENCON. 
BASTARD  OF  ORLEANS. 
Governor  of  Paris. 

Master-Gunner  of  Orleans,  and  his  Son. 
General  of  the  French  Forces  in  Bordeaux. 
A  French  Sergeant. 
A  Porter. 
An  Old  Shepherd,  Father  to  JOAN  LA  PUCELLE. 

MARGARET,  Daughter  to  REIGNIER,  afterwards 

married  to  KING  HENRY. 
COUNTESS  OF  AUVERGNE. 
JOAN  LA  PUCELLE,  commonly  called  JOAN  OF 

ARC. 

Lords,  Warders  of  the  Tower,  Heralds,  Officers, 
Soldiers,  Messengers,  and  several  Atten- 
dants both  on  the  English  and  French. 

Fiends  appearing  to  LA  PUCELLE. 


SCENE, — Partly  in  ENGLAND,  and  partly  in  FRANCE. 


ACT  L 

SCENE  I. — Westminster  Abbey. 

Dead  March.  Corpse  of  KING  HENRY  THE 
FIFTH,  in  state,  is  brought  in,  attended  on 
by  the  DUKES  OF  BEDFORD,  GLOSTER, 
and  EXETER,  the  EARL  OF  WARWICK,  the 
BISHOP  OF  WINCHESTER,  Heralds,  &c. 

Bed.  Hung  be  the  heavens  with  black,  yield 

day  to  night ! 

Comets,  importing  change  of  times  and  states, 
Brandish  your  crystal  tresses  in  the  sky, 
And  with  them  scourge  the  bad  revolting  stars 
That  have  consented  unto  Henry's  death ! 


Henry  the  Fifth,  too  famous  to  live  long  i 
England  ne'er  lost  a  king  of  so  m«ch  worth. 

Glo.  England  ne'er  had  a  king  until  his  time. 
Virtue  he  had,  deserving  to  command  : 
His  brandish'd  sword  did  blind  men  with  his 

beams; 

His  arms  spread  wider  than  a  dragon's  wings  ; 
His  sparkling  eyes,  replete  with  wrathful  fire, 
More  dazzled  and  drove  back  his  enemies 
Than  mid-day  sun  fierce  bent  against  their  faces. 
What  should  I  say?  his  deeds  exceed  all  speech : 
He  ne'er  lift  up  his  hand  but  conquered. 

Exe.  We  mourn  in  black  :  why  mourn  we 

not  in  blood  ? 

Henry  is  dead,  and  never  shall  revive  : 
Upon  a  wooden  coffin  we  attend ; 


568 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  I. 


And  death's  dishonourable  victory 
We  with  our  stately  presence  glorify, 
Like  captives  bound  to  a  triumphant  car. 
What !  shall  we  curse  the  planets  of  mishap, 
That  plotted  thus  our  glory's  overthrow  ? 
Or  shall  we  think  the  subtle- witted  French 
Conjurers  and  sorcerers,  that,  afraid  of  him, 
By  magic  verses  have  contriv'd  his  end  ? 

Win.  He  was  a  king  bless'd  of  the  King  of 

kings, 

Unto  the  French  the  dreadful  judgment-day 
So  dreadful  will  not  be  as  was  his  sight. 
The  battles  of  the  Lord  of  hosts  he  fought : 
The  church's  prayers  made  him  so  prosperous. 
Glo.  The  church  !    where  is  it  ?     Had  not 

church-men  pray'd, 

His  thread  of  life  had  not  so  soon  decayed : 
None  do  you  like  but  an  effeminate  prince, 
Whom,  like  a  school-boy,  you  may  overawe. 
Win.  Gloster,   whate'er  we  like,  thou  art 

protector, 

And  lookest  to  command  the  prince  and  realm. 
Thy  wife  is  proud  ;  she  hoideth  thee  in  awe 
More  than  God  or  religious  churchmen  may. 
Glo.  Name  not  religion,  for  thou  lov'st  the 

flesh ;  [go'st, 

And  ne'er  throughout  the  year  to  church  thou 
Except  it  be  to  pray  against  thy  foes. 
Bed.  Cease,  cease  these  jars  and  rest  your 

minds  in  peace  ! 

Let 's  to  the  altar  : — heralds,  wait  on  us  : — 
Instead  of  gold,  we  '11  offer  up  our  arms ; 
Since  arms  avail  not,  now  that  Henry 's  dead. — 
Posterity,  await  for  wretched  years, 
When  at  their  mother's  moisten'd  eyes  babes 

shall  suck ; 

Our  isle  be  made  a  marish  of  salt  tears, 
And  none  but  women  left  to  wail  the  dead. — 
Henry  the  Fifth  !  thy  ghost  I  invocate  ; 
Prosper  this  realm,  keep  it  from  civil  broils  ! 
Combat  with  adverse  planets  in  the  heavens  ! 
A  far  more  glorious  star  thy  soul  will  make 
Than  Julius  Caesar  or  bright — 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  honourable  lords,  health  to  you  all ! 
Sad  tidings  bring  I  to  you  out  of  France, 


Of  loss,  of ! 


:er,  and  discomfiture : 


Guienne,  Champaigne,  Rheims,  Orleans, 
Paris,  Guysors,  Poictiers,  are  all  quite  lost. 
Bed.  What  say'st  thou,   man,   before  dead 

Henry's  corse? 

Speak  softly ;  or  the  loss  of  those  great  towns 
Will  make  him  burst  his  lead  and  rise  from 

death. 

Glo.  Is  Paris  lost  ?  is  Rouen  yielded  up  ? 
If  Henry  were  recall'd  to  life  again, 


These  news  would  cause  him  once  more  yield 

the  ghost.  [us'd  ? 

Exe.  How  were  they  lost  ?  what  treachery  was 
Mess.  No  treachery  but  want  of  men  and 

money. 

Among  the  soldiers  this  is  muttered, — 
That  here  you  maintain  several  factions  ; 
And  whilst  a  field  should  be  despatch'd  and 

fought, 

You  are  disputing  of  your  generals  : 
One  would  have  ling'ring  wars,  with  little  cost ; 
Another  would  fly  swift,  but  wanteth  wings ; 
A  third  man  thinks,  without  expense  at  all, 
By  guileful  fair  words  peace  may  be  obtain'd. 
Awake,  awake,  English  nobility  ! 
Let  not  sloth  dim  your  honours,  new-begot : 
Cropp'd  are  the  flower-de-luces  in  your  arms  ; 
Of  England's  coat  one  half  is  cut  away. 

Exe.  Were  our  tears  wanting  to  this  funeral, 

These  tidings  would  call  forth  her  flowing  tides. 

Bed.    Me   they  concern ;    regent   I   am  of 

France. —  [France. — 

Give   me  my  steeled    coat !      I  '11  fight    for 
Away  with  these  disgraceful  wailing  robes  ! 
Wounds  will  I  lend  the  French,  instead  of  eyes, 
To  weep  their  intermissive  miseries. 

Enter  a  second  Messenger. 

2  Mess.  Lords,  view  these  letters,  full  of  bad 

mischance. 

France  is  revolted  from  the  English  quite, 
Except  seme  petty  towns  of  no  import : 
The  Dauphin  Charles  is  crowned  king  in  Rheims; 
The  Bastard  of  Orleans  with  him  is  join'd ; 
Reignier,  Duke  of  Anjou,  doth  take  his  part; 
The  Duke  of  Alencon  flieth  to  his  side. 

Exe.  The  Dauphin  crowned  king!  all  fly  to 

him! 

O,  whither  shall  we  fly  from  this  reproach? 
Glo.  We  will  not  fly,  but  to  our  enemies' 

throats : — 

Bedford,  if  thou  be  slack  I  '11  fight  it  out. 
Bed.  Gloster,  why  doubt'st  thou  of  my  for- 
wardness? 

An  army  have  I  muster'd  in  my  thoughts, 
Wherewith  already  France  is  overrun. 


Enter  a  third  Messenger. 


3  Mess.  My  gracious  lords, — to  add  to  your 
laments,  [hearse, — 

Wherewith    you    now   bedew    King    Henry's 
I  must  inform  you  of  a  dismal  fight 
Betwixt  the  stout  Lord  Talbot  and  the  French. 
Win.  What!  wherein  Talbot  overcame?  is't 
so?  [thrown : 

3  Mess.  O,  no ;  wherein  Lord  Talbot  was  o'er- 
The  circumstance  I  '11  tell  you  more  at  large. 


SCRNE  I.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


569 


The  tenth  of  August  last  this  dreadful  lord, 
Retiring  from  the  siege  of  Orleans, 
Having  full  scarce  six  thousand  in  his  troop, 
By  three-and-twenty  thousand  of  the  French 
Was  round  encompassed  and  set  upon. 
No  leisure  had  he  to  enrank  his  men  ; 
He  wanted  pikes  to  set  before  his  archers  ; 
Instead  whereof,  sharp  stakes,  pluck'd  out  of 

hedges, 

They  pitched  in  the  ground  confusedly, 
To  keep  the  horsemen  off  from  breaking  in. 
More  than  three  hours  the  fight  continued  ; 
Where  valiant  Talbot,  above  human  thought, 
Enacted  wonders  with  his  sword  and  lance : 
Hundreds  he 'sent  to  hell,  and  none  durst  stand 

him ; 

Here,  there,  and  everywhere,  enrag'd  he  flew  : 
The  French  exclaim'd  the  devil  was  in  arms  ; 
All  the  whole  army  stood  agaz'd  on  him  : 
His  soldiers,  spying  his  undaunted  spirit, 
A  Talbot !  a  Talbot !  cried  out  amain, 
And  rush'd  into  the  bowels  of  the  battle. 
Here  had  the  conquest  fully  been  seal'd  up 
If  Sir  John  Fastolfe  had  not  play'd  the  coward : 
He,  being  in  the  vaward, — plac'd  behind, 
With  purpose  to  relieve  and  follow  them, — 
Cowardly  fled,  not  having  struck  one  stroke. 
Hence  grew  the  general  wreck  and  massacre  ; 
Enclosed  were  they  with  their  enemies : 
A  base  Walloon,  to  win  the  Dauphin's  grace, 
Thrust  Talbot  with  a  spear  into  the  back  ; 
Whom  all  France,  with  their  chief  assembled 

strength, 
Durst  not  presume  to  look  once  in  the  face. 

Bed.  Is  Talbot  slain?  then  I  will  slay  myself, 
For  living  idly  here  in  pomp  and  ease, 
Whilst  such  a  worthy  leader,  wanting  aid, 
Unto  his  dastard  foemen  is  betray'd. 

3  Mess.  O  no,  he  lives ;  but  is  took  prisoner, 
And  Lord  Scales  with  him,  and  Lord  Hunger- 
ford: 
Most  of  the  rest  slaughter'd  or  took  likewise. 

Bed.  His  ransom  there  is  none  but  I  shall  pay : 
I'll  hale  the  Dauphin  headlong  from  his  throne, — 
His  crown  shall  be  the  ransom  of  my  friend  ; 
Four  of  their  lords  I  '11  change  for  one  of  ou^s. — 
Farewell,  my  masters  ;  to  my  task  will  I ; 
Bonfires  in  France  forthwith  I  am  to  make, 
To  keep  our  great  Saint  George's  feast  withal  : 
Ten  thousand  soldiers  with  me  I  will  take, 
Whose  bloody  deeds  shall  make  all   Europe 
quake.  [sieg'd ; 

3  Mess.  So  you  had  need ;  for  Orleans  is  be- 
The  English  army  is  grown  weak  and  feint : 
The  Earl  of  Salisbury  craveth  supply, 
And  hardly  keeps  his  men  from  mutiny, 
Since  they,  so  few,  watch  such  a  multitude. 


Exe.  Remember,  lords,  your  oaths  to  Henry 

sworn, 

Either  to  quell  the  Dauphin  utterly, 
Or  bring  him  in  obedience  to  your  yoke. 
Bed.  I  do  remember  it ;  and  here  take  my 

leave, 

To  go  about  my  preparation.  \Exit. 

Glo.   I'll  to  the  Tower,  with  all  the  haste 

I  can, 

To  view  the  artillery  and  munition  ; 
And  then  I  will  proclaim  young  Henry  king. 

[Exit. 
Exe.  To  Eltham  will  I,  where  the  young 

king  is, 

Being  ordain'd  his  special  governor  ; 
And  for  his  safety  there  I  '11  best  devise. 

[Exit. 
Win.  Each  hath  his  place  and  function  to 

attend  : 

I  am  left  out ;  for  me  nothing  remains. 
But  long  I  will  not  be  Jack-out-of-orBce  : 
The  king  from  Eltham  I  intend  to  steal, 
And  sit  at  chiefest  stern  of  public  weal. 

[Exit.     Scene  closes. 
•  ;  u-iorfJ  wpfi-'M  h.folp 
SCENE  II. — FRANCE.     Before  Orleans. 

Enter  CHARLES,  with  his  Forces  ;  ALENC.ON, 
REIGNIER,  and  others. 

,::,:> 

Char.  Mars  his  true  moving,  even  as  in  the 

heavens, 

So  in  the  earth,  to  this  day  is  not  known  : 
Late  did  he  shine  upon  the  English  side  ; 
Now  we  are  victors,  upon  rs  he  smiles. 
What  towns  of  any  moment  but  we  have  ? 
At  pleasure  here  we  lie  near  Orleans  ; 
Otherwhiles  the  famish'd  English,  like  pale 

ghosts, 

Faintly  besiege  us  one  hour  in  a  month. 
Alen.  They  want  their  porridge  and  their 

fat  bull-beeves : 

Either  they  must  be  dieted  like  mules, 
And  have  their  provender  tied  to  their  mouths, 
Or  piteous  they  will  look,  like  drowned  mice. 
Reig.    Let 's  raise  the  siege :   why  live  we 

idly  here  ? 

Talbot  is  taken,  whom  we  wont  to  fear  : 
Remaineth  none  but  mad-brain'd  Salisbury  ; 
And  he  may  well  in  fretting  spend  his  gall, — 
Nor  men  nor  money  hath  he  to  make  war. 
Char.  Sound,  sound  alarum  !  we  will  rush 

on  them. 

Now  for  the  honour  of  the  forlorn  French  ! — 
Him  I  forgive  my  death  that  killeth  me, 
When  he  sees  me  go  back  one  foot  or  flee. 

[Exeunt. 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  I. 


Alarums;  excursions ;  afterwards  a  retreat 
Re-enter  CHARLES,  ALEN^ON,  REIGNIER, 
and  others. 

Char.  Who  ever  saw  the  like?  what  men 

have  I  !— 
Dogs !  cowards !  dastards !  I  would  ne'er  have 

fled 
But  that  they  left  me  midst  my  enemies. 

Reig.  Salisbury  is  a  desperate  homicide  ; 
He  fighteth  as  one  weary  of  his  life. 
The  other  lords,  like  lions  wanting  food, 
Do  rush  upon  us  as  their  hungry  prey. 

Alen.  Froissart,  a  countryman  of  ours,  records, 
England  all  Olivers  and  Rowlands  bred 
During  the  time  Edward  the  Third  did  reign. 
More  truly  now  may  this  be  verified  ; 
For  none  but  Samsons  and  Goliasses 
It  sendeth  forth  to  skirmish.     One  to  ten ! 
Lean  raw-bon'd  rascals  !  who  would  e'er  suppose 
They  had  such  courage  and  audacity  ? 

Char.  Let 's  leave  this  town ;  for  they  are 

hair-brain'd  slaves, 

And  hunger  will  enforce  them  to  be  more  eager : 
Of  old  I  know  them  ;  rather  with  their  teeth 
The  walls  they  '11  tear  down  than  forsake  the 
siege. 

Reig.  I  think,  by  some  odd  gimmers  or  device, 
Their  arms  are  set,  like  clocks,  still  to  strike  on ; 
Else  ne'er  could  they  hold  out  so  as  they  do. 
By  my  consent,  we  '11  even  let  them  alone. 

Alen.  Be  it  so. 

Enter  the  BASTARD  OF  ORLEANS. 

Bast.  Where 's  the  Prince  Dauphin  ?  I  have 
news  for  him.  [us. 

Char.  Bastard  of  Orleans,  thrice  welcome  to 

Bast.    Methinks  your  looks  are  sad,  your 

cheer  appall'd  : 

Hath  the  late  overthrow  wrought  this  offence  ? 
Be  not  dismay'd,  for  succour  is  at  hand  : 
A  holy  maid  hither  with  me  I  bring, 
Which,  by  a  vision  sent  to  her  from  heaven, 
Ordained  is  to  raise  this  tedious  siege, 
And  drive  the  English  forth  the  bounds  of  France. 
The  spirit  of  deep  prophecy  she  hath, 
Exceeding  the  nine  sibyls  of  old  Rome  : 
What 's  past  and  what 's  to  come  she  can  descry. 
Speak,  shall  I  call  her  in  ?    Believe  my  words, 
For  they  are  certain  and  infallible. 

Char.  Go,  call  her  in.     [Exit  BASTARD.] 

But  first,  to  try  her  skill, 

Reignier,  stand  thou  as  Dauphin  in  my  place : 

Question  her  proudly  ;  let  thy  looks  be  stern  : 

By  this  means  shall  we  sound  what  skill  she 

hath.  [Retires. 


Re-enter  the  BASTARD  OF  ORLEANS,  with  LA 
PUCELLE. 

Reig.  Fair  maid,  is 't  thou  wilt  do  these  won- 
drous feats  ? 

Puc.  Reignier,  is 't  thou  that  thinkest  to  be- 
guile me  ?—  [behind  ; 
Where  is   the  Dauphin  ?— Come,  come  from 
I  know  thee  well,  though  never  seen  before. 
Be  not  amaz'd,  there 's  nothing  hid  from  me  : 
In  private  will  I  talk  with  thee  apart. — 
Stand  back,  you  lords,  and  give  us  leave  awhile. 
Reig.  She   takes  upon  her  bravely  at  first 
dash.                                       [daughter, 
Puc.  Dauphin,  I  am  by  birth  a  shepherd's 
My  wit  untrain'd  in  any  kind  of  art. 
Heaven  and  our  Lady  gracious  hath  it  pleas'd 
To  shine  on  my  contemptible  estate  : 
Lo,  whilst  I  waited  on  my  tender  lambs, 
And  to  sun's  parching  heat  display'd  my  cheeks, 
God's  mother  deigned  to  appear  to  me, 
And  in  a  vision  full  of  majesty 
Will'd  me  to  leave  my  base  vocation, 
And  free  my  country  from  calamity : 
Her  aid  she  promis'd  and  assur'd  success  : 
In  complete  glory  she  reveal'd  herself ; 
And  whereas  I  was  black  and  swart  before, 
With  those  clear  rays  which  she  infus'd  on  me, 
That  beauty  am  I  bless'd  with  which  you  see. 
Ask  me  what  question  thou  canst  possible, 
And  I  will  answer  unpremeditated : 
My  courage  try  by  combat  if  thou  dar'st, 
And  thou  shall  find  that  I  exceed  my  sex. 
Resolve  on  this, — thou  shalt  be  fortunate 
If  thou  receive  me  for  thy  warlike  mate. 

Char.  Thou  hast  astonish'd  me  with    thy 

high  terms : 

Only  this  proof  I'll  of  thy  valour  make, — 
In  single  combat  thou  shalt  buckle  with  me  ; 
And  if  thou  vanquishes!,  thy  words  are  true  : 
Otherwise  I  renounce  all  confidence. 

Puc.  I  am  prepar'd  :  here  is  my  keen-edg'd 

sword, 

Deck'd  with  five  flower-de-luces  on  each  side  ; 
The  which  at  Touraine,  in  Saint  Katherine's 

churchyard, 

Out  of  a  great  deal  of  old  iron  I  chose  forth. 
Char.  Then  come,  o'  God's  name  ;  I  fear 

no  woman. 

Puc.  And  while  I  live  I  '11  ne'er  fly  from  a 

man.  [They  fight. 

Char.    Stay,   stay  thy  hands  !    thou  art  an 

Amazon, 
And  fightest  with  the  sword  of  Deborah. 

Puc.  Christ's  mother  helps  me,  else  I  were 

too  weak.  [help  me  : 

Char.  Whoe'er  helps  thee,  'tis  thou  that  must 


SCENE  II.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


Impatiently  I  burn  with  thy  desire  ; 
My  heart  and  hands  thou  hast  at  once  subdu'd. 
Excellent  Pucelle,  if  thy  name  be  so, 
Let  me  thy  servant  and  not  sovereign  be : 
;Tis  the  French  Dauphin  sueth  to  thee  thus. 
PMC.   I  must  not  yield  to  any  rites  of  love, 
For  my  profession 's  sacred  from  above  : 
When  I  have  chased  all  thy  foes  from  hence, 
Then  will  I  think  upon  a  recompense. 

Char.  Meantime  look  gracious  on  thy  pro- 
strate thrall. 

Reig.  My  lord,  methinks,  is  very  long  in  talk. 
Alen.  Doubtless  he  shrives  this  woman  to 

her  smock  ; 
Else   ne'er    could    he    so    long    protract    his 

speech. 
Reig.  Shall  we  disturb  him,  since  he  keeps 

no  mean  ? 
Alen.  He  may  mean  more  than  we  poor  men 

do  know : 
These  women  are  shrewd  tempters  with  their 

tongues. 
Reig.  My  lord,  where  are  you  ?  what  devise 

you  on  ? 
Shall  we  give  over  Orleans,  or  no  ? 

Puc.  Why,  no,  I  say,  distrustful  recreants! 
Fight  till  the  last  gasp  ;  I  will  be  your  guard. 
Char.    What  she  says  I  'il  confirm  :    we  '11 

fight  it  out. 
Puc.    Assign'd    am   I    to  be   the    English 

scourge. 

This  night  the  siege  assuredly  I  '11  raise  : 
Expect  Saint  Martin's  summer,  halcyon  days, 
Since  I  have  entered  into  these  wars. 
Glory  is  like  a  circle  in  the  water, 
Which  never  ceaseth  to  enlarge  itself, 
Till  by  broad  spreading  it  disperse  to  naught. 
With  Henry's  death  the  English  circle  ends  ; 
Dispersed  are  the  glories  it  included. 
Now  am  I  like  that  proud  insulting  ship 
Which  Caesar  and  his  fortune  bare  at  once. 

Char.  Was  Mahomet  inspired  with  a  dove  ? 
Thou  with  an  eagle  art  inspired,  then. 
Helen,  the  mother  of  great  Constantine, 
Nor  yet   Saint   Philip's  daughters,  were  like 

thee. 

Bright  star  of  Venus,  fall'n  down  on  the  earth, 
How  may  I  reverently  worship  thee  enough  ? 
Alen.  Leave  off  delays,  and  let  us  raise  the 

siege. 
Reig.  Woman,  do  what  thou  canst  to  save  our 

honours ; 

Drive  them  from  Orleans,  and  be  immortaliz'd. 
Char.    Presently  we  '11   try  : — come,   let 's 

away  about  it ; — 
No  prophet  will  I  trust  if  she  prove  false. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE   III.— LONDON.     Before  the  Gates  of 
the  Tower. 

Enter  the  DUKE  OF  GLOSTER,  with  his 
Serving-men  in  blue  coats. 

Glo.  I  am  come  to  survey  the  Tower  this 
day :  [ance. — 

Since  Henry's  death,  I  fear,  there  is  convey- 
Where  be  these  warders,  that  they  wait  not  here  ? 
Open  the  gates  :  Gloster  it  is  that  calls. 

[Servants  knock. 

I  Ward.  [Within.}  Who's  there  that  knocks 
so  imperiously  ? 

1  Serv.  It  is  the  noble  Duke  of  Gloster. 

2  Ward.  [Within.]  Whoe'er  he  be,  you  may 

not  be  let  in.  [tector  ? 

i  Serv.  Villains,  answer  you  so  the  lord  pro- 
i  Ward.  [Within.]  The  Lord  protect  him  ! 

so  we  answer  him  : 
We  do  no  otherwise  than  we  are  will'd. 

Glo.  Who  willed  you  ?  or  whose  will  stands 

but  mine  ? 

There 's  none  protector  of  the  realm  but  I. — 
Break  up  the  gates,  I  '11  be  your  warrantize  : 
Shall  I  be  flouted  thus  by  dunghill  grooms  ? 

[GLOSTER'S  Servants  rush  at  the 

Tower-gates. 
Wood.  [Within.]  What  noise  is  this?  what 

traitors  have  we  here  ? 
Glo.  Lieutenant,  is  it  you  whose  voice  I  hear? 
Open   the   gates;   here's  Gloster  that  would 

enter. 
Wood.  [Within.]  Have  patience,  noble  Duke  j 

I  may  not  open  ; 

The  Cardinal  of  Winchester  forbids  : 
From  him  I  have  express  commandment 
That  thou  nor  none  of  thine  shall  be  let  in. 
Glo.    Faint-hearted  Woodville,  prizest  him 

'fore  me, — 

Arrogant  Winchester  ?  that  haughty  prelate 
Whom  Henry,  our  late  sovereign,  ne'er  could 

brook? 

Thou  art  no  friend  to  God  or  to  the  king  : 
Open  the  gates,  or  I  '11  shut  thee  out  shortly, 
i  Serv.  Open  the  gates  unto  the  lord  pro- 
tector, [quickly. 
Or  we  '11  burst  them  open  if  that  you  come  not 
[GLOSTER's  Servants  rush  again  at  the 
Tower-gates. 

Enter  WINCHESTER,  with  his  Serving-men  in 
tawny  coats. 

Win.   How  now,  ambitious  Humphry !  what 

means  this  ? 
Glo.  Peel'd  priest,  dost  thou  command  me 

to  be  shut  out? 


572 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  i. 


Win.  I  do,  thou  most  usurping  proditor, 
And  not  protector  of  the  king  or  realm. 

Glo.  Stand  back,  thou  manifest  conspirator, 
Thou  that  contriv'dst  to  murder  our  dead  lord  ; 
Thou  that  giv'st  whores  indulgences  to  sin  : 
I  '11  canvass  thee  in  thy  broad  cardinal's  hat, 
If  thou  proceed  in  this  thy  insolence. 

Win.    Nay,  stand   thou   back ;    I  will  not 

budge  a  foot : 

This  be  Damascus,  be  thou  cursed  Cain, 
To  slay  thy  brother  Abel,  if  thou  wilt,     [back : 

Glo.   I  will  not  slay  thee,  but  I  '11  drive  thee 
Thy  scarlet  robes  as  a  child's  bearing-cloth 
I  '11  use  to  carry  thee  out  of  this  place. 

Win.  Do  what  thou  dar'st ;  I  beard  thee  to 
thy  face.  [face  ? — 

Glo.  What !  am  I  dar'd,  and  bearded  to  my 
Draw,  men,  for  all  this  privileged  place ; 
Blue-coats  to  tawny-coats.  — Priest,  beware  your 

beard ; 

I  mean  to  tug  it,  and  to  cuff  you  soundly : 
Under  my  feet  I  '11  stamp  thy  cardinal's  hat ; 
In  spite  of  pope  or  dignities  of  church, 
Here  by  the  cheeks  I  '11  drag  thee  up  and  down. 

Win.  Gloster,  thou  wilt  answer  this  before 
the  pope.  [rope ! — 

Glo.    Winchester  goose!   I  cry,  a  rope!  a 
Now  beat  them  hence,  why  do  you  let  them 

stay?— 
Thee  I'll  chase  hence,  thou  wolf  in  sheep's 

array. — 
Out,  tawny-coats ! — Out,  scarlet  hypocrite ! 

GLOSTER  and  his  Servants  attack  the  other 
Party.  In  the  tumult,  enter  the  Mayor  of 
London  and  Officers. 

May.  Fie,  lords !   that  you,  being  supreme 

magistrates, 
Thus  contumeliously  should  break  the  peace! 

Glo.  Peace,  mayor!  thou  know'st  little  of  my 

wrongs : 

Here 's  Beaufort,  that  regards  nor  God  nor  king, 
Hath  here  distrain'd  the  Tower  to  his  use. 

Win.  Here 's  Gloster,  too,  a  foe  to  citizens ; 
One  that  still  motions  war,  and  never  peace', 
O'ercharging  your  free  purses  with  large  fines ; 
That  seeks  to  overthrow  religion, 
Because  he  is  protector  of  the  realm ; 
And  would  have  armour  here  out  of  the  Tower, 
To  crown  himself  king  and  suppress  the  prince. 

Glo.  I  will  not  answer  thee  with  words,  but 
blows.        [Here  they  skirmish  again. 

May.  Naught  rests  for  me,  in  this  tumultu- 
ous strife, 

But  to  make  open  proclamation : — 
Come,  officer,  as  loud  as  e'er  thou  canst. 


Off.  [Reads. ~\  All  manner  of  men  assembled 
here  in  arms  this  day  against  God's  peace  and 
the  king's,  we  charge  and  command  you,  in  his 
highness^  name,  to  repair  to  your  several  dwell- 
ing-places ;  and  not  to  wear,  handle,  or  use  any 
sword,  weapon,  or  dagger,  henceforward,  upon 
pain  of  death 

Glo.  Cardinal,  I  '11  be  no  breaker  of  the  law : 
But  we  shall  meet  and  break  our  minds  at  large. 
Win.  Gloster,  we  '11  meet,  to  thy  dear  cost, 

be  sure: 

Thy  heart-blood  I  will  have  for  this  day's  work. 
May.  I  '11  call  for  clubs  if  you  will  not  away: — 
This  cardinal 's  more  haughty  than  the  devil. 
Glo.   Mayor,  farewell :    thou  dost  but  what 

thou  mayst. 

Win.  Abominable  Gloster !  guard  thy  head ; 
For  I  intend  to  have  it  ere  long. 

[Exeunt  severally,  GLO.  and  WIN.  , 

with  their  Servants. 
May.  See  the  coast  clear'd,  and  then  we  will 

depart. — 
Good  God,  these  nobles  should  such  stomachs 

bear! 
I  myself  fight  not  once  in  forty  year.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — FRANCE.     Before  Orleans. 

Enter,  on  the  walls,  the  Master- Gunner  and 
his  Son. 

M.  Gun.  Sirrah,  thou  know'st  how  Orleans 

is  besieg'd, 
And  how  the  English  have  the  suburbs  won. 

Son.   Father,  I  know;  and  oft  have  shot  at 

them, 
Howe'er,  unfortunate,  I  missed  my  aim. 

M.  Gun.  But  now  thou  shalt  not.     Be  thou 

rul'd  by  me : 

Chief  master-gunner  am  I  of  this  town ; 
Something  I  must  do  to  procure  me  grace. 
The  prince's  espials  have  informed  me 
How  the  English,  in  the  suburbs  close  intrench'd, 
Wont,  through  a  secret  grate  of  iron  bars 
In  yonder  tower,  to  overpeer  the  city, 
And  thence  discover  how  with  most  advantage 
They  may  vex  us  with  shot  or  with  assault. 
To  intercept  this  inconvenience, 
A  piece  of  ordnance  'gainst  it  I  have  plac'd ; 
And  even  these  three  days  have  I  watch'd  if  I 
Could  see  them. 

Now  do  thou  watch,  for  I  can  stay  no  longer. 
If  thou  spy'st  any,  run  and  bring  me  word  ; 
And  thou  shalt  find  me  at  the  governor's. 

[Exit. 

Son.  Father,  I  warrant  you ;  take  you  no  care ; 
I  '11  never  trouble  you  if  I  may  spy  them. 


SCENE  I  V.I 


FIRST  PART  OF  KINO  HENRY  VI. 


573 


Enter,  in  an  upper  Chamber  of  a  Tower,  the 
LORDS  SALISBURY  and  TALBOT,  SIR 
WILLIAM  GLANSDALE,  SIR  THOMAS  GAR- 
GRAVE,  and  others. 

Sal.  Talbot,  my  life,  my  joy,  again  return'd  ! 
How  wert  thou  handled  being  prisoner? 
Or  by  what  means  gott'st  thou  to  be  releas'd? 
Discourse,  I  pr'ythee,  on  this  turret's  top. 

Tal.  The  Duke  of  Bedford  had  a  prisoner 
Call'd  the  brave  Lord  Ponton  de  Santrailles ; 
For  him  I  was  exchang'd  and  ransomed. 
But  with  a  baser  man  of  arms  by  far 
Once,  in  contempt,  they  would  have  barter'd  me: 
Which  I,  disdaining,  scorn'd  ;  and  craved  death 
Rather  than  I  would  be  so  vile-esteem'd. 
In  fine,  redeem'd  I  was  as  I  desir'd.        [heart ! 
But,  O !  the  treacherous  Fastolfe  wounds  my 
Whom  with  my  bare  fists  I  would  execute 
If  I  now  had  him  brought  into  my  power. 
Sal.  Yet  tell'st  thou  not  how  thou  wert  en- 

tertain'd.  [taunts. 

Tal.  With  scoffs,  and  scorns,  and  contumelious 
In  open  market-place  produc'd  they  me, 
To  be  a  public  spectacle  to  all : 
Here,  said  they,  is  the  terror  of  the  French, 
The  scarecrow  that  affrights  our  children  so. 
Then  broke  I  from  the  officers  that  led  me, 
And  with  my  nails  digg'd  stones  out  of  the 

ground 

To  hurl  at  the  beholders  of  my  shame : 
My  grisly  countenance  made  others  fly ; 
None  durst  come  near  for  fear  of  sudden  death. 
In  iron  walls  they  deem'd  me  not  secure ; 
So  great  fear  of  my  name  'mongst  them  was 

spread 

That  they  suppps'd  I  could  rend  bars  of  steel, 
And  spurn  in  pieces  posts  of  adamant : 
Wherefore  a  guard  of  chosen  shot  I  had, 
That  walk'd  about  me  every  minute- whil e ; 
And  if  I  did  but  stir  out  of  my  bed, 
Ready  they  were  to  shoot  me  to  the  heart. 
Sal.  I  grieve  to  hear  what  torments  you  en- 

dur'd; 

But  we  will  be  reveng'd  sufficiently. 
Now  it  is  supper-time  in  Orleans: 
Here,  through  this  grate,  I  can  count  each  one, 
And  view  the  Frenchmen  how  they  fortify : 
Let  us   look  in;   the  sight  will  much  delight 

thee.— 

Sir  Thomas  Gargrave  and  Sir  William  Glansdale, 
Let  me  have  your  express  opinions 
Where  is  best  plare  to  make  our  battery  next. 
Gar.  I  think  at  the  north  gate;  for  there 

stand  lords. 
Glan.  And  I  here,  at  the  bulwark  of  the 

bridge. 


Tal.  For  aught   I   see,   this  city  must  be 

famish'd, 
Or  with  light  skirmishes  enfeebled. 

\Shotfrom  the  town.     SAL.  and  SIR 

THOMAS  GARGRAVE  fall. 
Sal.  O  Lord,  have  mercy  on  us,  wretched 

sinners ! 

Gar.  O  Lord,  have  mercy  on  me,  woeful  man ! 
Tal.  What  chance  is  this  that  suddenly  hath 

cross'd  us? — 

Speak,  Salisbury ;  at  least,  if  thou  canst  speak : 
How  far'st  thou,  mirror  of  all  martial  men? 
One  of  thy  eyes  and  thy  cheek's  side  struck 

off!— 

Accursed  tower  !  accursed  fatal  hand 
That  hath  contriv'd  this  woeful  tragedy ! 
In  thirteen  battles  Salisbury  o'ercame ; 
Henry  the  Fifth  he  first  train'd  to  the  wars; 
Whilst  any  trump  did  sound  or  drum  struck  up, 
His  sword  did  ne  ?r  leave  striking  in  the  field. — 
Yet  liv'st  thou,  Salisbury?  though  thy  speech 

doth  fail, 

One  eye  thou  hast,  to  look  to  heaven  for  grace : 
The  sun  with  one  eye  vieweth  all  the  world. — 
Heaven,  be  thou  gracious  to  none  alive 
If  Salisbury  wants  mercy  at  thy  hands ! — 
Bear  hence  his  body  ;  I  will  help  to  bury  it. 
Sir  Thomas  Gargrave,  hast  thou  any  life  ? 
Speak  unto  Talbot ;  nay,  look  up  to  him.— 
Salisbury,  cheer  thy  spirit  with  this  comfort ; 
Thou  shalt  not  die  whiles — 
He  beckons  with  his  hand,  and  smiles  on  me, 
As  who  should  say,  When  I  am  dead  and  gone, 
Remember  to  avenge  me  on  the  French. — 
Plantagenet,  I  will ;  and  like  thee,  Nero, 
Play  on  the  lute,  beholding  the  towns  burn  : 
Wretched  shall  France  be  only  in  my  name. 

{Thunder  heard ;  afterwards  an  alarum. 
What   stir  is  this?      What   tumult's  in    the 

heavens  ? 
Whence  cometh  this  alarum,  and  the  noise  ? 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord,  my  lord,  the  French  have 

gather'd  head : 

The  Dauphin,  with  one  Joan  la  Pucelle  join'd, — 
A  holy  prophetess  new  risen  up, — 
Is  come  with  a  great  power  to  raise  the  siege. 

[SAL.  lifts  himself  and  groans. 
Tal.  Hear,  hear  how  dying  Salisbury  doth 

groan! 

It  irks  his  heart  he  cannot  be  revengM. — 
Frenchmen,  I  '11  be  a  Salisbury  to  you  : — 
Pucelle  or  puzzle,  dolphin  or  dogfish, 
Your  hearts  I  '11  stamp  out  with  my  horse's  heels, 
And  make  a  quagmire  of  your  mingled  brains.— 


574 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  I. 


Convey  me  Salisbury  into  his  tent, 
And  then  we  '11  try  what  these  dastard  French- 
men dare. 

[Exeunt,  bearing  out  the  bodies. 


SCENE  V. — The  same.     Before  one  of  the 
Gates. 

Alarum  ,  skirmishings.  Enter  TALBOT,  ptir- 
suing  the  DAUPHIN,  drives  him  z«,  and 
exit :  then  enter  JOAN  LA  PUCELLE,  driving 
Englishmen  before  her,  and  exit  after  them  : 
then  re-enter  TALBOT. 

Tal.  Where  is  my  strength,  my  valour,  and 

my  force? 

Our  English  troops  retire,  I  cannot  stay  them ; 
A  woman  clad  in  armour  chaseth  them. 
Here,  here  she  comes. 

Enter  LA  PUCELLE. 

I  '11  have  a  bout  with  thee  ; 
Devil  or  devil's  dam,  I  '11  conjure  thee  : 
Blood  will  I  draw  on  thee, — thou  art  a  witch, — 
And  straightway  give  thy  soul  to  him  thouserv'st. 
Puc.  Come,  come,  'tis  only  I  that  must  dis- 
grace thee.  [They  fight. 
Tal.  Heavens,  can  you  suffer  hell  so  to  pre- 
vail? 
My  breast   I  '11   burst   with  straining  of   my 

courage, 

And  from  my  shoulders  crack  my  arms  asunder, 
But  I  will  chastise  this  high-minded  strumpet. 
[  They  fight  again. 
Puc.  [Retiring.]  Talbot,  farewell :  thy  hour 

is  not  yet  come  : 

I  must  go  victual  Orleans  forthwith. 
O'ertake.me  if  thou  canst ;  I  scorn  thy  strength. 
Go,  go,  cheer  up  thy  hunger-starved  men  ; 
Help  Salisbury  to  make  his  testament : 
This  day  is  ours,  as  many  more  shall  be. 

[LA  Puc.  enters  the  town  -with  Soldiers. 
Tal.  My  thoughts  are  whirled  like  a  potter's 

wheel ; 

I  know  not  where  I  am  nor  what  I  do : 
A  witch  by  fear,  not  force,  like  Hannibal 
Drives  back  our  troops,  and  conquers  as  she 

•?<£*  o  lists : 
So  bees  with  smoke  and  doves  with  noisome 

stench 

Are  from  their  hives  and  houses  driven  away. 
They  call'd  us,  for  our  fierceness,  English  dogs ; 
Now  like  to  whelps  we  crying  run  away. 

[A  short  alarum. 

Hark,  countrymen  !  either  renew  the  fight 
Or  tear  the  lions  out  of  England's  coat ; 


Renounce  your  soil,  give  sheep  in  lions'  stead: 
Sheep  run  not  half  so  timorous  from  the  wolf, 
Or  horse  or  oxen  from  the  leopard, 
As  you  fly  from  your  oft-subdued  slaves. 

[Alarum.     Another  skirmish. 
It  will  not  be  : — retire  into  your  trenches  : 
You  all  consented  unto  Salisbury's  death, 
For  none  would  strike  a  stroke  in  his  revenge. — 
Pucelle  is  enter'd  into  Orleans, 
In  spite  of  us  or  aught  that  we  could  do. 
O,  would  I  were  to  die  with  Salisbury  ! 
The  shame  hereof  will  make  me  hide  my  head ! 
[Alarum.     Retreat.     Exeunt  TALBOT 
and  Forces,  &>c. 

Flourish.  Enter  on  the  walls,  LA  PUCELLE, 
CHARLES,  REIGN  IER,  ALENCON,  and 
Soldiers. 

Fuc.  Advance  our  waving  colours   on   the 

walls ; 

Rescu'd  is  Orleans  from  the  English  : — 
Thus  Joan  la  Pucelle  hath  perform'd  her  word. 
Char.  Divinest  creature,  Astisea's  daughter, 
How  shall  I  honour  thee  for  this  success  ? 
Thy  promises  are  like  Adonis'  gardens, 
That  one  day  bloom'd  and  fruitful  were  the 

next. — 

France,  triumph  in  thy  glorious  prophetess .' — 
Recover'd  is  the  town  of  Orleans  : 
More  blessed  hap  did  ne'er  befall  our  state. 
Reig.   Why   ring   not  out  the   bells  aloud 

throughout  the  town  ? 

Dauphin,  command  the  citizens  make  bonfires, 
And  feast  and  banquet  in  the  open  streets, 
To  celebrate  the  joy  that  God  hath  given  us. 
Alen.  All  France  will  be  replete  with  mirth 

and  joy 
When  they  shall  hear  how  we  have  play'd  the 

men. 
Char.  'Tis  Joan,  not  we,  by  whom  the  day  is 

won  ; 

For  which  I  will  divide  my  crown  with  her  ; 
And  all  the  priests  and  friars  in  my  realm 
Shall  in  procession  sing  her  endless  praise. 
A  statelier  pyramis  to  her  i  '11  rear 
Than  Rhodope's  of  Memphis  ever  was  : 
In  memory  of  her  when  she  is  dead, 
Her  ashes,  in  an  urn  more  precious 
Than  the  rich  jewell'd  coffer  of  Darius, 
Transported  shall  be  at  high  festivals 
Before  the  kings  and  queens  of  France. 
No  longer  on  Saint  Denis  will  we  cry, 
But  Joan  la  Pucelle  shall  be  France's  saint. 
Come  in,  and  let  us  banquet  royally, 
After  this  golden  day  of  victory. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt. 


SCENE  I.  ] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


575 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — Before  Orleans. 

Enter  to  the  Gate  a  French  Sergeant  and  two 
Sentinels. 

Serg,   Sirs,  take  your  places  and  be  vigilant : 
If  any  noise  or  soldier  you  perceive 
Near  to  the  walls,  by  some  apparent  sign 
Let  us  have  knowledge  at  the  court  of  guard. 

i  Sent.  Sergeant,  you  shall.  [Exit  Sergeant.] 

Thus  are  poor  servitors, 
When  others  sleep  upon  their  quiet  beds, 
Constrain'd  to  watch  in  darkness,  rain,  and  cold. 

Enter  TALBOT,  BEDFORD,  BURGUNDY,  and 
Forces,  with  scaling-ladders ;  their  drums 
beating  a  dead  march. 

Tal.  Lord  regent  and  redoubted  Burgundy, — 
By  whose  approach  the  regions  of  Artois, 
Walloon,  and  Picardy  are  friends  to  us, — 
This  happy  night  the  Frenchmen  are  secure, 
Having  all  day  carous'd  and  banqueted  : 
Embrace  we,  then,  this  opportunity, 
As  fitting  best  to  quittance  their  deceit, 
Contriv'd  by  art  and  baleful  sorcery,. 

Bed.    Coward   of  France  ! — how   much   he 

wrongs  his  fame, 

Despairing  of  his  own  arm's  fortitude, 
To  join  with  witches  and  the  help  of  hell. 

Bur.  Traitors  have  never  other  company. — 
But  what's  that  Pucelle  whom  they  term  so 
pure? 

Tal.  A  maid,  they  say. 

Bed.  A  maid  !  and  be  so  martial ! 

£ur.  Pray  God  she  prove  not  masculine  ere 

If  underneath  the  standard  of  the  French 
She  carry  armour,  as  she  hath  begun. 

Tal.  Well,  let  them  practise  and  converse 

with  spirits  : 
God    is    our    fortress,   in   whose    conquering 

name 

Let  us  resolve  to  scale  their  flinty  bulwarks. 
Bed.  Ascend,  brave  Talbot ;  we  will  follow 

thee. 

Tal.  Not  all  together  :  better  far,  I  guess, 
That  we  do  make  our  entrance  several  ways  ; 
That,  if  it  chance  the  one  of  us  do  fail, 
The  other  yet  may  rise  against  their  force. 
Bed.  Agreed  :  I  '11  to  yon  corner. 
Btir.  And  I  to  this. 

Tal.  And  here  will  Talbot  mount  or  make 

his  grave*-*-  •- 
Now,  Salisbury,  for  thee,  and  for  the  right 


Of  English  Henry,  shall  this  night  appear 

How  much  in  duty  I  am  bound  to  both. 

[  The  English  scale  the  walls,  crying  St.  George ! 

a  Talbot !  and  all  enter  the  Town. 
Sent.    Arm  !    arm !    the  enemy  doth  make 
assault  ! 

The  French  leap  over  the  walls  tn  theif  shirts. 

Enter,  several  ways,  BASTARD,  ALE^ON, 

REIGNIER,  half  ready  and  half  unready. 

Alen.  How  now,  my  lords?  what,  all  un- 
ready so  ?  [well. 

Bast.   Unready  !  ay,  and  glad  we  'scap'd  so 

Reig.  'Twas  time,  I  trow,  to  wake  and  leave 

our  beds, 
Hearing  alarums  at  our  chamber -doors. 

Alen.  Of  all  exploitssince  first  I  follow'd  arms, 
Ne'er  heard  I  of  a  warlike  enterprise 
More  venturous  or  desperate  than  this. 

Bast.  I  think  this  Talbot  be  a  fiend  of  hell. 

Reig.    If  not  of  hell,   the    heavens,   sure, 
favour  him.  [he  sped. 

Alen.  Here  cometh  Charles  :  I  marvel  how 

Bast.  Tut !  holy  Joan  was  his  defensive  guard. 

Enter  CHARLES  and  LA  PUCELLE. 

Char.  Is   this   thy  cunning,  thou  deceitful 
dame?  ;A^ 

Didst  thou  at  first,  to  flatter  us  withal, 
Make  us  partakers  of  a  little  gain, 
That  now  our  loss  might  be  ten  times  so  much  ? 
Puc.    Wherefore  is  Charles  impatient  with 

his  friend  ? 

At  all  times  will  you  have  my  power  alike  ? 
Sleeping  or  waking,  must  I  still  prevail, 
Or  will  you  blame  and  lay  the  fault  on  me  ? 
Improvident  soldiers !  had  your  watch  been  good 
This  sudden  mischief  never  could  have  fall'n. 

Char.  Duke  of  Alencon,  this  was  your  default, 
That,  being  captain  of  the  watch  to-night, 
Did  look  no  better  to  that  weighty  charge. 
Alen.  Had  all  your  quarters  been  as  safely 

kept 

As  that  whereof  I  had  the  government, 
We  had  not  been  thus  shamefully  surpris'd. 
Bast.  Mine  was  secure. 
Reig.  And  so  was  mine,  my  lord. 

Char.  And,  for  myself,  most  part  of  all  this 

night, 

Within  her  quarter  and  mine  own  precinct 
I  was  employ 'd  in  passing  to  and  fro, 
About  relieving  of  the  sentinels  : 
Then  how  or  which  way  should  they  first  break 
in  ?  [case, 

Puc,  Question,  my  lords,  no  further  of  the 
How  or  which  way  ;  'tis  sure  they  found  some 
place 


576 


JL 

FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  II. 


But  weakly  guarded,  where   the  breach  was 

made. 

And  now  there  rests  no  other  shift  but  this, — 
To  gather  our  soldiers,  scatter'd  and  dispers'd, 
And  lay  new  platforms  to  endamage  them. 

Alarum.  Enter  an  English  Soldier,  crying  a 
Talbot !  a  Talbot !  They  fly,  leaving  their 
clothes  behind. 

Sold.  I  '11  be  so  bold  to  take  what  they  have 

left. 

The  cry  of  Talbot  serves  me  for  a  sword  ; 
For  I  have  loaden  me  with  many  spoils, 
Using  no  other  weapon  but  his  name.     [Exit. 

.•^£r?I! 

SCENE  II.— ORLEANS.     Within  the  Town. 

Enter  TALBOT,  BEDFORD,  BURGUNDY,  a 

Captain,  and  others. 
,siu^  i  ion  11    ."^ViJv 

Bed.  The  day  begins  to  break,  and  night  is 

fled, 

Whose  pitchy  mantle  over-veil'd  the  earth. 
Here  sound  retreat,  and  cease  our  hot  pursuit. 
[Retreat  sounded. 

T'al.  Bring  forth  the  body  of  old  Salisbury, 
And  here  advance  it  in  the  market-place, 
The  middle  centre  of  this  cursed  town. 
Now  have  I  paid  my  vow  unto  his  soul ; 
For  every  drop  of  blood  was  drawn  from  him, 
There  hath  at  least  five  Frenchmen  died  to-night. 
And  that  hereafter  ages  may  behold 
What  ruin  happen'd  in  revenge  of  him, 
Within  their  chiefest  temple  I  '11  erect 
A  tomb,  wherein  his  corpse  shall  be  interr'd  : 
Upon  the  which,  that  every  one  may  read, 
Shall  be  engrav'd  the  sack  of  Orleans, 
The  treacherous  manner  of  his  mournful  death, 
And  what  a  terror  he  had  been  to  France. 
But,  lords,  in  all  our  bloody  massacre, 
I  muse  we  meet  not  with  the  Dauphin's  grace, 
His  new-come  champion,  virtuous  Joan  of  Arc, 
Nor  any  of  his  false  confederates. 

Bed.  'Tis  thought,  Lord  Talbot,  when  the 

fight  began, 

Rous'd  on  the  sudden  from  their  drowsy  beds, 
They  did,  amongst  the  troops  of  armed  men, 
Leap  o'er  the  walls  for  refuge  in  the  field. 

Bttr.  Myself, — as  far  as  I  could  well  discern 
For  smoke  and  dusky  vapours  of  the  night, — 
Am  sure  I  scar'd  the  Dauphin  and  his  trull, 
When  arm  in  arm  they  both  came  swiftly  running, 
Like  to  a  pair  of  loving  turtle-doves, 
That  could  not  live  asunder  day  or  night. 
After  that  things  are  set  in  order  here, 
We  '11  follow  them  with  all  the  power  we  have. 


Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  All  hail,  my  lords  !     Which  of  this 

princely  train 

Call  ye  the  warlike  Talbot,  for  his  acts 
So  much  applauded  through  the  realm  of  France? 
Tal.  Here  is  the  Talbot :  who  would  speak 
with  him  ?  [Auvergne, 

Mess.    The     virtuous     lady,    Countess     of 
With  modesty  admiring  thy  renown,          [safe 
By  me  entreats,  great  Icrd,  thou  wouldst  vouch- 
To  visit  her  poor  castle  where  she  lies, 
That  she  may  boast  she  hath  beheld  the  man 
Whose  glory  fiJls  the  world  with  loud  report. 
Bur.  Is  it  even  so  ?    Nay,  then,  I  see  our 

wars 

Will  turn  unto  a  peaceful  comic  sport, 
When  ladies  crave  to  be  encounter'd  with. — 
You  may  not,  my  lord,  despise  her  gentle  suit. 
Tal.  Ne'er  trust  me  then  ;  for  when  a  world 

of  men 

Could  not  prevail  with  all  their  oratory, 
Yet  hath  a  woman's  kindness  overrul'd  : — 
And  therefore  tell  her  I  return  great  thanks, 
And  in  submission  will  attend  on  her. — 
Will  not  your  honours  bear  me  company  ? 

Bed.  No,  truly ;  it  is  more  than  manners  will  : 
And  I  have  heard  it  said,  unbidden  guests 
Are  often  welcomest  when  they  are  gone. 
Tal.   Well   then,   alone,   since  there's   no 

remedy, 

I  mean  to  prove  this  lady's  courtesy. — 
Come  hither,  captain.     [Whispers.}    You  per- 
ceive my  mind  ? 

Capt.  I  do,  my  lord,  and  mean  accordingly. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— AUVERGNE.     Court  of  the  Castle. 

Enter  the  COUNTESS  and  her  Porter. 

Count.  Porter,  remember  what   I  gave  in 

charge ;  [me. 

And  when  you  have  done  so,  bring  the  keys  to 

Port.  Madam,  I  will.  [Exit. 

Count.  The  plot  is  laid  :  if  all  things  fall  out 

right, 

I  shall  as  famous  be  by  this  exploit 
As  Scythian  Tomyris  by  Cyrus  death. 
Great  is  the  rumour  of  this  dreadful  knight, 
And  his  achievements  of  no  less  account : 
Fain  would  mine  eyes  be  witness  with  mine  ear$ 
To  give  their  censure  of  these  rare  reports. 

Enter  Messenger  and  TALBOT. 

Mess.  Madam, 

According  as  your  ladyship  desir'd, 
By  message  crav'd,  so  is  Lord  Talbot  come. 


SCENE  III.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING   HENRY  VI. 


577 


Count.  And  he  is  welcome.     What  !  is  this 
the  man  ? 

Mess.  Madam,  it  is. 

Count.  Is  this  the  scourge  of  France  ? 

Is  this  the  Talbot,  so  much  fear'd  abroad 
That  with  his  name  the  mothers  still  their  babes? 
I  see  report  is  fabulous  and  false  : 
I  thought  I  should  have  seen  some  Hercules, 
A  second  Hector,  for  his  grim  aspect, 
And  large  proportion  of  his  strong-knit  limbs. 
Alas,  this  is  a  child,  a  silly  dwarf ! 
It  cannot  be  this  weak  and  writhled  shrimp 
Should  strike  such  terror  to  his  enemies. 

Tal.  Madam,  I  have  been  bold  to  trouble  you ; 
But  since  your  ladyship  is  not  at  leisure, 
I  '11  sort  some  other  time  to  visit  you.     [Going. 

Count.  What  means  he  now  ? — Go  ask  him 
whither  he  goes. 

Mess.  Stay,  my  Lord  Talbot ;  for  my  kdy 

craves 
To  know  the  cause  of  your  abrupt  departure. 

Tal.   Marry,  for  that  she  's  in  a  wrong  belief, 
I  go  to  certify  her  Talbot 's  here. 

Re-enter  Porter  with  keys. 

Count.  If  thou  be  he,  then  art  thou  prisoner 

Tal.  Prisoner  !  to  whom  ? 

Count.  To  me,  blood-thirsty  lord  ; 

And  for  that  cause  I  train'd  thee  to  my  house. 
Long  time  thy  shadow  hath  been  thrall  to  me, 
For  in  my  gallery  thy  picture  hangs  : 
But  now  the  substance  shall  endure  the  like  ; 
And  I  will  chain  these  legs  and  arms  of  thine, 
That  hast  by  tyranny  these  many  years 
Wasted  our  country,  slain  our  citizens, 
And  sent  our  sons  and  husbands  captivate. 

Tal.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Count.  Laughest   thou,   wretch?    thy  mirth 
shall  turn  to  moan. 

Tal.   I  laugh  to  see  your  ladyship  so  fond 
To  think  that   you  have  aught  but   Talbot's 

shadow 
Whereon  to  practise  your  severity. 

Count.  Why,  art  not  thou  the  man  ? 

Tal.  I  am  indeed. 

Count.  Then  have  I  substance  too. 

Tal.  No,  no,  I  am  but  shadow  of  myself : 
You  are  deceiv'd,  my  substance  is  not  here  ; 
For  what  you  see  is  but  the  smallest  part 
And  least  proportion  of  humanity  : 
I  tell  you,  madam,  were  the  whole  frame  here, 
It  is  of  such  a  spacious  lofty  pitch, 
Your  roof  were  not  sufficient  to  contain  't. 

Count.  This  is  a  riddling  merchant  for  the 

nonce ; 

He  will  be  here,  and  yet  he  is  not  here  : 
How  can  these  contrarieties  ap 


Tal.  That  will  I  show  you  presently. 
\_He  winds  a  Horn.     Drums  heard  ;  then 
a  Peal  of  Ordnance.      The  Gates  being 
forced,  enter  Soldiers. 

How  say  you,  madam  ?  are  you  now  persuaded 
That  Talbot  is  but  shadow  of  himself? 
These  are   his   substance,  sinews,  arms,  and 

strength, 

With  which  he  yoketh  your  rebellious  necks, 
Razeth  your  cities,  and  subverts  your  towns, 
And  in  a  moment  makes  them  desolate. 

Count.  Victorious  Talbot !  pardon  my  abuse : 
I  find  thou  art  no  less  than  fame  hath  bruited, 
And  more  than  may  be  gather'd  by  thy  shape. 
Let  my  presumption  net  provoke  thy  wrath  ; 
For  I  am  sorry  that  with  reverence 
I  did  not  entertain  thee  as  thou  art. 

Tal.  Be  not  dismay'd,  fair  lady ;  nor  mis- 
construe 

The  mind  of  Talbot  as  you  did  mistake 
The  outward  composition  of  his  body. 
What  you  have  done  hath  not  offended  me : 
No  other  satisfaction  do  I  crave 
But  only — with  your  patience — that  we  may 
Taste  of  your  wine,  and  see  what  cates  you  have ; 
For  soldiers'  stomachs  always  serve  them  well. 
Count.  With  all  my  heart,  and  think  me 

honoured 
To  feast  so  great  a  warrior  in  my  house. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.— LONDON.      The  Temple  Garden. 

Enter  the  EARLS  OF  SOMERSET,  SUFFOLK, 
and  WARWICK  ;  RICHARD  PLANTAGENET, 
VERNON.  and  another  Lawyer. 

Plan.    Great    lords    and   gentlemen,   what 

means  this  silence  ? 
Dare  no  man  answer  in  a  case  of  truth  ? 

Suf.  Within  the  Temple-hall  we  were  too 

loud; 

The  garden  here  is  more  convenient.       [truth ; 
Plan.  Then  say  at  once  if  I  maintain'd  the 
Or  else  was  wrangling  Somerset  in  the  error? 

Suf.  Faith,  I  have  been  a  truant  in  the  law, 
And  never  yet  could  frame  my  will  to  it ; 
And  therefore  frame  the  law  unto  my  will. 
Som.  Judge  you,  my  lord  of  Warwick,  then, 
between  us.  [higher  pitch  ; 

War.  Between  two  hawks,  which  flies  the 
Between    two  dogs,    which  hath   the  deeper 
mouth ;  [temper ; 

Between  two  blades,  which  bears  the  better 
Between  two  horses,  which  doth  bear  him  best ; 
Between  two  girls,   which  hath  the  merriest 
eye; — 


578 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  ii. 


I  have,  perhaps,  some  shallow  spirit  of  judg- 
ment ; 

But  in  these  nice  sharp  quillets  of  the  law, 
Good  faith,  I  am  no  wiser  than  a  daw.  [ance : 

Plan.  Tut,  tut,  here  is  a  mannerly  forbear- 
The  truth  appears  so  naked  on  my  side 
That  any  purblind  eye  may  find  it  out. 

Som.  And  on  my  side  it  is  so  well  apparell'd, 
So  clear,  so  shining,  and  so  evident, 
That  it  will  glimmer  through  a  blind  man's  eye. 

Plan.  Since  you  are  tongue-tied  and  so  loth 

to  speak, 

In  dumb  significants  proclaim  your  thoughts  : 
Let  him  that  is  a  true-born  gentleman, 
And  stands  upon  the  honour  of  his  birth, 
If  he  suppose  that  I  have  pleaded  truth, 
From  off  this  brier  pluck  a  white  rose  with  me. 

Som.  Let  him   that  is  no  coward  nor  no 

flatterer, 

But  dare  maintain  the  party  of  the  truth, 
Pluck  a  red  rose  from  off  this  thorn  with  me. 

War.  I  love  no  colours;   and,  without  all 

colour 

Of  base  insinuating  flattery, 
I  pluck  this  white  rose  with  Plantagenet.     [set ; 

Suf.  I  pluck  this  red  rose  with  young  Somer- 
And  say  withal,  I  think  he  held  the  right. 

Ver.  Stay,  lords  and  gentlemen,  and  pluck 

no  more 

Till  you  conclude  that  he  upon  whose  side 
The  fewest  roses  are  cropp'd  from  the  tree 
Shall  yield  the  other  in  the  right  opinion. 

Som.  Good  Master  Vernon,  it  is  well  objected: 
If  I  have  fewest  I  subscribe  in  silence. 

Plan.  And  I.  [case, 

Ver.  Then,  for  the  truth  and  plainness  of  the 
I  pluck  this  pale  and  maiden  blossom  here, 
Giving  my  verdict  on  the  white  rose  side. 

Som.  Prick  not  your  finger  as  you  pluck  it  off, 
Lest,  bleeding,  you  do  paint  the  white  rose  red, 
And  fall  on  my  side  so,  against  your  will. 

Ver.  If  I,  my  lord,  for  my  opinion  bleed, 
Opinion  shall  be  surgeon  to  my  hurt, 
And  keep  me  on  the  side  where  still  I  am. 

Som.  Well,  well,  come  on  ;  who  else  ? 

Law.  Unless  my  study  and  my  books  be  false, 
The  argument  you  held  was  wrong  in  you  ; 

\To  SOMERSET. 
In  sign  whereof  I  pluck  a  white  rose  too. 

Plan.  Now,  Somerset,  where  is  your  argu- 
ment? 

Som.  Here  in  my  scabbard ;  meditating  that 
Shall  dye  your  white  rose  in  a  bloody  red. 

Plan.  Meantime  your  cheeks  do  counterfeit 

our  roses ; 

For  pale  they  look  with  fear,  as  witnessing 
The  truth  on  our  side. 


Som.  No,  Plantagenet, 

'Tis  not  for  fear,  but  anger  that  thy  cheeks 
Blush  for  pure  shame  to  counterfeit  our  roses, 
And  yet  thy  tongue  will  not  confess  thy  error. 

Plan.  Hath  not  thy  rose  a  canker,  Somerset  ? 

Som.  Hath  not  thy  rose  a  thorn,  Plantagenet? 

Plan.  Ay,  sharp  and  piercing,  to  maintain 

his  truth ; 
Whiles  thy  consuming  canker  eats  his  falsehood. 

Som.  Well,    I  '11    find   friends   to   wear   my 

bleeding  roses, 

That  shall  maintain  what  I  have  said  is  true, 
Where  false  Plantagenet  dare  not  be  seen. 

Plan.  Now,  by  this  maiden  blossom  in  my 

hand, 
I  scorn  thee  and  thy  faction,  peevish  boy. 

Suf.  Turn  not  thy  scorns  this  way,  Planta- 
genet. 

Plan.  Proud  Poole,  I  will ;  and  scorn  both  him 
and  thee. 

Suf.  I  '11  turn  my  part  thereof  into  thy  throat. 

Som.  Away,  away,  good  William  De-la-Poole! 
We  grace  the  yeoman  by  conversing  with  him. 

War.  Now,   by  God's  will,   thou  wrong'st 

him,  Somerset ; 

His  grandfather  was  Lionel  Duke  of  Clarence, 
Third  son  to  the  third  Edward  King  of  England: 
Spring  crestless  yeomen  from  so  deep  a  root  ? 

Plan.  He  bears  him  on  the  place's  privilege, 
Or  durst  not,  for  his  craven  heart,  say  thus. 

Som.  By  him  that  made  me,  I  '11  maintain 

my  words 

On  any  plot  of  ground  in  Christendom. 
Was  not  thy  father,  Richard  Earl  of  Cambridge, 
For  treason  executed  in  our  late  king's  days? 
And  by  his  treason  stand'st  not  thou  attainted, 
Corrupted,  and  exempt  from  ancient  gentry  ? 
His  trespass  yet  lives  guilty  in  thy  blood  ; 
And  till  thou  be  restor'd  thou  art  a  yeoman. 

Plan.   My  father  was  attach'd,  not  attainted  ; 
Condemn'd  to  die  for  treason,  but  no  traitor  ; 
And  that  I  '11  prove  on  better  men  than  Somerset, 
Were  growing  time  once  ripen'd  to  my  will. 
For  your  partaker  Poole,  and  you  yourself, 
I  '11  note  you  in  my  book  of  memory, 
To  scourge  you  for  this  apprehension  : 
Look  to  it  well,  and  say  you  are  well  warn'd. 

Som.  Ay,  thou  shalt  find  us  ready  for  thee 

still ; 

And  know  us  by  these  colours  for  thy  foes, — 
For  these  my  friends,  in  spite  of  thee,  shall  wear. 

Plan.  And,  by  my  soul,  this  pale  and  angry 

rose, 

As  cognizance  of  my  blood-drinking  hate, 
Will  I  for  ever,  and  my  faction,  wear, 
Until  it  wither  with  me  to  my  grave, 
Or  flourish  to  the  height  of  my  degree. 


SCENE  V.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


579 


Suf.  Go  forward,  and   be  chok'd  with  thy 

ambition  ! 
And  so,  farewell,  until  I  meet  thee  next.     [Exit. 

Sont.  Have  with  thee,  Poole. — Farewell,  am- 
bitious Richard.  [Exit. 

Plan.   Flow  I  am  brav'd,  and  must  perforce 
endure  it !  [house, 

War.  This  blot,  that  they  object  against  your 
Shall  be  wip'd  out  in  the  next  Parliament, 
Call'd  for  the  truce  of  Winchester  and  Gloster : 
And  if  thou  be  not  then  created  York, 
I  will  not  live  to  be  accounted  Warwick. 
Meantime,  in  signal  of  my  love  to  thee, 
Against  proud  Somerset  and  William  Poole, 
Will  I  upon  thy  party  wear  this  rose  : 
And  here  I  prophesy, — This  brawl  to-day, 
Grown  to  this  faction,  in  the  Temple-garden, 
Shall  send,  between  the  red  rose  and  the  white, 
A  thousand  souls  to  death  and  deadly  night. 

Plan.  Good  Master  Vernon,  I  am  bound  to 

you, 
That  you  on  my  behalf  would  pluck  a  flower. 

Ver.  In  your  behalf  still  will  I  wear  the  same. 

Law.  And  so  will  I. 

Plan.  Thanks,  gentle  sir. 
Come,  let  us  four  to  dinner  :  I  dare  say 
This  quarrel  will  drink  blood  another  day. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  The  same.     A  Room  in  the  Tower. 

Enter  MORTIMER,  brought  in  in  a  chair  by 
two  Keepers. 

Mor.  Kind  keepers  of  my  weak  decaying  age, 
Let  dying  Mortimer  here  rest  himself. — 
Even  like  a  man  new-haled  from  the  rack, 
So  fare  my  limbs  with  long  imprisonment ; 
And  these  gray  locks,  the  pursuivants  of  death, 
Nestor- like  aged,  in  an  age  of  care, 
Argue  the  end  of  Edmund  Mortimer,    [spent, — 
These  eyes, — like  lamps  whose  wasting  oil  is 
Wax  dim,  as  drawing  to  their  exigent :     [grief; 
Weak   shoulders,    overborne   with    burdening 
And  pithless  arms,  like  to  a  wither'd  vine 
That  droops  his  sapless  branches  to  the  ground : 
Yet  are  these  feet, — whose  strengthless  stay  is 

numb, 

Unable  to  support  this  lump  of  clay,— 
Swift-winged  with  desire  to  get  a  grave, 
As  witting  I  no  other  comfort  have. — 
But  tell  me,  keeper,  will  my  nephew  come  ? 
I  Keep.  Richard  Plantagenet,  my  lord,  will 

come : 

We  sent  unto  the  Temple,  to  his  chamber  ; 
And  answer  was  return'd  that  he  will  come. 
.   Mor.  Enough :  my  soul  shall  then  be  satis- 
fied.— 


Poor  gentleman  !  his  wrong  dotn  equal  mine. 
Since  Henry  Monmouth  first  began  to  reign, — 
Before  whose  glory  I  was  great  in  arms, — 
This  loathsome  sequestration  have  I  had  j 
And  even  since  then  hath  Richard  been  ob- 

scurM, 

Depriv'd  of  honour  and  inheritance. 
But  now  the  arbitrator  of  despairs, 
Just  death,  kind  umpire  of  men's  miseries, 
With  sweet  enlargement  doth  dismiss  me  hence . 
I  would  his  troubles  likewise  were  expir'd 
That  so  he  might  recover  what  was  lost. 

Enter  RICHARD  PLANTAGENET. 

i  Keep.   My  lord,  your  loving  nephew  now 
is  come.  [come  ? 

Mor.   Richard  Plantagenet,  my  friend,  is  he 

Plan.   Ay,  noble  uncle,  thus  ignobly  us'd, 
Your  nephew,  late-despised  Richard,  comes. 

Mor.  Direct  mine  arms  I  may  embrace  his 

neck, 

And  in  his  bosom  spend  my  latter  gasp  : 
O,  tell  me  when  my  lips  do  touch  his  cheeks, 
That  I  may  kindly  give  one  fainting  kiss. — 
And    now   declare,   sweet  stem   from   York's 

great  stock, 
Why  didst  thou  say  of  late  thou  wert  despis'd  ? 

Plan.   First,    lean  thine  aged   back  against 

mine  arm  ; 

And,  in  that  ease,  I  '11  tell  thee  my  disease. 
This  day,  in  argument  upon  a  case, 
Some  words  there  grew  'twixt  Somerset  and  me ; 
Among  which  terms  he  us'd  his  lavish  tongue, 
And  did  upbraid  me  with  my  father's  death  : 
Which  obloquy  set  bars  before  my  tongue, 
Else  with  the  like  I  had  requited  him. 
Therefore,  good  uncle,  for  my  father's  sake, 
In  honour  of  a  true  Plantagenet, 
And  for  alliance  sake,  declare  the  cause 
My  father,  Earl  of  Cambridge,  lost  his  head. 

Mor.    That  cause,   fair  nephew,    that    im- 

prison'd  me, 

And  hath  detain'd  me  all  my  flowering  youth 
Within  a  loathsome  dungeon,  there  to  pine, 
Was  cursed  instrument  of  his  decease.       [was  ; 

Plan.   Discover  more  at  large  what  cause  that 
For  I  am  ignorant,  and  cannot  guess. 

Mor.   I  will,  if  that  my  fading  breath  permit, 
And  death  approach  not  ere  my  tale  be  done. 
Henry  the  Fourth,  grandfather  to  this  king, 
Depos'd  his  nephew  Richard, — Edward's  son, 
The  first-begotten,  and  the  lawful  heir 
Of  Edward  king,  the  third  of  that  descent : 
During  whose  reign  the  Percies  of  the  north, 
Finding  his  usurpation  most  unjust, 
Endeavour'd  my  advancement  to  the  throne  : 
The  reason  mov'd  these  warlike  lords  to  this 


58o 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  III. 


Was,  for  that, — young  King  Richard  thus  re- 

mov'd, 

Leaving  no  heir  begotten  of  his  body, — 
I  was  the  next  by  birth  and  parentage  ; 
For  by  my  mother  I  derived  am 
From  Lionel  Duke  of  Clarence,  the  third  son 
To  King  Edward  the  Third  ;  whereas  he 
From  John  of  Gaunt  doth  bring  his  pedigree, 
Being  but  fourth  of  that  heroic  line. 
But  mark  :  as  in  this  haughty  great  attempt 
They  laboured  to  plant  the  rightful  heir, 
I  lost  my  liberty,  and  they  their  lives. 
Long  after  this,  when  Henry  the  Fifth, 
Succeeding  his  father  Bolingbroke,  did  reign, 
Thy  father,  Earl  of  Cambridge,  then  deriv'd 
From  famous  Edmund  Langley,  Duke  of  York, 
Marrying  my  sister,  that  thy  mother  was, 
Again,  in  pity  of  my  hard  distress, 
Levied  an  army,  weening  to  redeem 
And  have  install'd  me  in  the  diadem  : 
But,  as  the  rest,  so  fell  that  noble  earl, 
And  was  beheaded.     Thus  the  Mortimers, 
In  whom  the  title  rested,  were  suppress'd. 

Plan.  Of  which,  my  lord,  your  honour  is 
the  last. 

Mor.  True ;  and  thou  see'st  that  I  no  issue 

have, 

And  that  my  feinting  words  do  warrant  death  : 
Thou  art  my  heir ;  the  rest  I  wish  thee  gather : 
But  yet  be  wary  in  thy  studious  care. 

Plan.  Thy  grave  admonishments  prevail  with 

me  : 

But  yet  methinks  my  father's  execution 
Was  nothing  less  than  bloody  tyranny. 

Mor.  With  silence,  nephew,  be  thou  politic ; 
Strong-fixed  is  the  house  of  Lancaster, 
And,  like  a  mountain,  not  to  be  remov'd. 
But  now  thy  uncle  is  removing  hence  ; 
As  princes  do  their  courts,  when  they  are  cloy'd 
With  long  continuance  in  a  settled  place. 

Plan.    O   uncle,    would   some   part   of  my 

young  years 
Might  but  redeem  the  passage  of  your  age  ! 

Mor.    Thou  dost  then  wrong  me, — as  the 

slaughterer  doth 

Which  giveth  many  wounds  when  one  will  kill. 
Mourn  not,  except  thou  sorrow  for  my  good ; 
Only,  give  order  for  my  funeral : 
And  so,  farewell ;  and  fair  be  all  thy  hopes, 
And  prosperous  be  thy  life  in  peace  and  war ! 

[Dies. 

Plan.  And  peace,  no  war,  befall  thy  parting 

soul ! 

In  prison  hast  thou  spent  a  pilgrimage, 
And  like  a  hermit  overpass'd  thy  days. — 
Well,  I  will  lock  his  counsel  in  my  breast ; 
And  what  I  do  imagine,  let  that  rest. — 


Keepers,  convey  him  hence  ;  and  I  myself 
Will  see  his  burial  better  than  his  life. — 

[Exeimt  Keepers,  bearing  out  the  body 

of  MOR. 

Here  dies  the  dusky  torch  of  Mortimer, 
Chok'd  with  ambition  of  the  meaner  sort : — 
And  for  those  wrongs,  those  bitter  injuries, 
Which  Somerset  hath  offer'd  to  my  house, 
I  doubt  not  but  with  honour  to  redress  ; 
And  therefore  haste  I  to  the  Parliament, 
Either  to  be  restored  to  my  blood, 
Or  make  my  ill  the  advantage  of  my  good. 

[Exit, 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — LONDON.     The  Parliament  House. 

Flourish.  Enter  KING  HENRY,  EXETER, 
GLOSTER,  WARWICK,  SOMERSET,  and  SUF- 
FOLK ;  the  BISHOP  OF  WINCHESTER,  RICH- 
ARD PLANTAGENET,  and  others.  GLOSTER 
offers  to  put  up  a  bill ;  WINCHESTER 
snatches  it,  and  tears  it. 

Win.  Com'st  thou  with  deep  premeditated 

lines, 

With  written  pamphlets  studiously  devis'd,        , 
Humphrey  of  Gloster  ?  if  thou  canst  accuse, 
Or  aught  intend'st  to  lay  unto  my  charge, 
Do  it  without  invention,  suddenly  : 
As  I  with  sudden  and  extemporal  speech 
Purpose  to  answer  what  thou  canst  object. 
Glo.   Presumptuous  priest !  this  place  com- 
mands my  patience, 

Or  thou  should^t  find  thou  hast  dishonour'd  me. 
Think  not,  although  in  writing  I  preferr'd 
The  manner  of  thy  vile  outrageous  crimes, 
That  therefore  I  have  forg'd,  or  am  not  able 
Verbatim  to  rehearse  the  method  of  my  pen : 
No,  prelate ;  such  is  thy  audacious  wickedness. 
Thy  lewd,  pestiferous,  and  dissentious  pranks, 
As  very  infants  prattle  of  thy  pride. 
Thou  art  a  most  pernicious  usurer  ; 
Froward  by  nature,  enemy  to  peace  ; 
Lascivious,  wanton,  more  than  well  beseems 
A  man  of  thy  profession  and  degree  ; 
And  for  thy  treachery,  what 's  more  manifest, — 
In  that  thou  laid'st  a  trap  to  take  my  life, 
As  well  at  London  bridge  as  at  the  Tower  ? 
Beside,  I  fear  me,  if  thy  thoughts  were  sifted, 
The  king,  thy  sovereign,  is  not  quite  exempt 
From  envious  malice  of  thy  swelling  heart. 
Win.    Gloster,    I    do    defy   thee.  — Lords, 

vouchsafe 

To  give  me  hearing  what  I  shall  reply. 
If  I  were  covetous,  ambitious,  or  perverse, 


SCENE  I.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


581 


As  he  will  have  me,  how  am  I  so  poor  ? 
Or  how  haps  it  I  seek  not  to  advance 
Or  raise  myself,  but  keep  my  wonted  calling  ? 
And  for  dissension,  who  preferreth  peace 
More  than  I  do, — except  I  be  provok'd  ? 
No,  my  good  lords,  it  is  not  that  offends  ; 
It  is  not  that  that  hath  incens'd  the  duke : 
It  is  because  no  one  should  sway  but  he  ; 
No  one  but  he  should  be  about  the  king  ; 
And  that  engenders  thunder  in  his  breast, 
And  makes  him  roar  these  accusations  forth. 
But  he  shall  know  I  am  as  good — 

Glo.  As  good  ! 

Thou  bastard  of  my  grandfather  ! — 

Win.  Ay,  lordly  sir ;  for  what  are  you,  I  pray, 
But  one  imperious  in  another's  throne  ? 

Glo.  Am  I  not  protector,  saucy  priest  ? 

Win.  And  am  not  I  a  prelate  of  the  church  ? 

Glo.  Yes,  as  an  outlaw  in  a  castle  keeps, 
And  useth  it  to  patronage  his  theft. 

Win.   Unreverent  Gloster  ! 

Glo.  Thou  art  reverent 

Touching  thy  spiritual  function,  not  thy  life. 

Win.  Rome  shall  remedy  this. 

War.  Roam  thither  then. 

Som.   My  lord,  it  were  your  duty  to  forbear. 

War.  Ay,  see  the  bishop  be  not  overborne. 

Som.  Methinks  my  lord  should  be  religious, 
And  know  the  office  that  belongs  to  such. 

War.     Methinks    his    lordship    should    be 

humbler  ; 
It  fitteth  not  a  prelate  so  to  plead. 

Som.  Yes,  when  his  holy  state  is  touch'd  so 
near. 

War.  State  holy  or  unhallow'd,  what  of  that? 
Is  not  his  grace  protector  to  the  king? 

Plan.    Plantagenet,    I   see,    must   hold   his 

tongue, 

Lest  it  be  said,  Speak,  sirrah,  when  you  should  ; 
Must  your  bold  verdict  enter  talk  with  lords  ? 
Else  would  I  have  a  fling  at  Winchester. 

[Aside. 

K.  Hen.  Uncles  of  Gloster  and  of  Winchester, 
The  special  watchmen  of  our  English  weal, 
I  would  prevail,  if  prayers  might  prevail, 
To  join  your  hearts  in  love  and  amity. 
O,  what  a  scandal  is  it  to  our  crown 
That  two  such  noble  peers  as  ye  should  jar  ! 
Believe  me,  lords,  my  tender  years  can  tell 
Civil  dissension  is  a  viperous  worm 
That  gnaws  the  bowels  of  the  commonwealth. 
[A  noise  within,  "  Down  with  the  tawny 

coats." 
What  tumult 's  this  ? 

War.  An  uproar,  I  dare  warrant, 

Begun  through  malice  of  the  bishop's  men  ! 

[A  noise  again,  "  Stones  !  Stones  ! " 


Enter  thi  Mayor  of  London,  attended. 

May.    O,   my    good    lords, — and    virtuous 

Henry, — 

Pity  the  city  of  London,  pity  us  ! 
The  bishop  and  the  Duke  of  Gloster's  men, 
Forbidden  late  to  carry  any  weapon, 
Have  fill'd  their  pockets  full  of  pebble  stones, 
And,  banding  themselves  in  contrary  parts, 
Do  pelt  so  fast  at  one  another's  pate,        [out : 
That  many  have  their  giddy  brains  knock'd 
Our  windows  are  broke  down  in  every  street, 
And  we,  for  fear,  compell'd  to  shut  our  shops. 

Enter,  skirmishing,  the  Retainers  of  GLOSTER 
and  WINCHESTER,  with  bloody  pates. 

K.  Hen.  We  charge  you,  on  allegiance  to 
ourself,  [peace. — 

To  hold  your  slaught'ring  hands,  and  keep  the 
Pray,  uncle  Gloster,  mitigate  this  strife. 

1  Serv.  Nay,  if  we  be 

Forbidden  stones,  we  '11  fall  to  it  with  our  teeth. 

2  Serv.  Do  what  ye  dare,  we  are  as  resolute. 

[Skirmish  again. 
Glo.  You  of  my  household,  leave  this  peevish 

broil, 
And  set  this  unaccustom'd  fight  aside.        [man 

3  Serv.   My  lord,  we  know  your  grace  to  be  a 
Just  and  upright ;  and  for  your  royal  birth 
Inferior  to  none  but  to  his  majesty : 

And  ere  that  we  will  suffer  such  a  prince, 

So  kind  a  father  of  the  commonweal, 

To  be  disgraced  by  an  inkhorn  mate, 

We,  and  our  wives  and  children,  all  will  fight, 

And  have  our  bodies  slaughter'd  by  thy  foes. 

I  Serv.  Ay,  and  the  very  parings  of  our  nails 
Shall  pitch  a  field  when  we  are  dead. 

[Skirmish  again. 

Glo.  Stay,  stay,  I  say  ! 

And  if  you  love  me,  as  you  say  you  do, 
Let  me  persuade  you  to  forbear  awhile. 

K.  Hen.   O,  how  this  discord  doth  afflict  my 

Soul!— 

Can  you,  my  Lord  of  Winchester,  behold 
My  sighs  and  tears,  and  will  not  once  relent  ? 
Who  should  be  pitiful  if  you  be  not  ? 
Or  who  should  study  to  prefer  a  peace, 
If  holy  churchmen  take  delight  in  broils  ? 

War.    Yield,    my    lord    protector ; — yield, 

Winchester ; — 

Except  you  mean,  with  obstinate  repulse, 
To  slay  your  sovereign  and  destroy  the  realm. 
You  see  what  mischief,  and  what  murder  too, 
I  lath  been  enacted  through  your  enmity  ; 
Then  be  at  peace,  except  ye  thirst  for  blood. 

Win.  He  shall  submit,  or  I  will  never  yield 


58* 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  in. 


Glo.  Compassion  on  the  king  commands  me 

stoop; 

Or  I  would  see  his  heart  out,  ere  the  priest 
Should  ever  get  that  privilege  of  me.        [duke 

War.  Behold,  my  Lord  of  Winchester,  the 
Hath  banish'd  moody  discontented  fury, 
As  by  his  smoothed  brows  it  doth  appear  : 
Why  look  you  still  so  stern  and  tragical? 

Glo.   Here,  Winchester,  I  offer  thee  my  hand. 

K.  Hen.  Fie,  uncle  Beaufort !  I  have  heard 

you  preach 

That  malice  was  a  great  and  grievous  sin  ; 
And  will  not  you  maintain  the  thing  you  teach, 
But  prove  a  chief  offender  in  the  same  ? 

War.  Sweet  king ! — the  bishop  hath  a  kindly 

gird. — 

For  shame,  my  Lord  of  Winchester,  relent ! 
What,  shall  a  child  instruct  you  what  to  do  ? 

Win.  Well,  Duke  of  Gloster,  I  will  yield  to 

thee; 
Love  for  thy  love  and  hand  for  hand  I  give. 

Glo.  Ay,  but,  I  fear  me,  with  a  hollow  heart.  — 
See  here,  my  friends  and  loving  countrymen  ; 
This  token  serveth  for  a  flag  of  truce 
Betwixt  ourselves  and  all  our  followers : 
So  help  me  God,  as  I  dissemble  not ! 

Win.  So  help  me  God,  as  I  intend  it  not ! 

[Aside. 

K.  Hen.    O   loving  uncle,   kind    Duke  of 

Gloster, 

How  joyful  am  I  made  by  this  contract ! — 
Away,  my  masters !  trouble  us  no  more  ; 
But  join  in  friendship,  as  your  lords  have  done. 

1  Serv.  Content :  I  '11  to  the  surgeon's. 

2  Serv.  And  so  will  I. 

3  Serv.   And    I   will  see  what   physic   the 

tavern  affords. 

[Exeunt  Servants,  Mayor,  <Srv. 
War.    Accept    this    scroll,    most    gracious 

sovereign  ; 

Which  in  the  right  of  Richard  Plantagenet 
We  do  exhibit  to  your  majesty. 

Glo.  Well  urg'd,  my  Lord  of  Warwick  ; — for, 

sweet  prince, 

An  if  your  grace  mark  every  circumstance, 
You  have  great  reason  to  do  Richard  right ; 
Especially  for  those  occasions 
At  Eltham  Place  I  told  your  majesty,     [force  ? 
K.  Hen.  And  those  occasions,  uncle,  were  of 
Therefore,  my  loving  lords,  our  pleasure  is 
That  Richard  be  restored  to  his  blood. 

War.  Let  Richard  be  restored  to  his  blood  ; 
So  shall  his  father's  wrongs  be  recompens'd. 
Win.  As  will  the  rest,  so  willeth  Winchester. 
K.  Hen.  If  Richard  will  be  true,  not  that 

alone, 
But  all  the  whole  inheritance  I  give 


That  doth  belong  unto  the  house  of  York, 
From  whence  you  spring  by  lineal  descent. 

Plan.  Thy  humble  servant  vows  obedience 
And  humble  service  till  the  point  of  death. 

K.  Hen.  Stoop,  then,   and  set  your   knee 

against  my  foot ; 

And  in  reguerdon  of  that  duty  done 
I  girt  thee  with  the  valiant  sword  of  York : 
Rise,  Richard,  like  a  true  Plantagenet, 
And  rise  created  princely  Duke  of  York,     [fall ! 

Plan.  And  so  thrive  Richard  as  thy  foes  may 
And  as  my  duty  springs,  so  perish  they 
That  grudge  one  thought  against  your  majesty  ! 

All.  Welcome,  high  prince,  the  mighty  Duke 
of  York! 

Som.  Perish,  base  prince,  ignoble  Duke  of 
/ork !  [Aside. 

Glc.  Now  will  it  best  avail  your  majesty 
To  cross  the  seas,  and  to  be  crown'd  in  France : 
The  presence  of  a  king  engenders  love 
Amongst  his  subjects  and  his  loyal  friends, 
As  it  disanimates  his  enemies. 

K.  Hen.  When  Gloster  says  the  word,  King 

Henry  goes ; 
For  friendly  counsel  cuts  off  many  foes. 

Glo.  Your  ships  already  are  in  readiness. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt  all  but  EXETER. 

Exe.  Ay,  we  may  march  in  England  or  in 

France, 

Not  seeing  what  is  likely  to  ensue. 
This  late  dissension  grown  betwixt  the  peers 
Burns  under  feigned  ashes  of  forg'd  love, 
And  will  at  last  break  out  into  a  flame  : 
As  fester'd  members  rot  but  by  degree, 
Till  bones  and  flesh  and  sinews  fall  away, 
So  will  this  base  and  envious  discord  breed. 
And  now  I  fear  that  fatal  prophecy 
Which  in  the  time  of  Henry  named  the  Fifth 
Was  in  the  mouth  of  every  sucking  babe, — 
That  Henry  born  at  Monmouth  should  win  all, 
And  Henry  born  at  Windsor  should  lose  all : 
Which  is  so  plain  that  Exeter  doth  wish 
His  days  may  finish  ere  that  hapless  time. 

[Exit. 


SCENE  II. — FRANCE.     Before  Rouen. 

Enter  LA  PUCELLE  disguised^  and  Soldiers 
dressed  like  Countrymen,  -with  sacks  upon 
their  backs. 

Puc.  These  are  the  city-gates,  the  gates  of 

Rouen, 

Through  which  our  policy  must  make  a  breach : 
Take  heed,  be  wary  how  you  place  your  words  ; 
Talk  like  the  vulgar  sort  of  market-men 
That  come  to  gather  money  for  their  corn. 


SCENE  II.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


583 


If  we  have  entrance, — as  I  hope  we  shall, — 
And  that  we  find  the  slothful  watch  but  weak, 
I  '11  by  a  sign  give  notice  to  our  friends, 
That  Charles  the  Dauphin  may  encounter  them. 
I  Sold.  Our  sacks  shall  be  a  mean  to  sack 

the  city, 

And  we  be  lords  and  rulers  over  Rouen  ; 
Therefore  we  '11  knock.  \Khocks. 

Guard.  {Within.}  Qtiiestla? 
Puc.  Pay  sans,  pauvres  gens  de  France,  — 
Poor  market-folks  that  come  to  sell  their  corn. 
Guard.  {Opening  the  gates.]  Enter,  go  in;  the 

market-bell  is  rung. 

Puc.  Now,  Rouen,  I  '11  shake  thy  bulwarks 
to  the  ground. 
[LA  PUCELLE,  <5rV.,  enter  the  Town. 

Enter  CHARLES,  BASTARD  OF  ORLEANS, 
ALENCON,  and  Forces. 

Char.  Saint  Denis  bless  this  happy  stratagem  ! 
And  once  again  we  '11  sleep  secure  in  Rouen. 

Bast.   Here  enter'd  Pucelle  and  her  practis- 

ants ; 

Now  she  is  there,  how  will  she  specify 
Where  is  the  best  and  safest  passage  in  ? 

Alen.  By  thrusting  out  a  torch  from  yonder 

tower ;  [is, — 

Which,  once  discern 'd,  shows  that  her  meaning 

No  way  to  that,  for  weakness,  which  she  enter'd. 

Enter  LA  PUCELLE,  on  a  battlement,  holding 
out  a  torch  burning. 

Puc.  Behold,  this  is  the  happy  wedding-torch 
That  joineth  Rouen  unto  her  countrymen, 
But  burning  fatal  to  the  Talbotites. 
Bast.  See,  noble  Charles,  the  beacon  of  our 

friend ; 
The  burning  torch  in  yonder  turret  stands. 

Char.  Now  shine  it  like  a  comet  of  revenge, 
A  prophet  to  the  fall  of  all  our  foes  ! 

Alen.  Defer  no  time,  delays  have  dangerous 

ends ; 

Enter,  and  cry  The  Dauphin  !  presently, 
And  then  do  execution  on  the  watch. 

{They  enter.     Exit  LA  PUCELLE  above. 

Alarum.     Enter ,  from  the  Town,  TALBOT  and 
English  Soldiers. 

TaT.  France,  thou  shalt  rue  this  treason  with 

thy  tears, 

If  Talbot  but  survive  thy  treachery. — 
Pucelle,  that  witch,  that  damned  sorceress, 
Hath  wrought  this  hellish  mischief  unawares, 
That  hardly  we  escap'd  the  pride  of  France. 

[Exeunt  into  the  Town. 


Alarum :  excursions.  Enter,  from  the  Town, 
BEDFORD,  brought  in  sick  in  a  chair,  with 
TALBOT,  BURGUNDY,  and  the  English  Forces. 
Then  enter  on  the  walls  LA  PUCELLE. 
CHARLES,  BASTARD,  ALENCON,  and  others. 

Puc.   Good-morrow,  gallants  !  want  ye  corn 

for  bread  ? 

I  think  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  will  fast 
Before  he  '11  buy  again  at  such  a  rate  : 
'Twas  full  of  darnel ; — do  you  like  the  taste  ? 
Bur.  Scoff  on,  vile  fiend  and  shameless  cour- 
tezan ! 

I  trust  ere  long  to  choke  thee  with  thine  own, 
And  make  thee  curse  the  harvest  of  that  corn. 
Char.  Your  grace  may  starve,  perhaps,  before 
that  time.  [treason  ! 

Bed.  O  let  no  words,  but  deeds,  revenge  this 
Puc.  WTiat  will  you  do,  good  gray- beard  ? 

break  a  lance, 

And  run  a  tilt  at  death  within  a  chair  ?    [spite, 
Tal.  Foul  fiend  of  France,  and  hag  of  all  de- 
Encompass'd  with  thy  lustful  paramours  ! 
Becomes  it  thee  to  taunt  his  valiant  age, 
And  twit  with  cowardice  a  man  half  dead  ? 
Damsel,  I  '11  have  a  bout  with  you  again, 
Or  else  let  Talbot  perish  with  this  shame. 
Puc.  Are  you   so  hot,  sir? — Yet,   Pucelle^ 

hold  thy  peace ; 
If  Talbot  do  but  thunder,  rain  will  follow. 

[TALBOT  and  the  rest  consult  together. 

God  speed  the  parliament  !  who  shall  be  the 

speaker?  [field? 

Tal.  Dare  ye  come  forth  and  meet  us  in  the 

Puc.  Belike  your  lordship  takes  us  then  for 

fools, 
To  try  if  that  our  own  be  ours  or  no. 

Tal.  I  speak  not  to  that  railing  Hecate, 
But  unto  thee,  Alen9on,  and  the  rest ; 
Will  ye,  like  soldiers,  come  and  fight  it  out  ? 
Alen.  Signior,  no.  [France  ! 

Tal.     Signior,    hang ! — base    muleteers    of 
Like  peasant  foot-boys  do  they  keep  the  walls, 
And  dare  not  take  up  arms  like  gentlemen. 
Puc.  Away,  captains  !  let 's  get  us  from  the 

walls ; 

For  Talbot  means  no  goodness,  by  his  looks. — 
God  b'  wi'  you,  my  lord !  we  came  but  to  tell  you 
That  we  are  here. 

[Exeunt  LA  Puc.,  &c.,from  the  walls. 
Tal.  And  there  will  we  be  too,  ere  it  be  long, 
Or  else  reproach  be  Talbot's  greatest  fame ! — 
Vow,  Burgundy,  by  honour  of  thy  house, — 
Prick'd    on    by   public   wrongs    sustain'd    in 

France, — 

Either  to  get  the  town  again  or  die  ; 
And  I, — as  sure  as  English  Henry  lives, 


5*4 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  ni. 


And  as  his  father  here  was  conqueror  ; 
As  sure  as  in  this  late -betrayed  town 
Great  Coeur-de-lion's  heart  was  buried, — 
So  sure  I  swear  to  get  the  town  or  die.     [vows. 
Bur.   My  vows  are  equal  partners  with  thy 
Tal.  But  ere  we  go,  regard  this  dying  prince, 
The  valiant  Duke  of  Bedford. — Come,  my  lord, 
We  will  bestow  you  in  some  better  place, 
Fitter  for  sickness  and  for  crazy  age. 

Bed,   Lord  Talbot,  do  not  so  dishonour  me  : 

Here  will  I  sit  before  the  walls  of  Rouen, 

And  will  be  partner  of  your  weal  or  woe.     [you. 

Btir.  Courageous  Bedford,  letusnowpersuade 

Bed.  Not  to  be  gone  from  hence  ;  for  once  I 

read 

That  stout  Pendragon,  in  his  litter,  sick 
Came  to  the  field,  and  vanquished  his  foes  : 
Methinks  I  should  revive  the  soldiers'  hearts, 
Because  I  ever  found  them  as  myself. 

Tal.   Undaunted  spirit  in  a  dying  breast ! — 
Thenbeitso : — heavens  keep  old  Bedford  safe ! — 
And  now  no  more  ado,  brave  Burgundy, 
But  gather  we  our  forces  out  of  hand, 
And  set  upon  our  boasting  enemy. 

[Exeunt  into  the  Town,  BUR.,  TAL.,  and 
Forces,  leaving  BED.  and  others. 

Alarum  :  excursions.     Enter  SIR  JOHN 
FASTOLFE,  and  a  Captain. 

Cap.  Whither  away,  Sir  John  Fastolfe,  in 

such  haste  ?  [flight : 

Fast.  Whither   away !    to   save   myself    by 

We  are  like  to  have  the  overthrow  again,     [bot  ? 

Cap.  What !  will  you  fly,  and  leave  Lord  Tal- 

Fast.  Ay, 

All  the  Talbots  in  the  world,  to  save  my  life. 

[Exit. 

Cap.  Cowardly  knight !    ill   fortune  follow 
thee  !  [Exit  into  the  Town. 

Retreat:  excursions.  Re-enter,  from  the  town , 
LA  PUCELLE,  ALENCON,  CHARLES,  drv., 
and  exeunt  flying. 

Bed.  Now,  quiet  soul,  depart  when  heaven 

please, 

For  I  have  seen  our  enemies'  overthrow. 
What  is  the  trust  or  strength  of  foolish  man  ? 
They  that  of  late  were  daring  with  their  scoffs 
Are  glad  and  fain  by  flight  to  save  themselves. 
[Dies,  and  is  carried  off  in  his  chair. 

Alarum.     Re-enter  TALBOT,  BURGUNDY,  and 
others. 

Tal.  Lost  and  recover'd  in  a  day  again  ! 
This  is  a  double  honour,  Burgundy : 
Yet  heavens  have  glory  for  this  victory! 


Bur.  Warlike  and  martial  Talbot,  Burgundy 
Enshrines  thee  in  his  heart ;  and  there  erects 
Thy  noble  deeds,  as  valour's  monuments. 

Tal.  Thanks,   gentle  duke.      But  where  is 

Pucelle  now  ? 

I  think  her  old  familiar  is  asleep  : 
Now  where 's  the  Bastard's  braves,  and  Charles 
his  gleeks  ?  [grief 

What,  all  a-mort?     Rouen  hangs  her  head  for 
That  such  a  valiant  company  are  fled. 
Now  will  we  take  some  order  in  the  town, 
Placing  therein  some  expert  officers; 
And  then  depart  to  Paris  to  the  king, 
For  there  young  Harry  with  his  nobles  lie. 

Bur.  What  wills  Lord  Talbot  pleaseth  Bur- 
gundy. 

Tal.  But  yet,  before  we  go,  let 's  not  forget 
The  noble  Duke  of  Bedford,  late  deceas'd, 
But  see  his  exequies  fulfill'd  in  Rouen  : 
A  braver  soldier  never  couched  lance, 
A  gentler  heart  did  never  sway  in  court ; 
But  kings  and  mightiest  potentates  must  die, 
For  that 's  the  end  of  human  misery.     [Exeunt. 
:  ?Jfl£ 

SCENE  III. — The  Plains  near  Rouen. 

Enter  CHARLES,  the  BASTARD,  ALEN9ON,  LA 
PUCELLE,  and  Forces. 

Puc.  Dismay  not,  princes,  at  this  accident, 
Nor  grieve  that  Rouen  is  so  recovered  : 
Care  is  no  cure,  but  rather  corrosive, 
For  things  that  are  not  to  be  remedied. 
Let  frantic  Talbot  triumph  for  awhile, 
And  like  a  peacock  sweep  along  his  tail ; 
We'll  pull  his  plumes  and  take  away  his  train, 
If  Dauphin  and  the  rest  will  be  but  rul'd. 

Char.  We  have  been  guided  by  thee  hitherto, 
And  of  thy  cunning  had  no  diffidence  : 
One  sudden  foil  shall  never  breed  distrust. 

Bast.  Search  out  thy  wit  for  secret  policies, 
And  we  will  make  thee  famous  through  the  world. 

Alen.  We  '11  set  thy  statue  in  some  holy  place, 
And  have  thee  reverenc'd  like  a  blessed  saint : 
Employ  thee,  then,  sweet  virgin,  for  our  good. 

Puc.  Then  thus  it  must  be ;  this  doth  Joan 

devise : 

By  fair  persuasions,  mix'd  with  sugar'd  words, 
We  will  entice  the  Duke  of  Burgundy 
To  leave  the  Talbot  and  to  follow  us.        [that, 

Char.  Ay,  marry,  sweeting,  if  we  could  do 
France  were  no  place  for  Henry's  warriors  ; 
Nor  should  that  nation  boast  it  so  with  us, 
But  be  extirped  from  our  provinces. 

Alen.  For  ever  should  they  be  expuls'd  from 

France, 
And  not  have  title  of  an  earldom  here. 


SCENE  III.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


585 


Puc.  Your  honours  shall  perceive  how  I  will 

work 
To  bring  this  matter  to  the  wished  end. 

[Drums  heard. 

Hark  !  by  the  sound  of  drum  you  may  perceive 
Their  powers  are  marching  unto  Paris-ward. 

An  English  March.     Enter,  and  pass  over  at  a 
distance,  TALBOT  and  his  Forces. 

There  goes  the  Talbot,  with  his  colours  spread, 
And  all  the  troops  of  English  after  him. 

A  French  March.     Enter  the  DUKE  OF 
BURGUNDY  and  his  Forces. 

Now  in  the  rearward  comes  the  duke  and  his : 
Fortune  in  favour  makes  him  lag  behind. 
Summon  a  parley ;  we  will  talk  with  him. 

[A  parley  sounded. 

Char.  A  parley  with  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  ! 
Bur.  Who  craves  a  parley  with  the  Burgundy? 
Puc.    The  princely  Charles  of  France,   thy 

countryman. 
Bur.   What  say'st  thou,  Charles?  for  I  am 

marching  hence. 

Char.  Speak,  Pucelle,  and  enchant  him  with 
thy  words.  [France  ! 

Puc.    Brave  Burgundy,  undoubted  hope  of 
Stay,  let  thy  humble  handmaid  speak  to  thee. 
Bur.   Speak  on  ;  but  be  not  over-tedious. 
Puc.  Look  on  thy  country,  look  on  fertile 

France, 

And  see  the  cities  and  the  towns  defac'd 
By  wasting  ruin  of  the  cruel  foe  ! 
As  looks  the  mother  on  her  lovely  babe 
When  death  doth  close  his  tender  dying  eyes, 
See,  see  the  pining  malady  of  France  ; 
Behold  the  wounds,  the  most  unnatural  wounds, 
Which  thou  thyself  hast  given  her  woeful  breast ! 
O,  turn  thy  edged  sword  another  way ; 
Strike  those  that  hurt,  and  hurt  not  those  that 
help  !  [bosom 

One  drop  of  blood  drawn  from  thy  country's 
Should   grieve   thee    more    than    streams    of 

foreign  gore  : 

Return  thee,  therefore,  with  a  flood  of  tears, 
And  wash  away  thy  country's  stained  spots. 
Bur.  Either  she  hath  bewitch'd  me  with  her 

words, 
Or  nature  makes  me  suddenly  relent. 

Puc.    Besides,   all  French  and  France   ex- 
claims on  thee, 

Doubting  thy  birth  and  lawful  progeny. 
Who  join'st  thou  with  but  with  a  lordly  nation 
That  will  not  trust  thee  but  for  profit's  sake  ? 
When  Talbot  hath  set  footing  once  in  France, 
And  fashion'd  thee  that  instrument  of  ill, 


Who  then  but  English  Henry  will  be  lord, 

And  thou  be  thrust  out  like  a  fugitive  ? 

Call   we   to  mind, — and    mark   but    this  for 

proof, — 

Was  not  the  Duke  of  Orleans  thy  foe  ? 
And  was  he  not  in  England  prisoner  ? 
But  when  they  heard  he  was  thine  enemy, 
They  set  him  free,  without  his  ransom  paid, 
In  spite  of  Burgundy  and  all  his  friends. 
See,  then,  thou  fight'st  against  thy  countrymen, 
And  join'st  with  them  will  be  thy  slaughter-men. 
Come,  come,  return  ;   return,  thou  wand'ring 

lord  ; 

Charles  and  the  rest  will  take  thee  in  their  arms. 
Bur.  I  am  vanquished  ;  these  haughty  words 

of  hers 

Have  batter'd  me  like  roaring  cannon-shot, 
And  made  me  almost  yield  upon  my  knees. — 
Forgive  me,  country,  and  sweet  countrymen  ! 
And,  lords,  accept  this  hearty  kind  embrace  : 
My  forces  and  my  power  of  men  are  yours : 
So,  farewell,  Talbot ;  I  '11  no  longer  trust  thee. 
Puc.    Done  like  a  Frenchman, — turn,  and 

turn  again ! 

Char.  Welcome,  brave  duke  !  thy  friendship 

makes  us  fresh.  [breasts. 

Bast.  And  doth  beget  new  courage  in  our 

Alen.  Pucelle  hath  bravely  play'd  her  part 

in  this, 
And  doth  deserve  a  coronet  of  gold. 

Char.  Now  let  us  on,  my  lords,  and  join  our 

powers ; 
And  seek  how  we  may  prejudice  the  foe. 

\_Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.— PARIS.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  KING  HENRY,  GLOSTER,  and  other 
Lords,  VERNON,  BASSET,  &c.  To  them 
TALBOT  and  some  of  his  Officers. 

Tal.   My  gracious  prince, — and  honourable 

peers, — 

Hearing  of  your  arrival  in  this  realm, 
I  have  awhile  given  truce  unto  my  wars, 
To  do  my  duty  to  my  sovereign : 
In  sign  whereof,  this  arm,— that  hath  reclaim'd 
To  your  obedience  fifty  fortresses, 
Twelve  cities,  and  seven  walled  towns  of  strength, 
Beside  five  hundred  prisoners  of  esteem, — 
Lets  fall  his  sword  before  your  highness'  feet, 
And  with  submissive  loyalty  of  heart 
Ascribes  the  glory  of  his  conquest  got 
First  to  my  God  and  next  unto  your  grace. 

K.  Hen.    Is   this   the    Lord    Talbot,    uncle 

Gloster, 
That  hath  so  long  been  resident  in  France  ? 


586 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  IV. 


Glo.  Yes,  if  it  please  your  majesty,  my  liege. 
K.  Hen.  Welcome,  brave  captain  and  vic- 
torious lord  ! 

When  I  was  young, — as  yet  I  am  not  old, — 
I  do  remember  how  my  father  said 
A  stouter  champion  never  handled  sword. 
Long  since  we  were  resolved  of  your  truth, 
Your  faithful  service,  and  your  toil  in  war  ; 
Yet  never  have  you  tasted  our  reward, 
Or  been  reguerdon'd  with  so  much  as  thanks, 
Because  till  now  we  never  saw  your  face  : 
Therefore,  stand  up ;  and  for  these  good  deserts 
We  here  create  you  Earl  of  Shrewsbury  ; 
And  in  our  coronation  take  your  place. 
{Exeunt  K.  HEN.,  GLO.,  TAL.,  and  Nobles. 
Ver.  Now,  sir,  to  you,  that  were  so  hot  at 

sea, 

Disgracing  of  these  colours  that  I  wear 
In  honour  of  my  noble  Lord  of  York, — 
Dar'st  thou  maintain  the  former  words  thou 

spak'st  ? 

Bas.  Yes,  sir  ;  as  well  as  you  dare  patronage 
The  envious  barking  of  your  saucy  tongue 
Against  my  lord  the  Duke  of  Somerset. 
Ver.  Sirrah,  thy  lord  I  honour  as  he  is. 
Bas.  Why,  what  is  he?  as  good  a  man  as 

York. 

Ver.  Hark  ye ;  not  so :  in  witness,  take  ye 

that.  [Strikes  him. 

Bas.  Villain,  thou  know'st  the  law  of  arms 

is  such 

That  whoso  draws  a  sword  'tis  present  death, 
Or  else  this  blow  should  broach  thy  dearest  blood. 
But  I  '11  unto  his  majesty,  and  crave 
I  may  have  liberty  to  venge  this  wrong  ; 
When  thou  shalt  see  I  '11  meet  thee  to  thy  cost. 
Ver.  Well,  miscreant,  I  '11  be  there  as  soon 

as  you ; 

And,  after,  meet  you  sooner  than  you  would. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 
SCENE  I.— PARIS.     A  Room  of  State. 

Enter  KING  HENRY,  GLOSTER,  EXETER, 
YORK,  SUFFOLK,  SOMERSET,  WINCHES- 
TER, WARWICK,  TALBOT,  the  Governor  of 
Paris,  and  others. 

Glo.    Lord  bishop,  set  the  crown  upon  his 

head.  [sixth ! 

Win.  God  save  King  Henry,  of  that  name  the 

Glo.    Now,    governor   of  Paris,    take   your 

oath, —  [Governor  kneels. 

That  you  elect  no  other  king  but  him  ; 

Esteem  none  friends  but  such  as  are  his  friends, 


And  none  your  foes  but  such  as  shall  pretend 
Malicious  practices  against  his  state  : 
This  shall  ye  do,  so  help  you  righteous  God  ! 
[Exeunt  Gov.  and  his  Train. 

Enter  SIR  JOHN  FASTOLFE. 

Fast.  My  gracious  sovereign,  as  I  rode  from 

Calais, 

To  haste  unto  your  coronation, 
A  letter  was  deliver'd  to  my  hands, 
Writ  to  your  grace  from  the  Duke  of  Burgundy. 

Tal.  Shame  to  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  and 
thee !  [next, 

I  vow'd,  base  knight,  when  I  did  meet  thee 
To  tear  the  garter  from  thy  craven's  leg, — 

[Plucking  it  off. 

Which  I  have  done, — because  unworthily 
Thou  wast  installed  in  that  high  degree. — 
Pardon  me,  princely  Henry,  and  the  rest : 
This  dastard,  at  the  battle  of  Patay, 
When  but  in  all  I  was  six  thousand  strong, 
And  that  the  French  were  almost  ten  to  one, — 
Before  we  met,  or  that  a  stroke  was  given, 
Like  to  a  trusty  squire,  did  run  away : 
In  which  assault  we  lost  twelve  hundred  men  ; 
Myself,  and  divers  gentlemen  beside, 
Were  there  surpris'd  and  taken  prisoners. 
Then  judge,  great  lords,  if  I  have  done  amiss ; 
Or  whether  that  such  cowards  ought  to  wear 
This  ornament  of  knighthood,  yea  or  no. 

Glo.  To  say  the  truth,  this  fact  was  infamous, 
And  ill  beseeming  any  common  man, 
Much  more  a  knight,  a  captain,  and  a  leader. 

Tal.  When  first  this  order  was  ordain'd,  my 

lords, 

Knights  of  the  garter  were  of  noble  birth, 
Valiant  and  virtuous,  full  of  haughty  courage, 
Such  as  were  grown  to  credit  by  the  wars  ; 
Not  fearing  death  nor  shrinking  for  distress, 
But  always  resolute  in  most  extremes. 
He,  then,  that  is  not  furnish'd  in  this  sort 
Doth  but  usurp  the  sacred  name  of  knight, 
Profaning  this  most  honourable  order, 
And  should, — if  I  were  worthy  to  be  judge, — 
Be  quite  degraded,  like  a  hedge-born  swain 
That  doth  presume  to  boast  of  gentle  blood. 

K.   Hen.    Stain   to   thy   countrymen,   thou 

hear'st  thy  doom ! 

Be  packing,  therefore,  thou  that  wast  a  knight : 
Henceforth  we  banish  thee,  on  pain  of  death. 

[Exit  FASTOLFE. 

And  now,  my  lord  protector,  view  the  letter 
Sent  from  our  uncle  Duke  of  Burgundy. 

Glo.  What  means  his  grace,  that  he  hath 
chang'd  his  style? 

[  Viewing  the  superscription-, 
No  more  but,  plain  and  bluntly,  To  the  King\ 


SCENE  I.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VL 


587 


Hath  he  forgot  he  is  his  sovereign  ? 

Or  doth  this  churlish  superscription 

Pretend  some  alteration  in  good-will  ? 

What's  here? — [Reads.'} — I have ',  upon  especial 

cause, — 

Mov'd  with  compassion  of  my  country's  wreck , 
Together  with  the  pitifiil  complaints 
Of  such  as  your  oppression  feeds  upon, — 
Forsaken  your  pernicious  faction,          [France. 
And  joined  with   Charles,  the  rightful  King  of 

0  monstrous  treachery  !     Can  this  be  so, — 
That  in  alliance,  amity,  and  oaths, 

There  should  be  found  such  false  dissembling 

guile  ?  [revolt  ? 

K.  Hen.  What !   doth  my  uncle  Burgundy 

Glo.  He  doth,  my  loid  ;  and  is  become  your 

foe.  [contain  ? 

K.  Hen.  Is  that  the  worst  this  letter  doth 

Glo.  It  is  the  worst,  and  all,  my  lord,  he  writes. 

K.  Hen.  Why,  then,  Lord  Talbot  there  shall 

talk  with  him, 

And  give  him  chastisement  for  this  abuse  : — 
How  say  you,  my  lord,  are  you  not  content  ? 
Tal.  Content,  my  liege  !  yes  ;  but  that  I  am 
prevented,  [ploy'd. 

1  should  have  begg'd  I  might  have  been  em- 
K.  Hen.  Then  gather  strength,  and  march 

unto  him  straight : 

Let  him  perceive  how  ill  we  brook  his  treason, 
And  what  offence  it  is  to  flout  his  friends. 

Tal.   I  go,  my  lord  ;  in  heart  desiring  still 
You  may  behold  confusion  of  your  foes.    [Exit. 

Enter  VERNON  and  BASSET. 

Ver.  Grant  me  the  combat,  gracious  sove- 
reign !  [too  ! 
Bas.  And  me,  my  lord,  grant  me  the  combat 
York.  This  is  my  servant :  hear  him,  noble 
prince !                                           [him  ! 
Som.  And  this  is  mine :  sweet  Henry,  favour 
K.  Hen.  Be  patient,  lords  ;  and  give  them 

leave  to  speak. — • 

Say,  gentlemen,  what  makes  you  thus  exclaim? 

And  wherefore   crave  you   combat  ?    or  with 

whom  ?  [wrong. 

Ver.  With  him,  my  lord ;  for  he  hath  done  me 

Bas.  And  I  with  him  ;  for  he  hath  done  me 

wrong.  [complain  ? 

K.  Hen.  What  is  that  wrong  whereof  you  both 

First  let  me  know,  and  then  I  '11  answer  you. 

Bas.    Crossing  the  sea  from  England  into 

France, 

This  fellow  here,  with  envious  carping  tongue, 
Upbraided  me  about  the  rose  I  wear  ; 
Saying  the  sanguine  colour  of  the  leaves 
Did  represent  my  master's  blushing  cheeks 
When  stubbornly  he  did  repugn  the  truth 


About  a  certain  question  in  the  law 
Argu'd  betwixt  the  Duke  of  York  and  him  ; 
With  other  vile  and  ignominious  terms  : 
In  confutation  of  which  rude  reproach, 
And  in  defence  of  my  lord's  worthiness, 
I  crave  the  benefit  of  law  of  arms. 

Ver.  And  that  is  my  petition,  noble  lord  : 
For  though  he  seem  with  forged  quaint  conceit 
To  set  a  gloss  upon  his  bold  intent, 
Yet  know,  my  lord,  I  was  provok'd  by  him  ; 
And  he  first  took  exceptions  at  this  badge, 
Pronouncing  that  the  paleness  of  this  flower 
Bewray'd  the  faintness  of  my  master's  heart. 

York.  Will  not  this  malice,  Somerset,  be  left? 

Som.  Your  private  grudge,  my  Lord  of  York, 

will  out, 
Though  ne'er  so  cunningly  you  smother  it. 

K.  Hen.  Good  Lord,  what  madness  rules  in 

brainsick  men, 

When  for  so  slight  and  frivolous  a  cause 
Such  factious  emulations  shall  arise ! — 
Good  cousins  both,  of  York  and  Somerset, 
Quiet  yourselves,  I  pray,  and  be  at  peace. 

York.  Let  this  dissension  first  be  tried  by  fight, 
And  then  your  highness  shall  command  a  peace. 

Som.  The  quarrel  toucheth  none  but  us  alone ; 
Betwixt  ourselves  let  us  decide  it  then.       [set. 

York.  There  is  my  pledge ;  accept  it,  Somer- 

Ver.  Nay,  let  it  rest  where  it  began  at  first. 

Bas.   Confirm  it  so,  mine  honourable  lord. 

Glo.  Confirm  it  so  !  Confounded  be  your  strife! 
And  perish  ye,  with  your  audacious  prate  ! 
Presumptuous  vassals,  are  you  not  asham'd 
With  this  immodest  clamorous  outrage 
To  trouble  and  disturb  the  king  and  us? — 
And  you,  my  lords, — methinks  you  do  not  well 
To  bear  with  their  perverse  objections ; 
Much  less  to  take  occasion  from  their  mouths 
To  raise  a  mutiny  betwixt  yourselves  : 
Let  me  persuade  you  take  a  better  course. 

Exe.  It  grieves  his  highness : — good  my  lords, 
be  friends.  [combatants : 

K.  Hen.    Come  hither,  you  that  would  be 
Henceforth  I  charge  you,  as  you  love  our  favour, 
Quite  to  forget  this  quarrel  and  the  cause. — 
And  you,  my  lords,  remember  where  we  are  ; 
In  France,  amongst  a  fickle  wavering  nation  : 
If  they  perceive  dissension  in  our  looks, 
And  that  within  ourselves  we  disagree, 
How  will  their  grudging  stomachs  be  provok'd 
To  wilful  disobedience,  and  rebel  I 
Beside,  what  infamy  will  there  arise, 
When  foreign  princes  shall  be  certified 
That  for  a  toy,  a  thing  of  no  regard, 
King  Henry's  peers  and  chief  nobility    [France ! 
Destroy'd   themselves   and   lost  the  realm  of 
O,  think  upon  the  conquest  of  my  father ; 


588 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  iv. 


My  tender  years ;  and  let  us  not  forego 
That  for  a  trifle  that  was  bought  with  blood ! 
Let  me  be  umpire  in  this  doubtful  strife. 
I  see  no  reason,  if  I  wear  this  rose, 

[Putting  on  a  red  rose. 
That  any  one  should  therefore  be  suspicious 
I  more  incline  to  Somerset  than  York : 
Both  are  my  kinsmen,  and  I  love  them  both : 
As  well  they  may  upbraid  me  with  my  crown, 
Because,  forsooth,  the  King  of  Scots  is  crown'd. 
But  your  discretions  better  can  persuade 
Than  I  am  able  to  instruct  or  teach : 
And  therefore,  as  we  hither  came  in  peace, 
So  let  us  still  continue  peace  and  love. — 
Cousin  of  York,  we  institute  your  grace 
To  be  our  regent  in  these  parts  of  France : — 
And,  good  my  Lord  of  Somerset,  unite 
Your  troops  of  horsemen  with  his   bands  of 

foot; 

And  like  true  subjects,  sons  of  your  progenitors, 
Go  cheerfully  together,  and  digest 
Your  angry  choler  on  your  enemies. 
Ourself,  my  lord  protector,  and  the  rest, 
After  some  respite,  will  return  to  Calais ; 
From  thence  to  England ;  where  I  hope  ere  long 
To  be  presented,  by  your  victories, 
With  Charles,  Alen9on,  and  that  traitorous  rout. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt K.  HEN.,  GLO., 

SOM.,  WIN.,  SUF.,  a;zdfBAS. 
War*   My  Lord  of  York,  I  promise  you,  the 

king 
Prettily,  methought,  did  play  the  orator. 

York.  And  so  he  did ;  but  yet  I  like  it  not, 
In  that  he  wears  the  badge  of  Somerset. 

War.  Tush,  that  was  but  his  fancy,  blame  him 

not; 
I  dare  presume,  sweet  prince,  he  thought  no 

harm. 

York.  An  if  I  wist  he  did, — but  let  it  rest ; 
Other  affairs  must  now  be  managed. 

[Exeunt  YORK,  WAR.,  andVER. 
Exe.  Well  didst  thou,  Richard,  to  suppress 

thy  voice : 

For  had  the  passions  of  thy  heart  burst  out, 
I  fear  we  should  have  seen  decipher'd  there 
More  rancorous  spite,  more  furious  raging  broils, 
Than  yet  can  be  imagin'd  or  suppos'd. 
But  howsoe'er,  no  simple  man  that  sees 
This  jarring  discord  of  nobility, 
This  shouldering  of  each  other  in  the  court, 
This  factious  bandying  of  their  favourites, 
But  that  it  doth  presage  some  ill  event. 
'Tis    much   when    sceptres   are   in   children's 

hands ; 

But  more  when  envy  breeds  unkind  division  ; 
There  comes  the  ruin,  there  begins  confusion. 

{Exit. 


SCENE  II.— FRANCE.     Before  Bourdeaux. 
Enter  TALBOT,  with  his  Forces. 

Tal.  Go  to  the  gates  of  Bourdeaux,  trumpeter: 
Summon  their  general  unto  the  wall. 

Trumpet  sounds  a  parley.  Enter,  on  the  walls  ^ 
the  General  of  the  French  Forces,  and 
others. 

English  John  Talbot,  captains,  calls  you  forth, 
Servant  in  arms  to  Harry  King  of  England ; 
And  thus  he  would, — Open  your  city  gates; 
Be  humble  to  us;  call  my  sovereign  yours, 
And  do  him  homage  as  obedient  subjects ; 
And  I  '11  withdraw  me  and  my  bloody  power : 
But  if  you  frown  upon  this  proffer'd  peace 
You  tempt  the  fury  of  my  three  attendants, 
Lean  famine,  quartering  steel,  and  climbing  fire ; 
Who,  in  a  moment,  even  with  the  earth 
Shall  lay  your  stately  and  air-braving  towers, 
If  you  forsake  the  offer  of  their  love. 

Gen.  Thou  ominous  and  fearful  owl  of  death, 
Our  nation's  terror  and  their  bloody  scourge  ! 
The  period  of  thy  tyranny  approacheth. 
On  us  thou  canst  not  enter  but  by  death ; 
For,  I  protest,  we  are  well  fortified, 
And  strong  enough  to  issue  out  and  fight : 
If  thou  retire,  the  Dauphin,  well  appointed, 
Stands  with  the  snares  of  war  to  tangle  thee : 
On  either  hand  thee  there  are  squadrons  pitch'd, 
To  wall  thee  from  the  liberty  of  flight ; 
And  no  way  canst  thou  turn  thee  for  redress 
But  death  doth  front  thee  with  apparent  spoil, 
And  pale  destruction  meets  thee  in  the  face. 
Ten  thousand  French  have  ta'en  the  sacrament, 
To  rive  their  dangerous  artillery 
Upon  no  Christian  soul  but  English  Talbot. 
Lo,  there  thou  stand'st,  a  breathing  valiant  man, 
Of  an  invincible  unconquer'd  spirit ! 
This  is  the  latest  glory  of  thy  praise 
That  I,  thy  enemy,  due  thee  withal ; 
For  ere  the  glass  that  now  begins  to  run 
Finish  the  process  of  his  sandy  hour, 
These  eyes,  that  see  thee  now  well  coloured, 
Shall  see  thee  wither'd,  bloody,  pale,  and  dead. 
[Drum  afar  off. 
Hark !  hark !  the  Dauphin's  drum,  a  warning 

bell, 

Sings  heavy  music  to  thy  timorous  soul ; 
And  mine  shall  ring  thy  dire  departure  out. 

[Exeunt  General,  &c.  from  the  Walls 
Tal.   He  fables  not ;  I  hear  the  enemy : — 
Out,  some  light  horsemen,  and  peruse  their 

wings. — 

O,  negligent  and  heedless  discipline ! 
How  are  we  park'd  and  bounded  in  a  pale,— 


SCENE  III.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


589 


A  little  herd  of  England's  timorous  deer, 
Maz'd  with  a  yelping  kennel  of  French  curs ! 
If  we  be  English  deer,  be,  then,  in  blood ; 
Not  rascal-like  to  fall  down  with  a  pinch, 
But  rather,  moody-mad  and  desperate  stags, 
Turn  on  the  bloody  hounds  with  heads  of  steel, 
And  make  the  cowards  stand  aloof  at  bay : 
Sell  every  man  his  life  as  dear  as  mine, 
And    they   shall   find   dear   deer    of   us,    my 
friends. —  [right, 

God  and  Saint  George,  Talbot  and  England's 
Prosper  our  colours  in  this  dangerous  fight ! 


SCENE  III. — Plains  in  Cascony. 
Enter  YORK,  with  Forces ;  to  him  a  Messenger. 

York.    Are  not  the  speedy  scouts  return'd 

again, 

That  dogg'd  the  mighty  army  of  the  Dauphin? 
Mess.  They  are  return'd,  my  lord  ;  and  give 

it  out 

That  he  is  march 'd  to  Bourdeaux  with  his  power, 
To  fight  with  Talbot :  as  he  march'd  along, 
By  your  espials  were  discovered 
Two  mightier  troops  than  that  the  Dauphin  led, 
Which  join'd  with  him,  and  made  their  march 

for  Bourdeaux. 

York.  A  plague  upon  that  villain  Somerset, 
That  thus  delays  my  promised  supply 
Of  horsemen,  that  were  levied  for  this  siege ! 
Renowned  Talbot  doth  expect  my  aid ; 
And  I  am  louted  by  a  traitor  villain, 
And  cannot  help  the  noble  chevalier: 
God  comfort  him  in  this  necessity ! 
If  he  miscarry,  farewell  wars  in  France. 

Enter  SIR  WILLIAM  LUCY. 

Lucy.  Thou  princely  leader  of  our  English 

strength, 

Never  so  needful  on  the  earth  of  France, 
Spur  to  the  rescue  of  the  noble  Talbot, 
Who  now  is  girdled  with  a  waist  of  iron, 
And  hemm'd  about  with  grim  destruction : 
To  Bourdeaux,  warlike  duke !  to  Bourdeaux, 
York !  [honour. 

Else,  farewell  Talbot,  France,  and  England's 
York.  O  God,  that  Somerset, — who  in  proud 

heart 

Doth  stop  my  cornets, — were  in  Talbot's  place  ! 
So  should  we  save  a  valiant  gentleman 
By  forfeiting  a  traitor  and  a  coward. 
Mad  ire  and  wrathful  fury  makes  me  weep, 
That  thus  we  die,  while  remiss  traitors  sleep. 
Lucy.  O,  send  some  succour  to  the  distress'd 
lord! 


York.  He  dies,  we  lose ;  I  break  my  warlike 

word ; 
We  mourn,  France  smiles;  we  lose,  they  daily 

get; 
All  'long  of  this  vile  traitor  Somerset. 

Lucy.  Then  God  take  mercy  on  brave  Tal- 
bot's soul ;  [since 
And  on  his  son,  young  John,  who  two  hours 
I  met  in  travel  toward  his  warlike  father ! 
This  seven  years  did  not  Talbot  see  his  son; 
And  now  they  meet  where  both  their  lives  are 

done. 

York.  Alas,  what  joy  shall  noble  Talbot  have 
To  bid  his  young  son  welcome  to  his  grave? 
Away !  vexation  almost  stops  my  breath, 
That   sunder'd    friends   greet   in   the   hour   of 

death. — 

Lucy,  farewell :  no  more  my  fortune  can, 
But  curse  the  cause  I  cannot  aid  the  man. — 
Maine,  Blois,  Poictiers,  and  Tours  are  won  away, 
'Long  all  of  Somerset  and  his  delay. 

[Exit,  -with  Forces. 

Lucy.  Thus,  while  the  vulture  of  sedition 
Feeds  in  the  bosom  of  such  great  commanders, 
Sleeping  neglection  doth  betray  to  loss 
The  conquest  of  our  scarce-cold  conqueror, 
That  ever-living  man  of  memory, 
Henry  the  Fifth : — whiles  they  each  other  cross, 
Lives,  honours,  lands,  and  all,  hurry  to  loss. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  IV.—Oiher  Plains  of  Gascon? . 

Enter  SOMERSET,  with  his  Forces ;  an  Officer 
of  TALBOT'S  -with  him. 

Som.  It  is  too  late ;  I  cannot  send  them  now : 
This  expedition  was  by  York  and  Talbot 
Too  rashly  plotted ;  all  our  general  force 
Might  with  a  sally  of  the  very  town 
Be  buckled  with  :  the  over-daring  Talbot 
Hath  sullied  all  his  gloss  of  former  honour 
By  this  unheedful,  desperate,  wild  adventure: 
York  set  him  on  to  fight  and  die  in  shame, 
That,  Talbot  dead,  great  York  might  bear  the 
name. 

Off.  Here  is  Sir  William  Lucy,  who  with  me 
Set  from  our  o'er-matched  forces  forth  for  aid. 

Enter  SIR  WILLIAM  LUCY. 

Som.   How  now,  Sir  William !  whither  were 

you  sent? 
Lucy.  Whither,  my  lord !  from  bought  and 

sold  Lord  Talbot ; 

Who,  ring'd  about  with  bold  adversity, 
Cries  out  for  noble  York  and  Somerset, 
To  beat  assailing  death  from  his  weak  legions; 
And  whiles  the  honourable  captain  there 


590 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  iv. 


Drops  bloody  sweat  from  his  war- wearied  limbs, 
And,  in  advantage  lingering,  looks  for  rescue, 
You,  his  false  hopes,  the   trust  of  England's 

honour, 

Keep  off  aloof  with  worthless  emulation. 
Let  not  your  private  discord  keep  away 
The  levied  succours  that  should  lend  him  aid, 
While  he,  renowned  noble  gentleman, 
Yields  up  his  life  unto  a  world  of  odds : 
Orleans  the  Bastard,  Charles,  Burgundy, 
Alen9on,  Reignier,  compass  him  about, 
And  Talbot  perisheth  by  your  default. 

Som.  York  set  him  on,  York  should  have 
sent  him  aid.  [claims ; 

Lucy.  And  York  as  fast  upon  your  grace  ex- 
Swearing  that  you  withhold  his  levied  horse, 
Collected  for  this  expedition.  [the  horse : 

Som.  York  lies ;  he  might  have  sent  and  had 
I  owe  him  little  duty  and  less  love ; 
And  take  foul  scorn  to  fawn  on  him  by  sending. 

Lucy.  The  fraud  of  England,  not  the  force 

of  France, 

Hath  now  entrapp'd  the  noble-minded  Talbot : 
Never  to  England  shall  he  bear  his  life  ; 
But  dies  betray'd  to  fortune  by  your  strife. 

Som.  Come,  go ;  I  will  despatch  the  horse- 
men straight : 
Within  six  hours  they  will  be  at  his  aid. 

Lucy.  Too  late  comes  rescue ;  he  is  ta'en  or 

slain  : 

For  fly  he  could  not,  if  he  would  have  fled  ; 
And  fly  would  Talbot  never,  though  he  might. 

Som.  Ifhe  be  dead,  brave  Talbot,  then,  adieu ! 

Lucy.   His  fame  lives  in  the  world,  his  shame 
in  you.  \_Exeunt, 


SCENE  V. — The  English  Camp  nearBourdeaux. 
Enter  TALBOT  and  JOHN  his  Son. 

Tal.  O  young  John  Talbot  !  I  did  send  for 

thee 

To  tutor  thee  in  stratagems  of  war, 
That  Talbot's  name  might  be  in  thee  reviv'd 
When  sapless  age  and  weak  unable  limbs 
Should  bring  thy  father  to  his  drooping  chair. 
But, — O  malignant  and  ill-boding  stars  ! — 
Now  thou  art  come  unto  a  feast  of  death, 
A  terrible  and  unavoided  danger  :          [horse  ; 
Therefore,  dear   boy,   mount   on  my  swiftest 
And  I  '11  direct  thee  how  thou  shalt  escape 
By  sudden  flight :  come,  dally  not,  begone. 
John.  Is  my  name  Talbot  ?  and  am  I  your 

son? 

And  shall  I  fly  ?    O,  if  you  love  my  mother, 
Dishonour  not  her  honourable  name, 
To  make  a  bastard  and  a  slave  of  me  ! 


The  world  will  say,  he  is  not  Talbot's  blood 
That  basely  fled  when  noble  Talbot  stood. 
Tal.  Fly  to  revenge  my  death,  if  I  be  slain. 
John.  He  that  flies  so  will  ne'er  return  again. 
TaL  If  we  both  stay  we  both  are  sure  to  die. 
John.   Then  let  me  stay ;  and,  father,  do  you 

fly: 

Your  loss  is  great,  so  your  regard  should  be  ; 
My  worth  unknown,  no  loss  is  known  in  me. 
Upon  my  death  the  French  can  little  boast ; 
In  yours  they  will,  in  you  all  hopes  are  lost. 
Flight  cannot  stain  the  honour  you  have  won  ; 
But  mine  it  will,  that  no  exploit  have  done  ; 
You  fled  for  vantage,  every  one  will  swear ; 
But  if  I  bow,  they'll  say  it  was  for  fear. 
There  is  no  hope  that  ever  I  will  stay, 
If  the  first  hour  I  shrink  and  run  away. 
Here,  on  my  knee,  I  beg  mortality, 
Rather  than  life  preserv'd  with  infamy. 

Tal.  Shall  all  thy  mother's  hopes  lie  in  one 
tomb  ?  [womb. 

John.  Ay,  rather  than  I  '11  shame  my  mother's 
Tal.  Upon  my  blessing  I  command  thee  go. 
John.  To  fight  I  will,  but  not  to  fly  the  foe. 
TaL  Part  of  thy  father  may  be  sav'd  in  thee. 
John.  No  part  of  him  but  will  be  shame  in 
me.  [lose  it. 

Tal.  Thou  never  hadst  renown,  nor  canst  not 
John.    Yes,   your    renowned    name :    shall 

flight  abuse  it  ? 
Tal.  Thy  father's   charge  shall  clear  thee 

from  that  stain. 

John.  You  cannot  witness  for  me,  being  slain. 
If  death  be  so  apparent,  then  both  fly. 

Tal.   And  leave  my  followers  here  to  fight 

and  die  ? 

My  age  was  never  tainted  with  such  shame. 
John.  And  shall  my  youth  be  guilty  of  such 

blame  ? 

No  more  can  I  be  sever'd  from  your  side 
Than  can  yourself  yourself  in  twain  divide  : 
Stay,  go,  do  what  you  will,  the  like  do  I ; 
For  live  I  will  not  if  my  father  die.  [son, 

Tal.   Then  here  I  take  my  leave  of  thee,  fair 
Born  to  eclipse  thy  life  this  afternoon. 
Come,  side  by  side  together  live  and  die ; 
And  soul  with  soul  from  France  to  heaven  fly. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  VI.— A  Field  of  Battle. 

Alarum  :  excursions  wherein  TALBOT'S  Son  is 
hemmed  about,  and  TALBOT   rescues  him. 

Tal.    Saint    George    and    victory !     fight, 

soldiers,  fight : 
The  regent  hath  with  Talbot  broke  his  word, 


SCENE  VI.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


591 


And  left  us  to  the  rage  of  France  his  sword. 
Where  is  John  Talbot  ? — pause,  and  take  thy 

breath ; 
I  gave  thee  life  and  rescu'd  thee  from  death. 

John.  O,  twice  my  father,  twice  am  I  thy  son ! 
The  life  thou  gav'st  me  first  was  lost  and  done, 
Till  with  thy  warlike  sword,  despite  of  fate, 
To  my  determin'd  time  thou  gav'st  new  date. 
Tal.    When  from   the   Dauphin's  crest  thy 

sword  struck  fire, 

It  warm'd  thy  father's  heart  with  proud  desire 
Of  bold-fac'd  victory.     Then  leaden  age, 
Quicken'd  with  youthful  spleen  and  warlike  rage, 
Beat  down  Alenc,on,  Orleans,  Burgundy, 
And  from  the  pride  of  Gallia  rescu'd  thee. 
The  ireful  bastard  Orleans, — that  drew  blood 
From  thee,  my  boy,  and  had  the  maidenhood 
Of  thy  first  fight, — I  soon  encountered, 
And,  interchanging  blows,  I  quickly  shed 
Some  of  his  bastard  blood  ;  and,  in  disgrace, 
Bespoke  him  thus, — Contaminated ',  base, 
And  misbegotten  blood  I  spill  of  thine , 
Mean  and  right poor ,  for  that  pure  blood  of  mine 
Which  thou  didst  force  from   Talbot ',  my  brave 

boy  : — 

Here,  purposing  the  Bastard  to  destroy,  [care, — 
Came  in  strong  rescue.     Speak,   thy  father's 
Art  thou  not  weary,  John?  how  dost  thou  fare? 
Wilt  thou  yet  leave  the  battle,  boy,  and  fly, 
Now  thou  art  seal'd  the  son  of  chivalry? 
Fly,  to  revenge  my  death  when  I  am  dead  : 
The  help  of  one  stands  me  in  little  stead. 
O,  too  much  folly  is  it,  well  I  wot, 
To  hazard  all  our  lives  in  one  small  boat ! 
If  I  to-day  die  not  with  Frenchmen's  rage, 
To-morrow  I  shall  die  with  mickle  age  : 
By  me  they  nothing  gain  an  if  I  stay, — 
'Tis  but  the  short'ning  of  my  life  one  day : 
In  thee  thy  mother  dies,  our  household's  name, 
My  death's  revenge,  thy  youth,  and  England's 

fame  : 

All  these,  and  more,  we  hazard  by  thy  stay  ; 
All  these  are  sav'd  if  thou  wilt  fly  away. 
John.  The  sword  of  Orleans  hath  not  made 

me  smart ;  [heart  : 

These  words  of  yours  draw  life-blood  from  my 
On  that  advantage,  bought  with  such  a  shame, — 
To  save  a  paltry  life,  and  slay  bright  fame, — 
Before  young  Talbot  from  old  Talbot  fly, 
The  coward  horse  that  bears  me  fall  and  die  ! 
And  like  me  to  the  peasant  boys  of  France  ; 
To  be  shame's  scorn,  and  subject  of  mischance ! 
Surely,  by  all  the  glory  you  have  won, 
An  if  I  fly,  I  am  not  Talbot's  son  : 
Then  talk  no  more  of  flight,  it  is  no  boot ; 
If  son  to  Talbot,  die  at  Talbot's  foot.      [Crete, 
Tal.  Then  follow  thou  thy  desperate  sire  of 


Thou  Icarus  ;  thy  life  to  me  is  sweet : 
If  thou  wilt  fight,  fight  by  thy  father's  side  ; 
And,  commendable  prov'd,  let 's  die  in  pride. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII. — Another  part  of  the  same. 

Alarum :  excursions.    Enter  TALBOT  wounded, 
supported  by  a  Servant. 

Tal.  Where  is  my  other  life  ? — mine  own  is 
gone  ; —  [John  ? — 

O,  where's  young  Talbot?    where  is  valiant 
Triumphant  death,  smear'd  with  captivity, 
Young  Talbot's  valour  makes  me  smile  at  thee: — 
When  he  perceiv'd  me  shrink  and  on  my  knee, 
His  bloody  sword  he  brandish'd  over  me, 
And  like  a  hungry  lion  did  commence 
Rough  deeds  of  rage  and  stern  impatience ; 
But  when  my  angry  guardant  stood  alone, 
Tendering  my  ruin,  and  assail'd  of  none, 
Dizzy-e/d  fury  and  great  rage  of  heart 
Suddenly  made  him  from  my  side  to  start 
Into  the  clustering  battle  of  the  French ; 
And  in  that  sea  of  blood  my  boy  did  drench 
His  overmounting  spirit ;  and  there  died 
My  Icarus,  my  blossom,  in  his  pride,     [borne! 

Serv.  O  my  dear  lord !  lo  where  your  son  is 

Enter  Soldiers,  bearing  the  body  of  JOHN 

TALBOT. 
Tal.  Thou  antic  death,  which  laugh'st  us 

here  to  scorn, 

Anon,  from  thy  insulting  tyranny, 
Coupled  in  bonds  ot  perpetuity, 
Two  Talbots,  winged  through  the  lither  sky, 
In  thy  despite,  shall  'scape  mortality.— 
O  thou  whose  wounds  become  hard-favour'd 

death, 

Speak  to  thy  father  ere  thou  yield  thy  breath  ! 
Brave  death  by  speaking,  whether  he  will  or  no  j 
Imagine  him  a  Frenchman  and  thy  foe. — 
Poor    boy  !    he    smiles,    methinks,    as    who 

should  say,  [to-day. — 

Had  death  been  French,  then  death  had  died 
Come,  come,  and  lay  him  in  his  father's  arms : 
My  spirit  can  no  longer  bear  these  harms. 
Soldiers,  adieu  !  I  have  what  I  would  have, 
Now  my  old  arms  are  young  Talbot's  grave. 

\_Dies. 

Alarums.  Exeunt  Soldiers  and  Servant,  leav* 
ing  the  two  bodies.  Enter  CHARLES,  ALEN- 
90N,  BURGUNDY,  BASTARD,  LA  PUCELLB, 
and  P  orces. 

Char.  Had    York  and     Somerset    brought 
rescue  in, 

We  should  have  found  a  bloody  day  of  this. 


592 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[AC 


Bast.    How  the  young  whelp  of  Talbot's, 

raging- wood, 
Did  flesh  his  puny  sword  in  Frenchmen's  blood ! 

Puc.  Once  I  encounter 'd  him,  and  thus  I  said, 
Thou  maiden  youth,  be  vanquished  by  a  maid: 
But,  with  a  proud  majestical  high  scorn, 
He  answer'd  thus,  Young  Talbot  was  not  born 
To  be  the  pillage  of  a  giglot  wench: . 
So,  rushing  in  the  bowels  of  the  French, 
He  left  me  proudly,  as  unworthy  fight. 

Bur.    Doubtless    he   would   have   made    a 

noble  knight : — 

See  where  he  lies  inhersed  in  the  arms 
Of  the  most  bloody  nurser  of  his  harms ! 

Bast.  Hew  them  to  pieces,  hack  their  bones 

asunder, 
Whose  life  was  England's  glory,  Gallia's  wonder. 

Char.  O,  no ;  forbear !   for  that  which  we 

have  fled 
During  the  life,  let  us  not  wrong  it  dead. 

Enter  SIR  WILLIAM  LUCY,  attended;  a 
French  Herald  preceding. 

Lucy.  Herald, 

Conduct  me  to  the  Dauphin's  tent,  to  know 
Who  hath  obtain'd  the  glory  of  the  day, 

Char.  On  what  submissive  message  art  thou 

sent? 
Lucy.    Submission,    Dauphin!    'tis   a   mere 

French  word; 

We  English  warriors  wot  not  what  it  means. 
I  come  to  know  what  prisoners  thou  hast  ta'en, 
And  to  survey  the  bodies  of  the  dead. 

Char.  For  prisoners  aslc'st  thou?    hell  our 

prison  is. 

But  tell  me  whom  thou  seek'st.  [field, 

Lucy.  But  where 's  the  great  Alcides  of  the 
Valiant  Lord  Talbot,  Earl  of  Shrewsbury,— 
Createc,  for  his  rare  success  in  arms,       [ence ; 
Great  Earl  of  Washford,  Waterford,  and  Val- 
Lord  Talbot  of  Goodrig  and  Urchinfield, 
Lord  Strange  of  Blackmere,  Lord  Verdun  of 
Alton,  [Sheffield, 

Lord  Cromwell  of  Wingfield,  Lord  Furnival  of 
The  thrice  victorious  Lord  of  Falconbridge ; 
Knight  of  the  noble  order  of  Saint  George, 
Worthy  Saint  Michael,  and  the  Golden  Fleece; 
Great  Marshal  to  Henry  the  Sixth 
Of  all  his  wars  within  the  realm  of  France? 
Puc.   Here  is  a  silly-stately  style  indeed ! 
The  Turk,  that  two-and-fifty  kingdoms  hath. 
Writes  not  so  tedious  a  style  as  this. — 
Him  that  thou  magnifies!  with  all  these  titles, 
Stinking  and  fly-blown,  lies  here  at  our  feet. 
Lucy.    Is   Talbot   slain, — the    Frenchmen's 

only  scourge, 
Your  kingdom's  terror  and  black  Nemesis? 


O  were  mine  eye-balls  into  bullets  turn'd, 
That  I,  in  rage,  might  shoot  them  at  your  faces'. 
O  that  I  could  but  call  these  dead  to  life ! 
It  were  enough  to  fright  the  realm  of  France: 
Were  but  his  picture  left  among  you  here, 
It  would  amaze  the  proudest  of  you  all. 
Give  me  their  bodies,  that  I  may  bear  themhence, 
And  give  them  burial  as  beseems  their  worth. 
Puc.  I   think   this  upstart   is   old   Talbot's 

ghost, 

He   speaks  with   such  a  proud  commanding 
spirit.  [here, 

For  God's  sake,  let  him  have  'em ;  to  keep  them 
They  would  but  stink,  and  putrefy  the  air. 
Char.  Go,  take  their  bodies  hence. 
Lucy.  I  '11  bear  them  hence : 

But  from  their  ashes  shall  be  rear'd 
A  phoenix  that  shall  make  all  France  afeard. 
Char.  So  we  be  rid  of  them,  do  with  'em 

what  thou  wilt. — 

And  now  to  Paris  in  this  conquering  vein : 
All  will  be  ours,  now  bloody  Talbot's  slain. 

{Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 
SCENE  I. — LONDON.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  KING  HENRY,  GLOSTER,  and 
EXETER. 

K.  Hen.  Have  you  perus'd  the  letters  from 

the  pope, 
The  emperor,  and  the  Earl  of  Armagnac? 

Glo.  I  have,  my  lord:   and  their  intent  is 

this,— 

They  humbly  sue  unto  your  excellence 
To  have  a  godly  peace  concluded  of 
Between  the  realms  of  England  and  of  France. 

K.  Hen.   How  doth  your  grace  affect  their 
motion?  [means 

Glo.  Well,  my  good  lord ;  and  as  the  only 
To  stop  effusion  of  our  Christian  blood, 
And  stablish  quietness  on  every  side,     [thought 

K.  Hen.    Ay,   marry,   uncle;    for  I  always 
It  was  both  impious  and  unnatural 
That  such  immanity  and  bloody  strife 
Should  reign  among  professors  of  one  faith. 

Glo.  Beside,  my  lord,  the  sooner  to  effect 
And  surer  bind  this  knot  of  amity, 
The  Earl  of  Armagnac, — near  knit  to  Charles, 
A  man  of  great  authority  in  France, — 
Proffers  his  only  daughter  to  your  grace 
In  marriage,  with  a  large  and  sumptuous  dowry. 

K.  Hen.    Marriage,   uncle!    alas,  my  years 

are  young ; 
And  fitter  is  my  study  and  my  books 


SCENE  I.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


593 


Than  wanton  dalliance  with  a  paramour. 
Yet,  call  the  ambassadors ;  and  as  you  please, 
So  let  them  have  their  answers  every  one : 
I  shall  be  well  content  with  any  choice 
Tends  to  God's  glory  and  my  country's  weal. 

Enter  a  Legate  and  two  Ambassadors,  with 
WINCHESTER,  now  CARDINAL  BEAUFORT, 
in  a  Cardinal^  habit. 

Exe.  What !  is  my  Lord  of  Winchester  in- 

stall'd, 

And  call'd  unto  a  cardinal's  degree? 
Then  I  perceive  that  will  be  verified 
Henry  the  Fifth  did  sometime  prophesy, — 
If  once  he  come  to  be  a  cardinal ', 
He '//  make  his  cap  co-equal  with  the  crown. 
K.  Hen.  My  lords  ambassadors,  your  several 

suits 

Have  been  consider'd  and  debated  on. 
Your  purpose  is  both  good  and  reasonable ; 
And  therefore  are  we  certainly  resolv'd 
To  draw  conditions  of  a  friendly  peace ; 
Which  by  my  Lord  of  Winchester  we  mean 
Shall  be  transported  presently  to  France. 
Glo.  And  for  the  proffer  of  my  lord  your 

master, 

I  have  inform'd  his  highness  so  at  large, 
/  s,  liking  of  the  lady's  virtuous  gifts, 
Her  beauty,  and  the  value  of  her  dower, 
He    doth    intend     she    shall    be    England's 

queen. 
K.  Hen.   In  argument  and  proof  of  which 

contract. 
Bear  her  this  jewel  [to  the  Amb.],  pledge  of  my 

affection. — 

And  so,  my  lord  protector,  see  them  guarded 
And  safely  brought  to  Dover ;  where,  inshipp'd, 
Commit  them  to  the  fortune  of  the  sea. 

[Exeunt  K.  HEN.,  GLO.,  EXE.,  and 

Ambassadors. 
Win.  Stay,  my  lord  legate:  you  shall  first 

receive 

The  sum  of  money  which  I  promised 
Should  be  delivered  to  his  holiness 
For  clothing  me  in  these  grave  ornaments. 
Leg.     I    will   attend   upon    your   lordship's 

leisure.  [Exit. 

Win.  Now  Winchester  will  not  submit,  I 

trow, 

Or  be  inferior  to  the  proudest  peer. 
Humphrey  of  Gloster,  thou  shalt  well  perceive 
That  neither  in  birth  or  for  authority 
The  bishop  will  be  overborne  by  thee : 
I'll  either  make   thee  stoop  and   bend    thy 

knee, 
Or  sack  this  country  with  a  mutiny.         [Exit. 


SCENE  II. — FRANCE.     Plains  in  Anjou. 

Enter  CHARLES,  BURGUNDY,  ALEN£ON,  LA 
PUCELLE,  and  Forces,  marching. 

Char.  These  news,  my  lords,  may  cheer  our 

drooping  spirits: 

'Tis  said  the  stout  Parisians  do  revolt, 
And  turn  again  unto  the  warlike  French. 
Alen.  Then  march  to  Paris,  royal  Charles  of 

France, 

And  keep  not  back  your  powers  in  dalliance. 
Puc.   Peace  be  amongst  them  if  they  turn  to 

us; 
Else  ruin  combat  with  their  palaces ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Success  unto  our  valiant  general, 
And  happiness  to  his  accomplices ! 

Char.  What  tidings  send  our  scouts?   I  pr'y- 
thee,  speak. 

Mess.  The  English  army,  that  divided  was 
Into  two  parts,  is  now  conjoin'd  in  one, 
And  means  to  give  you  battle  presently.       [is ; 

Char.  Somewhat  too  sudden,  sirs,  the  warning 
But  we  will  presently  provide  for  them. 

Bur.  I  trust  the  ghost  of  Talbot  is  not  there : 
Now  he  is  gone,  my  lord,  you  need  not  fear. 

Puc.    Of    all    base    passions   fear    is    most 
accurs'd : —  [thine ; 

Command  the  conquest,   Charles,  it  shall  be 
Let  Henry  fret  and  all  the  world  repine. 

Char.  Then  on,  my  lords;   and  France  be 
fortunate !  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. — The  same.     Before  Angiers. 
Alarums:  excursions.     Entef  LA  PUCELLE. 

Puc.  The  regent  conquers  and  the  French- 
men fly, — 

Now  help,  ye  charming  spells  and  periapts ; 
And  ye  choice  spirits  that  admonish  me, 
And  give  me  signs  of  future  accidents, — 
You  speedy  helpers,  that  are  substitutes 
Under  the  lordly  monarch  of  the  north, 
Appear,  and  aid  me  in  this  enterprise ! 

[  Thunder. 

Enter  Fiends. 

This  speedy  and  quick  appearance  argues  pro  ->f 
Of  your  accustom'd  diligence  to  me. 
Now,  ye  familiar  spirits  that  are  cull'd 
Out  of  the  powerful  legions  under  earth, 
Help  me  this  once,  that  France  may  get  the  field. 
[They  walk  about  and  speak  not, 
O,  hold  me  not  with  silence  over-long ! 


594 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  v. 


Where  I  was  wont  to  feed  you  with  my  blood 

I  '11  lop  a  member  off  and  give  it  you, 

In  earnest  of  a  further  benefit, 

So  you  do  condescend  to  help  me  now. 

[They  hang  their  heads. 
No  hope  to  have  redress? — My  body  shall 
Pay  recompense  if  you  will  grant  my  suit. 

[  They  shake  their  heads. 
Cannot  my  body  nor  blood  sacrifice 
Entreat  you  to  your  wonted  furtherance? 
Then  take  my  soul, — my  body,  soul,  and  all, 
Before  that  England  give  the  French  the  foil. 

[They  depart. 

See  !  they  forsake  me.     Now  the  time  is  come 
That  France  must  vail  her  lofty-plumed  crest, 
And  let  her  head  fall  into  England's  lap. 
My  ancient  incantations  are  too  weak, 
And  hell  too  strong  for  me  to  buckle  v/ith : 
Now,  France,  thy  glory  droopeth  to  the  dust. 

[Exit. 

Alarums.  Enter  French  and  English,  fight- 
ing. LA  PUCELLE  and  YORK  fight  hand 
to  hand:  LA  PUCELLE  is  taken.  The  French 
fly. 

York.  Damsel  of  France,  I  think  I  have  you 

fast  : 

Unchain  your  spirits  now  with  spelling  charms, 
And  try  if  they  can  gain  your  liberty. — 
A  goodly  prize,  fit  for  the  devil's  grace ! 
See  how  the  ugly  witch  doth  bend  her  brows, 
As  if,  with  Circe,  she  would  change  my  shape  ! 
Puc.  Chang'd  to  a  worser  shape  thou  canst 
not  be.  [man ; 

York.  O,  Charles  the  Dauphin  is  a  proper 
No  shape  but  his  can  please  your  dainty  eye. 
Puc.  A  plaguing  mischief  light  on  Charles 

and  thee ! 

And  may  ye  both  be  suddenly  surpris'd 
By  bloody  hands,  in  sleeping  on  your  beds ! 
York.  Fell,  banning  hag ;  enchantress,  hold 
thy  tongue !  [while. 

Puc.  I  pr'ythee,  give  me  leave  to  curse  a- 
York.  Curse,  miscreant,  when  thou  comest 


to  the  stake. 


[Exeunt. 


Alarums.     Enter  SUFFOLK,  leading  in  LADY 
MARGARET. 

Suf.  Be  what  thou  wilt,  thou  art  my  prisoner. 
[Gazes  on  her. 

0  fairest  beauty,  do  not  fear  nor  fly  ! 

For  I  will  touch  thee  but  with  reverent  hands, 
And  lay  them  gently  on  thy  tender  side. 

1  kiss  these  fingers  for  eternal  peace. 

[Kissing  her  hand. 
Who  art  thou?  say,  that  I  may  honour  thee. 


Mar.  Margaret  my  name,  and  daughter  to  a 

king, 
The  King  of  Naples — whosoe'er  thou  art. 

Suf.   An  earl  I  am,  and  Suffolk  am  I  call'd. 
Be  not  offended,  nature's  miracle, 
Thou  art  allotted  to  be  ta'en  by  me 
So  doth  the  swan  her  downy  cygnets  save, 
Keeping  them  prisoners  underneath  her  wings. 
Yet,  if  this  servile  usage  once  offend, 
Go,  and  be  free  again  as  Suffolk's  friend. 

[She  turns  away  as  going. 
O,  stay ! — I  have  no  power  to  let  her  pass ; 
My  hand  would  free  her,  but  my  heart  says  no. 
As  plays  the  sun  upon  the  glassy  streams, 
Twinkling  another  counterfeited  beam, 
So  seeni3  this  gorgeous  beauty  to  mine  eyes. 
Fain  would  I  woo  her,  yet  I  dare  not  speak : 
I  '11  call  for  pen  and  ink,  and  write  my  mind : 
Fie,  De-la- Poole  !  disable  not  thyself; 
Hast  not  a  tongue?  is  she  not  here  thy  prisoner? 
Wilt  thou  be  daunted  at  a  woman's  sight? 
Ay,  beauty's  princely  majesty  is  such,     [rough. 
Confounds  the  tongue,  and  makes  the  senses 
Mar.  Say,  Earl  of  Suffolk, — if  thy  name  be 

so, — 

What  ransom  must  I  pay  before  I  pass? 

For  I  perceive  I  am  thy  prisoner.  [suit 

Suf.   How  canst  thou  tell  she  will  deny  thy 

Before  thou  make  a  trial  of  her  love?     [Aside. 

Mar.  Why  speak'st  thou  not?  what  ransom 

must  I  pay  ?  [woo'd ; 

Suf.    She's  beautiful,   and   therefore  to  be 

She  is  a  woman,  therefore  to  be  won.     [Aside. 

Mar.  Wilt  thou  accept  of  ransom — yea  or  no? 

Suf.  Fond  man,  remember  that  thou  hast  a 

wife; 
Then  how  can  Margaret  be  thy  paramour? 

[Aside. 
Mar.  I  were  best  leave  him,  for  he  will  not 

hear. 

Suf.  There  all  is  marr'd ;  there  lies  a  cooling 

card.  [Aside. 

Mar.  He  talks  at  random ;  sure,  the  man  is 

mad. 
Suf.  And  yet  a  dispensation  may  be  had. 

[Aside. 

Mar.  And  yet  I  would  that  you  would  an- 
swer me. 
Suf.    I  '11   win   this   Lady   Margaret.      For 

whom? 

Why,  for   my  king:    tush,   that's  a  wooden 
thing !  [Aside. 

Mar.  He  talks  of  wood :  it  is  some  carpenter. 
Suf.  Yet  so  my  fancy  may  be  satisfied, 
And  peace  established  between  these  realms. 
But  there  remains  a  scruple  in  that  too; 
For  though  her  father  be  the  King  of  Naples, 


SCENE  III.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


595 


Duke  of  Anjou  and  Maine,  yet  is  he  poor, 
And  our  nobility  will  scorn  the  match.     [Aside. 

Mar.    Hear  ye,    captain, — are    ye    not    at 
leisure?  [much: 

Suf.   It  shall   be  so,  disdain   they  ne'er   so 
Henry  is  youthful,  and  will  quickly  yield. — 

[Aside. 
Madam,  I  have  a  secret  to  reveal.      [a  knight, 

Mar.  What  though  I  be  enthrall'd?  he  seems 
And  will  not  any  way  dishonour  me.      [Aside. 

Suf.  Lady,  vouchsafe  to  listen  what  I  say. 

Mar.   Perhaps   I    shall   be   rescued   by   the 

French ; 
And  then  I  need  not  crave  his  courtesy.     [Aside. 

Suf.    Sweet  madam,  give  me  hearing  in  a 
cause — 

Mar.  Tush !  women  have  been  captivate  ere 
now.  [Aside. 

Suf.   Lady,  wherefore  talk  you  so? 

Mar.   I  cry  you  mercy,  'tis  but  quid  for  quo. 

Suf.  Say,   gentle  princess,   would   you    not 

suppose 
Your  bondage  happy,  to  be  made  a  queen? 

Mar.  To  be  a  queen  in  bondage  is  more  vile 
Than  is  a  slave  in  base  servility ; 
For  princes  should  be  free. 

Suf.  And  so  shall  you, 

If  happy  England's  royal  king  be  free.       [me  ? 

Mar.  Why,  what  concerns  his  freedom  unto 

Suf.  I  '11  undertake  to  make   thee  Henry's 

queen ; 

To  put  a  golden  sceptre  in  thy  hand, 
And  set  a  precious  crown  upon  thy  head, 
If  thou  wilt  condescend  to  be  my — 

Mar.  What? 

Sttf.  His  love. 

Mar.  I  am  unworthy  to  be  Henry's  wife. 

Suf.  No,  gentle  madam ;  I  unworthy  am 
To  woo  so  fair  a  dame  to  be  his  wife, 
And  have  no  portion  in  the  choice  myself. 
How  say  you,  madam, — are  you  so  content? 

Mar.  An  if  my  father  please,  I  am  content. 

Suf.  Then  call  our  captains  and  our  colours 
forth  ! —  [Troops  come  forward. 

And,  madam,  at  your  father's  castle- walls 
We  '11  crave  a  parley,  to  confer  with  him. 

A  Parley  sounded.     Enter  REIGNIER  on  the 
Walls, 

Suf.  See,  Reignier,  see,  thy  daughter  prisoner ! 

Reig.  To  whom? 

Suf.  To  me. 

Reig.  Suffolk,  what  remedy? 

I  am  a  soldier,  and  unapt  to  weep 
Or  to  exclaim  on  fortune's  fickleness. 

Suf.  Yes,  there  is  remedy  enough,  my  lord : 
Consent, — and  for  thy  honour  give  consent, — 


Thy  daughter  shall  be  wedded  to  my  king; 
Whom  I  with  pain  have  woo'd  and  won  thereto ; 
And  this  her  easy-held  imprisonment 
Hath  gain'd  thy  daughter  princely  liberty. 

Reig.  Speaks  Suffolk  as  he  thinks? 

Suf.  Fair  Margaret  knows 

That  Suffolk  doth  not  flatter,  face,  or  feign. 

Reig.   Upon  thy  princely  warrant  I  descend, 
To  give  thee  answer  of  thy  just  demand. 

[Exit  REIGN IER/TWW  the  Walls. 

Suf.  And  here  I  will  expect  thy  coming. 

Trumpets  sound.     Enter  REIGNIER  below. 

Reig.  Welcome,  brave  earl,  into  our  terri- 
tories ; 

Command  in  Anjou  what  your  honour  pleases. 
Suf.  Thanks,  Reignier,  happy  for  so  sweet  a 

child, 

Fit  to  be  made  companion  with  a  king: 
What  answer  makes  your  grace  unto  my  suit? 
Reig.  Since  thou  dost  deign  to  woo  her  little 

worth 

To  be  the  princely  bride  of  such  a  lord, 
Upon  condition  I  may  quietly 
Enjoy  mine  own,  the  county  Maine  and  Anjou, 
Free  from  oppression  or  the  stroke  of  war, 
My  daughter  shall  be  Henry's,  if  he  please. 
Suf.  That  is  her  ransom, — I  deliver  her; 
And  those  two  counties  I  will  undertake 
Your  grace  shall  well  and  quietly  enjoy. 

Reig.  And  I  again,  in  Henry  s  royal  name, 
As  deputy  unto  that  gracious  king, 
Give  thee  her  hand,  for  sign  of  plighted  faith. 
Suf.  Reignier  of  France,  I  give  thee  kingly 

thanks, 

Because  this  is  in  traffic  of  a  king : — 
And  yet,  methinks,  I  could  be  well  content 
To  be  mine  own  attorney  in  this  case. — 

[Aside. 

I  '11  over,  then,  to  England  with  this  news, 
And  make  this  marriage  to  be  solemniz'd. 
So,  farewell,  Reignier :  set  this  diamond  safe 
In  golden  palaces,  as  it  becomes. 

Reig.  I  do  embrace  thee  as  I  would  embrace 

The  Christian  prince,  King  Henry,  were  he  here. 

Mar.    Farewell,    my    lord:     good    wishes, 

praise,  and  prayers 

Shall  Suffolk  ever  have  of  Margaret.     [Going. 
Suf.  Farewell,  sweet  madam :  but  hark  you, 

Margaret, — 

No  princely  commendations  to  my  king? 
Mar.    Such  commendations  as  become    a 

maid, 
A  virgin,  and  his  servant,  say  to  him. 

Suf.  Words  sweetly  plac'd  and    modestly 
directed. 


596 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  v. 


But,  madam,  I  must  trouble  you  again, — 

No  loving  token  to  his  majesty?  [heart, 

Mar.  Yes,  my  good  lord, — a  pure  unspotted 
Never  yet  taint  with  love,  I  send  the  king. 

Suf.  And  this  withal.  [Kisses  her. 

Alar.  Thatfor  thyself: — I  will  not  so  presume 
To  send  such  peevish  tokens  to  a  king. 

[Exeunt  REIG.  and  MAR. 

Suf.   O,  wert  thou  for  myself !— But,  Suffolk, 

stay; 

Thou  mayst  not  wander  in  that  labyrinth : 
There  Minotaurs  and  ugly  treasons  lurk. 
Solicit  Henry  with  her  wondrous  praise : 
Bethink  thee  on  her  virtues  that  surmount, 
And  natural  graces  that  extinguish  art; 
Repeat  their  semblance  often  on  the  seas, 
That  when  thou  com'st  to  kneel  at  Henry's  feet 
Thou   mayst   bereave   him    of    his   wits   with 
wonder.  [Exit. 


SCENE  IV. — Camp  of  the  DUKE  OF  YORK  in 
Anjou. 

Enter  YORK,  WARWICK,  and  others. 

York.  Bring  forth  that  sorceress,  condemn'd 
to  burn. 

Enter  LA  PUCELLE,  guarded,  and  a  Shepherd. 

Shep.  Ah,  Joan,  this  kills  thy  father's  heart 

outright ! 

Have  I  sought  every  country  far  and  near, 
And  now  it  is  my  chance  to  find  thee  out 
Must  I  behold  thy  timeless  cruel  death? 
Ah,  Joan,  sweet  daughter  Joan,  I  '11  die  with 

thee ! 

Puc.  Decrepit  miser !  base  ignoble  wretch ! 
I  am  descended  of  a  gentler  blood ; 
Thou  art  no  father  nor  no  friend  of  mine. 
Shep.  Out,  out ! — My  lords,  an  please  you, 

'tis  not  so ; 

I  did  beget  her,  all  the  parish  knows: 
Her  mother  liveth  yet,  can  testify 
She  was  the  first  fruit  of  my  bachelorship. 
War.  Graceless,  wilt  thou  deny  thy  paren- 
tage? [been,— 
York.  This  argues  what  her  kind  of  life  hath 
Wicked  and  vile ;  and  so  her  death  concludes. 
Shep.  Fie,  Joan,  that  thou  wilt  be  so  ob- 
stacle ! 

God  knows  thou  art  a  collop  of  my  flesh ; 
And  for  thy  sake  have  I  shed  many  a  tear : 
Deny  me  not,  I  pr'ythee,  gentle  Joan. 

Puc.  Peasant,  avaunt! — You  have  suborn'd 

this  man, 
Of  purpose  to  obscure  my  noble  birth. 

Shep.  'Tis  true,  I  gave  a  noble  to  the  priest 


The  morn  that  I  was  wedded  to  her  mother. — 
Kneel  down  and  take  my  blessing,  good  my  girl. 
Wilt  thou  not  stoop?     Now  cursed  be  the  time 
Of  thy  nativity !     I  would  the  milk         [breast 
Thy  mother  gave  thee  when  thou  suck'dst  her 
Had  been  a  little  ratsbane  for  thy  sake ! 
Or  else,  when  thou  didst  keep  my  lambs  a-field, 
I  wish  some  ravenous  wolf  had  eaten  thee ! 
Dost  thou  deny  thy  father,  cursed  drab? 
O,  burn  her,  burn  her  !  hanging  is  too  good. 

[Exit. 

York.  Take  her  away ;  for  she  hath  liv'd  too 

long, 
To  fill  the  world  with  vicious  qualities. 

Puc.  First  let  me  tell  you  whom  you  have 

condemn'd : 

Not  me  begotten  of  a  shepherd  swain, 
But  issu'd  from  the  progeny  of  kings ; 
Virtuous  and  holy ;  chosen  from  above, 
By  inspiration  of  celestial  grace, 
To  work  exceeding  miracles  on  earth. 
I  never  had  to  do  with  wicked  spirits : 
But  you, — that  are  polluted  with  your  lusts, 
Stain'd  with  the  guiltless  blood  of  innocents, 
Corrupt  and  tainted  with  a  thousand  vices, — 
Because  you  want  the  grace  that  others  have, 
You  judge  it  straight  a  thing  impossible 
To  compass  wonders  but  by  help  of  devils. 
No,  misconceived  !  Joan  of  Arc  hath  been 
A  virgin  from  her  tender  infancy, 
Chaste  and  immaculate  in  very  thought ; 
Whose  maiden  blood,  thus  rigorously  effus'd, 
Will  cry  for  vengeance  at  the  gates  of  heaven. 

York.  Ay,  ay : — away  with  her  to  execution ! 

War.  And  hark  ye,  sirs;  because  she  is  a 

maid, 

Spare  for  no  fagots,  let  there  be  enow : 
Place  barrels  of  pitch  upon  the  fatal  stake, 
That  so  her  torture  may  be  shortened. 

Puc.    Will   nothing   turn    your  unrelenting 

hearts? 

Then,  Joan,  discover  thine  infirmity, 
That  warranteth  by  law  to  be  thy  privilege. — 
I  am  with  child,  ye  bloody  homicides : 
Murder  not,  then,  the  fruit  within  my  womb5 
Although  ye  hale  me  to  a  violent  death. 

York.  Now  heaven  forfend!  the  holy  maid 
with  child  !  [wrought : 

War.  The  greatest    miracle    that    e'er    ye 
Is  all  your  strict  preciseness  come  to  this  ? 

York.  She    and   the    Dauphin    have    been 

juggling: 
I  did  imagine  what  would  be  her  refuge,     [live ; 

War.  Well,  go  to ;  we  will  have  no  bastards 
Especially  since  Charles  must  father  it.      [his : 

Puc.  You  are  deceiv'd ;  my  child  is  none  of 
It  was  Alengon  that  enjoy'd  my  love. 


SCENE  IV.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


597 


York.  Alen£on !  that  notorious  Machiavel ! 
It  dies,  an  if  it  had  a  thousand  lives. 

Puc,  O,  give  me  leave,  I  have  deluded  you  : 
'Twas  neither  Charles  nor  yet  the  duke  I  nam'd, 
But  Reignier,  King  of  Naples,  that  prevail'd. 
War.    A  married  man !  that 's  most  intoler- 
able. 
York.  Why,    here's   a   girl! — I    think   she 

knows  not  well — 

There  were  so  many — whom  she  may  accuse. 
War.  It 's  sign  she  hath  been  liberal  and 

free. 

York.  And  yet,  forsooth,  she  isa  virgin  pure. — 
Strumpet,  thy  words  condemn  thy  brat  and  thee  : 
Use  no  entreaty,  for  it  is  in  vain. 

Puc.  Then  lead  me  hence; — with  whom  I 

leave  my  curse : 

May  never  glorious  sun  reflex  his  beams 
Upon  the  country  where  you  make  abode ; 
But  darkness  and  the  gloomy  shade  of  death 
Environ  you,  till  mischief  and  despair 
Drive  you  to  break  your  necks  or  hang  your- 
selves !  [Exit,  guarded. 
York.  Break  thou  in  pieces  and  consume  to 

ashes, 
Thou  foul  accursed  minister  of  hell ! 

Enter  CARDINAL  BEAUFORT,  attended. 

Car.  Lord  regent,  I  do  greet  your  excellence 
With  letters  of  commission  from  the  king. 
For  know,  my  lords,  the  states  of  Christendom, 
Mov'd  with  remorse  of  these  outrageous  broils, 
Have  earnestly  implor'd  a  general  peace 
Betwixt  our  nation  and  the  aspiring  French ; 
And  here  at  hand  the  Dauphin  and  his  train 
Approacheth,  to  confer  about  some  matter. 

York.  Is  all  our  travail  turn'd  to  this  effect? 
After  the  slaughter  of  so  many  peers, 
So  many  captains,  gentlemen,  and  soldiers, 
That  in  this  quarrel  have  been  overthrown, 
And  sold  their  bodies  for  their  country's  benefit, 
Shall  we  at  last  conclude  effeminate  peace? 
Have  we  not  lost  most  part  of  all  the  towns, 
By  treason,  falsehood,  and  by  treachery, 
Our  great  progenitors  had  conquered? — 
O  Warwick,  Warwick  !  I  foresee  with  grief 
The  utter  loss  of  all  the  realm  of  France. 

War.  Be  patient,  York :    if  we  conclude  a 
peace,  [nants 

It  shall  be  with  such  strict  and  severe  cove- 
As  little  shall  the  Frenchmen  gain  thereby. 

Enter  CHARLES,  attended;  ALENCON, 

BASTARD,  REIGNIER,  and  others. 
Char.  Since,  lords   of  England,  it   is  thus 
agreed  [France, 

That   peaceful   truce   shall   be    proclaim'd   in 


We  come  to  be  informed  by  yourselves 
What  the  conditions  of  that  league  must  be. 

York.  Speak,  Winchester;  for  boiling  choler 

chokes 

The  hollow  passage  of  my  prison'd  voice, 
By  sight  of  these  our  baleful  enemies. 

Car.  Charles,  and  the  rest,  it  is  enacted  thus : 
That  in  regard  King  Henry  gives  consent, 
Of  mere  compassion  and  of  lenity, 
To  ease  your  country  of  distressful  war, 
And  suffer  you  to  breathe  in  fruitful  peace, — 
You  shall  become  true  liegemen  to  his  crown : 
And,  Charles,  upon  condition  thou  wilt  swear 
To  pay  him  tribute  and  submit  thyself, 
Thou  shall  be  plac'd  as  viceroy  under  him, 
And  still  enjoy  thy  regal  dignity.  [self? 

Alen.  Must  he  be,  then,  as  shadow  of  hirr.- 
Adorn  his  temples  with  a  coronet, 
And  yet,  in  substance  and  authority, 
Retain  but  privilege  of  a  private  man  ? 
This  proffer  is  absurd  and  reasonless.       [sess'd 

Char.   'Tis  known  already  that  I  am  pos- 
With  more  than  half  the  Gallian  territories, 
And  therein  reverenc'd  for  their  lawful  king : 
Shall  I,  for  lucre  of  the  rest  unvanquish'd, 
Detract  so  much  from  that  prerogative 
As  to  be  call'd  but  viceroy  of  the  whole? 
No,  lord  ambassador;  I'll  rather  keep 
That  which  I  have  than,  coveting  for  more, 
Be  cast  from  possibility  of  all. 

York.   Insulting  Charles !  hast  thou  by  secret 

means 

Us'd  intercession  to  obtain  a  league, 
And  now  the  matter  grows  to  compromise 
Stand'st  thou  aloof  upon  comparison? 
Either  accept  the  title  thou  usurp'st, 
Of  benefit  proceeding  from  our  king, 
And  not  of  any  challenge  of  desert, 
Or  we  will  plague  thee  with  incessant  wars. 

Reig.  My  lord,  you  do  not  well  in  obstinacy 
To  cavil  in  the  course  of  this  contract : 
If  once  it  be  neglected,  ten  to  one 
We  shall  not  find  like  opportunity. 

Alen.  To  say  the  truth,  it  is  your  policy 
To  save  your  subjects  from  such  massacre 
And  ruthless  slaughters  as  are  daily  seen 
By  our  proceeding  in  hostility ; 
And  therefore  take  this  compact  of  a  truce, 
Although   you   break   it   when   your   pleasure 
serves.  [Aside  to  CHARLES. 

War.  How  say'st  thou,  Charles?  shall  our 
condition  stand? 

Char.  It  shall; 

Only  reserv'd,  y,<u  claim  no  interest 
In  any  of  our  towns  of  garrison. 

York.  Then  swear  allegiance  to  his  majesty, 
As  thou  art  knight,  never  to  disobey 


598 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  v. 


Nor  be  rebellious  to  the  crown  of  England, — 
Thou,  nor  thy  nobles,  to  the  crown  of  England. 
[CHARLES  and  the  rest  give  tokens  of  fealty. 
So,  now  dismiss  your  army  when  ye  please ; 
Hang  up  your  ensigns,  let  your  drums  be  still, 
For  here  we  entertain  a  solemn  peace. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  V. — LONDON.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  KING  HENRY,  in  conference  with 
SUFFOLK  ;  GLOSTER  and  EXETER  follow- 
ing. 

K*  Hen.  Your   wondrous   rare  description, 

noble  earl, 

Of  beauteous  Margaret  hath  astonish'd  me : 
Her  virtues,  graced  with  external  gifts, 
Do  breed  love's  settled  passions  in  my  heart : 
And  like  as  rigour  of  tempestuous  gusts 
Provokes  the  mightiest  hulk  against  the  tide, 
So  am  I  driven,  by  breath  of  her  renown, 
Eitfrer  to  suffer  shipwreck  or  arrive 
Where  I  may  have  fruition  of  her  love.       [tale 

Suf.  Tush,  my  good  lord, — this  superficial 
Is  but  a  preface  of  her  worthy  praise : 
The  chief  perfections  of  that  lovely  dame, — 
Had  I  sufficient  skill  to  utter  them, — 
Would  make  a  volume  of  enticing  lines, 
Able  to  ravish  any  dull  conceit : 
And,  which  is  more,  she  is  not  so  divine, 
So  full-replete  with  choice  of  all  delights, 
But,  with  as  humble  lowliness  of  mind, 
She  is  content  to  be  at  your  command ; 
Command,  I  mean,  of  virtuous  chaste  intents, 
To  love  and  honour  Henry  as  her  lord. 

K.  Hen.  And  otherwise  will  Henry  ne'er  pre- 
sume. 

Therefore,  my  lord  protector,  give  consent 
That  Margaret  may  be  England's  royal  queen. 

Glo.  So  should  I  give  consent  to  flatter  sin. 
You  know,  my  lord,  your  highness  is  betroth'd 
Unto  another  lady  of  esteem :  [tract, 

How  shall  we,  then,  dispense  with  that  con- 
And  not  deface  your  honour  with  reproach? 

Suf.  As  doth  a  ruler  with  unlawful  oaths ; 
Or  one  that,  at  a  triumph  having  vow'd 
To  try  his  strength,  forsaketh  yet  the  lists 
By  reason  of  his  adversary's  odds : 
A  poor  earl's  daughter  is  unequal  odds, 
And  therefore  may  be  broke  without  offence. 

Glo.  Why,  what,  I  pray,  is  Margaret  more 

than  that? 

Her  father  is  no  better  than  ar  earl, 
Although  in  glorious  titles  he  excel. 

Suf.  Yes,  my  lord,  her  father  is  a  king, 
The  King  of  Naples  and  Jerusalem ; 


And  of  such  great  authority  in  France 
As  his  alliance  will  confirm  our  pe?ce, 
And  keep  the  Frenchmen  in  allegiance. 

Glo.  And  so.  the  Earl  of  Armagnac  may  do, 
Because  he  is  near  kinsman  unto  Charles. 

Exe.  Beside,  his  wealth  doth  warrant  a  liberal 

dower ; 
While  Reignier  sooner  will  receive  than  give. 

Suf.  A  dower,  my  lords !    disgrace  not  so 

your  king, 

That  he  should  be  so  abject,  base,  and  poor, 
To  choose  for  wealth,  and  not  for  perfect  love. 
Henry  is  able  to  enrich  his  queen, 
And  not  to  seek  a  queen  to  make  him  rich : 
So  worthless  peasants  bargain  for  their  wives, 
As  market-men  for  oxen,  sheep,  or  horse. 
Marriage  is  a  matter  of  more  worth 
Than  to  be  dealt  in  by  attorneyship ; 
Not  whom  we  will,  but  whom  his  grace  affects, 
Must  be  companion  of  his  nuptial  bed : 
And  therefore,  lords,  since  he  affects  her  most, 
It  most  of  all  these  reasons  bindeth  us 
In  our  opinions  she  should  be  preferr'd. 
For  what  is  wedlock  forced  but  a  hell, 
An  age  of  discord  and  continual  strife? 
Whereas  the  contrary  bringeth  bliss, 
And  is  a  pattern  of  celestial  peace. 
Whom  should  we  match  with  Henry,  being  a 

king, 

But  Margaret,  that  is  daughter  to  a  king? 
Her  peerless  feature,  joined  with  her  birth, 
Approves  her  fit  for  none  but  for  a  king : 
Her  valiant  courage  and  undaunted  spirit, — 
More  than  in  women  commonly  is  seen, — 
Will  answer  our  hope  in  issue  of  a  king ; 
For  Henry,  son  unto  a  conqueror, 
Is  likely  to  beget  more  conquerors, 
If  with  a  lady  of  so  high  resolve 
As  is  fair  Margaret  he  be  link'd  in  love.      [me 
Then  yield,  my  lords ;  and  here  conclude  with 
That  Margaret  shall  be  queen,  and  none  but 
she. 

K.  Hen.  Whether  it  be  through  force  of  your 

report, 

My  noble  Lord  of  Suffolk,  or  for  that 
My  tender  youth  was  never  yet  attaint 
With  any  passion  of  inflaming  love, 
I  cannot  tell ;  but  this  I  am  assur'd, 
I  feel  such  sharp  dissension  in  my  breast, 
Such  fierce  alarums  both  of  hope  and  fear, 
As  I  am  sick  with  working  of  my  thoughts. 
Take  therefore  shipping;    post,  my  lord,   to 

France ; 

Agree  to  any  covenants ;  and  procure 
That  Lady  Margaret  do  vouchsafe  to  come 
To  cross  the  seas  to  England,  and  be  crown'd 
King  Henry's  faithful  and  anointed  queen : 


SCENE  V.] 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


599 


For  your  expenses  and  sufficient  charge, 
Among  the  people  gather  up  a  tenth. 
Be  gone,  I  say;  for,  till  you  do  return, 
I  rest  perplexed  with  a  thousand  cares. — 
And  you,  good  uncle,  banish  all  offence : 
If  you  do  censure  me  by  what  you  were, 
Not  what  you  are,  I  know  it  will  excuse 
This  sudden  execution  of  my  will. 
And  so,  conduct  me  where,  from  company, 
I  may  revolve  and  ruminate  my  grief.      {Exit. 


Glo.  Ay,  grief,  I  fear  me,  both  at  first  and  last. 

[Exeunt  GLOSTER  and  EXETER. 

Suf.  Thus  Suffolk  hath  prevail'd ;  and  thus 

he  goes, 

As  did  the  youthful  Paris  once  to  Greece, 
With  hope  to  find  the  like  event  in  love, 
But  prosper  better  than  the  Trojan  did. 
Margaret  shall  now  be  queen,  and  rule  the  king; 
But  I  will  rule  both  her,  the  king,  and  realm. 

[Exif. 


ben  1 


/tiA 


SECOND  PART  OF 

KING   HENRY   VL 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 
HUMPHREY,  Duke  of  Gloster,  his  Uncle. 
CARDINAL  BEAUFORT,  Bishop  of  Winchester 

Great- Uncle  to  the  KING. 
RICHARD  PLANTAGENET,  Duke  of  York. 
EDWARD  and  RICHARD,  his  Sons. 
DUKE  OF  SOMERSET,  -\ 

DUKE  OF  SUFFOLK,  -    , 

DUKE  OF  BUCKINGHAM,       I  °f  ** 
LORD  CLIFFORD, 
YOUNG  CLIFFORD,  his  Son,] 
EARL  OF  SALISBURY,  \   ,  , 
EARL  OF  WARWICK,  }°fthe 
LORD  SCALES,  Governor  of  the  Tower. 
LORD  SAY. 

SIR  HUMPHREY  STAFFORD. 
WILLIAM  STAFFORD,  his  Brother. 
SIR  JOHN  STANLEY, 
A  Sea  Captain,  Master,  and  Master's   Mate 

and  WALTER  WHITMORE. 
Two  Gentlemen,  Prisoners  with  SUFFOLK. 
VAUX. 
A  Herald. 


HUME  and  SOUTHWELL,  two  Priests* 

BOLINGBROKE,  a  Conjuror. 

A  Spirit  raised  by  him. 

THOMAS  HORNER,  an  Armourer. 

PETER,  his  Man. 

Clerk  of  Chatham. 

Mayor  of  Saint  Alban's. 

SIMPCOX,  an  Impostor. 

Two  Murderers. 

JACK  CADE,  a  Rebel. 

GEORGE,  JOHN,  DICK,  SMITH  the  Weaver^ 

MICHAEL,  &c.,  his  followers. 
ALEXANDER  IDEN,  a  Kentish  Gentleman. 

MARGARET,  Queen  to  KING  HENRY. 
ELEANOR,  Duchess  of  Gloster. 
MARGERY  JOURDAIN,  a  Witch. 
Wife  to  SIMPCOX. 


Lords,  Ladies,  and  Attendants;  Petitioners, 
Aldermen,  a  Beadle,  Sheriff,  and  Officers,* 
Citizens,  Prentices,  Falconers,  Guards, 
Soldiers,  Messengers,  &c. 

SCENE, — Dispersedly  in  variotis  parts  0/ ENGLAND. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — LONDON.     A  Room  of  State  in  the 
Castle. 

Flourish  of  trumpets :  then  hautboys.  Enter, 
on  one  side,  KING  HENRY,  DUKE  OF 
GLOSTER,  SALISBURY,  WARWICK,  and 
CARDINAL  BEAUFORT;  on  the  other,  QUEEN 
MARGARET,  led  in  by  SUFFOLK;  YORK, 
SOMERSET,  BUCKINGHAM,  and  others, 
following. 

Suf.  As  by  your  high  imperial  majesty 
I  had  in  charge  at  my  depart  for  France, 
As  procurator  to  your  excellence, 
To  marry  Princess  Margaret  for  your  grace ; 
So,  in  the  famous  ancient  city  Tours, — 
In  presence  of  the  Kings  of  France  and  Sicil, 
The  Dukes  of  Orleans,  Calaber,  Bretagne,  and 
Alencon, 


Seven  earls,  twelve  barons,  and  twenty  reverend 

bishops, 

I  have  perform'd  my  task,  and  was  espous'd: 
And  humbly  now,  upon  my  bended  knee, 
In  sight  of  England  and  her  lordly  peers, 
Deliver  up  my  title  in  the  queen  [stance 

To  your  most  gracious  hands,  that  are  the  sub- 
Of  that  great  shadow  I  did  represent ; 
The  happiest  gift  that  ever  marquis  gave, 
The  fairest  queen  that  ever  king  receiv'd. 
K.  Hen.    Suffolk,  arise. — Welcome,  Queen 

Margaret : 

I  can  express  no  kinder  sign  of  love  [life, 

Than  this  kind  kiss. — O  Lord,  that  lends  me 
Lend  me  a  heart  replete  with  thankfulness ! 
For  thou  hast  given  me,  in  this  beauteous  face, 
A  world  of  earthly  blessings  to  my  soul, 
If  sympathy  of  love  unite  our  thoughts. 

Q.  Mar.  Great  King  of  England,  and  my 

gracious  lord,— 
The  mutual  conference  that  my  mind  hath  had, 


SCENE  I.I 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


601 


By  day,  by  night,  waking  and  in  my  dreams, 
In  courtly  company  or  at  my  beads, 
With  you,  mine  alder-liefest  sovereign, 
Makes  me  the  bolder  to  salute  my  king 
With  ruder  terms,  such  as  my  wit  affords 
And  over-joy  of  heart  doth  minister,      [speech, 

K.  Hen.  Her  sight  did  ravish ;  but  her  grace  in 
Her  words  y-clad  with  wisdom's  majesty, 
Makes  me  from  wondering  fall  to  weeping  joys ; 
Such  is  the  fulness  of  my  heart's  content. — 
Lords,  with  one  cheerful   voice  welcome  my 
love. 

AIL  [Kneeling.'}  Long  live  Queen  Margaret, 
England's  happiness ! 

Q.  Mar.   We  thank  you  all.  [Flourish. 

Suf.  My  lord  protector,  so  it  please  your  grace, 
Here  are  the  articles  of  contracted  peace 
Between  our  sovereign  and  the  French  King 

Charles, 
For  eighteen  months  concluded  by  consent. 

Glo.  [Reads.]  Imprimis ~,  It  is  agreed  between 
the  French  King  Charles  and  William  De-la- 
Poole,  Marqtiess  of  Suffolk,  ambassador  for 
Henry  King  of  England,  thai  the  said  Henry 
shall  espouse  the  Lady  Margaret,  daughter  unto 
Reignier  King  of  Naples ,  Sicilia,  and  Jerusalem  ; 
and  crown  her  Queen  of  England  ere  the  thirtieth 
of  May  next  ensuing. — Item, — That  the  duchy  of 
Anjou  and  the  county  of  Maine  shall  be  released 
and  delivered  to  the  king  her  father, — 

K.  Hen.  Uncle,  how  now  ! 

Glo.  Pardon  me,  gracious  lord ; 

Some  sudden  qualm  hath  struck  me  at  the  heart, 
And  dimm'd  mine  eyes,   that  I  can  read  no 
further. 

K.  Hen.  Uncle  of  Winchester,  I  pray  read  on. 

Car.  [Reads. ~\  Item, — It  is  further  agreed  be- 
tween them  that  the  duchies  of  Anjou  and  Maine 
shall  be  released  and  delivered  over  to  the  king 
her  father;  and  she  sent  over  of  the  King  of 
England's  own  proper  cost  and  charges,  without 
having  any  dowry. 

K.  Hen.  They  please  us  well. — Lord  mar- 
quess, kneel  down : 

We  here  create  thee  the  first  Duke  of  Suffolk, 
A.nd  girt  thee  with  the  sword. — Cousin  of  York, 
We  here  discharge  your  grace  from  being  regent 
I'  the  parts  of  France,   till  term  of  eighteen 

months 

Be  full  expir'd.— Thanks,  uncle  Winchester, 
Gloster,  York,  Buckingham,  Somerset, 
Salisbury,  and  Warwick ; 
We  thank  you  all  for  this  great  favour  done, 
In  entertainment  to  my  princely  queen. 
Come,  let  us  in ;  and  with  all  speed  provide 
To  see  her  coronation  be  perform'd. 

[Exeunt  KING,  QUEEN,  and  SUFFOLK. 


Glo.  Brave  peers  of  England,  pillars  of  the 

state, 

To  you  Duke  Humphrey  must  unload  hisgrief, — 
Your  grief,  the  common  grief  of  all  the  land. 
What !  did  my  brother  Henry  spend  his  youth, 
His  valour,  coin,  and  people  in  the  wars? 
Did  he  so  often  lodge  in  open  field, 
In  winter's  cold  and  summer's  parching  heat, 
To  conquer  France,  his  true  inheritance? 
And  did  my  brother  Bedford  toil  his  wits 
To  keep  by  policy  what  Henry  got? 
Have  you  yourselves,  Somerset,  Buckingham, 
Brave  York,  Salisbury,  and  victorious  Warwick, 
Receiv'd  deep  scars  in  France  and  Normandy? 
Or  hath  mine  uncle  Beaufort  and  myself, 
With  all  the  learned  council  of  the  realm, 
Studied  so  long,  sat  in  the  council-house 
Early  and  late,  debating  to  and  fro  [a\vei 

How  France  and  Frenchmen  might  be  ktpt  ir 
And  hath  his  highness  in  his  infancy 
Been  crown'd  in  Paris,  in  despite  of  foes? 
And  shall  these  labours  and  these  honours  die? 
Shall  Henry's  conquest,  Bedford's  vigilance, 
Your  deeds  of  war,  and  all  our  counsel  die? 
O  peers  of  England,  shameful  is  this  league  I 
Fatal  this  marriage  !  cancelling  your  farce, 
Blotting  your  names  from  books  of  memory, 
Razing  the  characters  of  your  renown. 
Defacing  monuments  of  conquer'd  France, 
Undoing  all,  as  all  had  never  been ! 

Car.  Nephew,  what  means  this  passionate 

discourse, 

This  peroration  with  such  circumstance? 
For  France,  'tis  ours ;  and  we  will  keep  it  still 

Glo.  Ay,  uncle,  we  will  keep  it  if  we  can ; 
But  now  it  is  impossible  we  should : 
Suffolk,  the  new-made  duke  that  rules  the  roast, 
Hath  given  the  cuchy  of  Anjou  and  Maine 
Unto  the  poor  King  Reignier,  whose  large  style 
Agrees  not  with  the  leanness  of  his  purse. 

Sal.  Now,  by  the  death  of  Him  that  died  for 

all, 

These  counties  were  the  keys  of  Normandy : — 
But  wherefore  weeps  Warwick,  my  valiant  son? 

War.  For  grief  that  they  are  past  recovery : 
For  were  there  hope  to  conquer  them  again 
My  sword  should  shed  hot  blood,  mine  eyes 

no  tears. 

Anjou  and  Maine  !  myself  did  win  them  both  ; 
Those  provinces  these  arms  of  mine  did  conquer: 
And  are  the  cities  that  I  got  with  wounds 
Deliver'd  up  again  with  peaceful  words? 
Mart  Dieu  !  [cate 

York.  For  Suffolk 's  duke,  may  he  be  sufib- 
That  dims  the  honour  of  this  warlike  isle ! 
France  should  have  torn  and  rent  my  very  heart 
Before  I  would  have  yielded  to  this  league. 


6O2 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  i. 


I  never  read  but  England's  kings  have  had 
Large  sums  of  gold  and  dowries  with  their  wives ; 
And  our  King  Henry  gives  away  his  own, 
To  match  with  her  that  brings  no  vantages. 

Glo.  A  proper  jest,  and  never  heard  before, 
That  Suffolk  should  demand  a  whole  fifteenth 
For  costs  and  charges  in  transporting  her ! 
She  should  have  stay'd  in  France,  and  starv'd 

in  France, 
Before —  [hot : 

Car.  My  Lord  of  Gloster,  now  you  grow  too 
It  was  the  pleasure  of  my  lord  the  king. 

Glo.  My  Lord  of  Winchester,  I  know  your 

mind; 

'Tis  not  my  speeches  that  you  do  mislike, 
But  'tis  my  presence  that  doth  trouble  ye. 
Rancour  will  out :  proud  prelate,  in  thy  face 
I  see  thy  fury :  if  I  longer  stay 
We  shall  begin  our  ancient  bickerings. — 
Lordings,  farewell ;  and  say,  when  I  am  gone, 
I  prophesied  France  will  be  lost  ere  long. 

[Exit. 

Car.  So,  there  goes  our  protector  in  a  rage. 
'Tis  known  to  you  he  is  mine  enemy ; 
Nay,  more,  an  enemy  unto  you  all, 
And  no  great  friend,  I  fear  me,  to  the  king. 
Consider,  lords,  he  is  the  next  of  blood, 
And  heir-apparent  to  the  English  crown : 
Had  Henry  got  an  empire  by  his  marriage, 
And  all  the  wealthy  kingdoms  of  the  west, 
There 's  reason  he  should  be  displeas'd  at  it. 
Look  to  it,  lords ;  let  not  his  smoothing  words 
Bewitch  your  hearts ;  be  wise  and  circumspect. 
What  though  the  common  people  favour  him, 
Calling  him — Humphrey,   the  good  Duke  of 
Gloster;  [voice, 

Clapping  their  hands,  and  crying  with  loud 
fesu  maintain  your  royal  excellence! 
With  God  preserve  the  good  Duke  Humphrey! 
I  fear  me,  lords,  for  all  this  flattering  gloss, 
He  will  be  found  a  dangerous  protector. 

Buck.  Why  should  he  then  protect  our  sove- 
reign, 

He  being  of  age  to  govern  of  himself? — 
Cousin  of  Somerset,  join  you  with  me, 
And  altogether,  with  the  Duke  of  Suffolk, 
We  '11  quickly  hoise  Duke  Humphrey  from  his 
seat.  [delay ; 

Car.  This  weighty  business  will  not  brook 
I  '11  to  the  Duke  of  Suffolk  presently.      [Exit. 

Som.  Cousin  of  Buckingham,  though  Hum- 
phrey's pride 

And  greatness  of  his  place  be  grief  to  us, 
Yet  let  us  watch  the  haughty  cardinal : 
His  insolence  is  more  intolerable 
Than  all  the  princes  in  the  land  beside : 
If  Gloster  be  displac'd,  he  '11  be  protector. 


Buck.  Or  thou  or  I,  Somerset,  will  be  pro- 
tector, 
Despite  Duke  Humphrey  or  the  cardinal. 

{Exeunt  BUCKINGHAM  and  SOMERSET. 
Sal.  Pride  went  before,  ambition  follows  him. 
Whiles  these  do  labour  for  their  own  preferment, 
Behoves  it  us  to  labour  for  the  realm. 
I  never  saw  but  Humphrey  Duke  of  Gloster 
Did  bear  him  like  a  noble  gentleman. 
Oft  have  I  seen  the  haughty  cardinal, — 
More  like  a  soldier  than  a  man  o'  the  church, 
As  stout  and  proud  as  he  were  lord  of  all, — 
Swear  like  a  ruffian,  and  demean  himself 
Unlike  the  ruler  of  a  commonweal.— 
Warwick,  my  son,  the  comfort  of  my  age ! 
Thy  deeds,  thy  plainness,  and  thy  housekeeping, 
Hath  won  the  greatest  favour  of  the  commons, 
Excepting  none  but  good  Duke  Humphrey : — 
And,  brother  York,  thy  acts  in  Ireland, 
In  bringing  them  to  civil  discipline ; 
Thy  late  exploits  done  in  the  heart  of  France, 
When  thou  wert  regent  for  our  sovereign, 
Have  made  thee  fear'd  and  honour'd  of  the 

people : — 

Join  we  together  for  the  public  good 
In  what  we  can,  to  bridle  and  suppress 
The  pride  of  Suffolk  and  the  cardinal, 
With  Somerset's  and  Buckingham's  ambition; 
And,  as  we  may,  cherish  Duke  Humphrey's 

deeds 

While  they  do  tend  the  profit  of  the  land. 
War.  So  God  help  Warwick,  as  he  loves  the 

land 

And  common  profit  of  his  country !  [cause. 
York.  And  so  says  York,  for  he  hath  greatest 
Sal.  Then  let 's  make  haste  away  and  look 

unto  the  main.  [lost, — 

War.  Unto  the  main!   O  father,  Maine  is 

That  Maine  which  by  main  force  Warwick  did 

win,  [last ! 

And  would  have  kept  so  long  as  breath  did 
Main  chance,  father,  you  meant ;  but  I  meant 

Maine, — 
Which  I  will  win  from  France,  or  else  be  slain. 

{Exeunt  WARWICK,  and  SALISBURY. 
York.  Anjou  and  Maine  are  given  to  the 

French ; 

Paris  is  lost ;  the  state  of  Normandy 
Stands  on  a  tickle  point,  now  they  are  gone : 
Suffolk  concluded  on  the  articles ; 
The  peers  agreed ;  and  Henry  was  well  pleas'd 
To  change  two  dukedoms  for  a  duke's  fair 

daughter. 

I  cannot  blame  them  all:  what  is't  to  them? 
'Tis  thine  they  give  away,  and  not  their  own. 
Pirates  may  make  cheap  pennyworths  of  their 

pillage, 


SCENE  II.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  Vi. 


603 


And  purchase  friends,  and  give  to  courtezans, 
Still  revelling  like  lords  till  all  be  gone ; 
While  as  the  silly  owner  of  thf  goods 
Weeps  over  them,  and  wrings  his  hapless  hands, 
And  shakes  his  head,  and  trembling  stands  aloof, 
While  all  is  shar'd,  and  all  is  borne  away, 
Ready  to  starve,  and  dare  not  touch  his  own : 
So  York  must  sit,  and  fret,  and  bite  his  tongue, 
While  his  own  lands  are  bargain'd  for  and  sold. 
Methinks  the  realms  of  England,  France,  and 

Ireland 

Bear  that  proportion  to  my  flesh  and  blood 
As  did  the  fatal  brand  Althaea  burn'd 
Unto  the  prince's  heart  of  Calydon. 
Anjou  and  Maine  both  given  unto  the  French ! 
Cold  news  for  me ;  for  I  had  hope  of  France, 
Even  as  I  have  of  fertile  England's  soil. 
A  day  will  come  when  York  shall  claim  his  own ; 
And  therefore  I  will  take  the  Nevils'  parts, 
And   make   a  show  of  love   to   proud   Duke 

Humphrey, 

And,  when  I  spy  advantage,  claim  the  crown, 
For  that 's  the  golden  mark  I  seek  to  hit : 
Nor  shall  proud  Lancaster  usurp  my  right, 
Nor  hold  the  sceptre  in  his  childish  fist, 
Nor  wear  the  diadem  upon  his  head, 
Whose  church-like  humours  fit  not  for  a  crown. 
Then,  York,  be  still  awhile,  till  time  do  serve: 
Watch  thou  and  wake,  when  others  be  asleep, 
To  pry  into  the  secrets  of  the  state ; 
Till  Henry,  surfeiting  in  joys  of  love 
With  his  new  bride  and  England's  dear-bought 

queen, 

And  Humphrey  with  the  peers  be  fall'n  at  jars : 
Then  will  I  raise  aloft  the  milk-white  rose, 
With  whose  sweet  smell  the  air  shall  beperfum'd; 
And  in  my  standard  bear  the  arms  of  York, 
To  grapple  with  the  house  of  Lancaster ; 
And,  force  perforce,  I  '11  make  him  yield  the 

crown, 
Whose  bookish  rule  hath  pull'd  fair  England 

down.  [Exit. 


SCENE  II.— LONDON.     A  Room  in  the  DUKE 
OF  GLOSTER'S  House. 

Enter  GLOSTER  and  the  DUCHESS. 

Duch.  Why  droops  my  lord,  like  over-ripen'd 

corn 

Hanging  the  head  at  Ceres'  plenteous  load? 
Why  doth  the  great  Duke  Humphrey  knit  his 

brows, 

As  frowning  at  the  favours  of  the  world? 
Why  are  thine  eyes  fix'd  to  the  sullen  earth, 
Gazing  on  that  which  seems  to  dim  thy  sight? 


What  see'st  thou  there?   Kiiig  Henry's  diadem, 
Enchas'd  with  all  the  honours  of  the  world  ? 
If  so,  gaze  on,  and  grovel  on  thy  face 
Until  thy  head  be  circled  with  the  same. 
Put  forth  thy  hand,  reach  at  the  glorious  gold  : — 
What,  is 't  too  short?  I  '11  lengthen  it  with  mine ; 
And,  having  both  together  heav'd  it  up, 
We  '11  both  together  lift  our  heads  to  heaven ; 
And  never  more  abase  our  sight  so  low 
As  to  vouchsafe  one  glance  unto  the  ground. 
Glo.  O  Nell,  sweet  Nell,  if  thou  dost  love 

thy  lord, 

Banish  the  canker  of  ambitious  thoughts ! 
And  may  that  thought,  when  I  imagine  ill 
Against  my  king  and  nephew,  virtuous  Henry, 
Be  my  last  breathing  in  this  mortal  world  ! 
My  troublous  dream  this  night  doth  make  me 

sad. 
Duch.  What  dream'd  my  lord?  tell  me,  and 

I  '11  requite  it 

With  sweet  rehearsal  of  my  morning's  dream. 
Glo.   Methought  this  staff,  mine  office-badge 

in  court, 

Was  broke  in  twain ;  by  whom  I  have  forgot, 
But,  as  I  think,  it  was  by  the  cardinal  ; 
And  on  the  pieces  of  the  broken  wand 
Were  plac'd  the  heads  of  Edmund  Duke  of 

Somerset, 

And  William  De-la-Poole,  first  Duke  of  Suffolk. 
This  was  my  dream;   what  it  doth  bode  God 

knows. 

Duch.  Tut,  this  was  nothing  but  an  argument 
That  he  that  breaks  a  stick  of  Gloster's  grove 
Shall  lose  his  head  for  his  presumption. 
But  list  to  me,  my  Humphrey,  my  sweet  duke : 
Methought  I  sat  in  seat  of  majesty 
In  the  cathedral  church  of  Westminster, 
And  in  that  chair  where  kings  and  queens  are 

crown'd  ; 

Where  Henry  and  Dame  Margaret  kneel'dtome, 
And  on  my  head  did  set  the  diadem.       [right : 
Glo.  Nay,  Eleanor,  then  must  I  chide  out- 
Presumptuous  dame,  ill-nurtur'd  Eleanor  ! 
Art  thou  not  second  woman  in  the  realm, 
And  the  protector's  wife,  belov'd  of  him  ? 
Hast  thou  not  worldly  pleasure  at  command, 
Above  the  reach  or  compass  of  thy  thought  ? 
And  wilt  thou  still  be  hammering  treachery, 
To  tumble  down  thy  husband  and  thyself 
From  top  of  honour  to  disgrace's  feet  ? 
Away  from  me,  and  let  me  hear  no  more  ! 
Duch.  What,  what,  my  lord  !    are  you  so 

choleric 

With  Eleanor  for  telling  but  her  dream  ? 
Next  time  I  '11  keep  my  dreams  unto  myself, 
And  not  be  check'd. 

Glo.  Nay,  be  not  angry,  I  am  pleas'd  again. 


6o4 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  i. 


Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.   My  lord  protector,  'tis  his  highness' 

pleasure 

You  do  prepare  to  ride  unto  Saint  Albans, 
Whereas  the  king  and  queen  do  mean  to  hawk. 
Glo.  I  go. — Come,  Nell, — thou  wilt  ride  with 
us  ?  [sently. 

Diich.  Yes,  my  good  lord,  I  '11  follow  pre- 
[Exeunt  GLOSTER  and  Messenger. 
Follow  I  must ;  I  cannot  go  before 
While  Gloster  bears  this  base  and  humble  mind. 
Were  I  a  man,  a  duke,  and  next  of  blood, 
I  would  remove  these  tedious  stumbling-blocks, 
And  smooth  my  way  upcn  their  headless  necks  : 
And,  being  a  woman,  I  will  not  be  slack 
To  play  my  part  in  fortune's  pageant. — 
Where  are  you  there,  Sir  John  ?  nay,  fear  not, 

man, 
We  are  alone  ;  here 's  none  but  thee  and  I. 

Enter  HUME. 

Hume.  Jesus  preserve  your  royal  majesty ! 
Duck.  What  say'st  thou  ?  majesty  !    I  am  but 
grace.  [advice, 

Hume.  But,  by  the  grace  of  God  and  Hume's 
Your  grace's  title  shall  be  multiplied. 

Duck.  What  say'st  thou,  man  ?  hast  thou  as 

yet  conferr'd 

With  Margery  Jourdain,  the  cunning  witch, 
With  Roger  Bolingbroke,  the  conjurer? 
And  will  they  undertake  to  do  me  good  ? 
Hume.  This  they  have  promised, — to  show 

your  highness 

A  spirit  rais'd  from  depth  of  under-ground, 
That  shall  make  answer  to  such  questions 
As  by  your  grace  shall  be  propounded  him. 
Ditch.  It  is  enough  ;    I  '11  think  upon  the 

questions : 

When  from  Saint  Albans  we  do  make  return 
We  '11  see  these  things  effected  to  the  full. 
Here,  Hume,  take  this  reward;  make  merry, 

man. 
With  thy  confederates  in  this  weighty  cause. 

{Exit. 
Hume.    Hume  must  make  merry  with  the 

duchess'  gold ; 
Marry,  and  shall.     But,  how  now,  Sir  John 

Hume ! 

Seal  up  your  lips,  and  give  no  words  but  mum  : 
The  business  asketh  silent  secrecy. 
Dame  Eleanor  gives  gold  to  bring  the  witch  : 
Gold  cannot  come  amiss  were  she  a  devil. 
Yet  have  I  gold  flies  from  another  coast : — 
I  dare  not  say  from  the  rich  cardinal, 
And   from  the  great  and  new-made  Duke   of 
Suffolk ; 


Yet  I  do  find  it  so  :  for,  to  be  plain, 

They,  knowing  Dame  Eleanor's  aspiring  hum- 

our, 

Have  hired  me  to  undermine  the  duchess, 
And  buzz  these  conjurations  in  her  brain. 
They  say,  —  A  crafty  knave  does  need  no  broker  ; 
Yet  am  I  Suffolk  and  the  cardinal's  broker. 
Hume,  if  you  take  not  heed,  you  shall  go  near 
To  call  them  both  a  pair  of  crafty  knaves. 
Well,  so  it  stands;  and  thus,  I  fear,  at  last 
Hume's  knavery  will  be  the  duchess'  wreck, 
And  her  attainture  will  be  Humphrey's  fall  : 
Sort  how  it  will,  I  shall  have  gold  for  all. 


«A 


SCENE  III.  —  LONDON.    A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  PETER  and  other  Petitioners. 

1  Pet.   My  masters,  let  's  stand  close  :  my  lord 
protector  will  co^ie  this  way  by  and  by,  and  then 
we  may  deliver  our  supplications  in  the  quill. 

2  Pet.  Marry,  the  Lord  protect  him,  for  he  's 
a  good  man  !    Jesu  bless  him  ! 

1  Pet.   Here   'a  comes,  methinks,  and  the 
queen  with  him.     I  '11  be  the  first,  sure. 

Enter  SUFFOLK  and  QUEEN  MARGARET. 

2  Pet.  Come  back,  fool  ;  this  is  the  Duke  of 
Suffolk,  and  not  my  lord  protector. 

Suf.  How  now,  fellow  !  wouldst  anything 
with  me? 

I  Pet.  I  pray,  my  lord,  pardon  me  ;  I  took 
ye  for  my  lord  protector. 

Q.  Mar.  [  Glancing  at  the  superscriptions.  ]  To 
my  Lord  Protector  !  Are  your  supplications  to 
his  lordship?  Let  me  see  them  :  —  what  is  thine  ? 

1  Pet.   Mine  is,  an  't  please  your  grace,  against 
John  Goodman,  my  lord  cardinal's  man,  for  keep- 
ing my  house,  and  lands,  and  wife  and  all,  from 
me. 

Suf.  Thy  wife  too  !  that  is  some  wrong  in- 
deed. —  What  's  yours  ?  —  What  's  here  !  [Reads.  ] 
Against  the  Duke  of  Siiffolk,  for  enclosing  the 
commons  of  Melford.  —  How  now,  sir  knave  ! 

2  Pet.  Alas,  sir,  I  am  but  a  poor  petitioner  of 
our  whole  township. 

Peter.  [Presenting  his  petition.]  Against  my 
master,  Thomas  Horner,  for  saying  that  the  Duke 
of  York  was  rightful  heir  to  the  crown. 

Q.  Afar.  What  say'st  thou?  did  the  Duke  of 
York  say  he  was  rightful  heir  to  the  crown? 

Peter.  That  my  master  was?  no,  forsooth: 
my  master  said  that  he  was  ;  and  that  the  king 
was  an  usurper. 

Suf.  Who  is  there  ?  [Enter  Servants.  ]  —  Take 
this  fellow  in,  and  send  for  his  master  with  a 


SCENE  III.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


605 


pursuivant  presently  : — we  '11  hear  more  of  your 
matter  before  the  king. 

[Exeunt  Servants  with  PETER. 

Q.  Mar.  And  as  for  you,  that  love  to  be  pro- 
tected 

Under  the  wings  of  our  protector's  grace, 
Begin  your  suits  anew,  and  sue  to  him. 

[  Tears  the  petitions. 
Away,  base  cullions ! — Suffolk,  let  them  go. 

All.  Come,  let 's  be  gone. 

[Exeunt  Petitioners. 

Q.  Mar.  My  Lord  of  Suffolk,  say,  is  this  the 

guise, 

Is  this  the  fashion  in  the  court  of  England  ? 
Is  this  the  government  of  Britain's  isle, 
And  this  the  royalty  of  Albion's  king  ? 
What,  shall  King  Henry  be  a  pupil  still, 
Under  the  surly  Gloster's  governance  ? 
Am  I  a  queen  in  title  and  in  style, 
And  must  be  made  a  subject  to  a  duke  ? 
I  tell  thee,  Poole,  when  in  the  city  Tours 
Thou  rann'st  a  tilt  in  honour  of  my  love, 
And  stol'st  away  the  ladies'  hearts  of  France, 
I  thought  King  Henry  had  resembled  thee 
In  courage,  courtship,  and  proportion  : 
But  all  his  mind  is  bent  to  holiness, 
To  number  Ave-Maries  on  his  beads : 
His  champions  are,  the  prophets  and  apostles  ; 
His  weapons,  holy  saws  of  sacred  writ ; 
His  study  is  his  tilt-yard,  and  his  loves 
Are  brazen  images  of  canoniz'd  saints. 
I  would  the  college  of  the  cardinals 
Would  choose  him  pope,  and  carry  him  to  Rome, 
And  set  the  triple  crown  upon  his  head  : — 
That  were  a  state  fit  for  his  holiness. 

Suf.   Madam,  be  patient:  as  I  was  cause 
Your  highness  came  to  England,  so  will  I 
In  England  work  your  grace's  full  content. 

Q.  Mar.  Beside  the  haughty  protector,  have 

we  Beaufort  [ham, 

The  imperious  churchman,  Somerset,  Bucking- 

And  grumbling  York ;  and  not  the  least  of  these 

But  can  do  more  in  England  than  the  king. 

Suf.  And  he  of  these  that  can  do  most  of  all 
Cannot  do  more  in  England  than  the  Nevils : 
Salisbury  and  Warwick  are  no  simple  peers. 

Q.  Mar.  Not  all  these  lords  do  vex  me  half 

so  much 

As  that  proud  dame,  the  lord  protector's  wife. 
She  sweeps  it  through  the  court  with  troops  of 
ladies,  [wife : 

More  like  an  empress  than  Duke  Humphrey's 
Strangers  in  court  do  take  her  for  the  queen  : 
She  bears  a  duke's  revenues  on  her  back, 
And  in  her  heart  she  scorns  our  poverty : 
Shall  I  not  live  to  be  aveng'd  on  her  ? 
Contemptuous  base-born  callet  as  she  is, 


She  vaunted  'mongst  her  minions  t'  other  day 
The  very  train  of  her  worst  wearing  gown 
Was  better  worth  than  all  my  father's  lands, 
Till  Suffolk  gave  two  dukedoms  for  his  daughter. 
Suf.   Madam,  myself  have  lim'dabushforher, 
And  plac'd  a  quire  of  such  enticing  birds 
That  she  will  light  to  listen  to  the  lays, 
And  never  mount  to  trouble  you  again. 
So,  let  her  rest :  and,  madam,  list  to  me  ; 
For  I  am  bold  to  counsel  you  in  this. 
Although  we  fancy  not  the  cardinal, 
Yet  must  we  join  with  him  and  with  the  lords, 
Till  we  have  brought  Duke  Humphrey  in  dis- 
grace. 

As  for  the  Duke  of  York, — this  late  complaint 
Will  make  but  little  for  his  benefit. 
So,  one  by  one,  we  '11  weed  them  all  at  last, 
And  you  yourself  shall  steer  the  happy  helm. 

Enter  KING  HENRY,  YORK,  and  SOMERSET  ; 
DUKE  and  DUCHESS  OF  GLOSTER,  CAR- 
DINAL  BEAUFORT,   BUCKINGHAM,   SALIS- 
BURY, and  WARWICK. 
K.  Hen.  For  my  part,  noble  lords,   I  care 

not  which ; 
Or  Somerset  or  York,  all 's  one  to  me. 

York.  If  York  have  ill  demean'd  himself  in 

France, 
Then  let  him  be  denay'd  the  regentship. 

Som.  If  Somerset  be  unworthy  of  the  place, 
Let  York  be  regent ;  I  will  yield  to  him.     [no, 
War.  Whether  your  grace  be  worthy,  yea  or 
Dispute  not  that :  York  is  the  worthier. 

Car.  Ambitious   Warwick,    let   thy  betters 

speak. 
War.  The  cardinal's  not  my  better  in  the 

field. 
Buck.  All  in  this  presence  are  thy  betters, 

Warwick. 

War.  Warwick  may  live  to  be  the  best  of  all. 
Sal.  Peace,  son ! — and  show  some  reason, 

Buckingham, 

Why  Somerset  should  be  preferr'd  in  this. 
Q.  Mar.  Because   the   king,    forsooth,    will 

have  it  so. 

Glo.  Madam,  the  king  is  old  enough  himself 

To  give  his  censure:    these  are  no  women's 

matters.  [grace 

Q.  Mar.  If  he  be  old  enough,  what  needs  your 

To  be  protector  of  his  excellence  ? 

Glo.  Madam,  I  am  protector  of  the  realm ; 
And,  at  his  pleasure,  will  resign  my  place. 

Sitf.  Resign  it  then,  and  leave  thine  insolence. 
Since  thou  wert  king, — as  who   is   king  but 

thou?— 

The  commonwealth  hath  daily  run  to  wreck ; 
The  Danphin  hath  prevail'd  beyond  the  seas ; 


6o6 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VL 


[ACT  I. 


And  all  the  peers  and  nobles  of  the  realm 
Have  been  as  bondmen  to  thy  sovereignty. 
Car.  The  commons  hast  thou  rack'd;    the 

clergy's  bags 

Are  lank  and  lean  with  thy  extortions. 
Sont.  Thy  sumptuous  buildings  and  thy  wife's 

attire 
Have  cost  a  mass  of  public  treasury. 

Buck.  Thy  cruelty  in  execution 
Upon  offenders  hath  exceeded  law, 
And  left  thee  to  the  mercy  of  the  law. 

Q.  Mar.  Thy  sale  of  offices  and  towns  in 

France, — 

If  they  were  known,  as  the  suspect  is  great, — 
Would   make   thee   quickly  hop  without   thy 
head. 
[Exit  GLOSTER.     The  QUEEN  drops 

her  fan. 

Give  me  my  fan:  what,  minion!  can  you  not? 
[Gives  the  DUCHESS  a  box  on  the  ear. 
I  cry  you  mercy,  madam ;  was  it  you? 

Duck.  Was 't  I?  yea,  I  it  was,  proud  French- 
woman : 

Could  I  come  near  your  beauty  with  my  nails, 
I  'd  set  my  ten  commandments  in  your  face. 
K.  Hen.  Sweet  aunt,  be  quiet ;  'twas  against 
her  will.  [in  time ; 

Duch.  Against  her  will !  good  king,  look  to 't 
She'll  hamper  thee,  and  dandle  thee  like  a 
baby :  [breeches, 

Though   in   this  place  most  master  wear   no 
She  shall  not  strike  Dame  Eleanor  unreveng'd. 

[Exit. 

Suck.  Lord  cardinal,  I  will  follow  Eleanor, 
And  listen  after  Humphrey,  how  he  proceeds : 
She 's  tickled  now ;  her  fume  needs  no  spurs, 
She  '11  gallop  fast  enough  to  her  destruction. 

[Exit. 

Re-enter  GLOSTER. 

Glo.  Now,  lords,  my  choler  being  over-blown 
With  walking  once  about  the  quadrangle, 
I  come  to  talk  of  commonwealth  affairs. 
As  for  your  spiteful  false  objections, 
Prove  them,  and  I  lie  open  to  the  law: 
But  God  in  mercy  so  deal  with  my  soul 
As  I  in  duty  love  my  king  and  country ! 
But  to  the  matter  that  we  have  in  hand : — 
I  say,  my  sovereign,  York  is  meetest  man 
To  be  your  regent  in  the  realm  of  France. 

Suf.  Before  we  make  election,  give  me  leave 
To  show  some  reason,  of  no  little  force, 
That  York  is  most  unmeet  of  any  man. 

York.  I  '11  tell  thee,  Suffolk,  why  I  am  un- 
meet: 

First,  for  I  cannot  flatter  thee  in  pride ; 
Next,  if  I  be  appointed  for  the  place, 


My  Lord  of  Somerset  will  keep  me  here, 
Without  discharge,  money,  or  furniture, 
Till  France  be  won  into  the  Dauphin's  hands: 
Last  time,  I  danc'd  attendance  on  his  will 
Till  Paris  was  besieg'd,  famish'd,  and  lost. 

War.  That  can  I  witness ;  and  a  fouler  fact 
Did  never  traitor  in  the  land  commit. 

Suf.  Peace,  headstrong  Warwick !      [peace  ? 

War.  Image  of  pride,  why  should  I  hold  my 

Enter  Servants  of  SUFFOLK,  bringing  in 
HORNER  and  PETER. 

Suf.  Because  here  is  a  man  accus'd  of  treason: 
Pray  God  the  Duke  of  York  excuse  himself! 

York.  Doth  any  one  accuse  York  for  a  traitor  ? 

K.  Hen.  What  mean'st  thou,  Suffolk?  tell 
me,  what  are  these  ? 

Suf.  Please  it  your  majesty,  this  is  the  man 
That  doth  accuse  his  master  of  high  treason : 
His  words  were  these, — that  Richard  Duke  of 

York 

Was  rightful  heir  unto  the  English  crown, 
And  that  your  majesty  was  an  usurper. 

K.  Hen.  Say,  man,  were  these  thy  words? 

Hor.  An 't  shall  please  your  majesty,  I  never 
said  nor  thought  any  such  matter:  God  is  my 
witness,  I  am  falsely  accused  by  the  villain. 

Pet.  By  these  ten  bones,  my  lords  [holding 
up  his  hands ,]  he  did  speak  them  to  me  in  the 
garret  one  night,  as  we  were  scouring  my  Lord 
of  York's  armour. 

York.  Base  dunghill  villain  and  mechanical, 
I  '11  have  thy  head  for  this  thy  traitor's  speech. — 
I  do  beseech  your  royal  majesty, 
Let  him  have  all  the  rigour  of  the  law. 

Hor.  Alas,  my  lord,  hang  me  if  ever  I  spake 
the  words.  My  accuser  is  my  prentice;  and 
when  I  did  correct  him  for  his  fault  the  other 
day,  he  did  vow  upon  his  knees  he  would  be  even 
with  me :  I  have  good  witness  of  this ;  there- 
fore I  beseech  your  majesty,  do  not  cast  away 
an  honest  man  for  a  villain's  accusation. 

K.  Hen.   Uncle,  what  shall  we  say  to  this  in 
law? 

Glo.  This  doom,  my  lord,  if  I  may  judge : 
Let  Somerset  be  regent  o'er  the  French, 
Because  in  York  this  breeds  suspicion ; 
And  let  these  have  a  day  appointed  them 
For  single  combat  in  convenient  place, 
For  he  hath  witness  of  his  servant's  malice: 
This  is  the  law,  and  this  Duke  Humphrey's 
doom. 

K.    Hen.    Then    be    it  so.— My   Lord  .of 

Somerset, 
We  make  your  grace  regent  over  the  French. 

Som.  I  humbly  thank  your  royal  majesty. 

Hor.  And  I  accept  the  combat  willingly. 


SCENE  IV.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


607 


Pet.  Alas,  my  lord,  I  cannot  fight ;  for  God's 

sake,  pity  my  case !  the  spite  of  man  prevaileth 

against  me.     O  Lord,  have  mercy  upon  me ! 

I  shall  never  be  able  to  fight  a  blow :  O  Lord, 

my  heart !  [hang'd. 

Glo.  Sirrah,  or  you  must  fight,  or  else  lie 

K.  Hen.  Away  with  them  to  prison ;  and  the 

day  [month. — 

Of   combat   shall    be    the    last   of    the    next 

Come,  Somerset,  we  '11  see  thee  sent  away. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— The  same.     The  DUKE  OF 
GLOSTER'S  Garden. 

Enter  MARGERY  JOURDAIN,  HUME,  SOUTH- 
WELL, and  BOLINGBROKE. 

Hume.  Come,  my  masters;  the  duchess,  I 
tell  you,  expects  performance  of  your  promises. 

Baling.  Master  Hume,  we  are  therefore  pro- 
vided :  will  her  ladyship  behold  and  hear  our 
exorcisms? 

Hume.  Ay,  what  else?  fear  you  not  her 
courage. 

Baling.  I  have  heard  her  reported  to  be  a 
woman  of  an  invincible  spirit :  but  it  shall  be 
convenient,  Master  Hume,  that  you  be  by  her 
aloft,  while  we  be  busy  below ;  and  so,  I  pray 
you,  go  in  God's  name,  and  leave  us.  [Exit 
HUME.]  Mother  Jourdain,  be  you  prostrate, 
and  grovel  on  the  earth ;— John  Southwell,  read 
yor.; — and  let  us  to  our  work. 

Enter  DUCHESS  above,  and  presently  HUME. 

Duck.  Well  said,  my  masters ;  and  welcome 

all. 
To  this  gear, — the  sooner  the  better. 

Baling.  Patience,  good  lady;  wizards  know 

their  times: 

Deep  night,  dark  night,  the  silent  of  the  night, 
The  time  of  night  when  Troy  was  set  on  fire ; 
The  time  when  screech-owls  cry,  and  ban-dogs 

howl, 
And  spirits  walk,  and  ghosts  break  up  their 

graves, — 

That  time  best  fits  the  work  we  have  in  hand. 
Madam,  sit  you,  and  fear  not :  whom  we  raise 
We  will  make  fast  wiftiin  a  hallow'd  verge. 
[Here  they  perform  the  ceremonies  appertain- 
ing, and  make  the  circle;  BOLINGBROKE 
or  SOUTHWELL  reads,  "Conjuro  te,"  &c. 
It  thunders  and  lightens  terribly ;   then 
the  Spirit  riseth. 
Spir.  Adsum. 
M.  Jourd.  Asmath, 
By  the  eternal  God,  whose  name  and  power 


Thou  tremblest  at,  answer  that  I  shall  ask ; 

For,  till  thou  speak,  thou  shalt  not  pass  from 

hence.  [and  done ! 

Spir.  Ask  what  thou  wilt :  that  I  had  said 

Baling.  First  of  the  king:  what  shall  of  him 

become  ?          [Reading  out  of  a  paper. 

Spir.  The  duke  yet  lives  that  Henry  shall 

depose ; 
But  him  outlive,  and  die  a  violent  death. 

[As  the  Spirit  speaks,  SOUTHWELL 

writes  the  answers. 

Baling.  What  fates  await  the  Duke  of  Suffolk  ? 
Spir.  By  water  shall  he  die  and  take  his  end. 
Baling.  What  shall  befall  the  Duke  of  Somer- 
set? 

Spir.  Let  him  shun  castles ; 
Safer  shall  he  be  upon  the  sandy  plains 
Than  where  castles  mounted  stand. — 
Have  done,  for  more  I  hardly  can  endure. 
Baling.   Descend  to  darkness  and  the  bum- 
ing  lake ! 
False  fiend,  avoid ! 

[Thunder  and  lightning.     Spirit  descends. 

Enter  YORK  and  BUCKINGHAM  hastily,  with 
their  Guards  and  others. 

York.  Lay  hands  upon  these   traitors  and 

their  trash. — 

Beldam,  I  think  we  watch'd  you  at  an  inch. — 
What,  madam,  are  you  there?   the  king  and 

commonweal 

Are  deeply  indebted  for  this  piece  of  pains : 
My  lord  protector  will,  I  doubt  it  not, 
See  you  well  guerdon'd  for  these  good  deserts. 
Duch.  Not  half  so  bad  as  thine  to  England's 

king, 

Injurious  duke,  that  threatest  where 's  no  cause. 

Buck.  True,  madam,  none  at  all : — what  call 

you  this?        [Showing  her  the  papers. 

Away  with  them !  let  them  be  clapp'd  up  close, 

And  kept  asunder. — You,  madam,  shall  with 

us. — 

Stafford,  take  her  to  thee. — 
We  '11  s?e  your  trinkets  here  all  forthcoming. — 
All,  away! 

[Exeunt,  above,  DUCHESS  and  HUME, 
guarded;  below,  SOUTH.,  BOLING., 
&c.,  guarded. 
York.    Lord    Buckingham,    methinks    you 

watch'd  her  well : 

A  pretty  plot,  well  chosen  to  build  upon ! 
Now,  pray,  my  lord,  let 's  see  the  devil's  writ. 
What  have  we  here?  [Reads. 

The  duke  yet  lives  that  Henry  shall  depose  ; 
But  him  outlive,  and  die  a  violent  death. 
Why,  this  is  just, 
Aio  te,  &acida,  Romanes  vincere  posse. 


6o8 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  ii. 


Well,  to  the  rest : 

Tell  me  what  fate  awaits  the  Duke  of  Suffolk? 

By  water  shall  he  die  and  take  his  end. — 

What  shall  betide  the  Duke  of  Somerset? 

Let  him  shun  castles; 

Safer  shall  he  be  upon  the  sandy  plains 

Than  where  castles  moiinted  stand. 

Come,  come,  my  lords ; 

These  oracles  are  hardly  attain'd, 

And  hardly  understood.  [Albans, 

The   king  is  now  in   progress    toward  Saint 

With  him  the  husband  of  this  lovely  lady : 

Thither  go  these  news,  as  fast  as  horse  can  carry 

them, — 
A  sorry  breakfast  for  my  lord  protector. 

Buck.  Your  grace  shall  give  me  leave,  my 

Lord  of  York, 
To  be  the  post,  in  hope  of  his  reward. 

York.  At  your  pleasure,   my  good  lord. — 
Who 's  within  there,  ho ! 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Invite  my  Lords  of  Salisbury  and  Warwick 
To  sup  with  me  to-morrow  night. — Away ! 

[Exeunt. 


ACTIL 

SCENE  I. — Saint  Albans. 

Enter  KING  HENRY,  QUEEN  MARGARET, 
GLOSTER,  CARDINAL,  and  SUFFOLK,  with 
Falconers  hollaing. 

Q.  Mar.  Believe  me,  lords,  for  flying  at  the 

brook, 

I  saw  not  better  sport  these  seven  years'  day : 
Yet,  by  your  leave,  the  wind  was  very  high ; 
And,  ten  to  one,  old  Joan  had  not  gone  out. 

K.  Hen.  But  what  a  point,  my  lord,  your 

falcon  made, 

And  what  a  pitch  she  flew  above  the  rest ! — 
To  see  how  God  in  all  his  creatures  works  ! 
Yea,  man  and  birds  are  fain  of  climbing  high. 

Suf.  No  marvel,  an  it  like  your  majesty, 
My  lord  protector's  hawks  do  tower  so  well ; 
They  know  their  master  loves  to  be  aloft, 
And  bears  his  thoughts  above  his  falcon's  pitch. 

Glo.  My  lord,  'tis  but  a  base  ignoble  mind 
That  mounts  no  higher  than  a  bird  can  soar. 

Car.  I  thought  as  much ;  he  would  be  above 
the  clouds.  [that? 

Glo.  Ay,  my  lord  cardinal,  — how  think  you  by 
Were  it  not  good  your  grace  could  fly  to  heaven? 

K.  Hen.  The  treasury  of  everlasting  joy ! 

Car.  Thy  heaven  is  on  earth ;  thine  eyes  and 
thoughts 


Beat  on  a  crown,  the  treasure  of  thy  heart ; 
Pernicious  protector,  dangerous  peer,      [weali 
That  smooth'st  it  so  with  king  and  common- 
Glo.  What,  cardinal,  is  your  priesthood  grown 

peremptory? 

Tantcene  animis  ccdestibus  irce?  [malice; 

Churchmen   so  hot?    good   uncle,   hide   such 
With  such  holiness  can  you  do  it?  [comes 

Suf.  No  malice,  sir;  no  more  than  well  be- 
So  good  a  quarrel  and  so  bad  a  peer. 
Glo.  As  who,  my  lord? 
Suf.  WThy,  as  you,  my  lord, 

An 't  like  your  lordly  lord-protectorship. 
Glo.  Why,    Suffolk,   England    knows   thine 

insolence. 

Q.  Mar.  And  thy  ambition,  Gloster. 
K.  Hen.  I  pr'ythee,  peace, 

Good  queen,  and  whet  not  on  these  furious  peers; 
For  blessed  are  the  peacemakers  on  earth. 

Car.  Let  me  be  blessed  for  the  peace  I  make, 
Against  this  proud  protector,  with  my  sword  ! 
Glo.   Faith,  holy  uncle,  would  'twere  come 
to  that !  [Aside  to  CAR. 

Car.   Marry,  when  thou  dar'st. 

[Aside  to  GLO. 
Glo.  Make  up  no  factious  numbers  for  the 

matter ; 
In  thine  own  person  answer  thy  abuse. 

[Aside  to  CAR. 
Car.  Ay,  where  thou  dar'st  not  peep:  an  if 

thou  dar'st, 
This  evening  on  the  east  side  of  the  grove. 

[Aside  to  GLO. 

K.  Hen.  How  now,  my  lords ! 
Car.  Believe  me,  cousin  Gloster, 

Had  not  your  man  put  up  the  fowl  so  suddenly, 
We  had  had  more  sport. — Come  with  thy  two- 
hand  sword.  [Aside  to  GLO. 
Glo.  True,  uncle. 

Car.  Are  ye  advis'd? — the  east  side  of  the 
grove?  [Aside  to  GLO. 

Glo.  Cardinal,  I  am  with  you. 

[Aside  to  CAR. 

K.  Hen.         Why,  how  now,  uncle  Gloster ! 
Glo.  Talking  of  hawking ;  nothing  else,  my 

lord. — 
Now,  by  God's  mother,  priest,  I  '11  shave  your 

crown  for  this, 
Or  all  my  fence  shall  fail.  [Aside  to  CAR. 

Car.  Medice  teipsum; 
Protector,  see  to 't  well,  protect  yourself. 

[Aside  to  GLO. 
K.  Hen.  The  winds  grow  high ;  so  do  your 

stomachs,  lords. 

How  irksome  is  this  music  to  my  heart ! 
When  such  strings  jar,  what  hope  of  harmony? 
I  pray,  my  lords,  let  me  compound  this  strife. 


SCENE  I.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


609 


Enter  a  Townsman  of  Saint  Albans,  crying 
"A  Miracle!" 

Glo.  What  me^ns  this  noise  ? 
Fellow,  what  miracle  dost  thou  proclaim? 

Towns.  A  miracle  !  a  miracle  ! 

Suf.  Come  to  the  king,  and  tell  him  what 
miracle.  [shrine, 

Towns.  Forsooth,  a  blind  man  at  St.  Albans' 
Within  this  half  hour  hath  receiv'd  his  sight ; 
A.  man  that  ne'er  saw  in  his  life  before. 

K.  Hen.  Now,  God  be  prais:d  that  to  believ- 
ing souls 
Gives  light  in  darkness,  comfort  in  despair  ! 

Enter  the  Mayor  of  St.  Albans  and  his 
brethren ;  and  SiMPCOX,  borne  between  two 
persons  in  a  chair ,  his  Wife  and  a  multitiide 
following. 

Car.  Here  come  the  townsmen  on  procession, 
To  present  your  highness  with  the  man. 

K.  Hen.   Great  is  his  comfort  in  this  earthly 

vale, 

Although  by  his  sight  his  sin  be  multiplied. 
Glo.  Stand  by,  my  masters  : — bring  him  near 

the  king ; 

His  highness'  pleasure  is  to  talk  with  h?m. 
K.  Hen.  Good  fellow,  tell  us  here  the  cir- 
cumstance, 

That  we  for  thee  may  glorify  the  Lord. 
What,  hast  thou  been  long  blind  and  now  re- 

stor'd  ? 

Simp.  Born  blind,  an 't  please  your  grace. 
Wife.  Ay,  indeed,  was  he. 
Suf.  What  woman  is  this  ? 
Wife.  His  wife,  an 't  like  your  worship, 
Glo.   Hadst  thou  been  his  mother,  thou couldst 

have  better  told. 

K.  Hen.  Where  wert  thou  born  ? 
Simp.  At  Berwick  in  the  north,  an 't  like  your 

grace. 
K.  Hen.  Poor  soul,  God's  goodness  hath  been 

great  to  thee : 

Let  never  day  nor  night  unhallow'd  pass, 
But  still  remember  what  the  Lord  hath  done. 
Q.  Mar.  Tell  me,  good  fellow,  cam'st  thou 

here  by  chance, 

Or  of  devotion,  to  this  holy  shrine  ?         [call'd 
Simp.  God  knows,  of  pure  devotion  ;  being 
A  hundred  times  and  oftener,  in  my  sleep, 
By  good  Saint  Alban  ;    who  said,  Simpcox, 

come, — 

Come,  offer  at  my  shrine,  and  I  will  help  thee. 
Wife.  Most  true,  forsooth ;  and  many  time 

and  oft 

Myself  have  heard  a  voice  to  call  him  so. 
Car.  What,  art  thou  lame  ? 


Simp.  Ay,  God  Almighty  help    me ! 

Suf.  How  cam'st  thou  so  ? 

Simp.  A  fall  off  a  tree. 

Wife.  A  plum-tree,  master. 

Glo.  How  long  hast  thou  been  blind  ? 

Simp.  O,  born  so,  master. 

Glo.  What,  and  wouldst  climb  a  tree  ? 

Simp.  But  that  in  all  my  life,  when  I  was  a 
youth.  [very  dear. 

Wife.  Too  true ;    and  bought  his  climbing 

Glo.    Mass,   thou  lov'dst   plums  well   that 
wouldst  venture  so. 

Simp.  Alas,  good  master,  my  wife  desir'd 

some  damsons, 
And  made  me  climb,  with  danger  of  my  life. 

Glo.  A  subtle  knave  !   but  yet  it  shall  not 
serve. —  [them: — 

Let  me  see  thine  eyes : — wink  now ; — now  open 
In  my  opinion  yet  thou  see'st  not  well. 

Simp.  Yes,  master,  clear  as  day,  I  thank  God 
and  Saint  Alban. 

Glo.  Say'st  thou  me  so?    What  colour  is  this 
cloak  of? 

Simp.  Red,  master  ;  red  as  blood. 

Glo.  Why,  that 's  well  said.    What  colour  is 
my  gown  of? 

Simp.  Black,  forsooth  ;  coal-black  as  jet 

K.  Hen.  Why,  then,  thou  know'st  what  colour 
jet  is  of? 

Suf.  And  yet,  I  think,  jet  did  he  never  see. 

Glo.  But  cloaks  and  gowns,  before  this  day, 
a  many. 

Wife.  Never,  before  this  day,  in  all  his  life. 

Glo.  Tell  me,  sirrah,  what 's  my  name? 

Simp.   Alas,  master,  I  know  not. 

Glo.  What  3s  his  name? 

Simp.   I  know  not. 

Glo.  Nor  his? 

Simp.  No,  indeed,  master. 

Glo.  What's  thine  own  name?          [master. 

Simp.  Saunder  Simpcox,  an  if  it  please  you, 

Glo.  Then,  Saunder,  sit  there,  the  lyingest 
knave  in  Christendom.  If  thou  hadst  been  born 
blind,  thou  mightst  as  well  have  known  all  our 
names  as  thus  to  name  the  several  colours  we 
do  wear.  Sight  may  distinguish  of  colours ;  but 
suddenly  to  nominate  them  all,  it  is  impossible. — 
My  lords,  Saint  Alban  here  hath  done  a  miracle ; 
and  would  ye  not  think  his  cunning  to  be  great 
that  could  restore  this  cripple  to  his  legs  again  ? 

Simp.  O  master,  that  ye  could ! 

Glo.  My  masters  of  Saint  Albans,  have  you  not 
beadles  in  your  town,  and  things  called  whips? 

May.  Yes,  my  lord,  if  it  please  your  grace. 

Glo.  Then  send  for  one  presently. 

May.    Sirrah,   go  fetch   the   beadle   hither 
straight.  {Exit  an  Attendant 

U 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  n. 


Glo.  Now  fetch  me  a  stool  hither  by  and  by. 
[A  stool  brought  out.]  Now,  sirrah,  if  you  mean 
to  save  yourself  from  whipping,  leap  me  over 
this  stool  and  run  away.  [alone : 

Simp.  Alas,  master,  I  am  not  able  to  stand 
You  go  about  to  torture  me  in  vain. 

Re-enter  Attendant,  with  the  Beadle. 

Glo.  Well,  sir,  we  must  have  you  find  your 
legs. — Sirrah  beadle,  whip  him  till  he  leap  over 
that  same  stool. 

Bead.  I  will,  my  lord. — Come  on,  sirrah ;  off 
with  your  doublet  quickly. 

Simp.  Alas,  master,  what  shall  I  do?  I  am 
not  able  to  stand. 

[After  the  Beadle  has  hit  him  oncet  he  leaps 

over  the  stool  and  runs  away;  and  the 

people  follow  and  cry  "A  Miracle!" 

A".  Hen.  O  God,  seest  thou  this,  and  bear'st 

so  long?  [run. 

Q.  Mar.  It  made  me  laugh  to  see  the  villain 

Glo.  Follow  the  knave ;  and  take  this  drab 

away. 

Wife.  Alas,  sir,  we  did  it  for  pure  need. 

Glo.   Let  them  be  whipped  through  every 

market  town,  till  they  come  to  Berwick,  whence 

they  came.    [Exeunt  Mayor,  Beadle,  Wife,  6rV. 

Car.  Duke  Humphrey  has  done  a  miracle 

to-day. 

Suf.  True;  made  the  lame  to  leap  and  flyaway. 

Glo.  But  you  have  done  more  miracles  than  I ; 

You  made  in  a  day,  my  lord,  whole  towns  to  fly. 

Enter  BUCKINGHAM. 

K.  Hen.  What  tidings  with  our  cousin  Buck- 
ingham? [fold. 

Buck.  Such  as  my  heart  doth  tremble  to  un- 
A  sort  of  naughty  persons,  lewdly  bent, — 
Under  the  countenance  and  confederacy 
Of  Lady  Eleanor,  the  protector's  wife, ' 
The  ringleader  and  head  of  all  this  rout, — 
Have  practis'd  dangerously  against  your  state, 
Dealing  with  witches  and  with  conjurers: 
Whom  we  have  apprehended  in  the  fact ; 
Raising  up  wicked  spirits  from  under  ground, 
Demanding  of  King  Henry's  life  and  death, 
And  other  of  your  highness'  privy  council, 
As  more  at  large  your  grace  shall  understand. 

Car.  And  so,  my  lord  protector,  by  this  means 
Your  lady  is  forthcoming  yet  at  London. 
This  news,  I  think,  hath  turn'd  your  we 

edge; 

'Tis  like,  my  lord,  you  will  not  keep  your  hour. 
[Aside  to  GLOSTER. 

Glo.  Ambitious  churchman,  leave  to  afflict 
my  heart: 


your  weapon  s 


Sorrow  and  grief  have  vanquish'd  all  my  powers; 

And,  vanquish'd  as  I  am,  I  yield  to  tnee, 

Or  to  the  meanest  groom.  [wicked  ones, 

K.  Hen.  O  God,  what  mischiefs  work  the 
Heaping  confusion  on  their  own  heads  thereby ! 

Q.  Mar.  Gloster,  see  here  the  tainture  of  thy 

nest; 
And  look  thyself  be  faultless,  thou  wert  best. 

Glo.  Madam,  for  myself  to  heaven  I  do  appeal, 
How  I  have  lov'd  my  king  and  commonweal : 
And  for  my  wife  I  know  not  how  it  stands ; 
Sorry  I  am  to  hear  what  I  have  heard : 
Noble  she  is ;  but  if  she  have  forgot 
Honour  and  virtue,  and  convers'd  with  such 
As,  like  to  pitch,  defile  nobility, 
I  banish  her  my  bed  and  company, 
And  give  her,  as  a  prey,  to  law  and  shame, 
That  hath  dishonour'd  Gloster's  honest  name. 

K.  Hen.  Well,  for  this  night  we  will  repose 

us  here : 

To-morrow  toward  London  back  again, 
To  look  into  this  business  thoroughly, 
And  call  these  foul  offenders  to  their  answers ; 
And  poise  the  cause  in  justice'  equal  scales, 
Whose  beam  stands  sure,  whose  rightful  cause 
prevails.  [Flourish.     Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.— LONDON.    Tht  DUKE  OF  YORK'S 
Garden. 

Enter  YORK,  SALISBURY,  and  WARWICK. 

York.  Now,  my  good  Lords  of  Salisbury  and 

Warwick, 

Our  simple  supper  ended,  give  me  leave, 
In  this  close  walk,  to  satisfy  myself, 
In  craving  your  opinion  of  my  title, 
Which  is  infallible,  to  England's  crown. 

Sal.   My  lord,  I  long  to  hear  it  at  full. 

War.  Sweet  York,  begin :  and  if  thy  claim 

be  good, 
The  Nevils  are  thy  subjects  to  command. 

York.  Then  thus: — 

Edward  the  Third,  my  lords,  had  seven  sons ; 
The  first,  Edward  the  Black  Prince,  Prince  of 

Wales; 

The  second,  William  of  Hatfield ;  and  the  third, 
Lionel  Duke  of  Clarence ;  next  to  whom 
Was  John  of  Gaunt,  the  Duke  of  Lancaster; 
The  fifth  was  Edmund  Langley,  Duke  of  York ; 
The  sixth  was  Thomas  of  Woodstock,  Duke  of 

Gloster ; 

William  of  Windsor  was  the  seventh  and  last. 
Edward  the  Black  Prince  died  before  his  father  , 
And  left  behind  him  Richard,  his  only  son, 
Who,  after  Edward  the  Third's  death,  reign'd 
as  king, 


SCENE  II.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


611 


Till  Henry  Bolingbroke,  Duke  of  Lancaster, 
The  eldest  son  and  heir  of  John  of  Gaunt, 
Crown'd  by  the  name  of  Henry  the  Fourth, 
Seiz'd  on  the  realm,  depos'd  the  rightful  king, 
Sent  his  poor  queen  to  France,  from  whence 

she  came, 

And  him  to  Pomfret, — where,  as  all  you  know, 
Harmless  Richard  was  murder'd  traitorously. 

War.  Father,  the  duke  hath  told  the  truth  ; 
Thus  got  the  house  of  Lancaster  the  crown. 
York.  Which  now  they  hold  by  force,  and  not 

by  right ; 

For  Richard,  the  first  son's  heir,  being  dead, 
The  issue  of  the  next  son  should  have  reign'd. 
Sal.  But  William  of  Hatfield  died  without  an 

heir. 
York.  The  third  son,  Duke  of  Clarence, — 

from  whose  line 
I   claim   the   crown, — had   issue    Philippe,   a 

daughter,  [March : 

Who    married    Edmund    Mortimer,    Earl    of 
Edmund  had  issue,  Roger  Earl  of  March  ; 
Roger  had  issue,  Edmund,  Anne,  and  Eleanor. 
Sal.  This  Edmund,  in  the  reign  of  Boling- 
broke, 

As  I  have  read,  laid  claim  unto  the  crown  ; 
And,  but  for  Owen  Glendower,  had  been  king, 
Who  kept  him  in  captivity  till  he  died. 
But,  to  the  rest. 

York.  PI  is  eldest  sister,  Anne, 

My  mother,  being  heir  unto  the  crown, 
Married  Richard  Earl  of  Cambridge  ;  who  was 

son  [son. 

To  Edmund  Langley,  Edward  the  Third's  fifth 
By  her  I  claim  the  kingdom  :  she  was  heir 
To  Roger  Earl  of  March ;  who  was  the  son 
Of  Edmund  Mortimer ;  who  married  Philippe, 
Sole  daughter  unto  Lionel  Duke  of  Clarence  : 
So,  if  the  issue  of  the  elder  son 
Succeed  before  the  younger,  I  am  king. 

War.  What  plain  proceeding  is  more  plain 

than  this  ? 

Henry  doth  claim  thecrown  from  Johnof  Gaunt, 
The  fourth  son  ;  York  claims  it  from  the  third. 
Till  Lionel's  issue  fails,  his  should  not  reign  : 
It  fails  not  yet,  but  flourishes  in  thee, 
And  in  thy  sons,  fair  slips  of  such  a  stock. — 
Then,  father  Salisbury,  kneel  we  together  j 
And  in  this  private  plot  be  we  the  first 
That  shall  salute  our  rightful  sovereign 
With  honour  of  his  birthright  to  the  crown. 
Both.  Long    live   our    sovereign    Richard, 

England's  king ! 
York.  We  thank  you,  lords.     But  I  am  not 

your  king  fstain'd 

Till   I   be   crown'd,    and   that   my   sword   be 
With  heart  blood  of  the  house  of  Lancaster ; 


And  that 's  not  suddenly  to  be  perform'd, 
But  with  advice  and  silent  secrecy. 
Do  you  as  I  do  in  these  dangerous  days : 
Wink  at  the  Duke  of  Suffolk's  insolence, 
At  Beaufort's  pride,  at  Somerset's  ambition, 
At  Buckingham,  and  all  the  crew  of  them, 
Till  they  have  snar'd  the  shepherd  of  the  flock, 
That  virtuous  prince,  the  good  Duke  Humphrey : 
'Tis  that  they  seek  ;  and  they,  in  seeking  that, 
Shall  find  their  deaths,  if  York  can  prophesy. 

Sal.  My  lord,  break  we  off;  we  know  your 
mind  at  full.  [Warwick 

War.  My  heart  assures  me  that  the  Earl  of 
Shall  one  day  make  the  Duke  of  York  a  king. 

York.  And,  Nevil,  this  I  do  assure  myself, — 
Richard  shall  live  to  make  the  Earl  of  Warwick 
The  greatest  man  in  England  but  the  king. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. — LONDON.     A  Hall  of  Justice. 

Trumpets  sounded.  Enter  KING  HENRY, 
QUEEN  MARGARET,  GLOSTER,  YORK,  SUF- 
FOLK, and  SALISBURY;  the  DUCHESS  OF 
GLOSTER,  MARGERY  JOURDAIN,  SOUTH- 
WELL, HUME,  and  BOLINGBROKE,  under 
guard. 

K.  Hen.  Stand  forth,  Dame  Eleanor  Cob- 
ham,  Gloster's  wife : 

In  sight  of  God  and  us,  your  guilt  is  great : 
Receive  the  sentence  of  the  law,  for  sins 
Such  as  by  God's  book  are  adjudg'd  to  death. — 
You  four,  from  hence  to  prison  back  again ; 

[To  JOURDAIN,  &c. 

From  thence  unto  the  place  of  execution : 
The  witch  In  Smithfield  shall  be  burn'd  to  ashes, 
And  you  three  shall  bestrangledon  thegallows. — 
You,  madam,  for  you  are  more  nobly  born, 
Despoiled  of  your  honour  in  your  life, 
Shall,  after  three  days'  open  penance  done, 
Live  in  your  country  here,  in  banishment, 
With  Sir  John  Stanley,  in  the  Isle  of  Man. 
Duch.    Welcome  is  banisnment;    welcome 
were  my  death.  [thee: 

Glo.  Eleanor,  the  law,  thouseest,  hath  judged 
I  cannot  justify  whom  the  law  condemns. — 

[Exeunt  the  DUCHESS  and  the  other 

Prisoners,  guarded. 

Mine  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of  grief. 
Ah,  Humphrey,  this  dishonour  in  thine  age 
Will  bring  thy  head  with  sorrow  to  the  ground! — 
I  beseech  your  majesty,  give  me  leave  to  go ; 
Sorrow  would  solace,  and  mine  age  would  ease. 
K.  Hen.  Stay,  Humphrey  Duke  of  Gloster: 

ere  thou  go, 
Give  up  thy  staff:  Henry  will  to  himself 


612 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  il. 


Protector  be ;  and  God  shall  be  my  hope, 
My  stay,  my  guide,  and  lantern  to  my  leet : 
And  go  in  peace,  Humphrey, — no  less  uelov'd 
Than  when  thou  wert  protector  tc  thy  king. 

Q.  Mar.  I  see  no  reason  why  a  king  of  years 
Should  be  tc  be  protected  like  a  child. — 
God  and  King  Hanry  govern  England's  helm! 
Give  up  your  staff,  sir,  and  ;he  king  his  realm. 
Glo.  My  staff!  here,  noble  Henry,  is  my  staff: 
As  willingly  do  I  the  same  resign 
As  ere  thy  father  Henry  made  it  mine; 
And  even  as  willingly  at  thy  feet  I  leave  it 
As  others  would  ambitiously  receive  it. 
Farewell,  good  king :  when  I  am  dead  and  gone, 
May  honourable  peace  attend  thy  throne  \ 

{Exit. 
Q.  Mar.    W^y,    now   is    Henry  king,    and 

Margaret  queen ; 

And  Humphrey  Duke  of  Gloster  scarce  himself, 
That  bears  so  shrewd  a  main;   two  pulls  at 

once, — 

His  lady  banish'd  and  a  limb  lopp'd  off: 
This  staff  of  honour  raught,  there  let  it  stand 
Where  it  best  fits  tc  be, — in  Henry's  hand. 
Suf.  Thus  droops  this  lofty  pine,  and  hangs 

his  sprays ; 

Thus  Eleanor's  pride  dies  in  her  youngest  days. 
York.  Lords,   let  him  go. — Please  it   your 

majesty, 

This  is  the  day  appointed  for  the  combat ; 
And  ready  are  the  appellant  and  defendant, 
The  armourer  and  his  man,  to  enter  the  lists, 
So  please  your  highness  to  behold  the  fight. 
Q.  Mar.  Ay,  good  my  lord;  for  purposely 

therefore 

Left  I  the  court,  to  see  this  quarrel  tried. 
K.  Hen.  O'  God's  name,  see  the  lists  and  all 

things  fit : 
Here  let  them  end  it ;  and  God  defend  the  right ! 

York.  I  never  saw  a  fellow  worse  bested, 
Or  more  afraid  to  fight,  than  is  the  appellant, 
The  servant  of  this  armourer,  my  lords. 

Enter ;  on  one  side,  HORNER  and  fits  Neighbours, 
drinking  to  him  so  much  that  he  is  drunk ;  and 
he  enters  bearing,  his  staff  with  a  sand-bag 
fastened  to  it ;  a  drum  before  him  :  at  the  other 
side,  PETER,  with  a  drum  and  a  similar  staff ; 
accompanied  by  Prentices  drinking  to  him. 

1  Neigh.  Here,  neighbour  Homer,  I  drink 
to  you  in  a  cup  of  sack ;  and  fear  not,  neighbour, 
you  shall  do  well  enough. 

2  Neigh.  And  here,  neighbour,  here 's  a  cup 
of  charneco. 

3  Neigh.  And  here 's  a  pot  of  good  double 
beer,  neighbour :  drink,  and  fear  not  your  man. 


Hor.  Let  fc  come,  i'  faith,  and  I  '11  pledge  you 
a'l ;  and  a  fig  for  Peter ! 

1  Pren.  Here,  Peter,  I  drink  to  thee :  and  be 
not  afraid. 

2  Pren.   Be  merry,  Peter,  and  fear  not  thy 
master :  fight  for  credit  of  the  prentices. 

Peter.  I  thank  you  all :  drink,  and  pray  for 
me,  I  pra>  you  ;  for  I  think  I  have  taken  my  last 
draught  in  this  world. — Here,  Robin,  an  if  I  die, 
1  give  thee  my  apron : — and,  Will,  thou  shalt 
have  my  hammer : — and  here,  Tom,  take  all  the 
money  that  I  have. — O  Lord  bless  me,  I  pray 
God !  for  I  am  never  able  to  deal  with  my  master, 
he  hath  learnt  sc  much  fence  already. 

Sal.  Come,  leave  your  drinking,  and  fall  to 
blows. — Sirrah,  what's  thy  name? 

Peter.  Peter,  forsooth. 

Sal.   Peter  !  what  more? 

Peter.  Thump. 

Sal.  Thump  J  then  see  thou  thump  thy  master 
well. 

Hor.  Masters,  I  am  come  hither,  as  it  were, 
upon  my  man's  instigation,  to  prove  him  a  knave 
and  myself  an  honest  man:  and  touching  the 
Duke  of  York,  I  will  take  my  death,  I  never 
meant  him  any  ill,  nor  the  king,  nor  the  queen: 
and  therefore,  Peter,  have  at  thee  with  a  down- 
right blow  1 

York.  Despatch : — this  knave's  tongue  begins 

to  double. — 

Sound,  trumpets,  alarum  to  the  combatants  ! 
[Alarum.     They  fight ',  and  PETER  strikes 
down  HORNER. 

Hor.  Hold,  Peter,  hold !  I  confess,  I  confess 
treason.  [Dies. 

York.  Take  away  his  weapon. — Fellow,  thank 
God,  and  the  good  wine  in  thy  master's  way. 

Peter.  O  God,  have  I  overcome  mine  enemy 
in  this  presence?  O  Peter,  thou  hast  prevailed 
in  right !  [sight ; 

K.  Hen.  Go,  take  hence  that  traitor  from  our 
For  by  his  death  we  do  perceive  his  guilt : 
And  God  in  justice  hath  reveai'd  to  us 
The  truth  and  innocence  of  this  poor  fellow, 
Which  he  had  thought  to  have  murder5  d  wrong- 
fully.— 
Come,  fellow,  follow  us  for  thy  reward. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — LONDON.     A  Street. 

Enter  GLOSTER  and  Servants,  in  mou'niing 
cloaks. 

Glo.  Thus  sometimes  hath  the  brightest  day 

a  cloud  j 

And  after  summer  evermore  succeeds 
Barren  winter,  with  his  wrathful  nipping  cold: 


SCENE  IV.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


So  cares  and  joys  abound,  as  seasons  fleet. — 
Sirs,  what's  o'clock? 

Serv.  Ten,  my  lord. 

Glo.  Ten  is  the  hour  that  w^s  appointed  me 
To  watch  the  coming  of  my  punish'd  duchess: 
Uneath  may  she  endure  the  flinty  streets, 
To  tread  them  with  her  tender-feeling  feet. 
Sweet  Nell,  ill  can  thy  noble  mind  abrook 
The  abject  people  gazing  on  thy  face, 
With  envious  looks,  laughing  at  thy  shame, 
That  erst  did  follow  thy  proud  chariot  wheels 
When  thou  didst  ride  in  triumph  through  the 

streets. 

But,  soft !  I  think  she  comes ;  and  I  '11  prepare 
My  tear-stain'd  eyes  to  see  her  miseries. 

Enter  the  DUCHESS  OF  GLOSTER  in  a  white 
sheet,  with  papers  pinned  upon  her  back,  her 
feet  bare^  and  a  taper  burning  in  her  hand ; 
SIR  JOHN  STANLEY,  a  Sheriff,  and  Officers. 

Serv.   So  please  your  grace,  we'll  take  her 
from  the  sheriff.  [by. 

Glo.  No,  stir  not  for  your  lives ;  let  her  pass 

Duck.  Come  you,  my  lord,  to  see  my  open 
shame?  [gaze! 

Now  thou  dost  penance  too.     Look  how  they 
See  how  the  giddy  multitude  do  point, 
And  nod  their  heads,  and  throw  their  eyes  on  me ! 
Ah,  Gloster,  hide  thee  from  their  hateful  looks, 
And,  in  thy  closet  pent  up,  rue  my  shame 
And  ban  mine  enemies, — both  mine  and  thine! 

Glo.  Be  patient,  gentle  Nell ;  forget  this  grief. 

Duch.  Ah,  Gloster,  teach  me  to  forget  my- 
self! 

For,  whilst  I  think  I  am  thy  married  wife 
And  thou  a  prince,  protector  of  this  land, 
Methinks  I  should  not  thus  be  led  along, 
Mail'd  up  in  shame,  with  papers  on  my  back, 
And  follow'd  with  a  rabble  that  rejoice 
To  see  my  tears  and  hear  my  deep-fet  groans. 
The  ruthless  flint  doth  cut  my  tender  feet ; 
And  when  I  start  the  envious  people  laugh, 
And  bid  me  be  advised  how  I  tread. 
Ah,  Humphrey,  can  I  bear  this  shameful  yoke  ? 
Trow'st  thou  that  e'er  I  '11  look  upon  the  world, 
Or  count  them  happy  that  enjoy  the  sun?  ' 
No;  dark  shall  be  my  light  and  night  my  day; 
To  think  upon  my  pomp  shall  be  my  hell. 
Sometime  I  '11  say,  I  am  Duke  Humphrey's  wife, 
And  he  a  prince,  and  ruler  of  the  land : 
Yet  so  he  rul'd,  and  such  a  prince  he  was, 
As  he  stood  by  whilst  I,  his  forlorn  duchess, 
Was  made  a  wonder  and  a  pointing- stock 
To  every  idle  rascal  follower. 
But  be  thou  mild,  and  blush  not  at  my  shame; 
Nor  stir  at  nothing,  till  the  axe  of  death 
Hang  over  thee,  as  sure  it  shortly  will ; 


For  Suffolk, — he  that  can  do  all  in  all 
With  her  that  hateth  thee  and  hates  us  all, — 
And  York,  and  impious  Beaufort,  that  falsa 

priest, 

Have  all  lim'd  bushes  to  betray  thy  wings, 
And,  fly  thou  how  thou  canst,  they  '11  tangle 

thee: 

But  fear  not  thou,  unti1  thy  foot  be  snar'd, 
Nor  never  seek  prevention  of  thy  foes,     [awry ; 
Glo.  Ah,    Nell,    forbear !    thou    aimest    all 
I  must  offend  before  I  be  attainted : 
And  had  I  twenty  times  so  many  foes, 
And  each  of  them  had  twenty  times  their  power, 
All  these  could  not  procure  me  any  scathe, 
So  long  as  I  am  loyal,  true,  and  crimeless. 
Wouldst  have  me  rescue  thee  from  this  reproach? 
Why,  yet  thy  scandal  were  not  wip'd  away, 
But  I  in  danger  for  the  breach  of  law. 
Thy  greatest  help  is  quiet,  gentle  Nell : 
I  pray  thee,  sort  thy  heart  to  patience ; 
These  few  days'  wonder  will  be  quickly  worn. 

Enter  a  Herald. 

Her.  I  summon  your  grace  to  his  majesty's 

Parliament,   holden  at  Bury  the  first  of  this 

next  month.  [before ! 

Glo.    And   my  consent  ne'er  ask'd   herein 

This  is  close  dealing.— Well,  I  will  be  there, 

[Exit  Herald. 

My  Nell,  I  take  my  leave : — and,  master  sheriff, 
Let  not  her  penance  exceed  the  king's  commis- 
sion, [mission  stays; 
Sher.  An 't  please  your  grace,  here  my  com- 
And  Sir  John  Stanley  is  appointed  now 
To  take  her  with  hi  m  to  the  Isle  of  Man.    [here  ? 
Glo.  Must  you,  Sir  John,  protect  my  lady 
Stan.  So  am  I  given  in  charge,  may 't  please 

your  grace. 

Glo.  Entreat  her  not  the  worse  in  that  I  pray 
You  use  her  well :  the  world  may  laugh  again ; 
And  I  may  live  to  do  you  kindness,  if 
You  do  it  her:  and  so,  Sir  John,  farewell. 
Duch.  What,  gone,  my  lord,  and  bid  me  not 

farewell ! 

Glo.  Witness  my  tears,  I  cannot  stay  to  speak. 

[Exeunt  GLOSTER  and  Servants. 

Duch.  Art  thon  gone  too?  all  comfort  go 

with  thee ! 

For  none  abides  with  me :  my  joy  is  death, — 
Death,  at  whose  name  I  oft  have  been  afeard, 
Because  I  wish'd  this  world's  eternity. — 
Stanley,  I  pr'ythee  go,  and  take  me  hence ; 
I  care  not  whither,  for  I  beg  no  favour, 
Only  convey  me  where  thou  art  commanded. 
Stan.  Why,  madam,  that  is  to  the  Isle  of 

Man; 
There  to  be  us'd  according  to  your  state. 


014 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  III. 


Duch.  That 's  bad  enough,  for  I  am  but  re- 
proach,— 

And  shall  I,  then,  be  us'd  reproachfully? 
Stan.   Like  to  a  duchess  and   Duke  Hum- 
phrey's lady ; 

According  to  that  state  you  shall  be  us'd. 
Duch.  Sheriff,  farewell,   and  better  than  I 

fare,— 

Although  thou  hast  been  conduct  of  my  sham.t. 
Sher.  It  is  my  office ;  and,  madam,  pardon  me. 
Duch.  Ay,  ay,  farewell;  thy  office  is  dis- 

charg'd.  — 

Come,  Stanley,  shall  we  go?  [this  sheet, 

Stan.  Madam,  your  penance  done,  throw  off 
And  go  we  to  attire  you  for  our  journey. 

Duch.  My  shame  will  not  be  shifted  with  my 

sheet : 

No,  it  will  hang  upon  my  richest  robes, 
And  show  itself  attire  me  how  I  can. 
Go,  lead  the  way ;  I  long  to  see  my  prison. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — The  Abbey  at  Bury. 

Flourish.  Enter  to  the  Parliament  KING 
HENRY,  QUEEN  MARGARET,  CARDINAL 
BEAUFORT,  SUFFOLK,  YORK,  BUCKING- 
HAM, and  others. 

K.  Hen.  I  muse  my  Lord  of  Gloster  is  not 

come : 

'Tis  not  his  wont  to  be  the  hindmost  man, 
Whate'er  occasion  keeps  him  from  us  now. 

Q.  Mar.  Can  you  not  see  ?  or  will  you  not 

observe 

The  strangeness  of  his  alter'd  countenance  ? 
With  what  a  majesty  he  bears  himself; 
How  insolent  of  late  he  is  become,  [self? 

How  proud,  how  peremptory,  and  unlike  him- 
We  know  the  time  since  he  was  mild  and  affable ; 
And  if  we  did  but  glance  a  far-off  look 
Immediately  he  was  upon  his  knee, 
That  all  the  court  admir'd  him  for  submission  : 
But  meet  him  now,  and  be  it  in  the  morn, 
When  every  one  will  give  the  time  of  day, 
He  knits  his  brow,  and  shows  an  angry  eye, 
And  passeth  by  with  stiff  unbowed  knee, 
Disdaining  duty  that  to  us  belongs. 
Small  curs  are  not  regarded  when  they  grin  ; 
But  great  men  tremble  when  the  lion  roars, — 
And  Humphrey  is  no  little  man  in  England. 
First  note  that  he  is  near  you  in  descent ; 
And  should  you  fall  he  as  the  next  will  mount. 
Me  seemeth,  then,  it  is  no  policy, — 
Respecting  what  a  rancorous  irrnd  he  bears, 


And  his  advantage  following  your  decease, — 
That  he  should  come  about  your  royal  person, 
Or  be  admitted  to  your  highness'  council. 
By  flattery  hath  he  won  the  commons'  hearts ; 
And  when  he  please  to  make  commotion, 
'Tis  to  be  fear'd  they  all  will  follow  him. 
Now  'tis  the  spring,  and  weeds  are  shallow- 
rooted  ;  [garden, 
Suffer   them   now,   and  they  '11   o'ergrow   the 
And  choke  the  herbs  for  want  of  husbandry. 
The  reverent  care  I  bear  unto  my  lord 
Made  me  collect  these  dangers  in  the  duke. 
If  it  be  fond,  call  it  a  woman'r.  fear  ; 
Which  fear,  if  better  reasons  can  supplant, 
I  will  subscribe,  and  say  I  wrong'd  the  duke. 
My   Lord  of  Suffolk,  —  Buckingham,  —  and 

York,— 

Reprove  my  allegation  if  you  can  ; 
Or  else  conclude  my  words  effectual.      [duke  ; 
Suf.  Well  hath  your  highness  seen  into  this 
And  had  I  first  been  put  to  speak  my  mind, 
I  think  I  should  have  told  your  grace's  tale. 
The  duchess,  by  his  subornation, 
Upon  my  life,  began  her  devilish  practices : 
Or,  if  he  were  not  privy  to  those  faults, 
Yet,  by  reputing  of  his  high  descent, — 
As,  next  the  king,  he  was  successive  heir, 
And  such  high  vaunts  of  his  nobility, — 
Did  instigate  the  bedlam  brainsick  duchess 
By  wicked  means  to  frame  our  sovereign's  fall. 
Smooth  runs  the  water  where  the  brook  is  deep ; 
And  in  his  simple  show  he  harbours  treason. 
The  fox  barks  not  when  he  would  steal  the  lamb. 
No,  no,  my  sovereign  ;  Gloster  is  a  man 
Unsounded  yet,  and  full  of  deep  deceit. 

Car.  Did  he  not,  contrary  to  form  of  law, 
Devise  strange  deaths  for  small  offences  done  ? 
York.  And  did  he  not,  in  his  protectorship, 
Levy  great  sums  of  money  through  the  realm 
For  soldiers' pay  in  France,  and  never  sent  it? 
By  means  whereof  the  towns  each  day  revolted. 
Buck.  Tut,  these  are  petty  faults  to  faults 
unknown,  [Humphrey. 

Which  time  will  bring  to  light  in  smooth  Duke 
K.  Hen.   My  lords,  at  once: — the  care  you 

have  ot  us, 

To  mow  down  thorns  that  would  annoy  our  foot, 
Is  worthy  praise:  but  shall  I  speak  my  con- 
science? 

Our  kinsman  Gloster  is  as  innocent 
From  meaning  treason  to  our  royal  person 
As  is  the  sucking  lamb  or  harmless  dove : 
The  duke  is  virtuous,  mild,  and  too  well  given 
To  dream  on  evil  or  to  work  my  downfall, 
Q.  Mar.  Ah,  what's  more  dangerous   than 

this  fond  affiance? 
Seems  he  a  dove?  his  feathers  are  but  borrow'd. 


SCENE  I.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


615 


"For  he 's  disposed  as  the  hateful  raven : 
Is  he  a  lamb?  his  skin  is  surely  lent  him, 
For  he 's  inclin'd  as  is  the  ravenous  wolf. 
Who  cannot  steal  a  shape  that  means  deceit  ? 
Take  heed,  my  lord ;  the  welfare  of  us  all 
Hangs  on  the  cutting  short  that  fraudful  man. 

Enter  SOMERSET. 

Som.  All  health  unto  my  gracious  sovereign  ! 

K.  Hen.  Welcome,  Lord  Somerset.     What 
news  from  France? 

Som.  That  all  your  interest  in  those  territories 
Is  utterly  bereft  you ;  all  is  lost. 

K.  Hen.  Cold  news,    Lord   Somerset:    but 
God's  will  be  done !  .  [France 

York.  Cold  news  for  me ;  for  I  had  hope  of 
As  firmly  as  I  hope  for  fertile  England. 
Thus  are  my  blossoms  blasted  in  the  bud, 
And  caterpillars  eat  my  leaves  away : 
But  I  will  remedy  this  gear  ere  long, 
Or  sell  my  title  for  a  glorious  grave.       \_Aside. 

Enter  GLOSTER. 

Glo.  All  happiness  unto  my  lord  the  king ! 
Pardon,  my  liege,  that  I  have  stay'd  so  long. 

Suf.  Nay,  Gloster,  know  that  thou  art  come 

too  soon, 

Unless  thou  wert  more  loyal  than  thou  art : 
I  do  arrest  thee  of  high  treason  here.        [blush 

Glo.  Well,  Suffolk,  thou  shalt  not  see   me 
Nor  change  my  countenance  for  this  arrest : 
A  heart  unspotted  is  not  easily  daunted. 
The  purest  spring  is  not  so  free  from  mud 
As  I  am  clear  from  treason  to  my  sovereign : 
Who  can  accuse  me?  wherein  am  I  guilty? 

York.  'Tis  thought,  my  lord,  that  you  took 

bribes  of  France, 

And,  being  protector,  stay'd  the  soldiers'  pay ; 
By  means  whereof  his  highness  hath  lost  France. 

Glo.  Is  it  but  thought  so?  what  are  they  that 

think  it? 

I  never  robb'd  the  soldiers  of  their  pay, 
Nor  ever  had  one  penny  bribe  from  France. 
So  help  me  God,  as  I  have  watch'd  the  night, — 
Ay,  night  by  night, — in  studying  good  for  Eng- 
land! 

That  doit  that  e'er  I  wrested  from  the  king, 
Or  any  groat  I  hoarded  to  my  use, 
Be  brought  against  me  at  my  trial-day ! 
No ;  many  a  pound  of  mine  own  proper  store, 
Because  I  would  not  tax  the  needy  commons, 
Have  I  dispursed  to  the  garrisons, 
And  never  ask'd  for  restitution.  [much. 

Car.  It  serves  you  well,  my  lord,  to  say  so 

Glo.  I  say  no  more  than  truth,  so  help  me 

God! 
York.  In  your  protectorship  you  did  devise 


Strange  tortures  for  offenders,  never  heard  of, 
That  England  was  defam'd  by  tyranny. 

Glo.  Why,  'tis  well  known  that,  whiles  I  was 

protector, 

Pity  was  all  the  fault  that  was  in  me; 
For  I  should  melt  at  an  offender's  tears, 
And  lowly  words  were  ransom  for  their  fault. 
Unless  it  were  a  bloody  murderer,  [gers, 

Or  foul  felonious  thief  that  fleec'd  poor  passen- 
I  never  gave  them  condign  punishment : 
Murder,  indeed,  that  bloody  sin,  I  tortur'd 
Above  the  felon  or  what  trespass  else. 

Suf.   My  lord,  these  faults  are  easy,  quickly 

answer'd : 

But  mightier  crimes  are  laid  unto  your  charge, 
Whereof  you  cannot  easily  purge  yourself. 
I  do  arrest  you  in  his  highness'  name ; 
And  here  commit  you  to  my  lord  cardinal 
To  keep,  until  your  further  time  of  trial,     [hope 

K.  Hen.   My  Lord  of  Gloster,  'tis  my  special 
That  you  will  clear  yourself  from  all  suspect : 
My  conscience  tells  me  you  are  innocent,    [ous ! 

Glo.  Ah,  gracious  lord,  these  days  are  danger- 
Virtue  is  chok'd  with  foul  ambition, 
And  charity  chas'd  hence  by  rancour's  hand ; 
Foul  subornation  is  predominant, 
And  equity  exil'd  your  highness'  land. 
I  know  their  complot  is  to  have  my  life ; 
And  if  my  death  might  make  this  island  happy, 
And  prove  the  period  of  their  tyranny, 
I  would  expend  it  with  all  willingness: 
But  mine  is  made  the  prologue  to  their  play ; 
For  thousands  more,  that  yet  suspect  no  peril, 
Will  not  conclude  their  plotted  tragedy. 
Beaufort's  red  sparkling  eyes  blab  his  heart's 

malice, 

And  Suffolk's  cloudy  brow  his  stormy  hate ; 
Sharp  Buckingham  unburdens  with  his  tongue 
The  envious  load  that  lies  upon  his  heart ; 
And  dogged  York,  that  reaches  at  the  moon, 
Whose  overweening  arm  I  have  pluck'd  back, 
By  false  accuse  doth  level  at  my  life : — 
And  you,  my  sovereign  lady,  with  the  rest, 
Causeless  have  laid  disgraces  on  my  head, 
And  with  your  best  endeavour  have  stirr'd  up 
My  liefest  liege  to  be  mine  enemy: — 
Ay,  all  of  you  have  laid  your  heads  together, — 
Myself  had  notice  of  your  conventicles, — 
And  all  to  make  away  my  guiltless  life. 
I  shall  not  want  false  witness  to  condemn  me, 
Nor  store  of  treasons  to  augment  my  guilt: 
The  ancient  proverb  will  be  well  effected, — 
A  staft  is  quickly  found  to  beat  a  dog. 

Car.  My  liege,  his  railing  is  intolerable : 
If  those  that  care  to  keep  your  royal  person 
From  treason's  secret  knife  and  traitors'  rage 
Be  thus  upbraided,  chid,  and  rated  at, 


6i6 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  in. 


And  the  offender  granted  scope  of  speech, 
'Twill  make  them  cool  in  zeal  unto  your  grace. 
Suf.  Hath  he  not  twit  our  sovereign  lady 

here 

With  ignominious  words,  though  clerkly  couch'd, 
As  if  she  had  suborned  some  to  swear 
False  allegations  to  o'erti  row  his  state? 

Q.  Mar.  But  I  can  give  the  loser  leave  to 

chide.  [deed ; — 

Glo.  Far  truer  spoke  than  meant :  I  lose,  in- 

Beshrew  the  winners,  for  they  play'd  me  false  ! 

And  well  such  losers  may  have  leave  to  speak. 

Buck.  He  '11  wrest  the  sense,  and  hold  us  here 

all  day  : — 

Lord  cardinal,  he  is  your  prisoner,  [him  sure. 
Car.  Sirs,  take  away  the  duke,  and  guard 
Glo.  Ah,  thus  King  Henry  throws  away  his 

crutch 

Before  his  legs  be  firm  to  bear  his  body  ! 
Thus  is  the  shepherd  beaten  from  thy  side, 
And  wolves  are  gnafling  who  shall  gnaw  thee 

first. 

Ah,  that  my  fear  were  false  !  ah,  that  it  were  ! 
For,  good  King  Henry,  thy  decay  I  fear. 

[Exeunt  Attendants  with  GLOSTER. 
K.  Hen.  My  lords,  what  to  your  wisdoms 

seemeth  best 
Do  or  undo,  as  if  ourself  were  here. 

Q.  Mar.  What,  will  your  highness  leave  the 

Parliament  ?  [with  grief, 

K.  Hen.  Ay,  Margaret;  my  heart  is  drown'd 
Whose  flood  begins  to  flow  within  mine  eyes ; 
My  body  round  engirt  with  misery, — 
For  what 's  more  miserable  than  discontent  ? — 
Ah,  uncle  Humphrey,  in  thy  face  I  see 
The  map  of  honour,  truth,  aiid  loyalty  ! 
And  yet,  good  Humphrey,  is  the  hour  to  come 
That  e'er  I  prov'd  thee  false  or  fear'd  thy  faith. 
What  lowering  star  now  envies  thy  estate, 
That  these  great  lords,  and  Margaret  our  queen, 
Do  seek  subversion  of  thy  harmless  life  ? 
Thou  never  didst  them  wrong,   nor  no  man 

wrong : 

And  as  the  butcher  takes  away  the  calf, 
And  binds  the  wretch,  and  beats  it  when  itstrays, 
Bearing  it  to  the  bloody  slaughter-house ; 
Even  so,  remorseless,  have  they  borne  him  hence : 
And  as  the  dam  runs  lowing  up  and  down, 
Looking  the  way  her  harmless  young  one  went, 
And  can  do  nought  but  wail  her  darling's  loss ; 
Even  so  myself  bewails  good  Gloster's  case 
With  sad  unhelpful  tears ;  and  with  dimm'd  eyes 
Look  after  him,  and  cannot  do  him  good, — 
So  mighty  are  his  vowed  enemies. 
His  fortunes  I  will  weep ;  and  'twixt  each  groan, 
Say,  Who's  a  traitor?    Gloster  he  is  none. 

[Exit. 


Q.  Mar.  Free  lords,  cold  snow  melts  with 

the  sun's  hot  beams. 
Henry  my  lo'-d  is  cold  in  great  affairs, 
Too  full  of  foolish  pity  :  and  Gloster's  show 
Beguiles  him,  as  the  mournful  crocodile 
With  sorrow  snares  relenting  passenger?  ; 
Or  as  the  snake,  roll'd  in  a  flowering  bavik, 
With  shining  checker'd  slough,   doth  sting  a 

child, 

That  for  the  beauty  thinks  it  excellent. 
Believe  me,  lords,  were  none  more  wise  than  I,— - 
And  yet  herein  I  judge  my  own  wit  good, — 
This  Gloster  should  be  quickly  rid  the  world, 
To  rid  us  from  the  fear  we  have  of  him. 

Car.  That  he  should  die  is  worthy  policy; 
But  yet  we  want  a  colour  for  his  death  : 
'Tis  meet  he  be  condemn'd  by  course  of  law. 

Suf.  But,  in  my  mind,  that  were  no  policy : 
The  king  will  labour  still  to  save  his  life ; 
The  commons  haply  rise  to  save  his  life  ; 
And  yet  we  have  but  trivial  argument, 
More  than  mistrust,  thatshows  him  worthy  death. 
York.  So  that,  by  this,  you  would  not  have 

him  die. 

Suf.  Ah,  York,  no  man  alive  so  fain  as  I  ! 
York.  ;Tis  York  that  hath  more  reason  for  his 
death.—  [Suffolk,— 

But,  my  lord  cardinal,  and  you,  my  Lord  of 
Say  as  you  think,  anu  speak  it  from  your  souls,— 
Wer  't  not  all  one  an  empty  eagle  were  set 
To  guard  the  chicken  from  a  hungry  kite, 
As  place  Duke  Humphrey  for  the  king's  pro- 
tector ?  [death. 
Q.  Mar.  So  the  poor  chick  en  should  be  sure  of 
Suf.  Madam,  'tis  true;  and  wer't  not  mad- 
ness, then, 

To  make  the  fox  surveyor  of  the  fold  ? 
Who,  being  accus'd  a  crafty  murderer, 
His  guilt  should  be  but  idly  posted  over 
Because  his  purpose  is  not  executed. 
No ;  let  him  die,  in  that  he  is  a  fox, 
By  nature  prov'd  an  enemy  to  the  flock, 
Before  his  chaps  be  stain'd  with  crimson  blood, — • 
As  Humphrey,  prov'd  by  reasons,  to  my  liege. 
And  do  not  stand  on  quillets  how  to  slay  him  : 
Be  it  by  gins,  by  snares,  by  subtlety, 
Sleeping  or  waking,  'tis  no  matter  how, 
So  he  be  dead  ;  for  that  is  good  deceit 
Which  mates  him  first  that  first  intends  deceit. 
Q.  Mar.  Thrice-noble  Suffolk, 'tis  resolutely 

spoke. 

Suf.  Not  resolute,  except  so  much  were  done  ; 
For  things  are  often  spoke  and  seldom  meant  : 
But,  that  my  heart  accordeth  with  my  tongue,— 
Seeing  the  deed  is  meritorious, 
And  to  preserve  my  sovereign  from  his  foe, — • 
Say  but  the  word,  and  I  will  be  his  priest. 


SCENE  I.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


617 


Car.   But  I  would  have  him  dead,  my  Lord 

of  Suffolk, 

Ere  you  can  take  due  orders  for  a  priest : 
Say  you  consent,  and  censure  well  the  deed, 
And  I  '11  provide  his  executioner, — 
I  tender  so  the  safety  of  my  liege. 

Suf.   Here  is  my  hand,  the  deed  is  worthy 
doing. 

Q.  Mar.  And  so  say  I.  [it, 

York.  And  I :  and  now  we  three  have  spoke 
It  skills  not  greatly  who  impugns  our  doom. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Great  lords,  from  Ireland  am  I  come 

amain, 

To  signify  that  rebels  there  are  up, 
And  put  the  Englishmen  unto  the  sword  : 
Send  succours,  lords,  and  stop  the  rage  betime, 
Before  the  wound  do  grow  uncurable  ; 
For,  being  green,  there  is  great  hope  of  help. 
Car.  A  breach  that  craves  a  quick  expedient 

stop  ! 

What  counsel  give  you  in  this  weighty  cause? 
York.  That  Somerset  be  sent  as  regent  thither : 
'Tis  meet  that  lucky  ruler  be  employ'd ; 
Witness  the  fortune  he  hath  had  in  France. 
Sow.   If  York,  with  all  his  far-fet  policy, 
Had  been  the  regent  there  instead  of  me, 
He  never  would  have  stay'd  in  France  so  long. 
York.  No,  not  to  lose  it  all,  as  thou  hast  done : 
I  rather  would  have  lost  my  life  betimes 
Than  bring  a  burden  of  dishonour  home, 
By  staying  there  so  long  till  all  were  lost. 
Show  me  one  scar  character'd  on  thy  skin  : 
Men's  flesh  preserved  so  whole  do  seldom  win. 
Q.  Mar.  Nay,  then,  this  spark  will  prove  a 

raging  fire 

If  wind  and  fuel  be  brought  to  feed  it  with : — 
No   more,  good  York; — sweet    Somerset,   be 

still  :— 

Thy  fortune,  York,  hadst  thou  been  regent  there, 
Might  happi'y  have  prov'd  far  worse  than  his. 
York.  What,  worse  than  naught?  nay,  then, 

a  shame  take  all! 
Som.  And  in  the  number,  thee  that  wishest 

shame ! 

Car.  My  Lord  of  York,  try  what  your  for- 
tune is. 

The  uncivil  kerns  of  Ireland  are  in  arms, 
And  temper  clay  with  blood  of  Englishmen : 
To  Ireland  will  you  lead  a  band  of  men, 
Collected  choicely,  from  each  county  some, 
And  try  your  hap  against  the  Irishmen? 

York.   I  will,  my  lord,  so  please  his  majesty. 
Suf.   Why,  our  authority  is  his  consent ; 
And  what  we  do  establish  he  confirms : 
Then,  noble  York,  take  thou  this  task  in  hand. 


York.  I  am  content:    provide  me  soldiers, 

lords, 

Whiles  I  take  order  for  mine  own  affairs. 
Sttf.  A  charge,  Lord  York,  that  I  will  see 

perform'd.  [phrey. 

But  now  return  we  to  the  false  Duke  Hum- 
Car.  No  more  of  him ;  for  I  will  deal  with 

him, 

That  henceforth  he  shall  trouble  us  no  more. 
And  so  break  off;  the  day  is  almost  spent: 
Lord  Suffolk,  you  and  I  must  talk  of  that  event. 
York.  My  Lord  of  Suffolk,  within  fourteen 

days 

At  Bristol  I  expect  my  soldiers ; 
For  there  I  '11  ship  them  all  for  Ireland. 

Stif.  I  '11  see  it  truly  done,  my  Lord  of  York. 
[Exeunt  all  but  YORK. 
York.  Now,  York,  or  never,  steel  thy  fear- 
ful thoughts, 

And  change  misdoubt  to  resolution : 
Be  that  thou  hop'st  to  be ;  or  what  thou  art 
Resign  to  death, — it  is  not  worth  the  enjoying: 
Let  pale-fac'd  fear  keep  with  the  mean-born 

man, 

And  find  no  harbour  in  a  royal  heart. 
Faster  than  spring-time  showers  comes  thought 

on  thought; 

And  not  a  thought  but  thinks  on  dignity. 
My  brain,  more  busy  than  the  labouring  spider, 
Weaves  tedious  snares  to  trap  mine  enemies. 
Well,  nobles,  well,  'tis  politicly  done, 
To  send  me  packing  with  an  host  of  men  : 
I  fear  me  you  but  warm  the  starved  snake, 
Who,  cherish'd  in  your  breasts,  will  sting  your 

hearts. 

'Twas  men  I  lack'd,  and  you  will  give  them  me : 
I  take  it  kindly ;  yet  be  well  assur'd 
You  put  sharp  weapons  in  a  madman's  hands. 
Whiles  I  in  Ireland  nourish  a  mighty  band, 
I  will  stir  up  in  England  some  black  storm 
Shall  blow  ten  thousand  souls  to  heaven  or  hell  j 
And  this  fell  tempest  shall  not  cease  to  rage 
Until  the  golden  circuit  on  my  head, 
Like  to  the  glorious  sun's  transparent  beams, 
Do  calm  the  fury  of  this  mad-bred  flaw. 
And  for  a  minister  of  my  intent 
I  have  seduc'd  a  headstrong  Kentishman, 
John  Cade  of  Ashford, 
To  make  commotion,  as  full  well  he  can, 
Under  the  title  of  John  Mortimer. 
In  Ireland  have  I  seen  this  stubborn  Cade 
Oppose  himself  against  a  troop  of  kerns, 
And  fought  so  long  till  that  his  thighs  with  darts 
Were  almost  like  a  sharp-quill'd  porpentine ; 
And  in  the  end  being  rescu'd,  I  have  seen  him 
Caper  upright  like  a  wild  Morisco, 
Shaking  the  bloody  darts  as  he  his  bells. 


6i8 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  III. 


Full  often,  like  a  shag-hair'd  crafty  kern, 
Hath  he  conversed  with  the  enemy, 
And,  undiscovered,  come  to  me  again, 
And  given  me  notice  of  their  villanies. 
This  devil  here  shall  be  my  substitute ; 
For  that  John  Mortimer,  which  now  is  dead, 
In  face,  in  gait,  in  speech,  he  doth  resemble : 
By  this  I  shall  perceive  the  commons'  mind, 
How  they  affect  the  house  and  claim  of  Yoik. 
Say  he  be  taken,  rack'd,  and  tortured, 
I  know  no  pain  they  can  inflict  upon  him 
Will  make  him  say  I  mov'd  him  to  those  arms. 
Say  that  he  thrive, — as  'tis  great  like  he  will, — 
Why,  then  from  Ireland  come  I  with  my  strength, 
And  reap  the  harvest  which  that  rascal  sow'd ; 
For  Humphrey  being  dead,  as  he  shall  be, 
And  Henry  put  apart,  the  next  for  me.     [Exit. 


SCENE  II. — BURY.      A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  certain  Murderers,  hastily. 

1  Mur.   Run  to  my  Lord  of  Suffolk ;  let  him 

know 
We  havedespatch'd  the  duke,  as  he  commanded. 

2  Mur.  O  that  it  were  to  do ! — What  have 

we  done? 

Didst  ever  hear  a  man  so  penitent? 
I  Mur.  Here  comes  my  lord. 

Enter  SUFFOLK. 

Suf.  Now,  sirs,  have  you  despatch'd  this  thing? 

I  Mur.  Ay,  my  good  lord,  he 's  dead. 

Suf.  Why,  that 's  well  said.     Go,  get  you  to 

my  house ; 

I  will  reward  you  for  this  venturous  deed. 
The  king  and  all  the  peers  are  here  at  hand : — 
Have  you  laid  fair  the  bed?  are  all  things  well, 
According  as  I  gave  directions? 

I  Mur.  'Tis,  my  good  lord. 

Stif.  Away !  be  gone.     [Exeunt  Murderers. 

Trumpets  sounded.  Enter  KING  HENRY, 
QUEEN  MARGARET,  CARDINAL  BEAUFORT, 
SOMERSET,  Lords,  and  others. 

K.  Hen.  Go,  call  our  uncle  to  our  presence 

straight ; 

Say  we  intend  to  try  his  grace  to-day, 
If  he  be  guilty,  as  'tis  published. 

Suf.  I  '11  call  him  presently,  my  noble  lord. 

[Exit. 
K.  Hen.  Lords,  take  your  places;    and,    I 

pray  you  all, 

Proceed  no  straiter  'gainst  our  uncle  Gloster 
Than  from  true  evidence,  of  good  esteem, 
He  be  approv'd  in  practice  culpable. 


Q.  Mar.  God  forbid  any  malice  should  prevail 
That  faultless  may  condemn  a  nobleman  ! 
Pray  God  he  may  acquit  him  of  suspicion ! 

K.  Hen.  I  thank  thee,  Margaret ;  these  words 
content  me  much. — 

Re-enter  SUFFOLK. 

How  now!  why  look'st  thou  pale?  why  trem- 

blest  thou?  [Suffolk? 

Where    is    our    uncle?     what's    the    matter, 

Suf.  Dead  in  his  bed,  my  lord ;  Gloster  is 

dead. 

Q.  Mar.   Marry,  God  forfend !          [to-night 
Car.  God's  secret  judgment: — I  did  dream 
The  duke  was  dumb,  and  could  not  speak  a 
word.  [The  KING  swoons, 

Q.  Mar.   How  fares  my  lord? — Help,  lords  ! 
the  king  is  dead.  [nose. 

Som.  Rear  up  his  body ;  wring  him  by  the 
Q.  Mar.  Run,  go,   help,  help! — O  Henry, 
ope  thine  eyes  !  [patient. 

Suf.    He  doth   revive   again: — madam,    be 
K.  Hen.  O  heavenly  God  ! 
Q.  Mar.  How  fares  my  gracious  lord  ? 

Suf.  Comfort,  my  sovereign !  gracious  Henry, 
comfort !  [fort  me  ? 

K.  Hen.  What,  doth  my  Lord  of  Suffolk  corn- 
Came  he  right  now  to  sing  a  raven's  note, 
Whose  dismal  tune  bereft  my  vital  powers ; 
And  thinks  he  that  the  chirping  of  a  wren, 
By  crying  comfort  from  a  hollow  breast, 
Can  chase  away  the  first  conceived  sound  ? 
Hide  not  thy  poison  with  such  sugar'd  word?  • 
Lay  not  thy  hands  on  me ;  forbear,  I  say ; 
Their  touch  affrights  me,  as  a  serpent's  sting. 
Thou  baleful  messenger,  out  of  my  sight ! 
Upon  thy  eye -balls  murderous  tyranny 
Sits  in  grim  majesty,  to  fright  the  world. 
Look  not  upon  me,  for  thine  eyes  are  wound- 
ing:— 

Yet  do  not  go  away : — come,  basilisk, 
And  kill  the  innocent  gazer  with  thy  sight ; 
For  in  the  shade  of  death  I  shall  find  joy, — 
In  life  but  double  death,  now  Gloster 's  dead. 
Q.  Mar.  Why  do  you  rate  my  Lord  of  Suf- 
folk thus? 

Although  the  duke  was  enemy  to  him, 
Yet  he,  most  Christian-like  laments  his  death  : 
And  for  myself, — foe  as  he  was  to  me, — 
Might  liquid  tears,  or  heart-offending  groans, 
Or  blood-consuming  sighs  recall  his  life, 
I  would  be  blind  with  weeping,  sick  with  groans, 
Look  pale  as  primrose  with  blood-drinking  sighs. 
And  all  to  have  the  noble  duke  alive. 
What  know  I  how  the  world  may  deem  of  me  ? 
For  it  is  known  we  were  but  hollow  friends  : 
It  may  be  judg'd  I  made  the  duke  away ; 


SCENE  II.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


619 


So   shall  my  name  with  slander's  tongue  be 

wounded, 

And  princes'  courts  be  fill'd  with  my  reproach. 
This  get  I  by  his  death :  ah  me,  unhappy ! 
To  be  a  queen  and  crown'd  with  infamy  ! 
K.  Hen.  Ah,  woe  is  me  for  Gloster,  wretched 

man  I  [he  is. 

Q.  Mar.  Be  woe  for  me,  more  wretched  than 
What,  dost  thou  turn  away,  and  hide  thy  face? 
I  am  no  loathsome  leper, — look  on  me. 
What,  art  thou,  like  the  adder,  waxen  deaf? 
Be  poisonous  too,  and  kill  thy  forlorn  queen. 
Is  all  thy  comfort  shut  in  Gloster's  tomb? 
Why,  then,  Dame  Margaret  was  ne'er  thy  joy : 
Erect  his  statua,  and  worship  it, 
And  make  my  image  but  an  alehouse  sign. 
Was  I  for  this  nigh  wreck'd  upon  the  sea, 
And  twice  by  awkward  wind  from  England's 

bank 

Drove  back  again  unto  my  native  clime  ? 
What  boded  this  but  well-forewarning  wind 
Did  seem  tc  say, — Seek  not  a  scorpion's  nest, 
Nor  set  no  footing  on  this  unkind  shore? 
What  did  I  then  but  curs'd  the  gentle  gusts, 
And   he  that  loos'd  them  forth  their  brazen 

caves :  [shore, 

And  bid  them  blow  towards  England's  blessed 
Or  turn  our  stern  upon  a  dreadful  rock  ? 
Yet  ^Eolus  would  not  be  a  murderer, 
But  left  that  hateful  office  unto  thee : 
The  pretty-vaulting  sea  refus'd  to  drown  me  ; 
Knowing  that  thou  wouldst  have  me  drown'd 

on  shore,  [ness  : 

With  tears  as  salt  as  sea,  through  thy  unkind- 
The  splitting  rocks  cower'd  in  the  sinking  sands, 
And  would  not  dash  me  with  their  ragged  sides  ; 
Because  thy  flinty  heart,  more  hard  than  they, 
Might  in  thy  palace  perish  Margaret. 
As  far  as  I  could  ken  thy  chalky  cliffs, 
When  from  the  shore  the  tempest  beat  us  back, 
I  stood  upon  the  hatches  in  the  storm; 
And  when  the  dusky  sky  began  to  robe 
My  earnest-gaping  sight  of  thy  land's  view, 
I  took  a  costly  jewel  from  my  neck, — 
A  heart  it  was,  bound  in  with  diamonds, — 
And  threw  it  towards  thy  land: — the  sea  re- 

ceiv'd  it ; 

And  so  I  wish'd  thy  body  might  my  heart : 
And  even  with  this  I  lost  fair  England's  view, 
And  bid  mine  eyes  be  packing  with  my  heart, 
And  call'd  them  blind  and  dusky  spectacles, 
For  losing  ken  of  Albion's  wished  coast. 
How  often  have  I  tempted  Suffolk's  tongue, — 
The  agent  of  thy  foul  inconstancy, — 
To  sit  and  witch  me,  as  Ascanius  did 
When  he  to  madding  Dido  would  unfold 
His  father's  acts,  commenc'd  in  burning  Troy  ! 


Am  I  not  witch'd  like  her?  or  thou  not  false 

like  him  ? 

Ah  me,  I  can  no  more !  die,  Margaret ! 
For  Henry  weeps  that  thou  dost  live  so  long. 

Noise  within.     Enter  WARWICK  and  SALIS- 
BURY.     The  Commons  press  to  the  door. 

War.  It  is  reported,  mighty  sovereign., 
That   good    Duke    Humphrey   traitorously   is 

murder'd 

By  Suffolk  and  the  Cardinal  Beaufort's  means. 
The  commons,  like  an  angry  hive  of  bees 
That  want  their  leader,  scatter  up  and  down, 
And  care  not  who  they  sting  in  his  revenge. 
Myself  have  calm'd  their  spleenful  mutiny 
Until  they  hear  the  order  of  his  death. 
K.  Hen.  That  he  is  dead,  good  Warwick,  'tis 

too  true ; 

But  how  he  died  God  knows,  not  Henry : 
Enter  his  chamber,  view  his  breathless  corpse, 
And  comment  then  upon  his  sudden  death. 
War.  That  I  shall  do,  my  liege.— Stay,  Salis- 
bury, 
With  the  rude  multitude  till  I  return. 

[WAR.  goes  into  an  inner  room  ;  SAL.  retires 

to  the  Commons  at  the  door. 
K.  Hen.  O  Thou  that  judgest  all  things,  stay 

my  thoughts, — 

My  thoughts  that  labour  to  persuade  my  soul 
Some  violent  hands  were  laid  on  Humphrey's 

life! 

If  my  suspect  be  false,  forgive  me,  God ; 
For  judgment  only  doth  belong  to  thee. 
Fain  would  I  go  to  chafe  his  paly  lips 
With  twenty  thousand  kisses,  and  to  drain 
Upon  his  face  an  ocean  of  salt  tears ; 
To  tell  my  love  unto  his  dumb  deaf  trunk, 
And  with  my  fingers  feel  his  hand  unfeeling : 
But  all  in  vain  are  these  mean  obsequies ; 
And  to  survey  his  dead  and  earthly  image, 
What  were  it  but  to  make  my  sorrow  greater  ? 
\The  folding  doors  of  OM  inner  Chamber  are 
thrown  open,  and  GLOSTER  is  discovered 
dead  in  his  bed;  WARWICK  and  others 
standing  by  it. 
War.  Come  hither,  gracious  sovereign,  view 

this  body. 
K.  Hen.  That  is  to  see  how  deep  my  grave  is 

made; 

For  with  his  soul  fled  all  my  worldly  solace ; 
For  seeing  him,  I  see  my  life  in  death. 

War.  As  surely  as  my  soul  intends  to  live 
With  that  dread  King  that  took  our  state  upon 

him 

To  free  us  from  his  Father's  wrathful  curse, 
I  do  believe  that  violent  hands  were  laid 
Upon  the  life  of  this  thrice-famed  duke. 


620 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  in. 


Suf.  A  dreadful  oath,  sworn  with  a  solemn 

tongue ! 

What  instance  gives  Lord  Warwick  for  his  vow? 
War.  See  how  the  blood  is  settled  in  his  face ! 
Oft  have  I  seen  a  timely-parted  ghost, 
Of  ashy  semblance,  meagre,  pale,  and  bloodless, 
Being  all  descended  to  the  labouring  heart ; 
Who,  in  the  conflict  that  it  holds  with  death, 
Attracts  the  same  for  aidance  'gainst  the  enemy; 
Which  with  the  heart  thjere  cools,  and  ne'er  re- 

turneth 

To  blush  and  beautify  the  cheek  again. 
But  see,  his  face  is  black  and  full  of  blood  ; 
His  eye-balls  further  out  than  when  he  liv'd, 
Staring  full  ghastly  like  a  strangled  man : 
His  hair  uprear'd,  his  nostrils  stretch'd  with 

struggling; 

His  hands  abroad  display'd,  as  one  that  grasp'd 
And  tugg'd  for  life,  and  was  by  strength  subdu'd: 
Look,  on  the  sheets  his  hair,  you  see,  is  sticking ; 
His  well-proportioned  beard  made  rough  and 

rugged, 

Like  to  the  summer's  corn  by  tempest  lodg'd. 
It  cannot  be  but  he  was  murder'd  here ; 
The  least  of  al  I  these  signs  were  probable. 
Suf.  Why,  Warwick,  who  should  do  the  duke 

to  death? 

Myself  and  Beaufort  had  him  in  protection ; 
And  we,  I  hope,  sir,  are  no  murderers. 

War.  But  both  of  you  were  vow'd  Duke 

Humphrey's  foes; 

And  you,  forsooth,  had  the  good  duke  to  keep : 
'Tis  like  you  would  not  feast  him  like  a  friend ; 
And  'tis  well  seen  he  found  an  enemy. 

Q.  Mar.    Then   you,   belike,   suspect  these 

noblemen 

As  guilty  of  Duke  Humphrey's  timeless  death. 
War.  Who  finds  the  heifer  dead  and  bleeding 

fresh, 

And  sees  fast  by  a  butcher  with  an  axe, 
But  will  suspect  'twas  he  that  made  the  slaughter? 
Who  finds  the  partridge  in  the  puttock's  nest, 
But  may  imagine  how  the  bird  was  dead, 
Although  the  kite  soar  with  unbloodied  beak? 
Even  so  suspicious  is  this  tragedy. 

Q.  Mar.  Are  you  the  butcher,  Suffolk? — 

where  's  your  knife  ? 

Is  Beaufort  termed  a  kite? — where  are  his  talons? 
Suf.  I  wear  no  knife  to  slaughter  sleeping  men; 
But  here 's  a  vengeful  sword,  rusted  with  ease, 
That  shall  be  scoured  in  his  rancorous  heart 
That  slanders  me  with  murder's  crimson  badge : — 
Say,  if  thou  dar'st,  proud  Lord  of  Warwickshire, 
That  I  am  faulty  in  Duke  Humphrey's  death. 

[Exeunt  CAR.  ,  SOM.  ,  and  others. 
War.  What  dares  not  Warwick,  if  false  Suf- 
folk dare  him? 


Q.  Mar.  He  dares  not  calm  his  contumelious 

spirit, 

Nor  cease  to  be  an  arrogant  controller, 
Though  Suffolk  dare  him  twenty  thousand  times. 

War.  Madam,  be  still, — with  reverence  may 

I  say; 

For  every  word  you  speak  in  his  behalf 
Is  slander  to  your  royal  dignity. 

Suf.  Blunt-witted  lord,  ignoble  in  demeanour! 
If  ever  lady  wrong'd  her  lord  so  much, 
Thy  mother  took  into  her  blameful  bed 
Some  stern  untutor'd  churl,  and  noble  stock 
Was  graft  with  crab-tree  slip ;  whose  fruit  thou 

art. 
And  never  of  the  Nevils'  noble  race.         [thee, 

War.  But  that  the  guilt  of  murder  bucklers 
And  I  should  rob  the  deathsman  of  his  fee, 
Quitting  thee  thereby  of  ten  thousand  shames, 
And  that  my  sovereign's  presence  makes  me  mild, 
I  would,  false  murderous  coward,  on  thy  knee 
Make  thee  beg  pardon  for  thy  passed  speech, 
And  say  it  was  thy  mother  that  thou  meant'st, 
That  thou  thyself  was  born  in  bastardy ; 
And,  after  all  this  fearful  homage  done, 
Give  thee  thy  hire,  and  send  thy  soul  to  hell, 
Pernicious  blood-sucker  of  sleeping  men ! 

Suf.  Thou  shalt  be  waking  while  I  shed  thy 

blood, 
If  from  this  presence  thou  dar'st  go  with  me. 

War.  Away  even  now,  or  I  will  drag  thee 

hence : 

Unworthy  though  thou  art,  I  '11  cope  with  thee, 

And  dosome  service  to  Duke  Humphrey's  ghost. 

[Exeunt  SUFFOLK  and  WARWICK. 

K.  Hen.  What  stronger  breastplate  than  a 

heart  untainted ! 

Thrice  is  he  armed  that  hath  his  quarrel  just ; 
And  he  but  naked,  though  lock'd  up  in  steel, 
Whose  conscience  with  injustice  is  corrupted. 
[A  noise  -within. 

Q.  Mar.  What  noise  is  this? 

Re-enter  SUFFOLK  and  WARWICK,  with  their 
weapons  drawn. 

K.  Hen.  Why,  how  now,  lords !  your  wrath- 
ful weapons  drawn 

Here  in  our  presence !  dare  you  be  so  bold? — 

Why,  what  tumultuous  clamour  have  we  here? 

Suf.  The  traitorous  Warwick,  with  the  men 

of  Bury, 
Set  all  upon  me,  mighty  sovereign. 

Sal.    [To  the  Commons  at  the  door.'}    Sirs, 

stand  apart ;  the  king  shall  know  your 

mind.  —  \_He  comes  forward. 

Dread  lord,  the  commons  send  you  word  by  me, 

Unless  false  Suffolk  straight  be  done  to  death, 

Or  banished  fair  England's  territories, 


SCENE  II.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


621 


They  will  by  violence  tear  him  from  your  palace, 
And  torture  him  with  grievous  lingering  death. 
They  say,  by  him  the  good  Duke  Humphrey 

died; 

They  say,  in  him  they  fear  your  highness'  death ; 
And  mere  instinct  of  love  and  loyalty, — 
Free  from  a  stubborn  opposite  intent, 
As  being  thought  to  contradict  your  liking, — 
Makes  them  thus  forward  in  his  banishment. 
They  say,  in  care  of  your  most  royal  person, 
That  if  your  highness  should  intend  to  sleep, 
And  charge  that  no  man  should  disturb  your 

rest, 

In  pain  of  your  dislike,  or  pain  of  death ; 
Yet,  notwithstanding  such  a  strait  edict, 
Were  there  a  serpent  seen,  with  forked  tongue, 
That  slily  glided  towards  your  majesty, 
It  were  but  necessary  you  were  wak'd ; 
Lest,  being  suffered  in  that  harmful  slumber, 
The  mortal  worm  might  make  the  sleep  eternal : 
And  therefore  do  they  cry,  though  you  forbid, 
That  they  will  guard  you,  whe'r  you  will  or  no, 
From  such  fell  serpents  as  false  Suffolk  is ; 
With  whose  envenomed  and  fatal  sting 
Your  loving  uncle,  twenty  times  his  worth, 
They  say,  is  shamefully  bereft  of  life. 

Commons.    [Within, ~\   An  answer  from  the 

king,  my  Lord  of  Salisbury ! 
Suf.  'Tis  like  the  commons,  rude  unpolish'd 

hinds, 

Could  send  such  message  to  their  sovereign: 
But  you,  my  lord,  were  glad  to  be  employ'd, 
To  show  how  quaint  an  orator  you  are : 
But  all  the  honour  Salisbury  hath  won 
Is,  that  he  was  the  lord  ambassador 
Sent  from  a  sort  of  tinkers  to  the  king. 

Commons,    [Within.']   An  answer  from  the 

king,  or  we  will  all  break  in  ! 
K.  Hen.  Go,  Salisbury,  and  tell   them   all 

from  me, 

I  thank  them  for  their  tender  loving  care  ; 
And  had  I  not  been  cited  so  by  them, 
Yet  did  I  purpose  as  they  do  entreat ; 
For,  sure,  my  thoughts  do  hourly  prophesy 
Mischance  unto  my  state  by  Suffolk's  means  : 
And  therefore, — by  His  majesty  I  swear, 
Whose  far  unworthy  deputy  I  am, — 
He  shall  not  breathe  infection  in  this  air 
But  three  days  longer,  on  the  pain  of  death. 

[Exit  SALISBURY. 
Q.  Mar.  O  Henry,  let  me  plead  for  gentle 

Suffolk !  [Suffolk  ! 

K.  Hen.  Ungentle  queen,  to  call  him  gentle 
No  more,  I  say  :  if  thou  dost  plead  for  him, 
Thou  wilt  but  add  increase  unto  my  wrath. 
Had  I  but  said,  I  would  have  kept  my  word  ; 
But  when  I  swear,  it  is  irrevocable. — 


If  after  three  days'  space  thou  here  be'st  found 
On  any  ground  that  I  am  ruler  of, 
The  world  shall  not  be  ransom  for  thy  life. — 
Come,  Warwick,  come,  good  Warwick,  go  with 

me ; 
I  ha\Te  great  matters  to  impart  to  thee. 

[Exeunt  K.  HEN.,  WAR.,  Lords,  <5rv. 
Q.  Mar.  Mischance  and  sorrow  go  along  with 

you  ! 

Heart's  discontent  and  sour  affliction 
Be  playfellows  to  keep  you  company ! 
There  's  two  of  you  ;  the  devil  make  a  third  ! 
And  threefold  vengeance  tend  upon  your  steps  } 
Suf.  Cease,  gentle  queen,  these  execrations, 
And  let  thy  Suffolk  take  his  heavy  leave. 
Q.Mar.  Fie,  coward  woman  and  soft-hearted 

wretch  ! 

Hast  thou  not  spirit  to  curse  thine  enemies  ? 
Suf.  A  plague  upon  them  !  wherefore  should 

I  curse  them  ? 

Would  curses  kill,  as  doth  the  mandrake's  groan, 
I  would  invent  as  bitter-searching  terms, 
As  curst,  as  harsh,  and  horrible  to  hear, 
Deliver'd  strongly  through  my  fixed  teeth, 
With  full  as  many  signs  of  deadly  hate 
As  lean-fac'd  Envy  in  her  loathsome  cave : 
My  tongue  should   stumble   in  mine  earnest 

words ; 

Mine  eyes  should  sparkle  like  the  beaten  flint  \ 
Mine  hair  be  fix'd  on  end,  as  one  distract ; 
Ay,  every  joint  should  seem  to  curse  and  ban  : 
And  even  now  my  burden'd  heart  would  break, 
Should  I  not  arse  them.  Poison  be  their  drink  ! 
Gall,  worse  than  gall,  the  daintiest  that  they 

taste  ! 

Their  sweetest  shade  a  grove  of  cypress  trees  ! 
Their  chiefest  prospect  murdering  basilisks  ! 
Their  softest  touch  as  smart  as  lizard's  stings  ! 
Their  music  frightful  as  the  serpent's  hiss  ; 
And  boding  screech-owls  make  the  concert  full  1 
All  the  foul  terrors  in  dark -seated  hell — 

Q.  Mar.  Enough,  sweet  Suffolk;  thou  tcr- 

ment'st  thyself;  [glass? 

And  these  dread  curses, — like  the  sun  'gainst 
Or  like  an  overcharged  gun, — recoil, 
And  turn  the  force  of  them  upon  thyself. 

Suf.  You  bade  me  ban,  and  will  you  bid  me 

leave  ? 

Now,  by  the  ground  that  I  am  banish'd  from, 
Well  could  I  curse  away  a  winter's  night, 
Though  standing  naked  en  a  mountain  top, 
Where  biting  cold  would  never  let  grass  grow, 
And  think  it  but  a  minute  spent  in  sport. 
Q.  Mar.  O,  let  me  entreat  thee,  cease !    Give 

me  thy  hand, 

That  I  may  dew  it  with  my  mournful  tears  ; 
Nor  let  the  rain  of  heaven  wet  this  place, 


622 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  in. 


To  wash  away  my  woeful  monuments. 
O,  could  this  kiss  be  printed  in  thy  hand, 

[Kisses  his  hand. 

That  thou  mightst  think  upon  these  by  the  seal, 
Through  whom  a  thousand  sighs  are  breath'd 

for  thee ! 

So,  get  thee  gone,  that  I  may  know  my  grief; 
'Tis  but  surmis'd  whilst  thou  art  standing  by, 
As  one  that  surfeits  thinking  on  a  want. 
I  will  repeal  thee,  or,  be  well  assur'd, 
Adventure  to  be  banished  myself: 
And  banished  I  am,  if  but  from  thee. 
Go;  speak  not  to  me;  even  now  be  gone. — 
O,  go  not  yet! — Even  thus  two  friends  con- 
demn'd  [leaves, 

Embrace,  and   kiss,    and   take   ten   thousand 
Leather  a  hundred  times  to  part  than  die. 
Yet  now,  farewell ;  and  farewell  life  with  thee ! 
Suf.   Thus  is  poor  Suffolk  ten  times  ban- 
ished,— 

Once  by  the  king  and  three  times  thrice  by  thee. 
'Tis  not  the  land  I  care  for,  wert  thou  hence ; 
A  wilderness  is  populous  enough, 
so  Suffolk  had  thy  heavenly  company : 
For  where  thou  art,  there  is  the  world  itself, 
With  every  several  pleasure  in  the  world ; 
And  where  thou  art  not,  desolation. 
I  can  no  more : — live  thou  to  joy  thy  life ; 
Myself  to  joy  in  naught  but  that  thou  liv'st. 

Enter  VAUX. 

Q.  Mar.  Whither  goes  Vaux  so  fast?  what 

news,  I  pr'ythee? 
Vaux.  To  signify  unto  his  majesty 
That  Cardinal  Beaufort  is  at  point  of  death; 
For  suddenly  a  grievous  sickness  took  him, 
That  makes  him  gasp,  and  stare,  and  catch  the 

air, 

Blaspheming  God,  and  cursing  men  on  earth. 
Sometime  he  talks  as  if  Duke  Humphrey's  ghost 
Were  by  his  side ;  sometime  he  calls  the  king, 
And  whispers  to  his  pillow,  as  to  him, 
The  secrets  of  his  overcharged  soul : 
And  I  am  sent  to  tell  his  majesty 
That  even  now  he  cries  aloud  for  him.     [king. 
Q.  Mar.  Go  tell  this  heavy  message  to  the 
[Exit  VAUX. 
Ah  me !   what  is  this  world !  what  news  are 

these ! 

But  wherefore  grieve  I  at  an  hour's  poor  loss, 
Omitting  Suffolk's  ex;ie,  my  soul's  treasure? 
Why  only,  Suffolk,  mourn  I  not  for  thee, 
And  with  the  souihern  clouds  contend  in  tears, — 
Theirs  for  the  earth's  increase,  mine  for   my 

sorrows?  [coming; — 

Now  get  thee  hence:  the  king,  thou  know'st,  is 
If  thou  be  found  by  me,  thou  art  but  dead. 


Suf.  If  I  depart  from  thee  I  cannot  live : 
And  in  thy  sight  to  die,  what  were  it  else 
But  like  a  pleasant  slumber  in  thy  lap? 
Here  could  I  breathe  my  soul  into  the  air, 
As  mild  and  gentle  as  the  cradle-babe 
Dying  with  mother's  dug  between  its  lips : 
Where,  from  thy  sight,  I  should  be  raging  mad, 
And  cry  out  for  thee  to  close  up  mine  eyes, 
To  have  thee  with  thy  lips  to  stop  my  mouth ; 
So  shouldst  thou  either  turn  my  flying  soul, 
Or  I  should  breathe  it  so  into  thy  body, 
And  then  it  liv'd  in  sweet  Elysium. 
To  die  by  thee  were  but  to  die  in  jest ; 
From  thee  to  die  were  torture  more  than  death : 
O,  let  me  stay,  befall  what  may  befall ! 

Q.  Mar.  Away !  though  parting  be  a  fretful 

corrosive, 

It  is  applied  to  a  deathful  wound.  [thee ; 

To  France,  sweet  Suffolk:    let  me  hear  from 
For  wheresoe'er  thou  art  in  this  world's  globe 
I  '11  have  an  Iris  that  shall  find  thee  out. 

Suf.   I  go. 

Q.  Mar.  And  take  my  heart  with  thee. 

Suf.  A  jewel,  lock'd  into  the  woefull'st  cask 
That  ever  did  contain  a  thing  of  worth. 
Even  as  a  splitted  bark,  so  sunder  we; 
This  way  fall  I  to  death. 

Q.  Mar.  This  way  for  me.  [Exeunt  severally* 


SCENE  III. — LONDON.     CARDINAL  BEAU- 
FORT'S Bedchamber. 

Enter  KING  HENRY,  SALISBURY,  WARWICK, 
and  others.  The  CARDINAL  in  bed;  Attend- 
ants with  him. 

K.  Hen.  How  fares  my  lord?  speak,  Beau- 
fort, to  thy  sovereign. 

Car.  If   thou    be'st   death    Til   give    thee 

England's  treasure, 

Enough  to  purchase  such  another  island, 
So  thou  wilt  let  me  live  and  feel  no  pain. 

K.  Hen.  Ah,  what  a  sign  it  is  of  evil  life 
Where  death's  approach  is  seen  so  terrible  ! 

War.  Beaufort,  it  is  thy  sovereign  speaks  to 
thee. 

Car.  Bring  me  unto  my  trial  when  you  will. 
Died  he  not  in  his  bed?  where  should  he  die? 
Can  I  make  men  live,  whe'r  they  will  or  no? 
O,  torture  me  no  more !  I  will  confess. — 
Alive  again  ?  then  snow  me  where  he  is : 
I  '11  give  a  thousand  pound  to  look  upon  him.— 
He  hath  no  eyes,  the  dusi  hath  blinded  them. — 
Comb  down  his  hair ;  look,  look  !  it  stands  up- 
right, 
Like  lime-twigs  set  to  catch  my  winged  soul ! — 


SCENE  III.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


623 


Give  me  some  drink  ;  and  bid  the  apothecary 
Bring  the  strong  poison  that  I  bought  of  him. 

K.  Hen.  O  thou  eternal  Mover  of  the  heavens, 
Look  with  a  gentle  eye  upon  this  wretch ! 
O,  beat  away  the  busy  meddling  fiend 
That  lays  strong  siege  unto  this  wretch's  soul, 
And  from  his  bosom  purge  this  black  despair ! 

War.  See  how  the  pangs  of  death  do  make 
him  grin ! 

Sal.  Disturb  him  not,  let  him  pass  peaceably. 

K.  Hen.   Peace   to  his  soul,  if  God's  good 

pleasure  be ! 

Lord  Cardinal,  if  thou  think'st  on  heaven's  bliss, 
Hold  up  thy  hand,  make  signal  of  thy  hope. — 
He  dies,  and  makes  no  sign : — O  God,  forgive 
him ! 

War.  So  bad  a  death  argues  a  monstrous  life. 

K.  Hen.  Forbear  to  judge,  for  we  are  sin- 
ners all. — 

Close  up  his  eyes,  and  draw  the  curtain  close ; 
And  let  us  all  to  meditation.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 
SCENE  I. — KENT.     The  Sea-shore  near  Dover. 

Firing  heard  at  sea.  Then  enter •,  from  a  boat, 
a  Captain,  a  Master,  a  Master's  Mate, 
WALTER  WHITMORE,  and  others;  -with 
them  SUFFOLK,  disguised,  and  other  Gentle- 
men, prisoners. 

Cap.  The  gaudy,  blabbing,  and  remorseful 

day- 
Is  crept  into  the  bosom  of  the  sea ; 
And  now  loud-howling  wolves  arouse  the  jades 
That  drag  the  tragic  melancholy  night ; 
Who  with  their  drowsy,  slow,  and  flagging  wings 
Clip  dead  men's  graves,  and  from  their  misty 

jaws 

Breathe  foul  contagious  darkness  in  the  air. 

Therefore  bring  forth  the  soldiers  of  our  prize ; 

For,  whilst  our  pinnace  anchors  in  the  Downs, 

Here  shall  they  make  their  ransom  on  the  sand, 

Orwith  their  bloodstain  th is discolour'd shore. — 

Master,  this  prisoner  freely  give  I  thee ; — 

And  thou  that  art  his  mate,  make  boot  of  this ; — 

The    other    [pointing  to   SUFFOLK],   Walter 

Whitmore  is  thy  share.  [know. 

I  Gent.  What  is  my  ransom,  master?  let  me 

Mast.  A  thousand  crowns,  or  else  lay  down 

your  head.  [yours. 

Mate.  And  so  much  shall  you  give,  or  off  goes 

Cap.  What,    think   you    much   to   pay  two 

thousand  crowns, 
And  bear  the  name  and  port  of  gentlemen? — 


Cut   both  the  villains'  throats; — for  die    /ou 

shall:— 

The  lives  of  those  which  we  have  lost  in  fight 

Cannot  be  counterpois'd  with  such  a  petty  sum. 

I  Gent.  I  '11  give  it,  sir ;  and  therefore  spare 

my  life.  [straight. 

2.  Gent.  And  so  will  I,  and  write  home  for  it 

Whit.  I  lost  mine  eye  in  laying  the  prize  a- 

board, 
And  therefore,  to  revenge  it,  shall  thou  die; 

[To  SUFFOLK. 

And  so  should  these,  if  I  might  have  my  will. 
Cap.   Be  not  so  rash;  take  ransom,  let  him 

live 

Suf.  Look  on  my  George, — I  am  a  gentleman: 

Rate  me  at  what  thou  wilt,  thou  shait  be  paid. 

Whit.  And  so  am  I;   my  name  is  Walter 

Whitmore.  [affright? 

How  now !  why  start'st  thou?  what,  doth  death 

Suf.  Thy  name  affrights  me,  in  whose  sound 

is  death. 

A  cunning  man  did  calculate  my  birth, 
And  told  me  that  by  Water  I  should  die : 
Yet  let  not  this  make  thee  be  bloody-minded ; 
Thy  name  is  Gaultier^  being  rightly  sounded. 
Whit.   Gaultier  or  Walter,  which  it  is  I  care 

not: 

Never  yet  did  base  dishonour  blur  our  name 
But  with  our  sword  we  wip'd  away  the  blot ; 
Therefore,  when  merchant-like  I  sell  revenge, 
Broke  be  my  sword,  my  arms  torn  and  defac'd, 
And  I  proclaim'd  a  coward  through  the  world  1 
[Lays  hold  on  SUFFOLK. 
Suf.  Stay,  Whitmore ;  for  thy  prisoner  is  a 

prince, 

The  Duke  of  Suffolk,  William  De-la-Poole. 
Whit.  The  Duke  of  Suffolk  muffled  up  in  rags ! 
Suf.  Ay,  but  these  rags  are  no  part  of  the 

duke: 

Jove  sometime  went  disguis'd,  and  why  not  I? 
Cap.  But  Jove  was  never  slain,  as  thou  shalt 
be.  [blood, 

Suf.  Obscure  and  lowly  swain,  King  Henry's 
The  honourable  blood  of  Lancaster, 
Must  not  be  shed  by  such  a  jaded  groom. 
Hast  thou  not  kiss'd  thy  hand  and  held  my 

stirrup  ? 

Bareheaded  plodded  by  my  foot-cloth  mule, 
And  thought  thee  happy  when  I  shook  my  head? 
How  often  hast  thou  waited  at  my  cup, 
Fed  from  my  trencher,  kneel'd  down  at  the 

board, 

When  I  have  feasted  with  Queen  Margaret  ? 
Remember  it,  and  let  it  make  thee  crest-fall'n ; 
Ay,  and  allay  this  thy  abortive  pride : 
How  in  our  voiding-lobby  hast  thou  stood. 
And  duly  waited  for  my  coming  forth  ? 


624 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  iv. 


This  hand  of  mine  hath  writ  in  thy  behalf, 
And  therefore  shall  it  charm  thy  riotous  tongue. 
Whit.  Speak,  captain,  shall  I  stab  the  for- 
lorn swain  ?  [me. 
Cap.  First  let  my  words  stab  him,  as  he  hath 
Suf.  Base  slave,  thy  words  are  blunt,  and  so 

art  thou.  [boat's  side 

Cap.  Convey  him  hence,  and  on  our  long- 
Strike  off  his  head. 

Suf.  Thou  dar'st  not,  for  thy  own. 

Cap.  Yes,  Poole. 
Suf.  Poole ! 

Cap.  Poole !  Sir  Poole !  lord  ! 

Ay,  kennel,  puddle,  sink  ;  whose  filth  and  dirt 
Troubles  thesilver  spring  where  England  drinks. 
Now  will  I  dam  up  this  thy  yawning  mouth 
For  swallowing  the  treasure  of  the  realm  : 
Thy  lips,  that  kiss'd  the  queen,  shall  sweep  the 

ground ;  [phrey's  death, 

And  thou,  that  smil'dst  at  good  Duke  Hum- 
Against  the  senseless  winds  shalt  grin  in  vain, 
Who,  in  contempt,  shall  hiss  at  thee  again  : 
And  wedded  be  thou  to  the  hags  of  hell, 
For  daring  to  affy  a  mighty  lord 
Unto  the  daughter  of  a  worthless  king, 
Having  neither  subject,  wealth,  nor  diadem. 
By  devilish  policy  art  thou  grown  great, 
And,  like  ambitious  Sylla,  overgorg'd 
With  goblets  of  thy  mother's  bleeding  heart. 
By  thee  Anjou  and  Maine  were  sold  to  France; 
The  false  revolting  Normans  thorough  thee 
Disdain  to  call  us  lord ;  and  Picardy 
Hath  slain  their  governors,  surpris'd  our  forts, 
And  sent  the  ragged  soldiers  wounded  home. 
The  princely  Warwick,  and  the  Nevils  all, — 
Whose  dreadful  swords  were  never  drawn  in 

vain, — 

As  hating  thee,  are  rising  up  in  arms  :    [crown 
And  now  the  house  of  York, — thrust  from  the 
By  shameful  murder  of  a  guiltless  king 
And  lofty  proud  encroaching  tyranny, — 
Burns   with   revenging    fire ;    whose    hopeful 

colours 

Advance  our  half-fac'd  sun,  striving  to  shine, 
Under  the  which  is  writ  Invitis  nubibus. 
The  commons  here  in  Kent  are  up  in  arms  : 
And,  to  conclude,  reproach  and  beggary 
Is  crept  into  the  palace  of  our  king, 
And  all  by  thee. — Away!  convey  him  hence. 
Suf.  O  that  I  were  a  god,  to  shoot  forth 

thunder 

Upon  these  paltry,  servile,  abject  drudges  ! 
Small  things  make  base  men  proud ;  this  villain 

here, 

Being  captain  of  a  pinnace,  threatens  more 
Than  Bargulus  the  strong  Illyrian  pirate. 
Drones  suck  not  eagles'  blood,  but  rob  bee-hives: 


It  is  impossible  that  I  should  die 

By  such  a  lowly  vassal  as  thyself. 

Thy  words  move  rage  and  not  remorse  in  me : 

I  go  of  message  from  the  queen  to  France ; 

I  charge  thee,  waft  me  safely  cross  the  Channel. 

Cap.  Walter, — 

Whit.  Come,  Suffolk,  I  must  waft  thee  to 
thy  death.  [I  fear. 

Suf.   Gelidus  timor  occupat  artits: — 'tis  thee 

Wkit.  Thou  shalt  have  cause  to  fear  before 

I  leave  thee. 
What,  are  ye  daunted  now?  now  will  ye  stoop? 

I  Gent.  My  gracious  lord,  entreat  him,  speak 
him  fair.  [rough, 

Suf.  Suffolk's  imperial  tongue  is  stern  and 
Us'd  to  command,  untaught  to  plead  for  favour. 
Far  be  it  we  should  honour  such  as  these 
With  humble  suit :  no,  rather  let  my  head 
Stoop  to  the  block  than  these  knees  bow  to  any, 
Save  to  the  God  of  heaven  and  to  my  king ; 
And  sooner  dance  upon  a  bloody  pole 
Than  stand  uncover'd  to  the  vulgar  groom. 
True  nobility  is  exempt  from  fear : — 
More  can  I  bear  than  you  dare  execute. 

Cap.   Hale  him  away,  and  let  him  talk  no 
more.  [can, 

Suf.  Come,  soldiers,  show  what  cruelty  ye 
That  this  my  death  may  never  be  forgot ! — 
Great  men  oft  die  by  vile  bezonians : 
A  Roman  sworder  and  banditto  slave 
Murder'd  sweet  Tully ;  Brutus'  bastard  hand 
Stabb'd  Julius  Csesar ;  savage  islanders 
Pompey  the  Great ;  and  Suffolk  dies  by  pirates. 
[Exit  SUF.,  with  WHIT,  and  others. 

Cap.  And  as  for  these,  whose  ransom  we 

have  set, 

It  is  our  pleasure  one  of  them  depart : — 
Therefore  come  you  with  us,  and  let  him  go. 
[Exeunt  all  but  the  first  Gentleman. 

Re-enter  WHITMORE  with  SUFFOLK'S  body. 

Whit.  There  let  his  head  and  lifeless  body  lie, 
Until  the  queen  his  mistress  bury  it.        [Exit. 

I  Gent.  O  barbarous  and  bloody  spectacle ! 
His  body  will  I  bear  unto  the  king : 
If  he  revenge  it  not,  yet  will  his  friends; 
So  will  the  queen,  that,  living,  held  him  dear, 
[Exit  with  the  body* 


SCENE  \\.-r-Blackheath. 
Enter  GEORGE  BEVIS  and  JOHN  HOLLAND. 

Geo.  Come,  and  get  thee  a  sword,  though 
made  of  a  lath ;  they  have  been  up  these  two  days. 

John.  They  have  the  more  need  to  sleep  nowj 
then. 


SCENE  II.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


625 


Well 


Geo.  I  tell  thee,  Jack  Cade  the  clothier  means 
to  dress  the  commonwealth,  and  turn  it,  and 
set  a  new  nap  upon  it. 

John.   So  he  had  need,  for  'tis  threadbare. 

Tell,  I  say  it  was  never  merry  world  in  Eng- 
land since  gentlemen  came  up. 

Geo,  O  miserable  age !  Virtue  is  not  regarded 
in  handicraftsmen. 

John.  The  nobility  think  scorn  to  go  in 
leather  aprons. 

Geo.  Nay,  more,  the  king's  council  are  no 
good  workmen. 

John.  True ;  and  yet  it  is  said, — Labour  in  thy 
vocation  ;  which  is  as  much  to  say  as, — Let  the 
magistrates  be  labouring  men  ;  and  therefore 
should  we  be  magistrates. 

Geo.  Thou  hast  hit  it ;  for  there 's  no  better 
sign  of  a  brave  mind  than  a  hard  hand. 

John.  I  see  them  !  I  see  them  !  There 's 
Best's  son,  the  tanner  of  Wingham, — 

Geo.  He  shall  have  the  skins  of  our  enemies 
to  make  dog's  leather  of. 

John.  And  Dick  the  butcher, — 

Geo.  There  is  sin  struck  down  like  an  ox, 
and  iniquity's  throat  cut  like  a  calf. 

John.  And  Smith  the  weaver, — 

Geo.  Argo,  their  thread  of  life  is  spun. 

John.  Come,  come,  let 's  fall  in  with  them. 

Drum.  Enter  CADE,  DICK  the  Butcher, 
SMITH  the  Weaver >  and  others  in  great 
number. 

Cade.  We  John  Cade,  so  termed  of  our  sup- 
posed father, — • 

Dick.  Or,  rather,  of  stealing  a  cade  of  her- 
rings. [Aside. 

Cade.  For  our  enemies  shall  fall  before  us, — 
inspired  with  the  spirit  of  putting  down  kings 
and  princes. — Command  silence. 

Dick.  Silence! 

Cade.  My  father  was  a  Mortimer, — 

Dick.  He  was  an  honest  man  and  a  good 
bricklayer.  [Aside. 

Cade.  My  mother  a  Plantagenet, — 

Dick.  I  knew  her  well ;  she  was  a  midwife. 

[Aside. 

Cade.  My  wife  descended  of  the  Lacies, — 

Dick.  She  was,  indeed,  a  pedlar's  daughter, 
and  sold  many  laces.  [Aside. 

Smith.  But  now  of  late,  not  able  to  travel 
with  her  furred  pack,  she  washes  bucks  here  at 
home.  [Aside. 

Cade.  Therefore  am  I  of  an  honourable  house. 

Dick.  Ay,  by  my  faith,  the  field  is  honour- 
able ;  and  there  was  he  born  under  a  hedge, — 
for  his  father  had  never  a  house  but  the  cage. 

[Aside. 


Cade.  Valiant  I  am. 

Smith.  'A  must  needs  ;  for  beggary  is  valiant 

[Aside. 

Cade.  I  am  able  to  endure  much. 

Dick.  No  question  of  that ;  for  I  have  seen 
him  whipped  three  market  days  together. 

[Aside. 

Cade.   I  fear  neither  sword  nor  fire. 

Smith.  He  need  not  fear  the  sword  ;  for  his 
coat  is  of  proof.  [Aside. 

Dick.  But  methinks  he  should  stand  in  fear 
of  fire,  being  burnt  i'  the  hand  for  stealing  of 
sheep.  [Aside. 

Cade.  Be  brave,  then  ;  for  your  captain  is 
brave,  and  vows  reformation.  There  shall  be 
in  England  seven  halfpenny  loaves  sold  for  a 
penny:  the  three-hooped  pot  shall  have  ten 
hoops  ;  and  I  will  make  it  felony  to  drink  small 
beer :  all  the  realm  shall  be  in  common ;  and 
in  Cheapside  shall  my  palfrey  go  to  grass  :  and 
when  I  am  king, — as  king  I  will  be,- — 

All.  God  save  your  majesty  I 

Cade.  I  thank  you,  good  people :— there  shall 
be  no  money ;  all  shall  eat  and  drink  on  my 
score ;  and  I  will  apparel  them  all  in  one 
livery,  that  they  may  agree  like  brothers,  and 
worship  me  their  lord. 

Dick.  The  first  thing  we  do,  let 's  kill  all  the 
lawyers. 

Cade.  Nay,  that  I  mean  to  do.  Is  not  this  a 
lamentable  thing,  that  of  the  skin  of  an  innocent 
lamb  should  be  made  parchment?  that  parch- 
ment, being  scribbled  o'er,  should  undo  a  man  ? 
Some  say  the  bee  stings  ;  but  I  say  'tis  the  bee's 
wax ;  for  I  did  but  seal  once  to  a  thing,  and  I 
was  never  mine  own  man  since. — How  now ! 
who 's  there  ? 

Enter  some,  bringing  in  the  Clerk  of  Chatham. 

Smith.  The  clerk  of  Chatham  :  he  can  write 
and  read  and  cast  accompt. 

Cade.  O  monstrous  I 

Smith.  We  took  him  setting  of  boys'  copies. 

Cade.  Here 's  a  villain  ! 

Smith.  Has  a  book  in  his  pocket  with  red 
letters  in 't. 

Cade.  Nay,  then,  he  is  a  conjurer, 

Dick.  Nay,  he  can  make  obligations  and 
write  court -hand. 

Cade.  I  am  sorry  for 't :  the  man  is  a  proper 
man,  on  mine  honour  :  unless  I  find  him  guilty, 
he  shall  not  die. — Come  hither,  sirrah,  I  must 
examine  thee  :  what  is  thy  name  ? 

Clerk.  Emmanuel. 

Dick.  They  use  to  write  it  on  the  top  of 
letters  :  'twill  go  hard  with  you. 

Cade.  Let  me  alone. — Dost  thotz  use  to  write 


626 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  iv. 


thy  name  ?  or  hast  thou  a  mark  to  thyself,  like 
an  honest  plain-dealing  man  ? 

Clerk.  Sir,  I  thank  God,  I  have  been  so  well 
brought  up  that  I  can  write  my  name. 

All.  He  hath  confessed :  away  with  him  !  he's 
a  villain  and  a  traitor. 

Cade.  Away  with  him,  I  say  !  hang  him  with 
his  pen  and  inkhorn  about  his  neck. 

[Exeunt  some  with  the  Clerk. 

Enter  MICHAEL. 

Mich.  Where 's  our  general  ? 

Cade.   Here  I  am,  thou  particular  fellow. 

Mich.  Fly,  fly,  fly  !  Sir  Humphrey  Stafford 
and  his  brother  are  hard  by,  with  the  king's 
forces. 

Cade.  Stand,  villain,  stand,  or  I  '11  fell  thee 
down.  He  shall  be  encountered  with  a  man  as 
good  as  himself :  he  is  but  a  knight,  is  'a  ? 

Mich.  No. 

Cade.  To  equal  him,  I  will  make  myself  a 
knight  presently.  [Kneels."]  Rise  up.  Sir  John 
Mortimer.  [Rises.]  Now  have  at  him  ! 

Enter    SIR    HUMPHREY    STAFFORD    and 
WILLIAM  his  Brother,  with  drum  and  Forces. 

Staf.  Rebellious  hinds,  the  filth  and  scum  of 

Kent, 

Mark'd  for  the  gallows,  lay  your  weapons  down ; 
Home  to  your  cottages,  forsake  this  groom : — 
The  king  is  merciful  if  you  revolt.  [blood 

W.  Staf.  But  angry,  wrathful,  and  inclin'd  to 
If  you  go  forward  :  therefore  yield  or  die. 

Cade.  As  for  these  silken-coated  slaves,!  pass 

not : 

It  is  to  you,  good  people,  that  I  speak, 
O'er  whom,  in  time  to  come,  I  hope  to  reign ; 
For  I  am  rightful  heir  unto  the  crown. 

Staf.  Villain,  thy  father  was  a  plasterer  ; 
And  thou  thyself  a  shearman, — art  thou  not  ? 

Cade.  And  Adam  was  a  gardener. 

W.  Staf.  And  what  of  that? 

Cade.  Marry,  this: — Edmund  Mortimer,  Earl 

of  March,  [he  not  ? 

Married  the  Duke  of  Clarence'  daughter, — did 

Staf.  Ay,  sir. 

Cade.  By  her  he  had  two  children  at  one  birth. 

W.  Staf.  That 's  false.  ['tis  true : 

Cade.  Ay,  there 's  the  question ;   but  I  say 
The  elder  of  them  being  put  to  nurse, 
Was  by  a  beggar-woman  stol'n  away ; 
And,  ignorant  of  his  tirth  and  parentage, 
Became  a  bricklayer  when  he  came  to  age : 
His  son  am  I ;  deny  it  if  you  can. 

Dick.  Nay,  'tis  too  true ;  therefore  he  shall 
be  king. 

Smith.  Sir,  he  made  a  chimney  in  my  father's 


house,  an' I  the  bricks  are  alive  at  this  day  to 
testify  it ;  therefore  deny  it  not.  [words, 

Staf.  And  will  you  credit  this  base  drudge's 
That  speaks  he  knows  not  what?  [gone. 

All.  Ay,   marry,  will  we ;  therefore  get  ye 

W.  Staf.  Jack  Cade,  the  Duke  of  York  hath 
taught  you  this. 

Cade.  He  lies,  for  I  invented  it  myself 
[Aside.] — Go  to,  sirrah,  tell  the  king  from  me, 
that,  for  his  father's  sake,  Henry  the  Fifth,  in 
whose  time  boys  wentto  span-counter  for  French 
crowns,  I  am  content  he  shall  reign ;  but  I  '11 
be  protector  over  him. 

Dick.  And  furthermore,  we  '11  have  the  Lord 
Say's  head,  for  selling  the  dukedom  of  Maine. 

Cade.  And  good  reason ;  for  thereby  is  Eng- 
land mained,  and  fain  to  go  with  a  staff,  but  that 
my  puissance  holds  it  up.  Fellow  kings,  I  tell 
you  that  that  Lord  Say  hath  gelded  the  common- 
wealth, and  made  it  an  eunuch  :  and  more  than 
that,  he  can  speak  P'rench ;  and  therefore  he  is 
a  traitor. 

Staf.  O  gross  and  miserable  ignorance  ! 

Cade.  Nay,  answer  if  you  can : — "he  French- 
men are  our  enemies ;  go  to,  then,  I  ask  but  this, 
— can  he  that  speaks  with  the  tongue  of  an  enemy 
be  a  good  counsellor,  or  no?  [head. 

All.   No,  no;  and  therefore  we'll  have  his 

W.  Staf.  Well,  seeing  gentle  words  will  not 

prevail, 
Assail  them  with  the  army  of  the  king,     [town 

Staf.   Herald,  away ;  and  throughout  every 
Proclaim  them  traitors  ihat  are  up  with  Cade ; 
That  those  which  fly  before  the  battle  ends 
May,  even  in  their  wives'  and  children's  sight, 
Be  hang'd  up  for  example  at  their  doors : — 
And  you  that  be  the  king's  friends,  follow  me. 
[Exeunt  the  two  STAFFORDS  and  Forces. 

Cade.  And  you  that  love  the  commons  follow 

me. — 

Now  show  yourselves  men ;  'tis  for  liberty. 
We  will  not  leave  one  lord,  one  gentleman : 
Spare  none  but  such  as  go  in  clouted  shoon ; 
For  they  are  thrifty  honest  men,  and  such 
As  would — but  that  they  dare  not — take  our 
parts.  [wards  us. 

Dick.  They  are  all  in  order,  and  march  to- 

Cade.  But  then  are  we  in  order  when  we  are 
most  out  of  order.  Come,  march  forward. 

\Exezmt-. 

SCENE  III. — Another  part  of  Blackheath. 

Alarums.    The  two  parties  enter  and  fight,  and 
both  the  STAFFORDS  are  slain. 

Cade.  Where 's  Dick,  the  butcher  of  Ashford  ? 
Dick.  Here,  sir. 


SCENE  IV.j 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


627 


Cade.  They  fell  before  thee  like  sheepand  oxen, 
and  thou  behavedst  thyself  as  if  thou  hadst  been 
in  thine  own  slaughter-house :  therefore  thus  will 
I  reward  thee, — the  Lent  shall  be  as  long  again 
as  it  is ;  and  thou  shalt  have  a  license  to  kill  for 
a  hundred  lacking  one,  a  week. 

Dick.  I  desire  no  more. 

Cade.  And,  to  speak  truth,  thou  deservest 
no  less.  This  monument  of  the  victory  will  I 
bear  {putting on  pent  of  Sm  H.  STAFFORD'S 
armour];  and  the  bodies  shall  be  dragged  at 
my  horse's  heels  till  I  do  come  to  London, 
where  we  will  have  the  mayor's  sword  borne 
before  us. 

Dick.  If  we  mean  to  thrive  and  do  good, 
break  open  the  gaols,  and  let  out  the  prisoners. 

Cade.  Fear  not  that,  I  warrant  thee. — Come, 
let 's  march  towards  London.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.  — LONDON.    A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  KING  HENRY,  reading  a  supplication; 
the  DUKE  OF  BUCKINGHAM  and  LORD  SAY 
with  him:  at  a  distance,  QUEEN  MARGARET 
mourning  aver  SUFFOLK'S  head. 

Q.  Mar.  Oft  have  I  heard  that  grief  softens 

the  mind, 

And  makes  it  fearful  and  degenerate ; 
Think  therefore  on  revenge,  and  cease  to  weep. 
But  who  can  cease  to  weep,  and  look  on  this? 
Here  may  his  head  lie  on  my  throbbing  breast: 
But  where's  the  body  that  I  should  embrace? 

BUCK.  What  answer  makes  your  grace  to  the 
rebels'  supplication? 

K.  Hen.  I  '11  send  some  holy  bishop  to  en- 
treat ; 

For  God  forbid  so  many  simple  souls 
Should  perish  by  the  sword !     And  I  myself, 
Rather  than  bloody  war  shall  cut  them  short, 
Will  parley  with  Jack  Cade  their  general : — 
But  stay,  I  '11  read  it  over  once  again. 

Q.  Mar.   Ah,  barbarous  villains'   hath   this 

lovely  face 

Rul'd,  like  a  wandering  planet,  over  me, 
And  could  it  not  enforce  them  to  relent 
That  were  unworthy  to  behold  the  same? 

K.  Hen.  Lord  Say,  Jack  Cade  hath  sworn  to 
have  thy  head.  [his. 

Say.  Ay,  but  I  hope  your  highness  shall  have 

K*  Ken.   How  now,  madam  ! 
Still  lamentingand  mourning  for  Suffolk's  death? 
I  fear,  my  love,  if  that  I  had  oeen  dead,     [me. 
Thou  wouldst  not  have  mourn'd  so  much  for 

Q.  Afar.  No,  my  love,  I  should  not  mourn, 
but  die  for  thee. 


Enter  a  Messenger. 

K.  Hen.  How  now!  what  news?  whycom'st 
thou  in  such  haste?  [lord  ; 

Mess.  The  rebels  are  in  Southwark ;  fly,  my 
Jack  Cade  proclaims  himself  Lord  Mortimer, 
Descended  from  the  Duke  of  Clarence'  house  ; 
And  calls  your  grace  usurper  cpenly, 
And  vows  to  crown  himself  in  Westminster. 
His  army  is  a  ragged  multitude 
Of  hinds  and  peasants,  rude  and  merciless : 
Sir  Humphrey  Stafford  and  his  brother's  death 
Hath  given  them  heart  and  courage  to  proceed : 
All  scholars,  lawyers,  courtiers,  gentlemen, 
They  call  false  caterpillars,  and  intend  their  death. 

K.  Hen.  O  graceless  menl   they  know  not 
what  they  do,  [worth 

Buck.  My  gracious  lord,  retire  to  Killing- 
Until  a  power  be  rais'd  to  put  them  down. 

Q.  Mar.  Ah !  were  the  Duke  of  Suffolk  now 

alive, 
These  Kentish  rebels  would  be  soon  appeas'd. 

K.  Hen.   Lord  Say,  the  traitors  hate  thee ; 
Therefore  away  with  us  to  Killingworth. 

Say.   So  might  your  grace's  person  be  in 

danger ; 

The  sight  of  me  is  odious  in  their  eyes : 
And  therefore  in  this  city  will  I  stay, 
And  live  alone  as  secret  as  I  may. 

Enter  a  second  Messenger. 

2  Mess.  Jack  Cade  hath  gotten  London  Bridge: 
The  citizens  fly  and  forsake  their  houses ; 
The  rascal  people,  thirsting  after  prey, 
Join  witn  the  traitor ;  and  they  jointly  swear 
To  spoil  the  city  and  your  royal  court. 

Buck.  Then  linger  not,  my  lord ;  away,  take 

horse. 

K.  Hen.  Come,  Margaret;  God,  our  hope, 

will  succour  us.  [deceas'd. 

Q.  Mar.   My  hope  is  gone,  now  Suffolk  is 

K.  Hen.  Farewell,  my  lord  [to  LORD  SAY]: 

trust  not  the  Kentish  rebels. 
Buck.  Trust  nobody,  for  fear  you  be  betray'd. 
Say.  The  crust  I  have  is  in  mine  innocence, 
And  therefore  am  I  bold  and  resolute. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.— LONDON.     The  Tower. 

Enter  LORD  SCALES  and  others,  on  the  Walls. 
Then  enter  certain  Citizens,  below. 

Scales.  How  now  !  is  Jack  Cade  slain? 

I  Cit.  No,  my  lord,  nor  likely  to  be  slain ;  for 
they  have  won  the  bridge,  killing  all  those  that 
withstand  them :  the  lord  mayor  craves  aid  of 


628 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  iv. 


your  honour  from  the  Tower,  to  defend  the  city 
from  the  rebels. 

Scales.  Such  aid  as  I  can  spare,  you  shall  com- 
mand ; 

But  I  am  troubled  here  with  them  myself, — 
The  rebels  have  assay'd  to  win  the  Tower. 
But  get  you  to  Smithfield,  and  gather  head, 
And  thither  I  will  send  you  Matthew  Gough ; 
Fight  for  your  king,  your  country,  and  your  lives; 
And  so,  farewell,  for  I  must  hence  again. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  VI.— LONDON.     Cannon  Street. 

Enter  JACK  CADE  and  his  Followers.     He 
strikes  his  staff  on  London  stone. 

Cade.  Now  is  Mortimer  lord  of  this  city. 
And  here,  sitting  upon  London  stone,  I  charge 
and  command  that,  of  the  city's  cost,  the  pissing- 
conduit  run  nothing  but  claret  wine  this  first 
year  of  our  reign.  And  now  henceforward  it 
shall  be  treason  for  any  that  calls  me  other  than 
Lord  Mortimer. 

Enter  a  Soldier,  winning. 

Sold.  Jack  Cade !  Jack  Cade ! 

Cade.  Knock  him  down  there. 

'{They  kill  him. 

Smith.  If  this  fellow  be  wise,  he'll  never 
call  you  Jack  Cade  more ;  I  think  he  hath  a 
very  fair  warning. 

Dick.  My  lord,  there 's  an  army  gathered  to- 
gether in  Smithfield. 

Cade.  Come,  then,  let 's  go  fight  with  them : 
but  first,  go  and  set  London  Bridge  on  fire ;  and, 
if  you  can,  burn  down  the  Tower  too.  Come, 
let 's  away.  {Exeunt. 


SCENE  VII. — LONDON.    Smithfield. 

Alarums.  Enter,  on  one  side,  CADE  and  his 
Company;  on  the  other.  Citizens,  and  the 
KING'S  Forces,  headed  by  MATTHEW  GOUGH. 
They  fight ;  the  Citizens  are  rcntted,  and 
MATTHEW  GOUGH  is  slain. 

Cade.  So,  sirs : — now  go  some  and  pull  down 
the  Savoy ;  others  to  the  inns  of  court ;  down 
with  them  all. 

Dick.  I  have  a  suit  unto  your  lordship. 

Cade.  Be  it  a  lordship,  thou  shalt  have  it  for 
that  word. 

Dick.  Only,  that  the  laws  of  England  may 
come  out  of  your  mouth. 

John.  Mass,  'twill  be  sore  law  then ;  for  he 


was  thrust  in  the  mouth  with  a  spear,  and  'tis 
not  whole  yet.  {Aside. 

Smith.  Nay,  John,  it  will  be  stinking  law ; 
for  his  breath  stinks  with  eating  toasted  cheese. 

{Aside. 

Cade.  I  have  thought  upon  it,  it  shall  be  so. 
Away,  burn  all  the  records  of  the  realm :  my 
mouth  shall  be  the  Parliament  of  England. 

John.  Then  we  are  like  to  have  biting  statutes, 
unless  his  teeth  be  pulled  out.  {Aside. 

Cade.  And  henceforward  all  things  shall  be 
in  common. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord,  a  prize,  a  prize !  here 's  the 
Lord  Say,  which  sold  the  towns  in  France  ;  he 
that  made  us  pay  one-and-twenty  fifteens,  and 
one  shilling  to  the  pound,  the  last  subsidy. 

Enter  GEORGE  BEVIS,  with  the  LORD  SAY. 

_  Cade.  Well,  he  shall  be  beheaded  for  it  ten 
times. — Ah,  thou  say,  thou  serge,  nay,  thou 
buckram  lord  !  now  art  thou  within  point  blank 
of  our  jurisdiction  regal.  What  canst  thou 
answer  to  my  majesty  for  giving  up  of  Normandy 
unto  Monsieur  Basimecu,  the  Dauphin  of 
France?  Be  it  known  unto  thee  by  these  pre- 
sence, even  the  presence  of  Lord  Mortimer,  that 
I  am  the  besom  that  must  sweep  the  court  clean 
of  such  filth  as  thou  art.  Thou  hast  most  traitor- 
ously corrupted  the  youth  of  the  realm  in  erect- 
ing a  grammar  school :  and  whereas,  before,  our 
forefathers  had  no  other  books  but  the  score  and 
the  tally,  thou  hast  caused  printing  to  be  used ; 
and,  contrary  to  the  king,  his  crown,  and  dignity, 
thou  hast  built  a  paper-mill.  It  will  be  proved 
to  thy  face  that  thou  hast  men  about  thee  that 
usually  talk  of  a  noun  and  a  verb,  and  such 
abominable  words  as  no  Christian  ear  can  endure 
to  hear.  Thou  hast  appointed  justices  of  peace, 
to  call  poor  men  before  them  about  matters  they 
were  not  able  to  answer.  Moreover,  thou  hast 
put  them  in  prison ;  and  because  they  could  not 
read,  thou  hast  hanged  them ;  when,  indeed, 
only  for  that  cause  they  have  been  most  worthy 
to  live.  Thou  dost  ride  in  a  foot-cloth,  dost 
thou  not? 

Say.  What  of  that? 

Cade.  Marry,  thou  oughtest  not  to  let  thy 
horse  wear  a  cloak,  when  honester  men  than  thou 
go  in  their  hose  and  doublets. 

Dick.  And  work  in  their  shirt  too ;  as  my- 
self, for  example,  that  am  a  butcher. 

Say.  You  men  of  Kent, — 

Dick.  What  say  you  of  Kent? 

Say.  Nothing  but  this, — 'tis  bona  terra>  mala 
gens. 


SCENE  VII.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


Cade.  Away  with  him,  away  with  him  !  he 
speaks  Latin. 

Say.  Hear  me  but  speak,  and  bear  me  where 

you  will. 

Kent,  in  the  Commentaries  Cresar  writ, 
Is  term'd  the  civill'st  place  of  all  this  isle  : 
Sweet  is  the  country,  because  full  of  riches; 
The  people  liberal,  valiant,  active,  wealthy ; 
Which  makes  me  hope  you  are  not  void  of  pity. 
I  sold  not  Maine,  I  lost  not  Normandy; 
Yet,  to  recover  them,  would  lose  my  life. 
Justice  with  favour  have  I  always  done; 
Prayers  and  tears  have  mov'd  me,  gifts  could 

never. 

When  have  I  aught  exacted  at  your  hands, 
But  to  maintain  the  king,  the  realm,  and  you? 
Large  gifts  have  I  bestow'd  on  learned  clerks, 
Because  my  book  preferr'd  me  to  the  king, 
And  seeing  ignorance  is  the  curse  of  God, 
Knowledge  the  wing  wherewith  we  fly  to  heaven. 
Unless  you  be  possess'd  with  devilish  spirits, 
You  cannot  but  forbear  to  murder  me : 
This  tongue  hath  parley'd  unto  foreign  kings 
For  your  behoof, —  [the  field? 

Cade.  Tut,  when  struck'st  thou  one  blow  in 

Say.   Great  men   have  reaching  hands:   oft 

have  I  struck 
Those  that  I  never  saw,  and  struck  them  dead. 

Geo.  O  monstrous  coward  !  what,  to  come  be- 
hind folks?  [your  good. 

Say.  These  cheeks  are  pale  for  watching  for 

Cade.  Give  him  a  box  o'  the  ear,  and  that 
will  make  'em  red  again.  [causes 

Say.  Long  sitting  to  determine  poor  men's 
Hath  made  me  full  of  sickness  and  diseases. 

Cade.  Ye  shall  have  a  hempen  caudle,  then, 
and  the  help  of  hatchet. 

Dick.  Why  dost  thou  quiver,  man? 

Say.  The  palsy,  and  not  fear,  provokes  me. 

Cade.  Nay,  he  nods  at  us,  as  who  should  say, 
I  '11  be  even  with  you :  I  '11  see  if  his  head  will 
stand  steadier  on  a  pole,  or  no.  Take  him 
away,  and  behead  him. 

Say.  Tell  me  wherein  have  I  offended  most? 
Have  I  affected  wealth  or  honour, — speak? 
Are  my  chests  fill'd  up  with  extorted  gold? 
Is  my  apparel  sumptuous  to  behold? 
Whom  have  I  injur'd,  that  ye  seek  my  death? 
These  hands  are  free  from  guiltless  blood-shed- 
ding, [thoughts. 
This    breast   from    harbouring   foul    deceitful 
O  let  me  live ! 

Cade.  I  feel  remorse  in  myself  with  his  words ; 
but  I  '11  bridle  it:  he  shall  die,  an  it  be  but  for 
pleading  so  well  for  his  life.  [Aside.']  Away 
with  him  !  he  has  a  familiar  under  his  tongue ; 
he  speaks  not  o'  God's  name.  Go,  take  him 


away,  I  say,  and  strike  off  his  head  presently ; 
and  then  break  into  his  son-in-law's  house,  Sir 
James  Cromer,  and  strike  off  his  head,  and 
bring  them  both  upon  two  poles  hither. 

All.  It  shall  be  done.  [prayers, 

Say.  Ah,  countrymen !  if  when  you  make  your 
God  should  be  so  obdurate  as  yourselves, 
How  would  it  fare  with  your  departed  souls? 
And  therefore  yet  relent,  and  save  my  life. 

Cade.  Away  with  him,  and  do  as  I  command 
ye.  {Exeunt  some  with  LORD  SAY. 

The  proudest  peer  in  the  realm  shall  not  wear 
a  head  on  his  shoulders,  unless  he  pay  me 
tribute ;  there  shall  not  a  maid  be  married,  but 
she  shall  pay  to  me  her  maidenhead  ere  they 
have  it:  men  shall  hold  of  me  in  capite;  and 
we  charge  and  command  that  their  wives  be  as 
free  as  heart  can  wish  or  tongue  can  tell. 

Dick.  My  lord,  when  shall  we  go  to  Cheap- 
side,  and  take  up  commodities  upon  our  bills  ? 

Cade.  Marry,  presently. 

All.  O  brave  ! 

Re-enter  Rebels,  with  the  heads  0/"LoRD  SAY 
and  his  Son-in-law. 

Cade.  But  is  not  this  braver? — Let  them  kiss 
one  another,  for  they  loved  well  when  they  were 
alive.  Now,  part  them  again,  lest  they  consult 
about  the  giving  up  of  some  more  towns  inFrance. 
Soldiers,  defer  the  spoil  of  the  city  until  night : 
for  with  these  borne  before  us,  instead  of  maces, 
will  we  ride  through  the  streets  j  and  at  every 
corner  have  them  kiss. — Away!  \Excunt* 

SCENE  \\\l.— Southward 
Alarum.    Enter  CADE  and  all  his  Rabblement. 

Cade.  Up  Fish  Street !  down  Saint  Magnus' 
corner  !  kill  and  knock  down  !  throw  them  into 
Thames! — [A  parley  sounded,  then  a  retreat.] 
What  noise  is  this  I  hear  ?  Dare  any  be  so  bold 
to  sound  retreat  or  parley,  when  I  command  them 

km? 

Enter  BUCKINGHAM  and  LORD   CLIFFORD, 
with  Forces. 

Biick.  Ay,  here  they  be  that  dare  and  will 
disturb  thee :  [king 

Know,  Cade,  we  come  ambassadors  from  the 
Unto  the  commons  whom  thou  hast  misled  ; 
And  here  pronounce  free  pardon  to  them  all 
That  will  forsake  thee  and  go  home  in  peace. 

Cltf.  What  say  ye,  countrymen?  willyerelent, 
And  yield  to  mercy  whilst  'tis  offer'd  you  ; 
Or  let  a  rebel  lead  you  to  your  deaths  ? 
Who  loves  the  king,  and  will  embracehis  pardon, 


630 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  IV. 


Fling  up  his  cap,  and  say  God  save  his  majesty  ! 
Who  hateth  him,  and  honours  not  his  father, 
Henry  the  Fifth,  that  made  all  France  to  quake, 
Shake  he  his  weapon  at  us  and  pass  by. 

All.  God  save  the  king !  God  save  the  king ! 

Cade.  What,  Buckingham  and  Clifford,  are 
ye  so  brave  ? — And  you,  base  peasants,  do  ye 
believe  him?  will  you  needs  be  hanged  with  your 
pardons  about  your  necks?  Hath  my  sword 
therefore  broke  through  London  gates,  that  you 
should  leave  me  at  the  White  Hart  in  South- 
wark?  I  thought  ye  would  never  have  given 
out  these  arms  till  you  had  recovered  your 
ancient  freedom :  but  you  are  all  recreants  and 
dastards,  and  delight  to  live  in  slavery  to  the 
nobility.  Let  them  break  your  backs  with 
burdens,  take  your  houses  over  your  heads, 
ravish  your  wives  and  daughters  before  your 
faces :  for  me,  I  will  make  shift  for  one ;  and 
so,  God's  curse  light  upon  you  all ! 
.  All.  We  '11  follow  Cade,  we  '11  follow  Cade  ! 

Clif.   Is  Cade  the  son  of  Henry  the  Fifth, 
That  thus  you  do  exclaim  you  '11  go  with  him  ? 
Will  he  conduct  you  through  the  heart  of  France, 
And  make  the  meanest  of  you  earls  and  dukes? 
Alas,  he  hath  no  home,  no  place  to  fly  to ; 
Nor  knows  he  how  to  live,  but  by  the  spoil, 
Unless  by  robbing  of  your  friends  and  us. 
Were 't  not  a  shame,  that  whilst  you  live  at  jar, 
The  fearful  French,  whom  you  late  vanquished, 
Should  make  a  start  o'er  seas  and  vanquish  you? 
Methinks  already  in  this  civil  broil 
I  see  them  lording  it  in  London  streets, 
Crying  Viliaco!  unto  all  they  meet. 
Better  ten  thousand  base-born  Cades  miscarry 
Than  you  should  stoop  unto  a  Frenchman's 
mercy.  [lost ; 

To  France,  to  France,  and  get  what  you  have 
Spare  England,  for  it  is  your  native  coast : 
Henry  hath  money,  you  are  strong  and  manly ; 
God  on  our  side,  doubt  not  of  victory. 

All.  A  Clifford!  a  Clifford!  we '11  follow  the 
king  and  Clifford. 

Cade.  Was  ever  feather  so  lightly  blown  to 
and  fro  as  this  multitude?  The  name  of  Henry 
the  Fifth  hales  them  to  an  hundred  mischiefs, 
and  makes  them  leave  me  desolate.  I  see  them 
lay  their  heads  together  to  surprise  me:  my 
sword  make  way  for  me,  for  here  is  no  staying. 
[Aside.'] — In  despite  of  the  devils  and  hell,  have 
through  the  very  middest  of  you !  and  heavens 
and  honour  be  witness  that  no  want  of  resolu- 
tion in  me,  but  only  my  followers'  base  and 
ignominious  treasons,  makes  me  betake  me  to 
my  heels.  [Exit. 

Buck.  What !  is  he  fled?  go  some  and  follow 
him; 


And  he  that  brings  his  head  unto  the  king 
Shall  have  a  thousand  crowns  for  his  reward. — i 
[Exeunt  some  of  them. 
Follow  me,  soldiers :  we  '11  devise  a  mean 
To  reconcile  you  all  unto  the  king.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IX.  —Killingworth  Castle. 

Trumpets  sounded.  Enter  KING  HENRY. 
QUEEN  MARGARET,  and  SOMERSET,  on  ths 
terrace  of  the  Castle. 

K.  Hen.  Was  ever  king  that  joy'd  an  earthly 

throne, 

And  could  command  no  more  content  than  I  ? 
No  sooner  was  I  crept  out  of  my  cradle 
But  I  was  made  a  king,  at  nine  months  old : 
Was  never  subject  long'd  to  be  a  king 
As  I  do  long  and  wish  to  be  a  subject. 

Enter  BUCKINGHAM  and  LORD  CLIFFORD. 

Buck.  Health  andglad  tidingsto  yourmajesty ! 
K.  Hen.  Why,  Buckingham,  is   the  traitor 

Cade  surpris'd? 
Or  is  he  but  retir'd  to  make  him  strong? 

Enter  y  below,  a  number  of  CADE'S  Followers, 
with  halters  about  their  necks. 

Clif.  He  is  fled,  my  lord,  and  all  his  powers 

do  yield ; 

And  humbly  thus,  with  halters  on  their  necks, 
Expect  your  highness'  doom  of  life  or  death. 
K.  Hen.  Then,  heaven,  set  ope  thy  everlast- 
ing gates, 

To  entertain  my  vows  of  thanks  and  praise  ! 
Soldiers,  this  day  have  you  redeem'd  your  lives, 
And  show'd  how  well  you  love  your  prince  and 

country : 

Continue  still  in  this  so  good  a  mind, 
And  Henry,  though  he  be  infortunate, 
Assure  yourselves,  will  never  be  unkind : 
And  so,  with  thanks  and  pardon  to  you  all, 
I  do  dismiss  you  to  your  several  countries. 
All.  God  save  the  king  1  God  save  the  king ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Please  it  your  grace  to  be  advertised 
The  Duke  of  York  is  newly  come  from  Ireland ; 
And  with  a  puissant  and  a  mighty  power 
Of  Gallowglasses  and  stout  kerns 
Is  marching  hitherward  in  proud  array : 
And  still  proclaimeth,  as  he  comes  along, 
His  arms  are  only  to  remove  from  thee 
The  Duke  of  Somerset,  whom  he  terms  a  traitor. 

K.  Hen.  Thus  stands  my  state,  'twixt  Cade 

and  York  distress'd ; 
Like  to  a  ship  that,  having  'scap'd  a  tempest, 


SCENE  X.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING   HENRY  VI. 


631 


Is  straightway  calm'd,  and  boarded  with  a  pirate : 
But  now  is  Cade  driven  baclc,  hio  men  dispers'd ; 
And  now  is  York  in  arms  to  second  him. — 
I  pray  thee,  Buckingnam,  go  thou  and  meet  him; 
And  ask  him  what 's  the  reason  of  these  arms. 
Tell  him  I '11  send  Duke  Edmund  to  the  Tower; — 
And,  Somerset,  we  will  commit  thee  thither, 
Until  his  army  be  dismiss'd  from  him. 

Sotn    My  lord, 

I  '11  yield  myself  to  prison  willingly, 
Or  unto  death,  to  do  my  country  good. 

K.  Hen.   In  any  case  be  not  too  rough  in 

terms ;  [guage. 

For  he  is  fierce,  and  cannot  brook  hard  lan- 

Buck.  I  will,  my  lord ;  and  doubt  not  so  to 

deal 
As  all  things  snail  redound  unto  your  good. 

K.  Hen.  Come,  wife,  let 's  in,  and  learn  to 

govern  better; 

For  yet  may  England  curse  my  wretched  reign. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  X. — KENT.     IDEN'S  Garden. 
Enter  CADE. 

Cade.  Fie  on  ambition !  fie  on  myself,  that 
have  a  sword,  and  yet  am  ready  to  famish ! 
These  five  days  have  I  hid  me  in  these  woods, 
and  durst  not  peep  out,  for  all  the  country  is 
laid  for  me ;  but  now  am  I  so  hungry  that  if  I 
might  have  a  lease  of  my  life  for  a  thousand 
years,  I  could  stay  no  longer.  Wherefore,  on 
a  brick  wall  have  I  climbed  into  this  garden, 
to  see  if  I  can  eat  grass  or  pick  a  sallet  another 
while,  which  is  not  amiss  to  cool  a  man's 
stomach  this  hot  weather.  And  I  think  this 
word  sallet  was  born  to  do  me  good :  for  many 
a  time,  but  for  a  sallet,  my  brain-pan  had  been 
cleft  with  a  brown  bill ;  and  many  a  time,  when 
I  have  been  dry,  and  bravely  marching,  it  hath 
served  me  instead  of  a  quart-pot  to  drink  in ; 
and  now  the  word  sallet  must  serve  me  to  feed 
on. 

Enter  IDEN,  with  Servants  behind. 

Iden.  Lord,  who  would  live  turmoiled  in  the 

court, 

And  may  enjoy  such  quiet  walks  as  these? 
This  small  inheritance  my  father  left  me 
Contenteth  me,  and 's  worth  a  monarchy. 
I  seek  not  to  wax  great  by  others'  waning, 
Or  gather  wealth  I  care  not  with  what  envy: 
Sufficeth  that  I  have  maintains  my  state, 
And  sends  the  poor  well  pleased  from  my  gate. 

Cade.  Here 's  the  lord  of  the  soil  come  to 
seize  me  for  a  stray,  for  entering  his  fee-simple 
without  leave.  [Aside.}  Ah,  vilUJn,  thou  .vilt 


betray  me,  and  get  a  thousand  crowns  of  the 
king  by  carrying  my  head  to  him  1  but  I  '11  make 
thee  eat  iron  like  an  ostrich,  and  swallow  my 
sword  like  a  great  pin,  ere  thou  and  I  part. 

Iden.  Why,  rude  companion,  whatso'er  thou 
be,  [thee? 

I  know  thee  not;  why,  then,  should  I  betray 
Is 't  not  enough  to  break  into  my  garden, 
And  like  a  thief  to  come  to  rob  my  grounds, 
Climbing  my  walls  in  spite  of  me  the  owner, 
But  thou  wilt  brave  me  with  these  saucy  terms  ? 

Cade.  Brave  thee !  ay,  by  the  best  blood  that 
ever  was  broached,  and  beard  thee  too.  Look 
on  me  well :  I  have  eat  no  meat  these  five  days  ; 
yet,  come  thou  and  thy  five  men,  and  if  I  do  not 
leave  you  all  as  dead  as  a  door  nail,  I  pray  God 
I  may  never  eat  grass  more. 

Iden.  Nay,  it  shall  ne'er  be  said,  while  England 

stands, 

That  Alexander  Iden,  an  esquire  of  Kent, 
Took  odds  to  combat  a  poor  famish'd  man. 
Oppose  thy  steadfast-gazing  eyes  to  mine, 
See  if  thou  canst  outface  me  with  thy  looks  : 
Set  limb  to  limb,  and  thou  art  far  the  lesser ; 
Thy  hand  is  but  a  finger  to  my  fist ; 
Thy  leg  a  stick  compared  with  this  truncheon  ; 
My  foot  shall  fight  with  all  the  strength  thou 

hast ; 

And  if  mine  arm  be  heaved  in  the  air, 
Thy  grave  is  digg'd  already  in  the  earth. 
As  for  words,  whose  greatness  answers  words, 
Let  this  my  sword  report  what  speech  forbears. 

Cade.  By  my  valour,  the  most  complete 
champion  that  ever  I  heard. — Steel,  if  thou 
turn  the  edge,  or  cut  not  out  the  burley-boned 
clown  in  chines  of  beet  ere  thou  sleep  in  thy 
sheath,  I  beseech  Jove,  on  my  knees,  thou 
mayest  be  turned  to  hobnails.  [  They  fight, 
CADE  falls.  ]  O,  I  am  slain  !  famine  and  no 
other  hath  slain  me :  let  ten  thousand  devils 
come  against  me,  and  give  me  but  the  ten  meals 
I  have  lost,  and  I  'd  defy  them  all.  Wither, 
garden ;  and  be  henceforth  a  burying-place  to 
all  that  do  dwell  in  this  house,  because  the  un- 
conquered  soul  of  Cade  is  fled. 

Iden.  Is 't  Cade  that  I  have  slain,  that  mon- 
strous traitor  ? 

Sword,  I  will  hallow  thee  for  this  thy  deed, 
And  hang  thee  o'er  my  tomb  when  I  am  dead  % 
Ne'er  shall  this  blood  be  wiped  from  thy  point ; 
But  thou  shalt  wear  it  as  a  herald's  coat, 
To  emblaze  the  honour  that  thy  master  got. 

Cade.  Iden,  farewell ;  and  be  proud  of  thy 
victory.  Tell  Kent  from  me,  she  hath  lost  her 
best  man ;  and  exhort  all  the  world  to  be 
cowards, — for  I,  that  never  feared  any,  am 
vanquished  by  famine,  not  by  valour,  {Dies. 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  v. 


Iden.  How  much  thou  wrongst  me,  heaven  be 
my  judge.  [thee  ! 

Die,  damned  wretch,  the  curse  of  her  that  bare 
And  as  I  thrust  thy  body  in  with  my  sword, 
So  wish  I,  I  might  thrust  thy  soul  to  hell. 
Hence  will  I  drag  thee  headlong  by  the  heels 
Unto  a  dunghill,  which  shall  be  thy  grave, 
And  there  cut  off  thy  most  ungracious  head  ; 
Which  I  will  bear  in  triumph  to  the  king, 
Leaving  thy  trunk  for  crows  to  feed  upon. 

[Exeunt i  dragging  out  the  body. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — Fields  between  Dart  ford  and  Black- 
heath. 

The  KING'S  Camp  on  one  side.  On  the  other, 
enter  YORK  attended,  with  drum  and  colours: 
his  Forces  at  some  distance. 

York.  From  Ireland  thus  comes  York  to  claim 

his  right, 

And  pluck  the  crown  from  feeble  Henry's  head : 
Ring,  bells,  aloud;  burn,  bonfires,  clear  and 

bright; 

To  entertain  great  England's  lawful  king. 
Ah,  sancta  itiajestasl  who  would  not  buy  thee 

dear? 

Let  them  obey  that  know  not  how  to  rule ; 
This  hand  was  made  to  handle  naught  but  gold. 
I  cannot  give  due  action  to  my  words 
Except  a  sword  or  sceptre  balance  it : 
A  sceptre  shall  it  have, — have  I  a  soul, — 
On  which  I  '11  toss  the  flower-de-luce  of  France. 

Enter  BUCKINGHAM. 

Whom  have  we  here?    Buckingham,  to  disturb 

me? 

The  king  hath  sent  him,  sure :  I  must  dissemble. 

[Aside. 

Buck*  York,  if  thou  meanest  well,  I  greet 

thee  well.  [greeting. 

York.  Humphrey  of  Buckingham,  I  accept  thy 

Art  thou  a  messenger,  or  come  of  pleasure? 

Buck.  A  messenger  from  Henry,  our  dread 

liege, 

To  know  the  reason  of  these  arms  in  peace ; 
Or  why  thou,  being  a  subject  as  I  am, 
Against  thy  oath  and  true  allegiance  sworn, 
Shouldst  raise  so  great  a  power  without  his  leave, 
Or  dare  to  bring  thy  force  so  near  the  court. 
York.  Scarce  can  I  speak,  my  choler  is  so 

great: 

O,  I  could  hew  up  rocks  and  fight  with  flint, 
I  am  so  angry  at  these  abject  terms; 


And  now,  like  Ajax  Telamonius, 

On  sheep  or  oxen  could  I  spend  my  fury  ! 

I  am  far  better  born  than  is  the  king; 

More  like  a  king,  more  kingly  in  my  thoughts : 

But  I  must  make  fair  weather  yet  awhile, 

Till  Henry  be  more  weak  and  I  more  strong. 

[Aside. 

Buckingham,  I  pr'ythee,  pardon  me, 
That  I  have  given  no  answer  all  this  while; 
My  mind  was  troubled  with  deep  melancholy. 
The  cause  why  I  have  brought  this  army  hither 
Is  to  remove  proud  Somerset  from  the  king, 
Seditious  to  his  grace  and  to  the  state,      [part : 

Buck.  That  is  too  much  presumption  on  thy 
But  if  thy  arms  be  to  no  other  end, 
The  king  hath  yielded  unto  thy  demand ; 
The  Duke  of  Somerset  is  in  the  Tower. 

York.  Upon  thine  honour,  is  he  prisoner? 

Buck.   Upon  mine  honour,  he  is  prisoner. 

York.  Then,  Buckingham,  I  do  dismiss  my 

powers. — 

Soldiers,  I  thank  you  all ;  disperse  yourselves ; 
Meet  me  to-morrow  in  Saint  George's  field, 
You  shall  have  pay  and  everything  you  wish. — 
And  let  my  sc  /ereign,  virtuous  Henry, 
Command  my  eldest  son,  nay,  all  my  sons, 
As  pledges  of  my  fealty  and  love ; 
I  '11  send  them  all  as  willing  as  I  live : 
Lands,  goods,  horse,  armour,  anything  I  have, 
Is  his  to  use,  so  Somerset  may  die. 

Buck.  York,  I  commend  this  kind  submission: 
We  twain  will  go  into  his  highness'  tent. 

Enter  KING  HENRY,  attended. 

K.  Hen.  Buckingham,  doth  York  intend  no 

harm  to  us, 
That  thus  he  marcheth  with  thee  arm  in  arm  ? 

York.  In  all  submission  and  humility 
York  doth  present  himself  unto  your  highness. 

K.  Hen.  Then  what  intend  these  forces  thou 
dost  bring  ?  [hence, 

York.   To  heave  the  traitor  Somerset   from 
And  fight  against  that  monstrous  rebel  Cade, 
Who  since  I  heard  to  be  discomfited. 

Enter  IDEN,  with  CADE'S  head. 

Iden.  If  one  so  rude  and  of  so  mean  condition 
May  pass  into  the  presence  of  a  king, 
Lo,  I  present  your  grace  a  traitor's  head, 
The  head  of  Cade,  whom  I  in  combat  slew. 

K.  Hen.  The  head  of  Cade  !— Great  God, 

how  just  art  thou  ! — 
O,  let  me  view  his  visage,  being  dead, 
That     living    wrought   me     such    exceeding 
trouble. —  [him  ? 

Tell  me,  my  friend,  art  thou  the  man  that  slew 


SCENE  I.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


633 


Iden.  I  was,  an't  like  your  majesty. 

K.  Hen.   How  art  thou  call'd  ?  and  what  is 

thy  degree  ? 

Iden.  Alexander  Iden,  that 's  my  name  ; 
A  poor  esquire  of  Kent,  that  loves  his  king. 
Buck.  So  please  it  you,  my  lord,  'twere  not 

amiss 

He  were  created  knight  for  his  good  service. 
K.  Hen.  Iden,   kneel  down,      [He  kneels.} 

Rise  up  a  knight. 

We  give  thee  for  reward  a  thousand  marks  ; 
And  will  that  thou  henceforth  attend  on  us. 

Iden..  May  Iden  live  to  merit  such  a  bounty, 
And  never  live  but  true  unto  his  liege  ! 

K.  Hen.  See,  Buckingham !  Somerset  conies 

with  the  queen  : 
Go,  bid  her  hide  him  quickly  from  the  duke. 

Enter  QUEEN  MA?GARET  and  SOMERSET. 
Q.  Mar.  For  thousand  Yorks  he  shall  not 

hide  his  head, 
But  boldly  stand  and  front  him  to  his  face. 

York.   How  now  J  is  Somerset  at  liberty  ? 
Then,    York,    unloose    thy   long  -  imprison'd 

thoughts, 

And  let  thy  tongue  be  equal  with  thy  heart. 
Shall  I  endure  the  sight  of  Somerset  ? — •     [me, 
False  king  1  why  hast  thou  broken  faith  with 
Knowing  how  hardly  I  can  brook  abuse  ? 
King  did  I  call  thee?  no,  thou  art  not  king  ; 
Not  fit  to  govern  and  rule  multitudes, 
Which  dar'st  not,   no,  nor  canst  not  rule  a 

traitor. 

That  head  of  thine  doth  not  become  a  crown  ; 
Thy  hand  is  made  to  grasp  a  palmer's  staff, 
And  not  to  grace  an  awful  princely  sceptre. 
That  gold  must  round  engirt  these  brows  of  mine, 
Whose  smile  and  frown,  like  to  Achilles'  spear, 
Is  able  with  the  change  to  kill  and  cure. 
Here  is  a  hand  to  hold  a  sceptre  up, 
And  with  the  same  to  act  controlling  laws. 
Give  place :    by  heaven,  thou  shalt  rule  no 

more 

O'er  him  whom  heaven  created  for  thy  ruler. 
Som.  O  monstrous  traitor! — I  arrest  thee, 

York, 

Of  capital  treason  'gainst  the  king  and  crown : 
Obey,  audacious  traitor  ;  kneel  for  grace. 
York.  Wouldst  have  me  kneel?  first  let  me 

ask  of  these, 

If  they  can  brook  I  bow  a  knee  to  man. — 
Sirrah,  call  in  my  sons  to  be  my  bail : 

[Exit  Atten. 

I  know,  ere  they  will  have  me  go  to  ward, 
They  '11  pawn  their  swords  for  my  enfranchise- 
ment, [amain, 
Q.  Mar.  Call  hither  Clifford  ;  bid  him  come 


To  say  if  that  the  bastard  boys  of  York 
Shall  be  the  surety  for  their  traitor  father. 

[Exit  an  Attendant. 

York.  O  blood-bespotted  Neapolitan, 
Outcast  of  Naples,  England's  bloody  scourge  ! 
The  sons  of  York,  thy  betters  in  their  birth, 
Shall  be  their  father's  bail ;  and  bane  to  those 
That  for  my  surety  will  refuse  the  boys  ! 
See  where  they  come  :  I  '11  warrant  they  '11  make 
it  good.  [bail. 

Q.  Mar.  And  here  comes  Clifford  to  deny  their 

Enter  EDWARD  and  RICHARD  PLANT  AGEIJET, 
with  Forces,  at  one  side  ;  at  the  other,  with 
Forces  also,  LORD  CLIFFORD  and  his  Son. 

Clif.  Health  and  all  happiness  to  my  lord  the 
king  !  [Kneels. 

York.  I  thank  thee,  Clifford  :  say,  what  news 

with  thee  ? 

Nay,  do  not  fright  us  with  an  angry  look  : 
We  are  thy  sovereign,  Clifford,  kneel  again  ; 
For  thy  mistaking  so,  we  pardon  thee.     [take ; 

Clif.  This  is  my  king,  York,  I  do  not  mis- 
B-*.  thou  mistak'st  me  much  to  think  I  do  : — 
To  Bedlam  with  him  !  is  the  man  grown  mad? 

K.  Hen.  Ay,  Clifford ;  a  bedlam  and  ambi- 
tious humour 
Makes  him  oppose  himself  against  his  king. 

Clif.  He  is  a  traitor  ;  let  him  to  the  Tower, 
And  chop  away  that  factious  pate  of  his. 

Q.  Mar.  He  is  arrested,  but  will  not  obey  ; 
His  sons,  he  says,  shall  give  their  words  forhim. 

York.  Will  you  not,  sons? 

Edw.  Ay,  noble  father,  if  our  words  will  serve. 

Rich.  And  if  words  will  not,  then  our  weapons 
shall.  [here  I 

Clif.  Why,  what  a  brood  of  traitors  have  we 

York.  Look  in  a  glass,  and  call  thy  image  so : 
I  am  thy  king,  and  thou  a  false-heart  traitor. — 
Call  hither  to  the  stake  my  two  brave  bears, 
That  with  the  very  shaking  of  their  chains 
They  may  astonish  these  fell-lurking  curs : 
Bid  Salisbury  and  Warwick  come  to  me. 

Drums.     Enter  WARWICK  and  SALISBURY, 
with  Forces. 

Clif.  Are  these  thy  bears  ?  we  '11  bait  thy  bears 

to  death, 

And  manacle  the  bear-ward  in  their  chains, 
If  thou  dar'st  bring  them  to  the  baiting-place. 

Rich.  Oft  have  I  seen  a  hot  o'erweening  cur 
Run  back  and  bite,  because  he  was  withheld  ; 
Who,  being  suffer'd  with  the  bear's  fell  paw, 
Hath  clapp'd  his  tail  between  his  legs  and  cried : 
And  such  a  piece  of  service  will  you  do, 
If  you  oppose  yourselves  to  match  Lord  Warwick. 


634 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  V, 


Clif.   Hence,  heap  of  wrath,  foul  indigested 

lump, 
As  crooked  in  thy  manners  as  thy  shape  ! 

York.  Nay,  we   shall  heat  you  thoroughly 
anon. 

Clif.  Take  heed,  lest  by  your  heat  you  burn 
yourselves.  [to  bow  ? — 

K.  Hen.  Why,  Warwick,  hath  thy  knee  forgot 
Old  Salisbury, — shame  to  thy  silver  hair, 
Thou  mad  misleader  of  thy  brainsick  son  ! — 
What,  wilt   thou  on  thy  death-bed  play  the 

ruffian, 

And  seek  for  sorrow  with  thy  spectacles  ? — 
O,  where  is  faith?     O,  where  is  loyalty? 
If  it  be  banish'd  from  the  frosty  head, 
Where  shall  it  find  a  harbour  in  the  earth  ? — 
Wilt  thou  go  dig  a  grave  to  find  out  war, 
And  shame  thine  honourable  age  with  blood  ? 
Why  art  thou  old,  and  want'st  experience  ? 
Or  wherefore  dost  abuse  it,  if  thou  hast  it? 
For  shame !  in  duty  bend  thy  knee  to  me, 
That  bows  unto  the  grave  with  mickle  age. 

Sal.   My  lord,  I  have  consider'd  with  myself 
The  title  of  this  most  renowned  duke ; 
And  in  my  conscience  do  repute  his  grace 
The  rightful  heir  to  England's  royal  seat. 

K.  Hen.  Hast  thou  not  sworn  allegiance  unto 
me? 

Sal.  I  have. 

K.  Hen.   Canst  thou  dispense  with  heaven 
for  such  an  oath? 

Sal.  It  is  great  sin  to  swear  unto  a  sin ; 
But  greater  sin  to  keep  a  sinful  oath. 
Who  can  be  bound  by  any  solemn  vow 
To  do  a  murderous  deed,  to  rob  a  man, 
To  force  a  spotless  virgin's  chastity, 
To  reave  the  orphan  of  his  patrimony, 
To  wring  the  widow  from  her  custom'd  right; 
And  have  no  other  reason  for  this  wrong 
But  that  he  was  bound  by  a  solemn  oath? 

Q.  Mar.  A  subtle  traitor  needs  no  sophister. 

K.  Hen.  Call  Buckingham,  and  bid  him  arm 
himself.  [thou  hast, 

York.  Call  Buckingham,  and  all  the  friends 
I  am  resolv'd  for  death  or  dignity.  [true. 

Clif.  The  first  I  warrant  thee,  if  dreams  prove 

War.  You  were  best  to  go  to  bed  and  dream 

again, 
To  keep  thee  from  the  tempest  of  the  field. 

Clif.  I  am  resolv'd  to  bear  a  greater  storm 
Than  any  thou  canst  conjure  up  to-day; 
And  that  I  '11  write  upon  thy  burgonet, 
Might  I  but  know  thee  by  thy  household  badge. 

War.  Now,  by  my  father's  badge,  old  Nevil's 

crest, 

The  rampant  bear  chain'd  to  the  ragged  staff, 
This  day  1*11  wear  aloft  my  burgonet, — 


As  on  a  mountain-top  the  cedar  shows, 
That  keeps  his  leaves  in  spite  of  any  storm,-— 
Even  to  affright  thee  with  the  view  thereof. 
Clif.  And  from  thy  burgonet  I'll  rend  thy 

bear, 

And  tread  it  under  foot  with  all  contempt, 
Despite  the  bear-ward  that  protects  the  bear. 
Y.  Clif.  And  so  to  arms,  victorious  father, 
To  quell  the  rebels  and  their  complices. 

Rich.  Fie !  charity,  for  shame  !  speak  not  in 

spite, 

For  you  shall  sup  vi\\hjesu  Christ  to-night. 
Y.  Clif.  Foul  stigmatic,  that 's  more  than  thou 

canst  tell. 

Rich.  If  not  in  heaven,  you  '11  surely  sup  in 
hell.  [Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  II. — Saint  Albans. 
Alarums:  excursions.     Enter  WARWICK. 

War.  Clifford  of  Cumberland,  'tis  Warwick 

calls ! 

And  if  thou  dost  not  hide  thee  from  the  bear, 
Now, — when  the  angry  trumpet  sounds  alarum, 
And  dead  men's  cries  do  fill  the  empty  air, — 
Clifford,  I  say,  come  forth  and  fight  with  me ! 
Proud  northern  lord,  Clifford  of  Cumberland, 
Warwick  is  hoarse  with  calling  thee  to  arms. 

Enter  YORK. 

How  now,  my  noble  lord !  what,  all  a-foot? 
York.  The  deadly-handed  Clifford  slew  my 

steed ; 

But  match  to  match  I  have  encounter'd  him, 
And  made  a  prey  for  carrion  kites  and  crows 
Even  of  the  bonny  beast  he  lov'd  so  well. 

Enter  LORD  CLIFFORD. 

War.  Of  one  or  both  of  us  the  time  is  come. 
York.  Hold,  Warwick,  seek  thee  out  some 

other  chase, 

For  I  myself  must  hunt  this  deer  to  death. 
War.  Then,  nobly,  York ;  "'tis  for  a  crown 

thou  fight'st. — 

As  I  intend,  Clifford,  to  thrive  to-day, 
It  grieves  my  soul  to  leave  thee  unassail'd. 

[Exit. 

Clif.  What  see'st  thou  in  me,  York?    why 
dost  thou  pause?  [love, 

York.  With  thy  brave  bearing  should  I  be  in 
But  that  thou  art  so  fast  mine  enemy. 

Clif.  Nor  should  thy  prowess  want  praise 

and  esteem, 

But  that  'tis  shown  ignobly  and  in  treason. 
York.   So  let  it  help  me  now  against  thy 

sword, 
As  I  in  justice  and  true  right  express  it  I 


SCENE  II.] 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


635 


Clif.  My  soul  and  body  on  the  action  both ! 
York.  A  dreadful  lay ! — address  thee  instantly. 
Clif.  La  Jin  couronne  Ics  ceuvres. 

[  They  fight,  and  CLIFFORD  falls  and  dies. 
York.  Thus  war  hath  given  thee  peace,  for 

thou  art  still. 
Peace  with  his  soul,  heaven,  if  it  be  thy  will ! 

[Exit. 
Enter  YOUNG  CLIFFORD. 

Y.  Clif.  Shame  and  confusion !  all  is  on  the 

rout ; 

Fear  frames  disorder,  and  disorder  wounds 
Where  it  should  guard.    O  war,  thou  son  of  hell, 
Whom  angry  heavens  do  make  their  minister, 
Throw  in  the  frozen  bosoms  of  our  part 
Hot  coals  of  vengeance  ! — Let  no  soldier  fly : 
He  that  is  truly  dedicate  to  war 
Hath  no  self-love ;  nor  he  that  loves  himself 
Hath  not  essentially,  but  by  circumstance, 
The  name  of  valour.  —  O,  let  the  vile  world  end. 
{Seeing  his  father's  body. 
And  the  premised  flames  of  the  last  day 
Knit  earth  and  heaven  together ! 
Now  let  the  general  trumpet  blow  his  blast, 
Particularities  and  petty  sounds 
To  cease !— Wast  thou  ordain'd,  dear  father, 
To  lose  thy  youth  in  peace,  and  to  achieve 
The  silver  livery  of  advised  age, 
And  in  thy  reverence  and  thy  chair-days  thus 
To  die  in  ruffian  battle? — Even  at  this  sight 
My  heart  is  turn'd  to  stone :  and  while  'tis  mine 
It  shall  be  stony.     York  not  our  old  men  spares ; 
No  more  will  I  their  babes:  tears  virginal 
Shall  be  to  me  even  as  the  dew  to  fire; 
And  beauty,  that  the  tyrant  oft  reclaims, 
Shall  to  my  flaming  wrath  be  oil  and  flax. 
Henceforth  I  will  not  have  to  do  with  pity : 
Meet  I  an  infant  of  the  house  of  York, 
Into  as  many  gobbets  will  I  cut  it 
As  wild  Medea  young  Absyrtus  did : 
In  cruelty  will  I  seek  out  my  fame. — 
Come,  thou  new  ruin  of  old  Clifford's  house : 

[  Taking  up  the  body. 
As  did  ^Eneas  old  Anchises  bear, 
So  bear  I  thee  upon  my  manly  shoulders ; 
But  then  ^Eneas  bare  a  living  load, 
Nothing  so  heavy  as  these  woes  of  mine.    [Exit. 

Enter  RICHARD  PLANT AGENET  and  SOMER- 
SET, fighting,  and  SOMERSET  is  killed. 

Rich.  So,  lie  thou  there ; — 
For  underneath  an  alehouse'  paltry  sign, 
The  Castle  in  Saint  Albans,  Somerset 
Hath  made  the  wizard  famous  in  his  death. — 
Sword,  hold  thy  temper ;  heart,  be  wrathful  still: 
Priests  pray  for  enemies,  but  princes  kill.  [Exit. 


Alarums:  excursions.     Enter  KING  HENRY, 
QUEEN  MARGARET,  and  others ;  retreating. 

Q.  Mar.  Away,  my  lord !  you  are  slow ;  for 

shame,  away ! 
K.  Hen.  Can  we  outrun  the  heavens?  good 

Margaret,  stay. 
Q.  Mar.  What  are  you  made  of?  you  '11  nor 

fight  nor  fly: 

Now  is  it  manhood,  wisdom,  and  defence, 
To  give  the  enemy  way ;  and  to  secure  us 
By  what  we  can,  which  can  no  more  but  fly. 

[Alarum  afar  off. 

If  you  be  ta'en,  we  then  should  see  the  bottom 
Of  all  our  fortunes:  but  if  we  haply  scape, — 
As  well  we  may,  if  not  through  your  neglect, — 
We  shall  to  London  get :  where  you  are  lov'd ; 
A  nd  where  this  breach,  now  in  our  fortunes  made, 
May  readily  be  stopp'd. 

Re-enter  YOUNG  CLIFFORD. 

Y.  Clif.  But  that  my  heart 's  on  future  mis 

chief  set, 

I  would  speak  blasphemy  ere  bid  you  fly : 
But  fly  you  must ;  uncurable  discomfit 
Reigns  in  the  hearts  of  all  our  present  parts. 
Away,  for  your  relief!  and  we  will  live 
To  see  their  day,  and  them  our  fortune  give : 
Away,  my  lord,  away !  \Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. — Fields  near  Saint  Albans. 

Alarum:  retreat.  Flourish;  then  enter  YORK, 
RICHARD  PLANTAGENET,  WARWICK,  and 
Soldiers,  with  drum  and  colours. 

York.  Of  Salisbury,  who  can  report  of  him,— 
That  winter  lion,  who  in  rage  forgets 
Aged  contusions  and  all  brush  of  time, 
And,  like  a  gallant  in  the  brow  of  youth, 
Repairs  him  with  occasion?     This  happy  day 
Is  not  itself,  nor  have  we  won  one  foot, 
If  Salisbury  be  lost. 

Rich.  My  noble  father, 

Three  times  to-day  I  holp  him  to  his  horse, 
Three  times  bestrid  him,  thrice  I  led  him  off, 
Persuaded  him  from  any  further  act :         [him ; 
But  still,  where  danger  was,  still  there  I  met 
And  like  rich  hangings  in  a  homely  house, 
So  was  his  will  in  his  old  feeble  body. 
But,  noble  as  he  is,  look  where  he  comes. 

Enter  SALISBURY. 

Sal.  Now,    by   my   sword,   well   hast   thou 

fought  to-day; 

By  the  mass,   so  did  we  all. — I  thank  you, 
Richard : 


636 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  v. 


God  knows  how  long  it  is  I  have  to  live ; 
\nd  it  hath  pleas'd  him  that  three  times  to-day 
^ou  have  defended  me  from  imminent  death. — 
Well,  lords,  we  have  not  got  that  which  we 

have: 

Tis  not  enough  our  foes  are  this  time  fled, 
Being  opposites  of  such  repairing  nature. 

York.  I  know  our  safety  is  to  follow  them ; 
For,  as  I  hear,  the  king  is  fled  to  London, 
To  call  a  present  court  of  Parliament. 


Let  us  pursue  him  ere  the  writs  go  forth : — 
What  says  Lord  Warwick?  shall  we  after  them? 
War.  After  them !  nay,  before  them,  if  we 

can. 

Now,  by  my  hand,  lords,  'twas  a  glorious  day: 
Saint  Albans  battle,  won  by  famous  York, 
Shall  be  eterniz'd  in  all  age  to  come. —       [all : 
Sound  drums  and  trumpets ; — and  to  London 
And  more  such  days  as  these  to  us  befall ! 

{Exeunt. 


THIRD  PART  OF 

KING   HENRY  VI. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 

EDWARD,  Prince  of  Wales,  his  Son. 

LOUIS  XL,  King  of  France. 

DUKE  OF  SOMERSET, 

DUKE  OF  EXETER, 

EARL  OF  OXFORD,  I  Lordson  KING 

EARL  OF  NORTHUMBERLAND,  |  HENRY'S  side. 

EARL  OF  WESTMORELAND, 

LORD  CLIFFORD, 

RICHARD  PLANTAGENET,  Duke  of  York. 

EDWARD,  Earl  of  March,  afterwards'" 

KING  EDWARD  IV., 
EDMUND,  Earl  of  Rutland, 
GE.ORGE,afterwards£)u£e  of  Clarence, 


his  Sons. 


DUKE  OF  NORFOLK, 

MARQUIS  OF  MONTAGUE, 

EARL  OF  WARWICK,  of  the  DUKE  OF 

EARL  OF  PEMBROKE, 

LORD  HASTINGS, 

LORD  STAFFORD, 

SIR  JOHN  MORTIMER,  )  Uncles  to  the  DUKE 

SIR  HUGH  MORTIMER,  /         OF  YORK. 


HENRY,  Earl  of  Richmond,  &  youth. 

LORD  RIVERS,  Brother  to  LADY  GREY 

SIR  WILLIAM  STANLEY. 

SIR  JOHN  MONTGOMERY. 

SIR  JOHN  SOMERVILLE. 

Tutor  to  RUTLAND. 

Mayor  of  York. 

Lieutenant  of  the  Tower. 

A  Nobleman. 

Two  Keepers. 

A  Huntsman. 

A  Son  that  has  killed  his  Father. 

A  Father  that  has  killed  his  Son, 


QUEEN  MARGARET. 

LADY  GREY,  afterwards  Queen  to  EDWARD  IV. 

BONA,  Sister  to  the  French  Queen. 


Soldiers,  and  other  Attendants  on  KING  HENRY 
and  KING  EDWARD,  Messengers,  Watch- 
men, &c. 


SCENE, — During  part  of  the  Third  Act  in  FRANCE;  during  the  rest  of  the  Play  in  ENGLAND. 

Edw.  Lord  Stafford's  father,  Duke  of  Buck- 
ACT  I.  .  ingham, 

Is  either  slain  or  wounded  dangerous ; 

SCENE  I. — LONDON.     The  Parliament  House.     I  cleft  his  beaver  with  a  downright  blow : 

That  this  is  true,  father,  behold  his  blood. 

[Showing  his  bloody  sword. 
Mont.    And.    brother,    here's   the   Earl    of 
Wiltshire's  blood, 

[To  YORK,  showing  his. 
Whom  I  encounter'd  as  the  battles  join'd. 
Rich.  Speak  thou  for  me,  and  tell  them  what 
I  did. 

[Throwing down  SOMERSET'S  head. 
York.  Richard  hath  best  deserv'd  of  all  my 

sons. — 

But,  is  your  grace  dead,  my  Lord  of  Somerset? 
Norf.  Such  hope  have  all  the  line  of  John  of 

Gaunt. 

Rich.  Thus  do  I  hope  to  shake  King  Henry's 
head. 


Drums.  Some  Soldiers  of  YORK'S  Party  break 
in.  Then  enter  the  DUKE  OF  YORK,  ED- 
WARD, RICHARD,  NORFOLK,  MONTAGUE, 
WARWICK,  and  others  >  with  white  roses  in 
their  hats. 

War.  I  wonder  how  the  king  escap'd  our 
hands.  [north, 

York.  While  we  pursu'd  the  horsemen  of  the 
He  slily  stole  away,  and  left  his  men : 
Whereat  the  great  Lord  of  Northumberland, 
Whose  warlike  ears  could  never  brook  retreat, 
Cheer'd  up  the  drooping  army ;  and  himself, 
Lord  Clifford,  and  Lord  Stafford,  all  a-breast, 
Charg'dour  main  battle's  front,  and,  breaking  in, 
Were  by  the  swords  of  common  soldiers  slain. 


638 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


tACT 


War.  And  so  do  I. — Victorious  Prince  of 

York, 

Before  I  see  thee  seated  in  that  throne 
Which  now  the  house  of  Lancaster  usurps, 
I  vow  by  heaven  these  eyes  shall  never  close. 
This  is  the  palace  of  the  fearful  king, 
And  this  the  regal  seat :  possess  it,  York  ; 
For  this  is  thine,  and  not  King  Henry's  heirs'. 
York.  Assist  me,  then,  sweet  Warwick,  and 

I  will ; 

For  hither  we  have  broken  in  by  force.  [die. 
Norf.  We  '11  all  assist  you ;  he  that  flies  shall 
York.  Thanks,  gentle  Norfolk : — stay  by  me, 

my  lords ; — 

And,  soldiers,  stay,  and  lodge  by  me  this  night. 
War.  And  when  the  king  comes,  offer  him 

no  violence, 
Unless  he  seek  to  thrust  you  out  per  force. 

[The  Soldiers  retire. 

York.  The  queen  this  day  here  holds  her  par- 
liament, 

But  little  thinks  we  shall  be  of  her  council : 
By  words  or  blows  here  let  us  win  our  right. 
Rich.  Arm'd  as  we  are,  let 's  stay  within  this 
house.  [call'd, 

War.  The  bloody  parliament  shall  this  be 
Unless  Plantagenet,  Duke  of  York,  be  king, 
And  bashful  Henry  depos'd,  whose  cowardice 
Hath  made  us  by- words  to  our  enemies. 

York.  Then  leave  me  not,  my  lords  ;  be  re- 
solute ; 
I  mean  to  take  possession  of  my  right. 

War.  Neither  the  king,  nor  he   that  loves 

him  best, 

The  proudest  he  that  holds  up  Lancaster, 
Dares  stir  a  wing  if  Warwick  shake  his  bells. 
I  '11  plant  Plan  tagenet,  root  him  up  who  dares: — 
Resolve  thee,  Richard ;  claim  the  English  crown. 
[WARWICK  leads  YORK  to  the  throne, 
who  seats  himself. 

Flourish.  Enter  KING  HENRY,  CLIFFORD, 
NORTHUMBERLAND,  WESTMORELAND,  EX- 
ETER, and  others,  with  red  roses  in  their 
hats. 

K.  Hen.  My  lords,  look  where  the  sturdy 

rebel  sits, 

Even  in  the  chair  of  state  !  belike  he  means, — 
Back'd   by  the  power  of  Warwick,  that  false 

peer,— 

To  aspire  unto  the  crown,  and  reign  asking. — 
Earl  of  Northumberland,  he  slew  thy  father  ; 
And  thine,  Lord  Clifford  ;  and  you  both  have 

vow'd  revenge 

On  him,  his  sons,  his  favourites,  and  his  friends. 
North.  If  I  be  not,  heavens  be  reveng'd  on 

me  1 


Clif.  The  hope  thereof  makes  Clifford  mourn 

in  steel. 
West.  What,  shall  we  suffer  this  ?  let's  pluck 

him  down  : 

My  heart  for  anger  burns ;  I  cannot  brook  it. 
K.  Hen.  Be  patient,  gentle  Earl  of  West- 
moreland. 

Clif.  Patience  is  for  poltroons,  and  such  as  he : 
He  durs'c  not  sit  there  had  your  father  liv'd. 
My  gracious  lord,  here  in  the  parliament 
Let  us  assail  the  family  of  York.  [so. 

North.  Well  hast  thou spoken,  cousin  :  be  it 
K.  Hen.  Ah,  know  you  not  the  city  favours 

them, 

And  they  have  trnops  of  soldiers  at  their  beck  ? 
Exe.  But  when   the  duke   is  slain   they  '11 

quickly  fly. 
K.  Hen.  Far  be  the  thought  of  this  from 

Henry's  heart, 

To  make  a  shambles  of  the  parliament  house  ! 
Cousin  of  Exeter,  frowns,  words,  and  threats 
Snail  be  the  war  that  Henry  means  to  use. 

[They  advance  to  the  DUKE. 
Thou  factious  Duke  of  York,  descend  my  throne, 
And  kneel  for  grace  and  mercy  at  my  feet  ; 
I  am  thy  sovereign. 
York.  I  am  thine. 

Exe.  For  shame,  come  down  :  he  made  thee 

Duke  of  York.  [was. 

York.  It  was  my  inheritance,  as  the  earldom 

Exe.  Thy  father  was  a  traitor  to  the  crown. 

War.  Exeter,  thou  art  a  traitor  to  the  crown 

In  following  this  usurping  Henry. 

Clif.  Whom  should  he  follow  but  his  natural 

king? 
War.    True,    Clifford;  and  that's  Richard 

Duke  of  York. 
K.  Hen.  And  shall  I  stand,  and  thou  sit  in  my 

throne? 

York.  It  must  and  shall  be  so :  content  thyself. 
War.  Be  Duke  of  Lancaster ;  let  him  be  king. 
West.  He  is  both  king  and  Duke  of  Lancaster; 
And  that  the  Lord  of  Westmoreland  shall  main- 
tain, [target 
War.  And  Warwick  shall  disprove  it.     You 
That  we  are  those  which chas'd  you  from  the  field, 
And  slew  your  fathers,  and  with  colours  spread 
March'd  through  the  city  to  the  palace-gates. 
North.  Yes,  Warwick,  I  remember  it  to  my 

grief ; 

And,  by  his  soul,  thou  and  thy  house  shall  rue  it. 

West.  Plantagenet,  of  thee,  and  these  thy  sons, 

Thy  kinsmen,  and  thy  friends,  I  '11  have  more 

lives 

Than  drops  of  blood  were  in  my  father's  veins. 
Clif.  Urge  it  no  more:  lest  that,  instead  of 
words. 


SCENE  I.] 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


639 


I  send  thee,  Warwick,  such  a  messenger 
As  shall  revenge  his  death  before  I  stir. 

War.   Poor  Clifford !  how  I  scorn  his  worth- 
less threats !  [crown? 
York.    Will  you  we  show  our  title  to  the 
If  not,  our  swords  shall  plead  it  in  the  field. 
K.  Hen.  What  title  hast  thou,  traitor,  to  the 

crown? 

Thy  father  was,  as  thou  art,  Duke  of  York ; 
Thy   grandfather,    Roger   Mortimer,    Earl    of 

March : 

I  am  the  son  of  Henry  the  Fifth, 
Who  made  the  Dauphin  and  the  French  to  stoop, 
And  seiz'd  upon  their  towns  and  provinces. 
War.  Talk  not  of  France,  sith  thou  hast  lost 

it  all. 

K.  Hen.  The  lord  protector  lost  it,  and  not  I : 

When  I  was  crown'd  I  was  but  nine  months  old. 

Rich.  You  are  old  enough  now,  and  yet,  me- 

thinks,  you  lose. — 

Father,  tear  the  crown  from  the  usurper's  head. 
Edw.  Sweet  father,  do  so ;  set  it  on  your  head. 
Mont.  Good  brother  [to  YORK],  as  thou  lov'st 

and  honour  st  arms, 

Let 's  fight  it  out,  and  not  stand  cavilling  thus. 
Rich.  Sound  drums  and  trumpets  and  the 

king  will  fly. 
York.  Sons,  peace ! 

K.  Hen.  Peace  thou !  and  give  King  Henry 
leave  to  speak.  [lords ; 

Wc.r.  Plantagenet  shall  speak  first :  hear  him, 
And  be  you  silent  and  attentive  too, 
For  he  that  interrupts  him  shall  not  live. 

K.  Hen.  Think'st  thou  that  I  will  leave  my 

kingly  throne, 

Wherein  my  grandsire  and  my  father  sat? 
No :  first  shall  war  unpeople  this  my  realm  ; 
Ay,  and  their  colours, — often  borne  in  France, 
And   now   in    England  to    our   heart's   great 
sorrow, —  [lords? 

Shall  be  my  winding-sheet. — Why  faint  you, 
My  title's  good,  and  better  far  than  his. 

War.  But  prove  it,  Henry,  and  thou  shalt  be 

king. 
K.  Hen.  Henry  the  Fourth  by  conquest  got 

the  crown. 

York.  'Twas  by  rebellion  against  his  king. 
K.  Hen.  I  know  not  what  to  say ;  my  title 's 
weak.  [Aside. 

Tell  me,  may  not  a  king  adopt  an  heir? 
York.  What  then? 

K.  Hen.  An  if  he  may,  then  am  I  lawful  king ; 
For  Richard,  in  the  view  of  many  lords, 
Resign'd  the  crown  to  Henry  the  Fourth, 
Whose  heir  my  father  was,  and  I  am  his. 

York.  He  rose  against  him,  being  his  sovereign, 
And  made  him  to  resign  his  crown  perforce. 


War.  Suppose,  iny  lords,  he  did  it  uncon- 

strain'd, 
Think  you  'twere  prejudicial  to  his  crown? 

Exe.  No ;  for  he  could  not  so  resign  his  crown 
But   that  the  next  heir  should  succeed  and 

reign. 

K.  Hen.  Art  thou  against  us,  Duke  of  Exeter? 
Exe.  His  is  the  right,  and  therefore  pardon  me. 
York.  Why  whisper  you,  my  lords,  and 

answer  not  ? 

Exe.  My  conscience  tells  me  he  is  lawful  king. 

K.  Hen.  All  will  revolt  from  me,  and  turn 

to  him.  [Aside. 

North.  Plantagenet,   for  all  the  claim  thou 

lay'st, 

Think  not  that  Henry  shall  be  so  depos'd. 
War.  Depos'd  he  shall  be,  in  despite  of  all. 
North.  Thou  art  deceiv'd:  ;tis  not  thy  southern 

power, 

Of  Essex,  Norfolk,  Suffolk,  nor  of  Kent, — 
Which    makes   thee    thus    presumptuous   and 

proud, — 
Can  set  the  duke  up  in  despite  of  me. 

Clif.  King  Henry,  be  thy  title  right  or  wrong, 
Lord  Clifford  vows  to  fight  in  thy  defence : 
May  that  ground  gape,  and  swallow  me  alive, 
Where  I  shall  kneel  to  him  that  slew  my  father! 
K.  Hen.   O  Clifford,  how  thy  words  revive 
my  heart !  [crown. — 

York.    Henry    of    Lancaster,     resign     thy 
What  mutter  you,  or  what  conspire  you,  lords? 
War.  Do  right  unto  this  princely  Duke  of 

York; 

Or  I  will  fill  the  house  with  armed  men, 
And  o'er  the  chair  of  state,  where  now  he  sits, 
Write  up  his  title  with  usurping  blood. 

[He  stamps ',  and  the  Soldiers  show  themselves. 
K.  Hen.  My  Lord  of  Warwick,  hear  me  but 

one  word : — 

Let  me  for  this  my  life-time  reign  as  king. 
York.  Confirm  the  crown  to  me  and  to  mine 

heirs. 

And  thou  shalt  reign  in  quiet  while  thou  liv'st. 
K.  Hen.  I  am  content :  Richard  Plantagenet, 
Enjoy  the  kingdom  after  my  decease.  ^      [son  ! 
Clif.  What  wrong  is  this  unto  the  prince  your 
War.  What  good  is  this  to  England  and  him- 
self! 

West.  Base,  fearful,  and  despairing  Henry! 
Clif.  How  hast  thou  injur'd  both  thyself  and 

us! 

West.  I  cannot  stay  to  hear  these  articles. 
North.  Nor  I. 

Clif.  Come,  cousin,  let  us  tell  the  queen  these 

news.  [king, 

West.  Farewell,  faint-hearted  and  degenerate 

In  whose  cold  blood  no  spark  of  honour  bides. 


640 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  i. 


North.  Be  thou  a  prey  unto  the  house  of  York, 
And  die  in  bands,  for  this  unmanly  deed ! 

Clif.  In  dreadful  war  mayst  thou  be  overcome, 
Or  live  in  peace,  abandon'd  and  despis'd  ! 

{Exeunt  NORTH.,  CLIP.,  and  WEST. 

War.  Turn   this   way,  Henry,    and   regard 

them  not.  [not  yield. 

Exe.  They  seek  revenge,  and  therefore  will 

K.  Hen.  Ah,  Exeter ! 

War.  Why  should  you  sigh,  my  lord  ! 

K.  Hen.  Not  for  myself,  Lord  Warwick,  but 

my  son, 

Whom  I  unnaturally  shall  disinherit. 
But  be  it  as  it  may : — I  here  entail 
The  crown  to  thee  and  to  thine  heirs  for  ever ; 
Conditionally,  that  here  thou  take  an  oath 
To  cease  this  civil  war,  and,  whilst  I  live, 
To  honour  me  as  thy  king  and  sovereign, 
And  neither  by  treason  nor  hostility 
To  seek  to  put  me  down  and  reign  thyself. 
York.  This  oath  I  willingly  take,  and  will  per- 
form. {Coming from  the  throne. 
War.  Long  live  King  Henry  1 — Plantagenet, 

embrace  him. 
K.  Hen.  And  long  live  thou,  and  these  thy 

forward  sons  ! 

York.  Now  York  and  Lancaster  are  reconcil'd. 
Exe.  Accurs'd  be  he  that  seeks  to  make  them 
foes! 

{Sennet.    The  Lords  come  forward. 
York.  Farewell,  my  gracious  lord ;    I  '11  to 

my  castle. 

War.  And  I  '11  keep  London  with  my  soldiers. 
Norf.  And  I  to  Norfolk  with  my  followers. 
Mont.  And  I  unto  the  sea,  from  whence  I 

came. 
{Exeunt  YORK  and  his  Sons,  WAR.  ,  NORF.  , 

MONT.,  Soldiers,  and  Attendants. 
K.  Hen.  And  I,  with  grief  and  sorrow  to  the 

court. 
£xe.  Here  comes  the  queen,  whose  looks 

bewray  her  anger : 

I'll  steal  away.  [Going1. 

K.  Hen.        Exeter,  so  will  I.  [Going. 

Enter  QUEEN  MARGARET  and  the  PRINCE  OF 
WALES. 

Q.  Mar.  Nay,  go  not  from  me  ;  I  will  follow 
thee.  [stay. 

K.  Hen.  Be  patient,  gentle  queen,  and  I  will 
Q.  Mar.  Who  can  be  patient  in   such  ex- 
tremes ? 

Ah,  wretched  man  !  would  I  had  died  a  maid, 
And  never  seen  thee,  never  born  thee  son, 
Seeing  thou  hast  prov'd  so  unnatural  a  father  ! 
Hath  he  deserv'd  to  lose  his  birthright  thus  ? 
Hadst  thou  but  lov'd  him  half  so  well  as  I, 


Or  felt  that  pain  which  I  did  for  him  once, 
Or  nourish'a  him  as  I  did  with  my  blood, — 
Thou  wouldst  have  left  thy  dearest  heart-blood 

there, 

Rather  than  made  that  savage  duke  thine  heir, 
And  disinherited  thine  only  son. 

Prince.  Father,  you  cannot  disinherit  me  : 
If  you  be  king,  why  should  not  I  succeed  ? 

K.  Hen.  Pardon  me,  Margaret ; — pardon  me, 

sweet  son : — 
The  Earl  of  Warwick  and  the  duke  enforc'd  me. 

Q.  Mar.  Enforc'd  thee  !  art  thou  king,  and 
wilt  be  forc'd  ?  [wretch  ! 

I  shame  to  hear  thee  speak.     Ah,   timorous 
Thou  hast  undone  thyself,  thy  son,  and  me  ; 
And  given  unto  the  house  of  York  such  head 
As  thou  shalt  reign  but  by  their  sufferance. 
To  entail  him  and  his  heirs  unto  the  crown, 
What  is  it,  but  to  make  thy  sepulchre, 
And  creep  into  it  far  before  thy  time  ? 
Warwick  is  chancellor  and  the  lord  of  Calais  ; 
Stern  Falconbridge  commands  the  narrow  seas  ; 
The  duke  is  made  protector  of  the  realm  ; 
And  yet  shalt  thou  be  safe?  such  safety  finds 
The  trembling  lamb  environed  with  wolves. 
Had  I  been  there,  which  am  a  silly  woman, 
The  soldiers  should  have  toss'd  meon  their  pikes 
Before  I  would  have  granted  to  that  act. 
But  thou  preferr'st  thy  life  before  thine  honour  : 
And  seeing  thou  dost,  I  here  divorce  myself 
Both  from  thy  table,  Henry,  and  thy  bed, 
Until  that  act  of  parliament  be  repealed, 
Whereby  my  son  is  disinherited.  [colours 

The  northern  lords  that  have  forsworn  thy 
Will  follow  mine,  if  once  they  see  them  spread : 
And  spread  they  shall  be, — to  thy  foul  disgrace, 
And  utter  ruin  of  the  house  of  York. 
Thus  do  I  leave  thee.  — Come,  son,  let 's  away ; 
Our  army  is  ready ;  come,  we  '11  after  them. 

K.  Hen.  Stay,  gentle  Margaret,  and  hear  me 
speak. 

Q.  Mar.  Thou  hast  spoke  too  much  already : 
get  thee  gone.  [with  me? 

K.  Hen.  Gentle  son  Edward,  thou  wilt  stay 

Q.  Mar.  Ay,  to  be  murder'd  by  his  enemies. 

Prince.  When  I  return  with  victory  from  the 

field 
I  '11  see  your  grace :  till  then  I  '11  follow  her. 

Q.  Mar.  Come,  son,  away;  we  may  not  linger 
thus.       [Exeunt  QUEEN  MARGARET 
and  the  PRINCE. 

K.  Hen.  Poor  queen !  how  love  to  me  and 

to  her  son 

Hath  made  her  break  out  into  terms  of  rage ! 
Reveng'd  may  she  be  on  that  hateful  duke, 
Whose  haughty  spirit,  winged  with  desire, 
Will  cost  my  crown,  and  like  an  empty  eagle 


SCENE  II.] 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VL 


641 


Tire  on  the  flesh  of  me  and  of  my  son ! 
The  loss  of  those  three  lords  torments  my  heart: 
I  '11  write  unto  them,  and  entreat  them  fair : — 
Come,  cousin,  you  shall  be  the  messenger. 
Exe.  And  I,  I  hope,  shall  reconcile  them  all. 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  Sandal  Castle ,  near 
Wakefield,  in  Yorkshire. 

Enter  EDWARD,  RICHARD,  and  MONTAGUE. 

Rich.  Brother,  though  I  be  youngest,  give 

me  leave. 

Edw.  No,  I  can  better  play  the  orator. 
Mont.  But  I  have  reasons  strong  and  forcible. 

Enter  YORK. 

York.  Why,  how  now,  sons  and  brother !  at 

a  strife? 

What  is  your  quarrel?  how  began  it  first? 
Edw.  No  quarrel,  but  a  slight  contention. 
York.  About  what? 
RuA.  About  that  which  concerns  your  grace 

and  us, — 

The  crown  of  England,  father,  which  is  yours. 

York.   Mine,  boy?  not  till   King  Henry  be 

dead.  [death. 

Rich.  Your  right  depends  not  on  his  life  or 

Edw.  Now  you  are  heir,  therefore  enjoy  it 

now :  [breathe, 

By   giving   the   house   of  Lancaster   leave   to 

It  will  outrun  you,  father,  in  the  end.     [reign. 

York.  I  took  an  oath  that  he  should  quietly 

Edw.  But,  for  a  kingdom,  any  oath  may  be 

broken :  [year. 

I  would  break  a  thousand  oaths  to  reign  one 

Rich.  No ;  God  forbid  your  grace  should  be 

forsworn. 

York.  I  shall  be,  if  I  claim  by  open  war. 
Rich.  I  '11  prove  the  contrary,  if  you  '11  hear 

me  speak. 

York.  Thou  canst  not,  son;  it  is  impossible. 
Rich.  An  oath  is  of  no  moment,  being  not 

took 

Before  a  true  and  lawful  magistrate, 
That  hath  authority  over  him  that  swears: 
Henry  had  none,  but  did  usurp  the  place ; 
Then,  seeing  'twas  he  that  made  you  to  depose, 
Your  oath,  my  lord,  is  vain  and  frivolous. 
Therefore,  to  arms.    And,  father,  do  but  think 
How  sweet  a  thing  it  is  to  wear  a  crown; 
Within  whose  circuit  is  Elysium, 
And  all  that  poets  feign  of  bliss  and  joy. 
Why  do  we  linger  thus?     I  cannot  rest 
Until  the  white  rose  that  I  wear  be  dy'd 
Even  in  the  lukewarm  blood  of  Henry's  heart. 


York.  Richard,  enough;  I  will  be  king,  ot 

die — 

Brother,  thou  shalt  to  London  presently, 
And  whet  on  Warwick  to  this  enterprise. — 
Thou,  Richard,  shalt  to  the  Duke  of  Norfolk, 
And  tell  him  privily  of  our  intent, — 
You,  Edward,  shall  unto  my  Lord  Cobham, 
With  whom  the  Kentishmen  will  willingly  rise ; 
In  them  I  trust ;  for  they  are  soldiers, 
Witty,  courteous,  liberal,  full  of  spirit. — 
While  you  are  thus  employ'd,  what  resteth  more, 
But  that  I  seek  occasion  how  to  rise, 
And  yet  the  king  not  privy  to  my  drift, 
Nor  any  of  the  house  of  Lancaster? 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

But,  stay:  what  news?    Why  com'st  thou  in 
such  post?  [and  lords 

Mess.  The  qUeen  with  all  the  northern  earls 
Intend  here  to  besiege  you  in  your  castle : 
She  is  hard  by  with  twenty  thousand  men; 
And  therefore  fortify  your  hold,  my  lord. 
York.  Ay,  with  my  sword.     What !  think'st 

thou  that  we  fear  them? — 
Edward  and  Richard,  you  shall  stay  with  me ; — 
My  brother  Montague  shall  post  to  London: 
Let  noble  Warwick,  Cobham,  and  the  rest, 
Whom  we  have  left  protectors  of  the  king, 
With  powerful  policy  strengthen  themselves, 
And  trust  not  simple  Henry  nor  his  oaths. 
Mont.  Brother,  I  go;  I'll  win  them,  fear  it 

not: 
And  thus  most  humbly  I  do  take  my  leave. 

{Exit. 

Enter  SIR  JOHN  and  SIR  HUGH  MORTIMER. 

York.  Sir  John  and   Sir  Hugh   Mortimer, 

mine  uncles ! 

You  are  come  to  Sandal  in  a  happy  hour ; 
The  army  of  the  queen  mean  to  besiege  us. 
Sir  John.  She  shall  not  need,  we  '11  meet  her 

in  the  field. 

York.  What,  with  five  thousand  men  ? 
Rich.  Ay,  with  five  hundred,  father,  for  a  need: 
A  woman's  general;  what  should  we  fear? 

[A  march  afar  off. 
Edw.  I  hear  their  drums:  let's  set  our  men 

in  order, 

And  issue  forth,  and  bid  them  battle  straight. 
York.  Five  men  to  twenty ! — though  the  odds 

be  great, 

I  doubt  not,  uncle,  of  our  victory. 
Many  a  battle  have  I  won  in  France, 
Whenas  the  enemy  hath  been  ten  to  one: 
Why  should  I  not  now  have  the  like  success.? 

{Exeunt. 


642 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  L 


SCENE  III. — Plains  near  Sandal  Castle. 
Alarum.     Enter  RUTLAND  and  his  Tutor. 

Rut.  Ah,  whither  shall  I  fly  to  'scape  their 

hands? 
Ah,  tutor,  look  where  bloody  Clifford  comes ! 

Enter  CLIFFORD  and  Soldiers. 

Clif.  Chaplain,  away !  thy  priesthood  saves 

thy  life. 

As  for  the  brat  of  this  accursed  duke, 
Whose  father  slew  my  father, — he  shall  die. 
Tut.  And  I,  my  lord,  will  bear  him  company. 
Clif.  Soldiers,  away  with  him !  [child, 

Tut.  Ah,  Clifford,  murder  not  this  innocent 
Lest  thou  be  hated  both  of  God  and  man. 

[Exit,  forced  off  by  Soldiers. 
Clif.  How  now !  is  he  dead  already?  or  is  it 

fear 

That  makes  him  close  his  eyes? — I  '11  open  them. 
Rut.  So  looks  the  pent-up  lion  o'er  the  wretch 
That  trembles  under  his  devouring  paws ; 
And  so  he  walks,  insulting  o'er  his  prey, 
And  so  he  comes,  to  rend  his  limbs  asunder. — 
Ah,  gentle  Clifford,  kill  me  with  thy  sword,  . 
And  not  with  such  a  cruel  threat'ning  look ! 
Sweet  Clifford,  hear  me  speak  before  I  die ! — 
I  am  too  mean  a  subject  for  thy  wrath : 
Be  thou  reveng'd  on  men,  and  let  me  live. 
Clif.  In  vain  thou  speak' st,  poor  boy;  my 
father's  blood  [enter. 

Hath  stopp'd  the  passage  where  thy  wordsshould 
Rut.  Then  let  my  father's  blood  open  it  again: 
He  is  a  man,  and,  Clifford,  cope  with  him. 
Clif.  Had  I  thy  brethren  here,  their  lives  and 

thine 

Were  not  revenge  sufficient  for  me ; 
No,  if  I  digg'd  up  thy  forefathers'  graves, 
And  hung  their  rotten  coffins  up  in  chains, 
It  could  not  slake  mine  ire  nor  ease  my  heart. 
The  sight  of  any  of  the  house  of  York 
Is  as  a  fury  to  torment  my  soul ; 
And  till  I  root  out  their  accursed  line 
And  leave  not  one  alive,  I  live  in  hell. 
Therefore, —  [Lifting  his  hand. 

Rut.  O  let  me  pray  before  I  take  my  death  ! 
To  thee  I  pray ;  sweet  Clifford,  pity  me ! 
Clif.  Such  pity  as  my  rapier's  point  affords. 
Rut.  I  never  did  thee  harm:  why  wilt  thou 

slay  me? 

Clif.  Thy  father  hath. 

Rut.  But  'twas  ere  I  was  born. 

Thou  hast  one  son, — for  his  sake  pity  me ; 
Lest  in  revenge  thereof, — sith  God  is  just, — 
H  2  be  as  miserably  slain  as  I. 
Ah,  let  me  live  in  prison  all  my  days ; 


And  when  I  give  occasion  of  offence 

Then  let  me  die,  for  now  thou  hast  no  cause. 

Clif.  No  cause! 
Thy  father  slew  my  father  ;  therefore,  die. 

[CLIFFORD  stabs  him. 

Rut.  Dii  faciant^  laudis  summa  sit  ista  tu&i 

[Dies. 

Clif.  Plantagenet  !  I  come,  Plantagenet  ! 
And  this  thy  son's  blood  cleaving  to  my  blade 
Shall  rust  upon  my  weapon,  till  thy  blood, 
Congeal'd  with  this,  do  make  me  wipe  off  both. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  IV.  —  Another  part  oftke  Plains  near 
Sandal  Castle. 

Alarum.     Enter  YORK. 

York.  The  army  of  the  queen  hath  got  the 

field: 

My  uncles  both  are  slain  in  rescuing  me  ; 
And  all  my  followers  to  the  eager  foe 
Turn  back,  and  fly,  like  ships  before  the  wind, 
Or  lambs  pursu'd  by  hunger-starved  wolves. 
My  sons,  —  God  knows  what  hath  bechanced 
them  :  [selves 

But  this  I  know,—  they  have  demean'd  them- 
Like  men  born  to  renown  by  life  or  death. 
Three  times  did  Richard  make  a  lane  to  me  ; 
And  thrice  cried,  Courage,  ]  at  her!  fight  it  out*< 
And  full  as  oft  came  Edward  to 


With  purple  falchion,  painted  to  the  hilt 
In  blood  of  those  that  had  encountered  him  : 
And  when  the  hardiest  warriors  did  retire, 
Richard   cried,    Charge!  and  give  no  foot  of 

ground! 

And  cried,  A  croivn>  or  else  a  glorious  tomb  ! 
A  sceptre,  or  an  earthly  sepulchre! 
With  this  we  charg'd  again  :  but,  out,  alas  ! 
We  bodg'd  again  ;  as  I  have  seen  a  swan 
With  bootless  labour  swim  against  the  tide, 
And  spend  her   strength  with   over-matching 

waves.  [A  short  alarum  within. 

Ah,  hark  !  the  fatal  followers  do  pursue  ; 
And  I  am  faint,  and  cannot  fly  their  fury  : 
And  were  I  strong,  I  would  not  shun  their  fury: 
The  sands  are  number'd  that  make  up  my  life; 
Here  must  I  stay,  and  here  my  life  must  end. 

Enter  QUEEN  MARGARET,  CLIFFORD,  NOR- 
THUMBERLAND, and  Soldiers. 

Come,    bloody  Clifford,  —  rough   Northumber- 

land,— 

I  dare  your  quenchless  fur}'  to  more  rage  : 
I  am  your  butt,  and  I  abide  your  shot. 

North.  Yield  to  our  mercy,  proud  Plantagenet. 

Clif.  Ay,  to  such  mercy  as  his  ruthless  arm, 


SCENE  IV.] 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


643 


With  downright  payment,  show'd  unto  my  father. 
Now  Phaeton  hath  tumbled  from  his  car, 
And  made  an  evening  at  the  noontide  prick. 
York.  My  ashes,  as  the  phoenix,  may  bring 

forth 

A  bird  that  will  revenge  upon  you  all : 
And  in  that  hope  I  throw  mine  eyes  to  heaven, 
Scorning  whate'er  you  can  afflict  me  with. 
Why  come  you  not  ?  what !  multitudes,  and  fear  ? 
Clif.  So  cowards  fight  when  they  can  fly  no 

further ; 

So  doves  do  peck  the  falcon's  piercing  talons ; 
So  desperate  thieves,  all  hopeless  of  their  lives, 
Breathe  out  invectives  'gainst  the  officers. 

York.  O  Clifford,  but  bethink  thee  once  again, 

And  in  thy  thought  o'errun  my  former  time ; 

And,  if  thou  canst,  for  blushing,  view  this  face, 

And  bite  thy  tongue,  that  slanders  him  with 

cowardice  [this ! 

Whose  frown  hath  made  thee  faint  and  fly  ere 

Clif.  I  will   not  bandy  with  thee  word  for 

word, 

But  buckle  with  thee  blows,  twice  two  for  one. 

[Draws. 

Q.  Mar.  Hold,  valiant  Clifford !  for  a  thou- 
sand causes 

I  would  prolong  awhile  the  traitor's  life. — 
Wrath   makes   him  deaf: — speak   thou,   Nor- 
thumberland, [much 
North.  Hold,  Clifford  !  do  not  honour  him  so 
To  prick  thy  finger,  though  to  wound  his  heart : 
What  valour  were  it,  when  a  cur  doth  grin, 
For  one  to  thrust  his  hand  between  his  teeth, 
When  he  might  spurn  him  with  his  foot  away? 
It  is  war's  prize  to  take  all  'vantages; 
And  ten  to  one  is  no  impeach  of  valour. 

[They  lay  hands  on  YORK,  who  struggles. 
Clif.  Ay,  ay,  so  strives  the  woodcock  with 

the  gin. 

North.  So  doth  the  cony  struggle  in  the  net. 

[YORK  is  taken  prisoner. 

York.   So  triumph   thieves  upon   their  con- 

quer'd  booty; 

So  true  men  yield,  with  robbers  so  o'ermatch'd. 

North.  What  would  your  grace  have  done 

unto  him  now?  [thumberland, 

Q.  Mar.  Brave  warriors,  Clifford  and  Nor- 

Come,  make  him  stand  upon  this  molehi.l  here, 

That  raught  at  mountains  with  outstretched 

arms, 

Yet  parted  but  the  shadow  with  his  hand. — 
What,  was  it  you  that  would  be  England's  king? 
Was 't  you  that  revell'd  in  our  parliament, 
And  made  a  preachment  of  your  high  descent  ? 
Where  are  your  mess  of  sons  to  back  you  now? 
Tht  wanton  Edward  and  the  lusty  George  t 
And  Where's  that  valiant  crook-back  prodigy, 


Dicky  your  boy,  that  with  his  grumbling  voice 
Was  wont  to  cheer  his  dad  in  mutinies  ? 
Or,  with  the  rest,  where  is  your  darling  Rutland? 
Look,  York :  I  stain'd  this  napkin  with  the  blood 
That  valiant  Clifford,  with  his  rapier's  point, 
Made  issue  from  the  bosom  of  the  boy  ; 
And  if  thine  eyes  can  water  for  his  death, 
I  give  thee  this  to  dry  thy  cheeks  withal. 
Alas,  poor  York  !  but  that  I  hate  thee  deadly, 
I  should  lament  thy  miserable  state. 
I  pr'ythee,  grieve,  to  make  me  merry,  York. 
What,  hath  thy  fiery  heart  so  parch'd  thine 

entrails 

That  not  a  tear  can  fall  for  Rutland'?  death  ? 
Why  art  thou  patient,  man  ?  thou  shouldst  be 

mad ; 

And  I,  to  make  thee  mad,  do  mock  thee  thus. 
Stamp,  rave,  and  fret,  that  I  may  sinp  and 

dance. 

Thou  wouldst  be  fee'd,  I  see,  to  make  me  sport ; 
York  cannot  speak  unless  he  wear  a  crown. — 
A  crown  for  York ! — and,  lords,  bow  low  to 

him  ; — 
Hold  you  his  hands  whilst  I  do  set  it  on. 

[Putting  a  paper  crown  on  his  head. 
Ay,  marry,  sir,  now  looks  he  like  a  king  ! 
Ay,  this  is  he  that  took  King  Henry's  chair ; 
And  this  is  he  was  his  adopted  heir. — 
But  how  is  it  that  great  Plantagenet 
Is  crown'd  so  soon,  and  broke  his  solemn  oath  ? 
As  I  bethink  me,  you  should  not  be  king 
Till  our  King  Henry  had  shook  hands  with  death. 
And  will  you  pale  your  head  in  Henry's  glory, 
And  rob  his  temples  of  the  diadem 
Now  in  his  life,  against  your  holy  oath  ? 
O,  'tis  a  fault  too,  too  unpardonable  ! — 
Off  with  the  crown  ;  and,  with  the  crown,  his 

head  ; 

And  whilst  we  breathe  take  time  to  do  him  dead. 
Clif.  That  is  my  office,  for  my  father's  sake. 
Q.  Mar.  Nay,  stay  ;  let 's  hear  the  orisons  he 

makes. 
York.  She-wolf  of  France,  but  worse  than 

wolves  of  France,  [tooth  ! 

Whose  tongue  more  poisons  than  the  adder's 
How  ill-seeming  is  it  in  thy  sex 
To  triumph,  like  an  Amazonian  trull, 
Upon  their  woes  whom  fortune  captivates  ! 
But  that  thy  face  is,  visard-like,  unchanging, 
Made  impudent  with  use  of  evil  deeds, 
I  would  assay,  proud  queen,  to  make  thee  "blush: 
To  tell  thee  whence  thou  cam'st*  of  whom 

deriv'd, 
Were  shame  enough  to  shame  thee,  wert  thou 

not  shameless. 

Thy  father  bears  the  type  of  King  of  Naples, 
Of  both  the  Sicils,  and  Jerusalem  ; 


644 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  ii. 


Yet  not  so  wealthy  as  an  English  yeoman. 
Hath  that  poor  monarch  taught  thee  to  insult  ? 
It  needs  not,  nor  it  boots  thee  not,  proud  queen ; 
Unless  the  adage  must  be  verified, — 
That  beggars  mounted  run  their  horse  to  death. 
'Tis  beauty  that  doth  oft  make  women  proud ; 
But,  God  he  knows,  thy  share  thereof  is  small : 
'Tis  virtue  that  doth  make  them  most  admir'd ; 
The  contrary  doth  make  thee  wonder'd  at : 
'Tis  government  that  makes  them  seem  divine ; 
The  want  thereof  makes  thee  abominable : 
Thou  art  as  opposite  to  every  good 
As  the  antipodes  are  unto  us,  ( 

Or  as  the  south  to  the  septentrion. 

0  tiger's  heart  wrapp'd  in  a  woman's  hide  ! 
How  couldst  thou  drain  the  life-blood  of  the 

child, 

To  bid  the  father  wipe  his  eyes  withal, 
And  yet  be  seen  to  bear  a  woman's  face? 
Women  are  soft,  mild,  pitiful,  and  flexible ; 
Thou  stern,  obdurate,  flinty,  rough,  remorseless. 
Bidd'st  thou  me  rage?  why,  now  thou  hast  thy 

wish :  [will : 

Wouldst  have  me  weep?  why,  now  thou  hast  thy 
For  raging  wind  blows  up  incessant  showers, 
And  when  the  rage  allays,  the  rain  begins. 
These  tears  are  my  sweet  Rutland's  obsequies ; 
And  every  drop  cries  vengeance  for  his  death 
'Gainst  thee,  fell  Clifford,  and  thee,  false  French- 
woman, [me  so 
North.  Beshrew  me,  but  his  passions  move 
That  hardly  can  I  check  my  eyes  from  tears. 

York.  That  face  of  his  the  hungry  cannibals 
Would  not  have  touch'd,  would  not  have  stain'd 

with  blood: 

But  you  are  more  inhuman,  more  inexorable, — 
O,  ten  times  more, — than  tigers  of  Hyrcania. 
See,  ruthless  queen,  a  hapless  father's  tears : 
This  cloth  thou  dipp'dst  in  blood  of  my  sweet 

boy, 

And  I  with  tears  do  wash  the  blood  away. 
Keep  thou  the  napkin,  and  go  boast  of  this: 

[He  gives  back  the  handkerchief. 
And  if  thou  tell'st  the  heavy  story  right, 
Upon  my  soul,  the  hearers  will  shed  t^ars  ; 
Yea,  even  my  foes  will  shed  fast-falling  tears, 
And  say,  Alas,  it  was  a  piteous  deed! — 
There,  take  the  crown,  and,  with  the  crown,  my 

curse ;     [  Giving  back  the  paper  crown. 
And  in  thy  need  such  comfort  come  to  thee 
As  now  I  reap  at  thy  too  cruel  hand ! — 
Hard-hearted  Clifford,  take  me  from  the  world : 
My  soul  to  heaven,  my  blood  upon  your  heads ! 
North.  Had  he  been  slaughter-man  to  all  my 

kin, 

1  should  not  for  my  life  but  weep  with  him, 
To  see  how  inly  sorrow  gripes  his  soul. 


Q.  Mar.    What,    weeping-ripe,    my    Lord 

Northumberland  ? 

Think  but  upon  the  wrong  he  did  us  all, 
And  that  will  quickly  dry  thy  melting  tears. 
Clif.  Here  ss  for  my  oath,  here 's  for  my  father's 
death.  [Stabbing  him. 

Q.  Mar.  And   here's  to   right   our  gentle- 
hearted  king.  {Stabbing  him. 
York.  Open  thy  gate  of  mercy,  gracious  God ! 
My  soul  flies  through  these  wounds  to  seek  out 
thee.  [Dies. 
Q.  Mar.  Off  with  his  head,  and  set  it  on 

York  gates ; 
So  York  may  overlook  the  town  of  York. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — A  plain  near  Mortimer's  Cross  in 
Herefordsh  ire. 

Drums.     Enter  EDWARD  and  RICHARD,  with 
their  Forces,  marching. 

Edw.    I   wonder   how   our    princely   father 

'scap'd, 

Or  whether  he  be  'scap'd  away  or  no 
From  Clifford's  and  Northumberland's  pursuit : 
Had  he  been  ta'en  we  should  have  heard  the 

news ;  [news ; 

Had  he  been  slain  we  should  have  heard  the 
Or  had  he  'scap'd,  methinks  we  should  have 

heard 

The  happy  tidings  of  his  good  escape. — 
How  fares  my  brother?  why  is  he  so  sad? 

Rich.  I  cannot  joy,  until  I  be  resolv'd 
Where  our  right  valiant  father  is  become. 
I  saw  him  in  the  battle  range  about ; 
And  watch'd  him  how  he  singled  Clifford  forth. 
Methought  he  bore  him  in  the  thickest  troop 
As  doth  a  lion  in  a  herd  of  neat ; 
Or  as  a  bear,  encompass'd  round  with  dogs, — 
Who  having  pinch'd  a  few,  and  made  them  cry, 
The  rest  stand  all  aloof  and  bark  at  him. 
So  far'd  our  father  with  his  enemies  ; 
So  fled  his  enemies  my  warlike  father: 
Methinks  'tis  prize  enough  to  be  his  son. — 
See  how  the  morning  ope's  her  golden  gates, 
And  takes  her  farewell  of  the  glorious  sun ! 
How  well  resembles  it  the  prime  of  youth, 
Trimm'd  like  a  younker  prancing  to  his  love ! 
Edw.  Dazzle  mine  eyes,  or  do  I  see  three  suns? 
Rich.  Three  glorious  suns,  each  one  a  perfect 


Not  separated  with  the  racking  clouds, 
But  sever'd  in  a  pale  clear-shining  sky. 
See,  see  !  they  join,  embrace,  and  seem  to  kiss, 


SCENE  I.] 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


645 


As  if  they  vow'd  some  league  inviolable : 
Now  are  they  but  one  lamp,  one  light,  one  sun. 
In  this  the  heaven  figures  some  event. 

Edw.  'Tis  wondrous  strange,   the  like  yet 

never  heard  of. 

I  think  it  cites  us,  brother,  to  the  field, — 
That  we,  the  sons  of  brave  Plantagenet, 
Each  one  already  blazing  by  our  meeds, 
Should,  notwithstanding,   join  our   lights  to- 
gether, 

And  overshine  the  earth,  as  this  the  world. 
Whate'er  it  bodes,  henceforward  will  I  bear 
Upon  my  target  three  fair  shining  suns. 

Rich.  Nay,  bear  three  daughters : — by  your 

leave  I  speak  it, 
You  love  the  breeder  better  than  the  male. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

But  what  art  thou,  whose  heavy  looks  foretell 
Some  dreadful  story  hanging  on  thy  tongue? 

Mess.  Ah,  one  that  was  a  woeful  looker-on 
Whenas  the  noble  Duke  of  York  was  slain, 
Your  princely  father  and  my  loving  lord  ! 
Edw.  O,  speak  no  more !  for  I  have  heard 

too  much. 

Rich.  Say  how  he  died,  for  I  will  hear  it  all. 
Mess.  Environed  he  was  with  many  foes ; 
And  stood  against  them  as  the  hope  of  Troy 
Against  the  Greeks  that  would  have  enter'd 

Troy. 

But  Hercules  himself  must  yield  to  odds ; 
And  many  strokes,  though  with  a  little  axe, 
Hew  down  and  fell  the  hardest-timber'd  oak. 
By  many  hands  your  father  was  subdu'd ; 
But  only  slaughter'd  by  the  ireful  arm 
Of  unrelenting  Clifford,  and  the  queen, — 
Who  crown'd  the  gracious  duke  in  high  despite, — 
Laugh'd  in  his  face ;  and  when  with  grief  he 

wept, 

The  ruthless  queen  gave  him  to  dry  his  cheeks 
A  napkin  steeped  in  the  harmless  blood 
Of  sweet  young  Rutland,  by  rough  Clifford  slain: 
And  after  many  scorns,  many  foul  taunts. 
They  took  his  head,  and  on  the  gates  of  York 
They  set  the  same  ;  and  there  it  doth  remain, 
The  saddest  spectacle  that  e'er  I  view'd. 

Edw.  Sweet  Duke  of  York,  our  prop  to  lean 

upon, — 

Now  thou  art  gone,  we  have  no  staff,  no  stay ! — 
O  Clifford,  boisterous  Clifford,  thou  hast  slain 
The  flower  of  Europe  for  his  chivalry ; 
And  treacherously  hast  thou  vanquish'd  him, 
For  hand  to  hand  he  would  have  vanquish'd 

thee  !— 

Now  my  soul's  palace  is  become  a  prison  : 
Ah,  would  she  break  from  hence,  that  this  my 

body 


Might  in  the  ground  be  closed  up  in  rest  1 
For  never  henceforth  shall  I  joy  again, 
Never,  O  never  shall  I  see  more  joy. 

Rich.  I   cannot  weep;    for  all  my  body's 

moisture  [heart : 

Scarce  serves  to  quench  my  furnace-burning 
Nor  can  my  tongue  unload  my  heart's  great 

burden ; 

For  self-same  wind  that  I  should  speak  withal 
Is  kindling  coals,  that  fire  all  my  breast, 
And  burn  me  up  with  flames,  that  tears  would 

quench. 

To  weep  is  to  make  less  the  depth  of  grief : 
Tears,  then,  for  babes ;  blows  and  revenge  for 

me!— 

Richard,  I  bear  thy  name ;  I  '11  venge  thy  death, 
Or  die  renowned  by  attempting  it. 
Edw.  His  name  that  valiant  duke  hath  left 

with  thee  ; 

His  dukedom  and  his  chair  with  me  is  left. 
Rich.  Nay,  if  thou  be  that  princely  eagle's 

bird, 

Show  thy  descent  by  gazing  'gainst  the  sun  : 
For  chair  and  dukedom,  throne  and  kingdom 

say: 
Either  that  is  thine,  or  else  thou  wert  not  his. 

March.     Enter  WARWICK  and  MONTAGUE, 
"with  Forces. 

War.  How  now,  fair  lords!     What  fare? 
what  news  abroad  ?  [recount 

Rich.  Great  Lord  of  Warwick,  if  we  should 
Our  baleful  news,  and  at  each  word's  deliverance 
Stab  poniards  in  our  flesh  till  all  were  told, 
The  words  would  add  more  anguish  than  the 
wounds. 

0  valiant  lord,  the  Duke  of  York  is  slain  ! 
Edw.    O  Warwick,    Warwick!   that  Plan- 
tagenet 

Which  held  thee  dearly  as  his  soul's  redemption 
Is  by  the  stern  Lord  Clifford  done  to  death. 
War.  Ten  days  ago  I  drown'd  these  news  in 

tears ; 
And  now,  to  add  more  measure  to  your  woes, 

1  come  to  tell  you  things  since  then  befall'n. 
After  the  bloody  fray  at  Wakefield  fought, 
Where  your  brave  father  breath'd  his  latest  gasp, 
Tidings,  as  swiftly  as  the  posts  could  run, 
Were  brought  me  of  your  loss  and  his  depart. 
I,  then  in  London,  keeper  of  the  king, 
Muster'd  my  scldiers,  gather'd  flocks  of  friends, 
And  very  well  appointed,  as  I  thought, 
March'd  towards  Saint  Albans  to  intercept  the 

queen, 

Bearing  the  king  in  my  behalf  along ; 
For  by  my  scouts  I  was  advertised 
That  she  was  coming  with  a  full  intent 


646 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  ii. 


To  dash  our  late  decree  in  parliament 
Touching  King   Henry's  oath  and  your  suc- 
cession. 

Short  tale  to  make, — we  at  St.  Albans  met, 
Our  battles  join'd,  and  both  sides  fiercely  fought : 
But  whether  'twas  the  coldness  of  the  king, 
Who  look'd  full  gently  on  his  warlike  queen, 
That  robb'd  my  soldiers  of  their  heated  spleen ; 
Or  whether  'twas  report  of  her  success ; 
Or  more  than  common  fear  of  Clifford's  rigour, 
Who  thunders  to  his  captives,  Blood  and  death, 
I  cannot  judge :  but,  to  conclude  with  truth, 
Their  weapons   like   to   lightning  came    and 

went; 

Our  soldiers', — like  the  night-owl's  lazy  flight, 
Or  like  a  lazy  thrasher  with  a  flail, — 
Fell  gently  down,  as  if  they  struck  their  friends. 
I  cheer'd  them  up  with  justice  of  our  cause, 
With  promise  of  high  pay  and  great  rewards : 
But  all  in  vain ;  they  had  no  heart  to  fight, 
And  we  in  them  no  hope  to  win  the  day; 
So  that  we  fled ;  the  king  unto  the  queen ; 
Lord  George,  your  brother,  Norfolk,  and  myself, 
In  haste,  post-haste,  are  come  to  join  with  you ; 
For  in  the  marches  here  we  heard  you  were 
Making  another  head  to  fight  again. 
Edw.  Where  is  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  gentle 
Warwick?  [land? 

And  when  came  George  from  Burgundy  to  Eng- 
War.  Some  six  miles  off  the  duke  is  with  the 

soldiers ; 

And  for  your  brother,  he  was  lately  sent 
From  your  kind  aunt,  Duchess  of  Burgundy, 
With  aid  of  soldiers  to  this  needful  war. 

Rich.  'Twas  odds,  belike,  when  valiant  War- 
wick fled : 

Oft  Lave  I  heard  his  praises  in  pursuit, 
But  ne'er  till  now  his  scandal  of  retire. 

War.  Nor  now  my  scandal,  Richard,  dost 
thou  hear ;  [mine 

For  thou  shalt  know  this  strong  right  hand  of 
Can  pluck  the  diadem  from  faint  Henry's  head, 
And  wring  the  awful  sceptre  from  his  fist, 
Were  he  as  famous  and  as  bold  in  war 
As  he  is  fam'd  for  mildness,  peace,  and  prayer. 
Rich.  I  know  it  well,  Lord  Warwick ;  blame 

me  not : 

'Tis  love  I  bear  thy  glories  makes  me  speak. 
But  in  this  troublous  time  what's  to  be  done? 
Shall  we  go  throw  away  our  coats  of  steel, 
And  wrap  our  bodies  in  black  mourning-gowns, 
Numbering  our  Ave-Maries  with  our  beads  ? 
Or  shall  we  on  the  helmets  of  our  foe? 
Tell  our  devotion  with  revengeful  arms  ? 
If  for  the  last,  say  Ay,  and  to  it,  lords. 

War.  Why,  therefore  Warwick  came  to  seek 
you  out; 


And  therefore  comes  my  brother  Montague. 
Attend  me,  lords.     The  proud  insulting  queen, 
With   Clifford   and   the   haught   Northumber- 
land, 

And  of  their  feather  many  more  proud  birds, 
Have  wrought  the  easy-melting  king  like  wax. 
He  swore  consent  to  your  succession, 
His  oath  enrolled  in  the  parliament ; 
And  now  to  London  all  the  crew  are  gone, 
To  frustrate  both  his  oath  and  what  beside 
May  make  against  the  house  of  Lancaster. 
Their  power,  I  think,  is  thirty  thousand  strong: 
Now  if  the  help  of  Norfolk  and  myself, 
With  all  the  friends  that  thou,  brave  Earl  of 

March, 

Amongst  the  loving  Welshmen  canst  procure, 
Will  but  amount  to  five-and-twenty  thousand, 
Why,  Via  !  to  London  will  we  march  amain  ; 
And  once  again  bestride  our  foaming  steeds, 
And  once  again  cry,  Charge  upon  our  foes  ! 
But  never  once  again  turn  back  and  fly. 

Rich.  Ay,  now  methinks  I  hear  great  War- 
wick speak  : 

Ne'er  may  he  live  to  see  a  sunshine  day 
That  cries  Retire,  if  Warwick  bid  him  stay. 
Edw.   Lord  Warwick,  on  thy  shoulder  will  I 

lean  ; 
And  when   thou   fail'st, — as   God  forbid  the 

hour ! — 

Must  Edward  fall,  which  peril  heaven  forefend ! 
War.  No  longer  Earl  of  March,  but  Duke  of 

York: 

The  next  degree  is  England's  royal  throne  ; 
For  King  of  England  shall  thou  be  proclaim'd 
In  every  borough  as  we  pass  along  ; 
And  he  that  throws  not  up  his  cap  for  joy, 
Shall  for  the  fault  make  forfeit  of  his  head. 
King  Edward,  —  valiant   Richard,  —  Mon- 
tague,— 

Stay  we  no  longer,  dreaming  of  renown, 
But  sound  the  trumpets  and  about  our  task. 
Rich.  Then,  Clifford,  were  thy  heart  as  hard 

as  steel, — 

As  thou  hast  shown  it  flinty  by  thy  deeds, — 
I  come  to  pierce  it, — or  to  give  thee  mine. 
Edw.  Then  strike  up  drums  : — God  and  Saint 
George  for  us ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

War.  How  now  !  what  news  ? 

Mess.  The  Duke  of  Norfolk  sends  you  word 

by  me, 

The  queen  is  coming  with  a  puissant  host ; 
And  craves  your  company  for  speedy  counsel. 
War.  Why,  then  it  sorts,  brave  warriors: 
let 's  away.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.] 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


647 


SCENE  l\.~~Before  York. 

Flourish.  Enter  KING  HENRY,  QUEEN  MAR- 
CARET,  the  PRINCE  OF  WALES,  CLIFFORD, 
and  NORTHUMBERLAND,  with  Forces. 

Q.  Mar.  Welcome,  my  lord,  to  this  brave 

town  of  York. 

Yonder 's  the  head  of  that  arch-enemy 
That  sought  to  be  encompass'd  with  your  crown : 
Doth  not  the  object  cheer  your  heart,  my  lord? 
K.  Hen.  Ay,  as  the  rocks  cheer  them  that 

fear  their  wreck  : — 

To  see  this  sight,  it  irks  my  very  soul. — 
Withhold  revenge,  dear  God  !  'tis  not  my  fault, 
Nor  wittingly  have  I  infring'd  my  vow. 

Clif.  My  gracious  liege,  this  too  much  lenity 
And  harmful  pity  must  be  laid  aside. 
To  whom  do  lions  cast  their  gentle  looks  ? 
Not  to  the  beast  that  would  usurp  their  den. 
Whose  hand  is  that  the  forest  bear  doth  lick  ? 
Not  his  that  spoils  her  young  before  her  face. 
Who  scapes  the  lurking  serpent's  mortal  sting? 
Not  he  that  sets  his  foot  upon  her  back. 
The  smallest  worm  will  turn,  being  trodden  on, 
And  doves  will  peck  in  safeguard  of  their  brood. 
Ambitious  York  did  level  at  thy  crown, 
Thou  smiling  while  he  knit  his  angry  brows  : 
He,  but  a  duke,  would  have  his  son  a  king, 
And  raise  his  issue,  like  a  loving  sire  ; 
Thou,  being  a  king,  bless'd  with  a  goodly  son, 
Didst  yield  consent  to  disinherit  him, 
Which  argu'd  thee  a  most  unloving  father. 
Unreasonable  creatures  feed  their  young  ; 
And  though  man's  face  be  fearful  to  their  eyes, 
Yet,  in  protection  of  their  tender  ones, 
Who  hath  not  seen  them, — even  with  those  wings 
Which  sometime  they  have  us'd  with  fearful 

flight,—  [nest, 

Make  war  with  him  that  climb'd  unto  their 
Offering  their  own  lives  in  their  young's  defence  ? 
For  shame,  my  liege,  make  them  your  precedent ! 
Were  it  not  pity  that  this  goodly  boy 
Should  lose  his  birthright  by  his  father's  fault, 
And  long  hereafter  say  unto  his  child, 
What  my  great-grandfather  and grandsire  got 
My  careless  father  fondly  gave  away  ? 
Ah,  what  a  shame  were  this  !    Look  on  the  boy ; 
And  let  his  manly  face,  which  promiseth 
Successful  fortune,  steel  thy  melting  heart 
To  hold  thine  cwn,  and  leave  thine  own  with 

him.  [orator, 

K.  Hen.  Full  well  hath  Clifford  play'd  the 
Inferring  arguments  of  mighty  force. 
But,  Clifford,  tell  me,  didst  thou  never  hear 
That  things  ill  got  had  ever  bad  success  ? 
And  happy  always  was  it  for  that  son 


Whose  father  for  his  hoarding  went  to  hell  ? 

I  '11  leave  my  son  my  virtuous  deeds  behind  ; 

And  would  my  father  had  left  me  no  more  I 

For  all  the  rest  is  held  at  such  a  rate 

As  brings  a  thousand-fold  more  care  to  keep 

Than  in  possession  any  jot  of  pleasure. — 

Ah,  cousin  York  !  would  thy  best  friends  did 

know 
How  it  doth  grieve  me  that  thy  head  is  here  ! 

Q.  Mar.  My  lord,  cheer  up  your  spirits  :  our 

foes  are  nigh, 

And  fhis  soft  courage  makes  your  followers'faint. 
You  promis'd  knighthood  to  our  forward  son  : 
Unsheathe  your  sword,  anddub  him  presently. — 
Edward,  kneel  down. 

K.  Hen.  Edward  Plantagent,  arise  a  knight ; 
And  learn  this  lesson, — draw  thy  sword  in  right. 

Prince.  My  gracious  father,  by  your  kingly 

leave, 

I  '11  draw  it  as  apparent  to  the  crown, 
And  in  that  quarrel  use  it  to  the  death. 

Clif.  Why,  that  is  spoken  like  a  towardprinee. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Royal  commanders,  be  in  readiness  : 
For  with  a  band  of  thirty  thousand  men 
Comes  Warwick,  backing  of  the  Duke  of  York  ; 
And  in  the  towns,  as  they  do  march  along, 
Proclaims  him  king,  and  many  fly  to  him  : 
Darraign  your  battle,  for  they  are  at  hand. 
Clif.  I  would  your  highness  would  depart  the 
field :  [absent. 

The  queen  hath  best  success  when  you  are 
Q.  Mar.  Ay,  good  my  lord,  and  leave  us  to 

our  fortune. 
K.    Hen.    Why,    that 's   my  fortune    too ; 

therefore  I  '11  stay. 

North.  Be  it  with  resolution,  then,  to  fight. 
Prince.  My  royal  father,  cheer  these  noble 

lords, 

And  hearten  those  that  fight  in  your  defence  . 
Unsheathe  your  sword,  good  father ;  cry,  Saint 
George  / 

March.     Enter  EDWARD,  GEORGE,  RICHARD, 
WARWICK,    NORFOLK,    MONTAGUE,    and 
Soldiers. 
Edw.  Now,  perjur'd  Henry  !  wilt  thou  kneel 

for  grace, 

And  set  thy  diadem  upon  my  head ; 
Or  bide  the  mortal  fortune  of  the  field  ? 

Q.  Mar.  Go,  rate  thy  minions,  proud  insult- 
ing boy ! 

Becomes  it  thee  to  be  thus  bold  in  terms 
Before  thy  sovereign  and  thy  lawful  king? 
Edw.  I  am  his  king,  and  he  should  bow  his 
knee; 


648 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  ii. 


I  was  adopted  heir  by  his  consent : 
Since  when,  his  oath  is  broke ;  for,  as  I  hear, 
You,  that  are  king,  though  he  do  wear  the  crown, 
Have  caus'd  him,  by  new  act  of  parliament, 
To  blot  out  me  and  put  his  own  son  in. 

Clif.  And  reason  too : 

Who  should  succeed  the  father  but  the  son? 
Rich.  Are  you  there,  butcher? — O,  I  cannot 
speak !  [thee, 

Clif.  Ay,  crook-back,  here  I  stand  to  answer 
Or  any  he  the  proudest  of  thy  sort. 

Rich.  'Twas  you  that  kill'd  young  Rutland, 

was  it  not? 

Clif.  Ay,  and  old  York,  and  yet  not  satisfied. 
Rich.  For  God's  sake,  lords,  give  signal  to 
the  fight.  [the  crown? 

War.  Whatsay'st  thou,  Henry,  wilt  thou  yield 
Q.  Mar.  Why,  how  now,  long-tongu'd  War- 
wick !  dare  you  speak  ? 
When  you  and  I  met  at  Saint  Albans  last, 
Your  legs  did  better  service  than  your  hands. 
War.  Then  'twas  my  turn  to  fly,  and  now 
'tis  thine.  [fled. 

Clif.  You  said  so  much  before,  and  yet  you 
War.  'Twas  not  your  valour,  Clifford,  drove 
me  thence.  [you  stay. 

North.  No,  nor  your  manhood  that  durst  make 
Rich.  Northumberland,  I  hold  thee  rever- 
ently.— 

Break  off  the  parley ;  for  scarce  I  can  refrain 
The  execution  of  my  big-swoln  heart 
Upon  that  Clifford,  that  cruel  child -killer. 
Clif.  I  slew  thy  father, — call'st  thou  him  a 
child?    '  [coward, 

Rich.  Ay,  like  a  dastard  and  a  treacherous 
As  thou  didst  kill  our  tender  brother  Rutland  ; 
But  ere  sunset  I  '11  make  thee  curse  the  deed. 
K.  Hen.  Have  done  with  words,  my  lords, 
and  hear  me  speak.  [thy  lips. 

Q.  Mar.  Defy  them,  then,  or  else  hold  close 
K.  Hen.  I  pr'ythee  give  no  limits  to  my 

tongue : 
I  am  a  king,  and  privileg'd  to  speak. 

Clif.  My  liege,  the  wound  that  bred  this 

meeting  here 

Cannot  be  cur'd  by  words;  therefore  be  still. 
Rich.    Then,    executioner,    unsheathe    thy 

sword : 

By  him  that  made  us  all,  I  am  resolv'd 
That  Clifford's  manhood  lies  upon  his  tongue. 
Edw.  Say,  Henry,  shall  I  have  my  right,  or 

no? 

A  thousand  men  have  broke  their  fasts  to-day 
That  ne'er  shall  dine  unless  thou  yield   the 
crown.  [head ; 

War.   If  thou  deny,  their  blood  upon  thy 
For  York  in  justice  puts  his  armour  on. 


Prince.  If  that  be  right  which  Warwick  says 

is  right, 

There  is  no  wrong,  but  everything  is  right. 
Rich.  Whoever  got  thee,  there  thy  mother 

stands ; 

For,  well  I  wot,  thou  hast  thy  mother's  tongue. 
Q.  Mar.  But  thou  art  neither  like  thy  sire 

nor  dam ; 

But  like  a  foul  misshapen  stigmatic, 
Mark'd  by  the  destinies  to  be  avoided, 
As  venom  toads    or  lizards'  dreadful  stings. 

Rich.   Iron  of  Naples  hid  with  English  gilt, 
Whose  father  bears  the  title  of  a  king, — 
As  if  a  channel  should  be  call'd  the  sea, — 
Sham'st  thou  not,  knowing  whence  thou  art 

extraught, 

To  let  thy  tongue  detect  thy  base-born  heart? 
Edw.  A  wisp  of  straw  were  worth  a  thousand 

crowns, 

To  make  this  shameless  callet  know  herself. — 
Helen  of  Greece  was  fairer  far  than  thou, 
Although  thy  husband  may  be  Menelaus ; 
And  ne'er  was  Agamemnon's  brother  wrong'd 
By  that  false  woman  as  this  king  by  thee. 
His  father  revell'd  in  the  heart  of  France, 
And  tam'd  the  king,  and  made  the  dauphin  stoop; 
And  had  he  match'd  according  to  his  state, 
He  might  have  kept  that  glory  to  this  day; 
But  when  he  took  a  beggar  to  his  bed, 
And  grac'd  thy  poor  sire  with  his  bridal-day, 
Even  then  that  sunshine  brew'd  a  shower  for  him 
That  wash'd  his  father's  fortunes  forth  of  France, 
And  heap'd  sedition  on  his  crown  at  home. 
For  what  hath  broach'd  this  tumult  but  thy 

pride? 

Hadst  thou  been  meek,  our  title  still  had  slept ; 
And  we,  in  pity  of  the  gentle  king, 
Had  slipp'd  our  claim  until  another  age. 

Geo.  But  when  we  saw  our  sunshine  made 

thy  spring, 

And  that  thy  summer  bred  us  no  increase, 
We  set  the  axe  to  thy  usurping  root ;  [selves, 
And  though  the  edge  hath  something  hit  our- 
Yet,  know  thou,  since  we  have  begun  to  strike, 
We'll  never  leave  till  we  have  hewn  thee  down, 
Or  bath'd  thy  growing  with  our  heated  bloods. 

Edw.  And  in  this  resolution  I  defy  thee ; 
Not  willing  any  longer  conference, 
Since  thou  deniest  the  gentle  king  to  speak. — 
Sound    trumpets! — let    our    bloody    colours 

wave ! — 

And  either  victory  or  else  a  grave. 
Q.  Mar.  Stay,  Edward. 
Edw.  No,  wrangling  woman,  we  '11  no  longer 

stay : 
These  words  will  cost  ten  thousand  lives  this 

day.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.] 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


649 


SCENE  III.— A  Field  of  Battle  between  Tow- 
ton  and  Saxton,  in  Yorkshire. 

Alarums:  excursions.     Enter  WARWICK. 

War.  Forspent  with  toil,  as  runners  with  a 

race, 

I  lay  me  down  a  little  while  to  breathe ; 
For  strokes  receiv'd  and  many  blows  repaid 
Have  robb'd  my  strong-knit  sinews  of  their 

strength, 
And,  spite  of  spite,  needs  must  I  rest  awhile. 

Enter  EDWARD,  running. 

Edw.  Smile,  gentle  heaven!  or  strike,  un- 
gentle death!  [clouded. 
For  this  world  frowns,  and  Edward's  sun  is 
War.  How  now,  my  lord!  what  hap?  what 
hope  of  good? 

Enter  GEORGE. 

Geo.  Our  hap  is  loss,  our  hope  but  sad  despair; 
Our  ranks  are  broke,  and  ruin  follows  us : 
What  counsel  give  you,  whither  shall  we  fly? 

Edw.  Bootless  is  flight, — they  follow  us  with 

wings ; 
And  weak  we  are,  and  cannot  shun  pursuit. 

Enter  RICHARD. 

Rich.  Ah,  Warwick,  why  hast  thou  with- 
drawn thyself? 

Thj  brother's  blood  the  thirsty  earth  hath  drunk, 
Broach'd  with  the  steely  point  of  Clifford's  lance; 
And  in  the  very  pangs  of  death  he  cried, 
Like  to  a  dismal  clangor  heard  from  far, 
Warwick,  revenge!  brother,  revenge  my  death! 
So,  underneath  the  belly  of  their  steeds, 
That  stain'd  their  fetlocks  in  his  smoking  blood, 
The  noble  gentleman  gave  up  the  ghost. 

War.  Then  let  the  earth  be  drunken  with 

our  blood : 

I  '11  kill  my  horse,  because  I  will  not  fly. 
Why  stand  we  like  soft-hearted  women  here, 
Wailing  our  losses,  whiles  the  foe  doth  rage  ; 
And  look  upon,  as  if  the  tragedy 
Were  play'd  in  jest  by  counterfeiting  actors? 
Here  on  my  knee  I  vow  to  God  above 
I  '11  never  pause  again,  never  stand  still, 
Till  either  death  hath  clos'd  these  eyes  of  mine 
Or  fortune  given  me  measure  of  revenge. 
Edw.  O  Warwick,  I  do  bend  my  knee  with 

thine ; 

And  in  this  vow  do  chain  my  soul  to  thine ! — 
And  ere  my  knee  rise  from  the  earth's  cold  face 
I  throw  my  hands,  mine  eyes,  my  heart  to  thee, 
Thou  setter-up  and  plucker-down  of  kings, — 
Beseeching  thee,  if  with  thy  will  it  stands 


That  to  my  foes  this  body  must  be  prey, 
Yet  that  thy  brazen  gates  of  heaven  may  ope, 
And  give  sweet  passage  to  my  sinful  soul ! — 
Now,  lords,  take  leave  until  we  meet  again, 
Where'er  it  be,  in  heaven  or  in  earth. 
'Rich.    Brother,   give   me   thy   hand; — and, 

gentle  Warwick, 

Let  me  embrace  thee  in  my  weary  arms : 
I,  that  did  never  weep,  now  melt  with  woe 
That  winter  should  cut  off  our  spring-time  so. 
War.  Away,  away !    Once  more,  sweet  lords, 

farewell. 

Geo.  Yet  let  us  all  together  to  our  troops, 
And  give  them  leave  to  fly  that  will  not  stay ; 
And  call  them  pillars  that  will  stand  to  us; 
And  if  we  thrive,  promise  them  such  rewards 
As  victors  wear  at  the  Olympian  games : 
This  may  plant  courage  in  their  quailing  breasts ; 
For  yet  is  hope  of  life  and  victory. — 
Forslow  no  longer,  make  we  hence  amain. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — Another  part  of  the  Field. 
Excursions.    Enter  RICHARD  and  CLIFFORD. 

Rich.  Now,  Clifford,  I  have  singled  thee  alone: 
Suppose  this  arm  is  for  the  Duke  of  York, 
And  this  for  Rutland ;  both  bound  to  revenge, 
Wert  thou  environ'd  with  a  brazen  wall. 

Clif.  Now,  Richard,  I  am  with  thee  here  alone: 
This  is  the  hand  that  stabb'd  thy  father  York ; 
And  this  the  hand  that  slew  thy  brother  Rutland; 
And  here's  the  heart  that  triumphs  intheirdeath, 
And  cheers  these  hands  that  slew  thy  sire  and 

brother 

To  execute  the  like  upon  thyself; 
And  so,  have  at  thee ! 

[They  fight.     WAR.  enters;  CLIF.  flies. 
Rich.  Nay,  Warwick,  single  out  some  other 

chase; 
For  I  myself  will  hunt  this  wolf  to  death. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — Another  part  of  the  Field. 
Alarum.     Enter  KING  HENRY. 

K.  Hen.  This  battle  fares  like  to  the  morn- 
ing's war, 

When  dying  clouds  contend  with  growing  light, 
What  time  the  shepherd,  blowing  of  his  nails, 
Can  neither  call  it  perfect  day  nor  night. 
Now  sways  it  this  way,  like  a  mighty  sea 
Forc'd  by  the  tide  to  combat  with  the  wind; 
Now  sways  it  that  way,  like  the  selfsame  sea 
Forc'd  to  retire  by  fury  of  the  wind : 
Sometime  the  flood  prevails,  and  then  the  wind ; 


65o 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  IT. 


Now  one  the  better,  then  another  best ; 
Both  tugging  to  be  victors,  breast  to  breast, 
Yet  neither  conqueror  nor  conquered : 
So  is  the  equal  poise  of  this  fell  war. 
Here  on  this  molehill  will  I  sit  me  down. 
To  whom  God  will,  there  be  the  victory ! 
For  Margaret  my  queen,  and  Clifford  too, 
Have  chid  me  from  the  battle ;  swearing  both 
They  prosper  best  of  all  when  I  am  thence. 
Would  I  were  dead !  if  God's  good  will  were  so ; 
For  what  is  in  this  world  but  grief  and  woe  ? 
O  God !  methinks  it  were  a  happy  life 
To  be  no  better  than  a  homely  swain ; 
To  sit  upon  a  hill,  as  I  do  now, 
To  carve  out  dials  quaintly,  point  by  point, 
Thereby  to  see  the  minutes  how  they  run, — 
How  many  make  the  hour  full  complete ; 
How  many  hours  bring  about  the  day ; 
How  many  days  will  finish  up  the  year ; 
How  many  years  a  mortal  man  may  live. 
When  this  is  known,  then  to  divide  the  times, — 
So  many  hours  must  I  tend  my  flock ; 
So  many  hours  must  I  take  my  rest ; 
So  many  hours  must  I  contemplate ; 
So  many  hours  must  I  sport  myself; 
So  many  days  my  ewes  have  been  with  young ; 
So  many  weeks  ere  the  poor  fools  will  yean ; 
So  many  years  ere  I  shall  shear  the  fleece : 
So  minutes,  hours,  days,  months,  and  years, 
Pass'd  over  to  the  end  they  were  created, 
Would  bring  white  hairs  unto  a  quiet  grave. 
Ah,  what  a  life  were  this!  how  sweet!  how 

lovely ! 

Gives  not  the  hawthorn  bush  a  sweeter  shade 
To  shepherds,  looking  on  their  silly  sheep, 
Than  doth  a  rich  embroider'd  canopy 
To  kings  that  fear  their  subjects'  treachery? 
O,  yes,  it  doth ;  a  thousand-fold  it  doth. 
And  to  conclude, — the  shepherd's  homely  curds, 
His  cold  thin  drink  out  of  his  leather  bottle, 
His  wonted  sleep  under  a  fresh  tree's  shade, 
All  which  secure  and  sweetly  he  enjoys, 
Is  far  beyond  a  prince's  delicates, 
His  viands  sparkling  in  a  golden  cup, 
His  body  couched  in  a  curious  bed, 
When  care,  mistrust,  and  treason  wait  on  him. 

Alarum.     Enter  a  Son  that  has  killed  his 
Father •,  bringing  in  the  dead  body. 

Son.  Ill  blows  the  wind  that  profits  nobody. 
This  man,  whom  hand  to  hand  I  slew  in  fight, 
May  be  possessed  with  some  store  of  crowns ; 
And  I,  that  haply  take  them  from  him  now, 
May  yet  ere  night  yield  both  my  life  and  them 
To  some  man  else,  as  this  dead  man  doth  me. — 
Who 's  this  ? — O  God !  it  is  my  father's  face, 
Whom  in  this  conflict  I  unwares  have  kill'd. 


O  heavy  times,  begetting  such  events  ! 
From  London  by  the  king  was  I  press'd  forth : 
My  father,  being  the  Earl  of  Warwick's  man, 
Came   on   the   part   of  York,  press'd   by  his 

master ; 

And  I,  who  at  his  hands  receiv'd  my  .life, 
Have  by  my  hands  of  life  bereaved  him. — 
Pardon  me,  God,  I  knew  not  what  I  did ! — 
And  pardon,  father,  for  I  knew  not  thee ! — 
My  tears  shall  wipe  away  these  bloody  marks ; 
And  no  more  words  till  they  have  flow'd  their  fill. 
K.  Hen.  O  piteous  spectacle !  O  bloody  times ! 
Whilst  lions  war,  and  battle  for  their  dens, 
Poor  harmless  lambs  abide  their  enmity. — 
Weep,  wretched  man,  I  '11  aid  thee  tear  for  tear ; 
And  let  our  hearts  and  eyes,  like  civil  war, 
Be  blind  with  tears,  and  break  o'ercharg'd  with 
grief. 

Enter  a  Father  that  has  killed  his  Son,  -with 
the  body  in  his  arms. 

Path.  Thou  that  so  stoutly  hast  resisted  me, 
Give  me  thy  gold,  if  thou  hast  any  gold ; 
For  I  have  bought  it  with  an  hundred  blows. — 
But  let  me  see :  is  this  our  foeman's  face  ? 
Ah,  no,  no,  no,  it  is  mine  only  son ! 
Ah,  boy,  if  any  life  be  left  in  thee,  [arise, 

Throw  up  thine  eye !   see,  see  what  showers 
Blown  with  the  windy  tempest  of  my  heart, 
Upon  thy   wounds,   that  kill  mine  eye  and 

heart ! — 

O  pity,  God,  this  miserable  age ! — 
What  stratagems,  how  fell,  how  butcherly, 
Erroneous,  mutinous,  and  unnatural, 
This  deadly  quarrel  daily  doth  beget ! — 
O  boy,  thy  father  gave  thee  life  too  soon, 
And  hath  bereft  thee  of  thy  life  too  late  J 

K.  Hen.  Woe  above  woe !   grief  more  than 
common  grief !  [deeds! — 

O  that   my  death  would  stay  these  ruthful 
O  pity,  pity,  gentle  heaven,  pity ! — 
The  red  rose  and  the  white  are  on  his  face, 
The  fatal  colours  of  our  striving  houses : 
The  one  his  purple  blood  right  well  resembles ; 
The  other  his    pale  cheeks,   methinks,   pre- 

senteth: 

Wither  one  rose,  and  let  the  other  flourish ; 
If  you  contend,  a  thousand  lives  must  wither. 

Son.  How  will  my  mother  for  a  father's  death 
Take  on  with  me,  and  ne'er  be  satisfied !    [son 

Path.  How  will  my  wife  for  slaughter  of  my 
Shed  seas  of  tears,  and  ne'er  be  satisfied ! 

K.  Hen.  How  will  the  country  for  these  woe- 
ful chances 
Misthink  the  king,  and  not  be  satisfied ! 

Son.  Was  ever  son  so  rued  a  father's  death? 

Path.  Was  ever  father  so  bemoan'd  his  son? 


SCENE  VI.] 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


65i 


K.  Hen.  Was  ever  king  so  griev'd  for  sub- 
jects' woe? 

Much  is  your  sorrow ;  mine  ten  times  so  much. 
Son.  I  '11  bear  thee  hence,  where  I  may  weep 
my  fill.  [Exit  with  the  body. 

Path.  These  arms  of  mine  shall  be  thy  wind- 
ing-sheet ; 

My  heart,  sweet  boy,  shall  be  thy  sepulchre, — 
For  from  my  heart  thine  image  ne'er  shall  go ; 
My  sighing  breast  shall  be  thy  funeral  bell ; 
And  so  obsequious  will  thy  father  be, 
E'en  for  the  loss  of  thee,  having  no  more, 
As  Priam  was  for  all  his  valiant  sons.         [will, 
I'll  bear  thee  hence;  and  let  them  fight  that 
For  I  have  murdered  where  I  should  not  kill. 

{Exit  with  the  body. 
K.  Hen.  Sad-hearted  men,   much  overgone 

with  care, 
Here  sits  a  king  more  woeful  than  you  are. 

Alarums :  excursions.      Enter  QUEEN  MAR- 
GARET, PRINCE  OF  WALES,  and  EXETER. 

Prince.  Fly,  father,  fly !  for  all  your  friends 

are  fled, 

And  Warwick  rages  like  a  chafed  bull : 
Away !  for  death  doth  hold  us  in  pursuit. 
Q.  Mar.  Mount  you,  my  lord  ;  towards  Ber- 
wick post  amain  : 

Edwardand  Richard,  like  a  brace  of  greyhounds 
Having  the  fearful  flying  hare  in  sight, 
With  fiery  eyes  sparkling  for  very  wrath, 
And  bloody  steel  grasp'd  in  their  ireful  hands, 
Are  at  our  backs  ;  and  therefore  hence  amain. 
Exe.  Away  !  for  vengeance  comes  along  with 

them: 

Nay,  stay  not  to  expostulate, — make  speed  ; 
Or  else  come  after  :  I  '11  away  before. 
K.  Hen.  Nay,  take  me  with  thee,  good  sweet 

Exeter : 

Not  that  I  fear  to  stay,  but  love  to  go 
Whither  the  queen  intends.     Forward  ;  away ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI. — Another  part  of  the  Field. 
A  loud  Alarum.     Enter  CLIFFORD,  wounded. 

Clif.  Here  burns  my  candle  out,— ay,  here  it 

dies, 

Which,  whiles  it  lasted,  gave  King  Henry  light. 
O  Lancaster,  I  fear  thy  overthrow 
More  than  my  body's  parting  with  my  soul ! 
My  love  and  fear  glu'd  many  friends  to  thee  ; 
And,  now  I  fall,  thy  tough  commixtures  melt. 
Impairing  Henry,  strengthening  misproud  York, 
The  common  people  swarm  like  summer  flies  ; 
And  whither  fly  the  gnats  but  to  the  sun? 


And  who  shines  now  but  Henry's  enemies  ? 

0  Phcebus,  hadst  thou  never  given  consent 
That  Phaeton  should  check  thy  fiery  steeds, 
Thy  burning  car  never  had  scorch'd  the  earth  ! 
And,  Henry,  hadst  thou  sway'das  kings  should 

do, 

Or  as  thy  father  and  his  father  did, 
Giving  no  ground  unto  the  house  of  York, 
They  never  then  had  sprung  like  summer  flies ; 

1  and  ten  thousand  in  this  luckless  realm 
Had  left  no  mourning  widows  for  our  death  ; 
And  thou  this  day  hadst  kept  thy  chair  in  peace. 
For  what  doth  cherish  weeds  bat  gentle  air? 
And  what  makes  robbers  bold  but  too  much 

lenity  ? 

Bootless  are  plaints,  and  cureless  are  my  wounds ; 
No  way  to  fly,  nor  strength  to  hold  out  flight : 
The  foe  is  merciless,  and  v/ill  not  pity  ; 
For  at  their  hands  I  have  deserv'd  no  pity. 
The  air  hath  got  into  my  deadly  wounds, 
And  much  effuse  of  blood  doth  make  me  faint. 
Come,  York  and  Richard,  Warwick  and  the  rest ; 
I  stabb'd  your  fathers'  bosoms, — split  my  breast. 

[He  faints. 

Alarum  and  retreat.  Enter  EDWARD, 
GEORGE,  RICHARD,  MONTAGUE,  WAR- 
WICK, and  Soldiers. 

Edw.  Now  breathe  we,  lords  :  good  fortune 
bids  us  pause,  [looks. — 

And  smooth  the  frowns  of  war  with  peaceful 
Some  troops  pursue  the  bloody-minded  queen, 
That  led  calm  Henry,  though  he  were  a  king, 
As  doth  a  sail,  fill'd  with  a  fretting  gust, 
Command  an  argosy  to  stem  the  waves. 
But  think  you,  lords,  that  Clifford  fled  with  them? 
War.  No,  'tis  impossible  he  should  escape ; 
For,  though  before  his  face  I  speak  the  words, 
Your  brother  Richard  mark'd  him  for  the  grave : 
And,  whereso'er  he  is,  he 's  surely  dead. 

[CLIFFORD  groans,  and  dies. 

Edw.  Whose  soul  is  that  which  takes  her 

heavy  leave  ?  [parting. 

Rich.  A  deadly  groan,  like  life  and  death'sde- 

Edw.  See  who  it  is ;  and,  now  the  battle  's 

ended, 
If  friend  or  foe,  let  him  be  gently  us'd. 

Rich.  Revoke  that  doom  of  mercy,  for  'tis 

Clifford ; 

Who  not  contented  that  he  lopp'd  the  branch 
In  hewing  Rutland  when  his  leaves  put  forth, 
But  set  his  murdering  knife  unto  the  root 
From  whence  that  tender  spray  did  sweetly 

spring, — 

I  mean  our  princely  father,  Duke  of  York. 
War.  From  off  the  gates  of  York  fetch  down 
the  head, 


652 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  in. 


Your  father's  head,  which  Clifford  placed  there ; 
Instead  whereof  let  this  supply  the  room : 
Measure  for  measure  must  be  answered. 

Edw.  Bring  forth  that  fatal  screech-owl  to 

our  house, 

That  nothing  sung  but  death  to  us  and  ours : 
Now  death  shall  stop  his  dismal  threatening 

sound. 

And  his  ill-boding  tongue  no  more  shall  speak. 

[Soldiers  bring  the  body  forward. 

War.  I  think  his  understanding  is  bereft. — 

Speak,  Clifford,  dost  thou  know  who  speaks  to 

thee?— 

Dark  cloudy  death  o'ershades  his  beams  of  life, 
And  he  nor  sees  nor  hears  us  what  we  say. 
Rich.  O,  would  he  did !  and  so,  perhaps,  he 

doth: 

'Tis  but  his  policy  to  counterfeit, 
Because  he  would  avoid  such  bitter  taunts 
Which  in  the  time  of  death  he  gave  our  father. 
Geo.  If  so  thou  think'st,  vex  him  with  eager 

words. 

Rich.  Clifford,  ask  mercy  and  obtain  no  grace. 
Edw.  Clifford,  repent  in  bootless  penitence. 
War.  Clifford,  devise  excuses  for  thy  faults. 
Geo.  While  we  devise  fell  tortures  for  thy 
faults.  [York. 

Rich.  Thou  didst  love  York,  and  I  am  son  to 
Edw.  Thou  pitiedst  Rutland,  I  will  pity  thee. 
Geo.  Where 's  Captain  Margaret,  to  fence  you 

now? 

War.  They  mock   thee,  Clifford:   swear  as 

thou  wast  wont.  [goes  hard 

Rick.  What,  not  an  oath?  nay,  then  the  world 

When   Clifford   cannot  spare   his  friends    an 

oath. — 

I  know  by  that  he 's  dead ;  and,  by  my  soul, 
If  this  right  hand  would  buy  two  hours'  life, 
That  I  in  all  despite  might  rail  at  him, 
This  hand  should  chop  it  off,  and  with  the 

issuing  blood 

Stifle  the  villain  whose  unstaunched  thirst 
York  and  young  Rutland  could  not  satisfy. 
War.  Ay,  but  he 's  dead :  off  with  the  traitor's 

head, 

And  rear  it  in  the  place  your  father's  stands. — 
And  now  to  London  with  triumphant  march, 
There  to  be  crowned  England's  royal  king. 
From  whence  shall  Warwick  cut  the  sea  to 

France, 

And  ask  the  Lady  Bona  for  thy  queen : 
So  shalt  thou  sinew  both  these  lands  together ; 
And,  having  France  thy  friend,  thou  shalt  not 

dread 

The  scatter'd  foe  that  hopes  to  rise  again ; 
For  though  they  cannot  greatly  sting  to  hurt, 
Yet  look  to  have  them  buzz  to  offend  thine  ears. 


First  will  I  see  the  coronation ; 

And  then  to  Brittany  I  '11  cross  the  sea, 

To  effect  this  marriage,  so  it  please  my  lord. 

Edw.  Even  as  thou  wilt,  sweet  Warwick,  let 

it  be; 

For  in  thy  shoulder  do  I  build  my  seat, 
And  never  will  I  undertake  the  thing 
Wherein  thy  counsel  and  consent  is  wanting.  — 
Richard,  I  will  create  thee  Duke  of  Gloster ; — 
And  George,  of  Clarence ; — Warwick,  as  ourself, 
Shall  do  and  undo  as  him  pleaseth  best. 

Rick.   Let  me  be  Duke  of  Clarence,  George 

of  Gloster  ; 
For  Gloster's  dukedom  is  too  ominous. 

War.   Tut,  that 's  a  foolish  observation  : 
Richard,  be  Duke  of  Gloster.    Now  to  London, 
To  see  these  honours  in  possession.     [Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — A  Chase  in  the  North  of  England. 

Enter  two  Keepers,  with  cross-bows  in  their 
hands. 

1  Keep.   Under  this  thick -grown  brake  we  '11 

shroud  ourselves; 

For  through  this  laund  anon  the  deer  will  come  j 
And  in  this  covert  will  we  make  our  stand, 
Culling  the  principal  of  all  the  deer.        [shoot. 

2  Keep.   I  '11  stay  above  the  hill,  so  both  may 

1  Keep.  That  cannot  be;   the  noise  of  thy 

cross-bow 

Will  scare  the  herd,  and  so  my  shot  is  lost. 
Here  stand  we  both,  and  aim  we  at  the  best : 
And,  for  the  time  shall  not  seem  tedious, 
I  '11  tell  thee  what  befell  me  on  a  day 
In  this  self-place  where  now  we  mean  to  stand. 

2  Keep.  Here  comes  a  man,  let 's  stay  till  he 

be  past. 

Enter  KING  HENRY,  disguised,  with  a  prayer- 
book. 

K.  Hen.  From  Scotland  am  I  stol'n,  even  of 

pure  love, 

To  greet  mine  own  land  with  my  wishful  sight. 
No,  Harry,  Harry,  'tis  no  land  of  thine ; 
Thy  place  is  fill'd,  thy  sceptre  wrung  from  thee, 
Thy   balm    wash'd   off  wherewith   thou   wast 

anointed : 

No  bending  knee  will  call  thee  Caesar  now, 
No  humble  suitors  press  to  speak  for  right, 
No,  not  a  man  comes  for  redress  of  thee ; 


s  a 


For  how  can  I  help  them,  and  not  myself? 
I  Keep.  Ay,  here 's  a  deer  whose  skin '; 

keeper's  fee : 
This  is  the  quondam  king ;  let 's  seize  upon  him. 


SCENE  I.] 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


653 


K.  Hen.   Let  me  embrace  these  sour  adver- 
sities : 
For  wise  men  say  it  is  the  wisest  course. 

2  Keep.  Why  linger  we?    let  us  lay  hands 
upon  him.  [more. 

1  Keep.  Forbear  awhile ;  we  '11  hear  a  little 
K.  Hen.   My  queen   and   son   are  gone   to 

France  for  aid ; 

And,  as  I  hear,  the  great  commanding  Warwick 
Is  thither  gone,  to  crave  the  French  king's  sister 
To  wife  for  Edward :  if  this  news  be  true, 
Poor  queen  and  son,  your  labour  is  but  lost; 
For  Warwick  is  a  subtle  orator, 
And  Louis  a  prince  soon  won  with  moving  words. 
By  this  account,  then,  Margaret  may  win  him ; 
For  she 's  a  woman  to  be  pitied  much : 
Her  sighs  will  make  a  battery  in  his  breast ; 
Her  tears  will  pierce  into  a  marble  heart ; 
The  tiger  will  be  mild  while  she  doth  mourn ; 
And  Nero  will  be  tainted  with  remorse, 
To  hear  and  see  her  plaints,  her  brinish  tears. 
Ay,  but  she 's  come  to  beg ;  Warwick,  to  give : 
She,  on  his  left  side,  craving  aid  for  Henry ; 
He,  on  his  right,  asking  a  wife  for  Edward. 
She  weeps,  and  says  her  Henry  is  depos'd ; 
He  smiles,  and  says  his  Edward  is  install'd ; 
That  she,  poor  wretch,  for  grief  can  speak  no 

more ;  [wrong, 

Whiles  Warwick   tells  his  title,  smooths  the 
Inferreth  arguments  of  mighty  strength, 
And  in  conclusion  wins  the  king  from  her, 
Wiih  promise  of  his  sister,  and  what  else, 
To  strengthenand  support  King  Ed  ward's  place. 
O  Margaret,  thus  'twill  be  ;  and  thou,  poor  soul, 
Art  then  forsaken,  as  thou  went'st  forlorn  ! 

2  Keep.  Say,  what  art  thou,  that  talk'st  of 

kings  and  queens? 
K.  Hen.   More  than  I  seem,  and  less  than  I 

was  born  to  : 

A  man  at  least,  for  less  I  should  not  be  ; 
And  men  may  talk  of  kings,  and  why  not  I  ? 
2  Keep.  Ay,  but  thou  talk'st  as  if  thou  wert 
a  king.  [enough. 

K.  Hen.  Why,  so  I  am— in  mind  ;  and  that's 
2  Keep.  But,  if  thou  be  a  king,  where  is  thy 
crown  ?  [head  ; 

K.  Hen.  My  crown  is  in  my  heart,  not  on  my 
Not  deck'd  with  diamonds  and  Indian  stones, 
Nor  to  be  seen  :  my  crown  is  call'd  content, — 
A  crown  it  is  that  seldom  kings  enjoy. 

2  Keep.  Well,  if  you  be  a  king  crown'd  with 

content, 

Your  crown  content  and  you  must  be  contented 
To  go  along  with  us  ;  for,  as  we  think, 
You  are  the  king  King  Edward  hath  depos'd  ; 
And  we  his  subjects,  sworn  in  all  allegiance, 
Will  apprehend  you  as  his  enemy. 


K.  Hen.  But  did  you  never  swear,  and  break 

an  oath  ?  [now. 

2  Keep.  No,  never  such  an  oath  ;  nor  will  not 

K.  Hen.  Where  did  you  dwell  when  I  was 

King  of  England  ?  [remain. 

2  Keep.  Here  in  this  country,  where  we  now 

A'.   Hen.    I  was  anointed  king  at  nine  months 

old; 

My  father  and  my  grandfather  were  kings  ; 
And  you  were  sworn  true  subjects  unto  me  : 
And  tell  me,  then,  have  you  not  broke  your 

oaths  ? 
i  Keep.  No ; 

For  we  were  subjects  but  while  you  were  king. 
K.  Hen.  Why,  am  I  dead?  do  I  not  breathe 

a  man? 

Ah,  simple  men,  you  know  not  what  you  swear ! 
Look,  as  I  blow  this  feather  from  my  face, 
And  as  the  air  blows  it  to  me  again, 
Obeying  with  my  wind  when  I  do  blow, 
And  yielding  to  another  when  it  blows, 
Commanded  always  by  the  greater  gust ; 
Such  is  the  lightness  of  you  common  men. 
But  do  not  break  your  oaths ;  for  of  that  sin 
My  mild  entreaty  shall  not  make  you  guilty. 
Go  where  you   will,  the  king  shall  be  com- 
manded ; 

And  be  you  kings  ;  command,  and  I  '11  obey. 
I  Keep.   We   are  true  subjects  to  the  king, 

King  Edward. 

K.  Hen.  So  would  you  be  £.gain  tp  Henry, 
If  he  were  seated  as  King  Edward  is. 

i  Keep.  We  charge  you,  in  God's  name  and 

in  the  king's, 
To  go  with  us  unto  the  officers. 

K.  Hen.  In  God's  name,  lead;  your  king's 

name  be  obey'd : 

And  wliat  God  will,  that  let  your  king  perform ; 
And  what  he  will,  I  humbly  yield  unto. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — LONDON.    A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  KING  EDWARD,  GLOSTER,  CLARENCE, 
and  LADY  GREY. 

K.  Edw.  Brother  of  Gloster,  at  Saint  Albans' 

field 

This  lady's  husband,  Sir  John  Grey,  was  slain, 
His  lands  then  seiz'd  on  by  the  conqueror : 
Her  suit  is  now  to  repossess  those  lands; 
Wnich  we  in  justice  cannot  well  deny, 
Because  in  quarrel  of  the  house  of  York 
The  worthy  gentleman  did  lose  his  life,     [suit ; 

Glo.  Your  highness  shall  do  well  to  grant  her 
It  were  dishonour  to  deny  it  her.          [a  pause. 

K.  Edw.  It  were  no  less ;  but  yet  I  '11  make 


654 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  in. 


Glo.  Yea,  is  it  so? 
I  see  the  lady  hath  a  thing  to  grant, 
Before  the  king  will  grant  her  humble  suit. 

[Aside  to  CLARENCE. 

Clar.  He  knows  the  game :  how  true  he  keeps 

the  wind !  [Aside  to  GLOSTER. 

Glo.  Silence !  [Aside  to  CLARENCE. 

K.  Edw.  Widow,  we  will  consider  of  your  suit; 

And  come  some  other  time  to  know  our  mind. 

L.  Grey.  Right  gracious  lord,  I  cannot  brook 

delay : 

May  it  please  your  highness  to  resolve  me  now ; 
And  what  your  pleasure  is  shall  satisfy  me. 
Glo.  Ay,  widow?  then  I  warrant  you  all  your 

lands, 

An  if  what  pleases  him  shall  pleasure  you. 
Fight  closer,  or,  good  faith,  you'll  catch  a  blow. 

[Aside. 

Clar.  I  fear  her  not,  unless  she  chance  to  fall. 
[Aside  to  GLOSTER. 

Glo.  God  forbid  that !  for  he  '11  take  vantages. 

[Aside  to  CLARENCE. 

K.  Edw.    How  many  children    hast  thou, 

widow?  tell  me. 

Clar.  I  think  he  means  to  beg  a  child  of  her. 
[Aside  to  GLOSTER. 

Glo.  Nay,  whip  me,  then ;  he  '11  rather  give 

her  two.  [Aside  to  CLARENCE. 

L.  Grey.  Three,  my  most  gracious  lord. 

Glo.  You  shall  have  four  if  you  '11  be  ruled 

by  him.  [Aside. 

K.  Edw.  'Twere  pity  they  should  lose  their 

father's  lands.  [then. 

L.  Grey.  Be  pitiful,  dread  lord,  and  grant  it, 

K.  Edw.   Lords,  give  us  leave :  I  '11  try  this 

widow's  wit.  [have  leave, 

Glo.  Ay,  good  leave  have  you ;  for  you  \vill 

Till  youth  take  leave,  and  leave  you  to  the 

crutch. 

[Aside,  and  retires  with  CLARENCE. 
K.  Edw.  Now  tell  me,  madam,  do  you  love 

your  children? 

L.  Grey.  Ay,  full  as  dearly  as  I  love  myself. 
K.  Edw.  And  wou  d  you  not  do  much  to  do 
them  good  ?  [some  harm. 

L.  Grey.  To  do  them  good  I  would  sustain 
K.  Edw.  Then  get  your  husband's  lands,  to 

do  them  good. 

L.  Grey.  Therefore  I  came  unto  your  majesty. 

K.  Edw.  I  '11  tell  you  how  these  lands  are  to 

be  got.  [ness5  service. 

L.  Grey.  So  shall  you  bind  me  to  your  high- 

K.  Edw.  What  service  wilt  thou  do  me  if  I 

give  them?  ft°  do. 

L.  Grey.  What  you  command,  that  rests  in  me 

K.  Edw.  But  you  will  take  exceptions  to  my 

boon. 


L.  Grey.  No,  gracious  lord,  except  I  cannot 

do  it. 
K.  Edw.  Ay,  but  thou  canst  do  what  I  mean 

to  ask.  [commands. 

L.  Grey.  Why,  then,  I  will  do  what  your  grace 
Glo,  He  plies  her  hard ;  and  much  rain  wears 

the  marble.         [Aside  to  CLARENCE. 
Clar.  As  red  as  fire !  nay,  then  her  wax  must 

melt.  [Aside  to  GLOSTER. 

L.  Grey.  Why  stops  my  lord?   shall  I  not 

hear  my  task? 

K.  Edw.  An  easy  task ;  'tis  but  to  love  a  king. 
L.  Grey.  That's  soon  perform'd,  because  I 

am  a  subject. 
K.  Edw.  Why,  then,  thy  husband's  lands  I 

freely  give  thee.  [thanks. 

L.  Grey.  I  take  my  leave  with  many  thousand 
Glo.  The  match  is  made ;  she  seals  it  with  a 

curtsy.  [Aside. 

K.  Edw.   But  stay  thee,— 'tis  the  fruits  of 

love  I  mean.  [liege. 

L.  Grey.  The  fruits  of  love  I  mean,  my  loving 

K.  Edw.  Ay,  but,  I  fear  me,  in  another  sense. 

What  love,  thinkst  thou,  I  sue  so  much  to  get  ? 

L.  Grey.   My   love   till  death,   my  humble 

thanks,  my  prayers ; 

That  love  which  virtue  begs  and  virtue  grants. 
K.  Edw.  No,  by  my  troth,  I  did  not  mean 

such  love. 
L.  Grey.    Why,  then,  you  mean  not   as   I 

thought  you  did.  [my  mind. 

K.  Edw.   But  now  you  partly  may  perceive 
L.  Grey.   My  mind  will  never  grant  what  I 

perceive 

Your  highness  aims  at,  if  I  aim  aright,  [thee. 
K.  Edw.  To  tell  thee  plain,  I  aim  to  lie  with 
L.  Grey.  To  tell  you  plain,  I  had  rather  lie 

in  prison. 
K.  Edw.  Why,  then,  thou  shalt  not  have  thy 

husband's  lands.  [my  dower ; 

L.  Grey.  Why,  then,  mine  honesty  shall  be 
For  by  that  loss  I  will  not  purchase  them. 
K.  Edw.  Therein  thou  wrong'st  thy  children 

mightily. 
L.  Grey.   Herein  your  highness  wrongs  both 

them  and  me. 

But,  mighty  lord,  this  merry  inclination 
Accords  not  with  the  sadness  of  my  suit: 
Please  you  dismiss  me,  either  with  ay  or  no. 

K.  Edw.  Ay,  if  thou  wilt  say  ay  to  my  request; 
No,  if  thou  dost  say  no  to  my  demand. 

L.  Grey.  Then,  no,  my  lord.     My  suit  is  at 

an  end. 
Glo.  The  widow  likes  him  not,  she  knits  her 

brows.  [Aside  to  CLARENCE. 

Clar.  He  is  the  bluntest  wooer  in  Christen- 
dom. [Aside  to  GLOSTER. 


SCENE  II.] 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


655 


K.  Edw.  Her  looks  do  argue  her  replete  with 

modesty ; 

Her  words  do  show  her  wit  incomparable  ; 
All  her  perfections  challenge  sovereignty  : 
One  way  or  other,  she  is  for  a  king  ; 
And  she  shall  be  my  love,  or  else  my  queen.— 

[Aside. 

Say  that  King  Edward  take  thee  for  his  queen  ? 
L.    Grey.  ;Tis  better  said  than  done,  my 

gracious  lord : 

I  am  a  subject  fit  to  jest  withal, 
But  far  unfit  to  be  a  sovereign. 

K.  Edw.  Sweet  widow,  by  my  state  I  swear 

to  thee 

I  speak  no  more  than  what  my  soul  intends  ; 
And  that  is  to  enjoy  thee  for  my  love. 

L.  Grey.  And  that  is  more  than  I  will  yield 

unto : 

I  know  I  am  too  mean  to  be  your  queen, 
And  yet  too  good  to  be  your  concubine. 

K.  Edw.   \  ou  cavil,  widow  :  I  did  mean  my 

queen. 
L.  Grey.  'Twill  grieve  your  grace  my  sons 

should  call  you  father. 
K.  Edw.  No  more  than  when  my  daughters 

call  thee  mother. 

Thou  art  a  widow,  and  thou  hast  some  children  ; 
And,  by  God's  mother,  I,  being  but  a  bachelor, 
Have  other  some :  why,  'tis  a  happy  thing 
To  be  the  father  unto  many  sons. 
Answer  no  more,  for  thou  shalt  be  my  queen. 
Glo.  The  ghostly  father  now  hath  done  his 
shrift.  [Aside  to  CLARENCE. 

Clar.  When  he  was  made  a  shriver,  'twas  for 
shift.  [Aside  to  GLOSTER. 

K.  Edw.  Brothers,  you  muse  what  chat  we 
two  have  had.  [sad. 

Glo.  The  widow  likes  it  not,  for  she  looks  very 
K.  Edw.  You  'd  think  it  strange  if  I  should 

marry  her. 

Clar.  To  whom,  my  lord? 
K.  Edw.  Why,  Clarence,  to  myself. 

Glo.  That  would  be  ten  days'  wonder  at  the 

least. 

Clar.  That 's  a  day  longer  than  a  wonder  lasts. 
Glo.  By  so  much  is  the  wonder  in  extremes. 
K.  Edw.  Well,  jest  on,  brothers  :  I  can  tell 

you  both 
Her  suit  is  granted  for  her  husband's  lands. 

Enter  a  Nobleman. 
Nob.  My  gracious  lord,  Henry  your  foe  is 

taken, 

And  brought  your  prisoner  to  your  palace  gate. 
K.  Edw.  See  that  he  be  convey'd  unto  the 

Tower : — 
And  go  we,  brothers,  to  the  man  that  took  him, 


To  question  of  his  apprehension. — 
Widow,  go  you  along : — lords,  use  her  honour- 
able. 
[Exeunt  KING  EDWARD,  LADY  GREY, 

CLARENCE,  and  Nobleman. 
Glo.  Ay,  Edward  will  use  women  honour- 
ably.— 

Would  he  were  wasted,  marrow,  bones,  and  all, 
That  fromhis  loins  no  nopeful  branch  may  spring, 
To  cross  me  from  the  golden  time  I  look  for  ! 
And  yet,  between  my  soul's  desire  and  me, — 
The  lustful  Edward's  title  buried, — 
Is  Clarence,  Henry,  and  his  son  young  Edward, 
And  all  the  unlook'd-for  issue  of  their  bodies, 
To  take  their  rooms,  ere  I  can  place  myself: 
A  cold  premeditation  for  my  purpose  ! 
Why,  then,  I  do  but  dream  on  sovereignty ; 
Like  one  that  rtands  upon  a  promontory, 
And  spies  a  far-off  shore  where  he  would  tread, 
Wishing  his  foot  were  equal  with  his  eye  ; 
And  chides  the  sea  that  sunders  him  from  thence 
Saying  he  '11  lade  it  dry  to  have  his  way : 
So  do  I  wish  the  crown,  being  so  far  off; 
And  so  I  chide  the  means  that  keep  me  from  it  j 
And  so  I  say  I  '11  cut  the  causes  off, 
Flattering  me  with  impossibilities. —      [much, 
My  eye's  too  quick,  my  heart  o'erweens  too 
Unless  my  hand  and  strength  could  equal  them. 
Well,   say  there    is   no    kingdom,   then,   for 

Richard  ; 

What  other  pleasure  can  the  world  afford  ? 
I  '11  make  my  heaven  in  a  lady's  lap, 
And  deck  my  body  in  gay  ornaments, 
And  witch  sweet  ladies  with  my  words  and  looks, 
O  miserable  thought  !  and  more  unlikely 
Than  to  accomplish  twenty  golden  crowns  ! 
Why,  love  forswore  me  in  my  mother's  womb : 
And,  for  I  should  not  deal  in  her  soft  laws, 
She  did  corrupt  frail  nature  with  some  bribe, 
To  shrink  mine  arm  up  like  a  wither'd  shrub; 
To  make  an  envious  mountain  on  my  back, 
Where  sits  deformity  to  mock  my  body ; 
To  shape  my  legs  of  an  unequal  size  ; 
To  disproportion  me  in  every  part, 
Like  to  a  chaos,  or  an  unlick'd  bear-whelp 
That  carries  no  impression  like  the  dam. 
And  am  I,  then,  a  man  to  be  belov'd  ? 

0  monstrous  fault,  to  harbour  such  a  thought ! 
Then,  since  this  earth  affords  no  joy  to  me 
But  to  command,  to  check,  to  o'er  bear  such 
As  are  of  better  person  than  myself, 

1  '11  make  my  heaven  to  dream  upon  the  crown, 
And  whiles  I  live  to  account  this  world  but  hell, 
Until  my  misshap'd  trunk  that  bears  this  head 
Be  round  empaled  with  a  glorious  crown. 
And  yet  I  know  not  how  to  get  the  crown, 
For  many  lives  stand  between  me  and  home : 


656 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  m. 


And  I,—  like  one  lost  in  a  thorny  wood, 
That  rents  the  thorns,  and  is  rent  with  the  thorns, 
Seeking  a  way,  and  straying  from  the  way  ; 
Not  knowing  how  to  find  the  open  air, 
But  toiling  desperately  to  find  it  out, — 
Torment  myself  to  catch  the  English  crown: 
And  from  that  torment  I  will  free  myself, 
Or  hew  my  way  out  with  a  bloody  axe. 
Why,  I  can  smile,  and  murder  whiles  I  smile  ; 
And  cry  content  to  that  which  grieves  my  heart ; 
And  wet  my  cheeks  with  artificial  tears, 
And  frame  my  face  to  all  occasions. 
I  '11  drown  more  sailors  than  the  mermaid  shall ; 
I  '11  slay  more  gazers  than  the  basilisk  ; 
I  '11  play  the  orator  as  well  as  Nestor  ; 
Deceive  more  slily  than  Ulysses  could ; 
And,  like  a  Sinon,  take  another  Troy  : 
I  can  add  colours  to  the  cameleon  ; 
Change  shapes  with  Proteus  for  advantages ; 
And  set  the  murderous  Machiavel  to  school. 
Can  I  do  this,  and  cannot  get  a  crown  ? 
Tut,  were  it  further  off,  I'll  pluck  it  down! 

{Exit. 

SCENE  III.—  FRANCE.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Flourish.  Enter  Louis,  the  French  King, 
and  LADY  BONA,  attended;  the  KING  takes 
his  state.  Then  enter  QUEEN  MARGARET, 
PRINCE  EDWARD  herSont  and  the  EARL  OF 
OXFORD. 

K.  Lou.   Fair   Queen  of  England,   worthy 
Margaret,  [Rising. 

Sit  down  with  us:  it  ill  befits  thy  state 
And    birth,    that    thou   shouldst  stand   while 
Louis  doth  sit.  [Margaret 

Q.  Mar.  No,  mighty  King  of  France :  now 
Must  strike  her  sail,  and  learn  awhile  to  serve 
Where  kings  command.     I  was,  I  must  confess, 
Great  Albion's  queen  in  former  golden  days : 
But  now  mischance  hath  trod  my  title  down, 
And  with  dishonour  laid  me  on  the  ground ; 
Where  I  must  take  like  seat  unto  my  fortune, 
And  to  my  humble  seat  conform  myself. 

K.  Lou.    Why,    say,   fair    queen,   whence 

springs  this  deep  despair  ? 

Q.  Mar.  From  such  a  cause  as  fills  mine  eyes 

with  tears,  [in  cares. 

And  stops  my  tongue,  while  heart  is  drown'd 

K.  Lou.  Whatever  it  be,  be  thou  still  like 

thyself, 
And  sit  thee  by  our  side :  yield  not  thy  neck 

[Seats  her  by  him. 

To  fortune's  yoke,  but  let  thy  dauntless  mind 
Still  ride  in  triumph  over  all  mischance. 
Be  plain,  Queen  Margaret,  and  tell  thy  grief; 
It  shall  be  eas'd,  if  France  can  yield  relief. 


Q.  Mar.   Those  gracious  words  revive   my 

drooping  thoughts, 

And  give  my  tongue-tied  sorrows  leave  to  speak. 
Now,  therefore,  be  it  known  to  noble  Louis 
That  Henry,  sole  possessor  of  my  love, 
Is,  of  a  king,  become  a  banish'd  man, 
And  forc'd  to  live  in  Scotland  a  forlorn; 
While  proud  ambitious  Edward  Duke  of  York 
Usurps  the  regal  title  and  the  seat 
Of  England's  true-anointed  lawful  king. 
This  is  the  cause  that  I,  poor  Margaret, — 
With  this  my  son,   Prince  Edward,   Henry's 

heir, — 

Am  come  to  crave  thy  just  and  lawful  aid ; 
And  if  thou  fail  us,  all  our  hope  is  done : 
Scotland  hath  will  to  help,  but  cannot  help ; 
Our  people  and  our  peers  are  both  misled, 
Our  treasure  seiz'd,  our  soldiers  put  to  flight, 
And,  as  thou  see'st,  ourselves  in  heavy  plight. 

K.  Lou.   Renowned    queen,    with    patience 

calm  the  storm, 
While  we  bethink  a  means  to  break  it  off. 

Q.  Mar.   The   more   we  stay   the   stronger 
grows  our  foa.  [cour  thee. 

K.  Lou.  The  more  I  stay  the  more  I  '11  suc- 

Q.  Mar.  O,  but  impatience  waiteth  on  true 

sorrow : — 
And  see  where  comes  the  breeder  of  my  sorrow ! 

Enter  WARWICK,  attended. 

K.  Lou.  What's  he  approacheth  boldly  to 
our  presence? 

Q.  Mar.  Our  Earl  of  Warwick,   Edward's 
greatest  friend. 

K.  Lou.  Welcome,  brave  Warwick  !     What 
brings  thee  to  France? 

[Descending  from  his  state.     Q.  MAR.  rises. 

Q.  Mar.  Ay,  now  begins  a  second  storm  to 

rise; 
For  this  is  he  that  moves  both  wind  and  tide. 

War.  From  worthy  Edward,  King  of  Albion, 
My  lord  and  sovereign,  and  thy  vowed  friend, 
I  come,  in  kindness  and  unfeigned  love, — 
First,  to  do  greetings  to  thy  royal  person ; 
And  then  to  crave  a  league  of  amity; 
And  lastly,  to  confirm  that  amity 
With  nuptial  knot,  if  thou  vouchsafe  to  grant 
That  virtuous  Lady  Bona,  thy  fair  sister, 
To  England's  king  in  lawful  marriage,     [done. 

Q.  Mar.  If  that  go  forward,  Henry's  hope  is 

War.  And,  gracious  madam  [to  BONA],  in 

our  king's  behalf, 

I  am  commanded,  with  your  leave  and  favour, 
Humbly  to  kiss  your  hand,  and  with  my  tongue 
To  tell  the  passion  of  my  sovereign's  heart ; 
Where  fame,  late  entering  at  his  heedful  ears, 
Hath  plac'd  thy  beauty's  image  and  thy  virtue. 


SCENE  III.] 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING   HENRY  VI. 


657 


Q.  Mar.   King  Louis,— -and  Lady  Bona,— - 

hear  me  speak, 

Before  you  answer  Warwick.     His  demand 
Springs  not  from  Edward's  well-meant  honest 

love, 

But  from  deceit  bred  by  necessity ; 
For  how  can  tyrants  safely  govern  home 
Unless  abroad  they  purchase  great  alliance? 
To  prove  him  tyrant,  this  reason  may  suffice, — 
That  Henry  liveth  still ;  but  were  he  dead, 
Yet  here  Prince  Edward  stands,  King  Henry's 

son.  [marriage 

Look  therefore,  Louis,  that  by 'this  league  and 
Thou  draw  not  on  thy  danger  and  dishonour  ; 
For  though  usurpers  sway  the  rule  awhile, 
Yet   heavens  are  just,  and  time  suppresseth 

wrongs. 

War.   Injurious  Margaret ! 
Prince.  And  why  not  queen? 

War.  Because  thy  father  Henry  did  usurp ; 
And  thou  no  more  art  prince  than  she  is  queen. 
Oxf.  Then  Warwick  disannuls  great  John  of 

Gaunt, 

Which  did  subdue  the  greatest  part  of  Spain ; 
And,  after  John  of  Gaunt,  Henry  the  Fourth, 
Whose  wisdom  was  a  mirror  to  the  wisest ; 
And,  after  that  wise  prince,  Henry  the  Fifth, 
Who  by  his  prowess  conquered  all  France : 
From  these  our  Henry  lineally  descends. 

War.  Oxford,  how  haps  it,  in  this  smooth 

discourse, 

You  told  not  how  Henry  the  Sixth  hath  lost 
All  that  which  Henry  the  Fifth  had  gotten? 
Methinks  these  peers  of  France  should  smile  at 

that. 

But  for  the  rest, — you  tell  a  pedigree 
Of  threescore  and  two  years ;  a  silly  time 
To  make  prescription  for  a  kingdom's  worth. 
Oxf.  Why,  Warwick,  canst  thou  speak  against 

thy  liege, 

Whom  thou  obey'dst  thirty  and  six  years, 
And  not  bewray  thy  treason  with  a  blush? 
War.  Can  Oxford,  that  did  ever  fence  the 

right, 

Now  buckler  falsehood  with  a  pedigree? 
For  shame !  leave  Henry,  and  call  Edward  king. 
Oxf.  Call  him  my  king  by  whose  injurious 

doom 

My  elder  brother,  the  Lord  Aubrey  Vere, 
Was  done  to  death?  and  more  than  so,  my  father, 
Even  in  the  downfall  of  his  mellow'd  years, 
When  nature  brought  him  to  the  door  of  death? 
No,  Warwick,  no;  while  life  upholds  this  arm, 
This  arm  upholds  the  house  of  Lancaster. 
War.  And  I  the  house  of  York. 
K.  Lou.  Queen  Margaret,  Prince  Edward, 

and  Oxford, 


Vouchsafe,  at  our  request,  to  stand  aside 
While  1  use  further  conference  with  Warwick. 

Q.  Mar.  Heavens  grant  that  Warwick's  words 
bewitch  him  not ! 
[Retiring  with  the  PRINCE  and  OXF. 

K.  Lou.  Now,  Warwick,  tell  me,  even  upon 

thy  conscience, 

Is  Edward  your  true  king?  for  I  were  loth 
To  link  with  him  that  were  not  lawful  chosen. 

War.  Thereon  I  pawn  my  credit  and  mine 
honour.  [eye  ? 

K.  Lou.  But  is  he  gracious  in  the  people's 

War.  The  more  that  Henry  was  unfortunate. 

K.  Lou.  Then  further, — all  dissembling  set 

aside, — 

Tell  me  for  truth  the  measure  of  his  love 
Unto  our  sister  Bona. 

War.  Such  it  seems 

As  may  beseem  a  monarch  like  himself. 
Myself  have  often  heard  him  say,  and  swear, 
That  this  love  was  an  eternal  plant, 
Whereof  the  root  was  fix'd  in  virtue's  ground, 
The  leaves  and  fruit  maintain'd  with  beauty's 

sun; 

Exempt  from  envy,  but  not  from  disdain, 
Unless  the  Lady  Bona  quit  his  pain.        [solve, 

K.  Lou.  Now,  sister,  let  us  hear  your  firm  re- 

Bona.  Your  grant  or  your  denial  shall  be 

mine : — 

Yet  I  confess  [to  WAR.]  that  often  ere  this  day, 
When  I  have  heard  your  king's  desert  recounted, 
Mine  ear  hath  tempted  judgment  to  desire. 

K.  Lou.  Then,  Warwick,  thus, — Our  sister 

shall  be  Edward's ; 

And  now  forthwith  shall  articles  be  drawn 
Touching  the  jointure  that  your  king  must  make, 
Which  with  her  dowry  shall  be  counter pois'd. — 
Draw  near,  Queen  Margaret,  and  be  a  witness 
That  Bona  shall  be  wife  to  the  English  king. 

Prince.  To  Edward,  but  not  to  the  English 
king. 

Q.  Mar.  Deceitful  Warwick !  it  was  thy  device 
By  this  alliance  to  make  void  my  suit : 
Before  thy  coming,  Louis  was  Henry's  friend. 

K.  Lou.    And   still  is  friend  to   him  and 

Margaret : 

But  if  your  title  to  the  crown  be  weak, — 
As  may  appear  by  Edward's  good  success, — 
Then  'tis  but  reason  tliat  I  be  releas'd 
From  giving  aid  which  late  I  promised. 
Yet  shall  you  have  all  kindness  at  my  hand 
That  your  estate  requires  and  mine  can  yield. 

War.  Henry  now  lives  in  Scotland  at  his  ease, 
Where  having  nothing,  nothing  can  he  lose. 
And  as  for  you  yourself,  our  quondam  queen, 
You  have  a  father  able  to  maintain  you ; 
And  better  'twere  you  troubled  him  than  France. 


658 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  III. 


Q.  Mar.    Peace,   impudent  and   shameless 

Warwick, — 

Proud  setter-up  and  puller-down  of  kings ! 
I  will  not  hence  till,  with  my  talk  and  tears, 
Both  full  of  truth,  I  make  King  Louis  behold 
Thy  sly  conveyance  and  thy  lord's  false  love  ; 
For  both  of  you  are  birds  of  self-same  feather. 

[A  horn  sounded  within. 
K.  Lou.  Warwick,  this  is  some  post  to  us  or 
thee. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
Mess.   My  lord  ambassador,  these  letters  are 

for  you, 

Sent  from  your  brother,  Marquis  Montague : — 
These  from  our  king  unto  your  majesty : — • 
And,  madam,  these  for  you ;  from  whom  I  know 

not. 

[  To  MAR.      They  all  read  their  letters. 

Oxf.   I  like  it  well  that  our  fair  queen  and 

mistress  [his. 

Smiles  at  her  news,  while  Warwick  frowns  at 

Prince.  Nay,  mark  how  Louis  stamps,  as  he 

were  nettled: 
I  hope  all 's  for  the  best. 

K.  Lou.  Warwick,  what  are  thy  news? — and 
yours,  fair  queen?  [hop'djoys. 

t      Q.  Mar.  Mine,  such  as  fill  my  heart  with  un- 
War.   Mine,  full  of  sorrow  and  heart's  dis- 
content. [Lady  Grey? 
K.  Lou.  What,  has  your  king  married  the 
And  now,  to  soothe  your  forgery  and  his, 
Sends  me  a  paper  to  persuade  me  patience? 
Is  this  the  alliance  that  he  seeks  with  France? 
Dare  he  presume  to  scorn  us  in  this  manner? 

Q.  Mar.  I  told  your  majesty  as  much  before : 
This   proveth   Edward's  love  and  Warwick's 
honesty.  [heaven, 

War.  King  Louis,  I  here  protest,  in  sight  of 
And  by  the  hope  I  have  of  heavenly  bliss, 
That   I  am  clear  from  this  misdeed   of  Ed- 
ward's,— 

No  more  my  king,  for  he  dishonours  me, 
But  most  himself,  if  he  could  see  his  shame. 
Did  I  forget  that  by  the  house  of  York 
My  father  came  untimely  to  his  death? 
Did  I  let  pass  the  abuse  done  to  my  niece? 
Did  I  impale  him  with  the  regal  crown? 
Did  I  put  Henry  from  his  native  right? 
And  am  I  guerdon'd  at  the  last  with  shame? 
Shame  on  himself!  for  my  desert  is  honour: 
And,  to  repair  my  honour  lost  for  him, 
I  here  renounce  him,  and  return  to  Henry. — 
My  noble  queen,  let  former  grudges  pass, 
And  henceforth  I  am  thy  true  senator : 
I  will  revenge  his  wrong  to  Lady  Bonay 
And  replant  Henry  in  his  former  state. 


Q.  Mar.  Warwick,  these  words  have  turn'd 

my  hate  to  love ; 

And  I  forgive  and  quite  forget  old  faults, 
And  joy  that  thou  becom'st  King  Henry's  friend. 

War.  So  much  his  friend,  ay,  his  unfeigned 

friend, 

That  if  King  Louis  vouchsafe  to  furnish  us 
With  some  few  bands  of  chosen  soldiers, 
I  '11  undertake  to  laud  them  on  our  coast, 
And  force  the  tyrant  from  his  seat  by  war. 
'Tis  not  his  new-made  bride  shall  succour  him : 
And  as  for  Clarence, — as  my  letters  tell  me, — 
He 's  very  likely  now  to  fall  from  him, 
For  matching  more  for  wanton  lust  than  honour, 
Or  than  for  strength  and  safety  of  our  country. 

Bona.  Dear  brother,  how  shall  Bona  be  re- 

veng'd 
But  by  thy  help  to  this  distressed  queen? 

Q.  Mar.  Renowned  prince,  how  shall  poor 

Henry  live, 
Unless  thou  rescue  him  from  foul  despair? 

Bona.  My  quarrel  and  this  English  queen's 
are  one.  [yours. 

War.  And  mine,  fair  Lady  Bona,  joins  with 

K.  Lou.  And  mine  with  hers,  and  thine,  and 

Margaret's. 

Therefore,  at  last,  I  firmly  am  resolv'd 
You  shall  have  aid. 

Q.  Mar.  Let  me  give  humble  thanks  for  all 
at  once.  [in  post, 

K.  Lou.  Then,  England's  messenger,  return 
And  tell  false  Edward,  thy  supposed  king, 
That  Louis  of  France  is  sending  over  masquers 
To  revel  it  with  him  and  his  new  bride  : 
Thpusee'st  what  'spast, — go  fear  thy  king  withal. 

Bona.    Tell  him,   in   hope  he  '11  prove    a 

widower  shortly, 
I  '11  wear  the  willow-garland  for  his  sake. 

Q.  Mar.  Tell  him,  my  mourning-weeds  are 

laid  aside, 
And  I  am  ready  to  put  armour  on. 

War.  Tell  him  from  me,  that  he  hath  done 

me  wrong ; 

And  therefore  I  '11  uncrown  him  ere  't  be  long. 
There  's  thy  reward :  be  gone.        [Exit  Mess. 

K.  Lou.  But,  Warwick, 

Thou  and  Oxford,  with  five  thousand  men, 
Shall  cross  the  seas,  and   bid   false  Edward 

battle ; 

And,  as  occasion  serves,  this  noble  queen 
And  prince  shall  follow  with  a  fresh  supply. 
Yet,  ere  thou  go,  but  answer  me  one  doubt, — 
What  pledge  have  we  of  thy  firm  loyalty  ? 

War.  This  shall  assure  my  constant  loyalty, — 
That  if  our  queen  and  this  young  prince  agree, 
I  '11  join  mine  eldest  daughter,  and  my  joy, 
To  him  forthwith  in  holy  wedlock-bands. 


SCENE  III.] 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


659 


Q.  Mar.  Yes,  I  agree,  and  thank  you  for  your 

motion. — 

Son  Edward,  she  is  fair  and  virtuous, 
Therefore  delay  not, — give  thy  hand  to  Warwick ; 
A.nd,  with  thy  hand,  thy  faith  irrevocable, 
That  only  Warwick's  daughter  shall  be  thine. 
Prince.  Yes,  I  accept  her,  for  she  well  de- 
serves it ; 

And  here  to  pledge  my  vow,  I  give  my  hand. 
[Me  gives  his  hand  to  WARWICK. 
K.  Lou.  Why  stay  we  now  ?   These  soldiers 

shall  be  levied, 

And  thou,  Lord  Bourbon,  our  high-admiral, 
Shalt  waft  them  over  with  our  royal  fleet. — 
I  long  till  Edward  fall  by  war's  mischance, 
For  mocking  marriage  with  a  dame  of  France. 
[Exeunt  all  but  WARWICK. 
War.  I  come  from  Edward  as  ambassador, 
But  I  return  his  sworn  and  mortal  foe : 
Matter  of  marriage  was  the  charge  he  gave  me, 
But  dreadful  war  shall  answer  his  demand. 
Had  he  none  else  to  make  a  stale  but  me  ? 
Then  none  but  I  shall  turn  his  jest  to  sorrow. 
I  was  the  chief  that  rais'd  him  to  the  crown, 
And  I'll  be  chief  to  bring  him  down  again  : 
Not  that  I  pity  Henry's  misery, 
But  seek  revenge  on  Edward's  mockery. 

[Exit. 

ACT  IV. 
SCENE  I. — LONDON.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  GLOSTER,  CLARENCE,  SOMERSET, 
MONTAGUE,  and  others. 

Glo.  Now  tell  me,  brother  Clarence,  what 

think  you 

Of  this  new  marriage  with  the  Lady  Grey  ? 
Hath  not  our  brother  made  a  worthy  choice  ? 
Clar.  Alas,  you  know,  'tis  far  from  hence  to 

France ; 

How  could  he  stay  till  Warwick  made  return? 
Som.  My  lords,  forbear  this  talk ;  here  comes 

the  king. 

Glo.  And  his  well-chosen  bride, 
Clar.  I  mind  to  tell  him  plainly  what  I  think. 

Flourish.  Enter  KING  EDWARD,  attended ; 
LADY  GREY,  as  Queen  ;  PEMBROKE,  STAF- 
FORD, HASTINGS,  and  others. 

K.  Edw.  Now,  brother  of  Clarence,  how  like 

you  our  choice, 

That  you  stand  pensive,  as  half  malcontent  ? 
Clar.  As  well  as  Louis  of  France  or  the  Earl 

of  Warwick ; 

Which  are  so  weak  of  courage  and  in  judgment 
That  they  '11  take  no  offence  at  our  abuse. 


K.  Edw.  Suppose  they  take  offence  without 

a  cause, 

They  are  but  Louis  and  Warwick :  I  am  Edward, 

Your  king  and  Warwick's,  and  must  have  my 

will.  [king : 

Glo.  And  shall  have  your  will,  because  our 

Yet  hasty  marriage  seldom  proveth  well. 

K.    Edw.  Yea,   brother   Richard,   are  you 

offended  too  ? 
Glo.  Not  I : 

No,  God  forbid  that  I  should  wish  them  sever'd 
Whom   God   hath  join'd   together ;    ay,   and 

'twere  pity 

To  sunder  them  that  yoke  so  well  together. 
A'.  Edw.  Setting  your  scorns  and  your  mis- 
like  aside, 

Tell  me  some  reason  why  the  Lady  Grey 
Should   not   become   my  wife  and  England's 

queen : — 

And  you  too,  Somerset  and  Montague, 
Speak  freely  what  you  think.  [Louis 

Clar.  Then  this  is  mine  opinion, — that  King 
Becomes  your  enemy  for  mocking  him 
About  the  marriage  of  the  Lady  Bona. 

Glo.  And  Warwick,  doing  what  you  gave  in 

charge, 

Is  now  dishonoured  by  this  new  marriage. 
K.  Edw.   What  if  both  Louis  and  Warwick 

be  appeas'd 
By  such  invention  as  I  can  devise  ? 

Mont.  Yet  to  have  join'd  with  France  in  such 

alliance  [wealth 

Would  more  have  strengthen'd  this  our  common- 

'Gainst    foreign   storms    than   any   home-bred 

marriage. 

Hast.  Why,  knows  not  Montague  that  of  itself 
England  is  safe,  if  true  within  itself? 
Mont.  But  the  safer  when  'tis  back'd  with 

France. 
Hast.  'Tis  better  using  France  than  trusting 

France  : 

Let  us  be  back'd  with  God,  and  with  the  seas 
Which  he  hath  given  for  fence  impregnable, 
And  with  their  helps  only  defend  ourselves  ; 
In  them  and  in  ourselves  our  safety  lies. 

Clar.  For   this  one  speech   Lord  Hastings 

well  deserves 

To  have  the  heir  of  die  Lord  Hungerford. 
K  Edw.  Ay,  what  of  that?  it  was  my  will 

and  grant ; 

And  for  this  once  my  will  shall  stand  for  law. 
670.  And  yet  methinks  your  grace  hath  not 

done  well, 

To  give  the  heir  and  daughter  of  Lord  Scales 
Unto  the  brother  of  your  loving  bride  ; 
She  better  would  have  fitted  me  or  Clarence: 
But  in  your  bride  you  bury  brotherhood. 


66o 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  iv. 


Clar.  Or  else  you  would  not  have  bestow'd 

the  heir 

Of  the  Lord  Bonville  on  your  new  wife's  son, 

And  leave  your  brothers  to  go  speed  elsewhere. 

K.  Edw.  Alas,  poor  Clarence  !  is  it  for  a  wife 

That  thou  art  malcontent?     I  will  provide  thee. 

Clar.  In  choosing  for  yourself  you  show'd 

your  judgment, 

Which  being  shallow,  you  shall  give  me  leave 
To  play  the  broker  in  mine  own  behalf ; 
And  to  that  end  I  shortly  mind  to  leave  you. 
K.  Edw.  Leave  me  or  tarry,  Edward  will  be 

king, 
And  not  be  tied  unto  his  brother's  will. 

Q.   Eliz.    My  lords,   before  it  pleas'd  his 

majesty 

To  raise  my  state  to  title  of  a  queen, 
Do  me  but  right,  and  you  must  all  confess 
That  I  was  not  ignoble  of  descent ; 
And  meaner  than  myself  have  had  like  fortune. 
But  as  this  title  honours  me  and  mine, 
So  your  dislikes,  to  whom  I  would  be  pleasing, 
Do  cloud  my  joys  with  danger  and  with  sorrow. 
K.  Edw.  My  love,  forbear  to  fawn  upon  their 

frowns  : 

What  danger  or  what  sorrow  can  befall  thee, 
So  long  as  Edward  is  thy  constant  friend 
And  their  true  sovereign,  whom  they  must  obey? 
Nay,  whom  they  shall  obey,  and  love  thee  too, 
Unless  they  seek  for  hatred  at  my  hands  ; 
Which  if  they  do,  yet  will  I  keep  thee  safe, 
And  they  shall  feel  the  vengeance  of  my  wrath. 
Glo.  I  hear,  yet  say  not  much,  but  think  the 
more.  [Aside. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
K.  Edw.  Now,  messenger,  what  letters  or 

what  news 

From  France?  [words 

Mess.  My  sovereign  liege,  no  letters  ;  and  few 
But  such  as  I,  without  your  special  pardon, 
Dare  not  relate. 

K.  Edw.  Go  to,  we  pardon  thee :  therefore, 
in  brief,  [them. 

Tell  me  their  words  as  near  as  thou  canst  guess 
What  answer  makes  King  Louis  unto  our  letters? 
Mess.  Atmy  depart,  these  were  his  very  words: 
Go  tell  false  Edward,  thy  supposed  king, 
That  Louis  of  France  is  sending  over  masquers 
To  revel  it  with  him  and  his  new  bride. 
K.  Edw.  Is  Lou  is  so  brave?  belike  he  thinks 

me  Henry. 

But  what  said  Lady  Bona  to  my  marriage  ? 
Mess.  These  were  her  words,  utter'd  with 

mild  disdain : 

Tell  him,  in  hope  he  'II prove  a  widower  shortly, 
1 '//  wear  the  willow-garland  for  his  sake. 


K.  Edw.  I  blame  not  her,  she  could  say  little 

less  ;  [queen  ? 

She  had  the  wrong.     But  what  said  Henry's 

For  I  have  heard  that  she  was  there  in  place. 

Mess.   Tell  him,  quoth  she,  my  mourning' 

weeds  are  done, 

And  I  am  ready  to  put  armour  on.  [zon. 

K.  Edw.  Belike  she  minds  to  play  the  Ama- 
But  what  said  Warwick  to  these  injuries? 

Mess.  He,  more  incens'd  against  your  majesty 

Thanall  the  rest,  discharged  me  with  these  words : 

Tell  him  from  me,  that  he  hath  done  me  wrong; 

And  therefore  I '//  uncrown  him  ere '/  be  long. 

K.  Edw.   Ha !  durst  the  traitor  breathe  out 

so  proud  words? 

Well,  I  will  arm  me,  being  thus  forewarn'd : 
They  shall  have  wars,  and  pay  for  their  pre- 
sumption. 

But  say,  is  Warwick  friends  with  Margaret? 
Mess.  Ay,  gracious  sovereign;   they  are  so 

link'd  in  friendship 
That  young  Prince  Edward  marries  Warwick's 

daughter. 
Clar.  Belike  the  elder;  Clarence  will  have 

the  younger. 

Now,  brother  king,  farewell,  and  sit  you  fast, 
For  I  will  hence  to  Warwick's  other  daughter ; 
That,  though  I  want  a  kingdom,  yet  in  marriage 
I  may  not  prove  inferior  to  yourself. — 
You  that  love  me  and  Warwick,  follow  me. 

[Exit,  and  SOMERSET  follows. 
Glo.  Not  I: 

My  thoughts  aim  at  a  further  matter ;  I 
Stay  not  for  the  love  of  Edward,  but  the  crown. 

[Aside. 
K.  Edw.  Clarence  and  Somerset  both  gone 

to  Warwick  \ 

Yet  am  I  arm'd  against  the  worst  can  happen ; 
And  haste  is  needful  in  this  desperate  case. — 
Pembroke  and  Stafford,  you  in  our  behalf 
Go  levy  men,  and  make  prepare  for  war ; 
They  are  already,  or  quickly  will  be  landed : 
Myself  in  person  will  straight  follow  you. 

[Exeunt  FEM.  and  STAF. 
But  ere  I  go,  Hastings  and  Montague, 
Resolve  my  doubt.     You  twain,  of  all  the  rest, 
Are  near  to  Warwick  by  blood  and  by  alliance : 
Tell  me  if  you  love  Warwick  more  than  me? 
If  it  be  so,  then  both  depart  to  him ; 
I  rather  wish  you  foes  than  hollow  friends: 
But  if  you  mind  to  hold  your  true  obedience, 
Give  me  assurance  with  some  friendly  vow, 
That  I  may  never  have  you  in  suspect,     [true ! 
Mont.  So  God  help  Montague  as  he  proves 
Hast.  And  Hastings  as  he  favours  Edward's 
cause!  [by  us? 

K.  Edw.  Now,  brother  Richard,  will  you  stand 


SCENE  li.j 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


661 


Glo.  Ay,  in  despite  of  all  that  shall  withstand 

you. 

K.  Ediv.  Why,  so !  then  am  I  sure  of  victory. 
Now  therefore  let  us  hence ;  and  lose  no  hour 
Till  we  meet  Warwick  with  his  foreign  power. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — A  Plain  in  Warwickshire. 

Enter  WARWICK  and  OXFORD,  with  French 
and  other  Forces. 

War.  Trust  me,  my  lord,  all  hitherto  goes 

well; 

The  common  people  by  numbers  swarm  to  us. — 
But  see  where  Somerset  and  Clarence  come  ! 

Enter  CLARENCE  and  SOMERSET. 

Speak  suddenly,  my  lords, — are  we  all  friends? 
Clar.  Fear  not  that,  my  lord.     [Warwick; — 
War.  Then,  gentle  Clarence,  welcome  unto 
And  welcome,  Somerset. — I  hold  it  cowardice 
To  rest  mistrustful  where  a  noble  heart 
Hath  pawn'd  an  open  hand  in  sign  of  love ; 
Else  might   I   think  that  Clarence,  Edward's 

brother, 

Were  but  a  feigned  friend  to  our  proceedings : 
But  welcome,  sweet  Clarence;   my  daughter 

shall  be  thine. 

And  now,  what  rests  but,  in  night's  coverture, 
Thy  brother  being  carelessly  encamp'd, 
His  soldiers  lurking  in  the  towns  about, 
And  but  attended  by  a  simple  guard, 
We  may  surprise  and  take  him  at  our  pleasure? 
Our  scouts  have  found  the  adventure  very  easy : 
That  as  Ulysses  and  stout  Diomede 
With  sleight  and  manhood  stole  to  Rhesus' tents, 
And  brought  from  thence  the  Thracian  fatal 

steeds,  [mantle, 

So  we,  well   cover'd  with  the  night's   black 
At  unawares  may  beat  down  Edward's  guard 
And  seize  himself;  I  say  not,  slaughter  him, 
For  I  intend  but  only  to  surprise  him. 
You  that  will  follow  me  to  this  attempt, 
Applaud  the  name  of  Henry  with  your  leader. 
[ TV;*?  a// ^p/" Henry!" 
Why,  then,  let 's  on  our  way  in  silent  sort : 
For  Warwick  and  his  friends,  God  and  Saint 

George !  {Exeunt. 

SCENE  II I. —EDWARD'S  Camp,  near  Warwick. 

Enter  certain  Watchmen,  before  the  KING'S 
tent. 

1  Watch.   Come  on,  my  masters,  each  man 

take  his  stand : 
The  king  by  this  has  set  him  down  to  sleep. 

2  Watck.  What,  will  he  not  to  bed? 


I  Watch.  Why,  no  :  for  he  hath  made  a  solemn 


Never  to  lie  and  take  his  natural  rest 

Till  Warwick  or  l.imself  be  quite  suppress'd. 

2  Watch.  To-morrow  then,  belike,  shall  be 

the  day, 
If  Warwick  be  so  near  as  men  report. 

3  Watch.  But  say,  I  pray,  what  nobleman  is 

that 
That  with  the  king  here  resteth  in  his  tent? 

1  Watch.  'Tis  the  Lord  Hastings,  the  king's 

chiefest  friend.  [the  king 

3  Watch.  O,  is  it  so?    But  why  commands 

That  his  chief  followers  lodge  in  towns  about 

him, 
While  he  himself  keeps  in  the  cold  field? 

2  Watch.  'Tis  the  more  honour,  because  more 

dangerous.  [ness  ; 

3  Watch.  Ay,  but  give  me  worship  and  quiet- 
I  like  it  better  than  a  dangerous  honour. 

If  Warwick  knew  in  what  estate  he  stands, 
'Tis  to  be  doubted  he  would  waken  him. 

1  Watch.   Unless  our  halberds  did  shut  up 

his  passage.  [tent, 

2  Watch.  Ay,  wherefore  else  guard  we  his  royal 
But  to  defend  his  person  from  night-foes? 

Enter  WARWICK,  CLARENCE,  OXFORD, 

SOMERSET,  and  Forces. 
War.  This  is  his  tent  ;  and  see  where  stand 

his  guard. 

Courage,  my  masters  !  honour  now  or  never  ! 
But  follow  me,  and  Edward  shall  be  ours. 

1  Watch.  Who  goes  there? 

2  Watch.  Stay,  or  thou  diest 
[WARWICK  and  the  rest  cry  all—*1  Warwick  I 

Warwick  !"  and  set  upon  the  Guard,  who 
fly,  crying  "Arm  !  Arm  !"  WARWICK  and 
the  rest  following  them. 

The  drum  beating  and  trumpets  sounding,  re- 
enter  WARWICK  and  the  rest,  bringing  the 
KING  out  in  his  gown,  sitting  in  a  chair: 
GLOSTER  and  HASTINGS  are  seen  flying. 

Som.  What  are  they  that  fly  there? 

War.  Richard  and  Hastings:  let  them  go; 
here  is  the  duke. 

K.  Edw.  The  duke  !    Why,  Warwick,  when 

we  parted  last 
Thou  call'dst  me  king? 

War.  Ay,  but  the  case  is  alter'd  : 

When  you  disgrac'd  me  in  my  embassade, 
Then  I  degraded  you  from  being  king, 
And  come  now  to  create  you  Duke  of  York. 
Alas,  how  should  you  govern  any  kingdom, 
That  know  not  how  to  use  ambassadors; 
Nor  how  to  be  contented  with  one  wife  ; 


662 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  iv. 


Nor  how  to  use  your  brothers  brotherly ; 
Nor  how  to  study  for  the  people's,  welfare ; 
Nor  how  to  shroud  yourself  from  enemies  ? 
K.  Edw.  Yea,  brother  of  Clarence,  art  thou 

here  too? 

Nay,  then  I  see  that  Edward  needs  must  down. — 
Yet,  Warwick,  in  despite  of  all  mischance, 
Of  thee  thyself  and  all  thy  complices, 
Edward  will  always  bear  himself  as  king : 
Though  fortune's  malice  overthrow  my  state, 
My  mind  exceeds  the  compass  of  her  wheel. 
War.  Then,  for  his  mind,  be  Edward  Eng- 
land's king :          [  Takes  off  his  crown. 
But  Henry  now  shall  wear  the  English  crown 
And  be  true  king  indeed;  thou  but  the  sha- 
dow.— 

My  Lord  of  Somerset,  at  my  request, 
See  that  forthwith  Duke  Edward  be  convey' d 
Unto  my  brother,  Archbishop  of  York. 
When  I  have  fought  with  Pembroke  and  his 

fellows, 

I  '11  follow  you,  and  tell  what  answer 
Louis  and  the  Lady  Bona  send  to  him. — 
Now,  for  awhile  farewell,  good  Duke  of  York. 
K.  Edw.  What  fates  impose,  that  men  must 

needs  abide ; 
It  boots  not  to  resist  both  wind  and  tide. 

[Exit,  led  out;  SOM.  with  him. 
Oxf.  What  now  remains,  my  lords,  for  us  to 

do, 
But  march  to  London  with  our  soldiers? 

War.  Ay,  that 's  the  first  thing  that  we  have 

to  do; 

To  free  King  Henry  from  imprisonment, 
And  see  him  seated  in  the  regal  throne. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — LONDON.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  QUEEN  ELIZABETH  and  RIVERS. 

Riv.  Madam,  what  makes  you  in  this  sudden 

change?  [learn 

Q.  Eliz.  Why,  brother  Rivers,  are  you  yet  to 

What  late  misfortune  is  befall'n  King  Edward? 

Riv.  What,  loss  of  some  pitch'd  battle  against 

Warwick?  [person. 

Q.  Eliz.  No,  but  the  loss  of  his  own  royal 

Riv.  Then,  is  my  sovereign  slain? 

Q.  Eliz.  Ay,  almost  slain,  for  he  is  taken 

prisoner ; 

Either  betray'd  by  falsehood  of  his  guard, 
Or  by  his  foe  surpris'd  at  unawares : 
And,  as  I  further  have  to  understand, 
Is  new  committed  to  the  Bishop  of  York, 
Fell  Warwick's  brother,  and  by  that  our  foe. 
Riv.  These  news,  I  must  confess,  are  full  of 
grief; 


Yet.  gracious  madam,  bear  it  as  you  may : 
Warwick  may  lose,  that  now  hath  won  the  day. 
Q.  Eliz.  Till  then,  fair  hope  must  hinder  life's 

decay. 

And  I  the  rather  wean  me  from  despair, 
For  love  of  Edward's  offspring  in  my  womb : 
This  is  it  that  makes  me  bridle  passion, 
And  bear  with  mildness  my  misfortune's  cross: 
Ay,  ay,  for  this  I  draw  in  many  a  tear, 
And  stop  the  rising  of  blood-sucking  sighs, 
Lest  with  my  sighs  or  tears  I  blast  or  drown 
King  Edward's  fruit,  true  heir  to  the  English 
crown.  [become? 

Riv.  But,  madam,  where  is  Warwick,  then, 
Q.  Eliz.   I  am  inform'd  that  he  comes  to- 
wards London, 

To  set  the  crown  once  more  on  Henry's  head : 
Guess  thou  the  rest;    King  Edward's  friends 

must  down. 

But  to  prevent  the  tyrant's  violence, — 
For  trust  not  him  that  hath  once  broken  faith, — 
I  '11  hence  forthwith  unto  the  sanctuary, 
To  save  at  least  the  heir  of  Edward's  right : 
There  shall  I  rest  secure  from  force  and  fraud. 
Come,  therefore,  let  us  fly  while  we  may  fly : 
If  Warwick  take  us,  we  are  sure  to  die.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — A  Park  near  Middleham  Castle  in 
Yorkshire. 

Enter  GLOSTER,  HASTINGS,  SIR  WILLIAM 

STANLEY,  and  others. 
Glo.   Now,   my    Lord     Hastings    and    Sir 

William  Stanley, 

Leave  off  to  wonder  why  I  drew  you  hither 
Into  this  chiefest  thicket  of  the  park,     [brother, 
Thus  stands  the  case :  you  know  our  king,  my 
Is  prisoner  to  the  bishop  here,  at  whose  hands 
He  hath  good  usage  and  great  liberty ; 
And  often,  but  attended  with  weak  guard, 
Comes  hunting  this  way,  to  disport  himself. 
I  have  advertis'd  him  by  secret  means 
That  if  about  this  hour  he  make  this  way, 
Under  the  colour  of  his  usual  game,          [men, 
He  shall  here  find  his  friends,  with  horse  and 
To  set  him  free  from  his  captivity. 

Enter  KING  EDWARD  and  a  Huntsman. 

Hunt.  This  way,  my  lord ;  for  this  way  lies 

the  game.  [huntsmen  stand. — 

K.  Edw.  Nay,  this  way,  man :  see  where  the 

Now,  brother  of  Gloster,  Lord  Hastings,  and 

the  rest, 

Stand  you  thus  close  to  steal  the  bishop's  deer? 
Glo.   Brother,   the  time  and  case  requireth 

haste: 
Your  horse  stands  ready  at  the  park-corner. 


SCENE  VI.] 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


663 


K.  Edw.  But  whither  shall  we  then? 

Hast.   To  Lynn,   my  lord;   and  ship  from 
thence  to  Flanders.         [my  meaning. 

Glo.  Well  guess'd,  believe  me ;  for  that  was 

K.  Edw.  Stanley,  I  will  requite  thy  forward- 
ness, [talk. 

Glo.  But  wherefore  stay  we?  'tis  no  time  to 

K.  Edw.  Huntsmen,  what  say'st  thou?  wilt 
thou  go  along? 

Hunt.  Better  do  so  than  tarry  and  be  hang'd. 

Glo.  Come  then,  away;  let 's  ha'  no  more  ado. 

K.  Edw.   Bishop,  farewell :  shield  thee  from 

Warwick's  frown ; 
And  pray  that  I  may  repossess  the  crown. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI. — A  Room  in  the  Tower. 

Enter  KING  HENRY,  CLARENCE,  WARWICK, 
SOMERSET,  YOUNG  RICHMOND,  OXFORD, 
MONTAGUE,  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  and 
Attendants. 

K.  Hen.  Master   lieutenant,  now  that  God 

and  friends 

Have  shaken  Edward  from  the  regal  seat, 
And  turn'd  my  captive  state  to  liberty, 
My  fear  to  hope,  my  sorrows  unto  joys, — 
At  our  enlargement  what  are  thy  due  fees? 

Lieut.  Subjects  may  challenge  nothing  of  their 

sovereigns ; 

But  if  an  humble  prayer  may  prevail, 
I  then  crave  pardon  of  your  majesty. 

K.  Hen.    For   what,    lieutenant?   for   well- 
using  me? 

Nay,  be  thou  sure  I  '11  well  requite  thy  kindness, 
For  that  it  made  my  imprisonment  a  pleasure ; 
Ay,  such  a  pleasure  as  incaged  birds 
Conceive,  when,  after  many  moody  thoughts, 
At  last,  by  notes  of  household  harmony, 
They  quite  forget  their  loss  of  liberty. — 
But,  Warwick,  after  God,  thou  sett'st  me  free, 
And  chiefly  therefore  I  thank  God  and  thee ; 
He  was  the  author,  thou  the  instrument. 
Therefore,  that  I  may  conquer  fortune's  spite, 
By  living  low,  where  fortune  cannot  hurt  me, 
And  that  the  people  of  this  blessed  land 
May  not  be  punish'd  with  my  thwarting  stars, — 
Warwick,  although  my  head  still  wear  thecrown, 
I  here  resign  my  government  to  thee, 
For  thou  art  fortunate  in  all  thy  deeds. 

War.  Your  grace  hath  still  been  fam'd  for 

virtuous ; 

And  now  may  seem  as  wise  as  virtuous 
By  spying  and  avoiding  fortune's  malice, 
For  few  men  rightly  temper  with  the  stars: 
Yet  in  this  one  thing  let  me  blame  your  grace 
For  choosing  me  when  Clarence  is  in  place. 


Clar.  No,  Warwick,  thou  art  worthy  of  the 

sway, 

To  whom  the  heavens,  in  thy  nativity, 
Adjudg'd  an  olive-branch  and  laurel-crown, 
As  likely  to  be  blest  in  peace  and  war ; 
And  therefore  I  yield  thee  my  free  consent. 
War.  And  I  choose  Clarence  only  for  pro- 
tector. 
K.  Hen.  Warwick  and  Clarence,  give  me 

both  your  hands: 
Now  join  your  hands,  and  with  your  hands  your 

hearts, 

That  no  dissension  hinder  government : 
I  make  you  both  protectors  of  this  land; 
While  I  myself  will  lead  a  private  life, 
And  in  devotion  spend  my  latter  days, 
To  sin's  rebuke  and  my  Creator's  praise. 

War.  What  answers   Clarence  to  his  sov- 
ereign's will?  [sent ; 
Clar.  That  he  consents  if  Warwick  yield  con- 
For  on  thy  fortune  I  repose  myself. 

War.  Why,  then,  though  loth,  yet  must  I  be 

content: 

We  '11  yoke  together,  like  a  double  shadow 
To  Henry's  body,  and  supply  his  place ; 
I  mean,  in  bearing  weight  of  government, 
While  he  enjoys  the  honour  and  his  ease. 
And,  Clarence,  now  then  it  is  more  than  needful 
Forthwith  that  Edward  be  pronounc'd  a  traitor, 
And  all  his  lands  and  goods  be  confiscate. 
Clar.  What   else?  and   that  succession  be 
determin'd.  [part. 

War.  Ay,  therein  Clarence  shall  not  want  his 
K.  Hen.  But,  with  the  first  of  all  your  chief 

affairs, 

Let  me  entreat, — for  I  command  no  more, — 
That  Margaret  your  queen,  and  my  son  Edward, 
Be  sent  for,  to  return  from  France  with  speed ; 
For  till  I  see  them  here,  by  doubtful  fear 
My  joy  of  liberty  is  half  eclips'd. 

Clar.  It  shall  be  done,  my  sovereign,  with 

all  speed.  [is  that, 

K.  Hen.  My  Lord  of  Somerset,  what  youth 

Of  whom  you  seem  to  have  so  tender  care  ? 

Sotn.  My  liege,  it  is  young  Henry,  Earl  of 

Richmond. 

K.  Hen.  Come  hither,  England's  hope. — If 
secret  powers 

[Lays  his  hand  on  his  head. 
Suggest  but  truth  to  my  divining  thoughts. 
This  pretty  lad  will  prove  our  country's  bliss. 
His  looks  are  full  of  peaceful  majesty ; 
His  head  by  nature  fram'd  to  wear  a  crown, 
His  hand  to  wield  a  sceptre  ;  and  himself 
Likely  in  time  to  bless  a  regal  throne. 
Make  much  of  him,  my  lords  ;  for  this  is  he 
Must  help  you  more  than  you  are  hurt  by  me. 


664 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  iv. 


Enter  a  Messenger. 

War.  What  news,  my  friend  ?         [brother, 
Mess.  That   Edward  is  escaped  from  your 
And  fled,  as  he  hears  since,  to  Burgundy. 
War.  Unsavoury  news !  but  how  made  he 
escape  ?  [Gloster 

Mess.  He  was  convey'd  by  Richard  Duke  of 
And  the  Lord  Hastings,  who  attended  him 
In  secret  ambush  on  the  forest-side, 
And  from  the  bishop's  huntsmen  rescu'd  him  ; 
For  hunting  was  his  daily  exercise. 

War.  My  brother  was  too  careless  of  his 

charge. — 

But  let  us  hence,  my  sovereign,  to  provide 
A  salve  for  any  sore  that  may  betide. 

[Exeunt  KING  HENRY,  WAR.,  CLAR., 

Lieut.,  and  Attendants. 
Som.  My  lord,  I  like  not  of  this  flight  of 

Edward's : 

For  doubtless  Burgundy  will  yield  him  help, 
And  we  shall  have  more  wars  before 't  be  long. 
As  Henry's  late  presaging  prophecy 
Did  glad  my  heart  with  hope  of  this  young 

Richmond, 

So  doth  my  heart  misgive  me,  in  these  conflicts, 
What  may  befall  him,  to  his  harm  and  ours  : 
Therefore,  Lord  Oxford,  to  prevent  the  worst, 
Forthwith  we  '11  send  him  hence  to  Brittany, 
Till  storms  be  pasc  of  civil  enmity. 

Oxf.  Ay,  for  if  Edward  repossess  the  crown, 
'Tis  like  that  Richmond  with  the  rest  shall  down. 

Som.  It  shall  be  so ;  he  shall  to  Brittany. 
Come,  therefore,  let  's  about  it  speedily. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  \\l.— Before  York. 
Enter  KING  EDWARD,  GLOSTER,  HASTINGS, 

and  Forces. 

K.  Edw.  Now,  brother  Richard,  Lord  Hast- 
ings, and  the  rest, 

Yet  thus  far  fortune  maketh  us  amends, 
And  says  that  once  more  I  shall  interchange 
My  waned  state  for  Henry's  regal  crown. 
Well  have  we  pass  d,  and  now  repass'd  the  seas, 
And  brought  desired  help  from  Burgundy  * 
What,  then,  remains,  we  being  thus  arriv'd 
From  Ravenspurg  haven  before  the  gates  of 

York, 

But  that  we  enter,  as  into  our  dukedom  ? 
Glo.  The  gates  made  fast  J — Brother,  I  like 

not  this ; 

For  many  men  that  stumble  at  the  threshold 
Are  well  foretold  that  danger  lurks  within. 
K.  Edw.  Tush,  man,  abodements  must  not 
now  affright  us : 


By  fair  or  foul  means  we  must  enter  in, 
For  hither  will  our  friends  repair  to  us. 
Hast.    My  liege,  I  '11  knock  once  more  to 
summon  them. 

Enter,  on  the  Walls,  the  Mayor  of  York  ana 
Aldermen. 

May.  My  lords,  we  were  forewarned  of  your 

coming, 

And  shut  the  gates  for  safety  of  ourselves ; 
For  now  we  owe  allegiance  unto  Henry. 
K.  Edw.  But,  master  mayor,  if  Henry  be 

your  king, 

Yet  Edward  at  the  least  is  Duke  of  York. 
May.  True,  my  good  lord ;  I  know  you  for 

no  less. 
K.  Edw.  Why,  and  I  challenge  nothing  but 

my  dukedom, 

As  being  well  content  with  that  alone,     [nose, 

Glo.  But  when  the  fox  hath  once  got  in  his 

He'll  soon  find   means  to  make    the    body 

follow.  [Aside. 

Hast.  Why,  master  mayor,  why  stand  you 

in  a  doubt? 

Open  the  gates,  we  are  King  Henry's  friends. 
May.  Ay,  say  you  so?  the  gates  shall  then 
be  open'd.  [Exeunt  from  above. 

Glo.    A  wise  stout  captain,  and  soon  per- 
suaded !  [were  well, 
Hast.  The  good  old  man  would  fain  that  all 
So  'twere  not  'long  of  him  ;  but  being  enter'd, 
I  doubt  not,  I,  but  we  shall  soon  persuade 
Both  him  and  all  his  brothers  unto  reason. 

Re-enter  the  Mayor  and  Aldermen,  below. 

K.  Edw.  So,  master  mayor:  these  gates  must 

not  be  shut 

But  in  the  night  or  in  the  time  of  war. 
What  1  fear  not,  man,  but  yield  me  up  the  keys ; 
[Takes  his  keys. 

For  Edward  will  defend  the  town  and  thee. 
And  all  those  friends  that  deign  to  follow  me. 

Drum.     Enter  MONTGOMERY  and  Forces, 
marching. 

Glo.  Brother,  this  is  Sir  John  Montgomery. 
Our  trusty  friend,  unless  I  be  deceiv'd. 

K.  Edw.  Welcome,  Sir  John !    But  why  come 
you  in  arms?  [storm, 

Mont.  To  help  King  Edward  in  his  time  of 
As  every  loyal  subject  ought  to  do. 

K.  Edw.   Thanks,  good  Montgomery;  but 

we  now  forget 

Our  title  to  the  crown,  and  only  claim 
Our  dukedom  till  God  please  to  send  the  rest. 
Mont.  Then  fare  you  well,  for  I  will  hence 
again: 


SCENE  VII.] 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


665 


1  came  to  serve  a  king,  and  not  a  duke. — 
Drummer,  strike  up,  and  let  us  march  away. 

[A  march  begun. 
K.  Edw.  Nay,  stay,  Sir  John,  awhile;  and 

we  '11  debate 

By  what  safe  means  the  crown  may  be  recover' d. 
Mont.  What  talk  you  of  debating?   in  few 

words, — 

If  you  '11  not  here  proclaim  yourself  our  king, 
I  '11  leave  you  to  your  fortune,  and  be  gone 
To  keep  them  back  that  come  to  succour  you : 
Why  should  we  fight,  if  you  pretend  no  title  ? 
Glo.  Why,  brother,  wherefore  stand  you  on 

nice  points? 
K.  Edw.  When  we  grow  stronger,  then  we  '11 

make  our  claim : 

Till  then,  'tis  wisdom  to  conceal  our  meaning. 
Hast.  Away  with  scrupulous  wit  J  now  arms 

must  rale. 
Glo.  And  fearless  minds  climb  soonest  unto 

crowns. 

Brother,  we  will  proclaim  you  out  of  hand ; 
The  bruit  thereof  will  bring  you  many  friends. 
K.  Edw.  Then  be  it  as  you  will ;  for  'tis  my 

right, 
And  Henry  but  usurps  the  diadem. 

Mont.  Ay,  new  my  sovereign  speaketh  like 

himself; 
And  now  will  I  be  Edward's  champion. 

Hast.  Sound  trumpet ;  Edward  shall  be  here 

proclaim'd : — 

Come,  fellow-soldier,  make  thou  proclamation. 

[Gives  him  a  paper.     Flourish. 

Sold.    [Reads.']   Edward  the  Fourth^  by  the 

grace  of  God^  King  of  England  and  France ,  and 

Lord  of  Ireland ',  &c. 

Mont.  And  whoso'er  gainsays  King  Edward's 

right, 
By  this  I  challenge  him  to  single  fight. 

[  Throws  down  his  gauntlet. 
All.    Long  live  Edward  the  Fourth ! 
K.  Edw.  Thanks,  brave  Montgomery ; — and 

thanks  unto  you  all ; 

If  fortune  serve  me,  I  '11  requite  this  kindness. 
Now,  for  this  night,  let 's  harbour  here  in  York ; 
And  when  the  morning  sun  shall  raise  his  car 
Above  the  border  of  this  horizon, 
We  '11  forward  towards  Warwick  and  his  mates ; 
For  well  I  wot  that  Henry  is  no  soldier. — 
Ah,  froward  Clarence!    how  evil  it  beseems 

thee 

To  flatter  Henry  and  forsake  thy  brother ! 
Yet,  as  we  may,  we  '11  meet  both  thee  and  War- 
wick.— 

Come  on,  brave  soldiers :  doubt  not  of  the  day ; 
And,  that  once  gotten,  doubt  not  of  large  pay. 


SCENE  VIII. — LONDON.    A  Room  in  the 
Palace. 

Flourish.  Enter  KING  HENRY,  WARWICK, 
MONTAGUE,  CLARENCE,  EXETER,  and  OX- 
FORD. 

War.   What  counsel,  lords?   Edward  from 

Belgia, 

With  hasty  Germans  and  blunt  Hollanders, 
Hath  pass'd  in  safety  through  the  narrow  seas, 
And   with  his   troops  doth   march  amain   to 

London ; 
And  many  giddy  people  flock  to  him. 

Oxf.  Let's  levy  men,and  beat  him  back  again. 

Clar.  A  little  fire  is  quickly  trodden  out ; 
Which,  being  suffer'd,  rivers  cannot  quench. 

War.  In  Warwickshire  I  have  true-hearted 

friends, 

Not  mutinous  in  peace,  yet  bold  in  war ; 
Those  will  I  musterup: — and  thou,  son  Clarence, 
Shalt  stir  up,  in  Suffolk,  Norfolk,  and  in  Kent, 
The  knights  and  gentlemen  to  come  with  thee: — 
Thou,  brother  Montague,  in  Buckingham, 
Northampton,  and  in  Leicestershire,  shalt  find 
Men   well   inclin'd   to  hear  what  thou  com- 

mand'st : — 

And  thou,  brave  Oxford,  wondrous  well  belov'd, 
In  Oxfordshire  shalt  muster  up  thy  friends. 
My  sovereign,  with  the  loving  citizens, — 
Like  to  his  island  girt  in  with  the  ocean, 
Or  modest  Dian  circled  with  her  nymphs, — 
Shall  rest  in  London  till  we  come  to  him.— 
Fair  lords,  take  leave,  and  stand  not  to  reply. — 
Farewell,  rny  sovereign. 

K.    Hen.    Farewell,   my  Hector,   and  my 
Troy's  true  hope.  [hand. 

Clar.  In  sign  of  truth,  I  kiss  your  highness' 

K.   Hen.  Well-minded   Clarence,   be  thou 
fortunate !  [leave. 

Mont.  Comfort,  my  lord  ; — and  so  I  take  my 

Oxf.  And  thus  {kissing  HEN  RY'S  hand]  I  seal 
my  truth,  and  bid  adieu.  [tague, 

K.  Hen.  Sweet  Oxford,  and  my  loving  Mon- 
And  all  at  once,  once  more  a  happy  farewell. 

War.  Farewell,  sweet  lords:  let's  meet  at 

Coventry. 
{Exeunt  WAR.,  CLAR.,  OXF.,  CW^MONT. 

K.  Hen.  Here  at  the  palace  will  I  rest  awhile. 
Cousin  of  Exeter,  what  thinks  your  lordship  ? 
Methinks  the  power  that  Edward  hath  in  field 
Should  not  be  able  to  encounter  mine.      [rest. 

Exe.  The  doubt  is,  that  he  will  seduce  the 

fC.  Hen.  That 's  not  my  fear  ;  rny  meed  hath 

got  me  fame : 

I  have  not  stopp'd  mine  ears  to  their  demands, 
Nor  posted  off  their  suits  with  slow  delays ; 


666 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  V. 


My  pity  hath  been  balm  to  heal  their  wounds, 
My  mildness  hath  allay'd  their  swelling  griefs, 
My  mercy  dried  their  water-flowing  tears  ; 
I  have  not  been  desirous  of  their  wealth, 
Nor  much  oppress'd  them  with  great  subsidies, 
Nor  forward  of  revenge,   though   they  much 

err'd :  [me  ? 

Then  why  should  they  love  Edward  more  than 
No,  Exeter,  these  graces  challenge  grace  : 
And,  when  the  lion  fawns  upon  the  lamb, 
The  lamb  will  never  cease  to  follow  him. 
[Shout  within,  "A  Lancaster!  A  Lancaster!" 
Exe.  Hark,  hark,  my  lord  !  what  shouts  are 

these  ? 

Enter KING  EDWARD,  GLOSTER,  and  Soldiers. 

Edw.  Seize  on  the  shame-fac'd  Henry,  bear 

him  hence : 

And  once  again  proclaim  us  king  of  England. — 

You  are  the  fount  that  makes  small  brooks  to 

flow :  [dry, 

Now  stops  thy  spring  ;  my  sea  shall  suck  them 

And  swell  so  much  the  higher  by  their  ebb. — 

Hence  with  him  to  the  Tower ;  let  him  not  speak. 

\_Exeunt  some  with  KING  HENRY. 

And,    lords,    towards   Coventry  bend  we  our 

course, 

Where  peremptory  Warwick  now  remains  : 
The  sun  shines  hot ;  and,  if  we  use  delay, 
Cold  biting  winter  mars  our  hop'd-for  hay. 

Glo.  Away  betimes,  before  his  forces  join, 
And  take  the  great-grown  traitor  unawares  : 
Brave  warriors,  march  amain  towards  Coventry. 

\Exetint. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — Coventry. 

Enter  upon  the  Walls,  WARWICK,  the  Mayor 
of  Coventry,  two  Messengers,  and  others. 

War.  Where   is  the   post   that  came  from 

valiant  Oxford? 
How  far  hence  is  thy  lord,  mine  honest  fellow? 

1  Mess.    By  this    at    Dunsmore,    marching 

hitherward. 

War.  How  far  off  is  our  brother  Montague  ? — 
Where  is  the  post  that  came  from  Montague? 

2  Mess.  By  this  at  Daintry,  with  a  puissant 

troop. 

Enter  SIR  JOHN  SOMERVILLE. 

War.  Say,  Somerville,  what  says  my  loving 

son? 
And,  by  thy  guess,  how  nigh  is  Clarence  now  ? 


Som.  At  Southam  I  did  leave  him  with  his 

forces, 

And  do  expect  him  here  some  two  hours  hence. 

[Drum  heard. 

War.  Then  Clarence  is  at  hand ;  I  hear  his 

drum.  [lies ; 

Som.  It  is  not  his,  my  lord ;  here  Southam 

The  drum  your  honour  hears   marcheth  from 

Warwick.  [friends. 

War.  Whoshould  that  be?  belike  unlook'd-for 

Som.  They  are  at  hand,  and  you  shall  quickly 

know. 

March.     Flourish.     Enter  KING  EDWARD, 
GLOSTER,  and  Forces. 

K.  Edw.  Go,  trumpet,  to  the  walls,  and 

sound  a  parle.  [wall ! 

Glo.  See  how  the  surly  Warwick  mans  the 

War.  O   unbid   spite !    is  sportful   Edward 

come?  [duc'd, 

Where  slept  our  scouts,  or  how  are  they  se- 

That  we  could  hear  no  news  of  his  repair? 

K.  Edw.  Now,  Warwick,  wilt  thou  ope  the 

city  gates, 

Speak  gentle  words,  and  humbly  bend  thy  knee, 
Call  Edward  king,  and  at  his  hands  beg  mercy? 
And  he  shall  pardon  thee  these  outrages. 

War.  Nay,  rather,  wilt  thou  draw  thy  forces 

hence, 

Confess  who  set  thee  up  and  pluck'd  thee  down, 
Call  Warwick  patron,  and  be  penitent? 
And  thou  shall  still  remain  the  Duke  of  York. 
Glo.  I  thought,  at  least,  he  would  have  said 

the  king ; 

Or  did  he  make  the  jest  against  his  will? 
War.  Is  not  a  dukedom,  sir,  a  goodly  gift? 
Glo.  Ay,  by  my  faith,  for  a  poor  earl  to  give: 
I  '11  do  thee  service  for  so  good  a  gift. 

War.  'Twas  I  that  gave  the  kingdom  to  thy 

brother. 
K.  Edw.  Why,   then,  'tis  mine,  if  but  by 

Warwick's  gift. 

War.  Thou  art  no  Atlas  for  so  great  a  weight : 
And,  weakling,  Warwick  takes  his  gift  again ; 
And  Henry  is  my  king,  Warwick  his  subject. 
K.  Edw.   But  Warwick's  king  is  Edward's 

prisoner : 

And,  gallant  Warwick,  do  but  answer  this, — 
What  is  the  body  when  the  head  is  off? 

Glo.  Alas,  that  Warwick  had  no  more  forecast, 
But,  whiles  he  thought  to  steal  the  single  ten, 
The  king  was  slily  finger'd  from  the  deck  1 
You  left  poor  Henry  at  the  bishop's  palace, 
And,  ten  to  one,  you  '11  meet  him  in  the  Tower. 
K.  Edw.  'Tis  even  so ;  yet  you  are  Warwick 
still 


SCENE  I.] 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


667 


Glo.  Come,  Warwick,  take  the  time;  kneel 

down,  kneel  down : 
Nay,  when  ?  strike  now,  or  else  the  iron  cools. 

War.  I  had  rather  chop  this  hand  off  at  a  blow, 
And  with  the  other  fling  it  at  thy  face, 
Than  bear  so  low  a  sail,  to  strike  to  thee. 

K.  Edw.  Sail  how  thou  canst,  have  wind 

and  tide  thy  friend  ; 

This  hand,  fast  wound  about  thy  coal-black  hair, 
Shall,  whiles  thy  head  is  warm  and  new  cut  off, 
Write  in  the  dust  this  sentence  with  thy  blood, — 
Wind-changing  Warwick  now  can  change  no 


Enter  OXFORD,  -with  Forces,  drum,  and  colours. 

War.  O  cheerful  colours  J  see  where  Oxford 

comes ! 
Oxf.  Oxford,  Oxford,  for  Lancaster ! 

[He  and  his  Forces  enter  the  city. 
Glo.  The  gates  are  open,  let  us  enter  too. 
K.  Edw.  So  other  foes  may  set  upon  our 

backs. 

Stand  we  in  good  array ;  for  they  no  doubt 
Will  issue  out  again  and  bid  us  battle  : 
If  not,  the  city  being  but  of  small  defence, 
We  '11  quickly  rouse  the  traitors  in  the  same. 
War.  O,  welcome,  Oxford  !  for  we  want  thy 
help. 

Enter  MONTAGUE,  with  Forces,  drum,  and 
colours. 

Mont.  Montague,  Montague,  for  Lancaster  ! 

[He  and  his  Forces  enter  the  city. 

Glo.  Thou  and  thy  brother  both  shall  buy  this 

treason 

Even  with  the  dearest  blood  your  bodies  bear. 
K.  Edw.  The  harder  match'd,  the  greater 

victory : 
My  mind  presageth  happy  gain  and  conquest. 

Enter  SOMERSET,  with  Forces,   drum,  and 
colours. 

Som.  Somerset,  Somerset,  for  Lancaster  ! 

[He  and  his  Forces  enter  the  city. 
Glo.  Two  of  thy  name,  both  Dukes  of  Somer- 
set, ^ 

Have  sold  their  lives  unto  the  house  of  York  ; 
And  thou  shalt^be  the  third,  if  this  sword  hold. 

Enter  CLARENCE,   with   Forces,   drum,  and 
colours. 

War.  And  lo,  where  George  of  Clarence 

sweeps  along, 

Of  force  enough  to  bid  his  brother  battle ; 
With  whom  an  upright  zeal  to  right  prevails 


More  than  the  nature  of  a  brother's  love  ! — 
Come,  Clarence,  come ;  thou  wilt,  if  Warwick 

call 

Clar.  Father  of  Warwick,  know  you  what 
this  means  ? 

[Taking  the  red  rose  out  of  his  hat. 
Look  here,  I  throw  my  infamy  at  thee : 
I  will  not  ruinate  my  father's  house, 
Who  gave  his  blood  to  lime  the  stones  together, 
And  set  up   Lancaster.     Why,   trowst  thou, 

Warwick, 

That  Clarence  is  so  harsh,  so  blunt,  unnatural, 
To  bend  the  fatal  instruments  of  war 
Against  his  brother  and  his  lawful  king  ? 
Perhaps  thou  wilt  object  my  holy  oath  : 
To  keep  that  oath  were  more  impiety 
Than  Jephtha's,  when  he  sacrific'd  his  daughter. 
I  am  so  sorry  for  my  trespass  made, 
That,  to  deserve  well  at  my  brother's  hands, 
I  here  proclaim  myself  thy  mortal  foe ; 
With  resolution  wheresoe'er  I  meet  thee, — 
As  I  will  meet  thee,  if  thou  stir  abroad, — 
To  plague  thee  for  thy  foul  misleading  me. 
And  so,  proud-hearted  Warwick,  I  defy  thee, 
And  to  my  brother  turn  my  blushing  cheeks. — 
Pardon  me,  Edward,  I  will  make  amends  ; 
And,  Richard,  do  not  frown  upon  my  faults, 
For  I  will  henceforth  be  no  more  unconstant. 
K.  Edw.  Now  welcome  more,  and  ten  times 

more  belov'd, 

Than  if  thou  never  hadst  deserv'd  our  hate. 
Glo.  Welcome,  good  Clarence ;  this  is  brother- 
like. 

War.  O  passing  traitor,  perjur'd  and  unjust ! 
K.  Edw.  What,  Warwick,  wilt  thou  leave  the 

town  and  fight  ? 
Or  shall  we  beat  the  stones  about  thine  ears  ? 

War.  Alas,  I  am  not  coop'd  here  for  defence ! 
I  will  away  towards  Barnet  presently, 
And  bid  thee  battle,  Edward,  if  thou  dar'st. 
K.  Edw.  Yes,  Warwick,  Edward  dares,  and 

leads  the  way. 

Lords,  to  the  field :  Saint  George  and  victory. 
[March.     Exeunt. 


SCENE  11.—^  field  of  Battle  near  Bttrnct. 

Alarums  and  excursions.      Enter  KING  ED- 
WARD, bringing  in  WARWICK  wounded. 

K.  Edw.  So,  lie  thou  there:  die  thou,  and 

die  our  fear ; 

For  Warwick  was  a  bug  that  fear'd  us  all.—- 
Now,  Montague,  sit  fast ;  I  seek  for  thee, 
That  Warwick's  bones  may  keep  thine  com- 
pany. [Exit. 


668 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  V. 


War.  Ah,  who  is  nigh  ?  come  to  me,  friend 

or  foe, 

And  tell  me  who  is  victor,  York  or  Warwick  ? 
Why  ask  I  that  ?  my  mangled  body  shows, 
My  blood,  my  want  of  strength,  my  sick  heart 

shows, 

That  I  must  yield  my  body  to  the  earth, 
And,  by  my  fall,  the  conquest  to  my  foe. 
Thus  yields  the  cedar  to  the  axe's  edge, 
Whose  arms  gave  shelter  to  the  princely  eagle, 
Under  whose  shade  the  ramping  lion  slept, 
Whose  top-branch  overpeer'd  Jove's  spreading 

tree, 
And  kept  low  shrubs  from  winter's  powerful 

wind. 
These  eyes,  that  now  are  dimm'd  with  death's 

black  vail, 

Have  been  as  piercing  as  the  mid-day  sun, 
To  search  the  secret  treasons  of  the  world  : 
The  wrinkles  in  my  brows,  nowfill'd  with  blood, 
Were  liken'd  oft  to  kingly  sepulchres  ; 
For  who  liv'd  king,  but  I  could  dig  his  grave? 
And  who  durst  smile  when  Warwick  bant  his 

brow? 

Lo,  now  my  glory  smear'd  in  dust  and  blood  ! 
My  parks,  my  walks,  my  manors  that  I  had, 
Even  now  forsake  me;  and  of  all  my  lands 
Is  nothing  left  me  but  my  body's  length  ! 
Why,  what  is  pomp,  rule,  reign,  but  earth  and 

dust ! 
And,  live  we  how  we  can,  yet  die  we  must. 

Enter  OXFORD  and  SOMERSET. 

Som.  Ah,  Warwick,  Warwick !  wert  thou  as 

we  are, 

We  might  recover  all  our  loss  again: 
The  queen  from  France  hath  brought  a  puissant 

power ;  [fly ! 

Even  now  we  heard  the  news  :  ah,  couldst  thou 

War.   Why,   then,    I   would  not  fly. — Ah, 

Montague, 

If  thou  be  there,  sweet  brother,  take  my  hand, 
And  with  thy  lips  keep  in  my  soul  awhile  ! 
Thou  lov'st  me  not ;  for,  brother,  if  thou  didst, 
Thy  tears  would  wash  this  cold  congealed  blood 
That  glues  my  lips  and  will  not  let  me  speak. 
Come  quickly,  Montague,  or  I  am  dead. 

Som.  Ah,  Warwick !  Montague  hath  breath'd 

his  last ; 

And  to  the  latest  gasp  cried  out  for  Warwick, 
And  said,  Commend  me  to  my  valiant  brother. 
And  more  he  would  have  said;  and  more  he 

spoke, 

Which  sounded  like  a  cannon  in  a  vault, 
That  might  not  be  distinguish'd ;  but  at  last, 
I  well  might  hear,  deliver'd  with  a  groan, 
6>,  farewell \  Wanvickl 


War.  Sweet  rest  his  soul!— fly,  lords,  and 

save  yourselves ; 

For  Warwick  bids  you  all  farewell,  to  meet  in 
heav'n.  [Dies. 

Oxf.  Away,  away,  to  meet  the  queen's  great 
power ! 

\_Exeunt,  bearing  off "  W AR.'S  body. 

SCENE  III.— Another  part  of 'the  Field. 

Flourish.     Enter  KING  EDWARD  in  triumph; 
with  CLARENCE,  GLOSTER,  and  the  rest. 

K.  Edw.  Thus  far  our  fortune  keeps  an  up- 
ward course, 

And  we  are  grac'd  with  wreaths  of  victory. 
But  in  the  midst  of  this  bright-shining  day 
I  spy  a  black,  suspicious,  threatening  cloud, 
That  will  encounter  with  our  glorious  sun 
Ere  he  attain  his  easeful  western  bed : 
I  mean,  my  lords,  those  powers  that  the  queen 
Hath  rais'd  in  Gallia  have  arriv'd  our  coast, 
And,  as  we  hear,  march  on  to  fight  with  us. 
Clar.  A  little  gale  will  soon  disperse  that 

cloud 

And  blow  it  to  the  source  from  whence  it  came : 
Thy  very  beams  will  dry  those  vapours  up; 
For  every  cloud  engenders  not  a  storm,    [strong, 
Glo.  The   queen   is   valu'd   thirty  thousand 
And  Somerset,  with  Oxford,  fled  to  her : 
If  she  have  time  to  breathe,  be  well  assur'd, 
Her  faction  will  be  full  as  strong  as  ours. 
K.  Edw.   We  are  advertis'd  by  our  loving 
friends  [bury; 

That  they  do  hold  their  course  toward  Tewks- 
We,  having  now  the  best  at  Barnet  field, 
Will  thither  straight,  for  willingness  rids  way ; 
And  as  we  march,  our  strength  will  be  aug- 
mented 

In  every  county  as  we  go  along. — 
Strike  up  the  drum ;  cry,  Courage !  and  away. 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — Plains  near  Tewksbury. 

March.     Enter  QUEEN  MARGARET,  PRINCE 
EDWARD,  SOMERSET,  OXFORD,  and  Soldiers. 

Q.  Mar.  Great  lords,  wise  men  ne'er  sit  and 

wail  their  loss, 

But  cheerly  seek  how  to  redress  their  harms. 
What  though  the  mast  be  now  blown  overboard, 
The  cable  broke,  the  holding-anchor  lost. 
And  half  our  sailors  swallow'd  in  the  flood ; 
Yet  lives  our  pilot  still :  is 't  meet  that  he 
Should  leave  the  helm,  and,  like  a  fearful  lad, 
With  tearful  eyes  add  water  to  the  sea,     [much  ; 
And  give  more  strength  to  that  which  hath  too 
Whiles,  in  his  moan,  the  ship  splits  011  the  rock. 


SCENE  IV.] 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


669 


Which  industry  and  courage  might  have  sav'd  ? 
Ah,  what  a  shame !  ah,  what  a  fault  were  this ! 
Say  Warwick  was  our  anchor;  what  of  that? 
And  Montague  our  top-mast;  what  of  him? 
Our  slaughter'd  friends  the  tackles;  what  of 

these? 

Why,  is  not  Oxford  here  another  anchor  ? 
And  Somerset  another  goodly  mast  ?        [lings? 
The  friends  of  France  our  shrouds  and  tack- 
And,  though  unskilful,  why  not  Ned  and  I 
For  once  allow'd  the  skilful  pilot's  charge? 
We  will  not  from  the  helm  to  sit  and  weep ; 
But  keep  our  course,  though  the  rough  wind 
say  no,  [wreck. 

From  shelves  and  rocks  that  threaten  us  with 
As  ^ood  to  chide  the  waves  as  speak  them  fair. 
And  what  is  Edward  but  a  ruthless  sea  ? 
What  Clarence  but  a  quicksand  of  deceit? 
And  Richard  but  a  ragged  fatal  rock? 
All  thesj  the  enemies  to  our  poor  bark. 
Say  you  can  swim ;  ulas,  'tis  but  a  while ! 
Tread  on  the  sand ;  why,  there  you  quickly  sink: 
Bestride  the  rock ;  the  tide  will  wash  you  off, 
Or  else  you  famish, — that 's  a  threefold  death. 
This  speak  I,  lords,  to  let  you  understand, 
If  case  some  one  of  you  would  fly  from  us, 
That   there's    no    hop'd-for    mercy   with    the 
brothers,  [rocks. 

More  than  with  ruthless  waves,  with  sands,  and 
Why,  courage,  then !  what  cannot  be  avoided, 
'Twere  childish  weakness  to  lament  or  fear. 
Prince.   Methinks  a  woman  of  this  valiant 

spirit 

Should,  if  a  coward  heard  her  speak  these  words, 
Infuse  his  breast  with  magnanimity, 
And  make  him  naked  foil  a  man-at-arms. 
I  speak  not  this  as  doubting  any  here ; 
For  did  I  but  suspect  a  fearful  man, 
He  should  have  leave  to  go  away  betimes ; 
Lest  in  our  need  he  might  infect  another, 
And  make  him  of  like  spirit  to  himself. 
If  any  such  be  here, — as  God  forbid  !— 
Let  him  depart  before  we  need  his  help. 

Oxf.   Women   and    children   of   so   high   a 

courage, 
And    warriors    faint !    why,    'twere    perpetual 

shame. — 

O  brave  young  prince  !  thy  famous  grandfather 
Doth  live  again  in  thee :  long  mayst  thou  live 
To  bear  his  image  and  renew  his  glories! 
Som.   And  he  that  will  not  fight  for  such  a 

hope, 

Go  home  to  bed,  and,  like  the  owl  by  day, 
If  he  arise,  be  mock'd  and  wonder'd  at. 

Q.  Mar.   Thanks,  gentle  Somerset; — sweet 

Oxford,  thanks.  [thing  else. 

Prfitre.  And  take  his  thanks  that  yet  hath  no- 


Entcr  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Prepare  you,  lords,  for  Edward  is  at 

hand, 
Ready  to  fight ;  therefore  be  resolute. 

Oxf.  I  thought  no  less :  it  is  his  policy 
To  haste  thus  fast,  to  find  us  unprovided. 
Som.  But  he 's  deceiv'd ;  we  are  in  readiness. 
O_.  Mar.  This  cheers  my  heart,  to  see  your 
forwardness.  [budge. 

Oxf.  Here  pitch  our  battle ;  hence  we  will  not 

Flourish  and  march.  Enter,  at  a  distance,  KING 
EDWARD,  CLARENCE,  GLOSTER,  and  Forces. 

K.  Edw.   Brave  followers,  yonder  stands  the 
thorny  wood,  [strength, 

Which,   by  the  heavens'  assistance  and  your 
Must  by  the  roots  be  hewn  up  yet  ere  night. 
I  need  not  add  more  fuel  to  your  fire ; 
For  well  I  wot  ye  blaze  to  burn  them  out: 
Give  signal  to  the  fight,  and  to  it,  lords. 

O_.  Mar.    Lords,    knights,    and   gentlemen, 

what  I  should  say- 

My  tears  gainsay ;  for  every  word  I  speak, 
Ye  see,  I  drink  the  water  of  mine  eyes. 
Therefore,  no  more   but   this: — Henry,  your 

sovereign, 

Is  prisoner  to  the  foe;  his  state  usurp'd, 
His  realm  a  slaughter-house,  his  subjects  slain, 
His  statutes  cancell'd,  and  his  treasure  spent; 
And  yonder  is  the  wolf  that  makes  this  spoil. 
You  fight  in  justice :  then,  in  God's  name,  lords, 
Be  valiant,  and  give  signal  to  the  fight. 

[Exeunt  both  armies. 

SCENE  V. — Another  part  of  the  Plains. 

Alarums;  excursions:  and  afterwards  a  re- 
treat. Then  enter  KING  EDWARD,  CLAR- 
ENCE, GLOSTER,  and  Forces,  with  QUEEN 
MARGARET,  OXFORD,  and  SOMERSET, 
prisoners. 

K.  Edw.  Now,  here  a  period  of  tumultuous 

broils. 

Away  with  Oxford  to  Hammes'  Castle  straight ; 

For  Somerset,  off  with  his  guilty  head,     [speak. 

Go,  bear  them  hence;  I  will  not  hear  them 

Oxf.  For  my  part,  I  '11  not  trouble  thee  with 

words.  [fortune. 

Som.  Nor  I,  but  stoop  with  patience  to  my 

[Exeunt  OXF.  and  SOM.  ,  guarded. 

Q.  Mar.  So  part  we  sadly  in  this  troublous 

world, 
To  meet  with  joy  in  sweet  Jerusalem. 

K.  Edw.   Is   proclamation  made  that  who 

finds  Edward 
Shall  have  a  high  reward,  and  he  his  life? 


670 


THIRD  PART  OF  KINO  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  V. 


Glo.  It  is;  and  lo,  where  youthful  Edward 
comes. 

Enter  Soldiers,  with  PRINCE  EDWARD. 

K.  Edw.  Bring  forth  the  gallant,  let  us  hear 

him  speak. 

What,  can  so  young  a  thorn  begin  to  prick? — 
Edward,  what  satisfaction  canst  thou  make 
For  bearing  arms,  for  stirring  up  my  subjects, 
And  all  the  trouble  thou  hast  turn'd  me  to? 
Prince.  Speak  like  a  subject,  proud  ambitious 

York ! 

Suppose  that  I  am  now  my  father's  mouth ; 
Resign  thy  chair,  and  where  I  stand  kneel  thou, 
Whilst  I  propose  the  self-same  words  to  thee, 
Which,  traitor,  thou  wouldst  have  me  answer  to. 
Q.  Mar.  Ah,  that  thy  father  had  been  so  re- 

solv'd ! 
Glo.  That  you  might  still   have  worn   the 

petticoat, 

And  ne'er  have  stol'n  the  breech  from  Lancaster. 

Prince.  Let  ^Esop  fable  in  a  winter's  night; 

His  currish  riddles -sort  not  with  this  place. 

Glo.  By  heaven,  brat,  I  '11  plague  you  for  that 

word.  [to  men. 

Q.  Mar.  Ay,  thou  wast  born  to  be  a  plague 

Glo.  For  God's  sake,  take  away  this  captive 

scold. 

Prince.  Nay,  take  away  this  scolding  crook- 
back  rather. 
K.  Edw.  Peace,  wilful  boy,  or  I  will  charm 

your  tongue. 

Clar.  Untutor'd  lad,  thou  art  too  malapert. 
Prince.  I  know  my  duty;  you  are  all  unduti- 
ful:  [George, — 

Lascivious      Edward, — and      thou,      perjur'd 
And  thou,  misshapen  Dick, — I  tell  ye  all 
I  am  your  better,  traitors  as  ye  are ; — 
And  thou  usurp'st  my  father's  right  and  mine. 
K.  Edw.  Take  that,  the  likeness  of  this  railer 
here.  [Stabs  him. 

Glo.  Sprawl'st  thou?  take  that,  to  end  thy 
agony.  [Stabs  him. 

Clar.  And  there 's  for  twitting  me  with  per- 
jury. [Stabs  him. 
Q.  Mar.  O,  kill  me  too ! 
Glo.  Marry,  and  shall.        [Offers  to  kill  her. 
K.  Edw.   Hold,  Richard,  hold ;  for  we  have 

done  too  much. 
Glo.  Why  should  she  live,  to  fill  the  world 

with  words? 
K.  Edw.  What,  doth  she  swoon?  use  means 

for  her  recovery. 
Glo.   Clarence,  excuse  me  to  the  king  my 

brother ; 

I  '11  hence  to  London  on  a  serious  matter : 
Ere  ye  come  there,  be  sure  to  hear  some  news. 


Clar.  What?  what? 

Glo.  The  Tower !  the  Tower !  \Exit. 

Q.  Mar.  O  Ned,  sweet  Ned !  speak  to  thy 
mother,  boy!  [ers! — 

Canst  thou  not  speak? — O  traitors!   murder- 
They  that  stabb'd  Caesar  shed  no  blood  at  all, 
Did  not  offend,  nor  were  not  worthy  blame, 
If  this  foul  deed  were  by  to  equal  it : 
He  was  a  man; — this,  in  respect,  a  child, — 
And  men  ne'er  spend  their  fury  on  a  child,    [it? 
What 's  worse  than  murderer,  that  I  may  name 
No,  no,  my  heart  will  burst,  an  if  I  speak : — 
And   I  will    speak,    that    so    my  heart    may 

burst. — 

Butchers  and  villains !  bloody  cannibals ! 
How  sweet  a  plant  have  you  untimely  cropp'd ! 
You  have  no  children,  butchers!  if  you  had, 
The  thought  of  them  would  have  stiri'd  up  re- 
morse:. 

But  if  you  ever  chance  to  have  a  child, 
Look  in  his  youth  to  have  him  so  cut  off 
As,  deathsmen,  you  have  rid  this  sweet  young 

prince ! 
K.  Edw.  Away  with  her ;  go,  bear  her  hence 

perforce. 

Q.  Mar.  Nay,  never  bear  me  hence,  despatch 

me  here ;  [death : 

Here  sheathe  thy  sword,  I  '11  pardon  thee  my 

What,  wilt  thou  not? — then,  Clarence,  do  it 

thou.  [ease. 

Clar.  By  heaven,  I  will  not  do  thee  so  much 

Q.  Mar.  Good  Clarence,  do ;  sweet  Clarence, 

do  thou  do  it. 
Clar.  Didst  thou  not  hear  me  swear  I  would 

not  do  it? 

Q.  Mar.  Ay,  but  thou  usest  to  forswear  thy- 
self: 

'Twas  sin  before,  but  now  'tis  charity. 
What!  wilt  thou  not? — Where  is  that  devil's 
butcher,  [thou? 

Hard-favour'd  Richard? — Richard,   where  ait 
Thou  art  not  here :  murder  is  thy  alms-deed ; 
Petitioners  for  blood  thou  ne'er  putt'st  back. 
K.  Edw.  Away,  I  say ;  I  charge  ye,  bear  her 

hence. 

Q.  Mar.  So  come  to  you  and  yours  as  to  this 
prince  !  [Exit,  led  out  forcibly. 

K.  Edw.  Where's  Richard  gone? 
Clar.  To  London,  all  in  post ;  and,  as  I  guess, 
To  make  a  bloody  supper  in  the  Tower. 

K.  Edw.  He 's  sudden,  if  a  thing  comes  in 
his  head.  [sort 

Now  march  we  hence :  discharge  the  common 
With  pay  and  thanks,  and  let 's  away  to  London, 
And  see  our  gentle  queen  how  well  she  fares, •*-"• 
By  this,  I  hope,  she  hath  a  son  for  me. 

[Extunt. 


SCENE  VI.] 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


671 


SCENE  VI. — LONDON.    A  Room  in  the  Tower. 

KING  HENRY  is  discovered  sitting  with  a  book  in 
his  hand,  the  Lieutenant  attending.  Enter 
GLOSTER. 

Glo.    Good-day,  my  lord.      What,  at  your 
book  so  hard? 

K.    Hen.  Ay,  my  good  lord:— my  lord,  I 

should  say  rather; 

'Tis  sin  to  flatter,  good  was  little  better : 
Good  Gloster  and  good  devil  were  alike, 
And   both  preposterous:    therefore,   not  good 
lord. 

Glo.  Sirrah,  leave  us  to  ourselves :  we  must 
confer.  [Exit  Lieutenant. 

K.  Hen.  So  flies  the  reckless  shepherd  from 

the  wolf; 

So  first  the  harmless  sheep  doth  yield  his  fleece, 
And  next  his  throat  unto  the  butcher's  knife. — 
What  scene  of  death  hath  Roscius  now  to  act? 

Glo.  Suspicion  always  haunts  the  guilty  mind; 
The  thief  doth  fear  each  bush  an  officer. 

K.  Hen.  The  bird  that  hath  been  limed  in  a 

bush, 

With  trembling  wings  misdoubteth  every  bush ; 
And  I,  the  hapless  male  to  one  sweet  bird, 
Have  now  the  fatal  object  in  my  eye       [kill'd. 
Where  my  poor  young  was  lim'd,  was  caught,  and 

Glo.  Why,  what  a  peevish  fool  was  that  of 

Crete, 

That  taught  his  son  the  office  of  a  fowl ! 
And  yet,  for  all  his  wings,  the  fool  was  drown'd. 

K.   Hen.   I,  Daedalus;  my  poor  boy,  Icarus ; 
Thy  father,  Minos,  that  denied  our  course ; 
The  sun,  that  sear'd  the  wings  of  my  sweet  boy, 
Thy  brother  Edward ;  and  thyself,  the  sea, 
Whose  envious  gulf  did  swallow  up  his  life. 
Ah,  kill  me  with  thy  weapon,  not  with  words ! 
My  breast  can  better  brook  thy  dagger's  point 
Than  can  my  ears  that  tragic  history. 
But  wherefore  dost  thou  come?  is 't  for  my  life? 

Glo.  Think'st  thou  I  am  an  executioner? 

K.  Hen.  A  persecutor,  I  am  sure,  thou  art : 
If  murdering  innocents  be  executing, 
Why,  then  thou  art  an  executioner. 

Glo.  Thy  son  I  kill'd  for  his  presumption. 

K.  Hen.   Hadst  thou  been  kill'd  when  first 

thou  didst  presume, 

Thou  hadst  not  liv'd  to  kill  a  son  of  mine. 
And  thus  I  prophesy, — that  many  a  thousand, 
Which  now  mistrust  no  parcel  of  my  fear, 
And   many  an   old  man's   sigh,   and   many  a 

widow's, 

And  many  an  orphan's  water-standing  eye, — 
Men  for  their  sons,  wives  for  their  husbands, 
And  orphans  for  their  parents'  timeless  death,— 


Shall  rue  the  hour  that  ever  thou  wast  born. 
The  owl  shriek'd  at  thy  birth, — an  evil  sign; 
The  night-crow  cried,  aboding  luckless  time ; 
Dogs  howTd,  and  hideous  tempest  shook  down 

trees ; 

The  raven  rook'd  her  on  the  chimney's  top, 
And  chattering  pies  in  dismal  discords  sung. 
Thy  mother  felt  more  than  a  mother's  pain, 
And  yet  brought  forth  less  than  a  mother's  hope, 
To  wit, — 

An  indigest  deformed  lump, 
Not  like  the  fruit  of  such  a  goodly  tree. 
Teeth  hadst  thou  in  thy  head  when  thou  wast 

bom, 

To  signify  thou  cam'st  to  bite  the  world : 
And  if  the  rest  be  true  which  I  have  heard, 
Thou  cam'st — 

Glo.   I  '11  hear  no  more : — die,  prophet,  in  thy 

speech :  \Stabs  him. 

For  this,  amongst  the  rest,  was  I  ordain'd. 
K.  Hen.   Ay,  and  for  much  more  slaughter 

after  this. 

0  God  forgive  my  sins  and  pardon  thee ! 

[Dies. 

Glo.  What,  will  the  aspiring  blood  of  Lancaster 

Sink  in  the  ground  ?     I  thought  it  would  have 

mounted.  [death  ! 

See  how  my  sword  weeps  for  the  poor  king's 

0,  may  such  purple  tears  be  alway  shed 
From   those   that   wish   the  downfall   of  our 

house ! — 

If  any  spark  of  life  be  yet  remaining, 
Down,  down   to   hell;    and   say  I  sent   thee 

thither,. —  [Stabs  him  again. 

1,  that  have  neither  pity,  love,  nor  fear. — 
Indeed,  'tis  true  that  Henry  told  me  of; 
For  I  have  often  heard  my  mother  say 

1  came  into  the  world  with  my  legs  forward  : 
Had  I  not  reason,  think  ye,  to  make  haste, 
And  seek  their  ruin  that  usurp'd  our  right : 
The  midwife  wonder'd  ;  and  the  women  cried, 
(9,  Jesus  bless  us,  he  is  born  with  teeth  ! 

And  so  I  was,  which  plainly  signified 
That  I  should  snarl,  and  bite,  and  play  the  dog. 
Then,  since  the  heavens  have  shap'dmy  body  so, 
Let  hell  make  crook'd  my  mind  to  answer  it. 
I  have  no  brother,  I  am  like  no  brother  ; 
And   this  word    love,   which  greybeards  call 

divine, 

Be  resident  in  men  like  one  another, 
And  not  in  me  :  I  am  myself  alone. — 
Clarence,  beware ;  thou  keep'st  me  from  the  light: 
But  I  will  sort  a  pitchy  day  for  thee  ; 
For  I  will  buzz  abroad  such  prophecies 
That  Edward  shall  be  fearful  of  his  life  : 
And  then,  to  purge  his  fear,  I  '11  be  thy  death. 
King  Henry  and  the  prince  his  son  are  gone : 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  VI. 


[ACT  v. 


Clarence,  thy  turn  is  next,  and  then  the  rest ; 
Counting  myself  but  bad  till  I  be  best. — 
I  '11  throw  thy  body  in  another  room, 
And  triumph,  Henry,  in  thy  day  of  doom. 

[Exit  with  the  body. 

SCENE  VII. — LONDON.   A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Flourish.  KING  EDWARD  is  discovered  sitting- 
on  his  throne ;  QUEEN  ELIZABETH  with  the 
infant  PRINCE,  CLARENCE,  GLOSTER,  HAST- 
INGS, and  others ;  near  him. 

K.  Edw.  Once   more  we  sit  in   England's 

royal  throne, 

Repurchas'd  with  the  blood  of  enemies. 
What  valiant  foemen,  like  to  autumn's  corn,  ^ 
Have  we  mow'd   down   in  tops   of  all   their 

pride ! 

Three  Dukes  of  Somerset, — threefold  renown'd 
For  hardy  and  undoubted  champions ; 
Two  Cliffords,  as  the  father  and  the  son ; 
And  two  Northumberlands, — two  braver  men 
Ne'er  spurr'd   their  coursers  at  the  trumpet's 

sound  ; 
With  them  the  two  brave  bears,  Warwick  and 

Montague, 

That  in  their  chains  fetter'd  the  kingly  lion, 
And  made  the  forest  tremble  when  they  roar'd. 
Thus  have  we  swept  suspicion  from  our  seat, 
And  made  our  footstool  of  security. — 
Come  hither,  Bess,  and  let  me  kiss  my  boy. — 
Young  Ned,  for  thee,  thine  uncles  and  myself 
Have  in  our  armours  watch'd  the  winter's  night ; 
Went  all  afoot  in  summer's  scalding  heat, 
That  thou  mightst  repossess  the  crown  in  peace : 
And  of  our  labours  thou  shall  reap  the  gain. 


Glo.   I  '11  blast  his  harvest  if  your  head  were 

laid; 

For  yet  I  am  not  look'd  on  in  the  world. 
This  shoulder  was  ordain'd  so  thick  to  heave ; 
And  heave  it  shall  some  weight,  or  break  my 

back : — 
Work  thou  the  way, — and  that  shalt  execute. 

[Aside. 
K.   Edw.  Clarence  and  Gloster,   love  my 

lovely  queen ; 

And  kiss  your  princely  nephew,  brothers  both. 
Clar.  The  duty  that  I  owe  unto  your  majesty 
I  seal  upon  the  lips  of  this  sweet  babe. 

K.  Edw.  Thanks,  noble  Clarence;  worthy 

brother,  thanks. 
Glo.  And,  that  I  love  the  tree  from  whence 

thou  sprang'st, 

Witness  the  loving  kiss  I  give  the  fruit. — 
To  say  the  truth,  so  Judas  kiss'd  his  master, 
And  cried,   all  hail !    when  as  he   meant   all 
harm.  [Aside. 

K.    Edw.  Now   am    I   seated    as   my   soul 

delights, 

Having  my  country's  peace  and  brothers'  loves. 
Clar.   What  will  your  grace  have  done  with 

Margaret  ? 

Reignier,  her  father,  to  the  King  of  France 
Hath  pawn'd  the  Sicils  and  Jerusalem, 
And  hither  have  they  sent  it  for  her  ransom. 
K.  Edw.  Away  with  her,  and  waft  her  hence 

to  France. 

And  now  what  rests  but  that  we  spend  the  time 
With  stately  triumphs,  mirthful  comic  shows, 
Such  as  befit  the  pleasure  of  the  court  ? 
Sounddrumsand  trumpets !  farewell,  sourannoyi 
For  here,  I  hope,  begins  our  lasting  joy. 

[Exeunt. 


oi&h^Jns  oT 
srrft*3it)f>  n.r.  I 


THE   LIFE   AND   DEATH   OF 
KING   RICHARD    III. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


yf  It  fb 
z  nas  I 


KING  EDWARD  THE  FOURTH. 

EDWARD,  Prince  of  Wales,  after-  \  ~  jL 

wards  KING  EDWARD  V.,     f  Son*  to  the 

RICHARD,  Duke  of  York,  } 

GEORGE,  Duke  of  Clarence,  \  R      , 

RICHARD,  Duke  of  Gloster,  after-  }  *rot™rs  to 
wards  Ki>'<;  RICHARD  III.,  )  * 

A  Young  Son  of  Clarence. 

HENRY,  Earl  of  Richmond,  afterwards  KING 
HENRY  VII. 

CARDINAL  BOUCHIER,  Archbishop  of  Canter- 
bury. 

THOMAS  ROTHERAM,  Archbishop  of  York. 

JOHN  MORTON,  Bishop  of  Ely. 

DUKE  OF  BUCKINGHAM. 

DUKE  of  NORFOLK. 

EARL  OF  SURREY,  his  Son. 

EARL  RIVERS,  Brother  to  KING  EDWARD'S 
Queen. 

MARQUISOF  DORSET  andl^KDCiKSX,  her  Sons. 

EARL  OF  OXFORD. 

LORD  HASTINGS. 

LORD  STANLEY. 

LORD  LOVEL. 

SIR  THOMAS  VAUGHAN. 


luodA 
swhH  1C 


SIR  RICHARD  RATCLIFF 

SIR  WILLIAM  CATESBY. 

SIR  JAMES  TYRREL. 

SIR  JAMES  BLOUNT. 

SIR  WALTER  HERBERT. 

SIR  ROBERT  BRAKENBURY,  Lieutenant  of  tht 

Tower. 

CHRISTOPHER  URSWICK,  a  Priest. 
Another  Priest. 
Lord  Mayor  of  London. 
Sheriff  of  Wiltshire. 

ELIZABETH,  Queen  to  KING  EDWARD  IV. 

MARGARET,  Widow  to  KING  HENRY  VI. 

DUCHESS  OF  YORK,  Mother  to  KING  EDWARD 
IV.,  CLARENCE,  and  GLOSTER. 

LADY  ANNE,  Widow  to  EDWARD,  Prince  of 
Wales,  Son  to  KING  HENRY  VI. ;  after- 
wards married  to  the  DUKE  OF  GLOSTER. 

A  Young  Daughter  of  Clarence. 

Lords,  and  other  Attendants;  two  Gentlemen, 
a  Pursuivant,  Scrivener,  Citizens,  Mur- 
derers, Messengers,  Ghosts,  Soldiers,  <5rV. 


SCENE,— ENGLAND. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I. — LONDON.    A  Street. 
Enter  GLOSTER. 

Glo.  Now  is  the  winter  of  our  discontent 
Made  glorious  summer  by  this  sun  of  York  ; 
And  all  the  clouds  that  lower'd  upon  our  house 
In  the  deep  bosom  of  the  ocean  buried. 
Now   are  our    brows    bound   with  victorious 

wreaths ; 

Our  bruised  arms  hung  up  for  monuments  ; 
Our  stern  alarums  chang'd  to  merry  meetings, 
Our  dreadful  marches  to  delightful  measures. 
Grim-visag'd  war  hath  smooth'd  his  wrinkled 

front ; 
And  now,— instead  of  mounting  barbed  steeds 


To  fright  the  souls  of  fearful  adversaries, —  - 

He  capers  nimbly  in  a  lady's  chamber 

To  the  lascivious  pleasing  of  a  lute. 

But  I, — that  am  not  shap'd  for  sportive  tricks, 

Nor  made  to  court  an  amorous  looking-glass; 

I,  that  am  rudely  stamp'd,  and  want  love's 

majesty 

To  strut  before  a  wanton  ambling  nymph ; 
I,  that  am  curtail'd  of  this  fair  proportion, 
Cheated  of  feature  by  dissembling  nature, 
Deform'd,  unfinish'd,  sent  before  my  time 
Into  this  breathing  world  scarce  half  made  up, 
And  that  so  lamely  and  unfashionable 
That  dogs  bark  at  me  as  I  halt  by  them ; — 
Why,  I,  in  this  weak  piping  time  of  peace, 
Have  no  delight  to  pass  away  the  time, 
Unless  to  spy  my  shadow  in  the  sun, 
And  descant  on  mine  own  deformity : 


674 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


[ACT 


And  therefore, — since  I  cannot  prove  a  lover, 
To  entertain  these  fair  well-spoken  days, — 
I  am  determined  to  prove  a  villain, 
And  hate  the  idle  pleasures  of  these  days. 
Plots  have  I  laid,  inductions  dangerous, 
By  drunken  prophecies,  libels,  and  dreams, 
To  set  my  brother  Clarence  and  the  king 
In  deadly  hate  the  one  against  the  other : 
And,  if  King  Edward  be  as  true  and  just 
As  I  am  subtle,  false,  and  treacherous, 
This  day  should  Clarence  closely  be  mew'd  up, — 
About  a  prophecy,  which  says  that  G 
Of  Edward's  heirs  the  murderer  shall  be. 
Dive,  thoughts,  down  to  my  soul : — here  Clar- 
ence comes. 

Enter  CLARENCE,  guarded,  and  BRAKENBURY. 

Brother,   good-day:    what   means   this   armed 

guard, 
That  waits  upon  your  grace? 

Clar.  His  majesty, 

Tendering  my  person's  safety,  hath  appointed 
This  conduct  to  convey  me  to  the  Tower. 
Glo.   Upon  what  cause? 
Clar.  Because  my  name  is  George. 

Glo.  Alack,  my  lord,  that  fault  is  none  of 

yours ; 

He  should,  for  that,  commit  your  godfathers : — 
O,  belike  his  majesty  hath  some  intent 
That  you  shall  be  new-christen'd  in  the  Tower. 
But  what 's  the  matter,  Clarence  ?  may  I  know? 
Clar.  Yea,   Richard,   when  I  know;   for  I 

protest 

As  yet  I  do  not :  but,  as  I  can  learn, 
He  hearkens  aftei  prophecies  and  dreams ; 
And  from  the  cross-row  plucks  the  letter  G, 
And  says  a  wizard  told  him  that  by  G 
His  issue  disinherited  should  be  ; 
And,  for  my  name  of  George  begins  with  G, 
It  follows  in  his  thought  that  I  am  he. 
These,  as  I  learn,  a;<d  such  like  toys  as  these, 
Have  mov'd  his  highness  to  commit  me  now. 
Glo.  Why,  this  it  is,  when  men  are  rul'd  by 

women : — 

'Tis  not  the  king  that  sends  you  to  the  Tower ; 
My  Lady  Grey,  his  wife,  Clarence,  'tis  she 
That  tempers  him  to  this  extremity. 
Was  it  not  she,  and  that  good  man  of  worship, 
Antony  Woodville,  her  brother  there, 
That  made  him   send  Lord   Hastings  to  the 

Tower, 

From  whence  this  present  day  he  is  deliver'd? 
We  are  not  safe,  Clarence ;  we  are  not  safe. 
Clar.  By  heaven,  I  think  there  is  no  man 

secure  [heralds 

But  the  queen's   kindred,  and   night-walking 
That  trudge  betwixt  the  king  and  Mistress  Shore. 


Heard  you  not  what  an  humble  suppliant 
Lord  Hastings  was  to  her  for  his  delivery  ? 

Glo.  Humbly  complaining  to  her  deity 
Got  my  lord  chamberlain  his  liberty. 
I  '11  tell  you  what, — I  think  it  is  our  way, 
If  we  will  keep  in  favour  with  the  king, 
To  be  her  men,  and  wear  her  livery: 
The  jealous  o'er-worn  widow  and  herself, 
Since  that  our   brother  dubb'd  them  gentle- 
women, 
Are  mighty  gossips  in  this  monarchy.         [me ; 

Brak.  I  beseech  your  graces  both  to  pardon 
His  majesty  hath  straitly  given  in  charge 
That  no  man  shall  have  private  conference, 
Of  what  degree  soever,  with  his  brother. 

Glo.  Even  so;  an  please  your  worship,  Braken- 

bury, 

You  may  partake  of  anything  we  say : 
We  speak  no  treason,  man; — we  say  the  king 
Is  wise  and  virtuous ;  and  his  noble  queen 
Well  struck  in  years,  fair,  and  not  jealous;-— 
We  say  that  Shore's  wife  hath  a  pretty  foot, 
A  cherry  lip,  a  bonny  eye,  a  passing  pleasing 

tongue ; 

And  the  queen's  kindred  are  made  gentlefolks : 
How  say  you,  sir?  can  you  deny  all  this? 

Brak.  With    this,    my   lord,    myself  have 
naught  to  do. 

Glo.  Naught  to  do  with  Mistress  Shore !  I  tell 

thee,  fellow, 

He  that  doth  naught  with  her,  excepting  one, 
Were  best  to  do  it  secretly,  alone. 

Brak.  What  one,  my  lord?  [tray  me? 

Glo.  Her  husband,  knave: — would  st  thou  be- 

Brak.  I  beseech  your  grace  to  pardon  me ; 

and,  withal, 
Forbear  your  conference  with  the  noble  duke. 

Clar.  We  know  thy  charge,  Brakenbury,  and 
will  obey.  [obey. — 

Glo.  We  are  the  queen's  abjects,  and  must 
Brother,  farewell:  I  will  unto  the  king; 
And  whatsoe'er  you  will  employ  me  in, — 
Were  it  to  call  King  Edward's  widow  sister, — 
I  will  perform  it  to  enfranchise  you. 
Meantime,  this  deep  disgrace  in  brotherhood 
Touches  me  deeper  than  you  can  imagine. 

Clar.  I  know  it  pleaseth  neither  of  us  well. 

Glo.  Well,  your  imprisonment  shall  not  be 

long; 

I  will  deliver  you,  or  else  He  for  you: 
Meantime,  have  patience. 

Clar.  I  must  perforce:  farewell. 

{Exeunt  CLAR. ,  BRAK.,  and  Guard. 

Glo.  Go,  tread  the  path  that  thou  shalt  ne'er 

return, 

Simple,  .plain  Clarence ! — I  do  love  thee  so 
That  I  will  shortly  send  thy  soul  to  heaven, 


SCENE  I.I 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


675 


If  heaven  will  take  the  present  at  our  hands. — 
But  who  comes  here?  the  new-deliver'd  Hast- 
ings? 

Enter  HASTINGS. 

Hast.  Good  time  of  day  unto  my  gracious 
lord !  [lain ! 

Glo.  As  much  unto  my  good  lord  chamber- 
Well  are  you  welcome  to  this  open  air. 
How  hath  your  lordship  brook'd  imprisonment  ? 
Hast.  With  patience,  noble  lord,  as  prisoners 

must: 

But  I  shall  live,  my  lord,  to  give  them  thanks 
That  were  the  cause  of  my  imprisonment. 
Glo.  No  doubt,  no  doubt ;  and  so  shall  Clar- 
ence too; 

For  they  that  were  your  enemies  are  his, 
And  have  prevail'd  as  much  on  him  as  you. 
Hast.   More  pity  that  the  eagle  should  be 

mew'd 

While  kites  and  buzzards  prey  at  liberty. 
Glo.  What  news  abroad? 
Hast.    No  news  so  bad  abroad  as  this  at 

home, — 

The  king  is  sickly,  weak,  and  melancholy, 
And  his  physicians  fear  him  mightily. 

Glo.  Now,  by  Saint  Paul,  this  news  is  bad 

indeed. 

O,  he  hath  kept  an  evil  diet  long, 
And  overmuch  consum'd  his  royal  person : 
'Tis  very  grievous  to  be  thought  upon. 
What,  is  he  in  his  bed? 
Hast.  He  is. 

Glo.  Go  you  before,  and  I  will  follow  you. 

[Exit  HASTINGS. 

He  cannot  live,  I  hope ;  and  must  not  die 
Till  George  be  pack'd  with  posthorse  up  to 

heaven. 

I  '11  in,  to  urge  his  hatred  more  to  Clarence, 
With  lies  well  steel'd  with  weighty  arguments ; 
And,  if  I  fail  not  in  my  deep  intent, 
Clarence  hath  not  another  day  to  ?ive : 
Which  done,  God  take  King  Edward  to  his  mercy, 
And  leave  the  world  for  me  to  bustle  in ! 
For    then    I  '11    marry    Warwick's    youngest 
daughter:  [father? 

What  though   I  kill'd   her  husband  and   her 
The  readiest  way  to  make  the  wench  amends 
Is  to  become  her  husband  and  her  father: 
The  which  will  I ;  not  all  so  much  for  love 
As  for  another  secret  close  intent, 
By  marrying  her,  which  I  must  reach  unto. 
But  yet  I  run  before  my  horse  to  market : 
Clarence  still  breathes;  Edward  still  lives  and 

reigns : 

When  they  are  gone,  then  must  I  count  my  gains. 

{Exit. 


SCENE  II. — LONDON.    Another  Street. 

Enter  the  Corpse  0/~KiNG  HENRY  THE  SIXTH, 
borne  in  an  open  coffin.  Gentlemen  bearing 
halberds  to  guard  it;  and  LADY  ANNE  as 
mourner. 
Anne.  Set  down,  set  down  your  honourable 

load, — 

If  honour  may  be  shrouded  in  a  hearse, — 
Whilst  I  awhile  obsequiously  lament 
The  untimely  fall  of  virtuous  Lancaster. — 
Poor  key-cold  figure  of  a  holy  king ! 
Pixie  ashes  of  the  house  01  Lancaster ! 
Thou  bloodless  remnant  of  that  royal  blood ! 
Be  it  lawful  that  I  invocate  thy  ghost, 
To  hear  the  lamentations  of  poor  Anne, 
Wife  to  thy  Edward,  to  thy  slaughter'd  son, 
Stabb'd  by  the  self-same  hand  that  made  these 

wounds ! 

Lo,  in  these  windows  that  let  forth  thy  life, 
I  pour  the  helpless  balm  of  my  poor  eyes: — 
O,  cursed  be  the  hand  that  made  these  holes ! 
Cursed  the  heart  that  had  the  heart  to  do  it ! 
Cursed  the  blood  that  let  this  blood  from  hence ! 
More  direful  hap  betide  that  hated  wretch 
That  makes  us  wretched  by  the  death  of  thee, 
Than  I  can  wish  to  adders,  spiders,  toads, 
Or  any  creeping  venom'd  thing  that  lives ! 
If  ever  he  have  child,  abortive  be  it, 
Prodigious,  and  untimely  brought  to  light, 
Whose  ugly  and  unnatural  aspect 
May  fright  the  hopeful  mother  at  the  view ; 
And  that  be  heir  to  his  unhappiness ! 
If  ever  he  have  wife,  let  her  be  made 
More  miserable  by  the  death  of  him 
Than  I  am  made  by  my  young  lord  and  thee ! — 
Come,  now  towards  Chertsejrwith  your  holy  load, 
Taken  from  Paul's  to  be  interred  there ; 
And  still,  as  you  are  weary  of  the  weight, 
Rest  you,  whiles  I  lament  King  Henry's  corse. 
[  The  Bearers  take  up  the  Corpse  and  advance. 

Enter  GLOSTER. 

Glo.  Stay,  you  that  bear  the  corse,  and  set  it 
down.  [fiend, 

Anne.  What  black  magician  conjures  up  this 
To  stop  devoted  charitable  deeds? 

Glo.  Villains,  set  down  the  corse;   or,  by 

Saint  Paul, 
I  '11  make  a  corse  of  him  that  disobeys  ! 

i  Gent.  My  lord,   stand  back,  and  let  the 
coffin  pass.  [command: 

Glo.  Unmanner'd  dog!  stand  thou,  when  I 
Advance  thy  halberd  higher  than  my  breast, 
Or,  by  Saint  Paul,  I  '11  strike  thee  to  my  foot, 
And  spurn  upon  thee,  beggar,  for  thy  boldness. 
[The  Bearers  set  down  the  coffin. 


676 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


[ACT  i. 


Anne.  What,  do  you  tremble?  are  you  all 

afraid? 

Alas,  I  blame  you  not ;  for  you  are  mortal, 
And  mortal  eyes  cannot  endure  the  devil. — 
Avaunt,  thou  dreadful  minister  of  hell ! 
Thou  hadst  but  power  over  his  mortal  body, 
His  soul  thou  canst  not  have ;  therefore,  be  gone. 
Glo.  Sweet  saint,  for  charity,  be  not  so  curst. 
Anne.  Foul  devil,  for  God's  sake,  hence,  and 

trouble  us  not ; 

For  thou  hast  made  the  happy  earth  thy  hell, 
Fill'd  it  with  cursing  cries  and  deep  exclaims. 
If  thou  delight  to  view  thy  heinous  deeds, 
Behold  this  pattern  of  thy  butcheries.  — 
O,  gentlemen,  see,  see  !  dead  Henry's  wounds 
Open  their  congeal'd  mouths  and  bleed  afresh ! 
Blush,  blush,  thou  lump  of  foul  deformity ; 
For  'tis  thy  presence  that  exhales  this  blood 
From  cold  and  empty  veins,  where  no  blood 

dwells ; 

Thy  deed,  inhuman  and  unnatural, 
Provokes  this  deluge  most  unnatural. — 
O  God,  which  this  blood  mad'st,  revenge  his 

death ! 

O  earth,  which  this  blood  drink'st,  revenge  his 
death  !  [derer  dead ; 

Either,  heaven,  with  lightning  strike  the  mur- 
Or,  earth,  gape  open  wide,  and  eat  him  quick, 
As  thou  dost  swallow  up  this  good  king's  blood, 
Which  his  hell-govern' d  arm  hath  butchered ! 

Glo.  Lady,  you  know  no  rules  of  charity, 
Which  renders  good  for  bad,  blessings  for  curses. 
Anne.  Villain,  thou  know'st  no  law  of  God 

nor  man : 

No  beast  so  fierce  but  knows  some  touch  of  pity. 

Glo.  But  I  know  none,  and  therefore  am  no 

beast.  [truth ! 

Anne.  O   wonderful,  when  devils  tell  the 

Glo.  More  wonderful  when  angels  are  so 

angry. — 

Vouchsafe,  divine  perfection  of  a  woman, 
Of  these  supposed  evils  to  give  me  leave, 
By  circumstance,  but  to  acquit  myself. 

Anne.  Vouchsafe,  diffus'd  infection  of  a  man, 
For  these  known  evils  but  to  give  me  leave, 
By  circumstance,  to  curse  thy  cursed  self. 
Glo.  Fairer  than  tongue  can  name  thee,  let 

me  have 
Some  patient  leisure  to  excuse  myself. 

Anne.  Fouler  than  heart   can   think   thee, 

thou  canst  make 
No  excuse  current,  but  to  hang  thyself. 

Glo.  By  such  despair  I  should  accuse  myself. 
Anne.  And  by  despairing  shalt  thou  stand 

excus'd ; 

For  doing  worthy  vengeance  on  thyself, 
That  didst  unworthy  slaughter  upon  others. 


Glo.  Say  that  I  slew  them  not? 

Anne.  Then  say  they  were  not  slain : 

But  dead  they  are,  and,  devilish  slave,  by  thee. 

Glo.   I  did  not  kill  your  husband. 

Anne.  Why,  then,  he  is  alive. 

Glo.  Nay,  he  is  dead ;  and  slain  by  Edward's 
hand. 

Anne.  In  thy  foul  throat  thou  liest :  Queen 

Margaret  saw 

Thy  murderous  falchion  smoking  in  his  blood ; 
The  which  thou  once  didst  bend  against  her 

breast, 
But  that  thy  brothers  beat  aside  the  point. 

Glo.  I  was  provoked  by  her  slanderous  tongue, 
That  laid  their  guilt  upon  my  guiltless  shoulders. 

Anne.  Thou  wast  provoked  by  thy  bloody 

mind, 

That  never  dreamt  on  aught  but  butcheries: 
Didst  thou  not  kill  this  king? 

Glo.  I  grant  ye. 

Anne.  Dost  grant  me,  hedgehog?  then,  God 

grant  me  too 

Thou  mayst  be  damned  for  that  wicked  deed  ! 
O,  he  was  gentle,  mild,  and  virtuous. 

Glo.  The  fitter  for  the  King  of  Heaven,  that 
hath  him.  [come. 

Anne.  He  is  in  heaven,  where  thou  shalt  never 

Glo.  Let  him  thank  me,  that  holp  to  send  him 

thither; 
For  he  was  fitter  for  that  place  than  earth. 

Anne.  And  thou  unfit  for  any  place  but  hell. 

Glo.  Yes,  one  place  else,  if  you  will  hear  me 
name  it. 

Anne.  Some  dungeon. 

Glo.  Your  bed-chamber. 

Anne.  Ill  rest  betide  the  chamber  where  thou 
liest! 

Glo.  So  will  it,  madam,  till  I  lie  with  you. 

Anne.  I  hope  so. 

Glo.  I  know  so. — But,  gentle  Lady  Anne, — 
To  leave  this  keen  encounter  of  our  wits, 
And  fall  somewhat  into  a  slower  method, — 
Is  not  the  causer  of  the  timeless  deaths 
Of  these  Plantagenets,  Henry  and  Edward, 
As  blameful  as  the  executioner?  [effect 

Anne.  Thou  wast  the  cause  and  most  accurs'd 

Glo.  Your  beauty  was  the  cause  of  that  effect  5 
Your  beauty,  that  did  haunt  me  in  my  sleep 
To  undertake  the  death  of  all  the  world, 
So  I  might  live  one  hour  in  your  sweet  bosom. 

Anne.  If  I  thought  that,  I  tell  thee,  homicide, 

These  nails  should  rend  that  beauty  from  my 

cheeks.  [wreck ; 

Glo.  These  eyes  could  not  endure  that  beautyV 
You  should  not  blemish  it  if  I  stood  by : 
As  all  the  world  is  cheered  by  the  sun, 
So  I  by  that ;  it  is  my  day,  my  life. 


n/3 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


677 


Anne.   Black   night  o'ershade  thy  day,  and 
death  thy  life !  [both. 

Glo.  Curse  not  thyself,  fair  creature ;  thou  art 

Anne.  I  would  I  were,  to  be  reveng'd  on  thee. 

Glo.  It  is  a  quarrel  most  unnatural, 
To  be  reveng'd  on  him  that  loveth  thee. 

Anne.  It  is  a  quarrel  just  and  reasonable, 
To  be  reveng'd  on  him  that  kill'd  my  husband. 

670.  He  that  bereft  thee,  lady,  of  thy  husband, 
Did  it  to  help  thee  to  a  better  husband. 

Anne.  His  better  doth  not  breathe  upon  the 
earth.  [could. 

Glo.  He  lives  that  loves  thee  better  than  he 

Anne.  Name  him. 

Glo.  Plantagenet. 

Anne.  Why,  that  was  he. 

Glo.  The  self-same  name,  but  one  of  better 
nature. 

Anne.  Where  is  he? 

Glo.  Here.   {She  spits  at  him.'}  Why 

dost  thou  spit  at  me?  [sake ! 

Annt.  Would  it  were  mortal  poison,  for  thy 

Glo.  Never  came  poison  from  so  sweet  a  place. 

Anne.  Never  hung  poison  on  a  fouler  toad. 
Out  of  my  sight !  thou  dost  infect  mine  eyes. 

Glo.  Thine  eyes,  sweet  lady,  have  infected 
mine. 

Anne.  Would  they  were  basilisks,  to  strike 
thee  dead !  [once ; 

Glo.  I  would  they  were,  that  I  might  die  at 
For  now  they  kill  me  with  a  living  death. 
Those  eyes  of  thine  from  mine  have  drawn  salt 
tears,  [drops : 

Sham'd  their   aspects  with   store  of  childish 
These  eyes,  which  never  shed  remorseful  tear, 
No,  when  my  father  York  and  Edward  wept, 
To  hear  the  piteous  moan  that  Rutland  made 
When  black-fac'd  Clifford  shook  his  sword  at  him ; 
Nor  when  thy  warlike  father,  like  a  child, 
Told  the  sad  story  of  my  father's  death, 
And  twenty  times  made  pause,  to  sob  and  weep, 
That  all  the  standers-by  had  wet  their  cheeks, 
Like  trees  bedash'd  with  rain  ;  in  that  sad  time 
My  manly  eyes  did  scorn  an  humble  tear  ; 
And  what  these  sorrows  could  not  thence  exhale, 
Thy  beauty  hath,  and  made  them  blind  with 

weeping. 

I  never  su'd  to  friend  nor  enemy  ;  [word  ; 

My  tongue  could  never  learn  sweet  smoothing 
But,  now  thy  beauty  is  propos'd  my  fee, 
My  proud  heart  sues,  and  prompts  my  tongue 
to  speak.  [She  looks  scornfully  at  him. 
Teach  not  thy  lip  such  scorn  ;  for  it  was  made 
For  kissing,  lady,  not  for  such  contempt. 
If  thy  revengeful  heart  cannot  forgive, 
Lo,  here  I  lend  thee  this  sharp-pointed  sword  ; 
Which  if  thou  please  to  hide  in  this  true  breast, 


And  let  the  soul  forth  that  adoreth  thee, 
I  lay  it  naked  to  the  deadly  stroke, 
And  humbly  beg  the  death  upon  my  knee. 
Nay,  do  not  pause  ;  for  I  did  kill  King  Henry, — 
[He  lays  his  breast  open  ;  she  offers 

at  it  with  his  sword. 
But  'twas  thy  beauty  that  provoked  me. 
Nay,  now  despatch ;  'twas  I  that  stabb'd  young 
Edward, — 

{She  again  offers  at  his  breast. 
But  'twas  thy  heavenly  face  that  set  me  on. 

{She  lets  fall  the  sword. 
Take  up  the  sword  again,  or  take  up  me. 

Anne.  Arise,  dissembler  :  though  I  wish  thy 

death, 
I  will  not  be  thy  executioner. 

Glo.  Then  bid  me  kill  myself,  and  I  will  do  it. 

Anne.  I  have  already. 

Glo.  That  was  in  thy  rage : 

Speak  it  again,  and,  even  with  the  word, 
This  hand,  which  for  thy  love  did  kill  thy  love, 
Shall,  for  thy  love,  kill  a  far  truer  love  ; 
To  both  their  deaths  shalt  thou  be  accessary. 

Anne.   I  would  I  knew  thy  heart. 

Glo.  'Tis  figured  in  my  tongue. 

Anne.   I  fear  me  both  are  false. 

Glo.  Then  never  man  was  true. 

Anne.  Well,  well,  put  up  your  sword, 

Glo.  Say,  then,  my  peace  is  made. 

Anne.  That  shalt  thou  know  hereafter 

Glo.  But  shall  I  live  in  hope  ? 

Anne.  All  men,  I  hope,  live  so. 

Glo.  Vouchsafe  to  wear  this  ring. 

Anne.  To  take  is  not  to  give. 

{She  puts  on  the  ring. 

Glo.  Look,  how  this  ring  encompasseth  thy 

finger, 

Even  so  thy  breast  encloseth  my  poor  heart ; 
Wear  both  of  them,  for  both  of  them  are  thine. 
And  if  thy  poor  devoted  servant  may 
But  beg  one  favour  at  thy  gracious  hand, 
Thou  dost  confirm  his  happiness  for  ever. 

Anne.  What  is  it  ?  [designs 

Glo.  That  it  may  please  you  leave  these  sad 
To  him  that  hath  more  cause  to  be  a  mourner, 
And  presently  repair  to  Crosby  Place  ; 
Where, — after  I  have  solemnly  interr'd, 
At  Chertsey  monastery,  this  noble  king, 
And  wet  his  grave  with  my  repentant  tears, — 
I  will  with  all  expedient  duty  see  you  : 
For  divers  unknown  reasons,  I  beseech  you, 
Grant  me  this  boon.  [me  too 

Anne.  With  all  my  heart ;  and  much  it  joys 
To  see  you  are  become  so  penitent. — 
Tressel  and  Berkley,  go  along  with  me. 

Glo.  Bid  me  farewell. 

Anne.  'Tis  more  than  you  deserve : 


678 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


[ACT  i. 


But  since  you  teach  me  how  to  flatter  you, 
Imagine  I  have  said  farewell  already. 

[Exeunt  LADY  ANNE,  TRESS., 
Glo.  Sirs,  take  up  the  corse. 
Gent.  Towards  Chertsey,  noble  lord  ? 

Glo.  No,  to  White  Friars ;  there  attend  my 

coming. 

[Exeunt  the  rest,  with  the  Corpse. 
Was  ever  woman  in  this  humour  woo'd  ? 
Was  ever  woman  in.  this  humour  won  ? 
I  Ml  have  her  ;  but  I  will  not  keep  her  long. 
What !  I,  that  kill'd  her  husband  and  his  father, 
To  take  her  in  her  heart's  extremest  hate  ; 
With  curses  in  her  mouth,  tears  in  her  eyes, 
The  bleeding  witness  of  her  hatred  by  ; 
Having  God,  her  conscience,  and  these  bars 

against  me, 

And  I  no  friends  to  back  my  suit  withal, 
But  the  plain  devil  and  dissembling  looks, 
And  yet  to  win  her, — all  the  world  to  nothing ! 
Ha! 

Hath  she  forgot  already  that  brave  prince, 
Edward,  her  lord,  whom  I,  some  three  months 

since, 

Stabb'd  in  my  angry  mood  at  Tewksbury? 
A  sweeter  and  a  lovelier  gentleman, — 
Fram'd  in  the  prodigality  of  nature, 
Young,    valiant,    wise,   and,    no   doubt,   right 

royal, — 

The  spacious  world  cannot  again  afford  : 
And  will  she  yet  abase  her  eyes  on  me. 
That  cropp'd  the  golden  prime  of  this  sweet 

prince, 

And  made  her  widow  to  a  woeful  bed  ? 
On  me,  whose  all  not  equals  Edward's  moiety? 
On  me,  that  halt  and  am  misshapen  thus  ? 
My  dukedom  to  a  beggarly  denier, 
I  do  mistake  my  person  all  this  while  : 
Upon  my  life,  she  finds,  although  I  cannot, 
Myself  to  be  a  marvellous  proper  man. 
I  '11  be  at  charges  for  a  looking-glass  ; 
And  entertain  a  score  or  two  of  tailors, 
To  study  fashions  to  adorn  my  body : 
Since  I  am  crept  in  favour  with  myself, 
I  will  maintain  it  with  some  little  cost. 
But  first  I  '11  turn  yon  fellow  in  his  grave ; 
And  then  return  lamenting  to  my  love. — • 
Shine  out,  fair  sun,  till  I  have  bought  a  glass, 
That  I  may  see  my  shadow  as  I  pass.      [Exit. 

SCENE  III. — LONDON.    A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  QUEEN  ELIZABETH,  LORD  RIVERS, 
and  LORD  GREY. 

Riv.  Have  patience,  madam:  there's  no  doubt 

his  majesty 
Will  soon  recover  his  accustom'd  health. 


Grey.   In  that  you  brook  it  ill,  it  makes  him 

worse  :  [fort, 

Therefore,  for  God's  sake,  entertain  good  com- 

And  cheer  his  grace  with  quick  and  merry  words. 

Q.  Eliz.   If  he  were  dead,  what  would  betide 
on  me? 

Grey.  No  other  harm  but  loss  of  such  a  lord. 

Q.  Eliz.  The  loss  of  such  a  lord  includes  all 
harms.  [goodly  son, 

Grey.  The  heavens  have  bless'd  you  with  a 
To  be  your  comforter  when  he  is  gone. 

Q.  Eliz.  Ah,  he  is  young ;  and  his  minority 
Is  put  unto  the  trust  of  Richard  Gloster, 
A  man  that  loves  not  me,  nor  none  of  you. 

Riv.  Is  it  concluded  he  shall  be  protector? 

Q.  Eliz.  It  is  determin'd,  not  concluded  yet : 
But  so  it  must  be,  if  the  king  miscarry. 

Enter  BUCKINGHAM  and  STANLEY. 

Grey.  Here  come  the  Lords  of  Buckingham 

and  Stanley.  [grace ! 

Buck.  Good   time  of  day  unto  your  royal 

Stan.  God  make  your  majesty  joyful  as  you 

have  been ! 
Q.  Eliz.  The  Countess  Richmond,  good  my 

Lord  of  Stanley, 

To  your  good  prayer  will  scarcely  say  amen. 
Yet,  Stanley,  notwithstanding  she 's  your  wife, 
And  loves  not  me,  be  you,  good  lord,  assur'd 
I  hate  not  you  for  her  proud  arrogance. 

Stan.  I  do  beseech  you,  either  not  believe 
The  envious  slanders  of  her  false  accusers ; 
Or,  if  she  be  accus'd  on  true  report, 
Bear  with  her  weakness,  which  I  think  proceeds 
From    wayward   sickness,    and    no   grounded 
malice.  [of  Stanley? 

Q.  Eliz.  Saw  you  the  king  to-day,  my  Lord 
Stan.  But  now  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  and  I 
Are  come  from  visiting  his  majesty.  [lords? 
Q.  Eliz.  What  likelihood  of  his  amendment, 
Buck.  Madam,  good  hope ;  his  grace  speaks 

cheerfully. 

Q.  Eliz.  God  grant  him  health !  Did  you  con- 
fer with  him?  [ment 
Buck.  Ay,  madam :  he  desires  to  make  atone- 
Between  the  Duke  of  Gloster  and  your  brothers, 
And  between  them  and  my  lord  chamberlain  ; 
And  sent  to  warn  them  to  his  royal  presence. 
Q.  Eliz.  Would  all  were  well !— but  that  will 

never  be : 
I  fear  our  happiness  is  at  the  height. 

Enter  GLOSTER,  HASTINGS,  and  DORSET. 

Glo.  They  do  me  wrong,  and  I  will  not  en- 
dure it: — 

Who  are  they  that  complain  unto  the  king 
That  I,  forsooth,  am  stern,  and  love  them  not? 


SCENE  III.] 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


679 


By  holy  Paul,  they  love  his  grace  but  lightly 
That  fill  his  ears  with  such  dissentious  rumours. 
Because  I  cannot  flatter  and  speak  fair, 
Smile  in  men's  faces,  smooth,  deceive,  and  cog, 
Duck  with  French  nods  and  apish  courtesy, 
I  must  be  held  a  rancorous  enemy. 
Cannot  a  plain  man  live,  and  think  no  harm, 
But  thus  his  simple  truth  must  be  abus'd 
By  silken,  sly  insinuating  Jacks?     [your  grace? 
Grey.   To  whom  in  all  this  presence  speaks 
Glo.  To  thee,  that  hast  nor  honesty  nor  grace. 
When  have  I  injur'd  thee?   when  done  thee 

wrong? — 

Or  thee? — or  thee? — or  any  of  your  faction? 
A  plague  upon  you  all !  His  royal  grace, — 
Whom  God  preserve  better  than  you  would 

wish ! — 

Cannot  be  quiet  scarce  a  breathing  while, 
But   you   must  trouble  him  with   lewd  com- 
plaints, [matter. 
Q.  Eliz.  Brother  of  Gloster,  you  mistake  the 
The  king,  on  his  own  royal  disposition, 
And  not  provok'd  by  any  suitor  else — 
Aiming,  belike,  at  your  interior  hatred, 
That  in  your  outward  action  shows  itself 
Against  my  children,  brothers,  and  myself — 
Makes  him  to  send  ;  that  thereby  he  may  gather 
The  ground  of  your  ill-will,  and  so  remove  it. 

Glo.  I  cannot  tell :  the  world  is  grown  so  bad, 
That  wrens  may  prey  where  eagles  dare  not 

perch : 

Since  every  Jack  became  a  gentleman, 
There 's  many  a  gentle  person  made  a  Jack. 
Q.  Eliz.  Come,  come,  we  know  your  mean- 
ing, brother  Gloster; 

You  envy  my  advancement,  and  my  friends' ; 
God  grant  we  never  may  have  need  of  you ! 
Glo.  Meantime,  God  grants  that  we  have  need 

of  you : 

Our  brother  is  imprison'd  by  your  means, 
Myself  disgrac'd,  and  the  nobility 
Held  in  contempt ;  while  great  promotions 
Are  daily  given  to  ennoble  those 
That  scarce,  some  two  days  since,  were  worth 
a  noble.  [height 

Q.  Eliz.  By  Him  that  rais'd  me  to  this  careful 
From  that  contented  hap  which  I  enjoyM, 
I  never  did  incense  his  majesty 
Against  the  Duke  of  Clarence,  but  have  been 
An  earnest  advocate  to  plead  for  him. 
My  lord,  you  do  me  shameful  injury, 
Falsely  to  draw  me  in  these  vile  suspects. 
Glo.  You  may  deny  that  you  were  not  the 

mean 

Of  my  Lord  Hastings'  late  imprisonment. 
Riv.  She  may,  my  lord;  for, —         [not  so? 
Glo.  She  may,  Lord  Rivers? — why,  who  knows 


She  may  do  more,  sir,  than  denying  that: 
She  may  help  you  to  many  fair  preferments ; 
And  then  deny  her  aiding  hand  therein, 
And  lay  those  honours  on  your  high  desert. 
What  may  she  not?    She  may, — ay,  marry,  may 

she, — 

Riv.  What,  marry,  may  she?  [king, 

Glo.  What,  marry,  may  she !  marry  with  a 
A  bachelor,  a  handsome  stripling  too : 
I  wis  your  grandam  had  a  worser  match. 

Q.  Eliz.   My  Lord  of  Gloster,  I  have  too 

long  borne 

Your  blunt  upbraidings  and  your  bitter  scoffs: 
By  heaven,  I  will  acquaint  his  majesty 
Of  those  gross  taunts  that  oft  I  have  endur'd. 
I  had  rather  be  a  country  servant-maid 
Than  a  great  queen,  with  this  condition, — 
To  be  so  baited,  scorn'd,  and  stormed  at. 

Enter  QUEEN  MARGARET,  behind. 

Small  joy  have  I  in  being  England's  queen. 

Q.  Mar.  And  lessen'd  be  that  small,  God,  I 

beseech  Him  ! 
Thy  honour,  state,  and  seat  is  due  to  me. 

Glo.  What !  threat  you  me  with  telling  of  the 

king? 

Tell  him,  and  spare  not :  lock,  what  I  have  said 
I  will  avouch  in  presence  of  the  king: 
I  dare  adventure  to  be  sent  to  the  Tower. 
'Tis  time  to  speak, — my  pains  are  quite  forgot. 

Q.  Mar.  Out,  devil!  I  remember  them  too 

well: 

Thou  kill'dst  my  husband  Henry  in  the  Tower, 
And  Edward,  my  poor  son,  at  Tewksbury. 

Glo.  Ere  you  were  queen,  ay,  or  your  hus- 
band king, 

I  was  a  pack-horse  in  his  great  affairs ; 
A  weeder-out  of  his  proud  adversaries, 
A  liberal  rewarder  of  his  friends : 
To  royalize  his  blood  I  spilt  mine  own. 

Q.  Mar.  Ay,  and  much  better  blood  than  his 
or  thine.  [band  Grey 

Glo.   In  all  which  time  you  and  your  hus- 
Were  factious  for  the  house  of  Lancaster ; — 
And,  Rivers,  so  were  you :  was  not  your  husband 
In  Margaret's  battle  at  Saint  Albans  slain? 
Let  me  put  in  your  minds,  if  you  forget, 
What  you  have  been  ere  this,  and  what  you  are ; 
Withal,  what  I  have  been,  and  what  I  am. 

Q.  Mar.  A  murderous  villain,  and  so  still 
thou  art.  [Warwick ; 

Glo.   Poor  Clarence  did  forsake  his  father, 
Ay,  and  forswore  himself, — which  Jesu  par- 
don ! — 

Q.  Mar.  Which  God  revenge !          [crown ; 

Glo.   To  fight  on  Edward's  party,  for  the 
And  for  his  meed,  poor  lord,  he  is  mew'd  up. 


68o 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


[ACT  i. 


I  would  to  God  my  heart  were  flint,  like  Ed- 
ward's, 

Or  Edward's  soft  and  pitiful,  like  mine: 
I  am  too  childish -foolish  for  this  world. 

Q.  Mar.  Hie  thee  to  hell  for  shame,  and  leave 

this  world, 
Thou  cacodemon !  there  thy  kingdom  is. 

Riv.  My  Lord  of  Gloster,  in  those  busy  days 
Which  here  you  urge  to  prove  us  enemies, 
We  follow'd  then  our  lord,  our  sovereign  king : 
So  should  we  you,  if  you  should  be  our  king. 
Glo.    If  I  should  be! — I  had  rather   be   a 

pedler: 
Far  be  it  from  my  heart,  the  thought  thereof! 

Q.  Eliz.  As  little  joy,  my  lord,  as  you  suppose 
You  should  enjoy,   were  you  this  country's 

king,— 

As  little  joy  you  may  suppose  in  me, 
That  I  enjoy,  being  the  queen  thereof.         [of; 
Q.  Mar.  As  little  joy  enjoys  the  queen  there- 
For  I  am  she,  and  altogether  joyless. 
I  can  no  longer  hold  me  patient.  — •   [Advancing. 
Hear  me,  you  wrangling  pirates,  that  fall  out 
In  sharing  that  which  you  have  pi)  I'd  from  me  ! 
Which  of  you  trembles  not  that  looks  on  me  ? 
If  not  that,    I   being  queen,   you    bow   like 
subjects,  [rebels  ? — 

Yet   that,   by  you  deposM,   you   quake  like 
Ah,  gentle  villain,  do  not  turn  away  ! 

Glo.  Foul  wrinkled  witch,  what  mak'st  thou 
in  my  sight?  [marr'd, 

Q.  Mar.  But  repetition  of  what  thou  hast 
That  will  I  make  before  I  let  thee  go. 

Glo.  Wert  thou  not  banished  on  pain  of  death? 
Q.  Mar.  I  was;  but  I  do  find  more  pain  in 

banishment 

Than  death  can  yield  me  here  by  my  abode. 
A  husband  and  a  son  thoa  ow'st  to  me, — 
And  thou  a  kingdom, — all  of  you  allegiance : 
This  sorrow  that  I  have,  by  right  is  yours ; 
And  all  the  pleasures  you  usurp  are  mine. 

Glo.  The  curse  my  noble  father  laid  on  thee, 
When  thou  didst  crown  his  warlike  brows  with 
paper,  [eyes; 

And  with  thy  scorns  drew'st  rivers  from  his 
And  then,  to  dry  them,  gav'st  the  duke  a  clout 
Steep'd  in  the  faultless  blood  of  pretty  Rut- 
land ; — 

His  curses,  then  from  bitterness  of  soul 

Denounc'd  against  thee,  are  all  fallen  upon  thee ; 

And  God,  not  we,  hath  plagu'd  thy  bloody  deed. 

Q.  Eliz.  So  just  is  God,  to  right  the  innocent. 

Hast.  O,  'twas  the  foulest  deed  to  slay  that 

babe, 

And  the  most  merciless  that  e'er  was  heard  of. 
Riv.  Tyrants  themselves  wept  when  it  was 
reported. 


Dor.  No  man  but  prophesied  revenge  for  it. 

Buck.  Northumberland,  then  present,  wept 
to  see  it.  [I  came, 

Q.  Mar.  What,  were  you  snarling  all  before 
Ready  to  catch  each  other  by  the  throat, 
And  turn  you  all  your  hatred  now  on  me  ? 
Did  York's  dread  curse  prevail  so  much  with 

heaven 

That  Henry's  death,  my  lovely  Edward's  death, 
Their  kingdom's  loss,  my  woeful  banishment, 
Could  all  but  answer  for  that  peevish  brat  ? 
Can  curses  pierce  the  cloudsand  enter  heaven  ? — 
Why,  then,  give  way,  dull  clouds,  to  my  quick 

curses  ! — 

Though  not  by  war,  by  surfeit  die  your  king, 
As  ours  by  murder,  to  make  him  a  king  ! 
Edward  thy  son,  that  now  is  Prince  of  Wales, 
For  Edward  my  son,  that  was  Prince  of  Wales, 
Die  in  his  youth  by  like  untimely  violence  ! 
Thyself  a  queen,  for  me  that  was  a  queen, 
Outli ve  thy  glory,  like  my  wretched  self ! 
Long  mayst  thou  live  to  wail  thy  children's  loss ; 
And  see  another,  as  I  see  thee  now, 
Deck'd  in  thy  rights,  as  thou  art  stall 'd  in  mine ! 
Long  die  thy  happy  days  before  thy  death  ; 
And,  after  many  lengthen'd  hours  of  grief, 
Die  neither  mother,  wife,  nor  England's  queen ! — 
Rivers  and  Dorset,  you  were  standers  by, — 
And  so  wast  thou,  Lord  Hastings, — when  my 
son  [him, 

Was  stabb'd  with  bloody  daggers :  God,  I  pray 
That  none  of  you  may  live  your  natural  age, 
But  by  some  unlook'd  accident  cut  off ! 

Glo,  Have  done   thy   charm,    thou   hateful 
wither'd  hag. 

Q.  Mar.  And  leave  out  thee  ?  stay,  dog,  for 

thou  shall  hear  me. 

If  heaven  have  any  grievous  plague  in  store, 
Exceeding  those  that  I  can  wish  upon  thee, 
O,  let  them  keep  it  till  thy  sins  be  ripe, 
And  then  hurl  down  their  indignation 
On  thee,  the  troubler  of  the  poor  world's  peace  ! 
The  worm  of  conscience  still  be-gnaw  thy  soul  ! 
Thy  friends  suspect  for  traitors  while  thou  liv'st, 
And  take  deep  traitors  for  thy  dearest  friends  ! 
No  sleep  close  up  that  deadly  eye  of  thine, 
Unless  it  be  while  some  tormenting  dream 
Affrights  thee  with  a  hell  of  ugly  devils  ! 
Thou  elvish-mark'd,  abortive,  rooting  hog ! 
Thou  that  wast  seal'd  in  thy  nativity 
The  slave  of  nature  and  the  son  of  hell  ! 
Thou  slander  of  thy  heavy  mother's  womb ! 
Thou  loathed  issue  of  thy  father's  loins  ! 
Thou  rag  of  honour  !  thou  detested— 

Glo.  Margaret. 

Q.  Mar.  Richard  ! 

Glo.  Ha ! 


SCENE  III.] 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


68r 


Q.  Mar.  I  call  thee  not. 

Glo.  I  cry  thee  mercy,  then  ;  for  I  did  think 

That  thou  hadst  call'd  me  all  those  bitter  names. 

Q.  Mar.  Why,  so  I  did ;  but  look'd  for  no 


O,  let  me  make  the  period  to  my  curse  ! 

Glo.  'Tis  done  by  me,  and  ends  in — Margaret. 
Q.  Eliz.  Thus  have  you  breath'd  your  curse 

against  yourself. 
Q.  Mar.  Poor  painted  queen,  vain  flourish  of 

my  fortune  ! 

Why  strew'st  thou  sugar  on  that  bottled  spider, 
Whose  deadly  web  ensnareth  thee  about  ? 
Fool,  fool !  thou  whett'st  a  knife  to  kill  thyself. 
The  day  will  come  that  thou  shalt  wish  for  me 
To  help  thee  curse  this  poisonous  bunch-back;d 

toad. 
Hast.  False-boding  woman,  end  thy  frantic 

curse, 

Lest  to  thy  harm  thou  move  our  patience. 
Q.  Mar.  Foul  shame  upon  you  !  you  have  all 

mov'd  mine. 

Riv.  Were  you  well  serv'd,  you  would  be 

taught  your  duty.  [me  duty, 

Q.  Mar.  To  serve  me  well,  you  all  should  do 

Teach  me  to  be  your  queen,  and  you  my  subjects : 

O,  serve  me  well,  and  teach  yourselves  that 

duty ! 

Dor.  Dispute  not  with  her, — she  is  lunatic. 
Q.   Mar.    Peace,   master   marquis,   you  are 

malapert : 

Your  fire-new  stamp  of  honour  is  scarce  current : 
O,  that  your  young  nobility  could  judge 
What  'twere  to  lose  it,  and  be  miserable ! 
They  that  stand  high  have  many  blasts  to  shake 

them ; 

And  if  they  fall  they  dash  themselves  to  pieces. 
Glo.  Good  counsel,  marry :— learn  it,  learn  it, 

marquis. 

Dor.   It  touches  you,  my  lord,  as  much  as  me. 
Glo.  Ay,  and  much  more :  but  I  was  born  so 

high 

Our  aery  buildeth  in  the  cedar's  top, 
And  dallies  with  the  wind,  and  scorns  the  sun. 
Q.  Mar.  And  turns  the  sun  to  shade ; — alas  ! 

alas!— 

Witness  my  son,  now  in  the  shade  of  death  ; 
Whose  bright  out-shining  beams  thy  cloudy  wrath 
Hath  in  eternal  darkness  folded  up. 
Your  aery  buildeth  in  our  aery's  nest : — 
O  God,  that  see'st  it,  do  not  suffer  it ; 
As  it  was  won  with  blood,  lost  be  it  so ! 

Btick.  Peace,  peace,  for  shame,  if  not  for 

charity.  [me : 

Q.  Mar.   Urge  neither  charity  nor  shame  to 

Uncharitably  with  me  have  you  dealt, 

And  shamefully  my  hopes  by  you  are  butcher'd. 


My  charity  is  outrage,  life  my  shame,^— 
And  in  my  shame  still  live  my  sorrow's  rage  ! 

Buck.  Have  done,  have  done.  [hand, 

Q.  Mar.  O  princely  Buckingham,  I  '11  kiss  thy 
In  sign  of  league  and  amity  with  thee  : 
Now  fair  befall  thee  and  thy  noble  house  ! 
Thy  garments  are  not  spotted  with  our  blood, 
Nor  thou  within  the  compass  of  my  curse. 

Buck.  Nor  no  one  here  ;  for  curses  never  pass 
The  lips  of  those  that  breathe  them  in  the  air. 

Q.  Mar.  I  will  not  think  but  they  ascend  the 

sky, 
And  there  awake  God's  gentle  sleeping  peace. 

0  Buckingham,  take  heed  of  yonder  dog  ! 
Look,  when  he  fawns  he  bites ;  and  when  he 

bites, 

His  venom  tooth  will  rankle  to  the  death : 
Have  not  to  do  with  him,  beware  of  him  ; 
Sin,  death,  and  hell  have  set  their  marks  on  him, 
And  all  their  ministers  attend  on  him. 

Glo.  WTiat  doth  she  say,  my  Lord  of  Buck- 
ingham ?  [lord. 
Buck.  Nothing  that  I  respect,  my  gracious 
Q.  Mar.  What,  dost  thou  scorn  me  for  my 

gentle  counsel? 

And  soothe  the  devil  that  I  warn  thee  from  ? 
O,  but  remember  this  another  day, 
When  he  shall  split  thy  very  heart  with  sorrow, 
And  say,  poor  Margaret  was  a  prophetess  ! — 
Live  each  of  you  the  subjects  to  his  hate, 
And  he  to  yours,  and  all  of  you  to  God's  ! 

{Exit. 

Hast.  My  hair  doth  stand  on  end  to  hear  her 

curses.  [liberty. 

Riv.  And  so  doth  mine :  I  muse  why  she 's  at 

Glo.   I  cannot  blame  her:   by  God's  hcly 

mother, 

She  hath  had  too  much  wrong ;  and  I  repent 
My  part  thereof  that  I  have  done  to  her. 
Q.  Eliz.  I  neverdid  her  any,  to  my  knowledge. 
Glo.  Yet  you  have  all  the  vantage  of  her 
wrong. 

1  was  too  hot  to  do  somebody  good, 
That  is  too  cold  in  thinking  of  it  now. 
Marry,  as  for  Clarence,  he  is  well  repaid ; 
He  is  frank'd  up  to  fatting  for  his  pains ; 
God  pardon  them  that  are  the  ca>'se  thereof ! 

Riv.  A  virtuous  and  a  Christian-like  con- 
clusion, 
To  pray  for  them  that  have  done  scathe  to  us. 

Glo.  So  do  I  ever,  being  well  advis'd ; 
For  had  I  curs'd  now,  I  had  curs'd  myself. 

[Aside. 

Enter  CATESBY. 

Gates.  Madam,  his  majesty  doth  callfor  you, — 
And  for  your  grace, — and  you.  my  noble  lords. 


682 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


LACT  I. 


Q.  Eliz.  Catesby,  I  come.— Lords,  will  you 
go  with  me? 

Riv.  We  wait  upon  your  grace. 

[Exeunt  all  bttt  GLOSTER. 

Glo.  I  do  the  wrong,  and  first  begin  to  brawl. 
The  secret  mischiefs  that  I  set  abroach 
I  lay  unto  the  grievous  charge  of  others. 
Clarence, — whom  I,  indeed,  have  cast  in  dark- 
ness,— 

I  do  beweep  to  many  simple  gulls ; 
Namely,  to  Stanley,  Hastings,  Buckingham  ; 
And  tell  them  'tis  the  queen  and  her  allies 
That  stir  the  king  against  the  duke  my  brother. 
Now,  they  believe  it ;  and  withal  whet  me 
To  be  reveng'd  on  Rivers,  Vaughan,  Grey  : 
But  then  I  sigh ;  and,  with  a  piece  of  Scripture, 
Tell  them  that  God  bids  us  do  good  for  evil : 
And  thus  I  clothe  my  naked  villany 
With  odd  old  ends  stol'n  forth  of  holy  writ ; 
And  seem  a  saint  when  most  I  play  the  devil. — 
But,  soft !  here  come  my  executioners. 

Enter  two  Murderers. 

How  now,  my  hardy,  stout-resolved  mates  ! 
Are  you  now  going  to  despatch  this  thing  ? 
I  Murd.  We  are,  my  lord,  and  come  to  have 

the  warrant, 
That  we  may  be  admitted  where  he  is. 

Glo.  Well   thought  upon; — I  have  it  here 
about  me  :  [Gives  the  warrant. 

When  you  have  done,  repair  to  Crosby  Place. 
But,  sirs,  be  sudden  in  the  execution, 
Withal  obdurate,  do  not  hear  him  plead ; 
For  Clarence  is  well-spoken,  and  perhaps 
May  move  your  hearts  to  pity,  if  you  mark  him. 
I  Murd.  Tut,  tut,  my  lord,  we  will  not  stand 

to  prate  ; 

Talkers  are  no  good  doers  :  be  assur'd 
We  go  to  use  our  hands,  and  not  our  tongues. 
Glo.  Your  eyes  drop  millstones  when  fools' 

eyes  fall  tears  : 

I  like  you,  lads  ; — about  your  business  straight ; 
Go,  go,  despatch. 

I  Murd.  We  will,  my  noble  lord. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — LONDON.    A  Room  in  the  Tower. 
Enter  CLARENCE  and  BRAKENBURY. 

Brak.  Why  looks  your  grace  so  heavily  to- 
day? 

Clar.   O,  I  have  pass'd  a  miserable  night, 
So  full  of  fearful  dreams,  of  ugly  sights, 
That,  as  I  am  a  Christian  faithful  man, 
I  would  not  spend  another  such  a  night 
Though  'twere  to  buy  a  world  of  happy  days, — 
So  full  of  dismal  terror  was  the  time  ! 


Brak.  What  was  your  dream,  my  lord  ?  I  pray 
you,  tell  me.  [Tower, 

Clar.   Methought  that  I  had  broken  from  the 
And  was  embark'd  to  cross  to  Burgundy ; 
And,  in  my  company,  my  brother  Gloster  ; 
Who  from  my  cabin  tempted  me  to  walk 
Upon  the  hatches :  thence  we  look'd  toward 

England, 

And  cited  up  a  thousand  heavy  times, 
During  the  wars  of  York  and  Lancaster, 
That  had  befall'n  us.     As  we  pac'd  along 
Upon  the  giddy  footing  of  the  hatches, 
Methought   that   Gloster  stumbled ;    and,   in 
falling,  [board 

Struck  me,    that   thought  to   stay  him,  over- 
Into  the  tumbling  billows  of  the  main. 

0  Lord !  methought  what  pain  it  was  to  drown  ! 
What  dreadful  noise  of  water  in  mine  ears  ! 
What  sights  of  ugly  death  within  mine  eyes  ! 
Methought  I  saw  a  thousand  fearful  wrecks  ; 
A  thousand  men  that  fishes  gnaw'd  upon  ; 
Wedges  of  gold,  great  anchors,  heaps  of  pearl, 
Inestimable  stones,  unvalu'd  jewels, 

All  scatter'd  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea  :      [holes 
Some  lay  in  dead  men's  skulls ;  and  in  those 
Where  eyes  did  once  inhabit  there  were  crept, — 
As  'twere  in  scorn  of  eyes, — reflecting  gems, 
That  woo'd  the  slimy  bottom  of  the  deep, 
And  mock'd  the  dead  bones  that  lay  scatter'd  by. 

Brak.  Had  you  such  leisure  in  the  time  of 

death 
To  gaze  upon  the  secrets  of  the  deep  ?     [strive 

Clar.    Methought  I  had  ;    and  often  did   I 
To  yield  the  ghost :  but  still  the  envious  flood 
Stopp'd  in  my  soul,  and  would  not  let  it  forth 
To  find  the  empty,  vast,  and  wandering  air  ; 
But  smother'd  it  within  my  panting  bulk, 
Which  almost  burst  to  belch  it  in  the  sea. 

Brak.  Awak'd  you  not  with  this  sore  agony  ? 

Clar.  No,  no,  my  dream  was  lengthen'd  after 

life; 
O,  then  began  the  tempest  to  my  soul ! 

1  pass'd,  methought,  the  melancholy  flood 
With  that  grim  ferryman  which  poets  write  of, 
Unto  the  kingdom  of  perpetual  night. 

The  first  that  there  did  greet  my  stranger  soul 
Was   my  great  father-in-law,  renowned  War- 

wick ; 

Who  cried  aloud,  What  scourge  for  perjury 
Can  this  dark  monarchy  afford  false  Clarence? 
And  so  he  vanish'd :  then  came  wandering  by 
A  shadow  like  an  Angel,  with  bright  hair 
Dabbled  in  blood ;  and  he  shriek'd  out  aloud, 
Clarence  is  come, — -false,  fleeting,  perju^d  Clar- 
ence,— 

That  stabtfd  me  in  the  field  by  Teivksbury  ; — 
Seize  on  him,  Furies,  take  him  to  your  torments  ! 


SCENE  IV.] 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


With  that,  methought,  a  legion  of  foul  fiends 
Environ'd  me,  and  howled  in  mine  ears 
Such  hideous  cries  that,  with  the  very  noise, 
I  trembling  wak'd,  and  for  a  season  after 
Could  not  believe  but  that  I  was  in  hell, — 
Such  terrible  impression  made  my  dream. 
Brak.  No  marvel,  lord,  though  it  affrighted 

you  ; 
I  am  afraid,  methinks,  to  hear  you  tell  it. 

Clar.  O  Brakenbury,  I  have  done  those  things 
That  now  give  evidence  against  my  soul, 
For  Edward's  sake  ;  and  see  how  he  requites 

me ! —  [thee, 

0  God  1    If  my  deep  prayers  cannot  appease 
But  thou  wilt  be  aveng'd  on  my  misdeeds, 
Yet  execute  thy  wrath  in  me  alone, — 

O,  spare  my  guiltless  wife  and  my  poor  chil- 
dren ! — 

Keeper,  I  pr'ythee,  sit  by  me  awhile  ; 
My  soul  is  heavy,  and  I  fain  would  sleep. 
Brak.   I  will,  my  lord;  God  give  your  grace 

good  rest ! — 

[CLARENCE  reposes  himself  on  a  chair. 
Sorrow  breaks  seasons  and  reposing  hours, 
Makes  the  night  morning,  and  the  noontide 

night. 

Princes  have  but  their  titles  for  their  glories, 
An  outward  honour  for  an  inward  toil ; 
And,  for  unfelt  imaginations, 
They  often  feel  a  world  of  restless  cares  : 
So  that,  between  their  titles  and  low  name, 
There 's  nothing  differs  but  the  outward  fame. 

Enter  the  two  Murderers. 

I  Murd.  Ho  !  who 's  here  ? 
Brak.  What  wouldst  thou,  fellow  ?  and  how 
cam'st  thou  hither  ? 

1  Murd.  I  would  speak  with  Clarence,  and  I 
came  hither  on  my  legs. 

Brak.   What,  so  brief? 

2  Murd.  'Tis  better,  sir,  than  to  be  tedious. — 
Let  him  see  our  commission  i  talk  no  more. 

[A  fager  is  delivered  10  BRAK.  ,  who  reads  it. 
Brak.   I  am,  in  this,  commanded  to  deliver 
The  noble  Duke  of  Clarence  to  your  hands : — 

1  will  not  reason  what  is  meant  hereby, 
Because  I  will  be  guiltless  of  the  meaning. 
There  lies  the  duke  asleep, — and  there  the  keys  ; 
I  '11  to  the  king,  and  signify  to  him 

That  thus  I  have  resign'd  to  you  my  charge. 

1  Murd.    You   may,    sir ;    'tis  a   point   of 
wisdom  :  fare  you  well.     [Exit  BRAKENBURY. 

2  Murd.  What,   shall  we   stab  him   as  he 
sleeps  ? 

I  Murd.  No  ;  he  '11  say  'twas  done  cowardly, 
when  he  wakes. 


2  Murd.  When  he  wakes !  why,  fool,  he  shall 
never  wake  until  the  great  judgment-day. 

1  Murd.  Why,  then  he  '11  say  we  stabbrd  him 
sleeping. 

2  Murd.  The  urging  of  that  word  judgment 
hath  bred  a  kind  of  remorse  in  me. 

1  Murd.  What,  art  thou  afraid  ? 

2  Murd.  Not  to  kill  him,  having  a  warrant 
for  it ;  but  to  be  damned  for  killing  him,  from 
the  which  no  warrant  can  defend  me. 

1  Murd.  I  thought  thou  hadst  been  resolute. 

2  Murd.  So  I  am,  to  let  him  live. 

1  Murd.  I  '11  back  to  the  Duke  of  Gloster, 
and  tell  him  so. 

2  Murd.  Nay,  I  pr'ythee,  stay  a  little  :  I  hope 
my  holy  humour  will  change  ;  it  was  wont  to 
hold  me  but  while  one  tells  twenty. 

1  Murd.   How  dost  thou  feel  thyself  now  ? 

2  Murd.   Faith,  some  certain  dregs  of  con- 
science are  yet  within  me. 

1  Murd.  Remember  our  reward,  when  the 
deed 's  done.  [reward. 

2  Murd.  Zounds,  he  dies:  I  had  forgot  the 

1  Murd.  Where 's  thy  conscience  now  ? 

2  Murd.   In  the  Duke  of  Gloster's  purse. 

1  Murd.  So,  when  he  opens  his  purse  to  give 
us  our  reward,  thy  conscience  flies  out. 

2  Murd.  'Tis  no  matter  ;  let  it  go  ;  there  's 
few  or  none  will  entertain  it. 

1  Murd.  What  if  it  come  to  thee  again  ? 

2  Murd.  I  '11  not  meddle  with  it, — it  makes 
a  man  a  coward  ;    a  man  cannot  steal,  but  it 
accuseth  him ;  a  man  cannot  swear,  but  it  checks 
him  ;  a  man  cannot  lie  with  his  neighbour's  wife, 
but  it  detects  him :  'tis  a  blushing  shame-faced 
spirit  that  mutinies  in  a  man's  bosom ;  it  fills  one 
full  of  obstacles:  it  made  me  once  restore  a  purse 
of  gold  that  by  chance  I  found ;  it  beggars  any 
man  that  keeps  it :  it  is  turned  out  of  all  towns 
and  cities  for  a  dangerous  thing  ;  and  every  man 
that  means  to  live  well  endeavours  to  trust  to 
himself  and  live  without  it. 

1  Murd.  Zounds,  it  is  even  now  at  my  elbow, 
persuading  me  not  to  kill  the  duke. 

2  Murd.  Take  the  devil  in  thy  mind,  and 
believe  him  not :  he  would  insinuate  with  thee 
but  to  make  thee  sigh. 

1  Murd.   I  am  strong-framed,  he  cannot  pre- 
vail with  me. 

2  Murd.   Spoke  like  a  tall  fellow  that  respects 
his  reputation.     Come,  shall  we  fall  to  work  ? 

1  Murd.  Take  him  on  the  costard  with  the 
hilts  of  thy  sword,  and  then  throw  him  into  the 
malmsey-butt  in  the  next  room. 

2  Murd.  O  excellent  device !    and  make  a 
sop  of  him. 

I  Murd.  Soft  1  he  wakes. 


684 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


[ACT  i. 


2  Murd.  Strike ! 

I  Murd.  No,  we  '11  reason  with  him. 

Clar.  Where  art  thou,  keeper  ?  give  me  a  cup 
of  wine. 

I  Murd.  You  shall  have  wine  enough,  my 
lord,  anon. 

Clar.   In  God's  name,  what  art  thou  ? 

I  Murd.  A  man,  as  you  are. 

Clar.  But  not,  as  I  am,  royal. 

I  Murd.  Nor  you,  as  we  are,  loyal. 

Clar.  Thy  voice  is  thunder,  but  thy  looks 
are  humble. 

I  Murd.  My  voice  is  now  the  king's,   my 
looks  mine  own.  [speak  ! 

Clar.  How  darkly  and  how  deadly  dost  thou 
Your  eyes  do  menace  me:  why  look  you  pale? 
Who  sent  you  hither?  Wherefore  do  you  come? 

Both  Murd.  To,  to,  to— 

Clar.  To  murder  me  ? 

Both  Murd.  Ay,  ay.  [so, 

Clar.  You  scarcely  have  the  hearts  to  tell  me 
And  therefore  cannot  have  the  hearts  to  do  it. 
Wherein,  my  friends,  have  I  offended  you  ? 

1  Murd.  Offended  us  you  have  not,  but  the 

king. 
Clar.  I  shall  be  reconcil'd  to  him  again. 

2  Murd.  Never,  my  lord  ;  therefore  prepare 

to  die.  [men 

Clar.  Are  you  drawn  forth  among  a  world  of 
To  slay  the  innocent  ?     What  is  my  offence? 
What  is  the  evidence  that  doth  accuse  me  ? 
Where  lawful  quest  have  given  their  verdict  up 
Unto  the  frowning  judge?  or  who  pronounc'd 
The  bitter  sentence  of  poor  Clarence'  death  ? 
Before  I  be  convict  by  course  of  law, 
To  threaten  me  with  death  is  most  unlawful. 
I  charge  you,  as  you  hope  to  have  redemption 
By  Christ's  dear  blood  shed  for  our  grievous  sins, 
That  you  depart,  and  lay  no  hands  on  me  : 
The  deed  you  undertake  is  damnable. 

1  Murd.  What  we  will  do,  we  do  upon  com- 

mand. 

2  Murd.  And  he  that  hath  commanded  is  our 

king.  [kings 

Clar.  Erroneous  vassals  !  the  great  King  of 
Hath  in  the  table  of  his  law  commanded 
That  thou  shalt  do  no  murder  :  will  you  then 
Spurn  at  his  edict,  and  fulfil  a  man's  ? 
Take  heed  ;  for  he  holds  vengeance  in  his  hand, 
To  hurl  upon  their  heads  that  break  his  law. 
2  Murd.  And  that  same  vengeance  doth  he 

hurl  on  thee 

For  false  forswearing,  and  for  murder  too  : 
Thou  didst  receive  the  sacrament  to  fight 
In  quarrel  of  the  house  of  Lancaster. 

I  Murd.  And,  like  a  traitor  to  the  name  of 
God, 


Didst  break  that  vow ;  and  with  thy  treacher- 
ous blade 

Unripp'dst  the  bowels  of  thy  sovereign's  son. 
2  Murd.  Whom  thou  wast  sworn  to  cherish 

and  defend. 

I  Murd.  How  canst  thou  urge  God's  dread- 
ful law  to  us, 

When  thou  hast  broke  it  in  such  dear  degree  ? 
Clar.  Alas !    for  whose  sake  did  I  that  ill 

deed? 

For  Edward,  for  my  brother,  for  his  sake  : 
He  sends  you  not  to  murder  me  for  this  ; 
For  in  that  sin  he  is  as  deep  as  I. 
If  God  will  be  avenged  for  the  deed, 
O,  know  you  yet,  he  doth  it  publicly : 
Take  not  the  quarrel  from  his  powerful  arm  ; 
He  needs  no  indirect  nor  lawless  course 
To  cut  off  those  that  have  offended  him. 

I  Murd.    Who  made  thee,  then,  a  bloody 

minister 

When  gallant-springing  brave  Plantagenet, 
That  princely  novice,  was  struck  dead  by  thee? 
Clar.  My  brother's  love,  the  devil,  and  my 
rage.  [thy  faults, 

1  Murd.  Thy  brother's  love,  our  duty,  and 
Provoke  us  hither  now  to  slaughter  thee. 

Clar*   If  you  do  love  my  brother,  hate  not  ma ; 
I  am  his  brother,  and  I  love  him  well. 
If  you  are  hir'd  for  meed,  go  back  again, 
And  I  will  send  you  to  my  brother  Gloster, 
Who  shall  reward  you  better  for  my  life 
Than  Edward  will  for  tidings  of  my  death. 

2  Murd.  You   are   deceiv'd,   your   brother 

Gloster  hates  you.  [dear  : 

Clar.  O,  no,  he  loves  me,  and  he  holds  me 
Go  you  to  him  from  me. 

Both  Murd.  Ay,  so  we  will. 

Clar.  Tell  him,  when  that  our  princely  father 

York 

Bless'd  his  three  sons  with  his  victorious  arm, 
And  charg'd  us  from  his  soul  to  love  each  other, 
He  little  thought  of  this  divided  friendship : 
Bid  Gloster  think  on  this,  and  he  will  weep. 
I  Murd.  Ay,  millstones;  as  he  lesson'd  us  to 

weep. 

Clar.   O,  do  not  slander  him,  for  he  is  kind, 
i  Murd.   Right  as  snow  in  harvest. — Come, 

you  deceive  yourself : 
'Tis  he  that  sends  us  to  destroy  you  here. 

Clar.  It  cannot  be ;  for  he  bewept  my  fortune, 
And  hugg'd  me  in  his  arms,  and  swore,  with 

sobs, 
That  he  would  labour  my  delivery. 

1  Murd.  Why,  so  he  doth,  when  he  delivers  you 
From  this  earth's  thraldom  to  the  joys  of  heaven. 

2  Murd.  Make  peace  with  God,  for  you  must 

die,  my  lord. 


SCENE  IV.] 


KING  RICHARD  IIL 


685 


Clar.  Have  you  that  holy  feeling  in  your  souls, 
To  counsel  me  to  make  my  peace  with  God, 
And  are  you  yet  to  your  own  souls  so  blind 
That  you  will  war  with  God  by  murdering  me? — 
O,  sirs,  consider,  they  that  set  you  on 
To  do  this  deed  will  hate  you  for  the  deed. 

2  Murd,  What  shall  we  do  ? 

Clar.  Relent,  and  save  your  souls. 

1  Murd.  Relent  I  'tis  cowardly  and  woman- 

ish, [ish. 

Clar.  Not  to  relent  is  beastly,  savage,  devil- 
Which  of  you,  if  you  were  a  prince's  son, 
Being  pent  from  liberty,  as  I  am  now, — 
If  two  such  murderers  as  yourselves  came  to 

you,— 

Would  not  entreat  for  life  ? — 
My  friend,  I  spy  some  pity  in  thy  looks ; 
O,  if  thine  eye  be  not  a  flatterer, 
Come  thou  on  my  side,  and  entreat  for  me, 
As  you  would  beg,  were  you  in  my  distress  : 
A  begging  prince  what  beggar  pities  not  ? 

2  Murd.   Look  behind  you,  my  lord. 

1  Murd.  Take  that,  and  that:  if  all  this  will 

not  do,  [Stabs  him. 

I  'II  drown  you  in  the  malmsey-butt  within. 

[Exit  -with  the  body. 

2  Murd.  A  bloody  deed,  and  desperately 

despatch'd  1 

How  fain,  like  Pilate,  would  I  wash  my  hands 
Of  this  most  grievous  guilty  murder  done  ! 

Re-enter  First  Murderer. 

1  Murd.   How  now,  what  mean'st  thou,  that 

thou  help'st  me  not? 

By  heaven,  the  duke  shall  know  how  slack  you 
have  been.  [brother ! 

2  Murd.  I  would  he  knew  that  I  had  sav'd  his 
Take  thou  the  fee,  and  tell  him  what  I  say ; 
For  I  repent  me  that  the  duke  is  slain.    [Exit. 

I  Murd.  So  do  not  I :  go,  coward  as  thou 

art.— 

Well,  I'll  go  hide  the  body  in  some  hole, 
Till  that  the  duke  give  order  for  his  burial : 
And  when  I  have  my  meed,  I  will  away; 
For  this  will  out,  and  then  I  must  not  stay. 

[Exit. 

ACT  II. 
SCENE  I. — LONDON.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  KING  EDWARD,  led  in  sick:  QUEEN 
ELIZABETH,  DORSET,  RIVERS,  HASTINGS, 
BUCKINGHAM,  GREY,  and  others. 

K.  Edw.  Why,  so; — now  have  I  done  a  good 

day's  work : — 
You  peers,  continue  this  united  league : 


I  every  day  expect  an  embassage 
From  my  Redeemer,  to  redeem  me  hence ; 
And  now  in  peace  my  soul  shall  part  to  heaven. 
Since  I  have  made  my  friends  at   peace  on 

earth. 

Rivers  and  Hastings,  take  each  other's  hand  ; 
Dissemble  not  your  hatred,  swear  your  love. 
Riv.   By   heaven,   my  soul   is  purg'd   from 

grudging  hate ; 

And  with  my  hand  I  seal  my  true  heart's  love. 
Hast.  So  thrive  I,  as  I  truly  swear  the  like  ! 
K.  Edw.  Take  heed  you  dally  not  before  your 

king  ; 

Lest  he  that  is  the  supreme  King  of  kings 
Confound  your  hidden  falsehood,  and  award 
Either  of  you  to  be  :he  other's  end. 

Hast.  So  prosper  I,  as  I  swear  perfect  love ! 
Riv.  And   I,  as  I  love  Hastings  with  my 

heart  1 
K.  Edw.   Madam,  yourself  are  not  exempt 

from  this, — 

Nor  you,  son  Dorset, — Buckingham,  nor  you ; — 
You  have  been  factious  one  against  the  other. 
Wife,  love  Lord  Hastings,  let  him  kiss  your 

hand; 
And  what  you  do,  do  it  unfeignedly. 

Q.  Eliz.  There,  Hastings ;  I  will  never  more 

remember 

Our  former  hatred,  so  thrive  I  and  mine  ! 
K.  Ldw.   Dorset,  embrace  him ; — Hastings, 

love  lord  marquis. 

Dor.  This  interchange  of  love  I  here  protest, 
Upon  my  part  shall  be  inviolable. 

Hast.  And  so  swear  I.    [Embraces  DORSET. 
K.  Edw.  Now,  princely  Buckingham,  seal 

thou  this  league 

With  thy  embracements  to  my  wife's  allies, 
And  make  me  happy  in  your  unity.  [hate 

Buck.   Whenever  Buckingham  doth  turn  his 
Upon  your  grace  [to  the  QUEEN],  but  with  all 

duteous  love 

Doth  cherish  you  and  yours,  God  punish  me 
With    hate    in    those   where   I    expect    most 

love! 

When  I  have  most  need  to  employ  a  friend, 
And  most  assured  that  he  is  a  friend, 
Deep,  hollow,  treacherous,  and  full  of  guile, 
Be  he  unto  me ! — this  do  I  beg  of  heaven 
When  I  am  cold  in  love  to  you  or  yours. 

{Embracing  RIVERS,  drV. 
K.  Edw.  A  pleasing  cordial,  princely  Buck- 
ingham, 

Is  this  thy  vow  unto  my  sickly  heart 
There  wanteth  now  our  brother  Gloster  here, 
To  make  the  blessed  period  of  this  peace. 
Buck.  And,  in  good  time,  here  comes  the 
noble  duke. 


686 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


[ACT  n. 


Enter  GLOSTER. 

Glo.  Good-morrow  to  my  sovereign  king  and 

queen ; 
And,  princely  peers,  a  happy  time  of  day ! 

K.  Ediv.  Happy,  indeed,  as  we  have  spent 

the  day. 

Gloster,  we  have  done  deeds  of  charity ; 
Made  peace  of  enmity,  fair  love  of  hate, 
Between  these  swelling  wrong-incensed  peers. 

Glo.  A  blessed  labour,   my  most  sovereign 

lord. — 

Among  this  princely  heap,  if  any  here, 
By  false  intelligence  or  wrong  surmise, 
Hold  me  a  foe ; 

If  I  unwittingly,  or  in  my  rage, 
Have  aught  committed  that  is  hardly  borne 
By  any  in  this  presence,  I  desire 
To  reconcile  me  to  his  friendly  peace : 
'Tis  death  to  me  to  be  at  enmity ; 
I  hate  it,  and  desire  all  good  men's  love. — 
First,  madam,  I  entreat  true  peace  of  you, 
Which  I  will  purchase  with  my  duteous  service; — 
Of  you,  my  noble  cousin  Buckingham, 
If  ever  any  grudge  were  lodg'd  between  us  ; — 
Of  you,  and  you,  Lord  Pavers,  and  of  Dorset, 
That  all  without  desert  have  frown'd  on  me ; 
Of  you,  Lord  Woodville,  and,  Lord  Scales,  of 
you ; —  [all. 

Dukes,    earls,    lords,  gentlemen; — indeed,    of 
I  do  not  know  that  Englishman  alive 
With  whom  my  soul  is  any  jot  at  odds 
More  than  the  infant  that  is  born  to-night: 
I  thank  my  God  for  my  humility.         [after : — 

Q.  Eliz.  A  holiday  shall  this  be  kept  here- 
I  would  to  God   all   strifes   were  well   com- 
pounded.— 

My  sovereign  lord,  I  do  beseech  your  highness 
To  take  our  brother  Clarence  to  your  grace. 

Glo.  Why,  madam,  have  I  offer'd  love  for  this, 
To  be  so  flouted  in  this  royal  presence? 
Who  knows  not  that  the  gentle  duke  is  dead? 
[They  all  start. 
You  do  him  injury  to  scorn  his  corse. 

K.  Edw.  Who  knows  not  he  is  dead !  who 
knows  he  is  ?  [this  ! 

Q.  Eliz.  All-seeing  heaven,  what  a  world  is 

Buck.  Look  I  so  pale,  Lord  Dorset,  as  the 
rest?  [presence 

Dor.  Ay,  my  good  lord ;  and  no  man  in  the 
But  his  red  colour  hath  forsook  his  cheeks. 

K.  Edw.  Is  Clarence  dead?  the  order  was 
revers'd.  [died, 

Glo.  But  he,  poor  man,  by  your  first  order 
And  that  a  winged  Mercury  did  bear ; 
Some  tardy  cripple  bore  the  countermand 
That  came  too  lag  to  see  him  buried. 


God  grant  that  some,  less  noble  and  less  loyal, 
Nearer  in  bloody  thoughts,  but  not  in  blood, 
Deserve  not  worse  than  wretched  Clarence  did, 
And  yet  go  current  from  suspicion  ! 

Enter  STANLEY. 

Stan.  A  boon,  my  sovereign,  for  my  service 
done  \  [sorrow. 

K.  Edw.   I  pr'ythee,  peace:  my  soul  is  full  of 

Stan.  I  will  not  rise  unless  your  highness  hear 
me.  [quest'st. 

K.  Edw.   Then  say  at  once  what  is  it  thou  re- 

Stan.  The  forfeit,  sovereign,  of  my  servant's 

life; 

Who  slew  to-day  a  riotous  gentleman 
Lately  attendant  on  the  Duke  of  Norfolk. 

K.  Edw.   Have   I   a   tongue   to   doom   my 

brother's  death, 

And  shall  that  tongue  give  pardon  to  a  slave  ? 
My  brother  kill'd  no  man, — his  fault  was  thought, 
And  yet  his  punishment  was  bitter  death. 
Who  su'd  to  me  for  him  ?  who,  in  my  wrath, 
Kneel'd  at  my  feet,  and  bid  me  be  advis'd  ? 
Who  spoke  of  brotherhood?    who  spoke   of 

love? 

Who  told  me  how  the  poor  soul  did  forsake 
The  mighty  Warwick,  and  did  fight  for  me? 
Who  told  me,  in  the  field  at  Tewksbury, 
When  Oxford  had  me  down,  he  rescu'd  me, 
And  said,  Dear  brother,  live,  and  be  a  king's 
Who  told  me,  when  we  both  lay  in  the  field 
Frozen  almost  to  death,  how  he  did  lap  me 
Even  in  his  garments,  and  did  give  himself, 
All  thin  and  naked,  to  the  numb-cold  night? 
All  this  from  my  remembrance  brutish  wrath 
Sinfully  pluck'd,  and  not  a  man  of  you 
Had  so  much  grace  to  put  it  in  my  mind. 
But  when  your  carters  or  your  waiting- vassals 
Have  done  a  drunken  slaughter,  and  defac'd 
The  precious  image  of  our  dear  Redeemer, 
You  straight  are  on   your  knees  for  pardon^ 

pardon ; 

And  I,  unjustly  too,  must  grant  it  you : — 
But  for  my  brother  not  a  man  would  speak, — 
Nor  I,  ungracious,  speak  unto  myself 
For  him,  poor  soul.     The  proudest  of  you  all 
Have  been  beholden  to  him  in  his  life  ; 
Yet  none  of  you  would  once  beg  for  his  life. — 
O  God,  I  fear  thy  justice  will  take  hold 
On  me,  and  you,  and  mine,  and  yours,  for  this ! 
Come,  Hastings,  help  me  to  my  closet. 
Ah,  poor  Clarence ! 

[Exeunt  KING,  QUEEN,  HAST.,  Riv., 
DOR.,  <zwd?GREY. 

Glo.   This  is  the  fruit  of  rashness ! — Mark'd 

you  not 
How  that  the  guilty  kindred  of  the  queen 


SCENE  II.] 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


Look'd  pale  when  they  did  hear  of  Clarence' 

death? 

O,  they  did  urge  it  sail  unto  the  king ! 
God  will  revenge  it. — Come,  lords,  will  you  go 
To  comfort  Edward  with  our  company? 

Buck.  We  wait  upon  your  grace.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Another  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  the  DUCHESS  OF  YORK,  with  a  Son  and 
Daughter  of  CLARENCE. 

Son.   Good  grandam,   tell   us,  is  our  father 
dead? 

Duck.   No,  boy.  [your  breast, 

Datigh.   Why  do  you  weep  so  oft,  and  beat 
And  cry,  O  Clarence,  my  unhappy  son! 

Son.  Why  do  you  look  on  us,  and  shake  your 

head, 

And  call  us  orphans,  wretches,  castaways, 
If  that  our  noble  father  be  alive?  [both; 

Duch.   My  pretty  cousins,    you  mistake  me 
I  do  lament  the  sickness  of  the  king, 
As  loth  to  lose  him,  not  your  father's  death ; 
It  were  lost  sorrow  to  wail  one  that 's  lost. 

Son.  Then  you  conclude,  my  grandam,  he  is 

dead. 

The  king  mine  uncle  is  to  blame  for  this : 
God  will  revenge  it;  whom  I  will  importune 
With  earnest  prayers  all  to  that  effect. 

Daiigh.   And  so  will  I. 

Duch.  Peace,  children,  peace !  the  king  doth 

love  you  well : 

Incapable  and  shallow  innocents,  [death. 

You   cannot   guess  who   caus'd   your   father's 

Son.  Grandam,  we  can ;  for  my  good  uncle 

Gloster 

Told  me,  the  king,  provok'd  to  it  by  the  queen, 
Devis'd  impeachments  to  imprison  him : 
And  when  my  uncle  told  me  so,  he  wept, 
And  pitied  me,  and  kindly  kiss'd  my  cheek ; 
Bade  me  rely  on  him  as  on  my  father, 
And  he  would  love  me  dearly  as  his  child. 

Dttch.   Ah,    that  deceit   should    steal   such 

gentle  shape, 

And  with  a  virtuous  visard  hide  deep  vice ! 
He  is  my  son ;  ay,  and  therein  my  shame ; 
Yet  from  my  dugs  he  drew  not  this  deceit. 

Son.  Think   you  my  uncle   did   dissemble, 
grandam? 

Duch.  Ay,  boy.  [this? 

Son.  I  cannot  think  it. — Hark!  what  noise  is 

Enter  QUEEN  ELIZABETH,  distractedly  ; 

RIVERS  and  DORSET  following  her. 
Q.  Eliz.  Ah,  who  shall  hinder  me  to  wail 

and  weep, 
To  chide  my  fortune,  and  torment  myself? 


I  '11  join  with  black  despair  against  my  soul, 
And  to  myself  become  an  enemy.       [patience? 

Duch.  What  means  this  scene  of  rude  im- 

Q.  Eliz.  To  make  an  act  of  tragic  violence : — 
Edward,  my  lord,  thy  son,  our  king,  is  dead. — 
Why  grow  the  branches  when  the  root  is  gone? 
Why  wither  not  the  leaves  that  want  their  sap? — 
If  you  will  live,  lament;  if  die,  be  brief, 
That   our  swift- winged  souls  may  catch   the 

king's ; 

Or,  like  obedient  subjects,  follow  him 
To  his  new  kingdom  of  perpetual  rest.        [row 

Duch.  Ah,  so  much  interest  have  I  in  thy  sor- 
As  I  had  title  in  thy  noble  husband ! 
I  have  bewept  a  worthy  husband's  death, 
And  liv'd  by  looking  on  his  images : 
But  now  two  mirrors  of  his  princely  semblance 
Are  crack'd  in  pieces  by  malignant  death, 
And  I  for  comfort  have  but  one  false  glass, 
That  grieves  me  when  I  see  my  shame  in  him. 
Thou  art  a  widow  •  yet  thou  art  a  mother, 
And  hast  the  comfort  of  thy  children  left : 
But  death  hath  snatch'd  my  husband  from  mine 
arms,  [hands, — 

And    pluck'd    two   crutches   from    my   feeble 
Clarence  and  Edward.    O,  what  cause  have  I, — 
Thine  being  but  a  moiety  of  my  moan, — 
To  overgo  thy  woes  and  drown  thy  cries? 

Son.  Ah,  aunt,  you  wept  not  for  our  father's 

death ! 
How  can  we  aid  you  with  our  kindred  tears? 

Daugh.  Our  fatherless  distress  was  left  un- 

moan'd, 
Your  widow-dolour  likewise  be  unwept ! 

Q.  Eliz.  Give  me  no  help  in  lamentation ; 
I  am  not  barren  to  bring  forth  complaints: 
All  springs  reduce  their  currents  to  mine  eyes, 
That  I,  being  govern'd  by  the  watery  moon, 
May  send  forth  plenteous  tears  to  drown  the 

world ! 
Ah  for  my  husband,  for  my  dear  Lord  Edward  ! 

ChiL  Ah  for  our  father,  for  our  dear  Lord 
Clarence !  [Clarence ! 

Duch.  Alas  for  both,  both  mine,  Edward  and 

Q.  Eliz.  What  stay  had  I  but  Edward?  and 
he 's  gone.  [he 's  gone. 

Chil.  What  stay  had  we  but  Clarence?  and 

Duch.  What  stays  had  I  but  they?  and  they 
are  gone. 

Q.  Eliz.  Was  never  widow  had  so  dear  a  loss ! 

Chil.  Were  never  orphans  had  so  dear  a  loss ! 

Duch.  Was  never  mother  had  so  dear  a  loss ! 
Alas,  I  am  the  mother  of  these  griefs ! 
Their  woes  are  parcell'd,  mine  are  general. 
She  for  an  Edward  weeps,  and  so  do  I ; 
I  for  a  Clarence  weep,  so  doth  not  she: 
These  babes  for  Clarence  weep,  and  so  do  I ; 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


[ACT  n. 


I  for  an  Edward  weep,  so  do  not  they : — 
Alas,  you  three,  on  me,  threefold  distress'd, 
Pour  all  your  tears !  I  am  your  sorrow's  nurse, 
And  I  will  pamper  it  with  lamentation. 

Dor.  Comfort,  dear  mother:   God  is  much 

displeas'd 

That  you  take  with  unthankfulness  his  doing : 
In  common  worldly  things  'tis  call'd  ungrateful, 
With  dull  unwillingness  to  repay  a  debt 
Which  with  a  bounteous  hand  was  kindly  lent ; 
Much  more  to  be  thus  opposite  with  heaven, 
For  it  requires  the  royal  debt  it  lent  you. 

Riv.   Madam,   bethink   you,   like  a   careful 
mother,  [for  him ; 

Of  the  young  prince  your  son:  send  straight 
Let  him  be  crown'd ;  in  him  your  comfort  lives : 
Drown  desperate  sorrow  in  dead  Ed  ward's  grave, 
And  plant  your  joys  in  living  Edward's  throne. 

Enter  GLOSTER,  BUCKINGHAM,  STANLEY, 

HASTINGS,  RATCLIFF,  and  others. 
Glo.   Sister,  have  comfort:    all  of  us  have 

cause 

To  wail  the  dimming  of  our  shining  star ; 
But  none   can   cure  their  harms   by  wailing 

them. — 

Madam,  my  mother,  I  do  cry  you  mercy; 
I  did  not  s^e  your  grace : — humbly  on  my  knee 
I  crave  your  blessing.  [thy  breast, 

Duck.  God  bless  thee ;  and  put  meekness  in 
Love,  charity,  obedience,  and  true  duty  I 
Glo.  Amen;  and  make  me  die  a  good  old 

man! — 

That  is  the  butt  end  of  a  mother's  blessing ; 
I  marvel  that  her  grace  did  leave  it  out     [Aside. 
Buck.  You  cloudy  princes  and  heart-sorrow- 
ing peers, 

That  bear  this  heavy  mutual  load  of  moan, 
Now  cheer  each  other  in  each  other's  love : 
Though  we  have  spent  our  harvest  of  this  king, 
We  are  to  reap  the  harvest  of  his  son. 
The  broken  rancour  of  your  high-swoln  hearts, 
But  lately  splinter'd,  knit,  and  join'd  together, 
Must  gently  be  preserv'd,  cherish'd,  and  kept : 
Me  seemeth  good  that,  with  some  little  train, 
Forthwith  from  Ludlow  the  young  prince  be  fet 
Hither  to  London,  to  be  crown'd  our  king. 
Riv.  Why  with  some  little  train,  my  Lord 

of  Buckingham? 

Buck.  Marry,  my  lord,  lest,  by  a  multitude, 
The  new-heal'd  wound  of  malice  should  break 

out; 

Which  would  be  so  much  the  more  dangerous 
By  how  much  the  estate  is  green  and  yet  un- 

govern'd : 

Where  every  horse  bears  his  commanding  rein, 
And  may  direct  his  course  as  please  himself, 


As  well  the  fear  of  harm  as  harm  apparent, 
In  my  opinion,  ought  to  be  prevented.        [us; 

Glo.  I  hope  the  king  made  peace  with  all  of 
And  the  compact  is  firm  and  true  in  me. 

Riv.  And  so  in  me;  and  so,  I  think,  in  all: 
Yet,  since  it  is  but  green,  it  should  be  put 
To  no  apparent  likelihood  of  breach, 
Which  haply  by  much  company  might  be  urg'd: 
Therefore  I  say  wiui  noble  Buckingham, 
That  it  is  meet  so  few  should  fetch  the  prince. 

Hast.    And  so  say  I. 

•Glo.  Then  be  it  so ;  and  go  we  to  determine 
Who  they  shall  be  that  straight  shall  post  to 

Ludlow. 

Madam, — and  you,  my  mother, — will  you  go 
To  give  your  censures  in  this  business? 

{Exeunt  all  but  BUCK,  and  GLO. 

Buck.    My   lord,   whoever  journeys   to   the 

prince, 

For  God's  sake,  let  not  us  two  stay  at  home ; 
For  by  the  way  I  '11  sort  occasion, 
As  index  to  the  story  we  late  talk'd  of, 
To  part  the  queen's  proud  kindred  from  the 
prince. 

Glo.  My  other  self,  my  counsel's  consistory, 
My  oracle,  my  prophet ! — my  dear  cousin, 
I,  as  a  child,  will  go  by  thy  direction. 
Toward  Ludlow  then,  for  we  '11  not  stay  behind. 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — LONDON.     A  Street. 
Enter  two  Citizens,  meeting. 

1  Cit.    Good-morrow,    neighbour:    whithei 

away  so  fast  ? 

2  Cit.  I  promise  you,  I  scarcely  know  myself: 
Hear  you  the  news  abroad  ? 

1  Cit.  Yes, — that  the  king  is  dead. 

2  Cit.  Ill  news,  by  'r  lady ;  seldom  comes  the 

better : 
I  fear,  I  fear  'twill  prove  a  giddy  world. 

Entef  a  third  Citizen. 

3  Cit.  Neighbours,  God  speed ! 

1  Cit.  Give  you  good-morrow,  sir. 
3  Cit.  Doth  the  news  hold  of  good  King  Ed- 
ward's death  ?  [while  ! 

2  Cit.  Ay,  sir,  it  is  too  true ;  God  help,  the 

3  Cit.  Then,  masters,  look  to  see  a  troublous 

world. 

1  Cit.  No,  no  ;  by  God's  good  grace,  his  son 

shall  reign.  [a  child ! 

3  Cit.  Woe  to  that  land  that 's  govern'd  by 

2  Cit.  In  him  there  is  a  hope  of  government, 
Which,  in  his  nonage,  council  under  him, 
And,  in  his  full  and  ripen'd  years,  himself, 
No  doubt,  shall  then,  and  till  then,  govern  well. 


SCENE  IV.] 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


689 


I  Cit.  So  stood  the  state  when  Henry  the  Sixth 
Was  crown'd  in  Paris  but  at  nine  months  old. 

3  Cit.  Stood  the  state  so?    No,  no,  good 

friends,  God  wot ; 

For  then  this  land  was  famously  enrich'd 
With  politic  grave  counsel ;  then  the  king 
Had  virtuous  uncles  to  protect  his  grace. 

I  Cit.   Why,  so  hath  this,  both  by  his  father 
and  mother. 

3  Cit.  Better  it  were  they  all  cameby  his  father, 
Or  by  his  father  there  were  none  at  all ; 
For  emulation  now,  who  shall  be  nearest, 
Will  touch  us  all  too  near  if  God  prevent  not. 
O,  full  of  danger  is  the  Duke  of  Gloster  ! 
And  the  queen's  son;;  and  brothers  haught  and 

proud  : 

And  were  they  to  be  rul'd,  and  not  to  rule, 
This  sickly  land  might  solace  as  before. 

1  Cil.  Come,  come,  we  fear  theworst ;  all  will 

be  well. 
3  Cit.   When  clouds  are  seen,  wise  men  put 

on  their  cloaks  ; 

When  great  leaves  fall,  then  winter  is  at  hand ; 
When  the  sun   sets,   who  doth  not  look  for 

night  ? 

Untimely  storms  make  men  expect  a  dearth. 
\11  may  be  well  ;  but,  if  God  sort  it  so, 
Tis  more  than  we  deserve  or  I  expect. 

2  Cit.  Truly,  the  hearts  of  men  are  full  of  fear : 
7ou  cannot  reason  almost  with  a  man 

That  looks  not  heavily  and  full  of  dread. 

3  Cit.   Before  the  days  of  change,  still  is  it  so : 
By  a  divine  instinct  men's  minds  mistrust 
Ensuing  danger  ;  as,  by  proof,  we  see 

The  water  swell  before  a  boisterous  storm. 
But  leave  it  all  to  God. — Whither  away? 

2  Cit.  Marry,  we  were  sent  for  to  the  justices. 

3  Cit.  And  so  was  I  :  I  '11  bear  you  company. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — LONDON.    A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  the  ARCHBISHOP  OF  YORK,  the  young 
DUKE  OF  YORK,  QUEEN  ELIZABETH,  and 
the  DUCHESS  OF  YORK. 

Arch.   Last  night,  I  hear,  they  at  Northamp- 
ton lay ; 

And  at  Stony-Stratford  will  they  be  to-night : 
To-morrow  or  next  day  they  will  be  here. 
Dttch.   I  long  with  all  my  heart  to  see  the 

prince : 

I  hope  he  is  much  grown  since  last  I  saw  him. 
Q.  Eliz.  But  I  hear  no ;  they  say  my  son  of 

York 
Has  almost  overta'en  him  in  his  growth. 

York.  Ay,  mother ;  but  I  would  not  have  it  so. 


Duch.  Why,  my  young  cousin  ?  it  is  good  to 

grow.  [supper, 

York.  Grandam,  one  night,  as  we  did  sit  at 

My  uncle  Rivers  talk'cl  how  I  did  grow 

More  than  my  brother:  Ay>  quoth  my  uncle 

Gloster,  [apace: 

Small  kerbs  have  grace,  great  weeds  do  grow 

And  since,  methinks,  I  would  not  grow  so  fast, 

Because  sweet  flowers  are  slow,  and  weeds  make 

haste.  [not  hold 

Duck.  Good  faith,  good  faith,  the  saying  did 

In  him  that  did  object  the  same  to  thee  : 

He  was  the  wretched'st   thing  when  he  was 

young. 

So  long  a  growing,  and  so  leisurely, 
That,  if  his  rule  were  true,  he  should  be  gracious. 
Arch.  And  so  no  doubt  he  is,  my  gracious 

madam. 

Duck.  I  hope  he  is ;  but  yet  let  mothers  doubt 
York.  Now,  by  my  troth,  if  I  had  been  re- 

member'd, 

I  could  have  given  my  uncle's  grace  a  flout, 
To  touch  his  growth  nearer  than  he  touch 'd  mine. 
Duck.   How,  my  young  York?  I  pr'ythee,  let 

me  hear  it. 

York.   Marry,  they  say  my  uncle  grew  so  fast 
That  he  could  gnaw  a  crust  at  two  hours  old : 
'Twas  full  two  years  ere  I  could  get  a  tooth. 
Grandam,  this  \*ould  have  been  a  biting  jest. 
Duck.   I  pr'ythee,  pretty  York,  who  told  thee 

this? 

York.  Grandam,  his  nurse.  [wast  born. 

Duck.  His  nurse !  why  she  was  dead  ere  thou 
York.   If  'twere  not  she,  I  cannot  tell  who 
told  me.  [shrewd. 

Q.  Eliz.  A  parlous  boy : — go  to,  you  are  too 
Arch.  Good  madam,  be  not  angry  with  the 

child. 

Q.  Eliz.  Pitchers  have  ears. 
Arch.  Here  comes  a  messenger. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
What  news?  [report. 

Mess.  Such  news,  my  lord,  as  grieves  me  to 

Q.  Eliz.  Ho\\  doth  the  prince  ? 

Mess.  Well,  madam,  and  in  health. 

Ditch.  What  is  thy  news  ? 

Mess.  Lord  Rivers  and  Lord  Grey  are  sent 

to  Pomfret, 
With  them  Sir  Thomas  Vaughan,  prisoners. 

Duck.  Who  hath  committed  them  ? 

Mess.  The  mighty  dukes 

Gloster  and  Buckingham. 

Q.  Eliz.  For  what  offence? 

Mess.  The  sum  of  all  I  can,  I  have  disclos'd; 
Why  or  for  what  the  nobles  were  committed 
Is  all  unknown  to  me,  my  gracious  lady. 


690 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


[ACT  in. 


Q.  Eliz.  Ah  me,  I  see  the  ruin  of  my  house  ! 
The  tiger  now  hath  seiz'd  the  gentle  hind  ; 
Insulting  tyranny  begins  to  jet 
Upon  the  innocent  and  awless  throne : — 
Welcome,  destruction,  blood,  and  massacre  ! 
I  see,  as  in  a  map,  the  end  of  all.  [days  \ 

Duck.    Accurs'd    and     unquiet     wrangling 
How  many  of  you  have  mine  eyes  beheld  ? 
My  husband  lost  his  life  to  get  the  crown  ; 
And  often  up  and  down  my  sons  were  toss'd, 
For  me  to  joy  and  weep  their  gain  and  loss  : 
And  being  seated,  and  domestic  broils 
Clean  over-blown,  themselves,  the  conquerors, 
Make  war  upon  themselves  ;  brother  to  brother, 
Blood  to  blood,  self  against  self: — O,  preposter- 
ous 

And  frantic  outrage,  end  thy  damned  spleen  ; 
Or  let  me  die,  to  look  on  death  no  more  ! 

Q.  Eliz.  Come,  come,  my  boy ;  we  will  to 

sanctuary. — 
Madam,  farewell. 

Duch.  Stay,  I  will  go  with  you. 

Q.  Eliz.  You  have  no  cause. 

Arch.  My  gracious  lady,  go. 

[To  the  QUEEN. 

And  thither  bear  your  treasure  and  your  goods. 
For  my  part,  I  'II  resign  unto  your  grace 
The  seal  I  keep ;  and  so  betide  to  me 
As  well  I  tender  you  and  all  of  yours ! 
Come,  I  'II  conduct  you  to  the  sanctuary. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — LONDON.     A  Street. 

The  trumpets  sound.  Enter  the  PRINCE  OF 
WALES,  GLOSTER,  BUCKINGHAM,  CATESBY, 
CARDINAL  BOUCHIER,  and  others. 

Buck.  Welcome,  sweet  prince,  to  London,  to 

your  chamber. 

Glo.  Welcome,  dear  cousin,  my  thoughts'  sove- 
reign : 
The  weary  way  hath  made  you  melancholy. 

Prince.  No,  uncle ;  but  our  crosses  on  the  way 
Have  made  it  tedious,  wearisome,  and  heavy : 
I  want  more  uncles  here  to  welcome  me. 

Glo.  Sweet  prince,  the  untainted  virtue  of 

your  years 

Kath  not  yet  div'd  into  the  world's  deceit : 
No  more  can  you  distinguish  of  a  man 
Than  of  his  outward  show;   which,  God   he 

knows, 

Seldom  or  never  jumpeth  with  the  heart. 
Those  uncles  which  you  want  were  dangerous ; 
Your  grace  attended  to  their  sugar'd  words, 


But  look'd  not  on  the  poison  of  their  hearts : 
God  keep  you  from  them,  and  from  such  false 

friends ! 

Prince.  God  keep  me  from  false  friends !  but 

they  were  none.  [greet  you. 

Glo.  My  lord,  the  mayor  of  London  comes  to 

Enter  the  Lord  Mayor  and  his  Train. 

May.  God  bless  your  grace  with  health  and 

happy  days  ! 

Prince.  I  thank  you,  good  my  lord; — and 
thank  you  all.     {Exeunt  Mayor,  &*c. 
I  thought  my  mother  and  my  brother  York 
Would  long  ere  this  have  met  us  on  the  way : 
Fie,  what  a  slug  is  Hastings,  that  he  comes  not 
To  tell  us  whether  they  will  come  or  no  ! 
Buck.  And,  in  good  time,  here  comes  the 
sweating  lord. 

Enter  HASTINGS. 

Prince.  Welcome,  my  lord :   what,  will  our 
mother  come? 

Hast.  On  what  occasion,  God  he  knows,  not  I, 
The  queen  your  mother  and  your  brother  York 
Have  taken  sanctuary :  the  tender  prince 
Would  rain  have  come  with  me  to  meet  yourgrace, 
But  by  his  mother  was  perforce  withheld. 

Buck.  Fie,  what  an  indirect  and  peevish  course 
Is  this  of  hers  ? — Lord  cardinal,  will  your  grace 
Persuade  the  queen  to  send  the  Duke  of  York 
Unto  his  princely  brother  presently? 
If  she  deny,  Lord  Hastings,  go  with  him, 
And  from  her  jealous  arms  pluck  him  perforce. 

Card.   My  Lord  of  Buckingham,  if  my  weak 

oratory 

Can  from  his  mother  win  the  Duke  of  York, 
Anon  expect  him  here ;  but  if  she  be  obdurate 
To  mild  entreaties,  God  in  heaven  forbid 
We  should  infringe  the  holy  privilege 
Of  blessed  sanctuary  !  not  for  all  this  land 
Would  I  be  guilty  of  so  great  a  sin.  [lord, 

Buck.  You  are  too  senseless-obstinate,  my 
Too  ceremonious  and  traditional : 
Weigh  it  but  with  the  grossness  of  this  age, 
You  break  not  sanctuary  in  seizing  him. 
The  benefit  thereof  is  always  granted 
To  those  whose  dealings  have  deserv'd  the  place, 
And  those  who  have  the  wit  to  claim  the  place : 
This  prince  hath  neither  claim'd  it  nor  deserv'd  it; 
And  therefore,  in  mine  opinion,  cannot  have  it : 
Then,  taking  him  from  hence  that  is  not  there, 
You  break  no  privilege  nor  charter  there. 
Oft  have  I  heard  of  sanctuary-men  ; 
But  sanctuary-children  ne'er  till  now. 

Card.   My  lord,  you  shall  o'errule  my  mind 

for  once. — 
Come  on,  Lord  Hastings,  will  you  go  with  me? 


SCENE 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


691 


Hast,   I  go,  my  lord. 

Prince.  Good  lords,  make  all  the  speedy  haste 
you  may.     [Exettnt  CAR.  and  HAST. 
Say,  uncle  Gloster,  if  our  brother  come, 
Where  shall  we  sojourn  till  our  coronation  ? 

Glo.  Where  it  seems  best  unto  your  royal  self. 
If  I  may  counsel  you,  some  day  or  two 
Your  highness  shall  repose  you  at  the  Tower  : 
Then  where  you  please,  and  shall  be  thought 

most  fit 
For  your  best  health  and  recreation,    [place. — 

Prince.  I   do   not   like   the  Tower,  of  any 
Did  Julius  Caesar  build  that  place,  my  lord  ? 

Glo.   He  did,  my  gracious  lord,  begin  that 

place  ; 
Which,  since,  succeeding  ages  have  re-edified. 

Prince.   Is  it  upon  record,  or  else  reported 
Successively  from  age  to  age,  he  built  it  ? 

Buck.   Upon  record,  my  gracious  lord. 

Prince.  But  say,  my  lord,  it  werenot  register'd, 
Methinks  the  truth  should  live  from  age  to  age, 
As  'twere  retail'd  to  all  posterity, 
Even  to  the  general  all-ending  day. 

Glo.  So  wise  so  young,  they  say,  do  never 
live  long.  [Aside. 

Prince.  What  say  you,  uncle?          [long. — 

Glo.   I  say,   without  characters,  fame   lives 
Thus,  like  the  formal  vice,  Iniquity, 
I  moralize  two  meanings  in  one  word.     [Aside. 

Prince.  That  Julius  Caesar  was  a  famous  man ; 
With  what  his  valour  did  enrich  his  wit, 
His  wit  set  down  to  make  his  valour  live : 
Death  makes  no  conquest  of  this  conqueror  ; 
For  now  he  lives  in  fame,  though  not  in  life. — 
I  '11  tell  you  what,  my  cousin  Buckingham, — 

Buck.  What,  my  gracious  lord  ? 

Prince.  An  if  I  live  until  I  be  a  man. 
I  '11  win  our  ancient  right  in  France  again, 
Or  die  a  soldier,  as  I  liv'd  a  king. 

Glo.  Short  summers  lightly  have  a  forward 
spring.^  [Aside. 

Buck.  Now,  in  good  time,  here  comes  the 
Duke  of  York: 

Enter  YORK,  HASTINGS,  and  the  CARDINAL. 

Prince.    Richard   of  York!    how   fares   our 

loving  brother?  [you  now. 

York.  Well,  my  dread  lord;  so  must  I  call 

Prince.  Ay  brother, — to  our  grief,  as  it  is 

yours : 

Too  late  he  died  that  might  have  kept  that  title, 
Which  by  his  death  hath  lost  much  majesty. 
Glo.  How  fares  our  cousin,  noble  Lord  of 
York?  [lord, 

York.    I  thank  you,  gentle  uncle.     O,   my 
You  said  that  idle  weeds  are  fast  in  growth : 
The  prince  my  brother  hath  outgrown  me  far. 


Glo.  He  hath,  my  lord. 

York.  And  therefore  is  he  idle? 

Glo.  O,  my  fair  cousin,  I  must  not  say  so. 

York.    Then  is  he  more  beholding  to  you 
than  I. 

Glo.  He  may  command  me  as  my  sovereign; 
But  you  have  power  in  me  as  in  a  kinsman. 

York.  I  pray  you,  uncle,  give  me  this  dagger. 

Glo.  My  dagger,  little  cousin?  with  all  my 
heart. 

Prince.  A  beggar,  brother?  [give; 

York.  Of  my  kind  uncle,  that  I  know  will 
And  being  but  a  toy,  which  is  no  grief  to  give. 

Glo.  A  greater  gift  than  that    I'll  give  my 
cousin.  [it. 

York.  A  greater  gift !    O,  that 's  the  sword  to 

Glo.  Ay,  gentle  cousin,  were  it  light  enough. 

York.  O  then,  I  see,  you  will  part  but  with 

light  gifts ; 
In  weightier  things  you  Ml  say  a  beggar  nay. 

Glo.   It  is  too  weighty  for  your  grace  to  wear. 

York.   I  weigh  it  lightly,  were  it  heavier. 

Glo.  What,  would  you  have  my  weapon,  little 
lord?  [call  me. 

York.  I  would,  that  I  might  thank  you  as  you 

Glo.  How? 

York.  Little.  [in  talk : — 

Prince.  My  Lord  of  York  will  still  be  cross 
Uncle,  your  grace  knows  how  to  bear  with  him. 

York.  You  mean,  to  bear  me,  not  to  bear 

with  me: — 

Uncle,  my  brother  mocks  both  you  and  me ; 
Because  that  I  am  little,  like  an  ape, 
He  thinks  that  you  should  bear  me  on  your 
shoulders.  [reasons ! 

Buck.    With  what  a  sharp-provided  wit  he 
To  mitigate  the  scorn  he  gives  his  uncle, 
He  prettily  and  aptly  taunts  himself: 
So  cunning  and  so  young  is  wonderful,     [along? 

Glo.  My  gracious  lord,  wil  't  please  to  pass 
Myself  and  my  good  cousin  Buckingham 
Will  to  your  mother,  to  entreat  of  her 
To  meet  you  at  the  Tower,  and  welcome  you. 

York.  What,  will  you  go  unto  the  Tower,  my 
lord?  [so. 

Prince.  My  lord  protector  needs  will  have  it 

York.  I  shall  not  sleep  in  quiet  at  the  Tower. 

Glo.  Why,  what  should  you  fear?       [ghost: 

York.    Marry,    my  uncle    Clarence'    angry 
My  grandam  told  me  he  was  murder'd  there. 

Prince.   I  fear  no  uncles  dead. 

Glo.  Nor  none  that  live,  I  hope.  [fear. 

Prince.  An  if  they  live,  I  hope  I  need  not 
But  come,  my  lord ;  and  with  a  heavy  heart, 
Thinking  on  them,  go  I  unto  the  Tower. 

[Sennet.    Exeunt  PRINCE,  YORK,  HAST., 
CAR.,  and  Attendants. 


692 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


[ACT  in. 


Buck.  Think  you,  my  lord,  this  little  prating 

York 

Was  not  incensed  by  his  subtle  mother 
To  taunt  and  scorn  you  thus  opprobriously? 

Glo.  No  doubt,  no  doubt:  O,  'tis  a  parlous 

boy; 

Bold,  quick,  ingenious,  forward,  capable: 
He  is  all  the  mother's,  from  the  top  to  toe. 

Buck.    Well,  let  them  rest.— Come  hither, 
Catesby.  [tend 

Thou  art  sworn  as  deeply  to  effect  what  we  in- 
As  closely  to  conceal  what  we  impart : 
Thou  know'st  our  reasons  urg'd  upon  the  way ; — 
What  think'st  thou?  is  it  not  an  easy  matter 
To  make  William  Lord  Hastings  of  our  mind, 
For  the  instalment  of  this  noble  duke 
In  the  seat  royal  of  this  famous  isle?        [prince 

Gate.  He  for  his  father's  sake  so  loves  the 
That  he  will  not  be  won  to  aught  against  him. 

Buck.  What  think'st  thou  then  of  Stanley? 
will  not  he? 

Gate.  He  will  do  all  in  all  as  Hastings  doth. 

Buck.    Well,  then,  no  more  but  this:   go, 
gentle  Catesby,  [ings 

And,  as  it  were  far  off,  sound  thou  Lord  Hast- 
How  he  doth  stand  affected  to  our  purpose; 
And  summon  him  to-morrow  to  the  Tower, 
To  sit  about  the  coronation. 
If  thou  dost  find  him  tractable  to  us, 
Encourage  him,  and  tell  him  all  our  reasons : 
If  he  be  leaden,  icy,  cold,  unwilling, 
Be  thou  so  too ;  and  so  break  off  the  talk, 
And  give  us  notice  of  his  inclination : 
For  we  to-morrow  hold  divided  councils, 
Wherein  thyself  shalt  highly  be  employ'd. 

Glo.   Commend  me  to  Lord  William:   tell 

him,  Catesby, 

His  ancient  knot  of  dangerous  adversaries 
To-morrow  are  let  blood  at  Pomfret  Castle; 
And  bid  my  lord,  for  joy  of  this  good  news, 
Give  Mistress  Shore  one  gentle  kiss  the  more. 

Buck.  Good  Catesby,  go,  effect  this  business 
soundly.  [I  can. 

Gate.  My  good  lords  both,  with  all  the  heed 

Glo.  Shall  we  hear  from  you,  Catesby,  ere 
we  sleep? 

Gate.  You  shall,  my  lord. 

Glo.  At  Crosby  Place,  there  shall  you  find  us 
both.  [Exit  CATESBY. 

Buck.  Now,  my  lord,  what  shall  we  do  if  we 

perceive 
Lord  Hastings  will  not  yield  to  our  complots? 

Glo.  Chop  off  his  head,  man ; — somewhat  we 

will  do: — 

And  look,  when  I  am  king,  claim  thou  of  me 
The  earldom  of  Hereford,  and  all  the  movables 
Whereof  the  king  my  brother  was  possess'd. 


Buck.  I  '11  claim  that  promise  at  your  grace's 
hand.  [kindness. 

Glo.  And  look  to  have  it  yielded  with  all 
Come,  let  us  sup  betimes,  that  afterwards 
We  may  digest  our  complots  in  some  form. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Before  LORD  HASTINGS'  House. 

_,  _.. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord,  my  lord ! —  [Knocking. 

Hast.  [Within.}  Who  knocks? 
Mess.  One  from  the  Lord  Stanley. 
Hast.  [Within.'}  What  is't  o'clock? 
Mess.   Upon  the  stroke  of  four. 

Enter  HASTINGS. 

Hast.  Cannot  my  Lord  Stanley  sleep  these 
tedious  nights? 

Mess.  So  it  appears  by  that  I  have  to  say. 
First,  he  commends  him  to  your  noble  self. 

Hast.  What  then  ?  [night 

Mess.  Then  certifies  your  lordship  that  this 
He  dreamt  the  boar  had  razed  off  his  helm : 
Besides,  he  says  there  are  two  councils  held ; 
And  that  may  be  determin'd  at  the  one 
Which  may  make  you  and  him  to  rue  at  the 
other.  [pleasure, — 

Therefore  he  sends  to  know  your  lordship's 
If  you  will  presently  take  horse  with  him, 
And  with  all  speed  post  with  him  toward  the 

north, 
To  shun  the  danger  that  his  soul  divines. 

Hast.  Go,  fellow,  go,  return  unto  thy  lord; 
Bid  him  not  fear  the  separated  councils : 
His  honour  and  myself  are  at  the  one, 
And  at  the  other  is  my  good  friend  Catesby ; 
Where  nothing  can  proceed  that  toucheth  us 
Whereof  I  shall  not  have  intelligence. 
Tell  him  his  fears  are  shallow,  without  instance : 
And  for  his  dreams,  I  wonder  he 's  so  simple 
To  trust  the  mockery  of  unquiet  slumbers: 
To  fly  the  boar  before  the  boar  pursues, 
Were  to  incense  the  boar  to  follow  us, 
And  make  pursuit  where  he  did  mean  no  chase. 
Go,  bid  thy  master  rise  and  come  to  me ; 
And  we  will  both  together  to  the  Tower, 
Where,   he  shall  see,   the  boar  will   use  us 
kindly. 

Mess.  I  '11  go,  my  lord,  and  tell  him  what 
you  say.  [Exit. 

Enter  CATESBY. 

Gate.  Many  good-morrows  to  my  noble  lord ! 

Hast.  Good-morrow,  Catesby ;  you  are  early 

stirring :  [state  ? 

What  news,  what  news,  in  this  our  tottering 


SCENE  II.] 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


693 


Gate.  It  is  a  reeling  world  indeed,  my  lord ; 
And  I  believe  will  never  stand  upright 
Till  Richard  wear  the  garland  of  the  realm. 
Hast.   How !  wear  the  garland !   dost   thou 

mean  the  crown? 

Cafe.  Ay,  my  good  lord.  [my  shoulders 

Hast.  I  '11  have  this  crown  of  mine  cut  from 
Before  I  '11  see  the  crown  so  foul  misplac'd. 
But  canst  thou  guess  that  he  doth  aim  at  it? 
Cafe.  Ay,  on  my  life ;  and  hopes  to  find  you 

forward 

Upon  his  party  for  the  gain  thereof: 
And  thereupon  he  sends  you  this  good  news, — 
That  this  same  very  day  your  enemies, 
The  kindred  of  the  queen,  must  die  at  Pomfret. 
Hast.  Indeed,  I  am  no  mourner  for  that  news, 
Because  they  have  been  still  my  adversaries : 
But  that  I  '11  give  my  voice  on  Richard's  side, 
To  bar  my  master's  heirs  in  true  descent, 
God  knows  I  will  not  do  it  to  the  death. 

Cafe.  God  keep  your  lordship  in  that  gra- 
cious mind ! 
Hast.  But   I  shall   laugh  at  this   a   twelve 

month  hence, — 

That  they  who  brought  me  in  my  master's  hate, 
I  live  to  look  upon  their  tragedy. 
Well,  Catesby,  ere  a  fortnight  make  me  older, 
I  '11  send  some  packing  that  yet  think  not  on 't. 
Gate.  'Tis  a  vile  thing  to  die,  my  gracious 

lord, 

When  men  are  unprepar'd,  and  look  not  for  it. 
Hast.   O  monstrous,  monstrous  !  and  so  falls 

it  out 

Witn  Rivers,  Vaughan,  Grey:  and  so  'twill  do 
With  some  men  else  that  think  themselves  as 

safe 

As  thou  and  I ;  who,  as  thou  know'st,  are  dear 
To  princely  Richard  and  to  Buckingham. 
Gate.  The  princes  both  make  high  account  of 

you,— 
For  they  account  his  head  upon  the  bridge. 

[Aside. 

Hast.  I  know  they  do;  and  I  have  well  de- 
servM  it. 

Enter  STANLEY. 

Come  on,  come  on ;  where  is  your  boar-spear, 

man? 

Fear  you  the  boar,  and  go  so  unprovided? 
Stan.   My  lord,   good-morrow;    and   good- 
morrow,  Catesby: — 
You  may  jest  on,  but,  by  the  holy  rood, 
I  do  not  like  these  several  councils,  I. 

Hast.  My  lord,  I  hold  my  life  as  dear  as  you 

do  yours ; 

And  never  in  my  days,  I  do  protest, 
Was  it  more  precious  to  me  than  'tis  now : 


Think  you,  but  that  I  know  our  state  secure, 
I  would  be  so  triumphant  as  I  am? 
Stan.  The  lords  at  Pomfret,  when  they  rode 

from  London,  [sure, — 

Were  jocund,  and  suppos'd  their  states  were 
And  they,  indeed,  had  no  cause  to  mistrust ; 
But  yet,  you  see,  how  soon  the  day  o'ercast ! 
This  sudden  stab  of  rancour  I  misdoubt ; 
Pray  God,  I  say,  I  prove  a  needless  coward  ! 
What,  shall  we  toward  the  Tower?  the  day  is 

spent. 
Hast.  Come,  come,  have  with  you. — Wot  you 

what,  my  lord? 

To-day  the  lords  you  talk  of  are  beheaded. 
Stan.   They,   for   their  truth,   might   better 

wear  their  heads  [hats. — 

Than  some  that  have  accus'd  them  wear  their 
But  come,  my  lord,  let 's  away. 

Enter  a  Pursuivant. 

Hast.  Go  on  before ;  I  '11  talk  with  this  good 
fellow.       [Exeunt  STAN,  and  GATE. 
How  now,  sirrah!  how  goes  the  world  with 
thee?  [ask. 

Purs.  The  better  that  your  lordship  please  to 
Hast.  I  tell  thee,  man,  'tis  better  with  me 
now  [meet : 

Than  when  thou  mett'st  me  last  where  now  we 
Then  was  I  going  prisoner  to  the  Tower, 
By  the  suggestion  of  the  queen's  allies ; 
But  now,  I  tell  thee, — keep  it  to  thyself — 
This  day  those  enemies  are  put  to  death, 
And  I  in  better  state  than  e'er  I  was. 
Purs.  God  hold  it,  to  your  honour's  good 
content !  [me. 

Hast.  Gramercy,  fellow :  there,  drink  that  for 
[Throwing  him  his  purse. 
Purs.   I  thank  your  honour.  [Exit. 

Enter  a  Priest. 

Pr.  Well  met,  my  lord;  I  am  glad  to  see 

your  honour. 
Hast.  I  thank  thee,  good  Sir  John,  with  all 

my  heart. 

I  am  in  your  debt  for  your  last  exercise ; 
Come  the  next  Sabbath,  and  I  will  content  you, 

Enter  BUCKINGHAM. 

Buck.  What,  talking  with  a  priest,  lord  cham- 
berlain ! 

Your  friends  at  Pomfret,  they  do  need  the  priest ; 
Your  honour  hath  no  shriving-work  in  hand. 
Hast.  Good  faith,  and  when  I  met  this  holy 

man, 

The  men  you  talk  of  came  irxto  my  mind.— 
What,  go  you  toward  the  Tower? 


694 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


[ACT  in. 


Buck.   I  do,  my  lord ;  but  long  I  cannot  stay 

there : 

I  shall  return  before  your  lordship  thence. 
Hast.  Nay,  like  enough,  for  I  stay  dinner 

there. 

Buck.  And  supper  too,  although  thou  know'st 
it  not.  [Aside. 

Come,  will  you  go? 

Hast.  I  '11  wait  upon  your  lordship. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — POMFRET.     Before  the  Castle. 

Enter  RATCLIFF,  with  a  Guard,  conducting 
RIVERS,  GREY,  and  VAUGHAN  to  execution. 

Riv.    Sir  Richard  Ratcliff,  let  me  tell  thee 

this,— 

To-day  shalt  thou  behold  a  subject  die 
For  truth,  for  duty,  and  for  loyalty.       [of  you ! 
Grey.  God  bless  the  prince  from  all  the  pack 
A  knot  you  are  of  damned  blood-suckers. 
Vaugh.  You  live  that  shall  cry  woe  for  this 

hereafter. 

Rat.  Despatch ;  the  limit  of  your  lives  is  out. 
Riv.  O  Pomfret,  Pomfret!  O  thou  bloody 

prison, 

Fatal  and  ominous  to  noble  peers ! 
Within  the  guilty  closure  of  thy  walls 
Richard  the  Second  here  was  hack'd  to  death : 
And,  for  more  slander  to  thy  dismal  seat, 
We  give  thee  Up  our  guiltless  blood  to  drink. 
Grey.   Now  Margaret's  curse  is  fallen  upon 

our  heads, 

When  she  exclaim'd  on  Hastings,  you,  and  I, 
For  standing  by  when  Richard  stabb'd  her  son. 
Riv.  Then  curs'd  she  Richard,  then  curs'd  she 

Buckingham, 

Then  curs'd  she  Hastings: — O,  remember,  God, 
To  hear  her  prayer  for  them,  as  now  for  us ! 
And  for  my  sister  and  her  princely  sons, 
Be  satisfied,  dear  God,  with  our  true  blood, 
Which,  as  thou  know'st,  unjustly  must  be  spilt ! 
Rat.  Make  haste ;  the  hour  of  death  is  ex- 
piate. 
Riv.  Come,  Grey, — come,  Vaughan, — let  us 

here  embrace : 
Farewell,  until  we  meet  again  in  heaven. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — LONDON.    A  Room  in  the  Tower. 

BUCKINGHAM,  STANLEY,  HASTINGS,  the 
BISHOP  OF  ELY,  RATCLIFF,  LOVEL,  and 
others ;  sitting  at  a  table:  Officers  of  the 
Council  attending. 

Hast.  Now,  noble  peers,  the  cause  why  we 
are  met 


Is  to  determine  of  the  coronation. 

In  God's  name,  speak, — when  is  the  royal  day? 

Buck.  Are  all  things  ready  for  that  royal  time? 

Stan.  They  are ;  and  wants  but  nomination. 

Ely.  To-morrow,  then,  I  judge  a  happy  day. 

Buck.  Who  knows  the  lord  protector's  min<? 

herein  ? 
Who  is  most  inward  with  the  noble  duke  ? 

Ely.  You;'  grace,  we  think,  should  soonest 
know  his  mind. 

Buck.  We  know  each  other's  faces :  for  our 

hearts, 

He  knows  no  more  of  mine  than  I  of  yours  ; 
Nor  I  of  his,  my  lord,  than  you  of  mine. — 
Lord  Hastings,  you  and  he  are  near  in  love. 

Hast.  I  thank  his  grace,  I  know  he  loves  me 

well ; 

But  for  his  purpose  in  the  coronation 
I  have  not  sounded  him,  nor  he  deliver'd 
His  gracious  pleasure  any  way  therein  : 
But  you,  my  noble  lords,  may  name  the  time  ; 
And  in  the  duke's  behalf  I  '11  give  my  voice, 
Which,  I  presume,  he  '11  take  in  gentle  part. 

Ely.    In  happy  time,  here  comes  the  duke 
himself. 

Enter  GLOSTER. 

Glo.   My  noble  lords  and  cousins  all,  good- 
morrow. 

I  have  been  long  a  sleeper  ;  but  I  trust 
My  absence  doth  neglect  no  great  design 
Which  by  my  presence  might  have  been  con- 
cluded. 

Buck.  Had  you  not  come  upon  your  cue,  my 

lord,  [part, — 

William  Lord  Hastings  had  pronounc'd  your 

I  mean,  your  voice, — for  crowning  of  the  king. 

Glo.  Than  my  Lord  Hastings  no  man  might 

be  bolder  ;  [well.— 

His   lordship   knows  me  well,  and  loves  me 

My  lord  of  Ely,  when  I  was  last  in  Holborn 

I  saw  good  strawberries  in  your  garden  there  : 

I  do  beseech  you  send  for  some  of  them. 

Ely.   Marry,  and  will,  my  lord,  with  all  my 

heart.  [Exit. 

Glo.  Cousin  of  Buckingham,  a  word  with  you. 

[Takes  him  aside. 

Catesby  hath  sounded  Hastings  in  our  business, 
And  finds  the  testy  gentleman  so  hot 
That  he  will  lose  his  head  ere  give  consent 
His  master's  child,  as  worshipfully  he  terms  it, 
Shall  lose  the  royalty  of  England's  throne. 
Buck.  Withdraw  yourself  awhile  ;  I'll  go  with 
you.  \_Exeunt  GLO.  and  BUCK. 

Stan.  We  have  not  yet  set  down  this  day  of 

triumph. 
To-morrow,  in  my  judgment,  is  too  sudden ; 


SCENE  IV.] 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


695 


For  I  myself  am  not  so  well  provided 

As  else  I  would  be,  were  the  day  prolong'd. 

Re-enter  BISHOP  OF  ELY. 

Ely.  Where  is  my  lord  the  Duke  of  Gloster? 
I  have  sent  for  these  strawberries. 

Hast.  His  grace  looks  cheerfully  and  smooth 

this  morning  ; 

There 's  some  conceit  or  other  likes  him  well 
When  that  he  bids  good-morrow  with  such  spirit. 
I  think  there 's  ne'er  a  man  in  Christendom 
Can  lesser  hide  his  love  or  hate  than  he  ; 
For  by  his  face  straight  shall  you  know  his  heart. 

Stan.  What  of  his  heart  perceive  you  in  his 

face 
By  any  livelihood  he  showed  to-day  ? 

Hast.  Marry,  that  with  no  man  here  he  is 

offended  ; 
For,  were  he,  he  had  shown  it  in  his  looks. 

Re-enter  GLOSTER  and  BUCKINGHAM. 

Glo.  I  pray  you  all,  tell  me  what  they  deserve 
That  do  conspire  my  death  with  devilish  plots 
Of  damned  witchcraft,  and  that  have  prevail'd 
Upon  my  body  with  their  hellish  charms  ? 

Hast.   The  tender  love  I  bear  your  grace,  my 

lord, 

Makes  me  most  forward  in  this  princely  presence 
To  doom  the  offenders  :  whosoe'er  they  be, 
I  say,  my  lord,  they  have  deserved  death. 

Glo.  Then  be  your  eyes  the  witness  of  their 

evil : 

Look  how  I  am  bewitch'd ;  behold,  mine  arm 
Is,  like  a  blasted  sapling,  wither'd  up  : 
And  this  is  Edward's  wife,  that  monstrous  witch, 
Consorted  with  that  harlot-strumpet  Shore, 
That  by  their  witchcraft  thus  have  marked  me. 

Hast.   If  they  have  done  this  deed,  my  noble 
lord, —  [pet, 

Glo.  If!  thou  protector  of  this  damned  strum- 
Talk'st  thou  to  me  of  ifs  ? — Thou  art  a  traitor : — 
Off  with  his  head ! — now,  by  Saint  Paul  I  swear, 
I  will  not  dine  until  I  see  the  same. — 
Lovel  and  Ratcliff :— look  that  it  be  done  : — 
The  rest,  that  love  me,  rise  and  follow  me. 
[Exeunt  all  except  H  AST.  ,  Lo  v. ,  and  R  ATCLI  FF. 

Hast.  Woe,  woe,  for  England  !  not  a  whit 

for  me  ; 

For  I,  too  fond,  might  have  prevented  this. 
Stanley  did  dream  the  boar  did  raze  his  helm  ; 
And  I  did  scorn  it,  and  disdain  to  fly. 
Three   times  to-day  my  foot-cloth  horse   did 

stumble, 

And  started,  when  he  look'd  upon  the  Tower, 
As  loth  to  bear  me  to  the  slaughter-house. 
O,  now  I  need  the  priest  that  spake  to  me  : 


I  now  repent  I  told  the  pursuivant, 
As  too  triumphing,  how  mine  enemies 
To-day  at  Pomfret  bloodily  were  butcher'd, 
And  I  myself  secure  in  grace  and  favour. 

0  Margaret,  Margaret,  now  thy  heavy  curse 
Is  lighted  on  poor  Hastings'  wretched  head. 

Rat.  Come,  come,  despatch ;  the  duke  would 

be  at  dinner : 
Make  a  short  shrift ;  he  longs  to  see  your  head. 

Hast.  O  momentary  grace  of  mortal  men, 
Which  we  more  hunt  for  than  the  grace  of  God ! 
Who  builds  his  hope  in  air  of  your  good  looks, 
Lives  like  a  drunken  sailor  on  a  mast, 
Ready,  with  every  nod,  to  tumble  down 
Into  the  fatal  bowels  of  the  deep. 

Lav.  Come,  come,  despatch  ;  'tis  bootless  to 
exclaim.  [land  ! 

Hast.  O  bloody  Richard  ! — miserable  Eng- 

1  prophesy  the  fearfull'st  time  to  thee 

That  ever  wretched  age  hath  look'd  upon. — 
Come,  lead  me  to  the  block  ;  bear  him  my  head : 
They  smile  at  me  who  shortly  shall  be  dead. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.— LONDON.     The  Tower  Walls. 

Enter  GLOSTER  and  BUCKINGHAM  in  rusty 
armour,  marvellous  ill-favoured. 

Glo.    Come,  cousin,  canst  thou  quake  and 

change  thy  colour, 

Murder  thy  breath  in  middle  of  a  word, 
And  then  again  begin,  and  stop  again, 
As  if  thou  wert  distraught  and  mad  with  terror? 

Buck.    Tut,    I    can    counterfeit    the    deep 

tragedian  ; 

Speak  and  look  back,  and  pry  on  every  side, 
Tremble  and  start  at  wagging  of  a  straw, 
Intending  deep  suspicion  :  ghastly  looks 
Are  at  my  service,  like  enforced  smiles ; 
And  both  are  ready  in  their  offices, 
At  any  time,  to  grace  my  stratagems. 
But  what,  is  Catesby  gone  ?  [along. 

Glo.  He  is  ;  and,  see,  he  brings  the  mayor 

Enter  the  Lord  Mayor  and  CATESBY. 

Buck.  Lord  mayor, — 

Glo.  Look  to  the  drawbridge  there  ! 

Buck.  Hark  !  a  drum. 

Glo.  Catesby,  o'erlook  the  walls. 

Buck.  Lord  Mayor,  the  reason  we  have  sent, — 

Glo.    Look  back,    defend   thee, — here    are 

enemies. 
Biuk.  God  and  our  innocency  defend  and 

guard  us  !  [Lovel. 

Glo.  Be  patient,  they  are  friends, — Ratcliff  and 


696 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


[ACT  in. 


Enter  LOVEL  0#</KATCLiFF,  with  HASTINGS' 
head. 

Lov.  Here  is  the  head  of  that  ignoble  traitor, 
The  dangerous  and  unsuspected  Hastings. 

Glo.  So  dear  I  lov'd  the  man  that  I  must 

weep. 

I  took  him  for  the  plainest  harmless  creature 
That  breath'd  upon  the  earth  a  Christian  ; 
Made  him  my  book,  wherein  my  soul  recorded 
The  history  of  all  her  secret  thoughts  : 
So  smooth  he  daub'd  his  vice  with  show  of  virtue 
That,  his  apparent  open  guilt  omitted, — 
I  mean,  his  conversation  with  Shore's  wife, — 
He  liv'd  from  all  attainder  of  suspect. 

Buck.    Well,    well,    he  was    the    covert'st 

shelter'd  traitor 
That  ever  liv'd. — 

Would  you  imagine,  or  almost  believe, — 
Were 't  not  that  by  great  preservation 
We  live  to  tell  it  you,— the  subtle  traitor 
This  day  had  plotted,  in  the  council -house, 
To  murder  me  and  my  good  Lord  of  Gloster  ! 

May.  Had  he  done  so?  [fidels? 

Glo.  What !  think  you  we  are  Turks  or  In- 
Or  that  we  would,  against  the  form  of  law, 
Proceed  thus  rashly  in  the  villain's  death, 
But  that  the  extreme  peril  of  the  case, 
The  peace  of  England  and  our  persons'  safety, 
Enforc'd  us  to  this  execution  ? 

May.  Now,  fair  befall  you !  he  deserv'd  his 
death ;  [ceeded, 

And   your  good   graces  both  have  well   pro- 
To  warn  false  traitors  from  the  like  attempts. 
I  never  look'd  for  better  at  his  hands 
After  he  once  fell  in  -vith  Mistress  Shore,     [die 

Buck.  Yet  had  we  not  determin'd  he  should 
Until  your  lordship  came  to  see  his  end  ; 
Which  now  the  loving  haste  of  these  our  friends, 
Something  against  our  meaning,  hath  prevented: 
Because,  my  lord,  we  would  have  had  you  heard 
The  traitor  speak,  and  timorously  confess 
The  manner  and  the  purpose  of  his  treasons ; 
That  you  might  well  have  signified  the  same 
Unto  the  citizens,  who  haply  may 
Misconstrue  us  in  him,  and  wail  his  death. 

May.  But,  my  good  lord,  your  grace's  word 

shall  serve 

As  well  as  I  had  seen,  and  heard  him  speak  : 
And  do  not  doubt,  right  noble  princes  both, 
But  I  '11  acquaint  our  duteous  citizens 
With  all  your  just  proceedings  in  this  case. 

Glo.  And  to  that  end  we  wish'd  your  lordship 

here, 
To  avoid  the  censures  of  the  carping  world. 

Buck.  But  since  you  come  too  late  of  our  in- 
tent, 


Yet  witness  what  you  hear  we  did  intend  : 
And  so,  my  good  lord  mayor,  we  bid  farewell. 
[Exit  Lord  Mayor. 

Glo.  Go,  after,  after,  cousin  Buckingham. 
The  mayor  towards  Guildhall  hies  him  in  all 

post : — 

There,  at  your  meetest  vantage  of  the  time, 
Infer  the  bastardy  of  Edward's  children : 
Tell  them  how  Edward  put  to  death  a  citizen, 
Only  for  saying  he  would  make  his  son 
Heir  to  the  crown ;  meaning,  indeed,  his  house, 
Which,  by  the  sign  thereof,  was  termed  so. 
Moreover,  urge  his  hateful  luxury, 
And  bestial  appetite  in  change  of  lust ;     [wives, 
Which  stretch'd  unto  their  servants,  daughters. 
Even  where  his  raging  eye  or  savage  heart, 
Without  control,  listed  to  make  a  prey. 
Nay,  for  a  need,  thus  far  come  near  my  per- 
son : —  [child 
Tell  them,  when  that  my  mother  went  with 
Of  that  insatiate  Edward,  noble  York, 
My  princely  father,  then  had  wars  in  France; 
And,  by  true  computation  of  the  time, 
Found  that  the  issue  was  not  his  begot ; 
Which  well  appeared  in  his  lineaments, 
Being  nothing  like  the  noble  duke  my  father; 
Yet  touch  this  sparingly,  as  'twere  far  off; 
Because,  my  lord,  you  know  my  mother  lives. 
Buck.  Doubt  not,  my  lord,  I  '11  play  the  orator 
As  if  the  golden  plea  for  which  I  plead 
Were  for  myself:  and  Jo,  my  lord,  adieu. 
Glo.  If  you  thrive  well,  bring  them  to  Bay* 

nard's  Castle ; 

Where  you  shall  find  me  well  accompanied 
With  reverend  fathers  and  well  learned  bishops. 
Buck.  I  go ;  and  towards  three  or  four  o'clock 
Look  for  the  news  that  the  Guildhall  affords. 

[Exit. 

Glo.  Go,  Lovel,  with  all  speed  to  Doctor 
Shaw.—  [both 

Go  thou  \to  GATE.]  to  Friar  Penker ; — bid  them 
Meet  me  within  this  hour  at  Baynard's  Castle. 
[Exeunt  Lov.  and  GATE. 
Now  will  I  in,  to  take  some  privy  order 
To  draw  the  brats  of  Clarence  out  of  sight ; 
And  to  give  notice  that  no  manner  of  person 
Have  any  time  recourse  unto  the  princes.  [Exit, 

SCENE  VI. — LONDON.     A  Street. 
Enter  a  Scrivener. 

Scriv.  Here  is  the  indictment  of  the  good 

Lord  Hastings; 

Which  in  a  set  hand  fairly  is  engross'd, 
That  it  may  be  to-day  read  o'er  in  Paul's. 
And  mark    how   well  the  sequel    hangs  to- 
gether:— 


SCENE  VII.] 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


697 


Eleven  hours  I  have  spent  to  write  it  over, 
For  yesternight  by  Catesby  was  it  sent  me ; 
The  precedent  was  full  as  long  a-doing : 
And  yet  within  these  five  hours  Hastings  liv'd, 
Untainted,  unexamin'd,  free,  at  liberty. 
Here 's  a  good  world  the  while  !    Who  is  so  gross 
That  cannot  see  this  palpable  device ! 
Yet  who  so  bold  but  says  he  sees  it  not ! 
Bad  is  the  world ;  and  all  will  come  to  naught 
When  such  ill  dealing  must  be  seen  in  thought. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  VII. — LONDON.     Court  of  Baynarcts 
Castle. 

Enter  GLOSTFR  and  BUCKINGHAM,  meeting. 

Glo.   How  now,  how  now!    what  say  the 
citizens? 

Btick.  Now,  by  the  holy  mother  of  our  Lord, 
The  citizens  are  mum,  say  not  a  word. 

Glo.  Touch'd  you  the  bastardy  of  Edward's 
children?  [Lucy, 

Buck.   I  did;  with  his  contract  with  Lady 
And  his  contract  by  deputy  in  France; 
The  insatiate  greediness  of  his  desires, 
And  his  enforcement  of  the  city  wives ; 
His  tyranny  for  trifles;  his  own  bastardy, — 
As  being  got,  your  father  then  in  France, 
And  his  resemblance,  being  not  like  the  duke : 
Withal  I  did  infer  your  lineaments, — 
Being  the  right  idea  of  your  father, 
Both  in  your  form  and  nobleness  of  mind ; 
Laid  open  all  your  victories  in  Scotland, 
Your  discipline  in  war,  wisdom  in  peace, 
Your  bounty,  virtue,  fair  humility; 
Indeed,  left  nothing  fitting  for  your  purpose 
Untouch'd  or  slightly  handled  in  discourse : 
And  when  my  oratory  drew  toward  end 
I  bid  them  that  did  love  their  country's  good 
Cry,  God  save  Richard,  England's  royal  king! 

Glo.  And  did  they  so?  [word; 

Buck.  No,  so  God  help  me,  they  spake  not  a 
But,  like  dumb  statuas  or  breathing  stones, 
Star'd  each  on  other,  and  look'd  deadly  pale. 
Which  when  I  saw,  I  reprehended  them ; 
And  ask'd  the  mayor  what  meant  this  wilful 

silence : 

His  answer  was, — the  people  were  not  us'd 
To  be  spoke  to  but  by  the  recorder. 
Then  he  was  urg'd  to  tell  my  tale  again, — 
Thus  saith  the  duke,  thus  hath  the  duke  inferred; 
But  nothing  spoke  in  warrant  from  himself. 
When  he  had  done,  some  followers  of  mine  own, 
At  lower  end  of  the  hall,  hurl'd  up  their  caps, 
And   some  ten  voices  cried,   God  save  King 

Richard! 
And  thus  I  took  the  vantage  of  those  few, — 


Thanks,  gentle  citizens  and  friends,  quoth  I ; 
This  general  applause  and  cheerful  shout 
Argues  your  -wisdom  andymir  love  to  Richard: 
And  even  here  brake  off  and  came  away. 

Glo.    What    tongueless    blocks  were    they! 

would  they  not  speak?  [come? 

Will  not  the  mayor,  then,  and  his  brethren, 

Buck.  The  mayor  is  here  at  hand.     Intend 

some  fear; 

Be  not  you  spoke  with  but  by  mighty  suit : 
And  look  you  get  a  prayer-book  in  your  hand, 
And  stand  between  two  churchmen,  good  i»y 

lord; 

For  on  that  ground  I  '11  make  a  holy  descant : 
And  be  not  easily  won  to  our  requests ;         [it. 
Play  the  maid's  part,— still  answer  nay,  and  take 

Glo.  I  go ;  and  if  you  plead  as  well  for  them 
As  I  can  say  nay  to  thee  for  myself, 
No  doubt  we  bring  it  to  a  happy  issue. 

Buck.  Go,  go,  up  to  the  leads ;  the  lord  mayoi 
knocks.  [Exit  GLOSTER. 

Enter  the  Lord  Mayor,  Aldermen,  and  Citizens. 

Welcome,  my  lord :  I  dance  attendance  here ; 
I  think  the  duke  will  not  be  spoke  withal. 

Entert  from  the  Castle,  CATESBY. 

Now,  Catesby, — what  says  your  lord  to  my 
request?  [lord, 

Cote.  He  doth  entreat  your  grace,  my  noble 
To  visit  him  to-morrow  or  next  day : 
He  is  within,  with  two  right  reverend  fathers, 
Divinely  bent  to  meditation : 
And  in  no  worldly  suit  would  he  be  mov*d, 
To  draw  him  from  his  holy  exercise.        [duke ; 

Buck.  Return,  good  Catesby,  to  the  gracious 
Tell  him,  myself,  the  mayor  and  aldermen, 
In  deep  designs,  in  matter  of  great  moment, 
No  less  importing  than  our  general  good, 
Are  come  to  have  some  conference  with  his  grace. 

Cote.  I  '11  signify  so  much  unto  him  straight. 

[Exit. 

Buck.  Ah,  ha,  my  lord,  this  prince  is  not  an 

Edward ! 

He  is  not  lolling  on  a  lewd  day-bed, 
But  on  his  knees  at  meditation ; 
Not  dallying  with  a  brace  of  courtezans, 
But  meditating  with  two  deep  divines ; 
Not  sleeping,  to  engross  bis  idle  body, 
But  praying,  to  enrich  his  watchful  soul : 
Happy  were  England  would  this  virtuous  prince 
Take  on  himself  the  sovereignty  thereof: 
But,  sure,  I  fear,  we  shall  not  win  him  to  it. 

May.  Marry,  God  defend  his  grace  should 
say  us  nay !  [again. 

Buck.  I  fear  he  will.     Here  Catesby  comes 


698 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


[ACT  in. 


Re-enter  CATESBY. 

Now,  Catesby,  what  says  his  grace? 

Cafe.  He  wonders  to  what  end  you  have  as- 
sembled 

Such  troops  of  citizens  to  come  to  him : 
His  grace  not  being  warn'd  thereof  before, 
He  fears,  my  lord,  you  mean  no  good  to  him. 

Buck.  Sorry  I  am  my  noble  cousin  should 
Suspect  me,  that  I  mean  no  good  to  him : 
By  heaven,  we  come  to  him  in  perfect  love ; 
And  so  once  more  return  and  tell  his  grace. 

[Exit  CATESBY. 

When  holy  and  devout  religious  men 
Are  at  their  beads,  'tis  much  to  draw  them 

thence, — 
So  sweet  is  zealous  contemplation. 

Enter  GLOSTER,  in  a  Gallery  above,  between 
two  Bishops.     CATESBY  returns. 

May.  See,  where  his  grace  stands  'tween  two 
clergymen !  [prince, 

Buck.  Two  props  of  virtue  for  a  Christian 
To  stay  him  from  the  fall  of  vanity : 
And,  see,  a  book  of  prayer  in  his  hand, — 
True  ornament  to  know  a  holy  man. — 
Famous  Plantagenet,  most  gracious  prince, 
Lend  favourable  ear  to  our  requests ; 
And  pardon  us  the  interruption 
Of  thy  devotion  and  right  Christian  zeal. 

Glo.  My  lord,  there  needs  no  such  apology : 
I  rather  do  beseech  you  pardon  me, 
Who,  earnest  in  the  service  of  my  God, 
Deferr'd  the  visitation  of  my  friends.         [sure? 
But,  leaving  this,  what  is  your  grace's  plea- 
Buck.  Even  that,  I  hope,  which  pleaseth  God 

above, 
And  all  good  men  of  this  ungovern'd  isle. 

Glo.  I  do  suspect  I  have  done  some  offence 
That  seems  disgracious  in  the  city's  eye ; 
And  that  you  come  to  reprehend  my  ignorance. 
Buck.  You  have,  my  lord :  would  it  might 

please  your  grace, 
On  our  entreaties,  to  amend  your  fault ! 

Glo.  Else  wherefore  breathe  I  in  a  Christian 
land  ?  [resign 

Buck.  Know,  then,  it  is  your  fault  that  you 
The  supreme  seat,  the  throne  majestical, 
The  scepter'd  office  of  your  ancestors,    ^rri  • 
Your  state  of  fortune  and  your  due  of  birth, 
The  lineal  glory  of  your  royal  house, 
To  the  corruption  of  a  blemish'd  stock : 
Whilst,     in     the    mildness     of    your     sleepy 

thoughts, — 

Which  here  we  waken  to  our  country's  good,^- 
This  noble  isle  doth  want  her  proper  limbs ; 
Her  face  defac'd  with  scars  of  infamy, 


Her  royal  stock  graft  with  ignoble  plants, 

And  almost  shoulderM  in  the  swallowing  gulf 

Of  dark  forgetfulness  and  deep  oblivion. 

Which  to  recure,  we  heartily  solicit 

Your  gracious  self  to  take  oil  you  the  charge 

And  kingly  government  of  this  your  land ; — 

Not  as  protector,  steward,  substitute, 

Or  lowly  factor  for  another's  gain ; 

But  as  successively,  from  blood  to  blood, 

Your  right  of  birth,  your  empery,  your  own. 

For  this,  consorted  with  the  citizens 

Your  very  worshipful  and  loving  friends, 

And,  by  their  vehement  instigation, 

In  this  just  suit  come  I  to  move  your  grace. 

Glo.  I  cannot  tell  if  to  depart  in  silence 
Or  bitterly  to  speak  in  your  reproof 
Best  fitteth  my  degree  or  your  condition : 
If  not  to  answer,  you  might  haply  think 
Tongue-tied  ambition,  not  replying,  yielded 
To  bear  the  golden  yoke  of  sovereignty, 
Which  fondly  you  would  here  impose  on  me  5 
If  to  reprove  you  for  this  suit  of  yours, 
So  season'd  with  your  faithful  love  to  me, 
Then,  on  the  other  side,  I  check'd  my  friends. 
Therefore, — to  speak,  and  to  avoid  the  first, 
And  then,  in  speaking,  not  to  incur  the  last, — 
Definitively  thus  I  answer  you. 
Your  love  deserves  my  thanks ;  but  my  desert 
Unmeritable  shuns  your  high  request. 
First,  if  all  obstacles  were  cut  away, 
And  that  my  path  were  even  to  the  crown, 
As  the  ripe  revenue  and  due  of  birth, 
Yet  so  much  is  my  poverty  of  spirit, 
So  mighty  and  so  many  my  defects,      [ness, — 
That  I  would  rather  hide  me  from  my  great- 
Being  a  bark  to  brook  no  mighty  sea, — 
Than  in  my  greatness  covet  to  be  hid, 
And  in  the  vapour  of  my  glory  smother'd. 
But,  God  be  thank'd,  there  is  no  need  of  me,— - 
And  much  I  need   to  help  you,   were   there 

need ; — 

The  royai  tree  hath  left  us  royal  fruit, 
Which,  mellow'd  by  the  stealing  hours  of  time, 
Will  well  become  the  seat  of  majesty, 
And  make,  no  doubt,  us  happy  by  his  reign. 
On  him  I  lay  that  you  would  lay  on  me, — 
The  right  and  fortune  of  his  happy  stars ; 
Which  God  defend  that  I  should  wring  from 

him !  [grace ; 

Buck.  My  lord,  this  argues  conscience  in  your 
But  the  respects  thereof  are  nice  and  trivial, 
All  circumstances  well  considered. 
You  say  that  Edward  is  your  brother's  son  s 
So  say  we  too,  but  not  by  Edward's  wife ; 
For  first  was  he  contract  to  Lady  Lucy, — 
Your  moiher  lives  a  witness  to  his  vow,— 
And  afterward  by  substitute  betroth'd 


'SCENE  vn.J 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


699 


To  Bona,  sister  to  the  King  of  France. 

These  both  put  off,  a  poor  petitioner, 

A  care-craz'd  mother  to  a  many  sons, 

A  beauty- waning  and  distressed  widow, 

Even  in  the  afternoon  of  her  best  days. 

Made  prize  and  purchase  of  his  wanton  eye, 

Seduc'd  the  pitch  and  height  of  his  degree 

To  base  declension  and  loath'd  bigamy : 

By  her,  in  his  unlawful  bed,  he  got 

This  Edward,  whom  our  manners  call  the  prince. 

More  bitterly  could  I  expostulate, 

Save  that,  for  reverence  to  some  alive, 

I  give  a  sparing  limit  to  my  tongue. 

Then,  good  my  lord,  take  to  your  royal  self 

This  proffer'd  benefit  of  dignity ; 

If  not  to  bless  us  and  the  land  withal, 

Vet  to  draw  forth  your  noble  ancestry 

From  the  corruption  of  abusing  time 

Unto  a  lineal  true-derived  course.  [you. 

May.  Do,  good  my  lord  ;  your  citizens  entreat 

Buck.  Refuse  not,  mighty  lord,  this  proffer'd 
love.  [suit ! 

Gate.  O,  make  them  joyful,  grant  their  lawful 

Glo.  Alas,  why  would  you  heap  those  cares 

on  me? 

I  am  unfit  for  state  and  majesty : — 
I  do  beseech  you,  take  it  not  amiss ; 
I  cannot  nor  I  will  not  yield  to  you. 

Buck.  If  you  refuse  it, — as,  in  love  and  zeal, 
Loth  to  depose  the  child,  your  brothers  son — 
As  well  we  know  your  tenderness  of  heart, 
And  gentle,  kind,  effeminate  remorse, 
Which  we  have  noted  in  you  to  your  kindred, 
And  equally,  indeed,  to  all  estates, — 
Yet  know,  whe'i  you  accept  our  suit  or  no, 
Your  brother's  son  shall  never  reign  our  king; 
But  we  will  plant  some  other  in  the  throne, 
To  the  disgrace  and  downfall  of  your  house : 
And  in  this  resolution  here  we  leave  you. — 
Come,  citizens,  we  will  entreat  no  more. 

[Exeunt  BUCK.,  the  Mayor  and  Citizens 
retiring. 

Cate.  Call  them  again,  sweet  prince,  accept 

their  suit : 
If  you  deny  them,  all  the  land  will  rue  it. 

Glo.  Will  you  enforce  me  to  a  world  of  cares? 
Call  them  again. 

[GATE,  goes  to  the  Mayor,  &*<:.,  and  then  exit. 

I  am  not  made  of  stone, 
But  penetrable  to  your  kind  entreaties, 
Albeit  against  my  conscience  and  my  soul. 

fie-enter   BUCKINGHAM    and  CATESBY,    the 
Mayor,  &C. ,  coming  forward. 

Cousin  of  Buckingham, — and  sage,  grave  men, 
Since  you  will  buckle  fortune  on  my  back, 
To  fiear  her  burden,  whe'r  I  will  or  no, 


I  must  have  patience  to  enduie  the  load: 
But  if  black  scandal  or  foul-fac'd  reproach 
Attend  the  sequel  of  your  imposition, 
Your  mere  enforcement  shall  acquittance  me 
From  all  the  impure  blots  and  stains  thereof ; 
For  God  he  knows,  and  you  may  partly  see, 
How  far  I  am  from  the  desire  of  this,      [say  it. 
May.  God  bless  your  grace !  we  see  it,  and  will 
Glo.  In  saying  so,  you  shall  but  say  the  truth. 
Buck.  Then  I   salute  you   with  this  royal 

title,— 

Long  live  King  Richard,  England's  worthy  king! 
All.  Amen.  [crown'd? 

Buck.  To-morrow  may  it  please  you  to  be 
Glo.  Even  when  you  please,  for  you  will  have 

it  so. 
Buck.  To-morrow,  then,  we  will  attend  your 

grace : 

And  so,  most  joyfully,  we  take  our  leave. 
Glo.  Come,  let  us  to  our  holy  work  again. — 
\To  the  Bishops, 

Farewell,  my  cousin ; — farewell,  gentle  friends, 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.— LONDON.     Be/ore  the  Tower. 

Enter ;  on  one  side,  QUEEN  ELIZABETH,  DUCH- 
ESS  OF  YORK,  and  MARQUIS  OF  DORSET  ;  on 
the  other,  ANNE  DUCHESS  OF  GLOSTER, 
leading  LADY  MARGARET  PLANTAGENET, 
CLARENCE'S  young  Daughter. 

Duch.  Who  meets  us  here? — my  niece  Plai> 

tagenet 

Led  in  the  hand  of  her  kind  aunt  of  Gloster? 
Now,  fof  my  life,  she's  wandering  to  the  Tower, 
On   pure    heart's   love,    to   greet   the  tendei 

princes. — 
Daughter,  well  met. 

Anne.  God  give  your  graces  both 

A  happy  and  a  joyful  time  of  day !  [away? 

Q.  Eliz.  As  much  to  you,  good  sister!  Whither 

Anne.  No  further  than  the  Tower ;  and,  as  I 

guess, 

Upon  the  like  devotion  as  yourselves, 
To  gratulate  the  gentle  princes  there. 

Q.  Eliz.  Kind  sister,  thanks:  we'll  enter  all 

together : — 
And,  in  good  time,  here  the  lieutenant  comes, 

Enter  BRAKENBURY. 

Master  lieutenant,  pray  you,  by  your  leave, 
How  doth  the  prince,  and  my  young  son  of  York? 
Brak.  Right  well,  dear  madam.     By  your 
patience. 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


[ACT  iv. 


I  may  not  suffer  you  to  visit  them  j 
The  king  has  strictly  charg'd  the  contrary. 
Q.  Eliz.  The  king  !  who 's  ihat  ? 
Brak.  I  mean  the  lord  protector. 

Q.  Eliz.    The   lord  protect  him  from  that 

kingly  title ! 

Hath  he  set  bounds  between  their  love  and  me  ? 

I  am  their  mother ;  who  shall  bar  me  from  them  ? 

Duck.  I  am  their  father's  mother ;  I  will  see 

them.  [mother : 

Anne.  Their  aunt  I  am  in  law,  in  love  their 

Then  bring  me  to  their  sights ;  I  '11  bear  thy 

blame, 
And  take  thy  office  from  thee,  on  my  peril. 

Brak.  No,  madam,  no, — I  may  not  leave  it  so: 
I  am  bound  by  oath,  and  therefore  pardon  me. 

{Exit. 

Enter  STANLEY. 

Stan.  Let  me  but  meet  you,  ladies,  one  hour 

hence, 

And  I  '11  salute  your  grace  of  York  as  mother 
And  reverend  looker-on  of  two  fair  queens. — 
Come,   madam,    you  must   straight   to   West- 
minster, 

\To  the  DUCHESS  OF  GLOSTER. 
There  to  be  crowned  Richard's  royal  queen. 

Q.  Eliz.  Ah,  cut  my  lace  asunder,  [beat, 
That  my  pent  heart  may  have  some  scope  to 
Or  else  I  swoon  with  this  dead-killing  news ! 

Anne.  Despiteful  tidings!  Ounpleasingnews! 

Dor.  Be  of  good  cheer :  mother,  how  fares 
your  grace?  [gone ! 

Q.  Eliz.  O  Dorset,  speak  not  to  me,  get  thee 
Death  and  destruction  dog  thee  at  the  heels ; 
Thy  mother's  name  is  ominous  to  children. 
If  thou  wilt  outstrip  death,  go  cross  the  seas, 
And  live  with  Richmond,  from  the  reach  of  hell : 
Go,  hie  thee,  hie  thee  from  this  slaughter-house, 
Lest  thou  increase  the  number  of  the  dead ; 
And  make  me  die  the  thrall  of  Margaret's  curse, 
Nor  mother,  wife,  nor  England's  counted  queen. 

Stan.   Full  of  wise  care  is  this  your  counsel, 

madam. — 

Take  all  the  swift  advantage  of  the  hours  ; 
You  shall  have  letters  from  me  to  my  son 
In  your  behalf,  to  meet  you  on  the  way : 
Be  not  ta'en  tardy  by  unwise  delay. 

Duck.  O  ill-dispersing  wind  of  misery ! — • 
O  my  accursed  womb,  the  bed  of  death  ! 
A  cockatrice  hast  thou  hatch'd  to  the  world, 
Whose  unavoided  eye  is  murderous.          [sent. 

Stan.  Come,  madam,  come ;  I  in  all  haste  was 

Anne.  And  I  with  all  unwillingness  will  go. — 
O,  would  to  God  that  the  inclusive  verge 
Of  golden  metal  that  must  round  my  brow 
Were  red-hot  steel,  to  sear  me  to  the  brain ! 


Anointed  let  me  be  with  deadly  venom, 
And  die  ere  men  can  say  God  save  the  Queen  I 
Q.  Eliz.  Go,  go,  poor  soul,  I  envy  not  thy 

glory ; 

To  feed  my  humour,  wish  thyself  no  harm. 
Anne.  No,  why  ? — When  he  that  is  my  hus- 
band now 

Came  to  me,  as  I  follow'd  Henry's  corse  ; 
When  scarce  the  blood  was  well  wash'd  from  his 

hands 

Which  issu'd  from  my  other  angel  husband, 
And  that  dead   saint  which   then  I  weeping 

follow'd  ; 

O,  when,  I  say,  I  look'd  on  Richard's  face, 
This  was  my  wish, — Be  thou,  quoth  I,  occurs 'd 
For  making  me,  so  young,  so  old  a  widow! 
And  when  thou  wedifst,  let  sorrow  haunt  thy 

bed; 

And  be  thy  wife, — if  any  be  so  mad, — 
More  miserable  by  the  life  of  thee  \death  ! 

Than   thou  hast  made  me  by  my  dear  lord's 
Lo,  ere  I  can  repeat  this  curse  again, 
Within  so  small  a  time,  my  woman's  heart 
Grossly  grew  captive  to  his  honey  words, 
And  prov'd  the  subject   of  mine  own  soul's 

curse, — • 

Which  hitherto  hath  held  mine  eyes  from  rest ; 
For  never  yet  one  hour  in  his  bed 
Did  I  enjoy  the  golden  dew  of  sleep, 
But  with  his  timorous  dreams  was  still  awak'd 
Besides,  he  hates  me  for  my  father  Warwick  ; 
And  will,  no  doubt,  shortly  be  rid  of  me. 
Q.  Eliz.   Poor  heart,  adieu !  I  pity  thy  com- 

plaining. 
Anne.  No  more  than  with  rny  soul  I  mourn 

for  yours.  [glory . 

Q.  Eliz.   Farewell,  thou  woeful  welcomer  of 
Anne.  Adieu,  poor  soul,  that  tak'st  thy  leave 

of  it ! 

Duck.  Go  thou  to  Richmond,  and  good  for- 
tune guide  thee !—         \To  DORSET. 
Go  thou  to  Richard,   and   good  angels   tend 

thee!—  [To  ANNE. 

Go  thou  to  sanctuary,  and  good  thoughts  possess 

thee  !  [To  QUEEN  ELIZABETH. 

I  to  my  grave,  where  peace  and  rest  lie  with  me  ! 

Eighty  odd  years  of  sorrow  have  I  seen, 

And  each  hour's  joy  wreck'd  with  a  week  of  teen. 

Q.  Eliz.  Stay  yet,  look  back  with  me  unto 

the  Tower. — 

Pity,  you  ancient  stones,  those  tender  babes, 
Whom  envy  hath  immur'd  within  your  walls  ! 
Rough  cradle  for  such  little  pretty  ones  ! 
Rude  ragged  nurse,  old  sullen  playfellow 
For  tender  princes,  use  my  babies  well ! 
So  foolish  sorrow  bids  your  stones  farewell. 

\Exeunt 


SCENE  II.] 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


701 


SCENE  II.  —LONDON.     A  Room  of  State  in  the 
Palace. 

Flourish  of  trumpets.  RICHARD,  as  King,  upon 
his  throne  ;  BUCKINGHAM,  CATESBY,  a  Page, 
and  others. 

K.  Rich.  Stand  all  apart. — Cousin  of  Buck- 
ingham,— 

Buck.  My  gracious  sovereign  ? 
K.  Rich.  Give  me  thy  hand.    Thus  high,  by 

thy  advice 

And  thy  assistance,  is  King  Richard  seated  : — 
But  shall  we  wear  these  glories  for  a  day  ? 
Or  shall  they  last,  and  we  rejoice  in  them  ? 
Buck.  Still  live  they,  and  for  ever  let  them 

last ! 
K.  Rich.  Ah,  Buckingham,  now  do  I  play  the 

touch, 

To  try  if  thou  be  current  gold  indeed  : — 
Young  Edward  lives ; — think  now  what  I  would 

speak. 

Buck.  Say  on,  my  loving  lord. 
K.  Rich.   Why,  Buckingham,  I  say,  I  would 
be  king.  [liege. 

Buck.  Why,  so  you  are,  my  thrice-renowned 
K.  Rich.  Ha  !  am  I  king?  'tis  so :  but  Ed- 
ward lives. 

Buck.  True,  noble  prince. 
K.  Rich.  O  bitter  consequence, 

That  Edward   still  should   live, — true,   noble 

prince  ! — 

Cousin,  thou  wast  not  wont  to  be  so  dull  :— 
Shall  I  be  plain  ? — I  wish  the  bastards  dead ; 
And  I  would  have  it  suddenly  perform'd. 
What  say'st  thou  now?  speak  suddenly,  be  brief. 
Buck.  Your  grace  may  do  your  pleasure. 
K.  Rich.  Tut,  tut,  thou  art  all  ice,  thy  kind- 
ness freezes : 

Say,  have  I  thy  consent  that  they  shall  die  ? 
Buck.  Give  me  some  little  breath,  some  pause, 

dear  lord, 

Before  I  positively  speak  in  this : 
I  will  resolve  your  grace  immediately.     [Exit. 
Cate.  The  king  is  angry :  see,  he  gnaws  his 
lip.  [Aside. 

K.   Rich.  I  will  converse  with  iron-witted 
fools  [Descends  from  his  throne. 

And  un  respective  boys ;  none  are  for  me 
That  look  into  m^  with  considerate  eyes  : 
High-reaching  Buckingham  grows  circumspect. 
Boy  !— 

Page.f  My  lord? 

K.  Rich.  Know'st  thou  not  any  whom  corrupt- 
ing gold 

Would  tempt  into  a  close  exploit  of  death  ? 
Page.  I  know  a  discontented  gentleman, 


Whose  humble  means  match  not  his  haughty 

spirit : 

Gold  were  as  good  as  twenty  orators, 
And  will,  no  doubt,  tempt  him  to  anything. 

K.  Rich.  What  is  his  name  ? 

Page.  His  name,  my  lord,  is  Tyrrel. 

K.  Rich.  I  partly  know  the  man:  go,  call 
him  hither,  boy.  [Exit  Page. 

The  deep-revolving  witty  Buckingham 
No  more  shall  be  the  neighbour  to  my  counsels  : 
H?th  he  so  long  held  out  with  me  untir'd, 
And  stops  he  now  for  breath? — well,  be  it  so. 

Enter  STANLEY. 

How  now,  Lord  Stanley!  what's  the  news? 

Stan.   Know,  my  loving  lord, 
The  Marquis  Dorset,  as  I  hear,  is  fled 
To  Richmond,  in  the  parts  where  he  abides. 

K.  Rich.  Come  hither,  Catesby:  rumour  it 

abroad 

That  Anne,  my  wife,  is  very  grievous  sick  ; 
I  will  take  order  for  her  keeping  close : 
Inquire  me  out  some  mean  poor  gentleman 
Whom    I    will    marry    straight    to    Clarence* 

daughter ; — 

The  bo>  is  foolish,  and  I  fear  not  him. — 
Look,  how  thou  dream'st! — I  say  again,  give  out 
That  Anne  my  queen  is  sick,  and  like  to  die : 
About  it ;  for  it  stands  me  much  upon, 
To  stop  all  hopes  whose  growth  may  damage  me. 
[Exit  CATESBY. 

I  must  be  married  to  my  brother's  daughter, 
Or  else  my  kingdom  stands  on  brittle  glass : — 
Murder  her  brothers,  and  then  marry  her ! 
Uncertain  way  of  gain !     But  I  am  in 
So  far  in  blood  that  sin  will  pluck  on  sin : 
Tear-falling  pity  dwells  not  in  this  eye. 

Re-enter  Page,  with  TYRREL. 

Is  thy  name  Tyrrel?  [subject. 

Ty.  James  Tyrrel,  and  your  most  obedient 
K.  Rich.  Art  thou,  indeed? 
Tyr.  Prove  me,  my  gracious  lord. 

K.  Rich.  Dar'st  thou  resolve  to  kill  a  friend 
of  mine?  [enemies. 

Tyr.  Please  you.     But  I  had  rather  kill  two 
K.  Rich.  Why,  then,  thou  hast  it :  two  deep 

enemies, 

Foes  to  my  rest,  and  my  sweet  sleep's  disturbers, 
Are  they  that  I  would  have  thee  deal  upon : — 
Tyrrel,  I  mean  those  bastards  in  the  Tower. 
Tyr.  Let  me  have  open  means  to  come  tc 

them, 

And  soon  I  '11  rid  you  from  the  fear  of  them. 
K.  Rich.  Thou  sing's!  sweet  music.     Hark< 
come  hither,  Tyrrel: 


702 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


[ACT  iv. 


Go,  by  this  token : — rise,  and  lend  thine  ear: 

{Whispers. 

There  is  no  more  but  so : — say  it  is  done, 
And  I  will  love  thee,  and  prefer  thee  for  it. 
Tyr.   I  will  despatch  it  straight.  {Exit. 

Re-enter  BUCKINGHAM. 

Buck.  My  lord,  I  have  consider'd  in  my  mind 
The  late  demand  that  you  did  sound  me  in. 

K.  Rich.  Well,  let  that  rest.     Dorset  is  fled 
to  Richmond. 

Buck.  I  hear  the  news,  my  lord. 

K.  Rich.  Stanley,  he  is  your  wife's  son: — 
well,  look  to  it.  [promise, 

Buck.  My  lord,  I  claim  the  gift,  my  due  by 
For  which  your  honour  and  your  faith  is  pawn'd; 
The  earldom  of  Hereford,  and  the  movables, 
Which  you  have  promised  I  shall  possess. 

K.  Rich.  Stanley,  look  to  your  wife :  if  she 

convey 
Letters  to  Richmond,  you  shall  answer  it. 

Btick.  What  says  your  highness  to  my  just 
request?  [Sixth 

K.  Rich.  I  do  remember  me, — Henry  the 
Did  prophesy  that  Richmond  should  be  king, 
When  Richmond  was  a  little  peevish  boy. 
A  king ! — perhaps, — 

Buck.  My  lord, — 

K.  Rich.  How  chance  the  prophet  could  not  at 

that  time 
Have  told  me,  I  being  by,  that  I  should  kill  him? 

Buck.   My  lord,  your  promise  for  the  earl- 
dom,—  [Exeter, 

K.  Rich.   Richmond ! — When  last  I  was  at 
The  mayor  in  courtesy  show'd  me  the  castle, 
And  call'd  it  Rouge-mont:  at  which  name  I 

started, 

Because  a  bard  of  Ireland  told  me  once 
I  should  not  live  long  after  I  saw  Richmond. 

Buck.  My  lord,— 

K.  Rich.  Ay,  what's  o'clock?  [mind 

Buck.  I  am  thus  bold  to  put  your  grace  in 
Of  what  you  promis'd  me. 

K.  Rich.  Well,  but  what 's  o'clock? 

Buck.  Upon  the  stroke  of  ten. 

K.  Rich.  Well,  let  it  strike. 

Buck.  Why  let  it  strike? 

K.  Rich.    Because  that,   like  a  Jack,   thou 

keep'st  the  stroke 

Betwixt  thy  begging  and  my  meditation. 
I  am  not  in  the  giving  vein  to-day.          [or  no. 

Buck.  Why,  then  resolve  me  whether  you  will 

JK.  Rich.  Thou  troublest  me ;  I  am  not  in  the 
vein.     {Exeunt  K.  RICH,  and  Train. 

Butk.  And  is  it  thus?  repays  he   my  deep 

service 
With  such  contempt?  made  I  him  king  for  this? 


O,  let  me  think  on  Hastings,  and  be  gone 
To  Brecknock  while  my  fearful  head  is  on ! 

{Exit. 

SCENE  III. — LONDON.     Another  Room  in  th& 
Palace. 

Enter  TYRREL. 

Tyr.  The  tyrannous  and  bloody  act  is  done, — 
The  most  arch  deed  of  piteous  mssacre 
That  ever  yet  this  land  was  guilty  of. 
Dighton  and  Forrest,  whom  I  did  suborn 
To  do  this  piece  of  ruthless  butchery, 
Albeit  they  were  flesh'd  villains,  bloody  dogs, 
Melting  with  tenderness  and  mild  compassion, 
Wept  like  two  children  in  their  death's  sad 

story. 

O  thus,  quoth  Dighton,  lay  the  gentle  babes, — 
Thus,  thus,  quoth  Forrest,  girdling  one  another 
Within  their  alabaster  innocent  arms: 
Their  lips  were  four  red  roses  on  a  stalk, 
Which  in  their  summer  beauty  his s*d  each  other. 
A  book  of  prayers  on  their  pillow  lay  ; 
Which  once,  quoth  Forrest,  almost  chang'd  my 

mind; 

Biit,  0,  the  devil, — there  the  villain  stopp'd ; 
When  Dighton  thus  told  on,—  we  smothered 
The  most  replenished  sweet  work  of  nature 
That  from  the  prime  creation  Jer  she  frairfd.— 
Hence  both  are  gone ;  with  conscience  and  re- 
morse 

They  could  not  speak ;  and  so  I  left  them  both, 
To  bear  this  tidings  to  the  bloody  king: — 
And  here  he  comes : — 

Enter  KING  RICHARD. 

All  health,  my  sovereign  lord ! 
K.  Rich.   Kind  Tyrrel,  am  I  happy  in  thy 
news?  [charge 

Tyr.   If  to  have  done  the  thing  you  gave  in 
Beget  your  happiness,  be  happy  then, 
For  it  is  done. 

K.  Rich.      But  didst  thou  see  them  dead? 
Tyr.  I  did,  my  lord. 

K.  Rich.  And  buried,  gentle  Tyrrel? 

Tyr.  The  chaplain  of  the  Tower  hath  buried 

them; 

But  where,  to  say  the  truth,  I  do  not  know. 
K.  Rich.  Come  to  me,  Tyrrel,  soon,  at  after 

supper, 

When  thou  shalt  tell  the  process  of  their  death. 
Meantime,  but  think  how  I  may  do  thee  good, 
And  be  inheritor  of  thy  desire. 
Farewell  till  then. 

Tyr.  I  humbly  take  my  leave.     {Exit. 

K'.  Rich.  The  son  of  Clarence  have  I  pent  up 
close : 


SCENE  IV.] 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


703 


His  daughter  meanly  have  I  match'd  in  mar- 
riage ; 

The  sons  of  Edward  sleep  in  Abraham's  bosom, 
And  Anne  my  wife  hath  bid  the  world  good- 
night. 

Now,  for  I  know  the  Bretagne  Richmond  aims 
At  young  Elizabeth,  my  brother's  daughter, 
And  by  that  knot  looks  proudly  on  the  crown, 
To  her  go  I,  a  jolly  thriving  wooer. 

Enter  RATCLIFF. 

Rat.  My  lord,— 

K.  Rich.  Good  news  or  bad,  that  thou  com'st 
in  so  bluntly?  [Richmond; 

Rat.  Bad  news,  my  lord :  Morton  is  fled  to 
And  Buckingham,  back'dwith  the  hardy  Welsh- 
men, 

Is  in  the  field,  and  still  his  power  increaseth. 
K.  Rich.   Ely  with  Richmond  troubles  me 

more  near 

Than  Buckingham  and  his  rash-levied  strength. 
Come, — I  have  learn'd  that  fearful  commenting 
Is  leaden  servitor  to  dull  delay; 
Delay  leads  impotent  and  snail-pac'd  beggary: 
Then  fiery  expedition  be  my  wing, 
Jove's  Mercury,  and  herald  for  a  king ! 
Go,  muster  men :  my  counsel  is  my  shield ; 
We  must  be  brief  when  traitors  brave  the  field. 

[Exetmt. 

SCENE  IV. — LONDON.     Before  the  Palace. 
Enter  QUEEN  MARGARET. 

Q.  Mar.  So,  now  pi'osperity  begins  to  mellow, 
And  drop  into  the  rotten  mouth  of  death. 
Here  in  these  confines  slily  have  I  lurk'd, 
To  watch  the  waning  of  mine  enemies. 
A  dire  induction  am  I  witness  to, 
And  will  to  France ;  hoping  the  consequence 
Will  prove  as  bitter,  black,  and  tragical. — 
Withdraw  thee,  wretched  Margaret :  who  comes 
here?  [Retires. 

Enter  QUEEN  ELIZABETH  and  the  DUCHESS 
OF  YORK. 

Q.  Eliz.  Ah,  my  poor  princes !  ah,  my  tender 

babes ! 

My  unblown  flowers,  new-appearing  sweets ! 
If  yet  your  gentle  souls  fly  in  the  air, 
And  be  not  fix'd  in  doom  perpetual, 
Hover  about  me  with  your  airy  wings, 
And  hear  your  mother's  lamentation  !       [right 

Q.  Mar.  Hover  about  her ;  say,  that  right  for 
Hath  dimm'd  your  infant  morn  to  aged  night. 

Duck.  So  many  miseries  have  craz;d  my  voice 
That  my  woe-wearied  tongue  is  still  and  mute.— 
Edward  Plantagenet,  why  art  thou  dead? 


Q.  Mar.  Plantagenet  doth  quit  Plantagenet, 
Edward  for  Edward  pays  a  dying  debt. 

Q.  Eliz.  Wilt  thou,  O  God,  fly  from  such 

gentle  lambs, 

And  throw  them  in  the  entrails  of  the  wolf? 
When  didst  thou  sleep  when  such  a  deed  was 
done?  [sweet  son. 

Q.  Mar.   When  holy  Harry  died,  and  my 
Duch.  Dead  life,  blind  sight,  poor  mortal- 
living  ghost,  [usurp'd, 
Woe's  scene,  world's  shame,  grave's  due  by  life 
Brief  abstract  and  record  of  tedious  days, 
Rest  thy  unrest  on  England's  lawful  earth, 

[Sitting  down. 

Unlawfully  made  drunk  with  innocent  blood ! 
Q.  Eliz.  Ah,  that  thou  wouldst  as  soon  afford 

a  grave 

As  thou  canst  yield  a  melancholy  seat !  [here. 
Then  would  I  hide  my  bones,  not  rest  them 
Ah,  who  hath  any  cause  to  mourn  but  we? 

[Sitting  down  by  her. 

Q.  Mar.  If  ancient  sorrow  be  most  reverent, 
Give  mine  the  benefit  of  seniory, 

[  Coming  forward. 

And  let  my  griefs  frown  on  the  upper  hand. 
If  sorrow  can  admit  society, 

[Sitting  down  with  them. 
Tell  o'er  your  woes  again  by  viewing  mine : — 
I  had  an  Edward,  till  a  Richard  kill'd  him ; 
I  had  a  Henry,  till  a  Richard  kill'd  him: 
Thou  hadst  an  Edward,  till  a  Richard  kill'd 

him; 

Thou  hadst  a  Richard,  till  a  Richard  kill'd  him. 
Duch.  I  had  a  Richard  too,  and  thou  didst 

kill  him; 

I  had  a  Rutland  too,  thou  holp'st  to  kill  him. 
Q.  Mar.   Thou  hadst  a  Clarence  too,  and 

Richard  kill'd  him. 

From  forth  *;he  kennel  of  thy  womb  hath  crept 
A  hell-hound  that  doth  hunt  us  all  to  death : 
That  dog,  that  had  his  teeth  before  his  eyes, 
To  worry  lambs  and  lap  their  gentle  blood ; 
That  foul  defacer  of  God's  handiwork ; 
That  excellent  grand  tyrant  of  the  earth, 
That  reigns  in  galled  eyes  of  weeping  souls, — 
Thy   womb   let    loose,    to   chase    us    to    our 

graves. — 

O  upright,  just,  and  true-disposing  God, 
How  do  I  thank  thee  that  this  carnal  cur 
Preys  on  the  issue  of  his  mother's  body, 
And  makes  her  pew-fellow  with  others'  moan  ! 
Duch.  O  Harry's  wife,  triumph  not  in  my 

woes! 

God  witness  with  me,  I  have  wept  for  thine. 
Q.  Mar.  Bear  with  me ;  I  am  hungry  for  re- 
venge, 
And  now  I  doy  me  with  beholding  it. 


704 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


[ACT  iv. 


Thy  Edward  he  is  dead,  that  kill'd  my  Edward ; 
Thy  other  Edward  dead  to  quit  my  Edward  ; 
Young  York  he  is  but  boot,  because  both  they 
Match  not  the  high  perfection  of  my  loss : 
Thy  Clarence  he  is  dead  that  stabb'd  my  Ed- 
ward; 

And  the  beholders  of  this  frantic  play, 
The  adulterate  Hastings,  Rivers,  Vaughan,  Grey, 
Untimely  smother'd  in  their  dusky  graves. 
Richard  yet  lives,  hell's  black  intelligencer ; 
Only  reserv'd  their  factor  to  buy  souls, 
And  send  them  thither: — but  at  hand,  at  hand, 
Ensues  his  piteous  and  unpitied  end : 
Earth  gapes,  hell  burns,  fiends  roar,  saints  pray, 
To  have  him  suddenly  convey'd  from  hence. — 
Cancel  his  bond  of  life,  dear  God,  I  pray, 
That  I  may  live  to  say,  The  dog  is  dead ! 
Q.  Eliz.   O,  thou  didst  prophesy  the  time 

would  come 

That  I  should  wish  for  thee  to  help  me  curse 
That   bottled   spider,   that  foul   bunch-back'd 
toad !  [my  fortune ; 

Q.  Mar.   I  call'd  thee  then,  vain  flourish  of 
I  call'd  thee  then,  poor  shadow,  painted  queen ; 
The  presentation  of  but  what  I  was, 
The  flattering  index  of  a  direful  pageant ; 
One  heav'd  a-high,  to  be  hurl'd  down  below ; 
A  mother  only  mock'd  with  two  fair  babes ; 
A  dream  of  what  thou  wast ;  a  garish  flag, 
To  be  the  aim  of  every  dangerous  shot ; 
A  sign  of  dignity,  a  breath,  a  bubble; 
A  queen  in  jest,  only  to  fill  the  scene. 
Where  is  thy  husband  now?  where  be  thy 

brothers? 

Where  be  thy  two  sons?  wherein  dost  thou  joy? 
Who  sues,  and  kneels,  and  says,  God  save  the 

queen  ? 

Where  be  the  bending  peers  that  flatter'd  thee? 
Where  be  the  thronging  troops  that  follow'd  thee? 
Decline  all  this,  and  see  what  now  thou  art: 
For  happy  wife,  a  most  digressed  widow ; 
For  joyful  mother,  one  that  wails  the  name ; 
For  one  being  su'd  to,  one  that  humbly  sues ; 
For  queen,  a  very  caitiff  crown'd  with  care ; 
For  one  that  scorn'd  at  me,  now  scorn'd  of  me; 
For  one  being  fear'd  of  all,  now  fearing  one ; 
For  one  commanding  all,  obey'd  of  none. 
Thus  hath  the  course  of  justice  wheel'd  about, 
And  left  thee  but  a  very  prey  to  time ; 
Having  no  more  but  thought  of  what  thou  wast, 
To  torture  thee  the  more,  being  what  thou  art. 
Thou  didst  usurp  my  place,  and  dost  thou  not 
Usurp  the  just  proportion  of  my  sorrow? 
Now  thy  proud  neck  bears  half  my  burden'd 

yoke; 

From  which  even  here  I  slip  my  wearied  head, 
And  leave  the  burden  of  it  all  on  thee. 


Farewell,  York's  wife,  and  queen  of  sad  mis- 
chance : —  [France. 
These  English  woes  shall  make  me  smile  in 
Q.  Eliz.  O  thou  well  skill'd  in  curses,  stay 

awhile, 

And  teach  me  how  to  curse  mine  enemies ! 
Q.  Mar.  Forbear  to  sleep  the  night,  and  fast 

the  day ; 

Compare  dead  happiness  with  living  woe ; 
Think  that  thy  babes  were  fairer  than  they  were, 
And  he  that  slew  them  fouler  than  he  is  : 
Bettering  thy  loss  makes  the  bad-causer  worse ; 
Revolving  this  will,  teach  thee  how  to  curse. 
Q.  Eliz.    My  words  are  dull ;   O,  quicken 

them  with  thine ! 

Q.  Mar.  Thy  woes  will  make  them  sharp, 
and  pierce  like  mine.  \_Exit. 

Duch.  Why  should  calamity  be  full  of  words? 
Q.  Eliz.  Windy  attorneys  to  their  client  woes, 
Airy  succeeders  of  intestate  joys, 
Poor  breathing  orators  of  miseries !  [part 

Let  them  have  scope :  though  what  they  do  im- 
Help  nothing  else,  yet  do  they  ease  the  heart. 
Duch.  If  so,  then  be  not  tongue-tied:  go  with 

me, 

And  in  the  breath  of  bitter  words  let 's  smother 
My  damned   son,    that    thy   two   sweet    sons 
smother'd.  [Drum  within. 

I  hear  his  drum : — be  copious  in  exclaims. 

Enter  KING  RICHARD  and  his  Train,  marching. 

K.  Rich.  Who  intercepts  me  in  my  expedi- 
tion? [thee, 
Duch.  O,  she  that  might  have  intercepted 
By  strangling  thee  in  her  accursed  womb, 
From  all  the  slaughters,  wretch,  that  thou  hast 

done! 

Q.  Eliz.   Hidst  thou  that  forehead  with  a 
golden  crown,  [right, 

Where  should  be  branded,  if  that  right  were 
The  slaughter  of  the  prince  that  ow'd  that  crown, 
And  the  dire  death  of  my  poor  sons  and  brothers? 
Tell  me   thou  villain-slave,  where  are  my  chil- 
dren? 
Duch.  Thou  toad,  thou  toad,  where  is  thy 

brother  Clarence? 

And  little  Ned  Plantagenet,  his  son?      [Grey? 
Q.  Eliz.  Where  is  the  gentle  Rivers,  Vaughan, 
Duch.  Where  is  kind  Hastings  ? 
K.  Rich.  A  flourish,  trumpets!  strike  alarum, 

drums  ! 

Let  not  the  heavens  hear  these  iell-tale  women 
Rail  on  the  Lord's  anointed :  strike,  I  say  ! 

[Flourish.     Alarums. 
Either  be  patient,  and  entreat  me  fair, 
Or  with  the  clamorous  report  of  war 
Thus  will  I  drown  your  exclamations. 


SCENE  IV.] 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


705 


Duck.  Art  thou  my  son  ?  At  \s& 

K.  Rich.  Ay,  I  thank  God,  my  father,  and 
yourself. 

Duck.  Then  patiently  hear  my  impatience. 

K.  Rich.   Madam,  I  have  a  touch  of  your 

condition, 
That  cannot  brook  the  accent  of  reproof. 

Duch.  O,  let  me  speak  ! 

K.  Rich.  Do,  then ;  but  I  '11  not  hear. 

Duch.   I  will  be  mild  and  gentle  in  my  words. 

K.  Rich.  And  brief,  good  mother ;  for  I  am 
in  haste. 

Duch.  Art  thou  so  hasty  ?  I  have  stay'd  for 

thee, 
God  knows,  in  torment  and  in  agony. 

K.  Rich.  And  came  I  not  at  last  to  comfort 
you  ?  [well 

Duch.  No,  by  the  holy  rood,  thou  know'st  it 
Thou  cam'st  on  earth  to  make  the  earth  my  hell. 
A  grievous  burden  was  thy  birth  to  me  ; 
Tetchy  and  wayward  was  thy  infancy  ; 
Thy  school -days  frightful,  desperate,  wild,  and 
furious  ;  [turous ; 

Thy  prime  of  manhood  daring,  bold,  and  ven- 
Thy   age   confirm'd,   proud,    subtle,   sly,   and 
bloody,  [hatred : 

More  mild,   but   yet  more   harmful,    kind   in 
What  comfortable  hour  canst  thou  name 
That  ever  grac'd  me  in  thy  company  ? 

K.  Rich.  Faith,  none  but  Humphrey  Hour, 

that  call'd  your  grace 
To  treakfast  once  forth  of  my  company. 
If  I  be  so  disgracious  in  your  eye, 
Let  me  march  on  and  not  offend  you,  madam. — 
Strike  up  the  drum. 

Duch.  I  pr'ythee,  hear  me  speak. 

K.  Rich.  You  speak  too  bitterly. 

Duch.  Hear  me  a  word  ; 

For  I  shall  never  speak  to  thee  again. 

K.  Rich.  So.  [dinance 

Duch.  Either  thou  wilt  die  by  God's  just  or- 
Ere  from  this  war  thou  turn  a  conqueror  ; 
Or  I  with  grief  and  extreme  age  shall  perish, 
And  never  look  upon  thy  face  again. 
Therefore  take  with  thee  my  most  heavy  curse  ; 
Which  in  the  day  of  battle  tire  thee  more 
Than  all  the  complete  armour  that  thou  wear'st ! 
My  prayers  on  the  adverse  party  fight ; 
And  there  the  little  souls  of  Edward's  children 
Whisper  the  spirits  of  thine  enemies, 
And  promise  them  success  and  victory. 
Bloody  thou  art,  bloody  will  be  thy  end  ; 
Shame  serves  thy  life  and  doth  thy  death  attend. 

{Exit. 

Q.  Eliz.  Though  far  more  cause,  yet  much 

less  spirit  to  curse 
Abides  in  me  ;  I  say  amen  to  her.          \Going. 


K.  Rich.  Stay,  madam,  I  must  talk  a  word 

with  you. 
Q.  Eliz.    I  have  no  more  sons  of  the  royal 

blood 
For   thee   to    slaughter:    for    my  daughters, 

Richard, — 
They    shall    be   praying    nuns,    not 

queens; 
And  therefore  level  not  to  hit  their  lives. 

K.  Rich.  You  have  a  daughter  call'd  Elizabeth, 
Virtuous  and  fair,  royal  and  gracious. 

Q.  Eliz.  And  must  she  die  for  this?     O,  let 

her  live, 

And  I  '11  corrupt  her  manners,  stain  her  beauty; 
Slander  myself  as  false  to  Edward's  bed  ; 
Throw  over  her  the  veil  of  infamy : 
So  she  may  live  unscarr'd  of  bleeding  slaughter, 
I  will  confess  she  was  not  Edward's  daughter. 
K.  Rich.    Wrong  not  her  birth;  she  is  of 

royal  blood. 

Q.  Eliz.  To  save  her  life  I  '11  say  she  is  not  so. 
K.  Rich.  Her  life  is  safest  only  in  her  birth. 
Q.  Eliz.  And  only  in  that  safety  died  her 
brothers.  [opposite. 

K.  Rich.   Lo,  at  their  births  good  stars  were 
Q.  Eliz.  No,  to  their  lives  bad  friends  were 

contrary. 

K.  Rich.  All  unavoided  is  the  doom  of  destiny. 
Q.  Eliz.  True,  when  avoided  grace  makes 

destiny : 

My  babes  were  destined  to  a  fairer  death 
If  grace  had  bless'd  thee  with  a  fairer  life. 
K.  Rich.  You  speak  as  if  that  I  had  slain  my 
cousins.  [cozen'd 

Q.  Eliz.  Cousins,  indeed ;  and  by  their  uncle 
Of  comfort,  kingdom,  kindred,  freedom,  life. 
Whose  hand  soever  lanc'd  their  tender  hearts, 
Thy  head,  all  indirectly,  gave  direction : 
No  doubt  the  murderous  knife  was  dull  and  blunt 
Till  it  was  whetted  on  thy  stone-hard  heart, 
To  revel  in  the  entrails  of  my  lambs. 
But  that  still  use  of  grief  makes  wild  grief  tame, 
My  tongue  should  to  thy  ears  not  name  my  boys 
Till  that  my  nails  were  anchor'd  in  thine  eyes ; 
And  I,  in  such  a  desperate  bay  of  death, 
Like  a  poor  bark,  of  sails  and  tackling  reft, 
Rush  all  to  pieces  on  thy  rocky  bosom. 

K.  Rich.  Madam,  so  thrive  I  in  my  enterprise 
And  dangerous  success  of  bloody  wars, 
As  I  intend  more  good  to  you  and  yours 
Than  ever  you  or  yours  by  me  were  harm'd  ! 
Q.  Eliz.  What  good  is  cover'd  with  the  face 

of  heaven, 
To  be  discover  d,  that  can  do  me  good  ? 

K.  Rich.  The  advancement  of  your  children, 

gentle  lady.  [their  heads? 

Q.  Eliz.  Up  to  some  scaffold,  there  to  lose 


7o6 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


[ACT  iv. 


K.  Rich.  No,  to  the  dignity  and  height  of 

honour, 
The  high  imperial  type  of  this  earth's  glory. 

Q.  Eliz.  Flatter  my  sorrows  with  report  of  it ; 
Tell  me  what  state,  what  dignity,  what  honour, 
Canst  thou  demise  to  any  child  of  mine  ?  [all 

K.  Rich.  Even  all  I  have;  ay,  and  myself  and 
Will  I  withal  endow  a  child  of  thine; 
So  in  the  Lethe  of  thy  angry  soul          [wrongs 
Thou  drown  the  sad  remembrance  of  those 
Which  thou  supposest  I  have  done  to  thee. 

Q.  Eliz.  Be  brief,  lest  that  the  process  of  thy 

kindness 
Last  longer  telling  than  thy  kindness'  date. 

K.  Rich.  Then  know,  that  from  my  soul  I  love 
thy  daughter.  [her  soul. 

Q.  Eliz.  My  daughter's  mother  thinks  it  with 

K.  Rich.  What  do  you  think  ? 

Q.  Eliz.  That  thou  dost  love  my  daughter 

from  thy  soul :  [brothers ; 

So  from  thy  soul's  love  didst  thou  love  her 

And  from  my  heart's  love  I  do  thank  thee  for  it. 

K.  Rich.  Be  not  so  hasty  to  confound  my 
•  afiaoqo  meaning: 

I  mean  that  with  my  soul  I  love  thy  daughter, 
And  do  intend  to  make  her  Queen  of  England. 

Q.  Eliz.  Well,  then,  who  dost  thou  mean 
shall  be  her  king? 

K.  Rich.  Even  he  that  makes  her  queen : 
who  else  should  be? 

Q.  Eliz.  What,  thou?  [madam? 

K.  Rich.  I,  even  I:  what  think  you  of  it, 

Q.  Eliz.  How  canst  thou  woo  her  ? 

K.  Rich.  That  I  would  learn  of  you, 

As  one  being  best  acquainted  with  her  humour. 

Q.  Eliz.  And  wilt  thou  learn  of  me  ? 

K.  Rich.  Madam,  with  all  my  heart. 

Q.  Eliz.  Send  to  her,  by  the  man  that  slew 

her  brothers, 

A  pair  of  bleeding  hearts ;  thereon  engrave 
Edward  and  York;  then  haply  will  she  weep: 
Therefore  present  to  her, — as  sometime  Margaret 
Did  to  thy  father,  steep'd  in  Rutland's  blood, — 
A  handkerchief ;  which,  say  to  her,  did  drain 
The  purple  sap  from  her  sweet  brothers'  bodies, 
And  bid  her  wipe  her  weeping  eyes  withal. 
If  this  inducement  move  her  not  to  love, 
Send  her  a  letter  of  thy  noble  deeds ; 
Tell  her  thou  mad'st  away  her  uncle  Clarence, 
Her  uncle  Rivers ;  ay,  and  for  her  sake 
Mad'st  quick  conveyance  with  her  good  aunt 
Anne.  [the  way 

K.  Rich.  You  mock  me,  madam ;  this  is  not 
To  win  your  daughter. 

Q.  Eliz.  There  is  no  other  way ; 

Unless  thou  couldst  put  on  some  other  shape, 
And  not  be  Richard  that  hath  done  all  this. 


K.  Rich.  Say  that  I  did  all  this  for  love  of  her? 

Q.  Eliz.  Nay,  then  indeed  she  cannot  choose 

but  hate  thee, 
Having  bought  love  with  such  a  bloody  spoil. 

K.  Rich.  Look,  what  is  done  cannot  be  now 

amended : 

Men  shall  deal  unadvisedly  sometimes, 
Which  after-hours  give  leisure  to  repent. 
If  I  did  take  the  kingdom  from  your  sons, 
To  make  amends  I  '11  give  it  to  your  daughter. 
If  I  hav  kill'd  the  issue  of  your  womb, 
To  quicken  your  increase  I  will  beget 
Mine  issue  of  your  blood  upon  your  daughter  : 
A  grandam's  name  is  little  less  in  love 
Than  is  the  doating  title  of  a  mother ; 
They  are  as  children  but  one  step  below, 
Even  of  your  mettle,  of  your  very  blood ; 
Of  all  one  pain, — save  for  a  night  of  groans 
Endur'd  of  her,  for  whom  you  bid  like  sorrow. 
Your  children  were  vexation  to  your  youth ; 
But  mine  shall  be  a  comfort  to  your  age. 
The  loss  you  have  is  but  a  son  being  king, 
And  by  that  loss  your  daughter  is  made  queen. 
I  cannot  make  you  what  amends  I  would, 
Therefore  accept  such  kindness  as  I  can. 
Dorset  your  son,  that  with  a  fearful  soul 
Leads  discontented  steps  in  foreign  soil, 
This  fair  alliance  quickly  shall  call  home 
To  high  promotions  and  great  dignity :    .  [wife, 
The  king,  that  calls  your  beauteous  daughter 
Familiarly  shall  call  thy  Dorset  brother ; 
Again  shall  you  be  mother  to  a  king, 
And  all  the  ruins  of  distressful  times 
Repair'd  with  double  riches  of  content. 
What !  we  have  many  goodly  days  to  see : 
The  liquid  drops  of  tears  that  you  have  shed 
Shall  come  again,  transform'd  to  orient  pearl, 
Advantaging  their  loan  with  interest 
Of  ten-times-double  gain  of  happiness. 
Go,  then,  my  mother,  to  thy  daughter  go ; 
Make  bold  her  bashful  years  with  your  experi- 
ence ; 

Prepare  her  ears  to  hear  a  wooer's  tale  : 
Put  in  her  tender  heart  the  aspiring  flame 
Of  golden  sovereignty ;  acquaint  the  princess 
With  the  sweet  silent  hours  of  marriage  joys  : 
And  when  this  arm  of  mine  hath  chastised 
The  petty  rebel,  dull-brain'd  Buckingham, 
Bound  with  triumphant  garlands  will  I  come, 
And  lead  thy  daughter  to  a  conqueror's  bed  ; 
To  whom  I  will  retail  my  conquest  won, 
And  she  shall  be  sole  victress,  Caesar's  Caesar. 

Q.  Eliz.    What  were   I   best  to  say?   her 

father's  brother 

Would  be  her  lord  ?  or  shall  I  say  her  uncle  ? 
Or  he  that  slew  her  brothers  and  her  uncles  ? 
Under  what  title  shall  I  woo  for  thee,  '.  aabkf 


SCENE  IV.] 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


707 


That  God,  the  law,  my  honour,  and  her  love 
Can  make  seem  pleasing  to  her  tender  years  ? 
K.  Rich.  Infer  fair  England's  peace  by  this 

alliance. 

Q.  Eliz.  Which  she  shall  purchase  with  still- 
lasting  war.  [entreats. 
K.  Rich.  Tell  her  the  king,that  may  command, 
£.  Eliz.  That  at  her  hands  which  the  king's 

King  forbids.  [queen. 

K.  Rich.  Say  she  chall  be  a  high  and  mighty 
Q.  Eliz.  To  wail  the  title,  as  her  mother  doth. 
X.  Rich.  Say  I  will  love  her  everlastingly. 
Q.  Eliz.  But  how  long  shall  that  title,  ever, 

last? 
K.  Rich.  Sweetly  in  force  unto  her  fair  life's 

end.  [life  last  ? 

Q.  Eliz.   But  how  long  fairly  shall  her  sweet 
K.  Rich.    As   long  as  heaven  and   nature 

lengthens  it.  [it. 

Q.  Eliz.  As  long  as  hell  and  Richard  likes  of 
JC.  Rich.  Say  I,  her  sovereign,  am  her  subject 

low.  [sovereignty. 

Q.  Eliz.   But  she,  your  subject,  loathes  such 
JC.  Rich.  Be  eloquent  in  my  behalf  to  her. 
Q.  Eliz.  An  honest  tale  speeds  best  being 

plainly  told.  [tale. 

K.  Rich.  Then,  plainly  to  her  tell  my  loving 
Q.  Eliz.   Plain  and  not  honest  is  too  harsh  a 

style. 
K.  Rich.  Your  reasons  are  too  shallow  and 

too  quick.  [dead ; — 

Q.  Eliz.  O,  no,  my  reasons  are  too  deep  and 

Too  deep  and  dead,  poor  infants,  in  their  graves. 

K.  Rich.   Harp  not  on  that  string,  madam  ; 

that  is  past. 

Q.  Eliz.  Harp  on  it  still  shall  I  till  heart- 
strings break. 
K.  Rich.  Now,  by  my  George,  my  garter, 

and  my  crown, —  [usurp'd. 

Q.  Eliz.  Profan'd,  dishonour'd,  and  the  third 
K.  Rich.  I  swear, — 

Q.  Eliz.  By  nothing ;  for  this  is  no  oath  : 
Thy  George,  profan'd  hath  lost  his  holy  honour ; 
Thy  garter,  blemish'd,  pawn'd  his  knightly 

virtue ; 

Thy  crown,  usurp'd,  disgrac'd  his  kingly  glory. 
If  something  thou  wouldst  swear  to  be  believ'd, 
Swear,  then,  by  something  that  thou  hast  not 

wrong' d. 

K.  Rich.  Now,  by  the  world, — 
Q.  Eliz.  'Tis  full  of  thy  foul  wrongs. 

K.  Rich.  My  father's  death,— 
Q.  Eliz.          Thy  life  hath  that  dishonour'd. 
K.  Rich.  Then,  by  myself,— 
Q.  Eliz.  Thyself  is  self-misus'd. 

K.  Rich.  Why,  then,  by  God,— 
Q.  Eliz.  God's  wrong  is  most  of  all. 


If  thou  hadst  fear'd  to  break  an  oath  by  him, 
The  unity  the  king  thy  brother  made 
Had  not  been  broken,  nor  my  brother  slain : 
If  thou  hadst  fear'd  to  break  an  oath  by  him, 
The  imperial  metal,  circling  now  thy  head, 
Plad  grac'd  the  tender  temples  of  my  child ; 
And  both  the  princes  had  been  breathing  here, 
Which  now,  two  tender  bedfellows  for  dust, 
Thy  broken  faith  hath  made  a  prey  for  worms. 
What  canst  thou  swear  by  now? 

K.  Rich.  The  time  to  come. 

Q.  Eliz.  That  thou  hast  wrongM  in  the  time 

o'erpast ; 

For  I  myself  have  many  tears  to  wash 
Hereafter  time,  for  time  past  wronged  by  thee. 
The  children   live  whose   parents  thou  hast 

slaughtered, 

Ungovern'd  youth,  to  wail  it  in  their  age  ; 
The   parents  live   whose  children  thou   hast 

butcherM, 

Old  barren  plants,  to  wail  it  with  their  age. 
Swear  not  by  time  to  come ;  for  that  thou  hast 
Misus'd  ere  used,  by  times  ill-us'd  o'erpast. 

K.  Rich.  As  I  intend  to  prosper  and  repent ! 
So  thrive  I  in  my  dangerous  attempt 
Of  hostile  arms  !  myself  myself  confound ! 
Heaven  and  fortune  bar  me  happy  hours  ! 
Day,  yield  me  not  thy  light ;  nor,  night,  thy  rest ! 
Be  opposite  all  planets  of  good  luck 
To  my  proceeding ! — if,  with  pure  heart's  love, 
Immaculate  devotion,  holy  thoughts, 
I  tender  not  thy  beauteous  princely  daughter ! 
In  her  consists  my  happiness  and  thine ; 
Without  her,  follows  to  myself  and  thee, 
Herself,  the  land,  and  many  a  Christian  soul, 
Death,  desolation,  ruin,  and  decay  : 
It  cannot  be  avoided  but  by  this ; 
It  will  not  be  avoided  but  by  this. 
Therefore,  dear  mother, — I  must  call  you  so, — 
Be  the  attorney  of  my  love  to  her : 
Plead  what  I  will  be,  not  what  I  have  been ; 
Not  my  deserts,  but  what  I  will  deserve : 
Urge  the  necessity  and  state  of  times, 
And  be  not  peevish  found  in  great  designs. 

Q.  Eliz.  Shall  I  be  tempted  of  the  devil  thus? 

K.  Rich.  Ay,  if  the  devil  tempt  you  to  do 
good. 

Q.  Eliz.  Shall  I  forget  myself  to  be  myself? 

K.  Rich.   Ay,   if  your   selfs  remembrance 
wrong  yourself. 

Q.  Eliz.  But  thou  didst  kill  my  children. 

K.  Rich.    But  in  your  daughter's  womb  I 

bury  them : 

Where,  in  that  nest  of  spicery,  they  shall  breed 
Selves  of  themselves,  to  your  recomforture. 

Q.  Eliz.  Shall  I  go  win  my  daughter  to  thy 
" 


7o8 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


[ACT  iv. 


K.  Rich.  And  be  a  happy  mother  by  the  deed. 
Q.  Eliz.  I  go. — Write  to  me  very  shortly, 
And  you  shall  understand  from  me  her  mind. 
K.  Rich.  Bear  her  my  true  love's  kiss ;  and  so, 
farewell. 

[Kissing  her.     Exit  Q.  ELIZ. 
Relenting  fool,  and  shallow  changing  woman ! 

Enter  RATCLIFF  ;  CAHLKSW  following. 

How  now  !  what  news? 
Rat.  Most  mighty  sovereign,  on  the  western 

coast       ..,-  jguii  i/od 
Rideth  a  puissant  navy  ;  to  the  shore 
Throng  many  doubtful  hollow-hearted  friends, 
Unarm'd,  and  unresolv'd  to  beat  them  back  : 
'Tis  thought  that  Richmond  is  their  admiral ; 
And  there  they  hull,  expecting  but  the  aid 
Of  Buckingham  to  welcome  them  ashore. 
K.  Rich.  Some  light-foot  friend  post  to  the 

Duke  of  Norfolk  r-r-^rfon 
Ratcliff,  thyself, — or  Catesby  ;  where  is  he  ? 
Gate.  Here,  my  good  lord. 
K.  Rich.  Catesby,  fly  to  the  duke. 

Cate.  I  will,  my  lord,  with  all  convenient 

haste. 
K.  Rich.    Ratcliff,   come   hither  : — post   to 

Salisbury : 

When  thou  com'st  thither, — Dull,   unmindful 
villain,  [To  CATESBY. 

Why  stay'st  thou  here,  and  go'st  not  to  the  duke  ? 
Cate.  First,  mighty  liege,  tell  me  your  high- 
ness' pleasure, 

What  from  your  grace  I  shall  deliver  to  him. 
K.  Rich.  O,  true,  good  Catesby: — bid  him 

levy  straight 

The  greatest  strength  and  power  he  can  make, 
And  meet  me  suddenly  at  Salisbury. 

Cate.  I  go.  [Exit. 

Rat.  What,  may  it  please  you,  shall  I  do  at 

Salisbury  ? 
K.  Rich.   Why,  what  wouldst  thou  do  there 

before  I  go? 

Rat.   Your  highness  told  me  I  should  post 
before. 


Enter  STANLEY. 


ob  of  1 

K.  Rich.    My  mind   is   chang'd. —  Stanley, 

what  news  with  you  ? 
Stan.  None  good,  my  liege,  to  please  you  with 

the  hearing ; 

Nor  none  so  bad  but  well  may  be  reported. 
K.  Rich.  Hoyday,  a  riddle !  neither  good  nor 

bad! 

What  need'st  thou  run  so  many  miles  about, 
When  thou  mayst  tell  thy  tale  the  nearest  way? 
Once  more,  what  news  ? 

Stan.  Richmond  is  on  the  seas. 


K.  Rich.  There  let  him  sink,  and  be  the 

seas  on  him  ! 

White-liver'd  runagate,  what  doth  he  there  ? 
Stan.  I  know  not,  mighty  sovereign,  but  by 

guess. 

K.  Rich.  Well,  as  you  guess  ? 
Stan.   Stirr'd   up  by  Dorset,    Buckingham, 

and  Morton, 

He  makes  for  England  here,  to  claim  the  crown. 
K.  Rich.  Is  the  chair  empty?  is  the  sword 

unsvvay'd  ? 

Is  the  king  dead  ?  the  empire  unpossess'd  ? 
What  heir  of  York  is  there  alive  but  we  ? 
And  who  is  England's  king  but  great  York's  heir? 
Then,  tell  me,  what  makes  he  upon  the  seas  ? 
Stan.  Unless  for  that,  my  liege,  I   cannot 

guess. 

K.  Rich.   Unless  for  that  he  comes  to  be  your 
liege,  [comes. 

You   cannot   guess  wherefore   the   Welshman 
Thou  wilt  revolt,  and  fly  to  him,  I  fear. 

Stan.  No,  mighty  liege;  therefore  mistrust 

me  not. 
K.  Rich.  Where  is  thy  power,  then,  to  beat 

him  back  ? 

Where  be  thy  tenants  and  thy  followers  ? 
Are  they  not  now  upon  the  western  shore, 
Safe-conducting  the  rebels  from  their  ships? 
Stan.  No,  my  good  lord,  my  friends  are  in 

the  north,   snoafie 

K.  Rich.  Cold  friends  to  me :  what  do  they 

in  the  north,  [west? 

When  they  should  serve  their  sovereign  in  the 

Stan.    They  have    not   been    commanded, 

mighty  king : 

Pleaseth  your  majesty  to  give  me  leave, 
I  '11  muster  up  my  friends,  and  meet  your  grace 
Where  and  what  time  your  majesty  shall  please. 
K.  Rich.  Ay,  ay,  thou  wouldst  be  gone  to 

join  with  Richmond ; 
But  I  '11  not  trust  thee.  -^,fJK 

Stan.  Most  mighty  sovereign, 

You   have  no   cause    to  hold   my   friendship 

doubtful : 
I  never  was  nor  never  will  be  false. 

K.  Rich.  Go,  then,  and  muster  men.     But 
leave  behind  [be  firm, 

Your  son,  George  Stanley:    look   your  heart 
Or  else  his  head's  assurance  is  but  frail. 

Stan.  So  deal  with  him  as  I  prove  true  to  you. 

[Exit. 

;,  Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  gracious  sovereign,  now  in  Devon- 
shire, 

As  I  by  friends  am  well  advertised, 
Sir  Edward  Courtney,  and  the  haughty  prelate, 


SCENE  IV.] 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


709 


Bishop  of  Exeter,  his  elder  brother, 

With  many  more  confederates,  are  in  arms. 

Enter  a  second  Messenger. 

2  Mess.    In   Kent,  my  liege,  the  Guilfords 

are  in  arms  ; 

And  every  hour  more  competitors          [strong. 
Flock  to  the  rebels,  and  their  power  grows 

Enter  a  third  Messenger. 

3  Mess.  My  lord,  the  army  of  great  Bucking- 

ham,— 

K.  Rich.  Out  on  ye,  owls !  nothing  but  songs 

of  death  ?  [He  strikes  him. 

There,  take  thou  that  till  thou  bring  better  news. 

3  Mess.  The  news  I  have  to  tell  your  majesty 
Is,  that  by  sudden  floods  and  fall  of  waters, 
Buckingham's  army  is  dispers'd  and  scatter'd  : 
And  he  himself  wander'd  away  alone, 
No  man  knows  whither. 

K.  Rich.  I  cry  you  mercy : 

There  is  my  purse  to  cure  that  blow  of  thine. 
Hath  any  well-advised  friend  proclaim'd 
Reward  to  him  that  brings  the  traitor  in  ? 

3  Mess.  Such  proclamation  hath  been  made, 

my  liege. 

"vit^  uKlon  ,5m<.yJ — I  JnoJ  sri'i  ffliw  qLJ 
Enter  a  fourth  Messenger. 

4  Mess.  Sir  Thomas  Lovel  and  Lord  Marquis 

Dorset, 

'Tis  said,  my  liege,  in  Yorkshire  are  in  arms. 
But  this  good  comfort  bring  I  to  your  high- 
ness,^' ,  , 

The  Bretagne  navy  is  dispers'd  by  tempest : 
Richmond,  in  Dorsetshire,  sent  out  a  boat 
Unto  the  shore,  to  ask  those  on  the  banks 
If  they  were  his  assistants,  yea  or  no ; 
Who  answer'd  him  they  came  from  Buckingham 
Upon  his  party:  he,  mistrusting  them, 
Hois'd  sail,  and  made  his  course  again  for  Bre- 
tagne. [in  arms ; 
K.  Rich.  March  on,  march  on,  since  we  are  up 
If  not  to  fight  with  foreign  enemies, 
Yet  to  beat  down  these  rebels  here  at  home. 

^-^rCATESBY- 

Cote.  My  liege,  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  is 
taken, —  [mond 

That  is  the  best  news:  that  the  Earl  of  Rich- 
Is  with  a  mighty  power  landed  at  Milford 
Is  colder  news,  but  yet  they  must  be  told. 
K.  Rich.  Away  towards  Salisbury !  while  we 

reason  here 

A  royal  battle  might  be  won  and  lost : — 
Some  one  take  order  Buckingham  be  brought 
To  Salisbury;  the  rest  march  on  with  me. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt. 


SCENE  V.- — A  Room  in  LORD  STANLEY'S 
House. 

Enter  STANLEY  and  SIR  CHRISTOPHER 
URSWICK. 

Stan.   Sir  Christopher,   tell  Richmond  this 

from  me: — 

That  in  the  sty  of  the  most  deadly  boar 
My  son  George  Stanley  is  frank'd  up  in  hold : 
If  I  revolt,  off  goes  young  George's  head ; 
The  fear  of  that  holds  off  my  present  aid. 
So,  get  thee  gone :  commend  me  to  thy  lord ; 
Withal  say  that  the  queen  hath  heartily  con- 

sented     bn&  ^ 

He  should  espouse  Elizabeth  her  daughter. 
But  tell  me,  where  is  princely  Richmond  now? 

Chris.  At  Pembroke,  or  at  Ha'rford-west,  in 
Wales. 

Stan,  What  men  of  name  resort  to  him? 

Chris.  Sir  Walter  Herbert,  a  renowned  soldier; 
Sir  Gilbert  Talbot,  Sir  William  Stanley; 
Oxford,  redoubted  Pembroke,  Sir  James  Blunt, 
And  Rice  ap  Thomas,  with  a  valiant  crew ; 
And  many  other  of  great  name  and  worth : 
And  towards  London  do  they  bend  their  power, 
If  by  the  way  they  be  not  fought  withal,    [hand ; 

Stan.  Well,  hie  thee  to  thy  lord ;  I  kiss  his 
These  letters  will  resolve  him  of  my  mind. 
Farewell.  [Gives papers  to  SIR  CHRIS. 

,IBOC  j2n:  •'  sriT 

ACTV. 
SCENE  I. — SALISBURY.     An  open  place. 

Enter  the  Sheriff  and  Guard,  with  BUCKING- 
HAM, led  to  execution. 

Buck.  Will  not  King  Richard  let  me  speak 
with  him  ? 

Sher.  No,  my  good  lord ;  therefore  be  patient. 

Buck.  Hastings,  and  Edward's  children,  Grey, 

and  Rivers, 

Holy  King  Henry,  and  thy  fair  son  Edward, 
Vaughan,  and  all  that  have  miscarried 
By  underhand  corrupted  foul  injustice,-^45rr 
If  that  your  moody  discontented  souls 
Do  through  the  clouds  behold  this  present  hour, 
Even  for  revenge  mock  my  destruction ! — 
This  is  All-Souls'  day,  fellows,  is  it  not? 

Sher.  It  is,  my  lord. 

Buck.  Why,  then,  All-Souls'  day  is  my  body's 

doomsday. 

This  is  the  day  which  in  King  Edward's  time 
I  wish'd  might  fall  on  me,  when  I  was  found 
False  to  his  children  or  his  wife's  allies ; 
This  is  the  day  wherein  I  wish'd  to  fall 


7io 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


[ACT  v. 


By  the  false  faith  of  him  whom  most  I  trusted  ; 
This,  this  All-Souls'  day  to  my  fearful  soul 
Is  the  determin'd  respite  of  my  wrongs  : 
That  high  All-  Seer  which  I  dallied  with 
Hath  turn'd  my  feigned  prayer  on  my  head, 
And  given  in  earnest  what  I  begg'd  in  jest. 
Thus  doth  he  force  the  swords  of  wicked  men 
To   turn  their  own  points  on   their   masters' 

bosoms  : 

Thus  Margaret's  curse  falls  heavy  on  my  neck,  — 
When  he,  quoth  she,  shall  split  thy  heart  with 

sorrow, 

Remember  Margaret  was  a  prophetess.  — 
Come,  sirs,  convey  me  to  the  block  of  shame  ; 
Wrong  hath  but  wrong,  and  blame  the  due  of 

blame.  [Exeunt. 


Enter,  with  drum  and  colours,  RICHMOND,  OX- 
FORD, SIR  JAMES  BLUNT,  SIR  WALTER 
HERBERT,  and  others,  with  Forces,  march- 

ins'  '.'•',   .V:^.:'    i^w  ILraori' 

Richm.  Fellows  in  arms,  and  my  most  loving 

friends, 

Bruis'd  underneath  the  yoke  of  tyranny, 
Thus  far  into  the  bowels  of  the  land 
Have  we  march'd  on  without  impediment  ; 
And  here  receive  we  from  our  father  Stanley 
Lines  of  fair  comfort  and  encouragement. 
The  wretched,  bloody,  and  usurping  boar, 
That  spoil'  d  your  summer  fields  and  fruitful 

vines, 
Swills  your  warm  blood  like  wash,  and  makes  his 

trough 

In  your  embowell'd  bosoms,  —  this  foul  swine 
Lies  now  even  in  the  centre  of  this  isle, 
Near  to  the  town  of  Leicester,  as  we  learn  : 
From  Tarn  worth  thither  is  but  one  day's  march. 
In  God's  name,  cheerly  on,  courageous  friends, 
To  reap  the  harvest  of  perpetual  peace 
By  this  one  bloody  trial  of  sharp  war. 

Oxf.  Every  man's  conscience  is  a  thousand 

swords, 
To  fight  against  that  bloody  homicide. 

Herb.  I  doubt  not  but  his  friends  will  turn  to 

us. 
Bhmt.  He  hath  no  friends  but  what  are  friends 

for  fear, 

Which  in  his  dearest  need  will  fly  from  him. 
Richm.  All  for  our  vantage.    Then,  in  God's 

name,  march: 
True  hope  is  swift,  and  flies  with  swallows* 

wings; 
Kings  it  makes  gods,  and   meaner  creatures 

kings.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. — Bosworth 


Field. 


Enter  KING  RICHARD  and  Forces;  the  DUKE 
OF  NORFOLK,  EARL  OF  SURREY,  and  others. 

K.  Rich.  Here  pitch  our  tents,  even  here  in 

Bosworth  field. — 

My  Lord  of  Surrey,  why  look  you  so  sad  ? 
Sur.   My  heart  is  ten  times  lighter  than  my 

looks. 

K.  Rich.  My  Lord  of  Norfolk,— 
Nor.  Here,  most  gracious  liege. 

K.  Rich.  Norfolk,  we  must  have  knocks  ;  ha! 
must  we  not  ?  [lord. 

Nor.  We  must  both  give  and  take,  my  loving 
K.  Rich.  Up  with  my  tent !    Here  will  I  lie 

to-night ; 

[Soldiers  begin  to  set  up  the  KING'S  tent. 
But  where   to-morrow?     Well,   all's  one   for 

that. — 

Who  hath  described  the  number  of  the  traitors  ? 
Nor.  Six  or  seven  thousand  is  their  utmost 
power.  [count : 

K.  Rich.  Why,  our  battalia  trebles  that  ac- 
Besides,  the  king's  name  is  a  tower  of  strength, 
Which  they  upon  the  adverse  faction  want. — 
Up  with  the  tent ! — Come,  noble  gentlemen, 
Let  us  survey  the  vantage  of  the  ground; — 
Call  for  some  men  of  sound  direction : — 
Let's  lack  no  discipline,  make  no  delay; 
For,  lords,  to-morrow  is  a  busy  day.    [Exeunt. 

Enter,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Field,  RICH- 
MOND, SIR  WILLIAM  BRANDON,  OXFORD, 
and  other  Lords.  Some  of  the  Soldiers  pitch 
RICHMOND'S  tent. 

Richm.  The  weary  sun  hath  made  a  golden 

set, 

And  by  the  bright  track  of  his  fiery  car 
Gives  token  of  a  goodly  day  to-morrow. — 
Sir  William  Brandon,  you  shall  beat  my  stan- 
dard.— 

Give  me  some  ink  and  paper  in  my  tent : 
I  '11  draw  the  form  and  model  of  our  battle, 
Limit  each  leader  to  his  several  charge, 
And  part  in  just  proportion  our  small  power. — 
My  Lord  of  Oxford, — you,  Sir  William  Bran- 
don,— 

And  you,  Sir  Walter  Herbert, — stay  with  me. — 
The  Earl  of  Pembroke  keeps  his  regiment : — 
Good  Captain  Blunt,  bear  my  good-night  to  him, 
And  by  the  second  hour  in  the  morning 
Desire  the  earl  to  see  me  in  my  tent : 
Yet  one  thing  more,  good  captain,  do  for  me, — 
Where  is  Lord  Stanley  quarter'd,  do  you  know  ? 
Blunt.   Unless  I  have  mista'en  his  colours 
much, — 


SCENE  HI.] 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


711 


Which  well  I  am  assur'd  I  have  not  done, — 
His  regiment  lies  half  a  mile  at  least 
South  from  the  mighty  power  of  the  king. 
Richm.   If  without  peril  it  be  possible, 
Sweet  Blunt,  make  some  good  means  to  speak 

with  him, 

And  give  him  from  me  this  most  needful  note. 
Blunt.  Upon  my  life,  my  lord,  I  '11  under- 
take it ; 

And  so,  God  give  you  quiet  rest  to-night ! 
Richm.   Good-night,  good  Captain  Blunt. — 

Come,  gentlemen, 

Let  us  consult  upon  to-morrow's  business: 
In  to  my  tent ;  the  air  is  raw  and  cold. 

[They  withdraw  into  the  tent. 

Enter,  to  his  tent,  KING  RICHARD,  NORFOLK, 
RATCLIFF,  a«</CATESBY. 

K.  Rick.  What  is 't  o'clock? 

Cote.  It 's  supper-time,  my  lord ; 

It's  six  o'clock. 

K.  Rich.         I  will  not  sup  to-night. — 
Give  me  some  ink  and  paper. — 
What,  is  my  beaver  easier  than  it  was? 
And  all  my  armour  laid  into  my  tent? 

Gate.  It  is,  my  liege ;  and  all  things  are  in 
readiness. 

K.  Rich.    Good   Norfolk,  hie  thee   to  thy 

charge ; 
Use  careful  watch,  choose  trusty  sentinels. 

Nor.  I  go,  my  lord. 

K.  Rich.  Stir  with  the  lark  to-morrow,  gentle 
Norfolk. 

Nor.  I  warrant  you,  my  lord.  [Exit. 

K.  Rich.  Ratcliff,— 

Rat.  My  lord? 

K.  Rich.  Send  out  a  pursuivant-at-arms 
To  Stanley's  regiment ;  bid  him  bring  his  power 
Before  sunrising,  lest  his  son  George  fall 
Into  the  blind  cave  of  eternal  night. — 
Fill  me  a  bowl  of  wine. — Give  me  a  watch. — 
Saddle  white  Surrey  to  the  field  to-morrow. — 
Look  that  my  staves  be  sound,  and  not  too 

heavy. — • 
Ratcliff,— 

Rat.  My  lord? 

K.  Rich.  Saw'st  thou  the  melancholy  Lord 
Northumberland? 

Rat.  Thomas  the  Earl  of  Surrey  and  himself, 
Much  about  cock-shut  time,  from  troop  to  troop 
Went  through  the  army,  cheering  up  the  soldiers. 

K.  Rich.  So,  I  am  satisfied. — Give  me  a  bowl 

of  wine: 

I  have  not  that  alacrity  of  spirit 
Nor  cheer  of  mind  that  I  was  wont  to  nave. 
Set  it  down. — Is  ink  and  paper  ready? 

Rat.  It  is,  my  lord. 


K.  Rich.  Bid  my  guard  watch ;  leave  me. 
Ratcliff,  about  the  mid  of  night  come  to  my  tent 
And  help  to  arm  me.  Leave  me,  I  say. 

[K.  RICH,  retires  into  his  tent.     Exeunt 
RATCLIFF  and  CATESBY. 

RICHMOND'S  tent  opens,  and  discovers  him  and 
his  Officers,  &c. 

'  •••>'• 
Enter  STANLEY. 

Stan.  Fortune  and  victory  sit  on  thy  helm ! 
Richm.  All  comfort  that  the  dark  night  can 

afford 

Be  to  thy  person,  noble  father-in-law ! 
Tell  me,  how  fares  our  loving  mother? 

Stan.   I,  by  attorney,   bless  thee  from  thy 

mother, 

Who  prays  continually  for  Richmond's  good : 
So  much  for  that. — The  silent  hours  steal  on, 
And  flaky  darkness  breaks  within  the  east. 
In  brief, — for  so  the  season  bids  us  be,— ".'-." 
Prepare  thy  battle  early  in  the  morning, 
And  put  thy  fortune  to  the  arbitrement 
Of  bloody  strokes  and  mortal-staring  war. 
I,  as  I  may, — that  which  I  would  I  cannot, — 
With  best  advantage  will  deceive  the  time, 
And  aid  thee  in  this  doubtful  stroke  of  arms: 
But  on  thy  side  I  may  not  be  too  forward, 
Lest,  being  seen,  thy  brother,  tender  George, 
Be  executed  in  his  father's  sight. 
Farewell :  the  leisure  and  the  fearful  time 
Cuts  off  the  ceremonious  vows  of  love 
And  ample  interchange  of  sweet  discourse, 
Which  so-long-sunderM  friends  should  dwell 

upon: 

God  give  us  leisure  for  these  rites  of  love ! 
Once  more,  adieu :  be  valiant,  and  speed  well  I 
Richm.  Good  lords,  conduct  him  to  his  regi- 
ment: 
I'll  strive,  with  troubled  thoughts,  to  take  a 

nap, 

Lest  leaden  slumber  peise  me  down  to-morrow, 
When  I  should  mount  with  wings  of  victory : 
Once  more,  good -night,  kind  lords  and  gentle- 
men. 

[Exeunt  Lords,  6v.,  with  STAN. 
O  Thou  whose  captain  I  account  myself, 
Look  on  my  forces  with  a  gracious  eye ; 
Put  in  their  hands  thy  bruising  irons  of  wrath, 
That  they  may  crush  down  with  a  heavy  fall 
The  usurping  helmets  of  our  adversaries  1 
Make  us  thy  ministers  of  chastisement, 
That  we  may  praise  thee  in  thy  victory ! 
To  thee  I  do  commend  my  watchful  soul 
Ere  I  let  fall  the  windows  of  mine  eyes: 
Sleeping  and  waking,  O,  defend  me  still ! 

[Sleeps. 


712 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


[ACT  v. 


The  Ghost  of  PRINCE  EDWARD,  son  to  HENRY 
THE  SIXTH,  rises  between  the  two  tents. 

Ghost.  Let  me  sit   heavy  on   thy  soul   to- 
morrow! [To  KING  RICHARD. 
Think  how  thou  stabb'dst  me  in  my  prime  of 

youth     ,  Y&& 
At  Tewksbury :  despair,  therefore,  and  die ! — 

Be  cheerful,  Richmond ;  for  the  wronged  souls 
Of  butcher'd  princes  fight  in  thy  behalf: 
King  Henry's  issue,  Richmond,  comforts  thee. 

The  Ghost  of  KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH  rises. 

Ghost.  When  I  was  mortal,  my  anointed  body 
[To  KING  RICHARD. 

By  thee  was  punched  full  of  deadly  holes : 
Think  on  the  Tower  and  me:  despair,  and  die, — 
Harry  the  Sixth  bids  thee  despair  and  die ! — 
Virtuous  and  holy,  be  thou  conqueror  ! 

[To  RICHMOND. 

Harry,  that  prophesied  thou  shouldst  be  king, 
Doth  comfort  thee  in  sleep :  live,  and  nourish ! 

The  Ghost  0/ CLARENCE  rises. 

Ghost.  Let  me  sit  heavy  on  thy  soul  to-morrow ! 
[To  KING  RICHARD. 

I,  that  was  wash'd  to  death  with  fulsome  wine, 
Poor  Clarence,  by  thy  guile  betray'd  to  death ! 
To-morrow  in  the  battle  think  on  me, 
And  fall  thy  edgeless  sword :  despair,  and  die! — 

Thou  offspring  of  the  house  of  Lancaster, 

[To  RICHMOND. 

The  wronged  heirs  of  York  do  pray  for  thee  : 
Good  angels  guard  thy  battle!  live,  and  flourish ! 

The  Ghosts  of  RIVERS,  GREY,  and  VAUGHAN 

rise. 

G.  of  K.  Let  me  sit  heavy  on  thy  soul  to- 
morrow, [To  KING  RICHARD. 
Rivers,  that  died  at  Pomfret !  despair,  and  die ! 
G.  of  G.  Think  upon  Grey,  and  let  thy  soul 
despair !  [  To  KING  RICHARD. 
G.  of  V.   Think  upon  Vaughan,  and,  with 

guilty  fear, 
Let  fall  thy  lance :  despair,  and  die  !— 

[To  KING  RICHARD. 

All  Three.  Awake,  and  think  our  wrongs  in 
Richard's  bosom        [  To  RICHMOND. 
Will  conquer  him ! — awake,  and  win  the  day ! 

The  Ghost  <T/"  HASTINGS  rises. 
Ghost.  Bloody  and  guilty,  guiltily  awake, 

[To  KING  RICHARD. 
And  in  a  bloody  battle  end  thy  days  ! 
Think  on  Lord  Hastings:  despair,  and  die! — 
Quiet  untroubled  soul,  awake,  awake ! 

[To  RICHMOND. 
Arm,  fight,  and  conquer, for  fair  England's  sake! 


The  Ghosts  of  the  two  young  Princes  rise. 

Ghosts.  Dream  on  thy  cousins  smother'd  in 

the  Tower : 

Let  us  be  lead  within  thy  bosom,  Richard, 
And  weigh  thee  down  to  ruin,  shame,  and  death! 
Thy  nephews'  souls  bid  thee  despair  and  die ! — 

Sleep,  Richmond,  sleep  in  peace,  and  wake 

in  joy ; 

Good  angels  guard  thee  from  the  boar's  annoy! 
Live,  and  beget  a  happy  race  of  kings  ! 
Edward's  unhappy  sons  do  bid  thee  flourish. 

The  Ghost  of  QUEEN  ANNE  wf^2" 

Ghost.  Richard,  thy  wife,  that  wretched  Anne 

thy  wife, 

That  never  slept  a  quiet  hour  with  thee, 
Now  fills  thy  sleep  with  perturbations : 
To-morrow  in  the  battle  think  on  me, 
And  fall  thy  edgeless  sword :  despair,  and  die! — 

Thou  quiet  soul,  sleep  thou  a  quiet  sleep ; 

[To  RICHMOND. 

Dream  of  success  and  happy  victory: 
Thy  adversary's  wife  doth  pray  for  thee. 

The  Ghost  ^BUCKINGHAM  rises. 

Ghost.  The  first  was  I  that  help'd  thee  to  the 
crown;  [To  KING  RICHARD. 

The  last  was  I  that  felt  thy  tyranny : 
O,  in  the  battle  think  on  Buckingham, 
And  die  in  terror  of  thy  guiltiness ! 
Dream  on,  dream  on  of  bloody  deeds  and  death : 
Fainting,  despair ;  despairing,  yield  thy  breath ! — 
I  died  for  hope  ere  I  could  lend  thee  aid  : 

[70  RICHMOND. 

But  cheer  thy  heart,  and  be  thou  not  dismay'd  : 
God  and  good  angels  fight  on  Richmond's  side ; 
And  Richard  falls  in  height  of  all  his  pride. 

[The  Ghosts  vanish.     K.  RICH,  starts 

out  of  his  dream. 
K.  Rich.  Give  me  another  horse, — bind  up 

my  wounds, — 
Have  mercy,  Jesu  ! — Soft !  I  did  but  dream.— 

0  co ward  conscience,  how  dost  thou  afflict  me ! — 
The  lights  burn  blue. — It  is  now  dead  midnight. 
Cold  fearful  drops  stand  on  my  trembling  flesh. 
What,  do  I  fear  myself?  there 's  none  else  by  : 
Richard  loves  Richard ;  that  is,  I  am  I. 

Is  there  a  murderer  here  ?    No ; — yes ;  I  am  : 
Then  fly.     What,  from  myself?    Great  reason 

why, — 

Lest  I  revenge.     What, — myself  upon  myself ! 
Alack,  I  love  my  self.    Wherefore?  foranygood 
That  I  myself  have  done  unto  myself? 
O,  no  !  alas,  I  rather  hate  myself 
For  hateful  deeds  committed  by  myself ! 

1  am  a  villain :  yet  I  lie,  I  am  not. 


SCENE  III.] 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


713 


Fool,  of  thyself  speak  well : — fool,  do  not  flatter. 
My  conscience  hath  a  thousand  several  tongues, 
And  every  tongue  brings  in  a  several  tale, 
And  every  tale  condemns  me  for  a  villain. 
Perjury,  perjury,  in  the  high'st  degree  ; 
Murder,  stern  murder,  in  the  dir'st  degree  ; 
All  several  sins,  all  us'd  in  each  degree, 
Throng  to  the  bar,  crying  all,  Guilty !  guilty  ! 
I  shall  despair.    There  is  no  creature  loves  me  ; 
And  if  I  die  no  soul  shall  pity  me  : 
Nay,  wherefore  should  they, — since  that  I  myself 
Find  in  myself  no  pity  to  myself? 
Methought  the  souls  of  all  that  I  had  murder'd 
Came  to  my  tent ;  and  every  one  did  threat 
To-morrow's  vengeance  on  the  head  of  Richard. 

Enter  RATCLIFF. 

Rat.   My  lord, — 

K.  Rich.  Who 's  there  ?  [village-cock 

Rat.  Ratcliff,  my  lord;   'tis  I.      The  early 
Hath  twice  done  salutation  to  the  morn  ; 
Your  friends  are  up,  and  buckle  on  their  armour. 

K.  Rich.  O  Ratcliff,  I  have  dream'd  a  fear- 
ful dream ! —  [true  ? 
What  thinkest  thou, — will  our  friends  prove  all 

Rat.  No  doubt,  my  lord. 

K.  Rich.  O  Ratcliff,  I  fear,  I  fear,— 

Rat.  Nay,  good  my  lord,  be  not  afraid  of 
shadows.  [night 

K.  Rich.   By  the  apostle  Paul,  shadows  to- 
Have  struck  more  terror  to  the  soul  of  Richard 
Than  can  the  substance  of  ten  thousand  soldiers 
Armed  in  proof  and  led  by  shallow  Richmond. 
It  is  not  yet  near  day.     Come,  go  with  me  ; 
Under  our  tents  I  '11  play  the  eaves-dropper, 
To  hear  if  any  mean  to  shrink  from  me. 

[Exeunt  K.  RICH,  and  RATCLIFF. 

RICHMOND  wakes.    Enter  OXFORD  and  others. 

Lords.  Good-morrow,  Richmond  !        [men, 
Richm.  Cry  mercy,  lords  and  watchful  gentle- 
That  you  have  ta'en  a  tardy  sluggard  here. 
Lords.   How  have  you  slept,  my  lord? 
Richm.  The  sweetest  sleep  and  fairest-boding 

dreams 

That  ever  enter'd  in  a  drowsy  head 
Have  I  since  your  departure  had,  my  lords. 
Methought  their  souls  whose  bodies  Richard 

murder'd 

Came  to  my  tent,  and  cried  on  victory : 
I  promise  you,  my  heart  is  very  jocund 
In  the  remembrance  of  so  fair  a  dream. 
How  far  into  the  morning  is  it,  lords? 
Lords.   Upon  the  stroke  of  four. 
Richm.  Why,  then,  'tis  time  to  arm  and  give 
direction.  — 

{He  advances  to  the  Troops. 


More  than  I  have  said,  loving  countrymen, 
The  leisure  and  enforcement  of  the  time 
Forbids  to  dwell  on :  yet  remember  this, — 
God  and  our  good  cause  fight  upon  our  side ; 
The  prayers  of  holy  saints  and  wronged  souls, 
Like  high-rear'd  bulwarks,  stand  before  our  faces; 
Richard  except,  those  whom  we  fight  against 
Had  rather  have  us  win  than  him  they  follow : 
For  what  is  he  they  follow?  truly,  gentlemen, 
A  bloody  tyrant  and  a  homicide  ;  [lish'd ; 

One  rais'd  in  blood,  and  one  in.  blood  estab- 
One  that  made  means  to  come  by  what  he  hath, 
And  slaughter'd  those  that  were  the  means  to 

help  him ; 

A  base  foul  stone,  made  precious  by  the  foil 
Of  England's  chair,  where  he  is  falsely  set; 
One  that  hath  ever  been  God's  enemy : 
Then,  if  you  fight  against  God's  enemy, 
God  will,  in  justice,  ward  you  as  his  soldiers; 
If  you  do  sweat  to  put  a  tyrant  down, 
You  sleep  in  peace,  the  tyrant  being  slain ; 
If  you  do  fight  against  your  country's  foes, 
Your  country's  fat  shall  pay  your  pains  the  hire  j 
If  you  do  fight  in  safeguard  of  your  wives, 
Your  wives  shall  welcome  home  the  conquerors ; 
If  you  do  free  your  children  from  the  sword, 
Your  children's  children  quit  it  in  your  age. 
Then,  in  the  name  of  God  and  all  these  rights, 
Advance  your   standards,    draw    your   willing 

swords. 

For  me,  the  ransom  of  my  bold  attempt 
Shall  be  this  cold  corpse  on  the  earth's  cold  face; 
But  if  I  thrive,  the  gain  of  my  attempt 
The  least  of  you  shall  share  his  part  thereof. 
Sound  drums  and  trumpets  boldly  and  cheer- 
fully; 

God  and  Saint  George  !  Richmond  and  victory! 

{Exeunt. 

Re-enter  KING  RICHARD,  RATCLIFF, 
Attendants,  a nd  Forces. 

K.  Rich.  What  said  Northumberland  as  touch- 

ing  Richmond? 

Rat.  That  he  was  never  trained  up  in  arms. 
K.  Rich.  He  said  the  truth :  and  what  said 
Surrey  then?  [purpose. 

Rat.  He  smil'd,  and  said,  the  better  for  our 
K.  Rich.    He  was  in  the  right ;   and  so,  in- 
deed, it  is.  [Clock  strikes. 
Tell  the  clock  there. — Give  me  a  calendar. — 
Who  saw  the  sun  to-day? 

Rat.  Not  I,  my  lord. 

K.  Rich.  Then  he  disdains  to  shine ;  for  by 

the  book 

He  should  have  brav'd  the  east  an  hour  ago : 
A  black  day  will  it  be  to  somebody. — 
Ratcliff, — 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


[ACT  v. 


Rat.  My  lord  ? 

K.  Rich.  The  sun  will  not  be  seen  to-day; 
The  sky  doth  frown  and  lower  upon  our  army. 
I  would  these  dewy  tears  were  from  the  ground. 
Not  shine  to-day !  Why,  what  is  that  to  me 
More  than  to  Richmond?  for  the  selfsame  heaven 
That  frowns  on  me  looks  sadly  upon  him. 

Enter  NORFOLK. 
,n9m9nri9g  t-(Trh)Tv/-  -f/ioi 

Nor.  Arm,  arm,  my  lord ;  the  foe  vaunts  in 
the  field.  [horse; — 

K.  Rich.  Come,  bustle,  bustle ;  caparison  my 
Call  up  Lord  Stanley,  bid  him  bring  his  power: 
I  will  lead  forth  my  soldiers  to  the  plain, 
And  thus  my  battle  shall  be  ordered: — 
My  forward  shall  be  drawn  out  all  in  length, 
Consisting  equally  of  horse  and  foot ; 
Our  archers  shall  be  placed  in  the  midst :.  n^rfT 
John  Duke  of  Norfolk,  Thomas  Earl  of  Surrey, 
Shall  have  the  leading  of  this  foot  and  horse. 
They  thus  directed,  we  ourself  will  follow 
In  the  main  battle;  whose  puissance  on  either  side 
Shall  be  well  winged  with  our  chiefest  horse. 
This,  and  Saint  George  to  boot! — What  think'st 
thou,  Norfolk? 

Nor.  A  good  direction,  warlike  sovereign. — 
This  found  I  on  my  tent  this  morning. 

[Giving-  a  scroll. 

K.  Rich.  [Reads.]  Jocky  of  Norfolk,  be  not  too 

bold, 

For  Dickon  thy  master  is  bought  and  sold. 
A  thing  devised  by  the  enemy. — 
Go,  gentlemen,  every  man  unto  his  charge: 
Let  not  our  babbling  dreams  affright  our  souls ; 
Conscience  is  but  a  word  that  cowards  use, 
Devis'd  at  first  to  keep  the  strong  in  awe : 
Our  strong  arms  be  our  conscience,  swords  our 

ttvr.'X.'ilaw. 

March  on,  join  bravely,  let  us  to 't  pell-mell ; 
If  not  to  heaven,  then  hand  in  hand  to  hell. — 
What  shall  I  say  more  than  I  have  inferr'd  ? 
Remember  whom  you  are  to  cope  withal  ;— 
A  sort  of  vagabonds,  rascals,  and  runaways, 
A  scum  of  Bretagnes,  and  base  lackey  peasants, 
Whom  their  o'er-cloyed  country  vomits  forth 
To  desperate  ventures  and  assur'd  destruction. 
You  sleeping  safe,  they  bring  you  to  unrest ; 
You  having  lands,  and  bless'd  with  beauteous 

wives, 

They  would  restrain  the  one,  distain  the  other. 
And  who  doth  lead  them  but  a  paltry  fellow, 
Long  kept  in  Bretagne  at  our  mother's  cost? 
A  milk  sop,  one  that  never  in  his  life 
Felt  so  much  cold  as  over  shoes  in  snow? 
Let 's  whip  these  stragglers  o'er  the  seas  again; 
Lash  hence  these  over- weening  rags  of  France, 
These  famish'd  beggars,  weary  of  their  lives; 


Who,  but  for  dreaming  on  this  fond  exploit, 

For  want  of  means,  poor  rats,  had  hang'd  them- 
selves: 

If  we  be  conquer'd,  let  men  conquer  us, 

And  not  these  bastard  Bretagnes;  whom  our 
fathers  [thump'd, 

Have  in  their  own  land  beaten,  bobb'd,  and 

And,  on  record,  left  them  the  heirs  of  shame. 

Shall   these   enjoy  our   lands?    lie   with   our 
wives? 

Ravish  our  daughters? — Hark!    I   hear  their 
drum.  [Drum  afar  off. 

Fight,  gentlemen  of  England !  fight,  bold  yeo- 
men ! 

Draw,  archers,  draw  your  arrows  to  the  head ! 

Spur  your  proud  horses  hard,  and  ride  in  blood; 

Amaze  the  welkin  with  your  broken  staves ! 

.' 
Enter  a  Messenger. 

What  says  Lord  Stanley?  will  he  bring  his  power? 

Mess.  My  lord,  he  doth  deny  to  come. 

K.  Rich.  Off  with  his  son  George's  head ! 

Nor.    My   lord,    the    enemy    is    pass'd    the 

marsh : 
After  the  battle  let  George  Stanley  die. 

K.  Rich.  A  thousand  hearts  are  great  within 

my  bosom : 

Advance  our  standards,  set  upon  our  foes ; 
Our  ancient  word  of  courage,  fair  Saint  George, 
Inspire  us  with  the  spleen  of  fiery  dragons ! 
Upon  them !    Victory  sits  on  our  helms. 

[Exeunt. 
.bnomr:  -A  bus  looiq  fii  toon  A 

SCENE  IV.—  Another  part  of  the  Field. 

Alarum:   excursions.     Enter  NORFOLK  and 
Forces  ;  to  him  CATESBY. 

Gate.  Rescue,  my  Lord  of  Norfolk,  rescue, 

rescue  1 

The  king  enacts  more  wonders  than  a  man, 
Daring  an  opposite  to  every  danger : 
His  horse  is  slain,  and  all  on  foot  he  fights, 
Seeking  for  Richmond  in  the  throat  of  death. 
Rescue,  fair  lord,  or  else  the  day  is  lost ! 

bct>d  TfEv/oib  £•  m  '• 
Alarum.     Enter  KING  RICHARD. 

K.  Rich.  A  horse !  a  horse !  my  kingdom 

for  a  horse  ! 
Gate.  Withdraw,  my  lord;  I  '11  help  you  to 

a  horse. 

K.  Rich.  Slave,  I  have  set  my  life  upon  a  cast, 
And  I  will  stand  the  hazard  of  the  die  : 
I  think  there  be  six  Richmonds  in  the  field  ; 
Five  have  I  slain  to-day  instead  of  him.**  ft. 
A  horse  !  a  horse  I  my  kingdom  for  a  horse  ! 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  V.] 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


715 


SCENE  V. — Another  part  of  the  Field. 

Alarums.    Enter,  front  opposite   sides,    KING 
RICHARD  and  RICHMOND  ;  and  exeunt  fight- 
ing.    Retreat,  and  Jlourish.      Then  re-enter 
RICHMOND,  with  STAN  LEY  bearing  the  crown, 
and  divers  other  Lords  and  Forces. 
Richm.  God  and  your  arms  be  prais'd,  vic- 
torious friends ; 
The  day  is  ours,  the  bloody  dog  is  dead. 

Stan.  Courageous  Richmond,  well  hast  thou 

acquit  thee ! 

Lo,  here,  this  long-usurped  royalty 
From  the  dead  temples  of  this  bloody  wretch 
Have  I  pluck'd  off,  to  grace  thy  brows  withal : 
Wear  it,  enjoy  it,  and  make  much  of  it. 
Richm.  Great  God  of  heaven,  say  Amen  to 

all!— 

But,  tell  me,  is  young  George  Stanley  living? 

Stan.  He  is,  my  lord,  and  safe  in  Leicester 

town,  [us. 

Whither,  if  it  please  you,  we  may  now  withdraw 

Richm.  What  men  of  name  are  slain  oneither 

side? 

Stan.  John  Duke  of  Norfolk,  Walter  Lord 

Ferrers,  [don. 

Sir  Robert  Brakenbury,  and  Sir  William  Bran- 

Richm.   Inter  their  bodies  as  becomes  their 

births : 
Proclaim  a  pardon  to  the  soldiers  fled 


That  in  submission  will  return  to  us  : 
And  then,  as  we  have  ta'en  the  sacrament, 
We  will  unite  the  white  rose  and  the  red  : — 
Smile  heaven  upon  this  fair  conjunction, 
That  long  hath  frown'd  upon  their  enmity  ! 
What  traitor  hears  me,  and  says  not  Amen  ? 
England  hath  long  been  mad,  and  scarr'd  her- 
self; 

The  brother  blindly  shed  the  brother's  blood, 
The  father  rashly  slaughter'd  his  own  son, 
The  son,  compell'd,  been  butcher  to  the  sire: 
All  this  divided  York  and  Lancaster, 
Divided  in  their  dire  division, — 
O,  now  let  Richmond  and  Elizabeth,,.;sK**AjO 
The  true  succeeders  of  each  royal  house, 
By  God's  fair  ordinance  conjoin  together  ! 
And  let  their  heirs, — God,  if  thy  will  be  so, — 
Enrich  the  time  to  come  with  smooth'd-fac'd 

peace, 

With  smiling  plenty,  and  fair  prosperous  days  I 
Abate  the  edge  of  traitors,  gracious  Lord, 
That  would  reduce  these  bloody  days  again, 
And  make  poor  England  weep  in  streams  of 

blood! 

Let  them  not  live  to  taste  this  land's  increase 
That  would  with  treason  wound  this  fair  land's 

peace  ! 

Now  civil  wounds  are  stopp'd,  peace  lives  again : 
That  she  may  long  live  here,  God  say  Amen  ! 

[Exeunt. 


;;l>ttobaj» 


;[  JliW   : 
• 

nworof 

<nwoj  orijlo  giauB^rf  Jaaiqqxjrf  bn; 
ffibij  :  9^  d/ffinr  blue. 

te  sldon  100  lo  anoziaq  yiav  s»n'T  j 

• :  wo'(  ^nirfj  ;  jjnivii  siaw  ^sriJ  eA  | 

;jnoi4J  I^ian-jjj  ariJ  riiiw  bVoIioi  boA 

3  ni  ^narii  ;  sbn^iii  bflBaooril  '1C  j 

•  .rfrij  nooz  woH  i 

• 
ca  qgav/  yj 


.1  t 

s:!  <X  <  <OJ. 

... 


v/on  agaitiJ  :  . 


bus 


diom  oa  smoD  I 
tarfT 


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sisd  ,,Y.jiq  ago  Jsrfj  seodT     .Jnae^iq  woxi  oW 
;  ie»j  s  Ujsl  :tei  .  /;;M 

't>a?>i>  niwiD^d: 
>dlo  jao  ^nori: 
smoo  Jjwll  -jeoiiT     .003  riJmJ  bnA  aiyrf     M 


>fodz 


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Jiorfe  owJ 

i5lq  '{bw&i  -pnai.js  i^^rf  ol  omoo  J^dT 
wolislt  s  93a  oJ  10  taJ3jn.BJ  lo  aeion  A 
(jxa  gnol  x  ni 
sDsb  sd  Hi  W 
i;jo  ^nfii  oT 
f«>r  Jdgil  has  Ipoi  &A 
1  noiniqu  srij  bris  t8amd  irv/o  tuO 
ii  won  dw  sou  i(lno  Jfixl?  silfiflj  oT 


.11.1 


liiw  noieaimdire  ni 


— .V  3X.308 


KING    HFNRV   VTTT 

XVUNVJT      laj^lNJXI         VI  11. 

!  viioifld  ibd)  noqw  b'nwoil  tiJ&d  £. _^ .\iy.x 


.  s  i 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 

CARDINAL  WOLSEY. 

CARDINAL  CAMPEIUS. 

CAPUCIUS,  Ambas.  from  the  Emperor  CHARLES 

V. 

CRANMER,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 
DUKE  OF  NORFOLK. 
DUKE  OF  BUCKINGHAM. 
DUKE  OF  SUFFOLK. 
EARL  OF  SURREY. 

Lord  Chamberlain.     Lord  Chancellor. 
GARDINER,  Bishop  of  Winchester. 
BISHOP  OF  LINCOLN. 
LORD  ABERGAVENNY. 
LORD  SANDS. 
SIR  HENRY  GUILDFORD. 
SIR  THOMAS  LOVELL. 
SIR  ANTHONY  DENNY. 
SIR  NICHOLAS  VAUX. 
Secretaries  to  WOLSEY. 
CROMWELL,  Servant  to  WOLSEY. 


GRIFFITH,  Gent. -Usher  to  QUEEN  KATHAR- 
INE. 

Three  Gentlemen. 

DR.  BUTTS,  Physician  to  the  KING. 
Garter  King-at-Arms. 
Surveyor  to  the  DUKE  OF  BUCKINGHAM. 
BRANDON,  and  a  Sergeant-at-Arms. 
Doorkeeper  of  the  Council  Chamber. 
Porter,  and  his  Man. 
Page  to  GARDINER.     A  Crier. 

QUEEN  KATHARINE,  Wife  to  KING  HENRY, 
afterwards  divorced. 

ANNE  BULLEN,  her  Maid  of  Honour,  after- 
wards Queen. 

An  Old  Lady,  Friend  to  ANNE  BULLEN. 

PATIENCE,  Woman  to  QUEEN  KATHARINE. 

Several  Lords  and  Ladies  in  the  Dtimb  Shows ; 
Women  attending  upon  the  QUEEN  ; 
Scribes,  Officers,  Guards,  and  other  Atten- 
dants; Spirits. 


SCENE,  - 


o)  nobxeq  & 
-Chiefly  in  LONDON  and  WESTMINSTER  ;  once  at  KlMBOLTON. 


'  PROLOGUE. 

I  come  no  more  to  make  you  laugh :  things  now 
That  bear  a  weighty  and  a  serious  brow, 
Sad,  high,  and  working,  full  of  state  and  woe, 
Such  noble  scenes  as  draw  the  eye  to  flow, 
We  now  present.     Those  that  can  pity,  here 
May,  if  they  think  it  well,  let  fall  a  tear  ; 
The  subject  will  deserve  it.     Such  as  give 
Their  money  out  of  hope  they  may  believe, 
May  here  find  truth  too.     Those  that  come  to 

see 

Only  a  show  or  two,  and  so  agree 
The  play  may  pass,  if  they  be  still  and  willing, 
I  '11  undertake  may  see  away  their  shilling 
Richly  in  two  short  hours.     Only  they 
That  come  to  hear  a  merry  bawdy  play, 
A  noise  of  targets,  or  to  see  a  fellow 
In  a  long  motley  coat  guarded  with  yellow, 
Will  be  deceiv'd  •  for,  gentle  hearers,  know, 
To  rank  our  chosen  truth  with  such  a  show 
As  fool  and  fight  is,  beside  forfeiting 
Our  own  brains,  and  the  opinion  that  we  bring, 
To  make  that  only  true  we  now  intend, 


Will  leave  us  never  an  understanding  friend. 
Therefore,  for  goodness'  sake,  and  as  you  are 

known 

The  first  and  happiest  hearers  of  the  town, 
Be  sad,  as  we  would  make  ye :  think  ye  see 
The  very  persons  of  our  noble  story 
As  they  were  living ;  think  you  see  them  great, 
And  follow'd  with  the  general  throng  and  sweat 
Of  thousand  friends ;  then,  in  a  moment,  see 
How  soon  this  mightiness  meets  misery : 
And  if  you  can  be  merry  then  I  '11  say 
A  man  may  weep  upon  his  wedding-day. 


ACT  I. 

SCEN E  I.  — LONDON.     An  Ante-chamber  in  the 
Palace. 

Enter  the  DUKE  OF  NORFOLK  at  one  door;  at 
the  other,  the  DUKE  OF  BUCKINGHAM  and 
the  LORD  ABERGAVENNY. 


Buck.  Good-morrow,  and  well  met. 

have  you  done 
Since  last  we  saw  in  France? 


How 


SCENE  I.] 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


717 


Nor.  I  thank  your  grace, 

Healthful ;  and  ever  since  a  fresh  admirer 
Of  what  I  saw  there. 

Buck.  An  untimely  ague 

Stay'd  me  a  prisoner  in  my  chamber,  when 
Those  suns  of  glory,  those  two  lights  of  men, 
Met  in  the  vale  of  Andren. 

Nor.  'Twixt  Guynes  and  Arde : 

I  was  then  present,  saw  them  salute  on  horse- 
back ;  [clung 
Beheld  them,   when   they  lighted,    how  they 
In  their  embracement,  as  they  grew  together ; 
Which  had  they,  what  four  thron'd  ones  could 

have  weigh'd 
Such  a  compounded  one? 

Buck.  All  the  whole  time 

I  was  my  chamber's  prisoner. 

Nor.  Then  you  lost 

The  view  of  earthly  glory :  men  might  say, 
Till  this  time  pomp  was  single,  but  now  married 
To  one  above  itself.     Each  following  day 
Became  the  next  day's  master,  till  the  last 
Made  former  wonders  it's :  to-day  the  French, 
All  clinquant,  all  in  gold,  like  heathen  gods, 
Shone  down  the  English ;  and  to-morrow  they 
Made  Britain  India :  every  man  that  stood 
Show'd  like  a  mine.    Their  dwarfish  pages  were 
As  cherubims,  all  gilt :  the  madams  too, 
Not  us'd  to  toil,  did  almost  sweat  to  bear 
The  pride  upon  them,  that  their  very  labour 
Was  to  them  as  a  painting:  now  this  masque 
Was  cried  incomparable;  and  the  ensuing  night 
Made  it  a  fool  and  beggar.     The  two  kings, 
Equal  in  lustre,  were  now  best,  now  worst, 
As  presence  did  present  them ;  him  in  eye, 
Still  him  in  praise :  and,  being  present  both, 
'Twas  said  they  saw  but  one ;  and  no  discerner 
Durst  wag  his  tongue  in  censure.     When  these 
suns, —  [leng'd 

For  so  they  phrase  'em, — by  their  heralds  chal- 
The  noble  spirits  to  arms,  they  did  perform 
Beyond  thought's  compass:  that  former  fabu- 
lous story, 

Being  now  seen  possible  enough,  got  credit, 
That  Bevis  was  believ'd. 

Buck.  O,  you  go  far. 

Nor.  As  I  belong  to  worship,  and  affect 
In  honour  honesty,  the  tract  of  everything 
Would  by  a  good  discourser  lose  some  life, 
Which  action's  self  was  tongue  to.  All  was 

royal ; 

To  the  disposing  of  it  naught  rebell'd, 
Order  gave  each  thing  view ;  the  office  did 
Distinctly  his  full  function. 

Bttck.  Who  did  guide — 

I  mean,  who  set  the  body  and  the  limbs 
Of  this  great  sport  together,  as  you  guess? 


Nor.  One,  certes,  that  promises  no  element 
In  such  a  business. 

Buck.  I  pray  you,  who,  my  lord? 

Nor.  All  this  was  ordered  by  the  good  dis- 
cretion 
Of  the  right  reverend  Cardinal  of  York,     [freed 

Buck.  The  devil  speed  him  !  no  man's  pie  is 
From  his  ambitious  finger.     What  had  he 
To  do  in  these  fierce  vanities?     I  wonder 
That  such  a  keech  can  with  his  very  bulk 
Take  up  the  rays  o'  the  beneficial  sun, 
And  keep  it  from  the  earth. 

Nor.  Surely,  sir, 

There's  in  him  stuff  that  puts  him  to  these 
ends;  [grace 

For,  being   not   propp'd    by  ancestry,  whose 
Chalks  successors  their  way ;  nor  call'd  upon 
For  high  feats  done  to  the  crown ;  neither  allied 
To  eminent  assistants ;  but,  spider-like, 
Out  of  his  self-drawing  web,  he  gives  us  note 
The  force  of  his  own  merit  makes  his  way ; 
A  gift  that  heaven  gives  for  him,  which  buys 
A  place  next  to  the  king. 

Aber.  \  cannot  tell 

What  heaven  hath  given  him, — let  some  graver 

eye 

Pierce  into  that ;  but  I  can  see  his  pride 
Peep  through  each  part  of  him :  whence  has  he 

that? 

If  not  from  hell,  the  devil  is  a  niggard  ; 
Or  has  given  all  before,  and  he  begins 
A  new  hell  in  himself. 

Buck.  Why  the  devil, 

Upon  this  French  going-out,  took  he  upon  him, 
Without  the  privity  o'  the  king,  to  appoint 
Who  should  attend  on  him?    He  makes  up  the 

file 

Of  all  the  gentry  ;  for  the  most  part  such 
To  whom  as  great  a  charge  as  little  honour 
He  meant  to  lay  upon  :  and  his  own  letter, 
The  honourable  board  of  council  out, 
Must  fetch  him  in  the  papers. 

Aber.  I  do  know 

Kinsmen  of  mine,  three  at  the  least,  that  have 
By  this  so  sicken'd  their  estates  that  never 
They  shall  abound  as  formerly. 

Bttck.':"'  O,  many     ['em 

Have  broke  their  backs  with  laying  manors  on 
For  this  great  journey.     What  did  this  vanity 
But  minister  communication  of 
A  most  poor  issue  ? 

Nor.  Grievingly  I  think, 

The  peace  between  the  French  and  us  not  values 
The  cost  that  did  conclude  it. 

Buck.  Every  man, 

After  the  hideous  storm  that  follow'd,  was 
A  thing  inspir'd  ;  and,  not  consulting,  broke 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


[ACT  i. 


Into  a  general  prophecy,— That  this  tempest, 
Dashing  the  garment  of  this  peace,  aboded 
The  sudden  breach  on 't. 

Nor.  Which  is  budded  out ; 

For  France  hath  flaw'd  the  league,  and  hath 

attach'd 
Our  merchants'  goods  at  Bourdeaux. 

Aber.  Is  it  therefore 

The  ambassador  is  silenc'd  ? 

Nor.  Marry,  is't. 

Aber.    A  proper  title  of  a  peace;  and  pur- 

chas'd 
At  a  superfluous  rate  ! 

Buck.  Why,  all  this  business 

Our  reverend  cardinal  carried. 

Nor.  Like  it  your  grace , 

The  state  takes  notice  of  the  private  difference 
Betwixt  you  and  the  cardinal.     I  advise  you, — 
And  take  it  from  a  heart  that  wishes  towards  you 
Honour  and  plenteous  safety, — that  you  read 
The  cardinal's  malice  and  his  potency 
Together  ;  to  consider  further,  that 
What  his  high  hatred  would  effect  wants  not 
A  minister  in  his  power.    You  know  his  nature, 
That  he 's  revengeful ;  and  I  know  his  sword 
Hath  a  sharp  edge  :  it  'slong,  and,  't  may  be  said, 
It  reaches  far  ;  and  where  'twill  not  extend, 
Thither  he  darts  it.     Bosom  up  my  counsel, 
You'll  find  it  wholesome. — Lo,  where  comes 

that  rock 
That  I  advise  you  shunning. 

Enter  CARDINAL  WOLSEY,  the  piirse  borne  be- 
fore him,  certain  of  the  Guard,  and  two  Sec- 
retaries with  papers.  The  CARDINAL  in  his 
passage  fixeth  his  eye  on  BUCKINGHAM,  and 
BUCKINGHAM  on  him,  both  full  of  disdain. 

Wol.  The  Duke  of  Buckingham's  surveyor? 

ha? 
Where 's  his  examination  ?    rw  x/;I  ol  in 

I  Seer.  Here,  so  please  you. 

Wol.  Is  he  in  person  ready  ? 
I  Secr»  Ay,  please  your  grace. 

Wol.  Well,  we  shall  then  know  more;  and 

Buckingham 
Shall  lessen  this  big  look. 

\_Exeunt  WOLSEY  and  Train. 

Buck.  This  butcher's  cur  is  venom-mouth'd, 

and  I  [best 

Have  not  the  power  to  muzzle  him ;  therefore 

Not  wake  him  in  his  slumber.    A  beggar's  book 

Outworths  a  noble's  blood. 

Nor.  What,  are  you  chaf'd? 

Ask  God  for  temperance ;  that 's  the  appliance 

only 
Which  your  disease  requires. 

Buck.  ,5m;  \  read  in 's  looks 


Matter  against  me ;  and  his  eye  revil'd 
Me,  as  his  abject  object:  at  this  instant    [king; 
He  bores  me  with  some  trick  :  he 's  gone  to  the 
I  '11  follow,  and  outstare  him. 

Nor.  Stay,  my  lord, 

And  let  your  reason  with  your  choler  question 
What  'tis  you  go  about :  to  climb  steep  hills 
Requires  slow  pace  at  first :  anger  is  like 
A  full-hot  horse,  who  being  allow'd  his  way, 
Self-mettle  tires  him.     Not  a  man  in  England 
Can  advise  me  like  you :  be  to  yourself 
As  you  would  to  your  friend. 

Buck.  I  '11  to  the  king  ; 

And  from  a  mouth  of  honour  quite  cry  down 
This  Ipswich  fellow's  insolence ;  or  proclaim 
There 's  difference  in  no  persons. 

Nor.  Be  advis'd ; 

Heat  not  a  furnace  for  your  foe  so  hot 
That  it  do  singe  yourself:  we  may  outrun, 
By  violent  swiftness,  that  which  we  run  at, 
And  lose  by  over-running.     Know  you  not, 
The  fire  that  mounts  the  liquor  till 't  run  o'er, 
In  seeming  to  augment  it  wastes  it  ?   Be  advis'd : 
I  say  again,  there  is  no  English  soul 
More  stronger  to  direct  you  than  yourself, 
If  with  the  sap  of  reason  you  would  quench 
Or  but  allay  the  fire  of  passion. 

Buck.  Sir, 

I  am  thankful  to  you ;  and  I  '11  go  along 
By  your  prescription :  but  this  top-proud  fellow,— 
Whom  from  the  flow  of  gall  I  name  not,  but 
From  sincere  motions, — by  intelligence, 
And  proofs  as  clear  as  founts  in  July,  when 
We  see  each  grain  of  gravel,  I  do  know 
To  be  corrupt  and  treasonous. 

Nor.  Say  not  treasonous. 

Buck.  To  the  king  I  '11  say 't ;  and  make  my 

vouch  as  strong 

As  shore  of  rock.     Attend.     This  holy  fox, 
Or  wolf,  or  both, — for  he  is  equal  ravenous 
As  he  is  subtle,  and  as  prone  to  mischief 
As  able  to  perform 't ;  his  mind  and  place 
Infecting  one  another,  yea,  reciprocally, — 
Only  to  show  his  pomp  as  well  in  Francerjni:>< 
As  here  at  home,  suggests  the  king  our  master 
To  this  last  costly  treaty,  the  interview, 
That  swallow'dso  much  treasure,  and  like  a  glass 
Did  break  i'  the  rinsing. 

Nor.  Faith,  and  so  it  did. 

Buck.  Pray,  give  me  favour,  sir.  This  cunning 

cardinal 

The  articles  o'  the  combination  drew 
As  himself  pleas'd ;  and  they  were  ratified 
As  he  cried,  Thus  let  be :  to  as  much  end 
As  give  a  crutch  to  the  dead:  but  our  count- 
cardinal 
Has  done  this,  and  'tis  well ;  for  worthy  Wolsey, 


SCENE  I.] 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


719 


Who  cannot  err,  he  did  it.    Now  this  follows,— 
Which,  as  I  take  it,  is  a  kind  of  puppy 
To  the  old  dam  treason, — Charles  the  emperor, 
Under  pretence  to  see  the  queen  his  aunt, — 
For  'twas  indeed  his  colour,  but  he  came 
To  whisper  Wolsey, — here  makes  visitation : 
His  fears  were  that  the  interview  betwixt 
England  and  France  might,  through  their  amity, 
Breed  him  some  prejudice ;  for  from  this  league 
Peep;d  harms  that  menac'd  him :  he  privily 
Deals  with  our  cardinal ;  and,  as  I  trow, — 
Which  I  do  well ;  for  I  am  sure  the  emperor 
Paid  ere  he  promis'd ;  wherebyhis  suit  was  granted 
Ere  it  was  ask'd ; — but  when  the  way  was  made, 
And  pav'd  withgold,  the  emperor  thusdesir'd, — 
That  he  would  please  to  alter  the  king's  course, 
And  break  the  foresaid  peace.     Let  the  king 

know, — 

As  soon  he  shall  by  me, — that  thus  the  cardinal 
Does  buy  and  sell  his  honour  as  he  pleases, 
And  for  his  own  advantage. 

Nor.  I  am  sorry 

To  hear  this  of  him ;  and  could  wish  he  were 
Something  mistaken  in 't. 

Buck.  No,  not  a  syllable : 

I  do  pronounce  him  in  that  very  shape 
He  shall  appear  in  proof. 

Enter  BRANDON,  a  Sergeant-at-Arms  before 
him,  and  two  or  three  of  the  Guard. 

Bran.  Your  office,  sergeant ;  execute  it. 

Serg.  Sir, 

My  lord  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  and  Earl 
Of  Hereford,  Stafford,  and  Northampton,  I 
Arrest  thee  of  high  treason,  in  the  name 
Of  our  most  sovereign  king. 

Buck.  Lo,  you,  my  lord, 

The  net  has  fall'n  upon  me  !  I  shall  perish 
Under  device  and  practice. 

Bran.  I  am  sorry 

To  see  you  ta'en  from  liberty,  to  look  on 
The  business  present :  'tis  his  highness'  pleasure 
You  shall  to  the  Tower. 

Buck.  It  will  help  me  nothing 

To  plead  mine  innocence ;  for  that  dye  is  on  me 
Which  makes  my  whit'st  part  black.     The  will 

of  heaven 

Be  done  in  this  and  all  things ! — I  obey. — 
O  my  Lord  Aberga'ny,  fare  you  well ! 

Bran.  Nay,  he  must  bear  you  company. — 
The  king  {To  ABERGAVENNY. 

Is  pleas'd  you  shall  to  the  Tower,  till  you  know 
How  he  determines  further. 

Aber.  As  the  duke  said, 

The  will  of  heaven  be  done,  and  the  king's 

pleasure 
By  me  obeyM ! 


Bran.  Here  is  a  warrant  from 

The  king  to  attach  Lord  Montacute;  and  the 

bodies 

Of  the  duke's  confessor,  John  de  la  Car, 
One  Gilbert  Peck,  his  chancellor, — 

Buck.  So,  so; 

These  are  the  limbs  o'  the  plot : — no  more,  I 

hope. 

Bran.  A  monk  o'  the  Chartreux. 
Buck.  O,  Nicholas  Hopkins? 

Bran.  He, 

Buck.  My  surveyor  is  false;   the  o'er-great 
cardinal  [ready : 

Hath  show'd  him  gold ;  my  life  is  spann'd  al- 
I  am  the  shadow  of  poor  Buckingham, 
Whose  figure  even  this  instant  cloud  puts  on, 
By  darkening  my  clear  sun. — My  lord,  fare- 
well. [Exeunt. 
nij<Jfliam  o3  alda  Jon  ,11^  aiainJofo  ariT 
SCENE  II. — LONDON.     The  Council  Chamber. 

Cornets.  Enter  KING  HENRY,  CARDINAL 
WOLSEY,  the  Lords  of  the  Council,  SIR 
THOMAS  LOVELL,  Officers,  and  Attendants. 
The  KING  enters,  leaning  on  the  CARDINAL'S 
shoulder. 

K.  Hen.  My  life  itself,  and  the  best  heart  of 
it,  [level 

Thanks  you  for  this  great  care :  I  stood  i'  the 
Of  a  full-charg'd  confederacy,  and  give  thanks 
To  you  that  choked  it. — Let  be  call'd  before  us 
That  gentleman  of  Buckingham's :  in  person 
I  '11  hear  him  his  confessions  justify ; 
And  point  by  point  the  treasons  of  his  master 
He  shall  again  relate. 

[The  KING  takes  his  state.  The  Lords  of 
the  Council  take  their  several  places.  The 
CARDINAL//**:^  himself  under  the  KING'S 
feet,  on  his  right  side. 

^'tfi  Vorfj    3Jon,avJifli)UjOW  ftni'-tytyna  yiM  iosisrfj// 

A  noise  within,  crying,  "  Room  for  the 
Queen!"  Enter  QUEEN  KATHARINE, 
ushered  by  the  DUKES  OF  NORFOLK  and 
SUFFOLK:  she  kneels.  The  KING  riseth 
from  his  state,  takes  her  up,  kisses,  and 
placeth  her  by  him. 

Q.  Kath.  Nay,  we  must  longer  kneel :  I  am 
a  suitor.  [your  suit 

K.  Hen.  Arise,  and  take  place  by  us : — half 
Never  name  to  us;  you  have  half  our  power: 
The  other  moiety,  ere  you  ask,  is  given ; 
Repeat  your  will,  and  take  it. 

Q.  Kath.  Thank  your  majesty. 

That  you  would  love  yourself,  and  in  that  love 
Not  unconsider'd  leave  your  honour,  nor 
The  dignity  of  your  office,  is  the  point 
Of  my  petition. 


720 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


[ACT  i. 


K.  Hen.         Lady  mine,  proceed. 
Q.  Kath.  I  am  solicited,  not  by  a  few, 
And  those  of  true  condition,  that  your  subjects 
Are  in  great  grievance :  there  have  been  com- 
missions 
Sent  down  among  'em  which  have  flaw'd  the 

heart 

Of  all  their  loyalties : — wherein,  although, 
My  good  lord  cardinal,  they  vent  reproaches 
Most  bitterly  on  you,  as  putter-on 
Of  these  exactions,  yet  the  king  our  master, — 
Whose  honour  Heaven  shield  from  soil ! — even 

he  escapes  not 

Language  unmannerly,  yea,  such  which  breaks 
The  sides  of  loyalty,  and  almost  appears 
In  loud  rebellion. 

Nor.  Not  almost  appears, — 

It  doth  appear ;  for,  upon  these  taxations, 
The  clothiers  all,  not  able  to  maintain 
The  many  to  them  'longing,  have  put  off 
The  spinsters,  carders,  fullers,  weavers,  who, 
Unfit  for  other  life,  compell'd  by  hunger 
And  lack  of  other  means,  in  desperate  manner 
Daring  the  event  to  the  teeth,  are  all  in  uproar, 
And  danger  serves  among  them. 

K.  Hen.  Taxation ! 

Wherein  ?  and  what  taxation  ? — My  lord  cardinal , 
You  that  are  blam'd  for  it  alike  with  us, 
Know  you  of  this  taxation? 

Wol.  Please  you,  sir, 

I  know  but  of  a  single  part,  in  aught 
Pertains  to  the  state ;  and  front  but  in  that  file 
Where  others  tell  steps  with  me. 

Q.  Kath.  No,  my  lord, 

You  know  no  more  than  others;  but  you  frame 
Things  that  are  known  alike;  which  are  not 

wholesome  [must 

To  those  which  would  not  know  them,  and  yet 
Perforce  be  their  acquaintance.  These  exactions, 
Whereof  my  sovereign  would  have  note,  they  are 
Most  pestilent  to  the  hearing  ;  and  to  bear  'em 
The  back  is  sacrifice  to  the  load.     They  say 
They  are  devis'd  by  you ;  or  else  you  suffer 
Too  hard  an  exclamation. 

K.  Hen.  Still  exaction ! 

The  nature  of  it?  in  what  kind,  let's  know, 
Is  this  exaction? 

Q.  Kath.         I  am  much  too  venturous 
In  tempting  of  your  patience ;  but  am  bolden'd 
Under  your  promis'd  pardon.     The  subjects' 

grief 
Comes   through   commissions,    which  compel 

from  each 

The  sixth  part  of  his  substance,  to  be  levied 
Without  delay ;  and  the  pretence  for  this 
Is  nam'd  your  wars  in  France :  this  makes  bold 

mouths; 


Tongues  spit  their  duties  out,  and  cold  hearts 

freeze 

Allegiance  in  them;  their  curses  now       f{j  or 
Live  where  their  prayers  did :  and  it 's  come  to 

pass 

This  tractable  obedience  is  a  slave 
To  each  incensed  will.     I  would  your  highness 
Would  give  it  quick  consideration,  for 
There  is  no  primer  business. 

K.  Hen.  By  my  life, 

This  is  against  our  pleasure. 

Wol.  And  for  me, 

I  have  no  further  gone  in  this  than  by 
A  single  voice ;  and  that  not  pass'd  me  but 
By  learned  approbation  of  the  judges.     If  I  am 
Traduc'd  by  ignorant  tongues,  which  neither 

know 

My  faculties  nor  person,  yet  will  be 
The  chronicles  of  my  doing, — let  me  say 
'Tis  but  the  fate  of  place,  and  the  rough  brake 
That  virtue  must  go  through.    We  must  not  stint 
Our  necessary  actions,  in  the  fear 
To  cope  malicious  censurers ;  which  ever, 
As  ravenous  fishes,  do  a  vessel  follow 
That  is  new-trimm'd,  but  benefit  no  further 
Than  vainly  longing.     What  we  oft  do  best, 
By  sick  interpreters,  once  weak  ones,  is 
Not  ours,  or  not  allow'd ;  what  worst,  as  oft 
Hitting  a  grosser  quality,  is  cried  up 
For  our  best  act.     If  we  shall  stand  still, 
In  fear  our  motion  will  be  mock'd  or  carp'd  at, 
We  should  take  root  here  where  we  sit,  or  sit 
State-statues  only. 

K.  Hen.  Things  done  well 

And  with  a  care  exempt  themselves  from  fear ; 
Things  done  without  example,  in  their  issue 
Are  to  be  fear'd.     Have  you  a  precedent 
Of  this  commission  ?     I  believe,  not  any. 
We  must  not  rend  our  subjects  from  our  laws, 
And  stick  them  in  our  will.     Sixth  part  of  each  ? 
A  trembling  contribution !     Why,  we  take 
From  every  tree  lop,  bark,  and  part  o'  the  timber; 
And,  though  we  leave  it  with  a  root,  thus  hack'd, 
The  air  will  drink  the  sap.     To  every  county 
Where  this  is  question'd  send  our  letters,  with 
Free  pardon  to  each  man  that  has  denied 
The  force  of  this  commission :  pray,  look  to 't ; 
I  put  it  to  your  care. 

Wol.  A  word  with  you. 

[To  the  Secretary. 

Let  there  be  letters  writ  to  every  shire, 
Of  the  king's  grace  and  pardon.     The  griev'd 

commons 

Hardly  conceive  of  me ;  let  it  be  nois'd 
That  through  our  intercession  this  revokement 
And  pardon  comes  :  I  shall  anon  advise  you 
Further  in  the  proceeding.       [Exit  Secretary, 


SCENE  II.] 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


721 


Enter  Surveyor. 

Q.  Kath.   I  am  sorry  that  the  Duke  of  Buck- 
ingham 
Is  run  in  your  displeasure. 

K.  Hen.  It  grieves  many  : 

The   gentleman   is   learn'd,  and  a   most  rare 

speaker ; 

To  nature  none  more  bound  ;  his  training  such 
That  he  may  furnish  and  instruct  great  teachers, 
And  never  seek  for  aid  out  of  himself.    Yet  see, 
When  these  so  noble  benefits  shall  prove 
Not   well   dispos'd,    the   mind   growing   once 

corrupt, 

They  turn  to  vicious  forms,  ten  times  more  ugly 
Than  ever  they  were  fair.      This  man  so  com- 
plete, [we, 
Who  was  enroll'd  'mongst  wonders,  and  when 
Almost  with  ravish'd  list'ning,  could  not  find 
His  hour  of  speech  a  minute  ;  he,  my  lady, 
Hath  into  monstrous  habits  put  the  graces 
That  once  were  his,  and  is  become  as  black 
As  if  besmear'd  in  hell.     Sit  by  us;  you  shall 

hear — 

This  was  his  gentleman  in  trust, — of  him 
Things  to  strike  honour  sad. — Bid  him  recount 
The  fore-recited  practices  ;  whereof 
We  cannot  feel  too  little,  hear  too  much. 

Wol.  Stand  forth,  and  with  bold  spirit  relate 

what  you, 

Most  like  a  careful  subject,  have  collected 
Out  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham. 

K.  Hen.  Speak  freely. 

Surv .   First,  it  was  usual  with  him,  every  day 
It  would  infect  his  speech, — that  if  the  king 
Should  without  issue  die,  he  '11  carry  it  so 
To  make  the  sceptre  his  :  these  very  words 
I  have  heard  him  utter  to  his  son-in-law, 
Lord  Aberga'ny  ;  to  whom  by  oath  he  menac'd 
Revenge  upon  the  cardinal. 

Wol.  Please  your  highness,  note 

This  dangerous  conception  in  this  point. 
Not  friended  by  his  wish,  to  your  high  person 
His  will  is  most  malignant ;  and  it  stretches 
Beyond  you  to  your  friends. 

Q.  Kath.  My  learn'd  lord  cardinal, 

Deliver  all  with  charity. 

K.  Hen.  Speak  on  : 

How  grounded  he  his  title  to  the  crown 
Upon  our  fail  ?  to  this  point  hast  thou  heard  him 
At  any  time  speak  aught  ? 

Surv.  He  was  brought  to  this 

By  a  vain  prophecy  of  Nicholas  Hopkins. 

K.  Hen.  What  was  that  Hopkins  ? 

Surv.  Sir,  a  Chartreux  friar, 

His  confessor  ;  who  fed  him  every  minute 
With  words  of  sovereignty. 


K.  Hen.  How  know'st  thou  this  ? 

Surv.  Not  long  before  your  highness  sped  to 

France,      .utjyA 

The  Duke  being  at  the  Rose,  within  the  parish 
Saint  Lawrence  Poultney,  did  of  me  demand 
What  was  the  speech  among  the  Londoners 
Concerning  the  French  journey  :  I  replied, 
Men  fear'd  the  French  would  prove  perfidious, 
To  the  king's  danger.     Presently  the  duke 
Said,  'twas  the  fear,  indeed  ;  andthathe  doubted 
'Twould  prove  the  verity  of  certain  words 
Spoke  by  a  holy  monk ;  That  oft,  says  he, 
Hath  sent  to  me,  wishing  me  to  permit 
John  de  la  Car,  my  chaplain,  a  choice  hour 
To  hear  from  him  a  matter  of  some  moment  I 
Whom  after  under  the  confession's  seal 
He  solemnly  had  sworn,  that  what  he  spoke 
My  chaplain  to  no  creature  living  but 
To  me  should  utter,  with  demure  confidence 
This  pausingly  ensued, — Neither  the  king  nor'* 

heirs, 

Tell  you  the  duke,  shall  prosper :  bid  him  strive 
To  gain  the  love  o'  the  commonalty  :  the  duke 
Shall  govern  England. 

Q.  Kath.  If  I  know  you  well, 

You  were  the  duke's  surveyor,  and  lost  your 

office 
On  the  complaint  o'  the  tenants:   take  good 

heed  .    ;:{ 

You  charge  not  in  your  spleen  a  noble  person, 
And  spoil  your  nobler  soul :  I  say,  take  heed  ; 
Yes,  heartily  beseech  you. 

K.  Hen.  Let  him  on  : — 

Go  forward. 

Surv.       On  my  soul,  I  '11  speak  but  truth. 
I  told  my  lord  the  duke,  by  the  devil's  illusions 
The  monk  might  be  deceiv'd ;  and  that  'twas 

dangerous  for  him 
To  ruminate  on  this  so  far,  until 
It  forg'd  him  some  design,  which,  being  believ'd, 
It  was  much  like  to  do :  he  answer'd,  Tush, 
It  can  do  me  no  damage  ;  adding  further, 
That,  had  the  king  in  his  last  sickness  fail'd, 
The  cardinal's  and  Sir  Thomas  Lovell's  heads 
Should  have  gone  off. 

K.  Hen.          Ha  !  what,  so  rank  ?    Ah-ha ! 
There 's  mischief  in  this  man  : — Canst  thou  say 
further? 

Surv.  I  can,  my  liege. 

K.  Hen.  Proceed. 

Surv.  Being  at  Greenwich, 

After  your  highness  had  reprov'd  the  duke 
About  Sir  William  Blomer, — 

K.  Hen.  I  remember 

Of  such  a  time  : — being  my  sworn  servant, 
The  duke   retain'd  him  his. — But  onj    what 
hence  ? 


722 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


[ACT*. 


Surv.  If,  quoth  he,  I  for  this  had  been  com- 
mitted, 
As,  to  the  Tower,  I  thought, — /  would  have 

play'd 

The  part  my  father  meant  to  act  upon 
The  usurper  Richard ;  who,  being  at  Salisbttry , 
Made  suit  to  come  in's  presence;  which,   if 

granted, 

As  he  made  semblance  of  his  duty,  would 
Have  put  his  knife  into  him. 

K.  Hen.  A  giant  traitor  ! 

Wol.  Now,  madam,  may  his  highness  live  in 

freedom, 
And  this  man  out  of  prison  ? 

Q.  Kath.  God  mend  all ! 

K.  Hen.  There 's  something  more  would  out 
of  thee  ;  what  say'st  ? 

Surv.  After  the  duke  his  father,  with  the  knife, 
He  stretch'd  him,  and,  with  one  hand  on  his 

dagger, 

Another  spread  on 's  breast,  mounting  his  eyes, 
He  did  discharge  a  horrible  oath  ;  whose  tenor 
Was,  were  he  evil  us'd,  he  would  out-go 
His  father  by  as  much  as  a  performance 
Does  an  irresolute  purpose. 

K.  Hen.  There 's  his  period, 

To  sheath  his  knife  in  us.     He  is  attach'd ; 
Call  him  to  present  trial :  if  he  may 
Find  mercy  in  the  law,  'tis  his  ;  if  none, 
Let  him  not  seek't  of  us  :  by  day  and  night, 
He  is  a  daring  traitor  to  the  height.    [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.—  LONIX>N.   A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  the  Lord  Chamberlain  ««d?LoRD  SANDS. 

Cham.    Is't  possible  the  spells  of  France 

should  juggle 
Men  into  such  strange  mysteries  ? 

Sands.  New  customs, 

Though  they  be  never  so  ridiculous, 
Nay,  let  them  be  unmanly,  yet  are  follow'd. 
Cham.  As  far  as  I  see,  all   the  good  our 

English 

Have  got  by  the  late  voyage  is  but  merely 
A  fit  or  two  o'  the  face ;  but  they  are  shrewd 

ones ; 
For  when  they  hold  them,  you  would  swear 

directly 

Their  very  noses  had  been  counsellors 
To  Pepin  or  Qotharius,  they  keep  state  so. 
Sands.  They  have  all  new  legs,  and  lame 

ones  :  one  would  take  it, 
That  never  saw  'em  pace  before,  the  spavin 
Or  springhalt  reign'd  among  'em. 

Cham.  Death  !  my  lord, 

Their  clothes  are  after  such  a  pagan  cut  too, 
That  sure  they  have  worn  out  Christendom. 


Enter  SIR  THOMAS  LOVELL. 

How  now  ? 
What  news,  Sir  Thomas  Lovell  ? 

Lov.  'Faith,  my  lord, 

I  hear  of  none,  but  the  new  proclamation 
That 's  clapp'd  upon  the  court -gate. 

Cham.  What  is 't  for  ? 

Lov.  The  reformation  of  our  travell'd  gallants, 
That  fill  the  court  with  quarrels,  talk,  and  tailors. 

Cham.   I  am  glad  'tis  there :   now  I  would 

pray  our  monsieurs 

To  think  an  English  courtier  may  be  wise, 
And  never  see  the  Louvre. 

Lov.  They  must  either — 

For  so  ran  the  conditions — leave  those  remnants 
Of  fool  and  feather  that  they  got  in  France, 
With  all  their  honourable  points  of  ignorance 
Pertaining  thereunto, — as  fights  and  fireworks  ; 
Abusing  better  men  than  they  can  be, 
Out  of  a  foreign  wisdom, — renouncing  clean 
The  faith  they  have  in  tennis,  and  tall  stockings, 
Short  blister'd   breeches,  and  those  types  of 

travel, 

And  understand  again,  like  honest  men  ; 
Or  pack  to  their  old  playfellows :  there,  I  take  it, 
They  may,  cum  privilegio,  wear  away 
The  lag  end  of  their  lewdness,  and  be  laugh'd 
at. 

Sands.  'Tis  time  to  give  'em  physic,  their 

diseases 
Are  grown  so  catching. 

Cham.  What  a  loss  our  ladies 

Will  have  of  these  trim  vanities  1 

Lov.  Ay,  marry, 

There  will  be  woe  indeed,  lords  :  the  sly  whore- 
sons 

Have  got  a  speeding  trick  to  lay  down  ladies ; 
A  French  song  and  a  fiddle  has  no  fellow. 

Sands.  The  devil  fiddle  'em!    I   am  glad 

they  're  going, — 

For,  sure,  there 's  no  converting  of  'em  : — now 
An  honest  country  lord,  as  I  am,  beaten 
A  long  time  out  of  play,  may  bring  his  plain- 
song, 

And  have  an  hour  of  hearing ;  and,  by'r  Lady, 
Held  current  music  too. 

Cham.  Well  said,  Lord  Sands  ; 

Your  colt's  tooth  is  not  cast  yet. 

Sands.  No,  my  lord ; 

Nor  shall  not,  while  I  have  a  stump. 

Cham.  Sir  Thomas, 

Whither  were  you  a-going  ? 

Lov.  To  the  cardinal's  : 

Your  lordship  is  a  guest  too. 

Cham.  O,  'tis  tme  ; 

This  night  he  makes  a  supper,  and  a  great  one, 


SCENE  IV.j 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


723 


To  many  lords  and  ladies ;  there  will  be 
The  beauty  of  this  kingdom,  I  '11  assure  you. 
Lov.  That  churchman  bears  a  bounteous  mind 

indeed, 

A  hand  as  fruitful  as  the  land  that  feeds  us ; 
His  dews  fall  everywhere. 

Cham.  No  doubt  he 's  noble ; 

He  had  a  black  mouth  that  said  other  of  him. 
Sands.  He  may,  my  lord, — has  wherewithal ; 
in  him  [trine : 

Sparing  would  show  a  worse  sin  than  ill  doc- 
Men  of  his  way  should  be  most  liberal; 
They  are  set  here  for  examples. 

Cham.  True,  they  are  so ; 

But  few  now  give  so  great  ones.     My  barge 
stays ;  [Thomas, 

Your  lordship  shall  along. — Come,  good  Sir 
We  shall  be  late  else;  which  I  would  not  be, 
For  I  was  spoke  to,  with  Sir  Henry  Guildford, 
This  night  to  be  comptrollers. 

Sands.  I  am  your  lordship's. 

[Exeunt. 

•':  *5 Jarf}  Kf  yb;  r-jgrijM  amoo  ^rTfvVI 

SCENE  IV.— LONDON.     The  Presence  Cham- 
ber in  York  Place. 

'aa3n<'lv>H  v>ri  ^o  ^rro-  L  '.%riT 

Hautboys.     A  small  table  under  a  state  for  the 

CARDINAL,  a  longer  table  for  the  guests. 
Enter,  at  one  doort  ANNE  BULLEN,  and 
divers  Lords,  Ladies,  and  Gentlewomen,  as 
guests ;  at  another  door,  enter  SlR  HENRY 
...  GUILDFORD. 

Guild.   Ladies,  a  general  welcome  from  his 

grace 

Salutes  ye  all ;  this  night  he  dedicates 
To  fair  content  and  you :  none  here,  he  hopes, 
In  all  this  noble  bevy,  has  brought  with  her 
One  care  abroad ;  he  would  have  all  as  merry 
As,  first,  good  company,  good  wine,  good  wel- 
come [tardy : 
Can  make  good  people. — O,  my  lord,  you  are 

Enter  Lord  Chamberlain,  LORD  SANDS,  and 

maK>n:SlR  THOMAS  L°VEI4o/>rnhb  o 
The  very  thought  of  this  fair  company 
Clapp'd  wings  to  me. 

Cham.  You  are  young,  Sir  Henry  Guildford. 

Sands.  Sir  Thomas  Lovell,  had  the  cardinal 
But  half  my  lay-thoughts  in  him,  some  of  these 
Should  find  a  running  banquet  ere  they  rested ; 
I  think  would  better  please  'em :  by  my  life, 
They  are  a  sweet  society  of  fair  ones.       [fessor 

Lov.  O,  that  your  lordship  were  but  now  con- 
To  one  or  two  of  these ! 

Sands.  I  would  I  were; 

They  should  find  easy  penance. 

Lov.  Faith,  how  easy? 


Sands.  As  easy  as  a  down-bed  would  afford  it. 
Chant.  Sweet  ladies,  will  it  please  you  sit? 

Sir  Harry, 

Place  you  that  side ;  I  '11  take  the  charge  of  this : 
His   grace   is   ent'ring. — Nay,    you    must   not 
freeze ;  [weather : — 

Two    women     plac'd     together    makes    cold 
My  Lord  Sands,  you  are  one  will  keep  'em 

waking ; 
Pray,  sit  between  these  ladies. 

Sands.  By  my  faith, 

And  thank  your  lordship. — By  your  leave,  sweet 
ladies: 
[Seats  himself  between  ANNE  BULLEN 

and  atiother  Lady. 

If  I  chance  to  talk  a  little  wild,  forgive  me  ; 
I  had  it  from  my  father. 

Anne.  Was  he  mad,  sir? 

Sands.  O,  very  mad,  exceeding  mad,  in  love 

too: 

But  he  would  bite  none;  just  as  I  do  now, — 
He  would  kiss  you  twenty  with  a  breath. 

[Kisses  her. 

Cham.  Well  said,  my  lord.— 

So,  now  you  're  fairly  seated. — Gentlemen, 
The  penance  lies  on  you  if  these  fair  ladies 
Pass  away  frowning. 

Sands.  For  my  little  cure, 

Let  me  alone. 

Hautboys.     Enter  CARDINAL  WOLSEY, 
attended;  and  takes  his  state. 

Wol.  Ye 're  welcome,  my  fair  guests:  that 

noble  lady 

Or  gentleman  that  is  not  freely  merry 
Is  not  my  friend :  this,  to  confirm  my  welcome ; 
And  to  you  all,  good  health.  [Drinks. 

Sands.  Your  grace  is  noble  : — 

Let  me  have  such  a  bowl  may  hold  my  thanks, 
And  save  me  so  much  talking. 

Wol.  My  Lord  Sands, 

I  am  beholden  to  you :  cheer  your  neighbours.— 
Ladies,  you  are  not  merry : — gentlemen, 
Whose  fault  is  this? 

Sands.  The  red  wine  first  must  rise 

In  their  fair  cheeks,  my  lord ;  then  we  shall  have 

'em 
Talk  us  to  silence. 

Anne.  You  are  a  merry  gamester, 

My  Lord  Sands.  -»^ 

Sands.  Yes,  if  I  make  my  play. 

Here 's  to  your  ladyship:  and  pledge  it,  madam, 
For  'tis  to  such  a  thing, — 

Anne.  You  cannot  show  me. 

Sands.  I  told  your  grace  they  would  talk  anon. 
[Drum  and  trumpets:  Chamber* 
discharged  within. 


724 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


[ACT  ii. 


Wol.  What's  that? 

Chain.   Look  out  there,  some  of  ye. 

[Exit  a  Servant. 

Wol.  What  warlike  voice, 

And  to  what  end,  is  this? — Nay,  ladies,  fear  not; 
By  all  the  laws  of  war  ye  're  privileg'd. 

Re-enter  Servant. 

Cham.  How  now !  what  is 't? 
Serv.  A  noble  troop  of  strangers, — 

For  so  they  seem  :  they  have  left  their  barge, 

and  landed; 

And  hither  make,  as  great  ambassadors 
From  foreign  princes. 

Wol.  Good  lord  chamberlain, 

Go,  give  'em  welcome;  you  can  speak  the  French 

tongue ; 

And,  pray  receive  'em  nobly,  and  conduct  'em 

Into  our  presence,  where  this  heaven  of  beauty 

Shall  shine  at  full  upon  them. — Some  attend  him. 

[Exit  Chamberlain  attended.    A II  arise, 

and  tables  removed. 
You  have  now  a  broken  banquet:  but  we'll 

mend  it. 

A  good  digestion  to  you  all :  and  once  more 
I  shower  a  welcome  on  you ; — welcome  all. 

Hautboys.  Enter  the  KING,  and  others,  as 
maskers,  habited  like  shepherds,  with  Torch- 
bearers,  ushered  by  the  Lord  Chamberlain. 
They  pass  directly  before  the  CARDINAL,  and 
gracefully  salute  him. 

A  noble  company !  what  are  their  pleasures  ? 
Cham.  Because  they  speak  no  English,  thus 

they  pray'd,  r  jon  z 

To  tell  your  grace, — that,  having  heard  by  fame 
Of  this  so  noble  and  so  fair  assembly 
This  night  to  meet  here,  they  could  do  no  less, 
Out  of  the  great  respect  they  bear  to  beauty, 
But  leave  their  flocks;    and,  under  your  fair 

conduct, 

Crave  leave  to  view  these  ladies,  and  entreat 
An  hour  of  revels  with  'em. 

Wol.  Say,  lord  chamberlain, 

They  have  done  my  poor  house  grace ;  for  which 

I  pay  'em  [pleasures. 

A  thousand  thanks,  and  pray  'em  take  their 

[Ladies  chosen  for  the  dance.      The  KING 

chooses  ANNE  BULLEN. 
K.  Hen.  The  fairest  hand  I  ever  touch'd! 

O  beauty, 

Till  now  I  never  knew  thee !     [Music.     Dance. 
Wol.  My  lord,— 
Cham.  Your  grace? 

Wol.  Pray  tell  them  thus  much  from  me : — 
There  should  be  one  amongst  them,  by  his 
person, 


More  worthy  this  place  than  myself ;  to  whom, 
If  I  but  knew  him,  with  my  love  and  duty 
I  would  surrender  it. 

Cham.  I  will,  my  lord. 

[  Goes  to  the  Maskers,  and  returns. 

Wol.  What  say  they? 

Cham.  Such  a  one,  they  all  confess, 

There  is  indeed ;  which  they  would  have  your  grace 
Find  out,  and  he  will  take  it. 

Wol.  Let  me  see,  then. — 

[Comes  from  his  state. 

By  all  your  good  leaves,  gentlemen ; — here  I  '11 

make 
My  royal  choice. 

K.  Hen.  Ye  have  found  him,  cardinal: 

[  Unmasking. 

You  hold  a  fair  assembly ;  you  do  well,  lord : 
You  are  a  churchman,  or  I  '11  tell  you,  cardinal, 
I  should  judge  now  unhappily. 

Wol.  I  am  glad 

Your  grace  is  grown  so  pleasant. 

K.  Hen.  My  lord  chamberlain, 

Pr'ythee,  come  hither:  what  fair  lady's  that? 

Cham.  An 't  please  your  grace,  Sir  Thomas 

Bullen's  daughter, —  [women. 

The  Viscount  Rochford, — one  of  her  highness' 

K.  Hen.  By  heaven,  she  is  a  dainty  one. — 

Sweetheart, 

I  were  unmannerly  to  take  you  out, 
And  not  to  kiss  you. — A  health,  gentlemen  ! 
Let  it  go  round. 

Wol.  Sir  Thomas  Lovell,  is  the  banquet  ready 
I'  the  privy  chamber? 

Lov.  Yes,  my  lord. 

Wol.  Your  grace, 

I  fear,  with  dancing  is  a  little  heated. 

K.  Hen.  I  fear,  too  much. 

Wol.  There 's  fresher  air,  my  lord. 

In  the  next  chamber.  [sweet  partner, 

K.  Hen.  Lead  in  your  ladies,  every  one : — 
I  must  not  yet  forsake  you : — let 's  be  merry : — > 
Good  my  lord  cardinal,  I  have  half  a  dozen 

healths 

To  drink  to  these  fair  ladies,  and  a  measure 
To  lead  'em  once  again ;  and  then  let 's  dream 
Who 's  best  in  favour. — Let  the  music  knock  it. 
rinaH         [Exeunt,  with  trumpets. 
Ijsnibifio  arfo  bsd  ,!!•?/  '  .    .'.^J?. 

92^d)  V>  3HMW  , ffi: ..____  'irf  to** 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.— LONDON.     A  Street. 
Enter  two  Gentlemen,  meeting. 

1  Gent.  Whither  away  so  fast?    ;j  io  « 

2  Gent.  O,  God  save  ye ! 
E'en  to  the  hall,  to  hear  what  shall  become 
Of  the  great  Duke  of  Buckingham. 


SCENE  I.] 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


725 


1  Gent.  I  '11  save  you 
That  labour,   sir.      All's  now  done,   but  the 

ceremony 
Of  bringing  back  the  prisoner. 

2  Gent.  Were  you  there? 

1  Gent.   Yes,  indeed,  was  I. 

2  Gent.         Pray,  speak  what  has  happen'd. 

1  Gent.  You  may  guess  quickly  what. 

2  Gent.  Is  he  found  guilty? 

1  Gent.  Yes,    truly   is  he,    and   condemn'd 

upon 't. 

2  Gent.   I  am  sorry  for 't. 

1  Gent.  So  are  a  number  more. 

2  Gent.  But,  pray,  how  pass'd  it?          [duke 

1  Gent.   I  '11  tell  you  in  a  little.     The  great 
Came  to  the  bar ;  where  to  his  accusations 
He  pleaded  still  not  guilty,  and  alleg'd 
Many  sharp  reasons  to  defeat  the  law. 

The  king's  attorney,  on  the  contrary, 
Urg'd  on  the  examinations,  proofs,  confessions 
Of  divers  witnesses ;  which  the  duke  desir'd 
To  have  brought,  vivA  voce,  to  his  face : 
At  which  appear'd  against  him  his  surveyor ; 
Sir  Gilbert  Peck,  his  chancellor;  and  John  Car, 
Confessor  to  him ;  with  that  devil-monk, 
Hopkins,  that  made  this  mischief. 

2  Gent.  That  was  he 
That  fed  him  with  his  prophecies? 

1  Gent.  The  same. 
All  these  accus'd  him  strongly ;  which  he  fain 
Would  have  flung  from  him,  but,  indeed,  he 

could  not : 

And  so  his  peers,  upon  this  evidence, 
Have  found  him  guilty  of  high  treason.     Much 
He  spoke,  and  learnedly,  for  life ;  but  all 
Was  either  pitied  in  him  or  forgotten.        [self? 

2  Gent.  After  all  this,  how  did  he  bear  him- 

1  Gent.  When  he  was  brought  again  to  the 

bar  to  hear  [stirr'd 

His  knell   rung  out,   his  judgment, — he  was 
With  such  an  agony,  he  sweat  extremely, 
And  something  spoke  in  choler,  ill,  and  hasty; 
But  he  fell  to  himself  again,  and  sweetly 
In  all  the  rest  show'd  a  most  noble  patience. 

2  Gent.  I  do  not  think  he  fears  death. 

1  Gent.  Sure,  he  does  not, 
He  never  was  so  womanish ;  the  cause 

He  may  a  little  grieve  at. 

2  Gent.  Certainly 
The  cardinal  is  the  end  of  this. 

1  Gent.  'Tis  likely, 
By  all  conjectures :  first,  Kildare's  attainder, 
Then  deputy  of  Ireland ;  who  remov'd, 

Earl  Surrey  was  sent  thither,  and  in  haste  too, 
Lest  he  should  help  his  father. 

2  Gent.  That  trick  of  state 
Was  a  deep  envious  one. 


1  Gent.  At  his  return 

No  doubt  he  will  requite  it.     This  is  noted, 
And  generally, — whoever  the  king  favours 
The  cardinal  instantly  will  find  employment, 
And  far  enough  from  court  too. 

2  Gent.  All  the  commons 
Hate  him  perniciously,  and,  o'  my  conscience, 
Wish  him  ten  fathom  deep :  this  duke  as  much 
They  love  and  dote  on;  call  him  bounteous 

Buckingham, 
The  mirror  of  all  courtesy, — 

1  Gent.  Stay  there,  sir, 
And  see  the  noble  ruin'd  man  you  speak  of. 

Enter  BUCKINGHAM  from  his  arraignment; 
Tip-staves  before  him  ;  the  axe  with  the  edge 
towards  him;  halberds  on  each  side:  with 
him  SIR  THOMAS  LOVELL,  SIR  NICHOLAS 
VAUX,  SIR  WILLIAM  SANDS,  and  common 
people. 

2  Gent.  Let 's  stand  close,  and  behold  him. 
Buck.  All  good  people, 

You  that  thus  far  have  come  to  pity  me, 
Hear  what  I  say,  and  then  go  home  and  lose  me 
I  have  this  day  receiv'd  a  traitor's  judgment, 
And  by  that  name  must  die :  yet,  heaven  bear 

witness, 

And  if  I  have  a  conscience,  let  it  sink  me, 
Even  as  the  axe  falls,  if  I  be  not  faithful ! 
The  law  I  bear  no  malice  for  my  death ; 
'T  has  done,  upon  the  premises,  but  justice : 
But  those  that  sought  it  I  could  wish  more 

Christians : 

Be  what  they  will,  I  heartily  forgive  'em : 
Yet  let  'em  look  they  glory  not  in  mischief, 
Nor  build  their  evils  on  the  graves  of  great  mens 
For  then  my  guiltless  blood  must  cry  against  'em 
For  further  life  in  this  world  I  ne'er  hope, 
Nor  will  I  sue,  although  the  king  have  mercies 
More  than  I  dare  make  faults.     You  few  that 

lov'd  me, 

And  dare  be  bold  to  weep  for  Buckingham, 
His  noble  friends  and  fellows,  whom  to  leave 
Is  only  bitter  to  him,  only  dying, 
Go  with  me,  like  good  angels,  to  my  end ; 
And  as  the  long  divorce  of  steel  falls  on  me 
Make  of  your  prayers  one  sweet  sacrifice, 
And  lift  my  soul  to  heaven. — Lead  on,  o'  God's 

name. 

Lov.  I  do  beseech  your  grace,  for  charity, 
If  ever  any  malice  in  your  heart 
Were  hid  against  me,  now  to  forgive  me  frankly. 
Bitck.  Sir  Thomas  Lovell,  I  as  free  forgive  you 
As  I  would  be  forgiven :  I  forgive  all ; 
There  cannot  be  those  numberless  offences 
'Gainst  me  that  I  cannot  take  peace  with:  no 

black  envy 


726 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


[ACT  II. 


Shall  make  my  grave. — Commend  me  to  his 

grace ; 

And  if  he  speak  of  Buckingham,  pray  tell  him 
You  met  him  half  in  heaven:  my  vows  and 

prayers 

Yet  are  the  king's ;  and,  till  my  soul  forsake, 
Shall  cry  for  blessings  on  him :  may  he  live 
Longer  than  I  have  time  to  tell  his  years ! 
Ever  belov'd  and  loving  may  his  rule  be  lyariT 
And  when  old  time  shall  lead  him  to  his  end, 
Goodness  and  he  fill  up  one  monument  1 

Lav.  To  the  water  side  I  must  conduct  your 

grace ; 

Then  give  my  charge  up  to  Sir  Nicholas  Vaux, 
Who  undertakes  you  to  your  end. 

Vaux.  Prepare  there, 

The  duke  is  coming :  see  the  barge  be  ready ; 
And  fit  it  uith  such  furniture  as  suits 
The  greatness  of  his  person. 

Buck.  Nay,  Sir  Nicholas, 

Let  it  alone ;  my  state  now  will  but  mock  me. 
When  I  came  hither  I  was  lord  high  constable 
And  Duke  of  Buckingham ;  now,  poor  Edward 

Bohun :     ynsri 

Yet  I  am  richer  than  my  base  accusers,  [it ; 
That  never  knew  what  truth  meant :  I  now  seal 
And  with  that  blood  will  make  'em  one  day 

groan  for 't. 

My  noble  father,  Henry  of  Buckingham, 
Who  first  rais'd  head  against  usurping  Richard, 
Flying  for  succour  to  his  servant  Banister, 
Being  distress'd,  was  by  that  wretch  betray'd, 
And  without  trial  fell ;  God's  peace  be  with  him  ! 
Henry  the  Seventh  succeeding,  truly  pitying 
My  father's  loss,  like  a  most  royal  prince, 
Restart!  me  to  my  honours,  and  out  of  ruins 
Made  my  name  once  more  noble.    Now  his  son, 
Henry  the  Eighth,  life,  honour,  name,  and  all 
That  ma'ie  me  happy,  at  one  stroke  has  taken 
For  ever  from  the  world.     I  had  my  trial, 
And  must  needs  say  a  noble  one  ;  which  makes 

me 

A  little  happier  than  my  wretched  father : 
Yet  thus  far  we  are  one  in  fortunes, — both 
Fell  by  our  servants,  by  those  men  we  lov'dmost; 
A  most  unnatural  and  faithless  service  ! 
Heaven  has  an  end  in  all :  yet,  you  that  hear  me, 
This  from  a  dying  man  receive  as  certain : — 
Where  you  are  liberal  of  your  loves  and  counsels, 
Be  sure  you  be  not  loose  ;  for  those  you  make 

friends  [ceive 

And  give  your  hearts  to,  when  they  once  per- 
The  least  rub  in  your  fortunes,  fall  away 
Like  water  from  ye,  never  found  again  •   I  ?A 
But  where  they  mean  to  sink  ye.     All  good 

people,  [hour 

Pray  for  me  I  I  must  now  forsake  ye  :  the  last 


Of  my  long  weary  life  is  come  upon  me. 
Farewell : 

And  when  you  would  say  something  that  is  sad, 
Speak  how  I  fell. — I  have  done  ;  and  God  for- 
give me  ! 

[Exeunt  BUCKINGHAM  and  Train. 

1  Gent.  O,  this  is  full  of  pity  !— Sir,  it  calls, 
I  fear,  too  many  curses  on  their  heads 

That  were  the  authors. 

2  Gent.  If  the  duke  be  guiltless, 
'Tis  full  of  woe  :  yet  I  can  give  you  inkling 
Of  an  ensuing  evil,  if  it  fall, 

Greater  than  this. 

1  Gent.  Good  angels,  keep  it  from  us  ! 
Where  may  it  be?     You  do  not  doubt  my  faith, 

sir  ?  [quire 

2  Gent.  This  secret  is  so  weighty,  'twill  re- 
A  strong  faith  to  conceal  it. 

1  Gent.  Let  me  have  it ; 
I  do  not  talk  much. 

2  Gent.  I  am  confident ; 

You  shall,  sir  :  did  you  not  of  late  days  hear 

A  buzzing  of  a  separation 

Between  the  king  and  Katharine  ?  [  j13<f 

1  Gent.  Yes,  but  it  held  not : 
For  when  the  king  once  heard  it,  out  of  anger 
He  sent  command  to  the  lord  mayor  straight 
To  stop  the  rumour,  and  allay  those  tongues 
That  durst  disperse  it. 

2  Gent.  But  that  slander,  sir, 

Is  found  a  truth  now:  for  it  grows  again,(L,0y/ 
Fresher  than  e'er  it  was ;  and  held  for  certain 
The  king  will  venture  at  it.    Either  the  cardinal, 
Or  some  about  him  near,  have,  out  of  malice 
To  the  good  queen,  possess'd  him  with  a  scruple 
That  will  undo  her  :  to  confirm  this  too, 
Cardinal  Campeius  is  arriv'd,  and  lately  ; 
As  all  think,  for  this  business. 

1  Gent.  'Tis  the  cardinal ; 
And  merely  to  revenge  him  on  the  emperor 
For  not  bestowing  on  him,  at  his  asking, 

The  archbishopric  of  Toledo,  this  is  purpos'd. 

2  Gent.  I  think  you  have  hit  the  mark  :  but 

is 't  not  cruel  [cardinal 

That  she  should  feel  the  smart  of  this?    The 
Will  have  his  will,  and  she  must  fall. 

i  Gent.  'Tis  woeful. 

We  are  too  open  here  to  argue  this ; 
Let 's  think  in  private  more.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — LONDON.     An  Ante-chamber  in 

the  Palace.     .;)WflOD  Ifc  v9 

Enter  the  Lord  Chamberlain  reading  a  letter. 

Cham.  My  lord, — The  horses  your  lordship 
sent  for,  with  all  the  care  I  had,  I  saw  well 
chosen,  ridden,  and  furnished.  They  were  young 


SCENE  II.] 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


727 


and  handsome,  and  of  the  best  breed  in  the  north. 
When  they  were  ready  to  set  <ntt  for  London,  a 
man  of  my  lord  cardinal 's,  by  commission  and 
main  power,  took  'em  from  me ;  with  this 
reason,— His  master  would  be  served  before  a 
subject,  if  not  before  the  king;  which  stopped 
our  mouths,  sir. 

I  fear  he  will  indeed :  well,  let  him  have  them: 
He  will  have  all,  I  think. 

Enter  the  DUKES  OF  NORFOLK  and  SUFFOLK. 

Nor.  Well  met,  my  Lord  Chamberlain. 

Cham.  Good- day  to  both  your  graces. 

Suf.  How  is  the  king  employ'd? 

Cham.  I  left  him  private, 

Full  of  sad  thoughts  and  troubles. 

Nor.  What 's  the  cause  ? 

Cham.    It    seems    the    marriage    with    his 

brother's  wife 
Has  crept  too  near  his  conscience. 

Suf.  No,  his  conscience 

Has  crept  too  near  another  lady. 

Nor.  'Tisso: 

This  is  the  cardinal's  doing,  the  king-cardinal : 

That  blind  priest,  like  the  eldest  son  of  fortune, 

Turns  what  he  lists.     The  king  will  know  him 

one  day.  [self  else. 

Suf.  Pray  God  he  do !  he  '11  never  know  him- 

Nor.  Plow  holily  he  works  in  all  his  business! 
And  with  what  zeal !  for,  now  he  has  crack'd 
the  league  [nephew, 

Between  us  and  the  emperor,  the  queen's  great- 
He  dives  into  the  king's  soul,  and  there  scatters 
Dangers,  doubts,  wringing  of  the  conscience, 
Fears,  and  despairs, — and  all  these  for  his  mar- 
riage: 

And  out  of  all  these  to  restore  the  king, 
He  counsels  a  divorce ;  a  loss  of  her 
That,  like  a  jewel,  has  hung  twenty  years 
About  his  neck,  yet  never  lost  her  lustre ; 
Of  her  that  loves  him  with  that  excellence 
That  angels  love  good  men  with ;  even  of  her 
That,  when  the  greatest  stroke  of  fortune  falls, 
Will  bless  the  king :  and  is  not  this  course  pious? 

Cham.  Heaven  keep  me  from  such  counsel ! 
'Tis  most  true  ['em, 

These  newsare  everywhere;  every  tongue  speaks 
And  every  true  heart  weeps  for 't :  all  that  dare 
Look  into  these  affairs  see  this  main  end, — 
The  French  king's  sister.     Heaven  will  one  day 

open 

The  king's  eyes,  that  so  long  have  slept  upon 
This  bold  bad  man. 

Suf.  And  free  us  from  his  slavery. 

Nor.  We  had  need  pray, 
And  heartily,  for  our  deliverance ; 
Or  this  imperious  man  will  work  us  all 


From  princes  into  pages :  all  men's  honours 
Lie  like  one  lump  before  him,  to  be  fashion'd 
Into  what  pitch  he  please. 

Suf.  For  me,  my  lords, 

I  love  him  not,  nor  fear  him ;  there 's  my  creed: 
As  I  am  made  without  him,  so  I  '11  stand, 
If  the  king  please ;  his  curses  and  his  blessings 
Touch  me  alike,  they  are  breath  I  not  believe  in. 
I  knew  him,  and  I  know  him ;  so  I  leave  him 
To  him  that  made  him  proud,  the  pope. 

Nor.  Let 's  in; 

And  with  some  other  business  put  the  king 
From  these  sad  thoughts  that  work  too  much 

upon  him : — 
My  lord,  you  '11  bear  us  company? 

Cham.  Excuse  me ; 

The  king  has  sent  me  other -where :  besides, 
You  '11  find  a  most  unfit  time  to  disturb  him : 
Health  to  your  lordships. 

Nor.        Thanks,  my  good  lord  chamberlain. 
[Exit  Lord  Chamberlain. 

NORFOLK  opens  a  folding  door.     The  KING  is 
discovered  sitting,  and  reading  pensively. 

Suf.  How  sad  he  looks  !  sure,  he  is  much 
afflicted. 

K.  Hen.  Who  is  there,  ha? 

Nor.  Pray  God  he  be  not  angry. 

K.  Hen.   Who's  there,  I  say?     How  dare 

you  thrust  yourselves 
Into  my  private  meditations  ? 
Who  am  I,  ha? 

Nor.  A  gracious  king,  that  pardons  all  offences 
Malice  ne'er  meant :  our  breach  of  duty  this  way 
Is  business  of  estate ;  in  which  we  come 
To  know  your  royal  pleasure. 

K.  Hen.  Ye  are  too  bold  : 

Go  to ;  I  '11  make  you  know  your  times  of  busi- 
ness : 
Is  this  an  hour  for  temporal  affairs,  ha  ? 

Enter  WOLSEY  and  CAMPEIUS. 

Who 's  there  ?  my  good  lord  cardinal  ? — O  my 

Wolsey, 

The  quiet  of  my  wounded  conscience, 
Thou  art  a  cure  fit  for  a  king. — You're  welcome, 
[To  CAMPEIUS. 

Most  reverend  learned  sir,  into  our  kingdom : 
Use  us  and  it. — My  good  lord,  have  great  care 
I  be  not  found  a  talker.  [To  WOLSEY. 

Wol.  Sir,  you  cannot. 

I  would  your  grace  would  give  us  but  an  hour 
Of  private  conference. 

K.  Hen.  We  are  busy ;  go. 

[To  NORFOLK  and  SUFFOLK. 
Nor.  [Aside  /0SUF.]  This  priest  has  no  pride 
in  him ! 


728 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


[ACT  II. 


Suf.  [Aside  to  NOR.]  Not  to  speak  of: 

I  would  not  be  so  sick  though  for  his  place  : 
But  this  cannot  continue. 

Nor.  [Aside  /<?SuF.]  If  it  do, 
I  '11  venture  one  have-at-him. 

Suf.  [Aside  to  NOR.]          I  another. 

[Exeunt  NOR.  and  SUF. 
Wol.  Your  grace  has  given  a  precedent  of 

wisdom 

Above  all  princes,  in  committing  freely 
Your  scruple  to  the  voice  of  Christendom. 
Who  can  be  angry  now  ?  what  envy  reach  you? 
The  Spaniard,  tied  by  blood  and  favour  to  her, 
Must  now  confess,  if  they  have  any  goodness, 
The  trial  just  and  noble.     All  the  clerks, 
I  mean  the  learned  ones,  in  Christian  kingdoms, 
Have   their  free  voices :    Rome  the  nurse  of 

judgment, 

Invited  by  your  noble  self,  hath  sent 
One  general  tongue  unto  us,  this  good  man, 
This  just  and  learned  priest,   Cardinal  Cam- 

peius, — 

Whom  once  more  I  present  unto  your  highness. 
K.  Hen.  And  once  more  in  mine  arms  I  bid 

him  welcome, 

And  thank  the  holy  conclave  for  their  loves : 
They  have  sent  me  such  a  man  I  would  have 

wish'd  for. 
Cam.    Your   grace  must  needs  deserve   all 

strangers'  loves, 

You  are  so  noble.     To  your  highness'  hand 
I  tender  my  commission  ; — by  whose  virtue, — 
The  court  of  Rome  commanding, — you,  my  lord 
Cardinal   of  York,  are   join'd  with   me   their 

servant, 
In  the  unpartial  judging  of  this  business. 

K.  Hen.  Two  equal  men.     The  queen  shall 

be  acquainted 
Forthwith   for   what    you   come.  —  Where's 

Gardiner? 
Wol.  I  know  your  majesty  has  always  lov'd 

her 

So  dear  in  heart,  not  to  deny  her  that 
A  woman  of  less  place  might  ask  by  law, 
Scholars  allow'd  freely  to  argue  for  her. 

JC.  Hen.  Ay,  and  the  best  she  shall  have ; 

and  my  favour 
To  him  that  does  best :  God  forbid  else.    Car- 

dinal, 

Pr'ythee,  call  Gardiner  to  me,  my  new  secre- 
tary : 
I  find  him  a  fit  fellow.  [Exit  WOLSEY. 

Re-enter  WOLSEY  with  GARDINER. 

Wol.  [Aside  to  GARD.]  Give  me  your  hand  : 

much  joy  and  favour  to  you  ; 
You  are  the  king  s  now. 


Card.  [Aside  toVJo~L.~\  But  to  be  commanded 
For  ever  by  your  grace,  whose  hand  has  rais'd 

me. 
K.  Hen.  Come  hither,  Gardiner. 

[  They  converse  apart. 
Cam.   My  Lord  of  York,  was  not  one  Doctor 

Pace 
In  this  man's  place  before  him  ? 

Wol.  Yes,  he  was. 

Cam.  Was  he  not  held  a  learned  man  ? 
Wol.  Yes,  surely. 

Cam.    Believe   me,    there's   an   ill  opinion 

spread,  then, 
Even  of  yourself,  lord  cardinal. 

Wol.  How!  of  me? 

Cam.  They  will  not  stick  to  say  you  envied 

him ; 

And  fearing  he  would  rise,  he  was  so  virtuous, 
Kept  him  a  foreign  man  still ;  which  so  griev'd 

him 
That  he  ran  mad  and  died. 

Wol.  Heaven's  peace  be  with  him  ! 

That's    Christian    care    enough:     for     living 

murmurers 

There 's  places  of  rebuke.     He  was  a  fool ; 
For  he  would  needs  be  virtuous :  that  good  fellow, 
If  I  command  him,  follows  my  appointment : 
I  will  have  none  so  near  else.   Learn  this,  brother, 
We  live  not  to  be  grip'd  by  meaner  persons. 
K.  Hen.  Deliver  this  with  modesty  to  the 
queen.  [Exit  GARDINER. 

The  most  convenient  place  that  I  can  think  of 
For  such  receipt  of  learning  is  Black-Friars  ; 
There  ye  shall  meet  about  this  weighty  busi- 
ness : — 

My  Wolsey,  see  it  furnish'd. — O,  my  lord, 
Would  it  not  grieve  an  able  man  to  leave 
So  sweet  a  bedfellow?     But,  conscience,  con- 
science,— 
O,  'tis  a  tender  place  !  and  I  must  leave  her. 

[Exeunt. 
;:9V3  ;rlJtw  R9t'.>. 

SCENE  III. — LONDON.     An  Ante-chamber  in 
the  QUEEN'S  Apartments. 

Enter  ANNE  BULLEN  and  an  Old  Lady. 

Anne.  Not  for  that  neither :  here 's  the  pang 

that  pinches : — 
His  highness  having  liv'd  so  long  with  her,  and 

she 

So  good  a  lady  that  no  tongue  could  ever 
Pronounce  dishonour  of  her, — by  my  life, 
She  never  knew  harm-doing ;— O,  now,  after 
So  many  courses  of  the  sun  enthron'd, 
Still  growing  in  a  majesty  and  pomp, — the  which 
To  leave  a  thousand-fold  more  bitter  than 


SCENE  III.] 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


729 


'Tis  sweet  at  first  to  acquire, — after  this  process, 
To  give  her  the  avaunt !  it  is  a  pity 
r  Would  move  a  monster. 

Old  L.  Hearts  of  most  hard  temper 

Melt  and  lament  for  her. 

Anne.  O,  God's  will !  much  better 

She  ne'er  had  known  pomp :  though  it  be  tem- 
poral, 

Yet,  if  that  quarrel,  fortune,  do  divorce 
It  from  the  bearer,  'tis  a  sufferance  panging 
As  soul  and  body's  severing. 

Old  L.  Alas,  poor  lady  ! 

She 's  a  stranger  now  again. 

Anne.  So  much  the  more 

Must  pity  drop  upon  her.     Verily, 
I  swear,  'tis  better  to  be  lowly  born, 
And  range  with  humble  livers  in  content, 
Than  to  be  perk'd  up  in  a  glistering  grief, 
And  wear  a  golden  sorrow. 

Old  L.  Our  content 

Is  our  best  having. 

Anne.  By  my  troth  and  maidenhead, 

I  would  not  be  a  queen. 

Old  L.  Beshrew  me,  I  would, 

And  venture  maidenhead  for 't ;  and  so  would 

you, 

For  all  this  spice  of  your  hypocrisy : 
You,  that  have  so  fair  parts  of  woman  on  you, 
Have  too  a  woman's  heart ;  which  ever  yet 
Affected  eminence,  wealth,  sovereignty; 
Which,  to  say  sooth,  are  blessings ; — and  which 

gifts,— 

Saving  your  mincing, — the  capacity 
Of  your  soft  cheveril  conscience  would  receive 
If  you  might  please  to  stretch  it. 

Anne.  Nay,  good  troth, — 

Old  L.  Yes,  troth  and  troth ;  you  would  not 
be  a  queen? 

Anne.  No,  not  for  all  the  riches  under  heaven. 

Old  L.  'Tis  strange :    a   threepence   bowed 

would  hire  me, 

Old  as  I  am,  to  queen  it:  but,  I  pray  you, 
What  think    you  of   a    duchess?    have    you 

limbs 
To  bear  that  load  of  title? 

Anne.  No,  in  truth. 

Old  L.  Then  you  are  weakly  made:  pluck 

off  a  little  ; 

I  would  not  be  a  young  count  in  your  way 
For  more  than  blushing  comes  to :  if  your  back 
Cannot  vouchsafe  this  burden,  'tis  too  weak 
Ever  to  get  a  boy. 

Anne.  How  you  do  talk ! 

I  swear  again  I  would  not  be  a  queen 
For  all  the  world. 

Old  L.  In  faith,  for  little  England 

You  'd  venture  an  emballing :  I  myself 


Would    for    Carnarvonshire,    although    there 

long'd  [here? 

No  more  to  the  crown  but  that.    Lo,  who  comes 

Enter  the  Lord  Chamberlain. 

Cham.  Good-morrow,  ladies.     What  wer't 

worth  to  know 
The  secret  of  your  conference? 

Anne.  My  good  lord, 

Not  your  demand ;  it  values  not  your  asking : 
Our  mistress'  sorrows  we  were  pitying.        [ing 

Cham.  It  was  a  gentle  business,  and  becom- 
The  action  of  good  women :  there  is  hope 
All  will  be  well. 

Anne.  Now,  I  pray  God,  amen ! 

Cham.  You  bear  a  gentle  mind,  and  heavenly 
blessings  [lady, 

Follow  such  creatures.      That  you  may,  fair 
Perceive  I  speak  sincerely,  and  high  note 's 
Ta'en  of  your  many  virtues,  the  king's  majesty 
Commends  his  good  opinion  of  you  to  you,  and 
Does  purpose  honour  to  you  no  less  flowing 
Than  Marchioness  of  Pembroke ;  to  which  title 
A  thousand  pound  a  year,  annual  support, 
Out  of  his  grace  he  adds. 

Anne.  I  do  not  know 

What  kind  of  my  obedience  I  should  tender ; 
More  than  my  all  is  nothing :  nor  my  prayers 
Are  not  words  duly  hallo w'd,  nor  my  wishes 
More  worth  than  empty  vanities ;  yet  prayers 

and  wishes 

Are  all  I  can  return.     Beseech  your  lordship, 
Vouchsafe  to  speak  my  thanks  and  my  obedience, 
As  from  a  blushing  handmaid,  to  his  highness ; 
Whose  health  and  royalty  I  pray  for. 

Cham.  Lady, 

I  shall  not  fail  to  approve  the  fair  conceit 
The  king  hath  of  you. — I  have  perus'd  her 
well ;  [Aside. 

Beauty  and  honour  in  her  are  so  mingled 
That  they  have   caught   the  king:    and  who 

knows  yet 

But  from  this  lady  may  proceed  a  gem 
To  lighten  all  this  isle?— I'll  to  the  king 
And  say  I  spoke  with  you. 

Anne.  My  honour'd  lord. 

[Exit  Lord  Chamberlain. 

Old  L.  Why,  this  it  is ;  see,  see  ! 
I  have  been  begging  sixteen  years  in  court, — 
Am  yet  a  courtier  beggarly, — nor  could 
Come  pat  betwixt  too  early  and  too  late 
For  any  suit  of  pounds ;  and  you,  O  fate ! 
A  very  fresh-fish  here, — fie,  fie,  fie  upon      [up 
This  compell'd  fortune ! — have  your  mouth  fill'd 
Before  you  open  it. 

Anne.  This  is  strange  to  me.     [no. 

Old  Z.  How  tastes  it  ?  is  it  bitter  ?  forty  pence, 


730 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


[ACT  II. 


There  was  a  lady  once, — 'tis  an  old  story,— 
That  would  not  be  a  queen,  that  would  she  not, 
For  all  the  mud  in  Egypt : — have  you  heard  it? 

Anne.  Come,  you  are  pleasant. 

Old  L.  With  your  theme  I  could 

O'ermount  the  lark.     The  Marchioness  of  Pem- 
broke ! 

A  thousand  pounds  a  year  for  pure  respect  1 
No  other  obligation !     By  my  life, 
That  promises  more  thousands :  honour's  train 
Is  longer  than  his  foreskirt.     By  this  time 
I  know  your  back  will  bear  a  duchess : — say, 
Are  you  not  stronger  than  you  were  ? 

Anne.  Good  lady, 

Make  yourself  mirth  with  your  particular  fancy, 
And  leave  me  out  on 't.    Would  I  had  no  being, 
If  this  salute  my  blood  a  jot:  it  faints  me 
To  think  what  follows. 
The  queen  is  comfortless,  and  we  forgetful 
In  our  long  absence :  pray,  do  not  deliver 
What  here  you  have  heard  to  her. 

Old L.    '  What  do  you  think  me? 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — LONDON.    A  Hall  in  BLACK- 
FRIARS. 

Trumpet^  sennet,  and  cornets.  Enter  two 
Vergers,  with  short  silver  -wands  ;  next  them, 
two  Scribes,  in  the  habits  of  doctors ;  after 
them,  the  ARCHBISHOP  OF  CANTERBURY 
alone;  after  him,  the  BISHOPS  OF  LINCOLN, 
ELY,  ROCHESTER,  and  SAINT  ASAPH  ;  next 
them,  with  some  small  distance,  follows  a 
Gentleman  bearing  the  purse,  with  the  great 
seal,  and  a  Cardinal s  hat ;  then  two  Priests, 
bearing  each  a  silver  cross  ;  then  a  Gentle- 
man-usher bareheaded,  accompanied  with  a 
Sergeant-at-Arms  bearing  a  silver  mace; 
then  two  Gentlemen  bearing  two  great  silver 
pillars ;  after  them,  side  by  side,  the  two 
Cardinals,  WOLSEY  and  CAMPEIUS;  two 
Noblemen  with  the  sword  and  mace.  Then 
enter  the  KING  and  QUEEN  and  their  Trains. 
The  KING  takes  place  under  the  cloth  of  state; 
the  two  Cardinals  sit  under  him  as  judges. 
The  QUEEN  takes  place  at  some  distance  from 
the  KING.  The  Bishops  place  themselves  on 
each  side  the  court,  in  mamurof  a  consistory  ; 
between  them  the  Scribes.  The  Lords  sit 
next  the  Bishops.  The  Crier  and  the  rest  of 
the  Attendants  stand  in  convenient  order 
about  the  hall. 

Wol.  Whilst  out-commission  from  Rome  is 

read, 

Let  silence  be  commanded. 
K.  Hen.  What 's  the  need? 


It  hath  already  publicly  been  read, 
And  on  all  sides  the  authority  allow'd ; 
You  may,  then,  spare  that  time. 

Wol.  Be 't  so.— Proceed. 

Scribe.  Say,  Henry  King  of  England,  come 
into  the  court. 

Crier.  Henry  King  of  England,  &c. 

K.  Hen.  Here. 

Scribe.  Say,  Katharine  Queen  of  England, 
come  into  the  court. 

Crier.  Katharine  Queen  of  England,  &c. 

[The  QUEEN  makes  no  answer,  rises  out  of 
her  chair,  goes  about  the  court,  comes  to 
the  KING,  and  kneels  at  his  feet ;  then 
speaks. 

Q.  Kath.  Sir,  I  desire  you  do  me  right  and 

justice ; 

And  to  bestow  your  pity  on  me :  for 
I  am  a  most  poor  woman,  and  a  stranger, 
Born  out  of  your  dominions ;  having  here 
No  judge  indifferent,  nor  no  more  assurance 
Of  equal  friendship  and  proceeding.     Alas,  sir, 
In  what  have  I  offended  you  ?  what  cause 
Hath  my  behaviour  given  to  your  displeasure, 
That  thus  you  should  proceed  to  put  me  off, 
And  take  your  good  grace  from  me?     Heaven 

witness, 

I  have  been  to  you  a  true  and  humble  wife, 
At  all  times  to  your  will  conformable : 
Ever  in  fear  to  kindle  your  dislike,  [sorry 

Yea,  subject  to  your  countenance, — glad  or 
As  I  saw  it  inclin'd.     When  was  the  hour 
I  ever  contradicted  your  desire,  [friends 

Or  made  it  not  mine  too?     Or  which  of  your 
Have  I  not  strove  to  love,  although  I  knew 
He  were  mine  enemy?  what  friend  of  mine 
That  had  to  him  derived  your  anger,  did  I 
Continue  in  my  liking  ?  nay,  gave  notice 
He  was  from  thence  discharg'd  ?  Sir,  call  to  mind 
That  I  have  been  your  wife,  in  this  obedience, 
Upward  of  twenty  years,  and  have  been  blest 
With  many  children  by  you :  if,  in  the  course 
And  process  of  this  time,  you  can  report, 
And  prove  it  too,  against  mine  honour  aught, 
My  bond  to  wedlock  or  my  love  and  duty, 
Against  your  sacred  person,  in  God's  name, 
Turn  me  away  ;  and  let  the  foul'st  contempt 
Shut  door  upon  me,  and  so  give  me  up 
To  the  sharp'st  kind  of  justice.    Please  you,  sir, 
The  king,  your  father,  was  reputed  for 
A  prince  most  prudent,  of  an  excellent 
And  unmatch'd  wit  and  judgment:  Ferdinand, 
My  father,  King  of  Spain,  was  reckoned  one 
The  wisest  prince  that  there  had  reign'd  by  many 
A  year  before  :  it  is  not  to  be  question'd 
That  they  had  gather* d  a  wise  council  to  them 
Of  every  realm,  that  did  debate  this  business, 


SCENE  IV.] 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


731 


Who  deetn'd  our  marriage  lawful :  wherefore  I 

humbly 

Beseech  you,  sir,  to  spare  me,  till  I  may 
Be  by  my  friends   in  Spain   advis'd ;    whose 

counsel 

I  will  implore  ;  if  not,  i'  the  name  of  God, 
Your  pleasure  be  fulfill'd  ! 

Wol.  You  have  here,  lady, — 

And  of  your  choice, — these  reverend  fathers  ; 

men 

Of  singular  integrity  and  learning, 
Yea,  the  elect  o5  the  land,  who  are  assembled 
To  plead  your  cause :  it  shall  be  therefore  boot- 
less 

That  longer  you  desire  the  court ;  as  well 
For  your  own  quiet  as  to  rectify 
What  is  unsettled  in  the  king. 

Cam.  His  grace 

Hath  spoken  well  and  justly :  therefore,  madam, 
It 's  fit  this  royal  session  do  proceed  ; 
And  that,  without  delay,  their  arguments 
Be  now  produc'd  and  heard. 

Q.  Kath.  Lord  cardinal, — 

To  you  I  speak. 

Wol.  Your  pleasure,  madam  ? 

Q.  Kath.  Sir, 

I  am  about  to  weep  ;  but,  thinking  that 
We  are  a  queen, — or  long  have  dream'd  so, — 

certain 

The  daughter  of  a  king,  my  drops  of  tears 
I  '11  turn  to  sparks  of  fire. 

Wol.  Be  patient  yet. 

Q.  Kath.  I   will,   when  you  are  humble; 

nay,  before, 

Or  God  will  punish  me.     I  do  believe, 
Induc'd  by  potent  circumstances,  that 
You  are  mine  enemy ;  and  make  my  challenge 
You  shall  not  be  my  judge  :  for  it  is  you 
Have  blown  this  coal  betwixt  my  lord  and  me, — 
Which  God's  dew  quench !  Therefore  I  say  again, 
I  utterly  abhor,  yea,  from  my  soul 
Refuse  you  for  my  judge ;  whom,  yet  once  more, 
I  hold  my  most  malicious  foe,  and  think  not 
At  all  a  friend  to  truth. 

Wol.  I  do  profess 

You  speak  not  like  yourself;  who  ever  yet 
Have  stood  to  charity,  and  display'd  the  effects 
Of  disposition  gentle,  and  of  wisdom     [wrong : 
O'ertopping  woman's  power.  Madam,  you  do  me 
I  have  no  spleen  against  you,  nor  injustice 
For  you  or  any  :  how  far  I  have  proceeded, 
Or  how  far  further  shall,  is  warranted 
By  a  commission  from  the  consistory,  [me 

Yea,  the  whole  consistory  of  Rome.   You  charge 
That  I  have  blown  this  coal :  I  do  deny  it : 
The  king  is  present :  if  it  be  known  to  him 
That  I  gainsay  my  deed,  how  may  he  wound, 


And  worthily,  my  falsehood  !  yea,  as  much 
As  you  have  done  my  truth.     If  he  know 
That  I  am  free  of  your  report,  he  knows 
I  am  not  of  your  wrong.     Therefore  in  him 
It  lies  to  cure  me :  and  the  cure  is,  to         [fore 
Remove  these  thoughts  from  you :  the  which  be- 
His  highness  shall  speak  in,  I  do  beseech 
You,  gracious  madam,  to  unthink  your  speaking. 
And  to  say  so  no  more. 

Q.  Kath.  My  lord,  my  lord, 

I  am  a  simple  woman,  much  too  weak 
To  oppose  your  cunning.     You  're  meek  and 

humble-mouth'd ; 

You  sign  your  place  and  calling,  in  full  seeming, 
With  meekness  and  humility ;  but  your  heart 
Is  cramm'd  with  arrogancy,  spleen,  and  pride. 
You  have,  by  fortune  and  his  highness'  favours, 
Goneslightly  o'er  low  steps,  and  now  are  mounted 
Where  powers  are  your  retainers;  and  your 

words, 

Domestics  to  you,  serve  your  will  as 't  please 
Yourself  pronounce  their  office.    I  must  tell  you, 
You  tender  more  your  person's  honour  than 
Your  high  profession  spiritual :  that  again 
I  do  refuse  you  for  my  judge ;  and  here, 
Before  you  all,  appeal  unto  the  pope, 
To  bring  my  whole  cause  'fore  his  holiness, 
And  to  be  judg'd  by  him. 

[She  curtsies  to  the  KING,  and  offers  to  depart. 

Cam.  The  queen  Ls  obstinate, 

Stubborn  to  justice,  apt  to  accuse  it,  and 
Disdainful  to  be  tried  by  it :  'tis  not  well. 
She 's  going  away. 

K.  Hen.  Call  her  again. 

Crier.  Katharine  Queen  of  England,  come 
into  the  court. 

Grif.  Madam,  you  are  call'd  back. 

Q.  Kath.  What  need  you  note  it?  pray  you, 

keep  your  way : 
When  you  are  call'd,  return. — Now  the  Lord 

help, 
They  vex  me  past  my  patience !   Pray  you,  pass 

on: 

I  will  not  tarry ;  no,  nor  ever  more 
Upon  this  business  my  appearance  make 
In  any  of  their  courts. 

\Excunt  QUEEN,  GRIP. ,  and  her  other 
Attendants. 

K.  Hen.  Go  thy  ways,  Kate: 

That  man  i'  the  world  who  shall  report  he  has 
A  better  wife,  let  him  in  naught  be  trusted 
For  speaking  false  in  that :  thou  art,  alone, — 
If  thy  rare  qualities,  sweet  gentleness, 
Thy  meekness  saint-like,  wife-likegovernment — 
Obeying  in  commanding — and  thy  parts 
Sovereign  and  pious  else,  could  speak  thee  out, — 
The  queen  of  earthly  queens: — she's  noble  bom; 


732 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


[ACT  ii. 


And  like  her  true  nobility  she  has 
Carried  herself  towards  me. 

WoL  Most  gracious  sir, 

In  humblest  manner  I  require  your  highness 
That  it  shall  please  you  to  declare,  in  hearing 
Of  all  these  ears, — for  where  I  am  robb'd  and 

bound, 

There  must  I  be  unloos'd ;  although  not  there 
At  once  and  fully  satisfied, — whether  ever  I 
Did  broach  this  business  to  your  highness ;  or 
Laid  any  scruple  in  your  way,  which  might 
Induce  you  to  the  question  on 't  ?  or  ever 
Have  to  you, — but  with  thanks  to  God  for  such 
A  royal  lady, — spake  one  the  least  word  that 

might 

Be  to  the  prejudice  of  her  present  state, 
Or  touch  of  her  good  person  ? 

K.  Hen.  My  lord  cardinal, 

I  do  excuse  you  ;  yea,  upon  mine  honour, 
I  free  you  from't.     You  are  not  to  be  taught 
That  you  have  many  enemies,  that  know  not 
Why  they  are  so,  but,  like  to  village  curs, 
Bark  when  their  fellows  do  :  by  some  of  these 
The  queen  is  put  in  anger.    You  are  excus'd  : 
But  will  you  be  more  justified  ?  you  ever 
Have  wish'd  the  sleeping  of  this  business ;  never 
Desir'd  it  to  be  stirr'd ;  but  oft  have  hinder'd, 

oft, 

The  passages  made  toward  it : — on  my  honour, 
I  speak  my  good  lord  cardinal  to  this  point, 
And  thus  far  clear  him.    Now,  what  mov'd  me 

to't, 

I  will  be  bold  with  time  and  your  attention  : — 
Then  mark  the  inducement.     Thus  it  came  ; — 

give  heed  to't : — 

My  conscience  first  receiv'd  a  tenderness, 
Scruple,  and  prick,  on  certain  speeches  utter'd 
By  the  Bishop  of  Bayonne,  then  French  am- 
bassador ; 

Who  had  been  hither  sent  on  the  debating 
A  marriage  'twixt  the  Duke  of  Orleans  and 
Our  daughter  Mary:  I'  the  progress  of  this 

business, 

Ere  a  determinate  resolution,  he, — 
I  mean  the  bishop, — did  require  a  respite  ; 
Wherein  he  might  the  king  his  lord  advertise 
Whether  our  daughter  were  legitimate, 
Respecting  this  our  marriage  with  the  dowager, 
Sometimes  our  brother's  wife.  This  respite  shook 
The  bosom  of  my  conscience,  enter'd  me, 
Yea,  with  a  splitting  power,  and  made  to  tremble 
The  region  of  my  breast ;  which  forc'd  such  way 
That  many  maz'd  considerings  did  throng, 
And  press'd  in  with  this  caution.     First,  me- 

thought 

I  stood  not  in  the  smile  of  heaven ;  who  had 
Commanded  nature  that  my  lady's  womb, 


If  it  conceiv'd  a  male  child  by  me,  should 
Do  no  more  offices  of  life  to 't  than 
The  grave  does  to  the  dead ;  for  her  male  issue 
Or  died  where  they  were  made,  or  shortly  after 
This  world  had  air'd  them :    hence  1  took  a 

thought 

This  was  a  judgment  on  me ;  that  my  kingdom, 
Well  worthy  the  best  heir  o'  the  world,  should 

not 

Be  gladded  in 't  by  me  :  then  follows  that 
I  weigh'd  the  danger  which  my  realms  stood  in 
By  this  my  issue's  fail ;  and  that  gave  to  me 
Many  a  groaning  throe.     Thus  hulling  in 
The  wild  sea  of  my  conscience,  I  did  steer 
Toward  this  remedy,  whereupon  we  are 
Now  present  here  together  ;  that 's  to  say, 
I  meant  to  rectify  my  conscience, — which 
I  then  did  feel  full  sick,  and  yet  not  well, — 
By  all  the  reverend  fathers  of  the  land, 
And  doctors  learn'd : — first,  I  began  in  private 
With  you,  my  Lord  of  Lincoln  ;  you  remember 
How  under  my  oppression  I  did  reek 
When  I  first  mov'd  you. 

Lin.  Very  well,  my  liege. 

K.  Hen.  I  have  spoke  long  :  be  pleas'd  your- 
self to  say 
How  far  you  satisfied  me. 

Lin.  So  please  your  highness, 

The  question  did  at  first  so  stagger  me, — 


And  did  entreat  your  highness  to  this  course 
Which  you  are  running  here. 

K.  Hen.  I  then  mov'd  you, 

My  Lord  of  Canterbury  ;  and  got  your  leave 
To  make  this  present  summons  : — unsolicited 
I  left  no  reverend  person  in  this  court ; 
But  by  particular  consent  proceeded 
Under  your  hands  and  seals :  therefore,  go  on ; 
For  no  dislike  i'  the  world  against  the  person 
Of  the  good  queen,  but  the  sharp  thorny  points 
Of  my  alleged  reasons,  drive  this  forward  •. 
Prove  but  our  marriage  lawful,  by  my  life  l 
And  kingly  dignity,  we  are  contented 
To  wear  our  mortal  state  to  come  with  her, 
Katharine  our  queen,  before  the  primest  creature 
That 's  paragon'd  o'  the  world. 

Cam*j'{  ,rni  So  pleasure  your  highness, 

The  queen  being  absent,  'tis  a  needful  fitness 
That  we  adjourn  this  court  till  further  day: 
Meanwhile  must  be  an  earnest  motion 
Made  to  the  queen  to  call  back  her  appeal 
She  intends  unto  his  holiness. 

[  They  rise  to  depart. 

K.  Hen.  I  may  perceive 

These  cardinals  trifle  with  me :  I  abhor 


SCENE  I.] 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


733 


This  dilatory  sloth  and  tricks  of  Rome.    [Aside. 
My  learn'd  and  well-belov'd  servant,  Cranmer, 
Pr'ythee,  return !  with  thy  approach,  I  know, 
My  comfort  comes  along.    Break  up  the  court: 
I  say,  set  on. 

[Exeunt  in  manner  as  they  entered. 

I 
ACT  III. 

SCENE   I. — LONDON.      Palace  at  Bridewell. 
A  Room  in  the  QUEEN'S  Apartment. 

The  QUEEN  and  some  of  her  Women  at  -work. 

Q.   Kath.    Take  thy  lute,  wench:   my  soul 

grows  sad  with  troubles  ; 
Sing  and  disperse  'em,  if  thou  canst:    leave 
working- 

8*!a  nsrfw  ,nmtTOW  Jsdi  oJ  fanA 

SONG. 

Orpheus  with  his  lute  made  trees, 
And  the  mountain-tops  that  freeze, 

Bow  themselves,  when  he  did  sing  : 
To  his  music  plants  and  flowers 
Ever  sprung  ;  as  sun  and  showers 
There  had  made  a  lasting  spring. 

Everything  that  heard  him  play, 
Even  the  billows  of  the  sea, 

Hung  their  heads  and  then  lay  by 
In  sweet  music  is  such  art : 
Killing  care  and  grief  of  heart 

Fall  asleep,  or,  hearing,  die. 

Enter  a  Gentleman. 

Q.  Kath.  How  now  ?  [cardinals 

Gent.  An 't  please  your  grace,  the  two  great 
Wait  in  the  presence. 

Q.  Kath.  Would  they  speak  with  me  ? 

Gent.  They  will'd  me  say  so,  madam. 

Q.  Kath.  Pray  their  graces 

To  come  near.    [Exit  Gent.]  What  can  be  their 

business 

With  me,  a  poor  weak  woman,  fallen  from  favour? 
I  do  not  like  their  coming,  now  I  think  on 't. 
They  should  be  good  men ;    their  affairs  as 

righteous : 
But  all  hoods  make  not  monks. 

Entsr  WOLSEY  and  CAMPEIUS. 

Wo  I.  Peace  to  your  highness  ! 

Q.  Kath.  Your  graces  find  me  here  part  of  a 

housewife  ; 

I  would  be  all,  against  the  worst  may  happen. 

What   are  your  pleasures  with  me,   reverend 

lords  ?  [withdraw 

Wol.  May  it  please  you,  noble  madam,  to 
Into  your  private  chamber,  we  shall  give  you 
The  full  cause  of  our  coming. 

Q.  Kath.  Speak  it  here  ; 


There 's  nothing  I  have  done  yet,  o'  my  con- 
science, 

Deserves  a  corner  :  would  all  other  women 
Could  speak  this  with  as  free  a  soul  as  I  do  ! 
My  lords,  I  care  not, — so  much  I  am  happy 
Above  a  number, — if  my  actions 
Were  tried  by  every  tongue,  every  eye  saw  'em, 
Envy  and  base  opinion  set  against  'em, 
I  know  my  life  so  even.     If  your  business 
Seek  me  out,  and  that  way  I  am  wife  in, 
Out  with  it  boldly:  truth  loves  open  dealing. 
Wol.    Tanta  est  erga  te  mentis  integritast 

regina  serenissima, — 
Q.  Kath.  O,  good  my  lord,  no  Latin ; 
I  am  not  such  a  truant  since  my  coming 
As  not  to  know  the  language  I  have  lived  in : 
A  strange  tongue  makes  my  cause  more  strange, 

suspicious; 
Pray,  speak  in  English:  here  are  some  will 

thank  you,  [sake, — 

If  you   speak  truth,  for  their   poor  mistress' 
Believe  me,  she  has  had  much  wrong:    lord 

cardinal, 

The  willing'st  sin  I  ever  yec  committed 
May  be  absolv'd  in  English. 

Wol.  Noble  lady, 

I  am  sorry  my  integrity  should  breed, — 
And  service  to  his  majesty  and  you, — 
So  deep  suspicion,  where  all  faith  was  meant. 
We  come  not  by  the  way  of  accusation 
To  taint  that  honour  every  good  tongue  blesses, 
Nor  to  betray  you  any  way  to  sorrow, — 
You  have  too  much,  good  lady ;  but  to  know 
How  you  stand  minded  in  the  weighty  difference 
Between  the  king  and  you  ;  and  to  deliver, 
Like  free  and  honest  men,  our  just  opinions, 
And  comforts  to  your  cause.     ;  .'.:•• 

Cam.  Most  honour  'd  madam, 

My  Lord  of  York,— out  of  his  noble  nature, 
Zeal  and  obedience  he  still  bore  your  grace, — 
Forgetting,  like  a  good  man,  your  late  censure 
Both  of  his  truth  and  him, — which  was  too  far,— 
Offers,  as  I  do,  in  a  sign  of  peace, 
His  service  and  his  counsel. 

Q.  Kath.  To  betray  me.  [Aside. 

My  lords,  I  thank  you  both  for  your  good -wills; 
Ye  speak  like  honest  men, — pray  God  ye  prove 

so! 

But  how  to  make  ye  suddenly  an  answer, 
In    such  a  point  of  weight,   so    near    mine 

honour, — 

More  near  my  life,  I  fear, — with  my  weak  wit, 
And  to  such  men  of  gravity  and  learning, 
In  truth,  I  know  not.     I  was  set  at  work 
Among  my  maids;    full   little,   God  knows, 

looking 
Either  for  such  men  or  such  business. 


"734 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


[ACT  III. 


For  her  sake  that  I  have  been, — for  I  feel 
The  last  fit  of  my  greatness, — good  your  graces, 
Let  me  have  time  and  counsel  for  my  cause  : 
Alas,  I  am  a  woman,  friendless,  hopeless  1 

Wol.  Madam,   you  wrong  the  king's  love 

with  these  fears : 
Your  hopes  and  friends  are  infinite. 

Q.  Kath.  In  England 

But  little  for  my  profit :  can  you  think,  lords, 
That  any  Englishman  dare  give  me  counsel  ? 
Or  be  a  known  friend,  'gainst   his  highness' 

pleasure, — 

Though  he  be  grown  so  desperate  to  be  honest, — 
And  live  a  subject  ?    Nay,  forsooth,  my  friends, 
They  that  must  weigh  out  my  afflictions, 
They  that  my  trust  must  grow  to,  live  not  here : 
They  are,  as  all  my  other  comforts,  far  hence, 
In  mine  own  country,  lords. 

Cam.  I  would  your  grace 

Would  leave  your  griefs,  and  take  my  counsel. 

Q.  Kath.  How,  sir? 

Cam.  Put  your  main  cause  into  the  king's 

protection ; 

He 's  loving  and  most  gracious  :  'twill  be  much 
Both  for  your  honour  better  and  your  cause  ; 
For  if  the  trial  of  the  law  o'ertake  ye 
You  '11  part  away  disgrac'd. 

Wol.  He  tells  you  rightly. 

Q.  KcUh.  Ye  tell  me  what  ye  wish  for  both, 

— my  ruin : 

Is  this  your  Christian  counsel  ?  out  upon  ye  ! 
Heaven  is  above  all  yet ;  there  sits  a  Judge 
That  no  king  can  corrupt. 

Cam.  Your  rage  mistakes  us. 

Q.  Kath.  The  more  shame  for  ye  :  holy  men 

I  thought  ye, 

Upon  my  soul,  two  reverend  cardinal  virtues  ; 
But  cardinal  sins  and  hollow  hearts  I  fear  ye  : 
Mend  them,  for  shame,  my  lords.  Is  this  your 

comfort  ? 

The  cordial  that  ye  bring  a  wretched  lady, — 
A  woman  lost  among  ye,  laugh'd  at,  scorn'd  ? 
I  will  not  wish  ye  half  my  miseries ; 
I  have  more  charity:  but  say  I  warn'd  ye ; 
Take  heed,  for  heaven's  sake,  take  heed,  lest  at 

once 
The  burden  of  my  sorrows  fall  upon  ye. 

Wol.   Madam,  this  is  a  mere  distraction ; 
You  turn  the  good  we  offer  into  envy. 

Q.  Kath.  Ye  turn  me  into  nothing :  woe  upon 
ye,  me, — 

And  all  such  false  professors !  would  you  have 
If  you  have  any  justice,  any  pity, 
If  ye  be  anything  but  churchmen's  habits, — 
Put  my  sick  cause  into  his  hands  that  hates  me? 
Alas  !  has  banish'd  me  his  bed  already, 
His  love  too  long  ago I    I  am  old,  my  lords, 


And  all  the  fellowship  I  hold  now  with  him 
Is  only  my  obedience.     What  can  happen 
To  me  above  this  wretchedness  ?  all  your  studies 
Make  me  a  curse  like  this. 

Cam.  Your  fears  are  worse. 

Q.  Kath.  Have  I  liv'd  thus  long, — let  me 

speak  myself, 

Since  virtue  finds  no  friends,— a  wife,  a  true  one? 
A  woman, — I  dare  say  without  vain-glory, — 
Never  yet  branded  with  suspicion  ? 
Have  I  with  all  my  full  affections 
Still  met  the  king?   lov'd  him  next   heaven? 

obey'd  him? 

Been,  out  of  fondness,  superstitious  to  him  ? 
Almost  forgot  my  prayers  to  content  him  ? 
And  am  I  thus  rewarded  ?  'tis  not  well,  lords. 
Bring  me  a  constant  woman  to  her  husband, 
One  that  ne'er  dream'd  a  j  oy  beyond  his  pleasure ; 
And  to  that  woman,  when  she  has  done  most, 
Yet  will  I  add  an  honour, — a  great  patience. 
Wol.  Madam,  you  wander  from  the  good  we 

aim  at.  [guilty, 

Q.  Kath.  My  lord,  I  dare  not  make  myself  so 
To  give  up  willingly  that  noble  title 
Your  master  wed  me  to :  nothing  but  death 
Shall  e'er  divorce  my  dignities. 

Wol.  Pray,  hear  me. 

Q.   Kath.    Would   I  had    never   trod  this 

English  earth, 

Or  felt  the  flatteries  that  grow  upon  it ! 
Ye  have  angels'  faces,  but  heaven  knows  your 

hearts. 

What  will  become  of  me  now,  wretched  lady  ? 
I  am  the  most  unhappy  woman  living. — 
Alas,  poor  wenches,  where  are  now  your  for- 
tunes ?  [  To  her  Women. 
Shipwreck'd  upon  a  kingdom,  where  no  pity, 
No  friends,  no  hope  ;  no  kindred  weep  for  me  ; 
Almost  no  grave  allow'd  me  : — like  the  lily, 
That  once  was  mistress  of  the  field  and  flourish'd, 
I  '11  hang  my  head  and  perish. 

Wol.  If  your  grace 

Could  but  be  brought  to  know  our  ends  are 

honest, 
You  'd  feel  more  comfort :  why  should  we,  good 

lady, 

Upon  what  cause,  wrong  you  ?  alas,  our  places, 
The  way  of  our  profession  is  against  it : 
We  are  to  cure  such  sorrows,  not  to  sow  'em, 
For  goodness'  sake,  consider  what  you  do  ; 
How  you  may  hurt  yourself,  ay,  utterly 
Grow  from   the  king's  acquaintance,  by  this 

Carriage. 

The  hearts  of  princes  kiss  obedience, 
So  much  they  love  it ;  but  to  stubborn  spirits 
They  swell,  and  grow  as  terrible  as  storms. 
I  know  you  have  a  gentle,  noble  temper, 


SCENE  II.] 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


735 


A  soul  as  even  as  a  calm  :  pray,  think  us 
Those  we  profess,  peace-makers,  friends,  and 

servants. 
Cam.  Madam,  you  '11  find  it  so.     You  wrong 

your  virtues 

With  these  weak  women's  fears :  a  noble  spirit, 
As  yours  was  put  into  you,  ever  casts 
Such  doubts,  as  false  coin,  from  it.     The  king 

loves  you  ; 

Beware  you  lose  it  not :  for  us,  if  you  .please 
To  trust  us  in  your  business,  we  are  ready 
To  use  our  utmost  studies  in  your  service. 
Q.  Kath.  Do  what  ye  will,  my  lords  :  and, 

pray,  forgive  me 

If  I  have  us'd  myself  unmannerly  ; 
You  know  I  am  a  woman,  lacking  wit 
To  make  a  seemly  answer  to  such  persons. 
Pray,  do  my  service  to  his  majesty : 
He  has  my  heart  yet  ;  and  shall  have  my  prayers 
While  I  shall  have  my  life.     Come,  reverend 

fathers, 

Bestow  your  counsels  on  me ;  she  now  begs 
That  little  thought,  when  she  set  footing  here, 
She  should  have  bought  her  dignities  so  dear. 

\Exeunt. 

'.  «ni£;gi>  «qo32  nsriJ  j  iLsg  jasi  ojui  luo 
SCENE  II. — LONDON.      Ante-chamber  to  the 
KING'S  Apartment  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  the  DUKE  OF  NORFOLK,  the  DUKE  OF 
SUFFOLK,  the  EARL  OF  SURREY,  and  the 
Lord  Chamberlain. 

Nor.  If  you  will  now  unite  in  your  complaints, 
And  force  them  with  a  constancy,  the  cardinal 
Cannot  stand  under  them  :  if  you  omit 
The  offer  of  this  time,  I  cannot  promise 
But  that  you  shall  sustain  more  new  disgraces, 
With  these  you  bear  already. 

Sur.  I  am  joyful 

To  meet  the  least  occasion  that  may  give  me 
Remembrance  of  my  father-in-law,  the  duke, 
To  be  reveng'd  on  him. 

Suf.  Which  of  the  peers 

Have  uncontemn'd  gone  by  him,  or  at  least 
Strangely  neglected  ?  when  did  he  regard 
The  stamp  of  nobleness  in  any  person 
Out  of  himself? 

Cham.    My  lords,  you  speak  your  pleasures : 
What  he  deserves  of  you  and  me  I  know ; 
What  we  can  do  to  him, — though  now  the  time 
Gives  way  to  us, — I  much  fear.     If  you  cannot 
Bar  his  access  to  the  king,  never  attempt 
Anything  on  him  ;  for  he  hath  a  witchcraft 
Over  the  king  in 's  tongue. 

Nor.  O,  fear  him  not  -, 

His  spell  in  that  is  out :  the  king  hath  found 
Matter  against  him  that  for  ever  mars 


The  honey  of  his  language.     No;  he's  settled. 
Not  to  come  off,  in  his  displeasure. 

Sur.  Sir, 

I  should  be  glad  to  hear  such  news  as  this 
Once  every  hour. 

Nor.  Believe  it,  this  is  true  : 

In  the  divorce  his  contrary  proceedings 
Are  all  unfolded  ;  wherein  he  appears 
As  I  would  wish  mine  enemy. 

Sur.  How  came 

His  practices  to  light  ? 

Suf.  Most  strangely. 

Sur.  O,  how,  how  ? 

Suf.  The  cardinal's  letters  to  the  pope  mis- 
carried, [read 
And  came  to  the  eye  o'  the  king :  wherein  was 
How  that  the  cardinal  did  entreat  his  holiness 
To  stay  the  judgment  o'  the  divorce  ;  for  if 
It  did  take  place,  I  do,  quoth  he,  perceive 
My  king  is  tangled  in  affection  to 
A  creature  of  the  queen  s^  Lady  Anne  Bullen. 

Sur.  Has  the  king  this  ? 

Suf.  Believe  it. 

Sur.  Will  this  work? 

Cham.  The  king  in  this  perceives  him  how 

he  coasts 

And  hedges  his  own  way.     But  in  this  point 
All  his  tricks  founder,  and  he  brings  his  physic 
After  his  patient's  death  :  the  king  already 
Hath  married  the  fair  lady. 

Sur.  Would  he  had  ! 

Suf.  May  you  be  happy  in  your  wish,  my  lord  I 
For,  I  profess,  you  have  it. 

Sur.  Now,  all  my  joy 

Trace  the  conjunction  ! 

Suf.  My  amen  to 't ! 

Nor.  All  men's  I 

Suf.  There 's  order  given  for  her  coronation : 
Marry,  this  is  yet  but  young,  and  may  be  left 
To  some  ears  unrecounted. — But,  my  lords, 
She  is  a  gallant  creature,  and  complete 
In  mind  and  feature:  I  persuade  me,  from  her 
Will  fall  some  blessing  to  this  land,  which  shall 
In  it  be  memoriz'd. 

Sur.  But  will  the  king 

Digest  this  letter  of  the  cardinal's  ? 
The  Lord  forbid ! 

Nor.  Marry,  amen  ! 

Suf.  No,  no  j 

There  be  more  wasps  that  buzz  about  his  nose 
Will   make   this  sting   the   sooner.     Cardinal 

Campeius 

Is  stol'n  away  to  Rome  ;  hath  ta'en  no  leave  ; 
Has  left  the  cause  o'  the  king  unhandled  ;  and 
Is  posted,  as  the  agent  of  our  cardinal, 
To  second  all  his  plot.     I  do  assure  you 
The  king  cried  Ha  !  at  this. 


736 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


[ACT  in. 


Cham.         v "''  Now,  God  incense  him, 

And  let  him  cry  Ha !  louder  ! 

Nor,  But,  my  lord, 

When  returns  Cranmer  ? 

Suf.  He  is  return'd,  in  his  opinions  ;  which 
Have  satisfied  the  king  for  his  divorce, 
Together  with  all  famous  colleges 
Almost  in  Christendom  :  shortly,  I  believe, 
His  second  marriage  shall  be  publish'd,  and 
Her  coronation.     Katharine  no  more 
Shall  be  call'd  queen,  but  princess  dowager 
And  widow  to  Prince  Arthur. 

Nor.  This  same  Cranmer 's 

A  worthy  fellow,  and  hath  ta'en  much  pain 
In  the  king's  business. 

Suf.  He  has  ;  and  we  shall  see  him 

For  it  an  archbishop. 

NOK\  {  3j  So  I  hear. 

Suf.  'Tis  so. — 

The  cardinal ! 

,«^\\W^L  wttL»-jn^iA.  ,v sw**>, 

Enter  WOLSEY  and  CROMWELL. 

Nor.  Observe,  observe,  he 's  moody. 

Wol.  The  packet,  Cromwell, 
Gave 't  you  the  king  ? 

Crom.     To  his  own  hand,  in 's  bedchamber. 

Wol.   Look'd  he  o'  the  inside  of  the  paper  ? 

Crom.  Presently 

He  did  unseal  them  :  and  the  first  he  view'd, 
He  did  it  with  a  serious  mind  ;  a  heed 
Was  in  his  countenance.     You  he  bade 
Attend  him  here  this  morning. 

Wol.  Is  he  ready 

To  come  abroad  ? 

Crom.  I  think  by  this  he  is. 

Wol.  Leave  me  awhile.    [Exit  CROMWELL. 
It  shall  be  to  the  Duchess  of  Alen9on, 
The  French  king's  sister  :  he  shall  marry  her. — 
Anne  Bullen !     No ;  I  '11  no  Anne  Bullens  for 

him  : 

There  's  more  in't  than  fair  visage. — Bullen  ! 
No,  we'll  no  Bullens. — Speedily  I  wish 
To  hear  from   Rome. — The   Marchioness   of 
Pembroke  ! 

Nor.  He 's  discontented. 

Suf.  May  be  he  hears  the  king 

Does  whet  his  anger  to  him. 

Sur.  Sharp  enough, 

Lord,  for  thy  justice  !  [daughter, 

Wol.  The  late  queen'sgentlewoman,  a  knight's 
To  be  her  mistress' mistress !  thequeen'squeen! — 
This  candle  burns  not  clear  :  'tis  I  must  snuff  it ; 
Then  out  it  goes. — What  though  I  know  her 

virtuous 

And  well  deserving?  yet  I  know  her  for 
A  spleeny  Lutheran  ;  and  not  wholesome  to 
Our  cause,  that  she  should  lie  i'  the  bosom  of 


Our  hard-rul'd  king.    Again,  there  is  sprung  up 
An  heretic,  an  arch  one,  Cranmer ;  one 
Hath  crawl'd  into  the  favour  of  the  king, 
And  is  his  oracle. 

Nor.  He  is  vex'd  at  something. 

Sur.   I  would  'twere  something  that  would 

fret  the  string, 
The  master-cord  on 's  heart  ! 

Suf.  The  king,  the  king  J 

Enter  the  KING,  reading  a  schedule,  and 

LOVELL. 

K.  Hen.  What  piles  of  wealth  hath  he  ac- 
cumulated 

To  his  own  portion  !  and  what  expense  by  the 
hour  [thrift, 

Seems  to  flow  from  him  !    How,  i'  the  name  of 
Does  he  rake  this  together  ? — Now,  my  lords, 
Saw  you  the  cardinal  ? 

Nor.  My  lord,  we  have     [tion 

Stood  here  observing  him :  some  strange  commo- 
Is  in  his  brain  :  he  bites  his  lip  and  starts  ; 
Stops  on  a  sudden,  looks  upon  the  ground, 
Then  lays  his  finger  on  his  temple  ;  straight 
Springs  out  into  fast  gait ;  then  stops  again, 
Strikes  his  breast  hard  ;  and  anon  he  casts 
His  eye  against  the  moon  :    in  most  strange 

postures 
We  have  seen  him  set  himself. 

K.  Hen.  It  may  well  be ; 

There  is  a  mutiny  in 's  mind.     This  morning 
Papers  of  state  he  sent  me  to  peruse, 
As  I  requir'd :  and  wot  you  what  I  found 
There, — on  my  conscience,  put  unwittingly? 
Forsooth,  an  inventory,  thus  importing, — 
The  several  parcels  of  his  plate,  his  treasure, 
Rich  stuffs,  and  ornaments  of  household  ;  which 
I  find  at  such  proud  rate  that  it  out-speaks 
Possession  of  a  subject. 

Nor.  It 's  heaven's  will : 

Some  spirit  put  this  paper  in  the  packet 
To  bless  your  eye  withal. 

K.  Hen.  If  we  did  think 

His  contemplation  were  above  the  earth, 
And  fix'd  on  spiritual  object,  he  should  still 
Dwell  in  his  musings :  but  I  am  afraid 
His  thinkings  are  below  the  moon,  not  worth 
His  serious  considering. 

\He  takes  his  seat  and  -whispers  LOVELL, 
who  goes  to  WOLSEY. 

Wol.  Heaven  forgive  me  ! 

Ever  God  bless  your  highness  ! 

K.  Hen.  Good,  my  lord, 

You  are  full  of  heavenly  stuff,  and  bear  the  in- 
ventory 
Of  your  best  graces  in  your  mind  ;  the  which 


SCENE  II.] 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


737 


You  were  now  running  o'er:  you  have  scarce 

time 

To  steal  from  spiritual  leisure  a  brief  span 
To  keep  your  earthly  audit :  sure,  in  that 
I  deem  you  an  ill  husband,  and  am  glad 
To  have  you  therein  my  companion. 

mi.  Sir, 

For  holy  offices  I  have  a  time  ;  a  time 
To  think  upon  the  part  of  business  which 
I  bear  i'  the  state  ;  and  nature  does  require 
Her  times  of  preservation,  which  perforce 
I,  her  frail  son,  amongst  my  brethren  mortal, 
Must  give  my  tendance  to. 

K.  Hen.  You  have  said  well. 

Wol.  And  ever  may  your  highness  yoke  to- 
gether. 

As  I  will  lend  you  cause,  my  doing  well 
With  my  well  saying  !  % 

K.  Hen.  'Tis  well  said  again ; 

And  'tis  a  kind  of  good  deed  to  say  well : 
And  yet  words  are  no  deeds.     My  father  lov'd 

you : 

He  said  he  did  ;  and  with  his  deed  did  crown 
His  word  upon  you.     Since  I  had  my  office 
I  have  kept  you  next  my  heart ;  have  not  alone 
Employ'd  you  where  high  profits  might  come 

home, 

But  par'd  my  present  havings  to  bestow 
My  bounties  upon  you. 

Wol.  What  should  this  mean  ?  [Aside. 

Sur.  The  Lord  increase  this  business  ! 

[Aside  to  others. 

K.  Hen.  Have  I  not  made  you 

The  prime  man  of  the  state  ?  I  pray  you,  tell  me 
If  what  I  now  pronounce  you  have  found  true : 
And,  if  you  may  confess  it,  say  withal 
If  you  are  bound  to  us  or  no.     What  say  you  ? 

Wol.    My  sovereign,   I  confess  your  royal 
graces,  [could 

Shower'd  on  me  daily,  have  been  more  than 
My  studied  purposes  requite ;  which  went 
Beyond  all  man's  endeavours : — my  endeavours 
Have  ever  come  too  short  of  my  desires, 
Yet  fill'd  with  my  abilities  :  mine  own  ends 
Have  been  mine  so  that  evermore  they  pointed 
To  the  good  of  your  most  sacred  person  and 
The  profit  of  the  state.     For  your  great  graces 
Heap'd  upon  me,  poor  undeserver,  I 
Can  nothing  render  but  allegiant  thanks  ; 
My  prayers  to  heaven  for  you  ;  my  loyalty, 
Which  ever  has  and  ever  shall  be  growing, 
Till  death,  that  winter,  kill  it. 

-^  Hen.  Fairly  answer'd  ; 

A  loyal  and  obedient  subject  is 
Therein  illustrated  :  the  honour  of  it 
Does  pay  the  act  of  it ;  as,  i'  the  contrary, 
The  foulness  is  the  punishment.     I  presume 


That,  as  my  hand  has  open'd  bounty  to  you, 
My   heart    dropp'd    love,   my    power    rain'd 

honour,  more 

On  you  than  any  ;  so  your  hand  and  heart, 
Your  brain,  and  every  function  of  your  power, 
Should,  notwithstanding  that  your  bond  of  duty, 
As  'twere  in  love's  particular,  be  more 
To  me,  your  friend,  than  any. 

Wol.  I  do  profess 

That  for  your  highness'  good  I  ever  labour'd 
More  than  mine  own ;  that  am,  have,  and  will 
be, —  [you, 

Though  all  the  world  should  crack  their  duty  to 
And  throw  it  from  their  soul j  though  perils  did 
Abound  as  thick  as  thought  could  make  'em,  and 
Appear  in  forms  more  horrid, — yet  my  duty, 
As  doth  a  rock  against  the  chiding  flood, 
Should  the  approach  of  this  wild  river  break, 
And  stand  unshaken  yours. 

K.  Hen.  'Tis  nobly  spoken  : 

Take  notice,  lords,  he  has  a  loyal  breast, 
For  you  have  seen  him  open 't. — Read  o'er  this ; 
[Giving  him  papers* 

And  after,  this :  and  then  to  breakfast  with 
What  appetite  you  have. 

[Exit ',  frowning  upon  CARDINAL  WOLSEY  : 
the  Nobles  throng  after  himt  smiling 
and  whispering, 

Wol.  What  should  this  mean  ? 

What  sudden  anger's  this  ?  how  have  I  reap'd  it? 
He  parted  frowning  from  me,  as  if  ruin 
Leap'd  from  his  eyes :  so  looks  the  chafed  lion 
Upon  the  daring  huntsman  that  has  gall'd  him  ; 
Then  makes  him  nothing.      I  must  read  this 

paper; 

I  fear,  the  story  of  his  anger. — 'Tis  so; 
This  paper  has  undone  me  : — 'tis  the  account 
Of  all  that  world  of  wealth  I  have  drawn  together 
For  mine  own  ends;  indeed,  to  gain  the  pope- 

dom, 

And  fee  my  friends  in  Rome.     O  negligence, 
Fit  for  a  fool  to  fall  by  !     What  cross  devil 
Made  me  put  this  main  secret  in  the  packet 
I  sent  the  king  ?     Is  there  no  way  to  cure  this  ? 
No  new  device  to  beat  this  from  his  brains  ? 
I  know  'twill  stir  him  strongly ;  yet  I  know 
A  way,  if  it  take  right,  in  spite  of  fortune, 
Will  bring  me  off  again. — What  5s  this — To  the 

Pope  ? 

The  letter,  as  I  live,  with  all  the  business 
I  writ  to  's  holiness.     Nay  then,  farewell ! 
I  have  touch'd  the  highest  point  of  all  my  great- 
ness ; 

And  from  that  full  meridian  of  my  glory 
I  haste  now  to  my  setting :  I  shall  fall 
Like  a  bright  exhalation  in  the  evening, 
And  no  man  see  me  more. 

2  A 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


[ACT  in. 


Re-enter  the  DUKES  OF  NORFOLK  and  SUF- 
FOLK, the  EARL  OF  SURREY,  and  the  Lord 
Chamberlain. 

Nor,    Hear   the   king's   pleasure,  cardinal: 

who  commands  you 
To  render  up  the  great  seal  presently 
Into  our  hands  ;  and  to  confine  yourself 
To  Asher  House,  my  Lord  of  Winchester's, 
Till  you  hear  further  from  his  highness. 

mi.  Stay,— 

Where 's  your  commission,  lords  ?  words  cannot 

carry 
Authority  so  weighty. 

Sttf.  Who  dare  cross  'em, 

Bearing  the  king's  will  from  his  mouth  expressly  ? 

Wol.  Till  I  find  more  than  will  or  words  to 

do  it,— 

I  mean  your  malice, — know,  officious  lords, 
I  dare  and  must  deny  it.     Now  I  feel 
Of  what  coarse  metal  ye  are  moulded, — envy  : 
How  eagerly  ye  follow  my  disgraces, 
As  if  it  fed  ye !  and  how  sleek  and  wanton 
Ye  appear  in  everything  may  bring  my  ruin  ! 
Follow  your  envious  courses,  men  of  malice  ; 
You  have  Christian  warrant  for  them,  and,  no 

doubt, 

In  time  will  find  their  fit  rewards.     That  seal, 
You  ask  with  such  a  violence,  the  king, — • 
Mine  and  your  master, — with  his  own  hand  gave 

me ; — 

Bade  me  enjoy  it,  with  the  place  and  honours, 
During  my  life  ;  and,  to  confirm  his  goodness, 
Tied  it  by  letters-patents  :  now,  who  '11  take  it  ? 

Sur.  The  king,  that  gave  it. 

Wol.  It  must  be  himself  then. 

Sur.  Thou  art  a  proud  traitor,  priest. 

Wol.  Proud  lord,  thou  liest : 

Within  these  forty  hours  Surrey  durst  better 
Have  burnt  that  tongue  than  said  so. 

Sur.  Thy  ambition, 

Thou  scarlet  sin,  robb'd  this  bewailing  land 
Of  noble  Buckingham,  my  father-in-law  : 
The  heads  of  all  thy  brother  cardinals, — 
With  thee  and  all  thy  best  parts  bound  together,  — 
Weigh'd  not  a  hair  of  his.  Plague  of  your  policy  ! 
You  sent  me  deputy  for  Ireland  ; 
Far  from  his  succour,  from  the  king,  from  all 
That  might  have  mercy  on  the  fault  thou  gav'st 

him ; 

Whilst  your  great  goodness,  out  of  holy  pity, 
Absolv'd  him  with  an  axe. 

Wol.  This,  and  all  else 

This  talking  lord  can  lay  upon  my  credit, 
I  answer,  is  most  false.     The  duke  by  law 
Found  his  deserts :  how  innocent  I  was 
From  any  private  malice  in  his  end, 


His  noble  jury  and  foul  cause  can  witness. 
If  I  lov'd  many  words,  lord,  I  should  tell  you 
You  have  as  little  honesty  as  honour, 
That  in  the  way  of  loyalty  and  truth 
Toward  the  king,  my  ever  royal  master, 
Dare  mate  a  sounder  man  than  Surrey  can  be, 
And  all  that  love  his  follies. 

Sur.  By  my  soul, 

Your   long   coat,    priest,    protects  you ;    thou 

shouldst  feel  [lords, 

My  sword  i'  the  life-blood  of  thee  else. — My 
Can  ye  endure  to  hear  this  arrogance  ? 
And  from  this  fellow  ?     If  we  live  thus  tamely, 
To  be  thus  jaded  by  a  piece  of  scarlet, 
Farewell,  nobility;  let  his  grace  go  forward, 
And  dare  us  with  his  cap  like  larks. 
.    Wol.  All  goodness 

Is  poison  to  thy  stomach. 

Sur.  Yes,  that  goodness 

Of  gleaning  all  the  land's  wealth  into  one, 
Into  your  own  hands,  cardinal,  by  extortion ; 
The  goodness  of  your  intercepted  packets 
You  writ  to  the  pope  against  the  king:  your 

goodness,  [ous. — 

Since  you  provoke  me,  shall  be  most  notori- 
My  Lord  of  Norfolk, — as  you  are  truly  noble, 
As  you  respect  the  common  good,  the  state 
Of  our  despis'd  nobility,  our  issues, 
Who,  if  he  live,  will  scarce  be  gentlemen, — 
Produce  the  grand  sum  of  his  sins,  the  articles 
Collected  from  his  life : — I  '11  startle  you 
Worse  than  the  sacring  bell,  when  the  brown 

wench 
Lay  kissing  in  your  arms,  lord  cardinal. 

Wol.   How  much,  methinks,  I  could  despise 

this  man, 

But  that  I  am  bound  in  charity  against  it ! 
Nor.    Those   articles,  my  lord,  are   in   the 

king's  hand : 
But,  thus  much,  they  are  foul  ones. 

Wol.  So  much  fairer 

And  spotless  shall  mine  innocence  arise, 
When  the  king  knows  my  truth. 

Sur.  This  cannot  save  you  : 

I  thank  my  memory  I  yet  remember 
Some  of  these  articles  ;  and  out  they  shall. 
Now,  if  you  can  blush  and  cry  guilty,  cardinal. 
You  '11  show  a  little  honesty. 

Wol.  Speak  on,  sir ; 

I  dare  your  worst  objections  :  if  I  blush, 
It  is  to  see  a  nobleman  want  manners. 

Sur.  I'd  rather  want  those  than  my  head. — 

Have  at  you  ! 

First,  that,  without  the  king's  assent  or  know- 
ledge, 

You  wrought  to  be  a  legate  ;  by  which  power 
You  maim'd  the  jurisdiction  of  all  bishops. 


SCENE  II.] 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


739 


Nor.  Then,  that  in  all  you  writ  to  Rome,  or 

else 

To  foreign  princes,  Ego  et  Rex  meus  [king 
Was  still  inscrib'd;  in  which  you  brought  the 
To  be  your  servant. 

Suf.        Then,  that,  without  the  knowledge, 
Either  of  king  or  council,  when  you  went 
Ambassador  to  the  emperor,  you  made  bold 
To  carry  into  Flanders  the  great  seal. 

Sur.  Item,  you  sent  a  large  commission 
To  Gregory  de  Cassalis,  to  conclude, 
Without  the  king's  will  or  the  state's  allowance, 
A  league  between  his  highness  and  Ferrara. 

Suf.  That,  out  of  mere  ambition,  you  have 

caus'd 
Your  holy  hat  to  be  stamp'd  on  the  king's  coin. 

Sur.  Then,  that  you  have  sent  innumerable 
substance,  [science, 

By  what  means  got  I  leave  to  your  own  con- 
To  furnish  Rome,  and  to  prepare  the  ways 
You  have  for  dignities  ;  to  the  mere  undoing 
Of  all  the  kingdom.     Many  more  there  are, 
Which,  since  they  are  of  you,  and  odious, 
I  will  not  taint  my  mouth  with. 

Cham.  O  my  lord, 

Press  not  a  falling  man  too  far  !  'tis  virtue  : 
His  faults  lie  open  to  the  laws  ;  let  them, 
Not  you,  correct  him.     My  heart  weeps  to  see 

him 
So  little  of  his  great  self. 

Sur.  I  forgive  him.     [is, — 

Suf.  Lord  Cardinal,  the  king's  further  pleasure 
Because  all  those  things  you  have  done  of  late, 
By  your  power  legatine  within  this  kingdom, 
Fall  into  the  compass  of  a  prczmunire, — 
That  therefore  such  a  writ  be  sued  against  you; 
To  forfeit  all  your  goods,  lands,  tenements, 
Chattels,  and  whatsoever,  and  to  be 
Out  of  the  king's  protection : — this  is  my  charge. 

Nor.  And  so  we  '11  leave  you  to  your  medita- 
tions 

How  to  live  better.     For  your  stubborn  answer 
About  the  giving  back  the  great  seal  to  us, 
The  king  shall  know  it,  and,  no  doubt,  shall 

thank  you. 

So  fare  you  well,  my  little  good  lord  cardinal. 
[Exeunt  all  but  WOLSEY. 

Wol.  So  farewell  to  the  little  good  you  bear 

me. 

Farewell,  a  long  farewell,  to  all  my  greatness  ! 
This  is  the  state  of  man  :  to-day  he  puts  forth 
The  tender  leaves  of  hope ;  to-morrow  blossoms, 
And  bears  his  blushing  honours  thick  upon  him ; 
The  third  day  comes  a  frost,  a  killing  frost, 
And, — when  he  thinks,  good  easy  man,  full 

surely 
His  greatness  is  a-ripening, — nips  his  root, 


And  then  he  falls,  as  I  do.     I  have  ventur'd, 
Like  little  wanton  boys  that  swim  on  bladders, 
This  many  summers  in  a  sea  of  glory  ; 
But  far  beyond  my  depth :  my  high-blown  pride 
At  length  broke  under  me ;  and  now  has  left  me, 
Weary  and  old  with  service,  to  the  mercy 
Of  a  rude  stream,  that  must  for  ever  hide  me. 
Vain  pomp  and  glory  of  this  world,  I  hate  ye : 
I  feel  my  heart  new  opened.     O,  how  wretcnea 
Is  that  poor  man  that  hangs  on  prince's  favours  ! 
There  is,  betwixt  that  smile  we  would  aspire  to, 
That  sweet  aspect  of  princes,  and  their  ruin, 
More  pangs  and  fears  than  wars  or  women  have : 
And  when  he  falls,  he  falls  like  Lucifer, 
Never  to  hope  again. 

Enter  CROMWELL,  amazedly. 

Why,  how  now,  Cromwell ! 

Crom.  I  have  no  power  to  speak,  sir. 

Wol.  What,  amaz'd 

At  my  misfortunes  ?  can  thy  spirit  wonder 
A  great  man  should  decline  ?   Nay,  an  you  weep, 
I  am  fallen  indeed. 

Crom.  How  does  your  grace  ? 

Wol.  Why,  well ; 


Never  so  truly  happy,  my  good  Cromwell, 
know  myself  now  ;  and  I  feel  within  me 


A  peace  above  all  earthly  dignities, 

A  still  and  quiet  conscience.     The  king  has 

cur'd  me, 
I   humbly  thank  his  grace ;    and  from  these 

shoulders, 

These  ruin'd  pillars,  out  of  pity,  taken 
A  load  would  sink  a  navy, — too  much  honour : 
O,  'tis  a  burden,  Cromwell,  'tis  a  burden 
Too  heavy  for  a  man  that  hopes  for  heaven  ! 

Crom.  I  am  glad  your  grace  has  made  that 
right  use  of  it.  [thinks, — 

Wol.  I  hope  I  have :  I  am  able  now,  me- 
Out  of  a  fortitude  of  soul  I  feel, — 
To  endure  more  miseries  and  greater  far 
Than  my  weak -hearted  enemies  dare  offer. 
What  news  abroad  ? 

Crom.  The  heaviest  and  the  worsj: 

Is  your  displeasure  with  the  king. 

Wol.  God  bless  him  ! 

Crom.  The  next  is  that  Sir  Thomas  More  is 

chosen 
Lord  Chancellor  in  your  place. 

Wol.  That 's  somewhat  sudden : 

But  he 's  a  learned  man.     May  he  continue 
Long  in  his  highness'  favour,  and  do  justice, 
For  truth's  sake  and  his  conscience ;  that  his 
bones,  [ings, 

When  he  has  run  his  course  and  sleeps  in  bless- 
May  have  a  tomb  of  orphans'  tears  wept  on  'em ! 
What  more  ? 


/740 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


[ACT  iv. 


Crotn*  That  Cramner  is  return'd  with  wel- 
come, 

Install'd  Lord  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 
Wol.  That 's  news  indeed. 
Crom.  Last,  that  the  Lady  Anne, 

Whom  the  king  hath  in  secrecy  long  married, 
This  day  was  view'd  in  open  as  his  queen, 
Going  to  chapel ;  and  the  voice  is  now 
Only  about  her  coronation. 

Woli  There  was  the  weight  that  pull'd  me 

down.     O  Cromwell, 

The  king  has  gone  beyond  me  :  all  my  glories 
In  that  one  woman  I  have  lost  for  ever : 
No  sun  shall  ever  usher  forth  mine  honours, 
Or  gild  again  the  noble  troops  that  waited 
Upon  my  smiles.    Go,  get  thee  from  me,  Crom- 
well; 

I  am  a  poor  fallen  man,  unworthy  now 
To  be  thy  lord  and  master :  seek  the  king  ; 
That  sun,  I  pray,  may  never  set !     I  have  told 
him  [thee ; 

What  and,  how  true  thou  art:  he  will  advance 
Some  little  memory  of  me  will  stir  him, — 
I  know  his  noble  nature,  —not  to  let 
Thy  hopeful  service  perish  too :  good  Cromwell, 
Neglect  him  not ;  make  use  now,  and  provide 
For  thine  own  future  safety. 

Crom.  O  my  lord, 

Must  I  then  leave  you?  must  I  needs  forego 
So  good,  so  noble,  and  so  true  a  master? 
Bear  witness,  all  that  have  not  hearts  of  iron, 
With  what  a  sorrow  Cromwell  leaves  his  lord. 
The  king  shall  have  my  service ;  but  my  prayers 
For  ever  and  for  ever  shall  be  yours. 

Wol.  Cromwell,  I  did  not  think  to  shed  a  tear 
In  all  my  miseries ;  but  thou  hast  forc'd  me, 
Out  of  thy  honest  truth,  to  play  the  woman. 
Let's  dry  our  eyes:    and  thus  far  hear  me, 

Cromwell ; 

And, — when  I  am  forgotten,  as  I  shall  be, 
And  sleep  in  dull  cold  marble,  where  no  mention 
Of  me  more  must  be  heard  of, — say  I  taught 

thee; 

Say  Wolsey, — that  once  trod  the  ways  of  glory, 
And  sounded  all  the  depths  and  shoals  of  hon- 
our,— 

Found  thee  a  way,  out  of  his  wreck,  to  rise  in ; 
A  sure  and  safe  one,  though  thy  master  miss'd  it. 
Mark  but  my  fall,  and  that  that  ruin'd  me. 
Cromwell,  I  charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition : 
By  that  sin  fell   the  angels;    how  can  man, 

then> 

The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by  it? 
Love  thyself  last :  cherish  those  hearts  that  hate 

thee; 

Corruption  wins  not  more  than  honesty. 
Still  in  thy  right  hand  carry  gentle  peace, 


To  silence  envious  tongues.     Be  just,  and  fear 

not: 

Let  all  the  ends  thou  aim'st  at  be  thy  country's, 
Thy  God's,  and  truth's ;  then,  if  thou  fall'st,  O 

Cromwell, 

Thou  fall'st  a  blessed  martyr !     Serve  the  king ; 
And, — pr'ythee,  lead  me  in : 
There  take  an  inventory  of  all  I  have, 
To  the  last  penny;  'tis  the  king's:  my  robe, 
And  my  integrity  to  heaven,  is  all  [well ! 

I  dare  now  call  mine  own.    O  Cromwell,  Crom- 
Had  I  but  serv'd  my  God  with  half  the  zeal 
I  serv'd  my  king,  he  would  not  in  mine  age 
Have  left  me  naked  to  mine  enemies. 

Crom.  Good  sir,  have  patience. 

Wol.  So  I  have.     Farewell 

The  hopes  of  court  1  my  hopes  in  heaven  do 

dwell.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

[[6  10 

SCENE  I. — A  Street  in  Westminster. 
Enter  two  Gentlemen,  meeting. 

1  Gent.  You  are  well  met  once  again. 

2  Gent.  So  are  you. 

1  Gent.  You  come  to  take  your  stand  here, 

and  behold 
The  Lady  Anne  pass  from  her  coronation? 

2  Gent.  'Tis  all  my  business.     At  our  last 

encounter 
The  Duke  of  Buckingham  came  from  his  trial. 

1  Gent.  'Tis  very  true :  but  that  time  offer'd 

sorrow ; 
This,  general  joy. 

2  Gent.  'Tis  well :  the  citizens, 

I  am  sure,  have  shown  at  full  their  royal  minds ; 
As,  let  'em  have  their  rights,  they  are  ever 

forward, 

In  celebration  of  this  day  with  shows, 
Pageants,  and  sights  of  honour. 

1  Gent.  Never  greater, 
Nor,  I'll  assure  you,  better  taken,  sir.      [tains, 

2  Gent.  May  I  be  bold  to  ask  what  that  con 
That  paper  in  your  hand? 

1  Gent.  Yes ;  'tis  the  list 
Of  those  that  claim  their  offices  this  day, 
By  custom  of  the  coronation. 

The  Duke  of  Suffolk  is  the  first,  and  claims 
To  be  high-steward ;  next,  the  Duke  of  Norfolk, 
He  to  be  earl  marshal :  you  may  read  the  rest. 

2  Gent.   I  thank  you,  sir;  had  I  not  known 

those  customs, 

I  should  have  been  beholden  to  your  paper. 
But,  I  beseech  you,  what 's  become  of  Katharine, 
The  princess  dowager?  how  goes  her  business? 


SCENE  I.] 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


741 


1  Gent.  That  I  can  tell  you  too.     The  Arch- 

bishop 

Of  Canterbury,  accompanied  with  other 
Learned  and  reverend  fathers  of  his  order, 
Held  a  late  court  at  Dunstable,  six  miles  off 
From   Ampthill,   where  the  princess   lay;    to 

which 

She  was  often  cited  by  them,  but  appeared  not  : 
And,  to  be  short,  for  not  appearance  and 
The  king's  late  scruple,  by  the  main  assent 
Of  all  these  learned  men,  she  was  divorc'd, 
And  the  late  marriage  made  of  none  effect : 
Since  which  she  was  remov'd  to  Kimbolton, 
Where  she  remains  now  sick. 

2  Gent.  Alas,  good  lady ! — 

[Trumpets. 

The  trumpets  sound  t  stand  close,  the  queen  is 
coming. 

THE  ORDER  OF  THE  PROCESSION. 
A  lively  flourish  of  trumpets '.  then  enter t 

1.  Two  Judges. 

2.  Lord  Chancellor,  with  the  purse  and  mace  before  him. 

3.  Choristers  singing.  [Music. 

4.  M  ayor  of  London,  bearing  the  mace.     Then  Garter,  in 

his  coat  of  arms,  and  on  his  head  a  gilt  copper 
crown. 

5.  Marquis  Dorset,  bearing  a  sceptre  of  gold,  on  his  head 

a  demt-coronal  of  gold.  With  him,  the  Earl  of 
Surrey,  bearing  the  rod  of  silver  with  the  dove, 
crowned  with  an  earl's  coronet.  Collars  of  SS. 
6;  Duke  of  Suffolk,  in  his  robe  of  estate,  his  coronet  on 
his  head,  bearing  a  long  white  wand,  as  high- 
steward.  With  him,  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  with 
the  rod  of  marshalship,  a  coronet  on  his  head. 
Collars  of  SS. 

7.  A  canopy  borne  by  four  of  the  Cinque-ports  ;  under 

it  the  Queen  in  her  rcbe  ;  her  hair  richly  a- 
dorned  with  pearl,  crowned.  On  each  side  of 
her,  the  Bishops  of  London  and  Winchester. 

8.  The  old  Duchess  of  Norfolk,  in  a  coronal  of  gold, 

wrought  with  flowers,  bearing  the  Queen's  train. 

9.  Certain  Ladies  or  Countesses,  with  plain  circlets  of 

gold  without  flowers. 

A  royal  train,  believe  me. — These  I  know: — 
Who's  that  that  bears  the  sceptre? 

1  Gent.  Marquis  Dorset : 
And  that  the  Earl  of  Surrey,  with  the  rod. 

2  Gent.    A   bold    brave  gentleman.      That 

should  be 
The  Duke  of  Suffolk? 

1  Gent.  'Tis  the  same, — high-steward. 

2  Gent.  And  that  my  Lord  of  Norfolk? 

1  Gent.  Yes. 

2  Gent.  Heaven  bless  thee ! 

[Looking  on  the  QUEEN. 
Thou  hast  the  sweetest  face  I  ever  look'd  on. — 
Sir,  as  I  have  a  soul,  she  is  an  angel; 
Our  king  has  all  the  Indies  in  his  arms, 
And  more  and  richer,  when  he  strains  that  lady : 
I  cannot  blame  his  conscience. 


1  Gent.  They  that  bear 
The  cloth  of  honour  over  her  are  four  barons 
Of  the  Cinque-ports. 

2  Gent.  Those  men  are  happy ;  and  so  are  all 

are  near  her. 

I  take  it,  she  that  carries  up  the  train 
Is  that  old  noble  lady,  Duchess  of  Norfolk. 

1  Gent.  It  is ;  and  all  the  rest  are  countesses. 

2  Gent.  Their  coronets  say  so.     These  are 

stars  indeed ; 
And  sometimes  falling  ones. 

1  Gent.  No  more  of  that. 

[Exit  Procession,  with  a  great  flortrish  of 
trumpets. 

Enter  a  third  Gentleman. 

God  save  you,  sir !  where  have  you  been  broil- 
ing? [a  finger 

3  Gent.  Among  the  crowd  i'  the  abbey ;  where 
Could  not  be  wedg'd  in  more :  I  am  stifled 
With  the  mere  rankness  of  their  joy. 

2  Gent.  You  saw 
The  ceremony? 

3  Gent.         That  I  did. 

1  Gent.  How  was  it? 
3  Gent.  Well  worth  the  seeing. 

2  Gent.  Good  sir,  speak  it  to  us. 

3  Gent.  As  well  as  I  am  able.    The  rich  stream 
Of  lords  and  ladies,  having  brought  the  queen 
To  a  prepar'd  place  in  the  choir,  fell  off 

A  distance  from  her :  while  her  grace  sat  down 
To  rest  awhile,  some  half  an  hour  or  so, 
In  a  rich  chair  of  state,  opposing  freely 
The  beauty  of  her  person  to  the  people. 
Believe  me,  sir,  she  is  the  goodliest  woman 
That  ever  lay  by  man :  which  when  the  people 
Had  the  full  view  of,  such  a  noise  arose 
As  the  shrouds  make  at  sea  in  a  stiff  tempest, 
As  loud,  and  to  as  many  tunes:  hats,  cloaks, — 
Doublets,  I  think, — flew  up ;  and  had  their  faces 
Been  loose,  this  day  they  had  been  lost.  Such  joy 
I  never  saw  before.     Great-bellied  women, 
That  had  not  half  a  week  to  go,  like  rams 
In  the  old  time  of  war,  would  shake  the  press, 
And  make  'em  reel  before  'em.     No  man  living 
Could  say,  This  is  my  wife,  there ;  all  were  woven 
So  strangely  in  one  piece. 

2  Gent.  But  what  follow'd? 

3  Gent.  At  length  her  grace  rose,  and  with 

modest  paces  [saintlike, 

Came  to  the  altar;  where  she  kneel'd,  and, 
Cast  her  fair  eyes  to  heaven,  and  pray'd  devoutly. 
Then  rose  again,  and  bow'd  her  to  the  people : 
When  by  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury 
She  had  all  the  royal  makings  of  a  queen  ; 
As  holy  oil,  Edward  Confessor's  crown, 
The  rod,  and  bird  of  peace,  and  all  such  emblems 


742 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


[ACT  iv. 


Laid  nobly  on  her  :  which  perform'd,  the  choir, 
With  all  the  choicest  music  of  the  kingdom, 
Together  sung  Te  Deum.     So  she  parted, 
And  with  the  same  full  state  pac'd  back  again 
To  York  Place,  where  the  feast  is  held. 

1  Gent.  Sir, 
You  must  no  more  call  it  York  Place,  that's 

past: 

For,  since  the  cardinal  fell,  that  title 's  lost : 
'Tis  now  the  king's,  and  call'd  Whitehall. 

3  Gent.  I  know  it ; 

But  'tis  so  lately  alter'd  that  the  old  name 
Is  fresh  about  me. 

2  Gent.  What  two  reverend  bishops 
Were  those  that  went  on  each  side  of  the  queen? 

3  Gent.  Stokesly  and  Gardiner ;  the  one  of 

Winchester, — 

Newly  preferr'd  from  the  king's  secretary, — 
The  other,  London. 

2  Gent.  He  of  Winchester 

Is  held  no  great  good  lover  of  the  archbishop's, 
The  virtuous  Cranmer. 

3  Gent.  All  the  land  knows  that :: 
However,  yet  there  is  no  great  breach ;  when  it 

comes,  [him. 

Cranmer  will  find  a  friend  will  not  shrink  from 

2  Gent.  Who  may  that  be,  I  pray  you? 

3  Gent.  Thomas  Cromwell ; 
A  man  in  much  esteem  with  the  king,  and  truly 
A  worthy  friend. — The  king 

Has  made  him  master  o'  the  jewel-house, 
And  one,  already,  of  the  privy  council. 

2  Gent.  He  will  deserve  more.  ' 

3  Gent.  Yes,  without  all  doubt. — 
Come,  gentlemen,  ye  shall  go  my  way,  which 
Is  to  the  court,  and   there  ye   shall  be  my 

guests : 

Something  I  can  command.  As  I  walk  thither 
I  '11  tell  ye  more. 

Both.  You  may  command  us,  sir. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Kimbolton. 

Enter  KATHARINE,  Dowager,  sick;  led  between 
GRIFFITH  and  PATIENCE. 

Grif.  How  does  your  grace  ? 

Kath.  O  Griffith,  sick  to  death  ! 

My  legs,   like   loaden   branches,  bow   to   the 

earth, 

Willing  to  leave  their  burden.  Reach  a  chair : — 
So, — now,  methinks,  I  feel  a  little  ease,  [me, 
Didst  thou  not  tell  me,  Griffith,  as  thou  ledd'st 
That  the  great  child  of  honour,  Cardinal  Wolsey, 
Was  dead? 

Grif.  Yes,  madam  ;  but  I  think  your  grace, 
Out  of  the  pain  you  suffer 'd,  gave  no  ear  to 't. 


Kath.   Pr'ythee,  good  Griffith,  tell  me  how 

he  died : 

If  well,  he  stepp'd  before  me,  happily, 
For  my  example. 

Grif.  Well,  the  voice  goes,  madam  : 

For  after  the  stout  Earl  Northumberland 
Arrested  him  at  York,  and  brought  him  for- 
ward,— 

As  a  man  sorely  tainted, — to  his  answer, 
He  fell  sick  suddenly,  and  grew  so  ill 
He  could  not  sit  his  mule. 

Kath.  Alas,  poor  man  ! 

Grif.    At  last,  with  easy  roads,  he  came  to 

Leicester, 

Lodg'd  in  the  abbey  ;  where  the  reverend  abbot, 
With  all  his  covent,  honourably  receiv'd  him ; 
To  whom  he  gave  these  words, — O,  father  abbot, 
An  old  man,  broken  with  the  storms  of  state, 
Is  come  to  lay  his  weary  bones  among  ye  ; 
Give  him  a  little  earth  for  charity  ! 
So  went  to  bed ;  where  eagerly  his  sickness 
Pursu'd  him  still :  and  three  nights  after  this, 
About  the  hour  of  eight, — which  he  himself 
Foretold  should  be  his  last, — full  of  repentance, 
Continual  meditations,  tears,  and  sorrows, 
He  gave  his  honours  to  the  world  again, 
His  blessed  part  to  heaven,  and  slept  in  peace. 

Kath.  So  may  he  rest ;  his  faults  lie  gently 
on  him  !  [him, 

Yet  thus  far,  Griffith,  give  me  leave  to  speak 
And  yet  with  charity.     He  was  a  man 
Of  an  unbounded  stomach,  ever  ranking 
Himself  with  princes  ;  one  that,  by  suggestion, 
Tied  all  the  kingdom  :  simony  was  fair  play  ; 
His  own  opinion  was  his  law  :  i'  the  presence 
He  would  say  untruths  ;  and  be  ever  double 
Both  in  his  words  and  meaning  :  he  was  never, 
But  where  he  meant  to  ruin,  pitiful : 
His  promises  were,  as  he  then  was,  mighty ; 
But  his  performance,  as  he  is  now,  nothing  : 
Of  his  own  body  he  was  ill,  and  gave 
The  clergy  ill  example. 

Grif.  Noble  madam, 

Men's  evil  manners  live  in  brass  ;  their  virtues 
We  write  in  water.  May  it  please  your  highness 
To  hear  me  speak  his  good  now  ! 

Kath.  Yes,  good  Griffith  ; 

I  were  malicious  else. 

Grif.  This  cardinal, 

Though  from  an  humble  stock,  undoubtedly 
Was  fashion'd  to  much  honour  from  his  cradle. 
He  was  a  scholar,  and  a  ripe  and  good  one  ; 
Exceeding  wise,  fair-spoken,  and  persuading  : 
Lofty  and  sour  to  them  that  lov'd  him  not ; 
But  to  those  men  that  sought  him  sweet  as 

summer. 
And  though  he  were  unsatisfied  in  getting, — 


SCENE  II.] 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


743 


Which  was  a  sin, — yet  in  bestowing,  madam, 
He  was  most  princely  :  ever  witness  for  him 
Those  twins  of  learning  that  he  rais'd  in  you, 
Ipswich  and  Oxford !  one  of  which  fell  with  him, 
Unwilling  to  outlive  the  good  that  did  it ; 
The  other,  though  unfinished,  yet  so  famous, 
So  excellent  in  art,  and  still  so  rising, 
That  Christendom  shall  ever  speak  his  virtue. 
His  overthrow  heap'd  happiness  upon  him  ; 
For  then,  and  not  till  then,  he  felt  himself, 
And  found  the  blessedness  of  being  little  : 
And,  to  add  greater  honours  to  his  age 
Than  man  could  give  him,  he  died  fearing  God. 

Kath.  After  my  death  I  wish  no  other  herald, 
No  other  speaker  of  my  living  actions, 
To  keep  mine  honour  from  corruption, 
But  such  an  honest  chronicler  as  Griffith. 
Whom  I  most  hated  living,  thou  hast  made  me, 
With  thy  religious  truth  and  modesty, 
Now  in  his  ashes  honour :  peace  be  with  him ! — 
Patience,  be  near  me  still ;  and  set  me  lower  : 
I  have  not  long  to  trouble  thee. — Good  Griffith, 
Cause  the  musicians  play  me  that  sad  note 
I  nam'd  my  knell,  whilst  I  sit  meditating 
On  that  celestial  harmony  I  go  to. 

\_Sad  and  solemn  music. 

Grif.  She  is  asleep;  good  wench,  let's  sit 

down  quiet, 
For  fear  we  wake  her : — softly,  gentle  Patience. 

THE  VISION.  Enter,  solemnly  tripping  one  after 
another,  six  Personages  clad  in  white  robes,  -wear- 
ing on  their  heads  garlands  of  bays,  and  golden 
•vizards  on  their  faces;  branches  of  bays  or  palm 
in  their  hands.  They  first  congee  unto  her,  then 
dance;  and,  at  certain  changes,  the  first  two  hold 
a  spare  garland  over  her  head ;  at  which  the  other 
four  make  reverent  courtesies;  then  the  two  that 
held  the  garland  deliver  the  same  to  the  other  next 
two,  who  observe  the  same  order  in  tJteir  changes, 
and  holding  tJie  garland  over  her  head :  which  done, 
they  deliver  the  same  garland  to  the  last  two,  who 
likewise  ebserve  the  same  order:  at  which, — as  it 
were  by  inspiration, — she  makes  in  her  sleep  signs 
of  rejoicing,  and  holdeth  up  her  hands  to  heaven : 
and  so  in  their  dancing  they  vanish,  carrying  the 
garland  with  them.  The  music  continues. 

Kath.  Spirits  of  peace,  where  are  ye  ?     Are 

ye  all  gone  ? 
And  leave  me  here  in  wretchedness  behind  ye? 

Grif.   Madam,  we  are  here. 

Kath.  It  is  not  you  I  call  for  : 

Saw  ye  none  enter  since  I  slept  ? 

Grif.  None,  madam. 

Kath.  No?      Saw  you   not,   even  now,   a 

blessed  troop 

Invite  me  to  a  banquet ;  whose  bright  faces 
Cast  thousand  beams  upon  me,  like  the  sun  ? 


They  promis'd  me  eternal  happiness  ; 
And  brought  me  garlands,  Griffith,  whi 


which  I  feel 


I  am  not  worthy  yet  to  wear  :  I  shall, 
Assuredly.  [dreams 

Grif.   I  am  most  joyful,  madam,  such  good 
Possess  your  fancy. 

Kath.  Bid  the  music  leave, 

They  are  harsh  and  heavy  to  me.    [ Music  ceases. 

Pat.  Do  you  note 

How  much  her  grace  is  alter'd  on  the  sudden  ? 
How  long  her  face  is  drawn?  how  pale  she  looks, 
And  of  an  earthy  cold  ?  Mark  you  her  eyes  ! 

Grif.  She  is  going,  wench  :  pray,  pray. 

Pat.  Heaven  comfort  her  ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  An  't  like  your  grace, — 
Kath.  You  are  a  saucy  fellow : 

Deserve  we  no  more  reverence  ? 

Grif.  You  are  to  blame, 

Knowing  she  will  not  lose  her  wonted  greatness, 
To  use  so  rude  behaviour  :  go  to,  kneel. 
Mess.  I  humbly  do  entreat  your  highness* 
pardon ;  [staying 

My  haste  made   me  unmannerly.      There  is 
A  gentleman,  sent  from  the  king,  to  see  you. 
Kath.   Admit   him   entrance,    Griffith :   but 

this  fellow 
Let  me  ne'er  see  again. 

[Exeunt  GRIFFITH  and  Messenger. 

Re-enter  GRIFFITH,  with  CAPUCIUS. 

If  my  sight  fail  not, 
You    should    be    lord    ambassador    from    the 

emperor, 
My  royal  nephew,  and  your  name  Capucius. 

Cap.  Madam,  the  same, — your  servant. 

Kath.  O,  my  Lord, 

The  times  and  titles  now  are  alter'd  strangely 
With  me  since  first  you  knew  me.      But,   I 

pray  you, 
What  is  your  pleasure  with  me  ? 

Cap.  Noble  lady, 

First,  mine  own  service  to  your  grace  ;  the  next, 
The  king's  request  that  I  would  visit  you  ; 
Who  grieves  much  for  your  weakness,  and  by  me 
Sends  you  his  princely  commendations, 
And  heartily  entreats  you  take  good  comfort. 

Kath.  O,  my  good  lord,  that  comfort  comes 

too  late  ; 

'Tis  like  a  pardon  after  execution  : 
That  gentle  physic,  given  in  time,  had  cur'd  me ; 
But   now    I   am   past   all  comforts  here,   but 

prayers. 
How  does  his  highness  ? 

Cap.  Madam,  in  good  health. 

Kath.  So  may  he  ever  do  !  and  ever  flourish, 
When  I  shall  dwell  with  worms,  and  my  poor 


744 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


[ACT  v. 


Banish'd  the  kingdom ! — -Patience,  is  that  letter 
I  caus'd  you  write  yet  sent  away  ? 

Pat.  No,  madam. 

[Giving  it  to  KATHARINE. 
Kath.  Sir,  I  most  humbly  pray  you  to  deliver 
This  to  my  lord  the  king. 

Cap.  Most  willing,  madam. 

Kath.  In  which  I  have  commended  to  his 

goodness  [daughter, — 

The  model  of  our  chaste    loves,   his  young 
The  dews  of  heaven  fall  thick  in  blessings  on 

her!— 

Beseeching  him  to  give  her  virtuous  breeding  ; 
She  is  young,  and  of  a  noble  modest  nature, — 
I  hope  she  will  deserve  well ; — and  a  little 
To  love  her  for  her  mother's  sake,  that  lov'd 

him,  [petition 

Heaven  knows  how  dearly.      My  next  poor 
Is,  that  his  noble  grace  would  have  some  pity 
Upon  my  wretched  women,  that  so  long 
Have  follow'd  both  my  fortunes  faithfully  : 
Of  which  there  is  not  one,  I  dare  avow, — 
And  now  I  should  not  lie, — but  will  deserve, 
For  virtue  and  true  beauty  of  the  soul, 
For  honesty  and  decent  carriage, 
A  right  good  husband,  let  him  be  a  noble  ; 
And,  sure,  those  men  are  happy  that  shall  have 

them. 

The  last  is,  for  my  men, — they  are  the  poorest, 
But  poverty  could  never  draw  'em  from  me, — 
That  they  may  have  their  wages  duly  paid  'em, 
And  something  over  to  remember  me  by  : 
If  heaven  had  pleas'd  to  have  given  me  longer 

life 

And  able  means,  we  had  not  parted  thus. 
These  are  the  whole  contents  : — and,  good  my 

lord, 

By  that  you  love  the  dearest  in  this  world, 
As  you  wish  Christian  peace  to  souls  departed, 
Stand  these  poor  people's  friend,  and  urge  the 

king 
To  do  me  this  last  right. 

Cap.  By  heaven,  I  will, 

Or  let  me  lose  the  fashion  of  a  man  !  [me 

Kath.  I  thank  you,  honest  lord.    Remember 
In  all  humility  unto  his  highness  : 
Say  his  long  trouble  now  is  passing  [him, 

Out  of  this  world  ;  tell  him,  in  death  I  bless'd 
For  so  I  will. — Mine  eyes  grow  dim. — Farewell, 
My  lord. — Griffith,  farewell. — Nay,  Patience, 
You  must  not  leave  me  yet :  I  must  to  bed  ; 
Call  in  more  women. — When  I  am  dead,  good 

wench, 

Let  me  be  us'd  with  honour  :  strew  me  over 
With  maiden  flowers,  that  all  the  world  may 

know 
I  was  a  chaste  wife  to  my  grave  :  embalm  me, 


Then  lay  me  forth  :  although  unqueen'd,  yet  like 
A  queen,  and  daughter  to  a  king,  inter  me. 
I  can  no  more.  [Exeunt,  leading  KATHARINE. 


ACT  V. 

:,li/:i  -MK  •:.-.-  ,  .•>„' 

SCENE  I.  —  LONDON.    A  Gallery  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  GARDINER,   Bishop  of  Winchester,    a 
Page  with  a  torch  before  him. 

Gar.   It  's  one  o'clock,  boy,  is  't  not  ? 

Boy.  It  has  struck. 

Gar.  These  should  be  hours  for  necessities, 
Not  for  delights  ;  times  to  repair  our  nature 
With  comforting  repose,  and  not  for  us 
To  waste  these  times. 

Enter  SIR  THOMAS  LOVELL. 

Good  hour  of  night,  Sir  Thomas  ! 
Whither  so  late  ? 

Lov.         Came  you  from  the  king,  my  Lord? 

Gar.   I  did,  Sir  Thomas  ;   and  left  him  at 

primero 
With  the  Duke  of  Suffolk. 

Lov.  I  must  to  him  too, 

Before  he  go  to  bed,     I'll  take  my  leave. 

Gar.  Not  yet,  Sir  Thomas  Lovell.     What  's 

the  matter  ? 

It  seems  you  are  in  haste  :  an  if  there  be 
No  great  offence  belongs  to  't,  give  your  friend 
Some  touch  of  your  late  business  :  affairs  that 

walk,  — 

As  they  say  spirits  do,  —  at  midnight,  have 
In  them  a  wilder  nature  than  the  business 
That  seeks  despatch  by  day. 

Lov.  My  lord,  I  love  you  ; 

And  durst  commend  a  secret  to  your  ear 
Much  weightier  than  this  work.     The  queen  's 

in  labour, 

They  say  in  great  extremity  ;  and  fear'd 
She  '11  with  the  labour  end. 

Gar.  The  fruit  she  goes  with 

I  pray  for  heartily,  that  it  may  find  [Thomas, 
Good  time,  and  live  :  but  for  the  stock,  Sir 
I  wish  it  grubb'd  up  now. 

Lov.  Methinks  I  could 

Cry  thee  amen  ;  and  yet  my  conscience  says 
She  's  a  good  creature,  and,  sweet  lady,  does 
Deserve  our  better  wishes. 

Gar.  But,  sir,  sir,  — 

Hear  me,  Sir  Thomas:  you  are  a  gentleman 
Of  mine  own  way;  I  know  you  wise,  religious; 
And,  let  me  tell  you,  it  will  ne'er  be  well,  — 
'Twill  not,  Sir  Thomas  Lovell,  take  't  of  me,  — 
Till  Cranmer,  Cromwell,  her  two  hands,  and  she, 
Sleep  in  their  graves. 


SCENE;  i.] 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


745 


Lou*  Now,  sir,  you  speak  of  two 

The  most  remark'd  i'  the  kingdom.      As  for 

Cromwell, —  [master 

Beside   that   of   the  jewel-house,    he's   made 

O'  the  rolls,  and  the  king's  secretary ;  further, 

sir, 

Stands  in  the  gap  and  trade  of  more  preferments, 
With  which  the  time  will  load  him.  The  arch- 
bishop [speak 
Is  the  king's  hand  and  tongue  ;  and  who  dare 
One  syllable  against  him  ? 

Gar.  Yes,  yes,  Sir  Thomas, 

There  are  that  dare ;  and  I  myself  have  ventur'd 
To  speak  my  mind  of  him :  and  indeed  this  day, 
Sir, — I  may  tell  it  you, — I  think  I  have 
Incens'd  the  lords  o'  the  council,  that  he  is, — 
For  so  I  know  he  is,  they  know  he  is, — 
A  most  arch  heretic,  a  pestilence  [moved, 

That  does  infect  the  land :    with  which  they 
Have  broken  with  the  king ;  who  hath  so  far 
Given  ear  to  our  complaint, — of  his  great  grace 
And  princely  care;  foreseeing  those  fell  mischiefs 
Our  reasons  laid  before  him, — hath  commanded 
To-morrow  morning  to  the  council-board 
He  be  convented.      He's  a  rank  weed,  Sir 

Thomas, 

And  we  must  root  him  out.     From  your  affairs 
I  hinder  you  too  long :  good  night,  Sir  Thomas. 
Lov.  Many  good  nights,  my  lord :  I  rest  your 
servant. 

[Exeunt  GARDINER  and  Page. 

As  LOVELL  is  going  out,  enter  the  KING  and  the 
DUKE  OF  SUFFOLK. 

K.  Hen.  Charles,  I  will  play  no  more  to-night; 
My  mind 's  not  on 't ;  you  are  too  hard  for  me. 

Suf.   Sir,  I  did  never  win  of  you  before. 

K.  Hen.  But  little,  Charles  ; 
Nor  shall  not,  when  my  fancy's  on  my  play. — 
Now,  Lovell,  from  the  queen  what  is  the  news? 

Lov.  I  could  not  personally  deliver  to  her 
What  you  commanded  me,  but  by  her  woman 
I  sent  your  message ;  who  return  d  her  thanks 
In  the  greatest  humbleness,  and  desir'd  your 

highness 
Most  heartily  to  pray  for  her. 

K.  Hen.  What  say'st  thou,  ha? 

To  pray  for  her  ?  what,  is  she  crying  out  ? 

Lov.  So  said  her  woman :  and  that  her  suffer- 
ance made 
Almost  each  pang  a  death. 

K.  Hen.  Alas,  good  lady ! 

Suf.  God  safely  quit  her  of  her  burden,  and 
With  gentle  travail,  to  the  gladding  of 
Your  highness  with  an  heir  ! 

K.  Hen.  JTis  midnight,  Charles ; 

Pr'ythee,  to  bed ;  and  in  thy  prayers  remember 


The  estate  of  my  poor  queen.     Leave  me  alone ; 
For  I  must  think  of  that  which  company 
Will  not  be  friendly  to. 

Suf.  I  wish  your  highness 

A  quiet  night ;  and  my  good  mistress  will 
Remember  in  my  prayers. 

K.  Hen.  Charles,  good-night. 

[Exit  SUFFOLK. 

Enter  SIR  ANTHONY  DENNY. 

Well,  sir,  what  follows  ?  [bishop, 

Den.  Sir,  I  have  brought  my  lord  the  arch- 
As  you  commanded  me. 

K.  Hen.  Ha  !  Canterbury? 

Den.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

K.  Hen.          'Tistrue:  where  is  he,  Denny? 

Den.  He  attends  your  highness'  pleasure. 

K.  Hen.  Bring  him  to  us. 

[Exit  DENNY. 

Lov.  This  is  about  that  which  the  bishop 

spake: 
I  am  happily  come  hither.  [Aside. 

Re-enter  DENNY,  with  CRANMER. 

K.  Hen.  Avoid  the  gallery. 

[LOVELL  seems  to  stay. 

Ha  !  I  have  said.     Be  gone. 

What !  [Exeunt  LOVELL  and  DENNY. 

Cran.  I  am  fearful : — wherefore  frowns  he 

thus? 

'Tis  his  aspect  of  terror.   All 's  not  well.    [Aside. 
K.  Hen.   How  now,  my  lord  ?  you  do  desire 

to  know 
Wherefore  I  sent  for  you. 

Cran.  It  is  my  duty 

To  attend  your  highness'  pleasure. 

K.  Hen.  Pray  you,  arise, 

My  good  and  gracious  Lord  of  Canterbury. 
Come,  you  and  I  must  walk  a  turn  together  ; 
I  have  news  to  tell  you  :  come,  come,  give  me 

your  hand. 

Ah,  my  good  lord,  I  grieve  at  what  I  speak, 
And  am  right  sorry  to  repeat  what  follows  : 
I  have,  and  most  unwillingly,  of  late 
Heard  many  grievous,  I  do  say,  my  lord, 
Grievous    complaints  of   you ;    which,   being 

consider 'd, 

Have  movM  us  and  our  council  that  you  shall 
This  morning  come  before  us  ;  where,  I  know, 
You  cannot  with  such  freedom  purge  yourself 
But  that,  till  further  trial  in  those  charges 
Which  will  require  your  answer,  you  must  take 
Your  patience  to  you,  and  be  well  contented 
To  make  your  house  our  Tower:  you  a  brother 

of  us, 

It  fits  we  thus  proceed,  or  else  no  witness 
Would  come  against  you. 


746 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


[ACT  v. 


Cran.  I  humbly  thank  your  highness ; 

And  am  right  glad  to  catch  this  good  occasion 
Most  throughly  to  be  winnow'd,  where  my  chaff 
And  corn  shall  fly  asunder  :  for  I  know 
There's  none  stands  under  more  calumnious 

tongues 
Than  I  myself,  poor  man. 

K.  Hen.  Stand  up,  good  Canterbury : 

Thy  truth  and  thy  integrity  is  rooted 
In  us,  thy  friend :  give  me  thy  hand,  stand  up : 
Pr'ythee,  let 's  walk.     Now,  by  my  holy-dame, 
What  manner  of  man  are  you?      My  lord,  I 

look'd 

You  would  have  given  me  your  petition  that 
I  should  have  ta'en  some  pains  to  bring  together 
Yourself  and  your  accusers  ;  and  to  have  heard 

you, 
Without  indurance,  further. 

Cran.  Most  dread  liege, 

The  good  I  stand  on  is  my  truth  and  honesty : 
If  they  shall  fail,  I,  with  mine  enemies,      [not, 
Will  triumph  o'er  my  person  ;  which  I  weigh 
Being  of  those  virtues  vacant.     I  fear  nothing 
What  can  be  said  against  me. 

K.  Hen.  Know  you  not 

How  your  state  stands  i'the  world,  with  the 

whole  world  ? 
Your  enemies  are  many,  and  not  small  j  their 

practices 

Must  bear  the  same  proportion  ;  and  not  ever 
The  justice  and  the  truth  o'  the  question  carries 
The  due  o'  the  verdict  with  it :  at  what  ease 
Might  corrupt  minds  procure  knaves  as  corrupt 
To  swear  against  you  ?  such  things  have  been 

done. 

You  are  potently  oppos'd  ;  and  with  a  malice 
Of  as  great  size.     Ween  you  of  better  luck, 
I  mean  in  perjur'd  witness,  than  your  Master, 
Whose  minister  you  are,  whiles  here  he  liv'd 
Upon  this  naughty  earth  ?     Go  to,  go  to  ; 
You  take  a  precipice  for  no  leap  of  danger, 
And  woo  your  own  destruction. 

Cran.  God  and  your  majesty 

Protect  mine  innocence,  or  I  fall  into 
The  trap  is  laid  for  me  ! 

K.  Hen.  Be  of  good  cheer  ; 

They  shall  no  more  prevail  than  we  give  way  to. 
Keep  comfort  to  you  ;  and  this  morning  see 
You  do  appear  before  them:  if  they  shall  chance, 
In  charging  you  with  matters,  to  commit  you, 
The  best  persuasions  to  the  contrary 
Fail  not  to  use,  and  with  what  vehemency 
The  occasion  shall  instruct  you  :  if  entreaties 
Will  render  you  no  remedy,  this  ring 
Deliver  them,  and  your  appeal  to  us 
There  make  before  them. — Look,  the  good 

mam  weeps  ! 


He 's  honest,  on  mine  honour.     God's  bless'd 

mother ! 

I  swear  he  is  true-hearted  ;  and  a  soul 
None  better  in  my  kingdom. — Get  you  gone, 
And  do  as  I  have  bid  you.     [Exit  CRANMER.] 

— He  has  strangled 
His  language  in  his  tears. 

Enter  an  Old  Lady. 

Gent.  [  Within.~\  Come  back:  what  mean  you? 

Old  L.   I  '11  not  come  back  ;  the  tidings  that 
I  bring  [angels 

Will  make  my  boldness  manners. — Now,  good 
Fly  o'er  thy  royal  head,  and  shade  thy  person 
Under  their  blessed  wings  ! 

K.  Hen.  Now,  by  thy  looks 

I  guess  thy  message.     Is  the  queen  deliver'd  ? 


Say  ay ;  and  of  a  boy. 

Old  L.  Ay,  ay,  my 

And  of  a  lovely  boy :  the  God  of  Heaven 


Ay,  ay,  my  liege  ; 


Both  now  and  ever  bless  her  ! — 'tis  a  girl, — 
Promises  boys  hereafter.     Sir,  your  queen 
Desires  your  visitation,  and  to  be 
Acquainted  with  this  stranger  ;  'tis  as  like  you 
As  cherry  is  to  cherry. 

K.  Hen.  Lovell,— 


Re-enter  LOVELL. 


IrtI 


Lov.  Sir  ? 

K.  Hen.  Give  her  an  hundred  marks.     I  '11 

to  the  queen  [Exit. 

Old  L.  An  hundred  marks  !     By  this  light, 

I  '11  ha'  more. 

An  ordinary  groom  is  for  such  payment. 
I  will  have  more,  or  scold  it  out  of  him. 
Said  I  for  this,  the  girl  was  like  to  him  ? 
I  will  have  more,  or  else  unsay 't ;  and  now, 
While  it  is  hot,  I  '11  put  it  to  the  issue. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Lobby  before  the  Council  Chamber. 

Enter  CRANMER;  Servants,  Door-keeper,  &c., 

attending. 
Cran.  I  hope  I  am  not  too  late ;  and  yet  the 

gentleman 

That  was  sent  to  me  from  the  council  pray'd  me 
To  make  great  haste.     All  fast?  what  means 

this?— Ho! 
Who  waits  there  ? — Sure,  you  know  me  ? 

D.  Keep.  Yes,  my  lord  ; 

But  yet  I  cannot  help  you. 


Cran.  Why? 
D.  Keep.  Y 


Keep.  Your  grace  must  wait  till  you  be 
call'd  for. 

Enter  DOCTOR  BUTTS. 
Cran.  So. 


SCENE  II.] 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


747 


Butts.  [Aside.]  This  is  a  piece  of  malice.     I 

am  glad 

I  came  this  way  so  happily  :  the  king 
Shall  understand  it  presently.  [Exit. 

Cran.     [Aside.']  'Tis  Butts, 

The  King's  physician  :  as  he  pass'd  along, 
How  earnestly  he  cast  his  eyes  upon  me  ! 
Pray,  heaven,  he  sound  not  my  disgrace  !     For 

certain, 

This  is  of  purpose  laid  by  some  that  hate  me, — 
God  turn  their  hearts  !   I  never  sought  their 

malice, —  [make  me 

To  quench  mine  honour :  they  would  shame  to 
Wait  else  at  door,  a  fellow-counseilor, 
Among  boys,  grooms,  and  lackeys.     But  their 

pleasuies 
Must  be  fulfill'd,  and  I  attend  with  patience. 

The  KING  awaTBuTTS  appear  at  a  window  above. 

Butts.  I'll   show  your  grace   the  strangest 
sight,— 

K.  Hen.  What's  that,  Butts? 

Butts.   I  think  your  highness  saw  this  many 
a  day. 

K.  Hen.  Body  o'  me,  where  is  it  ? 

Butts.  There  my  lord  : 

The  high  promotion  of  his  grace  of  Canterbury ; 
Who  holds   his   state  at   door,   'mongst   pur- 
suivants, 
Pages,  and  footboys. 

K.  Hen.  Ha  !  'tis  he  indeed  : 

Is  this  the  honour  they  do  one  another  ? 
'Tis  well  there's  one  above  them  yet.     I  had 

thought 

They  had  parted  so  much  honesty  among  'em, — 
At  least  good  manners, — as  not  thus  to  suffer 
A  man  of  his  place,  and  so  near  our  favour, 
To  dance  attendance  on  their  lordships'  plea- 
sures, 

And  at  the  door  too,  like  a  post  with  packets. 
By  holy  Mary,  Butts,  there  s  knavery  : 
Let  'em  alone,  and  draw  the  curtain  close  ; 
We  shall  hear  more  anon.  \Exeunt. 

The  Cotmcil  Chamber. 

Enter  the  Lord  Chancellor,  the  DUKE  OF  SUF- 
FOLK, the  DUKE  OF  NORFOLK,  EARL  OF 
SURREY,  Lord  Chamberlain,  GARDINER, 
and  CROMWELL.  The  Chancellor  places 
himself  at  the  upper  end  of  the  table  on  the 
left  hand ;  a  seat  being  left  void  above  him, 

as  for  the   ARCHBISHOP    OF    CANTERBURY. 

The  rest  seat  themselves  in  order  on  each  side. 
CROMWELL  at  the  lower  end,  as  Secretary. 
Chan.  Speak  to  the  business,  master  secre- 
tary : 
Why  are  we  met  in  council  ? 


Crom.  Please  your  honours, 

The  chief  cause  concerns  his  grace  of  Canter- 
bury. 

Gar.  Has  he  had  knowledge  of  it  ? 

Crom.  Yes. 

Nor.  Who  waits  there  ? 

D.  Keep.  Without,  my  noble  lords? 

Gar.  Yes. 

D.  Keep.  My  lord  archbishop ; 

And   has  done  half  an   hour,   to  know  your 
pleasures. 

Chan.   Let  him  come  in. 

D.  Keep.  Your  grace  may  enter  now. 

[CRAN.  approaches  the  Council-table. 

Chan.   My  good  lord  archbishop,  I  am  very 

sorry 

To  sit  here  at  this  present,  and  behold 
That  chair  stand  empty :  but  we  all  are  men, 
In  our  own  natures  frail,  and  capable 
Of  our  flesh ;  few  are  angels :  out  of  which 
frailty  [teach  us, 

And  want  of  wisdom,  you,  that  best  should 
Have  misdemean'd  yourself,  and  not  a  little, 
Toward  the  king  first,  then  his  laws,  in  filling 
The  whole  realm,  by  your  teaching  and  your 

chaplains, — 

For  so  we  are  inform'd, — with  new  opinions, 
Divers  and  dangerous  ;  which  are  heresies, 
And,  not  reform'd,  may  prove  pernicious. 

Gar.  Which  reformation  must  be  sudden  too, 
My  noble  lords ;  for  those  that  tame  wild  horses 
Pace  'em  not  in  their  hands  to  make  'em  gentle, 
But  stop  their  mouths  with  stubborn  bits,  and 

spur  'em, 

Till  they  obey  the  manage.     If  we  suffer, — 
Out  of  our  easiness,  and  childish  pity 
To  one  man's  honour, — this  contagious  sickness, 
Farewell  all  physic  :  and  what  follows  then  ? 
Commotions,  uproars,  with  a  general  taint 
Of  the  whole  state :  as,  of  late  days,  our  neigh- 
bours, 

The  upper  Germany,  can  dearly  witness, 
Yet  freshly  pitied  in  our  memories.  [gress 

Crcn.   My  good  lords,  hitherto  in  all  the  pro- 
Both  of  my  life  and  office,  I  have  labour'd, 
And  with  no  little  study,  that  my  teaching 
And  the  strong  course  of  my  authority 
Might  go  one  way,  and  safely  ;  and  the  end 
Was  ever  to  do  well :  nor  is  there  living, — 
I  speak  it  with  a  single  heart,  my  lords, — 
A  man  that  more  detests,  more  stirs  against, 
Both  in  his  private  conscience  and  his  place, 
Defacers  of  a  public  peace,  than  I  do. 
Pray  heaven,  the  king  may  never  find  a  heart 
With  less  allegiance  in  it !     Men  that  make 
Envy  and  crooked  malice  nourishment 
Dare  bite  the  best.    I  do  beseech  your  lordships 


748 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


[ACT  v. 


That,  in  this  case  of  justice,  my  accusers, 

Be  what  they  will,  may  stand  forth  face  to  face, 

And  freely  urge  against  me. 

Suf.  Nay,  my  lord, 

That  cannot  be  :  you  are  a  counsellor, 
And,  by  that  virtue,  no  man  dare  accuse  you. 

Gar.  My  lord,  because  we  have  business  of 
more  moment,  [pleasure, 

We  will  be  short  with  you.     'Tis  his  highness' 
And  our  consent,  for  better  trial  of  you, 
From  hence  you  be  committed  to  the  Tower  ; 
Where,  being  but  a  private  man  again, 
You  shall  know  many  dare  accuse  you  boldly, 
More  than,  I  fear,  you  are  provided  for. 

Cran.  Ah,  my  good  Lord  of  Winchester,  I 
thank  you ;  [pass 

You  are  always  my  good  friend  ;  if  your  will 
I  shall  both  find  your  lordship  judge  and  juror, 
You  are  so  merciful :  I  see  your  end, — 
'Tis  my  undoing  :  love  and  meekness,  lord, 
Become  a  churchman  better  than  ambition  : 
Win  straying  souls  with  modesty  again, 
Cast  none  away.     That  I  shall  clear  myself, 
Lay  all  the  weight  ye  can  upon  my  patience, 
I  make  as  little  doubt  as  you  do  conscience 
In  doing  daily  wrongs.     I  could  say  more, 
But  reverence  to  your  calling  makes  me  modest. 

Gar.   My  lord,  my  lord,  you  are  a  sectary. 
That 's  the  plain  truth  :  your  painted  gloss  dis- 
covers, [ness. 
To  men  that  understand  you,  words  and  weak- 

Crom.  My  Lord  of  Winchester,  you  are  a  little, 
By  your  good  favour,  too  sharp  ;  men  so  noble, 
However  faulty,  yet  should  find  respect 
For  what  they  have  been  :  'tis  a  cruelty 
To  load  a  falling  man. 

Gar.  Good  master  secretary, 

I  cry  your  honour  mercy  ;  you  may,  worst 
Of  all  this  table,  say  so. 

Crom.  Why,  my  lord? 

Gar.  Do  not  I  know  you  for  a  favourer 
Of  this  new  sect  ?  ye  are  not  sound. 

Crom.  Not  sound  ? 

Gar.  Not  sound,  I  say. 

Crom.  Would  you  were  half  so  honest ! 

Men's  prayers  then  would  seek  you,  not  their 
fears. 

Gar.  I  shall  remember  this  bold  language. 

Crom.  Do. 

Remember  your  bold  life  too. 

Chan.  This  is  too  much  ; 

Forbear,  for  shame,  my  lords. 

Gar.  I  have  done. 

Crom.  And  I. 

Chan.  Then  thus  for  you,  my  lord :  it  stands 

agreed, 
I  take  it,  by  all  voices,  that  forthwith 


You  be  conveyed  to  the  Tower  a  prisoner  ; 
There  to  remain  till  the  king's  further  pleasure 
Be  known  unto  us  : — are  you  all  agreed,  lords  ? 

All.  We  are. 

Cran.  Is  there  no  other  way  of  mercy, 

But  I  must  needs  to  the  Tower,  my  lords  ? 

Gar.  What  other 

Would  you  expect  ?    You  are  strangely  trouble- 
some.— 
Let  some  o'  the  guard  be  ready  there. 

Enter  Guard. 

Cran.  For  me  ? 

Must  I  go  like  a  traitor  thither  ? 

Gar.  Receive  him, 

And  see  him  safe  i'  the  Tower. 

Cran.  Stay,  good  my  lords, 

I  have  a  little  yet  to  say.    Look  there,  my  lords  j 
By  virtue  of  that  ring  I  take  my  cause 
Out  of  the  gripes  of  cruel  men,  and  give  it 
To  a  most  noble  judge,  the  king  my  master. 

Cham.  This  is  the  king's  ring. 

Sur.  'Tis  no  counterfeit. 

Suf.  'Tis  the  right  ring,  by  heaven :  I  told  ye 

all, 

When  we  first  put  this  dangerous  stone  a-rolling, 
'T would  fall  upon  ourselves. 

Nor.  Do  you  think,  my  lords, 

The  king  will  suffer  but  the  little  finger 
Of  this  man  to  be  vex'd  ? 

Chan.  'Tis  now  too  certain  : 

How  much  more  is  his  life  in  value  with  him  ? 
Would  I  were  fairly  out  on 't ! 

Crom.  My  mind  gave  me, 

In  seeking  tales  and  informations 
Against  this  man, — whose  honesty  the  devil 
And  his  disciples  only  envy  at, — 
Ye  blew  the  fire  that  burns  ye :  now  have  at  ye. 

Enter  the  KING  frowning  on  them  ;  he  takes 

his  seat. 
Gar.  Dread   sovereign,  how  much  are  we 

bound  to  heaven 

In  daily  thanks,  that  gave  us  such  a  prince  ; 
Not  only  good  and  wise,  but  most  religious  ; 
One  that,  in  all  obedience,  makes  the  church 
The  chief  aim  of  his  honour  ;  and,  to  strengthen 
That  holy  duty,  out  of  dear  respect, 
His  royal  self  in  judgment  comes  to  hear 
The  cause  betwixt  her  and  this  great  offender. 
K.  Hen.   You   were   ever  good   at  sudden 

commendations, 

Bishop  of  Winchester.     But  know,  I  come  not 
To  hear  such  flattery  now,  and  in  my  presence  ; 
They  are  too  thin  and  bare  to  hide  offences. 
To  me  you  cannot  reach  :  you  play  the  spaniel, 
And  think  with  wagging  of  your  tongue  to  win 

me; 


SCENE  II.] 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


749 


But  whatsoe'er  thou  tak'st  me  for,  I  am  sure 
Thou  hast  a  cruel  nature,  and  a  bloody. — 
Good  man  [to  CRANMER],  sit  down.     Now  let 

me  see  the  proudest, 

He  that  dares  most,  but  wag  his  finger  at  thee  : 
By  all  that 's  holy,  he  had  better  starve 
Than  but  once  think  this  place  becomes  thee  not. 
Sur.  May  it  please  your  grace, — 
K,  Hen.          No,  sir,  it  does  not  please  me. 
I  had  thought  I  had  had  men  of  some  under- 
standing 

And  wisdom  of  my  council ;  but  I  find  none. 
Was  it  discretion,  lords,  to  let  this  man, 
This  good  man, — few  of  you  deserve  that  title, — 
This  honest  man,  wait  like  a  lousy  footboy 
At  chamber  door?  and  one  as  great  as  you  are? 
Why,  what  a  shame  was  this  !    Did  my  com- 
mission 

Bid  ye  so  far  forget  yourselves  ?     I  gave  ye 
Power  as  he  was  a  counsellor  to  try  him, 
Not  as  a  groom  :  there 's  some  of  ye,  I  see, 
More  out  of  malice  than  integrity, 
Would  try  him  to  the  utmost,  had  ye  mean  ; 
Which  ye  shall  never  have  while  I  live. 

Chan.  Thus  far, 

My  most  dread  sovereign,  may  it  like  your  grace 
To  let  my  tongue  excuse  all.  What  was  purpos'd 
Concerning  his  imprisonment  was  rather, — 
If  there  be  faith  in  men, — meant  for  his  trial, 
And  fair  purgation  to  the  world,  than  malice, — 
I  'm  sure  in  me. 

K.  Hen.  Well,  well,  my  lords,  respect  him; 
Take  him,  and  use  him  well,  he 's  worthy  of  it. 
I  will  say  thus  much  for  him, — if  a  prince 
May  be  beholding  to  a  subject,  I 
Am,  for  his  love  and  service,  so  to  him. 
Make  me  no  more  ado,  but  all  embrace  him  : 
Be  friends,  for  shame,  my  lords  ! — My  Lord  of 

Canterbury, 

I  have  a  suit  which  you  must  not  deny  me  ; 
That  is,  afair  young  maid  that  yet  wants  baptism, 
You  must  be  godfather,  and  answer  for  her. 
Cran.  The  greatest  monarch  now  alive  may 

glory 

In  such  an  honour  :  how  may  I  deserve  it, 
That  am  a  poor  and  humble  subject  to  you  ? 
K.  Hen.  Come,  come,  my  lord,  you  'd  spare 

your  spoons  :  you  shall  have 
Two  noble  partners  with  you  :  the  old  Duchess 
of  Norfolk  [you  ? 

And  Lady  Marquis  Dorset :  will  these  please 
Oncemore,my  Lord  of  Winchester,  I  charge  you, 
Embrace  and  love  this  man. 

Gar.  With  a  true  heart 

And  brother-love  I  do  it. 

Cran.  And  let  heaven 

Witness  how  dear  I  hold  this  confirmation. 


K.  Hen.  Good  man,  those  joyful  tears  show 

thy  true  heart : 

The  common  voice,  I  see,  is  verified 
Of  thee,   which   says   thus,- — Do  my  Lord  of 

Canterbury 

A  shrewd  turn,  and  he  is  your  friend  for  ever. — 
Come,  lords,  we  trifle  time  away  ;  I  long 
To  have  this  young  one  made  a  Christian. 
As  I  have  made  ye  one,  lords,  one  remain  ; 
So  I  grow  stronger,  you  more  honour  gain. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  Palace  Yard. 

Noise  and  tumult  "within.     Enter  Porter  and 
his  Man. 

Port.  You  '11  leave  your  noise  anon,  ye 
rascals:  do  you  take  the  court  for  Paris  garden? 
ye  rude  slaves,  leave  your  gaping. 

[Within.]  Good  master  porter,  I  belong  to 
the  larder. 

Port.  Belong  to  the  gallows,  and  be  hanged, 
you  rogue  !  is  this  a  place  to  roar  in  ? — Fetch 
me  a  dozen  crab-tree  staves,  and  strong  ones : 
these  are  but  switches  to  them. — I  '11  scratch 
your  heads :  you  must  be  seeing  christenings? 
do  you  look  for  ale  and  cakes  here,  you  rude 
rascals  ? 

Man.   Pray,   sir,   be   patient :   'tis  as  much 
impossible, — •  [cannons, — 

Unless  we  sweep  them  from  the  door  with 
To  scatter  'em  as  'tis  to  make  'em  sleep 
On  May-day  morning  ;  which  will  never  be  : 
We  may  as  well  push  against  Paul's  as  stir  'em. 

Port.  How  got  they  in,  and  be  hang'd  ? 

Man.  Alas,  I  know  not ;  how  gets  the  tide  in? 
As  much  as  one  sound  cudgel  of  four  foot, — 
You  see  the  poor  remainder, — could  distribute, 
I  made  no  spare,  sir. 

Port.  You  did  nothing,  sir. 

Man.  I  am  not  Samson,  nor  Sir  Guy,  nor 
Colbrand,  [any 

To  mow  'em  down  before  me  :  but  if  I  spar'd 
That  had  a  head  to  hit,  either  young  or  old, 
He  or  she,  cuckold  or  cuckold -maker, 
Let  me  ne'er  hope  to  see  a  chine  again ; 
And  that  I  would  not  for  a  cow,  God  save  her! 

[Within.]  Do  you  hear,  master  porter? 

Port.  I  shall  be  with  you  presently,  good 
master  puppy. — Keep  the  door  close,  sirrah. 

Man.  What  would  you  have  me  do  ? 

Port.  What  should  you  do,  but  knock  them 
down  by  the  dozens?  Is  this  Moorfields  to 
muster  in?  or  have  we  some  strange  Indian 
with  the  great  tool  come  to  court,  the  women 
so  besiege  us  ?  Bless  me,  what  a  fry  of  fornica- 
tion is  at  door  I  On  my  Christian  conscience, 


750 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


[ACT  V.' 


this  one  christening  will  beget  a  thousand  : 
here  will  be  father,  godfather,  and  all  together. 

Man.  The  spoons  will  be  the  bigger,  sir. 
There  is  a  fellow  somewhat  near  the  door,  he 
should  be  a  brazier  by  his  face,  for,  o'  my  con- 
science, twenty  of  the  dog-days  now  reign  in 's 
nose ;  all  that  stand  about  him  are  under  the 
line,  they  need  no  other  penance :  that  fire-drake 
did  I  hit  three  times  on  the  head,  and  three 
times  was  his  nose  discharged  against  me ;  he 
stands  there,  like  a  mortar-piece,  to  blow  us. 
There  was  a  haberdasher's  wife  of  small  wit 
near  him,  that  railed  upon  me  till  her  pink'd 
porringer  fell  off  her  head,  for  kindling  such  a 
combustion  in  the  state.  I  miss'd  the  meteor 
once,  and  hit  that  woman,  who  cried  out  Clubs! 
when  I  might  see  from  far  some  forty  trun- 
cheoners  draw  to  her  succour,  which  were  the 
hope  of  the  Strand,  where  she  was  quartered. 
They  fell  on ;  I  made  good  my  place :  at  length 
they  came  to  the  broomstaff  to  me  ;  I  defied 
them  still :  when  suddenly  a  file  of  boys  behind 
them,  loose  shot,  delivered  such  a  shower  of 
pebbles,  that  I  was  fain  to  draw  mine  honour 
in,  and  let  them  win  the  work  :  the  devil  was 
amongst  them,  I  think,  surely. 

Port.  These  are  the  youths  that  thunder  at  a 
play-house  and  fight  for  bitten  apples ;  that,  no 
audience,  but  the  Tribulation  of  Tower-hill  or 
the  limbs  of  Limehouse,  their  dear  brothers, 
are  able  to  endure.  I  have  some  of  them  in 
Limbo  Patrum,  and  there  they  are  like  to 
dance  these  three  days ;  besides  the  running 
banquet  of  two  beadles  that  is  to  come. 

Enter  the  Lord  Chamberlain. 

Cham.   Mercy  o'me,  what  a  multitude  are 

here !  [coming, 

They  grow  still  too ;  from  all  parts  they  are 
As  if  we  kept  a  fair  here  !  Where  are  these 

porters, 
These  lazy  knaves? — Ye  have  made  a  fine  hand, 

fellows. 

There 's  a  trim  rabble  let  in  :  are  all  these 
Your  faithful  friends  o'  the  suburbs  ?    We  shall 

have  [ladies, 

Great  store  of  room,  no  doubt,  left  for  the 
When  they  pass  back  from  the  christening. 

Port.  An  ;t  please  your  honour, 

We  are  but  men ;  and  what  so  many  may  do, 
Not  being  torn  a  pieces,  we  have  done  : 
An  army  cannot  rule  'em. 

Cham.  As  I  live, 

If  the  king  blame  me  for 't,  I  '11  lay  ye  all 
By  the  heels,  and  suddenly  ;  and  on  your  heads 
Clap  round  fines  for  neglect :  you  're  lazy  knaves; 
And  here  ye  lie  baiting  of  bombards,  when 


Ye  should  do  service.      Hark  !   the  trumpets 

sound  ; 

They  are  come  already  from  the  christening  : 
Go,  break  among  the  press,  and  find  a  way  out 
To  let  the  troop  pass  fairly  ;  or  I  '11  find 
A  Marshalsea  shall  hold  you  play  these  two 
months. 

Port.   Make  way  there  for  the  princess. 

Man.  You  great  fellow, 

Stand  close  up,  or  1  :11  make  your  head  ache. 

Port.  You  i'  the  camlet,  get  up  o'  the  rail  ; 
I  '11  pick  you  o'er  the  pales  else.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.—  The  Palace. 


Enter  trumpets,  sounding;  then  two  Aldermen, 
Lord  Mayor,  Garter,  CRANMER,  DUKE  OF 
NORFOLK,  with  his  marshal's  staff,  DUKE 
OF  SUFFOLK,  two  Noblemen  bearing  great 
standing-bowls  for  the  christening  gifts  ;  then 
four  Noblemen  bearing  a  canopy,  tinder  which 
the  DUCHESS  OF  NORFOLK,  godmother, 
bearing  the  child  richly  habited  in  a  mantle, 
<SrV.  Train  borne  by  a  Lady  ;  then  follows 
the  MARCHIONESS  OF  DORSET,  the  other 
godmother,  and  Ladies.  The  troop  pass  once 
about  the  stage,  and  Garter  speaks. 

Gart.  Heaven,  from  thy  endless  goodness, 
send  prosperous  life,  long,  and  ever-happy,  to 
the  high  and  mighty  princess  of  England, 
Elizabeth  ! 

Flourish.     Enter  KlNG  and  Train. 

Cran.  [Kneeling.]  And  to  your  royal  grace 

and  the  good  queen, 

My  noble  partners  and  myself  thus  pray  ;  — 
All  comfort,  joy,  in  this  most  gracious  lady, 
Heaven  ever  laid  up  to  make  parents  happy, 
May  hourly  fall  upon  ye  ! 

K.  Hen.  Thank  you,  good  lord  archbishop* 
What  is  her  name  ? 

Cran.  Elizabeth. 

K.  Hen.  Stand  up,  lord.— 

[The  KING  kisses  the  child. 
With  this  kiss  take  my  blessing  :  God  protect 

thee! 

Into  whose  hand  I  give  thy  life. 
Cran.  Amen. 

K.  Hen.  My  noble  gossips,   ye  have  been 

too  prodigal. 

I  thank  ye  heartily  ;  so  shall  this  lady, 
When  she  has  so  much  English. 

Cran.  Let  me  speak,  sir, 

For  heaven  now  bids  me  ;  and  the  words  I  utter 

Let  none  think  flattery,  for  they  '11  find  'em  truth. 

This  royal  infant,  —  Heaven  still  move  about 

her  !  — 


SCENE  IV.] 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 


751 


Though  in  her  cradle,  yet  now  promises 
Upon  this  land  a  thousand  thousand  blessings, 
Which  time  shall  bring  to  ripeness :  she  shall 

be, — 

But  few  now  living  can  behold  that  goodness, — 
A  pattern  to  all  princes  living  with  her, 
And  all  that  shall  succeed  :  Saba  was  never 
More  covetous  of  wisdom  and  fair  virtue 
Than  this  pure  soul  shall  be :  all  princely  graces, 
That  mould  up  such  a  mighty  piece  as  this  is, 
With  all  the  virtues  that  attend  the  good, 
Shall  still  be  doubled  on  her  :  truth  shall  nurse 

her, 

Holy  and  heavenly  thoughts  still  counsel  her  : 
She  shall  be  lov'd  and  fear'd  :   her  own  shall 

bless  her ; 

Her  foes  shake  like  a  field  of  beaten  corn, 
And  hang  their  heads  with  sorrow :  good  grows 

with  her : 

In  her  days  every  man  shall  eat  in  safety, 
Under  his  own  vine,  what  he  plants ;  and  sing 
The  merry  songs  of  peace  to  all  his  neighbours : 
God  shall  be  truly  known  ;  and  those  about  her 
From  her  shall  read  the  perfect  ways  of  honour, 
And  by  those  claim  their  greatness,  not  by  blood. 
Nor  shall  this  peace  sleep  with  her :  but  as  when 
The  bird  of  wonder  dies,  the  maiden  phoenix, 
Her  ashes  new  create  another  heir, 
As  great  in  admiration  as  herself; 
So  shall  she  leave  her  blessedness  to  one, — 
When  heaven  shall  call  her  from  this  cloud  of 

darkness, — 

Who  from  the  sacred  ashes  of  her  honour 
Shall  star-like  rise,  as  great  in  fame  as  she  was, 
And  so  stand  fix'd  :  peace,  plenty,  love,  truth, 

terror, 

That  were  the  servants  to  this  chosen  infant, 
Shall  then  be  his,  and  like  a  vine  grow  to  him : 
Wherever  the  bright  sun  of  heaven  shall  shine, 
His  honour  and  the  greatness  of  his  name 
Shall   be,    and   make  new   nations :   he  shall 

flourish, 

And,  like  a  mountain  cedar,  reach  his  branches 
To  all  the  plains  about  him  : — our  children's 

children 
Shall  see  this  and  bless  Heaven. 


K.  Hen.  Thou  speak'st  wonders. 

Cran.  She   shall    be,    to  the  happiness  of 

England, 

An  aged  princess ;  many  days  shall  see  her, 
And  yet  no  day  without  a  deed  to  crown  it. 
Would  I  had  known  no  more  !  but  she  must  die, 
She  must,  the  saints  must  have  her, — yet  a 

virgin  ; 

A  most  unspotted  lily  shall  she  pass 
To  the  ground,  and  all  the  world  shall  mourn 

her. 

K.  Hen.  O  lord  archbishop, 
Thou  hast  made  me  now  a  man ;  never,  before 
This  happy  child,  did  I  get  anything  : 
This  oracle  of  comfort  has  so  pleas'd  me 
That  when  I  am  in  heaven  I  shall  desire 
To  see  what  this  child  does,  and  praise  my 

Maker.— 

I  thank  ye  all. — To  you,  my  good  lord  mayor, 
And  you,  good  brethren,  I  am  much  beholding; 
I  have  received  much  honour  by  your  presence, 
And  ye  shall  find  me  thankful.— Lead  the  way, 

lords :—  [ye, 

Ye  must  all  see  the  queen,  and  she  must  thank 
She  will  be  sick  else.     This  day,  no  man  think 
Has  business  at  his  house  ;  for  all  shall  stay : 
This  little  one  shall  make  it  holiday.     [Exeunt. 


EPILOGUE. 

'Tis  ten  to  one  this  play  can  never  please 
All  that  are  here :  some  come  to  take  their  ease, 
And  sleep  an  act  or  two  ;  but  those,  we  fear, 
We  have  frightened  with  our  trumpets ;  so,  'tis 

clear, 

They'll  say  'tis  naught :  others  to  hear  the  city 
Abus'd  extremely,  and  to  cry, —  T&at's  witty! 
Which  we  have  not  done  neither :  that,  I  fear, 
All  the  expected  good  we  're  like  to  hear 
For  this  play  at  this  time,  is  only  in 
The  merciful  construction  of  good  women  ; 
For  such  a  one  we  show'd  'em  :  if  they  smile, 
And  say  'twill  do,  I  know,  within  awhile 
All  the  best  men  are  ours  ;  for  'tis  ill  hap 
If  they  hold  when  their  ladies  bid  'em  clap. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


PRIAM,  King  of  Troy. 

HECTOR, 

TROILUS, 

PARIS,  \his  Sons. 

DEIPHOBUS, 

HELENUS, 

M ARGARELON,  a  bastard  Son  of  PRIAM, 


CALCHAS,  a  Trojan  Priestt  taking  part  with 

the  Greeks. 

PANDARUS,  Uncle  to  CRESSIDA. 
AGAMEMNON,  the  Grecian  General. 
MENELAUS,  his  Brother. 

A'~HJLLES'    )  Grecian  Commanders. 
AJAX,  J 


~ 

Commanders. 


ULYSSES, 

NESTOR, 

DIOMEDES, 

PATROCLUS, 

THERSITES,  a  deformed  and  scurrilous  Grecian* 

ALEXANDER,  Servant  to  CRESSIDA. 

Servant  to  TROILUS. 

Servant  to  PARIS. 

Servant  to  DIOMEDES. 

HELEN,  Wife  to  MENELAUS. 
ANDROMACHE,  Wife  to  HECTOR. 
CASSANDRA,  Daughter  to  PRIAM,  a  Prophetess. 
CRESSIDA,  Daughter  to  CALCHAS. 

Trojan  and  Greek  Soldiers,  and  Attendants. 


SCENE, — TROY,  and  the  Grecian  Camp  before  it. 
PROLOGUE. 


In  Troy,  there  lies  the  scene.     From  isles  of 

Greece 

The  princes  orgulous,  their  high  blood  chaf'd, 
Have  to  the  port  of  Athens  sent  their  ships, 
Fraught  with  the  ministers  and  instruments 
Of  cruel  war  :  sixty  and  nine,  that  wore 
Their  crownets  regal,  from  the  Athenian  bay 
Put  forth  toward  Phrygia  :   and  their  vow  is 

made 

To  ransack  Troy ;  within  whose  strong  immures 
The  ravish'd  Helen,  Menelaus'  queen, 
With  wanton   Paris    sleeps ;    and    that 's  the 

quarrel. 

To  Tenedos  they  come  ; 

And  the  deep-drawing  barks  do  there  disgorge 
Their  warlike  fraughtage :  now  on  Dardan  plains 
The  fresh  and  yet  unbruised  Greeks  do  pitch 
eir  brave  pavilions :  Priam's  six-gated  city, 
rdan,  and  Tymbria,  Helias,  Chetas,  Troien, 
And  Antenorides,  with  massy  staples 
And  corresponsive  and  fulfilling  bolts, 
Sperr  up  the  sons  of  Troy. 
Now  expectation,  tickling  skittish  spirits, 
On  one  and  other  side,  Trojan  and  Greek, 
Sets  all  on  hazard : — and  hither  am  I  come 
A  prologue  arm'd, — but  not  in  confidence 
Of  author's  pen  or  actor's  voice ;  but  suited 


In  like  conditions  as  our  argument, — 
To  tell  you,  fair  beholders,  that  our  play 
Leaps  o'er  the  vaunt  and  firstlings  of  those 

broils, 

Beginning  in  the  middle ;  starting  thence  away 
To  what  may  be  digested  in  a  play. 
Like,  or  find  fault ;  do  as  your  pleasures  are  ; 
Now  good  or  bad,  'tis  but  the  chance  of  war. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — TROY.     Before  PRIAM'S  Palace. 
Enter  TROILUS  armed,  and  PANDARUS. 

Tro.  Call  here  my  varlet ;  I  '11  unarm  again : 
Why  should  I  war  without  the  walls  of  Troy, 
That  find  such  cruel  battle  here  within  ? 
Each  Trojan  that  is  master  of  his  heart, 
Let  him  to  field  ;  Troilus,  alas  !  hath  none. 

Pan.  Will  this  gear  ne'er  be  mended  ? 

Tro.  The  Greeks  are  strong,  and  skilful  to 
their  strength,  [valiant ; 

Fierce  to  their  skill,  and  to  their  fierceness 
But  I  am  weaker  than  a  woman's  tear, 
Tamer  than  sleep,  fonder  than  ignorance, 
Less  valiant  than  the  virgin  in  the  night, 
And  skilless  as  unpractis'd  infancy. 

Pan.  Well,  I  have  told  you  enough  of  this : 


SCENE  L] 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


753 


for  my  part,  I  '11  not  meddle  nor  make  no 
further.  He  that  will  have  a  cake  out  of  the 
wheat  must  needs  tarry  the  grinding. 

Tro.  Have  I  not  tarried? 

Pan.  Ay,  the  grinding  ;  but  you  must  tarry 
the  bolting. 

Tro.  Have  I  not  tarried  ? 

Pan.  Ay,  the  bolting ;  but  you  must  tarry 
the  leavening. 

Tro.  Still  have  I  tarried. 

Pan.  Ay,  to  the  leavening ;  but  here 's  yet 
in  the  word  hereafter,  the  kneading,  the  making 
of  the  cake,  the  heating  of  the  oven,  and  the 
baking ;  nay,  you  must  stay  the  cooling  too,  or 
you  may  chance  to  burn  your  lips.  [be, 

Tro.  Patience  herself,  what  goddess  e'er  she 
Doth  lesser  blench  at  sufferance  than  I  do. 
At  Priam's  royal  table  do  I  sit ; 
And  when  fair  Cressid  conies  into  my  thoughts, — 
So,  traitor! — when  she  comes! — When  is  she 
thence  ? 

Pan.  Well,  she  looked  yesternight  fairer  than 
ever  I  saw  her  look,  or  any  woman  else. 

Tro.  I  was  about  to  tell  thee, — when  my  heart, 
As  wedged  with  a  sigh,  would  rive  in  twain ; 
Lest  Hector  or  my  father  should  perceive  me, 
I  have, — as  when  the  sun  doth  light  a  storm, — 
Buried  this  sigh  in  wrinkle  of  a  smile  : 
But  sorrow  that  is  couch'd  in  seeming  gladness 
Is  like  that  mirth  fate  turns  to  sudden  sadness. 

Pan.  An  her  hair  were  not  somewhat  darker 
than  Helen's, — well,  go  to, — there  were  no  more 
comparison  between  the  women, — but,  for  my 
part,  she  is  my  kinswoman ;  I  would  not,  as 
they  term  it,  praise  her, — but  I  would  some- 
body had  heard  her  talk  yesterday,  as  I  did. 
I  will  not  dispraise  your  sister  Cassandra's  wit ; 
but, — 

Tro.  O  Pandarus !  I  tell  thee,  Pandarus,— 
When  I  do  tell  thee  there  my  hopes  lie  drown'd, 
Reply  not  in  how  many  fathoms  deep 
They  lie  indrench'd.     I  tell  thee,  I  am  mad 
In  Cressid's  love :  thou  answer'st,  she  is  fair  ; 
Pour'st  in  the  open  ulcer  of  my  heart     [voice  ; 
Her  eyes,  her  hair,  her  cheek,  her  gait,  her 
Handiest  in  thy  discourse,  O,  that  her  hand, 
In  whose  comparison  all  whites  are  ink, 
Writing  their  own  reproach;  to  whose  soft 

seizure 

The  cygnet's  down  is  harsh,  and  spirit  of  sense 
Hard  as  the  palm  of  ploughman  ! — This  thou 

tell'st  me, 

As  true  thou  tell'st  me,  when  I  say  I  love  her  ; 
But,  saying  thus,  instead  of  oil  and  balm,     [me 
Thou  la/st  in  every  gash  that  love  hath  given 
jThe  knife  that  made  it. 
S  .Pan.  I  speak  no  more  than  truth. 


Tro.  Thou  dost  not  speak  so  much. 

Pan.  Faith,  I  '11  not  meddle  in 't.  Let  her 
be  as  she  is :  if  she  be  fair,  'tis  the  better  for 
her ;  an  she  be  not,  she  has  the  mends  in  her 
own  hands. 

Tro.  Good  Pandarus, — how  now,  Pandarus  ! 

Pan.  I  have  had  my  labour  for  my  travail ; 
ill-thought  on  of  her,  and  ill-thought  on  of  you  : 
gone  between  and  between,  but  small  thanks 
for  my  labour. 

Tro.  What,  art  thou  angry,  Pandarus  ? 
what,  with  me  ? 

Pan.  Because  she  is  kin  to  me,  therefore 
she 's  not  so  fair  as  Helen :  an  she  were  not  kin 
to  me,  she  would  be  as  fair  on  Friday  as  Helen 
is  on  Sunday.  But  what  care  I  ?  I  care  not 
an  she  were  a  blackamoor ;  'tis  all  one  to  me. 

Tro.  Say  I,  she  is  not  fair  ? 

Pan.  I  do  not  care  whether  you  do  or  no. 
She 's  a  fool  to  stay  behind  her  father ;  let  her 
to  the  Greeks;  and  so  I'll  tell  her  the  next 
time  I  see  her :  for  my  part,  I  Ml  meddle  nor 
make  no  more  in  the  matter. 

Tro.  Pandarus, — 

Pan.  Not  I. 

Tro.  Sweet  Pandarus, — 

Pan.  Pray  you,  speak  no  more  to  me :  I 
will  leave  all  as  I  found  it,  and  there  an  end. 
[Exit.     An  alarum. 

Tro.  Peace,  you  ungracious  clamours !  peace, 

rude  sounds  ! 

Fools  on  both  sides  !  Helen  must  needs  be  fair, 
When  with  your  blood  you  daily  paint  her  thus. 
I  cannot  fight  upon  this  argument ; 
It  is  too  starv'd  a  subject  for  my  sword. 
But  Pandarus, — O  gods,  how  do  you  plague 

mel 

I  cannot  come  to  Cressid  but  by  Pandar  ; 
And  he 's  as  tetchy  to  be  woo'd  to  woo 
As  she  is  stubborn -chaste  against  all  suit. 
Tell  me,  Apollo,  for  thy  Daphne's  love, 
What  Cressid  is,  what  Pandar,  and  what  we  ? 
Her  bed  is  India  ;  there  she  lies,  a  pearl : 
Between  our  Ilium  and  where  she  resides 
Let  it  be  call'd  the  wild  and  wandering  flood  ; 
Ourself  the  merchant ;  and  this  sailing  Pandar 
Our  doubtful  hope,  our  convoy,  and  our  bark. 

Alarum.     Enter  /ENEAS. 

&ne.  How  now,  Prince  Troilus!  wherefore 
not  afield?  [sorts, 

Tro.  Because  not  there :  this  woman's  answer 
For  womanish  it  is  to  be  from  thence. 
What  news,  /Eneas,  from  the  field  to-day  ? 
s£ne.  That  Paris  is  returned  home,  and  hurt, 
Tro.  By  whom,  ^!neas  ? 

Troilus,  by  Menelaus. 


754 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA 


[ACT  i. 


Tro.  Let  Paris  bleed :  'tis  but  a  scar  to  scorn ; 

Paris  is  gor'd  with  Menelaus'  horn.     {Alarum. 

^ne.  Hark,  what  good  sport  is  out  of  town 

to-day  ! 

Tro.  Better  at  home,  if  would  I  might  were 

may. —  [thither  ? 

But   to   the   sport    abroad ; — are    you    bound 

s£ne.  In  all  swift  haste. 

Tro.  Come,  go  we,  then,  together. 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— TROY.     A  Street. 
Enter  CRESSIDA  and  ALEXANDER. 

Cres.  Who  were  those  went  by  ? 

Alex.  Queen  Hecuba  and  Helen. 

Cres.  And  whither  go  they  ? 

Alex.  Up  to  the  eastern  tower, 

Whose  height  commands  as  subject  all  the  vale, 
To  see  the  battle.     Hector,  whose  patience 
Is  as  a  virtue  fix'd,  to-day  was  mov'd : 
He  chid  Andromache,  and  struck  his  armourer ; 
And,  like  as  there  were  husbandry  in  war, 
Before  the  sun  rose  he  was  harness'd  light, 
And  to  the  field  goes  he ;  where  every  flower 
Did,  as  a  prophet,  weep  what  it  foresaw 
In  Hector's  wrath. 

Cres.  What  was  his  cause  of  anger  ? 

Alex.  The  noise  goes,  this :  there  is  among 

the  Greeks 

A  lord  of  Trojan  blood,  nephew  to  Hector  ; 
They  call  him  Ajax. 

Cres.  Good ;  and  what  of  him  ? 

Alex.  They  say  he  is  a  very  man  per  se, 
And  stands  alone. 

Cres.  So  do  all  men, — unless  they  are  drunk, 
sick,  or  have  no  legs. 

Alex.  This  man,  lady,  hath  robbed  many 
beasts  of  their  particular  additions :  he  is  as 
valiant  as  the  lion,  churlish  as  the  bear,  slow 
as  the  elephant :  a  man  into  whom  nature  hath 
so  crowded  humours  that  his  valour  is  crushed 
into  folly,  his  folly  sauced  with  discretion :  there 
is  no  man  hath  a  virtue  that  he  hath  not  a  glimpse 
of ;  nor  any  man  an  attaint,  but  he  carries  some 
stain  of  it :  he  is  melancholy  without  cause,  and 
merry  against  the  hair  :  he  hath  the  joints  of 
everything  ;  but  everything  so  out  of  joint  that 
he  is  a  gouty  Briareus,  many  hands  and  no  use  ; 
or  purblind  Argus,  all  eyes  and  no  sight. 

Cres.  But  how  should  this  man,  that  makes 
me  smile,  make  Hector  angry  ? 

Alex.  They  say  he  yesterday  coped  Hector 
in  the  battle,  and  struck  him  down ;  the  disdain 
and  shame  whereof  hath  ever  since  kept  Hector 
fasting  and  waking. 

Cres.  Who  comes  here  ? 

Akx.  Madam,  your  uncle  Pandarus. 


Enter  PANDARUS. 

Cres.  Hector 's  a  gallant  man. 

Alex.  As  may  be  in  the  world,  lady. 

Pan.  What 's  that  ?  what 's  that  ? 

Cres.   Good-morrow,  uncle  Pandarus. 

Pan.  Good-morrow,  cousin  Cressid:  what 
do  you  talk  of? — Good-morrow,  Alexander. — 
How  do  you,  cousin  ?  When  were  you  at  Ilium  ? 

Cres.  This  morning,  uncle. 

Pan.  What  were  you  talking  of  when  I  came  ? 
Was  Hector  armed  and  gone  ere  ye  came  to 
Ilium  ?  Helen  was  not  up,  was  she  ? 

Cres.  Hector  was  gone  ;  but  Helen  was  not 
up. 

Pan.  E'en  so  :  Hector  was  stirring  early. 

Cres.  That  were  we  talking  of,  and  of  his 
anger. 

Pan.  Was  he  angry  ? 

Cres.   So  he  says  here. 

Pan.  True,  he  was  so  ;  I  know  the  cause  too ; 
he  '11  lay  about  him  to-day,  I  can  tell  them  that : 
and  there  is  Troilus  will  not  come  far  behind 
him  ;  let  them  take  heed  of  Troilus,  I  can  tell 
them  that  too. 

Cres.  What,  is  he  angry  too  ? 

Pan.  Who,  Troilus?  Troilus  is  the  better 
man  of  the  two. 

Cres.  O  Jupiter  !  there 's  no  comparison. 

Pan.  What,  not  between  Troilus  and  Hector? 
Do  you  know  a  man  if  you  see  him  ? 

Cres.  Ay,  if  I  ever  saw  him  before,  and  knew 
him. 

Pan.  Well,  I  say  Troilus  is  Troilus. 

Cres.  Then  you  say  as  I  say ;  for  I  am  sure 
he  is  not  Hector. 

Pan.  No,  nor  Hector  is  not  Troilus  in  some 
degrees. 

Cres.  'Tis  just  to  each  of  them  ;  he  is  himself. 

Pan.  Himself !  Alas,  poor  Troilus  !  I  would 
he  were, — 

Cres.  So  he  is. 

Pan.  Condition,  I  had  gone  barefoot  to  India. 

Cres.  He  is  not  Hector. 

Pan.  Himself !  no,  he 's  not  himself,— would 
'a  were  himself!  Well,  the  gods  are  above; 
time  must  friend  or  end  :  well,  Troilus,  well, — 
I  would  my  heart  were  in  her  body  ! — No, 
Hector  is  not  a  better  man  than  Troilus. 

Cres.  Excuse  me. 

Pan.  He  is  elder. 

Cres.  Pardon  me,  pardon  me. 

Pan.  The  other  's  not  come  to 't ;  you  shall 
tell  me  another  tale  when  the  other 's  come  to 't. 
Hector  shall  not  have  his  wit  this  year, — 

Cres.  He  shall  not  need  it  if  he  have  his  own. 

Pan.  Nor  his  qualities, — 


SCEXI.  ii.] 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


755 


Cres.  No  matter. 

Pan.  Nor  his  beauty. 

Cres.  Twould  not  become  him,— his  own 's 
better. 

Pan.  You  have  no  judgment,  niece  :  Helen 
herself  swore  the  other  day  that  Troilus,  for  a 
brown  favour, — for  so  'tis,  I  must  confess, — 
not  brown  neither, — 

Cres.  No,  but  brown. 

Pan.  Faith,  to  say  truth,  brown  and  not 
brown. 

Cres.  To  say  the  truth,  true  and  not  true. 

Pan.  She  praised  his  complexion  above 
Paris. 

Cres.  Why,  Paris  hath  colour  enough. 

Pan.  So  he  has. 

Cres.  Then  Troilus  should  have  too  much  : 
'if  she  praised  him  above,  his  complexion  is 
higher  than  his  ;  he  having  colour  enough,  and 
the  other  higher,  is  too  flaming  a  praise  for  a 
good  complexion.  I  had  as  lief  Helen's  golden 
tongue  had  commended  Troilus  for  a  copper 
nose. 

Pan.  I  swear  to  you  I  think  Helen  loves  him 
better  than  Paris. 

Cres.  Then  she 's  a  merry  Greek  indeed. 

Pan.  Nay,  I  am  sure  she  does.  She  came 
tohim  the  other  day  into  the  compassed  window, 
— and,  you  know,  he  has  not  past  three  or  four 
hairs  on  his  chin, — 

Cres.  Indeed,  a  tapster's  arithmetic  may  soon 
bring  his  particulars  therein  to  a  total. 

Pan.  Why,  he  is  very  young :  and  yet  will 
he,  within  three  pounds,  lift  as  much  as  his 
brother  Hector. 

Cres.  Is  he  so  young  a  man  and  so  old  a 
lifter? 

Pan.  But  to  prove  to  you  that  Helen  loves 
him, — she  came,  and  puts  me  her  white  hand 
to  his  cloven  chin, — 

Cres.  Juno  have  mercy  !  how  came  it  cloven? 

Pan.  Why,  you  know,  'tis  dimpled  :  I  think 
his  smiling  becomes  him  better  than  any  man 
in  all  Phrygia. 

Cres.  O,  he  smiles  valiantly. 

Pan.  Does  he  not  ? 

Cres.  O  yes,  an  'twere  a  cloud  in  autumn. 

Pan.  Why,  go  to,  then  : — but  to  prove  to  you 
that  Helen  loves  Troilus, — 

Cres.  Troilus  will  stand  to  the  proof  if  you  '11 
prove  it  so. 

Pan.  Troilus  !  why,  he  esteems  her  no  more 
than  I  esteem  an  addle  egg. 

Cres.  If  you  love  an  addle  egg  as  well  as 
you  love  an  idle  head,  you  would  eat  chickens  i' 
the  shell. 

Pan.    I   cannot   choose  but  laugh  to  think 


how  she  tickled  his  chin ; — indeed,  she  has  a 
marvellous  white  hand,  I  must  needs  confess, — 

Cres.  Without  the  rack. 

Pan.  And  she  takes  upon  her  to  spy  a  white 
hair  on  his  chin. 

Cres.  Alas,  poor  chin !  many  a  wart  is  richer. 

Pan.  But  there  was  such  laughing  ! — Queen 
Hecuba  laughed,  that  her  eyes  ran  o'er, — 

Cres.  With  millstones. 

Pan.  And  Cassandra  laughed, — 

Cres.  But  there  was  more  temperate  fire  under 
the  pot  of  her  eyes. — Did  her  eyes  run  o'er  too  ? 

Pan.  And  Hector  laughed. 

Cres.  At  what  was  all  this  laughing  ? 

Pan.  Marry,  at  the  white  hair  that  Helen 
spied  on  Troilus'  chin. 

Cres.  An 't  had  been  a  green  hair  I  should 
have  laughed  too. 

Pan.  They  laughed  not  so  much  at  the  hair 
as  at  his  pretty  answer. 

Cres.  What  was  his  answer  ? 

Pan.  Quoth  she,  Here's  but  one  and  fifty 
hairs  on  your  chin,  and  one  of  them  is  white. 

Cres.  This  is  her  question. 

Pan.  That 's  true  ;  make  no  question  of  that. 
One  and  fifty  hairs,  quoth  he,  and  one  white  : 
that  white  hair  is  my  father,  and  all  the  rest 
are  his  sons.— Jupiter !  quoth  she,  which  of 
these  hairs  is  Paris  my  husband? — The  forked 
one,  quoth  he  ;  pluck  it  out  and  give  it  him. 
But  there  was  such  laughing  !  and  Helen  so 
blushed,  and  Paris  so  chafed;  and  all  the  rest 
so  laughed  that  it  passed. 

Cres.  So  let  it  now  ;  for  it  has  been  a  great 
while  going  by. 

Pan.  Well,  cousin,  I  told  you  a  thing  yester- 
day ;  think  on  't. 

Cres.  So  I  do. 

Pan.  I  '11  be  sworn  'tis  true ;  he  will  weep 
you,  an  'twere  a  man  born  in  April. 

Cres.  And  I  '11  spring  up  in  his  tears,  an  'twere 
a  nettle  against  May.  [A  retreat  sounded. 

Pan.  Hark  !  they  are  coming  from  the  field  : 
shall  we  stand  up  here,  and  see  them  as  they 
pass  toward  Ilium  ?  good  niece,  do ;  sweet 
Cressida. 

Cres.  At  your  pleasure. 

Pan.  Here,  here,  here 's  an  excellent  place  ; 
here  we  may  see  most  bravely :  I  '11  tell  you 
them  all  by  their  names  as  they  pass  by ;  but 
mark  Troilus  above  the  rest. 

Cres.  Speak  not  so  loud. 

.      ?;' C»T9ff  J    !  ?.I/HotT   2i? 

/£NEAS  passes. 

Pan.  That 's  /Eneas :  is  not  that  a  brave 
man  ?  he  *s  one  of  the  flowers  of  Troy,  I  can 
tell  you.  But  mark  Troilus  ;  you  shall  see  anon. 


756 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


[ACT  i. 


ANTENOR  passes. 

Ores.  Who's  that? 

Pan.  That's  Antenor  :  he  has  a  shrewd  wit, 
I  can  tell  you  ;  and  he 's  a  man  good  enough  : 
he's  one  o'  the  soundest  judgments  in  Troy, 
whosoever,  and  a  proper  man  of  person.  When 
comes  Troilus  ? — I  '11  show  you  Troilus  anon  : 
if  he  see  me,  you  shall  see  him  nod  at  me. 

Cres.  Will  he  give  you  the  nod  ? 

Pan.  You  shall  see. 

Cres.  If  he  do,  the  rich  shall  have  more. 

HECTOR  passes. 

Pan.  That's  Hector,  that,  that,  look  you, 

that ;  there 's  a  fellow  ! — Go  thy  way,  Hector  ! 

^-There  's  a  brave  man,  niece.  — O  brave  Hector ! 

— Look  how  he  looks ! — There's  a  countenance ! 

Is 't  not  a  brave  man  ? 

Cres.  O,  a  brave  man  ! 

Pan.  Is  'a  not  ?  It  does  a  man's  heart  good. 
— Look  you  what  hacks  are  on  his  helmet !  look 
you  yonder,  do  you  see  ?  look  you  there :  there 's 
no  jesting ;  there 's  laying  on  ;  take 't  off  who 
will,  as  they  say  :  there  be  hacks ! 

Cres.  Be  those  with  swords  ? 

Pan.  Swords  !  anything,  he  cares  not ;  an 
the  devil  come  to  him,  it 's  all  one :  by  god's 
lid,  it  does  one's  heart  good.  Yonder  comes 
Paris,  yonder  comes  Paris : 

PARIS  passes. 

look  ye  yonder,  niece  ;  is  Jt  not  a  gallant  man 
top,  is't  not?— Why,  this  is  brave  now. — Who 
said  he  came  hurt  home  to-day  ?  he 's  not  hurt : 
why,  this  will  do  Helen's  heart  good  now,  ha  ! 
—Would  I  could  see  Troilus  now  !— you  shall 
see  Troilus  anon. 

HELEN  us  passes. 

Cres.  Who's  that? 

Pan.  That's  Helenus : — I  marvel  where 
Troilus  is : — that 's  Helenus  : — I  think  he  went 
not  forth  to-day  : — that 's  Helenus. 

Cres.  Can  Helenus  fight,  uncle  ? 

Pan.  Helenus!  no; — yes,  he'll  fight  indifferent 
well. — I  marvel  where  Troilus  is. — Hark  !  do 
you  not  hear  the  people  cry  Troilus  ? — Helenus 
is  a  priest. 

Cres.  What  sneaking  fellow  comes  yonder  ? 

TROILUS/^. 

Pan.  Where  ?  yonder?  that 's  Deiphobus :— 
'tis  Troilus  !  there 's  a  man,  niece  ! — Hem  ! — 
Brave  Troilus  !  the  prince  of  chivalry  ! 

Cres.  Peace,  for  shame,  peace  ! 

Pan.  Mark  him ;  note  him : — O  brave 
Troilus  1 — look  well  upon  him,  niece  ;  look  you 


how  his  sword  is  bloodied,  and  his  helm  more 
hack'd  than  Hector's ;  and  how  he  looks,  and 
how  he  goes  ! — O  admirable  youth  !  he  ne'er 
saw  three  and  twenty. — Go  thy  way,  Troilus, 
go  thy  way  ! — Had  I  a  sister  were  a  grace,  or  a 
daughter  a  goddess,  he  should  take  his  choice. 

0  admirable  man  !  Paris? — Paris  is  dirt  to  him ; 
and,  I  warrant,  Helen,  to  change,  would  give 
an  eye  to  boot. 

Cres.  Here  come  more. 

Forces  pass. 

Pan.  Asses,  fools,  dolts  !  chaff  and  bran, 
chaff  and  bran  !  porridge  after  meat !— I  could 
live  and  die  i5  the  eyes  of  Troilus. — Ne'er  look, 
ne'er  look  ;  the  eagles  are  gone :  crows  and 
daws,  crows  and  daws  ! — I  had  rather  be  such 
a  man  as  Troilus  than  Agamemnon  and  all 
Greece. 

Cres.  There  is  among  the  Greeks  Achilles, 
^a  better  man  than  Troilus. 

Pan.  Achilles  !  a  drayman,  a  porter,  a  very 
camel. 

Cres.  Well,  welL 

Pan.  Well,  well! — Why,  have  you  any 
discretion  ?  have  you  any  eyes  ?  do  you  know 
what  a  man  is?  Is  not  birth,  beauty,  good 
shape,  discourse,  manhood,  learning,  gentleness, 
virtue,  youth,  liberality,  and  such  like,  the 
spice  and  salt  that  season  a  man  ? 

Cres.  Ay,  a  minced  man :  and  then  to  be 
baked  with  no  date  in  the  pie, — for  then  the 
man's  date 's  out. 

Pan.  You  are  such  a  woman  !  one  knows 
not  at  what  ward  you  lie. 

Cres.  Upon  my  back,  to  defend  my  belly ; 
upon  my  wit,  to  defend  my  wiles ;  upon  my 
secrecy,  to  defend  mine  honesty  ;  my  mask,  to 
defend  my  beauty ;  and  you,  to  defend  all  these  : 
and  at  all  these  wards  I  lie,  at  a  thousand 
watches. 

Pan.  Say  one  of  your  watches. 

Cres.  Nay,  I  '11  watch  you  for  that ;  and 
that 's  one  of  the  chiefest  of  them  too  :  if  I  can- 
not ward  what  I  would  not  have  hit,  I  can 
watch  you  for  telling  how  I  took  the  blow  ; 
unless  it  swell  past  hiding,  and  then  it  is  past 
watching. 

Pan.  You  are  such  another  ! 

Enter  TROILUS'  Boy. 

3       --z  Ji  .ovoiq 

Boy.  Sir,  my  lord  would  instantly  speak  with 
you. 

Pan.  Where? 

Boy.  At  your  own  house;  there  he  unarms  him. 

Pan.  Good  boy,  tell  him  I  come.    [Exit  Boy. 

1  doubt  he  be  hurt. — Fare  ye  well,  good  niece. 


SCENE  III.] 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


757 


Cres.  Adieu,  uncle. 

Pan.   I  '11  be  with  you,  niece,  by  and  by. 

Cres.   To  bring,  uncle. 

Pan.  Ay,  a  token  from  Troilus. 

Cres.   By  the  same  token — you  are  a  bawd. 
[Exit  PANDARUS. 

Words,  vows,  gifts,  tears,  and  love's  full  sacrifice, 
He  offers  in  another's  enterprise: 
But  more  in  Troilus  thousand-fold  I  see 
Than  in  the  glass  of  Pandar's  praise  may  be ; 
Yet  hold  I  off.     Women  are  angels,  wooing  : 
Things  won  are  done,  joy's  soul  lies  in  the  doing: 
That  she  belov'd  knows  naught  that  knows  not 

this, — 

Men  prize  the  thing  ungain'd  more  than  it  is : 
That  she  was  never  yet  that  ever  knew 
Love  got  so  sweet  as  when  desire  did  sue : 
Therefore  this  maxim  out  of  love  I  teach, — 
Achievement  is  command ;  ungain'd  beseech : 
Then  though  my  heart's  content  firm  love  doth 

bear, 

Nothing  of  that  shall  from  mine  eyes  appear. 

[Exit. 


SCENE  III.— THE  GRECIAN  CAMP. 
AGAMEMNON'S  Tent. 


Before 


Sennet.      Enter  AGAMEMNON,   NESTOR, 
ULYSSES,  MENELAUS,  and  others. 

Agam.  Princes,  [cheeks? 

What   grief  hath   set   the    jaundice   on   your 
The  ample  proposition  that  hope  makes 
In  all  designs  begun  on  earth  below     [disasters 
Fails  in  the  promis'd  largeness  :  checks  and 
Grow  in  the  veins  of  actions  highest  rear'd  ; 
As  knots,  by  the  conflux  of  meeting  sap, 
Infect  the  sound  pine,  and  divert  his  grain 
Tortive  and  errant  from  his  course  of  growth. 
Nor,  princes,  is  it  matter  new  to  us 
That  we  come  short  of  our  suppose  so  far 
That,  after  seven  years'  siege,  yet  Troy  walls 

stand ; 

Sith  every  action  that  hath  gone  before, 
Whereof  we  have  record,  trial  did  draw 
Bias  and  thwart,  not  answering  the  aim, 
And  that  unbodied  figure  of  the  thought 
That  gav  't  surmised  shape.  Why,  then,  you 

princes, 

Do  you  with  cheeks  abash'd  behold  our  works ; 
And  call  them  shames,  which  are,   indeed, 

naught  else 

But  the  protractive  trials  of  great  Jove 
To  find  persistive  constancy  in  men  ? 
The  fineness  of  which  metal  is  not  found 
In  fortune's  love :  for  then  the  bold  and  coward, 
The  wise  and  fool,  the  artist  and  unread, 
The  hard  and  soft,  seem  all  affin'd  and  kin  : 


But,  in  the  wind  and  tempest  of  her  frown, 
Distinction,  with  a  broad  and  powerful  fan, 
Puffing  at  all,  winnows  the  light  away  ; 
And  what  hath  mass  or  matter,  by  itself 
Lies  rich  in  virtue  and  unmingled.  [seat, 

Nest.  With  due  observance  of  thy  godlike 
Great  Agamemnon,  Nestor  shall  apply 
Thy  latest  words.     In  the  reproof  of  chance 
Lies  the  true  proof  of  men :   the  sea  being 

smooth, 

How  many  shallow  bauble  boats  dare  sail 
Upon  her  patient  breast,  making  their  way 
With  those  of  nobler  bulk  1 
But  let  the  ruffian  Boreas  once  enrage 
The  gentle  Thetis,  and,  anon,  behold 
The  strong-ribb'd  bark  through  liquid  moun- 
tains cut, 

Bounding  between  the  two  moist  elements, 
Like  Perseus'  horse  :  where 's  then  the  saucy 

boat, 

Whose  weak  untimber'd  sides  but  even  now 
Co-rivall'd  greatness?  either  to  harbour  fled 
Or  made  a  toast  for  Neptune.     Even  so 
Doth  valour's  show  and  valour's  worth  divide 
In  storms  of  fortune :  for  in  her  ray  and  bright- 
ness 

The  herd  hath  more  annoyance  by  the  breeze 
Than  by  the  tiger :  but  when  the  splitting  wind 
Makes  flexible  the  knees  of  knotted  oaks, 
And   flies  fled  under  shade, — why,  then  the 

thing  of  courage, 

As  rous'd  with  rage,  with  rage  doth  sympathize, 
And  with  an  accent  tun'd  in  self-same  key 
Retorts  to  chiding  fortune. 

Ulyss.  Agamemnon, — 

Thou   great   commander,  nerve  and  bone  of 

Greece, 

Heart  of  our  numbers,  soul  and  only  spirit, 
In  whom  the  tempers  and  the  minds  of  all 
Should  be  shut  up, — hear  what  Ulysses  speaks. 
Besides  the  applause  and  approbation 
The  which, — most  mighty  for  thy  place  and 
sway, —  [To  AGAMEMNON. 

And  thou  most  reverend  for  thy  stretch'd-out 
life, —  [To  NESTOR. 

I  give  to  both  your  speeches, — which  were  such 
As  Agamemnon  and  the  hand  of  Greece 
Should  hold  up  high  in  brass ;  and  such  again 
As  venerable  Nestor,  hatch'd  in  silver,       [tree 
Should  with  a  bond  of  air, — strong  as  the  axle- 
On  which  heaven  rides, — knit  all  the  Greekish 
ears  [both, — 

To  his  experienc'd  tongue, — yet  let  it  please 
Thou  great, — and  wise, — to  hear  Ulysses  speak. 
Agam.  Speak,  Prince  of  Ithaca;  and  be't 

of  less  expect, 
That  matter  needless,  of  importless  burden, 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


[ACT  1. 


Divide  thy  lips,  than  we  are  confident, 
When  rank  Thersites  opes  his  mastiff  jaws, 
We  shall  hear  music,  wit,  and  oracle. 

Ulyss.  Troy,  yet  upon  his  basis,  had  been 

down,  [master, 

And  the  great  Hector's  sword  had  lack'd  a 
But  for  these  instances. 
The  specialty  of  rule  hath  been  neglected  : 
And  look,  how  many  Grecian  tents  do  stand 
Hollowupon  this  plain,  so  many  hollow  factions. 
When  that  the  general  is  not  like  the  hive, 
To  whom  the  foragers  shall  all  repair, 
What  honey  is  expected  ?  Degree  being  vizarded , 
The  un worthiest  shows  as  fairly  in  the  mask. 
The  heavens  themselves,  the  planets,  and  this 

centre, 

Observe  degree,  priority,  and  place, 
Insisture,  course,  proportion,  season,  form, 
Office,  and  custom,  in  all  line  of  order  : 
And  therefore  is  the  glorious  planet  Sol 
In  noble  eminence  enthron'd  and  spher'd 
Amidst  the  other  ;  whose  medicinable  eye 
Corrects  the  ill  aspects  of  planets  evil, 
And  posts,  like  the  commandment  of  a  king, 
Sans  check,  to  good  and  bad :  but  when  the 

planets, 

In  evil  mixture,  to  disorder  wander, 
What  plagues  and  what  portents !  what  mutiny ! 
What  raging  of  the  sea !  shaking  of  earth ! 
Commotion   in   the  winds !   frights,   changes, 

horrors, 

Divert  and  crack,  rend  and  deracinate 
The  unity  and  married  calm  of  states     [shak'd, 
Quite  from  their  fixture !   O,  when  degree  is 
Which  is  the  ladder  to  all  high  designs, 
The  enterprise  is  sick !  How  could  communities, 
Degrees  in  schools,  and  brotherhoods  in  cities, 
Peaceful  commerce  from  dividable  shores, 
The  primogenitive  and  due  of  birth, 
Prerogative  of  age,  crowns,  sceptres,  laurels, 
But  by  degree,  stand  in  authentic  place  ? 
Take  but  degree  away,  untune  that  string, 
And,  hark,  what  discord  follows!  each  thing 

meets 

In  mere  oppugnancy :  the  bounded  waters 
Should  lift  their  bosoms  higher  than  the  shores. 
And  make  a  sop  of  all  this  solid  globe  : 
Strength  should  be  lord  of  imbecility, 
And  the  rude  son  should  strike  his  father  dead : 
Force  should  be  right ;  or,  rather,  right  and 

wrong, — 

Between  whose  endless  jar  justice  resides, — 
Should  lose  their  names,  and  so  should  justice 

too. 

Then  everything  includes  itself  in  power, 
Power  into  will,  will  into  appetite  ; 
And  appetite,  an  universal  wolf, 


So  doubly  seconded  with  will  and  power, 

Must  make  perforce  an  universal  prey, 

And  last  eat  up  himself.     Great  Agamemnon, 

This  chaos,  when  degree  is  suffocate, 

Follows  the  choking. 

And  this  neglection  of  degree  it  is 

That  by  a  pace  goes  backward,  with  a  purpose 

It  hath  to  climb.     The  general 's  disdain'd 

By  him  one  step  below  ;  he  by  the  next ; 

That  next  by  him  beneath  :  so  every  step, 

Exampled  by  the  first  pace  that  is  sick 

Of  his  superior,  grows  to  an  envious  fever 

Of  pale  and  bloodless  emulation  ; 

And  'tis  this  fever  that  keeps  Troy  on  foot, 

Not  her  own  sinews.     To  end  a  tale  of  length, 

Troy  in  our  weakness  stands,  not  in  her  strength. 

Nest.  Most  wisely  hath  Ulyssesherediscover'd 
The  fever  whereof  all  our  power  is  sick. 

Again.  The   nature  of  the  sickness  found, 

Ulysses, 
What  is  the  remedy  ?  [crowns 

Ulyss.  The  great  Achilles, — whom  opinion 
The  sinew  and  the  forehand  of  our  host, — 
Having  his  ear  full  of  his  airy  fame, 
Grows  dainty  of  his  worth,  and  in  his  tent 
Lies  mocking  our  designs :  with  him  Patroclus, 
Upon  a  lazy  bed,  the  livelong  day 
Breaks  scurril  jests ; 

And  with  ridiculous  and  awkward  action,— 
Which,  slanderer,  he  imitation  calls, — 
He  pageants  us.    Sometime,  great  Agamemnon, 
Thy  topless  deputation  he  puts  on  ; 
And,  like  a  strutting  player, — whose  conceit 
Lies  in  his  hamstring,  and  doth  think  it  rich 
To  hear  the  wooden  dialogue  and  sound 
'Twixt  his  stretch'd  footing  and  the  scaffoldage,  — 
Such  to-be-pitied  and  o'er-wrested  seeming 
He  acts  thy  greatness  in  :  and  when  he  speaks 
'Tis  like  a  chime  a-mending ;  with  terms  un- 
squar'd,  [dropp'd, 

Which,   from  the  tongue  of  roaring  Typhon 
Would  seem  hyperboles.     At  this  fusty  stuff 
The  large  Achilles,  on  his  press'd  bed  lolling, 
From  his  deep  chest  laughs  out  a  loud  applause ; 
Cries,  Excellent!  'tis  Agamemnon  just. 
Now  play  me  Nestor;  hem,  and  stroke  thy  beard, 
As  he  being  drest  to  some  oration. 
That 's  done ; — as  near  as  the  extremes!  ends 
Of  parallels  ;  as  like  as  Vulcan  and  his  wife  : 
Yet  god  Achilles  still  cries,  Excellent! 
'  Tis  ^Nestor  right.    Now  play  h  im  me,  Patroclus, 
Arming  to  answer  in  a  night  alarm. 
And  then,  forsooth,  the  faint  defects  of  age 
Must  be  the  scene  of  mirth ;  to  cough  and  spit, 
And,  with  a  palsy-fumbling  on  his  gorget, 
Shake  in  and  out  the  rivet :  and  at  this  sport 
Sir  Valour  dies  :  cries,  O,  enough,  Patroclus ; 


JSCENE'III.] 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


759 


Or  give  me  ribs  of  steel!    I  shall  split  all 
In  pleastire  of  my  spleen.     And  in  this  fashion 
All  our  abilities,  gifts,  natures,  shapes, 
Severals  and  generals  of  grace  exact, 
Achievements,  plots,  orders,  preventions, 
Excitements  to  the  field  or  speech  for  truce, 
Success  or  loss,  what  is  or  is  not,  serves 
As  stuff  for  these  two  to  make  paradoxes. 

Nest.  And  in  the  imitation  of  these  twain,  — 
Who,  as  Ulysses  says,  opinion  crowns 
With  an  imperial  voice,  —  many  are  infect. 
Ajax  is  grown  self-willed  ;  and  bears  his  head 
In  such  a  rein,  in  full  as  proud  a  place 
As  broad  Achilles  ;  keeps  his  tent  like  him  ; 
Makes  factious  feasts  ;  rails  on  our  state  of  war 
Bold  as  an  oracle  ;  and  sets  Thersites,  — 
A  slave,  whose  gall  coins  slanders  like  a  mint,  — 
To  match  us  in  comparisons  with  dirt, 
To  weaken  and  discredit  our  exposure, 
How  rank  soever  rounded  in  with  danger. 

Ulyss.  They  tax   our    policy,   and  call    it 

cowardice  ; 

Count  wisdom  as  no  member  of  the  war  ; 
Forestall  prescience,  and  esteem  no  act 
But  that  of  hand  :  the  still  and  mental  parts,  — 
That  do  contrive  how  many  hands  shall  strike, 
When  fitness  calls  them  on  ;   and  know,  by 

measure 

Of  their  observant  toil,  the  enemies'  weight,  — 
Why,  this  hath  not  a  finger's  dignity: 
They  call  this  bed-  work,  mappery,  closet-war; 
So  that  the  ram  that  batters  down  the  wall, 
For  the  great  swing  and  rudeness  of  his  poise, 
They  place  before  his  hand  that  made  the  engine, 
Or  those  that  with  the  fineness  of  their  souls 
By  reason  guide  his  execution. 

Nest.  Let  this  be  granted,  and  Achilles'  horse 
Makes  many  Thetis'  sons.      [  Trumpet  sounds. 

Agam.  What  trumpet  ?  look,  Menelaus. 

Men.  From  Troy. 


Agam.  What  would  you  'fore  our  tent  ? 

s£ne.  Is   this   great  Agamemnon's  tent,   I 
pray  you  ? 

Agam.  Even  this. 

Jfcne.  May  one,  that  is  a  herald  and  a  prince, 
Do  a  fair  message  to  his  kingly  ears  ? 

Agam.  With  surety  stronger  than  Achilles' 

arm  [voice 

'Fore  all  the  Greekish  heads,  which  with  one 

Call  Agamemnon  head  and  general.  [may 

ALne.  Fair  leave  and  large  security.     How 
A  stranger  to  those  most  imperial  looks 
Know  them  from  eyes  of  other  mortals  ? 

Agam.  How  ! 

Ay; 


I  ask,  that  I  might  waken  reverence, 
And  bid  the  cheek  be  ready  with  a  blush 
Modest  as  morning  when  she  coldly  eyes 
The  youthful  Phoebus : 
Which  is  that  god  in  office,  guiding  men  ? 
Which  is  the  high  and  mighty  Agamemnon  ? 

Agam.  This  Trojan  scorns  us ;  or  the  men 

of  Troy 
Are  ceremonious  courtiers. 

</Ene.  Courtiers  as  free,  as  debonair,  unarm'd, 
As  bending  angels ;  that 's  their  fame  in  peace : 
But  when  they  would  seem  soldiers,  they  have 
galls,  [Jove's  accord, 

Good  arms,  strong  joints,  true  swords ;   and, 
Nothing  so  full  of  heart.     But  peace,  ./Eneas, 
Peace,  Trojan  ;  lay  thy  finger  on  thy  lips ! 
The  worthiness  of  praise  distains  his  worth, 
If  that  the  prais'd  himself  bring  the  praise  forth : 
But  what  the  repining  enemy  commends, 
That  breath  fame  blows ;  that  praise,  sole  pure, 
transcends.  [^Eneas  ? 

Agam.  Sir,  you  of  Troy,  call  you  yourself 

A±ne.  Ay,  Greek,  that  is  my  name. 

Agam.  What 's  your  affair,  I  pray  you  ? 

JEne.  Sir,  pardon ;  'tis  for  Agamemnon's  ears. 

Agam.  He  hears  not  privately  that  comes 
from  Troy.  [him : 

JEne.  Nor  I  from  Troy  come  not  to  whisper 
I  bring  a  trumpet  to  awake  his  ear  ; 
To  set  his  sense  on  the  attentive  bent, 
And  then  to  speak. 

Agam.  Speak  frankly  as  the  wind  ; 

It  is  not  Agamemnon's  sleeping  hour : 
That  thou  shalt  know,  Trojan,  he  is  awake, 
He  tells  thee  so  himself. 

s£nc.  Trumpet,  blow  loud, 

Send  thy  brass  voice  through  all  these  lazy  tents ; 
And  every  Greek  of  mettle,  let  him  know 
What  Troy  means  fairly  shall  be  spoke  aloud. 

{Trumpet  sounds. 

We  have,  great  Agamemnon,  here  in  Troy 
A  prince  called  Hector, — Priam  is  his  father, — 
Who  in  this  dull  and  long-continued  truce 
Is  rusty  grown  :  he  bade  me  take  a  trumpet 
And  to  this  purpose  speak.     Kings,  princes, 

lords! 

If  there  be  one  among  the  fair'st  of  Greece 
That  holds  his  honour  higher  than  his  ease  ; 
That  seeks  his  praise  more  than  he  fears  his 

peril; 

That  knows  his  valour  and  knows  not  his  fear ; 
That  loves  his  mistress  more  than  in  confession, — 
With  truant  vows  to  her  own  lips  he  loves, — 
And  dare  avow  her  beauty  and  her  worth 
In  other  arms  than  hers, — to  him  this  challenge. 
Hector,  in  view  of  Trojans  and  of  Greeks, 
Shall  make  it  good,  or  do  his  best  to  do  it, 


76o 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


[ACT  i.  \ 


He  hath  a  lady  wiser,  fairer,  truer 
Than  ever  Greek  did  compass  in  his  arms 
And  will  to-morrow  with  his  trumpet  call, 
Mid-  way  between  your  tents  and  walls  of  Troy, 
To  rouse  a  Grecian  that  is  true  in  love  : 
If  any  come,  Hector  shall  honour  him  ; 
If  none,  he  '11  say  in  Troy  when  he  retires, 
The  Grecian  dames  are  sunburnt,  and  not  worth 
The  splinter  of  a  lance.     Even  so  much. 
Agam.  This  shall  be  told  our  lovers,  Lord 


If  none  of  them  have  soul  in  such  a  kind, 
We  left  them  all  at  home  :  but  we  are  soldiers  ; 
And  may  that  soldier  a  mere  recreant  prove 
That  means  not,  hath  not,  or  is  not  in  love  ! 
If  then  one  is,  or  hath,  or  means  to  be, 
That  one  meets  Hector  ;  if  none  else,  I  am  he. 

Nest.  Tell  him  of  Nestor,  one  that  was  a  man 
When  Hector's  grandsire  suck'd  :  he  is  old  now  ; 
But  if  there  be  not  in  our  Grecian  host 
One  noble  man  that  hath  one  spark  of  fire 
To  answer  for  his  love,  tell  him  from  me  — 
I  '11  hide  my  silver  beard  in  a  gold  beaver, 
And  in  my  vantbrace  put  this  wither'd  brawn  ; 
And,  meeting  him,  will  tell  him  that  my  lady 
Was  fairer  than  his  grandame,  and  as  chaste 
As  may  be  in  the  world  :  his  youth  in  flood, 
I'll  prove  this  truth  with  my  three  drops  of 
blood.  [youth  ! 

j*Enc.  Now  heavens  forbid  such  scarcity  of 

Ulyss.  Amen.  [hand  ; 

Agam.  Fair  Lord  ^Eneas,  let  me  touch  your 
To  our  pavilion  shall  I  lead  you,  sir. 
Achilles  shall  have  word  of  this  intent  ; 
So  shall  each  lord  of  Greece,  from  tent  to  tent  : 
Yourself  shall  feast  with  us  before  you  go, 
And  find  the  welcome  of  a  noble  foe. 

[Exeunt  all  but  ULYSS.  and  NEST. 

Ulyss.  Nestor,  — 

Nest.  What  says  Ulysses  ?  [brain  ; 

Ulyss.  I  have  a  young   conception   in  my 
Be  you  my  time  to  bring  it  to  some  shape. 

Nest.  What  is  't? 

Ulyss.  This  'tis  :  — 

Blunt  wedges  rive  hard  knots  :  the  seeded  pride 
That  hath  to  this  maturity  blown  up 
In  rank  Achilles  must  or  now  be  cropp'd, 
Or,  shedding,  breed  a  nursery  of  like  evil, 
To  overbulk  us  all. 

Nest.  Well,  and  how  ?         [sends, 

Ulyss.  This  challenge  that  the  gallant  Hector 
However  it  is  spread  in  general  name, 
Relates  in  purpose  only  to  Achilles.       [stance, 

Nest.  The  purpose  is  perspicuous  even  as  sub- 
Whose  grossness  little  characters  sum  up  : 
And,  in  the  publication,  make  no  strain 
But  that  Achilles,  were  his  brain  as  barren 


As  banks  of  Libya, — though,  Apollo  knows, 
'Tis  dry  enough,- — will,   with   great  speed  of 

judgment, 

Ay,  with  celerity,  find  Hector's  purpose 
Pointing  on  him. 

Ulyss.  And  wake  him  to  the  answer,  think 
you  ?  [else  oppose 

Nest.  Yes,  'tis  most  meet:  whom  may  you 
That  can  from  Hector  bring  his  honour  off, 
If  not  Achilles?   Though 't  be  a  sportful  combat, 
Yet  in  the  trial  much  opinion  dwells  ; 
For  here  the  Trojans  taste  our  dear'st  repute 
With  their  fin'st  palate:  and  trust  to  me,  Ulysses, 
Our  imputation  shall  be  oddly  pois'd 
In  this  wild  action  ;  for  the  success, 
Although  particular,  shall  give  a  scantling 
Of  good  or  bad  unto  the  general ; 
And  in  such  indexes,  although  small  pricks 
To  their  subsequent  volumes,  there  is  seen 
The  baby  figure  of  tAe  giant  mass 
Of  things  to  come  at  large.     It  is  suppos'd 
He  that  meets  Hector  issues  from  our  choice : 
And  choice  being  mutual  act  of  all  our  souls, 
Makes  merit  her  election  ;  and  doth  boil, 
As  'twere  from  forth  us  all,  a  man  distill'd 
Out  of  our  virtues  ;  who  miscarrying,        [part, 
What  heart  receives  from  hence  the  conquering 
To  steal  a  strong  opinion  to  themselves  ? 
Which  entertain'd,  limbs  are  his  instruments. 
In  no  less  working  than  are  swords  and  bows 
Directive  by  the  limbs. 

Ulyss.  Give  pardon  to  my  speech  ; — 
Therefore  'tis  meet  Achilles  meet  not  Hector. 
Let  us,  like  merchants,  show  our  foulest  wares, 
And  think  perchance  they'll  sell ;  if  not, 
The  lustre  of  the  better  shall  exceed, 
By  showing  the  worst  first.     Do  not  consent 
That  ever  Hector  and  Achilles  meet ; 
For  both  our  honour  and  our  shame  in  this 
Are  dogg'd  with  two  strange  followers. 

Nest.  I  see  them  not  with  my  old  eyes :  what 
are  they  ?  ;, .  " 

Ulyss.  What  glory  our  Achilles  shares  from 
Hector,  [him : 

Were  he  not  proud,  we  all  should  share  with 
But  he  already  is  too  insolent ; 
And  we  were  better  parch  in  Afric  sun 
Than  in  the  pride  and  salt  scorn  of  his  eyes, 
Should  he  'scape  Hector  fair :  if  he  were  foil'd, 
Why,  then  we  did  our  main  opinion  crush 
In  taint  of  our  best  man.     No,  make  a  lottery ; 
And,  by  device,  let  blockish  Ajax  draw 
The  sort  to  fight  with  Hector :  among  ourselves, 
Give  him  allowance  for  the  better  man  ; 
For  that  will  physic  the  great  Myrmidon 
Who  broils  in  loud  applause,  and  make  him  fall 
His  crest  that  prouder  than  blue  Iris  bends. 


SCENE  III.] 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


76i 


If  the  dull  brainless  Ajax  come  safe  off, 
We  '11  dress  him  up  in  voices  :  if  he  fail, 
Yet  go  we  under  our  opinion  still 
That  we  have  better  men.     But,  hit  or  miss, 
Our  project's  life  this  shape  of  sense  assumes, — 
Ajax  employ'd  plucks  down  Achilles'  plumes. 
Nest.  Now,  Ulysses,  I  begin  to  relish  thy 

advice ; 

And  I  will  give  a  taste  of  it  forthwith 
To  Agamemnon  :  go  we  to  him  straight. 
Two  curs  shall  tame  each  other  :  pride  alone 
Must  tarre  the  mastiffs  on,  as  'twere  their  bone. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — Another  part  of  the  Grecian  Camp. 
Enter  AJAX  and  THERSITES. 

Ajax.  Thersites, — 

Ther.  Agamemnon, — how  if  he  had  boils, — 
full,  all  over,  generally *, 

Ajax.  Thersites, — 

Ther.  And  those  boils  did  run  ? — Say  so, — 
did  not  the  general  run  then  ?  were  not  that  a 
botchy  core? — 

Ajax.   Dog, — 

Ther.  Then  would  come  some  matter  from 
him  ;  I  see  none  now. 

Ajax.  Thou  bitch-wolf's  son,  canst  thou  not 
hear?  Feel,  then.  [Beating him. 

Ther.  The  plague  of  Greece  upon  thee,  thou 
mongrel  beef-witted  lord  ! 

Ajax.  Speak,  then,  thou  vinewedst  leaven, 
speak  :  I  will  beat  thee  into  handsomeness. 

Ther.  I  shall  sooner  rail  thee  into  wit  and 
holiness  :  but  I  think  thy  horse  will  sooner  con 
an  oration  than  thou  learn  a  prayer  without 
book.  Thou  canst  strike,  canst  thou?  a  red 
murrain  o'  thy  jade's  tricks  ! 

Ajax.  Toadstool,  learn  me  the  proclamation. 

Ther.  Dost  thou  think  I  have  no  sense,  thou 
strikest  me  thus  ? 

Ajax.  The  proclamation, — 

Ther.  Thou  art  proclaimed  a  fool,  I  think. 

Ajax.  Do  not,  porcupine,  do  not ;  my  fingers 
itch. 

Ther.  I  would  thou  didst  itch  from  head  to 
foot,  and  I  had  the  scratching  of  thee  ;  I  would 
make  thee  the  loathsomest  scab  in  Greece. 
When  thou  art  forth  in  the  incursions,  thou 
strikest  as  slow  as  another. 

Ajax.  I  say,  the  proclamation, — 

Ther.  Thou  grumblest  and  railest  every  hour 
on  Achilles  ;  and  thou  art  as  full  of  envy  at  his 
greatness  as  Cerberus  is  at  Proserpina's  beauty, 
ay,  that  thou  barkest  at  him. 


Ajax.  Mistress  Thersites : 

Ther.  Thou  shouldst  strike  him. 

Ajax.  Cobloaf ! 

Ther.  He  would  pun  thee  into  shivers  with 
his  fist,  as  a  sailor  breaks  a  biscuit. 

Ajax.  You  whoreson  cur  !       [Beating  him. 

Ther.  Do,  do. 

Ajax.  Thou  stool  for  a  witch  ! 

Ther.  Ay,  do,  do ;  thou  sodden- witted  lord ! 
thou  hast  no  more  brain  than  I  have  in  mine 
elbows ;  an  assinego  may  tutor  thee :  thou 
scurvy  valiant  ass !  thou  art  here  but  to  thrash 
Trojans  ;  and  thou  art  bought  and  sold  among 
those  of  any  wit,  like  a  barbarian  slave.  If 
thou  use  to  beat  me,  I  will  begin  at  thy  heel, 
and  tell  what  thou  art  by  inches,  thou  thing  of 
no  bowels,  thou  ! 

Ajax.  You  dog  ! 

Ther.  You  scurvy  lord  ! 

Ajax.  You  cur  !  [Beating  him. 

Ther.  Mars  his  idiot!  do,  rudeness;  do, 
camel ;  do,  do. 

Enter  ACHILLES  and  PATROCLUS. 

Achil.  Why,  how  now,  Ajax  !  wherefore  do 

you  thus? — 
How  now,  Thersites!  what's  the  matter,  man? 

Ther.  You  see  him  there,  do  you  ? 

Achil.  Ay ;  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Ther.  Nay,  look  upon  him. 

Achil.  So  I  do  :  what's  the  matter? 

Ther.  Nay,  but  regard  him  well. 

Achil.  Well !  why,  I  do  so. 

Ther.  But  yet  you  look  not  well  upon  him  ; 
for  whosoever  you  take  him  to  be,  he  is  Ajax. 

Achil.  I  know  that,  fool. 

Ther.  Ay,  but  that  fool  knows  not  himself. 

Ajax.  Therefore  I  beat  thee. 

Ther.  Lo,  lo,  lo,  lo,  what  modicums  of  wit 
he  utters  !  his  evasions  have  ears  thus  long.  I 
have  bobbed  his  brain  more  than  he  has  beat 
my  bones :  I  will  buy  nine  sparrows  for  a 
penny,  and  his  pia  mater  is  not  worth  the 
ninth  part  of  a  sparrow.  This  lord,  Achilles, 
Ajax, — who  wears  his  wit  in  his  belly,  and  his 
guts  in  his  head, — I  '11  tell  you  what  I  say  of 
him. 

Achil.  What? 

Ther.   I  say,  this  Ajax, — 

[AjAX  offers  to  beat  Aim,  ACHILLES 
interposes. 

Achil.  Nay,  good  Ajax. 

Ther.  Has  not  so  much  wit, — 

Achil.  Nay,  I  must  hold  you. 

Ther.  As  will  stop  the  eye  of  Helen's  needle, 
for  whom  he  comes  to  fight. 

Achil.  Peace,  fool ! 


762 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


[ACT  II. 


Ther.  I  would  have  peace  and  quietness,  but 
the  fool  will  not :  he  there ;  that  he ;  look  you 
there. 

Ajax.  O  thou  damned  cur  !  I  shall, — 

AchiL  Will  you  set  your  wit  to  a  fool's  ? 

Ther.  No,  I  warrant  you  ;  for  a  fool's  will 
shame  it. 

Patr.  Good  words,  Thersites. 

AchiL  What's  the  quarrel? 

Ajax.  I  bade  the  vile  owl  go  learn  me  the 
tenor  of  the  proclamation,  and  he  rails  upon  me. 

Ther.  I  serve  thee  not. 

Ajax.  Well,  go  to,  go  to. 

Ther.  I  serve  here  voluntary. 

AchiL  Your  last  service  was  sufferance,  'twas 
not  voluntary, — no  man  is  beaten  voluntary : 
Ajax  was  here  the  voluntary,  and  you  as  under 
an  impress. 

Ther.  E'en  so ;  a  great  deal  of  your  wit,  too, 
lies  in  your  sinews,  or  else  there  be  liars. 
Hector  shall  have  a  great  catch  if  he  knock  out 
either  of  your  brains  :  'a  were  as  good  crack  a 
fusty  nut  with  no  kernel. 

AchiL  What,  with  me  too,  Thersites  ? 

Ther.  There's  Ulysses  and  old  Nestor,— 
whose  wit  was  mouldy  ere  your  grandsires  had 
nails  on  their  toes, — yoke  you  like  draught 
oxen,  and  make  you  plough  up  the  wars. 

AchiL  What,  what  ? 

Ther.  Yes,  good  sooth:  to,  Achilles!  to, 
Ajax!  to! 

Ajax.  I  shall  cut  out  your  tongue. 

Ther.  'Tis  no  matter ;  I  shall  speak  as  much 
as  thou  afterwards. 

Patr.  No  more  words,  Thersites  ;  peace ! 

Ther.  I  will  hold  my  peace  when  Achilles' 
brach  bids  me,  shall  I  ? 

AchiL  There 's  for  you,  Patroclus. 

Ther.  I  will  see  you  hanged,  like  clotpoles, 
ere  I  come  any  more  to  your  tents  :  I  will  keep 
where  there  is  wit  stirring,  and  leave  the  faction 
of  fools.  [Exit. 

Patr.  A  good  riddance. 

AchiL  Marry,  this,  sir,  is  proclaim'd  through 

all  our  host : — 

That  Hector,  by  the  fifth  hour  of  the  sun, 
Will,  with  a  trumpet,  'twixt  our  tents  and  Troy, 
To-morrow  morning  call  some  knight  to  arms 
That  hath  a  stomach  ;  and  such  a  one  that  dare 
Maintain  I  know  not  what;  'tis  trash.    Fare- 
well. 

Ajax.     Farewell.     Who  shall  answer  him  ? 

AchiL  I   know  not,    it   is   put   to   lottery ; 

otherwise 
He  knew  his  man. 

Ajax.  O,  meaning  you. — I  '11  go  learn  more 
of  it.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. — TROY.     A  Room  in  PRIAM'S 
Palace. 

Enter  PRIAM,  HECTOR,  TROILUS,  PARIS, 
and  HELENUS. 

Pri.  After  so  many  hours,   lives,   speeches 

spent, 

Thus  once  again  says  Nestor  from  the  Greeks : — 
Deliver  Helen,  and  all  damage  else, — 
As  honour,  loss  of  time,  travail,  expense, 
Wounds,  friends,  and  what  else  dear  that  is 

consumed 

In  hot  digestion  of  this  cormorant  "war, — 
Shall  be  struck  off: — Hector,  what  say  you  to 't  ? 
Hect.  Though  no  man  lesser  fears  the  Greeks 

than  I, 

As  far  as  toucheth  my  particular, 
Yet,  dread  Priam, 

There  is  no  lady  of  more  softer  bowels, 
More  spongy  to  suck  in  the  sense  of  fear, 
More  ready  to  cry  out,  Who  knows  what  follows? 
Than  Hector  is :  the  wound  of  peace  is  surety, 
Surety  secure  ;  but  modest  doubt  is  call'd 
The  beacon  of  the  wise,  the  tent  that  searches 
To  the  bottom  of  the  worst.     Let  Helen  go : 
Since   the  first  sword  was  drawn  about  this 

question,  ( 

Every  tithe  soul,  'mongst  many  thousand  dismes, 
Hath  been  as  dear  as  Helen, — I  mean,  of  ours: 
If  we  have  lost  so  many  tenths  of  ours, 
To  guard  a  thing  not  ours,  nor  worth  to  us, 
Had  it  our  name,  the  value  of  one  ten, — 
What  merit 's  in  that  reason  which  denies 
The  yielding  of  her  up  ? 

Tro.  Fie,  fie,  my  brother  ! 

Weigh  you  the  worth  and  honour  of  a  king, 
So  great  as  our  dread  father,  in  a  scale 
Of  common  ounces?  will  you  with  counters  sum 
The  past-proportion  of  his  infinite  ? 
And  buckle-in  a  waist  most  fathomless 
With  spans  and  inches  so  diminutive 
As  fears  and  reasons  ?  fie,  for  godly  shame  I 
Hel.  No  marvel  though  you  bite  so  sharp  at 

reasons :  [father 

You  are  so  empty  of  them.     Should  not  our 

Bear  the  great  sway  of  his  affairs  with  reasons, 

Because  your  speech  hath  none  that  tells  him  so  ? 

Tro.  You    are    for    dreams   and    slumbers, 

brother  priest ;  [reasons  : 

You  fur  your  gloves  with  reason.    Here  are  your 
You  know  an  enemy  intends  you  harm  ; 
You  know  a  sword  employ'd  is  perilous, 
And  reason  flies  the  object  of  all  harm : 
Who  marvels,  then,  when  Helenus  beholds 
A  Grecian  and  his  sword,  if  he  do  set 
The  very  wings  of  reason  to  his  heels, 


SCENE  II.] 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


763 


And  fly  like  chidden  Mercury  from  Jove, 

Or  like  a  star  disorb'd? — Nay  if  we  talk  of 

reason  [honour 

Let 's  shut  our  gates  and  sleep  :  manhood  and 
Should  have  hare  hearts  would  they  but  fat  their 

thoughts 

With  this  cramm'd  reason  :  reason  and  respect 
Make  livers  pale  and  lustihood  deject.        [cost 
Hect.   Brother,  she  is  not  worth  what  she  doth 
The  holding. 

Tro.  What  is  aught  but  as  'tis  valued  ? 

Hect.  But  value  dwells  not  in  particular  will ; 
It  holds  his  estimate  and  dignity 
As  well  wherein  'tis  precious  of  itself 
As  in  the  prizer :  'tis  mad  idolatry 
To  make  the  service  greater  than  the  god  ; 
And  the  will  dotes,  that  is  attributive 
To  what  infectiously  itself  affects, 
Without  some  image  of  the  affected  merit. 

Tro.   I  take  to-day  a  wife,  and  my  election 
Is  led  on  in  the  conduct  of  my  will ; 
My  will  enkindled  by  mine  eyes  and  ears, 
Two  traded  pilots  'twixt  the  dangerous  shores 
Of  will  and  judgment :  how  may  I  avoid, 
Although  my  will  distaste  what  it  elected, 
The  wife  I  chose  ?  there  can  be  no  evasion 
To  blench  from  this,  and  to  stand  firm  by  honour : 
We  turn  not  back  the  silks  upon  the  merchant 
When  we  have  soil'd  them  ;  nor  the  remainder 

viands 

We  do  not  throw  in  unrespective  sieve, 
Because  we  now  are  full.     It  was  thought  meet 
Paris  should  do  some  vengeance  on  the  Greeks : 
Your  breath  of  full  consent  bellied  his  sails  ; 
The  seas  and  winds, — old  wranglers, — took  a 

truce,  [desir'd ; 

And  did  him  service :    he  touch'd  the  ports 
And   for   an  old  aunt,  whom  the  Greeks  held 

captive,  [freshness 

He  brought  a  Grecian  queen,  whose  youth  and 
Wrinkles  Apollo's,  and  makes  stale  the  morning. 
Why  keep  we  her?  the  Grecians  keep  our  aunt : 
Is  she  worth  keeping?  why,  she  is  a  pearl, 
Whose  price  hath  launch'd  above  a  thousand 

ships, 

And  turn'd  crown'd  kings  to  merchants. 
If  you  '11  avouch  'twas  wisdom  Paris  went, — 
As  you  must  needs,  for  you  all  cried,  Go,  go, — 
If  you  '11  confess  he  brought  home  noble  prize, — 
As  you  must  needs,  for  you  all  clapp'd  your  hands, 
And  cried,  Inestimable  ! — why  do  you  now 
The  issue  of  your  proper  wisdoms  rate, 
And  do  a  deed  that  fortune  never  did, — 
Beggar  the  estimation  which  you  priz'd 
Richer  than  sea  and  land?     O  theft  most  base, 
That  we  have  stol'n  what  we  do  fear  to  keep ! 
'But  thieves,  unworthy  of  a  thing  so  stol'n, 


That  in  their  country  did  them  that  disgrace, 
We  fear  to  warrant  in  our  native  place  ! 

Cas.  [  Within.  ]  Cry,  Trojans,  cry  ! 

Pri.  What  noise?  what  shriek  is  this? 

Pro.  'Tis  our  mad  sister,  I  do  know  her  voice. 

Cas.  [Within.}  Cry,  Trojans! 

Hect.  It  is  Cassandra. 

Enter  CASSANDRA,  raving. 

Cas.  Cry,  Trojans,  cry  !  lend  me  ten  thousand 

eyes, 
And  I  will  fill  them  with  prophetic  tears. 

Hect.  Peace,  sister,  peace.  [old, 

Cas.  Virgins  and  boys,  mid-age  and  wrinkled 
Soft  infancy,  that  nothing  canst  but  cry, 
Add  to  my  clamours !  let  us  pay  betimes 
A  moiety  of  that  mass  of  moan  to  come. 
Cry,  Trojans,  cry !  practise  your  eyes  with  tears ! 
Troy  must  not  be,  nor  goodly  Ilion  stand ; 
Our  firebrand  brother,  Paris,  burns  us  all. 
Cry,  Trojans,  cry !  an  Helen  and  a  woe : 
Cry,  cry !  Troy  burns,  or  else  let  Helen  go. 

[Exit. 

Hect.  Now,  youthful  Troilus,  do  not  these 

high  strains 

Of  divination  in  our  sister  work 
Some  touches  of  remorse  ?  or  is  your  blood 
So  madly  hot  that  no  discourse  of  reason, 
Nor  fear  of  bad  success  in  a  bad  cause, 
Can  qualify  the  same? 

Tro.  Why,  brother  Hector, 

We  may  not  think  the  justness  of  each  act 
Such  and  no  other  than  event  doth  form  it ; 
Nor  once  deject  the  courage  of  our  minds 
Because    Cassandra 's     mad :     her    brain-sick 

raptures 

Cannot  distaste  the  goodness  of  a  quarrel 
Which  hath  our  several  honours  all  engag'd 
To  make  it  gracious.     For  my  private  part, 
I  am  no  more  touch'd  than  all  Priam's  sons : 
And  Jove  forbid  there  should  be  done  amongst 

us 

Such  things  as  might  offend  the  weakest  spleen 
To  fight  for  and  maintain  ! 

Par.  Else  might  the  world  convince  of  levity 
As  well  my  undertakings  as  your  counsels: 
But  I  attest  the  gods,  your  full  consent 
Gave  wings  to  my  propension,  and  cut  off 
All  fears  attending  on  so  dire  a  project. 
For  what,  alas,  can  these  my  single  arms? 
What  propugnation  is  in  one  man's  valour, 
To  stand  the  push  and  enmity  of  thost: 
This  quarrel  would  excite  ?     Yet,  I  protest, 
Were  I  alone  to  pass  the  difficulties, 
And  had  as  ample  power  as  I  have  will, 
Paris  should  ne'er  retract  what  he  hath  done, 
Nor  faint  in  the  pursuit. 


764 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


[ACT  ii. 


Prim  Paris,  you  speak 

Like  one  besotted  on  your  sweet  delights : 
You  have  the  honey  still,  but  these  the  gall ; 
So  to  be  valiant  is  no  praise  at  all. 

Par.  Sir,  I  propose  not  merely  to  myself 
The  pleasures  such  a  beauty  brings  with  it ; 
But  I  would  have  the  soil  of  her  fair  rape 
Wip'd  off  in  honourable  keeping  her. 
What  treason  were  it  to  the  ransack'd  queen, 
Disgrace  to  your  great  worths,  and  shame  to  me, 
Now  to  deliver  her  possession  up 
On  terms  of  base  compulsion  !     Can  it  be 
That  so  degenerate  a  strain  as  this 
Should  once  set  footing  in  your  generousbosoms? 
There  's  not  the  meanest  spirit  on  our  party, 
Without  a  heart  to  dare  or  sword  to  draw, 
When  Helen  is  defended ;  nor  none  so  noble, 
Whose  life  were  ill  bestow'd  or  death  unfam'd, 
Where  Helen  is  the  subject :  then,  I  say,    [well, 
Well  may  we  fight  for  her,  whom,  we  know 
The  world's  large  spaces  cannot  parallel. 
Hect.  Paris  and  Troilus,  you  have  both  said 

well; 

And  on  the  cause  and  question  now  in  hand 
Have  gloz'd, — but  superficially;  not  much 
Unlike  young  men,  whom  Aristotle  thought 
Unfit  to  hear  moral  philosophy: 
The  reasons  you  allege  do  more  conduce 
To  the  hot  passion  of  distemper'd  blood 
Than  to  make  up  a  free  determination 
'Twixt    right    and    wrong;    for    pleasure   and 

revenge 

Have  ears  more  deaf  than  adders  to  the  voice 
Of  any  true  decision.     Nature  ci'aves 
All  dues  be  render'd  to  their  owners  :  now, 
What  nearer  debt  in  all  humanity 
Than  wife  is  to  the  husband  ?    If  this  law 
Of  nature  be  corrupted  through  affection ; 
And  that  great  minds,  of  partial  indulgence 
To  their  benumbed  wills,  resist  the  same ; 
There  is  a  law  in  each  well-order'd  nation 
To  curb  those  raging  appetites  that  are 
Most  disobedient  and  refractory. 
If  Helen,  then,  be  wife  to  Sparta's  king, — 
As  it  is  known  she  is, — these  moral  laws 
Of  nature  and  of  nations  speak  aloud 
To  have  her  back  return'd :  thus  to  persist 
In  doing  wrong  extenuates  not  wrong, 
But   makes   it   much   more   heavy.      Hector's 

opinion 

Is  this,  in  way  of  truth :  yet,  ne'ertheless, 
My  spritely  brethren,  I  propend  to  you 
In  resolution  to  keep  Helen  still ; 
For  'tis  a  cause  that  hath  no  mean  dependence 
Upon  our  joint  and  several  dignities. 

Tro.  Why,  there  you  touch'd  the  life  of  our 


Were  it  not  glory  that  we  more  affected 
Than  the  performance  of  our  heaving  spleens, 
I  would  not  wish  a  drop  of  Trojan  blood 
Spent  more  in  her  defence.  But,  worthy  Hector. 
She  is  a  theme  of  honour  and  renown ; 
A  spur  to  valiant  and  magnanimous  deeds; 
Whose  present  courage  may  beat  down  our  foes, 
And  fame  in  time  to  come  can6nize  us: 
For,  I  presume,  brave  Hector  would  not  lose 
So  rich  advantage  of  a  promis'd  glory, 
As  smiles  upon  the  forehead  of  this  action, 
For  the  wide  world's  revenue. 

Hect.  I  am  yours, 

You  valiant  offspring  of  great  Priamus. — 
I  have  a  roisting  challenge  sent  amongst 
The  dull  and  factious  nobles  of  the  Greeks 
Will  strike  amazement  to  their  drowsy  spirits  : 
I  was  advertised  their  great  general  slept, 
Whilst  emulation  in  the  army  crept : 
This,  I  presume,  will  wake  him.         [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — THE  GRECIAN  CAMP.     Before 

ACHILLES'  Tent. 

Enter  THERSITES. 

Ther.  How  now,  Thersites  !  what,  lost  in 
the  labyrinth  of  thy  fury  !  Shall  the  elephant 
Ajax  carry  it  thus  ?  he  beats  me,  and  I  rail  at 
him :  O  worthy  satisfaction  !  would  it  were 
otherwise ;  that  I  could  beat  him,  whilst  he 
railed  at  me.  'Sfoot,  I  '11  learn  to  conjure  and 
raise  devils,  but  I  '11  see  some  issue  of  my 
spiteful  execrations.  Then  there 's  Achilles, — 
a  rare  engineer.  If  Troy  be  not  taken  till 
these  two  undermine  it,  the  walls  will  stand 
till  they  fall  of  themselves.  O  thou  great 
thunder-darter  of  Olympus,  forget  that  thou 
art  Jove,  the  king  ot  gods  ;  and,  Mercury,  lose 
all  the  serpentine  craft  of  thy  caducetis ;  if  ye 
take  not  that  little  little  less-than-little  wit 
from  them  that  they  have  !  which  short-aimed 
ignorance  itself  knows  is  so  abundant  scarce,  it 
will  not  in  circumvention  deliver  a  fly  from  a 
spider,  without  drawing  their  massy  irons  and 
cutting  the  web.  After  this,  the  vengeance  on 
the  whole  camp  !  or,  rather,  the  bone-ache  ! 
for  that,  methinks,  is  the  curse  dependent  on 
those  that  war  for  a  placket.  I  have  said  my 
prayers  ;  and  devil  envy  say  Amen. — What, 
ho  !  my  Lord  Achilles  ! 

Enter  PATROCLUS. 

Patr.  Who 's  there?  Thersites !  Good  Ther- 
sites, come  in  and  rail. 

Ther.  If  I  could  have  remembered  a  gilt 
counterfeit,  thou  wouldst  not  have  slipped  out 
of  my  contemplation :  but  it  is  no  matter ; 


SCENE  III.] 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


765 


thyself  upon  thyself !  The  common  curse  of 
mankind,  folly  and  ignorance,  be  thine  in  great 
revenue  !  heaven  bless  thee  from  a  tutor,  and 
discipline  come  not  near  thee  !  Let  thy  blood 
be  thy  direction  till  thy  death  !  then  if  she 
that  lays  thee  out  says  thou  art  a  fair  corse, 
I  '11  be  sworn  and  sworn  upon 't  she  never 
shrouded  any  but  lazars.  Amen. — Where's 
Achilles? 

Patr.  What,  art  thou  devout?  wast  thou  in 
prayer  ? 

Ther.  Ay,  the  heavens  hear  me  ! 

Enter  ACHILLES. 

Achil.  Who 's  there  ? 

Pair.  Thersites,  my  lord. 

Achil.  Where,  where? — Art  thou  come? 
Why,  my  cheese,  my  digestion,  why  hast  thou 
not  served  thyself  in  to  my  table  so  many 
meals  ?  Come, — what 's  Agamemnon  ? 

Ther.  Thy  commander,  Achilles  : — then  tell 
me,  Patroclus,  what 's  Achilles  ? 

Pair.  Thy  lord,  Thersites :  then  tell  me,  I 
pray  thee,  what's  thyself? 

Ther.  Thy  knower,  Patroclus :  then  tell  me, 
Patroclus,  what  art  thou  ? 

Pair.  Thou  mayest  tell  that  knowest. 

Achil.  O,  tell,  tell. 

Ther.  I  '11  decline  the  whole  question.  Aga- 
memnon commands  Achilles  ;  Achilles  is  my 
lord ;  I  am  Patroclus'  knower ;  and  Patroclus 
is  a  fool. 

Patr.  You  rascal ! 

Ther.   Peace,  fool  !  I  have  not  done. 

Achil.  He  is  a  privileged  man. — Proceed, 
Thersites. 

Ther.  Agamemnon  is  a  fool ;  Achilles  is  a 
fool;  Thersites  is  a  fool;  and,  as  aforesaid, 
Patroclus  is  a  fool. 

Achil.  Derive  this  ;  come. 

Ther.  Agamemnon  is  a  fool  to  offer  to  com- 
mand Achilles ;  Achilles  is  a  fool  to  be  com- 
manded of  Agamemnon  ;  Thersites  is  a  fool  to 
serve  such  a  fool ;  and  Patroclus  is  a  fool  posi- 
tive. 

Patr.  Why  am  i  a  fool  ?  _ 

Ther.  Make  that  demand  of  the  jwefeft  It 
suffices  me  thou  art. — Look  you,  who  comes 
here? 

Achil.  Patroclus,  I'll  speak  with  nobody. — 
Come  in  with  me,  Thersites.  [Exit. 

Ther.  Here  is  such  patchery,  such  juggling, 
and  such  knavery !  all  the  argument  is  a  cuckold 
and  a  whore  ;  a  good  quarrel  to  draw  emulous 
factions  and  bleed  to  death  upon.  Now  the 
dry  serpigo  on  the  subject !  and  war  and  lechery 
confound  all !  [Exit. 


Enter  AGAMEMNON,   ULYSSES,   NESTOR, 
DIOMEDES,  and  AJAX. 

Agam.  Where  is  Achilles  ?  [lord. 

Patr.  Within  his  tent ;  but  ill-dispos'd,  my 

Agam.   Let  it  be  known  to  him  that  we  are 

here. 

He  shent  our  messengers  ;  and  we  lay  by 
Our  appertainments,  visiting  of  him  : 
Let  him  be  told  so ;  lest,  perchance,  he  think 
We  dare  not  move  the  question  of  our  place, 
Or  know  not  what  we  are. 

Patr.  I  shall  say  so  to  him.     [Exit. 

Ulyss.  We  saw  him  at  the  opening  of  his 

tent: 
He  is  not  sick. 

Ajax.  Yes,  lion-sick,  sick  of  proud  heart : 
you  may  call  it  melancholy,  if  you  will  favour 
the  man ;  but,  by  my  head,  'tis  pride :  but  why, 
why?  let  him  show  us  the  cause. — A  word,  my 
lord.  [Takes  AGAMEMNON  aside. 

Nest.  What  moves  Ajax  thus  to  bay  at  him  ? 

Ulyss.  Achilles  hath  inveigled  his  fool  from 
him. 

Nest.  Who,  Thersites? 

Ulyss.  He. 

Nest.  Then  will  Ajax  lack  matter,  if  he  have 
lost  his  argument. 

Ulyss.  No  ;  you  see,  he  is  his  argument  that 
has  his  argument, — Achilles. 

Nest.  All  the  better  ;  their  fraction  is  more 
our  wish  than  their  faction.  But  it  was  a  strong 
composure  a  fool  could  disunite. 

Ulyss.  The  amity  that  wisdom  knits  not, 
folly  may  easily  untie.  Here  comes  Patroclus. 

Nest.  No  Achilles  with  him. 

Ulyss.  The  elephant  hath  joints,  but  none 
for  courtesy :  his  legs  are  legs  for  necessity,  not 
for  flexure. 

Re-enter  PATROCLUS. 

Patr.  Achilles  bids  me  say,  he  is  much  sorry 
If  anything  more  than  your  sport  and  pleasure 
Did  move  your  greatness  and  this  noble  state 
To  call  upon  him  ;  he  hopes  it  is  no  other 
But  for  your  health  and  your  digestion  sake, — 
An  after-dinner's  breath. 

Agam.  Hear  you,  Patroclus  : — 

We  are  too  well  acquainted  with  these  answers : 
But  his  evasion,  wing'd  thus  swift  with  scorn, 
Cannot  outfly  our  apprehensions. 
Much  attribute  he  hath  ;  and  much  the  reason 
Why  we  ascribe  it  to  him  :  yet  all  his  virtues, — 
Not  virtuously  on  his  own  part  beheld, — 
Do  in  our  eyes  begin  to  lose  their  gloss ; 
Yea,  like  fair  fruit  in  an  unwholesome  dish, 
Are  like  to  rot  untasted.     Go  and  tell  him 


T~v 


766 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


[ACT  n. 


We  come  to  speak  with  him ;  and  you  shall 

not  sin 

If  you  do  say  we  think  him  over-proud 
And  under-honest ;  in  self-assumption  greater 
Than  in  the  note  of  judgment ;  and  worthier 

than  himself 

Here  tend  the  savage  strangeness  he  puts  on, 
Disguise  the  holy  strength  of  their  command, 
And  underwrite  in  an  observing  kind 
His  humorous  predominance  ;  yea,  watch 
His  pettish  lunes,  his  ebbs,  his  flows,  as  if 
The  passage  and  whole  carriage  of  this  action 
Rode  on  his  tide.     Go  tell  him  this  ;  and  add, 
That  if  he  overhold  his  price  so  much, 
We  '11  none  of  him  ;  but  let  him,  like  an  engine 
Not  portable,  lie  under  this  report, — 
Bring  action  hither,  this  cannot  go  to  war  : 
A  stirring  dwarf  we  do  allowance  give 
Before  a  sleeping  giant : — tell  him  so. 

Pair.  I  shall ;  and  bring  his  answer  presently. 

[Exit. 

Again.  In  second  voice  we  '11  not  be  satisfied ; 
We  come  to  speak  with  him. — Ulysses,  enter 
you.  [Exit  ULYSSES. 

Ajax.  What  is  he  more  than  another  ? 

Agam.  No  more  than  what  he  thinks  he  is. 

Ajax.  Is  he  so  much  ?  Do  you  not  think 
he  thinks  himself  a  better  man  than  I  am  ? 

Agam.  No  question. 

Ajax.  Will  you  subscribe  his  thought,  and 
say  he  is  ? 

Agam.  No,  noble  Ajax  ;  you  are  as  strong, 
as  valiant,  as  wise,  no  less  noble,  much  more 
gentle,  and  altogether  more  tractable. 

Ajax.  Why  should  a  man  be  proud  ?  How 
doth  pride  grow  ?  I  know  not  what  pride  is. 

Agam.  Your  mind  is  the  clearer,  Ajax,  and 
your  virtues  the  fairer.  He  that  is  proud  eats 
up  himself:  pride  is  his  own  glass,  his  own 
trumpet,  his  own  chronicle  ;  and  whatever 
praises  itself  but  in  the  deed  devours  the  deed 
in  the  praise. 

Ajax.  I  do  hate  a  proud  man  as  I  hate  the 
engendering  of  toads. 

Nest.  Yet  he  loves  himself :  is 't  not  strange  ? 

[Aside. 
Re-enter  ULYSSES. 

Ulyss.  Achilles  will  not  to  the  field  to-morrow. 

Agam.  What 's  his  excuse  ? 

Ulyss.  He  doth  rely  on  none  ; 

But  carries  on  the  stream  of  his  dispose, 
Without  observance  or  respect  of  any, 
In  will  peculiar  and  in  self-admission. 

Agam.    Why   will   he   not,    upon   our   fair 

request, 
Untent  his  person,  and  share  the  air  with  us  ? 


Ulyss.  Things  small  as  nothing,  for  request's 
sake  only,  [greatness : 

He   makes   important :    possess'd   he   is  with 
And  speaks  not  to  himself  but  with  a  pride 
That  quarrels  at  self-breath  :   imagin'd  worth 
Holds  in  his  blood  such  swoln  and  hot  discourse 
That  'twixt  his  mental  and  his  active  parts 
Kingdom'd  Achilles  in  commotion  rages, 
And  batters  down  himself:  what  should  I  say? 
He  is  so  plaguy  proud  that  the  death  tokens  of  it 
Cry,  No  recovery. 

Agam.  Let  Ajax  go  to  him. — 

Dear  lord,  go  you  and  greet  him  in  his  tent : 
'Tis  said  he  holds  you  well ;  and  will  be  led, 
At  your  request,  a  little  from  himself. 

Ulyss.  O  Agamemnon,  let  it  not  be  so  ! 
We  '11  consecrate  the  steps  that  Ajax  makes 
When  they  go  from  Achilles.     Shall  the  proud 

lord, 

That  bastes  his  arrogance  with  his  own  seam, 
And  never  suffers  matter  of  the  world 
Enter  his  thoughts, — save  such  as  do  revolve 
And  ruminate  himself, — shall  he  be  worshipp'd 
Of  that  we  hold  an  idol  more  than  he  ? 
No,  this  thrice-worthy  and  right  valiant  lord 
Must  not  so  stale  his  palm,  nobly  acquir'd ; 
Nor,  by  my  will,  assubjngate  his  merit, 
As  amply  titled  as  Achilles  is, 
By  going  to  Achilles  : 
That  were  to  enlard  his  fat-already  pride, 
And  add  more  coals  to  Cancer  when  he  burns 
With  entertaining  great  Hyperion. 
This  lord  go  to  him  !  Jupiter  forbid  ; 
And  say  in  thunder,  Achilles  go  to  him. 

Nest.  O,  this  is  well ;  he  rubs  the  vein  of  him. 

[Aside. 

Dio.  And  how  his  silence  drinks  up  this  ap- 

?lause  !  [Aside. 

f  I  go  to  him,  with  my  armed  fist 
I  '11  pash  him  o'er  the  face. 

Agam.  O,  no,  you  shall  not  go.          [pride  : 

Ajax.  An  'a  be  proud  with  me  I  '11  pheeze  his 
Let  me  go  to  him.  [quarrel. 

Ulyss.  Not  for  the  worth  that  hangs  upon  our 

Ajax.  A  paltry,  insolent  fellow  ! 

Nest.  How  he  describes  himself !       [Aside. 

Ajax.  Can  he  not  be  sociable  ? 

Ulyss.  The  raven  chides  blackness.     [Aside. 

Ajax.  I  '11  let  his  humours  blood. 

Agam.  He  will  be  the  physician  that  should 
be  the  patient.  [Aside. 

Ajax.  An  all  men  were  o'  my  mind, — 

Ulyss.  Wit  would  be  out  of  fashion.     [Aside. 

Ajax.  'A  should  not  bear  it  so,  'a  should  eat 
swords  first :  shall  pride  carry  it  ? 

Nest.  An  'twould,  you  'd  carry  half.     [Aside. 

Ulyss.  'A  would  have  ten  shares.       [Aside. 


SCENE  III.] 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


767 


Ajax.  I  will  knead  him,  I '11  make  him  supple. 

Nest.  He 's  not  yet  thorough  warm  :  force 
him  with  praises  :  pour  in,  pour  in  :  his  ambi- 
tion is  dry.  [Aside. 

Ulyss.   My  lord,  you  feed  too  much  on  this 
dislike.  [To  AGAMEMNON. 

Nest.  Our  noble  general,  do  not  do  so. 

Dio.    You   must   prepare    to    fight   without 
Achilles.  [harm. 

Ulyss.  Why  'tis  this  naming  of  him  does  him 
Here  is  a  man — but  'tis  before  his  face ; 
I  will  be  silent. 

Nest.  Wherefore  should  you  so  ? 

He  is  not  emulous,  as  Achilles  is. 

Ulyss.  Know   the    whole    world,    he    is   as 
valiant. 

Ajax.  A  whoreson  dog,  that  shall  palter  thus 

with  us ! 
Would  he  were  a  Trojan  ! 

Nest.  What  a  vice  were  it  in  Ajax  now, — 

Ulyss.  If  he  were  proud, — 

Dio.  Or  covetous  of  praise, — 

Ulyss.  Ay,  or  surly  borne, — 

Dio.  Or  strange,  or  self- affected! 

Ulyss.  Thank  the  heavens,  lord,  thou  art  of 
sweet  composure  ;  [suck  ; 

Praise  him  that  got  thee,  she  that  gave  thee 
Fam'd  be  thy  tutor,  and  thy  parts  of  nature 
Thrice-fam'd,  beyond  all  erudition : 
But  he  that  disciplin'd  thy  arms  to  fight, 
Let  Mars  divide  eternity  in  twain, 
And  give  him  half:  and,  for  thy  vigour, 
Bull-bearing  Mil©  his  addition  yield 
To  sinewy  Ajax.     I  will  not  praise  thy  wisdom, 
Which,  like  a  bourn,  a  pale,  a  shore,  confines 
Thy  spacious  and  dilated  parts :  here's  Nestor, — 
Instructed  by  the  antiquary  times, 
He  must,  he  is,  he  cannot  but  be  wise  ; — 
But  pardon,  father  Nestor,  were  your  days 
As  green  as  Ajax',  and  your  brain  so  temper'd, 
You  should  not  have  the  eminence  of  him, 
But  be  as  Ajax. 

Ajax.  Shall  I  call  you  father? 

Nest.  Ay,  my  good  son. 

Dio.  Be  rul'd  by  him,  Lord  Ajax. 

Ulyss.  There  is  no  tarrying  here ;  the  hart 

Achilles 

Keeps  thicket.     Please  it  our  great  general 
To  call  together  all  his  state  of  war  ; 
Fresh  kings  are  come  to  Troy.     To-morrow 
We  must  with  all  our  main  of  power  stand  fast : 
And  here 's  a  lord, — come  knights  from  east  to 

west, 
And  cull  their  flower,  Ajax  shall  cope  the  best. 

Agam.  Go  we  to  council.    Let  Achilles  sleep : 

Light   boats  sail  swift,   though  greater  hulks 

draw  deep.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.— TROY.     A  Room  in  PRIAM'S 
Palace. 

Enter  PANDARUS  and  a  Servant. 

Pan.  Friend,  you, — pray  you,  a  word  :  do 
not  you  follow  the  young  Lord  Paris  ? 

Serv.  Ay,  sir,  when  he  goes  before  me. 

Pan.  You  depend  upon  him,  I  mean  ? 

Serv.  Sir,  I  do  depend  upon  the  lord. 

Pan.  You  depend  upon  a  noble  gentleman  ; 
I  must  needs  praise  him. 

Serv.  The  lord  be  praised ! 

Pan.  You  know  me,  do  you  not  ? 

Serv.  Faith,  sir,  superficially, 

Pan.  Friend,  know  me  better ;  I  am  the 
Lord  Pandarus. 

Serv.  I  hope  I  shall  know  your  honour  better. 

Pan.  I  do  desire  it 

Serv.  You  are  in  the  state  of  grace. 

[Music  within. 

Pan.  Grace !  not  so,  friend ;  honour  and 
lordship  are  my  titles. — What  music  is  this? 

Serv.  I  do  but  partly  know,  sir  :  it  is  music 
in  parts. 

Pan.   Know  you  the  musicians  ? 

Serv.  Wholly,  sir. 

Pan.  Who  play  they  to  ? 

Serv.  To  the  hearers,  sir. 

Pan.  At  whose  pleasure,  friend  ? 

Serv.  At  mine,  sir,  and  theirs  that  love  music. 

Pan.  Command,  I  mean,  friend. 

Serv.  Who  shall  I  command,  sir  ? 

Pan.  Friend,  we  understand  not  one  another : 
I  am  too  courtly,  and  thou  art  too  cunning. 
At  whose  request  do  these  men  play  ? 

Serv.  That 's  to 't,  indeed,  sir.  Marry,  sir, 
at  the  request  of  Paris  my  lord,  who  is  there  in 
person ;  with  him,  the  mortal  Venus,  the  heart- 
blood  of  beauty,  love's  invisible  soul, — 

Pan.  Who,  my  cousin  Cressida  ? 

Serv.  No,  sir,  Helen :  could  you  not  find 
out  that  by  her  attributes  ? 

Pan.  It  should  seem,  fellow,  that  thou  hast 
not  seen  the  Lady  Cressida.  I  come  to  speak 
with  Paris  from  the  Prince  Troilus :  I  will 
make  a  complimental  assault  upon  him,  for 
my  business  seethes. 

Serv.  Sodden  business !  there 's  a  stewed 
phrase  indeed  ! 

Enter  PARIS  and  HELEN,  attended. 

Pan.  Fair  be  to  you,  my  lord,  and  to  all 
this  fair  company !  fair  desires,  in  all  fair 
measure,  fairly  guide  them ! — especially  to  you, 
fair  queen  !  fair  thoughts  be  your  fair  pillow  1 


768 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


[ACT  in. 


Helen.  Dear  lord,  you  are  full  of  fair  words. 

Pan.  You  speak  your  fair  pleasure,  sweet 
queen. — Fair  prince,  here  is  good  broken  music. 

Par.  You  have  broke  it,  cousin  :  and  by  my 
life,  you  shall  make  it  whole  again  ;  you  shall 
piece  it  out  with  a  piece  of  your  performance. 
— Nell,  he  is  full  of  harmony. 

Pan.  Truly,  lady,  no, 

Helen.  O,  sir,— 

Pan*  Rude,  in  sooth ;  in  good  sooth,  very 
rude. 

Par*  Well  said,  my  lord !  well,  you  say  so  in 
fits. 

Pan.  I  have  business  to  my  lord,  dear  queen. 
— My  lord,  will  you  vouchsafe  me  a  word  ? 

Helen.  Nay,  this  shall  not  hedge  us  out : 
we  '11  hear  you  sing,  certainly. 

Pan.  Well,  sweet  queen,  you  are  pleasant 
with  me.— But,  marry,  thus,  my  lord, — My 
dear  lord,  and  most  esteemed  friend,  your 
brother  Troilus, — 

Helen.  My  Lord  Pandarus ;  honey-sweet 
lord, — 

Pan.  Go  to,  sweet  queen,  go  to : — commends 
himself  most  affectionately  to  you, — 

Helen.  You  shall  not  bob  us  out  of  our 
melody :  if  you  do,  our  melancholy  upon  your 
head! 

Pan.  Sweet  queen,  sweet  queen ;  that  '*  a 
sweet  queen,  i'  faith. 

Helen.  And  to  make  a  sweet  lady  sad  is  a 
sour  offence. 

Pan.  Nay,  that  shall  not  serve  your  turn  ; 
that  shall  it  not,  in  truth,  la.  Nay,  I  care  not 
for  such  words ;  no,  no. — And,  my  lord,  he 
desires  you  that,  if  the  king  call  for  him  at 
supper,  you  will  make  his  excuse. 

Helen.  My  Lord  Pandarus, — 

Pan.  What  says  my  sweet  queen, — my  very 
very  sweet  queen  ? 

Par.  What  exploit's  in  hand?  where  sups 
he  to-night  ? 

Helen.  Nay,  but,  my  lord, — 

Pan.  What  says  my  sweet  queen? — My 
cousin  will  fall  out  with  you.  You  must  not 
know  where  he  sups. 

Par.  I  '11  lay  my  life,  with  my  disposer 
Cressida. 

Pan.  No,  no,  no  such  matter ;  you  are 
wide  :  come,  your  disposer  is  sick. 

Par.  Well,  I  '11  make  excuse. 

Pan.  Ay,  good  my  lord.  Why  should  you 
say  Cressida  ?  no,  your  poor  disposer 's  sick. 

Par.  I  spy. 

Pan.  You  spy!  what  do  you  spy? — Come, 
give  me  an  instrument. — Now,  sweet  queen. 

Helen.  Why,  this  is  kindly  done. 


Pan.  My  niece  is  horribly  in  love  with  a 
thing  you  have,  sweet  queen. 

Helen.  She  shall  have  it,  my  lord,  if  it  be 
not  my  Lord  Paris. 

Pan.  He !  no,  she  '11  none  of  him  ;  they  two 
are  twain. 

Helen.  Falling  in,  after  falling  out,  may 
make  them  three. 

Pan.  Come,  come,  I'll  hear  no  more  of 
this  ;  I  '11  sing  you  a  song  now. 

Helen.  Ay,  ay,  pr'ythee  now.  By  my  troth, 
sweet  lord,  thou  hast  a  fine  forehead. 

Pan.  Ay,  you  may,  you  may. 

Helen.  Let  thy  song  be  love :  this  love  will 
undo  us  all.  O  Cupid,  Cupid,  Cupid  ! 

Pan.   Love  !  ay,  that  it  shall,  i'  faith,     [love. 

Par.  Ay,  good  now,  love,  love,  nothing  but 

Pan.  In  good  troth,  it  begins  so  : 

Love,  love,  nothing  but  love,  still  more  ! 

For,  oh,  love  s  bow 

Shoots  buck  and  doe  I 

The  shaft  confounds. 

Not  that  it  wounds, 
But  tickles  still  the  sore. 
These  lovers  cry — Oh  !  oh  1  they  die  ! 

Yet  that  which  seems  the  wound  to  kill, 
Doth  turn  oh  I  oh  J  to  ha  !  ha  !  he  ! 

So  dying  love  lives  still : 
Oh  !  oh  !  a  while,  but  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 
Oh  t  oh  !  groans  out  for  ha  1  ha  !  ha  ! 

Heigh  ho ! 

Helen.  In  love,  i'  faith,  to  the  very  tip  of  the 
nose. 

Par.  He  eats  nothing  but  doves,  love  ;  and 
that  breeds  hot  blood,  and  hot  blood  begets 
hot  thoughts,  and  hot  thoughts  beget  hot  deeds, 
and  hot  deeds  is  love. 

Pan.  Is  this  the  generation  of  love?  hot 
blood,  hot  thoughts,  and  hot  deeds?  Why, 
they  are  vipers  :  is  love  a  generation  of  vipers  ? 
— Sweet  lord,  who 's  a-field  to-day  ? 

Par.  Hector,  Deiphobus,  Helenus,  Antenor, 
and  all  the  gallantry  of  Troy :  I  would  fain 
have  armed  to-day,  but  my  Nell  would  not 
have  it  so.  How  chance  my  brother  Troilus 
went  not  ? 

Helen.  He  hangs  the  lip  at  something  : — 
you  know  all,  Lord  Pandarus. 

Pan.  Not  I,  honey-sweet  queen. — I  long  to 
hear  how  they  sped  to-day.  You  '11  remember 
your  brother's  excuse  ? 

Par.  To  a  hair. 

Pan.  Farewell,  sweet  queen. 

Helen.  Commend  me  to  your  niece.          in/; 

Pan.  I  will,  sweet  queen.  [Exit. 

[A  retreat  sounded. 

•  Par.  They  are  come  from  field :  let  us  to 

Priam's  hall  [woo  you 

To  greet  the  warriors.     Sweet  Helen,  I  must 


SCENE  II. J 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


769 


To  help  unarm  our  Hector:  his  stubborn  buckles, 
With    these    your    white    enchanting    fingers 

touch'd, 

Shall  more  obey  than  to  the  edge  of  steel, 
Or  force  of  Greekish  sinews ;  you  shall  do  more 
Than  all  the  island  kings, — disarm  great  Hector. 
Helen.  'Twill  make  us  proud  to  be  his  ser- 
vant, Paris ; 

Yea,  what  he  shall  receive  of  us  in  duty 
Gives  us  more  palm  in  beauty  than  we  have, 
Yea,  overshines  ourself. 

Par.  Sweet,  above  thought  I  love  thee. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — TROY.     PANDARUS'  Orchard. 
Enter  PANDARLS  and  TROILUS'  Boy,  meeting. 

Pan.  How  now  !  where 's  thy  master  ?  at 
my  cousin  Cressida's  ?  [him  thither. 

Boy.   No,  sir  ;  he  stays  for  you  to  conduct 

Pan.   O,  here  he  comes. 

Enter  TROILUS. 
How  now,  how  now  ! 

Tro.  Sirrah,  walk  off.  [Exit  Boy. 

Pan.  Have  you  seen  my  cousin  ? 

Tro.  No,  Pandarus  :  I  stalk  about  her  door, 
Like  a  strange  soul  upon  the  Stygian  banks 
Staying  for  waftage.     O,  be  thou  my  Charon, 
And  give  me  swift  transportance  to  those  fields 
Where  I  may  wallow  in  the  lily  beds 
Propos'd  for  the  deserver  !  O  gentle  Pandarus, 
From  Cupid's  shoulder  pluck  his  painted  wings, 
And  fly  with  me  to  Cressid  ! 

Pan.  Walk  here  i'  the  orchard,  I  '11  bring  her 
straight.  [Exit. 

Tro.  I  am  giddy;  expectation  whirls  me  round. 
The  imaginary  relish  is  so  sweet 
That  it  enchants  my  sense  :  what  will  it  be, 
When  that  the  wat'ry  palate  tastes  indeed 
Love's  thrice-repured  nectar?  death,  I  fear  me; 
Swooning  destruction  ;  or  some  joy  too  fine, 
Too  subtle-potent,  tun'd  too  sharp  in  sweetness, 
For  the  capacity  of  my  ruder  powers : 
I  fear  it  much  ;  and  I  do  fear  besides 
That  I  shall  lose  distinction  in  my  joys  ; 
As  doth  a  battle,  when  they  charge  on  heaps 
The  enemy  flying. 

Re-enter  PANDARUS. 

Pan.  She's  making  her  ready,  she'll  come 
straight :  you  must  be  witty  now.  She  does  so 
blush,  and  fetches  her  wind  so  short,  as  if  she 
were  frayed  with  a  sprite  :  I  '11  fetch  her.  It 
is  the  prettiest  villain  :  she  fetches  her  breath 
as  short  as  a  new-ta'en  sparrow.  [Exit. 

^  Tro.  Even  such  a  passion  doth  embrace  my 
bosom: 


My  heart  beats  thicker  than  a  feverous  pulse ; 
And  all  my  powers  do  their  bestowing  lose, 
Like  vassalage  at  unawares  encount'ring 
The  eye  of  majesty. 

Re-enter  PANDARUS  with  CRESSIDA. 

Pan.  Come,  come,  what  need  you  blush? 
shame's  a  baby. — Here  she  is  now  :  swear  the 
oaths  now  to  her  that  you  have  sworn  to  me. 
— What,  are  you  gone  again?  you  must  be 
watched  ere  you  be  made  tame,  must  you? 
Come  your  ways,  come  your  ways  ;  an  you 
draw  backward,  we'll  put  you  i'  the  fills. — 
Why  do  you  not  speak  to  her? — Come,  draw 
this  curtain,  and  let's  see  your  picture.  Alas 
the  day,  how  loth  you  are  to  offend  daylight ! 
an  'twere  dark,  you'd  close  sooner.  So,  so  ; 
rub  on,  and  kiss  the  mistress.  How  now,  a 
kiss  in  fee-farm  !  build  there,  carpenter ;  the 
air  is  sweet.  Nay,  you  shall  fight  your  hearts 
out  ere  I  part  you.  The  falcon  as  the  tercel, 
for  all  the  ducks  i'  the  river :  go  to,  go  to. 

Tro.  You  have  bereft  me  of  all  words,  lady. 

Pan.  Words  pay  no  debts,  give  her  deeds : 
but  she  '11  bereave  you  o'  the  deeds  too,  if  she 
call  your  activity  in  question.  What,  billing 
again  ?  Here's — In  witness  whereof  the  parties 
interchangeably — Come  in,  come  in  :  I  '11  go 
get  a  fire.  [Exit. 

Cres.  Will  you  walk  in,  my  lord  ? 

Tro.  O  Cressida,  how  often  have  I  wished 
me  thus  ! 

Cres.  Wished,  my  lord  ! — The  gods  grant, — 
O  my  lord  ! 

Tro.  What  should  they  grant  ?  what  makes 
this  pretty  abruption  ?  What  too  curious  dreg 
espies  my  sweet  lady  in  the  fountain  of  our  love? 

Cres.  More  dregs  than  water,  if  my  fears 
have  eyes. 

Tro.  Fears  make  devils  of  cherubims  ;  they 
never  see  truly. 

Cres.  Blind  fear,  that  seeing  reason  leads, 
finds  safer  footing  than  blind  reason  stumbling 
without  fear :  to  fear  the  worst  oft  cures  the 
worse. 

Tro.  O,  let  my  lady  apprehend  no  fear :  in  all 
Cupid's  pageant  there  is  presented  no  monster. 

Cres.  Nor  nothing  monstrous  neither  ? 

Tro.  Nothing,  but  our  undertakings ;  when 
we  vow  to  weep  seas,  live  in  fire,  eat  rocks, 
tame  tigers ;  thinking  it  harder  for  our  mistress 
to  devise  imposition  enough  than  for  us  to 
undergo  any  difficulty  imposed.  This  is  the 
monstruosity  in  love,  lady, — that  the  will  is 
infinite,  and  the  execution  confined  ;  that  the 
desire  is  boundless,  and  the  act  a  slave  to  limit. 

Cres.  They  say,  all  lovers  swear  more  per- 

2  B 


770 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


TACT  HI. 


formance  than  they  are  able,  and  yet  reserve 
an  ability  that  they  never  perform  ;  vowing 
more  than  the  perfection  of  ten,  and  discharg- 
ing less  than  the  tenth  part  of  one.  They  that 
have  the  voice  of  lions  and  the  act  of  hares, 
are  they  not  monsters  ? 

Tro.  Are  there  such  ?  such  are  not  we  : 
praise  us  as  we  are  tasted,  allow  us  as  we 
prove  ;  our  head  shall  go  bare  till  merit  crown 
it :  no  perfection  in  reversion  shall  have  a 
praise  in  present :  we  will  not  name  desert 
before  his  birth  ;  and,  being  born,  his  addition 
shall  be  humble.  Few  words  to  fair  faith  : 
Troilus  shall  be  such  to  Cressid  as  what  envy 
can  say  worst  shall  be  a  mock  for  his  truth  ; 
and  what  truth  can  speak  truest  not  truer  than 
Troilus. 

Cres.  Will  you  walk  in,  my  lord  ? 

Re-enter  PANDARUS. 

Pan.  What,  blushing  still?  have  you  not 
done  talking  yet  ? 

Ores.  Well,  uncle,  what  folly  I  commit,  I 
dedicate  to  you. 

Pan.  I  thank  you  for  that :  if  my  lord  get 
a  boy  of  you,  you  '11  give  him  me.  Be  true  to 
my  lord  :  if  he  flinch,  chide  me  for  it. 

Tro.  You  know  now  your  hostages ;  your 
uncle's  word  and  my  firm  faith. 

Pan.  Nay,  I  '11  give  my  word  for  her  too : 
our  kindred,  though  they  be  long  ere  they  are 
wooed,  they  are  constant  being  won  :  they  are 
burs,  I  can  tell  you  ;  they  '11  stick  where  they 
are  thrown. 

Cres.  Boldness  comes  to  me  now,  and  brings 

me  heart : — 

Prince  Troilus,  I  have  lov'd  you  night  and  day 
For  many  weary  months. 

Tro.  Why  was  my  Cressid,  then,  so  hard  to 
win  ? 

Cres.  Hard  to  seem  won ;  but  I  was  won,  my 

lord, 

With  the  first  glance  that  ever  — Pardon  me, — 
If  I  confess  much,  you  will  play  the  tyrant. 
I  love  you  now  ;  but  not,  till  now,  so  much 
But  I  might  master  it : — in  faith,  I  lie  ; 
My  thoughts  were  like  unbridl'd  children,  grown 
Too  headstrong  for  their  mother: — see,  we  fools! 
Why  have  I  blabb'd  ?  who  shall  be  true  to  us, 
When  we  are  so  unsecret  to  ourselves  ? — 
But,  though  I  lov'd  you  well,  I  woo'd  you  not ; 
And  yet,  good  faith,  I  wish'd  myself  a  man, 
Or  that  we  women  had  men's  privilege 
Of  speaking  first.     Sweet,  bid  me   hold   my 

tongue ; 

For,  in  this  rapture,  I  shall  surely  speak 
The  thing  I  shall  repent.    See,  see,  your  silence, 


Cunning  in  dumbness,  from  my  weakness  draws 
My  very  soul  of  conscience  ! — Stop  my  mouth. 

Tro.    And   shall,  albeit  sweet  music  issues 
thence. 

Pan.   Pretty,  i'  faith. 

Cres.  My  lord,  I  do  beseech  you,  pardon  me ; 
'Twas  not  my  purpose  thus  to  beg  a  kiss  : 
I  am  asham'd  ; — O  heavens !  what  have  I  done? 
For  this  time  will  I  take  my  leave,  my  lord. 

Tro.  Your  leave,  sweet  Cressid  ! 

Pan.  Leave!  an  you  take  leave  till  to-morrow 
morning, — 

Cres.  Pray  you,  content  you. 

Tro.  What  offends  you,  lady  ? 

Cres.  Sir,  mine  own  company. 

Tro.  You  cannot  shun 

Yourself. 

Cres.  Let  me  go  and  try : 
I  have  a  kind  of  self  resides  with  you  ; 
But  an  unkind  self,  that  itself  will  leave 
To  be  another's  fool.     I  would  be  gone  : — 
Where  is  my  wit  ?  I  know  not  what  I  speak. 

Tro.  Well  know  they  what  they  speak  that 
speak  so  wisely. 

Cres.  Perchance,  my  lord,  I  show  more  craft 

than  love ; 

And  fell  so  roundly  to  a  large  confession, 
To  angle  for  your  thoughts  :  but  you  are  wise  ; 
Or  else  you  love  not ;  for  to  be  wise  and  love 
Exceeds  man's  might ;  that  dwells  with  gods 
above. 

Tro.  Othat  I  thought  it  could  be  in  a  woman, — 
As,  if  it  can,  I  will  presume  in  you, — 
To  feed  for  aye  her  lamp  and  flames  of  love  ; 
To  keep  her  constancy  in  plight  and  youth, 
Outliving  beauty's  outward,  with  a  mind 
That  doth  renew  swifter  than  blood  decays  ! 
Or,  that  persuasion  could  but  thus  convince  me,  — 
That  my  integrity  and  truth  to  you 
Might  be  affronted  with  the  match  and  weight 
Of  such  a  winnow'd  purity  in  love  ; 
How  were  I  then  uplifted  !  but,  alas  ! 
I  am  as  true  as  truth's  simplicity, 
And  simpler  than  the  infancy  of  truth. 

Cres.  In  that  I  '11  war  with  you. 

Tro.  O  virtuous  fight, 

When  right  with  right  wars  who  shall  be  most 

right ! 

True  swains  in  love  shall,  in  the  world  to  come, 
Approve  their  truths  by  Troilus  :   when  their 

rhymes, 

Full  of  protest,  of  oath,  and  big  compare, 
Want  similes,  truth  tir'd  with  iteration, — 
As  true  as  steel,  as  plantage  to  the  moon, 
As  sun  to  day,  as  turtle  to  her  mate, 
As  iron  to  adamant,  as  earth  to  the  centre, — 
Yet,  after  all  comparisons  of  truth, 


SCENE  III.] 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


771 


As  truth's  authentic  author  to  be  cited, 
As  true  as  Troilus  shall  crown  up  the  verse, 
And  sanctify  the  numbers. 

Cres.  Prophet  may  you  be! 

If  I  be  false,  or  swerve  a  hair  from  truth, 
When  time  is  old  and  hath  forgot  itself, 
When  waterdrops  have  worn  the  stones  of  Troy, 
And  blind  oblivion  swallow'd  cities  up, 
And  mighty  states  characterless  are  grated 
To  dusty  nothing  ;  yet  let  memory 
From  false  to  false,  among  false  maids  in  love, 
Upbraid  my  falsehood  !  when  they  have  said — 

as  false 

As  air,  as  water,  wind,  or  sandy  earth, 
As  fox  to  lamb,  as  wolf  to  heifer's  calf, 
Pard  to  the  hind,  or  stepdame  to  her  son  ; 
Yea,  let  them  say,  to  stick  the  heart  of  falsehood, 
As  false  as  Cressid. 

Pan.  Go  to,  a  bargain  made  :  seal  it,  seal  it ; 
I  '11  be  the  witness.  Here  I  hold  your  hand  ; 
here  my  cousin's.  If  ever  you  prove  false  one 
to  another,  since  I  have  taken  such  pains  to 
bring  you  together,  let  all  pitiful  goers -between 
be  called  to  the  world's  end  after  my  name, 
2all  them  all  Pandars  ;  let  all  constant  men  be 
Troiluses,  all  false  women  Cressids,  and  all 
brokers  between  Pandars  !  say,  amen. 

Tro.  Amen. 

Cres.  Amen. 

Pan.  Amen.  Whereupon  I  will  show  you 
a  chamber  and  a  bed ;  which  bed,  because  it 
shall  not  speak  of  your  pretty  encounters,  press 
it  to  death  :  away  1 

And  Cupid  grant  all  tongue-tied  maidens  here, 
Bed,  chamber,  Pandar  to  provide  this  geer  ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— THE  GRECIAN  CAMP. 

Enter  AGAMEMNON,    ULYSSES,    DIOMEDES, 
NESTOR,  AJAX,  MENELAUS,  and  CALCHAS. 

Cal.  Now,  princes,  for  the  service  I  have 

done  you 

The  advantage  of  the  time  prompts  me  aloud 
To  call  for  recompense.    Appear  it  to  your  mind 
That,  through  the  sight  I  bear  in  things  to  Jove, 
I  have  abandon'd  Troy,  left  my  possession, 
Incurr'd  a  traitor's  name  ;  expos'd  myself, 
From  certain  and  possess'd  conveniences, 
To  doubtful  fortunes  ;  sequest'ring  from  me  all 
That  time,  acquaintance,  custom,  and  condition 
Made  tame  and  most  familiar  to  my  nature  ; 
And  here,  to  do  you  service,  am  become 
As  new  into  the  world,  strange,  unacquainted  : 
1  do  beseech  you,  as  in  way  of  taste, 
To  give  me  now  a  little  benefit, 


Out  of  those  many  register^  in  promise, 
Which,  you  say,  live  to  come  in  my  behalf. 

Agam.  What  wouldst  thou  of  us,  Trojan? 
make  demand.  [Antenor, 

Cal.    You   have  a  Trojan   prisoner,    call'd 
Yesterday  took  :  Troy  holds  him  very  dear. 
Oft  have  you, — often  have  you  thanks  there- 
fore,— 

Desir'd  my  Cressid  in  right  great  exchange, 
Whom  Troy  hath  still  denied :  but  this  Antenor, 
I  know,  is  such  a  wrest  in  their  affairs 
That  their  negotiations  all  must  slack 
Wanting  his  manage  ;  and  they  will  almost 
Give  us  a  prince  of  blood,  a  son  of  Priam, 
In  change  of  him :  let  him  be  sent,  great  princes, 
And  he  shall  buy  my  daughter ;  and  her  presence 
Shall  quite  strike  off  all  service  I  have  done 
In  most  accepted  pain. 

Agam.  Let  Diomedes  bear  him, 

And  bring  us  Cressid  hither :  Calchas  shall  have 
What  he  requests  of  us  —Good  Diomed, 
Furnish  you  fairly  for  this  interchange  : 
Withal,  bring  word  if  Hector  will  to-morrow 
Be  answered  in  his  challenge  :  Ajax  is  ready. 

Dio.  This  shall  I  undertake ;  and  'tis  a  burden 
Which  I  am  proud  to  bear. 

[Exeunt  DIOMEDES  and  CALCHAS, 

Enter  ACHILLES  and  PATROCLUS,  before 
their  tent. 

Ulyss.  Achilles  stands  i'  the  entrance  of  his 

tent : — 

Please  it  our  general  to  pass  strangely  by  him, 
As  if  he  were  forgot ;  and,  princes  all, 
Lay  negligent  and  loose  regard  upon  him : 
I  will  come  last.     'Tis  like  he  '11  question  me 
Why  such  unplausive  eyes  are  bent  on  him : 
If  so,  I  have  derision  med'cinable, 
To  use  between  your  strangeness  and  his  pride, 
Which  his  own  will  r.hall  have  desire  to  drink : 
It  may  do  goodj  pride  hath  no  other  glass 
To  show  itself  but  pride ;  for  supple  knees 
Feed  arrogance,  and  are  the  proud  man's  fees. 

Agam.  We'll    execute    your  purpose,   and 

put  on 

A  form  of  strangeness  as  we  pass  along ; — 
So  do  each  lord ;  and  either  greet  him  not, 
Or  else  disdainfully,  which  shall  shake  him 

more 
Than  if  not  look'd  on.     I  will  lead  the  way. 

Achil.  What,   comes  the  general  to  speak 

with  me  ?  [Troy. 

You  know  my  mind,  I  '11  fight  no  more  'gainst 

Agam.  What  says  Achilles?  would  he  aught 
with  us?  [general? 

Nest.  Would  you,  my  lord,  aught  with  the 

Achil.  No. 


772 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


[ACT  in. 


Nest.  Nothing,  my  lord. 

Agam.  The  better. 

[Exeunt  AGAMEMNON  and  NESTOR. 

Achil.  Good  day,  good  day. 

Men.   How  do  you?  how  do  you?        {.Exit. 

Achil.   What,  does  the  cuckold  scorn  me? 

Ajax.  How  now,  Patroclus? 

Achil.  Good-morrow,  Ajax. 

Ajax.  Ha? 

Achil.  Good-morrow. 

Ajax.  Ay,  and  good  next  day  too.       [Exit. 

Achil.  What   mean   these   fellows?     Know 
they  not  Achilles?  [to  bend, 

Pair.  They  pass  by  strangely .  they  were  us'd 
To  send  their  smiles  before  them  to  Achilles ; 
To  come  as  humbly  as  they  us'd  to  creep 
To  holy  altars. 

Achil.  What,  am  I  poor  of  late  ? 

'Tis  certain,   greatness,   once  fallen  out  with 
fortune,  [is, 

Must  fall  out  with  men  too.     What  the  declin'd 
He  shall  as  soon  read  in  the  eyes  of  others 
As  feel  on  his  own  fall :  for  men,  like  butterflies, 
Show  not  their  mealy  wings  but  to  the  summer ; 
And  not  a  man,  for  being  simply  man, 
Hath  any  honour ;  but  honour  for  those  honours 
That  are  without  him.  as  place,  riches,  and 

favour, 

Prizes  of  accident  as  oft  as  merit : 
Which  when  they  fall,  as  being  slippery  standers, 
The  love  that  lean'd  on  them  as  slippery  too, 
Do  one  pluck  down  another,  and  together 
Die  in  the  fall.     But  'tis  not  so  with  me ; 
Fortune  and  I  are  friends  ;  I  do  enjoy 
At  ample  point  all  that  I  did  possess  [out 

Save  these  men's  looks ;  who  do,  methinks,  find 
Something  not  worth  in  me  such  rich  beholding 
As  they  have  often  given.     Here  is  Ulysses : 
I  '11  interrupt  his  reading. — 
How  now,  Ulysses ! 

Ufyss.  Now,  great  Thetis'  son ! 

Achil.  What  are  you  reading  ? 

Ulyss.  A  strange  fellow  here 

Writes  me,  That  man, — how  dearly  ever  parted, 
How  much  in  having,  or  without  or  in, — 
Cannot  make  boast  to  have  that  which  he  hath, 
Nor  feels  not  what  he  owes,  but  by  reflection  ; 
As  when  his  virtues  shining  upon  others 
Heat  them,  and  they  retort  that  heat  again 
To  the  first  giver. 

Achil.  This  is  not  strange,  Ulysses. 

The  beauty  that  is  borne  here  in  the  face 
The  bearer  knows  not,  but  commends  itself 
To  others'  eyes:  nor  doth  the  eye  itself, — 
That  most  pure  spirit  of  sense, — behold  itself, 
Not  going  from  itself;  but  eye  to  eye  oppos'd: 
Salutes  each  other  with  each  other's  form : 


For  speculation  turns  not  to  itself 

Till  it  hath  travell'd,  and  is  mirror'd  there 

Where  it  may  see  itself.     This  is  not  strange 

at  all. 

Ulyss.  I  do  not  strain  at  the  position, — 
It  is  familiar, — but  at  the  author's  drift ; 
Who,  in  his  circumstance,  expressly  proves 
That  no  man  is  the  lord  of  anything, — 
Though  in  and  of  him  there  be  much  consisting, — 
Till  he  communicate  his  parts  to  others  ; 
Nor  doth  he  of  himself  know  them  for  aught 
Till  he  behold  them  form'd  in  the  applause 
Where  they  're  extended ;  who,  like  an  arch, 

reverberates 

The  voice  again  ;  or,  like  a  gate  of  steel 
Fronting  the  sun,  receives  and  renders  back 
His  figure  and  his  heat.     I  was  much   rapt    in 

this; 

And  apprehended  here  immediately 
The  unknown  Ajax. 

Heavens,  what  a  man  is  there !  a  very  horse  ; 
That  has  he  knows  not  what.     Nature,  what 

things  there  are 

Most  abject  in  regard  and  dear  in  use ! 
What  things  again  most  dear  in  the  esteem 
And  poor  in  worth  !  Now  shall  we  see  to-morrow 
An  act  that  very  chance  doth  throw  upon  him, 
Ajax  renown'd.    O  heavens,  what  some  men  do, 
While  some  men  leave  to  do ! 
How  some  men  creep  in  skittish  fortune's  hall, 
Whiles  others  play  the  idiots  in  her  eyes  ! 
How  one  man  eats  into  another's  pride, 
While  pride  is  fasting  in  his  wantonness ! 
To  see  these  Grecian  lords ! — why,  even  already 
They  clap  the  lubber  Ajax  on  the  shoulder 
As  if  his  foot  were  on  brave  Hector's  breast, 
And  great  Troy  shrinking. 

Achil,  I  do  believe  it ;  for  they  pass'd  by  me 
As  misers  do  by  beggars, — neither  gave  to  me 
Good  word  nor  look.     What,   are  my  deeds 

forgot?  [back, 

Ulyss.  Time  hath,  my  lord,  a  wallet  at  his 
Wherein  he  puts  alms  for  oblivion, 
A  great-siz'd  monster  of  ingratitudes : 
Those  scraps  are  good  deeds  past ;  which  are 

devour'd 

As  fast  as  they  are  made,  forgot  as  soon 
As  done:  perseverance,  dear  my  lord, 
Keeps  honour  bright :  to  have  done  is  to  hang 
Quite  out  of  fashion,  like  a  rusty  mail        [way ; 
In  monumental  mockery.      Take  the  instant 
For  honour  travels  in  a  strait  so  narrow     [path ; 
Where  one  but  goes  abreast :  keep,  then,  the 
For  emulation  hath  a  thousand  sons 
That  one  by  one  pursue :  if  you  give  way, 
Or  hedge  aside  from  the  direct  forthright, 
Like  to  an  enter'd  tide  they  all  rush  by. 


SCENE  III.] 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


773 


And  leave  you  hindmost ; 
Or,  like  a  gallant  horse  fall'n  in  first  rank, 
Lie  there  for  pavement  to  the  abject  rear, 
O'er-run  and  trampl'd  on :  then  what  they  do 
in  present,  [yours ; 

Though  less  than  yours  in  past,  must  o'ertop 
For  time  is  like  a  fashionable  host,  [hand ; 
That  slightly  shakes  his  parting  guest  by  the 
And  with  his  arms  out-stretch'd,  as  he  would  fly, 
Grasps  in  the  comer :  welcome  ever  smiles, 
And  farewell  goes  out  sighing.  O,  let  not 

virtue  seek 

Remuneration  for  the  thing  it  was  ; 
For  beauty,  wit, 

High  birth,  vigour  of  bone,  desert  in  service, 
Love,  friendship,  charity,  are  subjects  all 
To  envious  and  calumniating  time.          [kin, — 
One  touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole  world 
That  all,   with  one  consent,  praise  new-born 
gawds,  [past ; 

Though  they  are  made  and  moulded  of  things 
And  give  to  dust  that  is  a  little  gilt  [eye 

More  laud  than  gilt  o'er-dusted.     The  present 
Praises  the  present  object: 
Then  marvel  not,  thou  great  and  complete  man, 
That  all  the  Greeks  begin  to  worship  Ajax ; 
Since  things  in  motion  sooner  catch  the  eye 
Than  what  not  stirs.     The  cry  went  once  on 

thee. 

And  still  it  might ;  and  yet  it  may  again, 
If  thou  wouldst  not  entomb  thyself  alive, 
And  case  thy  reputation  in  thy  tent ; 
Whose  glorious  deeds  but  in  these  fields  of  late 
Made  emulous  missions  'mongst  the  gods  them- 
selves, 
And  drave  great  Mars  to  faction. 

Achil.  Of  this  my  privacy 

I  have  strong  reasons. 

Ulyss.  But  'gainst  your  privacy 

The  reasons  are  more  potent  and  heroical : 
'Tis  known,  Achilles,  that  you  are  in  love 
With  one  of  Priam's  daughters. 

Achil.  Ha !  known ! 

Ulyss.   Is  that  a  wonder  ? 
The  providence  that's  in  a  watchful  state 
Knows  almost  every  grain  of  Pluto's  gold ; 
Finds  bottom  in  the  uncomprehcnsive  deeps ; 
Keeps  place  with  thought,  and  almost,  like  the 

gods, 

Does  thoughts  unveil  in  their  dumb  cradles. 
There  is  a  mystery — with  whom  relation 
Durst  never  meddle — in  the  soul  of  state ; 
Which  hath  an  operation  more  divine 
Than  breath  or  pen  can  give  expressure  to : 
All  the  commerce  that  you  have  had  with  Troy 
As  perfectly  is  ours  as  yours,  my  lord ; 
And  better  would  it  fit  Achilles  much 


To  throw  down  Hector  than  Polyxena : 
But  it  must  grieve  young  Pyrrhus  now  at  borne, 
When  fame  shall  in  our  island  sound  her  trump ; 
And  all  the  Greekish  girls  shall  tripping  sing, 
Great  Hector's  sister  did  Achilles  win  ; 
Bttt  our  brave  Ajax  bravely  beat  down  him. 
Farewell,  my  lord:  I  as  your  lover  speak; 
The  fool  slides  o'er  the  ice  that  you  should 

break.  [Exit. 

Pair.  To  this  effect,  Achilles,  have  I  moved 

you: 

A  woman  impudent  and  mannish  grown 
Is  not  more  loath'd  than  an  effeminate  man 
In  time  of  action.     I  stand  condemn'd  for  this ; 
They  think  my  little  stomach  to  the  war, 
And  your  great  love  to  me,  restrains  you  thus : 
Sweet,  rouse  yourself;  and  the  weak  wanton 

Cupid 

Shall  from  your  neck  unloose  his  amorous  fold, 
And,  like  a  dew-drop  from  the  lion's  mane, 
Be  shook  to  air. 

Achil.  Shall  Ajax  fight  with  Hector  ? 

Patr.  Ay,  and  perhaps  receive  much  honour 

by  him. 

Achil.  I  see  my  reputation  is  at  stake; 
My  fame  is  shrewdly  gor'd. 

Patr.  O,  then,  beware; 

Those  wounds  heal  ill  that  men  do  give  them- 
selves ; 

Omission  to  do  what  is  necessary 
Seals  a  commission  to  a  blank  of  danger ; 
And  danger,  like  an  ague,  subtly  taints  . 
Even  then  when  we  sit  idly  in  the  sun. 
Achil.  Go    call     Thersites     hither,     sweet 

Patroclus : 

I  '11  send  the  fool  to  Ajax,  and  desire  him 
To  invite  the  Trojan  lords,  after  the  combat, 
To  see  us  here  unarm'd :   I  have  a  woman's 

longing, 

An  appetite  that  I  am  sick  withal, 
To  see  great  Hector  in  his  weeds  of  peace ; 
To  talk  with  him,  and  to  behold  his  visage, 
Even  to  my  full  of  view.     A  labour  sav'd ! 

Enter  THERSITES. 

Ther.  A  wonder ! 

Achil.  What? 

Ther.  Ajax  goes  up  and  down  the  field 
asking  for  himself. 

Achil.  How  so? 

Ther.  He  must  fight  singly  to-morrow  with 
Hector ;  and  is  so  prophetically  proud  of  an  her- 
oical  cudgelling  that  he  raves  in  saying  nothing. 

Achil.   How  can  that  be? 

Ther.  Why,  he  stalks  up  and  down  like  a 
peacock, — a  stride  and  a  stand :  ruminates  like 
an  hostess  that  hath  no  arithmetic  but  her  brain 


774 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


[ACT  iv. 


to  set  down  her  reckoning:  bites  his  lip  with  a 
politic  regard,  as  who  should  say,  There  were 
wit  in  this  head,  an  'twould  out ;  and  so  there 
is ;  but  it  lies  as  coldly  in  him  as  fire  in  a  flint, 
which  will  not  show  without  knocking.  The 
man 's  undone  for  ever ;  for  if  Hector  break  not 
his  neck  i'  the  combat,  he  '11  break  it  himself  in 
vain-glory.  He  knows  not  me :  I  said  Good- 
morrow^  Ajax ;  and  he  replies,  Thanks, 
Agamemnon.  What  think  you  of  this  man, 
that  takes  me  for  the  general  ?  He  is  grown  a 
very  land  fish,  languageless,  a  monster.  A 
plague  of  opinion  !  a  man  may  wear  it  on  both 
sides,  like  a  leather  jerkin. 

Ach.il.  Thou  must  be  my  ambassador  to  him, 
Thersites. 

Ther.  Who,  I?  why,  he'll  answer  nobody; 
he  professes  not  answering :  speaking  is  for 
beggars ;  he  wears  his  tongue  in 's  arms.  I 
will  put  on  his  presence :  let  Patroclus  make 
demands  to  me,  you  shall  see  the  pageant  of 
Ajax. 

Achil.  To  him,  Patroclus:  tell  him, — I 
humbly  desire  the  valiant  Ajax  to  invite  the 
most  valorous  Hector  to  come  unarmed  to  my 
tent ;  and  to  procure  safe  conduct  for  his  person 
of  the  magnanimous  and  most  illustrious  six-or- 
seven -times-honoured  captain -general  of  the 
Grecian  army,  Agamemnon.  Do  this. 

Pair.  Jove  bless  great  Ajax ! 

Ther.  Hum! 

Pair.  I  come  from  the  worthy  Achilles, — 

Ther.  Ha! 

Pair.  Who  most  humbly  desires  you  to  invite 
Hector  to  his  tent, — 

Ther.  Hum! 

Pair.  And  to  procure  safe  conduct  from 
Agamemnon. 

Ther.  Agamemnon! 

Pair.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ther.   Ha! 

Patr.  What  say  you  to 't  ? 

Ther.  God  be  wi'  you,  with  all  my  heart. 

Patr.  Your  answer,  sir. 

Ther.  If  to-morrow  be  a  fair  day,  by  eleven 
o'clock  it  will  go  one  way  or  other :  howsoever, 
he  shall  pay  for  me  ere  he  has  me. 

Patr.  Your  answer,  sir. 

Ther.  Fare  you  well,  with  all  my  heart. 

Achil.  Why,  but  he  is  not  in  this  tune,  is  he? 

Ther.  No,  but  he 's  out  o'  tune  thus.  What 
music  will  be  in  him  when  Hector  has  knocked 
out  his  brains  I  know  not:  but,  I  am  sure, 
none ;  unless  the  fiddler  Apollo  get  his  sinews 
to  make  catlings  on. 

Achil.  Come,  thou  shalt  bear  a  letter  to  him 
straight. 


Ther.  Let  me  bear  another  to  his  horse ;  for 
that 's  the  more  capable  creature. 

Achil.  My  mind  is  troubl'd,  like  a  fountain 

stirr'd  ; 
And  I  myself  see  not  the  bottom  of  it. 

[Exeunt  ACHIL.  and  PATROCLUS. 

Ther.  Would  the  fountain  of  your  mind  were 
clear  again,  that  I  might  water  an  ass  at  it !  I 
had  rather  be  a  tick  in  a  sheep  than  such  a 
valiant  ignorance.  [Exit. 


ACT  IV. 
SCENE  I. — TROY.     A  Street. 

Enter^  at  one  side,  ./ENEAS,  and  Servant  with 
a  torch;  at  the  other,  PARIS,  DEIPHOBUS, 
ANTENOR,  DIOMEDES,  and  others,  -with 
torches. 

'Par.  See,  ho !  who 's  that  there  ? 

Dei.  'Tis  the  Lord  ^Eneas. 

Ai.ne.  Is  the  prince  there  in  person? — 
Had  I  so  good  occasion  to  lie  long      [business 
As  you,  Prince  Paris,   nothing  but    heavenly 
Should  rob  my  bed-mate  of  my  company. 

Dio.  That's  my  mind  too. — Good-morrow, 
Lord  yfineas.  [hand, — 

Par.  A   valiant    Greek,    ^Eneas, — take   his 
Witness  the  process  of  your  speech,  wherein 
You  told  how  Diomed,  a  whole  week  by  days, 
Did  haunt  you  in  the  field. 

ALne*  Health  to  you,  valiant  sir, 

During  all  question  of  the  gentle  truce  ; 
But  when  I  meet  you  arm'd,  as  black  defiance 
As  heart  can  think  or  courage  execute. 

Dio.  The  one  and  other  Diomed  embraces. 
Our  bloods  are  now  in  calm ;  and,  so  long, 

health ; 

But  when  contention  and  occasion  meet, 
By  Jove,  I  '11  play  the  hunter  for  thy  life 
With  all  my  force,  pursuit,  and  policy. 

ALne.  And  thou  shalt  hunt  a  lion,  that  will 
fly  [ness, 

With  his  face  backward. — In  humane  gentle- 
Welcome  to  Troy !  now,  by  Anchises'  life, 
Welcome  indeed  !     By  Venus'  hand  I  swear 
No  man  alive  can  love,  in  such  a  sort, 
The  thing  he  means  to  kill,  more  excellently. 

Dio.  We  sympathise.— Jove,  let  ^neas  live, 
If  to  my  sword  his  fate  be  not  the  glory, 
A  thousand  complete  courses  of  the  sun ! 
But,  in  mine  emulous  honour,  let  him  die, 
With  every  joint  a  wound,  and  that  to-morrow ! 

ALne.  We  know  each  other  well. 

Dio.  We  do ;  and  long  to  know  each  other 
worse. 


SCENE  I.] 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


775 


Par.  This  is  the  most  despiteful  gentle  greet- 
ing, 

The  noblest  hateful  love,  that  e'er  I  heard  of. — 
What  business,  lord,  so  early? 

j&ne.  I  was  sent  for  to  the  king ;  but  why, 
I  know  not.  [this  Greek 

Par.  His  purpose  meets  you :  'twas  to  bring 
To  Calchas'  house ;  and  there  to  render  him, 
For  the  enfreed  Antenor,  the  fair  Cressid : 
Let's  have  your  company;  or,  if  you  please, 
Haste  there  before  us :  I  constantly  do  think, — 
Or,  rather,  call  my  thought  a  certain  know- 
ledge,— 

My  brother  Troilus  lodges  there  to-night : 
Rouse  him,  and  give  him  note  of  our  approach, 
With  the  whole  quality  wherefore:  I  fear 
We  shall  be  much  unwelcome. 

ALne.  That  I  assure  you : 

Troilus  had  rather  Troy  were  borne  to  Greece 
Than  Cressid  borne  from  Troy. 

Par.  There  is  no  help ; 

The  bitter  disposition  of  the  time 
Will  have  it  so.     On,  lord ;  we  '11  follow  you. 

j&ne.  Good-morrow,  all. 

[Exit,  with  Servant. 

Par.  And  tell  me,  noble   Diomed, — faith, 

tell  me  true, 

Even  in  the  soul  of  sound  good-fellowship, — 
Who,  in  your  thoughts,  merits  fair  Helen  best, 
Myself  or  Menelaus? 

Dio.  Both  alike : 

He  merits  well  to  have  her,  that  doth  seek  her, — 
Not  making  any  scruple  of  her  soilure, — 
With  such  a  hell  of  pain  and  world  of  charge ; 
And  you  as  well  to  keep  her,  that  defend  her, — 
Not  palating  the  taste  of  her  dishonour, — 
With  such  a  costly  loss  of  wealth  and  friends : 
He,  like  a  puling  cuckold,  would  drink  up 
The  lees  and  dregs  of  a  flat  tamed  piece ; 
You,  like  a  lecher,  out  of  whorish  loins 
Are  pleas'd  to  breed  out  your  inheritors : 
Both  merits  pois'd,  each  weighs  nor  less  nor 

more ; 
But  he  as  he,  each  heavier  for  a  whore. 

Par.  You  are  too  bitter   to   your  country- 
woman. 

Dio.  She 's  bitter  to  her  country.     Hear  me, 

Paris : — 

For  every  false  drop  in  her  bawdy  veins 
A  Grecian's  life  hath  sunk ;  for  every  scruple 
Of  her  contaminated  carrion  weight        [speak, 
A  Trojan  hath  been   slain :  since   she   could 
She  hath  not  given  so  many  good  words  breath 
As  for  her  Greeks  and  Trojans  suffer'd  death. 

Par.  Fair  Diomed,  you  do  as  chapmen  do, 
Dispraise  the  thing  that  you  desire  to  buy : 
But  we  in  silence  hold  this  virtue  well, — 


We  '11  not  commend  what  we  intend  to  sell. 
Here  lies  our  way.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — TROY.     Court  ^PANDARUS' 
House. 

Enter  TROILUS  and  CRESSIDA. 

Tro.  Dear,  trouble  not  yourself:  the  morn 
is  cold.  [uncle  down  ; 

Cres.  Then,  sweet  my  lord,  I'll  call  mine 
He  shall  unbolt  the  gates. 

Tro.  Trouble  him  not ; 

To  bed,  to  bed :  sleep  kill  those  pretty  eyes, 
And  give  as  soft  attachment  to  thy  senses 
As  infants  empty  of  all  thought ! 

Cres.  Good -morrow,  then. 

Tro.   I  pr'ythee  now,  to  bed. 

Cres.  Are  you  aweary  of  me  ? 

Tro.  O  Cressida !  but  that  the  busy  day, 
Wak'd  by  the  lark,  hath  rous'd  the  ribald  crows, 
And  dreaming  night  will  hide  our  joys  no  longer, 
I  would  not  from  thee. 

Cres.  Night  hath  been  too  brief. 

Tro.  Beshrew   the   witch!    with  venomous 

wights  she  stays 

As  tediously  as  hell ;  but  flies  the  grasps  of  love 
With  wings  more  momentary-swift  than  thought 
You  will  catch  cold,  and  curse  me. 

Cres.  Pr'ythee,  tarry; — 

You  men  will  never  tarry. — 

0  foolish  Cressid ! — I  might  have  still  held  off, 
And   then  you   would   have   tarried.     Hark ! 

there's  one  up.  [here? 

Pan.  [Within.}  What,  's  all  the  doors  open 
Tro.  It  is  your  uncle.  [mocking : 

Cres.  A  pestilence  on  him !  now  will  he  be 

1  shall  have  such  a  life ! — 

Enter  PANDARUS. 

Pan.  How  now,  how  now?  how  go  maiden- 
heads? 

— Here,  you  maid  !  where 's  my  cousin  Cressid? 
Cres.  Go  hang  yourself,  you  naughty  mocking 

uncle ! 

You  bring  me  to  do,  and  then  you  flout  me  too. 
Pan.  To  do  what?  to  do  what? — let  her  say 
what:  what  have  I  brought  you  to  do? 

Cres.  Come,    come,   beshrew    your    heart! 

you  '11  ne'er  be  good, 
Nor  suffer  others. 

Pan.  Ha,  ha !  Alas,  poor  wretch !  ah,  poor 
capocchia!  hast  not  slept  to-night?  would  he 
not,  a  naughty  man,  let  it  sleep?  a  bugbear 
take  him ! 

Cres.  Did  not  I  toll  you? — would  he  were 

knock'd  i'  the  head ! —       [Knocking. 

Who 's  that  at  door?  good  uncle,  go  and  see. — 


776 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


[ACT  iv. 


My  lord,  come  you  again  into  my  chamber : 
You  smile,  and  mock  me,  as  if  I  meant  naughtily. 

Tro.  Ha!  ha! 

Cres.  Come,  you  are  deceiv'd,  I  think  of  no 

such  thing. —  [Knocking. 

How  earnestly  they  knock ! — Pray  you,  come  in : 

I  would  not  for  half  Troy  have  you  seen  here. 

[Exeunt  TROILUS  and  CRESSIDA. 

Pan.  [Going'  to  the  door.']  Who's  there? 
what's  the  matter?  will  you  beat  down  the 
door?  How  now?  what's  the  matter? 

Enter  ^ENEAS. 

&ne.  Good-morrow,  lord,  good-morrow. 

Pan.  Who's  there?  my  lord  yEneas?  By 
my  troth,  I  knew  you  not:  what  news  with 
you  so  early? 

j3Lne.  Is  not  Prince  Troilus  here? 

Pan.  Here !  what  should  he  do  here  ? 

ALne.  Come,  he  is  here,  my  lord;   do  not 

deny  him : 
It  doth  import  him  much  to  speak  with  me. 

Pan.  Is  he  here,  say  you?  'tis  more  than  I 
know,  I'll  be  sworn. — For  my  own  part,  I 
came  in  late.  What  should  he  do  here? 

j*Ene.  Who! — nay,  then: — come,  come, 
you  '11  do  him  wrong  ere  you  are  ware :  you  Ml 
be  so  true  to  him  to  be  false  to  him ;  do  not 
you  know  of  him,  but  yet  go  fetch  him  hither ; 
go- 
As  PANDARUS  is  going  out,  re-enter  TROILUS. 

Tro.  How  now  !  what 's  the  matter? 

sEne.  My  lord,    I   scarce   have  leisure   to 

salute  you, 

My  matter  is  so  rash.     There  is  at  hand 
Paris  your  brother,  and  Deiphobus, 
The  Grecian  Diomed,  and  our  Antenor 
Deliver'd  to  us ;  and  for  him  forthwith, 
Ere  the  first  sacrifice,  within  this  hour, 
We  must  give  up  to  Diomedes'  hand 
The  Lady  Cressida. 

Tro.  Is  it  so  concluded? 

sEne.  By  Priam,  and  the  general  state  of 

Troy: 
They  are  at  hand,  and  ready  to  effect  it. 

Tro.  How  my  achievements  mock  me ! 
I  will  go  meet  them : — and,  my  lord  yEneas, 
We  met  by  chance  ;  you  did  not  find  me  here. 

sEne.  Good,  good,  my  lord ;  the  secrets  of 

nature 
Have  not  more  gift  in  taciturnity. 

[Exeunt  TROILUS  and  ^ENEAS. 

Pan.  Is't  possible?  no  sooner  got  but  lost? 
The  devil  take  Antenor !  the  young  prince  will 
go  mad :  a  plague  upon  Antenor !  I  would 
they  had  broke 's  neck ! 


Re-enter  CRESSIDA. 

Cres.  How  now!  what  is  the  matter?  who 
was  here? 

Pan.  Ah,  ah ! 

Cres.  Why  sigh  you  so  profoundly?  where 's 
my  lord?  gone!  tell  me,  sweet  uncle,  what's 
the  matter? 

Pan.  Would  I  were  as  deep  under  the  earth 
as  I  am  above ! 

Cres.  O  the  gods!  what's  the  matter? 

Pan.  Pr'ythee,  get  thee  in.  Would  thou 
hadst  ne'er  been  born?  I  knew  thou  wouldst 
be  his  death ! — O,  poor  gentleman ! — A  plague 
upon  Antenor ! 

Cres.  Good  uncle,  I  beseech  you,  on  my 
knees  I  beseech  you,  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Pan.  Thou  must  be  gone,  wench,  thou  must 
be  gone ;  thou  art  changed  for  Antenor :  thou 
must  to  thy  father,  and  be  gone  from  Troilus : 
'twill  be  his  death;  'twill  be  his  bane;  he 
cannot  bear  it. 

Cres.  O  you  immortal  gods ! — I  will  not  go. 

Pan.   Thou  must. 

Cres.   I  will  not,  uncle:    I  have  forgot  my 

father; 

I  know  no  touch  ot  consanguinity ; 
No  kin,  no  love,  no  blood,  no  soul  so  near  me 
As  the  sweet  Troilus. — O  you  gods  divine ! 
Make  Cressid's  name  the  very  crown  of  false- 
hood [death 
If  ever  she  leave  Troilus !     Time,  force,  and 
Do  to  this  body  what  extremes  you  can ; 
But  the  strong  base  and  building  of  my  love 
Is  as  the  very  centre  of  the  earth, 
Drawing  all  things  to  it.— I  '11  go  in  and  weep, — 

Pan.  Do,  do. 

Cres.  Tear  my  bright  hair,  and  scratch  my 

praised  cheeks ;  [heart 

Crack  my  clear  voice  with  sobs,  and  break  my 

With  sounding  Troilus.     I  will  not  go  from 

Troy.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— TROY.     Street  before  PANDARUS' 
House. 

Enter  PARIS,  TROILUS,  AENEAS,  DEIPHOBUS, 
ANTENOR,  and  DIOMEDES. 

Par.  It   is  great   morning ;    and   the  how 

prefix'd 

Of  her  delivery  to  this  valiant  Greek 
Comes  fast  upon : — good  my  brother  Troilus, 
Tell  you  the  lady  what  she  is  to  do, 
And  haste  her  to  the  purpose. 

Tro.  Walk  in  to  her  house ; 

I  '11  bring  her  to  the  Grecian  presently : 
And  to  his  hand  when  I  deliver  her,  / 


SCENE  IV.] 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


777 


Think  it  an  altar ;  and  thy  brother  Troilus 
A  priest,  there  offering  to  it  his  own  heart. 

[Exit. 

Par.  I  know  what  'tis  to  love ; 
And  would,  as  I  shall  pity,  I  could  help ! — 
Please  you  walk  in,  my  lords.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — TROY.     A  Room  in  PANDARUS' 
House. 

Enter  PANDARUS  and  CRESSIDA. 

Pan.  Be  moderate,  be  moderate. 

Cres.   Why  tell  you  me  of  moderation  ? 
The  grief  is  fine,  full,  perfect,  that  I  taste, 
And  violenteth  in  a  sense  as  strong  [it? 

As  that  which  causeth  it :  how  can  I  moderate 
If  I  could  temporize  with  my  affection, 
Or  brew  it  to  a  weak  and  colder  palate, 
The  like  allayment  could  I  give  my  grief : 
My  love  admits  no  qualifying  dross ; 
No  more  my  grief,  in  such  a  precious  loss. 

Pan.  Here,  here,  here  he  comes. 

Enter  TROILUS. 
Ah,  sweet  ducks ! 

Cres.  O  Troilus !  Troilus !    [Embracing- him. 
Pan.  What  a  pair  of  spectacles  is  here !     Let 
me  embrace  too.      O  heart,  as  the  goodly  saying 
is, — • 

O  heart,  heavy  heart, 
Why  sigh'st  thou  without  breaking? 

where  he  answers  again, 

Because  thou  canst  not  ease  thy  smart 
By  silence  nor  by  speaking. 

There  was  never  a  truer  rhyme.  Let  us  cast 
away  nothing,  for  we  may  live  to  have  need  of 
such  a  verse :  we  see  it,  we  see  it. — How  now, 
lambs !  [purity 

Tro.   Cressid,   I  love  thee  in  so  strain'd  a 
That  the  bless'd  gods, — as  angry  with  my  fancy, 
More  bright  in  zeal  than  the  devotion  which 
Cold  lips  blow  to  their  deities, — take  thee  from 
me. 

Cres.  Have  the  gods  envy? 

Pan.  Ay,  ay,  ay,  ay ;  'tis  too  plain  a  case. 

Cres.  And  is  it  true  that  I  must  go  from  Troy? 

Tro.  A  hateful  truth. 

Cres.  What,  and  from  Troilus  too? 

Tro.   From  Troy  and  Troilus. 

Cres.  Is  it  possible? 

Tro.  And  suddenly ;  where  injury  of  chance 
Puts  back  leave-taking,  justles  roughly  by 
All  time  of  pause,  rudely  beguiles  our  lips 
Of  all  rejoindure,  forcibly  prevents 
Our  lock'd  embrasures,  strangles  our  dear  vows 
Even  in  the  birth  of  our  own  lab'ring  breath : 
We  two,  that  with  so  many  thousand  sighs 


Did  buy  each  other,  must  poorly  sell  ourselves 
With  the  rude  brevity  and  discharge  of  one. 
Injurious  time  now,  with  a  robber's  haste, 
Crams  his  rich  thievery  up,  he  knows  not  how : 
As  many  farewells  as  be  stars  in  heaven, 
With  distinct  breath  and  consign'd  kisses  to 

them, 

He  fumbles  up  into  a  loose  adieu  ; 
And  scants  us  with  a  single  famish'd  kiss, 
Distasted  with  the  salt  of  broken  tears. 

JEne.  [  Within.'}  My  lord,  is  the  lady  ready? 

Tro.  Hark !  you  are  call'd.     Some  say  the 

Genius  so 

Cries,  Come!  to  him  that  instantly  must  die. — 
Bid  them  have  patience ;  she  shall  come  anon. 

Pan.  Where  are  my  tears?  rain,  to  lay  this 
wind,  or  my  heart  will  be  blown  up  by  the 
root?  [Exit. 

Cres.  I  must,  then,  to  the  Grecians  ? 

Tro.  No  remedy. 

Cres.  A  woeful  Cressid  'mongst  the  merry 

Greeks! 
When  shall  we  see  again  ? 

Tro.  Hear  me,  my  love.     Be  thou  but  true 
of  heart, —  [is  this  ? 

Cres.  I  true !  how  now  !  what  wicked  deem 

Tro.  Nay,  we  must  use  expostulation  kindly, 
For  it  is  parting  from  us : 
I  speak  not  be  thou  true,  as  fearing  thee  ; 
For  I  will  throw  my  glove  to  death  himself 
That  there 's  no  maculation  in  thy  heart : 
But  be  thou  true,  say  I,  to  fashion  in 
My  sequent  protestation ;  be  thou  true, 
And  I  will  see  thee.  [dangers 

Cres.  O,  you  shall  be  expos'd,  my  lord,  to 
As  infinite  as  imminent !  but  I  '11  be  true. 

Tro.  And    I  '11    grow  friend   with   danger. 
Wear  this  sleeve.  [see  you  ? 

Cres.  And  you  this  glove.     When  shall  I 

Tro.   I  will  corrupt  the  Grecian  sentinels, 
To  give  thee  nightly  visitation. 
But  yet  be  true. 

Cres.  O  heavens  ! — be  true,  again ! 

Tro.  Hear  why  I  speak  it,  love: 
The  Grecian  youths  are  full  of  quality ; 
They're  loving,  well  compos'd,  with  gifts  of 

nature  flowing, 

And  swelling  o'er  with  arts  and  exercise : 
How  novelty  may  move,  and  parts  with  person, 
Alas,  a  kind  of  godly  jealousy, — 
Which,  I  beseech  you,  call  a  virtuous  sin, — 
Makes  me  afeard. 

Cres.  O  heavens !  you  love  me  not. 

Tro.   Die  I  a  villain,  then  ! 
In  this  I  do  not  call  your  faith  in  question 
So  mainly  as  my  merit ;  I  cannot  sing, 
Nor  heel  the  high  lavolt,  nor  sweeten  talk, 


778 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


[ACT  iv. 


Nor  play  at  subtle  games ;  fair  virtues  all, 
To  which  the  Grecians  are  most  prompt  and 

pregnant : 

But  I  can  tell,  that  in  each  grace  of  these 
There  lurks  a  still  and  dumb-discoursive  devil 
That  tempts  most  cunningly:  but  be  not  tempted. 

Ores.  Do  you  think  I  will  ? 

Tro.  No. 

But  something  may  be  done  that  we  will  not : 
And  sometimes  we  are  devils  to  ourselves, 
When  we  will  tempt  the  frailty  of  our  powers, 
Presuming  on  their  changeful  potency. 

^Ene.  \Within.~\  Nay,  good  my  lord, — 

Tro.  Come,  kiss ;  and  let  us  part. 

Par.  {Within.}  Brother  Troilus ! 

Tro.  Good  brother,  come  you  hither ; 

And  bring  ^Eneas  and  the  Grecian  with  you. 

Ores.  My  lord,  will  you  be  true  ? 

Tro.  Who,  I  ?  alas,  it  is  my  vice,  my  fault : 
While  others  fish  with  craft  for  great  opinion, 
I  with  great  truth  catch  mere  simplicity; 
Whilst  some  with  cunning  gild  their  copper 

crowns, 

With  truth  and  plainness  I  do  wear  mine  bare. 
Fear  not  my  truth :  the  moral  of  my  wit 
Is — plain  and  true  ;  there 's  all  the  reach  of  it. 

Enter  AENEAS,  PARIS,  ANTENOR,  DEIPHOBUS, 
and  DIOMEDES. 

Welcome,  Sir  Diomed !  here  is  the  lady 
Which  for  An  tenor  we  deliver  you: 
At  the  port,  lord,  I  '11  give  her  to  thy  hand  ; 
And  by  the  way  possess  thee  what  she  is. 
Entreat  her  fair ;  and,  by  my  soul,  fair  Greek, 
If  e'er  thou  stand  at  mercy  of  my  sword, 
Name  Cressid,  and  thy  life  shall  be  as  safe 
As  Priam  is  in  Ilion. 

Dio.  Fair  Lady  Cressid, 

So  please  you,  save   the  thanks  this  prince 

expects : 

The  lustre  in  your  eye,  heaven  in  your  cheek, 
Pleads  your  fair  usage  ;  and  to  Diomed 
You  shall  be  mistress,  and  command  him  wholly. 

Tro.  Grecian,thou  dost  not  use  mecourteously , 
To  shame  the  zeal  of  my  petition  to  thee 
In  praising  her :  I  tell  thee,  lord  of  Greece, 
She  is  as  far  high-soaring  o'er  thy  praises 
As  thou  unworthy  to  be  call'd  her  servant. 
I  charge  thee  use  her  well,  even  for  my  charge ; 
For,  by  the  dreadful  Pluto,  if  thou  dost  not, 
Though  the  great  bulk  Achilles  be  thy  guard, 
I  '11  cut  thy  throat. 

Dio.  O,  be  not  mov'd,  Prince  Troilus : 

Let  me  be  privileg'd  by  my  place  and  message 
To  be  a  speaker  free ;  when  I  am  hence 
I  '11  answer  to  my  lust:  and  know  you,  lord, 
I  '11  nothing  do  on  charge :  to  her  own  worth 


She  shall  be  priz'd;  but  that  you  say/' be 't  so," 
I  '11  speak  it  in  my  spirit  and  honour, ''no." 
Tro.  Come,    to   the   port.— I'll    tell    thee, 
Diomed,  [head. — 

This  brave  shall  oft  make  thee  to  hide  thy 
Lady,  give  me  your  hand ;  and,  as  we  walk, 
To  our  own  selves  bend  we  our  needful  talk. 
[Exeunt  TRO.,  CRES.,  and  DIOMEDES. 
[  Trumpet  within. 
Par.  Hark !  Hector's  trumpet. 
j&ne.          How  have  we  spent  this  morning? 
The  prince  must  think  me  tardy  and  remiss, 
That  swore  to  ride  before  him  to  the  field. 
Par*  'Tis  Troilus'  fault.      Come,  come,  to 

field  with  him. 

Dio.   Let  us  make  ready  straight. 
j$Lne.  Yea,  with  a  bridegroom's  fresh  alacrity 
Let  us  address  to  tend  on  Hector's  heels : 
The  glory  of  our  Troy  doth  this  day  lie 
On  his  fair  worth  and  single  chivalry. 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE  V, — THE  GRECIAN  CAMP.  Lists  set  out. 

Enter  A.} AX,  armed;  AGAMEMNON,  ACHILLES, 
PATROCLUS,  MENELAUS,  ULYSSES,  NESTOR, 
and  others* 

Agam,  Here  art  thou  in  appointment  fresh 

and  fair, 

Anticipating  time.     With  starting  courage 
Give  with  thy  trumpet  a  loud  note  to  Troy, 
Thou  dreadful  Ajax  ;  that  the  appalled  air 
May  pierce  the  head  of  the  great  combatant, 
And  hale  him  hither. 

Ajax.         Thou,  trumpet,  there  's  my  purse, 
Now  crack  thy  lungs  and  split  thy  brazen  pipe : 
Blow,  villain,  till  thy  sphered  bias  cheek 
Out-swell  the  colic  of  puff'd  Aquilon : 
Come,  stretch  thy  chest,  and  let  thy  eyes  spout 

blood ; 
Thou  blow'st  for  Hector.        {Trumpet  sounds. 

Ulyss,  No  trumpet  answers. 

Achil.  'Tis  but  early  day. 

Agam.  Is  not  yon  Diomed,  with  Calchas' 
daughter  ? 

Ulyss.  'Tis  he,  I  ken  the  manner  of  his  gait ; 
He  rises  on  the  toe :  that  spirit  of  his 
In  aspiration  lifts  him  from  the  earth. 

Enter  DIOMEDES,  with  CRESSIDA. 

Agam.  Is  this  the  lady  Cressid? 

Dio.  Even  she  ? 

Agam.  Most  dearly  welcome  to  the  Greeks, 

sweet  lady. 

Nest.  Our  general  doth  salute  you  with  a  kiss. 
Ulyss.  Yet  is  the  kindness  but  particular; 
'Twere  better  she  were  kiss'd  in  general. 


SCENB  V.  ] 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


779 


Nest.  And  very  courtly  counsel:  I  '11  begin.  — 
So  much  for  Nestor.  [fair  lady. 

Achil.  I  '11  take  that  winter  from  your  lips, 
Achilles  bids  you  welcome. 

Men.  I  had  good  argument  for  kissing  once. 
Patr.  But  that's  no  argument  for  kissing 

now ; 

For  thus  popp'd  Paris  in  his  hardiinent, 
And  parted  thus  you  and  your  argument. 

Ulyss.  O  deadly  gall,  and  theme  of  all  our 

scorns ! 

For  which  we  lose  our  heads  to  gild  his  horns. 
Patr.  The  first  was  Menelaus'  kiss; — this, 

mine; 
Patroclus  kisses  you. 

Men.  O,  this  is  trim ! 

Patr.   Paris  and  I  kiss  evermore  for  him. 
Men.  I  '11  have  my  kiss,  sir. — Lady,  by  your 

leave. 

Cres.   In  kissing,  do  you  render  or  receive? 
Patr.  Both  take  and  give. 
Cres.  I'll  make  my  match  to  live, 

The  kiss  you  take  is  better  than  you  give ; 
Therefore  no  kiss. 

Men.  I  '11  give  you  boot,  I  '11  give  you  three 
for  one.  [none. 

Cres.  You  're  an  odd  man ;  give  even  or  give 
Men.  An  odd  man,  lady?  every  man  is  odd. 
Cres.  No,  Paris  is  not;  for,  you  know,  'tis 

true, 

That  you  are  odd,  and  he  is  even  with  you. 
Men.  You  fillip  me  o'  the  head. 
Cres.  No,  I  '11  be  sworn. 

Ulyss.   It  were  no  match,  your  nail  against 

his  horn. — 

May  I,  sweet  lady,  beg  a  kiss  of  you  ? 
Cres.  You  may. 
Ulyss.  I  do  desire  it. 

Cres.  Why,  beg  then,  do. 

Ulyss.  Why  then,  for  Venus'  sake,  give  me 

a  kiss 
When  Helen  is  a  maid  again,  and  his. 

Cres.  I  am  your  debtor,  claim  it  when  'tis 

due.  [you. 

Ulyss.  Never 's  my  day,  and  then  a  kiss  of 

Dio.   Lady,  a  word. — I'll  bring  you  to  your 

father. 

[DIOMEDES  leads  out  CRESSIDA. 

Nest.  A  woman  of  quick  sense. 

Ulyss.  Fie,  fie  upon  her ! 

There 's  language  in  her  eye,  her  cheek,  her  lip, 

Nay,  her  foot  speaks :  her  wanton  spirits  look 

out 

At  every  joint  and  motive  of  her  body. 
O,  these  encounterers,  so  glib  of  tongue, 
That  give  a  coasting  welcome  ere  it  comes, 
And  wide  unclasp  the  tables  cf  their  thoughts 


To  every  ticklish  reader !  set  them  down 

For  sluttish  spoils  of  opportunity, 

And  daughters  of  the  game.    [  Trumpet  within. 

All.  The  Trojans'  trumpet. 

Agam.  Yonder  comes  the  troop. 

Enter  HECTOR,  armed;  ^ENEAS,  TROILUS,  and 
other  Trojans,  with  Attendants. 

ALne.  Hail,  all  you  state  of  Greece!  what 
shall  be  done  [purpose 

To  him  that  victory  commands?   Or  do  you 
A  victor  shall  be  known?  will  you  the  knights 
Shall  to  the  edge  of  all  extremity 
Pursue  each  other :  or  shall  be  divided 
By  any  voice  or  order  of  the  field? 
Hector  bade  ask. 

Agam.      Which  way  would  Hector  have  it  ? 

s£ne.   He  cares  not ;  he  '11  obey  conditions. 

Achil.  'Tis  done  like  Hector;  but  securely 

done, 

A  little  proudly,  and  great  deal  misprizing 
The  knight  oppos'd. 

j£ne.  If  not  Achilles,  sir, 

What  is  your  name? 

Achil.  If  not  Achilles,  nothing. 

ALne.  Therefore  Achilles.      But,  whate'er, 

know  this: — 

In  the  extremity  of  great  and  little 
Valour  and  pride  excel  themselves  in  Hector; 
The  one  almost  as  infinite  as  all, 
The  other  blank  as  nothing.     Weigh  him  well, 
And  that  which  looks  like  pride  is  courtesy. 
This  Ajax  is  half  made  of  Hector's  blood : 
In  love  whereof,  half  Hector  stays  at  home ; 
Half  heart,  hah  hand,  half  Hector  comes  to 
seek  [Greek. 

This   blended   knight,    half   Trojan   and   half 

Achil.  A  maiden  battle  then? — O,  I  perceive 
you. 

Re-enter  DIOMEDES. 

Agam.  Here  is  Sir    Diomed. — Go,   gentle 

knight, 

Stand  by  our  Ajax ;  as  you  and  Lord  ^neas 
Consent  upon  the  order  of  their  fight 
So  be  it ;  either  to  the  uttermost, 
Or  else  a  breath :  the  combatants  being  kin 
Half  stints  their  strife  before  their  strokes  begin. 
[AjAX  and  HECTOR  enter  the  lists. 
Ulyss.  They  are  oppos'd  already. 
Agam.  What  Trojan  is  that  same  that  looks 
so  heavy?  [knight; 

Ulyss.  The  youngest  son  of  Priam,  a  true 
Not  yet  mature,  yet  matchless :  firm  of  word ; 
Speaking  in  deeds,  and  deedless  in  his  tongue ; 
Not  soon  provok'd,  nor,  being  provok'd,  soon 
calm'd : 


78o 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


[ACT  iv. 


His  heart  and  hand  both  open  and  both  free ; 
For  what  he  has  he  gives,  what  thinks  he  shows ; 
Yet  gives  he  not  till  judgment  guide  his  bounty, 
Nor  dignifies  an  impure  thought  with  breath : 
Manly  as  Hector,  but  more  dangerous ; 
For  Hector,  in  his  blaze  of  wrath,  subscribes 
To  tender  objects;  but  he,  in  heat  of  action, 
Is  more  vindicative  than  jealous  love: 
They  call  him  Troilus ;  and  on  him  erect 
A  second  hope,  as  fairly  built  as  Hector. 
Thus  says  yEneas ;  one  that  knows  the  youth 
Even  to  his  inches,  and,  with  private  soul, 
Did  in  great  Ilion  thus  translate  him  to  me. 

[Alarum.     HECTOR  and  AJAX  _/%>/*/. 

Again.  They  are  in  action. 

Nest.  Now,  Ajax,  hold  thine  own ! 

Tro.  Hector,  thou  sleep'st ; 

Awake  thee  ! 

Agam.  His  blows  are  well  disposed : — there, 
Ajax  ! 

Dio.  You  must  no  more.      [  Trumpets  cease. 

&ne.  Princes,  enough,  so  please  you. 

Ajax.   I  am  not  warm  yet,  let  us  fight  again. 

Dio.  As  Hector  pleases. 

Hect.  Why,  then  will  I  no  more : — 

Thou  art,  great  lord,  my  father's  sister's  son, 
A  cousin-german  to  great  Priam's  seed ; 
The  obligation  of  our  blood  forbids 
A  gory  emulation  'twixt  us  twain  ; 
Were  thy  commixtion  Greek  and  Trojan  so, 
That  thou  could'st  say  This  hand  is  Grecian  all, 
And  this  is  Trojan;  the  sinews  of  this  leg 
All  Greek,  and  this  all  Troy;  my  mother's  blood 
Runs  on  the  dexter  cheek ,  and  this  sinister 
Bounds  in  my  fathers ;  by  Jove  multipotent, 
Thou  shouldst  not  bear  from  me  a  Greekish 

member 

Wherein  my  swcrd  had  not  impressure  made 
Of  our  rank  feud :  but  the  just  gods  gainsay 
That  any  drop  thou  borrow'dst  from  thy  mother, 
My  sacred  aunt,  should  by  my  mortal  sword 
Be  drain'd  !     Let  me  embrace  thee,  Ajax: 
By  him  that  thunders,  thou  hast  lusty  arms ; 
Hector  would  have  them  fall  upon  him  thus : 
Cousin,  all  honour  to  thee ! 

Ajax.  I  thank  thee,  Hector : 

Thou  art  too  gentle  and  too  free  a  man : 
I  came  to  kill  thee,  cousin,  and  bear  hence 
A  great  addition  earned  in  thy  death. 

Hect.  Not  Neoptolemus  so  mirable, — 
On  whose  bright  crest  Fame  with  her  loud'st 

Oyes 

Cries,  J^his  is  he, — could  promise  to  himself 
A  thought  of  added  honour  torn  from  Hector. 

sEne.  There  is  expectance  here  from  both 

the  sides 
What  further  you  will  do. 


Hect.  We  '11  answer  it ; 

The  issue  is  embracement : — Ajax,  farewell. 

Ajax.   If  I  might  in  entreaties  find  success, — 
As  selcl'  I  have  the  chance, — I  would  desire 
My  famous  cousin  to  our  Grecian  tents. 

Dio.  'Tis   Agamemnon's   wish ;    and   great 

Achilles 
Doth  long  to  see  unarm'd  the  valiant  Hector. 

Hect.  ./Eneas,  call  my  brother  Troilus  to  me : 
And  signify  this  loving  interview 
To  the  expecters  of  our  Trojan  part ;    [cousin ; 
Desire  them  home. — Give  me  thy  hand,  my 
I  will  go  eat  with  thee,  and  see  your  knights. 

Ajax.  Great  Agamemnon  comes  to  meet  us 
here.  [by  name ; 

Hect.  The  worthiest  of  them  tell  me  name 
But  for  Achilles,  mine  own  searching  eyes 
Shall  find  him  by  his  large  and  portly  size. 

Agam.  Worthy  of  arms !  as  welcome  as  to  one 
That  would  be  rid  of  such  an  enemy ; 
But  that 's  no  welcome :  understand  more  clear, 
What's  past  and  what's  to  come  is  strew'd 

with  husks 

And  formless  ruin  of  oblivion ; 
But  in  this  extant  moment,  faith  and  troth, 
Strain'd  purely  from  all  hollow  bias-drawing, 
Bids  thee,  with  most  divine  integrity, 
From  heart  of  very  heart,  great  Hector,  welcome. 

Hect.  I  thank  thee,  most  imperious  Agamem- 
non, [to  you. 

Agam.   My  well-fam'd  lord  of  Troy,  no  less 
\To  TROILUS. 

Men.  Let  me  confirm  my  princely  brother's 

greeting ; — 
You  brace  of  warlike  brothers,  welcome  hither. 

Hect.  Who  must  we  answer? 

&ne.  The  noble  Menelaus. 

Hect.  O  you,  my  lord?  by  Mars  his  gauntlet, 

thanks ! 

Mock  not,  that  I  affect  the  untraded  oath ; 
Your  quondam  wife  swears  still  by  Venus'  glove : 
She 's  well,  but  bade  me  not  commend  her  to 
you.  [theme. 

Men.  Name  her  not  now,  sir ;  she 's  a  deadly 

Hect.  O,  pardon ;  I  offend.  [oft, 

Nest.  I  have,  thou  gallant  Trojan,  seen  thee 
Labouring  for  destiny,  make  cruel  way 
Through  ranks  of  Greekish  youth  j  and  I  have 

seen  thee, 

As  hot  as  Perseus,  spur  thy  Phrygian  steed, 
Despising  many  forfeits  and  subduements, 
When  thou  hast  hung  thy  advanced  sword  i'  the 

air, 

Not  letting  it  decline  on  the  declin'd, 
That  I  have  said  to  some  my  standers-by, 
Lo,  Jupiter  is  yonder,  dealing  life! 
And  I  have  seen  thee  pause,  and  take  thy  breath, 


SCENE  V.] 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


781 


When  that  a  ring  of  Greeks  have  hemm'dthee  in, 
Like  an  Olympian  wrestling :  this  have  I  seen ; 
But  this  thy  countenance,  still  lock'd  in  steel, 
I  never  saw  till  now.     I  knew  thy  grandsire, 
And  once  fought  with  him:  he  was  a  soldier  good; 
But,  by  great  Mars,  the  captain  of  us  all, 
Never  like  thee.    Let  an  old  man  embrace  thee ; 
And,  worthy  warrior,  welcome  to  our  tents. 

^.ne.  'Ti^  the  old  Nestor. 

Hect.  Let  me  embrace  thee,  good  old  chronicle, 
That  hast  so  long  walk'd  hand  in  hand  with 

time: — 
Most  reverend  Nestor,  I  am  glad  to  clasp  thee. 

Nest.   I  would  my  arms  could  match  thee  in 

contention, 
As  they  contend  with  thee  in  courtesy. 

Hect.   I  would  they  could. 

Nest.   Ha!  [morrow: — 

By  this  white  beard,  I  'd  fight  with  thee  to- 
Well,  welcome,  welcome !  I  have  seen  the  time. 

Ulyss.   I  wonder  now  how  yonder  city  stands, 
When  we  have  here  her  base  and  pillar  by  us. 

Hect.  I  know  your  favour,  Lord  Ulysses,  well. 
Ah,  sir,  there 's  many  a  Greek  and  Trojan  dead, 
Since  first  I  saw  yourself  and  Diomed 
In  I  lion,  on  your  Greekish  embassy.       [ensue : 

Ulyss.  Sir,  I  foretold  you  then  what  would 
My  prophecy  is  but  half  his  journey  yet ; 
For  yonder  walls,  that  pertly  front  your  town, 
Yond  towers,  whose  wanton  tops  do  buss  the 

clouds, 
Must  kiss  their  own  feet. 

Hect.  I  must  not  believe  you : 

There  they  stand  yet ;  and  modestly  I  think 
The  fall  of  every  Phrygian  stone  will  cost 
A  drop  of  Grecian  blood :  the  end  crowns  all ; 
And  that  old  common  arbitrator,  time, 
Will  one  day  end  it. 

Ulyss.  So  to  him  we  leave  it. 

Most  gentle  and  most  valiant  Hector,  welcome : 
After  the  general,  I  beseech  you  next 
To  feast  with  me,  and  see  me  at  my  tent. 

Achil.  I  shall  forestall  thee,  Lord  Ulysses, 

thou  !— 

Now,  Hector,  I  have  fed  mine  eyes  on  thee ; 
I  have  with  exact  view  perus'd  thee,  Hector, 
And  quoted  joint  by  joint. 

Hect.  Is  this  Achilles? 

Achil.   I  am  Achilles.  [thee. 

Hect.  Stand  fair,  I  pray  thee:  let  me  look  on 

Achil.  Behold  thy  fill. 

Hect.  Nay,  I  have  done  already. 

AchiL  Thou  art  too  brief :  I  will  the  second 

time, 
As  I  would  buy  thee,  view  thee  limb  by  limb. 

Hect.  O,  like  a  book  of  sport  thou  'It  read 
me  o'er ; 


But  there 's  more  in  me  than  thou  understand'st. 
Why  dost  thou  so  oppress  me  with  thine  eye? 

Achil.  Tell  me,  you  heavens,  in  which  part 
of  his  body  [there, 

Shall  I  destroy  him?  whither  there,  or  there,  or 
That  I  may  give  the  local  wound  a  name, 
And  make  distinct  the  very  breach  whereout 
Hector's  great  spirit  flew :  answer  me,  heavens ! 

Hect.  It  would  discredit  the  bless'd  gods, 

proud  man, 

To  answer  such  a  question :  stand  again : 
Think'st  thou  to  catch  my  life  so  pleasantly. 
As  to  prenominate  in  nice  conjecture 
Where  thou  wilt  hit  me  dead? 

Achil.  I  tell  thee,  yea. 

Hect.  Wert  thou  an  oracle  to  tell  me  so, 
I  'd  not  believe  thee.     Henceforth  guard  thee 

well; 

For  I  '11  not  kill  thee  there,  nor  there,  nor  there ; 
But,  by  the  forge  that  stithied  Mars  his  helm, 
I  Ml  kill  thee  everywhere,  yea,  o'er  and  o'er. — 
You  wisest  Grecians,  pardon  me  this  brag, 
His  insolence  draws  folly  from  my  lips ; 
But  I  Ml  endeavour  deeds  to  match  these  words, 
Or  may  I  never, — 

Ajax.  Do  not  chafe  thee,  cousin : — 

And  you,  Achilles,  let  these  threats  alone, 
Till  accident  or  purpose  bring  you  to 't : 
You  may  have  every  day  enough  of  Hector, 
If  you  have  stomach ;  the  general  state,  I  fear, 
Can  scarce  entreat  you  to  be  odd  with  him. 

Hect.  I  pray  you,  let  us  see  you  in  the  field : 
We  have  had  pelting  wars  since  you  refus'd 
The  Grecians'  cause. 

Achil.  Dost  thou  entreat  me,  Hector? 

To-morrow  do  I  meet  thee,  fell  as  death; 
To-night  all  friends. 

Hect.  Thy  hand  upon  that  match. 

Agam.  First,  all  you  peers  of  Greece,  go  to 

my  tent ; 

There  in  the  full  convive  we :  afterwards, 
As  Hector's  leisure  and  your  bounties  shall 
Concur  together,  severally  entreat  him. — 
Beat  loud  the  tabourines,  let  the  trumpets  blow, 
That  this  great  soldier  may  his  welcome  know. 
\Exeunt  all  but  TRO.  and  ULYSSES. 

Tro.  My  Lord  Ulysses,  tell  me,  I  beseech 

you, 

In  what  place  of  ths  field  doth  Calchas  keep? 
Ulyss.    At   Menelaus'   tent,   most    princely 

Troilus : 

There  Diomed  doth  feast  with  him  to-night ; 
Who  neither  looks  upon  the  heaven  nor  earth, 
But  gives  all  gaze  and  bent  of  amorous  view 
On  the  fair  Cressid. 

Tro.  Shall  I,  sweet  lord,  be  bound  to  you 
so  much, 


782 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


[ACT  v. 


After  we  part  from  Agamemnon's  tent, 
To  bring  me  thither  ? 

Ulyss.  You  shall  command  me,  sir. 

As  gentle  tell  me,  of  what  honour  was 
This  Cressida  in  Troy?    Had  she  no  lover  there 
That  wails  her  absence? 

Tro.  Q,  sir,  to  such  as  boasting  show  their 

scars 

A  mock  is  due.  Will  you  walk  on,  my  lord? 
She  was  belov'd,  she  lov'd ;  she  is,  and  doth : 
But,  still,  sweet  love  is  food  for  fortune's  tooth. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — THE  GRECIAN  CAMP. 
ACHILLES'  Tent. 


Before 


Enter  ACHILLES  and  PATROCLUS. 

Achil.  I  '11  heat  his  blood  with  Greekish  wine 

to-night, 

Which  with  my  scimitar  I  '11  cool  to-morrow. — 
Patroclus,  let  us  feast  him  to  the  height. 

Pair.  Here  comes  Thersites. 

Enter  THERSITES. 

Achil.  How  now,  thou  core  of  envy! 

Thou  crusty  batch  of  nature,  what's  the  news? 

Ther.  Why,  thou  picture  of  what  thou 
seemest,  and  idol  of  idiot  worshippers,  here 's 
a  letter  for  thee. 

Achil.  From  whence,  fragment? 

Ther.  Why,  thou  full  dish  of  fool,  from  Troy. 

Patr.  Who  keeps  the  tent  now?        [wound. 

Ther.  The  surgeon's  box,   or  the  patient's 

Patr.  Well  said  Adversity!  and  what  need 
these  tricks? 

Ther.  Pr'ythee,  be  silent,  boy ;  I  profit  not 
by  thy  talk ;  thou  art  thought  to  be  Achilles' 
male  varlet. 

Patr.  Male  varlet,  you  rogue  !  what's  that? 

Ther.  Why,  his  masculine  whore.  Now,  the 
rotten  diseases  of  the  south,  the  guts  griping, 
ruptures,  catarrhs,  loads  o'  gravel  i'  the  back, 
lethargies,  cold  palsies,  raw  eyes,  dirt-rotten 
livers,  wheezing  lungs,  bladders  full  of  im- 
posthume,  sciaticas,  limekilns  i'  the  palm, 
incurable  bone-ache,  and  the  rivelled  fee- 
simple  of  the  tetter,  take  and  take  again  such 
preposterous  discoveries ! 

Patr.  Why,  thou  damnable  box  of  envy, 
thou,  what  meanest  thou  to  curse  thus? 

Ther.  Do  I  curse  thee? 

Patr.  Why,  no,  you  ruinous  butt ;  you  whore- 
son indistinguishable  cur,  no. 

Ther.  No  I  why  art  thou,  then,  exasperate, 


thou  idle  immaterial  skein  of  sleave-silk,  thou 
green  sarcenet  flap  for  a  sore  eye,  thou  tassel 
of  a  prodigal's  purse,  thou?  Ah,  how  the  poor 
world  is  pestered  with  such  water-flies, — 
diminutives  of  nature ! 

Patr.  Out,  gall ! 

Ther.  Finch  egg !  [quite 

Achil.   My  sweet  Patroclus,  I  am  thwarted 
From  my  great  purpose  in  to-morrow's  battle. 
Here  is  a  letter  from  Queen  Hecuba ; 
A  token  from  her  daughter,  my  fair  love ; 
Both  taxing  me  and  gaging  me  to  keep 
An  oath  that  I  have  sworn.    I  will  not  break  it : 
Fall,  Greeks ;  fail,  fame ;  honour ;  or  go  or  stay ; 
My  major  vow  lies  here,  this  I  '11  obey. — 
Come,  come,  Thersites,  help  to  trim  my  tent; 
This  night  in  banqueting  must  all  be  spent. — 
Away,  Patroclus! 

\_Exeunt  ACHIL.  and  PATR. 

Ther.  With  too  much  blood  and  too  little 
brain  these  two  may  run  mad;  but,  if  with  too 
much  brain  and  too  little  blood  they  do,  I  '11  be 
a  curer  of  madmen.  Here 's  Agamemnon, — an 
honest  fellow  enough,  and  one  that  loves  quails ; 
but  he  has  not  so  much  brain  as  ear-wax :  and 
the  goodly  transformation  of  Jupiter  there,  his 
brother,  the  bull, — the  primitive  statue,  and 
oblique  memorial  of  cuckolds ;  a  thrifty  shoeing- 
horn  in  a  chain,  hanging  at  his  brother's  leg, — 
to  what  form,  but  that  he  is,  should  wit  larded 
with  malice,  and  malice  forced  with  wit,  turn 
him  to?  To  an  ass,  were  nothing;  he  is  both 
ass  and  ox:  to  an  ox,  were  nothing;  he  is  both 
ox  and  ass.  To  be  a  dog,  a  mule,  a  cat,  a 
fitchew,  a  toad,  a  lizard,  an  owl,  a  puttock,  or 
a  herring  without  a  roe,  I  would  not  care;  but 
to  be  Menelaus, — I  would  conspire  against 
destiny.  Ask  me  not  what  I  would  be,  if  I 
were  not  Thersites;  for  I  care  not  to  be  the 
louse  of  a  lazar,  so  I  were  not  Menelaus. — 
Hoy-day !  spirits  and  fires ! 

Enter  HECTOR,  TROILUS,  AJAX,  AGAMEM- 
NON, ULYSSES,  NESTOR,  MENELAUS,  and 
DIOMEDES,  -with  lights. 

Agam.  We  go  wrong,  we  go  wrong. 
Ajax.  No,  yonder  'tis ; 

There,  where  we  see  the  lights. 

Hect.  I  trouble  you. 

Ajax.  No,  not  a  whit. 

Ulyss.         Here  comes  himself  to  guide  you. 

Re-enter  ACHILLES. 

Achil.  Welcome,  brave  Hector;   welcome, 
princes  all.  [good  night. 

Again.  So  now,  fair  prince  of  Troy,  I  bid 
Ajax  commands  the  guard  to  tend  on  you. 


SCENE  II.] 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


783 


Hect.  Thanks,  and  good  night  to  the  Greeks' 
general. 

Men.  Good-night,  my  lord. 

Hect.         Good-night,  sweet  Lord  Menelaus. 

Ther.  Sweet  draught :  sweet,  quoth 'a!  sweet 
sink,  sweet  sewer. 

AchiL  Good-night  [or  tarry. 

And  welcome,  both  at  once,  to  those  that  go 

Agam.  Good-night. 

{Exeunt  AGAM.  and  MEN. 

AchiL  Old   Nestor   tarries ;    and   you   too, 

Diomed, 
Keep  Hector  company  an  hour  or  two. 

Dio.  I    cannot,    lord ;    I    have    important 

business,  [Hector. 

The  tide  whereof  is  now. — Good-night,  great 

Hect.  Give  me  your  hand.  [tent ; 

Ulyss.  Follow  his  torch ;  he  goes  to  Calchas' 
I  '11  keep  you  company.  [Aside  to  TROILUS. 

Tro.  Sweet  sir,  you  honour  me. 

Hect.  And  so  good-night. 

{Exit  Dio.';  ULYSS.  and  TRO.  following. 

Achil.  Come,  come,  enter  my  tent. 
{Exeunt  ACHIL.,  HECT.,  AJAX,  a«t/NEST. 

Ther.  That  same  Diomed 's  a  false-hearted 
rogue,  a  most  unjust  knave;  I  will  no  more 
trust  him  when  he  leers  than  I  will  a  serpent 
when  he  hisses :  he  will  spend  his  mouth  and 
promise,  like  Brabbler  the  hound  ;  but  when  he 
performs  astronomers  foretell  it ;  it  is  prodigious, 
there  will  come  some  change ;  the  sun  borrows 
of  the  moon  when  Diomed  keeps  his  word.  I 
will  rather  leave  to  see  Hector  than  not  to  dog 
him  :  they  say  he  keeps  a  Trojan  drab,  and  uses 
the  traitor  Calchas'  tent :  I  '11  after. — Nothing 
but  lechery !  all  incontinent  varlets !  {Exit. 

SCENE  II. — THE  GRECIAN  CAMP.     Before 
CALCHAS'  Tent. 

Enter  DIOMEDES. 

Dio.   What,  are  you  up  here,  ho?  speak. 
Cal.  [Within.}  Who  calls? 
Dio.  Diomed. — Calchas,  I  think. — Where's 
your  daughter? 

Cal.  {Within.'}  She  comes  to  you. 

Enter  TROILUS  and  ULYSSES,  at  a  distance; 
after  them  THERSITES. 

Ulyss.  Stand    where    the    torch    may    not 
discover  us. 

Enter  CRESSIDA. 

Tro.  Cressid  comes  forth  to  him. 
Dio.  How  now,  my  charge ! 

Ores.  Now,  my  sweet  guardian! — Hark,  a 
word  with  you.  [Whispers. 


Tro.  Yea,  so  familiar ! 

Ulyss.  She  will  sing  any  man  at  first  sight. 

Ther.  And  any  man  may  sing  her,  if  he  can 
take  her  cliff;  she's  noted. 

Dio.  Will  you  remember? 

Cres.  Remember?  yes. 

Dio.  Nay,  but  do,  then ; 

And  let  your  mind  be  coupled  with  your  words. 

Tro.  What  should  she  remember? 

Ulyss.   List!  [to  folly. 

Cres.  Sweet  honey  Greek,  tempt  me  no  more 

Ther.   Roguery ! 

Dio.  Nay,  then, — 

Cres.  I  '11  tell  you  what,— 

Dio.  Pho,  pho !  come,  tell  a  pin :  you  are 
forsworn.  [have  me  do? 

Cres.   In  faith,   I  cannot:  what  would  you 

Ther.  A  juggling  trick,  to  be  secretly  open. 

Dio.  What  did  you  swear  you  would  bestow 
on  me? 

Cres.  I  pr'ythee,  do  not  hold  me  to  mine  oath  • 
Bid  me  do  anything  but  that,  sweet  Greek. 

Dio.  Good-night. 

Tro.  Hold,  patience ! 

Ulyss.  How  now,  Trojan ! 

Cres.  Diomed, — 

Dio.  No,  no,  good-night :  I  '11  be  your  fool 
no  more. 

Tro.  Thy  better  must. 

Cres.  Hark !  one  word  in  your  ear. 

Tro.  O  plague  and  madness !      [I  pray  you, 

Ulyss.  You  are  mov'd,  prince ;  let  us  depart, 
Lest  your  displeasure  should  enlarge  itself 
To  wrathful  terms:  this  place  is  dangerous; 
The  time  right  deadly ;  I  beseech  you,  go. 

Tro.   Behold,  I  pray  you ! 

Ulyss.  Nay,  good  my  lord,  go  off: 

You  flow  to  great  destruction ;  come,  my  lord. 

Tro.  I  pray  thee,  stay. 

Ulyss.  You  have  not  patience ;  come. 

Tro.  I  pray  you,  stay;  by  hell  and  all  hell's 

torments, 
I  will  not  speak  a  word. 

Dio.  And  so,  good-night. 

Cres.  Nay,  but  you  part  in  anger. 

Tro.  Doth  that  grieve  thee? 

0  wither'd  truth ! 

Ulyss.  Why,  how  now,  lord? 

Tro.  By  Jove, 

1  will  be  patient. 

Cres.  Guardian ! — why,  Greek ! 

Dio.  Pho,  pho !  adieu ;  you  palter. 
Cres.  In  faith,  I  do  not:  come  hither  once 
again.  [will  you  go? 

Ulyss.  You  shake,  my  lord,  at  something: 
You  will  break  out. 

Tro.  She  strokes  his  cheek ! 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


[ACT  v. 


Ulyss.  Come,  come. 

Tro.  Nay,  stay;  by  Jove,  I  will  not  speak  a 

word: 

There  is  between  my  will  and  all  offences 
A  guard  of  patience : — stay  a  little  while. 

Ther.  How  the  devil  luxury,  with  his  fat 
rump  and  potato  finger,  tickles  these  together ! 
Fry,  lechery,  fry ! 

Dio.  But  will  you,  then? 

Cres.  In  faith,  I  will,  la ;  never  trust  me  else. 

Dio.  Give  me  some  token  for  the  surety  of  it. 

Cres.   I  '11  fetch  you  one.  [Exit. 

Ulyss.  You  have  sworn  patience. 

Tro.  Fear  me  not,  sweet  lord ; 

I  will  not  be  myself,  nor  have  cognition 
Of  what  I  feel :  I  am  all  patience. 

Re-enter  CRESSIDA. 

Ther.  Now  the  pledge ;  now,  now,  now ! 

Cres.   Here,  Diomed,  keep  this  sleeve. 

Tro.  O,  beauty !  where 's  thy  faith  ? 

Ulyss.  My  lord,— 

Tro.  I  will  be  patient ;  outwardly  I  will. 

Cres.  You  look  upon  that  sleeve ;  behold  it 

well.— 
He  lov'd  me — O  false  wench! — Give't  me  again. 

Dio.  Whose  was 't  ? 

Cres.  It  is  no  matter,  now  I  have 't  again. 
I  will  not  meet  with  you  to-morrow  night : 
I  pr'ythee,  Diomed,  visit  me  no  more,    [stone. 

Ther.  Now  she  sharpens :— Well  said,  Whet- 

Dio.  I  shall  have  it. 

Cres.  What,  this? 

Dio.  Ay,  that. 

Cres.   O,  all   you   gods? — O  pretty,   pretty 

pledge ! 

Thy  master  now  lies  thinking  in  his  bed 
Of  thee  and  me ;  and  sighs,  and  takes  my  glove, 
And  gives  memorial  dainty  kisses  to  it, 
As  I  kiss  thee. — Nay,  do  not  snatch  it  from  me ; 
He  that  takes  that  doth  take  my  heart  withal. 

Dio.  I  had  your  heart  before,  this  follows  it. 

Tro.   I  did  swear  patience. 

Cres.  You  shall  not  have  it,  Diomed;  faith, 

you  shall  not ; 
I  '11  give  you  something  else. 

Dio.   I  will  have  this:  whose  was  it? 

Cres.  It  is  no  matter. 

Dio.  Come,  tell  me  whose  it  was. 

Cres.  'Twas  one's  that  loved  me  better  than 

you  will. 
But,  now  you  have  it,  take  it. 

Dio.  Whose  was  it? 

Cres.  By  all  Diana's  waiting  women  yond, 
And  by  herself,  I  will  not  tell  you  whose. 

Dio.  To-morrow  will  I  wear  it  on  my  helm ; 
And  grieve  his  spirit  that  dares  not  challenge  it. 


Tro.  Wert  thou  the  devil,  and  wor'st  it  on 

thy  horn, 
It  should  be  challeng'd. 

Cres.  Well,  well,  'tis  done,  'tis  past; — and 

yet  it  is  not ; 
I  will  not  keep  my  word. 

Dio.  Why,  then,  farewell ; 

Thou  never  shalt  mock  Diomed  again,     [word 

Cres.  You  shall  not  go : — one  cannot  speak  a 
But  it  straight  starts  you. 

Dio.  I  do  not  like  this  fooling. 

Ther.  Nor  I,  by  Pluto:  but  that  that  likes 
not  you  pleases  me  best. 

Dio.  What,  shall  I  come?  the  hour? 

Cres.   Ay,  come : — O  Jove ! 
Do  come : — I  shall  be  plagu'd. 

Dio.  Farewell  till  then. 

Cres.  Good-night:  I  pr'ythee,  come. 

[Exit  DIOMEDES. 

Troilus,  farewell !  one  eye  yet  looks  on  thee ; 
But  with  my  heart  the  other  eye  doth  see. 
Ah,  poor  our  sex  !  this  fault  in  us  I  find, 
The  error  of  our  eye  directs  our  mind : 
What  error  leads  must  err ;  O,  then  conclude, 
Minds  sway'd  by  eyes  are  full  of  turpitude. 

[Exit. 

Ther.  A  proof  of  strength  she   could   not 

publish  more, 
Unless  she  said,  My  mind  is  now  turn'd  whore. 

Ulyss.  All 's  done,  my  lord. 

Tro.  It  is. 

Ulyss.  Why  stay  we,  then? 

Tro.  To  make  a  recordation  to  my  soul 
Of  every  syllable  that  here  was  spoke. 
But  if  I  tell  how  these  two  did  co-act, 
Shall  I  not  lie  in  publishing  a  truth? 
Sith  yet  there  is  a  credence  in  my  heart, 
An  esperance  so  obstinately  strong, 
That  doth  invert  the  attest  of  eyes  and  ears ; 
As  if  those  organs  had  deceptious  functions 
Created  only  to  calumniate. 
Was  Cressid  here? 

Ulyss.  I  cannot  conjure,  Trojan. 

Tro.  She  was  not,  sure. 

Ulyss.  Most  sure  she  was. 

Tro.  Why,   my  negation  hath   no   taste  of 
madness.  [but  now. 

Ulyss.  Nor  mine,  my  lord :  Cressid  was  here 

Tro.   Let  it  not  be  believ'd  for  womanhood ! 
Think,  we  had  mothers ;  do  not  give  advantage 
To  stubborn  critics, — apt,  without  a  theme, 
For  depravation, — to  square  the  general  sex 
By  Cressid's  rule :  rather  think  this  not  Cressid. 

Ulyss.  What  hath  she  done,  prince,  that  can 
soil  our  mothers? 

Tro.  Nothing  at  all,  unless  that  this  were 
she. 


SCENE  II.] 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


785 


Ther.  Will  he  swagger  himself  out  on 's  own 
eyes? 

Tro.  This  she  ?  no;  this  is  Diomed's  Cressida : 
If  beauty  have  a  soul,  this  is  not  she; 
If  souls  guide  vows,  if  vows  be  sanctimonies, 
If  sanctimony  be  the  gods'  delight, 
If  there  be  rule  in  unity  itself, 
This  is  not  she.     O  madness  of  discourse, 
That  cause  sets  up  with  and  against  itself ! 
Bi-fold  authority !  where  reason  can  revolt 
Without  perdition,  and  loss  assume  all  reason 
Without  revolt:  this  is,  and  is  not,  Cressid! 
Within  my  soul  there  doth  conduce  a  fight 
Of  this  strange  nature,  tnat  a  thing  inseparate 
Divides  more  wider  than  the  sky  and  earth ; 
And  yet  the  spacious  breadth  of  this  division 
Admits  no  orifex  for  a  point,  as  subtle 
As  Ariachne's  broken  woof,  to  enter. 
Instance,  O  instance  !  strong  as  Pluto's  gates ; 
Cressid  is  mine,  tied  with  the  bonds  of  heaven : 
Instance,  O  instance !  strong  as  heaven  itself; 
The  bonds  of  heaven  are  slipp'd,  dissolv'd,  and 

loos' d ; 

And  with  another  note,  five-finger-tied, 
The  fractions  of  her  faith,  orts  of  her  love, 
The  fragments,  scraps,  the  bits,  and  greasy  relics 
Of  her  o'er-eaten  faith,  are  bound  to  Diomed. 

Ulyss.  May  worthy  Troilus  be  but  half-attach'd 
With  that  which  here  his  passion  doth  express  ? 

Tro.  Ay,  Greek ;  and  that  shall  be  divulged 

well 

In  characters  as  red  as  Mars  his  heart      [fancy 
Inflam'd  with  Venus:   never  did  young  man 
With  so  eternal  and  so  fix'd  a  soul. 
Hark,  Greek :  as  much  as  I  do  Cressid  love, 
So  much  by  weight  hate  I  her  Diomed : 
That  sleeve  is  mine  that  he  '11  bear  on  his  helm ; 
Were  it  a  casque  compos'd  by  Vulcan's  skill 
My  sword  should  bite  it :  not  the  dreadful  spout 
Which  shipmen  do  the  hurricano  call, 
Constring'd  in  mass  by  the  almighty  sun, 
Shall  dizzy  with  more  clamour  Neptune's  ear 
In  his  descent,  than  shall  my  prompted  sword 
Falling  on  Diomed. 

Ther.   He  '11  tickle  it  for  his  concupy. 

Tro.  O  Cressid !  O  false  Cressid !  false,  false, 

false ! 

Let  all  untruths  stand  by  thy  stained  name, 
And  they  '11  seem  glorious. 

Ulyss.  O,  contain  yourself ; 

Your  passion  draws  ears  hither. 

Enter  /ENEAS. 

ALne.  I  have  been  seeking  you  this  hour, 

my  lord : 

Hector,  by  this,  is  arming  him  in  Troy ; 
Ajax,  your  guard,  stays  to  conduct  you  home. 


Tro.   Have  with  you,  prince.  —  My  courteous 

lord,  adieu.  — 

Farewell,  revolted  fair  !  —  and,  Diomed, 
Stand  fast,  and  wear  a  castle  on  thy  head  ! 

Ulyss.  I  '11  bring  you  to  the  gates. 

Tro.  Accept  distracted  thanks. 

{Exeunt  TRO.,  ^NE.,  and  ULYSS. 

Ther.  Would  I  could  meet  that  rogue 
Diomed  !  I  would  croak  like  a  raven  ;  I  would 
bode,  I  would  bode.  Patroclus  will  give  me 
anything  for  the  intelligence  of  this  whore: 
the  parrot  will  not  do  more  for  an  almond  than 
he  for  a  commodious  drab.  Lechery,  lechery  ; 
still  wars  and  lechery;  nothing  else  holds 
fashion  :  a  burning  devil  take  them  ! 


SCENE  III.  —  TROY.     Before  PRIAM'S  Palace. 
Enter  HECTOR  and  ANDROMACHE. 

And.  When  was  my  lord  so  much  ungently 

temper'd 

To  stop  his  ears  against  admonishment  ? 
Unarm,  unarm,  and  do  not  fight  to-day. 

Hect.  You  train  me  to  offend  you  ;  get  you  in  : 
By  all  the  everlasting  gods,  I  '11  go  ! 

And.  My  dreams  will,  sure,  prove  ominous 

to  the  day. 
Hect.  No  more,  I  say. 

Enter  CASSANDRA. 

Cas.  Where  is  my  brother  Hector  ? 

And,  Here,  sister;  arm'd,  and  bloody  in  intent. 
Consort  with  me  in  loud  and  dear  petition, 
Pursue  we  him  on  knees  ;  for  I  have  dream'd 
Of  bloody  turbulence,  and  this  whole  night 
Hath  nothing  been  but  shapes  and  forms  of 
slaughter. 

Cas.  O,  'tis  true. 

Hect.  Ho  !  bid  my  trumpet  sound  ! 

Cas.  No  notes  of  sally,   for   the  heavens, 
sweet  brother.  [me  swear. 

Hect.  Begone,  I  say:  the  gods  have  heard 

Cas.  The  gods  are  deaf  to  hot  and  peevish 

vows: 

They  are  polluted  offerings,  more  abhorr'd 
Than  spotted  livers  in  the  sacrifice. 

And.  O,  be  persuaded  !  do  not  count  it  holy 
To  hurt  by  being  just  :  it  is  as  lawful, 
For  we  would  give  much,  to  use  violent  thefts, 
And  rob  in  the  behalf  of  charity.  [vow  ; 

Cas.  It  is  the  purpose  that  makes  strong  the 
But  vows  to  every  purpose  must  not  hold  : 
Unarm,  sweet  Hector. 

Hect.  Hold  you  still,  I  say  ; 

Mine  honour  keeps  the  weather  of  my  fate  : 
Life  every  man  holds  dear  ;  but  the  dear  man 
Holds  honour  far  more  precious  dear  than  life.  — 


786 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


[ACT  v. 


Enter  TROILUS. 

How  now,  young  man !  mean'st  thou  to  fight 
to-day  ? 

And.  Cassandra,  call  my  father  to  persuade. 
[Exit  CASSANDRA. 

Hect.  No,    faith,   young   Troilus;   doff  thy 

harness,  youth  ; 

I  am  to-day  i'  the  vein  of  chivalry : 
Let  grow  thy  sinews  till  their  knots  be  strong, 
And  tempt  not  yet  the  brushes  of  the  war. 
Unarm  thee,  go ;  and  doubt  thou  not,  brave  boy, 
I  '11  stand  to-day  for  thee,  and  me,  and  Troy. 

Tro.  Brother,  you  have  a  vice  of  mercy  in  you, 
Which  better  fits  a  lion  than  a  man. 

Hect,  What  vice  is  that,  good  Troilus?  chide 
me  for  it.  [fall, 

Tro.  When  many  times  the  captive  Grecians 
Even  in  the  fan  and  wind  of  your  fair  sword, 
You  bid  them  rise  and  live. 

Hect,  O,  'tis  fair  play. 

Tro.  Fool's  play,  by  Heaven,  Hector. 

Hect.  How  now  !  how  now ! 

Tro.  For  the  love  of  all  the  gods, 

Let  3s  leave  the  hermit  pity  with  our  mothers ; 
And  when  we  have  our  armours  buckled  on, 
The  venom'd  vengeance  ride  upon  our  swords ; 
Spur  them  to  ruthful  work,  rein  them  from  ruth. 

Hect.  Fie,  savage,  fie!. 

Tro.  Hector,  then  'tis  wars. 

Hect.  Troilus,  I  would  not  have  you  fight 
to-day, 

Tro    Who  should  withhold  me  ? 
Not  fate,  obedience,  nor  the  hand  of  Mars 
Beckoning  with  fiery  truncheon  my  retire ; 
Not  Priamus  and  Hecuba  on  knees, 
Their  eyes  o'ergalled  with  recourse  of  tears ; 
Nor  you,  my  brother,  with  your  true  sword 

drawn, 

Oppos'd  to  hinder  me,  should  stop  my  way, 
But  by  my  ruin. 

Re-enter  CASSANDRA,  with  PRIAM. 

Cas.   Lay  hold  upon  him,  Priam,  hold  him 

fast: 

He  is  thy  crutch ;  now  if  thou  lose  thy  stay, 
Thou  on  him  leaning  and  all  Troy  on  thee, 
Fall  all  together. 

Pri.  Come,  Hector,  come,  go  back : 

Thy  wife  hath  dream'd ;  thy  mother  hath  had 

visions ; 

Cassandra  doth  foresee ;  and  I  myself 
Am  like  a  prophet  suddenly  enrapt, 
To  tell  thee  that  this  day  is  ominous : 
Therefore,  come  back. 

Hect.  ^Eneas  is  a-field ; 

And  I  do  stand  engag'd  to  many  Greeks, 


Even  in  the  faith  of  valour,  to  appear 
This  morning  to  them. 

Pri.  Ay,  but  thou  shalt  not  go. 

Hect.  I  must  not  break  my  faith. 
You  know  me  dutiful ;  therefore,  dear  sir, 
Let  me  not  shame  respect ;  but  give  me  leave 
To  take  that  course  by  your  consent  and  voice 
Which  you  do  here  forbid  me,  royal  Priam. 
Cas.  O  Priam,  yield  not  to  him  ! 
And.  Do  not,  dear  father. 

Hect.  Andromache,  I  am  offended  with  you : 
Upon  the  love  you  bear  me,  get  you  in. 

[Exit  ANDROMACHE. 

Tro.  This  foolish,  dreaming,  superstitious  girl 
Makes  all  these  bodements. 

Cas.  O,  farewell,  dear  Hector ! 

Look,  how  thou  diest !  look,  how  thy  eye  turns 

pale! 

Look,  how  thy  wounds  do  bleed  at  many  vents ! 
Hark,  how  Troy  roars!  how  Hecuba  cries  out! 
How  poor  Andromache  shrills  her  dolours  forth! 
Behold,  destruction,  frenzy,  and  amazement, 
Like  witless  antics,  one  another  meet, 
And    all    cry,    Hector  !    Hector  3s    dead  !    O 

Hector  ! 

Tro.  Away  !  away  !  [my  leave : 

Cas.  Farewell: — yet,  soft! — Hector  I  take 
Thou  dost  thyself  and  all  our  Troy  deceive. 

[Exit. 

Hect.  You  are  amaz'd,   my  liege,    at    her 

exclaim :  [fight ; 

Go  in,  and  cheer  the  town:  v/e'll  forth,  and 

Do  deeds  worth  praise,  and  tell  you  them  at 

night.  [about  thee ! 

Pri.  Farewells   the  gods  with  safety  stand 

[Exeunt  severally  PRIAM  and  HECTOR. 

Alarums. 
Tro.  They  are  at  it,  hark !  Proud  Diomed, 

believe, 
I  come  to  lose  my  arm,  or  win  my  sleeve. 

As  TROILUS  is  going  out,  enter  from  the  other 
side  PANDARUS. 

Pan.  Do  you  hear,  my  lord?  do  you  hear? 

Tro.  What  now?  [girl. 

Pan.  Here 's  a  letter  come  from  yond  poor 

Tro.  Let  me  read, 

Pan.  A  whoreson  phtisick,  a  whoreson 
rascally  phtisick  so  troubles  me,  and  the  foolish 
fortune  of  this  girl ;  and  what  one  thing,  what 
another,  that  I  shall  leave  you  one  o'  these 
days:  and  I  have  a  rheum  in  mine  eyes  too; 
and  such  an  ache  in  my  bones,  that  unless  a 
man  were  cursed  I  cannot  tell  what  to  think 
on't. — What  says  she  there? 

Tro.  Words,  words,  mere  words,  no  matter 
from  the  heart; 


SCENE  IV.] 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


787 


The  effect  doth  operate  another  way. — 

[  Tearing  the  letter. 

Go,  wind,  to  wind,  there  turn  and  change  to- 
gether.— 

My  love  with  words  and  errors  still  she  feeds ; 
But  edifies  another  with  her  deeds. 

{Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  IV. — Plains  between  Troy  and  the 
Grecian  Camp. 

Alarums :  excursions.     Enter  THERSITES. 

Ther.  Now  they  are  clapper-clawing  one 
another;  I'll  go  look  on.  That  dissembling 
abominable  varlet,  Diomed,  has  got  that  same 
scurvy  doting  foolish  young  knave's  sleeve  of 
Troy  there  .in  his  helm :  I  would  fain  see  them 
meet;  that  that  same  young  Trojan  ass,  that 
loves  the  whore  there,  might  send  that  Greekish 
whoremasterly  villain,  with  the  sleeve,  back  to 
the  dissembling  luxurious  drab,  of  a  sleeve-less 
errand.  O'  the  t'other  side,  the  policy  of  those 
crafty  swearing  rascals, — that  stale  old  mouse- 
eaten  dry  cheese,  Nestor,  and  that  same  dog-fox, 
Ulysses, — is  not  proved  worth  a  blackberry: — 
they  set  me  up,  in  policy,  that  mongrel  cur, 
Ajax,  against  that  dog  of  as  bad  a  kind, 
Achilles:  and  now  is  the  cur  Ajax  prouder 
than  the  cur  Achilles,  and  will  not  arm  to-day ; 
whereupon  the  Grecians  begin  to  proclaim 
barbarism,  and  policy  grows  into  an  ill  opinion. 
Soft !  here  come  sleeve,  and  t'other. 

Enter  DIOMEDES,  TROILUS  following. 

Tro.  Fly  not;   for  shouldst  thou  take   the 

river  Styx 
I  would  swim  after. 

Dio.  Thou  dost  miscall  retire: 

I  do  not  fly ;  but  advantageous  care 
Withdrew  me  from  the  odds  of  multitude: 
Have  at  thee ! 

Ther.  Hold  thy  whore,  Grecian !  now  for  thy 

whore,  Trojan ! — now  the  sleeve,  now  the  sleeve ! 

[Exeunt  TRO.  and  DiQ.t  fighting. 

Enter  HECTOR. 

Hect.  What  art  thou,  Greek!  art  thou  for 

Hector's  match? 
Art  thou  of  blood  and  honour? 

Ther.  No,  no, — I  am  a  rascal;  a  scurvy 
railing  knave ;  a  very  filthy  rogue. 

Hect.  I  do  believe  thee ; — live.  [Exit. 

Ther.  God-a-mercy,  that  thou  wilt  believe 
me ;  but  a  plague  break  thy  neck  for  frighting 
me! — What 's  become  of  the  wenching  rogues? 
I  think  they  have  swallowed  one  another:  I 


would  laugh  at  that  miracle.     Yet,  in  a  sort, 
lechery  eats  itself.     I  '11  seek  them.          [Exit. 

SCENE  V. — Another  part  of  the  Plains. 
Enter  DIOMEDES  and  a  Servant. 

Dio.  Go,  go,  my  servant,  take  thou  Troilus1 

horse ; 

Present  the  fair  steed  to  my  lady  Cressid: 
Fellow,  commend  my  service  to  her  beauty ; 
Tell  her  I  have  chastis'd  the  amorous  Trojan, 
And  am  her  knight  by  proof. 

Set  v.  I  go,  my  lord. 

[Exit. 

Enter  AGAMEMNON. 

Agam.  Renew,  renew!   The  fierce  Polydamus 
Hath  beat  down  Menon :  bastard  Margarelon 
Hath  Doreus  prisoner, 

And  stands  colossus-wise,  waving  his  beam, 
Upon  the  pashed  corses  of  the  kings 
Epistrophus  and  Cedius :  Polixenes  is  slain ; 
Amphimacus  and  Thoas  deadly  hurt ; 
Patroclus  ta'en,  or  slain ;  and  Palamedes 
Sore  hurt  and  bruis'd :  the  dreadful  Sagittary 
Appals  our  numbers : — haste  we,  Diomed, 
To  reinforcement,  or  we  perish  all. 

Enter  NESTOR, 

Nest.  Go,  bear  Patroclus'  body  to  Achilles ; 
And  bid  the  snail-pac'd  Ajax  arm  for  shame. — 
There  is  a  thousand  Hectors  in  the  field : 
Now  here  he  fights  on  Galathe  his  horse, 
And  there  lacks  work ;  anon  he  's  there  afoot, 
And  there  they  fly  or  die,  like  scaled  skulls 
Before  the  belching  whale ;  then  is  he  yonder, 
And  there  the  strawy  Greeks,  ripe  for  his  edge, 
Fall  down  before  him  like  the  mower's  swath : 
Here,  there,  and  everywhere  he  leavesand  takes; 
Dexterity  so  obeying  appetite 
That  what  he  will  he  does ;  and  does  so  much 
That  proof  is  call'd  impossibility. 

Enter  ULYSSES. 

Ulyss.  O,  courage,  courage,  princes!  great 

Achilles 

Is  arming,  weeping,  cursing,  vowing  vengeance: 
Patroclus'  wounds  have  rous'd  his  drowsy  blood, 
Together  with  his  mangl'd  Myrmidons, 
That  noiseless,  handless,  hack'd  and  chipp'd, 

come  to  him, 

Crying  on  Hector.     Ajax  hath  lost  a  friend, 
And  foams  at  mouth,  and  he  is  arm'd  and  at  it, 
Roaring  for  Troilus ;  who  hath  done  to-day 
Mad  and  fantastic  execution; 
Engaging  and  redeeming  of  himself 
With  such  a  careless  force  and  forceless  care 


788 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


[ACT  v. 


As  if  that  luck,  in  very  spite  of  cunning, 
Bade  him  win  all. 

Enter  AjAX. 

Ajax.  Troilus !  thou  coward  Troilus !    [Exit. 
Dio.  Ay,  there,  there. 

Nest.  So,  so,  we  draw  together. 

Enter  ACHILLES. 

Achil.  Where  is  this  Hector? 

Come,  come,  thou  boy-queller,  show  thy  face ; 

Know  what  it  is  to  meet  Achilles  angry : — 

Hector!    where Js   Hector?    I   will  none   but 

Hector.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.—  Another  Part  of  the  Plains. 
Enter  AJAX. 

Ajax.  Troilus,  thou  coward  Troilus,  show 
thy  head ! 

Enter  DlOMEDES. 

Dio.  Troilus,  I  say !  where 's  Troilus  ? 
Ajax.  What  wouldst  thou  ? 

Dio.  I  would  correct  him. 
Ajax.  Were   I  the   general,    thou   shouldst 
have  my  office  [Troilus ! 

Ere   that   correction. — Troilus,   I   say!    what, 

Enter  TROILUS. 

Tro.  O  traitor  Diomed ! — turn  thy  false  face, 

thou  traitor, 

And  pay  thy  life  thou  owest  me  for  my  horse ! 
Dio.  Ha !  art  thou  there  ? 
Ajax.  I'llfightwith  him  alone:  stand,  Diomed. 
Dio.  He  is  my  prize.    I  will  not  look  upon. 
Tro.  Come,  both,  you  cogging  Greeks ;  have 

at  you  both.  [Exeunt fighting. 

Enter  HECTOR. 

Hect.  Yea,    Troilus?    O,    well    fought,    my 
youngest  brother ! 

Enter  ACHILLES. 

Achil.  Now  do  I  see  thee,  ha !  have  at  thee, 
Hector ! 

Hect.  Pause,  if  thou  wilt.  [Trojan : 

Achil.  I    do    disdain    thy  courtesy,    proud 
Be  happy  that  my  arms  are  out  of  use : 
My  rest  and  negligence  befriend  thee  now, 
But  thou  anon  shalt  hear  of  me  again; 
Till  when,  go  seek  thy  fortune.  [Exit. 

Hect.  Fare  thee  well  :— 

I  would  have  been  much  more  a  fresher  man 
Had  I  expected  thee. — How  now,  my  brother ! 

Re-enter  TROILUS. 
Tro.  Ajax  hath  ta'en  ^Eneas :  shall  it  be  ? 


No,  by  the  flame  of  yonder  glorious  heaven, 
He  shall  not  carry  him ;  I  '11  be  ta'en  too, 
Or  bring  him  off. — fate,  hear  me  what  I  say! 
I  reck  not  though  I  end  my  life  to-day.     [Exit. 

Enter  one  in  sumptuous  armoiir. 

Hect.  Stand,  stand,  thou  Greek;  thou  art  a 

goodly  mark : — 

No?  wilt  thou  not  ? — I  like  thy  armour  well ; 
I  '11  frush  it,  and  unlock  the  rivets  all.     [abide? 
But  I  11  be  master  of  it  .—Wilt  thou  not,  beast, 
Why  then,  fly  on,  I  '11  hunt  thee  for  thy  hide. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII.  — Another  Part  of  the  Plains. 
Enter  ACHILLES,  ivtth  Myrmidons. 

Achil.  Come  here  about  me,  you  my  Myr- 
midons ; 

Mark  what  I  say. — Attend  me  where  I  wheel: 
Strike  not  a  stroke,  but  keep  yourselves  in  breath: 
And  when  I  have  the  bloody  Hector  found, 
Empale  him  with  your  weapons  round  about ; 
In  fellest  manner  execute  your  aims. 
Follow  me,  sirs,  and  my  proceedings  eye: — 
It  is  decreed  Hector  the  great  must  die. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  MENELAUS  and  PARIS,  fighting;  then 
TKERSITES. 

Ther.  The  cuckold  and  the  cuckold-maker 
are  at  it.  Now,  bull !  now,  dog !  'Loo,  Paris, 
'loo !  now  my  double-henned  sparrow !  'loo, 
Paris,  'loo !  The  bull  has  the  game : — 'ware 
horns,  ho !  [Exeunt  PARIS  and  MENELAUS. 

Enter  MARGARELON. 

Mar.  Turn,  slave,  and  fight. 

Ther.  What  art  thou  ? 

Mar.  A  bastard  son  of  Priam's. 

Ther  I  am  a  bastard  too  ;  I  love  bastards : 
I  am  a  bastard  begot,  bastard  instructed,  bastard 
in  mind,  bastard  in  valour,  in  everything  illegiti- 
mate. One  bear  will  not  bite  another,  and 
wherefore  should  one  bastard  ?  Take  heed,  the 
quarrel's  most  ominous  to  us:  if  the  son  of  a 
whore  fight  for  a  whore  he  tempts  judgment : 
farewell,  bastard.  [Exit. 

Mar.  The  devil  take  thee,  coward !     [Exit. 

SCENE  VIII. — Another  Part  of  the  Plains. 
Enter  HECTOR. 

Hect.  Most  putrified  core,  so  fair  without, 
Thy  goodly  armour  thus  hath  cost  thy  lite. 
Now  is  my  day's  work  done:  I'll  take  good 
breath: 


SCENE  IX.] 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


789 


Rest,  sword ;  thou  hast  thy  fill  of  blood  and 
death ! 

[P^lts  off  his  helmet  and  hangs  his 
shield  behind  him. 

Enter  ACHILLES  and  Myrmidons, 

Achil.   Look,  Hector,  how  the  sun  begins  to 

set; 

How  ugly  night  comes  breathing  at  his  heels ; 
Even  with  the  vail  and  dark'ning  of  the  sun, 
To  close  the  day  up,  Hector's  life  is  done. 
Hect.  I  am  unarm'd ;   forego  this  vantage, 
Greek.  [I  seek. 

Achil.  Strike,  fellows,  strike ;  this  is  the  man 
[HECTOR  falls. 

So,  Ilion,  fall  thou  next!  now,  Troy,  sink  down! 
Here  lies  thy  heart,  thy  sinews,  and  thy  bone. — 
On,  Myrmidons;  and  cry  you  all  amain, 
Achilles  hath  the  mighty  Hector  slain. 

[A  retreat  sounded. 

Hark !  a  retire  upon  our  Grecian  part,  [my  lord. 
Myr.  The  Trojan  trumpets  sound  the  like, 
Achil.  The  dragon  wing  of  night  o'erspreads 

the  earth, 

And,  stickler-like,  the  armies  separate. 
My  half-supp'd  sword,  that  frankly  would  have 
fed,  [bed— 

Pleas'd   with   this   dainty   bait,    thus   goes   to 
[Sheathes  his  sword. 
Come,  tie  his  body  to  my  horse's  tail ; 
Along  the  field  I  will  the  Trojan  trail.    [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IK.— Another  Part  of  the  Plains. 

Enter  AGAMEMNON,  AJAX,  MENELAUS, 
NESTOR,  DIOMEDES,  atid  others,  man  king. 
Shouts  within. 

Again.  Hark  !  hark !  what  shout  is  that  ? 

Nest.  Peace,  drums  !  [Achilles ! 

[Within.]  Achilles!  Achilles!  Hector 's slain, 

Dio.  The  bruit  is,  Hector's  slain,  and  by 
Achilles. 

Ajax.   If  it  be  so,  yet  bragless  let  it  be ; 
Great  Hector  was  a  man  as  good  as  he.      [sent 

Agam.  March  patiently  along. — Let  one  be 
To  pray  Achilles  see  us  at  our  tent. — 
If  in  his  death  the  gods  have  us  befriended ; 
Great  Troy  is  ours,  and  our  sharp  wars  are 
ended.  [Exeunt,  marching. 

SCENE  ^.—Another  Part  of  the  Plains. 
Enter  AENEAS  and  Trojans. 

sEne.   Stand,  ho !  yet  are  we  masters  of  the 

field: 
Never  go  home ;  here  starve  we  out  the  night. 


Enter  TROILUS. 

Tro.   Hector  is  slain. 

All.  Hector !— the  gods  forbid  ! 

Tro.  He 's   dead ;    and  at    the    murderer's 
horse's  tail,  [field.— 

In  beastly  sort,  dragg'd  through  the  shameful 
Frown  on,  you  heavens,  effect  your  rage  with 
speed!  [Troy! 

Sit,  gods,  upon  your  thrones,  and  smile  at 
I  say,  at  once  let  your  brief  plagues  be  mercy. 
And  linger  not  our  sure  destructions  on ! 

JEne.  My  lord,  you  do  discomfort  all  the  host. 
Tro.  You  understand  me  not  that  tell  me 

so : 

I  do  not  speak  of  flight,  of  fear,  of  death ; 
But  dare  all  imminence  that  gods  and  men 
Address  their  dangers  in.     Hector  is  gone : 
Who  shall  tell  Priam  so,  or  Hecuba  ? 
Let  him  that  will  a  screech-owl  aye  be  call'd 
Go  in  to  Troy,  and  say  there,  Hector 's  dead : 
There  is  a  word  will  Priam  turn  to  stone ; 
Make  wells  and  Niobes  of  the  maids  and  wives, 
Cold  statues  of  the  youth ;  and,  in  a  word, 
Scare  Troy  out  of  itself.     But,  march  away: 
Hector  is  dead ;  there  is  no  more  to  say. 
Stay  yet. — You  vile  abominable  tents, 
Thus  proudly  pight  upon  our  Phrygian  plains, 
Let  Titan  rise"  as  early  as  he  dare, 
I'll   through  and    through   you! — And,   thou 

great-siz'd  coward, 

No  space  of  earth  shall  sunder  our  two  hates: 
I  '11  haunt  thee  like  a  wicked  conscience  still, 
That  mouldeth  goblins  swift  as  frenzy's 

thoughts.  — 

Strike  a  free  march  to  Troy ! — with  comfort  go : 
Hope  of  revenge  shall  hide  our  inward  woe. 

[Exeunt  yENEAS  and  Trojans. 

As  TROILUS  is  going  out,  enter,  from  the  other 
side,  PANDARUS. 

Pan.  But  hear  you,  hear  you ! 

Tro.  Hence,  broker  lackey!  ignomy  and 
shame  pursue  thy  life,  and  live  aye  with  thy 
name !  [Exit. 

Pan.  A  goodly  medicine  for  my  aching 
bones! — O  world!  world!  world!  thus  is  the 
poor  agent  despised!  O  traitors  and  bawds, 
how  earnestly  are  you  set  at  work,  and  how  ill 
requited!  Why  should  our  endeavour  be  so 
loved,  and  the  performance  so  loathed  ?  what 
verse  for  it?  what  instance  for  it?— Let  me 
see: — 

Full  merrily  the  humble-bee  doth  sing 
Till  he  hath  lost  his  honey  and  his  sting  ; 
And  being  once  subdued  in  armed  tail, 
Sweet  honey  and  sweet  notes  together  fail  — 


790 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


[ACT  v. 


Good   traders   in   the   flesh,  set  this  in   your 

painted  cloths. 

As  many  as  be  here  of  pander's  hall, 
Your  eyes,  half  out,  weep  out  at  Pandar's  fall ; 
Or,  if  you  cannot  weep,  yet  give  some  groans, 
Though  not  for  me,  yet  for  your  aching  bones 
Brethren  and  sisters  of  the  old-door  trade, 


Some  two  months  hence  my  will  shall  here  be 

made: 

It  should  be  now,  but  that  my  fear  is  this, — 
Some  galled  goose  of  Winchester  would  hiss : 
Till  then  I  '11  sweat,  and  seek  about  for  eases ; 
And,  at  that  time,  bequeath  you  my  diseases. 


n  * 


TIMON   OF  ATHENS. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


TIMON,  a  noble  Athenian. 

The  Servant  of  ISIDORE. 

Lucius,           ) 

Two  of  TIMON'S  Creditors. 

LUCULLUS,      >  Lords  and  Flatterers  of  TIMON. 

Cupid  and  Maskers. 

SEMPRONIUS,  ) 

Three  Strangers. 

VENTIDIUS,  one  of  TIMON'S  false  Friends. 

Poet. 

ALCIBIADES,  an  Athenian  General. 

Painter. 

APEMANTUS,  a  churlish  Philosopher. 

Jeweller. 

FLAVIUS,  Steward  to  TIMON. 

Merchant. 

FLAMINIUS,      ) 

An  Old  Athenian. 

LUCILIUS,         >  TIMON'S  Servants. 

SERVILIUS,       ) 

A  Page. 

CAPHIS,           "} 

A  FooL 

PHILOTUS, 

PHRYNIA         ^ 

TITUS,               \Servants  to  TIMON'S  Creditors. 

TIMANDRA       \Mistresses  to  ALCIBIADES. 

Lucius, 

' 

HORTENSIUS,    J 

Other    Lords,    Senators,    Officers,    Soldiers, 

Two  Servants  0/VARRO. 

Thieves,  and  Attendants. 

SCENE, — ATHENS,  and  the  Woods  adjoining. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.— ATHENS.     A  Hall  in  TIMON'S 
House. 

Enter  Poet,  Painter,  Jeweller,  Merchant,  and 
others,  at  several  doors, 

Poet.  Good-day,  sir. 

Pain.  I  am  glad  you  are  well. 

Poet.   I  have  not  seen  you  long:  how  goes 
the  world  ? 

Pain.  It  wears,  sir,  as  it  grows. 

Poet.  Ay,  that 's  well  known : 

But  what  particular  rarity  ?  what  strange, 
Which  manifold  record  not  matches  ?     See, 
Magic  of  bounty!  all  these  spirits  thy  power 
Hath  conjur'd  to  attend     I  know  the  merchant. 

Pain.  I  know  them  both;  the  other 's  a  jeweller. 

Mer.  O,  'tis  a  worthy  lord ! 

few.  Nay,  that 's  most  fix'd. 

Mer.  A  most  incomparable  man;  breath'd, 

as  it  were, 

To  an  untirable  and  continuate  goodness : 
He  passes. 

Jew.       I  have  a  jewel  here. 

Mer.  O,   pray,   let's  see't:    for   the   Lord 
Timon,  sir?  [that — 

Jew.    If  he  will  touch  the  estimate :  but,  for 


Poet.   [Reciting  to  himself.]    When  we  for 

recompense  have  prais'd  the  vile, 
It  stains  the  glory  in  that  happy  verse 
Which  aptly  sings  the  good. 

Mer.  'Tis  a  good  form. 

[Looking  at  the  jewel. 

Jew.  And  rich :  here  is  a  water,  look  ye. 

Pain.  You  are  rapt,  sir,  in  some  work,  some 

dedication 
To  the  great  lord. 

Poet.  A  thing  slipp'd  idly  from  me. 

Our  poesy  is  as  a  gum,  which  oozes 
From  whence  'tis  nourish'd :  the  fire  i'  the  flint 
Shows  not  till  it  be  struck  ;  our  gentle  flame 
Provokes  itself,  and,  like  the  current,  flies 
Each  bound  it  chafes.     What  have  you  there  ? 

Pain.  A  picture,  sir. — And  when  comes  your 
book  forth  ?  [sir, — 

Poet.  Upon  the  heels  of  my  presentment, 
Let 's  see  your  piece. 

Pain.  'Tis  a  good  piece. 

Pott  So  'tis:  this  comes  off  well  and  excellent. 

Pain.  Indifferent 

Poet.  Admirable  t  how  this  grace 

Speaks  his  own  standing  !  what  a  mental  power 
This  eye  shoots  forth !  how  big  imagination 
Moves  in  this  lip !  to  the  dumbness  of  the  gesture 
One  might  interpret. 


792 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[ACT  i. 


Pain.   It  is  a  pretty  mocking  of  the  life. 
Here  is  a  touch ;  is 't  good  ? 

Poet.  I  will  say  of  it 

It  tutors  nature :  artificial  strife 
Lives  in  these  touches,  livelier  than  life. 

Enter  certain  Senators,  and  pass  over. 

Pain.   How  this  lord  is  follow'd ! 

Poet.  The  senators  of  Athens: — happy  man ! 

Pain.  Look,  more ! 

Poet.  You  see  this  confluence,  this  great  flood 

of  visitors. 

I  have,  in  this  rough  work,  shap'd  out  a  man, 
Whom  this  beneath  world  doth  embrace  and  hug 
With  amplest  entertainment .  my  free  drift 
Halts  not  particularly,  but  moves  itself 
In  a  wide  sea  of  wax :  no  levell'd  malice 
Infects  one  comma  in  the  course  I  hold ; 
But  flies  an  eagle  flight,  bold,  and  forth  on, 
Leaving  no  track  behind. 

Pain.  How  shall  I  understand  you  ? 

Poet.  I  will  unbolt  to  you. 

You  see  how  all  conditions,  how  all  minds, — 
As  well  of  glib  and  slippery  creatures  as 
Of  grave  and  austere  quality, — tender  down 
Their  services  to  Lord  Timon  r  his  large  fortune, 
Upon  his  good  and  gracious  nature  hanging, 
Subdues  and  properties  to  his  love  and  tendance 
All  sorts  of  hearts;  yea,  from  the  glass-fac'd 

flatterer 

To  Apemantus,  that  few  things  loves  better 
Than  to  abhor  himself:  even  he  drops  down 
The  knee  before  him,  and  returns  in  peace 
Most  rich  in  Timon's  nod. 

Pain.  I  saw  them  speak  together 

Poet.  Sir,  I  have  upon  a  high  and  pleasant  hill 
Feign'd  Fortune  to  be  thron'd :  the  base  o'  the 

mount 

Is  rank'd  with  all  deserts,  all  kinds  of  natures, 
That  labour  on  the  bosom  of  this  sphere 
To  propagate  their  states:  amongst  them  all, 
Whose  eyes  are  on  this  sovereign  lady  fix'd, 
One  do  I  personate  of  Lord  Timon's  frame, 
Whom  Fortune  with  her  ivory  hand  wafts  to 
her ;  [servants 

Whose   present  grace   to   present   slaves  and 
Translates  his  rivals. 

Pain.  'Tis  conceiv'd  to  scope. 

This  throne,  this  Fortune,  andthishill,  methinks, 
With  one  man  beckon'd  from  the  rest  below, 
Bowing  his  head  against  the  steepy  mount 
To  climb  his  happiness,  would  be  well  express'd 
In  our  condition. 

Poet.  Nay,  sir,  but  hear  me  on. 

All  those  which  were  his  fellows  but  of  late, — 
Some  better  than  his  value, — on  the  moment 
Follow  his  strides,  his  lobbies  fill  with  tendance, 


Rain  sacrificial  whisperings  in  his  ear, 

Make  sacred  even  his  stirrup,  and  through  him 

Drink  the  free  air. 

Pain.  Ay,  marry,  what  of  these  ? 

Poet.  When  Fortune,  in  her  shift  and  change 

of  mood, 

Spurnsdownher  late  belov'd,  all  his  dependents, 
Which  labour'd  after  him  to  the  mountain's  top, 
Even  on  their  knees  and  hands,  let  him  slip  down, 
Not  one  accompanying  his  declining  foot. 

Pain.  'Tis  common : 
A  thousand  moraJ  paintings  I  can  show 
That  shall  demonstrate   these  quick  blows  of 

Fortune's 

More  pregnantly  than  words.  Yet  you  do  well 
To  show  Lord  Timon  that  mean  eyes  have  seen 
The  foot  above  the  head. 

Trumpets  sound.      Enter  TlMON,    attended ; 
the  Servant  of  VWIIDIVS  talking  with  him. 

Tun.  Imprison'd  is  he,  say  you  ? 

Ven.  Serv.  Ay,  my  good  lord:  five  talents 

is  his  debt; 

His  means  most  short,  his  creditors  most  strait : 
Your  honourable  letter  he  desires 
To  those  have  shut  him  up ;  which  failing  him, 
Periods  his  comfort. 

Tim.  Noble  Ventidius !    Well; 

I  am  not  of  that  feather  to  shake  oft  [him 

My  friend  when  he  most  needs  me,  I  do  know 
A  gentleman  that  well  deserves  a  help, —  [him. 
Which  he  shall  have ;  I  '11  pay  the  debt,  and  free 

Ven.  Serv.  Your  lordship  ever  binds  him. 

Tim.  Commend  me  to  him :  I  will  send  his 

ransom  \ 

And,  being  enfranchis'd,  bid  him  come  tome : — 
'Tis  not  enough  to  help  the  feeble  up, 
But  to  support  him  after. — Fare  you  well. 

Ven.  Serv.  All  happiness  to  your  honour ! 

[Exit. 
Enter  an  Old  Athenian. 

Old  Ath.  Lord  Timon,  hear  me  speak. 
Tim.  Freely,  good  father. 

Old  Ath.  Thou  hast  a  servant  nam'd  Lucilius. 
Tim.  I  have  so :  what  of  him  ? 
Old  Ath.  Most  noble  Timon,  call  the  man 

before  thee. 
Tim.  Attends  he  here,  or  no  ? — Lucilius ! 

LUCILIUS  comes  forward  Jrom  among  the 
Attendants. 

Luc.  Here,  at  your  lordship's  service. 

Old  Ath.  This  fellow  here,    Lord   Timon, 

this  thy  creature, 

By  night  frequents  my  house.     I  am  a  man 
That  from  my  first  have  been  inclin'd  to  thrift ; 


SCENE  I.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


793 


And  my  estate  deserves  an  heir  more  rais'd 
Than  one  which  holds  a  trencher. 

Tim.  Well ;  what  further  ? 

Old  Ath.  One  only  daughter  have  I,  no  kin 

else, 

On  whom  I  may  confer  what  I  have  got : 
The  maid  is  fair,  o'  the  youngest  for  a  bride, 
And  I  have  bred  her  at  my  dearest  cost 
In  qualities  of  the  best.     This  man  of  thine 
Attempts  her  love :  I  pr'ythee,  noble  lord, 
join  with  me  to  forbid  him  her  resort ; 
Myself  have  spoke  in  vain. 

Tim.  The  man  is  honest. 

Old  Ath.  Therefore  he  will  be,  Timon : 
His  honesty  rewards  him  in  itself; 
It  must  not  bear  my  daughter. 

Tim.  Does  she  love  him  ? 

Old  Ath.   She  is  young  and  apt : 
Our  own  precedent  passions  do  instruct  us 
What  levity 's  in  youth. 

Tim.  [To  LUCILIUS.]  Love  you  the  maid? 

Luc.  Ay,  my  good  lord ;  and  she  accepts  of 
it.  [missing, 

Old  Ath.   If  in  her  marriage  my  consent  be 
I  call  the  gods  to  witness,  I  will  choose 
Mine  heir  from  forth  the  beggars  of  the  world, 
And  dispossess  her  all. 

Tim.  How  shall  she  be  endow'd, 

If  she  be  mated  with  an  equal  husband  ? 

Old  Ath.  Three  talents  on  the  present;   in 
future  all.  [long : 

Tim.  This  gentleman  of  mine  hath  serv'd  me 
To  build  his  fortune  I  will  strain  a  little, 
For  'tis  a  bond  in  men.    Give  him  thy  daughter : 
What  you  bestow,  in  him  I  '11  counterpoise, 
And  make  him  weigh  with  her. 

Old  Ath.  Most  noble  lord, 

Pawn  me  to  this  your  honour,  she  is  his. 

Tim.  My  hand  to  thee ;  mine  honour  on  my 
promise.  [may 

Luc.  Humbly  I  thank  your  lordship :  never 
That  state  or  fortune  fall  into  my  keeping 
Which  is  not  ow'd  to  you ! 

[Exeunt  LUCILIUS  and  Old  Athenian. 

Poet.  Vouchsafe  my  labour,  and  long  live 
your  lordship !  [anon : 

Tim.  I  thank  you  ;  you  shall  hear  from  me 
Go  not  away. — What  have  you  there,  my  friend  ? 

Pain.  A  piece  of  painting,  which  I  do  beseech 
Your  lordship  to  accept. 

Tim.  Painting  is  welcome. 

The  painting  is  almost  the  natural  man  ; 
For  since  dishonour  traffics  with  man's  nature, 
He  is  but  outside :  these  pencill'd  figures  are 
Even  such  as  they  give  out.     I  like  your  work ; 
And  you  shall  find  I  like  it :  wait  attendance 
.Till  you  hear  further  from  me. 


Pain.  The  gods  preserve  you ! 

Tim.  Well  fare  you,  gentleman:   give  me 

your  hand : 

We  must  needs  dine  together. — Sir,  your  jewel 
Hath  suffer'd  under  praise. 

Jew.  What,  my  lord!  dispraise? 

Tim.  A  mere  satiety  of  commendations, 
If  I  should  pay  you  for 't  as  'tis  extoll'd 
It  would  unclew  m  :  quite. 

Jew.  My  lord,  'tis  rated 

As  those  which  sell  would  give.     But  you  well 

know, 

Things  of  light  value,  differing  in  the  owners, 
Are  prized  by  their  masters:  believe 't,  dear  lord, 
You  mend  the  jewel  by  the  wearing  it. 

Tim.  Well  mock'd.  [common  tongue, 

Mer.  No,  my  good  lord ;  he  speaks  the 
Which  all  men  speak  with  him.  [chid  ? 

Tim.  Look,  who  comes  here:  will  you  be 

Enter  APEMANTUS. 

Jew.  We'll  bear, with  your  lordship. 

Mer.  He  '11  spare  none. 

Tim.  Good-morrow  to  thee,  gentle  Ape- 
mantus !  [good-morrow ; 

Apem.  Till  I  be  gentle,  stay  thou  for  thy 

When  thou  art  Timon's  dog,  and  these  knaves 

honest.  [know'st  them  not. 

Tim.  Why  dost  thou  call  them  knaves?  thou 

Apem.  Are  they  not  Athenians  ? 

Tim.  Yes. 

Apem.  Then  I  repent  not. 

Jew.  You  know  me,  Apemantus? 

Apem.  Thou  knowest  I  do ;  I  call'd  thee  by 
thy  name. 

Tim.  Thou  art  proud,  Apemantus. 

Apem.  Of  nothing  so  much  as  that  I  am  not 
like  Timon. 

Tim.  Whither  art  going  ?  [brains. 

Apem.  To  knock  out  an  honest  Athenian's 

Tim.  That 's  a  deed  thou  'It  die  for.       [law. 

Apem.  Right,  if  doing  nothing  be  death  by  the 

Tim.  How  likest  thou  this  picture,  Ape- 
mantus ? 

Apem.  The  best,  for  the  innocence. 

Tim.  Wrought  he  not  well  that  painted  it? 

Apem.  He  wrought  better  that  made  the 
painter ;  and  yet  he 's  but  a  filthy  piece  of  work. 

Pain.  You  are  a  dog. 

Apem.  Thy  mother's  of  my  generation: 
what 's  she,  if  I  be  a  dog  ? 

Tim.  Wilt  dine  with  me,  Apemantus  ? 

Apem.  No ;  I  eat  not  lords. 

Tim.  An  thou  shouldst,  thou  'dst  anger  ladies. 

Apem.  O,  they  eat  lords ;  so  they  come  by 
great  bellies. 

Tim.  That 's  a  lascivious  apprehension. 


794 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[ACT  i. 


Apem.  So  thou  apprehendest  it :  take  it  for 
thy  labour. 

Tim.  How  dost  thou  like  this  jewel,  Ape- 
man  tus  ? 

Apem.  Not  so  well  as  plain-dealing,  which 
will  not  cost  a  man  a  doit. 

Tim.  What  dost  thou  think  'tis  worth? 

Apem.  Not  worth  my  thinking, — How  now, 
poet! 

Poet.  How  now,  philosopher ! 

Apem.  Thou  liest. 

Poet.  Art  not  one  ? 

Apem.  Yes. 

Poet.  Then  I  lie  not. 

Apem.  Art  not  a  poet  ? 

Poet.  Yes. 

Apem.  Then  thou  liest :  look  in  thy  last  work, 
where  thou  hast  feign'd  him  a  worthy  fellow. 

Poet.  That 's  not  feign'd, — he  is  so. 

Apem.  Yes,  he  is  worthy  of  thee,  and  to  pay 
thee  for  thy  labour :  he  that  loves  to  be  flattered 
is  worthy  o'  the  flatterer.  Heavens,  that  I  were 
a  lord ! 

Tim.  What  wouldst  do  then,  Apemantus  ? 

Apem.  Even  as  Apemantus  does  now,  hate 
a  lord  with  my  heart. 

Tim.  What,  thyself? 

Apem.  Ay. 

Tim.  Wherefore? 

Apem.  That  I  had  no  angry  wit  to  be  a 
lord.  — Art  not  thou  a  merchant  ? 

Mer.  Ay,  Apemantus. 

Apem.  Traffic  confound  thee,  if  the  gods 
will  not ! 

Mer.   If  traffic  do  it,  the  gods  do  it. 

Apem.  Traffic 's  thy  god,  and  thy  god  con- 
found thee ! 

Trumpet  sounds.     Enter  a  Servant. 

Tim.  What  trumpet 's  that  ? 
Serv.  'Tis  Alcibiades,  and  some  twenty  horse, 
All  of  companionship. 

Tim.  Pray,  entertain  them ;  give  them  guide 

to  us. —       [Exeunt  some  Attendants. 

You  must  needs  dine  with  me: — go  not  you 

hence 

Till  I  have  thank'd  you : — when  dinner 's  done 
Show  me  this  piece. — I  am  joyful  of  your  sights. 

Enter  ALCIBIADES,  with  his  company. 

Most  welcome,  sir !  [  They  salute. 

Apem.  So,  so,  there  ! — 

Aches  contract  and  starve  your  supple  joints! — 
That  there  should  be  small  love  'mongst  these 
sweet  knaves,  [bred  out 

And  all  this  court'sy!    The  strain  of  man's 
Into  baboon  and  monkey. 


Alcib.  Sir,  you  have  sav'd  my  longing,  and 

I  feed 
Most  hungerly  on  your  sight. 

Tim.  Right  welcome,  sir ! 

Ere  we  depart  we  '11  share  a  bounteous  time 
In  different  pleasures.     Pray  you,  let  us  in. 

[Exeunt  all  but  APEMANTUS. 

Enter  Two  Lords. 

I  Lord.  What  time  o'  day  is't,  Apemantus? 
Apem.  Time  to  be  honest. 

1  Lord.  That  time  serves  still,      [omitt'st  it. 
Apem.  The  more  accursed  thou,  that  still 

2  Lord.  Thou  art  going  to  Lord  Timon's  feast. 
Apem.  Ay;    to  see   meat   fill   knaves,  and 

wine  heat  fools. 

2  Lord.  Fare  thee  well,  fare  thee  well. 
Apem.  Thou  art  a  fool  to  bid  me  fare  well  twice. 
2  Lord.  Why,  Apemantus? 
Apem.   Shouldst  have  kept  one  to  thyself, 
for  I  mean  to  give  thee  none. 

1  Lord.  Hang  thyself. 

Apem.   No,  I  will  do  nothing  at  thy  bidding : 
make  thy  requests  to  thy  friend. 

2  Lord.    Away,   unpeaceable  dog,    or   I  '11 
spurn  thee  hence. 

Apem.  I  will  fly,  like  a  dog,  the  heels  o'  the 
ass.  [Exit. 

1  Lord.  He 's  opposite  to  humanity.     Come, 

shall  we  in 

And  taste  Lord  Timon's  bounty?  he  outgoes 
The  very  heart  of  kindness.  [gold, 

2  Lord.  He  pours  it  out ;  Plutus,  the  god  of 
Is  but  his  steward :  no  meed  but  he  repays 
Sevenfold  above  itself ;  no  gift  to  him 

But  breeds  the  giver  a  return  exceeding 
All  use  of  quittance. 

1  Lord.  The  noblest  mind  he  carries 
That  ever  govern'd  man.  [Shall  we  in  ? 

2  Lord.    Long    may   he    live    in    fortunes ! 
i  Lord.  I  '11  keep  you  company.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — ATHENS.     A  Room  of  State  in 
TIMON'S  House. 

Hautboys  playing  loud  music.  A  great  banquet 
served  in;  FLAVIUS  and  others  attending; 
then  enter  TIMON,  ALCIBIADES,  Lucius, 
LUCULLUS,  SEMPRONIUS,  andother  Athenian 
Senators,  with  VENTIDIUS,  and  Attendants. 
Then  comes ;  dropping  after  all \  APEMANTUS, 
discontentedly. 

Ven.  Most  honour'd  Timon,     [father's  age, 
It  hath   pleas'd   the    gods   to   remember   my 
And  call  him  to  long  peace. 
He  is  gone  happy,  and  has  left  me  rich  : 
Then,  as  in  grateful  virtue  I  am  bound 


SCENE  II.} 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


795 


To  your  free  heart,  I  do  return  those  talents, 
Doubled  with  thanks  and  service,  from  whose 

help 
I  deriv'd  liberty. 

Tim.  O,  by  no  means, 

Honest  Ventidius;  you  mistake  my  love: 
I  gave  it  freely  ever ;  and  there 's  none 
Can  truly  say  he  gives  if  he  receives :         [dare 
If  our  betters  play  at  that  game,  we  must  not 
To  imitate  them ;  faults  that  are  rich  are  fair. 

Ven.  A  noble  spirit ! 

[  They  all  stand  ceremoniously  looking  on 
TIMON. 

Tim.  Nay,    my   lords,    ceremony   was    but 

devis'd  at  first 

To  set  a  gloss  on  faint  deeds,  hollow  welcomes, 
Recanting  goodness,  sorry  ere  'tis  shown ; 
But  where  there  is  true  friendship  there  needs 

none. 

Pray,  sit ;  more  welcome  are  ye  to  my  fortunes 
Than  my  fortunes  to  me.  [They  sit. 

I  Lord.  My  lord,  we  always  have  confess'd  it. 

Apern.   Ho,  ho,  confess'd  it !  hang'd  it,  have 
you  not  ? 

Tim.  O,  Apemantus ! — you  are  welcome. 

Apem.  No ; 

You  shall  not  make  me  welcome. 
I  come  to  have  thee  thrust  me  out  of  doors. 

Tim.   Fie,  thou  art  a  churl ;  you  have  got  a 

humour  there 

Does  not  become  a  man ;  'tis  much  to  blame. — 
They  say,  my  lords,  ira  furor  brevis  est; 
But  yond  man  is  ever  angry. 
Go,  let  him  have  a  table  by  himself; 
For  he  does  neither  affect  company 
Nor  is  he  fit  for 't,  indeed. 

Apem.  Let  me  stay  at  thine  apparel,  Timon : 
I  come  to  observe ;  I  give  thee  warning  on 't. 

Tim*  I  take  no  heed  of  thee;  thou  art  an 
Athenian,  therefore  welcome:  I  myself  would 
have  no  power;  pr'ythee,  let  my  meat  make 
thee  silent. 

Apem.   I  scorn  thy  meat ;  'twould  choke  me, 
for  I  should  ne'er  flatter  thee. — O  you  gods, 
what  a  number  of  men  eat  Timon,  and  he  sees 
'em  not !  it  grieves  me  to  see 
So  many  dip  their  meat  in  one  man's  blood ; 
And  all  the  madness  is,  he  cheers  them  up  too. 
I  wonder  men  dare  trust  themselves  with  men : 
Methinks  they  should  invite  them  without  knives; 
Good  for  their  meat  and  safer  for  their  lives. 
There 's  much  example  for 't ;  the  fellow  that 
sits  next  him  now,    parts    bread   with   him, 
pledges  the  breath  of  him  in  a  divided  draught, 
is  the  readiest  man  to  kill  him :  't  has  been 
prov'd.     If  I  were  a  huge  man  I  should  fear 
to  drink  at  meals, 


Lest  they  should  spy  my  windpipe's  dangerous 

notes :  [throats. 

Great  men  should  drink  with  harness  on  their 

Tim.  My  lord,  in  heart ;  and  let  the  health 
go  round. 

2  Lord.  Let  it  flow  this  way,  my  good  lord. 

Apem.  Flow  this  way !  A  brave  fellow !  he 
keeps  his  tides  well. — Those  healths  will  make 
thee  and  thy  state  look  ill,  Timon. 
Here 's  that  which  is  too  weak  to  be  a  sinner, 
Honest  water,  which  ne'er  left  man  i'  the  mire : 
This  and  my  food  are  equals ;  there 's  no  odds : 
Feasts  are  too  proud  to  give  thanks  to  the  gods. 

APEMANTUS'  GRACE. 

Immortal  gods,  I  crave  no  pelf; 

I  pray  for  no  man  but  myself: 

Grant  I  may  never  prove  so  fond, 

To  trust  man  on  his  oath  or  bond  ; 

Or  a  harlot  for  her  weeping  ; 

Or  a  dog  that  seems  a -sleeping; 

Or  a  keeper  with  my  ireedom  ; 

Or  my  friends,  if  I  should  need  'em. 

Amen      So  fall  to  t : 

Rich  men  sin,  and  I  eat  root. 

[Eats  and  drinks. 
Much  good  dich  thy  good  heart,  Apemantus ! 

Tim.  Captain  Alcibiades,  your  heart's  in 
the  field  now. 

Alcib.  My  heart  is  ever  at  your  service,  my 
lord. 

Tim.  You  had  rather  be  at  a  breakfast  of 
enemies  than  a  dinner  of  friends. 

Alcib.  So  they  were  bleeding-new,  my  lord, 
there 's  no  meat  like  them ;  I  could  wish  my 
best  friend  at  such  a  feast. 

Apem.  Would  all  those  flatterers  were  thine 
enemies,  then;  that  then  thou  might'st  kill 
'em,  and  bid  me  to  'em. 

i  Lord.  Might  we  but  have  that  happiness, 
my  lord,  that  you  would  once  use  our  hearts, 
whereby  we  might  express  some  part  of  our 
zeals,  we  should  think  ourselves  for  ever  perfect. 
Tim.  O,  no  doubt,  my  good  friends,  but  the 
gods  themselves  have  provided  that  I  shall  have 
much  help  from  you :  how  had  you  been  my 
friends  else?  why  have  you  that  charitable  title 
from  thousands,  did  not  you  chiefly  belong  to 
my  heart?  I  have  told  more  of  you  to  myself 
than  you  can  with  modesty  speak  in  your  own 
behalf;  and  thus  far  I  confirm  you.  O  you 
gods,  think  I,  what  need  we  have  any  friends 
if  we  should  ne'er  have  need  of  'em?  they  were 
the  most  needless  creatures  living,  should  we 
ne'er  have  use  for  'em ;  and  would  most 
resemble  sweet  instruments  hung  up  in  cases, 
that  keep  their  sounds  to  themselves.  Why,  I 
have  often  wished  myself  poorer,  that  I  might 
come  nearer  to  you.  We  are  born  to  do 


796 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[ACT  i. 


benefits :  and  what  better  or  properer  can  we 

call  our  own  than  the  riches  of  our  friends? 

O,   what  a   precious  comfort  'tis  to  have  so 

many,  like  brothers,  commanding  one  another's 

fortunes !     O  joy,  e'en  made  away  ere  it  can 

be  born!     Mine  eyes  cannot  hold  out  water, 

methinks :  to  forget  their  faults  I  drink  to  you. 

Apem.  Thou  weepest  to  make  them  drink, 

Timon.  [eyes, 

2  Lord.  Joy  had  the  like  conception  in  our 
And  at  that  instant  like  a  babe  sprung  up. 

Apem.  Ho,  ho !  I  laugh  to  think  that  babe 
a  bastard.  [me  much. 

3  Lord.  I  promise  you,  my  lord,  you  mov'd 
Apem.  Much  !  [  Tticket  sounded. 
Tim.  What  means  that  trump? 

Enter  a  Servant. 

How  now ! 

Serv.  Please  you,  my  lord,  there  are  certain 
ladies  most  desirous  of  admittance. 

Tim.  Ladies!  what  are  their  wills? 

Serv.  There  comes  with  them  a  forerunner, 
my  lord,  which  bears  that  office,  to  signify 
their  pleasures. 

Tim.  I  pray,  let  them  be  admitted. 

Enter  CUPID. 

Cup.  Hail  to  thee,  worthy  Timon ; — and  to  all 
That  of  his  bounties  taste  ! — The  five  best  senses 
Acknowledge  thee  their  patron;  and  come  freely 
To  gratulate  thy  plenteous  bosom : 
The  ear,  taste,  touch,  smell,  pleas'd  from  thy 

table  rise ; 

They  only  now  come  but  to  feast  thine  eyes. 
Tim.  They  are  welcome  all;   let  'em  have 

kind  admittance. 

Music,  make  their  welcome  !        [Exit  CUPID. 
I  Lord.    You    see,    my   lord,    how    ample 
you  're  belov'd. 

Music.  Re-enter  CUPID,  with,  a  mask  of 
Ladies  as  Amazons ,  with  lutes  in  their  hands, 
dancing  and  playing. 

Apem.   Hoy-day,   what   a   sweep  of  vanity 

comes  this  way! 

They  dance !  they  are  mad  women. 
Like  madness  is  the  glory  of  this  life, 
As  this  pomp  shows  to  a  little  oil  and  root. 
We  make  ourselves  fools  to  disport  ourselves, 
And  spend  our  flatteries  to  drink  those  men 
Upon  whose  age  we  void  it  up  again, 
With  poisonous  spite  and  envy. 
Who  lives  that 's  not  depraved  or  depraves  ? 
Who  dies  that  bears  not  one  spurn  to  their  graves 
Of  their  friends' gift? 
I  should  fear  those  that  dance  before  me  now 


Would  one  day  stamp  upon  me:  't  has  been  done; 
Men  shut  their  doors  against  a  setting  sun. 

The  Lords  rise  from  table,  with  much  adoring 
of  TIMON  ;  and,  to  show  their  loves,  each 
singles  out  an  Amazon,  and  all  dance,  men 
with  women,  a  lofty  strain  or  two  to  the  haut- 
boys, and  cease. 

Tim.  You  have  done  our   pleasures  much 

grace,  fair  ladies, 

Set  a  fair  fashion  on  our  entertainment, 
Which  was  not  half  so  beautiful  and  kind ; 
You  have  added  worth  unto 't  and  lustre, 
And  entertain'd  me  with  mine  own  device ; 
I  am  to  thank  you  for 't.  [best. 

I  Lady.   My  lord,  you  take  us  even  at  the 

Apem.   Faith,  for  the  worst  is  filthy;  and 
would  not  hold  taking,  I  doubt  me.  [you : 

Tim.  Ladies,  there  is  an  idle  banquet  attends 
Please  you  to  dispose  yourselves. 

All  Ladies.  Most  thankfully,  my  lord. 

[Exetint  CUPID  and  Ladies. 

Tim.  Flavius, — 

Flav.  My  lord  ? 

Tim.  The  little  casket  bring  me  hither. 

Flav.  Yes,  my  lord. — [Aside.'}  More  jewels 

yet! 

There  is  no  crossing  him  in  his  humour, 
Else  I  should  tell  him,— well,  i'  faith,  I  should, 
When  all's  spent,  he'd  be  cross'd  then,  an  he 

could. 

'Tis  pity  bounty  had  not  eyes  behind, 
That  man  might  ne'er  be  wretched  for  his  mind. 
[Exit,  and  returns  with  the  casket. 

1  Lord.  Where  be  our  men  ? 
Serv.  Here,  my  lord,  in  readiness. 

2  Lord.  Our  horses ! 

Tim.  O  my  friends, 

I  have  one  word  to  say  to  you.     Look  you, 

my  good  lord, 

I  must  entreat  you,  honour  me  so  much 
As  to  advance  this  jewel ;  accept  it,  and  wear  it. 
Kind  my  lord. 

I  Lord.  I  am  so  far  already  in  your  gifts, — 

All.  So  are  we  all. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  My  lord,  there  are  certain  nobles  of 

the  senate 
Newly  alighted,  and  come  to  visit  you. 

Tim.  They  are  fairly  welcome. 

Flav.  I  beseech  your  honour, 

Vouchsafe  me  a  word ;  it  does  concern  you  near. 

Tim.  Near;  why,  then,   another  time  I'll 

hear  thee:  [entertainment. 

I   pr'ythee,   let's  be    provided   to  show  'em 

Flav.  I  scarce  know  how. 


SCENE  II.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


797 


Enter  another  Servant. 

2  Serv.   May  it  please   your  honour,    Lord 

Lucius, 

Out  of  his  free  love,  hath  presented  to  you 
Four  milk-white  horses,  trapp'd  in  silver. 

Tim.  I  shall  accept  them  fairly:  let  the  presents 
Be  worthily  entertained. 

Enter  a  third  Servant. 

How  now !  what  news  ? 

3  Serv,  Please  you,  my  lord,  that  honourable 
gentleman,  Lord  Lucullus,  entreats  your  com- 
pany to-morrow  to  hunt  with  him  ;  and  has 
sent  your  honour  two  brace  of  greyhounds. 

Tim.   I  '11  hunt  with  him ;  and  let  them  be 

receiv'd, 
Not  without  fair  reward. 

Flav.  [Aside.'}  What  will  this  come  to? 

He  commands  us  to  provide,  and  give  great  gifts, 
And  all  out  of  an  empty  coffer: 
Nor  will  he  know  his  purse  ;  or  yield  me  this, 
To  show  him  what  a  beggar  his  heart  is, 
Being  of  no  power  to  make  his  wishes  good : 
His  promises  fly  so  beyond  his  state 
That  what  he  speaks  is  all  in  debt,  he  owes 
For  every  word :  he  is  so  kind  that  he  now 
Pays  interest  for 't ;  his  land 's  put  to  their  books. 
Well,  would  I  were  gently  put  out  of  office 
Before  I  were  forc'd  out ! 
Happier  is  he  that  has  no  friend  to  feed 
Than  such  that  do  e'en  enemies  exceed. 
I  bleed  inwardly  for  my  lord.  [Exit. 

Tim.  You  do  yourselves 

Much  wrong,  you  bate  too  much  of  your  own 

merits : 
Here,  my  lord,  a  trifle  of  our  love. 

2  Lord.  With  more  than  common  thanks  I 

will  receive  it 

3  Lord.  O,  he  is  the  very  soul  of  bounty ! 
Tim.  And  now  I  remember,  my  lord,  you  gave 

Good  words  the  other  day  of  a  bay  courser 
I  rode  on :  it  is  yours  because  you  lik'd  it. 

3  Lord.  O,  I  beseech  you,  pardon  me,  my 
lord,  in  that.  [know  no  man 

Tim.  You  may  take  my  word,  my  lord ;  I 
Can  justly  praise  but  what  he  does  affect: 
I  weigh  my  friend's  affection  with  mine  own  ; 
I  '11  tell  you  true.     I  '11  call  to  you. 

All  Lords.  O,  none  so  welcome. 

Tim.   I  take  all  and  your  several  visitations 
So  kind  to  heart,  'tis  not  enough  to  give  ; 
Methinks  I  could  deal  kingdoms  to  my  friends 
And  ne'er  be  weary. — Alcibiades, 
Thou  art  a  soldier,  therefore  seldom  rich ; 
It  comes  in  charity  to  thee :  for  all  thy  living 
Is  'mongst  the  dead ;  and  all  the  lands  thou  hast 
Lie  in  a  pitch'd  field. 


Alctb.  Ay,  defil'd  land,  my  lord. 

1  Lord.  We  are  so  virtuously  bound, — 
Tim.  And  so 

Am  I  to  you. 

2  Lord.       So  infinitely  endear'd, — 
Tim.  All  to  you. — Lights,  more  lights. 

I  Lord.  The  best  of  happiness, 

Honour,   and  fortunes  keep  with   you,   Lord 
Timon ! 

Tim.   Ready  for  his  friends. 

[Exeunt  ALCIBIADES,  Lords,  &*c. 

Apem.  What  a  coil 's  here ! 

Serving  of  becks  and  jutting-out  of  bums ! 
I  doubt  whether  their  legs  be  worth  the  sums 
That  are  given  for  'em.     Friendship's  full  of 
dregs :  [legs. 

Methinks  false  hearts  should  never  have  sound 
Thus  honest   fools   lay  out   their  wealth  on 
court'sies.  [sullen 

Tim.  Now,  Apemantus,  if  thou  wert  not 
I  would  be  good  to  thee. 

Apem.  No,  I  '11  nothing :  for  if  I  should  be 
bribed  too,  there  would  be  none  left  to  rail 
upon  thee ;  and  then  thou  wouldst  sin  the  faster. 
Thou  givest  so  long,  Timon,  I  fear  me  thou 
wilt  give  away  thyself  in  paper  shortly  :  what 
need  these  feasts,  pomps,  and  vain  glories? 

Tim.  Nay,  an  you  begin  to  rail  on  society 
once,  I  am  sworn  not  to  give  regard  to  you. 
Farewell ;  and  come  with  better  music.  [Exit. 

Apem.  So ; — thou  'It  not  hear  me  now, — 
thou  shall  not  then,  I  '11  lock  thy  heaven  from 
thee. 

O,  that  men's  ears  should  be 
To  counsel  deaf,  but  not  to  flattery  !        [Exit. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — ATHENS.     A  Room  in  a  Senator's 
House. 

Enter  a  Senator,  with  papers  in  his  hand. 

Sen.  And  late,  five  thousand ; — to  Varro  and 

to  Isidore  [sum, 

He  owes  nine  thousand ;    besides  my  former 

Which   makes    it    five-and-twenty.  —  Still    in 

motion 

Of  raging  \\aste  ?     It  cannot  hold  ;  it  will  not. 
If  I  want  gold,  steal  but  a  beggar's  dog 
And  give  it  Timon,  why,  the  dog  coins  gold  : 
If  I  would  sell  my  horse  and  buy  twenty  more 
Better  than  he,  why,  give  my  horse  to  Timon, 
Ask  nothing,  give  it  him,  it  foals  me,  straight, 
And  able  horses :  no  porter  at  his  gate  ; 
But  rather  one  that  smiles,  and  still  invites 
All  that  pass  by.     It  cannot  hold  ;  no  reason 


798 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[ACT  II. 


Can  found  his  state  in  safety.     Caphis,  ho  ! 
Caphis,  I  say  ! 

Enter  CAPHIS. 

Caph.  Here,  sir ;  what  is  your  pleasure  ? 

Sen.  Get  on  your  cloak  and  haste  you  to 

Lord  Timon ; 

Importune  him  for  my  moneys  ;  be  not  ceas'd 
With  slight  denial ;  nor  then  silenc'd,  when — 
Commend  me  to  your  master — and  the  cap 
Plays  in  the  right  hand,  thus  :  but  tell  him 
My  uses  cry  to  me,  I  must  serve  my  turn 
Out  of  mine  own  ;  his  days  and  times  are  past, 
And  my  reliances  on  his  fracted  dates 
Have  smit  my  credit :  I  love  and  honour  him  ; 
But  must  not  break  my  back  to  heal  his  finger : 
Immediate  are  my  needs  ;  and  my  relief 
Must  not  be  toss'd  and  turn'd  to  me  in  words, 
But  find  supply  immediate.     Get  you  gone  : 
Put  on  a  most  importunate  aspect, 
A  visage  of  demand  ;  for,  I  do  fear, 
When  every  feather  sticks  in  his  own  wing 
Lord  Timon  will  be  left  a  naked  gull, 
Which  flashes  now  a  phoenix.     Get  you  gone. 

Caph.  I  go,  sir. 

Sen.  Take  the  bonds  along  with  you, 
And  have  the  dates  in  compt. 

Caph.  I  will,  sir. 

Sen.  Go. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — ATHENS.     A  Hall  in  TIMON'S 
House. 

Enter  FLAVIUS,  "with  many  bills  in  his  hand. 

Flav.    No   care,   no  stop !    so   senseless   of 

expense 

That  he  will  neither  know  how  to  maintain  it 
Nor  cease  his  flow  of  riot :  takes  no  account 
How  things  go  from  him  ;  nor  resumes  no  care 
Of  what  is  to  continue  :  never  mind 
Was  to  be  so  unwise  to  be  so  kind. 
What  shall  be  done  ?  he  will  not  hear,  till  feel : 
I  must  be  round  with  him  now  he  comes  from 

hunting. 
Fie,  fie,  fie,  fie  ! 

Enter  CAPHIS,  and  the  Servants  of  ISIDORE 
and  VARRO. 

Caph.  Good -even,  Varro  :  what, 

You  come  for  money  ? 

Var.  Serv.  Is 't  not  your  business  too  ? 

Caph.  It  is  : — and  yours  too,  Isidore  ? 
Isid.  Serv.  It  is  so. 

Caph.  Would  we  were  all  discharg'd  ! 
Var.  Serv.  I  fear  it. 

Caph.  Here  comes  the  lord. 


Enter  TIMON,  ALCIBIADES,  and  Lords,  &e. 

Tim.  So  soon  as  dinner 's  done  we  '11  forth 

again, 
My  Alcibiades. — With  me  ?  what  is  your  will  ? 

Caph.  My  lord,  here  is  a  note  of  certain  dues. 

Tim.  Dues  !  whence  are  you  ? 

Caph.  Of  Athens  here,  my  lord. 

Tim.     Go  to  my  steward.  [me  off 

Caph.  Please  it  your  lordship,  he  hath  put 
To  the  succession  of  new  days  this  month  : 
My  master  is  awak'd  by  great  occasion 
To  call  upon  his  own  ;  and  humbly  prays  you 
That,  with  your  other  noble  parts,  you  '11  suit 
In  giving  him  his  right. 

Tim.  Mine  honest  friend, 

I  pr'ythee  but  repair  to  me  next  morning. 

Caph.  Nay,  good  my  lord, — 

Tim.  Contain  thyself,  good  friend. 

Var*  Serv.   One  Varro's  servant,  my  good 
lord,— 

Isid.  Serv.       From  Isidore  ; 
He  humbly  prays  your  speedy  payment, — 

Caph.  If  you  did  know,  my  lord,  my  master's 
wants, —  [six  weeks 

Var.  Serv.  'Twas  due  on  forfeiture,  my  lord, 
And  past, — 

Isid.  Serv.  Your  steward  puts  me  off,  my 

lord; 
And  I  am  sent  expressly  to  your  lordship. 

Tim.  Give  me  breath. — 
I  do  beseech  you,  good  my  lords,  keep  on  ; 
I  '11  wait  upon  you  instantly. — 

[Exeunt  ALCIBIADES  and  Lords. 
Come  hither  :  pray  you,  [To  FLAVIUS. 

How  goes  the  world,  that  I  am  thus  encounter'd 
With  clamorous  demands  of  date-broke  bonds, 
And  the  detention  of  long-since-due  debts, 
Against  my  honour  ? 

Flav.  Please  you,  gentlemen, 

The  time  is  unagreeable  to  this  business  : 
Your  importunacy  cease  till  after  dinner  ; 
That  I  may  make  his  lordship  understand 
Wherefore  you  are  not  paid. 

Tim.  Do  so,  my  friends. — 

See  them  well  entertained.  [Exit. 

Flav.  Pray,  draw  near.  [Exit. 

Enter  APEMANTUS  and  Fool. 

Caph.  Stay,  stay,  here  comes  the  fool  with 
Apemantus  :  let 's  ha'  some  sport  with  'em. 

Var.  Serv.   Hang  him,  he  '11  abuse  us. 

Isid.  Serv.  A  plague  upon  him,  dog  ! 

Var.  Serv.  How  dost,  fool  ? 

Apem.  Dost  dialogue  with  thy  shadow  ? 

Var.  Serv.  I  speak  not  to  thee. 

Apem.  No,  'tis  to  thyself. — Come  away. 

[To  the  Fool. 


SCENE  II.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


799 


hid.  Serv.  [To  Var  Serv.]  There's  the  fool 
hangs  on  your  back  already. 

Apem.  No,  thou  stand'st  single,  thou  art  not 
on  him  yet. 

Caph.  Where 's  the  fool  now  ? 

Apem.  Pie  last  asked  the  question. — Poor 
rogues  and  usurers'  men  !  bawds  between  gold 
and  want ! 

All  Serv.  What  are  we,  Apemantus  ? 

Apem.  Asses. 

All  Serv.  Why? 

Apem.  That  you  ask  me  what  you  are,  and 
do  not  know  yourselves. — Speak  to  'em,  fool. 

Fool.   How  do  you,  gentlemen  ? 

All  Serv.  Gramercies,  good  fool :  how  does 
your  mistress? 

Fool.  She's  e'en  setting  on  water  to  scald 
such  chickens  as  you  are.  Would  we  could 
see  you  at  Corinth. 

Apem.  Good  !  gramercy.  [page. 

Fool.    Look  you,   here  comes  my  mistress' 

Enter  Page. 

Page.  [  To  the  Fool.  ]  Why,  how  now,  captain  ? 
what  do  you  in  this  wise  company  ?  How  dost 
thou,  Apemantus? 

Apem.  W.nild  I  had  a  rod  in  my  mouth, 
that  I  might  answer  thee  profitably. 

Page.  Pr'ythee,  Apemantus,  read  me  the 
superscription  of  these  letters :  I  know  not 
which  is  which. 

Apem.  Canst  not  read  ? 

Page.  No. 

Apem.  There  will  little  learning  die,  then, 
that  day  thou  art  hanged.  This  is  to  Lord 
Timon  ;  this  to  Alcibiades.  Go ;  thou  wast 
born  a  bastard,  and  thou  'It  die  a  bawd. 

Page.  Thou  wast  whelped  a  dog,  and  thou 
shalt  famish  a  dog's  death.  Answer  not,  I -3TH 
gone.  [Exit  Page. 

Apem.  E'en  so  thou  outrun'st  grace. 
Fool,  I  will  go  with  you  to  Lord  Timon's. 

Fool.   Will  you  leave  me  there  ? 

Apem.  If  Timon  stay  at  home. — You  three 
serve  three  usurers  ? 

All  Serv.  Ay  ;  would  they  served  us  ! 

Apem.  So  would  I, — as  good  a  trick  as  ever 
hangman  served  thief. 

Fool.  Are  you  three  usurers'  men  ? 

All  Serv.   Ay,  fool. 

Fool.  I  think  no  usurer  but  has  a  fool  to  his 
servant ;  my  mistress  is  one,  and  I  am  her  fool. 
When  men  come  to  borrow  of  your  masters 
they  approach  sadly  and  go  away  merry  ;  but 
they  enter  my  mistress'  house  merrily  and  go 
away  sadly  :  the  reason  of  this? 

Van  Serv.  1  could  render  one. 


Apem.  Do  it,  then,  that  we  may  account 
thee  a  whoremaster  and  a  knave  ;  which,  not- 
withstanding, thou  shalt  be  no  less  esteemed. 

Var.  Se)-v.  What  is  a  whoremaster,  fool  ? 

Fool.  A  fool  in  good  clothes,  and  something 
like  thee.  'Tis  a  spirit :  sometime  it  appears 
like  a  lord ;  sometime  like  a  lawyer ;  some- 
time like  a  philosopher,  with  two  stones  more 
than 's  artificial  one.  He  is  very  often  like  a 
knight ;  and,  generally,  in  all  shapes  that  man 
goes  up  and  down  in  from  fourscore  to  thirteen 
this  spirit  walks  in. 

Var.  Serv.  Thou  art  not  altogether  a  fool. 

Fool.  Nor  thou  altogether  a  wise  man:  as 
much  foolery  as  I  have,  so  much  wit  thou  lackest. 

Apem.  That  answer  might  have  become 
Apemantus.  [Timon. 

Var.  Serv.  Aside,  aside ;  here  comes  Lord 

Re-enter  TlMON  and  FLAVIUS. 

Apem.  Come  with  me,  fool,  come. 

Fool.   I  do  not  always  follow  lover,  elder 

brother,  and  woman ;  sometime  the  philosopher. 

[Exeunt  APEMANTUS  and  Fool. 

Flav.  Pray  you,  walk  near  ;  I  '11  speak  with 
you  anon.  [Exeunt  Serv. 

Tim.  You  make  me  marvel :  wherefore,  ere 

this  time, 

Had  you  not  fully  laid  my  state  before  me  ; 
That  I  might  so  have  rated  my  expense 
As  I  had  leave  of  means  ? 

Flav.  You  would  not  hear  me 

At  many  leisures  I  propos'd. 

Tim-  Go  to : 

Perchance  some  single  vantages  you  took 
When  my  indisposition  put  you  back  ; 
And  that  unaptness  made  you  minister 
Thus  to  excuse  yourself. 

Flav.  O  my  good  lord 

At  many  times  I  brought  in  my  accounts,  [off, 
Laid  them  before  you  ;  you  would  throw  them 
And  say  you  found  them  in  mine  honesty. 
When,  for  some  trifling  present,  you  have  bid 
me  [wept ; 

Return  so  much,  I  have  shook  my  head  and 
Yea,  'gainst  the  authority  of  manners,  pray'd  you 
To  hold  your  hand  more  close  :  I  did  endure 
Not  seldom,  nor  no  slight  checks,  when  I  have 
Prompted  you,  in  the  ebb  of  your  estate, 
And  your  great  flow  of  debts.     My  loved  lord, 
Though  you  hear  now, — too  late  ! — yet  now  's 

a  time, 

The  greatest  of  your  having  lacks  a  half 
To  pay  your  present  debts. 

Tim.  Let  all  my  land  be  sold. 

Flav.   'Tis  all  engaged,  some  forfeited  and 
gone; 


8oo 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[ACT  ii. 


And  what  remains  will  hardly  stop  the  mouth 
Of  present  dues  :  the  future  comes  apace  : 
What  shall  defend  the  interim  ?  and  at  length 
How  goes  our  reckoning  ? 

Tim.  To  Lacedaemon  did  my  land  extend. 
Flav.  O  my  good  lord,  the  world  is  but  a 

word: 

Were  it  all  yours  to  give  it  in  a  breath, 
How  quickly  were  it  gone  ! 

Tim.  You  tell  me  true. 

Flav.  If  you  suspect  my  husbandry  or  false- 
hood, 

Call  me  before  the  exactest  auditors 
And  set  me  on  the  proof.    So  the  gods  bless  me, 
When  all  our  offices  have  been  oppress'd 
With  riotous  feeders ;  when  our  vaults  have  wept 
With  drunken  spilth  of  wine  ;  when  every  room 
Hath  blaz'd  with  lights  and  bray'd  with  min- 
strelsy ; 

I  have  retir'd  me  to  a  wasteful  cock, 
And  set  mine  eyes  at  flow. 

Tim  Pr'ythee,  no  more. 

Flav.  Heavens,  have  I  said,  the  bounty  of 
this  lord  !  [ants 

How  many  prodigal  bits  have  slaves  and  peas- 
This  night  englutted  !     Who  is  not  Timon's  ? 
What  heart,  head,  sword,  force,  means,  but  is 

Lord  Timon's  ? 

Great  Timon,  noble,  worthy,  royal  Timon  ! 
Ah !  when  the  means  are  gone  that  buy  this 

praise 

The  breath  is  gone  whereof  this  praise  is  made : 
Feast-won,    fast-lost ;    one    cloud    of   winter 

showers, 
These  flies  are  couch'd. 

Tim.  Come,  sermon  me  no  further : 

No  villanous  bounty  yet  hath  passed  my  heart ; 
Unwisely,  not  ignobly,  have  I  given. 
Why  dost  thou  weep?     Canst  thou  the  con- 
science lack 
To  think  I  shall  lack   friends?     Secure   thy 

heart ; 

If  I  would  broach  the  vessels  of  my  love, 
And  try  the  argument  of  hearts  by  borrowing, 
Men  and  men's  fortunes  could  I  frankly  use 
As  I  can  bid  thee  speak. 

Flav.  Assurance  bless  your  thoughts  ! 

Tim.  And,  in  some  sort,  these  wants  of  mine 

are  crown 'd 

That  I  account  them  blessings  ;  for  by  these 
Shall  I  try  friends  :  you  shall  perceive  how  you 
Mistake  my  fortunes ;  I  am  weal  thy  in  my  friends. 
Within  there  !  Flaminius  !  Servilius  ! 

Enter  FLAMINIUS,  SERVILIUS,  and  other 

Servants. 
Serv.  My  lord  ?  my  lord  ? — 


Tim.  I  will  despatch  you  severally  : — you  to 
Lord  Lucius ; — to  Lord  Lucullus  you ;  I  hunted 
with  his  honour  to-day  ; — you  to  Sempronius  : 
commend  me  to  their  loves  ;  and  I  am  proud, 
say,  that  my  occasions  have  found  time  10  use 
'em  toward  a  supply  of  money  :  let  the  request 
be  fifty  talents. 

Flam.  As  you  have  said,  my  lord. 
Flav.  Lord  Lucius  and  Lucullus  ?  hum  ! 

[Aside. 
Tim.   Go  you,  sir,  [  to  another  Serv.]  to  the 

senators, — 

Of  whom,  even  to  the  state's  best  health,  I  have 
Deserv'd  this  hearing,  bid  'em  send  o'  the  instant 
A  thousand  talents  to  me. 

Flav.  I  have  been  bold, — 

For  that  I  knew  it  the  most  general  way, — 
To  them  to  use  your  signet  and  your  name  ; 
But  they  do  shake  their  heads,  and  I  am  here 
No  richer  in  return. 

Tim.  Is 't  true  ?  can 't  be  ? 

Flav.  They  answer,  in  a  joint  and  corporate 

voice, 

That  now  they  are  at  fall,  want  treasure,  cannot 
Do  what  they  would ;  are  sorry — you  are 

honourable, —  [not — 

But  yet  they  could  have  wish'd — they  know 
Something  hath  been  amiss — a  noble  nature 
May  catch  a  wrench — would  all  were  well — 

/tis  pity  ;— 

And  so,  intending  other  serious  matters, 
After  distasteful  looks,  and  these  hard  fractions, 
With  certain  half- caps  and  cold-moving  nods, 
They  froze  me  into  silence. 

Tim.  You  gods,  reward  them  ? 

Pr'ythee,  man,  look  cheerly     These  old  fellows 
Have  their  ingratitude  in  them  hereditary : 
Their  blood  is  cak'd,  'tis  cola,  it  seldom  flows  ; 
'Tis  lack  of  kindly  warmth  they  are  not  kind  ; 
And  nature,  as  it  grows  again  toward  earth, 
Is  fashion'd  for  the  journey  dull  and  heavy. — 
Go  to  Ventidius  [  to  a  Serv  ] ;  pr'ythee,  [  to 

FLAVIUS]  be  not  sad, 

Thou  art  true  and  honest ;  ingeniously  I  speak, 
No  blame  belongs  to  thee: — \To  Serv.]  Ven- 
tidius lately 

Buried  his  father  ;  by  whose  death  he 's  stepp'd 
Into  a  great  estate  :  when  he  was  poor, 
Imprison'd,  and  in  scarcity  of  friends,  [me  ; 
I  clear'd  him  with  five  talents  :  greet  him  from 
Bid  him  suppose  some  good  necessity  [ber'd 
Touches  his  friend,  which  craves  to  be  remem- 
With  those  five  talents:— \To  FLAV.]— That 

had, — give 't  these  fellows 
To  whom  'tis  instant   due.      Ne'er  speak  or 

think  [sink. 

That  Timon's  fortunes  'mong  his  friends  can 


SCENE  II.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


801 


Flav.  I  would  I  could  not  think  it:  that 

thought  is  bounty's  foe  ; 
Being  free  itself  it  thinks  all  others  so.   {Exeunt. 


,'f- 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I. — ATHENS.     A  Room  in  LUCULLUS' 
House. 

FLAMINIUS  waiting.     Enter  a  Servant  to 
him. 

Serv.  I  have  told  my  lord   of  you ;  he  is 
coming  down  to  you. 
Flam.  I  thank  you,  sir. 

Enter  LUCULLUS 

Serv.   Here 's  my  lord. 

LucuL  {Aside.'}  One  of  Lord  Timon's  men? 
a  gift,  I  warrant.  Why,  this  hits  right ;  I 
dreamt  of  a  silver  basin  and  ewer  to-night. — 
Flaminius,  honest  Flaminius ;  you  are  very 
respectively  welcome,  sir. — Fill  me  some  wine. 
{Exit  Servant.] — And  how  does  that  honour- 
able, complete,  free-hearted  gentleman  of 
Athens,  thy  very  bountiful  good  lord  and 
master  ? 

Flam.  His  health  is  well,  sir, 

Lucul.  I  am  right  glad  that  his  health  is  well, 
sir :  and  what  hast  thou  Uere  under  thy  cloak, 
pretty  Flaminius? 

Flam.  Faith,  nothing  but  an  empty  box,  sir  ; 
which,  in  my  lord's  behalf,  I  come  to  entreat 
your  honour  to  supply  ;  who,  having  great  and 
instant  occasion  to  use  fifty  talents,  hath  sent  to 
your  lordship  to  furnish  him,  nothing  doubting 
your  present  assistance  therein. 

Lucul.  La,  la,  la,  la, — nothing  doubting, 
says  he  ?  Alas,  good  lord !  a  noble  gentleman 
'tis,  if  he  would  not  keep  so  good  a  house. 
Many  a  time  and  often  I  ha'e  dined  with  him 
and  told  him  on 't ;  and  come  again  to  supper 
to  him  of  purpose  tc  have  him  spend  less  ;  and 
yet  he  would  embrace  no  counsel,  take  no 
warning  by  my  coming.  Every  man  has  his 
fault,  and  honesty  is  his :  I  ha'e  told  him  on 't, 
but  I  could  ne'er  get  him  from 't. 

Re-enter  Servant,  with  wine. 

Serv.  Please  your  lordship,  here  is  the  wine. 

Liuul.  Flaminius,  I  have  noted  thee  always 
wise.  Here 's  to  thee. 

Flam.  Your  lordship  speaks  your  pleasure. 

LucuL  I  have  observed  thee  always  for  a  to- 
wardly  prompt  spirit, — give  thee  thy  due, — and 
one  that  knows  what  belongs  to  reason;  and 
canst  use  the  time  well,  if  the  time  use  thee 


well :  good  parts  in  thee. — Get  you  gone,  sirrah 
[to  the  Servant,  who  goes  out.] — Draw  nearer, 
honest  Flaminius.  Thy  lord 's  a  bountiful 
gentleman:  but  thou  art  wise;  and  thou 
knowest  well  enough,  although  thou  comest  to 
me,  that  this  is  no  time  to  lend  money ;  especially 
upon  bare  friendship,  without  security.  I  lere  's 
three  solidares  for  thee :  good  boy,  wink  at  me, 
and  say  thou  saw'st  me  not.  Fare  thee  well. 

Flam.    Is't   possible   the   world   should   so 

much  differ : 

And  we  alive  that  liv'd !  Fly,  damned  baseness, 
To  him  that  worships  thee. 

[  Throwing  the  money  back. 

Lucul.  Ha !  now  I  see  thou  art  a  fool,  and  fit 
for  thy  master.  {Exit. 

Flam*  May  these  add  to  the  number  that 

may  scald  thee ! 

Let  molten  coin  be  thy  damnation, 
Thou  disease  of  a  friend  and  not  himself! 
Has  friendship  such  a  faint  and  milky  heart, 
It  turns  in  less  than  two  nights?  O  you  gods, 
I  feel  my  master's  passion !     This  slave 
Unto  his  honour  has  my  lord's  meat  in  him : 
Why  should  it  thrive  and  turn  to  nutriment 
When  he  is  turn'd  to  poison? 
O,  may  diseases  only  work  upon  't ! 
And  when  he 's  sick  to  death,  let  not  that  part 

of  nature 

Which  my  lord  paid  for,  be  of  any  power 
To  expel  sickness,  but  prolong  his  hour ! 

{Exit. 

SCENE  II. — ATHENS.    A  public  Place. 
Enter  Lucius,  with  Three  Strangers. 

Luc  Who,  the  Lord  Timon?  he  is  my  very 
good  friend,  and  an  honourable  gentleman. 

1  Stran.  We  know  him  for  no  less,  though 
we  are  but  strangers  to  him.     But  I  can  tell 
you  one  thing,  my  lord,  and  which  I  hear  from 
common  rumours, — now  Lord  Timon's  happy 
hours  are  done  and  past,  and  his  estate  shrinks 
from  him. 

Luc.  Fie,  no,  do  not  believe  it;  he  cannot 
want  for  money. 

2  Stran.   But  believe  you  this,  my  lord,  that 
not  long  ago,  one  of  his  men  was  with  the  Lord 
Lucullus  to  borrow  so  many  talents;  nay,  urged 
extremely  for 't,  and  showed  what  necessity  be- 
longed to 't,  and  yet  was  denied. 

Luc.  How? 

2  Stran.  I  tell  you,  denied,  my  lord. 

Luc.  What  a  strange  case  was  that  !  now, 
before  the  gods,  I  am  ashamed  on 't.  Denied 
that  honourable  man!  there  was  very  little 
honour  showed  in 't.  For  my  own  part,  I  must 

2  C 


802 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[ACT  in. 


needs  confess  I  have  received  some  small  kind- 
nesses from  him,  as  money,  plate,  jewels,  and 
such  like  trifles,  nothing  comparing  to  his  ;  yet, 
had  he  mistook  him  and  sent  to  me,  I  should 
ne'er  have  denied  his  occasion  so  many  talents. 

Enter  SERVILIUS. 

Ser.  See,  by  good  hap,  yonder 's  my  lord ;  I 
have  sweat  to  see  his  honour. — My  honoured 
lord, —  [To  Lucius. 

Luc.  Servilius  !  you  are  kindly  met,  sir.  Fare 
thee  well:  commend  me  to  thy  honourable- 
virtuous  lord,  my  very  exquisite  friend. 

Ser.  May  it  please  your  honour,  my  lord 
hath  sent,— -B  j7i: 

Luc.  Ha!  what  has  he  sent?  I  am  so  much 
endeared  to  that  lord ;  he 's  ever  sending :  how 
shall  I  thank  him,  thinkest  thou?  And  what 
has  he  sent  now? 

Ser.  Has  only  sent  his  present  occasion  now, 
my  lord ;  requesting  your  lordship  to  supply  his 
instant  use  with  so  many  talents. 

Luc.  I  know  his  lordship  is  but  merry  with 

me; 
He  cannot  want  fifty-five  hundred  talents. 

Ser.  But  in  the  meantime  he  wants  less,  my 

lord. 

If  his  occasion  were  not  virtuous 
I  should  not  urge  it  half  so  faithfully. 

Luc.  Dost  thou  speak  seriously,  Servilius? 

Ser.  Upon  my  soul,  'tis  true,  sir. 

Luc.  What  a  wicked  beast  was  I  to  disfurnish 
myself  against  such  a  good  time,  when  I  might 
ha'  shown  myself  honourable !  how  unluckily  it 
happened  that  I  should  purchase  the  day  before 
for  a  little  part,  and  undo  a  great  deal  of  honour ! 
— Servilius,  now,  before  the  gods,  I  am  not  able 
to  do 't, — the  more  beast,  I  say.  I  was  send- 
ing to  use  Lord  Timon  myself,  these  gentlemen 
can  witness ;  but  I  would  not  for  the  wealth  of 
Athens  I  had  done't  now.  Commend  me 
bountifully  to  his  good  lordship ;  and  I  hope 
his  honour  will  conceive  the  fairest  of  me, 
because  I  have  no  power  to  be  kind  :  and  tell 
him  this  from  me,  I  count  it  one  of  my  greatest 
afflictions,  say,  that  I  cannot  pleasure  such  an 
honourable  gentleman.  Good  Servilius,  will 
you  befriend  me  so  far  as  to  use  mine  own 
words  to  him  ? 

Ser.  Yes,  sir,  I  shall. 

Luc.  I  '11  look  you  out  a  good  turn,  Servilius. 
[Exit  SERVILIUS. 

True,  as  you  said,  Timon  is  shrunk  indeed ; 
And  he  that 's  once  denied  will  hardly  speed. 

[Exit. 

1  Stran.  Do  you  observe  this,  Hostilius? 

2  Stran.  Ay,  too  well. 


I  Stran.  Why,  this  is  the  world's  soul ;  and 

just  of  the  same  piece 

Is  every  flatterer's  spirit.     Who  can  call  him 
His  friend  that  dips  in  the  same  dish?  for,  in 
My  knowing,  Timon  has  been  this  lord's  father, 
And  kept  his  credit  with  his  purse  ; 
Supported  his  estate  ;  nay,  Timon's  money 
Has  paid  his  men  their  wages :  he  ne'er  drinks 
But  Timon's  silver  treads  upon  his  lip ; 
And  yet, — O  see  the  monstrousness  of  man 
When  he  looks  out  in  an  ungrateful  shape ! — 
He  does  deny  him,  in  respect  of  his, 
What  charitable  men  afford  to  beggars. 

3  Stran.  Religion  groans  at  it 

I  Stran.  For  mine  own  part, 

I  never  tasted  Timon  in  my  life, 
Nor  came  any  of  his  bounties  over  me 
To  mark  me  for  his  friend ;  yet  I  protest, 
For  his  right  noble  mind,  illustrious  virtue, 
And  honourable  carriage, 
Had  his  necessity  made  use  of  me, 
I  would  have  put  my  wealth  into  donation, 
And  the  best  half  should  have  return'd  to  him, 
So  much  I  love  his  heart :  but,  I  perceive, 
Men  must  learn  now  with  pity  to  dispense : 
For  policy  sits  above  conscience.         [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — ATHENS.     A  Room  in 
SEMPRONIUS'  House. 

Enter  SEMPRONIUS  and  a  Servant  of 
TIMON'S. 

Sem.  Must  he  needs  trouble  me  in 't, — hum ! 

— 'bove  all  others? 

He  might  have  tried  Lord  Lucius  or  Lucullus ; 
And  now  Ventidius  is  wealthy  too, 
Whom  he  redeem'd  from  prison :  all  these 
Owe  their  estates  unto  him. 

Serv.  My  lord, 

They  have  all  been  touch'd  and  found  base 

metal;  for 
They  have  all  denied  him. 

Sem.  How !  have  they  denied  him  ? 

Has  Ventidius  and  Lucullus  denied  him? 
And  does  he  send  to  me?    Three?  hum ! — 
It  shows  but  little  love  or  judgment  in  him : 
Must  I  be  his  last  refuge  J    His  friends,  like 

physicians, 
Thrive,  give  him  over:  must  I  take  the  cure 

upon  me?  £him, 

Has  much  disgrac'd  me  in't;  I  am  angry  at 
That  might  have  known  my  place :   I  see  no 

sense  for 't, 

But  his  occasions  might  have  woo'd  me  first ; 
For,  in  my  conscience,  I  was  the  first  man 
That  e'er  received  gift  from  him : 
And  does  he  think  so  backwardly  of  me  now 


SCENE  IV.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


803 


That  I  '11  requite  it  last?    No: 

So  it  may  prove  an  argument  of  laughter 

To  the  rest,  and  'mongst  the  lords  I  be  thought 

a  fool. 

I  had  rather  than  the  worth  of  thrice  the  sum 
Had  sent  to  me  first,  but  for  my  mind's  sake ; 
I  had  such  a  courage  to  do  him  good.  But  now 

return, 

And  with  their  faint  reply  this  answer  join  ; 
Who  bates  mine  honour  shall  not  know  my  coin. 

[Exit. 

Serv.  Excellent!  Your  lordship 's  a  goodly 
villain.  The  devil  knew  not  what  he  did  when 
he  made  man  politic, — he  cross'd  himself  by 't : 
and  I  cannot  think  but,  in  the  end,  the  villanies 
of  man  will  set  him  clear.  How  fairly  this  lord 
strives  to  appear  foul !  takes  virtuous  copies  to 
be  wicked ;  like  those  that  under  hot  ardent 
zeal  would  set  whole  realms  on  fire : 
Of  such  a  nature  is  his  politic  love. 
This  was  my  lord's  best  hope ;  now  all  are  fled, 
Save  only  the  gods:  now  his  friends  are  dead, 
Doors,  that  were  ne'er  acquainted  with  their 

wards 

Many  a  bounteous  year,  must  be  employ'd 
Now  to  guard  sure  their  master. 
And  this  is  all  a  liberal  course  allows ; 
Who  cannot  keep  his  wealth  must  keep  his 

house.  [Exit. 

SCENE  IV. — ATHENS.     A  Hall  in  TIMON'S 

House. 
Enter  Two  Servants  of  VARRO  and  the  Servant 

of  Lucius,  meeting  TITUS,  HORTENSIUS, 

and  other  Servants  of  TIMON'S   creditors^ 

waiting  his  coming  out. 

i   Var.  Serv.  Well  met ;  good-morrow,  Titus 
and  Hortensius. 

Tit.  The  like  to  you,  kind  Varro. 

Hor.  Lucius ! 

What,  do  we  meet  together  ? 

Luc.  Serv.  Ay,  and  I  think 

One  business  does  command  us  all ;  for  mine 
Is  money. 
•^  Tit.   So  is  theirs  and  ours. 

Enter  PHILOTUS. 

Luc.  Serv.  And  Sir  Philotus  too ! 

Phi.  Good-day  at  once. 

Luc.  Serv.  Welcome,  good  brother. 

What  do  you  think  the  hour? 

Phi.  Labouring  for  nine. 

Luc.  Serv.  So  much? 

Phi.  Is  not  my  lord  seen  yet? 

Luc.  Serv.  Not  yet. 

Phi.  I  wonder  on 't :  he  was  wont  to  shine 
at  seven. 


Luc.  Serv.  Ay,  but  the  days  are  waxed  shorter 

with  him : 

You  must  consider  that  a  prodigal  course 
Is  like  the  sun's ;  but  not,  like  his,  recoverable. 
I  fear 

'Tis  deepest  winter  in  Lord  Timon's  purse  ; 
That  is,  one  may  reach  deep  enough  and  yet 
Find  little. 

Phi.       I  am  of  your  fear  for  that.        [event. 

Tit.  I  '11  show  you  how  to  observe  a  strange 
Your  lord  sends  now  for  money. 

Hor.  Most  true,  he  does. 

Tit.  And  he  wears  jewels  now  of  Timon's  gift, 
For  which  I  wait  for  money. 

Hor.  It  is  against  my  heart. 

Luc.  Serv.  Mark  how  strange  it  shows, 

Timon  in  this  should  pay  more  than  he  owes  : 
And  e'en  as  if  your  lord  should  wear  rich  jewels 
And  send  for  money  for  'em. 

Hor.  I  am  weary  of  this  charge,  the  gods 

can  witness : 

I  know  my  lord  hath  spent  of  Timon's  wealth, 
And  now  ingratitude  makes  it  worse  than  stealth. 

I   Var.  Serv.   Yes,   mine's  three   thousand 
crowns  :  what 's  yours  ? 

Luc.  Serv.  Five  thousand  mine. 

I  Var.  Serv.   'Tis  much  deep :  and  it  should 

seem  by  the  sum 

Your  master's  confidence  was  above  mine ; 
Else,  surely,  his  had  equall'd. 

Enter  FLAMINIUS. 

Tit.  One  of  Lord  Timon's  men. 

Luc.  Serv.  Flaminius  !  sir,  a  word  :  pray,  is 
my  lord  ready  to  come  forth  ? 

Flam.  No,  indeed,  he'is  not. 

Tit.  We  attend  his  lordship ;  pray,  signify 
so  much. 

Flam.  I  need  not  tell  him  that ;  he  knows 
you  are  too  diligent.  [Exit. 

Enter  FLAVIUS,  in  a  cloak ,  muffled. 

Luc.    Serv.    Ha  !   is  not   that  his   steward 

muffled  so  ? 
He  goes  away  in  a  cloud  :  call  him,  call  him. 

Tit.  Do  you  hear,  sir  ? 

Both  Var.  Serv.  By  your  leave,  sir, — 

Flav.  What  do  you  ask  of  me,  my  friends  ? 

Tit.  We  wait  for  certain  money  here,  sir. 

Flav.  Ay, 

If  money  were  as  certain  as  your  waiting 
'Twere  sure  enough. 

Why  then  preferr'd  you  not  your  sums  and  bills 
When  your  false  masters  eat  of  my  lord's  meat? 
Then  they  could   smile,  and  fawn  upon  his 
debts,  [maws. 

And  take  down  th'  interest  into  their  gluttonous 


804 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[ACT  III. 


You  do  yourselves  but  wrong  to  stir  me  up ; 
Let  me  pass  quietly : 

Believe 't  my  lord  and  I  have  made  an  end  j 
I  have  no  more  to  reckon,  he  to  spend. 

Liic.  Serv.  Ay,  but  this  answer  will  not  serve. 

Flav.  If  'twill  not  serve  'tis  not  so  base  as  you ; 
For  you  serve  knaves.  [Exit 

1  Var.  Serv.  How  !  What  does  his  cashier'd 
worship  mutter  ? 

2  Var.  Serv.  No  matter  what ;  he 's  poor, 
and  that's  revenge  enough.     Who  can  speak 
broader  than  he  that  has  no  house  to  put  his 
head  in  ?  such  may  rail  against  great  buildings. 

Enter  SERVILIUS. 

Tit.  O,  here 's  Servilius ;  now  we  shall  know 
some  answer. 

Ser.  If  I  might  beseech  you,  gentlemen,  to 
repair  some  other  hour,  I  should  much  derive 
from 't ;  for,  take 't  of  my  soul,  my  lord  leans 
wondrously  to  discontent :  his  comfortable  tem- 
per has  forsook  him  ;  he  is  much  out  ot  health, 
and  keeps  his  chamber,  [not  sick  : 

Luc.  Serv.  Many  do  keep  their  chambers  are 
And,  if  it  be  so  far  beyond  his  health, 
Methinks  he  should  the  sooner  pay  his  debts, 
And  make  a  clear  way  to  the  gods. 

Ser.  Good  gods  ! 

Tit.  We  cannot  take  this  for  answer,  sir. 

Flam.  [  Within.  ]  Servilius,  help ! — my  lord  ! 
my  lord  ! 

.SwterTiMON,  in  a  rage;  FLAMINIUS/^/^Z^/W^; 

Tint.  What,  are  my  doors  oppos'd  against 

my  passage  ? 

Have  I  been  ever  free,  and  must  my  house 
Be  my  retentive  enemy,  my  gaol  ? 
The  place  which  I  have  feasted,  does  it  now, 
Like  all  mankind,  show  me  an  iron  heart  ? 

Luc.  Serv.  Put  in  now,  Titus. 

Tit.  My  lord,  here  is  rny  bill. 

Luc.  Serv.  Here 's  mine. 

Hor.  Serv.  And  mine,  my  lord. 

Both.  Var.  Serv.  And  ours,  my  lord. 

Phi.  All  our  bills.  [to  the  girdle. 

Tim.   Knock  me  down  with  'em  :  cleave  me 

Luc.  Serv.  Alas,  my  lord, — 

Tim.  Cut  my  heart  in  sums. 

Tit.  Mine,  fifty  talents. 

Tim.  Tell  out  my  blood. 

Luc.  Serv.   Five  thousand  crowns,  my  lord. 

Tim.  Five  thousand  drops  pays  that. — 
What  yours  ? — and  yours  ? — 

1  Var.  Serv.   My  lord, — 

2  Var.  Serv.  My  lord,— 

Tim.  Tear  me,  take  me,  and  the  gods  fall 
upon  you  t  [Exit. 


Hor.  Faith,  I  perceive  our  masters  may 
throw  their  caps  at  their  money :  these  debts 
may  well  be  called  desperate  ones,  for  a  mad- 
man owes  'em.  [Exeunt. 

Re-enter  TIMON  and  FLAVIUS. 

Tim.  They  have  e'en  put  my  breath  from 

me,  the  slaves. 
Creditors  ! — devils. 

Flav.   My  dear  lord,— 

Tim.  What  if  it  should  be  so  ? 

Flam.   My  lord, — 

Tim.  I  '11  have  it  so.— My  steward  ! 

Flav.  Here,  my  lord. 

Tim.  So  fitly  ?   Go,  bid  all  my  friends  again, 
Lucius,  Lucullus,  and  Sempronius  ;  all : 
I  'II  once  more  feast  the  rascals 

Flav.  O  my  lord, 

You  only  speak  from  your  distracted  soul ; 
There  is  not  so  much  left  to  furnish  out 
A  moderate  table. 

Tim.  Be 't  not  in  thy  care  J  go, 

I  charge  thee,  invite  them  all :  let  in  the  tide 
Of  knaves  once  more  ;  my  cook  and  I  Jll  pro- 
vide, [Exeunt. 

SCENE  Vk — ATHENS.     The  Senate  House. 

. 
The  Senate  sitting. 

1  Sen.  My  lords,  you  have  my  voice  to  it ; 

the  fault 's 

Bloody ;  'tis  necessary  he  should  die  : 
Nothing  emboldens  sin  so  much  as  mercy. 

2  Sen.  Most  true  ;  the  law  shall  bruise  him. 

Enter  ALCIBIADES,  attended. 

Alcib.  Honour,  health,  and  compassion  to 
the  senate  ! 

I  Sen.  Now,  captain  ? 

Alcib.  I  am  an  humble  suitor  to  your  virtues ; 
For  pity  is  the  virtue  of  the  law, 
And  none  but  tyrants  use  it  cruelly. 
It  pleases  time  and  fortune  to  lie  heavy: 
Upon  a  friend  of  mine,  who,  in  hot  blood, 
I  lath  stepp'd  into  the  law,  which  is  past  depth 
To  those  that  without  heed  do  plunge  into 't. 
He  is  a  man,  setting  his  fate  aside, 
Of  comely  virtues : 

Nor  did  he  soil  the  fact  with  cowardice, — 
An  honour  in  him  which  buys  out  his  fault, — 
But  with  a  noble  fury  and  fair  spirit, 
Seeing  his  reputation  touch'd  to  death, 
He  did  oppose  his  foe  : 
And  with  such  sober  and  unnoted  passion 
He  did  behove  his  anger  ere  'twas  spent, 
As  if  he  had  but  prov'd  an  argument. 

I  Sen.  You  undergo  too  strict  a  paradox, 


SCENE  V.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


805 


Striving  to  make  an  ugly  deed  look  fair : 
Your  words  have  took  such  pains,  as  if  they 
laboured  [quarrelling 

To    bring    manslaughter   into   form,    and   set 
Upon  the  head  of  valour  ;  which,  indeed, 
Is  valour  misbegot,  and  came  into  the  world 
When  sects  and  factions  were  newly  born : 
He 's  truly  valiant  that  can  wisely  suffer 
The  worst  that  man  can  breathe ;  and  make 

•>  his  wrongs  [carelessly ; 

His  outsides, — to  wear  them  like  his  raiment, 
And  ne'er  prefer  his  injuries  to  his  heart, 
To  bring  it  into  danger. 
If  wrongs  be  evils,  and  enforce  us  kill, 
What  folly  'tis  to  hazard  life  for  ill ! 

Alcib.   My  lord, —  [clear  : 

1  Sen.  You   cannot  make   gross   sins   look 
To  revenge  is  no  valour,  but  to  bear.          [me, 

Alcib.   My  lords,  then,  under  favour,  pardon 
If  I  speak  like  a  captain  : — 
Why  do  fond  men  expose  themselves  to  battle, 
And  not  endure  all  threats  ?  sleep  upon 't, 
And  let  the  foes  quietly  cut  their  throats, 
Without  repugnancy  ?  but  if  there  be 
Such  valour  in  the  bearing,  what  make  we 
Abroad  ?  why,  then,  women  are  more  valiant, 
That  stay  at  home,  if  bearing  carry  it ; 
And  th'  ass  more  captain  than  the  lion  ;  the 

fellow 

Loaden  with  irons  wiser  than  the  judge, 
If  wisdom  be  in  suffering.     O  my  lords, 
As  you  are  great,  be  pitifully  good  : 
Who  cannot  condemn  rashness  in  cold  blood  ? 
To  kill,  I  grant,  is  sin's  extremest  gust ; 
But,  in  defence,  by  mercy,  'tis  most  just 
To  be  in  anger  is  impiety ; 
But  who  is  man  that  is  not  angry  ? 
Weigh  but  the  crime  with  this. 

2  Sen.  You  breathe  in  vain. 

Alcib.  In  vain  !  his  service  done 

At  Lacedsemon  and  Byzantium 
Were  a  sufficient  briber  for  his  life. 

1  Sen.  What's  that? 

Alcib.  Why,  I  say,  my  lords,  h'as  done  fair 

service, 

And  slain  in  fight  many  of  your  enemies  : 
How  full  of  valour  did  he  bear  himself 
In  the  last  conflict,  and  made  plenteous  wounds ! 

2  Sen.   He  has  made  too  much  plenty  with 

'em,  he 

Is  a  sworn  rioter :  he  has  a  sin  that  often 
Drowns  him,  and  takes  his  valour  prisoner  : 
If  there  were  no  foes,  that  were  enough 
To  overcome  him  :  in  that  beastly  fury 
He  has  been  known  to  commit  outrages 
And  cherish  factions :  'tis  inferr'd  to  us 
His  days  are  foul  and  his  drink  dangerous. 


I  Sen.  He  dies. 

Alcib.  Hard  fate !  he  might  have  died  in  war. 
My  lords,  if  not  for  any  parts  in  him, —  ^ 
Though  his  right  arm  might  purchase  his  own 

time, 
And  be  in  debt  to  none, — yet,  more  to  move 

you, 

Take  my  deserts  to  his,  and  join  them  both  : 
And,  for  I  know  your  reverend  ages  love 
Security,  I  '11  pawn  my  victories,  all 
My  honours  to  you,  upon  his  good  returns. 
If  by  this  crime  he  owes  the  law  his  life, 
Why,  let  the  war  receiv  't  in  valiant  gore  ; 
For  law  is  strict,  and  war  is  nothing  more. 

1  Sen.  We  are  for  law, — he  dies ;  urge  it  no 

more, 

On  height  of  our  displeasure :  friend  or  brother, 
He  forfeits  his  own  blood  that  spills  another. 

Alcib.  Must  it  be  so  ?  it  must  not  be.   My  lords, 
I  do  beseech  you,  know  me. 

2  Sen.  How  I 

Alcib.  Call  me  to  your  remembrances. 

3  Sen.  What  I 
Alcib.   I  cannot  think  but  your  age  has  for- 
got me ; 

It  could  not  else  be  I  should  prove  so  base 

To  sue,  and  be  denied  such  common  grace  : 

My  wounds  ache  at  you. 

I  Sen.  Do  you  dare  our  anger? 

'Tis  in  few  words,  but  spacious  in  effect ; 

We  banish  thee  for  ever. 

Alcib.  Banish  me  ! 

Banish  your  dotage  ;  banish  usury, 

That  makes  the  senate  ugly, 

i  Sen.  If,  after  two  days'  shine,  Athens  con- 
tain thee, 

Attend  our  weightier  judgment.     And,  not  to 
swell  our  spirit, 

He  shall  be  executed  presently. 

[Exeunt  Senators. 

Alcib.  Now  the  gods  keep  you  old  enough  ; 
that  you  may  live 

Only  in  bone,  that  none  may  look  on  you  ! 

I  am  worse  than  mad  :  I  have  kept  back  their 
foes, 

While  they  have  told  their  money,  and  let  out 

Their  coin  upon  large  interest ;  I  myself 

Rich  only  in  large  hurts  ; — all  those  for  this  ? 

Is  this  the  balsam  that  the  usuring  senate 

Pours  into  captains'  wounds?  Ha !  banishment  ? 

It  comes  not  ill ;  I  hate  not  to  be  banish'd  ; 

It  is  a  cause  worthy  my  spleen  and  fury, 

That  I  may  strike  at  Athens.     I  '11  cheer  up 

My  discontented  troops,  and  lay  for  hearts. 

'Tis  honour  with  most  lands  to  be  at  odds ; 

Soldiers  should  brook  as  little  wrongs  as  gods. 

{Exit. 


So6 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[ACT  HI.\ 


SCENE  VI. — ATHENS.     A  magnificent  Room 
in  TIMON'S  House. 

Music.      Tables  set  out:   Servants  attending. 
Enter  divers  Lords  at  several  doors. 

1  Lord.  The  good  time  of  day  to  you,  sir. 

2  Lord.  I  also  wish  it  to  you.     I  think  this 
honourable  lord  did  but  try  us  this  other  day. 

1  Lord.  Upon  that  were  my  thoughts  tiring 
when  we  encountered  :  I  hope  it  is  not  so  low 
with  him  as  he  made  it  seem  in  the  trial  of  his 
several  friends. 

2  Lord.  It  should  not  be  by  the  persuasion 
of  his  new  feasting. 

1  Lord.   I  should  think  so  :  he  hath  sent  me 
an  earnest  inviting,  which  many  my  near  occa- 
sions  did  urge  me  to  put  off;    but  he  hath 
conjured  me  beyond  them,  and  I  must  needs 
appear. 

2  Lord.  In  like  manner  was  I  in  debt  to  my 
importunate  business,  but  he  would  not  hear 
my  excuse.    I  am  sorry,  when  he  sent  to  borrow 
of  me,  that  my  provision  was  out. 

1  Lord.  I  am   sick  of  that  grief  too,  as  I 
understand  how  all  things  go. 

2  Lord.  Every  man  here 's  so.     What  would 
he  have  borrowed  of  you  ? 

1  Lord.  A  thousand  pieces. 

2  Lord.  A  thousand  pieces  ! 
I  Lord.  What  of  you  ? 

3  Lord.  He  sent  to  me,  sir, — Here  he  comes. 

Enter  TIMON  and  Attendants. 

Tim.  With  all  my  heart,  gentlemen  both. — 
And  how  fare  you  ? 

1  Lord.  Ever  at  the  best,  hearing  well  of 
your  lordship. 

2  Lord.    The  swallow  follows  not  summer 
more  willing  than  we  your  lordship. 

Tim.  Nor  more  willingly  leaves  winter ; 
such  summer -birds  are  men.  [Aside.'} — Gentle- 
men, our  dinner  will  not  recompense  this  long 
stay  :  feast  your  ears  with  the  music  awhile,  if 
they  will  fare  so  harshly  o'  the  trumpet's 
sound  ;  we  shall  to 't  presently. 

1  Lord.    I   hope   it   remains  not   unkindly 
with   your    lordship  that  I  returned  you  an 
empty  messenger. 

Tim.  O,  sir,  let  it  not  trouble  you. 

2  Lord.  My  noble  lord, — 

Tim.  Ah,  my  good  friend  !  what  cheer  ? 

2  Lord.  My  most  honourable  lord,  I  am  e'en 
sick  of  shame  that,  when  your  lordship  this 
other  day  sent  to  me,  I  was  so  unfortunate  a 
beggar. 

Tim.  Think  not  on 't,  sir. 
t 


2  Lord.    If  you   had   sent   but   two   hours 
before, — 

Tim.   Let  it  not  cumber  your  better  remem- 
brance.— Come,  bring  in  all  together. 

[  The  banquet  brought  in. 

2  Lord.  All  covered  dishes  ! 


I  Lord.   Royal  cheer,  I  warrant  you. 
3  Lord.  Doubt  not  that,  if  money  and  the 
season  can  yield  it. 

i  Lord.  How  do  you  ?    What 's  the  news  ? 
3  Lord.  Alcibiades  is  banished:  hear  you  of  it? 
I  <Sr*  2  Lord.  Alcibiades  banished  ! 
3  Lord.  'Tis  so,  be  sure  of  it. 

1  Lord.  How  !  how  ! 

2  Lord.  I  pray  you,  upon  what  ? 

Tim.  My  worthy  friends,  will  you  draw  near? 

3  Lord.  I  '11  tell  you  more  anon.     Here 's  a 
noble  feast  toward. 

2  Lord.  This  is  the  old  man  still. 

3  Lord.  Will't  hold?  will't  hold? 

2  Lord.  It  does :  but  time  will — and  so, — 

3  Lord.  I  do  conceive. 

Tim.  Each  man  to  his  stool  with  that  spur 
as  he  would  to  the  lip  of  his  mistress :  your 
diet  shall  be  in  all  places  alike.  Make  not  a 
city  feast  of  it,  to  let  the  meat  cool  ere  we  can 
agree  upon  the  first  place  :  sit,  sit.  The  gods 
require  our  thanks. — 

You  great  benefactors,  sprinkle  our  society  with 
thankfulness.  For  your  own  gifts  make  yourselves 
praised  :  but  reserve  still  to  give,  lest  your  deities  be 
despised.  Lend  to  each  man  enough,  that  one  need 
not  lend  to  another  ;  for,  were  your  godheads  to  borrow 
of  men,  men  would  forsake  the  gods.  Make  the  meat 
be  beloved  more  than  the  man  that  gives  it.  Let  no 
assembly  of  twenty  be  without  a  score  of  villains :  if 
there  sit  twelve  women  at  the  table,  let  a  dozen  of  them 
be — as  they  are.  The  rest  of  your  fees,  O  gods, — the 
senators  of  Athens,  together  with  the  common  tag  of 
people, — what  is  amiss  in  them,  you  gods,  make  suit- 
able for  destruction.  For  these  my  present  friends, — as 
they  are  to  me  nothing,  so  in  nothing  bless  them,  and 
to  nothing  are  they  welcome. 
Uncover,  dogs,  and  lap. 

[  The  dishes ,  when  uncovered,  are  seen 

to  be  full  of  warm  water. 
Some  speak.  What  does  his  lordship  mean  ? 
Some  other.  I  know  not. 
Tim.  May  you  a  better  feast  never  behold, 
You  knot  of  mouth-friends  !  smoke  and  luke- 
warm water 

Is  your  perfection.     This  is  Timon's  last ; 
Who,  stuck  and  spangled  with  your  flatteries, 
Washes  it  off,  and  sprinkles  in  your  faces 

[  Throwing  the  water  in  their  faces. 
Your  reeking  villany.     Live  loath'd  and  long, 
Most  smiling,  smooth,  detested  parasites, 
Courteous   destroyers,    affable    wolves,   meek 
bears,  [flies, 

You  fools  of  fortune,  trencher-friends,  time's 


SCENE  VI.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


807 


Cap  and  knee  slaves,  vapours,  and  minute-jacks! 
Of  man  and  beast  the  infinite  malady 
Crust  you  quite  o'er  ! — What,  dost  you  go  ? 
Soft,    take   thy  physic  first, — thou  too, — and 

thou  ; — 

Stay,  I  will  lend  thee  money,  borrow  none. — 
[  Throws  the  dishes  at  them,  and 

drives  them  out. 

What,  all  in  motion  ?     Henceforth  be  no  feast 
Whereat  a  villain 's  not  a  welcome  guest. 
Burn,  house !  sink,  Athens !  henceforth  hated  be 
Of  Timon,  man,  and  all  humanity !          [Exit. 

Re-enter  the  Lords. 

1  Lord.   How  now,  my  lords  ! 

2  Lord.     Know    you    the    quality   of    Lord 
Timon's  fury? 

3  Lord.  Pish  !  did  you  see  my  cap  ? 

4  Lord.  I  have  lost  my  gown. 

1  Lord.  He's  but    a  mad  lord,  and  naught 
but  humour  sways  him.     He  gave  me  a  jewel 
the  other  day,  and  now  he  has  beat  it  out  of 
my  hat : — did  you  see  my  jewel  ? 

3  Lord.  Did  you  see  my  cap  ? 

2  Lord.  Here  'tis. 

4  Lord.  Here  lies  my  gown. 

1  Lord.  Let 's  make  no  stay. 

2  Lord.  Lord  Timon 's  mad. 

3  Lord.  I  feel 't  upon  my  bones. 

4  Lord.  One  day  he  gives  us  diamonds,  next 

day  stones.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.  — Without  the  Walls  ^ATHENS. 

Enter  TIMON. 
Tim.  Let  me  look  back  upon  thee,  O  thou 

wall 

That  girdlest  in  those  wolves,  dive  in  the  earth 
And  fence  not  Athens  !     Matrons,  turn  incon- 
tinent ! 

Obedience  fail  in  children!  slaves  and  fools, 
Pluck  the  grave  wrinkled  senate  from  the  bench 
And  minister  in  their  steads!  to  general  filths 
Convert,  o'  the  instant,  green  virginity, — 
Do't  in  your  parent's  eyes !  bankrupts,  hold  fast ; 
Rather  than  render  back,  out  with  your  knives 
And  cut  your  trusters'  throats  !  bound  servants, 

steal ! 

Large-handed  robbers  your  grave  masters  are, 
And  pill  by  law  !  maid,  to  thy  master's  bed, — 
Thy  mistress  is  o'  the  brothel !  son  of  sixteen, 
Pluck  the  lin'd  crutch  from  thy  old  limping  sire, 
With  it  beat  out  his  brains  !  piety  and  fear, 
Religion  to  the  gods,  peace,  justice,  truth, 
Domestic  awe,  night- rest,  and  neighbourhood, 


Instruction,  manners,  mysteries,  and  trades, 
Degrees,  observances,  customs  and  laws, 
Decline  to  your  confounding  contraries,  [men, 
And  let  confusion   live! — Plagues  incident  to 
Your  potent  and  infectious  fevers  heap 
On  Athens,  ripe  for  stroke  !  thou  cold  sciatica, 
Cripple  our  senators,  that  their  limbs  may  halt 
As  lamely  as  their  manners  !  lust  and  liberty 
Creep  in  the  minds  and  marrows  of  our  youth, 
That  'gainst  the  stream  of  virtue  they  may  strive 
And  drown  themselves  in  riot !  itches,  blains, 
Sow  all  the  Athenian  bosoms  ;  and  their  crop 
Be  general  leprosy !  breath  infect  breath  ; 
That  their  society,  as  their  friendship,  may 
Be  merely  poison  !  Nothing  I  '11  bear  from  thee 
But  nakedness,  thou  detestable  town! 
Take  thou  that  too,  with  multiplying  banns! 
Timon  will  to  the  woods  ;  where  he  shall  find 
The  unkindest  beast  more  kinder  than  mankind. 
The  gods  confound, — hear  me,  ye  good  gods 

all, — 

The  Athenians  both  within  and  out  that  wall ! 

And  grant,  as  Timon  grows,  his  hate  may  grow 

To  the  whole  race  of  mankind,  high  and  low ! 

Amen.  [Exit. 

c<  oi.agR  iw :..  •  •  i  eu/tp! •-TUV ::J  oiiV - 

SCENE  II. — ATHENS.    A  Room  in  TIMON'S 

House. 

Enter  FLAVIUS,  with  Two  or  Three  Servants. 

i  Serv.  Here  you,  master  steward,  where 's 

our  master? 

Are  we  undone  ?  cast  off?  nothing  remaining  ? 
Flav.  Alack,  my  fellows,  what  should  I  say 

to  you  ? 

Let  me  be  recorded  by  the  righteous  gods, 
I  am  as  poor  as  you. 

1  Serv.  Such  a  house  broke  ! 

So  noble  a  master  fall'n  !    All  gone  !  and  not 
One  friend  to  take  his  fortune  by  the  arm 
And  go  along  with  him  ! 

2  Serv.  As  we  do  turn  our  backs 
To  our  companion  thrown  into  his  grave, 

So  his  familiars  from  his  buried  fortunes 
Slink  all  away ;  leave  their  false  vows  with  him, 
Like  empty  purses  pick'd  ;  and  his  poor  self, 
A  dedicated  beggar  to  the  air, 
With  his  disease  of  all-shunn'd  poverty, 
Walks,   like   contempt,  alone. — More  of  our 
fellows. 

Enter  other  Servants. 

Flav.  All   broken    implements  of  a  ruin'd 
house.  [livery, 

3  Serv.    Yet   do   our   hearts  wear   Timon's 
That  see  I  by  our  faces  ;  we  are  fellows  still, 
Serving  alike  in  sorrow  :  kak'd  is  our  bark  ; 


8o8 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[ACT  iv. 


And  we,  poor  mates,  stand  on  the  dying  deck 
Hearing  the  surges  threat :  we  must  all  part 
Into  this  sea  of  air. 

Flav.  Good  fellows  all, 

The  latest  of  my  wealth  I  '11  share  amongst  you. 
Wherever  we  shall  meet,  for  Timon's  sake, 
Let 's  yet  be  fellows ;  let 's  shake  our  heads, 

and  say, 

As  'twere  a  knell  unto  our  master's  fortune, 
We  have  seen  better  days.     Let  each  take  some. 
[Giving  them  money. 
Nay,  put  out  all  your  hands.     Not  one  word 

more : 
Thus  part  we  rich  in  sorrow,  parting  poor. 

[Servants  embrace,  and  part  several  ways. 
O,  the  fierce  wretchedness  that  glory  brings  us ! 
Who  would  not  wish  to  be  from  wealth  exempt 
Since  riches  point  to  misery  and  contempt  ? 
Who  would  be  so  mock'd  with  glory  ?  or  to  live 
But  in  a  dream  of  friendship  ?  [pounds, 

To  have  his  pomp,  and  all  what  state  corn- 
But  only  painted,  like  his  varnish'd  friends? 
Poor  honest  lord,  brought  low  by  his  own  heart, 
Undone  by  goodness  !  strange,  unusual  blood, 
When  man's  worst  sin  is,  he  does  too  much  good ! 
Who  then -dares  to  be  half  so  kind  again  ? 
For  bounty,  that  makes  gods,  does  still  mar 

men. 

My  dearest  lord, — bless'd  to  be  most  accurs'd, 
Rich  only  to  be  wretched, — thy  great  fortunes 
Are  made  thy  chief  afflictions.    Alas,  kind  lord  ! 
He 's  flung  in  rage  from  this  ingrateful  seat 
Of  monstrous  friends  ;  nor  has  he  with  him  to 
Supply  his  life,  or  that  which  can  command  it. 
I  '11  follow  and  enquire  him  out : 
I  '11  ever  serve  his  mind  with  my  best  will ; 
Whilst  I  have  gold,  I  '11  be  his  steward  still. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  III. — The  Woods.     Before  TIMON'S 
Cave. 

Enter  TIMON. 

Tint.  O  blessed  breeding  sun,  draw  from  the 

earth 

Rotten  humidity ;  below  thy  sister's  orb 
Infect  the  air !  Twinn'd  brothers  of  one  womb, — 
Whose  procreation,  residence,  and  birth 
Scarce  is  dividant, — touch  them  with  several 

fortunes ; 

The  greater  scorns  the  lesser  :  not  nature, 
To  whom  all  sores  lay  siege,  can  bear  great 

fortune 

But  by  contempt  of  nature. 
Raise  me  this  beggar  and  deny 't  that  lord ; 
The  senator  shall  bear  contempt  hereditary 
The  beggar  native  honour. 


It  is  the  pasture  lards  the  other's  sides, 

The  want  that  makes  him  lean.     Who  dares, 

who  dares, 

In  purity  of  manhood  stand  upright, 
And  say,  This  man 's  a  flatterer  ?  if  one  be, 
So  are  they  all ;  for  every  grise  of  fortune 
Is  smooth'd  by  that  below:  the  learned  pate 
Ducks  to  the  golden  fool :  all  is  oblique ; 
There 's  nothing  level  in  our  cursed  natures 
But  direct  villany.     Therefore,  be  abhorred 
All  feasts,  societies,  and  throngs  of  men ! 
His  semblable,  yea,  himself  Timon  disdains  : 
Destruction  fang  mankind  ! — Earth,  yield  me 

roots !  [Digging. 

Who  seeks  for  better  of  thee,  sauce  his  palate 
With  thy  most  operant  poison !  What  is  here? 
Gold?  yellow,  glittering,  precious  gold?  No, 

gods, 

I  am  no  idle  votarist.  Roots,  you  clear  heavens ! 
Thus  much  of  this  will  make  black,  white  ; 

foul,  fair ;  [valiant. 

Wrong,  right ;  base,  noble ;  old,  young ;  coward, 
Ha,  you  gods  !  why  this  ?  what  this,  you  gods  ? 

why,  this  [sides  ; 

Will  lug  your  priests  and  servants  from  your 
Pluck  stout  men's  pillows  from  below  their 

beads: 

This  yellow  slave 

Will  knit  and  break  religions ;  bless  the  accurs'd; 
Make  the  hoar  leprosy  ador'd  ;  place  thieves, 
And  give  them  title,  knee,  and  approbation, 
With  senators  on  the  bench  :  this  is  it 
That  makes  the  wappen'd  widow  wed  again  ; 
She  whom  the  spital-house  and  ulcerous  sores 
Would  cast  the  gorge  at,  this  embalms  and 

spices 

To  the  April  day  again.  Come,  damned  earth, 
Thou  common  whore  of  mankind,  that  putt'st 

odds 

Among  the  rout  of  nations,  I  will  make  thee 
Do  thy  right  nature. — [March  afar  off.]     Ha  ! 

a  drum  ? — Thou  'rt  quick, 
But  yet  I  '11  bury  thee  :  thou  It  go,  strong  thief, 
When  gouty  keepers  of  thee  cannot  stand  : — 
Nay,  stay  thou  out  for  earnest. 

[Keeping  some  gold. 

Enter  ALCIBIADES,  with  drum  and  fife,  in 
warlike  manner;  PHRYNIA  and  TIMANDRA. 

Alcib.  What  art  thou  there  ?  speak. 

Tim.  A  beast,  as  thou  art.    The  canker  gnaw 

thy  heart 
For  showing  me  again  the  eyes  of  man  ! 

Alcib.  What  is  thy  name  ?  Is  man  so  hateful 

to  thee, 
That  art  thyself  a  man  ? 

Tim.  I  am  misanthropost  and  hate  mankind. 


SCENE  III.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


809 


For  thy  part,  I  do  wish  thou  wert  a  dog, 
That  I  might  love  thee  something. 

Alcib.  I  know  thee  well ; 

But  in  thy  fortunes  am  unlearn'd  and  strange. 

Tim.   I  know  thee  too  ;  and  more  than  that 

I  know  thee 

I  not  desire  to  know.     Follow  thy  drum  ; 
With  man's  blood  paint  the  ground,  gules,  gules : 
Religious  canons,  civil  laws  are  cruel ; 
Then  what  should  war  be?   This  fell  whore  of 

thine 

Hath  in  her  more  destruction  than  thy  sword, 
For  all  her  cherubin  look. 

Phry.  Thy  lips  rot  off ! 

Tim.  I  will   not   kiss   thee ;    then   the   rot 

returns 
To  thine  own  lips  again.  [change  ? 

Alcib.  How  came  the  noble  Timon  to  this 

Tim.  As  the  moon  does,  by  wanting  light  to 

give: 

But  then  renew  I  could  not,  like  the  moon ; 
There  were  no  suns  to  borrow  of. 

Alcib.  Noble  Timon, 

What  friendship  may  I  do  thee  ? 

Tim.  None,  but  to 

Maintain  my  opinion. 

Alcib.  What  is  it,  Timon? 

Tim.  Promise  me  friendship,  but  perform 
none  :  if  thou  wilt  not  promise,  the  gods  plague 
thee,  for  thou  art  a  man  !  if  thou  dost  perform, 
confound  thee,  for  thou  art  a  man  ! 

Alcib.  I   have   heard   in   some  sort   of  thy 
miseries.  [perity. 

Tim.  Thou  saw'st  them  when  I  had  pros- 

Alcib.   I  see  them  now  ;  then  was  a  blessed 
time.  [harlots. 

Tim.  As  thine  is  now,  held  with  a  brace  of 

Timan.  Is  this  the  Athenian  minion  whom 

the  world 
Voic'd  so  regardfully  ? 

Tim.  Art  thou  Timandra  ? 

Timan.  Yes. 

Tim.  Be  a  whore  still !  they  love  thee  not 

that  use  thee ; 

Give  them  diseases,  leaving  with  thee  their  lust. 
Make  use  of  thy  salt  hours  :  season  the  slaves 
For  tubs  and  baths ;  bring  down  rose-cheek'd 

youth  to 
The  tub-fast  and  the  diet. 

Timan.  Hang  thee,  monster ! 

Alcib.  Pardon  him,  sweet  Timandra  ;  for  his 

wits 

Are  drown'd  and  lost  in  his  calamities. — 
I  have  but  little  gold  of  late,  brave  Timon, 
The  want  whereof  doth  daily  make  revolt 
In   my   penurious  band  :    I   have  heard  and 
griev'd, 


How  cursed  Athens,  mindless  of  thy  worth, 
Forgetting  thy  great  deeds,   when  neighboul 

states, 

But  for  thy  sword  and  fortune,  trod  upon  them, — 
Tim.  I  pr'ythee,  beat  thy  drum,  and  get  thee 

fne.  [Timon. 

am  thy  friend,  and  pity  thee,  dear 
Tim.  How  dost  thou  pity  him  whom  thou 

dost  trouble  ? 
I  had  rather  be  alone. 

Alcib.  Why,  fare  thee  well : 

Here  is  some  gold  for  thee. 

Tim.  Keep  it,  I  cannot  eat  it. 

Alcib.  When  I  have  laid  proud  Athens  on  a 

heap,— 

Tim.  Warr'st  thou  'gainst  Athens  ? 
Alcib.  Ay,  Timon,  and  have  cause. 

Tim.  The  gods  confound  them  all  in  thy 

conquest ; 

And  thee  after,  when  thou  hast  conquer'd  1 
Alcib.  Why  me,  Timon  ? 
Tim.  That  by  killing  of  villains, 
Thou  wast  born  to  conquer  my  country. 
Put  up  thy  gold  :  go  on, — here 's  gold, — go  on-, 
Be  as  a  planetary  plague,  when  Jove 
Will  o'er  some  high-vie' d  city  hang  his  poison 
In  the  sick  air :  let  not  thy  sword  skip  one  : 
Pity  not  honour'd  age  for  his  white  beard, 
He  is  an  usurer :  strike  me  the  counterfeit  matron  : 
It  is  her  habit  only  that  is  honest, 
Herself 's  a  bawd  :  let  not  the  virgin's  cheek 
Make  soft  thy  trenchant  sword ;  for  those  milk 
paps,  [eyes, 

That  through  the  window-bars  bore  at  men's 
Are  not  within  the  leaf  of  pity  writ, 
But  set  them  down  horrible  traitors :  spare  not 
the  babe,  [mercy; 

Whose  dimpled  smiles  from  fools  exhaust  their 
Think  it  a  bastard,  whom  the  oracle 
Hath  doubtfully  pronounc'd  thy  throat  shall  cut, 
And  mince  it   sans  remorse :   swear  against 

objects ; 

Put  armour  on  thine  ears  and  on  thine  eyes  ; 
Whose  proof  nor  yells  of  mothers,  maids,  nor 

babes, 

Nor  sight  of  priests  in  holy  vestments  bleeding, 
Shall  pierce  a  jot.     There 's  gold  to  pay  thy 

soldiers : 

Make  large  confusion  ;  and,  thy  fury  spent, 
Confounded  be  thyself!     Speak  not,  be  gone. 
Alcib.  Hast  thou  gold  yet?     I'll  take  the 

gold  thou  giv'st  me, 
Not  all  thy  counsel. 

Tim.  Dost  thou,  or  dost  thou  not,  heaven's 

curse  upon  thee  ! 

Phr.  dr*  Timan.  Give  us  some  gold,  good 
Timon  :  hast  thou  more  ? 


8io 


TIMON  OF  ATHBNS. 


[ACT  iv. 


Tim.  Enough  to  make  a  whore  forswear  her 

trade,  [sluts, 

And  to  make  whores  a  bawd.     Hold  up,  you 
Your  aprons  mountant :  you  are  not  oathable, — 
Although  I  know  you  '11  swear,  terribly  swear, 
Into  strong  shudders  and  to  heavenly  agues, 
The  immortal  gods  that  hear  you, — spare  your 

oaths, 

I  '11  trust  to  your  conditions  :  be  whores  still ; 
And  he  whose  pious  breath  seeks  to  convert  you, 
Be  strong  in  whore,  allure  him,  burn  him  up  ; 
Let  your  close  fire  predominate  his  smoke, 
And  be  no  turncoats :  yet  may  your  pains  six 

months  [roofs 

Be  quite  contrary :  and  thatch  your  poor  thin 
With  burdens  of  the  dead; — some  that  were 

hang'd, 
No  matter : — wear  them,  betray  with  them  : 

whore  still ; 

Paint  till  a  horse  may  mire  upon  your  face  : 
A  pox  of  wrinkles  ! 

Phr.  &>  Timan.  Well,  more  gold.— What 

then  ? — 
Believe 't,  that  we  '11  do  anything  for  gold. 

Tim.     Consumptions  sow  [shins, 

In  hollow  bones  of  man ;   strike  their  sharp 
And  mar  men's  spurring.     Crack  the  lawyer's 

voice, 

That  he  may  never  more  false  title  plead, 
Nor  sound  his  quillets  shrilly :  hoar  the  flamen, 
That  scolds  against  the  quality  of  flesh 
And  not  believes  himself  •  down  with  the  nose, 
Down  with  it  flat ;  take  the  bridge  quite  away 
Of  him  that,  his  particular  to  foresee, 
Smells  from  the  general  weal :  make  curl'd-pate 

ruffians  bald  ; 

And  let  the  unscarr'd  braggarts  of  the  war 
Derive  some  pain  from  you  :  plague  all ; 
That  your  activity  may  defeat  and  quell 
The  source  of  all    erection. — There's  more 

gold  :— 

Do  you  damn  others  and  let  this  damn  you, 
And  ditches  grave  you  all  ! 

Phr.  &  Timan.    More   counsel  with  more 

money,  bounteous  Timon. 
Tim.  More  whore,  more  mischief  first ;  I 

have  given  you  earnest. 
Alcib.  Strike  up  the  drum  towards  Athens  ! 

Farewell,  Timon : 
If  I  thrive  well  I  '11  visit  thee  again. 

Tim.  If  I  hope  well  I  '11  never  see  thee  more. 
Alcib.  I  never  did  thee  harm. 
Tim.  Yes,  thou  spok'st  well  of  me. 
Alcib.  Call'st  thou  that  harm  ? 

Tim,  Men  daily  find  it.     Get  thee  away,  and 

take 
'Thy  beagles  with  thee. 


Alcib.  We  but  offend  him. — Strike. 

[Drum  beats.     Exeunt  ALCIBIADES, 

PHRYNIA,  and  TIMANDRA. 
Tim.  That  nature,  being  sick  of  man's  un- 

kindness, 

Should  yet  be  hungry  ! — Common  mother,  thou, 

\Digging. 

Whose  womb  unmeasurable  and  infinite  breast 
Teems  and  feeds  all ;  whose  self-same  mettle, 
Whereof  thy  proud    child,    arrogant  man,   is 

puff'd, 

Engenders  the  black  toad  and  adder  blue, 
The  gilded  newt  and  eyeless  venom'd  worm, 
With  all  the  abhorred  births  below  crisp  heaven 
Whereon  Hyperion's  quickening  fire  doth  shine ; 
Yield  him,  who  all  thy  human  sons  doth  hate, 
From  forth  thy  plenteous  bosom,  one  poor  root ! 
Ensear  thy  fertile  and  conceptious  womb, 
Let  it  no  more  bring  out  ingrateful  man  ! 
Go  great  with   tigers,  dragons,  wolves,   and 
bears ;  [face 

Teem  with  new  monsters,  whom  thy  upward 
Hath  to  the  marbled  mansion  all  above 
Never  presented  !— O,  a  root, — dear  thanks  ! 
Dry  up  thy  marrows,  vines,  and  plough-torn 

leas; 

Whereof  ingrateful  man,  with  liquorish  draughts 
And  morsels  unctuous,  greases  his  pure  mind, 
That  from  it  all  consideration  slips  ! 

ss/j 
Enter  APEMANTUS. 

More  man  ?  plague,  plague  ! 

Apem.  I  was  directed  hither  :  men  reporr 
Thou  dost  affect  my  manners,  and  dost  use 

them.  [a  dog 

Tim.  'Tis,  then,  because  thou  dost  not  keep 

Whom  I  would  imitate :  consumption  catch  thee  ! 

Apem.  This  is  in  thee  a  nature  but  affected  ; 

A  poor  unmanly  melancholy  sprung 

From  change   of  fortune.     Why  this  spade? 

this  place  ? 

This  slave-like  habit  ?  and  these  looks  of  care  ? 
Thy  flatterers  yet  wear  silk,  drink  wine,  lie  soft ; 
Hug  their  diseas'd  perfumes,  and  have  forgot 
That  ever  Timon  was.     Shame  not  these  woods 
By  putting  on  the  cunning  of  a  carper. 
Be  thou  a  flatterer  now,  and  seek  to  thrive 
By  that  which  has  undone  thee  :  hinge  thy  knee, 
And  let  his  very  breath  whom  thou  'It  observe 
Blow  off  thy  cap  ;  praise  his  most  vicious  strain, 
And  call  it  excellent :  thou  wast  told  thus  ; 
Thou  gav'st  thine  ears,  like  tapsters  that  bid 

welcome, 

To  knaves  and  all  approachers  :  'tis  most  just 
That  thou  turn  rascal ;  hadst  thou  wealth  again 
Rascals  should  have't.     Do  not  assume  my 

likeness. 


SCENE  III.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


Sn 


Tim.  Were   I   like   thee,   I'd  throw  away 
myself.  [like  thyself ; 

Apem.  Thou  hast  cast  away  thyself,  being 
A  madman  so  long,  now  a  fool.  What,  think'st 
That  the  bleak  air,  thy  boisterous  chamberlain, 
Will  put  thy  shirt  on  warm  ?  Will  these  moss'd 

trees, 

That  have  outliv'd  the  eagle,  page  thy  heels, 
And  skip  when  thou  point'st  out?     Will  the 

cold  brook, 

Candied  with  ice,  caudle  thy  morning  taste 
To  cure  thy  o'ernight's  surfeit  ?  call  the  crea- 
tures,— 

Whose  naked  natures  live  in  all  the  spite 
Of  wreckful  heaven;   whose   bare  unhoused 

trunks, 

To  the  conflicting  elements  expos'd, 
Answer  mere  nature, — bid  them  flatter  thee  ; 
O,  thou  shall  find, — 

Tim.  A  fool  of  thee  :  depart. 

Apem.   I  love  thee  better  now  than  e'er  I  did. 

Tim.  I  hate  thee  worse. 

Apem.  Why? 

Tim.  Thou  flatter'st  misery. 

Apem.  I   flatter  not ;   but  say  thou   art  a 
caitiff. 

Tim.  Why  dost  thou  seek  me  out  ? 

Apem.  To  vex  thee. 

Tim.  Always  a  villain's  office  or  a  fool's. 
Dost  please  thyself  in 't? 

Apem.  Ay. 

Tim.  What  !  a  knave  too  ? 

Apem.  If  thou  didst  put  this  sour-cold  habit 

on 

To  castigate  thy  pride,  'twere  well :  but  thou 
Dost  it  enforcedly  ;  thou  'dst  courtier  be  again 
Wert  thou  not  beggar.     Willing  misery 
Outlives  incertain  pomp,  is  crown'd  before  : 
The  one  is  filling  still,  never  complete  ; 
The  other,  at  high  wish  :  best  state,  contentless, 
Hath  a  distracted  and  most  wretched  being, 
Worse  than  the  worst,  content. 
Thou  should'st  desire  to  die,  being  miserable. 

Tim.  Not  by  his  breath  that  is  more  miser- 
able. 

Thou  art  a  slave,  whom  Fortune's  tender  arm 
With  favour  never  clasp'd  ;  but  bred  a  dog. 
Hadst  thou,  like  us  from  our  first  swath,  pro- 
ceeded 

The  sweet  degrees  that  this  brief  world  affords 
To  such  as  may  the  passive  drugs  of  it  [thyself 
Freely  command,  thou  wouldst  have  plung'd 
In  general  riot ;  melted  down  thfy  youth 
In  different  beds  of  lust ;  and  never  learn'd 
The  icy  precepts  of  respect,  but  follow'd 
The  sugar'd  game  before  thee.     But  myself, 
Who  had  the  world  as  my  confectionary ; 


The  mouths,  the  tongues,  the  eyes,  and  hearts 

of  men 

At  duty,  more  than  I  could  frame  employment; 
That  numberless  upon  me  stuck,  as  leaves 
Do  on  the  oak,  have  with  one  winter's  brush 
Fell  from  their  boughs,  and  left  me  open,  bare 
For  every  storm  that  blows  ; — I,  to  bear  this, 
That  never  knew  but  better,  is  some  burden  : 
Thy  nature  did  commence  in  sufferance,  time 
Hath  made  thee  hard  in 't,    Why  shouldst  thou 
hate  men  ?  [given  ? 

They  never  flatter'd   thee:    what  hast  thou 
If  thou  wilt  curse,  thy  father,  that  poor  rag, 
Must  be  thy  subject ;  who,  in  spite,  put  stuff 
To  some  she  beggar,  and  compounded  thee 
Poor  rogue  hereditary.     Hence  !  be  gone  ! — 
If  thou  hadst  not  been  born  the  worst  of  men, 
Thou  hadst  been  a  knave  and  flatterer. 

Apem.  Art  thou  proud  yet  ? 

Tim.  Ay,  that  I  am  not  thee. 

Apem.  I,  that  I  was 

No  prodigal. 

Tim.          I,  that  I  am  one  now  : 
Were  all  the  wealth  I  have  shut  up  in  thee, 
I  'd  give  thee  leave  to  hang  it.    Get  thee  gone. — 
That  the  whole  life  of  Athens  were  in  this  ! 
Thus  would  I  eat  it.  [Eating  a  root. 

Apem.  Here  ;  I  will  mend  thy  feast. 

[Offering1  him  something. 

Tim.  First  mend  my  company,  take  away 
thyself. 

Apem.  So  I  shall  mend  mine  own  by  the  lack 
of  thine.  [botch'd ; 

Tim.  'Tis  not  well  mended  so,  it  is  but 
If  not,  I  would  it  were. 

Apem.  What  wouldst  thou  have  to  Athens  ? 

Tim.  Thee  thither  in  a  whirlwind.     If  thou 

wilt, 
Tell  them  there  I  have  gold ;  look,  so  I  have. 

Apem.  Here  is  no  use  for  gold. 

Tim.  The  best  and  truest : 

For  here  it  sleeps,  and  does  no  hired  harm. 

Apem.  Where  ly'st  o*  nights,  Timon  ? 

Tim.  Under  that 's  above  me. 

Where  feed'st  thou  o'  days,  Apemantus  ? 

Apem.  Where  my  stomach  finds  meat ;  or, 
rather,  where  I  eat  it. 

Tim.  Would  poison  were  obedient,  and  knew 
my  mind  ? 

Apem.  Where  wouldst  thou  send  it  ? 

Tim.  To  sauce  thy  dishes. 

Apem.  The  middle  of  humanity  thou  never 
knewest,  but  the  extremity  of  both  ends  :  when 
thou  wast  in  thy  gilt  and  thy  perfume  they 
mocked  thee  for  too  much  curiosity  ;  in  thy 
rags  thou  knowest  none,  but  art  despised  for 
the  contrary.  There's  a  medlar  for  thee,  eat  it. 


812 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[ACT  iv. 


Tim.  On  what  I  hate  I  feed  not. 

Apem.  Dost  hate  a  medlar  ? 

Tim.  Ay,  though  it  look  like  thee. 

Apem.  An  thou  hadst  hated  medlars  sooner, 
thou  shouldst  have  loved  thyself  better  now. 
What  man  didst  thou  ever  know  unthrift  that 
was  beloved  after  his  means  ? 

Tim.  Who  \vithout  those  means  thou  talkest 
of  didst  thou  ever  know  beloved  ? 

Apem.  Myself. 

Tim.  I  understand  thee;  thou  hadst  some 
means  to  keep  a  dog. 

Apem.  What  things  in  the  world  canst  thou 
nearest  compare  to  thy  flatterers  ? 

Tim.  Women  nearest ;  but  men,  men  are 
the  things  themselves.  What  wouldst  thou  do 
with  the  world,  Apemantus,  if  it  lay  in  thy 
power  ? 

Apem.  Give  it  the  beasts,  to  be  rid  of  the 
men. 

Tim.  Wouldst  thou  have  thyself  fall  in  the 
confusion  of  men,  and  remain  a  beast  with  the 
beasts  ? 

Apem.  Ay,  Timon. 

Tim.  A  beastly  ambition,  which  the  gods 
grant  thee  t'  attain  to  !  If  thou  wert  the  lion, 
the  fox  would  beguile  thee :  if  thou  wert  the 
lamb,  the  fox  would  eat  thee  :  if  thou  wert  the 
fox,  the  lion  would  suspect  thee,  when,  perad- 
venture,  thou  wert  accused  by  the  ass :  if  thou 
wert  the  ass,  thy  dulness  would  torment  thee  ; 
and  still  thou  livedst  but  as  a  breakfast  to  the 
wolf:  if  thou  wert  the  wolf,  thy  greediness 
would  afflict  thee,  and  oft  thou  shouldst  hazard 
thy  life  for  thy  dinner  :  wert  thou  the  unicorn, 
pride  and  wrath  would  confound  thee,  and 
make  thine  own  self  the  conquest  of  thy  fury : 
wert  thou  a  bear,  thou  wouldst  be  killed  by  the 
horse ;  wert  thou  a  horse,  thou  wouldst  be 
seized  by  the  leopard ;  wert  thou  a  leopard, 
thou  wert  german  to  the  lion,  and  the  spots  of 
thy  kindred  were  jurors  on  thy  life  :  all  thy 
safety  were  remotion  ;  and  thy  defence  absence. 
What  beast  couldst  thou  be,  that  were  not 
subject  to  a  beast  ?  and  what  a  beast  art  thou 
already,  that  seest  not  thy  loss  in  transformation! 

Apem.  If  thou  couldst  please  me  with  speak- 
ing to  me,  thou  might'st  have  hit  upon  it  here  : 
the  commonwealth  of  Athens  is  become  a  forest 
of  beasts. 

Tim.  How  has  the  ass  broke  the  wall,  that 
thou  art  out  of  the  city  ? 

Apem.  Yonder  comes  a  poet  and  a  painter  : 
the  plague  of  company  light  upon  thee  !  I  will 
fear  to  catch  it,  and  give  way :  when  I  know 
not  what  else  to  do,  I  '11  see  thee  again. 

Tim.  When  there  is  nothing  living  but  thee, 


thou  shalt  be  welcome.      I  had  rather  be  a 
beggar's  dog  than  Apemantus. 

Apem.  Thou  art  the  cap  of  all  the  fools  alive. 

Tim.  Would  thou  wert  clean  enough  to  spit 
upon! 

Apem.  A  plague  on  thee,  thou  art  too  bad 
to  curse. 

Tim.  All  villains  that  do  stand  by  thee  are 
pure. 

Apem.  There  is  no  leprosy  but  what  thou 
speak'st. 

Tim.  If  I  name  thee. — 
I  '11  beat  thee,  but  I  should  infect  my  hands. 

Apem.  I  would  my  tongue  could  rot  them  off ! 

Tim.  Away,  thou  issue  of  a  mangy  dog  ! 
Choler  does  kill  me  that  thou  art  alive  ; 
I  swoon  to  see  thee. 

Apem.  Would  thou  wouldst  burst ! 

Tim.  Away, 

Thou  tedious  rogue  !  I  am  sorry  I  shall  lose 
A  stone  by  thee.  [Throws  a  stone  at  him. 

Apem.  Beast ! 

Tim.  Slave ! 

Apem.  Toad ! 

Tim,  Rogue,  rogue,  rogue  ! 

[APEM.  retreats  backward,  as  going. 

I  am  sick  of  this  false  world;  and  will  love 

naught 

But  even  the  mere  necessities  upon 't. 
Ther    Timon,  presently  prepare  thy  grave  ; 
Lie  where  the  light  foam  of  the  sea  may  beat 
Thy  grave-stone  daily  :  make  thine  epitaph, 
That  death  in  me  at  others'  lives  may  laugh. 
O  thou  sweet  king-killer  and  dear  divorce 

[Looking  on  the  gold. 
'Twixt    natural    son   and    sire  !    thou    bright 

defiler 

Of  Hymen's  purest  bed  !  thou  valiant  Mars  ! 
Thou  ever  young,  fresh,  lov'd  and  delicate 

wooer, 

Whose  blush  doth  thaw  the  consecrated  snow 
That  lies  on  Dian's  lap  !  thou  visible  god, 
That  solder'st  close  impossibilities, 
And  mak'st  them  kiss  !  that  speak'st  with  every 

tongue 

To  every  purpose  !     O  thou  touch  of  hearts  ! 
Think,  thy  slave,  man,  rebels;   and  by  thy 

virtue 

Set  them  into  confounding  odds,  that  beasts 
May  have  the  world  in  empire  ! 

Apem.  Would  'twere  so  ! — 

But  not  till  I  am  dead. — I  '11  say  thou  'st  gold  : 
Thou  wilt  be  throng'd  to  shortly. 

Tim.  Throng'd  to? 

Apem.  Ay. 

Tim.  Thy  back,  I  pr'ythee. 

Apem.  Live,  and  love  thy  misery  1 


SCENE  HI.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


813 


Tim.   Long  live  so,  and  so  die  !    [Exit  APK- 

MANTUS.]     I  am  quit. 

More   things   like    men? — Eat,    Timon,   and 
abhor  them. 

Enter  Thieves. 

1  Thief.  Where  should  he  have  this  gold? 
It  is  some  poor  fragment,  some  slender  ort  of 
his  remainder  :  the  mere  want  of  gold  and  the 
falling-from  of  his  friends  drove  him  into  this 
melancholy. 

2  Thief.   It  is  noised  he  hath  a  mass  of  trea- 
sure. 

3  Thief.   Let  us  make  the  assay  upon  him  : 
if  he  care  not  for't,  he  will  supply  us  easily;  if 
he  covetously  reserve  it,  how  shall 's  get  it  ? 

2  Thief.  True ;  for  he  bears  it  not  about  him, 
'tis  hid. 

1  Thief.   Is  not  this  he  ? 
Thieves.  Where? 

2  Thief.  'Tis  his  description. 

3  Thief.  He  ;  I  know  him. 
Thieves.  Save  thee,  Timon. 
Tim.  Now,  thieves? 
Thieves.  Soldiers,  not  thieves. 
Tim.  Both  too  ;  and  women's  sons. 
Thieves.  We  are  not  thieves,  but  men  that 

much  do  want. 
Tim.  Your  greatest  want  is,  you  want  much 

of  meat. 
Why  should  you  want?      Behold,  the   earth 

hath  roots ; 

Within  this  mile  break  forth  a  hundred  springs : 
The  oaks  bear  mast,  the  briars  scarlet  hips  ! 
The  bounteous  housewife,  nature,  on  each  bush 
Lays  her  full  mess  before  you.     Want !  why 

want  ?  [water, 

I  Thief.  We  cannot  live  on  grass,  on  berries, 
As  beasts  and  birds  and  fishes. 

Tim.  Nor  on  the  beasts  themselves,  the  birds, 

and  fishes ; 

You  must  eat  men.    Yet  thanks  I  must  you  con, 
That  you  are  thieves  profess'd  ;  that  you  work 

not 

In  holier  shapes  :  for  there  is  boundless  theft 
In  limited  professions.     Rascal  thieves, 
Here 's  gold.     Go,  suck  the  subtle  blood  o'  the 

grape 

Till  the  high  fever  seethe  your  blood  to  froth, 
And  so  'scape  hanging :  trust  not  the  physician ; 
His  antidotes  are  poison,  and  he  slays 
More  than  you  rob :    take  wealth  and   lives 

together ; 

Do  villany,  do,  since  you  protest  to  do 't, 
Like  workmen.    I  '11  example  you  with  thievery: 
The  sun 's  a  thief,  and  wilh  his  great  attraction 
Robs  the  vast  sea :  the  moon 's  an  arrant  thief, 


And  her  pale  fire  she  snatches  from  the  sun  : 
1  he  sea 's  a  thief,  whose  liquid  surge  resolves 
The  moon  into  salt  tears  :  the  earth 's  a  thief, 
That  feeds  and  breeds  by  a  composture  stolen 
From  general  excrement :  each  thing 's  a  thief: 
The  laws,  your  curb  and  whip,  in  their  rough 
power  [away, 

Have  uncheck'd  theft.     Love  not  yourselves  ; 
Rob  one  another  ; — there 's  more  gold  ; — cut 

throats ; 

All  that  you  meet  are  thieves.     To  Athens  go, 
Break  open  shops  ;  nothing  can  you  steal 
But  thieves  do  lose  it :  steal  not  less  for  this 
I  give  you  ;  and  gold  confound  you  howsoe'er ! 
Amen.  [TiMON  retires  to  his  cave. 

3  Thief.  Has  almost  charmed  me  from  my 
profession  by  persuading  me  to  it. 

1  Thief.  'Tis  in  the  malice  of  mankind  that 
he  thus  advises  us ;  not  to  have  us  thrive  in 
our  mystery. 

2  Thief.   I'll  believe  him  as  an  enemy,  and 
give  over  my  trade. 

I  Thief.  Let  us  first  see  peace  in  Athens : 
there  is  no  time  so  miserable  but  a  man  may  be 
true.  {Exeunt  Thieves. 

Enter  FLAVIUS. 

Flav.  O  you  gods  ! 

Is  yon  despis'd  and  ruinous  man  my  lord  ? 
Full  of  decay  and  failing?     O  monument 
And  wonder  of  good  deeds  evilly  bestow'd  ! 
What  an  alteration  of  honour 
Has  desperate  want  made  1 
What  viler  thing  upon  the  earth  than  friends 
Who  can  bring  noblest  minds  to  basest  ends  ! 
How  rarely  does  it  meet  with  this  time's  guise, 
When  man  was  wish'd  to  love  his  enemies ! 
Grant  I  may  ever  love,  and  rather  woo 
Those  that  would  mischief  me  than  those  that 

do!— 

Has  caught  me  in  his  eye  :  I  will  present 
My  honest  grief  unto  him  ;  and,  as  my  lord, 
Still   serve  him   with   my  life. —  My  dearest 

master ! 

TIMON  comes  forward  from  his  cave. 

Tim.  Away!  what  art  thou? 

Flav.  Have  you  forgot  me,  sir? 

Tim.  Why  dost  ask  that  ?     I  have  forgot  all 

men ; 

Then,  if  thou  grant'st  thou'rt  a  man,  I  have 
forgot  thee. 

Flav.  An  honest  poor  servant  of  yours. 

7im.  Then  I  know  thee  not : 
I  ne'er  had  honest  man  about  me,  I ;  all 
I  kept  were  knaves,  to  serve  in  meat  to  villains. 

Flav.  The  gods  are  witness, 


8i4 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[ACT  v. 


Ne'er  did  poor  steward  wear  a  truer  grief 
For  his  undone  lord  than  mine  eyes  for  you. 
Tim.  What,  dost  thou  weep? — come  nearer ; 

• — then  I  love  thee 

Because  thou  art  a  woman,  and  disclaim 'st 
Flinty  mankind ;  whose  eyes  do  never  give 
But  thorough  lust  and  laughter.   Pity 's  sleeping : 
Strange  times,  that  weep  with  laughing,  not 

with  weeping ! 
Flav.  I  beg  of  you  to  know  me,  good  my 

lord,  [wealth  lasts, 

To  accept   my  grief,    and,    whilst   this   poor 
To  entertain  me  as  your  steward  still. 

Tim.   Had  I  a  steward 
So  true,  so  just,  and  now  so  comfortable? 
It  almost  turns  my  dangerous  nature  mild. 
Let  me  behold  thy  face.     Surely,  this  man 
Was  born  of  woman. — 
Forgive  my  general  and  exceptless  rashness, 
You  perpetual-sober  gods  I    I  do  proclaim 
One  honest  man, — mistake  me  not, — but  one; 
No  more,  I  pray, — and  he 's  a  steward. — 
How  fain  would  I  have  hated  all  mankind  ! 
And  thou  redeem'st  thyself:  but  all,  save  thee, 
I  fell  with  curses. 

Methinks  thou  art  more  honest  now  than  wise ; 
For  by  oppressing  and  betraying  me 
Thou  might'st  have  sooner  got  another  service : 
For  many  so  arrive  at  second  masters     [true, — 
Upon  their  first   lord's   neck.      But   tell  me 
For  I  must  ever  doubt,  though  ne'er  so  sure, — 
Is  not  thy  kindness  subtle,  covetous, 
If  not  a  usuring  kindness,  and,  as  rich  men 

deal  gifts, 

Expecting  in  return  twenty  for  one?        [breast 
Flav.  No,  my  most  worthy  master ;  in  whose 
Doubt  and  suspect,  alas,  are  plac'd  too  late : 
You  should  have  fear'd  false  times  when  you 

did  feast : 

Suspect  still  comes  where  an  estate  is  least. 
That  which  I  show,  heaven  knows,  is  merely 

love, 

Duty,  and  zeal  to  your  unmatched  mind, 
Care  of  your  food  and  living ;  and,  believe  it, 
My  most  honour'd  lord, 
For  any  benefit  that  points  to  me, 
Either  in  hope  or  present,  I  'd  exchange 
For  this  one  wish, — that  you  had  power  and 

wealth 
To  requite  me,  by  making  rich  yourself. 

Tim.    Look    thee,    'tis    so ! — Thou    singly 

honest  man, 

Here,  take : — the  gods,  out  of  my  misery, 
Have  sent  thee  treasure.     Go,  live  rich  and 

happy ;  [men ; 

But  thus  condition'd: — thou  shalt  build  from 
Hate  all,  curse  all ;  show  charity  to  none ; 


But  let  the  famish'd  flesh  slide  from  the  bone 
Ere  thou  relieve  the  beggar :  give  to  dogs 
What  thou  deny'st  to  men ;  let  prisons  swallow 
'em,  [blasted  woods, 

Debts  wither  'em  to  nothing:    be   men   like 
And  may  diseases  lick  up  their  false  bloods ! 
And  so,  farewell  and  thrive. 

Flav.  O,  let  me  stay, 

And  comfort  you,  my  master. 

Tim.  If  thou  hat'st  curses, 

Stay  not ;  but  fly  whilst  thou'rt  bless'd  and  free : 

Ne'er  see  thou  man,  and  let  me  ne'er  see  thee. 

[Exeunt  severally. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.— The  Woods.     Before  TIMON'S 
Cave. 

Enter  Poet  and  Painter ;  TIMON  watching 
them  from  his  cave. 

Pain.  As  I  took  note  of  the  place,  it  cannot 
be  far  where  he  abides. 

Poet.  What 's  to  be  thought  of  him  ?  Does 
the  rumour  hold  for  true  that  he's  so  full  of 
gold? 

Pain.  Certain :  Alcibiades  reports  it ;  Phrynia 
and  Timandra  had  gold  of  him:  he  likewise 
enriched  poor  straggling  soldiers  with  great 
quantity :  'tis  said  he  gave  unto  his  steward  a 
mighty  sum 

Port,  Then  this  breaking  of  his  has  been  but 
a  try  for  his  friends. 

Pain.  Nothing  else:  you  shall  see  him  a 
palm  in  Athens  again,  and  flourish  with  the 
highest.  Therefore  'tis  not  amiss  we  tender 
our  loves  to  him,  in  this  supposed  distress  of 
his :  it  will  show  honestly  in  us ;  and  is  very 
likely  to  load  our  purposes  with  what  they 
travail  for,  if  it  be  a  just  and  true  report  that 
goes  of  his  having. 

Poet.  What  have  you  now  to  present  unto 
him? 

Pain.  Nothing  at  this  time  but  my  visitation: 
only  I  will  promise  him  an  excellent  piece. 

Poet.  I  must  serve  him  so  too, — tell  him  of 
an  intent  that 's  coming  toward  him. 

Pain.  Good  as  the  best.  Promising  is  the 
very  air  o'  the  time:  it  opens  the  eyes  of 
expectation :  performance  is  ever  the  duller  for 
his  act;  and  but  in  the  plainer  and  simpler 
kind  of  people  the  deed  of  saying  is  quite  out 
of  use.  To  promise  is  most  courtly  and 
fashionable :  performance  is  a  kind  of  will  or 
testament  which  argues  a  great  sickness  in  his 
judgment  that  makes  it.  -4^ 

fc.it«  Ti 


SCENE  I.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


815 


Tim.  Excellent  workman!  thou  canst  not 
paint  a  man  so  bad  as  is  thyself. 

Poet.  I  am  thinking  what  I  shall  say  I  have 
provided  for  him :  it  must  be  a  personating  of 
himself:  a  satire  against  the  softness  of 
prosperity,  with  a  discovery  of  the  infinite 
flatteries  that  follow  youth  and  opulency. 

TzVw.^Must  thou  needs  stand  for  a  villain  in 
thine  own  work?  wilt  thou  whip  thine  own 
faults  in  other  men?  Do  so,  I  have  gold  for 
thee. 

Poet.  Nay.  let 's  seek  him : 
Then  do  we  sin  against  our  own  estate 
When  we  may  profit  meet  and  come  too  late. 

Pain.  True;  [night, 

'YVhen  the  day  serves,  before  black-corner'd 
Find  what  thou  want'st  by  free  and  oflfer'd  light. 
Come.  [god 's  gold, 

Tim.   I'll  meet  you  at  the  turn.      What  a 
That  he  is  worshipp'd  in  a  baser  temple 
Than  where  swine  feed !  [the  foam : 

'Tis  thou  that  rigg'st  the  bark,  and  plouglrst 
Settlest  admired  reverence  in  a  slave: 
To  thee  be  worship !  and  thy  saints  for  aye 
Be  crown'd  with  plagues,  that  thee  alone  obey ! 
Fit  I  meet  them.        [Advancing from  his  cave. 

Poet.  Hail,  worthy  Timon ! 

Pain.  Our  late  noble  master ! 

Tim.  Have  I  once  liv'd  to  see  two  honest 
men? 

Poet.  Sir, 

Having  often  of  your  open  bounty  tasted, 
Hearing  you  were  retir'd,  your  friends  fall'n  off, 
Whose  thankless  natures, — O  abhorred  spirits ! — 
Not  all  the  whips  of  heaven  are  large  enough : 
What !  to  you, 

Whose  star-like  nobleness  gave  life  and  influence 
To  their  whole  being !  I  'm  wrapt,  and  cannot 

cover 

The  monstrous  bulk  of  this  ingratitude 
With  any  size  of  words.  [better : 

Tim.  Let  it  go  naked,  men  may  see 't  the 
You  that  are  honest,  by  being  what  you  are, 
Make  them  best  seen  and  known. 

Pain.  He  and  myself 

Have  travail'd  in  the  great  shower  of  your  gifts, 
And  sweetly  felt  it. 

Tim.  Ay,  you  are  honest  men. 

Pain.  We  are  hither  come  to  offer  you  our 
service.  [requite  you? 

Tim.  Most  honest  men !  Why,  how  shall  I 
Can  you  eat  roots,  and  drink  cold  water?  no. 

Both.  What  we  can  do,  we  '11  do,  to  do  you 
service.  [have  gold ; 

Tim.  Ye  're  honest  men :  ye  've  heard  that  I 
I  am  sure  you  have :  speak  truth ;  ye  're  honest 
men. 


Pain.  So  it  is  said,   my  noble   lord:   but 

therefore 
Came  not  my  friend  nor  I. 

Tim.  Good  honest  men ! — Thou  draw'st  a 

counterfeit 

Best  in  all  Athens :  thou  'rt  indeed  the  best ; 
Thou  counterfeit's!  most  lively. 

Pain.  So,  so,  my  lord. 

Tim.  E'en  so,  sir,  as  I  say. — And,  for  thy 

fiction,  [To  the  Poet. 

Why,  thy  verse  swells  with  stuff  so  fine  and 

smooth 

That  thou  art  even  natural  in  thine  art. — 
But  for  all  this,  my  honest-natur'd  friends, 
I  must  needs  say  you  have  a  little  fault: 
Marry,  'tis  not  monstrous  in  you ;  neither  wish  I 
You  take  much  pains  to  mend. 

Both.  Beseech  your  honour 

To  make  it  known  to  us. 

Tim.  You  '11  take  it  ill. 

Both.  Most  thankfully,  my  lord. 

Tim.  Will  you  indeed? 

Both.  Doubt  it  not,  worthy  lord. 

Tim.  There 's  never  a  one  of  you  but  trusts  a 

knave 
That  mightily  deceives  you. 

Both.  Do  we,  my  lord? 

Tim.  Ay,  and  you  hear  him  cog,  see  him 

dissemble, 

Know  his  gross  patchery,  love  him,  feed  him, 
Keep  in  your  bosom :  yet  remain  assur'd 
That  he 's  a  made-up  villain. 

Pain.  I  know  not  such,  my  lord. 

Poet.  Nor  I. 

Tim.  Look  you,  I  love  you  well ;  I  '11  give 

you  gold, 

Rid  me  these  villains  from  your  companies : 
Hang  them  or  stab  them,  drown  them  in  a 
draught,  [me, 

Confound  them  by  some  course,  and  come  to 
I  '11  give  you  gold  enough. 
Both.  Name  them,   my  lord ;   let 's  kno\f 
them.  [in  company: 

Tim.  You  that  way,  and  you  this,- — but  two 
Each  man  apart,  all  single  and  alone, 
Yet  an  arch-villain  keeps  him  company. 
If  where  thou  art  two  villains  shall  not  be, 

[To  the  Painter. 

Come  not  near  him. — If  thou  wouldst  not  reside 
tn<  [Tb/fcPoet. 

But  where  one  villain  is,  then  him  abandon. — 
Hence !  pack  !  there 's  gold, — ye  came  for  gold, 
ye  slaves :  [hence ! 

You  have  done  work  for  me,  there 's  payment : 
You  ate  an  alchemist,  make  gold  of  that  :-— 
Out,  rascal  dogs ! 

[Exit,  beating  and  driving  them  eut. 


8i6 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[ACTV. 


Enter  FLAVIUS  and  two  Senators. 

Flew.  It  is  in  vain  that  you  would  speak 

with  Timon; 

For  he  is  set  so  only  to  himself 
That  nothing  but  himself,  which  looks  like  man, 
Is  friendly  with  him. 

1  Sen.  Bring  us  to  his  cave : 
It  is  our  part  and  promise  to  the  Athenians 
To  speak  with  Timon. 

2  Sen.  At  all  times  alike 

Men  are  not  still  the  same:    'twas  time  and 
griefs  [hand, 

That  fram'd  him  thus:  time,  with  his  fairer 
Offering  the  fortunes  of  his  former  days, 
The  former  man  may  make  him.     Bring  us  to 

him, 
And  chance  it  as  it  may. 

Flav.  Here  is  his  cave. — 

Peace  and  content  be  here !    Lord   Timon ! 

Timon ! 

Look  out,  and  speak  to  friends ;  the  Athenians, 
By  two  of  their  most  reverend  senate,  greet  thee : 
Speak  to  them,  noble  Timon. 

TIMON  comes  from  his  Cave. 

Tim.   Thou  sun,  that   comfort'st,  burn! — 

Speak  and  be  hang'd : 

For  each  true  word  a  blister !  and  each  false 
Be  as  a  cauterizing  to  the  root  o'  the  tongue, 
Consuming  it  with  speaking ! 

I  Sen.  Worthy  Timon, — 

Tim.  Of  none  but  such  as  you,  and  you  of 
Timon.  [Timon. 

I  Sen.  The  senators  of  Athens  greet  thee, 
Tim.  I  thank  them ;  and  would  send  them 

back  the  plague, 
Could  I  but  catch  it  for  them. 

1  Sen.  O,  forget 
What  we  are  sorry  for  ourselves  in  thee. 
The  senators  with  one  consent  of  love 
Entreat  thee  back  to  Athens ;  who  have  thought 
On  special  dignities,  which  vacant  lie 

For  thy  best  use  and  wearing. 

2  Sen.  They  confess 
Toward  thee  forgetfulness  too  general,  gross: 
Which  now  the  public  body, — which  doth  seldom 
Play  the  recanter, — feeling  in  itself 

A  lack  of  Timon's  aid,  haih  sense  withal 
Of  its  own  fail,  restraining  aid  to  Timon ; 
And  send  forth  us  to  make  their  sorrow'd  render, 
Together  with  a  recompense  more  fruitful 
Than  their  offence  can  weigh  down  by  the  dram; 
Ay,  even  such  heaps  and  sums  of  love  and  wealth 
As  shall  to  thee  blot  out  what  wrongs  were  theirs, 
And  write  in  thee  the  figures  of  their  love, 
Ever  to  read  them  thine. 


Tim.  You  witch  me  in  it ; 

Surprise  me  to  the  very  brink  of  tears: 
Lend  me  a  fool's  heart  and  a  woman's  eyes, 
And  I  '11  beweepthese  comforts,  worthy  senators. 

1  Sen.  Therefore  so   please  thee  to  return 

with  us, 

And  of  our  Athens, — thine  and  ours, — to  take 
The  captainship,  thou  shalt  be  met  with  thanks, 
Allow' d  with  absolute  power,  and  thy  good  name 
Live  with  authority :— so  soon  we  shall  drive  back 
Of  Alcibiades  the  approaches  wild ; 
Who,  like  a  boar  too  savage,  doth  root  up 
His  country's  peace. 

2  Sen.         And  shakes  his  threat'ning  sword 
Against  the  walls  of  Athens. 

I  Sen.  Therefore,  Timon, — 

Tim.  Well,  sir,   I  will ;  therefore,  I  will, 

sir;  thus, — 

If  Alcibiades  kill  my  countrymen, 
Let  Alcibiades  know  this  of  Timon,     [Athens, 
That  Timon  cares  not.     But  if  he  sack  fair 
And  take  our  goodly  aged  men  by  the  beards, 
Giving  our  holy  virgins  to  the  stain 
Of  contumelious,  beastly,  mad-brain'd  war; 
Then  let  him   know, — and   tell  him  Timon 

speaks  it, 

In  pity  of  our  aged  and  our  youth, — 
I  cannot  choose  but  tell  him  that  I  care  not, 
And  let  him  tak't  at  worst;  for  their  knives 

care  not, 

While  you  have  throats  to  answer  ;  for  myself, 
There 's  not  a  whittle  in  the  unruly  camp 
But  I  do  prize  it  at  my  love,  before  [you 

The  reverend'st  throat  in  Athens.     So  I  leave 
To  the  protection  of  the  prosperous  gods, 
As  thieves  to  keepers. 

Flav.  Stay  not,  all 's  in  vain. 

Tim.  Why,  I  was  writing  of  my  epitaph ; 
It  will  be  seen  to-morrow :  my  long  sickness 
Of  health  and  living  now  begins  to  mend, 
And  nothing  brings  me  all  things.     Go,  live 

still  ; 

Be  Alcibiades  your  plague,  you  his, 
And  last  so  long  enough ! 

I  Sen.  We  speak  in  vain. 

Tim.  But  yet  I  love  my  country;  and  am  not 
One  that  rejoices  in  the  common  wreck, 
As  common  bruit  doth  put  it. 

I  Sen.  That 's  well  spoke. 

Tim.  Commend  me  to  my  loving  country- 
men,— 

1  Sen.  These  words  become  your  lipr  as  they 

pass  thorough  them.  [triumphers 

2  Sen.    And   enter  in  our  ears   like  great 
In  their  applauding  gates. 

Tim.  Commend  me  to  them ; 

And  tell  them  that,  to  ease  them  of  their  griefs, 


SCENE  II.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


817 


Their  fears  of  hostile  strokes,  their  aches,  1 
Their  pangs  of  love,  with  other  incident  throes 
That  nature's  fragile  vessel  doth  sustain 
In  life's  uncertain  voyage,  I  will  some  kindness 
do  them, —  [wrath. 

I  '11  teach  them  to   prevent  wild  Alcibiades* 

I  Sen.   I  like  this  well ;  he  will  return  again. 

Tim.  I  have  a  tree,  which  grows  here  in  my 

close, 

That  mine  own  use  invites  me  to  cut  down, 
And  shortly  must  I  fell  it :  tell  my  friends, 
Tell  Athens,  in  the  sequence  of  degree, 
From  high  to  low  throughout,  that  whoso  please 
To  stop  affliction,  let  him  take  his  halter, 
Come  hither,  ere  my  tree  hath  felt  the  axe, 
And  hang  himself. — I  pray  you,  do  my  greeting. 

Flav.  Trouble  him  no  further ;  thus  you  still 
shall  find  him.  [Athens, 

Tim.  Come  not  to  me  again:    but  say  to 
Timon  hath  made  his  everlasting  mansion 
Upon  the  beached  verge  of  the  salt  flood; 
Who  once  a  day  with  his  embossed  froth 
The  turbulent  surge  shall  cover :  thither  come, 
And  let  my  grave-stone  be  your  oracle. — 
Lips,  let  sour  words  go  by  and  language  end  : 
What  is  amiss,  plague  and  infection  mend  I 
Graves  only  be  men's  works  and  death  their  gain ! 
Sun,  hide  thy  beams!  Timon  hath  done  his  reign. 
[Retires  to  his  cave. 

1  Sen.  His  discontents  are  unremovably 
Coupled  to  nature. 

2  Sen.  Our  hope  in  him  is  dead :  let  us  return, 
And  strain  what  other  means  is  left  unto  us 
In  our  dear  peril. 

I  Sen.  It  requires  swift  foot. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  \\.-The  Walls  of  Athens. 
Enter  two  Senators  and  a  Messenger. 

1  Sen.  Thou  hast  painfully  discover'd:   are 

his  files 
As  full  as  thy  report? 

Mess.  I  have  spoke  the  least : 

Besides,  his  expedition  promises 
Present  approach.  [not  Timon. 

2  Sen.  We  stand  much  hazard  if  they  bring 
Mess.  I  met  a  courier,  one  mine  ancient  friend; 

Whom,  though  in  general  part  we  were  oppos'd, 

Yet  our  old  love  had  a  particular  force, 

And  made  us  speak  like  friends : — this  man  was 

riding 

From  Alcibiades  to  Timon's  cave 
With  letters  of  entreaty,  which  imported 
His  fellowship  i'  the  cause  against  your  city, 
In  part  for  his  sake  mov'd. 

I  Sen.  Here  come  our  brothers. 


Enter  Senators  from  TlMON. 

3  Sen.  No  talk  of  Timon,  nothing  of  him 

expect. — 

The  enemies'  drum  is  heard,  and  fearful  scouring 
Doth  choke  the  air  with  dust :  in,  and  prepare : 
Ours  is  the  fall,  I  fear ;  our  foes  the  snare. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. — The  Woods.     TIMON'S  Ca 
and  a  rude  Tomb  seen. 


'* 

oinl 
Enter  a  Soldier  seeking  TIMON.  _b  \ti 

Sold.  By  all  description  this  should  be  the 
place.  [is  this? 

Who's  here?  speak,  ho! — No  answer? — What 
Timon  is  dead,  who  hath  outstretch'd  his  span: 
Some  beast  rear'd  this ;  there  does  not  live  a 
man.  [tomb 

Dead,  sure ;  and  this  his  grave, — what  *s  on  this 
I  cannot  read ;  the  character  I  '11  take  with  wax: 
Our  captain  hath  in  every  figure  skill, 
An  ag*d  interpreter,  though  young  in  daj 
Before  proud  Athens  he  's  set  down  by  tl 
Whose  fall  the  mark  of  his  ambition  is. 

SCENE  IV.—  Before  the  Walls  of  Athens. 

Trumpets  sound.     Enter  ALCIBIADES  and 
Forces. 

Alcib.  Sound  to  this  coward  and  lascivious 

town 
Our  terrible  approach.          [A  parley  sounded. 

Enter  Senators  on  the  Walls. 
Till  now  you  have  gone  on,  and  fill'd  the  time 
With  all  licentious  measure,  making  your  wills 
The  scope  of  justice ;  till  now,  myself,  and  such 
As  slept  within  the  shadow  of  your  power, 
Have  wander'd  with  our  travers'd  arms,  and 

breath'd 

Our  sufferance  vainly.  Now  the  time  is  flush, 
When  crouching  marrow,  in  the  bearer  strong, 
Cries,  of  itself,  No  more:  now  breathless  wrong 
Shall  sit  and  pant  in  your  great  chairs  of  ease ; 
And  pursy  insolence  shall  break  his  wind 
With  fear  and  horrid  flight. 

1  Sen.  Noble  and  young, 
When  thy  first  griefs  were  but  a  mere  conceit, 
Ere  thou  hadst  power  or  we  had  cause  of  fear, 
We  sent  to  thee,  to  give  thy  rages  balm, 

To  wipe  out  our  ingratitude  with  loves 
Above  their  quantity. 

2  Sen.  So  did  we  woo 
Transformed  Timon  to  our  city's  love, 

By  humble  message  and  by  promis'd  means : 
We  were  not  all  unkind,  nor  all  deserve 
The  common  stroke  of  war. 


Si8 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[ACT  V. 


1  Sen.  These  walls  of  ours 
Were  not  erected  by  their  hands  from  whom 
You  have  receiv'd  your  griefs :  nor  are  they  such 
That  these  great  towers,  trophies,  and  schools 

should  fall 
For  private  faults  in  them. 

2  Sen.  Nor  are  they  living 
Who  were  the  motives  that  you  first  went  out ; 
Shame,  that  they  wanted  cunning,  in  excess, 
Hath  broke  their  hearts.     March,  noble  lord, 
Into  our  city  with  thy  banners  spread : 

By  decimation  and  a  tithed  death, — 

If  thy  revenges  hunger  for  that  food       [tenth ; 

Which  nature  loathes, — take  thou  the  destin'd 

And  by  the  hazard  of  the  spotted  die 

Let  die  the  spotted. 

1  Sen.  All  have  not  offended ; 
For  those  that  were,  it  is  not  square  to  take, 
On  those  that  are,  revenges :  crimes,  like  lands, 
Are  not  inherited.     Then,  dear  countryman, 
Bring  in  thy  ranks,  but  leave  without  thy  rage : 
Spare  thy  Athenian  cradle,  and  those  kin 
Which,  in  the  bluster  of  thy  wrath,  must  fall 
With  those  that  have  offended :  like  a  shepherd 
Approach  the  fold  and  cull  the  infected  forth, 
But  kill  not  all  together. 

2  Sen.  What  thou  wilt, 
Thou  rather  shalt  enforce  it  with  thy  smile 
Than  hew  to 't  with  thy  sword. 

1  Sen.  Set  but  thy  foot 
Against  our  rampir'd  gates  and  they  shall  ope ; 
So  thou  wilt  send  thy  gentle  heart  before 

To  say  thou  'It  enter  friendly. 

2  Sen.  Throw  thy  glove, 
Or  any  token  of  thine  honour  else, 

That  thou  wilt  use  the  wars  as  thy  redress, 
And  not  as  our  confusion,  all  thy  powers 
Shall  make  their  harbour  in  our  town  till  we 
Have  seal'd  thy  full  desire. 

Alcib.  Then  there 's  my  glove ; 

Descend,  and  open  your  uncharged  ports; 


Those  enemies  of  Timon's  and  mine  own, 
Whom  you  yourselves  shall  set  out  for  reproof, 
Fall,  and  no  more  :  and,  —  to  atone  your  fears 
With  my  more  noble  meaning,  —  not  a  man 
Shall  pass  his  quarter  or  offend  the  stream 
Of  regular  justice  in  your  city's  bounds, 
But  shall  be  render'd  to  your  public  laws 
At  heaviest  answer. 

Both.  'Tis  most  nobly  spoken. 

Alcib.  Descend,  and  keep  your  words. 

\The  Senators  descend  and  open  the  gates. 

Enter  a  Soldier. 

Sol.  My  noble  general,  Timon  is  dead; 
Entomb'd  upon  the  very  hem  o'  the  sea; 
And  on  his  grave-stone  this  insculpture,  which 
With  wax  I  brought  away,  whose  soft  impres- 

sion 
Interprets  for  my  poor  ignorance. 

Alcib.  [Reads.]  Here  lies  a  wretched  corse,  of 

wretched  soul  bereft  : 
Seek  not  my  name,  a  plague  consume  you  wicked 

caitiffs  left! 
Here  lie  I,  Timon  ;  who,  alive,  all  living  men 

did  hate: 
Pass  by,  and  curse  thy  Jill;  but  pass,  and  stay 

not  here  thy  gait. 

These  well  express  in  thee  thy  latter  spirits  : 
Though  thou  abhorr'dst  in  us  our  human  griefsj 
Scorn'dst    our   brain's  flow,   and    those    our 

droplets  which 

From  niggard  nature  fall,  yet  rich  conceit 
Taught  thee  to  make  vast  Neptune  weep  for  aye 
On  thy  low  grave,  on  faults  forgiven.     Dead 
Is  noble  Timon  :  of  whose  memory 
Hereafter  more.  —  Bring  me  into  your  city, 
And  I  will  use  the  olive  with  my  sword  : 
Make  war  breed  peace  ;  make  peace  stint  war  ; 

make  each 

Prescribe  to  other,  as  each  other's  leech. 
Let  our  drums  strike.  \Exeunt. 


•       i 


rdT 


oil.:  i  qmawoiijH  ;:  11 


CORIOLANUS. 


PERSONS   REPRESENTED. 


CAIUS  MARCIUS  CORIOLANUS,  a  noble  Roman. 
TITUS  LARTIUS,  \  Generals  against  the  Vols- 
COMINIUS,  /  dans. 

MENENIUS  AGRIPPA,  Friend  to  CORIOLANUS. 


YOUNG  MARCIUS,  Son  to  CORIOLANUS. 

A  Roman  Herald. 

TULLUS  AUFIDIUS,  General  of  the  Volscians 

Lieutenant  to  AUFIDIUS. 

Conspirators  with  AUFIDIUS. 


IVfill 


A  Citizen  of  Antium. 
Two  Volscian  Guards. 

VOLUMNIA,  Mother  to  CORIOLANUS. 

VIRGILIA,  Wife  to  CORIOLANUS. 
VALERIA,  Friend  to  VIRGILIA. 
Gentlewoman  attending  on  VIRGILIA. 

Roman  and  Volscian  Senators,  Patricians, 
^Ediles,  Lictors,  Soldiers,  Citizens,  Messen- 
gers, Servants  to  AUFIDIUS,  and  other 
Attendants. 


SCENE, — Partly  in  ROME,  and  partly  in  the  Territories  of  the  Volscians  and  Antiates. 


ACT  I. 
SCENE  I. — ROME.     A  Street. 

Enter  a  company  of  mutinous  Citizens,  with 
staves,  clubs t  and  other  weapons. 

I  Cit.  Before  we  proceed  any  further,  hear 
me  speak. 

Citizens.   Speak,  speak. 

I  Cit.  You  are  all  resolved  rather  to  die 
than  to  famish  ? 

Citizens.   Resolved,  resolved. 

I  Cit.  First,  you  know  Caius  Marcius  is 
chief  enemy  to  the  people* 

Citizens.  We  know 't,  we  know 't. 

1  Cit.   Let  us  kill  him,  and  we  '11  have  corn 
at  our  own  price.     Is 't  a  verdict  ? 

Citizens.  No  more  talking  on 't ;  let  it  be 
done  :  away,  away  ! 

2  Cit.  One  word,  good  citizens. 

1  Cit.  We  are  accounted  poor  citizens  ;  the 
patricians  good.      What  authority  surfeits  on 
would  relieve  us  :  if  they  would  yield  us  but 
the  superfluity,  while  it  were  wholesome,  we 
might  guess  they  relieved  us  humanely;    but 
they  think  we  are  too  dear  :  the  leanness  that 
afflicts  us,   the   object   of  our   misery,    is   an 
inventory  to  particularize  their  abundance ;  our 
sufferance  is  a  gain  to  them. — Let  us  revenge 
this  with  our  pikes  ere  we  become  rakes :   for 
the  gods  know  I  speak  this  in  hunger  for  bread, 
not  in  thirst  for  revenge. 

2  Cit.  Would  you  proceed  especially  against 
Caius  Marcius? 


1  Cit.  Against  him  first :  he 's  a  very  dog  to 
the  commonalty. 

2  Cit.  Consider  you  what  services  he  has 
done  for  his  country  ? 

1  Cit.  Very  well ;  and  could  be  content  to 
give  him  good  report  for't,  but  that  he  pays 
himself  with  being  proud. 

2  Cit.  Nay,  but  speak  not  maliciously. 

1  Cit.  I  say  unto  you,  what  he  hath  done 
famously  he  did  it  to  that  end  :  though  soft- 
conscienced  men  can  be  content  to  say  it  was 
for  his  country,  he  did  it  to  please  his  mother, 
and  to  be  partly  proud ;  which  he  is,  even  to 
the  altitude  of  his  virtue. 

2  Cit.  What  he   cannot  help  in  his  nature 
you  account  a  vice  in  him.     You  must  in  no 
way  say  he  is  covetous. 

i  Cit.  If  I  must  not,  I  need  not  be  barren 
of  accusations ;  he  hath  faults,  with  surplus,  to 
tire  in  repetition.  [Shouts  within.'}  What  shouts 
are  these  ?  The  other  side  o'  the  city  is  risen  : 
why  stay  we  prating  here  ?  to  the  Capitol ! 

Citizens.  Come,  come. 

1  Cit.  Soft !  who  comes  here  ? 

2  Cit.  Worthy  Menenius  Agrippa ;  one  that 
hath  always  loved  the  people. 

I  Cit.  He 's  one  honest  enough ;  would  all 
the  rest  were  so  ! 

Enter  MENENIUS  AGRIPPA. 

Men.    What   work's,    my   countrymen,    in 

hand  ?  where  go  you 

With  bats  and  clubs?   the  matter?   speak,  I 
pray  you. 


820 


CORIOLANUS. 


[ACT  1," 


I  Cit.  Our  business  is  not  unknown  to  the 
senate ;  they  have  had  inkling  this  fortnight 
what  we  intend  to  do,  which  now  we  '11  show 
'em  in  deeds.  They  say  poor  suitors  have 
strong  breaths ;  they  shall  know  we  have  strong 
arms  too. 

Men.  Why,  masters,  my  good  friends,  mine 

honest  neighbours, 
Will  you  undo  yourselves  ? 

I  Cit.  We  cannot,  sir,  we  are  undone  already. 

Men.  I  tell  you,  friends,  most  charitable  care 
Have  the  patricians  of  you.     For  your  wants, 
Your  suffering  in  this  dearth,  you  may  as  well 
Strike  at  the  heaven  with  your  staves  as  lift  them 
Against  the  Roman  state ;  whose  course  will  on 
The  way  it  takes,  cracking  ten  thousand  curbs 
Of  more  strong  link  asunder  than  can  ever 
Appear  in  your  impediment :  for  the  dearth, 
The  gods,  not  the  patricians,  make  it ;  and 
Your  knees  to  them,  not  arms,  must  help. 

Alack, 

You  are  transported  by  calamity  [slander 

Thither  where  more  attends  you;   and  you 
The  helms  o'  the  state,  who  care  for  you  Uke 

fathers, 
When  you  curse  them  as  enemies. 

I  Cit.  Care  for  us!  True,  indeed!  They 
ne'er  cared  for  us  yet.  Suffer  us  to  famish, 
and  their  storehouses  crammed  with  grain; 
make  edicts  for  usury,  to  support  usurers; 
repeal  daily  any  wholesome  act  established 
against  the  rich;  and  provide  more  piercing 
statutes  daily,  to  chain  up  and  restrain  the 
poor.  If  the  wars  eat  us  not  up,  they  will ; 
and  there 's  all  the  love  they  bear  us. 

Men.  Either  you  must 
Confess  yourselves  wondrous  malicious, 
Or  be  accus'd  of  folly.     I  shall  tell  you 
A  pretty  tale:  it  may  be  you  have  heard  it ; 
But,  since  it  serves  my  purpose,  I  will  venture 
To  stale 't  a  little  more. 

I  Cit.  Well,  I  '11  hear  it,  sir :  yet  you  must 
not  think  to  fob-off  our  disgrace  with  a  tale : 
but,  an 't  please  you,  deliver. 

Men.  There  was  a  time  when  all  the  body's 

members 

Rebell'd  against  the  belly ;  thus  accus'd  it:— 
That  only  like  a  gulf  it  did  remain 
I'  the  midst  o'  the  body,  idle  and  unactive, 
Still  cupboarding  the  viand,  never  l>earing 
Like  labour  with  the  rest;   where  the  other 

instruments 

Did  see  and  hear,  devise,  instruct,  walk,  feel, 
And,  mutually  participate,  did  minister 
Unto  the  appetite  and  affection  common 
Of  the  whole  body.     The  belly  answered, — 

I  Cit.  Well,  sir,  what  answer  made  the  belly? 


Men.  Sir,  I  shall  tell  you.-— With  a  kind  of 
smile,  [thus, — 

Which  ne'er  came  from  the  lungs,  but  even 
For,  look  you,  I  may  rqake  the  belly  smile 
As  well  as  speak, — it  tauntingly  replied 
To  the  discontented  members,   the  mutinous 

parts 

That  envied  his  receipt ;  even  so  most  fitly 
As  you  malign  our  senators  for  that 
They  are  not  such  as  you. 

I  Cit.  Your  belly's  answer?    What! 

The  kingly-crowned  head,  the  vigilant  eye, 
The  counsellor  heart,  the  arm  our  soldier, 
Our  steed  the  leg,  the  tongue  our  trumpeter, 
With  other  muniments  and  petty  helps 
In  this  our  fabric,  if  that  they, — 

Men.  What  then? — 

'Fore   me,    this   fellow   speaks  ! — what   then  ? 

what  then  ?  [restrain'd 

I  Cit.    Should   by  the  cormorant  belly  be 
Who  is  the  sink  o'  the  body, — 

Men.  Well,  what  then? 

I  Cit.   The  former  agents,  if  they  did  com- 
plain, 
What  could  the  belly  answer  ? 

Men.  I  will  tell  you ; 

If  you  '11  bestow  a  small, — of  what  you  have 

little,— 
Patience  awhile,  you  '11  hear  the  belly's  answer. 

l  Cit.  You  are  long  about  it. 

Men.  Note  me  this,  good  friend  ; 

Your  most  grave  belly  was  deliberate, 
Not  rash  like  his  accusers,  and  thus  answer'd  : 
True  is  it,  my  incorporate  friends,  quoth  he, 
That  I  receive  the  general  food  at  first 
Which  you  do  live  upon;  and  fit  it  is, 
Because  I  am  the  storehouse  and  the  shop 
Of  the  -whole  body:  but,  if  you  do  remember, 
I  send  it  through  the  rivers  of  your  blood, 
Even  to  the  court ',  the  heart, — to  the  seat  <?  the 

brain  ; 

And,  through  the  cranks  and  offices  of  man, 
The  strongest  nerves  and  small  inferior  veins 
Front  me  receive  that  natural  competency 
Whereby  they  live:  and  though  that  all  at  ona 
Yout  my  good  friends, — this  says  the  belly, — 
mark  me, — 

I  Cit.  Ay,  sir;  well,  well. 

Men.  Though  all  at  once  cannot 

See  "what  I  do  deliver  out  to  each, 
Yet  I  can  make  my  audit  up,  that  all 
From  me  do  back  receive  the  flour  of  all, 
And  leave  me  but  the  bran.     What  say  you  to't  ? 

I  Cit.  It  was  an  answer :  how  apply  you  this  ? 

Men.  The  senators  of  Rome  are  this  good 

belly, 
And  you  the  mutinous  members :  for,  examine 


SCENE  !.] 


CORIOLANUS. 


821 


Their  counsels  and  their  cares;  digest  things 
rightly  [find, 

Touching  the  weal  o'  the  common ;  you  shall 
No  public  benefit  which  you  receive 
But  it  proceeds  or  comes  from  them  to  you, 
Andnowayfromyourselves. — Whatdo  you  think, 
You,  the  great  toe  of  this  assembly  ? 

I  Cit.  I  the  great  toe  ?  why  the  great  toe  ? 

Men.    For   that,  being  one  o'  the  lowest, 

basest,  poorest, 

Of  this  most  wise  rebellion,  thou  go'st  foremost : 
Thou  rascal,  that  art  worst  in  blood  to  run, 
Lead'st  first  to  win  some  vantage. — 
But  make  you  ready  your  stiff  bats  and  clubs  : 
Rome  and  her  rats  are  at  the  point  of  battle  ; 
The  one  side  must  have  bale. — 

Enter  CAIUS  MARCIUS. 

Hail,  noble  Marcius ! 
Mar.    Thanks. — What  's  the    matter,   you 

dissentious  rogues, 

That,  rubbing  the  poor  itch  of  your  opinion, 
Make  yourselves  scabs  ? 

i  Cit.  We  have  ever  your  good  word. 

Mar.  He  that  will  give  good  words  to  ye 

will  flatter  [curs, 

Beneath  abhorring. — What  would  you  have,  you 
That  like  nor  peace  nor  war  ?  The  one  affrights 

you,  [you 

The  other  makes  you  proud.    He  that  trusts  to 
Where  he  should  find  you  lions  finds  you  hares ; 
Where  foxes,  geese :  you  are  no  surer,  no, 
Than  is  the  coal  of  fire  upon  the  ice, 
Or  hailsto  ic  in  the  sun.     Your  virtue  is   [him, 
To  make  him  worthy  whose  offence  subdues 
And  curse  that  justice  did  it.     Who  deserves 

gieatness 

Deserves  your  hate ;  and  your  affections  are 
A  sick  man's  appetite,  who  desires  most  that 
Which  would  increase  his  evil.  He  that  depends 
Upon  your  favours  swims  with  fins  of  lead, 
And  hews  down  oaks  with  rushes.     Hang  ye  ! 

Trust  ye ! 

With  every  minute  you  do  change  a  mind  ; 
And  call  him  noble  that  was  now  your  hate, 
Him  vile  that  was  your  garland.     What 's  the 

matter, 

That  in  these  several  places  of  the  city 
You  cry  against  the  noble  senate,  who, 
Under  the  gods,  keep  you  in  awe,  which  else 
Would  feed  on  one  another? — What's  their 

seeking  ?  [they  say, 

Men.  For  corn  at  their  own  rates;  whereof, 
The  city  is  well  stor'd. 

Mar.    ^  Hang 'em!     They  say! 

They  '11  s>t  by  the  fire  and  presume  to  know 
What 's  done  i'  the  Capitol ;  who 'a  like  to  rise, 


Who  thrives  and  who  declines ;  side  factions, 

and  give  out 

Conjectural  marriages;  making  parties  strong, 
And  feebling  such  as  stand  not  in  their  liking 
Below  their  cobbled  shoes.  They  say  there 's 

grain  enough! 

Would  the  nobility  lay  aside  their  ruth 
And  let  me  use  my  sword,  I  'd  make  a  quarry 
With  thousands  of  these  quarter'd  slaves,  as  high 
As  I  could  pick  my  lance. 

Men.  Nay,  these  are  almost  thoroughly  per- 
suaded ; 

For  though  abundantly  they  lack  discretion, 
Yet  are  they  passing  cowardly.     But,  I  beseech 

you, 
What  says  the  other  troop? 

Mar.  They  are  dissolved :  hang  'em ! 

They  said  they  were  an-hungry;  sigh'd  forth 

proverbs, —  [eat, 

That  hunger  broke  stone  walls,  that  dogs  must 
That  meat  was  made  for  mouths,  that  the  gods 

sent  not 

Corn  for  the  rich  men  only : — with  these  shreds 
They  vented  their  complainings ;  which  being 

answer'd, 

And  a  petition  granted  them, — a  strange  one, 
To  break  the  heart  of  generosity, 
And  make  bold  power  look  pale, — they  threw 

their  caps  [moon, 

As  they  would  hang  them  on  the  horns  o'  the 
Shouting  their  emulation. 

Men.  What  is  granted  them? 

Mar.  Five  tribunes,  to  defend  their  vulgar 

wisdoms, 

Of  their  own  choice :  one 's  Junius  Brutus, 
Sicinius  Velutus,  and  I  know  not. — 'Sdeath ! 
The  rabble  should  have  hrst  unroof'd  the  city 
Ere  so  prevail'd  with  me :  it  will  in  time 
Win  upon  power,  and  throw  forth  greater  themes 
For  insurrection's  arguing. 

Men.  This  is  strange. 

Mar.  Qo,  get  you  home,  you  fragments ! 

Enter  a  Messenger,  hastily* 

Mess.  Where 's  Caius  Marcius? 
Mar.  Here :  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Mess.  The  news  is,  sir,  the  Volsces  are  in 
arms.  [to  vent 

Mar.  I  am  glad  on 't :  then  we  shall  ha'  means 
Our  musty  superfluity. — See,  our  best  elders. 

Enter  COMINIUS,  TITUS  LARTIUS,  and  other 
Senators;  JUNIUS  BRUTUS  and  SICINIUS 
VELUTUS. 

i  Sen.  Marcius,  'tis  true  that  you  have  lately 

told  us, — 
The  Volsces  are  in  arms. 


822 


CORIOLANUS. 


[ACT  i: 


Mar.  They  have  a  leader, 

Tullus  Aufidius,  that  will  put  you  to  \. 
I  sin  in  envying  his  nobility ; 
And  were  I  anything  but  what  I  am, 
I  would  wish  me  only  he. 

Com.  You  have  fought  together. 

Mar.  Were  half  to  half  the  world  by  the  ears, 

and  he 

Upon  my  party,  I  'd  revolt,  to  make 
Only  my  wars  with  him :  he  is  a  lion 
That  I  am  proud  to  hunt. 

i  Sen.  Then,  worthy  Marcius, 

Attend  upon  Cominius  to  these  wars. 

Com.  It  is  your  former  promise. 

Mar.  Sir,  it  is; 

And  I  am  constant. — Titus  Lartius,  thou 
Shalt  see  me  once  more  strike  at  Tullus'  face. 
What,  art  thou  stiff?  stand'st  out? 

Tit.  No,  Caius  Marcius ; 

I  '11  lean  upon  one  crutch  and  fight  with  the  other 
Ere  stay  behind  this  business. 

Men.  O,  true  bred ! 

I  Sen.  Your  company  to  the  Capitol ;  where 

I  know, 
Our  greatest  friends  attend  us. 

Tit.  Lead  you  on : 

Follow,  Cominius ;  we  must  fellow  you ; 
Right  worthy  your  priority. 

Com.  Noble  Marcius ! 

I  Sen.  Hence  to  your  homes ;  be  gone ! 

[To  the  Citizens. 

Mar.  Nay,  let  them  follow : 

The  Volsces  have  much  corn;  take  these  rats 

thither 

To  gnaw  their  garners. — Worshipful  mutineers, 
Your  valour  puts  well  forth:  pray,  follow. 

[Exeunt  Senators,  COM.,  MAR.,  TIT., 
and  MENEN.     Citizens  steal  away. 

Sic.  Was  ever  man  so  proud  as  is  this  Marcius? 

Bru.  He  has  no  equal.  [people, — 

Sic.  When  we  were  chosen  tribunes  for  the 

Bru.  Mark'd  you  his  lip  and  eyes? 

Sic.  Nay,  but  his  taunts. 

Bru.  Being  mov'd,  he  will  not  spare  to  gird 
the  gods. 

Sic.  Be-mock  the  modest  moon. 

Bru.  The  present  wars  devour  him:  he  is 

grown 
Too  proud  to  be  so  valiant. 

Sic.  Such  a  nature, 

Tickled  with  good  success,  disdains  the  shadow 
Which  he  treads  on  at  noon :  but  I  do  wonder 
His  insolence  can  brook  to  be  commanded 
Under  Cominius. 

Bru.  Fame,  at  the  which  he  aims, — 

In  whom  already  he  is  well  grac'd, — cannot 
Better  be  held,  nor  more  attain'd,  than  by 


A  place  below  the  first :  for  what  miscarries 
Shall  be  the  general's  fault,  though  he  perform 
To  the  utmost  of  a  man ;  and  giddy  censure 
Will  then  cry  out  of  Marcius,  O,  if  he 
Had  borne  the  business  ! 

Sic.  Besides,  if  things  go  well, 

Opinion,  that  so  sticks  on  Marcius,  shall 
Of  his  demerits  rob  Cominius. 

Bru.  Come : 

Half  all  Cominius'  honours  are  to  Marcius, 
Though  Marcius  earn'd  them  not ;  and  all  his 

faults 

To  Marcius  shall  be  honours,  though,  indeed, 
In  aught  he  merit  not. 

Sic.  Let 's  hence,  and  hear 

How  the  despatch  is  made ;  and  in  what  fashion, 
More  than  in  singularity,  he  goes 
Upon  this  present  action. 

Bru.  Let 's  along. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.—  CORIOLI.     The  Senate  House. 
Enterlui^vs  AUFIDIUS  and  certain  Senators. 

I  Sen.  So,  your  opinion  is,  Aufidius, 
That  they  of  Rome  are  enter'd  in  our  counsels, 
And  know  how  we  proceed. 

Auf.  Is  it  not  yours? 

What  ever  hath  been  thought  on  in  this  state, 
That  could  be  brought  to  bodily  act  ere  Rome 
Had  circumvention  !     'Tis  not  four  days  gone 
Since  I  heard  thence ;  these  are  the  words :  I 

think 

I  have  the  letter  here ;  yes,  here  it  is :     [Reads. 
They  have  pressed  a  power,  but  it  is  not  known 
Whether  for  east  or  west:  the  dearth  is  great ; 
The  people  mutinous:  and  it  is  rumour1  d> 
Cominius,  Marcius  your  old  enemy, — 
Who  is  of  Rome  worse  hated  than  of  you, — 
And  Titus  Lartius,  a  most  valiant  Romany 
These  three  lead  on  this  preparation 
Whither  *tis  bent:  most  likely  'tis  for  yott: 
Consider  of  it. 

1  Sen.  Our  army 's  in  the  field : 

We  never  yet  made  doubt  but  Rome  was  ready 
To  answer  us. 

Auf.  Nor  did  you  think  it  folly 

To  keep  your  great  pretences  veil'd  till  when 
They  needs  must  show  themselves;  which  in 

the  hatching, 

It  seem'd,  appear'd  to  Rome.     By  the  discovery 
We  shall  be  shorten'd  in  our  aim ;  which  was, 
To  take  in  many  towns  ere,  almost,  Rome 
Should  know  we  were  afoot. 

2  Sen.  •  Noble  Aufidius, 
Take  your  commission;  hie  you  to  your  bands: 
Let  us  alone  to  guard  Corioli : 


SCENE  I  XL] 


CORIOLANUS. 


823 


If  they  set  down  before 's,  for  the  remove 
Bring  up  your  army ;  but  I  think  you  '11  find 
They  've  not  prepar'd  for  us. 

Auf.  O,  doubt  not  that ; 

I  speak  from  certainties.     Nay,  more, 
Some  parcels  of  their  power  are  forth  already, 
And  only  hitherward.     I  leave  your  honours. 
If  we  and  Caius  Marcius  chance  to  meet, 
'Tis  sworn  between  us  we  shall  ever  strike 
Till  one  can  do  no  more. 

All.  The  gods  assist  you ! 

Auf.  And  keep  your  honours  safe ! 

1  Sen.  Farewell. 

2  Sen.  Farewell. 

All.  Farewell.  [Exeunt. 

.:r::;7  .8T;».1  tO.».  ,J\~6  ! 

SCENE  III. — ROME.     An  Apartment  in 
MARCIUS'  House. 

Enter  VOLUMNIA  and  VIRGILIA:  they  sit 
down  on  two  low  stools  and  sew. 

Vol.  I  pray  you,  daughter,  sing,  or  express 
yourself  in  a  more  comfortable  sort :  if  my  son 
were  my  husband,  I  should  freelier  rejoice  in 
that  absence  wherein  he  won  honour  than  in 
the  embracements  of  his  bed  where  he  would 
show  most  love.  When  yet  he  was  but  tender- 
bodied,  and  the  only  son  of  my  womb ;  when 
youth  with  comeliness  plucked  all  gaze  his 
way;  when,  for  a  day  of  king's  entreaties,  a 
mother  should  not  sell  him  an  hour  from  her 
beholding ;  I, — considering  how  honour  would 
become  such  a  person;  that  it  was  no  better 
than  picture-like  to  hang  by  the  wall  if  renown 
made  it  not  stir, — was  pleased  to  let  him  seek 
danger  where  he  was  like  to  find  fame.  To  a 
cruel  war  I  sent  him ;  from  whence  he  returned, 
his  brows  bound  with  oak.  I  tell  thee,  daughter, 
I  sprang  not  more  in  joy  at  first  hearing  he  was 
a  man-child  than  now  in  first  seeing  he  had 
proved  himself  a  man. 

Vir.  But  had  he  died  in  the  business,  madam  ? 
how  then? 

Vol.  Then  his  good  report  should  have  been 
my  son;  I  therein  would  have  found  issue. 
Hear  me  profess  sincerely, — had  I  a  dozen 
Sons,  each  in  my  love  alike,  and  none  less  dear 
than  thine  and  my  good  Marcius,  I  had  rather 
had  eleven  die  nobly  for  their  country  than  one 
voluptuously  surfeit  out  of  action. 

Enter  a  Gentlewoman. 

Gent.  Madam,  the  Lady  Valeria  is  come  to 
visit  you.  [myself. 

Vir.  Beseech  you,  give  me  leave  to  retire 
Vol.  Indeed  you  shall  not. 
Methinks  I  hear  hither  your  husband's  drum ; 


See  him  pluck  Aufidius  down  by  the  hair  ; 
As  children  from  a  bear,  the  Volsces  shunning 

him: 

Methinks  I  see  him  stamp  thus,  and  call  thus,  — 
Come  on,  you  cowards!  you  were  got  in  fear 
Though  you  were  born  in  Rome:  his  bloody  brow 
With  his  mail'd  hand  then  wiping,  forth  he  goes, 
Like  to  a  harvest-man  that  's  task'd  to  mow 
Or  all,  or  lose  his  hire. 

Vir.  His  bloody  brow!  O  Jupiter,  no  blood! 

Vol.   Away,  you  fool  !   it  more  becomes  a 

man 

Than  gilt  his  trophy  :  the  breasts  of  Hecuba, 
When  she  did  suckle  Hector,  look'd  not  lovelier 
Than  Hector's  forehead  when  it  spit  forth  blood 
At  Grecian  swords  contending.  —  Tell  Valeria 
We  are  fit  to  bid  her  welcome.        [Exit  Gent. 

Vir.  Heavens  bless  my  lord  from  fell  Aufidius! 

Vol.  He  '11  beat  Aufidius'  head  below  his  knee, 
And  tread  upon  his  neck. 

Re-enter  Gentlewoman,  with  VALERIA  and 
her  Usher. 


Val.  My  ladies  both,  good-day  to  you. 

Vol.  Sweet  madam. 

Vir.  I  am  glad  to  see  your  ladyship. 

Val.  How  do  you  both?  you  are  manifest 
housekeepers.  What  are  you  sewing  here? 
A  fine  spot,  in  good  faith.  —  How  does  your 
little  son? 

Vir.  I  thank  your  ladyship:  well,  good  madam. 

Vol.  He  had  rather  see  the  swords  and  hear 
a  drum  than  look  upon  his  schoolmaster. 

Val.  O'  my  word,  the  father's  son:  I'll 
swear  'tis  a  very  pretty  boy.  O'  my  troth,  I 
looked  upon  him  o'  Wednesday  half  an  hour 
together  :  has  such  a  confirmed  countenance. 
I  saw  him  run  after  a  gilded  butterfly;  and 
when  he  caught  it  he  let  it  go  again  ;  and  after 
it  again  ;  and  over  and  over  he  comes,  and  up 
again;  catched  it  again;  or  whether  his  fall 
enraged  him,  or  how  'twas,  he  did  so  set  his 
teeth  and  tear  it  ;  O,  I  warrant,  how  he 
mammocked  it  ! 

Vol.  One  on  's  father's  moods. 

Val.  Indeed,  la,  'tis  a  noble  child. 

Vir.  A  crack,  madam. 

Val.  Come,  lay  aside  your  stitchery  ;  I  must 
have  you  play  the  idle  huswife  with  me  this 
afternoon. 

Vir.  No,  good  madam  ;  I  will  not  out  of  doors. 

Val.  Not  out  of  doors  ! 

Vol.  She  shall,  she  shall. 

Vir.  Indeed,  no,  by  your  patience  ;  I  '11  not 
over  the  threshold  till  my  lord  return  from  the 
wars.  .Vv\l 

Val.  Fie,   you  confine    yourself  most    un- 


824 


CORIOLANUS. 


[ACT  I. 


reasonably;  come,  you  must  go  visit  the  good 
lady  that  lies  in. 

Vir.  I  will  wish  her  speedy  strength,  and  visit 
her  with  my  prayers ;  but  I  cannot  go  thither. 

Vol.  Why,  I  pray  you? 

Vir.  'Tis  not  to  save  labour,  nor  that  I  want 
love. 

Val.  You  would  be  another  Penelope:  yet 
they  say  all  the  yarn  she  spun  in  Ulysses' 
absence  did  but  fill  Ithaca  full  of  moths. 
Come ;  I  would  your  cambric  were  sensible  as 
your  finger,  that  you  might  leave  pricking  it 
for  pity. — Come,  you  shall  go  with  us. 

Vir.  No,  good  madam,  pardon  me;  indeed 
I  will  not  forth. 

Val.  In  truth,  la,  go  with  me ;  and  I  '11  tell 
you  excellent  news  of  your  husband. 

Vir.  O,  good  madam,  there  can  be  none  yet. 

Val.  Verily,  I  do  not  jest  with  you ;  there 
came  news  from  him  last  night. 

Vir.  Indeed,  madam? 

Val.  In  earnest,  it 's  true ;  I  heard  a  senator 
speak  it.  Thus  it  is: — The  Volsces  have  an 
army  forth ;  against  whom  Cominius  the  general 
is  gone,  with  one  part  of  our  Roman  power: 
your  lord  and  Titus  Lartius  are  set  down  before 
their  city  Corioli ;  they  nothing  doubt  prevailing, 
and  to  make  it  brief  wars.  This  is  true,  on 
mine  honour ;  and  so,  I  pray,  go  with  us. 

Vir.  Give  me  excuse,  good  madam ;  I  will 
obey  you  in  everything  hereafter. 

Vol.  Let  her  alone,  lady ;  as  she  is  now,  she 
will  but  disease  our  better  mirth. 

Val.  In  troth,  I  think  she  would. — Fare  you 
well,  then. — Come, good  sweet  lady. — Pr'ythee, 
Virgil  ia,  turn  thy  solemness  out  o'  door,  and 
go  along  with  us. 

Vir.  No,  at  a  word,  madam ;  indeed  I  must 
not.  I  wish  you  much  mirth. 

Val.  Well,  then,  farewell.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — Before  Corioli. 

Enter,  with  drums  and  colours,  MARCIUS, 
TITUS  LARTIUS,  Officers,  and  Soldiers. 

Mar.  Yonder  comes  news: — a  wager  they 

have  met. 

Lart.  My  horse  to  yours,  no. 
Mar.  'Tis  done. 

Lart.  Agreed. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mar.  Say,  has  our  general  met  the  enemy? 
Mess.  They  lie  in  view ;  but  have  not  spoke 

as  yet. 

Lart.  So,  the  good  horse  is  mine. 
Mar.  I  '11  buy  him  of  you. 


Lart.  No,  I  '11  nor  sell  nor  give  him :  lend 

you  him  I  will 

For  half  a  hundred  years. — Summon  the  town. 
Mar.  How  far  off  lie  these  armies? 
Mess.  Within  this  mile  and  half. 

Mar.  Then  shall  we  hear  their  'larum,  and 

they  ours.— 

Now,  Mars,  I  pr'ythee,  make  us  quick  in  work, 

That  we  with  smoking  swords  may  march  from 

hence  [blast. 

To  help  our  fielded  friends  ! — Come,  blow  thy 

They  sound  a  parley.     Enter,  on  the  Walls, 

some  Senators  and  others. 
Tullus  Aufidius,  is  he  within  your  walls?     [he, 
I  Sen.  No,  nor  a  man  that  fears  you  less  than 
That 's  lesser  than  a  little.     Hark,  our  drums 
[Drums  afar  off. 
Are  bringing  forth  our  youth !  we  '11  break  our 

walls, 

Rather  than  they  shall  pound  us  up:  our  gates, 
Which  yet  seem  shut,  we  have  but  pinn'd  with 

rushes ; 

They  '11  open  of  themselves.     Hark  you  far  off ! 
[Alarum  afar  off. 

There  is  Aufidius;  list  what  work  he  makes 
Amongst  your  cloven  army. 

Mar.     '  O,  they  are  at  it ! 

Lart.    Their    noise    be    our    instruction.— 

Ladders,  ho! 
The  Volsces  enter  and  pass  over. 

Mar.  They  fear  us  not,  but  issue  forth  their 

city.  [fight 

Now  put  your  shields  before  your  hearts,  and 

With  hearts  more  proof  than  shields. — Advance, 

brave  Titus: 

They  do  disdain  us  much  beyond  our  thoughts, 
Which  makes  me  sweat  with  wrath. — Come 

on,  my  fellows : 

He  that  retires  I  '11  take  him  for  a  Volsce, 
And  he  shall  feel  mine  edge. 

Alarums^   and  exeunt  Romans   and  Volsces 
fighting.      The  Romans  are  beaten  back  to 
their  trenches.     Re-enter  MARCIUS. 
Mar.  All  the  contagion  of  the  south  light 

on  you,  [plagues 

You  shames  of  Rome ! — you  herd  of — Boils  and 
Plaster  you  o'er,  that  you  may  be  abhorr'd 
Further  than  seen,  and  one  infect  another 
Against  the  wind  a  mile !     You  souls  of  geese, 
That  bear  the  shapes  of  men,  how  have  you 

run  [and  hell ! 

From    slaves    that   apes  would  beat!    Pluto 
All  hurt  behind ;  backs  red,  and  faces  pale 
With  flight  and  agued  fear !    Mend,  and  charge 

home, 


SCENE  V.] 


CORIOLANUS. 


825 


Or,  by  the  fires  of  heaven,  I  '11  leave  the  foe 
And  make  my  wars  on  you :  look  to 't :  come  on ; 
If  you  '11  standfast  we'll  beat  them  to  their  wives, 
As  they  us  to  our  trenches  followed. 
Another  alarum.      The  Volsces  and  Romans 
re-enter,    and  the  fight   is   renewed.      The 
Volsces  retire   into  Corioli,  and  MARCIUS 
follows  them  to  the  gates. 
So,  now  the  gates  are  ope : — now  prove  good 

seconds : 

'Tis  for  the  followers  fortune  widens  them, 
Not  for  the  fliers :  mark  me,  and  do  the  like. 
[He  enters  the  gates. 

1  Sol.  Fool -hardiness :  not  I. 

2  Sol.  Nor  I. 

[MARCIUS  is  shut  in. 
i  Sol.  See,  they  have  shut  him  in. 
All.  To  the  pot,  I  warrant  him. 

[Alarum  continues. 
Re-enter  TITUS  LARTIUS. 
Lart.  What  is  become  of  Marcius? 
All.  Slain,  sir,  doubtless. 

I  Sol.  Following  the  fliers  at  the  very  heels, 
With  them  he  enters ;  who,  upon  the  sudden, 
Clapp'd-to  their  gates :  he  is  himself  alone, 
To  answer  all  the  city. 

Lart.  O  noble  fellow ! 

Who,  sensible,  outdares  his  senseless  sword, 
And  when  it  bows  stands  up !     Thou  art  left, 

Marcius : 

A  carbuncle  entire,  as  big  as  thou  art, 
Were  not  so  rich  a  jewel.     Thou  wast  a  soldier 
Even  to  Cato's  wish,  not  fierce  and  terrible 
Only  in  strokes ;  but  with  thy  grim  looks  and 
The  thunder-like  percussion  of  thy  sounds 
Thou  mad'st  thine  enemies  shake,  as  if  the  world 
Were  feverous  and  did  tremble. 
Re-enter  MARCIUS,  bleeding,  assaulted  by  the 

enemy. 

i  Sol.  Look,  sir. 

Lart.  O,  'tis  Marcius ! 

Let 's  fetch  him  off,  or  make  remain  alike. 

[  They  fight,  and  all  enter  the  city. 

SCENE  V.—  Within  CORIOLI.     A  Street. 
Enter  certain  Romans,  with  spoils. 

1  Rom.  This  will  I  carry  to  Rome. 

2  Rom.  And  I  this. 

3  Rom.  A  murrain  on 't !  I  took  this  for  silver. 

[Alarum  continues  still  afar  off. 
Enter  MARCIUS  and  TITUS  LARTIUS  with  a 

trumpet. 

Mar.  See^here  these  movers  that  do  prize 
their  hours 


At  a  crack'd  drachm  !    Cushions,  leaden  spoons, 
Irons  of  a  doit,  doublets  that  hangmen  would 
Bury  with  those  that  wore  them,   these  base 
slaves,  [with  them ! — 

Ere  yet  the  fight  be  done,  pack  up: — down 
And  hark,  what  noise  the  general  makes ! — To 

him! — 

There  is  the  man  of  my  soul's  hate,  Aufidius, 
Piercing  our  Romans :  then,  valiant  Titus,  take 
Convenient  numbers  to  make  good  the  city  ; 
Whilst  I,  with  those  that  have  the  spirit,  will 

haste 
To  help  Cominius. 

Lart.  Worthy  sir,  thou  bleed'st; 

Thy  exercise  hath  been  too  violent  for 
A  second  course  of  fight. 

Mar.  Sir,  praise  me  not ; 

My  work  hath  yet  not  warm'd  me:  fare  you 

well: 

The  blood  I  drop  is  rather  physical 
Than  dangerous  to  me :  to  Aufidius  thus 
I  will  appear,  and  fight. 

Lart.  Now  the  fair  goddess,  Fortune, 

Fall  deep  in  love  with  thee;  and  her  great 
charms  [man, 

Misguide  thy  opposers'  swords !     Bold  gentle- 
Prosperity  be  thy  page ! 

Mar.  Thy  friend  no  less 

Than  those  she  placeth  highest ! — So  farewell. 

Lart.  Thou  worthiest  Marcius!— 

[Exit  MARCIUS. 

Go,  sound  thy  trumpet  in  the  market-place ; 
Call  thither  all  the  officers  o'  the  town, 
Where  they  shall  know  our  mind :  away ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI. — Near  the  Camp  of  COMINIUS. 
Enter  COMINIUS  and  Forces,  retreating. 
Com.  Breathe  you,  my  friends :  well  fought ; 

we  are  come  off 

Like  Romans,  neither  foolish  in  our  stands 
Nor  cowardly  in  retire :  believe  me,  sirs, 
We  shall  be  charg'd  again.     Whiles  we  have 

struck, 

By  interims  and  conveying  gusts  we  have  heard 
The  charges  of  our  friends.     Ye  Roman  gods, 
Lead  their  successes  as  we  wish  our  own, 
That   both    our   powers,   with   smiling   fronts 

encountering, 

May  give  you  thankful  sacrifice ! — 
Enter  a  Messenger. 

Thy  news? 

Mess.  The  citizens  of  Corioli  have  issued, 
And  given  to  Lartius  and  to  Marcius  battle : 
I  saw  our  party  to  their  trenches  driven, 
And  then  I  came  away. 


826 


CORIOLANUS. 


[ACT  i. 


Com.  Though  them  speak'st  truth, 

Methinks  thou  speak'st  not  well.     How  long 
is't  since? 

Mess.  Above  an  hour,  my  lord. 

Com.  'Tis  not  a  mile ;  briefly  we  heard  their 

drums: 

How  couldst  thou  in  a  mile  confound  an  hour, 
And  bring  thy  news  so  late? 

Mess.  Spies  of  the  Volsces 

Held  me  in  chase,  that  I  was  forc'd  to  wheel 
Three  or  four  miles  about;  else  had  I,  sir, 
Half  an  hour  since  brought  my  report. 

Com.  Who 's  yonder, 

That  does  appear  as  he  were  flay'd?    O  gods ! 
He  has  the  stamp  of  Marcius ;  and  I  have 
Before-time  seen  him  thus. 

Mar.  {Within.}  Come  I  too  late? 

Com.  The  shepherd  knows  not  thunder  from 

a  tabor 

More  than  I  know  the  sound  of  Marcius'  tongue 
From  every  meaner  man. 

Enter  MARCIUS. 

Mar.  Come  I  too  late? 

Com.  Ay,  if  you  come  not  in  the  blood  of 

others, 
But  mantled  in  your  own. 

Mar,  O !  let  me  clip  you 

In  arms  as  sound  as  when  I  woo'd ;  in  heart 
As  merry  as  when  our  nuptial  day  was  done, 
And  tapers  burn'd  to  bedward ! 

Com.  Flower  of  warriors, 

How  is't  with  Titus  Lartius? 

Mar.  As  with  a  man  busied  about  decrees : 
Condemning  some  to  death  and  some  to  exile ; 
Ransoming  him  or  pitying,  threat'ning  the  other; 
Holding  Corioli  in  the  name  of  Rome, 
Even  like  a  fawning  greyhound  in  the  leash, 
To  let  him  slip  at  will. 

Com.  Where  is  that  slave 

Which  told   me  they  had  beat  you  to  your 

trenches? 
Where 's  he?  call  him  hither. 

Mar.  Let  him  alone ; 

He  did  inform  the  truth :  but  for  our  gentlemen, 
The   common   file, — a  plague! — tribunes  for 
them ! —  [budge 

The  mouse  ne'er  shunn'd  the  cat  as  they  did 
From  rascals  worse  than  they. 

Com.  But  how  prevail'd  you? 

Mar.  Will  the  time  serve  to  tell?     I  do  not 

think. 

Where  is  the  enemy?  are  you  lords  o'  the  field? 
If  not,  why  cease  you  till  you  are  so? 

Com.  Marcius, 

We  have  at  disadvantage  fought,  and  did 
Retire,  to  win  our  purpose. 


Mar.  How  lies  their  battle?  know  you  on 

which  side 
They  have  placed  their  men  of  trust? 

Com.  As  I  guess,  Marcius, 

Their  bands  in  the  vaward  are  the  Antiates, 
Of  their  best  trust ;  o'er  them  Aufidius, 
Their  very  heart  of  hope. 

Mar.  I  do  beseech  you, 

By  all  the  battles  wherein  we  have  fought, 
By  the  blood  we  have  shed  together,  by  the 
vows  [directly 

We  have   made  to  endure   friends,  that  you 
Set  me  against  Aufidius  and  his  Antiates  ; 
And  that  you  not  delay  the  present,  but, 
Filling  the  air  with  swords  advanc'd  and  darts, 
We  prove  this  very  hour. 

Com.  Though  I  could  wish 

You  were  conducted  to  a  gentle  bath, 
And  balms  applied  to  you,  yet  dare  I  never 
Deny  your  asking :  take  your  choice  of  those 
That  best  can  aid  your  action. 

Mar.  Those  are  they 

That  most  are  willing. — If  any  such  be  here, — 
As  it  were  sin  to  doubt, — that  love  this  painting 
Wherein  you  see  me  smear'd ;  if  any  fear 
Lesser  his  person  than  an  ill  report ; 
If  any  think  brave  death  outweighs  bad  Iife5 
And  that  his  country 's  dearer  than  himself; 
Let  him  alone,  or  so  many  so  minded, 
Wave  thus  [waving  his  hand\  to  express  his 

disposition, 
And  follow  Marcius. 

[They  all  shout,  and  wave  their  swords ;  take 

him  up  in  their  arms,  and  cast  up  their  caps. 
O,  me  alone  !  make  you  a  sword  of  me  ? 
If  these  shows  be  not  outward,  which  of  you 
But  is  four  Volsces  ?  none  of  you  but  is 
Able  to  bear  against  the  great  Aufidius 
A  shield  as  hard  as  his.     A  certain  number, 
Though  thanks  to  all,  must  I  select  from  all : 

the  rest 

Shall  bear  the  business  in  some  other  fight, 
As  cause  will  be  obey'd.     Please  you  to  march ; 
And  four  shall  quickly  draw  out  my  command, 
Which  men  are  best  inclin'd. 

Com.  March  on,  my  fellows: 

Make  good  this  ostentation,  and  you  shall 
Divide  in  all  with  us.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII.— The  Gates  of  Corioli. 
TITUS    LARTIUS,   having  set  a  guard  upon 
Corioli)  going  with  drum  and  trumpet  toward 
COMINIUS  andCAlUS  MARCius,enters  with  a 
Lieutenant,  a  party  of  Soldiers,  and  a  Scout. 
Lart.   So,  let  the  ports  be  guarded :   keep 
your  duties 


SCENE  VIII.] 


CORIOLANUS. 


827 


As  I  have  set  them  down.     If  I  do  send,  de- 

spatch 

Those  centuries  to  our  aid  ;  the  rest  will  serve 
For  a  short  holding  :  if  we  lose  the  field 
We  cannot  keep  the  town. 

Lieut.  Fear  not  our  care,  sir. 

Lart.   Hence,  and  shut  your  gates  upon  's.  — 

Our  guider,  come  ;    to  the  Roman  camp  con- 

duct us.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VIII.—  A  Field  of  Battle  between  the 
Roman  and  the  Volscian  Camps. 

Alarum.     Enter,  from  opposite  sides,  MARCIUS 


Mar.  I  '11  fight  with  none  but  thee  ;  for  I  do 

hate  thee 
Worse  than  a  promise-breaker. 

Auf.  We  hate  alike  : 

Not  Afric  owns  a  serpent  I  abhor 
More  than  thy  fame  and  envy.     Fix  thy  foot. 
Mar.  Let  the  first  budger  die  the  other's 

slave, 
And  the  gods  doom  him  after  ! 

Auf.  Iflfly,  Marcius, 

Halloo  me  like  a  hare. 

Mar.  Within  these  three  hours,  Tullus, 
Alone  I  fought  in  your  Corioli  walls,  [blood 
And  made  what  work  I  pleas'd:  'tis  not  my 
Wherein  thou  seest  me  mask'd  ;  for  thy  revenge 
Wrench  up  thy  power  to  the  highest. 

Auf.  Wert  thou  the  Hector 

That  was  the  whip  of  your  bragg'd  progeny, 
Thou  shouldst  not  scape  me  here.  — 

[They  fight,  and  certain  Volsces  come  to 

the  azV/0/"AuFiDlus. 

Officious,  and  not  valiant,  —  you  have  sham'd  me 
In  your  condemned  seconds. 

[Exeunt  fighting,  driven  in  by  MAR. 

SCENE  IX.—  The  Roman  Camp. 

Alarum.  A  retreat  is  sounded.  Flourish. 
Enter,  at  one  side,  COMINIUS  and  Romans; 
at  the  other  side,  MARCIUS,  -with  his  arm  in 
a  scarf,  and  other  Romans. 

Com.  If  I  should  tell  thee  o'er  this  thy  day's 

work, 

Thou  'It  not  believe  thy  deeds  :  but  I  '11  report  it 
Where  senators  shall  mingle  tears  with  smiles  ; 
Where  great  patricians  shall  attend,  and  shrug, 
I'  the  end  admire;  where  ladies  shall  be  frighted, 
And,  gladly  quak'd,  hear  more  ;  where  the  dull 

tribunes, 
That,    with  the  fusty  plebeians,   hate    thine 

honours, 
Shall  say,  against  their  hearts,  We  thank  the  gods 


Our  Rome  hath  such  a  soldier  ! 

Yet  cam'st  thou  to  a  morsel  of  this  feast, 

Having  fully  dined  before. 

Enter  TITUS  LARTIUS,  with  his  power,  from 
the  pursuit. 

Lart.  O  general. 

Here  is  the  steed,  we  the  caparison : 
Hadst  thou  beheld, — 

Mar.  Pray  now,  no  more  ;  my  mother, 

Who  has  a  charter  to  extol  her  blood,       [done 
When  she  does  praise  me  grieves  me.     I  have 
As  you  have  done, — that 's  what  I  can ;  induc'd 
As  you  have  been, — that 's  for  my  country : 
He  that  has  but  effected  his  good  will 
Hath  overta'en  mine  act. 

Com.  You  shall  not  be 

The  grave  of  your  deserving ;  Rome  must  know 
The  value  of  her  own :  'twere  a  concealment 
Worse  than  a  theft,  no  less  than  a  traducement, 
To  hide  your  doings ;  and  to  silence  that 
Which,  to  the  spire  and  top  of  praises  vouch'd, 
Would  seem  but  modest :  therefore,  I  beseech 

you, — 

In  sign  of  what  you  are,  not  to  reward 
What  you  have  done, — before  our  army  hear  me. 

Mar.  I  have  some  wounds  upon  me,  and 

they  smart 
To  hear  themselves  remember'd. 

Com.  Should  they  not, 

Well  might  they  fester  'gainst  ingratitude, 
And  tent  themselves  with  death.     Of  all  the 
horses, —  [of  all 

Whereof  we  have  ta'en  good,  and  good  store, — 
The  treasure  in  this  field  achiev'd  and  city, 
We  render  you  the  tenth ;  to  be  ta'en  forth 
Before  the  common  distribution  at 
Your  only  choice. 

Mar.  I  thank  you,  general ; 

But  cannot  make  my  heart  consent  to  take 
A  bribe  to  pay  my  sword :  I  do  refuse  it ; 
And  stand  upon  my  common  part  with  those 
That  have  beheld  the  doing. 

[A  long  flourish.  They  all  cry,"  Marcius ! 
Marcius !"  cast  up  their,  caps  and  lances: 
COMINIUS  and  LARTIUS  stand  bare. 

Mar.  May  these  same  instruments  which  you 
profane  [shall 

Never  sound  more !  When  drums  and  trumpets 
I'  the  field  prove  flatterers,  let  courts  and  cities  be 
Made  all  of  false-fac'd  soothing ! 
When  steel  grows  soft  as  the  parasite's  silk, 
Let  him  be  made  a  coverture  for  the  wars ! 
No  more,  I  say !  for  that  I  have  not  wash'd 
My  nose  that  bled,  or  foil'd  some  debile  wretch, — 
Which,  without   note,  here's  many  else  have 
done,— 


828 


CORIOLANUS. 


[ACT  ii. 


You   shout  me  forth  in  acclamations  hyper- 
bolical; 

As  if  I  loved  my  little  should  be  dieted 
In  praises  sauc'd  with  lies. 

Com.  Too  modest  are  you ; 

More  cruel  to  your  good  report  than  grateful 
To  us  that  give  you  truly :  by  your  patience, 
If  'gainst  yourself  you  be  incens'd,  we  '11  put 
you, —  [manacles, 

Like   one   that   means   his  proper  harm, — in 
Then  reason  safely  with  you. — Therefore  be  it 

known, 

As  to  us,  to  all  the  world,  that  Caius  Marcius 
Wears  this  war's  garland:    in  token  of  the 

which, 

My  noble  steed,  known  to  the  camp,  I  give  him, 
With  all  his  trim  belonging ;  and  from  this  time, 
For  what  he  did  before  Corioli,  call  him, 
With  all  the  applause  and  clamour  of  the  host, 
CAIUS  MARCIUS  CORIOLANUS. — 
Bear  the  addition  nobly  ever ! 

[Flourish.      Trumpets  sound,  and  drums. 

All.  Caius  Marcius  Coriolanus ! 

Cor.  I  will  go  wash ; 

And  when  my  face  is  fair  you  shall  perceive 
Whether  I  blush  or  no :  howbeit,  I  thank  you. — 
I  mean  to  stride  your  steed ;  and  at  all  times 
To  undercrest  your  good  addition 
To  the  fairness  of  my  power. 

Com.  So,  to  our  tent; 

Where,  ere  we  do  repose  us,  we  will  write 
To  Rome  of  our  success. — You,  Titus  Lartius, 
Must  to  Corioli  back :  send  us  to  Rome 
The  best,  with  whom  we  may  articulate, 
For  their  own  good  and  ours. 

Lart.  I  shall,  my  lord. 

Cor.  The  gods  begin  to  mock  me.  I,  that  now 
Refus'd  most  princely  gifts,  am  bound  to  beg 
Of  my  lord  general. 

Com.  Take 't :  'tis  yours.  —What  is  \  ? 

Cor.  I  sometime  lay  here  in  Corioli 
At  a  poor  man's  house ;  he  us'd  me  kindly : 
He  cried  to  me ;  I  saw  him  prisoner ; 
But  then  Aufidius  was  within  my  view, 
And  wrath  o'erwhelm'd  my  pity :   I   request 

you 
To  give  my  poor  host  freedom. 

Com.  O,  well  begg'd ! 

Were  he  the  butcher  of  my  son  he  should 
Be  free  as  is  the  wind.     Deliver  him,  Titus. 

Lart.  Marcius,  his  name? 

Cor.  By  Jupiter,  forgot : — 

I  am  weary;  yea,  my  memory  is  tir'd. — 
Have  we  no  wine  here? 

Com.  Go  we  to  our  tent : 

The  blood  upon  your  visage  dries  5  'tis  time 
It  should  be  look'd  to :  come.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  X.—TAe  Camp  of  the  Volsces. 

A  flourish.     Cornets.     Enter  TULLUS  AUFI- 
DIUS, bloody,  with  two  or  three  Soldiers. 

Auf.  The  town  is  ta'en  !  [dition. 

i  Sol.  'Twill  be  deliver'd  back  on  good  con- 

Auf.  Condition! 

I  would  I  were  a  Roman ;  for  I  cannot, 
Being  a  Volsce,  be  that  I  am. — Condition! 
What  good  condition  can  a  treaty  find 
P   the   part    that   is  at   mercy?— Five   times, 
Marcius,  [beat  me ; 

I  have  fought  with  thee;   so  often  hast  thou 
And  wouldst  do  so,  I  think,  should  we  encounter 
As  often  as  we  eat. — By  the  elements, 
If  e'er  again  I  meet  him  beard  to  beard, 
He 's  mine  or  I  am  his :  mine  emulation 
Hath  not  that  honour  in 't  it  had ;  for  where 
I  thought  to  crush  him  in  an  equal  force,— 
True  sword  to  sword, — I  '11  potch  at  him  some 

way, 
Or  wrath  or  craft  may  get  him. 

i  Sol.  He 's  the  devil. 

Auf.  Bolder,   though   not  so  subtle.      My 

valour  's  poisoned 

With  only  suffering  stain  by  him  ;  for  him 
Shall  fly  out  of  itself :  nor  sleep  nor  sanctuary, 
Being  naked,  sick ;  nor  fane  nor  Capitol, 
The  prayers  of  priests  nor  times  of  sacrifice, 
Embarquements  all  of  fury,  shall  lift  up 
Their  rotten  privilege  and  custom  'gainst 
My  hate  to  Marcius :  where  I  find  him,  were  it 
At  home,  upon  my  brother's  guard,  even  there, 
Against  the  hospitable  canon,  would  I 
Wash  my  fierce  hand  in 's  heart.     Go  you  to 
the  city;  [must 

Learn  how  'tis  held ;  and  what  they  are  that 
Be  hostages  for  Rome. 

I  Sol.  Will  not  you  go  ? 

Auf.  I  am  attended  at  the  cypress  grove : 
I  pray  you, —  [thither 

'Tis   south    the    city  mills, — bring    me   word 
How  the  world  goes,  that  to  the  pace  of  it 
I  may  spur  on  my  journey. 

I  Sol.  I  shall,  sir.     [Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.— ROME.     A  public  Place. 
Enter  MENENIUS,  SICINIUS,  and  BRUTUS. 

Men.  The  augurer  tells  me  we  shall  have 
news  to  night. 

Bru.  Good  or  bad  ? 

Men.  Not  according  to  the  prayer  of  the 
people,  for  they  love  not  Marcius. 


SCENE  I.j 


CORIOLANUS. 


820 


Sic.  Nature  teaches  beasts  to  know  their 
friends. 

Men.  Pray  you,  who  does  the  wolf  love  ? 

Sic.  The  lamb. 

Men.  Ay,  to  devour  him ;  as  the  hungry 
plebeians  would  the  noble  Marcius. 

Bru.  He 's  a  lamb  indeed,  that  baas  like  a 
bear. 

Men.  He 's  a  bear  indeed,  that  lives  like  a 
lamb.  You  two  are  old  men :  tell  me  one 
thing  that  I  shall  ask  you. 

Both  Trib.   Well,  sir. 

Men.  In  what  enormity  is  Marcius  poor  in, 
that  you  two  have  not  in  abundance? 

Brit.  He 's  poor  in  no  one  fault,  but  stored 
with  all. 

Sic.  Especially  in  pride. 

Bru.  And  topping  all  others  in  boasting. 

Men.  This  is  strange  now :  do  you  two  know 
how  you  are  censured  here  in  the  city,  I  mean 
of  us  o'  the  right-hand  file?  Do  you? 

Both  Trib.   Why,  how  are  we  censured? 

Men.  Because  you  talk  of  pride  now, — will 
you  not  be  angry? 

Both  Trib.  Well,  well,  sir,  well. 

Men.  Why,  'tis  no  great  matter ;  for  a  very 
little  thief  of  occasion  will  rob  you  of  a  great 
deal  of  patience:  give  your  dispositions  the 
reins,  and  be  angry  at  your  pleasures;  at  the 
least,  if  you  take  it  as  a  pleasure  to  you  in 
being  so.  You  blame  Marcius  for  being  proud? 

Bru.  We  do  it  not  alone,  sir. 

Men.  I  know  you  can  do  very  little  alone ; 
for  your  helps  are  many,  or  else  your  actions 
would  grow  wondrous  single:  your  abilities 
are  too  infant-like  for  doing  much  alone.  You 
talk  of  pride :  O  that  you  could  turn  you  eyes 
toward  the  napes  of  your  necks,  and  make  but 
an  interior  survey  of  your  good  selves !  O  that 
you  could ! 

Bru.  What  then,  sir  ? 

Men.  Why,  then  you  should  discover  a  brace 
ofunmeriting,  proud,  violent,  testy  magistrates, 
— alias,  fools, — as  any  in  Rome. 

Sic.  Menenius,  you  are  known  well  enough 
too. 

Men.  I  am  known  to  be  a  humorous  patrician, 
and  one  that  loves  a  cup  of  hot  wine  with  not 
a  drop  of  allaying  Tiber  in 't :  said  to  be  some- 
thing imperfect  in  favouring  the  first  complaint, 
hasty  and  tinder-like  upon  too  trivial  motion ; 
one  that  converses  more  with  the  buttock  of 
the  night  than  with  the  forehead  of  the  morning. 
What  I  think  I  utter,  and  spend  my  malice  in 
tny  breath.  Meeting  two  such  wealsmen  as 
you  are, — I  cannot  call  you  Lycurguses, — if 
the  drink  you  give  me  touch  my  palate  adversely, 


I  make  a  crooked  face  at  it.  I  cannot  say  your 
worships  have  delivered  the  matter  well  when 
I  find  the  ass  in  compound  with  the  major  part 
of  your  syllables ;  and  though  I  must  be  content 
to  bear  with  those  that  say  you  are  reverend 
grave  men,  yet  they  lie  deadly  that  tell  you 
have  good  faces.  If  you  see  this  in  the  map 
of  my  microcosm,  follows  it  that  I  am  known 
well  enough  too  ?  What  harm  can  your  bisson 
conspectuities  glean  out  of  this  character,  if  I 
be  known  well  enough  too  ? 

Bru.  Come,  sir,  come,  we  know  you  well 
enough. 

Men.  You  know  neither  me,  yourselves,  nor 
anything.  You  are  ambitious  for  poor  knaves' 
caps  and  legs :  you  wear  out  a  good  wholesome 
forenoon  in  hearing  a  cause  between  an  orange- 
wife  and  a  fosset-seller ;  and  then  rejourn  the 
controversy  of  threepence  to  a  second  day  of 
audience. — When  you  are  hearing  a  matter 
between  party  and  party,  if  you  chance  to  be 
pinched  with  the  colic,  you  make  faces  like 
mummers;  set  up  the  bloody  flag  against  all 
patience;  and,  in  roaring  for  a  chamber-pot, 
dismiss  the  controversy  bleeding,  the  more 
entangled  by  your  hearing :  all  the  peace  you 
make  in  their  cause  is  calling  both  the  parties 
knaves.  You  are  a  pair  of  strange  ones. 

Bru.  Come,  come,  you  are  well  understood 
to  be  a  perfecter  giber  for  the  table  than  a 
necessary  bencher  in  the  Capitol. 

Men,  Our  very  priests  must  become  mockers 
if  they  shall  encounter  such  ridiculous  subjects 
as  you  are.  When  you  speak  best  unto  the 
purpose  it  is  not  worth  the  wagging  of  your 
beards ;  and  your  beards  deserve  not  so  honour- 
able a  grave  as  to  stuff  a  botcher's  cushion  or 
to  be  entombed  in  an  ass's  pack-saddle.  Yet 
you  must  be  saying,  Marcius  is  proud;  who, 
in  a  cheap  estimation,  is  worth  all  your  pre- 
decessors since  Deucalion ;  though  peradventure 
some  of  the  best  of  them  were  hereditary  hang- 
men. God-den  to  your  worships :  more  of  your 
conversation  would  infect  my  brain,  being  the 
herdsmen  of  the  beastly  plebeians:  I  will  be 
bold  to  take  my  leave  of  you. 

CBRUTUS  and  SICINIUS  retire. 

Enter  VoLUMNlA,  VIRGILIA,  VALERIA,  &c. 

How  now,  my  as  fair  as  noble  ladies, — and  the 
moon,  were  she  earthly,  no  nobler, — whither 
do  you  follow  your  eyes  so  fast  ? 

Vol.  Honourable  Menenius,  my  boy  Marcius 
approaches ;  for  the  love  of  Juno  let 's  go. 

Men.  Ha !  Marcius  coming  home ! 

Vol.  Ay,  worthy  Menenius;  and  with  most 
prosperous  approbation. 


83o 


CORIOLANUS. 


[ACT  II. 


Men.  Take  my  cap,  Jupiter,  and  I  thank  thee. 
—Hop !  Marcius  coming  home ! 

Vol.  Vir.  Nay,  'tis  true. 

Vol.  Look,  here's  a  letter  from  him:  the 
state  hath  another,  his  wife  another;  and  I 
think  there 's  one  at  home  for  you. 

Men.  I  will  make  my  very  house  reel  to- 
night.— A  letter  frr  me? 

Vir.  Yes,  certain,  there's  a  letter  for  you; 
I  saw  it. 

Men.  A  letter  for  me !  It  gives  me  an  estate 
of  seven  years'  health;  in  which  time  I  will 
make  a  lip  at  the  physician :  the  most  sovereign 
prescription  in  Galen  is  but  empiricutic,  and, 
to  this  preservative,  of  no  better  report  than  a 
horse-drench.  Is  he  not  wounded?  he  was 
wont  to  come  home  wounded. 

Vir.  O,  no,  no,  no. 

Vol.  O,  he  is  wounded,  I  thank  the  gods  for't. 

Men.  So  do  I  too,  if  it  be  not  too  much. — 
Brings  a  victory  in  his  pocket  ? — The  wounds 
become  him. 

Vol.  On's  brows:  Menenius,  he  comes  the 
third  time  home  with  the  oaken  garland. 

Men.  Has  he  disciplined  Aufidius  soundly  ? 

Vol.  Titus  Lartius  writes, — they  fought  to- 
gether, but  Aufidius  got  off. 

Men.  And  'twas  time  for  him  too,  I'll  warrant 
him  that :  an  he  had  stayed  by  him,  I  would 
not  have  been  so  fidiused  for  all  the  chests  in 
Corioli,  and  the  gold  that's  in  them.  Is  the 
senate  possessed  of  this  ? 

Vol.  Good  ladies,  let's  go. — Yes,  yes,  yes; 
ihe  senate  has  letters  from  the  general,  wherein 
he  gives  my  son  the  whole  name  of  the  war : 
he  hath  in  this  action  outdone  his  former  deeds 
doubly. 

Val.  In  troth,  there 's  wondrous  things  spoke 
of  him. 

Men.  Wondrous!  ay,  I  warrant  you,  and 
not  without  his  true  purchasing. 

Vir.  The  gods  grant  them  true ! 

Vol.  True  !  pow,  wow. 
Men.  True  !  I  '11  be  sworn  they  are  true. — 
Where  is  he  wounded  ? — [To  the  Tribunes,  who 
come  forward.]  God  save  your  good  worships ! 
Marcius  is  coming  home:  he  has  more  cause 
to  be  proud. — Where  is  he  wounded  ? 

Vol.  F  the  shoulder  and  i'  the  left  arm: 
there  will  be  large  cicatrices  to  show  the  people 
when  he  shall  stand  for  his  place.  He  received 
in  the  repulse  of  Tarquin  seven  hurts  i'  the 
body. 

Men.  One  i'  the  neck  and  two  i'  the  thigh, — 
there 's  nine  that  I  know. 

Vol.  He  had,  before  this  last  expedition, 
twenty-five  wounds  upon  him, 


Men.  Now  it's  twenty-seven:  every  gash 
was  an  enemy's  grave.  [A  shout  and  flourish.} 
Hark !  the  trumpets. 

Vol.  These  are  the  ushers  of  Marcius :  before 

him   ^  [tears; 

He  carries  noise,  and  behind  him  he  leaves 

Death,  that  dark  spirit,  in's  nervy  arm  doth 

lie ;  [die. 

Which,  being  advanc'd,  declines,  and  then  men 

A  sennet.  Trumpets  sotmd.  Enter  COMINIUS 
and  TITUS  LARTIUS;  between  them,  CORIO- 
LANUS, crowned  with  an  oaken  garland  ; 
with  Captains,  Soldiers,  and  a  Herald. 

Her.  Know,  Rome,  that  all  alone  Marcius 

did  fight 

Within  Corioli  gates :  where  he  hath  won, 
With  fame,  a  name  to  Caius  Marcius ;  these 
In  honour  follows  Coriolanus : — 
Welcome  to  Rome,  renowned  Coriolanus  ! 

[Flourish. 

All.  Welcome  to   Rome,   renowned   Corio- 
lanus !  [heart ; 
Cor.  No  more  of  this,  it  does  offend  my 
Pray  now,  no  more. 

Com.  Look,  sir,  your  mother ! 

Cor.  O, 

You  have,  I  know,  petition'd  all  the  gods          ( 
For  my  prosperity  I  [Kneels. 

Vol.  Nay,  my  good  soldier,  up; 

My  gentle  Marcius,  worthy  Caius,  and 
By  deed-achieving  honour  newly  nam'd, — 
What  is  it  ? — Coriolanus  must  I  call  thee  ? 
But,  O,  thy  wife ! 

Cor.  My  gracious  silence,  hail ! 

Wouldst  thou  have  laugh'd  had  I  come  coffin'd 

home, 

That  weep'st  to  see  me  triumph  ?   Ah,  my  dear, 
Such  eyes  the  widows  in  Corioli  wear, 
And  mothers  that  lack  sons. 

Men.  Now  the  gods  crown  thee ! 

Cor.  And  live  you  yet  ? — O  my  sweet  lady, 
pardon.  \To  VALERIA. 

Vol.  I  know  not  where  to  turn. — O,  welcome 
home ; —  [all. 

And  welcome,  general ; — and  you  are  welcome 
Men.  A    hundred    thousand    welcomes. — I 
could  weep  [Welcome : 

And  I  could  laugh;  I  am  light  and  heavy.— 
A  curse  begin  at  very  root  on 's  heart 
That  is  not  glad  to  see  thee ! — You  are  three 
That  Rome  should  dote  on :  yet,  by  the  faith 
of  men,  [will  not 

We  have  some  old  crab  trees  here  at  home  that 
Be  grafted  to  your  relish.  Yet  welcome,  warriors; 
We  call  a  nettle  but  a  nettle ;  and 
The  faults  of  fools  but  folly. 


SCENE  I.J 


CORIOLANUS. 


831 


Com.  Ever  right 

Cor.  Menenius  ever,  ever. 

Her.  Give  way  there,  and  go  on ! 

Cor.  Your  hand,  and  yours : 

L  To  his  wife  and  mother. 
Ere  in  our  own  house  I  do  shade  my  head, 
The  good  patricians  must  be  visited ; 
From  whom  I  have  receiv'd  not  only  greetings, 
But  with  them  change  of  honours. 

Vol.  I  have  lived 

To  see  inherited  my  very  wishes, 
And  the  buildings  of  my  fancy:  only  [but 

There 's  one  thing  wanting,  which  I  doubt  not 
Our  Rome  will  cast  upon  thee. 

Cor.  Know,  good  mother, 

I  had  rather  be  their  servant  in  my  way 
Than  sway  with  them  in  theirs. 

Com.  On,  to  the  Capitol. 

\_Flourish.     Cornets.    Exeunt  in  state,  as 
before.     The  Tribunes  remain. 

Bru.  All   tongues   speak    of  him,  and   the 

bleared  sights 

Are  spectacled  to  see  him  :  your  prattling  nurse 
Into  a  rapture  lets  her  baby  cry 
While  she  chats  him :  the  kitchen  malkin  pins 
Her  richest  lockram  'bout  her  reechy  neck, 
Clambering  the  walls  to  eye  him :  stalls,  bulks, 

windows, 

Are  smother'd  up,  leads  fill'd,  and  ridges  hors'd 
With  variable  complexions;  all  agreeing 
In  earnestness  to  see  him :  seld-shown  flamens 
Do  press  among  the  popular  throngs,  and  puff 
To  win  a  vulgar  station :  our  veil'd  dames 
Commit  the  war  of  white  and  damask,  in 
Their  nicely  gawded  cheeks,  to  the  wanton  spoil 
Of  Phoebus'  burning  kisses :  such  a  pother, 
As  if  that  whatsoever  god  who  leads  him 
Were  slily  crept  into  his  human  powers, 
And  gave  him  graceful  posture. 

Sic.  On  the  sudden, 

I  warrant  him  consul. 

Bru.  Then  our  office  may, 

During  his  power,  go  sleep.  [honours 

Sic.  He  cannot  temperately  transport  his 
From  where  he  should  begin  and  end ;  but  will 
Lose  those  that  he  hath  won. 

Bru.  In  that  there 's  comfort. 

Sic.  Doubt  not  the  commoners,  for  whom  we 

stand, 

But  they,  upon  their  ancient  malice,  will  forget, 
With  the  least  cause,  these  his  ne  whonours;  which 
That  he  '11  give  them  make  as  little  question 
As  he  is  proud  to  do 't. 

Bru.  I  heard  him  swear, 

Were  he  to  stand  for  consul,  never  would  he 
Appear  i'  the  market-place,  nor  on  him  put 
The  napless  vesture  of  humility ; 


Nor,  showing,  as  the  manner  is,  his  wounds 
To  the  people,  beg  their  stinking  breaths. 

Sic.  'Tis  right. 

Bru.   It  was  his  word:  O,  he  would  miss  it 
rather  [him, 

Than  carry  it  but  by  the  suit  of  the  gentry  to 
And  the  desire  of  the  nobles. 

Sic.  I  wish  no  better 

Than  have  him  hold  that  purpose,  and  to  put  it 
In  execution. 

Bru.  'Tis  most  like  he  will. 

Sic.  It  shall  be  to  him  then,  as  our  good  wills, 
A  sure  destruction. 

Bru.  So  it  must  fall  out 

To  him  or  our  authorities.     For  an  end, 
We  must  suggest  the  people  in  what  hatred 
He  still  hath  held  them;  that  to's  power  he 
would  [and 

Have  made  them  mules,  silenc'd  their  pleaders, 
Dispropertied  their  freedoms :  holding  them, 
In  human  action  and  capacity, 
Of  no  more  soul  nor  fitness  for  the  world 
Than  camels  in  their  war ;  who  have  their  pro- 

vand 

Only  for  bearing  burdens,  and  sore  blows 
For  sinking  under  them. 

Sic.  This,  as  you  say,  suggested 

At  some  time  when  his  soaring  insolence 
Shall  touch  the  people, — which  time  shall  not 

want, 

If  it  be  put  upon 't ;  and  that 's  as  easy 
As  to  set  dogs  on  sheep, — will  be  his  fire 
To  kindle  their  dry  stubble ;  and  their  blaze 
Shall  darken  him  for  ever. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Bru.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

Mess.  You  are  sent  for  to  the  Capitol.     'Tis 

thought 

That  Marcius  shall  be  consul :  [and 

I  have  seen  the  dumb  men  throng  to  see  him, 
The  blind  to  hear  him  speak :  matrons  flung 

gloves, 

Ladies  and  maids  their  scarfs  and  handkerchers, 
Upon  him  as  he  pass'd :  the  nobles  bended 
As  to  Jove's  statue ;  and  the  commons  made 
A  shower  and  thunder  with  their  caps  and  shouts: 
I  never  saw  the  like. 

Bru.  Let 's  to  the  Capitol ; 

And  carry  with  us  ears  and  eyes  for  the  time, 
But  hearts  for  the  event. 

Sic.  Have  with  you.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— ROME.     The  Capitol. 
Enter  two  Officers,  to  lay  czishions. 
i  Off.  Come,  come;  they  are  almost  here. 
How  many  stand  for  consulships  ? 


CORIOLANUS. 


[ACT  H. 


2  Off.  Three,  they  say:  but  'tis  thought  of 
every  one  Coriolanus  will  carry  it. 

1  Off.  That's    a    brave    fellow;    but    he's 
vengeance  proud,  and  loves  not  the  common 
people. 

2  Off.  Faith,   there  have  been  many  great 
men  that  have  flattered  the  people,  who  ne'er 
loved  them ;  and  there  be  many  that  they  have 
loved,  they  know  not  wherefore:  so  that,  if 
they  love  they  know  not  why,  they  hate  upon 
no  better  a  ground :  therefore,  for  Coriolanus 
neither  to  care  whether  they  love  or  hate  him 
manifests  the  true  knowledge  he  has  in  their 
disposition ;  and,  out  of  his  noble  carelessness, 
lets  them  plainly  see 't. 

1  Off.  If  he  did  not  care  whether  he  had 
their  love  or  no,  he  waved  indifferently  'twixt 
doing  them  neither  good  nor  harm;  but  he 
seeks  their  hate  with  greater  devotion  than  they 
can  render  it  him ;  and  leaves  nothing  undone 
that   may  fully  discover   him   their   opposite. 
Now,  to  seem  to  affect  the  malice  and  dis- 
pleasure of  the  people  is  as  bad  as  that  which 
he  dislikes, — to  flatter  them  for  their  love. 

2  Off.    He  hath   deserved  worthily  of  his 
country:  and  his  ascent  is  not  by  such  easy 
degrees  as  those  who,  having  been  supple  and 
courteous  to  the  people,  bonnetted,  without  any 
further  deed  to  have  them  at  all  into  their  esti- 
mation and  report :  but  he  hath  so  planted  his 
honours  in  their  eyes,  and  his  actions  in  their 
hearts,  that  for  their  tongues  to  be  silent,  and 
not  confess  so  much,  were  a  kind  of  ingrateful 
injury ;  to  report  otherwise  were  a  malice  that, 
giving  itself  the  lie,  would  pluck  reproof  and 
rebuke  from  every  ear  that  heard  it. 

I  Off.  No  more  of  him ;  he  is  a  worthy  man : 
make  way,  they  are  coming. 

A  Sennet.  Enter,  with  Lictors  before  them, 
COMINIUS  the  Consul,  MENENIUS,  CORIO- 
LANUS, Senators,  SICINIUS,  and  BRUTUS. 
The  Senators  take  their  places ;  the  Tribunes 
take  theirs  also  by  themselves. 

Men.  Having  determin'd  of  the  Volsces,  and 
To  send  for  Titus  Lartius,  it  remains, 
As  the  main  point  of  this  our  after-meeting, 
To  gratify  his  noble  service  that 
Hath   thus   stood   for   his   country:   therefore 

please  you, 

Most  reverend  and  grave  elders,  to  desire 
The  present  consul,  and  last  general 
In  our  well-found  successes,  to  report 
A  little  of  that  worthy  work  perform'd 
By  Caius  Marcius  Coriolanus ;  whom 
We  meet  here,  both  to  thank  and  to  remember 
With  honours  like  himself. 


I  Sen.  Speak,  good  Cominius: 

Leave  nothing  out  for  length,  and  make  us 

think 

Rather  our  state 's  defective  for  requital 
Than  we  to   stretch  it   out. — Masters   o'  the 

people, 

We  do  request  your  kindest  ears ;  and,  after, 
Your  loving  motion  toward  the  common  body, 
To  yield  what  passes  here. 

Sic.  We  are  convented 

Upon  a  pleasing  treaty ;  and  have  hearts 
Inclinable  to  honour  and  advance 
The  theme  of  our  assembly. 

Bru.  Which  the  rather 

We  shall  be  bless'd  to  do,  if  he  remember 
A  kinder  value  of  the  people  than 
He  hath  hereto  priz'd  them  at. 

Men.  That 's  off,  that 's  off ; 

I  would  you  rather  had  been  silent.     Please 

you 
To  hear  Cominius  speak  ? 

Bru.  Most  willingly : 

But  yet  my  caution  was  more  psrtinent 
Than  the  rebuke  you  give  it. 

Men.  He  Iov2s  your  people ; 

But  tie  him  not  to  be  their  bedtellow. — 
Worthy  Cominius,  speak. 

[CORIOLANUS  rises,  and  offers  to  go  away. 
Nay,  keep  your  place. 

I  Sen.  Sit,  Coriolanus ;  never  shame  to  hear 
What  you  have  nobly  done. 

Cor.  Your  honours'  pardon : 

I  had  rather  have  my  wounds  to  heal  again 
Than  hear  say  how  I  got  them. 

Bru.  Sir,  I  hope 

My  words  disbench'd  you  not. 

Cor.  No,  sir ;  yet  oft, 

When  blows  have  made  me  stay,  I  fled  from 

words.  [people, 

You  sooth'd  not,  therefore  hurt  not :  but  your 

I  love  them  as  they  weigh. 

Men.  Pray  now,  sit  down. 

Cor.  I  had  rather  have  one  scratch  my  head 

i'  the  sun 

When  the  alarum  were  struck,  than  idly  sit 
To  hear  my  nothings  monster' d.  \_Exit. 

Men.  Masters  o'  the  people, 

Your  multiplying  spawn  how  can  he  flatter, — 
That 's  thousand  to  one  good  one, — when  you 

now  see 

He  had  rather  venture  all  his  limbs  for  honour 

Than   one  on's   ears    to    hear  it? — Proceed, 

Cominius.  [lanus 

Com.  I  shall  lack  voice  :  the  deeds  of  Corio- 
Should  not  be  utterM  feebly. — It  is  held 
That  valour  is  the  chiefest  virtue,  and 
Most  dignifies  the  haver :  if  it  be,. 


SCENE  II.] 


CORIOLANUS. 


833 


The  man  I  speak  of  cannot  in  the  world 
Be  singly  counterpois'd.     At  sixteen  years, 
When  Tarquin  made  a  head  for  Rome,  he  fought 
Beyond  the  mark  of  others :  our  then  dictator, 
Whom  with  all  praise  I  point  at,  saw  him  fight, 
When  with  his  Amazonian  chin  he  drove 
The  bristled  lips  before  him :  he  bestrid 
An  o'erpress'd  Roman,  and  i'  the  consul's  view 
Slew  three  opposers :  Tarquin's  self  he  met, 
And  struck  him  on  his  knee :  in  that  day's  feats, 
When  he  might  act  the  woman  in  the  scene, 
He  prov'd  best  man  i'  the  field,  and  for  his  meed 
Was  brow-bound  with  the  oak.     His  pupil  age 
Man-enter'd  thus,  he  waxed  like  a  sea; 
And  in  the  brunt  of  seventeen  battles  since 
He  lurch'd  all  swords  of  the  garland.     For  this 

last, 

Before  and  in  Corioli,  let  me  say, 
I  cannot  speak  him  home :  he  stopp'd  the  fliers ; 
And  by  his  rare  example  made  the  coward 
Turn  terror  into  sport :  as  weeds  before 
A  vessel  under  sail,  so  men  obey'd, 
And  fell  below  his  stem:  his  sword,— death's 

stamp, —  7  • , ', 

Where  it  did  mark,  it  took ;  from  face  to  foot 
He  was  a  thing  of  blood,  whose  every  motion 
Was  timed  with  dying  cries :  alone  he  enter'd 
The  mortal  gate  of  the  city,  which  he  painted 
With  shunless  destiny ;  aidless  came  off, 
And  with  a  sudden  re-enforcement  struck 
Corioli  like  a  planet.     Now  all 's  his : 
When,  by  and  by,  the  din  of  war  'gan  pierce 
His  ready  sense;  then  straight  his  doubled  spirit 
Re-quicken'd  what  in  flesh  was  fatigate, 
And  to  the  battle  came  he ;  where  he  did 
Run  reeking  o'er  the  lives  of  men  as  if 
'Twere  a  perpetual  spoil :  and  till  we  call'd 
Both  field  and  city  ours  he  never  stood 
To  ease  his  breast  with  panting. 

Men.  Worthy  man ! 

i  Sen.  He  cannot  but  with  measure  fit  the 

honours 
Which  we  devise  him. 

Com.  Our  spoils  he  kick'd  at ; 

And  look'd  upon  things  precious  as  they  were 
The  common  muck  of  the  world :  he  covets  less 
Than  misery  itself  would  give ;  rewards 
His  deeds  with  doing  them ;  and  is  content 
To  spend  the  time  to  end  it. 

Men.  He 's  right  noble : 

Let  him  be  call'd  for. 

i  Sen.  Call  Coriolanus. 

Off.  He  doth  appear. 

Re-enter  CORIOLANUS.^ 

Men.  The  senate,  Coriolanus,  are  well  pleas'd 
To  make  thee  consul. 


Cor.  I  do  owe  them  still 

My  life  and  services. 

Men.  It  then  remains 

That  you  do  speak  to  the  people. 

Cor.  I  do  beseech  you 

Let  me  o'erleap  that  custom ;  for  I  cannot 
Put  on  the  gown,  stand  naked,  and  entreat  them, 
For  my  wounds'  sake,  to  give  their  suffrage : 

please  you 
That  I  may  pass  this  doing. 

Sic.  Sir,  the  people 

Must  have  their  voices ;  neither  will  they  bate 
One  jot  of  ceremony. 

Men.  Put  them  not  to 't : — 

Pray  you,  go  fit  you  to  the  custom ;  and 
Take  to  you,  as  your  predecessors  have, 
Your  honour  with  your  form. 

Cor.  It  is  a  part 

That  I  shall  blush  in  acting,  and  might  well 
Be  taken  from  the  people. 

Bru.  Mark  you  that  ? 

Cor.  To  brag  unto  them, — thus  I  did,  and 
thus ; —  [hide 

Show  them  the  unaching  scars  which  I  should 
As  if  I  had  receiv'd  them  for  the  hire 
Of  their  breath  only! — 

Men.  Do  not  stand  upon 't. — 

We  recommend  to  you,  tribunes  of  the  people, 
Our  purpose  to  them  ; — and  to  our  noble  consul 
Wish  we  all  joy  and  honour. 

Sen.  To  Coriolanus  come  all  joy  and  honour ! 
{Flourish.     Exeunt  all  but  Sic. 
and  BRU. 

Bru.  You  see  how  he  intends  to  use  the 
people. 

Sic.  May  they  perceive 's  intent!     He  will 

requite  them 

As  if  he  did  contemn  what  he  requested 
Should  be  in  them  to  give. 

Bru.  Come,  we  '11  inform  them 

Of  our  proceedings  here :  on  the  market-place 
I  know  they  do  attend  us.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — ROME.     The  Forum. 
Enter  several  Citizens. 

1  Cit.  Once,  if  he  do  require  our  voices,  we 
ought  not  to  deny  him. 

2  Cit.  We  may,  sir,  if  we  will. 

3  Cit.  We  have  power  in  ourselves  to  do  it, 
but  it  is  a  power  that  we  have  no  power  to  do: 
for  if  he  show  us  his  wounds  and  tell  us  his 
deeds,  we  are  to  put  our  tongues  into  those 
wounds,  and  speak  for  them ;  so,  if  he  tell  us 
his  noble  deeds,  we  must  also  tell  him  our 
noble  acceptance  of  them.     Ingratitude  is  mon- 
strous :  and  for  the  multitude  to  be  ingrateful, 


834 


CORIOLANUS. 


[ACT  ii.  ^ 


were  to  make  a  monster  of  the  multitude ;  of 
the  which  we,  being  members,  should  bring 
ourselves  to  be  monstrous  members. 

1  Cit.  And  to  make  us  no  better  thought  of, 
a  little  help  will  serve ;  for  once  we  stood  up 
about  the  corn,  he  himself  stuck  not  to  call  us 
the  many-headed  multitude. 

3  Cit.  We  have  been  called  so  of  many ;  not 
that  our  heads  are  some  brown,  some  black, 
some  auburn,  some  bald,  but  that  our  wits  are 
so  diversely  coloured;  and  truly  I  think,  if  all 
our  wits  were  to  issue  out  of  one  skull,  they 
would  fly  east,  west,  north,  south;  and  their 
consent  of  one  direct  way  should  be  at  once  to 
all  the  points  o'  the  compass. 

2  Cit.  Think  you  so?    Which  way  do  you 
judge  my  wit  would  fly  ? 

3  Cit.  Nay,  your  wit  will  not  so  soon  out  as 
another  man's  will, — 'tis  strongly  wedged  up  in 
a  block-head ;  but  if  it  were  at  liberty,  'twould, 
sure,  southward. 

2  Cit.  Why  that  way? 

3  Cit.  To  lose  itself  in  a  fog ;  where  being 
three  parts  melted  away  with  rotten  dews,  the 
fourth  would  return,  for  conscience'  sake,  to 
help  to  get  thee  a  wife. 

2  Cit.  You  are  never  without  your  tricks : — 
you  may,  you  may. 

3  Cit.  Are  you  all  resolved  to  give  your 
voices  ?     But  that 's  no  matter,  the  greater  part 
carries  it.     I  say,  if  he  would  incline  to  the 
people,  there  was  never  a  worthier  man.    Here 
he  comes,  and  in  the  gown  of  humility :  mark 
his  behaviour.     We  are  not  to  stay  altogether, 
but  to  come  by  him  where  he  stands,  by  ones, 
by  twos,  and  by  threes.     He's  to  make  his 
requests  by  particulars ;  wherein  every  one  of  us 
has  a  single  honour,  in  giving  him  our  own  voices 
with  our  own  tongues :  therefore  follow  me,  and 
I  '11  direct  you  how  you  shall  go  by  him. 

All.  Content,  content.  {Exeunt. 

Enter  CORIOLANUS  and  MENENIUS. 

Men.  O  sir,  you  are  not  right ;  have  you  not 

known 
The  worthiest  men  have  done 't ! 

Cor.  What  must  I  say? — 

1 pray ',  sir, — Plague  upon 't !  I  cannot  bring 
My  tongue  to  such  a  pace. — Look,  sir; — my 

wounds; — 

1  got  them  in  my  country's  service,  when 
Some  certain  of  your  brethren  roared,  and  ran 
From  the  noise  of  our  own  drums. 

Men.  O  me,  the  gods ! 

You  must  not  speak  of  that :  you  must  desire 

them 
To  think  upon  you. 


Cor.  Think  upon  me !  hang  'em! 

I  would  they  would  forget  me,  like  the  virtues 
Which  our  divines  lose  by  'em. 

Men.  You  '11  mar  all : 

I  '11  leave  you.     Pray  you,  speak  to  'em,  I  pray 

you, 
In  wholesome  manner. 

Cor.  Bid  them  wash  their  faces 

And  keep  their  teeth  clean.     {Exit  MENENIUS. 
So,  here  comes  a  brace  : 

Re-enter  two  Citizens. 
You  know  the  cause,  sirs,  of  my  standing  here. 

1  Cit.  We  do,  sir ;  tell  us  what  hath  brought 

you  to 't. 
Cor.  Mine  own  desert 

2  Cit.  Your  own  desert ! 

Cor.  Ay,  not  mine  own  desire. 

I  Cit.  How !  not  your  own  desire ! 

Cor.  No,  sir,  'twas  never  my  desire  yet  to 
trouble  the  poor  with  begging. 

I  Cit.  You  must  think,  if  we  give  you  any- 
thing, we  hope  to  gain  by  you. 

Cor.  Well  then,  I  pray,  your  price  o'  the 
consulship  ? 

1  Cit.  The  price  is  to  ask  it  kindly. 

Cor.  Kindly !  sir,  I  pray,  let  me  ha 't :  I 
have  wounds  to  show  you,  which  shall  be 
yours  in  private. — Your  good  voice,  sir;  what 
say  you  ? 

2  Cit.  You  shall  ha'  it,  worthy  sir. 

Cor.  A  match,  sir. — There  is  in  all  two 
worthy  voices  begg'd. — I  have  your  alms:  adieu. 

1  Cit.  But  this  is  something  odd. 

2  Cit.  An  'twere  to  give  again, — but  'tis  no 
matter.  [Exeunt  two  Citizens. 

Re-enter  oilier  two  Citizens. 
Cor.  Pray  you  now,  if  it  may  stand  with  the 
tune  of  your  voices  that  I  may  be  consul,  I 
have  here  the  customary  govvn. 

3  Cit.  You  have  deserved   nobly  of  your 
country,  and  you  have  not  deserved  nobly. 

Cor.  Your  enigma? 

3  Cit.  You  have  been  a  scourge  to  her 
enemies,  you  have  been  a  rod  to  her  friends; 
you  have  not,  indeed,  loved  the  common 
people. 

Cor.  You  should  account  me  the  more 
virtuous,  that  I  have  not  been  common  in  my 
love.  I  will,  sir,  flatter  my  sworn  brother, 
the  people,  to  earn  a  dearer  estimation  of  them ; 
'tis  a  condition  they  account  gentle :  and  since 
the  wisdom  of  their  choice  is  rather  to  have  my 
hat  than  my  heart,  I  will  practise  the  insinuat- 
ing nod,  and  be  off  to  them  most  counterfeitly ; 
that  is,  sir,  I  will  counterfeit  the  bewitchment 
of  some  popular  man,  and  give  it  bountifully 


SCENE  III.] 


CORIOLANUS. 


835 


to  the  desirers.      Therefore,  beseech  you,   I 
may  be  consul. 

4  Cit.  We  hope  to  find  you  our  friend ;  and 
therefore  give  you  our  voices  heartily. 

3  Cit.  You  have  received  many  wounds  for 
your  country. 

Cor.  I  will  not  seal  your  knowledge  with 
showing  them.  I  will  make  much  of  your 
voices,  and  so  trouble  you  no  further. 

Both  Cit.  The  gods  give  you  joy,  sir,  heartily! 

[Exeunt. 

Cor.  Most  sweet  voices ! — 
Better  it  is  to  die,  better  to  starve, 
Than  crave  the  hire  which  first  we  do  deserve. 
Why  in  this  wolfish  toge  should  I  stand  here, 
To  beg  of  Hob  and  Dick,  that  do  appear, 
Their  needless  vouches?  Custom  calls  me  to't: — 
What  custom  wills,  in  all  things  should  we  do 't, 
The  dust  on  antique  time  would  lie  unswept, 
And  mountainous  error  be  too  highly  heap'd 
For  truth  to  o'erpeer.     Rather  than  fool  it  so, 
Let  the  high  office  and  the  honour  go 
To  one  that  would  do  thus. — I  am  half  through ; 
The  one  part  suffer'd,  the  other  will  I  do. 
Here  come  more  voices. 

Re-enter  other  three  Citizens. 
Your  voices :  for  your  voices  I  have  fought ; 
Watch'd  for  your  voices ;  for  your  voices  bear 
Of  wounds  two  dozen  odd ;  battles  thrice  six 
I  have  seen  and  heard  of ;  for  your  voices  have 
Done  many  things,  some  less,  some  more :  your 

voices : 
Indeed,  I  would  be  consul. 

5  Cit.  He  has  done  nobly,  and  cannot  go 
without  any  honest  man's  voice. 

6  Cit.  Therefore  let  him  be  consul :  the  gods 
give  him  joy,  and  make  him  good  friend  to  the 
people ! 

All  3  Citizens.  Amen,  amen. — God  save 
thee,  noble  consul !  [Exeunt. 

Cor.  Worthy  voices ! 
Re-inter  MENENIUS,  with  BRUTUS  and 

SICINIUS. 
Men.  You  have  stood  your  limitation;  and 

the  tribunes 

Endue  you  with  the  people's  voice : — remains 
That,  in  the  official  marks  invested,  you 
Anon  do  meet  the  senate. 

Cor.  Is  this  done  ? 

Sic.  The  custom  of  request  you  have  dis- 

charg'd : 

The  people  do  admit  you ;  and  are  summoned 
To  meet  anon,  upon  your  approbation. 
Cor.  Where?  at  the  senate-house? 
Sic.  There,  Coriolanus. 

Cor.  May  I  change  these  garments  ? 


Sic.  You  may,  sir. 

Cor.  That  I'll  straight  do;   and,  knowing 

myself  again, 
Repair  to  the  senate -house.  [along  ? 

Men.   I'll   keep  you   company. — Will  you 

Bru.  We  stay  here  for  the  people. 

Sic.  Fare  you  well. 

[Exeunt  COR.  and  MEN. 
He  has  it  now ;  and  by  his  looks  methinks 
'Tis  warm  at  his  heart.  [weeds. 

Bru.  With  a  proud  heart  he  wore  his  humble 
Will  you  dismiss  the  people  ? 

Re-enter  Citizens. 

Sic.  How  now,  my  masters !  have  you  chose 
this  man  ? 

1  Cit.  He  has  our  voices,  sir.  [loves. 
Bru.  We  pray  the  gods  he  may  deserve  your 

2  Cit.  Amen,  sir : — to  my  poor  unworthy 

notice, 
He  mocked  us  when  he  begg'd  our  voices. 

3  Cit.  Certainly, 
He  flouted  us  downright. 

1  Cit.  No,  'tis  his  kind  of  speech, — he  did 

not  mock  us. 

2  Cit.   Not  one  amongst  us,  save  yourself, 

but  says 

He  us'd  us  scornfully:  he  should  have  show'd  us 
His  marks  of  merit,   wounds   receiv'd  for's 

country. 

Sic.  Why,  so  he  did,  I  am  sure. 
Citizens.  No,  no ;  no  man  saw  'em. 

3  Cit.  He  said  he  had  wounds,  which  he 

could  show  in  private ; 
And  with  his  hat,  thus  waving  it  in  scorn, 
/  would  be  consul,  says  he ;  aged  custom, 
But  by  your  voices,  will  not  so  permit  me  ; 
Your  voices  therefore  :  when  we  granted  that, 
Here  was,  I  thank  you  for  your  voices, — thank 

you,— 
Your  most  sweet  voices: — now  you  have  left 

your  voices 

I  have  no  further  with  you: — was  not  this 
mockery  ? 

Sic.  Why,  either  were  you  ignorant  to  see  ;t? 
Or,  seeing  it,  of  such  childish  friendliness 
To  yield  your  voices  ? 

Brtt.  Could  you  not  have  told  him, 

As  you  were  lesson'd, — when  he  had  no  power, 
But  was  a  petty  servant  to  the  state, 
He  was  your  enemy ;  ever  spake  against 
Your  liberties,  and  the  charters  that  you  bear 
I'  the  body  of  the  weal :  and  now,  arriving 
A  place  of  potency  and  sway  o'  the  state, 
If  he  should  still  malignantly  remain 
Fast  foe  to  the  plebeii,  your  voices  might 
Be  curses  to  yourselves  ?    You  should  have  said, 


836 


CORIOLANUS. 


[ACT  III. 


That  as  his  worthy  deeds  did  claim  no  less 
Than  what  he  stood  for,  so  his  gracious  nature 
Would  think  upon  you  for  your  voices,  and 
Translate  his  malice  towards  you  into  love, 
Standing  your  friendly  lord. 

Sic.  Thus  to  have  said, 

As  you  were  fore-advis'd,  had  touch'd  his  spirit 
And  tried  his  inclination ;  from  him  pluck'd 
Either  his  gracious  promise,  which  you  might, 
As  cause  had  call'd  you  up,  have  held  him  to ; 
Or  else  it  would  have  gall'd  his  surly  nature, 
Which  easily  endures  not  article 
Tying  him  to  aught ;  so,  putting  him  to  rage, 
You  should  have  ta'en  the  advantage  of  his 

choler, 
And  pass'd  him  unelected. 

Bru.  Did  you  perceive 

He  did  solicit  you  in  free  contempt 
When  he  did  need  your  loves ;  and  do  you  think 
That  his  contempt  shall  not  be  bruising  to  you 
When  he  hath  power  to  crush?     Why,  had 
your  bodies  [cry 

No  heart  among  you?    Or  had  you  tongues  to 
Against  the  rectorship  of  judgment  ? 

Sic.  Have  you 

Ere  now  denied  the  asker  ?  and  now  again, 
On  him  that  did  not  ask  but  mock,  bestow 
Your  su'd-for  tongues  ?  [him  yet. 

3  Cit.    He's  not  confirm'd;   we  may  deny 

2  Cit.  And  will  deny  him : 
I  '11  have  five  hundred  voices  of  that  sound. 

I  Cit.  I  twice  five  hundred,  and  their  friends 
to  piece  'em.  [friends 

Bru.  Get  you  hence  instantly;  and  tell  those 
They  have  chose  a  consul  that  will  from  them 

take 

Their  liberties ;  make  them  of  no  more  voice 
Than  dogs,  that  are  as  often  beat  for  barking 
As  therefore  kept  to  do  so. 

Sic.  Let  them  assemble ; 

And,  on  a  safer  judgment,  all  revoke 
Your  ignorant  election :  enforce  his  pride 
And  his  old  hate  unto  you :  besides,  forget  not 
With  what  contempt  he  wore  the  humble  weed ; 
How  in  his  suit  he  scorn'd  you :  but  your  loves, 
Thinking  upon  his  services,  took  from  you 
The  apprehension  of  his  present  portance, 
Which,  most  gibingly,  ungravely,  he  did  fashion 
After  the  inveterate  hate  he  bears  you. 

Bru.  Lay 

A  fault  on  us,  your  tribunes ;  that  we  labour'd, — 
No  impediment  between, — but  that  you  must 
Cast  your  election  on  him. 

Sic.  Say  you  chose  him 

More  after  our  commandment  than  as  guided 
By  your  own  true  affections;  and  that  your 
minds, 


Pre-occupied  with  what  you  rather  must  do 
Than  what  you  should,  made  you  against  the 

grain 

To  voice  him  consul.     Lay  the  fault  on  us. 
Bru.  Ay,  spare  us  not.     Say  we  read  lectures 

to  you, 

How  youngly  he  began  to  serve  his  country, 
How  long  continued :  and  what  stock  he  springs 

of —  [came 

The  noble  house  o'  the  Marcians ;  from  whence 
That  Ancus  Marcius,  Numa's  daughter's  son, 
Who,  after  great  Hostilius,  here  was  king ; 
Of  the  same  house  Publius  and  Quintus  were, 
That    our    best    water    brought    by    conduits 

hither ; 

And  Censorinus,  darling  of  the  people, 
And  nobly  nam'd  so,  twice  being  censor, 
Was  his  great  ancestor. 

Sic.  One  thus  descended, 

That  hath  beside  well  in  his  person  wrought 
To  be  set  high  in  place,  we  did  commend 
To  your  remembrances :  but  you  have  found, 
Scaling  his  present  bearing  with  his  past, 
That  he 's  your  fixed  enemy,  and  revoke 
Your  sudden  approbation. 

Bru.  Say  you  ne'er  had  done 't, — 

Harp  on  that  still, — but  by  our  putting  on: 
And   presently  when  you   have  drawn  your 

number, 
Rep      to  the  Capitol. 

Citizens.  We  will  so ;  almost  all 

Repent  in  their  election.  {Exeunt. 

Bru.  Let  them  go  on ; 

This  mutiny  were  better  put  in  hazard 
Than  stay,  past  doubt,  for  greater: 
If,  as  his  nature  is,  he  fall  in  rage 
With  their  refusal,  both  observe  and  answer 
The  vantage  of  his  anger. 

Sic.  To  the  Capitol, 

Come:  we  will  be  there  before  the  stream  o* 

the  people ; 

And  this  shall  seem,  as  partly  'tis,  their  own, 
Which  we  have  goaded  onward.          [Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 
SCENE  I. — ROME.     A  Street. 

Cornets.      Enter    CORIOLANUS,    MENENIUS, 

COMINUS,  TITUS  LARTIUS,  Senators,  and 

Patricians. 

Cor.  Tullus  Aufidius,  then,  had  made  new 
head  ?  [caus'd 

Lart.  He  had,  my  lord ;  and  that  it  was  which 
Our  swifter  composition. 

Cor.  So  then  the  Volsces  stand  but  as  at  first; 


SCENE  "l. 


CORIOLANUS. 


Ready,  when  time  shall  prompt  them,  to  make 

road 
Upon 's  again. 

Com.  They  are  worn,  lord  consul,  so 

That  we  shall  hardly  in  our  ages  see 
Their  banners  wave  again. 

Cor.  Saw  you  Aufidius  ? 

Lart.  On  safeguard  he  came  to  me ;  and  did 

curse 

Against  the  Volsces,  for  they  had  so  vilely 
Yielded  the  town  :  he  is  retir'd  to  Antium. 

Cor.  Spoke  he  of  me? 

Lart.  He  did,  my  lord. 

Cor.  How?  what? 

Lart.   How  often  he  had  met  you,  sword  to 

sword ; 

That  of  all  things  upon  the  earth  he  hated 
Your  person  most;  that  he  would  pawn  his 

fortunes 

To  hopeless  restitution,  so  he  might 
Be  call'd  your  vanquisher. 

Cor.  At  Antium  lives  he  ? 

Lart.  At  Antium. 

Cor.  I  wish  I  had  a  cause  to  seek  him  there, 
To  oppose  his  hatred  fully. — Welcome  home. 

[To  LARTIUS. 

Enter  SICINIUS  and  BRUTUS. 

Behold !  these  are  the  tribunes  of  the  people, 
The   tongues   o'  the   common   mouth.     I   do 

despise  them; 

For  they  do  prank  them  in  authority, 
Against  all  noble  sufferance. 

Sic.  Pass  no  further. 

Cor.  Ha !  what  is  that  ? 

Brti.   It  will   be   dangerous  to  go   on :    no 
further. 

Cor.  What  makes  this  change  ? 

Men.  The  matter  ?  [commons  ? 

Com.  Hath  he  not  pass'd  the  nobles  and  the 

Bni.  Cominius,  no. 

Cor.  Have  I  had  children's  voices  ? 

I  Sen.  Tribunes,  give  way ;  he  shall  to  the 
market-place. 

Bru.  The  people  are  incens'd  against  him. 

Sic.  Stop, 

Or  all  will  fall  in  broil. 

Cor.  Are  these  your  herd  ? — 

Must  these  have  voices,  that  can  yield  them 

now,  [your  offices  ? 

And  straight  disclaim  their  tongues  ? — What  are 

You  being  their  mouths,  why  rule  you  not  their 

teeth? 
Have  you  not  set  them  on  ? 

Men.  Be  calm,  be  calm. 

Cor.  It  is  a  purpos'd  thing,  and  grows  by  plot, 
To  curb  the  will  of  the  nobility : 


Suffer 't,  and  live  with  such  as  cannot 
Nor  ever  will  be  rul'd. 

Bru.  Call 't  not  a  plot : 

The  people  cry  you  mock'd  them ;  and  of !»._, 
When  corn  was  given  them  gratis,  you  repin'd ; 
Scandal'd  the  suppliants  for  the  people, — call'd 

them 
Time-pleasers,  flatterers,  foes  to  nobleness. 

Cor.  Why,  this  was  known  before. 

Bru.  Not  to  them  all. 

Cor.  Have  you  inform'd  them  sithence  ? 

Bru.  How !  I  inform  them ! 

Cor.  You  are  like  to  do  such  business. 

Bru.  Not  unlike, 

Each  way,  to  better  yours. 

Cor.  Why,  then,  should  I  be  consul?    By 

yon  clouds, 

Let  me  deserve  so  ill  as  you,  and  make  me 
Your  fellow  tribune. 

Sic.  You  show  too  much  of  that 

For  which  the  people  stir :  if  you  will  pass 
To  where  you  are  bound,  you  must  inquire 

your  way, 

Which  you  are  out  of,  with  a  gentler  spirit ; 
Or  never  be  so  noble  as  a  consul, 
Nor  yoke  with  him  for  tribune. 

Men.  Let 's  be  calm. 

Com.  The  people  are  abus'd ;  set  on.     This 

palt'ring 

Becomes  not  Rome ;  nor  has  Coriolanus 
Deserv'd  this  so  dishonour'd  rub,  laid  falsely 
I'  the  plain  way  of  his  merit. 

Cor.  Tell  me  of  corn  ! 

This  was  my  speech,  and  I  will  speak 't  again, — 

Alen.  Not  now,  not  now. 

I  Sen.  Not  in  this  heat,  sir,  now. 

Cor.  Now,  as   I   live,  I  will. — My  nobler 

friends, 

I  crave  their  pardons  : 

For  the  mutable,  rank-scented  many,  let  them 
Regard  me  as  I  do  not  flatter,  and 
Therein  behold  themselves :  I  say  again, 
In  soothing  them  we  nourish  'gainst  our  senate 
The  cockle  of  rebellion,  insolence,  sedition, 
Which  we  ourselves  have  plough'd  for,  sow'd, 

and  scatter'd, 

By  mingling  them  with  us,  the  honour'd  number; 
Who  lack  not  virtue,  no,  nor  power,  but  that 
Which  they  have  given  to  beggars. 

Men.  Well,  no  more. 

I  Sen.  No  more  words,  we  beseech  you. 

Cor.  How  !  no  more ! 

As  for  my  country  I  have  shed  my  blood, 
Not  fearing  outward  force,  so  shall  my  lungs 
Coin  words  till  their  decay  against  those  measles 
Which  we  disdain  should  tetter  us,  yet  sought 
The  very  way  to  catch  them. 


§3$ 


CORIOLANUS. 


[ACT  III. 


Bru.  You  speak  o'  the  people 

As  if  you  were  a  god  to  punish,  not 
A  man  of  their  infirmity. 

Sic.  'Twere  well 

We  let  the  people  know 't. 

Men.  What,  what  ?  his  choler  ? 

Cor.  Choler! 

Were  I  as  patient  as  the  midnight  sleep, 
By  Jove,  'twould  be  my  mind ! 

Sic.  It  is  a  mind 

That  shall  remain  a  poison  where  it  is, 
Not  poison  any  further. 

Cor.  Shall  remain ! — 

Hear  you  this  Triton  of  the  minnows?  mark  you 
His  absolute  shall? 

Com.  'Twas  from  the  canon. 

Cor.  Shall! 

0  good,  but  most  unwise  patricians !  why, 
You  grave,  but  reckless  senators,  have  you  thus 
Given  Hydra  leave  to  choose  an  officer, 
That  with  his  peremptory  shall,  being  but 
The  horn  and  noise  o'  the  monster,  wants  not 

spirit 

To  say  he  '11  turn  your  current  in  a  ditch, 
And  make  your  channel  his  ?    If  he  have  power, 
Then  vail  your  ignorance :  if  none,  awake 
Your  dangerous  lenity.     If  you  are  learn'd 
Be  not  as  common  fools ;  if  you  are  not, 
Let  them  have  cushions  by  you.     You  are 

plebeians 

If  they  be  senators :  and  they  are  no  less 
When,  both  your  voices  blended,  the  great' st 
taste  [trate; 

Most  palates  theirs.  '  They  choose  their  magis- 
And  such  a  one  as  he,  wh    puts  his  shall, 
His  popular  shall,  against  a  graver  bench 
Than  ever  frown'd  in  Greece.    By  Jove  himself, 
It  makes  the  consuls  base :  and  my  soul  aches 
To  know,  when  two  authorities  are  up, 
Neither  supreme,  how  soon  confusion 
May  enter  'twixt  the  gap  of  both,  and  take 
The  one  by  the  other. 

Com.  Well,  on  to  the  market-place. 

Cor.  Whoever  gave  that  counsel,  to  give  forth 
The  corn  o'  the  storehouse  gratis,  as  'twas  us'd 
Sometime  in  Greece, — 

Men.  Well,  well,  no  more  of  that. 

Cor.  Though  there  the  people  had   more 
absolute  power, — 

1  say,  they  nourished  disobedience,  fed 
The  ruin  of  the  state. 

Bru.  Why,  shall  the  people  give 

One  that  speaks  thus  their  voice? 

Cor.  I  '11  give  my  reasons, 

More  worthier  than  their  voices.     They  know 

the  corn 
Was  not  our  recompense,  resting  well  assur'd 


They  ne'er  did  service  for 't :  being  press'd  to 

the  war, 

Even  when  the  navel  of  the  state  was  touch'd, 
They  would  not  thread  the  gates, — this  kind 

of  service 

Did  not  deserve  corn  gratis :  being  i'  the  war, 
Their  mutinies  and  revolts,  wherein  they  show'd 
Most  valour,  spoke  not  for  them.  The  accusation 
Which  they  have  often  made  against  the  senate, 
All  cause  unborn,  could  never  be  the  motive 
Of  our  so  frank  donation.     Well,  what  then? 
How  shall  this  bisson  multitude  digest 
The  senate's  courtesy?     Let  deeds  express 
What 's  like  to  be  their  words : —  We  did  request 

it; 

We  are  the  greater  poll \  and  in  true  fear 
They  gave  us  our  demands: — thus  we  debase 
The  nature  of  our  seats,  and  make  the  rabble 
Call  our  cares  fears :  which  will  in  time 
Break  ope  the  locks  o'  the  senate,  and  bring  in 
The  crows  to  peck  the  eagles. — 

Men.  Come,  enough. 

Bru.  Enough,  with  over-measure. 

Cor.  No,  take  more : 

What  may  be  sworn  by,  both  divine  and  human, 

Seal  what  I  end  withal ! — This  double  worship, — 

Where  one  part  does  disdain  with  cause,  the 

other  [wisdom, 

Insult  without  all  reason ;  where  gentry,  title, 
Cannot  conclude  but  by  the  yea  and  no 
Of  general  ignorance. — it  must  omit 
Real  necessities,  and  give  way  the  while 
To  unstable  slightness:   purpose  so  barr'd,  it 

follows,  [youj — 

Nothing  is  done  to  purpose.   Therefore,  beseech 
You  that  will  be  less  fearful  than  discreet; 
That  love  the  fundamental  part  of  state 
More  than  you  doubt  the  change  on't;  that 

prefer 

A  noble  life  before  a  long,  and  wish 
To  vamp  a  body  with  a  dangerous  physic 
That 's  sure  of  death  without  it, — at  once  pluck 

out 

Vhe  multitudinous  tongue ;  let  them  not  lick 
The  sweet  which  is  their  poison :  your  dishonour 
Mangles  true  judgment,  and  bereaves  the  state 
Of  that  integrity  which  should  become 't ; 
Not  having  the  power  to  do  the  good  it  would, 
For  the  ill  which  doth  control 't. 
Bru.  Has  said  enough. 

Sic.  Has  spoken  like  a  traitor,  and  shall 

answer 
As  traitors  do. 

Cor.  Thou  wretch  despite  o'erwhelm  thee ! — 
What  should  the  people  do  with  these  bald 

tribunes? 
On  whom  depending,  their  obedience  fails 


SCENE  I.] 


CORIOLANUS. 


839 


To  the  greater  bench :  in  a  rebellion,         [law, 
When  what 's  not  meet,  but  what  must  be,  was 
Then  were  they  chosen ;  in  a  better  hour 
Let  what  is  meet  be  said  it  must  be  meet, 
And  throw  their  power  i'  the  dust. 

Bru.   Manifest  treason. 

Sic.  This  a  consul?  no. 

Bru.  The  sediles,  ho! — Let  him  be  appre- 
hended, [whose  name  myself 

Sic.  Go,  call  the  people  [Exit BRUTUS]; — in 
Attach  thee  as  a  traitorous  innovator, 
A  foe  to  the  public  weal.     Obey,  I  charge  thee, 
And  follow  to  thine  answer. 

Cor.  Hence,  old  goat ! 

Sen.  and  Pat.  We  '11  surety  him. 

Com.  Aged  sir,  hands  off. 

Cor.   Hence,  rotten  thing !  or  I  shall  shake 

thy  bones 
Out  of  thy  garments. 

Sic.  Help,  ye  citizens  1 

Re-enter  BRUTUS,  with,  the  ^Ediles  and  a 
rabble  0/ Citizens. 

Men.  On  both  sides  more  respect. 

Sic.  Here's  he  that  would  take  from  you 
all  your  power. 

Bni.  Seize  him,  sediles. 

Citizens.  Down  with  him  !  down  with  him  ! 

2  Sen.  Weapons,  weapons,  weapons ! 

[They  all  bustle  about  CORIOLANUS. 
Tribunes,  patricians,  citizens ! — what,  ho ! — 
Sicinius,  Brutus,  Coriolanus,  citizens  ! 

Citizens.  Peace,   peace,   peace;   stay,  hold, 
peace ! 

Men.  What  is  about  to  be? — I  am  out  of 
breath ;  [bunes 

Confusion 's  near  ;  I  cannot  speak.  — You  tri- 
To  the  people, — Coriolanus,  patience : — 
Speak,  good  Sicinius. 

Sic.  Hear  me,  people ;  peace ! 

Citizens.  Let's  hear  our  tribune":  peace! — 
Speak,  speak,  speak. 

Sic.  You  are  at  point  to  lose  your  liberties: 
Marcius  would  have  all  from  you ;  Marcius, 
Whom  late  you  have  nam'd  for  consul. 

Men.  Fie,  fie,  fie  ! 

This  is  the  way  to  kindle,  not  to  quench. 

I  Sen.  To  unbuild  the  city,  and  to  lay  all  flat. 

Sic.  What  is  the  city  but  the  people  ? 

Citizens.  True, 

The  people  are  the  city. 

Bru.  By  the  consent  of  all,  we  were  establish'd 
The  people's  magistrates. 

Cit.  You  so  remain. 

Men.  And  so  are  like  to  do. 

Cor.  That  is  the  way  to  lay  the  city  flat; 
To  bring  the  roof  to  the  foundation, 


And  bury  all  which  yet  distinctly  ranges, 
In  heaps  and  piles  of  ruin. 

Sic.  This  deserves  death. 

Bru.  Or  let  us  stand  to  our  authority, 
Or  let  us  lose  it. — We  do  here  pronounce, 
Upon  the  part  o'  the  people,  in  whose  power 
We  were  elected  theirs,  Marcius  is  worthy 
Of  present  death. 

Sic.  Therefore  lay  hold  of  him ; 

Bear  him  to  the  rock  Tarpeian,  and  from  thence 
Into  destruction  cast  him. 

Bru.  ^Ediles,  seize  him  ! 

Citizens.  Yield,  Marcius,  yield  ! 

Men.  Hear  me  one  word ; 

Beseech  you,  tribunes,  hear  me  but  a  word. 

sEd.  Peace,  peace  !  [friends, 

Men.  Be  that  you  seem,  truly  your  country's 
And  temperately  proceed  to  what  you  would 
Thus  violently  redress. 

Bru.  Sir,  those  cold  ways, 

That  seem  like  prudent  helps,  are  very  poisonous 
Where  the  disease  is  violent. — Lay  hands  upon 

him, 
And  bear  him  to  the  rock. 

Cor.  No;  I '11  die  here. 

[Draws  his  sword. 

There's  some  among   you   have  beheld  me 

fighting :  [seen  me. 

Come,   try  upon  yourselves  what  you    have 

Men.  Down  with  that  sword! — Tribunes, 
withdraw  awhile. 

Bru.   Lay  hands  upon  him. 

Men.  Help  Marcius,  help, 

You  that  be  noble ;  help  him,  young  and  old ! 

Citizens.  Down  with  him,  down  with  him ! 
[In  this  mutiny  the  Tribunes,  the  ^Ediles, 
and  the  People  are  beat  in. 

Men.  Go,  get  you  to  your  house ;  be  gone, 

away! 
All  will  be  naught  else. 

2  Sen.  Get  you  gone. 

Cor.  Stand  fast ; 

We  have  as  many  friends  as  enemies. 

Men.  Shall  it  be  put  to  that  ? 

I  Sen.  The  gods  forbid  ! 

I  pr'ythee,  noble  friend,  home  to  thy  house ; 
Leave  us  to  cure  this  cause. 

Men.  For  'tis  a  sore  upon  us, 

You  cannot  tent  yourself:  be  gone,  beseech  you. 

Com.  Come,  sir,  along  with  us.  [are, 

Cor.  I  would  they  were  barbarians, — as  they 
Though  in  Rome  litter'd, — not  Romans, — as 

they  are  not, 
Though  calv'd  i'  the  porch  o'  the  Capitol, — 

Men.  Be  gone ; 

Put  not  your  worthy  rage  into  your  tongue ; 
One  time  will  owe  another. 


840 


CORIOLANUS. 


[ACT  in. 


Cor.  On  fair  ground 

I  could  beat  forty  of  them. 

Men.  I  could  myself 

Take  up  a  brace  o'  the  best  of  them ;  yea,  the 
two  tribunes. 

Com.  But  now  'tis  odds  beyond  arithmetic ; 
And  manhood  is  call'd  foolery  when  it  stands 
Against  a  falling  fabric. — Will  you  hence, 
Before  the  tag  return  ?  whose  rage  doth  rend 
Like  interrupted  waters,  and  o'erbear 
What  they  are  used  to  bear. 

Men.  Pray  you,  be  gone : 

I  '11  try  whether  my  old  wit  be  in  request 
With  those  that  have  but  little :  this  must  be 

patch'd 
With  cloth  of  any  colour. 

Com,  -i  luey  ^  Nay,  come  away. 

[Exeunt  COR.  ,  COM.  ,  and  others. 

1  Pat.  This  man  has  marr'd  his  fortune. 
Men.  His  nature  is  too  noble  for  the  world : 

He  would  not  flatter  Neptune  for  his  trident, 
Or  Jove  for 's  power  to  thunder.     His  heart 's 

his  mouth : 
What  his  breast  forges,  that  his  tongue  must 

vent ; 

And,  being  angry,  does  forget  that  ever 
He  heard  the  name  of  death.     [A  noise  within. 
Here  's  goodly  work ! 

2  Pat.  I  would  they  were  a-bed  ! 
Men.  I  would  they  were  in  Tiber !     What, 

the  vengeance, 
Could  he  not  speak  'em  fair  ? 

Re-enter  BRUTUS  and  SICINIUS,  with  the 
rabble. 

Sic.  Where  is  this  viper 

That  would  depopulate  the  city  and 
Be  every  man  himself? 

Men.  You  worthy  tribunes, — 

Sic.  He  shall  be  thrown  down  the  Tarpeian 

rock 

With  rigorous  hands :  he  hath  resisted  law, 
And  therefore  law  shall  scorn  him  further  trial 
Than  the  severity  of  the  public  power, 
Which  he  so  sets  at  naught. 

i  Cit.  He  shall  well  know 

The  noble  tribunes  are  the  people's  mouths, 
And  we  their  hands. 

Citizens.   He  shall,  sure  on 't. 

Men.  Sir,  sir, — 

Sic.  Peace ! 

Men.  Do  not  cry  havoc,  where  you  should 

but  hunt 
With  modest  warrant. 

Sic.  Sir,  how  comes 't  that  you 

Have  holp  to  make  this  rescue  ? 

Men.  Hear  me  speak : — 


As  I  do  know  the  consul's  worthiness, 
So  can  I  name  his  faults, — 

Sic.  Consul ! — what  consul  ? 

Men.  The  consul  Coriolanus. 

Bru.  He  consul ! 

Citizens.  No,  no,  no,  no,  no. 

Men.  If,  by  the  tribunes'  leave,  and  yours, 

good  people, 

I  may  be  heard,  I  would  crave  a  word  or  two; 
The  which  shall  turn  you  to  no  further  harm 
Than  so  much  loss  of  time. 

Sic.  Speak  briefly,  then ; 

For  we  are  peremptory  to  despatch 
This  viperous  traitor  :  to  eject  him  hence 
Were  but  one  danger ;  and  to  keep  him  here 
Our  certain  death :  therefore  it  is  decreed 
He  di-es  to-night. 

Men.  Now  the  good  gods  forbid 

That  our  renowned  Rome,  whose  gratitude 
Towards  her  deserved  children  is  enroll'd 
In  Jove's  own  book,  like  an  unnatural  dam 
Should  now  eat  up  her  own ! 

Sic.  He 's  a  disease  that  must  be  cut  away. 

Men.  O,  he  's  a  limb  that  has  but  a  disease  j 
Mortal,  to  cut  it  off ;  to  cure  it,  easy. 
What  has  he  done  to  Rome  that 's  worthy  death  ? 
Killing  our  enemies,  the  blood  he  hath  lost, — 
Which  I  dare  vouch  is  more  than  that  he  hath 
By  many  an  ounce, — he  dropt  it  for  his  country ; 
And  what  is  left,  to  lose  it  by  his  country 
Were  to  us  all,  that  do't  and  suffer  it, 
A  brand  to  the  end  o'  the  world. 

Sic.  This  is  clean  kam. 

Bru.   Merely  awry:    when  he  did  love  his 

country, 
It  honour'd  him. 

Men.  The  service  of  the  foot, 

Being  once  gangren'd,  is  not  then  respected 
For  what  before  it  was. 

Bru.  We'll  hear  no  more. — 

Pursue  him  to  his  house,  and  pluck  him  thence ; 
Lest  his  infection,  being  of  catching  nature, 
Spread  further. 

Men.  One  word  more,  one  word. 

This  tiger-footed  rage,  when  it  shall  find 
The  harm  of  unscann'd  swiftness,  will,  too  late, 
Tie  leaden  pounds  to's  heels.      Proceed  by 

process ; 

Lest  parties, — as  he  is  belov'd, — -break  out, 
And  sack  great  Rome  with  Romans. 

Bru.  If  it  were  so, — 

Sic.  What  do  you  talk? 
Have  we  not  had  a  taste  of  his  obedience  ? 
Our  sediles  smote?  ourselves  resisted  ? — come, — 

Men.  Consider  this : — he  has  been  bred  i'  the 

wars 
Since  he  could  draw  a  sword,  and  is  ill  school'd 


SCENE  II.] 


CORIOLANUS. 


841 


In  bolted  language ;  meal  and  bran  together 
He  throws  without  distinction.     Give  me  leave, 
I  '11  go  to  him,  and  undertake  to  bring  him 
Where  he  shall  answer,  by  a  lawful  form, 
In  peace,  to  his  utmost  peril. 

I  Sen.  Noble  tribunes, 

It  is  the  humane  way:  the  other  course 
Will  prove  too  bloody  ;  and  the  end  of  it 
Unknown  to  the  beginning. 

Sic.  Noble  Menenius, 

Be  you  then  as  the  people's  officer. — 
Masters,  lay  down  your  weapons. 

Bru.  Go  not  home. 

Sic.  Meet    on    the    market-place. — We'll 

attend  you  there : 

Where,  if  you  bring  not  Marcius,  we  '11  proceed 
In  our  first  way. 

Men.  I  '11  bring  him  to  you. — 

[  To  the  Senators.  ]  Let  me  desire  your  company : 

he  must  come, 
Or  what  is  worst  will  follow. 

I  Sen.  Pray  you,  let 's  to  him. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  — ROME.   A  Room  in  CORIOLANUS'S 

House. 
Enter  CORIOLANUS  and  Patricians. 

Cor.   Let   them   pull   all   about  mine  ears; 

present  me 

Death  on  the  wheel,  or  at  wild  horses'  heels ; 
Or  pile  ten  hills  on  the  Tarpeian  rock, 
That  the  precipitation  might  down  stretch 
Below  the  beam  of  sight ;  yet  will  I  still 
Be  thus  to  them. 

I  Pat.  You  do  the  nobler. 

Cor.  I  muse  my  mother 
Does  not  approve  me  further,  who  was  wont 
To  call  them  woollen  vassals,  things  created 
To  buy  and  sell  with  groats ;  to  show  bare  heads 
In  congregations,  to  yawn,  be  still,  and  wonder, 
When  one  but  of  my  ordinance  stood  up 
To  speak  of  peace  or  war. 

Enter  VOLUMNIA. 

I  talk  of  you :     [  To  VOLUMNI A. 

Why  did  you  wish  me  milder?   Would   you 
have  me 

False  to  my  nature?     Rather  say,  I  play 

The  man  I  am. 

Vol.  O,  sir,  sir,  sir, 

I  would  have  had  you  put  your  power  well  on 

Before  you  had  worn  it  out. 

Cor.  Let  go.       [you  are 

Vol.  You  might  have  been  enough  the  man 

With  striving  less  to  be  so :  lesser  had  been 

The  thwartings  of  your  dispositions  if 


You  had  not  show'd  them  how  ye  were  dispos'd 
Ere  they  lack'd  power  to  cross  you. 

Cor.  Let  them  hang. 

Vol.  Ay,  and  burn  too. 

Enter  MENENIUS  and  Senators. 

Men.  Come,  come,  you  have  been  too  rough, 

something  too  rough ; 
You  must  return  and  mend  it. 

i  Sen.  There 's  no  remedy ; 

Unless,  by  not  so  doing,  our  good  city 
Cleave  in  the  midst,  and  perish. 

Vol.  Pray,  be  counseled ; 

I  have  a  heart  as  little  apt  as  yours, 
But  yet  a  brain  that  leads  my  use  of  anger 
To  better  vantage. 

Men.  Well  said,  noble  woman ! 

Before  he  should  thus  stoop  to  the  herd,  but  that 
The  violent  fit  o'  the  time  craves  it  as  physic 
For  the  whole  state,  I  would  put  mine  armour  on, 
Which  I  can  scarcely  bear. 

Cor.  What  must  I  do? 

Men.  Return  to  the  tribunes. 

Cor.  Well,  what  then?  what  then? 

Men.   Repent  what  you  have  spoke. 

Cor.  For  them? — I  cannot  do  it  to  the  gods ; 
Must  I  then  do't  to  them? 

Vol.  You  are  too  absolute; 

Though  therein  you  can  never  be  too  noble 
But  when  extremities  speak.      I  have  heard 

you  say, 

Honour  and  policy,  like  unsever'd  friends, 
I'  the  war  do  grow  together :  grant  that,  and 

tell  me 

In  peace  what  each  of  them  by  th*  other  lose 
That  they  combine  not  there. 

Cor.  Tush,  tush ! 

Men.  A  good  demand. 

Vol.  If  it  be  honour  in  your  wars  to  seem 
The  same  you  are  not, — which  for  your  best  ends 
You  adopt  your  policy, — how  is  it  less  or  worse 
That  it  shall  hold  companionship  in  peace 
With  honour  as  in  war ;  since  that  to  both 
It  stands  in  like  request? 

Cor.  Why  force  you  this? 

Vol.  Because  that  now  it  lies  you  on  to  speak 
To  the  people ;  not  by  your  own  instruction, 
Nor  by  the  matter  which  yourheart  prompts  you, 
But  with  such  words  that  are  but  rooted  in 
Your  tongue,  though  but  bastards,  and  syllables 
Of  no  allowance,  to  your  bosom's  truth, 
Now,  this  no  more  dishonours  you  at  all 
Than  to  take  in  a  town  with  gentle  words, 
Which  else  would  put  you  to  your  fortune  and 
The  hazard  of  much  blood. 
I  would  dissemble  with  my  nature  where 
My  fortunes  and  my  friends  at  stake  requir'd 


842 


CORIOLANUS. 


[ACT  in. 


I  should  do  so  in  honour :  I  am  in  this 
Your  wife,  your  son,  these  senators,  the  nobles ; 
And  you  will  rather  show  our  general  louts 
How  you  can  frown,  than  spend  a  fawn  upon 

'em 

For  the  inheritance  of  their  loves  and  safeguard 
Of  what  that  want  might  ruin. 

Men.  Noble  lady ! — 

Come,  go  with  us ;  speak  fair :  you  may  salve  so, 
Not  what  is  dangerous  present,  but  the  loss 
Of  what  is  past. 

Vol.  I  pr'ythee  now,  my  son, 

Go  to  them  with  this  bonnet  in  thy  hand ; 
And  thus  far  having  stretch'd  it, — here  be  with 

them, —  [business 

Thy  knee   bussing   the   stones, — for    in   such 
Action  is  eloquence,  and  the  eyes  of  the  ignorant 
More  learned  than  the  ears, — waving  thy  head, 
Which  often,  thus,  correcting  thy  stout  heart, 
Now  humble  as  the  ripest  mulberry 
That  will  not  hold  the  handling :  or  say  to  them 
Thou  art  their  soldier,  and,  being  bred  in 

broils, 

Hast  not  the  soft  way  which,  thou  dost  confess, 
Were  fit  for  thee  to  use,  as  they  to  claim, 
In  asking  their  good  loves;  but  thou  wilt  frame 
Thyself,  forsooth,  hereafter  theirs,  so  far 
AS  thou  hast  power  and  person. 

Men.  This  but  done, 

Even  as  she  speaks,  why,  their  hearts  were 

yours : 

For  they  have  pardons,  being  ask'd,  as  free 
As  words  to  little  purpose. 

Vol.  Pr'ythee  now, 

Go,  and  be  rul'd :  although  I  know  thou  had'st 

rather 

Follow  thine  enemy  in  a  fiery  gulf 
Than  flatter  him  in  a  bower.    Here  is  Cominius. 

Enter  COMINIUS. 

Com.  I  have  been  i'  the  market-place  ;  and, 

sir,  'tis  fit 

You  make  strong  party,  or  defend  yourself 
By  calmness  or  by  absence :  all 's  in  anger. 

Men.  Only  fair  speech. 

Com.  I  think  'twill  serve,  if  he 

Can  thereto  frame  his  spirit. 

Vol.  He  must,  and  will.— 

Pr'ythee  now,  say  you  will,  and  go  about  it. 

Cor.  Must  I  go  show  them  my  unbarb'd 

sconce?  must  I, 

With  my  base  tongue,  give  to  my  noble  heart 
A  lie,  that  it  must  bear?    Well,  I  will  do't: 
Yet,  were  there  but  this  single  plot  to  lose, 
This  mould  of  Marcius,  they  to  dust  should 
grind  it,  [place : — 

And  throw 't  against  the  wind. — To  the  market- 


You  have  put  me  now  to  such  a  part  which 

never 
I  shall  discharge  to  the  life. 

Com.  Come,  come,  we  '11  prompt  you. 

Vol.  I  pr'ythee  now,  sweet  son, — as  thou 

hast  said 

My  praises  made  thee  first  a  soldier,  so, 
To  have  my  praise  for  this,  perform  a  part 
Thou  hast  not  done  before. 

Cor.  Well,  I  must  do 't : 

Away,  my  disposition,  and  possess  me 
Some  harlot's  spirit!     My  throat  of  war  be 

turn'd, 

Which  quired  with  my  drum,  into  a  pipe 
Small  as  an  eunuch,  or  the  virgin  voice 
That  babies  lulls  asleep !  the  smiles  of  knaves 
Tent   in   my  cheeks;    and   school-boys'   tears 

take  up 

The  glasses  of  my  sight !  a  beggar's  tongue 
Make  motion  through  my  lips ;  and  my  arm'd 

knees, 

Who  bow'd  but  in  my  stirrup,  bend  like  his 
That  hath  receiv'd  an  alms ! — I  will  not  do 't ; 
Lest  I  surcease  to  honour  mine  own  truth, 
And  by  my  body's  action  teach  my  mind 
A  most  inherent  baseness. 

Vol.  At  thy  choice,  then: 

To  beg  of  thee,  it  is  my  more  dishonour 
Than  thou  of  them.     Come  all  to  ruin :  let 
Thy  mother  rather  feel  thy  pride  than  fear 
Thy  dangerous  stoutness ;  for  I  mock  at  death 
With  as  big  heart  as  thou.     Do  as  thou  list. 
Thy  valiantness  was  mine,  thou  suck'dst  it 

from  me  ; 
But  owe  thy  pride  thyself. 

Cor.  Pray,  be  content: 

Mother,  I  am  going  to  the  market-place ; 
Chide  me  no  more.     I'll   mountebank   their 

loves,  [belov'd 

Cog  their  hearts  from  them,  and  come  home 
Of  all  the  trades  in  Rome.     Look,  I  am  going: 
Commend  me  to  my  wife.     I  '11  return  consul ; 
Or  never  trust  to  what  my  tongue  can  do 
I'  the  way  of  flattery  further. 

Vol.  Do  your  will.        [Exit. 

Com.  Away!   the  tribunes  do  attend  you: 

arm  yourself 

To  answer  mildly ;  for  they  are  prepar'd 
With  accusations,  as  I  hear,  more  strong 
Than  are  upon  you  yet. 

Cor.  The  word  is,  mildly. — Pray  you,  let  us 

go: 

Let  them  accuse  me  by  invention,  I 
Will  answer  in  mine  honour. 

Men.  Ay,  but  mildly. 

Cor.  Well,  mildly  be  it  then ;  mildly. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.] 


CORIOLANUS. 


843 


SCENE  III. — ROME.     Tht.  Forum. 
Enter  SICINIUS  and  BRUTUS. 

Bru.   In  this  point  charge  him  home,  that 

he  affects 

Tyrannical  power :  if  he  evade  us  there, 
Enforce  him  with  his  envy  to  the  people; 
And  that  the  spoil  got  on  the  Antiates 
Was  ne'er  distributed. 

Enter  an  ^Edile. 

What,  will  he  come? 

A£d*  He 's  coming. 

Bru.  How  accompanied? 

&d.  With  old  Menenius,  and  those  senators 
That  always  favour'd  him. 

Sic.  Have  you  a  catalogue 

Of  all  the  voices  that  we  have  procur'd, 
Set  down  by  the  poll? 

jEd.  I  have ;  'tis  ready. 

Sic.   Have  you  collected  them  by  tribes? 

sEd.  I  have. 

Sic.  Assemble  presently  the  people  hither : 
And  when  they  hear  me  say,  //  shall  be  so 
r  the  right  and  strength  a'  the  commons,  be  it 
either  [them, 

For  death,  for  fine,  or  banishment,  then  let 
If  I  say  fine,  cry  Fine, — if  death,  cry  Death; 
Insisting  on  the  old  prerogative 
And  power  i'  the  truth  o'  the  cause. 

j*Ed.  I  shall  inform  them. 

Bru.  And  when  such  time  they  have  begun 

to  cry, 

Let  them  not  cease,  but  with  a  din  confus'd 
Enforce  the  present  execution 
Of  what  we  chance  to  sentence. 

;3Ld.  Very  well. 

Sic.  Make  them  be  strong,  and  ready  for 

this  hint, 
When  we  shall  hap  to  give 't  them. 

Bru.  Go  about  it  — 

[Exit  ^Edile. 

Put  him  to  choler  straight :  he  hath  been  us'd 
Ever  to  conquer,  and  to  have  his  worth 
Of  contradiction:  being  once  chaf'd,  he  cannot 
Be  rein'd  again  to  temperance ;  then  he  speaks 
What 's  in  his  heart ;  and  that  is  there  which 

looks 
With  us  to  break  his  neck. 

Sic.  Well,  here  he  comes. 
Enter  CORIOLANUS,  MENENIUS,  COMINIUS, 
Senators,  and  Patricians. 

Men.  Calmly,  I  do  beseech  you. 
Cor.  Ay,  as  an  ostler,  that  for  the  poorest 
piece  [honour'd  gods 

Will    bear  the  knave   by  the  volume. — The 


Keep  Rome  in  safety,  and  the  chairs  of  justice 
Supplied  with  worthy  men !  plant  love  among 's! 
Throng  our  large  temples  with  the  shows  of 

peace, 
And  not  our  streets  with  war ! 

i  Sen.  Amen,  amen! 

Men.  A  noble  wish. 

Re-enter  yEdile,  with  Citizens. 

Sic.  Draw  near,  ye  people.  [I  say ! 

s£d.  List  to  your  tribunes ;  audience :  peace, 

Cor.  First,  hear  me  speak. 

Both.  Tri.  Well,  say. — Peace,  ho! 

Cor.  Shall  I  be  charg'd  no  further  than  this 

present  ? 
Must  all  determine  here? 

Sic.  I  do  demand, 

If  you  submit  you  to  the  people's  voices, 
Allow  their  officers,  and  are  content 
To  suffer  lawful  censure  for  such  faults 
As  shall  be  proved  upon  you? 

Cor.  I  am  content. 

Men.  Lo,  citizens,  he  says  he  is  content : 
The  warlike  service  he  has  done,  consider; 
think  [like 

Upon  the  wounds  his  body  bears,  which  show 
Graves  i'  the  holy  churchyard. 

Cor.  Scratches  with  briers, 

Scars  to  move  laughter  only. 

Men.  Consider  further, 

That  when  he  speaks  not  like  a  citizen, 
You  find  him  like  a  soldier :  do  not  take 
His  rougher  accents  for  malicious  sounds, 
But,  as  I  say,  such  as  become  a  soldier. 
Rather  than  envy  you. 

Com.  Well,  well,  no  more. 

Cor.  What  is  the  matter, 
That  being  pass'd  for  consul  with  full  voice, 
I  am  so  dishonour'd  that  the  very  hour 
You  take  it  off  again? 

Sic.  Answer  to  us. 

Cor.  Say  then:  'tis  true,  I  ought  so. 

Sic.  We  charge  you  that  you  h  sve  contrived 

to  take 

From  Rome  all  season'd  office,  and  to  wind 
Yourself  into  a  power  tyrannical ; 
For  which  you  are  a  traitor  to  the  people. 

Cor.  How!  traitor! 

Men.  Nay,  temperately;  your  promise. 

Cor.  The  fires  i'  the  lowest  hell  fold  in  the 

Call  me  their  traitor ! — Thou  injurious  tribune ! 
Within  thine  eyes  sat  twenty  thousand  deaths, 
In  thy  hands  clutch'd  as  many  millions,  in 
Thy  lying  tongue  both  numbers,  I  would  say, 
Thou  liest  unto  thee,  with  a  voice  as  free 
As  I  do  pray  the  gods. 


844 


CORIOLANUS. 


{ACT  iv. 


Sic.  Mark  you  this,  people? 

Citizens.  To  the  rock,  to  the  rock  with  him  ! 

Sic.  Peace! 

We  need  not  put  new  matter  to  his  charge : 
What  you  have  seen  him  do  and  heard  him 

speak, 

Beating  your  officers,  cursing  yourselves, 
Opposing  laws  with  strokes,  and  here  defying 
Those  whose  great  power  must  try  him ;  even 

this, 

So  criminal,  and  in  such  capital  kind, 
Deserves  the  extremest  death. 

Bru.  But  since  he  hath 

Serv'd  well  for  Rome, — 

Cor.  What  do  you  prate  of  service  ? 

Bru.  I  talk  of  that,  that  know  it. 

Cor.  You?  [mother? 

Men.  Is  this  the  promise  that  you  made  your 

Com.  Know,  I  pray  you, — 

Cor.  I  '11  know  no  further : 

Let  them  pronounce  the  steep  Tarpeian  death, 
Vagabond  exile,  flaying,  pent  to  linger 
But  with  a  grain  a  day,  I  would  not  buy 
Their  mercy  at  the  price  of  one  fair  word, 
Nor  check  my  courage  for  what  they  can  give, 
To  have 't  with  saying  Good-morrow. 

Sic.  For  that  he  has, — 

As  much  as  in  him  lies, — from  time  to  time 
Envied  against  the  people,  seeking  means 
To  pluck  away  their  power ;  as  now  at  last 
Given    hostile   strokes,   and   that   not    in   the 

presence 

Of  dreaded  justice,  but  on  the  ministers 
That  do  distribute  it; — in  the  name  o'  the  people, 
And  in  the  power  of  us  the  tribunes,  we, 
Even  from  this  instant,  banish  him  our  city; 
In  peril  of  precipitation 
From  off  the  rock  Tarpeian,  never  more 
To  enter  our  Rome  gates :  i'  the  people's  name, 
I  say  it  shall  be  so. 

Citizens.  It  shall  be  so,  it  shall  be  so;  let 

him  away : 
He 's  banished,  and  it  shall  be  so. 

Com.  Hear  me,  my  masters,  and  my  common 
friends, — 

Sic.  He 's  sentenc'd ;  no  more  hearing. 

Com.  Let  me  speak : 

I  have  been  consul,  and  can  show  for  Rome 
Her  enemies'  marks  upon  me.     I  do  love 
My  country's  good  with  a  respect  more  tender, 
More  holy  and  profound,  than  mine  own  life, 
My  dear  wife's  estimate,  her  womb's  increase, 
And  treasure  of  my  loins;  then  if  I  would 
Speak  that,— 

Sic.          We  know  your  drift.     Speak  what  ? 

JBru.  There 's  no  more  to  be  said,  but  he  is 
banish'd, 


As  enemy  to  the  people  and  his  country : 
It  shall  be  so. 

Citizens.       It  shall  be  so,  it  shall  be  so. 
Cor.  You  common  cry  of  curs !  whose  breath 

I  hate 

As  reek  o'  the  rotten  fens,  whose  loves  I  prize 
As  the  dead  carcasses  of  unburied  men 
That  do  corrupt  my  air, — I  banish  you ; 
And  here  remain  with  your  uncertainty ! 
Let  every  feeble  rumour  shake  your  hearts! 
Your  enemies,  with  nodding  of  their  plumes, 
Fan  you  into  despair !     Have  the  power  still 
To  banish  your  defenders ;  till  at  length 
Your  ignorance, — which  finds  not  till  it  feels, — 
Making  not  reservation  of  yourselves, — 
Still  your  own  foes, — deliver  you,  as  most 
Abated  captives,  to  some  nation 
That  won  you  without  blows !     Despising, 
For  you,  the  city,  thus  I  turn  my  back : 
There  is  a  world  elsewhere. 

[JSxeuntCoR.,  COM.,  MEN.,  Senators, 

and  Patricians. 

sEd.  The  people's  enemy  is  gone,  is  gone ! 
Citizens.  Our  enemy  is  banish'd !  he  is  gone ! 

Hoo!  hoo! 

\Shouting)  and  throwing  up  their  caps. 
Sic.  Go,  see  him  out  at  gates,  and  follow 

him, 

As  he  hath  follow'd  you,  with  all  despite ; 
Give  him  deserv'd  vexation.     Let  a  guard 
Attend  us  through  the  city.          [gates  ;  come. 
Citizens.  Come,  come,  let  us  see  him  out  at 
The  gods  preserve  our  noble  tribunes ! — Come. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — ROME.     Before  a  Gate  of  the  City. 

Enter  CORIOLANUS,  VOLUMNIA,  VIRGILIA, 
MENENIUS,  COMINIUS,  and  several  young 
Patricians. 

Cor.  Come,  leave  your  tears;  a  brief  fare- 
well:— the  beast 

With  manyheads  butts  me  away. — Nay,  mother, 
Where  is  your  ancient  courage?  you  were  us'd 
To  say  extremity  was  the  trier  of  spirits ; 
That  common  chances  common  men  could  bear ; 
That  when  the  sea  was  calm  all  boats  alike 
Show'd  mastership  in  floating ;  fortune's  blows, 
When  most  struck  home,  being  gentle  wounded, 

craves 

A  noble  cunning:  you  were  us'd  to  load  me 
With  precepts  that  would  make  invincible 
The  heart  that  conn'd  them. 

Vir.  O  heavens  1  O  heavens ! 

Cor.  Nay,  I  pr'ythee,  woman, — t 


SCENE  I.] 


CORIOLANU9. 


845 


Vol.  Now  the  red  pestilence  strike  all  trades 

in  Rome, 
And  occupations  perish ! 

Cor.  What,  what,  what! 

I  shall  be  lov'd  when  I  am  lack'd.  Nay,  mother, 
Resume  that  spirit  when  you  were  wont  to  say, 
If  you  had  been  the  wife  of  Hercules, 
Six  of  his  labours  you  'd  have  done,  and  sav'd 
Your  husband  so  much  sweat. — Cominius, 
Droop  not;   adieu. — Farewell,  my  wife, — my 

mother : 

I  '11  do  well  yet. — Thou  old  and  true  Menenius, 
Thy  tears  are  salter  than  a  younger  man's, 
And  venomous  to  thine  eyes. — My  sometime 

general, 

I  have  seen  thee  stern,  and  thou  hast  oft  beheld 
Heart-hard'ning  spectacles;  tell  these  sad  women 
'Tis  fond  to  wail  inevitable  strokes, 
As  'tis  to  laugh  at  'em. — My  mother,  you  wot 

well 

My  hazards  still  have  been  your  solace :  and 
Believe 't  not  lightly, — though  I  go  alone, 
Like  to  a  lonely  dragon,  that  his  fen     [your  son 
Makes  fear'd  and  talk'd  of  more  than  seen, — 
Will  or  exceed  the  common  or  be  caught 
With  cautelous  baits  and  practice. 

Vol.  My  first  son, 

Whither  wilt  thou  go?     Take  good  Cominius 
With  thee  awhile :  determine  on  some  course 
More  than  a  wild  exposture  to  each  chance 
That  starts  i'  the  way  before  thee. 

Cor.  O  the  gods ! 

Com.  I  '11  follow  thee  a  month,  devise  with 
thee  [of  us, 

Where  thou  shalt  rest,  that  thou  mayst  hear 
And  we  of  thee :  so,  if  the  time  thrust  forth 
A  cause  for  thy  repeal,  we  shall  not  send 
O'er  the  vast  world  to  seek  a  single  man ; 
And  lose  advantage,  which  doth  ever  cool 
I'  the  absence  of  the  needer. 

Cor.  Fare  ye  well : 

Thou  hast  years  upon  thee ;  and  thou  art  too  full 
Of  the  wars'  surfeits  to  go  rove  with  one 
That 's  yet  unbruis'd:  bring  me  but  out  at  gate. — 
Come,  my  sweet  wife,  my  dearest  mother,  and 
My  friends  of  noble  touch;  when  I  am  forth, 
Bid  me  farewell,  and  smile.     I  pray  you,  come. 
While  I  remain  above  the  ground,  you  shall 
Hear  from  me  still ;  and  never  of  me  aught 
But  what  is  like  me  formerly. 

Men.  That's  worthily 

As  any  ear  can  hear. — Come,  let 's  not  weep. — 
If  I  could  shake  off  but  one  seven  years 
From  these  old  arms  and  legs,  by  the  good  gods, 
I  'd  with  thee  every  foot. 

Cor.  Give  me  thy  hand  : — 

Come.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.  —  ROME.     A  Street  near  the  Gate. 
Enter  SiciNius,  BRUTUS,  and  an  ^Edile. 

Sic.  Bid   them  all  home;  he's  gone,  and 

we  '11  no  further.  — 

The  nobility  are  vex'd,  whom  we  see  have  sided 
In  his  behalf. 

Bru.  Now  we  have  shown  our  power, 

Let  us  seem  humbler  after  it  is  done 
Than  when  it  was  a-doing. 

Sic.  Bid  them  home  : 

Say  their  great  enemy  is  gone,  and  they 
Stand  in  their  ancient  strength. 

Bru.  Dismiss  them  home. 

[Exit  ^Edile. 
Here  comes  his  mother. 

Sic.  Let  's  not  meet  her. 

Bru.  Why? 

Sic.  They  say  she  's  mad.  [your  way. 

Bru.  They  have  ta'en  note  of  us  :  keep  on 

and  MENENIUS. 


Vol.  O,  you're  well  met  :  the  hoarded  plague 

o'  the  gods 
Requite  your  love  ! 

Men.  Peace,  peace,  be  not  so  loud. 

Vol.  If  that  I  could  for  weeping,  you  should 

hear,  —  [gone  ? 

Nay,  and  you  shall  hear  some.  —  Will  you  be 

[To  BRUTUS. 

Vir.  You  shall  stay  too  [To  SiciNius]:  I 

would  I  had  the  power 
To  say  so  to  my  husband. 

Sic.  Are  you  mankind  ? 

Vol.  Ay,  fool  ;  is  that  a  shame  ?  —  Note  but 

this  fool.  — 

Was  not  a  man  my  father  ?  Hadst  thou  foxship 
To  banish  him  that  struck  more  blows  for  Rome 
Than  thou  hast  spoken  words  ?  — 

Sic.  O  blessed  heavens  ! 

Vol.  More  noble  blows  than  ever  thou  wise 
words;  [yet  go;— 

And  for  Rome's  good.  —  I'll  tell  thee  what;  — 
Nay,  but  thou  shalt  stay  too  :  —  I  would  my  son 
Were  in  Arabia,  and  thy  tribe  before  him, 
His  good  sword  in  his  hand. 

Sic.  What  then? 

Vir.  What  then  ! 

He  'd  make  an  end  of  thy  posterity. 

Vol.  Bastards  and  all.  —  [Rome  ! 

Good  man,  the  wounds  that  he  does  bear  for 

Men.  Come,  come,  peace. 

Sic.  I  would  he  had  continu'd  to  his  country 
As  he  began,  and  not  unknit  himself 
The  noble  knot  he  made. 

Bru.  I  would  he  had. 


846 


CORIOLANUS. 


[ACT  IV. 


Vol.   I  would  he  had!     'Twas  you  incens'd 

the  rabble; — 

Cats,  that  can  judge  as  fitly  of  his  worth 
As  I  can  of  those  mysteries  which  heaven 
Will  not  have  earth  to  know. 

Bru.  Pray,  let  us  go. 

VoL  Now,  pray,  sir,  get  you  gone :  [this, — 
You  have  done  a  brave  deed.  Ere  you  go,  hear 
As  far  as  doth  the  Capitol  exceed 
The  meanest  house  in  Rome,  so  far  my  son, — 
This  lady's  husband  here ;  this,  do  you  see  ? — 
Whom  you  have  banish'd,  does  exceed  you  all. 

Bru.  Well,  well,  we'll  leave  you. 

Sic.  Why  stay  we  to  be  baited 

With  one  that  wants  her  wits? 

Vol.  Take  my  prayers  with  you. — 

I  would  the  gods  had  nothing  else  to  do 

[Exeunt  Tribunes. 

But  to  confirm  my  curses  !     Could  I  meet  'em 
But  once  a  day,  it  would  unclog  my  heart 
Of  what  lies  heavy  to 't. 

Men.  You  have  told  them  home, 

And,  by  my  troth,  you  have  cause.    You  '11  sup 
with  me  ? 

Vol.  Anger 's  my  meat ;  I  sup  upon  myself, 
And  so  shall  starve  with  feeding. — Come,  let's 

go: 

Leave  this  faint  puling,  and  lament  as  I  do, 
In  anger,  Juno-like.     Come,  come,  come. 

Men.  Fie,  fie,  fie!  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — A  Highway  between  Rome  and 
Antium. 

Enter  a  Roman  and  a  Volsce,  meeting. 

Rom.  I  know  you  well,  sir ;  and  you  know 
me :  your  name,  I  think,  is  Adrian. 

Vols.  It  is  so,  sir :  truly,  I  have  forgot  you. 

Rom.  I  am  a  Roman;  and  my  services  are, 
as  you  are,  against  'em :  know  you  me  yet  ? 

Vols.  Nicanor?  no. 

Rom.  The  same,  sir. 

Vols.  You  had  more  beard  when  I  last  saw 
you ;  but  your  favour  is  well  approved  by  your 
tongue.  What 's  the  news  in  Rome  ?  I  have  a 
note  from  the  Volscian  state,  to  find  you  out 
there :  you  have  well  saved  me  a  day's  journey. 

Rom.  There  hath  been  in  Rome  strange 
insurrection;  the  people  against  the  senators, 
patricians,  and  nobles. 

Vols.  Hath  been!  is  it  ended,  then?  Our 
state  thinks  not  so ;  they  are  in  a  most  warlike 
preparation,  and  hope  to  come  upon  "them  in 
the  heat  of  their  division. 

Rom.  The  main  blaze  of  it  is  past,  but  a 
small  thing  would  make  it  flame  again :  for  the 
nobles  receive  so  to  heart  the  banishment  of 


that  worthy  Coriolanus  that  they  are  in  a  ripe 
aptness  to  take  all  power  from  the  people,  and 
to  pluck  from  them  their  tribunes  for  ever. 
This  lies  glowing,  I  can  tell  you,  and  is  almost 
mature  for  the  violent  breaking  out. 

Vols.  Coriolanus  banished ! 

Rom.   Banished,  sir. 

Vols.  You  will  be  welcome  with  this  intelli- 
gence, Nicanor. 

Rom.  The  day  serves  well  for  them  now.  I 
have  heard  it  said  the  fittest  time  to  corrupt  a 
man's  wife  is  when  she's  fallen  out  with  her 
husband.  Your  noble  Tullus  Aufidius  will 
appear  well  in  these  wars,  his  great  opposer, 
Coriolanus,  being  now  in  no  request  of  his 
country. 

Vols.  He  cannot  choose.  I  am  most  for- 
tunate thus  accidentally  to  encounter  you  :  you 
have  ended  my  business,  and  I  will  merrily 
accompany  you  home. 

Rom.  I  shall,  between  this  and  supper,  tell 
you  most  strange  things  from  Rome ;  all  tending 
to  the  good  of  their  adversaries.  Have  you  an 
army  ready,  say  you  ? 

Vols.  A  most  royal  one ;  the  centurions  and 
their  charges,  distinctly  billeted,  already  in  the 
entertainment,  and  to  be  on  foot  at  an  hour's 
warning. 

Rom.  I  am  joyful  to  hear  of  their  readiness, 
and  am  the  man,  I  think,  that  shall  set  them 
in  present  action.  So,  sir,  heartily  well  met, 
and  most  glad  of  your  company. 

Vols.  You  take  my  part  from  me,  sir ;  I  have 
the  most  cause  to  be  glad  of  yours. 

Rom.  Well,  let  us  go  together.        [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — ANTIUM.    Before  AUFIDIUS'S 
House. 

Enter  CORIOLANUS,  in  mean  apparel,  disguised 
and  mu-ffled. 

Cor.  A  goodly  city  is  this  Antium. — City, 
'Tis  I  that  made  thy  widows :  many  an  heir 
Of  these  fa;r  edifices  'fore  my  wars 
Have  I  heard  groan  and  drop :  then  know  me 
not,  [stones 

Lest  that  thy  wives  with  spits  and  boys  with 
In  puny  battle  slay  me. 

Enter  a  Citizen. 

Save  you,  sir. 

Cit.  And  you. 

Cor.  Direct  me,  if  it  be  your  will, 

Where  great  Aufidius  lies :  is  he  in  Antium? 

Cit.  He  is,  and  feasts  the  nobles  of  the  state 
At  his  house  this  night. 

Cor.  Which  is  his  house,  beseech  you? 


SCENE  V.] 


CORIOLANUS. 


847 


Cit.  This,  here,  before  you. 
Cor.  Thank  you,  sir:  farewell. 

[Exit  Citizen. 

0  world,  thy  slippery  turns !     Friends  now  fast 

sworn, 

Whose  double  bosoms  seem  to  wear  one  heart, 
Whose  house,  whose  bed,  whose  meal  and 

exercise 

Are  still  together,  who  twin,  as  'twere,  in  love 
Unseparable,  shall  within  this  hour, 
On  a  dissension  of  a  doit,  break  out 
To  bitterest  enmity ;  so  fellest  foes,          [sleep 
Whose  passions  and  whose  plots  have  broke  their 
To  take  the  one  the  other,  by  some  chance, 
Some  trick  not  worth  an  egg,  shall  grow  dear 

friends, 

And  interjoin  their  issues.     So  with  me : — 
My  birthplace  hate  I,  and  my  love 's  upon 
This  enemy  town. — I  '11  enter:  if  he  slay  me, 
He  does  fair  justice ;  if  he  give  me  way, 

1  '11  do  his  country  service.  [Exit. 

SCENE  V.—  ANTIUM.    A  Hall  in  AUFIDIUS'S 

House. 
Music  within.     Enter  a  Servant. 

1  Serv.  Wine,  wine,  wine !    What  service  is 

here ! 

I  think  our  fellows  are  asleep.  [Exit. 

Enter  a  second  Servant. 

2  Serv.  Where 's  Cotus  ?  my  master  calls  for 
him. — Cotus!  [Exit. 

Enter  CORIOLANUS. 

Cor.  A  goodly  house :  the  feast  smells  well ; 

but  I 
Appear  not  like  a  guest 

Re-enter  the  first  Servant. 

1  Serv.  What  would  you  have,  friend?  whence 
are  you?    Here 's  no  place  for  you :  pray,  go  to 
the  door. 

Cor.  I  have  deserv'd  no  better  entertainment 
In  being  Coriolanus. 

Re-enter  second  Servant. 

2  Serv.  Whence  are  you,  sir?    Has  the  porter 
his  eyes  in  his  head,  that  he  gives  entrance  to 
such  companions?    Pray,  get  you  out. 

Cor.  Away! 

2  Serv.  Away !     Get  you  away. 
Cor.  Now  thou  art  troublesome. 
2  Serv.   Are  you  so  brave?    I'll  have  you 
talked  with  anon. 

Enter  a  third  Servant.     The  first  meets  him. 

ZStrv.  What  fellow's  this? 

I  Serv.  A  strange  one  as  ever  I  looked  on :  I 


cannot  get  him  out  o'  the  house :  pr'ythee,  call 
my  master  to  him. 

3  Serv.  What  have  you  to  do  here,  fellow? 
Pray  you,  avoid  the  house. 

Cor.  Let  me  but  stand ;  I  will  not  hurt  your 
hearth. 

3  Serv.  What  are  you? 

Cor.  A  gentleman. 

3  Serv.  A  marvellous  poor  one. 

Cor.  True,  so  I  am. 

3  Serv.  Pray  you,  poor  gentleman,  take  up 
some  other  station ;  here 's  no  place  for  you ; 
pray  you,  avoid:  come. 

Cor.  Follow  your  function,  go, 
And  batten  on  cold  bits.      [Pushes  him  away. 

3  Serv.  What,  you  will  not? — Pr'ythee,  tell 
my  master  what  a  strange  guest  he  has  here. 

2  Serv.  And  I  shall.  [Exit, 

3  Serv.  Where  dwellest  thou? 
Cor.  Under  the  canopy. 

3  Serv.  Under  the  canopy ! 

Cor.  Ay. 

^Serv.  Where's  that? 

Cor.  r  the  city  of  kites  and  crows. 

3  Serv.  I'  the  city  of  kites  and  crows ! — What 
an  ass  it  is ! — Then  thou  dwellest  with  daws  too? 

Cor.  No,  I  serve  not  thy  master. 

3  Serv.  How,  sir !  Do  you  meddle  with  my 
master? 

Cor.  Ay;   'tis  an  honester  service  than  to 

meddle  with  thy  mistress : 
Thou  prat'st  and  prat'st ;  serve  with  thy  trencher, 
hence !  [Beats  him  in. 

Enter  AUFIDIUS  and  the  second  Servant 

Auf.  Where  is  this  fellow? 

2  Serv.  Here,  sir :  I'd  have  beaten  him  like 
a  dog,  but  for  disturbing  the  lords  within. 

Auf.  Whence  comest  thou?  what  wouldst 

thou?  thy  name?  [name? 

Why  speak'st  not?   speak,  man:   what's  thy 

Cor.  If,  Tullus,     [Unmuffling. 

Not  yet  thou  know'st  me,  and,  seeing  me,  dost 

not 

Think  me  for  the  man  I  am,  necessity 
Commands  me  name  myself. 

Auf.  What  is  thy  name? 

[Servants  retire. 

Cor.  A  name  unmusical  to  the  Volscians'  ears, 
And  harsh  in  sound  to  thine. 

Auf.  Say,  what's  thy  name? 

Thou  hast  a  grim  appearance,  and  thy  face 
Bears  a'command  in 't ;  though  thy  tackle 's  torn, 
Thou  show'st  a  noble  vessel :  what 's  thy  name? 

Cor.  Prepare  thy  brow  to  frown :— know'st 
thou  me  yet? 

Auf.  I  know  thee  not : — thy  name? 


848 


CORIOLANUS. 


[ACT  iv. 


Cor.  My  name  is  Caius  Marcius,  who  hath 

done 

To  thee  particularly,  and  to  all  the  Volsces, 
Great  hurt  and  mischief;  thereto  witness  may 
My  surname,  Coriolanus :  the  painful  service, 
The  extreme  dangers,  and  the  drops  of  blood 
Shed  for  my  thankless  country,  are  requited 
But  with  that  surname ;  a  good  memory, 
And  witness  of  the  malice  and  displeasure 
Which  thou  shouldst  bear  me :  only  that  name 

remains ; 

The  cruelty  and  envy  of  the  people, 
Permitted  by  our  dastard  nobles,  who 
Have  all  forsook  me,  hath  devour'd  the  rest, 
And  suffer'd  me  by  the  voice  of  slaves  to  be 
Whoop'd  out  of  Rome.     Now,  this  extremity 
Hath  brought  me  to  thy  hearth :  not  out  of  hope, 
Mistake  me  not,  to  save  my  life ;  for  if 
I  had  fear'd  death,  of  all  the  men  i'  the  world 
I  would  have  'voided  thee ;  but  in  mere  spite, 
To  be  full  quit  of  those  iny  banishers, 
Stand  I  before  thee  here.     Then  if  thou  hast 
A  heart  of  wreak  in  thee,  that  wilt  revenge 
Thine  own  particular  wrongs,  and  stop  those 

maims  [straight, 

Of  shame  seen  through  thy  country,  speed  thee 
And  make  my  misery  serve  thy  turn :  so  use  it 
That  my  revengeful  services  may  prove 
As  benefits  to  thee ;  for  I  will  fight 
Against  my  canker'd  country  with  the  spleen 
Of  all  the  under  fiends.     But  if  so  be 
Thou  dar'st  not  this,  and  that  to  prove  more 

fortunes 

Thou  'rt  tir'd,  then,  in  a  word,  I  also  am 
Longer  to  live  most  weary,  and  present 
My  throat  to  thee  and  to  thy  ancient  malice ; 
Which  not  to  cut  would  thee  show  but  a  fool, 
Since  I  have  ever  follow'd  thee  with  hate, 
Drawn  tuns  of  blood  out  of  thy  country's  breast, 
And  cannot  live  but  to  thy  shame,  unless 
It  be  to  do  thee  service. 

Auf.  O  Marcius,  Marcius ! 

Each  word  thou  hast  spoke  hath  weeded  from 

my  heart 

A  root  of  ancient  envy.     If  Jupiter 
Should  from  yond  cloud  speak  divine  things, 
And  say  'Tis  true,  I'd  not  believe  them  more 
Than  thee,  all  noble  Marcius. — Let  me  twine 
Mine  arms  about  that  body,  where  against 
My  grained  ash  an  hundred  times  hath  broke 
And  scar'd  the  moon  with  splinters :  here  I  clip 
The  anvil  of  my  sword,  and  do  contest 
As  hotly  and  as  nobly  with  thy  love 
As  ever  in  ambitious  strength  I  did 
Contend  against  thy  valour.     Know  thou  first, 
I  lov'd  the  maid  I  married  ;  never  man 
Sighed  truer  breath;  but  that  I  see  thee  here, 


Thou  noble  thing !  more  dances  my  rapt  heart 
Than  when  I  first  my  wedded  mistress  saw 
Bestride  my  threshold.     Why,  thou  Mars!  1 

tell  thee, 

We  have  a  power  on  foot ;  and  I  had  purpose 
Once  more  to  hew  thy  target  from  thy  brawn, 
Or  lose  mine  arm  for't :  thou  hast  beat  me  out 
Twelve  several  times,  and  I  have  nightly  since 
Dreamt  of  encounters  'twixt  thyself  and  me  ; 
We  have  been  down  together  in  my  sleep, 
Unbuckling  helms,  fisting  each  other's  throat, 
And  wak'd  half  dead  with  nothing.     Worthy 

Marcius, 

Had  we  no  other  quarrel  else  to  Rome,  but  that 
Thou  art  thence  banish'd,  we  would  muster  all 
From  twelve  to  seventy ;  and,  pouring  war 
Into  the  bowels  of  ungrateful  Rome, 
Like  a  bold  flood  o'erbear.     O,  come,  go  in, 
And  take  our  friendly  senators  by  the  hands  ; 
Who  now  are  here,  taking  their  leaves  of  me, 
Who  am  prepar'd  against  your  territories, 
Though  not  for  Rome  itself. 

Cor.  You  bless  me,  gods ! 

Auf.  Therefore,  most  absolute  sir,  if  thou 

wilt  have 

The  leading  of  thine  own  revenges,  take 
The  one  half  of  my  commission ;  and  set  down, — 
As  best  thou  art  experience'd,  since  thou  know'st 
Thy  country's  strength  and  weakness, — thine 

own  ways ; 

Whether  to  knock  against  the  gates  of  Rome, 
Or  rudely  visit  them  in  parts  remote, 
To  fright  them,  ere  destroy.     But  come  in : 
Let  me  commend  thee  first  to  those  that  shall 
Say  yea  to  thy  desires.     A  thousand  welcomes ! 
And  more  a  friend  than  e'er  an  enemy ; 
Yet,   Marcius,   that  was  much.     Your  hand : 

most  welcome ! 

[Exeunt  COR.  and  AUF. 

1  Serv.  [Advancing.'}  Here's  a  strange  altera- 
tion! 

2  Serv.  By  my  hand,  I  had  thought  to  have 
strucken  him  with  a  cudgel ;  and  yet  my  mind 
gave  me  his  clothes  made  a  false  report  of  him. 

1  Serv.  What  an  arm  he  has!     He  turned 
me  about  with  his  finger  and  his  thumb,  as  one 

ould  set  up  a  top. 

2  Serv.  Nay,  I  knew  by  his  face  that  there 
was  something  in  him :  he  had,  sir,  a  kind  of 
face,  methought, — I  cannot  tell  how  to  term  it. 

1  Serv.  He  had  so;   looking  as  it  were, — 
would  I  were  hanged,  but  I  thought  there  was 
more  in  him  than  I  could  think. 

2  Serv.  So  did  I,  I'll  be  sworn :  he  is  simply 
the  rarest  man  i'  the  world. 

i  Serv.  I  think  he  is :  but  a  greater  soldier 
than  he  you  wot  on. 


.] 


CORIOLANUS. 


849 


2  Serv.  Who,  my  master? 

1  Serv.  Nay,  it 's  no  matter  for  that. 

2  Serv.  Worth  six  on  him. 

1  Serv.  Nay,  not  so  neither :  but  I  take  him 
to  be  the  greater  soldier. 

2  Serv.   Faith,  look  you,  one  cannot  tell  how 
to  say  that :    for  the  defence  of  a  town  our 
general  is  excellent. 

I  Serv.  Ay,  and  for  an  assault  too. 

Re-enter  third  Servant. 

3  Serv.  O  slaves,  I  can  tell  you  news, — news, 
you  rascals !  [take. 

I  and  2  Serv.  What,  what,  what  ?  let 's  par- 

3  Serv.  I  would  not  be  a  Roman,  of  all 
nations ;  I  had  as  lieve  be  a  condemned  man. 

i  and  2  Serv.  Wherefore?  wherefore? 

3  Serv.  Why,  here's  he  that  was  wont  to 
.thwack  our  general, — Caius  Marcius. 

1  Serv.  Why  do  you  say,  thwack  our  general? 
3  Serv.  I  do  not  say,  thwack  our  general; 

but  he  was  always  good  enough  for  him. 

2  Serv.  Come,  we  are  fellows  and  friends : 
he  was  ever  too  hard  for  him;  I  have  heard 
him  say  so  himself. 

1  Serv.  He  was  too  hard  for  him  directly,  to 
say  the  troth  on 't :  before  Corioli  he  scotched 
him  and  notched  him  like  a  carbonado. 

2  Serv.  An  he  had  been  cannibally  given,  he 
might  have  broiled  and  eaten  him  to. 

1  Serv.  But  more  of  thy  news? 

3  Serv.  Why,  he  is  so  made  on  here  within 
as  if  he  were  son  and  heir  to  Mars ;  set  at  upper 
end  o'  the  table ;  no  question  asked  him  by  any 
of  the  senators,  but  they  stand  bald  before  him : 
our  general  himself  makes  a  mistress  of  him ; 
sanctifies  himself  with's  hand,  and  turns  up 
the  white  o'  the  eye  to  his  discourse.     But  the 
bottom  of  the  news  is,  our  general  is  cut  i'  the 
middle,  and  but  one  half  of  what  he  was  yester- 
day ;  for  the  other  ha^  half,  by  the  entreaty  and 
grant  of  the  whole  '.able.     He  '11  go,  he  says, 
and  sowl  the  portev  of  Rome  gates  by  the  ears : 
he  will  mow  all  down  before  him,  and  leave 
his  passage  polJ.ed. 

2  Serv.  An'd  he 's  as  like  to  do 't  as  any  man 
I  can  imagir,e. 

3  Serv,  "Do't!  he  will  do't;  for,  look  you, 
sir,  he  b'as  as  many  friends  as  enemies ;  which 
friend?.,  sir,  as  it  were,  durst  not,  look  you,  sir, 
show   themselves,  as  we  term  it,  his  friends, 
whilst  he 's  in  dejectitude. 

i  Serv.  Dejectitude!  what's  that? 

3  Serv.  But  when  they  shall  see,  sir,  his  crest 
up  again,  and  the  man  in  blood,  they  will  out 
of  their  burrows,  like  conies  after  rain,  and 
revel  all  with  him. 


1  Serv.  But  when  goes  this  forward  ? 

3  Serv.  To-morrow;  to-day;  presently;  you 
shall  have  the  drum  struck  up  this  afternoon: 
'tis  as  it  were  a  parcel  of  their  feast,  and  to  be 
executed  ere  they  wipe  their  lips. 

2  Serv.  Why,  then  we  shall  have  a  stirring 
world  again.     This  peace  is  good  for  nothing 
but  to  rust  iron,  increase  tailors,  and  breed 
ballad-makers. 

1  Serv.  Let  me  have  war,  say  I ;  it  exceeds 
peace  as  far  as  day  does  night;  it's  spritely, 
waking,  audible,  and  full  of  vent.     Peace  is  a 
very  apoplexy,  lethargy ;  mulled,  deaf,  sleepy, 
insensible;  a  getter  of  more  bastard  children 
than  wars  a  destroyer  of  men. 

2  Serv.  'Tis  so :  and  as  wars,  in  some  sort, 
may  be  said  to  be  a  ravisher,  so  it  cannot  be 
denied  but  peace  is  a  great  maker  of  cuckolds. 

I  Serv.  Ay,  and  it  makes  men  hate  one 
another. 

3  Serv.  Reason ;  because  they  then  less  need 
one  another.     The  wars  for  my  money.     I  hope 
to  see  Romans  as  cheap  as  Volscians.     They 
are  rising,  they  are  rising. 

All.  In,  in,  in,  in !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.— ROME.     A  public  Place. 
Enter  SICINIUS  and  BRUTUS. 

Sic.  We  hear  not  of  him,  neither  need  we 

fear  him ; 

His  remedies  are  tame  i'  the  present  peace 
And  quietness  of  the  people,  which  before 
Were  in  wild  hurry.  Here  do  we  make  his  friends 
Blush  that  the  world  goes  well ;  who  rather  had, 
Though  they  themselves  did  suffer  by 't,  behold 
Dissentious  numbers  pestering  streets  than  see 
Our  tradesmen  singing  in  their  shops,  and  going 
About  their  functions  friendly. 

Bru.  We  stood  to't  in  good  time.— Is  this 
Menenius  ? 

Sic.  'Tis  he,  'tis  he :  O,  he  is  grown  most  kind 
Of  late. 

Enter  MENENIUS. 

Bru.  Hail,  sir ! 

Men.  Hail  to  you  both ! 

Sic.  Your  Coriolanus  is  not  much  miss'd 
But  with  his  friends :  the  commonwealth  doth 

stand ; 

And  so  would  do,  were  he  more  angry  at  it. 
Men.  All 's  well ;  and  might  have  been  much 

better  if 
He  could  have  temporiz'd. 

Sic.  Where  is  he,  hear  you  ? 

Men.  Nay,  I  hear  nothing :  his  mother  and 

his  wife 
Hear  nothing  from  him. 


85o 


CORIOLANUS. 


[ACT  iv. 


Enter  three  or  four  Citizens. 

Citizens*  The  gods  preserve  you  both ! 

Sic.  God-den,  our  neighbours. 

Bru.  God-den  to  you  all,  God-den  to  you  all. 

i  Cit.  OUrselves,  our  wives,  and  children,  on 

our  knees, 
Are  bound  to  pray  for  you  both. 

Sic.  Live  and  thrive  ! 

Bru.  Farewell,  kind  neighbours;  we  wish'd 

Coriolanus 
Had  lov'd  you  as  we  did. 

Citizens.  Now  the  gods  keep  you ! 

Both  Tri.  Farewell,  ferewell. 

[Exeunt  Citizens. 

Sic.  This  is  a  happier  and  more  comely  time 
Than  when  these  fellows  ran  about  the  streets 
Crying  confusion. 

Bru.  Caius  Marcius  was 

A  worthy  officer  i'  the  war ;  but  insolent, 
O'ercomewith  pride,  ambitious  past  all  thinking, 
Self-loving, — 

Sic.  And  affecting  one  sole  throne, 

Without  assistance. 

Men.  I  think  not  so.  [tion, 

Sic.  We  should  by  this,  to  all  our  lamenta- 
If  he  had  gone  forth  consul,  found  it  so. 

Bru.  The  gods  have  well  prevented  it,  and 

Rome 
Sits  safe  and  still  without  him. 

Enter  an  ^Edile, 

^d.  Worthy  tribunes, 

There  is  a  slave,  whom  we  have  put  in  prison, 
Reports, — the  Volsces  with  two  several  powers 
Are  enter'd  in  the  Roman  territories ; 
And  with  the  deepest  malice  of  the  war 
Destroy  what  lies  before  'em. 

Men.  »Tis  Aufidius, 

Who,  hearing  of  our  Marcius'  banishment, 
Thrusts  forth  his  horns  again  into  the  world ; 
Which  were  inshell'd  when  Marcius  stood  for 

Rome, 
And  durst  not  once  peep  out. 

Sic.  Come,  what  talk  you 

Of  Marcius? 

Bru.  Go   see  this   rumourer  whipp'd.—It 

cannot  be 
The  Volsces  dare  break  with  us, 

M**-  Cannot  be ! 

We  hav«  record  that  very  well  it  can; 
And  three  examples  of  the  like  have  been 
Within  my  age.     But  reason  with  the  fellow, 
Before  you  punish  him,  where  he  heard  this  ; 
Lest  you  shall  chance  to  whip  your  information, 
And  beat  the  messenger  who  bids  beware 
Of  what  is  to  be  dreaded. 


Sic.  Tell  not  me : 

I  know  this  cannot  be. 

Bru.  Not  possible. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  The  nobles  in  great  earnestness  are 

going 

All  to  the  senate-house :  some  news  is  come 
That  turns  their  countenances. 

Sic.  'Tis  this  slave, — 

Go  whip  him  'fore  the  people's  eyes : — his  rais- 
ing; 
Nothing  but  his  report. 

Mess.  Yes,  worthy  sir, 

The  slave's  report  is  seconded ;  and  more, 
More  fearful,  is  deliver'd. 

Sic.  What  more  fearful? 

Mess.  It  is  spoke  freely  out  of  many  mouths, — 
How  probable  I  do  not  know, — that  Marcius, 
Join'd  with  Aufidius,  leads  a  power 'gainst  Rome, 
And  vows  revenge  as  spacious  as  between 
The  young'st  and  oldest  thing, 

Sic.  This  is  most  likely ! 

Bru.  Rais'd  only,  that  the  weaker  sort  may 

wish 
God  Marcius  home  again. 

Sic.  The  very  trick  on 't, 

Men.  This  is  unlikely : 
He  and  Aufidius  can  no  more  atone 
Than  violentest  contrariety. 

Enter  a  second  Messenger. 

2  Mess.  You  are  sent  for  to  the  senate: 
A  fearful  army,  led  by  Caius  Marcius 
Associated  with  Aufidius,  rages 
Upon  our  territories ;  and  have  already     [took 
Overborne  their  way,  consurn'd  with  fire,  and 
What  lay  before  them. 

Enter  COMINIUS. 

Com.  O,  you  have  made  good  work ! 

Men.  Whsvit  news  ?  what  news  ? 

Com.  You  have  holp  tO>  ravish  your  own 

daughters,  and 

To  melt  the  city  leads  upon  your  pates ; 
To  see  your  wives  dishonour'd  to  your  noses,— 

Men.  What's  the  news?  what  's  the  news? 

Com.  Your  temples  burned  in  their  cement; 

and 

Your  franchises,  whereon  you  stood,  ct^nfin  d 
Into  an  auger's  bore. 

Men.  Pray  now,  your  news  »*— • 

You  have  made  fair  work,  I  fear  me.—  Pr&T, 

your  news  ? 
If  Marcius  should  be  join'd  with  Volscians,—  „' 

Com.  If1 

He  is  their  god  :  fce  leads  them  like  a  thing 
Made  by  some  other  deity  than  nature, 


SCENE  VI.] 


CORIOLANUS. 


85l 


That  shapes  man  better ;  and  they  follow  him, 

Against  us  brats,  with  no  less  confidence 

Than  boys  pursuing  summer  butterflies, 

Or  butchers  killing  flies. 

>     Men.  You  have  made  good  work, 

You  and  your  apron  men ;  you  that  stood  so 

much 

Upon  the  voice  of  occupation  and 
The  breath  of  garlic-eaters  ! 

Com.  He  will  shake 

Your  Rome  about  your  ears. 

Men.  As  Hercules 

Did  shake  down  mellow  fruit. — You  have  made 
fair  work ! 

Brti.   But  is  this  true,  sir  ? 

Com.  Ay ;  and  you  '11  look  pale 

Before  you  find  it  other.     All  the  regions 
Do  smilingly  revolt ;  and  who  resist 
Are  only  mock'd  for  valiant  ignorance, 
And  perish  constant  fools.     Who  is 't  can  blame 

him? 
Your  enemies  and  his  find  something  in  him. 

Men.  We  are  all  undone  unless 
The  noble  man  have  mercy. 

Com.  Who  shall  ask  it  ? 

The  tribunes  cannot  do 't  for  shame ;  the  people 
Deserve  such  pity  of  him  as  the  wolf  [they 
Does  of  the  shepherds :  for  his  best  friends,  if 
Should  say,  Be  good  to  Rome,  they  charg'd  him 

even 

As  those  should  do  that  had  deserv'd  his  hate, 
And  therein  show'd  like  enemies. 

Men.  'Tis  true : 

If  he  were  putting  to  my  house  the  brand 
That  should  consume  it,  I  have  not  the  face 
To  say,  Beseech  you,  cease. — You  have  made 

fair  hands, 
You  and  your  crafts  !  you  have  crafted  fair  ! 

Com.  You  have  brought 

A  trembling  upon  Rome,  such  as  was  never 
So  incapable  of  help. 

Both  Tri.  Say  not,  we  brought  it. 

Men.  How !     Was  it  we  ?  we  lov'd  him  ; 
but,  like  beasts,  [clusters, 

And  cowardly  nobles,  gave  way  unto  your 
Who  did  hoot  him  out  o'  the  city. 

Com.  But  I  fear 

They  '11  roar  him  in  again.     Tullus  Aufidius, 
The  second  name  of  men,  obeys  his  points 
As  if  he  were  his  officer: — desperation 
Is  all  the  policy,  strength,  and  defence, 
That  Rome  can  make  against  them. 

Enter  a  troop  0/"  Citizens. 

Men.  Here  comes  the  clusters. — 

And  is  Aufidius  with  him  ? — You  are  they 
That  made  the  air  unwholesome,  when  you  cast 


Your  stinking  greasy  caps  in  hooting  at 
Coriolanus'  exile.     Now  he 's  coming ; 
And  not  a  hair  upon  a  soldier's  head      [combs 
Which  will  not  prove  a  whip :  as  many  cox- 
As  you  threw  caps  up  will  he  tumble  down, 
And  pay  you  for  your  voices.     'Tis  no  matter ; 
If  he  could  burn  us  all  into  one  coal, 
We  have  deserv'd  it 

Citizens.  Faith,  we  hear  fearful  news. 

1  Cit.  For  mine  own  part, 
When  I  said  banish  him,  I  said  'twas  pity. 

2  Cit.  And  so  did  I. 

3  Cit.  And  so  did  I ;  and,  to  say  the  truth,  so 
did  very  many  of  us.     That  we  did,  we  did  for 
the  best ;  and  though  we  willingly  consented  to 
his  banishment,  yet  it  was  against  our  will. 

Com.  You  are  goodly  things,  you  voices ! 
Men.  You  have  made 

Good  work,  you  and  your  cry  ! — Shall 's  to  the 

Capitol  ? 
Com.  O,  ay ;  what  else  ? 

[Exeunt  COM.  and  MEN. 
Sic.  Go,  masters,  get  you  home ;  be  not  dis- 

may'd: 

These  are  a  side  that  would  be  glad  to  have 
This  true  which  they  so  seem  to  fear.   Go  home, 
And  show  no  sign  of  fear. 

1  Cit.   The  gods   be  good  to  us ! — Come, 
masters,  let's  home.     I  ever  said  we  were  i' 
the  wrong  when  we  banished  him. 

2  Cit.  So  did  we  all.     But  come,  let 's  home. 

[Exeunt  Citizens. 
Bru.  I  do  not  like  this  news. 
Sic.  Nor  I.  [wealth 

Bru.  Let 's  to  the  Capitol : — would  half  my 
Would  buy  this  for  a  lie ! 

Sic.  Pray,  let  us  go.     [Exeunt, 

SCENE  VII. — A  Camp  at  a  small  distance 
from  Rome. 

Enter  AUFIDIUS  and  his  Lieutenant. 

Auf.  Do  f.hey  still  fly  to  the  Roman  ? 

Lieu.  I  do  not  know  what  witchcraft 's  in 

him,  but 

Your  soldiers  use  him  as  the  grace  'fore  meat, 
Their  talk  at  table,  and  their  thanks  at  end ; 
And  you  are  darken'd  in  this  action,  sir, 
Even  by  your  own. 

Auf.  I  cannot  help  it  now, 

Unless,  by  using  means,  I  lame  the  foot 
Of  our  design.  He  bears  himself  more  proudlier, 
Even  to  my  person,  than  I  thought  he  would 
When  first  I  did  embrace  him :  yet  his  nature 
In  that 's  no  changeling ;  and  I  must  excuse 
What  cannot  be  amended. 

Lieu.  Yet  I  wish,  sir, — 


852 


CORIOLANUS. 


[ACT  v. 


I  mean,  for  your  particular, — you  had  not 
Join'd  in  commission  with  him ;  but  either 
Had  borne  the  action  of  yourself,  or  else 
To  him  had  left  it  solely.  [sure, 

Auf.  I  understand  thee  well;  and  be  thou 
When  he  shall  come  to  his  account,  he  knows  not 
What  I  can  urge  against  him.  Although  it  seems, 
And  so  he  thinks,  and  is  no  less  apparent 
To  the  vulgar  eye,  that  he  bears  all  things  fairly, 
And  shows  good  husbandry  for  the  Volscian  state, 
Fights  dragon-like,  and  does  achieve  as  soon 
As  draw  his  sword :  yet  he  hath  left  undone 
That  which  shall  break  his  neck  or  hazard  mine 
Whene'er  we  come  to  our  account.        [Rome  ? 
Lieu.  Sir,  I  beseech  you,  think  you  he'll  carry 
Auf.  All  places  yield  to  him  ere  he  sits  down ; 
And  the  nobility  of  Rome  are  his : 
The  senators  and  patricians  love  him  too : 
The  tribunes  are  no  soldiers ;  and  their  people 
Will  be  as  rash  in  the  repeal  as  hasty 
To  expel  him  thence.     I  think  he'll  be  to  Rome 
As  is  the  osprey  to  the  fish,  who  takes  it 
By  sovereignty  of  nature.     First  he  was 
A  noble  servant  to  them ;  but  he  could  not 
Carry  his  honours  even :  whether  'twas  pride, 
Which  out  of  daily  fortune  ever  taints 
The  happy  man;  whether  defect  of  judgment, 
To  fail  in  the  disposing  of  those  chances 
Which  he  was  lord  of;  or  whether  nature, 
Not  to  be  other  than  one  thing,  not  moving 
From  the  casque  to  the  cushion,  but  command- 
ing peace 

Even  with  the  same  austerity  and  garb 
As  he  controll'd  the  war ;  but  one  of  these, — 
As  he  hath  spices  of  them  all,  not  all, 
For  I  dare  so  far  free  him, — made  him  fear'd, 
So  hated,  and  so  banish'd :  but  he  has  a  merit 
To  choke  it  in  the  utterance.     So  our  virtues 
Lie  in  the  interpretation  of  the  time  : 
And  power,  unto  itself  most  commendable, 
Hath  not  a  tomb  so  evident  as  a  cheer 
To  extol  what  it  hath  done. 
One  fire  drives  out  one  fire ;  one  nail,  one  nail ; 
Rights  by  rights  falter,  strengths  by  strengths 

do  fail. 

Come ,  let's  away.    When ,  Caius ,  Rome  is  thine , 

Thou  art  poor'st  of  all ;  then  shortly  art  thou 

mine.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  V. 
SCENE  I.— ROME.     A  public  Plate. 

Enter  MENENIUS,  COMINIUS,  SICINIUS, 
BRUTUS,  and  others. 

Men.  No,  I'll  not  go:    you  hear  what  he 
hath  said 


Which  was  sometime  his  general;  who  lov'd 

him 

In  a  most  dear  particular.    He  call'd  me  father : 
But  what  o'  that?     Go,  you  that  banish'd  him; 
A  mile  before  his  tent  fall  down,  and  knee 
The  way  into  his  mercy :  nay,  if  he  coy'd 
To  hear  Cominius  speak,  I'll  keep  at  home. 

Com.  He  would  not  seem  to  know  me. 

Men.  Do  you  hear? 

Com.  Yet  one  time  he  did  call  me  by  my 

name: 

I  urg'd  our  old  acquaintance,  and  the  drops 
That  we  have  bled  together.     Coriolanus 
He  would  not  answer  to :  forbad  all  names ; 
He  was  a  kind  of  nothing,  titleless, 
Till  he  had  forg'd  himself  a  name  o'  the  fire 
Of  burning  Rome. 

Men.  Why,  so, — you  have  made  good  work ! 
A  pair  of  tribunes  that  have  rack'd  for  Rome, 
To  make  coals  cheap, — a  noble  memory ! 

Com.  I  minded  him  how  royal  'twas  to  pardon 
When  it  was  less  expected  :  he  replied, 
It  was  a  bare  petition  of  a  state 
To  one  whom  they  had  punish'd. 

Men.  Very  well : 

Could  he  say  less  ? 

Com.  I  offer'd  to  awaken  his  regard 
For 's  private  friends :  his  answer  to  me  was, 
He  could  not  stay  to  pick  them  in  a  pile 
Of  noisome  musty  chaff:  he  said  'twas  folly 
For  one  poor  grain  or  two  to  leave  unburnt, 
And  still  to  nose  the  offence. 

Men.  For  one  poor  grain 

Or  two !  I  am  one  of  those ;  his  mother,  wife, 
His  child,  and  this  brave  fellow  too,  we  are  the 

grains : 

You  are  the  musty  chaff;  and  you  are  smelt 
Above  the  moon  :  we  must  be  burnt  for  you. 

Sic.  Nay,  pray,  be  patient:  if  you  refuse  your 

aid 

In  this  so  never-heeded  help,  yet  do  not 
Upbraid 's  with  our  distress.     But,  sure,  if  you 
Would  be  your  country's  pleader;  your  good 

tongue, 

More  than  the  instant  army  we  can  make, 
Might  stop  our  countryman. 

Men.  No;  I '11  not  meddle. 

Sic.  Pray  you,  go  to  him. 

Men.  What  should  I  do  ? 

Bru.  Only  make  trial  what  your  love  can  do 
For  Rome,  towards  Marcius. 

Men.  Well,  and  say  that  Marcius 

Return  me,  as  Cominius  is  return'd, 
Unheard ;  what  then  ? 
But  as  a  discontented  friend,  grief-shot 
With  his  unkindness  ?    Say 't  be  so  ? 

Sic.  Yet  your  good-will 


SCENE  II.] 


CORIOLANUS. 


853 


Must  have  that  thanks  from  Rome,  after  the 

measure 
As  you  intended  well. 

Men.  I'll  undertake 't: 

I  think  he  '11  hear  me.     Yet  to  bite  his  lip 
And  hum  at  good  Cominius  much  unhearts  me. 
He  was  not  taken  well:  he  had  not  din'd: 
The  veins  unfill'd,  our  blood  is  cold,  and  then 
We  pout  upon  the  morning,  are  unapt 
To  give  or  to  forgive ;  but  when  we  have  stuff 'd 
These  pipes  and  these  conveyances  of  our  blood 
With  wine  and  feeding,  we  have  suppler  souls 
Than  in  our   priest-like  fasts :    therefore   I  '11 

watch  him 

Till  he  be  dieted  to  my  request, 
And  then  I  '11  set  upon  him.  [ness, 

Brti.  You  know  the  very  road  into  his  kind- 
And  cannot  lose  your  way. 

Men.  Good  faith,  I  '11  prove  him, 

Speed   how   it   will.     I   shall   ere   long   have 

knowledge 
Of  my  success.  [Exit. 

Com.  He  '11  never  hear  him. 

Sic.  Not? 

Com.  I  tell  you,  he  does  sit  in  gold,  his  eye 
Red  as  'twould  burn  Rome ;  and  his  injury 
The  gaoler  to  his  pity.     I  kneel'd  before  him ; 
'Twas  very  faintly  he  said  Rise  ;  dismiss'd  me 
Thus,  with  his  speechless  hand :  what  he  would 
do,  [not, 

He  sent  in  writing  after  me;  what  he  would 
Bound  with  an  oath  to  yield  to  his  conditions  : 
So  that  all  hope  is  vain, 
Unless  in 's  noble  mother  and  his  wife ; 
Who,  as  I  hear,  mean  to  solicit  him       [hence, 
For  mercy  to  his  country.     Therefore,   let's 
And  with  our  fair  entreaties  haste  them  on. 
/.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — An  advanced  Post  of  the  Volscian 
Camp  before  Rome.    The  Guard  at  their  stations. 

Enter  to  them  MENENIUS. 

1  G.  Stay :  whence  are  you  ? 

2  G.  Stand,  and  go  back. 
Men.  You  guard  like  men ;  'tis  well :  but,  by 

your  leave, 

I  am  an  officer  of  state,  and  come 
To  speak  with  Coriolanus. 

i  G.  From  whence  ? 

Men.  From  Rome. 

1  G.  You  may  not  pass,  you  must  return: 

our  general 
Will  no  more  hear  from  thence.  [before 

2  G.  You '11  see  your  Rome  embrac'd  with  fire 
You  '11  speak  with  Coriolanus. 

Men.  Good  my  friends, 


If  you  have  heard  your  general  talk  of  Rome, 
And  of  his  friends  there,  it  is  lots  to  blanks 
My  name  hath  touch'd  your  ears :  it  is  Menenius. 

i  G.  Be  it  so ;  go  back :  the  virtue  of  your 

name 
Is  not  here  passable. 

Men.  I  tell  thee,  fellow, 

Thy  general  is  my  lover :  I  have  been       [read 
The  book  of  his  good  acts,  whence  men  have 
His  fame  unparallel'd,  haply  amplified; 
For  I  have  ever  verified  my  friends, — 
Of  whom  he's  chief, — with  all  the  size  that  verity 
Would  without  lapsing  suffer :  nay,  sometimes, 
Like  to  a  bowl  upon  a  subtle  ground,      [praise 
I  have  tumbled  past  the  throw:    and  in  his 
Have  almost  stamp'd  the  leasing:    therefore, 

fellow, 
I  must  have  leave  to  pass. 

1  G.  Faith,  sir,  if  you  had  told  as  many  lies 
in  his  behalf  as  you  have  utter'd  words  in  your 
own,  you  should  not  pass  here :  no,  though  it 
were  as  virtuous  to  lie  as  to  live  chastely. 
Therefore,  go  back. 

Men.  Pr'ythee,  fellow,  remember  my  name 
is  Menenius,  always  factionary  on  the  party  of 
your  general. 

2  G.  Howsoever  you  have  been  his  liar, — as 
you  say  you  have, — I  am  one  that,  telling  true 
under  him,  must  say,  you  cannot  pass.     There- 
fore, go  back. 

Men.  Has  he  dined,  canst  thou  tell?  for  I 
would  not  speak  with  him  till  after  dinner. 
I  G.  You  are  a  Roman,  are  you  ? 
Men.  I  am  as  thy  general  is. 

1  G.  Then  you  should  hate  Rome,  as  he  does. 
Can  you,  when  you  have  pushed  out  your  gates 
the  very  defender  of  them,  and,  in  a  violent 
popular   ignorance,    given   your   enemy   your 
shield,  think  to  front  his  revenges  with  the  easy 
groans  of  old  women,  the  virginal  palms  of  your 
daughters,  or  with  the  palsied  intercession  of  such 
a  decayed  dotant  as  you  seem  to  be  ?    Can  you 
think  to  blow  out  the  intended  fire  your  city  is 
ready  to  flame  in,  with  such  weak  breath  as 
this?     No,  you  are  deceived;  therefore,  back 
to  Rome,  and  prepare  for  your  execution :  you 
are  condemned ;  our  general  has  sworn  you  out 
of  reprieve  and  pardon. 

Men.  Sirrah,  if  thy  captain  knew  I  were  here 
he  would  use  me  with  estimation. 

2  G.  Come,  my  captain  knows  you  not. 
Men.  I  mean  thy  general. 

I  G.  My  general  cares  not  for  you.  Back, 
I  say ;  go,  lest  I  let  forth  your  half  pint  of 
blood; — back;  that's  the  utmost  of  your 
having : — back. 

Men.  Nay,  but,  fellow,  fellow, — 


854 


CORIOLANUS. 


[ACT  v. 


Enter  CORIOLANUS  and  AUFIDIUS. 

Cor.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

Men.  Now,  you  companion,  I  '11  say  an  errand 
for  you ;  you  shall  know  now  that  I  am  in  esti- 
mation ;  you  shall  perceive  that  a  jack  guardant 
cannot  office  me  from  my  son  Coriolanus  :  guess 
but  by  my  entertainment  with  him  if  thou 
standest  not  i'  the  state  of  hanging,  or  of  some 
death  more  long  in  spectatorshipand  crueller  in 
suffering ;  behold  now  presently,  and  swoon  for 
what 's  to  come  upon  thee. — The  glorious  gods 
sit  in  hourly  synod  about  thy  particular  pros- 
perity, and  love  thee  no  worse  than  thy  old 
father  Menenius  does !  O  my  son !  my  son !  thou 
art  preparing  fire  for  us ;  look  thee,  here 's  water 
to  quench  it.  I  was  hardly  moved  to  come  to 
thee ;  but  being  assured  none  but  myself  could 
move  thee,  I  have  been  blown  out  of  your  gates 
with  sighs ;  and  conjure  thee  to  pardon  Rome 
and  thy  petitionary  countrymen.  The  good 
gods  assuage  thy  wrath,  and  turn  the  dregs  of 
it  upon  this  varlet  here ;  this,  who,  like  a  block, 
hath  denied  my  access  to  thee. 

Cor.  Away! 

Men.  How !  away  !  [affairs 

Cor.  Wife,  mother,  child,  I  know  not.     My 
Are  servanted  to  others :  though  I  owe 
My  revenge  properly,  my  remission  lies 
In   Volscian    breasts.     That    we    have    been 

familiar, 

Ingrate  forgetfulness  shall  poison,  rather 
Than  pity  note  how  much. — Therefore,  be  gone. 
Mine  ears  against  your  suits  are  stronger  than 
Your  gates  against  my  force.  Yet,  for  I  lov'd  thee, 
Take  this  along ;  I  writ  it  for  thy  sake, 

[Gives  a  letter. 

And  would  have  sent  it.     Another  word,  Men- 
enius, 

I  will  not  hear  thee  speak.  — This  man,  Aufidius, 
Was  my  beloved  in  Rome :  yet  thou  behold'st ! 

Auf.  You  keep  a  constant  temper. 

[Exeunt  COR.  and  AUF. 

1  G.  Now,  sir,  is  your  name  Menenius  ? 

2  G.  'Tis  a  spell,  you  see,  of  much  power : 
you  know  the  way  home  again. 

1  G.  Do  you  hear  how  we  are  shent  for  keep- 
ing your  greatness  back  ? 

2  G.  What  cause,do  you  think,  I  ha  veto  swoon? 
Men.  I  neither  care  for  the  world  nor  your 

general:  for  such  things  as  you,  I  can  scarce 
think  there's  any,  ye 're  so  slight.  He  that 
hath  a  will  to  die  by  himself  fears  it  not  from 
another.  Let  your  general  do  his  worst.  For 
you,  be  that,  you  are,  long;  and  your  misery 
increase  with  your  age !  I  say  to  you,  as  I  was 
said  to,  away !  [Exit. 


1  G.  A  noble  fellow,  I  warrant  him. 

2  G.  The  worthy  fellow  is  our  general :  he  is 
the  rock,  the  oak  not  to  be  wind-shaken. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  Tent  of  CORIOLANUS. 
Enter  CORIOLANUS,  AUFIDIUS,  and  others. 

Cor.  We  will  before  the  walls  of  Rome  to- 
morrow 

Set  down  our  host. — My  partner  in  this  action, 
You  must  report  to  the  Volscian  lords  how 

plainly 
I  have  borne  this  business. 

Auf.  Only  their  ends 

You  have  respected ;  stopp'd  your  ears  against 
The  general  suit  of  Rome ;  never  admitted 
A  private  whisper,  no,  not  with  such  friends 
That  thought  them  sure  of  you. 

Cor.  This  last  old  man, 

Whom  with  a  crack'd  heart  I  have  sent  to  Rome, 
Lov'd  me  above  the  measure  of  a  father ; 
Nay,  godded  me,  indeed.     Their  latest  refuge 
Was  to  send  him  ;  for  whose  old  love  I  have, — 
Though  I  show'd  sourly  to  him, — once  more 

offer'd 

The  first  conditions,  which  they  did  refuse,    • 
And  cannot  now  accept,  to  grace  him  only, 
That  thought  he  could  do  more,  a  very  little 
I  have  yielded  to :  fresh  embassies  and  suits, 
Nor  from  the  state  nor  private  friends,  hereafter 
Will  I  lend  ear  to. — Ha!  what  shout  is  this? 

[Shout  within. 

Shall  I  be  tempted  to  infringe  my  vow 
In  the  same  time  'tis  made?    I  will  not. 

Enter,  in  mourning  habits,  VIRGILIA,  VOLUM- 
NIA,  leading young  MARCIUS,  VALERIA,  and 
Attendants.  • 

My  wife  comes  foremost;  then  the  honour'd 

mould 

Wherein  this  trunk  was  fram'd,  and  in  her  hand 
The  grandchild  to  her  blood.  But,  out,  affection ! 
All  bond  and  privilege  of  nature,  break  ! 
Let  it  be  virtuous  to  be  obstinate. —  [eyes, 
What  is  that  curt'sy  worth?  or  those  doves' 
Which  can  make  gods  forsworn? — I  melt,  and 

am  not  [bows, 

Of  stronger  earth  than  others. — My  mother 
As  if  Olympus  to  a  molehill  should 
In  supplication  nod :  and  my  young  boy 
Hath  an  aspect  of  intercession  which 
Great  nature  cries,  Deny  not. — Let  the  Volsces 
Plough  Rome  and  harrow  Italy :  I  '11  never 
Be  such  a  gosling  to  obey  instinct ;  but  stand, 
As  if  a  man  were  author  of  himself, 
And  knew  no  other  kin. 


SCENE  III.] 


CORIOLANUS. 


8S5 


Vir. 


My  lord  and  husband ! 


Cor,  These  eyes  are  not  the  same  I  wore  in 

Rome. 

„  Vir.  The  sorrow  that  delivers  us  thus  chang'd 
Makes  you  think  so. 

'Cor.  Like  a  dull  actor  now, 

I  have  forgot  my  part,  and  I  am  out, 
Even  to  a  full  disgrace.     Best  of  my  flesh, 
Forgive  my  tyranny ;  but  do  not  say, 
For  that,  Forgive  our  Romans. — O,  a  kiss 
Long  as  my  exile,  sweet  as  my  revenge ; 
Now,  by  the  jealous  queen  of  heaven,  that  kiss 
I  carried  from  thee,  dear ;  and  my  true  lip 
Hath  virgin'd  it  e'er  since. — You  gods !  I  prate, 
And  the  most  noble  mother  of  the  world 
Leave  unsaluted :  sink,  my  knee,  i'  the  earth ; 

{Kneels. 

Of  thy  deep  duty  more  impression  show 
Than  that  of  common  sons. 

Vol.  O,  stand  up  bless'd ! 

Whilst,  with  no  softer  cushion  than  the  flint, 
I  kneei  before  thee;  and  unproperly 
Show  duty,  as  mistaken  all  this  while 
Between  the  child  and  parent.  \_Kneels. 

Cor.  What  is  this? 

Your  knees  to  me?  to  your  corrected  son? 
Then  let  the  pebbles  on  the  hungry  beach 
Fillip  the  stars;  then  let  the  mutinous  winds 
Strike  the  proud  cedars  'gainst  the  fiery  sun ; 
Murdering  impossibility,  to  make 
What  cannot  be,  slight  work. 

Vol.  Thou  art  my  warrior ; 

I  holp  to  frame  thee.     Do  you  know  this  lady? 

Cor.  The  noble  sister  of  Publicola, 
The  moon  of  Rome ;  chaste  as  the  icicle 
That 's  curded  by  the  frost  from  purest  snow, 
And  hangs  on  Dian's  temple : — dear  Valeria ! 

Vol.  This  is  a  poor  epitome  of  yours, 
Which,  by  the  interpretation  of  full  time, 
May  show  like  all  yourself. 

Cor.  The  god  of  soldiers, 

With  the  consent  of  supreme  Jove,  inform 
Thy  thoughts  with  nobleness;  that  thou  mayst 

prove 

To  shame  unvulnerable,  and  stick  i'  the  wars 
Like  a  great  sea-mark,  standing  every  flaw, 
And  saving  those  that  eye  thee ! 

Vol.  Your  knee,  sirrah. 

Cor.  That 's  my  brave  boy.  [self, 

Vol.  Even  he,  your  wife,  this  lady,  and  my- 
Are  suitor.;  to  you. 
.    Cor.  I  beseech  you,  peace : 
Or,  if  you'd  ask,  remember  this  before, — 
The  things  I  have  forsworn  to  grant  may  never 
Be  held  by  you  denials.     Do  not  bid  me 
Dismiss  my  soldiers,  or  capitulate 
Again  with  Rome's  mechanics. — Tell  me  not 


Wherein  I  seem  unnatural:  desire  not 
To  allay  my  rages  and  revenges  with 
Your  colder  reasons. 

Vol.  O,  no  more,  no  more ! 

You  have  said  you  will  not  grant  us  anything; 
For  we  have  nothing  else  to  ask  but  that 
Which  you  deny  already :  yet  we  will  ask ; 
That,  if  you  fail  in  our  request,  the  blame 
May  hang  upon  your  hardness;  therefore  hear 

us.  [we  '11 

Cor.  Aufidius,  and  you  Volsces,  mark :  for 

Hear  naught  from   Rome  in  private. — Your 

request?  [raiment 

Vol.  Should  we  be  silent  and  not  speak,  our 
And  state  of  bodies  would  bewray  what  life 
We  have  led  since  thy  exile.     Think  with  thy- 

self, 

How  more  unfortunate  than  all  living  women 
Are  we  come  hither:  since  that  thy  sight, 

which  should  [comforts, 

Make  our   yes  flow  with  joy,  hearts  dance  with 
Constrains  them  weep,  and  shake  with  fear  and 

sorrow ; 

Making  the  mother,  wife,  and  child  to  see 
The  son,  the  husband,  and  the  father  tearing 
His  country's  bowels  out.     And  to  poor  we, 
Thine  enmity's  most  capital :  thou  barr'st  us 
Our  prayers  to  the  gods,  which  is  a  comfort 
That  all  but  we  enjoy ;  for  how  can  we, 
Alas,  how  can  we  for  our  country  pray, 
Whereto  we  are  bound, — together  with  thy 

victory, 

Whereto  we  are  bound?  alack,  or  we  must  lose 
The  country,  our  dear  nurse;  or  else  thy  person, 
Our  comfort  in  the  country.     We  must  find 
An  evident  calamity,  though  we  had         [thou 
Our  wish,  which  side  should  win;  for  either 
Must,  as  a  foreign  recreant,  be  led 
With  manacles  thorough  our  streets,  or  else 
Triumphantly  tread  on  thy  country's  ruin, 
And  bear  the  palm  for  having  bravely  shed 
Thy  wife  and  children's  blood.    P'or  myself,  son, 
I  purpose  not  to  wait  on  fortune  till  [thee 

These  war,s  determine:   if  I  cannot  persuade 
Rather  to  show  a  noble  grace  to  both  parts 
Than  seek  the  end  of  one,  thou  shalt  no  sooner 
March  to  assault  thy  country  than  to  tread, — 
Trust  to't,  thou  shalt  not, — on  thy  mother's 

womb, 
That  brought  thee  to  this  world. 

Vir.  Ay,  and  mine, 

That  brought  you  forth  this  boy,  to  keep  your 

name 
Living  to  time. 

Boy.  'A  shall  not  tread  on  me ; 

I  '11  run  away  till  I  am  bigger ;  but  then  1 11 

fight. 


856 


CORIOLANUS. 


[ACT  v. 


Cor.  Not  of  a  woman's  tenderness  to  be, 
Requires  nor  child  nor  woman's  face  to  see. 
I  have  sat  too  long.  [Rising. 

Vol.  Nay,  go  not  from  us  thus. 

If  it  were  so  that  our  request  did  tend 
To  save  the  Romans,  thereby  to  destroy 
The    Volsces    whom    you    serve,    you    might 

condemn  us, 

As  poisonous  of  your  honour :  no ;  our  suit 
Is,  that  you  reconcile  them :  while  the  Volsces 
May  say,    This  mercy  we  have  showed;  the 

Romans, 

This  we  received ;  and  each  in  either  side 
Give  thee  all-hail  to  thee,  and  cry,  Be  blessed 
For  making   up  this  peace!    Thou  know'st, 

great  son, 

The  end  of  war 's  uncertain ;  but  this  certain, 
That,  if  thou  conquer  Rome,  the  benefit 
Which  thou  shall  thereby  reap  is  such  a  name, 
Whose  repetition  will  be  dogg'd  with  curses ; 
Whose  chronicle  thus  writ, — The  manwas  noble, 
But  with  his  last  attempt  he  wifid  it  out; 
Destroyed  his  country ;  and  his  name  remains 
To  the  ensuing  age  abhorr'd.    Speak  to  me,  son : 
Thou  hast  affected  the  fine  strains  of  honour, 
To  imitate  the  graces  of  the  gods, 
To  tear  with  thunder  the  wide  cheeks  o'  the  air, 
And  yet  to  charge  thy  sulphur  with  a  bolt 
That  should  but  rive  an  oak.     Why  dost  not 

speak? 

Think'st  thou  it  honourable  for  a  noble  man 
Still  to  remember  wrongs? — Daughter,  speak 

you :  [boy : 

He  cares  not  for  your  weeping. — Speak  thou, 
Perhaps  thy  childishness  will  move  him  more 
Than  can  our  reasons. — There  is  no  man  in  the 

world  [prate 

More  bound  to  his  mother ;  yet  here  he  lets  me 
Like  one  i'  the  stocks.      Thou  hast  never  in 

thy  life 

Show'd  thy  dear  mother  any  courtesy ; 
Whenshe, — poor  hen, — fond  of  no  second  brood, 
Has  cluck'd  thee  to  the  wars,  and  safely  home, 
Loaden  with  honour.     Say  my  request 's  unjust, 
And  spurn  me  back:  but  if  it  be  not  so, 
Thou  art  not  honest ;  and  the  gods  will  plague 

thee, 

That  thou  restrain'st  from  me  the  duty  which 
To  a  mother's  part  belongs. — He  turns  away: 
Down,  ladies ;  let  us  shame  him  with  our  knees. 
To  his  surname  Coriolanus  'longs  more  pride 
Than  pity  to  our  prayers.     Down :  an  end ; 
This  is  the  last. — So  we  will  home  to  Rome, 
And  die  among  our  neighbours. — Nay,  behold's: 
This  boy,  that  cannot  tell  what  he  would  have, 
But  kneels  and  holds  up  hands  for  fellowship, 
Does  reason  our  petition  with  more  strength 


Than  thou  hast  to  deny't. — Come,  let  us  go: 

This  fellow  had  a  Volscian  to  his  mother ; 

His  wife  is  in  Corioli,  and  his  child 

Like  him  by  chance. — Yet  give  us  our  despatch : 

I  am  hush'd  until  our  city  be  afire, 

And  then  I  '11  speak  a  little. 

Cor.  [After  holding  VOLUMNIA  by  the  hands 

in  silence.'}  O  mother,  mother! 
What  have  you  done?    Behold,  the  heavens  do 

ope, 

The  gods  look  down,  and  this  unnatural  scene 
They  laugh  at.     O  my  mother,  mother !  O ! 
You  have  won  a  happy  victory  to  Rome ; 
But  for  your  son, — believe  it,  O,  believe  it, 
Most  dangerously  you  have  with  him  prevail'd, 
If  not  most  mortal  to  him.     But  let  it  come. — 
Aufidius,  though  I  cannot  make  true  wars, 
I'll  frame  convenient  peace.  Now,good  Aufidius, 
If  you  were  in  my  stead,  would  you  have  heard 
A  mother  less?  or  granted  less,  Aufidius? 

Auf.  I  was  mov'd  withal. 

Cor.  I  dare  be  sworn  you  were: 

And,  sir,  it  is  no  little  thing  to  make 
Mine  eyes  to  sweat  compassion.     But,  good  sir, 
What  peace  you  '11  make,  advise  me:  for  my  part, 
I  '11  not  to  Rome,  I  '11  back  with  you ;  and,  pray 

you, 
Stand  to  me  in  this  cause. — O  mother !  wife ! 

Auf.  I  am  glad  thou  hast  set  thy  mercy  and 

thy  honour 

At  difference  in  thee :  out  of  that  I  '11  work 
Myself  a  former  fortune.  [Aside. 

[The  Ladies  make  signs  to  CORIOLANUS. 

Cor.  Ay,  by  and  by ; 

[To  VOLUMNIA,  VIRGILIA,  &<:. 
But  we  '11  drink  together ;  and  you  shall  bear 
A  better  witness  back  than  words,  which  we, 
On  like  conditions,  will  have  counter-seal'd. 
Come,  enter  with  us.     Ladies,  you  deserve 
To  have  a  temple  built  you:  all  the  swords 
In  Italy,  and  her  confederate  arms, 
Could  not  have  made  this  peace.          [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — ROME.    A  public  Place. 
Enter  MENENIUS  and  SICINIUS. 

Men.  See  you  yond  coigne  o'  the  Capitol, — 
yond  corner-stone? 

Sic.  Why,  what  of  that? 

Men.  If  it  be  possible  for  you  to  displace  it 
with  your  little  finger,  there  is  some  hope  the 
ladies  of  Rome,  especially  his  mother,  may 
prevail  with  him.  But  I  say  there  is  no  hope 
in 't :  our  throats  are  sentenced,  and  stay  upon 
execution. 

Sic.  Is't  possible  that  so  short  a  time  can 
alter  the  condition  of  a  man? 


SCENE  IV.] 


CORIOLANUS. 


857 


Men.  There  is  differency  between  a  grub  and 
a  butterfly;  yet  your  butterfly  was  a  grub. 
This  Marcius  is  grown  from  man  to  dragon :  he 
has  wings ;  he 's  more  than  a  creeping  thing. 

Sic.   He  loved  his  mother  dearly. 

Men.  So  did  he  me:  and  he  no  more 
remembers  his  mother  now  than  an  eight-year- 
old  horse.  The  tartness  of  his  face  sours  ripe 
grapes:  when  he  walks,  he  moves  like  an 
engine,  and  the  ground  shrinks  before  his 
treading:  he  is  able  to  pierce  a  corslet  with  his 
eye;  talks  like  a  knell,  and  his  hum  is  a 
battery.  He  sits  in  his  state  as  a  thing  made 
for  Alexander.  What  he  bids  be  done  is 
finished  with  his  bidding.  He  wants  nothing 
of  a  god  but  eternity,  and  a  heaven  to  throne  in. 

Sic.  Yes,  mercy,  if  you  report  him  truly. 

Men.  I  paint  him  in  the  character.  Mark 
what  mercy  his  mother  shall  bring  from  him : 
there  is  no  more  mercy  in  him  than  there  is 
milk  in  a  male  tiger ;  that  shall  our  poor  city 
find :  and  all  this  is  'long  of  you. 

Sic.  The  gods  be  good  unto  us ! 

Men.  No,  in  such  a  case  the  gods  will  not 
be  good  unto  us.  When  we  banished  him  we 
respected  not  them :  and,  he  returning  to  break 
our  necks,  they  respect  not  us. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Sir,  if  you  'd  save  your  life,  fly  to  your 

house : 

The  plebeians  have  got  your  fellow-tribune, 
And  hale  him  up  and  down ;  all  swearing,  if 
The  Roman  ladies  bring  not  comfort  home, 
They  '11  give  him  death  by  inches. 

Enter  a  second  Messenger. 

Sic.  What 's  the  news? 

2  Mess.  Good  news,  good  news ; — the  ladies 

have  prevail'd, 

The  Volscians  are  dislodg'd  and  Marcius  gone : 
A  merrier  day  did  never  yet  greet  Rome, 
No,  not  the  expulsion  of  the  Tarquins. 

Sic.  Friend, 

Art  thou  certain  this  is  true?  is  it  most  certain? 

2  Mess.  As  certain  as  I  know  the  sun  is  fire : 

Where  have  you  hirk'd,  that  you  make  doubt 

of  it?  [tide 

Ne'er  through  an  arch  so  hurried  the  blown 

As  the  recomforted  through  the  gates.     Why, 

hark  you ! 
[  Trumpets  and  hautboys  sounded,  drums 

beat 'en ,  and  shouting  •within. 
The  trumpets,  sackbuts,  psalteries,  and  fifes, 
Tabors  and  cymbals,  and  the  shouting  Romans, 
Make  the  sun  dance.     Hark  you ! 

[Shouting  again. 


Men.  This  is  good  news. 

I  will  go  meet  the  ladies.     This  Volumnia 
Is  worth  of  consuls,  senators,  patricians, 
A  city  full :  of  tribunes  such  as  you,      [to-day: 
A  sea  and  land  full.     You  have  pray'd  well 
This  morning,  for  ten  thousand  of  your  throats 
I  'd  not  have  given  a  doit.    Hark,  how  they  joy  1 
[Shouting-  and  music. 

Sic.    First,    the    gods    bless    you   for    your 

tidings ;  next, 
Accept  my  thankfulness. 

2  Mess.  Sir,  we  have  all 

Great  cause  to  give  great  thanks. 

Sic.  They  are  near  the  city? 

Mess.  Almost  at  point  to  enter. 

Sic.  We  will  meet  them, 

And  help  the  joy.  {Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — ROME.     A  Street  near  the  Gate. 
Enter  VOLUMNIA,  VIRGII.IA,  VALERIA,  &Y., 
accompanied  by   Senators,    Patricians,   and 
Citizens. 

i  Sen.  Behold  our  patroness,  the  life  of  Rome! 
Call  all  your  tribes  together,  praise  the  gods, 
And   make   triumphant   fires;    strew  flowers 

before  them : 

Unshout  the  noise  that  banish'd  Marcius, 
Repeal  him  with  the  welcome  of  his  mother; 
Cry,  Welcome ,  ladies ,  welcome! — 

All.  Welcome,  ladies, 

Welcome ! 

[A  flourish  with  drums  and  trumpets. 
[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.—  ANTITJM.    A  public  Place. 
Enter  TULLUS  AUFIDIUS,  with  Attendants. 

Auf.  Go  tell  the  lords  of  the  city  I  am  here : 
Deliver  them  this  paper ;  having  read  it, 
Bid  them  repair  to  the  market-place:  where  I, 
Even  in  theirs  and  in  the  commons'  ears, 
Will  vouch  the  truth  of  it.     Him  I  accuse 
The  city  ports  by  this  hath  enter'd,  and 
Intends  to  appear  before  the  people,  hoping 
To  purge  himself  with  words :  despatch. 

[Exeunt  Attendants. 
Enter  three  or  four  Conspirators  of  AUFIDIUS'S 

faction. 
Most  welcome ! 

1  Con.  How  is  it  with  our  general  ? 

Auf.  Even  so 

As  with  a  man  by  his  own  alms  empoison'd, 
And  with  his  charity  slain. 

2  Con.  Most  noble  sir, 
If  you  do  hold  the  same  intent  wherein 
You  wish'd  us  parties,  we  '11  deliver  you 
Of  your  great  danger. 


CORIOLANUS. 


[ACT  v. 


Auf.  Sir,  I  cannot  tell: 

We  must  proceed  as  we  do  find  the  people. 

3  Con.  The   people  will  remain  uncertain 
whilst  [either 

'Twixt  you  there 's  difference :  but  the  fall  of 
Makes  the  survivor  heir  of  all. 

Auf.  I  know  it; 

And  my  pretext  to  strike  at  him  admits 
A  good  construction.      I   rais'd  him,  and   I 
pawn'd  [heighten'd, 

Mine  honour  for   his   truth:    who    being   so 
He  water'd  his  new  plants  with  dews  of  flattery, 
Seducing  so  my  friends ;  and  to  this  end 
He  bow'd  his  nature,  never  known  before 
But  to  be  rough,  unswayable,  and  free. 

3  Con.  Sir,  his  stoutness, 
When  he  did  stand  for  consul,  which  he  lost 
By  lack  of  stooping, — 

Auf.  That  I  would  have  spoke  of: 

Being  banish'd  for 't,  he  came  unto  my  hearth ; 
Presented  to  my  knife  his  throat :  I  took  him ; 
Made  him  joint-servant  with  me ;  gave  him  way 
In  all  his  own  desires;  nay,  let  him  choose 
Out  of  my  files,  his  projects  to  accomplish, 
My  best  and  freshest  men ;  serv'd  his  design- 

ments 

In  mine  own  person ;  holp  to  reap  the  fame 
Which  he  made  all  his ;  and  took  some  pride 
To  do  myself  this  wrong :  till,  at  the  last, 
I  seem'd  his  follower,  not  partner;  and 
He  wagfd  me  with  his  countenance  as  if 
I  had  been  mercenary. 

I  Con.  So  he  did,  my  lord : 

The  army  marvell'd  at  it ;  and,  in  the  last, 
When  he  had  carried  Rome,  and  that  we  look'd 
For  no  less  spoil  than  glory, — 

Auf.  There  was  it ; — 

For  which  my  sinews  shall  be  stretch'd  upon 

him. 

At  a  few  drops  of  women's  rheum,  which  are 
As  cheap  as  lies,  he  sold  the  blood  and  labour 
Of  our  great  action :  therefore  shall  he  die, 
And  I  '11  renew  me  in  his  fall.     But,  hark ! 

[Drums  and  trumpets  sotmd,  with  great 
shouts  of  the  people. 

1  Con.  Your  native  town  you  enter'd  like  a 

post, 

And  had  no  welcomes  home ;  but  he  returns 
Splitting  the  air  with  noise. 

2  Con.  And  patient  fools, 
Whose  children  he  hath  slain,  their  base  throats 

tear 
With  giving  him  glory. 

3  Con.  Therefore,  at  your  vantage, 
Ere  he  express  himself,  or  move  the  people 
With  what  he  would  say,  let  him  feel  your  sword, 
Which  we  will  second.     When  he  lies  along, 


After  your  way  his  tale  pronounc'd  shall  bury 
His  reasons  with  his  body. 

Auf.  Say  no  more : 

Here  come  the  lords. 

Enter  the  Lords  of  the  City. 

Lords.  You  are  most  welcome  home. 

Auf.  I  have  not  deserv'd  it. 

But,  worthy  lords,  have  you  with  heed  perus'd 
What  I  have  written  to  you? 

Lords.  We  have. 

I  Lord.  And  grieve  to  hear 't. 

What  faults  he  made  before  the  last,  I  think 
Might  have  found  easy  fines :  but  there  to  end 
Where  he  was  to  begin,  and  give  away 
The  benefit  of  our  levies,  answering  us 
With  our  own  charge :  making  a  treaty  where 
There  was  a  yielding. — This  admits  no  excuse. 

Auf.  He  approaches :  you  shall  hear  him. 

Enter  CORIOLANUS,  with  drums  and  colours ; 
a  crowd  of  Citizens  with  him. 

Cor.  Hail,  lords !  I  am  return'd  your  soldier ; 
No  more  infected  with  my  country's  love 
Than  when  I  parted  hence,  but  still  subsisting 
Under  your  great  command.     You  are  to  know 
That  prosperously  I  have  attempted,  and 
With  bloody  passage  led  your  wars  even  to 
The   gates  of  Rome.      Our   spoils  we  have 

brought  home 

Do  more  than  counterpoise  a  full  third  part 
The  charges  of  the  action.    We  have  made  pe; 
With  no  less  honour  to  the  Antiates 
Than  shame  to  the  Romans:    and  we   here 

deliver, 

Subscribed  by  the  consuls  and  patricians, 
Together  with  the  seal  o'  the  senate,  what 
We  have  compounded  on. 

Auf.  Read  it  not,  noble  lords ; 

But  tell  the  traitor,  in  the  highest  degree 
He  hath  abus'd  your  powers. 

Cor.  Traitor ! — How  now ! 

Auf.  Ay,  traitor,  Marcius. 

Cor.  Marcius ! 

Auf.   Ay,  Marcius,  Caius  Marcius.      Dost 

thou  think 
I'll  grace  thee  with  that  r6bbery,  thy  stol'n 

name 

Coriolanus  in  Corioli  ? — 
You  lords  and  heads  o'  the  state,  perfidiously 
He  has  betray'd  your  business,  and  given  up, 
For  certain  drops  of  salt,  your  city  Rome, — 
I  say  your  city, — to  his  wife  and  mother; 
Breaking  his  oath  and  resolution,  like 
A  twist  of  rotten  silk ;  never  admitting 
Counsel  o'  the  war ;  but  at  his  nurse's  tears 
He  whin'd  and  roar'd  away  your  victory; 


peace 


SCENE  VI.] 


CORIOLANTJS. 


859 


That  pages  blush'd  at  him,  and  men  of  heart 
Look'd  wondering  each  at  other. 

Cor.  Hear'st  thou,  Mars? 

Auf.   Name  not  the  god,  thou  boy  of  tears, — 

Cor.  Ha ! 

Atif.  No  more. 

Cor.  Measureless  liar,  thou  hast  made  my 

heart  [slave ! — 

Too  great  for  what    contains  it.      Boy !    O 

Pardon  me,  lords,  'tis  the  first  time  that  ever 

I  was  forc'd  to  scold.      Your  judgments,  my 

grave  lords, 

Must  give  this  cur  the  lie :  and  his  own  notion, — 
Who  wears  my  stripes  impress'd  upon  him; 

that  must  bear 

My  beating  to  his  grave, — shall  join  to  thrust 
The  lie  unto  him. 

1  Lord.        Peace,  both,  and  hear  me  speak. 
Cor.  Cut  me  to  pieces,  Volsces;  men  and  lads, 

Stain  all  your  edges  on  me. — Boy !  False  hound  ! 
If  you  have  writ  your  annals  true,  'tis  there, 
That,  like  an  eagle  in  a  dove-cote,  I 
Flutter' d  your  Volscians  in  Corioli : 
Alone  I  did  it. — Boy  ! 

Auf.  Why,  noble  lords, 

Will  you  be  put  in  mind  of  his  blind  fortune, 
Which  was  your  shame,  by  this  unholy  braggart, 
'Fore  your  own  eyes  and  ears? 

Conspirators.  Let  him  die  for 't. 

Citizens.  Tear  him  to  pieces,  do  it  presently: — 
he  killed  my  son ; — my  daughter ; — he  killed  my 
cousin  Marcus ; — he  killed  my  father, — 

2  Lord.  Peace,  ho ! — no  outrage ; — peace ! 
The  man  is  noble,  and  his  fame  folds  in 
This  orb  o'  the  earth.     His  last  offences  to  us 
Shall  have  judicious  hearing. — Stand,  Aufidius, 
And  trouble  not  the  peace. 

Cor.  O  that  I  had  him,, 


With  six  Aufidiuses,  or  more,  his  tribe, 
To  use  my  lawful  sword ! 

Auf.  Insolent  villain ! 

Conspirators.   Kill,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill  him! 
[AUF.  and  the  Conspirators  draw,  and  kill 
COR.,  who  falls:  AUF.  stands  on  him. 
Lords.  Hold,  hold,  hold,  hold ! 

Atif.  My  noble  masters,  hear  me  speak. 

1  Lord.  O  Tullus,— 

2  Lord.  Thou   hast   done  a  deed   whereat 

valour  will  weep.  [quiet ; 

3  Lord.  Tread  not  upon  him. — Masters  all,  be 
Put  up  your  swords.  [this  rage, 

Auf.  My  lords,  when  you  shall  know, — as  in 
Provok'd  by  him,  you  cannot, — the  great  danger 
Which  this  man's  life  did  owe  you,  you  '11  rejoice 
That  he  is  thus  cut  off.     Please  it  your  honours 
To  call  me  to  your  senate,  I  '11  deliver 
Myself  your  loyal  servant,  or  endure 
Your  heaviest  censure. 

1  Lord.  Bear  from  hence  his  body, 
And  mourn  you  for  him.     Let  him  be  regarded 
As  the  most  noble  corse  that  ever  herald 

Did  follow  to  his  urn. 

2  Lord.  His  own  impatience 
Takes  from  Aufidius  a  great  part  of  blame. 
Let 's  make  the  best  of  it 

Auf.  My  rage  is  gone; 

And  I  am  struck  with  sorrow. — Take  him  up: — 
Help,  three  o'  the  chiefest  soldiers ;  I  '11  be  one. — 
Beat  thou  the  drum,  that  it  speak  mournfully: 
Trail  your  steel  pikes.     Though  in  this  city  he 
Hath  widow'd  and  unchilded  many  a  one, 
Which  to  this  hour  bewail  the  injury, 
Yet  he  shall  have  a  noble  memory. — 
Assist. 

[Exeunt,  bearing  the 

A  dead  march  sounded. 


W  .tiftk 


JULIUS    C^SAR. 


PERSONS   REPRESENTED. 


JULIUS  OESAR. 

OCTAVIUS  CESAR, 

MARCUS  ANTONIUS, 

M.  y£MiL.  LEPIDUS, 

CICERO,  ^ 

PUBLIUS,  \Senators. 

POPILIUS  LENA,  J 

MARCUS  BRUTUS, 

CASSIUS, 

CASCA, 

TREBONIUS, 

LIGARIUS, 

DECIUS  BRUTUS, 

METELLUS  CIMBER, 

ClNNA, 


Triumvirs  after  the 
death  of  JULIUS 
CESAR. 


Conspirators    against 
JULIUS  CESAR. 


FLAVIUS  and  MARULLUS,  Tribunes. 

ARTEMIDORUS,  a  Sophist  of  Cnidos. 

A  Soothsayer. 

CINNA,  a  Poet. 

Another  Poet. 

LUCILIUS,  TITINIUS  MESSALA,  YOUNG  CATO, 

and  VOLUMNIUS, — Friends  to  BRUTUS  and 

CASSIUS. 
VARRO,  CLITUS,  CLAUDIUS,  STRATO,  Lucius, 

DARDANIUS, — Servants  to  BRUTUS. 
PINDARUS,  Servant  to  CASSIUS. 

CALPHURNIA,  Wife  to  CESAR. 
PORTIA,  Wife  to  BRUTUS. 

Senators,  Citizens,  Guards,  Attendants, 


SCENE, — Dtiring  a  great  part  of  the  Play  at  ROME  ;  afterwards  at  SARDIS,  and  near  PHILIPPI. 


ACT  I. 
SCENE  I.— ROME.     A  Street. 

Enter  FLAVIUS,  MARULLUS,  and  a  rabble  of 
Citizens. 

Flav.  Hence  !  home,  you  idle  creatures,  get 

you  home: 

Is  this  a  holiday?    What !  know  you  not, 
Being  mechanical,  you  ought  not  walk 
Upon  a  labouring  day  without  the  sign 
Of  your  profession  ? — Speak,  what  trade  art  thou  ? 

1  Cit.  Why,  sir,  a  carpenter.  [rule  ? 
Mar.  Where  is  thy  leather  apron  and  thy 

What  dost  thou  with  thy  best  apparel  on? — 
You,  sir,  what  trade  are  you?  [man, 

2  Cit.  Truly,  sir,  in  respect  of  a  fine  work- 
I  am  but,  as  you  would  say,  a  cobbler. 

Mar.  But  what  trade  art  thou?  answer  me 
directly. 

2  Cit.  A  trade,  sir,  that  I  hope  I  may  use 
with  a  safe  conscience ;  which  is  indeed,  sir,  a 
mender  of  bad  soles. 

Mar.  What  trade,  thou  knave,  thou  naughty 
knave,  what  trade? 

2  Cit.  Nay,  I  beseech  you,  sir,  be  not  out 
with  me :  yet,  if  you  be  out,  sir,  I  can  mend 
you. 

Mar.  What  meanest  thou  by  that?  mend  me, 
thou  saucy  fellow ! 

2  Cit.  Why,  sir,  cobble  you. 


Flav.  Thou  art  a  cobbler,  art  thou? 

2  Cit.  Truly,  sir,  all  that  I  live  by  is  with 
the  awl :  I  meddle  with  no  tradesman's  matters, 
nor  women's  matters,  but  with  awl.  I  am, 
indeed,  sir,  a  surgeon  to  old  shoes;  when  they 
are  in  great  danger,  I  re-cover  them.  As 
proper  men  as  ever  trod  upon  neats-leather 
have  gone  upon  my  handiwork. 

Flav.   But  wherefore  art  not  in  thy  shop  to- 
day? 
Why  dost  thou  lead  these  men  about  the  streets? 

2  Cit.  Truly,  sir,  to  wear  out  their  shoes,  to 
get  myself  into  more  work.  But,  indeed,  sir, 
we  make  holiday  to  see  Caesar,  and  to  rejoice 
in  his  triumph. 

Mar.  Wherefore  rejoice?     What  conquest 

brings  he  home? 

What  tributaries  follow  him  to  Rome, 
To  grace  in  captive  bonds  his  chariot  wheels? 
You  blocks,  you  stones,  you  worse  than  sense- 
less things ! 

O  you  hard  hearts,  you  cruel  men  of  Rome, 
Knew  you  not  Pompey  ?     Many  a  time  and  oft 
Have  you  climb'd  up  to  walls  and  battlements, 
To  towers  and  windows,  yea,  to  chimney-tops, 
Your  infants  in  your  arms,  and  there  have  sat 
The  live-long  day,  with  patient  expectation, 
To  see  great  Pompey  pass  the  streets  of  Rome : 
And  when  you  saw  his  chariot  but  appear, 
Have  you  not  made  an  universal  shout, 
That  Tiber  trembled  underneath  her  banks, 


SCENE  II.] 


JULIUS  CAESAR. 


861 


To  hear  the  replication  of  your  sounds 

Made  in  her  concave  shores? 

And  do  you  now  put  on  your  best  attire? 

And  do  you  now  cull  out  a  holiday? 

And  do  you  now  strew  flowers  in  his  way 

That  comes  in  triumph  over  Pompey's  blood? 

Be  gone ! 

Run  to  your  houses,  fall  upon  your  knees, 

Pray  to  the  gods  to  intermit  the  plague 

That  needs  must  light  on  this  ingratitude. 

.     Flav.  Go,   go,   good   countrymen,  and  for 

this  fault 

Assemble  all  the  poor  men  of  your  sort ; 
Draw  them  to  Tiber  banks,  and  weep  your  tears 
Into  the  channel,  till  the  lowest  stream 
Do  kiss  the  most  exalted  shores  of  all. 

[Exeunt  Citizens. 

See,  whe'r  their  basest  metal  be  not  mov'd ; 
They  vanish  tongue-tied  in  their  guiltiness. 
Go  you  down  that  way  towards  the  Capitol : 
This  way  will  I :  disrobe  the  images 
If  you  do  find  them  deck'd  with  ceremonies. 

Mar.   May  we  do  so? 
You  know  it  is  the  feast  of  Lupercal. 

Flav.  It  is  no  matter ;  let  no  images 
Be  hung  with  Caesar's  trophies.     I  '11  about, 
And  drive  away  the  vulgar  from  the  streets: 
So  do  you  too,  where  you  perceive  them  thick. 
These  growing  feathers  pluck'd  from  Caesar's 

wing 

Will  make  him  fly  an  ordinary  pitch ; 
Who  else  would  soar  above  the  view  of  men, 
And  keep  us  all  in  servile  fearfulness. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — ROME.    A  public  Place. 
Enter^    in  procession,   with   music,    CAESAR; 

ANTONY,  for   the    cotirse ;    CALPHURNIA, 

PORTIA,  DECIUS,  CICERO,  BRUTUS,  CASSIUS, 

and  CASCA  ;  a  great  crowd  following:  among 

them  a  Soothsayer. 

Cas.  Calphurnia, — 

Casca.  Peace,  ho !  Caesar  speaks. 

[Music  ceases. 

Cas.  Calphurnia, — 

Cal.  Here,  my  lord. 

C<zs.  Stand  you  directly  in  Antonius'  way 
When  he  doth  run  his  course. — Antonius. 

Ant.  Caesar,  my  lord. 

Cas.  Forget  not,  in  your  speed,  Antonius, 
To  touch  Calphurnia;  for  our  elders  say, 
The  barren,  touched  in  this  holy  chase, 
Shake  off  their  sterile  curse. 

Ant.  I  shall  remember : 

When  Caesar  says,  Do  this,  it  is  perform'd. 

Cas.  Set  on ;  and  leave  no  ceremony  out. 

[Music. 


Sooth.  Caesar ! 

Cas.  Ha !  who  calls? 

Casca.  Bid  every  noise  be  still. — Peace  yet 
again.  [Music  ceases. 

Cas.  Who  is  it  in  the  press  that  calls  on  me? 
I  hear  a  tongue,  shriller  than  all  the  music, 
Cry,  Ccesar.     Speak ;  Caesar  is  turn'd  to  hear. 

Sooth.  Beware  the  ides  of  March. 

Cas.  What  man  is  that? 

Bru.  A  soothsayer  bids  you  beware  the  ides 
of  March. 

Cas.  Set  him  before  me ;  let  me  see  his  face. 

Cas.  Fellow,  come  from  the  throng;   look 
upon  Caesar. 

Cas.  What  say'st  thou  to  me  now?   speak 
once  again. 

Sooth.  Beware  the  ides  of  March.         [Pass. 

Cas.  He  is  a  dreamer;  let  us  leave  him. — 
[Sennet.     Exeunt  all  but  BRU.  and  CAS. 

Cas.  Will  you  go  see  the  order  of  the  course? 

Bru.  Not  I. 

Cas.  I  pray  you  do.  [part 

Bru.  I  am  not  gamesome :  I  do  lack  some 
Of  that  quick  spirit  that  is  in  Antony. 
Let  me  not  hinder,  Cassius,  your  desires ; 
I  '11  leave  you. 

Cas.  Brutus,  I  do  observe  you  now  of  late : 
I  have  not  from  your  eyes  that  gentleness 
And  show  of  love  as  I  was  wont  to  have : 
You  bear  too  stubborn  and  too  strange  a  hand 
Over  your  friend  that  loves  you. 

Bru.  Cassius, 

Be  not  deceiv'd :  if  I  have  vail'd  my  look, 
I  turn  the  trouble  of  my  countenance 
Merely  upon  myself.     Vexed  I  am 
Of  late  with  passions  of  some  difference, 
Conceptions  only  proper  to  myself,    [haviours; 
Which  gives  some   soil,    perhaps,  to   my  be- 
But  let  not  therefore  my  good  friends  be  griev'd, — 
Among  which  number,  Cassius,  be  you  one, — 
Nor  construe  any  further  my  neglect 
Than  that  poor  Brutus,  with  himself  at  war, 
Forgets  the  shows  of  love  to  other  men. 

Cas.  Then,  Brutus,    I  have  much  mistook 

your  passion ; 

By  means  whereof  this  breast  of  mine  hath  buried 
Thoughts  of  great  value,  worthy  cogitations. 
Tell  me,  good  Brutus,  can  you  see  your  face  ? 

Bru.  No,  Cassius ;  for  the  eye  sees  not  itself 
But  by  reflection,  by  some  other  things. 

Cas.  'Tisjust: 

And  it  is  very  much  lamented,  Brutus, 
That  you  have  no  such  mirrors  as  will  turn 
Your  hidden  worthiness  into  your  eye, 
That  you  might  see  your  shadow.   I  have  heard, 
Where  many  of  the  best  respect  in  Rome, — 
Except  immortal  Caesar, — speaking  of  Brutus, 


862 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


[ACT  i. 


And  groaning  underneath  this  age's  yoke, 
Have  wish'd  that  noble  Brutus  had  his  eyes. 

Bru.  Into  what  dangers  would  you  lead  me, 

Cassius, 

That  you  would  have  me  seek  into  myself 
For  that  which  is  not  in  me  ?  [hear : 

Cas.  Therefore,  good  Brutus,  be  prepar'd  to 
And,  since  you  know  you  cannot  see  yourself 
So  well  as  by  reflection,  I,  your  glass, 
Will  modestly  discover  to  yourself 
That  of  yourself  v/hich  you  yet  know  not  of. 
And  be  not  jealous  on  me,  gentle  Brutus: 
Were  I  a  common  laugher,  or  did  use 
To  stale  with  ordinary  oaths  my  love 
To  every  new  protester ;  if  you  know 
That  I  do  fawn  on  men,  and  hug  them  hard, 
And  after  scandal  them  ;  or  if  you  know 
That  I  profess  myself  in  banqueting 
To  all  the  rout,  then  hold  me  dangerous. 

[Flourish  and  shout. 

Bru.  What  means  this  shouting  ?    I  do  fear 

the  people 
Choose  Caesar  for  their  king. 

Cas.  Ay,  do  you  fear  it  ? 

Then  must  I  think  you  would  not  have  it  so. 

Bru.  I  would  not,  Cassius;  yet  I  love  him 

well.— 

But  wherefore  do  you  hold  me  here  so  long  ? 
What  is  it  that  you  would  impart  to  me  ? 
If  it  be  aught  toward  the  general  good, 
Set  honour  in  one  eye  and  death  r  the  other, 
And  I  will  look  on  both  indifferently; 
For,  let  the  gods  so  speed  me  as  I  love 
The  name  of  honour  more  than  I  fear  death. 

Cas.  I  know  that  virtue  to  be  in  you,  Brutus, 
As  well  as  I  do  know  your  outward  favour. 
Well,  honour  is  the  subject  of  my  story. — 
I  cannot  tell  what  you  and  other  men 
Think  of  this  life ;  but,  for  my  single  self, 
I  had  as  lief  not  be  as  live  to  be 
In  awe  of  such  a  thing  as  I  myself. 
I  was  born  free  as  Caesar ;  so  were  you : 
We  both  have  fed  as  well ;  and  we  can  both 
Endure  the  winter's  cold  as  well  as  he. 
For  once,  upon  a  raw  and  gusty  day, 
The  troubled  Tiber  chafing  with  her  shores, 
Caesar  said  to  me,  Dar>st  thou,  Cassius,  now 
Leap  in  with  me  into  this  angry  flood, 
And  swim  to  yonder  point  ? — Upon  the  word, 
Accoutred  as  I  was,  I  plunged  in, 
And  bade  him  follow :  so  indeed  he  did. 
The  torrent  roar'd ;  and  we  did  buffet  it 
With  lusty  sinews,  throwing  it  aside 
And  stemming  it  with  hearts  of  controversy : 
But  ere  we  could  arrive  the  point  propos'd, 
Caesar  cried,  Help  me,  Cassius,  or  f  sink! 
I,  as  ^neas,  our  great  ancestor, 


Did  from  the  flames  of  Troy  upon  his  shoulder 
The  old  Anchises  bear,  so  from  the  waves  of 

Tiber 

Did  I  the  tired  Caesar :  and  this  man 
Is  now  become  a  god ;  and  Cassius  is 
A  wretched  creature,  and  must  bend  his  body 
If  Caesar  carelessly  but  nod  on  him. 
He  had  a  fever  when  he  was  in  Spain, 
And,  when  the  fit  was  on  him,  I  did  mark 
How  he  did  shake :  'tis  true,  this  god  did  shake : 
His  coward  lips  did  from  their  colour  fly; 
And  that  same  eye,  whose  bend  doth  awe  the 

world, 

Did  lose  his  lustre :  I  did  hear  him  groan : 
Ay,  and  that  tongue  of  his,  that  bade  the  Romans 
Mark  him,  and  write  his  speeches  in  their  books, 
Alas !  it  cried,  Give  me  some  drink,  Titinius, 
As  a  sick  girl.     Ye  gods,  it  doth  amaze  me, 
A  man  of  such  a  feeble  temper  should 
So  get  the  start  of  the  majestic  world, 
And  bear  the  palm  alone.        [Shout :  flourish. 

Bru.  Another  general  shout ! 
I  do  believe  that  these  applauses  are 
For  some  new  honours  that  are  heap'd  on  Caesar. 
Cas.  Why,  man,  he  doth  bestride  the  narrow 

world 

Like  a  Colossus ;  and  we  petty  men 
Walk  under  his  huge  legs,  and  peep  about 
To  find  ourselves  dishonourable  graves. 
Men  at  some  time  are  masters  of  their  fates: 
The  fault,  dear  Brutus,  is  not  in  our  stars, 
But  in  ourselves,  that  we  are  underlings. 
Brutus   and   Caesar:  what  should  be   in   that 

Caesar  ?  [yours  ? 

Why  should  that  name  be  sounded  more  than 
Write  them  together,  yours  is  as  fair  a  name  ; 
Sound  them,  it  doth  become  the  mouth  as  well ; 
Weigh  them,  it  is  as  heavy ;  conjure  with  'em, 
Brutus  will  starta  spirit  as  soon  as  Caesar.  [Shout. 
Now,  in  the  names  of  all  the  gods  at  once, 
Upon  what  meat  doth  this  our  Caesar  feed, 
That  he  has  grown  so  great?    Age,  thou  art 

sham'd ! 

Rome,  thou  hast  lost  the  breed  of  noble  bloods ! 
When  went  there  by  an  age,  since  the  great  flood, 
But  it  was  fam'd  with  more  than  with  one  man  ? 
When  could  they  say,  till  now,  that  talk'd  of 

Rome, 

That  her  wide  walls  encompass'd  but  one  man  ? 
Now  is  it  Rome  indeed,  and  room  enough, 
When  there  is  in  it  but  one  only  man. 
O  !  you  and  I  have  heard  our  fathers  say, 
There  was  a  Brutus  once  that  would  have  brook'd 
The  eternal  devil  to  keep  his  state  in  Rome 
As  easily  as  a  king.  [jealous ; 

Bru.  That  you  do  love  me,  I  am  nothing 
What  you  would  work  me  to,  I  have  some  aim : 


SCENE  II.] 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


863 


How  I  have  thought  of  this,  and  of  these  times, 
I  shall  recount  hereafter;  for  this  present, 
I  would  not,  so  with  love  I  might  entreat  you, 
Be  any  further  mov'd.     What  you  have  said 
I  will  consider ;  what  you  have  to  say 
I  will  with  patience  hear :  and  find  a  time 
Both  meet  to  hear  and  answer  such  high  things. 
Till  then,  my  noble  friend,  chew  upon  this ; 
Brutus  had  rather  be  a  villager 
Than  to  repute  himself  a  son  of  Rome 
Under  these  hard  conditions  as  this  time 
Is  like  to  lay  upon  us. 

Cas.  I  am  glad  that  my  weak  words 
Have  struck  but  thus  much  show  of  fire  from 

Brutus. 

Bru.  The  games  are  done,  and  Caesar  is  re- 
turning. 
Cas.  As  they  pass  by,  pluck  Casca  by  the 

sleeve ; 

And  he  will,  after  his  sour  fashion,  tell  you 
What  hath  proceeded  worthy  note  to-day. 

Re-enter  CAESAR  and  his  Train. 

Bru.  I  will  do  so. — But,  look  you,  Cassius, 
The  angry  spot  doth  glow  on  Caesar's  brow, 
And  all  the  rest  look  like  a  chidden  train: 
Calphurnia's  cheek  is  pale ;  and  Cicero      » 
Looks  with  such  ferret  and  such  fiery  eyes 
As  we  have  seen  him  in  the  Capitol, 
Being  crossed  in  conference  by  some  senators. 

Cas.  Casca  will  tell  us  what  the  matter  is. 

Cces.  Antonius. 

Ant.  Caesar? 

Cas.  Let  me  have  men  about  me  that  are  fat ; 
Sleek-headed  men,  and  such  as  sleep  o'  nights: 
Yond  Cassius  has  a  lean  and  hungry  look ; 
He  thinks  too  much :  such  men  are  dangerous. 

Ant.  Fear  him  not,  Caesar,  he 's  not  danger- 
ous; 
He  is  a  noble  Roman,  and  well  given. 

Cces.  Would  he  were  fatter ! — But  I  fear  him 

not: 

Yet  if  my  name  were  liable  to  fear, 
I  do  not  know  the  man  I  should  avoid 
So  soon  as  that  spare  Cassius.     He  reads  much ; 
He  is  a  great  observer,  and  he  looks 
Quite  through  the  deeds  of  men :  he  loves  no 

plays, 

As  thou  dost,  Antony;  he  hears  no  music: 
Seldom  he  smiles ;  and  smiles  in  such  a  sort 
As  if  he  mock'd  himself,  and  scorn'd  his  spirit 
That  could  be  mov'd  to  smile  at  anything. 
Such  men  as  he  be  never  at  heart's  ease 
Whiles  they  behold  a  greater  than  themselves; 
And  therefore  are  they  very  dangerous. 
I  rather  tell  thee  what  is  to  be  fear'd 
Than  what  I  fear, — for  always  I  am  Caesar. 


Come  on  my  right  hand,  for  this  ear  is  deaf, 
And  tell  me  truly  what  thou  think'st  of  him. 
[Exeunt  CJESKK  and  STRAIN.     CASCA 
stays  behind. 

Casca.  You  pull'd  me  by  the  cloak  ;  would 
you  speak  with  me?  [to-day, 

Bru.  Ay,  Casca ;  tell  us  what  hath  chanc'd 
That  Caesar  looks  so  sad?  [not? 

Casca.  Why,  you  were  with  him,  were  you 

Bru.  I  should  not  then  ask  Casca  what  had 
chanc'd. 

Casca.  Why,  there  was  a  crown  offered  him: 
and  being  offered  him,  he  put  it  by  with  the 
back  of  his  hand,  thus ;  and  then  the  people 
fell  a-shouting. 

Bru.  What  was  the  second  noise  for? 

Casca.  Why,  for  that  too.  [cry  for? 

Cas.  They  shouted  thrice :  what  was  the  last 

Casca.  Why,  for  that  too. 

Bru.  Was  the  crown  offer'd  him  thrice? 

Casca.  Ay,  marry,  was 't,  and  he  put  it  by 
thrice,  every  time  gentler  than  other;  and  at 
every  putting  by  mine  honest  neighbours 
shouted. 

Cas.  Who  offered  him  the  crown? 

Casca,  Why,  Antony. 

Bru.  Tell  us  the  manner  of  it,  gentle  Casca. 

Casca.  I  can  as  well  be  hanged  as  tell  the 
manner  of  it :  it  was  mere  foolery ;  I  did  not 
mark  it.  I  saw  Mark  Antony  offer  him  a  crown ; 
— yet  'twas  not  a  crown  neither,  'twas  one  of 
these  coronets; — and,  as  I  told  you,  he  put  it 
by  once :  but,  for  all  that,  to  my  thinking,  he 
would  fain  have  had  it.  Then  he  offered  it  to 
him  again;  then  he  put  it  by  again:  but,  to 
my  thinking,  he  was  very  loth  to  lay  his  fingers 
off  it.  And  then  he  offered  it  the  third  time ; 
he  put  it  the  third  time  by :  and  still,  as  he 
refused  it,  the  rabblement  hooted,  and  clapped 
their  chapped  hands,  and  threw  up  their  sweaty 
night-caps,  and  uttered  such  a  deal  of  stinking 
breath  because  Caesar  refused  the  crown,  that 
it  had  almost  choked  Caesar;  for  he  swooned, 
and  fell  down  at  it :  and  for  mine  own  part  I 
durst  not  laugh,  for  fear  of  opening  my  lips 
and  receiving  the  bad  air. 

Cas.  But,  soft,  I  pray  you :  what,  did  Caesar 
swoon? 

Casca.  He  fell  down  in  the  market-place,  and 
foamed  at  mouth,  and  was  speechless. 

Bru.  'Tis  very  like, — he  hath  the  falling 
sickness. 

Cas.  No,  Caesar  hath  it  not ;  but  you,  and  I, 
And  honest  Casca,  we  have  the  falling  sickness. 

Casca.  I  know  not  what  you  mean  by  that ; 
but  I  am  sure  Caesar  fell  down.  If  the  tag-rag 
people  did  not  clap  him  and  hiss  him,  according 


864 


JULIUS  C^SAR. 


[ACT  i. 


as  he  pleased  and  displeased  them,  as  they  use 
to  do  the  players  in  the  theatre,  I  am  no  true 
man.  [self? 

Bru.  What  said  he  when  he  came  unto  him- 

Casca.  Marry,  before  he  fell  down,  when  he 
perceived  the  common  herd  was  glad  he  refused 
the  crown,  he  plucked  me  ope  his  doublet,  and 
offered  them  his  throat  to  cut. — An  I  had  been 
a  man  of  any  occupation,  if  I  would  not  have 
taken  him  at  a  word,  I  would  I  might  go  to  hell 
among  the  rogues.  And  so  he  fell.  When  he 
came  to  himself  again,  he  said,  If  he  had  done 
or  said  anything  amiss,  he  desired  their  worships 
to  think  it  was  his  infirmity.  Three  or  four 
wenches,  where  I  stood,  cried,  Alas,  good  soul! 
— and  forgave  him  with  all  their  hearts :  but 
there 's  no  heed  to  be  taken  of  them ;  if  Caesar 
had  stabbed  their  mothers  they  would  have  done 
no  less. 

Brzi.  And  after  that  he  came,  thus  sad,  away? 

Casca.  Ay. 

Cas.  Did  Cicero  say  anything? 

Casca.  Ay,  he  spoke  Greek. 

Cas.  To  what  effect? 

Casca.  Nay,  an  I  tell  you  that,  I'll  ne'er 
look  you  i'  the  face  again:  but  those  that 
understood  him  smiled  at  one  another,  and  shook 
their  heads ;  but,  for  mine  own  part,  it  was  Greek 
to  me.  I  could  tell  you  more  news  too :  Mar- 
ullus  and  Flavius,  for  pulling  scarfs  off  Caesar's 
images,  are  put  to  silence.  Fare  you  well. 
There  was  more  foolery  yet,  if  I  could  re- 
member it. 

Cas.  Will  you  sup  with  me  to-night,  Casca? 

Casca.  No,  I  am  promised  forth. 

Cas.  Will  you  dine  with  me  to-morrow? 

Casca.  Ay,  if  I  be  alive,  and  your  mind  hold, 
and  your  dinner  worth  the  eating. 

Cas.  Good ;  I  will  expect  you. 

Casca.  Do  so :  farewell,  both.  [Exit. 

Bru.  What  a  blunt  fellow  is  this  grown  to  be ! 
He  was  quick  mettle  when  he  went  to  school. 

Cas.  So  is  he  now,  in  execution 
Of  any  bold  or  noble  enterprise, 
However  he  puts  on  this  tardy  form. 
This  rudeness  is  a  sauce  to  his  good  wit, 
Which  gives  men  stomach  to  digest  his  words 
With  better  appetite.  [you  : 

'     Bru.  And  so  it  is.     For  this  time  I  will  leave 
To-morrow,  if  you  please  to  speak  with  me, 
I  will  come  home  to  you ;  or,  if  you  will, 
Come  home  to  me,  and  I  will  wait  for  you. 

Cas.  I  will  do  so :    till  then,  think  of  the 
world.  [Exit  BRUTUS. 

Well,  Brutus,  thou  art  noble ;  yet,  I  see, 
Thy  honourable  metal  may  be  wrought 
From  that  it  is  dispos'd :  therefore  it  is  meet 


That  noble  minds  keep  ever  with  their  likes  ; 
For  who  so  firm  that  cannot  be  seduc'd? 
Caesar  doth  bear  me  hard  ;  but  he  loves  Brutus: 
If  I  were  Brutus  now,  and  he  were  Cassius, 
He  should  not  humour  me.     I  will  this  night, 
In  several  hands,  in  at  his  windows  throw, 
As  if  they  came  from  several  citizens, 
Writings,  all  tending  to  the  great  opinion 
That  Rome  holds  of  his  name;  wherein  ob- 

scurely 

Caesar's  ambition  shall  be  glanced  at  : 
And,  after  this,  let  Caesar  seat  him  sure  ; 
For  we  will  shake  him,  or  worse  days  endure. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  III.—  ROME.     A  Street. 

Thunder  and  Lightning.  Enter,  from  opposite 
sides,  CASCA,  with  his  sword  drawn,  and 
CICERO. 

Cic.  Good-even,  Casca  :  brought  you  Caesar 

home? 
Why  are  you  breathless?  and  why  stare  you  so? 

Casca.  Are  not  you  mov'd,  when  all  the  sway 

of  earth 

Shakes  like  a  thing  unfirm?     O  Cicero, 
I  have  seen  tempests,  when  the  scolding  winds 
Have  riv'd  the  knotty  oaks  ;  and  I  have  seen 
The  ambitious  ocean  swell,  and  rage,  and  foam, 
To  be  exalted  with  the  threat'ning  clouds  : 
But  never  till  to-night,  never  till  now, 
Did  I  go  through  a  tempest  dropping  fire. 
Either  there  is  a  civil  strife  in  heaven  ; 
Or  else  the  world,  too  saucy  with  the  gods, 
Incenses  them  to  send  destruction. 

Cic.  Why,  saw  you  anything  more  wonderful  ? 

Casca.  A  common  slave,  —  you  know  him  well 


by  sight,  — 
his  left 


Held  up  his  left  hand,  which  did  flame  and  burn 
Like  twenty  torches  join'd  ;  and  yet  his  hand, 
Not  sensible  of  fire,  remain'd  unscorch'd. 
Besides,  —  I  ha'  not  since  put  up  my  sword,  — 
Against  the  Capitol  I  met  a  lion, 
Who  glar'd  upon  me,  and  went  surly  by, 
Without  annoying  me  :  and  there  were  drawn 
Upon  a  heap  a  hundred  ghastly  women, 
Transformed  with  their  fear  ;  who  swore  they 

saw 

Men,  all  in  fire,  walk  up  and  down  the  streets. 
And  yesterday  the  bird  of  night  did  sit, 
Even  at  noon-day,  upon  the  market-place, 
Hooting  and  shrieking.     When  these  prodigies 
Do  so  conjointly  meet,  let  not  men  say, 
These  are  their  reasons,  —  they  are  natural; 
For  I  believe  they  are  portentous  things      • 
Unto  the  climate  that  they  point  upon. 
Cic.  Indeed,  it  is  a  strange-disposed  time: 


SCENE  III.] 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


865 


But  men  may  construe  things  after  their  fashion, 
Clean  from  the  purpose  of  the  things  themselves. 
Comes  Caesar  to  the  Capitol  to-morrow? 

Casca.  He  doth ;  for  he  did  bid  Antonius 
Send  word  to  you  he  would  be  there  to-morrow. 

Cic.  Good-night,  then,  Casca :  this  disturbed 

sky 
Is  not  to  walk  in. 

Casca,       Farewell,  Cicero.     [Exit  CICERO. 

Enter  CASSIUS. 

Cas.  Who's  there? 

Casca.  A  Roman. 

Cas.  Casca,  by  your  voice. 

Casca.  Your   ear  is   good.      Cassius,    what 
night  is  this ! 

Cas.  A  very  pleasing  night  to  honest  men. 

Casca.  Who  ever  knew  the  heavens  menace 
so?  [of  faults. 

Cas.  Those  that  have  known  the  earth  so  full 
For  my  part,  I  have  walk'd  about  the  streets, 
Submitting  me  unto  the  perilous  night ; 
And,  thus  unbraced,  Casca,  as  you  see, 
Have  bar'd  my  bosom  to  the  thunder-stone : 
And  when  the  cross-blue  lightning  seem'd  to 

open 

The  breast  of  heaven,  I  did  present  myself 
Even  in  the  aim  and  very  flash  of  it. 

Casca.  But  wherefore  did  you  so  much  tempt 

the  heavens? 

It  is  the  part  of  men  to  fear  and  tremble 
When  the  most  mighty  gods,  by  tokens,  send 
Such  dreadful  heralds  to  astonish  us. 

Cas.  You  are  dull,  Casca ;  and  those  sparks 

of  life 

That  should  be  in  a  Roman  you  do  want, 
Or  else  you  use  not.     You  look  pale,  and  gaze, 
And  put  on  fear,  and  cast  yourself  in  wonder, 
To  see  the  strange  impatience  of  the  heavens : 
But  if  you  would  consider  the  true  cause 
Why  all  these  fires,  why  all  these  gliding  ghosts, 
Why  birds  and  beasts,  from  quality  and  kind ; 
Why  old  men  fools,  and  children  calculate ; 
Why  all  these  things  change,  from  their  ordin- 
ance, 

Their  natures,  and  pre-formed  faculties, 
To  monstrous  quality ; — why,  you  shall  find 
That  heaven  hath  infus'd  them  with  these  spirits, 
To  make  them  instruments  of  fear  and  warning 
Unto  some  monstrous  state. 
Now  could  I,  Casca,  name  to  thee  a  man 
Most  like  this  dreadful  night 
That  thunders,  lightens,  opens  graves,  and  roars 
As  doth  the  lion  in  the  Capitol, — 
A  man  no  mightier  than  thyself  or  me 
In  personal  action  ;  yet  prodigious  grown, 
And  fearful,  as  these  strange  eruptions  are. 


Casca.  'Tis  Caesar  that  you  mean ;  is  it  not, 
Cassius? 

Cas.  Let  it  be  who  it  is:  for  Romans  now 
Have  thews  and  limbs  like  to  their  ancestors ; 
But,  woe  the  while !  our  fathers'  minds  are  dead, 
And  we  are  govern'd  with  our  mothers'  spi  i:s; 
Our  yoke  and  sufferance  show  us  womanish. 

Casca.  Indeed  they  say  the  senators  to-morrow 
Mean  to  establish  Caesar  as  a  king; 
And  he  shall  wear  his  crown  by  sea  and  land, 
In  every  place,  save  here  in  Italy. 

Cas.  I  know  where  I  will  wear  this  ('rigger 

then; 

Cassius  from  bondage  will  deliver  Cassius : 
Therein,  ye  gods,   you  make  the  weak  most 

strong ; 

Therein,  ye  gods,  you  tyrants  do  defeat: 
Nor  stony  tower,  nor  walls  of  beaten  brass, 
Nor  airless  dungeon,  nor  strong  links  of  iron, 
Can  be  retentive  to  the  strength  of  spirit ; 
But  life,  being  weary  of  these  worldly  bars, 
Never  lacks  power  to  dismiss  itself. 
If  I  know  this,  know  all  the  world  besides, 
That  part  of  tyranny  that  I  do  bear, 
I  can  shake  off  at  pleasure.         [  Thunder  still. 

Casca.  So  can  I : 

So  every  bondman  in  his  own  hand  bears 
The  power  to  cancel  his  captivity. 

Cas.  And  why  should  Csesar  be  a  tyrant,  then? 
Poor  man !  I  know  he  would  not  be  a  wolf, 
But  that  he  sees  the  Romans  are  but  sheep : 
He  were  no  lion,  were  not  Romans  hinds. 
Those  that  with  haste  will  make  a  mighty  fire 
Begin  it  with  weak  straws :  what  trash  is  Rome, 
What  rubbish,  and  what  offal,  when  it  serves 
For  the  base  matter  to  illuminate 
So  vile  a  thing  as  Caesar  I     But,  O  grief, 
Where  hast  thou  led  me?     I  perhaps  speak  this 
Before  a  willing  bondman ;  then  I  know 
My  answer  must  be  made :  but  I  am  arm'd, 
And  dangers  are  to  me  indifferent.  [man 

Casca.  You  speak  to  Casca;  and  to  such  a 
That  is  no  fleering  tell-tale.     Hold,  my  hand : 
Be  factious  for  redress  of  all  these  griefs ; 
And  I  will  set  this  foot  of  mine  as  far 
As  who  goes  farthest. 

Cas.  There 's  a  bargain  made. 

Now  know  you,  Casca,  I  have  mov'd  already 
Some  certain  of  the  noblest-minded  Romans 
To  undergo  with  me  an  enterprise 
Of  honourable-dangerous  consequence ; 
And  I  do  know  by  this  they  stay  for  me 
In  Pompey's  porch :  for  now,  this  fearful  night, 
There  is  no  stir  or  walking  in  the  streets ; 
And  the  complexion  of  the  element 
In  favour 's  like  the  work  we  have  in  hand, 
Most  bloody,  fiery,  and  most  terrible. 

2E 


866 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


[ACT  ii. 


Casca.  Stand  close  a  while,  for  here  comes 

one  in  haste. 

Cas.  'Tis  Cinna, — I  do  know  him  by  his  gait ; 
He  is  a  friend. 

Enter  CINNA. 
Cinna,  where  haste  you  so? 
Cin.  To    find     out     you.       Who's     that? 

Metellus  Cimber? 

Cas.  No,  it  is  Casca ;  one  incorporate 
To  our  attempts.     Am  I  not  stay'd  for,  Cinna  ? 
Cin.  I  am  glad  on 't.     What  a  fearful  night 
is  this  1  [sights. 

There 's  two  or  three  of  us  have  seen  strange 
Cas.  Am  I  not  stay'd  for?    Tell  me. 
Cin.  Yes,  you  are. 

0  Cassius,  if  you  could 

But  win  the  noble  Brutus  to  our  party, — 

Cas.  Be  you  content :  good  Cinna,  take  this 

paper, 

And  look  you  lay  it  in  the  praetor's  chair, 
Where  Brutus  may  but  find  it ;  and  throw  this 
In  at  his  window ;  set  this  up  with  wax 
Upon  old  Brutus'  statue :  all  this  done,       [us. 
Repair  to  Pompey's  porch,  where  you  shall  find 
Is  Decius  Brutus  and  Trebonius  there? 

Cin.  All  but  Metellus  Cimber ;  and  he 's  gone 
To  seek  you  at  your  house.     Well,  I  will  hie, 
And  so  bestow  these  papers  as  you  bade  me. 

Cas.  That  done,  repair  to  Pompey's  theatre. 
{Exit  CINNA. 

Come,  Casca,  you  and  I  will  yet,  ere  day, 
See  Brutus  at  his  house :  three  parts  of  him 
Is  ours  already ;  and  the  man  entire, 
Upon  the  next  encounter,  yields  him  ours. 

Casca.  O,  he  sits  high  in  all  the  people's 

hearts : 

And  that  which  would  appear  offence  in  us, 
His  countenance,  like  richest  alchemy, 
Will  change  to  virtue  and  to  worthiness. 

Cas.  Him,  and  his  worth,  and  our  great  need 

of  him, 

You  have  right  well  conceited.     Let  us  go, 
For  it  is  after  midnight ;  and  ere  day 
We  will  awake  him,  and  be  sure  of  him. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — ROME.     BRUTUS'S  Orchard. 
Enter  BRUTUS. 

Brtt.  What,  Lucius,  ho! — 

1  cannot,  by  the  progress  of  the  stars, 

Give  guess  how  near  to  day. — Lucius,  I  say ! — 
I  would  it  were  my  fault  to  sleep  so  soundly. — 
When,  Lucius,  when?   awake,  I  say!    what, 
Lucius! 


Enter  Lucius. 

Luc.  Call'd  you,  my  lord  ? 
Bru.  Get  me  a  taper  in  my  study,  Lucius: 
When  it  is  lighted,  come  and  call  me  here. 
Luc.  I  will,  my  lord.  [Exit. 

Bru.  It  must  be  by  his  death :  and,  for  my 

part, 

I  know  no  personal  cause  to  spurn  at  him, 
But  for  the  general.     He  would  be  crown'd : 
How  that  might  change  his  nature,  there 's  the 

question : 

It  is  the  bright  day  that  brings  forth  the  adder; 
And  that  craves  wary  walking.     Crown  him? — 

that— 

And  then,  I  grant,  we  put  a  sting  in  him, 
That  at  his  will  he  may  do  danger  with. 
The  abuse  of  greatness  is,  when  it  disjoins 
Remorse  from  power :  and,  to  speak  truth  of 

Caesar, 

I  have  not  known  when  his  affections  sway'd 
More  than  his  reason.     But  'tis  a  common  proof 
That  lowliness  is  young  ambition's  ladder, 
Whereto  the  climber-upward  turns  his  face ; 
But  when  he  once  attains  the  utmost  round, 
He  then  unto  the  ladder  turns  his  back, 
Looks  in  the  clouds,  scorning  the  base  degrees 
By  which  he  did  ascend.     So  Caesar  may ; 
Then,  lest  he  may,  prevent.     And,  since  the 

quarrel 

Will  bear  no  colour  for  the  thing  he  is, 
Fashion  it  thus ;  that  what  he  is,  augmented, 
Would  run  to  these  and  these  extremities : 
And  therefore  think  him  as  a  serpent's  egg, 
Which,  hatch'd,  would  as  his  kind  grow  mis- 
chievous ; 
And  kill  him  in  the  shell. 

Re-enter  Lucius. 

Luc.  The  taper  burneth  in  your  closet,  sir. 
Searching  the  window  for  a  flint,  I  found 

[Giving  him  a  letter, 

This  paper,  thus  seal'd  up ;  and  I  am  sure 
It  did  not  lie  there  when  I  went  to  bed. 

Bru.  Get  you  to  bed  again,  it  is  not  day. 
Is  not  to-morrow,  boy,  the  ides  of  March? 

Luc.  I  know  not,  sir.  [word. 

Bru.  Look  in  the  calender,  and  bring  me 

Luc.  I  will,  sir.  [Exit. 

Bru.  The  exhalations,  whizzing  in  the  air, 
Give  so  much  light  that  I  may  read  by  them. 

[Opens  the  letter  and  reads. 
Brutus,  thou  sleep' st:  awake,  and  see  thyself. 
Shall  Rome,  &>c.     Speak,  strike,  redress! 
Brutus,  thou  sleefst:  awake. — 
Such  instigations  have  been  often  dropp'd 
Where  I  have  took  them  up. 


SCENE  I.] 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


Shall  Rome,  &c.     Thus  must  I  piece  it  out,  — 
Shall  Rome  stand  under  one  man's  awe  ?   What, 

Rome? 

My  ancestors  did  from  the  streets  of  Rome 
The  Tarquin  drive,  when  he  was  call'd  a  king. 
Speak,  strike,  redress!  —  Am  I  entreated  then 
To  speak  and  strike  !     O  Rome  !     I  make  thee 

promise, 

If  the  redress  will  follow,  thou  receivest 
Thy  full  petition  at  the  hand  of  Brutus  ! 

Re-enter  Lucius. 

Luc.  Sir,  March  is  wasted  fourteen  days. 

[Knocking1  within. 

Bru.  'Tis  good.     Go  to  the  gate  ;  somebody 
knocks.  [Exit  Lucius. 

Since  Cassius  first  did  whet  me  against  Caesar, 
I  have  not  slept. 

Between  the  acting  of  a  dreadful  thing 
And  the  first  motion,  all  the  interim  is 
Like  a  phantasma  or  a  hideous  dream  : 
The  genius  and  the  mortal  instruments 
Are  then  in  council  ;  and  the  state  of  man, 
Like  to  a  little  kingdom,  suffers  then 
The  nature  of  an  insurrection. 

Re-enter  Lucius. 

Luc.  Sir,  'tis  your  brother  Cassius  at  the  door 
Who  doth  desire  to  see  you. 

Bru.  Is  he  alone? 

Luc.  No,  sir,  there  are  more  with  him. 

Bru.  Do  you  know  them? 

Luc.  No,  sir;  their  hats  are  pluck'd  about 

their  ears, 

And  half  their  faces  buried  in  their  cloaks, 
That  by  no  means  I  may  discover  them 
By  any  mark  of  favour. 

Bru.  Let  'em  enter. 

[Exit  Lucius. 

They  are  the  /action.     O  conspiracy,      [night, 
Sham'st  thou  to  show  thy  dangerous  brow  by 
When  evils  are  most  free?     O,  then,  by  day 
Where  wilt  thou  find  a  cavern  dark  enough 
To  mask  thy  monstrous  visage?     Seek  none, 

conspiracy  ; 

Hide  it  in  smiles  and  affability: 
For  if  thou  hath  thy  native  semblance  on, 
Not  Erebus  itself  were  dim  enough 
To  hide  thee  from  prevention. 

Enter  CASSIUS,  CASCA,  DECIUS,  CINNA, 
METELLUS  CIMBER,  a 


Cas.  I  think  we  are  too  bold  upon  your  rest  : 
Good-morrow,  Brutus;  do  we  trouble  you? 

Bru.  I  have  been  up  this  hour;  awake  all 

night. 
Know  I  these  men  that  come  along  with  you? 


Cas.  Yes,  every  man  of  them ;  and  no  man 

here 

But  honours  you ;  and  every  one  doth  wish 
You  had  but  that  opinion  of  yourself 
Which  every  noble  Roman  bears  of  you. 
This  is  Trebonius. 

Bru.  He  is  welcome  hither. 

Cas.  This,  Decius  Brutus. 

Bru.  He  is  welcome  too, 

Cas.  This,  Casca;  this,  Cinna; 
And  this,  Metellus  Cimber. 

Bru.  They  are  all  welcome. 

What  watchful  cares  do  interpose  themselves 
Betwixt  your  eyes  and  night  ? 

Cas.  Shall  I  entreat  a  word? 

[BRUTUS  and  CASSIUS  -whisper. 

Dec.  Here  lies  the  east ;  doth  not  the  day 
break  here? 

Casca.  No. 

Cin.  O,  pardon,  sir,  it  doth ;  and  yon  grey 

lines 
That  fret  the  clouds  are  messengers  of  day. 

Casca.  You  shall  confess  that  you  are  both 

deceiv'd. 

Here,  as  I  point  my  sword,  the  sun  arises ; 
Which  is  a  great  way  growing  on  the  south, 
Weighing  the  youthful  season  of  the  year. 
Some  two  months  hence  up  higher  toward  the 

north 

He  first  presents  his  fire ;  and  the  high  east 
Stands,  as  the  Capitol,  directly  here. 

Bru.  Give  me  your  hands  all  over,  one  by 
one. 

Cas.  And  let  us  swear  our  resolution. 

Bru.  No,  not  an  oath :  if  not  the  face  of  men, 
The  sufferance  of  our  souls,  the  time's  abuse, — 
If  these  be  motives  weak,  break  off  betimes, 
And  every  man  hence  to  his  idle  bed ; 
So  let  high -sighted  tyranny  range  on, 
Till  each  man  drop  by  lottery.     But  if  these, 
As  I  am  sure  they  do,  bear  fire  enough 
To  kindle  cowards,  and  to  steel  with  valour 
The  melting  spirits  of  women ;  then,  country- 
men, 

What  need  we  any  spur,  but  our  own  cause, 
To  prick  us  to  redress?  what  other  bond 
Than  secret  Romans,  that  have  spoke  the  word 
And  will  not  palter?  and  what  other  oath 
Than  honesty  to  honesty  engag'd 
That  this  shall  be,  or  we  will  fall  for  it? 
Swear  priests,  and  cowards,  and  men  cautelous, 
Old  feeble  carrions,  and  such  suffering  souls 
That  welcome  wrongs ;  unto  bad  causes  swear 
Such  creatures  as  men  doubt :  but  do  not  stain 
The  even  virtue  of  our  enterprise, 
Nor  the  insuppressive  mettle  of  our  spirits, 
To  think  that  or  our  cause  or  our  performance 


868 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


[ACT  ii. 


Did  need  an  oath ;  when  every  drop  of  blood 

That  every  Roman  bears,  and  nobly  bears, 

Is  guilty  of  a  several  bastardy 

If  he  do  break  the  smallest  particle 

Of  any  promise  that  hath  pass'd  from  him. 

Cas.  But  what  of  Cicero?  shall  we  sound 

him? 
I  think  he  will  stand  very  strong  with  us. 

Casca.  Let  us  not  leave  him  out. 

Cin.  No,  by  no  means. 

Met.  O,  let  us  have  him ;  for  his  silver  hairs 
Will  purchase  us  a  good  opinion, 
And  buy  men's  voices  to  commend  our  deeds : 
It  shall  be  said  his  judgment  rul'd  our  hands ; 
Our  youths  and  Wildness  shall  no  whit  appear, 
But  all  be  buried  in  his  gravity. 

Bru.  O,  name  him  not:   let  us  not  break 

with  him ; 

For  he  will  never  follow  anything 
That  other  men  begin. 

Cas.  Then  leave  him  out. 

Casca.  Indeed  he  is  not  fit. 

Dec.  Shall  no  man  else  be  touch 'd  but  only 
Caesar? 

Cas.  Decius,  well  urg*d.— I  think  it  is  not 

meet 

Mark  Antony,  so  well  belov'd  of  Caesar, 
Should  outlive  Caesar :  we  shall  find  of  him 
A  shrewd  contriver ;  and,  you  know,  his  means, 
If  he  improve  them,  may  well  stretch  so  far 
As  to  annoy  us  all :  which  to  prevent, 
Let  Antony  and  Caesar  fall  together. 

Bru.  Our  course  will  seem  too  bloody,  Caius 

Cassius, 

To  cut  the  head  off  and  then  hack  the  limbs,— 
Like  wrath  in  death  and  envy  afterwards ; 
For  Antony  is  but  a  limb  of  Caesar: 
Let 's  be  sacrificers,  but  not  butchers,  Caius. 
We  all  stand  up  against  the  spirit  of  Caesar ; 
And  in  the  spirit  of  men  there  is  no  blood: 
O  that  we,  then,  could  come  by  Caesar's  spirit, 
And  not  dismember  Caesar !     But,  alas, 
Caesar  must  bleed  for  it !     And,  gentle  friends, 
Let's  kill  him  boldly,  but  not  wrathfully; 
Let 's  carve  him  as  a  dish  fit  for  the  gods, 
Not  hew  him  as  a  carcase  fit  for  hounds : 
And  let  our  hearts,  as  subtle  masters  do, 
Stir  up  their  servants  to  an  act  of  rage, 
And  after  seem  to  chide  'em.     This  shall  make 
Our  purpose  necessary,  and  not  envious: 
Which  so  appearing  to  the  common  eyes, 
We  shall  be  call'd  purgers,  not  murderers. 
And  for  Mark  Antony,  think  not  of  him ; 
For  he  can  do  no  more  than  Caesar's  arm 
When  Caesar's  head  is  off. 

Cas.  Yet  I  fear  him ; 

For  in  the  engrafted  love  he  bears  to  Caesar, — 


Bru.  Alas,  good  Cassius,  do  not  think  of  him : 
If  he  love  Caesar,  all  that  he  can  do 
Is  to  himself, — take  thought  and  die  for  Caesar: 
And  that  were  much  he  should ;  for  he  is  given 
To  sports,  to  wildness,  and  much  company. 

Treb.  There  is  no  fear  in  him ;  let  him  not 

die; 
For  he  will  live,  and  laugh  at  this  hereafter. 

[Clock  strikes. 

Bru.  Peace,  count  the  clock. 

Cas.  The  clock  hath  stricken  three. 

Treb.  'Tis  time  to  part. 

Cas.  But  it  is  doubtful  yet 

Whether  Caesar  will  come  forth  to-day  or  no : 
For  he  is  superstitious  grown  of  late ; 
Quite  from  the  main  opinion  he  held  once 
Of  fantasy,  of  dreams,  and  ceremonies : 
It  may  be  these  apparent  prodigies, 
The  unaccustom'd  terror  of  this  night, 
And  the  persuasion  of  his  augurers, 
May  hold  him  from  the  Capitol  to-day. 

Dec.  Never  fear  that :  if  he  be  so  resolv'd 
I  can  o'ersway  him ;  for  he  loves  to  hear 
That  unicorns  may  be  betray'd  with  trees, 
And  bears  with  glasses,  elephants  with  holes, 
Lions  with  toils,  and  men  with  flatterers: 
But  when  I  tell  him  he  hates  flatterers, 
He  says  he  does, — being  then  most  flatter'd. 
Let  me  work ; 

For  I  can  give  his  humour  the  true  bent, 
And  I  will  bring  him  to  the  Capitol. 

Cas.  Nay,  we  will  all  of  us  be  there  to  fetch 
him.  [most? 

Bru.  By  the  eighth  hour :  is  that  the  utter- 

Cin.  Be  that  the  uttermost,  and  fail  not  then. 

Met.  Caius  Ligarius  doth  bear  Caesar  hard, 
Who  rated  him  for  speaking  well  of  Pompey : 
I  wonder  none  of  you  have  thought  of  him. 

Bru.  Now,  good  Metellus,  go  along  by  him : 
He  loves  me  well,  and  I  have  given  him  reasons ; 
Send  him  but  hither,  and  I'll  fashion  him. 

Cas.  The  morning  comes  upon 's :  we  '11  leave 

you,  Brutus:  [member 

And,  friends,  disperse  yourselves:  but  all  re- 

What  you  have  said,  and  show  yourselves  true 

Romans. 

Bru.  Good  gentlemen,  look  fresh  and  merrily; 
Let  not  our  looks  put  on  our  purposes ; 
But  bear  it  as  our  Roman  actors  do, 
With  untir'd  spirits  and  formal  constancy; 
And  so,  good-morrow  to  you  every  one. 

[Exeunt  all  but  BRUTUS. 
Boy !  Lucius ! — Fast  asleep?  it  is  no  matter ; 
Enjoy  the  heavy  honey-dew  of  slumber : 
Thou  hast  no  figures  nor  no  fantasies 
Which  busy  care  draws  in  the  brains  of  men  ; 
Therefore  thou  sleep'st  so  sound. 


SCENE  I.] 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


869 


Enter  PORTIA. 

Par.  Brutus,  my  lord ! 

Bru.  Portia,  what  mean  you?  wherefore  rise 

you  now? 

It  is  not  for  your  health  thus  to  commit 
Your  weak  condition  to  the  raw  cold  morning. 

For.  Nor  for  yours  neither.     You  have  un- 

gently,  Brutus, 

Stole  from  my  bed :  and  yesternight,  at  supper, 
You  suddenly  arose,  and  walk'd  about, 
Musing  and  sighing,  with  your  arms  across; 
And  when  I  ask'd  you  what  the  matter  was, 
You  star'd  upon  me  with  ungentle  looks : 
I  urg'd  you  further ;  then  you  scratch'd  your 

head, 

And  too  impatiently  stamp'd  with  your  foot: 
Yet  I  insisted,  yet  you  answer'd  not ; 
But  with  an  angry  wafture  of  your  hand 
Gave  sign  for  me  to  leave  you :  so  I  did ; 
Fearing  to  strengthen  that  impatience 
Which  seem'd  too  much  enkindled ;  and  withal 
Hoping  it  was  but  an  effect  of  humour, 
Which  sometime  hath  his  hour  with  every  man. 
It  will  not  let  you  eat,  nor  talk,  nor  sleep ; 
And,  could  it  work  so  much  upon  your  shape 
As  it  hath  much  prevail'd  on  your  condition, 
I  should  not  know  you,  Brutus.     Dear  my  lord, 
Make  me  acquainted  with  your  cause  of  grief. 

Bru.  I  am  not  well  in  health,  and  that  is  all. 

For.  Brutus  is  wise,  and  were  he   not   in 

health, 
He  would  embrace  the  means  to  come  by  it. 

Bru.  Why,  so  I  do. — Good  Portia,  go  to  bed. 

For.  Is  Brutus  sick?  and  is  it  physical 
To  walk  unbraced,  and  suck  up  the  humours 
Of  the  dank  morning?    What,  is  Brutus  sick, — 
And  will  he  steal  out  of  his  wholesome  bed, 
To  dare  the  vile  contagion  of  the  night, 
And  tempt  the  rheumy  and  unpurg'd  air 
To  add  unto  his  sickness?    No,  my  Brutus; 
You  have  some  sick  offence  within  your  mind, 
Which  by  the  right  and  virtue  of  my  place 
I  ought  to  know  of:  and  upon  my  knees 
I  charm  you,  by  my  once -commended  beauty, 
By  all  your  vows  of  love,  and  that  great  vow 
Which  did  incorporate  and  make  us  one, 
That  you  unfold  to  me,  yourself,  your  half, 
Why  you  are  heavy ;  and  what  men  to-night 
Have  had  resort  to  you, — for  here  have  been 
Some  six  or  seven,  who  did  hide  their  faces 
Even  from  darkness. 

Bru.  Kneel  not,  gentle  Portia. 

For.  I  should  not  need  if  you  were  gentle 

Brutus. 

Within  the  bond  of  marriage,  tell  me,  Brutus, 
Is  it  excepted  I  should  know  no  secrets 


That  appertain  to  you?     Am  I  yourself 
But  as  it  were  in  sort  or  limitation, — 
To  keep  with  you  at  meals,  comfort  your  bed, 
And  talk  to  you  sometimes?     Dwell  I  but  in 

the  suburbs 

Of  your  good  pleasure?     If  it  be  no  more, 
Portia  is  Brutus'  harlot,  not  his  wife. 

Bru.  You  are  my  true  and  honourable  wife ; 
As  dear  to  me  as  are  the  ruddy  drops 
That  visit  my  sad  heart. 

For.  If  this  were  true,  then  should  I  know 

this  secret. 

I  grant  1  am  a  woman ;  but  withal 
A  woman  that  Lord  Brutus  took  to  wife: 
I  grant  I  am  a  woman ;  but  withal 
A  woman  well-reputed, — Cato's  daughter. 
Think  you  I  am  no  stronger  than  my  sex, 
Being  so  father 'd  and  so  husbanded? 
Tell  me  your  counsels,  I  will  not  disclose  'em : 
I  have  made  strong  proof  of  my  constancy, 
Giving  myself  a  voluntary  wound 
Here  in  the  thigh :  can  I  bear  that  with  patience. 
And  not  my  husband's  secrets? 

Bru.  O  ye  gods, 

Render  me  worthy  of  this  noble  wife ! 

{Knocking  within. 

Hark,  hark  !  one  knocks :  Portia,  go  in  awhile ; 
And  by  and  by  thy  bosom  shall  partake 
The  secrets  of  my  heart: 
All  my  engagements  I  will  construe  to  thee, 
All  the  charactery  of  my  sad  brows. 
Leave  me  with  haste.  [Exit  PORTIA. 

Lucius,  who's  that  knocks? 

Enter  Lucius  with  LiGARius. 

Luc.  Here  is  a  sick  man  that  would  speak 
with  you. 

Bru.  CaiusLigarius,  that  Metellus  spake  of. — 
Boy,  stand  aside. — Caius  Ligarius, — how  ! 

Lig.  Vouchsafe  good -morrow  from  a  feeble 
tongue. 

Bru.  O,  what  a  time  have  you  chose  out, 

brave  Caius, 
To  wear  a  kerchief !     Would  you  were  not  sick ! 

Lig.  I  am  not  sick  if  Brutus  have  in  hand 
Any  exploit  worthy  the  name  of  honour. 

Bru.  Suchan  exploit  have  I  in  hand,  Ligarius, 
Had  you  a  healthful  ear  lo  hear  of  it. 

Lig.  By  all  the  gods  that  Romans  bow  before, 
I  here  discard  my  sickness  !     Soul  of  Rome ! 
Brave  son,  deriv'd  from  honourable  loins ! 
Thou,  like  an  exorcist,  hast  conjurM  up 
My  mortified  spirit.     Now  bid  me  run, 
And  I  will  strive  with  things  impossible ; 
Yea,  get  the  better  of  them.     What's  to  do? 

Bru.  A  piece  of  work  that  will  make  sick 
men  whole. 


8;o 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


[ACT  n. 


Lig.  But  are  not  some  whole  that  we  must 
make  sick?  [Caius, 

Brti.  That  must  we  also.     What  it  is,  my 
I  shall  unfold  to  thee,  as  we  are  going 
To  whom  it  must  be  done. 

Lig.  Set  on  your  foot ; 

And  with  a  heart  new  fir'd  I  follow  you 
To  do  I  know  not  what :  but  it  sufficeth 
That  Brutus  leads  me  on. 

Bru.  Follow  me,  then. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — ROME.     A  Room  in  CAESAR'S 
Palace. 

Thunder  and  lightning.     Enter  OESAR  in  his 
night-gown. 

Cats.  Nor  heaven  nor  earth  have  been  at 

peace  to-night : 

Thrice  hath  Calphurnia  in  her  sleep  cried  out, 
Help,    ho!      They    murder    Ccesar !— Who's 

within? 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  My  lord  ? 

Cces.  Go  bid  the  priests  do  present  sacrifice, 
And  bring  me  their  opinions  of  success. 

Serv.  I  will,  my  lord.  [Exit. 

Enter  CALPHURNIA. 

Cal.  What  mean  you,  Caesar?    Think  you 

to  walk  forth? 
You  shall  not  stir  out  of  your  house  to-day. 

Cces.  Caesar   shall    forth:    the    things    that 
threaten'd  me  [see 

Ne'er  look'd  but  on  my  back ;  when  they  shall 
The  face  of  Caesar  they  are  vanished. 

Cal.  Caesar,  I  never  stood  on  ceremonies, 
Yet  now  they  fright  me.     There  is  one  within, 
Besides  the  things  that  we  have  heard  and  seen, 
Recounts  most  horrid  sights  seen  by  the  watch. 
A  lioness  hath  whelped  in  the  streets; 
And  graves  have  yawn'd  and  yielded  up  their 

dead; 

Fierce  fiery  warriors  fight  upon  the  clouds, 
In  ranks  and  squadrons  and  right  form  of  war, 
Which  drizzled  blood  upon  the  Capitol ; 
The  noise  of  battle  hurtled  in  the  air, 
Horses  did  neigh,  and  dying  men  did  groan ; 
And  ghosts  did  shriek  and  squeal  about  the 

streets. 

O  Caesar,  these  things  are  beyond  all  use, 
And  I  do  fear  them  ! 

Cces.  What  can  be  avoided, 

Whose  end  is  purpos'd  by  the  mighty  gods? 
Yet  Caesar  shall  go  forth ;  for  these  predictions 
Are  to  the  world  in  general  as  to  Caesar. 


Cal.  When  beggars  die  there  are  no  comets 
seen ;  [of  princes. 

The  heavens  themselves  blaze  forth  the  death 
Cces.  Cowards  die  many  times  before  their 
deaths ; 

The  valiant  never  taste  of  death  but  once. 

Of  all  the  wonders  that  I  yet  have  heard, 

It  seems  to  me  most  strange  that  men  should 
fear; 

Seeing  that  death,  a  necessary  end, 

Will  come  when  it  will  come. 

Re-enter  Servant. 

What  say  the  augurers? 

Serv.  They  would  not  have  you  to  stir  forth 

to-day. 

Plucking  the  entrails  of  an  offering  forth, 
They  could  not  find  a  heart  within  the  beast. 

Cces.  The  gods  do  this  in  shame  of  cowardice : 
Caesar  should  be  a  beast  without  a  heart 
If  he  should  stay  at  home  to-day  for  fear. 
No,  Caesar  shall  not :  danger  knows  full  well 
That  Caesar  is  more  dangerous  than  he : 
We  are  two  lions  litter'd  in  one  day, 
And  I  the  elder  and  more  terrible : — 
And  Caesar  shall  go  forth. 

Cal.  Alas,  my  lord, 

Your  wisdom  is  consum'd  in  confidence. 
Do  not  go  forth  to-day :  call  it  my  fear 
That  keeps  you  in  the  house,  and  not  your  own 
We'll  send  Mark  Antony  to  the  senate-house ; 
And  he  shall  say  you  are  not  well  to-day: 
Let  me,  upon  my  knee,  prevail  in  this. 

Cces.  Mark  Antony  shall  say  I  am  not  well : 
And  for  thy  humour  I  will  stay  at  home. 

Enter  DECIUS. 

Here 's  Decius  Brutus,  he  shall  tell  them  so. 

Dec.  Caesar,  all  hail !    Good-morrow,  worthy 

Caesar: 
I  come  to  fetch  you  to  the  senate-house. 

Cces.  And  you  are  come  in  very  happy  time, 
To  bear  my  greeting  to  the  senators, 
And  tell  them  that  I  will  not  come  to-day: 
Cannot,  is  false;  and  that  I  dare  not,  falser: 
I  will  not  come  to-day, — tell  them  so,  Decius. 

Cal.  Say  he  is  sick. 

Cces.  Shall  Caesar  send  a  lie  ? 

Have  I  in  conquest  stretch'd  mine  arm  so  far, 
To  be  afeard  to  tell  graybeards  the  truth? 
Decius,  go  tell  them  Caesar  will  not  come. 

Dec.  Most  mighty  Caesar,  let  me  know  some 

cause, 
Lest  I  be  laugh'd  at  when  I  tell  them  so. 

Cces.  The  cause  is  in  my  will, — I  will  not 

come; 
That  is  enough  to  satisfy  the  senate. 


SCENE  II.] 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


871 


But  for  your  private  satisfaction, 
Because  I  love  you,  I  will  let  you  know, — 
Calphurnia  here,  my  wife,  stays  me  at  home : 
She  dreamt  to-night  she  saw  my  statua, 
Which,  like  a  fountain  with  a  hundred  spouts, 
Did  run  pure  blood ;  and  many  lusty  Romans 
Came  smiling  and  did  bathe  their  hands  in  it : 
And  these  does  she  apply  for  warnings  and 

portents, 

And  evils  imminent ;  and  on  her  knee 
Hath  begg'd  that  I  will  stay  at  home  to-day. 

Dec.  This  dream  is  all  amiss  interpreted ; 
It  was  a  vision  fair  and  fortunate : 
Your  statue  spouting  blood  in  many  pipes, 
In  which  so  many  smiling  Romans  bath'd, 
Signifies  that  from  you  great  Rome  shall  suck 
Reviving  blood ;  and  that  great  men  shall  press 
For  tinctures,  stains,  relics,  and  cognizance. 
This  by  Calphurnia's  dream  is  signified.        [it. 

Ctzs.  And  this  way  have  you  well  expounded 

Dec.   I  have,  when  you  have  heard  what  I 

can  say : 

And  know  it  now, — the  senate  have  concluded 
To  give  this  day  a  crown  to  mighty  Caesar. 
If  you  shall  send  them  word  you  will  not  come, 
Their  minds  may  change.     Besides,  it  were  a 

mock, 

Apt  to  be  render'd,  for  some  one  to  say, 
Break  up  the  senate  till  another  time. 
When  CtzsaSs  wife  shall  meet  with  better  dreams. 
If  Caesar  hide  himself,  shall  they  not  whisper, 
Lo,  Ccesar  is  afraid  ? 
Pardon  me,  Csesar ;  for  my  dear  dear  love 
To  your  proceeding  bids  me  tell  you  this ; 
And  reason  to  my  love  is  liable. 

Ctzs.  How  foolish  do  your  fears  seem  now, 

Calphurnia ! 

I  am  ashamed  I  did  yield  to  them. — 
Give  me  my  robe  for  I  will  go : 

Enter  PUBLIUS,    BRUTUS,    LIGARIUS,    ME- 
TELLUS,  CASCA,  TREBONIUS,  and  CINNA. 

And  look  where  Publius  is  come  to  fetch  me. 

Ptib.  Good-morrow,  Caesar. 

Cces.  Welcome,  Publius. — 

What,  Brutus,  are  you  stirred  so  early  too? — 
Good-morrow,  Casca. — Caius  Ligarius, 
Caesar  was  ne'er  so  much  your  enemy 
As  that  same  ague  which  hath  made  you  lean. — 
What  is 't  o'clock? 

Bru.  Caesar,  'tis  strucken  eight. 

Cces.   I  thank  you  for  your  pains  and  courtesy. 

Enter  ANTONY. 

See !  Antony,  that  revels  long  o'  nights 
Is  notwithstanding  up. — 
Good -morrow,  Antony. 


Ant.  So  to  most  noble  Csesar. 

Cces.  Bid  them  prepare  within. 
I  am  to  blame  to  be  thus  waited  for. — 
Now    Cinna  ; — now    Metellus  : — what,     Tre- 

bonius ! 

I  have  an  hour's  talk  in  store  for  you ; 
Remember  that  you  call  on  me  to-day : 
Be  near  me,  that  I  may  remember  you. 

Treb.  Caesar,   I  will:— and  so  near  will  I 

be,  [Aside. 

That  your  best  friends  shall  wish  I  had  been 

further. 
Cces.  Good  friends,  go  in   and  taste   some 

wine  with  me ; 

And  we,  like  friends,  will  straightway  go  to- 
gether. 
Bru.  That  every  like  is  not  the   same,  O 

Caesar, 
The  heart  of  Brutus  yearns  to  think  upon ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE    III.— ROME.      A     Street    near    the 
Capitol. 

Enter  ARTEMIDORUS  reading  a  paper. 

Art.  Ctzsar,  beware  of  Bruttts  ;  take  heed  of 
Cassius  j  come  not  near  Casca ;  have  an  eye  to 
Cinna;  trust  not  Trebonius  ;  mark-well  Metellus 
Cimber;  Decius  Brutus  loves  thee  not ;  thou 
hast  wronged  Caius  Ligarius.  There  is  but 
one  mind  in  all  these  men,  and  it  is  bent 
against  Ccesar.  If  thou  beest  not  immortal^ 
look  about  you :  security  gives  way  to  conspiracy. 
The  mighty  gods  defend  thee!  Thy  lover t 

ARTEMIDORUS. 

Here  will  I  stand  till  Caesar  pass  along, 
And  as  a  suitor  will  I  give  him  this. 
My  heart  laments  that  virtue  cannot  live 
Out  of  the  teeth  of  emulation. 
If  thou  read  this,  O  Caesar,  thou  mayst  five ; 
If  not,  the  fates  with  traitors  do  contrive. 

[Exit. 

SCENE   IV. — ROME.      Another  part   of  the 
same  Street ',  before  the  House  of  BRUTUS. 

Enter  PORTIA  and  Lucius. 

For.    I   pr'ythee,   boy,   run  to  the  senate- 
house; 

Stay  not  to  answer  me,  but  get  thee  gone : 
Why  dost  thou  stay? 

Luc.  To  know  my  errand,  madam. 

For.  I  would  have  had  thee  there  and  here 

again 

Ere  I  can   tell   thee  what  thou  shouldst   do 
there.— 


872 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


[ACT  in. 


0  constancy,  be  strong  upon  my  side ! 

Set  a  huge   mountain  'tween  my  heart  and 
tongue ! 

1  have  a  man's  mind,  but  a  woman's  might. 
How  hard  it  is  for  women  to  keep  counsel ! — 
Art  thou  here  yet? 

Luc.  Madam,  what  should  I  dc? 

Run  to  the  Capitol,  and  nothing  else? 
And  so  return  to  you,  and  nothing  else? 

For.  Yes,  bring  me  word,  boy,  if  thy  lord 

look  well, 

For  he  went  sickly  forth :  and  take  good  note 
What  Caesar  doth,  what  suitors  press  to  him. 
Hark,  boy!  what  noise  is  that? 

Luc.  I  hear  none,  madam. 

For.  Pr'ythee,  listen  well : 

I  heard  a  bustling  rumour,  like  a  fray, 
And  the  wind  brings  it  from  the  Capitol. 

Luc.  Sooth,  madam,  I  hear  nothing. 

Enter  ARTEMIDORUS. 

For.  Come  hither,  fellow : 

Which  way  hast  thou  been? 

Art.  At  mine  own  house,  good  lady. 

For.  What  is 't  o'clock? 
Art.  About  the  ninth  hour,  lady. 
For.  Is  Caesar  yet  gone  to  the  Capitol? 
Art.  Madam,  not  yet :  I  go  to  take  my  stand, 
To  see  him  pass  on  to  the  Capitol. 

For.  Thou  hast  some   suit  to  Csesar,  hast 

thou  not? 
Art.  That  I  have,   lady:   if  it  will  please 

Caesar 

To  be  so  good  to  Csesar  as  to  hear  me, 
I  shall  beseech  him  to  befriend  himself. 
For.  Why,   know'st    thou   any  harm's   in- 
tended towards  him? 
Art.  None  that  I  know  will  be,  much  that 

I  fear  may  chance. 
Good-morrow    to    you.      Here   the  street  is 

narrow : 

The  throng  that  follows  Caesar  at  the  heels 
Of  senators,  of  praetors,  common  suitors, 
Will  crowd  a  feeble  man  almost  to  death : 
I'll  get  me  to  a  place  more  void,  and  there 
Speak  to  great  Caesar  as  he  comes  along. 

\Exti. 
For.  I  must  go  in. — Ah  me!  how  weak  a 

thing 

The  heart  of  woman  is !     O  Brutus, 
The  heavens  speed  thee  in  thine  enterprise ! — 
Sure  the  boy  heard  me. — Brutus  hath  a  suit 
That  Csesar  will  not  grant. — O,  I  grow  faint. — 
Run,  Lucius,  and  commend  me  to  my  lord ; 
Say  I  am  merry  :  come  to  me  again, 
And  bring  me  word  what  he  doth  say  to  thee. 
[Exeunt  severally. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — ROME.     The  Capitol;  the  Senate 
sitting. 

A  crowd  of  People  in  the  street  leading  to  the 
Capitol;  among  them  ARTEMIDORUS  and 
the  Soothsayer.  Flourish.  Entei  CESAR, 
BRUTUS,  CASSIUS,  CASCA,  DECIUS,  ME- 
TELLUS,  TREBONIUS,  CINNA,  ANTONY, 
LEPIDUS,  POPILIUS,  PUBLIUS,  and  others. 

Cces.  The  ides  of  March  are  come. 

Sooth.  Ay,  Csesar;  but  not  gone. 

Art.  Hail,  Csesar !     Read  this  schedule. 

Dec.  Trebonius  doth  desire  you  to  o'er  read, 
At  your  best  leisure,  this  his  humble  suit. 

Art.  O  Csesar,  read  mine  first;  for  mine's 

a  suit  [Csesar. 

That  touches   Csesar   nearer:    read  it,   great 

Cces.  What  touches  us  ourself  shall  be  last 
serv'd. 

Art.  Delay  not,  Csesar ;  read  it  instantly. 

Cces.  What,  is  the  fellow  mad? 

Pub.  Sirrah,  give  place. 

Cas.  What,  urge  you  your  petitions  in  the 

street? 
Come  to  the  Capitol. 

CESAR  enters  the  Capitol^  the  rest  following. 
All  the  Senators  rise. 

Pop.  I  wish  your  enterprise  to-day  may  thrive. 
Cas.  What  enterprise,  Popilius? 
Pop.  Fare  you  well. 

{Advances  to  CESAR. 
Bru.  What  said  Popilius  Lena? 
Cas.  He  wish'd  to-day  our  enterprise  might 

thrive. 
I  fear  our  purpose  is  discovered. 

Bru.  Look  how  he  makes  to  Csesar :  mark 
him.  [tion. — 

Cas.  Casca,  be  sudden,  for  we  fear  preven- 
Brutus,  what  shall  be  done?     If  this  be  known, 
Cassius  or  Csesar  never  shall  turn  back, 
For  I  will  slay  myself. 

Bru.  Cassius,  be  constant: 

Popilius  Lena  speaks  not  of  our  purposes ; 
For,  look,  he  smiles,  and  Caesar  doth  not  change. 
Cas.  Trebonius  knows  his  time;  for,  look 

you,  Brutus, 
He  draws  Mark  Antony  out  of  the  way. 

[Exeunt  ANT.  and  TREE.     CESAR  and 

the  Senators  take  their  seats. 
Dec.  Where  is  MetellusCimber?    Let  him  go, 
And  presently  prefer  his  suit  to  Csesar. 

Bru.  He  is  address'd :  press  near  and  second 
him. 


SCENE  I.J 


JULIUS  C^SAR. 


873 


Cin.  Casca,  you  are  the  first  that  rears  your 
hand. 

Casca,  Are  we  all  ready? 

Cces.  What  is  now  amiss 
That  Caesar  and  his  senate  must  redress? 

Met.  Most   high,    most   mighty,   and   most 

puissant  Caesar, 

Metellus  Cimber  throws  before  thy  seat 
An  humble  heart, —  [Kneeling. 

Cas.  I  must  prevent  thee,  Cimber. 

These  couchings  and  these  lowly  courtesies 
Might  fire  the  blood  of  ordinary  men, 
And  turn  pre-ordinance  and  first  decree 
Into  the  law  of  children.     Be  not  fond 
To  think  that  Caesar  bears  such  rebel  blood 
That  will  be  thaw'd  from  the  true  quality 
With  that  which  melteth  fools ;  I  mean,  sweet 

words, 

Low  crooked  curt'sies,  and  base  spaniel  fawning. 
Thy  brother  by  decree  is  banished: 
If  thou  dost  bend,  and  pray,  and  fawn  for  him, 
I  spurn  thee  like  a  cur  out  of  my  way. 
Know,   Caesar  doth  not  wrong;    nor   without 

cause 
Will  he  be  satisfied. 

Met.  Is  there  no  voice  more  worthy  than  my 

own, 

To  sound  more  sweetly  in  great  Caesar's  ear 
For  the  repealing  of  my  banish'd  brother? 

Bru.  I  kiss  thy  hand,  but  not  in  flattery, 

Caesar, 

Desiring  thee  that  Publius  Cimber  may 
Have  an  immediate  freedom  of  repeal. 

Cces.  What,  Brutus! 

Cas.  Pardon,  Caesar;  Caesar,  pardon: 

As  low  as  to  thy  foot  doth  Cassius  fall, 
To  beg  enfranchisement  for  Publius  Cimber. 

Cces.  I  could  be  well  mov'd  if  I  were  as  you ; 
If  I  could  pray  to  move,  prayers  would  move  me: 
But  I  am  constant  as  the  northern  star, 
Of  whose  true-fix'd  and  resting  quality 
There  is  no  fellow  in  the  firmament. 
The  skies  are  painted  with  unnumber'd  sparks, — 
They  are  all  fire,  and  every  one  doth  shine ; 
But  there's  but  one  in  all  doth  hold  his  place: 
So  in  the  world, — 'tis  furnish'd  well  with  men, 
And  men  are  flesh  and  blood,  and  apprehensive ; 
Yet  in  the  number  I  do  know  but  one 
That  unassailable  holds  on  his  rank, 
Unshak'd  of  motion :  and  that  I  am  he, 
Let  me  a  little  show  it  even  in  this, — 
That  I  was  constant  Cimber  should  be  banish'd, 
And  constant  do  remain  to  keep  him  so. 

Cin.  O  Caesar,— 

Cces.         Hence !  wilt  thou  lift  up  Olympus? 

Dec.  Great  Caesar,— 

Cas.  Doth  not  Brutus  bootless  kneel? 


Casca.  Speak,  hands,  for  me ! 
[CASCA  stabs  CAESAR  in  the  neck.     C/ESAR 
catches  hold  of  his  arm.     He  is  then 
stabbed  by  several  other  Conspirators^ 
and  at  last  by  MARCUS  BRUTUS. 
CCES.  Et  tu,  Brute?— Then  fall,  Caesar! 
[Dies.     The  Senators  and  People  retire  in 

confusion. 

Cin.  Liberty !  Freedom  !  Tyranny  is  dead ! — 
Run  hence,  proclaim,  cry  it  about  the  streets. 
Cas.  Some  to  the  common  pulpits,  and  cry 

out, 
Liberty ,  freedom ,  and  enfranchisement! 

Bru.  People  and  senators !  be  not  affrighted ; 
Fly  not ;  stand  still :  ambition's  debt  is  paid. 
Casca.  Go  to  the  pulpit,  Brutus. 
Dec.  And  Cassius  too. 

Bru.  Where's  Publius?  [mutiny. 

Cin.  Here,    quite    confounded     with     this 
Met.  Stand  fast  together,  lest  some  friend  of 

Caesar's 

Should  chance, —  [cheer ; 

Brii.  Talk  not  of  standing. — Publius,  good 
There  is  no  harm  intended  to  your  person, 
Nor  to  no  Roman  else:  so  tell  them,  Publius. 
Cas.  And  leave  us,  Publius;   lest  that  the 

people, 

Rushingon  us,  should  do  your  age  some  mischief. 
Bru.  Do  so :  and  let  no  man  abide  this  deed, 
But  we  the  doers. 

Re-enter  TREBONIUS. 

Cas.  Where  is  Antony? 

Tre.  Fled  to  his  house  amaz'd : 

Men,  wives,  and  children  stare,  cry  out,  and  run, 
As  it  were  doomsday. 

Bru.  Fates !  we  will  know  your  pleasures. — 
That  we  shall  die,  we  know ;  'tis  but  the  time, 
And  drawing  days  out,  that  men  stand  upon. 

Cas.  Why,  he  that  cuts  off  twenty  years  of 

life, 
Cuts  oft  so  many  years  of  fearing  death. 

Brti.  Grant  that,  and  then  is  death  a  benefit : 
So  are  we  Caesar's  friends,  that  have  abridg'd 
His  time  of  fearing  death. — Stoop,  Romans, 

stoop, 

And  let  us  bathe  our  hands  in  Caesar's  blood 
Up  to  the  elbows,  and  besmear  our  swords : 
Then  walk  we  forth  even  to  the  market-place, 
And,  waving  our  red  weapons  o'er  our  heads, 
Let's  all  cry,  Peace!  freedom!  and  liberty! 

Cas.  Stoop  then,  and   wash. — How  many 

ages  hence 

Shall  this  our  lofty  scene  be  acted  over, 
In  states  unborn  and  accents  yet  unknown ! 

Bru.  How  many  times  shall  Caesar  bleed  in 
sport, 


874 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


[ACT  HI. 


That  now  on  Pompey's  basis  lies  along 
No  worthier  than  the  dust ! 

Cas.  So  oft  as  that  shall  be, 

So  often  shall  the  knot  of  us  be  call'd 
The  men  that  gave  their  country  liberty. 

Dec.  What,  shall  we  forth? 

Cas.  Ay,  every  man  away : 

Brutus  shall  lead ;  and  we  will  grace  his  heels 
With  the  most  boldest  and  best  hearts  of  Rome. 

Bru.  Soft,  who  comes  here? 

Enter  a  Servant. 

A  friend  of  Antony's. 

Serv.  Thus,  Brutus,  did  my  master  bid  me 

kneel ; 

Thus  did  Mark  Antony  bid  me  fall  down ; 
And,  being  prostrate,  thus  he  bade  me  say: — 
Brutus  is  noble,  wise,  valiant,  and  honest ; 
Caesar  was  mighty,  bold,  royal,  and  loving : 
Say  I  lov'd  Brutus,  and  I  honour  him ;      [him. 
Say  I  fear'd  Caesar,  honour'd  him,  and  lov'd 
If  Brutus  will  vouchsafe  that  Antony 
May  safely  come  to  him,  and  be  resolv'd 
How  Caesar  hath  deserv'd  to  lie  in  death, 
Mark  Antony  shall  not  love  Caesar  dead 
So  well  as  Brutus  living ;  but  will  follow 
The  fortunes  and  affairs  of  noble  Brutus 
Through  the  hazards  of  this  untrod  state 
With  all  true  faith.     So  says  my  master  Antony. 

Bru.  Thy  master  is  a  wise  and  valiant  Roman  : 
I  never  thought  him  worse. 
Tell  him,  so  please  him  come  unto  this  place, 
He  shall  be  satisfied ;  and,  by  my  honour, 
Depart  untouch'd. 

Serv.  I  '11  fetch  him  presently.     [Exit. 

Bru.  I  know  that  we  shall  have  him  well  to 
friend. 

Cas.  I  wish  we  may :  but  yet  have  I  a  mind 
That  fears  him  much ;  and  my  misgiving  still 
Falls  shrewdly  to  the  purpose. 

Brti.   But  here  comes  Antony. 

Re-enter  ANTONY. 

Welcome,  Mark  Antony. 
Ant.  O  mighty  Caesar !  dost  thoulie  so  low? 
Are  all  thy  conquests,  glories,  triumphs,  spoils, 
Shrunk  to  this  little  measure? — Fare  thee  well. — 
I  know  not,  gentlemen,  what  you  intend, 
Who  else  must  be  let  blood,  who  else  is  rank : 
If  I  myself,  there  is  no  hour  so  fit 
As  Caesar's  death's  hour ;  nor  no  instrument 
Of  half  that  worth  as  those  your  swords,  made 

rich 

With  the  most  noble  blood  of  all  this  world. 
I  do  beseech  ye,  if  you  bear  me  hard, 
Now,  whilst  your  purpled  hands  do  reek  and 

smoke. 


Fulfil  your  pleasure.     Live  a  thousand  years, 
I  shall  not  find  myself  so  apt  to  die : 
No  place  will  please  me  so,  no  mean  of  death 
As  here  by  Caesar,  and  by  you  cut  off, 
The  choice  and  master  spirits  of  this  age. 

Bru.  O  Antony !  beg  not  your  death  of  us. 
Though  now  we  must  appear  bloody  and  cruel, 
As  by  our  hands  and  this  our  present  act 
You  see  we  do ;  yet  see  you  but  our  hands, 
And  this  the  bleeding  business  they  have  done  : 
Our  hearts  you  see  not, — they  are  pitiful ; 
And  pity  to  the  general  wrong  of  Rome, — 
As  fire  drives  out  fire,  so  pity  pity, — 
Hath  done  this  deed  on  Caesar.     For  your  part, 
To  you  our  swords  have  leaden  points,  Mark 

Antony : 

Our  arms  no  strength  of  malice,  and  our  hearts, 
Of  brothers'  temper,  do  receive  you  in 
With  all  kind  love,  good  thoughts,  and  rever- 
ence, [man's 
Cas.  Your  voice  shall  be  as  strong  as  any 
In  the  disposing  of  new  dignities. 

Bru.  Only  be  patient  till  we  have  appeas'd 
The  multitude,  beside  themselves  with  fear, 
And  then  we  will  deliver  you  the  cause 
Why  I,  that  did  love  Caesar  when  I  struck  him, 
Have  thus  proceeded. 

Ant.  I  doubt  not  of  your  wisdom. 

Let  each  man  render  me  his  bloody  hand : 
First,  Marcus  Brutus,  will  I  shake  with  you ; — • 
Next,  Caius  Cassius,  do  I  take  your  hand ; — 
Now,  Decius  Brutus,  yours ; — now  yours,  Me- 

tellus;— 

Yours,  Cinna ; — and,  my  valiant  Casca,  yours; — 
Though  last,  not  least  in  love,   yours,  good 

Trebonius. 

Gentlemen  all, — alas,  what  shall  I  say? 
My  credit  now  stands  on  such  slippery  ground 
That  one  of  two  bad  ways  you  must  conceit  me, 
Either  a  coward  or  a  flatterer. — 
That  I  did  love  thee,  Caesar,  O,  'tis  true: 
If  then,  thy  spirit  look  upon  us  now, 
Shall  it  not  grieve  thee  dearer  than  thy  death 
To  see  thy  Antony  making  his  peace, 
Shaking  the  bloody  fingers  of  thy  foes, 
Most  noble !  in  the  presence  of  thy  corse? 
Had  I  as  many  eyes  as  thou  hast  wounds, 
Weeping  as  fast  as  they  stream  forth  thy  blood, 
It  would  become  me  better  than  to  close 
In  terms  of  friendship  with  thine  enemies. 
Pardon  me,  Julius! — Here  wast  thou  bay'd, 

brave  hart ; 
Here  didst  thou  fall;   and  here  thy  hunters 

stand, 

Sign'd  in  thy  spoil,  andcrimson'd  in  thy  Lethe. — 
O  world,  thou  wast  the  forest  to  this  hart; 
And  this,  indeed,  O  world,  the  heart  of  thee. — 


SCENE  I.] 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


875 


How  like  a  deer  strucken  by  many  princes 
Dost  thou  here  lie ! 

Cas.   Mark  Antony, — 

Ant.  Pardon  me,  Caius  Cassius : 

The  enemies  of  Caesar  shall  say  this ; 
Then  in  a  friend  it  is  cold  modesty. 

Cas,   I  blame  you  not  for  praising  Caesar  so ; 
But  what  compact  mean  you  to  have  with  us? 
Will  you  be  prick'd  in  number  of  our  friends ; 
Or  shall  we  on,  and  not  depend  on  you? 

Ant.  Therefore  I  took  your  hands ;  but  was, 

indeed, 

S  way'd  from  the  point  by  looking  down  on  Caesar. 
Friends  am  I  with  you  all,  and  love  you  all ; 
Upon  this  hope,  that  you  shall  give  me  reasons 
Why  and  wherein  Caesar  was  dangerous. 

Brit.  Or  else  were  this  a  savage  spectacle : 
Our  reasons  are  so  full  of  good  regard 
That  were  you,  Antony,  the  son  of  Caesar, 
You  should  be  satisfied. 

Ant.  That 's  all  I  seek : 

And  am  moreover  suitor  that  I  may 
Produce  his  body  to  the  market-place ; 
And  in  the  pulpit,  as  becomes  a  friend, 
Speak  in  the  order  of  his  funeral. 

Bru.  You  shall,  Mark  Antony. 

Cas.  Brutus,  a  word  with  you. — 

You  know  not  what  you  do :  do  not  consent 
That  Antony  speak  in  his  funeral : 
Know  you  how  much  the  people  may  be  mov'd 
By  that  which  he  will  utter? 

[Aside  to  BRUTUS. 

Bru.  By  your  pardon ; — 

I  will  myself  into  the  pulpit  first, 
And  show  the  reason  of  our  Caesar's  death : 
What  Antony  shall  speak,  I  will  protest 
He  speaks  by  leave  and  by  permission ; 
And  that  we  are  contented  Caesar  shall 
Have  all  true  rites  and  lawful  ceremonies. 
It  shall  advantage  more  than  do  us  wrong. 

Cas.  I  know  not  what  may  fall ;  I  like  it  not. 

Bru.  Mark  Antony,  here,  take  you  Caesar's 

body. 

You  shall  not  in  your  funeral  speech  blame  us, 
But  speak  all  good  you  can  devise  of  Caesar ; 
And  say  you  do 't  by  our  permission ; 
Else  shall  you  not  have  any  hand  at  all 
About  his  funeral :  and  you  shall  speak 
In  the  same  pulpit  whereto  I  am  going, 
After  my  speech  is  ended. 

Ant.  Be  it  so; 

I  do  desire  no  more. 

Bru.  Prepare  the  body  then,  and  follow  us. 
[Exeunt  all  but  ANTONY. 

Ant.  O,  pardon  me,  thou  bleeding  piece  of 

earth, 
That  I  am  meek  and  gentle  with  these  butchers ! 


Thou  art  the  ruins  of  the  noblest  man 
That  ever  lived  in  the  tide  of  times. 
Woe  to  the  hand  that  shed  this  costly  blood ! 
Over  thy  wounds  now  do  I  prophesy, — 
Which  like  dumb  mouths  do  ope  their  ruby  lips, 
To  beg  the  voice  and  utterance  of  my  tongue,— 
A  curse  shall  light  upon  the  limbs  of  men ; 
Domestic  fury  and  fierce  civil  strife 
Shall  cumber  all  the  parts  of  Italy ; 
Blood  and  destruction  shall  be  so  in  use, 
And  dreadful  objects  so  familiar, 
That  mothers  shall  but  smile  when  they  behold 
Their  infants  quarter'd  with  the  hands  of  war ; 
All  pity  chok'd  with  custom  of  fell  deeds : 
A.nd  Caesar's  spirit,  ranging  for  revenge, 
With  Ate  by  his  side  come  hot  from  hell, 
Shall  in  these  confines  with  a  monarch's  voice 
Cry  Havoc,  and  let  slip  the  dogs  of  war ; 
That  this  foul  deed  shall  smell  above  the  earth 
With  carrion  men,  groaning  for  burial. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

You  serve  Octavius  Caesar,  do  you  not  ? 

Serv.  I  do,  Mark  Antony. 

Ant.  Caesar  did  write  for  him  to  come  to 
Rome.  [ing ; 

Serv.  He  did  receive  his  letters,  and  is  com- 
And  bid  me  say  to  you  by  word  of  mouth, — 
O  Caesar ! —  [Seeing  the  body. 

Ant.  Thy  heart  is  big,  get  thee  apart  and 

weep. 

Passion,  I  see,  is  catching ;  for  mine  eyes, 
Seeing  those  beads  of  sorrow  stand  in  thine, 
Began  to  water.     Is  thy  master  coming? 

Serv.  He  lies  to-night  within  seven  leagues 
of  Rome. 

Ant.  Post  back  with  speed,  and  tell  him 

what  hath  chanc'd : 

Here  is  a  mourning  Rome,  a  dangerous  Rome, 
No  Rome  of  safety  for  Octavius  yet ; 
Hie  hence  and  tell  him  so.     Yet,  stay  awhile ; 
Thou  shalt  not  back  till  I  have  borne  this  corse 
Into  the  market-place:  there  shall  I  try, 
In  my  oration,  how  the  people  take 
The  cruel  issue  of  these  bloody  men ; 
According  to  the  which  thou  shalt  discourse 
To  young  Octavius  of  the  state  of  things. 
Lend  me  your  hand. 

[Exeunt  with  OESAR'S  body. 

SCENE  II. — ROME.     The  Forum. 

Enter  BRUTUS  and  CASSIUS,  and  a  throng  of 
Citizens. 

Citizens.  We  will  be  satisfied;    let  us  be 

satisfied.  [friends. — 

Bru.  Then  follow  me,  and  give  me  audience, 


876 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


[ACT  nr. 


Cassius,  go  you  into  the  other  street, 

And  part  the  numbers. — 

Those  that  will  hear  me  speak,  let  'em  stay  here ; 

Those  that  will  follow  Cassius,  go  with  him ; 

And  public  reasons  shall  be  rendered 

Of  Caesar's  death. 

1  Cit.  I  will  hear  Brutus  speak. 

2  Cit.  I  will  hear  Cassius ;  and  compare  their 

reasons, 
When  severally  we  hear  them  rendered. 

[Exit  CASSIUS,  with  some  of  the  Citizens. 
BRUTUS  goes  into  the  Rostrum. 

3  Cit.  The  noble  Brutus  is  ascended :  silence ! 
Bni.  Be  patient  till  the  last. 

Romans,  countrymen,  and  lovers  !  hear  me  for 
my  cause;  and  be  silent,  that  you  may  hear: 
believe  me  for  mine  honour ;  and  have  respect 
to  mine  honour,  that  you  may  believe :  censure 
me  in  your  wisdom ;  and  awake  your  senses, 
that  you  may  the  better  judge.  If  there  be  any 
in  this  assembly,  any  dear  friend  of  Caesar's,  to 
him  I  say  that  Brutus'  love  to  Caesar  was  no 
less  than  his.  If,  then,  that  friend  demand 
why  Brutus  rose  against  Caesar,  this  is  my 
answer, — Not  that  I  loved  Caesar  less,  but  that 
I  loved  Rome  more.  Had  you  rather  Caesar 
were  living,  and  die  all  slaves,  than  that  Caesar 
were  dead,  to  live  all  free  men?  As  Caesar 
loved  me,  I  weep  for  him;  as  he  was  fortunate, 
I  rejoice  at  it ;  as  he  was  valiant,  I  honour  him : 
but,  as  he  was  ambitious,  I  slew  him:  there  io 
tears  for  his  love;  joy  for  his  fortune;  honour 
for  his  valour;  and  death  for  his  ambition. 
Who  is  here  so  base  that  would  be  a  bondman? 
If  any,  speak ;  for  him  have  I  offended.  Who 
is  here  so  rude  that  would  not  be  a  Roman? 
If  any,  speak;  for  him  have  I  offended.  Who 
is  here  so  vile  that  will  not  love  his  country? 
If  any,  speak;  for  him  have  I  offended.  I 
pause  for  a  reply. 

Citizens.  None,  Brutus,  none. 

Bru.  Then  none  have  I  offended.  I  have 
done  no  more  to  Caesar  than  you  shall  do  to 
Brutus.  The  question  of  his  death  is  enrolled 
in  the  Capitol;  his  glory  not  extenuated, 
wherein  he  was  worthy;  nor  his  offences  en- 
forced, for  which  he  suffered  death.  Here 
comes  his  body,  mourn'd  by  Mark  Antony : 

Enter  ANTONY  and  others  -with  CESAR'S  body. 

who,  though  he  had  no  hand  in  his  death, 
shall  receive  the  benefit  of  his  dying, — a  place 
in  the  commonwealth ;  as  which  of  you  shall 
not?  With  this  I  depart, — that,  as  I  slew  my 
best  lover  for  the  good  of  Rome,  I  have  the 
same  dagger  for  myself,  when  it  shall  please  my 
country  to  need  my  death. 


Citizens.  Live,  Brutus !  live,  live ! 

1  Cit.  Bring  him  with  triumph  home  unto 

his  house. 

2  Cit.  Give  him  a  statue  with  his  ancestors. 

3  Cit.  Let  him  be  Caesar. 

4  Cit.  Caesar's  better  parts 
Shall  be  crown'd  in  Brutus. 

1  Cit.  We'll  bring  him  to  his  house  with 

shouts  and  clamours. 
Bru.  My  countrymen, — 

2  Cit.  Peace,  silence !  Brutus  speaks. 
I  Cit.  Peace,  ho  ! 

Bru.  Good  countrymen,  let  me  depart  alone, 
And  for  my  sake  stay  here  with  Antony : 
Do  grace  to  Caesar's  corse,  and  grace  his  speech 
Tending    to   Caesar's    glories;    which    Mark 

Antony, 

By  our  permission,  is  allow'd  to  make. 
I  do  entreat  you,  not  a  man  depart, 
Save  I  alone,  till  Antony  have  spoke.      [Exit. 
I  Cit.  Stay,    ho!    and   let   us    hear    Mark 

Antony. 

3  Cit.  Let  him  go  up  into  the  public  chair; 
We  '11  hear  him. — Noble  Antony,  go  up. 

Ant.  For  Brutus'  sake  I  am  beholden  to  you. 

[Goes  tip. 

4  Cit.  What  does  he  say  of  Brutus? 

3  Cit.  He  says,  for  Brutus'  sake 
He  finds  himself  beholden  to  us  all. 

4  Cit.  'Twere  best  he  speak  no  harm  of 

Brutus  here. 

1  Cit.  This  Caesar  was  a  tyrant. 

3  Cit.  Nay,  that 's  certain : 

We  are  bless'd  that  Rome  is  rid  of  him. 

2  Cit.  Peace !  let  us  hear  what  Antony  can 

say. 

Ant.    You  gentle  Romans.— 

Cit.  Peace,  ho!  let  us  hear  him. 

Ant.  Friends,    Romans,   countrymen,   lend 

me  your  ears ; 

I  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  hinui^ 
The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them ; 
The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones ; 
So  let  it  be  with  Caesar.     The  noble  Brutus 
Hath  told  you  Caesar  was  ambitious: 
If  it  were  so,  it  was  a  grievous  fault ; 
And  grievously  hath  Caesar  answer'd  it. 
Here,  under  leave  of  Brutus  and  the  rest,— 
For  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man ; 
So  are  they  all,  all  honourable  men,— 
Come  I  to  speak  in  Caesar's  funeral. 
He  was  my  friend,  faithful  and  just  to  me: 
But  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious  ; 
And  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man. 
He  hath  brought  many  captives  home  to  Rome, 
Whose  ransoms  did  the  general  coffers  fill: 
Did  this  in  Caesar  seem  ambitious  ? 


SCENE  II.] 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


877 


When  that  the  poor  have  cried,  Caesar  hath 

wept: 

Ambition  should  be  made  of  sterner  stuff j 
Yet  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious ; 
And  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man. 
You  all  did  see  that  on  the  Lupercal 
I  thrice  presented  him  a  kingly  crown, 
Which  he  did  thrice  refuse :  was  this  ambition? 
Yet  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious ; 
And,  sure,  he  is  an  honourable  man. 
I  speak  not  to  disprove  what  Brutus  spoke, 
But  here  I  am  to  speak  what  I  do  know. 
You  all  did  love  him  once, — not  without  cause : 
What  cause  withholds  you,  then,  to  mourn  for 

him? 

0  judgment,  thou  art  fled  to  brutish  beasts, 
And  men  have  lost  their  reason! — Bear  with 

me; 

My  heart  is  in  the  coffin  there  with  Caesar, 
And  I  must  pause  till  it  come  back  to  me. 

1  Cit.  Methinks  there  is  much  reason  in  his 

sayings. 

2  Cit.   If  thou  consider  rightly  of  the  matter, 
Caesar  has  had  great  wrong. 

3  Cit.  Has  he,  masters? 

1  fear  there  will  a  worse  come  in  his  place. 

4  Cit.   Mark'd  ye  his  words  ?     He  would  not 

take  the  crown ; 
Therefore  'tis  certain  he  was  not  ambitious. 

1  Cit.  If  it  be  found  so,  some  will  dear  abide 

it.  [weeping. 

2  Cit.  Poor  soul !  his  eyes  are  red  as  fire  with 

3  Cit.  There's  not  a  nobler  man  in  Rome 

than  Antony.  [speak. 

4  Cit.  Now  mark  him,  he  begins  again  to 
Ant.  But  yesterday  the  word  of  Caesar  might 

Have  stood  against  the  world :  now  lies  he  there, 
And  none  so  poor  to  do  him  reverence. 

0  masters,  if  I  were  dispos'd  to  stir 

Your  hearts  and  minds  to  mutiny  and  rage, 

1  should  do  Erutus  wrong,  and  Cassius  wrong, 
Who,  you  all  know,  are  honourable  men : 

I  will  not  do  them  wrong ;  I  rather  choose 
To  wrong  the  dead,  to  wrong  myself  and  you, 
Than  I  will  wrong  such  honourable  men. 
But  here 's  a  parchment  with  the  seal  of  Caesar, — 
I  found  it  in  his  closet, — 'tis  his  will : 
Let  but  the  commons  hear  this  testament, — 
Which,  pardon  me,  I  do  not  mean  to  read, — 
And  they   would  go   and   kiss   dead    Caesar's 

wounds, 

And  dip  their  napkins  in  his  sacred  blood ; 
Yea,  beg  a  hair  of  him  for  memory, 
And,  dying,  mention  it  within  their  wills, 
Bequeathing  it  as  a  rich  legacy 
Unto  their  issue.  [Antony. 

4  Cit.  We'll  hear  the  will:  read  it,  Mark 


Citizens.  The  will,  the  will!  we  will  hear 
Caesar's  will. 

Ant.  Have  patience,  gentle  friends,  I  must 

not  read  it ; 

It  is  not  meet  you  know  how  Caesar  lov'd  you. 
You  are  not  wood,  you  are  not  stones,  but  men ; 
And,  being  men,  hearing  the  will  of  Caesar, 
It  will  inflame  you, — it  will  make  you  mad : 
'Tis  good  you  know  not  that  you  are  his  heirs ; 
For,  if  you  should,  O,  what  would  come  of  it ! 

4  Cit.  Read  the  will ;  we  '11  hear  it,  Antony ; 
You  shall  read  us  the  will, — Caesar's  will. 

Ant.  Will  you   be   patient?   will  you  stay 

awhile? 

I  have  o'ershot  myself  to  tell  you  of  it: 
I  fear  I  wrong  the  honourable  men 
Whose  daggers  have  stabb'd  Caesar ;  I  do  fear  it. 

4  Cit.  They  were  traitors :  honourable  men  ! 

Citizens.  The  will !  the  testament ! 

2  Cit.  They  were  villains,  murderers:    the 
will !  read  the  will !  [will? 

Ant.  You  will  compel  me,  then,  to  read  the 
Then  make  a  ring  about  the  corse  of  Caesar, 
And  let  me  show  you  him  that  made  the  will. 
Shall  I  descend?  and  will  you  give  me  leave? 

Citizens.  Come  down. 

2  Cit.  Descend.          [ANTONY  comes  down. 

3  Cit.  You  shall  have  leave. 

4  Cit.  A  ring ;  stand  round.  [body. 

1  Cit.  Stand  from  the  hearse,  stand  from  the 

2  Cit.  Room     for     Antony, — most     noble 

Antony !  [off. 

Ant.  Nay,  press  not  so  upon  me ;  stand  far 
Citizens.  Stand  back ;  room ;  bear  back  ! 
Ant.  If  you  have  tears,  prepare  to  shed  them 

now. 

You  all  do  know  this  mantle:  I  remember 
The  first  time  ever  Caesar  put  it  on  ; 
'Twas  on  a  summer's  evening,  in  his  tent, 
That  day  he  overcame  the  Nervii:— 
Look !  in  this  place  ran  Cassius'  dagger  through: 
See  what  a  rent  the  envious  Casca  made : 
Through  this  the  well-beloved  Brutus  stabb'd ; 
And,  as  he  pluck'd  his  cursed  steel  away, 
Mark  how  the  blood  of  Caesar  follow'd  it, 
As  rushing  out  of  doors,  to  be  resolv'd 
If  Brutus  so  unkiTTdly  knock'd  or  no ; 
For  Brutus,  as  you  know,  was  Caesar's  angel : 
Judge,  O  you  gods,  how  dearly  Caesar  loved  him! 
This  was  the  most  unkindest  cut  of  all ; 
For  when  the  nobte  Caesar  saw  him  stab, 
Ingratitude,  more-Strong  than  traitors'  arms, 
Quite  vanquish'd  bun :  then  burst  his  mighty 

heart; 

And,  in  his  mantle  Vouffling  up  his  face, 
Even  at  the  base  of  Pompey's  statua, 
Which  all  the  while  Ian  blood,  great  Caesar  fell. 


8;8 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


[ACT  in. 


O,  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  countrymen  ! 
Then  I,  and  you,  and  all  of  us  fell  down, 
Whilst  bloody  treason  flourish'd  over  us. 
O,  now  you  weep ;  and  I  perceive  you  feel 
The  dint  of  pity :  these  are  gracious  drops. 
Kind  souls,  what,  weep  you  when  you  but  be- 
hold 

Our  Caesar's  vesture  wounded  ?     Look  you  here, 
Here  is  himself,  marr'd,  as  you  see,  with  traitors. 

1  Cit.  O  piteous  spectacle ! 

2  Cit.  O  noble  Csesar ! 

3  Cit.  O  woeful  day ! 

4  Cit.  O  traitors,  villains ! 

1  Cit.  O  most  bloody  sight ! 

2  Cit.  We   will    be  revenged :    revenge, — 
about, — seek, — burn, — fire, — kill, — slay, — let 
not  a  traitor  live ! 

Ant.  Stay,  countrymen. 

1  Cit.  Peace  there !  hear  the  noble  Antony. 

2  Cit.  We'll  hear  him,  we'll  follow  him, 
we'll  die  with  him. 

Ant.  Good  friends,  sweet  friends,  let   me 

not  stir  you  up 

To  such  a  sudden  flood  of  mutiny. 
They  that  have  done  this  deed  are  honourable ; — 
What  private  griefs  they  have,  alas,  I  know  not, 
That  made   them  do  it; — they  are  wise  and 

honourable, 

And  will,  no  doubt,  with  reasons  answer  you. 
I  come  not,  friends,  to  steal  away  your  hearts : 
I  am  no  orator,  as  Brutus  is ; 
But,  as  you  know  me  all,  a  plain  blunt  man, 
That  love  my  friend ;  and  that  they  know  full 

well 

That  gave  me  public  leave  to  speak  of  him : 
For  I  have  neither  wit,  nor  words,  nor  worth, 
Action,  nor  utterance,  nor  the  power  of  speech, 
To  stir  men's  blood :  I  only  speak  right  on ; 
I  tell  you  that  which  you  yourselves  do  know ; 
Show  you  sweet  Caesar's  wounds,  poor  poor 

dumb  mouths, 

And  bid  them  speak  for  me :  but  were  I  Brutus, 
And  Brutus  Antony,  there  were  an  Antony 
Would  ruffle  up  your  spirits,  and  put  a  tongue 
In  every  wound  of  Csesar,  that  should  move 
The  stones  of  Rome  to  rise  and  mutiny. 
Citizens.  We'll  mutiny. 
I  Cit.  We'll  burn  the  hou|e  of  Brutus. 

3  Cit.  Away,    then!    come    seek    the   con- 

spirators. 
Ant.  Yet  hear   me,  countrymen;    yet  hear 

me  speak. 
Citizens.  Peace,    ho!    hear    Antony,    most 

noble  Antony. 
Ant.  Why,  friends,  you  go  to  do  you  know 

not  what : 
Wherein  hath  Csesar  thus  leserv'd  your  loves? 


Alas,  you  know  not, — I  must  tell  you,  then. — 
You  have  forgot  the  will  I  told  you  of. 

Citizens.   Most  true ; — the  will : — let's  stay 
and  hear  the  will. 

Ant.  Here  is  the  will  and  under  Caesar's  seal 
To  every  Roman  citizen  he  gives, 
To  every  several  man,  seventy-five  drachmas. 

2  Cit.  Most   noble   Caesar ! — we'll    revenge 

his  death. 

3  Cit.  O  royal  Caesar ! 

Ant.  Hear  me  with  patience. 

Citizens.  Peace,  ho ! 

Ant.  Moreover,  he  hath  left  you  all  his  walks, 
His  private  arbours,  and  new-planted  orchards 
On  this  side  Tiber;  he  hath  left  them  you, 
And  to  your  heirs  for  ever, — common  pleasures, 
To  walk  abroad  and  recreate  yourselves. 
Here  was  a  Caesar !  when  comes  such  another? 

1  Cit.  Never,  never. — Come  away,  away ! 
We'll  burn  his  body  in  the  holy  place, 

And  with  the  brands  fire  the  traitors'  houses. 
Take  up  the  body. 

2  Cit.  Go,  fetch  fire. 

3  Cit.  Pluck  down  benches. 

4  Cit.   Pluck  down  forms,  windows,  anything. 

[Exeunt  Citizens  with  the  body. 
Ant.  Now  let  it  work :  mischief,  thou  art 

afoot. 
Take  thou  what  course  thou  wilt ! 

Enter  a  Servant. 

How  now,  fellow ! 

Serv.  Sir,  Octavius  is  already  come  to  Rome. 
Ant.  Where  is  he? 

Serv.  He  and  Lepidus  are  at  Caesar's  house. 
Ant.  And  thither  will  I  straight  to  visit  him  : 
He  comes  upon  a  wish.     Fortune  is  merry, 
And  in  this  mood  will  give  us  anything. 

Serv.  I  heard  him  say  Brutus  and  Cassius 
Are  rid  like  madmen  through  the  gates  of  Rome. 
Ant.  Belike   they  had   some  notice  of  the 

people, 

How  I  had  mov'd  them.     Bring  me  to  Octavius. 

[Exeitnt. 

SCENE  III. — ROME.     A  Street. 
Enter  CINNA  the  Poet. 

Cin.  I  dreamt  to-night  that  I  did  feast  with 

Caesar, 

And  things  unlucky  charge  my  fantasy : 
I  have  no  will  to  wander  forth  of  doors, 
Yet  something  leads  me  forth. 

.rwiA 


Enter  Citizens. 

1  Cit.  What  is  your  name? 

2  Cit.  Whither  are  you  going? 


SCENE  III.] 


JULIUS  OESAR. 


879 


3  Cit.  Where  do  you  dwell? 

4  Cit.  Are  you  a  married  man  or  a  bachelor? 

2  Cit.  Answer  every  man  directly. 

1  Cit.  Ay,  and  briefly. 
4  Cit.  Ay,  and  wisely. 

3  Cit.  Ay,  and  truly,  you  were  best. 

Cin.  What  is  my  name  ?  Whither  am  I 
going?  Where  do  I  dwell?  Am  la  married 
man  or  a  bachelor?  Then  to  answer  every 
man  directly  and  briefly,  wisely  and  truly. — 
Wisely,  I  say  I  am  a  bachelor. 

2  Cit.  That's  as  much  as  to  say  they  are 
fools  that  marry :  you  '11  bear  me  a  bang  for 
that,  I  fear.     Proceed ;  directly. 

Cin.  Directly,  I  am  going  to  Caesar's  funeral. 

1  Cit.  As  a  friend  or  an  enemy? 
Cin.  As  a  friend. 

2  Cit.  That  matter  is  answered  directly. 

4  Cit.  For  your  dwelling, — briefly. 
Cin.  Briefly  I  dwell  by  the  Capitol. 

3  Cit.  Your  name,  sir,  truly. 
Cin.  Truly  my  name  is  Cinna. 

I  Cit.  Tear  him  to  pieces ;  he 's  a  conspirator. 
Cin.  I  am  Cinna  the  poet,  I  am  Cinna  the 
poet. 

4  Cit.  Tear  him  for  his  bad  verses,  tear  him 
for  his  bad  verses. 

Cin.  I  am  not  Cinna  the  conspirator. 

4  Cit.  It  is  no  matter,  his  name's  Cinna; 
pluck  but  his  name  out  of  his  heart,  and  turn 
him  going. 

3  Cit.  Tear  him,  tear  him!  Come,  brands, 
ho!  fire-brands:  to  Brutus',  to  Cassius';  burn 
all  :  some  to  Decius'  house,  and  some  to 
Casca's ;  some  to  Ligarius' :  away,  go ! 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — ROME.    A    room    in   ANTONY'S 
House. 

ANTONY,  OCTAVIUS,  and  LEPIDUS, 
seated  at  a  table. 

Ant.  These    many,    then,   shall   die;   their 

names  are  prick'd. 
Oct.  Your  brother  too  must  die;  consent 

you,  Lepidus? 
Lep.   I  do  consent. 

Oct.  Prick  him  down,  Antony. 

Lep.  Upon  condition  Publius  shall  not  live, 
Who  is  your  sister's  son,  Mark  Antony. 

Ant.  He  shall  not  live ;  look,  with  a  spot  I 

damn  him. 

But,  Lepidus,  go  you  to  Caesar's  house ; 
Fetch  the  will  hither,  and  we  shall  determine 
How  to  cut  off  some  charge  in  legacies. 


Lep.  What,  shall  I  find  you  here? 

Oct.  Or  here  or  at  the  Capitol. 

[Exit  LEPIDUS. 

Ant.  This  is  a  slight  unmeritable  man, 
Meet  to  be  sent  on  errands :  is  it  fit, 
The  threefold  world  divided,  he  should  stand 
One  of  the  three  to  share  it? 

Oct.  So  you  thought  him ; 

And  took  his  voice  who  should  be  prick'd  to 

die, 
In  our  black  sentence  and  proscription,    [you : 

Ant.  Octavius,  I  have  seen  more  days  than 
And  though  we  lay  these  honours  on  this  man, 
To  ease  ourselves  of  divers  slanderous  loads, 
He  shall  but  bear  them  as  the  ass  bears  gold, 
To  groan  and  sweat  under  the  business, 
Either  led  or  driven  as  we  point  the  way ; 
And  having  brought  our  treasure  where  we  will, 
Then  take  we  down  his  load,  and  turn  him  off, 
Like  to  the  empty  ass,  to  shake  his  ears 
And  graze  in  commons. 

Oct.  You  may  do  your  will : 

But  he 's  a  tried  and  valiant  soldier. 

Ant.  So  is  my  horse,  Octavius ;  and  for  that 
I  do  appoint  him  store  of  provender : 
It  is  a  creature  that  I  teach  to  fight, 
To  wind,  to  stop,  to  run  directly  on, — 
His  corporal  motion  govern'd  by  my  spirit. 
And,  in  some  taste,  is  Lepidus  but  so ; 
He  must  be  taught,  and  train'd,  and  bid  go 

forth; — 

A  barren-spirited  fellow ;  one  that  feeds 
On  abject  orts  and  imitations, 
Which,  out  of  use  and  stal'd  by  other  men, 
Begin  his  fashion :  do  not  talk  of  him 
But  as  a  property.     And  now,  Octavius, 
Listen  great  things. — Brutus  and  Cassius 
Are  levying  powers:  we  must  straight  make 

head: 

Therefore  let  our  alliance  be  combin'd, 
Our  best  friends  made,  our  means  stretch'd ; 
And  let  us  presently  go  sit  in  council, 
How  covert  matters  may  be  best  disclos'd, 
And  open  perils  surest  answered. 

Oct.  Let  us  do  so :  for  we  are  at  the  stake, 
And  bay'd  about  with  many  enemies;        [fear, 
And  some  that  smile  have  in  their  hearts,  I 
Millions  of  mischiefs.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE   II. — Before   BRUTUS'S    Tent,   in  the 
Camp  near  Sardis. 

Drum.  Enter  BRUTUS,  LUCILIUS,  Lucius, 
and  Soldiers ;  TITINIUS  and  PINDARUS 
meeting  them. 

Bru.  Stand,  ho ! 

Lucil.  Give  the  word,  ho !  and  stand. 


88o 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


[ACT  rv. 


Bru.  What  now,  Luciliusl  is  Cassius  near? 

LuciL  He  is  at  hand ;  and  Pindarus  is  come 
To  do  you  salutation  from  his  master. 

[PiN.  gives  a  letter  to  BRU. 

Bru.  He  greets  me    well. — Your    master, 

Pindarus, 

In  his  own  change,  or  by  ill  officers, 
Hath  given  me  some  worthy  cause  to  wish 
Things  done  undone :  but  if  he  be  at  hand 
I  shall  be  satisfied. 

Pin.  I  do  not  doubt 

But  that  my  noble  master  will  appear 
Such  as  he  is,  full  of  regard  and  honour. 

Bru.  He  is  not  doubted. — A  word,  Lucilius ; 
How  he  receiv'd  you  let  me  be  resolv'd. 

Lucil.  With    courtesy    and    with    respect 

enough ; 

But  not  with  such  familiar  instances, 
Nor  with  such  free  and  friendly  conference 
As  he  hath  us'd  of  old. 

Bru.  Thou  hast  described 

A  hot  friend  cooling :  ever  note,  Lucilius, 
When  love  begins  to  sicken  and  decay, 
It  useth  an  enforced  ceremony. 
There  are  no  tricks  in  plain  and  simple  faith : 
But  hollow  men,  like  horses  hot  at  hand, 
Make  gallant  show  and  promise  of  their  mettle ; 
But  when  they  should  endure  the  bloody  spur, 
They  fall  their  crests,  and,  like  deceitful  jades, 
Sink  in  the  trial.     Comes  his  army  on? 

Lucil.  They  mean  this  night  in  Sardis  to  be 

quarter'd ; 

The  greater  part,  the  horse  in  general, 
Are  come  with  Cassius.  [March  within. 

Bru.  Hark  !  he  is  arriv'd : 

March  gently  on  to  meet  him. 

Enter  CASSIUS  and  Soldiers. 

Cos.  Stand,  ho ! 

Bru.  Stand,  ho !  speak  the  word  along. 

Within.   Stand! 

Within.  Stand! 

Within.  Stand!  [wrong. 

Cas.  Most  noble  brother,  you  have  done  me 

Bru.  Judge  me,  you  gods!  wrong  I  mine 

enemies? 
And,  if  not  so,  how  should  I  wrong  a  brother? 

Cas.  Brutus,  this  sober  form  of  yours  hides 

wrongs ; 
And  when  you  do  them, — 

Bru.  Cassius,  be  content; 

Speak  your  griefs  softly, — I  do  know  you  well : — 
Before  the  eyes  of  both  our  armies  here, 
Which  should  perceive  nothing  but  love  from  us, 
J^et  us  not  wrangle:  bid  them  move  away; 
Then  in  my  tent,  Cassius,  enlarge  your  griefs, 
And  I  will  give  you  audience. 


Cas.  Pindarus, 

Bid  our  commanders  lead  their  charges  off 
A  little  from  this  ground.  [man 

Bru.  Lucilius,  do  you  the  like ;  and  let  no 
Come  to  our  tent  till  we  have  done  our  con- 
ference. 
Let  Lucius  and  Titinius  guard  our  door. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Within  the  Tent  o/ BRUTUS. 
Enter  BRUTUS  and  CASSIUS. 

Cas.  That  you  have  wrong'd  me  doth  appear 

in  this, — 

You  have  condemn'd  and  noted  Lucius  Pella 
For  taking  bribes  here  of  the  Sardians ; 
Wherein  my  letters,  praying  on  his  side, 
Because  I  knew  the  man,  were  slighted  off. 

Bru.  You  wrong'd  yourself,  to  write  in  such 
a  case. 

Cas.  In  such  a  time  as  this  it  is  not  meet 
That  every  nice  offence  should  bear  his  com- 
ment. 

Bru.  Let  me  tell  you,  Cassius,  you  yourself 
Are  much  condemn'd  to  have  an  itching  palm ; 
To  sell  and  mart  your  offices  for  gold 
To  undeservers. 

Cas.  I  an  itching  palm  ! 

You  know  that  you  are  Brutus  that  speak  this, 
Or,  by  the  gods,  this  speech  were  else  your  last. 

Bru.  The  name  of  Cassius  honours  this  cor- 
ruption, 
And  chastisement  doth  therefore  hide  his  head. 

Cas.  Chastisement! 

Bru.  Remember  March,  the  ides  of  March 

remember ! 

Did  not  great  Julius  bleed  for  justice'  sake? 
What  villain  touch'd  his  body,  that  did  stab, 
And  not  for  justice?     What,  shall  one  of  us, 
That  struck  the  foremost  man  of  all  this  world 
But  for  supporting  robbers,  shall  we  now 
Contaminate  our  fingers  with  base  bribes, 
And  sell  the  mighty  space  of  our  large  honours 
For  so  much  trash  as  may  be  grasped  thus? — 
I  had  rather  be  a  dog,  and  bay  the  moon, 
Than  such  a  Roman. 

Cas,  Brutus,  bay  not  me, — 

I  '11  not  endure  it :  you  forget  yourself 
To  hedge  me  in;  I  am  a  soldier,  I, 
Older  in  practice,  abler  than  yourself 
To  make  conditions. 

Bru.  Go  to;  you  are  not,  Cassius. 

Cas,  I  am. 

Bru.  I  say  you  are  not. 

Cas.  Urge  me  no  more,  I  shall  forget  myself; 
Have  mind  upon  your  health,  tempt  me  no 
further. 


SCENE  III.] 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


881 


Bru.  Away,  slight  man ! 

Cas.  Is't  possible? 

Bru,  Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak. 

Must  I  give  way  and  room  to  your  rash  choler? 
Shall  I  be  frighted  when  a  madman  stares? 

Cas.  O  ye  gods,  ye  gods !  must  I  endure  all 
this? 

Bru.  All  this !  ay,  more :  fret  till  your  proud 

heart  break ; 

Go,  show  your  slaves  how  choleric  you  are, 
And  make  your  bondmen  tremble.      Must  I 

budge? 

Must  I  observe  you?     Must  I  stand  and  crouch 
Under  your  testy  humour?    By  the  gods, 
You  shall  digest  the  venom  of  your  spleen 
Though  it  do  split  you ;  for  from  this  day  forth 
I  '11  use  you  for  my  mirth,  yea,  for  my  laughter, 
When  you  are  waspish. 

Cas.  Is  it  come  to  this? 

Bru.  You  say  you  are  a  better  soldier: 
Let  it  appear  so ;  make  your  vaunting  true, 
And  it  shall  please  me  well :  for  mine  own  part, 
I  shall  be  glad  to  learn  of  noble  men. 

Cas.  You  wrong  me  every  way ;  you  wrong 

me,  Brutus; 

I  said  an  elder  soldier,  not  a  better: 
Did  I  say  better? 

Bru.  If  you  did,  I  care  not. 

Cas.  When  Caesar  liv'd,  he  durst  not  thus 
have  mov'd  me. 

Bru.  Peace,  peace!  you  durst  not  so  have 
tempted  him. 

Cas.   I  durst  not ! 

Bru.  No. 

Cas.  What,  durst  not  tempt  him ! 

Bru.  For  your  life  you  durst  not. 

Cas.  Do  not  presume  too  much  upon  my  love; 
I  may  do  that  I  shall  be  sorry  for.  [for. 

Bru.  You  have  done  that  you  should  be  sorry 
There  is  no  terror,  Cassius,  in  your  threats ; 
For  I  am  arm'd  so  strong  in  honesty 
That  they  pass  by  me  as  the  idle  wind, 
Which  I  respect  not.     I  did  send  to  you 
For  certain  sums  of  gold,  which  you  denied 

me; — 

For  I  can  raise  no  money  by  vile  means : 
By  heaven,  I  had  rather  coin  my  heart, 
And  drop  my  blood  for  drachmas,  than  to  wring 
From  the  hard  hands  of  peasants  their  vile  trash 
By  any  indirection  ; — I  did  send 
To  you  for  gold  to  pay  my  legions,     [Cassius  ? 
Which  you  denied  me  :    was  that  done  like 
Should  I  have  answer'd  Caius  Cassius  so  ? 
When  Marcus  Brutus  grows  so  covetous, 
To  lock  such  rascal  counters  from  his  friends, . 
Be  ready,  gods,  with  all  your  thunderbolts, 
Dash  him  to  pieces  ! 


Cas.  I  denied  you  not. 

Bru.  You  did. 

Cas.  I  did  not :  he  was  but  a  fool  that  brought 
My  answer  back. — Brutus  hath  riv'd  my  heart: 
A  friend  should  bear  his  friend's  infirmities, 
But  Brutus  makes  mine  greater  than  they  are. 

Brtt.  I  do  not,  till  you  practise  them  on  me. 

Cas.  You  love  me  not. 

Bru.  I  do  not  like  your  faults. 

Cas.  A  friendly  eye  could  never  see  such 
faults.  [appear 

Bru.  A  flatterer's  would  not,  though  they  do 
As  huge  as  high  Olympus.  [come, 

Cas.  Come,  Antony,  and  young  Octavius, 
Revenge  yourselves  alone  on  Cassius, 
For  Cassius  is  aweary  of  the  world  ; 
Hated  by  one  he  loves  ;  brav'd  by  his  brother  ; 
Check'd  like  a  bondman  ;  all  his  faults  observ'd 
Set  in  a  notebook,  learn'd,  and  conn'd  by  rote, 
To  cast  into  my  teeth.     O,  I  could  weep 
My  spirit  from  mine  eyes  ! — There  is  my  dagger, 
And  here  my  naked  breast ;  within,  a  heart 
Dearer  than  Plutus'  mine,  richer  than  gold  : 
If  that  thou  be'st  a  Roman,  take  it  forth  ; 
I,  that  denied  thee  gold,  will  give  my  heart : 
Strike,  as  thou  didst  at  Caesar  ;  for  I  know, 
When  thou  didst  hate  him  worst,  thou  lov'dst 

him  better 
Than  ever  thou  lov'dst  Cassius. 

Bru.  Sheathe  your  dagger  : 

Be  angry  when  you  will,  it  shall  have  scope  ; 
Do  what  you  will,  dishonour  shall  be  humour. 
O  Cassius,  you  are  yoked  with  a  lamb, 
That  carries  anger  as  the  flint  bears  fire  ; 
Who,  much  enforced,  shows  a  hasty  spark, 
And  straight  is  cold  again. 

Cas.  Hath  Cassius  livM 

To  be  but  mirth  and  laughter  to  his  Brutus, 
When  grief  and  blood  ill-temper'd  vexeth  him  ? 

Bru.  When  I  spoke  that  I  was  ill-temper'd 
too.  [hand. 

Cas.  Do  you  confess  so  much?    Give  me  your 

Bru.  And  my  heart  too. 

Cas.  O  Brutus,— 

Bru.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

Cos.  Have  not  you  love  enough  to  bear  with 
me,  [me 

When  that  rash  humour  which  my  mother  gave 
Makes  me  forgetful  ? 

Bru.        Yes,  Cassius  ;  and  frorn  henceforth, 
When  you  are  over-earnest  with  your  Brutus, 
He  '11  think  your  mother  chides,  and  leave  you 
so.  \Noise  within. 

Poet.  [Within.]  Let  me  go  in   to  see   the 

generals  ; 

There  is  some  grudge  between  'em ;  'tis  not  meet 
They  be  alone. 


882 


JULIUS  CAESAR. 


[ACT  iv. 


Lucil.  [  Within.}  You  shall  not  come  to  them. 
Poet  [Within.]  Nothing  but  death  shall  stay 
me. 

Enter  Poet,  followed  by  LUCILIUS  and 

TlTINIUS. 

Cas.   How  now !  what 's  the  matter? 

Poet.  For  shame,  you  generals  !  what  do  you 

mean?  [be; 

Love,  and  be  friends,  as  two  such  men  should 

For  I  have  seen  more  years,  I  'm  sure,  than  ye. 

Cas.   Ha,   ha !    how  vilely  doth   this  cynic 

rhyme !  [hence ! 

Bru.  Get  you  hence,  sirrah;  saucy  fellow, 

Cas.  Bear  with  him,  Brutus ;  'tis  his  fashion. 

Bru.  I  '11  know  his  humour  when  he  knows 

his  time :  [fools  ? 

What  should  the  wars  do  vrith  these  jigging 

Companion  hence ! 

Cas.  Away,  away,  be  gone  I 

[Exit  Poet. 

Bru.  Lucilius  and    Titinius,   bid  the  com- 
manders 

Prepare  to  lodge  their  companies  to-night. 
Cas.  And  come  yourselves,  and  bring  Me* 

with  you 
Immediately  to  us. 

[Exeunt  LuciL.  and  TIT. 
Bru.  Lucius,  a  bowl  of  wine  ! 

Cas.  I  did  hot  think  you  could  have  been  so 

angry. 

Bru.  O  Cassius,  I  am  sick  of  many  griefs. 
Cas.  Of  your  philosophy  you  make  no  use 
If  you  give  place  to  accidental  evils. 

Bru.  No  man  bears  sorrow  better. — Portia  is 

dead. 

Cas.  Ha!  Portia! 
Bru.  She  is  dead. 
Cas.  How  scap'd  I  killing  when  I  cross'd 

you  so? — 

O  insupportable  and  touching  loss ! — 
Upon  what  sickness? 

Bru.  Impatient  of  my  absence, 

And  grief  that  young  Octavius  with  Mark  Antony 
Have  made  themselves  so  strong ;  for  with  her 

death 

That  tidings  came ; — with  this  she  fell  distract, 
And,  her  attendants  absent,  swallow'd  fire. 
Cas.  And  died  so? 
Bru.  Even  so. 
CAS.  O  ye  immortal  gods. 

Enter  Lucius  with  wine  and  tapers. 

Bru.  Speak  no  more  of  her. — Give  me  a 

bowl  of  wine.--- 
In  this  I  bury  all  unkindness,  Cassius.    -^,^ 

[Drinks. 


Cas.  My   heart   is    thirsty   for   that   noble 

pledge. — 

Fill,  Lucius,  till  the  wine  o'erswell  the  cup ; 
I  cannot  drink  too  much  of  Brutus'  love. 

[Drinks. 
Bru.  Come  in,  Titinius ! 

Re-enter  TITINIUS,  with  MESSALA. 

Welcome,  good  Messala ! — 
Now  sit  we  close  about  this  taper  here, 
And  call  in  question  our  necessities. 

Cas.  Portia,  art  thou  gone  ? 

Bru.  No  more,  I  pray  you. — 

Messala,  I  have  here  received  letters, 
That  young  Octavius  and  Mark  Antony 
Come  down  upon  us  with  a  mighty  power, 
Bending  their  expedition  toward  Philippi. 

Mes.  Myself  have  letters  of  the  self-same 
tenor. 

Bru.  With  what  addition  ? 

Mes.  That,  by  proscription  and  bills  of  out- 
lawry, 

Octavius,  Antony,  and  Lepidus 
Have  put  to  death  an  hundred  senators. 

Bru.  Therein  our  letters  do  not  well  agree ; 
Mine  speak  of  seventy  senators  that  died 
By  their  proscriptions,  Cicero  being  one. 

Cas.  Cicero  one  ! 

Mes.  Cicero  is  dead, 

And  by  that  order  of  proscription. — 
Had  you  your  letters  from  your  wife,  my  lord  ? 

Bru.  No,  Messala. 

Mes.  Nor  nothing  in  your  letters  writ  of  her? 

Bru.  Nothing,  Messala. 

Mes.  That,  methinks,  is  strange. 

Bru.  Why  ask  you  ?  hear  you  aught  of  her 
in  yours  ? 

Mes.  No,  my  lord. 

Bru.  Now,  as  you  are  a  Roman,  tell  me  true. 

Mes.  Then  like  a  Roman  bear  the  truth  I  tell : 
For  certain  she  is  dead,  and  by  strange  manner. 

Bru.  Why,  farewell,  Portia. — We  must  die, 

Messala : 

With  meditating  that  she  must  die  once, 
I  have  the  patience  to  endure  it  now. 

Mes.  Even  so  great  men  great  losses  should 
endure. 

Cas.  I  have  as  much  of  this  in  art  as  you, 
But  yet  my  nature  could  not  bear  it  so. 

Bru.  Well,  to  our  work  alive.     What  do  you 

think 
Of  marching  to  Philippi  presently  ? 

Cas.  I  do  not  think  it  good. 

Bru.  Your  reason? 

Cas.  This  it  is  : 

'Tis  better  that  the  enemy  seek  us : 
So  shall  he  waste  his  means,  weary  his  soldiers, 


SCENE  III.] 


JULIUS  OESAR. 


883 


Doing  himself  offence  ;  whilst  we,  lying  still, 
Are  full  of  rest,  defence,  and  nimbleness. 

Bru.  Good  reasons  must,  of  force,  give  place 

to  better. 

The  people  'twixt  Philippi  and  this  ground 
Do  stand  but  in  a  forc'd  affection ; 
For  they  have  grudg'd  us  contribution  : 
The  enemy,  marching  along  by  them, 
By  them  shall  make  a  fuller  number  up, 
Come  on  refresh'd,  new-aided,  and  encourag'd ; 
From  which  advantage  shall  we  cut  him  off 
If  at  Philippi  we  do  face  him  there, 
These  people  at  our  back. 

Cas.  Hear  me,  good  brother. 

Bru.  Under  your  pardon. — You  must  note 

beside, 

That  we  have  tried  the  utmost  of  our  friends, 
Our  legions  are  brimful,  our  cause  is  ripe : 
The  enemy  increaseth  every  day ; 
We,  at  the  height,  are  ready  to  decline. 
There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men 
Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune; 
Omitted,  all  the  voyage  of  their  life 
Is  bound  in  shallows  and  in  miseries. 
On  such  a  full  sea  are  we  now  afloat ; 
And  we  must  take  the  current  when  it  serves, 
Or  lose  our  ventures. 

Cas.  Then,  with  your  will,  go  on  ; 

We  '11   along    ourselves,    and    meet    them   at 

Philippi.  [talk, 

Bru.  The  deep  of  night  is  crept  upon  our 
And  nature  must  obey  necessity  ; 
Which  we  will  niggard  with  a  little  rest. 
There  is  no  more  to  say  ? 

Cas.  No  more.     Good -night : 

Early  to-morrow  will  we  rise,  and  hence. 

Bru.  Lucius,    my    gown.    [Exit   Lucius.] 

Farewell  good  Messala: — 
Good-night,  Titinius ; — noble,  noble  Cassius, 
Good-night,  and  good  repose. 

Cas.  O  my  dear  brother ! 

This  was  an  ill  beginning  of  the  night : 
Never  come  such  division  'tween  our  souls ! 
Let  it  not,  Brutus. 

Bru.  Everything  is  well. 

Cas.  Good-night,  my  lord. 

Bru.  Good -night,  good  brother. 

Tit.  and  Mes.  Good-night,  Lord  Brutus. 

Bru.  Farewell,  every  one. 

[Exeunt  CAS.,  TIT.,  and  MES. 

Re-enter  Lucius  with  the  gown. 

Give  me  the  gown.     Where  is  thy  instrument? 

Luc.  Here  in  the  tent. 

Bru.  What,  thou  speak'st  drowsily ! 

Poor  knave,  I  blame  thee  not  j  thou  art  o'er- 
watch'd. 


Call  Claudius  and  some  other  of  my  men  ; 
I  '11  have  them  sleep  on  cushions  in  my  tent. 
Luc.  Varro  and  Claudius  ! 

Enter  VARRO  and  CLAUDIUS. 

Var.  Calls  my  lord?  [sleep; 

Brti.   I  pray  you,  sirs,  lie  in  my  tent  and 
It  may  be  I  shall  raise  you  by  and  by 
On  business  to  my  brother  Cassius. 

Var.  So  please  you  we  will  stand  and  watch 
your  pleasure.  [sirs ; 

Bru.  I  will  not  have  it  so:  lie  down,  good 
It  may  be  I  shall  otherwise  bethink  me. — 
Look,  Lucius,  here 's  the  book  I  sought  for  so ; 
I  put  it  in  the  pocket  of  my  gown. 

[VAR.  and  CLAUD,  lie  down. 
Luc.   I  was  sure  your  lordship  did  not  give 
it  me.  [forgetful. 

Bru.  Bear  with  me,  good  boy,  I  am  much 
Canst  thou  hold  up  thy  heavy  eyes  awhile, 
And  touch  thy  instrument  a  strain  or  two? 
Luc.  Ay,  my  lord,  an 't  please  you. 
Bru.  It  does,  my  boy : 

I  trouble  thee  too  much,  but  thou  art  willing. 
Luc.  It  is  my  duty,  sir.  [might ; 

Bru.  I  should  not  urge  thy  duty  past  thy 
I  know  young  bloods  look  for  a  time  of  rest. 
Luc.  I  have  slept,  my  lord,  already. 
Bru.  It   was    well    done;    and    thou   shalt 

sleep  again ; 

I  will  not  hold  thee  long :  if  I  do  live 
I  will  be  good  to  thee.         [ Music  and  a  Song. 
This  is  a  sleepy  tune. — O  murderous  slumber, 
Lay'st  thou  thy  leaden  mace  upon  my  boy 
That  plays  the  music? — Gentle  knave,  good- 
night ; 

I  will  not  do  thee  so  much  wrong  to  wake  thee : 
If  thou  dost  nod,  thou  break'st  thy  instrument ; 
I'll  take  it  from  thee;  and,  good  boy,  good- 
night.— 
Let  me  see,  let  me  see ; — is  not  the  leaf  turn'd 

down 
Where  I  left  reading?     Here  it  is,  I  think. 

[Sits  down. 

Enter  the  Ghost  0/OESAR. 

How  ill  this  taper  burns! — Ha!  who  comes 

here? 

I  think  it  is  the  weakness  of  mine  eyes 
That  shapes  this  monstrous  apparition. 
It  comes  upon  me. — Art  thou  anything? 
Art  thou  some  god,  some  angel,  or  some  devil, 
That  mak'st  my  blood  cold  and  my  hair  to 

stare? 

Speak  to  me  what  thou  art. 
Ghost.  Thy  evil  spirit,  Brutus. 
Bru.  Why  com'st  thou? 


884 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


LACT  V. 


Ghost.  To  tell  thee  thou  shalt  see  me  at 
Philippi. 

Bru.  Well; 
Then  I  shall  see  thee  again? 

Ghost.  Ay,  at  Philippi. 

Bru.  Why,    I   will    see    thee  at    Philippi, 
then.—  [Exit  Ghost. 

Now  I  have  taken  heart  thou  vanishest : 
111  spirit,  I  would  hold  more  talk  with  thee. — 
Boy  Lucius ! — Varrol  Claudius ! — sirs,  awake ! — 
Claudius ! 

Luc.  The  strings,  my  lord,  are  false. 

Bru.  He  thinks  he  still  is  at  his  instrument. — 
Lucius,  awake ! 

Luc.  My  lord? 

Bru.  Didst  thou  dream,  Lucius,  that  thou 
so  criedst  out? 

Luc.  My  lord,  I  do  not  know  that  I  did  cry. 

Bru.  Yes,  that  thou  didst:  didst  thou  see 
anything  ? 

Luc.  Nothing,  my  lord. 

Bru.  Sleep  again,  Lucius. — Sirrah, Claudius ! 
Fellow,  thou,  awake ! 

Var.   My  lord? 

Clou.  My  lord? 

Bru.  Why  did  you  cry  so  out,  sirs,  in  your 
sleep? 

Var.  and  Clau.  Did  we,  my  lord  ? 

Bru.  Ay  :  saw  you  anything  ? 

Var.  No,  my  lord,  I  saw  nothing. 

Clau.  Nor  I,  my  lord. 

Bru.  Go  and  commend  me  to  my  brother 

Cassius ; 

Bid  him  set  on  his  powers  betimes  before, 
And  we  will  follow. 

Var.  and  Clau.     It  shall  be  done,  my  lord. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.— The  Plains  of  Pkilippi. 
Enter  OCTAVIUS,  ANTONY,  and  their  Army. 

Oct.  Now,  Antony,  our  hopes  are  answered  : 
You  said  the  enemy  would  not  come  down, 
But  keep  the  hills  and  upper  regions  ; 
It  proves  not  so  :  their  battles  are  at  hand 
They  mean  to  warn  us  at  Philippi  here, 
Answering  before  we  do  demand  of  them. 

Ant.  Tut,  I  am  in  their  bosoms,  and  I  know 
Wherefore  they  do  it :  they  could  be  content 
To  visit  other  places ;  and  come  down 
With  fearful  bravery,  thinking  by  this  face 
To  fasten  in    our    thoughts  that  they  have 

courage  j 
But  'tis  not  so. 


Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Prepare  you,  generals : 

The  enemy  comes  on  in  gallant  show ; 
Their  bloody  sign  of  battle  is  hung  out, 
And  something  to  be  done  immediately. 

Ant.  Octavius,  lead  your  battle  softly  on, 
Upon  the  left  hand  of  the  even  field. 
?  Oct.   Upon   the   right  hand   I;    keep  thou 
the  left. 

Ant.  Why  do  you  cross  me  in  this  exigent  ? 

Oct.  I  do  not  cross  you  ;  but  I  will  do  so. 

[March. 

Drum.  Enter  BRUTUS,  CASSIUS,  and  their 
Army;  LUCILIUS,  TiTiNius,  MESSALA, 
and  others. 

Bru.  They  stand,  and  would  have  parley. 

Cas.  Stand  fast,  Titinius  :  we  must  out  and 
talk.  [battle? 

Oct.  Mark  Antony,  shall  we  give  sign  of 

Ant.  No,  Caesar,  we  will  answer  on  their 

charge.  [words. 

Make  forth;  the  generals  would  have  some 

Oct.  Stir  not  until  the  signal.  [men  ? 

Bru.  Words  before  blows :  is  it  so,  country- 

Oct.  Not  that  we  love  words  better,  as  you  do. 

Bru.  Good  words  are  better  than  bad  strokes, 
Octavius. 

Ant.  In  your  bad  strokes,  Brutus,  you  give 

good  words: 

Witness  the  hole  you  made  in  Caesar's  heart, 
Crying,  Long- live!  hail,  Cczsar! 

Cas.  Antony, 

The  posture  of  your  blows  are  yet  unknown ; 
But  for  your  words,  they  rob  the  Hybla  bees, 
And  leave  them  honeyless. 

Ant.  Not  stingless  too. 

Bru.  O  yes,  and  soundless  too; 
For  you  have  stol'n  their  buzzing,  Antony, 
And  very  wisely  threat  before  you  sting. 

Ant.  Villains,  you  did  not  so  when  your 

vile  daggers 

Hack'd  one  another  in  the  sides  of  Caesar : 
You  show'd  your  teeth  like  apes,  and  fawn'd 

like  hounds, 

And  bow'd  like  bondmen,  kissing  Caesar's  feet ; 
Whilst  damned  Casca,  like  a  cur,  behind, 
Struck  Caesar  on  the  neck.     O  you  flatterers ! 

Cas.  Flatterers  1 — Now,  Brutus,  thank  your- 
self: 

This  tongue  had  not  offended  so  to-day 
If  Cassius  might  have  rul'd. 

Oct.  Come,   come,   the   cause:    if  arguing 

make  us  sweat, 

The  proof  of  it  will  turn  to  redder  drops. 
Look,— 


SCENE  I.] 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


885 


I  draw  a  sword  against  conspirators  ; 

When  think  you  that  the  sword  goes  up  again  ? — 

Never  till  Caesar's  three-and-thirty  wounds 

Be  well  aveng'd ;  or  till  another  Caesar 

Have  added  slaughter  to  the  sword  of  traitors. 

Brit.  Caesar,  thou  canst  not  die  by  traitors' 

hands, 
Unless  thou  bring'st  them  with  thee. 

Oct.  So  I  hope ; 

I  was  not  born  to  die  on  Brutus'  sword. 

Bru.  O,  if  thou  wert  the  noblest  of  thy  strain, 
Young  man,  thou  couldst  not  die  more  honour- 
able. 

Cos.  A    peevish    school-boy,   worthless    of 

such  honour, 
Join'd  with  a  masker  and  a  reveller ! 

Ant.  Old  Cassius  still ! 

Oct.  Come,  Antony;  away! — 

Defiance,  traitors,  hurl  we  in  your  teeth: 
If  you  dare  fight  to-day,  come  to  the  field ; 
If  not,  when  you  have  stomachs. 

[Exeunt  OCT.,  ANT.,  and  their  Army. 

Cas.  Why,  now,  blow  wind,  swell  billow, 

a.  id  swim  bark  ! 
The  storm  is  up,  and  all  is  on  the  hazard. 

Bru.  Ho,  Lucilius  !  hark,  a  word  with  you. 

Lucil.  My  lord. 

[BRU0  and  LUCIL.  converse  apart. 

Cas.  Messala, — 

Mes.  What  says  my  general  ? 

Cas.  Messala, 

This  is  my  birth-day ;  as  this  very  day 
Was  Cassius  bom.    Give  me  thy  hand  Messala : 
Be  thou  my  witness  that,  against  my  will, 
As  Pompey  was,  am  I  compell'd  to  set 
Upon  one  battle  all  our  liberties. 
You  know  that  I  held  Epicurus  strong, 
And  his  opinion :  now  I  change  my  mind, 
And  partly  credit  things  that  do  presage. 
Coming  from  Sardis,  on  our  former  ensign 
Two  mighty  eagles  fell ;  and  there  they  perch'd, 
Gorging  and  feeding  from  our  soldiers'  hands  ; 
Who  to  Philippi  here  consorted  us  : 
This  morning  are  they  fled  away  and  gone  ; 
And  in  their  steads  do  ravens,  crows,  and  kites 
Fly  o'er  our  heads,  and  downward  look  on  us, 
As  we  were  sickly  prey :  their  shadows  seem 
A  canopy  most  fatal,  under  which 
Our  army  lies,  ready  to  give  up  the  ghost. 

Mes.  Believe  not  so. 

Cas.  I  but  believe  it  partly  ; 

For  I  am  fresh  of  spirit ;  and  resolv'd 
To  meet  all  perils  very  constantly. 

Bru.  Even  so,  Lucilius. 

Cas.  Now,  most  noble  Brutus, 

The  gods  to-day  stand  friendly,  that  we  may, 
Lovers  of  peace,  lead  on  our  days  to  age  ! 


But,  since  the  affairs  of  men  rest  still  incertain, 
Let 's  reason  with  the  worst  that  may  befall. 
If  we  do  lose  this  battle,  then  is  this 
The  very  last  time  we  shall  speak  together : 
What  are  you,  then,  determined  to  do  ? 

Bru.  Even  by  the  rule  of  that  philosophy 
By  which  I  did  blame  Cato  for  the  death 
Which  he  did  give  himself. — f  know  not  how, 
But  I  do  find  it  cowardly  and  vile, 
For  fear  of  what  might  fall,  so  to  prevent 
The  time  of  life  : — arming  myself  with  patience 
To  stay  the  providence  of  some  high  powers 
That  govern  us  below. 

Cas.  Then,  if  we  lose  this  battle, 

You  are  contented  to  be  led  in  triumph 
Through  the  streets  of  Rome?  [Roman, 

Bru.  No,  Cassius,  no :  think  not,  thou  noble 
That  ever  Brutus  will  go  bound  to  Rome  ; 
He  bears  too  great  a  mind.    But  this  same  day 
Must  end  that  work  the  ides  of  March  began  ; 
And  whether  we  shall  meet  again  I  know  not. 
Therefore  our  everlasting  farewell  take  : 
For  ever,  and  for  ever,  farewell,  Cassius ! 
If  we  do  meet  again,  why,  we  shall  smile ; 
If  not,  why,  then,  this  parting  was  well  made. 

Cas.  For  ever,  and  for  ever,  farewell,  Brutus ! 
If  we  do  meet  again  we'll  smile  indeed ; 
If  not,  'tis  true  this  parting  was  well  made. 

Bru.  Why,  then,  lead  on. — O  that  a  man 

might  know 

The  end  of  this  day's  business  ere  it  come  ! 
But  it  sumceth  that  the  day  will  end, 
And  then   the    end   is  known. — Come,   ho ! 
away !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — THE  PLAINS  OF  PHILIPPI.     The 
Field  of  Battle. 

Alarum.    Enter  BRUTUS  and  MESSALA. 

Bru.  Ride,   ride,  Messala,   ride,  and  give 

these  bills 
Unto  the  legions  on  the  other  side  : 

[Lmid  alarum. 

Let  them  set  on  at  once  ;  for  I  perceive 
But  cold  demeanour  in  Octavius'  wing, 
And  sudden  push  gives  them  the  overthrow. 
Ride,  ride,  Messala :  let  them  all  come  down. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — THE  PLAINS  OF  PHILIPPI. 
Another  part  of  the  Fifld. 

Alarum.    Enter  CASSIUS  and  TITINIUS. 

Cas.  O  look,  Titinius,  }cck,  the  villains  fly  1 
Myself  have  to  mine  own  turn'd  enemy  : 
This  ensign  here  of  mine  was  turning  back  ; 
I  slew  the  coward,  and  did  take  it  from  him. 


886 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


[ACT  v. 


Tit.  O  Casskis,  Brutus  gave  the  word  too 

early  ; 

Who,  having  some  advantage  on  Octavius, 
Took  it  too  eagerly  :  his  soldiers  fell  to  spoil : 
Whilst  we  by  Antony  are  all  enclos'd. 

Enter  PiNDARUS. 

Pin.  Fly  further  off,  my  lord,  fly  further  off ; 
Mark  Antony  is  in  your  tents,  my  lord  ! 
Fly,  therefore,  noble  Cassius !  fly  far  off. 

Cas.  This  hill  is  far  enough. — Look,  look, 

Titinius ; 
Are  those  my  tents  where  I  perceive  the  fire  ? 

Tit.  They  are,  my  lord.. 

Cas.  Titinius,  if  thou  lov'st  me, 

Mount  thou  my  horse,  and  hide  thy  spurs  in  him, 
Till  he  have  brought  thee  up  to  yonder  troops 
And  here  again,  that  I  may  rest  assur'd 
Whether  yond  troops  are  friend  or  enemy. 

Tit.    I  will  be  here  again  even  with  a  thought. 

[Exit. 

Cas.  Go,  Pindarus,  get  higher  on  that  hill ; 
My  sight  was  ever  thick  ;  regard  Titinius, 
And  tell  me  what  thou  not'st  about  the  field. — 
[Exit  PINDARUS. 

This  day  I  breathed  first :  time  is  come  round, 
And  where  I  did  begin  there  shall  I  end  ; 
My  life  is  run  his  compass. — Sirrah,  what  news  ? 

Pin.  [Above.]  O  my  lord  ! 

Cas.  What  news  ? 

Pin.  Titinius  is  enclosed  round  about 
With  horsemen,  that  make  to  him  on  the  spur; — 
Yet  he  spurs  on. — Now  they  are   almost  on 

him  ; — 
Now,  Titinius! — now  some  'light: — O,  he  'lights 

too:— 

He 's  ta'en  j — and,  hark  !  they  shout  for  joy. 

[Shout. 

Cas.  Come  down,  behold  no  more. 

O,  coward  that  I  am,  to  live  so  long, 
To  see  my  best  friend  ta'en  before  my  face  ! 

Enter  PINDARUS. 

Come  hither,  sirrah : 

In  Parthia  did  I  take  thee  prisoner ; 

And  then  I  swore  thee,  saving  of  thy  life, 

That  whatsoever  I  did  bid  thee  do 

Thou  shouldst  attempt  it.     Come  now,  keep 

thine  oath  ! 

Now  be  a  freeman  ;  and  with  this  good  sword, 
That  ran  through  Caesar's  bowels,  search  this 

bosom. 

Stand  not  to  answer  :  here,  take  thou  the  hilts  ; 
And  when  my  face  is  cover'd,  as  'tis  now, 
Guide  thou  the  sword. — Caesar,  thou  art  re- 

veng'd, 
Even  with  the  sword  that  kill'd  thee.      [Dies. 


Pin.  So,  I  am  free  ;  yet  would  not  so  have 

been, 

Durst  I  have  done  my  will.  O  Cassius  ! 
Far  from  this  country  Pindarus  shall  run, 
Where  never  Roman  shall  take  note  of  him. 

[Exit. 

Re-enter  TITINIUS,  -with  MESSALA. 

Mes.  It  is  but  change,  Titinius  ;  for  Octavius 
Is  overthrown  by  noble  Brutus'  power, 
As  Cassius'  legions  are  by  Antony. 

Tit.  These  tidings  will  well  comfort  Cassius. 

Mes.  Where  did  you  leave  him  ? 

Tit.  All  disconsolate, 

With  Pindarus,  his  bondman,  on  this  hill. 

Mes.  Is  not  that  he  that  lies  upon  the  ground? 

Tit.  He  lies  not  like  the  living.     O  my  heart ! 

Mes,  Is  not  that  he  ? 

Tit.  No,  this  was  he,  Messala, 

But  Cassius  is  no  more. — O  setting  sun, 
As  in  thy  red  rays  thou  dost  sink  to-night, 
So  in  his  red  blood  Cassius'  day  is  set, — 
The  sun  of  Rome  is  set !     Our  day  is  gone ; 
Clouds,  dews,  and  dangers  come;  our  deeds 

are  done  ! 
Mistrust  of  my  success  hath  done  this  deed. 

Mes.  Mistrust  of  good  success  hath  done  this 

deed. 

O  hateful  error,  melancholy's  child, 
Why  dost  thou  show  to  the  apt  thoughts  of  men 
The  things  that  are  not  ?    O  error,  soon  conceiv'd, 
Thou  never  com'st  unto  a  happy  birth, 
But  kill'st  the  mother  that  engender'd  thee  ! 

Tit.  What,  Pindarus !  where  art  thou,  Pin- 
darus? 

Mes.  Seek  him,  Titinius :  whilst  I  go  to  meet 
The  noble  Brutus,  thrusting  this  report 
Into  his  ears:  I  may  say,  thrusting  it; 
For  piercing  steel  and  darts  envenomed 
Shall  be  as  welcome  to  the  ears  of  Brutus 
As  tidings  of  this  sight. 

Tit.    "  Hie  you,  Messala, 

[Exit  MESSALA. 

And  I  will  seek  for  Pindarus  the  while. 
Why  didst  thou  send  me  forth,  brave  Cassius? 
Did  I  not  meet  thy  friends?  and  did  not  they 
Put  on  my  brows  this  wreath  of  victory, 
And  bid  me  giv  't  thee?    Didst  thou  not  hear 

their  shouts? 

Alas,  thou  hast  misconstru'd  everything. 
But,  hold  thee,  take  this  garland  on  thy  brow, 
Thy  Brutus  bid  me  give  it  thee,  and  I 
Will  do  his  bidding. — Brutus,  come  apace, 
And  see  how  I  regarded  Caius  Cassius. — 
By  your  leave,  gods. — This  is  a  Roman's  part: 
Come,  Cassius'  sword,  and  find  Titinius'  heart. 

[Dies. 


SCENE  IV.] 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


887 


Alarum.     Re-enter  MESSALA,  with  BRUTUS, 

YOUNG  CATO,  STRATO,  VOLUMNIUS,  and 

LUCILIUS. 

Bru.  Where,  where,  Messala,  doth  his  body 
lie? 

Mes.  Lo,  yonder  ;  and  Titinius  mourning  it. 

Bru.  Titinius'  face  is  upward. 

Cato.  He  is  slain. 

Bru.  O  Julius  Caesar,  thou  art  mighty  yet ! 
Thy  spirit  walks  abroad,  and  turns  our  swords 
In  our  own  proper  entrails.  [Low  alarums. 

Cato.  Brave  Titinius  ! 

Look,  whe'r  he  have  notcrowivd  dead  Cassius! 

Bru.  Are  yet  two  Romans  living  such  as 

these  ?— 

The  last  of  all  the  Romans,  fare  thee  well ! 
It  is  impossible  that  ever  Rome  [tears 

Should  breed  thy  fellow. — Friends,  I  owe  more 
To  this  dead  man  than  you  shall  see  me  pay. — 
I  shall  find  time,  Cassius,  I  shall  find  time. — 
Come,  therefore,  and  to  Thassos  send  his  body : 
His  funerals  shall  not  be  in  our  camp, 
Lest  it  discomfort  us. — Lucilius,  come ; — 
And  come,  young  Cato ;  let  us  to  the  field. — 
Labeo  and  Flavius,  set  our  battles  on: — 
'Tis  three  o'clock ;  and,  Romans,  yet  ere  night 
We  shall  try  fortune  in  a  second  fight. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— Another  part  of  the  Field. 

Alarum.  Enter,  fighting.  Soldiers  of  both 
Armies ;  then  BRUTUS,  YOUNG  CATO,  LU- 
CILIUS, and  others. 

Bru.  Yet,  countrymen,  O,  yet  hold  up  your 
heads  !  [with  me? 

Cato.  W7hat  bastard  doth  not  ?    Who  will  go 
I  will  proclaim  my  name  about  the  field : — 
I  am  the  son  of  Marcus  Cato,  ho ! 
A  foe  to  tyrants,  and  my  country's  friend ; 
I  am  the  son  of  Marcus  Cato,  ho ! 

[Charges  the  enemy. 

Bru.  And  I  am  Brutus,  Marcus  Brutus,  I ; 
Brutus,  my  country's  friend ;  know  me  for 

Brutus  ! 
[Exit,  charging  the  enemy.     YOUNG  CATO 

is  overpowered,  and  falls. 
Lucil.  O  young  and  noble  Cat®,  art  thou 

down? 

Why,  now  thou  diest  as  bravely  as  Titinius  ; 
And  mayst  be  honour'd,  being  Cato's  son. 
i  Sold.  Yield,  or  thou  diest. 
Lucil.  Only  I  yield  to  die  ? 

There  is  so  much  that  thou  wilt  kill  me  straight ; 
[  Offering  money. 
Kill  Brutus,  and  be  honour'd  in  his  death. 


1  Sold.  We  must  not. — A  noble  prisoner ! 

2  Sold.  Room,  ho !   Tell  Antony  Brutus  is 

ta'en.  [general. — 

i  Sold.  I  '11  tell  the  news. — Here  comes  the 

Enter  ANTONY. 

Brutus  is  ta'en,  Brutus  is  ta'en,  my  lord. 

Ant.  Where  is  he? 

Lucil.  Safe,  Antony  ;  Brutus  is  safe  enough: 
I  dare  assure  thee  that  no  enemy 
Shall  ever  take  alive  the  noble  Brutus : 
The  gods  defend  him  from  so  great  a  shame ! 
When  you  do  find  him,  or  alive  or  dead, 
He  will  be  found  like  Brutus,  like  himself. 

Ant.  This  is  not  Brutus,  friend ;  but,  I  assure 

you, 

A  prize  no  less  in  worth :  keep  this  man  safe, 
Give  him  all  kindness  :  I  had  rather  have 
Such  men  my  friends  than  enemies.     G®  on, 
And  see  whe'r  Brutus  be  alive  or  dead  ; 
And  bring  us  word  unto  Octavius'  tent 
How  everything  is  chanc'd.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — Another  part  of  the  Field. 

Enter  BRUTUS,  DARDANIUS,  CLITUS,  STRATO, 
and  VOLUMNIUS. 

Bru.  Come,  poor  remains  of  friends,  rest  on 

this  rock. 
Cli.  Statilius  show'd  the   torch-light ;   but, 

my  lord, 

He  came  not  back  :  he  is  or  ta'en  or  slain. 
Bru.  Sit  thee  down,  Clitus :  slaying  is  the 

word ; 
It  is  a  deed  in  fashion.     Hark  thee,  Clitus. 

[  Whispering  him. 
Cli.  What,  I,  my  lord  ?    No,  not  for  all  the 

world. 

Bru.  Peace,  then,  no  words. 
Cli.  I  '11  rather  kill  myself. 

Bru.  Hark  thee,  Dardanius  ! 

[  Whispers  him. 

Dar.  Shall  I  do  such  a  deed  ? 

Cli.  O  Dardanius ! 
Dar.  O  Clitus  ! 

Cli.  What  ill  request  did  Brutus  make  to  thee? 
Dar.  To  kill  him,  Clitus.     Look,  he  medi- 
tates. 

Cli.  Now  is  that  noble  vessel  full  of  grief, 
That  it  runs  over  even  at  his  eyes.  [word. 

Bru.  Come  hither,  good  Volumnius ;  list  a 
Vol.  What  says  my  lord  ? 
Bru.  Why,  this,  Volumnius  : 

The  ghost  of  Csesar  hath  appear'd  to  me 
Two  several  times  by  night, — at  Sardis  once, 
And  this  last  night  here  in  Philippi  fields : 
I  know  my  hour  is  come. 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


[ACT  v. 


Vol.  Not  so,  my  lord. 

Bru.  Nay,  I  am  sure  it  is,  Volumnius. 
Thou  seest  the  world,  Volumnius,  how  it  goes; 
Our  enemies  have  beat  us  to  the  pit : 

[Low  alarums. 

It  is  more  worthy  to  leap  in  ourselves 
Than  tarry  till  they  push  us.     Good  Volumnius, 
Thou  know'st  that  we  two  went  to  school  to- 
gether : 

Even  for  that  our  love  of  old,  I  pray  thee, 
Hold  thou  my  sword-hilts  whilst  I  run  on  it. 
Vol.  That 's  not  an  office  for  a  friend,  my  lord. 
[Alarum  still. 

Cli.  Fly,  fly,  my  lord ;  there  is  no  tarrying 
here.  [Volumnius. — 

Bru.  Farewell  to  you  ; — and  you  ; — and  you, 
Strato,  thou  hast  been  all  this  while  asleep  ; 
Farewell  to  thee  too,  Strato. — Countrymen, 
My  heart  doth  joy  that  yet,  in  all  my  life, 
I  found  no  man  but  he  was  true  to  me. 
I  shall  have  glory  by  this  losing  day 
More  than  Octavius  and  Mark  Antony 
By  this  vile  conquest  shall  attain  unto. 
So,  fare  you  well  at  once  ;  for  Brutus'  tongue 
Hath  almost  ended  his  life's  history  : 
Night  hangs  upon  mine  eyes  ;  my  bones  would 

rest, 
That  have  but  labour'd  to  attain  this  hour. 

[Alarum.      Cry  within^  "  Fly,  fly,  fly  !  " 
Cli.   Fly,  my  lord,  fly. 

,    Bru.  Hence  !  I  will  follow. 

[Exeunt  CLI.,  DAR.,  and\oi« 
I  pr'ythee,  Strato,  stay  thou  by  thy  lord  : 
Thou  art  a  fellow  of  a  good  respect ; 
Thy  life  hath  had  some  smatch  of  honour  in  it: 
Hold,  then,  my  sword,  and  turn  away  thy  face, 
While  I  do  run  upon  it.     Wilt  thou,  Strato  ? 
Stra.  Give  me  your  hand  first :  fare  you  well, 

my  lord. 

Bru.  Farewell,  good   Strato. — Caesar,  now 
be  still : 


I  kill'd  not  thee  with  half  so  good  a  will. 

[He  runs  on  his  sword^  and  dies. 

Alarum.  Retreat.  Enter  OCTAVIUS,  AN- 
TONY,  and  Army ;  MESSALA  and  LUCILIUS, 
prisoners. 

Oct.  What  man  is  that  ? 

Mes.  My  master's  man. — Strato,  where  is 
thy  master  ?  [Messala  : 

Stra.  Free  from  the  bondage  you  are  in, 
The  conquerors  can  but  make  a  fire  of  him  ; 
For  Brutus  only  overcame  himself, 
And  no  man  else  hath  honour  by  his  death. 

Lucil.  So  Brutus  should  be  found. — I  thank 

thee,  Brutus, 
That  thou  hast  prov'd  Lucilius'  saying  true. 

Oct.  All  that  serv'd  Brutus  I  will  entertain 

them. 
Fellow,  wilt  thou  bestow  thy  time  with  me  ? 

Stra.  Ay,  if  Messala  will  prefer  me  to  you. 

Oct.  Do  so,  good  Messala. 

Mes.  How  died  my  master,  Strato  ? 

Stra.  I  held  the  sword,  and  he  did  run  on  it. 

Mes.  Octavius,  then  take  him  to  follow  thee, 
That  did  the  latest  service  to  my  master. 

Ant.  This  was  the  noblest  Roman  of  them 

all: 

All  the  conspirators,  save  only  he, 
Did  that  they  did  in  envy  of  great  Cassar ; 
He  only,  in  a  general  honest  thought, 
And  common  good  to  all,  made  one  of  them. 
His  life  was  gentle  ;  and  the  elements 
So  mix'd  in  him  that  Nature  might  stand  up 
And  say  to  all  the  world,  This  was  a  man  ! 

Oct.  According  to  his  virtue,  let  us  use  him 
With  all  respect  and  rites  of  burial. 
Within  my  tent  his  bones  to-night  shall  lie, 
Most  like  a  soldier,  order'd  honourably. — 
So,  call  the  field  to  rest :  and  let 's  away, 
To  part  the  glories  of  this  happy  day. 

[Exeztni. 


ban  ,ar;j; 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


M.  ANTONY, 
OCTAVIUS  CESAR, 
M.  ^EMIL.  LEPIDUS, 


Triumvir*. 


SEXTUS  POMPEIUS. 

DOMITIUS  ENOBARBUS, 

VENTIDIUS, 

EROS, 

SCARUS, 

D  ERG  ETAS, 

DEMETRIUS, 

PHILO, 


Friends  to  ANTONY. 


MEC^NAS, 

AGRIPPA, 

DOLABELLA, 

PROCULEIUS, 

THYREUS, 

GALLUS, 


-  Friends  to  OESAR. 


MEN  AS,  ) 

MENECRATES,  [  Friends  to  POMPEY. 

VARRIUS,         J 

TAURUS,  Lieutenant -General  to  OESAR. 

CANIDIUS,  Lieutenant- General  to  ANTONY. 

SILIUS,  an  Officer  in  VENTIDIUS'S  Army. 

EUPHRONIUS,  an  Ambassador  from  ANTONY 

to  OESAR. 
ALEXAS,    MARDIAN,    SELEUCUS,   and  Dio- 

MEDES,  Attendants  on  CLEOPATRA. 
A  Soothsayer.     A  Clown. 

CLEOPATRA,  Queen  of  Egypt. 

OCTAVIA,  Sister  to  CESAR  and  Wife  to 
ANTONY. 

CHARM i AN  and  IRAS,  Attendants  on  CLEO- 
PATRA. 

Officers,     Soldiers,    Messengers,     and    other 
Attendants. 


SCENE, — Dispersed;  in  several  parts  of  the  Roman  Empire. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — ALEXANDRIA.  A  Room  in  CLEO- 
PATRA'S Palace. 

Enter  DEMETRIUS  and  PHILO. 

Phi.  Nay,  but  this  dotage  of  our  general's 
O'erflows  the  measure :  those  his  goodly  eyes, 
That  o'er  the  files  and  musters  of  the  war 
Have   glow'd   like    plated    Mars,  now  bend, 

now  turn 

The  office  and  devotion  of  their  view 
Upon  a  tawny  front :  his  captain's  heart, 
Which  in  the  scuffles  of  great  fights  hath  burst 
The  buckles  on  his  breast,  reneges  all  temper, 
And  is  become  the  bellows  and  the  fan 
To  cool  a  gipsy's   lust.      [Flourish  -within.] 

Look  where  they  come : 

Take  but  good  note,  and  you  shall  see  in  him 
The  triple  pillar  of  the  world  transform'd 
Into  a  strumpet's  fool :  behold  and  see ! 

Enter  ANTONY  and  CLEOPATRA,  with  their 
Trains;  Eunuchs  fanning  her. 

Cleo.  If  it  be  love,  indeed,  tell  me  how  much. 
Ant.  There 's  beggary  in  the  love  that  can 
be  reckon'd. 


Cleo.  I  '11  set  a  bourn  how  far  to  be  belov'd. 
Ant.  Then  must  thou  needs  find  out  new 
heaven,  new  earth. 

Enter  an  Attendant. 

Att.  News,  my  good  lord,  from  Rome. 

Ant.  Grates  me : — the  sum. 

Cleo.  Nay,  hear  them,  Antony : 
Fulvia  perchance  is  angry ;  or,  who  knows 
If  the  scarce-bearded  Caesar  have  not  sent 
His  powerful  mandate  to  you,  Do  this  or  this  ; 
7ake  in  that  kingdom  and  enfranchise  that ; 
Perform '/,  or  else  we  damn  thee. 

Ant.  How,  my  love ! 

Cleo.  Perchance  !  nay,  and  most  like: — 

You  must  not  stay  here  longer, — your  dismission 

Is  come  from  Caesar ;  therefore  hear  it,  Antony. — 

Where's  Fulvia's  process? — Caesar's  I  would 

say  ? — both  ? —  [queen , 

Call  in  the   messengers. — As   I   am   Egypt's 

Thou  blushest,  Antony;  and  that  blood  of  thine 

Is  Caesar's-homager :  else  so  thy  cheek  pays 

shame  [sengers! 

When  shrill-tongu'd  Fulvia  scolds. — The  mes- 

Ant.  Let   Rome  in   Tiber    melt,   and  the 

wide  arch 
Of  the  rang'd  empire  fall !     Here  is  my  space. 


890 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[ACT  i. 


Kingdoms  are  clay :  our  dungy  earth  alike 
Feeds  beast  as  man  :  the  nobleness  of  life 
Is  to  do  thus  ;  when  such  a  mutual  pair 

[Embracing. 

And  such  a  twain  can  do 't,  in  which  I  bind, 
On  pain  of  punishment,  the  world  to  weet 
We  stand  up  peerless. 

Cleo.  Excellent  falsehood  ! 

Why  did  he  marry  Fulvia,  and  not  love  her  ? — 
I  '11  seem  the  fool  I  am  not ;  Antony 
Will  be  himself. 

Ant.  But  stirr'd  by  Cleopatra. — 

Now,  for  the  love  of  Love  and  her  soft  hours, 
Let's  not  confound  the  time  with  conference 

harsh : 

There 's  not  a  minute  of  our  lives  should  stretch 
Without  some  pleasure  now  : — what  sport  to- 
night ? 

Cleo.  Hear  the  ambassadors. 

Ant.  Fie,  wrangling  queen  ! 

Whom  everything  becomes, — to  chide,  to  laugh, 
To  weep  ;  whose  every  passion  fully  strives 
To  make  itself  in  thee  fair  and  admir'd  ! 
No  messenger  ;  but  thine,  and  all  alone, 
To-night  we'll  wander  through  the  streets  and 

note 

The  qualities  of  people.     Come,  my  queen ; 
Last  night  you  did  desire  it : — speak  not  to  us. 
[Exeunt  ANT.  and  CLEO.,  with  their  Train. 

Dem.  Is   Caesar    with    Antonius    priz'd  so 
slight? 

Phi.  Sir,  sometimes,  when  he  is  not  Antony, 
He  comes  too  short  of  that  great  property 
Which  still  should  go  with  Antony. 

Dem.  I  am  full  sorry 

That  he  approves  the  common  liar,  who 
Thus  speaks  of  him  at  Rome  :  but  I  will  hope 
Of  better  deeds  to-morrow.     Rest  you  happy  ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — ALEXANDRIA.     Another  Room  in 
Cleopatra's  Palace. 

Enter    CHAR  MI  AN,    IRAS,    ALEXAS,    and   a 
Soothsayer. 

Char.  Lord  Alexas,  sweet  Alexas,  most 
anything  Alexas,  almost  most  absolute  Alexas, 
where 's  the  soothsayer  that  you  praised  so  to 
the  queen  ?  O  that  I  knew  this  husband, 
which  you  say  must  charge  his  horns  with 
garlands  ! 

Alex.  Soothsayer, — 

Sooth.  Your  will  ? 

Char.  Is  this  the  man? — Is't  you,  sir,  that 
know  things? 

Sooth.   In  nature's  infinite  book  of  secrecy 
A  little  I  can  read. 

Alex.  Show  him  your  hand. 


Enter  ENOBARBUS. 

Eno.  Bring  in  the   banquet  quickly;  wine 

enough 
Cleopatra's  health  to  drink. 

Char.  Good  sir,  give  me  good  fortune. 

Sooth.  I  make  not,  but  foresee. 

Char.  Pray,  then,  forsee  me  one. 

Sooth.  You  shall  be  yet  far  fairer  than  you  are. 

Char.  He  means  in  flesh. 

Iras.  No,  you  shall  paint  when  you  are  old. 

Char.  Wrinkles  forbid ! 

Alex.  Vex  not  his  prescience ;  be  attentive. 

Char.   Hush! 

Sooth.  You  shall  be  more  beloving  than 
beloved.  [drinking. 

Char.  I    had    rather    heat    my  liver    with 

Alex.  Nay,  hear  him. 

Char.  Good  now,  some  excellent  fortune! 
Let  me  be  married  to  three  kings  in  a  forenoon, 
and  widow  them  all:  let  me  have  a  child  at 
fifty,  to  whom  Herod  of  Jewry  may  do  homage : 
find  me  to  marry  me  with  Octavius  Caesar,  and 
companion  me  with  my  mistress. 

Sooth.  You  shall  outlive  the  lady  whom  you 
serve. 

Char.  O  excellent!  I  love  long  life  better 
than  figs. 

Sooth.  You  have  seen   and  prov'd  a  fairer 

former  fortune 
Than  that  which  is  to  approach. 

Char.  Then  belike  my  children  shall  have 
no  names: — pr'ythee,  how  many  boys  and 
wenches  must  I  have? 

Sooth.  If  every  of  your  wishes  had  a  womb, 
And  fertile  every  wish,  a  million. 

Char.  Out,  fool !  I  forgive  thee  for  a  witch. 

Alex.  You  think  nona  but  your  sheets  are 
privy  to  your  wishes. 

Char.  Nay,  come,  tell  Iras  hers. 

Alex.  We  '11  know  all  our  fortunes. 

Eno.  Mine,  and  most  of  our  fortunes,  to- 
night, shall  be — drunk  to  bed. 

Iras.  There's  a  palm  presages  chastity,  if 
nothing  else. 

Char.  Even  as  the  o'erflowing  Nilus  pre- 
sageth  famine. 

Iras.  Go,  you  wild  bedfellow,  you  cannot 
soothsay. 

Char.  Nay,  if  an  oily  palm  be  not  a  fruitful 
prognostication,  I  cannot  scratch  mine  ear. — 
Pr'ythee,  tell  her  but  a  worky-day  fortune. 

Sooth.  Your  fortunes  are  alike. 

Iras.  But  how,  but  how?  give  me  particulars. 

Sooth.   I  have  said. 

Iras.  Am  I  not  an  inch  of  fortune  better 
than  she? 


SCENE  II.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


891 


Char.  Well,  if  you  were  but  an  inch  of  for- 
tune better  than  I,  where  would  you  choose  it? 

Iras.   Not  in  my  husband's  nose. 

Char.  Our  worser  thoughts  heavens  mend ! — 
Alexas, — come,  his  fortune,  his  fortune  ! — O,  let 
him  marry  a  woman  that  cannot  go,  sweet  Isis, 
I  beseech  thee  !  And  let  her  die  too,  and  give 
him  a  worse !  and  let  worse  follow  worse,  till 
the  worst  of  all  follow  him  laughing  to  his  grave, 
fiftyfold  a  cuckold  !  Good  Isis,  hear  me  this 
prayer,  though  thou  deny  me  a  matter  of  more 
weight ;  good  Isis,  I  beseech  thee  ! 

Iras.  Amen.  Dear  goddess,  hear  that 
prayer  of  the  people  !  for,  as  it  is  a  heart- 
breaking to  see  a  handsome  man  loose-wived, 
so  it  is  a  deadly  sorrow  to  behold  a  foul  knave 
uncuckolded:  therefore,  dear  Isis,  keep  de- 
corum, and  fortune  him  accordingly  ! 

Char.  Amen. 

Alex.  Lo,  now,  if  it  lay  in  their  hands  to 
make  me  a  cuckold,  they  would  make  them- 
selves whores,  but  they  'd  do 't ! 

Eno.  Hush  !  here  comes  Antony. 

Char.  Not  he  ;  the  queen. 

Enter  CLEOPATRA. 

Cleo.  Saw  you  my  lord  ? 
Eno.  No,  lady. 

Cleo.  Was  he  not  here  ? 

Char.  No,  madam.  [sudden 

Cleo.  He  was  dispos'd  to  mirth  ;  but  on  the 
A  Roman  thought  hath  struck  him. — Enobar- 

bus, — 

Eno.   Madam  ? 
Cleo.  Seek  him,  and  bring  him  hither. — 

WThere's  Alexas  ?  [preaches. 

Alex.  Here,  at  youi  service. — My  lord  ap- 

Cleo.  We  will  not  look  upon  him :  go  with  us. 

{Exeunt  CLEO.,  ENO.,  CHAR.,  IRAS,  ALEX. 

and  Soothsayer. 

Enter  ANTONY,  with  a  Messenger  and 
Attendants. 

Mess.  Fulvia  thy  wife  first  came  into  the  field. 
Ant.  Against  my  brother  Lucius 
Mess.  Ay: 

But  soon  that  war  had  end,  and  the  time's  state 
Made  friends  of  them,  jointing  their  force  'gainst 

Caesar; 

Whose  better  issue  in  the  war,  from  Italy, 
Upon  the  first  encounter,  drave  them. 

Ant.  Well,  what  worst  ?  [teller. 

Mess.  The  nature  of  bad  news  infects  the 
Ant.  When  it  concerns  the  fool  or  coward. — 

On:— 

Things  that  are  past  are  done  with  me. — 'Tis 
thus; 


Who  tells  me  true,  though  in  his  tale  lie  death 
I  hear  him  as  he  flatter'd. 

Mess.  Labienus, — 

This  is  stiff  news, — hath,  with  his  Parthian 

force, 

Extended  Asia  from  Euphrates ; 
His  conquering  banner  shook  from  Syria 
To  Lydia  and  to  Ionia ; 
Whilst,— 

Ant.  Antony,  thou  wouldst  say, — 

Mess.  O,  my  lord  ! 

Ant.  Speak   to   me   home,   mince   not   the 

general  tongue  : 

Name  Cleopatra  as  she  is  call'd  in  Rome  ; 
Rail  thou  in  Fulvia's  phrase ;  and  taunt  my 

faults 

With  such  full  license  as  both  truth  and  malice 
Have  power  to  utter.     O,  then  we  bring  forth 
weeds  [told  us 

When  our  quick  minds  lie  still ;  and  our  ills 
Is  as  our  earing.     Fare  thee  well  awhile. 
Mess.  At  your  noble  pleasure.  [Exit. 

Ant.  From  Sicyon,  ho,  the  news  !     Speak 
there  ! 

1  Att.  The  man  from  Sicyon, — is  there  such 

an  one  ? 

2  Att.  He  stays  upon  your  will. 

Ant.  Let  him  appear. — • 

These  strong  Egyptian  fetters  I  must  break, 
Or  lose  myself  in  dotage. — 

Enter  a  second  Messenger. 

What  are  you? 

2  Mess.  Fulvia  thy  wife  is  dead. 
Ant.  Where  died  she? 

2  Mess.  In  Sicyon  :  [serious 

Her  length  of  sickness,  with  what  else  more 
Importeth  thee  to  know,  this  bears. 

\Gives  a  letter. 

Ant.  Forbear  me. 

{Exit  second  Messenger. 

There 's  a  great  spirit  gone  !     Thus  did  I  desire 

it: 

What  our  contempts  do  often  hurl  from  us, 
We  wish  it  ours  again  ;  the  present  pleasure, 
By  revolution  lowering,  does  become 
The  opposite  of  itself :  she 's  good,  being  gone; 
The  hand  could  pluck  her  back  that  shov'd 

her  on. 

I  must  from  this  enchanting  queen  break  off : 
Ten  thousand  harms,  more  than  the  ills  I  know, 
My  idleness  doth  hatch. — Ho,  Enobarbus  ! 

Re-enter  ENOBARBUS. 

Eno.  What 's  your  pleasure,  sir  ? 

Ant.  I  must  with  haste  from  hence. 

Eno.  Why,  then,  we  kill  all  our  women  :  we 


892 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[ACT  i. 


see  how  mortal  an  unkindness  is  to  them  ;  if 
they  suffer  our  departure,  death 's  the  word. 

Ant.   I  must  be  gone. 

Eno.  Under  a  compelling  occasion,  let 
women  die :  it  were  pity  to  cast  them  away 
for  nothing ;  though,  between  them  and  a  great 
cause,  they  should  be  esteemed  nothing.  Cleo- 
patra, catching  but  the  least  noise  of  this,  dies 
instantly  ;  I  have  seen  her  die  twenty  times 
upon  far  poorer  moment :  I  dp  think  there  is 
mettle  in  death,  which  commits  some  loving 
act  upon  her,  she  hath  such  a  celerity  in  dying. 

Ant.  She  is  cunning  past  man's  thought. 

Eno.  Alack,  sir,  no  ;  her  passions  are  made 
of  nothing  but  the  finest  part  of  pure  love :  we 
cannot  call  her  winds  and  waters,  sighs  and 
tears ;  they  are  greater  storms  and  tempests 
than  almanacs  can  report :  this  cannot  be  cun- 
ning in  her  ;  if  it  be,  she  makes  a  shower  of  rain 
as  well  as  Jove. 

Ant.  Would  I  had  never  seen  her  ! 

Eno.  O  sir,  you  had  then  left  unseen  a 
wonderful  piece  of  work ;  which  not  to  have 
been  blessed  withal  would  have  discredited 
your  travel. 

Ant.  Fulvia  is  dead. 

Eno.   Sir? 

Ant.  Fulvia  is  dead. 

Eno.  Fulvia! 

Ant.  Dead. 

Eno.  Why,  sir,  give  the  gods  a  thankful 
sacrifice.  When  it  pleaseth  their  deities  to 
take  the  wife  of  a  man  from  him,  it  shows  to 
man  the  tailors  of  the  earth  ;  comforting  therein 
that  when  old  robes  are  worn  out  there  are 
members  to  make  new.  If  there  were  no  more 
women  but  Fulvia,  then  had  you  indeed  a  cut, 
and  the  case  to  be  lamented  :  this  grief  is 
crowned  with  consolation ;  your  old  smock 
brings  forth  a  new  petticoat : — and,  indeed, 
the  tears  live  in  an  onion  that  should  water  this 
sorrow.  [state 

Ant.  The  business  she  hath  broached  in  the 
Cannot  endure  my  absence. 

Eno.  And  the  business  you  have  broached 
here  cannot  be  without  you  ;  especially  that  of 
Cleopatra's,  which  wholly  depends  on  your 
abode. 

Ant.  No  more  light  answers.    Let  our  officers 
Have  notice  what  we  purpose.     I  shall  break 
The  cause  of  our  expedience  to  the  queen, 
And  get  her  leave  to  part.     For  not  alone 
The  death  of  Fulvia,  with  more  urgent  touches, 
Do  strongly  speak  to  us  ;  but  the  letters  too 
Of  many  our  contriving  friends  in  Rome 
Petition  us  at  home  :  Sextus  Pompeius 
Hath  given  the  dare  to  Caesar,  and  commands 


The  empire  of  the  sea ;  our  slippery  people, — 
Whose  love  is  never  link'd  to  the  deserver 
Till  his  deserts  are  past, — begin  to  throw 
Pompey  the  Great,  and  all  his  dignities, 
Upon  his  son  ;  who,  high  in  name  and  power, 
Higher  than  both  in  blood  and  life,  stands  up 
For  the  main  soldier  :  whose  quality,  going  on, 
The  sides  o'  the  world  may  danger  :  much  is 

breeding, 

Which,  like  the  courser's  hair,  hath  yet  but  life, 
And  not  a  serpent's  poison.     Say,  our  pleasure, 
To  such  whose  place  is  under  us,  requires 
Our  quick  remove  from  hence. 
Eno.  I  shall  do 't.  {Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — ALEXANDRIA.     A  Room  in 
CLEOPATRA'S  Palace. 

Enter  CLEOPATRA,   CHARMIAN,   IRAS,  and 
ALEXAS. 

Cleo.  Where  is  he? 

Char.  I  did  not  see  him  since. 

Cleo.  See  where  he  is,  who 's  with  him,  what 

he  does : — 

I  did  not  send  you  : — if  you  find  him  sad,  ' 
Say  I  am  dancing  ;  if  in  mirth,  report 
That  I  am  sudden  sick :  quick,  and  returru 

{Exit  ALEXAS. 
Char.  Madam,  methinks,  if  you  did  love  him 

dearly, 

You  do  not  hold  the  method  to  enforce 
The  like  from  him. 

Cleo.  What  should  I  do,  I  do  not  ? 

Char.  In  each  thing  give  him  way  ;  cross  him 

in  nothing. 

Cleo.  Thou  teachest  like  a  fool, — the  way  to 
lose  him.  [forbear : 

Char.  Tempt  him  not  so  too  far ;  I  wish, 
In  time  we  hate  that  which  we  often  fear. 
But  here  comes  Antony. 

Cleo.  I  am  sick  and  sullen. 

Enter  ANTONY. 

Ant.  I  am  sorry  to  give  breathing  to  my 
purpose, —  [fall : 

Cleo.  Help  me  away,  dear  Charmian  ;  I  shall 
It  cannot  be  thus  long,  the  sides  of  nature 
Will  not  sustain  jt. 

Ant.  Now,  my  dearest  queen, — 

Cleo.  Pray  you,  stand  further  from  me. 

Ant.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

Cleo.  I  know,  by  that  same  eye,  there 's  some 

good  news. 

What  says  the  married  woman  ? — You  may  go  : 
Would  she  had  never  given  you  leave  to  come ! 
Let  her  not  say  'tis  I  that  keep  you  here, — 
I  have  no  power  upon  you  ;  hers  you  are. 


SCENE  III.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


893 


Ant.  The  gods  best  know, — 

Cleo.  O,  never  was  there  queen 

So  mightily  betrayM  !    Yet  at  the  first 
I  saw  the  treasons  planted. 

Ant.  Cleopatra, — 

Cleo.  Why  should  I  think  you  can  be  mine 

and  true, 

Though  you  in  swearing  shake  the  throned  gods, 
Who  have   been  false   to    Fulvia?      Riotous 

madness, 

To  be  entangled  with  those  mouth-made  vows, 
Which  break  themselves  in  swearing  ! 

Ant.  Most  sweet  queen, — 

„   Cleo.  Nay,  pray  you,  seek  no  colour  for  your 

going, 

But  bid  farewell,  and  go :  when  you  su'd  staying, 
Then  was  the  time  for  words  :  no  going  then ; — 
Eternity  was  in  our  lips  and  eyes, 
Bliss  in  our  brows'  bent ;  none  our  parts  so  poor 
But  was  a  race  of  heaven :  they  are  so  still, 
Or  thou,  the  greatest  soldier  of  the  world, 
Art  turn'd  the  greatest  liar. 

Ant.  How  now,  lady  ! 

Cleo.  I  would  I  had  thy  inches ;  thou  shouldst 

know 
There  were  &  heart  in  Egypt. 

Ant.  Hear  me,  queen : 

The  strong  necessity  of  time  commands 
Our  services  awhile  ;  but  my  full  heart 
Remains  in  use  with  you.     Our  Italy 
Shines  o'er  with  civil  swords :  Sextus  Pompeius 
Makes  his  approaches  to  the  port  of  Rome : 
Equality  of  two  domestic  powers        [strength, 
Breeds  scrupulous  faction  :  the  hated,  grown  to 
Are  -newly  grown  to   love:    the    condemn'd 

Pompey, 

Rich  in  his  father's  honour,  creeps  apace 
Into  the  hearts  of  such  as  have  not  thriv'd 
Upon  the  present  state,  whose  numbers  threaten; 
And  quietness,  grown  sick  of  rest,  would  purge 
By  any  desperate  change.     My  more  particular, 
And  that  which  most  with  you  should  safe  my 

going, 
Is  Fulvia's  death.  [me  freedom, 

Cleo.  Though  age  from  folly  could  not  give 
It  does  from  childishness : — can  Fulvia  die  ? 

Ant.  She 's  dead,  my  queen  : 
Look  here,  and,  at  thy  sovereign  leisure,  read 
The  garboils  she  awak'd  ;  at  the  last,  best. 
See  when  and  where  she  died. 

Cleo.  O  most  false  love  ! 

Where  be  the  sacred  vials  thou  shouldst  fill 
With  sorrowful  water?    Now  I  see,  I  see, 
In  Fulvia's  death  how  mine  receiv'd  shall  be. 

Ant.  Quarrel  no  more,  but  be  prepar'd  to 

know 
The  purposes  I  bear ;  which  are,  or  cease, 


As  you  shall  give  the  advice.     By  the  fire 
That  quickens  Nilus'  slim«,  I  go  from  hence 
Thy  soldier,  servant ;  making  peace  or  war 
As  thou  affect'st. 

Cleo.  Cut  my  lace,  Charmian,  come ; — 

But  let  it  be : — I  am  quickly  ill  and  well, 
So  Antony  loves. 

Ant.  My  precious  queen,  forbear; 

And  give  true  evidence  to  his  love,  which  stands 
An  honourable  trial. 

Cleo.  So  Fulvia  told  me. 

I  pr'ythee,  turn  aside  and  weep  for  her ; 
Then  bid  adieu  to  me,  and  say  the  tears 
Belong  to  Egypt :  good  now,  play  one  scene 
Of  excellent  dissembling  ;  and  let  it  look 
Like  perfect  honour. 

Ant.  You  '11  heat  my  blood  :  no  more. 

Cleo.  You  can  do  better  yet;   but  this  is 
meetly. 

Ant.  Now,  by  my  sword, — 

Cleo.  And  target.— Still  he  mends  ; 

But  this    is  not    the    best: — look,   pr'ythee, 

Charmian, 

How  this  Herculean  Roman  does  become 
The  carriage  of  his  chafe. 

Ant.  I  '11  leave  you,  lady. 

Cleo.  Courteous  lord,  one  word. 
Sir,  you  and  I  must  part, — but  that 's  not  it : 
Sir,  you  and  I  have  lov'd,— but  there 's  not  it ; 
That  you  know  well :  something  it  is  I  would, — 
O,  my  oblivion  is  a  very  Antony, 
And  I  am  all  forgotten. 

Ant.  But  that  your  royalty 

Holds  idleness  your  subject,  I  should  take  you 
For  idleness  itself. 

Cleo.  'Tis  sweating  labour 

To  bear  such  idleness  so  near  the  heart 
As  Cleopatra  this.     But,  sir,  forgive  me  ; 
Since  my  becomings  kill  me,  when  they  do  not 
Eye  well  to  you  :  your  honour  calls  you  hence ; 
Therefore  be  deaf  to  my  unpitied  folly, 
And  all  the  gods  go  with  you  !  upon  your  sword 
Sit  laurel  victory !  and  smooth  success 
Be  strew'd  before  your  feet ! 

Ant.  Let  us  go.     Come  ; 

Our  separation  so  abides,  and  flies, 
That  thou,  residing  here,  go'st  yet  with  me, 
And  I,  hence  fleeting,  here  remain  with  thee. 
Away !  [Exeunt, 

SCENE  IV.— ROME.     An  Apartment  m 
QESAK'S  House. 

Enter  OCTAVIUS  OESAR,  LEPIDUS,  and 
Attendants. 

Cczs.  You  may  see,  Lepidus,  and  henceforth, 
know. 


894 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[ACT  i. 


It  is  not  Caesar's  natural  vice  to  hate 
Our  great  competitor.     From  Alexandria 
This  is  the  news : — he  fishes,  drinks,  and  wastes 
The  lamps  of  night  in  revel :  is  not  more  manlike 
Than  Cleopatra ;  nor  the  queen  of  Ptolemy  [or 
More  womanly  than  he  :  hardly  gave  audience, 
Vouchsafd   to   think  he  had  partners:    you 

shall  find  there 

A  man  who  is  the  abstract  of  all  faults 
That  all  men  follow. 

Lep.  I  must  not  think  there  are 

Evils  enow  to  darken  all  his  goodness : 
His  faults  in  him  seem  as  the  spots  of  heaven, 
More  fiery  by  night's  blackness ;  hereditary 
Rather  than  purchas'd ;  what  he  cannot  change 
Than  what  he  chooses. 

Cces.  You  are  too  indulgent.     Let  us  grant 

it  is  not 

Amiss  to  tumble  on  the  bed  of  Ptolemy; 
To  give  a  kingdom  for  a  mirth ;  to  sit 
And  keep  the  turn  of  tippling  with  a  slave ; 
To  reel  the  streets  at  noon,  and  stand  the  buffet 
With  knaves   that   smell   of  sweat:   say  this 

becomes  him, — 

As  his  composure  must  be  rare  indeed 
Whom  these  things  cannot  blemish, — yet  must 

Antony 

No  way  excuse  his  soils  when  we  do  bear 
So  great  weight  in  his  lightness.     If  he  fill'd 
His  vacancy 'with  his  voluptuousness, 
Full  surfeits  and  the  dryness  ef  his  bones 
Call  on  him  for 't :  but  to  confound  such  time, 
That  drums  him  from  his  sport,  and  speaks  as 

loud 

As  his  own  state  and  ours, — 'tis  to  be  chid 
As  we  rate  boys,  who,  being  mature  in  know- 
ledge, 

Pawn  their  experience  to  their  present  pleasure, 
And  so  rebel  to  judgment. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Lep.  Here 's  more  news. 

Mess.  Thy  biddings  have  been   done;  and 

every  hour, 

Most  noble  Caesar,  shalt  thou  have  report 
How  'tis  abroad.     Pompey  is  strong  at  sea ; 
And  it  appears  he  is  belov'd  of  those 
That  only  have  fear'd  Caesar :  to  the  ports 
The  discontents  repair,  and  men's  reports 
Give  him  much  wrong'd. 

Cces.  I  should  have  known  no  less : 

It  hath  been  taught  us  from  the  primal  state 
That  he  which  is  was  wish'd  until  he  were ; 
And  the  ebb'd    man,    ne'er    lov'd   till  ne'er 
worth  love,  [body, 

Comes  dear'd  by  being  lack'd.     This  common 
Like  to  a  vagabond  flag  upon  the  stream, 


Goes  to  and  back,  lackeying  the  varying  tide, 
To  rot  itself  with  motion. 

Mess.  Caesar,  I  bring  thee  word, 

Menecrates  and  Menas,  famous  pirates, 
Make  the  sea  serve  them,  which  they  ear  and 

wound 

With  keels  of  every  kind :  many  hot  inroads 
They  make  in  Italy ;  the  borders  maritime 
Lack  blood  to  think  on't,  and  flush  youth  re  volt : 
No  vessel  can  peep  forth  but  'tis  as  soon 
Taken  as  seen ;  for  Pompey's  name  strikes  more 
Than  could  his  war  resisted. 

Cces.  Antony, 

Leave  thy  lascivious  wassails.     When  thou  once 
Wast  beaten  from  Modena,  where  thou  slew'st 
Hirtius  and  Pansa,  consuls  at  thy  heel 
Did  famine  follow ;  whom  thou  fought'st  against, 
Though  daintily  brought  up,  with  patience  more 
Than  savages  could  suffer :  thou  didst  drink 
The  stale  of  horses,  and  the  gilded  puddle 
Which  beasts  would  cough  at :  thy  palate  then 

did  deign 

The  roughest  berry  on  the  rudest  hedge ; 
Yea,  like  the  stag,  when  snow  the  pasture  sheets, 
The  barks  of  trees  thou  browsed'st ;  on  the  Alps 
It  is  reported  thou  didst  eat  strange  flesh, 
Which  some  did  die  to  look  on :  and  all  this, — 
It  wounds  thine  honour  that  I  speak  it  now, — 
Was  borne  so  like  a  soldier  that  thy  cheek 
So  much  as  lank'd  not. 

Lep.  'Tis  pity  of  him. 

Cces.  Let  his  shames  quickly 
Drive  him  to  Rome :  'tis  time  we  twain 
Did  show  ourselves  'i  the  field ;  and  to  that  end 
Assemble  we  immediate  council :  Pompey 
Thrives  in  our  idleness. 

Lep.  To-morrow,  Caesar, 

I  shall  be  furnish'd  to  inform  you  rightly 
Both  what  by  sea  and  land  I  can  be  able 
To  front  this  present  time. 

CCES.  Till  which  encounter 

It  is  my  business  too.     Farewell.       [meantime 

Lep.  Farewell,  my  lord :  what  you  shall  know 
Of  stirs  abroad,  I  shall  beseech  you,  sir, 
To  let  me  be  partaker. 

Cces.  Doubt  not,  sir ; 

I  knew  it  for  my  bond.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — ALEXANDRIA.     A  Room  in  the 
Palace. 

Enter  CLEOPATRA,   CHARMIAN,    IRAS,  and 
MARDIAN. 

Cleo.  Charmian,— 
Char.   Madam? 
Cleo.  Ha,  ha  !— 
Give  me  to  drink  mandragora. 


SCENE  V.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


895 


Char.  Why,  madam? 

Cleo.  That  I  might  sleep  out  this  great  gap 

of  time 
My  Antony  is  away. 

Char.     '  You  think  of  him  too  much. 

Cleo.  O,  'tis  treason  ! 

Char.  Madam,  I  trust,  not  so. 

Cleo.  Thou,  eunuch  Mardian  ! 

Mar.  What 's  your  highness'  pleasure? 

Cleo.  Not  now  to  hear  thee  sing ;  I  take  no 

pleasure 

In  aught  an  eunuch  has :  'tis  well  for  thee 
That,  being  unseminar'd,  thy  freer  thoughts 
May  not  fly  forth  of  Egypt.     Hast  thou  affec- 
tions? 

Mar.  Yes,  gracious  madam. 

Cleo.  Indeed!  '[nothing 

Mar.  Not  in  deed,   madam;  for  I  can  do 
But  what  indeed  is  honest  to  be  done : 
Yet  have  I  fierce  affections,  and  think 
What  Venus  did  with  Mars. 

Cleo.  O  Charrm'an, 

Where  think'st  thou  he  is  now?    Stands  he  or 

sits  he  ? 

Or  does  he  walk?  or  is  he  on  his  horse? 
O  happy  horse  to  bear  the  weight  of  Antony  ! 
Do  bravely,  horse !  for  wott'st  thou  whom  thou 

mov'st? 

The  demi-Atlas  of  this  earth,  the  arm 
And  burgonet  of  men. — He 's  speaking  now, 
Or  murmuring,  Where's  my  serpent  of  old  Nile? 
For  so  he  calls  me. — Now  I  feed  myself 
With  most  delicious  poison : — think  on  me, 
That  am  with  Phoebus'  amorous  pinches  black, 
And  wrinkled  deep  in  time?      Broad-fronted 

Caesar, 

When  thou  wast  here  above  the  ground  I  was 
A  morsel  for  a  monarch :  and  great  Pompey 
Would  stand  and  make  his  eyes  grow  in  my 

brow; 

There  would  he  anchor  his  aspect  and  die 
With  looking  on  his  life. 

Enter  ALEXAS. 

Alex.  Sovereign  of  Egypt,  hail ! 

Cleo.  How    much    unlike    art    thou    Mark 
Antony !  [hath 

Yet,   coming  from   him,   that  great   medicine 
With  his  tinct  gilded  thee. — 
How  goes  it  with  my  brave  Mark  Antony? 

Alex.  Last  thing  he  did,  dear  queen, 
He  kiss'd, — the  last  of  many  doubled  kisses, — 
This  orient  pearl: — his   speech   sticks  in  my 
heart. 

Cleo.  Mine  ear  must  pluck  it  thence. 

Alex.  Good friend ',  quoth  he, 

Say,  the  firm  Roman  to  great  Egypt  sends 


This  treasure  of  an  oyster;  at  whose  foot, 
To  mend  the  petty  present,  I  will  piece 
Her  opulent  throne  "with  kingdoms ;  all  the  east, 
Say   thou,   shall   call    her   mistress.      So   he 

nodded, 

And  soberly  did  mount  an  arm-girt  steed, 
Who  neigh'd  so  high  that  what  I  would  have 

spoke 
Was  beastly  dumb'd  by  him. 

Cleo.  What,  was  he  sad  or  merry? 

Alex.  Like  to  the  time  o'  the  year  between 

the  extremes 
Of  hot  and  cold,  he  was  nor  sad  nor  merry. 

Cleo.  O  well-divided  disposition! — Note  him, 
Note  him,  good  Charmian,  'tis  the  man ;  but 

note  him : 

He  was  not  sad, — for  he  would  shine  on  those 
That  make  their  looks  by  his;   he  was  not 

merry, — 

Which  seem'd  to  tell  them  his  remembrance  lay 
In  Egypt  with  his  joy ;  but  between  both : 

0  heavenly  mingle ! — Be'st  thou  sad  or  merry, 
The  violence  of  either  thee  becomes, 

So  does  it  no  man  else. — Mett'st  thou  my  posts? 

Alex.  Ay,  madam,  twenty  several  messengers : 
Why  do  you  send  so  thick? 

Cleo.  Who 's  born  that  day 

When  I  forget  to  send  to  Antony 
Shall  die  a  beggar. — Inkandpaper,Charmian. — 
Welcome,  my  good  Alexas. — Did  I,  Charmian, 
Ever  love  Caesar  so? 

Char.  O  that  brave  Caesar  ? 

Cleo.  Be  chok'd  with  such  another  emphasis ! 
Say,  the  brave  Antony. 

Char.  The  valiant  Caesar ! 

Cleo.  By  Isis,  I  will  give  thee  bloody  teeth 
If  thou  with  Caesar  paragon  again 
My  man  of  men. 

Char.  By  your  most  gracious  pardon, 

1  sing  but  after  you. 

Cleo.  My  salad  days, 

When  I  was  green  in  judgment : — cold  in  blood, 
To  say  as  I  said  then ! — but,  come,  away ; 
Get  me  ink  and  paper :  he  shall  have  every  day 
A  several  greeting,  or  I  '11  unpeople  Egypt. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.— MESSINA.     A  Room  in  POMPEY'S 
House. 

Enter  POMPEY,  MENECRATES,  and  MENAS. 

Pom.   If  the  great  gods  be  just,  they  shall 

assist 
The  deeds  of  justest  man. 


896 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[ACT  IL 


Mene.  Know,  worthy  Pompey, 

That  what  they  do  delay  they  not  deny. 

Pom.  Whiles  we  are  suitors  to  their  throne, 

decays 
The  thing  we  sue  for. 

Mene.  We,  ignorant  of  ourselves, 

Beg  often  our  own  harms,  which  the  wise  powers 
Deny  us  for  our  good ;  so  find  we  profit 
By  losing  of  our  prayers. 

Pom.  I  shall  do  well : 

The  people  love  me,  and  the  sea  is  mine ; 
My  powers  are  crescent,  and  my  auguring  hope 
Says  it  will  come  to  the  full.     Mark  Antony 
In  Egypt  sits  at  dinner,  and  will  make 
No  wars  without  doors :  Caesar  gets  money  where 
He  loses  hearts :  Lepidus  flatters  both, 
Of  both  is  flatter' d;  but  he  neither  loves 
Nor  either  cares  for  him. 

Men.  Caesar  and  Lepidus 

Are  in  the  field :  a  mighty  strength  they  carry. 

Pom.  Where  have  you  this?  'tis  false. 

Men.  From  Silvius,  sir. 

Pom.  He  dreams:  I  know  they  are  in  Rome 

together, 

Looking  for  Antony.  But  all  the  charms  of  love, 
Salt  Cleopatra,  soften  thy  wan'd  lip ! 
Let  witchcraft  join  with  beauty,  lust  with  both  ! 
Tie  up  the  libertine  in  a  field  of  feasts, 
Keep  his  brain  fuming  ;  Epicurean  cooks 
Sharpen  with  cloyless  sauce  his  appetite  ; 
That  sleep  and  feeding  may  prorogue  his  honour 
Even  till  a  Lethe'd  dullness. 

Enter  VARRIUS. 

How  now,  Varrius ! 

Var.    This    is   most  certain    that   I    shall 

deliver : — 

Mark  Antony  is  every  hour  in  Rome 
Expected  :  since  he  went  from  Egypt  'tis 
A  space  for  further  travel. 

Pom.  I  could  have  given  less  matter 

A  better  ear. — Menas,  I  did  not  think 
This  amorous  surfeiter  would  have  donn'd  his 

helm 

For  such  a  petty  war  ;  his  soldiership 
Is  twice  the  other  twain  :  but  let  us  rear 
The  higher  our  opinion,  that  our  stirring 
Can  from  the  lap  of  Egypt's  widow  pluck 
The  ne'er  lust-wearied  Antony. 

Men.  I  cannot  hope 

Caesar  and  Antony  shall  well  greet  together : 
His  wife  that 's  dead  did  trespasses  to  Caesar  ; 
His  brother  warr'd  upon  him  ;  although,  I  think, 
Not  mov'd  by  Antony. 

Pom.  I  know  not,  Menas, 

How  lesser  enmities  may  give  way  to  greater. 
Were 't  not  that  we  stand  up  against  them  all, 


'Twere  pregnant  they  should  square  between 

themselves ; 

For  they  have  entertained  cause  enough 
To  draw  their  swords  :  but  how  the  fear  of  us 
May  cement  their  divisions,  and  bind  up 
The  petty  difference,  we  yet  not  know. 
Be 't  as  our  gods  will  have 't !     It  only  stands 
Our  lives  upon  to  use  our  strongest  hands. 
Come,  Menas.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — ROME.     A  Room  in  the  House  of 
LEPIDUS. 

Enter  ENOBARBUS  and  LEPIDUS. 

Lep.  Good  Enobarbus,  'tis  a  worthy  deed, 
And  shall  become  you  well,  to  entreat  your 

captain 
To  soft  and  gentle  speech. 

Eno.  I  shall  entreat  him 

To  answer  like  himself :  if  Caesar  move  him, 
Let  Antony  look  over  Caesar's  head, 
And  speak  as  loud  as  Mars.     By  Jupiter, 
Were  I  the  wearer  of  Antonius*  beard, 
I  would  not  shave 't  to-day. 

Lep.  'Tis  not  a  time 

For  private  stomaching. 

Eno.  Every  time 

Serves  for  the  matter  that  is  then  born  in 't. 

Lep.  But  small  to  greater  matters  must  give 
way. 

Eno.  Not  if  the  small  come  first. 

Lep.  Your  speech  is  passion : 

But,  pray  you,  stir  no  embers  up.  Here  conies 
The  noble  Antony. 

Enter  ANTONY  and  VENTIDIUS. 
Eno.  And  yonder  Cassar. 

Enter  CESAR,  MEC^ENAS,  <WMTAGRIPPA. 

Ant.  If  we  compose  well  here,  to  Parthia : 
Hark,  Ventidius. 

Cces.  I  do  not  know, 

Mecaenas  ;  ask  Agrippa. 

Lep.  Noble  friends,        [not 

That  which  combin'd  us  was  most  great,  and  let 
A  leaner  action  rend  us.     What 's  amiss, 
May  it  be  gently  heard :  when  we  debate 
Our  trivial  difference  loud,  w«  do  commit 
Murder    in    healing    wounds:     then,    noble 

partners, — 

The  rather  for  I  earnestly  beseech, —  [terms, 
Touch  you  the  sourest  points  with  sweetest 
Nor  curstness  grow  to  the  matter. 

Ant.  'Tis  spoken  well. 

Were  we  before  our  armies,  and  to  fight, 
I  should  do  thus. 


SCENE    II.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


C<es.  Welcome  to  Rome. 

Ant.  Thank  you. 

Cces.  Sit 

Ant.  Sit,  sir. 

Cess.  Nay,  then. 

Ant.  I  learn,  you  take  things  ill  which  are 

not  so, 
Or  being,  concern  you  not. 

Cess.  I  must  be  laugh'd  at 

If,  or  for  nothing  or  a  little,  I 
Should  say  myself  offended,  and  with  you 
Chiefly  i'  the  world;  more  laugh'd  at  that  I 
should  [name 

Once  name  you  derogately,  when  to  sound  your 
It  not  concern'd  me. 

Ant.  My  being  in  Egypt,  Caesar, 

What  was't  to  you? 

Cces.  No  more  than  my  residing  here  at  Rome 
Might  be  to  you  in  Egypt :  yet,  if  you  there 
Did  practise  on  my  state,  your  being  in  Egypt 
Might  be  my  question. 

Ant.  How  intend  you,  practis'd? 

Cas.  You  may  be  pleas'd  to  catch  at  mine 

intent  [brother 

By  what  did  here  befall  me,     Your  wife  and 

Made  wars  upon  me ;  and  their  contestation 

Was  theme  for  you,  you  were  the  word  of  war. 

Ant.  You  do  mistake  your   business;    my 

brother  never 

Did  urge  me  in  his  act :  I  did  inquire  it ; 
And  have  my  learning  from  some  true  reports 
That  drew  their  swords  with  you.     Did  he  not 

rather 

Discredit  my  authority  with  yours ; 
And  make  the  wars  alike  against  my  stomach, 
Having  alike  your  cause?     Of  this  my  letters 
Before  did  satisfy  you.     If  you  '11  patch  a  quarrel 
As  matter  whole  you  have  not  to  make  it  with, 
It  must  not  be  with  this. 

Cas.  You  praise  yourself 

By  laying  defects  of  judgment  to  me;  but 
You  patch'd  up  your  excuses. 

Ant.  Not  so,  not  so ; 

I  know  you  could  not  lack,  I  am  certain  on 't, 
Very  necessity  of  this  thought,  that  I, 
Your  partner  in  the  cause  'gainst  which   he 

fought, 

Could  not  with  graceful  eyes  attend  those  wars 
Which  'fronted  mine  own  peace.  As  for  my  wife, 
I  would  you  had  her  spirit  in  such  another : 
The  third  o'  the  world  is  yours ;  which  with  a 

snaffle 
You  may  pao*  easy,  but  not  such  a  wife. 

Eno.  Would  we  had  all  such  wives,  that  the 

men 
Might  go  to  wars  with  the  women. 

Ant.  Somuchuncurrjable^hergarboil3,Gesar, 


Made  out  of  her  impatience, — which  not  wanted 
Shrewdness  of  policy  too, — I  grieving  grant 
Did  you  toe  much  disquiet :  for  that  you  must 
But  say  I  could  not  help  it. 

Cces.  I  wrote  to  you 

When  rioting  in  Alexandria;  you 
Did  pocket  up  my  letters,  and  with  taunts 
Did  gibe  my  missive  out  of  audience. 

Ant.  Sir, 

He  fell  upon  me  ere  admitted :  then 
Three  kings  I  had  newly  feasted,  and  did  want 
Of  what  I  was  i'  the  morning :  but  next  day 
I  told  him  of  myself;  which  was  as  much 
As  to  have  ask'd  him  pardon.     Let  this  fellow 
Be  nothing  of  our  strife;  if  we  contend, 
Out  of  our  question  wipe  him. 

Cces.  You  have  broken 

The  article  of  your  oath ;  which  you  shall  never 
Have  tongue  to  charge  me  with. 

Lep.  Soft,  Caesar ! 

Ant.  No,  Lepidus,  let  him  speak : 
The  honour  is  sacred  which  he  talks  on  now, 
Supposing  that  I  lack'd  it.— But  on,  Caesar; 
The  article  of  my  oath. 

Cces.  To  lend  me  arms  and  aid  when  I  re- 

quir'd  them ; 
The  which  you  both  denied. 

Ant.  Neglected,  rather; 

And  then  when  poison'd  hours  had  bound  me  up 
From  mine  own  knowledge.  As  nearly  as  I  may, 
I  '11  play  the  penitent  to  you:  but  mine  honesty 
Shall  not  make  poor  my  greatness,  nor  my 

power 

Work  without  it.    Truth  is,  that  Fulvia, 
To  have  me  out  of  Egypt,  made  wars  here ; 
For  which  myself,  the  ignorant  motive,  do 
So  far  ask  pardon  as  befits  mine  honour 
To  stoop  in  such  a  case. 

Lep.  'Tis  noble  spoken. 

Mec.  If  it  might  please  you  to  enforce  no 

further 

The  griefs  between  ye :  to  forget  them  quite 
Were  to  remember  that  the  present  need 
Speaks  to  atone  you. 

Lep.  Worthily  spoken,  Mecaenas. 

Eno.  Or,  if  you  borrow  one  another's  love 
for  the  instant,  you  may,  when  you  hear  no 
more  words  of  Pompey,  return  it  again:  you 
shall  have  time  to  wrangle  in  when  you  have 
nothing  else  to  do. 

Ant.  Thou  art  a  soldier  only :  speak  no  more. 

Eno.  That  truth  should  be  silent  I  had 
almost  forgot. 

Ant.  You  wrong  this  presence;    therefore 
speak  no  more 

Eno.  Go  to,  then ;  your  considerate  stone. 

Cees.  I  do  not  much  dislike  the  matter,  but 


898 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[ACT  ii. 


The  manner  of  his  speech ;  for 't  cannot  be 
We  shall  remain  in  friendship,  our  conditions 
So  differing  in  their  acts.     Yet,  if  I  knew 
What  hoop  should  hold  us  stanch,  from  edge 

to  edge 
O'  the  world  I  would  pursue  it. 

Agr.  Give  me  leave,  Caesar, — 

C<zs.  Speak,  Agrippa. 

Agr.  Thou  hast  a  sister  by  the  mother's  side, 
Admir'd  Octavia :  great  Mark  Antony 
Is  now  a  widower. 

Cess.  Say  not  so,  Agrippa : 

If  Cleopatra  heard  you,  your  reproof 
Were  well  deserv'd  of  rashness. 

Ant.  I  am  not  married,  Caesar :  let  me  hear 
Agrippa  further  speak. 

Agr.  To  hold  you  in  perpetual  amity, 
To  make  you  brothers,  and  to  knit  your  hearts 
With  an  unslipping  knot,  take  Antony 
Octavia  to  his  wife  ;  whose  beauty  claims 
No  worse  a  husband  than  the  best  of  men ; 
Whose  virtue  and  whose  general  graces  speak 
That  which   none   else  can  utter.      By  this 

marriage, 

All  little  jealousies,  which  now  seem  great, 
And  all  great  fears,  which  now  import  their 
dangers,  [tales, 

Would  then  be  nothing :  truths  would  then  be 
Where  now  half  tales  be  truths :  her  love  to  both 
Would,  each  to  other  and  all  loves  to  both, 
Draw  after  her.     Pardon  what  I  have  spoke ; 
For  'tis  a  studied,  not  a  present  thought, 
By  duty  ruminated. 

Ant.  Will  Caesar  speak? 

Cces.  Not  till  he  hears  how  Antony  is  touch'd 
With  what  is  spoke  already. 

Ant.  What  power  is  in  Agrippa, 

If  I  would  say,  Agrippa^  be  it  soy 
To  make  this  good? 

Cces.  The  power  of  Caesar,  and 

His  power  unto  Octavia. 

Ant.  May  I  never 

To  this  good  purpose,  that  so  fairly  shows, 
Dream  of  impediment ! — Let  me  have  thy  hand : 
Further  this  act  of  grace ;  and  from  this  hour 
The  heart  of  brothers  govern  in  our  loves 
And  sway  our  great  designs ! 

Cas.  There  is  my  hand. 

A  sister  I  bequeath  you,  whom  no  brother 
Did  ever  love  so  dearly :  let  her  live 
To  join  our  kingdoms  and  our  hearts ;  and  never 
Fly  off  our  loves  again ! 

Lep.  Happily,  amen ! 

Ant.    I  did  not  think  to  draw  my  sword 

'gainst  Pompey; 

For  he  hath  laid  strange  courtesies  and  great 
Of  late  upon  me :  I  must  thank  him  only, 


Lest  my  remembrance  suffer  ill  report;, 
At  heel  of  that,  defy  him. 

Lep.  Time  calls  upon 's : 

Of  us  must  Pompey  presently  be  sought, 
Or  else  he  seeks  out  us. 

Ant.  Where  lies  he? 

Cas.  About  the  Mount  Misenum. 

Ant.  What 's  his  strength 

By  land? 

Cess.  Great  and  increasing :  but  by  sea 
He  is  an  absolute  master. 

Ant.  So  is  the  fame. 

Would  we  had  spoke  together !  Haste  we  for  it: 
Yet,  ere  we  put  ourselves  in  arms,  despatch  we 
The  business  we  have  talk'd  of. 

Cces.  With  most  gladness ; 

And  do  invite  you  to  my  sister's  view,  y  ted 
Whither  straight  I  '11  lead  you. 

Ant.  Let  us,  Lepidus, 

Not  lack  your  company. 

Lep.  Noble  Antony, 

Not  sickness  should  detain  me. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt  CMS.,  ANT.,  and  LEP. 

Mec.  Welcome  from  Egypt,  sir. 

Eno.  Half  the  heart  of  Caesar,  worthy 
Mecaenas ! — my  honourable  friend,  Agrippa ! — 

Agr.  Good  Enobarbus ! 

Mec.  We  have  cause  to  be  glad  that  matter? 
are  so  well  digested.  You  stay'd  well  by  it  in 
Egypt. 

Eno.  Ay,  sir;  we  did  sleep  day  out  of  c<Jun- 
tenance,  and  made  the  night  light  with  drinking. 

Mec.  Eight  wild  boars  roasted  whole  at  a 
breakfast,  and  but  twelve  persons  there;  is 
this  true? 

Eno.  This  was  but  as  a  fly  by  an  eagle :  we 
had  much  more  monstrous  matter  of  feasts, 
which  worthily  deserved  noting. 

Mec.  She's  a  most  triumphant  lady,  if 
report  be  square  to  her. 

Eno.  When  she  first  met  Mark  Antony  she 
pursed  up  his  heart,  upon  the  river  of  Cydnus. 

Agr.  There  she  appeared  indeed  ;  or  my 
reporter  devised  well  for  her. 

Eno.  I  will  tell  you. 

The  barge  she  sat  in,  like  a  burnish'd  throne, 
Burn'd  on  the  water :  the  poop  was  beaten  gold ; 
Purple  the  sails,  and  so  perfumed  that 
The  winds  were  love-sick  with  them ;  the  oars 
were  silver,  [made 

Which  to  the  tune  of  flutes  kept  stroke,  and 
The  water  which  they  beat  to  follow  faster, 
As  amorous  of  their  strokes.      For  her  own 

person, 

It  beggar  d  all  description :  she  did  lie 
In  her  pavilion, — cloth-of-gold  of  tissue,-- 
O'er-picturing  that  Venus  where  we  see 


SCENE  II.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


»99 


The  fancy  out-work  nature :  on  each  side  her 
Stood  pretty  dimpled  boys,  like  smiling  Cupids, 
With  divers-colourM    fans,  whose   wind   did 

seem 
To  glow  the  delicate  cheeks  which  they  did 

cool, 
And  what  they  undid  did. 

Agr.  O,  rare  for  Antony  ! 

Eno.  Her  gentlewomen,  like  the  Nereids, 
So  many  mermaids,  tended  her  i'  the  eyes, 
And  made  their  bends  adornings :  at  the  helm 
A  seeming  mermaid  steers :  the  silken  tackle 
Swell   with   the  touches  of  those  flower-soft 

hands 

That  yarely  frame  the  office.     From  the  barge 
A  strange  invisible  perfume  hits  the  sense 
Of  the  adjacent  wharfs.     The  city  cast 
Her  people  out  upon  her ;  and  Antony, 
Enthron'd  i'  the  market-place,  did  sit  alone, 
Whistling  to  the  air ;  which,  but  for  vacancy, 
Had  gone  to  gaze  on  Cleopatra  too, 
And  made  a  gap  in  nature. 

Agr.  Rare  Egyptian ! 

Eno.   Upon  her  landing,  Antony  sent  to  her, 
Invited  her  to  supper:  she  replied 
It  should  be  better  he  became  her  guest ; 
Which  she  entreated :  our  courteous  Antony 
Whom  ne'er  the   word   of  No  woman   heard 

speak, 
Being  barber'd   ten   times  o'er,    goes   to   the 

feast, 

And,  for  his  ordinary,  pays  his  heart 
For  what  his  eyes  eat  only. 

Agr.  Royal  wench ! 

She  made  great  Caesar  lay  his  sword  to  bed : 
He  plough'd  her,  and  she  cropp'd. 

Eno.  I  saw  her  once 

Hop  forty  paces  through  the  public  street ; 
And  having  lost  her  breath,  she  spoke  and 

panted, 

That  she  did  make  defect  perfection, 
And,  breathless,  power  breathe  forth. 

Mec.  Now  Antony  must  leave  her  utterly. 

Eno.  Never ;  he  will  not : 
Age  cannot  wither  her,  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety:  other  women  cloy 
The  appetites  they  feed  ;  but  she  makes  hungry 
Where  most  she  satisfies  :  for  vilest  things 
Become  themselves  in  her ;  that  the  holy  priests 
Bless  her  when  she  is  riggish. 

Mec*  If  beauty,  wisdom,  modesty,  can  settle 
The  heart  of  Antony,  Octavia  is 
A  blessed  lottery  to  him. 

Agr.  Let  us  go.t- 

Good  Encbarbus.  make  yourself  my  guest 
Whilst  you  abide  here. 

Eno.      Humbly,  sir,  I  thank  you.    [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. — ROME.    A  Room  in  OESAR'S 
House. 

Enter  CESAR,   ANTONY,   OCTAVIA    between 
them,  and  Attendants. 

Ant.    The  world   and  my  great   office  will 

sometimes 
Divide  me  from  your  bosom. 

Octa.  All  which  time 

Before  the  gods  my  knee  shall  bow  my  prayers 
To  them  for  you. 

Ant.  Good-night,  sir. — My  Octavia, 

Read  not  my  blemishes  in  the  world's  report : 
I  have  not  kept  my  square  ;  but  that  to  come 
Shall  all  be  done  by  the  rule.     Good-night, 
dear  lady. — 

Octa.  Good-night,  sir. 

Cces.  Good-night  [Exeunt  CES.  and  OCTA. 

Enter  Soothsayer. 

Ant.  Now,  sirrah,  you  do  wish  yourself  in 
Egypt  ?  [nor  you 

Sooth.  Would  I  had  never  come  from  thence, 
Thither  I 

Ant.  If  you  can,  your  reason  ? 

Sooth.  I  see  it  in 

My  motion,  have  it  not  in  my  tongue  :  but  yet 
Hie  you  to  Egypt  again. 

Ant.  Say  to  me,         [mine  ? 

Whose  fortunes  shall  rise  higher,  Caesar's  01 

Sooth.  Caesar's 

Therefore,  O  Antony,  stay  not  by  his  side  : 
Thydemon,  that 's  thy  spirit  which  keeps  thee,  is 
Noble,  courageous,  high,  unmatchable, 
Where  Caesar's  is  not ;  but  near  him  thy  angel 
Becomes  afear'd,  as  being  o'erpower'd :  therefore 
Make  space  enough  between  you. 

Ant.  Speak  this  no  more. 

Sooth.  To  none  but  thee  ;  no  more  but  when 

to  thee. 

If  thou  dost  play  with  him  at  any  game, 
Thou  art  sure  to  lose  ;  and  of  that  natural  luck 
He  beats  thee  'gainst  the  odds :    thy  lustre 

thickens 

When  he  shines  by :  I  say  again,  thy  spirit 
Is  all  afraid  to  govern  thee  near  him ; 
But,  he  away,  'tis  noble. 

Ant.  Get  thee  gone  : 

Say  to  Ventidius  I  would  speak  with  him  : — 

[Exit  Soothsayer 

He  shall  to  Parthia.— Be  it  art  or  hap, 
He  hath  spoken  true :  the  very  dice  obey  him ; — 
And  in  our  sports  my  better  cunning  faints 
Under  his  chance  :  if  we  draw  lots  he  speeds  5 
His  cocks  do  win  the  battle  still  of  mine, 
When  it  is  all  to  naught ;  and  his  quails  ever 


goo 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[ACT  n. 


Beat  mine,  inhoop'd,  at  odds.  I  will  to  Egypt  : 
And  though  I  make  this  marriage  for  my  peace, 
I'  the  east  my  pleasure  lies. 

Enter  VENTIDIUS. 

O,  come,  Ventidius, 

You  must  to  Parthia  :  your  commission's  ready  ; 
Follow  me  and  receive  it.  \Exetint. 

SCENE  IV.—  ROME.     A  Street. 
Enter  LEPIDUS,  MEC^ENAS,  and  AGRIPPA. 

Lep.  Trouble   yourselves  no  further  :    pray 

you,  hasten 
Your  generals  after. 

Agr.  Sir,  Mark  Antony 

Win  e'en  but  kiss  Octavia,  and  we  '11  follow. 

Lep.  Till  I  shall  see  you  in  your  soldier's  dress, 
Which  will  become  you  both,  farewell. 

Mec.  We  shall, 

As  I  conceive  the  journey,  be  at  the  mount 
Before  you,  Lepidus, 

Lep.  Your  way  is  shorter  ; 

My  purposes  do  draw  me  much  about  : 
You  '11  win  two  days  upon  me. 

Mec.  and  Agr.  Sir,  good  success  ! 

Lep.  Farewell.  {Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  ALEXANDRIA.     A   Room  in  the 
Palace. 


,  CHARMIAN,  IRAS,  ALEXAS, 
and  Attendants. 

Cleo.   Give  me  some  music,  —  music,  moody 

food 
Of  us  that  trade  in  love. 

Attend.  The  music,  ho  ! 

Enter  MARDIAN, 

Cleo.   Let  it  alone  ;  let  's  to  billiards  : 
Come,  Charmian. 

Char.  My  arm  is  sore  ;  best  play  with  Mardian. 

Cleo.  As  well  a  woman  with  an  eunuch  play'd 
As  with  a  woman.  —  Come,  you  '11  play  with  me, 
sir? 

Mar.  As  well  as  I  can,  madam. 

Cleo.  And  when  good-  will  is  show'd,  though  't 

come  too  short, 

The  actor  may  plead  pardon.    I  '11  none  nqw  :  — 
Give  me  mine  angle,  —  we  '11  to  the  river  :  there, 
My  music  playing  far  off,  I  will  betray 
Tawny-finn  d  fi  shes  ;  my  bended  hook  shall  pierce 
Their  slimy  jaws  ;  and  as  I  draw  them  up 
I  '11  think  them  every  one  an  Antony, 
And  say,  Ah  ha  /  you*  re  caught. 

Char.  'Twas  merry  when 

You  wager'd  on  your  angling  ;  when  your  diver 


Did  hang  a  salt  fish  on  his  hook,  which  he 
With  fervency  drew  up. 

Cleo.  That  time, — O  times  !-^ 

I  laugh'd  him  out  of  patience  ;  and  that  night 
I  laugh'd  him  into  patience  :  and  next  morn, 
Ere  the  ninth  hour,  I  drunk  him  to  his  bed  ; 
Then  put  my  tires  and  mantles  on  him,  whilst 
I  wore  his  sword  Philippan. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

O  !  from  Italy  !— • 

Ram  thou  thy  fruitful  tidings  in  mine  ears, 
That  long  time  have  been  barren. 

Mess.  Madam,  madam, — 

Cleo.  Antony 's  dead  ! — 

If  thou  say  so,  villain,  thou  kill'st  thy  mistress  •. 
But  well  and  free, 

If  thou  so  yield  him,  there  is  gold,  and  here 
My  bluest  veins  to  kiss, — a  hand  that  kings 
Have  lipp'd,  and  trembled  kissing. 

Mess.  First,  madam,  he 's  well. 

Cleo.  Why,  there 's  more  gold.    But,  sirrah, 

mark,  we  use 

To  say  the  dead  are  well :  bring  it  to  that, 
The  geld  I  give  thee  will  I  melt  and  pour 
Down  thy  ill -uttering  throat. 

Mess.  Good  madam,  hear  me. 

Cleo.  Well,  go  to,  I  will ; 

But  there  's  no  goodness  in  thy  face :  if  Antony 
Be  free  and  healthful, — why  so  tart  a  favour 
Tc  trumpet  such  good  tidings !     If  not  well, 
Thou  shouldst  come  like  a  fury  crowu'd  with 

snakes, 
Not  like  a  formal  man. 

Mess.  Will 't  please  you  hear  me? 

Cleo.  I  have  a  mind  to  strike  thee  ere  thou 

speak'st : 

Yet,  if  thou  say  Antony  lives,  is  well, 
Or  friends  with  Caesar,  or  not  captive  to  him, 
I  '11  set  thee  in  a  shower  of  gold,  and  hail 
Rich  pearls  upon  thee. 

Mess.  Madam,  he 's  well. 

Cleo.  Well  said. 

Mess.  And  friends  with  Caesar. 

Cleo.  Thou  'rt  an  honest  man. 

Mess.  Caesar  and  be  are  greater  friends  than 
ever.^i*^!;! 

Cleo.  Make  thee  a  fortune  from  me. 

Mess.  But  yet,  madam, — 

Cleo.  I  do  not  like  but  yet,  it  does  allay 
The  good  precedence  ;  fie  upon  but  yet ! 
But  yet  is  as  a  gaoler  to  bring  forth 
Some  monstrous  malefactor.     Pr'ythee,  friend, 
Pour  out  the  pack  of  matter  to  mine  ear, 
The  good  and  bad  together :  he 's  friends  with 
Caesar ;  [free. 

In  state  of  health,  thou  say'st ;  and,  thou  say'st, 


SCENE  V.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


901 


Mess.  Free,  madam!   no;   I  made  no  such 

report : 
He 's  bound  unto  Octavia. 

Cleo.  For  what  good  turn  ? 

Mess.  For  the  best  turn  i'  the  bed. 
Cleo.  I  am  pale,  Charmian. 

Mess.  Madam,  he 's  married  to  Octavia. 
Cleo.    The  most  infectious  pestilence  upon 
thee  !  [Strikes  him  down. 

Mess.  Good  madam,  patience. 
Cleo.  What  say  you  ? — Hence, 

[Strikes  hint  again. 

Horrible  villain  !  or  I  '11  spurn  thine  eyes 
Like  balls  before  me;  I  '11  unhair  thy  head  : 

[She  hales  him  up  and  down. 
Thou  shalt  be  whipp'd  with  wire  and  stew'd  in 

brine, 
Smarting  in  ling'ring  pickle. 

Mess.  Gracious  madam, 

I  that  do  bring  the  news  made  not  the  match. 
Cleo.  Say  'tis  not  so,  a  province  I  will  give 
thee,  [hadst 

And  make  thy  fortunes  proud  :  the  blow  thou 
Shall  make  thy  peace  for  moving  me  to  rage  ; 
And  I  will  boot  thee  with  what  gift  beside 
Thy  modesty  can  beg. 

Mess.  He 's  married,  madam. 

Cleo.  Rogue,  thou  hast  liv'd  too  long. 

[Draws  a  dagger. 

Mess.  Nay,  then  I  '11  run.— 

What  mean  you,  madam?     I  have  made  no 

fault.  [Exit. 

Char.    Good  madam,  keep  yourself  within 

yourself: 
The  man  is  innocent. 

Cleo.  Some  innocents  scape  not  the  thunder- 
bolt.— 

Melt  Egypt  into  Nile  !  and  kindly  creatures 
Turn  all  to  serpents ! — Call  the  slave  again : — 
Though  I  am  mad,  I  will  not  bite  him  : — call. 
Char.  He  is  afear'd  to  come. 
Cleo.  I  will  not  hurt  him. 

[Exit  CHARMIAN. 

These  hands  do  lack  nobility,  that  they  strike 
A  meaner  than  myself ;  since  I  myself 
Have  given  myself  the  cause. 

Re-enter  CHARMIAN  and  Messenger. 

Come  hither,  sir. 

Though  it  be  honest,  it  is  never  good 
To  bring  bad  news :  give  to  a  gracious  message 
An  host  of  tongues ;  but  let  ill  tidings  tell 
Themselves  when  they  be  felt. 

Mess.  I  have  done  my  duty. 

Cleo.  Is  he  married  ? 
I  cannot  hate  thee  worser  than  I  do 
If  thou  again  say  Yes. 


Mess.  He  is  married,  madam. 

Cleo.  The  gods  confound  thee  1  dost  thou  hold 

there  still  I 

Mess.  Should  I  lie,  madam  ? 
Cleo.  O,  I  would  thou  didst, 

So  half  my  Egypt  were  submerg'd,  and  made 
A  cistern  for  scal'd  snakes  !  Go,  get  thee  hence : 
Hadst  thou  Narcissus  in  thy  face,  to  me 
Thou  wouldst  appear  most  ugly.   He  is  married  ? 
Mess.  I  crave  your  hignness3  pardon. 
Cleo.  He  is  married  ? 

Mess,    Take  no  offence  that  I  would  not 

offend  you  : 

To  punish  me  for  what  you  make  me  do 

Seems  much  unequal :  he  is  married  to  Octavia. 

Cleo.  O  that  his  fault  should  make  a  knave  of 

thee,  [hence : 

Thou  art  not  what  thou  'rt  sure  of ! — Get  thee 

The  merchandise  which  thou  hast  brought  from 

Rome  [hand, 

Are  all  too  dear  for  me:    lie  they  upon  thy 

And  be  undone  by  3em  !         [Exit  Messenger. 

Char.  Good  your  highness,  patience. 

Cleo.  In  praising  Antony  I  have  disprais*d 

Caesar. 

Char.  Many  times,  madam. 
Cleo.  I  am  paid  for  \  now. 

Lead  me  from  hence  ; 

I  faint : — O  Iras,  Charmian  ! — 'tis  no  matter. — 
Go  to  the  fellow,  good  Alexas  ;  bid  him 
Report  the  feature  of  Octavia,  her  years, 
Her  inclination,  let  him  not  leave  out 
The  colour  of  her  hair : — bring  me  word  quickly. 
[Exit  ALEXAS. 

Let  him  for  ever  go: — let  him  not — Charmian, 
Though  he  be  painted  one  way  like  a  Gorgon, 
T'  other  way  he 's  a  Mars. — Bid  you  Alexas 

[To  MARDIAN. 
Bring  me  word  how  tall    she  is. — Pity  me, 

Charmian, 

But  do  not  speak  to  me. — Lead  me  to  my 
chamber.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI. — Near  Misenum. 

Flourish.  Enter  POMPEY  and  MENAS  at  one 
side,  with  drum  and  trumpet ;  at  the  other, 
CESAR,  /NTONY,  LEPIDUS,  ENOBARBUS, 
MEC^ENAS,  with  Soldiers  marching. 

Pom.  Your  hostages  I  have,  so  have  you  mine ; 
And  we  shall  talk  before  we  fight. 

Cces.  Most  meet 

That  first  we  come  to  words  ;  and  therefore  have 

we 

Our  written  purposes  before  us  sent ; 
Which,  if  thou  hast  considerM,  let  us  know 
If  'twill  tie  up  thy  discontented  sword, 


902 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[ACT  II. 


And  carry  back  to  Sicily  much  tall  youth 
That  else  must  perish  here. 

Pom.  To  you  all  three, 

The  senators  alone  of  this  great  world, 
Chief  factors  for  the  gods, — I  do  not  know 
Wherefore  my  father  should  revengers  want, 
Having  a  son  and  friends ;  since  Julius  Csesar, 
Who  at  Philippi  the  good  Brutus  ghosted, 
There  saw  you  labouring  for  him.     What  was 't 
That  mov'd  pale  Cassius  to  conspire ;  and  what 
Made  the  all-honour'd,  honest  Roman,  Brutus, 
With  the  arm'd  rest,  courtiers  of  beauteous 

freedom, 

To  drench  the  Capitol,  but  that  they  would 
Have  one  man  but  a  man?    And  that  is  it 
Hath  made  me  rig  my  navy ;  at  whose  burden 
The  anger'd  ocean  foams ;  with  which  I  meant 
To  scourge  the  ingratitude  that  despiteful  Rome 
Cast  on  my  noble  father. 

Cess.  Take  your  time. 

Ant.  Thou  canst  not  fear  us,  Pompey,  with 

thy  sails ; 
We'll  speak  with  thee  at  sea:   at  land  thou 

know'st 
How  much  we  do  o?er-count  thee. 

Pom.  At  land,  indeed, 

Thou  dost  o'er-count  me  of  my  father's  house : 
But,  since  the  cuckoo  builds  not  for  himself, 
Remain  in 't  as  thou  mayst. 

Lep.  Be  pleas'd  to  tell  us, — 

For  this  is  from  the  present, — how  you  take 
The  offers  we  have  sent  you. 

Cess.  There 's  the  point. 

Ant.  Which  do  not  be  entreated  to,  but  weigh 
What  it  is  worth  embrac'd. 

Cess.  And  what  may  follow, 

To  try  a  larger  fortune. 

Pom.  You  have  made  me  offer 

Of  Sicily,  Sardinia ;  and  I  must 
Rid  all  the  sea  of  pirates ;  then  to  send 
Measures  of  wheat  to  Rome ;  this  'greed  upon, 
To  part  with  unhack'd  edges,  and  bear  back 
Our  targes  undinted. 

Cas. ,  Ant. ,  and  Lep.     That 's  our  offer. 

Pom.  Know,  then, 

I  came  before  you  here  a  man  prepar'd 
To  take  this  offer :  but  Mark  Antony 
Put  me  to  some  impatience : — though  I  lose 
The  praise  of  it  by  telling,  you  must  know, 
When  Caesar  and  your  brother  were  at  blows, 
Your  mother  came  to  Sicily,  and  did  find 
Her  welcome  friendly. 

Ant.  I  have  heard  it,  Pompey ; 

And  am  well  studied  for  a  liberal  thanks 
Which  I  do  owe  you. 

Pom.  Let  me  have  your  hand : 

I  did  not  think,  sir,  to  have  met  you  here. 


Ant.  The  beds  i'  the  east  are  soft;   and, 
thanks  to  you,  [hither ; 

That   call'd   me,    timelier   than   my   purpose, 
For  I  have  gain'd  by  it. 

C<zs.  Since  I  saw  you  last 

There  is  a  change  upon  you. 

Pom.  Well,  I  know  not 

What  counts  harsh  fortune  casts  upon  my  face  \ 
But  in  my  bosom  shall  she  never  come 
To  make  my  heart  her  vassal. 

Lep.  Well  met  here. 

Pom.  I   hope   so,   Lepidus. — Thus   we   are 

agreed : 

I  crave  our  composition  may  be  written, 
And  seal'd  between  us. 

Cas.  That 's  the  next  to  do. 

Pom.  We'll  feast  each  other  ere  we   part; 

and  let 's 
Draw  lots  who  shall  begin. 

Ant.  That  will  I,  Pompey. 

Pom.  No,  Antony,  take  the  lot :  but,  first 
Or  last,  your  fine  Egyptian  cookery        [Csesar 
Shall  have  the  fame.     I  have  heard  that  Julius 
Grew  fat  with  feasting  there. 

Ant.  You  have  heard  much. 

Pom.  I  have  fair  meanings,  sir. 

Ant.  And  fair  words  to  them. 

Pom.  Then  so  much  have  I  heard : 
And  I  have  heard  Apollodorus  carried, — 

Eno.  No  more  of  that: — he  did  so. 

Pom.  What,  I  pray  you? 

Eno.  A  certain  queen  to  Csesar  in  a  mattress. 

Pom.  I  know  thee  now:  how  far'st  thou, 
soldier? 

Eno.  Well-, 

And  well  am  like  to  do ;  for  I  perceive 
Four  feasts  are  toward. 

Pom.  Let  me  shake  thy  hand ; 

I  never  hated  thee :  I  have  seen  thee  fight, 
When  I  have  envied  thy  behaviour. 

Eno.  Sir, 

I  never  lov'd  you  much ;  but  I  ha'  prais'd  ye, 
When  you  have  well  deserv'd  ten  times  as  much 
As  I  have  said  you  did. 

Pom.  Enjoy  thy  plainness, 

It  nothing  ill  becomes  thee. — 
Aboard  my  galley  I  invite  you  all : 
Will  you  lead,  lords? 

Cces. ,  Ant. ,  and  Lep.  Show  us  the  way,  sir. 

Pom.  Come. 

{Exeunt  all  but  MEN.  and  ENO. 

Men.  {Aside.'}  Thy  father,  Pompey,  would 
ne'er  have  made  this  treaty. — You  and  I  have 
known,  sir. 

Eno.  At  sea,  I  think. 

Men.  We  have,  sir. 

Eno.  You  have  done  well  by  water. 


SCENE  VI.  j 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


903 


Men.  And  you  by  land. 

Eno.  I  will  praise  any  man  that  will  praise 
me ;  though  it  cannot  be  denied  what  I  have 
done  by  land. 

Men.  Nor  what  I  have  done  by  water. 

Eno.  Yes,  something  you  can  deny  for  your 
own  safety:  you  have  been  a  great  thief  by 
sea. 

Men.  And  you  by  land. 

Eno.  There  I  deny  my  land  service.  But  give 
me  your  hand,  Menas :  if  our  eyes  had  authority, 
here  they  might  take  two  thieves  kissing. 

Men.  All  men's  faces  are  true,  whatsoe'er 
their  hands  are. 

Eno.  But  there  is  never  a  fair  woman  has  a 
true  face. 

Men.  No  slander ;  they  steal  hearts. 

Eno.  We  came  hither  to  fight  with  you. 

Men.  For  my  part,  I  am  sorry  it  is  turned  to 
a  drinking.  Pompey  doth  this  day  laugh  away 
his  fortune. 

Eno.  If  he  do,  sure,  he  cannot  weep  it  back 
again. 

Men.  You  have  said,  sir.  We  looked  not 
for  Mark  Antony  here :  pray  you,  is  he  married 
to  Cleopatra? 

Eno.  Caesar's  sister  is  called  Octavia. 

Men.  True,  sir ;  she  was  the  wife  of  Caius 
Marcellus. 

Eno.  But  she  is  now  the  wife  of  Marcus 
Antonius. 

Men.  Pray  you,  sir? 

Eno.  'Tis  true. 

Men.  Then  is  Caesar  and  he  for  ever  knit  to- 
gether. 

Eno.  If  I  were  bound  to  divine  of  this  unity, 
I  would  not  prophesy  so. 

Men.  I  think  the  policy  of  that  purpose  made 
more  in  the  marriage  than  the  love  of  the  parties. 

Eno.  I  think  so  too.  But  you  shall  find  the 
band  that  seems  to  tie  their  friendship  together 
will  be  the  very  strangler  of  their  amity :  Oc- 
tavia is  of  a  holy,  cold,  and  still  conversation. 

Men.  Who  would  not  have  his  wife  so? 

Eno.  Not  he  that  himself  is  not  so ;  which  is 
Mark  Antony.  He  will  to  his  Egyptian  dish 
again :  then  shall  the  sighs  of  Octavia  blow  the 
fire  up  in  Caesar;  and,  as  I  said  before,  that 
which  is  the  strength  of  their  amity  shall 
prove  the  immediate  author  of  their  variance. 
Antony  will  use  his  affection  where  it  is :  he 
married  but  his  occasion  here. 

Men.  And  thus  it  may  be.  Come,  sir,  will 
you  aboard?  I  have  a  health  for  you. 

Eno.  I  shall  take  it,  sir :  we  have  used  our 
throats  in  Egypt. 

Men.  Come,  let 's  away.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  VII.— On  board  POMPEY'S  Galley •,  lying 
near  Misenum. 

Music.     Enter  two  or  three  Servants  with  a 
banquet. 

1  Serv.  Here   they'll  be,   man.      Some  o* 
their  plants  are  ill-rooted   already;   the   least 
wind  i'  the  world  will  blow  them  down. 

2  Serv.  Lepidus  is  high-coloured. 

1  Serv.  They  have  made  him  drink  alms-drink. 

2  Serv.  As  they  pinch  one  another  by  the 
disposition,  he  cries  out,  no  more;  reconciles 
them  to  his  entreaty  and  himself  to  the  drinK. 

1  Serv.  But  it  raises  the  greater  war  between 
him  and  his  discretion. 

2  Serv.  Why,  this  it  is  to  have  a  name  in 
great  men's  fellowship:    I  had  as  lief  have  a 
reed  that  will  do  me  no  service  as  a  partizan  I 
could  not  heave. 

I  Serv.  To  be  called  into  a  huge  sphere,  and 
not  to  be  seen  to  move  in 't,  are  the  holes  where 
eyes  should  be,  which  pitifully  disaster  the 
cheeks. 

A  senntt  sounded.  Enter  CESAR,  ANTONY, 
LEPIDUS,  POMPEY,  AGRIPPA,  MEC^ENAS, 
ENOBARBUS,  MENAS,  with  other  Captains. 

Ant.  [To  OESAR.]  Thus  do  they,  sir:  they 

take  the  flow  o'  the  Nile 
By  certain  scales  i'  the  pyramid ;  they  know, 
By  the  height,  the  lowness,  or  the  mean,  if 

dearth 

Or  foison  follow :  the  higher  Nilus  swells 
The  more  it  promises :  as  it  ebbs,  the  seedsman 
Upon  the  slime  and  ooze  scatters  his  grain, 
And  shortly  comes  to  harvest. 

Lep.  You  've  strange  serpents  there. 

Ant.  Ay,  Lepidus. 

Lep.  Your  serpent  of  Egypt  is  bred  now  of 
your  mud  by  the  operation  of  your  sun :  so  is 
your  crocodile. 

Ant.  They  are  so.  [Lepidus ! 

Pom.  Sit,— and  some  wine! — A  health  to 

Lep.  I  am  not  so  well  as  I  should  be,  but 
I  '11  ne'er  out. 

Eno.  Not  till  you  have  slept;  I  fear  me 
you  '11  be  in  till  then. 

Lep.  Nay,  certainly,  I  have  heard  the 
Ptolemies'  pyramises  are  very  goodly  things; 
without  contradiction,  I  have  heard  that 

Men.  [Aside  to  POM.]  Pompey,  a  word. 

Pom.  [Aside  to  MEN.]  Say  in  mine  ear:  what 
is't? 

Men.  [Aside  to  POM.]  Forsake  thy  seat,  I  do 

beseech  thee,  captain, 
And  hear  me  speak  a  word. 


904 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[ACT  II. 


Pom.    [Aside  fo   MEN.]    Forbear    me    till 

anon.— 
This  wine  for  Lepidus ! 

Lep.  What  manner  o'  thing  is  your  crocodile? 

Ant.  It  is  shaped,  sir,  like  itself;  and  it  is  as 
broad  as  it  hath  breadth:  it  is  just  so  high  as  it 
is,  and  moves  with  its  own  organs :  it  lives  by 
that  which  nourisheth  it;  and,  the  elements 
once  out  of  it,  it  transmigrates. 

Lep.  What  colour  is  it  of? 

Ant.  Of  its  own  colour  too. 

Lep.  'Tis  a  strange  serpent. 

Ant.  'Tis  so.     And  the  tears  of  it  are  wet. 

Cess.  Will  this  description  satisfy  him? 

Ant.  With  the  health  that  Pompey  gives 
him,  else  he  is  a  very  epicure. 

Pom.  [Aside  to  MEN.]  Go,  hang,  sir,  hang! 

Tell  me  of  that?  away ! 
Do  as  I  bid  you. — Where 's  this  cup  I  call'd  for? 

Men.  [Aside  to  POM.  ]  If  for  the  sake  of  merit 

thou  wilt  hear  me, 
Rise  from  thy  stool. 

Pom.  [Aside  to  MEN.]  I  think  thou'rt  mad. 
The  matter?    [Rises  and  walks  aside. 

Men.  I  have  ever  held  my  cap  off  to  thy 
fortunes. 

Pom.  Thou  hast  serv'd  me  with  much  faith. 

What 's  else  to  say? — 
Be  jolly,  lords. 

Ant.  These  quicksands,  Lepidus, 

Keep  off  them,  for  you  sink. 

Men.  Wilt  thou  be  lord  of  all  the  world? 

Pom.  What  say'st  thou? 

Men.  Wilt  thou  be  lord  of  the  whole  world? 
That 's  twice. 

Pom.  How  should  that  be? 

Men.  But  entertain  it,  and, 

Although  thou  think  me  poor,  I  am  the  man 
Will  give  thee  all  the  world. 

Pom.  Hast  thou  drunk  well  ? 

Men.  No,   Pompey,   I  have  kept  me  from 

the  cup. 

Thou  art,  if  thou  dar'st  be,  the  earthly  Jove : 
Whate'er  the  ocean  pales  or  sky  inclips 
Is  thine,  if  thou  wilt  have 't. 

Pom.  Show  me  which  way. 

Men.  These  three  world-sharers,  these  com- 
petitors, 

Are  in  thy  vessel :  let  me  cut  the  cable ; 
And,  when  we  are  put  off,  fall  to  their  throats : 
All  then  is  thine. 

Pont.  Ah,  this  thou  shouldst  have  done, 
And  not  have  spoke  on 't !  In  me  'tis  villany ; 
In  thee 't  had  been  good  service.  Thou  must 

know 

'Tis  not  my  profit  that  does  lead  mine  honour ; 
Mine  honour  it.     Repent  that  e'er  thy  tongue 


Hath  so  betray'd  thine  act:   being  done  un- 
known, 

I  should  have  found  it  afterwards  well  done ; 
But  must  condemn  it  now.     Desist,  and  drink. 

Men.  [Aside.}  For  this 
I  '11  never  follow  thy  pall'd  fortunes  more. 
Who  seeks,  and  will  not  take  when  once  'tis 

offer'd.  > 
Shall  never  find  it  more. 

Pom.  This  health  to  Lepidus  ! 

Ant.  Bear  him  ashore.   I  '11  pledge  it  for  him, 
Pompey. 

Eno.  Here 's  to  thee,  Menas  ! 

Men.  Enobarbus,  welcome! 

Pom.  Fill  till  the  cup  be  hid. 

Eno.  There 's  a  strong  fellow,  Menas. 
[Pointing  to  the  Attendant  who  carries  off\J&?. 

Men.  Why  ? 

Eno.  'A  bears 

The  third  part  of  the  world,  man  ;  see'st  not? 

Men.    The  third  part,  then,  is  drunk :  would 

it  were  all, 
That  it  might  go  on  wheels ! 

Eno.  Drink  thou  ;  increase  the  reels. 

Men.  Come. 

Porn.  This  is  not  yet  an  Alexandrian  feast. 

Ant.  It  ripens  towards  it. — Strike  the  vessels, 

hoi- 
Here  is  to  Caesar ! 

CCBS.  I  could  well  forbear 't. 

It's  monstrous  labour  when  I  wash  my  brain 
And  it  grows  fouler. 

Ant.  Be  a  child  o'  the  time. 

C<zs.  Possess  it,  I'll  make  answer : 
But  I  had  rather  fast  from  all  four  days 
Than  drink  so  much  in  one. 

Eno.  Ha,  my  brave  emperor ! 

[To  ANTONY. 

Shall  we  dance  now  the  Egyptian  Bacchanals, 
And  celebrate  our  drink  ? 

Pom.'  qi<:  Let's  ha't,  good  soldier. 

Ant.  Come,  let 's  all  take  hands,  [sense 

Till  that  the  conquering  wine  hath  steep'd  our 
In  soft  and  delicate  Lethe. 

Eno.  All  take  hands. — 

Make  battery  to  our  ears  with  the  loud  music : — 
The  while  I  '11  place  you  :  then  the  boy  shall 

sing; 

The  holding  every  man  shall  beat  as  loud 
As  his  strong  sides  can  volley. 
[Music  plays.    ENO.  places  them  hand  in  hand. 

SONG. 

Come,  thou  monarch  of  the  vine, 
Plumpy  Bacchus  with  pink  eyne  1 
In  thy  fats  our  cares  be  drown'd, 
With  thy  grapes  our  hairs  be  crown'd  : 
Cup  us,  till  the  world  go  round, 
Cup  us,  till  the  world  go  round  I 


SCENE  VII.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


90S 


C<zs.     What    would  you    more? — Pompey, 

good -night.     Good  brother, 
Let  me  request  you  off:  our  graver  business 
Frowns  at  this  levity. — Gentle  lords,  let  'spart; 
You  see  we  have  burnt   our  cheeks :    strong 

Enobarb 

Is  weaker  than  the  wine  ;  and  mine  own  tongue 
Splits  what  it  speaks  :  the  wild  disguise  haih 
almost  [night. — 

Antick'd  us  all.  What  needs  more  words.  Good- 
Good  Antony,  your  hand. 

Pom.  I  '11  try  you  on  the  shore. 

Ant.  And  shall,  sir  :  give 's  your  hand. 
Pom.  O  Antony, 

You  have  my  father's  house, — but,  what  ?  we 

are  friends. 
Come,  down  into  the  boat. 

Eno.  Take  heed  you  fall  not. 

[Exeunf  POM.,  CES.,  ANT.,  and  Attendants. 
Menas,  I  '11  not  on  shore. 

Men.  No,  to  my  cabin. — 

These  drums  ! — these  trumpets,  flutes  !  what ! — 
Let  Neptune  hear  we  bid  a  loud  farewell 
To  these  great  fellows :  sound  and  be  hang'd, 
sound  out ! 

[A  flourish  of 'trumpets ',  with  drums. 
Eno.  Hoo  !  says  'a. — There  's  my  cap. 
Men.  Hoo ! — noble  captain,  come.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — A  Plain  in  Syria. 
Enter  VENTIDIUS,  in  triumph,  with  SILIUS 
and  other  Romans,  Officers,  and  Soldiers; 
the  dead,  body  0/TACORUS  borne  in  front. 
Ven.  Now,  darting  Parthia,  art  thou  struck ; 

and  now 

Pleas'd  fortune  does  of  Marcus  Crassus'  death 
Make  me  revenger. — Bear  the  king's  son's  body 
Before  our  army. — Thy  Pacorus,  Orodes, 
Pays  this  for  Marcus  Crassus. 

Sil.  Noble  Ventidius, 

Whilst  yet  with  Parthian  blood  thy  sword  is  warm 
The  fugitive  Parthians  follow;  spur  through 

Media, 

Mesopotamia,  and  the  shelters  whither 
The  routed  fly :  so  thy  grand  captain  Antony 
Shall  set  thee  on  triumphant  chariots,  and 
Put  garlands  on  thy  head. 

Ven.  O  Silius,  Silius, 

I  have  done  enough  :  a  lower  place,  note  well, 
May  make  too  great  an  act;   for  learn  this, 

Silius, — 

Better  to  leave  undone,  than  by  our  deed 
Acquire  too  high  a  fame  when  him  we  serve 's 

away. 
Caesar  and  Antony  have  ever  won 


More  in  their  officer,  than  person :  Sossius, 

One  of  my  place  in  Syria,  his  lieutenant, 

For  quick  accumulation  of  renown, 

Which  he  achiev'd  by  the  minute,  lost  his  favour. 

Who  does  i'  the  wars  more  than  his  captain  can 

Becomes  his  captain's  captain :  and  ambition, 

The  soldier's  virtue,  rather  makes  choice  of  loss 

Than  gain  which  darkens  him. 

I  could  do  more  to  do  An>.onius  good, 

But  'twould  offend  him ;  and  in  his  offence 

Should  my  performance  perish. 

Sil.  Thou  hast,  Ventidius,  that 

Without  the  which  a  soldier  and  his  sword 
Grants  scarce  distinction.     Thou  wilt  write  to 
Antony  ? 

Ven.  I  '11  humbly  signify  what  in  his  name, 
That  magical  word  of  war,  we  have  effected  ; 
How,  with  his  banners,  and  his  well-paid  ranks, 
The  ne'er-yet-beaten  horse  of  Parthia 
We  have  jaded  out  o}  the  field. 

Sil.  Where  is  he  now  ? 

Ven.  He    purposeth  to    Athens :    whither, 

with  what  haste 

The  weight  we  must  convey  with 's  will  permit, 

We  shall  appear  before  him. — On,  there  ;  pass 

along !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — ROME.     An  Ante-Chamber  in 

CESAR'S  House. 

Enter  AGRIPPA  and  ENOBARBUS,  meeting. 
Agr.  What,  are  the  brothers  parted  ? 
Eno.  They  have  despatch'd  with  Pompey,  he 

is  gone  ; 

The  other  three  are  sealing.     Octavia  weeps 
To  part  from  Rome:  Caesar  is  sad;  and  Lepidus, 
Since  Pompey's  feast,  as  Menas  says,  is  troubled 
With  the  green  sickness. 
Agr.  'Tis  a  noble  Lepidus. 

Eno.  A  very  fine  one  :  O,  how  he  loves 
Csesar !  [Antony ! 

Agr.  Nay,  but  how  dearly  he  adores  Mark 
Eno.  Caesar  ?  Why  he 's  the  Jupiter  of  men. 
Agr.  What 's  Antony  ?  The  god  of  Jupiter. 
Eno.  Speak  you  of  Caesar?  How!  the 

nonpareil  ! 

Agr.  Of  Antony.     O  thou  Arabian  bird  ! 
Eno.  Would  you  praise  Caesar,  say  Ctzsar, — 

go  no  further. 

Agr.  Indeed,  he  plied  them  both  with  ex- 
cellent praises.  [Antony : 
Eno.  But  he  loves  Caesar  best ; — yet  he  loves 
Hoo  1  hearts,  tongues,  figures,  scribes,  bards, 
poets  cannot  [hoo  ! — 
Think,   speak,    cast,   write,   sing,    number,— 
His  love  to  Antony.     But  as  for  Caesar, 
Kneel  down,  kneel  down,  and  wonder. 


906 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[ACT  in. 


Agr.  Both  he  loves. 

Eno.  They  are  his  shards,  and  he  their  beetle. 

[Trumpets  inithin.~\     So, — 
This  is  to  horse. — Adieu,  noble  Agrippa. 
Agr.  Good    fortune,   worthy    soldier ;    and 

farewell. 

Enter  CESAR,  ANTONY,  LEPIDUS,  ana 
OCTAVIA. 

Ant.  No  further,  sir. 

Cces.  You  take  from  me  a  great  part  of  myself; 
Use  me  well  in't. — Sister,  prove  such  a  wife 
As  my  thoughts  make  thee,  and  as  my  furthest 

band 

Shall  pass  on  thy  approof. — Most  noble  Antony, 
Let  not  the  piece  of  virtue  which  is  set 
Betwixt  us  as  the  cement  of  our  love, 
To  keep  it  builded,  be  the  ram  to  batter 
The  fortress  of  it ;  for  better  might  we 
Have  lov'd  without  this  mean  if  on  both  parts 
This  be  not  cherish'd. 

Ant.  Make  me  not  offended 

In  your  distrust. 

Cces.  I  have  said. 

Ant.  You  shall  not  find, 

Though  you  be  therein  curious,  the  least  cause 
For  what  you  seem  to  fear  :  so,  the  gods  keep 

you, 

And  make  the  hearts  of  Romans  serve  your  ends  ! 
We  will  here  part.  [well : 

Cces.  Farewell,  my  dearest  sister,  fare  thee 
The  elements  be  kind  to  thee,  and  make 
Thy  spirits  all  of  comfort  !     Fare  thee  well. 

Octa.   My  noble  brother  ! — 

Ant.  The  April 's  in  her  eyes :  it  is  love's 

spring,  [cheerful. 

And  these  the   showers  to  bring  it  on. — Be 

Octa.  Sir,  look  well  to  my  husband's  house  ; 
and — 

Cats.  What, 

Octavia  ? 

Octa.  I  '11  tell  you  in  your  ear. 

Ant.   Her  tongue  will  not  obey  her  heart, 

nor  can 
Her  heart  inform  her  tongue, — the  swan's  down 

feather, 

That  stands  upon  the  swell  at  the  full  of  tide, 
And  neither  way  inclines. 

Eno.  [Aside  to  AGRIPPA.]  Will  Caesar  weep? 

Agr.  [Aside  to  ENO.]  He  has  a  cloud  in 's  face. 
:   Eno.  [Aside  to  AGRIPPA.]      He  were    the 

worse  for  that,  were  he  a  horse  ; 
So  is  he,  being  a  man. 

Agr.  [Aside  to  ENO.]  Why,  Enobarbus, 
When  Antony  found  Julius  Caesar  dead, 
He  cried  almost  to  roaring  ;  and  he  wept 
When  at  Philippi  he  found  Brutus  slain. 


Eno.  [Aside  /0  AGRIPPA.]  That  year,  indeed, 

he  was  troubled  with  a  rheum  ; 
What  willingly  he  did  confound  he  wail'd  : 
Believe  't  till  I  weep  too. 

Cces.  No,  sweet  Octavia, 

You  shall  hear  from  me  still ;  the  time  shall  not 
Out-go  my  thinking  on  you. 

Ant.  Come,  sir,  come  ; 

I  '11  wrestle  with  you  in  my  strength  of  love  : 
Look,  here  I  have  you  ;  thus  I  let  you  go, 
And  give  you  to  the  gods. 

C(zs.  Adieu  ;  be  happy  ! 

Lep.  Let  all   the  number  of  the   stars  give 

light 
To  thy  fair  way  ! 

Cces.     Farewell,  farewell  !  [Kisses  OCTAVIA. 

Ant.  Farewell  ! 

[  Trumpets  sound  within.     Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — ALEXANDRIA.     A  Room  in  the 
Palace. 

Enter   CLEOPATRA,    CHARMIAN,   IRAS,   and 
ALEXAS. 

Cleo.  Where  is  the  fellow? 

Alex.  Half  afear'd  to  come. 

Cleo,  Go  to,  go  to. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Come  hither,  sir. 

Alex.  Good  majesty, 

Herod  of  Jewry  dare  not  look  upon  you 
But  when  you  are  well  pleas'd. 

Cleo.  That  Herod's  head 

I  '11  have  :  but  how  ?  when  Antony  is  gone, 
Through  whom  I  might  command  it? — Come 
thou  near. 

Mess.  Most  gracious  majesty, — 

Cleo.  Didst  thou  behold 

Octavia  ? 

Mess.  Ay,  dread  queen. 

Cleo.  Where? 

Mess.  Madam,  in  Rome 

I  look'd  her  in  the  face,  and  saw  her  led 
Between  her  brother  and  Mark  Antony. 

Cleo.  Is  she  as  tall  as  me  ? 

Mess.  She  is  not,  madam. 

Cleo.  Didst  hear  her  speak?  is  she  shrill 
tongu'd  or  low-? 

Mess.  Madam,  I  heard  her   speak ;  she  is 
low  voic'd.  [her  long. 

Cleo.  That's  not  so  good : — he  cannot  like 

Char.  Like  her  !     O  Isis  !  'tis  impossible. 

Cleo.  I  think  so,  Charmian  :  dull  of  tongue 

and  dwarfish  ! — 

What  majesty  is  in  her  gait  ?    Remember, 
If  e'er  thou  look'dst  on  majesty. 


SCENE  IV.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


907 


Mess.  She  creeps, — 

Her  motion  and  her  station  are  as  one ;  id  HA 
She  shows  a  body  rather  than  a  life, 
A  statue  than  a  breather. 

Cleo.  Is  this  certain  ? 

Mess.  Or  I  have  no  observance. 

Char.  Three  in  Egypt 

Cannot  make  better  note. 

Cleo.  He 's  very  knowing ; 

I  do  perceive 't : — there 's  nothing  in  her  yet : — 
The  fellow  has  good  judgment. 

Char.  Excellent. 

Cho.   Guess  at  her  years,  I  pr'ythee. 

Mess.  Madam, 

She  was  a  widow. 

Cleo.  Widow  ! — Charmian,  hark  ! 

Mess.  And  I  do  think  she 's  thirty. 

Cleo.    Bear'st  thou  her  face  in  mind?   is't 
long  or  round  ? 

Mess.   Round  even  to  faultiness. 

Cleo.  For  the  most  part,  too,  they  are  foolish 

that  are  so. — 
Her  hair,  what  colour? 

Mess.  Brown,  madam  :  and  her  forehead 
As  low  as  she  would  wish  it. 

Cleo.  There 's  gold  for  thee. 

Thou  must  not  take  my  former  sharpness  ill : — 
I  will  employ  thee  back  again  ;  I  find  thee 
Most  fit  for  business  :  go  make  thee  ready ; 
Our  letters  are  prepar'd.          [Exit  Messenger. 

Char.  A  proper  man. 

Cleo.  Indeed,  he  is  so  :  I  repent  me  much 
That  so  I  harried  him.    Why,  methinks,  by  him 
This  creature  3s  no  such  thing. 

Char.  Nothing,  madam. 

Cleo.  The  man  hath  seen  some  majesty,  and 
should  know. 

Char.  Hath  he  seen  majesty?  Isis  else  defend, 
And  serving  you  so  long  ! 

Cleo.  I  have  one  thing  more  to  ask  him  yet, 

good  Charmian : 

But  'tis  no  matter  ;  thou  shalt  bring  him  to  me 
Where  I  will  write.     All  may  be  well  enough. 

Char.  I  warrant  you,  madam.          {Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — ATHENS.     A  Room  in 
ANTONY'S  House. 

Enter  ANTONY  and  OCTAVIA. 

Ant.  Nay,  nay,  Octavia,  not  only  that, — 
That  were  excusable,  that  and  thousands  more 
Of  semblable  import, — but  he  hath  wag'd 
New  wars  'gainst  Pompey  ;  made  his  will,  and 

read  it 

To  public  ear  :  [not 

Spoke  scantly  of  me  :  when  perforce  he  could 
But  pay  me  terms  of  honour,  cold  and  sickly 


He  vented  them ;  most  narrow  measure  lent  me : 
When  the  best  hint  was  given  him,  he  not  took't, 
Or  did  it  from  his  teeth. 

Octa.  O  my  good  lord, 

Believe  not  all ;  or,  if  you  must  believe, 
Stomach  not  all.     A  more  unhappy  lady, 
If  this  division  chance,  ne'er  stood  between, 
Praying  for  both  parts  : 
Sure  the  good  gods  will  mock  me  presently 
When   I   shall   pray,    0,   bless  my   lord   and 

husband! 

Undo  that  prayer,  by  crying  out  as  loud, 
(9,   bless    my    brother  I      Husband  win,   win 

brother, 

Prays  and  destroys  the  prayer  ;  no  midway 
'Twixt  these  extremes  at  all. 

Ant.  Gentle  Octavia, 

Let  your  best  love  draw  to  that  point  which 

seeks 

Best  to  preserve  it :  if  I  lose  mine  honour 
I  lose  myself :  better  I  were  not  yours 
Than  yours  so  branchless.      But,  as  you  re- 
quested, [lady, 
Yourself  shall  go  between 's :    the  meantime, 
I  '11  raise  the  preparation  of  a  war           [haste  ; 
Shall  stain  your  brother:  make  your  soonest 
So  your  desires  are  yours. 

Octa.  Thanks  to  my  lord. 

The  Jove  of  power  make  me,  most  weak,  most 

weak,  [be 

Your  reconciler  I     Wars  'twixt  you  twain  would 

As  if  the  world  should  cleave,  and  that  slain  men 

Should  solder  up  the  rift.  shv/?  r {begins, 

Ant.  When  it  appears   to  you  where  this 

Turn  your  displeasure  that  way  ;  for  our  faults 

Can  never  be  so  equal  that  your  love 

Can  equally  move  with  them.     Provide  your 

going ;  [cost 

Choose  your  own  company,  and  command  what 

Your  heart  has  mind  to.  \Exeunt* 

SCENE  V. — ATHENS.     Another  Room  in 
ANTONY'S  House. 

Enter  ENOBARBUS  and  EROS,  meeting. 

Eno.  How  now,  friend  Eros  ! 

Eros.  There 's  strange  news  come,  sir. 

Eno.  What,  man?  [upon  Pompey. 

Eros.  Caesar  and  Lepidus  have  made  wars 

Eno.  This  is  old  :  what  is  the  success  ? 

Eros.  Caesar,  having  made  use  of  him  in  the 
wars  'gainst  Pompey,  presently  denied  him 
rivality ;  would  not  let  him  partake  in  the  glory 
of  the  action :  and  not  resting  here,  accuses 
him  of  letters  he  had  formerly  wrote  to  Pom- 
pey ;  upon  his  own  appeal  seizes  him  :  so  the 
poor  third  is  up,  till  death  enlarge  his  confine. 


908 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


LACT  in. 


Eno.  Then  world,  thou  hast  a  pair  of  chaps, 

no  more ; 

And  throw  between  them  all  the  food  thou  hast, 

They'll  grind  the  one  the  other.      Where's 

Antony  ?  [spurns 

Eros.  He 's  walking  in  the  garden — thus ;  and 
The  rush  that    lies  before  him ;    cries,  Fool 

Lepidus  ! 

And  threats  the  throat  of  that  his  officer 
That  murder'd  Pompey. 

Eno.  Our  great  navy 's  rigg'd. 

Eros.  For  Italy  and  Caesar.   More,  Domitius ; 
My  lord  desires  you  presently :  my  news 
I  might  have  told  hereafter. 

Eno.  'Twill  be  naught : 

But  let  it  be. — Bring  me  to  Antony. 

Eros.  Come,  sir.  \Exeunt. 

:•'(    J.-:J 

SCENE  VI. — ROME.     A  Room  in  CESAR'S 
House. 

Enter  CESAR,  AGRIPPA,  and  MEC^NAS. 

Cces.  Contemning   Rome,  he  has  done  all 

this,  and  more, 

In  Alexandria  :  here's  the  manner  oft : — 
I'  the  market-place,  on  a  tribunal  silver'd, 
Cleopatra  and  himself  in  chairs  of  gold 
Were  publicly  enthron'd  :  at  the  feet  sr,t 
Caesarion,  whom  they  call  my  father's  son, 
And  all  the  unlawful  issue  that  their  lust    [her 
Since  then  hath  made  between  them.     Unto 
He  gave  the  'stablishment  of  Egypt ;  made  her 
Of  Lower  Syria,  Cyprus,  Lydia, 
Absolute  queen. 

Mec.  This  in  the  public  eye  ? 

Cces.  V  the  common  show-place,  where  they 

exercise. 

His  sons  he  there  proclaim'd  the  kings  of  kings : 
Great  Media,  Parthia,  and  Armenia 
He  gave  to  Alexander  ;  to  Ptolemy  he  assign'd 
Syria,  Cilicia,  and  Phoenicia :  she 
In  the  habiliments  of  the  goddess  Isis       [ence, 
That  day  appear'd  ;  and  oft  before  gave  audi- 
As  'tis  reported,  so. 

Mec.  Let  Rome  be  thus 

Inform'd. 

Agr.  Who,  queasy  with  his  insolence 
Already,  will  their  good  thoughts  call  from  him. 

Cces.  The  people  know  it :  and  have  now 

receiv'd 
His  accusations. 

Agr.  Who  does  he  accuse  ? 

Cces.  Caesar :  and  that,  having  in  Sicily 
Sextus  Pompeius  spoil'd,  we  had  not  rated  him 
His  part  o'  the  isle :  then  does  he  say  he  lent  me 
Some  shipping,  unrestor'd  :  lastly,  he  frets 
That  Lepidus  of  the  triumvirate 


Should  be  depos'd;  and,  being,  that  we  detain 
All  his  revenue. 

Agr.  Sir,  this  should  be  answer'd. 

Cces.  'Tis  done  already,  and  the  messenger 

gone. 

I  have  told  him  Lepidus  was  grown  too  cruel ; 
That  he  his  high  authority  abus'd, 
And  did  deserve  his  change  :  for  what  I  have 

conquer'd 

I  grant  him  part ;  but  then,  in  his  Armenia 
And  other  of  his  conquer'd  kingdoms,  I 
Demand  the  like. 

Mec.  He  '11  never  yield  to  that. 

Cces*  Nor  must  not,  then,  be  yielded  to  in  this. 

Enter  OCTAVIA,  with  her  Train. 

Octa.  Hail,  Caesar,  and  my  lord  !  hail,  most 
dear  Caesar ! 

CCES.  That  ever  I  should  call  thee  castaway ! 

Octa.  You  have  not  call'd  me  so,  nor  have 
you  cause.  [come  not 

Cces.  Why  have  you  stol'n  upon  us  thus  ?  You 
Like  Caesar's  sister  :  the  wife  of  Antony 
Should  have  an  army  for  an  usher,  and 
The  neighs  of  horse  to  tell  of  her  approach 
Long  ere  she  did  appear ;  the  trees  by  the  way 
Should  have    borne    men ;    and    expectation 

fainted, 

Longing  for  what  it  had  not ;  nay,  the  dust 
Should  have  ascended  to  the  roof  of  heaven, 
Rais'd  by  your  populous  troops :  but  you  are 

come 

A  market-maid  to  Rome  ;  and  have  prevented 
The  ostentation  of  our  love,  which  left  unshown 
Is  often  left  unlov'd  :  we  should  have  met  you 
By  sea  and  land  ;  supplying  every  stage 
With  an  augmented  greeting. 

Octa.  Good  my  lord, 

To  come  thus  was  I  not  constrained,  but  did  it 
On  my  free-will.     My  lord,  Mark  Antony, 
Hearing  that  you  prepar'd  for  war,  acquainted 
My  grieved  ear  withal :  whereon  I  begg'd 
His  pardon  for  return. 

Cces.  Which  soon  he  granted, 

Being  an  obstruct  'tween  his  lust  and  him. 

Octa.  Do  not  say  so,  my  lord. 

Cces.  I  have  eyes  upon  him, 

And  his  affairs  come  to  me  on  the  wind. 
Where  is  he  now  ? 

Octa.  My  lord,  in  Athens. 

Cces.  No,  my  most  wronged  sister ;  Cleo- 
patra [empire 
Hath  nodded  him  to  her.  He  hath  given  his 
Up  to  a  whore  ;  who  now  are  levying  [bled 
The  kings  o'  the  earth  for  war  :  he  hath  assem- 
Bocchus,  the  king  of  Libya  ;  Archelaus 
Of  Cappadocia  ;  Philadelphos,  king 


SCENE  VII.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


909 


Of  Paphlagonia ;  the  Thracian  king,  Adallas ; 
King  Malchus  of  Arabia  ;  King  of  Pont ; 
Herod  of  Jewry  ;  Mithridates,  king 
Of  Comagene  ;  Polemon  and  Amyntas, 
The  kings  of  Mede  and  Lycaonia,  with  a 
More  larger  list  of  sceptres. 

Octa.  Ay  me,  most  wretched, 

That  have  my  heart  parted  betwixt  two  friends 
That  do  afflict  each  other  ! 

Cas.  Welcome  hither : 

Your  letters  did  withhold  our  breaking  forth, 
Till  we  perceiv'd  both  how  you  were  wrong  led 
And  we  in  negligent  danger.    Cheer  your  heart : 
Be  you  not  troubled  with  the  time,  which  drives 
O'er  your  content  these  strong  necessities ; 
But  let  determin'd  things  to  destiny 
Hold  unbewail'd  their  way.  Welcome  to  Rome ; 
Nothing  more  dear  to  me.     You  are  abus'd 
Beyond  the  mark  of  thought :  and  the  high  gods, 
To  do  you  justice,  make  their  ministers 
Of  us  and  those  that  love  you.    Best  of  comfort ; 
And  ever  welcome  to  us. 

Agr.  Welcome,  lady. 

Mec.  Welcome,  dear  madam. 
Each  heart  in  Rome  does  love  and  pity  you : 
Only  the  adulterous  Antony,  most  large 
In  his  abominations,  turns  you  off ; 
And  gives  his  potent  regiment  to  a  trull 
That  noises  it  against  us. 

Octa.  Is  it  so,  sir  ?          [you 

Cas.  Most  certain.     Sister,  welcome  :  pray 
Be  ever  known  to  patience  :  my  dear'st  sister  ! 

[Exeunt. 
f*!-£  *b  57^o^woH  - 

SCENE  VII.— ANTONY'S  Camp  near  the 
Promontory  of  Actium. 

Enter  CLEOPATRA  and  ENOBARBUS. 

Cleo.  I  will  be  even  with  thee,  doubt  it  not. 

Eno.  But  why,  why,  why  ?  [wars, 

Cleo.  Thou  hast  forspoke  my  being  in  these 
And  say'st  it  is  not  fit. 

Eno.  Well,  is  it,  is  it? 

Cleo.    If   not  denounc'd    against    us,    why 

should  not  we 
Be  there  in  person  ? 

Eno.  [Aside.]        Well,  I  could  reply  :— 
If  we  should  serve  with  horse  and  mares  to- 
gether [bear 
The  horse  were  merely  lost ;  the  mares  would 
A  soldier  and  his  horse. 

Cleo.  What  is 't  you  say? 

Eno.    Your    presence    needs    must    puzzle 

Antony ;  [time, 

Take  from  his  heart,  take  from  his  brain,  from 's 

What  should  not  then  be  spar'd.    He  is  already 

Traduc'd  for  levity  :  and  'tis  said  in  Rome 


That  Photinus  an  eunuch  and  your  maids 
Manage  this  war. 

Cleo.  Sink  Rome,  and  their  tongues  rot 

That  speak  against  us  I    A  charge  we  bear  i' 

the  war, 

And,  as  the  president  of  my  kingdom,  will 
Appear  there  for  a  man.     Speak  not  against  it ; 
I  will  not  stay  behind. 

Eno.  Nay,  I  have  done. 

Here  comes  the  emperor. 

Enter  ANTONY  and  CANIDIUS. 

Ant.  Is  it  not  strange,  Canidius, 

That  from  Tarentum  and  Brundusium 
He  could  so  quickly  cut  the  Ionian  sea, 
And  take  in  Toryne? — You  have  heard  on't, 
sweet  ? 

Cleo.  Celerity  is  never  more  admir'd 
Than  by  the  negligent. 

Ant.  A  good  rebuke, 

Which  might  have  well  become  the  best  of  men 
To  taunt  at  slackness. — Canidius,  we 
Will  fight  with  him  by  sea. 

Cleo.  By  sea!  what  else? 

Can.  Why  will  my  lord  do  so? 

Ant.  For  that  he  dares  us  to't. 

Eno.  So  hath  my  lord  dar'd  him  to  single  fight. 

Can.  Ay,  and  to  wage  this  battle  at  Pharsalia, 
Where  Csesar  fought  with  Pompey :  but  these 

offers, 

Which  serve  not  for  his  vantage,  he  shakes  off; 
And  so  should  you. 

Eno.  Your  ships  are  not  well  mann'd : 

Your  mariners  are  muleteers,  reapers,  people 
Ingross'd  by  swift  impress;  in  Caesar's  fleet 
Are  those   that   often    have  'gainst    Pompey 

fought : 

Their  ships  are  yare ;  yours  heavy :  no  disgrace 
Shall  fall  you  for  refusing  him  at  sea, 
Being  prepar'd  for  land. 

Ant.  By  sea,  by  sea. 

Eno.  Most  worthy  sir,  you  therein  throw 

away 

The  absolute  soldiership  you  have  by  land ; 
Distract  your  army,  which  doth  most  consist 
Of  war-mark'd  footmen  ;    leave  unexecuted 
Your  own  renowned  knowledge ;  quite  forego 
The  way  which  promises  assurance ;  and 
Give  up  yourself  merely  to  chance  and  hazard 
From  firm  security. 

Ant.  I  '11  fight  at  sea. 

Cleo.  I  have  sixty  sails,  Csesar  none  better. 

Ant.  Our  overplus  of  shipping  will  we  burn ; 
And,  with  the  rest  full-mann'd,  from  the  head 

of  Actium 

Beat  the  approaching  Csesar.     But  if  we  fail 
We  then  can  do 't  at  land. 


g  10 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[ACT  in. 


Enter  a  Messenger. 

Thy  business? 
Mess.   The  news  is  true,  my  lord;  he  is 

descried ; 

Caesar  has  taken  Toryne.  [possible  j 

Ant.  Can  he  be  there  in  person?   'tis  im- 
Strange  that  his  power  should  be. — Canidius, 
Our  nineteen  legions  thou  shalt  hold  by  land, 
And  our  twelve  thousand  horse. — We  '11  to  our 

ship: 
Away,  my  Thetis ! 

Enter  a  Soldier. 

How  now,  worthy  soldier? 

Sold.  O  noble  emperor,  do  not  fight  by  sea ; 
Trust  not  to  rotten  planks :  do  you  misdoubt 
This  sword  and  these  my  wounds?     Let  the 

Egyptians 

And  the  Phoenicians  go  a-ducking :  we 
Have  used  to  conquer  standing  on  the  earth 
And  fighting  foot  to  foot. 

Ant.  Well,  well:— away. 

[Exeunt  ANT.,  CLEO.,  arc^ENO. 

Sold.  By  Hercules,  I  think  I  am  i'  the  right. 

Can.  Soldier,  thou  art :  but  his  whole  action 

grows 

Not  in  the  power  on 't :  so  our  leader 's  led, 
And  we  are  women's  men. 

Sold.  You  keep  by  land 

The  legions  and  the  horse  whole,  do  you  not? 

Can.   Marcus  Octavius,  Marcius  Justeius, 
Publicola,  and  Caelius  are  for  sea : 
But  we  keep  whole  by  land.     This  speed  of 

Caesar's 
Carries  beyond  belief. 

Sold.  While  he  was  yet  in  Rome 

His  power  went  out  in  such  distractions  as 
Beguil'd  all  spies. 

Can.  Who 's  his  lieutenant,  hear  you? 

Sold.  They  say  one  Taurus. 

Can.  Well  I  know  the  man. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  The  emperor  calls  Canidius. 

Can.  With  news  the  time 's  with  labour :  and 

throes  forth 
Each  minute  some.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VIII.  — A  Plain  near  Actiutn. 
Enter  C^SAR,  TAURUS,  Officers,  and  others. 

Cats.  Taurus, — 
Taw\  My  lord? 

C<zs.  Strike  not  by  land ;  keep  whole ;  pro- 
voke not  battle 
Till  we  have  done  at  sea.     Do  not  exceed 


The  prescript  of  this  scroll :  our  fortune  lies 
Upon  this  jump.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IX.—  Another  part  of  the  Plain. 
Enter  ANTONY  and  ENOBARBUS. 

Ant.  Set  we  our  squadrons  on  yon  side  o' 

the  hill, 

In  eye  of  Caesar's  battle ;  from  which  place 
We  may  the  number  of  the  ships  behold, 
And  so  proceed  accordingly.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  X. — Another  part  of  the  Plain. 

Enter  CANIDIUS,  marching  -with  his  land 
Army  oneway;  and  TAURUS,  the  Lieutenant 
of  C^SAR,  with  his  Army,  the  other  way. 
After  their  going  zn,  is  heard  the  noise  of  a 
sea-fight. 

Alarum.     Enter  ENOBARBUS. 
Eno.  Naught,  naught,  all  naught !  I  can  be- 
hold no  longer : 

The  Antoniad,  the  Egyptian  admiral, 
With  all  their  sixty,  fly  and  turn  the  rudder : 
To  see 't  mine  eyes  are  blasted. 

Enter  SCARUS. 

Scar.  Gods  and  goddesses. 

All  the  whole  synod  of  them ! 

Eno.  What's  thy  passion? 

Scar.  The  greater  cantle  of  the  world  is  lost 
With  very  ignorance ;  we  have  kiss'd  away 
Kingdoms  and  provinces. 

Eno.  How  appears  the  fight? 

Scar.  On  our  side  like  the  token'd  pestilence, 
Where  death  is  sure.     Yon  ribaudred  nag  of 
Egypt,—  [fight, 

Whom  leprosy  o'ertake! — i'  the  midst  o'  the 
When  vantage  like  a  pair  of  twins  appear'd, 
Both  as  the  same,  or  rather  ours  the  elder, — 
The  breese  upon  her,  like  a  cow  in  June, — 
Hoists  sails  and  flies. 

Eno.  That  I  beheld :  [not 

Mine  eyes  did  sicken  at  the  sight,  and  could 
Endure  a  further  view. 

Scar.  She  once  being  loof'd 

The  noble  ruin  of  her  magic,  Antony, 
Claps  on  hissea-wing,  and,  like  a  doting  mallard, 
Leaving  the  fight  in  height,  flies  after  her : 
I  never  saw  an  action  of  such  shame ; 
Experience,  manhood,  honour,  ne'er  before 
Did  violate  so  itself. 

Eno.  Alack,  alack ! 

Enter  CANIDIUS. 

Can.  Our  fortune  on  the  sea  is  out  of  breath, 
And  sinks  most  lamentably.     Had  our  general 


SCENE  XI.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


Been  what  he  knew  himself,  it  had  gone  well : 
O,  he  has  given  example  for  our  flight 
Most  grossly  by  his  own ! 

Eno.  Ay,  are  you  thereabouts? 
Why,  then,  good-night  indeed. 

Can.  Towards  Peloponnesus  are  they  fled. 

Scar.  'Tis  easy  to 't ;  and  there  I  will  attend 
What  further  comes. 

Can.  To  Caesar  will  I  render 

My  legions  and  my  horse ;  six  kings  already 
Show  me  the  way  of  yielding. 

Eno.  I '11  yet  follow 

The  wounded  chance  of  Antony,  though  my 

reason 
Sits  in  the  wind  against  me.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  XI. — ALEXANDRIA.     A  Room  in  the 
Palace. 

Enter  ANTONY  and  Attendants. 

Ant.  Hark  !  the  land  bids  me  tread  no  more 

upon't, —  [hither: 

It  is  asham'd   to  bear  me ! — Friends,   come 
I  am  so  lated  in  the  world  that  I 
Have  lost  my  way  for  ever : — I  have  a  ship 
Laden  with  gold,  take  that,  divide  it ;  fly, 
And  make  your  peace  with  Caesar. 

All.  Fly !  not  we. 

Ant.  I  have  fled  myself,  and  have  instructed 

cowards  [gone ; 

To  run  and  show  their  shoulders. — Friends,  be 
I  have  myself  resolv'd  upon  a  course 
Which  has  no  need  of  you ;  begone : 
My  treasure's  in  the  harbour,  take  it. — O, 
I  followed  that  I  blush  to  look  upon; 
My  very  hairs  do  mutiny ;  for  the  white 
Reprove  the  brown  for  rashness,  and  they  them 
For  fear  and  doting. — Friends,  be  gone:  you 

shall 

Have  letters  from  me  to  some  friends  that  will 
Sweep  your  way  for  you.     Pray  you,  look  not 

sad, 

Nor  make  replies  of  loathness :  take  the  hint 
Which  my  despair  proclaims ;  let  that  be  left 
Which  leaves  itself :  to  the  sea-side  straightway : 
I  will  possess  you  of  that  ship  and  treasure. 
Leave  me,  I  pray,  a  little :  pray  you  now : — 
Nay,  do  so ;  for,  indeed,  I  have  lost  command, 
Therefore  I  pray  you : — I  '11  see  you  by  and  by. 

\Sits  down. 

Enter  CLEOPATRA,  led  by  CHARMIAN  and 
IRAS,  EROS  following. 

Eros.  Nay,  gentle  madam,  to  him, — com- 
fort him. 

Iras.  Do,  most  dear  queen. 
Char.  Do!  why,  what  else? 


Cleo.  Let  me  sit  down.     O  Juno ! 

Ant.  No,  no,  no,  no,  no. 

Eros.  See  you  here,  sir? 

Ant.  O  fie,  fie,  fie ! 

Char.  Madam, — 

Iras.  Madam,  O  good  empress, — 

Eros.  Sir,  sir, — 

Ant.  Yes,   my  lord,   yes; — he  at  Philippi 

kept 

His  sword  e'en  like  a  dancer ;  while  I  struck 
The  lean  and  wrinkled  Cassius ;  and  'twas  I 
That  the  mad  Brutus  ended ;  he  alone 
Dealt  on  lieutenantry,  and  no  practice  had 
In  the  brave  squares  of  war:    yet  now — no 
matter. 

Cleo.  Ah,  stand  by. 

Eros.  The  queen,  my  lord,  the  queen. 

Iras.  Go  to  him,  madam,  speak  to  him: 
He  is  unqualitied  with  very  shame. 

Cleo.  Well  then, — sustain  me : — O  ! 

Eros.  Most  noble  sir,  arise ;  the  queen  ap- 
proaches : 
Her  head  3s  declin'd,  and  death  will  seize  her, 

but 
Your  comfort  make  the  rescue. 

Ant.  I  have  offended  reputation, — 
A  most  unnoble  swerving. 

Eros.  Sir,  the  queen.     [See 

Ant.  O,  whither  hast  thou  led  me,  Egypt? 
How  I  convey  my  shame  out  of  thine  eyes 
B/  looking  back,  what  I  have  left  behind 
'StroyM  in  dishonour. 

Cleo.  O  my  lord,  my  lord, 

Forgive  my  fearful  sails !     I  little  thought 
You  would  have  followed. 

Ant.  Egypt,  thou  kn^w'st  too  well 

My  heart  was  to  thy  rudder  tied  by  the  strings, 
And  thou  shouldst  tow  me  after :  o'er  my  spirit 
Thy  full  supremacy  thou  knew'st,  and  that 
Thy  beck  might  from  the  bidding  ot  the  gods 
Command  me. 

Cleo.  O,  my  pardon ! 

Ant.  Now  I  must 

To  the  young  man  send  humble  treaties,  dodge 
And  palter  in  the  shifts  of  lowness ;  who 
With  half  the  bulk  o'  the  world  play'd  as  1 

pleas'd, 

Making  and  marring  fortunes      You  did  know 
How  much  you  were  my  conqueror  ;  and  that 
My  sword,  made  weak  by  my  affection,  would 
Obey  it  on  all  cause. 

Cleo.  Pardon,  pardon! 

Ant.  Fall  not  a  tear,  I  say ;  one  of  them  rates 
All  that  is  won  and  lost .  give  me  a  kiss ; 
Even  this  repays  me.— We  sent  our  school- 
master ; 
Is  he  come  back? — Love,  I  am  full  ol  lead.— 


912 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[ACT  III. 


Some  wine,  within  there,  and  our  viands! — • 

Fortune  knows 

We  scorn  her  most  when  most  she  offers  blows. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  XII. — CESAR'S  Camp  in  Egypt. 

Enter  C^SAR,  DOLABELLA,  THYREUS, 
and  others. 

Cas.  Let  him  appear  that 's  come  from  An- 
tony.— 
Know  you  him  ? 

Dot.  Caesar,  'tis  his  schoolmaster : 

An  argument  that  he  is  pluck'd,  when  hither 
He  sends  so  poor  a  pinion  of  his  wing, 
Which  had  superfluous  kings  for  messengers 
Not  many  moons  gone  by. 

Enter  EUPHRONIUS. 

Cas.  Approach,  and  speak. 

Eup.  Such  as  I  am,  I  come  from  Antony : 
I  was  of  late  as  petty  to  his  ends 
As  is  the  morn-dew  on  the  myrtle  leaf 
To  his  grand  sea. 

Cas.  Be 't  so :  declare  thine  office. 

Eup.  Lord  of  his  fortunes  he  salutes  thee,  and 
Requires  to  live  in  Egypt :   which  not  granted, 
He  lessens  his  requests ;  and  to  thee  sues 
To  let  him  breathe  between  the  heavens  and 

earth, 

A  private  man  in  Athens :  this  for  him. 
Next, ^ Cleopatra  does  confess  thy  greatness; 
Submits  her  to  thy  might ;  and  of  thee  craves 
The  circle  of  the  Ptolemies  for  her  heirs, 
Now  hazarded  to  thy  grace. 

Cas.  For  Antony, 

I  have  no  ears  to  his  request.     The  queen 
Of  audience  nor  desire  shall  fail ;  so  she 
From  Egypt  drive  her  all-disgraced  friend, 
Or  take  his  life  there  :  this  if  she  perform 
She  shall  not  sue  unheard.     So  to  them  both. 

Eup.  Fortune  pursue  thee  ! 

Cas.  Bring  him  through  the  bands. 

[Exit  EUPHRONIUS. 

T>  try  thy  eloquence,  now  'tis  time  :  despatch  ; 
From  Antony  win  Cleopatra:  promise, 

[To  THYR. 

And  in  our  name,  what  she  requires ;  add  more, 
From  thine  invention,  offers :  women  are  not 
In  their  best  fortunes  strong;   but  want  will 

perjure 
The   ne'er-touch' d   vestal :    try  thy  cunning, 

Thyreus ; 

Make  thine  own  edict  for  thy  pains,  which  we 
Will  answer  as  a  law. 

Thyr.  Caesar,  I  go. 

Cas.   Observe  how  Antony  becomes  his  flaw, 


And  what  thou  think'st  his  very  action  speaks 
In  every  power  that  moves. 

Thyr.  Caesar,  I  shall.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE    XIII. — ALEXANDRIA.     A   Room  in 
the  Palace. 

Enter  CLEOPATRA,  ENOBARBUS,  CHARMIAN, 
and  IRAS. 

Cleo.  What  shall  we  do,  Enobarbus? 

Eno.  Think,  and  die. 

Cleo.  Is  Antony  or  we  in  fault  for  this  ? 

Eno.  Antony  only,  that  would  make  his  will 
Lord  of  his  reason.     What  though  you  fled 
From  that  great  face  of  war,  whose  several  ranges 
Frighted  each  other  ?  why  should  he  follow  ? 
The  itch  of  his  affection  should  not  then 
Have  nick'd  his  captainship  ;  at  such  a  point, 
When  half  to  half  the  world  oppos'd,  he  being 
The  mered  question  :  'twas  a  shame  no  less 
Than  was  his  loss  to  course  your  flying  flags 
And  leave  his  navy  gazing. 

Cleo.  Pr'ythee,  peace. 

Enter  ANTONY,  with  EUPHRONIUS. 

Ant.  Is  that  his  answer  ? 

Eup.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ant.  The  queen  shall  then  have  courtesy,  so 

she 
Will  yield  us  up, 

Eup.  He  says  so. 

Ant.  Let  her  know 't.— 

To  the  boy  Caesar  send  this  grizzled  head. 
And  he  will  fill  thy  wishes  to  the  brim 
With  principalities. 

Cleo.  That  head,  my  lord  ? 

Ant.  To  him  again :  tell  him  he  wears  the  rose 
Of  youth  upon  him ;   from  which  the  world 

should  note 

Something  particular  :  his  coins,  ships,  legions, 
May  be  a  coward's  ;   whose  ministers  would 

prevail 

Under  the  service  of  a  child  as  soon  [fore 

As  i'  the  command  of  Caesar :  I  dare  him  there- 
To  lay  his  gay  comparisons  apart, 
And  answer  me  declin'd,  sword  against  sword, 
Ourselves  alone.     I  '11  write  it :  follow  me. 

[Exeunt  ANTONY  and  EUPHRONIUS. 

Eno.  Yes,  like  enough,  high-battled  Caesar 

will 
Unstate  his  happiness,  and  be  stag'd  to  the 

show 

Against  a  sworder. — I  see  men's  judgments  are 
A  parcel  of  their  fortunes  ;  and  things  outward 
Do  draw  the  inward  quality  after  them, 
To  suffer  all  alike.     That  he  should  dream, 
Knowing  all  measures,  the  full  Caesar  will 


SCENE  XIII.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


913 


Answer  his  emptiness  ! — Caesar,  thou  hast  sub- 

du'd 
His  judgment  too. 

Enter  an  Attendant. 


Att.  A  messenger  from  G 

Cleo.  What,  no  more  ceremony? — See,  my 

women  ! —  [nose 

Against  the  blown  rose  may  they  stop  their 

That  kneel'd  unto  the  buds. — Admit  him,  sir. 

[Exit  Attendant. 

Eno.   [Aside.]  Mine  honesty  and  I  begin  to 

square. 

The  loyalty  well  held  to  fools  does  make 
Our  faith  mere  folly : — yet  he  that  can  endure 
To  follow  with  allegiance  a  fallen  lord 
Does  conquer  him  that  did  his  master  conquer, 
And  earn  a  place  i'  the  story. 

Enter  THYREUS. 

Cleo.  Caesar's  will  ? 

Thyr.  Hear  it  apart. 

Cleo.  None  but  friends :  say  boldly. 

Thyr.  So,  haply,  are  they  friends  to  Antony. 

Eno.  He  needs  as  many,  sir,  as  Caesar  has  ; 
Or  needs  not  us.     If  Caesar  please,  our  master 
Will  leap  to  be  his  friend  :  for  us,  you  know 
Whose  he  is  we  are,  and  that  is  Csesar's. 

Thyr.  So.— 

Thus  then,  thou  most  renown'd :  Caesar  entreats 
Not  to  consider  in  what  case  thou  stand'st, 
Further  than  he  is  Csesar. 

Cleo.  Go  on  :  right  royal. 

Thyr.  He  knows  that  you  embrace  not  Antony 
As  you  did  love,  but  as  you  fear'd  him. 

Cleo.  O!    [he 

Thyr.  The  scars  upon  your  honour,  therefore, 
Does  pity,  as  constrained  blemishes, 
Not  as  deserv'd. 

Cleo.  He  is  a  god,  and  knows 

What  is  most  right :  mine  honour  was  not  yielded, 
But  conquer'd  merely. 

Eno.  [Aside.}  To  be  sure  of  that, 

I  will  ask  Antony. — Sir,  sir,  thou  art  so  leaky 
That  we  must  leave  thee  to  thy  sinking,  for 
Thy  dearest  quit  thee.  [Exit. 

Thyr.  Shall  I  say  to  Caesar 

What  you  require  of  him  ?  for  he  partly  begs 
To  be  desir'd  to  give.   It  much  would  please  him 
That  of  his  fortunes  you  should  make  a  staff 
To  lean  upon  :  but  it  would  warm  his  spirits 
To  hear  from  me  you  had  left  Antony, 
And  put  yourself  under  his  shroud,  who  is 
The  universal  landlord. 

Cleo.  What 's  your  name  ? 

Thyr.  My  name  is  Thyreus. 

Cleo.  Most  kind  messenger, 


Say  to  great  Caesar  this :— in  deputation 
I  kiss  his  conquering  hand :  tell  him  lam  prompt 
To  lay  my  crown  at's  feet,  and  there  to  kneel: 
Tell  him,  from  his  all-obeying  breath  I  hear 
The  doom  of  Egypt. 

Thyr.  }Tis  your  noblest  course. 

Wisdom  and  fortune  combating  together, 
If  that  the  former  dare  but  what  it  can, 
No  chance  may  shake  it.     Give  me  grace  to  lay 
My  duty  on  your  hand. 

Cleo.  Your  Csesar's  father 

Oft,  when  he  hath  mus'd  of  taking  kingdoms 

in, 

Bestow'd  his  lips  on  that  unworthy  place, 
As  it  rain'd  kisses. 

Re-enter  ANTONY  and  ENOBARBUS. 

Ant.          Favours,  by  Jove  that  thunders ! — 
What  art  thou,  fellow? 

Thyr.  One  that  but  performs 

The  bidding  of  the  fullest  man,  and  worthiest 
To  have  command  obey'd. 

Eno.  [Aside.]  You  will  be  whipp'd. 

Ant.  Approach  there  ! — Ay,  you  kite  ! — Now, 
gods  and  devils  1  [Ho  I 

Authority  melts  from  me :  of  late,  when  I  cried, 
Like  boys  unto  a  muss,  kings  would  start  forth 
And  cry,  Your  will?  Have  you  no  ears?  I  am 
Antony  yet. 

Enter  Attendants. 

Take  hence  this  Jack  and  whip  him. 

Eno.  'Tis  better  playing  with  a  lion's  whelp 
Than  with  an  old  one  dying. 

Ant.  Moon  and  stars  ! 

Whip  him. — Were't  twenty  of  the  greatest  tri- 
butaries 

That  do  acknowledge  Caesar,  should  I  find  them 
So  saucy  with  the  hand  of  she  here, — what 's 

her  name 

Since  she  was  Cleopatra  ? — Whip  him,  fellows, 
Till,  like  a  boy,  you  see  him  cringe  his  face, 
And  whine  aloud  for  mercy  :  take  him  hence. 

Thyr.  Mark  Antony,-— 

Ant.  Tug  him  away :  being  whipp'd, 

Bring  him  again. — This  Jack  of  Caesar's  shall 
Bear  us  an  errand  to  him. — 

[Exeunt  Attend,  -with  THYR. 
You  were  half  blasted  ere  I  knew  you. — Ha  ! 
Have  I  my  pillow  let  unpress'd  in  Rome, 
Forborne  the  getting  of  a  lawful  race, 
And  by  a  gem  of  women,  to  be  abus'd 
By  one  that  looks  on  feeders  ? 

Cleo.  Good  my  lord, — 

Ant.  You  have  been  a  boggier  ever : — 
But  when  we  in  our  viciousness  grow  hard, — 
O  misery  on  't ! — the  wise  gods  seal  our  eyes ; 


914 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


In  our  own  filth  drop  our  clear  judgments  ; 

make  us 

Adore  our  errors  ;  laugh  at 's,  while  we  strut 
To  our  confusion. 

Cleo.  O,  is 't  come  to  this  ? 

Ant.  I  found  you  as  a  morsel  cold  upon 
Dead  Caesar's  trencher ;  nay,  you  were  a  frag- 
ment 

Of  Cneius  Pompey's;  besides  what  hotter  hours, 
Unregister'd  in  vulgar  fame,  you  have 
Luxuriously  pick'd  out : — for  I  am  sure,      [be, 
Though  you  can  guess  what  temperance  should 
You  know  not  what  it  is. 

Cleo.  .  Wherefore  is  this  ? 

Ant.  To  let  a  fellow  that  will  take  rewards, 
And  say,  God  quit  you!  be  familiar  with 
My  playfellow,  your  hand  ;  this  kingly  seal 
And  plighter  of  high  hearts  ! — O  that  I  were 
Upon  the  hill  of  Basan,  to  outroar 
The  horned  herd  !  for  I  have  savage  cause ; 
And  to  proclaim  it  civilly  were  like 
A  halter'd  neck  which  does  the  hangman  thank 
For  being  yare  about  him. 

Re-enter  Attendants  with  THYREUS. 

Is  he  whipp'd  ? 

I  Att.  Soundly,  my  lord. 

Ant.  Cried  he  ?  and  begg'd  he  pardon  ? 

I  Att.  He  did  ask  favour. 

Ant.  If  that  thy  father  live,  let  him  repent 
Thou  wast  not  made  his  daughter;  and  be  thou 

sorry 

To  follow  Caesar  in  his  triumph,  since 
Thou  hast  been  whipp'd  for  following  him : 

henceforth 

The  white  hand  of  a  lady  fever  thee, 
Shake  thou  to  look  on't. — Get  thee  back  to 

Caesar, 

Tell  him  thy  entertainment :  look  thou  say 
He  makes  me  angry  with  him  ;  for  he  seems 
Proud  and  disdainful,  harping  on  what  I  am, 
Not  what  he  knew  I  was :  he  makes  me  angry ; 
And  at  this  time  most  easy  'tis  to  do  3t, 
When  my  good  stars,  that  were  my  former  guides, 
Have  empty  left  their  orbs,  and  shot  their  fires 
Into  the  abysm  of  hell.     If  he  mislike 
My  speech  and  what  is  done,  tell  him  he  has 
Hipparchus,  my  enfranchis'd  bondman,  whom 
He  may  at  pleasure  whip,  or  hang,  or  torture, 
As  he  shall  like,  to  quit  me  :  urge  it  thou  : 
Hence  with  thy  stripes,  be  gone. 

[Exit  THYREUS. 

Cleo.  Have  you  done  yet  ? 

Ant.  Alack,  our  terrene  moon 

Is  now  eclips'd  ;  and  it  portends  alone 
The  fall  of  Antony  ! 

Cleo.  I  must  stay  his  time. 


Ant.  To  flatter  Caesar,  would  you  mingle  eyes 
With  one  that  ties  his  points  ? 

Cleo.  Not  know  me  yet  ? 

Ant.  Cold-hearted  toward  me  ? 

Cleo.  Ah,  dear,  if  I  be  so, 

From  my  cold  heart  let  heaven  engender  hail, 
And  poison  it  in  the  source ;  and  the  first  stone 
Drop  in  my  neck  :  as  it  determines,  so 
Dissolve  my  life  !     The  next  Caesarion  smite  ! 
Till,  by  degrees,  the  memory  of  my  womb, 
Together  with  my  brave  Egyptians  all, 
By  the  discandying  of  this  pelleted  storm, 
Lie  graveless, — till  the  flies  and  gnats  of  Nile 
Have  buried  them  for  prey  ! 

Ant.  I  am  satisfied. 

Caesar  sits  down  in  Alexandria  ;  where 
I  will  oppose  his  fate.     Our  force  by  land 
Hath  nobly  held  :  our  sever'd  navy  too 
Have  knit  again,  and  fleet,  threat'ning  most 
sea-like.  [hear,  lady? 

Where  hast  thou  been,  my  heart  ? — Dost  thou 
If  from  the  field  I  shall  return  once  more 
To  kiss  these  lips,  I  will  appear  in  blood  : 
I  and  my  sword  will  earn  our  chronicle : 
There 's  hope  in 't  yet 

Cleo.  That 's  my  brave  lord  ! 

Ant.    I    will    be    treble-sinew'd,    hearted, 

breath'd, 

And  fight  maliciously  :  for  when  mine  hours 
Were  nice  and  lucky,  men  did  ransom  lives 
Of  me  for  jests  ;  but  now  I  '11  set  my  teeth, 
And  send  to  dark  ness  all  that  stop  me. — Come, 
Let 's  have  one  other  gaudy  night :  call  to  me 
All  my  sad  captains,  fill  our  bowls ;  once  more 
Let's  mock  the  midnight  bell. 

Cleo.  It  is  my  birthday. 

I  had  thought  tc  have  held  it  poor ;  but  since 

my  lord 
Is  Antony  again  I  will  be  Cleopatra. 

Ant.  We  will  yet  do  well. 

Cleo.  Call  all  his  noble  captains  to  my  lord. 

Ant.  Do  so  ;  we  Ml  speak  to  them  :  and  to- 
night I  '11  force 
The  wine  peep  through  their  scars. — Come  on, 

my  queen  ; 

There 's  sap  in 't  yet.     The  next  time  I  do  fight 
I  '11  make  death  love  me  ;  for  I  will  contend 
Even  with  his  pestilent  scythe. 

[Exeunt  all  but  ENO. 

Eno.  Now  he  '11  outstare  the  lightning.     To 

be  furious 

Is  to  be  frighted  out  of  fear  ;  and  in  that  mood 
The  dove  will  peck  the  estridge  ;  and  I  see  still 
A  diminution  in  our  captain's  brain 
Restores  his  heart :  when  valour  preys  on  reason 
It  eats  the  sword  it  fights  with.     I  will  seek 
Some  way  to  leave  him.  [Exit. 


SCENE  I.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


915 


-' 
ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.— CESAR'S  Camp  at  Alexandria. 

Enter  CESAR  reading  a  Utter  ;  AGRIPPA, 
MEC^NAS,  and  others. 

Cas.   He  calls  me  boy;  and  chides  as  he  had 

power 

To  beat  rae  out  of  Egypt ;  my  messenger 
He  hath  whipp'd  with  rods  ;  dares  me  to  per- 
sonal combat, 

Caesar  to  Antony  : — let  the  old  ruffian  know 
I  have  many  other  ways  to  die ;  meantime 
Laugh  at  his  challenge. 

Mec.  Caesar  must  think, 

When  one  so  great  begins  to  rage,  he 's  hunted 
Even  to  falling.     Give  him  no  breath,  but  now 
Make  boot  of  his  distraction  : — never  anger 
Made  good  guard  for  itself. 

Cces.  Let  our  best  heads 

Know  that  to-morrow  the  last  of  many  battles 
We  mean  to  fight. — Within  our  files  there  are, 
Of  those  that  serv'd  Mark  Antony  but  late, 
Enough  to  fetch  him  in.     See  it  done  : 
And  feast  the  army  ;  we  have  store  to  do 't, 
And  they  have  earn'd  the  waste.    Poor  Antony ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — ALEXANDRIA.    A  Room  in  the 

Palace. 

Enter  ANTONY,  CLEOPATRA,  ENOBARBUS, 
CHARMIAN,  IRAS,  ALEXAS,  and  others. 

Ant.  He  will  not  fight  with  me,  Domitius. 

Eno.  No. 

Ant.  Why  should  he  not  ?  [fortune, 

Eno.  He  thinks,  being  twenty  tiirr».s  of  better 
He  is  twenty  men  to  one. 

Ant.  To-morrow,  soldier, 

By  sea  arid  land  I  '11  fight :  or  I  will  live, 
Or  bathe  my  dying  honour  in  the  blood 
Shall  make  it  live  again.  Woo 't  thou  fight  well? 

Eno.  I  '11  strike,  and  cry,  Take  all. 

Ant.  Well  said  ;  come  on. — 

Call  forth  my  household  servants :  let 's  to-night 
Be  bounteous  at  our  meal. — 

Enter  Servants. 

Give  me  thy  hand, 

Thou  hast  been  rightly  honest ; — so  hast  thou ; — 
Thou, — and  thou, — and  thou ;-  -you  have  serv'd 

me  well, 
And  kings  have  been  your  fellows. 

Cleo.  \_Aside  to  ENO.]         What  means  this? 
Eno.  [Aside  to  CLEO.]  'Tis  one  of  those  odd 

tricks  which  sorrow  shoots 
Out  of  the  mind. 


Ant.  And  thou  art  honest  too. 

I  wish  I  could  be  made  so  many  men, 
And  all  of  you  clapp'd  up  together  in 
An  Antony,  that  I  might  do  you  service 
So  good  as  you  have  done. 

Serv.  The  gods  forbid  t 

Ant.  Well,  my  good  fellows,  wait  on  me  to- 
night : 

Scant  not  my  cups  ;  and  make  as  much  of  me 
As  when  mine  empire  was  your  fellow  too, 
And  suffer'd  my  command. 

Cleo.  [Aside  to  ENO.]     What  does  he  mean? 

Eno.  [Aside  to  CLEO.]  To  make  his  followers 
weep. 

Ant.  Tend  me  to-night ; 

May  be  it  is  the  period  of  your  auty : 
Haply  you  shall  not  see  me  more  ;  or  if, 
A  mangled  shadow  :  perchance  to-morrow 
You  'li  serve  another  master.     I  look  on  you 
As  one   that   takes  his  leave.      Mine  honest 

friends, 

I  turn  you  not  away  ;  but,  like  a  master 
Married  to  your  good  service,  stay  till  death  : 
Tend  me  to-night  two  hours,  I  ask  no  more, 
And  the  gods  yield  you  for  't  ! 

Eno.  What  mean  you,  sir, 

To  give  them  this  discomfort  ?  Look,  they  weep; 
And  I,  an  ass,  am  onion-ey'd  :  for  shame, 
Transform  us  not  to  women. 

Ant.  Ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

Now  the  witch  take  me,  if  I  meant  it  thus  ! 
Grace  grow  where    those    drops    fall  !      My 

hearty  friends, 

You  take  me  in  too  dolorous  a  sense  ;  [you 
For  I  spake  to  you  for  your  comfort, — did  desire 
To  burn  this  night  with  torches :  know,  my 

hearts, 

I  hope  well  of  to-morrow  ;  and  will  lead  you 
Where  rather  I  '11  expect  victorious  life 
Than  death  and  honour.      Let 's  to  supper  ; 

come, 
And  drown  consideration.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — ALEXANDRIA.    Before  the  Palace. 
Enter  two  Soldiers  to  their  guard. 

1  Sold.  Brother,  good-night :    to-morrow  is 

the  day.  [well. 

2  Sold.  It  will  determine  one  way  :  fare  you 
Heard  you  of  nothing  strange  about  the  streets? 

1  Sold.  Nothing.     What  news  ?         [to  you. 

2  Sold.  Belike  'tis  but  a  rumour.    Good-night 

1  Sold.  Well,  sir,  good-night. 

Enter  two  other  Soldiers. 

2  Sold.  Soldiers,  have  careful  watch. 

3  Sold.  And  you.     Good -night,  good-night. 
[The  first  two  place  themselves  at  their  posts. 


9i6 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[ACT  iv. 


4  Sold.    Here  we  :    [  The  third  and  fourth 

take  their  posts.}  and  if  to-morrow 
Our  navy  thrive,  I  have  an  absolute  hope 
Our  landmen  will  stand  up. 

3  Sold.  'Tis  a  brave  arm)', 
And  full  of  purpose. 

[Music  as  of  hautboys  under  the  stage. 

4  Sold.  Peace,  what  noise  ? 

1  Sold.  List,  list ! 

2  Sold.  Hark! 

I  Sold.  Music  i'  the  air. 

3  Sold.  Under  the  earth. 

4  Sold.  It  signs  well,  does  it  not  ? 

3  Sold.  No. 

i  Sold.  Peace,  I  say  ! 

What  should  this  mean  ?  [lov'd, 

2  Sold.  'Tis  the  god  Hercules,  whom  Antony 
Now  leaves  him. 

1  Sold.      Walk  ;  let 's  see  if  other  watchmen 
Do  hear  what  we  do. 

[They  advance  to  another  post. 

2  Sold.  How  now,  masters  ! 
Soldiers.  [Speaking  together.  ]        How  now  ! 

How  now  !  do  you  heai  this  ? 

I  Sold.  Ay  ;  is 't  not  strange  ? 

3  Sold.  Do  you  hear,  masters?  do  you  hear? 
i  Sold.  Follow  the  noise  so  far  as  we  have 

quarter  ; 
Let 's  see  how 't  will  give  off. 

Soldiers.  [Speaking  together.}  Content.    'Tis 
strange.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — ALEXANDRIA.     A  Room  in  the 
Palace. 

Enter  ANTONY  and  CLEOPATRA  ;  CHARMIAN, 
IRAS,  and  others  attending. 

Ant.  Eros  1  mine  armour,  Eros  ! 
Cleo.  Sleep  a  little. 

Anit.  No,   my  chuck. — Eros,  come;    mine 
armour,  Eros  ! 

Enter  EROS  with  armour. 

Come,  good  fellow,  put  mine  iron  on. — 
If  fortune  be  not  ours  to-day,  it  is 
Because  we  brave  her. — Come. 

Cleo.  Nay,  I '11  help  too. 

What's  this  for? 

Ant.  Ah,  let  be,  let  be  !  thou  art 

The  armourer  of  my  heart.     False,  false;  this, 
this. 

Cleo.  Sooth,  la,  I  '11  help  :  thus  it  must  be. 

Ant.  Well,  well ; 

We  shall  thrive  now. — Seest  thou,  my  good 

fellow? 
(Io  put  on  thy  defences. 

Eros.  Briefly,  sir. 


Cleo.  Is  not  this  buckled  well  ? 

Ant.  Rarely,  rarely: 

He  that  unbuckles  this,  till  we  do  please 
To  doff 't  for  our  repose,  shall  hear  a  storm. — 
Thou  fumblest,  Eros ;  and  my  queen 's  a  squire 
More  tight  at  this  than  thou:   despatch. — O 
love,  [knew'st 

That  thou  couldst  see  my  wars  to-day,  and 
The  royal  occupation  !  thou  shouldst  see 
A  workman  in't. — 

Enter  an  Officer,  armed. 

Good-morrow  to  thee  ;  welcome  : 
Thou  look'st  like  him  that  knows  a  warlike 

charge : 

To  business  that  we  love  we  rise  betime, 
And  go  to 't  with  delight. 

Off.  A  thousand,  sir, 

Early  though  it  be,  have  on  their  riveted  trim, 
And  at  the  port  expect  you. 

[Shout.     Flourish  of  Trumpets  within. 

Enter  other  Officers  and  Soldiers. 

2  Off.    The   morn  is  fair. — Good-morrow, 

general. 

All.  Good-morrow,  general. 
Ant.  'Tis  well  blown,  lads : 

This  morning,  like  the  spirit  of  a  youth 
That  means  to  be  of  note,  begins  betimes. — 
So,  so ;  come,  give  me  that :  this  way ;  well 

said. — 

Fare  thee  well,  dame,  whate'er  becomes  of  me : 

This  is  a  soldier's  kiss :  rebukable,    [Kisses  her. 

And  worthy  shameful  check  it  were,  to  stand 

On  more  mechanic  compliment ;  I  '11  leave  thee 

Now,  like  a  man  of  steel. — You  that  will  fight, 

Follow  me  close  ;  I  '11  bring  you  to't. — Adieu. 

[Exeunt  ANT.  ,  EROS,  Officers,  and  Soldiers. 

Char.  Please  you,  retire  to  your  chamber. 

Cleo.  Lead  me. 

He  goes  forth  gallantly.     That  he  and  Caesar 

might 

Determine  this  great  war  in  single  fight ! 
Then,  Antony, — but  now — Well,  on. 

[Exeunt. 
<&&  -  r  refa-.Us 
SCENE  V. — ANTONY'S  Camp  near  Alexandria. 

Trumpets  sound  within.     Enter  ANTONY  and 
EROS  ;  a  Soldier  meeting  them. 

Sold.  The  gods  make  this  a  happy  day  tc 

Antony ! 
Ant.  Would  thou  and  those  thy  scars  had  once 

prevail'd 
To  make  me  fight  at  land  ! 

Sold.  Hadst  thou  done  so, 

The  kings  that  have  revolted,  and  the  soldier 


SCENE  VI.  J 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


917 


That  has  this  morning  left  thee,  would  have  still 
Follow'd  thy  heels. 

Ant.  Who 's  gone  this  morning  ? 

Sold.  Who. 

One  ever  near  thee  :  call  for  Enobarbus, 
He  shall  not  hear  thee  ;  or  from  Caesar's  camp 
Say,  I  am  none  of  thine. 

Ant.  What  say'st  thou  ? 

Sold.  Sir, 

He  is  with  Caesar. 

Eros.  Sir,  his  chests  and  treasure 

He  has  not  with  him. 

Ant.  Is  he  gone  ? 

Sold.  Most  certain. 

Ant.  Go,  Eros,  send  his  treasure  after;  do 

it; 

Detain  no  jot,  I  charge  thee  ;  write  to  him, — 
I  will  subscribe, — gentle  adieus  and  greetings  ; 
Say  that  I  wish  he  never  find  more  cause 
To  change  a  master. — O,  my  fortunes  have 
Corrupted  honest  men! — Eros,  despatch. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.— C/ESAR'S  Camp  before  Alexandria. 

Flourish.     Enter  CAESAR,  with  AGRIPPA, 
ENOBARBUS,  and  others. 

C<zs.  Go  forth,  Agrippa,  and  begin  the  fight : 
Our  will  is  Antony  be  took  alive  ; 
Make  it  so  known. 

Agr.  Caesar,  I  shall.  [Exit. 

Cas.  The  time  of  universal  peace  is  near  : 
Prove  this  a  prosperous  day,  the  three-nook'd 

world 
Shall  bear  the  olive  freely. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Antony 

Is  come  into  the  field. 

Cas.  Go  charge  Agrippa 

Plant  those  that  have  revolted  in  the  van, 
That  Antony  may  seem  to  spend  his  fury 
Upon  himself.  [Exeunt  CAESAR  and  his  Train. 

Eno.  Alexas  did  revolt ;  and  went  to  Jewry 
On  affairs  of  Antony  ;  there  did  persuade 
Great  Herod  to  incline  himself  to  Caesar, 
And  leave  his  master  Antony :  for  this  pains 
Caesar  hath  hang'd  him.    Canidius,  and  the  rest 
That  fell  away,  have  entertainment,  but 
No  honourable  trust.     I  have  done  ill; 
Of  which  I  do  accuse  myself  so  sorely 
That  I  will  joy  no  more. 

Enter  a  Soldier  of  CESAR'S. 

Sold.  Enobarbus,  Antony 

Hath  after  thee  sent  all  thy  treasure,  with 
His  bounty  overplus:  the  messenger 


Came  on  my  guard,  and  at  thy  tent  is  now 
Unloading  of  his  mules. 

Eno.  I  give  it  you. 

Sold.  Mock  not,  Enobarbus. 

I  tell  you  true :  best  you  saf  d  the  bringer 
Out  of  the  host ;  I  must  attend  mine  office, 
Or  would  have  done 't  myself.     Your  emperor 
Continues  still  a  Jove.  [Exit. 

Eno.  I  am  alone  the  villain  of  the  earth, 
And  feel  I  am  so  most.     O  Antony,          [paid 
Thou  mine  of  bounty,  how  wouldst  thou  have 
My  better  service,  when  my  turpitude 
Thou  dost  so  crown  with  gold !    This  blows  my 

heart : 

If  swift  thought  break  it  not,  a  swifter  mean 
Shall  outstrike  thought :  but  thought  will  do 't, 

I  feel. 

I  fight  against  thee ! — No :  I  will  go  seek 
Some  ditch  wherein  to  die ;  the  foul'st  best  fits 
My  latter  part  of  life.  [Exit. 

SCENE  VII.—  Field  of  Battle  between  the 
Camps. 

Alarum.     Drums  and  trumpets.     Enter 
AGRIPPA  and  others. 

Agr.  Retire,  we  have  engag'd  ourselves  too 

far: 

Caesar  himself  has  work,  and  our  oppression 
Exceeds  what  we  expected.  [Exeunt. 

Alarum.     Enter  ANTONY,  and  SCARUS 
wounded. 

Scar.  O  my  brave  emperor,  this  is  fought 

indeed  ! 
Had  we  done  so  at  first,  we  had  driven  them 

home 
With  clouts  about  their  heads. 

Ant.  Thou  bleed'st  apace. 

Scar.  I  had  a  wound  here  that  was  like  a  T, 
But  now  'tis  made  an  H. 

Ant.  They  do  retire. 

Scar.  We  '11  beat  'em  into  bench-holes :  I  have 

yet 
Room  for  six  scotches  more. 

Enter  EROS. 

Eros.  They  are  beaten,  sir;  and  our  advan- 
tage serves 
For  a  fair  victory. 

Scar.  Let  us  score  their  backs, 

And  snatch  'em  up,  as  we  take  hares,  behind : 
'Tis  sport  to  maul  a  runner. 

Ant.  I  will  reward  thee 

Once  for  thy  spritely  comfort,  and  tenfold 
For  thy  good  valour.     Come  thee  on. 

Scar.  I  '11  halt  after.     [Exeunt. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[ACT  iv. 


SCENE  VIII.— Under  the  Walls  of  Alexandria. 

Alarum.     Enter  ANTONY  marching;  SCARUS 
and  Forces. 

Ant.  We  have  beat  him  to  his  camp.     Run 
one  before,  [morrow, 

And  let  the  queen  know  of  our  gests. — To- 
Before  the  sun  shall  see  us,  we  '11  spill  the  blood 
That  has  to-day  escap'd.  I  thank  you  all ; 
For  doughty-handed  are  you,  and  have  fought 
Not  as  you  serv'd  the  cause,  but  as 't  had  been 
Each  man's  like  mine;  you  have  shown  all 

Hectors. 

Enter  the  city,  clip  your  wives,  your  friends, 
Tell  them  your  feats;  whilst  they  with  joyful 
tears  [kiss 

Wash  the  congealment  from  your  wounds,  and 
The  honour'd  gashes  whole. — Give  me  thy  hand ; 

[To  SCARUS. 

Enter  CLEOPATRA,  attended. 

To  this  great  fairy  I  '11  commend  thy  acts, 
Make  her  thanks  bless  thee.     O  thou  day  o' 

the  world,  [all, 

Chain  mine  arm'd  neck ;  leap  thou,  attire  and 
Through  proof  of  harness  to  my  heart,  and  there 
Ride  on  the  pants  triumphing. 

Cleo.^  Lord  of  lords! 

O  infinite  virtue,  com'st  thou  smiling  from 
The  world's  great  snare  uncaught? 

Ant.  My  nightingale, 

We  have  beat  them  to  their  beds.     What,  girl ! 

though  grey  [yet  ha'  we 

Do  something  mingle  with  our  younger  brown ; 
A  brain  that  nourishes  our  nerves,  and  can 
Get  goal  for  goal  of  youth.     Behold  this  man ; 
Commend  unto  his  lips  thy  favouring  hand ; — 
Kiss  it,  my  warrior :  he  hath  fought  to-day 
As  if  a  god,  in  hate  of  mankind,  had 
Destroy'd  in  such  a  shape. 

Cleo.  I  '11  give  thee,  friend, 

An  armour  all  of  gold ;  it  was  a  king's. 

Ant.  He  has  deserv'd  it,  were  it  carbuncled 
Like  holy  Phoebus'  car. — Give  me  thy  hand : 
Through  Alexandria  make  a  jolly  march ; 
Bear  our  hack'd  targets  like  the  men  that  owe 

them: 

Had  our  great  palace  the  capacity 
To  camp  this  host,  we  all  would  sup  together, 
And  drink  carouses  to  the  next  day's  fate, 
Which  promises  royal  peril. — Trumpeters, 
With  brazen  din  blast  you  the  city's  ear ; 
Make  mingle  with  our  rattling  tabourines  j 
That  heaven  and  earth  may  strike  their  sounds 

together, 
Applauding  our  approach.  {.Exeunt. 


SCENE  IX. — CAESAR'S  Camp. 
Sentinels  at  their  Post. 

1  Sold.  If  we  be  not  reliev'd  within  this  hour, 
We  must  return  to  the  court  of  guard:   the 

night 

Is  shiny ;  and  they  say  we  shall  embattle 
By  the  second  hour  i'  the  morn. 

2  Sold.  This  last  day  was 
A  shrewd  one  to 's. 

Enter  ENOBARBUS. 

Eno.  O,  bear  me  witness,  night. — 

3  Sold.  What  man  is  this? 

2  Sold.  Stand  close  and  list  to  him. 
Eno.  Be  witness  to  me,  O  thou  blessed  moon, 

When  men  revolted  shall  upon  record 
Bear  hateful  memory,  poor  Enobarbus  did 
Before  chy  face  repent ! — 

1  Sold.  Enobarbus ! 

3  Sold.  Peace ! 
Hark  further. 

Eno.  O  sovereign  mistress  of  true  melancholy, 
The  poisonous  damp  of  night  disponge  upon 

me, 

That  life,  a  very  rebel  to  my  will, 
May^  hang  no  longer  on  me :  throw  my  heart 
Against  the  flint  and  hardness  of  my  fault ; 
Which,  being  dried  with  grief,  will  break  to 

powder, 

And  finish  all  foul  thoughts.     O  Antony, 
Nobler  than  my  revolt  is  infamous, 
Forgive  me  in  thine  own  particular; 
But  let  the  world  rank  me  in  register 
A  master-leaver  and  a  fugitive : 
O  Antony !  O  Antony !  [Dies. 

2  Sold.  Let 's  speak 
To  him. 

i  Sold.  Let 's  hear  him,  for  the  things  he 

speaks 
May  concern  Caesar. 

3  Sold.  Let 's  do  so.     But  he  sleeps. 

1  Sold.  Swoons  rather ;  for  so  bad  a  prayer 

as  his 
Was  never  yet  fore  sleep. 

2  Sold.  Go  we  to  him. 

3  Sold.  Awake,  sir,  awake ;  speak  to  us. 

2  Sold.  Hear  you,  sir? 
I  Sold.  The  hand  of  death  hath  raught  him. 

[Drums  afar  off.'}  Hark  !  the  drums 
Do  merrily  wake  the  sleepers.     Let  us  bear 

him 

To  the  court  of  guard ;  he  is  of  note :  our  hour 
Is  fully  out. 

3  Sold.     Come  on,  then ; 

He  may  recover  yet.      [Exeunt  with  the  body. 


SCENE  X.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


919 


SCENE  X. — Ground  between  the  two  Camps. 

Enter  ANTONY  and  SCARUS,  with  Forces, 
marching. 

Ant.  Their  preparation  is  to-day  by  sea ; 
We  please  them  not  by  land. 

Scar.  For  both,  my  lord. 

Ant.  I  would  they  'd  fight  i'  the  fire  or  i5  the 

air; 

We  'd  fight  there  too.     But  this  it  is ;  our  foot 
Upon  the  hills  adjoining  to  the  city 
Shall  stay  with  us : — order  for  sea  is  given ; 
They  have  put  forth  the  haven : — forward  now, 
Where  their  appointment  we  may  best  discover, 
And  look  on  their  endeavour.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  XL—  Another  part  of  the  Ground. 
Enter  C.ESAR,  with  his  Forces,  marching. 

Cas.   But  being  charg'd,  we  will  be  still  by 

land, 

Which,  as  I  trtke't,  we  shall ;  for  his  best  force 
Is  forth  to  man  his  galleys.     To  the  vales, 
And  hold  our  best  advantage.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  XII. — Another  part  of  the  Ground. 
Enter  ANTONY  and  SCARUS. 

Ant.  Yet  they're  not  join'd  :    where  yond 

pine  does  stand 

I  shall  discover  all :  I  '11  bring  thee  word 
Straight  how  'tis  like  to  go.  [Exeunt. 

Scar.  Swallows  have  built 

In  Cleopatra's  sails  their  nests :  the  augurers 
Say  they  know  not, — they  cannot  tell; — look 

grimly, 

And  dare  not  speak  their  knowledge.     Antony 
Is  valiant  and  dejected;  and,  by  starts, 
His  fretted  fortunes  give  him  hope  and  fear 
Of  what  he  has  and  has  not. 

[Alarum  afar  offy  as  at  a  sea-fight. 

Re-enter  ANTONY. 

Ant.  All  is  lost ; 

This  foul  Egyptian  hath  betrayed  me : 
My  fleet  hath  yielded  to  the  foe ;  and  yonder 
They  cast  their  caps  up,  and  carouse  together 
Like  friends  long  lost. — Triple-turn'd  whore  ! 

'tis  thou 

Hast  sold  me  to  this  novice ;  and  my  heart 
Makes  only  wars  on  thee. — Bid  them  all  fly; 
For  when  I  am  reveng'd  upon  my  charm, 
I  have  done  all. — Bid  them  all  fly;  begone. 

[Exit  SCARUS. 

0  sun,  thy  uprise  shall  I  see  no  more : 
Fortune  and  Antony  part  here:  even  here 


Do  we  shake  hands.-^All  come  to  this ! — The 

hearts 

That  spaniel'd  me  at  heels,  to  whom  I  gave 
Their  wishes,  do  discandy,  melt  their  sweets 
On  blossoming  Caesar ;  and  this  pine  is  bark'<3 
That  overtopp'd  them  all.     Betray'd  I  am : 
O  this  false  soul  of  Egypt !  this  grave  charm, 
Whose  eye  beck'd  forth  my  wars  and  call'd  them 

home; 

Whose  bosom  was  my  crownet,  my  chief  end, — • 
Like  a  right  gipsy,  hath,  at  fast  and  loose, 
Beguil'd  me  to  the  very  heart  of  loss. — 
What,  Eros,  Eros ! 

Enter  CLEOPATRA. 

7T\i- 

Ah,  thou  spell !  Avaunt ! 
Cleo.  Why  is  my  lord  enrag'd  against  his  love  ? 
Ant.  Vanish;  or  I  shall  give  thee  thy  de- 
serving, [thee, 
And  blemish  Caesar's  triumph.     Let  him  take 
And  hoist  thee  up  to  the  shouting  plebeians: 
Follow  his  chariot,  like  the  greatest  spot 
Of  all  thy  sex ;  most  monster-like,  be  shown 
For  poor'st  diminutives,  for  doits ;  and  let 
Patient  Octavia  plough  thy  visage  up 
With  her  prepared  nails.     [Exit  CLEO.]    'Tis 

well  thou  'rt  gone, 

If  it  be  well  to  live ;  but  better  'twere 
Thou  fell'st  into  my  fury,  for  one  death 
Might  have  prevented  many. — Eros,  ho ! — 
The  shirt  of  Nessus  is  upon  me:  teach  me, 
Alcides,  thou  mine  ancestor,  thy  rage : 
Let  me  lodge  Lichas  on  the  horns  o'  the  moon; 
And  with  those  hands,  that  grasp'd  the  heaviest 
club,  [die: 

Subdue  my  worthiest  self.     The  witch  shall 
To  the  young  Roman  boy  she  hath  sold  me, 

and  I  fall 
Under  this  plot:  she  dies  for 't. — Eros,  ho ! 

[Exit. 

SCENE  XIII. — ALEXANDRIA.     A  Room  in 
the  Palace. 

Enter  CLEOPATRA,   CHARMIAN,   IRAS,   and 
MARDIAN. 

Cleo.  Help  me,  my  women !     O,  he  is  more 
mad  [saly 

Than  Telamon  for  his  shield ;  the  boar  of  Thes- 
Was  never  so  emboss'd. 

Char.  To  the  monument ! 

There  lock  yourself,  and  send  him  word  you 

are  dead. 

The  soul  and  body  rive  not  more  in  parting 
Than  greatness  going  off. 

Cleo.  To  the  monument ! — 

Mardian,  go  tell  him  I  have  slain  myself; 


920 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[ACT  iv. 


Say  that  the  last  I  spoke  was  Antony ', 

And  word  it,  pr'ythee,  piteously :  hence,  Mar- 

dian; 

And  bring  me  how  he  takes  my  death. — 
To  the  monument !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  XIV.  —ALEXANDRIA.     Another  Room. 
Enter  ANTONY  and  EROS. 

Ant.  Eros,  thou  yet  behold'st  me  ? 

Eros.  Ay,  noble  lord. 

Ant.    Sometime    we    see    a    cloud    that's 

dragonish  ; 

A  vapour  sometime  like  a  bear  or  lion, 
A  tower'd  citadel,  a  pendant  rock, 
A  forked  mountain,  or  blue  promontory 
With  trees  upon 't,  that  nod  unto  the  world, 
And  mock  our  eyes  with  air  :  thou  hast  seen 

these  signs  j 
They  are  black  vesper's  pageants. 

Eros.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ant.  That  which  is  now  a  horse,  even  with 

a  thought 

The  rack  dislimns  ;  and  makes  it  indistinct, 
As  water  is  in  water. 

Eros.  It  does,  my  lord.  [is 

Ant.  My  good  knave  Eros,  now  thy  captain 
Even  such  a  body :  here  I  am  Antony  ; 
Yet  cannot  hold  this  visible  shape,  my  knave. 
I  made  these  wars  for  Egypt ;  and  the  queen, — 
Whose  heart  I  thought  I  had,  for  she  had  mine  ; 
Which,  whilst  it  was  mine,  had  annex'd  unto 't 
A  million  more  now  lost, — she,  Eros,  has 
Pack'd  cards  with  Caesar,  and  false-play'd  my 

glory 

Unto  an  enemy's  triumph. — 
Nay,  weep  not,  gentle  Eros  ;  there  is  left  us 
Ourselves  to  end  ourselves. — 

Enter  MARDIAN. 

O,  thy  vile  lady  ! 
She  has  robb'd  me  of  my  sword. 

Mar.  No,  Antony  ; 

My  mistress  lov'd  thee,  and  her  fortunes  mingled 
With  thine  entirely. 

Ant.  Hence,  saucy  eunuch  ;  peace  ! 

She  hath  betray'd  me,  and  shall  die  the  death. 

Mar.  Death  of  one  person  can  be  paid  but 
once,  [do 

And  that  she  has  discharg'd  :  what  thou  wouldst 
Is  done  unto  thy  hand  :  the  last  she  spake 
Was,  Antony  I  most  noble  Antony  ! 
Then  in  the  midst  a  tearing  groan  did  break 
The  name  of  Antony  ;  it  was  divided 
Between  her  heart  and  lips  :  she  render'd  life, 
Thy  name  so  buried  in  her. 

Ant.  Dead  then? 

Mar.  Dead. 


Ant.  Unarm,  Eros;  the  long  day's  task  is 
done,  [safe 

And  we  must  sleep. — That  thou  depart'st  hence 
Does  pay  thy  labour  richly ;  go. 

[Exit  MARDIAN. 
Off,  pluck  off;— 

The  sevenfold  shield  of  Ajax  cannot  keep 
The  battery  from  my  heart.  O,  cleave,  my  sides  ! 
Heart,  once  be  stronger  than  thy  continent, 
Crack  thy  frail  case  ! — Apace,  Eros,  apace. — 
No  more  a  soldier. — Bruised  pieces,  go  ; 
You  have  been  nobly  borne.  — From  me  awhile.  — 

[Exit  EROS. 

I  will  o'ertake  thee,  Cleopatra,  and 
Weep  for  my  pardon.     So  it  must  be,  for  now 
All  length  is  torture. — Since  the  torch  is  out, 
Lie  down,  and  stray  no  further  :  now  all  labour 
Mars  what  it  does  ;  yea,  very  force  entangles 
Itself  withstrength:  seal  then,  and  all  is  done. — • 
Eros  ! — I  come,  my  queen. — Eros  ! — stay  for 
me :  [hand, 

Where  souls  do  couch  on  flowers,  we  '11  hand  in 
And  with  our  sprightly  port  make  the  ghosts 

gaze: 

Dido  and  her  ^Eneas  shall  want  troops, 
And  all  the  haunt  be  ours. — Come,  Eros,  Eros! 

Re-enter  EROS. 

Eros.  What  would  my  lord  ? 
Ant.  Since  Cleopatra  died, 

I  have  liv'tj  in  such  dishonour  that  the  gods 
Detest  my  baseness.     I,  that  with  my  sword 
Quarter'd  the  world,  and  o'er  green  Neptune's 

back 

With  ships  made  cities,  condemn  myself  to  lack 
The  courage  of  a  woman  ;  less  noble  mind 
Than  she  which  by  her  death  our  Csesar  tells, 
/  am  conqueror  of  myself.  Thou  art  sworn,  Eros, 
That,  when  the  exigent  should  come, — which 

now 

Is  come  indeed — when  I  should  see  behind  me 
The  inevitable  prosecution  of 
Disgrace  and  horror,  that,  on  my  command, 
Thou  then  wouldst  kill  me  :  do  't ;  the  time  is 

come  : 

Thou  strik'st  not  me,  'tis  Csesiir  thou  defeat'st. 
Put  colour  in  thy  cheek. 

Eros.  The  gods  withhold  me  ! 

Shall  I  do  that  which  all  the  Parthian  darts, 
Though  enemy,  lost  aim,  and  could  not  ? 

Ant.  Eros, 

Wouldst  thou  be  window'd  in  great  Rome,  and 

see 
Thy  master  thus  with  pleach'd  arms,  bending 

down 

His  corrigible  neck,  his  face  subdu'd 
To  penetrative  shame  ;  whilst  the  wheel'd  seat 


SCENE  XIV.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


921 


Of  fortunate  Caesar,  drawn  before  him,  branded 
His  baseness  that  ensu'd  ? 

Eros.  I  would  not  see  Jt. 

Ant.  Come,  then  ;  for  with  a  wound  I  must 
be  cur'd.  [worn 

Draw  that  thy  honest  sword,  which  thou  hast 
Most  useful  for  thy  country. 

Eros.  O,  sir,  pardon  me  ! 

Ant.  When  I  did  make  thee  free,  swor'st 

thou  not  then 

To  do  this  when  I  bade  thee  ?     Do  it  at  once  ; 
Or  thy  precedent  services, are  all 
But  accidents  unpurpos'd.     Draw,  and  come. 

Eros.  Turn  from  me  then  that  noble  counten- 
ance, 
Wherein  the  worship  of  the  whole  world  lies. 

Ant.  Lo  thee  !  [Turning from  him. 

Eros.  My  sword  is  drawn. 

Ant.  Then  let  it  do  at  once 

The  thing  why  thou  hast  drawn  it. 

Eros.  My  dear  master, 

My  captain  and  my  emperor,  let  me  say, 
Before  I  strike  this  bloody  stroke,  farewell. 

Ant.  'Tis  said,  man  ; — and  farewell,     [now? 

Eros.  Farewell,  great  chief.     Shall  I  strike 

Ant.  Now,  Eros. 

Eros.  Why,  there  then  [/#//.? on  his  sword]: — 

thus  do  I  escape  the  sorrow 
Of  Antony's  death.  [Dies. 

Ant.  Thrice  nobler  than  myself ! 

Thou  teachest  me,  O  valiant  Eros,  what    [Eros 
I  should,  and  thou  couldst  not.    My  queen  and 
Have,  by  their  brave  instruction,  got  upon  me 
A  nobleness  on  record  :  but  I  will  be 
A  bridegroom  in  my  death,  and  run  into 't 
As  to  a  lover's  bed.     Come,  then  ;  and,  Eros, 
Thy  master  dies  thy  scholar  :  to  do  thus 

[Falling  on  his  sword. 

I  learn'd  of  thee.  How !  not  dead  ?  not  dead  ? — 
The  guard,  ho  ! — O,  despatch  me  ! 

Enter  DERCETAS  and  Guard. 

1  Guard.  What's  the  noise  ? 
Ant.   I  have  done  my  work  ill,  friends :  O, 

make  an  end 
Of  what  I  have  begun. 

2  Guard.  The  stai  is  fallen. 
I  Guard.  And  time  is  at  his  period. 

All.  Alas,  and  woe  1 

Ant.  Let  him  that  loves  me,  strike  me  dead. 

1  Guard.  Not  I. 

2  Guard.  Nor  I. 

3  Guard.  Nor  any  one.          [Exeunt  Guard. 
Der.  Thy  death  and  fortunes  bid  thy  followers 

fly.  {ings, 

This  sword  but  shown  to  Caesar,  with  this  tid- 
Shall  enter  me  with  him. 


Enter  DIOMEDES. 

Dio.  Where 's  Antony  ? 
Der.  There,  Diomed,  there. 

Dio.  Lives  he  ? 

Wilt  thou  not  answer,  man  ? 

[Exit  DERCETAS. 
Ant.  Art  thou  there,  Diomed?     Draw  thy 

sword,  and  give  me 
Sufficing  strokes  for  death. 

Dio.  Most  absolute  lord, 

My  mistress  Cleopatra  sent  me  to  thee. 
Ant.  When  did  she  send  thee  ? 
Dio.  Now,  my  lord. 

Ant.  Where  is  she  ? 

Dio.  Lock'd  in  her  monument.     She  had  a 

prophesying  fear 

Of  what  hath  come  to  pass :  for  when  she  saw, — 
Which  never  shall  be  found, — you  did  suspect 
She  had  dispos'd  with  Caesar,  and  that  your  rage 
Would  not  be  purg'd,  she  sent  you  word  she 

was  dead ; 

But,  fearing  since  how  it  might  work,  hath  sent 
Me  to  proclaim  the  truth  ;  and  I  am  come, 
I  dread,  too  late. 

Ant.    Too  late,   good   Diomed.— Call   my 

guard,  I  pr'ythee. 
Dio.  What,  ho !  the  emperor's  guard !     The 

guard,  what,  ho  ! 
Come,  your  lord  calls  ! 

Enter  some  of  the  Guard. 

Ant.  Bear  me,  good  friends,  where  Cleopatra 

bides; 

'Tis  the  last  service  that  I  shall  command  you. 
i  Guard.  Woe,  woe  are  we,  sir,  you  may 

not  live  to  wear 
All  your  true  followers  out. 
All.  Most  heavy  day  ! 

Ant.  Nay,  good  my  fellows,  do  not  please 
sharp  fate  [come 

To  grace  it  with  your  sorrows :  bid  that  wel- 
Which  comes  to  punish  us,  and  we  punish  it, 
Seeming  to  bear  it  lightly.     Take  me  up : 
I  have  led  you  oft :  carry  me  now,  good  friends, 
And  have  my  thanks  for  all. 

[Exeunt,  bearing  ANTONY. 

SCENE  XV. — ALEXANDRIA.     A  Monument. 

Enter,  above,  CLEOPATRA,  CHARMIAN,  and 
IRAS. 

Cleo.  O  Charmian,  I  will  never  go  from  hence. 

Char.  Be  comforted,  dear  madam. 

Cleo.  No,  I  will  not : 

All  strange  and  terrible  events  are  welcome, 
But  comforts  we  despise  ;  our  size  of  sorrow, 


922 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[ACT  iv. 


Proportion'd  to  our  cause,  must  be  as  great 
As  that  which  makes  it. — 

Enter,  below,  DiOMEDES. 

How  now  !  is  he  dead  ? 
Dio.   His  death 's  upon  him,  but  not  dead. 
Look  out  o'  the  other  side  your  monument ; 
His  guard  have  brought  him  thither. 

Enter,  below,  ANTONY,  borne  by  the  Guard. 

Cleo.  O  sun, 

Burn  the  great  sphere  thou  mov'st  in  ! — -dark- 
ling stand 

The  varying  shore  o'  the  "world. — O  Antony, 
Antony,    Antony  !  —  Help,    Charmian  ;    help, 

Iras,  help, — 
Help,  friends  below  ; — let 's  draw  him  hither. 

Ant.  Peace ! 

Not  Caesar's  valour  hath  o'erthrown  Antony, 
But  Antony's  hath  triumph'd  on  itself. 

Cleo.  So  it  should  be,  that  none  but  Antony 
Should  conquer  Antony  ;  but  woe  'tis  so  ! 
Ant.  I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying ;  only 
I  here  importune  death  awhile,  until 
Of  many  thousand  kisses  the  poor  last 
I  lay  upon  thy  lips. 

Cleo.  I  dare  not,  dear, — 

Dear  my  lord,  pardon, — I  dare  net, 
Lest  I  be  taken  :  not  the  imperious  show 
Of  the  full-fortun'd  Caesar  ever  shall          [have 
Be  brooch'd  with  me  :  if  knife,  drugs,  serpents 
Edge,  sting,  or  operation,  I  am  safe  ; 
Your  wife  Octavia,  with  her  modest  eyes 
And  still  conclusion,  shall  acquire  no  honour 
Demuring  upon  me. — But   come,  come,  An- 
tony,— [up  ;— 
Help  me,  my  women, — we  must  draw  thee 
Assist,  good  friends. 

Ant.  O,  quick,  or  I  am  gone. 

Cleo.  Here's    sport    indeed ! — How    heavy 

weighs  my  lord  ! 

Our  strength  is  all  gone  into  heaviness, 
That  makes  the  weight:  had  I  great  Juno's 

power, 
The  strong-wing'd  Mercury  should  fetch  thee 

And  set  thee   by  Jove's  side.     Yet  come  a 

little,— 

Wishers  were  ever  fools, — O,  come,  come,  come; 

[They  draw  ANTONY  up. 

And  welcome,  welcome  !  die  where  thou  hast 

liv'd : 

Quicken  with  kissing :  had  my  lips  that  power, 
Thus  would  I  wear  them  out. 

All.  A  heavy  sight ! 

Ant.  I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying : 
Give  me  some  wine,  and  let  me  speak  a  little. 


Cleo.  No,  let  me  speak  ;  and  let  me  rail  sc 
high  [wheel. 

That  the  false  housewife  Fortune  break  he* 
Provok'd  by  my  offence. 

Ant.  One  word,  sweet  queen  ? 

Of  Caesar  seek  your  honour,  with  your  safety. — 

Cleo.  They  do  not  go  together. 

Ant.  Gentle,  hear  me  : 

None  about  Caesar  trust  but  Proculeius. 

Cleo.  My  resolution  and  my  hands  I  '11  trust ; 
None  about  Caesar. 

Ant.  The  miserable  change  now  at  my  end 
Lament  nor  sorrow  at :  but  please  your  thoughts 
In  feeding  them  with  those  my  former  fortunes 
Wherein  I  liv'd,  the  greatest  prince  o'  the  world, 
The  noblest ;  and  do  now  not  basely  die, 
Not  cowardly  put  off  my  helmet  to 
My  countryman,  a  Roman  by  a  Roman 
Valiantly  vanquished.     Now  my  spirit  is  going : 
I  can  no  more. 

Cleo.  Noblest  of  men,  woo 't  die  ? 

Hast  thou  no  care  of  me  ?  shall  I  abide 
In  this  dull  world,  which  in  thy  absence  is 
No  better  than  a  sty  ? — O,  see,  my  women, 

[ANTONY  dies. 

The  crown  o'  the  earth  doth  melt. — My  lord ! — 
O,  wither'd  is  the  garland  of  the  war,        [girls 
The  soldier's  pole  is  fallen:   young  boys  and 
Are  level  now  with  men :  the  odds  is  gone, 
And  there  is  nothing  left  remarkable 
Beneath  the  visiting  moon.  [Faints. 

Char.  O,  quietness,  lady  ! 

Iras.  She  is  dead  too,  our  sovereign. 

Char.  Lady,— 

Iras.  Madam, — 

Char.  O  madam,  madam,  madam, — 

Iras.  Royal  Egypt, 

Empress, — 

Char.  Peace,  peace,  Iras!  [manded 

Cleo.  No  more,  but  e'en  a  woman,  and  corn- 
By  such  poor  passion  as  the  maid  that  milks 
And  does  the  meanest  chares. — It  were  for  me 
To  throw  my  sceptre  at  the  injurious  gods ; 
To  tell  them  that  this  world  did  equal  theirs 
Till  they  had  stol'n  our  j  e  wel.    All 's  but  naught : 
Patience  is  sottish,  and  impatience  does 
Become  a  dog  that 's  mad :  then  is  it  sin 
To  rush  into  the  secret  house  of  death 
Ere  death  dare  come  to  us? — How  do  you, 
women?  [Charmian! 

What,  what!   good  cheer!     Why,  how  now, 
My  noble  girls ! — Ah,  women,  women,  look, 
Our  lamp  is  spent,  it 's  out ! — Good  sirs,  take 
heart ; —  [noble, 

We  '11  bury  him ;  and  then,  what 's  brave,  what 's 
Let 's  do  it  after  the  high  Roman  fashion, 


SCENE    XV.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


923 


And  make  death  proud  to  take  us.     Come, 

away: 

This  case  of  that  huge  spirit  now  is  cold : 
Ah,  women,  women !— Come ;  we  have  no  friend 
But  resolution,  and  the  briefest  end. 
[Exetmt;  those  above  bearing  off  ANTONY'S 
body. 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — CESAR'S  Camp  before  Alexandria. 

Enter  CAESAR,  AGRIPPA,  DOLABELLA,   ME- 
C^NAS,  GALLUS,  PROCULEIUS,  and  others. 

Cas.  Go  to  him,  Dolabella,  bid  him  yield ; 
Being  so  frustrate,  tell  him  that  he  mocks 
The  pauses  that  he  makes. 

DoL  Csesar,  I  shall.     [Exit. 

Enter  DERCETAS  with  the  sword  of  ANTONY. 

Cas.  Wherefore  is  that?  and  what  art  thou 

that  dar'st 
Appear  thus  to  us? 

Der.  I  am  call'd  Dercetas ; 

Mark  Antony  I  serv'd,  who  best  was  worthy 
Best  to  be  serv'd :  whilst  he  stood  up  and  spoke, 
He  was  my  master ;  and  I  wore  my  life 
To  spend  upon  his  haters.     If  thou  please 
To  take  me  to  thee,  as  I  was  to  him 
I  '11  be  to  Caesar ;  if  thou  pleasest  not, 
I  yield  thee  up  my  life. 

Cas.  What  is 't  thou  say'st  ? 

Der.  I  say,  O  Caesar,  Antony  is  dead. 

Cas.  The  breaking  of  so  great  a  thing  should 

make 

A  greater  crack  :  the  round  world 
Should  have  shook  lions  into  civil  streets, 
And  citizens  to  their  dens.    The  death  of  Antony 
Is  not  a  single  doom  ;  in  the  name  lay 
A  moiety  of  the  world. 

Der.  He  is  dead,  Caesar ; 

Not  by  a  public  minister  of  justice, 
Nor  by  a  hired  knife ;  but  that  self  hand 
Which  writ  his  honour  in  the  acts  it  did 
Hath,  with  the  courage  which  the  heart  did 

lend  it, 

Splitted  the  heart.— This  is  his  sword ; 
I  robb'd  his  wound  of  it ;  behold  it  stain'd 
With  his  most  noble  blood. 

Cas.  Look  you  sad,  friends? 

The  gods  rebuke  me,  but  it  is  tidings 
To  wash  the  eyes  of  kings. 

Agr.  And  strange  it  is 

That  nature  must  compel  us  to  lament 
Our  most  persisted  deeds. 

Mec.  His  taints  and  honours 

Weigh'd  equal  with  him. 

Agr.  A  rarer  spirit  never 


Did  steer  humanity :  but  you,  gods,  will  give  us 

Some  faults  to  make  us  men.     Caesar  is  touch'd. 

Mec.    When  such  a  spacious  mirror's  set 

before  him, 
He  needs  must  see  himself. 

Cas.  O  Antony ! 

I  have  follow'd  thee  to  this. — But  we  do  lance 
Diseases  in  our  bodies :  I  must  perforce 
Have  shown  to  thee  such  a  declining  day 
Or  look  on  thine ;  we  could  not  stall  together 
In  the  whole  world :  but  yet  let  me  lament, 
With  tears  as  sovereign  as  the  blood  of  hearts, 
That  thou,  my  brother,  my  competitor 
In  top  of  all  design,  my  mate  in  empire, 
Friend  and  companion  in  the  front  of  war, 
The  arm  of  mine  own  body,  and  the  heart 
Where  mine  his  thoughts  did   kindle, — that 

our  stars, 

Unreconciliable,  should  divide 
Our    equalness    to    this.  —  Hear     me,    good 

friends, — 
But  I  will  tell  you  at  some  meeter  season : 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

The  business  of  this  man  looks  out  of  him ; 
We  '11  hear  him  what  he  says.  — Whence  are  you  ? 

Mess.  A  poor  Egyptian  yet.     The  queen  my 

mistress, 

Confin'd  in  all  she  has,  her  monument, 
Of  thy  intents  desires  instruction, 
That  she  preparedly  may  frame  herself 
To  the  way  she 's  forc'd  to. 

Cas.  Bid  her  have  good  heart : 

She  soon  shall  know  of  us,  by  some  of  ours, 
How  honourable  and  how  kindly  we 
Determine  for  her ;  for  Caesar  cannot  learn 
To  be  ungentle. 

Mess.       So  the  gods  preserve  thee !    [Exit. 

Cas.  Come  hither,  Proculeius.     Go,  and  say 
We  purpose  her  no  shame:    give  her  what 

comforts 

The  quality  of  her  passion  shall  require 
Lest,  in  her  greatness,  by  some  mortal  stroke 
She  do  defeat  us;  for  her  life  in  Rome 
Would  be  eternal  in  our  triumph :  go, 
And  with  your  speediest  bring  us  what  she  says, 
And  how  you  find  of  her. 

Pro.  Gesar,  I  shall.     [Exit. 

Cas.  Gallus,  go  you  along. — [Exit  GALLUS.] 

Where 's  Dolabella, 
To  second  Proculeius? 

Agr.  and  Mec.         Dolabella! 

Cas.  Let  him  alone,  for  I  remember  now 
How  he 's  employ'd :  he  shall  in  time  be  ready. 
Go  with  me  to  my  tent ;  where  you  shall  see 
How  hardly  I  was  drawn  into  this  war ; 
How  calm  and  gentle  I  proceeded  still 


924 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


CACT  v. 


In  all  my  writings:  go  with  me,  and  see 
What  I  can  show  in  this.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — ALEXANDRIA.     A  Room  in  the 
Monument. 

Enter  CLEOPATRA,  CHARMIAN,  and  IRAS. 

Cleo.  My  desolation  does  begin  to  make 
A  better  life.     'Tis  paltry  to  be  Caesar ; 
Not  being  Fortune,  he 's  but  Fortune's  knave, 
A  minister  of  her  will :  and  it  is  great 
To  do  that  thing  that  ends  all  other  deeds; 
Which  shackles  accidents  and  bolts  up  change ; 
Which  sleeps,  and  never  palates  more  the  dug, 
The  beggar's  nurse  and  Caesar's. 

Enter i  to  the  gates  of  the  Monument,  PRO- 

CULEIUS,  GALLUS,  and  Soldiers. 
Pro.  Caesar  sends  greeting  to  the  Queen  of 

Egypt; 

And  bids  thee  study  on  what  fair  demands 
Thou  mean'st  to  have  him  grant  thee. 

Cleo.  What 's  thy  name  ? 

Pro.  My  name  is  Proculeius. 
Cleo.  Antony 

Did  tell  me  of  you,  bade  me  trust  you ;  but 
I  do  not  greatly  care  to  be  deceiv'd, 
That  have  no  use  for  trusting.     If  your  master 
Would  haveaqueen  his  beggar,  you  musttellhim 
That  majesty,  to  keep  decorum,  must 
No  less  beg  than  a  kingdom :  if  he  please 
To  give  me  conquer'd  Egypt  for  my  son, 
He  gives  me  so  much  of  mine  own  as  I 
Will  kneel  to  him  with  thanks. 

Pro.  Be  of  good  cheer ; 

You  are  fallen  into  a  princely  hand,  fear  nothing: 
Make  your  full  reference  freely  to  my  lord, 
Who  is  so  full  of  grace  that  it  flows  over 
On  all  that  need :  let  me  report  to  him 
Your  sweet  dependency;  and  you  shall  find 
A  conqueror  that  will  pray  in  aid  for  kindness 
Where  he  for  grace  is  kneel'd  to. 

Cleo.  Pray  you,  tell  him 

I  am  his  fortune's  vassal,  and  I  send  him 
The  greatness  he  has  got.     I  hourly  learn 
A  doctrine  of  obedience ;  and  would  gladly 
Look  him  i'  the  face. 

Pro.  This  I  '11  report,  dear  lady. 

Have  comfort,  for  I  know  your  plight  is  pitied 
Of  him  that  caus'd  it. 

Gal.  You  see  how  easily  she  may  be  surpris'd : 
[Here  PROCULEIUS  and  two  of  the  Guard 
ascend  the  Monument  by  a  ladder  placed 
against  a  window,  and,  havingdescended, 
come  behind  CLEOPATRA.     Some  of  the 
Guard  unbar  and  open  the  gates. 
Guard  her  till  Caesar  come. 

[To  PRO.  and  the  Guard.     Exit. 


Iras.   Royal  queen ! 

Char.  O  Cleopatra !  thou  art  taken,  queen ! 

Cleo.  Quick,  quick,  good  hands. 

[Drawing-  a  dagger. 

Pro.  Hold,  worthy  lady,  hold : 

[Seizes  and  disarms  her. 
Do  not  yourself  such  wrong,  who  are  in  this 
Reliev'd,  but  not  betray' d. 

Cleo.  What,  of  death  too, 

That  rids  our  dogs  of  languish? 

Pro.  Cleopatra, 

Do  not  abuse  my  master's  bounty  by 
The  undoing  of  yourself :  let  the  world  see 
His  nobleness  well  acted,  which  your  death 
Will  never  let  come  forth. 

Cleo.  Where  art  thou,  death  ? 

Come  hither,  come!  come,  come,  and  take  a 

queen 
Worth  many  babes  and  beggars ! 

Pro.  O,  temperance,  lady! 

Cleo.  Sir,  I  will  eat  no  meat,  I  '11  not  drink, 

sir; 

If  idle  talk  will  once  be  accessary, 
I  '11  not  sleep  neither :  this  mortal  house  I  '11  ruin, 
Do  Caesar  what  he  can.     Know,  sir,  that  I 
Will  not  wait  pinion'd  at  your  master's  court ; 
Nor  once  be  chastis'd  with  the  sober  eye 
Of  dull  Octavia.     Shall  they  hoist  me  up, 
And  show  me  to  the  shouting  varletry 
Of  censuring  Rome?     Rather  a  ditch  in  Egypt 
Be  gentle  grave  unto  me !  rather  on  Nilus'  mud 
Lay  me  stark  nak'd,  and  let  the  water-flies 
Blow  me  inco  abhorring  !  rather  make 
My  country's  high  pyramides  my  gibbet, 
And  hang  me  up  in  chains ! 

Pro.  You  do  extend 

These  thoughts  of  horror  further  than  you  shall 
Find  cause  in  Caesar. 

Enter  DOLABELLA.  , 

Dol.  Proculeius, 

What  thou  hast  done  thy  master  Caesar  knows, 
And  he  hath  sent  for  thee:  as  for  the  queen, 
I  '11  take  her  to  my  guard. 

Pro.  So,  Dolabella, 

It  shall  content  me  best:  be  gentle  to  her. — 
To  Caesar  I  will  speak  what  you  shall  please, 

[To  CLEOPATRA. 
If  you  '11  employ  me  to  him. 

Cleo.  Say  I  would  die. 

[Exeunt  PROCULEIUS  and  Soldiers. 
Dol.  Most  noble  empress,  you  have  heard  of 

me? 

Cleo.  I  cannot  tell. 

Dol.  Assuredly  you  know  me. 

Cleo.  No  matter,  sir,  what  I  have  heard  or 
known. 


SCENE  II.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


925 


Vou   laugh   when   boys   or   women   tell   their 

dreams ; 
Is't  not  your  trick? 

Dol.  I  understand  not,  madam. 

Cleo.    I  dream'd    there    was    an    emperor 

Antony : — 

O,  such  another  sleep,  that  I  might  see 
But  such  another  man ! 

Dol.  If  it  might  please  you, — 

Cko.  His  face  was  as  the  heavens ;  and  there- 
in stuck 
A  sun  and  moon,  which  kept  their  course,  and 

lighted 
The  little  O,  the  earth. 

Dol.  Most  sovereign  creature, — 

Cko.  His  legs  bestrid  the  ocean :  his  rear'd 

arm 

Crested  the  world :  his  voice  was  propertied 
As  all  the  tuned  spheres,  and  that  to  friends ; 
But  when  he  meant  to  quail  and  shake  the  orb, 
He  was  as  rattling  thunder.     For  his  bounty, 
There  was  no  winter  in 't ;  an  autumn  'twas 
That  grew  the  more  by  reaping :  his  delights 
Were  dolphin-like ;  they  show'd  his  back  above 
The  element  they  liv'd  in :  in  his  livery 
Walk'd   crowns  and   crownets ;    realms    and 

islands  were 
As  plates  dropp'd  from  his  pocket. 

Dol.  Cleopatra, — 

Cleo.  Think  you  there  was  or  might  be  such 

a  man 
As  this  I  dream'd  of? 

Dol.  Gentle  madam,  no. 

Cleo.  You  lie,  up  to  the  hearing  of  the  gods. 
But  if  there  be,  or  ever  were,  one  such, 
It 's  past  the  size  of  dreaming :  nature  wants 

stuff 

To  vie  strange  forms  with  fancy :  yet  to  imagine 
An  Antony  were  nature's  peace  'gainst  fancy, 
Condemning  shadows  quite. 

Dol.  Hear  me,  good  madam. 

Your  loss  is,  as  yourself,  great ;  and  you  bear  it 
As  answering  to  the  weight :  would  I  might 

never 

O'ertake  pursu'd  success,  but  I  do  feel, 
By  the  rebound  of  yours,  a  grief  that  smites 
My  very  heart  at  root. 

Cleo.  I  thank  you,  sir. 

Know  you  what  Caesar  means  to  do  with  me  ? 

Dol.  I  am  loth  to  tell  you  what  I  would  you 
knew. 

Cleo.  Nay,  pray  you,  sir, — 

Dol.  Though  he  be  honourable, — 

Cleo.  He  '11  lead  me,  then,  in  triumph  ? 

Dol.  Madam,  he  will ; 

I  know  it.  [Flourish  within* 

Within.  Make  way  there, — Caesar  ! 


Enter     OESAR,     CALLUS,     PROCULEIUS, 
MEC^ENAS,  SELEUCUS,  and  Attendants. 

Cas.  Which  is  the  Queen  of  Egypt  ? 

Dol.  It  is  the  emperor,  madam. 

[CLEOPATRA  kneels. 

C<zs.  Arise,  you  shall  not  kneel : — 
I  pray  you  rise  ;  rise,  Egypt. 

Cleo.  Sir,  the  gods 

Will  have  it  thus ;  my  master  and  my  lord 
I  must  obey. 

Cas.  Take  to  you  no  hard  thoughts  : 

The  record  of  what  injuries  you  did  us, 
Though  written  in  our  flesh,  we  shall  remember 
As  things  but  done  by  chance. 

Cleo.  Sole  sir  o'  the  world, 

I  cannot  project  mine  own  cause  so  well 
To  make  it  clear  :  but  do  confess  I  have 
Been  laden  with  like  frailties  which  before 
Have  often  sham'd  our  sex. 

Cas.  Cleopatra,  know 

We  will  extenuate  rather  than  enforce  : 
If  you  apply  yourself  to  our  intents, —        [find 
Which  towards  you  are  most  gentle, — you  shall 
A  benefit  in  this  change  ;  but  if  you  seek 
To  lay  on  me  a  cruelty,  by  taking 
Antony's  course,  you  shall  bereave  yourself 
Of  my  good  purposes,  and  put  your  children 
To  that  destruction  which  I  11  guard  them  from, 
If  thereon  you  rely.     I  '11  take  my  leave. 

Cleo.  And  may,  through  all  the  world  :  'tis 

yours ;  and  we, 

Your  scutcheons  and  your  signs  of  conquest, 

shall  [good  lord. 

Hang  in  what  place  you  please.     Here,  my 

Cas.  You  shall  advise  me  in  all  for  Cleopatra. 

Cleo.  This  is  the  brief  of  money,  plate,  and 

jewels 

I  am  possess'd  of :  'tis  exactly  valued  ;      [cus  ? 
Not  petty  things  admitted. — Where's  Seleu- 

Sel.  Here,  madam.  [my  lord, 

Cleo.  This  is  my"  treasurer :  let  him  speak, 
Upon  his  peril,  that  I  have  reserv'd 
To  myself  nothing.     Speak  the  truth,  Seleucus. 

Sel.  Madam, 

I  had  rather  seal  my  lips  than  to  my  peril 
Speak  that  which  is  not. 

Cleo.  What  have  I  kept  back  ? 

Sel.    Enough   to   purchase   what  you   have 
made  known. 

Cas.  Nay,  blush  not,  Cleopatra ;  I  approve 
Your  wisdom  in  the  deed. 

Cleo.  See,  Caesar  !  O,  behold, 

How  pomp  is  follow'd  I    mine  will  now  be 

yours ;  [mine. 

And,  should  we  shift  estates,  yours  would  be 

The  ingratitude  of  this  Seleucus  does 


926 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[ACT  v. 


Even  make  me  wild :  O  slave,  of  no  more  trust 
Than  love   that 's   hir'd  ! — What,  goest   thou 

back  ?  thou  shalt 

Go  back,  I  warrant  thee  ;  but  I  '11  catch  thine 
eyes  [dog ! 

Though  they  had  wings ;  slave,  soulless  villain, 
O  rarely  base  ! 

Cces.  Good  queen,  let  us  entreat  you. 

Cleo.  O  Caesar,  what  a  wounding  shame  is 

this, — 

That  thou,  vouchsafing  here  to  visit  me, 
Doing  the  honour  of  thy  lordliness 
To  one  so  meek,  that  mine  own  servant  should 
Parcel  the  sum  of  my  disgraces  by 
Addition  of  his  envy  !     Say,  good  Caesar, 
That  I  some  lady  trifles  have  reserv'd, 
Immoment  toys,  things  of  such  dignity 
As  we  greet  modern  friends  withal ;  and  say, 
Some  nobler  token  I  have  kept  apart 
For  Livia  and  Octavia,  to  induce 
Their  mediation  ;  must  I  be  unfolded 
With  one  that  I  have  bred  ?    The  gods  !     It 

smites  me 

Beneath  the  fall  I  have.     Pr'ythee,  go  hence  ; 
[To  SELEUCUS. 

Or  I  shall  show  the  cinders  of  my  spirits 
Through  the  ashes  of  my  chance. — Wert  thou 

a  man, 
Thou  wouldst  have  mercy  upon  me. 

Cas.  Forbear,  Seleucus, 

[Exit  SELEUCUS. 

Cleo.  Be  it  known  that  we,  the  greatest,  are 

misthought 

For  things  that  others  do  ;  and  when  we  fall 
We  answer  others'  merits  in  our  name. 
And  therefore  to  be  pitied. 

Cces.  Cleopatra, 

Not  what  you  have  reserv'd,  nor  what  acknow- 

ledg'd, 

Put  we  i'  the  roll  of  conquest :  still  be 't  yours, 
Bestow  it  at  your  pleasure  ;  and  believe 
Caesar 's  no  merchant,  to  iriake  prize  with  you 
Of  things  that  merchants  sold.     Therefore  be 

cheer5  d ; 
Make  not  your  thoughts  your  prisons :  no,  dear 

queen  ; 

For  we  intend  so  to  dispose  you  as 
Yourself  shall  give  us  counsel.    Feed  and  sleep : 
Our  care  and  pity  is  so  much  upon  you 
That  we  remain  your  friend  ;  and  so,  adieu. 
Cleo.  My  master  and  my  lord  ! 
Cces.  Not  so.     Adieu. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt  C^SAR  and  his  Train. 
Cleo.  He  words  me,  girls,  he  words  me,  that 

I  should  not 

Be  noble  to  myself :  but  hark  thee,  Charmian ! 
[  Whispers  CHARMIAN. 


Iras.  Finish,  good  lady;  the  bright  day  is 

done, 
And  we  are  for  the  dark. 

Cleo.  Hie  thee  again : 

I  have  spoke  already,  and  it  is  provided  ; 
Go  put  it  to  the  haste. 

Char.  Madam,  I  will. 

Re-enter  DOLABELLA. 
t 

DoL  Where  is  the  queen? 

Char.  Behold,  sir.  [Exit. 

Cleo.  Dolabella ! 

Dol.     Madam,    as   thereto  sworn    by  your 

command, 

Which  my  love  makes  religion  to  obey, 
I  tell  you  this :  Caesar  through  Syria 
Intends  his  journey  ;  and  within  three  days 
You  with  your  children  will  he  send  before : 
Make  your  best  use  of  this  :  I  have  perform'd 
Your  pleasure  and  my  promise. 

Cleo.  Dolabella, 

I  shall  remain  your  debtor. 

Dol.  I  your  servant. 

Adieu,  good  queen  ;  I  must  attend  on  Csesar. 

Cleo.  Farewell,  and  thanks. 

[Exit  DOLABELLA. 
Now,  Iras,  what  think' st  thou  ? 
Thou,  an  Egyptian  puppet,  shalt  be  shown 
In  Rome  as  well  as  I :  mechanic  slaves, 
With  greasy  aprons,  rules,  and  hammers,  shall 
Uplift  us  to  the  view  ;  in  their  thick  breaths, 
Rank  of  gross  diet,  shall  we  be  enclouded, 
And  forc'd  to  drink  their  vapour. 

Iras.  The  gods  forbid  ! 

Cleo.    Nay,  'tis  most  certain,  Iras : — saucy 
lictors  [rhymers 

Will   catch  at   us  like   strumpets;   and  scald 
Ballad  us  out  o'  tune  :  the  quick  comedians 
Extemporally  will  stage  us,  and  present 
Our  Alexandrian  revels  ;  Antony 
Shall  be  brought  drunken  forth,  and  I  shall  see 
Some  squeaking  Cleopatra  boy  my  greatness 
I'  the  posture  of  a  whore. 

Iras.  O  the  good  gods  ! 

Cleo.  Nay,  that's  certain. 

Iras.  I  '11  never  see 't ;  for  I  am  sure  my  nails 
Are  stronger  than  mine  eyes. 

Cleo.     '  Why,  that 's  the  way 

To  fool  their  preparation  and  to  conquer 
Their  most  absurd  intents. 

Enter  CHARMIAN. 

Now,  Charmian ! — 

Show  me,  my  women,  like  a  queen. — Go  fetch 
My  best  attires  ; — I  am  again  for  Cydnus, 
To  meet  Mark  Antony  : — sirrah,  Iras,  go.— 
Now,  noble  Charmian,  we  '11  despatch  indeed  : 


SCENE  II.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


927 


And  when  thou  hast  done  this  chare,  I  '11  give 
thee  leave  [all. 

To  play  till  doomsday. — Bring  our  crown  and 
Wherefore 's  this  noise  ? 

[Exit  IRAS.     A  noise  within. 

Enter  one  of  the  Guard. 

Guard.  Here  is  a  rural  fellow 

That  will  not  be  denied  your  highness'  presence : 
He  brings  you  figs. 

Cleo.  Let  him  come  in.  [Exit  Guard. 

What  poor  an  instrument 
May  do  a  noble  deed  !  he  brings  me  liberty. 
My  resolution 's  plac'd,  and  I  have  nothing 
Of  woman  in  me :  now  from  head  to  foot 
I  am  marble-constant ;  now  the  fleeting  moon 
No  planet  is  of  mine. 

Re-enter  Guard,  with  Clown  bringing  a  basket. 

Guard.  This  is  the  man. 

Cleo.  Avoid,  and  leave  him.      [Exit  Guard. 
Hast  thou  the  pretty  worm  of  Nilus  there 
That  kills  and  pains  not  ? 

Clown.  Truly,  I  have  him :  but  I  would  not 
be  the  party  that  should  desire  you  to  touch 
him,  for  his  biting  is  immortal ;  those  that  do 
die  of  it  do  seldom  or  never  recover.  [on 't  ? 

Cleo.  Remember'st  thou  any  that  have  died 

Clown.  Very  many,  men  and  women  too. 
I  heard  of  one  of  them  no  longer  than  yester- 
day :  a  very  honest  woman,  but  something 
given  to  lie  ;  as  a  woman  should  not  do  but  in 
the  way  of  honesty :  how  she  died  of  the  biting 
of  it,  what  pain  she  felt, — truly  she  makes  a 
very  good  report  o'  the  worm ;  but  he  that  will 
believe  all  that  they  say  shall  never  be  saved 
by  half  that  they  do  :  but  this  is  most  fallible, 
the  worm  's  an  odd  worm. 

Cleo.  Get  thee  hence  ;  farewell. 

Clown.  I  wish  you  all  joy  of  the  worm. 

[Sets  down  the  basket. 

Cleo.  Farewell. 

Clown.  You  must  think  this,  look  you,  that 
the  worm  will  do  his  kind. 

Cleo.  Ay,  ay  ;  farewell. 

Clown.  Look  you,  the  worm  is  not  to  be 
trusted  but  in  the  keeping  of  wise  people  ;  for 
indeed  there  is  no  goodness  in  the  worm. 

Cleo.  Take  thou  no  care ;  it  shall  be  heeded. 

Clown.  Very  good.  Give  it  nothing,  I  pray 
you,  for  it  is  not  worth  the  feeding. 

Cleo.  Will  it  eat  me? 

Clown.  You  must  not  think  I  am  so  simple 
but  I  know  the  devil  himself  will  not  eat  a 
woman:  I  know  that  a  woman  is  a  dish  for 
the  gods,  if  the  devil  dress  her  not.  But,  truly, 
these  same  whoreson  devils  do  the  gods  great 


harm  in  their  women,  for  in  every  ten  that  they 
make  the  devils  mar  five. 

Cleo.  Well,  get  thee  gone  ;  farewell. 

Clown.  Yes,  forsooth :  I  wish  you  joy  o'  the 
worm.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  IRAS,  with  a  r?bet  crown,  <SrY. 

Cleo.  Give  me  my  robe,  put  on  my  crown; 

I  have 

Immortal  longings  in  me  :  now  no  more 
The  juice  of  Egypt's  grape  shall  moist  this  lip : — 
Yare,  yare,  good  Iras ;  quick. — Methinks  I  hear 
Antony  call ;  I  see  him  rouse  himself 
To  praise  my  noble  act ;  I  hear  him  mock 
The  luck  of  Caesar,  which  the  gods  give  men 
To  excuse  their  after  wrath.    Husband,  I  come : 
Now  to  that  name  my  courage  prove  my  title  ! 
I  am  fire  and  air  ;  my  other  elements 
I  give  to  baser  life. — So, — have  you  done? 
Come  then,  and  take  the  last  warmth  of  my  lips. 
Farewell,  kind  Charmian  ; — Iras,  long  farewell. 
[Kisses  them.     iRAsfatts  and  dies. 
Have  I  the  aspic  in  my  lips  ?     Dost  fall  ? 
If  thou  and  nature  can  so  gently  part, 
The  stroke  of  death  is  as  a  lover's  pinch, 
Which  hurts  and  is  desir'd.    Dost  thou  lie  still? 
If  thus  thou  vanishes!,  thou  tell'st  the  world 
It  is  not  worth  leave-taking. 

Char.  Dissolve,  thick  cloud,  and  rain  ;  that 

I  may  say 
The  gods  themselves  do  weep  ! 

Cleo.  This  proves  me  base : 

If  she  first  meet  the  curled  Antony, 
He  '11  make  demand  of  her,  and  spend  that  kiss 
Which  is  my  heaven  to  have. — Come,  thou 

mortal  wretch, 

[To  an  aspy  which  she  applies  to  her  breast. 
With  thy  sharp  teeth  this  knot  intrinsicate 
Of  life  at  once  untie  :  poor  venomous  fool, 
Be  angry,  and  despatch.    O  couldst  thou  speak, 
That  I  might  hear  thee  call  great  Caesar  ass 
Unpolicied ! 

Char.         O  eastern  star  ! 

Cleo.  Peace,  peace ! 

Dost  thou  not  see  my  baby  at  my  breast 
That  sucks  the  nurse  asleep  ? 

Char.  O,  break  !  O,  break  ! 

Cleo.  As  sweet  as  balm,  as  soft  as  air,  as 

gentle : — 
O  Antony  ! — Nay,  I  will  take  thee  too  : — 

[Applying  another  asp  to  her  arm. 
What,  should  I  stay, — 

[Falls  on  a  bed  and  dies. 

Char.    In   this  vile  world? — So,   fare   thee 

well.— 

Now  boast  thee,  death,  in  thy  possession  lies 
A  lass  unparallel'd. — Downy  windows,  close; 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[ACT  v. 


And  golden  Phoebus  never  be  beheld 

Of  eyes  again  so  royal !    Your  crown 's  awry ; 

I  '11  mend  it  and  then  play. 

Enter  the  Guard,  rushing  in. 

I  Guard.  Where  is  the  queen? 
Char.  Speak  softly,  wake  her  not. 

I  Guard.  Caesar  hath  sent, — 
Char.  Too  slow  a  messenger. 

[Applies  an  asp. 
O,  come  apace,  despatch :  I  partly  feel  thee. 

1  Guard.    Approach,   ho !    all 's    not  well : 

Caesar 's  beguil'd.  [call  him. 

2  Guard.  There 's  Dolabella  sent  from  Caesar ; 

1  Guard.  What  work  is  here ! — Charmian,  is 

this  well  done?  [cess 

Char.  It  is  well  done,  and  fitting  for  a  prin- 
Descended  of  so  many  royal  kings. 
Ah,  soldier !  {Dies. 

Re-enter  DOLABELLA. 

Dol.  How  goes  it  here? 

2  Guard.  All  dead. 

Dol.  Caesar,  thy  thoughts 

Touch  their  effects  in  this :  thyself  art  coming 
To  see  perform'd  the  dreaded  act  which  thou 
So  sought'st  to  hinder. 

Within.          A  way  there,  a  way  for  Caesar ! 

Re-enter  CAESAR  and  his  Train. 
Dol.  O,  sir,  you  are  too  sure  an  augurer ; 
That  you  did  fear  is  done. 

Cces.  Bravest  at  the  last, 

She  levell'd  at  our  purposes,  and,  being  royal, 
Took  her  own  way. — The  manner  of  their 

deaths? 
I  do  not  see  them  bleed. 


Dol.      ,:H,  Who  was  last  with  them? 

I  Guard.  A  simple  countryman  that  brought 

her  figs. 
This  was  his  basket. 

Cas.  Poison'd  then. 

I  Guard.  O  Caesar, 

This  Charmian  hVd  but  now ;  she  stood  and 

spake : 

I  found  her  trimming  up  the  diadem 
On  her  dead  mistress ;  tremblingly  she  stood, 
And  on  the  sudden  dropp'd. 

Gas.  O  noble  weakness ! — • 

If  they  had  swallow'd  poison  'twould  appear 
By  external  swelling :  but  she  looks  like  sleep, — 
As  she  would  catch  another  Antony 
In  her  strong  toil  of  grace. 

Dol.  Here  on  her  breast 

.There  is  a  vent  of  blood,  and  something  blown : 
The  like  is  on  her  arm. 

I  Guard.  This  is  an  aspic's  trail :  and  these 

fig-leaves 

Have  slime  upon  them,  such  as  the  aspic  leaves 
Upon  the  caves  of  Nile. 

Cess.  Most  probable 

That  so  she  died ;  for  her  physician  tells  me 
She  hath  pursu'd  conclusions  infinite 
Of  easy  ways  to  die. — Take  up  her  bed, 
And  bear  her  women  from  the  monument : — 
She  shall  be  buried  by  her  Antony: 
No  grave  upon  the  earth  shall  clip  in  it 
A  pair  so  famous.     High  events  as  these 
Strike  those  that  make  them ;  and  their  story  is 
No  less  in  pity  than  his  glory  which 
Brought  them  to  be  lamented.     Our  army  shall 
In  solemn  show  attend  this  funeral; 
And  then  to  Rome. — Come,  Dolabella,  see 
High  order  in  this  great  solemnity.     \Exeunt. 


jo'rt  ei  tf  TO! 


CYMBELINE. 


^nhtTft  "err»   bo/. 
~  thm>D 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


CYMBELINE,  King  of  Britain. 

CLOTEN,  Son  to  the  Queen  by  a  former  Husband. 

POSTHUMUS  LEONATUS,  a  Gentleman,  Hus- 
band to  IMOGEN. 

BELARIUS,  a  banished  Lordt  disguised  under 
the  name  of  MORGAN. 

SSons  to  CYMBELINE,  disguised 
under  the  names  of  POLY- 
DORE  and   CADWAL,   sup- 
posed Sons  to  BELARIUS. 
PHILARIO,  Friend  to  POSTHUMUS,  \  T    .. 
IACHIMO,  Friend  to  PHILARIO,       / 
A  French  Gentleman,  Friend  to  PHILARIO. 
CAIUS  Lucius,  General  of  the  Roman  Forces. 
A  Roman  Captain. 
Two  British  Captains. 


PlSANIO,  Servant  to  POSTHUMUS. 
CORNELIUS,  a  Physician. 
Two  Lords  of  CYMBELINE'S  Court. 
Two  Gentlemen  of  the  same. 
Two  Gaolers. 

QUEEN,  Wife  to  CYMBELINE. 

IMOGEN,  Daughter  to  CYMBELINE  by  a  former 

Queen. 
HELEN,  Woman  to  IMOGEN. 

Lords,  Ladies,  Roman  Senators,  Tribunes,  Ap- 
paritions, a  Soothsayer,  a  Dutch  Gentleman, 
a  Spanish  Gentleman,  Musicians,  Officers, 
Captains,  Soldiers,  Messengers,  and  other 
Attendants. 


SCENE, — Sotnetimes  in  BRITAIN  ;  sometimes  in  ITALY. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — BRITAIN.     The  Garden  behind 
CYMBELINE'S  Palace. 
Enter  two  Gentlemen. 

1  Gent.  You  do  not  meet  a  man  but  frowns : 

our  bloods 

No  more  obey  the  heavens  than  our  courtiers 
Still  seem  as  does  the  king. 

2  Gent.  But  what's  the  matter? 

1  Gent.  His  daughter,  and  the  heir  of 's  king- 

dom, whom 

He  purpos'd  to  his  wife's  sole  son, — a  widow 
That  late  he  married, — hath  referr'd  herself 
Unto  a  poor  but  worthy  gentleman.     She's 

wedded ; 

Her  husband  banish'd ;  she  imprison'd :  all 
Is  outward  sorrow ;  though  I  think  the  king 
Be  touch'd  at  very  heart. 

2  Gent.  None  but  the  king  ? 

1  Gent.  He  that  hath  lost  her  too :  so  is  the 

queen,  [courtier, 

That  most  desir'd  the    match.      But    not  a 
Although  they  wear  their  faces  to  the  bent 
Of  the  king's  looks,  hath  a  heart  that  is  not 
Glad  at  tne  thing  they  scowl  at. 

2  Gent.  And  why  so? 

I  Gent.  He  that  hath  miss'd  the  princess  is  a 

thing 

Too  bad  for  bad  report :  and  he  that  hath  her, — 
I  mean  that  married  her — alack,  good  man  !— 


And  therefore  banish'd, — is  a  creature  such 
As,  to  seek  through  the  regions  of  the  earth 
For  one  his  like,  there  would  be  something  failing 
In  him  that  should  compare.     I  do  not  think 
So  fair  an  outward  and  such  stuff  within 
Endows  a  man  but  he. 

2  Gent.  You  speak  him  far. 

1  Gent.  I  do  extend  him,  sir,  within  himself; 
Crush  him  together,  rather  than  unfold 

His  measure  duly. 

2  Gent.  What 's  his  name  and  birth? 
I  Gent.  I  cannot  delve  him  to  the  root :  his 

father 

Was  call'd  Sicilius,  who  did  join  his  honour, 
Against  the  Romans,  with  Cassibelan, 
But  had  his  titles  by  Tenantius,  whom 
He  serv'd  with  glory  and  admir'd  success, — 
So  gain'd  the  sur-addition  Leonatus: 
And  had,  besides  this  gentleman  in  question, 
Two  other  sons,  who,  in  the  wars  o'  the  time, 
Died  with  their  swords  in  hand ;  for  which  their 

father, — 

Then  old  and  fond  of  issue, — took  such  sorrow 
That  he  quit  being ;  and  his  gentle  lady, 
Big  of  this  gentleman,  our  theme,  deceas'd 
As  he  was  born.     The  king  he  takes  the  babe 
To  his  protection;  callshim  Posthumus  Leonatus; 
Breeds  him,  and  makes  him  of  his  bed-chamber: 
Puts  to  him  all  the  learnings  that  his  time 
Could  make  him  the  receiver  of ;  which  he  took, 
As  we  do  air,  fast  as  'twas  minister'd ; 

2G 


930 


CYMBELINE. 


[ACT  i. 


And  in's  spring  became  a  harvest:    liv'd  in 

court, — 

Which  rare  it  is  to  do, — mostprais'd,  most  lov'd ; 
A  sample  to  the  youngest  j  to  the  more  mature 
A  glass  that  feated  them ;  and  to  the  graver 
A  child  that  guided  dotards :  to  his  mistress, 
For  whom  he  now  is  banish'd, — her  own  price 
Proclaims  how  she  esteem'd  him  and  his  virtue ; 
By  her  election  may  be  truly  read 
What  kind  of  man  he  is. 

2  Gent.  I  honour  him 

Even  out  of  your  report.  But,  pray  you,  tell  me, 
Is  she  sole  child  to  the  king  ? 

1  Gent.  His  only  child. 
He  had  two  sons, — if  this  be  worth  your  hearing, 
Mark  it, — the  eldest  of  them  at  three  years  old, 
I'  the  swathing  clothes  the  other,  from  their 

nursery  [knowledge 

Were  stol'n ;  and   to  this  hour  no  guess  in 
Which  way  they  went. 

2  Gent.  How  long  is  this  ago  ? 

1  Gent.  Some  twenty  years.  [convey'd  ! 

2  Gent.  That  a  king's  children  should  be  so 
So  slackly  guarded  !     And  the  search  so  slow 
That  could  not  trace  them  ! 

1  Gent.  Howsoe'er  'tis  strange, 
Or  that  the  negligence  may  well  be  iaugh'd  at, 
Yet  is  it  true,  sir. 

2  Gent.  I  do  well  believe  you. 

i  Gent.  We  must  forbear :  here  comes  the 

gentleman, 
The  queen,  and  princess.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  the  QUEEN,  POSTHUMUS,  and  IMOGEN. 

Queen.  No,  be  assur'd  you  shall  not  find  me, 

daughter, 

After  the  slander  of  most  stepmothers, 
Evil-ey'd  unto  you  :  you  're  my  prisoner,  but 
Your  gaoler  shall  deliver  you  the  keys      [mus, 
That  lock  up  your  restraint. — For  you,  Posthu- 
So  soon  as  I  can  win  the  offended  king, 
I  will  be  known  your  advocate  :  marry,  yet 
The  fire  of  rage  is  in  him  ;  and  'twere  good 
You  lean'd  unto  his  sentence  with  what  patience 
Your  wisdom  may  inform  you. 

Post.  Please  your  highness, 

I  will  from  hence  to-day. 
1    Queen.  You  know  the  peril. — 

I  '11  fetch  a  turn  about  the  garden,  pitying 
The  pangs  of  barr'd  affections ;  though  the  king 
Hath  charg'd  you  should  not  speak  together. 

\_Exit. 

Into.  O 

Dissembling  courtesy  !     How  fine  this  tyrant 

Can  tickle  where  she  wounds !— -My  dearest 

husband,  [ing, — 

I  something  fear  my  father's  wrath  ;  but  noth- 


Always  reserv'd  my  holy  duty, — what 
His  rage  can  do  on  me.     You  must  be  gone  ; 
And  I  shall  here  abide  the  hourly  shot 
Of  angry  eyes  ;  not  comforted  to  live, 
But  that  there  is  this  jewel  in  the  world 
That  I  may  see  again. 

Post.  My  queen  !  my  mistress  ! 

0  lady,  weep  no  more,  lest  I  give  cause 
To  be  suspected  of  more  tenderness 
Than  doth  become  a  man  !     I  will  remain 
The  loyal'st  husband  that  did  e'er  plight  troth: 
My  residence  in  Rome  at  one  Philario's, 
Who  to  my  father  was  a  friend,  to  me 
Known  but  by  letter :  thither  write,  my  queen, 
And  with  mine  eyes  I  '11  drink  the  words  you 

send, 
Though  ink  be  made  of  gall. 

Re-enter  QUEEN. 

Queen.  Be  brief,  I  pray  you  : 

If  the  king  come  I  shall  incur  I  know  not 
How  much  of  his  displeasure. — [Aside.]    Yet 

I  '11  move  him 

To  walk  this  way  :  I  never  do  him  wrong 
But  he  does  buy  my  injuries  to  be  friends, — 
Pays  dear  for  my  offences.  [Exit. 

Post.  Should  we  be  taking  leave 

As  long  a  term  as  yet  we  have  to  live, 
The  loathness  to  depart  would  grow.      Adieu  ! 

Imo.  Nay,  stay  a  little  : 
Were  you  but  riding  forth  to  air  yourself, 
Such    parting  were  too  petty.      Look  here, 

love; 

This  diamond  was  my  mother's :  take  it,  heart ; 
But  keep  it  till  you  woo  another  wife, 
When  Imogen  is  dead. 

Post.  How,  how  !  another  ? — 
You  gentle  gods,  give  me  but  this  I  have, 
And  sear  up  my  embracements  from  a  next 
With  bonds  of  death  ! — Remain,  remain  thou 
here  [Putting  on  the  ring. 

While  sense  can  keep  it  on  !     And,  sweetest. 

fairest, 

As  I  my  poor  self  did  exchange  for  you, 
To  your  so  infinite  loss,  so  in  our  trifles 

1  still  win  of  you  :  for  my  sake  wear  this  ; 
It  is  a  manacle  of  love  ;  I  '11  place  it 
Upon  this  fairest  prisoner. 

[Putting  a  bracelet  on  her  arm. 
Imo.  O  the  gods  ! 

When  shall  we  see  again? 

Post.  Alack,  the  king  ! 

v"o,-"  £ 

Enter  CYMBELINE  and  Lords. 

Cynu  Thou  basest  thing,  avoid  !  hence  from 

my  sight ! 
If  after  this  command  thou  fraught  the  court 


SCENE  I.] 


CYMBELINE. 


931 


With  thy  unworthiness,  thou  diest :  away  ! 
Thou  art  poison  to  my  blood. 

Post.  The  gods  protect  you  ! 

And  bless  the  good  remainders  of  the  court ! 
I  am  gone.  [Exit. 

Imo.  There  cannot  be  a  pinch  in  death 
More  sharp  than  this  is. 

Cym.  O  disloyal  thing, 

That  shouldst  repair  my  youth,  thou  heapest 
A  year's  age  on  me  ! 

Imo.  I  beseech  you,  sir, 

Harm  not  yourself  with  your  vexation  :  I 
Am  senseless  of  your  wrath ;  a  touch  more  rare 
Subdues  all  pangs,  all  fears. 

Cym.  Past  grace  ?  obedience  ? 

Imo.  Past  hope,  and  in  despair ;  that  way 
past  grace.  [my  queen  ! 

Cym.  That  mightst  have  had  the  sole  son  of 

Imo.  O  bless'd  that  I  might  not !  I  chose  an 

eagle, 
And  did  avoid  a  puttock. 

Cym.  Thou  took'st  a  beggar  ;  wouldst  have 

made  my  throne 
A  seat  for  baseness. 

Imo.  No  ;  I  rather  added 

A  lustre  to  it. 

%~  m.  O  thou  vile  one  ! 

o.  Sir, 

It  is  your  fault  that  I  have  lov'd  Posthumus  : 
You  bred  him  as  my  playfellow  ;  and  he  is 
A  man  worth  any  woman  ;  overbuys  me 
Almost  the  sum  he  pays. 

Cym.  What,  art  thou  mad  ? 

Imo.   Almost,   sir :    heaven  restore  me  ! — 

Would  I  were 

A  neat-herd's  daughter,  and  my  Leonatus 
Our  neighbour  shepherd's  son  ! 

Cym.  Thou  foolish  thing  ! — 

Re-enter  QUEEN. 

They  were  again  together  :  you  have  done 

[To  the  Queen. 

Not  after  our  command.     Away  with  her, 
And  pen  her  up. 

Queen.  Beseech  your  patience. — Peace, 
Dear  lady  daughter,  peace  ! — Sweet  sovereign, 
Leave  us  to  ourselves;  and  make  yourself  some 

comfort 
Out  of  your  best  advice. 

Cym.  Nay,  let  her  languish 

A  drop  of  blood  a  day ;  and,  being  aged, 
Die  of  this  folly  !  [Exit,  with  Lords. 

Queen,  Fie  !  you  must  give  way. 

Enter  PISANIO. 

Here  is  your  servant. — How  now,  sir  !     What 
news? 


Pis.  My  lord  your  son  drew  on  my  master. 

Queen.  Ha ! 

No  harm,  I  trust,  is  done  ! 

Pis.  There  might  have  been, 

But  that  my  master  rather  play'd  than  fought, 
And  had  no  help  of  anger  :  they  were  parted 
By  gentlemen  at  hand. 

Queen.  I  am  very  glad  on 't. 

Imo.  Your  son 's  my  father's  friend ;  he  takes 

his  part. — 

To  draw  upon  an  exile  ! — O  brave  sir  ! — 
I  would  they  were  in  Afric  both  together ; 
Myself  by  with  a  needle,  that  I  might  prick 
The  goer  back. — Why  came  you  from  your 
master  ?  [me 

Pis.  On  his  command  :  he  would  not  suffer 
To  bring  him  to  the  haven  :  left  these  notes 
Of  what  commands  I  should  be  subject  to, 
When 't  pleas'd  you  to  employ  me. 

Queen.  This  hath  been 

Your  faithful  servant :  I  dare  lay  mine  honour 
He  will  remain  so. 

Pis.  I  humbly  thank  your  highness. 

Queen.  Pray,  walk  awhile. 

Imo.  About  some  half  hour  hence, 

I  pray  you,  speak  with  me  :  you  shall  at  least 
Go  see  my  lord  aboard :  for  this  time  leave  me. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.—  BRITAIN.— A  Public  Place. 
Enter  CLOTEN  and  two  Lords. 

1  Lord.  Sir,  I  would  advise  you  to  shift  a 
shirt ;   the  violence  of  action  hath  made  you 
reek  as  a  sacrifice :  where  air  comes  out  air 
comes  in :  there 's  none  abroad  so  wholesome 
as  that  you  vent. 

Clo.  If  my  shirt  were  bloody,  then  to  shift 
it. — Have  I  hurt  him? 

2  Lord.  [Aside.}  No,  faith  ;  not  so  much  as 
his  patience. 

1  Lord.   Hurt  him  !     His  body 's  a  passable 
carcass  if  he  be  not  hurt :  it  is  a  throughfare 
for  steel  if  it  be  not  hurt. 

2 Lord.  [Aside.]  His  steel  was  in  debt;  it 
went  o'  the  back  side  the  town. 

Clo.  The  villain  would  not  stand  me. 

2  Lord.  [Aside.]  No;   but  he  fled  forward 
still,  toward  your  face. 

1  Lord.   Stand  you  !     You  have  land  enough 
of  your  own :  but  he  added  to  your  having ; 
gave  you  some  ground. 

2  Lord.  [Aside.]  As  many  inches  as  you  have 
oceans. — Puppies  I 

Clo.  I  would  they  had  not  come  between  us. 
2  Lord.  [Aside.]  So  would  I,  till  you  had 


932 


CYMBELINE. 


[ACT  r. 


measured  how  long  a  fool  you  were  upon  the 
ground. 

Clo.  And  that  she  should  love  this  fellow, 
and  refuse  me  ! 

2  Lord.  [Aside.  ]  If  it  be  a  sin  to  make  a  true 
election,  she  is  damned. 

1  Lord.    Sir,   as   I  told  you   always,   her 
beauty  and  her  brain  go  not  together  :  she 's  a 
good  jign,  but  I  have  seen  small  reflection  of 
her  wit. 

2  Lord.  [Aside.]  She  shines  not  upon  fools, 
lest  the  reflection  should  hurt  her. 

Clo.  Come,  I'll  to  my  chamber.  Would 
there  had  been  some  hurt  done  ! 

2  Lord.  [Aside.  ]  I  wish  not  so ;  unless  it  had 
been  the  fall  of  an  ass,  which  is  no  great  hurt. 

Cio.  You  Ml  go  with  us  ? 

1  Lord.  I  '11  attend  your  lordship. 
Clo.  Nay,  come,  let 's  go  together. 

2  Lord.  Well,  my  lord.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — BRITAIN.     A  Room  in  CYMBE- 
LINE'S  Palace. 

Enter  IMOGEN  and  PISANIO. 

Into.  I  would  thou  grew'st  unto  the  shores  o' 

the  haven, 

And  questioned'st  every  sail :  if  he  should  write, 
And  I  not  have  it,  'twere  a  paper  lost, 
As  offer'd  mercy  is.     What  was  the  last 
That  he  spake  to  thee  ? 

Pis.  It  was,  His  queen,  his  queen  I 

Into.  Then  wav'd  his  handkerchief? 

Pis.  And  kiss'd  it,  madam. 

Imo.  Senseless  linen  I  happier  therein  than 

I!— 
And  that  was  all  ? 

Pis.  No,  madam  ;  for  so  long 

As  he  could  make  me  with  this  eye  or  ear 
Distinguish  him  from  others,  he  did  keep 
The  deck,  with  glove,  or  hat,  or  handkerchief 
Still  waving,  as  the  fits  and  stirs  of 's  mind 
Could  best  express  how  slow  his  soul  sail'd  on, 
How  swift  his  ship. 

Imo.  Thou  shouldst  have  made  him 

As  little  as  a  crow,  or  less,  ere  left 
To  after-eye  him. 

Pis.  Madam,  so  I  did. 

Into.  I  would  have  broke  mine  eye-strings, 

crack'd  them,  but 

To  look  upon  him,  till  the  diminution 
Of  space  had  pointed  him  sharp  as  my  needle  ; 
Nay,  follow'd  him  till  he  had  melted  from 
The  smallness  of  a  gnat  to  air  ;  and  then 
Have  turned  mine  eye  and  wept.— But,  good 

Pisanio, 
When  shall  we  hear  from  him  ? 


Pis.  Be  assur'd,  madam, 

With  his  next  vantage. 

Imo.  I  did  not  take  my  leave  of  him,  but  had 
Most  pretty  things  to  say :  ere  I  could  tell  him 
I  low  I  would  think  on  him,  at  certain  hours, 
Such  thoughts  and  such  ;  or  I  could  make  him 

swear 

The  shes  of  Italy  should  not  betray  [him 

Mine  interest  and  his  honour  ;  or  have  charg'd 
At  the  sixth  hour  of  morn,  at  noon,  at  midnight, 
To  encounter  me  with  orisons,  for  then 
I  am  in  heaven  for  him  ;  or  ere  I  could 
Give  him  that  parting  kiss  which  I  had  set 
Betwixt  two  charming  words,   comes   in  my 

father, 

And  like  the  tyrannous  breathing  of  the  north 
Shakes  all  our  buds  from  growing. 

Enter  a  Lady. 

Lady.  The  queen,  madam. 

Desires  your  highness'  company. 

Imo.  Those  things  I  bid  ycu  do,  get  them 

despatched.— 
I  will  attend  the  queen. 

Pis.  Madam,  I  shall.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — ROME.     An  Apartment  in 
PHILARIO'S  House. 

Enter  PHILARIO,  IACHIMO,  a  Frenchman,  a 
Dutchman,  and  a  Spaniard. 

loch.  Believe  it,  sir,  I  have  seen  him  in 
Britain:  he  was  then  of  a  crescent  note;  ex- 
pected to  prove  so  worthy  as  since  he  hath  been 
allowed  the  name  of:  but  I  could  then  have 
looked  on  him  without  the  help  of  admiration ; 
though  the  catalogue  of  his  endowments  had 
been  tabled  by  his  side,  and  I  to  peruse  him  by 
items. 

Phi.  You  speak  of  him  when  he  was  less  fur- 
nished than  now  he  is  with  that  which  makes 
him  both  without  and  within. 

French.  I  have  seen  him  in  France :  we  had 
very  many  there  could  behold  the  sun  with  as 
firm  eyes  as  he. 

loch.  This  matter  of  marrying  his  king's 
daughter, — wherein  he  must  be  weighed  rather 
by  her  value  than  his  own, — words  him,  I 
doubt  not,  a  great  deal  from  the  matter. 

French.  And  then  his  banishment, — 

loch.  Ay,  and  the  approbation  of  those  that 
weep  this  lamentable  divorce,  under  her  colours, 
are  wonderfully  to  extend  him;  be  it  but  to 
fortify  her  judgment,  which  else  an  easy  battery 
might  lay  flat,  for  taking  a  beggar  without  less 
quality.  But  how  comes  it  he  is  to  sojourn  with 
you?  How  creeps  acquaintance? 


SCENE  IV.] 


CYMBELINE. 


933 


Phi.  His  father  and  I  were  soldiers  together ; 
to  whom  I  have  been  often  bound  for  no  less 
than  my  life. — Here  comes  the  Briton :  let  him 
be  so  entertained  amongst  you  as  suits  with 
gentlemen  of  your  knowing  to  a  stranger  of  his 
quality. 

Enter  POSTHUMUS. 

I  beseech  you  all,  be  better  known  to  this 
gentleman ;  whom  I  commend  to  you  as  a  noble 
friend  of  mine :  how  worthy  he  is  I  will  leave 
to  appear  hereafter,  rather  than  story  him  in  his 
own  hearing. 

French.  Sir,  we  have  known  together  in 
Orleans. 

Post.  Since  when  I  have  been  debtor  to  you 
for  courtesies,  which  I  will  be  ever  to  pay  and 
yet  pay  still. 

French.  Sir,  you  o'errate  my  poor  kindness : 
I  was  glad  I  did  atone  my  countryman  and 
you;  it  had  been  pity  you  should  have  been 
put  together  with  so  mortal  a  purpose  as  then 
each  bore,  upon  importance  of  so  slight  and 
trivial  a  nature. 

Post.  By  your  pardon,  sir,  I  was  then  a 
young  traveller;  rather  shunned  to  go  even 
with  what  I  heard  than  in  my  every  action  to 
be  guided  by  others*  experiences:  but,  upon 
my  mended  judgment, — if  I  offend  not  to  say 
it  is  mended, — my  quarrel  was  not  altogether 
slight. 

French  Faith,  yes,  to  be  put  to  the  arbitre- 
ment  of  swords ;  and  by  such  two  that  would, 
by  all  likelihood,  have  confounded  one  the 
other,  or  have  fallen  both. 

lack.  Can  we,  with  manners,  ask  what  was 
the  difference? 

French.  Safely,  I  think:  'twas  a  contention 
in  public,  which  may,  without  contradiction, 
suffer  the  report.  It  was  much  like  an  argu- 
ment that  fell  out  last  night,  where  each  of  us 
fell  in  praise  of  our  country  mistresses;  this 
gentleman  at  that  time  vouching, — and  upon 
warrant  of  bloody  affirmation, — his  to  be  more 
fair,  virtuous,  wise,  chaste,  constant-qualified, 
and  less  attemptible  than  any  the  rarest  of  our 
ladies  in  France. 

lach.  That  lady  is  not  now  living;  or  this 
gentleman's  opinion,  by  this,  worn  out. 

Post.  She  holds  her  virtue  still,  and  I  my 
mind. 

lach.  You  must  not  so  far  prefer  her  fore  ours 
of  Italy. 

Post.  Being  so  far  provoked  as  I  was  in 
France,  I  would  abate  ner  nothing;  though  I 
profess  myself  her  adorer,  not  her  friend. 

lach.  As  fair  and  as  good, — a  kind  of  hand- 


in-hand  comparison, — had  been  something  too 
fair  and  too  good  for  any  lady  in  Brittany.  If 
she  went  before  others  I  have  seen,  as  that 
diamond  of  yours  out-lustres  many  I  have  be- 
held, I  could  not  but  believe  she  excelled 
many:  but  I  have  not  seen  the  most  precious 
diamond  that  is,  nor  you  the  lady. 

Post.  I  praised  her  as  I  rated  her :  so  do  I 
my  stone. 

lach.  What  do  you  esteem  it  at? 

Post.  More  than  the  world  enjoys. 

lach.  Either  your  unparagoned  mistress  is 
dead,  or  she 's  outprized  by  a  trifle. 

Post.  You  are  mistaken :  the  one  may  be  sold 
or  given,  if  there  were  wealth  enough  for  the 
purchase  or  merit  for  the  gift :  the  other  is  not 
a  thing  for  sale,  and  only  the  gift  of  the  gods. 

lach.  Which  the  gods  have  given  you? 

Post.  Which,  by  their  graces,  I  will  keep. 

lach.  You  may  wear  her  in  title  yours :  but, 
you  know,  strange  fowl  light  upon  neighbour- 
ing ponds.  Your  ring  may  be  stolen  too:  so 
your  brace  of  unprizeable  estimations,  the  one 
is  but  frail  and  the  other  casual ;  a  cunning 
thief  or  a  that- way-accomplished  courtier  would 
hazard  the  winning  both  of  first  and  last. 

Post.  Your  Italy  contains  none  so  accom- 
plished a  courtier  to  convince  the  honour  of  my 
mistress,  if  in  the  holding  or  loss  of  that  you 
term  her  frail.  I  do  nothing  doubt  you  have 
store  of  thieves ;  notwithstanding  I  fear  not  my 
ring. 

Phi.  Let  us  leave  here,  gentlemen. 

Post.  Sir,  with  all  my  heart.  This  worthy 
signior,  I  thank  him,  makes  no  stranger  of  me ; 
we  are  familiar  at  first. 

lach.  With  five  times  so  much  conversation 
I  should  gee  ground  of  your  fair  mistress ;  make 
her  go  back  even  to  the  yielding,  had  I  ad- 
mittance and  opportunity  to  friend. 

Post.  No,  no. 

lach.  I  dare  thereupon  pawn  the  moiety  of 
my  estate  to  your  ring ;  which,  in  my  opinion, 
o'ervalues  it  something :  but  I  make  my  wager 
rather  against  your  confidence  than  her  reputa- 
tion: and,  to  bar  your  offence  herein  too,  I 
durst  attempt  it  against  any  lady  in  the 
world. 

Post.  You  are  a  great  deal  abused  in  too 
bold  a  persuasion ;  and  I  doubt  not  you  sus- 
tain what  you  're  worthy  of  by  your  attempt. 

lach.  What's  that? 

Post.  A  repulse :  though  your  attempt,  as  you 
call  it,  deserve  more, — a  punishment  too. 

Phi.  Gentlemen,  enough  of  this :  it  came  in 
too  suddenly ;  let  it  die  as  it  was  born,  and,  I 
pray  you,  be  better  acquainted. 


934 


CYMBELINE. 


[ACT  i. 


loch.  Would  I  had  put  my  estate  and  my 
neighbour's  on  the  approbation  of  what  I  have 
spoke ! 

Post.  What  lady  would  you  choose  to  assail? 

loch.  Yours  ;  whom  in  constancy  you  think 
stands  so  safe.  I  will  lay  you  ten  thousand 
ducats  to  your  ring  that,  commend  me  to  the 
court  where  your  lady  is,  with  no  more  ad- 
vantage than  the  opportunity  of  a  second 
conference,  and  I  will  bring  from  thence 
that  honour  of  hers  which  you  imagine  so 
reserved. 

Post.  I  will  wage  against  your  gold  gold  to 
it:  my  ring  I  hold  dear  as  my  finger  ;  'tis  part 
of  it. 

loch.  You  are  afraid,  and  therein  the  wiser. 
If  you  buy  ladies'  flesh  at  a  million  a  dram,  you 
cannot  preserve  it  from  tainting  :  but  I  see  you 
have  some  religion  in  you,  that  you  fear. 

Post.  This  is  but  a  custom  in  your  tongue ; 
you  bear  a  graver  purpose,  I  hope. 

lack.  I  am  the  master  of  my  speeches  ;  and 
would  undergo  what 's  spoken,  I  swear. 

Post.  Will  you? — I  shall  but  lend  my  diamond 
till  your  return  : — let  there  be  covenants  drawn 
between  us:  my  mistress  exceeds  in  goodness 
the  hugeness  of  your  unworthy  thinking:  I  dare 
you  to  this  match :  here 's  my  ring. 

Phi.  I  will  have  it  no  lay. 

lack.  By  the  gods,  it  is  one. — If  I  bring  you 
no  sufficient  testimony  that  I  have  enjoyed  the 
dearest  bodily  part  of  your  mistress,  my  ten 
thousand  ducats  are  yours  ;  so  is  your  diamond 
too  :  if  I  come  off,  and  leave  her  in  such  honour 
as  you  have  trust  in,  she  your  jewel,  this  your 
jewel,  and  my  gold  are  yours ; — provided  I 
have  your  commendation  for  my  more  free 
entertainment. 

Post.  I  embrace  these  conditions  ;  let  us  have 
articles  betwixt  us. — Only,  thus  far  you  shall 
answer:  if  you  make  your  voyage  upon  her, 
and  give  me  directly  to  understand  you  have 
prevail'd,  I  am  no  further  your  enemy;  she  is 
not  worth  our  debate  :  if  she  remain  unseduced, 
— you  not  making  it  appear  otherwise, — for 
your  ill  opinion  and  the  assault  you  have  made 
to  her  chastity  you  shall  answer  me  with  your 
sword. 

loch.  Your  hand,— a  covenant :  we  will  have 
these  things  set  down  by  lawful  counsel,  and 
straight  away  for  Britain,  lest  the  bargain 
should  catch  cold  and  starve :  I  will  fetch  my 
gold,  and  have  our  two  wagers  recorded. 

Post.  Agreed.       {Exeunt  POST,  and  IACH. 

French.  Will  this  hold,  think  you? 

Phi.  Signior  lachimo  will  not  from  it. 
Pray,  let  us  follow  'em.  {Exeunt. 


SCENE  V. — BRITAIN.     A  Room  in  CYM- 
BELINE'S  Palace. 

Enter  QUEEN,  Ladies,  and  CORNELIUS. 

Queen.    Whiles   yet   the  dew 's   on  ground 

gather  those  flowers ; 
Make  haste:  who  has  the  note  of  them? 

I  Lady.  I,  madam. 

Queen.  Despatch. —  {Exeunt  Ladies. 

Now,  master  doctor,  have  you  brought  those 

drugs? 

Cor.  Pleaseth  your  highness,  ay  :  here  they 
are ,  madam :    {Presenting a  small  box. 
But  I  beseech  your  grace,  without  offence, — 
My  conscience  bids  me  ask, — wherefore  you 

have 

Commanded  of  me  these  most  poisonous  com- 
pounds, 

Which  are  the  movers  of  a  languishing  death ; 
But,  though  slow,  deadly? 

Queen.  I  wonder,  doctor, 

Thou  ask'st  me  such  a  question.     Have  I  not 

been 

Thy  pupil  long?    Hast  thou  not  learn'd  me  how 
To  make  perfumes?  distil?  preserve?  yea,  so 
That  our  great  king  himself  doth  woo  me  oft 
For  my  confections?     Having  thus  far   pro- 
ceeded,— 

Unless  thou  think'st  me  devilish, — is 't  not  meet 
That  I  did  amplify  my  judgment  in 
Other  conclusions?     I  will  try  the  forces 
Of  these  thy  compounds  on  such  creatures  as 
We  count  not  worth  the  hanging, — but  none 

human, — 

To  try  the  vigour  of  them,  and  apply 
Allayments  to  their  act ;  and  by  them  gather 
Their  several  virtues  and  effects. 

Cor.  Your  highness 

Shall  from  this  practice  but  make  hard  your 

heart: 

Besides,  the  seeing  these  effects  will  be 
Both  noisome  and  infectious. 

Queen.  O,  content  thee. — 

Here  comes  a  flattering  rascal ;  upon  him 

{Aside. 

Will  I  first  work :  he 's  for  his  master, 
And  enemy  to  my  son. — 

Enter  PISANIO. 

How  now,  Pisanio ! — 

Doctor,  your  service  for  this  time  is  ended ; 

Take  your  own  way. 

Cor.  {Aside.  ]         I  do  suspect  you,  madam ; 
But  you  shall  do  no  harm. 

Queen.  Hark  thee,  a  word. 

{To  PISANIO. 


SCENE  V.] 


CYMBELINE. 


935 


Cor.  [Aside.}  I  do  not  like  her.     She  doth 

think  she  has 

Strange  lingering  poisons :  I  do  know  her  spirit 
And  will  not  trust  one  of  her  malice  with 
A  drug  of  such  damn'd  nature.     Those  she  has 
Will  stupify  and  dull  the  sense  awhile;     [dogs, 
Which  first  perchance  she  '11  prove  on  cats  and 
Then  afterward  up  higher :  but  there  is 
No  danger  in  what  show  of  death  it  makes, 
More  than  the  locking  up  the  spirits  a  time, 
To  be  more  fresh,  reviving.     She  is  fool'd 
With  a  most  false  effect ;  and  I  the  truer 
So  to  be  false  with  her. 

Queen.  No  further  service,  doctor, 

Until  I  send  for  thee. 

Cor.  I  humbly  take  my  leave. 

[Exit. 

Queen.  Weeps  she  still,  say'st  thou?    Dost 

thou  think  in  time 

She  will  not  quench,  and  let  instructions  enter 
Where  folly  now  possesses?     Do  thou  work : 
When  thou  shalt  bring  me  word  she  loves  my 

son, 

I  '11  tell  thee  on  the  instant  thou  art  then 
As  great  as  is  thy  master ;  greater, — for 
His  fortunes  all  lie  speechless,  and  his  name 
Is  at  last  gasp :  return  he  cannot,  nor 
Continue  where  he  is :  to  shift  his  being 
Is  to  exchange  one  misery  with  another ; 
And  every  day  that  comes  comes  to  decay 
A  day's  work  in  him.     What  shalt  thou  expect, 
To  be  depender  on  a  thing  that  leans, — 
Who  cannot  be  new  built,  nor  has  no  friends 
[The  QUEEN  drops  the  box:  PISANIO 

takes  it  up. 

So  much  as  but  to  prop  him  ? — Thou  tak'st  up 
Thou  know'st  not  what;  but  take  it  for  thy 

labour : 

It  is  a  thing  I  made,  which  hath  the  king 
Five  times  redeem'd  from  death :  I  do  not  know 
What  is  more  cordial : — nay,  I  pr'ythee,  take  it ; 
It  is  an  earnest  of  a  further  good 
That  I  mean  to  thee.     Tell  thy  mistress  how 
The  case  stands  with  her ;  do 't  as  from  thyself. 
Think  what  a  chance  thou  changest  on ;  but 

think 

Thou  hast  thy  mistress  still, — to  boot,  my  son, 
Who  shall  take  notice  of  thee :  I  '11  move  the 

king 

To  any  shape  of  thy  preferment,  such 
As  thou  'It  desire  ;  and  then  myself,  I  chiefly, 
That  set  thee  on  to  this  desert,  am  bound 
To  load  thy  merit  richly.     Call  my  women  : 
Think  on  my  words.  [Exit  PISANIO. 

A  sly  and  constant  knave ; 
Not  to  be  shak'd  :  the  agent  for  his  master ; 
And  the  remembrancer  of  her  to  hold 


The  hand-fast  to  her  lord.— I  have  given  him 

that 

Which,  if  he  take,  shall  quite  unpeople  her 
Of  liegers  for  her  sweet ;  and  which  she  after, 
Except  she  bend  her  humour,  shall  be  assur'd 
To  taste  of  too. 

Re-enter  PISANIO  and  Ladies. 

So,  so  ; — well  done,  well  done  : 
The  violets,  cowslips,  and  the  primroses, 
Bear  to  my  closet. — Fare  thee  well,  Pisanio  ; 
Think  on  my  words. 

[Exeunt  QUEEN  and  Ladies. 
Pis.  And  shall  do  : 

But  when  to  my  good  lord  I  prove  untrue 
I  '11  choke  myself :  there 's  all  I  '11  do  for  you. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  VI. — BRITAIN.     Another  Room  in  the 
Palace. 

Enter  IMOGEN. 

Into.  A  father  cruel  and  a  step-dame  false ; 
A  foolish  suitor  to  a  wedded  lady,  [band  ! 

That  hath  her  husband  banish'd  ; — O,  that  hus- 
My  supreme  crown  of  grief !  and  those  repeated 
Vexations  of  it !     Had  I  been  thief-stolen, 
As  my  two  brothers,  happy  I  but  most  miser- 
able 

Is  the  desire  that 's  glorious  :  bless'd  be  those, 
How  mean  soe'er,  that  have  their  honest  wills, 
Which  seasons  comfort.— Who  may  this  be? 
Fie! 

Enter  PISANIO  and  IACHIMO. 

Pis.   Madam,  a  noble  gentleman  of  Rome 
Comes  from  my  lord  with  letters. 

loch.  Change  you,  madam  ? 

The  worthy  Leonatus  is  in  safety, 
And  greets  your  highness  dearly. 

[Presents  a  letter. 

Imo.  Thanks,  good  sir  : 

Yon  're  kindly  welcome.  [most  rich  ! 

lach.  [Aside.'}  All  of  her  that  is  out  of  door 
If  she  be  furnish'd  with  a  mind  so  rare, 
She  is  alone  the  Arabian  bird  ;  and  I 
Have  lost  the  wager.     Boldness  be  my  friend  ! 
Arm  me,  audacity,  from  head  to  foot ! 
Or,  like  the  Parthian,  I  shall  flying  fight ; 
Rather  directly  fly. 

Imo.  [Reads.}  He  is  one  of  the  noblest  iwtet 
to  whose  kindnesses  1  am  most  infinitely  tied. 
Reflect  upon  him  accordingly ,  as  you  value 
your  truest  LEONATUS. 

So  far  I  read  aloud  : 
But  even  the  very  middle  of  my  heart 
Is  warm'd  by  the  rest,  and  takes  it  thankfully.— 


936 


CYMBELINE. 


[ACT  I. 


You  are  as  welcome,  worthy  sir,  as  I 
Have  words  to  bid  you  ;  and  shall  find  it  so 
In  all  that  I  can  do. 

lack.  Thanks,  fairest  lady.— 

What,  are  men  mad?    Hath  nature  given  them 

eyes 

To  see  this  vaulted  arch,  and  the  rich  cope 
Of  sea  and  land,  which  can  distinguish  'twixt 
The  fiery  orbs  above  and  the  twinn'd  stones 
Upon  th'  unnumber'd  beach  ?  and  can  we  not 
Partition  make  with  spectacles  so  precious 
'Twixt  fair  and  foul  ? 

Imo.  What  makes  your  admiration  ? 

loch.  It  cannot  be  i'  the  eye ;  for  apes  and 

monkeys, 

'Twixt  two  such  shes,  would  chatter  this  way 
and  [ment ; 

Contemn  with  mows  the  other:  nor  i'  the judg- 
For  idiots  in  this  case  of  favour  would 
Be  wisely  definite  :  nor  i'  the  appetite  ; 
Sluttery,  to  such  neat  excellence  oppos'd, 
Should  make  desire  vomit  emptiness, 
Not  so  allur'd  to  feed. 

Imo.  What  is  the  matter,  trow  ? 

loch.  The  cloyed  will, — 

That  satiate  yet  unsatisfied  desire,  [first 

That  tub  both  fill'd  and  running, — ravening 
The  lamb,  longs  after  for  the  garbage. 

Imo.  What,  dear  sir, 

Thus  raps  you  ?    Are  you  well  ? 

lack.  Thanks,  madam;  well. — Beseech  you, 
sir,  desire  [To  PISANIO. 

My  man's  abode  where  I  did  leave  him  :  he 
Is  strange  and  peevish. 

Pis.  I  was  going,  sir, 

To  give  him  welcome.  \Exit. 

Imo.  Continues  well  my  lord  ?     His  health, 
beseech  you  ? 

loch.  Well,  madam. 

Imo.  Is  he  dispos'd  to  mirth  ?     I  hope  he  is. 

lack.  Exceeding  pleasant ;  none  a  stranger 

there 

So  merry  and  so  gamesome  :  he  is  call'd 
The  Briton  reveller. 

Imo.  When  he  was  here 

He  did  incline  to  sadness ;  and  ofttimes 
Not  knowing  why. 

lack.  I  never  saw  him  sad. 

There  is  a  Frenchman  his  companion,  one 
An  eminent  monsieur,  that,  it  seems,  much  loves 
A  Gallian  girl  at  home :  he  furnaces  [ton, — 
The  thick  sighs  from  him;  whiles  the  jolly  Bri- 
Your  lord,  I  mean, — laughs  from 's  free  lungs, 
cries,  O,  [knows 

Can  my  sides  hold,  to  think  that  man, — who 
By  history,  report,  or  his  own  proof, 
What  woman  is,  yea,  what  she  cannot  choose 


But  must  be,~**-will  his  free  hours  languish  for 
Assured  bondage? 

Imo.  Will  my  lord  say  so? 

lack.  Ay,  madam;    with  his  eyes  in  flood 

with  laughter. 

It  is  a  recreation  to  be  by  [heavens  know, 

And  hear  him  mock  the  Frenchman.      But, 
Some  men  are  much  to  blame. 

Imo.  Not  he,  I  hope. 

lack.  Not  he:  but  yet  heaven's  bounty  to- 
wards him  might 

Be  us'd  more  thankfully.     In  himself 'tis  much ; 
In  you, — which  I  count  his  beyond  all  talents, — 
Whilst  I  am  bound  to  wonder  I  am  bound 
To  pity  too. 

Imo.         What  do  you  pity,  sir? 

lack.  Two  creatures  heartily. 

Imo.  Am  I  one,  sir? 

You  look  on  me :  what  wreck  discern  you  in  me 
Deserves  your  pity? 

lack.     '  Lamentable!     What, 

To  hide  me  from  the  radiant  sun,  and  solace 
I'  the  dungeon  by  a  snuff? 

Imo.  I  pray  you,  sir, 

Deliver  with  more  openness  your  answers 
To  my  demands.     Why  do  you  pity  me? 

lack.  That  others  do, 

I  was  about  to  say,  enjoy  your But 

It  is  an  office  of  the  gods  to  venge  it, 
Not  mine  to  speak  on 't. 

Imo.  You  do  seem  to  know 

Something  of  me,  or  what  concerns  me :  pray 

you, — 

Since  doubting  things  go  ill  often  hurts  more 
Than  to  be  sure  they  do ;  for  certainties 
Either  are  past  remedies,  or,  tunely  knowing, 
The  remedy  then  born,— discover  to  me 
What  both  you  spur  and  stop. 

lack.  Had  I  this  cheek 

To  bathe  my  lips  upon ;  this  hand,  whose  touch, 
Whose  every  touch,  would  force  the  feeler's  soul 
To  the  oath  of  loyalty;  this  object,  which 
Takes  prisoner  the  wild  motion  of  mine  eye, 
Fixingit  only  here ; — should  I, — damn'd  then, — 
Slaver  with  lips  as  common  as  the  stairs 
That  mount  the  Capitol;  join  gripes  with  hands 
Made  hard  with  hourly  falsehood, — falsehood  as 
With  labour, — then  bo-peeping  in  an  eye 
Base  and  unlustrous  as  the  smoky  light 
That 's  fed  with  stinking  tallow, — it  were  fit 
That  all  the  plagues  of  hell  should  at  one  time 
Encounter  such  revolt. 

Imo.  My  lord,  I  fear, 

Has  forgot  Britain. 

lack.  And  himself.     Not  I, 

Inclin'd  to  this  intelligence,  pronounce 
The  beggary  of  his  change ;  but  'tis  your  graces 


SCENE  VI.] 


CYMBELINE. 


937 


That  from  my  mutest  conscience  to  my  tongue 
Charms  this  report  out. 

Imo.  Let  me  hear  no  more. 

loch.  O  dearest  soul !  your  cause  doth  strike 

my  heart 

With  pity  that  doth  make  me  sick !     A  lady 
So  fair,  and  fasten'd  to  an  empery, 
Would  make  the  great'st  king  double, — to  be 

partner'd 

With  tomboys,  hir'd  with  that  self-exhibition 
Which  your  own  coffers  yield!  with  diseas'd 

ventures, 

That  play  with  ail  infirmities  for  gold        [stuff 
Which  rottenness  can  lend  nature  !  such  boil'd 
As  well  might  poison  poison  !     Be  reveng'd ; 
Or  she  that  bore  you  was  no  queen,  and  you 
Recoil  from  your  great  stock. 

Imo.  Reveng'd ! 

How  should  I  be  reveng'd?     If  this^be  true, — 
As  I  have  such  a  heart  that  both  mine  ears 
Must  not  in  haste  abuse, — if  it  be  true, 
How  should  I  be  reveng'd? 

lack.  Should  he  make  me 

Live  like  Diana's  priest  betwixt  cold  sheets, 
Whiles  he  is  vaulting  variable  ramps, 
In  your  despite,  upon  your  purse?    Revenge  it. 
I  dedicate  myself  to  your  sweet  pleasure ; 
More  noble  than  that  runagate  to  your  bed ; 
And  will  continue  fast  to  your  affection, 
Still  close  as  sure. 

Imo.  What  ho,  Pisanio ! 

lack.  Let  me  my  service  tender  on  your  lips. 

Imo.  Away ! — I  do  condemn  mine  ears  that 

have 

So  long  attended  thee. — If  thou  wert  honourable 
Thou  wouldst  have  told  this  tale  for  virtue,  not 
For  such  an  end  thou  seek'st, — as  base  as 

strange. 

Thou  wrong'st  a  gentleman  who  is  as  far 
From  thy  report  as  thou  from  honour;  and 
Solicit'st  here  a  lady  that  disdains 
Thee  and  the  devil  alike. — What,  ho,  Pisanio! — 
The  king  my  father  shall  be  made  acquainted 
Of  thy  assault :  if  he  shall  think  it  fit 
A  saucy  stranger  in  his  court  to  mart 
As  in  a  Romish  stew,  and  to  expound 
His  beastly  mind  to  us, — he  hath  a  court 
He  little  cares  for,  and  a  daughter  who 
He  not  respects  at  all. — What,  ho,  Pisanio! — 

lack.  O  happy  Leonatus !  I  may  say : 
The  credit  that  thy  lady  hath  of  thee         [ness 
Deserves  thy  trust ;  and  thy  most  perfect  good- 
Her  assur'd  credit !— Blessed  live  you  long ! 
A  lady  to  the  worthiest  sir  that  ever 
Country  call'd  his !  and  you  his  mistress,  only 
For  the  most  worthiest  fit!     Give  me  your 
pardon. 


I  have  spoke  this  to  know  if  your  affiance 
Were  deeply  rooted ;  and  shall  make  your  lord 
That  which  he  is  new  o'er:  and  he  is  one 
The  truest  manner'd ;  such  a  holy  witch 
That  he  enchants  societies  unto  him ; 
Half  all  men's  hearts  are  his. 

Imo.  You  make  amends. 

lack.  He  sits  'mongst  men  like  a  descended 

god: 

He  hath  a  kind  of  honour  sets  him  off 
More  than  a  mortal  seeming.     Be  not  angry, 
Most  mighty  princess,  that  I  have  adventur  d 
To  try  your  taking  of  a  false  report ;  which  hath 
Honoured  with  confirmation  your  great  judgment 
In  the  election  of  a  sir  so  rare,  [him 

Which  you  know  cannot  err:  the  love  I  bear 
Made  me  to  fan  you  thus ;  but  the  gods  made 
you,  [don. 

Unlike  all  others,  chaffless.      Pray,  your  par- 

Into.  All 's  well,  sir :  take  my  power  i'  the 
court  for  yours.  [got 

loch.  My  humble  thanks.     I  had  almost  for- 
To  entreat  your  grace  but  in  a  small  request, 
And  yet  of  moment  too,  for  it  concerns 
Your  lord,  myself,  and  other  noble  friends, 
Are  partners  in  the  business. 

Into.  Pray,  what  is 't  ? 

loch.  Some  dozen  Romans  of  us,  and  your 
lord, —  [sums 

The  best  feather  of  our  wing, — have  mingled 
To  buy  a  present  for  the  emperor ; 
Which  I,  the  factor  for  the  rest,  have  done 
In  France :  'tis  plate  of  rare  device,  and  jewels 
Of  rich  and  exquisite  form ;  their  values  great ; 
And  I  am  something  curious,  being  strange 
To  have  them  in  safe  stowage :  may  it  please  you 
To  take  them  in  protection? 

Imo.  Willingly ; 

And  pawn  mine  honour  for  their  safety :  since 
My  lord  hath  interest  in  them,  I  will  keep  them 
In  my  bedchamber. 

lack.  They  are  in  a  trunk, 

Attended  by  my  men :  I  will  make  bold 
To  send  them  to  you  only  for  this  night ; 
I  must  aboard  to-morrow. 

Imo.  O,  no,  no.  [word 

loch.  Yes,  I  beseech;  or  I  shall  short  my 
By  length'ning  my  return.     From  Gallia 
I  cross'd  the  seas  on  purpose  and  on  promise 
To  see  your  grace. 

Imo.  I  thank  you  for  your  pains : 

But  not  away  to-morrow ! 

loch.  O,  I  must,  madam : 

Therefore  I  shall  beseech  you,  if  you  please 
To  greet  your  lord  with  writing,  do't  to-night: 
I  have  outstood  my  time ;  which  is  material 
To  the  tender  of  our  present 


938 


CYMBELINE. 


[ACT  n. 


Into.  I  will  write. 

Send  your  trunk  to  me ;  it  shall  safe  be  kept 
And  truly  yielded  you.     You  're  very  welcome. 

{Exeunt. 

ACT  ii. 

SCENE  I. — BRITAIN.     Court  before  CYM- 
BELINE'S  Palace. 

Enter  CLOTEN  and  two  Lords. 

Clo.  Was  there  ever  man  had  such  luck !  when 
I  kissed  the  jack,  upon  an  up-cast  to  be  hit 
away !  I  had  a  hundred  pound  on 't :  and  then 
a  whoreson  jackanapes  must  take  me  up  for 
swearing ;  as  if  I  borrowed  mine  oaths  of  him, 
and  might  not  spend  them  at  my  pleasure. 

1  Lord.  What  got  he  by  that?    You  have 
broke  his  pate  with  your  bowl. 

2  Lord.  [Aside.]  If  his  wit  had  been  like 
him  that  broke  it,  it  would  have  run  all  out. 

Clo.  When  a  gentleman  is  disposed  to  swear, 
it  is  not  for  any  standers-by  to  curtail  his  oaths, 
ha? 

2  Lord.  No,  my  lord ;  [aside]  nor  crop  the 
ears  of  them. 

Clo.  Whoreson  dog! — I  give  him  satisfac- 
tion? Would  he  had  been  one  of  my  rank ! 

2  Lord.  [Aside.]  To  have  smelt  like  a  fool. 

Clo.  I  am  not  vexed  more  at  anything  in  the 
earth, — a  pox  on't!  I  had  rather  not  be  so 
noble  as  I  am;  they  dare  not  fight  with  me, 
because  of  the  queen  my  mother :  every  jack- 
slave  hath  his  belly  full  of  fighting,  and  I  must 
go  up  and  down  like  a  cock  that  nobody  can 
match. 

2  Lord.  [Aside.]  You  are  cock  and  capon  too ; 
and  you  crow,  cock,  with  your  comb  on. 

Clo.  Sayest  thou? 

1  Lord.    It  is  not  fit  your  lordship  should 
undertake  every  companion  that  you  give  offence 
to 

Clo.  No,  I  know  that:  but  it  is  fit  I  should 
commit  offence  to  my  inferiors. 

2  Lord.  Ay,  it  is  fit  for  your  lordship  only. 
Clo.  Why,  so  I  say. 

1  Lord.  Did  you  hear  of  a  stranger  that 's  come 
to  court  to-night? 

Clo.  A  stranger,  and  I  not  know  on 't ! 

2  Lord.  [Aside.]  He's  a  strange  fellow  him- 
self, and  knows  it  not.  v\i  1 

I  Lord.  There's  an  Italian  come;  and,  'tis 
thought,  one  of  Leonatus'  friends. 

Clo.  Leonatus !  a  banished  rascal ;  and  he 's 
another,  whatsoever  he  be.  Who  told  you  of 
this  stranger? 

I  Lord.  One  of  your  lordship's  pages. 


Clo.  Is  it  fit  I  went  to  look  upon  him?  Is 
there  no  derogation  in 't. 

1  Lord.  You  cannot  derogate,  my  lord. 
Clo.  Not  easily,  I  think. 

2  Lord.   [Aside.]  You   are   a  fool   granted; 
therefore   your   issues,    being  foolish,    do   not 
derogate. 

Clo.  Come,  I  '11  go  see  this  Italian :  what  I 
have  lost  to-day  at  bowls  I  '11  win  to-night  of 
him.  Come,  go. 

2  Lord.  I  '11  attend  your  lordship. 

[Exeunt  CLOTEN  and  first  Lord. 
That  such  a  crafty  devil  as  is  his  mother 
Should  yield  the  world  this  ass !  a  woman  that 
Bears  all  down  with  her  brain ;  and  this  her  son 
Cannot  take  two  from  twenty,  for  his  heart, 
And  leave  eighteen.     Alas,  poor  princess, 
Thou  divine  Imogen,  what  thou  endur'st, — 
Betwixt  a  father  by  thy  stepdame  govern'd: 
A  mother  hourly  coining  plots ;  a  wooer 
More  hateful  than  the  foul  expulsion  is 
Of  thy  dear  husband,  than  that  horrid  act 
Of  the  divorce  he  'd  make !     The  heavens  hold 

firm 

The  walls  of  thy  dear  honour ;  keep  unshak'd 
That  temple,  thy  fair  mind ;  that  thou  mayst 

stand 

To  enjoy  thy  banish'd  lord  and  this  great  land ! 

[Exit. 

SCENE  II. — BRITAIN.     IMOGEN'S  Bed- 
chamber ;  in  one  part  of  it  a  Trunk. 

IMOGEN  in  bed  reading;  a  Lady  attending. 

Imo.  Who's  there?  my  woman  Helen? 

Lady.  Please  you,  madam. 

Imo.  What  hour  is  it? 

Lady.  Almost  midnight,  madam. 

Imo.  I  have  read  three  hours,  then:  mine 

eyes  are  weak : 

Fold  down  the  leaf  where  I  have  left:  to  bed: 
Take  not  away  the  taper,  leave  it  burning; 
And  if  thou  canst  awake  by  four  o'  the  clock, 
I  pr'ythee,  call  me.      Sleep  hath  seiz'd  me 
wholly.  [Exit  Lady. 

To  your  protection  I  commend  me,  gods ! 
From  fairies  and  the  tempters  of  the  night 
Guard  me,  beseech  ye ! 

[Sleeps.     IACHIMO  comes  from  the  trunk. 

lack.    The  crickets  sing,   and  man's  o'er- 

labour'd  sense 

Repairs  itself  by  rest.     Our  Tarquin  thus 
Did  softly  press  the  rushes  ere  he  waken'd 
The  chastity  he  wounded. — Cytherea, 
How  bravely  thou  becom'st  thy  bed !  fresh  lily  I 
And  whiter  than  the  sheets !  That  I  might  touch  \ 
But  kiss ;  one  kiss ! — Rubies  unparagon'd, 


SCENE  III.] 


CYMBELINE. 


939 


How  dearly  they  do 't  I— 'Tis  her  breathing  that 
Perfumes  the  chamber  thus:  the  flame  o'  the 

taper 

Bows  toward  her,  and  would  underpeepher  lids, 
To  see  the  enclosed  lights,  now  canopied 
Under  these  windows,  white  and  azure,  lac'd 
With   blue   of  heaven's  own  tinct. — But   my 

design 

To  note  the  chamber : — I  will  write  all  down : — 
Such  and  such  pictures; — there  the  window:— 

such 

The  adornment  of  her  bed ; — the  arras,  figures, 
Why,  such  and  such ; — and  the  contents  o'  the 

story, — 

Ah,  but  some  natural  notes  about  her  body 
Above  ten  thousand  meaner  movables 
Would  testify,  to  enrich  mine  inventory. 
O  sleep,  thou  ape  of  death,  lie  dull  upon  her! 
And  be  her  sense  but  as  a  monument, 
Thus  in  a  chapel  lying ! — Come  off,  come  off; 
[  Taking  off  her  bracelet. 

As  slippery  as  the  Gordian  knot  was  hard  ! — 
'Tis  mine ;  and  this  will  witness  outwardly, 
As  strongly  as  the  conscience  does  within, 
To  the  madding  of  her  lord.     On  her  left  breast 
A  mole  cinque-spotted,  like  the  crimson  drops 
I'  the  bottom  of  a  cowslip.     Here 's  a  voucher 
Stronger  than  ever  law  could  make :  this  secret 
Will  force  him  think  I  have  pick'd  the  lock, 

and  ta'en  [what  end? 

The  treasure  of  her  honour.     No  more.     To 
Why  should  I  write  this  down,  that 's  riveted, 
Screw'd  to  my  memory? — She  hath  been  read- 
ing late 

The  tale  of  Tereus ;  here  the  leaf's  turnM  down 
Where  Philomel  gave  up. — I  have  enough: 
To  the  trunk  again,  and  shut  the  spring  of  it. 
Swift,  swift,  you  dragons  of  the  night,  that 

dawning 

May  bare  the  raven's  eye !  I  lodge  in  fear ; 
Though  this  a  heavenly  angel,  hell  is  here. 

[Clock  strikes. 
One,  two,  three, — Time,  time ! 

[Goes  into  the  trunk.     Scene  closes. 

SCENE  III. — BRITAIN.     An  Ante-chamber 
adjoining  IMOGEN'S  Apartment. 

Enter  CLOTEN  and  Lords. 

I  Lord.  Your  lordship  is  the  most  patient 
man  in  loss,  the  most  coldest  that  ever  turned 
up  ace. 

Clo.  It  would  make  any  man  cold  to  lose. 

I  Lord.  But  not  every  man  patient  after  the 
noble  temper  of  your  lordship.  You  are  most 
hot  and  furious  when  you  win. 

Clo.  Winning  will  put  any  man  into  courage. 


If  I  could  get  this  foolish  Imogen,  I  should 
have  gold  enough.  It 's  almost  morning,  is 't 
not? 

1  Lord.  Day,  my  lord. 

Clo.  I  would  this  music  would  come :  I  am 
advised  to  give  her  music  o'  mornings;  they 
say  it  will  penetrate. 

Enter  Musicians. 

Come  on ;  tune :  if  you  can  penetrate  her  with 
your  fingering,  so;  we'll  try  with  tongue  too: 
if  none  will  do,  let  her  remain;  but  I  '11  never 
give  o'er.  First,  a  very  excellent  good-con- 
ceited thing ;  after  a  wonderful  sweet  air,  with 
admirable  rich  words  to  it, — and  then  let  her 
consider. 

SONG. 
Hark,  hark  I  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chalic'd  flowers  that  lies  ; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 
To  ope  their  golden  eyes  ; 
With  everything  that  pretty  is  : 
My  lady  sweet,  arise  ; 
Arise,  arise ! 

So,  get  you  gone.  If  this  penetrate,  I  will  con- 
sider your  music  the  better :  if  it  do  not,  it  is  a 
vice  in  her  ears ;  which  horse-hairs  and  calves' 
guts,  nor  the  voice  of  unpaved  eunuch  to  boot, 
can  never  amend.  [Exeunt  Musicians. 

2  Lord.  Here  comes  the  king. 

Clo.  I  am  glad  I  was  up  so  late ;  for  that 's 
the  reason  I  was  up  so  early :  he  cannot  choose 
but  take  this  service  I  have  done  fatherly. — 

Enter  CYMBELINE  and  QUEEN. 
Good-morrow   to    your   majesty  and    to    my 
gracious  mother.  [daughter? 

Cym.  Attend  you  here  the  door  of  our  stern 
Will  she  not  forth? 

Clo.  I  have  assailed  her  with  music,  but  she 
vouchsafes  no  notice. 

Cym.  The  exile  of  her  minion  is  too  new ; 
She  hath  not  yet  forgot  him :  some  more  time 
Must  wear  the  print  of  his  remembrance  out, 
And  then  she 's  yours. 

Queen.         You  are  most  bound  to  the  king, 
Who  lets  go  by  no  vantages  that  may 
Prefer  you  to  his  daughter.     Frame  yourself 
To  orderly  solicits,  and  be  friended 
With  aptness  of  the  season ;  make  denials 
Increase  your  services ;  so  seem  as  if 
You  were  inspir'd  to  do  those  duties  which 
You  tender  to  her ;  that  you  in  all  obey  her, 
Save  when  command  to  your  dismission  tends, 
And  therein  you  are  senseless. 

Clo.  Senseless  !  not  so. 


940 


CYMBELINE. 


[ACT  ii. 


Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  So  like  you,  sir,  ambassadors  from 

Rome; 
The  one  is  Caius  Lucius. 

Cynt.  A  worthy  fellow. 

Albeit  he  comes  on  angry  purpose  now ; 
But  that 's  no  fault  of  his :  we  must  receive  him 
According  to  the  honour  of  his  sender  ;        [us, 
And  towards  himself,  his  goodness  forespent  on 
We  must  extend  our  notice. — Our  dear  son, 
When  you  have  given  good-morning  to  your 

mistress, 

Attend  the  queen  and  us;  we  shall  have  need 
To  employ  you  towards  this  Roman. — Come, 

our  queen. 

[Exeunt  CYM.  ,  QUEEN,  Lords,  and  Mess. 

Clo.  If  she  be  up,  I  '11  speak  with  her ;  if  not, 

Let  her  lie  still  and  dream. — By  your  leave, 

ho ! —  {.Knocks. 

I  know  her  women  are  about  her:  what 
If  I  do  line  one  of  their  hands?    'Tis  gold 
Which  buys  admittance ;  oft  it  doth ;  yea,  and 

makes 

Diana's  rangers  false  themselves,  yield  up 
Their  deer  to  the  stand  o'  the  stealer;  and  'tis 

gold  [thief; 

Which  makes  the  true  man  kill'd  and  saves  the 
Nay,  sometimes  hangs  both  thief  and  true  man : 

what 

Can  it  not  do  and  undo?  I  will  make 
One  of  her  women  lawyer  to  me ;  for 
I  yet  not  understand  the  case  myself. 
By  your  leave.  [Knocks. 

Enter  a  Lady. 

Lady.  Who's  there  that  knocks? 

Clo.  A  gentleman. 

Lady.  No  more? 

Clo.  Yes,  and  a  gentlewoman's  son. 

Lady.  That 's  more 

Than  some,  whose  tailors  are  as  dear  as  yours, 
Can  justly  boast  of.      What 's  your  lordship's 
pleasure? 

Clo.  Your  lady's  person :  is  she  ready? 

Lady.  Ay, 

To  keep  her  chamber. 

Clo.  There  is  gold  for  you  ;  sell  me  your  good 
report.  [of  you 

Lady.  How  1   my  good  name  ?  or  to  report 
What  I  shall  think  is  good? — The  princess  ! 

Enter  IMOGEN. 

Clo.  Good -morrow,  fairest:  sister,  your  sweet 

hand.  [much  pains 

Imo.  Good-morrow,  sir.     You  lay  out  too 

For  purchasing  but  trouble :  the  thanks  I  give 


Is  telling  you  that  I  am  poor  of  thanks, 
And  scarce  can  spare  them. 

Clo.  Still,  I  swear  I  love  you. 

Imo.  Ifyou  but  saidso,  'twere  asdeep  with  me: 
If  you  swear  still,  your  recompense  is  still 
That  I  regard  it  not. 

Clo.  This  is  no  answer. 

Imo.  But  that  you  shall  not  say  I  yield,  being 
silent,  [faith, 

I  would  not  speak.     I  pray  you,  spare  me  : 
I  shall  unfold  equal  discourtesy  [knowing 

To  your  best  kindness :    one  of  your  great 
Should  learn,  being  taught,  forbearance. 

Clo.  To  leave  you  in  your  madness  'twere 

my  sin : 
I  will  not. 

Imo.  Fools  are  not  mad  folks. 

Clo.  Do  you  call  me  fool  ? 

Imo.  As  I  am  mad,  I  do  : 
If  you  '11  be  patient  I  '11  no  more  be  mad  ; 
That  cures  us  both.     I  am  much  sorry,  sir, 
You  put  me  to  forget  a  lady's  manners 
By  being  so  verbal :  and  learn  now,  for  all, 
That  I,  which knowmy heart,  dohere  pronounce, 
By  the  very  truth  of  it,  I  care  not  for  you  ; 
And  am  so  near  the  lack  of  charity, — 
To  accuse  myself, — I  hate  youj  which  I  had 

rather 
You  felt  than  make 't  my  boast. 

Clo.  You  sin  against 

Obedience,  which  you  owe  your  father.     For 
The    contract    you    pretend   with    that    base 

wretch, — 

One  bred  of  alms  and  foster'd  with  cold  dishes, 
With  scraps  o'  the  court, — it  is  no  contract, 

none : 

And  though  it  be  allow'd  in  meaner  parties, — 
Yet  who  than  he  more  mean? — to  knit  their 

souls, — 

On  whom  there  is  no  more  dependency 
But  brats  and  beggary, — in  self-figur'd  knot ; 
Yet  you  are  curb'd  from  that  enlargement  by 
The  consequence  o'  the  crown ;  and  must  not  soil 
The  precious  note  of  it  with  a  base  slave, 
A  hilding  for  a  livery,  a  squire's  cloth, 
A  pantler, — not  so  eminent. 

Imo.  Profane  fellow ! 

Wert  thou  the  son  of  Jupiter,  and  no  more 
But  what  thou  art  besides,  thou  wert  too  base 
To  be  his  groom  :  thou  wert  dignified  enough, 
Even  to  the  point  of  envy,  if  'twere  made 
Comparative* for  your  virtues,  to  be  styl'd 
The  under-hangman  of  his  kingdom ;  and  hated 
For  being  preferr'd  so  well. 

Clo.  The  south  fog  rot  him  ! 

Imo.  He  never  can  meet  more  mischance  than 


SCENE    IV.] 


CYMBELINE. 


To  be  but  nam'd  of  thee.  His  meanest  garment, 
That  ever  hath  but  clipp'd  his  body,  is  dearer 
In  my  respect  than  all  the  hairs  above  thee, 
Were  they  all  made  such  men. 

Enter  PISANIO. 

How  now,  Pisanio  ! 

Clo.  His  garment !     Now,  the  devil, — 

Imo.  To  Dorothy  my  woman  hie  thee  pre- 
sently,— 

Clo.  His  garment ! 

Imo.  I  am  sprited  with  a  fool ; 

Frighted,  and    anger'd  worse. — Go,   bid  my 

woman 

Search  for  a  jewel  that  too  casually  [me 

Hath  left  mine  arm :  it  was  thy  master's  ;  shrew 
If  I  would  lose  it  for  a  revenue 
Of  any  king's  in  Europe.     I  do  think 
I  saw 't  this  morning :  confident  I  am 
Last  night  'twas  on  mine  arm  ;  I  kiss'd  it : 
I  hope  it  be  not  gone  to  tell  my  lord 
That  I  kiss  aught  but  he. 

Pis.  'Twill  not  be  lost. 

Imo.  I  hope  so  :  go  and  search. 

[Exit  PISANIO. 

Clo.  You  have  abus'd  me. — 

His  meanest  garment  ? 

Imo.  Ay,  I  said  so,  sir : 

If  you  will  make  't  an  action,  call  witness  to  't. 

Clo.  I  will  inform  your  father. 

Into.  Your  mother  too  : 

She 's  my  good  lady;  and  will  conceive,  I  hope, 
But  the  worse  of  me.     So  I  leave  you,  sir, 
To  the  worst  of  discontent.  [Exit. 

Clo.  I  '11  be  revenged  :— 

His  meanest  garment ! — Well.  [Exit. 


SCENE  IV. —  ROME.     An  Apartment  in 
PHILARIO'S  House. 

Enter  POSTHUMUS  and  PHILARIO. 

Post.  Fear  it  not,  sir :  I  would  I  were  so  sure 
To  win  the  king  as  I  am  bold  her  honour 
Will  remain  hers. 

Phi.         What  means  do  you  make  to  him  ? 

Post.  Not  any ;  but  abide  the  change  of  time ; 
Quake  in  the  present  winter's  state,  and  wish 
That  warmer  days  would  come  :  in  these  sear'd 

hopes 

I  barely  gratify  your  love  ;  they  failing, 
I  must  die  much  your  debtor. 

Phi.  Your  very  goodness  and  your  company 
O'erpays  all  I  can  do.     By  this  your  king 
Hath  heard  of  great  Augustus  :  Caius  Lucius 
Will  do 's  commission  throughly  :  and  I  think 
He  '11  grant  the  tribute,  send  the  arrearages, 


Or  look  upon  our  Romans,  whose  remembrance 
is  yet  fresh  in  their  grief. 

Post.  I  do  believe,— 

Statist  though  I  am  none,  nor  like  to  be, — 
That  this  will  prove  a  war  ;  and  you  shall  hear 
The  legions  now  in  Gallia  sooner  landed 
In  our  not-fearing  Britain  than  have  tidings 
Of  any  penny  tribute  paid.     Our  countrymen 
Are  men  more  ordered  than  when  Julius  Caesar 
Smil'd  at  their  lack  of  skill,  but  found  their 

courage 

Worthy  his  frowning  at :  their  discipline, — 
Now  mingled  with  their  courage, — will  make 

known 

To  their  approvers  they  are  people  such 
That  mend  upon  the  world. 

Phi.  See  !  lachimo  ! 


Enter  IACHIMO. 


Post.  The  swiftest  harts  have  posted  you  by 

land  ; 

And  winds  of  all  the  corners  kiss'd  your  sails, 
To  make  your  vessel  nimble. 

Phi.  Welcome,  sir. 

Post.  \  hope  the  briefness  of  your  answer  made 
The  speediness  of  your  return. 

loch.  Your  lady 

Is  one  of  the  fairest  that  I  have  look'd  upon. 

Post.  And  therewithal  the  best;   or  let  her 

beauty 

Look  through  a  casement  to  allure  false  hearts, 
And  be  false  with  them. 

lach.  Here  are  letters  for  you. 

Post.  Their  tenor  good,  I  trust. 

lack.  'Tis  very  like. 

Phi.  Was  Caius  Lucius  in  the  Britain  court 
When  you  were  there  ? 

loch.  He  was  expected  then, 

But  not  approach'd. 

Post.  All  is  well  yet.— 

Sparkles  this  stone  as  it  was  wont?  or  is't  not 
Too  dull  for  your  good  wearing? 

loch.  If  I  had  lost  it 

I  should  have  lost  the  worth  of  it  in  gold. 
I  '11  make  a  journey  twice  as  far,  to  enjoy 
A  second  night  of  such  sweet  shortness  which 
Was  mine  in  Britain  ;  for  the  ring  is  won. 

Post.  The  stone 's  too  hard  to  come  by. 

lack.  Not  a  whit, 

Your  lady  being  so  easy. 

Post.  Make  not,  sir, 

Your  loss  your  sport :  I  hope  you  know  that  we 
Must  not  continue  friends. 

lach.  Good  sir,  we  must, 

If  you  keep  covenant.     Had  I  not  brought 
The  knowledge  of  your  mistress  home,  I  grant 
We  were  to  question  further :  but  I  now 


942 


CYMBEL1NE. 


[ACT  ir. 


Profess  myself  the  winner  of  her  honour, 
Together  with  your  ring ;  and  not  the  wronger 
Of  her  or  you,  having  proceeded  but 
By  both  your  wills. 

Post.  If  you  can  make 't  apparent 

That  you  have  tasted  her  in  bed,  my  hand 
And  ring  is  yours  :  if  not,  the  foul  opinion 
You  had  of  her  pure  honour  gains  or  loses 
Your  sword  or  mine,  or  masterless  leaves  both 
To  who  shall  find  them. 

lack.  Sir,  my  circumstances, 

Being  so  near  the  truth  as  I  will  make  them, 
Must  first  induce  you  to  believe :  whose  strength 
I  will  confirm  with  oath ;  which  I  doubt  not 
You'll  give  me  leave  to  spare  when  you  shall  find 
You  need  it  not. 

Post.  Proceed. 

lack.  First,  her  bedchamber, — 

Where,  I  confess,  I  slept  not ;  but  profess 
Had  that  was  well  worth  watching, — it  was 

hang'd 

With  tapestry  of  silk  and  silver  ;  the  story 
Proud  Cleopatra,  when  she  met  her  Roman, 
And  Cydnus  swell'd  above  the  banks,  or  for 
The  press  of  boats  or  pride  :  a  piece  of  work 
So  bravely  done,  so  rich,  that  it  did  strive 
In  workmanship  and  value  ;  which  I  wonder'd 
Could  be  so  rarely  and  exactly  wrought, 
Since  the  true  life  on 't  was, — 

Post.f  This  is  true  ; 

And  this  you  might  have  heard  of  here,  by  me 
Or  by  some  other. 

lack.  More  particulars 

Must  justify  my  knowledge. 

Post.  So  they  must, 

Or  do  your  honour  injury. 

lack.  The  chimney 

Is  south  the  chamber  ;  and  the  chimney-piece 
Chaste  Dian  bathing  :  never  saw  I  figures 
So  likely  to  report  themselves  :  the  cutter 
Was  as  another  nature,  dumb  j  outwent  her, 
Motion  and  breath  left  out. 

Post.  This  is  a  thing 

Which  you  might  from  relation  likewise  reap  ; 
Being,  as  it  is,  much  spoke  of. 

lack.  The  roof  o'  the  chamber 

With  golden  cherubins  is  fretted:    her  and- 
irons,— 

I  had  forgot  them, — were  two  winking  Cupids 
Of  silver,  each  on  one  foot  standing,  nicely 
Depending  on  their  brands. 

Post.  This  is  her  honour  ! — 

Let  it  be  granted  you  have  seen  all  this, — and 

praise 

Be  given  to  your  remembrance, — the  description 
Of  what  is  in  her  chamber  nothing  saves 
The  wager  you  have  laid. 


loch*  Then,  if  you  can, 

[Pulling  out  the  bracelet, 
Be  pale ;  I  beg  but  leave  to  air  this  jewel ;  see ! — 
And  now  'tis  up  again  :  it  must  be  married 
To  that  your  diamond  ;  I  ;11  keep  them. 

Post.  Jove  !— 

Once  more  let  me  behold  it :  is  it  that 
Which  I  left  with  her  ? 

Jack.  Sir, — I  thank  her, — that : 

She  stripped  it  from  her  arm  ;  I  see  her  yet ; 
Her  pretty  action  did  outsell  her  gift, 
And  yet  enrich'd  it  too :  she  gave  it  me,  and  said 
She  priz'd  it  once. 

Post.  Maybe  she  pluck'd  it  off 

To  send  it  me. 

lack.  She  writes  so  to  you  ?  doth  she  ? 

Post.  O,  no,  no,  no !  'tis  true.     Here,  take 

this  too  ;  [Gives  the  ring. 

It  is  a  basilisk  unto  mine  eye, 

Kills  me  to  look  on't. — Let  there  be  no  honour 

Where  there  is  beauty ;  truth  where  semblance ; 

love 

Where  there 's  anotherman :  the  vows  of  women 
Of  no  more  bondage  be  to  where  they  are  made 
Than  they  are  to  their  virtues;  which  is 

nothing. — 
O,  above  measure  false  ! 

Phi.  Have  patience,  sir, 

And  take  your  ring  again  ;  'tis  not  yet  won  : 
It  may  be  probable  she  lost  it ;  or, 
Who  knows  if  one  o'  her  women,  being  corrupted, 
Hath  stolen  it  from  her  ? 

Post.  Very  true ; 

And  so  I  hope  he  came  by't. — Back  my  ring : 
Render  to  me  some  corporal  sign  about  her, 
More  evident  than  this  ;  for  this  was  stolen. 

loch.  By  Jupiter,  I  had  it  from  her  arm. 

Post.  Hark  you,  he  swears ;  by  Jupiter  he 

swears.  [sure 

'Tis  true, — nay,  keep  the  ring, — 'tis  true  :  I  am 

She  would  not  lose  it :  her  attendants  are 

All  sworn  and  honourable : — they  induc'd  to 

steal  it ! 

And  by  a  stranger  ! — No,  he  hath  enjoyed  her : 
The  cognizance  of  her  incontinency 
Is  this, — she  hath  bought  the  name  of  whore 

thus  dearly. — 

There,  take  thy  hire  ;  and  all  the  fiends  of  hell 
Divide  themselves  between  you  ! 

Phi.  Sir,  be  patient : 

This  is  not  strong  enough  to  be  believ'd 
Of  one  persuaded  well  of, — 

Post.  Never  talk  on 't ; 

She  hath  been  colted  by  him. 

loch.  If  you  seek 

For  further  satisfying,  under  her  breast, — 
Worthy  the  pressing, — lies  a  mole,  right  proud 


SCENE  V.] 


CYMBELINE. 


943 


Of  that  most  delicate  lodging  :  by  my  life, 
I  kiss'd  it ;  and  it  gave  me  present  hunger 
To  feed  again,  though  full.    You  do  remember 
This  stain  upon  her  ? 

Post.  Ay,  and  it  doth  confirm 

Another  stain,  as  big  as  hell  can  hold, 
Were  there  no  more  but  it. 

loch.  Will  you  hear  more  ? 

Post.  Spare  your  arithmetic :  never  count  the 

turns ; 
Once,  and  a  million  ! 

Jack.  I'll  be  sworn, — 

Post.  No  swearing. 

If  you  will  swear  you  have  not  done  't,  you  lie ; 
And  I  will  kill  thee  if  thou  dost  deny 
Thou  'st  made  me  cuckold. 

loch.  I'll  deny  nothing. 

Post.  O,  that  I  had  her  here  to  tear  her  limb- 
meal  ! 

I  will  go  there  and  do  't ;  i'  the  court ;  before 
Her  father  :  I  '11  do  something, —  [Exit. 

Phi.  Quite  besides 

The  government  of  patience  ! — You  have  won : 
Let 's  follow  him,  and  pervert  the  present  wrath 
He  hath  against  himself. 

lack.  With  all  my  heart. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — ROME.     Another  Room  in 
PHILARIO'S  House. 

Enter  POSTHUMUS. 

Post.  Is  there  no  way  for  men  to  be,  but 

women 

Must  be  half- workers  ?    We  are  all  bastards  ; 
And  that  most  venerable  man  which  I 
Did  call  my  father  was  I  know  not  where 
When  I  was  stamp'd ;  some  coiner  with  his  tools 
Made  me  a  counterfeit :  yet  my  mother  seem'd 
The  Dian  of  that  time  :  so  doth  my  wife 
The  nonpareil  of  this. — O,  vengeance,  ven- 
geance ! — 

Me  of  my  lawful  pleasure  she  restrain'd, 
And  pray'd  me  oft  forbearance  :  did  it  with 
A  pudency  so  rosy,  the  sweet  view  on  't 
Might  well  have  warm'd  old  Saturn  ;   that  I 

thought  her 

As  chaste  as  unsunn'd  snow. — O,  all  the  devils ! — 
This  yellow  lachimo  in  an  hour, — was 't  not  ? 
Or  less, — at  first  ? — Perchance  he  spoke  not, 

but, 

Like  a  full-acorn'd  boar,  a  German  one, 
Cried  O I  and  mounted  ;  found  no  opposition 
But  what  he  look'd  for  should  oppose,  and  she 
Should  from  encounter  guard.  Could  I  find  out 
The  woman's  part  in  me  !     For  there 's   no 
motion 


That  tends  to  vice  in  man  but  I  affirm 

It  is  the  woman's  part :  be  it  lying,  note  it, 

The    woman's ;    flattering,   hers ;    deceiving, 

hers  ;  [hers ; 

Lust  and  rank  thoughts,  hers,  hers  ;  revenges, 
Ambitions,  covetings,  change  of  prides,  disdain, 
Nice  longing,  slanders,  mutability, 
AH  faults  that  have  a  name,  nay,  that  hell 

knows, 

Why,  hers,  in  part  or  all ;  but  rather  all ; 
For  ev'n  to  vice 

They  are  not  constant,  but  are  changing  still 
One  vice,  but  of  a  minute  old,  for  one 
Not  half  so  old  as  that.   I'll  write  against  them, 
Detest  them,  curse  them. — Yet  'tis  greater  skill 
In  a  true  hate  to  pray  they  have  their  will : 
The  very  devils  cannot  plague  them  better. 

[Exit. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — BRITAIN.     A  Room  of  State  in 
CYMBELINE'S  Palace. 

Enter,  at  one  side,  CYMBELINE,  QUEEN, 
CLOTEN,  and  Lords;  at  the  other  CAIUS 
Lucius  and  Attendants. 

Cym.  Now  say,  what  would  Augustus  Caesar 
with  us  ?  [brance  yet 

Luc.  When  Julius    Caesar, — whose  remem- 
Lives  in  men's  eyes,  and  will  to  ears  and  tongues 
Be  theme  and  hearing  ever, — was  in  this  Britain, 
And  conquer'd  it,  Cassibelan,  thine  uncle, — 
Famous  in  Caesar's  praises  no  whit  less 
Than  in  his  feats  deserving  it, — for  him 
And  his  succession  granted  Rome  a  tribute 
Yearly  three  thousand  pounds  ;  which  by  thee 

lately 
Is  left  untender'd. 

Queen.  And,  to  kill  the  marvel, 

Shall  be  so  ever. 

Clo.  There  be  many  Caesars 

Ere  such  another  Julius.     Britain  is 
A  world  by  itself ;  and  we  will  nothing  pay 
For  wearing  our  own  noses. 

Qiieen.  That  opportunity, 

Which  then  they  had  to  take  from  %  to  resume 
We  have  again. — Remember,  sir,  my  liege, 
The  kings  your  ancestors  ;  together  with 
The  natural  bravery  of  your  isle,  which  stands 
As  Neptune's  park,  ribbed  and  paled  in 
With  rocks  unscaleable  and  roaring  waters ; 
With  sands  that  will  not  bear  your  enemies' 
boats,  [conquest 

But  suck  them  up  to  the  top-mast.  A  kind  of 
Caesar  made  here  ;  but  made  not  here  his  brag 
Of  came,  and  saw,  and  overcame:  with  shame, — 


944 


CYMBELINE. 


[ACT  in. 


The  first  that  ever  touch'd  him, — he  was  carried 
From  off  our  coast,  twice  beaten  ;  and  his  ship- 
ping,— 

Poor  ignorant  baubles  ! — on  our  terrible  seas, 
Like  egg-shells  mov'd  upon  their  surges,  crack'd 
As  easily  'gainst  our  rocks  :  for  joy  whereof 
The  fam'd  Cassibelan,  who  was  once  at  point, — 
O,  giglot  fortune  ! — to  master  Caesar's  sword, 
Made  Lud's  town  with  rejoicing  fires  bright 
And  Britons  strut  with  courage. 

Clo.  Come,  there's  no  more  tribute  to  be 
paid :  our  kingdom  is  stronger  than  it  was  at 
that  time;  and,  as  I  said,  there  is  no  more  such 
Caesars :  other  of  them  may  have  crooked 
noses  ;  but  to  owe  such  straight  arms,  none. 

Cym.  Son,  let  your  mother  end. 

Clo.  We  have  yet  many  among  us  can  gripe 
as  hard  as  Cassibelan  :  I  do  not  say  I  am  one  ; 
but  I  have  a  hand. — Why  tribute  ?  why  should 
we  pay  tribute  ?  If  Caesar  can  hide  the  sun 
from  us  with  a  blanket,  or  put  the  moon  in  his 
pocket,  we  will  pay  him  tribute  for  light ;  else, 
sir,  no  more  tribute,  pray  you  now. 

Cym.  You  must  know, 
Till  the^  injurious  Romans  did  extort 
This  tribute  from  us,  we  were  free  :  Caesar's 

ambition, — 

Which  swell'd  so  much  that  it  did  almost  stretch 
The  sides  o'  the  world, — against  all  colour,  here 
Did  put  the  yoke  upon  's  ;  which  to  shake  off 
Becomes  a  warlike  people,  whom  we  reckon 
Ourselves  to  be. 

Clo.  We  do. 

Cym.  Say  then  to  Caesar, 

Our  ancestor  was  that  Mulmutius  which 
Ordain'd  our  laws, — whose  use  the  sword  of 
Caesar  [franchise 

Hath  too  much  mangled ;  whose  repair  and 
Shall,  by  the  power  we  hold,  be  our  good  deed, 
Though  Rome  be  therefore  angry  : — Mulrautius 

made  our  laws, 

Who  was  the  first  of  Britain  which  did  put 
His  brows  within  a  golden  crown,  and  call'd 
Himself  a  king. 

Luc.  I  am  sorry,  Cymbeline, 

That  I  am  to  pronounce  Augustus  Caesar, — 
Caesar,  that  hath  more  kings  his  servants  than 
Thyself  domestic  officers, — thine  enemy  : 
Receive  it  from  me,  then  : — War  and  confusion 
In  Caesar's  name  pronounce  I  'gainst  thee :  look 
For  fury  not  to  be  resisted. — Thus  defied, 
I  thank  thee  for  myself. 

Cym.  Thou  art  welcome,  Caius. 

Thy  Caesar  knighted  me  ;  my  youth  I  spent 
Much  under  him  ;  of  him  I  gather'd  honour  ; 
Which  he  to  seek  of  me  again,  perforce, 
Behoves  me  keep  at  utterance.     I  am  perfect 


That  the  Pannonians  and  Dalmatians  for 
Their  liberties  are  now  in  arms, — a  precedent 
Which  not  to  read  would  show  the  Britons  cold : 
So  Caesar  shall  not  find  them. 

Luc.  Let  proof  speak. 

Clo.  His  majesty  bids  you  welcome.  Make 
pastime  with  us  a  day  or  two,  or  longer  :  if  you 
seek  us  afterwards  in  other  terms,  you  shall  find 
us  in  our  salt-water  girdle  :  if  you  beat  us  out 
of  it,  it  is  yours  ;  if  you  fall  in  the  adventure, 
our  crows  shall  fare  the  better  for  you  ;  and 
there 's  an  end. 

Luc.  So,  sir.  [mine: 

Cym.  I  know  your  master's  pleasure,  and  he 
All  the  remain  is,  welcome.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — BRITAIN.  Another  Room  in  the 
Palace. 

Enter  PISANIO  with  a  letter. 
Pis.  How  !   of  adultery  ?    Wherefore   write 

you  not 
What  monster 's  her  accuser  ? — Leonatus  ! 

0  master  !  what  a  strange  infection 

Is  fallen  into  thy  earl     What  false  Italian, — 
As  poisonous  tongu'd  as  handed, — hath  pre- 

vail'd 

On  thy  too  ready  hearing  ? — Disloyal !     No  : 
She 's  punish'd  for  her  truth  ;  and  undergoes, 
More  goddess-like  than  wife-like,  such  assaults 
As  would  take  in  some  virtue. — O  my  master  ! 
Thy  mind  to  her  is  now  as  low  as  were 
Thy  fortunes. — How !  that  I  should  murder  her? 
Upon  the  love,  and  truth,  and  vows  which  I 
Have  made  to  thy  command? — I,  her? — her 

blood  ? 

If  it  be  so  to  do  good  service,  never 
Let  me  be  counted  serviceable.     I  Tow  look  I, 
That  I  should  seem  to  lack  humanity 
So  much  as  this   fact   comes  to?  {Reading.] 

Do  *t :  the  letter 

That  I  have  sent  her,  by  her  own  command 
Shall  give  thee  opportunity  : — O  damn'd  paper ! 
Black  as  the  ink  that 's  on  thee !     Senseless 

bauble, 

Art  thou  a  fedary  for  this  act,  and  look'st 
So  virgin-like  without  ?    Lo,  here  she  comes. 

1  am  ignorant  in  what  I  am  commanded. 

Enter  IMOGEN. 
Imo.  How  now,  Pisanio  ! 
Pis.  Madam,  here  is  a  letter  from  my  lord. 
Imo.  Who?   thy  loru?  that  is  my  lord, — 

Leonatus  ? 

O,  learn'd  indeed  were  thac  astronomer 
That  knew  the  stars  as  I  his  characters  ; 
He  'd  lay  the  future  open. — You  good  gods, 


SCFtfS  II.] 


CYMBELINE. 


945 


Let  what  is  here  contain'd  relish  of  love, 
Of  my  lord's  heallh,  of  his  content, — yet  not 
That  we  two  are  asunder, — let  that  grieve  him; — 
Some  griefs  are  med'cinable ;    that  is  one  of 

them, 

For  it  doth  physic  love  ; — of  his  content  [be 
All  but  in  that !— Good  wax,  thy  leave: — bless'd 
You  bees  that  make  these  locks  of  counsel ! 

Lovers 

And  men  ia  dangerous  bonds  pray  not  alike  : 
Though  forfeiters  you  cast  in  prison,  yet 
You  clasp  young  Cupid's  tables.— Good  news, 

gods !  [Reads. 

Justice,  and  your  father's  wrath,  should  he 
fake  me  in  his  dominion ,  could  not  be  so  cruel 
to  me,  as  you,  O  the  dearest  of  creatures,  would 
even  renew  me  with  your  eyes.  Take  notice 
that  I  am  in  Cambria^  at  Milford-Haven . 
what  your  own  love  will,  out  of  this,  advise  you, 
follow.  So  he  wishes  you  all  happiness  that 
remains  loyal  to  his  vow,  and  your,  increasing 
in  love,  LEONATUS  POSTHUMUS. 

O  for  a  horse  with   wings! — Hear'st    thou, 

Pisanio  ? 

He  is  at  Milford-Haven :  read,  and  tell  me 
How  far  3tis  thither.     If  one  of  mean  affairs 
May  plod  it  in  a  week,  why  may  not  I 
Glide  thither  in  a  day  ? — Then,  true  Pisanio, — 
Who  long'st,  like  me,  to  see  thy  lord ;  who 

long'st — 

O,  let  rne  'bate — but  not  like  me  ;  yet  long'st, 
But  in  a  fainter  kind  :  O,  not  like  me  ; 
For  mine's  beyond  beyond, — say,  and  speak 

thick, — 

Love's  councillor  should  fill  the  bores  of  hearing 
To  the  smothering  of  the  sense, — how  far  it  is 
To  this  same   blessed  Milford :  and,  by  the 

way, 

Tell  me  how  Wales  was  made  so  happy  as 
To  inherit  such  a  haven  :  but,  first  of  all, 
How  we  may  steal  from  hence ;  and  for  the  gap 
That  we  shall  make  in  time,  from  our  hence- 
going  [hence  : 
And  our  return,  to  excuse.     But  first,  how  get 
Why  should  excuse  be  born  or  e'er  begot  ? 
We  '11  talk  of  that  hereafter.     Pr'ythee,  speak, 
How  many  score  of  miles  may  we  well  ride 
'Twixt  hour  and  hour  ? 

Pis.  One  score  'twixt  sun  and  sun, 

Madam,  's  enough  for  you,  and  too  much  too. 

Into.  Why,  one  that  rode  to 's  execution,  man, 
Could  never  go  so  slow :  I  have  heard  of  riding 

wagers, 

Where  horses  have  been  nimbler  than  the  sands 
That  run  i' the  clock's  behalf;— but  this  is 

foolery : 
Go  bid  my  woman  feign  a  sickness  ;  say 


She'll  home  to  her  father:  and  provide  me 

presently 

A  riding  suit  no  costlier  than  would  fit 
A  franklin's  housewife. 

Pis.  Madam,  you  're  best  consider. 

Inw.  I  see  before  me,  man,  nor  here,  nor  here, 
Nor  what  ensues  ;  but  have  a  fog  in  them 
That  I  cannot  look  through.  Away,  1  prithee; 
Do  as  1  bid  thee  :  there's  no  more  to  say ; 
Accessible  is  none  but  Milford  way.    {Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  — WALES.    A  mountainous  Country 
with  a  Cave, 

£«terBELARius,  GUIDERIUS,  and  ARVIRAGUS. 

Bel.  A  goodly  day  not  to  keep  house,  with 

such  [gate 

Whose  roof 's  as  low  as  ours  !    Stoop,  boys :  this 
Instructs  you  how  to  adore  the  heavens,  and 

bows  you 

To  a  morning's  holy  office :  the  gates  of  monarchs 
Are  arch'd  so  high  that  giants  may  jet  through, 
And  keep  their  impious  turbans  on,  without 
Good-morrow  to  the   sun. — Hail,    thou   fair 

heaven  ! 

We  house  i'  the  rock,  yet  use  thee  not  so  hardly 
As  prouder  livers  do. 

Gut.  Hail,  heaven  ! 

Arv,  Hail,  heaven ! 

Bel.  Now  for  our  mountain  sport :   up  to 

yond  hill, 
Your  legs  aie  young;    I'll  tread  these  flats. 

Consider, 

When  you  above  perr 2ive  me  like  a  crow, 
That  it  is  place  which  lessens  and  sets  off: 
And  you  may  then  revolve  what  tales  I  have 

told  you 

Of  courts,  of  princes,  of  the  tricks  in  war : 
This  service  is  not  service  so  being  done, 
But  being  so  allow'd :  to  apprehend  thus 
Draws  us  a  profit  from  all  things  we  see  ; 
And  often,  to  our  comfort,  shall  we  find 
The  sharded  beetle  in  a  safer  hold 
Than  is  the  full-wing'd  eagle.     O,  this  life 
Is  nobler  than  attending  for  a  check, 
Richer  than  doing  nothing  for  a  bauble, 
Prouder  than  rustling  in  unpaid-for  silk  : 
Such  gain  the  cap  of  him  that  makes  'em  fine, 
Yet  keeps  his  book  uncross'd :  no  life  to  ours. 
Gui.  Out  of  your  proof  you  speak :  we,  poor 

unfledg'd,  [know  not 

Have  never  wing'd  from  view  o'  the  nest ;  nor 
What  air  's  from  home.     Haply  this  life  is  best, 
If  quiet  life  be  best ;  sweeter  to  you 
That  have  a  sharper  known ;  well  corresponding 
With  your  stiff  age :  but  unto  us  it  is 
A  cell  of  ignorance  ;  travelling  abed ; 


CYMBELINE. 


[ACT  in. 


A  prison  for  a  debtor,  that  not  dares 
To  stride  a  limit. 

Arv.  What  should  we  speak  of 

When  we  are  old  as  you  ?  when  we  shall  hear 
The  rain  and  wind  beat  dark  December,  how, 
In  this  our  pinching  cave,  shall  we  discourse 
The  freezing  hours  away  ?  We  have  seen  nothing : 
We  are  beastly  ;  subtle  as  the  fox  for  prey ; 
Like  warlike  as  the  wolf  for  what  we  eat : 
Our  valour  is  to  chase  what  flies  ;  our  cage 
We  make  a  quire,  as  doth  the  prison'd  bird, 
And  sing  our  bondage  freely. 

Bel.  How  you  speak  ! 

Did  you  but  know  the  city's  usuries, 
And  felt  them  knowingly :  the  art  o'  the  court, 
As  hard  to  leave  as  keep  ;  whose  top  to  climb 
Is  certain  falling,  or  so  slippery  that 
The  fear 's  as  bad  as  falling :  the  toil  o'  the  war, 
A  pain  that  only  seems  to  seek  out  danger 
I'  the  name  of  fame  and  honour ;  which  dies  i' 

the  search, 

And  hath  as  oft  a  slanderous  epitaph 
As  record  of  fair  act ;  nay,  many  times 
Doth  ill  deserve  by  doing  well ;  what 's  worse, 
Must  court'sy  at  the  censure. — O,  boys,  this 

story 

The  world  may  read  in  me :  my  body 's  mark'd 
With  Roman  swords  ;  and  my  report  was  once 
First  with  the  best  of  note :  Cymbeline  lov'd  me ; 
And  when  a  soldier  was  the  theme,  my  name 
Was  not  far  off;  then  was  I  as  a  tree      [night 
Whose  boughs  did  bend  with  fruit :  but  in  one 
A  storm  or  robbery,  call  it  what  you  will, 
Shook  down  my  mellow  hangings,  nay,  my 

leaves, 
And  left  me  bare  to  weather. 

Gui.  Uncertain  favour? 

Bel.  My  fault  being  nothing, — as  I  have  told 

you  oft, — •  [vail'd 

But  that  two  villains,  whose  false  oaths  pre- 
Before  my  perfect  honour,  swore  to  Cymbeline 
I  was  confederate  with  the  Romans :  so 
Follow'd  my  banishment ;  and  this  twenty  years 
This  rock  and  these  demesnes  have  been  my 

world : 

Where  I  have  liv'd  at  honest  freedom  ;  paid 
More  pious  debts  to  heaven  than  in  all 
The  fore-end   of  my  time. — But  up  to  the 

mountains ! 

This  is  not  hunters'  language. — He  that  strikes 
The  venison  first  shall  be  the  lord  o'  the  feast ; 
To  him  the  other  two  shall  minister  ; 
And  we  will  fear  no  poison,  which  attends 
In  place  of  greater  state.     I  '11  meet  you  in  the 

valleys.          {Exeunt  GUI.  and  ARV. 
How  hard  it  is  to  hide  the  sparks  of  nature  ! 
These  boys  know  little  they  are  sons  to  the  king ; 


Nor  Cymbeline  dreams  that  they  are  alive. 
They  think  they  are  mine  :  and  though  train'd 

up  thus  meanly  [hit 

I'  the  cave  wherein  they  bow,  their  thoughts  do 
The  roofs  of  palaces  ;  and  nature  prompts  them, 
In  simple  and  low  things,  to  prince  it  much 
Beyond  the  trick  of  others.     This  Polydore, — • 
The  heir  of  Cymbeline  and  Britain,  who 
The  king  his  father  cail'd  Guiderius, — Jove  ! 
When  on  my  three-foot  stool  I  sit,  and  tell 
The  warlike  feats  I  have  done,  his  spirits  fly  out 
Into  my  story  :  say,  Thus  mine  enemy  fell, 
And  thus  I  set  my  foot  on  'j  neck;  even  then 
The  princely  blood  flows  in  his  cheek,  he  sweats, 
Strains  his  young  nerves,  and  puts  himself  in 

posture  [wal, — 

That  acts  my  words.   The  younger  brother,  Cad- 
Once  Arviragus, — in  as  like  a  figure 
Strikes  life  into  my  speech,  and  shows  much  more 
Hisown conceiving.  Hark,  thegameisrous'd! — 
O  Cymbeline !  heaven  and  my  conscience  knows 
Thou  didst  unjustly  banish  me  :  whereon, 
At  three  and  two  years  old,  I  stole  these  babes  ; 
Thinking  to  bar  thee  of  succession,  as 
Thou  reft'st  me  of  my  lands.     Euriphile, 
Thou  wast  their  nurse  ;  they  took  thee  for  their 

mother, 

And  every  day  do  honour  to  her  grave  : 
Myself,  Belarius,  that  am  Morgan  cail'd, 
They  take  for  natural  father.     The  game  is  up. 

{Exit. 


SCENE  IV. —  Wales,  near  Mi  If ord- Haven. 
Enter  PISANIO  and  IMOGEN. 

Imo.  Thou  told'st  me,  when  we  came  from 

horse,  the  place 

Was  near  at  hand. — Ne'er  long'd  my  mother  so 
To  see  me  first  as  I  have  now. — Pisanio  J   Man ! 
Where  is  Posthumus  ?     What  is  in  thy  mind 
That  makes  thee  stare  thus  ?   Wherefore  breaks 

that  sigh 

From  the  inward  of  thee  ?  One  but  painted  thus 
Would  be  interpreted  a  thing  perplex'd 
Beyond  self-explication  :  put  thyself 
Into  a  'haviour  of  less  fear,  ere  wildness 
Vanquish  my  steadier   senses.      What's   the 

matter  ? 

Why  tender'st  thou  that  paper  to  me,  with 
A  look  untender  ?     If 't  be  summer  news, 
Smile  to 't  before  ;  if  winterly,  thou  need'st 
But  keep  that  countenance  still. — My  husband's 

hand! 

That  drug-damn'd  Italy  hath  out-craftied  him, 
And  he's  at  some  hard  point — Speak,  man; 

thy  tongue 


SCENE  IV.] 


CYMBELINE. 


May  take  off  some  extremity,  which  to  read 
Would  be  even  mortal  to  me. 

Pis.  Please  you,  read ; 

And  you  shall  find  me,  wretched  man,  a  thing 
The  most  disdain'd  of  fortune. 

Imo.  [Reads.}  Thy  mistress,  Pisanio,  hath 
played  the  strumpet  in  my  bed ;  the  testimonies 
"whereof  lie  bleeding  in  me.  I  speak  not  otit  of 
weak  surmises  ;  but  from  proof  as  strong  as  my 
grief  and  as  certain  as  1  expect  my  revenge. 
That  part  thou,  Pisanio,  mtist  act  for  me,  if  thy 
faith  be  not  tainted  with  the  breach  of  hers.  Let 
thine  own  hands  take  away  her  life  ;  I  shall  give 
thee  opportunity  at  Milford- Haven:  she  hath  my 
letter  for  the  -purpose :  where,  if  thott  fear  to 
strike,  and  to  make  me  certain  it  is  done,  thou 
art  the  pander  to  her  dishonour,  and  equally  to 
me  disloyal. 

Pis.  What,  shall  I  need  to  draw  my  sword  ? 

the  paper 

Hath  cut  her  throat  already. — No,  'tis  slander  ; 
Whose  edge  is  sharper  than  the  sword  ;  whose 

tongue 

Outvenoms  all  the  worms  of  Nile ;  whose  breath 
Rides  on  the  posting  winds,  and  doth  belie 
All  corners  of  the  world:  kings,  queens,  and 

states, 

Maids,  matrons,  nay,  the  secrets  of  the  grave 
This  viperous   slander   enters. — What   cheer, 

madam?  [false? 

Imo.  False  to  his  bed?    What  is  it  to  be 
To  lie  in  watch  there,  and  to  think  on  him  ? 
To  weep  'twixt  clock  and  clock  ?  if  sleep  charge 

nature, 

To  break  it  with  a  fearful  dream  of  him, 
And  cry  myself  awake?  that's  false  to  his  bed, 
Is  it? 

Pis.  Alas,  good  lady !  [lachimo, 

Imo.  I    false !     Thy  conscience   witness : — 
Thou  didst  accuse  him  of  incontinency ; 
Thou  then  look'dst  like  a  villain;  now,  me- 

thinks, 

Thy  favour  }s  good  enough. — Some  jay  of  Italy, 
Whose  mother  was  her  painting,  hath  betray'd 

him: 

Poor  I  am  stale,  a  garment  out  of  fashion  ; 
And  for  I  am  richer  than  to  hang  by  the  walls 
I  must  be  ripp'd  :  to  pieces  with  me ! — O, 
Men's  vows  are  women's  traitors !    All  good 

seeming, 

By  thy  revolt,  O  husband,  shall  be  thought 
Put  on  for  villany, — not  born  where 't  grows, 
But  worn  a  bait  for  ladies. 

Pis.  Good  madam,  hear  me. 

Imo.  True  honest  men  being  heard,  like  false 

vEneas,  [weeping 

Were,  in  his  time,  thought  false :  and  Sinon's 


Did  scandal  many  a  holy  tear ;  took  pity 
From  most  true  wretchedness :  so  thou,  Post- 
humus, 

Wilt  lay  the  leaven  on  all  proper  men ; 
Goodly  and  gallant  shall  be  false  and  perjur'd 
From  thy  great  fail. — Come,  fellow,  be  thou 
honest :  [him, 

Do  thou  thy  master's  bidding :  when  thou  see'st 
A  little  witness  my  obedience  :  look  ! 
I  draw  the  sword  myself :  take  it,  and  hit 
The  innocent  mansion  of  my  love,  my  heart : 
Fear  not ;  'tis  empty  of  all  things  but  grief: 
Thy  master  is  not  there  ;  who  was  indeed 
The  riches  of  it :  do  his  bidding  ;  strike. 
Thou  mayst  be  valiant  in  a  better  cause  ; 
But  now  thou  seem'st  a  coward. 

Pisa  Hence,  vile  instrument ! 

Thou  shalt  not  damn  my  hand. 

Imo.  Why,  I  must  die  ; 

And  if  I  do  not  by  thy  hand,  thou  art 
No  servant  of  thy  master's :  against  self-slaughter 
There  is  a  prohibition  so  divine  [heart : 

That  cravens  my  weak  hand.    Come,  here's  my 
Something's  afore 't. — Soft,  soft!   we'll  no 

defence ; 

Obedient  as  the  scabbard. — What  is  here? 
The  scriptures  of  the  loyal  Leonatus 
All  turn'd  to  heresy?    Away,  away, 
Corrupters  of  my  faith !  you  shall  no  more 
Be  stomachers  to  my  heart.    Thus  may  poor  fools 
Believe  false  teachers:  though  those  that  are 

betray'd 

Do  feel  the  treason  sharply,  yet  the  traitor 
Stands  in  worse  case  of  woe. 
And  thou,  Posthumus,  that  didst  set  up 
My  disobedience  'gainst  the  king  my  father, 
And  make  me  put  into  contempt  the  suits 
Of  princely  fellows,  shalt  hereafter  find 
It  is  no  act  of  common  passage,  but 
A  strain  of  rareness :  and  I  grieve  myself 
To  think,  when  thou  shalt  be  disedg'd  by  her 
That  now  thou  tir'st  on,  how  thy  memory 
Will  then  be  pang'd  by  me. — Pr'ythee,  despatch : 
The  lamb  entreats  the  butcher:   where 's  thy 

knife? 

Thou  art  too  slow  to  do  thy  master's  bidding, 
When  I  desire  it  too. 

Pis.  O  gracious  lady, 

Since  I  receiv'd  command  to  do  this  business 
I  have  not  slept  one  wink. 

Imo.  Do 't,  and  to  bed  then. 

Pis.  I  '11  wake  mine  eyeballs  blind  first. 

Imo.  Wherefore  then 

Didst  undertake  it  ?    Why  hast  thou  abus'd 
So  many  miles  with  a  pretence?  this  place? 
Mine  action  and  thine  own?  our  horses'  labour? 
The  time  inviting  thee?  the  perturb'd  court, 


94* 


CYMBELINE. 


[ACT  in. 


For  my  being  absent ;  whereunto  1  never 
Purpose  return  ?    Why  hast  thou  gone  so  far, 
To  be  unbent  when  thou  hast  ta'en  thy  stand, 
The  elected  deer  before  thee  ? 

Pis.  But  to  win  time 

To  lose  so  bad  employment ;  in  the  which 
I  have  consider'd  of  a  course.  Good  lady, 
Hear  me  with  patience. 

Imo.  Talk  thy  tongue  weary:  speak: 

I  have  heard  I  am  a  strumpet ;  and  mine  ear, 
Therein  false  struck,  can  take  no  greater  wound, 
Nor  tent  to  bottom  that.     But  speak. 

Pis.  Then,  madam, 

I  thought  you  would  not  back  again. 

Imo.  Most  like, — 

Bringing  me  here  to  kill  me. 

Pis.  Not  so  neither : 

But  if  I  were  as  wise  as  honest,  then 
My  purpose  would  prove  well.     It  cannot  be 
But  that  my  master  is  abus'd : 
Some  villain,  ay,  and  singular  in  his  art, 
Hath  done  you  both  this  cursed  injury. 

Imo.  Some  Roman  courtezan. 

Pis.  No,  on  my  life : 

I  '11  give  but  notice  you  are  dead,  and  send  him 
Some  bloody  sign  of  it ;  for  'tis  commanded 
I  should  do  so :  you  shall  be  miss'd  at  court, 
And  that  will  well  confirm  it. 

Imo.  Why,  good  fellow, 

What  shall  I  do  the  while?  where  bide?  how 

live? 

Or  in  my  life  what  comfort  when  I  am 
Dead  to  my  husband? 

Pis.  If  you  '11  back  to  the  court, — 

Imo.  No  court,  no  father ;  nor  no  more  ado 
With  that  harsh,  noble,  simple  nothing, — 
That  Cloten,  whose  love-suit  hath  been  to  me 
As  fearful  asxa  siege. 

Pis.  If  not  at  court, 

Then  not  in  Britain  must  you  bide. 

Imo.  Where  then? 

Hath  Britain  all  the  sun   that  shines?    Day, 

night, 
Are  they  rot  but  in  Britain?    V  the  world's 

volume 

Our  Britain  seems  as  of  it,  but  not  in 't ; 
In  a  great  pool  a  swan's  nest :  pr'ythee,  think 
There 's  livers  out  of  Britain. 

Pis.  I  am  most  glad 

You  think  of  other  place.     The  ambassador, 
Lucius  the  Roman,  comes  to  Milford-Haven 
To-morrow:  now,  if  you  could  wear  a  mind 
Dark  as  your  fortune  is,  and  but  disguise 
That  which  to  appear  itself  must  not  yet  be, 
But  by  self  danger,  you  should  tread  a  course 
Privy  and  full  of  view ;  yea,  haply,  near 
The  residence  of  Posthumus, — so  nigh  at  least 


That  though  his  actions  were  not  visible,  yet 
Report  should  render  him  hourly  to  your  ear, 
As  truly  as  he  moves. 

Imo.  O,  for  such  means, 

Though  peril  to  my  modesty,  not  death  on 't, 
I  would  adventure. 

Pis.  Well  then,  here 's  the  point : 

You  must  forget  to  be  a  woman ;  change 
Command  into  obedience ;  fear  and  niceness, — 
1  he  handmaids  of  all  women,  or,  more  truly, 
Woman  its  pretty  self, — into  a  waggish  courage ; 
Ready  in  gibes,  quick-answer'd,  saucy,  and 
As  quarrelous  as  the  weasel ;  nay,  you  must  . 
Forget  that  rarest  treasure  of  your  cheek, 
Exposing  it, — but,  O,  the  harder  heart ! 
Alack,  no  remedy ! — to  the  greedy  touch 
Of  common-kissing  Titan ;  and  forget 
Your  laboursome  and  dainty  trims,  wherein 
You  made  great  Juno  angry. 

Imo.  Nay,  be  brief; 

I  see  into  thy  end,  and  am  almost 
A  man  already. 

Pis.  First,  make  yourself  but  like  one. 

Fore-thinking  this,  I  have  already  fit, — 
'Tis  in  my  cloak-bag, — doublet,  hat,  hose,  all 
That  answer  to  them:    would  you,  in  their 

serving, 

And  with  what  imitation  you  can  borrow 
From  youth  of  such  a  season,  'fore  noble  Lucius 
Present  yourself,  desire  his  service,  tell  him 
Wherein  you  are  happy, — which  you  '11  make 

him  know 

If  that  his  head  have  ear  in  music, — doubtless 
With  joy  he  will  embrace  you ;  for  he 's  hon- 
ourable 
And,  doubling  that,  most  holy.     Your  means 

abroad 

You  have  me,  rich ;  and  I  will  never  fail 
Beginning  nor  supplyment 

Imo.  Thou  art  all  the  comfort 

The  gods  will  diet  me  with.     Pr'ythee,  away : 
There 's  more  to  be  consider'd ;  but  we  '11  even 
All  that  good  time  will  give  us :  this  attempt 
I  am  soldier  to,  and  will  abide  it  with 
A  prince's  courage.     Away,  I  pr'ythee. 

Pis.  Well,   madam,  we  must  take  a  short 

farewell, 

Lest,  being  miss'd,  I  be  suspected  of       [tress, 
Your  carriage  from  the  court.     My  noble  mis- 
Here  is  a  box;  I  had  it  horn  the  queen; 
What 's  in 't  is  precious ;  if  you  are  sick  at  sea 
Or  stomach-qualm'd  at  land,  a  dram  of  this 
Will  drive  away  distemper.— To  some  shade, 
And  fit  you  to  your  manhood :  — may  the  gods 
Direct  you  to  the  best ! 

Imo.  Amen :  £  thank  thee. 

££4*1011 


SCENE  V.j 


CYMBELINE. 


943 


SCENE  V. — BRITAIN.     A  Room  in  CYM- 
BELINE'S  Palace. 

Enter  CYMBELINE,  QUEEN,  CLOTEN,  Lucius, 
and  Lords. 

Cym.  Thus  far;  and  so  farewell. 

Luc.  Thanks,  royal  sir. 

My  emperor  hath  wrote ;  I  must  from  hence ; 
And  am  right  sorry  that  I  must  report  ye 
My  master's  enemy. 

Cym.  Our  subjects,  sir, 

Will  not  endure  his  yoke ;  and  for  ourself 
To  show  less  sovereignty  than  they,  must  needs 
Appear  unkinglike. 

Luc.  So,  sir,  I  desire  of  you 

A  conduct  over-land  to  Milford-Haven. — 
Madam,  all  joy  befall  his  grace  and  you ! 

Cym.  My  lords,  you  are  appointed  for  that 

office; 

'The  due  of  honour  in  no  point  omit. — 
So  farewell,  noble  Lucius. 

Luc.  Your  hand,  my  lord. 

Clo.  Receive  it  friendly :  but  from  this  time 

forth 
I  wear  it  as  your  enemy. 

Luc.  Sir,  the  event 

Is  yet  to  name  the  winner :  fare  you  well. 

Cym.  Leave  not  the  worthy  Lucius,  good  my 

lords, 

Till  he  have  cross'd  the  Severn. — Happiness ! 
[Exeunt  Lucius  and  Lords. 

Queen.  He  goes   hence  frowning:    but    it 

honours  us 
That  we  have  given  him  cause. 

Clo.  'Tis  all  the  better; 

Your  valiant  Britons  have  their  wishes  in  it. 

Cym.  Lucius  hath  wrote  already  to  the  em- 
peror 

How  it  goes  here.     It  fits  us  therefore  ripely 
Our  chariots  and  our  horsemen  be  in  readiness : 
The  powers  that  he  already  hath  in  Gallia 
Will  soon  be  drawn  to  head,  from  whence  he 

moves 
His  war  for  Britain. 

Queen.  'Tis  not  sleepy  business; 

But  must  be  look'd  to  speedily  and  strongly. 

Cym.  Our  expectation  that  it  would  be  thus 
Hath  made  us  forward.     But,  my  gentle  queen, 
Where  is  our  daughter?    She  hath  not  appear'd 
Before  the  Roman,  nor  to  us  hath  tender'd 
The  duty  of  the  day :  she  looks  us  like 
A  thing  more  made  of  malice  than  of  duty : 
We  have  noted  it. — Call  her  before  us;  for 
We  have  been  too  slight  in  sufferance. 

[Exit  an  Attendant. 

Queen.  Royal  sir, 


Since  the  exile  of  Posthumus,  most  retir'd 
Hath  her  life  been ;  the  cure  whereof,  my  lord. 
'Tis  time  must  do.     Beseech  your  majesty, 
Forbear  sharp  speeches  to  her :  she 's  a  lady 
So  tender  of  rebukes  that  words  are  strokes, 
And  strokes  death  to  her. 

Re-enter  Attendant. 

Cym.  Where  is  she,  sir?    How 

Can  her  contempt  be  answer'd? 

Atten.  Please  you,  sir, 

Her  chambers  are  all  lock'd ;  and  there 's  no 

answer  [make. 

That  will  be  given  to  the  loud'st  of  noise  we 

Queen.  My  lord,  when  last  I  went  to  visit  her, 
She  pray'd  me  to  excuse  her  keeping  close; 
Whereto  constrain'd  by  her  infirmity 
She  should  that  duty  leave  unpaid  to  you 
Which  daily  she  was  bound  to  proffer :  this 
She  wish'd  me  to  make  known ;  but  our  great 

court 
Made  me  to  blame  in  memory. 

Cym.  Her  door 's  lock'd  ? 

Not  seen  of  late?    Grant,  heavens,  that  which 

I  fear 
Prove  false !  [Exit. 

Queen.     Son,  I  say,  follow  the  king,     [vant, 

Clo.  That  man  of  hers,  Pisanio,  her  old  ser- 
I  have  not  seen  these  two  days. 

Queen.  Go,  look  after. — 

[Exit  CLOTEN. 

Pisanio,  thou  that  stand'st  so  for  Posthumus ! — 
He  hath  a  drug  of  mine ;  I  pray  his  absence 
Proceed  by  swallowing  that ;  for  he  believes 
It  is  a  thing  most  precious.     But  for  her,     [her; 
Where  is  she  gone?    Haply  despair  hath  seiz'd 
Or,  wing'd  with  fervour  of  her  love,  she 's  flown 
To  her  desir'd  Posthumus:  gone  she  is 
To  death  or  to  dishonour ;  and  my  end 
Can  make  good  use  of  either :  she  being  down, 
I  have  the  placing  of  the  British  crown. 

Re-enter  CLOTEN. 

How  now,  my  son ! 

Clo.  'Tis  certain  she  is  fled. 

Go  in  and  cheer  the  king :  he  rages ;  none 
Dare  come  about  him. 

Queen.  All  the  better:  may 

This  night  forestall  him  of  the  coming  day ! 

[Exit. 

Clo.  I  love  and  hate  her :  for  she 's  fair  and 
royal,  [quisite 

And  that  she  hath  all  courtly  parts  more  ex- 
Than  lady,  ladies,  woman ;  from  every  one 
The  best  she  hath,  and  she,  of  all  compounded. 
Outsells  them  all. — I  love  her  therefore:  but, 
Disdaining  me,  and  throwing  favours  on 


950 


CYMBELINE. 


[ACT  in. 


The  low  Posthumus,  slanders  so  her  judgment 
That  what's  else  rare  is  chok'd;  and  in  that 

point 

I  will  conclude  to  hate  her,  nay,  indeed, 
To  be  reveng'd  upon  her.  For  when  fools  shall — 

Enter  PISANIO. 

Who  is  here?    What,  are  you  packing,  sirrah? 
Come  hither :  ah,  you  precious  pander !  Villain, 
Where  is  thy  lady?     In  a  word ;  or  else 
Thou  art  straightway  with  the  fiends. 

Pis.  O,  good  my  lord ! 

Clo.  Where  is  thy  lady?  or,  by  Jupiter — 
I  will  not  ask  again.     Close  villain, 
I  '11  have  this  secret  from  thy  heart,  or  rip 
Thy  heart  to  find  it.     Is  she  with  Posthumus? 
From  whose  so  many  weights  of  baseness  cannot 
A  dram  of  worth  be  drawn. 

Pis.  Alas,  my  lord, 

How  can  she  be  with  him?    When  was  she 

miss'd? 
He  is  in  Rome. 

Clo.  Where  is  she,  sir?     Come  nearer; 

No  further  halting :  satisfy  me  home 
What  is  become  of  her. 

Pis.  O,  my  all-worthy  lord ! 

Clo.  All-worthy  villain ! 

Discover  where  thy  mistress  is  at  once, 
At  the  next  word, — no  more  of  worthy  lord, — 
Speak,  or  thy  silence  on  the  instant  is 
Thy  condemnation  and  thy  death. 

Pis.  Then,  sir, 

This  paper  is  the  history  of  my  knowledge 
Touching  her  flight.  [Presenting  a  letter. 

Clo.  Let's  see't. — I  will  pursue  her 

Even  to  Augustus'  throne. 

Pis.  [Aside.]  Or  this  or  perish. 

She 's  far  enough ;  and  what  he  learns  by  this 
May  prove  his  travel,  not  her  danger. 

Clo.  Hum! 

Pis.   [Aside.]  I'll  write   to  my  lord   she's 

dead.     O  Imogen, 
Safe  mayst  thou  wander,  safe  return  again ! 

Clo.  Sirrah,  is  this  letter  true? 

Pis.  Sir,  as  I  think. 

Clo.  It  is  Posthumus'  hand;  I  know't. — 
Sirrah,  if  thou  wouldst  not  be  a  villain,  but  do 
me  true  service,  undergo  those  employments 
wherein  I  should  have  cause  to  use  thee  with  a 
serious  industry, — that  is,  what  viilany  soe'er  I 
bid  thee  do,  to  perform  it  directly  and  truly, — 
I  would  think  thee  an  honest  man :  thou  shouldst 
neither  want  my  means  for  thy  relief  nor  my 
voice  for  thy  preferment. 

Pis.  Well,  my  good  lord. 

Clo.  Wilt  thou  serve  me? — for  since  patiently 
and  constantly  thou  hast  stuck  to  the  bare  for- 


tune of  that  beggar  Posthumus,  thou  canst  not, 
in  the  course  of  gratitude,  but  be  a  diligent 
follower  of  mine, — wilt  thou  serve  me? 

Pis.  Sir,  I  will. 

Clo.  Give  me  thy  hand;  here's  my  purse. 
Hast  any  of  thy  late  master's  garments  in  thy 
possession? 

Pis.  I  have,  my  lord,  at  my  lodging,  the 
same  suit  he  wore  when  he  took  leave  of  my 
lady  and  mistress. 

Clo.  The  first  service  thou  dost  me,  fetch 
that  suit  hither :  let  it  be  thy  first  service ;  go. 

Pis.  I  shall,  my  lord.  [Exit. 

Clo.  Meet  thee  at  Milford-Haven  ! — I  forgot 
to  ask  him  one  thing ;  I  '11  remember 't  anon : 
even  there,  thou  villain  Posthumus,  will  I  kill 
thee. — I  would  these  garments  were  come. 
She  said  upon  a  time, — the  bitterness  of  it  I 
now  belch  from  my  heart, — that  she  held  the 
very  garment  of  Posthumus  in  more  respect 
than  my  noble  and  natural  person,  together  with 
the  adornment  of  my  qualities.  With  that  suit 
upon  my  back  will  I  ravish  her :  first  kill  him, 
and  in  her  eyes ;  there  shall  she  see  my  valour, 
which  will  then  be  a  torment  to  her  contempt. 
He  on  the  ground,  my  speech  of  insultment 
ended  on  his  dead  body, — and  when  my  lust 
hath  dined, — which,  as  I  say,  to  vex  her,  I  will 
execute  in  the  clothes  that  she  so  praised, — to 
the  court  I  '11  knock  her  back,  foot  her  home 
again.  She  hath  despised  me  rejoicingly,  and 
I  '11  be  merry  in  my  revenge. 

Re-enter  PISANIO,  with  the  clothes. 

Be  those  the  garments? 
Pis.  Ay,  my  noble  lord. 
Clo.  How  long  is 't  since  she  went  to  Milford- 
Haven? 

Pis.  She  can  scarce  be  there  yet. 
Clo.  Bring  this  apparel  to  my  chamber ;  that 
is  the  second  thing  that  I  have  commanded 
thee:  the  third  is,  that  thou  wilt  be  a  volun- 
tary mute  to  my  design.  Be  but  duteous,  and 
true  preferment  shall  tender  itself  to  thee. — 
My  revenge  is  now  at  Milford:  would  I  had 
wings  to  follow  it ! — Come,  and  be  true. 

[Exit. 
Pis.  Thou  bidd'st  me  to  my  loss  :  for  true  to 

thee 

Were  to  prove  false,  which  I  will  never  be, 
To  him  that  is  most  true.  To  Milford  go, 
And  find  not  her  whom  thou  pursu'st. — Flow, 

flow, 
You  heavenly  blessings  on  her  ! — This  fool's 

speed 

Be  cross'd  with  slowness  ;  labour  be  his  meed  ' 

[Exit. 


SCENE  VI.] 


CYMBELINE. 


951 


SCENE  VI.— WALES.     Before  the  Cave  of 
BELARIUS. 

Enter  IMOGEN,  in  boy's  clothes. 

Imo.  I  see  a  man's  life  is  a  tedious  one  : 
I  have  tir'd  myself ;  and  for  two  nights  together 
Have  made  the  ground  my  bed.     I  should  be 

sick, 

But  that  my  resolution  helps  me.  -  Milford, 
When  from  the  mountain-top  Pisanio  show'd 

thee, 

Thou  wast  within  a  ken  :  O  Jove  !  I  think 
Foundations  fly  the  wretched  ;  such,  I  mean, 
Where  they  should  be  reliev'd.     Two  beggars 

told  me 

I  could  not  miss  my  way  :  will  poor  folks  lie, 
That  have  afflictions  on  them,  knowing  'tis 
A  punishment  or  trial  ?     Yes ;  no  wonder, 
When  rich  ones  scarce  tell  true :  to  lapse  in 

fulness 

Is  sorer  than  to  lie  for  need  ;  and  falsehood 
Is  worse  in  kings  than  beggars. — My  dear  lord  ! 
Thou  art  one  o'  the  false  ones :  now  I  think 

on  thee 

My  hunger  's  gone  ;  but  even  before,  I  was 
At  point  to  sink  for  food. — But  what  is  this? 
Here  is  a  path  to 't  :  'tis  some  savage  hold  : 
I  were  best  not  call ;    I  dare  not  call :    yet 

famine, 

Ere  clean  it  o'erthrow  nature,  makes  it  valiant. 
Plenty  and  peace  breeds  cowards ;  hardness  ever 
Of  hardiness  is  mother. — Ho  !  who 's  here  ? 
If  anything  that 's  civil,  speak ;  if  savage, 
Take  or  lend. — Ho! — No  answer?  then  I'll 

enter. 

Best  draw  my  sword  ;  and  if  mine  enemy 
But  fear  the    sword,  like  me,  he  '11  scarcely  look 

on't. 
Such  a  foe,  good  heavens  !    [Goes  into  the  Cave. 

Enter  BELARIUS,  GUIDERIUS,  and 
ARVIRAGUS. 

Bel.  You,  Polydore,  have  prov'd  best  wood- 
man, and 

Are  master  of  the  feast :  Cadwal  and  I 
Will  play  the  cook  and  servant ;  'tis  our  match: 
The  sweat  of  industry  would  dry  and  die 
But  for  the  end  it  works  to.  Come ;  our  stomachs 
Will  make  what 's  homely  savoury :  weariness 
Can  snore  upon  the  flint,  when  restive  sloth 
Finds  the  down  pillow  hard. — New,  peace  be 

here, 
Poor  house,  that  keep'st  thyself ! 

Gui.  I  am  throughly  weary. 

Arv.  I  am  weak  with  toil,   yet  strong  in 
appetite. 


Gut.  There  is  cold  meat  i'  the  cave ;  we  '11 

browse  on  that 
Whilst  what  we  have  kill'd  be  cook'd. 

Bel.  Stay ;  come  not  in. 

[Looking  into  the  Cave. 
But  that  it  eats  our  victuals,  I  should  think 
Here  were  a  fairy. 

Gui.  What 's  the  matter,  sir  ? 

Bel.  By  Jupiter,  an  angel  !  or,  if  not, 
An  earthly  paragon  ! — Behold  divineness 
No  elder  than  a  boy ! 

Re-enter  IMOGEN. 

Imo.  Good  masters,  harm  me  not : 
Before  I  enter'd  here  I  call'd ;  and  thought 
To  have  begg'd  or  bought  what  I  have  took  : 

good  troth, 
I  have  stol'n  nought ;  nor  would  not,  though 

I  had  found 
Gold  strew'd  o'  the  floor.     Here 's  money  for 

my  meat : 

I  would  have  left  it  on  the  board,  so  soon 
As  I  had  made  my  meal ;  and  parted 
With  prayers  for  the  provider. 

Gut.    '  Money,  youth  ? 

Arv.  All  gold  and  silver  rather  turn  to  dirt ! 
And  'tis  no  better  reckon'd,  but  of  those 
Who  worship  dirty  gods. 

Imo.  I  see  you  are  angry  : 

Know,  if  you  kill  me  for  my  fault,  I  should 
Have  died  had  I  not  made  it. 

Bel.  Whither  bound? 

Imo.  To  Milord-Haven. 

Bel.  What 's  your  name  ? 

Imo.  Fidele,  sir.     I  have  a  kinsman  who 
Is  bound  for  Italy  ;  he  embark'd  at  Milford  ; 
To  whom  being  going,  almost  spent  with  hunger, 
I  am  fallen  in  this  offence. 

Bel.  Pr'ythee,  fair  youth, 

Think  us  no  churls,  nor  measure  our  good  minds 
By  this  rude  place  we  live  in.  Well  encounter'd ! 
'Tis  almost  night :  you  shall  have  better  cheer 
Ere  you  depart ;  and  thanks  to  stay  and  eat  it. — 
Boys,  bid  him  welcome. 

Gut.  Were  you  a  woman,  youth, 

I   should  woo  hard  but  be  your  groom. — In 

honesty 
I'd  bid  for  you  as  I  do  buy. 

Arv.  I  '11  make 't  my  comfort 

He  is  a  man  ;  I  '11  love  him  as  my  brother : — 
And  such  a  welcome  as  I'd  give  to  him, 
After  long  absence,  such  as  yours  : — most  wel- 
come ! 
Be  sprightly,  for  you  fall  'mongst  friends. 

Into.  'Mongst  friends, 

If  brothers.— [Aside.}  Would  it  had  been  so  that 
they 


952 


CYMBELINE. 


[ACT  iv. 


Had  been  my  father's  sons !  then  had  my  prize 
Been  less ;  and  so  more  equal  ballasting 
To  thee,  Posthumus. 

Bel.  He  wrings  at  some  distress. 

Gut.  Would  I  could  free 't ! 

Arv.  Or  I ;  whate'er  it  be, 

What  pain  it  cost,  what  danger !  gods ! 

Bel.  Hark,  boys.  [Whispering. 

Into.  Great  men, 

That  had  a  court  no  bigger  than  this  cave, 
That  did  attend  themselves,  and  had  the  virtue 
Which  their  own   conscience  seal'd   them, — 

laying  by 

That  nothing  gift  of  differing  multitudes, — 
Could  not  out-peer  these  twain.     Pardon  me, 

gods  ! 

I'd  change  my  sex  to  be  companion  with  them, 
Since  Leonatus'  false. 

Bel.  It  shall  be  so. 

Boys,  we'll  go  dress  our  hunt. — Fair  youth, 

come  in  : 
Discourse   is   heavy,   fasting ;   when  we   have 

supp'd 

We  '11  mannerly  demand  thee  of  thy  story, 
So  far  as  thou  wilt  speak  it. 

Gui.  Pray*  draw  near. 

Arv.  The  night  to  the  owl  and  morn  to  the 
lark  less  welcome. 

Into.  Thanks,  sir. 

Arv.  I  pray,  draw  near. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  VII. — ROME.     A  public  Place. 
Enter  two  Senators  and  Tribunes. 

I  Sen.  This  is  the  tenor  of  the   Emperor's 

writ: 

That  since  the  common  men  are  now  in  action 
'Gainst  the  Pannonians  and  Dalmatians, 
And  that  the  legions  now  in  Gallia  are 
Full  weak  to  undertake  our  wars  against 
The  fallen-off  Britons,  that  we  do  incite 
The  gentry  to  this  business.     He  creates 
Lucius  pro-consul :  and  to  you,  the  tribunes, 
For  this  immediate  levy,  he  commends 
His  absolute  commission.     Long  live  Csesar  ! 

1  Tri.  Is  Lucius  general  of  the  forces  ? 

2  Sen.  Ay. 
i  Tri.  Remaining  now  in  Gallia  ? 

i  Sen.  With  those  legions 

Which  I  have  spoke  of,  whereunto  your  levy 
Must  be  supplyant :  the  words  of  your  commission 
Will  tie  you  to  the  numbers,  and  the  time 
Of  their  despatch. 

I  Tri.  We  will  discharge  our  duty. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — WALES.  The  Forest  near  the  Cave  of 
BELARIUS. 

Enter  CLOTEN. 

Clo.  I  am  near  to  the  place  where  they  should 
meet,  if  Pisanio  have  mapped  it  truly.  How 
fit  his  garments  serve  me  !  Why  should  his 
mistress,  who  was  made  by  him  that  made  the 
tailor,  not  be  fit  too  ?  the  rather, — saving  rever- 
ence of  the  word, — for  'tis  said  a  woman's  fit- 
ness comes  by  fits.  Therein  I  must  play  the 
workman.  I  dare  speak  it  to  myself,— for  it  is 
not  vainglory  for  a  man  and  his  glass  to  confer 
in  his  own  chamber, — I  mean,  the  lines  of  my 
body  are  as  well  drawn  as  his  ;  no  less  young, 
more  strong,  not  beneath  him  in  fortunes,  be- 
yond him  in  the  advantage  of  the  time,  above 
him  in  birth,  alike  conversant  in  general  services, 
and  more  remarkable  in  single  oppositions :  yet 
this  imperceiverant  thing  loves  him  in  my  de- 
spite. What  mortality  is !  Posthumus,  thy  head, 
which  now  is  growing  upon  thy  shoulders,  shall 
within  this  hour  be  off,  thy  mistress  enforced, 
thy  garments  cut  to  pieces  before  thy  face ;  and 
all  this  done,  spurn  her  home  to  her  father,  who 
may  haply  be  a  little  angry  for  my  so  rough 
usage  ;  but  my  mother,  having  power  of  his 
testiness,  shall  turn  all  into  my  commendations. 
My  horse  is  tied  up  safe  :  out,  sword,  and  to  a 
sore  purpose !  Fortune,  put  them  into  my  hand ! 
This  is  the  very  description  of  their  meeting- 
place  :  and  the  fellow  dares  not  deceive  me. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  II.— WALES.     Before  the  Cave. 

Enter^from  the  Cave,  BELARIUS,  GUIDERIUS, 
ARVIRAGUS,  and  IMOGEN. 

Bel.  [To  IMOGEN.]  You  are  not  well:  remain 

here  in  the  cave  ; 
We  '11  come  to  you  after  hunting. 

Arv.  [To  IMOGEN.]  Brother,  stay  here: 

Are  we  not  brothers  ? 

Into.  So  man  and  man  should  be  ; 

But  clay  and  clay  differs  in  dignity, 
Whose  dust  is  both  alike.     I  am  very  sick. 

Gui.  Go  you  to  hunting.  I  '11  abide  with  him. 

Into.  So  sick  I  am  not, — yet  I  am  not  well; 
But  not  so  citizen  a  wanton  as  [me ; 

To  seem  to  die  ere  sick  :  so  please  you,  leave 
Stick  to  your  journal  course  :   the  breach  of 
custom  [me 

Is  breach  of  all.     I  am  ill ;  but  your  being  by 
Cannot  amend  me  :  society  is  no  comfort 


SCENE  II.] 


CYMBELINE. 


953 


To  one  not  sociable  :  I  am  not  very  sick, 
Since  I  can  reason  of  it.     Pray  you,  trust  me 

here  : 

I  '11  rob  none  but  myself ;  and  let  me  die, 
Stealing  so  poorly. 

Gui.  I  love  thee  ;  I  have  spoke  it : 

How  much  the  quantity,  the  weight  as  much, 
As  I  do  love  my  father. 

Bel.  What  ?  how  !  how  ! 

Arv.  If  it  be  sin  to  say  so,  sir,  I  yoke  me 
In  my  good  brother's  fault :  I  know  not  why 
I  love  this  youth  ;  and  I  have  heard  you  say 
Love's  reason 's  without  reason :  the  bier  at  door, 
And  a  demand  who  is 't  shall  die,  I  'd  say 
My  fat  her  >  not  this  youth. 

Bel.  [Aside.]  O  noble  strain  ! 

0  worthiness  of  nature  !  breed  of  greatness  ! 
Cowards  father  cowards,  and  base  things  sire 

base  : 
Nature  hath  meal  and  bran,  contempt  and  grace. 

1  'm  not  their  father  ;  yet  who  this  should  be 
Doth  miracle  itself,  lov'd  before  me. — 

'Tis  the  ninth  hour  o'  the  morn. 

Arv.  Brother,  farewell. 

Into.  I  wish  ye  sport 

Arv.  You  health, — so  please  you,  sir. 

Imo.  [Aside.]          These  are  kind  creatures. 

Gods,  what  lies  I  have  heard  ! 
Our  courtiers  say  all 's  savage  but  at  court : 
Experience,  O,  thou  disprov'st  report ! 
The  imperious  seas  breed  monsters ;  for  the  dish, 
Poor  tributary  rivers  as  sweet  fish. 
I  am  sick  still ;  heart -sick. — Pisanio, 
I  '11  now  taste  of  thy  drug.         [SwaV^ws  some. 

Gut.  I  could  n^t  stir  him  : 

He  said  he  was  gentle,  but  unfortunate ; 
Dishonestly  afflicted,  but  yet  honest.          [after 

Arv.  Thus  did  he  answer  me :  yet  said  here- 
I  might  know  more. 

Bel.  To  the  field,  to  the  field  1— 

We  '11  leave  you  for  this  time :  go  in  and  rest. 

Arv.  We  '11  not  be  long  away. 

Bel.  Pray,  be  not  sick, 

For  you  must  be  our  housewife. 

Imo.  Well,  or  ill, 

I  arn  bound  to  you. 

Bel.  And  shalt  be  ever. 

[Exit  IMOGEN  into  the  Cave. 
This  youth,  howe'er  distress'd,  appears  he  hath 

had 
Good  ancestors. 

Arv.  How  angel-like  he  sings  ! 

Gui.  But  his  neat  cookery  !  He  cut  our  roots 

in  characters  ; 

And  sauc'd  our  broths  as  Juno  had  been  sick, 
And  he  her  dieter. 

Arv.  Nobly  he  yokes 


A  smiling  with  a  sigh,— as  if  the  sigh 
Was  that  it  was  for  not  being  such  a  smile  ; 
The  smile  mocking  the  sigh  that^it  would  fly 
From  so  divine  a  temple  to  commix 
With  winds  that  sailors  rail  at. 

Gui.  I  do  note, 

That  grief  and  patience,  rooted  in  him  both, 
Mingle  their  spurs  together. 

Arv.  Grow,  patience  ! 

And  let  the  stinking  elder,  grief,  untwine 
His  perishing  root  with  the  increasing  vine ! 

Bel.  It  is  great  morning.     Come,  away! — 
Who's  there? 

Enter  CLOTEN. 

Clo.  I  cannot  find  those  runagates ;  that  vil- 
lain 
Hath  mock'd  me. — I  am  faint. 

Bel.  Those  runagates  ! 

Means  he  not  us?     I  partly  know  him ;  'tis 
Cloten,  the  son  o'  the  queen.     I  fear  some 

ambush. 

I  saw  him  not  these  many  years,  and  yet 
I  know  'tis  he. — We  are  held  as  outlaws :  hence ! 

Gui.  He  is  but  one:  you  and  my  brother 

search 

What  companies  are  near  :  pray  you,  away; 
Let  me  alone  with  him. 

[Exeunt  BELARIUS  and  ARVIRAGUS. 

Clo.  Soft ! — What  are  you 

That  fly  me  thus?  some  villain  mountaineers  ? 
I  have  heard  of  such. — What  slave  art  thou  ? 

Gui.  A  thing 

More  slavish  did  I  ne'er  than  answering 
A  slave  without  a  knock. 

Clo.  Thou  art  a  robber, 

A  law-breaker,  a  villain  :  yield  thee,  thief. 

Gui.  To  whom?  to  thee?    What  art  thou? 

have  not  I 

An  arm  as  big  as  thine?  a  heart  as  big? 
Thy  words,  I  grant,  are  bigger;  for  I  wear  not 
My  dagger  in  my  mouth.     Say  what  thou  art, 
Why  I  should  yield  to  thee  ? 

Clo.  Thou  villain  base, 

Know'st  me  not  by  my  clothes  ? 

Gui.  No,  nor  thy  tailor,  rascal, 

Who  is  thy  grandfather :  he  made  those  clothes, 
Which,  as  it  seems,  make  thee. 

Clo.  Thou  precious  varlet, 

My  tailor  made  them  not. 

Gui.  Hence,  then,  and  thank 

The  man  that  gave  them  thee.    Thou  art  some 

fool; 
I  am  loth  to  beat  thee. 

Clo.  Thou  injurious  thief, 

Hear  but  my  name,  and  tremble. 

Gui.  What 's  thy  name  ? 


954 


CYMBELINE. 


[ACT  iv. 


Clo.  Cloten,  thou  villain. 

Gut.  Cloten.  thou  double  villain,  be  thy  name, 
I  cannot  tremble  at  it ;  were  it  toad,  or  adder, 

spider, 
'Twould  move  me  sooner. 

Clo.  To  thy  further  fear, 

Nay,  to  thy  mere  confusion,  thou  shalt  know 
I'm  son  to  the  queen. 

Gut.  I  'm  sorry  for 't ;  not  seeming 

So  worthy  as  thy  birth. 

Clo.  Art  not  afeard  ? 

Gut.  Those  that  I  reverence,  those  I  fear, — 

the  wise : 
At  fools  I  laugh,  not  fear  them. 

Clo.  Die  the  death  : 

When  I  have  slain  thee  with  my  proper  hand, 
I  '11  follow  those  that  even  now  fled  hence, 
And  on  the  gates  of  Lud's  town    set  your 

heads : 
Yield,  rustic  mountaineer.      \_Exeunt  fighting. 

Re-enter  BELARIUS  and  ARVIRAGUS. 

Bel.  No  company 's  abroad. 

Arv.  None  in  the  world:  you  did  mistake 
him,  sure. 

Bel.  I  cannot  tell :  long  is  it  since  I  saw  him, 
But  time  hath  nothing  blurr'd  those  lines  of 

favour 

Which  then  he  wore  ;  the  snatches  in  his  voice, 
And   burst  of  speaking,  were  as  his  :   I  am 

absolute 
'Twas  very  Cloten. 

Arv.  In  this  place  we  left  them  : 

I  wish  my  brother  make  good  time  with  him, 
You  say  he  is  so  fell. 

Bet.  Being  scarce  made  up, 

I  mean  to  man,  he  had  not  apprehension 
Of  roaring  terrors  ;  for  defect  of  judgment 
Is  oft  the  cure  of  fear. — But,  see,  thy  brother. 

Re-enter  GUIDERIUS  with  CLOTEN'S  head. 

Gut.  This  Cloten  wasafool,  an  empty  purse, — 
There  was  no  money  in 't :  not  Hercules 
Could  have  knock'd  out  his  brains,  for  he  had 

none: 

Yet  I  not  doing  this,  the  fool  had  borne 
My  head  as  I  do  his. 

Bel.  What  hast  thou  done  ? 

Gui.  I  am  perfect  what :  cut  off  one  Cloten's 

head, 

Son  to  the  queen,  after  his  own  report ; 
Who  call'd  me  traitor,  mountaineer ;  and  swore, 
With  his  own  single  hand  he  'd  take  us  in, 
Displace  our  heads  where, — thank  the  gods ! — 

they  grow, 
And  set  them  on  Lud's  town. 

Bel.  We  are  all  undone. 


Gui.  Why,  worthy  father,  what  have  we  to 

lose 

But  that  he  swore  to  take,  our  lives?    The  law 
Protects  not  us :  then  why  should  we  be  tender, 
To  let  an  arrogant  piece  of  flesh  threat  us ; 
Play  judge  and  executioner  all  himself, 
For  we  do  fear  the  law?     What  company 
Discover  you  abroad  ? 

Bel.  No  single  soul 

Can  we  set  eye  on,  but  in  all  safe  reason 
He  must  have  some  attendants.     Though  his 

humour 

Was  nothing  but  mutation, — ay,  and  that 
From  one  bad  thing  to  worse  ;  not  frenzy,  not 
Absolute  madness  could  so  far  have  rav'd, 
To  bring  him  here  alone  :  although  perhaps 
It  may  be  heard  at  court  that  such  as  we 
Cave  here,  hunt  here,  are  outlaws,  and  in  time 
May  make  some  stronger  head  :  the  which  he 

hearing, — 

As  it  is  like  him, — might  break  out,  and  swear 
He  'd  fetch  us  in ;  yet  is  't  not  probable 
To  come  alone,  either  he  so  undertaking  [fear, 
Or  they  so  suffering :  then  on  good  ground  we 
If  we  do  fear  this  body  hath  a  tail 
More  perilous  than  the  head. 

Arv.  Let  ordinance 

Come  as  the  gods  foresay  it :  howsoe'er, 
My  brother  hath  done  well. 

Bel.  I  had  no  mind 

To  hunt  this  day :  the  boy  Fidele's  sickness 
Did  make  my  way  long  forth. 

Gui.  With  his  own  sword, 

Which  he  did  wave  against  my  throat,  I  have 

ca'en 

His  head  from  him  :  I  '11  throw 't  into  the  creek 
Behind  our  rock  ;  and  let  it  to  the  sea, 
And  tell  the  fishes  he 's  the  queen's  son,  Cloten : 
That 's  all  I  reck.  [Exit. 

Bel.  I  fear  'twill  be  reveng'd  ; 

Would,    Polydore,   thou    hadst    not    done 't ! 

though  valour 
Becomes  thee  well  enough. 

Arv.  Would  I  had  done't, 

So  the  revenge  alone  pursu'd  me  ! — Polydore, 
I  love  thee  brotherly ;  but  envy  much 
Thou  hast  robb'd  me  of  this  deed:    I  would 
revenges,  [us  through, 

That  possible  strength  might  meet,  would  seek 
And  put  us  to  our  answer. 

Bel.  Well,  'tis  done  :— 

We  '11  hunt  no  more  to-day,  nor  seek  for  danger 
Where  there 's  no  profit.   I  pr'ythee,  to  our  rock ; 
You  and  Fidele  play  the  cooks:  I '11  stay 
Till  hasty  Polydore  return,  and  bring  him 
To  dinner  presently. 

Arv.  Poor  sick  Fidele  ! 


SCENE  II.] 


CYMBELINE. 


955 


I  '11  willingly  to  him :  to  gain  his  colour 
I  'd  let  a  parish  of  such  Clotens'  blood, 
And  praise  myself  for  charity.  [Exit. 

Bel.  O  thou  goddess, 

Thou  divine  nature,  how  thyself  thou  blazon'st 
In  these  two  princely  boys !   They  are  as  gentle 
As  zephyrs  blowing  below  the  violet, 
Not  wagging  his  sweet  head ;  and  yet  as  rough, 
Their  royal  blood  enchaf  d,  as  the  rud'st  wind 
That  by  the  top  doth  take  the  mountain  pine, 
And  make  him  stoop  to  the  vale.    'Tis  wonder 
That  an  invisible  instinct  should  frame  them 
To  royalty  unlearn'd  ;  honour  untaught ; 
Civility  not  seen  from  other  ;  valour 
That  wildly  grows  in  them,  but  yields  a  crop 
As  if  it  had  been  sow'd.     Yet  still  it 's  strange 
What  Cloten's  being  here  to  us  portends, 
Or  what  his  death  will  bring  us. 

Re-enter  GUIDERIUS. 

Gui.  Where 's  my  brother? 

I  have  sent  Cloten's  clotpoll  down  the  stream, 
In  embassy  to  his  mother :  his  body 's  hostage 
For  his  return.  [Solemn  music. 

Bel.  My  ingenious  instrument ! 

Hark,  Polydore,  it  sounds !  But  what  occasion 
Hath  Cadwal  now  to  give  it  motion?  Hark  ! 

Gui.  Is  he  at  home  ? 

Bel.  He  went  hence  even  now. 

Gui.  What  does  he  mean  ?  since  death  of  my 

dear'st  mother 

It  did  not  speak  before.     All  solemn  things 
Should  answer  solemn  accidents.    The  matter? 
Triumphs  for  nothing  and  lamenting  toys 
Is  jollity  for  apes  and  grief  for  boys. 
Is  Cadwal  mad  ? 

Bel.  Look,  here  he  comes, 

And  brings  the  dire  occasion  in  his  arms 
Of  what  we  blame  him  for ! 

Re-enter  ARVIRAGUS,  bearing  IMOGEN  as  dead 
in  his  arms. 

Arv.  The  bird  is  dead 

That  we  have  made  so  much  on.  I  had  rather 
Have  skipp'd  from  sixteen  years  of  age  to 

sixty, 

To  have  turn'd  my  leaping  time  into  a  crutch, 
Than  have  seen  this. 

Gui.  O  sweetest,  fairest  lily ! 

My  brother  wears  thee  not  the  one  half  so  well 
As  when  thou  grew'st  thyself. 

Bel.  O  melancholy ! 

Who  ever  yet  could  sound  thy  bottom  ?  find 
The  ooze  to  show  what  coast  thy  sluggish  crare 
Might  easiliest  harbour  in? — Thou  blessed  thing! 
Jove  knows  what  man  thou  might' st  have  made ; 
but  I, 


Thou  diedst,  a  most  rare  boy,  of  melancholy  ! 
How  found  you  him  ? 

Arv.  Stark,  as  you  see  : 

Thus  smiling,  as  some  fly  had  tickled  slumber, 
Not  as  death's  dart,  being  laugh'd  at :  his  right 

cheek 
Reposing  on  a  cushion. 

Gui.  Where? 

Arv.  O'  the  floor  ; 

His  arms  thus  leagu'd :  I  thought  he  slept ;  and 
put  [rudeness 

My  clouted  brogues  from  off  my  feet,  whose 
Answer'd  my  steps  too  loud. 

Gui.  Why,  he  but  sleeps  : 

If  he  be  gone  he  '11  make  his  grave  a  bed  ; 
With  female  fairies  will  his  tomb  be  haunted, 
And  worms  will  not  come  to  thee. 

Arv.  With  fairest  flowers, 

Whilst  summer  lasts  and  I  live  here,  Fidele, 
I  '11  sweeten  thy  sad  grave :  thou  shalt  not  lack 
The  flower  that 's  like  thy  face,  pale  primrose  ; 

nor 

The  azure  hare-bell,  like  thy  veins ;  no,  nor 
The  leaf  of  eglantine,  whom  not  to  slander, 
Out-sweeten'd  not  thy  breath :  the  ruddock 

would, 

With  charitable  bill,— O  bill,  sore  shaming 
Those  rich-left  heirs  that  let  their  fathers  lie 
Without  a  monument ! — bring  thee  all  this  ; 
Yea,  and  furr'd  moss  besides,  when  flowers  are 

none, 
To  winter-ground  thy  corse. 

Gui.  Pr'ythee,  have  done ; 

And  do  not  play  in  wench-like  words  with  that 
Which  is  so  serious.     Let  us  bury  him. 
And  not  protract  with  admiration  what 
Is  now  due  debt. — To  the  grave  ! 

Arv.  Say,  where  shall 's  lay  him? 

Gui.  By  good  Euriphile,  our  mother. 

Arv.  Be'tso: 

And  let  us,  Polydore,  though  now  our  voices 
Have  got  the  mannish  crack,  sing  him  to  the 

ground, 

As  once  our  mother  ;  use  like  note  and  words, 
Save  that  Euriphile  must  be  Fidele. 

Gui.  Cadwal, 

I  cannot  sing :  I  '11  weep,  and  word  it  with  thee ; 
For  notes  of  sorrow  out  of  tune  are  worse 
Than  priests  and  fanes  that  lie. 

Arv.  We  '11  speak  it,  then. 

Bel.  Great  griefs,  I  see,  medicine  the  less : 

for  Cloten 

Is  quite  forgot.     He  was  a  queen's  son,  boys : 
And  though  he  came  our  enemy,  remember, 
He  was  paid  for  that :  thou  mean  and  mighty, 

rotting 
Together,  have  one  dust,  yet  reverence, — 


956 


CYMBELINE, 


[ACT  iv. 


That  angel  of  the  world, — doth  make  distinction 
Of  place  'tween  high  and  low.     Our  foe  was 

princely ; 

And  though  you  took  his  life,  as  being  our  foe, 
Yet  bury  him  as  a  prince. 

Gui.  Pray  you,  fetch  him  hither. 

Thersites'  body  is  as  good  as  Ajax*, 
When  neither  are  alive. 

Arv.  If  you  '11  go  fetch  him, 

We  '11  say  our  song  the  whilst. — Brother,  begin. 

[Exit  BELARIUS. 

Gut.  Nay,  Cadwal,  we  must  lay  his  head  to 

the  east ; 
My  father  hath  a  reason  for 't. 

Arv.  'Tis  true. 

Gui.  Come  on,  then,  and  remove  him. 

Arv.  So, — Begin. 


SONG. 

Gui.        Fear  no  more  the  heat  o1  the  sun, 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages ; 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 

Home  art  gone,  and  ta'en  thy  wages  : 
Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must, 
As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

A  rv.       Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  great ; 
Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke : 
Care  no  more  to  clothe  and  eat ; 

To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak  t 
The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 
All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

Gui.        Fear  no  more  the  lightning-flash, 
Arv.  Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder-stone ; 

Gui.        Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash ; 
Arv.  Thou  hast  finish'd  joy  and  moan : 

Both.       All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 

Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 

Gui.        No  exerciser  harm  thee  ! 
Arv.       Nor  no  witchcraft  charm  thee  ! 
Gui.        Ghost  unlaid  forbear  thee  I 
Arv.       Nothing  ill  come  near  thee  ! 
Both,      Quiet  consummation  have ; 

And  renowned  be  thy  grave  ! 

Re-enter  BELARIUS  with  the  body  of  CLOTEN. 

Gui.  We  have  done  our  obsequies :   come, 
lay  him  down.  [night,  more  : 

Bel.  Here's  a  few  flowers;  but  'bout  mid- 
The  herbs  that  have  on  them  cold  dew  o'  the 
night  [faces.  — 

Are  strewings  fitt'st  for  graves. — Upon  their 
You  were  as  flowers,  now  wither'd  :  even  so 
These herblets  shall, which  we  upon  youstrew. — 
Come  on,  away :  apart  upon  our  knees. 
The  ground  that  gave  them  first  has  them  again : 
Their  pleasures  here  are  past,  so  is  their  pain. 
[Exeunt  BEL.  ,  GUI.  ,  and  ARV. 
Into.  [Awaking.}  Yes,  sir,  to  Milford-Haven; 
which  is  the  way? — 


I  thank  you. — By  yon  bush? — Pray,  how  far 

thither? 

'Ods  pittikins  !  can  it  be  six  mile  yet  ? — 
I  have  gone  all  night.     Faith,  I  '11  lie  down  and 

sleep. 

But,  soft !   no  bedfellow : — O  gods  and  god- 
desses !  [Seeing  the  body. 
These  flowers  are  like  the  pleasures  of  the  world; 
This  bloody  man,  the  care  on't. — I  hope  I 

dream  ; 

For  so  I  thought  I  was  a  cave-keeper, 
And  cook  to  honest  creatures  :  but  'tis  not  so ; 
'Twas  but  a  bolt  of  nothing,  shot  at  nothing, 
Which  the  brain  makes  of  fumes :  our  very  eyes 
Are  sometimes,   like   our    judgments,   blind. 

Good  faith, 

I  tremble  still  with  fear :  but  if  there  be 
Yet  left  in  heaven  as  small  a  drop  of  pity 
As  a  wren's  eye,  fear'd  gods,  a  part  of  it ! 
The  dream 's  here  still ;  even  when  I  wake  it  is 
Without  me,  as  within  me;  not  imagin'd,  felt. 
A  headless  man  ! — The  garments  of  Posthumus ! 
I  know  the  shape  of 's  leg :  this  is  his  hand ; 
His  foot  Mercurial ;  his  Martial  thigh ; 
The  brawns  of  Hercules :  but  his  Jovial  face — 
Murder  in  heaven? — How! — 'Tis  gone. — Pis- 

anio, 

All  curses  madded  Hecuba  gave  the  Greeks, 
And  mine  to  boot,  be  darted  on  thee !    Thou, 
Conspir'd  with  that  irregulous  devil,  Cloten, 
Hast  here  cut  off  my  lord. — To  write  and  read 
Be  henceforth  treacherous ! — Damn'd  Pisanio 
Hath  with  hisforged  letters, — damn'd  Pisanio, — 
From  this  most  bravest  vessel  of  the  world 
Struck  the  main-top ! — O  Posthumus  1  alas, 
Where  is  thy  head?  where 's  that?    Ay  me! 

where's  that? 

Pisanio  might  have  kill'd  thee  at  the  heart, 
And  left  thy  head  on. — How  should  this  be? 

Pisanio? 

'Tis  he  and  Cloten :  malice  and  lucre  in  them 
Have  laid  this  woe  here.     O  'tis  pregnant^ 

pregnant ! 

The  drug  he  gave  me,  which  he  said  was  precious 
And  cordial  to  me,  have  I  not  found  it     [home 
Murderous  to   the  senses?     That  confirms  it 
This  is  Pisanio's  deed,  and  Cloten's :  O ! — 
Give  colour  to  my  pale  cheek  with  thy  blood, 
That  we  the  horrider  may  seem  to  those 
Which  chance  to  find  us :  O,  my  lord,  my  lord  J 

Enter  Lucius,  a  Captain  and  other  Officers, 
and  a  Soothsayer. 

Cap.  To  them,  the  legions  garrison'd  in  Gallia, 
After  your  will,  have  cross'd  the  sea ;  attending 
You  here  at  Milford-Haven  with  your  ships: 
They  are  in  readiness. 


SCENE  II.] 


CYMBELINE, 


9S7 


Luc.  But  what  from  Rome? 

Cap.  The  senate  hath  stirr'd  up  the  confiners 
And  gentlemen  of  Italy ;  most  willing  spirits, 
That  promise  noble  service :  and  they  come 
Under  the  conduct  of  bold  lachimo, 
Sienna's  brother. 

Luc.  When  expect  you  them? 

Cap.  With  the  next  benefit  o'  the  wind. 

Luc.  This  forwardness 

Makes  our  hopes  fair.     Command  our  present 

numbers  [sir, 

Be  muster'd ;  bid  the  captains  look  to  't. — Now, 

What  have  you  dream'd  of  late  of  this  war's 

purpose?  [a  vision, — 

Sooth.  Last  night  the  very  gods  show'd  me 
I  fast  and  pray'd  for  their  intelligence, — thus : — 
I  saw  Jove's  bird,  the  Roman  eagle,  wingM 
From  the  spongy  south  to  this  part  of  the  west, 
There  vanish'd  in  the  sunbeams:  which  por- 
tends,— 

Unless  my  sins  abuse  my  divination, — 
Success  to  the  Roman  host. 

Luc.  Dream  often  so, 

And  never  false. — Soft,,  ho !  what  trunk  is  here 
Without  his  top? — The  ruin  speaks  that  some- 
time 

It  was  a  worthy  building. — How!  a  page! — 
Or  dead  or  sleeping  on  him?     But  dead,  rather ; 
For  nature  doth  abhor  to  make  his  bed 
With  the  defunct,  or  sleep  upon  the  dead. — 
Let 's  see  the  boy's  face, 

Cap.  He 's  alive,  my  lord. 

Luc.  He  '11,  then,  instruct  us  of  this  body. — 

Young  one, 

Inform  us  of  thy  fortunes ;  for  it  seems 
They  crave  to  be  demanded.     Who  is  this 
Thou  mak'st  thy  bloody  pillow  ?  or  who  was  he, 
That  otherwise  than  noble  nature  did,     [terest 
Hath  alter'd  that  good  picture ?    What 's  thy  in- 
In  this  sad  wreck?    How  came  it?    Who  is  it? 
What  art  thou? 

Imo.  I  am  nothing:  or  if  not, 

Nothing  to  be  were  better.    This  was  my  master, 
A  very  valiant  Briton  and  a  good, 
That  here  by  mountaineers  lies  slain :  alas ! 
There  is  no  more  such  masters :  I  may  wander 
From  east  to  Occident,  cry  out  for  service, 
Try  many,  all  good,  serve  truly,  never 
Find  such  another  master. 

Luc.  'Lack,  good  youth ! 

Thou  mov'st  no  less  with  thy  complaining  than 
Thy  master  in  bleeding:  say  his  name,  good 
friend.  [and  do 

Imo.  Richard  du  Champ — {Aside.  ]  If  I  do  lie, 
No  harm  by  it,  though  the  gods  hear,  I  hope 
They'll  pardon  it.-JSay  you,  sir? 

Luc.  Thy  name? 


Imo.  Fidele. 

Luc.  Thou   dost  approve   thyself  the  very 
same :  [name. 

Thy  name  well  fits  thy  faith,  thy  faith  thy 
Wilt  take  thy  chance  with  me?    I  will  not  say 
Thou  shalt  be  so  well  master'd  ;  but,  be  sure, 
No  less  belov'd.    The  Roman  emperor's  letters, 
Sent  by  a  consul  to  me,  should  not  sooner 
Than  thine  own  worth  prefer  thee :  go  with  me. 

Imo.  I  '11  follow,  sir.     But  first,  an 't  please 

the  gods, 

I  '11  hide  my  master  from  the  flies,  as  deep 
As  these  poor  pickaxes  can  dig:  and  when 
With  wild  wood-leaves  and  weeds  I  ha'  strew'd 

his  grave, 

And  on  it  said  a  century  of  prayers, 
Such  as  I  can,  twice  o'er,  I'll  weep  and  sigh; 
And  leaving  so  his  service,  follow  you, 
So  please  you  entertain  me. 

Luc.  Ay,  good  youth  ; 

And  rather  father  thee  than  master  thee. — 
My  friends, 

The  boy  hath  taught  us  manly  duties  :  let  us 
Find  out  the  prettiest  daisied  plot  we  can, 
And  make  him  with  our  pikes  and  partisans 
A  grave:  come,  arm  him. — Boy,  he  is  preferr'd 
By  thee  to  us;  and  he  shall  be  interr'd 
As  soldiers  can.    Be  cheerful ;  wipe  thine  eyes : 
Some  falls  are  means  the  happier  to  arise. 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — BRITAIN.     A  Room  in  CYM- 
BFLINE'S  Palace. 

Enter  CYMBELINE,  Lords,  PISANIO,  and 
Attendants. 

Cym.  Again;  and  bring  me  word  how  'tis 

with  her. 
A  fever  with  the  absence  of  her  son ; 

[Exit  an  Attendant. 
A  madness,  of  which  her  life 's  in  danger, — 

Heavens, 

How  deeply  you  at  once  do  touch  me !   Imogen, 
The  great  part  of  my  comfort,  gone ;  my  queen 
Upon  a  desperate  bed,  and  in  a  time 
When  fearful  wars  point  at  me ;  her  son  gone, 
So  needful  for  this  present :  it  strikes  me,  past 
The  hope  of  comfort.— But  for  thee,  fellow, 
Who  needs  must  know  of  her  departure,  and 
Dost  seem  so  ignorant,  we  '11  enforce  it  from  thee 
By  a  sharp  torture. 

Pis.  Sir,  my  life  is  yours,     [tress, 

I  humbly  set  it  at  your  will :  but,  for  my  mis- 
I  nothing  know  where  she  remains,  why  gone, 
Nor  when  she  purposes  return.  Beseech  your 

highness, 
Hold  me  your  loyal  servant. 


CYMBELINE. 


[ACT  iv. 


I  Lord.  Good  my  liege, 

The  day  that  she  was  missing  he  was  here : 
I  dare  be  bound  he 's  true,  and  shall  perform 
All  parts  of  his  subjection  loyally. 
For  Cloten,— 

There  wants  no  diligence  in  seeking  him, 
And  will  no  doubt  be  found. 

Cym.  The  time  is  troublesome, — 

We  '11  slip  you  for  a  season ;  but  our  jealousy 

\To  PlSANIO. 

Does  yet  depend. 

i  Lord.  So  please  your  majesty, 

The  Roman  legions,  all  from  Gallia  drawn, 
Are  landed  on  your  coast ;  with  a  supply 
Of  Roman  gentlemen  by  the  senate  sent. 

Cym.  Now  for  the  counsel  of  my  son  and 

queen ! — 
I  am  amaz'd  with  matter. 

I  Lord.  Good  my  liege, 

Your  preparation  can  affront  no  less 
Than  what  you  hear  of:  come  more,  for  more 

you  're  ready  : 

The  want  is  but  to  put  those  powers  in  motion 
That  long  to  move. 

Cym.  I  thank  you.     Let 's  withdraw, 

And  meet  the  time  as  it  seeks  us.     We  fear  not 
What  can  from  Italy  annoy  us ;  but 
We  grieve  at  chances  here. — Away  I 

[Exeunt  all  but  PlSANIO. 

Pis.  I  heard  no  letter  from  my  master  since 
I  wrote  him  Imogen  was  slain  :  'tis  strange  : 
Nor  hear  I  from  my  mistress,  who  did  promise 
To  yield  me  often  tidings ;  neither  know  I 
What  is  betid  to  Cloten ;  but  remain 
Perplex'd  in  all :  the  heavens  still  must  work. 
Wherein  I  am  false  I  am  honest ;  not  true  to  be 

true: 

These  present  wars  shall  find  I  love  my  country, 
Even  to  the  note  o'  the  king,  or  I  '11  fall  in  them. 
All  other  doubts,  by  time  let  them  be  clear'd : 
Fortune  brings  in  some  boats  that  are  not  steer'd. 

[Exit. 


SCENE  IV.— WALES.     Before  the  Cave. 

Enter  BELAJLIUS,  GUIDERIUS,  and 
ARVIRAGUS. 


Gut.  The  noise  is  round  about  us. 

Bel.  Let  us  from  it. 

Arv.  What  pleasure,  sir,  find  we  in  life,  to 

lock  it 
From  action  and  adventure? 

Gui.  Nay,  what  hope 

Have  we  in  hiding  us?  this  way  the  Romans 
Must  or  for  Britons  slay  us  or  receive  us 
For  barbarous  and  unnatural  revolts 
During  their  use,  and  slay  us  after. 


Bel.  Sons, 

We  '11  higher  to  the  mountains ;  there  secure  us. 
To  the  king's  party  there 's  no  going :  newness 
Of  Cloten's  death, — we  being  not  known,  not 

muster'd 

Among  the  bands, — may  drive  us  to  a  render 
Where  we  have  liv'd ;  and  so  extort  from 's 
That  which  we  've  done,  whose  answer  would 

be  death, 
Drawn  on  with  torture. 

Gui.  This  is,  sir,  a  doubt 

In  such  a  time  nothing  becoming  you 
Nor  satisfying  us. 

Arv.  It  is  not  likely 

That  when  they  hear  the  Roman  horses  neigh, 
Behold  their  quartered  fires,  have  both  their 

eyes 

And  ears  so  cloy'd  importantly  as  now, 
That  they  will  waste  their  time  upon  cur  note, 
To  know  from  whence  we  are. 

Bel.  O,  I  am  known 

Of  many  in  the  army :  many  years, 
Though  Cloten  then  but  young,  you  see,  not 

wore  him 

From  my  remembrance.    And ,  besides,  the  king 
Hath  not  deserv'd  my  service  nor  your  loves  ; 
Who  find  in  my  exile  the  want  of  breeding 
The  certainty  of  this  hard  life ;  aye  hopeless 
To  have  the  courtesy  your  cradle  promis'd, 
But  to  be  still  hot  summer's  tanlings  and 
The  shrinking  slaves  of  winter. 

Gui.  Than  be  so, 

Better  to  cease  to  be.     Pray,  sir,  to  the  army : 
I  and  my  brother  are  not  known  ;  yourself 
So  out  of  thought,  and  thereto  so  o'ergrown, 
Cannot  be  question'd. 

Arv.  By  this  sun  that  shines, 

I  '11  thither:  what  thing  is  it  that  I  never 
Did  see  man  die  !  scarce  ever  look'd  on  blood. 
But    that  of   coward    hares,   hot  goats,  and 

venison ! 

Never  bestrid  a  horse,  save  one  that  had 
A  rider  like  myself,  who  ne'er  wore  rowel 
Nor  iron  on  his  heel !  I  am  asham'd 
To  look  upon  the  holy  sun,  to  have 
The  benefit  of  his  blessed  beams,  remaining 
So  long  a  poor  unknown. 

Gui.  By  heavens,  I  '11  go : 

If  you  will  bless  me,  sir,  and  give  me  leave, 
I  '11  take  the  better  care  ;  but  if  you  will  not, 
The  hazard  therefore  due  fall  on  me  by 
The  hands  of  Romans  ! 

Arv.  So  say  I, — Amen. 

Bel.  No  reason  I,  since  of  your  lives  you  set 
So  slight  a  valuation,  should  reserve 
My  crack'd  one  to  more  care.  Have  with  you, 
boys! 


SCENE  IV.] 


CYMBELINE. 


959 


If  in  your  country  wars  you  chance  to  die. 
That  is  my  bed  too,  lads,  and  there  I  '11  lie  : 
Lead,  lead. — {Aside.}    The  time  seems  long  ; 

their  blood  thinks  scorn 
Till  it  fly  out,  and  show  them  princes  born. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — BRITAIN.  A  Field  between  the 
British  and  Roman  Camps. 

Enter  POSTHUMUS  with  a  bloody  handkerchief. 

Post.  Yea,  bloody  cloth,  I  '11  keep  thee  ;  for 

I  wish'd 
Thou  shouldst  be  colour'd  thus.     You  married 

ones, 
If  each  of  you  should  take  this  course,  how 

many 

Must  murder  wives  much  better  than  them- 
selves 

For  wrying  but  a  little  !     O  Pisanio  ! 
Every  good  servant  does  not  all  commands  : 
No  bond  but  to  do  just  ones. — Gods  !  if  you 
Should  have  ta'en  vengeance  on  my  faults,  I 

never 

Had  liv'd  to  put  on  this  :  so  had  you  sav'd 
The  noble  Imogen  to  repent ;  and  struck 
Me,  wretch  more  worth  your  vengeance.     But 

alack, 
You  snatch  some  hence  for  little  faults  ;  that's 

love, 

To  have  them  fall  no  more  :  you  some  permit 
To  second  ills  with  ills,  each  elder  worse, 
And  make  them  dread  it,  to  the  doers'  thrift. 
But  Imogen  is  your  own  :  do  your  best  wills, 
And  make  me  bless'd  to  obey  ! — I  am  brought 

hither 

Among  the  Italian  gentry,  and  to  fight 
Against  my  lady's  kingdom  :  'tis  enough 
That,  Britain,  I  have  kilFd  thy  mistress ;  peace ! 
I  '11  give  no  wound  to  thee.     Therefore,  good 

heavens, 

Hear  patiently  my  purpose  : — I  '11  disrobe  me 
Of  these  Italian  weeds,  and  suit  myself 
As  does  a  Briton  peasant :  so  I  '11  fight 
Against  the  part  I  come  with  ;  so  I  '11  die 
For  thee,  O  Imogen,  even  for  whom  my  life 
Is  every  breath  a  death :  and  thus  unknown, 
Pitied  nor  hated,  to  the  face  of  peril 
Myself  I  '11  dedicate.    Let  me  make  men  know 
More  valour  in  me  than  my  habits  show. 
Gods,  put  the.  strength  o'  the  Leonati  in  me  ! 
To  shame  the  guise  o'  the  world,  I  will  begin 
The  fashion, — less  without  and  more  within. 


SCENE  II. — BRITAIN.    A  Field  between  the 
Camps. 

Enter,  at  one  side,  Lucius,  IACHIMO,  IMOGEN, 
and  the  Roman  Army  ;  at  the  other  side,  the 
British  Army;  LEONATUS  PosTHUMUsyW&w- 
ing  it  like  a  poor  soldier.  They  march  over 
and  go  out.  Alarums.  Then  enter  again,  in 
skirmish,  IACHIMO  and  POSTHUMUS  :  ke 
vanquisheth  and  disarmeth  IACHIMO,  and 
then  leaves  him. 

lack.  The  heaviness  and  guilt  within  my 

bosom 

Takes  off  my  manhood  :  I  have  belied  a  lady, 
The  princess  of  this  country,  and  the  air  on  't 
Revengingly  enfeebles  me  ;  or  could  this  carl, 
A  very  drudge  of  nature's,  have  subdu'd  me 
In  my  profession  ?    Knighthoods  and  honours 

borne 

As  I  wear  mine  are  titles  but  of  scorn. 
If  that  thy  gentry,  Britain,  go  before 
This  lout  as  he  exceeds  our  lords,  the  odds 
Is  that  we  scarce  are  men,  and  you  are  gods. 

[Exit. 

The  battle  continues ;  the  Britons  fiy  ;  CYM- 
BELINE is  taken :  then  enter  to  his  rescue 
BELARIUS,  GUIDERIUS,  and  ARVIRAGUS. 
Bel.  Stand,  stand  !    We  have  the  advantage 

of  the  ground  ; 

The  lane  is  guarded  :  nothing  routs  us  but 
The  villany  of  our  fears. 

Gui.  and  Arv.  Stand,  stand,  and  fight ! 

Re-enter  POSTHUMUS,  andsecoitds  the  Britons : 
they  rescue  CYMBELINE,  and  exeunt.     Then 
re-enter  Lucius,  IACHIMO,  and  IMOGEN. 
Luc.  Away,  boy,  from  the  troops,  and  save 

thyself ; 

For  friends  kill  friends,  and  the  disorder 's  such 
As  war  were  hoodwink'd. 

loch.  'Tis  their  fresh  supplies. 

Luc.  It  is  a  day  turn'd  strangely  :  or  betimes 

Let 's  re-enforce  or  fly  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— BRITAIN.    Another  part  of  the 

Field. 

Enter  POSTHUMUS  and  a  British  Lord. 
Lord.  Cam'st  thou  from  where  they  made  the 

stand  ? 

Post.  I  did : 

Though  you,  it  seems,  come  from  the  fliers. 
Lord.  I  did. 

Post.  No  blame  be  to  you,  sir  ;  for  all  was 

lost, 

But  that  the  heavens  fought  :  the  king  himseli 
Of  his  wings  destitute,  the  army  broken, 


g6o 


CYMBELINE. 


LACT  v. 


And  but  the  backs  of  Britons  seen,  all  flying 
Through  a  straight  lane ;  the  enemy  full-hearted, 
Lolling  the  tongue  with  slaughtering,  having 

work 

More  plentiful  than  tools  to  do  't,  struck  down 
Some  mortally,  some  slightly  touch'd,  some 

falling  [damnVd 

Merely  through  fear  ;  that  the  strait  path  was 
With  dead  men  hurt  behind,  and  cowards  living, 
To  die  with  lengthen'd  shame. 

Lord.  Where  was  this  lane  ? 

Post.  Close  by  the  battle,  ditch'd,  and  wall'd 

with  turf, 

Which  gave  advantage  to  an  ancient  soldier, — 
An  honest  one,  I  warrant ;  who  deserv'd 
So  long  a  breeding  as  his  white  beard  came  to, 
In  doing  this  for 's  country  : — athwart  the  lane 
He,  with  two  striplings, — lads  more  like  to  run 
The  country  base  than  to  commit  such  slaughter ; 
With  faces  fit  for  masks,  or  rather  fairer 
Than  those  for  preservation  cas'd,  or  shame, — 
Made  good  the  passage ;  cried  to  those  that  fled, 
Our  Britain's  harts  die  flying,  not  our  men  : 
To  darkness  fleet,  souls  that  fly  backwards ! 

Stand; 

Or  we  are  Romans,  and  will  give  you  that 
Like  beasts  which  you  shun  beastly,  andmaysave, 
But  to  look  back  in  frown :  stand,  stand! — 

These  three, 

Three  thousand  confident,  in  act  as  many, — 
For  three  performers  are  the  file  when  all 
The  rest  do  nothing, — with  this  word,  Stand, 

stand! 

Accommodated  by  the  place,  more  charming 
With  their  own  nobleness, — which  could  have 

turn'd 

A  distaff  to  a  lance, — gilded  pale  looks, 
Part  shame,  part  spirit  renew' d ;  that  some, 

turn'd  coward 

But  by  example, — O,  a  sin  in  war 
Damn'd  in  the  first  beginners  ! — 'gan  to  look 
The  way  that  they  did,  and  to  grin  like  lions 
Upon  the  pikes  o'  the  hunters.     Then  began 
A  stop  i'  the  chaser,  a  retire ;  anon 
A  rout,  confusion  thick  :  forthwith  they  fly, 
Chickens,  the  way  which  they  stoop'd  eagles ; 

slaves,  [cowards, — 

The  strides  they  victors  made  :  and  now  our 
Like  fragments  in  hard  voyages, — became 
The  life  o'  the  need  ;  having  found  the  back- 
door open  [wound  ! 
Of  the  unguarded  hearts,  heavens,  how  they 
Some  slain  before ;  some  dying;  some  their  friends 
O'erborne  i'  the  former  wave :  ten  chas'd  by  one 
Are  now  each  one  the  slaughter-man  of  twenty : 
Those  that  would  die  or  ere  resist  are  grown 
The  mortal  bugs  o'  the  field. 


Lord.  This  was  strange  chance,— 

A  narrow  lane,  an  old  man,  and  two  boys  ! 

Post.  Nay,  do  not  wonder  at  it :  you  are  made 
Rather  to  wonder  at  the  things  you  hear 
Than  to  work  any.     Will  you  rhyme  upon 't, 
And  vent  it  for  a  mockery  ?     Here  is  one  : 
Two  boys,  an  old  man  twice  a  boy,  a  lane, 
Preserved  the  Britons,  was  the  Romans'  bane, 

Lord.  Nay,  be  not  angry,  sir. 

Post.  'Lack,  to  what  end? 

Who  dares  not  stand  his  foe  I  '11  be  his  friend  ; 
For  if  he  '11  do  as  he  is  made  to  do 
I  know  he  '11  quickly  fly  my  friendship  too. 
You  have  put  me  into  rhyme. 

Lord.  Farewell ;  you  're  angry. 

\Extt. 

Post.  Still  going?— This  is  a  lord  !     O  noble 

misery, — 

To  be  i'  the  field  and  ask  what  news  of  me  ! 
To-day  how  many  would  have  given  their  honours 
To  have  sav'd  their  carcasses !  took  heel  to  do't, 
And  yet  died  too  !  I,  in  mine  own  woe  charm'd, 
Could  not  find  death  where  I  did  hear  him 
groan,  [monster, 

Nor  feel  him  where  he  struck  :  being  an  ugly 
'Tis  strange  he  hides  him  in  fresh  cups,  soft  beds, 
Sweet  words;  or  hath  more  ministers  than  we 
That  draw  his  knives  i'  the  war. — Well,  I  will 

find  him  : 

For  being  now  a  favourer  to  the  Briton, 
No  more  a  Briton,  I  have  resum'd  again 
The  part  I  came  in  :  fight  I  will  no  more, 
But  yield  me  to  the  veriest  hind  that  shall     [is 
Once  touch  my  shoulder.     Great  the  slaughter 
Here  made  by  the  Roman ;  great  the  answer  be 
Britons  must  take  :  for  me,  my  ransom  Js  death ; 
On  either  side  I  come  to  spend  my  breath  ; 
Which  neither  here  I  '11  keep  nor  bear  again, 
But  end  it  by  some  means  for  Imogen. 

Enter  two  British  Captains  and  Soldiers. 

1  Cap.  Great  Jupiter  be  prais'd  !  Lucius  is 

taken : 
'Tis  thought  the  old  man  and  his  sons  were  angels. 

2  Cap.  There  wasa  fourth  man,  in  a  silly  habit, 
That  gave  the  affront  with  them. 

1  Cap.  So  'tis  reported  ; 
But  none  of 'em  can  be  found. — Stand  !  who's 

there  ? 

Post.  A  Roman ; 

Who  had  not  now  been  drooping  here  if  seconds 
Had  answer'd  him. 

2  Cap.  Lay  hands  on  him  ;  a  dog  ! — 
A  leg  of  Rome  shall  not  return  to  tell 

What  crows  have  peck'd  them  here : — he  brags 

his  service, 
As  if  he  were  of  note  ;  bring  him  to  the  king. 


SCENE  IV.J 


CYMBELINE. 


961 


Enter  CYMBELINE  attended;  BELARIUS,  Gum- 
ERIUS,  ARVIRAGUS,  PISANIO,  and  Roman 
Captives.  7 tie  Captains  present  POSTHUMUS 
to  CYMBELINE,  who  delivers  him  over  to  a 
Gaoler:  after  which  all  go  out. 

SCENE  IV. — BRITAIN.     A  Prison. 
Enter  POSTHUMUS  and  two  Gaolers. 

1  Gaol.  You  shall  not  now  be  stolen,  you  have 

locks  upon  you  ; 
So,  graze  as  you  find  pasture. 

2  Gaol.  Ay,  or  a  stomach. 

[Exeunt  Gaolers. 
Post.  Most  welcome,  bondage  !  for  thou  art 

a  way, 

I  think,  to  liberty  :  yet  am  I  better          [rather 
Than  one  that 's  sick  o'  the  gout ;  since  he  had 
Groan  so  in  perpetuity  than  be  cur'd 
By  the  sure  physician  death,  who  is  the  key 
To  unbar  these  locks.    My  conscience,  thou  art 

fetter'd  [give  me 

More  than  my  shanks  and  wrists :  you  good  gods, 
The  penitent  instrument  to  pick  that  bolt, 
Then  free  for  ever !     Is 't  enough  I  am  sorry  ? 
Sc  children  temporal  fathers  do  appease  ; 
Gods  are  more  full  of  mercy.     Must  I  repent  ? 
I  cannot  do  it  better  than  in  gyves, 
Desir'd  more  than  constrain'd :  to  satisfy, 
If  of  my  freedom  'tis  the  main  part,  take 
No  stricter  render  of  me  than  my  all. 
I  know  you  are  more  clement  than  vile  men, 
Who  of  their  broken  debtors  take  a  third, 
A  sixth,  a  tenth,  letting  them  thrive  again 
On  their  abatement :  that 's  not  my  desire : 
For  Imogen's  dear  life  take  mine ;  and  though 
'Tis  not  so  dear,  yet  'tis  a  life  ;  you  coin'd  it : 
'Tween  man  and  man  they  weigh  not  every  stamp; 
Though  light,  take  pieces  for  the  figure's  sake  : 
You  rather  mine,  being  yours :  and  so,  great 

powers, 

If  you  will  take  this  audit,  take  this  life, 
And  cancel  these  cold  bonds. — O  Imogen  ! 
I  '11  speak  to  thee  in  silence.  [Sleeps. 

Solemn  Music.  Enter,  as  in  an  apparition, 
SICILIUS  LEONATUS,ya//5<fr  to  POSTHUMUS, 
an  old  man  attired  like  a  warrior,  leading  in 
his  hand  an  ancient  matron,  his  wife  and 
mother  to  POSTHUMUS,  with  music  before 
them  :  then,  after  other  music,  follow  the  two 
yoiing  LEONATI,  brothers  to  POSTHUMUS, 
with  wounds,  as  they  died  in  the  wars.  They 
circle  POSTHUMUS  round  as  he  lies  sleeping. 

Sici.  No  more,  thou  thunder-master,  show 
Thy  spite  on  mortal  flies : 


With  Mars  fall  out,  with  Juno  chide, 

That  thy  adulteries 

Rates  and  revenges. 
Hath  my  poor  boy  done  aught  but  well, 

Whose  face  I  never  saw  ? 
I  died  whilst  in  the  womb  he  stay'd 

Attending  nature's  law : 
Whose  father  then, — as  men  report 

Thou  orphans'  father  art, — 
Thou  shouldst  have  been,  and  shielded  him 

From  this  earth-vexing  smart. 

Moth.  Lucina  lent  not  me  her  aid, 

But  took  me  in  my  throes  ; 
That  from  me  was  Posthumus  ripp'd, 
Came  crying  'mongst  his  foes, 
A  thing  of  pity  ! 

Sict.  Great  nature,  like  his  ancestry, 

Moulded  the  stuff  so  fair 
That  he  deserv'd  the  praise  o'  the  world 
As  great  Sicilius'  heir. 

1  Bro.  When  once  he  was  mature  for  man, 
In  Britain  where  was  he 

That  could  stand  up  his  parallel ; 

Or  fruitful  object  be 
In  eye  of  Imogen,  that  best 

Could  deem  his  dignity  ? 

Moth.  With  marriage  wherefore  was  hemock'd, 

To  be  exil'd,  and  thrown 
From  Leonati'  seat,  and  cast 
From  her  his  dearest  one, 
Sweet  Imogen  ? 

Sici.  Why  did  you  suffer  lachimo, 

Slight  thing  of  Italy, 
To  taint  his  nobler  heart  and  brain 

With  needless  jealousy  ; 
And  to  become  the  geek  and  scorn 

O'  the  other's  villany  ? 

2  Bro.  For  this  from  stiller  seats  we  came, 
Our  parents  and  us  twain, 

That,  striking  in  our  country's  cause, 

Fell  bravely  and  were  slain  ; 
Our  fealty  and  Tenantius'  right 

With  honour  to  maintain. 

i  Bro.  Like  hardiment  Posthumus  hath 

To  Cymbeline  perform'd  : 
Then,  Jupiter,  thou  king  of  gods, 

Why  hast  thou  thus  adjourn'd 
The  graces  for  his  merits  due, 

Being  all  to  dolours  turn'd  ? 

Sici.  Thy  crystal  window  ope  ;  look  out  j 

No  longer  exercise 
Upon  a  valiant  race  thy  harsh 
And  potent  injuries. 

2U 


962 


CYMBELINE. 


[ACT  v. 


Jup. 
Offe 


Moth,  Since,  Jupiter,  our  son  is  good, 

Take  off  his  miseries. 
Sici.  Peep  through  thy  marble  mansion;  help; 

Or  we  poor  ghosts  will  cry 
To  the  shining  synod  of  the  rest 

Against  thy  deity. 

Both  Bro.   Help,  Jupiter  ;  or  we  appeal, 
And  from  thy  justice  fly. 

JUPITER  descends  in  thunder  and  lightning,  sit- 
ing upon  an  eagle  :  he  throws  a  thunderbolt. 
7%e  Ghosts  fall  on  their  knees. 

up.  No  more,  you  petty  spirits  of  'region  low, 
end  our  hearing  ;  hush  !  —  How  dare  you 

ghosts 
Accuse  the  thunderer,  whose  bolt,  you  know, 

Sky-planted,  batters  all  rebelling  coasts  ? 
Poor  shadows  of  Elysium,  hence  ;  and  rest 

Upon  your  never-withering  banks  of  flowers  : 
Be  not  with  mortal  accidents  oppress'd  ; 

No  care  of  yours  it  is  ;  you  know  'tis  ours. 
W'.iom  best  I  love  I  cross  ;  to  make  my  gift, 

The  more  delay'd,  delighted.     Be  content  ; 
Your  low-laid  son  our  godhead  will  uplift  : 

His  comforts  thrive,  his  trials  well  are  spent. 
Our  Jovial  star  reign'd  at  his  birth,  and  in 

Our  temple  was  he  married.  —  Rise,  and  fade  !  — 
He  shall  be  lord  of  Lady  Imogen, 

And  happier  much  by  his  affliction  made. 
This  tablet  lay  upon  his  breast,  wherein 

Our  pleasure  his  full  fortune  doth  confine  : 
And  so  away  ;  no  further  with  your  din 

Express  impatience,  lest  you  stir  up  mine.  — 

Mount,  eagle,  to  my  palace  crystalline. 

[Ascends. 

Sici.  He  came  in  thunder  ;  his  celestial  breath 
Was  sulphurous  to  smell  :  the  holy  eagle 
Stoop'd,  as  to  foot  us  :  his  ascension  is 
More  sweet  than  our  bless'd  fields  :  his  royal  bird 
Prunes  the  immortal  wing,  and  cloys  his  beak, 
As  when  his  god  is  pleas'd. 

All.  Thanks,  Jupiter  I 

Sici.  The  marble  pavement  closes,  he  isenter'd 
His  radiant  roof.  —  Away  !  and,  to  be  blest, 
Let  us  with  care  perform  his  great  behest. 

[Ghosts  vanish. 

Post.    [Waking.}    Sleep,   thou  hast  been  a 

grandsire,  and  begot 
A  father  to  me  ;  and  thou  hast  created 
A  mother  and  two  brothers  :  but,  O  scorn  ! 
Gone  !  they  went  hence  so  soon  as  they  were  born. 
And  so  I  am  awake.  —  Poor  wretches  that  depend 
On  greatness'  favour  dream  as  I  have  done, 
Wake  and  find  nothing.  —  But,  alas,  I  swerve  : 
Many  dream  not  to  find,  neither  deserve, 
And  yet  are  steep'd  in  favours  ;  so  am  I, 


That  have  this  golden  chance,  and  know  not 
why.  [rare  one  ! 

What  fairies  haunt  this  ground  ?     A  book  ?     O 
Be  not,  as  is  our  fangled  world,  a  garment 
Nobler  than  that  it  covers  :  let  thy  effects 
So  follow,  to  be  most  unlike  our  courtiers, 
As  good  as  promise. 

[Reads.}  Whenas  a  lion's  whelp  shall,  to 
himself  unknown,  without  seeking  find,  and  be 
embraced  by  a  piece  of  tender  air ;  and  when 
from  a  stately  cedar  shall  be  lopped  branches 
which,  being  deaa  many  years,  shall  after  re- 
vive, be  jointed  to  the  old  stock,  and  freshly 
grow  ;  then  shall  Posthumiis  end  his  miseries, 
Britain  be  fortunate^  and  flourish  in  peace  and 
plenty. 

'Tis  still  a  dream  ;  or  else  such  stuff  as  madmen 
Tongue,  and  brain  not :  either  both  or  nothing  : 
Or  senseless  speaking,  or  a  speaking  such 
As  sense  cannot  untie.     Be  what  it  is, 
The  action  of  my  life  is  like  it,  which 
I  '11  keep,  if  but  for  sympathy. 

Re-enter  Gaoler. 

Gaol.  Come,  sir,  are  you  ready  for  death  ? 

Post.  Over- roasted  rather  ;  ready  long  ago. 

Gaol.  Hanging  is  the  word,  sir :  if  you  be 
ready  for  that,  you  are  well  cooked. 

Post.  So,  if  I  prove  a  good  repast  to  the 
spectators,  the  dish  pays  the  shot. 

Gaol.  A  heavy  reckoning  for  you,  sir.  But 
the  comfort  is,  you  shall  be  called  to  no  more 
payments,  fear  no  more  tavern  bills  ;  which  are 
often  the  sadness  of  parting,  as  the  procuring  of 
mirth  :  you  come  in  faint  for  want  of  meat, 
depart  reeling  with  too  much  drink  ;  sorry  that 
you  have  paid  too  much,  and  sorry  that  you  are 
paid  too  much ;  purse  and  brain  both  empty, — 
the  brain  the  heavier  for  being  too  light,  the 
purse  too  light,  being  drawn  of  heaviness  :  O, 
of  this  contradiction  you  shall  now  be  quit. — 
O,  the  charity  of  a  penny  cord  !  it  sums  up 
thousands  in  a  trice  :  you  have  no  true  debitor 
and  creditor  but  it  ;  of  what 's  past,  is,  and  to 
come,  the  discharge: — your  neck,  sir,  is  pen, 
book,  and  counters ;  so  the  acquittance  follows. 

Post.  I  am  merrier  to  die  than  thou  art  to 
live. 

Gaol.  Indeed,  sir,  he  that  sleeps  feels  not  the 
toothache  :  but  a  man  that  were  to  sleep  your 
sleep,  and  a  hangman  to  help  him  to  bed,  I 
think  he  would  change  places  with  his  officer  ; 
for,  look  you,  sir,  you  know  not  which  way  you 
shall  go. 

Post.  Yes,  indeed  do  I,  fellow. 

Gaol.  Your  death  has  eyes  in 's  head,  then  ; 
I  have  not  seen  him  so  pictured:  you  must 


SCENE  V.] 


CYMBELINE. 


963 


either  be  directed  by  some  that  take  upon  them 
to  know,  or  take  upon  yourself  that  which  I  am 
sure  you  do  not  know ;  or  jump  the  after-inquiry 
on  your  own  peril :  and  how  you  shall  speed  in 
your  journey's  end  I  think  you  '11  never  return 
to  tell  one. 

Post.  I  tell  thee,  fellosv,  there  are  none  want 
eyes  to  direct  them  the  way  I  am  going,  but 
such  as  wink  and  will  not  use  them. 

Gaol  What  an  infinite  mock  is  this,  that  a 
man  should  have  the  best  use  of  eyes  to  see  the 
way  of  blindness  !  I  am  sure  hanging 's  the 
way  of  winking. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Knock  off  his  manacles ;  bring  your 
prisoner  to  the  king. 

Post.  Thou  bringest  good  news, — I  am  called 
to  be  made  free. 

Gaol.  I  '11  be  hanged,  then. 

Post.  Thou  shalt  be  then  freer  than  a  gaoler  ; 
no  bolts  for  the  dead. 

[Exeunt  POST,  and  Messenger. 

Gaol.  Unless  a  man  would  marry  a  gallows 
and  beget  young  gibbets  I  never  saw  one  so 
prone.  Yet,  on  my  conscience,  there  are  verier 
knaves  desire  to  live,  for  all  he  be  a  Roman : 
and  there  be  some  of  them  too  that  die  against 
their  wills  ;  so  should  I  if  I  were  one.  I  would 
we  were  all  of  one  mind,  and  one  mind  good  ; 
O,  there  were  desolation  of  gaolers  and  gallowses! 
I  speak  against  my  present  profit ;  but  my  wish 
hath  a  preferment  in 't.  [Exit. 

SCENE  V. — BRITAIN.     CYMBELINE'S  Tent. 

Enter  CYMBELINE,  BELARIUS,  GUIDERIUS, 
ARVIRAGUS,  PISANIO,  Lords,  Officers,  and 
Attendants. 

Cym.   Stand  by  my  side,  you  whom  the  gods 

have  made 

Preservers  of  my  throne.  Woe  is  my  heart 
That  the  poor  soldier  that  so  richly  fought, 
Whose  rags  sham'd  gilded  arms,  whose  naked 

breast 

Stepp'd  before  targes  of  proof,  cannot  be  found : 
He  shall  be  happy  that  can  find  him,  if 
Our  grace  can  make  him  so. 

Bel.  I  never  saw 

Such  noble  fury  in  so  poor  a  thing  ; 
Such  precious  deeds  in  one  that  promis'd  naught 
But  beggary  and  poor  looks. 

Cym.  No  tidings  of  him  ? 

Pis.  He  hath  been  search'd  among  the  dead 

and  living, 
But  no  trace  of  him. 

Cym.  To  my  grief,  I  am 


The  heir  of  his  reward,  which  I  will  add 
To  you,  the  liver,  heart,  and  brain  of  Britain, 
['lo  BEL.,  GUI.,  and  ARV. 
By  whom  I  grant  she  lives.     'Tis  now  the  time 
To  ask  of  whence  you  are  : — report  it. 

Bel.  Sir, 

In  Cambria  are  we  born,  and  gentlemen  : 
Further  to  boast  were  neither  true  nor  modest, 
Unless  I  add  we  are  honest. 

Cym.  Bow  your  knees. 

Arise  my  knights  o'  the  battle  :  I  create  you 
Companions  to  our  person,  and  will  fit  you 
With  dignities  becoming  your  estates. 

Enter  CORNELRJS  and  Ladies. 

There's  business  in  these  faces. — Why  so  sadly 
Greet  you  our  victory?  you  look  like  Romans, 
And  not  o'  the  court  of  Britain. 

Cor.  Hail,  great  king  ! 

To  sour  your  happiness,  I  must  report 
The  queen  is  dead. 

Cym,  Who  worse  than  a  physician 

Would  this  report  become  ?  But  I  consider 
By  medicine  life  may  be  prolong'd,  yet  death 
Will  seize  the  doctor  too. — How  ended  she  ? 

Cor.  With  horror,  madly  dying,  like  her  life  ; 
Which,  being  cruel  to  the  world,  concluded 
Most  cruel  to  herself.     What  she  confess'd 
I  will  report,  so  please  you  :  these  her  women 
Can  trip  me  if  I  err  ;  who  with  wet  cheeks 
Were  present  when  she  finish'd. 

Cym.  Pr'ythee,  say. 

Cor.  First,  she  confess'd  she  never  lov'd  you ; 

only 

Affected  greatness  got  by  you,  not  you  : 
Married  your  royalty,  was  wife  to  your  place  ; 
Abhorr'd  your  person. 

Cym.  She  alone  knew  this  ; 

And  but  she  spoke  it  dying,  I  would  not 
Believe  her  lips  in  opening  it.     Proceed. 

Cor.  Your  daughter,  whom  she  bore  in  hand 

to  love 

With  such  integrity,  she  did  confess 
Was  as  a  scorpion  to  her  sight ;  whose  life, 
But  that  her  flight  prevented  it,  she  had 
Ta'en  off  by  poison. 

Cym.  O  most  delicate  fiend  ! 

Who  is 't  can  read  a  woman? — Is  there  more  ? 

Cor.  More,  sir,  and  worse.     She  did  confess 

she  had 

For  you  a  mortal  mineral ;  which,  being  took, 
Should  by  the  minutefeed  on  life,  and,  lingering, 
By  inches  waste  you :  in  which  time  she  pur- 

pos'd, 

By  watching,  weeping,  tendance,  kissing,  to 
O'ercome  you  with  her  show ;  and  in  time, 
When  she  had  fitted  you  with  her  craft,  to  work 


964 


CYMBELINE. 


[ACT  v. 


Her  son  into  the  adoption  of  the  crown : 
But,  failing  of  her  end  by  his  strange  absence, 
Grew  shameless-desperate ;  open'd,  in  despite 
Of  heaven  and  men,  her  purposes ;  repented 
The  evils  she  hatch'd  were  not  effected ;  so, 
Despairing,  died. 

Cym.  Heard  you  all  this,  her  women? 

I  Lady.  We  did,  so  please  your  highness. 

Cym.  Mine  eyes 

Were  not  in  fault,  for  she  was  beautiful ; 
Mine  ears,  that  heard  her  flattery ;  nor  my  heart 
That  thought  her  like  her  seeming;  it  had  been 

vicious 

To  have  mistrusted  her :  yet,  O  my  daughter ! 
That  it  was  folly  in  me  thou  mayst  say, 
And  prove  it  in  thy  feeling.     Heaven  mend  all ! 

Enter  Lucius,  IACHIMO,  the  Soothsayer,  and 
other  Roman  Prisoners,  guarded;  POSTHU- 
MUS  behind^  and  IMOGEN. 

Thou  com'st  not,  Caius,  now  for  tribute ;  that 
The  Britons  have  raz'd  out,  though  with  the 

loss  [suit 

Of  many  a  bold  one,  whose  kinsmen  have  made 
That  their  good  souls  may  be  appeas'd  with 

slaughter  [granted : 

Of    you    their   captives,    which   ourself   have 
So,  think  of  your  estate.  [day 

Luc.  Consider,  sir,  the  chance  of  war:  the 
Was  yours  by  accident ;  had  it  gone  with  us 
We  should  not,  when  the  blood  was  cool,  have 

threaten'd 
Our  prisoners  with  the  sword.     But  since  the 

gods 

Will  have  it  thus,  that  nothing  but  our  lives 
May  be  call'd  ransom,  let  it  come:  sufficeth 
A  Roman  with  a  Roman's  heart  can  suffer : 
Augustus  lives  to  think  on't:  and  so  much 
For  my  peculiar  care.     This  one  thing  only 
I  will  entreat;  my  boy,  a  Briton  born, 
Let  him  be  ransom'd :  never  master  had 
A  page  so  kind,  so  duteous,  diligent, 
So  tender  over  his  occasions,  true, 
So  foat,  so  nurse-like  :  let  his  virtue  join 
With  my  request,  which  I'll  make  bold 

highness 

Cannot  d  jay ;  he  hath  done  no  Briton  harm 
Though  he  have  serv'd  a  Roman:  save  him,  sir, 
And  spare  no  blood  beside. 

Cym.  I  have  surely  seen  him : 

His  favour  is  familiar  to  me. — 
Boy,  thou  hast  look'd  thyself  into  my  grace, 
And   art   mine   own. — I   know   not  why  nor 

wherefore 

To  say  live,  boy :  ne'er  thank  thy  master ;  live : 
And  ask  of  Cymbeline  what  boon  thou  wilt, 
Fitting  my  bounty  and  thy  state,  I  '11  give  it: 


your 


Yea,  though  thou  do  demand  a  prisoner, 
The  noblest  ta'en. 

Into.  I  humbly  thank  your  highness. 

Luc.  I  do  not  bid  thee  beg  my  life,  good  lad ; 
And  yet  I  know  thou  wilt. 

Imo.  No,  no:  alack, 

There 's  other  work  in  hand :  I  see  a  thing 
Bitter  to  me  as  death :  your  life,  good  master, 
Must  shuffle  for  itself. 

Luc.  The  boy  disdains  me, 

He  leaves  me,  scorns  me :  briefly  die  their  joys 
That   place   them  on  the  truth  of  girls  and 

boys.  — 
Why  stands  he  so  perplex'd? 

Cym.  What  wouldst  thou,  boy? 

I  love  thee  more  and  more:  think  more  and 

more  [on?  speak, 

What 's  best  to  ask.    Know'st  him  thou  look'st 

Wilt  have  him  live?   Is  he  thy  kin?  thy  friend? 

Imo.  He  is  a  Roman  ;  no  more  kin  to  me 
Than  I  to  your  highness ;  who,  being  born  your 

vassal, 
Am  something  nearer. 

Cym.  Wherefore  ey'st  him  so? 

Imo.  I  '11  tell  you,  sir,  in  private,  if  you  please 
To  give  me  hearing. 

Cym.  Ay,  with  all  my  heart, 

And  lend  my  best  attention.    What 's  thy  name  F 

Imo.  Fidele,  sir. 

Cym.         Thou  'rt  my  good  youth,  my  page ; 

I  '11  be  thy  master :  walk  with  me ;  speak  freely. 

[CYM.  and  IMO.  converse  apart. 

Bel.   Is  not  this  boy  reviv'd  from  death? 

Arv.  One  sand  another 

Not  more  resembles  that  sweet  rosy  lad 
Who  died,  and  was  Fidele. — What  think  you? 

Gui.  The  same  dead  thing  alive. 

Bel.  Peace,  peace !  see  further ;  he  eyes  us 

not ;  forbear ; 

Creatures  may  be  alike :  were 't  he,  I  am  sure 
He  would  have  spoke  to  us. 

Gui.  But  we  saw  him  dead. 

Bel.  Be  silent ;  let 's  see  further. 

Pis.  [Aside.'}  It  is  my  mistress  : 

Since  she  is  living,  let  the  time  run  on 
To  good  or  bad. 

[CYM.  andlwo.  come  forward. 

Cym.  Come,  stand  thou  by  our  side ; 

Make   thy  demand   aloud. — [To   IACH.]   Sir, 

step  you  forth  ; 

Give  answer  to  this  boy,  and  do  it  freely ; 
Or,  by  our  greatness  and  the  grace  of  it, 
Which  is  our  honour,  bitter  torture  shall 
Winnow  the  truth  from  falsehood. — On,  speak 
to  him.  [render 

Imo.  My  boon  is  that  this  gentleman  may 
Of  whom  he  had  this  ring. 


SCENE  V.] 


CYMBELINE. 


965 


Post.  [Aside.}  What 's  that  to  him  ? 

Cym.  That  diamond  upon  your  finger,  say, 
How  came  it  yours  ?  [that 

lack.  Thou  'It  torture  me  to  leave  unspoken 
Which  to  be  spoke  would  torture  thee. 

Cym.  How  !  me  ? 

loch.   I  am  glad  to  be  constrain'd  to  utter 

that  which 

Torments  me  to  conceal.     By  villany 
I  got  this  ring :  'twas  Leonatus'  jewel, 
Whom  thou  didst  banish ;  and, — which  more 

may  grieve  thee, 

As  it  doth  me, — a  nobler  sir  ne'er  liv'd 
'Twixt  sky  and  ground.     Wilt  thou  hear  more, 

my  lord  ? 

Cym.  All  that  belongs  to  this. 
lack.  That  paragon,  thy  daughter, — 

For  whom  my  heart  drops  blood,  and  my  false 

spirits 

Quail  to  remember, — Give  me  leave  ;  I  faint. 
Cym.  My  daughter!  what  of  her?     Renew 

thy  strength : 

I  had  rather  thou  shouldst  live  while  nature  will 
Than  die  ere  I  hear  more :  strive,  man,  and 

speak. 

loch.  Upon  a  time, — unhappy  was  the  clock 
That   struck   the   hour  ! —  it  was  in  Rome, — 

accurs'd  [would 

The  mansion  where! — 'twas   at  a  feast, — O, 
Our  viands  had  been  poison'd,  or  at  least 
Those   which    I   heav'd   to   head ! — the  good 

Posthumus, — 

What  should  I  say?  he  was  too  good  to  be 
Where  ill  men  were ;  and  was  the  best  of  all 
Amongst  the  rar'st  of  good  ones, — sitting  sadly, 
Hearing  us  praise  our  loves  of  Italy 
For  beauty  that  made  barren  the  swell'd  boast 
Of  him  that  best  could  speak ;  for  feature  laming 
The  shrine  of  Venus,  or  straight-pight  Minerva, 
Postures  beyond  brief  nature ;  for  condition, 
A  shop  of  all  the  qualities  that  man 
Loves  woman  for ;  besides  that  hook  of  wiving, 
Fairness  which  strikes  the  eye, — 

Cym.  I  stand  on  fire  : 

Come  to  the  matter. 

lack.  All  too  soon  I  shall, 

Unless    thou   wouldst    grieve    quickly. — This 

Posthumus, — 

Most  like  a  noble  lord  in  love,  and  one 
That  had  a  royal  lover, — took  his  hint ; 
And  not  dispraising  whom  we  prais'd, — therein 
He  was  as  calm  as  virtue, — he  began 
His  mistress'  picture ;  which  by  his  tongue  being 

made, 

And  then  a  mind  put  in 't,  either  our  brags 
Were  crack'd  of  kitchen  trulls,  or  his  description 
Prov'd  us  unspeaking  sots. 


Cym.  Nay,  nay,  to  the  purpose. 

lack.    Your    daughter's    chastity — there    it 

begins. 

He  spake  of  her  as  Dian  had  hot  dreams 
And  she  alone  were  cold :  whereat  I,  wretch, 
Made  scruple  of  his  praise ;  and  wager'd  with 

him 

Pieces  of  gold,  'gainst  this,  which  then  he  wore 
Upon  his  honour'd  finger,  to  attain 
In  suit  the  place  of 's  bed,  and  win  this  ring 
By  hers  and  mine  adultery :  he,  true  knight, 
No  lesser  of  her  honour  confident 
Than  I  did  truly  find  her,  stakes  this  ring ; 
And  would  so,  had  it  been  a  carbuncle 
Of  Phcebus'  wheel ;  and  might  so  safely,  had 

it 

Been  all  the  worth  of 's  car.     Away  to  Britain 
Post  I  in  this  design.     Well  may  you,  sir, 
Remember  me  at  court,  where  I  was  taught 
Of  your  chaste  daughter  the  wide  difference 
'Twixt  amorous  and  villanous.     Being   thus 

quench'd 

Of  hope,  not  longing,  mine  Italian  brain 
'Gan  in  your  duller  Britain  operate 
Most  vilely, — for  my  vantage  excellent ; 
And,  to  be  brief,  my  practice  so  prevail'd 
That  I  retum'd  with  simular  proof  enough 
To  make  the  noble  Leonatus  mad, 
By  wounding  his  belief  in  her  renown 
With  tokens  thus  and  thus ;  averring  notes 
Of  chamber-hanging,  pictures,  this  her  brace- 

let,— 

0  cunning  how  I  got  it ! — nay,  some  marks 
Of  secret  on  her  person,  that  he  could  not 
But  think  her  bond  of  chastity  quite  crack'd, 

1  having  ta'en  the  forfeit.     Whereupon, — 
Methinks  I  see  him  now, — 

Post.  [Coming fat-ward.]  Ay,  so  thou  dost, 
Italian  fiend ! — Ah  me,  most  credulous  fool, 
Egregious  murderer,  thief,  anything 
That 's  due  to  all  the  villains  past,  in  being, 
To  come ! — O,  give  me  cord,  or  knife,  or  poison, 
Some  upright  justicer !     Thou,  king,  send  out 
For  torturers  ingenious :  it  is  I 
That  all  the  abhorred  things  o'  the  earth  amend 
By  being  worse  than  they.     I  am  Posthumus, 
That  kill'd  thy  daughter:— villain-like,  I  lie,— 
That  caus'd  a  lesser  villain  than  myself, 
A  sacrilegious  thief,  to  do 't : — the  temple 
Of  virtue  was  she ;  yea,  and  she  herself. 
Spit,  and  throw  stones,  cast  mire  upon  me,  set 
The  dogs  o'  the  street  to  bay  me :  every  villain 
Be  call'd  Posthumus  Leonatus ;  and 
Be  villany  less  than  'twas ! — O  Imogen  ! 
My  queen,  my  life,  my  wife !     O  Imogen, 
Imogen,  Imogen ! 

Into.  Peace,  my  lord ;  hear,  hear, — 


966 


CYMBELINE. 


[ACT  v. 


Post.  Shall 's  have  a  play  of  this  ?     Thou 

scornful  page^ 
There  lie  thy  part.        [Striking-  her :  she  falls. 

Pis.  O,  gentlemen,  help!     [mus! 

Mine  and  your  mistress  ! — O,  my  lord  Posthu- 
Youne'erkill'd  Imogen  till  now. — Help,  help! — 
Mine  honour'd  lady ! 

Cym.  Does  the  world  go  round? 

Post.   How  come  these  staggers  on  me? 

Pis.  Wake,  my  mistress ! 

Cym.  If  this  be  so,  the  gods  do  mean  to 

strike  me 
To  death  with  mortal  joy. 

Pis.  How  fares  my  mistress? 

Into.  O,  get  thee  from  my  sight ; 
Thou   gav'st   me    poison:    dangerous   fellow, 

hence ! 
Breathe  not  where  princes  are. 

Cym.  The  tune  of  Imogen. 

Pis.  Lady, 

The  gods  throw  stones  of  sulphur  on  me  if 
That  box  I  gave  you  was  not  thought  by  me 
A  precious  thing :  I  had  it  from  the  queen. 

Cym.  New  matter  still? 

Imo.  It  poison'd  me. 

Cor.  O  gods  !— 

I  left  out  one  thing  which  the  queen  confess'd, 
Which  must  approve  thee  honest:  If  Pisanio 
Have,  said  she,  given  his  mistress  that  confection 
Which  I  gave  him  for  cordial,  she  is  serv'd 
As  I  -would  serve  a  rat. 

Cym.  What's  this,  Cornelius? 

Cor.  The  queen,  sir,  very  oft  importun'd  me 
To  temper  poisons  for  her ;  still  pretending 
The  satisfaction  of  her  knowledge  only 
In  killing  creatures  vile,  as  cats  and  dogs, 
Of  no  esteem:  I,  dreading  that  her  purpose 
Was  of  more  danger,  did  compound  for  her 
A  certain  stuff,  which,  being  ta'en,  would  cease 
The  present  power  of  life ;  but  in  short  time 
All  offices  of  nature  should  again 
Do  their  due  functions. — Have  you  ta'en  of  it? 

Imo.  Most  like  I  did,  for  I  was  dead. 

Bel.  My  boys, 

There  was  our  error. 

Gui.  This  is  sure  Fidele. 

Imo.  Why  did  you  throw  your  wedded  lady 

from  you? 

Think  that  you  are  upon  a  rock ;  and  now 
Throw  me  again.  {Embracing  him. 

Post.  Hang  there  like  fruit,  my  soul, 

Till  the  tree  die ! 

Cym.  How  now,  my  flesh,  my  child  ! 

What,  mak'st  thou  me  a  dullard  in  this  act? 
Wilt  thou  not  speak  to  me? 

lino.  Your  blessing,  sir. 

[Kneeling. 


Bel.  Though   you    did   love   this   youth,    I 

blame  ye  not; 
You  had  a  motive  for  it. 

[To  GUIDERIUS  and  ARVIRAGDS. 

Cym.  My  tears  that  fall 

Prove  holy  water  on  thee !     Imogen, 
Thy  mother 's  dead. 

Imo.  I  am  sorry  for 't,  my  lord 

Cym.  O,  she  was  naught ;  and  long  of  her 

it  was 

That  we  meet  here  so  strangely:  but  her  son 
Is  gone,  we  know  not  how  nor  where. 

Pis.  My  lord, 

Now  fear  is  from  me,  I  '11  speak  troth.     Lord 

Cloten, 

Upon  my  lady's  missing,  came  to  me 
With  his  sword  drawn  ;  foam'd  at  the  mouth, 

and  swore, 

If  I  discover'd  not  which  way  she  was  gone, 
It  was  my  instant  death.     By  accident 
I  had  a  feigned  letter  of  my  master's 
Then  in  my  pocket ;  which  directed  him 
To  seek  her  on  the  mountains  near  to  Milford ; 
Where,  in  a  frenzy,  in  my  master's  garments, 
Which  he  enforc'd  from  me,  away  he  posts 
With  unchaste  purpose,  and  with  oath  to  violate 
My  lady's  honour :  what  became  of  him 
I  further  know  not. 

Gui.  Let  me  end  the  story : 

I  slew  him  there. 

Cym.  Marry,  the  gods  forfend  ! 

I  would  not  thy  good  deeds  should  from  my  lips 
Pluck  a  hard  sentence  :  pr ythee,  valiant  youth, 
Deny 't  again. 

G^t^.  I  have  spoke  it,  and  I  did  it. 

Cym.  He  was  a  prince.  [me 

Gui.  A  most  incivil  one  :  the  wrongs  he  did 
Were  nothing  prince-like ;  for  he  did  provoke  me 
With  language  that  would  make  me  spurn  the  sea, 
If  it  could  so  roar  to  me :  I  cut  off's  head  ; 
And  am  right  glad  he  is  not  standing  here 
To  tell  this  tale  of  mine. 

Cym.  I  am  sorry  for  thee  : 

By  thine  own  tongue  thou  art  condemn'd,  and 

must 
Endure  our  law  :  thou  'rt  dead. 

Imo.  That  headless  man 

I  thought  had  been  my  lord. 

Cym.  Bind  the  offender, 

And  take  him  from  our  presence. 

Bel.  Stay,  sir  king  : 

This  man  is  better  than  the  man  he  slew, 
As  well  descended  as  thyself ;  and  hath 
More  of  thee  merited  than  a  band  of  Clotens 
Had  ever  scar  for. — Let  his  arms  alone  ; 

[To  the  Guard. 
They  were  not  born  for  bondage. 


SCENE  V.] 


CYMBELINE. 


967 


Cynt.  Why,  old  soldier, 

Wilt  thou  undo  the  worth  thou  art  unpaid  for 
By  tasting  of  our  wrath?    How  of  descent 
As  good  as  we  ? 

Arv.  In  that  he  spake  too  far. 

Cym.  And  thou  shalt  die  for 't. 

Bel.  We  will  die  all  three  : 

But  I  will  prove  that  two  on  's  are  as  good 
As  I  have  given  out  him. — My  sons,  I  must, 
For  mine  own  part,  unfold  a  dangerous  speech, 
Though,  haply,  well  for  you. 

Arv.  Your  danger 's 

Ours. 

Gut.  And  our  good  his. 

Bel.  Have  at  it,  then  ! — 

By  leave, — thou  hadst,  great  king,  a  subject  who 
Was  call'd  Belarius. 

Cym.  What  of  him  ?  he  is 

A  banish'd  traitor. 

Bel.  He  it  is  that  hath 

Assum'd  this  age  :  indeed,  a  banish'd  man  ; 
I  know  not  how  a  traitor. 

Cym.  Take  him  hence  : 

The  whole  world  shall  not  save  him. 

Bel.  Not  too  hot : 

First  pay  me  for  the  nursing  of  thy  sons  ; 
And  let  it  be  confiscate  all  so  soon, 
As  I  have  receiv'd  it. 

Cym.  Nursing  of  my  sons  ! 

Be^  I  am  too  blunt  and  saucy :  here 's  my 

knee: 

Ere  I  arise  I  will  prefer  my  sons  ; 
Then  spare  not  the  old  father.     Mighty  sir, 
These  twoyoung  gentlemen,  that  call  me  father, 
And  think  they  are  my  sons,  are  none  of  mine; 
They  are  the  issue  of  your  loins,  my  liege, 
And  blood  of  your  begetting. 

Cym.  How  !  my  issue  ! 

Bel.   So  sure  as  you  your  father's.     I,  old 

Morgan, 

Am  that  Belarius  whom  you  sometime  banish'd : 
Your  pleasure  was  my  mere  offence,  my  punish- 
ment 

Itself,  and  all  my  treason  ;  that  I  suffer'd 
Was  all  the  harm  I  did.  These  gentle  princes, — 
For  such  and  so  they  are, — these  twenty  years 
Have  I  train'd  up  :  those  arts  they  have  as  I 
Could  put  into  them  ;  my  breeding,  was,  sir,  as 
Your  highness  knows.    Their  nurse,  Euriphile, 
Whom  for  the  theft  I  wedded,  stole  these  children 
Upon  my  banishment :  I  mov'd  her  to 't ; 
Having  receiv'd  the  punishment  before 
For  that  which  I  did  then  :  beaten  for  loyalty 
Excited  me  to  treason  :  their  dear  loss, 
The  more  of  you  'twas  felt,  the  more  it  shap'd 
Unto  my  end  of  stealing  them.  But,  gracious  sir, 
Here  are  your  sons  again ;  and  I  must  lose 


Two  of  the  sweet'st  companions  in  the  world  : — 
The  benediction  of  these  covering  heavens 
Fall  on  their  heads  like  dew !  for  they  are  worthy 
To  inlay  heaven  with  stars. 

Cym.  Thou  weep'st,  and  speak'st. 

The  service  that  you  three  have  done  is  more 
Unlike  than  this  thou  tell'st.  I  lost  my  children: 
If  these  be  they,  1  know  not  how  to  wish 
A  pair  of  worthier  sons. 

Bel.  Be  pleas'd  awhile.-— 

This  gentleman,  whom  I  call  Polydore, 
Most  worthy  prince,  as  yours,  is  true  Guiderius : 
This  gentleman,  my  Cadwal,  Arviragus, 
Your  younger  princely  son  ;  he,  sir,  was  lapp'd 
In  a  most  curious  mantle,  wrought  by  the  hand 
Of  his  queen  mother,  which,  for  more  probation, 
I  can  with  ease  produce. 

Cym.  Guiderius  had 

Upon  his  neck  a  mole,  a  sanguine  star ; 
It  was  a  mark  of  wonder. 

Bel.  This  is  he  ; 

Who  hath  upon  him  still  that  natural  stamp : 
It  was  wise  nature's  end  in  the  donation, 
To  be  his  evidence  now. 

Cym.  O,  what,  am  I 

A  mother  to  the  birth  of  three  ?     Ne'er  mother 
Rejoic'd  deliverance  more. — Bless'dmayyou  be, 
That,  after  this  strange  starting  from  your  orbs, 
You  may  reign  in  them  now  ! — O  Imogen, 
Thou  hast  lost  by  this  a  kingdom. 

Imo.  No,  my  lord  ; 

I  have  got  two  worlds  by't. — O  my  gentle 

brothers, 

Have  we  thus  met  ?    O,  never  say  hereafter 
But  I  am  truest  speaker :  you  call'd  me  brother 
When  I  was  but  your  sister  j  I  you  brothers 
When  you  were  so  indeed. 

Cym.  Did  you  e'er  meet? 

Arv.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Gui.  And  at  first  meeting  lov'd  ; 

Continued  so  until  we  thought  he  died. 

Cor.  By  the  queen's  dram  she  swallow'd. 

Cym.  O  rare  instinct ! 

When  shall  I  hear  all  through?    This  fierce 

abridgment 

Hath  to  it  circumstantial  branches,  which 
Distinction  should  be  rich  in. — Where?  how 

liv'd  you  ? 

And  when  came  you  to  serve  our  Roman  captive? 
How  parted  with  your  brothers  ?  how  first  met 
them  ?  [These, 

Why  fled  you  from  the  court?  and  whither? 
And  your  three  motives  to  the  battle,  with 
I  know  not  how  much  more,  should  be  de- 
manded ; 

And  all  the  other  by-dependencies,  [place 

From  chance  to  chance  :  but  nor  the  time  nor 


968 


CYMBELINE. 


[ACT  v. 


See, 


Will  serve  our  long  inter'gatories. 
Posthumus  anchors  upon  Imogen  ;  [eye 

And  she,  like  harmless  lightning,  throws  her 
On  him,  her  brothers,  me,  her  master  ;  hitting 
Each  object  with  a  joy  :  the  counterchange 
Is  severally  in  all. — Let's  quit  this  ground, 
And  smoke  the  temple  with  our  sacrifices. — • 
Thou  art  my  brother  ;  so  we  '11  hold  thee  ever. 
[T0  BELARIUS. 

Imo.  You  are  my  father  too;  and  did  relieve  me, 
To  see  this  gracious  season. 

Cym.  All  o'erjoy'd, 

Save  these  in  bonds  :  let  them  be  joyful  too, 
For  they  shall  taste  our  comfort. 

Into.  My  good  master, 

I  will  yet  do  you  service. 

Luc.  Happy  be  you  ! 

Cym.  The  forlorn  soldier,  thatsonoblyfought, 
He  would  have  well  becom'd  this  place,  and 

grac'd 
The  thankings  of  a  king. 

Post.  I  am,  sir, 

The  soldier  that  did  company  these  three 
In  poor  beseeming  ;  'twas  a  fitment  for 
The  purpose  I  then  follow'd. — That  I  was  he, 
Speak,  lachimo  :  I  had  you  down,  and  might 
Have  made  you  finish. 

loch.  I  am  down  again  :  [Kneeling. 

But  now  my  heavy  conscience  sinks  my  knee, 
As  then  your  force  did.    Take  that  life,  beseech 

you, 

Which  I  so  often  owe  :  but  your  ring  first ; 
And  here  the  bracelet  of  the  truest  princess 
That  ever  swore  her  faith. 

Post.  Kneel  not  to  me  : 

The  power  that  I  have  on  you  is  to  spare  you  ; 
The  malice  towards  you  to  forgive  you  :  live, 
And  deal  with  others  better. 

Cym.  Nobly  doom'd  ! 

We  '11  learn  our  freeness  of  a  son-in-law  ; 
Pardon 's  the  word  to  all. 

Arv.  You  holp  us,  sir, 

As  you  did  mean  indeed  to  be  our  brother  ; 
Joy'd  are  we  that  you  are.  [of  Rome, 

Post.  Your  servant,  princes. — Good  my  lord 
Call   forth  your  soothsayer:   as  I   slept,  me- 

thought 

Great  Jupiter,  upon  his  eagle  back, 
Appear'd  to  me,  with  other  spritely  shows 
Of  mine  own  kindred  :  when  I  wak'd  I  found 
This  label  on  my  bosom  ;  whose  containing 
Is  so  from  sense  in  hardness  that  I  can 
Make  no  collection  of  it :  let  him  show 
His  skill  in  the  construction. 

Luc,  Philarmonus, — 

Sooth.  Here,  my  good  lord. 

Luc.  Read,  and  declare  the  meaning. 


Sooth.  {Reads.  ]  Whenas  a  lion's  whelp  shall, 
to  himself  unknown,  without  seeking  find,  and 
be  embraced  by  a  piece  of  tender  air  ;  and  when 
from  a  stately  cedar  shall  be  lopped  branches, 
which,  being  dead  many  years,  shall  after  re- 
vive, be  jointed  to  the  old  stock,  and  freshly 
grow  ;  then  shall  Posthumus  end  his  miseries, 
Britain  be  fortunate,  and  flourish  in  peace  and 
plenty. 

Thou,  Leonatus,  art  the  lion's  whelp  ; 
The  fit  and  apt  construction  of  thy  name, 
Being  Leo-natus,  doth  import  so  much  : 
The  piece  of  tender  air,  thy  virtuous  daughter, 
\To  CYMBELIKE. 

Which  we  call  mollis  aer  ;  and  mollis  aer 
We  term  it  mulier  :  which  mulier  I  divine 
Is  this  most  constant  wife  ;  who  even  now, 
Answering  the  letter  of  the  oracle, 
Unknown  to  you,  unsought,  were  clipp'd  about 
With  this  most  tender  air. 

Cym.  This  hath  some  seeming. 

Sooth.  The  lofty  cedar,  royal  Cymbeline, 
Personates  thee :  and  thy  lopp'd  branches  point 
Thy  two  sons  forth,  who,  by  Belarius  stol'n, 
For  many  years  thought  dead,  are  now  reviv'd, 
To  the  majestic  cedar  join'd  ;  whose  issue 
Promises  Britain  peace  and  plenty. 

Cym.  Well, 

By  peace  we  will  begin  : — and,  Caius  Lucius, 
Although  the  victor,  we  submit  to  Caesar, 
And  to  the  Roman  empire  j  promising 
To  pay  our  wonted  tribute,  from  the  which 
We  were  dissuaded  by  our  wicked  queen  ; 
Whom  heavens,  injustice  both  on  her  and  hers, 
Have  laid  most  heavy  hand. 

Sooth.  The  fingers  of  the  powers  above  do  tune 
The  harmony  of  this  peace.     The  vision, 
Which  I  made  known  to  Lucius  ere  the  stroke 
Of  this  yet  scarce-cold  battle,  at  this  instant, 
Is  full  accomplish'd ;  for  the  Roman  eagle, 
From  south  to  west  on  wing  soaring  aloft, 
Lessen'd  herself,  and  in  the  beams  o'  the  sun 
So  vanish'd :  which  foreshow'd  our  princely  eagle, 
The  imperial  Caesar,  should  again  unite 
His  favour  with  the  radiant  Cymbeline, 
Which  shines  here  in  the  west. 

Cym.  Laud  we  the  gods  ; 

And  let  our  crooked  smokesclimbtotheirnostrils 
From  our  bless  d  altars.    Publish  we  this  peace 
To  all  our  subjects.     Set  we  forward  :  let 
A  Roman  and  a  British  ensign  wave 
Friendly  together:  so  through  Lud's  town  march: 
And  in  the  temple  of  great  Jupiter 
Our  peace  we  'it  ratify ;  seal  it  with  feasts. — 
Set  on  there  ! — Never  was  a  war  did  cease, 
Ere  bloody  hands  were  wash'd,  with  such  a 
peace.  \Exeunt. 


TITUS    ANDRONICUS 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


SATURNINUS,  Son  to  the  late  Emperor  of  Rome, 

and  afterwards  declared  Emperor. 
BASSIANUS,  Brother  to  SATURNINUS,  in  love 

with  LAVINIA. 
TITUS  ANDRONICUS,  a  noble  Roman,  General 

against  the  Goths. 
MARCUS  ANDRONICUS,  Tribune  of  the  People, 

and  Brother  to  TITUS. 
Lucius, 

MARCUS'       Som  to  TlTUS  ANDRONICUS. 

MUTIUS, 

YOUNG  Lucius,  a  Boy,  Son  to  Lucius. 

PUBLICS,  Son  to  MARCUS  the  Tribune. 


,  a  noble  Roman. 
ALARBUS,       ) 

DEMETRIUS,  >  Sons  to  TAMORA. 
CHIRON,        ) 

AARON,  a  Moor,  beloved  by  TAMORA. 
A  Captain,  Tribune,  Messenger,  and  Clown,- 

Romans. 
Goths  and  Romans. 

TAMORA,  Queen  of  the  Goths. 

LAVINIA,  Daughter  to  TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 

A  Nurse,  and  a  black  Child. 

Kinsmen  of  TlTUS,  Senators,  Tribunes,  Officers, 
Soldiers,  and  Attendants. 


SCENE, — ROME,  and  the  Country  near  it. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — ROME.     Before  the  Capitol. 

The  Tomb  of  the  ANDRONICI  appearing ;  the 
Tribunes  and  Senators  aloft.  Enter,  below, 
SATURNINUS  and  his  Followers  on  one  side, 
and  BASSIANUS  and  his  Followers  on  the 
other,  with  drums  and  colours. 

Sat.  Noble  patricians,  patrons  of  my  right, 
Defend  the  justice  of  my  cause  with  arms  ; 
And,  countrymen,  my  loving  followers, 
Plead  my  successive  title  with  your  swords  : 
I  am  his  first-born  son  that  was  the  last 
That  wore  the  imperial  diadem  of  Rome  : 
Then  let  my  father's  honours  live  in  me, 
Nor  wrong  mine  age  with  this  indignity. 

Bas.  Romans, — friends,  followers,  favourers 

of  my  right, — 

If  ever  Bassianus,  Caesar's  son, 
Were  gracious  in  the  eyes  of  royal  Rome, 
Keep,  then,  this  passage  to  the  Capitol ; 
And  suffer  not  dishonour  to  approach 
The  imperial  seat,  to  virtue  consecrate, 
To  justice,  continence,  and  nobility  : 
But  let  desert  in  pure  election  shine ; 
And,  Romans,  fight  for  freedom  in  your  choice. 

Enter  MARCUS  ANDRONICUS  aloft,  with  the 
crown. 

Marc.  Princes, — that  strive  by  factions  and 
by  friends 


Ambitiously  for  rule  and  empery, —         [stand 

Know  that  the  people  of  Rome,  for  whom  we 

A  special  party,  have  by  common  voice, 

In  election  for  the  Roman  empery, 

Chosen  Andronicus,  surnamed  Pius 

For  many  good  and  great  deserts  to  Rome  : 

A  nobler  man,  a  braver  warrior, 

Lives  not  this  day  within  the  city  walls : 

He  by  the  senate  is  accited  home 

From  weary  wars  against  the  barbarous  Goths ; 

That,  with  his  sons,  a  terror  to  our  foes, 

Hath  yok'd  a  nation  strong,  train'd  up  in  arms. 

Ten  years  are  spent  since  first  he  undertook 

This  cause  of  Rome,  and  chastised  with  arms 

Our  enemies'  pride  :  five  times  he  hath  return 'd 

Bleeding  to  Rome,  bearing  his  valiant  sons 

In  coffins  from  the  field  ; 

And  now  at  last,  laden  with  honour's  spoils, 

Returns  the  good  Andronicus  to  Rome, 

Renowned  Titus,  flourishing  in  arms. 

Let  us  entreat, — by  honour  of  his  name 

Whom  worthily  you  would  have  now  succeed, 

And  in  the  Capitol  and  senate's  right, 

Whom  you  pretend  to  honour  and  adore, — 

That  you  withdraw  you,  and  abate  your  strength  ; 

Dismiss  your  followers,  and,  as  suitors  should, 

Plead  your  deserts  in  peace  and  humbleness. 

Sat.  How  fair  the  tribune  speaks  to  calm  my 
thoughts  ! 

Bas.   Marcus  Andronicus,  so  I  do  affy 
In  thy  uprightness  and  integrity, 
And  so  I  love  and  honour  thee  and  thine, 


970 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


[ACT  f . 


Thy  noble  brother  Titus  and  his  sons, 
And  her  to  whom  my  thoughts  are  humbled  all, 
Gracious  Lavinia,  Rome's  rich  ornament, 
That  I  will  here  dismiss  my  loving  friends ; 
And  to  my  fortunes  and  the  people's  favour 
Commit  my  cause  in  balance  to  be  weigh'd. 

[Exeunt  the  Followers  ofBAS. 
Sat.  Friends,  that  have  been  thus  forward  in 

my  right, 

I  thank  you  all,  and  here  dismiss  you  all ; 
And  to  the  love  and  favour  of  my  country 
Commit  myself,  my  person,  and  the  cause. 

[Exezmt  the  Followers  0/SAT. 
Rome,  be  as  just  and  gracious  unto  me 
As  I  am  confident  and  kind  to  thee. — 
Open  the  gates,  tribunes,  and  let  me  in. 
Bas.  Tribunes,  and  me,  a  poor  competitor. 
[Flourish.     Exeunt ;  SAT.  and  BAS.  go  ^lp 
into  the  Capitol. 

Enter  a  Captain. 

Cap.   Romans,  make  way.     The  good  An- 

dronicus, 

Patron  of  virtue,  Rome's  best  champion, 
Successful  in  the  battles  that  he  fights, 
With  honour  and  with  fortune  is  return'd 
From  where  he  circumscribed  with  his  sword, 
And  brought  to  yoke,  the  enemies  of  Rome. 

Flourish  of  trumpets,  &*c.  Enter  MARTI  us 
and  MUTIUS  ;  after  them  two  Men  bearing 
a  coffin  covered  with  black  ;  then  LUCIUS  and 
QUINTUS.  After  them  TITUS  ANDRONICUS  ; 
and  then  TAMORA,  with  ALARBUS,  DEME- 
TRIUS, CHIRON,  AARON,  and  other  Goths, 
prisoners  ;  Soldiers  and  People  following. 
The  bearers  set  down  the  coffin,  and  TITUS 


Tit.  Hail,  Rome,  victorious  in  thy  mourning 

weeds  ! 

Lo,  as  the  bark  that  hath  discharg'd  her  fraught 
Returns  with  precious  lading  to  the  bay 
From  whence  at  first  she  weigh'd  her  anchorage, 
Cometh  Andronicus,  bound  with  laurel  boughs, 
To  re-salute  his  country  with  his  tears, — 
Tears  of  true  joy  for  his  return  to  Rome. — 
Thou  great  defender  of  this  Capitol, 
Stand  gracious  to  the  rites  that  we  intend! — 
Romans,  of  five-and-twenty  valiant  sons, 
Half  of  the  number  that  King  Priam  had, 
Behold  the  poor  remains,  alive  and  dead  ! 
These  that  survive  let  Rome  reward  with  love ; 
These  that  I  bring  unto  their  latest  home, 
With  burial  amongst  their  ancestors  : 
Here  Goths  have  given  me  leave  to  sheathe  my 

sword. 
Titus,  unkind,  and  careless  of  thine  own, 


Why  suffer'st  thou  thy  sons,  unburied  yet, 
To  hover  on  the  dreadful  shore  of  Styx  ? — • 
Make  way  to  lay  them  by  their  brethren. — 

\The  tomb  is  opened. 

There  greet  in  silence,  as  the  dead  are  wont, 
And  sleep  in  peace,  slain  in  your  country'swars ! 
O  sacred  receptacle  of  my  joys, 
Sweet  cell  of  virtue  and  nobility, 
How  many  sons  of  mine  hast  thou  in  store, 
That  thou  wilt  never  render  to  me  more  ! 

Luc.  Give  us  the  proudest  prisoner  of  the 

Goths, 

That  we  may  hew  his  limbs,  and  on  a  pile 
Ad  manes  fratrum  sacrifice  his  flesh 
Before  this  earthly  prison  of  their  bones  ; 
That  so  the  shadows  be  not  unappeas'd, 
Nor  we  disturb'd  with  prodigies  on  earth. 

Tit.  I  give  him  you, — the  noblest  that  sur- 
vives, 
The  eldest  son  of  this  distressed  queen. 

Tarn.    Stay,    Roman   brethren !  —  Gracious 

conqueror, 

Victorious  Titus,  rue  the  tears  I  shed, 
A  mother's  tears  in  passion  for  her  son  : 
And  if  thy  sons  were  ever  dear  to  thee, 
O,  think  my  son  to  be  as  dear  to  me  ! 
Sufficeth  not  that  we  are  brought  to  Rome, 
To  beautify  thy  triumphs  and  return, 
Captive  to  thee  and  to  thy  Roman  yoke  ; 
But  must  my  sons  be  slaughter'd  in  the  streets 
For  valiant  doings  in  their  country's  cause  ? 
O,  if  to  fight  for  king  and  common  weal 
Were  piety  in  thine,  it  is  in  these. 
Andronicus,  stain  not  thy  tomb  with  blood  : 
Wilt  thou  draw  near  the  nature  of  the  gods  ? 
Draw  near  them,  then,  in  being  merciful : 
Sweet  mercy  is  nobility's  true  badge  : 
Thrice-noble  Titus,  spare  my  first-born  son. 

Tit.  Patient  yourself,  madam,  and  pardon  me. 
These  are   their  brethren,  whom  you   Goths 

beheld 

Alive  and  dead  ;  and  for  their  brethren  slain 
Religiously  they  ask  a  sacrifice  : 
To  this  your  son  is  mark'd ;  and  die  he  must, 
To  appease  their  groaning  shadows  that  are  gone. 

Luc.    Away   with   him !    and  make   a   fire 

straight ; 

And  with  our  swords,  upon  a  pile  of  wood 
Let 'shew  his  limbs  till  they  be  clean  consum'd. 
[Exeunt  Luc. ,  QUIN.,  MARC.,  awt/MuT., 
with  ALARBUS. 

Tarn.  O  cruel,  irreligious  piety ! 

Chi.  Was  ever  Scythia  half  so  barbarous  ? 

Dem.  Oppose  not  Scythia  to  ambitious  Rome. 
Alarbus  goes  to  rest ;  and  we  survive 
To  tremble  under  Titus'  threatening  looks. 
Then,  madam,  stand  resolv'd  j  but  hope  withal 


SCENE  I.] 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


971 


The  self-same  gods  that  arm'd  the  Queen  of 

Troy 

With  opportunity  of  sharp  revenge 
Upon  the  Thracian  tyrant  in  his  tent, 
May  favour  Tamora,  the  queen  of  Goths, — 
When   Goths   were   Goths   and   Tamora   was 

queen, — 
To  quit  the  bloody  wrongs  upon  her  foes. 

Re-enter  Lucius,   QUINTUS,   MARTIUS,    and 
MUTIUS,  with  their  swords  bloody. 

Lite.    See,   lord  and  father,  how  we  have 

perform'd 

Our  Roman  rites  :  Alarbus'  limbs  are  lopp'd, 
And  entrails  feed  the  sacrificing  fire, 
Whose  smoke  like  incense  doth  perfume  the  sky. 
Remaineth  naught  but  to  inter  our  brethren, 
And  with  loud  'larums  welcome  them  to  Rome. 

Tit.  Let  it  be  so,  and  let  Andronicus 
Make  this  his  latest  farewell  to  their  souls. 
[  Trumpets  sounded  and  the  coffinlaidinthetomb. 
In  peace  and  honour  rest  you  here,  my  sons  ; 
Rome's  readiest  champions,  repose  you  here  in 

rest, 

Secure  from  worldly  chances  and  mishaps  ! 
Here  lurks  no  treason,  here  no  envy  swells, 
Here  grow  no  damned  grudges  ;  here  are  no 

storms, 
No  noise,  but  silence  and  eternal  sleep : 

Enter  LAVINIA. 

In  peace  and  honour  rest  you  here,  my  sons  ! 

Lav.  In  peace  and  honour  live  Lord  Titus 

long; 

My  noble  lord  and  father,  live  in  fame  ! 
Lo,  at  this  tomb  my  tributary  tears 
I  render  for  my  brethren's  obsequies  ; 
And  at  thy  feet  I  kneel,  with  tears  of  joy 
Shed  on  the  earth  for  thy  return  to  Rome : 
O,  bless  me  here  with  thy  victorious  hand, 
Whose  fortunes  Rome's  best  citizens  applaud  ! 

Tit.    Kind   Rome,  that  hast  thus  lovingly 

reserv'd 

The  cordial  of  mine  age  to  glad  my  heart ! — 
Lavinia,  live  ;  outlive  thy  father's  days, 
And  fame's  eternal  date,  for  virtue's  praise  ! 

Enter t  below,  MARCUS  ANDRONICUS  and  Tri- 
bunes ;  re-enter  SATURNINUS,  BASSIANUS, 
and  Attendants. 

Marc.  Long  live   Lord  Titus,   my  beloved 

brother,     ' 

Gracious  triumpher  in  the  eyes  of  Rome  ! 
Tit.  Thanks,  gentle  tribune,  noble  brother 
Marcus.  [ful  wars, 

Marc.  And  welcome,  nephews,  from  success- 
You  that  survive  and  you  that  sleep  in  fame ! 


Fair  lords,  your  fortunes  are  alike  in  all, 
That  in  your  country's  service  drew  your  swords: 
But  safer  triumph  is  this  funeral  pomp 
That  hath  aspir'd  to  Solon's  happiness, 
And  triumphs  over  chance  in  honour's  bed. — 
Titus  Andronicus,  the  people  of  Rome, 
Whose  friend  in  justice  thou  hast  ever  been, 
Send  thee  by  me,  their  tribune  and  their  trust, 
This  palliament  of  white  and  spotless  hue ; 
And  name  thee  in  election  for  the  empire 
With  these  our  late-deceased  emperor's  sons: 
Be  candidatus,  then,  and  put  it  on, 
And  help  to  set  a  head  on  headless  Rome. 

Tit.  A  better  head  her  glorious  body  fits 
Than  his  that  shakes  for  age  and  feebleness : 
What,  should  I  don  this  robe  and  trouble  you? 
Be  chosen  with  proclamations  to-day, 
To-morrow  yield  up  rule,  resign  my  life, 
And  set  abroach  new  business  for  you  all? 
Rome,  I  have  been  thy  soldier  forty  years, 
And  led  my  country's  strength  successfully, 
And  buried  one-and-twenty  valiant  sons, 
Knighted  in  field,  slain  manfully  in  arms, 
In  right  and  service  of  their  noble  country : 
Give  me  a  staff  of  honour  for  mine  age, 
But  not  a  sceptre  to  control  the  world : 
Upright  he  held  it,  lords,  that  held  it  last. 

Marc.  Titus,  thou  shalt  obtain  and  ask  the 
err.pery.  [tell? 

Sat.  Proud  and  ambitious  tribune,  canst  thou 

Tit.  Patience,  Prince  Saturninus. 

Sat.  Romans,  do  me  right; — 

Patricians,  draw  your  swords,  and  sheathe  them 

not 

Till  Saturninus  be  Rome's  emperor. — 
Andronicus,  would  thou  wert  shipp'd  to  hell 
Rather  than  rob  me  of  the  people's  hearts ! 

Luc.  Proud  Saturnine,  interrupter  of  the  good 
That  noble-minded  Titus  means  to  thee ! 

Tit.  Content  thee,  prince;  I  will  restore  to 
thee  [selves. 

The  people's  hearts,  and  wean  them  from  them 

Bos.  Andronicus,  I  do  not  natter  thee, 
But  honour  thee,  and  will  do  till  I  die* 
My  faction  if  thou  strengthen  with  thy  friends, 
I  will  most  thankful  be ;  and  thanks  to  men 
Of  noble  minds  is  honourable  meed.         [here, 

Tit.  People  of  Rome,  and  people's  tribunes 
I  ask  your  voices  and  your  suffrages : 
Will  you  bestow  them  friendly  on  Andronicus? 

Trib.  To  gratify  the  good  Andronicus, 
And  gratulate  his  safe  return  to  Rome, 
The  people  will  accept  whom  he  admits. 

Tit.  Tribunes,  I  thank  you :  and  this  suit  I 

make, 

That  you  create  your  emperor's  eldest  son, 
Lord, Saturnine ;  whose  virtues  will,  I  hope, 


972 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


[ACT  i. 


Reflect  on  Rome  as  Titan's  rays  on  earth, 
And  ripen  justice  in  this  commonweal : 
Then,  if  you  will  elect  by  my  advice, 
Crown  him,  and  say,  Long  live  our  emperor! 
Marc.  With  voices  and  applause  of  every 

sort, 

Patricians  and  plebeians,  we  create 
Lord  Saturninus  Rome's  great  emperor ; 
And  say,  Long  live  our  emperor  Saturnine ! 

[A  long  flourish. 

Sat.  Titus  Andronicus,  for  thy  favours  done 
To  us  in  our  election  this  day 
I  give  thee  thanks  in  part  of  thy  deserts, 
And  will  with  deeds  requite  thy  gentleness ; 
And  for  an  onset,  Titus,  to  advance 
Thy  name  and  honourable  family, 
Lavinia  will  I  make  my  empress, 
Rome's  royal  mistress,  mistress  of  my  heart, 
And  in  the  sacred  Pantheon  her  espouse : 
Tell  me,  Andronicus,  doth  this  motion  please 

thee?  [match 

Tit.  It  doth,  my  worthy  lord;  and  in  this 
I  hold  me  highly  honour' d  of  your  grace : 
And  here,  in  sight  of  Rome,  to  Saturnine, — 
King  and  commander  of  our  commonweal, 
The  wide  world's  emperor, — do  I  consecrate 
My  sword,  my  chariot,  and  my  prisoners; 
Presents  well  worthy  Rome's  imperial  lord : 
Receive  them,  then,  the  tribute  that  I  owe, 
Mine  honour's  ensigns  humbled  at  thy  feet. 

Sat.  Thanks,  noble  Titus,  father  of  my  life  ! 
How  proud  I  am  of  thee  and  of  thy  gifts 
Rome  shall  record ;  and  when  I  do  forget 
The  least  of  these  unspeakable  deserts, 
Romans,  forget  your  fealty  to  me. 

Tit.  [To  TAMORA.]  Now,  madam,  are  you 

prisoner  to  an  emperor ; 
To  him  that  for  your  honour  and  your  state 
Will  use  you  nobly  and  your  followers. 

Sat.  A  goodly  lady,  trust  me ;  of  the  hue 
That  I  would  choose  were  I  to  choose  anew. — 
Clear  up,  fair  queen,  that  cloudy  countenance : 
Though  chance  of  war  hath  wrought  this  change 

of  cheer, 

Thou  com'st  not  to  be  made  a  scorn  in  Rome : 
Princely  shall  be  thy  usage  every  way. 
Rest  on  my  word,  and  let  not  discontent 
Daunt  all  your  hopes:    madam,  he  comforts 

you 
Can   make    you   greater   than   the   Queen    of 

Goths.— 

Lavinia,  you  are  not  displeas'd  with  this? 
Lav.  Not  I,  my  lord ;  sith  true  nobility 
Warrants  these  words  in  princely  courtesy. 
Sat.  Thanks,  sweet  Lavinia. — Romans,  let 

us  go: 
Ransomless  here  we  set  our  prisoners  free : 


Proclaim  our  honours,  lords,  with  trump  and 
drum. 
[Flourish.     SAT.  courts  TAMORA  in 

dtimb  show. 

Bas.  Lord  Titus,  by  your  leave,  this  maid  is 

mine.  [Seizing  LAVINIA. 

Tit.  How,  sir !  are  you  in  earnest,  then,  my 

lord? 

Bas.  Ay,  noble  Titus ;  and  resolv'd  withal 
To  do  myself  this  reason  and  this  right. 

Marc.  Suum  cuique  is  our  Roman  justice: 
This  prince  in  justice  seizeth  but  his  own. 
Luc.  And  that  he  will  and  shall,  if  Lucius 
live.  [peror's  guard? — 

Tit.  Traitors,  avaunt! — Where  is  the  em- 
Treason,  my  lord, — Lavinia  is  surpris'd  ! 
Sat.  Surpris'd !  by  whom  ? 
Bas.  By  him  that  justly  may 

Bear  his  betroth'd  from  all  the  world  away. 

[Exeunt  BAS.  and  MAR.  with  LAV. 
Mut.  Brothers,   help  to  convey  her   hence 

away, 
And  with  my  sword  I  '11  keep  this  door  safe. 

[Exeunt  Luc.,  QUIN.,  and  MAR. 
Tit.  Follow,  my  lord,  and  I  '11  soon  bring 

her  back. 

Mut.  My  lord,  you  pass  not  here. 
Tit.  What,  villain  boy ! 

Barr'st  me  my  way  in  Rome? 

[Stabbing  MUTIUS. 

Mut.  Help,  Lucius,  help! 

[Dies. 

Re-enter  Lucius. 

Luc.   My  lord,   you  are  unjust;   and  more 

than  so, 
In  wrongful  quarrel  you  have  slain  your  son. 

Tit.  Nor  thou  nor  he  are  any  sons  of  mine ; 
My  sons  would  never  so  dishonour  me : 
Traitor,  restore  Lavinia  to  the  emperor. 

Luc.  Dead,  if  you  will ;  but  not  to  be  his  wife, 
That  is  another's  lawful  promis'd  love.  [Exit. 

Sat.  No,  Titus,  no ;  the  emperor  needs  her 

not, 

Nor  her,  nor  thee,  nor  any  of  thy  stock : 
I  '11  trust  by  leisure  him  that  mocks  me  once ; 
Thee  never,  nor  thy  traitorous  haughty  sons, 
Confederates  all  thus  to  dishonour  me. 
Was  there  none  else  in  Rome  to  make  a  stale 
But  Saturnine?     Full  well,  Andronicus, 
Agree  these  deeds  with  that  proud  brag  of  thine, 
That  said'st  I  begg'd  the  empire  at  thy  hands. 

Tit.  O  monstrous !  what  reproachful  words 
are  these?  [ing  piece 

Sat.  But  go  thy  ways ;  go,  give  that  chang- 
To  him  that  flourish'd  for  her  with  his  sword : 
A  valiant  son-in-law  thou  shalt  enjoy; 


SCENE    I.] 


TITUS    ANDRONICUS. 


973 


One  fit  to  bandy  with  thy  lawless  sons, 
To  ruffle  in  the  commonwealth  of  Rome. 
Tit.  These  words  are  razors  to  my  wounded 

heart.  [Goths, — 

Sat,  And  therefore,  lovely  Tamora,  Queen  of 

That,    like    the  stately   Phoebe   'mongst    her 

nymphs, 

Dost  overshine  the  gallant'st  dames  of  Rome, — 
If  thou  be  pleas'd  with  this  my  sudden  choice, 
Behold,  I  choose  thee,  Tamora,  for  my  bride, 
And  will  create  thee  empress  of  Rome. 
Speak,  Queen  of  Goths,  dost  thou  applaud  my 

choice? 

And  here  I  swear  by  all  the  Roman  gods, — 
Sith  priest  and  holy  water  are  so  near, 
And  tapers  burn  so  bright,  and  everything 
In  readiness  for  Hymemeus  stand, — 
I  will  not  re-salute  the  streets  of  Rome, 
Or  climb  my  palace,  till  from  forth  this  place 
I  lead  espous'd  my  bride  along  with  me. 

Tarn.  And  here,  in  sight  of  heaven,  to  Rome 

I  swear, 

If  Saturnine  advance  the  Queen  of  Goths, 
She  will  a  handmaid  be  to  his  desires, 
A  loving  nurse,  a  mother  to  his  youth. 

Sat-  Ascend,  fair  queen,  Pantheon. — Lords, 

accompany 

Your  noble  emperor  and  his  lovely  bride, 
Sent  by  the  heavens  for  Prince  Saturnine, 
Whose  wisdom  hath  her  fortune  conquered : 
There  shall  we  consummate  our  spousal  rites. 
\_Exeiint  SAT.  and  his  Followers ;  TAM. 

and  her  sons  ;  AARON  and  Goths. 
Tit,  I  am  not  bid  to  wait  upon  this  bride. — 
Titus,  when  wert  thou  wont  to  walk  alone, 
Dishonour'd  thus,  and  challenged  of  wrongs? 

Re-enter  MARCUS,  Lucius,  QUINTUS,  and 
MARTI  us. 

Marc.  O  Titus,  see,  O  see  what  thou  hast 

done ! 
In  a  bad  quarrel  slain  a  virtuous  son. 

Tit.  No,    foolish    tribune,    no;    no   son   of 

mine, — 

Nor  thou,  nor  these,  confederates  in  the  deed 
That  hath  dishonour'd  all  our  family ; 
Unworthy  brother  and  unworthy  sons ! 

Luc.  But  let  us  give  him  burial,  as  becomes; 
Give  Mutius  burial  with  our  brethren. 

Tit.  Traitors,  away!    he  rests   not  in   this 

tomb : — 

This  monument  five  hundred  years  hath  stood, 
Which  I  have  sumptuously  re-edified : 
Here  none  but  soldiers  and  Rome's  servitors 
Repose  in  fame ;  none  basely  slain  in  brawls  :— 
Bury  him  where  you  can,  he  comes  not  here. 

Marc.  My  lord,  this  is  impiety  in  you : 


My  nephew  Mutius'  deeds  do  plead  for  him ; 
He  must  be  buried  with  his  brethren. 

Quin.  and  Mart.  And  shall,  or  him  we  will 

accompany.  [that  word? 

Tit.  And  shall !     What  villain  was  it  spake 

Quin.   He  that  would  vouch  it  in  any  place 

but  here.  [spite? 

Tit.  What,  would  you  bury  him  in  my  de- 

Marc.  No,  noble  Titus ;  but  entreat  of  thee 

To  pardon  Mutius,  and  to  bury  him. 

Tit.  Marcus,  even  thou  hast  struck  upon  my 
crest,  [wounded : 

And  with  these  boys  mine  honour  thou  hast 
My  foes  I  do  repute  you  every  one ; 
So  trouble  me  no  more,  but  get  you  gone. 
Marc.  He  is  not  with  himself;  let  us  with- 
draw. 
Quin.  Not  I,  till  Mutius'  bones  be  buried. 

[MARCUS  and  the  Sons  of  TITUS  kneel. 

Marc.  Brother,  for  in  that  name  doth  nature 

plead, —  [speak, — 

Quin.  Father,  and  in  that  name  doth  nature 

Tit.  Speak  thou  no  more,  if  all  the  rest  will 

speed. 
Marc.  Renowned  Titus,  more  than  half  my 

soul, — 
Luc.  Dear  father,  soul  and  substance  of  us 

all,— 

Marc.  Suffer  thy  brother  Marcus  to  inter 
His  noble  nephew  here  in  virtue's  nest, 
That  died  in  honour  and  Lavinia's  cause : 
Thou  art  a  Roman, — be  not  barbarous. 
The  Greeks  upon  advice  did  bury  Ajax, 
That  slew  himself;  and  wise  Laertes'  son 
Did  graciously  plead  for  his  funerals : 
Let  not  young  Mutius,  then,  that  was  thy  joy, 
Be  barr'd  his  entrance  here. 

Tit.  Rise,  Marcus,  rise: 

The  dismall'st  day  is  this  that  e'er  I  saw, 
To  be  dishonour'd  by  my  sons  in  Rome  ! — 
Well,  bury  him,  and  bury  me  the  next. 

[MuTius  is  put  into  the  tomb. 
Luc.  There  lie  thy  bones,  sweet  Mutius,  with 

thy  friends, 

Till  we  with  trophies  do  adorn  thy  tomb. 
All.  [Kneeling.]  No  man  shed  tears  for  noble 

Mutius ; 

He  lives  in  fame  that  died  in  virtue's  cause. 
Marc.  My  lord, — to  step  out  of  these  dreary 

dumps, — 

How  comes  it  that  the  subtle  Queen  of  Goths 
Is  of  a  sudden  thus  advanc'd  in  Rome  ? 

Tit.  I  know  not,  Marcus ;  but  I  know  it  is, — 

Whether  by  device  or  no,  the  heavens  can  tell : 

Is  she  not,  then,  beholden  to  the  man 

That  brought  her  for  this  high  good  turn  so  far  ? 

Marc.  Yes,  and  will  nobly  him  remunerate. 


974 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


[ACT  i. 


Flourish.  Re-enter,  at  one  side,  SATURNI- 
NUS  attended;  TAMORA,  DEMETRIUS,  CHI- 
RON, and  AARON:  at  the  other,  BASSIANUS, 
LAVINIA,  and  others. 

Sat.   So,   Bassianus,   you  have  play'd   your 

prize : 

God  give  you  joy,  sir,  of  your  gallant  bride ! 
Bas.  And  you  of  yours,  my  lord  !  I  say  no 

more, 

Nor  wish  no  less  ;  and  so  I  take  my  leave, 
Sat.  Traitor,  if  Rome  have  law  or  we  have 

power, 

Thou  and  thy  faction  shall  repent  this  rape. 
Bas.  Rape,  call  you  it,  my  lord,  to  seize  my 

own, 

My  true-betrothed  love,  and  now  my  wife  ? 
But  let  the  laws  of  Rome  determine  all ; 
Meanwhile  I  am  possess'd  of  that  is  mine,    [us  ; 
Sat.  'Tis  good,  sir  :  you  are  very  short  with 
But  if  we  live  we  '11  be  as  sharp  with  you. 
Bas.  My  lord,  what  I  have  done,  as  best  I 

may, 

Answer  I  must,  and  shall  do  with  my  life. 
Only  thus  much  I  give  your  grace  to  know, — 
By  all  the  duties  that  I  owe  to  Rome, 
This  noble  gentleman,  Lord  Titus  here, 
Is  in  opinion  and  in  honour  wrong'd, 
That,  in  the  rescue  of  Lavinia, 
With  his  own  hand  did  slay  his  youngest  son, 
In  zeal  to  you,  and  highly  mov'd  to  wrath 
To  be  controll'd  in  that  he  frankly  gave  : 
Receive  him,  then,  to  favour,  Saturnine, 
That  hath  express'd  himself,  in  all  his  deeds, 
A  father  and  a  friend  to  thee  and  Rome. 

Tit.    Prince  Bassianus,  leave  to   plead  my 

deeds : 

'Tis  thou  and  those  that  have  dishonour' d  me. 
Rome  and  the  righteous  heavens  be  my  judge 
How  I  have  lov'd  and  honour'd  Saturnine  ! 

Tarn.  My  worthy  lord,  if  ever  Tamora 
Were  gracious  in  those  princely  eyes  of  thine, 
Then  hear  me  speak  indifferently  for  all ; 
And  at  my  suit,  sweet,  pardon  what  is  past. 

Sat.  What,  madam  !  be  dishonour'd  openly, 
And  basely  put  it  up  without  revenge  ? 

Tarn.  Not  so,  my  lord ;  the  gods  of  Rome 

forfend 

I  should  be  author  to  dishonour  you  ! 
But  on  mine  honour  dare  I  undertake 
For  good  Lord  Titus'  innocence  in  all, 
Whose  fury  not  dissembled  speaks  his  griefs  : 
Then  at  my  suit  look  graciously  on  him  ; 
Lose  not  so  noble  a  friend  on  vain  suppose, 
Nor  with  sour  looks  afflict  his  gentle  heart. — 
My  lord,  be  rul'd  by  me,  be  won  at  last ; 

[Aside. 


Dissemble  all  your  griefs  and  discontents  : 
You  are  but  newly  planted  in  your  throne  ; 
Lest,  then,  the  people  and  patricians  too, 
Upon  a  just  survey,  take  Titus'  part, 
And  so  supplant  you  for  ingratitude, — 
Which  Rome  reputes  to  be  a  heinous  sin, — 
Yield  at  entreats  ;  and  then  let  me  alone  : 
I  '11  find  a  day  to  massacre  them  all, 
And  raze  their  faction  and  their  family, 
The  cruel  father  and  his  traitorous  sons, 
To  whom  I  sued  for  my  dear  son's  life  ; 
And  make  them  know  what  'tis  to  let  a  queen 
Kneel  in  the  streets  and  beg  for  grace  in  vain. — 
Come,  come,  sweet  emperor, — come,  Androni- 

cus, — 

Take  up  this  good  old  man,  and  cheer  the  heart 
That  dies  in  tempest  of  thy  angry  frown. 

Sat.  Rise,  Titus,  rise ;  my  empress  hath  pre- 
vail'd. 

Tit.  I  thank  your  majesty  and  her,  my  lord  : 
These  words,  these  looks,  infuse  new  life  in 
me. 

Tarn.  Titus,  I  am  incorporate  in  Rome, 
A  Roman  now  adopted  happily, 
And  must  advise  the  emperor  for  his  good. 
This  day  all  quarrels  die,  Andronicus  ; — 
And  let  it  be  mine  honour,  good  my  lord. 
That  I  have  reconcil'd  your  friends  and  you, — 
For  you,  Prince  Bassianus,  I  have  pass'd 
My  word  and  promise  to  the  emperor 
That  you  will  be  more  mild  and  tractable.— 
And  fear  not,  lords, — and  you,  Lavinia, — 
By  my  advice,  all  humbled  on  your  knees, 
You  shall  ask  pardon  of  his  majesty. 

Luc.  We  do  ;  and  vow  to  heaven  and  to  his 

highness 

That  what  we  did  was  mildly  as  we  might, 
Tendering  our  sister's  honour  and  our  own. 

Marc.  That  on  mine  honour  here  I  do  protest. 

Sat.  Away,  and  talk  not ;  trouble  us  no  more. 

Tarn.  Nay,  nay,  sweet  emperor,  we  must  all 

be  friends : 

The  tribune  and  his  nephews  kneel  for  grace  ; 
I  will  not  be  denied :  sweet  heart,  look  back. 

Sat.  Marcus,  for  thy  sake  and  thy  brother's 

here, 

And  at  my  lovely  Tamora's  entreats, 
I  do  remit  these  young  men's  heinous  faults : 
Stand  up. — 

Lavinia,  though  you  left  me  like  a  churl, 
I  found  a  friend  ;  and  sure  as  death  I  swore 
I  would  not  part  a  bachelor  from  the  priest. 
Come,  if  the  emperor's  court  can  feast  two  brides, 
You  are  my  guest,  Lavinia,  and  your  friends. 
This  day  shall  be  a  love-day,  Tamora. 

Tit.  To-morrow,  an  it  please  your  majesty 
To  hunt  the  panther  and  the  hart  with  me, 


SCENE  I.] 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


975 


With  horn  and  hound  we  '11  give  your  grace  bon- 

jour. 
Sat.  Be  it  so,  Titus,  and  gramercy  too. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — ROME.     Before  the  Palace. 
Enter  AARON. 

Aar.  Now  climbeth  Tamora  Olympus'  top, 
Safe  out  of  fortune's  shot  ;  and  sits  aloft, 
Secure  of  thunder's  crack  or  lightning's  flash ; 
Advanc'd  above  pale  envy's  threatening  reach. 
As  when  the  golden  sun  salutes  the  morn, 
And,  having  gilt  the  ocean  with  his  beams, 
Gallops  the  zodiac  in  his  glistering  coach, 
And  overlooks  the  highest-peering  hill ; 
So  Tamora : 

Upon  her  will  doth  earthly  honour  wait, 
And  virtue  stoops  and  trembles  at  her  frown. 
Then,  Aaron,  arm  thy  heart  and  fit  thy  thoughts 
To  mount  aloft  with  thy  imperial  mistress, 
And  mount  her  pitch,  whom  thou  in  triumph 

long 

Hast  prisoner  held,  fetter'd  in  amorous  chains, 
And  faster  bound  to  Aaron's  charming  eyes 
Than  is  Prometheus  tied  to  Caucasus. 
Away  with  slavish  weeds  and  servile  thoughts  ! 
I  will  be  bright,  and  shine  in  pearl  and  gold, 
To  wait  upon  this  new-made  empress. 
To  wait,  said  I  ?  to  wanton  with  this  queen, 
This  goddess,  this  Semiramis,  this  nymph, 
This  syren,  that  will  charm  Rome's  Saturnine, 
And  see  his  shipwreck  and  his  commonweal's, — 
Holla  !  what  storm  is  this  ? 

Enter  DEMETRIUS  and  CHIRON  braving. 

Dem.  Chiron,  thy  years  want  wit,  thy  wit 

wants  edge 

And  manners,  to  intrude  where  I  am  grac'd  ; 
And  may,  for  aught  thou  know'st,  affected  be. 
Chi.   Demetrius,  thou  dost  over-ween  in  all ; 
And  so  in  this,  to  bear  me  down  with  braves. 
Tis  not  the  difference  of  a  year  or  two 
Makes  me  less  gracious  or  thee  more  fortunate  : 
1  am  as  able  and  as  fit  as  thou 
To  serve  and  to  deserve  my  mistress'  grace  ; 
And  that  my  sword  upon  thee  shall  approve, 
And  plead  my  passions  for  Lavinia's  love. 
Aar.    [Aside.]    Clubs,    clubs !   these  lovers 

will  not  keep  the  peace. 
Dem.    Why,    boy,     although    our    mother, 

unadvis'd, 

Gave  you  a  dancing-rapier  by  your  side, 
Are  you  so  desperate  grown   to   threat  your 
friends  ? 


Go  to  ;  have  your  lath  glu'd  within  your  sheath 
Till  you  know  better  how  to  handle  it.     [have, 

Chi.  Meanwhile,  sir,  with  the  little  skill  I 
Full  well  shalt  thou  perceive  how  much  I  dare. 

Dem.  Ay,  boy,  grow  ye  so  brave  ? 

[They  draw. 

Aar.  [Coming  forward.]   Why,  how  now, 

lords  ! 

So  near  the  emperor's  palace  dare  you  draw, 
And  maintain  such  a  quarrel  openly  ? 
Full  well  I  wot  the  ground  of  all  this  grudge  : 
I  would  not  for  a  million  of  gold 
The  cause  were  known  to  themitmost  concerns ; 
Nor  would  your  noble  mother  for  much  more 
Be  so  dishonour'd  in  the  court  of  Rome. 
For  shame,  put  up. 

Dem.  Not  I,  till  I  have  sheath'd 

My  rapier  in  his  bosom,  and  withal 
Thrust  these  reproachful  speechesdown  his  throat 
That  he  hath  breath'd  in  my  dishonour  here. 

Chi.  For  that  I  am  prepar'd  and  full  re- 
sol  v'd, —  [tongue, 
Foul-spoken  coward,  that  thunder's!  with  thy 
And  with  thy  weapon  nothing  dar'st  perform. 

Aar.  Away,  I  say ! — 

Now,  by  the  gods  that  warlike  Goths  adore, 
This  petty  brabble  will  undo  us  all. — 
Why,  lords,  and  think  you  not  how  dangerous 
It  is  to  jet  upon  a  prince's  right  ? 
What,  is  Lavinia,  then,  become  so  loose, 
Or  Bassianus  so  degenerate, 
That  for  her  love  such  quarrels  may  be  broach'd 
Without  controlment,  justice,  or  revenge? 
Young  lords,  beware  1  and  should  the  empress 
know  [please. 

This  discord's   ground,  the   music  would   not 

Chi.  I  care  not,  I,  knew  she  and  all  the 

world  : 
I  love  Lavinia  more  than  all  the  world. 

Dem.  Youngling,  learn  thou  to  make  some 

meaner  choice  : 
Lavinia  is  thine  elder  brother's  hope. 

Aar.  Why,  are  you  mad  ?  or  know  ye  not 

in  Rome 

How  furious  and  impatient  they  be, 
And  cannot  brook  competitors  in  love? 
I  tell  you,  lords,  you  do  but  plot  your  deaths 
By  this  device. 

Chi.  Aaron,  a  thousand  deaths 

Would  I  propose  to  achieve  her  whom  I  love. 

Aar.  To  achieve  her  ! — How? 

Dem.  Why  mak'st  thou  it  so  strange  ? 

She  is  a  woman,  therefore  may  be  woo'd  ; 
She  is  a  woman,  therefore  may  be  won  ; 
She  is  Lavinia,  therefore  must  be  lov'd. 
What,  man  !  more  water  glideth  by  the  mill 
Than  wots  the  miller  of ;  and  easy  it  is 


976 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


[ACT  ii. 


Of  a  cut  loaf  to  steal  a  shive,  we  know  : 
Though  Bassianus  be  the  emperor's  brother, 
Better  than  he  have  worn  Vulcan's  badge. 

Aar.  [Aside.]  Ay,  and  as  good  as  Saturninus 
may. 

Dem.    Then   why  should   he   despair   that 

knows  to  court  it 

With  words,  fair  looks,  and  liberality? 
What,  hast  not  thou  full  often  struck  a  doe, 
And  borne  her  cleanly  by  the  keeper's  nose  ? 

Aar.  Why,  then,  it  seems  some  certain  snatch 

or  so 
Would  serve  your  turns. 

Chi.  Ay,  so  the  turn  were  serv'd. 

Dem.  Aaron,  thou  hast  hit  it. 

Aar.  Would  you  had  hit  it  too  ! 

Then  should  not  we  be  tir'd  with  this  ado. 
Why,  hark  ye,  hark  ye,— and  are  you  such  fools 
To  square  for  this  ?     Would  it  offend  you,  then, 
That  both  should  speed  ? 

Chi.  Faith,  not  me. 

Dem.  Nor  me,  so  I  were  one. 

Aar.  For  shame,   be  friends,   and  join  for 

that  you  jar  : 

'Tis  policy  and  stratagem  must  do 
That  you  affect ;  and  so  must  you  resolve 
That  what  you  cannot  as  you  would  achieve, 
You  must  perforce  accomplish  as  you  may. 
Take  this  of  me, — Lucrece  was  not  more  chaste 
Than  this  Lavinia,  Bassianus'  love. 
A  speedier  course  than  lingering  languishment 
Must  we  pursue,  and  I  have  found  the  path. 
My  lords,  a  solemn  hunting  is  in  hand  ; 
There  will  the  lovely  Roman  ladies  troop : 
The  forest-walks  are  wide  and  spacious  ; 
And  many  unfrequented  plots  there  are 
Fitted  by  kind  for  rape  and  villany : 
Single  you  thither,  then,  this  dainty  doe, 
And  strike  her  home  by  force  if  not  by  words  : 
This  way,  or  not  at  all,  stand  you  in  hope. 
Come,  come,  our  empress,  with  her  sacred  wit 
To  villany  and  vengeance  consecrate, 
Will  we  acquaint  with  all  that  we  intend  ; 
And  she  shall  file  our  engines  with  advice 
That  will  not  suffer  you  to  square  yourselves, 
But  to  your  wishes'  height  advance  you  both. 
The  emperor's  court  is  like  the  house  of  fame, 
The  palace  full  of  tongues,  of  eyes,  and  ears  : 
The  woods  are  ruthless,  dreadful,  deaf,  and  dull ; 
There  speak  and  strike,  brave  boys,  and  take 
your  turns ;  [eye, 

There  serve  your  lust,  shadow'd  from  heaven's 
And  revel  in  Lavinia's  treasury. 

Chi.  Thy  counsel,  lad,  smells  of  nocowardice. 

Dem.  Sit  fas  aut  nefas,  till  I  find  the  stream 
To  cool  this  heat,  a  charm  to  calm  these  fits, 
Per  Styga,  per  manes  vehor.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. — A  Forest  near  Rome:  a  Lodge 
seen  at  a  distance.  Horns  and  cry  of  hounds 
heard. 

Enter  TITUS  ANDRONICUS,  with  Hunters,  &*c.9 
MARCUS,  Lucius,  QUINTUS,  and  MARTIUS. 

Tit.  The  hunt  is  up,  the  morn  is  bright  and 

§ay> 

Thefieldsare  fragrant,  and  the  woods  are  green. 
Uncouple  here,  and  let  us  make  a  bay, 
And  wake  the  emperor  and  his  lovely  bride, 
And  rouse  the  prince,  and  ring  a  hunter's  peal, 
That  all  the  court  may  echo  with  the  noise. 
Sons,  let  it  be  your  charge,  as  it  is  ours, 
To  attend  the  emperor's  person  carefully : 
I  have  been  troubled  in  my  sleep  this  night, 
But  dawning  day  new  comfort  hath  inspir'd. 

Horns  -wind  a  peal.  Enter  SATURNINUS, 
TAMORA,  BASSIANUS,  LAVINIA,  DEME- 
TRIUS, CHIRON,  and  Attendants. 

Many  good-morrows  to  your  majesty; — 
Madam,  to  you  as  many  and  as  good  : — 
I  promised  your  grace  a  hunter's  peal. 

Sat.  And  you  have  rung  it  lustily,  my  lord  ; 
Somewhat  too  early  for  new-married  ladies. 
Bas.  Lavinia,  how  say  you  ? 
Lav.  I  say  no  ; 

I  have  been  broad  awake  two  hours  and  more. 
Sat.  Come  on,  then,  horse  and  chariots  let 

us  have, 
And  to  our  sport. — [To  TAMORA.]     Madam, 

now  shall  ye  see 
Our  Roman  hunting. 

Marc.  I  have  dogs,  my  lord, 

Will  rouse  the  proudest  panther  in  the  chase, 
And  climb  the  highest  promontory  top. 

Tit.  And  I  have  horse  will  follow  where  the 

game 

Makes  way,  and  run  like  swallows  o'er  the  plain. 
Dem.  Chiron,  we  hunt  not,  we,  with  horse 

nor  hound, 
But  hope  to  pluck  a  dainty  doe  to  ground. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. — A  lonely  part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  AARON  with  a  bag  of  gold. 

Aar.   He  that  had  wit  would  think  that  I 

had  none, 

To  bury  so  much  gold  under  a  tree, 
And  never  after  to  inherit  it. 
Let  him  that  thinks  of  me  so  abjectly 
Know  that  this  gold  must  coin  a  stratagem, 
Which,  cunningly  effected,  will  beget 


SCENE  III.] 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


977 


A.  very  excellent  piece  of  villany  : 

And  so  repose,  sweet  gold,  for  their  unrest 

{Hides  the  gold. 
That  have  their  alms  out  of  the  empress'  chest. 

Enter  TAMORA. 

Tarn.  My  lovely  Aaron,  wherefore  look'st 

thou  sad 

When  everything  doth  make  a  gleeful  boast  ? 
The  birds  chant  melody  on  every  bush  ; 
The  snake  lies  rolled  in  the  cheerful  sun  ; 
The  green  leaves  quiver  with  the  cooling  wind, 
And  make  a  chequer'd  shadow  on  the  ground  : 
Under  their  sweet  shade,  Aaron,  let  us  sit, 
And,  whilst  the  babbling  echo  mocks  the  hounds, 
Replying  shrilly  to  the  well-tun'd  horns, 
As  if  a  double  hunt  were  heard  at  once, 
Let  us  sit  down  and  mark  their  yelping  noise  ; 
And, — after  conflict  such  as  was  suppos'd 
The  wandering  prince  and  Dido  once  enjoy'd, 
When  with  a  happy  storm  they  were  surpris'd, 
And  curtain'd  with  a  counsel -keeping  cave, — 
We  may,  each  wreathed  in  the  other's  arms, 
Our  pastimes  done,  possess  a  golden  slumber ; 
Whiles  hounds  and  horns  and  sweet  melodious 

birds 

Be  unto  us  as  is  a  nurse's  song 
Of  lullaby  to  bring  her  babe  asleep. 

Aar.  Madam,  though   Venus   govern   your 

desires, 

Saturn  is  dominator  over  mine : 
What  signifies  my  deadly-standing  eye, 
My  silence  and  my  cloudy  melancholy, 
My  fleece  of  woolly  hair  that  now  uncurls 
Even  as  an  adder  when  she  doth  unroll 
To  do  some  fatal  execution  ? 
No,  madam,  these  are  no  venereal  signs, 
Vengeance  is  in  my  heart,  death  in  my  hand, 
Blood  and  revenge  are  hammering  in  my  head. 
Hark,  Tamora, — the  empress  of  my  soul, 
Which  never  hopes  more  heaven  than  rests  in 

thee,— 

This  is  the  day  of  doom  for  Bassianus  : 
His  Philomel  must  lose  her  tongue  to-day; 
Thy  sons  make  pillage  of  her  chastity, 
And  wash  their  hands  in  Bassianus'  blood. 
Seest  thou  this  letter?  take  it  up,  I  pray  thee, 
And  give  the  king  this  fatal-plotted  scroll. — 
Now  question  me  no  more, — we  are  espied  ; 
Here  comes  a  parcel  of  our  hopeful  booty, 
Which  dreads  not  yet  their  lives'  destruction. 
Tarn.  Ah,  my  sweet  Moor,  sweeter  to  me 

than  life !  [comes : 

Aar.    No   more,   great   empress,    Bassianus 
Be  cross  with  him  ;  and  I  '11  go  fetch  thy  sons 
To  back  thy  quarrels,  whatsoe'er  they  be. 

[Exit. 


Enter  BASSIANUS  and  LAVINIA. 

£as.  Who   have   we   here?     Rome's   royal 

empress, 

Unfurnish'd  of  her  well -beseeming  troop? 
Or  is  it  Dian,  habited  like  her, 
Who  hath  abandoned  her  holy  groves 
To  see  the  general  hunting  in  this  forest  ? 

Tarn.  Saucy  controller  of  our  private  steps ! 
Had  I  the  power  that  some  say  Dian  had, 
Thy  temples  should  be  planted  presently 
With  horns,  as  was  Actseon's ;  and  the  hounds 
Should  drive  upon  thy  new-transformed  limbs, 
Unmannerly  intruder  as  thou  art ! 

Lav.   Under  your  patience,  gentle  empress, 
'Tis  thought  you  have  a  goodly  gift  in  horning ; 
And  to  be  doubted  that  your  Moor  and  you 
Are  singled  forth  to  try  experiments :        [day  ! 
Jove  shield  your  husband  from  his  hounds  to- 
'Tis  pity  they  should  take  him  for  a  stag. 

Bas.  Believe  me,  queen,  your  swarth  Cim- 
merian 

Doth  make  your  honour  of  his  body's  hue, 
Spotted,  detested,  and  abominable. 
Why  are  you  sequester'd  from  all  your  train, 
Dismounted  from  your  snow-white  goodly  steed. 
And  wander'd  hither  to  an  obscure  plot, 
Accompanied  but  with  a  barbarous  Moor, 
If  toul  desire  had  not  conducted  you  ? 

Lav.  And,  being  intercepted  in  your  sport, 
Great  reason  that  my  noble  lord  be  rated 
For  sauciness. — I  pray  you,  let  us  hence, 
And  let  her  joy  her  raven-colour'd  love  ; 
This  valley  fits  the  purpose  passing  welL 

Bas.  The  king  my  brother  shall  have  note  of 
this.  [noted  long : 

Lav.  Ay,  for  these  slips  have  made  him 
Good  king,  to  be  so  mightily  abus'd  ! 

Tarn.  Why  have  I  patience  to  endure  all  this? 

Enter  DEMETRIUS  and  CHIRON. 

Dem.  How  now,   dear  sovereign,   and  our 

gracious  mother  ! 

Why  doth  your  highness  look  so  pale  and  wan  ? 
Tarn.  Have  I  not  reason,  think  you,  to  look 

pale? 

These  two  have  'tic'd  me  hither  to  this  place : — 
A  barren  detested  vale  you  see  it  is ; 
The  trees,  though  summer,  yet  forlorn  and  lean, 
O'ercome  with  moss  and  baleful  mistletoe : 
Here  never  shines  the  sun ;  here  nothing  breeds. 
Unless  the  nightly  owl  or  fatal  raven  : — 
And  when  they  show'd  me  this  abhorred  pit 
They  told  me,  here  at  dead  time  of  the  night 
A  thousand  fiends,  a  thousand  hissing  snakes, 
Ten  thousand  swelling  toads,  as  many  urchins, 
Would  make  such  fearful  and  confused  cries 


978 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


[ACT  ii. 


As  any  mortal  body  hearing  it 

Should  straight  fall  mad  or  else  die  suddenly. 

No  sooner  had  they  told  this  hellish  tale 

But  straight  they  told  me  they  would  bind  me 

here 

Unto  the  body  of  a  dismal  yew, 
And  leave  me  to  this  miserable  death  : 
And  then  they  call'd  me  foul  adulteress, 
Lascivious  Goth,  and  all  the  bitterest  terms 
That  ever  ear  did  hear  to  such  effect : 
And  had  you  not  by  wondrous  fortune  come, 
This  vengeance  on  me  had  they  executed. 
Revenge  it,  as  you  love  your  mother's  life, 
Or  be  ye  not  henceforth  call'd  my  children. 
Dem.  This  is  a  witness  that  I  am  thy  son. 

\Stabs  BASSIANUS. 

Chi.  And  this  for  me,  struck  home  to  show 
my  strength. 

[Also  stabs  BAS.  ,  who  dies. 
Lav.  Ay,  come,  Semiramis, — nay,  barbarous 

Tamora, 

For  no  name  fits  thy  nature  but  thy  own  ! 
Tarn.  Give    me    thy    poniard ; — you    shall 
know,  my  boys,  [wrong. 

Your  mother's  hand  shall  right  your  mother's 
Dem.  Stay,  madam ;  here  is  more  belongs 
to  her  ;  [straw  : 

First  thrash   the  corn,   then  after   burn  the 
This  minion  stood  upon  her  chastity, 
Upon  her  nuptial  vow,  her  loyalty,          [ness  : 
And  with  that  painted  hope  braves  your  mighti- 
And  shall  she  carry  this  unto  her  grave  ? 

Chi.  An  if  she  do,  I  would  I  were  an  eunuch. 
Drag  hence  her  husband  to  some  secret  hole, 
And  make  his  dead  trunk  pillow  to  our  lust. 

Tarn.  But  when  ye  have  the  honey  ye  desire, 
Let  not  this  wasp  outlive,  us  both  to  sting. 
Chi.  I  warrant  you,  madam,  we  will  make 

that  sure. — 

Come,  mistress,  now  perforce  we  will  enjoy 
That  nice-preserved  honesty  of  yours,     [face, — 
Lav.  O  Tamora  !    thou  bear'st  a  woman's 
Tarn.  I  will  not  hear  her  speak  ;  away  with 
her  !  [a  word. 

Lav.  Sweet  lords,  entreat  her  hear  me  but 
Dent.    Listen,  fair  madam:   let  it  be  your 

glory 

To  see  her  tears  ;  but  be  your  heart  to  them 
As  unrelenting  flint  to  drops  of  rain,     [the  dam  ? 
Lav.  When  did  the  tiger's  young  ones  teach 
O,  do  not  learn  her  wrath, — she  taught  it  thee; 
The  milk  thou  suck'dst  from  her  did  turn  to 

marble ; 

Even  at  thy  teat  thou  hadst  thy  tyranny. — 
Yet  every  mother  breeds  not  sons  alike  : 
PO  thou  entreat  her  show  a  woman  pity. 

{To  CHIRON. 


Chi.  What,  wouldst   thou   have   me  prove 
myself  a  bastard  ?  [lark  : 

Lav.  'Tis  true,  the  raven  doth  not  hatch  a 
Yet  I  have  heard, — O,  could  I  find  it  now  ! — 
The  lion,  mov'd  with  pity,  did  endure 
To  have  his  princely  paws  par'd  all  away  : 
Some  say  that  ravens  foster  forlorn  children, 
The  whilst  their  own  birds  famish  in  their  nests: 
O,  be  to  me,  though  thy  hard  heart  say  no, 
Nothing  so  kind,  but  something  pitiful ! 

Tarn.  I  know  not  what  it  means : — away  with 

her! 
Lav.  O,  let  me  teach  thee  !  for  my  father's 

sake, 
That  gave  thee  life,  when  well  he  might  have 

slain  thee, 
Be  not  obdurate,  open  thy  deaf  ears. 

Tarn.  Hadst  thou  in  person  ne'er  offended  me, 
Even  for  his  sake  am  I  pitiless. — 
Remember,  boys,  I  pour'd  forth  tears  in  vain 
To  save  your  brother  from  the  sacrifice  ; 
But  fierce  Andronicus  would  not  relent : 
Therefore  away  with  her.  and  use  her  as  you 

will; 
The  worse  to  her  the  better  lov'd  of  me. 

Lav.  O  Tamora,  be  call'd  a  gentle  queen, 
And  with  thine  own  hands  kill  me  in  this  place  ! 
For  'tis  not  life  that  I  have  begg'd  so  long  ; 
Poor  I  was  slain  when  Bassianus  died. 

Tarn.  What  begg'st  thou,  then?  fond  woman, 

let  me  go. 
Lav.  'Tis  present  death  I  beg ;  and  one  thing 

more, 

That  womanhood  denies  my  tongue  to  tell : 
O,  keep  me  from  their  worse  than  killing  lust, 
And  tumble  me  into  some  loathsome  pit, 
Where  never  man's  eye  may  behold  my  body : 
Do  this,  and  be  a  charitable  murderer.       [fee  : 
Tarn.  So  should  I  rob  my  sweet  sons  of  their 
No,  let  them  satisfy  their  lust  on  thee.     [long. 
Dem.  Away  1  for  thou  hast  stay'd  us  here  too 
Lav.    No    grace?    no    womanhood?      Ah, 

beastly  creature  ! 

The  blot  and  enemy  to  our  general  name  ! 
Confusion  fall, — 

Chi.  Nay,  then  I  '11  stop  your  mouth : — bring 

thou  her  husband  : 

This  is  the  hole  where  Aaron  bid  us  hide  him. 
[DEM.  throws  BAS.'S  body  into  the  pit ;  then 

exit  with  CHI.,  dragging  off  LAV. 
Tarn.  Farewell,  my  sons:  see  that  you  make 

her  sure : — 

Ne'er  let  my  heart  know  merry  cheer  indeed 
Till  all  the  Andronici  be  made  away. 
Now  will  I  hence  to  seek  my  lovely  Moor, 
And  let  my  spleenful  sons  this  trull  deflower. 

IE**. 


SCENE  III.] 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


979 


Re-enter  AARON,  with  QUINTUS  and 
MARTI  us. 

Aar.  Come   on,  my  lords,  the   better   foot 

before  : 

Straight  will  I  bring  you  to  the  loathsome  pit 
Where  I  espied  the  panther  fast  asleep. 

Qttin.  My  sight  is  very  dull,  whate'er  it  bodes. 
Mart.  And  mine,  I  promise  you  ;  were 't  not 

for  shame, 
Well  could  I  leave  our  sport  to  sleep  awhile. 

[Falls  into  the  pit. 

Quin.  What,  art  thou  fallen? — What  subtle 

hole  is  this,  [briers, 

Whose   mouth   is  cover'd  with   rude-growing 

Upon  whose  leaves  are  drops  of  new-shed  blood 

As  fresh  as  morning's  dew  distill'd  on  flowers  ? 

A  very  fatal  place  it  seems  to  me. —  [fall? 

Speak,  brother,  hast  thou  hurt  thee  with  the 

Mart.   O  brother,  with  the  dismallest  object 

hurt 

That  ever  eye  with  sight  made  heart  lament  ! 
Aar.  [Aside.}  Now  will  I  fetch  the  king  to 

find  them  here, 

That  he  thereby  may  give  a  likely  guess 
How   these   were   they   that   made   away   his 
brother.  [Exit. 

Mart.  Why  dost  not  comfort  me,  and  help 

me  out 

From  this  unhallow'd  and  blood-stained  hole? 

Quin.  I  am  surprised  with  an  uncouth  fear  ; 

A  chilling  sweat  o'er-runs  my  trembling  joints ; 

My  heart  suspects  more  than  mine  eye  can  see. 

Mart.  To  prove  thou  hast  a  true  divining 

heart, 

Aaron  and  thou  look  down  into  this  den, 
And  see  a  fearful  sight  of  blood  and  death. 
Quin.  Aaron  is  gone ;  a'.id  my  compassionate 

heart 

Will  not  permit  mine  eyes  once  to  behold 
The  thing  whereat  it  trembles  by  surmise : 
O,  tell  me  how  it  is ;  for  ne'er  till  now 
Was  I  a  child  to  fear  I  know  not  what. 

Mart.  Lord  Bassianus  lies  embrewed  here, 
All  on  a  heap,  like  to  a  slaughter'd  lamb, 
In  this  detested,  dark,  blood-drinking  pit. 
Qiiin.  If  it  be  dark,  how  dost  thou  know 

'tis  he? 

Mart.  Upon  his  bloody  finger  he  doth  wear 
A  precious  ring  that  lightens  all  the  hole, 
Which,  like  a  taper  in  some  monument, 
Doth  shine  upon  the  dead  man's  earthy  cheeks, 
And  shows  the  ragged  entrails  of  the  pit : 
So  pale  did  shine  the  moon  on  Pyramus 
When  he  by  night  lay  bath'd  in  maiden  blood. 
O  brother,  help  me  with  thy  fainting  hand, — 
If  fear  hath  made  thee  faint,  as  me  it  hath, — 


Out  of  this  fell  devouring  receptacle, 
As  hateful  as  Cocytus'  misty  mouth. 

Qidn.  Reach  me  thy  hand,  that  I  may  help 

thee  out ; 

Or,  wanting  strength  to  do  thee  so  much  good, 
I  may  be  pluck'd  into  the  swallowing  womb 
Of  this  deep  pit,  poor  Bassianus'  grave. 
I  have  no  strength  to  pluck  thee  to  the  brink. 
Mart.  Nor  I  no  strength  to  climb  without 
thy  help.  [again, 

Quin.  Thy  hand  once  more ;  I  will  not  lose 
Till  thou  art  here  aloft,  or  I  below  : 
Thou  canst  not  come  to  me, — I  come  to  thee. 

[Falls  in. 

.  Enter  SATURNINUS  with  AARON. 

Sat.  Along  with  me  :  I  '11  see  what  hole  is 

here, 

And  what  he  is  that  now  is  leap'd  into  it. — 
Say,  who  art  thou  that  lately  didst  descend 
Into  this  gaping  hollow  of  the  earth  ? 

Mart.  The  unhappy  son  of  old  Andronicus, 
Brought  hither  in  a  most  unlucky  hour, 
To  find  thy  brother  Bassianus  dead.  [jest : 

Sat.  My  brother  dead  !  I  know  thou  dost  but 
He  and  his  lady  both  are  at  the  lodge 
Upon  the  north  side  of  this  pleasant  chase  ; 
'Tis  not  an  hour  since  I  left  him  there. 

Mart.  We  know  not  where  you  left  him  all 

alive ; 
But,  out,  alas  !  here  have  we  found  him  dead. 

Re-enter  TAMORA,  with  Attendants  ;  TITUS 
ANDRONICUS  and  Lucius. 

Tarn.  Where  is  my  lord  the  king  ? 

Sat.  Here,  Tamora ;  though  griev'd  with  kill- 
ing grief. 

Tarn.  Where  is  thy  brother  Bassianus  ? 

Sat.  Now  to  the  bottom  dost  thou  search  my 

wound : 
Poor  Bassianus  here  lies  murdered. 

Tarn.  Then  all  too  late  I  bring  this  fatal  writ, 
[Giving  a  letter. 

The  complot  of  this  timeless  tragedy  ; 
And  wonder  greatly  that  man's  face  can  fold 
In  pleasing  smiles  such  murderous  tyranny. 

Sat.  [Reads.}  An  if  we  miss  to  meet  him 

handsomely, — 

Sweet  huntsman,  Bassianus  "'tis  we  mean, — 
Do  thou  so  much  as  dig  the  grave  for  him : 
Thou  know'st  our  meaning.  Look  for  thy  reward 
Among  the  nettles  at  the  elder  tree 
Which  over  shades  the  mouth  of  that  same  pit 
Where  we  decreed  to  bury  Bassianus. 
Do  this,  and  purchase  us  thy  lasting  friends. 
O  Tamora  !  was  ever  heard  the  like  ? — 
This  is  the  pit  and  this  the  elder  tree  : — 


98o 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


[ACT  n. 


Look,  sirs,  if  you  can  find  the  huntsman  out 
That  should  have  murder'd  Bassianus  here. 

Aar.  My  gracious  lord,  here  is  the  bag  of  gold. 

[Showing  it. 

Sat.  [To  TITUS.]  Two  of  thy  whelps,  fell  curs 

of  bloody  kind, 

Have  here  bereft  my  brother  of  his  life. — 
Sirs,  drag  them  from  the  pit  unto  the  prison  : 
There  let  them  bide  until  we  have  devis'd 
Some  never-heard-of  torturing  pain  for  them. 

Tarn.  What,  are  they  in  this  pit?  O  wondrous 

thing  ! 
How  easily  murder  is  discovered  ! 

Tit.  High  emperor,  upon  my  feeble  knee 
I  beg  this  boon,  with  tears  not  lightly  shed, 
That  this  fell  fault  of  my  accursed  sons, — 
Accursed  if  the  fault  be  prov'd  in  them, — 

Sat.  If  it  be  prov'd !  you  see  it  is  apparent. — 
Who  found  this  letter  ?     Tamora,  was  it  you  ? 

Tarn.  Andronicus  himself  did  take  it  up. 

Tit.  I  did,  my  lord :  yet  let  me  be  their  bail ; 
For,  by  my  father's  reverend  tomb,  I  vow 
They  shall  be  ready  at  your  highness'  will 
To  answer  their  suspicion  with  their  lives. 

Sat.  Thou  shah  not  bail  them :  see  thou  follow 
me. —  [murderers : 

Some  bring  the  murder'd  body,  some  the 
Let  them  not  speak  a  word, — the  guilt  is  plain; 
For,  by  my  soul,  were  there  worse  end  than  death, 
That  end  upon  them  should  be  executed. 

Tarn.  Andronicus,  I  will  entreat  the  king : 
Fear  not  thy  sons  ;  they  shall  do  well  enough. 

Tit.  Come,  Lucius,  come ;  stay  not  to  talk 

with  them. 
[Exeunt  severally.  Attendants  bearing  the  body. 

SCENE  IV. — Another  part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  DEMETRIUS  and  CHI  RON,  with  LAVINIA 
ravished ;  her  hands  cut  off,  and  her  tongue 
cut  out. 

Dem.  So,  now  go  tell,  and  if  thy  tongue  can 

speak, 

Who  'twas  that  cut  thy  tongue  and  ravish'd  thee. 
Chi.  Write  down  thy  mind,  bewray  thy  mean- 
ing so, 

And  if  thy  stumps  will  let  thee  play  the  scribe. 

Dem.  See,  how  with  signs  and  tokens  she  can 

scrowl.  [hands. 

Chi.  Go  home,  call  for  sweet  water,  wash  thy 

Dem.  She  hath  no  tongue  to  call,  nor  hands 

to  wash ; 

And  so  let 's  leave  her  to  her  silent  walks. 

Chi.  An  'twere  my  case  I  should  go  hang 

myself.  [the  cord. 

Dem.  If  thou  hadst  hands  to  help  thee  knit 

[Exeunt  DEM.  and  CHI. 


Enter  MARCUS. 

Marc.  Who  is  this, — my  niece, — that  flies 

away  so  fast  ? — 

Cousin,  a  word  ;  where  is  your  husband  ? — 
If  I  do  dream,  would  all  my  wealth  would 

wake  me ! 

If  I  do  wake,  some  planet  strike  me  down, 
That  I  may  slumber  in  eternal  sleep  ! — 
Speak,    gentle    niece,— what    stern    ungentle 

hands  [bare 

Have  lopp'd,  and  hew'd,  and  made  thy  body 
Of  her  two  branches, — those  sweet  ornaments 
Whose  circling  shadows  kings  have  sought  to 

sleep  in, 

And  might  not  gain  so  great  a  happiness 
As  have  thy  love  ?  Why  dost  not  speak  to  me?— 
Alas,  a  crimson  river  of  warm  blood, 
Like  to  a  bubbling  fountain  stirr'd  with  wind, 
Doth  rise  and  fall  between  thy  rosed  lips, 
Coming  and  going  with  thy  honeyed  breath. 
But  sure  some  Tereus  hath  deflowered  thee, 
And  lest  thou  shouldst   detect  him,  cut   thy 

tongue. 

Ah,  now  thou  turn'st  away  thy  face  for  shame  J 
And  notwithstanding  all  this  loss  of  blood, — 
As  from  a  conduit  with  three  issuing  spouts, — 
Yet  do  thy  cheeks  look  red  as  Titan's  face 
Blushing  to  be  encounter'd  with  a  cloud. 
Shall  I  speak  for  thee?  shall  I  say  'tis  so  ? 
O,  that  I  knew  thy  heart,  and  knew  the  beast, 
That  I  might  rail  at  him,  to  ease  my  mind  ! 
Sorrow  concealed,  like  an  oven  stopp'd, 
Doth  burn  the  heart  to  cinders  where  it  is. 
Fair  Philomela,  she  but  lost  her  tongue, 
And  in  a  tedious  sampler  sew'd  her  mind  : 
But,  lovely  niece,  that  mean  is  cut  from  thee ; 
A  craftier  Tereus,  cousin,  hast  thou  met, 
And  he  hath  cut  those  pretty  fingers  off 
That  could  have  better  sew'd  than  Philomel. 
O,  had  the  monster  seen  those  lily  hands 
Tremble,  like  aspen  leaves,  upon  a  lute, 
And  make  the  silken   strings  delight   to  kiss 

them,  [life ! 

He  would  not  then  have  touch'd  them  for  his 
Or  had  he  heard  the  heavenly  harmony 
Which  that  sweet  tongue  hath  made, 
He  would  have  dropp'd  his  knife,  and  fell  asleep 
As  Cerberus  at  the  Thracian  poet's  feet. 
Come,  let  us  go,  and  make  thy  father  blind  ; 
For  such  a  sight  will  blind  a  father's  eye  : 
One  hour's  storm  will  drown  the  fragrant  meads  • 
What  will  whole  months  of  tears  thy  father's 

eyes? 

Do  not  draw  back,  for  we  will  mourn  with  thee : 
O,  could  our  mourning  ease  thy  misery  ! 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  I.] 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


981 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — ROME.     A  Street. 

Enter  Senators,  Tribunes,  a/z^Officers  of  Justice, 
-with  MARTI  us  a«</  QUINTUS  bound,  passing 
on  to  the  place  of  execution  ;  TlTUS  going 
before \  pleading. 

Tit.  Hear  me,  grave  fathers !  noble  tribunes, 

stay  ! 

For  pity  of  mine  age,  whose  youth  was  spent 
In  dangerous  wars,  whilst  you  securely  slept ; 
For  all  my  blood  in  Rome's  great  quarrel  shed ; 
For  all  the  frosty  nights  that  I  have  watch'd  ; 
And  for  these  bitter  tears,  which  now  you  see 
Filling  the  aged  wrinkles  in  my  cheeks  ; 
Be  pitiful  to  my  condemned  sons, 
Whose  souls  are  not  corrupted  as  'tis  thought. 
For  two-and-twenty  sons  I  never  wept, 
Because  they  died  in  honour's  lofty  bed. 
For  these,  good  tribunes,  in  the  dust  I  write 

{Throwing  himself  on  the  ground. 
My  heart's  deep  languor  and  my  soul's  sad  tears : 
Let  my  tears  stanch  the  earth's  dry  appetite  ; 
My  sons'  sweet  blood  will  make  it  shame  and 

blush. 

{Exeunt  Sen.,  Trib.,  &c.,  with  the  prisoners. 
O  earth,  I  will  befriend  thee  more  with  rain, 
That  shall  distil  from  these  two  ancient  ruins, 
Than  youthful  April  shall  with  all  his  showers: 
In  summer's  drought  I  '11  drop  upon  thee  still ; 
In  winter,  with  warm  tears  I  '11  melt  the  snow, 
And  keep  eternal  spring-time  on  thy  face, 
So  thou  refuse  to  drink  my  dear  sons'  blood. 

Enter  Lucius  -with  his  s-word  drawn. 

O  reverend  tribunes  !  O  gentle  aged  men ! 
Unbind  my  sons,  reverse  the  doom  of  death  ; 
And  let  me  say,  that  never  wept  before, 
My  tears  are  now  prevailing  orators. 

Luc.  O  noble  father,  you  lament  in  vain  : 
The  tribunes  hear  you  not,  no  man  is  by ; 
And  you  recount  your  sorrows  to  a  stone. 

Tit.  Ah,    Lucius,  for   thy  brothers  let   me 

plead. — 
Grave  tribunes,  once  more  I  entreat  of  you. 

Luc.  My  gracious  lord,  no  tribune  hears  you 
speak.  [hear 

Tit.  Why,  'tis  no  matter,  man  :  if  they  did 
They  would  not  mark  me  ;  or  if  they  did  mark 
They  would  not  pity  me  ;  yet  plead  I  must, 
And  bootless  unto  them. 
Therefore  I  tell  my  sorrows  to  the  stones ; 
Why,  though  they  cannot  answer  my  distress, 
Yet   in  some   sort   they   are   better   than   the 
tribunes, 


For  that  they  will  not  intercept  my  tale  : 
When  I  do  weep  they  humbly  at  my  feet 
Receive  my  tears,  and  seem  to  weep  with  me ; 
And  were  they  but  attired  in  grave  weeds 
Rome  could  afford  no  tribune  like  to  these. 
A  stone  is  soft  as  wax,  tribunes  more  hard  than 

stones ; 

A  stone  is  silent,  and  offendeth  not, — 
And   tribunes  with   their  tongues   doom  men 

to  death.  {Rises. 

But  wherefore  stard'st  thou  with  thy  weapon 

drawn?  [death : 

Luc.  To  rescue  my  two  brothers  from  their 
For  which  attempt  the  judges  have  pronounc'd 
My  everlasting  doom  of  banishment. 

Tit.  O  happy  man  !   they  have  befriended 

thee. 

Why,  foolish  Lucius,  dost  thou  not  perceive 
That  Rome  is  but  a  wilderness  of  tigers  ? 
Tigers  must  prey  ;  and  Rome  affords  no  prey 
But  me  and  mine  :  how  happy  art  thou,  then, 
From  these  devourers  to  be  banished  ! — 
But  who  comes  with  our  brother  Marcus  here? 

Enter  MARCUS  and  LAVINIA. 

Marc.  Titus,  prepare  thy  aged  eyes  to  weep; 
Or  if  not  so,  thy  noble  heart  to  break  : 
I  bring  consuming  sorrow  to  thine  age. 

Tit.  Will  it  consume  me  ?  let  me  see  it  then. 

Marc.  This  was  thy  daughter. 

Tit.  Why,  Marcus,  so  she  is. 

Luc.  Ay  me  !  this  object  kills  me  !      [her. — 

Tit.  Faint-hearted  boy,  arise,  and  look  upon 
Speak,  my  Lavinia,  what  accursed  hand 
Hath  made  thee  handless  in  thy  father's  sight  ? 
What  fool  hath  added  water  to  the  sea, 
Or  brought  a  fagot  to  bright-burning  Troy? 
My  grief  was  at  the  height  before  thou  cam'st ; 
And  now,  like  Nilus,  it  disdaineth  bounds. 
Give  me  a  sword,  I  '11  chop  off  my  hands  too  ; 
For  they  have  fought  for  Rome,  and  all  in  vain ; 
And  they  have  nurs'd  this  woe  in  feeding  life ; 
In  bootless  prayer  have  they  been  held  up, 
And  they  have  serv'd  me  to  effectless  use  : 
Now  all  the  service  I  require  of  them 
Is  that  the  one  will  help  to  cut  the  other. — 
'Tis  well,  Lavinia,  that  thou  hast  no  hands  ; 
For  hands,  to  do  Rome  service,  are  but  vain. 

Luc.  Speak,  gentle  sister,  who  hath  martyr'd 
thee? 

Marc.  O,that  delightful  engine  ofher  thoughts, 
That  blabb'd  them  with  such  pleasing  eloquence, 
Is  torn  from  forth  that  pretty  hollow  cage, 
Where,  like  a  sweet  melodious  bird,  it  sung 
Sweet  varied  notes,  enchanting  every  ear  ! 

Luc.  O,  say  thou  for  her,  who  hath  done  thia 
deed? 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


[ACT  in. 


Marc.  O,  thus  I  found  her,  straying  in  the 

park, 

Seeking  to  hide  herself,  as  doth  the  deer 
That  hath  receiv'd  some  unrecuring  wound. 

Tit.  It  was  my  deer  ;  and  he  that  wounded 

her 

Hath  hurt  me  more  than  had  he  kill'd  me  dead : 
For  now  I  stand  as  one  upon  a  rock, 
Eaviron'd  with  a  wilderness  of  sea  ; 
Who  marks  the  waxing  tide  grow  wave  by  wave, 
Expecting  ever  when  some  envious  surge 
Will  in  his  brinish  bowels  swallow  him. 
This  way  to  death  my  wretched  sons  are  gone  ; 
Here  stands  my  other  son,  a  banish'd  man  ; 
And  here  my  brother,  weeping  at  my  woes  : 
But  that  which  gives  my  soul  the  greatest  spurn 
Is  dear  Lavinia,  dearer  than  my  soul. — 
Had  I  but  seen  thy  picture  in  this  plight 
It  would  have  madded  me  :  what  shall  I  do 
Now  I  behold  thy  lively  body  so  ? 
Thou  hast  no  hands  to  wipe  away  thy  tears, 
Nor  tongue  to  tell  me  who  hath  martyr'd  thee  : 
Thy  husband  he  is  dead ;  and  for  his  death 
Thy  brothers  are  condemn'd,  and  dead  by  this. — 
Look,  Marcus  ! — ah,  son  Lucius,  look  on  her  ! 
When  I  did  name  her  brothers,  then  fresh  tears 
Stood  on  her  cheeks,  as  doth  the  honey  dew 
Upon  a  gather'd  lily  almost  wither'd. 

Marc.    Perchance   she  weeps  because  they 

kill'd  her  husband  : 
Perchance  because  she  knows  them  innocent. 

Tit.  If  they  did  kill  thy  husband,  then  be 


joyful, 
the  lau 


Because  the  law  hath  ta'en  revenge  on  them. — 
No,  no,  they  would  not  do  so  foul  a  deed ; 
Witness  the  sorrow  that  their  sister  makes.— 
Gentle  Lavinia,  let  me  kiss  thy  lips  ; 
Or  make  some  sign  how  I  may  do  thee  ease  : 
Shall  thy  good  uncle,  and  thy  brother  Lucius, 
And  thou,  and  I,  sit  round  about  some  fountain, 
Looking  all  downwards,  to  behold  our  cheeks 
How  they  are  stain'd,  as  meadows,  yet  not  dry, 
With  miry  slime  left  on  them  by  a  flood  ? 
And  in  the  fountain  shall  we  gaze  so  long, 
Till  the  fresh  taste  be  taken  from  that  clearness, 
And  made  a  brine-pit  with  our  bitter  tears  ? 
Or  shall  we  cut  away  our  hands  like  thine  ? 
Or  shall  we  bite  our  tongues,  and  in  dumb  shows 
Pass  the  remainder  of  our  hateful  days  ? 
What  shall  we  do?  let  us,  that  have  our  tongues, 
Plot  some  device  of  further  misery, 
To  make  us  wonder'd  at  in  time  to  come. 

Luc.  Sweet  father,  cease  your  tears ;  for  at 

your  grief 
See  how  my  wretched  sister  sobs  and  weeps. 

Marc.  Patience,   dear  niece. — Good  Titus, 
dry  thine  eyes. 


Tit.  Ah,  Marcus,  Marcus!  brother, well  I  wot 
Thy  napkin  cannot  drink  a  tear  of  mine, 
For  thou,  poor  man,  hast  drown'd  it  with  thine 

own. 

Luc.  Ah,  my  Lavinia,  I  will  wipe  thy  cheeks. 
Tit.  Mark,  Marcus,  mark  !  I  understand  her 

signs: 
Had  she  a  tongue  to   speak,  now  would  she 

say 

That  to  her  brother  which  I  said  to  thee  : 
His  napkin,  with  his  true  tears  all  bewet, 
Can  do  no  service  on  her  sorrowful  cheeks. 
O,  what  a  sympathy  of  woe  is  this, — 
As  far  from  help  as  limbo  is  from  bliss ! 

Enter  AARON. 

Aar.  Titus  Andronicus,  my  lord  the  emperor 
Sends  thee  this  word, — that  if  thou  love  thy  sons, 
Let  Marcus,  Lucius,  or  thyself,  old  Titus, 
Or  any  one  of  you,  chop  off  your  hand 
And  send  it  to  the  king  :  he  for  the  same 
Will  send  thee  hither  both  thy  sons  alive  ; 
And  that  shall  be  the  ransom  for  their  fault. 

Tit.  O  gracious  emperor  !    O  gentle  Aaron  ! 
Did  ever  raven  sing  so  like  a  lark 
That  gives  sweet  tidings  of  the  sun's  uprise  ? 
With  all  my  heart  I  "11  send  the  emperor 
My  hand : 

Good  Aaron,  wilt  thou  help  to  chop  it  off? 
Luc.  Stay,  father  !  for    that  noble  hand  of 

thine, 

That  hath  thrown  down  so  many  enemies, 
Shall  not  be  sent :  my  hand  will  serve  the  turn : 
My  youth  can  better  spare  my  blood  than  you ; 
And  therefore  mine  shall  save  my  brothers'  lives. 
Marc.  Which  of  your  hands  hath  not  defended 

Rome, 

And  rear'd  aloft  the  bloody  battle-axe, 
Writing  destruction  on  the  enemy's  castle  ? 
O,  none  of  both  but  are  of  high  desert : 
My  hand  hath  been  but  idle  ;  let  it  serve 
To  ransom  my  two  nephews  from  their  death  ; 
Then  have  I  kept  it  to  a  worthy  end. 

Aar.  Nay,  come,   agree  whose  hand  shall 

go  along, 

For  fear  they  die  before  their  pardon  come. 
Marc.   My  hand  shall  go. 
Luc.  By  heaven,  it  shall  not  go  ! 

Tit.  Sirs,  strive  no  more  :  such  wither'd  herbs 

as  these 

Are  meet  for  plucking  up,  and  therefore  mine. 
L^^c.  Sweet  father,  if  I  shall  be  thought  thy 

son, 

Let  me  redeem  my  brothers  both  from  death.^ 
Marc.  And  for  our  father's  sake  and  mother's 

care, 
Now  let  me  show  a  brother's  love  to  thee. 


SCENE  I.] 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


983 


Tit.  Agree  between  you  ;    I  will  spare  my 

hand. 

Luc.  Then  I'll  go  fetch  an  axe. 
Marc.  But  I  will  use  the  axe. 

{Exeunt  Lucius  and  MARCUS. 
Tit.  Come  hither,  Aaron  ;  I  'li  deceive  them 

both: 

Lend  me  thy  hand,  and  I  will  give  thee  mine. 
Aar.  [Aside.}  If  that  be  call'd  deceit,  I  will 

be  honest, 

And  never  whilst  I  live  deceive  men  so  : — 
But  I  '11  deceive  you  in  another  sort, 
And  that  you  '11  say  ere  half  an  hour  pass. 

[He  cuts  off  TITUS'S  hand. 

Re-enter  Lucius  and  MARCUS. 

Tit.  Now  stay  your  strife  :  what  shall  be  is 

despatch'd. — 

Good  Aaron,  give  his  majesty  my  hand  : 
Tell  him  it  was  a  hand  that  warded  him 
From  thousand  dangers  ;  bid  him  bury  it  j 
More  hath  it  merited, — that  let  it  have. 
As  for  my  sons,  say  I  account  of  them 
As  jewels  purchas'd  at  an  easy  price  ; 
And  yet  dear  too,  because  I  bought  mine  own. 

Aar.  I  go,  Andronicus  :  and  for  thy  hand 
Look  by  and  by  to  have  thy  sons  with  thee : — 
Their  heads  I  mean.     O,  how  this  villany 

[Aside. 

Doth  fat  me  with  the  very  thoughts  of  it  ! 
Let  fools  do  good,  and  fair  men  call  for  grace, 
Aaron  will  have  his  soul  black  like  his  face. 

[Exit. 

Tit.  O,  here  I  lift  this  one  hand  up  to  heaven, 
And  bow  this  feeble  ruin  to  the  earth  : 
If  any  power  pities  wretched  tears, 
To  that  I  call  ! — [To   LAVINIA.]  What,  wilt 

thou  kneel  with  me  ? 
Do,  then,  dear  heart ;    for  heaven  shall  hear 

our  prayers  ; 

Or  with  our  sighs  we  '11  breathe  the  welkin  dim, 
And  stain  the  sun  with  fog,  as  sometime  clouds 
When  they  do  hug  him  in  their  melting  bosoms. 

Marc.  O  brother,  speak  with  possibilities, 
And  do  not  break  into  these  deep  extremes. 
Tit.    Is  not   my  sorrow   deep,    having   no 

bottom  ? 

Then  be  my  passions  bottomless  with  them. 
Marc.  But  yet  let  reason  govern  thy  lament. 
Tit.^  If  there  were  reason  for  these  miseries, 
Then  into  limits  could  I  bind  my  woes : 
When  heaven  doth  weep,  doth  not  the  earth 

o'erflow  ? 

If  the  winds  rage,  doth  not  the  sea  wax  mad, 
Threatening  the  welkin  with  his  big-swoln  face? 
And  wilt  thou  have  a  reason  for  this  coil  ? 
I  am  the  sea  ;  hark,  how  her  sighs  do  flow  I 


She  is  the  weeping  welkin,  I  the  earth  : 
Then  must  my  sea  be  moved  with  her  sighs ; 
Then  must  my  earth  with  her  continual  tears 
Become  a  deluge,  overflow'd  and  drown'd  : 
For  why  my  bowels  cannot  hide  her  woes, 
But  like  a  drunkard  must  I  vomit  them. 
Then  give  me  leave  ;  for  losers  will  have  leave 
To  ease  their  stomachs  with  their  bitter  tongues. 

Enter  a  Messenger,  with  two  heads  and  a  hand. 

Mess.  Worthy  Andronicus,  ill  art  thou  repaid 
For  that  good  hand  thou  sent'st  the  emperor. 
Here  are  the  heads  of  thy  two  noble  sons ; 
And  here's  thy  hand,  in  scorn  to  thee  sent 

back,— 

Thy  griefs  their  sports,  thy  resolution  mock'd  : 
That  woe  is  me  to  think  upon  thy  woes, 
More  than  remembrance  of  my  father's  death. 

[Exit. 

Marc.  Now  let  hot  yEtna  cool  in  Sicily, 
And  be  my  heart  an  ever-burning  hell ! 
These  miseries  are  more  than  may  be  borne. 
To  weep  with  them  that  weep  doth  ease  some 

deal ; 
But  sorrow  flouted  at  is  double  death. 

Luc.  Ah,  that  this  sight  should  make  so  deep 

a  wound, 

And  yet  detested  life  not  shrink  thereat ! 
That  ever  death  should  let  life  bear  his  name, 
Where  life  hath  no  more  interest  but  to  breathe ! 
[LAVINIA  kisses  him. 

Marc.  Alas,  poor  heart,  that  kiss  is  comfort- 
less 

As  frozen  water  to  a  starved  snake.  [end  ? 

Tit.  When  will  this  fearful  slumber  have  an 
Marc.  Now,  farewell,  flattery:  die,  Androni- 
cus ;  [heads, 
Thou  dost  not  slumber :    see  thy  two  sons' 
Thy  warlike  hand,  thy  mangled  daughter  here  ; 
Thy  other  banish'd  son,  with  this  dear  sight 
Struck  pale  and  bloodless ;  and  thy  brother,  I, 
Even  like  a  stony  image,  cold  and  numb. 
Ah  !  now  no  more  will  I  control  thy  griefs : 
Rent  off  thy  silver  hair,  thy  other  hand 
Gnawing  with  thy  teeth ;  and  be  this  dismal 

sight 

The  closing  up  of  our  most  wretched  eyes  : 
Now  is  a  time  to  storm  ;  why  art  thou  still  ? 
Tit.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  [this  hour. 

Marc.  Why  dost  thou  laugh  ?  it  fits  not  with 
Tit.  Why,  I  have  not  another  tear  to  shed ; 
Besides,  this  sorrow  is  an  enemy, 
And  would  usurp  upon  my  watery  eyes, 
And  make  them  blind  with  tributary  tears : 
Then  which  way  shall  I  find  revenge's  cave  ? 
For  these  two  heads  do  seem  to  speak  to  me, 
And  threat  me  I  shall  never  come  to  bliss 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


[ACT  in. 


Till  all  these  mischiefs  be  return'd  again 
Even  in  their  throats  that  have  committed  them. 
Come,  let  me  see  what  task  I  have  to  do. — 
You  heavy  people  circle  me  about, 
That  I  may  turn  me  to  each  one  of  you, 
And  swear  unto  my  soul  to  right  your  wrongs. — 
The   vow   is   made. — Come,    brother,   take  a 

head; 

And  in  this  hand  the  other  will  I  bear. 
Lavinia,  thou  shalt  be  employ'd  in  these  things ; 
Bear  thou  my  hand,  sweet  wench,  between  thy 

teeth. 

As  for  thee,  boy,  go,  get  thee  from  my  sight ; 
Thou  art  an  exile,  and  thou  must  not  stay  : 
Hie  to  the  Goths,  and  raise  an  army  there : 
And  if  you  love  me,  as  I  think  you  do, 
Let 's  kiss  and  part,  for  we  have  much  to  do. 

[Exeunt  TITUS,  MARCUS,  and  LAVINIA. 
Luc.      Farewell,     Andronicus,     my    noble 

father, — 

The  woefull'st  man  that  ever  liv'd  in  Rome  : 
Farewell,  proud  Rome  ;  till  Lucius  come  again, 
He  leaves  his  pledges  dearer  than  his  life  : 
Farewell,  Lavinia,  my  noble  sister  ; 
O,  would  thou  wert  as  thou  'tofore  hast  been  ! 
But  now  nor  Lucius  nor  Lavinia  lives 
But  in  oblivion  and  hateful  griefs. 
If  Lucius  live,  he  will  requite  your  wrongs, 
And  make  proud  Saturnine  and  his  empress 
Beg  at  the  gates,  like  Tarquin  and  his  queen. 
Now  will  I  to  the  Goths,  and  raise  a  power 
To  be  reveng'd  on  Rome  and  Saturnine. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  II. — ROME.  A  Room  in  TITUS'S  House. 
A  Banquet  set  out. 

Enter  TITUS,  MARCUS,  LAVINIA,  <ZW</YOUNG 
Lucius,  a  boy. 

Tit.  So,  so ;  now  sit :  and  look  you  eat  no 

more 

Than  will  preserve  just  so  much  strength  in  us 
As  will  revenge  these  bitter  woes  of  ours. 
Marcus,  unknit  that  sorrow- wreathen  knot : 
Thy  niece  and  I,  poor  creatures,  want  our  hands, 
And  cannot  passionate  our  tenfold  grief 
With  folded  arms.     This  poor  right  hand  of 

mine 

Is  left  to  tyrannize  upon  my  breast ; 
And  when  my  heart,  all  mad  with  misery, 
Beats  in  this  hollow  prison  of  my  flesh, 
Then  thus  I  thump  it  down. — 
Thou  map  of  woe,  that  thus  dost  talk  in  signs  ! 

[To  LAVINIA. 
When  thy  poor  heart  beats  with  outrageous 

beating, 
Thou  canst  not  strike  it  thus  to  make  it  still. 


Wound  it  with  sighing,  girl ;  kill  it  with  groans  ; 
Or  get  some  little  knife  between  thy  teeth, 
And  just  against  thy  heart  make  thou  a  hole, 
That  all  the  tears  that  thy  poor  eyes  let  fall 
May  run  into  that  sink,  and,  soaking  in, 
Drown  the  lamenting  fool  in  sea-salt  tears. 
Marc.  Fie,  brother,  fie !  teach  her  not  thus 

to  lay 
Such  violent  hands  upon  her  tender  life. 

Tit.  How  now !  has  sorrow  made  thee  dote 

already  ? 

Why,  Marcus,  no  man  should  be  mad  but  I. 
What  violent  hands  can  she  lay  on  her  life? 
Ah,  wherefore  dost  thou  urge  the  name  of 

hands ; — 

To  bid  ^Eneas  tell  the  tale  twice  o'er 
How  Troy  was  burnt  and  he  made  miserable? 
O,  handle  not  the  theme,  to  talk  of  hands, 
Lest  we  remember  still  that  we  have  none. — 
Fie,  fie,  how  frantically  I  square  my  talk, — 
As  if  we  should  forget  we  had  no  hands, 
If  Marcus  did  not  name  the  word  of  hands ! — 
Come,  let's  fall  to;  and,  gentle  girl,  eat  this. — 
Here  is  no  drink!     Hark,  Marcus,  what  she 

says  ;— 

I  can  interpret  all  her  martyr'd  signs ; — 
She  says  she  drinks  no  other  drink  but  tears, 
Brew'd   with   her   sorrow,    mesh'd    upon  her 

cheeks : — 

Speechless  complainer,  I  will  learn  thy  thought ; 
In  thy  dumb  action  will  I  be  as  perfect 
As  begging  hermits  in  their  holy  prayers: 
Thou  shalt  not  sigh,  nor  hold  thy  stumps  to 

heaven, 

Nor  wink,  nor  nod,  nor  kneel,  nor  make  a  sign, 

But  I  of  these  will  wrest  an  alphabet,         [ing. 

And  by  still  practice  learn  to  know  thy  mean- 

Y.  Luc.  Good  grandsire,  leave  these  bitter 

deep  laments: 

Make  my  aunt  merry  with  some  pleasing  tale. 
Marc.  Alas,  the  tender  boy,  in  passion  mov'd, 
Doth  weep  to  see  his  grandsire's  heaviness. 
Tit.  Peace,  tender  sapling ;  thou  art  made  of 

tears, 
And  tears  will  quickly  melt  thy  life  away. — 

[MARCUS  strikes  the  dish  with  a  knife. 
What  dost  thou  strike  at,   Marcus,  with  thy 

knife? 
Marc.  At  that  that  I  have  kill'd,  my  lord,— 

a  fly. 
Tit.  Out  on  thee,  murderer  !  thou  kill'st  my 

heart ; 

Mine  eyes  are  cloy'd  with  view  of  tyranny : 
A  deed  of  death  done  on  the  innocent 
Becomes  not  Titus'  brother :  get  thee  gone ; 
I  see  thou  art  not  for  my  company. 

Marc.  Alas,  my  lord,  I  have  but  kill'd  a  fly. 


SCENE  II.] 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


985 


Tit.  But  how  if  that  fly  had  a  father  and 

mother? 

How  would  he  hang  his  slender  gilded  wings, 
And  buzz  lamenting  doings  in  the  air ! 
Poor  harmless  fly, 

That  with  his  pretty  buzzing  melody 
Came  here  to  make  us  merry !  and  thou  hast 
kill'd  him.  [favour'd  fly, 

Marc.   Pardon  me,   sir;    'twas  a  black  ill- 
Like  to  the  empress'  Moor;  therefore  I  kill'd 
him. 

Tit.  O,  O,  O. 

Then  pardon  me  for  reprehending  thee, 
For  thou  hast  done  a  charitable  deed. 
Give  me  thy  knife,  I  will  insult  on  him 
Flattering  myself  as  if  it  were  the  Moor 
Come  hither  purposely  to  poison  me. — 
There's  for  thyself,  and  that's  for  Tamora. — 
Ah,  sirrah ! 

Yet  I  do  think  we  are  not  brought  so  low 
But  that  between  us  we  can  kill  a  fly 
That  comes  in  likeness  of  a  coal-black  Moor. 

Marc.  Alas,  poor  man !  grief  has  so  wrought 

on  him, 
He  takes  false  shadows  for  true  substances. 

Tit.  Come,  take  away. — Lavinia,  go  with  me: 
I  '11  to  thy  closet ;  and  go  read  with  thee 
Sad  stories  chanced  in  the  times  of  old. — 
Come,  boy,  and  go  with  me :  thy  sight  is  young, 
And  thou  shalt  read  when  mine  begins  to  dazzle. 

\Exeunt. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — ROME.     Before  TITUS'S  House. 

Enter  TITUS  and  MARCUS.  Then  enter 
YOUNG  Lucius  running,  with  books  under 
his  arm,  and  LAVINIA  running  after  him. 

Y.  Luc.    Help,  grandsire,  help!    my  aunt 

Lavinia 

Follows  me  everywhere,  I  know  not  why. — 

Good  uncle  Marcus,  see  how  swift  she  comes ! 

Alas,  sweet  aunt,  I  know  not  what  you  mean. 

Marc.  Stand  by  me,   Lucius :  do  not  fear 

thine  aunt.  [harm. 

Tit.  She  loves  thee,  boy,  too  well  to  do  thee 

Y.  Luc.  Ay,  when  my  father  was  in  Rome 

she  did.  [signs? 

Marc.  What  means  my  niece  Lavinia  by  these 

Tit.  Fear  her  not,  Lucius:  somewhat  doth 

she  mean : — 

See,  Lucius,  see  how  much  she  makes  of  thee : 
Somewhither  would  she  have  thee  go  with  her. 
Ah,  boy,  Cornelia  never  with  more  care 
Read  to  her  sons  than  she  hath  read  to  thee 
Sweet  poetry  and  Tully's  Orator. 


Marc.  Canst  thou  not  guess  wherefore  she 
plies  thee  thus?  [guess, 

Y.  Luc.  My  lord,  I  know  not,  I,  nor  can  I 
Unless  some  fit  or  frenzy  do  possess  her: 
For  I  have  heard  my  grandsire  say  full  oft 
Extremity  of  griefs  would  make  men  mad ; 
And  I  have  read  that  Hecuba  of  Troy 
Ran  mad  through  sorrow :    that  made  me   to 

fear; 

Although,  my  lord,  I  know  my  noble  aunt 
Loves  me  as  dear  as  e'er  my  mother  did, 
And  would  not,  but  in  fury,  fright  my  youth : 
Which  made  me  down  to  throw  my  books,  and 

fly,— 

Causeless,  perhaps :  but  pardon  me,  sweet  aunt: 
And,  madam,  if  my  uncle  Marcus  go, 
I  will  most  willingly  attend  your  ladyship. 

Marc.   Lucius,  I  will. 

[LAVINIA  turns  over  with  her  stumps  the 
books  which  Lucius  has  let  fall. 

Tit.  How    now,    Lavinia! — Marcus,    what 

means  this? 

Some  book  there  is  that  she  desires  to  see. 
Which  is  it,  girl,  of  these? — Open  them,  boy. — 
But  thou  art  deeper  read  and  better  skill'd : 
Come,  and  take  choice  of  all  my  library, 
And  so  beguile  thy  sorrow,  till  the  heavens 
Reveal  the  damn'd  contriver  of  this  deed. — 
Why  lifts  she  up  her  arms  in  sequence  thus? 

Marc.  I   think  she   means   that   there  was 

more  than  one 

Confederate  in  the  fact; — ay,  more  there  was, 
Or  else  to  heaven  she  heaves  them  for  revenge. 

Tit.  Lucius,  what  book  is  that  she  tosseth  so? 

Y.  Luc.  Grandsire,  'tis  Ovid's  Metamorpho- 
sis ; 
My  mother  gave  it  me. 

Marc.  For  love  of  her  that 's  gone, 

Perhaps  she  cull'd  it  from  among  the  rest. 

Tit.  Soft !  see  how  busily  she  turns  the  leaves! 
Help  her: 

What  would  she  find? — Lavinia,  shall  I  read? 
This  is  the  tragic  tale  of  Philomel, 
And  treats  of  Tereus'  treason  and  his  rape  ; 
And  rape,  I  fear,  was  root  of  thine  annoy. 

Marc.  See,  brother,  see  ;  note  how  she  quotes 
the  leaves. 

Tit.  Lavinia,  wert  thou  thus  surpris'd,  sweet 

girl» 

Ravish'd,  and  wrong'd,  as  Philomela  was, 
Forc'd    in    the    ruthless,    vast,    and    gloomy 

woods  ? — • 
See,  see  ! — • 

Ay,  such  a  place  there  is  where  we  did  hunt. — 
O,  had  we  never,  never  hunted  there  ! — 
Pattern'd  by  that  the  poet  here  describes, 
By  nature  made  for  murders  and  for  rapes. 


986 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


[ACT  iv. 


Marc.  O,  why  should  nature  build  so  foul  a 

den, 
Unless  the  gods  delight  in  tragedies? 

Tit.  Give  signs,  sweet  girl, — for  here  are 

none  but  friends, — 

What  Roman  lord  it  was  durst  do  the  deed  : 
Or  slunk  not  Saturnine,  as  Tarquin  erst, 
That  left  the  camp  to  sin  in  Lucrece'  bed  ? 
Marc.  Sit  down,  sweet  niece  : — brother,  sit 

down  by  me. — 

Apollo,  Pallas,  Jove,  or  Mercury, 
Inspire  me,  that  I  may  this  treason  find  ! — 
My  lord,  look  here  : — look  here,  Lavinia : 
This  sandy  plot  is  plain  ;  guide,  if  thou  canst, 
This  after  me,  when  I  have  writ  my  name 
Without  the  help  of  any  hand  at  all. 

[He  writes  his  name  with  his  staff,  guid- 
ing it  with  his  feet  and  mouth. 
Curs'd   be  that   heart   that  forc'd   us   to   this 
shift !—  [last 

Write  thou,  good  niece  ;  and  here  display  at 
What  God  will  have  disco ver'd  for  revenge  : 
Heaven  guide  thy  pen  to  print  thy  sorrows 

plain, 

That  we  may  know  the  traitors  and  the  truth  ! 
[She  takes  the  staff  in  her  mouth,  guides 

it  with  her  stumps,  and  writes. 
Tit.  O,  do  ye  read,  my  lord,  what  she  hath 

writ? 

Stuprunt — Chiron — Demetrius.  [Tamora 

Marc.  What,    what ! — the    lustful    sons    of 
Performers  of  this  heinous,  bloody  deed  ? 

Tit.  Magni  Dominator  poli, 
Tarn  lentus  audis  scelera  ?  tarn  lentus  vides  ? 
Marc.  O,  calm  thee,  gentle  lord ;  although 

I  know 

There  is  enough  written  upon  this  earth 
To  stir  a  mutiny  in  the  mildest  thoughts, 
And  arm  the  minds  of  infants  to  exclaims, 
My  lord,  kneel  down  with  me ;  Lavinia,  kneel ; 
And  kneel,  sweet  boy,  the  .Roman  Hector's 

hope; 

And  swear  with  me, — as,  with  the  woeful  fere 
And  father  of  that  chaste  dishonour'd  dame, 
Lord  Junius  Brutus  sware  for  Lucrece'  rape, — 
That  we  will  prosecute,  by  good  advice, 
Mortal  revenge  upon  these  traitorous  Goths, 
And  see  their  blood,  or  die  with  this  reproach. 

Tit.  'Tis  sure  enough,  an  you  knew  how. 
But  if  you  hunt  these  bear- whelps,  then  beware: 
The  dam  will  wake  ;  and  if  she  wind  you  once, 
She 's  with  the  lion  deeply  still  in  league, 
And  lulls  him  whilst  she  playeth  on  her  back, 
And  when  he  sleeps  will  she  do  what  she  list. 
You  are  a  young  huntsman,   Marcus ;    let  it 

alone ; 
And,  come,  I  will  go  get  a  leaf  of  brass, 


And  with  a  gad  of  steel  will  write  these  words, 
And  lay  it  by  :  the  angry  northern  wind 
Will   blow   these   sands,    like   Sybil's   leaves, 
abroad,  [you  ? 

And  where 's  your  lesson  then  ? — Boy,  what  say 
Y.  Luc.  I  say,  my  lord,  that  if  I  were  a  man, 
Their  mother's  bedchamber  should  not  be  safe 
For  these  bad-bondmen  to  the  yoke  of  Rome. 
Marc.  Ay,  that 's  my  boy  !  thy  father  hath 

full  oft 

For  his  ungrateful  country  done  the  like. 
Y.  Ltic.  And,  uncle,  so  will  I,  an  if  I  live. 
Tit.  Come,  go  with  me  into  mine  armoury; 
Lucius,  I  '11  fit  thee  ;  and  withal,  my  boy, 
Shalt  carry  from  me  to  the  empress'  sons 
Presents  that  I  intend  to  send  them  both  : 
Come,  come ;   thou  'It  do  thy  message,  wilt 
thou  not  ?  [grandsire. 

Y.  Luc.  Ay;  with  my  dagger  in  their  bosoms, 
Tit.  No,  boy,  not  so;    I'll  teach  thee  an- 
other course. — 

Lavinia,  come. — Marcus,  look  to  my  house  : 
Lucius  and  I  '11  go  brave  it  at  the  court ; 
Ay,  marry,  will  we,  sir ;  and  we  '11  be  waited 
on. 

[Exeunt  TIT.  ,  LAV.  ,  and  Y.  Luc. 
Marc.  O  heavens,  can  you  hear  a  good  man 

groan, 

And  not  relent,  or  not  compassion  him? 
Marcus,  attend  him  in  his  ecstasy, 
That  hath  more  scars  of  sorrow  in  his  heart 
Than  foemen's  marks  upon  his  batter'd  shield  ; 
But  yet  so  just  that  he  will  not  revenge : — 
Revenge,  ye  heavens,  for  old  Andronicus  ! 

[Exit. 

SCENE  II. — ROME.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  AARON,  DEMETRIUS  and  CHIRON,  at 
one  door;  at  another  door,  YOUNG  Lucius 
and  an  Attendant,  with  a  bundle  of  weapons, 
and  verses  writ  upon  them. 

Chi.  Demetrius,  here 's  the  son  of  Lucius  ; 
He  hath  some  message  to  deliver  us. 

Aar.  Ay,  some  mad  message  from  his  mad 

grandfather.  [may, 

Y.  Luc.   My  lords,  with  all  the  humbleness  I 

I  greet  your  honours  from  Andronicus, — 

And  pray  the  Roman  gods  confound  you  both ! 

[Aside. 
Dem.  Gramercy,  lovely  Lucius :  what 's  the 

news? 

Boy.  [Aside.  ]  That  you  are  both  decipher'd, 
that 's  the  news,  [you, 

For  villains  mark'd  with  rape. — May  it  please 
My  grandsire,  well-advis'd,  hath  sent  by  me 
The  goodliest  weapons  of  his  armoury 


SCENE  II.] 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


987 


To  gratify  your  honourable  youth, 
The  hope  of  Rome  ;  for  so  he  bade  me  say  ; 
And  so  I  do,  and  with  his  gifts  present 
Your  lordships,  that  whenever  you  have  need, 
You  may  be  armed  and  appointed  well : 
And  so  I  leave  you  both, — {aside}   like  bloody 
villains. 

[Exeunt  Y.  Luc.  and  Attendant. 
Dem.  What 's  here  ?     A  scroll ;  and  written 

round  about  ? 
Let 's  see  : — 
[Reads. ~}  Integer  vita,  scelerisqtu  purus, 

Nan  eget  Mauri  jaculis,  nee  arcu. 
Chi.  O,  'tis  a  verse  in  Horace ;  I  know  it 

well: 
I  read  it  in  the  grammar  long  ago. 

Aar.  Ay,  just, — a  verse  in  Horace  ; — right, 

you  have  it. — 

Now,  what  a  thing  it  is  to  be  an  ass  !     [Aside. 
Here 's  no  sound  jest  1  the  old  man  hath  found 
their  guilt ;  [lines, 

And  sends  them  weapons  wrapp'd  about  with 
That  wound,  beyond  their  feeling,  to  the  quick. 
But  were  our  witty  empress  well  a-foot, 
She  would  applaud  Andronicus'  conceit. 
But  let  her  rest  in  her  unrest  awhile. — 
And  now,  young  lords,  was 't  not  a  happy  star 
Led  us  to  Rome,  strangers,  and  more  than  so, 
Captives,  to  be  advanced  to  this  height  ? 
It  did  me  good  before  the  palace  gate 
To  brave  the  tribune  in  his  brother's  hearing. 

Dem.  But  me  more  good  to  see  so  great  a  lord 
Basely  insinuate  and  send  us  gifts. 

Aar.  Had  he  not  reason,  Lord  Demetrius  ? 
Did  you  not  use  his  daughter  very  friendly? 
Dem.  I  would  we  had  a  thousand  Roman 

dames 

At  such  a  bay,  by  turn  to  serve  our  lust. 
Chi.  A  charitable  wish,  and  full  of  love. 
Aar.  Here  lacks  but  your  mother  for  to  say 

amen. 
Chi.      And     that    would    she    for    twenty 

thousand  more. 

Dem.  Come,  let  usgo ;  and  pray  toall  the  gods 
For  our  beloved  mother  in  her  pains. 

Aar.  [Aside.'}  Pray  to  the  devils;  the  gods 
have  given  us  over. 

[Flourish  within. 
Dem.  Why  do  the  emperor's  trumpets  flourish 

thus? 

Chi.  Belike,  for  joy  the  emperor  hath  a  son. 
Dem.  Soft !  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  a  Nurse,  with  a  blackamoor  Child  in  her 
arms. 

Nur.  Good-morrow,  lords  : 

O,  tell  me,  did  you  see  Aaron  the  Moor  ? 


Aar.  Well,  more  or  less,  or  ne'er  a  whit  at  all, 
Here  Aaron  is ;  and  what  with  Aaron  now? 

Ntir.  O  gentle  Aaron,  we  are  all  undone  ! 
Now  help,  or  woe  betide  thee  evermore  ! 

Aar.  Why,  what  a  caterwauling  dost  thou 

keep! 
What  dost  thou  wrap  and  fumble  in  thine  arms? 

Nur.    O,    that   which    I   would   hide   from 
heaven's  eye,  [grace  ! — 

Our  empress'  shame  and  stately  Rome's  dis- 
She  is  deliver'd,  lords, — she  is  deliver'd. 

Aar.  To  whom  ? 

Nur.  I  mean,  she's  brought  a-bed. 

Aar.  Well,  God  give  her  good  rest !     What 
hath  he  sent  her  ? 

Nur.  A  devil. 

Aar.  Why,  then  she  is  the  devil's  dam  ;  a 
joyful  issue.  [issue : 

Nur.  A  joyless,  dismal,  black,  and  sorrowful 
Here  is  the  babe,  as  loathsome  as  a  toad 
Amongst  the  fairest  breeders  of  our  clime  : 
The  empress  sends  it  thee,  thy  stamp,  thy  seal, 
And  bids  thee  christen  it  with  thy  dagger's  point. 

Aar.  Zounds,  ye  whore  !  is  black  so  base  a 

hue?— 
Sweet  bio  wse,  you  are  a  beauteous  blossom,  sure. 

Dem.  Villain,  what  hast  thou  done? 

Aar.  That  which  thou  canst  not  undo. 

Chi.  Thou  hast  undone  our  mother. 

Aar.  Villain,  I  have  done  thy  mother. 

Dem.  And   therein,  hellish  dog,  thou  hast 
undone.  [choice  ! 

Woe  to  her  chance,  and  damn'd  her  loathed 
Accurs'd  the  offspring  of  so  foul  a  fiend  ! 

Chi.  It  shall  not  live. 

Aar.  It  shall  not  die. 

Nur.  Aaron,  it  must ;  the  mother  wills  it  so. 

Aar.  What,  must  it,  nurse  ?  then  let  no  man 

but  I 
Do  execution  on  my  flesh  and  blood. 

Dem.  I  '11  broach  the  tadpole  on  my  rapier's 

point : — 

Nurse,  give  it  me ;  my  sword  shall  soon  despatch 
it.  [up. 

Aar.  Sooner  this  sword  shall  plough  thy  bowel  s 

[Takes  the  Child  from  the  Nurse,  and  draws. 
Stay,  murderous  villains  !    will  you  kill  your 

brother  ? 

Now,  by  the  burning  tapers  of  the  sky, 
That  shone  so  brightly  when  this  boy  was  got, 
He  dies  upon  my  scimitar's  sharp  point 
That  touches  this  my  first-born  son  and  heir ! 
I  tell  you,  younglings,  not  Enceladus, 
With  all  his  threatening  band  of  Typhon's  brood, 
Nor  great  Alcides,  nor  the  god  of  war, 
Shall  seize  this  prey  out  of  his  father's  hands. 
What,  what,  ye  sanguine,  shallow-hearted  boys ! 


988 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


[ACT  iv. 


Ye    white-Iim'd   walls !     ye    alehouse-painted 

signs  ! 

Coal-black  is  better  than  another  hue, 
In  that  it  scorns  to  bear  another  hue  ; 
For  all  the  water  in  the  ocean 
Can  never  turn  a  swan's  black  legs  to  white, 
Although  she  lave  them  hourly  in  the  flood. 
Tell  the  empress  from  me,  I  am  of  age 
To  keep  mine  own, — excuse  it  how  she  can. 

Dem.  Wilt  thou  betray  thy  noble   mistress 
thus  ?  [self, — 

Aar.  My  mistress  is  my  mistress ;  this,  my- 
The  vigour  and  the  picture  of  my  youth  : 
This  before  all  the  world  do  I  prefer  ; 
This  maugre  all  the  world  will  I  keep  safe, 
Or  some  of  you  shall  smoke  for  it  in  Rome. 

Dem.  By  this  our  mother  is  for  ever  sham'd, 

Chi.   Rome  will  despise   her   for   this   foul 
escape. 

JVttr.  The  emperor,  in  his  rage,  will  doom  her 
death. 

Chi.   I  blush  to  think  upon  this  ignomy. 

Aar.  Why,  there 's  the  privilege  your  beauty 

bears : 

Fie,  treacherous  hue,  that  will  betray  with  blush- 
ing 

The  close  enacts  and  counsels  of  the  heart  ! 
Here's  a  young  lad  fram'd  of  another  leer  : 
Look  how  the  black  slave  smiles  upon  the 

father, 

As  who  should  say,  Old  lad,  I  am  thine  own. 
He  is  your  brother,  lords  ;  sensibly  fed 
Of  that  self-blood  that  first  gave  life  to  you  ; 
And  from  that  womb  where  you  imprison'd  were 
He  is  enfranchised  and  come  to  light : 
Nay,  he  is  your  brother  by  the  surer  side, 
Although  my  seal  be  stamped  in  his  face. 

Nur.    Aaron,    what   shall   I    say   unto   the 
empress  ? 

Dem.  Advise  thee,  Aaron,  what  is  to  be  done, 
And  we  will  all  subscribe  to  thy  advice : 
Save  thou  the  child,  so  we  may  all  be  safe. 

Aar.  Then  sit  we  down,  and  let  us  all  con- 
sult. 

My  son  and  I  will  have  the  wind  of  you  : 
Keep  there  :  now  talk  at  pleasure  of  your  safety. 

[They  sit. 

Dem.  How  many  women  saw  this  child  of  his? 

Aar.  Why,  so,  brave  lords !  when  we  join  in 

league 

I  am  a  lamb  :  but  if  you  brave  the  Moor, 
The  chafed  boar,  the  mountain  lioness, 
The  ocean  swells  not  so  as  Aaron  storms. — 
But  say,  again,  how  many  saw  the  child  ? 

Nur.   Cornelia  the  midwife  and  myself ; 
And  no  one  else  but  the  deliver'd  empress. 

Aar.  The  empress,  the  midwife,  and  yourself: 


Two  may  keep  counsel  when  the  third 's  away : 
Go  to  the  empress,  tell  her  this  I  said: — 

[Stabs  her,  and  she  dies. 

Weke,  weke ! — so  cries  a  pig  prepar'd  to  the 
spit. 

Dem.  What  mean'st  thou,  Aaron?  Wherefore 
didst  thou  this  ? 

Aar.  O  Lord,  sir,  'tis  a  deed  of  policy: 
Shall  she  live  to  betray  this  guilt  of  ours, — 
A  long-tongu'd  babbling  gossip?  no,  lords,  no  : 
And  now  be  it  known  to  you  my  full  intent. 
Not  far,  one  Muliteus  lives,  my  countryman  ; 
His  wife  but  yesternight  was  brought  to  bed ; 
His  child  is  like  to  her,  fair  as  you  are  : 
Go  pack  with  him,  and  give  the  mother  gold, 
And  tell  them  both  the  circumstance  of  all ; 
And  how  by  this  their  child  shall  be  advanc'd, 
And  be  received  for  the  emperor's  heir, 
And  substituted  in  the  place  of  mine, 
To  calm  this  tempest  whirling  in  the  court ; 
And  let  the  emperor  dandle  him  for  his  own. 
Hark  ye,  lords  ;  ye  see  I  have  given  her  physic. 
[Pointing  to  the  Nurse. 
And  you  must  needs  bestow  her  funeral ; 
The  fields  are  near,  and  you  are  gallant  grooms  : 
This  done,  see  that  you  take  no  longer  days, 
But  send  the  midwife  presently  to  me. 
The  midwife  and  the  nurse  well  made  away, 
Then  let  the  ladies  tattle  what  they  please. 

Chi.  Aaron,  I  see  thou  wilt  not  trust  the  air 
With  secrets. 

Dem.          For  this  care  of  Tamora, 
Herself  and  hers  are  highly  bound  to  thee. 

[Exeunt  DEM.  and  CHI.,  bearing  off  the 
dead  Nurse. 

Aar.  Now  to  the  Goths,  as  swift  as  swallow 

flies; 

There  to  dispose  this  treasure  in  mine  arms, 
And  secretly  to  greet  the  empress'  friends. — 
Come  on,  you  thick-lipp'd  slave,  I  '11  bear  you 

hence  ; 

For  it  is  you  that  puts  us  to  our  shifts  : 
I  '11  make  you  feed  on  berries  and  on  roots, 
And  feed  on  curds  and  whey,  and  suck  the  goat, 
And  cabin  in  a  cave  ;  and  bring  you  up 
To  be  a  warrior  and  command  a  camp.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III.— ROME.     A  public  Place. 

EnferTlTUS,  bear  ing  arrows,  with  letters  at  the 
ends  of  them  ;  with  him  MARCUS,  YOUNG 
Lucius,  and  other  Gentlemen,  with  bows. 

Tit.  Come,  Marcus,  come: — kinsmen,  this 

is  the  way. — 

Sir  boy,  now  let  me  see  your  archery; 
Look  ye  draw  home  enough,  and  'tis  there 
straight.— 


SCENE  III.] 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


989 


Terras  Astrcea  reliquit : 

Be  you  remember'd,  Marcus,  she  's  gone,  she 's 
fled.  [shall 

Sirs,  take  you  to  your  tools.     You,   cousins, 
Go  sound  the  ocean  and  cast  your  nets ; 
Happily  you  may  catch  her  in  the  sea  ; 
Yet  there  's  as  little  justice  as  at  land. — 
No  ;  Publius  and  Sempronius,  you  must  do  it ; 
'Tis  you  must  dig  with  mattock  and  with  spade, 
And  pierce  the  inmost  centre  of  the  earth  : 
Then,  when  you  come  to  Pluto's  region, 
I  pray  you  deliver  him  this  petition ; 
Tell  him  it  is  for  justice  and  for  aid, 
And  that  it  comes  from  old  Andronicus, 
Shaken  with  sorrows  in  ungrateful  Rome. — 
Ah,  Rome ! — Well,  well ;  I  made  thee  miserable 
What  time  I  threw  the  people's  suffrages 
On  him  that  thus  doth  tyrannize  o'er  me. — 
Go,  get  you  gone  ;  and  pray  be  careful  all, 
And  leave  you  not  a  man-of-war  unsearch'd  : 
This  wicked   emperor  may  have  shipp'd  her 

hence ; 
And,  kinsmen,  then  we  may  go  pipe  for  justice. 

Marc.  O  Publius,  is  not  this  a  heavy  case, 
To  see  thy  noble  uncle  thus  distract  ?       [cerns 

Pub.  Therefore,  my  lord,  it  highly  us  con- 
By  day  and  night  to  attend  him  carefully, 
And  feed  his  humour  kindly  as  we  may, 
Till  time  beget  some  careful  remedy. 

Marc.  Kinsmen,  his  sorrows  are  past  remedy. 
Join  with  the  Goths ;  and  with  revengeful  war 
Take  wreak  on  Rome  for  this  ingratitude, 
And  vengeance  on  the  traitor  Saturnine. 

Tit.    Publius,    how    now !    how   now,    my 

masters  ! 
What,  have  you  met  with  her  ?  [word, 

Pub.  No,  my  good  lord  ;  but  Pluto  sends  you 
If  you  will  have  Revenge  from  hell,  you  shall : 
Marry,  for  Justice,  she  is  so  employ'd,  [else, 
He  thinks,  with  Jove  in  heaven,  or  somewhere 
So  that  perforce  you  must  needs  stay  a  time. 

Tit.   He  doth  me  wrong  to  feed  me  with 

delays. 

I  Ml  dive  into  the  burning  lake  below, 
And  pull  her  out  of  Acheron  by  the  heels. — 
Marcus,  we  are  but  shrubs,  no  cedars  we, 
No  big-bon'd  men,  fram'd  of  the  Cyclops'  size; 
But  metal,  Marcus,  steel  to  the  very  back, 
Yet  wrung  with  wrongs  more  than  our  backs 

can  bear  : 

And,  sith  there  is  no  justice  in  earth  nor  hell, 
We  will  solicit  heaven,  and  move  the  gods 
To  send  down  Justice  for  to  wreak  ourwrongs. — 
Come,  to  this  gear. — You  are  a  good  archer, 
Marcus,      [fie  gives  them  the  arrows. 
Ad Jovem,  that's  for  you: — here,   ad  Apolli- 
ntm : — 


Ad  Martem,  that 's  for  myself : — 
Here,  boy,  to  Pallas  : — here,  to  Mercury: — 
To  Saturn,  Caius,  not  to  Saturnine  ; 
You  were  as  good  to  shoot  against  the  wind. — 
To  it,  boy. — Marcus,  loose  when  I  bid. — 
Of  my  word,  I  have  written  to  effect ; 
There  's  not  a  god  left  unsolicited.  [court : 

Marc.  Kinsmen,  shoot  all  your  shafts  into  the 
We  will  afflict  the  emperor  in  his  pride. 

Tit.  Now,  masters,  draw.    [They  shoot.]  O, 

well  said,  Lucius  ! 

Good  boy,  in  Virgo's  lap  ;  give  it  Pallas. 
Marc.  My   lord,  I  aim  a  mile  beyond   the 

moon  : 
Your  letter  is  with  Jupiter  by  this. 

Tit.  Ha  !  ha  ! 

Publius,  Publius,  what  hast  thou  done  ? 
See,  see,  thou  hast  shot  off  one  of  Taurus'  horns. 
Marc.  This  was  the  sport,  my  lord :  when 

Publius  shot, 

The  Bull,  being  gall'd,  gave  Aries  such  a  knock 
That  down  fell  both  the  Ram's  horns  in  the 

court ; 
And  who  should  find  them  but  the  empress' 

villain  ? 
She  laugh'd,  and  told  the  Moor  he  should  not 

choose 

But  give  them  to  his  master  for  a  present. 
Tit.  Why,  there  it  goes  :  God  give  his  lord- 
ship joy ! 

Enter  a  Clown,  with  a  basket  and  two  pigeons 
in  it. 

News,  news  from  heaven  !    Marcus,  the  post  is 

come. 

Sirrah,  what  tidings  ?  have  you  any  letters? 
Shall  I  have  justice  ?  what  says  Jupiter? 

Clo.  Ho,  the  gibbet-maker  ?  he  says  that  he 
hath  taken  them  down  again,  for  the  man  must 
not  be  hanged  till  the  next  week. 

Tit.  But  what  says  Jupiter,  I  ask  thee  ? 

Clo.  Alas,  sir,  I  know  not  Jupiter ;  I  never 
drank  with  him  in  all  my  life. 

Tit.  Why,  villain,  art  not  thou  the  carrier? 

Clo.  Ay,  of  my  pigeons,  sir  ;  nothing  else. 

Tit.  Why,  didst  thou  not  come  from  heaven  ? 

Clo.  From  heaven !  alas,  sir,  I  never  came 
there  :  God  forbid  I  should  be  so  bold  to  press 
to  heaven  in  my  young  days.  Why,  I  am  going 
with  my  pigeons  to  the  tribunal  plebs,  to  take 
up  a  matter  of  brawl  betwixt  my  uncle  and  one 
of  the  imperial's  men. 

Marc.  Why,  sir,  that  is  as  fit  as  can  be  to 
serve  for  your  oration  ;  and  let  him  deliver  the 
pigeons  to  the  emperor  from  you. 

Tit.  Tell  me,  can  you  deliver  an  oration  to 
the  emperor  with  a  grace  ? 


990 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


[ACT  iv. 


Clo.  Nay,  truly,  sir,  I  could  never  say  grace 
in  all  my  life. 

Tit.  Sirrah,  come  hither:  make  no  more  ado, 
But  give  your  pigeons  to  the  emperor : 
By  me  thou  shalt  have  justice  at  his  hands. 
Hold,  hold  ;  meanwhile  here 's  money  for  thy 

charges. — 

Give  me  pen  and  ink. —  [tion  ? 

Sirrah,  can  you  with  a  grace  deliver  a  supplica- 

Clo.  Ay,  sir. 

Tit.  Then  here  is  a  supplication  for  you. 
And  when  you  come  to  him,  at  the  first 
approach  you  must  kneel ;  then  kiss  his  foot ; 
then  deliver  up  your  pigeons ;  and  then  look 
for  your  reward.  I  '11  be  at  hand,  sir  ;  see  you 
do  it  bravely. 

Clo.  I  warrant  you,  sir,  let  me  alone. 

Tit.  Sirrah,  hast  thou  a  knife?     Come,  let 

me  see  it. 

Here,  Marcus,  fold  it  in  the  oration  ;      [ant : — 
For  thou  hast  made  it  like  an  humble  suppli- 
And  when  thou  hast  given  it  to  the  emperor, 
Knock  at  my  door,  and  tell  me  what  he  says. 

Clo.  God  be  with  you,  sir ;  I  will. 

Tit.  Come,    Marcus,    let    us  go. — Publius, 
follow  me.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — ROME.     Before  the  Palace. 

Enter  SATURNINUS,  TAMORA,  DEMETRIUS. 
CHIRON,  Lords,  and  others ;  SATURNINUS 
with  the  arrows  in  his  hand  that  TITUS  shot. 

Sat.  Why,  lords,  what  wrongs  are  these !  was 

ever  seen 

An  emperor  in  Rome  thus  overborne, 
Troubled,  confronted  thus  ;  and,  for  the  extent 
Of  legal  justice,  us  'd  in  such  contempt  ? 
My  lords,  you  know,  as  do  the  mightful  gods, 
However  these  disturbers  of  our  peace 
Buzz  in  the  people's  ears,  there  naught  hath 


But  even  with  law,  against  the  wilful  sons 
Of  old  Andronicus.     And  what  an  if 
His  sorrows  have  so  overwhelm'd  his  wits, 
Shall  we  be  thus  afflicted  in  his  freaks, 
His  fits,  his  frenzy,  and  his  bitterness  ? 
And  now  he  writes  to  heaven  for  his  redress  : 
See,  here's  to  Jove,  and  this  to  Mercury  ; 
This  to  Apollo  ;  this  to  the  god  of  war ; — 
Sweet  scrolls  to  fly  about  the  streets  of  Rome  ! 
What 's  this  but  libelling  against  the  senate, 
And  blazoning  our  injustice  everywhere? 
A  goodly  humour,  is  it  not,  my  lords  ? 
As  who  would  say,  in  Rome  no  justice  were. 
But  if  I  live,  his  feigned  ecstasies 
Shall  be  no  shelter  to  these  outrages : 
But  he  and  his  shall  know  that  justice  lives 


In  Saturninus'  health  ;  whom,  if  she  sleep, 

He  '11  so  awake  as  she  in  fury  shall 

Cut  off  the  proud'st  conspirator  that  lives. 

Tarn.  My  gracious  lord,  my  lovely  Saturnine, 
Lord  of  my  life,  commander  of  my  thoughts, 
Calm  thee,  and  bear  the  faults  of  Titus'  age, 
The  effects  of  sorrow  for  his  valiant  sons, 
Whose  loss  hath  pierc'd  him  deep,  and  scarr'd 

his  heart  ; 

And  rather  comfort  his  distressed  plight 
Than  prosecute  the  meanest  or  the  best 
For  these  contempts.—  [A  side.'}  Why,  thus  it 

shall  become 

High-witted  Tamora  to  gloze  with  all  : 
But,  Titus,  I  have  touch'd  thee  to  the  quick, 
Thy  life-blood  on  't  :  if  Aaron  now  be  wise, 
Then  is  all  safe,  the  anchor's  in  the  port.  — 

Enter  Clown. 
,11  s  (  jog  ,o»> 

How  now,  good  fellow  !  wouldst  thou  speak 

with  us  ? 
Clo.   Yes,  forsooth,  an  your   mistership   be 

imperial. 
Tarn.  Empress   I  am,  but  yonder   sits  the 

emperor. 

Clo.  'Tis  he.  —  God  and  Saint  Stephen  give 
you  good-den  :  I  have  brought  you  a  letter  and 
a  couple  of  pigeons  here. 

[SATURNINUS  reads  the  letter. 
Sat.  Go,  take  him  away,  and  hang  him  pre- 

sently. 

Clo.  How  much  money  must  I  have  ? 
7am.  Come,  sirrah,  you  must  be  hang'd. 
Clo.  Hang'd  !  By  'r  lady,  then  I  have  brought 
up  a  neck  to  a  fair  end.  [Exit  guarded. 

Sat.  Despiteful  and  intolerable  wrongs  ! 
Shall  I  endure  this  monstrous  villany  ? 
I  know  from  whence  this  same  device  proceeds  : 
May  this  be  borne,  —  as  if  his  traitorous  sons, 
That  died  by  law  for  murder  of  our  brother, 
Have  by  my  means  been  butcher'd  wrongfully?  —  • 
Go,  drag  the  villain  hither  by  the  hair  ; 
Nor  age  nor  honour  shall  shape  privilege.  — 
For  this  proud  mock  I  '11  be  thy  slaughter-man  ; 
Sly  frantic  wretch,  that   holp'st  to  make  me 

great, 
In  hope  thyself  should  govern  Rome  and  me. 


What  news  with  thee,  y 

^Emil.  Arm,  my  lord  !  Rome  never  had  more 

cause  ! 
The  Goths  have  gather'd  head  ;   and  with  a 

power, 

Of  high  resolved  men,  bent  to  the  spoil, 
They  hither  march  amain,  under  conduct 
Of  Lucius,  son  to  old  Andronicus  ; 


SCENE  IV.] 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


991 


Who  threats,  in  course  of  this  revenge,  to  do 
As  much  as  ever  Coriolanus  did. 

Sat.  Is  warlike  Lucius  general  of  the  Goths  ? 
These  tidings  nip  me  ;  and  I  hang  the  head 
As  flowers  with  frost,  or  grass  beat  down  with 

storms : 

Ay,  now  begin  our  sorrows  to  approach  : 
'Tis  he  the  common  people  love  so  much  ; 
Myself  hath  often  overheard  them  say, — 
When  I  have  walked  like  a  private  man, — 
That  Lucius'  banishment  was  wrongfully, 
And  they  have  wish'd  that  Lucius  were  their 
emperor. 

Tarn.  Why  should  you  fear  ?  is  not  your  city 
strong  ? 

Sat.  Ay,  but  the  citizens  favour  Lucius, 
And  will  revolt  from  me  to  succour  him. 

Tarn.  King,  be  thy  thoughts  imperious,  like 

thy  name. 

Is  the  sun  dimm'd,  that  gnats  do  fly  in  it  ? 
The  eagle  suffers  little  birds  to  sing, 
And  is  not  careful  what  they  mean  thereby, 
Knowing  that  with  the  shadow  of  his  wing 
He  can  at  pleasure  stint  their  melody  : 
Even  so  mayst  thou  the  giddy  men  of  Rome. 
Then  cheer  thy  spirit :  for  know,  thou  emperor, 
I  will  enchant  the  old  Andronicus 
With  words  more  sweet,  and  yet  more  danger- 
ous, 

Than  baits  to  fish  or  honey-stalks  to  sheep, 
Whenas  the  one  is  wounded  with  the  bait, 
The  other  rotted  with  delicious  feed. 

Sat.  But  he  will  not  entreat  his  son  for  us. 

Tarn.  If  Tamora  entreat  him,  then  he  will : 
For  I  can  smooth  and  fill  his  aged  ear 
With  golden  promises  that,  were  his  heart 
Almost  impregnable,  his  old  ears  deaf, 
Yet  should  both  ear  and  heart  obey  my  tongue. — 
Go  thou  before  \to  ^EMILIUS] ;  be  our  ambassa- 
dor: 

Say  that  the  emperoi  requests  a  parley 
Of  warlike  Lucius,  and  appoint  the  meeting 
Even  at  his  father's  house,  the  old  Andronicus. 

Sat.  ^milius,  do  this  message  honourably  : 
And  if  he  stand  on  hostage  for  his  safety, 
Bid  him  demand  what  pledge  will  please  him 
best. 

jEmil.  Your  bidding  shall  I  do  effectually. 

[Exit. 

Tarn.  Now  will  I  to  that  old  Andronicus, 
And  temper  him,  with  all  the  art  I  have, 
To    pluck    proud    Lucius   from    the    warlike 

Goths. 

And  now,  sweet  emperor,  be  blithe  again, 
And  bury  all  thy  fear  in  my  devices. 

Sat.  Then  go  successfully,  and  plead  to  him. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 
SCENE  I. — Plains  near  Rome. 

Enter  Lucius   and  Goths,    with   drum  and 
colours. 

Luc.  Approved    warriors    and    my   faithful 

friends, 

I  have  received  letters  from  great  Rome, 
Which  signify  what  hate  they  bear  their  emperor, 
And  how  desirous  of  our  sight  they  are. 
Therefore,  great  lords,  be  as  your  titles  witness, 
Imperious  and  impatient  of  your  wrongs  ; 
And  wherein  Rome  hath  done  you  any  scath 
Let  him  make  treble  satisfaction. 

1  Goth.  Brave  slip,  sprung  from   the   great 

Andronicus,  [fort ; 

Whose  name  was  once  our  terror,  now  our  com- 
Whose  high  exploits  and  honourable  deeds 
Ingrateful  Rome  requites  with  foul  contempt, 
Be  bold  in  us :  we  '11  follow  where  thou  lead'st, — 
Like  stinging  bees  in  hottest  summer's  day, 
Led  by  their  master  to  the  flowered  fields, — 
And  be  aveng'd  on  cursed  Tamora.  [him. 

Goths.  And  as  he  saith,  so  say  we  all  with 
Luc.  I  humbly  thank  him,  and  I  thank  you 

all. 
But  who  comes  here,  led  by  a  lusty  Goth  ? 

Enter  a  Goth,  leading  AARON  with  his  Child 
in  his  arms. 

2  Goth.  Renowned  Lucius,  from  our  troops 

I  stray'd 

To  gaze  upon  a  ruinous  monastery ; 
And  as  I  earnestly  did  fix  mine  eye 
Upon  the  wasted  building,  suddenly 
I  heard  a  child  cry  underneath  a  wall. 
I  made  unto  the  noise  ;  when  soon  I  heard 
The  crying  babe  controll'd  with  this  discourse : — 
Peace,  tawny  slave,  half  me  and  half  thy  dam! 
Did  not  thy  hue  bewray  whose  brat  thou  art, 
Had  nature  lent  thee  but  thy  mother's  look, 
Villain,  thott  mightst  have  been  an  emperor: 
But  w/iere  the  bull  and  cow  are  both  milk-white 
They  never  do  beget  a  coal-black  calf. 
Peace,  villain,  peace  i — even  thus  he  rates  the 

babe,— 

For  I  must  bear  thee  to  a  trusty  Goth  ; 
Who,  when  he  knows  thou  art  the  empress*  babey 
Will  hold  thee  dearly  for  thy  mother's  sake. 
With  this,  my  weapon  drawn,  Irush'd  upon  him, 
Surpris'd  him  suddenly,  and  brought  him  hither, 
To  use  as  you  think  needful  of  the  man.    [devil 
Luc.  O  worthy  Goth,  this  is  the  incarnate 
That  robb'd  Andronicus  of  his  good  hand  ; 
This  is  the  pearl  that  pleas'd  your  empress'  eye ; 


992 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


[ACT  v. 


And  here 's  the  base  fruit  of  his  burning  lust. — 
Say,    wall-ey'd   slave,    whither   wouldst    thou 

convey 

This  growing  image  of  thy  fiend-like  face? 
Why  dost  not  speak  ?  what,  deaf?     No  ;  not  a 

word  ? — 

A  halter,  soldiers ;  hang  him  on  this  tree, 
And  by  his  side  his  fruit  of  bastardy, 

Aar.  Touch  not  the  boy, — he  is  of  royal  blood. 

Ltic.  Too  like  the  sire  for  ever  being  good. — 
First  hang  the  child,  that  he  may  see  it  sprawl, — 
A  sight  to  vex  the  father's  soul  withal. 
Get  me  a  ladder. 

[A  ladder  brought,  which  AARON  is 
obliged  to  ascend. 

Aar.  Lucius,  save  the  child, 

And  bear  it  from  me  to  the  empress. 
If  thou  do  this,  I  '11  show  thee  wondrous  things 
That  highly  may  advantage  thee  to  hear : 
If  thou  wilt  not,  befall  what  may  befall, 
I  '11  speak  no  more, — but  vengeance  rot  you  all ! 

Luc.  Say  on  :  an  if  it  please  me  which  thou 

speak'st, 
Thy  child  shall  live,  and  I  will  see  it  nourish'd. 

Aar.  An  if  it  please  thee  I  why,  assure  thee, 

Lucius, 

'Twill  vex  thy  soul  to  hear  what  I  shall  speak ; 
For  I  must  talk  of  murders,  rapes,  andmassacres, 
Acts  of  black  night,  abominable  deeds, 
Complots  of  mischief,  treason,  villanies, 
Ruthful  to  hear,  yet  piteously  perform'd : 
And  this  shall  all  be  buried  by  my  death, 
Unless  thou  swear  to  me  my  child  shall  live. 

Luc.  Tell  on  thy  mind ;  I  say  thy  child  shall 
live.  [begin. 

Aar.  Swear  that  he  shall,  and  then  I  will 

Luc.  Who  should  I  swear  by  ?  thou  believ'st 

no  god  : 
That  granted,  how  canst  thou  believe  an  oath  ? 

Aar.  What  if  I  do  not?  as,  indeed,  I  do  not ; 
Yet,  for  I  know  thou  art  religious, 
And  hast  a  thing  within  thee  called  conscience, 
With  twenty  popish  tricks  and  ceremonies 
Which  I  have  seen  thee  careful  to  observe, 
Therefore  I  urge  thy  oath ; — for  that  I  know 
An  idiot  holds  his  bauble  for  a  god, 
And   keeps   the   oath  which  by  that   god   he 

swears ; 

To  that  I  '11  urge  him : — therefore  thou  shalt  vow 
By  that  same  god, — what  god  soe'er  it  be 
That  thou  ador'st  and  hast  in  reverence, — 
To  save  my  boy,  to  nourish  and  bring  him  up  ; 
Or  else  I  will  discover  naught  to  thee. 

Luc.  Even  by  my  god  I  swear  to  thee  I  will. 

Aar.  First  know  thou,  I  begot  him  on  the 
empress. 

Luc.  O  most  insatiate  luxurious  woman  ! 


Aar.  Tut,   Lucius,   this  was  but  a  deed  of 

charity 

To  that  which  thou  shalt  hear  of  me  anon. 
'Twas  her  two  sons  that  murder'd  Bassianus  ; 
They  cut  thy  sister's  tongue,  and  ravish'd  her, 
And  cut  her  hands,  and  trimm'd  her  as  thou 
saw'st.  [trimming  ? 

Luc.  O  detestable  villain!  call'st  thou  that 

Aar.  Why,  she  was  wash'd,  and  cut,  and 

trimm'd ;  and  'twas 
Trim  sport  for  them  that  had  the  doing  of  it. 

Luc.  O  barbarous,  beastly  villains,  like  thy- 
self! [them: 

Aar.  Indeed,  I  was  their  tutor  to   instruct 
That  codding  spirit  had  they  from  their  mother, 
As  sure  a  card  as  ever  won  the  set ; 
That  bloody  mind,  I  think,  they  learn'd  of  me, 
As  true  a  dog  as  ever  fought  at  head. 
Well,  let  my  deeds  be  witness  of  my  worth. 
I  train'd  thy  brethren  to  that  guileful  hole 
Where  the  dead  corpse  of  Bassianus  lay : 
I  wrote  the  letter  that  thy  father  found, 
And  hid  the  gold  within  the  letter  mention'd, 
Confederate  with  the  queen  and  her  two  sons: 
And  what  not  done,  that  thou  hast  cause  to  rue, 
Wherein  I  had  no  stroke  of  mischief  in 't? 
I  play'd  the  cheater  for  thy  father's  hand ; 
And  when  I  had  it,  drew  myself  apart, 
And   almost    broke   my  heart   with    extreme 

laughter : 

I  pry'd  me  through  the  crevice  of  a  wall 
When,  for  his  hand,  he  had  his  two  sons'  heads; 
Beheld  his  tears,  and  laugh'd  so  heartily 
That  both  mine  eyes  were  rainy  like  to  his: 
And  when  I  told  the  empress  of  this  sport, 
She  swooned  almost  at  my  pleasing  tale, 
And  for  my  tidings  gave  me  twenty  kisses. 

Goth.  What,   canst   thou   say  all  this,  and 
never  blush  ? 

Aar.  Ay,  like  a  black  dog,  as  the  saying  is. 

Luc.  Art  thou  not  sorry  for  these  heinous 
deeds?  [more. 

Aar.  Ay,  that  I  had  not  done  a  thousand 
Even  now  I  curse  the  day, — and  yet,  I  think, 
Few  come  within  the  compass  of  my  curse, — 
Wherein  I  did  not  some  notorious  ill : 
As,  kill  a  man,  or  else  devise  his  death ; 
Ravish  a  maid,  or  plot  the  way  to  do  it; 
Accuse  some  innocent,  and  forswear  myself; 
Set  deadly  enmity  between  two  friends ; 
Make  poor  men's  cattle  stray  and  break  their 

necks ; 

Set  fire  on  barns  and  hay-stacks  in  the  night, 
And  bid  the  owners  quench  them  with  their 

tears. 

Oft  have  I  digg'd  up  dead  men  from  their  gravest 
And  set  them  upright  at  their  dear  friends'  doors, 


SCENE  II.] 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


993 


Even  when  their  sorrows  almost  were  forgot; 
And  on  their  skins,  as  on  the  bark  of  trees, 
Have  with  my  knife  carved  in  Roman  letters, 
Let  not  your  sorrow  die,  tJiough  I  ant  dead. 
Tut,  I  have  done  a  thousand  dreadful  things 
As  willingly  as  one  would  kill  a  fly; 
And  nothing  grieves  me  heartily  indeed 
But  that  I  cannot  do  ten  thousand  more,     [die 

Luc.  Bring  down  the  devil ;  for  he  must  not 
So  sweet  a  death  as  hanging  presently. 

Aar.  If  there  be  devils,  would  I  were  a  devil, 
To  live  and  burn  in  everlasting  fire, 
So  I  might  have  your  company  in  hell, 
But  to  torment  you  with  my  bitter  tongue ! 

Luc.  Sirs,  stop  his  mouth,  and  let  him  speak 
no  more. 

Enter  a  Goth. 

3  Goth.  My  lord,  there  is  a  messenger  from 

Rome 

Desires  to  be  admitted  to  your  presence. 
Luc.  Let  him  come  near. 

Enter  /EMILIUS. 

Welcome,    ^Emilius:    what's   the   news  from 
Rome?  [Goths, 

&mil.   Lord  Lucius,  and  you  princes  of  the 
The  Roman  emperor  greets  you  all  by  me ; 
And,  for  he  understands  you  are  in  arms, 
He  craves  a  parley  at  your  father's  house, 
Willing  you  to  demand  your  hostages, 
And  they  shall  be  immediately  deliver'd. 

I  Goth.  What  says  our  general? 

Luc.  ^Emilius,  let  the  emperorgive  hispledges 
Unto  my  father  and  my  uncle  Marcus, 
And  we  will  come. — March  away.       [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — ROME.     Before  TITUS'S  House. 

Enter  TAMORA,  DEMETRIUS,  and  CHIRON, 
disguised. 

Tarn.  Thus,  in  this  strange  and  sad  habili- 
ment 

I  will  encounter  with  Andronicus, 
And  say  I  am  Revenge,  sent  from  below 
To  join  with  him  and  right  his  heinous  wrongs. 
Knock  at  his  study,  where  they  say  he  keeps 
To  ruminate  strange  plots  of  dire  revenge ; 
Tell  him  Revenge  is  come  to  join  with  him, 
And  work  confusion  on  his  enemies. 

[They  knock. 

Enter  TITUS,  above. 

Tit.  Who  doth  molest  my  contemplation? 
Is  ic  your  trick  to  make  me  ope  the  door, 
That  so  my  sad  decrees  may  fly  away, 
And  all  my  study  be  to  no  effect? 


You  are  deceiv'd :  for  what  I  mean  to  do 
See  here  in  bloody  lines  I  have  set  down ; 
And  what  is  written  shall  be  execut  d. 

Tarn.  Titus,  I  am  come  to  talk  with  thee. 

Tit.  No,  not  a  word :  how  can  I  grace  my 

talk, 

Wanting  a  hand  to  give  it  action  ? 
Thou  hast  the  odds  of  me ;  therefore  no  more. 

'lam.   If  thou  didst  know  me,  thou  v  ouldst 
talk  with  me. 

Tit.  I  am  not  mad  ;  I  know  thee  well  enough  : 
Witness   this  wretched   stump,   witness   these 

crimson  lines; 

Witness  these  trenches  made  by  grief  and  care ; 
Witness  the  tiring  day  and  heavy  night; 
Witness  all  sorrow,  that  I  know  thee  well 
For  our  proud  empress,  mighty  Tamora: 
Is  not  thy  coming  for  my  other  hand  ? 

Tarn.  Know  thou,  sad  man,  I  am  not  Tamora; 
She  is  thy  enemy  and  I  thy  friend  : 
I  am  Revenge ;  sent  from  the  infernal  kingdom 
To  ease  the  gnawing  vulture  of  thy  mind 
By  working  wreakful  vengeance  on  thy  foes. 
Come  down  and  welcome  me  to  this  world's 

light ; 

Confer  with  me  of  murder  and  of  death  : 
There 's  not  a  hollow  cave  or  lurking-place, 
No  vast  obscurity  or  misty  vale, 
Where  bloody  murder  or  detested  rape 
Can  couch  for  fear  but  I  will  find  them  out ; 
And    in    their   ears    tell    them    my   dreadful 

name, — 
Revenge,  which  makes  the  foul  offenders  quake. 

Tit.  Art  thou  Revenge  ?  and  art  thou  sent 

to  me 
To  be  a  torment  to  mine  enemies  ?     [come  me. 

Tarn.   I  am  ;  therefore  come  down  and  wel- 

Tit.  Do  me  some  service  ere  I  come  to  thee. 
Lo,  by  thy  side  where  Rape  and  Murder  stands ; 
Now  give  some  'surance  that  thou  art  Revenge, — 
Stab  them,  or  tear  them  on  thy  chariot  wheels ; 
And  then  I  '11  come  and  be  thy  waggoner, 
And  whirl  along  with  thee  about  the  globe. 
Provide  thee  two  proper  palfreys,  black  as  jet, 
To  hale  thy  vengeful  waggon  swift  away, 
And  find  out  murderers  in  their  guilty  caves  : 
And  when  thy  car  is  loaden  with  their  heads 
I  will  dismount,  and  by  the  waggon-wheel 
Trot,  like  a  servile  footman,  all  day  long, 
Even  from  Hyperion's  rising  in  the  east 
Until  his  very  downfall  in  the  sea  : 
And  day  by  day  I  '11  do  this  heavy  task, 
So  thou  destroy  Rapine  and  Murder  there. 

Tarn.  These  are  my  ministers,  and  come  with 
me. 

Tit.  Are  these  thy  ministers  ?  what  are  they 
call'd? 

2  I 


994 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


[ACT  v. 


Tarn.  Rapine  and  Murder ;  therefore  called 

so 

'Cause  they  take  vengeance  of  such  kind  of  men. 
Tit.  Good  lord,  how  like  the  empress'  sons 

they  are  ! 

And  you  the  empress  !     But  we  worldly  men 
Have  miserable,  mad,  mistaking  eyes. 

0  sweet  Revenge,  now  do  I  come  to  thee  ; 
And,  if  one  arm's  embracement  will  content 

thee, 

1  will  embrace  thee  in  it  by  and  by. 

[Exit  from  above. 

Tarn.  This  closing  with  him  fits  his  lunacy: 
Whate'er  I  forge  to  feed  his  brain-sick  fits, 
Do  you  uphold  and  maintain  in  your  speeches, 
For  now  he  firmly  takes  me  for  Revenge  ; 
And,  being  credulous  in  this  mad  thought, 
I  '11  make  him  send  for  Lucius  his  son  ; 
And,  whilst  I  at  a  banquet  hold  him  sure, 
I  '11  find  some  cunning  practice  out  of  hand 
To  scatter  and  disperse  the  giddy  Goths, 
Or,  at  the  least,  make  them  his  enemies. 
See,  here  he  comes,  and  I  must  ply  my  theme. 

Enter  TITUS. 

Tit.  Long  have  I  been  forlorn,  and  all  for 

thee: 

Welcome,  dread  fury,  to  my  woeful  house  ; — 
Rapine  and  Murder,  you  are  welcome  too  : — 
How  like  the  empress  and  her  sons  you  are  ! 
Well  are  you  fitted,  had  you  but  a  Moor  : 
Could  not  all  hell  afford  you  such  a  devil  ? — 
For  well  I  wot  the  empress  never  wags 
But  in  her  company  there  is  a  Moor  ; 
And,  would  you  represent  our  queen  aright, 
It  were  convenient  you  had  such  a  devil : 
But  welcome  as  you  are.     What  shall  we  do  ? 

Tarn.  What  wouldst  thou  have  us  do,  An- 
dronicus  ?  [him. 

Dem.  Show  me  a  murderer,  I  '11  deal  with 

Chi.  Show  me  a  villain  that  hath  done  a  rape, 
And  I  am  sent  to  be  reveng'd  on  him. 

Tarn.  Show  me  a  thousand  that  have  done 

thee  wrong, 
And  I  will  be  revenged  on  them  all.      [Rome, 

Tit.  Look  round  about  the  wicked  streets  of 
And  when  thou  find'st  a  man  that 's  like  thyself, 
Good  Murder,  stab  him;  he's  a  murderer. — 
Go  thou  with  him  ;  and  when  it  is  thy  hap 
To  find  another  that  is  like  to  thee, 
Good  Rapine,  stab  him  ;  he 's  a  ravisher. — 
Go  thou  with  them ;  and  in  the  emperor's  court 
There  is  a  queen,  attended  by  a  Moor  ;    [tion, 
Well  mayst  thou  know  her  by  thy  own  propor- 
For  up  and  down  she  doth  resemble  thee  ; 
I  pray  thee,  do  on  them  some  violent  death  ; 
They  have  been  violent  to  me  and  mine. 


Tarn.  Well  hast  thou  lesson'd  us  ;  this  shall 

we  do. 

But  would  it  please  thee,  good  Andronicus, 
To  send  for  Lucius,  thy  thrice-valiant  son, 
Who  leads  towards  Rome  a  band  of  warlike 

Goths, 

And  bid  him  come  and  banquet  at  thy  house  ; 
When  he  is  here,  even  at  thy  solemn  feast, 
I  will  bring  in  the  empress  and  her  sons, 
The  emperor  himself,  and  all  thy  foes  ; 
And  at  thy  mercy  shall  they  stoop  and  kneel, 
And  on  them  shalt  thou  ease  thy  angry  heart. 
What  says  Andronicus  to  this  device  ?      [calls. 

Tit.  Marcus,    my  brother  ! — 'tis  sad   Titus 

Enter  MARCUS. 

Go,  gentle  Marcus,  to  thy  nephew  Lucius  ; 
Thou  shalt  inquire  him  out  among  the  Goths : 
Bid  him  repair  to  me,  and  bring  with  him 
Some  of  the  chiefest  princes  of  the  Goths  ; 
Bid  him  encamp  his  soldiers  where  they  are  : 
Tell  him  the  emperor  and  the  empress  too 
Feast  at  my  house,  and  he  shall  feast  with  them. 
This  do  thou  for  my  love  ;  and  so  let  him 
As  he  regards  his  aged  father's  life. 

Marc.  This  will  I  do,  and  soon  return  again. 

[Exit 

Tarn.  Now  will  I  hence  about  thy  business, 
And  take  my  ministers  along  with  me. 

Tit.  Nay,  nay,  let  Rape  and  Murder  stay 

with  me, 

Or  else  I  '11  call  my  brother  back  again, 
And  cleave  to  no  revenge  but  Lucius. 

Tarn.  [Aside  to  them.']  What  say  you,  boys? 

will  you  abide  with  him, 
Whiles  I  go  tell  my  lord  the  emperor 
How  I  have  govern'd  our  determin'd  jest  ? 
Yield  to  his  humour,  smooth  and  speak  him  fair, 
And  tarry  with  him  till  I  come  again. 

Tit.  [Aside.]  I  know  them  all,  though  they 
suppose  me  mad,  [vices, — 

And  will   o'er-reach   them   in  their   own  de- 
A  pair  of  cursed  hell-hounds  and  their  dam. 

Dem.   Madam,  depart  at  pleasure  ;  leave  us 
here.  [goes 

Tarn.  Farewell,  Andronicus :  Revenge  now 
To  lay  a  complot  to  betray  thy  foes. 

Tit.  I  know  thou  dost ;  and,  sweet  Revenge, 
farewell !  [Exit  TAMORA. 

Chi.    Tell  us,   old  man,  how   shall  we  be 
employ 'd?  [do. — 

Tit.  Tut,   I  have  work  enough  for   you  to 
Publius,  come  hither,  Cains,  and  Valentine  ! 

Enter  PUBLIUS  and  others. 

Pub.  What  is  your  will  ? 
Tit.  Know  you  these  two  ? 


SCENE  II.j 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


995 


Piib.  The  empress'  sons, 
I  take  them,  Chiron  and  Demetrius. 

Tit.  Fie,  Publius,  fie  !    thou  art  too   much 

deceiv'cl, — 

The  one  is  Murder,  Rape  is  the  other's  name  ; 
And  therefore  bind  them,  gentle  Publius  : — 
Caius  and  Valentine,  lay  hands  on  them  : — 
Oft  have  you  heard  me  wish  for  such  an  hour, 
And  now  I  find  it;  therefore  bind  them  sure  ; 
And  stop  their  mouths  if  they  begin  to  cry. 
[Exit.     PUBLIUS,  &°c.t  lay  hold  on  CHIRON 

and  DEMETRIUS. 

Chi.  Villains,  forbear  !  we  are  the  empress' 

sons.  [manded. — 

Pub.  And  therefore  do  we  what  we  are  com- 

Stop  close  their  mouths,  let  them  not  speak  a 

word. 
Is  he  sure  bound  ?  look  that  you  bind  them  fast. 

Re-enter  TITUS  ANDRONICUS,  with  LAVINIA  ; 
he  bearing  a  knife  and  she  a  basin. 

Tit.  Come,  come,   Lavinia ;  look,  thy  foes 

are  bound. —  [me  ; 

Sirs,  stop  their  mouths,  let  them  not  speak  to 
But  let  them  hear  what  fearful  words  I  utter. — 
O  villains,  Chiron  and  Demetrius  ! 
Here  stands  the  spring  whom  you  have  stain'd 

with  mud  ; 

This  goodly  summer  with  your  winter  mix'd. 
You  kill'd  her  husband  ;  and  for  that  vile  fault 
Two  of  her  brothers  were  condemn'd  to  death, 
My  hand  cut  off  and  made  a  merry  jest ; 
Both  her  sweet  hands,  her  tongue,  and  that, 

more  dear 

Than  hands  or  tongue,  her  spotless  chastity, 
Inhuman  traitors,  you  constrain'd  and  forc'd. 
What  would  you  say,  if  I  should  let  you  speak? 
Villains,  for  shame  you  could  not  beg  for  grace. 
Hark,  wretches  !  how  I  mean  to  martyr  you. 
This  one  hand  yet  is  left  to  cut  your  throats, 
Whilst  that  Lavinia  'tween  her  stumpsdoth  hold 
The  basin  that  receives  your  guilty  blood. 
You  know  your  mother  means  to  feast  with  me, 
And   calls   herself    Revenge,   and   thinks   me 

mad  : — 

Hark,  villains  !  I  will  grind  your  bones  to  dust, 
And  with  your  blood  and  it  I  '11  make  a  paste  ; 
And  of  the  paste  a  coffin  I  will  rear, 
And  make  two  pasties  of  your  shameful  heads  ; 
And  bid  that  strumpet,  your  unhallow'd  dam, 
Like  to  the  earth,  swallow  her  own  increase. 
This  is  the  feast  that  I  have  bid  her  to, 
And  this  the  banquet  she  shall  surfeit  on  ; 
For  worse  than  Philomel  you  us'd  my  daughter, 
And  worse  than  Progne  I  will  be  reveng'd  : 
And  now  prepare  your  throats.    Lavinia,  come. 
[He  cuts  their  throats. 


Receive  the  blood  :  and  when  that  they  are  dead, 
Let  me  go  grind  their  bones  to  powder  small, 
And  with  this  hateful  liquor  temper  it  ; 
And  in  that  paste  let  their  vile  heads  be  bak'd. 
Come,  come,  be  every  one  officious 
To  make  this  banquet  ;  which  I  wish  may  prove 
More  stern  and  bloody  than  the  Centaurs'  feast. 
So,  now  bring  them  in,  for  I  will  play  the  cook, 
And  see  them  ready  'gainst  their  mother  comes. 
[Exeunt  t  bearing  the  dead  bodies. 

SCENE  III.  —  ROME.     A  Pavilion  in  TITUS'S 
Gardens,  with  tables,  &>c. 

Enter   Lucius,    MARCUS,   and  Goths,   with 
AARON  prisoner. 

Luc.  Uncle  Marcus,   since  'tis  my  father's 

mind 
That  I  repair  to  Rome,  I  am  content. 

I  Goth.  And  ours  with  thine,  befall  what 
fortune  will.  [Moor, 

Lite.  Good  uncle,  take  you  in  this  barbarous 
This  ravenous  tiger,  this  accursed  devil  ; 
Let  him  receive  no  sustenance,  fetter  him, 
Till  he  be  brought  unto  the  empress'  face 
For  testimony  of  her  foul  proceedings  : 
And  see  the  ambush  of  our  friends  be  strong  ; 
I  fear  the  emperor  means  no  good  to  us. 

Aar.  Some  devil  whisper  curses  in  mine  ear, 
And  prompt  me,  that  my  tongue  may  utter  forth 
The  venomous  malice  of  my  swelling  heart  ! 

Luc.     Away,     inhuman    dog  !    unhallow'd 

slave  !  — 
Sirs,  help  our  uncle  to  convey  him  in.  — 

[Exeunt  Goths  with  AAR.  Flourish  within. 
The  trumpets  show  the  emperor  is  at  hand. 

Enter  SATURNINUS  a«fl?TAMORA,  with 
Tribunes,  Senators,  and  others. 


Sat.  What,  hath  the  firmament  more  suns 

than  one? 

Luc.  What  boots  it  thee  to  call  thyself  the  sun? 
Marc.  Rome's  emperor,  and  nephew,  break 

the  parle  ; 

These  quarrels  must  be  quietly  debated. 
The  feas'  is  ready,  which  the  careful  Titus 
Hath  ordain'd  to  an  honourable  end, 
For  peace,  for  love,  for  league,  and  good  to 
Rome  :  [places. 

Please  you,  therefore,  draw  nigh,  and  take  your 
Sat.  Marcus,  we  will. 
[Hautboys  sound.      The  company  sit  at  table. 

Enter  TITUS,  dressed  like  a  cook,   LAVINIA, 
vailed,  YOUNG  Lucius,  andothers.     TITUS 
places  the  dishes  on  the  table. 
Tit.  Welcome,  my  gracious  lord  ;  welcome, 
dread  queen  ; 


996 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


[ACT  v. 


Welcome,  ye  warlike  Goths ;  welcome,  Lucius ; 
And  welcome  all :  although  the  cheer  be  poor, 
'Twill  fill  your  stomachs  ;  please  you  eat  of  it. 
Sat.  Why  art  thou  thus  attir'd,  Andronicus? 
Tit.   Because  T  would  be  sure  to  have  all  well 
To  entertain  your  highness  and  your  empress. 
Tarn.  We  are  beholden  to  you,  good  An- 
dronicus. [were. 
Tit.  And  if  your  highness  knew  my  heart,  you 
My  lord  the  emperor,  resolve  me  this  : 
Was  it  well  done  of  rash  Virginius 
To  slay  his  daughter  with  his  own  right  hand, 
Because   she   was   enforc'd,    stain'd,   and   de- 

flower'd  ? 

Sat.   It  was,  Andronicus. 
Tit.  Your  reason,  mighty  lord.  [shame, 

Sat.   Because  the  girl  should  not  survive  her 
And  by  her  presence  still  renew  his  sorrows. 

Tit.  A  reason  mighty,  strong,  and  effectual ; 
A  pattern,  precedent,  and  lively  warrant 
For  me,  most  wretched,  to  perform  the  like : — 
Die,  die,  Lavinia,  and  thy  shame  with  thee  ; 

[Kills  LAVINIA. 

And  with  thy  shame  thy  father's  sorrow  die  ! 
Sat.  What  hast  thou   done,  unnatural   and 

unkind  ? 
Tit.  KilPd  her  for  whom  my  tears  have  made 

me  blind. 

I  am  as  woeful  as  Virginius  was, 
And  have  a  thousand  times  more  cause  than  he 
To  do  this  outrage  ; — and  it  is  now  done. 
Sat.  What,  was  she  ravish'd?  tell  who  did 

the  deed. 
Tit.  Will 't  please  you  eat  ?  will 't  please  your 

highness  feed? 
Tarn.     Why    hast    thou    slain    thine    only 

daughter  thus? 

Tit.  Not  I ;  'twas  Chiron  and  Demetrius  : 
They  ravish'd  her,  and  cut  away  her  tongue  ; 
And  they,  'twas  they  that  did  her  all  this  wrong. 
Sat.  Go,  fetch  them  hither  to  us  presently. 
Tit.  Why,  there  they  are  both,  baked  in  that 

pie, 

Whereof  their  mother  daintily  hath  fed, 
Eating  the  flesh  that  she  herself  hath  bred. 
'Tis  true,  'tis  true ;   witness  my  knife's  sharp 
point.  [Kills  TAMORA. 

Sat.    Die,  frantic  wretch,  for  this  accursed 
deed  !  [Kills  TITUS. 

Luc.  Can  the  son's  eye  behold  his   father 

bleed? 

There  's  meed  for  meed,  death  for  a  deadly  deed. 
[A7//rSATURNiNUS.   A  great  tumult.  Lucius, 
MARCUS,   and  their  partisans,    ascend  the 
steps  before  TITUS'S  house. 
Marc.  You  sad-fac'd  men,  people  and  sons 
of  Rome, 


By  uproar  sever'd,  like  a  flight  of  fowl 
Scatter'd  by  winds  and  high  tempestuous  gusts, 
O,  let  me  teach  you  how  to  knit  again 
This  scatter'd  corn  into  one  mutual  sheaf, 
These  broken  limbs  again  into  one  body  : 
Lest  Rome  herself  be  bane  unto  herself, 
And  she  whom  mighty  kingdoms  court' sy  to. 
Like  a  forlorn  and  desperate  castaway, 
Do  shameful  execution  on  herself. 
But  if  my  frosty  signs  and  chaps  of  age, 
Grave  witnesses  of  true  experience, 
Cannot  induce  you  to  attend  my  words, — 
Speak,  Rome's  dear  friend  [to  Lucius] :  as  erst 

our  ancestor, 

When  with  his  solemn  tongue  he  did  discourse 
To  love-sick  Dido's  sad  attending  ear 
The  story  of  that  baleful  burning  night 
When   subtle  Greeks   surpris'd  King  Priam's 

Troy, — 

Tell  us  what  Sinon  hath  bewitch'd  our  ears, 
Or  who  hath  brought  the  fatal  engine  in 
That  gives  our  Troy,  our  Rome,  the  civil  wound. 
My  heart  is  not  compact  of  flint  nor  steel ; 
Nor  can  I  utter  all  our  bitter  grief, 
But  floods  of  tears  will  drown  my  oratory 
And  break  my  very  utterance,  even  in  the  time 
When  it  should  move  you  to  attend  me  most, 
Lending  your  kind  commiseration. 
Here  is  a  captain,  let  him  tell  the  tale  ; 
Your  hearts  will  throb  and  weep  to  hear  him 

speak. 

Luc.  Then,  noble  auditory,  be  it  known  to  you 
That  cursed  Chiron  and  Demetrius 
Were  they  that  murdered  our  emperor's  brother ; 
And  they  it  were  that  ravished  our  sister : 
For  their  fell  faults  our  brothers  were  beheaded  ; 
Our  father's  tears  despis'd,  and  basely  cozen'd 
Of  that  true  hand  that  fought  Rome's  quarrel  out 
And  sent  her  enemies  unto  the  grave. 
Lastly,  myself  unkindly  banished, 
The  gates  shut  on  me,  and  turn'd  weeping  out, 
To  beg  relief  among  Rome's  enemies  ; 
Who  drown'd  their  enmity  in  my  true  tears, 
And  op'd  their  arms  to  embrace  me  as  a  friend : 
And  I  am  the  turn'd-forth,  be  it  known  to  you, 
That  have  preserv'd  her  welfare  in  my  blood  ; 
And  from  her  bosom  took  the  enemy's  point, 
Sheathing  the  steel  in  my  adventurous  body. 
Alas  !  you  know  I  am  no  vaunter,  I ; 
My  scars  can  witness,  dumb  although  they  are, 
That  my  report  is  just  and  full  of  truth. 
But,  soft !  methinks  I  do  digress  too  much, 
Citing  my  worthless  praise  :  O,  pardon  me  ; 
For  when  no  friends  are  by,  men  praise  them- 
selves, [child. 
Marc.  Now  is  my  turn  to  speak.     Behold  this 
[Pointing  to  the  Child  in  an  Attendant's  arms. 


SCENE  III.] 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


997 


Of  this  was  Tamora  delivered  ; 
The  issue  of  an  irreligious  Moor, 
Chief  architect  and  plotter  of  these  woes  : 
The  villain  is  alive  in  Titus'  house, 
Damn'd  as  he  is,  to  witness  this  is  true. 
Now  judge  what  cause  had  Titus  to  revenge 
These  wrongs  unspeakable,  past  patience, 
Or  more  than  any  living  man  could  hear. 
Now  you  have  heard  the  truth,  what  say  you, 

Romans  ? 

Have  we  done  aught  amiss, — show  us  wherein, 
And.  from  the  place  where  you  behold  us  now, 
The  poor  remainder  of  Andronici 
Will,  hand  in  hand,  all  headlong  cast  us  down, 
And  on  the  ragged  stones  beat  forth  our  brains, 
And  make  a  mutual  closure  of  our  house. 
Speak,  Romans,  speak  ;  and  if  you  say  we  shall, 
Lo,  hand  in  hand,  Lucius  and  I  will  fall. 

sErnil.  Come,  come,  thou  reverend  man  of 

Rome, 

And  bring  our  emperor  gently  in  thy  hand, 
Lucius  our  emperor  ;  for  well  I  know 
The  common  voice  do  cry  it  shall  be  so. 

Romans.  [Several  speak.}   Lucius,  all  hail, 
Rome's  royal  emperor  ! 

Marc.  Go,  go  into  old  Titus*  sorrowful  house, 
[  To  Attendants,  "who  go  into  the  house. 
And  hither  hale  that  misbelieving  Moor, 
To  be  adjudg'd  some  direful  slaughtering  death, 
As  punishment  for  his  most  wicked  life. 

[Lucius,  MARCUS,  drv.,  descend. 

Iranians.  [Several  speak.~\   Lucius,  all  hail, 
Rome's  gracious  governor !  [so 

Luc.  Thanks,  gentle  Romans :  may  I  govern 
To  heal  Rome's  harms  and  wipe  away  her  woe  ! 
But,  gentle  people,  give  me  aim  awhile, — 
For  nature  puts  me  to  a  heavy  task  : — 
Stand  all  aloof ; — but,  uncle,  draw  you  near, 
To  shed  obsequious  tears  upon  this  trunk. — 
O,  take  this  warm  kiss  on  thy  pale  cold  lips, 

[Kisses  TITUS. 
These  sorrowful  drops  upon  thy  blood-stain'd 

face, 
The  last  true  duties  of  thy  noble  son  ! 

Marc.  Tear  for  tear  and  loving  kiss  for  kiss 
Thy  brother  Marcus  tenders  on  thy  lips  : 
O,  were  the  sum  of  these  that  I  should  pay 
Countless  and  infinite,  yet  would  I  pay  them  ! 

Luc.  Come  hither,  boy;   come,  come,  and 

learn  of  us  [well  : 

To  melt  in  showers :  thy  grandsire  lov'd  thee 


Many  a  time  he  danc'd  thee  on  his  knee, 
Sung  thee  asleep,  his  loving  breast  thy  pillow  ; 
Many  a  matter  hath  he  told  to  thee, 
Meet  and  agreeing  with  thine  infancy; 
In  that  respect,  then,  like  a  loving  child, 
Shed  yet  some  small  drops  from   thy  tender 

spring, 

Because  kind  nature  doth  require  it  so  : 
Friends  should  associate  friends  in  grief  and  woe  : 
Bid  him  farewell  ;  commit  him  to  the  grave  ; 
Do  him  that  kindness,  and  take  leave  of  him. 
Y.  Luc.  O  grandsire,  grandsire  !  even  with 

all  my  heart 

Would  I  were  dead,  so  you  did  live  again  !  — 
O  Lord,  I  cannot  speak  to  him  for  weeping  ; 
My  tears  will  choke  me  if  I  ope  my  mouth. 

Re-enter  Attendants  with  AARON. 


l.  You  sad  Andronici,  have  done  with 

woes  : 

Give  sentence  on  this  execrable  wietch, 
That  hath  been  breeder  of  these  dire  events. 
Luc.    Set   him   breast-deep  in    earth,   and 

famish  him  ; 

There  let  him  stand,  and  rave,  and  cry  for  food  : 
If  any  one  relieves  or  pities  him, 
For  the  offence  he  dies.     This  is  our  doom  : 
Some  stay  to  see  him  fasten'd  in  the  earth. 
Aar.  O,  why  should  wrath  be  mute  and  fury 

dumb? 

I  am  no  baby,  I,  that  with  base  prayers 
I  should  repent  the  evils  I  have  done  : 
Ten  thousand  worse  than  ever  yet  I  did 
Would  I  perform,  if  I  might  have  my  will  : 
If  one  good  deed  in  all  my  life  I  did, 
I  do  repent  it  from  my  very  soul.  [hence, 

Luc.  Some  loving  friends  convey  the  emperor 
And  give  him  burial  in  his  father's  grave  : 
My  father  and  Lavinia  shall  forthwith 
Be  closed  in  our  household's  monument. 
As  for  that  heinous  tiger,  Tamora, 
No  funeral  rite,  nor  man  in  mournful  weeds, 
No  mournful  bell  shall  ring  her  burial  ; 
But  throw  her  forth  to  beasts  and  birds  of  prey  : 
Her  life  was  beast-like  and  devoid  of  pity  ; 
And,  being  so,  shall  have  like  want  of  pity. 
See  justice  done  on  Aaron,  that  damn'd  Moor, 
By  whom  our  heavy  haps  had  their  beginning  : 
Then,  afterwards,  to  order  well  the  state, 
That  like  events  may  ne'er  it  ruinate. 

[Exeunt. 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


ANTIOCHUS,  King  of  Antioch. 
PERICLES,  Prince  of  Tyre. 
HELICANUS,  \  .       T     ,     .  ~ 
ESCANES,     >  }t™  Lords  cf  Tyre. 

SIMON  IDES,  King  of  Pentapolis. 
CLEON,  Governor  of  Tharsns. 
LYSIMACHUS,  Governor  of  Mitylenc. 
CERIMON,  a  Lord  of  Ephestis. 
THALIARD,  a  Lord  of  Antioch. 
PHILEMON,  Servant  to  CERIMON. 
LEONINE,  Servant  to  DIONYZA. 
Marshal. 


A  Pander  ;  and  BOULT,  his  Servant. 
GOWER,  as  Chorus. 

The  Daughter  of  ANTIOCHUS. 

DIONYZA,  Wife  to  CLEON. 

THAISA,  Daughter  to  SIMONIDES. 

MARINA,  Daughter  to  PERICLES  and  THAISA. 

LYCHORIDA,  Nurse  to  MARINA. 

DIANA. 

A  Bawd. 

Lords,  Ladies,   Knights,  Gentlemen,  Sailors. 
Pirates,  Fishermen,  and  Messengers. 


SCENE,— Dispersedly  in  various  Countries. 


ACT  I. 

Enter  GOWER. 
Before  the  Palace  of  Antioch. 
To  sing  a  song  that  old  was  sung, 
From  ashes  ancient  Gower  is  come  ; 
Assuming  man's  infirmities, 
To  glad  your  ear  and  please  your  eyes. 
It  hath  been  sung  at  festivals, 
On  ember-eves  and  holy-ales; 
And  lords  and  ladies  in  their  lives 
Have  read  it  for  restoratives : 
The  purchase  is  to  make  men  glorious ; 
Et  bonum  quo  antiquius,  eo  inelhis. 
If  you,  born  in  these  latter  times, 
When  wit 's  more  ripe,  accept  my  rhymes, 
And  that  to  hear  an  old  man  sing 
May  to  your  wishes  pleasure  bring, 
I  life  would  wish,  and  that  I  might 
Waste  it  for  you,  like  taper-light. — 
This  Antioch,  then,  Antiochus  the  Great 
Built  up,  this  city,  for  his  chiefest  seat ; 
The  fairest  in  all  Syria, — 
I  tell  you  what  mine  authors  say. 
This  king  unto  him  took  a  fere, 
Who  died  and  left  a  female  heir, 
So  buxom,  blithe,  and  full  of  face, 
As  heaven  had  lent  her  all  his  grace ; 
With  whom  the  father  liking  took, 
And  her  to  incest  did  provoke : — 
Bad  child ;  worse  father !  to  entice  his  own 
To  evil  should  be  done  by  none : 
But  custom  what  they  did  begin 
Was  with  long  use  account  no  sin. 
The  beauty  of  this  sinful  dame 


Made  many  princes  thither  frame 

To  seek  her  as  a  bed-fellow, 

In  marriage-pleasures  play-fellow: 

Which  to  prevent  he  made  a  law, — 

To  keep  her  still,  and  men  in  awe,— 

That  whoso  ask'd  her  for  his  wife, 

His  riddle  told  not,  lost  his  life: 

So  for  her  many  a  wight  did  die, 

As  yon  grim  looks  do  testify. 

What  now  ensues,  to  the  judgment  of  your  eye 

I  give,  my  cause  who  best  can  justify.     [Exit. 

SCENE  I. — ANTIOCH.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  ANTIOCHUS,  PERICLES,  and 
Attendants. 

Ant.  Young  Prince  of  Tyre,   you  have  at 

large  receiv'd 
The  danger  of  the  task  you  undertake. 

Per.  I  have,  Antiochus,  and,  with  a  soul 
Embolden'd  with  the  glory  of  her  praise, 
Think  death  no  hazard  in  this  enterprise. 

Ant.  Bring  in  our  daughter,  clothed  like  a 

bride, 

For  the  embracements  even  of  Jove  himself; 
At  whose  conception,  till  Lucina  reign'd, 
Nature  this  dowry  gave,  to  glad  her  presence, 
The  senate-house  of  planets  all  did  sit, 
To  knit  in  her  their  best  perfections. 

Music.     Enter  the  Daughter  of  ANTIOCHUS. 

Per.  See  where  she  comes,  apparell'd  like 

the  spring, 

Graces  her  subjects,  and  her  thoughts  the  king 
Of  every  virtue  gives  renown  to  men ! 


SCENE  I.] 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


999 


Her  face  the  book  of  praises,  where  is  read 

Nothing  but  curious  pleasures,  as  from  thence 

Sorrow  were  ever  raz'd,  and  testy  wrath 

Could  never  be  her  mild  companion. 

Ye  gods,  that  made  me  man,  and  sway  in  love, 

That  have  inflam'd  desire  in  my  breast 

To  taste  the  fruit  of  yon  celestial  tree, 

Or  die  in  the  adventure,  be  my  helps, 

As  I  am  son  and  servant  to  your  will, 

To  compass  such  a  boundless  happiness ! 

Ant.   Prince  Pericles, — 

Per.  That  would  be  son  to  great  Antiochus. 

Ant.  Before  thee  stands  this  fair  Hesperides, 
With  golden  fruit,  but  dangerous  to  be  touch'd ; 
For  death-like  dragons  here  affright  thee  hard : 
Her  face,  like  heaven,  enticeth  thee  to  view 
Her  countless  glory,  which  desert  must  gain ; 
And  which,  without  desert,  because  thine  eye 
Presumes  to  reach,  all  thy  whole  heap  must  die. 
Yon  sometime  famous  princes,  like  thyself, 
Drawn  by  report,  adventurous  by  desire, 
Tell  thee,  with  speechless  tongues  and  sem- 
blance pale, 

That,  without  covering,  save  yon  field  cf  stars, 
Here  they  stand  martyrs,  slain  in  Cupid's  wars ; 
And  with  dead  cheeks  advise  thee  to  desist 
For  going  on  death's  net,  whom  none  resist. 

Per.  Antiochus,    I   thank   thee,   who    hath 

taught 

My  frail  mortality  to  know  itself, 
And  by  those  fearful  objects  to  prepare 
This  body,  like  to  them,  to  what  I  must; 
For  death  remember'd  should  be  like  a  mirror, 
Who  tells  us  life  's  but  breath,  to  trust  it  error. 
I  '11  make  my  will,  then ;  and,  as  sick  men  do, 
Who  know  the  world,  see  heaven,  but,  feeling 

woe, 

Gripe  not  at  earthly  joys,  as  erst  they  did ; 
So  I  bequeath  a  happy  peace  to  you 
And  all  good  men,  as  every  prince  should  do ; 
My   riches   to   the   earth  from   whence    they 

came ; — 
But  my  unspotted  fire  of  love  to  you. 

[To  the  Daughter  of  ANTIOCHUS. 
Thus  ready  for  the  way  of  life  or  death, 
I  wait  the  sharpest  blow,  Antiochus. 

Ant.  Scorning  advice, — read  the  conclusion, 

then: 

Which  read  and  not  expounded,  'tis  decreed, 
As  these  before  thee,  thou  thyself  shalt  bleed. 

Daugh.  In  all  save  that,  mayst  thou  prove 

prosperous ! 
In  all  save  that,  I  wish  thee  happiness ! 

Per.  Like  a  bold  champion  I  assume  the  lists, 
Nor  ask  advice  of  any  other  thought 
But  faithfulness  and  courage. 

[Reads  the  Kiddle. 


I  am  no  viper,  yet  I  feed 
On  mother  s  flesh  which  did  me  breed. 
I  sought  a  husband,  in  which  labour 
I  found  that  kindness  in  a  father. 
He 's  father,  son,  and  husband  mild  ; 
I  mother,  wife,  and  yet  his  child. 
How  they  may  be,  and  yet  in  two, 
As  you  will  live,  resolve  it  you. 

Sharp  physic  is  the  last :  but,  O  you  powers 
That  give  heaven  countless  eyes  to  view  men's 

acts, 

Why  cloud  they  not  their  sights  perpetually, 
If  this  be  true,  which  makes  me  pale  to  read 

it?— 

Fair  glass  of  light,  I  lov'd  you,  and  could  still, 
[Takes  hold  of  the  hand  of  the  Princess. 
Were  not  this  glorious  casket  stor'd  with  ill : 
But  I  must  tell  you, — now  my  thoughts  revolt : 
For  he  's  no  man  on  whom  perfections  wait 
That,  knowing  sin  within,  will  touch  the  gate. 
You're  a  fair  viol,  and  your  sense  the  strings; 
Who,  finger'd  to  make  man  his  lawful  music, 
Would  draw  heaven  dov/n,  and  all  the  gods  to 

hearken ; 

But,  being  play'd  upon  before  your  time, 
Hell  only  danceth  at  so  harsh  a  chime. 
Good  sooth,  I  care  not  for  you. 

Ant.  Prince  Pericles,  touch  not,  upon  thy  life, 
For  that 's  an  article  within  our  law 
As  dangerous  as  the  rest.    Your  time 's  expir'd : 
Either  expound  now,  or  receive  your  sentence. 

Per.  Great  king, 

Few  love  to  hear  the  sins  they  love  to  act ; 
'Twould  'braid  yourself  too  near  for  me  to  tell  it. 
Who  has  a  book  of  all  that  monarchs  do, 
He 's  more  secure  to  keep  it  shut  than  shown : 
For  vice  repeated  is  like  the  wandering  wind, 
Blows  dust  in  others'  eyes,  to  spread  itself; 
And  yet  the  end  of  all  is  bought  thus  dear, 
The  breath  is  gone,  and  the  sore  eyes  see  clear: 
To  stop  the  air  would  hurt  them.     The  blind 

mole  casts  [throng'd 

Copp'd  hills  towards  heaven,  to  tell  the  earth  is 
By  man's  oppression ;  and  the  poor  worm  doth 

die  for 't.  [their  will ; 

Kings  are  earth's  gods :    in  vice  their  law 's 
And  if  Jove  stray,  who  dares  say  Jove  doth  ill? 
It  is  enough  you  know ;  and  it  is  fit, 
What    being  more    known  grows  worse,   to 

smother  it. 

All  love  the  womb  that  their  first  being  bred. 
Then  give  my  tongue  like  leave  to  love  my  head. 
Ant.  [Aside.}  Heaven,  that  I  had  thy  head ! 

he  has  found  the  meaning:         [Tyre, 
But  I  will  gloze  with  him. — Young  Prince  of 
Though  by  the  tenor  of  our  strict  edict, 
Your  exposition  misinterpreting, 
We  might  proceed  to  cancel  of  your  days; 


IOOO 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


[ACT  i. 


Yet  hope,  succeeding  from  so  fair  a  tree 
As  your  fair  self,  doth  tune  us  otherwise : 
Forty  days  longer  we  do  respite  you ; 
If  by  which  time  our  secret  be  undone, 
This  mercy  shows  we  '11  joy  in  such  a  son : 
And  until  then  your  entertain  shall  be 
As  doth  befit  our  honour  and  your  worth. 
[Exeunt  ANT.  ,  his  Daughter,  and  Attendants. 
Per.  How  courtesy  would  seem  to  cover  sin, 
When  what  is  done  is  like  an  hypocrite, 
The  which  is  good  in  nothing  but  in  sight ! 
If  it  be  true  that  I  interpret  false, 
Then  were  it  certain  you  were  not  so  bad 
As  with  foul  incest  to  abuse  your  soul ; 
Where  now  you  're  both  a  father  and  a  son, 
By  your  untimely  claspings  with  your  child, — 
Which  pleasure  fits  an  husband,  not  a  father ; — 
And  she  an  eater  of  her  mother's  flesh, 
By  the  defiling  of  her  parent's  bed ;  [feed 

And  both  like  serpents  are,  who,  though  they 
On  sweetest  flowers,  yet  they  poison  breed. 
Antioch,  farewell !  for  wisdom  sees,  those  men 
Blush  not  in  actions  blacker  than  the  night 
Will  shun  no  course  to  keep  them  from  the  light. 
One  sin  I  know  another  doth  provoke ; 
Murder 's  as  near  to  lust  as  flame  to  smoke : 
Poison  and  treason  are  the  hands  of  sin, 
Ay,  and  the  targets  to  put  off  the  shame : 
Then,  lest  my  life  be  cropp'd  to  keep  you  clear, 
By  flight  I  '11  shun  the  danger  which  I  fear. 

[Exit. 

Re-enter  ANTIOCHUS. 

Ant.  He  hath  found   the  meaning,  for  the 

which  we  mean 
To  have  his  head. 

He  must  not  live  to  trumpet  forth  my  infamy, 
Nor  tell  the  world  Antiochus  doth  sin 
In  such  a  loathed  manner ; 
And  therefore  instantly  this  prince  must  die; 
For  by  his  fall  my  honour  must  keep  high. 
Who  attends  us  there? 

Enter  THALIARD. 

Thai.  '  Doth  your  highness  call  ? 

Ant.  Thaliard,  you  're  of  our  chamber,  and 

our  mind 

Partakes  her  private  actions  to  your  secrecy : 
And  for  your  faithfulness  we  will  advance  you. 
Thaliard,  behold  here 's  poison  and  here 's  gold ; 
We  hate  the  Prince  of  Tyre,  and  thou  must  kill 

him  : 

It  fits  thee  not  to  ask  the  reason  why, 
Because  we  bid  it.     Say,  is  it  done  ? 

Thai.  My  lord, 

'Tis  done. 

Ant.  Enough. 


Enter  a  Messenger. 

Let  your  breath  cool  yourself,  telling  your  haste. 
Mess.  My  lord,  Prince  Pericles  is  fled. 

[Exit. 

Ant.  As  thou 

Wilt  live,  fly  after  :  and  as  an  arrow  shot 
From  a  well-experienc'd  archer  hits  the  mark 
His  eye  doth  level  at,  so  thou  ne'er  return 
Unless  thou  say  Prince  Pericles  is  dead. 

Thai.  My  lord, 

If  I  can  get  him  once  within  my  pistol's  length 
I  '11  make  him  sure  enough :  so,  farewell  to  your 

highness. 
Ant.  Thaliard,  adieu!   [Exit  THAL.]     Till 

Pericles  be  dead 
My  heart  can  lend  no  succour  to  my  head. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  II. — TYRE.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  PERICLES. 

Per.  [  To  thosewithout.  ]  Let  none  disturb  us. — 

Why  should  this  change  of  thoughts, 
The  sad  companion,  dull-ey'd  melancholy, 
Be  my  so  us'd  a  guest  as  not  an  hour 
In  the  day's  glorious  walk,  or  peaceful  night, — 
The  tomb  where  grief  should  sleep, — can  breed 

me  quiet  ? 
Here  pleasures  court  mine  eyes,  and  mine  eyes 

shun  them, 

And  danger,  which  I  fear'd,  is  at  Antioch, 
Whose  aim  seems  far  too  short  to  hit  me  here  : 
Yet  neither  pleasure's  art  can  joy  my  spirits, 
Nor  yet  the  other's  distance  comfort  me. 
Then  it  is  thus  :  the  passions  of  the  mind, 
That  have  their  first  conception  by  mis-dreads 
Have  after-nourishment  and  life  by  care  ; 
And  what  was  first  but  fear  what  might  be  done, 
Grows  elder  now,  and  cares  it  be  not  done. 
And  so  with  me  : — the  great  Antiochus, — 
'Gainst  whom  I  am  too  little  to  contend, 
Since  he 's  so  great,  can  make  his  will  his  act, — 
Will  think  me  speaking,   though  I  swear  to 

silence ; 

Nor  boots  it  me  to  say  I  honour  him, 
If  he  suspect  I  may  dishonour  him  : 
And  what  may  make  him  blush  in  being  known, 
He'll  stop  the  course  by  which  it  might   be 

known  ; 

With  hostile  forces  he  '11  o'erspread  the  land, 
And  with  the  ostent  of  war  will  look  so  huge, 
Amazement  shall  drive  courage  from  the  state  ; 
Our  men  be  vanquish'd  ere  they  do  resist, 
And  subjects  punish'd  that  ne'er  thought  offence  .- 
Which  care  of  them,  not  pity  of  myself, — 
Who  once  no  more  but  as  the  tops  of  trees. 


SCENE  II.] 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


1001 


Which  fence   the    roots    they   grow   by,  and 

defend  them, — 

Makes  both  my  body  pine  and  soul  to  languish, 
And  punish  that  before  that  he  would  punish. 

Enter  HELICANUS  and  other  Lords. 

1  Lord.  Joy  and  all  comfort  in  your  sacred 

breast  !  [to  us, 

2  Lord.  And  keep  your  mind  till  you  return 
Peaceful  and  comfortable  ! 

Hel.  Peace,  peace,  my  lords,  and  give  ex- 
perience tongue. 

They  do  abuse  the  king  that  flatter  him : 
For  flattery  is  the  bellows  blows  up  sin  ; 
The  thing  the  which  is  flatter'd,  but  a  spark, 
To  which  that  blast  gives  heat  and  stronger 


Whereas  reproof,  obedient,  and  in  order, 
Fits  kings,  as  they  are  men,  for  they  may  err. 
When  Signior  Sooth  here  does  proclaim  a  peace 
He  flatters  you,  makes  war  upon  your  life. 
Prince,  pardon  me,  or  strike  me  if  you  please  ; 
I  cannot  be  much  lower  than  my  knees. 

Per.  All  leave  us  else ;  but  let  your  cares 

o'erlook 

What  shipping  and  what  lading 's  in  our  haven, 
And  then  return  to  us.  [Exeunt  Lords.]  Heli- 

canus,  thou 
Hast  moved  us :  what  seest  thou  in  our  looks  ? 

Hel.  An  angry  brow,  dread  lord. 

Per.  If  there  be  such  a  dart  in  princes'  frowns, 
How  durst  thy  tongue  move  anger  to  our  face  ? 

Hel.  How  dare  the  plants  look  up  to  heaven, 

from  whence 
They  have  their  nourishment  ? 

Per.  Thou  know'st  I  have  power 

To  take  thy  life  from  thee.  [self ; 

Hel.  [Kneeling.  ]  I  have  ground  the  axe  my- 
Do  you  but  strike  the  blow. 

Per.  Rise,  pr'ythee,  rise. 

Sit  down,  sit  down:  thou  art  no  flatterer  : 
I  thank  thee  for  it ;  and  heaven  forbid 
That   kings   should   let  their  ears  hear   their 

faults  chid  ! 

Fit  counsellor  and  servant  for  a  prince, 
Who  by  thy  wisdom  mak'st  a  prince  thy  servant, 
What  wouldst  thou  have  me  do  ? 

Hel.  To  bear  with  patience 

Such  griefs  as  you  yourself  do  layupon  yourself. 

Per.  Thou  speak'st  like  a  physician,  Heli- 

canus, 

That  minister's!  a  potion  unto  me 
That  thou  wouldst  tremble  to  receive  thyself. 
Attend  me,  then  :  I  went  to  Antioch, 
Where,  as  thou  know'st,  against  the  face  of 

death, 
I  sought  the  purchase  of  a  glorious  beauty, 


From  whence  an  issue  I  might  propagate, 
Are  arms  to  princes,  and  bring  joys  to  subjects. 
Her  face  was  to  mine  eye  beyond  all  wonder  ; 
The   rest, — hark  in  thine  ear, — as  black   as 

incest : 

Which  by  my  knowledge  found,  the  sinful  father 
Seem'd  not  to  strike,  but  smooth :   but  thou 

know'st  this, 

'Tis  time  to  fear  when  tyrants  seem  to  kiss. 
Which  fear  so  grew  in  me,  I  hither  fled, 
Under  the  covering  of  a  careful  night, 
Who  seem'd  my  good  protector ;  and,  being  here, 
Bethought  me   what  was  past,   what    might 

succeed. 

I  knew  him  tyrannous  ;  and  tyrants'  fears 
Decrease  not,  but  grow  faster  than  their  years : 
And  should  he  doubt  it, — as  no  doubt  he  doth, — 
That  I  should  open  to  the  listening  air 
How  many  worthy  princes'  bloods  were  shed 
To  keep  his  bed  of  blackness  unlaid  ope, — 
To  lop  that  doubt,  he  '11  fill  this  land  with  arms, 
And  make  pretence  of  wrong  that  I  have  done 

him ; 

When  all,  for  mine,  if  I  may  call  offence, 
Must  feel  war's  blow,  who  spares  not  innocence : 
Which  love  to  all, — of  which  thyself  art  one, 
Who  now  reprov'st  me  for  it, — 

Hel.  Alas,  sir  ! 

Per.  Drew  sleep  out  of  mine  eyes,  blood  from 

my  cheeks, 

Musings  into  my  mind,  with  thousand  doubts 
How  I  might  stop  this  tempest  ere  it  came  ; 
And,  finding  little  comfort  to  relieve  them, 
I  thought  it  princely  charity  to  grieve  them. 
Hel.  Well,  my  lord,  since  you  have  given  me 

leave  to  speak, 

Freely  will  I  speak.     Antiochus  you  fear, 
And  justly  too,  I  think,  you  fear  the  tyrant, 
Who  either  by  public  war  or  private  treason 
Will  take  away  your  life. 
Therefore,  my  lord,  go  travel  for  awhile, 
Till  that  his  rage  and  anger  be  forgot, 
Or  till  the  Destinies  do  cut  his  thread  of  life, 
Your  rule  direct  to  any  ;  if  to  me, 
Day  serves  not  light  more  faithful  than  I  '11  be. 

Per.  I  do  not  doubt  thy  faith  ; 
But  should  he  wrong  my  liberties  in  my  absence? 
Hel.  We  '11  mingle  our  bloods  together  in  the 

earth, 

From  whence  we  had  our  being  and  our  birth. 
Per.  Tyre,  I  now  look  from  thee,  then,  and 

to  Tharsus 

Intend  my  travel,  where  I'll  hear  from  thee  ; 
And  by  whose  letters  I  '11  dispose  myself. 
The  care  I  had  and  have  of  subjects'  good 
On  thee  I  lay,  whose  wisdom's  strength  can 

bear  it. 


1002 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


[ACT  i. 


I'll  take  thy  word  for  faith,  not  ask  thine  oath  : 
Who  shuns  not  to  break  one  will  sure  crack 

both: 

But  in  our  orbs  we  '11  live  so  round  and  safe, 
That  time  of  both  this  truth  shall  ne'er  convince, 
Thou  show'dst  a  subject's  shine,  I  a  true  prince. 

[Exetint. 

SCENE  III.  —  TYRE.     An  Ante-chamber  in  the 
Palace. 

Enter  THALIARD. 

Thai.  So,  this  is  Tyre,  and  this  the  court. 
Here  must  I  kill  King  Pericles  ;  and  if  I  do  it 
not,  I  am  sure  to  be  hanged  at  home  :  'tis 
dangerous.  —  Well,  I  perceive  he  was  a  wise 
fellow,  and  had  good  discretion,  that,  being 
bid  to  ask  what  he  would  of  the  king,  desired 
he  might  know  none  of  his  secrets.  Now  do  I 
see  he  had  some  reason  for  't  :  for  if  a  king  bid 
a  man  be  a  villain,  he  is  bound  by  the  indenture 
of  his  oath  to  be  one.  —  Hush  !  here  come  the 
lords  of  Tyre. 

,  ESCANES,  and  other  Lords. 


HeL  You  shall  not  need,  my  fellow  peers  of 

Tyre, 

Further  to  question  me  of  your  king's  departure  : 
His  seal'd  commission,  left  in  trust  with  me, 
Doth  speak  sufficiently  he  's  gone  to  travel. 

Thai.  [Aside.'}  How  !  the  king  gone  ! 

HeL  If  further  yet  you  will  be  satisfied, 
Why,  as  it  were  unlicens'd  of  your  loves, 
He  would  depart,  I  '11  give  some  light  unto  you. 
Being  at  Antioch,  — 

Thai.  [Aside.]  What  from  Antioch? 

Hel.    Royal   Antiochus,  —  on  what  cause  I 
know  not,  —  [so  : 

Took  some  displeasure  at  him  ;  at  leasthe  judg'd 
And  doubting  lest  that  he  had  err'd  or  sinn'd, 
To  show  his  sorrow,  he  'd  correct  himself  ; 
So  puts  himself  unto  the  shipman's  toil, 
With  whom  each  minute  threatens  life  or  death. 

Thai.  [Aside.'}  Well,  I  perceive 
I  shall  not  be  hang'd  now  although  I  would  ; 
But  since  he  's  gone,  the  king's  ears  it  must  please 
He  'scap'd  the  land  to  perish  on  the  seas. 
I  '11  present  myself.  —  Peace  to  the  lords  of  Tyre  ! 

Hel.   Lord  Thaliard  from  Antiochus  is  wel- 
come. 

Thai.  From  him  I  come 
With  message  unto  princely  Pericles  ; 
But  since  my  landing  I  have  understood 
Your    lord   has   betook   himself  to   unknown 

travels, 
My  message  must  return  from  whence  it  came. 

Hel.  We  have  no  reason  to  desire  it, 


Commended  to  our  master,  not  to  us  : 
Yet,  ere  you  shall  depart,  this  we  desire, — 
As  friends  to  Antioch,  we  may  feast  in  Tyre. 

\Exettnt. 


SCENE  IV. — THARSUS.     A  Room  in  the 
Governor's  House. 

Enter  CLEON,  DIONYZA,  and  Attendants. 

Cle.   My  Dionyza,  shall  we  rest  us  here, 
And  by  relating  tales  of  others'  griefs 
See  if  'twill  teach  us  to  forget  our  own  ? 

Dio.  That  were  to  blow  at  fire  in  hope  to 

quench  it ; 

For  who  digs  hills  because  they  do  aspire 
Throws  down  one  mountain  to  cast  up  a  higher. 

0  my  distressed  lord,  even  such  our  griefs  are; 
Here  they  're  but  felt,  and  seen  with  mischiefs 

eyes, 
But  like  to  groves,  being  topp'd,  they  higher  rise. 

Cle.  O  Dionyza, 

Who  wanteth  food,  and  will  not  say  he  wants  it, 
Or  can  conceal  his  hunger  till  he  famish  ? 
Our  tongues  and  sorrows  do  sound  deep 
Our  woes  into  the  air  ;  our  eyes  do  weep, 
Till   tongues  fetch  breath  that  may  proclaim 

them  louder ;  [want, 

That,  if  heaven  slumber  while  their  creatures 
They  may  awake  their  helps  to  comfort  them. 

1  '11  then  discourse  our  woes,  felt  several  years, 
And,  wanting  breath  to  speak,  help  me  with 

tears. 

Dio.  I  '11  do  my  best,  sir. 
Cle.    This  Tharsus,  o'er  which  I  have   the 

government, 

A  city  on  whom  plenty  held  full  hand, 
For  riches  strew'd  herself  even  in  the  streets  ; 
Whose  towers  bore  heads  so  high  they  kiss'd 

the  clouds, 

And  strangers  ne'er  beheld  but  wonder'd  at ; 
Whose  men  and  dames  so  jetted  and  adorn'd, 
Like  one  another's  glass  to  trim  them  by : 
Their  tables  were  stor'd  full,  to  glad  the  sight, 
And  not  so  much  to  feed  on  as  delight ; 
All  poverty  was  scorn 'd,  and  pride  so  great, 
The  name  of  help  grew  odious  to  repeat. 
Dio.  O  'tis  too  true. 
Cle.  But  see  what  heaven  can  do !     By  this 

our  change,  [air 

These  mouths,  whom  but  of  late  earth,  sea,  and 
Were  all  too  little  to  content  and  please, 
Although  they  gave  their  creatures  in  abundance, 
As  houses  are  defil'd  for  want  of  use, 
They  are  now  starv'd  for  want  of  exercise  : 
Those  palates  who,  not  us'd  to  savour  hunger, 
Must  have  inventions  to  delight  the  taste, 


SCENE  IV.] 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


1003 


Would  now  be  glad  of  bread,  and  beg  for  it  : 
Those  mothers  who,  to  nousle  up  their  babes, 
Thought  naught  too  curious,  are  ready  now 
To  eat  those  little  darlings  whom  they  lov'd. 
So  sharp  are  hunger's  teeth,  that  man  and  wife 
Draw  lots  who  first  shall  die  to  lengthen  life  : 
Here  stands  a  lord  and  there  a  lady  weeping ; 
Here  many  sink,  yet  those  which  see  them  fall 
Have  scarce  strength  left  to  give  them  burial. 
Is  not  this  true  ?  [it. 

Dio.  Our  cheeks  and  hollow  eyes  do  witness 
Cle.  O,  let  those  cities  that  of  Plenty's  cup 
And  her  prosperities  so  largely  taste, 
With  their  superfluous  riots,  hear  these  tears  ! 
The  misery  of  Tharsus  may  be  theirs. 

Enter  a  Lord. 

Lord.  Where 's  the  lord  governor  ? 

Cle.  Here.  [haste, 

Speak  out  thy  sorrows  which  thou  bring'st  in 
For  comfort  is  too  far  for  us  to  expect. 

Lord.  We  have  descried,  upon   our   neigh- 
bouring shore, 
A  portly  sail  of  ships  make  hitherward. 

Cle.   I  thought  as  much. 
One  sorrow  never  comes  but  brings  an  heir 
That  may  succeed  as  his  inheritor  ; 
And  so  in  ours  :  some  neighbouring  nation, 
Taking  advantage  of  our  misery,  [power, 

Hath  stufFd  these  hollow  vessels  with  their 
To  beat  us  down,  the  which  are  down  already ; 
And  make  a  conquest  of  unhappy  we, 
Whereas  no  glory 's  got  to  overcome. 

Lord.  That 's  the  least  fear ;  for  by  the  sem- 
blance [peace, 
Of  their  white  flags  display'd,  they  bring  us 
And  come  to  us  as  favourers,  not  as  foes. 

Cle.  Thou  speak'st  like  him's  untutor'd  to 

repeat : 

Who  makes  the  fairest  show  means  most  deceit. 
But  bring  they  what  they  will,  and  what  they 

can, 

What  need  we  fear  ?  [there. 

The  ground 's  the  lowest,  and  we  are  half  way 
Go  tell  their  general  we  attend  him  here, 
To  know  for  what  he  comes,  and  whence  he 

comes, 
And  what  he  craves. 

Lord.  I  go,  my  lord.  [Exit. 

Cle.  Welcome  is  peace,  if  he  on  peace  consist ; 
If  wars,  we  are  unable  to  resist. 

Enter  PERICLES,  with  Attendants. 

Per.   Lord  governor,  for  so  we  hear  you  are, 
Let  not  our  ships  and  number  of  our  men 
Be,  like  a  beacon  fir'd,  to  amaze  your  eyes. 
We  have  heard  your  miseries  as  far  as  Tyre, 


And  seen  the  desolation  of  your  streets  : 
Nor  come  we  to  add  sorrow  to  your  tears, 
But  to  relieve  them  of  their  heavy  load ; 
And  these  our  ships,  you  happily  may  think 
Are  like  the  Trojan  horse  war-stuff'd  within 
With  bloody  veins,  expecting  overthrow, 
Are  stor'd  with  corn  to  make  your  needy  bread, 
And  give  them  life  whom  hunger  starv'd  half 
dead. 

All.  The  gods  of  Greece  protect  you  ! 
And  we  '11  pray  for  you. 

Per.  Rise,  I  pray  you,  rise  : 

We  do  not  look  for  reverence,  but  for  love, 
And  harbourage  for  ourself,  our  ships,  and  men. 

Cle.  The  which  when  any  shall  not  gratify, 
Or  pay  you  with  unthankfulness  in  thought, 
Be  it  our  wives,  our  children,  or  ourselves, 
The  curse  of  heaven  and  men  succeed  their 
evils  !  [seen, — 

Till  when, — the  which  I  hope  shall  ne'er  be 
Your  grace  is  welcome  to  our  town  and  us. 

Per.  Which  welcome  we  '11  accept ;  feast  here 

a  while, 
Until  our  stars  that  frown  lend  us  a  smile. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 
Enter  GOWER. 

Gow.  Here  have  you  seen  a  mighty  king 
His  child,  I  wis,  to  incest  bring  ; 
A  better  prince,  and  benign  lord, 
That  will  prove  awful  both  in  deed  and  word. 
Be  quiet,  then,  as  men  should  be, 
Till  he  hath  pass'd  necessity. 
I  '11  show  you  those  in  troubles  reign, 
Losing  a  mite,  a  mountain  gain. 
The  good  in  conversation, — 
To  whom  I  give  my  benison, — 
Is  still  at  Tharsus,  where  each  man 
Thinks  all  is  writ  he  spoken  can  ; 
And,  to  remember  what  he  does, 
Gild  his  statue  to  make  him  glorious  : 
But  tidings  to  the  contrary 
Are  brought  your  eyes :  what  need  speak  I  ? 

Dumb  show. 

Enter,  at  one  side,  PERICLES,  talking  with 
CLEON  ;  their  Trains  with  them.  Enter, 
at  the  other,  a  Gentleman  with  a  letter  to 
PERICLES,  who  shows  it  to  CLEON,  then 
gives  the  Messenger  a  reward,  and  knirhts 
him.  Exeunt  PERICLES  and  CLEON  -with 
their  Trains,  severally. 

Good  Helicane  hath  stay'd  at  home, 
Not  to  eat  honey  like  a  drone 


1004 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


[ACT  ii. 


From  others'  labours  ;  for  though  he  strive 

To  killen  bad,  keep  good  alive  ; 

And,  to  fulfil  his  prince'  desire, 

Sends  word  of  all  that  haps  in  Tyre  : 

How  Thaliard  came  full  bent  with  sin 

And  hid  intent  to  murder  him  ; 

And  that  in  Tharsus  was  not  best 

Longer  for  him  to  make  his  rest. 

He,  knowing  so,  put  forth  to  seas, 

Where  when  men  been,  there  's  seldom  ease  ; 

For  now  the  wind  begins  to  blow  ; 

Thunder  above  and  deeps  below 

Make  such  unquiet  that  the  ship 

Should  house  him  safe  is  wreck'd  and  split  ; 

And  he,  good  prince,  having  all  lost, 

By  waves  from  coast  to  coast  is  toss'd  ; 

All  perishen  of  man,  of  pelf, 

Ne  aught  escapen  but  himself  ; 

Till  fortune,  tir'd  with  doing  bad, 

Threw  him  ashore,  to  give  him  glad  : 

And  here  he  comes.     What  shall  be  next, 

Pardon  old  Gower,  —  this  longs  the  text. 


SCENE  I.  —  PENTAPOLIS.     An  open  Place  by 
the  Sea-side. 

Enter  PERICLES,  -wet. 

Per.  Yet  cease  your  ire,  you  angry  stars  of 
heaven  !  [man 

Wind,  rain,  and   thunder,  remember,  earthly 
Is  but  a  substance  that  must  yield  to  you  ; 
And  I,  as  fits  my  nature,  do  obey  you  : 
Alas,  the  sea  hath  cast  me  on  the  rocks, 
Wash'd  me  from  shore  to  shore,  and  left  me 

breath 

Nothing  to  think  on  but  ensuing  death  : 
Let  it  suffice  the  greatness  of  your  powers 
To  have  bereft  a  prince  of  all  his  fortunes  ; 
And  having  thrown  him  from  your  watery  grave, 
Here  to  have  death  in  peace  is  all  he  '11  crave. 

Enter  three  Fishermen. 

1  Fish.  What,  ho,  Pilch  ! 

2  Fish.   Ho,  come  and  bring  away  the  nets  ! 
i  Fish.  What,  Patchbreech,  I  say  ! 

3  Fish.   What  say  you,  master  ? 

i  Fish.  Look  how  thou  stirrest  now  !  come 
away,  or  I  '11  fetch  thee  with  a  wanion. 

3  Fish.  Faith,  master,  I  am  thinking  of  the 
poor  men  that  were  cast  away  before  us  even 
now. 

I  Fish.  Alas,  poor  souls,  it  grieved  my  heart 
to  hear  what  pitiful  cries  they  made  to  us  to 
help  them,  when,  well-a-day,  we  could  scarce 
help  ourselves. 

3  Fish.  Nay,  master,   said   not  I  as  much 


when  I  saw  the  porpus  how  he  bounced  and 
tumbled  ?  they  say  they  're  half  fish  half  flesh  : 
a  plague  on  them,  they  ne'er  come  but  I  look 
to  be  washed.  Master,  I  marvel  how  the  fishes 
live  in  the  sea. 

1  Fish.  Why,  as  men  do  a-land, — the  great 
ones  eat  up  the  little  ones  :  I  can  compare  our 
rich  misers  to  nothing  so  fitly  as  to  a  whale  ; 
'a  plays  and  tumbles,  driving  the  poor  fry  before 
him,  and  at  last  devours  them  all  at  a  mouth- 
ful :   such  whales  have  I  heard  on   the  land, 
who  never  leave  gaping  till  they  've  swallow'd 
the  whole  parish,  church,  steeple,  bells,  and 
all. 

Per.  [Aside.]  A  pretty  moral. 
3  Fish.   But,  master,  if  I  had  been  the  sex- 
ton, I  would  have  been  that  day  in  the  belfry. 

2  Fish.  Why,  man? 

3  Fish.  Because  he  should  have  swallowed 
me  too :  and  when  I  had  been  in  his  belly  I 
would  have  kept  such  a  jangling  of  the  bells 
that  he  should  never  have  left  till  he  cast  bells, 
steeple,  church,  and  parish  up  again.     But  ?f 
the  good  King  Simonides  were  of  my  mind, — 

Per.  [Aside.]  Simonides  ! 

3  Fish.  He  would  purge  the  land  of  these 
drones  that  rob  the  bee  of  her  honey. 

Per.  [Aside.]  How  from  the  finny  subject  of 

the  sea 

These  fishers  tell  the  infirmities  of  men  ; 
And  from  their  watery  empire  recollect 
All  that  may  men  approve  or  men  detect ! — 
Peace  be  at  your  labour,  honest  fishermen. 

2  Fish.  Honest !  good  fellow,  what 's  that  ? 
if  it  be  not  a  day  fits  you,  scratch  it  out  of  the 
calendar,  and  nobody  will  look  after  it. 

Per.  Nay,  see  the  sea  hath  cast  upon  your 
coast, — 

2  Fish.  What  a  drunken  knave  was  the  sea 
to  cast  thee  in  our  way.  [wind 

Per.  A  man,  whom  both  the  waters  and  the 
In  that  vast  tennis-court  hath  made  the  ball 
For  them  to  play  upon,  entreats  you  pity  him  ; 
He  asks  of  you  that  never  used  to  beg. 

1  Fish.  No,  friend,  cannot  you  beg?  here's 
them  in  our  country  of  Greece  gets  more  with 
begging  than  we  can  do  with  working. 

2  Fish.  Canst  thou  catch  any  fishes,  then  ? 
Per.  I  never  practised  it. 

2  Fish.  Nay,  then  thou  wilt  starve,  sure ; 
for  here 's  nothing  to  be  got  now-a-days  unless 
thou  canst  fish  for't. 

Per.  What  I  have  been  I  have  forgot  to  know; 
But  what  I  am  want  teaches  me  to  think  on : 
A  man  throng'd  up  with  cold ;  my  veins  are 

chill, 
And  have  no  more  life  than  may  suffice 


SCENE  I.] 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


1005 


To  give  my  tongue  that  heat  to  ask  your  help  ; 
Which  if  you  shall  refuse,  when  I  am  dead, 
For  that  I  am  a  man,  pray  see  me  buried. 

1  Fish.  Diequoth-a?     Now  gods  forbid  !     I 
have  a  gown  here  ;  come,  put  it  on  ;  keep  thee 
warm.     Now,  afore  me,  a  handsome  fellow  ! 
Come,  thou  shalt  go  home,  and  we  '11  have 
flesh  for  holidays,   fish  for   fasting-days,   and 
moreo'er   puddings  and  flapjacks ;    and   thou 
shalt  be  welcome. 

Per.  I  thank  you,  sir. 

2  Fish.  Hark  you,  my  friend,  you  said  you 
could  not  beg. 

Per.  I  did  but  crave. 

2  Fish.  But  crave!  Then  111  turn  craver 
too,  and  so  I  shall  scape  whipping. 

Per.  Why,  are  all   your  beggars  whipped, 
then? 

2  Fish.  O,  not  all,  my  friend,  not  all ;  for  if 
all  your  beggars  were  whipped,  I  would  wish 
no  better  office  than  to  be  beadle.  But,  master, 
I  '11  go  draw  up  the  net. 

[Exeunt  -with  Third  Fisherman. 

Per.  [Aside.}  How  well   this  honest  mirth 
becomes  their  labour  ! 

I  Fish.  Hark  you,  sir,  do  you  know  where 
ye  are  ? 

Per.  Not  well. 

i  Fish.  Why,  I  '11  tell  you :  this  is  called 
Pentapolis,  and  our  king  the  good  Simonides. 

Per.  The  good  King  Simonides,  do  you  call 
him  ? 

I  Fish.  Ay,  sir ;  and  he  deserves  so  to  be 
called  for  his  peaceable  reign  and  good  govern- 
ment. 

_  Per.  He  is  a  happy  king,  since  he  gains  from 
his  subjects  the  name  of  good  by  his  govern- 
ment. How  far  is  his  court  distant  from  this 
shore  ? 

i  Fish.  Marry,  sir,  half  a  day's  journey :  and 
I  '11  tell  you,  he  hath  a  fair  daughter,  and  to- 
morrow is  her  birthday ;  and  there  are  princes 
and  knights  come  from  all  parts  of  the  world 
to  joust  and  tourney  for  her  love. 

Per.  Were  but  my  fortunes  equal  my  desires 
I  could  wish  to  make  one  there. 

1  Fish.  O,  sir,  things  must  be  as  they  may ; 
and  what  a  man  cannot  get  he  may  lawfully 
deal  for — his  wife 's  soul. 

Re-enter  Second  and  Third  Fishermen,  draw- 
ing up  a  net. 

2  Fish.  Help,  master,  help !    here 's  a  fish 
hangs  in  the  net  like  a  poor  man's  right  in  the 
law  ;  'twill  hardly  come  out.     Ha  !  bots  on 't, 
'tis  come  at  last,  and  'tis  turned  to  a  rusty 
armour. 


Per.  An  armour,  friends !     I  pray  you,  let  me 

see  it. — 

Thanks,  fortune,  yet,  that  after  all  my  crosses 
Thou  giv'st  me  somewhat  to  repair  myself; 
And  though  it  was  mine  own,  part  of  my  heri- 
tage, 

Which  my  dead  father  did  bequeath  to  me, 
With   this   strict   charge,    even  as  he  left  his 

life, 

Keep  it,  my  Pericles  ;  it  hath  been  a  shield 
'Twixt  me  and  death; — and  pointed  to  this 

brace  : — 

For  that  it  sav'd  me,  keep  it;  in  like  necessity , — 
The  which  gods  protect  thee  from  ! — may  defend 

thee. 

It  kept  where  I  kept,  I  so  dearly  lov'd  it : 
Till  the  rough  seas,  that  spare  not  any  man, 
Took  it  in  rage,  though  calm'd  have  given 't 

again  : 
I  thank  thee  for 't :  my  shipwreck  now 's  no 

ill; 

Since  I  have  here  my  father's  gift  in 's  will. 
I  Fish.  What  mean  you,  sir? 
Per.  To  beg  of  you,  kind  friends,  this  coat 

of  worth, 

For  it  was  sometime  target  to  a  king ; 
I  know  it  by  this  mark.     He  lov'd  me  dearly, 
And  for  his  sake  I  wish  the  having  of  it ; 
And  that  you'd  guide  me  to  your  sovereign's 

court, 

Where  with  it  I  may  appear  a  gentleman ; 
And  if  that  ever  my  low  fortunes  better, 
I  '11  pay  your  bounties;  till  then  rest  your  debtor. 
I  Fish.  Why,  wilt  thou  tourney  for  the  lady? 
Per.  I'll  show  the  virtue  I  have  borne  in  arms. 

1  Fish.  Why,  do  you  take  it,  and  the  gods 
give  thee  good  on 't ! 

2  Fish.  Ay,  but  hark  you,  my  friend ;  'twas 
we   that  made  up  this  garment  through  the 
rough  seams  of  the  waters:  there  are  certain 
condolements,  certain  vails.     I  hope,  sir,  if  you 
thrive,  you'll  remember  from  whence  you  had 
it. 

Per.  Believe 't,  I  will. 
By  your  furtherance  I  am  cloth'd  in  steel; 
And  spite  of  all  the  rupture  of  the  sea 
This  jewel  holds  his  building  on  my  arm: 
Unto  thy  value  I  will  mount  myself 
Upon  a  courser,  whose  delightful  steps 
Shall  make  the  gazer  joy  to  see  him  tread. — 
Only,  my  friends,  I  yet  am  unprovided 
Of  a  pair  of  bases. 

2  Fish.  We  '11  sure  provide :  thou  shalt  have 
my  best  gown  to  make  thee  a  pair;  and  I'll 
bring  thee  to  the  court  myself. 

Per.  Then  honour  be  but  a  goal  to  my  will; 
This  day  I  '11  rise,  or  else  add  ill  to  ill.  [Exeunt. 


ioo6 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


[ACT  ii. 


SCENE  II. — PENTAPOLIS.  A  public  Way  or 
Platform  leading  to  the  Lists.  A  Pavilion 
by  the  side  of  it  for  the  reception  of  the  King, 
Princess,  Lords,  &c. 

Enter  SIMONIDES,  THAISA,  Lords,  and 
Attendants. 

Sim.    Are  the  knights  ready  to  begin  the 

triumph  ? 

I  Lord.   They  are,  my  liege; 
And  stay  your  coming  to  present  themselves. 
Sim.   Return  them,  we  are  ready;  and  our 

daughter, 

In  honour  of  whose  birth  these  triumphs  are, 
Sits  here,  like  beauty's  child,  whom  nature  gat 
For  men  to  see,  and  seeing  wonder  at. 

[Exit  a  Lord. 
Thai.  It  pleaseth  you,  my  royal  father,  to 

express 

My  commendations  great,  whose  merit 's  less. 
Sim.  It's  fit  it  should  be  so;  for  princes  are 
A  model  which  heaven  makes  like  to  itself : 
As  jewels  lose  their  glory  if  neglected, 
So  princes  their  renown  if  not  respected. 
'Tis  now  your  labour,  daughter,  to  explain 
The  honour  of  each  knight  in  his  device. 

That.    Which,    to    preserve   mine    honour, 
I  '11  perform. 

Enter  a  Knight;  he  passes  over,  and  his  Squire 
presents  his  shield  to  the  Princess. 

Sim.  Who  is  the  first  that  doth  prefer  himself? 
7'Aai.  A  knight  of  Sparta,  my  renowned  father; 
And  the  device  he  bears  upon  his  shield 
Is  a  black  ^Ethiop  reaching  at  the  sun  ; 
The  word,  'Lux  tua  vita  mihi. 

Sim.   He  loves  you  well  that  holds  his  life  of 
you.  \_The  Second  Knight  passes. 

Who  is  the  second  that  presents  himself? 

Thai.  A  prince  of  Macedon,  my  royal  father ; 
And  the  device  he  bears  upon  his  shield 
Is  an  arm'd  knight  that 's  conquer'd  by  a  lady ; 
The  motto  thus,  in  Spanish,  Piu  por  dulzura 
que  porfuerza. 

[The  Third  Knight  passes. 
Sim.  And  what's  the  third? 
Thai.  The  third  of  Antioch  ; 

And  his  device  a  wreath  of  chivalry ; 
The  word,  Me  pompce  provexit  apex. 

[The  Fourth  Knight  passes. 
Sim.  What  is  the  fourth? 
Thai.   A  burning  torch  that 's  turned  upside 

down ; 
The  word,  Quod  me  atit,  me  extingiiit. 


Sim.    Which   shows   that  beauty  hath  his 

power  and  will, 
Which  can  as  well  inflame  as  it  can  kill. 

[The  Fifth  Knight  passes. 

ThaL  The  fifth,  an  hand  environed  with 

clouds,  [tried ; 

Holding  out   gold   that's  by   the   touchstone 

The  motto  thus,  Sic  spectanda  fides.  v>  -ml  i 

[The  Sixth  Knight  (PERICLES) passes. 
Sim.  And   what's   the   sixth  and   last,  the 

which  the  knight  himself 
With  such  a  graceful  courtesy  deliver'd  ? 

Thai.  He  seems  to  be  a  stranger;  but  his 

present  is 

A  wither'd  branch,  that's  only  green  at  top; 
The  motto,  In  hoc  spe  vivo. 

Sim.  A  pretty  moral ; 
From  the  dejected  state  wherein  he  is, 
He  hopes  by  you  his  fortunes  yet  may  flourish. 

1  Lord.  He  had  need  mean  better  than  his 

outward  show 

Can  any  way  speak  in  his  just  commend ; 
For,  by  his  rusty  outside,  he  appears       [lance. 
To  have  practis'd  more  the  whipstock  than  the 

2  Lord.  He  well  may  be  a  stranger,  for  he 

comes 
To  an  honour'd  triumph  strangely  furnislied. 

3  Lord.  And  on  set  purpose  let  his  armour 

rust 
Until  this  day,  to  scour  it  in  the  dust. 

Sim.  Opinion's  but  a  fool,  that  makes  us  scan 
The  outward  habit  by  the  inward  man. 
But   stay,   the   knights  are  coming:    we   will 

withdraw 

Into  the  gallery.  [Exeunt. 

[Great  shouts  within ,  all  crying  ' '  The 

mean  knight!" 

girf,  moii  j^-.-'ib  >:!jo.j  sir:  cl  i&  v/oH     .jrarn 

SCENE  III. — PENTAPOLIS.     A  Hall  of  State: 

A  Banquet  prepared. 

Enter  SIMONIDES,  THAISA,  Lords,  Knights, 
and  Attendants. 

Sim.   Knights, 

To  say  you  are  welcome  were  superfluous. 
To  place  upon  the  volume  of  your  deeds, 
As  in  a  title-page,  your  worth  in  arms 
Were  more  than  you  expect,  or  more  than  's  fit, 
Since  every  worth  in  show  commends  itself. 
Prepare  for  mirth,  for  mirth  becomes  a  feast : 
You  are  princes  and  my  guests. 

Thai.  But  you  my  knight  and  guest ; 

To  whom  this  wreath  of  victory  I  give, 
And  crown  you  king  of  this  day's  happiness. 

Per.  'Tis   more   by  fortune,  lady,  than  by 
merit.  [yours ; 

Sim.  Call  it  by  what  you  will,  the  day  is 


SCENE  III.] 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


1007 


And  here  I  hope  is  none  that  envies  it. 
In  framing  an  artist,  art  hath  thus  decreed, 
To  make  some  good,  but  others  to  exceed, 
And     you're    her    labour'd    scholar. — Come, 
queen  o'  the  feast, —  [place: 

For,   daughter,   so  you  are, — here  take  your 
Marshal  the  rest,  as  they  deserve  their  grace. 
Knights.  We  are  honour'd  much  by  good 
Simonides.  [we  love; 

Sim.  Your  presence  glads  our  days :  honour 
For  who  hates  honour  hates  the  gods  above. 
Marshal.  Sir,  yonder  is  your  place. 
Per.  Some  other  is  more  fit. 

i   Knight.    Contend    not,    sir;   for   we   are 

gentlemen 

That  neither  in  our  hearts  nor  outward  eyes 
Envy  the  great,  nor  do  the  low  despise. 
Per.  You  are  right  courteous  knights. 
Sim.  Sit,  sir,  sit. 

_$&Per.  By  Jove,    I   wonder,  that   is   king  of 

thoughts, 

These  cates  resist  me,  she  but  thought  upon. 
K-       Thai.   By  Juno,  that  is  queen 
Of  marriage,  all  viands  that  I  eat 
Do  seem  unsavoury,  wishing  him  my  meat. 
Sure  he 's  a  gallant  gentleman. 
1^      Sim.  He 's  but  a  country  gentleman ; 

Has  done  no  more  than  other  knights  have  done; 
Has  broken  a  staff  or  so ;  so  let  it  pass. 
n      Thai.  To  me  he  seems  like  diamond  to  glass. 
^      Per.  Yon  king 's  to  me  like  to  my  father's 

picture, 

Which  tells  me  in  that  glory  once  he  was; 
Had  princes  sit,  like  stars,  about  his  throne, 
And  he  the  sun,  for  them  to  reverence; 
None  that  beheld  him  but,  like  lesser  lights, 
Did  vail  their  crowns  to  his  supremacy : 
Where  now  his  son 's  like  a  glowworm  in  the 

night, 

The  which  hath  fire  in  darkness,  none  in  light : 
Whereby  I  see  that  Time 's  the  king  of  men, 
For  he 's  their  parent,  and  he  is  their  grave, 
And  gives  them  what  he  will,  not  what  they 

crave. 

Sim.  What,  are  you  merry,  knights  ? 
I  Knight.  Who  can  be  other  in  this  royal 

presence  ? 
Sim.  Here,  with  a  cup  that 's  stor'd  unto  the 

brim, — 

As  you  do  love,  fill  to  your  mistress'  lips, — 
We  drink  this  health  to  you. 

Knights.  We  thank  your  grace. 

Sim.  Yet  pause  awhile : 

Yon  knight,  methinks,  doth  sit  too  melancholy, 
As  if  the  entertainment  in  our  court 
Had  not  a  show  might  countervail  his  worth. 
Note  it  not  you,  Thaisa  I 


Thai.  What  is  it 

To  me,  my  £ther  ? 

Sim.  O,  attend,  my  daughter: 

Princes,  in  this,  should  live  like  gods  above, 
Who  freely  give  to  every  one  that  comes 
To  honour  them  : 

And  princes  not  doing  so  are  like  to  gnats, 
Which  make  a  sound,  but  kill'd  are  wonder'd  at. 
Therefore  to  make  his  entrance  more  sweet, 
Here,  say  we  drink  this  standing-bowl  of  wine 
to  him. 

Thai.  Alas,  my  father,  it  befits  not  me 
Unto  a  stranger  knight  to  be  so  bold  : 
He  may  my  proffer  take  for  an  offence, 
Since  men  take  women's  gifts  for  impudence. 

Sim.  How! 
Do  as  I  bid  you,  or  you  '11  move  me  else. 

That.  [Aside.]  Now,  by  the  gods,  he  could 
not  please  me  better. 

Sim.  And  furthermore  tell  him,  we  desire  to 

know  of  him 
Of  whence  he  is,  his  name  and  parentage. 

Thai.  The  king  my  father,  sir,  has  drunk 
to  you. 

Per.  I  thank  him. 

Thai.  Wishing  it  so  much  blood  unto  your 
life.  [him  freely. 

Per.  I  thank  both  him  and  you,  and  pledge 

Thai.  And  further  he  desires  to  know  of  you 
Of  whence  you  are,  your  name  and  parentage. 

Per.    A    gentleman    of   Tyre,  —  my    name, 

Pericles  ; 

My  education  been  in  arts  and  arms  ;  — 
Who,  looking  for  adventures  in  the  world, 
Was  by  the  rough  seas  reft  of  ships  and  men, 
And  after  shipwreck  driven  upon  this  shore. 

Thai.  He  thanks  your  grace  ;  names  himself 

Pericles, 

A  gentleman  of  Tyre, 
Who  only  by  misfortune  of  the  seas, 
Bereft  of  ships  and  men,  cast  on  this  shore. 

Sim.  Now,  by  the  gods,  I  pity  his  misfortune, 
And  will  awake  him  from  his  melancholy.  — 
Come,  gentlemen,  we  sit  too  long  on  trifles, 
And  waste  the  time  which  looks  for  other  revels. 
Even  in  your  armours,  as  you  are  address'd, 
Will  very  well  become  a  soldier's  dance. 
I  will  not  have  excuse,  with  saying  this 
Loud  music  is  too  harsh  for  ladies'  heads, 
Since  they  love  men  in  arms  as  well  as  beds. 

[  The  Knights  dance. 

So,  this  was  well  ask'd  ,  'twas  so  well  perform'd.  — 
Come,  sir  ; 

Here  is  a  lady  that  wants  breathing  too  : 
And  I  have  often  heard  you  knights  of  Tyre 
Are  excellent  in  making  ladies  trip  ; 
And  that  their  measures  are  as  excellent.  — 


r  measures  are  as  exceen 

s  re^tVkfc^    #  w- 
.^.J.i-,.^  *  ftu* 


ioo8 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


[ACT  ii. 


Per.  In  those  that  practise  them  they  are, 

my  lord.  [denied 

Sim.  O,  that's  as  much  as  you  would  be 

Of  your  fair  courtesy.         {The  Knights  and 

Ladies  dance.  ] — Unclasp,  unclasp : 
Thanks,  gentlemen,  to  all ;  all  have  done  well, 
But  you  the  best.     [  To  PERICLES.  ] — Pages  and 
lights,  to  conduct  [Yours,  sir, 

These  knights  unto .  their  several  lodgings ! — 
We  have  given  order  to  be  next  our  own. 
Per.  I  am  at  your  grace's  pleasure. 
Sim.   Princes,  it  is  too  late  to  talk  of  love, 
And  that 's  the  mark  I  know  you  level  at : 
Therefore  each  one  betake  him  to  his  rest ; 
To-morrow  all  for  speeding  do  their  best. 

\_Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV. — TYRE.    A  Room  in  the  Governor's 
House. 

Enter  HELICANUS  and  ESCANES. 

Hel.  No,  Escanes,  no  ;  know  this  of  me, — 
Antiochus  from  incest  liv'd  not  free: 
For  which,  the  most  high  gods  not  minding 
longer  [store, 

To  withhold  the  vengeance  that  they  had  in 
Due  to  this  heinous  capital  offence, 
Even  in  the  height  and  pride  of  all  his  glory, 
When  he  was  seated  in  a  chariot  [him, 

Of  an  inestimable  value,  and  his  daughter  with 
A  fire  from  heaven  came,  and  shrivell'd  up 
Their  bodies,  even  to  loathing ;  for  they  so  stunk 
That  all  those  eyes  ador'd  them  ere  their  fall 
Scorn  now  their  hand  should  give  them  burial. 

Esca.  'Twas  very  strange. 

Hel.  And  yet  but  justice  ;  for  though 

This  king  were  great,  his  greatness  was  no  guard 
To  bar  heaven's  shaft,  but  sin  had  his  reward. 

Esca.  'Tis  very  true. 

Enter  three  Lords. 

1  Lord.  See,  not  a  man  in  private  conference 
Or  council  has  respect  with  him  but  he. 

2  Lord.    It  shall  no  longer  grieve  without 

reproof.  [second  it. 

3  Lord.    And   curs'd   be   he  that  will   not 
i  Lord.  Follow  me,  then. — Lord  Helicane, 

a  word.  [my  lords. 

Hel.  With  me  ?  and  welcome :  happy  day, 
I  Lord.  Know  that  our  griefs  are  risen  to 

the  top, 

And  now  a.t  length  they  overflow  their  banks. 
Hel.    Your  griefs !    for   what  ?    wrong  not 
your  prince  you  love.          [Helicane; 
I  Lord.    Wrong  Hot  yourself,    then,    noble 
But  if  the  prince  do  live,  let  us  salute  him, 


Or  know  what  ground 's  made  happy  by  his 

breath. 

If  in  the  world  he  live,  we  '11  seek  him  out ; 
If  in  his  grave  he  rest,  we  '11  find  him  there ; 
And  be  resolv'd  he  lives  to  govern  us, 
Or  dead,  gives  cause  to  mourn  his  funeral, 
And  leaves  us  to  our  free  election. 

2  Lord.  Whose  death 's  indeed  the  strongest 

in  our  censure : 

And  knowing  this  kingdom,  if  without  a  head, 
Like  goodly  buildings  left  without  a  roof, 
Will  soon  to  ruins  fall, — your  noble  self, 
That  best  know'st  how  to  rule  and  how  to  reign, 
We  thus  submit  unto, — our  sovereign. 

All.   Live,  noble  Helicane  !  [frages : 

Hel.  For  honour's  cause,  forbear  your  suf- 
If  that  you  love  Prince  Pericles,  forbear. 
Take  I  your  wish,  I  leap  into  the  seas, 
Where 's  hourly  trouble  for  a  minute's  ease. 
A  twelvemonth  longer,  let  me  entreat  you 
To  forbear  the  absence  of  your  king ; 
If  in  which  time  expir'd,  he  not  return, 
I  shall  with  aged  patience  bear  your  yoke. 
But  if  I  cannot  win  you  to  this  love, 
Go  search  like  nobles,  like  noble  subjects, 
And  in  your  search  spend  your  adventurous 

worth ; 

Whom  if  you  find,  and  win  unto  return, 
You  shall  like  diamonds  sit  about  his  crown. 

I  Lord.  To  wisdom  he 's  a  fool  that  will  not 

yield  ; 

And  since  Lord  Helicane  enjoineth  us, 
We  with  our  travels  will  endeavour  it. 

Hel.  Then  you  love  us,  we  you,  and  we  Jll 

clasp  hands : 

When  peers  thus  knit,  a  kingdom  ever  stands. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — PENTAPOLIS.     A  Room  in  the 
Palace. 

Enter  SIMONIDES,  reading  a  letter ;  the 
Knights  meet  him. 

1  Knight.  Good-morrow  to  the  good  Simon- 

ides,  [you  know, 

Sim.  Knights,  from  my  daughter  this  I  let 
That  for  this  twelvemonth  she  '11  not  undertake 
A  married  life. 

Her  reason  to  herself  is  only  known, 
Which  yet  from  her  by  no  means  can  I  get. 

2  Knight.   May  we  not  get  access  to  her,  my 

lord  ?  [tied  her 

Sim.  Faith,  by  no  means ;  she  hath  so  strictly 
To  her  chamber  that  it  is  impossible,     [livery  ; 
One  twelve  moons  more  she'll  wear  Diana's 
This  by  the  eye  of  Cynthia  hath  she  vow'd, 
And  on  her  virgin  honour  will  not  break  it. 


SCENE  V.] 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


1009 


3  Knight.   Loth  to  bid  farewell,  we  take  our 
leaves.  [Exeunt  Knights. 

Sim.  So,  [letter : 

They  are  well  despatch'd ;  now  to  my  daughter's 
She  tells  me  here  she  '11  wed  the  stranger  knight, 
Or  never  more  to  view  nor  day  nor  light. 
'Tis  well,  mistress ;   your  choice  agrees  with 

mine  • 

I  like  that  well :  nay,  how  absolute  she 's  in  't, 
Not  minding  whether  I  dislike  or  no  ! 
Well,  I  do  commend  her  choice  ; 
And  will  no  longer  have  it  be  delay'd. — 
Soft !  here  he  comes  :  I  must  dissemble  it. 

Enter  PERICLES. 

Per.  All  fortune  to  the  good  Simonides  ! 

Sim.  To  you  as  much,  sir  !     I  am  beholden 

to  you 

For  your  sweet  music  this  last  night :  I  do 
Protest  my  ears  were  never  better  fed 
With  such  delightful  pleasing  harmony. 

Per.  It  is  your  grace's  pleasure  to  commend ; 
Not  my  desert. 

Sim.  Sir,  you  are  music's  master. 

Per.  The  worst  of  all  her  scholars,  my  good 
lord. 

Sim.  Let  me  ask  you  one  thing : 
What  do  you  think  of  my  daughter,  sir  ? 

Per.  A  most  virtuous  princess. 

Sim.  And  she  is  fair  too,  is  she  not  ? 

Per.  As  a  fair  day  in  summer, — wondrous 
fair.  [you ; 

Sim.  Sir,  my  daughter  thinks  very  well  of 
Ay,  so  well  that  you  must  be  her  master,  [it. 
And  she  will  be  your  scholar :  therefore  look  to 

Per.  I  am  unworthy  for  her  schoolmaster. 

Sim.  She  thinks  not  so ;  peruse  this  writing 
else. 

Per.  [Aside.]  What's  here? 
A  letter,  that  she  loves  the  knight  of  Tyre  ! 
'Tis  the  king's  subtil ty  to  have  my  life. — 
O,  seek  not  to  entrap  me,  gracious  lord, 
A  stranger  and  distressed  gentleman, 
That  never  aim'd  so  high  to  love  your  daughter, 
But  bent  all  offices  to  honour  her.        [thou  art 

Sim.  Thou  hast  bewitch'd  my  daughter,  and 
A  villain. 

Per.      By  the  gods,  I  have  not : 
Never  did  thought  of  mine  levy  offence  ; 
Nor  never  did  my  actions  yet  commence 
A  deed  might  gain  her  love  or  your  displeasure. 

Sim.  Traitor,  thou  liest. 

Per.  Traitor  I 

Sim.  Ay,  traitor. 

Per.  Even  in  his  throat, — unless  it  be  the 

king,— 
That  calls  me  traitor,  I  return  the  lie. 


Sim.  [Aside.]  Now,  by  the  gods,  I  do  ap- 
plaud his  courage. 

Per.  My  actions  are  as  noble  as  my  thoughts, 
That  never  relish'd  of  a  base  descent. 
I  came  unto  your  court  for  honour's  cause, 
And  not  to  be  a  rebel  to  her  state  ; 
And  he  that  otherwise  accounts  of  me, 
This  sword  shall  prove  he 's  honour's  enemy. 

Sim.  No? 
Here  comes  my  daughter,  she  can  witness  it. 

Enter  THAISA. 

Per.  Then,  as  you  are  as  virtuous  as  fair, 
Resolve  your  angry  father  if  my  tongue 
Did  e'er  solicit,  or  my  hand  subscribe 
To  any  syllable  that  made  love  to  you. 

Thai.  Why,  sir,  say  if  you  had,  [glad  ? 

Who   takes   offence  at  that  would   make   me 

Sim.  Yea,  mistress,  are  you  so  peremptory? — 
[Aside.]  I  am  glad  on't  with  all  my  heart. — 
I  '11  tame  you  ;  I  '11  bring  you  in  subjection. 
Will  you,  not  having  my  consent, 
Bestow  your  love  and  your  affections 
Upon  a  stranger? — [aside]   who,   for  aught  I 

know, 

May  be, — nor  can  I  think  the  contrary, — 
As  great  in  blood  as  I  myself. — 
Therefore,  hear  you,  mistress  ;  either  frame 
Your  will  to  mine, — and  you,  sir,  hear  you, 
Either  be  rul'd  by  me,  or  I  will  make  you — 
Man  and  wife. 

Nay,  come,  your  hands  and  lips  must  seal  it 
too  :  [stroy  ; — 

And  being  join'd,   I'll   thus   your  hopes  de- 
And  for  further  grief, — God  give  you  joy  ! — 
What,  are  you  both  pleas'd  ? 

Thai.  Yes,  if  you  love  me,  sir 

Per.  Even  as  my  life,  or  blood  that  fosters  it. 

Si m.  What,  are  you  both  agreed  ? 

Both.  Yes,  if 't  please  your  majesty. 

Sim.  It  pleaseth  me  so  well  that  I  will  see 

you  wed ; 

And  then,  with  what  haste  you  can,  get  you  to 
bed.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 

Enter  GOWER. 

Gow.  Now  sleep  yslaked  hath  the  rout ; 
No  din  but  snores  the  house  about, 
Made  louder  by  the  o'er-fed  breast 
Of  this  most  pompous  marriage  feast. 
The  cat,  with  eyne  of  burning  coal, 
Now  couches  fore  the  mouse's  hole ; 
And  crickets  sing  at  the  oven's  mouth, 
Aye  the  blither  for  their  drouth. 


IOIO 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


[ACT  III. 


Hymen  hath  brought  the  bride  to  bed, 
Where,  by  the  loss  of  maidenhead, 
A  babe  is  moulded. — Be  attent, 
And  time  that  is  so  briefly  spent 
With  your  fine  fancies  quaintly  eche  : 
What 's  dumb  in  show  I  '11  plain  with  speech. 

Dumb  Show. 

Enter  PERICLES  #m/ SIMONIDES  at  one  side, 
with  Attendants ;  a  Messenger  meets  them, 
kneels,  and  gives  PERICLES  a  letter:  he  shows 
it  to  SIMONIDES  ;  the  Lords  kneel  to  PERI- 
CLES. Then  enter  THAIS  A,  with  child,  and 
LYCHORIDA.  SIMONIDES  shows  his  daugh- 
ter the  letter  ;  she  rejoices:  she  and  PERICLES 
take  leave  of  her  father,  and  depart  with 
LYCHORIDA  and  their  Attendants.  Then 
exeunt  SIMONIDES,  &c. 

By  many  a  dern  and  painful  perch 
Of  Pericles  the  careful  search, 
By  the  four  opposing  coigns 
Which  the  world  together  joins, 
Is  made  with  all  due  diligence 
That  horse  and  sail  and  high  expense 
Can  stead  the  quest.     At  last  from  Tyre, — 
Fame  answering  the  most  strange  inquire, — 
To  the  court  of  King  Simonides 
Are  letters  brought,  the  tenor  these  : — 
Antiochus  and  his  daughter 's  dead  ; 
The  men  of  Tyrus  on  the  head 
Of  Helicanus  would  set  on 
The  crown  of  Tyre,  but  he  will  none  : 
The  mutiny  he  there  hastes  t'  oppress ; 
Says  to  'em,  if  King  Pericles 
Come  not  home  in  twice  six  moons, 
He,  obedient  to  their  dooms, 
Will  take  the  crown.     The  sum  of  this, 
Brought  hither  to  Pentapolis, 
Y-ravished  the  regions  round, 
And  every  one  with  claps  can  sound, 
Our  heir-apparent  is  a  king! 
Who  dreanfd,  who  thought  of  such  a  thing? 
Brief,  he  must  hence  depart  to  Tyre  : 
•His  queen  with  child  makes  her  desire, — 
Which  who  shall  cross  ? — along  to  go  : — 
Omit  we  all  their  dole  and  woe  : — 
Lychorida,  her  nurse,  she  takes, 
And  so  to  sea.     Their  vessel  shakes 
On  Neptune's  billow  ;  half  the  flood 
Hath  their  keel  cut :  but  fortune's  mood 
Varies  again  ;  the  grizzly  north 
Disgorges  such  a  tempest  forth 
That,  as  a  duck  for  life  that  dives, 
So  up  and  down  the  poor  ship  drives : 
The  lady  shrieks,  and,  well-a-near, 
Does  fall  in  travail  with  her  fear : 


And  what  ensues  in  this  fell  storm 
Shall  for  itself  itself  perform. 
I  nill  relate,  action  may 
Conveniently  the  rest  convey ; 
Which  might  not  what  by  me  is  told. 
In  your  imagination  hold 
This  stage  the  ship,  upon  whose  deck 
The  sea-toss'd  Pericles  appears  to  speak. 

\Exit. 

SCENE  I. — Enter  PERICLES,  on  a  ship  at  sea. 

Per.  Thou  god  of  this  great  vast,   rebuke 
these  surges,  [that  hast 

Which  wash  both  heaven  and  hell ;  and  thou 
Upon  the  winds  command,  bind  them  in  brass, 
Having  call'd  them  from  the  deep  !  O,  still 
Thy  deafening,  dreadful  thunders ;  gently  quench 
Thy  nimble,  sulphurous  flashes ! — O,  how, 
Lychorida,  [ously ; 

How  does  my  queen  ? — Thou  stormest  venom- 
Wilt   thou    spit   all    thyself? — The    seaman's 

whistle 

Is  as  a  whisper  in  the  ears  of  death, 
Unheard. — Lychorida! — Lucina,  O 
Divinest  patroness,  and  midwife  gentle 
To  those  that  cry  by  night,  convey  thy  deity 
Aboard  our  dancing  boat ;  make  swift  the  pangs 
Of  my  queen's  travail ! 

Enter  LYCHORIDA,  with  an  Infant. 

Now,  Lychorida ! 

Lye.  Here  is  a  thing  too  young  for  such  a 

place, 

Who,  if  it  had  conceit,  would  die,  as  I 
Am  like  to  do  :  take  in  your  arms  this  piece 
Of  your  dead  queen. 

Per.  How,  how,  Lychorida  ! 

Lye.  Patience,  good  sir ;  do  not  assist  the 

storm. 

Here 's  all  that  is  left  living  of  your  queen, — 
A  little  daughter  :  for  the  sake  of  it, 
Be  manly,  and  take  comfort. 

Per.  O  you  gods  ! 

Why  do  you  make  us  love  your  goodly  gifts, 
And  snatch  them  straight  away?      We  here 

below 

Recall  not  what  we  give,  and  therein  may 
Vie  in  honour  with  you. 

Lye.  Patience,  good  sir, 

Even  for  this  charge. 

Per.  Now,  mild  may  be  thy  life ! 

For  a  more  blusterous  birth  had  never  babe : 
Quiet  and  gentle  thy  conditions  !  for 
Thou  art  the  rudeliest  welcom'd  to  this  world 
That  ever  was  prince's  child.     Happy  what 

follows  ! 
Thou  hast  as  chiding  a  nativity 


SCENE  I." 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


10 1  I 


As  fire,  air,  water,  earth,  and  heaven  can  make, 
To  herald  thee  from  the  womb  :  even  at  the  first 
Thy  loss  is  more  than  can  thy  portage  quit, 
With  all  thou  cansL  find  here. — Now,  the  good 

gods 
Throw  their  best  eyes  upon 't ! 

Enter  tivo  Sailors. 

I  Sail.  What  courage,  sir  ?     God  save  you ! 

Per.   Courage  enough :  I  do  not  fear  the  flaw; 
It  hath  done  to  me  the  worst.     Yet,  for  the  love 
Of  this  poor  infant,  this  fresh-new  seafarer, 
I  would  it  would  be  quiet. 

1  Sail.  Slack  the  bolins  there ! — Thou  wilt 
not,  wilt  thou?     Blow,  and  split  thyself. 

2  Sail.  But   sea-room,   and    the   brine   and 
cloudy  billow  kiss  the  moon,  I  care  not. 

I  Sail.  Sir,  your  queen  must  overboard:  the 
sea  works  high,  the  wind  is  loud,  and  will  not 
lie  till  the  ship  be  cleared  of  the  dead. 

Per.  That 's  your  superstition. 

1  Sail.   Pardon  us,  sir ;  with  us  at  sea  it  hath 
been   still   observed;    and    we   are   strong   in 
custom.     Therefore  briefly  yield  her;  for  she 
must  ove  board  straight.  [queen  ! 

Per.  As   you  think  meet. — Most  wretched 

Lye.  Here  she  lies,  sir. 

Per.  A  terrible  childbed  hast  thou  had,  my 

dear; 

No  light,  no  fire :  the  unfriendly  elements 
Forgot  thee  utterly ;  nor  have  I  time 
To  give  thee  hallow'd  to  thy  grave,  but  straight 
Must  cast  thee,  scarcely  coffin'd,  in  the  ooze ; 
Where,  for  a  monument  upon  thy  bones, 
And  aye-remaining  lamps,  the  belching  whale 
And  humming  water  must  o'erwhelm  thy  corpse, 
Lying  with  simple  shells. — O  Lychorida, 
Bid  Nestor  bring  me  spices,  ink  and  paper, 
My  casket  and  my  jewels;  and  bid  Nicander 
Bring  me  the  satin  coffer :  lay  the  babe 
Upon  the  pillow:  hie  thee,  whiles  I  say 
A  priestly  farewell  to  her :  suddenly,  woman. 
[Exit  LYCHORIDA. 

2  Sail.  Sir,  we  have  a  chest  beneath   the 
hatches,  caulked  and  bitumed  ready. 

Per.  I  thank  thee. — Mariner,  say  what  coast 
is  this? 

2  Sail.  We  are  near  Tharsus. 

Per.  Thither,  gentle  mariner, 
Alter  thy  course  for  Tyre.     When  canst  thou 
reach  it? 

2  Sail.  By  break  of  day,  if  the  wind  cease. 

Per.  O,  make  for  Tharsus  !— 
There  will  I  visit  Cleon,  for  the  babe 
Cannot  hold  out  to  Tyrus:  there  I  ''11  leave  it 
At  careful  nursing. — Go  thy  ways,  good  mariner: 
I  '11  bring  the  body  presently.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.-— EPHESUS.     A  Room  in 
CERIMON'S  House. 

Enter  CERIMON,  a  Servant,  and  some  persons 
who  have  been  shipwrecked. 

Cer.  Philemon,  ho  ! 

Enter  PHILEMON. 

Phil.  Doth  my  lord  call? 
Cer.  Get  fire  and  meat  for  these  poor  men : 
It  has  been  a  turbulent  and  stormy  night. 
Serv.  I  have  been  in  many ;  but  such  a  night 

as  this, 

Till  now,  I  ne'er  endur'd.  [turn ; 

Cer.  Your  master  will  be  dead  ere  you  re- 
There  's  nothing  can  be  minister'd  to  nature 
That  can  recover  him. — Give  this  to  the  'pothe- 

cary, 

And  tell  me  how  it  works.        \To  PHILEMON. 
[Exeunt  all  but  CERIMON. 

Enter  two  Gentlemen. 

1  Gent.  Good-morrow,  sir. 

2  Gent.  Good-morrow  to  your  lordship. 
Cer.  Gentlemen, 

Why  do  you  stir  so  early  ? 

1  Gent.  Sir, 

Our  lodgings,  standing  bleak  upon  the  sea, 

Shook  as  the  earth  did  quake  ; 

The  very  principals  did  seem  to  rend, 

And  all  to  topple :  pure  surprise  and  fear 

Made  me  to  quit  the  house.  [early ; 

2  Gent.  That  is  the  cause  we  trouble  you  so 
'Tis  not  our  husbandry. 

Cer.  O,  you  say  well. 

I  Gent.  But  I  much  marvel  that  your  lord- 
ship, having 

Rich  tire  about  you,  should  at  these  early  hours 
Shake  off  the  golden  slumber  of  repose. 
It  is  most  strange 

Nature  should  be  so  conversant  with  pain, 
Being  thereto  not  compell'd. 

Cer.  I  held  it  ever, 

Virtue  and  cunning  were  endowments  greater 
Than  nobleness  and  riches :  careless  heirs 
May  the  two  latter  darken  and  expend ; 
But  immortality  attends  the  former, 
Making  a  man  a  god.     'Tis  known  I  ever 
Have  studied  physic,  through  which  secret  art, 
By  turning  o'er  authorities,  I  have, — 
Together  with  my  practice, — made  familiar 
To  me  and  to  my  aid  the  blest  infusions 
That  dwell  in  vegetives,  in  metals,  stones ; 
And  I  can  speak  of  the  disturbances 
That  nature  works,  and  of  her  cures ;  which 
give  me 


IOI2 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


[ACT  in. 


A  more  content  in  course  of  true  delight 
Than  to  be  thirsty  after  tottering  honour, 
Or  tie  my  treasure  up  in  silken  bags, 
To  please  the  fool  and  death.         [pour'd  forth 
2  Gent.  Your  honour  has  through  Ephesus 
Your  charity,  and  hundreds  call  themselves 
Your  creatures,  who  by  you  have  been  restor'd  : 
And  not  your  knowledge,  your  personal  pain, 

but  even 

Your  purse,  still  open,  hath  built  Lord  Cerimon 
Such  strong  renown  as  time  shall  never  raze. 

Enter  two  Servants  with  a  chest. 

I  Serv.  So ;  lift  there. 

Cer.  What  is  that? 

1  Serv.  Sir,  even  now 
Did  the  sea  toss  upon  our  shore  this  chest : 
'Tis  of  some  wreck. 

Cer.  Set 't  down,  let 's  look  upon  't. 

2  Gent.  'Tis  like  a  coffin,  sir. 

Cer.  Whate'er  it  be, 

'Tis  wondrous  heavy.    Wrench  it  open  straight : 
If  the  sea's  stomach  be  o'ercharg'd  with  gold, 
It  is  a  good  constraint  of  fortune  that 
It  belches  upon  us. 

2  Gent.  'Tis  so,  my  lord. 

Cer.  How  close  'tis  caulk'd  and  bitum'd  !— 
Did  the  sea  cast  it  up  ? 

1  Serv.  I  never  saw  so  huge  a  billow,  sir, 
As  toss'd  it  upon  shore. 

Cer.  Wrench  it  open ; 

Soft ! — it  smells  most  sweetly  in  my  sense. 

2  Gent.  A  delicate  odour. 

Cer.  As  ever  hit  my  nostril. — So,  up  with 

it. — 

O  you  most  potent  gods !    what 's  here  ?    a 
corse  ! 

1  Gent.   Most  strange!  [entreasur'd 
Cer.  Shrouded  in  cloth  of  state ;  balm'cl  and 

With  bags  of  spices  full !     A  passport  too ! — 
Apollo,  perfect  me  in  the  characters ! 

[Reads  from  a  scroll. 

Here  I  give  to  understand, — 

If  e'er  this  coffin  drive  a-land, — 

I,  King  Pericles,  have  lost 

This  queen,  worth  all  our  mundane  cost. 

Who  finds  her,  give  her  burying  ; 

She^was  the  daughter  of  a  king  : 

Besides  this  treasure  for  a  fee, 

The  gods  requite  his  charity? 

l£thou  liv'st,  Pericles,  thou  hast  a  heart 
That  even  cracks  for  woe ! — This  chanc'd  to- 
night. 

2  Gent.  Most  likely,  sir. 

Cer.  Nay,  certainly  to-night ; 

r  For  look  how  fresh  she  looks ! — They  were  too 
rough 


That  threw  her  in  the  sea. — Make  a  fire  within: 
Fetch  hither  all  my  boxes  in  my  closet. 

[Exit  a  Servant. 

Death  may  usurp  on  nature  many  hours, 
And  yet  the  fire  of  life  kindle  again 
The  o'erpress'd  spirits.     I  heard  of  an  Egyptian 
That  had  nine  hours  lien  dead, 
Who  was  by  good  appliances  recover'd. 

Re-enter  a  Servant,  with  boxes,  napkins,  and 
fire. 

Well  said,  well  said;  the  fire  and  cloths. — 
The  rough  and  woeful  music  that  we  have, 
Cause  it  to  sound,  beseech  you.  [block ! — 

The  viol  once  more : — how  thou  stirr'st,  thou 
The  music  there ! — I  pray  you,  give  her  air. — - 
Gentlemen, 

This  queen  will  live :  nature  awakes ;  a  warmth 
Breathes  out  of  her :  she  hath  not  been  en- 

tranc'd 

Above  five  hours :  see  how  she  'gins  to  blow 
Into  life's  flower  again  ! 

1  Gent.  The  heavens, 
Through  you,  increase  our  wonder,  and  set  up 
Your  fame  for  ever. 

Cer.  She  is  alive ;  behold, 

Her  eyelids,  cases  to  those  heavenly  jewels 
Which  Pericles  hath  lost, 
Begin  to  part  their  fringes  of  bright  gold; 
The  diamonds  of  a  most  praised  water 
Do  appear,  to  make  the  world  twice  rich. — Live, 
And  make  us  weep  to  hear  your  fate,  fair 

creature, 
Rare  as  you  seem  to  be.  [She  moves. 

Thai.  O  dear  Diana, 

Where  am    I?      Where's   my  lord?      What 
world  is  this? 

2  Gent.   Is  not  this  strange? 

I  Gent.  Most  rare. 

Cer.  Hush,  my  gentle  neighbours! 

Lend  me  your  hands ;  to  the  next  chamber  bear 

her. 

Get  linen :  now  this  matter  must  be  look'd  to, 
For  her  relapse  is  mortal.     Come,  come ; 
And  ^Esculapius  guide  us ! 

[Exeunt,  carrying  out  THAISA* 


SCENE  III. — THARSUS.    A  Room  in  CLEON'S 
House. 

Enter  PERICLES,  CLEON,  DIONYZA,  and  LY- 
CHORIDA  with  MARINA  in  her  arms. 

Per.  Most  honour'd  Cleon,  I  must  needs  be 

gone; 

My  twelvemonths  are  expir'd,  and  Tyrus  stands 
In  a  litigious  peace.     You  and  your  lady 


SCENE  III.] 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


1013 


Take  from   my  heart  all  thankfulness!     The 

gods 
Make  up  the  rest  upon  you ! 

Cle.  Your  shafts  of  fortune,  though  they  hurt 

you  mortally, 
Yet  glance  full  wanderingly  on  us. 

Dion.  O  your  sweet  queen  ! 

That  the  strict  fates  had  pleas  d  you  had  brought 

her  hither, 
To  have  bless'd  mine  eyes ! 

Per.  We  cannot  but  obey 

The  powers  above  us.     Could  I  rage  and  roar 
As  doth  the  sea  she  lies  in,  yet  the  end 
Must  be  as  'tis.     My  gentle   babe  Marina, — 

whom, 
For  she  was  born  at  sea,  I  have  nam'd  so, — 

here 

I  charge  your  charity  withal,  leaving  her 
The  infant  of  your  care ;  beseeching  you 
To  give  her  princely  training,  that  she  may 

be 
Manner'd  as  she  is  born. 

Cle.  Fear  not,  my  lord,  but  think 

Your  grace,   that  fed  my  country  with   your 

corn, — 
For  which  the  people's  prayers  still  fall  upon 

you,— 

Must  in  your  child  be  thought  on.    If  neglection 
Should  therein  make  me  vile,  the  common  body, 
By  you  reliev'd,  would  force  me  to  my  duty : 
But  if  to  that  my  nature  need  a  spur, 
The  gods  revenge  it  upon  me  and  mine 
To  the  end  of  generation  ! 

Per.  I  believe  you ; 

Your  honour  and  your  goodness  teach  me  to 't 
Without   your  vows.      Till   she   be   married, 

madam, 

By  bright  Diana,  whom  we  honour,  all 
Unscissar'd  shall  this  hair  of  mine  remain, 
Though  I  show  ill  in 't.     So  I  take  my  leave. 
Good  madam,  make  me  blessed  in  your  care 
In  bringing  up  my  child. 

Dion.  I  have  one  myself, 

Who  shall  not  be  more  dear  to  my  respect 
Than  yours,  my  lord. 

Per.  Madam,  my  thanks  and  prayers. 

Cle.  We  '11  bring  your  grace  e'en  to  the  edge 

o'  the  shore, 

Then  give  you  up  to  the  vast  Neptune  and 
The  gentlest  winds  of  heaven. 

Per.  I  will  embrace 

Your  offer.     Come,  dearest   madam. — O,   no 

tears, 

Lychorida,  no  tears: 

Look  to  your  little  mistress,  on  whose  grace 
You  may  depend  hereafter. — Come,  my  lord. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV. — EPHESUS.     A  Room  in  CERI- 
MON'S  House. 

Enter  CERIMON  and  THAISA. 

Cer.  Madam,  this  letter,  and  some  certain 

jewels, 

Lay  with  you  in  your  coffer :  which  are  now 
At  your  command.     Know  you  the  character? 

Thai.  It  is  my  lord's. 

That  I  was  shipp'd  at  sea  I  well  remember, 
Even  on  my  eaning  time ;  but  whether  there 
Deliver'd,  by  the  holy  gods, 
I  cannot  rightly  say.     But  since  King  Pericles, 
My  wedded  lord,  I  ne'er  shall  see  again, 
A  vestal  livery  will  I  take  me  to, 
And  never  more  have  joy. 

Cer.  Madam,  if  this  you  purpose  as  you  speak, 
Diana's  temple  is  not  distant  far, 
Where  you  may  abide  till  your  date  expire. 
Moreover,  if  you  please,  a  niece  of  mine 
Shall  there  attend  you. 

Thai.  My  recompense  is  thanks,  that 's  all ; 

Yet   my  good-will  is  great,   though  the  gift 

small.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

Enter  GOWER. 

Gow.  Imagine  Pericles  arriv'd  at  Tyre, 
Welcom'd  and  settled  to  his  own  desire. 
His  woeful  queen  we  leave  at  Ephesus, 
Unto  Diana  there  a  votaress. 
Now  to  Marina  bend  your  mind, 
Whom  our  fast  growing  scene  must  find 
At  Tharsus,  and  by  Cleon  train'd 
In  music,  letters ;  who  hath  gain'd 
Of  education  all  the  grace, 
Which  makes  her  both  the  heart  and  place 
Of  general  wonder.     But,  alack, 
That  monster  envy,  oft  the  wrack 
Of  earned  praise,  Marina's  life 
Seeks  to  take  off  by  treason's  knife. 
And  in  this  kind  hath  our  Cleon 
One  daughter,  and  a  wench  full  grown, 
Even  ripe  for  marriage-rite ;  this  maid 
Hight  Philoten :  and  it  is  said 
For  certain  in  our  story,  she 
Would  ever  with  Marina  be : 
Be 't  when  she  weav'd  the  sleided  silk 
With  fingers  long,  small,  white  as  milk ; 
Or  when  she  would  with  sharp  needle  wound 
The  cambric,  which  she  made  more  sound 
By  hurting  it ;  or  when  to  the  lute 
She  sung,  and  made  the  night-bird  mute, 
That  still  records  with  moan ;  or  when 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


[ACT  iv. 


She  would  with  rich  and  constant  pen 

Vail  to  her  mistress  Dian ;  still 

This  Philoten  contends  in  skill 

With  absolute  Marina :  so 

With  the  dove  of  Paphos  might  the  crow 

Vie  feathers  white.     Marina  gets 

All  praises,  which  are  paid  as  debts, 

And  not  as  given.     This  so  darks 

In  Philoten  all  graceful  marks 

That  Cleon's  wife,  with  envy  rare, 

A  present  murderer  does  prepare 

For  good  Marina,  that  her  daughter 

Might  stand  peerless  by  this  slaughter. 

The  sooner  her  vile  thoughts  to  stead, 

Lychorida,  our  nurse,  is  dead : 

And  cursed  Dionyza  hath 

The  pregnant  instrument  of  wrath 

Prest  for  this  blow.     The  unborn  event 

I  do  commend  to  your  content : 

Only  I  carry  winged  time 

Post  on  the  lame  feet  of  my  rhyme-, 

Which  never  could  I  so  convey 

Unless  your  thoughts  went  on  my  way. — 

Dionyza  does  appear, 

With  Leonine,  a  murderer.  [Exit. 

SCENE  I. — THARSUS.     An  open  Place  near 

the  Sea-shore, 

Enter  DIONYZA  and  LEONINE. 
Dion.  Thy  oath  remember ;  thou  hast  sworn 

to  do 't. 

'Tis  but  a  blow,  which  never  shall  be  known. 
Thou  canst  not  do  a  thing  i'  the  world  so  soon 
To  yield  thee  so  much  profit.     Let  not  con- 
science, [bosom, 
Which    is   but   cold,    inflaming    love    in   thy 
Inflame  too  nicely ;  nor  let  pity,  which 
Even  women  have  cast  off,  melt  thee,  but  be 
A  soldier  to  thy  purpose. 

Leon.  I  will  do't;  but  yet  she  is  a  goodly 

creature.  [her. — 

Dion.  The  fitter,  then,  the  gods  should  have 

Here  she  comes  weeping  for  her  only  mistress' 

death. 
Thou  art  resolv'd? 

Leon.  I  am  resolv'd. 

Enter  MARINA  with  a  basket  of  flowers. 
Mar.  No,  I  will  rob  Tellus  of  her  weed, 
To  strew  thy  green  with  flowers:  the  yellows, 

blues, 

The  purple  violets,  and  marigolds 
Shall  as  a  carpet  hang  upon  thy  grave     [maid, 
While  summer-days   do   last.     Ay  me !    poor 
Born  in  a  tempest,  when  my  mother  died, 
This  world  to  me  is  like  a  lasting  storm, 
Whirring  me  from  my  friends. 


Dion.   How  now,  Marina !  why  do  you  keep 

alone? 

How  chance  my  daughter  is  not  with   you? 

Do  not  [have 

Consume    your   blood   with    sorrowing :    you 

A  nurse  of  me.      Lord,   how   your   favour's 

chang'd 

With  this  unprofitable  woe !     Come, 
Give  me  your  flowers  ere  the  sea  mar  them. 
Walk  with  Leonine ;  the  air  is  quick  there, 
And   it   pierces  and  sharpens  the  stomach. — 

Come, 
Leonine,  take  her  by  the  arm,  walk  with  her. 

Mar.  No,  I  pray  you ; 
I  '11  not  bereave  you  of  your  servant. 

Dion.  Come,  come; 

I  love  the  king  your  father,  and  yourself, 
With  more  than  foreign  heart.     We  every  day 
Expect  him  here :  when  he  shall  come,  and  find 
Our  paragon  to  all  reports  thus  blasted, 
He  will  repent  the  breadth  of  this  great  voyage ; 
Blame  both  my  lord  and  me  that  we  have  taken 
No  care  to  your  best  courses.     Go,  I  pray  you, 
Walk,  and  be  cheerful  once  again ;  reserve 
That  excellent  complexion,  which  did  steal 
The  eyes  of  young  and  old.     Care  not  for  me 
I  can  go  home  alone. 

Mar.  Well,  I  will  go ; 

But  yet  I  have  no  desire  to  it.  [you.-- . 

Dion.  Come,   come,   I  know  'tis  good  for 
Walk  half  an  hour,  Leonine,  at  the  least : 
Remember  what  I  have  said. 

Leon.  I  warrant  you,  madam. 

Dion.  I'll  leave   you,   my  sweet  lady,  for 

awhile : 

Pray,  walk  softly,  do  not  heat  your  blood : 
What !  I  must  have  a  care  of  you. 

Mar.  My  thanks,  sweet  madam. — 

[Exit.  DIONYZA. 
Is  this  wind  westerly  that  blows? 

Leon.  South-west. 

Mar.  When  I  was  born  the  wind  was  north. 

Leon.  Was 't  so  ? 

Mar.  My  father,  as  nurse  said,  did  never  fear, 
But  cried,  Good  seamen!  to  the  sailors,  galling 
His  kingly  hands  with  hauling  of  the  ropes ; 
And,  clasping  to  the  mast,  endur'd  a  sea 
That  almost  burst  the  deck. 

Leon.  When  was  this? 

Mar.  When  I  was  born : 
Never  was  waves  nor  wind  more  violent ; 
And  from  the  ladder-tackle  washes  off 
A  canvas-climber:  Ha!  says  one,  wilt  out? 
And  with  a  dropping  industry  they  skip 
From  stem  to  stern :  the  boatswain  whistles,  and 
The  master  calls,  and  trebles  their  confusion. 

Leon.  Come,  say  your  prayers. 


SCENE  II.] 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


101? 


Mar.  What  mean  you? 

Leon.  If  you  require  a  little  space  for  prayer, 
I  grant  it :  pray ;  but  be  not  tedious, 
For  the  gods  are  quick  of  ear,  and  I  am  sworn 
To  do  my  work  with  haste. 

Mar.  Why  will  you  kill  me? 

Leon.  To  satisfy  my  lady. 

Mar.  Why  would  she  have  me  kill'd? 
Now,  as  I  can  remember,  by  my  troth, 
I  never  did  her  hurt  in  all  my  life : 
I  never  spake  bad  word,  nor  did  ill  turn 
To  any  living  creature :  believe  me,  la, 
I  never  kill'd  a  mouse,  nor  hurt  a  fly : 
I  trod  upon  a  worm  against  my  will, 
But  I  wept  for  it.     How  have  I  offended, 
Wherein  my  death  might  yield  her  profit, 
Or  my  life  imply  her  danger? 

Leon.  My  commission 

Is  not  to  reason  of  the  deed,  but  do  it.     [hope. 

Mar.  You  will  not  do 't  for  all  the  world,  I 
You  are  well-favour'd,  and  your  looks  foreshow 
You  have  a  gentle  heart.     I  saw  you  lately 
When   you  caught  hurt   in   parting  two  that 

fought : 

Good  sooth,  it  show'd  well  in  you :  do  so  now : 
Your  lady  seeks  my  life;  come  you  between, 
And  save  poor  me,  the  weaker. 

Leon.  I  am  sworn, 

And  will  despatch. 

Enter  Pirates  "whilst  MARINA  is  struggling. 

1  Pirate.  Hold,  villain ! 

[LEONINE  runs  away. 

2  Pirate.  A  prize !  a  prize ! 

3  Pirate.  Half-part,  mates,  half-part.    Come, 
let 's  have  her  aboard  suddenly. 

[Exeunt  Pirates  with  MARINA. 

Re-enter  LEONINE. 

Leon.  These  roving  thieves  serve  the  great 

pirate  Valdes, 

And  they  have  seiz'd  Marina.     Let  her  go : 
There 's  no  hope  she  will  return.     I  '11  swear 

she 's  dead 

And  thrown  into  the  sea. — But  I  '11  see  further  : 
Perhaps  they  will  but  please  themselves  upon 

her, 

Not  carry  her  aboard.     If  she  remain, 
Whom  they  have  ravish'd  must  by  me  be  slain. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  II. — MITYLENE.   A  Room  in  a  Brothel. 
Enter  Pander,  Bawd,  and  BOULT. 

Pand.  Boult,— 

Boult.  Sir? 

Pand.  Search  the  market  narrowly;  Mity- 


lene  is  full  of  gallants.  We  lost  too  much 
money  this  mart  by  being  too  wenchless. 

Bawd.  We  were  never  so  much  out  of 
creatures.  We  have  but  poor  three,  and  they 
can  do  no  more  than  they  can  do;  and  they 
with  continual  action  are  even  as  good  as  rotten. 

Pand.  Therefore  let's  have  fresh  ones, 
whate'er  we  pay  for  them.  If  there  be  not 
a  conscience  to  be  used  in  every  trade  we 
shall  never  prosper. 

Bawd.  Thou  sayest  true ;  'tis  not  our  bringing 
up  of  poor  bastards, — as,  I  think,  I  have 
brought  up  some  eleven, — 

Boult.  Ay,  to  eleven ;  and  brought  them 
down  again. — But  shall  I  search  the  market? 

Bawd.  What  else,  man?  The  stuff  we  have, 
a  strong  wind  will  blow  it  to  pieces,  they  are 
so  pitifully  sodden. 

Pand.  Thou  sayest  true;  they  are  too  un- 
wholesome, o'  conscience.  The  poor  Tran- 
sylvanian  is  dead,  that  lay  with  the  little 


Boult.  Ay,  she  quickly  pooped  him;  she 
made  him  roast-meat  for  worms. — But  I  '11  go 
search  the  market.  [Exit. 

Pand.  Three  or  four  thousand  chequins  were 
as  pretty  a  proportion  to  live  quietly,  and  so 
give  over. 

Bawd.  Why  to  give  over,  I  pray  you?  is  it 
a  shame  to  get  when  we  are  old? 

Pand.  O,  our  credit  comes  not  in  like  the 
commodity ;  nor  the  commodity  wages  not  with 
the  danger:  therefore,  if  in  our  youths  we 
could  pick  up  some  pretty  estate,  'twere  not 
amiss  to  keep  our  door  hatch'd.  Besides,  the 
sore  terms  we  stand  upon  with  the  gods  will  be 
strong  with  us  for  giving  over. 

Bawd.  Come,  other  sorts  offend  as  well  as  we. 

Pand.  As  well  as  we!  ay,  and  better  too; 
we  offend  worse.  Neither  is  our  profession  any 
trade;  it's  no  calling. — But  here  comes  Boult. 

Re-enter  Boult,  with  MARINA  and  the  Pirates. 

Boult.  [To  MARINA.]  Come  your  ways. — 
My  masters,  you  say  she 's  a  virgin? 

I  Pirate.  O,  sir,  we  doubt  it  not. 

Boult.  Master,  I  have  gone  through  for  this 
piece,  you  see :  if  you  like  her,  so ;  if  not,  I 
have  lost  my  earnest. 

Bawd.  Boult,  has  she  any  qualities? 

Boult.  She  has  a  good  face,  speaks  well, 
and  has  excellent  good  clothes:  there's  no 
further  necessity  of  qualities  can  make  her  be 
refused. 

Bawd.  What's  her  price,  Boult? 

Boult.  It  cannot  be  bated  one  doit  of  a 
thousand  pieces. 


ioi6 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


[ACT  iv. 


Pand.  Well,  follow  me,  my  masters;  you 
shall  have  your  money  presently.  Wife,  take 
her  in ;  instruct  her  what  she  has  to  do,  that 
she  may  not  be  raw  in  her  entertainment. 

[Exeunt  Pander  and  Pirates. 

Bawd.  Boult,  take  you  the  marks  of  her, — 
the  colour  of  her  hair,  complexion,  height,  age, 
with  warrant  of  her  virginity  ;  and  cry,  He  that 
-will  give  most  shall  have  her  first.  Such  a 
maidenhead  were  no  cheap  thing,  if  men  were 
as  they  have  been.  Get  this  done  as  I 
command  you. 

Boult.  Performance  shall  follow.          [Exit. 

Mar.  Alack,  that  Leonine  was  so  slack,  so 

slow ! —  [these  pirates, — 

He  should  have  struck,  not  spoke; — or  that 

Not   enough   barbarous, — had    not    o'erboard 

thrown  me 
For  to  seek  my  mother ! 

Bawd.  Why  lament  you,  pretty  one? 

Mar.  That  I  am  pretty.  [in  you. 

Bawd.  Come,  the  gods  have  done  their  part 

Mar.  I  accuse  them  not. 

Bawd.  You  are  lit  into  my  hands,  where 
you  are  like  to  live. 

Mar.  The  more  my  fault 
To  'scape  his  hands  where  I  was  like  to  die. 

Bawd.  Ay,  and  you  shall  live  in  pleasure. 

Mar.  No. 

Bawd.  Yes,  indeed  shall  you,  and  taste 
gentlemen  of  all  fashions.  You  shall  fare 
well :  you  shall  have  the  difference  of  all  com- 
plexions. What !  do  you  stop  your  ears? 

Mar.  Are  you  a  woman  ? 

Bawd.  What  would  you  have  me  be,  an  I 
be  not  a  woman  ? 

Mar.  An  honest  woman,  or  not  a  woman. 

Bawd.  Marry,  whip  thee,  gosling:  I  think 
I  shall  have  something  to  do  with  you.  Come, 
you  are  a  young  foolish  sapling,  and  must  be 
bowed  as  I  would  have  you. 

Mar.  The  gods  defend  me  ! 

Bawd.  If  it  please  the  gods  to  defend  you  by 
men,  then  men  must  comfort  you,  men  must 
feed  you,  men  must  stir  you  up. — Boult 's 
returned. 

Re-enter  BOULT. 

Now,  sir,  hast  thou  cried  her  through  the 
market  ? 

Boult.  I  have  cried  her  almost  to  the  number 
of  her  hairs  ;  I  have  drawn  her  picture  with 
my  voice. 

Bawd.  And  I  pr'ythee  tell  me,  how  dost 
thou  find  the  inclination  of  the  people,  especi- 
ally of  the  younger  sort  ? 

Boult.  Faith,  they  listened  to  me  as  they 


would  have  hearkened  to  their  father's  testa- 
ment. There  was  a  Spaniard's  mouth  so 
watered  that  he  went  to  bed  to  her  very 
description. 

Bawd.  We  shall  have  him  here  to-morrow 
with  his  best  ruff  on. 

Boult.  To-night,  to-night.  But,  mistress,  do 
you  know  the  French  knight  that  cowers  i'  the 
hams? 

Bawd.  Who  ?     Monsieur  Veroles  ? 

Boult.  Ay  :  he  offered  to  cut  a  caper  at  the 
proclamation  ;  but  he  made  a  groan  at  it,  and 
swore  he  would  see  her  to-morrow. 

Bawd.  Well,  well ;  as  for  him,  he  brought 
his  disease  hither :  here  he  does  but  repair  it. 
I  know  he  will  come  in  our  shadow  to  scatter 
his  crowns  in  the  sun. 

Boult.  Well,  if  we  had  of  every  nation  a 
traveller,  we  should  lodge  them  with  this 
sign. 

Bawd.  [To  MAR.]  Pray  you,  come  hither 
awhile.  You  have  fortunes  coming  upon  you. 
Mark  me  :  you  must  seem  to  do  that  fearfully 
which  you  commit  willingly  ;  to  despise  profit 
where  you  have  most  gain.  To  weep  that  you 
live  as  you  do  makes  pity  in  your  lovers  :  sel- 
dom but  that  pity  begets  you  a  good  opinion, 
and  that  opinion  a  mere  profit. 

Mar.  I  understand  you  not. 

Boult.  O,  take  her  home,  mistress,  take  her 
home  :  these  blushes  of  hers  must  be  quenched 
with  some  present  practice. 

Bawd.  Thou  sayest  true,  i'  faith,  so  they 
must ;  for  your  bride  goes  to  that  with  shame 
which  is  her  way  to  go  with  warrant. 

Boult.  Faith,  some  do,  and  some  do  not. 
But,  mistress,  if  I  have  bargained  for  the 
joint, — 

Bawd.  Thou  mayst  cut  a  morsel  off  the  spit. 

Boult.   I  may  so. 

Bawd.  Who  should  deny  it  ?  Come,  young 
one,  I  like  the  manner  of  your  garments  well. 

Boult.  Ay,  by  my  faith,  they  shall  not  be 
changed  yet. 

Bawd.  Boult,  spend  thou  that  in  the  town  : 
report  what  a  sojourner  we  have  ;  you'll  lose 
nothing  by  custom.  When  nature  framed  this 
piece  she  meant  thee  a  good  turn ;  therefore 
say  what  a  paragon  she  is,  and  thou  hast  the 
harvest  out  of  thine  own  report. 

Boult.  I  warrant  you,  mistress,  thunder  shall 
not  so  awake  the  beds  of  eels  as  my  giving  out 
her  beauty  stir  up  the  lewdly  inclined.  I'll 
bring  home  some  to-night. 

Bawd.   Come  your  ways  ;  follow  me. 

Mar.  If  fires  be  hot,  knives  sharp,  or  waters 
deep, 


SCENE  III.] 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


1017 


Untied  I  still  my  virgin  knot  will  keep. 
Diana,  aid  my  purpose  ! 

Bawd.  What  have  we  to  do  with  Diana? 
Pray  you,  will  you  go  with  us  ?  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — THARSUS.     A  Room  in  CLEON'S 
House. 

Enter  CLEON  and  DIONYZA. 

Dion.  Why,  are  you  foolish  ?     Can  it  be  un- 
done? 

Cle.  O  Dionyza,  such  a  piece  of  slaughter 
The  sun  and  moon  ne'er  look'd  upon  ! 

Dion.  I  think 

You  '11  turn  a  child  again.  [world, 

Cle.  Were  I  chief  lord  of  all  the  spacious 
I  'd  give  it  to  undo  the  deed.     O  lady, 
Much  less  in  blood  than  virtue,  yet  a  princess 
To  equal  any  single  crown  o'  the  earth 
I'  the  justice  of  compare  ! — O  villain  Leonine  ! 
Whom  thou  hast  poison'd  too  :  [ness 

If  thou  hadst  drunk  to  him,  't  had  been  a  kind- 
Becoming  well  thy  fact :  what  canst  thou  say 
When  noble  Pericles  shall  demand  his  child  ? 

Dion.  That  she  is  dead.     Nurses  are  not  the 

fates, 

To  foster  it,  nor  ever  to  preserve.  [it? 

She  died  at  night ;  I  '11  say  so.     Who  can  cross 
Unless  you  play  the  pious  innocent, 
And  for  an  honest  attribute  cry  out, 
She  died  by  foul  play. 

Cle.  O,  go  to.     Well,  well. 

Of  all  the  faults  beneath  the  heavens  the  gods 
Do  like  this  worst. 

Dion.  Be  one  of  those  that  think 

The  petty  wrens  of  Tharsus  will  fly  hence, 
And  open  this  to  Pericles.     I  do  shame 
To  think  of  what  a  noble  strain  you  are, 
And  of  how  coward  a  spirit. 

Cle.  To  such  proceeding 

Who  ever  but  his  approbation  added, 
Though  not  his  pre-consent,  he  did  not  flow 
From  honourable  sources. 

Dion.  Be  it  so,  then  : 

Yet  none  does  know,  but  you,  how  she  came 

dead, 

Nor  none  can  know,  Leonine  being  gone. 
She  did  distain  my  child,  and  stood  between 
Her  and  her  fortunes :  none  would  look  on  her, 
But  cast  their  gazes  on  Marina's  face  ; 
Whilst  ours  was  blurted  at,  arid  held  a  malkin, 
Not  worth  the  time  of  day.     It   pierc'd   me 

thorough ; 

And  though  you  call  my  course  unnatural, 
You  not  your  child  well  loving,  yet  I  find 
It  greets  me  as  an  enterprise  of  kindness 
Perform'd  to  your  sole  daughter. 


Cle.  Heavens  forgive  it ! 

Dion.  And  as  for  Pericles,  [hearse, 

What  should   he  say?     We   wept  after   her 
And  yet  we  mourn  :  her  monument 
Is  almost  finish'd,  and  her  epitaphs 
In  glittering  golden  characters  express 
A  general  praise  to  her,  and  care  in  us 
At  whose  expense  'tis  done. 

Cle.  Thou  art  like  the  harpy 

Which,  to  betray,  dost,  with  thine  angel's  face, 
Seize  with  thine  eagle's  talons. 

Dion.  You  are  like  one  that  superstitiously 
Doth  swear  to  the  gods  that  winter  kills  the 

flies: 
But  yet  I  know  you  '11  do  as  I  advise. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  GOWER,  before  the  Monument  of 
MARINA  at  ThSrsus. 

Cow.    Thus  time   we  waste,   and    longest 

leagues  make  short ; 

Sail  seas  in  cockles,  have  an  wish  but  for  }t ; 
Making, — to  take  your  imagination, — 
From  bourn  to  bourn,  region  to  region. 
By  you  being  pardon'd,  we  commit  no  crime 
To  use  one  language  in  each  several  clime, 
Where  our  scenes  seem  to  live.     I  do  beseech 

you  [you 

To  learn  of  me,  who  stand  i'  the  gaps  to  teach 
The  stages  of  our  story.     Pericles 
Is  now  again  thwarting  the  wayward  seas, 
Attended  on  by  many  a  lord  and  knight, 
To  see  his  daughter,  all  his  life's  delight. 
Old  Escanes,  whom  Helicanus  late 
Advanc'd  in  time  to  great  and  high  estate, 
Is  left  to  govern.     Bear  you  it  in  mind, 
Old  Helicanus  goes  along  behind.        [brought 
Well-sailing  ships  and  bounteous  winds  have 
This  king  to  Tharsus, — think  his  pilot  thought; 
So  with  his  steerage  shall  your  thoughts  grow 

on, — 

To  fetch  his  daughter  home,  who  first  is  gone. 
Like  motes  and  shadows  see  them  move  awhile ; 
Your  ears  unto  your  eyes  I  '11  reconcile. 

Dumb  show. 

Enter,  at  one  side,  PERICLES  with  his  Train  ; 
CLEON  and  DIONYZA  at  the  other.  CLEON 
shows  PERICLES  the  Tomb  of  MARINA, 
whereat  PERICLES  makes  lamentation,  puts 
on  sackcloth,  and  in  a  mighty  passion  departs. 
Then  exeunt  CLEON  and  DIONYZA. 

See  how  belief  may  suffer  by  foul  show  ! 
This  borrow'd  passion  stands  for  true  old  woe  ; 
And  Pericles,  in  sorrow  all  devour'd, 
With  sighs  shot  through  and  biggest  tears  o'er- 
showerM, 


IOI& 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


[ACT  iv. 


Leaves   Tharsus,    and    again    embarks.       He 

swears 

Never  to  wash  his  face  nor  cut  his  hairs  ; 
He  puts  on  sackcloth,  and  to  sea.     He  bears 
A  tempest  which  his  mortal  vessel  tears, 
And  yet  he  rides  it  out.     Now  please  you  wit 
The  epitaph  is  for  Marina  writ 
By  wicked  Dionyza. 

[Reads  the  inscription  on  MARINA'S 
Monument. 

The  fairest,  sweet'st,  and  best  lies  here, 

Who  wither'd  in  her  spring  of  year. 

She  was  of  Tyrus  the  king's  daughter, 

On  whom  foul  death  hath  made  this  slaughter  ; 

Marina  was  she  call'd  ;  and  at  her  birth, 

Thetis,  being  proud,  swallow'dsome  part  o' the  earth  : 

Therefore  the  earth,  fearing  to  be  o'erflow'd, 

Hath  Thetis'  birth-child  on  the  heavens  bestow'd  : 

Wherefore  she  does, — and  swears  she  '11  never  stint, — 

Make  raging  battery  upon  shores  of  flint. 

No  visard  does  become  black  villany 

So  well  as  soft  and  tender  flattery. 

Let  Pericles  believe  his  daughter 's  dead, 

And  bear  his  courses  to  be  ordered 

By  Lady  Fortune ;  while  our  scene  must  play 

His  daughter's  woe  and  heavy  well-a-day 

In  her  unholy  service.     Patience,  then, 

And  think  you  now  are  all  in  Mitylen. 

[Exit. 


SCENE  IV. — MITYLENE.     A  Street  before  the 
Brothel. 

Enter,  from  the  Brothel,  two  Gentlemen. 

1  Gent.  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  ? 

2  Gent.  No,  nor  never  shall  do  in  such  a 
place  as  this,  she  being  once  gone. 

1  Gent.  But  to  have  divinity  preached  there ! 
did  you  ever  dream  of  such  a  thing  ? 

2  Gent.  No,  no.     Come,  I  am  for  no  more 
bawdy-houses :    shall 's  go    hear    the   vestals 
sing? 

i  Gent.  I  Ml  do  anything  now  that  is  virtu- 
ous ;  but  I  am  out  of  the  road  of  rutting  for 
ever.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — MITYLENE.     A  Room  in  the 
Brothel. 

Enter  Pander,  Bawd,  and  BOULT. 

Pand.  Well,  I  had  rather  than  twice  the 
worth  of  her  she  had  ne'er  come  here. 

Bawd.  Fie,  fie  upon  her !  she  is  able  to 
freeze  the  god  Priapus,  and  undo  a  whole 
generation.  We  must  either  get  her  ravished 
or  be  rid  of  her.  When  she  should  do  for 
clients  her  fitment,  and  do  me  the  kindness  of 


our  profession,  she  has  me  her  quirks,  her 
reasons,  her  master-reasons,  her  prayers,  her 
knees ;  that  she  would  make  a  puritan  of  the 
devil,  if  he  should  cheapen  a  kiss  of  her. 

Boult.  Faith,  I  must  ravish  her,  or  she'll 
disfurnish  us  of  all  our  cavaliers,  and  make  all 
our  swearers  priests.  [for  me ! 

Pand.  Now,  the  pox  upon  her  green-sickness 

Bawd.  Faith  there 's  no  way  to  be  rid  on 't 
but  by  the  way  to  the  pox.  Here  comes  the 
Lord  Lysimachus  disguised. 

Boult.  We  should  have  both  lord  and  lown 
if  the  peevish  baggage  would  but  give  way  to 
customers. 

Enter  LYSIMACHUS. 

Lys.  How  now  !  How  a  dozen  of  virgini- 
ties? 

Bawd.  Now,  the  gods  to-bless  your  honour ! 

Boult.  I  am  glad  to  see  your  honour  in  good 
health. 

Lys.  You  may  so ;  'tis  the  better  for  you  that 
your  resorters  stand  upon  sound  legs.  How 
now,  wholesome  iniquity?  Have  you  that  a 
man  may  deal  withal,  and  defy  the  surgeon  ? 

Bawd.  We  have  here  one,  sir,  if  she  would 
— but  there  never  came  her  like  in  Mitylene. 

Lys.  If  she  'd  do  the  deed  of  darkness,  thou 
wouldst  say.  [well  enough. 

Bawd.  Your  honour  knows  what  'tis  to  say 

Lys.  Well,  call  forth,  call  forth. 

Boult.  For  flesh  and  blood,  sir,  white  and 
red,  you  shall  see  a  rose  ;  and  she  were  a  rose 
indeed,  if  she  had  but, — 

Lys.  What,  pr'ythee? 

Boult.  O,  sir,  I  can  be  modest. 

Lys.  That  dignifies  the  renown  of  a  bawd  no 
less  than  it  gives  a  good  report  to  a  number  to 
be  chaste.  [Exit  BOULT. 

Bawd.  Here  comes  that  which  grows  to  the 
stalk, — never  plucked  yet,  I  can  assure  you. 

Re-enter  BOULT  with  MARINA. 

Is  she  not  a  fair  creature  ? 

Lys.  Faith,  she  would  serve  after  a  long 
voyage  at  sea.  Well,  there 's  for  you : — leave 
us. 

Bawd.  I  beseech  your  honour,  give  me  leave: 
a  word,  and  I  '11  have  done  presently. 

Lys.  I  beseech  you,  do. 

Bawd.  First,  I  would  have  you  note  this  is 
an  honourable  man. 

[  To  MAR.  ,  whom  she  takes  aside. 

Mar.  I  desire  to  find  him  so,  that  I  may 
worthily  note  him. 

Bawd.  Next,  he's  the  governor  of  this 
country,  and  a  man  whom  I  am  bound  to. 


SCENE  V.] 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


1019 


Mar.  If  he  govern  the  country  you  are  bound 
to  him  indeed;  but  how  honourable  he  is  in 
that  I  know  not. 

Bawd.  Pray  you,  without  any  more  virginal 
fencing,  will  you  use  him  kindly?  He  will  line 
your  apron  with  gold. 

Mar.  What  he  will  do  graciously  I  will 
thankfully  receive. 

Lys.   Ha'  you  done? 

Bawd.  My  lord,  she 's  not  paced  yet :  you 
must  take  some  pains  to  work  her  to  your 
manage.  Come,  we  will  leave  his  honour  and 
her  together. — Go  thy  ways. — 

[Exeunt  Bawd,  Pander,  and  BOULT. 

Lys.  Now,  pretty  one,  how  long  have  you 
been  at  this  trade? 

Mar.  What  trade,  sir? 

Lys.  What  I  cannot  name  but  I  shall  offend. 

Mar.  I  cannot  be  offended  with  my  trade. 
Please  you  to  name  it.  [sion  ? 

Lys,  How  long  have  you  been  of  this  profes- 

Mar.  E'er  since  I  can  remember. 

Lys.  Did  you  go  to 't  so  young?  Were  you 
a  gamester  at  five  or  at  seven? 

Mar.  Earlier  too,  sir,  if  now  I  be  one. 

Lys.  Why,  the  house  you  dwell  In  proclaims 
you  to  be  a  creature  of  sale. 

Mar.  Do  you  know  this  house  to  be  a  place 
of  such  resort,  and  will  come  into't?  I  hear 
say  you  are  of  honourable  parts,  and  are  the 
governor  of  this  place. 

Lys.  Why,  hath  your  principal  made  known 
unto  you  who  I  am  ? 

Mar.  Who  is  my  principal? 

Lys.  Why,  your  herb- woman ;  she  that  sets 
seeds  and  roots  of  shame  and  iniquity.  O,  you 
have  heard  something  of  my  power,  and  so 
stand  aloof  for  more  serious  wooing.  But  I 
protest  to  thee,  pretty  one,  my  authority  shall 
not  see  thee,  or  else  look  friendly  upon  thee. 
Come,  bring  me  to  some  private  place :  come, 
come.  [now ; 

Mar.  If  you  were  born  to  honour,  show  it 
If  put  upon  you,  make  the  judgment  good 
That  thought  you  worthy  of  it. 

Lys.  How 's  this?  how's  this? — Some  more; — 
be  sage. 

Mar.  For  me, 

That  am  a  maid,  though  most  ungentle  fortune 
Hath  plac'd  me  in  this  sty, 
Where,  since  I  came, 

Diseases  have  been  sold  dearer  than  physic, — 
O  that  the  good  gods 

Would  set  me  free  from  this  unhallow'd  place, 
Though  they  did  change  me  to  the  meanest  bird 
That  flies  i'  the  purer  air  ! 

Lys.  I  did  not  think 


Thou  couldst  have  spoke  so  well ;  ne'er  dream'd 

thou  couldst. 

Had  I  brought  hither  a  corrupted  mind, 
Thy  speech  had  alter'd  it.     Hold,  here 's  gold 

for  thee : 

Perse ver  in  that  clear  way  thou  goest, 
And  the  gods  strengthen  thee ! 

Mar.  The  good  gods  preserve  you  ! 

Lys.  For  me,  be  you  thoughten 
That  I  came  with  no  ill  intent ;  for  to  me 
The  very  doors  and  windows  savour  vilely. 
Fare  thee  well.     Thou  art  a  piece  of  virtue,  and 
I  doubt  not  but  thy  training  hath  been  noble. — 
Hold,  here's  more  gold  for  thee. — 
A  curse  upon  him,  die  he  like  a  thief, 
That  robs  thee  of  thy  goodness !     If  thou  dost 

hear  from  me 
It  shall  be  for  thy  good. 

Re-enter  BOULT  as  LYSIMACHUS  is  putting  up 
his  purse. 

Boult.   I  beseech  your  honour,  one  piece  for 
me.  [house, 

Lys.  Avaunt,  thou  damned  doorkeeper  !  Your 
But  for  this  virgin  that  doth  prop  it, 
Would  sink  and  overwhelm  you.     Away ! 

[Exit. 

Boult.  How 's  this  ?  We  must  take  another 
course  with  you.  If  your  peevish  chastity, 
which  is  not  worth  a  breakfast  in  the  cheapest 
country  under  the  cope,  shall  undo  a  whole 
household,  let  me  be  gelded  like  a  spaniel. 
Come  your  ways. 

Mar.  Whither  would  you  have  me? 

Boult.  I  must  have  your  maidenhead  taken 
off,  or  the  common  hangman  shall  execute  it. 
Come  your  ways.  We  '11  have  no  more  gentle- 
men driven  away.  Come  your  ways,  I  say. 

Re-enter  Bawd. 


Bawd.  How  now !     What 's  the  matter? 

Boult.  Worse  and  worse,  mistress ;  she  has 
here  spoken  holy  words  to  the  Lord  Lysima- 
chus. 

Bawd.  O  abominable ! 

Boult.  She  makes  our  profession  as  it  were 
to  stink  afore  the  face  of  the  gods. 

Bawd.  Marry,  hang  her  up  for  ever ! 

Boult.  The  nobleman  would  have  dealt  with 
her  like  a  nobleman,  and  she  sent  him  away 
as  cold  as  a  snowball ;  saying  his  prayers  too. 

Bawd.  Boult,  take  her  away;  use  her  at  thy 
pleasure :  crack  the  glass  of  her  virginity,  and 
make  the  rest  malleable. 

Boult.  An  if  she  were  a  thornier  piece  of 
ground  than  she  is,  she  shall  be  ploughed. 

Afar.  Hark,  hark,  you  gods ! 


IO2O 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


[ACT  v. 


Bawd.  She  conjures :  away  with  her !  Would 
she  had  never  come  within  my  doors  !  Marry, 
hang  you  ! — She 's  born  to  undo  us. — Will  you 
not  go  the  way  of  womenkind?  Marry,  come 
up,  my  dish  of  chastity  with  rosemary  and 
bays !  [Exit. 

Boult.  Come,  mistress ;  come  your  ways  with 
me. 

Mar.  Whither  wilt  thou  have  me?     [so  dear. 

Boult.  To  take  from  you  the  jewel  you  hold 

Mar.  Pr'ythee,  tell  me  one  thing  first. 

Boult.  Come  now,  your  one  thing.          [be? 

Mar.  What  canst  thou  wish  thine  enemy  to 

Boult.  Why,  I  could  wish  him  to  be  my 
master,  or,  rather,  my  mistress. 

Mar.  Neither  of  these  are  Sb  bad  as  thou  art, 
Since  they  do  better  thee  in  their  command. 
Thou  hold'st  a  place  for  which  the  pained'st  fiend 
Of  hell  would  not  in  reputation  change : 
Thou  'rt  the  damn'd  doorkeeper  to  every 
Coistrel  that  comes  inquiring  for  his  tib; 
To  the  choleric  fisting  of  every  rogue 
Thy  ear  is  liable ;  thy  very  food  is  such 
As  hath  been  belch'd  on  by  infected  lungs. 

Boult.  What  would  you  have  me  do?  go  to 
the  wars,  would  you?  where  a  man  may  serve 
seven  years  for  the  loss  of  a  leg,  and  have  not 
money  enough  in  the  end  to  buy  him  a  wooden 
one?  [Empty 

Mar.  Do    anything    but    this    thou   doest. 
Old  receptacles,  or  common  sewers,  of  filth ; 
Serve  by  indenture  to  the  common  hangman : 
Any  of  these  ways  are  yet  better  than  this ; 
For  what  thou  professest,  a  baboon,  could  he 

speak, 

Would  own  a  name  too  dear. — O  that  the  gods 
Would  safely  deliver  me  from  this  place ! — 
Here,  here 's  gold  for  thee. 
If  that  thy  master  would  gain  by  me, 
Proclaim  that  I  can  sing,  weave,  sew,  and  dance, 
With  other  virtues  which  I  '11  keep  from  boast ; 
And  I  will  undertake  all  these  to  teach. 
I  doubt  not  but  this  populous  city  will 
Yield  many  scholars.  [of? 

Boult.  But  can  you  teach  all  this  you  speak 

Mar.  Prove  that  I  cannot,  take  me  home 

again, 

And  prostitute  me  to  the  basest  groom 
That  doth  frequent  your  house. 

Boult.  Well,  I  will  see  what  I  can  do  for 
thee :  if  I  can  place  thee,  I  will. 

Mar.  But  amongst  honest  women? 

Boult.  Faith,  my  acquaintance  lies  little 
amongst  them.  But  since  my  master  and  mis- 
tress have  bought  you,  there 's  no  going  but  by 
their  consent:  therefore  I  will  make  them  ac- 
quainted with  your  purpose,  and  I  doubt  not 


but  I  shall  find  them  tractable  enough.     Come, 
I  '11  do  for  thee  what  I  can ;  come  your  ways. 

[Exeunt* 

ACT  V. 

Enter  GOWER. 

Gow.  Marina   thus  the  brothel  scapes,  and 

chances 

Into  an  honest  house,  our  story  says. 
She  sings  like  one  immortal,  and  she  dances 
As  goddess-like  to  her  admired  lays ; 
Deep  clerks  she  dumbs;  and  with  her  needle 

composes  [berry, 

Nature's  own  shape,  of  bud,  bird,  branch,  or 
That  even  her  art  sisters  the  natural  roses; 
Her  inkle,  silk,  twin  with  the  rubied  cherry : 
That  pupils  lacks  she  none  of  noble  race, 
Who  pour  their  bounty  on  her ;  and  her  gain 
She  gives  the  cursed  bawd.    Here  we  her  place ; 
And  to  her  father  turn  our  thoughts  again, 
Where  we  left  him,  on  the  sea.     We  there  him 

lost; 

Whence,  driven  before  the  winds,  he  is  arriv'd 
Here  where  his  daughter  dwells;  and  on  this 

coast 

Suppose  him  now  at  anchor.     The  city  striv'd 
God   Neptune's  annual  feast   to   keep:   from 

whence 

Lysimachus  our  Tyrian  ship  espies, 
His  banners  sable,  trimm'd  with  rich  expense ; 
And  to  him  in  his  barge  with  fervour  hies. 
In  your  supposing  once  more  put  your  sight 
Of  heavy  Pericles ,  think  this  his  bark : 
Where  what  is  done  in  action,  more,  if  might, 
Shall  be  discover'd  ;  please  you,  sit,  and  hark. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  L — On  board  PERICLES'  ship,  off  Mity- 
lene.  A  Pavilion  on  deck  with  a  curtain 
before  it;  PERICLES  within  it,  reclining  on 
a  couch.  A  barge  lying  beside  the  Tyrian 
•vessel. 

Enter  two  Sailors,  one  belonging  to  the  Tyrian 
-vessel,  the  other  to  the  barge ;  to  them  HELI- 


Tyr.  Sail..  Where   is  Lord  Helicanus  ?   he 
can  resolve  you. 

[To  the  Sailor  of  Mitylene. 
O,  here  he  is. — 

Sir,  there 's  a  barge  put  off  from  Mitylene, 
And  in  it  is  Lysimachus  the  governor,      [will? 
Who  craves  to  come  aboard.      What  is  your 
Hel.    That    he    have   his.      Call   up  some 

gentlemen. 
Tyr.  Sail.  Ho,  gentlemen !  my  lord  calls. 


SCENE  I.] 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


102 1 


Enter  two  or  three  Gentlemen. 

I  Gent.   Doth  your  lordship  call? 
Hel.   Gentlemen,  [pray, 

There  is  some  of  worth  would  come  aboard ;  I 
Greet  them  fairly. 

[The  Gentlemen    and  the  two   Sailors 
descend,  and  go  on  board  the  barge. 

Enter,  from  thence,  LYSIMACHUS  and  Lords, 
with  the  Gentlemen  and  the  two  Sailors. 

Tyr.  Sail.   Sir, 

This  is  the  man  that  can,  in  aught  you  would, 
Resolve  you. 

Lys.  Hail,  reverend  sir !     The  gods  preserve 
you! 

Hel.  And  you,  sir,  to  outlive  the  age  I  am, 
And  die  as  I  would  do. 

Lys.  You  wish  me  well. 

Being  on  shore,  honouring  ofNeptune's  triumphs, 
Seeing  this  goodly  vessel  ride  before  us, 
I  made  to  it,  to  know  of  whence  you  are. 

Hel.  First,  what  is  your  place? 

Lys.  I  am  the  governor 

Of  this  place  you  lie  before. 

Hel.  Sir, 

Our  vessel  is  of  Tyre,  in  it  the  king ;     [spoken 
A  man  who  for  this  three  months  hath  not 
To  any  one,  nor  taken  sustenance, 
But  to  prorogue  his  grief.  [ture? 

Lys.  Upon  what  ground  is  his  distempera- 

Hel.  'Twould  be  too  tedious  to  repeat ; 
But  the  main  grief  springs  from  the  loss 
Of  a  beloved  daughter  and  a  wife. 

Lys.   May  we  not  see  him? 

Hel.  You  may; 

But  bootless  is  your  sight, — he  will  not  speak 
To  any. 

Lys.  Yet  let  me  obtain  my  wish. 

Hel.    Behold    him    [PERICLES   discovered^. 

This  was  a  goodly  person 
Till  the  disaster  that  one  mortal  night 
Drove  him  to  this. 

Lys.   Sir  king,  all  hail !    the  gods  preserve 

you ! 
Hail,  royal  sir! 

Hel.   It  is  in  vain  ;  he  will  not  speak  to  you. 

i  Lord.  Sir,  we  have  a  maid  in  Mitylene,  I 

durst  wager, 
Would  win  some  words  of  him. 

Lys.  'Tis  well  bethought. 

She,  questionless,  with  her  sweet  harmony 
And  other  choice  attractions,  would  allure, 
And  make  a  battery  through  his  deafen'd  parts, 
Which  now  are  midway  stopp'd : 
She  is  all  happy  as  the  fairest  of  all, 
And,  with  her  fellow  maids,  is  now  upon 


The  leafy  shelter  that  abuts  against 
The  island's  side. 

[He  whispers  first  Lord,  who  goes  off 
in  the  barge  of  LYSIMACHUS. 

Hel.   Sure,  all 's  effectless ;  yet  nothing  we  '11 
omit  [kindness 

That  bears  recovery's  name.     But,  since  your 
We  have  stretch'd  thus  far,  let  us  beseech  you 
That  for  our  gold  we  may  provision  have, 
Wherein  we  are  not  destitute  for  want, 
But  weary  for  the  staleness. 

Lys.  O,  sir,  a  courtesy 

Which  if  we  should  deny,  me  most  just  gods 
For  every  graff  would  send  a  caterpillar, 
And  so  afflict  our  province. — Yet  once  more 
Let  me  entreat  to  know  at  large  the  cause 
Of  your  king's  sorrow. 

Hel.          Sit,  sir,  I  will  recount  it  to  you : — 
But,  see,  I  am  prevented. 

Re-enter,  from  the  barge,  First  Lord,  with 
MARINA  and  a  young  Lady. 

Lys.  O,  here  is 

The  lady  that  I  sent  for. — Welcome,  fair  one ! — • 
Is't  not  a  goodly  presence? 

Hel.  She 's  a  gallant  lady. 

Lys.  She's   such  a  one  that,   were  I  well 

assur'd 

Came  of  gentle  kind  and  noble  stock,     [wed. — 
I  'd  wish  no  better  choice,  and  think  me  rarely  1 
Fair  one,  all  goodness  that  consists  in  bounty 
Expect  even  here,  where  is  a  kingly  patient : 
If  that  thy  prosperous  and  artificial  feat 
Can  draw  him  but  to  answer  thee  in  aught, 
Thy  sacred  physic  shall  receive  such  pay 
As  thy  desires  can  wish. 

Mar.  Sir,  I  will  use 

My  utmost  skill  in  his  recovery, 
Provided 

That  none  but  I  and  my  companion  maid 
Be  suffer'd  to  come  near  him. 

Lys.  Come,  let  us  leave  her; 

And  the  gods  make  her  prosperous  i 

[MARINA  sings. 

Lys.  Mark'd  he  your  music? 

Mar.  No,  nor  look'd  on  us. 

Lys.  See,  she  will  speak  to  him. 

Mar.  Hail,  sir  !  my  lord,  lend  ear. 

Per.  Hum,  ha ! 

Mar.  I  am  a  maid, 

My  lord,  that  ne'er  before  invited  eyes, 
But  have  been  gaz'd  on  like  a  comet :  she  speaks, 
My  lord,  that,  may  be,  hath  endur'd  a  grief 
Might  equal  yours,  if  both  were  justly  weigh'd. 
Though  wayward  fortune  did  malign  my  state, 
My  derivation  was  from  ancestors 
Who  stood  equivalent  with  mighty  kings: 


IO22 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


[ACT  v. 


But  time  hath  rooted  out  my  parentage. 
And  to  the  world  and  awkward  casualties 
Bound  me  in  servitude.  — [Aside.  ]    I  will  desist ; 
But  there  is  something  glows  upon  my  cheek, 
And  whispers  in  mine  ear,  Go  not  till  he  speak. 

Fer.  My  fortunes — parentage — good  parent- 
age—  [you  ? 
To  equal  mine ! — was  it  not  thus  ?  what  say 

Alar.   I  said,  my  lord,  if  you  did  know  my 

parentage 
You  would  not  do  me  violence. 

Per.  j  I  do  think  so. — 

I  pray  you,  turn  your  °yes  upon  me.  [woman? 
You  are  like  something  that — What  country- 
Here  of  these  shores  ? 

Mar.  No,  nor  of  any  shores : 

Yet  I  was  mortally  brought  forth,  and  am 
No  other  than  I  appear.  [weeping. 

Per.  I  am  great  with  woe,  and  shall  deliver 
My  dearest  wife  was  like  this  maid,  and  such 
a  one  [square  brows ; 

My  daughter  might  have  been :    my  queen's 
Her  stature  to  an  inch ;  as  wand-like  straight ; 
As  silver  voic'd  ;  her  eyes  as  jewel-like, 
And  cas'd  as  richly ;  in  pace  another  Juno ; 
Who  starves  the  ears  she  feeds,   and   makes 
them  hungry  [you  live? 

The  more  she  gives  them  speech. — Where  do 

Mar.  Where  I  am  but  a  stranger :  from  the 

deck 
You  may  discern  the  place. 

Per.  Where  were  you  bred? 

And  how  achiev'd  you  these  endowments,  which 
You  make  more  rich  to  owe?  [seem 

Mar.   If  I  should  tell  my  history,  it  would 
Like  lies,  disdain'd  in  the  reporting. 

Per.  Pr'ythee,  speak: 

Falseness  cannot  come  from  thee;  forthou  look'st 
Modest  as  Justice,  and  thou  seem'st  a  palace 
For   the   crown'd  Truth  to   dwell   in:    I    will 

believe  thee, 

And  make  my  senses  credit  thy  relation 
To  points  that  seem  impossible ;  for  thou  look'st 
Like  one  I  lov'd  indeed.  What  were  thy  friends  ? 
Didst   thou    not   say,   when   I   did  push  thee 

back, — 
Which  was  when  I  perceiv'd  thee, — that  thou 

cam'st 
From  good  descending? 

Mar.  So  indeed  I  did. 

Per.  Report  thy  parentage.     I  think  thou 

said'st 

Thou  hadst  been  toss'd  from  wrong  to  injury, 
And    that    thou    thought'st   thy  griefs    might 

equal  mine, 
If  both  were  open'd. 

Some  such  thing 


I  said,  and  said  no  more  but  what  my  thoughts 
Did  warrant  me  was  likely. 

Per.  Tell  thy  story ; 

If  thine  consider'd  prove  the  thousandth  part 
Of  my  endurance,  thou  art  a  man,  and  I 
Have  suffer'd  like  a  girl :  yet  thou  dost  look 
Like   Patience   gazing  on  kings'  graves,  and 

smiling 

Extremity  out  of  act.     What  were  thy  friends? 
How  lost  thou  them?     Thy  name,   my  most 

kind  virgin? 
Recount,  I  do  beseech  thee :  come,  sit  by  me. 

Mar.   My  name  is  Marina. 

Per.  O,  I  am  mock'd, 

And  thou  by  some  incensed  god  sent  hither 
To  make  the  world  to  laugh  at  me. 

Mar.  Patience,  good  sir, 

Or  here  I  '11  cease. 

Per.  Nay,  I  '11  be  patient. 

Thou  little  know'st  how  thou  dost  startle  me, 
To  call  thyself  Marina. 

Afar.  The  name 

Was  given  me  by  one  that  had  some  power, — 
My  father,  and  a  king. 

Per.  How  !  a  king's  daughter? 

And  call'd  Marina? 

Mar.  You  said  you  would  believe  me ; 

But,  not  to  be  a  troubler  of  your  peace, 
I  will  end  here. 

Per.  But  are  you  flesh  and  blood? 

Have  you  a  working  pulse?  and  are  no  fairy? 
Motion  ! — Well ;  speak  on.     Where  were  you 

born? 
And  wherefore  call'd  Marina? 

Mar.  Call'd  Marina 

For  I  was  born  at  sea. 

Per.  At  sea  !  what  mother  ? 

Mar.  My  mother  was  the  daughter  of  a  king ; 
Who  died  the  minute  I  was  born, 
As  my  good  nurse  Lychorida  hath  oft 
Deliver'd  weeping. 

Per.  O,  stop  there  a  little  ! — 

[Aside.']  This  is  the  rarest  dream  that  e'er  dull 

sleep 

Did  mock  sad  fools  withal :  this  cannot  be : 
My  daughter's   buried. — Well: — where  were 

you  bred? 

I  '11  hear  you  more,  to  the  bottom  of  your  story, 
And  never  interrupt  you. 

Mar.  You  '11  scarce  believe  me :  'twere  best  I 
did  give  o'er. 

Per.  I  will  believe  you  by  the  syllable 
Of  what  you  shall  deliver.    Yet  give  me  leave, — 
How  came  you  in  these  parts?  where  were  you 
bred  ?  [leave  me ; 

Mar.   The  king  my  father  did  in  Tharsus 
Till  cruel  Cleon,  with  his  wicked  wife, 


SCENE  I.] 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


1023 


Did  seek  to  murder  me  :  and  having  woo'd 
A  villain  to  attempt  it,  who  having  drawn  todo  't, 
A  crew  of  pirates  came  and  rescu'd  me  • 
Brought  me  to  Mitylene.     But,  good  sir, 
Whither  will  you  have  me?    Why  do  you  weep? 

It  may  be 

You  think  me  an  imposter :  no,  good  faith ; 
I  am  the  daughter  to  King  Pericles, 
If  good  King  Pericles  be. 

Per.  Ho,  Helicanus ! 

Hel.  Calls  my  lord? 

Per.  Thou  art  a  grave  and  noble  counsellor, 
Most  wise  in  general :  tell  me,  if  thou  canst, 
What  this  maid  is,  or  what  is  like  to  be, 
That  thus  hath  made  me  weep? 

Hel.  I  know  not;  but 

Here  is  the  regent,  sir,  of  Mitylene 
Speaks  nobly  of  her. 

Lys.  She  would  never  tell 

Her  parentage  ;  being  demanded  that, 
She  would  sit  still  and  weep. 

Per.  O  Helicanus,  strike  me,  honour'd  sir ; 
Give  me  a  gash,  put  me  to  present  pain; 
Lest  this  great  sea  of  joys  rushing  upon  me 
O'erbear  the  shores  of  my  mortality,      [hither, 
And  drown  me  with  their  sweetness. — O,  come 
Thou  that  begett'st  him  that  did  thee  beget ; 
Thou  that  was  born  at  sea,  buried  at  Tharsus, 
And  found  at  sea  again ! — O  Helicanus, 
Down  on  thy  knees,  thank  the  holy  gods  as  loud 
As  thunder  threatens  us:  this  is  Marina. — 
What  was  thy  mother's  name?  tell  me  but  that, 
For  truth  can  never  be  confirm'd  enough, 
Though  doubts  did  ever  sleep. 

Mar.  First,  sir,  I  pray, 

What  is  your  title? 

Per.  I  am  Pericles  of  Tyre :  but  tell  me  now 

My  drown'd  queen's  name, — as  in  the  rest  you 

said  [of  kingdoms, 

Thou  'st  been  godlike  perfect,— thou  'rt  the  heir 

And  another  life  to  Pericles  thy  father. 

Mar.  Is  it  no  more  to  be  your  daughter  than 
To  say  my  mother's  name  was  Thaisa? 
Thaisa  was  my  mother,  who  did  end 
The  minute  I  began.  [my  child. — 

Per.  Now,  blessing  on  thee!  rise;  thou  art 
Give   me   fresh    garments. — Mine   own   Heli- 
canus,— 
She  is  not  dead  at  Tharsus,  as  she  should  have 

been 

By  savage  Cleon :  she  shall  tell  thee  all ; 
When  thou  shalt  kneel,  and  justify  in  knowledge 
She  is  thy  very  princess. — Who  is  this? 

Hel.   Sir,  'tis  the  governor  of  Mitylene, 
Who,  hearing  of  your  melancholy  state, 
Did  come  to  see  you. 

Per.  I  embrace  you. — 


Give  me  my  robes. — I  am  wild  in  my  behold- 
ing.—  [music? — 

0  heavens  bless  my  girl! — But,   hark,  what 
Tell  Helicanus,  my  Marina,  tell  him 

O'er,  point  by  point,  for  yet  he  seems  to  doubt, 
How  sure  you  are  my  daughter. — But,  what 
music? 

Hel.  My  lord,  I  hear  none. 

Per.  None! 
The  music  of  the  spheres ! — List,  my  Marina. 

Lys.  It  is  not  good  to  cross  him  ;  give  him  way. 

Per.  Rarest  sounds !     Do  ye  not  hear? 

Lys.  My  lord,  I  hear.     [Music. 

Per.  Most  heavenly  music ! 
It  nips  me  into  listening,  and  thick  slumber 
Hangs  upon  mine  eyes :  let  me  rest.       [Sleeps. 

Lys.  A  pillow  for  his  head : — 
So,  leave  himall. — Well,  my  companion -friends, 
If  this  but  answer  to  my  just  belief, 

1  '11  well  remember  you. 

[Exeunt  all  but  PERICLES. 

DIANA  appears  to  PERICLES  as  in  a  vision. 

Dia.   My  temple  stands  in  Ephesus :  hie  thee 

thither, 

And  do  upon  mine  altar  sacrifice.  [gether, 

There,  when  my  maiden  priests  are  met  to- 
Before  the  people  all, 

Reveal  how  thou  at  sea  didst  lose  thy  wife : 
To  mourn  thy  crosses,  with  thy  daughter's,  call, 
And  give  them  repetition  to  the  life. 
Or  perform  my  bidding  or  thou  liv'st  in  woe; 
Do  it,  and  happy ;  by  my  silver  bow ! 
Awake  and  tell  thy  dream.  [Disappears. 

Per.  Celestial  Dian,  goddess  argentine, 
I  will  obey  thee. — Helicanus  ! 

Re-enter  HELICANUS,  LYSIMACHUS, 
MARINA,  &>c. 

Hel.  Sir?          [strike 

Per.  My  purpose  was  for  Tharsus,  there  to 
The  inhospitable  Cleon ;  but  I  am 
For  other  service  first :  toward  Ephesus 
Turn  our  blown  sails ;  eftsoons  I  '11  tell  thee 
why. —  [To  HELICANUS. 

Shall  we  refresh  us,  sir,  upon  your  shore, 

[To  LYSIMACHUS. 

And  give  you  gold  for  such  provision 
As  our  intents  will  need? 

Lys.  Sir, 

With  all  my  heart ;  and  when  you  come  ashore 
I  have  another  suit. 

Per.  You  shall  prevail, 

Were  it  to  woo  my  daughter  ;  for  it  seems 
You  have  been  noble  towards  her. 

Lys.  Sir,  lend  me  your  arm. 

Per.  Come,  my  Marina,  [Exeunt. 


IO24 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


[ACT  v. 


Enter  GOWER,  before  the  Temple  of  DIANA  at 
Ephesus. 

Cow.  Now  our  sands  are  almost  run ; 
More  a  little,  and  then  done. 
This,  my  last  boon,  give  me, — 
For  such  kindness  must  relieve  me, — 
That  you  aptly  will  suppose 
What  pageantry,  what  feats,  what  shows, 
What  minstrelsy,  and  pretty  din, 
The  regent  made  in  Mitylin, 
To  greet  the  king.     So  he  thriv'd, 
That  he  is  promis'd  to  be  wiv'd 
To  fair  Marina ;  but  in  no  wise 
Till  he  had  done  his  sacrifice, 
As  Dian  bade :  whereto  being  bound 
The  interim,  pray  you,  all  confound. 
In  feather'd  briefness  sails  are  fill'd, 
And  wishes  fall  out  as  they're  will'd. 
At  Ephesus  the  temple  see, 
Our  king,  and  all  his  company. 
That  he  can  hither  come  so  soon, 
Is  by  your  fancy's  thankful  boon.          [Exit. 

SCENE  \\.-The  Temple  0/DiANA  at  Ephesus; 
THAISA  standing  near  the  altar  as  high 
priestess ;  a  number  of  Virgins  on  each  side  ; 
CERIMON  and  other  Inhabitants  of  Ephesus 
attending. 

Enter  PERICLES,  with  his  Train;  LYSIMA- 
CHUS,  HELICANUS,  MARINA,  and  a  Lady. 

Per.  Hail,  Dian !  to  perform  thy  just  com- 
mand, 

I  here  confess  myself  the  King  of  Tyre ; 
Who,  frighted  from  my  country,  did  wed 
At  Pentapolis  the  fair  Thaisa. 
At  sea  in  childbed  died  she,  but  brought  forth 
A  maid-child,  call'd  Marina ;  who,  O  goddess, 
Wears  yet  thy  silver  livery.     She  at  Tharsus 
Was  nurs'd  with  Cleon ;  who  at  fourteen  years 
He  sought  to  murder :  but  her  better  stars 
Brought  her  to  Mitylene ;  'gainst  whose  shore 
Riding,  her  fortunes  brought  the  maid  aboard 
us,  [she 

Where,  by  her  own  most  clear  remembrance, 
Made  known  herself  my  daughter. 

Thai.  Voice  and  favour ! — 

You  are,  you  are — O  royal  Pericles ! —    [Faints. 

Per.  What   means   the   woman?    she   dies! 
help,  gentlemen ! 

Cer.  Noble  sir, 

If  you  have  told  Diana's  altar  true, 
This  is  your  wife. 

Per.   Reverend  appearer,  no  ; 
I  threw  her  o'erboard  with  these  very  arms. 

Cer.  Upon  this  coast,  I  warrant  you. 


Per.  'Tis  most  certain. 

Cer.   Look  to  the  lady; — O,  she's  but  o'ei- 

joy'd.— 

Early  in  blustering  morn  this  lady  was 
Thrown  upon  this  shore.     I  op'd  the  coffin. 
Found  there  rich  jewels;    recover'd  her,  and 

plac'd  her 
Here  in  Diana's  temple. 

Per.  May  we  see  them  ? 

Cer.  Great  sir,  they  shall  be  brought  you  to 

my  house, 

Whither  I  invite  you. — Look,  Thaisa  is 
Recover'd. 

Thai.  O,  let  me  look ! 
If  he  be  none  of  mine,  my  sanctity 
Will  to  my  sense  bend  no  licentious  ear, 
But  curb  it,  spite  of  seeing. — O,  my  lord, 
Are  you  not  Pericles?     Like  him  you  speak, 
Like  him  you  are :  did  you  not  name  a  tempest, 
A  birth  and  death? 

Per.  The  voice  of  dead  Thaisa ! 

Thai.  That  Thaisa  am  I,  supposed  dead 
And  drown'd. 

Per.  Immortal  Dian ! 

Thai.  Now  I  know  you  better. — 

When  we  with  tears  parted  Pentapolis, 
The  king  my  father  gave  you  such  a  ring. 

[Shows  a  ring. 

Per.  This,  this :  no  more,  you  gods  !  your 
present  kindness  [well, 

Makes  my  past  miseries  sport :   you  shall  do 
That  on  the  touching  of  her  lips  I  may 
Melt,  and  no  more  be  seen.     O,  come,  be  buried 
A  second  time  within  these  arms. 

Mar.  My  heart 

Leaps  to  be  gone  into  my  mother's  bosom. 

\Kneels  to  THAISA. 

Per.   Look,  who  kneels  here !     Flesh  of  thy 

flesh,  Thaisa ; 

Thy  burden  at  the  sea,  and  call'd  Marina 
For  she  was  yielded  there. 

Thai.  Bless'd,  and  mine  own ! 

Hel.   Hail,  madam,  and  my  queen  ! 

Thai.  I  know  you  not. 

Per.  You  have  heard  me  say,  when  I  did  fly 

from  Tyre, 

I  left  behind  an  ancient  substitute  : 
Can  you  remember  what  I  call'd  the  man  ? 
I  have  nam'd  him  oft. 

Thai.  'Twas  Helicanus  then. 

Per.  Still  confirmation : 
Embrace  him,  dear  Thaisa ;  this  is  he. 
Now  do  I  long  to  hear  how  you  were  found  ; 
How  possibly  preserv'd ;  and  who  to  thank, 
Besides  the  gods,  for  this  great  miracle. 

Thai.  Lord  Cerimon,   my  lord ;  this  man, 
throueh  whom 


SCENE  II.] 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


1025 


The  gods  have  shown  their  power ;  'tis  he 
That  can  from  first  to  last  resolve  you. 

Per.  Reverend  sir, 

The  gods  can  have  no  mortal  officer 
More  like  a  god  than  you.     Will  you  deliver 
How  this  dead  queen  re-lives  ? 

Cer.  I  will,  my  lord. 

Beseech  you,  first  go  with  me  to  my  house, 
Where  shall  be  shown  you  all  was  found  with  her; 
How  she  came  placed  here  in  the  temple ; 
No  needful  thing  omitted.  [I 

Per.  Pure  Dian,  bless  thee  for  thy  vision*. 
Will  offer  night-oblations  to  thee. — Thaisa, 
This  prince,  the  fair-betrothed  of  your  daughter, 
Shall  marry  her  at  Pentapolis. — And  now, 
This  ornament 

Makes  me  look  dismal  will  I  clip  to  form  ; 
And  what  this  fourteen  years  no  razor  touch'd, 
To  grace  thy  marriage-day  I  '11  beautify. 

Thai.  Lord  Cerimon  hath  letters  of  good 

credit,  sir, 
My  father 's  dead. 

Per.  Heavens  ma  ke  a  star  of  him  !    Yet  there, 

my  queen, 

We  '11  celebrate  their  nuptials,  and  ourselves 
Will  in  that  kingdom  spend  our  following  days  : 


Our  son  and  daughter  shall  in  Tyrus  reign.— 
Lord  Cerimon,  we  do  our  longing  stay 
To  hear  the  rest  untold  :  sir,  lead 's  the  way. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  GOWER. 

Gow.  In  Antiochus  and  his  daughter  you 

have  heard 

Of  monstrous  lust  the  due  and  just  reward  : 
In  Pericles,  his  queen  and  daughter,  seen, — 
Although  assail'd  with  fortune  fierce  and  keen, — • 
Virtue  preserv'd  from  fell  destruction's  blast, 
Led  on  by  heaven,  and  crown'd  with  joy  at  last : 
In  Helicanus  may  you  well  descry 
A  figure  of  truth,  of  faith,  of  loyalty : 
In  reverend  Cerimon  there  well  appears 
The  worth  that  learned  charity  aye  wears  : 
For  wicked  Cleon  and  his  wife,  when  fame 
Had  spread  their  cursed  deed,  and  honour'd  name 
Of  Pericles,  to  rage  the  city  turn, 
That  him  and  his  they  in  his  palace  burn ; 
The  gods  for  murder  seemed  so  content 
To  punish  them, — although  not  done,  but  meant. 
So,  on  your  patience  evermore  attending, 
New  joy  wait  on  you  !     Here  our  play  has  end- 
ing. {Exit. 


2  K 


KT  XT  C*      T    T7    A    "D 
1  IN  LJ     JL,  H,  A  K. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


LEAR,  King  of  Britain. 

KING  OF  FRANCE. 

DUKE  OF  BURGUNDY. 

DUKE  OF  CORNWALL. 

DUKE  OF  ALBANY. 

EARL  OF  KENT. 

EARL  OF  GLOSTER. 

EDGAR,  Son  to  GLOSTER. 

EDMUND,  Bastaid  Son  to  GLOSTER. 

CURAN,  a  Courtier. 

Old  Man,  Tenant  to  GLOSTER. 

Physician. 

Fool. 


no  fat 


OSWALD,  Steward  to  GONERIL. 
An  Officer  employed  by  EDMUND. 
Gentleman  attendant  on  CORDELIA. 
A  Herald. 

Servants  to  CORNWALL. 

,tsf\ 

,E2LBrfT — .osrfJ  oJ  oioiisldo-lrfgin  ttjfto  IliW 
GONERIL,     ) 

REGAN,        >  Daughters  to  LEAR. 
CORDELIA,  J 

Knights  attending  on  the  KING,  Officers,  Mes 
sengers,  Soldiers,  and  Attendants. 


SCENE, — BRITAIN. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.— A  Room  of  State  in  KING  LEAR'S 
Palace. 

Enter  KENT,  GLOSTER,  and  EDMUND. 

Kent.  I  thought  the  king  had  more  affected 
the  Duke  of  Albany  than  Cornwall. 

Glo.  It  did  always  seem  so  to  us :  but  now, 
in  the  division  of  the  kingdom,  it  appears  not 
which  of  the  dukes  he  values  most ;  for  equali- 
ties are  so  weighed  that  curiosity  in  neither  can 
make  choice  of  cither's  moiety. 

Kent.  Is  not  this  your  son,  my  lord  ? 

Glo.  His  breeding,  sir,  hath  been  at  my 
charge  :  I  have  so  often  blushed  to  acknow- 
ledge him  that  now  I  am  brazed  to  it. 

Kent.  I  cannot  conceive  you. 

Glo.  Sir,  this  young  fellow's  mother  could : 
whereupon  she  grew  round- wombed,  and  had 
indeed,  sir,  a  son  for  her  cradle  ere  she  had  a 
husband  for  her  bed.  Do  you  smell  a  fault  ? 

Kent.  I  cannot  wish  the  fault  undone,  the 
issue  of  it  being  so  proper. 

Glo.  But  I  have  a  son,  sir,  by  order  of  law, 
some  year  elder  than  this,  who  yet  is  no  dearer 
in  my  account :  though  this  knave  came  some- 
thing saucily  into  the  world  before  he  was  sent 
for,  yet  was  his  mother  fair ;  there  was  good 
sport  at  his  making,  and  the  whoreson  must  be 
acknowledged. — Do  you  know  this  noble  gentle- 
man, Edmund? 

Edm.  No,  my  lord. 

Glo.  My  Lord  of  Kent :  remember  him  here- 
after as  my  honourable  friend. 


-  •'-'  "'       jiia  ,: 

Edm.  My  services  to  your  lordship. 

Kent.  I  must  love  you,  and  sue  to  know  you 
better. 

Edm.  Sir,  I  shall  study  deserving. 

Glo.  He  hath  been  out  nine  years,  and  away 
he  shall  again. — The  king  is  coming. 

\Sennet  within. 

Enter  LEAR,  CORNWALL,  ALBANY,  GONERIL, 
REGAN,  CORDELIA,  and  Attendants. 

Lear.  Attend  the  Lords  of  France  and  Bur- 
gundy, 
Gloster. 

Glo.  I  shall,  my  liege. 

[Exeunt  GLO.  and  EDM. 
Lear.  Meantime  we  shall  express  our  darker 
purpose. —  [divided 

Give  me  the  map  there. — Know  that  we  have 
In  three  our  kingdom  :  and  'tis  our  fast  intent 
To  shake  all  cares  and  business  from  our  age  ; 
Conferring  them  on  younger  strengths,  while  we 
Unburden'd  crawl  toward  death. — Our  son  of 

Cornwall, 

And  you,  our  no  less  loving  son  of  Albany, 
We  have  this  hour  a  constant  will  to  publish 
Our  daughters'  several  dowers,  that  future  strife 
May  be  prevented  now.     The  princes,  France 

and  Burgundy, 

Great  rivals  in  our  youngest  daughter's  love, 
Long  in  our  court  have  made  their  amorous 
sojourn,  [daughters, — 

And  here  are  to  be  answerM. — Tell  me,  my 
Since  now  we  will  divest  us  both  of  rule, 
Interest  of  territory,  ceres  of  state, — 


SCENE  I.] 


KING  LEAR. 


1027 


Which  of  you  shall  we  say  doth  love  us  most  ? 
That  we  our  largest  bounty  may  extend 
Where   nature  doth  with  merit   challenge. — 

Goneril, 
Our  eldest-born,  speak  first. 

Gon.  Sir,  I  love  you  more  than  words  can 

wield  the  matter ; 

Dearer  than  eyesight,  space,  and  liberty ; 
Beyond  what  can  be  valu'd,  rich  or  rare  ; 
No  less  than  life,  with  grace,  health,  beauty, 

honour ; 

As  much  as  child  e'er  lov'd,  or  father  found  ; 
A  love  that  makes  breath  poor  and  speech  unable; 
Beyond  all  manner  of  so  much  I  love  you. 

Cor.  [Aside.]  What  shall  Cordelia  do?   Love, 
and  be  silent.  [to  this, 

Lear.  Of  all  these  bounds,  even  from  this  line 
With  shadowy  forests  and  withchampains  rich'd, 
With  plenteous  rivers  and  wide-skirted  meads, 
We  make  thee  lady :  to  thine  and  Albany's  issue 
Be  this  perpetual. —What  says  our  second 

daughter, 
Our  dearest  Regan,  wife  to  Cornwall?    Speak. 

Reg.  I  am  made  of  that  self  metal  as  my  sister, 
And  prize  me  at  her  worth.     In  my  true  heart 
I  find  she  names  my  very  deed  of  love ; 
Only  she  comes  too  short, — that  I  profess 
Myself  an  enemy  to  all  other  joys     [possesses ; 
Which    the    most    precious  square   of    sense 
And  find  I  am  alone  felicitate 
In  your  dear  highness'  love. 

Car.  [Aside.]  Then  poor  Cordelia ! 

And  yet  not  so ;  since,  I  am  sure,  my  love 's 
More  ponderous  than  my  tongue. 

Lear.  To  thee  and  thine  hereditary  ever 
Remain  this  ample  third  of  our  fair  kingdom ; 
No  less  in  space,  validity,  and  pleasure 
Than  that  conferr'd  on  Goneril. — Now,  our  joy, 
Although  the  last,  not  least ;  to  whose  young 

love 

The  vines  of  France  and  milk  of  Burgundy 
Strive  to  be  interess'd ;  what  can  you  say  to 
draw  [Speak. 

A    third    more    opulent    than    your    sisters? 

Cor.  Nothing,  my  lord. 

Lear.  Nothing! 

Cor.  Nothing.  [again. 

Lear.  Nothing  will  come  of  nothing:  speak 

Cor.  Unhappy  that  I  am,  I  cannot  heave 
My  heart  into  my  mouth :  I  love  your  majesty 
According  to  my  bond ;  nor  more  nor  less. 

Lear.    How,    how,   Cordelia !    mend    your 

speech  a  little, 
Lest  you  may  mar  your  fortunes. 

Cor.  Good  my  lord, 

You  have  begot  me,  bred  me,  lov'd  me:  I 
Return  those  duties  back  as  are  right  fit, 


Obey  you,  love  you,  and  most  honour  you. 
Why  have  my  sisters  husbands  if  they  say 
They  love  you  all?    Haply,  when  I  shall  wed, 
That  lord  whose  hand  must  take  my  plight 

shall  carry 

Half  my  love  with  him,  half  my  care  and  duty: 
Sure  I  shall  never  marry  like  my  sisters, 
To  Ifove  my  father  all. 

Lear.  But  goes  thy  heart  with  this? 

Cor.  Ay,  good  my  lord. 

Lear.  So  young  and  so  untender? 

Cor.  So  young,  my  lord,  and  true. 

Lear.  Let  it  be  so, — thy  truth,  then,  be  thy 

dower: 

For  by  the  sacred  radiance  of  the  sun, 
The  mysteries  of  Hecate,  and  the  night; 
By  all  the  operation  of  the  orbs, 
From  whom  we  do  exist  and  cease  to  be ; 
Here  I  disdain  all  my  paternal  care, 
Propinquity,  and  property  of  blood, 
And  as  a  stranger  to  my  heart  and  me 
Hold  thee,  from  this  for  ever.     The  barbarous 

Scythian, 

Or  he  that  makes  his  generation  messes 
To  gorge  his  appetite,  shall  to  my  bosom 
Be  as  well  neighbour'd,  pitied,  and  reliev'd, 
As  thou  my  sometime  daughter. 

Kent.  Good  my  liege, — 

Lear.  Peace,  Kent ! 

Come  not  between  the  dragon  and  his  wrath. 
I  lov'd  her  most,  and  thought  to  set  my  rest 
On  her  kind  nursery. — Hence,  and  avoid  my 

sight ! —  [  To  CORDELIA. 

So  be  my  grave  my  peace,  as  here  I  give 
Her  father's  heart  from  her ! — Call  France ; — 

who  stirs? 

Call  Burgundy. — Cornwall  and  Albany, 
With  my  two  daughters'  dowers  digest  th  ithird: 
Let  pride,  which  she  calls  plainness,  marry  her. 
I  do  invest  you  jointly  with  my  power, 
Pre-eminence,  and  all  the  large  effects 
That  troop  with  majesty. — Ourself,  by  monthly 

course, 

With  reservation  of  an  hundred  knights, 
By  you  to  be  sustain'd,  shall  our  abode 
Make  with  you  by  due  turns.     Only  we  still 

retain 

The  name,  and  all  the  additions  to  a  king ; 
The  sway, 

Revenue,  execution  of  the  rest, 
Beloved  sons,  be  yours :  which  to  confirm, 
This  coronet  part  between  you. 

[Giving1  the  frown. 

Kent.  Royal  Lear, 

Whom  I  have  ever  honour'd  as  my  king, 
Lov'd  as  my  father,  as  my  master  follow'd, 
As  my  greit  patron  thought  on  in  my  prayers. — 


1028 


KING  LEAR. 


[ACT  i. 


Lear.  The  bow  is  bent  and  drawn,  make 

from  the  shaft. 

Kent.  Let  it  fall  rather,  though  the  fork  invade 
The  region  of  my  heart :  be  Kent  unmannerly 
When  Lear  is  mad.     What  wouldst  thou  do, 
old  man?  [speak 

Think'st  thou  that  duty  shall  have  dread  to 
When  power  to  flattery  bows?  To  plainness 

honour's  bound 

When  majesty  falls  to  folly.     Reserve  thy  state ; 
And  in  thy  best  consideration  check 
This  hideous  rashness :  answer  my  life  my  judg- 
ment, 

Thy  youngest  daughter  does  not  love  thee  least ; 
Nor  are  those  empty-hearted  whose  low  sound 
Reverbs  no  hollowness. 

Lear.  Kent,  on  thy  life,  no  more. 

Kent.  My  life  I  never  held  but  as  a  pawn 
To  wage  against  thine  enemies;  nor  fear  to 

lose  it, 
Thy  safety  being  the  motive. 

Lear.  Out  of  my  sight ! 

Kent.  See  better,    Lear;  and   let   me  still 

remain 

The  true  blank  of  thine  eye. 
Lear.  Now,  by  Apollo, — 
Kent.  Now,  by  Apollo,  king, 

Thou  swear'st  thy  gods  in  vain. 
Lear.  O,  vassal !  miscreant ! 

\Laying  his  hand  on  his  sword. 
Alb.  and  Corn.  Dear  sir,  forbear. 
Kent.  Do; 

Kill  thy  physician,  and  the  fee  bestow 
Upon  the  foul  disease.     Revoke  thy  gift; 
Or,  whilst  I  can  vent  clamour  from  my  throat, 
I  '11  tell  thee  thou  dost  evil. 

Lear.  Hear  me,  recreant ! 

On  thine  allegiance,  hear  me! — 
Since  thou  hast  sought  to  make  us  break  our 

vow, — 
Which  we  durst  never  yet, — and  with  strain'd 

pride 

To  come  betwixt  our  sentence  and  our  power, — 
Which  nor  our  nature  nor  our  place  can  bear, — 
Our  potency  made  good,  take  thy  reward. 
Five  days  we  do  allot  thee  for  provision 
To  shield  thee  from  disasters  of  the  world ; 
And  on  the  sixth  to  turn  thy  hated  back 
Upon  our  kingdom:  if,  on  the  tenth  day  following, 
Thy  banish'd  trunk  be  found  in  our  dominions, 
The  moment  is  thy  death.     Away !  by  Jupiter, 
This  shall  not  be  revok'd. 

Kent.  Fare  thee  well,  king:  sith  thus  thou 

wilt  appear, 

Freedom  lives  hence,  and  banishment  is  here.  — 

The  gods  to  their  dear  shelter  take  thee,  maid, 

\To  CORDELIA. 


That  justly  think'st,  and  hast  most  rightly  said ! 

And  your  large  speeches  may  your  deeds  approve, 

jnsn  [Ta  REGAN  aw^GoNERiL. 

That  good  effects  may  spring  from  words  of 

love.  — 

Thus  Kent,  O  princes,  bids  you  all  adieu ; 
He  '11  shape  his  old  course  in  a  country  new. 

{Exit. 

Flourish.     Re-enter  GLOSTER,  with  FRANCE, 
BURGUNDY,  and  Attendants. 

Glo.    Here's    France    and    Burgundy,    my 
noble  lord. 

Lear.  My  lord  of  Burgundy, 
We  first  address  toward  you,  who  with  this  king 
Hath  rivall'd  for  our  daughter :  what  in  the  least 
Will  you  require  in  present  dower  with  her, 
Or  cease  your  quest  of  love? 

Bur.  Most  royal  majesty, 

I  crave  no  more  than  hath  your  highness  offer'd, 
Nor  will  you  tender  less. 

Lear.  Right  noble  Burgundy, 

When  she  was  dear  to  us  we  did  hold  her  so ; 
But  now  her   price  is  fall'n.     Sir,   there  she 

stands: 

If  aught  within  that  little  seeming  substance, 
Or  all  of  it,  with  our  displeasure  piec'd, 
And  nothing  more,  may  fitly  like  your  grace, 
She 's  there,  and  she  is  yours. 

Bur.  I  know  no  answer. 

Lear.  Will  you,  with  those  infirmities  she 

owes, 

Unfriended,  new-adopted  to  our  hate,  [oath, 
Dower'd  with  our  curse,  and  stranger'd  with  our 
Take  her  or  leave  her? 

Bur.  Pardon  me,  royal  sir ; 

Election  makes  not  up  on  such  conditions. 

Lear.  Then  leave  her,  sir ;  for,  by  the  powei 

that  made  me, 

I  tell  you  all  her  wealth. — For  you,  great  king, 

\To  FRANCE. 

I  would  not  from  your  love  make  such  a  stray, 
To  match  you  where  I  hate ;  therefore  beseech 

you 

To  avert  your  liking  a  more  worthier  way 
Than  on  a  wretch  whom  nature  is  asham'd 
Almost  to  acknowledge  hers. 

France.  This  is  most  strange, 

That  she,  who  even  but  now  was  your  best 

object, 

The  argument  of  your  praise,  balm  of  your  age, 
Most  best,  most  dearest,  should  in  this  trice  of 

time 

Commit  a  thing  so  monstrous,  to  dismantle 
So  many  folds  of  favour.     Sure  her  offence 
Must  be  of  such  unnatural  degree 
That  monsters  it,  or  your  fore-vouch'd  affection 


SCENE  I.] 


KING  LEAR. 


1029 


Fall  into  taint :  which  to  believe  of  her 
Must  be  a  faith  that  reason  without  miracle 
Could  never  plant  in  me. 

Cor.  I  yet  beseech  your  majesty, — 

If  for  I  want  that  glib  and  oily  art         [intend, 
To  speak  and  purpose  not ;  since  what  I  well 
I  '11  do 't  before  I  speak, — that  you  make  known 
It  is  no  vicious  blot,  murder,  or  foulness, 
No  unchaste  action  or  dishonour'd  step, 
That  hath   depriv'd    me   of   your   grace   and 
favour ;  [richer, — 

But  even  for  want  of  that  for  which  I  am 
A  still-soliciting  eye,  and  such  a  tongue  [it 
That  I  am  glad  I  have  not,  though  not  to  have 
Hath  lost  me  in  your  liking. 

Lear.  Better  thou 

Hadst  not  been  born  than  not  to  have  pleas'd 
me  better. 

France.  Is  it  but  this, — a  tardiness  in  nature, 
Which  often  leaves  the  history  unspoke 
That  it  intends  to  do? — My  lord  of  Burgundy, 
What  say  you  to  the  lady?     Love 's  not  love 
When  it  is  mingled  with  regards  that  stand 
Aloof  from  the  entire  point.    Will  you  have  her? 
She  is  herself  a  dowry. 

Bur.  Royal  king, 

Give  but  that  portion  which  yourself  propos'd, 
And  here  I  take  Cordelia  by  the  hand, 
Duchess  of  Burgundy. 

Lear.  Nothing :  I  have  sworn ;  I  am  firm. 

Bur.  I  am  sorry,  then,  you  have  so  lost  a  father 
That  you  must  lose  a  husband. 

Cor.  Peace  be  with  Burgundy ! 

Since  that  respects  of  fortune  are  his  love 
I  shall  not  be  his  wife.  [being  poor ; 

France.  Fairest  Cordelia,  that  art  most  rich, 
Most  choice,  forsaken ;  and  most  lov'd,  despis'd ! 
Thee  and  thy  virtues  here  I  seize  upon : 
Be  it  lawful,  I  take  up  what 's  cast  away. 
Gods,  gods !  'tis  strange  that  from  their  cold'st 

neglect 

My  love  should  kindle  to  inflam'd  respect. — 
Thy  dowerless  daughter,  king,  thrown  to  my 

chance, 

Is  queen  of  us,  of  ours,  and  our  fair  France : 
Not  all  the  dukes  of  waterish  Burgundy 
Can  buy  this  unpriz'd  precious  maid  of  me. — 
Bid  them  farewell,  Cordelia,  though  unkind : 
Thou  losest  here,  a  better  where  to  find. 

Lear.  Thou  hast  her,  France :  let  her  be  thine; 

for  we 

Have  no  such  daughter,  nor  shall  ever  see 
That  face  of  hers  again. — Therefore  be  gone 
Without  our  grace,  our  love,  our  benison. — 
Come,  noble  Burgundy. 
[Flourish,    Exeunt  LEAR,  BURGUNDY,  CORN- 
WALL, ALBANY,  GLOSTER,  and  Attendants. 


France.  Bid  farewell  to  your  sisters. 

Cor.  Ye  jewels  of  our  father,  with  wash'd 

eyes 

Cordelia  leaves  you  :  I  know  you  what  you  are ; 
And,  like  a  sister,  am  most  loth  to  call 
Your  faults  as  they  are  nam'd.     Love  well  our 

father : 

To  your  professed  bosoms  I  commit  him : 
But  yet,  alas,  stood  I  within  his  grace, 
I  would  prefer  him  to  a  better  place. 
So,  farewell  to  you  both. 

Reg.  Prescribe  not  us  our  duty. 

Gon.  Let  your  study 

Be  to  content  your  lord,  who  hath  receiv'd  you 

At  fortune's  alms.   You  have  obedience  scanted, 

And  well  are  worth  the  want  that  you  have 

wanted.  [hides : 

Cor.  Time  shall  unfold  what  plighted  cunning 
Who  cover  faults,  at  last  shame  them  derides. 
Well  may  you  prosper ! 

France.  Come,  my  fair  Cordelia. 

\Exeuiit  FRANCE  and  CORDELIA. 

Gon.  Sister,  it  is  not  little  I  have  to  say  of 
what  most  nearly  appertains  to  us  both.  I 
think  our  father  will  hence  to-night. 

Reg.  That 's  most  certain,  and  with  you ; 
next  month  with  us. 

Gon.  You  see  how  full  of  changes  his  age  is ; 
the  observation  we  have  made  of  it  hath  not 
been  little :  he  always  loved  our  sister  most ; 
and  with  what  poor  judgment  he  hath  now  cast 
her  off  appears  too  grossly. 

Reg.  'Tis  the  infirmity  of  his  age  :  yet  he 
hath  ever  but  slenderly  known  himself. 

Gon.  The  best  and  soundest  of  his  time  hath 
been  but  rash ;  then  must  we  look  to  receive 
from  his  age  not  alone  the  imperfections  of  long- 
engraffed  condition,  but  therewithal  the  unruly 
waywardness  that  infirm  and  choleric  years 
bring  with  them. 

Reg.  Such  unconstant  starts  are  we  like  to 
have  from  him  as  this  of  Kent's  banishment. 

Gon.  There  is  further  compliment  of  leave- 
taking  between  France  and  him.  Pray  you,  let 
us  hit  together  :  if  our  father  carry  authority 
with  such  dispositions  as  he  bears,  this  last 
surrender  of  his  will  but  offend  us. 

Reg.  We  shall  further  think  of  it. 

Gon.  We  must  do  something,  and  i'  the  heat. 

[Exettnt. 

SCENE  II.—  A  Hallin  the  EARL  OF 
GLOSTER'S  Castle. 

Enter  EDMUND  with  a  letter. 
Edm.  Thou,  nature,  art  my  goddess ;  to  thy 


1030 


KING  LEAR. 


[ACT  i. 


My  services  are  bound.     Wherefore  should  I 
Stand  in  the  plague  of  custom,  and  permit 
The  curiosity  of  nations  to  deprive  me, 
For  that  I  am  some  twelve  or  fourteen  moon- 
shines [base  ? 
Lag  of  a  brother?     Why  bastard?  wherefore 
When  my  dimensions  are  as  well  compact, 
My  mind  as  generous,  and  my  shape  as  true 
As  honest  madam's  issue  ?     Why  brand  they  us 
With   base?   with  baseness?   bastardy?    base, 

base? 

WTio,  in  the  lusty  stealth  of  nature,  take 
More  composition  and  fierce  quality 
Than  doth,  within  a  dull,  stale,  tired  bed, 
Go  to  the  creating  a  whole  tribe  of  fops 
Got  'tween  asleep  and  wake  ? — Well,  then, 
Legitimate  Edgar,  I  must  have  your  land  : 
Our  father's  love  is  to  the  bastard  Edmund. 
As  to  the  legitimate  :  fine  word, — legitimate  ! 
Well,  my  legitimate,  if  this  letter  speed, 
And  my  invention  thrive,  Edmund  the  base 
Shall  top  the  legitimate.     I  grow;  I  prosper. — 
Now,  gods,  stand  up  for  bastards  ! 

Enter  GLOSTER. 

Glo.  Kent   banish'd   thus  !    and  France  in 
choler  parted  !  [power  ! 

And   the  king  gone  to-night !   subscrib'd  his 
Confin'd  to  exhibition  1    All  this  done 
Upon  the  gad ! — Edmund,  how  now  !   what 
news? 

Edm.  So  please  your  lordship,  none. 

[Putting  up  the  letter. 

Glo.  Why  so  earnestly  seek  you  to  put  up 
that  letter  ? 

Edm.  I  know  no  news,  my  lord. 

Glo.  What  paper  were  you  reading  ? 

Edm.  Nothing,  my  lord. 

Glo.  No  ?  What  needed,  then,  that  terrible 
despatch  of  it  into  your  pocket  ?  the  quality  of 
nothing  hath  not  such  need  to  hide  itself.  Let 's 
see :  come,  if  it  be  nothing,  I  shall  not  need 
spectacles. 

Edm.  I  beseech  you,  sir,  pardon  me  :  it  is  a 
letter  from  my  brother  that  I  have  not  all  o'er- 
read  ;  and  for  so  much  as  I  have  perused,  I 
find  it  not  fit  for  your  over-looking. 

Glo.  Give  me  the  letter,  sir. 

Edm.  I  shall  offend  either  to  detain  or  give 
it.  The  contents,  as  in  part  I  understand  them, 
are  to  blame. 

Glo.  Let 's  see,  let 's  see. 

Edm.  I  hope,  for  my  brother's  justification, 
he  wrote  this  but  as  an  essay  or  taste  of  my 
virtue. 

Glo.  [Reads.]  This  policy  and  reverence  of 
age.  makes  the  world  bitter  to  the  best  of  our 


times  ;  keeps  our  fortunes  from  us  till  otir  old* 
ness  cannot  relish  them.  I  begin  to  find  an  idle 
and  fond  bondage  in  the  oppression  of  aged 
tyranny  ;  who  sways,  not  as  it  hath  power ;  but 
as  it  is  suffered.  Come  to  me,  that  of  this  I 
may  speak  more.  If  our  father  would  sleep  till 
I  waked  him,  you  should  enjoy  half  his  revenue 
for  ever,  and  live  the  beloved  of  your  brother, 

EDGAR. 

Hum — Conspiracy  ! — Sleep  till  I  waked  him, — 
you  should  enjoy  half  his  revenue, — My  son 
Edgar  !  Had  he  a  hand  to  write  this  ?  a  heart 
and  a  brain  to  breed  it  in  ?  When  came  this  to 
you  ?  who  brought  it  ? 

Edm.  It  was  not  brought  me,  my  lord, 
there 's  the  cunning  of  it ;  I  found  it  thrown  in 
at  the  casement  of  my  closet.  [brother's  ? 

Glo.  You   know   the   character  to   be   your 

Edm.  If  the  matter  were  good,  my  lord,  I 
durst  swear  it  were  his  ;  but  in  respect  of  that, 
I  would  fain  think  it  were  not. 

Glo.  It  is  his. 

Edm.  It  is  his  hand,  my  lord ;  but  I  hope 
his  heart  is  not  in  the  contents. 

Glo.  Hath  he  never  before  sounded  you  in 
this  business? 

Edm.  Never,  my  lord :  but  I  have  heard 
him  oft  maintain  it  to  be  fit  that  sons  at  perfect 
age  and  fathers  declined,  the  father  should  be 
as  ward  to  the  son,  and  the  son  manage  his 
revenue. 

Glo.  O  villain,  villain  ! — His  very  opinion 
in  the  letter  ! — Abhorred  villain  !  Unnatural, 
detested,  brutish  villain  !  worse  than  brutish ! 
— Go,  sirrah,  seek  him ;  I '11  apprehend  him.— 
Abominable  villain  ! — Where  is  he  ? 

Edm.  I  do  not  well  know,  my  lord.  If  it 
shall  please  you  to  suspend  your  indignation 
against  my  brother  till  you  can  derive  from  him 
better  testimony  of  his  intent,  you  shall  run  a 
certain  course ;  where,  if  you  violently  proceed 
against  him,  mistaking  his  purpose,  it  would 
make  a  great  gap  in  your  own  honour,  and 
shake  in  pieces  the  heart  of  his  obedience.  I 
dare  pawn  down  my  life  for  him  that  he  hath 
writ  this  to  feel  my  affection  to  your  honour, 
and  to  no  other  pretence  of  danger. 

Glo.  Think  you  so? 

Edm.  If  your  honour  judge  it  meet,  I  will 
place  you  where  you  shall  hear  us  confer  of 
this,  and  by  an  auricular  assurance  have  your 
satisfaction  ;  and  that  without  any  further  de- 
lay than  this  very  evening. 

Glo.  He  cannot  be  such  a  monster. 

Edm.  Nor  is  not,  sure. 

Glo.  To  his  father,  that  so  tenderly  and 
entirely  loves  him. — Heaven  and  earth  1— 


SCENE  II.] 


KING  LEAR. 


1031 


Edmund,  seek  him  out ;  wind  me  into  him,  1 
pray  you  :  frame  the  business  after  your  own 
wisdom.  I  would  unstate  myself  to  be  in  a 
due  resolution. 

Edm.  I  will  seek  him,  sir,  presently ;  convey 
the  business  as  I  shall  find  means,  and  acquaint 
you  withal. 

Glo.  These  late  eclipses  in  the  sun  and  moon 
portend  no  good  to  us  :  though  the  wisdom  of 
nature  can  reason  it  thus  and  thus,  yet  nature 
finds  itself  scourged  by  the  sequent  effects:  love 
cools,  friendship  falls  off,  brothers  divide  :  in 
cities,  mutinies ;  in  countries,  discord ;  in 
palaces,  treason ;  and  the  bond  cracked  'twixt 
son  and  father.  This  villain  of  mine  comes 
under  the  prediction ;  there 's  son  against 
father  :  the  king  falls  from  bias  of  nature ; 
there 's  father  against  child.  We  have  seen 
the  best  of  our  time:  machinations,  hollow  - 
ness,  treachery,  and  all  ruinous  disorders,  fol- 
low us  disquietly  to  our  graves. — Find  out  this 
villain,  Edmund ;  it  shall  lose  thee  nothing ; 
do  it  carefully. — And  the  noble  and  true- 
hearted  Ker;t  banished!  his  offence,  honesty! 
— 'Tis  strange.  [Exit. 

Edm.  This  is  the  excellent  foppery  of  the 
world,  that,  when  we  are  sick  in  fortune, — 
often  the  surfeit  of  our  own  behaviour, — we 
make  guilty  of  our  disasters  the  sun,  the  moon, 
and  the  stars  :  as  i)  we  were  villains  by  neces- 
sity ;  fools  by  heavenly  compulsion  ;  knaves, 
thieves,  and  treachers  by  spherical  predomin- 
ance ;  drunkards,  liars,  and  adulterers  by  an 
enforced  obedience  ot  planetary  influence  ;  and 
all  that  we  are  evil  in,  by  a  divine  thrusting 
on:  an  admirable  evasion  of  whoremaster  man, 
to  lay  his  goatish  disposition  to  the  charge  of  a 
star  !  My  father  compounded  with  my  mother 
under  the  dragon's  tail,  and  my  nativity  was 
under  ursa  major ;  so  that  it  follows  I  am 
rough  and  lecherous. — Tut,  I  should  have  been 
that  I  am,  had  the  maiden liest  star  in  the 
firmament  twinkled  on  my  bastardizing. 

Enter  EDGAR. 

Pat ! — he  comes  like  the  catastrophe  of  the  old 
comedy  :  my  cue  is  villanous  melancholy,  with 
a  sigh  like  Tom  o'  Bedlam. — O,  these  eclipses 
do  portend  these  divisions  !  fa,  sol,  la,  mi. 

Edg.  How  now,  brother  Edmund !  what 
serious  contemplation  are  you  in  ? 

Edm.  I  am  thinking,  brother,  of  a  prediction 
I  read  this  other  day,  what  should  follow  these 
eclipses. 

Edg.  Do  you  busy  yourself  with  that  ? 

Edm.  I  promise  you,  the  effects  he  writes  of 
succeed  unhappily ;  as  of  unnaturalness  between 


the  child  and  the  parent ;  death,  dearth,  dis- 
solutions of  ancient  amities  ;  divisions  in  state, 
menaces  and  maledictions  against  king  and 
nobles ;  needless  diffidences,  banishment  of 
friends,  dissipation  of  cohorts,  nuptial  breaches, 
and  I  know  not  what. 

Edg.  How  long  have  you  been  a  sectary 
astronomical?  [father  last? 

Edm.    Come,   come;    when    saw  you    my 

Edg.  The  night  gone  by. 

Edm.  Spake  you  with  him  ? 

Edg.  Ay,  two  hours  together. 

Edm.  Parted  you  in  good  terms?  Found 
you  no  displeasure  in  him  by  word  nor  coun- 
tenance? 

Edg.  None  at  all. 

Edm.  Bethink  yourself  wherein  you  may 
have  offended  him  :  and  at  my  entreaty  forbear 
his  presence  till  some  little  time  hath  qualified 
the  heat  of  his  displeasure  ;  which  at  this  in- 
stant so  rageth  in  him  that  with  the  mischief  of 
your  person  it  would  scarcely  allay. 

Edg.  Some  villain  hath  done  me  wrong. 

Edm.  That's  my  fear.  I  pray  you,  have  a 
continent  forbearance  till  the  speed  of  his  rage 
goes  slower ;  and,  as  I  say,  retire  with  me  to 
my  lodging,  from  whence  I  will  fitly  bring  you 
to  hear  my  lord  speak  :  pray  you,  go;  there's 
my  key. — If  you  do  stir  abroad,  go  armed. 

Edg.  Armed,  brother ! 

Edm.  Brother,  I  advise  you  to  the  best ;  I 
am  no  honest  man  if  there  be  any  good  mean- 
ing toward  you  :  I  have  told  you  what  I  have 
seen  and  heard  but  faintly;  nothing  like  the 
image  and  horror  of  it :  pray  you,  away. 

Edg.  Shall  I  hear  from  you  anon  ? 

Edm.  I  do  serve  you  in  this  business. 

[Exit  EDGAR. 

A  credulous  father !  and  a  brother  noble, 
Whose  nature  is  so  far  from  doing  harms 
That  he  suspects  none ;  on  whose  foolish  honesty 
My  practices  ride  easy  ! — I  see  the  business. — 
Let  me,  if  not  by  birth,  have  lands  by  wit : 
All  with  me 's  meet  that  I  can  fashion  fit. 

[Exit. 
!v/oawoH    [<,KTRfai3«sfc.«Sktrj;a3    -^bssnliitss 

SCENE  III. — A  Room  in  the  DUKE  OF 
ALBANY'S  Palace. 

Enter  GONERIL  and  OSWALD. 

Gon.  Did  my  father  strike  my  gentleman 
for  chiding  of  his  fool  ? 

Osw.  Ay,  madam.  [hour 

Gon.  By  day  and  night,  he  wrongs  me ;  every 
He  flashes  into  one  gross  crime  or  other, 
That  sets  us  all  at  odds :  I  '11  not  endure  it : 


1032 


KING  LEAR. 


[ACT 


His  knights  grow  riotous,  and  himself  upbraids 
us  [ing 

On  every  trifle. — When  he  returns  from  hunt- 
I  will  not  speak  with  him  ;  say  I  am  sick. — 
If  you  come  slack  of  former  services 
You  shall  do  well ;  the  fault  of  it  I  '11  answer. 
Osw.  He 's  coming,  madam  :  I  hear  him. 

[Horns  within. 

Gon.  Put   on   what   weary  negligence    you 
please,  [question : 

You  and  your  fellows ;   I  'd  have  it  come  to 
If  he  distaste  it,  let  him  to  my  sister, 
Whose  mind  and  mine,  I  know,  in  that  are  one, 
Not  to  be  overruled.     Idle  old  man, 
That  still  would  manage  those  authorities 
That  he  hath  given  away  ! — Now,  by  my  life, 
Old  fools  are  babes  again  ;  and  must  be  us'd 
With  checks  as  flatteries, — when  they  are  seen 

abus'd. 
Remember  what  I  have  said. 

Osw.  Well,  madam. 

Gon.  And  let  his  knights  have  colder  looks 
among  you  ;  [so  : 

What  grows  of  it,  no  matter ;  advise  your  fellows 
I  would  breed  from  hence  occasions,  and  I 
shall,  [sister 

That  I  may  speak. — I '11  write  straight  to  my 
To  hold  my  course. — Prepare  for  dinner. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — A  Hall  in  ALBANY'S  Palace. 
Enter  KENT,  disguised. 

Kent.   If  but  as  well  I  other  accents  borrow, 
That  can  my  speech  diffuse,  my  good  intent 
May  carry  through  itself  to  that  full  issue 
For  which  I  rais'd  my  likeness. — Now,  ban- 
ish'd  Kent,  [demn'd, 

If  thou  canst  serve  where  thou  dost  stand  con- 
So  may  it  come,  thy  master,  whom  thou  lov'st, 
Shall  find  thee  full  of  labours. 

Horns  within.  Enter  KING  LEAR,  Knights, 
and  Attendants. 

Lear.  Let  me  not  stay  a  jot  for  dinner ;  go 
get  it  ready.  [Exit  an  Attendant.  ]  How  now ! 
what  art  thou? 

Kent.  A  man,  sir. 

Lear.  What  dost  thou  profess?  What 
wouldst  thou  with  us  ? 

Kent.  I  do  profess  to  be  no  less  than  I  seem ; 
to  serve  him  truly  that  will  put  me  in  trust ;  to 
love  him  that  is  honest ;  to  converse  with  him 
that  is  wise  and  says  little ;  to  fear  judgment ; 
to  fight  when  I  cannot  choose ;  and  to  eat  no 
fish. 

Lear.  What  art  thou? 


Kent.  A  very  honest-hearted  fellow,  and  as 
poor  as  the  king. 

Lear.  If  thou  be'st  as  poor  for  a  subject  as 
he 's  for  a  king,  thou  art  poor  enough.  What 
wouldst  thou? 

Kent.  Service. 

Lear.  Who  wouldst  thou  serve? 

Kent.  You. 

Lear.  Dost  thou  know  me,  fellow? 

Kent.  No,  sir;  but  you  have  that  in  your 
countenance  which  I  would  fain  call  master. 

Lear.   What's  that? 

Kent.  Authority. 

Lear.  What  services  canst  thou  do? 

Kent.  I  can  keep  honest  counsel,  ride,  run, 
mar  a  curious  tale  in  telling  it,  and  deliver  a 
plain  message  bluntly :  that  which  ordinary  men 
are  fit  for,  I  am  qualified  in :  and  the  best  ot 
me  is  diligence. 

Lear.   How  old  art  thou? 

Kent.  Not  so  young,  sir,  to  love  a  woman 
for  singing ;  nor  so  old  to  dote  on  her  for  any- 
thing :  I  have  years  on  my  back  forty-eight. 

Lear.  Follow  me ;  thou  shalt  serve  me :  if  I 
like  thee  no  worse  after  dinner,  I  will  not  part 
from  thee  yet. — Dinner,  ho,  dinner ! — Where 's 
my  knave?  my  fool? — Go  you  and  call  my  fool 
hither.  [Exit  an  Attend. 

Enter  OSWALD. 

You,  you,  sirrah,  where 's  my  daughter? 

Osw.  So  please  you, —  [Exit. 

Lear.  What  says  the  fellow  there?  Call  the 
clotpoll  back.  [Exit  a  Knight.  ] — Where  's  my 
fool,  ho? — I  think  the  world 's  asleep. 

Re-enter  Knight. 

How  now  !  where 's  that  mongrel  ? 

Knight.  He  says,  my  lord,  your  daughter  is 
not  well. 

Lear.  Why  came  not  the  slave  back  to  me 
when  I  called  him? 

Knight.  Sir,  he  answered  me  in  the  roundest 
manner,  he  would  not. 

Lear.  He  would  not ! 

Knight.  My  lord,  I  know  not  what  the 
matter  is ;  but,  to  my  judgment,  your  highness 
is  not  entertained  with  that  ceremonious  affec- 
tion as  you  were  wont ;  there 's  a  great  abate- 
ment of  kindness  appears  as  well  in  the  general 
dependants  as  in  the  duke  himself  also  and  your 
daughter. 

Lear.  Ha  !  sayest  thou  so  ? 

Knight.  I  beseech  you,  pardon  me,  my  lord, 
if  I  be  mistaken ;  for  my  duty  cannot  be  silent 
when  I  think  your  highness  wronged. 

Lear.  Thou  but   rememberest  me  of  mine 


SCENE  IV.] 


KING  LEAR. 


1033 


own  conception :  I  have  perceived  a  most  faint 
neglect  of  late  ;  which  I  have  rather  blamed  as 
mine  own  jealous  curiosity  than  as  a  very  pre- 
tence and  purpose  of  unkindness :  I  will  look 
further  into't. — But  where 's  my  fool?  I  have 
not  seen  him  this  two  days. 

Knight.  Since  my  young  lady's  going  into 
France,  sir,  the  fool  hath  much  pined  away. 

Lear.  No  more  of  that ;  I  have  noted  it 
well. — Go  you  and  tell  my  daughter  I  would 
speak  with  her.  [Exit  an  Attendant.] — Go 
you,  call  hither  my  fool. 

[Exit  another  Attendant. 

Re-enter  OSWALD. 

0,  you  sir,  you,  come  you  hither,  sir  :  who  am 

1,  sir? 

Osw.  My  lady's  father. 

Lear.  My  lady's  father  !  my  lord's  knave  : 
you  whoreson  dog  !  you  slave  !  you  cur  ! 

Osw.  I  am  none  of  these,  my  lord ;  I  be- 
seech your  pardon. 

Lear.  Do  you  bandy  looks  with  me,  you 
rascal  ?  [Striking  him. 

Osw.  I  '11  not  be  struck,  my  lord. 

Kent.  Nor  tripped  neither,  you  base  football 
player.  [Tripping  up  his  heels. 

Lear.  I  thank  thee,  fellow ;  thou  servest 
me,  and  I  '11  love  thee. 

Kent.  Come,  sir,  arise,  away  !  I  '11  teach 
you  differences :  away,  away  !  If  you  will 
measure  your  lubber's  length  again,  tarry :  but 
away !  go  to  ;  have  you  wisdom  ?  so. 

[Pushes  OSWALD  out. 

JLear.  Now,  my  friendly  knave,  I  thank  thee : 
there 's  earnest  of  thy  service. 

[Giving  KENT  money. 

Enter  FOOL. 

Fool.  Let  me  hire  him  too  ;  here 's  my  cox- 
comb. [Giving  KENT  his  cap. 

Lear.  How  now,  my  pretty  knave !  how  dost 
thou? 

Fool.  Sirrah,  you  were  best  take  my  coxcomb. 

Kent.  Why,  fool? 

Fool.  Why,  for  taking  one's  part  that 's  out 
of  favour.  Nay,  an  thou  canst  not  smile  as  the 
wind  sits,  thou 'It  catch  cold  shortly:  there, 
take  my  coxcomb :  why,  this  fellow  has  ban- 
ish'd  two  on 's  daughters,  and  did  the  third  a 
blessing  against  his  will ;  if  thou  follow  him, 
thou  must  needs  wear  my  coxcomb.  — How  now, 
nuncle  !  Would  I  had  two  coxcombs  and  two 
daughters  ! 

Lear.  Why,  my  boy  ? 

Fool.  If  I  gave  them  all  my  living,  I  'd  keep 


my  coxcombs  myself.      There 's  mine ;    beg 
another  of  thy  daughters. 

Lear.  Take  heed,  sirrah, — the  whip. 
Fool.  Truth 's  a  dog  must  to  kennel ;   he 
must  be  whipped  out,  when  the  lady  brach  may 
stand  by  the  fire  and  stink. 
Lear.  A  pestilent  gall  to  me  ! 
Fool.  Sirrah,  I  '11  teach  thee  a  speech. 
Lear.  Do. 
Fool.  Mark  it,  nuncle : — 

Have  more  than  thou  showest, 
Speak  less  than  thou  knowest, 
Lend  less  than  thou  owest, 
Ride  more  than  thou  goest, 
Learn  more  than  thou  trowest, 
Set  less  than  thou  throwest ; 
Leave  thy  drink  and  thy  whore, 
And  keep  in-a-door, 
And  thou  shall  have  more 
Than  two  tens  to  a  score. 
Kent.  This  is  nothing,  fool. 
Fool.  Then  'tis  like  the  breath  of  an  unfee'd 
lawyer, — you  gave  me  nothing  for 't. — Can  you 
make  no  use  of  nothing,  nuncle  ? 

Lear.  Why,  no,  boy ;  nothing  can  be  made 
out  of  nothing. 

Fool.  Pr'ythee,  tell  him,  so  much  the  rent  of 
his  land  comes  to  :  he  will  not  believe  a  fool. 

[To  KENT. 
Lear.  A  bitter  fool ! 

Fool.  Dost  thou  know  the  difference,   my 
boy,  between  a  bitter  fool  and  a  sweet  one  ? 
Lear.  No,  lad  ;  teach  me. 
Fool.    That  lord  that  counsell'd  thee 

To  give  away  thy  land, 
Come  place  him  here  by  me, — 

Do  thou  for  him  stand  : 
The  sweet  and  bitter  fool 
Will  presently  appear ; 
The  one  in  motley  here, 

The  other  found  out  there. 
Lear.  Dost  thou  call  me  fool,  boy? 
Fool.  All  thy  other  titles  thou  hast  given 
away  ;  that  thou  wast  born  with. 

Kent.  This  is  not  altogether  fool,  my  lord. 
Fool.  No,  faith,  lords  and  great  men  will  not 
let  me ;  if  I  had  a  monopoly  out,  they  would 
have  part  on 't,  and  loads  too  :  they  will  not  let 
me  have  all  fool  to  myself ;  they  '11  be  snatch- 
ing.— Nuncle,  give  me  an  egg,  and  I  '11  give 
thee  two  crowns. 

Lear.  What  two  crowns  shall  they  be  ? 
Fool.  Why,  after  I  have  cut  the  egg  i'  the 
middle,  and  eat  up  the  meat,  the  two  crowns 
of  the  egg.  When  thou  clovest  thy  crown  i' 
the  middle,  and  gavest  away  both  parts,  thou 
borest  thine  ass  on  thy  back  o'er  the  dirt :  thou 


1034 


KING  LEAR. 


[ACT  I. 


hadst  little  wit  in  thy  bald  crown  when  them 
gavest  thy  golden  one  away.  If  I  speak  like 
myself  in  this,  let  him  be  whipped  that  first 
finds  it  so. 

Fools  had  ne'er  less  grace  in  a  year ;      [Singing, 

For  wise  men  are  grown  foppish, 
And  know  not  how  their  wits  to  wear, 

Their  manners  are  so  apish. 

Lear.  When  were  you  wont  to  be  so  full  of 
songs,  sirrah? 

Fool.  I  have  used  it,  nuncle,  e'er  since  thou 
madest  thy  daughters  thy  mothers :  for  when 
thou  gavest  them  the  rod,  and  puttest  down 
thine  own  breeches, 

Then  they  for  sudden  joy  did  weep,       \Singing. 

And  I  for  sorrow  sung, 
That  such  a  king  should  play  bo-peep, 

And  go  the  fools  among. 

Pr'ythee,  nuncle,  keep  a  schoolmaster  that  can 
teach  thy  fool  to  lie :  I  would  fain  learn  to 
lie.  [whipped. 

Lear.  An  you  lie,  sirrah,  we'll  have  you 
Fool.  I  marvel  what  kin  thou  and  thy 
daughters  are :  they  '11  have  me  whipped  for 
speaking  true,  thou  'It  have  me  whipped  for  ly- 
ing ;  and  sometimes  I  am  whipped  for  holding 
my  peace.  I  had  rather  be  any  kind  o'  thing 
than  a  fool :  and  yet  I  would  not  be  thee, 
nuncle  ;  thou  hast  pared  thy  wit  o'  both  sides, 
and  left  nothing  i'  the  middle: — here  comes 
one  o'  the  parings. 

Enter  GONERIL. 

Lear.  How  now,  daughter !  what  makes 
that  frontlet  on  ?  Methinks  you  are  too  much 
of  late  i'  the  frown. 

Fool.  Thou  wast  a  pretty  fellow  when  thou 
hadst  no  need  to  care  for  her  frowning ;  now 
thou  art  an  O  without  a  figure:  I  am  better 
than  thou  art ;  I  am  a  fool,  thou  art  nothing. — 
Yes,  forsooth,  I  will  hold  my  tongue }  so  your 
face  [  to  GON.]  bids  me,  though  you  say  nothing. 
Alum,  mum, 

He  that  keeps  nor  crust  nor  crumb, 
Weary  of  all,  shall  want  some. — 
That 's  a  shealed  peascod.     \_Pointingto  LEAR. 

Gon.  Not  only,  sir,  this  your  all-licens'd  fool, 
But  other  of  your  insolent  retinue 
Do  hourly  carp  and  quarrel ;  breaking  forth 
in  rank  and  not-to-be-endured  riots.     Sir, 
I  had  thought,  by  making  this  well  known  unto 
you,  [fearful, 

To  have  found  a  safe  redress ;  but  now  grow 
By  what  yourself  too  late  have  spoke  and  done, 
That  you  protect  this  course,  and  put  it  on 
By  your  allowance ;  which  if  you  should,  the 
fault 


Would  netscape  censure,  nor  the  redresses  sleep, 
Which,  in  the  tender  of  a  wholesome  weal, 
Might  in  their  working  do  you  that  offence, 
Which  else  were  shame,  that  then  necessity 
Will  call  discreet  proceeding. 
Fool.  For,  you  know,  nuncle, 
The  hedge-sparrow  fed  the  cuckoo  so  long 
That  it  had  its  head  bit  off  by  its  young. 
So,  out  went  the  candle,  and  we  were   left 

darkling. 

Lear.  Are  you  our  daughter  ? 
Gon.  I  would  you  would  make  use  of  your 

food  wisdom, 
know  you  are  fraught ;  and  put  away 
These  dispositions,  which  of  late  transport  you 
From  what  you  rightly  are. 

Fool.   May  not  an  ass  know  when  the  cart 
draws  the  horse  ? — Whoop,  Jug  !  I  love  thee. 

Lear.  Does  any  here  know  me  ? — This  is  not 
Lear  :  [his  eyes  ? 

Does  Lear  walk  thus  ?  speak  thus?     Where  are 
Either  his  notion  weakens,  his  discernings 
Are  lethargied. — Ha  !  waking?  'tis  not  so. — 
Who  is  it  that  can  tell  me  who  I  am  ? 

Fool.  Lear's  shadow.  [of  sovereignty, 

Lear.  I  would  learn  that ;  for,  by  the  marks 
Knowledge,  and  reason, 
I  should  be  false  persuaded  I  had  daughters. 

Fool.  Which   they  will  make  an   obedient 
father. 

Lear.  Your  name,  fair  gentlewoman  ? 

Gon.  This  admiration,  sir,  is  much  o'  the 

favour 

Of  other  your  new  pranks.     I  do  beseech  you 
To  understand  my  purposes  aright : 
As  you  are  old  and  reverend,  should  be  wise. 
Here  do  you   keep  a  hundred   knights  and 

squires ; 

Men  so  disorder'd,  so  debosh'd  and  bold, 
That  this  our  court,  infected  with  their  manners. 
Shows  like  a  riotous  inn  :  epicurism  and  lust 
Make  it  more  like  a  tavern  or  a  brothel 
Than  &.  grac'd  palace.     The  shame  itself  doth 

speak 

For  instant  remedy :  be,  then,  desir'd 
By  her  that  else  will  take  the  thing  she  begs, 
A  little  to  disquantity  your  train  ; 
And  the  remainder,  that  shall  still  depend, 
To  be  such  men  as  may  besort  your  age, 
Which  know  themselves  and  you. 

Lear.  Darkness  and  devils  ! — 

Saddle  my  horses  ;  call  my  train  together. — 
Degenerate  bastard  !  I  '11  not  trouble  thee : 
Yet  have  I  left  a  daughter. 

Gon.  You  strike  my  people ;  and  your  dis» 

order'd  rabble 
Make  servants  of  their  betters. 


SCENE  IV.] 


KING  LEAR. 


1035 


Enter  ALBANY. 

Lear.  Woe,  that  too  late  repents,— \to  ALB.] 
O,  sir,  are  you  come?  [horses. — 

Is  it    your   will?      Speak,   sir. — Prepare  my 
Ingratitude,  thou  marble-hearted  fiend, 
More  hideous  when  thou  show'st  thee  in  a  child 
Than  the  sea-monster ! 

Alb.  Pray,  sir,  be  patient. 

Lear.  Detested  kite !  thou  liest : 

\To  GONERIL. 

My  train  are  men  of  choice  and  rarest  parts, 
That  all  particulars  of  duty  know ; 
And  in  the  most  exact  regard  support       [fault, 
The  worships  of  their  name. — O  most  small 
How  ugly  didst  thou  in  Cordelia  show  ! 
Which,  like  an  engine,  wrench'd  my  frame  of 
nature  [love, 

From  the  fix'd  place ;  drew  from  my  heart  all 
And  added  to  the  gall.     O  Lear,  Lear,  Lear  ! 
Beat  at  this  gate,  that  let  thy  folly  in 

{Striking  his  head. 

And  thy  dear  judgment  out ! — Go,  go,   my 
people.  [ignorant 

Alb.   My   lord,    I    am    guiltless,    as   I   am 
Of  what  hath  mov'd  you. 

Lear.  It  may  be  so,  my  lord. 
Hear,  nature,  hear  ;  dear  goddess,  hear 
Suspend  thy  purpose  if  thou  didst  intend 
To  make  this  creature  fruitful ! 
Into  her  womb  convey  sterility ! 
Dry  up  in  her  the  organs  of  increase; 
And  from  her  derogate  body  never  spring 
A  babe  to  honour  her  !     If  she  must  teem, 
Create  her  child  of  spleen,  that  it  may  live 
And  be  a  thwart  disnatur'd  torment  to  her ! 
Let  it  stamp  wrinkles  in  her  brow  of  youth ; 
With  cadent  tears  fret  channels  in  her  cheeks  ; 
Turn  all  her  mother's  pains  and  benefits 
To  laughter  and  contempt ;  that  she  may  feel 
How  sharper  than  a  serpent's  tooth  it  is 
To  have  a  thankless  child ! — Away,  away ! 

[Exit. 

Alb.    Now,   gods   that   we   adore,    whereof 
comes  this  ?  [it ; 

Gon.  Never  afflict  yourself  to  know  more  of 
But  let  his  disposition  have  that  scope 
That  dotage  gives  it. 

Re-enter  LEAR. 

Lear.  What,  fifty  of  my  followers  at  a  clap ! 
Within  a  fortnight ! 

Alb.  What's  the  matter,  sir? 

Lear.   I  '11  tell  thee, — Life  and  death ! — I  am 
asham'd  [To  GONERIL. 

That  thou  hast  power  to  shake  my  manhood 
thus; 


That  these  hot  tears,  which  break  from  me 

perforce, 
Should  make  thee  worth  them. — Blasts  and 

fogs  upon  thee ! 

The  untented  woundings  of  a  father's  curse, 
Pierce  every  sense  about  thee ! — Old  fond  eyes, 
Beweep  this  cause  again,  I  '11  pluck  you  out, 
And  cast  you,  with  the  waters  that  you  lose, 
To  temper  clay. — Ha! 
Let  it  be  so :  I  have  another  daughter, 
Who,  I  am  sure,  is  kind  and  comfortable: 
When  she  shall  hear  this  of  thee,  with  her  nails 
She  '11  flay  thy  wolfish  visage.     Thou  shalt  find 
That  I'll  resume  the  shape  which  thou  dost 

think 
I  have  cast  off  for  ever. 

\Exeunt  LEAR,  KENT,  and  Attendants. 
Gon.  Do  you  mark  that? 
Alb.   I  cannot  be  so  partial,  Goneril, 
To  the  great  love  I  bear  you, —  [ho ! 

Gon.  Pray  you,    content. — What,    Oswald, 
You,  sir,   more   knave    than   fool,  after  your 
master.  [To  the  Fool. 

Fool.  Nuncle  Lear,  nuncle  Lear,  tarry,' — take 
the  fool  with  thee. — 

A  fox,  when  one  has  caught  her, 
And  such  a  daughter, 
Should  sure  to  the  slaughter, 
If  my  cap  would  buy  a  halter: 
So  the  fool  follows  after.  [Exit. 

Gon.  This  man  hath  had  good  counsel. — A 

hundred  knights! 

'Tis  politic  and  safe  to  let  him  keep       [dream, 
At  point  a  hundred  knights :  yes,  that  on  every 
Each  buzz,  each  fancy,  each  complaint,  dislike, 
He  may  enguard  his  dotage  with  their  powers, 
And  hold  our  lives  in  mercy.  — Oswald,  I  say ! — 
Alb.  Well,  you  may  fear  too  far. 
Gon.  Safer  than  trust  too  far : 

Let  me  still  take  away  the  harms  I  fear, 
Not  fear  still  to  be  taken :  I  know  his  heart. 
What  he  hath  utter'd  I  have  writ  my  sister: 
If  she  sustain  him  and  his  hundred  knights, 
When  I  have  show'd  the  unfitness, — 

Re-enter  OSWALD. 

How  now,  Oswald ! 

What,  have  you  writ  that  letter  to  my  sister? 
Osw.  Ay,  madam.  [horse: 

Gon.  Take  you  some  company,  and  away  to 

Inform  her  full  of  my  particular  fear ; 

And  thereto  add  such  reasons  of  your  own 

As  may  compact  it  more.     Get  you  gone  ; 

And  hasten  your  return.      [Exit  OSWALD.] 
No,  no,  my  lord, 

This  milky  gentleness  and  course  of  yours, 

Though  I  condemn  it  not,  yet,  under  pardon, 


1036 


KING  LEAR. 


[ACT  n. 


You  are  much  more  attask'd  for  want  of  wisdom 
Than  prais'd  for  harmful  mildness.  [tell : 

Alb.  How  far  your  eyes  may  pierce  I  cannot 
Striving  to  better,  oft  we  mar  what 's  well. 

Gon.  Nay,  then, — 

Alb.  Well,  well ;  the  event.  {Exeunt. 


SCENE  V. — Court  before  the  DUKE  OF 
ALBANY'S  Palace. 

Enter  LEAR,  KENT,  and  Fool. 

Lear.  Go  you  before  to  Gloster  with  these 
letters :  acquaint  my  daughter  no  further  with 
anything  you  know  than  comes  from  her  demand 
out  of  the  letter.  If  your  diligence  be  not 
speedy,  I  shall  be  there  afore  you. 

Kent.  I  will  not  sleep,  my  lord,  till  I  have 
delivered  your  letter.  {Exit. 

Fool.  If  a  man's  brains  were  in 's  heels, 
were't  not  in  danger  of  kibes? 

Lear.  Ay,  boy. 

Fool.  Then,  I  pr'ythee,  be  merry;  thy  wit 
shall  not  go  slipshod. 

Lear.  Ha,  ha,  ha! 

Fool.  Shalt  see  thy  other  daughter  will  use 
thee  kindly ;  for  though  she 's  as  like  this  as  a 
crab 's  like  an  apple,  yet  I  can  tell  what  I  can 
tell. 

Lear.  What  canst  tell,  boy? 

Fool.  She  will  taste  as  like  this  as  a  crab  does 
to  a  crab.  Thou  canst  tell  why  one's  nose 
stands  i'  the  middle  on's  face? 

Lear.  No. 

Fool.  Why  to  keep  one's  eyes  of  either  side 's 
nose,  that  what  a  man  cannot  smell  out,  he  may 
spy  into. 

Lear.   I  did  her  wrong, — 

Fool.  Canst  tell  how  an  oyster  makes  his 
shell? 

Lear.  No. 

Fool.  Nor  I  neither ;  but  I  can  tell  why  a 
snail  has  a  house. 

Lear.  Why? 

Fool.  Why,  to  put  his  head  in ;  not  to  give 
it  away  to  his  daughters,  and  leave  his  horns 
without  a  case. 

Lear.  I  will  forget  my  nature.  So  kind  a 
father ! — Be  my  horses  ready? 

Fool.  Thy  asses  are  gone  about  'em.  The 
reason  why  the  seven  stars  are  no  more  than 
seven  is  a  pretty  reason. 

Lear.  Because  they  are  not  eight? 

Fool.  Yes,  indeed:  thou  wouldst  make  a 
good  fool. 

Lear.  To  take't  again  perforce! — Monster 
ingratitude ! 


Fool.  If  thou  wert  my  fool,  nuncle,  I  'd  have 
thee  beaten  for  being  old  before  thy  time. 

Lear.  How's  that? 

Fool.  Thou  shouldst  not  have  been  old  till 
thou  hadst  been  wise.  [heaven ! 

Lear.  O,  let  me  not  be  mad,  not  mad,  sweet 
Keep  me  in  temper :  I  would  not  be  mad ! — 

Enter  Gentleman. 

How  now!  are  the  horses  ready? 
Gent.   Ready,  my  lord. 

Lear.  Come,  boy.  [my  departure, 

Fool.  She  that 's  a  maid  now,  and  laughs  at 

Shall  not  be  a  maid  long,  unless  things  be  cut 
shorter.  {Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.— A  Court  within  the  Castle  of  the 
EARL  OF  GLOSTER. 

Enter  EDMUND  and  CURAN,  meeting. 

Edm.  Save  thee,  Curan. 

Cur.  And  you,  sir.  I  have  been  with  your 
father,  and  given  him  notice  that  the  Duke  of 
Cornwall  and  Regan  his  duchess  will  be  here 
with  him  this  night. 

Edm.   How  comes  that? 

Cur.  Nay,  I  know  not. — You  have  heard  of 
the  news  abroad;  I  mean,  the  whispered  ones, 
for  they  are  yet  but  ear-kissing  arguments? 

Edm.  Not  I:  pray  you,  what  are  they? 

Cur.  Have  you  heard  of  no  likely  wars 
toward,  'twixt  the  Dukes  of  Cornwall  and 
Albany? 

Edm.  Not  a  word. 

Cur.  You  may,  then,  in  time.     Fare  you 
well,  sir.  [Exit. 

Edm.  The  duke  be  here   to-night?      The 

better!  best! 

This  weaves  itself  perforce  into  my  business. 
My  father  hath  set  guard  to  take  my  brother ; 
And  I  have  one  thing,  of  a  queasy  question, 
Which    I    must    act :— briefness  and   fortune 

work  ! — 
Brother,  a  word ; — descend : — brother,  I  say ! 

Enter  EDGAR. 

My  father  watches :— O  sir,  fly  this  place  ; 

Intelligence  is  given  where  you  are  hid ; 

You   have   now   the  good   advantage   of    the 

night. —  [wall? 

Have  you  not  spoken  'gainst  the  Duke  of  Corn- 
He  's  coming  hither ;  now,  i'  the  night,  i'  the 

haste, 
And  Regan  with  him :  have  you  nothing  said 


SCENE  I.] 


KING  LEAR. 


1037 


Upon  his  party  'gainst  the  Duke  of  Albany? 
Advise  yourself. 

Edg.  I  am  sure  on  Jt,  not  a  word. 

Edm.  I  hear  my  father  coming: — pardon  me; 

In  cunning  I  must  draw  my  sword  upon  you : — 

Draw:  seem  to  defend  yourself:  now  quit  you 

well. —  [here ! 

Yield: — come  before  my  father. — Light,  ho, 

Fly,  brother. — Torches,  torches  ! — So,  farewell. 

[Exit  EDGAR. 

Some  blood  drawn  on  me  would  beget  opinion 

[  Wounds  his  arm. 

Of  my  more  fierce  endeavour:    I  have  seen 

drunkards 

Do  more  than  this  in  sport. — Father,  father ! 
Stop,  stop!     No  help? 

Enter  GLOSTER,  and  Servants  with  torches. 

Glo.  Now,  Edmund,  where 's  the  villain? 

Edm.   Here  stood  he  in  the  dark,  his  sharp 
sword  out,  [moon 

Mumbling  of  wicked   charms,    conjuring   the 
To  stand  auspicious  mistress, — 

Glo.  But  where  is  he? 

Edm.  Look,  sir,  I  bleed. 

Glo.  Where  is  the  villain,  Edmund? 

Edm.  Fled  this  way,  sir.    When  by  no  means 
he  could, — 

Glo.  Pursue  him,  ho! — Go  after.     [Exeunt 
Servants.] — By  no  means  what? 

Edm.  Persuade  me  to  the  murder  of  your 

lordship ; 

But  that  I  told  him  the  revenging  gods 
'Gainst  parricides  did  all  their  thunders  bend ; 
Spoke  with  how  manifold  and  strong  a  bond 
The  child  was  bound  to  the  father ; — sir,  in  fine, 
Seeing  how  loathly  opposite  I  stood 
To  his  unnatural  purpose,  in  fell  motion, 
With  his  prepared  sword,  he  charges  home 
My  unprovided  body,  lanc'd  mine  arm : 
But  when  he  saw  my  best  alarum'd  spirits, 
Bold  in  thequarrel's  right, rous'd  to  the  encounter, 
Or  whether  gasted  by  the  noise  I  made, 
Full  suddenly  he  fled. 

Glo.  Let  him  fly  far : 

Not  in  this  land  shall  he  remain  uncaught ; 
And  found,  despatch'd. — The  noble  duke  my 

master, 

My  worthy  arch  and  patron,  comes  to-night : 
By  his  authority  I  will  proclaim  it,        [thanks, 
That   he   which   finds  him  shall   deserve  our 
Bringing  the  murderous  coward  to  the  stake ; 
He  that  conceals  him,  death. 

Edm.  When  I  dissuaded  him  from  his  intent, 
And  found  him  pight  to  do  it,  with  curst  speech 
I  threaten'd  to  discover  him :  he  replied, 
Thou  unpossessing  bastard  I  dost  thou  think , 


If  I  would  stand  against  thee,  would  the  reposal 
Of  any  trust ',  virtue  or  worth ,  in  thee    [deny, — 
Make  thy  words  faith1  d?    No:  what  I  should 
As  this  I  would ;  ay,  though  thou  didst  produce 
My  very  character ; — fd  turn  it  all 
To  thy  suggestion^  plot,  and  damned  practice : 
And  thou  must  make  a  dullard  of  the  world, 
If  they  not  thought  the  profits  of  my  death 
Were  very  pregnant  and  potential  spurs 
To  make  thee  seek  it. 

Glo.  O  strong  and  fasten'd  villain  ! 

Would  he  deny  his  letter? — I  never  got  him. 

[Trumpets  within. 
Hark,  the  duke's  trumpets  !  I  know  not  why 

he  comes. — 

All  ports  I  '11  bar  ;  the  villain  shall  not  scape  ; 
The  duke  must  grant  me  that:    besides,  his 

picture 

I  will  send  far  and  near,  that  all  the  kingdom 
May  have  due  note  of  him  ;  and  of  my  land, 
Loyal  and  natural  boy,  I  '11  work  the  means 
To  make  thee  capable. 

Enter  CORNWALL,  REGAN,  and  Attendants. 

Corn.  How  now,  my  noble  friend  !  since  I 

came  hither, — 

Which   I  <xn  call   but  now,— I   have  heard 

strange  news.  [short 

Reg.  If  it  be  true,  all  vengeance  comes  too 

Which  can  pursue  the  offender.     How  dost, 

my  lord? 

Glo.  O,  madam,  my  old  heart  is  crack'd, — 

it'scrack'd!  [life? 

Reg.  What,  did  my  father's  godson  seek  your 

He  whom  my  father  nam'd  ?  your  Edgar  ? 

Glo.  O  lady,  lady,  shame  would  have  it  hid ! 

Reg.  Was  he  not  companion  with  the  riotous 

knights 
That  tend  upon  my  father  ? 

Glo.  I  know  not,  madam  : — 

It  is  too  bad,  too  bad. 

Edm.  Yes,  madam,  he  was  of  that  consort. 
Reg.  No  marvel,  then,  though  he  were  ill 

affected : 

'Tis  they  have  put  him  on  the  old  man's  death, 
To  have  the  expense  and  waste  of  his  revenues. 
I  have  this  present  evening  from  my  sister 
Been  well  inform'd  of  them ;   and  with  such 

cautions, 

That  if  they  come  to  sojourn  at  my  house, 
I  '11  not  be  there. 

Corn.  Nor  I,  assure  thee,  Regan. — 

Edmund,  I  hear  that  you  have  shown  your  father 
A  child-like  office. 

Edm.  'Twas  my  duty,  sir. 

Glo.  He  did  bewray  his  practice ;  and  receiv'd 
This  hurt  you  see,  striving  to  apprehend  him. 


1038 


KING  LEAR. 


[ACT  ii. 


Corn.  Is  he  pursu'd  ? 

Glo.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Corn.  If  he  be  taken  he  shall  never  more 
Be  fear'd   of  doing  harm :    make   your   own 
purpose,  [Edmund, 

How  in  my  strength  you  please. — For  you, 
Whose  virtue  and  obedience  doth  this  instant 
So  much  commend  itself,  you  shall  be  ours  : 
Natures  of  such  deep  trust  we  shall  much  need ; 
You  we  first  seize  on. 

Edm.  I  shall  serve  you,  sir, 

Truiy,  however  else. 

Glo.  For  him  I  thank  your  grace. 

Corn.  You  know  not  why  we  came  to  visit 
you, —  [night : 

Reg.  Thus  out  of  season,  threading  dark-ey'd 
Occasions,  noble  Gloster,  of  some  poise, 
Wherein  we  must  have  use  of  your  advice  : — 
Our  father  he  hath  writ,  so  hath  our  sister, 
Of  differences,  which  I  best  thought  it  fit 
To  answer  from  our  home ;  the  several  mes- 
sengers [friend, 
From  hence  attend  despatch.     Our  good  old 
Lay  comforts  to  your  bosom  ;  and  bestow 
Your  needful  counsel  to  our  businesses, 
Which  crave  the  instant  use. 

Glo.  I  serve  you,  madam  : 

Your  graces  are  right  welcome.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Before  OLDSTER'S  Castle. 
Enter  KENT  and  OSWALD  severally. 

Osw.  Good  dawning  to  thee,  friend :  art  of 
this  house  ? 

Kent.  Ay. 

Osw.  Where  may  we  set  our  horses  ? 

A'ent.  I'  the  mire. 

Osw.  Pr'ythee,  if  thou  lovest  me,  tell  me. 

Kent    I  love  thee  not. 

Osw.-  Why,  then,  I  care  not  for  thee. 

Kent.  If  I  had  thee  in  Lipsbury  pinfold  I 
would  make  thee  care  for  me.  [thee  not. 

Osw.  Why  dost  thou  use  me  thus  ?    I  know 

Kent.  Fellow,  I  know  thee. 

Osw.  What  dost  thou  know  me  for  ? 

Kent.  A  knave,  a  rascal,  an  eater  of  broken 
meats ;  a  base,  proud,  shallow,  beggarly,  three- 
suited,  hundred-pound,  filthy,  worsted-stocking 
knave  ;  a  lily-livered,  action-taking  whoreson, 
glass-gazing,  superserviceable,  finical  rogue ; 
one-trunk-inheriting  slave ;  one  that  wouldst  be 
a  bawd,  in  way  of  good  service,  and  art  nothing 
but  the  composition  of  a  knave,  beggar,  coward, 
pander,  and  the  son  and  heir  of  a  mongrel 
bitch  :  one  whom  I  will  beat  into  clamorous 
whining,  if  thou  denyest  the  least  syllable  of 
thy  addition. 


Osw.  Why,  what  a  monstrous  fellow  art  thou, 
thus  to  rail  on  one  that  is  neither  known  of 
thee  nor  knows  thee? 

Kent.  What  a  brazen-faced  varlet  art  thou, 
to  deny  thou  knowest  me !  Is  it  two  days  since 
I  tripped  up  thy  heels  and  beat  thee  before  the 
king  ?  Draw,  you  rogue  :  for,  though  it  be 
night,  yet  the  moon  shines  ;  I  '11  make  a  sop  o' 
the  moonshine  of  you  :  draw,  you  whoreson 
cullionly  barber-monger,  draw. 

{Drawing  his  sword. 

Osw.  Away !  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  thee. 

Kent.  Draw,  you  rascal :  you  come  with 
letters  against  the  king ;  and  take  vanity  the 
puppet's  part  against  the  royalty  of  her  father  : 
draw,  you  rogue,  or  I  '11  so  carbonado  your 
shanks: — draw,  you  rascal ;  come  your  ways. 

Osw.  Help,  ho  !  murder  !  help. 

Kent.  Strike,  you  slave;  stand,  rogue,  stand; 
you  neat  slave,  strike.  [Beating  him. 

Osw.  Help,  ho  !  murder  !  murder  ! 

Enter  EDMUND,  CORNWALL,  REGAN, 
GLOSTER,  and  Servants. 

Edm.  How  now  !     What 's  the  matter  ? 

Kent.  With  you,  goodman  boy,  if  you  please : 
come,  I  '11  flesh  you  ;  come  on,  young  master. 

Glo.  Weapons  !  arms  !  What 's  the  mattei 
here? 

Corn.  Keep  peace,  upon  your  lives  ; 
He   dies    that    strikes    again.     What    is    the 
matter?  [king. 

Reg.  The  messengers  from  our  sister  and  the 

Corn.  What  is  your  difference  ?  speak. 

Osw.  I  am  scarce  in  breath,  my  lord. 

Kent.  No  marvel,  you  have  so  bestirr'd  your 
valour.  You  cowardly  rascal,  nature  disclaims 
in  thee  :  a  tailor  made  thee. 

Corn.  Thou  art  a  strange  fellow :  a  tailor 
make  a  man  ? 

Kent.  Ay,  a  tailor,  sir  :  a  stone-cutter  or  a 
painter  could  not  have  made  him  so  ill,  though 
they  had  been  but  two  hours  at  the  trade. 

Corn.  Speak  yet,  how  grew  your  quarrel  ? 

Osw.  This  ancient  ruffian,  sir,  whose  life  I 
have  spared  at  suit  of  his  gray  beard, — 

Kent.  Thou  whoreson  zed  !  thou  unnecessary 
letter  ! — My  lord,  if  you  will  give  me  leave,  I 
will  tread  this  unbolted  villain  into  mortar,  and 
daub  the  wall  of  a  jakes  with  him. — Spare  my 
gray  beard,  you  wagtail  ? 

Corn.  Peace,  sirrah! 
You  beastly  knave,  know  you  no  reverence  ? 

Kent.  Yes,  sir  ;  but  anger  hath  a  privilege. 

Corn.   Why  art  thou  angry  ? 

Kent.  That  such  a  slave  as  this  should  wear 
a  sword, 


SCENE  II.] 


KING  LEAR. 


1039 


Who  wears  no  honesty.     Such  smiling  rogues 

as  these, 

Like  rats,  oft  bite  the  holy  cords  a-twain 
Which  are  too  intrinse  t'  unloose ;  smooth  every 

passion 

That  in  the  natures  of  their  lords  rebel ; 
Bring  oil  to  fire,  snow  to  their  colder  moods ; 
Renege,  affirm,  and  turn  their  halcyon  beaks 
With  every  gale  and  vary  of  their  masters, 
Knowing  naught,  like  dogs,  but  following. — 
A  plague  upon  your  epileptic  visage  ! 
Smile  you  my  speeches,  as  I  were  a  fool  ? 
Goose,  if  I  had  you  upon  Sarum  plain 
I  'd  drive  ye  cackling  home  to  Camelot. 

Corn.  What,  art  thou  mad,  old  fellow  ? 

Glo.  How  fell  you  out  ? 

Say  that. 

Kent,  No  contraries  hold  more  antipathy 
Than  I  and  such  a  knave.  [is  his  fault  ? 

Corn.  Why  dost  thcu  call  him  knave  ?    What 

Kent.  His  countenance  likes  me  not. 

Corn.  No  more,  perchance,  does  mine,  nor 
his,  nor  hers. 

Kent.  Sir,  'tis  my  occupation  to  be  plain : 
I  have  seen  better  faces  in  my  time 
Than  stands  on  any  shoulder  that  I  see 
Before  me  at  this  instant. 

Corn.  This  is  some  fellow 

Who,  having  been  prais'd  for  bluntness,  doth 

affect 

A  saucy  roughness,  and  constrains  the  garb 
Quite  from  his  nature :  he  cannot  flatter,  he, — 
An  honest  mind  and   plain, — he  must  speak 

truth  ! 

An  they  will  take  it,  so  ;  if  not,  he  's  plain. 
These  kind  of  knaves  I  know,  which  in  this 

plainness 

Harbour  more  craft  and  more  corrupter  ends 
Than  twenty  silly  ducking  observants 
That  stretch  their  duties  nicely. 

Kent.  Sir,  in  good  faith,  in  sincere  verity, 
Under  the  allowance  of  your  great  aspect, 
Whose  influence,  like  the  wreath  of  radiant  fire 
On  flickering  Phoebus'  front, — 

Corn.  What  mean'st  by  this  ? 

Kent.  To  go  out  of  my  dialect,  which  you 
discommend  so  much.  I  know,  sir,  I  am  no 
flatterer :  he  that  beguiled  you  in  a  plain  accent 
was  a  plain  knave  ;  which,  for  my  part,  I  will 
not  be,  though  I  should  win  your  displeasure  to 
entreat  me  to  *t. 

Corn.  What  was  the  offence  you  gave  him  ? 

Osw.  \  never  gave  him  any  : 

It  pleas'd  the  king  his  master  very  late 
To  strike  at  me,  upon  his  misconstruction  ; 
When  he,  compact,  and  flattering  his  displea- 
sure, 


Tripp'd   me   behind ;    being  down,   insulted, 

rail'd, 

And  put  upon  him  such  a  deal  of  man, 
That  worthied  him,  got  praises  of  the  king 
For  him  attempting  who  was  self-subdu'd ; 
And,  in  the  fleshment  of  this  dread  exploit, 
Drew  on  me  here  again. 

Kent.         None  of  these  rogues  and  cowards 
But  Ajax  is  their  fool. 

Com.  Fetch  forth  the  stocks  !— 

You  stubborn  ancient    knave,   you    reverend 

braggart, 
We  '11  teach  you,— 

Kent.  Sir,  I  am  too  old  to  learn  : 

Call  not  your  stocks  for  me  :  I  serve  the  king  ; 
On  whose  employment  I  was  sent  to  you  : 
You  shall  do  small  respect,  show  too  bold  malice 
Against  the  grace  and  person  of  my  master, 
Stocking  his  messenger. 

Corn.  Fetch  forth  the  stocks  ! — 

As  I  have  life  and  honour,  there  shall  he  sit 

till  noon.  [night  too. 

Reg.  Till  noon  !  till  night,  my  lord  ;  and  all 

Kent.  Why,  madam,  if  I  were  your  father's 

dog 
You  should  not  use  me  so. 

Reg.  Sir,  being  his  knave,  I  will. 

Corn.  This  is  a  fellow  of  the  self-same  colour 

Our  sister  speaks  of. — Come,  bring  away  the 

stocks  !  [Stocks  brought  out. 

Glo.  Let  me  beseech  your  grace  not  to  do 

so: 

His  fault  is  much,  and  the  good   king  his 
master  [rection 

Will  check  him  for't :  your  purpos'd  low  cor- 
Is  such  as  basest  and  contemned'st  wretches, 
For  pilferings  and  most  common  trespasses, 
Are  punish'd  with  :  the  king  must  take  it  ill 
That  he,  so  slightly  valu'd  in  his  messenger, 
Should  have  him  thus  restrain'd. 

Corn.  I  '11  answer  that. 

Reg:  My  sister  may  receive  it  much  more 

worse 

To  have  her  gentleman  abus'd,  assaulted, 
For  following  her  affairs. — Put  in  his  legs. — 

[KENT  is  put  in  the  stocks. 
Come,  my  lord,  away. 

[Exeunt  all  but  GLOSTER  and  KENT. 
Glo.   I  am  sorry  for  thee,   friend ;    'tis  the 

duke's  pleasure, 

Whose  disposition,  all  the  world  well  knows, 
Will  not  be  rubb'd  nor  stopp'd :  I  '11  entreat 

for  thee. 
Kent.  Pray,  do  not,  sir  :    I  have  watch'd, 

and  travell'd  hard ; 

Some  time   I   shall  sleep  out,  the   rest   I'll 
whistle. 


1040 


KING  LEAR. 


[ACT  II. 


A  good  man's  fortune  may  grow  out  at  heels  : 
Give  you  good -morrow  ! 

670.  The  duke 's  to  blame  in  this  ;  'twill  be 

ill  taken.  [Exit. 

Kent.  Good   king,   that  must  approve  the 
^r  ,iiol   common  saw, — 
Thou  out  of  heaven's  benediction  com'st 
To  the  warm  sun  ! 

Approach,  thou  beacon  to  this  under  globe, 
That  by  thy  comfortable  beams  I  may 
Peruse    this     letter ! — Nothing     almost    sees 

miracles 

But  misery  : — I  know  'tis  from  Cordelia, 
Who  hath  most  fortunately  been  inform'd 
Of  my  obscured  course  ;  and  shall  find  time 
From  this  enormous  state, — seeking  to  give 
Losses  their  remedies, — All  weary  and  o'er- 

watch'd, 

Take  vantage,  heavy  eyes,  not  to  behold 
This  shameful  lodging. 
Fortune,  good-night:    smile  once  more;  turn 

thy  wheel !  \He  sleeps. 

SCENE  III.— The  open  Country. 
Enter  EDGAR. 

Edg.  I  heard  myself  proclaim'd ; 
And  by  the  happy  hollow  of  a  tree 
Escap'd  the  hunt.     No  port  is  free ;  no  place, 
That  guard  and  most  unusual  vigilance 
Does  not  attend  my  taking.     While  I  may  scape 
I  will  preserve  myself:  and  am  bethought 
To  take  the  basest  and  most  poorest  shape 
That  ever  penury,  in  contempt  of  man,     [filth ; 
Brought  near  to  beast :  my  face  I  '11  grime  with 
Blanket  my  loins;  elf  all  my  hair  in  knots; 
And  with  presented  nakedness  outface 
The  winds  and  persecutions  of  the  sky. 
The  country  gives  me  proof  and  precedent 
Of  Bedlam  beggars,  who,  with  roaring  voices, 
Strike  in  their  numb'd  and  mortified  bare  arms 
Pins,  wooden  pricks,  nails,  sprigs  of  rosemary ; 
And  with  this  horrible  object,  from  low  farms, 
Poor  pelting  villages,  sheep-cotes,  and  mills, 
Sometime  with   lunatic   bans,  sometime  with 
prayers,  [Tom ! 

Enforce  their  charity. — Poor  Turlygod  !  poor 
That's  something  yet: — Edgar  I  nothing  am. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  IV. — Before  GLOSTER'S  Castle.     KENT 
in  the  Stocks. 

Enter  LEAR,  Fool,  and  Gentleman. 

Lea)'.  'Tis  strange  that  they  should  so  depart 

from  home, 
And  not  send  back  my  messenger. 


Gent.  As  I  learn'd, 

The  night  before  there  was  no  purpose  in  them 
Of  this  remove. 

Kent.  Hail  to  thee,  noble  master ! 

Lear.  Ha! 
Mak'st  thou  this  shame  thy  pastime? 

Kent.  No,  my  lord. 

Fool.  Ha,  ha !  he  wears  cruel  garters.  .  Horses 
are  tied  by  the  head ;  dogs  and  bears  by  the 
neck,  monkeys  by  the  loins,  and  men  by  the 
legs :  when  a  man  is  over-lusty  at  legs,  then  he 
wears  wooden  nether-stocks. 

Lear.  What 's  he  that  hath  so  much  thy  place 

mistook 
To  set  thee  here? 

Kent.  It  is  both  he  and  she, 

Your  son  and  daughter. 

Lear.  No. 

Kent.  Yes. 

Lear.  No,  I  say. 

Kent.  I  say,  yea. 

Lear.  No,  no ;  they  would  not. 

Kent.  Yes,  they  have. 

Lear.  By  Jupiter,  I  swear,  no. 

Kent.  By  Juno,  I  swear,  ay. 

Lear.  They  durst  not  do 't. 

They  could  not,  would  not  do't;  'tis  worse 

than  murder, 

To  do  upon  respect  such  violent  outrage : 
Resolve  me,  with  all  modest  haste,  which  way 
Thou  might'st  deserve  or  they  impose  this  usage, 
Coming  from  us. 

Kent.  My  lord,  when  at  their  home 

I  did  commend  your  highness'  letters  to  them, 
Ere  I  was  risen  from  the  place  that  show'd 
My  duty  kneeling,  came  there  a  reeking  post, 
Stew'd  in  his  haste,  half  breathless,  panting  forth 
From  Goneril  his  mistress  salutations ; 
Deliver'd  letters,  spite  of  intermission, 
Which  presently  they  read :  on  whose  contents 
They  summon'd  up  their  meiny,  straight  took 

horse; 

Commanded  me  to  follow,  and  attend 
The  leisure  of  their  answer ;  gave  me  cold  looks : 
And  meeting  here  the  other  messenger, 
Whose    welcome    I    perceiv'd    had    poison'd 

mine, — 

Being  the  very  fellow  which  of  late 
Display'd  so  saucily  against  your  highness, — 
Having  more  man  than  wit  about  me,  drew : 
He  rais'd  the  house  with  loud  and  coward  cries. 
Your  son  and  daughter  found  this  trespass  worth 
The  shame  which  here  it  suffers. 

Fool.  Winter's  not  gone  yet,  if  the  wild- 
geese  fly  that  way. 
Fathers  that  wear  rags 

Do  make  their  children  blind ; 


SCENE  IV.] 


KING  LEAR. 


1041 


But  fathers  that  bear  bags 

Shall  see  their  children  kind. 
Fortune,  that  arrant  whore, 
Ne'er  turns  the  key  to  the  poor. — 
But,  for  all  this,  thou  shalt  have  as  many  dolours 
for  thy  daughters  as  thou  canst  tell  in  a  year. 
Lear.  O,  how  this  mother  swells  up  toward 

my  heart ! 

Hystericapassio, — down,  thou  climbing  sorrow, 

Thy  element's  below  ! — Where  is  this  daughter? 

Kent.  With  the  earl,  sir,  here  within. 

Lear.  Follow  me  not ; 

Stay  here.  [Exit. 

Gent.  Made  you  no  more  offence  but  what 

you  speak  of? 

Kent.  None.  [number? 

How  chance  the  king  comes  with  so  small  a 
Fool.  An  thou  hadst  been  set  i'  the  stocks  for 
that  question,  thou  hadst  well  deserved  it. 
Kent.  Why,  fool  ? 

Fool.  We  Ml  set  thee  to  school  to  an  ant,  to 
teach  thee  there  's  no  labouring  in  the  winter. 
All  that  follow  their  noses  are  led  by  their  eyes 
but  blind  men ;  and  there 's  not  a  nose  among 
twenty  but  can  smell  him  that 's  stinking.  Let 
go  thy  hold  when  a  great  wheel  runs  down  a 
hill,  lest  it  break  thy  neck  with  following  it ; 
but  the  great  one  that  goes  up  the  hill,  let  him 
draw  thee  after.  When  a  wise  man  gives  thee 
better  counsel,  give  me  mine  again:  I  would 
have  none  but  knaves  follow  it,  since  a  fool 
gives  it. 

That  sir  which  serves  and  seeks  for  gain, 

And  follows  but  for  form, 
Will  pack  when  it  begins  to  rain, 

And  leave  thee  in  the  storm. 
But  I  will  tarry ;  the  fool  will  stay, 

And  let  the  wise  man  fly : 
The  knave  turns  fool  that  runs  away  • 

The  fool  no  knave,  perdy. 
Kent.  Where  learn'd  you  this,  fool? 
Fool.  Not  i'  the  stocks,  fool. 

Re-enter  LEAR,  with  GLOSTKR. 

Lear.  Deny  to  speak  with  me?     They  are 

sick?  they  are  weary? 

They  have  travell'd  all  the  night  ?  Mere  fetches ; 
The  images  of  revolt  and  flying  off. 
Fetch  me  a  better  answer. 

Glo.  My  dear  lord. 

You  know  the  fiery  quality  of  the  duke ; 
How  unremovable  and  fix'd  he  is 
In  his  own  course.  [fusion ! — 

Lear.    Vengeance !     plague !     death !     con- 
Fiery?  what  quality?  why,  Gloster,  Gloster, 
I  'd  speak  with  the  Duke  of  Cornwall  and  his 
wife. 


Glo.  Well,  my  good  lord,  I  have  inform'd 

them  so. 
Lear.  Inform'd  them !  Dost  thou  understand 

me,  man? 

Glo.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 
Lear.  The  king  would  speak  with  Cornwall ; 

the  dear  father  [service : 

Would  with  his  daughter  speak,  commands  her 
Are  they  inform'd  of  this? — My  breath  and 

blood !—  [that- 

Fiery?    the  fiery  duke?— Tell   the  hot  duke 
No,  but  not  yet : — may  be  he  is  not  well : 
Infirmity  doth  still  neglect  all  office 
Whereto  our  health  is  bound ;  we  are  not  our- 
selves [mind 
When  nature,  being  oppress'd,  commands  the 
To  suffer  with  the  body :  I '11  forbear; 
And  am  fall'n  out  with  my  more  headier  will 
To  take  the  indispos'd  and  sickly  fit 
For  the  sound   man. — Death    on    my  state! 

wherefore  [Looking  on  KENT. 

Should  he  sit  here?     This  act  persuades  me 
That  this  remotion  of  the  duke  and  her 
Is  practice  only.     Give  me  my  servant  forth. 
Go  tell  the  duke  and's  wife  I'd  speak  with 

them, 
Now,  presently:  bid  them  come  forth  and  hear 

me, 

Or  at  their  chamber  door  I  '11  beat  the  drum 
Till  it  cry  Sleep  to  death. 

Glo.  I  would  have  all  well  betwixt  you. 

[Exit. 
Lear.  O  me,  my  heart,  my  rising  heart ! — 

but,  down ! 

Fool.  Cry  to  it,  nuncle,  as  the  cockney  did 
to  the  eels  when  she  put  them  i'  the  paste 
alive ;  she  knapped  'em  o'  the  coxcombs  with 
a  stick,  and  cried,  Down^  wantons,  down! 
'Twas  her  brother  that,  in  pure  kindness  to  his 
horse,  buttered  his  hay. 

Enter  CORNWALL,  REGAN,  GLOSTER,  and 
Servants. 

Lear.  Good -morrow  to  you  both. 
Corn.  Hail  to  your  grace ! 

[KENT  is  set  at  liberty. 
Reg.  I  am  glad  to  see  your  highness. 
Lear.  Regan,  I  think  you  are;  I  know  what 

reason 

I  have  to  think  so:  if  thou  shouldst  not  be  glad, 
I  would  divorce  me  from  thy  mother's  tomb, 
Sepulchring  an  adultress. — O,  are  you  free? 

[To  KENT. 

Some  other  time  for  that. — Beloved  Regan, 
Thy  sister 's  naught :  O  Regan,  she  hath  tied 
Sharp-tooth'd     unkindness,    like    a    vulture, 
here, — -  [Points  to  his  heart. 


1042 


KING  LEAR. 


TACT  n. 


I  can  scarce  speak  to  thee ;  them  'It  not  believe 
With  how  deprav'd  a  quality — O  Regan !    [hope 

Reg.  I  pray  you  sir,  take  patience:  I  have 
You  less  know  how  to  value  her  desert 
Than  she  to  scant  her  duty. 

Lear.  Say,  how  is  that? 

Reg.  I  cannot  think  my  sister  in  the  least 
Would  fail  her  obligation :  if,  sir,  perchance 
She  have  restrain'd  the  riots  of  your  followers, 
'Tis  on  such  ground,  and  to  such  wholesome  end, 
As  clears  her  from  all  blame. 

Lear.  My  curses  on  her ! 

Reg.  O,  sir,  you  are  old  j 

Nature  in  you  stands  on  the  very  verge 
Of  her  confine :  you  should  be  rul'd  and  led 
By  some  discretion,  that  discerns  your  state 
Better  than  you  yourself.    Therefore,  I  pray  you, 
That  to  our  sister  you  do  make  return ; 
Say  you  have  wrong'd  her,  sir. 

Lea r.  Ask  her  forgiveness  ? 

Do  you  but  mark  how  this  becomes  the  house : 
Dear  daughter \  I  confess  that  I  am  old ; 

{Kneeling. 

Age  is  unnecessary :  on  tny  knees  I  beg 
That  you '  II  vouchsafe  me  raiment,  bed,  and  food. 

Reg.  Good  sir,  no  more ;  these  are  unsightly 

tricks : 
Return  you  to  my  sister. 

Lear.     {Rising.]          Never,  Regan: 
She  hath  abated  me  of  half  my  train ; 
Look'd  black  upon  me ;  struck  me  with  her 

tongue, 

Most  serpent-like,  upon  the  very  heart : — 
All  the  stor'd  vengeances  of  heaven  fall 
On  her  ingrateful  top !    Strike  her  young  bones, 
You  taking  airs,  with  lameness ! 

Corn.  Fie,  sir,  fie ! 

Lear.    You    nimble    ligntnings,    dart    your 

blinding  flames 

Into  her  scornful  eyes !     Infect  her  beauty, 
You  fen-suck'd  fogs,  drawn  by  the  powerful  sun, 
To  fall  and  blast  her  pride  I 

Reg.  O  the  blest  gods ! 

So  will  you  wish  on  me  when  the  rash  mood  is 
on. 

Lear.  No,  Regan,  thou  shalt  never  have  my 

curse: 

Thy  tender -hefted  nature  shall  not  give 
Thee  o'er  to  harshness  :   her  eyes  are  fierce ; 

but  thine 

Do  comfort,  and  not  burn.     'Tis  not  in  thee 
To  grudge  my  pleasures,  to  cut  off  my  train, 
To  bandy  hasty  words,  to  scant  my  sizes, 
And,  in  conclusion,  to  oppose  the  bolt 
Against  my  coming  in :  thou  better  know'st 
The  offices  of  nature,  bond  of  childhood, 
Effects  of  courtesy,  dues  of  gratitude; 


Thy  half  o'  the  kingdom  hast  thou  not  forgot, 
Wherein  I  thee  endov/'d. 
Reg.  Good  sir,  to  the  purpose. 

Lear.  Who  put  my  man  i'  the  stocks? 

[Tucket  within. 

Com.  What  trumpet 's  that  ? 

Reg.  I  know't, — my  sister's:  this  approves 

her  letter, 
That  she  would  soon  be  here. 

Enter  OSWALD. 

Is  your  lady  come  ? 
Lear.  This  is  a  slave  whose  easy-borrow'd 

pride 

Dwells  in  the  fickle  grace  of  her  he  follows. — 
Out,  varlet,  from  my  sight! 

Corn.  What  means  your  grace  ? 

Lear.  Who  stock'd  my  servant  ?     Regan,  I 

have  good  hope  [O  heavens, 

Thou  didst  not  know  on 't. — Who  comes  here? 

Enter  GONERIL. 

If  you  do  love  old  men,  if  your  sweet  sway 
Allow  obedience,  if  yourselves  are  old,    [part : — 
Make  it  your  cause  ;  send  down,  and  take  my 
Art  not  asham'd  to  look  upon  this  beard  ? — 

[To  GONERIL. 

0  Regan,  wilt  thou  take  her  by  the  hand  ? 
Gon.  Why  not  by  the  hand,  sir  ?     How  have 

I  offended? 

All 's  not  offence  that  indiscretion  finds, 
And  dotage  terms  so. 

Lear.  O  sides,  you  are  too  tough ! 

Will  you  yet  hold? — How  came  my  man  i'  the 

stocks?  [orders 

Corn.  I  set  him  there,  sir :  but  his  own  dis- 
Deserv'd  much  less  advancement. 

Lear.  You!  did  you? 

Reg.  I  pray  you,  father,  being  weak,  seem  so. 
If,  till  the  expiration  of  your  month, 
You  will  return  and  sojourn  with  my  sister, 
Dismissing  half  your  train,  come  then  to  me: 

1  am  now  from  home,  and  out  of  that  provision 
Which  shall  be  needful  for  your  entertainment. 

Lear.  Return  to  her,  and  fifty  men  dismiss'd? 
No,  rather  I  abjure  all  roofs,  and  choose 
To  wage  against  the  enmity  o'  the  air; 
To  be  a  comrade  with  the  wolf  and  owl, — 
Necessity's  sharp  pinch ! — Return  with  her? 
Why,  the  hot-blooded  France,  that  dowerless 

took 

Our  youngest  born,  I  could  as  well  be  brought 
To  knee  his  throne,  and,  squire-like,  pension  beg- 
To  keep  base  life  a-foot. — Return  with  her? 
Persuade  me  rather  to  be  slave  and  sumpter 
To  this  detested  groom.     [  Pointing  to  OSWALD. 

Gon.  At  your  choice,  sir. 


SCENE  IV.] 


KING  LEAR. 


1043 


Lear*  I  pr'ythee,  daughter,  do  not  make  me 

mad: 

I  will  not  trouble  thee,  my  child ;  farewell  : 
We  '11  no  more  meet,  no  more  see  one  another : — 
But  yet   thou  art  my   flesh,   my  blood,   my 

daughter ; 

Or  rather  a  disease  that 's  in  my  flesh, 
Which  I  must  needs  call  mine  :  thou  art  a  boil, 
A  plague-sore,  an  embossed  carbuncle 
In  my  corrupted  blood.    But  I  '11  not  chide  thee ; 
Let  shame  come  when  it  will,  I  do  not  call  it : 
I  do  not  bid  the  thunder-bearer  shoot, 
Nor  tell  tales  of  thee  to  high-judging  Jove : 
Mend  when  thou  canst ;  be  better  at  thy  leisure : 
I  can  be  patient ;  I  can  stay  with  Regan, 
I  and  my  hundred  knights. 

Reg.  Not  altogether  so  : 

I  look'd  not  for  you  yet,  nor  am  provided 
For  your  fit  welcome.     Give  ear,  sir,  to  my 

sister ; 

For  those  that  mingle  reason  with  your  passion 
Must  l>e  content  to  think  you  old,  and  so — 
But  she  knows  what  she  does. 

Lear.  Is  this  well  spoken? 

Reg.  I    dare    avouch    it,    sir:    what,   fifty 

followers? 

Is  it  not  well  ?   What  should  you  need  of  more? 
Yea,  or  so  many,  sith  that  both  charge  and 
danger  [house 

Speak  'gainst  so  great  a  number?     How  in  one 
Should  many  people  under  two  commands 
Hold  amity?    'Tis  hard;  almost  impossible. 
Gon.  Why  might  not  you,  my  lord,  receive 
attendance  [mine? 

From  those  that  she  calls  servants,  or  from 
Reg.  Why  not,   my  lord?      If   then    they 
chanc'd  to  slack  you,  [me, — 

We  could  control  them.     If  you  will  come  to 
For  now  I  spy  a  danger, — I  entreat  you 
To  bring  but  five-and-twenty :  to  no  more 
Will  I  give  place  or  notice. 
Lear.  I  gave  you  all, — 
Reg.  A.nd  in  good  time  you  gave  it. 

Lear.  Made  you  my  guardians,  my  deposi- 
taries ; 

But  kept  a  reservation  to  be  follow'd          [you 

With  such  a  number.     What,  must  I  come  to 

With  five-and-twenty,  Regan?  said  you  so? 

Reg.  And  speak 't  again,  my  lord ;  no  more 

with  me.  [well-favour'd 

Lear.  Those  wicked  creatures  yet  do  look 

When  others  are  more  wicked ;  not  being  the 

worst  [thee: 

Stands  in  some  rank  of  praise. — I'll  go  with 

[To  GONERIL. 

Thy  fifty  yet  doth  double  five-and-twenty, 
And  thou  art  twice  her  love. 


Gon.  Hear  me,  my  lord : 

What  need  you  five-and-twenty,  ten,  or  five, 
To  follow  in  a  house  where  twice  so  many 
Have  a  command  to  tend  you? 

Reg.  What  need  one? 

Lear.  O,  reason  not  the  need:   our  basest 

beggars 

Are  in  the  poorest  thing  superfluous : 
Allow  not  nature  more  than  nature  needs, 
Man's  life  is  cheap  as  beast's :  thou  art  a  lady ; 
If  only  to  go  warm  were  gorgeous,       [wear'st, 
Why,   nature  needs  not  what   thou  gorgeous 
Which  scarcely  keeps  thee  warm. — But,  for 
true  need, —  [need ! 

You  heavens,  give  me  that  patience,  patience  I 
You  see  me  here,  you  gods,  a  poor  old  man, 
As  full  of  grief  as  age ;  wretched  in  both ! 
If  it  be  you  that  stir  these  daughters'  hearts 
Against  their  father,  fool  me  not  so  much 
To  bear  it  tamely ;  touch  me  with  noble  anger, 
And  let  not  women's  weapons,  water-drops, 
Stain  my  man's  cheeks ! — No,  you   unnatural 

hags, 

I  will  have  such  revenges  on  you  both 
That  all  the   world    shall, — I  will   do    such 
things, —  [be 

What  they  are  yet  I  know  not ;  but  they  shall 
The  terrors  of  the  earth.  You  think  I  '11  weep ; 
No,  I'll  not  weep: — 

I  have  full  cause  of  weeping ;  but  this  heart 
Shall  break  into  a  hundred  thousand  flaws 
Or  ere  .1  '11  weep.— O  fool,  I  shall  go  mad ! 

[Exeunt  LEAR,  GLOSTER,  KENT,  and  Fool. 
Storm  heard  at  a  distance. 

Corn.  Let  us  withdraw ;  'twill  be  a  storm. 

Reg.  This  house  is  little :  the  old  man  and 

his  people 
Cannot  be  well  bestow'd.  [from  rest, 

Gon.  'Tis  his  own  blame ;  hath  put  himself 
And  must  needs  taste  his  folly.  [gladly, 

Reg.  For  his   particular,    I  '11   receive  him 
But  not  one  follower. 

Gon.  So  am  I  purpos'd. 

Where  is  my  lord  of  Gloster?  [turn'd. 

Corn.  Follow'd  the  old  man  forth : — he  is  re- 


Re-enter  GLOSTER. 

Glo.  The  king  is  in  high  rage. 

Corn.  Whither  is  he  going? 

Glo.  He  calls  to  horse ;  but  will  I  know  not 
whither.  [himself. 

Corn.  'Tis  best  to  give  him  way;  he  leads 

Gon.  My  lord,  entreat  him  by  no  means  to 
stay.  [winds 

Glo.  Alack,  the  night  comes  on,  and  the  high 
Do  sorely  ruffle ;  for  many  miles  about 
There 's  scarce  a  bush. 


1044 


KING  LEAR. 


[ACT  in. 


Reg.  O,  sir,  to  wilful  men 

The  injuries  that  they  themselves  procure 
Must  be  their  schoolmasters.      Shut  up  your 

doors : 

He  is  attended  with  a  desperate  train ; 
And  what  they  may  incense  him  to,  being  apt 
To  have  his  ear  abus'd,  wisdom  bids  fear. 
Corn.  Shut  up  your  doors,  my  lord;  'tis  a 

wild  night : 

My  Regan  counsels  well :  come  out  o'  the  storm. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.— A  Heath. 

A  storm,  with  thunder  and  lightning.     Enter 
KENT  and  a  Gentleman,  meeting. 

Kent.  Who's  there,  besides  foul  weather? 

Gent.  One  minded  like  the  weather,  most 
unquietly. 

Kent.  I  know  you.     Where's  the  king? 

Gent.  Contending  with  the  fretful  elements; 
Bids  the  wind  blow  the  earth  into  the  sea, 
Or  swell  the  curled  waters  'bove  the  main, 
That  things  might  change  or  cease ;  tears  his 

white  hair, 

Which  the  impetuous  blasts,  with  eyeless  rage, 
Catch  in  their  fury,  and  make  nothing  of; 
Strives  in  his  little  world  of  man  to  out-scorn 
The  to-and-fro  conflicting  wind  and  rain. 
This  night,  wherein  the  cub-drawn  bear  would 

couch, 

The  lion  and  the  belly-pinched  wolf 
Keep  their  fur  dry,  unbonneted  he  runs, 
And  bids  what  will  take  all. 

Kent.  But  who  is  with  him? 

Gent.  None  but  the  fool;   who  labours  to 

out-jest 
His  heart-struck  injuries. 

Kent.  Sir,  I  do  know  you ; 

And  dare,  upon  the  warrant  of  my  note, 
Commend  a  dear  thing  to  you.  There  is  division, 
Although  as  yet  the  face  of  it  be  cover'd 
With  mutual  cunning,  'twixt  Albany  and  Corn- 
wall ;  [stars 
Who  have, — as  who  have  not,  that  their  great 
Throne  and  set  high? — servants  who  seem  no 

less, 

Which  are  to  France  the  spies  and  speculations 
Intelligent  of  our  state ;  what  hath  been  seen, 
Either  in  snuffs  and  packings  of  the  dukes ; 
Or  the  hard  rein  which  both  of  them  have  borne 
Against  the  old  kind  king ;  or  something  deeper, 
Whereof  perchance  these  are  but  furnishings ; — 
But  true  it  is,  from  France  there  comes  a  power 
Into  this  scatter'd  kingdom;  who  already, 


Wise  in  our  negligence,  have  secret  feet 

In  some  of  our  best  ports,  and  are  at  point 

To  show  their  open  banner. — Now  to  you: 

If  on  my  credit  you  dare  build  so  far 

To  make  your  speed  to  Dover,  you  shall  find 

Some  that  will  thank  you  making  just  report 

Of  how  unnatural  and  bemadding  sorrow 

The  king  hath  cause  to  plain. 

I  am  a  gentleman  of  blood  and  breeding; 

And  from  some  knowledge  and  assurance  offer 

This  office  to  you. 

Gent.  I  will  talk  further  with  you. 

Kent.  No,  do  not. 

For  confirmation  that  I  am  much  more 
Than  my  out  wall,  open  this  purse,  and  take 
What  it  contains.     If  you  shall  see  Cordelia, — 
As  fear  not  but  you  shall, — show  her  this  ring; 
And  she  will  tell  you  who  your  fellow  is 
That  yet  you  do  not  know.    Fie  on  this  storm  ! 
I  will  go  seek  the  king.  [to  say? 

Gent.  Give  me  your  hand :  have  you  no  more 

Kent.  Few  words,  but,  to  effect,  more  than 

all  yet, —  [your  pain 

That  when  we  have  found  the  king, — in  which 

That  way,  I  '11  this, — he  that  first  lights  on  him 

Holla  the  other.  [Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  II. — Another  part  of  the  Heath. 
Storm  continues. 

Enter  LEAR  and  Fool. 

Lear.  Blow,  winds,  and  crack  your  cheeks ! 

rage !  blow ! 

You  cataracts  and  hurricanoes,  spout 
Till  you  have  drench'd  our  steeples,  drown'd 

the  cocks ! 

You  sulphurous  and  thought-executing  fires, 
Vaunt  couriers  of  oak-cleaving  thunderbolts, 
Singe  my  white  head !  And  thou,  all-shaking 

thunder, 

Strike  flat  the  thick  rotundity  o'  the  world ! 
Crack  nature's  moulds,  all  germens  spill  at  once, 
That  make  ingrateful  man ! 

Fool.  O  nuncle,  court  holy  water  in  a  dry 

house  is  better  than  this  rain-water  out  o'  door. 

Good  nuncle,  in ;  ask  thy  daughters'  blessing : 

here 's  a  night  pities  neither  wise  men  nor  fools. 

Lear.    Rumble    thy  bellyful!      Spit,    fire! 

spout,  rain ! 

Nor  rain,  wind,  thunder,  fire,  are  my  daughters: 
I  tax  not  you,  you  elements,  with  unkindness ; 
I  never  gave  you  kingdom,  call'd  you  children; 
You  owe  me  no  subscription :  then  let  fall 
Your  horrible  pleasure ;  here  I  stand,  your  slave, 
A  poor,  infirm,  weak,  and  despis'd  old  man : — 
But  yet  I  call  you  servile  ministers, 
That  will  with  two  pernicious  daughters  join 


SCENE  II.] 


KING  LEAK. 


1045 


Your  high-engender'd  battles  'gainst  a  head 
So  old  and  white  as  this.     O  !  O !  'tis  foul ! 

Fool.   He  that  has  a  house  to  put 's  head  in 
has  a  good  head-piece. 

The  cod-piece  that  will  house 

Before  the  head  has  any, 
The  head  and  he  shall  louse ; 

So  beggars  marry  many. 
The  man  that  makes  his  toe 

What  he  his  heart  should  make 
Shall  of  a  corn  cry  woe, 

And  turn  his  sleep  to  wake. 
— for  there  was  never  yet  fair  woman  but  she 
made  mouths  in  a  glass.  [patience ; 

Lear.    No,    I   will    be   the   pattern   of   all 
I  will  say  nothing. 

Enter  KENT. 

Kent.  Who's  there? 

Fool.   Marry,  here 's  grace  and  a  cod-piece ; 
that 's  a  wise  man  and  a  fool.  [love  night 

Kent.  Alas,  sir,  are  you  here?   things  that 
Love  not  such  nights  as  these ;  the  wrathful  skies 
Gallovv  the  very  wanderers  of  the  dark, 
And  make  them  keep  their  caves:  since  I  was 

man, 
Such  sheets  of  fire,  such  bursts  of  horrid  thun- 

der, 

Such  groans  of  roaring  wind  and  rain  I  never 
Remember  to  have  heard :  man's  nature  cannot 

carry 
The  affliction  nor  the  fear. 

Lear.  Let  the  great  gods, 

That  keep  this  dreadful  pother  o'er  our  heads, 
Find  out  their  enemies  now.     Tremble,  thou 

wretch, 

That  hast  within  thee  undivulged  crimes, 
Unwhipp'd  of  justice:  hide  thee,  thou  bloody 

hand; 

Thou  perjur'd,  and  thou  simular  of  virtue 
That  art  incestuous :  caitiff,  to  pieces  shake, 
That  under  covert  and  convenient  seeming 
Hast  practis'd   on   man's  life :    close   pent-up 

guilts, 

Rive  your  concealing  continents,  and  cry 
These  dreadful  summoners  grace. — I  am  a  man 
More  sinn'd  against  than  sinning. 

Kent.  Alack,  bare-headed  ! 

Gracious  my  lord,  hard  by  here  is  a  hovel ; 
Some  friendship  will  it  lend  you  'gainst  the 

tempest : 

Repose  you  there,  while  I  to  this  hard  house, — 
More  harder  than  the  stones  whereof 'tis  rais'd  ; 
Which  even  but  now,  demanding  after  you, 
Denied  me  to  come  in, — return,  and  force 
Their  scanted  courtesy. 

Lear.  My  wits  begin  to  turn. — 


Come  on,  my  boy:   how  dost,  my  boy?  art 
cold?  [fellow? 

I  am  cold  myself. — Where  is  this   straw,  my 
The  art  of  our  necessities  is  strange, 
That  can  make  vile  things  precious.     Come, 
your  hovel.—  [heart 

Poor  fool  and  knave,  I  have  one  part  in  my 
That 's  sorry  yet  for  thee. 

FooL  He  that  has  and  a  little  tiny  wit,—      [Singinf. 

With  heigh,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain,— 
Must  make  content  with  his,  fortunes  fit, 
Though  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

Lear.  True,  boy. — Come,  bring  us  to  this 
hovel.        [Exeunt  LEAR  and  KENT. 

Fool.  This  is  a  brave  night  to  cool  a  courte- 
zan.— 
I  '11  speak  a  prophecy  ere  I  go  : — 

When  priests  are  more  in  word  than  matter ; 

When  brewers  mar  their  malt  with  water  ; 

When  nobles  are  their  tailors'  tutors  ; 

No  heretics  burn'd,  but  wenches'  suitors  ; 

When  every  case  in  law  is  right ; 

No  squire  in  debt,  nor  no  poor  knight ; 

When  slanders  do  not  live  in  tongues ; 

Nor  cutpurses  come  not  to  throngs  ; 

When  userers  tell  their  gold  i'  the  field; 

And  bawds  and  whores  do  churches  build ; — 

Then  shall  the  realm  of  Albion 

Come  to  great  confusion  : 

Then  comes  the  time,  who  lives  to  see 't, 

That  going  shall  be  us'd  with  feet. 
This  prophecy  Merlin  shall  make ;    for  I  live 
before  his  time.  [Exit. 


SCENE  III.—  A  Room  in  GLOSTER'S  Castle. 
Enter  GLOSTER  and  EDMUND. 

Glo.  Alack,  alack,  Edmund,  I  like  not  this 
unnatural  dealing.  When  I  desired  their  leave 
that  I  might  pity  him,  they  took  from  me  the 
use  of  mine  own  house ;  charged  me,  on  pain 
of  perpetual  displeasure,  neither  to  speak  of 
him,  entreat  for  him,  nor  any  way  sustain  him. 

Edm.  Most  savage  and  unnatural ! 

Glo.  Go  to ;  say  you  nothing.  There  is 
division  between  the  dukes  ;  and  a  worse  mat- 
ter than  that:  I  have  received  a  letter  this 
night ; — 'tis  dangerous  to  be  spoken  ; — I  have 
locked  the  letter  in  my  closet :  these  injuries 
the  king  now  bears  will  be  revenged  home  ; 
there  is  part  of  a  power  already  footed  :  we 
must  incline  to  the  king.  I  will  seek  him,  and 
privily  relieve  him  :  go  you  and  maintain  talk 
with  the  duke,  that  my  charity  be  not  of  him 
perceived  :  if  he  ask  for  me,  I  am  ill,  and  gone 
to  bed.  If  I  die  for  it,  as  no  less  is  threatened 


1046 


KING  LEAR. 


[ACT  in. 


me,  the  king  my  old  master  must  be  relieved. 

There  is  strange  things  toward,  Edmund  ;  pray 

you,  be  careful.  [Exit. 

Edm.  This  courtesy,  forbid  thee,  shall  the 

duke 

Instantly  know ;  and  of  that  letter  too  : — 
This  seems  a  fair  deserving,  and  must  draw  me 
That  which  my  father  loses, — no  less  than  all : 
The  younger  rises  when  the  old  doth  fall. 

{Exit. 

SCENE  IV. — A  part  of  the  Heath  with  a  Hovel. 
Storm  continues. 

Enter  LEAR,  KENT,  and  Fool. 

Kent.   Here  is  the  place,  my  lord ;  good  my 

lord,  enter : 

The  tyranny  of  the  open  night 's  too  rough 
For  nature  to  endure. 

Lear.  Let  me  alone. 

Kent.  Good  my  lord,  enter  here. 
Lear.  Wilt  break  my  heart  ? 

Kent.  I  had  rather  break  mine  own.     Good 
my  lord,  enter.  [tentious  storm 

Lear.  Thou  think'st  'tis  much  that  this  con- 
Invades  us  to  the  skin  :  so  'tis  to  thee 
But  where  the  greater  malady  is  fix'd,      [bear  ; 
The  lesser  is  scarce  felt.      Thou  'dst  shun  a 
But  if  thy  flight  lay  toward  the  roaring  sea, 
Thou  'dst  meet  the  bear  i'  the  mouth.     When 

the  mind 's  free 

The  body 's  delicate  :  the  tempest  in  my  mind 
Doth  from  my  senses  take  all  feeling  else 
Save  what  beats  there. — Filial  ingratitude  ! 
Is  it  not  as  this  mouth  should  tear  this  hand 
For  lifting  food  to't? — But  I  will  punish  home : — 
No,  I  will  weep  no  more. — In  such  a  night 
To  shut  me  out ! — Pour  on  ;  I  will  endure  : — 
In  such  a  night  as  this  !     O  Regan,  Goneril ! — 
Your  old  kind  father,  whose  frank  heart  gave 

all,- 

O,  that  way  madness  lies ;  let  me  shun  that ; 
No  more  of  that. 

Kent.  Good  my  lord,  enter  here. 

Lear.  Pr'ythee,  go  in  thyself;   seek  thine 

own  ease : 

This  tempest  will  not  give  me  leave  to  ponder 
On  things  would  hurt  me  more. — But  I'll  go 
r/firf  I—  in« —  [poverty, — 

In,  boy  ;  go  first  {to  the  Fool]. — You  houseless 
Nay,  get  thee  in.     I'll  pray,  and  then   I'll 
sleep. —  [Fool  goes  in. 

Poor  naked  wretches,  wheresoe'er  you  are, 
That  bide  the  pelting  of  this  pitiless  storm, 
How  shall  your  houseless  heads  and  unfed  sides, 
Your  loop'd  and  window'd  ragged  ness,  defend 
you 


From  seasons  such  as  these?    O,  I  have  ta'en 
Too  little  care  of  this  !     Take  physic,  pomp ; 
Expose  thyself  to  feel  what  wretches  feel, 
That  thou  mayst  shake  the  superflux  to  them, 
And  show  the  heavens  more  just. 

Edg.  {Within.}  Fathom  and  half,   fathom 
and  half !     Poor  Tom  ! 

[  The  Fool  runs  out  from  the  hovel. 
Fool.  Come  not  in  here,  nuncle,  here's  a 

spirit. 
Help  me,  help  me  ! 

Kent.  Give  me  thy  hand. — Who 's  there  ? 
Fool.  A  spirit,  a  spirit :  he  says  his  name 's 
poor  Tom.  [i}  the  straw  ? 

Kent.  What  art  thou  that  dost  grumble  there 
Come  forth. 

Enter  EDGAR,  disguised  as  a  madman. 

Edg.  Away  !  the  foul  fiend  follows  me  ! — 
Through  the  sharp  hawthorn  blows  the  cold 

wind. — 
Hum  !  go  to  thy  cold  bed  and  warm  thee. 

Lear.  Didst  thou  give  all  to  thy  daughters  ? 
And  art  thou  come  to  this  ? 

Edg.  Who  gives  anything  to  poor  Tom  ? 
whom  the  foul  fiend  hath  led  through  fire  and 
through  flame,  through  ford  and  whirlpool,  o'er 
bog  and  quagmire  ;  that  hath  laid  knives  under 
his  pillow,  and  halters  in  his  pew ;  set  ratsbane 
by  his  porridge  ;  made  him  proud  of  heart,  to 
ride  on  a  bay  trotting-horse  over  four-inched 
bridges,  to  course  his  own  shadow  for  a  traitor. 
— Bless  thy  five  wits  ! — Tom 's  a-cold.— O,  do 
de,  do  de,  do  de. — Bless  thee  from  whirlwinds, 
star-blasting,  and  taking!  Do  poor  Tom  some 
charity,  whom  the  foul  fiend  vexes : — there 
could  I  have  him  now, — and  there, — and  there, 
— and  there  again,  and  there. 

{Storm  continues. 

Lear.  What,  have  his  daughters  brought  him 

to  this  pass  ? —  ['em  all  ? 

Couldst  thou  save  nothing  ?     Didst  thou  give 

Fool.  Nay,  he  reserved  a  blanket,  else  we 
had  been  all  shamed. 

Lear.  Now,  all  the  plagues  that  in  the  pendu- 
lous air  [daughters  ! 
Hang   fated   o'er  men's   faults   light    on    thy 

Kent.  He  hath  no  daughters,  sir. 

Lear.  Death,  traitor !    nothing  could   have 

subdu'd  nature 

To  such  a  lowness  but  his  unkind  daughters. — 
Is  it  the  fashion  that  discarded  fathers 
Should  have  thus  little  mercy  on  their  flesh  ? 
Judicious  punishment !  'twas  this  flesh  begot 
Those  pelican  daughters. 

Edg.   Pillicock  sat  on  Pillicock-hill  :— 
Halloo,  halloo,  loo  loo  1 


SCENE  IV.] 


KING  LEAR. 


1047 


Fool.  This  cold  night  will  turn  us  all  to  fools 
and  madmen. 

Edg.  Take  heed  o'  the  foul  fiend  :  obey  thy 
parents ;  keep  thy  word  justly ;  swear  not ; 
commit  not  with  man's  sworn  spouse  ;  set  not 
thy  sweet  heart  on  proud  array.  Tom 's  a-cold. 

Lear.  What  hast  thou  been? 

Edg.  A  serving-man,  proud  in  heart  and 
mind  ;  that  curled  my  hair ;  wore  gloves  in  my 
cap ;  served  the  lust  of  my  mistress's  heart,  and 
did  the  act  of  darkness  V/ith  her ;  swore  as 
many  oaths  as  I  spake  words,  and  broke  them 
in  the  sweet  face  of  heaven :  one  that  slept  in 
the  contriving  of  hist,  and  waked  to  do  it : 
wine  loved  I  deeply,  dice  dearly  ;  and  in  women 
out-paramoured  the  Turk  :  false  of  heart,  light 
of  ear,  bloody  of  hand  ;  hog  in  sloth,  fox  in 
stealth,  wolf  in  greediness,  dog  in  madness, 
lion  in  prey.  Let  not  the  creaking  of  shoes  nor 
the  rustling  of  silks  betray  thy  poor  heart  to 
woman:  keep  thy  foot  out  of  brothels,  thy  hand 
out  of  plackets,  thy  pen  from  lenders'  books, 
and  defy  the  foul  fiend. — Still  through  the 
hawthorn  blows  the  cold  wind:  says  suum, 
mun,  nonny.  Dolphin  my  boy,  boy,  sessa  ! 
let  him  trot  by.  [Storm  still  continues. 

Lear.  Why,  thou  wert  better  in  thy  grave 
than  to  answer  with  thy  uncovered  body  this 
extremity  of  the  skies. — Is  man  no  more  than 
this?  Consider  him  well.  Thou  owest  the 
worm  no  silk,  the  beast  no  hide,  the  sheep  no 
wool,  the  cat  no  perfume. — Ha!  here's  three 
on 's  are  sophisticated  ! — Thou  art  the  thing 
itself:  unaccommodated  man  is  no  more  but 
such  a  poor,  bare,  forked  animal  as  thou  art. — 
Off,  off,  you  leadings ! — Come,  unbutton  here. 
[  Tearing  off  his  clothes. 

Fool.  Pr'ythee,  nuncle,  be  contented;  'tis  a 
naughty  night  to  swim  in. — Now  a  little  fire  in 
a  wild  field  were  like  an  old  lecher's  heart, — a 
small  spark,  all  the  rest  on  's  body  cold. — 
Look,  here  comes  a  walking  fire. 

Edg.  This  is  the  foul  fiend  Flibbertigibbet : 
he  begins  at  curfew,  and  walks  till  the  first 
cock;  he  gives  the  web  and  the  pin,  squints 
the  eye,  and  makes  the  hare-lip ;  mildews  the 
white  wheat,  and  hurts  the  poor  creature  of  earth. 
Swithold  footed  thrice  the  old ; 
He  met  the  nightmare  and  her  nine-fold ; 
Bid  her  alight, 
And  her  troth  plight, 
And,  aroint  thee,  witch,  aroint  thee ! 

Kent.  How  fares  your  grace? 

Enter  GLOSTER  with  a  torch. 

tear.  What 'she? 

Kent.  Who 's  there  ?    What  is 't  you  seek  ? 


Glo.  What  are  you  there?    Your  names? 

Edg.  Poor  Tom;  that  eats  the  swimming 
frog,  the  toad,  the  tadpole,  the  wall-newt,  and 
the  water ;  that  in  the  fury  of  his  heart,  when 
the  foul  fiend  rages,  eats  cow-dung  for  sallets ; 
swallows  the  old  rat  and  the  ditch-dog ;  drinks 
the  green  mantle  of  the  standing  pool ;  who  is 
whipped  from  tithing  to  tithing,  and  stocked, 
punished,  and  imprisoned;  who  hath  had  three 
suits  to  his  back,  six  shirts  to  his  body,  horse 
to  ride,  and  weapon  to  wear ; — 

But  mice  and  rats,  and  such  small  deer, 
Have  been  Tom's  food  for  seven  long  year. 
Beware  my  follower. — Peace,  Smulkin;  peace, 
thou  fiend !  [pany? 

Glo.  What,  hath  your  grace  no  better  com- 

Edg.  The  prince  of  darkness  is  a  gentleman : 
Modo  he's  call'd,  and  Mahu.  [so  vile 

Glo.  Our  flesh  and  blood,  my  lord,  is  grown 
That  it  doth  hate  what  gets  :t. 

Edg.  Poor  Tom 's  a-cold. 

Glo.  Go  in  with  me :  my  duty  cannot  suffer 
To  obey  in  all  your  daughters'  hard  commands : 
Though  their  injunction  be  to  bar  my  doors, 
And  let  this  tyrannous  night  take  hold  upon  you, 
Yet  have  I  ventur'd  to  come  seek  you  out, 
And  bring  you  where  both  fire  and  food  is  ready. 

Lear.  First  let  me  talk  with  this  philoso- 
pher.— 
What  is  the  cause  of  thunder  ? 

Kent.  Good  my  lord,  take  his  offer ; 
Go  into  the  house.  [Theban, — 

Lear.  I  '11  talk  a  word  with  this  same  learned 
What  is  your  study?  [vermin. 

Edg.   How  to  prevent  the  fiend  and  to  kill 

Lear.  Let  me  ask  you  one  word  in  private. 

Kent.  Importune  him  once  more  to  go,  my 

lord; 
His  wits  begin  to  unsettle. 

Glo.  Canst  thou  blame  him? 

His  daughters  seek  his  death : — ah,  that  good 

Kent ! — 

He  said  it   would  be   thus, — poor,   banish'd 
man ! —  [friend, 

Thou  say'st  the  king  grows  mad ;  I  '11  tell  thee, 
I  am  almost  mad  myself:  I  had  a  son,        [life 
Now  outlaw'd  from  my  blood ;  he  sought  my 
But  lately,  very  late :  I  lov'd  him,  friend, — 
No  father  his  son  dearer :  true  to  tell  thee, 

[Storm  continues. 
The  grief  hath  craz'd  my  wits.  —What  a  night 's 

this ! — 
I  do  beseech  your  grace, — 

Lear.  O,  cry  you  mercy,  sir. — 

Noble  philosopher,  your  company. 

Edg.  Tom 's  a-coW.  [thee  warm. 

Glo.  In,  fellow,  there,  into  the  hovel :  keep 


1048 


KING  LEAR. 


[ACT  m. 


Lear.  Come,  let 's  in  all. 
Kent.  This  way,  my  lord. 

Lear.  With  him  ; 

I  will  keep  still  with  my  philosopher. 

Kent.  Good  my  lord,  soothe  him;  let  him 

take  the  fellow. 
Glo.  Take  him  you  on. 
Kent.  Sirrah,  come  on  ;  go  along  with  us. 
Lear.   Come,  good  Athenian. 
Glo.  No  words,  no  words  : 

Hush. 

Edg.  Child  Rowland  to  the  dark  tower  came, 
His  word  was  still, — Fie,  foh,  and  fum, 
I  smell  the  blood  of  a  British  man. 
[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V- — A  Room  in  GLOSTER'S  Castle. 
Enter  CORNWALL  and  EDMUND. 

Corn.  I  will  have  my  revenge  ere  I  depart 
his  house. 

Edm.  How,  my  lord,  I  may  be  censured, 
that  nature  thus  gives  way  to  loyalty,  something 
fears  me  to  think  of. 

Corn.  I  now  perceive,  it  was  not  altogether 
your  brother's  evil  disposition  made  him  seek 
his  death;  but  a  provoking  merit,  set  a- work 
by  a  reprovable  badness  in  himself. 

Edm.  How  malicious  is  my  fortune,  that  I 
must  repent  to  be  just !  This  is  the  letter  he 
spoke  of,  which  approves  him  an  intelligent 
party  to  the  advantages  of  France.  O  heavens! 
that  this  treason  were  not,  or  not  I  the  de- 
tector ! 

Corn.  Go  with  me  to  the  duchess. 

Edm.  If  the  matter  of  this  paper  be  certain, 
you  have  mighty  business  in  hand. 

Corn.  True  or  false,  it  hath  made  thee  earl 
of  Gloster.  Seek  out  where  thy  father  is,  that 
he  may  be  ready  for  our  apprehension. 

Edm.  [Aside.']  If  I  find  him  comforting  the 
king,  it  will  stuff  his  suspicion  more  fully. — I 
will  persevere  in  my  course  of  loyalty,  though 
the  conflict  be  sore  between  that  and  my  blood. 

Corn.  I  will  lay  trust  upon  thee ;  and  thou 
shalt  find  a  dearer  father  in  my  love.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI. — A  Chamber  in  a  Farm-house 
adjoining  the  Castle. 

Enter  GLOSTER,  LEAR,  KENT,  Fool,  and 
EDGAR. 

Glo.  Here  is  better  than  the  open  air ;  take 
it  thankfully.  I  will  piece  out  the  comfort  with 
what  addition  I  can :  I  will  not  be  long  from 
you. 


Kent.  All  the  power  of  his  wits  have  given 
way  to  his  impatience : — the  gods  reward  your 
kindness !  [Exit  GLOSTER. 

Edg.  Frateretto  calls  me ;  and  tells  me  Nero 
is  an  angler  in  the  lake  of  darkness. — Pray, 
innocent,  and  beware  the  foul  fiend. 

Fool.  Pr'ythee,   nuncle,   tell  me  whether  a 
madman  be  a  gentleman  or  a  yeoman  ? 
Lear.  A  king,  a  king ! 

Fool.  No ;  he 's  a  yeoman  that  has  a  gentle- 
man to  his  son ;  for  he 's  a  mad  yeoman  that 
sees  his  son  a  gentleman  before  him.          [spits 
Lear.  To  have  a  thousand  with  red  burning 
Come  hissing  in  upon  'em, — 

Edg.  The  foul  fiend  bites  my  back. 
Fool.  He 's  mad  that  trusts  in  the  lameness 
of  a  wolf,  a  horse's  health,  a  boy's  love,  or  a 
whore's  oath.  [straight. — 

Lear.  It  shall  be  done ;  I  will  arraign  them 
Come,  sit  thou  here,  most  learned  justicer; — 

[To  EDGAR. 
Thou,  sapient  sir,  sit  here  [To  the  Fool]. — Now, 

you  she-foxes ! — 

Edg.  Look,  where  he  stands  and  glares ! — 
Wantest  thou  eyes  at  trial,  madam? 

Come  o'er  the  bourn,  Bessy,  to  me,— 
Fool.  Her  boat  hath  a  leak, 

And  she  must  not  speak 
Why  she  dares  not  come  over  to  thee. 
Edg.  The  foul  fiend  haunts  poor  Tom  in  the 
voice  of  a  nightingale.    Hopdance  cries  in  Tom's 
belly  for  two  white  herring.     Croak  not,  black 
angel ;  I  have  no  food  for  thee.  [amaz'd : 

Kent.  How  do  you,  sir?     Stand  you  not  so 
Will  you  lie  down  and  rest  upon  the  cushions? 
Lear.  I  '11  see  their  trial  first. — Bring  in  the 

evidence. — 

Thou  robed  man  of  justice,  take  thy  place; — 

[To  EDGAR. 
And  thou,  his  yoke-fellow  of  equity, 

[To  the  Fool. 

Bench  by  his  side : — you  are  o'  the  commission, 
Sit  you  too.  [To  KENT. 

Edg.  Let  us  deal  justly. 

Sleepest  or  wakest  thou,  jolly  shepherd? 

Thy  sheep  be  in  the  corn ; 
And  for  one  blast  of  thy  minikin  mouth 

Thy  sheep  shall  take  no  harm. 
Pur !  the  cat  is  gray. 

Lear.  Arraign  her  first ;  'tis  Goneril.  I  here 
take  my  oath  before  this  honourable  assembly, 
she  kicked  the  poor  king  her  father. 

Fool.  Come  hither,  mistress.  Is  your  name 
Goneril? 

Lear.  She  cannot  deny  it. 
Fool.  Cry  you  mercy,  I  took  you  for  a  joint- 
stool. 


SCENE  VI.] 


KING  LEAR. 


1049 


Lear.  And   here 's   another,    whose   warp'd 

looks  proclaim  [there ! 

What  store  her  heart  is  made  on. — Stop  her 

Arms,  arms,  sword,  fire ! — Corruption  in   the 

place ! — 

False  justicer,  why  hast  thou  let  her  'scape? 
Edg.  Bless  thy  five  wits ! 
Kent.  O  pity  ! — Sir,  where  is  the  patience  now 
That  you  so  oft  have  boasted  to  retain? 

Edg.  [Aside.]  My  tears  begin  to  take  his 

part  so  much, 
They  '11  mar  my  counterfeiting. 

Lear.  The  little  dogs  and  all,  [at  me. 

Tray,  Blanch,  and  Sweetheart,  see,  they  bark 
Edg.  Tom  will  throw  his  head  at  them. — 
A  vaunt,  you  curs ! 

Be  thy  mouth  or  black  or  white, 
Tooth  that  poisons  if  it  bite ; 
Mastiff,  greyhound,  mongrel  grim, 
Hound  or  spaniel,  brach  or  lym, 
Or  bobtail  tike  or  trundle-tail, — 
Tom  will  make  them  weep  and  wail : 
For,  with  throwing  thus  my  head, 
Dogs  leap  the  hatch,  and  all  are  fled. 
Do   de,    de,   de.      Sessa !      Come,   march   to 
wakes  and  fairs  and  market-towns. — Poor  Tom, 
thy  horn  is  dry. 

Lear.  Then  let  them  anatomize  Regan  ;  see 
what  breeds  about  her  heart.     Is  there   any 
cause  in  nature  that  makes  these  hard  hearts  ? — 
\_To  EDGAR.]    You,  sir,  I  entertain  you  for  one 
of  my  hundred ;  only  I  do  not  like  the  fashion 
of  your  garments :  you  will  say  they  are  Per- 
sian ;  but  let  them  be  changed.  [awhile. 
Kent.  Now,  good  my  lord,  lie  here  and  rest 
Lear.  Make  no  noise,  make  no  noise ;  draw 

the  curtains : 

So,  so.     We  '11  go  to  supper  i'  the  morning. 
Fool.  And  I  '11  go  to  bed  at  noon. 

Re-enter  GLOSTER. 

Glo.  Come  hither,  friend  :  where  is  the  king 
my  master  ?  [wits  are  gone. 

Kent.  Here,  sir;  but  trouble  him  not, — his 

Glo.  Good  friend,  I  pr'ythee,  take  him  in 

thy  arms  ; 

I  have  o'erheard  a  plot  of  death  upon  him  i 
There  is  a  litter  ready ;  lay  him  in 't, 
And  drive  toward  Dover,  friend,  where  thou 
shalt  meet  [master : 

Both  welcome  and  protection.     Take  up  thy 
If  thou  shouldst  dally  half  an  hour,  his  life, 
With  thine,  and  all  that  offer  to  defend  him, 
Stand  in  assured  loss  :  take  up,  take  up  ; 
And  follow  me,  that  will  to  some  provision 
Give  thee  quick  conduct. 

Kent.  Oppress'd  nature  sleeps : — 


This  rest  might  yet  have  balm'd  thy  broken 

sinews, 

Which,  if  convenience  will  not  allow, 
Stand  in  hard  cure. — Come,  help  to  bear  thy 

master ; 

Thou  must  not  stay  behind.  [To  the  Fool. 

Glo.  Come,  come,  away. 

[Exeunt  KENT,  GLOSTER,  and  the  Fool, 

bearing  o/ "LEAR. 
Edg.  When  we  our  betters  see  bearing  our 

woes, 

We  scarcely  think  our  miseries  our  foes. 
Who  alone  suffers  suffers  most  i'  the  mind, 
Leaving  free  things  and  happy  shows  behind  : 
But  then  the  mind  much  sufferance  doth  o'erskip 
When  grief  hath  mates  and  bearing  fellowship. 
How  light  and  portable  my  pain  seems  now, 
When  that  which  makes  me  bend  makes  the 

king  bow  ; 

He  childed  as  I  father'd ! — Tom,  away  ! 
Mark  the  high  noises  ;  and  thyself  bewray, 
When  false   opinion,    whose  wrong    thought 

defiles  thee, 

In  thy  just  proof  repeals  and  reconciles  thee. 
What  will  hap  more  to-night,  safe  'scape  the 

king  ! 
Lurk,  lurk.  [Exit. 

SCENE  VII. — A  Room  in  GLOSTER'S  Castle. 

Enter    CORNWALL,   REGAN,   GONERIL, 
EDMUND,  and  Servants. 

Corn.  Post  speedily  to  my  lord  your  hus- 
band;  show  him  this  letter: — the  army  of 
France  is  landed.  — Seek  out  the  traitor  Gloster. 
[Exeunt  some  of  the  Servants. 

Reg.  Hang  him  instantly. 

Gon.  Pluck  out  his  eyes. 

Corn.  Leave  him  to  my  displeasure. — Ed- 
mund, keep  you  our  sister  company :  the  re- 
venges we  are  bound  to  take  upon  your  traitor- 
ous father  are  not  fit  for  your  beholding.  Advise 
the  duke,  where  you  are  going,  to  a  most 
festinate  preparation  :  we  are  bound  to  the  like. 
Our  posts  shall  be  swift  and  intelligent  betwixt 
us.  Farewell,  dear  sister  : — farewell,  my  lord 
of  .Gloster. 

Enter  OSWALD. 

How  now  !  where 's  the  king  ?  [hence  : 

Osw.  My  lord  of  Gloster  hath  convey'd  him 
Some  five  or  six  and  thirty  of  his  knights, 
Hot  questrists  after  him,  met  him  at  gate  ; 
WTho,  with  some  other  of  the  lord's  dependents, 
Are  gone  with  him  toward  Dover  ;  where  they 

boast 
To  have  well-armed  friends. 


1050 


KING  LEAR. 


[ACT  in. 


Corn.  Get  horses  for  your  mistress. 

Gon.  Farewell,  sweet  lord  and  sister. 
Corn.  Edmund,  farewell. 

[Exeunt  GON.,  EDM.,  and  Osw. 
Go  seek  the  traitor  Gloster, 
Pinion  him  like  a  thief,  bring  him  before  us. 

[Exeunt  other  Servants. 
Though  well  we  may  not  pass  upon  his  life 
Without  the  form  of  justice,  yet  our  power 
Shall  do  a  courtesy  to  our  wrath,  which  men 
May  blame,  but  not  control. — Who's  there? 
the  traitor  ? 

Re-enter  Servants,  with  GLOSTER. 

Reg.   Ingrateful  fox  !  'tis  he. 

Corn.   Bind  fast  his  corky  arms. 

Glo.  What   mean   your  graces? — Good   my 

friends,  consider 
You  are  my  guests :  do  me  no  foul  play,  friends. 

Corn.  Bind  him,  I  say.     [Servants  bind  him. 

Reg.  Hard,  hard.— O  filthy  traitor  ! 

Glo.  Unmerciful  lady  as  you  are,  I  'm  none. 

Corn.  To  this  chair  bind  him. — Villain,  thou 
shall  find, —  [REGAN///*r£r  his  beard. 

Glo.  By  the  kind  gods,  'tis  most  ignobly  done 
To  pluck  me  by  the  beard. 

Reg.  So  white,  and  such  a  traitor  ! 

Glo.  Naughty  lady, 

These  hairs  which  thou  dost  ravish  from  my 

chin 

Will  quicken,  and  accuse  thee :  I  am  your  host : 
With  robbers'  hands  my  hospitable  favours 
You  should  not  ruffle  thus.     What  will  you  do? 

Corn.  Come,  sir,  what  letters  had  you  late 
from  France?  [truth. 

Reg.  Be  simple-answer'd,  for  we  know  the 

Corn.  And  what  confederacy  have  you  with 

the  traitors 
Late  footed  in  the  kingdom  ?        [lunatic  king  ? 

Reg.  To  whose  hands  have  you  sent  the 
Speak. 

Glo.  I  have  a  letter  guessingly  set  down, 
Which  came  from  one  that 's  of  a  neutral  heart, 
And  not  from  one  oppos'd. 

Corn.  Cunning. 

Reg.  And  false. 

Corn.  Where  hast  thou  sent  the  king  ?      . 

Glo.  To  Dover. 

Reg.  Wherefore  to  Dover  ?     Wast  thou  not 
charg'd  at  peril, — 

Corn.  Wherefore  to  Dover?    Let  him  answer 
that.  [the  course. 

Glo.  I  am  tied  to  the  stake,  and  I  must  stand 

Reg.  Wherefore  to  Dover? 

Glo.  Because  I  would  not  see  thy  cruel  nails 
Pluck  out  his  poor  old  eyes ;  nor  thy  fierce  sister 
In  his  anointed  flesh  stick  boarish  fangs. 


The  sea,  with  such  a  storm  as  his  bare  head 
In  hell-black  night  endur'd,  would  have  buoy'd 

up, 
And  quench'd  the  stelled  fires:  yet,  poor  old 

heart, 

He  holp  the  heavens  to  rain. 
If  wolves  had  at  thy  gate  howl'd  that  stern 
tune  {the  key, 

Thou  shouldst  have   said,    Good  porter,  turn 
All  cruels  else  subscrib'd  : — but  I  shall  see 
The  winged  vengeance  overtake  such  children. 
Corn.    See't    shalt    thou    never. — Fellows, 

hold  the  chair. — 
Upon  these  eyes  of  thine  I  '11  set  my  foot. 

[GLOSTER  is  held  down  in  his  chair, 
-while  CORNWALL  plucks  out  one  of 
his  eyes  and  sets  his  foot  on  it. 
Glo.  He  that  will  think  to  live  till  he  be  old 
Give  me  some  help ! — O  cruel ! — O  you  gods ! 
Reg.  One  side  will  mock  another ;  the  other 

too. 

Corn.  If  you  see  vengeance, — 
i  Serv.  Hold  your  hand,  my  lord : 

I  have  serv'd  you  ever  since  I  was  a  child ; 
But  better  service  have  I  never  done  you 
Than  now  to  bid  you  hold. 

Reg.  How  now,  you  dog ! 

i  Serv.  If  you  did  wear  a  beard  upon  your 

chin, 
I'd  shake  it  on  this  quarrel.     What  do  you 

mean? 

Corn.  My  villain !    [Draws,  and  runs  at  him. 
i  Serv.  Nay,  then,  come  on,  and  take  the 

chance  of  anger. 

[Draws.     They  fight.    CORN,  is  wounded. 
Reg.  Give  me  thy  sword  [to  another  Servant]. 

— A  peasant  stand  up  thus ! 
[Snatches  a  sword,  comes  behind,  and  stabs  him. 
I  Serv.  O,  I  am  slain ! — My  lord,  you  have 

one  eye  left 

To  see  some  mischief  on  them.— O!         [Dies. 
Corn.  Lest  it  see  more,   prevent  it. — Out, 

vile  jelly ! 
Where  is  thy  lustre  now? 

[Tears  out  GLOSTER'S  other  eye,  and 

throws  it  on  the  ground. 
Glo.    All  dark  and    comfortless. — Where's 

my  son  Edmund  ? 

Edmund,  enkindle  all  the  sparks  of  nature, 
To  quit  this  horrid  act. 

Reg.  Out,  treacherous  villain ! 

Thou  call'st  on  him  that  hates  thee :  it  was  he 
That  made  the  overture  of  thy  treasons  to  us ; 
Who  is  too  good  to  pity  thee. 

Glo.  O  my  follies ! 

Then  Edgar  was  abus'd.— 
Kind  gods,  forgive  me  that,  and  prosper  him ! 


SCENE  VII. 


KING  LEAR. 


1051 


Reg.  Go  thrust  him  out  at  gates,  and  let  him 

smell  [look  you? 

His  way  to  Dover.  —  How  is  't,  my  lord?     How 

Corn.  I  have  receiv'd  a  hurt  :  —  follow  me, 

lady.— 

Turn  out  that  eyeless  villain  ;  —  throw  this  slave 
Upon  the  dunghill.  —  Regan,  I  bleed  apace  : 
Untimely  comes  this  hurt  :  give  me  your  arm. 
[Exit  CORNWALL,  led  by  REGAN  ;  Servants 
unbind  GLOSTER  and  lead  him  out. 

2  Serv.   I  '11  never  care  what  wickedness  I  do 
If  this  man  come  to  good. 

3  Serv.  If  she  live  long, 
And  in  the  end  meet  the  old  course  of  death, 
Women  will  all  turn  monsters. 

2  Serv.  Let  's  follow  the  old  earl,  and  get 

the  Bedlam  [ness 

To  lead  him  where  he  would  :  his  roguish  mad- 
Allows  itself  to  anything. 

3  Serv.  Go  thou  :    I  '11  fetch  some  flax  and 

whites  of  eggs 

To  apply  to  his  bleeding  face.     Now,  heaven 
help  him  !  [Exeunt  severally. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.—  The  Heath. 


Enter  EDGAR. 


Edg.  Yet  better  thus,  and  known  to  be  con- 

temn'd, 

Than  still  contemn'dand  flatter'd.    To  be  worst, 
The  lowest  and  most  dejected  thing  of  fortune, 
Stands  still  in  esperance,  lives  not  in  fear : 
The  lamentable  change  is  from  the  best ; 
The  worst  returns  to  laughter.     Welcome,  then, 
Thou  unsubstantial  air  that  I  embrace ! 
The  wretch  that  thou  hast  blown  unto  the  worst 
Owes  nothing  to  thy  blasts. — But  who  comes 

here? 

Enter  GLOSTER,  led  by  an  Old  Man. 

My   father,    poorly  led? — World,    world,    O 
world !  [thee, 

But  that  thy  strange  mutations  make  us  hate 
Life  would  not  yield  to  age. 

Old  Man.  O,  my  good  lord,  I  have  been 
your  tenant,  and  your  father's  tenant,  these 
fourscore  years.  [gone : 

Glo.  Away,  get  thee  away;  good  friend,  be 
Thy  comforts  can  do  me  no  good  at  all ; 
Thee  they  may  hurt. 

Old  Man.  You  cannot  see  your  way.     [eyes ; 

Glo.   I  have  no  way,  and  therefore  want  no 
I  stumbled  when  I  saw :  full  oft  'tis  seen 
Our  means  secure  us,  and  our  mere  defects 


Prove  our  commodities. — O  dear  son  Edgar, 
The  food  of  thy  abused  father's  wrath ! 
Might  I  but  live  to  see  thee  in  my  touch, 
I  'd  say  I  had  eyes  again ! 

Old  Man.  How  now !     Who 's  there  ? 

Edg.    [Aside.]    O  gods!    Who  is 't  can  say, 

/  am  at  the  worst  ? 
I  am  worse  than  e'er  I  was. 

Old  Man.  'Tis  poor  mad  Tom. 

Edg.     [Aside.]    And  worse  I  may  be  yet: 

the  worst  is  not 
So  long  as  we  can  say,  This  is  the  worst. 

Old  Man.  Fellow,  where  goest  ? 

Glo.  Is  it  a  beggar-man  ? 

Old  Man.  Madman  and  beggar  too. 

Glo.  He  has  some  reason,  else  he  could  not 

beg. 

I'  the  last  night's  storm  I  such  a  fellow  saw ; 
Which  made  me  think  a  man  a  worm  r  my  son 
Came  then  into  my  mind ;  and  yet  my  mind 
Was  then  scarce   friends   with  him:   I   have 

heard  more  since. 

As  flies  to  wanton  boys  are  we  to  the  gods, — 
They  kill  us  for  their  sport. 

Edg.  [Aside.]  How  should  this  be? — 
Bad  is  the  trade  that  must  play  fool  to  sorrow, 
Angering  itself  and  others. — Bless  thee,  master ! 

Glo.  Is  that  the  naked  fellow? 

Old  Man.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Glo.  Then,  pr'ythee,  get  thee  gone :  if,  for 

my  sake, 

Thou  wilt  o'ertake  us,  hence  a  mile  or  twain. 
I'  the  way  toward  Dover,  do  it  for  ancient  love; 
And  bring  some  covering  for  this  naked  soul, 
Which  I  'II  entreat  to  lead  me. 

Old  Man.  Alack,  sir,  he  is  mad. 

Glo.  'Tis  the  times   plague  when  madmen 

lead  the  blind. 

Do  as  I  bid  thee,  or  rather  do  thy  pleasure; 
Above  the  rest,  be  gone.  [I  have, 

Old  Man.  I  'II  bring  him  the  best  'parel  that 
Come  on 't  what  will.  [Exit. 

Glo.  Sirrah,  naked  fellow, — 

Edg.  Poor  Tom  's  a-cold.—  [Aside.]     I  can- 
not daub  it  further. 

Glo.  Come  hither,  fellow. 

Edg.    [Aside.]    And  yet  I  must. — Bless  thy 
sweet  eyes,  they  bleed. 

Glo.  Know'st  thou  the  way  to  Dover  ? 

Edg.  Both  stile  and  gate,  horse-way  and 
footpath.  Poor  Tom  hath  been  scared  out  of 
his  good  wits: — bless  thee,  good  man's  son,  from 
the  foul  fiend ! — five  fiends  have  been  in  poor 
Tom  at  once ;  of  lust,  as  Obidicul ;  Hobbidi- 
dance,  prince  of  dumbness;  Mahu,  of  stealing  ; 
Modo,  of  murder  ;  Flibbertigibbet ',  of  mopping 
and  mowing, — who  since  possesses  chamber- 


1052 


KING  LEAR. 


[ACT  TV. 


maids  and  waiting-women.     So,   bless  thee, 
master  I 

Glo.  Here,  take  this  purse,  thou  whom  the 
heavens'  plagues  [wretched 

Have  humbled   to    all    strokes :    that    I    am 
Makes  thee  the  happier; — heavens,  deal  so  still  ! 
Let  the  superfluous  and  lust-dieted  man, 
That  slaves  your  ordinance,  that  will  not  see 
Because  he   doth   not  feel,  feel   your   power 

quickly; 

So  distribution  should  undo  excess,       [Dover  ? 
And  each  man  have  enough. — Dost  thou  know 

Edg.  Ay,  master.  [head 

Glo.  There  is  a  cliff  whose  high  and  bending 
Looks  fearfully  in  the  confined  deep  : 
Bring  me  but  to  the  very  brim  of  it, 
And  I  '11  repair  the  misery  thou  dost  bear 
With  something  rich  about  me:  from  that  place 
I  shall  no  leading  need. 

Edg.  Give  me  thy  arm : 

Poor  Tom  shall  lead  thee.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Before  the  DUKE  OF  ALBANY'S 
Palace. 

Enter  GONERIL  and  EDMUND  ;  OSWALD 
meeting  them. 

Gon.  Welcome,  my  lord :  I  marvel  our  mild 

husband  [master  ? 

Not  met  us  on  the  way. — Now,  where 's  your 

Osiv.  Madam,   within;    but  never  man  so 

chang'd. 

I  told  him  of  the  army  that  was  landed  ; 
He  smil'd  at  it :  I  told  him  you  were  coming  ; 
His    answer    was,    The  worse:    of   Gloster's 

treachery, 

And  of  the  loyal  service  of  his  son, 
When  I  inform'd  him,  then  he  call'd  me  sot, 
And  told  me  I  had  turn'd  the  wrong  side  out : — 
What  most  he  should  dislike  seems  pleasant  to 

him  ; 
What  like  offensive. 

Gon.  Then  shall  you  go  no  further. 

[To  EDMUND. 

It  is  the  cowish  terror  of  his  spirit, 
That  dares  not  undertake:  he  '11  not  feel  wrongs, 
Which  tie  him  to  an  answer.     Our  wishes  on 

the  way  [brother ; 

May   prove   effects.     Back,    Edmund,    to   my 
Hasten  his  musters  and  conduct  his  powers : 
I  must  change  arms  at  home,  and  give  the  distaff 
Into  my  husband's  hands.     This  trusty  servant 
Shall  pass  between  us:  ere  long  you  are  like  to 

hear, 

If  you  dare  venture  in  your  own  behalf, 
A    mistress's    command.      Wear  this;    spare 

speech;  [Giving  a  favour. 


Decline  your  head  :  this  kiss,  if  it  durst  speak, 
Would  stretch  thy  spirits  up  into  the  air : — 
Conceive,  and  fare  thee  well. 

Edm.  Yours  in  the  ranks  of  death. 

Gon.  My  most  dear  Gloster. 

[Exit  EDMUND. 

O,  the  difference  of  man  and  man ! 
To  thee  a  woman's  services  are  due  : 
My  fool  usurps  my  body. 

Osw.  Madam,  here  comes  my  lord. 

[Exit. 

Enter  ALBANY. 

Gon.  I  have  been  worth  the  whistle. 
Alb.  O  Goneril ! 

You  are  not  worth  the  dust  which  the  rude  wind 
Blows  in  your  face.     I  fear  your  disposition : 
That  nature  which  contemns  its  origin 
Cannot  be  border'd  certain  in  itself ; 
She  that  herself  will  sliver  and  disbranch 
From  her  material  sap,  perforce  must  wither 
And  come  to  deadly  use. 

Gon.  No  more ;  the  text  is  foolish. 

Alb.  Wisdom  and  goodness  to  the  vile  seem 

vile :  [done  ? 

Filths  savour  but  themselves.     What  have  you 
Tige'  s,  not  daughters,  what  have  you  perform'd? 
A  father,  and  a  gracious  aged  man, 
Whose  reverence  the  head-lugg'd  bear  would 

lick,  [madded. 

Most  barbarous,   most  degenerate !   have  you 
Could  my  good  brother  suffer  you  to  do  it? 
A  man,  a  prince,  by  him  so  benefited ! 
If  that  the  heavens  do  not  their  visible  spirits 
Send  quickly  down  to  tame  these  vile  offences, 
It  will  come, 

Humanity  must  perforce  prey  on  itself, 
Like  monsters  of  the  deep. 

Gon.  Milk-liver'd  man  ! 

That   bear'st  a   cheek  for  blows,  a  head   for 

wrongs ; 

Who  hast  not  in  thy  brows  an  eye  discerning 
Thine   honour   from   thy   suffering ;    that   not 

know'st 

Fools  do  those  villains  pity  who  are  punish'd 
Ere  they  have  done  their  mischief.     Where  ;s 

thy  drum  ? 

France  spreads  his  banners  in  our  noiseless  land ; 
With  plumed  helm  thy  slayer  begins  threats ; 
Whiles  thou,  a  moral  fool,  sitt'st  still,  and  criest, 
Alack,  why  does  he  so  ? 

Alb.  See  thyself,  devil ! 

Proper  deformity  seems  not  in  the  fiend 
So  horrid  as  in  woman. 

Gon.  O  vain  fool ! 

Alb.  Thou  changed  and  self-cover'd  thing, 

for  shame, 


SCENE  III.] 


KING  LEAR. 


1053 


Be-monster  not  thy  feature.     Were 't  my  fitness 
To  let  these  hands  obey  my  blood. 
They  are  apt  enough  to  dislocate  and  tear 
Thy  flesh  and  bones : — howe'er  thou  art  a  fiend, 
A  woman's  shape  doth  shield  thee, 
Gon.  Marry,  your  manhood  now  ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Alb.  What  news  ?  [wall 's  dead  ; 

Mess.  O,  my  good  lord,  the  Duke  of  Corn- 
Slain  by  his  servant,  going  to  put  out 
The  other  eye  of  Gloster. 

Alb.  Gloster's  eyes ! 

Mess.  A  servant  that  he  bred,  thrill'd  with 

remorse, 

Oppos'd  against  the  act,  bending  his  sword 
To  his  great  master  ;  who,  thereat  enrag'd, 
Flew  on  him,  and  amongst  them  fell'd  him 
dead ;  [since 

But   not   without   that   harmful    stroke  which 
Hath  pluck'd  him  after. 

Alb.  This  shows  you  are  above, 

You  justicers,  that  these  our  nether  crimes 
So  speedily  can  venge  ! — But,  O  poor  Gloster ! 
Lost  he  his  other  eye  ? 

Mess.  Both,  both,  my  lord. — 

This  letter,  madam,  craves  a  speedy  answer ; 
'Tis  from  your  sister. 

Gon.  [Aside.']  One  way  I  like  this  well ; 
But  being  widow,  and  my  Gloster  with  her, 
May  all  the  building  in  my  fancy  pluck 
Upon  my  hateful  life :  another  way 
The    news    is    not  so   tart. — I  '11    read,   and 
answer.  [Exit. 

Alb.  Where  was  his  son  when  they  did  take 
his  eyes? 

Mess.  Come  with  my  lady  hither. 

Alb.  He  is  not  here. 

Mess.  No,  my  good  lord ;  I  met  him  back 
again. 

Alb.  Knows  he  the  wickedness  ? 

Mess.  Ay,  my  good  lord  ;  'twas  he  inform'd 
against  him  ;  [punishment 

And   quit   the   house   on   purpose   that    their 
Might  have  the  freer  course. 

Alb.  Gloster,  I  live 

To  thank  thee  for  the  love  thou  show'dst  the 

king,  [friend : 

And   to   revenge   thine   eyes. — Come    hither, 

Tell  me  what  more  thou  knowest.       [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — The  French  Camp  near  Dover. 
Enter  KENT  and  a  Gentleman. 

Kent.  Why  the  King  of  France  is  so  sud- 
denly gone  back  know  you  the  reason  ? 

Gent.  Something  he  left  imperfect  in  the 


state,  which  since  his  coming  forth  is  thought 
of;  which  imports  to  the  kingdom  so  much 
fear  and  danger  that  his  personal  return  was 
most  required  and  necessary. 

Kent.  Who  hath  he  left  behind  him  general? 

Gent.  The  Mareschal  of  France,  Monsieur  la 
Far. 

Kent.  Did  your  letters  pierce  the  queen  to 
any  demonstration  of  grief?          [my  presence ; 

Gent.  Ay,  sir  ;  she  took  them,  read  them  in 
And  now  and  then  an  ample  tear  trill'd  down 
Her  delicate  cheek :  it  seem'd  she  was  a  queen 
Over  her  passion  ;  who,  most  rebel-like, 
Sought  to  be  king  o'er  her. 

Kent.  O,  then  it  mov'd  her. 

Gent.  Not  to  a  rage  :  patience  and  sorrow 
strove  [seen 

Who  should  express  her  goodliest.  You  have 
Sunshine  and  rain  at  once :  her  smiles  and  tears 
Were  like  a  better  day  :  those  happy  smilets 
That  play'd  on  her  ripe  lip  seem'd  not  to  know 
What  guests  were  in  her  eyes ;  which  parted 
thence  [sorrow 

As  pearls  from  diamonds  dropp'd. — In  brief, 
Would  be  a  rarity  most  belov'd  if  all 
Could  so  become  it. 

Kent.  Made  she  no  verbal  question  ? 

Gent.  Faith,  once  or  twice  she  heav'd  the 

name  of  father 

Pantingly  forth,  as  if  it  press'd  her  heart ; 
Cried,    Sisters!    sisters! — Shame    of  ladies! 
sisters  !  \f  the  night  ? 

Kent!  father!  sisters!     What,  t  the  storm? 
Let  pity  not  be  belierfd! — There  she  shook 
The  holy  water  from  her  heavenly  eyes, 
And  clamour  moisten'd :  then  away  she  started 
To  deal  with  grief  alone. 

Kent.  It  is  the  stars, 

The  stars  above  us,  govern  our  conditions  ; 
Else  one  self  mate  and  mate  could  not  beget 
Such  different  issues.     You  spoke  not  with  her 
since  ? 

Gent.  No. 

Kent.  Was  this  before  the  king  return'd? 

Gent.  No,  since. 

Kent.  Well,  sir,  the  poor  distressed  Lear  's 

i'  the  town ; 

Who  sometime,  in  his  better  tune,  remembers 
What  we  are  come  about,  and  by  no  means 
Will  yield  to  see  his  daughter. 

Gent.  Why,  good  sir  ? 

Kent.  A  sovereign  shame  so  elbows  him :  his 

own  unkindness,  [her 

That  stripp'd  her  from  his  benediction,  turn'd 

To  foreign  casualties,  gave  her  dear  rights 

To  his  dog-hearted   daughters,— these  things 

sting 


1054 


KING  LEAR. 


[ACT  iv. 


His  mind  so  venomously  that  burning  shame 
Detains  him  from  Cordelia. 

Gent.  Alack,  poor  gentleman  ! 

Kent.  Of  Albany's  and  Cornwall's  powers 

you  heard  not? 
Gent.  'Tis  so  they  are  a-foot. 
Kent.  Well,  sir,  I  '11  bring  you  to  our  master 

Lear, 

And  leave  you  to  attend  him  :  some  dear  cause 
Will  in  concealment  wrap  me  up  awhile  ; 
When  I  am  known  aright,  you  shall  not  grieve 
Lending  me  this  acquaintance.     I  pray  you, 

go 
Along  with  me.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — The  French  Camp.     A  Tent, 
Enter  CORDELIA,  Physician,  and  Soldiers. 

Cor.  Alack,  'tis  he  :  why,  he  was  met  even 

now 

As  mad  as  the  vex'd  sea;  singing  aloud  ; 
Crown'd  with  rank  fumiter  and  furrow  weeds, 
With  harlocks,  hemlock,  nettles,  cuckoo-flowers, 
Darnel,  and  all  the  idle  weeds  that  grow 
In  our  sustaining  corn. — A  century  send  forth  ; 
Search  every  acre  in  the  high-grown  field, 
And  bring  him  to  our  eye.  [Exit  an  Officer.] — 

What  can  man's  wisdom 
In  the  restoring  his  bereaved  sense  ? 
He  that  helps  him  take  all  my  outward  worth. 

Phys.  There  is  means,  madam  : 
Our  foster-nurse  of  nature  is  repose, 
The  which  he  lacks ;  that  to  provoke  in  him 
Are  many  simples  operative,  whose  power 
Will  close  the  eye  of  anguish. 

Cor.  All  bless'd  secrets, 

All  you  unpublish'd  virtues  of  the  earth, 
Spring  with  my  tears  !  be  aidant  and  remediate 
In  the  good  man's  distress  ! — Seek,  seek  for 

him  ; 

Lest  his  ungovern'd  rage  dissolve  the  life 
That  wants  the  means  to  lead  it. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  News,  madam ; 

The  British  powers  are  marching  hitherward. 

Cor.  'Tis  known  before;    our  preparation 

stands 

In  expectation  of  them. — O  dear  father, 
It  is  thy  business  that  I  go  about ; 
Therefore  great  France 

My  mourning  and  important  tears  hath  pitied. 
No  blown  ambition  doth  our  arms  incite, 
But   love,  dear  love,  and  our  ag'd    father's 

right: 
Soon  may  I  hear  and  see  him  !  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  V. — A  Room  in  GLOSTER'S  Castle. 
Enter  REGAN  and  OSWALD. 

Reg.   But  are  my  brother's  powers  set  forth  ? 

Osw.  Ay,  madam. 

Reg.  Himself  in  person  there  ? 

Osw.  Madam,  with  much  ado ; 

Your  sister  is  the  better  soldier.         [at  home  ? 

Reg.  Lord  Edmund  spake  not  with  your  lord 

O*w.  No,  madam.  [him  ? 

Reg.  What  might  import  my  sister's  letter  to 

Osw.  I  know  not,  lady.  [matter. 

Reg.  Faith,  he  is  posted  hence  on  serious 
It  was  great  ignorance,  Gloster's  eyes  being  out, 
To  let  him  live  :  where  he  arrives  he  moves 
All  hearts  against  us :  Edmund,  I  think,  is  gone, 
In  pity  of  his  misery,  to  despatch 
His  nighted  life  ;  moreover,  to  descry 
The  strength  o'  the  enemy. 

Osw.  I  must  needs  after  him,  madam,  with 
my  letter.  [with  us  ; 

Reg.  Our  troops  set  forth  to-morrow ;  stay 
The  ways  are  dangerous. 

Osw.  I  may  not,  madam : 

My  lady  charg'd  my  duty  in  this  business. 

Reg.  Why  should  she  write   to   Edmund? 

Might  not  you 

Transport  her  purposes  by  word  ?     Belike 
Something, — I  know  not  what : — I  '11  love  thee 

much — 
Let  me  unseal  the  letter. 

Osw.  Madam,  I  had  rather, — 

Reg.  I  know  your  lady  does  not  love  her 

husband ; 

I  am  sure  of  that :  and  at  her  late  being  here 
She  gave  strange  eyeliads  and  most  speaking 
looks  [bosom. 

To  noble  Edmund.     I  know  you  are  of  her 

Osw.  I,  madam  ?  [know 't : 

Reg.  I  speak  in  understanding;  you  are,  I 
Therefore  I  do  advise  you,  take  this  note  : 
My  lord  is  dead  ;  Edmund  and  I  have  talk'd  ; 
And  more  convenient  is  he  for  my  hand 
Than  for  your  lady's. — You  may  gather  more. 
If  you  do  find  him,  pray  you,  give  him  this ; 
And  when  your  mistress  hears  thus  much  from 

you, 

I  pray,  desire  her  call  her  wisdom  to  her. 
So,  fare  you  well. 

If  you  do  chance  to  hear  of  that  blind  traitor, 
Preferment  falls  on  him  that  cuts  him  off. 

Osw.  Would  I  could  meet  him,  madam  !     I 

should  show 
What  party  I  do  follow. 

Reg.  Fare  thee  well. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  VI.  J 


KING  LEAK. 


J055 


SCENE  VI.— The  Country  near  Dwtr. 

Enter  GLOSTER,  and  EDGAR  dressed  like  a 
peasant. 

Glo.  When  shall  I  come  to  the  top  of  that 
same  hill  ?  [labour. 

Edg.  You  do  climb  up  it  now :  look,  how  we 

Glo.  Methinks  the  ground  is  even. 

Edg.  Horrible  steep. 

Hark,  do  you  hear  the  sea? 

Glo.  No,  truly. 

Edg.  Why,  then,  your  other  sense.,    grow 

imperfect 
By  your  eyes'  anguish. 

Glo.  So  may  it  be  indeed  : 

Methinks  thy  voice  is  alter'd  ;  and  thou  speak'st 
In  better  phrase  and  matter  than  thou  didst. 

Edg.  You  are  much  deceiv'd :    in  nothing 

am  I  chang' d 
But  in  my  garments, 

Glo.  Methinks  you're  better  spoken. 

Edg,  Come  on,  sir;    here'?  the  place: — 

stand  still. — How  fearful 
And  dizzy  'tis  to  cast  one's  eyes  so  low  !       [air 
The  crows  and  choughs  that  wing  the  midway 
Show  scarce  so  gross  as  beetles :  half  way  down 
Hangs  one  that  gathers  samphire,— dreadful 

trade ! 

Methinks  he  seems  no  bigger  than  his  head  : 
The  fishermen  that  walk  upon  the  beach 
Appear  like  mice ;  and  yond  tall  anchoring  bark 
Diminish'd  to  her  cock  ;  her  cock  a  buoy 
Aimost  too  small  for  sight :    the  murmuring 

surge, 

That  on  the  unnumber'd  idle  pebbles  chafes, 
Cannot  be  heard  so  high. — I  '11  look  no  more  ;  | 
Lest  my  brain  turn,  and  the  deficient  sight 
Topple  down  headlong. 

Glo.  Set  me  where  you  stand. 

Edg.  Give  me  your  hand : — you  are  now 
within  a  foot  [moon 

Of  the  extreme  verge:   for  all   beneath  the 
Would  I  not  leap  upright. 

Glo.  Let  go  my  hand. 

Here,  friend,  's  another  purse ;  in  it  a  jewel 
Well  worth  a  poor  man's  taking :  fairies  and 

gods 

Prosper  it  with  thee  !     Go  thou  further  off; 
Bid  me  farewell,  and  let  me  hear  thee  going. 

Edg.  Now,  fare  you  well,  good  sir. 

[Seems  to  go. 

Glo.  With  all  my  heart. 

Edg.  Why  I  do  trifle  thus  with  his  despair 
Is  done  to  cure  it. 

Glo.  O  you  mighty  gods ! 

This  world  I  do  renounce,  and  in  your  sights 


Shake  patiently  my  great  affliction  off : 

If  I  could  bear  it  longer,  and  not  fall 

To  quarrel  with  your  great  opposeless  wills, 

My  snuff  and  loathed  part  of  nature  should 

Burn  itself  out.     If  Edgar  live,  O  bless  him  ! — 

Now,  fellow,  fare  thee  well. 

Edg.  Gone,  sir : — farewell,  — 

[GLOSTER  leaps,  and  falls  along. 
And  yet  I  know  not  how  conceit  may  rob 
The  treasury  of  life,  when  life  itself  [thought, 
Yields  to  the  theft:  had  he  been  where  he 
By  this  had  thought  been  past.  — Alive  or  dead  ? 
Ho,  you  sir  1  friend  ! — Hear  you,  sir ! — speak ! 
Thus  might  he  pass  indeed: — yet  he  revives.— 
What  are  you,  sir  ? 

Glo.  Away,  and  let  me  die. 

Edg.  Hadst  thou  been  aught  but  gossamer, 

feathers,  air, 

So  many  fathom  down  precipitating, 
Thou'dst  shiver'd  like  an  egg :  but  thou  dost 
breathe ;  [art  sound. 

Hast  heavy  substance  ;  bleed'st  not ;  speak'st; 
Ten  masts  at  each  malice  not  the  altitude 
Which  thou  hast  perpendicularly  fell : 
Thy  life 's  a  miracle. — Speak  yet  again. 

Glo.  But  have  I  fall'n,  or  no  ?  [bourn. 

Edg.  From  the  dread  summit  of  this  chalky 
Look  up  a-height ; — the  shrill-gorg'd  lark  so  fai 
Cannot  be  seen  or  heard :  do  but  look  up. 

Glo.  Alack,  I  have  no  eyes. — 
Is  wretchedness  depriv'd  that  benefit,        [fort, 
To  end  itself  by  death?    'Twas  yet  some  com- 
When  misery  could  beguile  the  tyrant's  rage 
And  frustrate  his  proud  will. 

Edg.  Give  me  your  arm : 

Up: — so. — How  is't?     Feel  you  your  legs? 
You  stand. 

Glo.  Too  well,  too  well. 

Edg.  This  is  above  all  strangeness. 

Upon  the  crown  o'  th<»  cliff  what  thing  was  that 
Which  parted  from  you  ? 

Glo.  A  poor  unfortunate  beggar. 

Edg.  As  I  stood  here  below,  methought  his 

eyes 

Were  two  lull  moons ;  he  had  a  thousand  noses, 
Horns  whelk'd  and  wav'd  like  the  enridged  sea : 
It  was  some  fiend ;  therefore,  thou  happy  father, 
Think  that  the  clearest  gods,  who  make  them 

honours 
Of  men's  impossibilities,  have  preserv'd  thee. 

Glo.  I  do  remember  now :  henceforth  I  '11  bear 
Affliction  till  it  do  cry  out  itself,         [speak  of, 
Enough,   enough,   and   die.     That  thing   you 
I  took  it  for  a  man  ;  often  'twould  say, 
The  fiend,  the  fiend:  he  led  me  to  that  place. 

Edg.  Bear  free  and  patient  thoughts.— 'But 
who  comes  here  ? 


1056 


KING  LEAR. 


[ACT  IV. 


Enter  LEAK,  fantastically  dressed  up  with 
flowers. 

The  safer  sense  will  ne'er  accommodate 
His  master  thus. 

Lear.  No,  they  cannot  touch  me  for  coin- 
ing ;  I  am  the  king  himself. 

Edg.  O  thou  side-piercing  sight ! 

Lear.  Nature 's  above  art  in  that  respect. — 
There 's  your  press-money.  That  fellow  handles 
his  bow  like  a  crow-keeper :  draw  me  a 
clothier's  yard. — Look,  look,  a  mouse !  Peace, 
peace ; — this  piece  of  toasted  cheese  will  do 't. 
— There 's  my  gauntlet ;  I  '11  prove  it  on  a 
giant. — Bring  up  the  brown  bills. — O,  well 
flown,  bird  ! — i'  the  clout,  i'  the  clout :  hewgh  ! 
— Give  the  word. 

Edg.  Sweet  marjoram. 

Lear.  Pass. 

Glo.  I  know  that  voice. 

Lear.  Ha  !  Goneril,  with  a  white  beard  ! — 
They  flattered  me  like  a  dog ;  and  told  me  I 
had  white  hairs  in  my  beard  ere  the  black  ones 
were  there.  To  say  ay  and  no  to  everything  I 
said ! — Ay  and  no,  too,  was  no  good  divinity. 
When  the  rain  came  to  wet  me  once,  and  the 
wind  to  make  me  chatter ;  when  the  thunder 
would  not  peace  at  my  bidding  ;  there  I  found 
'em,  there  I  smelt  'em  out.  Go  to,  they  are 
not  men  o'  their  words :  they  told  me  I  was 
everything ;  'tis  a  lie, — I  am  not  ague-proof. 

Glo.  The  trick  of  that  voice  I  do  well  re- 
member : 
Is 't  not  the  king  ? 

Lear.  Ay,  every  inch  a  king  : 

When  I  do  stare,  see  how  the  subject  quakes. 
I    pardon    that    man's   life. — What  was    thy 

cause  ? — 
Adultery  ? — 

Thou  shalt  not  die  :  die  for  adultery !  No  : 
The  wren  goes  to 't,  and  the  small  gilded  fly 
Does  lecher  in  my  sight. 

Let  copulation  thrive ;  for  Gloster's  bastard  son 
Was  kinder  to  his  father  than  my  daughters 
Got  'tween  the  lawful  sheets. 
To't,  luxury,  pell-mell,  for  I  lack  soldiers. — 
Behold  yond  simpering  dame, 
Whose  face  between  her  forks  presages  snow  ; 
That  minces  virtue,  and  does  shake  ihe  head 
To  hear  of  pleasure's  name  ; — 
The  fitchew  nor  the  soiled  horse  goes  to 't 
With  a  more  riotous  appetite. 
Down  from  the  waist  they  are  centaurs, 
Though  women  all  above  : 
But  to  the  girdle  do  the  gods  inherit, 
Beneath  is  all  the  fiends' ;  there 's  hell,  there  ^ 
darkness, 


There  is  the  sulphurous  pit,  burning,  scalding, 
stench,  consumption  ; — fie,  fie,  fie  !  pah,  pah  ! 
Give  me  an  ounce  of  civet,  good  apothecary, 
to  sweeten  my  imagination  :  there 's  money  for 
thee. 

Glo.  O,  let  me  kiss  that  hand  !  [tality. 

Lear.  Let  me  wipe  it  first ;  it  smells  of  mor- 

Glo.  O  ruin'd  piece  of  nature  !    This  great 

world  [me  ? 

Shall  so  wear  out  to  naught. — Dost  thou  know 

Lear.  I  remember  thine  eyes  well  enough. 
Dost  thou  squiny  at  me  ?  No,  do  thy  worst, 
blind  Cupid;  I'll  not  love.— Read  thou  this 
challenge  ;  mark  but  the  penning  of  it.  [one. 

Glo.  Were  all  the  letters  suns,  I  could  not  see 

Edg.  I  would  not  take  this  from  report ; — 

it  is, 
And  my  heart  breaks  at  it. 

Lear.  Read. 

Glo.  What,  with  the  case  of  eyes  ? 

Lear.  O,  ho,  are  you  there  with  me  ?  No 
eyes  in  your  head  nor  no  money  in  your  purse  ? 
Your  eyes  are  in  a  heavy  case,  your  purse  in  a 
light :  yet  you  see  how  this  world  goes. 

Glo.  I  see  it  feelingly. 

Lear.  What,  art  mad  ?  A  man  may  see  how 
this  world  goes  with  no  eyes.  Look  with  thine 
ears :  see  how  yond  justice  rails  upon  yond 
simple  thief.  Hark,  in  thine  ear:  change 
places  ;  and,  handy-dandy,  which  is  the  justice, 
which  is  the  thief? — Thou  hast  seen  a  farmer's 
dog  bark  at  a  beggar  ? 

Glo.  Ay,  sir. 

Lear.  And  the  creature  run  from  the  cur? 
There  thou  mightst  behold  the  great  image  of 
authority :  a  dog 's  obeyed  in  office. — 
Thou  rascal  beadle,  hold  thy  bloody  hand  ! 
Why  dost  thou  lash  that  whore  ?    Strip  thine 

own  back ; 

Thou  hotly  lust'st  to  use  her  in  that  kind 
For  which  thou  whipp'st  her.      The  usurer 

hangs  the  cozener. 

Through  tatter'd  clothes  small  vices  do  appear  ; 
Robes  and  furr'd  gowns  hide  all.  Plate  sin 

with  gold, 

And  the  strong  lance  of  justice  hurtless  breaks  ; 
Arm  it  in  rags,  a  pigmy's  straw  doth  pierce  it. 
None  does  offend,  none, — I  say,  none;  I'll 

able  'em : 

Take  that  of  me,  my  friend,  who  have  the  power 
To  seal  the  accuser's  lips.  Get  thee  glass  eyes  ; 
And,  like  a  scurvy  politician,  seem  [now,  now: 
To  see  the  things  thou  dost  not. — Now,  now, 
Pull  oft  my  boots  : — harder,  harder  :— so. 

Edg.  O,  matter  and  impertinency  mix'd  ! 
Reason  in  madness  I  [my  eyes. 

Lear.   If  thou  wilt  weep  my  fortunes,  take 


SCENE  VI.] 


KING  LEAR. 


1057 


I  know  thee  well  enough ;  thy  name  is  Gloster  : 
Thou  must  be  patient ;  we  came  crying  hither  : 
Thou  know'st,  the  first  time  tliat  we  smell  the 

air 
We  waw!  and  cry. — I  will  preach  to  thee :  mark. 

Glo.  Alack,  alack  the  day ! 

Lear.  When  we  are  born,  we  cry  that  we 
are  come  [block  : — 

To  this  great   stage  of  fools — This'   a  good 
It  were  a  delicate  stratagem  to  shoe 
A  troop  of  horse  with  felt :  I  '11  put 't  in  proof; 
And  when  I  have  stol'n  upon  these  sons-in-law, 
Then  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill ! 

Enter  a  Gentleman,  with  Attendants. 

Gent.  O,  here  he  is :  lay  hand  upon  him. — Sir, 
Your  most  dear  daughter, —  [even 

Lear.  No  rescue?    What,  a  prisoner?     lam 
The  natural  fool  of  fortune. — Use  me  well ; 
You  shall  have  ransom.    Let  me  have  surgeons  ; 
I  am  cut  to  the  brains. 

Gent.  You  shall  have  anything. 

Lear.  No  seconds  ?  all  myself? 
Why,  this  would  make  a  man  a  man  of  salt, 
To  use  his  eyes  for  garden  water-pots, 
Ay,  and  for  laying  Autumn's  dusL 

Gent.  Good  sir,— 

Lear.  I  will  die  bravely,  like  a  smug  bride- 
groom.    What  I 

I  will  be  jovial :  come,  come ;  I  am  a  king, 
My  masters,  know  you  that. 

Gent.  You  are  a  royal  one,  and  we  obey  you. 

Lear.  Then  there 's  life  in  3U  Nay,  an  you 
get  it,  you  shall  get  it  by  running.  Sa,  sa,  sa, 
sa.  [Exit  running  ;  Attendants  follow. 

Gent.  A  sight  most  pitiful  in   the   meanest 
wretch,  [daughter, 

Past  speaking  of  in  a  king ! — Thou  hast  one 
Who  redeems  nature  from  the  general  curse 
Which  twain  have  brought  her  to. 

Edg.   Hail,  gentle  sir. 

Gent.         Sir,  speed  you :  what 's  your  will  ? 

Edg.  Do  you  hear  aught,   sir,  of  a  battle 
toward  ?  [that 

Gent.  Most  sure  and  vulgar :  every  one  hears 
Which  can  distinguish  sound. 

Edg.  But>  by  your  favour, 

How  near 's  the  other  army  ?  [descry 

Gent.  Near  and  on  speedy  ioot ;  the  main 
Stands  on  the  hourly  thought. 

Edg.  I  thank  you,  sir  :  that's  all. 

Gent.    Though   that   the   queen  on   special 

cause  is  here, 
Her  army  is  mov'd  on. 

Edg.  I  thank  you,  sir.     [Exit  Gent. 

Glo.  You  ever-gentle  gods,  take  my  breath 
from  me : 


Let  not  my  worser  spirit  tempt  me  again 
To  die  before  you  please ! 

Edg.  Well  pray  you,  father. 

Glo.  Now,  good  sir,  what  are  you  ? 

Edg.  A  most    poor  man,   made   tame  by 

fortune's  blows  ; 

Who,  by  the  art  of  known  and  feeling  sorrows, 
Am  pregnant  to  good  pity.    Give  me  your  hand, 
I  ;11  lead  you  to  some  biding. 

Glo.  Hearty  thanks : 

The  bounty  and  the  benison  of  heaven 
To  boot,  and  boot  i 

Enter  OSWALD. 

Osw.  A  proclaim'd  prize  !  Most  happy ! 
That  eyeless  head  of  thine  -vas  first  fram'd  flesh 
To  raise  my  fortunes. — Thou  old  unhappy 

traitor, 

Briefly  thyself  remember : — the  sword  is  out 
That  must  destroy  thee. 

Glo.  Now  let  thy  friendly  hand 

Put  strength  enough  to  it.     [EDGAR  interposes. 

Osw.  Wherefore,  bold  peasant, 

Dar'st  thou  support  a  publish'd  traitor  ?    Hence  j 
Lest  that  the  infection  of  his  fortune  take 
Like  hold  on  thee.     Let  go  his  arm.     ['casion. 

Edg.  Chill  not  let  go,  zir,  without  vurther 

Osw.   Let  go,  slave,  or  thou  diest ! 

Edg.  Good  gentleman,  go  your  gait,  and  let 
poor  volk  pass.  And  chud  ha'  been  zwaggered 
out  of  my  life,  'twould  not  ha'  been  zo  long  as 
'tis  by  a  vortnight.  Nay,  come  not  near  the 
old  man;  keep  out,  che  vor  ye,  or  ise  try 
whether  your  costard  or  my  bat  be  the  harder  : 
chill  be  plain  with  you. 

Osw.  Out,  dunghill ! 

Edg.  Chill  pick  your  teeth,  zir :  come ;  no 
matter  vor  your  foins. 

[  They  fight,  and  EDGAR  knocks  him  down. 

Osw.  Slave,  thou  hast  slain  me : — villain, 

take  my  purse : 

If  ever  thou  wilt  thrive,  bury  my  body  ;      [me 
And  give  the  letters  which  thou  find'st  about 
To  Edmund  Earl  of  Gloster  ;  seek  him  out 
Upon  the  British  party : — O,  untimely  death ! 

[Dies. 

Edg.  I  know  thee  well :  a  serviceable  villain ; 
As  duteous  to  the  vices  of  thy  mistress 
As  badness  would  desire, 

Glo.  What,  is  he  dead? 

Edg.  Sit  you  down,  father  ;  rest  you. — 
Let's  see  these  pockets:  the  letters  that  he 
speaks  of  [sorry 

May  be  -ny  friends. — He's  dead;  I  am  only 
He  had  no  other  death's-man. — Let  us  see  : — 
Leave,  gentle  wax;  and,  manners,  blame  us 
not: 

21 


1058 


KING  LEAR. 


[ACT  IV. 


To  know  our  enemies'  minds  we'd  rip  their 

hearts ; 
Their  papers  is  more  lawful. 

[Reads.]  Let  our  reciprocal  vows  be  remem- 
bered. You  have  many  opportunities  to  cut  him 
off:  if  your  will  want  not,  time  and  place  will 
be  fruitfully  offered.  There  is  nothing  done  if 
he  return  the  conqueror:  then  am  I  the  prisoner, 
and  his  bed  my  gaol ;  from  the  loathed  warmth 
whereof  deliver  me}  and  supply  the  place  for 
your  labour. 

Your  (wife,  so  I  would  say)  affectionate  ser- 
vant, GONERIL. 
O  undistinguish'd  space  of  woman's  will ! 
A  plot  upon  her  virtuous  husband's  life  ; 
And  the  exchange  my  brother  ! — Here,  in  the 

sands, 

Thee  I  '11  rake  up,  the  post  unsanctified 
Of  murderous  lechers  :  and  in  the  mature  time 
With  this  ungracious  paper  strike  the  sight 
Of  the  death-practis'd  duke  :  for  him  'tis  well 
That  of  thy  death  and  business  I  can  tell. 

[Exit  EDGAR,  dragging  out  the  body. 
Glo.  The  king  is  mad:  how  stiff  is  my  vile  sense, 
That  I  stand  up,  and  have  ingenious  feeling 
Of  my  huge  sorrows  !     Better  I  were  distract : 
So  should  my  thoughts  be  sever'd  from  my  griefs, 
And  woes  by  wrong  imaginations  lose 
The  knowledge  of  themselves. 

Re-enter  EDGAR. 

Edg.  Give  me  your  hand : 

[Drum  afar  off. 

Far  off,  methinks,  I  hear  the  beaten  drum : 
Come,  father,  I  '11  bestow  you  with  a  friend. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  VII.— A  Tent  in  the  French  Camp. 
LEAR  on  a  bed  asleep,  soft  music  playing ; 
Physician,  Gentleman,  and  others  attending. 

Enter  CORDELIA  and  KENT. 

Cor.  O  thou  good  Kent,  how  shall  I  live 

and  work  [too  short, 

To  match  thy  goodness?      My  life  will  be 

And  every  measure  fail  me.  [paid. 

Kent.  To  be  acknowledg'd,  madam,  is  o'er- 
All  my  reports  go  with  the  modest  truth ; 
Nor  more  nor  clipp'd,  but  so. 

Cor.  Be  better  suited  : 

These  weeds  are  memories  of  those  worser  hours: 
I  pr'ythee,  put  them  off. 

Kent.  Pardon,  dear  madam  ; 

Yet  to  be  known  shortens  my  made  intent : 
My  boon  I  make  it  that  you  know  me  not 
Till  time  and  I  think  meet. 


Cor.  Then  be't  so,  my  good  lord. — How 
does  the  king  ?         [  To  the  Physician. 

Phys.  Madam,  sleeps  still. 

Cor.  O  you  kind  gods, 
Cure  this  great  breach  in  his  abused  nature ! 
The  untun  d  and  jarring  senses,  O,  wind  up 
Of  this  child-changed  father ! 

Phys.  So  please  your  majesty 

That  we  may  wake  the  king:  he  hath  slept 

long.  [proceed 

Cor.  Be  govern'd  by  your  knowledge,  and 
I'  the  sway  of  your  own  will.     Is  he  array'd  ? 

Gent.  Ay,  madam  ;  in  the  heaviness  of  sleep 
We  put  fresh  garments  on  him.  [him  ; 

Phys.  Be  by,  good  madam,  when  we  do  awake 
I  doubt  not  of  his  temperance. 

Cor.  Very  well. 

Phys.  Please  you,  draw  near. — Louder  the 
music  there! 

Cor.  O  my  dear  father !     Restoration  hang 
Thy  medicine  on  my  lips ;  and  let  this  kiss 
Repair  those  violent  harms  that  my  two  sisters 
Have  in  thy  reverence  made ! 

Kent.  Kind  and  dear  princess ! 

Cor.  Had  you  not  been  their  father,  these 

white  flakes 

Had  challeng'd  pity  of  them.     Was  this  a  face 
To  be  oppos'd  against  the  warring  winds? 
To  stand  against  the  deep  dread  bolted  thunder? 
In  the  most  terrible  and  nimble  stroke 
Of  quick,   cross  lightning?   to  watch, — poor 

perdu ! — 

With  this  thin  helm  ?    Mine  enemy's  dog, 
Though  he  had  bit  me,  should  have  stood  that 
night  [father, 

Against  my  fire;   and  wast  thou  fain,   poor 
To  hovel  thee  with  swine  and  rogues  forlorn, 
In  short  and  musty  straw  ?    Alack,  alack ! 
'Tis  wonder  that  thy  life  and  wits  at  once    [him. 
Had  not  concluded  all.— He  wakes  ;  speak  to 

Phys.  Madam,  do  you  ;  'tis  fittest. 

Cor.  How  does  my  royal  lord?    How  fares 
your  majesty  ?  [the  grave : — 

Lear.  You  do  me  wrong  to  take  me  out  o' 
Thou  art  a  soul  in  bliss  ;  but  I  am  bound 
Upon  a  wheel  of  fire,  that  mine  own  tears 
Do  scald  like  molten  lead. 

Cor.  Sir,  do  you  know  me  ? 

Lear.  You  are  a  spirit,  I  know :  when  did 
you  die  ? 

Cor.  Still,  still  far  wide !  [awhile. 

Phys.  He 's  scarce  awake :   let  him  alone 

Lear.  Where  have  I  been  ?    Where  am  I  ? — 

Fair  daylight  ?—  [pity 

I  am  mightily  abus'd. — I  should  e'en  die  with 

To  see  another  thus.  — I  know  not  what  to  say.  — 

I  will  not  swear  these  are  my  hands :— let 's  see ; 


SCENE  VII. 


KING  LEAR. 


1059 


I  feel  this  pin  prick.     Would  I  were  assur'd 
Of  my  condition ! 

Cor.  O,  look  upon  me,  sir, 

And  hold  your  hands  in  benediction  o'er  me. — 
No,  sir,  you  must  not  kneel. 

Lear.  Pray,  do  not  mock  me : 

I  am  a  very  foolish  fond  old  man,  [less  ; 

Fourscore  and  upward,  not  an  hour  more  nor 
And,  to  deal  plainly, 

I  fear  I  am  not  in  my  perfect  mind.          [man ; 
Methinks  I  should  know  you,  and  know  this 
Yet  I  am  doubtful :  for  I  am  mainly  ignorant 
What  place  this  is  ;  and  all  the  skill  I  have 
Remembers  not  these  garments;  nor  I  know 

not 
Where  I  did  lodge  last  night.     Do  not  laugh 

at  me ; 

For,  as  I  am  a  man,  I  think  this  lady 
To  be  my  child  Cordelia. 

Cor.  And  so  I  am,  I  am. 

Lear.  Be   your   tears   wet?    yes,    faith.       I 

pray,  weep  not : 

If  you  have  poison  for  me  I  will  drink  it. 
I  know  you  do  not  love  me  ;  for  your  sisters 
Have,  as  I  do  remember,  done  me  wrong : 
You  have  some  cause,  they  have  not. 

Cor.  No  cause,  no  cause. 

Lear.  Am  I  in  France? 

Kent.  In  your  own  kingdom,  sir. 

Lear.  Do  not  abuse  me. 

Phys.  Be  comforted,  good  madam  :  the  great 

rage, 

You  see,  is  kill'd  in  him :  and  yet  it  is  danger 
To  make  him  even  o'er  the  time  he  has  lost. 
Desire  him  to  go  in  ;  trouble  him  no  more 
Till  further  settling. 

Cor.  Will 't  please  your  highness  walk  ? 

Leaf.  You  must  bear  with  me  : 

Pray  you  now,  forget  and  forgive:   I  am  old 
and  foolish. 

[Exeunt  LEAR,  COR.,  Phys.,  and  Attendants. 

Gent.  Holds  it  true,  sir,  that  the  Duke  of 
Cornwall  was  so  slain  ? 

Kent.  Most  certain,  sir. 

Gent.  Who  is  conductor  of  his  people? 

Kent.  As  'tis  said,  the  bastard  son  of  Gloster. 

Gent.  They  say  Edgar,  his  banished  son,  is 
with  the  Earl  of  Kent  in  Germany. 

Kent.  Report  is  changeable.  'Tis  time  to 
look  about ;  the  powers  of  the  kingdom 
approach  apace. 

Gent.  The  arbitrement  is  like  to  be  bloody. 
Fare  you  well,  sir.  [Exit. 

Kent.  My  point  and  period  will  be  throughly 

wrought, 
Or  well  or  ill,  as  this  day's  battle's  fought. 

{Exit. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — Th*  Camp  of  the  British  Forces 
near  Dover. 

Enter,  with  drum  and  colours,  EDMUND, 
REGAN,  Officers,  Soldiers,  and  others. 

Edm.  Know  of  the  duke  if  his  last  purpose 

hold, 

Or  whether  since  he  is  advis'd  by  aught 
To  change  the  course :  he 's  full  of  alteration 
Andself-reproving: — bringhis constant  pleasure. 
[  To  an  Officer,  who  goes  out. 

Reg.  Our  sister's  man  is  certainly  miscarried. 

Edm.  'Tis  to  be  doubted,  madam. 

Reg.  Now,  sweet  lord, 

You  know  the  goodness  I  intend  upon  you: 
Tell  me, — but  truly, — but  then  speak  the  truth, 
Do  you  not  love  my  sister  ? 

Edm.  In  honour'd  love. 

Reg.  But  have  you  never  found  my  brothers 

way 
To  the  forefended  place  ? 

Edm.  That  thought  abuses  you. 

Reg.    I   am   doubtful   that   you  have  been 

conjunct 
And  bosom'd  with  her,  as  far  as  we  call  hers. 

Edm.  No,  by  mine  honour,  madam. 

Reg.  I  never  shall  endure  her:  dear  my  lord, 
Be  not  familiar  with  her. 

Edm.  Fear  me  not : — 

She  and  the  duke  her  husband! 

Enter,  with  drum  and  colours,  ALBANY, 
GONERIL,  and  Soldiers. 

Gon.    [Aside.']   I  had  rather  lose  the  battle 

than  that  sister 
Should  loosen  him  and  me. 

Alb.  Our  very  loving  sister,  well  be-met. — 
Sir,  this  I  heard, — the  king  is  come  to  his 

daughter, 

With  others  whom  the  rigour  of  our  state 
Forc'd  to  cry  out.     Where  I  could  not  be  honest 
I  never  yet  was  valiant :  for  this  business, 
It  toucheth  us,  as  France  invades  our  land, 
Not  bolds  the  king,  with  others  whom,  I  fear, 
Most  just  and  heavy  causes  make  oppose. 

Edm.  Sir,  you  speak  nobly. 

Reg.  Why  is  this  reason'd  ? 

Gon.  Combine  together  'gainst  the  enemy ; 
For  these  domestic  and  particular  broils 
Are  not  the  question  here. 

Alb.  Let's,  then,  determine 

With  the  ancient  of  war  on  our  proceeding. 

Edm.  I  shall  attend  you  presently  at  your  tent 

Reg.  Sister,  you  '11  go  with  us  ? 


io6o 


KING  LEAR. 


[ACT  v. 


Gon.  No. 

Reg*  'Tis  most  convenient ;   pray  you,  go 

with  us.  [will  go. 

Gon.  [Aside, 1   O,  ho,  I  know  the  riddle. — I 

As  they  are  going-  out,  enter  EDGAR,  disguised. 

Edg.  If  e'er  your  grace  had  speech  with  man 

so  poor, 

Hear  me  one  word. 

Alb.  I  '11  overtake  you. — Speak. 

[Exeunt  EDM.,  REG.,  GON.,  Officers, 

Soldiers,  and  Attendants. 
Edg.  Before  you  fight  the  battle,  ope  this 

letter. 

If  you  have  victory,  let  the  trumpet  sound 
For  him  that  brought  it:  wretched  though  I 

seem, 

I  can  produce  a  champion  that  will  prove 
What  is  avouched  there.     If  you  miscarry, 
Your  business  of  the  world  hath  so  an  end, 
And  machination  ceases.     Fortune  1  jve  you ! 
Alb.  Stay  till  I  have  read  the  letter. 
Edg.  I  was  forbid  it. 

When  time  shall  serve,  let  but  the  herald  cry, 
And  I  '11  appear  again. 

Alb.  Why,  fare  thee  well:    I  will  o'erlook 
thy  paper.  [Exit  EDGAR. 

Re-enter  EDMUND. 

Edm.  The  enemy 's  in  view  ;  draw  up  your 

powers. 
Here  is  the  guess  of  their  true  strength  and 

forces 

By  diligent  discovery  ; — but  your  haste 
Is  now  urg'd  on  you. 

Alb.  We  will  greet  the  time.     [Exit. 

Edm.  To  both  these  sisters  have  I  sworn 

my  love ; 

Each  jealous  of  the  other,  as  the  stung 
Are  of  the  adder.      Which  of  them  shall  I 

take? 

Both?  one?  or  neither?    Neither  can  be  enjoy 'd 
If  both  remain  alive :  to  take  the  widow 
Exasperates,  makes  mad  her  sister  Goneril ; 
And  hardly  shall  I  carry  out  my  side, 
Her  husband  being  alive.     Now,  then,  we  '11 

use 
His  countenance  for  the  battle;  which  being 

done, 

Let  her  who  would  be  rid  of  him  devise 
His  speedy  taking  oft     As  for  the  mercy 
Which  he  intends  to  Lear  and  to  Cordelia, — 
The  battle  done,  and  they  within  our  power, 
Shall  never  see  his  pardon:  for  my  state 
Stands  on  me  to  defend,  not  to  debate.     [Exit. 


SCENE  II.—  A  Field  between  the  two  Camt>s. 

Alarum  within.  Enter,  with  drum  and 
colours ,  LEAR,  CORDELIA,  and  their  Forces ; 
and  exeunt. 

Enter  EDGAR  and  GLOSTER. 

Edg.  Here,  father,  take  the  shadow  of  this 
tree  [thrive: 

For  your  good  host ;  pray  that  the  right  may 
If  ever  I  return  to  you  again 
I  '11  bring  you  comfort. 

Glo.  Grace  go  with  you,  sir ! 

[Exit  EDGAR. 

Alarum  and  Retreat  within.    Re-enter  EDGAR. 

Edg.  Away,  old  man, — give  me  thy  hand, — 
away !  [ta'en : 

King    Lear   hath   lost,   he   and   his  daughter 
Give  me  thy  hand  ;  come  on. 

Glo.  No  further,  sir ;  a  man  may  rot  even 

here.  [endure 

Edg.  What,  in  ill  thoughts  again?    Men  must 

Their  going  hence,  even  as  their  coming  hither: 

Ripeness  is  all : — come  on. 

Glo.  And  that 's  true  too. 

[Exeunt* 

SCENE  III. — The  British  Camp  near  Dover. 

Enter,  in  conquest,  with  drum  and  colours, 
EDMUND  ;  LEAR  and  CORDELIA  prisoners', 
Officers,  Soldiers,  <SrV. 

Edm.  Some  officers  take  them  away:  good 

guard, 

Until  their  greater  pleasures  first  be  known 
That  are  to  censure  them. 

Cor.  We  are  not  the  first 

Who,  with   best  meaning,  have  incurr'd   the 

worst. 

For  thee,  oppressed  king,  am  I  cast  down ; 
Myself  could    else   out-frown    false    fortune's 

frown. —  [sisters? 

Shall  we  not  see   these  daughters  and  these 

Lear.  No,  no,  no,  no  !     Come,  let 's  away 

to  prison : 

We  two  alone  will  sing  like  birds  i'  the  cage : 
When  thou  dost  ask  me  blessing  I  '11  kneel  down 
And  ask  of  thee  forgiveness :  so  we  '11  live, 
And  pray,  and  sing,  and  tell  old  tales,  and  laugh 
At  gilded  butterflies,  and  hear  poor  rogues 
Talk  of  court  news  ;  and  we  '11  talk  with  them 

too, —  [out ; — 

Who  loses  and  who  wins;  who's  in,  who's 
And  take  upon 's  the  mystery  of  things 
As  if  we  were  God's  spies  :  and  we  '11  wear  out 


SCENE  III.] 


KING  LEAR. 


1061 


In  a  wall'd  prison  packs  and  sects  of  great  ones 
That  ebb  and  flow  by  the  moon. 

Edm.  Take  them  away. 

Lear.   Upon  such  sacrifices,  my  Cordelia, 
The  gods  themselves  throw  incense.     Have  I 
caught  thee  ?  .    [heaven, 

He  that  parts  us  shall  bring  a  brand  from 
And  fire  us  hence  like  foxes.  Wipe  thine  eyes ; 
The  good  years  shall  devour  them,  flesh  and  fell , 
Ere  they  shall  make  us  weep :  we  '11  see  'em 

starve  first 
Come.         [Exeunt  LEAR  and  COR.  ,  guarded. 

Edm.  Come  hither,  captain ;  hark. 
Take  thou  this  note  [giving  a  paper] ;  go  follow 

them  to  prison : 

One  step  I  have  advanc'd  thee ;  if  thou  dost 
As  this  instructs  thee,  thou  dost  make  thy  way 
To  noble  fortunes :  know  thou  this, — that  men 
Are  as  the  time  is :  to  be  tender-minded 
Does  not  become  a  sword : — thy  great  employ- 
ment 

Will  not  bear  question ;  either  say  thou  'It  do 't, 
Or  thrive  by  other  means. 

Off.  I '11  do 't,  my  lord. 

Edtn*  About  it ;  and  write  happy  when  thou 

hast  done, 

Mark, — I  say,  instantly;  and  carry  it  so 
As  I  have  set  it  down. 

Off.  I  cannot  draw  a  cart  nor  eat  dried  oats ; 
If  it  be  man's  work  I  will  do 't.  [Exit. 

Flourish.     Enter  ALBANY,  GONERIL,  REGAN, 
Officers,  and  Attendants. 

Alb.  Sir,  you  have  shown  to-day  your  valiant 

strain, 

And  fortune  led  you  well :  you  have  the  captives 
Who  were  the  opposites  of  this  day's  strife : 
We  do  require  them  of  you,  so  to  use  them 
As  we  shall  find  their  merits  and  our  safety 
May  equally  determine. 

Edm.  Sir,  I  thought  it  fit 

To  send  the  old  and  miserable  king 
To  some  retention  and  appointed  guard ; 
Whose  age  has  charms  in  it,  whose  title  more, 
To  pluck  the  common  bosom  on  his  side, 
And  turn  our  impress'd  lances  in  our  eyes 
Which  do  command  them.     With  him  I  sent 

the  queen ; 

My  reason  all  the  same ;  and  they  are  ready 
To-morrow,  or  at  further  space,  to  appear 
Where  you  shall  hold  your  session.     At  this 
time  [friend ; 

We  sweat  and  bleed:  the  friend  hath  lost  his 
And  the  best  quarrels,  in  the  heat,  are  curs'd 
By  those  that  feel  their  sharpness: — 
The  question  of  Cordelia  and  her  father 
Requires  a.  fitter  place. 


Alb.  Sir,  by  your  patience 

I  hold  you  but  a  subject  of  this  war, 
Not  as  a  brother. 

Reg.  That 's  as  we  list  to  grace  him. 

Methinks  our  pleasure  might  have  been  de- 
manded 

Ere  you  had  spoke  so  far.     He  led  our  powers ; 
Bore  the  commission  of  my  place  and  person ; 
The  which  immediacy  may  well  stand  up 
And  call  itself  your  brother. 

Gon.  Not  so  hot : 

In  his  own  grace  he  doth  exalt  himself, 
More  than  in  your  addition. 

Reg.  In  my  rights, 

By  me  invested,  he  compeers  the  best. 

Gon.  That  were  the  most,  if  he  should  hus- 
band you. 

Reg.  Jesters  do  oft  prove  prophets. 

Gon.  Holla,  holla ! 

That  eye  that  told  you  so  look'd  but  asquint. 

Reg.  Lady,  I  am  not  well;  else  I  should 

answer 

From  a  full-flowing  stomach. — General, 
Take  thou  my  soldiers,  prisoners,  patrimony ; 
Dispose  of  them,  of  me ;  the  walls  are  thine : 
Witness  the  world  that  I  create  thee  here 
My  lord  and  master. 

Gon.  Mean  you  to  enjoy  him  ? 

Alb.  The  let-alone  lies  not  in  your  good-will. 

Edm.  Nor  in  thine,  lord. 

Alb.  Half-blooded  fellow,  yes. 

Reg.  Let  the  drum  strike,  and  prove  my  title 
thine.  [To  EDMUND. 

Alb.  Stay  yet;    hear  reason. — Edmund,   I 

arrest  thee 

On  capital  treason ;  and,  in  thy  arrest, 
This  gilded  serpent  {pointing  to  GONERIL]. — 

For  your  claim,  fair  sister, 
I  bar  it  in  the  interest  of  my  wife ; 
'Tis  she  is  sub-contracted  to  this  lord, 
And  I,  her  husband,  contradict  your  bans. 
If  you  will  marry,  make  your  loves  to  me, — 
My  lady  is  bespoke. 

Gon.  A  r  interlude  ! 

Alb.    Thou    art    arrn'd,    Gloster :— let    the 

trumpet  sound : 

If  none  appear  to  prove  upon  thy  person 
Thy  heinous,  manifest,  and  many  treasons, 
There  is  my  pledge  [throwing  down  a  glove]  ; 

I  '11  make  it  on  thy  heart, 
Ere  I  taste  bread,  thou  art  in  nothing  less 
Than  I  have  here  proclaim'd  thee. 

Reg.  Sick,  O,  sick! 

Gon.  [Aside.]  If  not,  I '11  ne'er  trust  medicine. 

Edm.  There '»  my  exchange  [throwing^d&tvn 

a  glove} :  what  in  the  world  he  is 
That  names  me  traitor,  villain-like  he  lies  s 


1062 


KING  LEAR. 


[ACT  v. 


Call  by  thy  trumpet :  he  that  dares  approach, 
On  him,  on  you,  who  not  ?  I  will  maintain 
My  truth  and  honour  firmly. 

Alb.  A  herald,  ho! 

Edm.  A  herald,  ho,  a  herald  ! 

Alb.  Trust   to  thy  single  virtue ;    for  thy 

soldiers, 

All  levied  in  my  name,  have  in  my  name 
Took  their  discharge. 

Reg.  My  sickness  grows  upon  me. 

Alb.  She  is  not  well ;  convey  her  to  my  tent. 
[Exit  REGAN  led. 

Enter  a  Herald. 

Come  hither,  herald, — Let  the  trumpet  sound, — 
And  read  out  this. 

Off.  Sound,  trumpet !      [A  trumpet  sounds. 

Herald.  [Reads. ~\  If  any  man  of  quality  or 
degree  within  the  lists  of  the  army  will  main- 
tain tipon  Edmund,  supposed  Earl  of  Gloster, 
that  he  is  a  manifold  traitor,  let  him  appear  by 
the  third  sound  of  the  trumpet :  he  is  bold  in 
his  defence. 

Edm.  Sound  !  [i  Tsumpet. 

Herald.  Again!  [2  Trumpet. 

Herald.  Again  !  [3  Trumpet. 

[  Trumpet  answers  within. 

Enter  EDGAR,  armed,  and  preceded  by  a 
trumpet. 

Alb.  Ask  him  his  purposes,  why  he  appears 
Upon  this  call  o'  the  trumpet. 

Herald.  What  are  you  ? 

Your  name,  your  quality?  and  why  you  answer 
This  present  summons  ? 

Edg.  Know,  my  name  is  lost ; 

By  treason's  tooth  bare-gnawn  and  canker-bit : 
Yet  am  I  noble  as  the  adversary 
I  come  to  cope. 

Alb.  Which  is  that  adversary? 

Edg.  What's  he  that  speaks  for  Edmund 
Earl  of  Gloster? 

Edm.  Himself: — what  say'st  thou  to  him  ? 

Edg.  Draw  thy  sword, 

That,  if  my  speech  offend  a  noble  heart, 
Thy  arm  may  do  thee  justice :  here  is  mine. 
Behold,  it  is  tne  privilege  of  mine  honours, 
My  oath,  and  my  profession :  I  protest, — 
Maugre  thy  strength,  youth,  place,  and  emin- 
ence, 

Despite  thy  victor  sword  and  fire-new  fortune, 
Thy  valour  and  thy  heart, — thou  art  a  traitor  ; 
False  to  thy  gods,  thy  brother,  and  thy  father  ; 
Conspirant  'gainst  this  high  illustrious  prince  ; 
And,  from  the  extremest  upward  of  thy  head 
To  the  descent  and  dust  below  thy  foot, 
A  most  toad-spotted  traitor.     Say  thou  No, 


This  sword,  this  arm,  and  my  best  spirits,  are 

bent 

To  prove  upon  thy  heart,  whereto  I  speak, 
Thou  liest. 

Edm.  In  wisdom  I  should  ask  thy  name ; 
But,  since  thy  outside  looks  so  fair  and  warlike, 
And  that  thy   tongue   some  say  of  breeding 

breathes, 

What  safe  and  nicely  I  might  well  delay 
By  rule  of  knighthood,  I  disdain  and  spurn : 
Back  do  I  toss  these  treasons  to  thy  head ; 
With  the  hell-hated  lie  o'erwhelm  thy  heart ; 
Which, — for  they  yet  glance  by  and  scarcely 

bruise, — 

This  sword  of  mine  shall  give  them  instant  way, 
Where  they  shall   rest   for  ever. — Trumpets, 

speak! 

[Alarums.     They  fight.     EDMUND/^//?. 
Alb.  Save  him,  save  him  J 
Gon.  This  is  practice,  Gloster  : 

By  the  law  of  arms  thou  wast  not  bound  to 

answer 

An  unknown  opposite ;  thou  art  not  vanquish'd, 
But  cozen'd  and  beguil'd, 

Alb.  Shut  your  mouth,  dame, 

Or  with  this  paper  shall  I  stop  it : — hold,  sir ; 
Thou  worse  than  any  name,  read  thine  own 

evil : — 
No  tearing,  lady ;  I  perceive  you  know  it. 

[Gives  the  letter  to  EDMUND. 
Gon.  Say,  if  I  do, — the  laws  are  mine,  not 

thine : 
Who  can  arraign  me  for't? 

Alb.  Most  monstrous! 

Know'st  thou  this  paper? 

Gon.  Ask  me  not  what  I  know. 

[Exit. 

Alb.  Go  after  her :  she 's  desperate ;  govern 
her.         [To  an  Officer,  who  goes  out. 
Edm.  What  you  have  charg'd  me  with,  that 
have  I  done ;  [out : 

And  more,  much  more ;  the  time  will  bring  it 
'Tis  past,  and  so  am  I. — But  what  art  thou 
That  hast  this  fortune  on  me  ?     If  thou  'rt  noble 
I  do  forgive  thee. 

Edg.  Let 's  exchange  charity. 

I  am  no  less  in  blood  than  thou  art,  Edmund; 
If  more,  the  more  thou  hast  wrong'd  me. 
My  name  is  Edgar,  and  thy  father's  son. 
The  gods  are  just,  and  of  our  pleasant  vices 
Make  instruments  to  plague  us : 
The  dark  and  vicious  place  where  thee  he  got 
Cost  him  his  eyes. 

Edm.          Thou  hast  spoken  right,  'tis  true ; 
The  wheel  is  come  full  circle  ;  I  am  here. 

Alb.  Methought  thy  very  gait  did  prophesy 
A  royal  nobleness : — I  must  embrace  thee : 


SCENE  III.] 


KING  LEAR. 


Let  sorrow  split  my  heart  if  ever  I 
Did  hate  thee  or  thy  father ! 

Edg.   Worthy  prince,  I  know  't. 

Alb.  Where  have  you  hid  yourself? 
How  have  you  known  the   miseries  of  your 
father?  [tale;— 

Edg.  By  nursing  them,  my  lord.  — List  a  brief 
And  when  'tis  told,  O,  that  my  heart  would 

burst ! — 

The  bloody  proclamation  to  escape,         [ness ! 
That  follow'd  me  so  near, — O,  our  lives'  sweet- 
That  with  the  pain  of  death  we  'd  hourly  die 
Rather  than  die  at  once ! — taught  me  to  shift 
Into  a  madman's  rags ;  to  assume  a  semblance 
That  very  dogs  disdain'd :  and  in  this  habit 
Met  I  my  father  with  his  bleeding  rings, 
Their  precious  stones  new  lost;   became  his 

E'  *  :, 
d  for  him,  sav'd  him  from  despair ; 
lit ! — reveal'd  myself  unto  him 
Until  some  half-hour  past,  when  I  was  arm'd ; 
Not  sure,  though  hoping,  of  this  good  success, 
I  ask'd  his  blessing,  and  from  first  to  last 
Told  him  my  pilgrimage :  but  his  flaw'd  heart, — 
Alack,  too  weak  the  conflict  to  support ! — 
'Twixt  two  extremes  of  passion,  joy  and  grief, 
Burst  smilingly. 

Edm.  This  speech  of  yours  hath  mov'd  me, 
And  shall  perchance  do  good :  but  speak  you  on ; 
You  look  as  you  had  something  more  to  say. 

Alb.  If  there  be  more,  more  woeful,  hold  it  in ; 
For  I  am  almost  ready  to  dissolve, 
Hearing  of  this. 

Edg.  This  would  have  seem'd  a  period 

To  such  as  love  not  sorrow ;  but  another, 
To  amplify  too  much,  would  make  much  more, 
And  top  extremity.  [man 

Whilst  I  was  big  in  clamour,  came  there  a 
Who,  having  seen  me  in  my  worst  estate, 
Shunn'd  my  abhorr'd  society ;  but  then,  finding 
Who  'twas  that  so  endur'd,  with  his  strong  arms 
He  fasten'd  on  my  neck,  and  bellow'd  out 
As  he  'd  burst  heaven ;  threw  him  on  my  father ; 
Told  the  most  piteous  tale  of  Lear  and  him 
That  ever  ear  receiv'd :  which  in  recounting 
His  grief  grew  puissant,  and  the  strings  of  life 
Began  to  crack :  twice  then  the  trumpet  sounded, 
And  there  I  left  him  tranc'd. 

Alb.  But  who  was  this  ? 

Edg.  Kent,  sir,  the  banish'd  Kent,  who  in 

disguise 

Follow'd  his  enemy  king,  and  did  him  service 
Improper  for  a  slave. 

Enter  a  Gentleman  hastily,  with  a  bloody  knife. 
Gent.  Help,  help,  O,  help  I 
Edg.  What  kind  of  help? 


Alb.  Speak,  man. 

Edg.  What  means  that  bloody  knife  ? 

Gent.  'Tis  hot,  it  smokes; 

It  came  even  from  the  heart  of — O,  she 's  dead ! 

Alb.  Who  dead?  speak,  man. 

Gent.  Your  lady,  sir,  your  lady:  and  her  sister 
By  her  is  poison'd  ;  she  hath  confess'd  it. 

Edm.  I  was  contracted  to  them  both:  all  three 
Now  marry  in  an  instant. 

Edg.  Here  comes  Kent. 

Alb.  Produce  the  bodies,  be  they  alive  or 

dead : —  [tremble, 

This  judgment  of  the  heavens,  that  makes  us 

Touches  us  not  with  pity.      [Exit  Gentleman. 

Enter  KENT. 

O,  is  this  he  ? 

The  time  will  not  allow  the  compliment 

Which  very  manners  urges. 

Kent.  I  am  come 

To  bid  my  king  and  master  aye  good-night  : 
Is  he  not  here  ? 

Alb.  Great  thing  of  us  forgot ! — 

Speak,  Edmund,  where 's  the  king?  and  where 's 
Cordelia  ? 

[The bodies  of  Gow.  and  REG.  are  brought  in. 
See'st  thou  this  object,  Kent  ? 

Kent.  Alack,  why  thus? 

Edm.  Yet  Edmund  was  belov*d  • 

The  one  the  other  poison'd  for  my  sake, 
And  after  slew  herself. 

Alb.  Even  so. — Cover  their  faces.  [do, 

Edm.  I  pant  for  life : — some  good  I  mean  to 
Despite  of  mine  own  nature.     Quickly  send, — 
Be  brief  in  it, — to  the  castle ;  for  my  writ 
Is  on  the  life  of  Lear  and  on  Cordelia : — 
Nay,  send  in  time. 

Alb.  Run,  run,  O,  run!       [send 

Edg.  To  who,  my  lord?— Who  has  the  office? 
Thy  token  of  reprieve. 

Edm.  Well  thought  on :  take  my  sword, 
Give  it  the  captain. 

Alb.  Haste  thee,  for  thy  life. 

[Exit  EDGAR. 

Edm.  He  hath  commission  from  thy  wife 

and  me 

To  hang  Cordelia  in  the  prison,  and 
To  lay  the  blame  upon  her  own  despair, 
That  she  fordid  herself. 

Alb.  The  gods  defend  her ! — Bear  him  hence 
awhile.  [EDMUND  is  borne  off. 

Re-enter  LEAR,  with  CORDELIA  dead  in  his 
arms;  EDGAR,  Officer,  and  others  following. 

Lear.   Howl,  howl,  howl,  howl  I — O,   you 

are  men  of  stones : 
Had  I  your  tongues  and  eyes,  I  'd  use  them  so 


1064 


KING  LEAR. 


i  ACT  V. 


That  heaven's  vault  should  crack. — She  '3  gone 

for  ever ! — 

I  know  when  one  is  dead  and  when  one  lives ; 
She 's  dead  as  earth. — Lend  me  a  looking-glass; 
If  that  her  breath  will  mist  or  stain  the  stone, 
Why,  then  she  lives. 

Kent.  Is  this  the  promis'd  end? 

Edg.  Or  image  of  that  horror  ? 

Alb.  Fall,  and  cease ! 

Lear.  This  feather  stirs ;  she  lives !  if  it  be  so, 
It  is  a  chance  which  does  redeem  all  sorrows 
That  ever  I  have  felt. 

Kent.  O  my  good  master !    [Kneeling. 

Lear.  Pr'ythee,  away. 

Edg.  'Tis  noble  Kent,  your  friend. 

Lear.  A  plague  upon  you,  murderers,  traitors 
all !  [ever ! — 

I  might  have  say'd  her;  now  she's  gone  for 
Cordelia,  Cordelia !  stay  a  little.     Ha ! 
What  is't  thou  say'st? — Her  voice  was  ever 
soft,  [woman. — 

Gentle,    and    low, — an    excellent    thing    in 
I  kill'd  the  slave  that  was  a-hanging  thee. 

Off.  JTis  true,  my  lords,  he  did. 

Lear.  Did  I  not,  fellow  ? 

I  have  seen  the  day,  with  my  good  biting 

falchion, 

I  would  have  made  them  skip :  I  am  old  now, 

And  these  same  crosses  spoil  me. — Who  are  you  ? 

Mine  eyes  are  not  o'  the  best: — I'll  tell  you 

straight.  [hated, 

Kent.  If  fortune  brag  of  two  she  lov'd  and 
One  of  them  we  behold.  [Kent  ? 

Lear.  This  is  a  dull   sight.      Are  you  not 

Kent.  The  same, 

Your  servant  Kent.—- Where  is  your  servant 
Caius  ? 

Lear.  He 's  a  good  fellow,  I  can  tell  you  that ; 

He  '11  strike,  and  quickly  too : — he 's  dead  and 

rotten.  [man, — 

Kent.  No,  my  good  lord;  I  am  the  very 

Lear.  I  '11  see  that  straight  [decay 

Kent.  That  from  your  first  of  difference  and 
Have  follow'd  your  sad  steps. 

Lear.  You  are  welcome  hither. 

Kent.  Nor  no  man  else: — all's  cheerless, 

dark,  and  deadly. — 

Your  eldest  daughters  haveforedone  themselves, 
And  desperately  are  dead. 


Lear.  Ay,  so  I  think. 

Alb.  He  knows  not  what  he  says;  and  vain  is  it 
That  we  present  us  to  him. 

Edg.  Very  bootless. 

Enter  an  Officer. 

Off.  Edmund  is  dead,  my  lord. 

Alb.  That 's  but  a  trifle  here.— 

You  lords  and  noble  friends,  know  our  intent. 
What  comfort  to  this  great  decay  may  come 
Shall  be  applied :  for  us,  we  will  resign, 
During  the  life  of  this  old  majesty, 
To  him  our  absolute  power: — you   to    you* 
rights ;  [  To  EDGAR  and  KENT. 

With  boot,  and  such  addition  as  your  honours 
Have  more  than  merited. — All  friends  shall  taste 
The  wages  of  their  virtue,  and  all  foes 
The  cup  of  their  deservings. — O,  see,  see ! 

Lear.  And  my  poor  fool  is  hang'd!    No, 

no,  no,  life ! 

Why  should  a  dog,  a  horse,  a  rat  have  life, 
And  thou  no  breath  at  all  ?    Thou  'It  come  no 

more, 

Never,  never,  never,  never,  never  ! — 
Pray  you,  undo  this  button: — thank  you,  sir. — 
Do  you  see  this  ?     Look  on  her, — look, — her 

lips,— 
Look  there,  look  there ! —  \He  dies. 

Edg.  He  faints ! — My  lord,  my  lord ! — 

Kent.  Break,  heart ;  I  pr'ythee,  break ! 

Edg.  Look  up,  my  lord. 

Kent.  Vex  not  his  ghost :  O,  let  him  pass ! 

he  hates  him 

That  would  upon  the  rack  of  this  rough  world 
Stretch  him  out  longer. 

Edg.  He  is  gone  indeed. 

Kent.  The  wonder  is  he  hath  endur'd  so  long: 
He  but  usurp'd  his  life.  [business 

Alb.  Bear  them  from  hence. — Our  present 

Is  general  woe. — Friends  of  my  soul,  you  twain 

[  To  KENT  and  EDGAR. 

Rule  in  this  realm,  and  the  gor'd  state  sustain. 

Kent.  I  have  a  journey,  sir,  shortly  to  go  ; 
My  master  calls  me, — I  must  not  say  no. 

Alb.  The  weight  of  this  sad  time  we  must  obey; 
Speak  what  we  feel,  not  what  we  ought  to  say. 
The  oldest  hath  borne  most:  we  that  are  young 
Shall  never  see  so  much  nor  live  so  Jong. 

[Exeunt ',  with  a  dead  inarch* 


ROMEO   AND  JULIET. 


PERSONS   REPRESENTED. 


ESCALUS,  Prince  of  Verona. 

PARIS,   a   Young  Nobleman,  Kinsman  to  the 

Prince. 

MONTAGUE,  \  Heads  of  two  Houses  at  variance 
CAPULET,      /     with  each  other. 
An  Old  Man,  Uncle  to  CAPULET. 
ROMEO,  Son  to  MONTAGUE. 
MERCUTIO,  Kinsman  to  the  Prince,  and  Friend 

to  ROMEO. 
BENVOLIO,  Nephew  to  MONTAGUE,  and  Friend 

to  ROMEO. 

TYBALT,  Nephew  to  LADY  CAPULET. 
FRIAR  LAWRENCE,  a  Franciscan. 
FRIAR  JOHN,  of  the  same  Order. 
BALTHASAR,  Servant  to  ROMEO. 


PETER,  Servant  to  JULIET'S  Nurse. 

ABRAHAM,  Servant  to  MONTAGUE. 

An  Apothecary. 

Three  Musicians. 

Chorus. 

Page  to  PARIS  ;  another  Page. 

An  Officer. 


LADY  MONTAGUE,  Wife  to  MONTAGUE. 
LADY  CAPULET,  Wife  to  CAPULET. 
JULIET,  Daughter  to  CAPOLBT. 
Nurse  to  JULIET. 

Citizens  of  Verona  ;  several  Men  and  Women, 
relations  to  both  Houses  ;  Maskers,  Guards, 
Watchmen,  and  Attendants. 

SCENE, — During  the  greater  part  of  the  Play  in  VERONA;  once,  in  the  Fifth  Act,  at  MANTUA. 


PROLOGUE. 

Two  households,  both  alike  in  dignity, 

In  fair  Verona,  where  we  lay  our  scene, 
From  ancient  grudge  break  to  new  mutiny, 

Where  civil  blood  makes  civil  hands  unclean. 
From  forth  the  fatal  loins  of  these  twc  foes 

A  pair  of  star-cross'd  lovers  take  their  life  ; 
Whose  rmsadventur'd  piteous  overthrows 

Do  witn  their  death  bury  their  parents'  sfrife. 
The  fearful  passage  of  their  death-mark'd  love, 

And  the  continuance  of  their  parents'  rage, 
Which  but  their  children's  end  naught  come, 
remove, 

Is  now  the  two  hours'  traffic  of  our  stage? 
The  which,  if  you  with  patient  ears  attend, 
What  here  shall  miss  our  toil  shall  strive  to 
mend. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.— A  public  Place. 

Enter  SAMPSON  and  GREGORY,  armed  with 
swords  and  bucklers. 

Sam.  Gregory,  o*  my  word,  we'll  not  carry 
coals. 

Gre.  No,  for  then  we  should  be  colliers. 

Sam.  I  mean,  an  we  be  in  choler  we  '11  draw. 

Gre.  Ay,  while  you  live,  draw  your  neck  out 
o'  the  collar. 


Sam.  I  strike  quickly,  being  moved. 

'  Gre.  But  thou  art  not  quickly  moved  to  strike. 

Sam.  A  dog  D£  the  house  of  Montague  moves 
me. 

Grs,  To  move  is  to  stir ;  and  to  be  valiant  is 
to  yj?jid:  therefore,  if  thou  art  moved,  thou 
rur.n'it  away. 

Sam.  A  dog  of  that  house  shall  move  me  to 
3tand:  I  will  take  the  wall  of  any  man  or  maid 
OA  Montague's. 

G*'t*  That  shows  thee  a  weak  slave ;  for  the 
weakest  goes  to  the  wall. 

Sam.  True ;  and  therefore  women,  being  the 
iv^atcer  vessels,  are  ever  thrust  to  the  wall: 
therefore  I  will  push  Montague's  men  from  the 
wall  and  thrust  his  maids  to  the  wall. 

Gre.  The  quarrel  is  between  our  masters  and 
us  their  men. 

Sam.  'Tis  all  one,  I  will  show  myself  a  tyrant: 
when  I  have  fought  with  the  men  I  will  be  cruel 
with  the  maids,  and  cut  off  their  heads. 

Gre.  The  heads  of  the  maids  ? 

Sam.  Ay,  the  heads  of  the  maids,  or  their 
maidenheads ;  take  it  in  what  sense  thou 
wilt. 

Gre.  They  must  take  it  in  sense  that  feel  it. 

Sam.  Me  they  shall  feel  while  I  am  able  to 
stand :  and  'tis  known  I  am  a  pretty  piece  of 
flesh. 

Gre.  'Tis  well  thou  art  not  fish :  if  thou  hadst. 


io66 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[ACT  I. 


them  hadst  been  poor-John. — Draw  thy  tool ; 
here  comes  two  of  the  house  of  the  Montagues. 

Sam.  My  naked  weapon  is  out:  quarrel,  I 
will  back  thee. 

Gre.  How  !  turn  thy  back  and  run? 

Sam.  Fear  me  not. 

Gre.  No,  marry ;  I  fear  thee ! 

Sam.  Let  us  take  the  law  of  our  sides  ;  let 
them  begin. 

Gre.  I  will  frown  as  I  pass  by ;  and  let  them 
take  it  as  they  list. 

Sam.  Nay,  as  they  dare.  I  will  bite  my 
thumb  at  them  ;  which  is  a  disgrace  to  them  if 
they  bear  it. 

Enter  ABRAHAM  and  BALTHASAR 

Abr.  Do  you  bite  your  thumb  at  us,  sir  ? 

Sam.  I  do  bite  my  thumb,  sir. 

Abr.  Do  you  bite  your  thumb  at  us,  sir  ? 

Sam.  Is  the  law  of  our  side  if  I  say  ay? 

Gre.  No. 

Sam.  No,  sir,  I  do  not  bite  my  thumb  at 
you,  sir ;  but  I  bite  my  thumb,  sir. 

Gre.  Do  you  quarrel,  sir? 

Abr.  Quarrel,  sir!  no,  sir. 

Sam.  If  you  do,  sir,  I  am  for  you  :  I  serve 
as  good  a  man  as  you. 

Abr.  No  better. 

Sam.  Well,  sir. 

Gre.  Say  better:  here  comes  one  of  my 
master's  kinsmen. 

Sam.  Yes,  better,  sir. 

Abr.  You  lie. 

Sam.  Draw,  if  you  be  men. — Gregory,  re- 
member thy  swashing  blow.  \Theyjfight. 

Enter  BENVOLIO. 

Ben.  Part,  fools !  put  up  your  swords ;  you 
know  not  what  you  do. 

\Beats  down  their  swords. 

Enter  TYBALT. 
Tyb.  What,  art  thou  drawn  among  these 

heartless  hinds? 

Turn  thee,  Benvolio,  look  upon  thy  death. 
Ben.  I  do  but  keep  the  peace :  put  up  thy 

sword, 

Or  manage  it  to  part  these  men  with  me. 
Tyb.  What,  drawn,  and  talk  of  peace!     I 

hate  the  word 

As  I  hate  hell,  all  Montagues,  and  thee : 
Have  at  thee,  coward  !  \Theyjight. 

Enter  several  of  both  Houses,  who  join  the 
fray  ;  then  enter  Citizens  with  clubs. 

I  Cit.  Clubs,   bills,  and  partisans!    strike! 

beat  them  down !  [tagues ! 

Down  with  the  Capulets !   Down  with  the  Mon- 


Enter  CAPULET  in  his  gown,  and  LADY 
CAPULET. 

Cap.  What  noise  is  this? — Give  me  my  long 

sword,  ho! 
Lady  C.  A  crutch,  a  crutch ! — Why  call  you 

for  a  sword? 
Cap.  My  sword,  I  say ! — Old  Montague  is 

come, 
And  flourishes  his  blade  in  spite  of  me. 

Enter  MONTAGUE  and  LADY  MONTAGUE. 

Man.  Thou  villain  Capulet ! — Hold  me  not, 

let  me  go. 
Lady  M.  Thou  shalt  not  stir  a  foot  to  seek 

a  foe. 

Enter  PRINCE,  with  Attendants. 

Prin.  Rebellious  subjects,  enemies  to  peace, 
Profaners  of  this  neighbour-stained  steel, — 
Will  they  not  hear? — What,  ho    you  men,  you 

beasts, 

That  quench  the  fire  of  your  pernicious  rage 
With  purple  fountains  issuing  from  your  veins, — 
On  pain  of  torture,  from  those  bloody  hands 
Throw  your  mistemper'd  weapons  to  theground, 
And  hear  the  sentence  of  your  moved  prince.— * 
Three  civil  brawls,  bred  of  an  airy  word, 
By  thee,  old  Capulet  and  Montague, 
Have  thrice  disturb'd  the  quiet  of  our  streets ; 
And  made  Verona's  ancient  citizens 
Cast  by  their  grave  beseeming  ornaments, 
To  wield  old  partisans  in  hands  as  old, 
Canker'd  with  peace,  to  part  your  canker'd  hate: 
If  ever  you  disturb  our  streets  again, 
Your  lives  shall  pay  the  forfeit  of  the  peace. 
For  this  time,  all  the  rest  depart  away : — 
You,  Capulet,  shall  go  along  with  me ; — 
And,  Montague,  come  you  this  afternoon, 
To  know  our  further  pleasure  in  this  case, 
To   old   Free-town,    our  common  judgment- 
place. — 
Once  more,  on  pain  of  death,  all  men  depart. 

[^^«W/PRIN.  ^Attendants;  CAP.,  LADY 
C.,  TYB.,  Citizens,  and  Servants. 

Mon.    Who  set   this  ancient  quarrel   new 

abroach  ? — 
Speak,  nephew,  were  you  by  when  it  began? 

Ben.  Here  were  the  servants  of  your  adver- 
sary 

And  yours  close  fighting  ere  I  did  approach : 
I  drew  to  part  them :  in  the  instant  came 
The  fiery  Tybalt,  with  his  sword  prepar'd ; 
Which,  as  he  breath'd  defiance  to  my  ears, 
He  swung  about  his  head,  and  cut  the  winds, 
Who,  nothing  hurt  withal,  hiss'd  him  in  scorn: 
While  we  were  interchanging  thrusts  and  blows, 


SCENE  I. 


KOMEO  AND  JULIET. 


1067 


Came  more  and  more,  and  fought  on  part  and 

part, 
Till  the  prince  came,  who  parted  either  part. 

Lady  M.  O,    where    is   Romeo  ? — saw   you 

him  to-day? — 
Right  glad  I  am  he  was  not  at  this  fray,      [sun 

Ben.  Madam,  an  hour  before  the  worshipp'd 
Peer'd  forth  the  golden  window  of  the  east, 
A  troubled  mind  drave  me  to  walk  abroad ; 
Where, — underneath  the  grove  of  sycamore 
That  westward  rooteth  from  the  city's  side, — 
So  early  walking  did  I  see  your  son : 
Towards  him  I  made ;  but  he  was  ware  of  me, 
And  stole  into  the  covert  of  the  wood : 
I,  measuring  his  affections  by  my  own, — 
That  most  are  busied  when  they're  most  alone,  — 
Pursu'd  my  humour,  not  pursuing  his, 
And  gladly  shunn'd  who  gladly  fled  from  me. 

Mon.  Many  a  morning  hath  he  there  been 

seen, 

With  tears  augmenting  the  fresh  morning's  dew, 
Adding  to  clouds  more  clouds  with  his  deep 

sighs : 

But  all  so  soon  as  the  all-cheering  sun 
Should  in  the  furthest  east  begin  to  draw 
The  shady  curtains  from  Aurora's  bed, 
Away  from  light  steals  home  my  heavy  son, 
And  private  in  his  chamber  pens  himself; 
Shuts  up  his  windows,  locks  fair  daylight  out, 
And  makes  himself  an  artificial  night : 
Black  and  portentous  must  this  humour  prove, 
Unless  good  counsel  may  the  cause  remove. 

Ben.  My  noble  uncle,  do  you  know  the  cause? 

Man.  I  neither  know  it  nor  can  learn  of  him. 

Ben.  Have  you  importun'd  him  by  any  means? 

Mon.  Both  by  myself  and  many  other  friends: 
But  he,  his  own  affections'  counsellor, 
Is  to  himself, — I  will  not  say  how  true, — 
But  to  himself  so  secret  and  so  close, 
So  far  from  sounding  and  discovery, 
As  is  the  bud  bit  with  an  envious  worm 
Ere  he  can  spread  his  sweet  leaves  to  the  air, 
Or  dedicate  his  beauty  to  the  sun. 
Could  we  but  learn  from  whence  his  sorrows 

grow, 
We  would  as  willingly  give  cure  as  know. 

Ben.  See  where  he  comes:  so  please   you, 

step  aside ; 
1 :11  know  his  grievance  or  be  much  denied. 

Mon.  I  would  thou  wert  so  happy  by  thy  stay 

To  hear  true  shrift. — Come,  madam,  let 's  away. 

{Exeunt  MONTAGUE  and  Lady. 

Enter  ROMEO. 

Ben.  Good-morrow,  cousin. 

Rom.  Is  the  day  so  young? 

Ben.  But  new  struck  nine. 


Rom.  Ay  me  !  sad  hours  seem  long. 

Was  that  my  father  that  went  hence  so  fast? 

Ben.    It    was. — What    sadness    lengthens 
Romeo's  hours?  [them  short. 

Rom.  Not  having  that  which,  having,  makes 

Ben.  In  love? 

Rom.  Out, — 

Ben.  Of  love? 

Rom.  Out  of  her  favour  where  I  am  in  love. 

Ben.  Alas,  that  love,  so  gentle  in  his  view, 
Should  be  so  tyrannous  and  rough  in  proof! 

Rom.  Alas,  that  love,  whose  view  is  muffled 

still,  [will  !— 

Should,    without   eyes,    see   pathways   to    his 

Where  shall  we  dine? — O  me  ! — What  fray  was 

here? 

Yet  tell  me  not,  for  I  have  heard  it  all. 
Here's  much  to  do  with  hate,  but  more  with 

love : — 

Why,  then,  O  brawling  love !  O  loving  hate ! 
O  anything,  of  nothing  first  create ! 
O  heavy  lightness  !  serious  vanity! 
Mis-shapen  chaos  of  well-seeming  forms ! 
Feather  of  lead,  bright  smoke,  cold  fire,  sick 

health ! 

Still-waking  sleep,  that  is  not  what  it  is! — 
This  love  feel  I,  that  feel  no  love  in  this. 
Dost  thou  not  laugh  ? 

Ben.  No,  coz,  I  rather  weep. 

Rom.  Good  heart,  at  what? 

Ben.  At  thy  good  heart's  oppression. 

Rom,  Why,  such  is  love's  transgression. — 
Griefs  of  mine  own  lie  heavy  in  my  breast ; 
Which  thou  wilt  propagate,  to  have  it  prest 
With  more  of  thine :  this  love  that  thou  hast 

shown 

Doth  add  more  grief  to  too  much  of  mine  own. 
Love  is  a  smoke  rais'd  with  the  fume  of  sighs ; 
Being  purg'd,  a  fire  sparkling  in  lovers'  eyes; 
Being  vex'd,  a  sea  nourish'd  with  lovers'  tears: 
What  is  it  else?  a  madness  most  discreet, 
A  choking  gall,  and  a  preserving  sweet. — 
Farewell,  my  coz.  [Going. 

Ben.  Soft!  I  will  go  along: 

An  if  you  leave  me  so,  you  do  me  wrong. 

Rom.  Tut,  I  have  lost  myself;  I  am  not  here ; 
This  is  not  Romeo,  he 's  some  other  where. 

Ben.  Tell  me  in  sadness  who  is  that  you  love. 

Rom.  What,  shall  I  groan  and  tell  thee? 

Ben.  Groan  !  why,  no ; 

But  sadly  tell  me  who.  [will, — 

Rom.  Bid  a  sick  man  in  sadness  make  his 
Ah,  word  ill  urg'd  to  one  that  is  so  ill ! — 
In  sadness,  cousin,  I  do  love  a  woman. 

Ben.  I  aim'd  so  near  when  I  suppos'd  you 
lov'd.  [fair  I  love. 

Rom.  A  right  good  marksman ! — And  she 's 


io68 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[ACT  I. 


Ben.  A  right  fair  mark,  fair  coz,  is  soonest 
hit.  [be  hit 

Rom.  Well,  in  that  hit  you  miss :  she  '11  not 
With  Cupid's  arrow, — she  hath  Dian's  wit ; 
And  in  strong  proof  of  chastity  well  arm'd, 
From  love's  weak  childish  bow  she  lives  un- 

harm'd. 

She  will  not  stay  the  siege  of  loving  terms 
Nor  bide  the  encounter  of  assailing  eyes, 
Nor  ope  her  lap  to  saint-seducing  gold  : 
O,  she  is  rich  in  beauty;  only  poor, 
That,  when  she  dies,  with  beauty  dies  her  store. 

Ben.  Then  she  hath  sworn  that  she  will  still 
live  chaste  ?  [huge  waste  ; 

Rom.  She  hath,  and  in  that  sparing  makes 
For  beauty,  starv'd  with  her  severity, 
Cuts  beauty  off  from  all  posterity. 
She  is  too  fair,  too  wise ;  wisely  too  fair, 
To  merit  bliss  by  making  me  despair  : 
She  hath  forsworn  to  love  ;  and  in  that  vow 
Do  I  live  dead  that  live  to  tell  it  now. 

Ben.  Be  rul'd  by  me,  forget  to  think  of  her. 

Rom.  O,  teach  me  how  I  should  forget  to 
think. 

Ben.  By  giving  liberty  unto  thine  eyes  ; 
Examine  other  beauties. 

Rom.  'Tis  the  way 

To  call  hers,  exquisite,  in  question  more  : 
These  happy  masks  that. kiss  fair  ladies'  brows, 
Being  black,  put  us  in  mind  they  hide  the  fair; 
He  that  is  strucken  blind  cannot  forget 
The  precious  treasure  of  his  eyesight  lost : 
Show  me  a  mistress  that  is  passing  fair, 
What  doth  her  beauty  serve  but  as  a  note 
Where  I  may  read  who  pass'd  that  passing  fair? 
Farewell :  thou  canst  not  teach  me  to  forget. 

Ben.  I  '11  pay  that  doctrine  or  else  die  in  debt. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— A  Street. 
Enter  CAPULET,  PARIS,  and  Servant. 

Cap.  But  Montague  is  bound  as  well  as  I, 
In  penalty  alike  ;  and  'tis  not  hard,  I  think, 
For  men  so  old  as  we  to  keep  the  peace. 

Par.  Of  honourable  reckoning  are  you  both; 
And  pity  'tis  you  liv'd  at  odds  so  long. 
But  now,  my  lord,  what  say  you  to  my  suit  ? 

Cap.  But  saying  o'er  what  I  have  said  before : 
My  child  is  yet  a  stranger  in  the  world, 
She  hath  not  seen  the  change  of  fourteen  years; 
Let  two  more  summers  wither  in  their  pride 
Ere  we  may  think  her  ripe  to  be  a  bride. 

Par.  Younger  than  she  are  happy  mothers 
made.  [made. 

Cap.  And  too  soon  marr'd  are  those  so  early 
Earth  hath  swallow'd  all  my  hopes  but  she, — 


She  is  the  hopeful  lady  of  my  earth : 
But  woo  her,  gentle  Paris,  get  her  heart, 
My  will  to  her  consent  is  but  a  part ; 
An  she  agree,  within  her  scope  of  choice 
Lies  my  consent  and  fair  according  voice. 
This  night  I  hold  an  old  accustom'd  feast, 
Whereto  I  have  invited  many  a  guest, 
Such  as  I  love  ;  and  you,  among  the  store, 
One  more,  most  welcome,  makes  my  number 

more. 

At  my  poor  house  look  to  behold  this  night 
Earth- treading  stars  that  make  dark  heaven 

light : 

Such  comfort  as  do  lusty  young  men  feel 
When  well-apparell'd  April  on  the  heel 
Of  limping  winter  treads,  even  such  delight 
Among  fresh  female  buds  shall  you  this  night 
Inherit  at  my  house  ;  hear  all,  all  see, 
And  like  her  most  whose  merit  most  shall  be  : 
Such,  amongst  view  of  many,  mine  being  one, 
May  stand  in  number,  though  in  reckoning  none. 
Come,  go  with  me. — Go,  sirrah,  trudge  about 
Through  fair  Verona  ;  find  those  persons  out 
Whose  names  are  written  there  {gives  a  paper\ 

and  to  them  say, 

My  house  and  welcome  on  their  pleasure  stay. 
[Exeunt  CAPULET  and  PARIS. 
Serv.  Find  them  out  whose  names  are  writ- 
ten here !  It  is  written  that  the  shoemaker 
should  meddle  with  his  yard,  and  the  tailor 
with  his  last,  the  fisher  with  his  pencil,  and  the 
painter  with  his  nets ;  but  I  am  sent  to  find 
those  persons  whose  names  are  here  writ,  and 
can  never  find  what  names  the  writing  person 
hath  here  writ.  I  must  to  the  learned: — in 
good  time. 

Enter  BENVOLIO  and  ROMEO. 

Ben.  Tut,  man,  one  fire  burns  out  another 's 

burning, 

One  pain  is  lessen'd  by  another's  anguish  ; 
Turn  giddy,  and  be  holp  by  backward  turning; 
One  desperate  grief   cures   with    another's 

languish: 

Take  thou  some  new  infection  to  thy  eye, 
And  the  rank  poison  of  the  old  will  die. 

Rom.  Your  plantain -leaf  is  excellent  for  that. 

Ben.  For  what,  I  pray  thee  ? 

Rom.  For  your  broken  shin. 

Ben.  Why,  Romeo,  art  thou  mad  ? 

Rom.  Not   mad,    but   bound   more   than  a 

madman  is ; 

Shut  up  in  prison,  kept  without  my  food, 
Whipp'd  and  tormented,  and— God-den,  good 
fellow.  [read  ? 

Serv.  God  gi'  god-den. — I  pray,  sir,  can  you 
Rom.  Ay,  mine  own  fortune  in  my  misery. 


SCENE  III.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


X069 


Serv.  Perhaps  you  have  learned  it  without 
book :  but,  I  pray,  can  you  read  anything  you 
see?  [language. 

Rom.  Ay,    if  I   know  the   letters   and  the 

Serv.  Ye  say  honestly  :  rest  you  merry ! 

Rom.  Stay,  fellow  ;  I  can  read.          [Reads. 

Signior  Martina  and  his  wife  and  daughters  _, 
County  Anselme  and  his  beauteous  sisters  ;  the 
lady  widow  of  Vitruvio  ;  Signior  Placentio  and 
his  lovely  nieces  ;  Mercutio  and  his  brother 
Valentine ;  mine  uncle  Capulet,  his  wife  and 
daughters ;  my  fair  niece  Rosaline;  Livia ; 
Signior  Valentio  and  his  cousin  Tybalt;  Lucio 
and  the  lively  Helena. 

A  fair  assembly  {gives  back  the  paper] :  whither 
should  they  come  ? 

Serv.  Up. 

Rom.  Whither? 

Serv.  To  supper  ;  to  our  house. 

Rom.  Whose  house  ? 

Serv.  My  master's.  [before. 

Rom.   Indeed,  I  should  have  ask'd  you  that 

Serv.  Now  I  '11  tell  you  without  asking  :  my 
master  is  the  great  rich  Capulet ;  and  if  you  be 
not  of  the  house  of  Montagues,  I  pray,  come 
and  crush  a  cup  of  wine.  Rest  you  merry  ! 

[Exit. 

Ben.  At  this  same  ancient  feast  of  Capulet's 
Sups  the  fair  Rosaline  whom  thou  so  lov'st ; 
With  all  the  admired  beauties  of  Verona  : 
Go  thither ;  and,  with  unattainted  eye, 
Compare  her  face  with  some  that  I  shall  show, 
And  I  will  make  thee  think  thy  swan  a  crow. 

Rom.  When  the  devout  religion  of  mine  eye 

Maintains  such  falsehood,  then  turn  tears  to 

fires ;  [die, — 

And  these, — who,  often  drown'd,  could  never 

Transparent  heretics,  be  burnt  for  liars  ! 
One  fairer  than  my  love  !  the  all-seeing  sun 
Ne'er  saw   her  match   since   first  the   world 
begun.  [by, 

Ben.  Tut,  you  saw  her  fair,  none  else  being 
Herself  pois'd  with  herself  in  either  eye  : 
But  in  that  crystal  scales  let  there  be  weigh'd 
Your  lady's  love  against  some  other  maid 
That  I  will  show  you  shining  at  this  feast, 
And  she  shall  scant  show  well  that  now  shows 
best. 

Rom.  I  '11  go  along,  no  such  sight  to  be  shown, 
But  to  rejoice  in  splendour  of  mine  own. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.—  A  Room  in  CAPULET'S  House. 
Enter  LADY  CAPULET  and  Nurse. 

Lady  C.  Nurse,  where 's  my  daughter  ?  call 
her  forth  to  me. 


/* 

Wha 


Nurse.  Now,  by  my  maidenhead, — at  twelve 
year  old, —  [bird! — 

I  bade  her  come. — What,  lamb!  what  lady- 
God  forbid ! — where 's  this  girl  ? — what,  Juliet ! 

Enter  JULIET. 

ful.  How  now,  who  calls? 

Nurse.  Your  mother. 

'ul.  Madam,  I  am  here. 

hat  is  your  will  ? 

Lady  C.    This  is  the  matter. — Nurse,  give 

leave  awhile,  [again  ; 

We   must   talk  in  secret: — nurse,  come  back 

I  have  remember'd  me,  thou's  hear  our  counsel. 

Thou  know'st  my  daughter 's  of  a  pretty  age. 

Nurse.  Faith,  I  can  tell  her  age  unto  an 
hour. 

Lady  C.  She 's  not  fourteen. 

Nurse.  I  '11  lay  fourteen  of  my  teeth, — 

And  yet,  to  my  teen  be  it  spoken,  I  have  but 

four, — 

She  is  not  fourteen.     How  lorg  is  it  now 
To  Lammas-tide? 

Lady  C.  A  fortnight  and  odd  days. 

Nurse.  Even  or  odd,  of  all  days  in  the  year, 
Come   Lammas-eve    at    night    shall    she    be 

fourteen. 

Susan  and  she, — God  rest  all  Christian  souls ! — 
Were  of  an  age  :  well,  Susan  is  with  God  ; 
She  was  too  good  for  me  : — but,  as  I  said, 
On  Lammas-eve  at  night  shall  she  be  fourteen ; 
That  shall  she,  marry  ;  I  remember  it  well. 
'Tis  since  the  earthquake  now  eleven  years ; 
And  she  was  wean'd, — I  never  shall  forget  it, — 
Of  all  the  days  of  the  year,  upon  that  day  : 
For  I  had  then  laid  wormwood  to  my  dug, 
Sitting  in  the  sun  under  the  dove-house  wall ; 
My  lord  and  you  were  then  at  Mantua: 
Nay,  I  do  bear  a  brain  : — but,  as  I  said, 
When  it  did  taste  the  wormwood  on  the  nipple 
Of  my  dug,  and  felt  it  bitter,  pretty  fool, 
To  see  it  tetchy,  and  fall  out  with  the  dug ! 
Shake,  quoth  the  dove-house :  'twas  no  need,  I 

trow, 

To  bid  me  trudge. 

And  since  that  time  it  is  eleven  years  ; 
For  then  she  could  stand  alone ;  nay,  by  the 

rood 

She  could  have  run  and  waddled  all  about ; 
For  even  the  day  before,  she  broke  her  brow  : 
And  then  my  husband, — God  be  with  his  soul  ! 
'A  was  a  merry  man, — took  up  the  child  : 
Yea,  quoth  he,  dost  tkoufall  upon  thy  face? 
Thou  wilt  fall  backward  when  thou  hast  more 

wit; 

Wilt  thou  notyjule?  and,  by  my  holidame, 
The  pretty  wretch  left  crying,  and  said  Ay : 


1070 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[ACT  i. 


To  see,  now,  how  a  jest  shall  come  about ! 
I  warrant,  an  I  should  live  a  thousand  years, 
I  never  should  forget  it  :   Wilt  thou  not,  fule  ? 

quoth  he; 

And,  pretty  fool,  it  stinted,  and  said  Ay. 
Lady  C.  Enough  of  this ;  I  pray  thee,  hold 
thy  peace.  [but  laugh, 

Nurse.  Yes,  madam  ; — yet  I  cannot  choose 
To  think  it  should  leave  ciying,  and  say  Ay : 
And  yet,  I  warrant,  it  had  upon  its  brow 
A  bump  as  big  as  a  young  cockerel's  stone  ; 
A  parlous  knock  ;  and  it  cried  bitterly. 
Yea,  quoth  my  husband,  falPst  upon  thy  face  ? 
Thou  wilt  fall  backward  when  thou  contest  to  age  ; 
Wilt  thou  notyjule?  it  stinted,  and  said  Ay. 
Jul.  And  stint  thou  too,  I  pray  thee,  nurse, 
say  I.  [to  his  grace ! 

Nurse.  Peace,  I  have  done.    God  mark  thee 
Thou  wast  the  prettiest  babe  that  e'er  I  nurs'd  : 
An  I  might  live  to  see  thee  married  once, 
I  have  my  wish.  [theme 

Lady  C.    Marry,    that    marry   is   the   very 
I  came  to  talk  of.  — Tell  me,  daughter  Juliet, 
How  stands  your  disposition  to  be  married  ? 
Jul.  It  is  an  honour  that  I  dream  not  of. 
*  Nurse.  An  honour !  were  not  I  thine  only 
nurse,  [thy  teat. 

I  would  say  thou  hadst  suck'd  wisdom  from 
Lady  C.    Well,    think    of   marriage    now ; 

younger  than  you, 
Here  in  Verona,  ladies  of  esteem, 
Are  made  already  mothers  :  by  my  count 
I  was  your  mother  much  upon  these  years 
That   you  are  now  a  maid.     Thus,  then,   in 

brief;— 
The  valiant  Paris  seeks  you  for  his  love. 

Nurse.  A  man,  young  lady  !   lady,  such  a 

man 

As  all  the  world — why,  he 's  a  man  of  wax. 
Lady  C.  Verona's  summer  hath  not  such  a 

flower. 

Ntirse.  Nay,  he 's  a  flower  ;  in  faith,  a  very 
flower.  [gentleman? 

Lady  C.  What  say  you?  can  you   love  the 
This  night  you  shall  behold  him  at  our  feast ; 
Read  o'er  the  volume  of  young  Paris'  face, 
And  find  delight  writ  there  with  beauty's  pen ; 
Examine  every  married  lineament, 
And  see  how  one  another  lends  content ; 
And  what  obscur'd  in  this  fair  volume  lies 
Find  written  in  the  margent  of  his  eyes. 
This  precious  book  of  love,  this  unbound  lover, 
To  beautify  him,  only  lacks  a  cover  : 
The  fish  lives  in  the  sea  ;  and  'tis  much  pride 
For  fair  without  the  fair  within  to  hide  : 
That  book  in  many's  eyes  doth  share  the  glory 
That  in  gold  clasps  locks  in  the  golden  story ; 


So  shall  you  share  all  that  he  doth  possess, 

By  having  him,  making  yourself  no  less. 

Nurse.  No  less  !  nay,  bigger  ;  women  grow 

by  men.  [love  ? 

Lady  C.  Speak  briefly,  can  you  like  of  Paris' 

Jul.  I  '11  look  to  like,  if  looking  liking  move  : 

But  no  more  deep  will  I  endart  mine  eye    [fly. 

Than  your  consent  gives  strength  to  make  it 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  Madam,  the  guests  are  come,  supper 
served  up,  you  called,  my  young  lady  asked 
for,  the  nurse  cursed  in  the  pantry,  and  every- 
thing in  extremity.  I  must  hence  to  wait ;  I 
beseech  you,  follow  straight. 

Lady  C.  We  follow  thee.  [Exit  Servant.]— 

Juliet,  the  county  stays. 
Nurse.  Go,  girl,  seek  happy  nights  to  happy 
days.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.—  A  Street. 

Enter  ROMEO,  MERCUTIO,  BENVOLIO,  with 
five  or  six  Maskers,  Torch-bearers,  and  others. 

Rom.  What,  shall  this  speech  be  spoke  for 

our  excuse  ? 
Or  shall  we  on  without  apology  ? 

Ben.  The  date  is  out  of  such  prolixity  : 
We  '11  have  no  Cupid  hoodwink'd  with  a  scarf, 
Bearing  a  Tartar's  painted  bow  of  lath, 
Scaring  the  ladies  like  a  crow-keeper  ; 
Nor  no  without-book  prologue,  faintly  spoke 
After  the  prompter,  for  our  entrance  : 
But,  let  them  measure  us  by  what  they  will, 
We  '11  measure  them  a  measure,  and  be  gone. 

Rom.  Give  me  a  torch, — I  am  not  for  this 

ambling ; 
Being  but  heavy,  I  will  bear  the  light. 

Mer.  Nay,  gentle  Romeo,  we  must  have  you 
dance. 

Rom.  Not  I,  believe  me  :  you  have  dancing 

shoes, 

With  nimble  soles  :  I  have  a  soul  of  lead 
So  stakes  me  to  the  ground  I  cannot  move. 

Mer.  You  are  a  lover ;  borrow  Cupid's  wings, 
And  soar  with  them  above  a  common  bound. 

Rom.  I  am  too  sore  enpierced  with  his  snau 
To  soar  with  his  light  feathers  ;  and  so  bound, 
I  cannot  bound  a  pitch  above  dull  woe  : 
Under  love's  heavy  burden  do  I  sink.      [love  ; 

Mer.  And  to  sink  in  it  should  you  burden 
Too  great  oppression  for  a  tender  thing. 

Rom.  Is  love  a  tender  thing?  it  is  too  rough, 
Too  rude,  too  boisterous ;  and  it  pricks  like 
thorn. 

Mer.   If  love  be  rough  with  you,  be  rough 
with  love ; 


SCENE  IV.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


1071 


Prick  love  for  pricking,  and  you  beat  love 

down. — 
Give  me  a  case  to  put  my  visage  in  : 

[Putting  on  a  mask. 
A  visard  for  a  visard  ! — what  care  I 
What  curious  eye  doth  quote  deformities  ? 
Here  are  the  beetle-brows  shall  blush  for  me. 

Ben.  Come,  knock  and  enter ;  and  no  sooner 

in 
But  every  rnan  betake  him  to  his  legs. 

Rom.  A  torch  for  me  :  let  wantons,  light  of 

heart, 

Tickle  the  senseless  rushes  with  their  heels  ; 
For  I  am  proverb'd  with  a  grandsire  phrase, — 
I  '11  be  a  candle-holder,  and  look  on, — 
The  game  was  ne'er  so  fair,  and  I  am  done. 

Mer.  Tut,  dun  's  the  mouse,  the  constable's 

own  word  : 

If  thou  art  dun,  we  '11  draw  thee  from  the  mire 
Of  this — sir-reverence — love,  wherein  thou 

stick'st 
Up  to  the  ears. — Come,  we  burn  daylight,  ho. 

Rom.  Nay,  that  !s  not  so. 

Met.  I  mean,  sir,  in  delay 

We  waste  our  lights  in  vain,  like  lamps  by  day. 
Take  our  good  meaning,  for  our  judgment  sits 
Five  times  in  that  ere  once  in  our  five  wits. 

Rom.  And  we  mean  well  in  going  to  this 

mask; 
But  'tis  no  wit  to  go, 

Mer.  Why,  may  one  ask? 

Rom.  I  dreamt  a  dream  to-night 

Mer.  And  so  did  I. 

Rom.  Well,  what  was  yours  ? 

Mer.  That  dreamers  often  He. 

Rom.  In  bed  asleep,  while  they  do  dream 
things  true.  [with  you. 

Mer.  O,  then,  I  see  Queen  Mab  hath  been 
She  is  the  fairies'  midwife ;  and  she  comes 
In  shape  no  bigger  than  an  agate-stone 
On  the  fore-finger  of  an  alderman, 
Drawn  with  a  team  of  little  atomies 
Athwart  men's  noses  as  they  lie  asleep: 
Her  waggon-spokes  made  of  long  spinners'  legs; 
The  cover,  of  the  wings  of  grasshoppers ; 
The  traces,  of  the  smallest  spider's  web  ; 
The  collars,  of  the  moonshine's  watery  beams ; 
Her  whip,  of  cricket's  bone  ;  the  lash,  of  film; 
Her  waggoner,  a  small  gray-coated  gnat, 
Not  half  so  big  as  a  round  little  worm 
Prick'd  from  the  lazy  finger  of  a  maid  : 
Her  chariot  is  an  empty  hazel-nut, 
Made  by  the  joiner  squirrel  or  old  grub, 
Time  out  p'  mind  the  fairies'  cpachmakers. 
And  in  this  state  she  gallops  night  by  night 
Through  lovers'  brains,  and  then  they  dream 
of  love ; 


O'er  courtiers'  knees,  that  dream  on  court'sies 

straight ; 
O'er  lawyers'  fingers,  who  straight  dream  on 

fees ; 

O'er  ladies'  lips,  who  straight  on  kisses  dream, — 
Which  oft  the  angry  Mab  with  blisters  plagues, 
Because  their  breaths  with  sweatmeats  tainted 

are : 

Sometime  she  gallops  o'er  a  courtier's  nose, 
And  then  dreams  he  of  smelling  out  a  suit ; 
And  sometime  comes  she  with  a  tithe-pig's  tail, 
Tickling  a  parson's  nose  as  'a  lies  asleep, 
Then  dreams  he  of  another  benefice  : 
Sometime  she  driveth  o'er  a  soldier's  neck, 
And  then  dreams  he  of  cutting  foreign  throats, 
Of  breaches,  ambuscadoes,  Spanish  blades, 
Of  healths  five  fathom  deep  ;  and  then  anon 
Drums  in  his  ear,  at  which  he  starts  and  wakes ; 
And,  being  thus  frighted,  swears  a  prayer  or  two, 
And  sleeps  again.     This  is  that  very  Mab 
That  plats  the  manes  of  horses  in  the  night ; 
And  bakes  the  elf-locks  in  foul  sluttish  hairs, 
Which,  once  untangled,  much  misfortune  bodes; 
This  is  the  hag,  when  maids  lie  on  their  backs, 
That  presses  them,  and  learns  them  first  to  bear, 
Making  them  women  of  good  carriage  : 
This  is  she, — 

Rom.  Peace,  peace,  Mercutio,  peace, 

Thou  talk'st  of  nothing. 

Mer.  True,  I  talk  of  dreams. 

Which  are  the  children  of  an  idle  brain, 
Begot  of  nothing  but  vain  fantasy ; 
Which  is  as  thin  of  substance  as  the  air, 
And  more  inconstant  than  the  wind,  who  wooes 
Even  now  the  frozen  bosom  of  the  north, 
And,  being  anger'd,  puffs  away  from  thence, 
Turning  his  face  to  the  dew-dropping  south. 
Ben.  This  wind  you  talk  of  blows  us  from 

ourselves : 
Supper  is  done,  and  we  shall  come  too  late. 

Rom.  I  fear,  too  early :  for  my  mind  misgives 
Some  consequence,  yet  hanging  in  the  stars, 
Shall  bitterly  begin  his  fearful  date 
With  this  night's  revels ;  and  expire  the  term 
Of  a  despised  life,  clos'd  in  my  breast, 
By  some  vile  forfeit  of  untimely  death : 
But  He  that  hath  the  steerage  of  my  course 
Direct  my  sail ! — On,  lusty  gentlemen. 

Ben.  Strike,  drum-  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.— A  Hall  in  CAPULET'S  House. 
Musicians  waiting.     Enter  Servants. 

1  Serv.  Where 's  Potpan,  tliat  he  helps  not 
to  take  away?  he  shift  a  trencher !  he  scrape  a 
trencher ! 

2  Serv.  When  good  manners  shall  lie  all  in 


1072 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[ACT  I. 


one  or  two  men's  hands,  and  they  unwashed 
too,  'tis  a  foul  thing. 

I  Serv.  Away  with  the  joint-stools,  remove 
the  court-cupboard,  look  to  the  plate: — good 
thou,  save  me  a  piece  of  marchpane;  and  as 
thou  lovest  me  let  the  porter  let  in  Susan 
Grindstone  and  Nell. — Antony  I  and  Potpan! 

2.  Serv.  Ay,  boy,  ready. 

1  Serv.  You  are  looked  for  and  called  for, 
asked  for  and  sought  for  in  the  great  chamber. 

2  Serv.  We  cannot  be  here  and  there  too. — 
Cheerly,  boys ;  be  brisk  awhile,  and  the  longer 
liver  take  all.  \They  retire  behind. 

Enter  CAPULET,  &c.,  with  the  Guests  and 
the  Maskers. 

Cap.  Welcome,  gentlemen !  ladies  that  have 

their  toes  [you. — 

Unplagu'd  with  corns  will  have  a  bout  with 

Ah  ha,  my  mistresses !  which  of  you  all 

Will  now  deny  to  dance?    she    that  makes 

dainty,  she, 

I  '11  swear  hath  corns ;  am  I  come  near  you  now? 
Welcome,  gentlemen  !     I  have  seen  the  day 
That  I  have  worn  a  visard ;  and  could  tell 
A  whispering  tale  in  a  fair  iady's  ear, 
Such  as  would  please ; — 'tis  gone,  'tis  gone,  'tis 
gone:  [cians,  play. — 

You  are  welcome,  gentlemen ! — Come,  musi- 
A  hall, — a  hall !  give  room,  and  foot  it,  girls. — 
[ Music  plays,  and  thty  dance. 
More  light,  you  knaves ;  and  turn  the  tables  up, 
And  quench  the  fire,  the  room  is  grown  too 

hot— 

Ah,  sirrah,  this  unlook'd-for  sport  comes  well. 
Nay,  sit,  nay,  sit,  good  cousin  Capulet; 
For  you  and  I  are  past  our  dancing  days: 
How  long  is 't  now  since  last  yourself  and  I 
Were  in  a  mask  ? 

2  Cap.  By  'r  Lady,  thirty  years. 

Cap.  What,  man !  'tis  not  so  much,  'tis  not 

so  much: 

}Tis  since  the  nuptial  of  Lucentio, 
Come  Pentecost  as  quickly  as  it  will, 
Some    five-and-twenty    years;    and    then  we 
mask'd.  [sir ; 

2  Cap.  'Tis  more,  'tis  more :  his  son  is  elder, 
His  son  is  thirty. 

Cap.  Will  you  tell  me  that? 

His  son  was  but  a  ward  two  years  af o. 

Rom.  What  lady  is  that  which  doth  enrich 

the  hand 
Of  yonder  knight? 

Serv.  I  know  not,  sir.  [bright ! 

Rom.  O,  she  doth  teach  the  torches  to  burn 
It  seems  she  hangs  upon  the  cheek  of  night 
Like  a  rich  jewel  in  an  Ethiop's  ear ; 


Beauty  too  rich  for  use,  for  earth  too  dear ! 
So  shows  a  snowy  dove  trooping  with  crows 
As  yonder  lady  o'er  her  fellows  shows. 
The  measure  done,  I  '11  watch  her  place  of  stand, 
And,  touching  hers,  make  blessed   my  rude 

hand. 

Did  my  heart  love  till  now?  forswear  it,  sight ! 
For  I  ne'er  saw  true  beauty  till  this  night. 

Tyb.  This,  by  his  voice,  should  be  a  Mon- 
tague.—  [slave 
Fetch  me  my  rapier,  boy: — what,   dares  the 
Come  hither,  cover'd  with  an  antic  face, 
To  fleer  and  scorn  at  our  solemnity  ? 
Now,  by  the  stock  and  honour  of  my  kin, 
To  strike  him  dead  I  hold  it  not  a  sin. 

Cap.  Why,  how  now,  kinsman!  wherefore 
storm  you  so? 

Tyb.  Uncle,  this  is  a  Montague,  our  foe ; 
A  villain,  that  is  hither  come  in  spite, 
To  scorn  at  our  solemnity  this  night. 

Cap.  Young  Romeo,  is  it  ? 

Tyb.  'Tis  he,  that  villain,  Romeo. 

Cap.  Content  thee,  gentle  coz,  let  him  alone, 
He  bears  him  like  a  portly  gentleman  ; 
And,  to  say  truth,  Verona  brags  of  him 
To  be  a  virtuous  and  well-govern'd  youth : 
I  would  not  for  ihe  wealth  of  all  the  town 
Here  in  my  house  do  him  disparagement : 
Therefore  be  patient,  take  no  note  of  him, — 
It  is  my  will ;  the  which  if  thou  respect, 
Show  a  fair  presence  and  put  off  these  frowns, 
An  ill-beseeming  semblance  for  a  feast. 

Tyb.  It  fits,  when  such  a  villain  is  a  guest : 
I  '11  not  endure  him. 

Cap.  He  shall  be  endur'd: 

What,  goodman,  boy! — I  say  he  shall; — go  to; 
Am  I  the  master  here  or  you  ?  go  to.        [soul, 
You  '11  not  endure  him  ! — God  shall  mend  my 
You  '11  make  a  mutiny  among  my  guests  ! 
You  will  set  cock-a-hoop !  you  '11  be  the  man ! 

Tyb.  Why,  uncle,  'tis  a  shame. 

Cap.  Go  to,  go  to ; 

You  are  a  saucy  boy.     Is 't  so,  indeed  ? — 
This  trick  may  chance  to  scath  you, — I  know 

what: 

You  must  contrary  me  !  marry,  'tis  time. — 
Well  said,  my  hearts ! — You  are  a  princox ;  go : 
Be  quiet,  or — More  light,  more  light ! — For 
shame  I  [hearts. 

I'll   make    you  quiet. — What, — cheerly,   my 

Tyb.  Patience  perforce  with   wilful  choler 

meeting 
Makes    my  flesh  tremble    in    their  different 

greeting. 

I  will  withdraw  :  but  this  intrusion  shall, 
Now  seeming  sweet,  convert  to  bitter  gall. 


SCENE  V.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


1073 


Rom.    If   I   profane  with  my  unworthiest 
hand  [70JULIET. 

This  holy  shrine,  the  gentle  fine  is  this, — 
My  Ups,  two  blushing  pilgrims,  ready  stand 
To  smooth  that  rough  touch  with  a  tender  kiss. 
Jul.  Good  pilgrim,  you  do  wrong  your  hand 

too  much, 

Which  mannerly  devotion  shows  in  this  ; 
For  saints  have  hands  that  pilgrims'  hands  do 

touch, 

And  palm  to  palm  is  holy  palmers'  kiss. 

Rom.  Have  not  saints  lips,  and  holy  palmers 

too  ?  [prayer. 

Jul.  Ay,  pilgrim,  lips  that  they  must  use  in 

Rom.  O,  then,  dear  saint,  let  lips  do  what 

hands  do ;  [despair. 

They  pray,  grant   thou,   lest  faith   turn   to 

Jul.  Saints  do  not  move,  though  grant  for 

prayers'  sake.  [I  take. 

Rom.  Then  move  not  while  my  prayer's  effect 

Thus  from  my  lips,  by  yours,  my  sin  is  purg'd. 

[Kissing  her. 

Jul.  Then  have  my  lips  the  sin  that  they 
have  took.  [urg'd  ! 

Rom.  Sin  from  my  lips  ?     O  trespass  sweetly 
Give  me  my  sin  again. 
Jul.  You  kiss  by  the  book. 

Nurse.  Madam,  your  mother  craves  a  word 

with  you. 

Rom.  What  is  her  mother  ? 
Nurse.  Marry,  bachelor, 

Her  mother  is  the  lady  of  the  house, 
And  a  good  lady,  and  a  wise  and  virtuous  : 
I  nurs'd  her  daughter  that  you  talk'd  withal ; 
I  tell  you,  he  that  can  lay  hold  of  her 
Shall  have  the  chinks. 

Rom.  Is  she  a  Capulet? 

0  dear  account !  my  life  is  my  foe's  debt. 
Ben.  Away,  be  gone;    the  sport  is  at  the 

best. 

Rom.  Ay,  so  I  fear ;  the  more  is  my  unrest. 
Cap.  Nay,    gentlemen,    prepare  not   to   be 

gone; 

We  have  a  trifling  foolish  banquet  towards. — 
Is  it  e'en  so  ?  why,  then  I  thank  you  all ; 

1  thank  you,  honest  gentlemen  ;  good-night — 
More  torches  here  ! — Come  on,  then  let  Js  to 

bed.  [late : 

Ah,    sirrah  [to  2  Cap.},  by  my  fay,  it  waxes 
I  '11  to  my  rest 

[Exeunt  all  but  JULIET  and  Nurse. 
Jul.  Come    hither,   nurse.      What    is    yon 

gentleman  ? 

Nurse.  The  son  and  heir  of  old  Tiberio. 
Jul.  What's  he  that  now  is  going  out   of 
door  ?  [truchio. 

Nurse.  Marry,  that  I  think  be  young  Pe- 


JuL  What 's  he  that  follows  there,  that  would 
not  dance  ? 

Nurse.  I  know  not. 

Jul.  Go,  ask  his  name  :  if  he  be  married, 
My  grave  is  like  to  be  rny  wedding-bed. 

Nurse.  His  name  is  Romeo,  and  a  Montague; 
The  only  son  of  your  great  enemy. 

Jul.  My  only  love  sprung  from  rny  only  hate ! 
Too  early  seen  unknown,  and  known  too  late! 
Prodigious  birth  of  love  it  is  to  me, 
That  I  must  love  a  loathed  enemy. 

Nurse.  What's  this?     What's  this? 

Jul.  A  rhyme  I  learn'd  even  now 

Of  one  I  danc'd  withal. 

[One  calls  within,  "Juliet." 

Nurse.  Anon,  anon ! 

Come,  let 's  away  ;  the  strangers  are  all  gone. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  Chorus. 

Now  old  desire  doth  in  his  death-bed  lie, 

And  young  affection  gapes  to  be  his  heir ; 
That  fair  for  which    love   groan'd   for,    and 
would  die, 

With  tender  Juliet  match'd,  is  now  not  fair. 
Now  Romeo  is  belov'd,  and  loves  again, 

Alike  bewitched  by  the  charm  of  looks ; 
But  to  his  foe  suppos;d  he  must  complain, 

And  she  steal  love's  sweet  bait  from  fearful 

hooks : 
Being  held  a  foe,  he  may  not  have  access 

To  breathe  such  vows  as  lovers  us'd  to  swear ; 
And  she  as  much  in  love,  her  means  much  less 

To  meet  her  new-beloved  anywhere :  [meet, 
But  passion  lends  them  power,  time  means  to 
Tempering  extremities  with  extreme  sweet. 

[Exit. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — An  open  place  <M^W«W^CA 
Garden. 

Enter  ROMEO. 

Rom.  Can  I  go  forward  when  my  heart  is 

here? 

Turn  back,  dull  earth,  and  find  thy  centre  out. 
[He  climbs  the  wall  and  leaps  down 
within  it. 

Enter  BENVOLIO  and  MERCUTIO. 

Ben.  Romeo  !  my  cousin  Romeo  ! 

Mer.  He  is  wise  ; 

And,  on  my  life,  hath  stol'n  him  home  to  bed. 

Ben.   He  ran    this  way,   and    leap'd    this 

orchard  wall : 
Call,  good  Mercutio. 


1074 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[ACT  n. 


Mer.  Nay,  I  '11  conjure  too. — 

Romeo  !  humours  !  madman  !  passion  !  lover ! 
Appear  thou  in  the  likeness  of  a  sigh  : 
Speak  but  one  rhyme  and  I  am  satisfied  ; 
Cry  but,  Ah  me!    pronounce  but  Love  and 

dove ; 

Speak  to  my  gossip  Venus  one  fair  word, 
One  nickname  for  her  purblind  son  and  heir, 
Young  auburn  Cupid,  he  that  shot  so  trim 
When    King    Cophetua    lov'd    the     beggar- 
maid  ! — 

He  heareth  not,  he  stirreth  not,  he  moveth  not ; 
The  ape  is  dead,  and  I  must  conjure  him. — 
I  conjure  thee  by  Rosaline's  bright  eyes, 
By  her  high  forehead  and  her  scarlet  lip, 
By  her  fine  foot,  straight  leg,  and  quivering 

thigh, 

And  the  demesnes  that  there  adjacent  lie, 
That  in  thy  likeness  thou  appear  to  us  ! 

Ben.  An  if  he  hear  thee,  thou  wilt  anger  him. 

Mer.  This  cannot  anger  him  :  'twould  anger 

him 

To  raise  a  spirit  in  his  mistress'  circle, 
Of  some  strange  nature,  letting  it  there  stand 
Till  she  had  laid  it,  and  conjur'd  it  down ; 
That  were  some  spite  :  my  invocation 
Is  fair  and  honest,  and,  in  his  mistress'  name, 
I  conjure  only  but  to  raise  up  him.  [trees. 

Ben.  Come,  he  hath  hid  himself  among  these 
To  be  consorted  with  the  humorous  night : 
Blind  is  his  love,  and  best  befits  the  dark. 

Mer.  If  love  be  blind,  love  cannot  hit  the 

mark. 

Now  will  he  sit  under  a  medlar  tree, 
And  wish  his  mistress  were  that  kind  of  fruit 
As  maids  call  medlars  when  they  laugh  alone. — 
Romeo,  good -night. — I  '11  to  my  truckle-bed  ; 
This  field-bed  is  too  cold  for  me  to  sleep : 
Come,  shall  we  go  ? 

Ben.  Go,  then  ;  for  'tis  in  vain 

To  seek  him  here  that  means  not  to  be  found. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — CAPULET'S  Garden. 
Enter  ROMEO. 

Rom.  He  jests  at  scars  that  never  lelt  a 

wound. — 

[JULIET  appears  above  at  a  window. 
But,  soft !  what  light  through  yonder  window 

breaks  ? 

It  is  the  east,  and  Juliet  is  the  sun  ! — 
Arise,  fair  sun,  and  kill  the  envious  moon, 
Who  is  already  sick  and  pale  with  grief, 
That  thou  her  maid  art  far  more  fair  than  she  : 
Be  not  her  maid,  since  she  is  envious ; 
Her  vestal  livery  is  but  sick  and  green, 


And  none  but  fools  do  wear  it ;  cast  it  off. — • 
It  is  my  lady  ;  O,  it  is  my  love  ! 
O,  that  she  knew  she  were  ! — 
She  speaks,  yet  she  says  nothing  :  what  of  that? 
Her  eye  discourses,  I  will  answer  it. — 
I  am  too  bold,  'tis  not  to  me  she  speaks  : 
Two  of  the  fairest  stars  in  all  the  heaven, 
Having  some  business,  do  entreat  her  eyes 
To  twinkle  in  their  spheres  till  they  return. 
What  if  her  eyes  were  there,  they  in  her  head? 
The  brightness  of  her  cheek  would  shame  those 

stars, 

As  daylight  doth  a  lamp  ;  her  eyes  in  heaven 
Would  through  the  airy  region  stream  so  bright 
That  birds  would  sing,  and  think  it  were  not 

night. — 

See  how  she  leans  her  cheek  upon  her  hand  ! 
O,  that  I  were  a  glove  upon  that  hand, 
That  I  might  touch  that  cheek  ! 
Jul.  Ah  me  ! 

Rom.  She  speaks  : — 

O,  speak  again,  bright  angel !  for  thou  art 
As  glorious  to  this  night,  being  o'er  my  head, 
As  is  a  winged  messenger  of  heaven 
Unto  the  white-upturned  wondering  eyes 
Of  mortals  that  fall  back  to  gaze  on  him 
When  he  bestrides  the  lazy-pacing  clouds 
And  sails  upon  the  bosom  of  the  air. 
Jul.  O  Romeo,  Romeo  !  wherefore  art  thou 

Romeo  ? 

Deny  thy  father  and  refuse  thy  name ; 
Or,  if  thou  wilt  not,  be  but  sworn  my  love, 
And  I  '11  no  longer  be  a  Capulet. 

Rom.  [Aside.']  Shall  I  hear  more,  or  shall  I 

speak  at  this? 

Jul.  'Tis  but  thy  name  that  is  my  enemy  ;— 
Thou  art  thyself  though,  not  a  Montague. 
What 's  Montague  ?     It  is  nor  hand,  nor  foot, 
Nor  arm,  nor  face,  nor  any  other  part 
Belonging  to  a  man.     O,  be  some  other  name ! 
What's   in   a   name?    that  which   we   call   a 

rose, 

By  any  other  name  would  smell  as  sweet ; 
So  Romeo  would,  were  he  not  Romeo  call'd, 
Retain  that  dear  perfection  which  he  owes 
Without  that  title  : — Romeo,  doff  thy  name ; 
And  for  that  name,  which  is  no  part  of  thee, 
Take  all  myself. 

Rom.  I  take  thee  at  thy  word  : 

Call  me  but  love,  and  I  '11  be  new  baptiz'd ; 
Henceforth  I  never  will  be  Romeo. 
Jul.  What    man  art  thou,   that,   thus  be* 

screen'd  in  night, 
So  stumblest  on  my  counsel  ? 

Rom.  By  a  name 

I  know  not  how  to  tell  thee  who  I  am  : 
My  name,  dear  saint,  is  hateful  to  myself, 


SCENE  II.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


1075 


Because  it  is  an  enemy  to  thee  ; 
Had  I  it  written,  I  would  tear  the  word. 
Jul.  My  ears  have  not  yet  drunk  a  hundred 

words  [sound ; 

Of  that  tongue's  utterance,  yet  I  know  the 
Art  thou  not  Romeo,  and  a  Montague? 

Rom.  Neither,  fair  saint,  if  either  thee  dislike. 
Jul.  How  cam'st  thou  hituer,  tell  me,  and 

wherefore  ? 

The  orchard  walls  are  high  and  hard  to  climb ; 
And  the  place  death,  considering  who  thou  art, 
If  any  of  my  kinsmen  find  thee  here. 

Rom.  With  love's  light  wings  did  I   o'er- 

perch  these  walls ; 

For  stony  limits  cannot  hold  love  out : 
And  what  love  can  do,  that  dares  love  attempt ; 
Therefore  thy  kinsmen  are  no  let  to  me. 
Jul.  If  they  do  see  thee  they  will  murder 

thee.  [eye 

Rom.  Alack,  there  lies  more  peril  in  thine 

Than  twenty  of  their  swords :  look  thou  but 

sweet, 

And  I  am  proof  against  their  enmity.  [here. 
Jul.  I  would  not  for  the  world  they  saw  thee 
Rom.  I  have  night's  cloak  to  hide  me  from 

their  sight ; 

And,  but  thou  love  me,  let  them  find  me  here : 
My  life  were  better  ended  by  their  hate 
Than  death  prorogued  wanting  of  thy  love. 
Jul.  By  whose  direction  found'st  thou   out 

this  place  ?  [inquire  ; 

Rom.  By  love,  who  first  did  prompt  me  to 
He  lent  me  counsel,  and  I  lent  him  eyes. 
I  am  no  pilot ;  yet,  wert  thou  as  far 
As  that  vast  shore  wash'd  with  the  furthest  sea, 
I  would  adventure  for  such  merchandise. 
Jul.  Thou  know'st  the  mask  of  night  is  on 

my  face, 

Else  would  a  maiden  blush  bepaint  my  cheek 
For  that  which  thou  hast  heard  me  speak  to- 
night. 

Fain  would  I  dwell  on  form,  fain,  fain  deny 
What  I  have  spoke  :  but  farewell  compliment ! 
Dost  thou  love  me?   I  know  thou  wilt  say  Ay ; 
And  I  will  take  thy  word  :  yet,  if  thou  swear'st, 
Thou  mayst  prove  false  ;  at  lovers'  perjuries 
They  say  Jove  laughs.     O  gentle  Romeo, 
If  thou  dost  love,  pronounce  it  faithfully  : 
Or,  if  thou  think'st  I  am  too  quickly  won, 
I  '11  frown,  and  be  perverse,  and  say  thee  nay, 
So  thou  wilt  woo  ;  but  else,  not  for  the  world. 
In  truth,  fair  Montague,  I  am  too  fond  ; 
And  therefore  thou  mayst  think  my  'haviour 

light : 

But  trust  me,  gentleman,  I  '11  prove  more  true 
Than  those  that  have  more  cunning  to  be 

strange. 


I  should  have  been  more  strange,  I  must  con- 
fess, 

But  that  thou  over-heard'st,  ere  I  was  'ware, 
My  true  love's  passion  :  therefore  pardon  me  ; 
And  not  impute  this  yielding  to  light  love, 
Which  the  dark  night  hath  so  discovered. 

Rom.  Lady,  by  yonder  blessed  moon  I  swear, 
That  tips  with  silver  all  these  fruit-tree  tops, — 
Jul.  O,  swear  not  by  the  moon,  the  incon- 
stant moon, 

That  monthly  changes  in  her  circled  orb, 
Lest  that  thy  love  prove  likewise  variable. 
Rom.  What  shall  I  swear  by  ? 
Jul.  Do  not  swear  at  all ; 

Or,  if  thou  wilt,  swear  by  thy  gracious  self, 
Which  is  the  god  of  my  idolatry, 
And  I  '11  believe  thee. 

Rom.  If  my  heart's  dear  love, — 

Jul.  Well,  do  not  swear :  although  I  joy  in 

thee, 

I  have  no  joy  of  this  contract  to-night : 
It  is  too  rash,  too  unadvis'd,  too  sudden  ; 
Too  like  the  lightning,  which  doth  cease  to  be 
Ere  one  can  say,   It  lightens.     Sweet,  good- 
night ! 

This  bud  of  love,  by  summer's  ripening  breath, 
May  prove  a  beauteous  flower  when  next  we 
meet.  [rest 

Good-night,  good-night !  as  sweet  repose  and 
Come  to  thy  heart  as  that  within  my  breast ! 
Rom.  O,  wilt  thou  leave  me  so  unsatisfied  ? 
Jul.  What  satisfaction  canst  thou  have  to- 
night ? 

Rom.    The  exchange  of  thy  love's   faithful 
vow  for  mine.  [quest  it : 

Jul.  I  gave  thee  mine  before  thou  didst  re- 
And  yet  I  would  it  were  to  give  again. 

Rom.  Wouldst  thou  withdraw  it  ?  for  what 

purpose,  love? 

Jul.  But  to  be  frank,  and  give  it  thee  again. 
And  yet  I  wish  but  for  the  thing  I  have : 
My  bounty  is  as  boundless  as  the  sea, 
My  love  as  deep  ;  the  more  I  give  to  thee 
The  more  I  have,  for  both  are  infinite. 

[Nurse  calls  within. 

I  hear  some  noise  within  ;  dear  love,  adieu  ! — 
Anon,  good  nurse  ! — Sweet  Montague,  be  true. 
Stay  but  a  little,  I  will  come  again.  [Exit. 
Rom.  O  blessed,  blessed  night !  I  am  afeard, 
Being  in  night,  all  this  is  but  a  dream, 
Too  flattering-sweet  to  be  substantial. 

Re-enter  JULIET  above. 

Jul.  Three  words,  dear  Romeo,  and  good- 
night indeed. 

If  that  thy  bent  of  love  be  honourable,      [row, 
Thy  purpose  marriage,  send  me  word  to-mor- 


1076 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[ACT  II. 


By  one  that  I  '11  procure  to  come  to  thee, 
Where  and  what  time  thou  wilt  perform  the 

rite ; 

And  all  my  fortunes  at  thy  foot  I  '11  lay, 
And  follow  thee,  my  lord,  throughout  the  world. 

Nurse.  [Within.}  Madam!  [well, 

Jul.  I  come  anon. — But  if  thou  mean'st  not 
I  do  beseech  thee, — 

Nurse.  [Within.]  Madam! 

Jul.  By  and  by,  I  come  : — 

To  cease  thy  suit,  and  leave  me  to  my  grief: 
To-morrow  will  I  send. 

Rom.  So  thrive  my  soul, — 

Jul.  A  thousand  times  good-night !     [Exit. 

Rom.  A  thousand  times  the  worse,  to  want 

thy  light. — 

Love  goes  toward  love  as   school-boys   from 

their  books;  [looks. 

But  love  from  love,  toward  school  with  heavy 

[Retiring  slowly. 

Re-enter  JULIET  above. 

/ul.  Hist !  Romeo,  hist ! — O  for  a  falconer's 

voice, 

To  lure  this  tassel -gentle  back  again  ! 
Bondage  is  hoarse,  and  may  not  speak  aloud  ; 
Else  would  I  tear  the  cave  where  Echo  lies, 
And  make  her  airy  tongue  more  hoarse  than 

mine 
With  repetition  of  my  Romeo's  name. 

Rom.  It  is  my  soul  that  calls  upon  my  name : 
How  silver-sweet  sound  lovers' tongues  by  night, 
Like  softest  music  to  attending  ears  ! 

Jul.  Romeo  ! 

Rom.  My  dear? 

Jul.  At  what  o'clock  to-morrow 

Shall  I  send  to  thee  ? 

Rom.  At  the  hour  of  nine. 

Jul.  I  will  not  fail :  'tis  twenty  years  till  then. 
I  have  forgot  why  I  did  call  thee  back.  [it. 

Rom.  Let  me  stand  here  till  thou  remember 

Jul.  I  shall  forget,  to  have  thee  still  stand 

there, 
Remembering  how  I  love  thy  company. 

Rom.  And  I  '11  still  stay,  to  have  thee  still 

forget, 
Forgetting  any  other  home  but  this. 

Jul.  'Tis  almost  morning;  I  would  have  thee 

gone: 

And  yet  no  further  than  a  wanton's  bird  ; 
Who  lets  it  hop  a  little  from  her  hand, 
Like  a  poor  prisoner  in  his  twisted  gyves, 
And  with  a  silk  thread  plucks  it  back  again, 
So  loving-jealous  of  his  liberty. 

Rom.  I  would  I  were  thy  bird. 

Jul.  Sweet,  so  would  I  : 

Yet  I  should  kill  thee  with  much  cherishing. 


Good-night,  good-night !  parting  is  such  sweet 

sorrow 
That  I  shall  say  good-night  till  it  be  morrow. 

[Exit. 
Rom.  Sleep  dwell  upon  thine  eyes,  peace  in 

thy  breast! — • 

Would  I  were  sleep  and  peace,  so  sweet  to  rest! 
Hence  will  I  to  my  ghostly  father's  cell, 
His  help  to  crave  and  my  dear  hap  to  tell.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III. — FRIAR  LAWRENCE'S  Cell. 
Enter  FRIAR  LAWRENCE  with  a  basket. 

Fri.  L.  The  gray-ey'd  morn  smiles  on  the 
frowning  night,  [light ; 

Chequering  the  eastern  clouds  with  streaks  of 
And  flecked  darkness  like  a  drunkard  reels 
From  forth  day's  path  and  Titan's  fiery  wheels: 
Now,  ere  the  sun  advance  his  burning  eye^ 
The  day  to  cheer  and  night's  dank  dew  to  dry. 
I  must  up-fill  this  osier  cage  of  ours 
With  baleful  weeds  and  precious-juiced  flowers. 
The  earth,  that 's  nature's  mother,  is  her  tomb> 
What  is  her  burying  grave,  that  is  her  womb : 
And  from  her  womb  children  of  divers  kind 
We  sucking  on  her  natural  bosom  find  ; 
Many  for  many  virtues  excellent, 
None  but  for  some,  and  yet  all  different. 
O,  mickle  is  the  powerful  grace  that  lies 
In  herbs,  plants,  stones,  and  their  true  qualities : 
For  naught  so  vile  that  on  the  earth  doth  live 
But  to  the  earth  some  special  good  doth  give  ; 
Nor  aught  so  good  but,  strain'd  from  that  fair  use, 
Revolts  from  true  birth,  stumbling  on  abuse : 
Virtue  itself  turns  vice,  being  misapplied  ; 
And  vice  sometimes  by  action  dignified. 
Within  the  infant  rind  of  this  small  flower 
Poison  hath  residence,  and  medicine  power  : 
For  this,  being  smelt,  with  that  part  cheers 

each  part ; 

Being  tasted,  slays  all  senses  with  the  heart. 
Two  such  opposed  kings  encamp  them  still 
In  man  as  well  as  herbs, — grace  and  rude  will ; 
And  where  the  worser  is  predominant, 
Full  soon  the  canker  death  eats  up  that  plant. 

Enter  ROMEO. 

Rom.  Good-morrow,  father! 

Fri.  L.  Benedicite! 

What  early  tongue  so  sweet  saluteth  me  ?— 
Young  son,  it  argues  a  distemper'd  head 
So  soon  to  bid  good-morrow  to  thy  bed : 
Care  keeps  his  watch  in  every  old  man's  eye, 
And  where  care  lodges  sleep  will  never  lie  ; 
But  where  unbvuised  youth  with  unstuff'd  brain 
Doth  couch  his  limbs,  there  golden  sleep  doth 
reign: 


SCBNB  III.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


1077 


Therefore  thy  earliness  doth  me  assure 
Thou  art  uprous'd  by  some  distemperature ; 
Or  if  not  so,  then  here  I  hit  it  right, — 
Our  Romeo  hath  not  been  in  bed  to-night. 

Rom.  That  last  is  true  ;  the  sweeter  rest  was 
mine.  [Rosaline  ? 

Fri.  L.  God   pardon   sin !   wast   thou   with 

Rom.  With  Rosaline,  my  ghostly  father  ?  no ; 
I  have  forgot  that  name,  and  that  name's  woe. 

Fri.  L.  That 's  my  good  son :  but  where  hast 
thou  been,  then  ? 

Rom.  I  '11  tell  thee  ere  thou  ask  it  me  again. 
I  have  been  feasting  with  mine  enemy ; 
Where,  on  a  sudden,  one  hath  wounded  me 
That 's  by  me  wounded  ;  both  our  remedies 
Within  thy  help  and  holy  physic  lies : 
I  bear  no  hatred,  blessed  man ;  for,  lo, 
My  intercession  likewise  steads  my  foe.     [drift ; 

Fri.  L.  Be  plain,  good  son,  and  homely  in  thy 
Riddling  confession  finds  but  riddling  shrift. 

Rom.  Then  plainly  know  my  heart's  dear 

love  is  set 

On  the  fair  daughter  of  rich  Capulet : 
As  mine  on  hers,  so  hers  is  set  on  mine  ; 
And  all  combin'd,  save  what  thou  must  combine 
By  holy  marriage :  when,  and  where,  and  how 
We  met,  we  woo'd,  and  made  exchange  of  vow, 
I  '11  tell  thee  as  we  pass  ;  but  this  I  pray, 
That  thou  consent  to  marry  us  to-day.      [here! 

Fri.  L.  Holy  St.  Francis !  what  a  change  is 
Is  Rosaline,  whom  thou  didst  love  so  dear, 
So  soon  forsaken?  young  men's  love,  then,  lies 
Not  truly  in  their  hearts,  but  in  their  eyes. 
Jesu  Maria,  what  a  deal  of  brine 
Hath  wash'd  thy  sallow  cheeks  for  Rosaline! 
How  much  salt  water  thrown  away  in  waste, 
To  season  love,  that  of  it  doth  not  taste! 
The  sun  not  yet  thy  sighs  from  heaven  clears, 
Thy  old  groans  ring  yet  in  my  ancient  ears ; 
Lo,  here  upon  thy  cheek  the  stain  doth  sit 
Of  an  old  tear  that  is  not  wash'd  off  yet : 
If  e'er  thou  wast  thyself,  and  these  woes  thine, 
Thou  and  these  woes  were  all  for  Rosaline : 
And  art  thou  chang'd?  pronounce  this  sentence, 
then, —  [men. 

Women  may  fall,  when  there's  no  strength  in 

Rom.  Thou  chidd'stme  oft  for  loving  Rosaline. 

Fri.  L.  For  doting,  not  for  loving,  pupil  mine. 

Rom.  And  bad'st  me  bury  love. 

Fri.  L.  Not  in  a  grave, 

To  lay  one  in,  another  out  to  have.  [now 

Rom.  I  pray  thee,  chide  not:  she  whom  I  love 
Doth  grace  for  grace  and  love  for  love  allow ; 
The  other  did  not  so. 

Fri.  L.  O,  she  knew  well 

Thy  love  did  read  by  rote,  and  could  not  spell. 
But  come,  young  waverer,  come,  go  with  me, 


In  one  respect  I  '11  thy  assistant  be  ; 

For  this  alliance  may  so  happy  prove, 

To  turn  your  households'  rancour  to  pure  love. 

Rom.  O,  let  us  hence;  I  stand  on  sudden  haste. 

Fri.  L.  Wisely  and  slow ;  they  stumble  that 
run  fast.  {Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.—  A  Street. 
Enter  BENVOLIO  and  MEKCUTIO. 

Mer.  Where  the  devil  should  this  Romeo 

be?— 
Came  he  not  home  to-night? 

Ben.  Not  to  his  father's ;  I  spoke  with  his 
man. 

Mer.  Ah,  that  same  pale  hard-hearted  wench, 

that  Rosaline, 
Torments  him  so  that  he  will  sure  run  mad. 

Ben.  Tybalt,  the  kinsman  of  old  Capulet, 
Hath  sent  a  letter  to  his  father's  house. 

Mer.  A  challenge,  on  my  life. 

Ben.  Romeo  will  answer  it. 

Mer.  Any  man  that  can  write  may  answer  a 
letter. 

Ben.  Nay,  he  will  answer  the  letter's  master, 
how  he  dares,  being  dared. 

Mer.  Alas,  poor  Romeo,  he  is  already  dead! 
stabbed  with  a  white  wench's  black  eye  ;  shot 
thorough  the  ear  with  a  love-song ;  the  very 
pin  of  his  heart  cleft  with  the  blind  bow-boy's 
butt-shaft:  and  is  he  a  man  to  encounter  Tybalt? 

Ben.  Why,  what  is  Tybalt? 

Mer.  More  than  prince  of  cats,  I  can  tell  you. 
O,  he  is  the  courageous  captain  of  compliments. 
He  fights  as  you  sing  prick-song,  keeps  time, 
distance,  and  proportion ;  rests  me  his  minim 
rest,  one,  two,  and  the  third  in  your  bosom : 
the  very  butcher  of  a  silk  button,  a  duellist,  a 
duellist;  a  gentleman  of  the  very  first  house,— 
of  the  first  and  second  cause :  ah,  the  immortal 
passado!  the  punto  reverse!  the  hay! — 

Ben.  The  what  ? 

Mer.  The  pox  of  such  antic,  lisping,  affecting 
fantasticoes  ;  these  new  tuners  of  accents ! — 
By  Jesu^  a  very  good  blade! — a  very  tall  man! 
— a  very  good  whore! — Why,  is  not  this  a 
lamentable  thing,  grandsire,  that  we  should  be 
thus  afflicted  with  these  strange  flies,  these 
fashion-mongers,  these  pardonnez-mois,  who 
stand  so  much  on  the  new  form  that  they  can- 
not sit  at  ease  on  the  old  bench?  O,  their 
bans,  their  bons! 

Ben.  Here  comes  Romeo,  here  comes  Romeo. 

Mer.  Without  his  roe,  like  a  dried  herring. 
— O,  flesh,  flesh,  how  art  thou  fishified  ! — Now 
is  he  for  the  numbers  that  Petrarch  flowed  in : 


1078 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[ACT  n. 


Laura,  to  his  lady,  was  but  a  kitchen-wench, — 
marry,  she  had  a  better  love  to  be-rhyme  her  ; 
Dido,  a  dowdy ;  Cleopatra,  a  gipsy;  Helen  and 
Hero,  hildings  and  harlots  ;  Thisbe,  a  gray  eye 
or  so,  but  not  to  the  purpose, — 

Enter  ROMEO. 

Signior  Romeo,  ban  jour!  there's  a  French 
salutation  to  your  French  slop.  You  gave  us 
the  counterfeit  fairly  last  night. 

Rom.  Good-morrow  to  you  both.  What 
counterfeit  did  I  give  you  ? 

Mer.  The  slip,  sir,  the  slip ;  can  you  not 
conceive  ? 

Rom.  Pardon,  good  Mercutio,  my  business 
was  great ;  and  in  such  a  case  as  mine  a  man 
may  strain  courtesy. 

Mer.  That 's  as  much  as  to  say,  such  a  case 
as  yours  constrains  a  man  to  bow  in  the  hams. 

Rom.  Meaning,  to  court'sy. 

Mer.  Thou  hast  most  kindly  hit  it. 

Rom.  A  most  courteous  exposition. 

Mer.  Nay,  I  am  the  very  pink  of  courtesy. 

Rom.  Pink  for  flower. 

Mer.  Right. 

Rom.   Why,  then  is  my  pump  well  flowered. 

Mer.  Well  said :  follow  me  this  jest  now  till 
thou  hast  worn  out  thy  pump ;  that  when  the 
single  sole  of  it  is  worn,  the  jest  may  remain, 
after  the  wearing,  sole  singular. 

Rom.  O  single-soled  jest,  solely  singular  for 
the  singleness ! 

Mer.  Come  between  us,  good  Benvolio  ;  my 
wits  faint. 

Rom.  Switch  and  spurs,  switch  and  spurs ; 
or  I  '11  cry  a  match. 

Mer.  Nay,  if  thy  wits  run  the  wild-goose 
chase,  I  have  done  ;  for  thou  hast  more  of  the 
wild-goose  in  one  of  thy  wits  than,  I  am  sure, 
I  have  in  my  whole  five  :  was  I  with  you  there 
for  the  goose  ? 

Rom.  Thou  wast  never  with  me  for  anything 
when  thou  wast  not  there  for  the  goose. 

Mer.  I  will  bite  thee  by  the  ear  for  that  jest. 

Rom.  Nay,  good  goose,  bite  not. 

Mer.  Thy  wit  is  a  very  bitter  sweeting  ;  it  is 
a  most  sharp  sauce. 

Rom.  And  is  it  not  well  served  in  to  a  sweet 
goose  ? 

Mer.  O,  here 's  a  wit  of  cheveril,  that  stretches 
from  an  inch  narrow  to  an  ell  broad  ! 

Rom.  I  stretch  it  out  for  that  word,  broad : 
which  added  to  the  goose,  proves  thee  far  and 
wide  a  broad  goose. 

Mer.  Why,  is  not  this  better  now  than  groan- 
ing for  love?  now  art  thou  sociable,  now  art 
thou  Romeo ;  not  art  thou  what  thou  art,  by 


art  as  well  as  by  nature  :  for  this  drivelling  love 
is  like  a  great  natural,  that  runs  lolling  up  and 
down  to  hide  his  bauble  in  a  hole. 

Ben.  Stop  there,  stop  there. 

Mer.  Thou  desirest  me  to  stop  in  my  tale 
against  the  hair. 

Ben.  Thou  wouldst  else  have  made  thy  tale 
large. 

Mer.  O,  thou  art  deceived  ;  I  would  have 
made  it  short:  for  I  was  come  to  the  whole 
depth  of  my  tale ;  and  meant,  indeed,  to  occupy 
the  argument  no  longer. 

Rom.  Here 's  goodly  gear ! 

Enter  Nurse  and  PETER. 

Mer.  A  sail,  a  sail,  a  sail ! 

Ben.  Two,  two  ;  a  shirt  and  a  smock. 

Nurse.  Peter ! 

Peter.  Anon? 

Nurse.   My  fan,  Peter. 

Mer.  Good  Peter,  to  hide  her  face ;  for  her 
fan 's  the  fairer  face. 

Nurse.  God  ye  good-morrow,  gentlemen. 

Mer.  God  ye  good-den,  fair  gentlewoman. 

Nurse.  Is  it  good-den  ? 

Mer.  'Tis  no  less,  I  tell  you  ;  for  the  bawdy 
hand  of  the  dial  is  now  upon  the  prick  of  noon. 

Nurse.  Out  upon  you !  what  a  man  are  you ! 

Rom.  One,  gentlewoman,  that  God  hath 
made  himself  to  mar. 

Nurse.  By  my  troth,  it  is  well  said  ; — for 
himself  to  mar,  quoth  'a? — Gentlemen,  can  any 
of  you  tell  me  where  I  may  find  the  young 
Romeo  ? 

Rom.  I  can  tell  you :  but  young  Romeo  will 
be  older  when  you  have  found  him  than  he  was 
when  you  sought  him:  I  am  the  youngest  of 
that  name,  for  fault  of  a  worse. 

Nurse.  You  say  well. 

Mer.  Yea,  is  the  worst  well  ?  very  well  took, 
i'  faith ;  wisely,  wisely. 

Nurse.  If  you  be  he,  sir,  I  desire  some  confi- 
dence with  you. 

Ben.  She  will  indite  him  to  some  supper. 

Mer.  A  bawd,  a  bawd,  a  bawd !    So  ho ! 

Rom.  What  hast  thou  found  ? 

Mer.  No  hare,  sir ;  unless  a  hare,  sir,  in  a 
lenten  pie,  that  is  something  stale  and  hoar  ere 
it  be  spent.  \_Sings. 

An  old  hare  hoar, 

And  an  old  hare  hoar, 
Is  very  good  meat  in  Lent : 

But  a  hare  that  is  hoar 

Is  top  much  for  a  score, 
When  it  hoars  ere  it  be  spent. 

Romeo,  will  you  come  to  your  father's  ?  we  '11 
to  dinner  thither. 


SCENE  IV.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


1079 


Rom.  I  will  follow  you. 

Mer.  Farewell,    ancient   lady;    farewell, — 
[singing}  lady,  lady,  lady. 
[Exeunt  MERCUTIO  and  BENVOLIO. 

Nurse.  Marry,  farewell ! — I  pray  you,  sir, 
what  saucy  merchant  was  this,  that  was  so  full 
of  his  ropery  ? 

Rom.  A  gentleman,  nurse,  that  loves  to  hear 
himself  talk  ;  and  will  speak  more  in  a  minute 
than  he  will  stand  to  in  a  month. 

Nurse.  An  'a  speak  anything  against  me,  I  '11 
take  him  down,  an  'a  were  lustier  than  he  is, 
and  twenty  such  Jacks ;  and  if  I  cannot,  I  '11 
find  those  that  shall.  Scurvy  knave  !  I  am 
none  of  his  flirt -gills  ;  I  am  none  of  his  skains- 
mates. — And  thou  must  stand  by  too,  and 
suffer  every  knave  to  use  me  at  his  pleasure  ? 

Pet.  I  saw  no  man  use  you  at  his  pleasure  ; 
if  I  had,  my  weapon  should  quickly  have  been 
out,  I  warrant  you :  I  dare  draw  as  soon  as 
another  man,  if  I  see  occasion  in  a  good  quarrel, 
and  the  law  on  my  side. 

Nurse.  Now,  afore  God,  I  am  so  vexed  that 
every  part  about  me  quivers.  Scurvy  knave  !— 
Pray  you,  sir,  a  word  :  and  as  I  told  you,  my 
young  lady  bade  me  inquire  you  out ;  what  she 
bade  me  say  I  will  keep  to  myself:  but  first  let 
me  tell  ye,  if  ye  should  lead  her  into  a  fool's 
paradise,  as  they  say,  it  were  a  very  gross  kind 
of  behaviour,  as  they  say :  for  the  gentlewoman 
is  young ;  and,  therefore,  if  you  should  deal 
double  with  her,  truly  it  were  an  ill  thing  to 
be  offered  to  any  gentlewoman,  and  very  weak 
dealing. 

Rom.  Nurse,  commend  me  to  thy  lady  and 
mistress.  I  protest  unto  thee, — 

Nurse.  Good  heart,  and,  i'  faith,  I  will  tell 
her  as  much  :  Lord,  Lord,  she  will  be  a  joyful 
woman. 

Rom.  What  wilt  thou  tell  her,  nurse  ?  thou 
dost  not  mark  me. 

Nurse.  I  will  tell  her,  sir, — -that  you  do  pro- 
test ;  which,  as  I  take  it,  is  a  gentlemanlike 
offer.  [shrift 

Rom.  Bid  her  devise  some  means  to  come  to 
This  afternoon ; 

And  there  she  shall  at  Friar  Lawrence'  cell 
Be  shriv'd  and  married.     Here  is  for  thy  pains. 

Nurse.  No,  truly,  sir  ;  not  a  penny. 

Rom.  Go  to  ;  I  say  you  shall.  [there. 

Nurse.  This  afternoon,  sir?  well,  she  shall  be 

Rom.  And   stay,    good   nurse,    behind    the 

abbey- wall : 

Within  this  hour  my  man  shall  be  with  thee, 
And  bring  thee  cords  made  like  a  tackled  stair ; 
Which  to  the  high  top-gallant  of  my  joy 
Must  be  my  convoy  in  the  secret  night. 


Farewell  ;  be  trusty,  and  I  '11  quit  thy  pains : 
Farewell ;  commend  me  to  thy  mistress. 

Nurse.  Now  God  in  heaven  bless  thee  ! — 
Hark  you,  sir. 

Rom.  What  say'st  thou,  my  dear  nurse? 

Nurse.  Is  your  man  secret  ?     Did  you  ne'er 

hear  say 
Two  may  keep  counsel,  putting  one  away  ? 

Rom.  I  warrant  thee,  my  man 's  as  true  as 
steel. 

Nttrse.  Well,  sir ;  my  mistress  is  the  sweetest 
lady, — Lord,  Lord  !  when  'twas  a  little  prating 
thing, — O,  there's  a  nobleman  in  town,  one 
Paris,  that  would  fain  lay  knife  aboard  ;  but 
she,  good  soul,  had  as  .lief  see  a  toad,  a  very 
toad,  as  see  him.  I  anger  her  sometimes,  and 
tell  her  that  Paris  is  the  properer  man ;  but, 
I  '11  warrant  you,  when  I  say  so,  she  looks  as 
pale  as  any  clout  in  the  versa!  world.  Doth 
not  rosemary  and  Romeo  begin  both  with  ft 
letter  ?  [an  R. 

Rom.  Ay,  nurse ;  what  of  that  ?  both  with 

Nurse.  Ah,  mocker  !  that 's  the  dog's  name. 
R  is  for  the  dog :  no ;  I  know  it  begins  with 
some  other  letter  : — and  she  hath  the  prettiest 
sententious  of  it,  of  you  and  rosemary,  that  it 
would  do  you  good  to  hear  it. 

Rom.  Commend  me  to  thy  lady. 

Nurse.  Ay,  a  thousand  times.  [Exit  ROMEO.  ] 
—Peter ! 

Pet.  Anon? 

Nurse.  Peter,  take  my  fan  and  go  before. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — CAPULET'S  Garden. 
Enter  JULIET. 

Jul.  The  clock  struck  nine  when  I  did  send 

the  nurse ; 

In  half  an  hour  she  promis'd  to  return,  [so.— 
Perchance  she  cannot  meet  him  :— that 's  not 
O,  she  is  lame !  love's  heralds  should  be 

thoughts,  [beams, 

Which  ten  times  faster  glide  than  the  sun's 
Driving  back  shadows  over  lowering  hills : 
Therefore  do  nimble-pinion'd  doves  draw  love, 
And  therefore  hath  the  wind-swift  Cupid  wings. 
Now  is  the  sun  upon  the  highmost  hill 
Of  this  day's  journey  ;  and  from  nine  till  twelve 
Is  three  long  hours, — yet  she  is  not  come. 
Had  she  affections  and  warm  youthful  blood, 
She  'd  be  as  swift  in  motion  as  a  ball ; 
My  words  would  bandy  her  to  my  sweet  love, 
And  his  to  me  : 

But  old  folks,  many  feign  as  they  were  dead  ; 
Unwieldy,  slow,  heavy  and  pale  as  lead. — 
O  God,  she  comes  I 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[ACT  ii. 


Enter  Nurse  and  PETER. 

O  honey  nurse,  what  news  ? 
Hast  thou  met  with  him  ?    Send  thy  man  away. 
Nurse.  Peter,  stay  at  the  gate. 

[Exit  PETER. 
Jul.  Now,  good  sweet  nurse, — O  Lord,  why 

look'st  thou  sad  ? 

Though  news  be  sad,  yet  tell  them  merrily ; 

If  good,  thou  sham'st  the  music  of  sweet  news 

By  playing  it  to  me  with  so  sour  a  face. 

Nurse.    I  am  a- weary,   give  me  leave  a- 

while ;—  [had  ! 

Fie,  how  my  bones  ache  !  what  a  jaunt  have  I 

ful.  I  would  thou  hadst  my  bones  and  I  thy 

news :  [nurse,  speak. 

Nay,  come,  I  pray  thee,  speak  ; — good,  good 

Nurse.  Jesu,  what  haste?  can  you  not  stay 

awhile  ? 

Do  you  not  see  that  I  am  out  of  breath  ? 
Jul.  How  art  thou  out  of  breath,  when  thou 

hast  breath 

To  say  to  me  that  thou  art  out  of  breath  ? 
The  excuse  that  thou  dost  make  in  this  delay 
Is  longer  than  the  tale  thou  dost  excuse. 
Is  thy  news  good  or  bad  ?  answer  to  that ; 
Say  either,  and  I  '11  stay  the  circumstance  : 
Let  me  be  satisfied,  is 't  good  or  bad  ? 

Nurse.  Well,  you  have  made  a  simple 
choice  j  you  know  not  how  to  choose  a  man : 
Romeo  !  no,  not  he  ;  though  his  face  be  better 
than  any  man's,  yet  his  leg  excels  all  men's ; 
and  for  a  hand,  and  a  foot,  and  a  body, — 
though  they  be  not  to  be  talked  on,  yet  they 
are  past  compare :  he  is  not  the  flower  of 
courtesy, — but  I  '11  warrant  him  as  gentle  as  a 
lamb. — Go  thy  ways,  wench  ;  serve  God. — 
What,  have  you  dined  at  home  ? 

Jul.  No,  no :  but  all  this  did  I  know  before. 
What  says  he  of  our  marriage  ?  what  of  that  ? 
Nurse.  Lord,  how  my  head  aches !  what  a 

head  have  I ! 

It  beats  as  it  would  fall  in  twenty  pieces. 
My  back  o'  t'  other  side, — O,  my  back,  my 

back  ! — 

Beshrew  your  heart  for  sending  me  about 
To  catch  my  death  with  jaunting  up  and  down ! 
Jul.  I*  faith,  I  am  sorry  that  thou  art  not 

well. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet  nurse,  tell  me,  what  says 

my  love?  [man, 

Nurse.  Your  love  says,  like  an  honest  gentle- 

And  a  courteous,  and  a  kind,  and  a  handsome, 

And,  I  warrant,  a  virtuous, — Whe*"e  is  your 

mother  ? 

Jul.  Where  is  my  mother  ! — why,   she  is 
within ; 


Where  should  she  be?     How  oddly  thou  re 

pliest! 

Your  love  says,  like  an  honest  gentleman^ — 
Where  is  your  mother? 

Nurse.  O  God?s  lady  dear ! 

Are  you  so  hot  ?  marry,  come  up,  I  trow ; 
Is  this  the  poultice  for  my  aching  bones  r 
Henceforward,  do  your  messages  yourself. 
Jul.  Here 's  such  a  coil ! — come,  what  says 
Romeo  ?  [day  ? 

Nurse.  Have  you  got  leave  to  go  to  shrift  to- 
Jul.  I  have.  [cell; 

Nurse.  Thenhie  youhence  to  Friar  Lawrence' 
There  stays  a  husband  to  make  you  a  wife  : 
Now  comes  the  wanton  blood  up  in  your  cheeks, 
They  '11  be  in  scarlet  straight  at  any  news. 
Hie  you  to  church  ;  I  must  another  way, 
To  fetch  a  ladder,  by  the  which  your  love 
Must  climb  a  bird  s  nest  soon  when  it  is  dark : 
I  am  the  drudge,  and  toil  in  your  delight ; 
But  you  shall  bear  the  burden  soon  at  night. 
Go  ;  I  '11  to  dinner ;  hie  you  to  the  cell. 
Jul.  Hie  to  high  fortune ! — honest  nurse, 
farewell.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI. — FRIAR  LAWRENCE'S  Cell. 
Enter  FRIAR  LAWRENCE  and  ROMEO. 

Fri.  L.  So  smile  the  heavens  upon  this  holy 

act 
That  after-hours  with  sorrow  chide  us  not ! 

Rom.  Amen,  amen  !  but  come  what  sorrow 

can, 

It  cannot  countervail  the  exchange  of  joy 
That  one  short  minute  gives  me  in  her  sight : 
Do  thou  but  close  our  hands  with  holy  words, 
Then  love-devouring  death  do  what  he  dare, — 
It  is  enough  I  may  but  call  her  mine.       [ends, 

Fri.  L.  These  violent  delights  have  violent 
And  in  their  triumph  die ;  like  fire  and  powder, 
Which,  as  they  kiss,  consume :  the  sweetest 

honey 

Is  loathsome  in  his  own  deliciousness, 
And  in  the  taste  confounds  the  appetite: 
Therefore  love  moderately ;  long  love  doth  so ; 
Too  swift  arrives  as  tardy  as  too  slow. 
Here  comes  the  lady  : — O,  so  light  -  foot 
Will  ne'er  wear  out  the  everlasting  iiint : 
A  lover  may  bestride  the  gossamer 
That  idles  in  the  wanton  summer  air 
And  yet  not  fall ;  so  light  is  vanity 

j&a^JtJtiET. 

Jul.  Good-even  to  my  ghostly  confessor. 
Fri.  L.  Romeo  shall  thank  thee,  daughter, 
for  us  both.  [much. 

Jul.  As  much  to  him,  else  is  his  thanks  too 


SCENE  VI.} 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


1081 


Rom.  Ah,  Juliet,  if  the  measure  of  thy  joy 
Be  heap'd  like  mine,  and  that  thy  skill  be  more 
To  blazon  it,  then  sweeten  with  thy  breath 
This  neighbour  air,  and  let  rich  music's  tongue 
Unfold  the  imagin'd  happiness  that  both 
Receive  in  either  by  this  dear  encounter. 
ful.  Conceit,  more  rich  in  matter  than  in 

words, 

Brags  of  his  substance,  not  of  ornament : 
They  are   but   beggars   that  can   count   their 

worth ; 

But  my  true  love  is  grown  to  such  excess, 
T  cannot  sum  up  half  my  sum  of  wealth. 
Frt.  L.  Come,  come  with  me,  and  we  will 

make  r^ort  work ; 

For,  by  your  leaves,  you  shall  not  stay  alone 
Till  holy  church  incorporate  two  in  one. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  \.~Apublic  Place. 

Enter  MERCUTIO,  BENVOLIO,  Page,  and 
Servants. 

Ben.  I  pray  thee,  good  Mercutio,  let 's  retire : 
The  day  is  hot,  the  Capulets  abroad, 
And,  if  we  meet,  we  shall  not  scape  a  brawl ; 
For  now,  these  hot  days,  is  the  mad  blood 
stirring. 

Mer.  Thou  art  like  one  of  those  fellows  that, 
when  he  enters  the  confines  of  a  tavern,  claps 
me  his  sword  upon  the  table,  and  says,  God 
send  me  no  need  of  thee!  and  by  the  operation 
of  the  second  cup  draws  it  on  the  drawer,  when, 
indeed,  there  is  no  need. 

Ben.  Am  I  like  such  a  fellow  ? 

Mer.  Come,  come,  thou  art  as  hot  a  Jack  in 
thy  mood  as  any  in  Italy  ;  and  as  soon  moved 
to  be  moody,  and  as  soon  moody  to  be  moved. 

Ben.  And  what  to  ? 

Mer.  Nay,  an  there  were  two  such,  we 
should  have  none  shortly,  for  one  would  kill 
the  other.  Thou  !  why,  thou  wilt  quarrel  with 
a  man  that  hath  a  hair  more  or  a  hair  less 
in  his  beard  than  thou  hast.  Thou  wilt  quar- 
rel with  a  man  for  cracking  nuts,  having  no 
other  reason  but  because  thou  hast  hazel  eyes  ; 
— what  eye  but  such  an  eye  would  spy  out  such 
a  quarrel  ?  Thy  head  is  as  full  of  quarrels  as 
an  egg  is  full  of  meat ;  and  yet  thy  head  hath 
been  beaten  as  addle  as  an  egg  for  quarrelling. 
Thou  hast  quarrelled  with  a  man  for  coughing 
in  the  street,  because  he  hath  wakened  thy  dog 
that  hath  lain  asleep  in  the  sun.  Didst  thou 
not  fall  out  with  a  tailor  for  wearing  his  new 
doublet  before  Easter  ?  with  another  for  tying 


his  new  shoes  with  old  riband  ?  and  yet  thou 
wilt  tutor  me  from  quarrelling  I 

Ben.  An  I  were  so  apt  to  quarrel  as  thou  art, 
any  man  should  buy  the  fee-simple  of  my  life 
for  an  hour  and  a  quarter. 

Mer.  The  fee-simple  !     O  simple  ! 

Ben.  By  my  head,  here  come  the  Capulets. 

Mer.  By  my  l.ccl,  I  care  not. 

Enter  TYBALT  and  others. 

Tyb.  Follow  me  close,  for  I  will  speak  to 
them. — Gentlemen,  good-den:  a  word  with 
one  of  you. 

Mer.  And  but  one  word  with  one  of  us? 
Couple  it  with  something ;  make  it  a  word  and 
a  blow. 

Tyb.  You  shall  find  me  apt  enough  to  that, 
sir,  an  you  will  give  me  occasion. 

Mer.  Could  you  not  take  some  occasion  with- 
out giving? 

Tyb.  Mercutio,  thou  consort'st  with  Romeo, — 

Mer.  Consort!  what,  dost  thou  make  us 
minstrels?  An  thou  make  minstrels  of  us, 
look  to  hear  nothing  but  discords:  here's  my 
fiddlestick ;  here 's  that  shall  make  you  dance. 
Zounds,  consort ! 

Ben.  We  talk  here  in  the  public  haunt  of  men: 
Either  withdraw  unto  some  private  place, 
And  reason  coldly  of  your  grievances, 
Or  else  depart ;  here  all  eyes  gaze  on  us. 

Mer.  Men's  eyes  were  made  to  look,  and 

let  them  gaze; 
I  will  not  budge  for  no  man's  pleasure,  I. 

Tyb.  Well,  peace  with  you,  sir. — Here  comes 
my  man. 

Enter  ROMEO. 

Mer.  But  I'll  be  hanged,  sir,  if  he  wear 

your  livery: 

Marry,  go  before  to  field,  he  '11  be  your  follower; 
Your  worship  in  that  sense  may  call  him  man. 

Tyb.  Romeo,  the  hate  I  bear  thee  can  afford 
No  better  term  than  this, — Thou  art  a  villain. 

Rom.  Tybalt,  the  reason  that  I  have  to  love 

thee 

Doth  much  excuse  the  appertaining  rage 
To  such  a  greeting.  Villain  am  I  none ; 
Therefore,  farewell ;  I  see  thou  know'st  me  not. 

Tyb.  Boy,  this  shall  not  excuse  the  injuries 
That  thou  hast  done  me ;  therefore  turn  and 
draw. 

Rom.  I  do  protest  I  never  injurM  thee ; 
But  love  thee  better  than  thou  canst  devise 
Till  thou  shalt  know  the  reason  of  my  love  : 
And  so,  good  Capulet, — which  name  I  tendee 
As  dearly  as  my  own.. — be  satisfied. 


1082 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[ACT   III. 


Mer.  O  calm,  dishonourable,  vile  submission! 
A  la  stoccata  carries  it  away.  [Draws. 

Tybalt,  you  rat-catcher,  will  you  walk  ? 

Tyb.  What  wouldst  thou  have  with  me  ? 

Mer.  Good  king  of  cats,  nothing  but  one  of 
your  nine  lives;  that  I  mean  to  make  bold 
withal,  and,  as  you  shall  use  me  hereafter,  dry- 
beat  the  rest  of  the  eight.  Will  you  pluck  your 
sword  out  of  his  pilcher  by  the  ears?  make 
haste,  lest  mine  be  about  your  ears  ere  it  be  out. 

Tyb.  I  am  for  you.  [Drawing. 

Rom.  Gentle  Mercutio,  put  thy  rapier  up. 

Mer.  Come,  sir,  your  passado.     [  7  hey  fight. 

Rom.    Draw,    Benvolio ;    beat  down    their 

weapons. — 

Gentlemen,  for  shame,  forbear  this  outrage ! — 
Tybalt, — Mercutio, — the  prince  expressly  hath 
Forbidden  bandying  in  Verona  streets. — 
Hold,  Tybalt ! — good  Mercutio. — 

[Exeunt  TYBALT  and  his  Partizans. 

Mer.  I  am  hurt ; — 

A  plague  o'  both  your  houses  ! — I  am  sped. — 
Is  he  gone,  and  hath  nothing  ? 

Ben.  What,  art  thou  hurt  ? 

Mer.  Ay,  ay,  a  scratch,  a  scratch ;  marry, 

'tis  enough. — 

Where  is  my  page?— go,  villain,  fetch  a  surgeon. 

[Exit ~ 

Rom.  Courage,  man ;    the  hurt  cannot 
much. 

Mer.  No,  'tis  not  so  deep  as  a  well,  nor  so 
wide  as  a  church-door ;  but  'tis  enough,  'twill 
serve :  ask  for  me  to-morrow,  and  you  shall 
find  me  a  grave  man.  I  am  peppered,  I  war- 
rant, for  this  world. — A  plague  o'  both  your 
houses ! — Zounds,  a  dog,  a  rat,  a  mouse,  a  cat, 
to  scratch  a  man  to  death  !  a  braggart,  a  rogue, 
a  villain,  that  fights  by  the  book  of  arithmetic ! 
— Why  the  devil  came  you  between  us  ?  I  was 
hurt  under  your  arm. 

Rom.  I  thought  all  for  the  best. 

Mer.  Help  me  into  some  house,  Benvolio, 
Or  I  shall  faint. — A  plague  o'  both  your  houses! 
They  have  made  wonn's  meat  of  me  : 
I  have  it,  and  soundly  too. — Your  houses  ! 

[Exeunt  MERCUTIO  and  BENVOLIO. 

Rom.  This  gentleman,  the  prince's  near  ally, 
My  very  friend,  hath  got  his  mortal  hurt 
In  my  behalf ;  my  reputation  stain'd 
With  Tybalt's  slander,— Tybalt,  that  an  hour 
Hath  been  my  kinsman. — O  sweet  Juliet, 
Thy  beauty  hath  made  me  effeminate, 
And  in  my  temper  soften'd  valour's  steel. 

Re-enter  BENVOLIO. 

Ben.  O  Romeo,  Romeo,  brave  Mercutio 's 
dead! 


That  gallant  spirit  hath  aspir'd  the  clouds, 
Which  too  untimely  here  did  scorn  the  earth. 

Rom.  This  day's  black  fate  on  more  days 

doth  depend ; 
This  but  begins  the  woe  others  must  end. 

Ben.  Here  comes  the  furious  Tybalt  back 
again. 

Rom.  Alive,  in  triumph  !  and  Mercutio  slain ! 
Away  to  heaven,  respective  lenity, 
And  fire-ey'd  fury  be  my  conduct  now  ! — 

Re-enter  TYBALT. 

Now,  Tybalt,  take  the  villain  back  again 
That  late  thou  gav'st  me  ;  for  Mercutio's  soul 
Is  but  a  little  way  above  our  heads, 
Staying  for  thine  to  keep  him  company  : 
Either  thou  or  I,  or  both,  must  go  with  him. 
Tyb.  Thou,  wretched  boy,  that  didst  consort 

him  here, 

Shalt  with  him  hence. 

Rom.  This  shall  determine  that. 

[7  hey  fight ;  TYBALT  falls. 
Ben.  Romeo,  away,  be  gone  ! 
The  citizens  are  up,  and  Tybalt  slain. — 
Stand  not  amaz'd.     The  prince  will  doom  thee 

death 

If  thou  art  taken.     Hence,  be  gone,  away  ! 
Rom.  O,  I  am  fortune's  fool ! 
Ben.  Why  dost  thou  stay? 

[Exit  ROMEO. 

Enter  Citizens,  &>c. 

I  Cit.  Which  way  ran  he  that  kill'd  Mercutio? 
Tybalt,  that  murderer,  which  way  ran  he? 

Ben.  There  lies  that  Tybalt. 

i  Cit.  Up,  sir,  go  with  me  ; 

I  charge  thee  in  the  prince's  name,  obey. 

Enter  PRINCE,  attended;  MONTAGUE,  CAPU- 
LET,  their  Wives,  and  others. 

Prin.  Where  are  the  vile  beginners  of  this 
fray? 

Ben.  O  noble  prince,  I  can  discover  all 
The  unlucky  manage  of  this  fatal  brawl : 
There  lies  the  man,  slain  by  young  Romeo, 
That  slew  thy  kinsman,  brave  Mercutio. 

Lady  C.  Tybalt,  my  cousin  !    O  my  brother's 

child ! — 

O  prince ! — O  husband ! — O,  the  blood  is  spill'd 
Of  my  dear  kinsman ! — Prince,  as  thou  art  true, 
For  blood  of  ours  shed  blood  of  Montague. — 
O  cousin,  cousin  I 

Prin.  Benvolio,  who  began  this  bloody  fray? 

Ben.  Tybalt,  here  slain,  whom  Romeo's  hand 

did  slay ; 

Romeo  that  spoke  him  fair,  bade  him  bethink 
How  nice  the  quarrel  was,  and  urg'd  withal 


SCENE  II.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


1083 


Your  high  displeasure. — All  this, — uttered 
With  gentle  breath,  calm  look,  knees  humbly 

bow'd, — 

Could  not  take  truce  with  the  unruly  spleen 
Of  Tybalt,  deaf  to  peace,  but  that  he  tilts 
With  piercing  steel  at  bold  Mercutio's  breast ; 
Who,  all  as  hot,  turns  deadly  point  to  point, 
And,  with  a  martial  scorn,  with  one  hand  beats 
Cold  death  aside,  and  with  the  other  sends 
It  back  to  Tybalt,  whose  dexterity 
Retorts  it :  Romeo  he  cries  aloud, 
Hold,  friends!  friends,  part!  and,  swifter  than 

his  tongue, 

His  agile  arm  beats  down  their  fatal  points, 
And  'twixt  them  rushes;  underneath  whose  arm 
An  envious  thrust  from  Tybalt  hit  the  life 
Of  stout  Mercutio,  and  then  Tybalt  fled  : 
But  by  and  by  comes  back  to  Romeo, 
Who  had  but  newly  entertain'd  revenge, 
And  to 't  they  go  like  lightning ;  for  ere  I 
Could  draw  to  part  them  was  stout  Tybalt  slain  ; 
And  as  he  fell  did  Romeo  turn  and  fly. 
This  is  the  truth,  or  let  Benvolio  die. 

Lady  C.  He  is  a  kinsman  to  the  Montague, 
Affection  makes  him  false,  he  speaks  not  true  : 
Some  twenty  of  them  fought  in  this  black  strife, 
And  all  those  twenty  could  but  kill  one  life. 
I  beg  for  justice,  which  thou,  prince,  must  give ; 
Romeo  slew  Tybalt,  Romeo  must  not  live. 

Prin.  Romeo  slew  him,  he  slew  Mercutio  : 
Who  now  the  price  of  his  dear  blood  doth  owe? 

Mon.  Not  Romeo,  prince,  he  was  Mercutio's 
friend ;  [end, 

His  fault  concludes  but  what  the  law  should 
The  life  of  Tybalt. 

Prin.  And  for  that  offence, 

Immediately  we  do  exile  him  hence  : 
I  have  an  interest  in  your  hate's  proceeding, 
My  blood  for  your  rude  brawls  doth   lie  a- 

bleeding ; 

But  I  '11  amerce  you  with  so  strong  a  fine 
That  you  shall  all  repent  the  loss  of  mine  : 
I  will  be  deaf  to  pleading  and  excuses ; 
Nor  tears  nor  prayers  shall  purchase  out  abuses, 
Therefore  use  none  :  let  Romeo  hence  in  haste, 
Else  when  he 's  found,  that  hour  is  his  last. 
Bear  hence  this  body,  and  attend  our  will : 
Mercy  but  murders,  pardoning  those  that  kill. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  CAPULET'S  House. 
Enter  JULIET. 

Jul.  Gallop  apace,  you  fiery-footed  steeds, 
Towards  Phoebus'  lodging  ;  such  a  waggoner 
As  Phseton  would  whip  you  to  the  west, 
And  bring  in  cloudy  night  immediately. — 


Spread  thy  close  curtain,  love-performing  night! 
That  rude  day's  eyes  may  wink,  and  Romeo 
Leap  to  these  arms,  untalk'd  of  and  unseen. — 
Lovers  can  see  to  do  their  amorous  rites 
By  their  own  beauties  :  or  if  love  be  blind, 
It  best  agrees  with  night. — Come,  civil  night, 
Thou  sober-suited  matron,  all  in  black, 
And  learn  me  how  to  lose  a  winning  match, 
Play'd  for  a  pair  of  stainless  maidenhoods  : 
Hood  my  unmann'd  blood,  bating  in  my  cheeks, 
With  thy  black  mantle  ;  till  strange  love,  grown 

bold, 

Think  true  love  acted  simple  modesty. 
Come,  night ; — come,  Romeo, — come,  thou  day 

in  night ; 

For  thou  wilt  lie  upon  the  wings  of  night 
Whiter  than  new  snow  on  a  raven's  back. — 
Come,  gen  tie  night, — come,  loving  black -brow'd 

right, 

Give  me  my  Romeo ;  and,  when  he  shall  die, 
Take  him  and  cut  him  out  in  little  stars, 
And  he  will  make  the  face  of  heaven  so  fine 
That  all  the  world  will  be  in  love  with  night, 
And  pay  no  worship  to  the  garish  sun. — 
O,  I  have  bought  the  mansion  of  a  love, 
But  not  possess:d  it ;  and,  though  I  am  sold, 
Not  yet  enjoy'd  :  so  tedious  is  this  day, 
As  is  the  night  before  some  festival 
To  an  impatient  child  that  hath  new  robes, 
And  may  not  wear  them.     O,  here  comes  my 

nurse,  [speaks 

And  she  brings  news ;  and  every  tongue  that 
But  Romeo's  name  speaks  heavenly  eloquence. — 

Enter  Nurse  with  cords. 

Now,  nurse,  what  news?     What  hast  thou 

there  ?  the  cords 
That  Romeo  bade  thee  fetch  ? 

Nurse.  Ay,  ay,  the  cords. 

[Throws  them  down. 

Jul.  Ah  me  !   what  news  ?   why  dost  thou 

wring  thy  hands  ?  [he 's  dead  ! 

Nurse.  Ah,  well-a-day !  he's  dead,  he's  dead, 

We  are  undone,  lady,  we  are  undone  ! — 

Alack  the  day  ! — he 's  gone,  he 's  kill'd,  he 's 

dead ! 

Jul.  Can  heaven  be  so  envious? 
Nurse.  Romeo  can, 

Though  heaven  cannot. — O  Romeo,  Romeo! — 
Who  ever  would  have  thought  it  ? — Romeo  ! 
Jul.  What  devil  art  thou,  that  dost  torment 

me  thus  ? 

This  torture  should  be  roar'd  in  dismal  hell. 
Hath  Romeo  slain  himself?  say  thou  but  I, 
And  thai  bare  vowel  I  shall  poison  more 
Than  the  death-darting  eye  of  cockatrice : 
I  am  not  I  if  there  be  such  an  I ; 


io84 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[ACT  in. 


Or  those  eyes  shut  that  make  thee  answer  I. 
If  he  be  slain,  say  I ;  or  if  not,  no : 
Brief  sounds  determine  of  my  weal  or  woe. 
Nurse.  I  saw  the  wound,  I  saw  it  with  mine 

eyes,— 

God  save  the  mark ! — here  on  his  manly  breast: 
A  piteous  corse,  a  bloody  piteous  corse  ; 
Pale,  pale  as  ashes,  all  bedaub'd  in  blood, 
All  in  gore-blood  ; — I  swooned  at  the  sight. 
JuL  O,  break,  my  heart  I — poor  bankrupt, 

break  at  once  ! 

To  prison,  eyes,  ne'er  look  on  liberty ! 
Vile  earth,  to  earth  resign  ;  end  motion  here  ; 
And  thou  and  Romeo  press  one  heavy  bier  ! 
Nurse.  O  Tybalt,  Tybalt !  the  best  friend  I 

hadl 

O  courteous  Tybalt !  honest  gentleman  ! 
That  ever  I  should  live  to  see  thee  dead  ! 

Jul.  What  storm  is  this  that  blows  so  contrary? 
Is  Romeo  siaughter'd,  and  is  Tybalt  dead  ? 
My  dear-lov'd  cousin  and  my  dearer  lord  ? — 
Then,  dreadful  trumpet,  sound  the  general  doom ! 
For  who  is  living  if  those  two  are  gone? 

Nurse.  Tybalt  is  gone,  and  Romeo  banished; 
Romeo  that  kill'd  him,  he  is  banished. 
Jul.  O  God !— did  Romeo's  hand  shed  Tybalt's 

blood? 

Nurse.  \\.  did,  it  did ;  alas  the  day,  it  did! 
JuL  O  serpent  heart,  hid  with  a  flowering  face! 
Did  ever  Dragon  keep  so  fair  a  cave  ? 
Beautiful  tyrant!  fiend  angelical ! 
Dove-feather'd  raven!  wolfish-ravening  lamb! 
Despised  substance  of  divinest  show! 
Just  opposite  to  what  thou  justly  seem'st, 
A  damned  saint,  an  honourable  villain! — 
O  nature,  what  hadst  thou  to  do  in  hell 
When  thou  didst  bower  the  spirit  of  a  fiend 
In  mortal  paradise  of  such  sweet  flesh  ? — 
Was  ever  book  containing  such  vile  matter 
So  fairly  bound?    O,  that  deceit  should  dwell 
In  such  a  gorgeous  palace! 

Nurse.  There 's  no  trust, 

No  faith,  no  honesty  in  men ;  all  are  perjur'd, 
All  forsworn,  all  naught,  all  dissemblers. — 
Ah,  where 's  my  man?   give  me  some  aqua 
vita. —  [old. 

These  griefs,  these  woes,  these  sorrows  make  me 
Shame  come  to  Romeo! 

JuL  Blister'd  be  thy  tongue 

For  such  a  wish !  he  was  not  born  to  shame : 
Upon  his  brow  shame  is  asham'd  to  sit ; 
For  'tis  a  throne  where  honour  may  be  crown'd 
Sole  monarch  of  the  universal  earth. 
O,  what  a  beast  was  I  to  chide  at  him! 

Nurse.  Will  you  speak  well  of  him  that  kill'd 

your  cousin  ?  [husband  ? 

/«/.  Shall   I   speak  ill  of  him  that  is  my 


Ah,  poor  my  lord,  what  tongue  shall  smooth 

thy  name,  [it  ? — 

When  I,  thy  three-hours'  wife,  rnve  mangled 
But   wherefore,    villain,    didst    thou    kill    my 

cousin  ?  [husband : 

That    villain    cousin   would    have    kill'd    my 
Back,  foolish  tears,  back  to  your  native  spring ; 
Your  tributary  drops  belong  to  woe, 
Which  you,  mistaking,  offer  up  to  joy. 
My  husband   lives,    that   Tybalt   would   have 

slain ;  [husband : 

And  Tybalt 's  dead,  that  would  have  slain  my 
All  this  is  comfort ;  wherefore  weep  I,  then  ? 
Some  word  there  was,   worser  than  Tybalt's 

death, 

That  murder'd  me :  I  would  forget  it  fain  ; 
But,  O,  it  Dresses  to  my  memory 
Like  damned  guilty  deeds  to  sinners'  minds : 
Tybalt  is  dead,  and  Romeo  banished. 
That  banished,  that  one  word  banished, 
Hath  slain   ten   thousand  Tybalts.      Tybalt's 

death 

Was  woe  enough,  if  it  had  ended  there : 
Or,  if  sour  woe  delights  in  fellowship, 
And  needly  will  be  rank'd  with  other  griefs, — 
Why  follow'd  not,  when  she  said  Tybalt 's  dead, 
Thy  father  or  thy  mother,  nay,  or  both, 
Which  modern  lamentation  might  have  mov'd? 
But,  with  a  rear-ward  following  Tybalt's  death, 
Romeo  is  banished, — to  speak  that  word 
Is  father,  mother,  Tybalt,  Romeo,  Juliet, 
All  slain,  all  dead:  Romeo  is  banished, — 
There  is  no  end,  no  limit,  measure,  bound, 
In  that  word's  death ;  no  words  can  that  woe 

sound. — 

Where  is  my  father  and  my  mother,  nurse  ? 
Nurse.  Weeping  and  wailing  over  Tybalt's 

corse: 

Will  you  go  to  them?     I  will  bring  you  thither. 
Jul.  Wash  they  his  wounds  with  tears :  mine 

shall  be  spent, 

When  theirs  are  dry,  for  Romeo's  banishment. 
Take   up  those  cords.     Poor   ropes,   you   are 

beguil'd, 

Both  you  and  I ;  for  Romeo  is  exil'd : 
He  made  you  for  a  highway  to  my  bed  ; 
But  I,  a  maid,  die  maiden-widowed. 
Come,  cords :  come,  nurse ;  I  '11  to  my  wedding- 
bed  ; 

And  death,  not  Romeo,  take  my  maidenhead! 
Nurse.  Hie  to  your  chamber,  I  '11  find  Romec 
To  comfort  you :  I  wot  well  where  he  is. 
Hark  ye,  your  Romeo  will  be  here  at  night : 
I  '11  to  him;  he  is  hid  at  Lawrence'  cell,    [knight, 
JuL  O,  find  him !  give  this  ring  to  my  true 
And  bid  him  come  to  take  his  last  farewell. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


1085 


SCENE  III. — FRIAR  LAWRENCE'S  CM. 
Enter  FRIAR  LAWRENCE. 

Fri.  L.    Romeo,    come   forth ;    come   forth, 

thou  fearful  man : 

Affliction  is  enamour'd  of  thy  parts, 
And  thou  art  wedded  to  calamity. 

Enter  ROMEO. 

Rom.    Father,    what    news?     what    is    the 

prince's  doom  ? 

What  sorrow  craves  acquaintance  at  my  hand, 
That  I  yet  know  not  ? 

Fri.  L.  Too  familiar 

Is  my  dear  son  with  such  sour  company : 
I  bring  thee  tidings  of  the  prince's  doom. 

Rom.  What  less  than  doomsday  is  the  prince's 
doom?  [lips, — 

Fri.  L.  A  gentler  judgment  vanish'd  from  his 
Not  body's  death,  but  body's  banishment. 

Rom.  Ha,  banishment!  be  merciful,  say  death; 
For  exile  hath  more  terror  in  his  look, 
Much  more  than  death:  do  not  say  banishment. 

Fri.  L.  Hence  from  Verona  art  thou  banished: 
Be  patient,  for  the  world  is  broad  and  wide. 

Rom.  There  is  no  world  without  Verona  walls, 
But  purgatory,  torture,  hell  itself. 
Hence-banished  is  banish'd  from  the  world, 
And  world's  exile  is  death, — then  banished 
Is  death  mis-term'd:  calling  death  banishment, 
Thou  cutt'st  my  head  off  with  a  golden  axe, 
And  snail' st  upon  the  stroke  that  murders  me. 

Fri.  L.  O  deadly  sin!  O  rudeunthankfulness! 
Thy  fault  our  law  calls  death;  but  the  kind  prince, 
Taking  thy  part,  hath  brush'd  aside  the  law, 
And  turn'd  that  black  word  death  to  banishment: 
This  is  dear  mercy,  and  thou  see'st  it  not.    [here 

Rom.  ;Tis  torture,  and  not  mercy :  heaven  is 
Where  Juliet  lives  ;  and  every  cat,  and  dog, 
And  little  mouse,  every  unworthy  thing, 
Live  here  in  heaven,  and  may  look  on  her  ; 
But  Romeo  may  not. — More  validity. 
More  honourable  state,  more  courtship  lives 
In  carrion  flies  than  Romeo :  they  may  seize 
On  the  white  wonder  of  dear  Juliet's  hand, 
And  steal  immortal  blessing  from  her  lips  ; 
Who,  even  in  pure  and  vestal  modesty, 
Still  blush,  as  thinking  their  own  kisses  sin  ; 
But  Romeo  may  not ;  he  is  banished, — 
This  may  flies  do,  when  I  from  this  must  fly. 
And  say'st  thou  yet  that  exile  is  not  death  J 
Hadst  thou  no  poison  mix'd,  no  sharp-ground 
knife,  [mean, 

No  sudden  mean  of  death,  though  ne'er  so 
But — banished— to  kill  me  ;  banished  ? 
O  friar,  the  damned  use  that  word  in  hell ; 


Howlings  attend  it:  how  hast  thou  the  heart, 
Being  a  divine,  a  ghostly  confessor, 
A  sin-absolver,  and  my  friend  profess'd, 
To  mangle  me  with  that  word  banishment  ? 
Fri.  L.  Thou  fond  mad  man,  hear  me  speak 

a  little,— 

Rom.  O,  thou  wilt  speak  again  of  banishment. 
Fri.  L.  I'll  give  thee  armour  to  keep  off 

that  word  ; 

Adversity's  sweet  milk,  philosophy, 
To  comfort  thee,  though  thou  art  banished. 

Rom.  Yet  banished? — Hang  up  philosophy! 
Unless  philosophy  can  make  a  Juliet, 
Displant  a  town,  reverse  a  prince's  doom, 
It  helps  not,  it  prevails  not, — talk  no  more. 
Fri.  L.  O,  then  I  see  that  madmen  have  no 
ears.  [have  no  eyes? 

Rom.  How  should  they,  when  that  wise  men 
Fri.  L.  Let  me  dispute  with  thee  of  thy  estate. 
Rom.  Thou  canst  not  speak  of  what  thou 

dost  not  feel : 

Wert  thou  as  young  as  I,  Juliet  thy  love, 
An  hour  but  married,  Tybalt  murdered, 
Doting  like  me,  and  like  me  banished, 
Then  mightst  thou  speak,  then  mightst  thou 

tear  thy  hair, 

And  fall  upon  the  ground,  as  I  do  now, 
Taking  the  measure  of  an  unmade  grave. 
Fri.  L.  Arise ;  one  knocks ;  good  Romeo, 
hide  thyself.  [Knocking  within. 

Rom.  Not  I ;  unless  the  breath  of  heart-sick 

groans, 
Mist-like,  enfold  me  from  the  search  of  eyes. 

[Knocking. 
Fri.   L.    Hark  how  they  knock!— Who's 

there  ? — Romeo,  arise  ; 

Thou  wilt  be  taken. — Stay  awhile ; — stand  up  ; 

[Knocking. 

Run  to  my  study. — By  and  by. — God's  will! 
What  simpleness  is  this! — I  come,  I  come. 

[Knocking. 
Who  knocks  so   hard  ?    whence    come    you  ? 

what 's  your  will  ? 
Nurse.  [Within.}  Let  me  come  in  and  you 

shall  know  my  errand  ; 
I  come  from  Lady  Juliet. 

Fri.  L.  Welcome,  then. 

Enter  Nurse. 

Nurse.  O  holy  friar,  O,  tell  me,  holy  friar, 
Where  is  my  lady's  lord,  where 's  Romeo? 

Fri.  L.  There  on  the  ground,  with  his  own 
tears  made  drunk. 

Nurse.  O,  he  is  even  in  my  mistress'  case, — 
Just  in  her  case  ! 

Fri.  L.  O  woeful  sympathy  I 

Piteous  predicament ! 


io86 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[ACT  ni. 


Nurse.  Even  so  lies  she,    [ing. — 

Blubbering  and  weeping,  weeping  and  blubber- 
Stand  up,  stand  up ;  stand,  an  you  be  a  man : 
For  Juliet's  sake,  for  her  sake,  rise  and  stand  ; 
Why  should  you  fall  into  so  deep  an  O  ? 

Rom.  Nurse  ! 

Nurse.  Ah,  sir !  ah,  sir ! — Well,  death 's  the 
end  of  all.  [her  ? 

Rom.  Spak'st  thou  of  Juliet?  how  is  it  with 
Doth  she  not  think  me  an  old  murderer, 
Now  I  have  stain'd  the  childhood  of  our  joy 
With  blood  remov'd  but  little  from  her  own  ? 
Where  is  she?  and  how  doth  she?  and  what  says 
My  conceal'd  lady  to  our  cancell'd  love  ? 

Nurse.  O,  she  says  nothing,  sir,  but  weeps 

and  weeps ; 

And  now  falls  on  her  bed ;  and  then  starts  up, 
And  Tybalt  calls ;  and  then  on  Romeo  cries, 
And  then  down  falls  again. 

Rom.  As  if  that  name, 

Shot  from  the  deadly  level  of  a  gun, 
Did  murder  her ;  as  that  name's  cursed  hand 
Murder'd  her  kinsman.  — O,  tell  me,  friar,  tell  me, 
In  what  vile  part  of  this  anatomy 
Doth  my  name  lodge?  tell  me  that  I  may  sack 
The  hateful  mansion.          [Drawing  his  sword. 

Fri.  L.  Hold  thy  desperate  hand : 

Art  thou  a  man?  thy  form  cries  out  thou  art : 
Thy  tears  are  womanish  ;  thy  wild  acts  denote 
The  unreasonable  fury  of  a  beast : 
Unseemly  woman  in  a  seeming  man  ! 
Or  ill-beseeming  beast  in  seeming  both  ! 
Thou  hast  amaz'd  me:  by  my  holy  order, 
I  thought  thy  disposition  better  temper'd. 
Hast  thou  slain  Tybalt?  wilt  thou  slay  thyself? 
And  slay  thy  lady,  too,  that  lives  in  thee, 
By  doing  damned  hate  upon  thyself? 
Why  rail'st  thou  on  thy  birth,  the  heaven,  and 
earth  ?  [meet 

Since  birth,  and  heaven  and  earth,  all  three  do 
In  thee  at  once ;  which  thou  at  once  wouldst 
lose.  [wit ; 

Fie,  fie !  thou  sham'st  thy  shape,  thy  love,  thy 
Which,  like  a  usurer,  abound'st  in  all, 
And  usest  none  in  that  true  use  indeed       [wit : 
Which  should  bedeck  thy  shape,  thy  love,  thy 
Thy  noble  shape  is  but  a  form  of  wax, 
Digressing  from  the  valour  of  a  man  ; 
Thy  dear  love  sworn,  but  hollow  perjury, 
Killing   that   love   which  thou  hast  vow'd  to 

cherish ; 

Thy  wit,  that  ornament  to  shape  and  love, 
Mis-shapen  in  the  conduct  of  them  both, 
Like  powder  in  a  skilless  soldier's  flask, 
Is  set  a-fire  by  thine  own  ignorance, 
And  thou  dismember'd  with  thine  own  defence. 
What,  rouse  thee,  man !  thy  Juliet  is  alive, 


For  whose  dear  sake  thou  wast  but  lately  dead; 
There  art  thou  happy  :  Tybalt  would  kill  thee, 
But  thou  slew'st  Tybalt ;  there  art  thou  happy 
too:  [friend, 

The  law,  that  threaten'd  death,  becomes  thy 
And  turns  it  to  exile  ;  there  art  thou  happy : 
A  pack  of  blessings  lights  upon  thy  back  ; 
Happiness  courts  thee  in  her  best  array ; 
But,  like  a  misbehav'd  and  sullen  wench, 
Thou  pout'st  upon  thy  fortune  and  thy  love: — 
Take  heed,  take  heed,  for  such  die  miserable. 
Go,  get  thee  to  thy  love,  as  was  decreed, 
Ascend  her  chamber,  hence  and  comfort  her  : 
But,  look,  thou  stay  not  till  the  watch  be  set, 
For  then  thou  canst  not  pass  to  Mantua ; 
Where  thou  shalt  live  till  we  can  find  a  time 
To  blaze  your  marriage,  reconcile  your  friends, 
Beg  pardon  of  the  prince,  and  call  thee  back 
With  twenty  hundred  thousand  times  more  joy 
Than  thou  went'st  forth  in  lamentation. — 
Go  before,  nurse  :  commend  me  to  thy  lady  ; 
And  bid  her  hasten  all  the  house  to  bed, 
Which  heavy  sorrow  makes  them  apt  unto: 
Romeo  is  coming.  [the  night 

Nurse.  O  Lord,  I  could  have  stay'd  here  all 
To  hear  good  counsel :  O,  what  learning  is  ! — 
My  lord,  I  '11  tell  my  lady  you  will  come. 

Rom.  Do  so,  and  bid  my  sweet  prepare  to 
chide.  [sir : 

Nurse.  Here,  sir,  a  ring  she  bid  me  give  you, 
Hie  you,  make  haste,  for  it  grows  very  late. 

\_Exit. 

Rom.  How  well  my  comfort  is  reviv'd  by  this ! 

Fri.  L.  Go  hence;    good-night;    and   here 

stands  all  your  state : 
Either  be  gone  before  the  watch  be  set, 
Or  by  the  break  of  day  disguis'd  from  hence : 
Sojourn  in  Mantua;  I  '11  find  out  your  man, 
And  he  shall  signify  from  time  to  time 
Every  good  hap  to  you  that  chances  here  : 
Give  me  thy  hand;  'tis  late:  farewell;  good- 
night. 

Rom.  But  that  a  joy  past  joy  calls  out  on  me, 
It  were  a  grief  so  brief  to  part  with  thee : 
Farewell.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV. — A  Room  in  CAPULET'S  House. 
Enter  CAPULET,  LADY  CAPULET  and  PARIS. 

Cap.  Things  have  fallen  out,  sir,  so  unluckily 
That  we  have  had  no  time  to  move  our  daughter: 
Look  you,  she  lov'd  her  kinsman  Tybalt  dearly, 
And  so  did  I ;  well,  we  were  born  to  die. 
'Tis  very  late,  she  '11  not  come  down  to-night : 
I  promise  you,  but  for  your  company, 
I  would  have  been  a-bed  an  hour  ago. 


SCENE  V.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


1087 


Par.  These  times  of  woe  afford  no  time  to 

woo. —  [daughter. 

Madam,   good-night:    commend  me   to  your 

Lady  C.  I  will,  and  know  her   mind  early 

to-morrow ; 
To-night  she 's  mew'd  up  to  her  heaviness. 

Cap.  Sir  Paris,  I  will  make  a  desperate  tender 
Of  my  child's  love :  I  think  she  will  be  rul'd 
In  all  respects  by  me ;  nay,  more,  I  doubt  it 

not. — 

Wife,  go  you  to  her  ere  you  go  to  bed ; 
Acquaint  her  here  of  my  son  Paris'  love ; 
And  bid  her,   mark  you  me,  on  Wednesday 

next, — 
But,  soft !  what  day  is  this? 

Par.  Monday,  my  lord. 

Cap.  Monday!  ha,  ha!     Well,  Wednesday 

is  too  soon, 

O'  Thursday  let  it  be ; — o'  Thursday,  tell  her, 
She  shall  be  married  to  this  noble  earl. — 
Will  you  be  ready?  do  you  like  this  haste? 
We  '11  keep  no  great  ado, — a  friend  or  two; 
For,  hark  you,  Tybalt  being  slain  so  late, 
It  may  be  thought  we  held  him  carelessly, 
Being  our  kinsman,  if  we  revel  much : 
Therefore  we  '11  have  some  half  a  dozen  friends, 
And  there  an  end.     But  what  say  you  to  Thurs- 
day? [to-morrow. 
Par.  My  lord,  I  would  that  Thursday  were 
Cap.  Well,  get  you  gone :  o'  Thursday  be  it 

then.— 

Go  you  to  Juliet  ere  you  go  to  bed, 
Prepare  her,  wife,  against  this  wedding-day. — 
Farewell,  my  lord. — Light  to  my  chamber,  ho! — 
Afore  me,  it  is  so  very  very  late 
That  we  may  call  it  early  by  and  by. — 
Good-night.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.—An  open  Gallery  to  JULIET'S 
Chamber,  overlooking  the  Garden. 

Enter  ROMEO  and  JULIET. 

JuL  Wilt  thou  be  gone?  it  is  not  yet  near 

day: 

It  was  the  nightingale,  and  not  the  lark, 
That  pierc'd  the  fearful  hollow  of  thine  ear ; 
Nightly  she  sings  on  yon  pomegranate  tree : 
Believe  me,  love,  it  was  the  nightingale. 

Rom.  It  was  the  lark,  the  herald  of  the  morn, 
No  nightingale :  look,  love,  what  envious  streaks 
Dp  lace  the  severing  clouds  in  yonder  east : 
Night's  candles  are  burnt  out,  and  jocund  day 
Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain  tops. 
I  must  be  gone  and  live,  or  stay  and  die. 

Jul.  Yon  light  is  not  daylight,  I  know  it,  I : 
It  is  some  meteor  that  the  sun  exhales, 
To  be  to  thee  this  night  a  torch-bearer, 


And  light  thee  on  thy  way  to  Mantua : 
Therefore  stay  yet,  thou  need'st  not  to  be  gone. 

Rom.  Let  me  be  ta'en,  let  me  be  put  to  death; 
I  am  content,  so  thou  wilt  have  it  so. 
I  '11  say  yon  gray  is  not  the  morning's  eye, 
Tis  but  the  pale  reflex  of  Cynthia's  brow; 
Nor  that  is  not  the  lark  whose  notes  do  beat 
The  vaulty  heaven  so  high  above  our  heads  : 
I  have  more  care  to  stay  than  will  to  go. — 
Come,  death,  and  welcome  !  Juliet  wills  it  so. — 
How  is 't,  my  soul  ?  let 's  talk, — it  is  not  day. 

Jul.  It  is,  it  is, — hie  hence,  be  gone,  away  ! 
It  is  the  lark  that  sings  so  out  of  tune, 
Straining  harsh  discords  and  unpleasing  sharps. 
Some  say  the  lark  makes  sweet  division  ; 
This  doth  not  so,  for  she  divideth  us : 
Some  say  the  lark  and  loathed  toad  change  eyes; 
O,  now  I  would  they  had  chang*d  voices  too  ! 
Since  arm  from  arm  that  voice  doth  us  affray, 
Hunting  thee  hence  with  hunt's-up  to  the  day. 
O,  now  be  gone  ;  more  light  and  light  it  grows. 

Rom.  More  light  and  light, — more  dark  and 
dark  our  woes ! 

Enter  Nurse. 

Nurse.  Madam  ! 

ful.  Nurse  ?  [chamber  : 

Nurse.  ^  Your  lady  mother  is  coming  to  your 
The  day  is  broke  ;  be  wary,  look  about. 

[Exit. 

Jul.  Then,  window,  let  day  in  and  let  life  out. 

Rom.  Farewell,  farewell !  one  kiss,  and  I  '11 

descend.  [Descends. 

/ut.  Art  thou  gone  so?  my  lord,  my  love, 

my  friend ! 

I  must  hear  from  thee  every  day  i'  the  hour, 
For  in  a  minute  there  are  many  days : 
O,  by  this  count  I  shall  be  much  in  years 
Ere  I  again  behold  my  Romeo  ! 

Rom.  Farewell ! 
I  will  omit  no  opportunity 
That  may  convey  my  greetings,  love,  to  thee. 
Jul.  O,  think'st  thou  we  shall   ever   meet 
again  ?  [shall  serve 

Rom.  I  doubt  it  not ;   and  all  these  woes 
For  sweet  discourses  in  our  time  to  come. 

rul.  O  God  !  I  have  an  ill-divining  soul ! 
Rethinks  I  see  thee,  now  thou  art  below, 
As  one  dead  in  the  bottom  of  a  tomb  : 
Either  my  eyesight  fails  or  thou  look'st  pale. 
Rom.  And  trust  me,  love,  in  my  eye  so  do 

you: 

Dry  sorrow  drinks  our  blood.     Adieu,  adieu  ! 

[Exit  below. 
JuL  O  fortune,  fortune  !  all  men  call  thee 

fickle : 
If  thou  art  fickle,  what  dost  thou  with  him 


J* 

Metl 


io88 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[ACT  HI. 


That  is  renown'd  for  faith  ?     Be  fickle,  fortune  ; 

For  then,  I  hope,  thou  wilt  not  keep  him  long, 

But  send  him  back.  [up  ? 

Lady  C.  [Within.]  Ho,  daughter!  are  you 

Jul.  Who    is't   that   calls?    is  it   my  lady 

mother  ? 

Is  she  not  down  so  late,  or  up  so  early  ? 
What  unaccustom'd  cause  procures  her  hither  ? 

Enter  LADY  CAPULET. 

Lady  C.  Why,  how  now,  Juliet ! 

Jul.  Madam,  I  am  not  well. 

Lady  C.  Evermore  weeping  for  your  cousin's 

death?  [tears? 

What,  wilt  thou  wash  him  from  his  grave  with 

An  if  thou  couldst,  thou  couldst  not  make  him 

live ;  [love ; 

Therefore  have  done :  some  grief  shows  much  of 

But  much  of  grief  shows  still  seme  want  of  wit. 

Jul.  Yet  let  me  weep  for  such  a  feeling  loss. 

Lady  C.  So  shall  you  feel  the  loss,  but  not 

the  friend 
Which  you  weep  for. 

Jul.  Feeling  so  the  loss, 

I  cannot  choose  but  ever  weep  the  friend. 
Lady  C.  Well,  girl,  thou  weep'st  not  so  much 

for  his  death 

As  that  the  villain  lives  which  slaughter^  him. 
Jul.   What  villain,  madam  ? 
Lady  C.  That  same  villain,  Romeo. 

Jul.  Villain  and  he  be  many  miles  asunder. 
God  pardon  hirr  !     I  do,  with  all  my  heart ; 
And  yet  no  man  like  he  doth  grieve  my  heart. 
Lady  C.  That  is  because  the  traitor  mur- 
derer lives.  [hands. 
Jul.  Ay,  madam,  from  the  reach  of  these  my 
Would  none  but  I  might  venge  my  cousin's 

death ! 
Lady  C.  We  will  have  vengeance  for  it,  fear 

thou  not : 
Then  weep  no  more.      I'll  send  to  one  in 

Mantua, — 

Where  that  same  banish'd  runagate  doth  live, — 
Shall  give  him  such  an  unaccustom'd  dram 
That  he  shall  soon  keep  Tybalt  company : 
And  then  I  hope  thou  wilt  be  satisfied. 
Jul.  Indeed  I  never  shall  be  satisfied 
With  Romeo  till  I  behold  him— dead- 
Is  my  poor  heart  so  for  a  kinsman  vex'd  : 
Madam,  if  you  could  find  out  but  a  man 
To  bear  a  poison,  I  would  temper  it, 
That  Romeo  should,  upon  receipt  thereof, 
Soon  sleep  in  quiet.     O,  how  my  heart  abhors 
To  hear  him  nam'd, — and  cannot  come   to 

him,— 

To  wreak  the  love  I  bore  my  cousin  Tybalt 
Upon  his  body  that  hath  slaughtered  him  I 


Lady  C.  Find  thou  the  means,  and  I  '11  find 

such  a  man. 
But  now  I  '11  tell  thee  joyful  tidings,  girl. 

Jttl.  And  joy  comes  well  in  such  a  needy  time: 
What  are  they,  I  beseech  your  ladyship  ? 
Lady  C.    Well,    well,    thou    hast  a   careful 

father,  child ; 

One  who,  to  put  thee  from  thy  heaviness, 
Hath  sorted  out  a  sudden  day  of  joy 
That  thou  expect'st  not,  nor  I  look'd  not  for. 
Jul.  Madam,  in  happy  time,  what  day  is  that  ? 
Lady  C.  Marry,  my  child,  early  next  Thurs- 
day morn 

The  gallant,  young,  and  noble  gentleman, 
The  County  Paris,  at  St.  Peter's  Church, 
Shall  happily  make  thee  there  a  joyful  bride. 
Jul.  Now,  by  St.  Peter's  Church,  and  Peter 

too, 

He  shall  not  make  me  there  a  joyful  bride. 
I  wonder  at  this  haste  ;  that  I  must  wed 
Ere  he  that  should  be  husband  comes  to  woo. 
I  pray  you,  tell  my  lord  and  father,  madam, 
I  will  not  marry  yet ;  and  when  I  do,  I  swear 
It  shall  be  Romeo,  whom  you  know  I  hate, 
Rather  than  Paris  : — these  are  news  indeed  ! 
Lady  C.  Here  comes  your  father  ;  tell  him 

so  yourself, 
And  see  how  he  will  take  it  at  your  hands. 

Enter  CAPULET  and  Nurse. 

Cap.  When  the  sun  sets,  the  air  doth  drizzle 

dew; 

But  for  the  sunset  of  my  brother's  son 
It  rains  downright — 

How  now  !  a  conduit,  girl?  what,  still  in  tears? 
Evermore  showering?     In  one  little  body 
Thou  counterfeit'st  a  bark,  a  sea,  a  wind : 
For  still  thy  eyes,  which  I  may  call  the  sea, 
Do  ebb  and  flow  with  tears  ;  the  bark  thy  body 

is, 

Sailing  in  this  salt  flood ;  the  winds  thy  sighs ; 
Who, — raging  with  thy  tears,  and  they  with 

them, — 

Without  a  sudden  calm,  will  overset 
Thy  tempest-tossed  body. — How  now,  wife ! 
Have  you  deliver'd  to  her  our  decree? 
Lady  C.  Ay,  sir;   but  she  will  none,  she 

gives  you  thanks. 

I  would  the  fool  were  married  to  her  grave ! 
Cap.  Soft !  take  me  with  you,  take  me  with 

you,  wife.  [thanks? 

How!  will  she  none?  doth  she  not  give  us 
Is  she  not  proud?  doth  she  not  count  herbless'd, 
Unworthy  as  she  is,  that  we  have  wrought 
So  worthy  a  gentleman  to  be  her  bridegroom? 
Jul.  Not  proud  you  have;  but  thankful  that 

you  have : 


SCENE  V.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


1089 


Proud  can  I  never  be  of  what  I  hate ; 

But  thankful  even  for  hate  that  is  meant  love. 

Cap.  How  now,  how  now,  chop-logic !  What 

is  this?  [not ; — 

Proud, — and,  I  thank  you, — and,  I  thank  you 

And  yet  not  proud :— mistress  minion,  you, 

Thank  me  no  thankings,   nor   proud    me   no 

prouds, 

But  fettle  your  fine  joints  'gainst  Thursday  next, 
To  go  with  Paris  to  St.  Peter's  Church, 
Or  I  will  drag  thee  on  a  hurdle  thither,     [gage ! 
Out,  you  green-sickness  carrion  !  out,  you  bag- 
You  tallow-face ! 

Lady  C.  Fie,  fie  !  what,  are  you  mad  ? 

Jill.  Good  father,  I  beseech  you  on  my  knees, 
Hear  me  with  patience  but  to  speak  a  word. 

Cap.  Hang  thee,  young  baggage !  disobedient 
wretch !  [day, 

I  tell  thee  what. — get  thee  to  church  o'  Thurs- 
Or  never  after  look  me  in  the  face  : 
Speak  not,  reply  not,  do  not  answer  me  ; 
My  fingers  itch. — Wife,  we  scarce  thought  us 

bless'd 

That  God  had  lent  us  but  this  only  child; 
But  now  I  see  this  one  is  one  too  much, 
And  that  we  have  a  curse  in  having  her : 
Out  on  her,  hilding  ! 

Nurse.  God  in  heaven  bless  her ! — 

You  are  to  blame,  my  lord,  to  rate  her  so. 

Cap.  And  why,  my  lady  wisdom  ?  hold  your 

tongue, 
Good  prudence ;  smatter  with  your  gossips,  go. 

Nurse.  I  speak  no  treason. 

Cap.  O,  God  ye  good-den  ! 

Nurse.  May  not  one  speak  ? 

Cap.  Peace,  you  mumbling  fool  ! 

Utter  your  gravity  o'er  a  gossip's  bowl, 
For  here  we  need  it  not. 

Lady  C.  You  are  too  hot. 

Cap.  God's  bread !  it  makes  me  mad : 
Day,  night,  hour,  tide,  time,  work,  play, 
Alone,  in  company,  still  my  care  hath  been 
To  have  her  match'd,  and  having  now  provided 
A  gentleman  of  noble  parentage, 
Of  fair  demesnes,  youthful,  and  nobly  train'd, 
Stuff  d,  as  they  say,  with  honourable  parts, 
Proportion'd  as  one's  heart  could  wish  a  man, — 
And  then  to  have  a  wretched  puling  fool, 
A  whining  mammet,  in  her  fortune's  tender, 
To  answer,  /'//  not  wed, — /  cannot  love, 
I  am  too  young, — I  pray  you  pardon  me  ; — 
But,  an  you  will  not  wed,  I  '11  pardon  you  : 
Graze  where  you  will,  you  shall  not  house  with 

me : 

Look  to  't,  think  on 't,  I  do  not  use  to  jest. 
Thursday  is  near  ;  lay  hand  on  heart,  advise  : 
An  you  be  mine,  I  '11  give  you  to  my  friend  ; 


An  you  be  not,  hang,  beg,  starve,  die  i'  the 

streets, 

For,  by  my  soul,  I  '11  ne'er  acknowledge  thee, 
Nor  what  is  mine  shall  never  do  thee  good  : 
Trust  to 't,  bethink  you,  I  '11  not  be  forsworn. 

{Exit. 

Jul.   Is  there  no  pity  sitting  in  the  clouds, 
That  sees  into  the  bottom  of  my  grief? 
O,  sweet  my  mother,  cast  me  not  away  ! 
Delay  this  marriage  for  a  month,  a  week  ; 
Or,  if  you  do  not,  make  the  bridal  bed 
In  that  dim  monument  where  Tybalt  lies. 

Lady  C.  Talk  not  to  me,  for  I  '11  not  speak 

a  word  ; 
Do  as  thou  wilt,  for  I  have  done  with  thee. 

{Exit. 

Jul.  O  God  !— O  nurse  !  how  shall  this  be 

prevented  ? 

My  husband  is  on  earth,  my  faith  in  heaven  ; 
How  shall  that  faith  return  again  to  earth, 
Unless  that  husband  send  it  me  from  heaven 
By  leaving  earth  ?— comfort  me,  counsel  rue. — 
Alack,   alack,    that    heaven    should    practise 

stratagems 

Upon  so  soft  a  subject  as  myself!—  tj°y? 
What  say'st  thou  ?  hast  thou  not  a  word  of 
Some  comfort,  nurse. 

Nurse.  Faith,  here  'tis :  Romeo 

Is  banished  ;  and  all  the  world  to  nothing 
That  he  dares  ne'er  come  back  to  challenge  you : 
Or,  if  he  do,  it  needs  must  be  by  stealth. 
Then,  since  the  case  so  stands  as  now  it  doth, 
I  think  it  best  you  married  with  the  county. 
O,  he 's  a  lovely  gentleman  ! 
Romeo  's  a  dishqjput  to  him ;  an  eagle,  madam, 
Hath  not  so  green,  so  quick,  so  fair  an  eye 
As  Paris  hath.     Beshrew  my  very  heart, 
I  think  you  are  happy  in  this  second  match, 
For  it  excels  your  first :  or  if  it  did  not, 
Your  first  is  dead  ;  or  'twere  as  good  he  were, 
As  living  here,  and  you  no  use  of  him. 

Jul.  Speakest  thou  from  thy  heart  ? 

Nurse.  From  my  soul  too, 

Or  else  beshrew  them  both. 

Jul.  Amen ! 

Nurse.  What  ? 

Jul.  Well,  thou  hast  comforted  me  marvel- 
lous much. 

Go  in ;  and  tell  my  lady  I  am  gone, 
Having  displeas'd  my  father,  to  Lawrence'  ceU 
To  make  confession,  and  to  be  absolv'd. 

Nurse.  Marry,   I  will ;    and   this  is  wisely 
done.  [Exit. 

Jul.  Ancient   damnation !    O   most  wicked 

fiend! 

Is  it  more  sin  to  wish  me  thus  forsworn, 
Or  to  dispraise  my  lord  with  that  same  tongue 

2  M 


logo 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[ACT  IV. 


Which  she  hath  prais'J  him  wiJi  above  compare 

00  many  thousand  time.- ; — Go,  counsellor  ; 
Thou    and    my   bosom    henceforth    shall    be 

twain. — 

1  '11  to  the  friar,  to  know  his  remedy  ; 

If  all  else  fail,  myself  have  power  to  die. 

[Exit. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — FRIAR  LAWRENCE'S  Cell. 
Enter  FRIAR  LAWRENCE  and  PARIS. 

Fri.  L.  On  Thursday,  sir  ?  the  time  is  very 
short. 

Par.  My  father  Capulet  will  have  it  so  ; 
And  I  am  nothing  slow  to  slack  his  haste. 

Fri.  L.  You  say  you  do  not  know  the  lady's 

mind  : 
Uneven  is  the  course,  I  like  it  not.          [death, 

Par.    Immoderately  she  weeps  for  Tybalt's 
And  therefore  have  I  little  talk'd  of  love  ; 
For  Venus  smiles  not  in  a  house  of  tears. 
Now,  sir,  her  father  counts  it  dangerous 
That  she  doth  give  her  sorrow  so  much  sway ; 
And,  in  his  wisdom  ^  hastes  our  marriage, 
To  stop  the  inundation  of  her  tears  ; 
Which,  too  much  minded  by  herself  alone, 
May  be  put  from  her  by  society : 
Wow  do  you  know  the  reason  of  this  haste. 

Fri.  L.  [Aside.]  I  would  I  knew  not  why  it 

should  be  slow'd. — 
Look,  sir,  here  comes  the  lady  towards  my  cell. 

Enter  JULIET. 

Par.   Happily  met,  my  lady  and  my  wife  ! 
Jul.  That  may  be,  sir,  when  I  may  be  a  wife 
Par.  That  may  be  must  be,  love,  on  Thurs- 
day next. 

Jul.  What  must  be  shall  be. 
Fri.  L.  That 's  a  certain  text. 

Par.  Come  you  to  make  confession  to  this 

father? 

Jul.  To  answer  that,  I  should  confess  to  you. 
Par.  Do  not  deny  to  him  that  you  love  me. 
Jul.  I  will  confess  to  you  that  I  love  him. 
Par.  So  will  ye,  I  am  sure,  that  you  love  me. 
Jul.  If  I  do  so,  it  will  be  of  more  price 
Being  spoke  behind  your  back  than  to  your  face. 
Par.  Poor  soul,  thy  face  is  much  abus'd  with 

tears. 

Jul.  The  tears  have  got  small  victory  by  that ; 
For  it  was  bad  enough  before  their  spite. 
Par.  Thou  wrong'st  it  more  than  tears  with 

that  report. 

Jul.  That  is  no  slander,  sir,  which  is  a  truth ; 
And  what  I  spake  I  spake  it  to  my  face. 


Par.  Thy  face  is  mine,  and  thou  hast  slan- 
der'd  it. 

JuL   It  may  be  so,  for  it  is  not  mine  own. — 
Are  you  at  leisure,  holy  father,  now  ; 
Or  shall  I  come  to  you  at  evening  mass? 

Fri.    L.    My    leisure    serves    me,    pensive 

daughter,  now. — 
My  lord,  we  must  entreat  the  time  alone. 

Par.  God  shield  1  should  disturb  devotion ! — 
Juliet,  on  Thursday  early  will  I  rouse  you : 
Till  then,  adieu  ;  and  keep  this  holy  kiss. 

[Exit. 

Jul.   O,  shut  the  door  !  and  when  thou  hast 

done  so,  [help  ! 

Come  weep  with  me ;  past  hope,  past  cure,  past 

Fri.  L.  Ah,  Tuliet,  I  already  know  thy  grief; 
It  strains  me  past  the  compass  of  my  wits : 
I  hear  thou  must,  and  nothing  may  prorogue  it, 
On  Thursday  next  be  married  to  this  county. 

JuL  Tell  me  not,  friar,  that  thou  hear'st  of 

this, 

Unless  thou  tell  me  how  I  may  prevent  it : 
If,  in  thy  wisdom,  thou  canst  give  no  help, 
Do  thou  but  call  my  resolution  wise, 
And  with  this  knife  I  '11  help  it  presently. 
God  join'd  my  heart  and  Romeo's,  thou  our 

hands ; 

And  ere  this  hand,  by  thee  to  Romeo  seal'd, 
Shall  be  the  label  to  another  deed, 
Or  my  true  heart  with  treacherous  revolt 
Turn  to  another,  this  shall  slay  them  both : 
Therefore,  out  of  thy  long-experienc'd  time, 
Give  me  some  present  counsel ;  or,  behold, 
'Twixt  my  extremes  and  me  this  bloody  knife 
Shall  play  the  umpire  ;  arbitrating  that 
Which  the  commission  of  thy  years  and  art 
Could  to  no  issue  of  true  honour  bring. 
Be  not  so  long  to  speak  ;  I  long  to  die,  • 
If  what  thou  speak'st  speak  not  of  remedy. 

Fri.  L.   Hold,  daughter  :  I  do  spy  a  kind  of 

hope, 

Which  craves  as  desperate  an  execution 
As  that  is  desperate  which  we  would  prevent. 
If,  rather  than  to  marry  County  Paris, 
Thou  hast  the  strength  of  will  to  slay  thyself, 
Then  is  it  likely  thou  wilt  undertake 
A  thing  like  death  to  chide  away  this  shame. 
That  cop'st  with  death  himself  to  scape  from  it; 
And,  if  thou  dar'st,  1 711  give  thee  remedy. 

Jul.  O,  bid  me  leap,  rather  than  marry  Paris, 
From  off  the  battlements  of  yonder  tower ; 
Or  walk  in  thievish  ways  ;  or  bid  me  lurk 
Where  serpents  are;    chain  me  with  roaring 

bears  ; 

Or  shut  me  nightly  in  a  charnel-house, 
O'er-cover'd   quite  with   dead   men's   rattling 
bones, 


SCENE  II.  j 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


1091 


With  reeky  shanks,  and  yellow  chapiess  skulls; 
Or  bid  me  go  into  a  new-made  grave, 
And  hide  me  with  a  dead  man  in  his  shroud  ; 
Things  that,  to  hear  them  told,  have  made  me 

tremble ; 

And  I  will  do  it  without  fear  or  doubt, 
To  live  an  unstain'd  wife  to  my  sweet  love. 
Fri.  L.    Hold,  then ;  go  home,  be  merry, 

gire  consent 

To  marry  Paris  ;  Wednesday  is  to-morrow  ; 
To-morrow  night  look  that  thou  lie  alone, 
Let  not  thy  nurse  lie  with  thee  in  thy  chamber: 
Take  thou  this  vial,  being  then  in  bed, 
And  this  distilled  liquor  drink  thou  off:      [run 
When,  presently,  through  all  thy  veins  shall 
A  cold  and  drowsy  humour  ;  for  no  pulse 
Shall  keep  his  native  progress,  but  surcease : 
No  warmth,  no  breath,  shall  testify  thou  liv'st; 
The  roses  in  thy  lips  and  cheeks  shall  fade 
To  paly  ashes  ;  thy  eyes'  windows  fall, 
Like  death,  when  he  shuts  up  the  day  of  life ; 
Each  part,  depriv'd  of  supple  government, 
Shall,  stiff  and  stark  and  cold,  appear  like  death: 
And  in  this  borrow'd  likeness  of  shrunk  death 
Thou  shall  continue  two-and-forty  hours, 
And  then  awake  as  from  a  pleasant  sleep. 
Now,  when  the  bridegroom  in  the  morning 

comes 

To  rouse  thee  from  thy  bed,  there  art  thou  dead: 
Then, — as  the  manner  of  our  country  is, — 
In  thy  best  robes,  uncover'd,  on  the  bier, 
Thou  shall  be  borne  to  that  same  ancient  vault 
Where  all  the  kindred  of  the  Capulets  lie. 
In  the  meantime,  against  thou  shalt  awake, 
Shall  Romeo  by  my  letters  know  our  drift ; 
And  hither  shall  he  come :  and  he  and  I 
Will  watch  thy  waking,  and  that  very  night 
Shall  Romeo  bear  thee  hence  to  Mantua. 
And  this  shall  free  thee  from  this  present  shame, 
If  no  inconstant  toy  nor  womanish  fear 
Abate  thy  valour  in  the  acting  it. 

/«/.  Give  me,  give  me !  O,  tell  not  me  of  fear! 
Fri.  L.  Hold  ;  get  you  gone,  be  strong  and 

prosperous 

In  this  resolve  :  I'll  send  a  friar  with  speed 
To  Mantua,  with  my  letters  to  thy  lord. 

/«/.    Love  give  me  strength !  and  strength 

shall  help  afford.^ 
Farewell,  dear  father  !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  ll.—Hall  in  CAPO  LET'S  House. 
Enter  CAPULET,  LADY  CAPULET,  Nurse,  and 

Servants. 

Cap.  So  many  guests  invite  as  here  are  writ. — 
[Exit first  Servant. 
Sirrah,  go  hire  me  twenty  cunning  cooks. 


2  Serv.  You  shall  have  none  ill,  sir;  for  I '11 
try  if  they  can  lick  their  fingers. 
'Cap.  How  canst  thou  try  them  so? 

2  Serv.  Marry,  sir,  'tis  an  ill  cook  that 
cannot  lick  his  own  fingers  :  therefore  he  that 
cannot  lick  his  fingers  goes  not  with  me. 

Cap.  Go,  be  gone. —  [Exit  second  Servant. 
We  shall  be  much  unfurnish'd  for  this  time. — 
What,  is  my  daughter  gone  to  Friar  Lawrence? 

Nurse.  Ay,  forsooth.  [on  her  : 

Cap.  Well,  he  may  chance  to  do  some  good 
A  peevish  self-will'd  harlotry  it  is. 

Nurse.  See  where  she  comes  from  shrift  with 
merry  look. 

Enter  JULIET. 

Cap.  How  now,  my  headstrong !  where  have 
you  been  gadding?  [sin 

Jul.  Where  I  have  learn'd  me  to  repent  the 
Of  disobedient  opposition 
To  you  and  your  behests  ;  and  am  enjoin'd 
By  holy  Lawrence  to  fall  prostrate  here, 
And  beg  your  pardon : — pardon,  I  beseech  you ! 
Henceforward  I  am  ever  rul'd  by  you.      [this  : 

Cap.  Send  for  the  county  ;  go  tell  him  of 
I  '11  have  this  knot  knit  up  to-morrcw  morning. 

Jul.  I  met  the  youthful  lord  at  Lawrence' cell  j 
And  gave  him  what-becomed  love  I  might, 
Not  stepping  o'er  the  bounds  of  modesty. 

Cap.  Why,  I  am  glad  on 't ;  this  is  well, — 

stand  up, — 

This  is  as 't  should  be. — Let  me  see  the  county ; 
Ay,  marry,  go,  I  say,  and  fetch  him  hither. — 
Now,  afore  God,  this  reverend  holy  friar, 
All  our  whole  city  is  much  bound  to  him. 

/«/.  Nurse,   will  you  go  with  me  into  my 

closet, 

To  help  me  sort  such  needful  ornaments 
As  you  think  fit  to  furnish  me  to-morrow  ? 

Lady  C.  No,   not   till   Thursday ;    there  is 
time  enough. 

Cap.  Go,   nurse,   go  with   her. — We'll   to 
church  to-morrow. 

[Exeunt  JULIET  and  Nurse. 

Lady  C.  We  shall  be  short  in  our  provision : 
'Tis  now  near  night. 

Cap.  Tush,  I  will  stir  about, 

And  all  things  shall  be  well,  I  warrant  thee, 

wife: 

Go  thou  to  Juliet,  help  to  deck  up  her  ; 
I  '11  not  to  bed  to-night; — let  me  alone ;    [ho!— 
I  '11  play  the  housewife  for  this  once. — What, 
They  are  all  forth:  well,  I  will  walk  myself 
To  County  Paris,  to  prepare  him  up 
Against  to-morrow:  my  heart  is  wondrous  light 
Since  this  same  wayward  girl  is  so  reclaim'd. 

[Exeunt. 


1092 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[ACT  IV. 


SCENE  III.— JULIET'S  Chamber. 
Enter  JULIET  and  Nurse. 

Jut.  Ay,  those  attires  are  best : — but,  gentle 

nurse, 

I  pray  thee,  leave  me  to  myself  to-night ; 
For  I  have  need  of  many  orisons 
To  move  the  heavens  to  smile  upon  my  state, 
Which,  well  thou  know'st,  is  cross  and  full  of  sin. 

Enter  LADY  CAPULET. 

Lady  C.  What,  are  you  busy,  ho?  need  you 
my  help?  [saries 

Jul.  No,  madam ;  we  have  cull'd  such  neces- 
As  are  behoveful  for  our  state  to-morrow : 
So  please  you,  let  me  now  be  left  alone, 
And  let  the  nurse  this  night  sit  up  with  you  ; 
For  I  am  sure  you  have  your  hands  full  all 
In  this  so  sudden  business. 

Lady  C.  Good-night: 

Get  thee  to  bed,  and  rest ;  for  thou  hast  need. 
[Exeunt  LADY  CAPULET  and  Nurse. 

ful.  Farewell! — God  knows  when  we  shall 

meet  again. 

I  have  a  faint  cold  fear  thrills  through  my  veins, 
That  almost  freezes  up  the  heat  of  life : 
I  '11  call  them  back  again  to  comfort  me  ; — 
Nurse  ! — What  should  she  do  here  ? 
My  dismal  scene  I  needs  must  act  alone. — 
Come,  vial. — 

What  if  this  mixture  do  not  work  at  all  ? 
Shall  I  be  married,  then,  to-morrow  morning? — 
No,  no ; — this  shall  forbid  it : — lie  thou  there. — 
[Laying  down  her  dagger. 
What  if  it  be  a  poison,  which  the  friar 
Subtly  hath  minister'd  to  have  me  dead, 
Lest  in  this  marriage  he  should  be  dishonour'd, 
Because  he  married  me  before  to  Romeo  ? 
I  fear  it  is :  and  yet  methinks  it  should  not, 
For  he  hath  still  been  tried  a  holy  man : — 
I  will  not  entertain  so  bad  a  thought. — 
How  if,  when  I  am  laid  into  the  tomb, 
I  wake  before  the  time  that  Romeo 
Come  to  redeem  me?  there 's  a  fearful  point ! 
Shall  I  not  then  be  stifled  in  the  vault,         [in, 
To  whose  foul  mouth  no  healthsome  air  breathes 
And  there  die  strangled  ere  my  Romeo  comes? 
Or,  if  I  live,  is  it  not  very  like 
The  horrible  conceit  of  death  and  night, 
Together  with  the  terror  of  the  place, — 
As  in  a  vault,  an  ancient  receptacle,        [bones 
Where,    for   these   many  hundred   years,    the 
Of  all  my  buried  ancestors  are  pack'd  ; 
Where  bloody  Tybalt,  yet  but  green  in  earth, 
Lies  festering  in  his  shroud ;  where,  as  they  say, 
At  some  hours  in  the  night  spirits  resort ; — 


Alack,  alack,  is  it  not  like  that  I, 

So  early  waking, — what  with  loathsome  smells, 

And  shrieks  like  mandrakes'  torn  out  of  the 

earth, 

That  living  mortals,  hearing  them,  run  mad; — 
O,  if  I  wake,  shall  I  not  be  distraught, 
Environed  with  all  these  hideous  fears  ? 
And  madly  play  with  my  forefathers'  joints? 
And  pluck  the  mangled  Tybalt  from  his  shroud? 
And,  in  this  rage,  with  some  great  kinsman's 

bone,  [brains  ? — 

As    with    a    club,    dash    out    my    desperate 
O,  look  !  methinks  I  see  my  cousin's  ghost 
Seeking  out  Romeo,  that  did  spit  his  body 
Upon  a  rapier's  point : — stay,  Tybalt,  stay ! — 
Romeo,  I  come !  this  do  I  drink  to  thee. 

[  Throws  herself  on  the  bed. 


SCENE  IV. — Hall  in  CAPULET'S  House. 
Enter  LADY  CAPULET  and  Nurse. 

Lady  C.   Hold,  take  these  keys,  and  fetch 

more  spices,  nurse. 

Nurse.  They  call  for  dates  and  quinces  in 
the  pastry. 

Enter  CAPULET. 

Cap.  Come,  stir,  stir,  stir!  the  second  cock 

hath  crow'd, 

The  curfew  bell  hath  rung,  'tis  three  o'clock : — 
Look  to  the  bak'd  meats,  good  Angelica : 
Spare  not  for  cost. 

Nttrse.  Go,  you  cot-quean,  go, 

Get  you  to  bed;  faith,  you  '11  be  sick  to-morrow 

For  this  night's  watching.  [ere  now 

Cap.  No,  not  a  whit :  what !  I  have  watch'd 

All  night  for  lesser  cause,  and  ne'er  been  sick. 

Lady  C.  Ay,  you  have  been  a  mouse-hunt  in 

your  time  ; 

But  I  will  watch  you  from  such  watching  now. 
[Exeunt  LADY  CAPULET  and  Nurse. 
Cap.  A  jealous-hood,  a  jealous-hood  ! — Now, 
fellow, 

Enter  Servants,  -with  spits,  logs,  and  baskets. 

What 's  there  ?  [not  what. 

1  Serv.  Things  for  the  cook,  sir ;  but  I  know 
Cap.  Make  haste,  make  haste.   [Exit  \  Serv.  ] 

— Sirrah,  fetch  drier  logs : 
Call  Peter,  he  will  show  thee  where  they  are. 

2  Serv.   I  have  a  head,  sir,  that  will  find  out 

logs, 

And  never  trouble  Peter  for  the  matter.    [Exit. 

Cap.  Mass,  and  well  said ;  a  merry  whoreson, 

ha !  [day  : 

Thou  shalt  be  logger-head.— Good  faith,  'tis 


SCENE  V.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


1093 


The  county  will  be  here  with  music  straight, 
For  so  he  said  he  would: — I  hear  him  near. — • 
[Music  within. 
Nurse! — wife!— what,  ho! — what,  nurse,  I  say! 

Re-enter  Nurse. 

Go  waken  Juliet,  go  and  trim  her  up ; 
I  ;11  go  and  chat  with  Paris  : — hie,  make  haste, 
Make  haste ;  the  bridegroom  he  is  come  already: 
Make  haste,  I  say.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.— JULIET'S  Chamber;  JULIET  on 
the  bed. 

Enter  Nurse. 

Nurse.   Mistress ! — what,    mistress ! — Juliet ! 

— fast,  I  warrant  her,  she  : — 
Why,  lamb! — why,  lady! — fie,  youslug-a-bed! — 
Why,  love,  I  say! — madam!  sweetheart! — why, 

bride! —  [now; 

What,  not  a  word  ? — you  take  your  pennyworths 
Sleep  for  a  week;  for  the  next  night,  I  warrant, 
The  County  Paris  hath  set  up  his  rest 
That  you  shall  rest  but  little. — God  forgive  me, 
Marry,  and  amen,  how  sound  is  she  asleep ! 
I    must   needs   wake   her. — Madam,    madam, 

madam! — 

Ay,  let  the  county  take  you  in  your  bed  ; 
He  '11  fright  you  up,  i'  faith. — Will  it  not  be  ? 
What,  dress'd !  and  in  your  clothes !  and  down 

again ! 

I  must  needs  wake  you: — lady!  lady!  lady! — 
Alas,  alas! — Help,  help!  my  lady's  dead  ! — 
O,  well-a-day,  that  ever  I  was  born ! — 
Some  aqua-vitse,  ho! — my  lord  !  my  lady  ! 

Enter  LADY  CAPULET. 

Lady  C.  What  noise  is  here  ? 

Nurse.  O  lamentable  day! 

Lady  C.  What  is  the  matter  ? 

Nurse.  Look,  look!  O  heavy  day! 

Lady  C.   O  me,  O  me !— my  child,  my  only 

life, 

Revive,  look  up,  or  I  will  die  with  thee ! — 
Help,  help !— call  help. 

Enter  CAPULET. 

Cap.  For  shame  bring  Juliet  forth  ;  her  lord 

is  come. 
Nurse.  She 's  dead,  deceas'd,  she 's  dead;  alack 

the  day  ! 

Lady  C.  Alack  the  day,  she's  dead,  she's 
dead,  she  's  dead !  [cold  ; 

Cap.   Ha!  let  me  see  her: — out,  alas!  she's 
Her  blood  is  settled,  and  her  joints  are  stiff ; 
Life  and  these  lips  have  long  been  separated  : 
Death  lies  on  her  like  an  untimely  frost 


Upon  the  sweetest  flower  of  all  the  field. 
Accursed  time!  unfortunate  old  man! 

Nurse.  O  lamentable  day! 

Lady  C.  O  woeful  time ! 

Cap.  Death,  that  hath  ta'en  her  hence  to 

make  me  wail, 
Ties  up  my  tongue,  and  will  not  let  me  speak. 

Enter  FRIAR  LAWRENCE  and  PARIS,  with 
Musicians. 

Fri.  L.  Come,  is  the  bride  ready  to  go  to 
church  ? 

Cap.   Ready  to  go,  but  never  to  return: — 
O  son,  the  night  before  thy  wedding-day 
Hath  death  lain  with  thy  bride:— there  she  lies, 
Flower  as  she  was,  deflowered  by  him. 
Death  is  my  son-in-law,  death  is  my  heir ; 
My  daughter  he  hath  wedded :  I  will  die, 
And  leave  him  all ;  life,  living,  all  is  death's. 

Par.    Have    I    thought    long    to    see    this 

morning's  face, 
And  doth  it  give  me  such  a  sight  as  this?     [day! 

LadyC.  Accurs'd,  unhappy,  wretched,  hateful 
Most  miserable  hour  that  e'er  time  saw 
In  lasting  labour  of  his  pilgrimage  ! 
But  one,  poor  one,  one  poor  and  loving  child, 
But  one  thing  to  rejoice  and  solace  in, 
And  cruel  death  hath  catch'd  it  from  my  sight! 

Nurse.  Owoe!  O  woeful,  woeful,  woeful  day! 
Most  lamentable  day,  most  woeful  day, 
That  ever,  ever,  1  did  yet  behold ! 
O  day!  O  day!  O  day!  O  hateful  day! 
Never  was  seen  so  black  a  day  as  this : 
O  woeful  day,  O  woeful  day!  [slain! 

Par.  Beguil'd,   divorced,   wronged,   spited, 
Most  detestable  death,  by  thee  beguil'd, 
By  cruel  cruel  thee  quite  overthrown! — 
O  love!  O  life!— not  life,  but  love  in  death! 

Cap.  Despis'd,   distressed,  hated,  martyr'd, 

kilt'd!— 

Uncomfortable  time,  why  cam'st  thou  now 
To  murder,  murder  our  solemnity? —    [child! — 
O   child !    O   child ! — my   soul,    and    not   my 
Dead  art  thou,  dead ! — alack,  my  child  is  dead ; 
And  with  my  child  my  joys  are  buried ! 

Fri.  L.  Peace,   ho,  for  shame !    confusion's 

cure  lives  not 

In  these  confusions.     Heaven  and  yourself 
Had  part  in  this  fair  maid;  now  heaven  hath  all, 
And  all  the  better  is  it  for  the  maid : 
Your  part  in  her  you  could  not  keep  from  death; 
But  heaven  keeps  his  part  in  eternal  life. 
The  most  you  sought  was  her  promotion  ; 
For  'twas  your  heaven  she  should  be  advanc'd : 
And  weep  ye  now,  seeing  she  is  advanc'd 
Above  the  clouds,  as  high  as  heaven  itself? 
O,  in  this  love,  you  love  your  child  so  ill 


1094 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


TACT  v. 


That  you  run  mad,  seeing  that  she  is  well : 
She's  not  well  married  that  lives  married  long; 
But  she 's  best  married  that  dies  married  young. 
Dry  up  your  tears,  and  stick  your  rosemary 
On  this  fair  corse  ;  and  as  the  custom  is, 
In  all  her  best  array  bear  her  to  church : 
For  though  fond  nature  bids  us  all  lament, 
Yet  nature's  tears  are  reason's  merriment. 

Cap.  All  things  that  we  ordained  festival 
Turn  from  their  office  to  black  funeral : 
Our  instruments  to  melancholy  bells  ; 
Our  wedding  cheer  to  a  sad  burial  feast ; 
Our  solemn  hymns  to  sullen  dirges  change ; 
Our  bridal  flowers  serve  for  a  buried  corse, 
And  all  things  change  them  to  the  contrary. 

Fri.  L.  Sir,  go   you   in, — and,  madam,  go 

with  him  ; — 

And  go,  Sir  Paris  ; — every  one  prepare 
To  follow  this  fair  corse  unto  her  grave : 
The  heavens  do  lower  upon  you  for  some  ill ; 
Move  them  no  more  by  crossing  their  high  will. 

[Exeunt  C AP.,  LADY  CAP.,  PARIS,  and  Friar. 

I  Mus.  Faith,  we  may  put  up  our  pipes  and 
be  gone.  [put  up  ; 

Nurse.  Honest  good  fellows,  ah,  put  up, 
For,  well  you  know,  this  is  a  pitiful  case.  [Exit. 

i  Mus.  Ay,  by  my  troth,  the  case  may  be 
amended, 

Enter  PETER. 

.    _:?,«"  \( 

Pet.  Musicians,  O,  musicians,  Heart's  ease, 
Heart's  ease:  O,  an  you  will  have  me  live, 
play  Hearfs  ease. 

I  Mus.  Why  Hearfs  ease  ? 

Pet.  O,  musicians,  because  my  heart  itself 
plays  My  heart  is  full  of  woe:  O,  play  me  some 
merry  dump  to  comfort  me.  [now. 

i  Mus.  Not  a  dump  we ;  'tis  no  time  to  play 

Pet.  You  will  not,  then  f 

i  Mus.  No. 

Pet.  I  will,  then,  give  it  you  soundly. 

I  Mus.  What  will  you  give  us  ? 

Pet.  No  money,  on  my  faith ;  but  the  gleek, 
— I  will  give  you  the  minstrel.  [creature. 

I  Mus.  Then  will  I  give  you  the  serving- 

Pet.  Then  will  I  lay  the  serving-creature's 
dagger  on  your  pate.  I  will  carry  no  crotchets : 
I  '11  re  you,  I  '11 7*0  you  ;  do  you  note  me  1 

1  Mus.  An  you  re  us  and  fa  us,  you  note  us. 

2  Mus.   Pray  you,  put  up  your  dagger,  and 
put  out  your  wit. 

Pet.  Then  have  at  you  with  my  wit !  I  will 
dry-beat  you  with  an  iron  wit,  and  put  up  my 
iron  dagger. — Answer  me  like  men  : 

When  griping  grief  the  heart  doth  wound, 

And  doleful  dumps  the  mind  oppress, 
Then  music  with  her  silver  sound — 


why  silver  sound?  why  music  with  her  silver 
sound? — What  say  you,  Simon  Catling  1 

1  Mus.    Marry,   sir,   because   silver   hath   a 
sweet  sound. 

Pet.   Pretty !— What  say  you,  Hugh  Rebeck? 

2  Mus.   I  say  silver  sound  because  musicians 
sound  for  silver.  [Sound-post  ? 

Pet.    Pretty    too ! — What    say   you,   James 

3  Mus.  Faith,  I  know  not  what  to  say. 
Pet.   O,  I  cry  you  mercy;  you  are  the  singer: 

I  will  say  for  you.  It  is  music  with  her  silver 
sound  because  musicians  have  no  gold  for 
sounding : — 

Then  music  with  her  silver  sound 
With  speedy  help  doth  lend  redress. 

[Exit. 

1  Mus.  What  a  pestilent  knave  is  this  same ! 

2  Mus.  Hang  him,  Jack  ! — Come,  we  '11  in 
here  ;  tarry  for  the  mourners,  and  stay  dinner. 

{Exeunt. 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.— MANTUA.    A  Street. 
Enter  ROMEO. 

Rom.  If  I  may  trust  the  flattering  eye  of  sleep, 
My  dreams  presage  some  joyful  news  at  hand.' 
My  bosom's  lord  sits  lightly  in  his  throne ; 
And  all  this  day  an  unaccustom'd  spirit 
Lifts    me    above    the    ground   with    cheerful 

thoughts. 

I  dreamt  my  lady  came  and  found  me  dead,— 
Strange  dream,  that  gives  a  dead  man  leave  to 

think  !— 

And  breath'd  such  life  with  kisses  in  my  lips, 
That  I  reviv'd,  and  was  an  emperor. 
Ah  me  !  how  sweet  is  love  itself  possess'd, 
When  but  love's  shadows  are  so  rich  in  joy  ! 

Enter  BALTHASAR. 

News  from  Verona  ! — How  now,  Balthasar  ! 
Dost  thou  not  bring  me  letters  from  the  friar  ? 
How  doth  my  lady  ?     Is  my  father  well  ? 
How  fares  my  Juliet  ?  that  I  ask  again  ; 
For  nothing  can  be  ill  if  she  be  well.  [ill : 

Bal.  Then  she  is  well,  and  nothing  can  be 
Her  body  sleeps  in  Capels'  monument, 
And  her  immortal  part  with  angels  lives. 
I  saw  her  laid  low  in  her  kindred's  vault, 
And  presently  took  post  to  tell  it  you  : 
O,  pardon  me  for  bringing  these  ill  news, 
Since  you  did  leave  it  for  my  office,  sir. 

Rom.  Is  it  even  so?  then  I  defy  you,  stars ! — 
Thou  know'st  my  lodging:    get  me  ink  and 

paper, 
And  hire  post-horses ;  I  will  hence  to-night. 


SCENE  I.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


1095 


Bal.  I  du  beseech  you,  sir,  have  patience  : 
Your  looks  are  pale  and  wild,  and  do  import 
Some  misadventure. 

Rom.  Tush,  thou  art  deceiv'd  : 

Leave  me,  and  do  the  thing  I  bid  thee  do. 
Hast  thou  no  letters  to  me  from  the  friar  ? 

Bal.  No,  my  good  lord. 

Rom.  No  matter :  get  thee  gone, 

And    hire   those   horses ;    I  '11    be   with   thee 

straight.  [Exit  BALTHASAR. 

Well,  Juliet,  I  will  lie  with  thee  to-night. 

Let 's  see  for  means : — O  mischief,   thou  art 

swift 

To  enter  in  the  thoughts  of  desperate  men  ! 
I  do  remember  an  apothecary, — 
And  hereabouts  he  dwells, — which  late  I  noted 
In  tatter'd  weeds,  with  overwhelming  brows, 
Culling  of  simples  ;  meagre  were  his  looks, 
Sharp  misery  had  worn  him  to  the  bones : 
And  in  his  needy  shop  a  tortoise  hung, 
An  alligator  stufFd,  and  other  skins 
Of  ill-shap'd  fishes  ;  and  about  his  shelves 
A  beggarly  account  of  empty  boxes, 
Green  earthen  pots,  bladders,  and  musty  seeds, 
Remnants  of  packthread,  and  old  cakes  of  roses, 
Were  thinly  scatter'd,  to  make  up  a  show. 
Noting  this  penury,  to  myself  I  said, 
An  if  a  man  did  need  a  poison  now, 
Whose  sale  is  present  death  in  Mantua, 
Here  lives  a  caitiff  wretch  would  sell  it  him. 
O,  this  same  thought  did  but  forerun  my  need ; 
And  this  same  needy  man  must  sell  it  me. 
As  I  remember,  this  should  be  the  house : 
Being  holiday,  the  beggar's  shop  is  shut. — 
What,  ho  !  apothecary  ! 

Enter  Apothecary. 

Ap.  Who  calls  so  loud? 

Rom.  Come  hither,  man. — I  see  that  thou 

art  poor  ; 

Hold,  there  is  forty  ducats :  let  me  have 
A  dram  of  poison ;  such  soon-speeding  gear 
As  will  disperse  itself  through  all  the  veins, 
That  the  life-weary  taker  may  fall  dead  ; 
And  that  the  trunk  may  be  discharg'd  of  breath 
As  violently  as  hasty  powder  fir'd 
Doth  hurry  from  the  fatal  cannon's  womb. 

Ap.  Such  mortal  drugs  I  have ;  but  Mantua's 

law 
Is  death  to  any  he  that  utters  them. 

Rom.  Art  thou  so  bare  and  full  of  wretched- 
ness, 

And  fear'st  to  die  ?  famine  is  in  thy  cheeks, 
Need  and  oppression  starveth  in  thine  eyes, 
Contempt  and  beggary  hangs  upon  thy  back, 
The  world  is  not  thy  friend,  nor  the  world's 
law: 


The  world  affords  no  law  to  make  thee  rich  ; 
Then  be  not  poor,  but  break  it,  and  take  this. 

Ap.  My  poverty,  but  not  my  will  consents. 

Rom.   I  pay  thy  poverty,  and  not  thy  will. 

Ap.  Put  this  in  any  liquid  thing  you  will, 
And  drink  it  off;  and,  if  you  had  the  strength 
Of  twenty  men,  it  would  despatch  you  straight. 

Rom.  There  is  thy  gold ;    worse  poison  to 

men's  souls, 

Doing  more  murders  in  this  loathsome  world 
Than  these  poor  compounds  that  thou  mayst 

not  sell : 

I  sell  thee  poison,  thou  hast  sold  me  none. 
Farewell :  buy  food,  and  get  thyself  in  flesh. — 
Come,  cordial,  and  not  poison,  go  with  me 
To  Juliet's  grave  ;  for  there  must  I  use  thee. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— FRIAR  LAWRENCE'S  Cell. 

Enter  FRIAR  JOHN. 

Fri.  J.  Holy  Franciscan  friar !  brother,  ho ! 
Enter  FRIAR  LAWRENCE. 

Fri.  L.  This  same  should  be  the  voice  of 

Friar  John. 

Welcome  from  Mantua  :  what  says  Romeo  ? 
Or,  if  his  mind  be  writ,  give  me  his  letter. 

Fri.  J.  Going  to  find  a  barefoot  brother  out, 
One  of  our  order,  to  associate  me, 
Here  in  this  city  visiting  the  sick, 
And  finding  him,  the  searchers  of  the  town, 
Suspecting  that  we  both  were  in  a  house 
Where  the  infectious  pestilence  did  reign, 
Seal'd  up  the  doors,  and  would  not  let  us  forth ; 
So  that  my  speed  to  Mantua  there  was  stay'd. 

Fri.  L.  Who  bare  my  letter,  then,  to  Romeo? 

Fri.  J.    I  could    not    send   it, — here    it    is 

again,— 

Nor  get  a  messenger  to  bring  it  thee, 
So  fearful  were  they  of  infection.  [hood, 

Fri.  L.  Unhappy  fortune  !   by  my  brother- 
The  letter  was  not  nice,  but  full  of  charge 
Of  dear  import ;  and  the  neglecting  it 
May  do  much  danger.     Friar  John,  go  hence  ; 
Get  me  an  iron  crow,  and  bring  it  straight 
Unto  my  cell. 

Fri.  J.  Brother,  I  '11  go  and  bring  it  thee. 

[Exit. 

Fri.  L.  Now  must  I  to  the  monument  alone ; 
Within  this  three  hours  will  fair  Juliet  wake  : 
She  will  beshrew  me  much  that  Romeo 
Hath  had  no  notice  of  these  accidents ; 
But  I  will  write  again  to  Mantua, 
And  keep  her  at  my  cell  till  Romeo  come ; — 
Poor  living  corse,  clos'd  in  a  dead  man's  tomb ! 

[Exit. 


1096 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[ACT  V. 


SCENE  III. — A  Churchyard ;  in  it  a  Monu- 
ment belonging  to  the  CAPULETS. 

Enter  PARIS,  and  his  Page  bearing  flowers  and 
a  torch. 

Par.  Give  me  thy  torch,  boy  :  hence,  and 

stand  aloof ; — 

Yet  put  it  out,  for  I  would  not  be  seen. 
Under  yond  yew  trees  lay  thee  all  along, 
Holding  thine  ear  close  to  the  hollow  ground  ; 
So  shall  no  foot  upon  the  churchyard  tread, — 
Being  loose,  unfirm,  with  digging  up  of  graves, — 
But  thou  shalt  hear  it :  whistle  then  to  me, 
As  signal  that  thou  hear'st  something  approach. 
Give  me  those  flowers.     Do  as  I  bid  thee,  go. 
Page.  [Aside.]  I  am  almost  afraid  to  stand 

alone 

Here  in  the  churchyard  ;  yet  I  will  adventure. 

{Retires. 
Par.  Sweet  flower,  with  flowers  thy  bridal 

bed  I  strew  : 

O  woe,  thy  canopy  is  dust  and  stones  ! 
Which  with  sweet  water  nightly  I  will  dew  ; 

Or,  wanting  that,  with  tears  distill'd  by  moans: 
The  obsequies  that  I  for  thee  will  keep, 
Nightly  shall  be  to  strew  thy  grave  and  weep. 
{The  Page  "whistles. 

The  boy  gives  warning  something  doth  approach. 
What  cursed  foot  wanders  this  way  to-night, 
To  cross  my  obsequies  and  true  love's  rite  ? 
What,   with   a   torch  ! — muffle   me,   night,   a- 
while.  {Retires. 

Enter  ROMEO  and  BALTHASAR,  with  a  torch, 
mattock,  &c. 

Rom.  Give  me  that  mattock  and  the  wrench- 
ing iron. 

Hold,  take  this  letter  ;  early  in  the  morning 
See  thou  deliver  it  to  my  lord  and  father. 
Give  me  the  light :  upon  thy  life  I  charge  thee, 
Whate'er  thou  hear'st  or  seest,  stand  all  aloof, 
And  do  not  interrupt  me  in  my  course. 
Why  I  descend  into  this  bed  of  death 
Is  partly  to  behold  my  lady's  face, 
But  chiefly  to  take  thence  from  her  dead  finger 
A  precious  ring, — a  ring  that  I  must  use 
In    dear    employment :    therefore    hence,    be 

gone  :— 

But  if  thou,  jealous,  dost  return  to  pry 
In  what  I  further  shall  intend  to  do, 


By  heaven,  I  will  tear  thee  joint  by  joint, 

hurchyard  v 
limbs : 


And  strew  this  hungry  churchyard  with  thy 


The  time  and  my  intents  are  savage-wild  ; 
More  fierce  and  more  inexorable  far 
Than  empty  tigers  or  the  roaring  sea. 


Bal.   I  will  be  gone,  sir,  and  not  trouble  you. 
Rom.  So  shalt  thou  show  me  friendship. — 
Take  thou  that :  [fellow. 

Live  and  be  prosperous :   and  farewell,  good 
Bal.  For  all  this  same,  I  '11  hide  me  here- 
about : 
His  looks  I  fear  and  his  intents  I  doubt. 

{Retires. 
Rom.  Thou  detestable  maw,  thou  womb  of 

death, 

Gorg'd  with  the  dearest  morsel  of  the  earth, 
Thus  I  enforce  thy  rotten  jaws  to  open, 

{Breaking  open  the  door  of  the  monument. 

And,  in  despite,  I  '11  cram  thee  with  more  food  ! 

Par.  This  is  that  banish'd  haughty  Montague 

That  murder'd  my  love's  cousin, — with  which 

grief, 

It  is  supposed,  the  fair  creature  died, — 
And  here  is  come  to  do  some  villanous  shame 
To  the  dead  bodies :  I  will  apprehend  him. — 

{Advances. 

Stop  thy  unhallow'd  toil,  vile  Montague  ! 
Can  vengeance  be  pursu'd  further  than  death  ? 
Condemned  villain,  I  do  apprehend  thee  : 
Obey,  and  go  with  me  ;  for  thou  must  die. 
Rom.   I  must  indeed ;  and  therefore  came  I 

hither. — 

Good  gentle  youth,  tempt  not  a  desperate  man ; 
Fly  hence,  and  leave  me : — think  upon  these 

gone  ; 

Let  them  affright  thee. — I  be'seech  thee,  youth, 
Put  not  another  sin  upon  my  head 
By  urging  me  to  fury :  O,  be  gone  ! 
By  heaven,  I  love  thee  better  than  myself ; 
For  I  come  hither  arm'd  against  myself : 
Stay  not,  be  gone  ; — live,  and  hereafter  say, 
A  madman's  mercy  bade  thee  run  away. 

Par.   I  do  defy  thy  conjurations, 
And  apprehend  thee  for  a  felon  here. 

Rom.  Wilt  thou  provoke  me  ?  then  have  at 

thee,  boy  !  {They  fight. 

Page.  O  lord,  they  fight !  I  will  go  call  the 

watch.  {Exit. 

Par.  O,  I  am  slain  !  {Falls.'}— If  thou   be 

merciful, 

Open  the  tomb,  lay  me  with  Juliet.          {Dies. 
Rom.  In  faith,  I  will. — Let  me  peruse  this 

face  : — 

Mercutio's  kinsman,  noble  County  Paris  ! — 
What  said  my  man,  when  my  betossed  soul 
Did  not  attend  him  as  we  rode?     I  think 
He  told  me  Paris  should  have  married  Juliet  r 
Said  he  not  so  ?  or  did  I  dream  it  so  ? 
Or  am  I  mad,  hearing  him  talk  of  Juliet, 
To  think  it  was  so  ?— O,  give  me  thy  hand, 
One  writ  with  me  in  sour  misfortune's  book  ! 
I  '11  bury  thee  in  a  triumphant  grave ; — 


SCENE  III.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


1097 


A  grave  ?     O  no,  a  lantern,  slaughtered  youth, 
For  here  lies  Juliet,  and  her  beauty  makes 
This  vault  a  feasting  presence  full  of  light. 
Death,  lie  thou  there,  by  a  dead  man  interr'd. 
[Laying  PARIS  in  the  monument. 
How  oft  when  men  are  at  the  point  of  death 
Have  they  been  merry!  which  their  keepers  call 
A  lightning  before  death:  O,  how  may  I 
Call  this  a  lightning? — O  my  love!  my  wife  ! 
Death,  that  hath  suck'd  the  honey  of  thy  breath, 
Hath  had  no  power  yet  upon  thy  beauty  : 
Thou  art  not  conquered  ;  beauty's  ensign  yet 
Is  crimson  in  thy  lips  and  in  thy  cheeks, 
And  death's  pale  flag  is  not  advanced  there. — 
Tybalt,  liest  thou  there  in  thy  bloody  sheet  ? 
O,  what  more  favour  can  I  do  to  thee     [twain 
Than  with  that  hand  that  cut  thy  youth  in 
To  sunder  his  thac  was  thine  enemy? 
Forgive  me,  cousin! — -Ah,  dear  Juliet, 
Why  art  thou  yet  so  fair?     Shall  I  believe 
That  unsubstantial  death  is  amorous  ; 
And  that  the  lean  abhorred  monster  keeps 
Thee  here  in  dark  to  be  his  paramour? 
For  fear  of  that  I  still  will  stay  with  thee, 
And  never  from  this  palace  of  dim  night 
Depart  again:  here,  here  will  I  remain      [here 
With  worms  that  are  thy  chambermaids ;  O, 
Will  I  set  up  my  everlasting  rest ; 
And  shake  the  yoke  of  inauspicious  stars 
From  this  world- wearied   flesh. — Eyes,   look 

your  last! 

Arms,  take  your  last  embrace!  and,  lips,  O  you 
The  doors  of  breath,  seal  with  a  righteous  kiss 
A  dateless  bargain  to  engrossing  death! — 
Come,  bitter  conduct,  come,  unsavoury  guide  ! 
Thou  desperate  pilot,  now  at  once  run  on 
The  dashing  rocks  thy  sea-sick  weary  bark! 
Here's  to  my  love!  [Drinks.} — O  true  apothe- 
cary 1 

Thy  drugs  are  quick. — Thus  with  a  kiss  I  die. 

[Dies. 

Enter,  at  the  other  end  of  the  Churchyard,  FRIAR 
LAWRENCE,  with  a  lantern,  crow,  and  spade. 

Fri.  L.  Saint  Francis  be  my  speed  !  how  oft 
tc-night  [there  ? 

Have  my  old  feet  stumbled  at  graves  ! — Who 's 
Who  is  it  that  consorts,  so  late,  the  dead  ? 

Bal.  Here's  one,    a   friend,  and   one  that 
knows  you  well.  [my  friend, 

Fri.  L.  Bliss  be  upon  you!     Tell  me,  good 
What  torch  is  yond  that  vainly  lends  his  light 
To  grubs  and  eyeless  skulls  ?  as  I  discern, 
It  burneth  in  the  Capels'  monument,     [master, 

Bal.  It  doth  sc,  holy  sir;   and  there's  ray 
One  that  you  love. 

Fri.  L.  Who  is  it? 


Bal.  Romeo. 

Fri.  L.  How  long  hath  he  been  there  ? 
Bal.  Full  half  an  hour 

Fri.  L.  Go  with  me  to  the  vault. 
Bal.   I  dare  not,  sir : 

My  master  knows  not  but  I  am  gone  hence ; 
And  fearfully  did  menace  me  with  death 
If  I  did  stay  to  look  on  his  intents. 
Fri.  L.  Stay,    then  ;    I  '11    go   alone : — fear 

comes  upon  me ; 
O,  much  I  fear  some  ill  unlucky  thing. 

Bal.  As  I  did  sleep  under  this  yew  tree  here. 
I  dreamt  my  master  and  another  fought, 
And  that  my  master  slew  him. 

Fri.  L.  Romeo  !    [Advances. 

Alack,  alack,  what  blood  is  this  which  stains 
The  stony  entrance  of  this  sepulchre? — 
What  mean  these  masterless  and  gory  swords 
To  lie  discolour'd  by  this  place  of  peace  ? 

[Enters  the  monument. 

Romeo!  O,  pale! — Who  else?  what,  Paris  too? 
And  steep'd  in  blood? — Ah,  what  an  unkind 

hour 

Is  guilty  of  this  lamentable  chance ! — 
The  lady  stirs.  QuiJET  wakes  and  stirs. 

Jul.  O  comfortable  friar!  where  is  my  lord?  — 
I  do  remember  well  where  I  should  be. 
And  there  I  am : — where  is  my  Romeo  ? 

{Noise  within. 
Fri.  L.   I  hear  some  noise. — Lady,   come 

from  that  nest 

Of  death,  contagion,  and  unnatural  sleep  : 
A  greater  power  than  we  can  contradict 
Hath  thwarted  our  intents: — come,  come  away: 
Thy  husband  in  thy  bosom  there  lies  dead ; 
And  Paris  too  : — come,  I  '11  dispose  of  thee 
Among  a  sisterhood  of  holy  nuns  : 
Stay  not  to  question,  for  the  watch  is  coming; 
Come,  go,  good  Juliet  [noise  again], — I  dare 
no  longer  stay.  [away. — 

Jul.  Go,    get   thee    hence,    for   I   will    not 
[Exit  FRIAR  LAWRENCE. 
What 's  here  ?  a  cup,  clos'd  in  my  true  love's 

hand? 

Poison,  I  see,  hath  been  his  timeless  end: — 
O  churl !  drink  all,  and  leave  no  friendly  drop 
To  help  me  after? — I  will  kiss  thy  lips  ; 
Haply  some  poison  yet  doth  hang  on  them, 
To  make  me  die  with  a  restorative. 

[Kisses  him. 
Thy  lips  are  warm! 

i  Watch.  [  Within.}  Lead,  boy: — which  way? 

Jul.  Yea,  noise?— then  I  '11  be  brief.— O  happy 

dagger !     [Snatching  ROMEO'S  dagger. 

This  is  thy  sheath  [stabs  herself} ;  there  rest, 

and  let  me  die. 

[Falls  on  ROMEO'S  body,  and  dies. 


1098 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[ACT  v. 


Enter  Watch,  with  the  Page  of  PARIS. 

Page.  This  is  the  place;  there,  where  the  torch 
doth  burn.  [the  churchyard: 

1  Watch.  The  ground  is  bloody;  search  about 
Go,  some  of  you,  whoe'er  you  find  attach. 

[Exeunt  some  of  the  Watch. 
Pitiful  sight !  here  lies  the  county  slain  ; — 
And  Juliet  bleeding  ;  warm,  and  newly  dead, 
Who  here  hath  lain  these  two  days  buried. — 
Go,  tell  the  prince, — run  to  the  Capulets, — 
Raise  up  the  Montagues,  — some  others  search : — 
[Exeunt  others  of  the  Watch. 
We  see  the  ground  whereon  these  woes  do  lie ; 
But  the  true  ground  of  all  these  piteous  woes 
We  cannot  without  circumstance  descry. 

Re-enter  some  of  the  Watch  with  BALTHASAR. 

2  Watch.  Here 's  Romeo's  man ;  we  found 

him  in  the  churchyard. 
i  Watch.  Hold  him  in  safety  till  the  prince 
come  hither. 

Re-enter  others  of  the  Watch  with  FRIAR 
LAWRENCE. 

3  Watch.  Here  is  a  friar,  that  trembles,  sighs, 

and  weeps : 

We  took  this  mattock  and  this  spade  from  him 
As  he  was  coming  from  this  churchyard  side. 
I  Watch.   A  great  suspicion:  stay  the  friar 

too. 

Enter  the  PRINCE  and  Attendants. 

Prince.  What  misadventure  is  so  early  up, 
That  calls  our  person  from  our  morning's  rest? 

Enter  CAPULET,  LADY  CAPULET,  and  others. 

Cap.  What  should  it  be,  that  they  so  shriek 
abroad  ? 

Lady  C.  The  people  in  the  street  cry  Romeo, 
Some  Juliet,  and  some  Paris  ;  and  all  run, 
With  open  outcry,  toward  our  monument. 

Prince.  What  fear  is  this  which-  startles  in 
our  ears  ? 

I  Watch.  Sovereign,  here  lies  the  County  Paris 

slain ; 

And  Romeo  dead  ;  and  Juliet,  dead  before, 
Warm  and  new  kill'd. 

Prince.  Search,  seek,  and  know  how  this  foul 
murder  comes.  [Romeo's  man, 

I  Watch.   Here  is  a  friar,   and   slaughter' d 
With  instruments  upon  them  fit  to  open 
These  dead  men's  tombs.        [daughter  bleeds! 

Cap.  O   heaven ! — O   wife,    look    how   our 
This  dagger  hath  mista'en, — for,  lo,  his  house 
Is  empty  on  the  back  of  Montague, — 
And  is  mis-sheathed  in  my  daughter's  bosom! 


Lady  C.  O  me!  this  sight  of  death  is  as  a  bell 
That  warns  my  old  age  to  a  sepulchre. 

Enter  MONTAGUE  and  others. 

Prince.  Come,  Montague  ;  for  thou  art  early 

up, 
To  see  thy  son  and  heir  more  early  down. 

Man.  Alas,  my  liege,  my  wife  is  dead  to-night; 
Grief  of  my  son's  exile  hath  stopp'd  her  breath: 
What  further  woe  conspires  against  my  age  ? 

Prince.  Look,  and  thou  shalt  see.          [this, 

Mon.  O  thou  untaught !  what  manners  is  in 
To  press  before  thy  father  to  a  grave?  [awhile, 

Prince.  Seal  up  the  mouth  of  outrage  for 
Till  we  can  clear  these  ambiguities, 
And  know  their  spring,  their  head,  their  true 

descent ; 

And  then  will  I  be  general  of  your  woes, 
And  lead  you  even  to  death  :  meantime  forbear, 
And  let  mischance  be  slave  to  patience. — 
Bring  forth  the  parties  of  suspicion. 

Fri.  L.  I  am  the  greatest,  able  to  do  least, 
Yet  most  suspected,  as  the  time  and  place 
Doth  make  against  me,  of  this  direful  murder ; 
And  here  I  stand,  both  to  impeach  and  purge 
Myself  condemned  and  myself  excus'd. 

Prince.  Then  say  at  once  what  thou  dost 
know  in  this.  [breath 

Fri.  L.  I  will  be  brief,  for  my  short  date  of 
Is  not  so  long  as  is  a  tedious  tale. 
Romeo,  there  dead,  was  husband  to  that  Juliet ; 
And  she,  there  dead,  that  Romeo's  faithful  wife : 
I  married  them ;  and  their  stol'n  marriage-day 
Was  Tybalt's  doomsday,  whose  untimely  death 
Banish'd  the  new-made  bridegroom  from  this 

city; 

For  whom,  and  not  for  Tybalt,  Juliet  pin'd. 
You,  to  remove  that  siege  of  grief  from  her, 
Betroth'd,  and  would  have  married  her  perforce, 
To  County  Paris : — then  comes  rhe  to  me, 
And,  with  wild  looks,  bid  me  devise  some  means 
To  rid  her  from  this  second  marriage, 
Or  in  my  cell  there  would  she  kill  herself. 
Then  gave  I  her,  so  tutor'd  by  my  art, 
A  sleeping  potion  ;  which  so  took  effect 
As  I  intended,  for  it  wrought  on  her 
The  form  of  death  :  meantime  I  writ  to  Romeo 
That  he  should  hither  come  as  this  dire  night, 
To  help  to  take  her  from  her  borrow'd  grave, 
Being  the  time  the  potion's  force  should  cease. 
But  he  which  bore  my  letter,  Friar  John, 
Was  stay'd  by  accident ;  and  yesternight 
Return'd  my  letter  back.     Then  all  alone 
At  the  prefixed  hour  of  her  waking 
Came  I  to  take  her  from  hei  kindred's  vault ; 
Meaning  to  keep  her  closely  at  my  cell 
Till  I  conveniently  could  send  to  Romeo: 


SCENE  III.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


1099 


But  when  I  came,— some  minute  ere  the  time 
Of  her  awaking, — here  untimely  lay 
The  noble  Paris  and  true  Romeo  dead. 
She  wakes ;  and  I  entreated  her  come  forth, 
And  bear  this  work  of  heaven  with  patience : 
But  then  a  noise  did  scare  me  from  the  tomb  ; 
And  she,  too  desperate,  would  not  go  with  me, 
But,  as  it  seems,  did  violence  on  herself. 
All  this  I  know  ;  and  to  the  marriage 
Her  nurse  is  privy:  and  if  ought  in  this 
Miscarried  by  my  fault,  let  my  old  life 
Be  sacrific'd,  some  hour  before  his  time, 
Unto  the  rigour  of  severest  law.  [man. — 

Prince.  We  still  have  known  thee  for  a  holy 
Where's  Romeo's  man?   what  can  he  say  in 

this  ?  [death ; 

BaL  I  brought  my  master  news  of  Juliet's 
And  then  in  post  he  came  from  Mantua 
To  this  same  place,  to  this  same  monument. 
This  letter  he  early  bid  me  give  his  father ; 
And  threaten'd  me  with  death,  going  in  the 

vault, 
If  I  departed  not,  and  left  him  there. 

Prince.  Give  me  the  letter, — I  will  look  on 

it.—  [watch? — 

Where   is   the   county's  page   that   rais'd   the 
Sirrah,  what  made  your  master  in  this  place  ? 
Page.   He  came  with  flowers  to  strew  his 

lady's  grave ; 

And  bid  me  stand  aloof,  and  so  I  did: 
Anon  comes  one  with  light  to  ope  the  tomb ; 


And  by  and  by  my  master  drew  on  him  ; 
And  then  I  ran  away  to  call  the  watch. 

Prince.  This  letter  doth  make  good  the  friar's 

words, 

Their  course  of  love,  the  tidings  of  her  death : 
And  here  he  writes  that  he  did  buy  a  poison 
Of  a  poor  'pothecary,  and  therewithal 
Came  to  this  vault  to  die,  and  lie  with  Juliet. — 
Where   be   these    enemies  ?— Capulet, — Mon- 

tague,— 

See  what  a  scourge  is  laid  upon  your  hate, 
That  heaven  finds  means  to  kill  your  joys  with 

love! 

And  I,  for  winking  at  your  discords  too, 
Have  lost  a  brace  of  kinsmen: — all  are  punish'd. 

Cap.  O  brother  Montague,  give  me  thy  hand: 
This  is  my  daughter's  jointure,  for  no  more 
Can  I  demand. 

Mon.  But  I  can  give  thee  more: 

For  I  will  raise  her  statue  in  pure  gold  ; 
That  while  Verona  by  that  name  is  known, 
There  shall  no  figure  at  such  rate  be  set 
As  that  of  true  and  faithful  Juliet. 

Cap.  As  rich  shall  Romeo  by  his  lady  lie  ; 
Poor  sacrifices  of  our  enmity !  [it  brings  ; 

Prince.  A  glooming  peace  this  morning  with 

The  sun  for  sorrow  will  not  show  his  head : 
Go  hence,  to  have  more  talk  of  these  sad  things; 

Some  shall  be  pardon'd  and  some  punished : 
For  never  was  a  story  of  more  woe 
Than  ihis  of  Juliet  and  her  Romeo.     \ExeunU 


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MACBETH. 


PERSONS   REPRESENTED. 


DUNCAN,  King  of  Scotland. 
MALCOLM. 

DONALBAIN, 


MACDUFF, 
LENNOX, 

MENTEITH,      No6kitien  of  Scotland. 

ANGUS, 

CAITHNESS, 

FLEANCE,  Son  to  BAMQUO.. 

SIWARD,  Earl  of  Northumberland,  General  of 

the  English  Forces. 
YOUNG  SIWARD,  his  Son. 


SEYTON,  an  Officer  attending  on  MACBETH. 
BOY,  Son  to  MACDUFF. 

An  English    Doctor.     A  Scotch   Doctor.     A 
Soldier.     A  Porter.     An  Old  Man. 

LADY  MACBETH. 

LADY  MACDUFF. 

Gentlewoman  attending  on  LADY  MACBETH. 

HECATE,  and  three  Witches. 

Lords,    Gentlemen,    Officers,    Soldiers,    Mur- 
derers, Attendants,  and  Messengers. 

The  Ghost  of  BANQUO,  and  several  other 
Apparitions. 


SCENE, — In  the  end  of  the  Fourth  Act,  in  ENGLAND  ;  through  the  rest  of  the  Play,  in 
SCOTLAND  ;  and  chiefly  at  MACBETH'S  Castle. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — An  open  Place.     Thunder  and 
Lightning. 

Enter  three  Witches. 

1  Witch.   When  shall  we  three  meet  again 
In  thunder,  lightning,  or  in  rain? 

2  Witch.  When  the  hurlyburly  's  done, 
When  the  battle 's  lost  and  won. 

3  Witch.  That  will  be  ere  the  set  of  sun. 

1  Witch.  Where  the  place? 

2  Witch.  Upon  the  heath. 

3  Witch.  There  to  meet  with  Macbeth. 
i  Witch.  I  come,  Graymalkin ! 

AIL   Paddock  calls: — anon. — 
Fair  is  foul,  and  foul  is  fair : 
Hover  through  the  fog  and  filthy  air. 

[Witches  vanish. 


SCENE  II. — A  Camp  near  Forres. 

Alarum  within.  Enter  KING  DUNCAN,  MAL- 
COLM, DONALBAIN,  LENNOX,  with  Atten- 
dants, meeting  a  bleeding  Soldier. 

Dun.  What  bloody  man  is  that?     He  can 

report, 

As  seemeth  by  his  plight,  of  the  revolt 
The  newest  state.    • 

Mai.  This  is  the  sergeant, 

Who,  like  a  good  and  hardy  soldier,  fought 


'Gainst  my  captivity. — Hail,  brave  friend! 
Say  to  the  king  the  knowledge  of  the  broil, 
As  thou  didst  leave  it. 

Sold.  Doubtfully  it  stood ; 

As  two  spent  swimmers  that  do  cling  together 
And  choke  their  art.     The  merciless  Macdon- 

wald,— 

Worthy  to  be  a  rebel — for  to  that 
The  multiplying  villanies  of  nature 
Do  swarm  upon  him, — from  the  Western  isles 
Of  kerns  and  gallowglasses  is  supplied ; 
And  fortune,  on  his  damned  quarrel  smiling, 
Show'd  like  a  rebel's  whore.      But  all's  too 
weak :  [name, — 

For   brave    Macbeth, — well  he  deserves   that 
Disdaining  fortune,  with  his  brandish'd  steel, 
Which  smok'd  with  bloody  execution, 
Like  valour's  minion, 

Carv'd  out  his  passage  till  he  fac'd  the  slave ; 
And  ne'er  shook  hands,  nor  bade  farewell  to 
him,  [chaps, 

Till  he  unseam'd  him  from  the  nave   to   the 
And  fix'd  his  head  upon  our  battlements. 
Dun.  O  valiant  cousin !  worthy  gentleman ! 
Sold.  As  whence  the  sun  'gins  his  reflection 
Shipwreckingstorms  and  direful  thunders  break; 
So  from  that  spring,  whence  comfort  seem'd  to 

come, 
Discomfort  swells.     Mark,  King  of  Scotland, 

mark: 
No  sooner  justice  had,  with  valour  arm'd, 


SCENE  II.] 


MACBETH. 


IIOI 


Compell'd  these  skipping  kerns  to  trust  their 

heels, 

But  the  Norweyan  lord,  surveying  vantage, 
With  furbish'd  arms  and  new  supplies  of  men, 
Began  a  fresh  assault. 

Dim.  Dismay'd  not  this 

Our  captains,  Macbeth  and  Banquo? 

Sold.  Yes; 

As  sparrows  eagles,  or  the  hare  the  lion. 
If  I  say  sooth,  I  must  report  they  were 
As  cannons  overcharg'd  with  double  cracks ; 
So  they 

Doubly  redoubled  strokes  upon  the  foe : 
Except  they  meant  to  bathe  in  reeking  wounds, 
Or  memorize  another  Golgotha, 
I  cannot  tell : — 
But  I  am  faint;  my  gashes  cry  for  help. 

Dun.   So  well  thy  words  become  thee  as  thy 

wounds ; 

They  smack  of  honour  both. — Go,  get  him  sur- 
geons. [Exit  Soldier,  attended. 
Who  comes  here  ? 

Mai.  The  worthy  Thane  of  Ross. 

Len.  What  a  haste  looks  through  his  eyes ! 

So  should  he  look 
That  seems  to  speak  things  strange. 

Enter  Ross. 

Ross.  God  save  the  king  ! 

Dun.  Whence  cam'st  thou,  worthy  thane  ? 

Ross.  From  Fife,  great  king; 

Where  the  Norweyan  banners  flout  the  sky 
And  fan  our  people  cold. 
Norway  himself,  with  terrible  numbers, 
Assisted  by  that  most  disloyal  traitor 
The  Thane  of  Cawdor,  began  a  dismal  conflict; 
Till  that  Bellona's  bridegroom,  lapp'd  in  proof, 
Confronted  him  with  self-comparisons, 
Point    against    point    rebellious,  arm    'gainst 

arm, 

Curbing  his  lavish  spirit :  and,  to  conclude, 
The  victory  fell  on  us. 

Dun.  Great  happiness ! 

Ross.  That  now 

Sweno,   the   Norways'  king,  craves  composi- 
tion; 

Nor  would  we  deign  him  burial  of  his  men 
Till  he  disbursed,  at  Saint  Colmes-inch, 
Ten  thousand  dollars  to  our  general  use. 

Dun.  No  more  that  Thane  of  Cawdor  shall 

deceive 
Our  bosom  interest : — go  pronounce  his  present 

death, 
And  with  his  former  title  greet  Macbeth. 

Ross.  I  '11  see  it  done. 

Dun.  What  he  hath  lost,  noble   Macbeth 
hath  won.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.—  A  Heath. 
Thunder.     Enter  the  three  Witches. 

1  Witch.  Where  hast  thou  been,  sister? 

2  Witch.  Killing  swine. 

3  Witch.  Sister,  where  thou  ? 

1  Witch.  A  sailor's  wife  had  chestnuts  in  her 

lap, 
And  mounch'd,  and  mounch'd,  and  mounch'd : 

— Give  me,  quoth  I : 

Aroint  thee,  witch!  the  rump-fed  ronyon  cries. 
Her  husband 's  to  Aleppo  gone,  master  o'  the 

Tiger : 

But  in  a  sieve  I  '11  thither  sail, 
And,  like  a  rat  without  a  tail, 
I'll  do,  I '11  do,  and  I'll  do. 

2  Witch.  I  '11  give  thee  a  wind. 
I  Witch.  Thou  art  kind. 

3  Witch.  And  I  another. 

1  Witch.  I  myself  have  all  the  other  ; 
And  the  very  ports  they  blow, 

All  the  quarters  that  they  know 
I'  the  shipman's  card. 
I  will  drain  him  dry  as  hay : 
Sleep  shall  neither  night  nor  day 
Hang  upon  his  pent-house  lid  ; 
He  shall  live  a  man  forbid: 
Weary  seven-nights  nine  times  nine 
Shall  he  dwindle,  peak,  and  pine  : 
Though  his  bark  cannot  be  lost, 
Yet  it  shall  be  tempest-tost. — 
Look  what  I  have. 

2  Witch.   Show  me,  show  me. 

T  Witch.   Here  I  have  a  pilot's  thumb, 
Wreck'd  as  homeward  he  did  come. 

[Drum  within. 

3  Witch.  A  drum,  a  drum  ! 
Macbeth  doth  come. 

All.  The  weird  sisters,  hand  in  hand, 
Posters  of  the  sea  and  land, 
Thus  do  go  about,  about : 
Thrice  to  thine,  and  thrice  to  mine, 
And  thrice  again,  to  make  up  nine: — 
Peace ! — the  charm 's  wound  up. 

Enter  MACBETH  and  BANQUO. 

Macb.  So  foul  and  fair  a  day  I  have  not  seen. 

Ban.  How  far  is 't  call'd  to  Forres? — What 

are  these, 

So  wither'd,  and  so  wild  in  their  attire, 
That  look  not  like  the  inhabitants  o'  the  earth, 
And  yet  are  on 't? — Live  you?  or  are  you  aught 
That  man  may  question  ?    You  seem  to  under- 
stand me, 

By  each  at  once  her  chappy  finger  laying 
Upon  her  skinny  lips : — you  should  be  women, 


1 102 


MACBETH. 


[ACT  I. 


And  yet  your  beards  forbid  me  to  interpret 
That  you  are  so. 

Macb.       Speak,  if  you  can ; — what  are  you  ? 

1  Witch.  All  hail,   Macbeth!  hail  to  thee, 

Thane  of  Glamis  ! 

2  Witch.  All  hail,   Macbeth!  hail  to  thee, 

Thane  of  Cawdor  ! 

3  Witch.  All  hail,  Macbeth  !  that  shalt  be 

king  hereafter  !  [to  fear 

Ban.  Good  sir,  why  do  you  start ;  and  seem 

Things  that  do  sound  so  fair  ? — I'  the  name  of 

truth, 

Are  ye  fantastical,  or  that  indeed 
Which  outwardly  ye  show?     My  noble  partner 
You  greet  with  present  grace  and  great   pre- 
diction 

Of  noble  having  and  of  royal  hope,  [not : 

That  he  seems  rapt  withal : — to  me  you  speak 
If  you  can  look  into  the  seeds  of  time,        [not, 
And  say  which  grain  will  grow,  and  which  will 
Speak  then  to  me,  who  neither  beg  nor  fear 
Your  favours  nor  your  hate. 

1  Witch.  Hail! 

2  Witch.  Hail ! 

3  Witch.   Hail ! 

1  Witch.  Lesser  than  Macbeth,  and  greater. 

2  Witch.  Not  so  happy,  yet  much  happier. 

3  Witch.  Thou  shalt  get  kings,  though  thou 

be  none : 
So,  all  hail,  Macbeth  and  Banquo  ! 

I  Witch.  Banquo  and  Macbeth,  all  hail ! 
Macb.  Stay,  you  imperfect  speakers,  tell  me 

more  : 

By  Sinel's  death  I  know  I  am  Thane  of  Glamis; 
But  how  of  Cawdor?  the  Thane  of  Cawdor  lives, 
A  prosperous  gentleman  ;  and  to  be  king 
Stands  not  within  the  prospect  of  belief, 
No  more  than  to  be  Cawdor.     Say  from  whence 
You  owe  this  strange  intelligence  ?  or  why 
Upon  this  blasted  heath  you  stop  our  way 
With  such  prophetic  greeting? — Speak,  I  charge 
you.  [Witches  vanish. 

Ban.  The  earth  hath  bubbles,  as  the  water 
has,  [ish'd? 

And  these  are  of  them : — whither  are  they  van- 
Macb.  Into  the  air ;  and  what  seem'd  cor- 
poral melted 

As  breath   into  the  wind. — Would  they  had 
stay'd !  [about? 

Ban.  Were  such  things  here  as  we  do  speak 
Or  have  we  eaten  on  the  insane  root 
That  takes  the  reason  prisoner  ? 

Macb.   Your  children  shall  be  kings. 
Ban.  You  shall  be  king. 

Macb.   And  Thane  of  Cawdor  too  ;  went  it 
not  so  ?  [Who 's  here  ? 

Ban.    To   the   self-same   tune   and   words. 


Enter  Ross  and  ANGUS. 

Ross.  The  king  hath  happily  receiv'd,  Mac- 
beth, 

The  news  of  thy  success :  and  when  he  reads 
Thy  personal  venture  in  the  rebels'  fight, 
His  wonders  and  his  praises  do  contend 
Which  should  be  thine  or  his :  silenc'd  with  that, 
In  viewing  o'er  the  rest  o'  the  self-same  day, 
He  finds  thee  in  the  stout  Norweyan  ranks, 
Nothing  afeard  of  what  thyself  didst  make, 
Strange  images  of  death.     As  thick  as  hail 
Came  post  with  post ;  and  every  one  did  bear 
Thy  praises  in  his  kingdom's  great  defence, 
And  pour'd  them  down  before  him. 

Ang.  We  are  sent 

To  give  thee,  from  our  royal  master,  thanks ; 
Only  to  herald  thee  into  his  sight, 
Not  pay  thee. 

Ross.  And,  for  an  earnest  of  a  greater  honour, 
He  bade  me,  from  him,  call  thee  Thane  of 

Cawdor : 

In  which  addition,  hail,  most  worthy  thane  ! 
For  it  is  thine. 

Ban.  What,  can  the  devil  speak  true  ? 

Macb.  The  Thane  of  Cawdor  lives :  why  do 

you  dress  me 
In  borrow'd  robes  ? 

Ang.  Who  was  the  thane  lives  yet  j 

But  under  heavy  judgment  bears  that  life 
Which  he  deserves  to  lose.     Whether  he  was 

combin'd 

With  those  of  Norway,  or  did  line  the  rebel 
With  hidden  help  and  vantage,  or  that  with  both 
He  labour'd  in  his  country's  wreck,  I  know  not ; 
But  treasons  capital,  confess'd,  and  prov'd, 
Have  overthrown  him. 

Macb.  Glamis,  and  Thane  of  Cawdor  : 

The  greatest  is  behind  {aside}.  — Thanks  for 

your  pains. — 

Do  you  not  hope  your  children  shall  be  kings, 
When  those  that  gave  the  Thane  of  Cawdor  to 

me 
Promis'd  no  less  to  them  ? 

Ban.  That,  trusted  home, 

Might  yet  enkindle  you  unto  the  crown, 
Besides  the  Thane  of  Cawdor.    But  'tis  strange : 
And  oftentimes  to  win  us  to  our  harm, 
The  instruments  of  darkness  tell  us  truths ; 
Win  us  with  honest  trifles,  to  betray 's 
In  deepest  consequence. — 
Cousins,  a  word,  I  pray  you. 

Macb.  Two  truths  are  told, 

As  happy  prologues  to  the  swelling  act 
Of  the  imperial  theme  [aside],  —I  thank  you, 

gentlemen. — 
This  supernatural  soliciting  [Aside. 


SCENE  IV.] 


MACBETH. 


1103 


Cannot  be  ill ;  cannot  be  good  : — if  ill, 
Why  hath  it  given  me  earnest  of  success, 
Commencing   in  a  truth?      I    am   Thane   of 

Cawdor : 

If  good,  why  do  I  yield  to  that  suggestion 
Whose  horrid  image  doth  unfix  my  hair, 
And  make  my  seated  heart  knock  at  my  ribs, 
Against  the  use  of  nature  ?     Present  fears 
Are  less  than  horrible  imaginings  :  [cal, 

My  thought,  whose  murder  yet  is  but  fantasti- 
Shakes  so  my  single  state  of  man,  that  function 
Is  smother'd  in  surmise  ;  and  nothing  is 
But  what  is  not. 

Ban.  Look,  how  our  partner 's  rapt. 

Macb.  [Aside.]  If  chance  will  have  me  king, 

why,  chance  may  crown  me, 
Without  my  stir. 

Ban.  New  honours  come  upon  him, 

Like  our  strange  garments,  cleave  not  to  their 

mould 
But  with  the  aid  of  use. 

Macb.  [Aside.]       Come  what  come  may, 
Time  and  the  hour  runs  through  the  roughest 
day.  [leisure. 

Ban.  Worthy  Macbeth,  we  stay  upon  your 
Macb.  Give  me  your  favour  : — my  dull  brain 
was  wrought  [pains 

With  things  forgotten.     Kind  gentlemen,  your 
Are  register'd  where  every  day  I  turn 
The  leaf  to  read  them. — Let  us  toward  the 
king. —  [time, 

Think  upon  what  hath  chanc'd;  and,  at  more 
The  interim  having  weigh'd  it,  let  us  speak 
Our  free  hearts  each  to  other. 

Ban.  Very  gladly. 

Macb.  Till  then,  enough. — Come,  friends. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV. — FORRES.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Flourish.     Enter  DUNCAN,  MALCOLM,  DON- 
ALBAIN,  LENNOX  and  Attendants. 

Dun.  Is  execution  done  on  Cawdor?    Are 

not 
Those  in  commission  yet  return'd  ? 

Mai.  My  liege, 

They  are  not  yet  come  back.     But  I  have  spoke 
With  one  that  saw  him  die  :  who  did  report, 
That  very  frankly  he  confess'd  his  treasons  ; 
Implor'd  your  highness'  pardon  ;  and  set  forth 
A  deep  repentance  :  nothing  in  his  life 
Became  him  like  the  leaving  it ;  he  died 
As  one  that  had  been  studied  in  his  death, 
To  throw  away  the  dearest  thing  he  ow'd, 
As  'twere  a  careless  trifle. 

Dun.  There  's  no  art 

To  find  the  mind's  construction  in  the  face ; 


He  was  a  gentleman  on  whom  I  built 
An  absolute  trust. — 

Enter  MACBETH,  BANQUO,  Ross,  and  ANGUS. 

O  worthiest  cousin ! 
The  sin  of  my  ingratitude  even  now 
Was  heavy  on  me  :  thou  art  so  far  before, 
That  swiftest  wing  of  recompense  is  slow 
To  overtake   thee.     Would   thou    hadst   less 
deserv'd ;  [ment 

That  the  proportion  both  of  thanks  and  pay- 
Might  have  been  mine !  only  I  have  left  to  say, 
More  is  thy  due  than  more  than  all  can  pay. 

Macb.  The  service  and  the  loyalty  I  owe, 
In  doing  it,  pays  itself.     Your  highness'  part 
Is  to  receive  our  duties  :  and  our  duties 
Are  to  your   throne  and  state   children  and 
servants ;  [everything 

Which  do  but  what  they  should,  by  doing 
Safe  toward  your  love  and  honour. 

Dun.  Welcome  hither : 

I  have  begun  to  plant  thee,  and  will  labour 
To  make  thee  full  of  growing. — Noble  Banquo, 
That  hast  no  less  deserv'd,  nor  must  be  known 
No  less  to  have  done  so,  let  me  infold  thee, 
And  hold  thee  to  my  heart. 

Ban.  There  if  I  grow, 

The  harvest  is  your  own. 

Dun.  My  plenteous  joys, 

Wanton  in  fulness,  seek  to  hide  themselves 
In  drops  of  sorrow. — Sons,  kinsmen,  thanes, 
And  you  whose  places  are  the  nearest,  know, 
We  will  establish  our  estate  upon 
Our  eldest,   Malcolm ;  whom  we  name  here- 
after 

The  Prince  of  Cumberland :  which  honour  must 
Not  unaccompanied  invest  him  only, 
But  signs  of  nobleness,  like  stars,  shall  shine 
On  all  deservers. — From  hence  to  Inverness, 
And  bind  us  further  to  you.  [for  you  : 

Macb.  The  rest  is  labour,  which  is  not  us'd 
I  '11  be  myself  the  harbinger,  and  make  joyful 
The  hearing  of  my  wife  with  your  approach  ; 
So,  humbly  take  my  leave. 

Dun.  My  worthy  Cawdor 

Macb.  [Aside.]  The  Prince  of  Cumberland ! 

— That  is  a  step, 

On  which  I  must  fall  down,  or  else  o'er-leap, 
For  in  my  way  it  lies.     Stars,  hide  your  fires  ! 
Let  not  light  see  my  black  and  deep  desires  : 
The  eye  wink  at  th*  hand  !  yet  let  that  be, 
Which  the  eye  fears,  when  it  is  done,  to  see. 

[Exit 

Dun.  True,  worthy  Banquo, — he  is  full  so 

valiant ; 

And  In  his  commendations  I  am  fed, — 
It  is  a  banquet  to  me.     Let  us  after  him, 


1 104 


MACBETH. 


[ACT  I. 


Whose  care  is  gone  before  to  bid  us  welcome  : 
It  is  a  peerless  kinsman.    [Flourish.    Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — INVERNESS.     A  Room  in  MAC- 
BETH'S  Castle. 

Enter  LADY  MACBETH,  reading  a  letter. 

Lady  M.  They  met  me  in  the  day  of  success ; 
and  I  have  learned  by  the  perfectest  report ',  they 
have  more  in  them  than  mortal  knowledge. 
When  I  burned  in  desire  to  question  them 
further,  they  made  themselves  air,  into  which 
they  vanished.  Whiles  I  stood  rapt  in  the 
wonder  of  it,  came  missives  from  the  king,  who 
all-hailed  me,  Thane  of  Cawdor  ;  by  which  title, 
before,  these  weird  sisters  sahitsd  me,  and  re- 
ferred me  to  the  coming  on  of  time,  with  Hail, 
king  that  shalt  be  !  This  have  I  thought  good 
to  deliver  thee,  my  dearest  partner  of  greatness  ; 
that  thou  might st  not  lose  the  dues  of  rejoicing, 
by  being  ignorant  of  what  greatness  is  promised 
thee.  Lay  it  to  thy  heart,  and  farewell. 
Glamis  thou  art,  and  Cawdor  ;  and  shalt  be 
What  thou  art  promis'd  :  yet  do  I  fear  thy 

nature ; 

It  is  too  full  o'  the  milk  of  human  kindness 
To  catch  the  nearest  way  :    thou  wouldst  be 

great ; 

Art  not  without  ambition  ;  but  without 
The   illness    should    attend    it.      What    thou 

wouldst  highly,  [faise, 

That  wouldst  thou  holily ;    wouldst  not   play 
And  yet  wouldst  wrongly  win :  thou  'dst  have, 

great  Glamis,  [have  it : 

That  which  cries,  Thus  thou  must  do,  if  thou 
And  that  which  rather  thou  dost  fear  to  do 
Than   wishest  should  be  undone.      Hie   thee 

hither, 

That  I  may  pour  my  spirits  in  thine  ear ; 
And  chastise  with  the  valour  of  my  tongue 
All  that  impedes  thee  from  the  golden  round, 
Which  fate  and  metaphysical  aid  doth  seem 
To  have  thee  crown'd  withal. 

Enter  an  Attendant. 

What  is  your  tidings  ? 

Atten.   The  king  comes  here  to-night. 

Lady  M.  Thou  'rt  mad  to  say  it : 

Is  not  thy  master  with  him  ?  who,  were 't  so, 
Would  have  inform'd  for  preparation. 

Atten.  So  please  you,  it  is  true  : — our  thane 

is  coming  : 

One  of  my  fellows  had  the  speed  of  him  ; 
Who,  almost  dead  for  breath,  had  scarcely  more 
Than  would  make  up  his  message. 

Lady  M.  Give  him  tending, 

He  brings  great  news.  [Exit  Attendant. 


The  raven  himself  is  hoarse 
That  croaks  the  fatal  entrance  of  Duncan 
Under  my  battlements.     Come,  you  spirits 
That  tend  on  mortal  thoughts,  unsex  me  here  ; 
And  fill  me,  from  the  crown  to  the  toe,  top-full 
Of  direst  cruelty  !  make  thick  my  blood, 
Stop  up  the  access  and  passage  to  remorse, 
That  no  compunctious  visitings  of  nature 
Shake  my  fell  purpose,  nor  keep  peace  between 
The   effect   and   it !     Come   to   my   woman's 
breasts,  [ministers, 

And  take  my  milk  for  gall,  you  murdering 
Wherever  in  your  sightless  substances  [night, 
You  wait  on  nature's  mischief !  Come,  thick 
And  pall  thee  in  the  dunnest  smoke  of  hell, 
That  my  keen  knife  see  not  the  wound  it  makes, 
Nor  heaven  peep  through  the  blanket  of  the  dark, 
To  cry,  Hold,  hold! 

Enter  MACBETH. 

Great  Glamis  !  worthy  Cawdor  ! 
Greater  than  both,  by  the  all-hail  hereafter  ! 
Thy  letters  have  transported  me  beyond 
This  ignorant  present,  and  I  feel  now 
The  future  in  the  instant. 

Macb.  My  dearest  love, 

Duncan  comes  here  to-night. 

Lady  M.  And  when  goes  hence? 

Macb.  To-morrow, — as  he  purposes. 

Lady  M.  O,  never 

Shall  sun  that  morrow  see  ! 
Your  face,  my  thane,  is  as  a  book  where  men 
May  read  strange  matters : — to  beguile  the  time, 
Look  like  the  time ;  bear  welcome  in  your  eye, 
Your  hand,  your  tongue :  look  like  the  inno- 
cent flower, 

But  be  the  serpent  under 't.     He  that 's  coming 
Must  be  provided  for  :  and  you  shall  put 
This  night's  great  business  into  my  despatch  ; 
Which  shall  to  all  our  nights  and  days  to  come 
Give  solely  sovereign  sway  and  masterdom. 

Macb.  We  will  speak  further. 

Lady  M.  Only  look  up  clear  ; 

To  alter  favour  ever  is  to  fear  : 
Leave  all  the  rest  to  me.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  VI. — The  same.     Before  the  Castle. 
Hautboys.     Servants  0/"  MACBETH  attending. 

Enter  DUNCAN,  MALCOLM,  DONALBAIN,  BAN- 
QUO,  LENNOX,  MACDUFF,  Ross,  ANGUS, 
and  Attendants. 

Dun.  This  castle  hath  a  pleasant  seat :  the 

air 

Nimbly  and  sweetly  recommends  itself 
Unto  our  gentle  senses. 


SCENE  VII.] 


MACBETH. 


1105 


Ban.  This  guest  of  summer, 

The  temple-haunting  martlet,  does  approve, 
By  his  lov'd  mansionry,  that  the  heaven's  breath 
Smells  wooingly  here:  no  jutty,  frieze,  buttress, 
Nor  coigne  of  vantage,  but  this  bird  hath  made 
His  pendant  bed  and  procreant  cradle : 
Where  they  most  breed    and    haunt,   I  have 

observ'd 
The  air  is  delicate. 

Enter  LADY  MACBETH. 

Dun.  See,  see,  our  honour'd  hostess! — 

The  love  that  follows  us  sometime  is  our  trouble, 
Which  still  we  thank  as  love.  Herein  I  teach 

you 

How  you  shall  bid  God  ild  us  for  your  pains, 
And  thank  us  for  your  trouble. 

Lady  M.  All  our  service 

In  every  point  twice  done,  and  then  done  double, 
Were  poor  and  single  business  to  contend 
Against  those  honours  deep  and  broad  where- 
with 

Your  majesty  loads  our  house:  for  those  of  old, 
And  the  late  dignities  heap'd  up  to  them, 
We  rest  your  hermits. 

Dun.  Where 's  the  Thane  of  Cawdor  ? 

We  cours'd  him  at  the  heels,  and  had  a  purpose 
To  be  his  purveyor :  but  he  rides  well ;  [him 
And  his  great  love,  sharp  as  his  spur,  hath  holp 
To  his  home  before  us.  Fair  and  noble  hostess, 
We  are  your  guest  to-night. 

Lady  M.  Your  servants  ever 

Have  theirs,  themselves,  and  what  is  theirs,  in 

compt, 

To  make  their  audit  at  your  highness'  pleasure, 
Still  to  return  your  own. 

Dun.  Give  me  your  hand  ; 

Conduct  me  to  mine  host:  we  love  him  highly, 
And  shall  continue  our  graces  towards  him. 
By  your  leave,  hostess.  [Exeimt. 

SCENE  VII. — The  same.     A  Lobby  in  the 
Castle. 

Hautboys  and  torches.  Enter,  and  pass  over, 
a  Sewer,  and  divers  Servants  with  dishes  and 
service.  Then  enter  MACBETH. 

Macb.  If  it  were  done  when  'tis  done,  then 

'twere  well 

It  were  done  quickly.     If  the  assassination 
Could  trammel  up  the  consequence,  and  catch, 
With  his  surcease,  success  ;  that  but  this  blow 
Might  be  the  be-all  and  the  end-all  here, 
But  here,  upon  this  bank  and  shoal  of  time, — 
We  'd  jump  the  life  to  come.     But  in  these  cases 
We  still  have  judgment  here;  that  we  but  teach 
Bloody  instructions,  which  being  taught,  return 


To  plague  the  inventor:  this  even-handed  justice 
Commends  the  ingredients  of  our  poison'd  chalice 
To  our  own  lips.     He 's  here  in  double  trust : 
First,  as  I  am  his  kinsman  and  his  subject, 
Strong  both  against  the  deed:  then,  as  his  host, 
Who  should  against  his  murderer  shut  the  door, 
Not  bear  the  knife  myself.    Besides,  this  Duncan 
Hath  borne  his  faculties  so  meek,  hath  been 
So  clear  in  his  great  office,  that  his  virtues 
Will  plead  like  angels,  trumpet-tongued,  against 
The  deep  damnation  of  his  taking-off : 
And  pity,  like  a  n.'ked  new-born  babe, 
Striding  the  blast,  or  heaven's  cherubin,  hors'd 
Upon  the  sightless  couriers  of  the  air, 
Shall  blow  the  horrid  deed  in  every  eye, 
That  tears  shall  drown  the  wind. — I  have  nospur 
To  prick  the  sides  of  my  intent,  but  only 
Vaulting  ambition,  which  o'er-leaps  itself, 
And  falls  on  the  other. 

Enter  LADY  MACBETH. 

How  now!  what  news? 

Lady  M.  He  has  almost  supp'd  :   why  have 
you  left  the  chamber  ? 

Macb.  Hath  he  ask'd  for  me  ? 

Lady  M.  Know  you  not  he  has  t 

Macb.  We  will   proceed  no  further  in  this 

business : 

He  hath  honour'd  me  of  late;  and  I  have  bought 
Golden  opinions  from  all  sorts  of  people, 
Which  would  be  worn  now  in  their  newest  gloss, 
Not  cast  aside  so  soon. 

Lady  M.  Was  the  hope  drunk 

Wherein  you  dress'd   yourself?   hath  it  slept 

since  ? 

And  wakes  it  now,  to  look  so  green  and  pale 
At  what  it  did  so  freely?     From  this  time 
Such  I  account  thy  love.     Art  thou  afeard 
To  be  the  same  in  thine  own  act  and  valour 
As  thou  art  in  desire  ?     Wouldst  thou  have  that 
Which  thou  esteem'st  the  ornament  of  life, 
And  live  a  coward  in  thine  own  esteem  ; 
Letting  I  dare  not  wait  upon  /  would, 
Like  the  poor  cat  i'  the  adage  ? 

Macb.  Pr'ythee,  peace 

I  dare  do  all  that  may  become  a  man  ; 
Who  dares  do  more  is  none. 

Lady  M.  What  beast  was 't,  then, 

That  made  you  break  this  enterprise  to  me  ? 
When  you  durst  do  it,  then  you  were  a  man  ; 
And,  to  be  more  than  what  you  were,  you  would 
Be  so  much  more  the  man.     Nor  time  nor  place 
Did  then  adhere,  and  yet  you  would  make  both: 
They  have  made  themselves,  and  that  their  fit- 
ness now 

Does  unmake  you.    I  have  given  suck ,  and  know 
How  tender  'tis  to  love  the  babe  that  milks  me  : 


no6 


MACBETH. 


[ACT  ii. 


I  would,  while  it  was  smiling  in  my  face, 
Have  pluck'd  my  nipple  from  his  boneless  gums, 
And  dash'd  the  brains  out,  had  I  so  sworn  as 

you 
Have  done  to  this. 

Macb.  If  we  should  fail  ? 

LadyM.  We  fail! 

But  screw  your  courage  to  the  sticking  place, 
And  we  '11  not  fail.     When  Duncan  is  asleep, — 
Whereto  the  rather  shall  his  day's  hard  journey 
Soundly  invite  him,  his  two  chamberlains 
Will  I  with  wine  and  wassail  so  convince 
That  memory,  the  warder  of  the  brain, 
Shall  be  a  fume,  and  the  receipt  of  reason 
A  limbec  only :  when  in  swinish  sleep 
Their  drenched  natures  lie  as  in  a  death, 
What  cannot  you  and  I  perform  upon 
The  unguarded  Duncan  ?  what  not  put  upon 
His  spongy  officers  ;  who  shall  bear  the  guilt 
Of  our  great  quell  ? 

Macb.  Bring  forth  men-children  only; 

For  thy  undaunted  mettle  should  compose 
Nothing  but  males.     Will  it  not  be  receiv'd, 
When  we  have  mark'd  with  blood  those  sleepy 

two 

Of  his  own  chamber,  and  us'd  their  very  daggers, 
That  they  have  don 't  ? 

Lady  M.  Who  dares  receive  it  other, 

As   we   shall   make   our  griefs   and    clamour 

roar 
Upon  his  death  ? 

Macb.  I  am  settled,  and  bend  up 

Each  corporal  agent  to  this  terrible  feat. 
Away,  and  mock  the  time  with  fairest  show: 
False  face  must  hide  what  the  false  heart  doth 

know.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — INVERNESS.     Court  within  the 
Castle. 

Enter  BANQUO,  preceded  by  FLEANCE  with 
a  torch. 

Ban.   How  goes  the  night,  boy? 

Fie.  The  moon  is  down;  I  have  not  heard  the 
clock. 

Ban.  And  she  goes  down  at  twelve. 

Fie.  I  take 't,  'tis  later,  sir. 

Ban.  Hold,  take  my  sword. — There's  hus- 
bandry in  heaven  ; 

Their  candles  are  all  out : — take  thee  that  too.— 
A  heavy  summons  lies  like  lead  upon  me, 
And  yet  I  would  not  sleep : — merciful  powers, 
Restrain  me  in  the  cursed  thoughts  that  nature 
Gives  way  to  in  repose ! — Give  me  my  sword. 
Who's  there* 


Enter  MACBETH,  and  a  Servant  with  a  torch. 

Macb.  A  friend.  [a-bed : 

Ban.  What,  sir,  not  yet  at  rest?    The  king 's 
He  hath  been  in  unusual  pleasure,  and 
Sent  forth  great  largess  to  your  officers : 
This  diamond  he  greets  your  wife  withal, 
By  the  name  of  most  kind  hostess;  and  shut  up 
In  measureless  content. 

Macb.  Being  unprepar'd, 

Our  will  became  the  servant  to  defect ; 
Which  else  should  free  have  wrought. 

Ban.  All 's  well. 

I  dreamt  last  night  of  the  three  weird  sisters : 
To  you  they  have  show'd  some  truth. 

Macb.  I  think  not  of  them : 

Yet,  when  we  can  entreat  an  hour  to  serve, 
We  would  spend  it  in  some  words  upon  that 

business, 
If  you  would  grant  the  time. 

Ban.  At  your  kind'st  leisure. 

Macb.   If  you  shall  cleave  to  my  consent, — • 

when  'tis, 
It  shall  make  honour  for  you. 

Ban.  So  I  lose  none 

In  seeking  to  augment  it,  but  still  keep 
My  bosom  franchis'd,  and  allegiance  clear, 
I  shall  be  counsell'd. 

Macb.  Good  repose  the  while ! 

Ban.  Thanks,  sir ;  the  like  to  you ! 

[Exeunt  BANQUO  and  FLEANCE. 

Macb.  Go  bid  thy  mistress,  when  my  drink 

is  ready, 
She  strike  upon  the  bell.     Get  thee  to  bed. 

[Exit  Servant 

Is  this  a  dagger  which  I  see  before  me, 
The  handle  toward  my  hand?     Come,  let  me 

clutch  thee : — 

I  have  thee  not,  and  yet  I  see  thee  still. 
Art  thou  not,  fatal  vision,  sensible 
To  feeling  as  to  sight  ?  or  art  thou  but 
A  dagger  of  the  mind,  a  false  creation, 
Proceeding  from  the  heat -oppressed  brain  ? 
I  see  thee  yet,  in  form  as  palpable 
As  this  which  now  I  draw. 
Thou  marshall'st  me  the  way  that  I  was  going; 
And  such  an  instrument  I  was  to  use. 
Mine  eyes  are  made  the  fools  o'  the  other  sensesj 
Or  else  worth  all  the  rest :  I  see  thee  still ; 
And  on  thy  blade  and  dudgeon  gouts  of  blood, 
Which  was  not  so  before.— There's  no   such 

thing : 

It  is  the  bloody  business  which  informs 
Thus  to  mine  eyes. — Now  o'er  the   one-half 

world 

Nature  seems  dead,  and  wicked  dreams  abuse 
The  curtain'd  sleep;  now  witchcraft  celebrates 


SCENE  I.] 


MACBETH. 


1107 


Pale  Hecate's  offerings  ;  and  wither'd  murder, 

Alarum'd  by  his  sentinel,  the  wolf, 

Whose  howl 's  his  watch,  thus  with  his  stealthy 

pace,  [design 

With  Tarquin's  ravishing  strides,  towards  his 
Moves  like  a  ghost. — Thou  sure  and  firm-set 

earth,  [fear 

Hear  not  my  steps,  which  way  they  walk,  for 
Thy  very  stones  prate  of  my  whereabout, 
And  take  the  present  horror  from  the  time, 
Which  now  suits  with  it. — Whiles  I  threat,  he 

lives  ; 

Words  to  the  heat  of  deeds  too  cold  breath  gives. 

[A  bell  rings. 

I  go,  and  it  is  done  ;  the  bell  invites  me. 
Hear  it  not,  Duncan,  for  it  is  a  knell 
That  summons  thee  to  heaven  or  to  hell.    [Exit. 

Enter  LADY  MACBETH. 

Lady  M.  That  which  hath  made  them  drunk 

hath  made  me  bold : 
What  hath  quench'd  them  hath  given  me  fire. — 

Hark !— Peace ! 

It  was  the  owl  that  shriek'd,  the  fatal  bellman, 
Which  gives  the  stern'st  good-night.  He  is 

about  it : 

The  doors  are  open  ;  and  the  surfeited  grooms 
Do  mock  their  charge  with  snores:  I  have 

drugg'd  their  possets, 

That  death  and  nature  do  contend  about  them, 
Whether  they  live  or  die. 

Macb.  [Within.'}  Who's  there?— what,  ho! 

Lady^M.  Alack!  I  am  afraid  they  have  awak'd, 

And  'tis  not  done : — the  attempt,  and  not  the 

deed,  [ready; 

Confounds  us. — Hark!— I  laid  their  daggers 
He  could  not  miss  'em. — Had  he  not  resembled 
My  father  as  he  slept,  I  had  done't. — My 

husband ! 

Re-enter  MACBETH. 

Macb.  I  have  done  the  deed. — Didst  thou  not 
hear  a  noise  ?  [crickets  cry. 

Lady  M.   I  heard  the  owl  scream  and  the 
Did  not  you  speak  ? 

Macb.  When? 

Lady  M.  Now. 

Macb.  As  I  descended? 

Lady  M.   Ay. 

Macb.  Hark!— 
Who  lies  i'  the  second  chamber  ? 

Lady  M.  Donalbain. 

Macb.  This  is  a  sorry  sight. 

[Looking  on  his  hands. 

Lady  M.  A  foolish  thought  to  say  a  sorry  sight. 

Macb.  There 's  one  did  laugh  in 's  sleep,  and 
one  cried  Murder! 


That  they  did  wake  each  other:   I  stood  and 
heard  them :  [them 

But  they  did  say  their  prayers,  and  address'd 
Again  to  sleep. 

Lady  M.        There  are  two  lodg'd  together. 
Macb.  One  cried,  God  bless  ns!  and,  Amen, 
the  other ;  [hands. 

As  they  had   seen   me  with  these  hangman's 
Listening  their  fear,  I  could  not  say,  Amen, 
When  they  did  say,  God  bless  its. 

Lady  M.  Consider  it  not  so  deeply. 

Macb.   But  wherefore  could  not  I  pronounce, 

Amen? 

I  had  most  need  of  blessing,  and  Amen 
Stuck  in  my  throat. 

Lady  M.     These  deeds  must  not  be  thought 
After  these  ways ;  so,  it  will  make  us  mad. 
Macb.   Methought  I  heard  a  voice  cry,  Sleep 

no  more! 

Macbeth  does  murder  sleep, — the  innocent  sleep; 
Sleep  that  knits  up  the  ravell'd  sleave  of  care, 
The  death  of  each  day's  life,  sore  labour's  bath, 
Balm  of  hurt  minds,  great  nature's  second  course, 
Chief  nourisher  in  life's  feast. 

Lady  M.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Macb.  Still  it  cried,  Sleep  no  more  !  to  all  the 

house:  [Cawdor 

Glamis   hath    murder1  d  sleep:    and  therefore 

Shall  sleep  no  more, — Macbeth  shall  sleep  no 

more  !  [worthy  thane, 

Lady  M.  Who  was  it  that  thus  cried?    Why, 

You  do  unbend  your  noble  strength  to  think 

So  brainsickly  of  things, — Go  get  some  water, 

And  wash  this  filthy  witness  from  your  hand.— 

Why  did   you  bring  these  daggers  from   the 

place  ? 

They  must  lie  there :  go  carry  them ;  and  smear 
The  sleepy  grooms  with  blood. 

Macb.  I  '11  go  no  more : 

I  am  afraid  to  think  what  I  have  done ; 
Look  on 't  again  I  dare  not. 

Lady  M.  Infirm  of  purpose  ! 

Give  me  the  daggers :  the  sleeping  and  the  dead 
Are  but  as  pictures :  'tis  the  eye  of  childhood 
That  fears  a  painted  devil.     If  he  do  bleed, 
I  '11  gild  the  faces  of  the  grooms  withal, 
For  it  must  seem  their  guilt. 

[Exit.     Knocking  within. 

Macb.  Whence  is  that  knocking? 

How  is 't  with  me,  when  every  noise  appals  me? 

What  hands  are  here?     Ha!  they  pluck  out 

mine  eyes ! 

Will  all  great  Neptune's  ocean  wash  this  blood 
Clean  from  my  hand?     No;  this  my  hand  will 

rather 

The  multitudinous  seas  incarnadine, 
Making  the  green  one  red. 


iio8 


MACBETH. 


[ACT  II. 


Re-enter  LADY  MACBETH. 

Lady  M.  My  hands  are  of  your  colour;  but 

I  shame 
To  wear  a  heart  so  white.     [Knocking  within.  ] 

I  hear  a  knocking 

At  the  south  entry: — retire  we  to  our  chamber. 
A  little  water  clears  us  of  this  deed : 
How  easy  is  it  then !     Your  constancy 
Hath  left  you  unattended. — [Knocking  within.'] 

Hark !  more  knocking : 

Get  on  your  nightgown,  lest  occasion  call  us, 
And  show  us  to  be  watchers : — be  not  lost 
So  poorly  in  your  thoughts. 

Macb.  To  know  my  deed,  'twere  best  not 

know  myself.  [Knocking  within. 

Wake  Duncan  with  thy  knocking!     I  would 

thou  couldst !  [Exeztnt. 

Enter  a  Porter.     Knocking  within. 

Porter.  Here 's  a  knocking  indeed !  If  a 
man  were  porter  of  hell-gate,  he  should  have 
old  turning  the  key.  [Knocking.]  Knock, 
knock,  knock.  Who's  there,  i'  the  name  of 
Beelzebub?  Here 's  a  farmer  that  hanged  him- 
self on  the  expectation  of  plenty:  come  in 
time ;  have  napkins  enow  abou  t  you ;  here 
you'll  sweat  for't. — [Knocking.]  Knock, 
knock  !  Who 's  there,  i'  the  other  devil's  name? 
Faith,  here 's  an  equivocator,  that  could  swear 
in  both  the  scales  against  either  scale ;  who 
committed  treason  enough  for  God's  sake,  yet 
could  not  equivocate  to  heaven:  O,  come  in, 
equivocator.  [Knocking.]  Knock,  knock, 
knock!  Who's  there?  Faith,  here's  an 
English  tailor  come  hither,  for  stealing  out  of 
a  French  hose :  come  in,  tailor,  here  you  may 
roast  your  goose. — [Knocking.]  Knock, 
knock:  never  at  quiet!  What  are  you? — But 
this  place  is  too  cold  for  hell.  I  '11  devil-porter 
it  no  further :  I  had  thought  to  have  let  in  some 
of  all  professions,  that  go  the  primrose  way  to 
the  everlasting  bonfire.  [Knocking.]  Anon, 
anon !  I  pray  you,  remember  the  porter. 

[Opens  the  gate. 

Enter  MACDUFF  and  LENNOX. 

Macd.  Was  it  so  late,  friend,  ere  you  went 
to  bed,  that  you  do  lie  so  late? 

Port.  Faith,  sir,  we  were  carousing  till  the 
second  cock :  and  drink,  sir,  is  a  great  provoker 
of  three  things. 

Macd.  What  three  things  does  drink  especially 
provoke  ? 

Port.  Marry,  sir,  nose-painting,  sleep,  and 
urine.  Lechery,  sir,  it  provokes  and  it  unpro- 
vokes  ;  it  provokes  the  desire,  but  it  takes  away 


the  performance  :  therefore,  much  drink  may 
be  said  to  be  an  equivocator  with  lechery :  it 
makes  him,  and  it  mars  him  ;  it  sets  him  on, 
and  it  takes  him  off;  it  persuades  him,  and 
disheartens  him  ;  makes  him  stand  to,  and  not 
stand  to  :  in  conclusion,  equivocates  him  in  a 
sleep,  and,  giving  him  the  lie,  leaves  him. 

Macd.  I  believe  drink  gave  thee  the  lie  last 
night. 

Port.  That  it  did,  sir,  i'  the  very  throat  o' 
me :  but  I  requited  him  for  his  lie ;  and,  I 
think,  being  too  strong  for  him,  though  he 
took  up  my  legs  sometime,  yet  I  made  a  shift 
to  cast  him. 

Macd.  Is  thy  master  stirring  ? — 
Our  knocking  has  awak'd  him ;  here  he  comes. 

Enter  MACBETH. 

Len.  Good-morrow,  noble  sir  ! 

Macb.  Good-morrow,  both  ! 

Macd.  Is  the  king  stirring,  worthy  thane  ? 

Macb.  Not  yet. 

Macd.  He  did  command  me  to  call  timely 

on  him : 
I  have  almost  slipp'd  the  hour. 

Macb.  I  '11  bring  you  to  him. 

Macd.  I  know  this  is  a  joyful  trouble  to  you  ; 
But  yet  'tis  one. 

Macb.  The  labour  we  delight  in  physics  pain. 
This  is  the  door. 

Macd.  I  '11  make  so  bold  to  call. 

For  'tis  my  limited  service.     [Exit  MACDUFF. 

Len.  Goes  the  king  hence  to-day  ? 

Macb.  He  does  :  he  did  appoint  so. 

Len.  The  night  has  been  unruly  :  where  we 

lay,  [say, 

Our  chimneys  were  blown  down :  and,  as  they 

Lamentings  heard  i'  the  air;  strange  screams 

of  death ; 

And  prophesying,  with  accents  terrible, 
Of  dire  combustion  and  confus'd  events, 
New  hatch'd  to  the  woeful  time :  the  obscure 
bird  [earth 

Clamour'd  the  live-long  night:  some  say  the 
Was  feverous,  and  did  shake. 

Macb.  'Twas  a  rough  night. 

Len.  My  young  remembrance  cannot  parallel 
A  fellow  to  it. 

Re-enter  MACDUFF. 

Macd.  O   horror,   horror,  horror!     Tongue 

nor  heart 
Cannot  conceive  nor  name  thee  ! 

Macb. ,  Len.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

Macd.  Confusion  now  hath  made  his  master- 
piece ! 
Most  sacrilegious  murder  hath  broke  ope 


SCENE  I.] 


MACBETH. 


1109 


The  Lord's  anointed  temple,  and  stole  thence 
The  life  o'  the  building. 

Macb.  What  is 't  you  say  ?  the  life? 

Len.   Mean  you  his  majesty?         [your  sight 
Macd.  Approach  the  chamber,  and  destroy 
With  a  new  Gorgon : — do  not  bid  me  speak  ; 
See,  and  then  speak  yourselves. 

[Exeunt  MACBETH  and  LENNOX. 
Awake  !  awake  ! — 

Ring  the  alarum-bell : — murder  and  treason  ! 
Banquo  and  Donalbain  !  Malcolm  !  awake  ! 
Shake  off  this  downy  sleep,  death's  counterfeit, 
And  look  on  death  itself !  up,  up,  and  see 
The  great  doom's  image  !  Malcolm  !  Banquo ! 
As  from  your  graves  rise  up,   and  walk  like 

sprites, 
To  countenance  this  horror  ! 

[Alarum-bell  rings. 

Re-enter  LADY  MACPETH. 

Lady  M.  What 's  the  business, 

That  such  a  hideous  trumpet  calls  to  parley 
The  sleepers  of  the  house  ?  speak,  speak  ! 

Macd.  O  gentle  lady, 

'Tis  not  for  you  to  hear  what  I  can  speak  : 
The  repetition,  in  a  woman's  ear, 
Would  murder  as  it  fell. 

Re-enter  BANQUO. 

O  Banquo,  Banquo  ! 
Our  royal  master 's  murder'd  ! 

Lady^  M.  Woe,  alas  ! 

What,  in  our  house? 

Ban.  Too  cruel  any  where. — 

Dear  Duff,  I  pr'ythee,  contradict  thyself, 
And  say  it  is  not  so. 

Re-enter  MACBETH  and  LENNOX. 

Macb.  Had  I  but  died  an  hour  before  this 
chance,  [slant, 

I  had  liv'd  a  blessed  time ;  for,  from  this  in- 
There  's  nothing  serious  in  mortality : 
All  is  but  toys  :  renown  and  grace  is  dead  ; 
The  wine  of  life  is  drawn,  and  the  mere  lees 
Is  left  this  vault  to  brag  of. 

Enter  MALCOLM  and  DONALBAIN. 

Don.  What  is  amiss  ? 

Macb.  You  are,  and  do  not  know 't : 

The  spring,  the  head,  the  fountain  of  your  blood 
Is  stopp'd ;  the  very  source  of  it  is  stopp'd. 

Macd.  Your  royal  father 's  murder'd. 

Mai.  O,  by  whom  ? 

Len.  Those  of  his  chamber,  as  it  seem'd,  had 

done 't :  [blood  ; 

Their  hands  and  faces  were  all  badg'd  with 

So  were  their  daggers,  which,  unwip'd,  we  found 


Upon  their  pillows  : 

They  star'd,  and  were  distracted  ;  no  man's  life 

Was  to  be  trusted  with  them. 

Macb.  O,  yet  I  do  repent  me  of  my  fury, 
That  I  did  kill  them. 

Macd.  Wherefore  did  you  so  ? 

Macb.  Who  can  be  wise,  amaz'd,  temperate, 

and  furious, 

Loyal  and  neutral,  in  a  moment?     No  man  : 
The  expedition  of  my  violent  love 
Out-ran  the  pauser  reason.     Here  lay  Duncan, 
His  silver  skin  lac'd  with  his  golden  blood  ; 
And  his  gash'd  stabs  look'd  like  a  breach  in 
nature  [derers, 

For  ruin's  wasteful  entrance :  there,  the  mur- 
Steep'd   in   the   colours  of  their   trade,   their 
daggers  [frain, 

Unmannerly  breech'd  with  gore :  who  could  re- 
That  had  a  heart  to  love,  and  in  that  heart 
Courage  to  make 's  love  known  ? 

Lady  M.  Help  me  hence,  ho  ! 

Macd.   Look  to  the  lady. 

Mai.  Why  do  we  hold  our  tongues, 

That  most  may  claim  this  argument  for  ours  ? 

Don.  What  should  be  spoken  here,  where 

our  fate, 

Hid  in  an  auger-hole,  may  rush,  and  seize  us  ? 
Let 's  away ; 
Our  tears  are  not  yet  brew'd. 

Mai.  Nor  our  strong  sorrow 

Upon  the  foot  of  motion. 

Ban.  Look  to  the  lady : — 

[LADY  MACBETH  is  carried  out. 
And  when  we  have  our  naked  frailties  hid, 
That  suffer  in  exposure,  let  us  meet, 
And  question  this  most  bloody  piece  of  work, 
To  know  it  further.    Fears  and  scruples  shake  us: 
In  the  great  hand  of  God  I  stand  ;  and  thence, 
Against  the  undivulg'd  pretence  I  fight 
Of  treasonous  malice. 

Macd.  And  so  do  I. 

All.  So  all. 

Macb.  Let 's  briefly  put  on  manly  readiness, 
And  meet  i'  the  hall  together. 

All.  Well  contented. 

[Exeunt  all  but  MAL.  and  DON. 

Mai.  What  will  you  do  ?     Let 's  not  consort 

with  them  : 

To  show  an  unfelt  sorrow  is  an  office 
Which  the  false  man  does  easy.  I  '11  to  England. 

Don.  To  Ireland  I ;  our  separated  fortune 
Shall  keep  us  both  the  safer  :  where  we  are, 
There 's  daggers  in  men's  smiles  :  the  near  in 

blood, 
The  nearer  bloody. 

Mai.  This  murderous  shaft  that 's  shot 

Hath  not  vet  lighted  ;  and  our  safest  way 


II IO 


MACBETH. 


[ACT  rn. 


Is  to  avoid  the  aim.     Therefore  to  horse ; 
And  let  us  not  be  dainty  of  leave-taking, 
But  shift  away :  there 's  warrant  in  that  theft 
Which  steals  itself,  when  there 's  no  mercy  left. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — The  same.      Without  the  Castle. 
Enter  Ross  and  an  old  Man. 

Old  M.  Threescore  and  ten  I  can  remember 

"   well: 

Within  the  volume  of  which  time  I  have  seen 
Hours  dreadful  and  things  strange ;  but  this 

sore  night 
Hath  trifled  former  knowings. 

Ross.  Ah,  good  father, 

Thou  seest,  the  heavens,  as  troubled  with  man's 

act,  [day, 

Threaten  his  bloody  stage :  by  the  clock,  'tis 

And   yet  dark  night   strangles  the   travelling 

lamp ; 

Is 't  night's  predominance,  or  the  day's  shame, 
That  darkness  does  the  face  of  earth  entomb, 
When  living  light  should  kiss  it? 

Old  M.  'Tis  unnatural, 

Even  like  the  deed  that 's  done.     On  Tuesday 

last, 

A  falcon,  towering  in  her  pride  of  place, 
Was  by  a  mousing  owl  hawk'd  at  and  kill'd. 
Ross.  And  Duncan's  horses, — a  thing  most 

strange  and  certain, — 

Beauteous  and  swift,  the  minions  of  their  race, 
Turn'd  wild  in  nature,  broke  their  stalls,  flung 
out,  [make 

Contending  'gainst  obedience,  as  they  would 
War  with  mankind. 

Old  M.  'Tis  said  they  eat  each  other. 

Ross.  They  did  so  ;    to  the  amazement  of 

mine  eyes,  [Macduff. 

That  look'd  upon't.      Here  comes  the  good 

Enter  MACDUFF. 

How  goes  the  world,  sir,  now? 

Macd.  Why,  see  you  not  ? 

Ross.   Is't  known  who  did  this  more  than 
bloody  deed  ? 

Macd.  Those  that  Macbeth  hath  slain. 

Ross.  Alas,  the  day  ! 

What  good  could  they  pretend  ? 

Macd.  They  were  suborn'd : 

Malcolm  and  Donalbain,  the  king's  two  sons, 
Are  stol'n  away  and  fled ;  which  puts  upon  them 
Suspicion  of  the  deed. 

Ross.  'Gainst  nature  still : 

Thriftless  ambition,  that  wilt  ravin  up 
Thine  own  life's  means  ! — Then  'tis  most  like, 
The  sovereignty  will  fell  upon  Macbeth. 


Macd.   He  is  already  nam'd  ;   and  gone  to 

Scone 
To  be  invested. 

Ross.  Where  is  Duncan's  body  ? 

Macd.  Carried  to  Colme-kill, 
The  sacred  storehouse  of  his  predecessors, 
And  guardian  of  their  bones. 

Ross.  Will  you  to  Scone  ? 

Macd.  No,  cousin,  I  '11  to  Fife. 

Ross.  Well,  I  will  thither. 

Macd.  Well,  may  you  see  things  well  done 

there, — adieu  ! — 
Lest  our  old  robes  sit  easier  than  our  new  ! 

Ross.  Farewell,  father.  [those 

Old  M.  God's  benison  go  with  you ;  and  with 

That  would  make  good  of  bad,  and  friends  of 

foes !  [Exeunt. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.— FORRES.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  BANQUO. 
Ban.    Thou   hast    it   now, — king,    Cawdor, 

Glamis,  all 

As  the  weird  women  promis'd  ;  and,  I  fear, 
Thou  play'dst  most  foully  for 't ;  yet  it  was  said 
It  should  not  stand  in  thy  posterity ; 
But  that  myself  should  be  the  root  and  father 
Of  many  kings.   If  there  come  truth  from  them, — 
As  upon  thee,  Macbeth,  their  speeches  shine, — 
Why,  by  the  verities  on  thee  made  good, 
May  they  not  be  my  oracles  as  well, 
And  set  me  up  in  hope;?     But,  hush ;  no  more. 

Sennet  sounded.  Enter  MACBETH  as  King. 
LADY  MACBETH  as  Queen;  LENNOX,  Ross, 
Lords,  Ladies,  and  Attendants. 

Macb.   Here 's  our  chief  guest. 

Lady  M.  If  he  had  been  forgotten, 

It  had  been  as  a  gap  in  our  great  feast, 
And  all-thing  unbecoming. 

Macb.  To-night  we  hold  a  solemn  supper,  sir, 
And  I  '11  request  your  presence. 

Ban.  Let  your  highness 

Command  upon  me  ;  to  the  which  my  duties 
Are  with  a  most  indissoluble  tie 
For  ever  knit. 

Macb.  Ride  you  this  afternoon  ? 

Ban.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Macb.  We  should  have  else  desir'd  your  good 
advice, —  [ous, — 

Which  still  hath  been  both  grave  and  prosper- 
In  this  day's  council ;  but  we  '11  take  to-morrow. 
Is 't  far  you  ride  ? 

Ban.  As  far,  my  lord,  as  will  fill  up  the  time 

'Twixt  this  and  supper :  go  not  my  horse  the 

better, 


SCENE  1.] 


MACBETH. 


mi 


I  must  become  a  borrower  of  the  night, 
For  a  dark  hour  or  twain. 

Macb.  Fail  not  our  feast. 

Ban.   My  lord,  I  will  not.  [stow'd 

Macb.  We  hear  our  bloody  cousins  are  be- 
In  England  and  in  Ireland  ;  not  confessing 
Their  cruel  parricide,  rilling  their  hearers 
With  strange  invention :  but  of  that  to-morrow ; 
When  therewithal  we  shall  have  cause  of  state 
Craving  us  jointly.     Hie  you  to  horse  :  adieu, 
Till  you  return  at  night.     Goes  Fleance  with 
you?  [upon's. 

Ban.  Ay,  my  good  lord  :  our  time  does  call 

Macb.   I  wish  your  horses  swift  and  sure  of 

foot : 

And  so  I  do  commend  you  to  their  backs. 
Farewell. —  [Exit  BANQUO. 

Let  every  man  be  master  of  his  time 
Till  seven  at  night ;  to  make  society 
The  sweeter  welcome,  we  will  keep  ourself 
Till  supper-time  alone :    while  then,  God  be 
with  you  ! 

[Exeunt  LADY  MACBETH,  Lords, 

Ladies,  &c. 

Sirrah,  a  word  with  you  :  attend  those  men 
Our  pleasure?  [gate. 

Attend.  They  are,  my  lord,  without  the  palace 

Macb.   Bring  them  before  us. 

[Exit  Attendant. 
To  be  thus  is  nothing  ; 
But  to  be  safely  thus  : — our  fears  in  Banquo 
Stick  deep ;  and  in  his  royalty  of  nature 
Reigns  that  which  would  be  fear'd  :  'tis  much 

he  dares ; 

And,  to  that  dauntless  temper  of  his  mind, 
He  hath  a  wisdom  that  doth  guide  his  valour 
To  act  in  safety.     There  is  none  but  he 
Whose  being  I  do  fear  :  and,  under  him, 
My  genius  is  rebuk'd  ;  as,  it  is  said,        [sisters 
Mark  Antony's  was  by  Caesar.     He  chid  the 
When  first  they  put  the  name  of  king  upon  me, 
And  bade  them  speak  to  him  ;  then,  prophet - 

like, 

They  hail'd  him  father  to  a  line  of  kings  : 
Upon  my  head  they  plac'd  a  fruitless  crown, 
And  put  a  barren  sceptre  in  my  gripe, 
Thence  to  be  wrench'd  with  an  unlineal  hand, 
No  son  of  mine  succeeding.     If 't  be  so, 
For  Banquo's  issue  have  I  fil'd  my  mind ; 
For  them  the  gracious  Duncan  have  I  murder'd ; 
Put  rancours  in  the  vessel  of  my  peace 
Only  for  them  ;  and  mine  eternal  jewel 
Given  to  the  common  enemy  of  man, 
Tc  make  them  kings,  the  seed  of  Banquo  kings  ! 
Rather  than  so,  come,  fate,  into  the  list, 
And  champion  me  to  the  utterance  ! — Who 's 
there?— 


Re-enter  Attendant,  -with  two  Murderers. 

Now  go  to  the  door,  and  stay  there  till  we  call. 
[Exit  Attendant. 

Was  it  not  yesterday  we  spoke  together  ? 
I  Mur.   It  was,  so  please  your  highness. 
Macb.  Well  then,  now 

Have  you  consider5  d  of  my  speeches  ?     Know 
That  it  was  he,  in  the  times  past,  which  held 

you 

So  under  fortune;  which  you  thought  had  been 
Our  innocent  self:  this  I  made  good  to  you 
In  our  last  conference,  pass'd  in  probation  with 

you,  [instruments, 

How  you  were  borne  in  hand,  how  cross'd,  the 
Who  wrought  with  them,  and  all  things  else 

that  might 

To  half  a  soul  and  to  a  notion  craz'd 
Say,  Thus  did  Banquo. 

I  Mur.  You  made  it  known  to  us. 

Macb.   I  did  so ;  and  went  further,  which  is 

now 

Our  point  of  second  meeting.     Do  you  find 
Your  patience  so  predominant  in  your  nature, 
That  you  can  let  this  go?     Are  you  so  gospell'd, 
To  pray  for  this  good  man  and  for  his  issue, 
Whose  heavy  hand  hath  bow'd  you  to  the  grave, 
And  beggar'd  yours  for  ever  ? 

1  Mur.  We  are  men,  my  liege. 
Macb.   Ay,  in  the  catalogue  ye  go  for  men  ; 

As  hounds,  and  greyhounds,  mongrels,  spaniels 

curs, 

Shoughs,  water-rugs,  and  demi- wolves  are  clept 
All  by  the  name  of  dogs  :  the  valu'd  file 
Distinguishes  the  swift,  the  slow,  the  subtle, 
The  house-keeper,  the  hunter,  every  one 
According  to  the  gift  which  bounteous  nature 
Hath  in  him  clos'd ;  whereby  he  does  receive 
Particular  addition,  from  the  bill 
That  writes  them  all  alike :  and  so  of  men. 
Now,  if  you  have  a  station  in  the  file, 
And  not  i'  the  worst  rank  of  manhood,  say  it ; 
And  I  will  put  that  business  in  your  bosoms, 
Whose  execution  takes  your  enemy  off  ; 
Grapples  you  to  the  heart  and  love  of  us, 
Who  wear  our  health  but  sickly  in  his  life, 
Which  in  his  death  were  perfect. 

2  Mur.  I  am  one,  my  liege, 
Whom  the  vile  blows  and  buffets  of  the  world 
Have  so  incens'd  that  I  am  reckless  what 

I  do  to  spite  the  world. 

i  Mur.  And  I  another, 

So  weary  with  disasters,  tugg'd  with  fortune, 
That  I  would  set  my  life  on  any  chance, 
To  mend  it,  or  be  rid  on 't. 

Macb.  Both  of  you 

Know  Banquo  was  your  enemy. 


1112 


MACBETH. 


[ACT  III. 


Both  Mur.  True,  my  lord. 

Macb.  So  is  he  mine ;  and  in  such  bloody 

distance, 

That  every  minute  of  his  being  thrusts 
Against  my  near'st  of  life :  and  though  I  could 
Withbare-fac'd  power  sweep  him  from  my  sight, 
And  bid  my  will  avouch  it,  yet  I  must  not, 
For  certain  friends  that  are  both  his  and  mine, 
Whose  loves  I  may  not  drop,  but  wail  his  fall 
Who  I  myself  struck  down  :  and  thence  it  is 
That  I  to  your  assistance  do  make  love ; 
Masking  the  business  from  the  common  eye 
For  sundry  weighty  reasons. 

2  Mur.  We  shall,  my  lord, 

Perform  what  you  command  us. 

i  Mur.  Though  our  lives — 

Macb.    Your     spirits    shine     through    you. 

Within  this  hour  at  most, 
I  will  advise  you  where  to  plant  yourselves; 
Acquaint  you  with  the  perfect  spy  o'  the    time, 
The  moment  on 't ;  for 't  must  be  done  to-night, 
And  something  from  the  palace ;  always  thought 
That  I  require  a  clearness  :  and  with  him,  — 
To  leave  no  rubs  nor  botches  in  the  work, — 
Fleance  his  son,  that  keeps  him  company, 
Whose  absence  is  no  less  material  to  me 
Than  is  his  father's,  must  embrace  the  fate 
Of  that  dark  hour.      Resolve  yourselves  apart : 
I  '11  come  to  you  anon. 

Both  Mur.  We  are  resolv'd,  my  lord. 

Macb.  I  '11    call   upon   you   straight :    abide 
within.  [Exeunt  Murderers. 

It  is  concluded  : — Banquo,  thy  soul's  flight, 
If  it  find  heaven,  must  find  it  out  to-night. 

[Exit. 


SCENE  II.  —  The  same.     Another  Room  in  the 
Palace. 

Enter  LADY  MACBETH  and  a  Servant. 

Lady  M.   Is  Banquo  gone  from  court  ? 

Serv.  Ay,  madam,  but  returns  again  to-night. 

Lady  M.   Say  to  the  king,  I  would  attend 

his  leisure 
For  a  few  words. 

Serv.  Madam,  I  will.  [Exit. 

Lady  M.  Naught 's  had,  all 's  spent, 

Where  our  desire  is  got  without  content : 
'Tis  safer  to  be  that  which  we  destroy, 
Than,  by  destruction,  dwell  in  doubtful  joy. 

Enter  MACBETH. 

How  now,  my  lord  !  why  do  you  keep  alone, 
Of  sorriest  fancies  your  companions  making  ; 
Using  those  thoughts  which  should  indeed  have 
died 


With  them  they  think  on  ?     Things  without  all 

remedy 

Should  be  without  regard :  what 's  done  is  done. 
Macb.    We   have   scotch'd    the   snake,    not 

kill'd  it ;  [malice 

She'll  close,  and  be  herself;  whilst  our  poor 
Remains  in  danger  of  her  former  tooth. 
But  let  the  frame  of  things  disjoint, 
Both  the  worlds  suffer, 
Ere  we  will  eat  our  meal  in  fear,  and  sleep 
In  the  affliction  of  these  terrible  dreams 
That  shake  us  nightly :  better  be  with  the  dead, 
Whom  we,  to  gain  our  place,  have  sent  to  peace, 
Than  on  the  torture  of  the  mind  to  lie 
In  restless  ecstacy.     Duncan  is  in  his  grave  ; 
After  life's  fitful  fever  he  sleeps  well ; 
Treason  has  done  his  worst :    ncr  steel,  nor 

poison, 

Malice  domestic,  foreign  levy,  nothing, 
Can  touch  him  further. 

Lady  M.  Come  on  ; 

Gently  my  lord,  sleek  o'er  your  rugged  looks ; 
Be  bright  and  jovial  'mong  your  guests  to-night. 
Macb.  So  shall  I,  love  ;  and  so,  I  pray,  be 

you  : 

Let  your  remembrance  apply  to  Banquo  ; 
Present   him    eminence,    both   with   eye    and 

tongue : 

Unsafe  the  while,  that  we  [streams  ; 

Must    lave    our   honours    in   these    flattering 
And  make  our  faces  vizards  to  our  hearts, 
Disguising  what  they  are. 

Lady  M.  You  must  leave  this. 

Macb.  O,  full  of  scorpions  is  my  mind,  dear 

wife !  [lives. 

Thou  know'st  that  Banquo,  and  his  Fleance, 

Lady  M.  But  in  them  nature's  copy's  not 

eterne.  [able ; 

Macb.  There 's  comfort  yet ;  they  are  assail- 
Then  be  thou  jocund :  ere  the  bat  hath  flown 
His  cloister'd  flight;   ere,   to  black  Hecate's 

summons, 

The  shard-borne  beetle,  with  his  drowsy  hums, 
Hath  rung  night's  yawning  peal,  there  shall  be 

done 
A  deed  of  dreadful  note. 

Lady  M.  What 's  to  be  done  ? 

Macb.  Be  innocent  of  the  knowledge,  dearest 

chuck,  [night, 

Till   thou   applaud   the  deed.     Come,  seeling 
Scarf  up  the  tender  eye  of  pitiful  day ; 
And  with  thy  bloody  and  invisible  hand 
Cancel  and  tear  to  pieces  that  great  bond 
Which  keeps  me  pale !— Light  thickens;  and 

the  crow 

Makes  wing  to  the  rooky  wood  : 
Good  things  of  day  begin  to  droop  and  drowse; 


SCENE  III.] 


MACBETH. 


Whiles  night's  black  agents  to  their  prey  do 
rouse. —  [still ; 

Thou  marvell'st  at  my  words:  but  hold  thee 
Things  bad  begun  make  strong  themselves  by  ill: 
So,  pr'ythee,  go  with  me.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — The  same.     A  Park  or  Lawn, 
with  a  gate  leading  to  the  Palace. 

Enter  three  Murderers. 

1  Mur.  But  who  did  bid  thee  join  with  us  ? 
3  Mur.  Macbeth. 

2  Mur.  He  needs  not  our  mistrust ;  since  he 

delivers 

Our  offices,  and  what  we  have  to  do, 
To  the  direction  just. 

1  Mur.  Then  stand  with  us. 
The  west  yet  glimmers  with  some  streaks  of  day: 
Now  spurs  the  lated  traveller  apace, 

To  gain  the  timely  inn  ;  and  near  approaches 
The  subject  of  our  watch. 

3  Mur.  Hark  !  I  hear  horses. 
Ban.  [Wiihin.~\  Give  us  a  light  there,  ho! 

2  Mur.  Then  'tis  he  ;  the  rest 
That  are  within  the  note  of  expectation 
Already  are  i'  the  court. 

1  Mur.  His  horses  go  about. 

3  Mur.  Almost  a  mile  ;  but  he  does  usually, 
So  all  men  do,  from  hence  to  the  palace  gate 
Make  it  their  walk. 

2  Mur.  A  light,  a  light ! 

3  Mur.  'Tis  he. 
I  Mur.  Stand  to  't. 

Enter  BANQUO,  and  FLEANCE  with  a  torch. 

Ban.  It  will  be  rain  to-night. 
I  Mur.  Let  it  come  down. 

[Assaults  BANQUO. 
Ban.  O,  treachery!    Fly,  good  Fleance,  fly, 

fly,  fly! 
Thou  mayst  revenge. — O  slave! 

[Dies.     FI.EANCE  escapes. 
3  Mur.  Who  did  strike  out  the  light  ? 

1  Mur.  Was't  not  the  way? 
3  Mur.  There 's  but  one  down:  the  son  is  fled. 

2  Mur.  We  have  lost  best  half  of  our  affair. 
I  Mur.  Well,  let 's  away,  and  say  how  much 

is  done.  [Exeunt. 

V /:-?.-.'       I        ^A     '(VV."\ 

SCENE  IV.  —  The  same.     A  Room  of  State  in 
the  Palace.     A  Banquet  prepared. 

Enter  MACBETH,  LADY  MACBETH,  Ross, 
LENNOX,  Lords,  and  Attendants. 

Macb.  You  know  your  own  degrees,  sit  down: 

at  first 
And  last  the  hearty  welcome. 


Lords.  Thanks  to  your  majesty. 

Macb.  Ourself  will  mingle  with  society, 
And  play  the  humble  host. 
Our  hostess  keeps  her  state  ;  but,  in  best  time, 
We  will  require  her  welcome.  [friends  ; 

Lady  M.  Pronounce  it  for  me,  sir,  to  all  our 
For  my  heart  speaks  they  are  welcome. 

Macb.  See,  they  encounter  thee  with   their 

hearts'  thanks. — 
Both  sides  are  even :  here  I  '11  sit  i'  the  midst : 

Enter  first  Murderer  to  the  door. 

Be  large  in  mirth  ;  anon  we  '11  drink  a  measure 
The  table  round. — There 's  blood  upon  thy  face. 

Mur.  'Tis  Banquo's  then.  [within. 

Macb.  'Tis    better    thee    without    than   he 
Is  he  despatch'd  ? 

Mur.   My  lord,  his  throat  is  cut ;  that  I  did 
for  him. 

Macb.  Thou  art  the  best  o'  the  cut-throats : 

yet  he 's  good 

That  did  the  like  for  Fleance :  if  thou  didst  it, 
Thou  art  the  nonpareil. 

Mur.  Most  royal  sir, 

Fleance  is  'scap'd.  [been  perfect : 

Macb.  Then  comes  my  fit  again :  I  had  else 
Whole  as  the  marble,  founded  as  the  rock ; 
As  broad  and  general  as  the  casing  air :         [in 
But  now  I  am  cabin'd,  cribb'd,  confin'd,  bound 
To  saucy  doubts  and  fears.     But  Banquo  's  safe? 

Mur.  Ay,  my  good  lord :  safe  in  a  ditch  he 

bides, 

With  twenty  trenched  gashes  on  his  head  ; 
The  least  a  death  to  nature. 

Macb.  Thanks  for  that : 

There  the  grown  serpent  lies  ;  the  worm  that 's 

fled 

Hath  nature  that  in  time  will  venom  breed, 
No  teeth  for  the  present.  — Get  thee  gone  ;  to- 
morrow 
We  '11  hear,  ourselves,  again.     [Exit  Murderer, 

Lady  M.  My  royal  lord, 

You  do  not  give  the  cheer :  the  feast  is  sold 
That  is  not  often  vouch'd,  while  'tis  a-making, 
'Tis  given  with  welcome :  to  feed  were  best  at 

home ; 

From  thence  the  sauce  to  meat  is  ceremony; 
Meeting  were  bare  without  it. 

Macb.  Sweet  remembrancer! — 

Now,  good  digestion  wait  on  appetite, 
And  health  on  both ! 

Len.  May 't  please  your  highness  sit  ? 

[The  Ghost  <?/"  BANQUO  rises,  and  sits  in 
MACBETH'S//^. 

Macb.  Here  had  we  now  our  country's  honour 

roof'd, 
Were  the  grac'd  person  of  our  Banquo  present ; 


III4 


MACBETH. 


[ACT  in. 


Who  may  I  rather  challenge  for  unkindness 
Than  pity  for  mischance ! 

Ross.  His  absence,  sir, 

Lays  blame  upon  his  promise.     Please  't  your 

highness 

To  grace  us  with  your  royal  company. 
Macb.  The  table 's  full. 
Len.  Here's  a  place  reserv'd,  sir. 
Macb.  Where? 
Len.  Here,  my  lord.      What  is't 

that  moves  your  highness  ? 
Macb.  Which  of  you  have  done  this  ? 
Lords.  What,  my  good  lord  ? 

Macb.  Thou  canst  not  say  I  did  it:  never 

shake 

Thy  gory  locks  at  me.  [well. 

Ross.  Gentlemen,  rise ;  his  highness  is  not 
Lady  M.  Sit,   worthy  friends : — my  lord  is 

often  thus, 
And  hath  been  from  his  youth :  pray  you,  keep 

seat; 

The  fit  is  momentary ;  upon  a  thought 
He  will  again  be  well :  if  much  you  note  him 
You  shall  offend  him,  and  extend  his  passion  : 
Feed,  and  regard  him  not. — Are  you  a  man  ? 
Macb.  Ay,  and  a  bold  one,  that  dare  look 

on  that 
Which  might  appal  the  devil. 

Lady  M.  O  proper  stuff ! 

This  is  the  very  painting  of  your  fear  : 
This  is  the  air-drawn  dagger  which,  you  said, 
Led   you   to   Duncan.      O,   these   flaws,    and 

starts, — 

Impostors  to  true  fear, — would  well  become 
A  woman's  story  at  a  winter's  fire, 
Authoriz'd  by  her  grandam.     Shame  itself ! 
Why  do  you  make  such  faces?  When  all's  done, 
You  look  but  on  a  stool. 

Macb.  Pr'ythee,  see  there !    behold !   look  ! 

lo !  how  say  you  ? — 
Why,  what  care  I  ?     If  thou  canst  nod,  speak 

too. — 

If  charnel-houses  and  our  graves  must  send 
Those  that  we  bury  back,  our  monuments 
Shall  be  the  maws  of  kites.     [Ghost  disappears. 
Lady  M.         What,  quite  unmann'd  in  folly? 
Macb.  If  I  stand  here,  I  saw  him. 
Lady  M.  Fie,  for  shame ! 

Macb.  Blood  hath  been  shed  ere  now,  i'  the 

olden  time, 

Ere  human  statute  purg'd  the  gentle  weal ; 
Ay,  and  since  too,  murders  have  been  perform'd 
Too  terrible  for  the  ear:  the  times  have  been, 
That,  when  the  brains  were  out,  the  man  would 

die, 

And  there  an  end  ;  but  now  they  rise  again, 
With  twenty  mortal  murders  on  their  crowns, 


And  push  us  from  our  stools :  this  is  more  strange 
Than  such  a  murder  is. 

Lady  M.  My  worthy  lord, 

Your  noble  friends  do  lack  you. 

Macb.  I  do  forget : — 

Do  not  muse  at  me,  my  most  worthy  friends  ; 
I  have  a  strange  infirmity,  which  is  nothing 
To  those  that  know  me.    Come,  love  and  health 
to  all ;  [full.— 

Then  I'll  sit  down. — Give  me  some  wine,  fill 
I  drink  to  the  general  joy  o'  the  whole  table, 
And  to  our  dear  friend  Banquo,  wnom  we  miss; 
Would  he  were  here  !  to  all,  and  him,  we  thirst, 
And  all  to  all. 

Lords.  Our  duties,  and  the  pledge. 

Ghost  rises  again. 

Macb.  Avaunt !  and  quit  my  sight !  let  the 

earth  hide  thee  ! 

Thy  bones  are  marrowless,  thy  blood  is  cold  ; 
Thou  hast  no  speculation  in  those  eyes 
Which  thou  dost  glare  with  ! 

Lady  M.  Think  of  this,  good  peers, 

But  as  a  thing  of  custom :  'tis  no  other  ;  , 

Only  it  spoils  the  pleasure  of  the  time. 

Macb.  What  man  dare,  I  dare : 
Approach  thou  like  the  rugged  Russian  bear, 
The  arm'd  rhinoceros,  or  the  Hyrcan  tiger ; 
Take  any  shape  but  that,  and  my  firm  nerves 
Shall  never  tremble :  or  be  alive  again, 
And  dare  me  to  the  desert  with  thy  sword  ; 
If  trembling  I  inhabit  then,  protest  me 
The  baby  of  a  girl.     Hence,  horrible  shadow ! 
Unreal  mockery,  hence !        [Ghost  disappears. 
Why,  so  ;— being  gone, 
I  am  a  man  again. — Pray  you,  sit  still. 

Lady  M.  You  have  displac'd  the  mirth,  broke 

the  good  meeting, 
With  most  admir'd  disorder. 

Macb.  Can  such  things  be, 

And  overcome  us  like  a  summer's  cloud, 
Without  our  special  wonder?     You  make  me 

strange 

Even  to  the  disposition  that  I  owe, 
When  now  I  think  you  can  behold  such  sights. 
And  keep  the  natural  ruby  of  your  cheeks, 
When  mine  are  blanch'd  with  fear. 

Ross.  What  sights,  my  lord  ? 

Lady  M.  I  pray  you,  speak  not ;  he  grows 

worse  and  worse ; 

Question  enrages  him :  at  once,  good-night : — 
Stand  not  upon  the  order  of  your  going, 
But  go  at  once. 

Len.  Good-night ;  and  better  health 

Attend  his  majesty ! 

Lady  M.  A  kind  good-night  to  all  i 

[Exeunt  Lords  and  Attendants. 


SCENE  V.] 


MACBETH. 


1115 


Macb.  It  will  have  blood ;  they  say,  blood  will 
have  blood :  [speak  ; 

Stones  have  been  known  to  move,  and  trees  to 
Augurs,  and  understood  relations,  have  [forth 
By  magot-pies,  and  choughs,  and  rooks,  brought 
The  secret'st  man  of  blood. — What  is  the  night? 

Lady  M.  Almost  at  odds  with  morning,  which 
is  which.  [his  person, 

Macb.   How  say'st  thou,  that  Macduff  denies 
At  our  great  bidding  ? 

Lady  M.  Did  you  send  to  him,  sir  ? 

Macb.  I  hear  it  by  the  way ;  but  I  will  send : 
There  's  not  a  one  of  them  but  in  his  house 
I  keep  a  servant  fee'd.     I  will  to-morrow 
(And  betimes  I  will)  to  the  weird  sisters : 
More  shall  they  speak ;  for  now  I  am  bent  to 
know,  [good, 

By  the  worst  means,  the  worst.     For  mine  own 
All  causes  shall  give  way :  I  am  in  blood 
Stept  in  so  far  that,  should  I  wade  no  more, 
Returning  were  as  tedious  as  go  o'er  :      [hand ; 
Strange  things  I  have  in  head,   that  will  to 
Which  must  be  acted  ere  they  may  be  scann'd. 

Lady  M.  You  lack  the  season  of  all  natures, 
sleep.  [self-abuse 

Macb.  Come,  we  '11  to  sleep.    My  strange  and 
Is  the  initiate  fear,  that  wants  hard  use : — 
We  are  yet  but  young  in  deed.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.—The  Heath. 

Thunder.     Enter  the  three  Witches,  meeting 
HECATE. 

i  Witch.  Why,  how  now,  Hecate !  you  look 
angerly. 

Hec.  Have  I  not  reason,  beldams  as  you  are, 
Saucy  and  overbold?     How  did  you  dare 
To  trade  and  traffic  with  Macbeth 
In  riddles  and  affairs  of  death  ; 
And  I,  the  mistress  of  your  charms, 
The  close  contriver  of  all  harms, 
Was  never  call'd  to  bear  my  part, 
Or  show  the  glory  of  our  art  ? 
And,  which  is  worse,  all  you  have  done 
Hath  been  but  for  a  wayward  son, 
Spiteful  and  wrathful ;  who,  as  others  do, 
Loves  for  his  own  ends,  not  for  you. 
But  make  amends  now :  get  you  gone, 
And  at  the  pit  of  Acheron 
Meet  me  i'  the  morning:  thither  he 
Will  come  to  know  his  destiny. 
Your  vessels  and  your  spells  provide, 
Your  charms,  and  everything  beside. 
I  am  for  the  air ;  this  night  I  '11  spend 
Unto  a  dismal  and  a  fatal  end. 
Great  business  must  be  wrought  ere  noon : 
Upon  the  corner  of  the  moon 


There  hangs  a  vaporous  drop  profound ; 
I  "'1  catch  it  ere  it  come  to  ground : 
And  that,  distill'd  by  magic  sleights, 
Shall  raise  such  artificial  sprites, 
As,  by  the  strength  of  their  irusion, 
Shall  draw  him  on  to  his  confusion : 
He  shall  spurn  fate,  scorn  death,  and  bear 
His  hopes  'bove  wisdom,  grace,  and  fear: 
And  you  all  know,  security 
Is  mortal's  chiefest  enemy. 

[Music  and  song  within :  Come  away,  comt 

away  &c. 

Hark !  I  am  call'd ;  my  little  spirit,  see, 
Sits  in  a  foggy  cloud,  and  stays  far  me.     [Exit, 
I  Witch.  Come,   let's  make  haste;    she'll 
soon  be  back  again.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI. — FORRES.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  LENNOX  and  another  Lord. 

Len.   My  former  speeches  have  but  hit  your 

thoughts, 

Which  can  interpret  further :  only,  I  say, 
Things  have  been  strangely  borne.     The  gra- 
cious Duncan 

Was  pitied  of  Macbeth : — marry,  he  was  dead:— 
And  the  right- valiant  Banquo  walk'd  too  late; 
Whom,  you  may  say,  if 't  please  you,  Fleance 

kill'd, 

For  Fleance  fled.     Men  must  not  walk  too  late. 
Who  cannot  want  the  thought,  how  monstrous 
It  was  for  Malcolm  and  for  Donalbain 
To  kill  their  gracious  father?  damned  fact ! 
How  it  did  grieve  Macbeth !  did  he  not  straight, 
In  pious  rage,  the  two  delinquents  tear, 
That  were  the  slaves  of  drink  and  thralls  of 

sleep? 

Was  not  that  nobly  done?     Ay,  and  wisely  too; 
For  'twould  have  anger'd  any  heart  alive, 
To  hear  the  men  deny 't.     So  that,  I  say, 
He  has  borne  all  things  well :  and  I  do  think, 
That  had  he  Duncan's  sons  under  his  key, — 
As,  an't  please  heaven,  he  shall  not, — they 

should  find 

What  'twere  to  kill  a  father ;  so  should  Fleance. 
But,  peace  ! — for  from  broad  words,  and  'cause 

he  fail'd 

His  presence  at  the  tyrant's  feast,  I  hear, 
Macduff  lives  in  disgrace.     Sir,  can  you  tell 
Where  he  bestows  himself? 

Lord.  The  son  of  Duncan, 

From  whom  this  tyrant  holds  the  due  of  birth, 
Lives  in  the  English  court ;  and  is  receiv'd 
Of  the  most  pious  Edward  with  such  grace 
That  the  malevolence  of  fortune  nothing 
Takes  from  his  high  respect :  thither  Macduff 
Is  gone  to  pray  the  holy  king,  upon  his  aid 


in6 


MACBETH, 


[ACT  iv. 


To  wake  Northumberland,  and  warlike  Siward: 
That,  by  the  help  of  these,— with  Him  above 
To  ratify  the  work, — we  may  again 
Give  to  our  tables  meat,  sleep  to  our  nights ; 
Free  from  our  feasts  and  banquets  bloody  knives; 
Do  faithful  homage,  and  receive  free  honours, — 
All  which  we  pine  for  now :  and  this  report 
Hath  so  exasperate  the  king  that  he 
Prepares  for  some  attempt  of  war. 

Len.  Sent  he  to  Macduff? 

Lord.   He  did:  and  with  an  absolute,  Sir, 

not  7, 

The  cloudy  messenger  turns  me  his  back,  [time 
And  hums,  as  who  should  say,  You '//  rue  the 
That  dogs  me  with  this  answer. 

Len.  And  that  well  might 

Advise  him  to  a  caution,  to  hold  what  distance 
His  wisdom  can  provide.     Some  holy  angel 
Fly  to  the  court  of  England,  and  unfold 
His  message  ere  he  come ;  that  a  swift  blessing 
May  soon  return  to  this  our  suffering  country 
Under  a  hand  accurs'd ! 

Lord.  I  '11  send  my  prayers  with  him  ! 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — A  dark  Cave.     In  the  middle,  a 
Caldron  Boiling. 

Thunder.     Enter  the  three  Witches. 

1  Witch.  Thrice  the  brinded  cat  hath  mew'd. 

2  Witch.  Thrice  ;    and  once   the   hedge-pig 

whin'd. 

3  Witch.  Harpier  cries : — 'tis  time,  'tis  time. 

1  Witch.  Round  about  the  caldron  go ; 
In  the  poison'd  entrails  throw. — 
Toad,  that  under  the  cold  stone, 
Days  and  nights  hast  thirty-one 
Swelter'd  venom  sleeping  got, 

Boil  thou  first  i'  the  charmed  pot ! 

All.  Double,  double  toil  and  trouble; 

Fire,  burn ;  and,  caldron,  bubble. 

2  Witch.  Fillet  of  a  fenny  snake, 
In  the  caldron  boil  and  bake; 
Eye  of  newt,  and  toe  of  frog, 
Wool  of  bat,  and  tongue  of  dog, 
Adder's  fork,  and  blind-worm's  sting, 
Lizard's  leg,  and  howlet's  wing, — 
For  a  charm  of  powerful  trouble, 
Like  a  hell -broth  boil  and  bubble. 

All.  Double,  double  toil  and  trouble, 
Fire,  burn;  and,  caldron,  bubble. 

3  Witch.  Scale  of  dragon,  tooth  of  wolf, 
Witches'  mummy,  maw  and  gulf 

Of  the  ravin'd  salt-sea  shark, 
Root  of  hemlock  digg'd  i'  the  dark, 


Liver  of  blaspheming  Jew, 
Gall  of  goat,  and  slips  of  yew 
Sliver'd  in  the  moon's  eclipse, 
Nose  of  Turk,  and  Tartar's  lips, 
Finger  of  birth-strangl'd  babe, 
Ditch-deliver'd  by  a  drab, — 
Make  the  gruel  thick  and  slab : 
Add  thereto  a  tiger's  chaudron, 
For  the  ingredients  of  our  caldron. 

All.  Double,  double  toil  and  trouble ; 
Fire,  burn;  and,  caldron,  bubble. 

2  Witch.  Cool  it  with  a  baboon's  blood, 
Then  the  charm  is  firm  and  good. 

Enter  HECATE. 

Hec.  O,  well  done  !     I  commend  your  pains; 
And  every  one  shall  share  i'  the  gains. 
And  now  about  the  caldron  sing, 
Like  elves  and  fairies  in  a  ring, 
Enchanting  all  that  you  put  in. 

SONG. 

Black  spirits  and  white,  red  spirits  and  gray; 
Mingle,  mingle,  mingle,  you  that  mingle  may. 

[Exit  HECATE. 

2  Witch.   By  the  pricking  of  my  thumbs, 
Something  wicked  this  way  comes : — 
Open,  locks,  whoever  knocks! 

Enter  MACBETH. 

Macb.   How   now,    you   secret,    black,  and 

midnight  hags ! 
What  is't  you  do? 

All.  A  deed  without  a  name. 

Macb.  I  conjure  you,  by  that  which  you  pro- 
fess,— 

Howe'er  you  come  to  know  it, — answer  me : 
Though  you  untie  the  winds,  and  let  them  fight 
Against  the  churches ;  though  the  yesty  waves 
Confound  and  swallow  navigation  up ;     [down; 
Though  bladed  corn  be  lodg'd,  and  trees  blown 
Though  castles  topple  on  their  warders'  heads ; 
Though  palaces  and  pyramids  do  slope 
Their  heads  to  their  foundations;  though  the 

treasure 

Of  nature's  germins  tumble  altogether, 
Even  till  destruction  sicken, — answer  me 
To  what  I  ask  you. 

1  Witch.  Speak. 

2  Witch.  Demand. 

3  Witch.  We '11  answer, 
i  Witch.  Say,  if  thou  'dst  rather  hear  it  from 

our  mouths, 
Or  from  our  masters? 

Macb.  Call  'em,  let  me  see  'em. 

I  Witch.  Pour  in  sow's  blood,  that  hath  eaten 

Her  nine  farrow ;  grease  that 's  sweaten 


SCENE  I.] 


MACBETH. 


III7 


From  the  murderer's  gibbet  throw 
Into  the  flame. 

All.  Come,  high  or  low ; 

Thyself  and  office  deftly  show ! 

Thunder.     An  Apparition  of  an  armed  Head 
rises. 

Macb.  Tell  me,  thou  unknown  power, — 
I  Witch.  He  knows  thy  thought : 

Hear  his  speech,  but  say  thou  naught. 
App.   Macbeth!    Macbeth!    Macbeth!     be- 
ware Macduff;  [enough. 
Beware  the  Thane  of  Fife. — Dismiss  me: — 

[Descends. 

Macb.  Whate'er  thou  art,  for  thy  good  cau- 
tion, thanks;  [word  more, — 
Thou  hast   harp'd   my  fear  aright : — but  one 
I  Witch.  He  will  not  be  commanded  :  here 's 

another, 
More  potent  than  the  first. 

Thunder.     An  Apparition  of  a  bloody  Child 
rises. 

App.  Macbeth!  Macbeth!  Macbeth!— 

Macb.   Had  I  three  ears,  I'd  hear  thee. 

App.  Be  bloody,  bold,  and  resolute;  laugh 

to  scorn 

The  power  of  man,  for  none  of  woman  born 
Shall  harm  Macbeth.  [Descends. 

Macb.  Then  live,  Macduff:  what  need  I  fear 

of thee? 

But  yet  I  '11  make  assurance  double  sure, 
And  take  a  bond  of  fate :  thou  shalt  not  live ; 
That  I  may  tell  pale-hearted  fear  it  lies, 
And  sleep  in  spite  of  thunder. — What  is  this, 

Thunder.     An  Apparition  of  a  Child  crowned, 
with  a  tree  in  his  hand,  rises. 

That  rises  like  the  issue  of  a  king, 

And  wears  upon  his  baby  brow  the  round 

And  top  of  sovereignty? 

All.  Listen,  but  speak  not  to 't. 

App.   Be  lion-mettled,  proud;  and  take  no 

care 

Who  chafes,  who  frets,  or  where  conspirers  are: 
Macbeth  shall  never  vanquish'd  be,  until 
Great  Birnam  wood  to  high  Dunsinane  hill 
Shall  come  against  him.  [Descends. 

Macb.  That  will  never  be : 

Who  can  impress  the  forest ;  bid  the  tree 
Unfix  his   earth-bound   root?      Sweet    bode- 

ments !  good ! 

Rebellion's  head,  rise  never,  till  the  wood 
Of  Birnam  rise,  and  our  high-plac'd  Macbeth 
Shall  live  the  lease  of  nature,  pay  his  breath 
To  time  and  mortal  custom. — Yet  my  heart 
Throbs  to  know  one  thing :  tell  me, — if  your  art 


Can  tell  so  much, — shall  Banquo's  issue  ever 
Reign  in  this  kingdom? 

All.  Seek  to  know  no  more. 

Macb.   I  will  be  satisfied :  deny  me  this, 

And  an  eternal  curse  fall  on  you  1      Let  me 

know : —  [this  ? 

Why  sinks  that  caldron?    and  what  noise  is 

[Hautboys. 

1  Witch.  Show! 

2  Witch.   Show! 

3  Witch.  Show! 

All.  Show  his  eyes,  and  grieve  his  heart ; 
Come  like  shadows,  so  depart ! 

Eight  Kings  appear,  and  pass  over  in  order, 
the  last  with  a  glass  in  his  hand;  BANQU© 
following. 

Macb.  Thou  art  too  like  the  spirit  of  Ban- 
quo  ;  down !  [hair, 
Thy  crown  does  sear  mine  eye-balls : — and  thy 
Thou  other  gold-bound  brow,  is  like  the  first  :-^- 
A  third  is  like  the  former. — Filthy  hags  ! 
Why  do  you  show  me  this? — A  fourth? — Start, 

eyes ! 
What !  will  the  line  stretch  out  to  the  crack  of 

doom? 

Another  yet? — A  seventh? — I  '11  see  no  more: — 
And  yet  the  eighth  appears,  who  bears  a  glass 
Which  shows  me  many  more ;  and  some  I  see 
That  twofold  balls  and  treble  sceptres  carry: 
Horrible  sight ! — Now,  I  see,  'tis  true ; 
For  the  blood-bolter'd  Banquo  smiles  upon  me, 
And  points  at  them  for  his. — What !  is  this  so? 

i  Witch.  Ay,  sir,  all  this  is  so : — but  why 
Stands  Macbeth  thus  amazedly? — 
Come,  sisters,  cheer  we  up  his  sprites, 
And  show  the  best  of  our  delights; 
I  '11  charm  the  air  to  give  a  sound, 
While  you  perform  your  antic  round; 
That  this  great  king  may  kindly  say, 
Our  duties  did  his  welcome  pay. 
[ Music.      The  Witches  dance,  and  then  vanish. 
Macb.  Where  are  they?     Gone? — Let  this 

pernicious  hour 

Stand  aye  accursed  in  the  calendar  ! — 
Come  in,  without  there. 

Enter  LENNOX. 

Len.  What 's  your  grace's  will? 

Macb.  Saw  you  the  weird  sisters? 

Len.  No,  my  lord. 

Macb.  Came  they  not  by  you? 

Len.  No,  indeed,  my  lord. 

Macb.  Infected  be  the  air  whereon  they  ride ; 
And  damn'd  all  those  that  trust  them  ! — I  did 

hear 
The  galloping  of  horse :  who  was 't  came  by  ? 


iiiS 


MACBETH. 


[ACT  iv. 


Len*  'Tis  two  or  three,  my  lord,  that  bring 

you  word 
Macduff  is  fled  to  England. 

Macb.  Fled  to  England  ! 

Len.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Macb.  Time,  thou  anticipat'st  my  dread  ex- 
ploits : 

The  flighty  purpose  never  is  o'ertook 
Unless  the  deed  go  with  it :  from  this  moment 
The  very  firstlings  of  my  heart  shall  be 
The  firstlings  of  my  hand.     And  even  now, 
To  crown  my  thoughts  with  acts,  be  it  thought 

and  done : 

The  castle  of  Macduff  I  will  surprise ; 
Seize  upon  Fife ;  give  to  the  edge  o'  the  sword 
His  wife,  his  babes,  and  all  unfortunate  souls 
That  trace  him  in  his  line.     No  boasting  like 

a  fool ; 

This  deed  I  '11  do  before  this  purpose  cool : 
But  no  more  sights ! — Where  are  these  gentlemen? 
Come,  bring  me  where  they  are.          [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — FIFE.     A  Room  in  MACDUFF'S 
Castle. 

Enter  LADY  MACDUFF,  her  Son,  and  Ross. 

Lady  Macd.  What  had  he  done,  to  make 

him  fly  the  land? 

Ross.  You  must  have  patience,  madam. 
L.  Macd.  He  had  none : 

His  flight  was  madness :  when  our  actions  do  not, 
Our  fears  do  make  us  traitors. 

Ross.  You  know  not 

Whether  it  was  his  wisdom  or  his  fear. 

L.  Macd.  Wisdom !    to   leave  his  wife,   to 

leave  his  babes, 

His  mansion,  and  his  titles,  in  a  place 
From  whence  himself  does  fly  ?   He  loves  us  not : 
He  wants  the  natural  touch ;  for  the  poor  wren, 
The  most  diminutive  of  birds,  will  fight, 
Her  young  ones  in  her  nest,  against  the  owl. 
All  is  the  fear,  and  nothing  is  the  love  ; 
As  little  is  the  wisdom,  where  the  flight 
So  runs  against  all  reason. 

Ross.  My  dearest  coz, 

I   pray  you,    school    yourself:    but,    for   your 

husband, 

He  is  noble,  wise,  judicious,  and  best  knows 
The  fits  o'  the  season.     I  dare  not  speak  much 

further  : 

But  cruel  are  the  times,  when  we  are  traitors, 
And  do  not  know  ourselves ;  when  we  hold 

rumour 

From  what  we  fear,  yet  know  not  what  we  fear, 
But  float  upon  a  wild  and  violent  sea 
Each  way  and  move. — I  take  my  leave  of  you : 
Shall  not  be  long  but  I  '11  be  here  again  : 


Things  at  the  worst  will  cease,  or  else  climb 

upward 

To  what  they  were  before. — My  pretty  cousin, 
Blessing  upon  you  !  [less. 

L.  Macd.  Father'd  he  is,  and  yet  he 's  father- 

Ross.   I  am  so  much  a  fool,  should  I  stay 

longer, 

It  would  be  my  disgrace  and  your  discomfort : 
I  take  my  leave  at  once.  [Exit. 

L.  Macd.  Sirrah,  your  father 's  dead  ; 
And  what  will  you  do  now  ?    How  will  you  live  ? 

Son.  As  birds  do,  mother. 

L.  Macd.  What,  with  worms  and  flies  ? 

Son.  With  what  I  get,  I  mean  ;  and  so  do 
they.  [net  nor  lime, 

L.  Macd.  Poor  bird  !  thou  'dst  never  fear  the 
The  pit-fall  nor  the  gin. 

Son.  Why  should   I,   mother?     Poor   birds 

they  are  not  set  for. 
My  father  is  not  dead,  for  all  your  saying. 

L.  Macd.  Yes,  he  is  dead  :  how  wilt  thou  do 
for  a  father  ? 

Son.  Nay,  how  will  you  do  for  a  husband  ? 

L.  Macd.  Why,  I  can  buy  me  twenty  at  any 
market. 

Son.  Then  you  '11  buy  'em  to  sell  again. 

L.  Macd.  Thou  speak'st  with  all   thy  wit ; 

and  yet,  i'  faith, 
With  wit  enough  for  thee. 

Son.  Was  my  father  a  traitor,  mother  ? 

L.  Macd.  Ay,  that  he  was. 

Son.   What  is  a  traitor  ? 

L.  Macd.  Why,  one  that  swears  and  lies. 

Son.  And  be  all  traitors  that  do  so? 

L.  Macd.  Every  one  that  does  so  is  a  traitor, 
and  must  be  hanged.  [and  lie  ? 

Son.  And  must  they  all  be  hanged  that  swear 

L.  Macd.  Every  one. 

Son.  Who  must  hang  them  ? 

L.  Macd.  Why,  the  honest  men. 

Son.  Then  the  liars  and  swearers  are  fools  : 
for  there  are  liars  and  swearers  enow  to  beat 
the  honest  men,  and  hang  up  them. 

L.  Macd.  Now,  God  help  thee,  poor  mon- 
key !  But  how  wilt  thou  do  for  a  father  ? 

Son.  If  he  were  dead,  you  'd  weep  for  him : 
if  you  would  not,  it  were  a  good  sign  that  I 
should  quickly  have  a  new  father. 

L.  Macd.  Poor  prattler  !  how  thou  talk'st. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Bless  you,  fair  dame !    I  am  not  to 

you  known, 

Though  in  your  state  of  honour  I  am  perfect. 
I  doubt  some  danger  does  approach  you  nearly: 
If  you  will  take  a  homely  man's  advice, 
Be  not  found  here ;  hence,  with  your  little  ones. 


SCENE  III.] 


MACBETH. 


1119 


To  fright  you  thus,  methinks,  I  am  too  savage; 
To  do  worse  to  you  were  fell  cruelty,  [you  ! 
Which  is  too  nigh  your  person.  1  leaven  preserve 
I  dare  abide  no  longer.  [Exit. 

L.  Macd.  Whither  should  I  fly  ? 

I  have  done  no  harm.     But  I  remember  now 
I  am  in  this  earthly  world  ;  where  to  do  harm 
Is  often  laudable  ;  to  do  good,  sometime 
Accounted  dangerous  folly:  why  then,  alas, 
Do  I  put  up  that  womanly  defence,         [faces? 
To  say  I  have  done  no  harm? — What  are  these 

Enter  Murderers. 

I  Mur.  Where  is  your  husband? 

L.  Macd.  I  hope,  in  no  place  so  unsanctified 
Where  such  as  thou  mayst  find  him. 

I  Mur.  He 's  a  traitor. 

Son.  Thou  liest,  thou  shag-hair'd  villain. 

I  Mur.  What,  you  egg?  [Stabbing  him. 
Young  fry  of  treachery ! 

Son.  He  has  kill'd  me,  mother  : 

Run  away,  I  pray  you  !  [Dies. 

[.£;«/ LADY  MACDUFF,  crying  Murder, 
and  pursued  by  the  Murderers. 

SCENE  III. — ENGLAND.    Before  the  KING'S 
Palace. 

Enter  MALCOLM  and  MACDUFF. 

Mai.  Let  us  seek  out  some  desolate  shade, 

and  there 
Weep  our  sad  bosoms  empty. 

Macd.  Let  us  rather 

Hold  fast  the  mortal  sword,  and,  like  good  men, 
Bestride  our  down-fall'n  birthdom:  each  new 
morn  [sorrows 

New  widows  howlj    new  orphans  cry;   new 
Strike  heaven  on  the  face,  that  it  resounds 
As  if  it  felt  with  Scotland,  and  yell'd  out 
Like  syllable  of  dolour. 

Mai.  What  I  believe,  I  '11  wail ; 

What  know,  believe ;  and  what  I  can  redress, 
As  I  shall  find  the  time  to  friend,  I  will. 
What  you  have  spoke,  it  may  be  so  perchance. 
This   tyrant,    whose   sole    name    blisters    our 
tongues,  [well ; 

Was  once  thought  honest :  you  have  lov'd  him 
He  hath  not  touch'd  you  yet.     I  am  young; 
but  something  [dom 

You  may  deserve  of  him  through  me  ;  and  wis- 
To  offer  up  a  weak,  poor,  innocent  lamb 
To  appease  an  angry  god. 

Macd.  I  am  not  treacherous. 

Mai.  But  Macbeth  is. 

A  good  and  virtuous  nature  may  recoil 
In  an  imperial  charge.     But  I  shaJl  crave  your 
pardon ; 


That  which  you  are,  my  thoughts  cannot  trans- 
pose; 

Angels  are  bright  still,  though  the  brightest  fell : 
Though  all  things  foul  would  wear  the  brows 

of  grace, 
Yet  grace  must  still  look  so. 

Macd.  I  have  lost  my  hopes. 

Mai.  Perchance  even  there  where  I  did  find 

my  doubts. 

Why  in  that  rawness  left  you  wife  and  child, — 
Those  precious  motives,  those  strong  knots  of 

love, — 

Without  leave-taking? — I  pray  you, 
Let  not  my  jealousies  be  your  dishonours. 
But  mine  own  safeties :— -you  may  be  rightly 

just, 
Whatever  I  shall  think. 

Macd.  Bleed,  bleed,  poor  country  1 

Great  tyranny,  lay  thou  thy  basis  sure, 
For  goodness  dare  not  check  thee !  wear  thou 

thy  wrongs, 

Thy  title  is  affeer'd. — Fare  thee  well,  lord: 
I  would  not  be  the  villain  that  thou  think'st 
For  the  whole  space  that 's  in  the  tyrant's  grasp, 
And  the  rich  East  to  boot. 

Mai  Be  not  offended  : 

I  speak  not  as  in  absolute  fear  of  you. 
I  think  our  country  sinks  beneath  the  yoke  ; 
It  weeps,  it  bleeds ;  and  each  new  day  a  gash 
Is  added  to  her  wounds :  I  think,  withal, 
There  would  be  hands  uplifted  in  my  right ; 
And  here,  from  gracious  England,  have  I  offer 
Of  goodly  thousands  :  but,  for  all  this, 
When  I  shall  tread  upon  the  tyrant's  head, 
Or  wear  it  on  my  sword,  yet  my  poor  country 
Shall  have  more  vices  than  it  had  before  ; 
More  suffer,  and  more  sundry  ways  than  ever, 
By  him  that  shall  succeed. 

Macd.  What  should  he  be  ? 

Mai.   It  is  myself  I  mean  :  in  whom  I  know 
All  the  particulars  of  vice  so  grafted 
That,  when  they  shall  be  open'd,  black  Macbeth 
Will  seem  as  pure  as  snow  ;  and  the  poor  state 
Esteem  him  as  a  lamb,  being  compar'd 
With  my  confineless  harms. 

Macd.  Not  in  the  legions 

Of  horrid  hell  can  come  a  devil  more  damn'd 
In  evils  to  top  Macbeth. 

Mai.  I  grant  him  bloody, 

Luxurious,  avaricious,  false,  deceitful, 
Sudden,  malicious,  smacking  of  every  sin 
That  has  a  name :  but  there 's  no  bottom,  none, 
In  my  voluptuousness  :  your  wives,  your  daugh- 
ters, [up 
Your  matrons,  and  your  maids,  could  not  fill 
The  cistern  of  my  lust ;  and  my  desire 
All  continent  impediments  would  o'erbear, 


1120 


MACBETH. 


[ACT  iv. 


That  did  oppose  my  will :  better  Macbeth 
Than  such  a  one  to  reign. 

Macd.  Boundless  intemperance 

In  nature  is  a  tyranny ;  it  hath  been 
The  untimely  emptying  of  the  happy  throne, 
And  fall  of  many  kings.     But  fear  not  yet 
To  take  upon  you  what  is  yours  :  you  may 
Convey  your  pleasures  in  a  spacious  plenty, 
And  yet  seem  cold,  the  time  you  may  so  hood- 
wink, [be 
We  have  willing  dames  enough  ;  there  cannot 
That  vulture  in  you,  to  devour  so  many 
As  will  to  greatness  dedicate  themselves, 
Finding  it  so  inclin'd. 

Mai.  With  this  there  grows, 

In  my  most  ill-compos'd  affection,  such 
A  stanchless  avarice,  that,  were  I  king, 
I  should  cut  off  the  nobles  for  their  lands  ; 
Desire  his  jewels,  and  this  other's  house  : 
And  my  more-having  would  be  as  a  sauce 
To  make  me  hunger  more  ;  that  I  should  forge 
Quarrels  unjust  against  the  good  and  loyal, 
Destroying  them  for  wealth. 

Macd.  This  avarice 

Sticks  deeper ;  grows  with  more  pernicious  root 
Than  summer-'seeming  lust ;  and  it  hath  been 
The  sword  of  our  slain  kings  :  yet  do  not  fear ; 
Scotland  hath  foysons  to  fill  up  your  will, 
Of  your  mere  own  :  all  these  are  portable, 
With  other  graces  weigh'd.  [graces, 

Mai.  But  I  have  none :  the  king-becoming 
As  justice,  verity,  temperance,  stableness, 
Bounty,  perseverance,  mercy,  lowliness, 
Devotion,  patience,  courage,  fortitude, 
I  have  no  relish  of  them  ;  but  abound 
In  the  division  of  each  several  crime,      [should 
Acting  it  many  ways.     Nay,  had  I  power,  I 
Pour  the  sweet  milk  of  concord  into  hell, 
Uproar  the  universal  peace,  confound 
All  unity  on  earth. 

Macd.  O  Scotland  !  Scotland  ! 

Mai.  If  such  a  one  be  fit  to  govern,  speak  : 
I  am  as  I  have  spoken. 

Macd.  Fit  to  govern  ! 

No,  not  to  live  !—O  nation  miserable, 
With  an  untitled  tyrant  bloody-scepter'd, 
When  shalt  thou  see  thy  wholesome  days  again, 
Since  that  the  truest  issue  of  thy  throne 
By  his  own  interdiction  stands  accurs'd, 
And  does  blaspheme  his  breed? — Thy  royal 
father  [thee, 

Was  a  most  sainted  king  ;  the  queen  that  bore 
Oftener  upon  her  knees  than  on  her  feet, 
Died  every  day  she  lived.     Fare-thee-well ! 
These  evils  thou  repeat'st  upon  thyself 
Have  banish'd  me  from  Scotland.  — O  my  breast, 
Thy  hope  ends  here  ! 


Mai.  Macduff,  this  noble  passion, 

Child  of  integrity,  hath  from  my  soul 
Wip'd  the  black  scruples,  reconcil'd  my  thoughts 
To  thy  good  truth  and  honour.   Devilish  Macbeth 
By  many  of  these  trains  hath  sought  to  win  me 
Into  his  power ;  and  modest  wisdom  plucks  me 
From  over-credulous  haste :  but  God  above 
Deal  between  thee  and  me !  for  even  now 
I  put  myself  to  thy  direction,  and 
Unspeak  mine  own  detraction  ;  here  abjure 
The  taints  and  blames  I  laid  upon  myself, 
For  strangers  to  my  nature.     I  am  yet 
Unknown  to  woman  ;  never  was  forsworn  ; 
Scarcely  have  coveted  what  was  mine  own  ; 
At  no  time  broke  my  faith  ;  would  not  betray 
The  devil  to  his  fellow  ;  and  delight  [ing- 

No  less  in  truth  than  life :  my  first  false  speak - 
Was  this  upon  myself : — what  I  am  truly, 
Is  thine,  and  my  poor  country's,  to  command : 
Whither,  indeed,  before  thy  here-approach, 
Old  Siward,  with  ten  thousand  warlike  men, 
Already  at  a  point,  was  setting  forth  : 
Now  we  '11  together ;  and  the  chance  of  goodness 
Be  like  our  warranted  quarrel !     Why  are  you 
silent?  [at  once 

Macd.  Such  welcome  and  unwelcome  things 
'Tis  hard  to  reconcile. 

Enter  a  Doctor. 

Mai.  Well ;  more  anon. — Comes  the  king 
forth,  I  pray  you  ?  [souls 

Doct.  Ay,  sir:  there  are  a  crew  of  wretched 
That  stay  his  cure :  their  malady  convinces 
The  great  assay  of  art ;  but,  at  his  touch, 
Such  sanctity  hath  heaven  given  his  hand, 
They  presently  amend. 

Mai.  I  thank  you,  doctor.        [Exit  Doctor. 

Macd.  What 's  the  disease  he  means  ? 

Mai.  'Tis  called  the  evil : 

A  most  miraculous  work  in  this  good  king  ; 
Which  often,  since  my  here-remain  in  England, 
I  have  seen  him  do.     How  he  solicits  heaven, 
Himself    best    knows :     but    strangely- visited 

people, 

All  swoln  and  ulcerous,  pitiful  to  the  eye, 
The  mere  despair  of  surgery,  he  cures ; 
Hanging  a  golden  stamp  about  their  necks, 
Put  on  with  holy  prayers:  and  'tis  spoken, 
To  the  succeeding  royalty  he  leaves 
The  healing  benediction.     With  this  strange 

virtue, 

He  hath  a  heavenly  gift  of  prophecy ; 
And  sundry  blessings  hang  about  his  throne, 
That  speak  him  full  of  grace. 

Macd.  See,  who  comes  here  ? 

Mai.  My  countryman  ;  but  yet  I  know  him 
not. 


SCENE  III.] 


MACBETH. 


1121 


Enter  Ross. 

Macd.  My  ever-gentle  cousin,  welcome  hither. 

Mai.  I  know  him  now.     Good  God,  betimes 

remove 
The  means  that  makes  us  strangers ! 

Ross.  Sir,  amen. 

Macd.  Stands  Scotland  where  it  did  ? 

Ross.  Alas,  poor  country, — 

Almost  afraid  to  know  itself!     It  cannot 
Be  call'd  our  mother,  but  our  grave:  where 

nothing, 

But  who  knows  nothing,  is  once  seen  to  smile; 
Wnere  sighs,  and  groans,  and  shrieks,  that  rent 
the  air,  [seems 

Are  made,  not  mark'd  ;  where  violent  sorrow 
A  modern  ecstacy ;  the  dead  man's  knell 
Is  there  scarce  ask'd  for  who  ;  and  good  men's 

lives 

Expire  before  the  flowers  in  their  caps, 
Dying  or  ere  they  sicken. 

Macd.  O,  relation 

Too  nice,  and  yet  too  true ! 

Mai.  What 's  the  newest  grief? 

Ross.  That  of  an  hour's  age  doth  hiss  the 

speaker ; 
Each  minute  teems  a  new  one. 

Macd.  How  does  my  wife? 

Ross.  Why,  well. 

Macd.  And  all  my  children  ? 

Ross.  Well  too. 

Macd.  The  tyrant  has  not  batter'd  at  their 
peace? 

Ross.  No;   they  were  well  at  peace  when 
I  did  leave  'em. 

Macd.  Be  not  a  niggard  of  your  speech :  how 
goes 't  ?  [tidings, 

Ross.  When  I  came  hither  to  transport  the 
Which  I  have  heavily  borne,  there  ran  a  rumour 
Of  many  worthy  fellows  that  were  out ; 
Which  was  to  my  belief  witness'd  the  rather, 
For  that  I  saw  the  tyrant's  power  a-foot : 
Now  is  the  time  of  help ;  your  eye  in  Scotland 
Would  create  soldiers,  make  our  women  fight, 
To  doff  their  dire  distresses. 

Mai.  Be 't  their  comfort 

We  are  coming  thither :  gracious  England  hath 
Lent  us  good  Siward  and  ten  thousand  men  ; 
An  older  and  a  better  soldier  none 
That  Christendom  gives  out. 

Ross.  Would  I  could  answer 

This  comfort  with  the  like !     But  I  have  words 
That  would  be  howl'd  out  in  the  desert  air, 
Where  hearing  should  not  latch  them. 

Macd.  What  concern  they? 

The  general  cause  ?  or  is  it  a  fee-grief 
Due  to  some  single  breast  ? 


Ross.  No  mind  that 's  honest 

But  in  it  shares  some  woe ;  though  the  main  part 
Pertains  to  you  alone. 

Macd.  If  it  be  mine, 

Keep  it  not  from  me ;  quickly  let  me  have  it. 

Ross.  Let  not  your  ears  despise  my  tongue 
for  ever,  [sound 

Which  shall   possess  them  with  the  heaviest 
That  ever  yet  they  heard. 

Macd.  Hum  !  I  guess  at  it. 

Ross.  Your  castle  is  surpris'd ;  your  wife  and 

babes 

Savagely  slaughter^ :  to  relate  the  manner, 
Were,  on  the  quarry  of  these  murder'd  deer, 
To  add  the  death  of  you. 

Mai.  Merciful  heaven  ! — 

What,  man !  ne'er  pull   your  hat  upon   your 
brows ;  [speak 

Give  sorrow  words:   the  grief  that  does  not 
Whispers  the  o'er-fraught  heart,  and  bids  it 
break. 

Macd.  My  children  too  ? 

Ross.  Wife,  children,  servants,  all 

That  could  be  found. 

Macd.  And  I  must  be  from  thence ! 

My  wife  kill'd  too? 

Ross.  I  have  said. 

Mai.  Be  comforted : 

Let 's  make  us  medicines  of  our  great  revenge, 
To  cure  this  deadly  grief.  [ones  ? 

Macd.  He  has  no  children. — All  my  pretty 
Did  you  say  all ?— O  hell-kite!— All? 
What,  all  my  pretty  chickens  and  their  dam 
At  one  fell  swoop? 

Mai.  Dispute  it  like  a  man. 

Macd.  I  shall  do  so  ; 

But  I  must  also  feel  it  as  a  man  : 
I  cannot  but  remember  such  things  were, 
That  were  most  precious  to  me. — Did  heaven 

look  on, 

And  would  not  take  their  part  ?  Sinful  Macduff, 
They  were  all  struck  for  thee !  naught  that  I  am, 
Not  for  their  own  demerits,  but  for  mine, 
Fell  slaughter  on  their  souls :  heaven  rest  them 
now !  [let  grief 

Mai.  Be  this  the  whetstone  of  your  sword 
Convert  to  anger ;  blunt  not  the  heart,  enrage  it 

Macd.  O,  I  could  play  the  woman  with  mine 
eye,  [heavens. 

And  braggart  with  my  tongue ! — But,   gentle 
Cut  short  all  intermission  ;  front  to  front 
Bring  thou  this  fiend  of  Scotland  and  myself; 
Within  my  sword's  length  set  him ;  if  he  'scape, 
Heaven  forgive  him  too  ! 

Mai.  This  tune  goes  manly. 

Come,  go  we  to  the  king  ;  our  power  is  ready ; 
Our  lack  is  nothing  but  our  leave :  Macbeth 

2  N 


1 122 


MACBETH. 


[ACT  v. 


Is  ripe  for  shaking,  and  the  powers  above 
Put  on  their  instruments.     Receive  what  cheer 

you  may; 
The  night  is  long  that  never  finds  the  day. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.— DUNSINANE.     A  Room  in  the 

Castle. 

Enter  a  Doctor  of  Physic  and  a  Waiting- 
Gentlewoman. 

Doct.  I  have  two  nights  watched  with  you, 
but  can  perceive  no  truth  in  your  report. 
When  was  it  she  last  walked  ? 

Gent.  Since  his  majesty  went  into  the  field, 
I  have  seen  her  rise  from  her  bed,  throw  her 
nightgown  upon  her,  unlock  her  closet,  take 
forth  paper,  fold  it,  write  upon  it,  read  it,  after- 
wards seal  it,  and  again  return  to  bed ;  yet  all 
this  while  in  a  most  fast  sleep. 

Doct.  A  great  perturbation  in  nature, — to 
receive  at  once  the  benefit  of  sleep,  and  do  the 
effects  of  watching ! — In  this  slumbery  agitation, 
besides  her  walking  and  other  actual  perform- 
ances, what,  at  any  time,  have  you  heard  her 
say? 

Gent.  That,  sir,  which  I  will  not  report  after 
her. 

Doct.  You  may  to  me;  and  'tis  most  meet 
you  should. 

Gent.  Neither  to  you  nor  any  one ;  having 
no  witness  to  confirm  my  speech.  Lo  you, 
here  she  comes ! 

Enter  LADY  MACBETH,  with  a  taper. 
This  is  her  very  guise ;  and,  upon  my  life,  fast 
asleep.     Observe  her  ;  stand  close. 

Doct.  How  came  she  by  that  light  ? 

Gent.  Why,  it  stood  by  her:  she  has  light 
by  her  continually ;  'tis  her  command. 

Doct.  You  see,  her  eyes  are  open. 

Gent.  Ay,  but  their  sense  is  shut. 

Doct.  What  is  it  she  does  now?  Look,  how 
she  rubs  her  hands. 

Gent.  It  is  an  accustomed  action  with  her,  to 
seem  thus  washing  her  hands:  I  have  known 
her  continue  in  this  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Lady  M.  Yet  here 's  a  spot. 

Doct.  Hark!  she  speaks:  I  will  set  down 
what  comes  from  her,  to  satisfy  my  remembrance 
the  more  strongly. 

Lady  M.  Out,  damned  spot !  out,  I  say  !— 
One  ;  two  :  why,  then  'tis  time  to  do 't :— Hell 
is  murky!— Fie,  my  lord,  fie!  a  soldier,  and 
afeard?  What  need  we  fear  who  knows  it, 
when  none  can  call  our  power  to  account? — 


Yet  who  would  have  thought  the  old  man  to 
have  had  so  much  blood  in  him  ? 

Doct.  Do  you  mark  that  ? 

Lady  M.  The  Thane  of  Fife  had  a  wife  ; 
where  is  she  now? — What,  will  these  hands 
ne'er  be  clean  ? — No  more  o'  that,  my  lord,  no 
more  o'  that :  you  mar  all  with  this  starting. 

Doct.  Go  to,  go  to ;  you  have  known  what 
you  should  not. 

Gent.  She  has  spoke  what  she  should  not,  I 
am  sure  of  that :  heaven  knows  what  she  has 
known. 

Lady  M.  Here 's  the  smell  of  the  blood  still : 
all  the  perfumes  of  Arabia  will  not  sweeten  this 
little  hand.  Oh,  oh,  oh ! 

Doct.  What  a  sigh  is  there!  The  heart  is 
sorely  charged. 

Gent.  I  would  not  have  such  a  heart  in  my 
bosom  for  the  dignity  of  the  whole  body. 

Doct.  Well,  well,  well,— 

Gent.   Pray  God  it  be,  sir. 

Doct.  This  disease  is  beyond  my  practice :  yet 
I  have  known  those  which  have  walked  in  their 
sleep  who  have  died  holily  in  their  beds. 

Lady  M.  Wash  your  hands,  put  on  your 
nightgown  ;  look  not  so  pale : — I  tell  you  yet 
again,  Banquo  's  buried ;  he  cannot  come  out 
on 's  grave. 

Doct.  Even  so  ? 

Lady  M.  To  bed,  to  bed  ;  there 's  knocking 
at  the  gate :  come,  come,  come,  come,  give  me 
your  hand :  what 's  done  cannot  be  undone :  to 
bed,  to  bed,  to  bed.  [Exit. 

Doct.  Will  she  go  now  to  bed  ? 

Gent.  Directly.  [deeds 

Doct.  Foul  whisperings  are  abroad:  unnatural 
Do  breed  unnatural  troubles:  infected  minds 
To  their  deaf  pillows  will  discharge  their  secrets. 
More  needs  she  the  divine  than  the  physician. — 
God,  God  forgive  us  all ! — Look  after  her  ; 
Remove  from  her  the  means  of  all  annoyance, 
And  still  keep  eyes  upon  her : — so,  good-night : 
My  mind  she  has  mated,  and  amaz'd  my  sight : 
I  think,  but  dare  not  speak. 

Gent.  Good-night,  good  doctor. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  The  Country  near  Dunsinane. 

Enter,  with  drum  and  colours,   MENTEITH, 
CAITHNESS,  ANGUS,  LENNOX,  and  Soldiers. 

Ment.  The  English  power  is  near,  led  on 

by  Malcolm, 

His  uncle  Siward,  and  the  good  Macduff. 
Revenges  burn  in  them  ;  for  their  dear  causes 
Would  to  the  bleeding  and  the  grim  alarm 
Excite  the  mortified  man. 


SCENE  III.] 


MACBETH. 


H23 


Ang.  Near  Birnam  wood 

Shall  we  well  meet  them ;  tha,.  way  are  they 
coming. 

Caith.  Who  knows  if  Donalbain  be  with  his 
brother  ? 

Len.  For  certain,  sir,  he  is  not :  I  have  a  file 
Of  all  the  gentry  :  there  is  Siward's  son, 
And  many  unrough  youths,  that  even  now 
Protest  their  first  of  manhood. 

Ment.  What  does  the  tyrant  ? 

Caith.  Great  Dunsinane  he  strongly  fortifies: 
Some  say  he 's  mad ;  others,  that  lesser  hate 

him, 

Do  call  it  valiant  fury :  but,  for  certain, 
He  cannot  buckle  his  distemper'd  course 
Within  the  belt  of  rule. 

Ang.  Now  does  he  feel 

His  secret  murders  sticking  on  his  hands  ; 
Now  minutely  revolts  upbraid  his  faith-breach; 
Those  he  commands  move  only  in  command, 
Nothing  in  love  :  now  does  he  feel  his  title 
Hang  loose  about  him,  like  a  giant's  robe 
Upon  a  dwarfish  thief. 

Ment.  Who,  then,  shall  blame 

His  pester'd  senses  to  recoil  and  start, 
When  all  that  is  within  him  does  condemn 
Itself  for  being  there  ? 

Caith.  Well,  march  we  on, 

To  give  obedience  where  'tis  truly  ow'd  : 
Meet  we  the  medicine  of  the  sickly  weal ; 
And  with  him  pour  we,  in  our  country's  purge, 
Each  drop  of  us. 

Len.  Or  so  much  as  it  needs, 

To  dew  the  sovereign  flower,  and  drown  the 

weeds. 
Make  we  our  march  towards  Birnam. 

[Exeunt,  marching. 

SCENE  III.— DUNSINANE.     A  Room  in  the 
Castle. 

Enter  MACBETH,  Doctor,  and  Attendants. 

Macb.   Bring  me  no  more  reports  ;  let  them 

fly  all : 

Till  Birnam  wood  remove  to  Duneinane 
I  cannot  taint   with   fear.      What's  the  boy 

Malcolm  ? 
Was  he  not  born  of  woman  ?     The  spirits  that 

know 
A.11  mortal  consequences  have  pronounc'd  me 

thus, —  {woman 

Fear  not,  Macbeth;    no  man  that's  born  of 
Shall  e'er  have  power  upon  thee. — Then  fly, 

false  thanes, 

And  mingle  with  the  English  epicures : 
The  mind  I  sway  by,  and  the  heart  I  bear, 
Shall  never  sag  with  doubt  nor  shake  with  fear. 


Enter  a  Servant. 

The  devil  damn  thee  black,  thou  cream -fac'd 

loon  ! 
Where  gott'st  thou  that  goose  look  ? 

Serv.  There  is  ten  thousand — 

Macb.  Geese,  villain  ? 

Serv.  Soldiers,  sir. 

Macb.  Go,  prick  thy  face,  and  over-red  thy 

fear, 

Thou  lily-liver'd  boy.     What  soldiers,  patch  ? 
Death  of  thy  soul  !  those  linen  cheeks  of  thine 
Are  counsellors  to  fear.     What  soldiers,  whey- 
face? 

Serv.  The  English  force,  so  please  you. 

Macb.  Take  thy  face  hence.     {Exit  Servant. 
Seyton  ! — I  am  sick  at  heart, 
When  I  behold— Seyton,  I  say  ! — This  push 
Will  chair  me  ever,  or  disseat  me  now. 
I  have  liv'd  long  enough  :  my  way  of  life 
Is  fall'n  into  the  sear,  the  yellow  leaf ; 
And  that  which  should  accompany  old  age, 
As  honour,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends, 
I  must  not  look  to  have  ;  but,  in  their  stead, 
Curses    not    loud    but    deep,    mouth-honour, 
breath,  [dare  not. 

Which  the  poor  heart  would  fain  deny,  and 
Seyton  !— 

Enter  SEYTON. 

Sey.  What  is  your  gracious  pleasure  ? 

Macb.  What  news  more  ? 

Sey.  All  is  confirm'd,  my  lord,  which  was 
reported.  [be  hack'd. 

Macb.  I  '11  fight  till  from  my  bones  my  flesh 
Give  me  my  armour. 

Sey.  'Tis  not  needed  yet. 

Macb.  I  '11  put  it  on. 

Send  out  more  horses,  skirr  the  country  round; 
Hang  those  that  talk  of  fear. — Give  me  mine 

armour. — 
How  does  your  patient,  doctor  ? 

Doct.  Not  so  sick,  my  lord, 

As  she  is  troubled  with  thick-coming  fancies, 
That  keep  her  from  her  rest. 

Macb.  Cure  her  of  that : 

Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseas'd  ; 
Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow  ; 
Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain ; 
And  with  some  sweet  oblivious  antidote 
Cleanse  the  stuffd  bosom  of  that  perilous  stuff 
Which  weighs  upon  the  heart  ? 

Doct.  Therein  the  patient 

Must  minister  to  himself.  [of  it. — 

Macb.  Throw  physic  to  the  dogs, — I  '11  none 
Come,    put   mine  armour  on ;    give   me   my 
staff:— 


1124 


MACBETH. 


[ACT  v. 


Seyton,  send  out. — Doctor,  the  thanes  fly  from 
me. —  [cast 

Come,  sir,  despatch. — If  thou  couldst,  doctor, 
The  water  of  my  land,  find  her  disease, 
And  purge  it  to  a  sound  and  pristine  health, 
I  would  applaud  thee  to  the  very  echo, 
That  should  applaud  again. — Pull 't  off,  I  say. — 
What  rhubarb,  senna,  or  what  purgative  drug, 
Would  scour  these  English   hence?      Hear'st 
thou  of  them  ?  [tion 

Doct.  Ay,  my  good  lord  ;  your  royal  prepara- 
Makes  us  hear  something. 

Macb.  Bring  it  after  me. — 

I  will  not  be  afraid  of  death  and  bane, 
Till  Birnam  forest  come  to  Dunsinane. 

[Exeunt  all  except  Doctor. 
Doct.  Were  I  from  Dunsinane  away  and  clear, 
Profit  again  should  hardly  draw  me  here. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  IV. — Country  near  Dunsinane  :  a 
Wood  in  view. 

Enter,  with  drum  and  colours,  MALCOLM,  old 
SiWARDa^^zVSon,  MACDUFF,  MENTEITH, 
CAITHNESS,  ANGUS,  LENNOX,  Ross,  and 
Soldiers,  marching. 

Mai.  Cousins,  I  hope  the  days  are  near  at 

hand 
That  chambers  will  be  safe. 

Ment.  We  doubt  it  nothing. 

Siw.  What  wood  is  this  before  us? 

Ment,  The  wood  of  Birnam. 

Mai.  Let   every  soldier   hew  him  down   a 
bough,  [shadow 

And    bear 't    before    him ;    thereby   shall   we 
The  numbers  of  our  host,  and  make  discovery 
Err  in  report  of  us. 

Sold.  It  shall  be  done.         [tyrant 

Siw.  We  learn  no  other  but  the  confident 
Keeps  still  in  Dunsinane,  and  will  endure 
Our  setting  down  before 't. 

Mai.  'Tis  his  main  hope  : 

For  where  there  is  advantage  to  be  given, 
Both  more  and  less  have  given  him  the  revolt ; 
And  none  serve  with  him  but  constrained  things, 
Whose  hearts  are  absent  too. 

Macd.  Let  our  just  censures 

Attend  the  true  event,  and  put  we  on 
Industrious  soldiership. 

Siw.  The  time  approaches, 

That  will  with  due  decision  make  us  know 
What  we  shall  say  we  have,  and  what  we  owe. 
Thoughts  speculative  their  unsure  hopes  relate  ; 
But  certain  issue  strokes  must  arbitrate  : 
Towards  which  advance  the  war. 

[Exeunt^  marching. 


SCENE  V. — DUNSINANE.     Within  the  Castle. 

Entert   with   drum  and  colours^    MACBETH, 
SEYTON,  and  Soldiers. 

Macb.  Hang  out   our  banners   on   the  out- 
ward walls  ; 

The  cry  is  still.  They  come:  our  castle's  strength 
Will  laugh  a  siege  to  scorn  :  here  let  them  lie 
Till  famine  and  the  ague  eat  them  up : 
Were  they  not  forc'd  with  those  that  should  be 
ours,  [beard, 

We  might  have  met  them  dareful,   beard  to 
And  beat  them  backward  home. 

[A  cry  of  women  within. 
What  is  that  noise  ? 
Sey.   It  is  the  cry  of  women,  my  good  lord. 

[Exit. 

Macb.  I  have  almost  forgot  the  taste  of  fears : 
The  time  has  been,  my  senses  would  have  cool'd 
To  hear  a  night-shriek  ;  and  my  fell  of  hair 
Would  at  a  dismal  treatise  rouse  and  stir 
As   life  were   in 't :    I  have   supp'd  full  with 

horrors ; 

Direness,  familiar  to  my  slaught'rous  thoughts, 
Cannot  once  start  me. 

Re-enter  SEYTON. 

Wherefore  was  that  cry? 

Sey.  The  queen,  my  lord,  is  dead. 

Macb.  She  should  have  died  hereafter ; 
There  would  have  been  a  time  for  such  a  word. — 
To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow, 
Creeps  in  this  petty  pace  from  day  to  day, 
To  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time  ; 
And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 
The  way  to  dusty  death.     Out ,  out ,  brief  candle ! 
Life 's  but  a  walking  shadow  ;  a  poor  player, 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage, 
And  then  is  heard  no  more  :  it  is  a  tale 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury, 
Signifying  nothing. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Thou   com'st  to  use   thy  tongue  ;    thy  story 

quickly. 

Mess.  Gracious  my  lord, 
I  should  report  that  which  I  say  I  saw, 
But  know  not  how  to  do  it. 

Macb.  Well,  say,  sir. 

Mess.  As  I  did  stand  my  watch  upon  the  hill, 
I  look'd  toward  Birnam,  and  anon,  methought, 
The  wood  began  to  move. 

Macb.  Liar,  and  slave  ! 

[Striking  him. 

Mess.  Let  me  endure  your  wrath,  if 't  be  not 
so. 


SCENE  VI.] 


MACBETH. 


1125 


Within  this  three  mile  may  you  see  it  coming  ; 
I  say,  a  moving  grove. 

Macb.  If  thou  speak'st  false, 

Upon  the  next  tree  shalt  thou  hang  alive, 
Till  famine  cling  thee  :  if  thy  speech  be  sooth, 
I  care  not  if  thou  dost  for  me  as  much. — 
I  pull  in  resolution  ;  and  begin 
To  doubt  the  equivocation  of  the  fiend 
That  lies  like  truth:  Fear  not,  till  Birnam  wood 
Do  come  to  Dunsinane  ; — and  now  a  wood 
Comes   toward   Dunsinane. — Arm,    arm,   and 

out ! — 

If  this  which  he  avouches  does  appear, 
There  is  nor  flying  hence  nor  tarrying  here. 
I  'gin  to  be  a- weary  of  the  sun,  [done. — 

And  wish  the  estate  o'  the  world  were  now  un- 
Ring  the  alarum-bell  ! — Blow,   wind  !    come, 

wrack ! 
At  least  we  '11  die  with  harness  on  our  back. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI. — The  same.     A  Plain  before  the 
Castle. 

Enter ;  with  drum  and  colour s>  MALCOLM,  old 
SIWARD,  MACDUFF,  &c.,  and  their  Army, 
with  boughs. 

Mai.  Now  near  enough ;  your  leafy  screens 

throw  down, 
And  show  like  those  you  are. — You,  worthy 

uncle, 

Shall,  with  my  cousin,  your  right-noble  son, 
Lead  our  first  battle :  worthy  Macduff  and  we 
Shall  take  upon  's  what  else  remains  to  do, 
According  to  our  order. 

Siw.  Fare  you  well. — 

Do  we  but  find  the  tyrant's  power  to-night, 
Let  us  be  beaten,  if  we  cannot  fight. 

Macd.  Make  all  our  trumpets  speak  ;   give 

them  all  breath, 

Those  clamorous  harbingers  of  blood  and  death. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII.— The  same.     Another  part  of  the 
Plain. 

Alarums.     Enter  MACBETH. 

Macb.  They  have  tied  me  to  a  stake  ;  I  can- 
not fly, 

But,  bear-like,  I  must  fight  the  course. — 
What 'she 

That  was  not  born  of  woman  ?     Such  a  one 

Am  I  to  fear,  or  none. 

Enter  young  SlWARD. 

Yo.  Siw.  What  is  thy  name  ? 

Macb.  Thou'  It  be  afraid  to  hear  it. 


Yo.  Siw.  No ;  though  thou  call'st  thyself  a 

hotter  name 
Than  any  is  in  hell. 

Macb.  My  name 's  Macbeth. 

Yo.  Siw.  The  devil  himself  could  not  pro- 
nounce a  title 
More  hateful  to  mine  ear. 
Macb.  No,  nor  more  fearful. 

Yo.  Siw.  Thou  liest,  abhorred  tyrant ;  with 

my  sword 
I  '11  prove  the  lie  thou  speak'st. 

[They  fight,  and  young  SIWARD  is  slain. 
Macb.  Thou  wast  born  of  woman. — 

But  swords  I  smile  at,  weapons  laugh  to  scorn, 
Brandish'd  by  man  that 's  of  a  woman  born. 

[Exit. 

Alarums.    Enter  MACDUFF. 

Macd.    That    way    the    noise    is. — Tyrant, 

show  thy  face  ! 

If  thou  be  'st  slain,  and  with  no  stroke  of  mine, 
My  wife  and  children's  ghosts  will  haunt  me 

still. 

I  cannot  strike  at  wretched  kerns,  whose  arms 
Are  hir'd  to  bear  their   staves  ;   either  thou, 

Macbeth, 

Or  else  my  sword,  with  an  unbatter'd  edge, 
I  sheathe  again  undeeded.     There  thou  shouldst 

be; 

By  this  great  clatter,  one  of  greatest  note 
Seems  bruited.     Let  me  find  him,  fortune! 
And  more  I  beg  not.  [Exit.     Alarums. 

Enter  MALCOLM  and  old  SIWARD. 

Siw.  This  way,  my  lord ;— the  castle 's  gently 

render'd : 

The  tyrant's  people  on  both  sides  do  fight ; 
The  noble  thanes  do  bravely  in  the  war  ; 
The  day  almost  itself  professes  yours, 
And  little  is  to  do. 

Mai.  We  have  met  with  foes 

That  strike  beside  us. 

Siw.  Enter,  sir,  the  castle. 

[Exeunt.     Alarums. 

SCENE  VIII.— 77^  same.     Another  part  of  the 
Plain. 

Enter  MACBETH. 

Macb.  Why,  should  I  play  the  Roman  fool, 
and  die  [gashes 

On  mine  own  sword?  whiles  I  see  lives,  the 
Do  better  upon  them. 

Enter  MACDUFF. 

Macd.  Turn,  hell-hound,  turn  ! 

Macb.  Of  all  men  else  I  have  avoided  thee  : 


1 126 


MACBETH. 


[ACT  v. 


But  get  thee  back ;  my  soul  is  too  much  charg'd 
With  blood  of  thine  already. 

Macd.  I  have  no  words, — 

My  voice  is  in  my  sword :  thou  bloodier  villain 
Than  terms  can  give  thee  out !         [  They  fight. 

Macb.  Thou  losest  labour: 

As  easy  mayst  thou  the  intrenchant  air 
With  thy  keen  sword   impress,  as  make  me 

bleed: 

Let  fall  thy  blade  on  vulnerable  crests  ; 
I  bear  a  charmed  life,  which  must  not  yield 
To  one  of  woman  born. 

Macd.  Despair  thy  charm  ; 

And  let  the  angel  whom  thou  still  hast  serv'd 
Tell  thee,  Macduff  was  from  his  mother's  womb 
Untimely  ripp'd.  [so, 

Macb.  Accursed  be  that  tongue  that  tells  me 
For  it  hath  cow'd  my  better  part  of  man ! 
And  be  these  juggling  fiends  no  more  believ'd, 
That  palter  with  us  in  a  double  sense  ; 
That  keep  the  word  of  promise  to  our  ear, 
And  break  it  to  our  hope  ! — I  '11  not  fight  with 
thee. 

Macd.  Then  yield  thee,  coward, 
And  live  to  be  the  show  and  gaze  o'  the  time : 
We  '11  have  thee,  as  our  rarer  monsters  are, 
Painted  upon  a  pole,  and  underwrit, 
Here  may  you  see  the  tyrant. 

Macb.  I  will  not  yield, 

To  kiss  the  ground  before  young  Malcolm's  feet, 
And  to  be  baited  with  the  rabble's  curse. 
Though  Birnam  wood  be  come  to  Dunsinane, 
And  thou  oppos'd,  being  of  no  woman  born, 
Yet  I  will  try  the  last.     Before  my  body 
I  throw  my  warlike  shield:  lay  on,  Macduff; 
And   damn'd   be   him   that   first   cries,    Bold, 
enough!  [Exeunt,  fighting. 

Retreat.  Flourish.  Enter,  with  drum  and 
colours,  MALCOLM,  old  SIWARD,  Ross, 
LENNOX,  ANGUS,  CAITHNESS,  MENTEITH, 
and  Soldiers. 

Mai.  I  would  the  friends  we  miss  were  safe 
arriv'd.  [see, 

Siw.  Some  must  go  off;  and  yet,  by  these  I 
So  great  a  day  as  this  is  cheaply  bought. 

Mai.  Macduff  is  missing,  and  your  noble  son. 
Ross.  Your  son,  my  lord,  has  paid  a  soldier's 

debt: 
He  only  liv'd  but  till  he  was  a  man  ; 


The  which  no  sooner  had  his  prowess  confirm'd 
In  the  unshrinking  station  where  he  fought, 
But  like  a  man  he  died. 

Siw.  Then  he  is  dead? 

Ross.  Ay,  and  brought  off  the  field :    your 

cause  of  sorrow 

Must  not  be  measur'd  by  his  worth,  for  then 
It  hath  no  end. 

Siw.  Had  he  his  hurts  before  ? 

Ross.  Ay,  on  the  front. 

Siw.  Why,  then,  God's  soldier  be  he ! 

Had  I  as  many  sons  as  I  have  hairs, 
I  would  not  wish  them  to  a  fairer  death : 
And,  so  his  knell  is  knoll'd. 

Mai.  He 's  worth  more  sorrow, 

And  that  I  '11  spend  for  him. 

Siw.  He 's  worth  no  more  : 

They  say  he  parted  well,  and  paid  his  score : 
And  so,  God  be  with  him  ! — Here  comes  newer 
comfort. 

Re-enter  MACDUFF,  with  MACBETH'S  head. 

Macd.  Hail,  king !  for  so  thou  art :  behold, 

where  stands 

The  usurper's  cursed  head :  the  time  is  free : 
I  see  thee  compass'd  with  thy  kingdom's  pearl 
That  speak  my  salutation  in  their  minds  ; 
Whose  voices  I  desire  aloud  with  mine, — 
Hail,  King  of  Scotland ! 

All.  Hail,  King  of  Scotland  ! 

[Flourish. 

Mai.  We  shall  not  spend  a  large  expense  of 

time 

Before  we  reckon  with  your  several  loves, 
And  make  us  even  with  you.     My  thanes  and 

kinsmen, 

Henceforth  be  earls,  the  first  that  ever  Scotland 
In  such  an  honour  nam'd.     What 's  more  to  do, 
Which  would  be  planted  newly  with  the  time, — 
As  calling  home  our  exil'd  friends  abroad, 
That  fled  the  snares  of  watchful  tyranny; 
Producing  forth  the  cruel  ministers 
Of  this  dead  butcher,  and  his  fiend-like  queen, — 
Who,  as  'tis  thought,  by  self  and  violent  hands 
Took  off  her  life  ;— this,  and  what  needful  else 
That  calls  upon  us,  by  the  grace  of  Grace, 
We  will  perform  in  measure,  time,  and  place: 
So,  thanks  to  all  at  once,  and  to  each  one, 
Whom  we  invite  to  see  us  crown'd  at  Scone. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt. 

gfifi&f  I  mA 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


CLAUDIUS,  King  of  Denmark. 

HAMLET,  Son  to  the  former  and  Nephew  to  the 

present  King. 

POLONIUS,  Lord  Chamberlain. 
HORATIO,  Friend  to  HAMLET. 
LAERTES,  Son  to  POLONIUS. 
VOLTIMAND, 
CORNELIUS, 
ROSENCRANTZ, 
GUILDENSTERN, 

OSRIC, 

A  Gentleman, 
A  Priest. 
MARCELLUS, 
BERNARDO, 


Courtiers. 


*'   }  Officers. 


FRANCISCO,  a  Soldier. 

REYNALDO,  Servant  to  POLONIUS. 

Players. 

Two  Clowns,  Grave-diggers. 

FORTINBRAS,  Prince  of  Norway. 

A  Captain. 

English  Ambassadors. 

Ghost  of  HAMLET'S  Father. 

GERTRUDE,  Queen  of  Denmark,  and  Mother 

of  HAMLET. 
OPHELIA,  Daughter  to  POLONIUS. 

Lords,    Ladies,    Officers,     Soldiers,     Sailors, 
Messengers,  and  other  Attendants. 


SCENE,— ELSINORE. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I. 


-ELSINORE.     A  Platform  before  the 
Castle. 


FRANCISCO  at  his  post.     Enter  to  him 

BERNARDO. 
Ber.  Who's  there? 

Fran.       Nay,  answer  me :  stand,  and  unfold 
Yourself. 

Ber.  Long  live  the  king  ! 

Fran.  Bernardo  ? 

Ber.  He. 

Fran.  You  come  most  carefully  upon  your 

hour. 
Ber.  'Tis  now  struck  twelve ;  get  thee  to  bed, 

Francisco. 
Fran.  For  this  relief  much  thanks :  'tis  bitter 

cold, 
And  I  am  sick  at  heart. 

Ber.  Have  you  had  quiet  guard  ? 
Fran.  Not  a  mouse  stirring. 

Ber.  Well,  good-night. 
If  you  do  meet  Horatio  and  Marcellus, 
The  rivals  of  my  watch,  bid  them  make  haste. 
Fran.  I   think    I   hear   them.— Stand,   ho! 
Who  is  there? 

Enter  HORATIO  and  MARCELLUS. 
Hor.  Friends  to  this  ground. 
Mar.  And  liegemen  to  the  Dane. 

Fran.  Give  you  good-night. 


Mar.  O,  farewell,  honest  soldier: 

Who  hath  reliev'd  you  ? 

Fran.  Bernardo  has  my  place. 

Give  you  good-night.  {Exit. 

Mar.  Holla!  Bernardo! 

Ber.  Say. 

What,  is  Horatio  there  ? 

Hor.  A  piece  of  him. 

Ber.    Welcome,    Horatio: — welcome,   good 
Marcellus.  [night  ? 

Mar.  What,  has  this  thing  appear'd  again  to- 

Ber.   I  have  seen  nothing. 

Mar.   Horatio  says  'tis  but  our  fantasy, 
And  will  not  let  belief  take  hold  of  him  ^ 
Touching  this  dreaded  sight,  twice  seen  of  us : 
Therefore  I  have  entreated  him  along 
With  us  to  watch  the  minutes  of  this  night ; 
That,  if  again  this  apparition  come 
He  may  approve  our  eyes  and  speak  to  it. 

Hor.  Tush,  tush,  'twill  not  appear. 

Ber.  Sit  down  awhile, 

And  let  us  once  again  assail  your  ears, 
That  are  so  fortified  against  our  story, 
What  we  two  nights  have  seen. 

Hor.  Well,  sit  we  down, 

And  let  us  hear  Bernardo  speak  of  this. 

Ber.  Last  night  of  all, 
When  yon  same  star  that 's  westward  from  the 

pole 

Had   made  his  course  to  illume  that   part  of 
heaven 


1 128 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[ACT 


Where  now  it  burns,  Marcellus  and  myself, 
The  bell  then  beating  one, —        [comes  again  ! 
Mar.  Peace,  break  thee  off;  look  where  it 

Enter  Ghost,  armed. 

Ber.   In  the  same  figure,  like  the  king  that 's 
dead.  [Horatio. 

Mar.  Thou    art   a    scholar ;    speak    to    it, 

Ber.  Looks  it  not  like  the  king  ?  mark  it, 
Horatio.  [and  wonder. 

Hor.   Most  like: — it  harrows  me  with  fear 

Btr.   It  would  be  spoke  to. 

Mar.  Question  it,  Horatio. 

Hor.   What  art  thou,  that  usurp'st  this  time 

of  night, 

Together  with  that  fair  and  warlike  form 
In  which  the  majesty  of  buried  Denmark 
Did   sometimes  march?    by  heaven   I  charge 
thee,  speak! 

Mar.   It  is  offe  ded. 

Ber.  See,  it  stalks  away ! 

Hor.   Stay!    speak,   speak!    I  charge  thee, 
speak !  [Exzt  Ghost. 

Mar.  'Tis  gone,  and  will  not  answer,     [pale : 

Ber.  How  now,  Horatio !  you  tremble  and  look 
Is  not  this  something  more  than  fantasy? 
What  think  you  on  \  ? 

Hor.  Before  my  God,  I  might  not  this  believe 
Without  the  sensible  and  true  avouch 
Of  mine  own  eyes. 

Mar.  Is  it  not  like  the  king  ? 

Hor.  As  thou  art  to  thyself : 
Such  was  the  very  armour  he  had  on 
When  he  the  ambitious  Norway  combated  ; 
So  frown'd  he  once  when,  in  an  angry  parle, 
He  smote  the  sledded  Polacks  on  the  ice. 
'Tis  strange.  '  [hour, 

Mar.  Thus  twice  before,  and  just  at  this  dead 
With  martial  stalk  hath  he  gone  by  our  watch. 

Hor.  In  what  particular  thought  to  work  I 

know  not ; 

But,  in  the  gross  and  scope  of  my  opinion, 
This  bodes  some  strange  eruption  to  our  state. 

Mar.  Good  now,  sit  down,  and  tell  me,  he 

that  knows, 

Why  this  same  strict  and  most  observant  watch 
So  nightly  toils  the  subject  of  the  land ; 
And  why  such  daily  cast  of  brazen  cannon, 
And  foreign  mart  for  implements  of  war ;    [task 
Why  such  impress  of  shipwrights,  whose  sore 
Does  not  divide  the  Sunday  from  the  week  ; 
What  might  be  toward,  that  this  sweaty  haste 
Doth  make  the  night  joint-labourer  with  the  day: 
Who  is 't  that  can  inform  me  ? 

Hor.  That  on  I ; 

At  least,  the  whisper  goes  so.     Our  last  king, 
Whose  image  even  but  now  appear'd  to  us, 


Was,  as  you  know,  by  Fortinbras  of  Norway, 
Thereto  prick'd  on  by  a  most  emulate  pride, 
Dar'd  to  the   combat ;   in   which  our   valiant 

Hamlet, —  [him, — 

For  so  this  side  of  our  known  world  esteem'd 
Did  slay   this  Fortinbras ;    who,   by  a  seal'd 

compact, 

Well  ratified  by  law  and  heraldry, 
Did  forfeit,  with  his  life,  all  those  his  lands, 
Which  he  stood  seiz'd  of,  to  the  conqueror: 
Against  the  which,  a  moiety  com  peter 
Was  gaged  by  our  king  ;  which  had  return'd 
To  the  inheriiance  of  Fort  in  bras,        [covenant, 
Had   he   been    vanquisher ;    as   by   the   same 
And  carriage  of  the  article  design'd,          [bras, 
His  fell  to  Hamlet.     Now,  sir,  young  Fortin- 
Of  unimproved  mettle  hot  and  full, 
Hath  in  the  skirts  of  Norway,  here  and  there, 
Shark'd  up  a  list  of  landless  rcsolutes, 
For  food  and  diet,  to  some  enterprise 
That  hath  a  stomach  in 't :  which  is  no  other, — 
As  it  doth  well  appear  unto  our  state, — 
But  to  recover  of  us  by  strong  hand, 
And  terms  compulsative,  those  foresaid  lands 
So  by  his  father  lost :  and  this,  I  take  it, 
Is  the  main  motive  of  our  preparations, 
The  source  of  this  our  watch,  and  the  chief  head 
Of  this  post-haste  and  romage  in  the  land. 
Ber.   I  think  it  be  no  other,  but  e'en  so : 
Well  may  it  sort,  that  this  portentous  figure 
Comes  armed  through  our  watch ;  so  like  the 

king 
That  was  and  is  the  question  of  these  wars. 

Hor.  A  mote  it  is  to  trouble  the  mind's  eye. 
In  the  most  high  and  palmy  state  of  Rome, 
A  little  ere  the  mightiest  Julius  fell,          [dead 
The  graves  stood  tenantless,  and  the  sheeted 
Did  squeak  and  gibber  in  the  Roman  streets : 
As,  stars  with  trains  of  fire  and  dews  of  blood, 
Disasters  in  the  sun  ;  and  the  moist  star, 
Upon  whose  influence  Neptune's  empire  stands, 
Was  sick  almost  to  doomsday  with  eclipse : 
And  even  the  like  precurse  of  fierce  events, — 
As  harbingers  preceding  still  the  fates, 
And  prologue  to  the  omen  coming  on, — 
Have  heaven  and  earth  together  demonstrated 
Unto  our  climature  and  countrymen. — 
But,  soft,  behold  !  lo,  where  it  comes  again  ! 

Re-enter  Ghost. 

I  '11  cross  it,  though  it  blast  me.— Stay,  illusion! 

If  thou  hast  any  sound  or  use  of  voice, 

Speak  to  me : 

If  there  be  any  good  thing  to  be  done, 

That  may  to  thee  do  ease,  and  grace  to  me, 

Speak  to  me : 

If  thou  art  privy  to  thy  country's  fate, 


SCENE  II.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


1129 


Which,  happily,  foreknowing  may  avoid, 
O,  speak  ! 

Or  if  thou  hast  uphoarded  in  thy  life 
Extorted  treasure  in  the  womb  of  earth, 
For  which,   they  say,    you    spirits    oft   walk 
in  death,  [Cock  crows. 

Speak  of  it  :  —  stay,  and  speak  !  —  Stop  it,  Mar- 
cellus. 

Mar.  Shall  I  strike  at  it  with  my  partisan  ? 

Hor.  Do,  if  it  will  not  stand. 

Ber.  Tis  here  ! 

Hor.  'Tis  here  ! 

Mar.  'Tis  gone  !  [Exit  Ghost. 

We  do  it  wrong,  being  so  majestical, 
To  offer  it  the  show  of  violence  ; 
For  it  is,  as  the  air,  invulnerable, 
And  our  vain  blows  malicious  mockery,     [crew. 

Ber.   It  was  about  to  speak  when  the  cock 

Hor.   And  then  it  started  like  a  guilty  thing 
Upon  a  fearful  summons.     I  have  heard, 
The  cock,  that  is  the  trumpet  to  the  morn, 
Doth  with  his  lofty  and  shrill-sounding  throat 
Awake  the  god  of  day  ;  and  at  his  warning, 
Whether  in  sea  or  fire,  in  earth  or  air, 
The  extravagant  and  erring  spirit  hies 
To  his  confine  :  and  of  the  truth  herein 
This  present  object  made  probation. 

Mar.   It  faded  on  the  crowing  of  the  cock. 
Some  say  that  ever  'gainst  that  season  comes 
Wherein  our  Saviour's  birth  is  celebrated, 
The  bird  of  dawning  singeth  all  night  long  : 
And  then,  they  say,  no  spirit  can  walk  abroad  ; 
The  nights  are  wholesome  ;  then  no  planets  strike, 
No  fairy  takes,  nor  witch  hath  power  to  charm  ; 
So  hallow'd  and  so  gracious  is  the  time.        [it. 

Hor.   So  have  I  heard,  and  do  in  part  believe 
But,  look,  the  morn,  in  russet  mantle  clad, 
Walks  o'er  the  dew  of  yon  high  eastern  hill  : 
Break  we  our  watch  up:  and,  by  my  advice, 
Let  us  impart  what  we  have  seen  to-night 
Unto  young  Hamlet  ;  for,  upon  my  life, 
This  spirit,  dumb  to  us,  will  speak  to  him  : 
Do  you  consent  we  shall  acquaint  him  with  it, 
As  needful  in  our  loves,  fitting  our  duty? 

Afar.  Let  's  do  't,  I  pray  ;  and  I  this  morn- 

ing know 
Where  we  shall  find  him  most  conveniently. 

[Exeunt. 

\     .vfrfTjtwn  oot  MB!  i3ff  jieiY 
SCENE  II.—  ELSINORE.     A  Room  of  State  in 
the  Castle. 


,  QUEEN,  HAMLET,  POLONIUS, 
LAERTES,  VOLTIMAND,  CORNELIUS,  Lords, 
and  Attendants. 

King.  Though    yet    of   Hamlet    our   dear 
brother's  death 


The  memory  be  green ;  and  that  it  us  befitted 
To  bear  our  hearts  in  grief,  and  our  whole  king- 
dom 

To  be  contracted  in  one  brow  of  woe ; 
Yet  so  far  hath  discretion  fought  with  jiature 
That  we  with  wisest  sorrow  think  on  him, 
Together  with  remembrance  of  ourselves. 
Therefore  our  sometime  sister,  now  our  queen, 
The  imperial  jointress  of  this  warlike  state, 
Have  we,  as  'twere  with  a  defeated  joy, — 
With  one  auspicious  and  one  dropping  eye, 
With   mirth   and  funeral,   and  with  dirge  in 

marriage, 

In  equal  scale  weighing  delight  and  dole, — 
Taken  to  wife :  nor  have  we  herein  barr'd 
Your  better  wisdoms,  which  have  freely  gone 
With  this  affair  along : — for  all,  our  thanks. 
Now  follows  that  you  know,  young  Fortinbras, 
Holding  a  weak  supposal  of  our  worth, 
Or  thinking  by  our  late  dear  brother's  death 
Our  state  to  be  disjoint  and  out  of  frame, 
Colleagued  with  the  dream  of  his  advantage, 
He  hath  not  fail'd  to  pester  us  with  message, 
Importing  the  surrender  of  those  lands 
Lost  by  his  father,  with  all  bonds  of  law, 
To  our   most  valiant  brother.     So  much  for 

him. — 

Now  for  ourself,  and  for  this  time  of  meeting : 
Thus  much  the  business  is: — we  have  here  writ 
To  Norway,  uncle  of  young  Fortinbras, — 
Who,  impotent  and  bed-rid,  scarcely  hears 
Of  this  his  nephew's  purpose, — to  suppress 
His  further  gait  herein ;  in  that  the  levies, 
The  lists,  and  full  proportions,  are  all  made 
Out  of  his  subject : — and  we  here  despatch 
You,  good  Cornelius,  and  you,  Voltimand, 
For  bearers  of  this  greeting  to  old  Norway ; 
Giving  to  you  no  further  personal  power 
To  business  with  the  king  more  than  the  scope 
Of  these  dilated  articles  allow.  [duty. 

Farewell;   and  let  your  haste  commend   your 

Cor.  and  Vol.   In  that  and  all  things  will  we 
show  our  duty. 

King.  We  doubt  it  nothing :  heartily  farewell. 
[Exeunt  VOL.  and  COR. 

And  now,  Laertes,  what's  the  news  with  you? 
You  told  us  of  some  suit ;  what  is 't,  Laertes? 
You  cannot  speak  of  reason  to  the  Dane, 
And  lose  your  voice :  what  wouldst  thou  beg, 

Laertes, 

That  shall  not  be  my  offer,  nor  thy  asking? 
The  head  is  not  more  native  to  the  heart, 
The  hand  more  instrumental  to  the  mouth, 
Than  is  the  throne  of  Denmark  to  thy  father. 
What  wouldst  thou  have,  Laertes? 

Laer.  Dread  my  lord, 

Your  leave  and  favour  to  return  to  France ; 


1 130 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[ACT  i. 


From  whence  though  willingly  I  came  to  Den- 
mark, 

To  show  my  duty  in  your  coronation ; 
Yet  now,  I  must  confess,  that  duty  done, 
My  thoughts   and  wishes  bend  again   toward 
France,  [pardon. 

And   how  them   to   your  gracious   leave   and 

King.   Have  you  your  father's  leave?     What 
says  Polonius?  [slow  leave 

Pol.   He  hath,  my  lord,  wrung  from  me  my 
By  laboursome  petition ;  and  at  last 
Upon  his  will  I  seal'd  my  hard  consent: 
I  do  beseech  you,  give  him  leave  to  go. 

King.  Take  thy  fair  hour,  Laertes ;  time  be 

thine, 

And  thy  best  graces  spend  it  at  thy  will ! — 
But  now,  my  cousin  Hamlet,  and  my  son, — 

Ham.  [Aside.]  A  little  more  than  kin,  and 
less  than  kind.  [you  ? 

King .   How  is  it  that  the  clouds  still  hang  on 

Ham.  Not  so,  my  lord;  I  am  too  much  i' 
the  sun.  [off, 

Queen.  Good  Hamlet,  cast  thy  nighted  colour 
And  let  thine  eye  look  like  a  friend  on  Denmark. 
Do  not  for  ever  with  thy  vailed  lids 
Seek  for  thy  noble  father  in  the  dust :  [die, 
Thou  know'st  'tis  common, — all  that  live  must 
Passing  through  nature  to  eternity. 

Ham.  Ay,  madam,  it  is  common. 

Queen.  If  it  be, 

Why  seems  it  so  particular  with  thee?    [seems. 

Ham.  Seems,  madam !  nay,  it  is ;  I  know  not 
'Tis  not  alone  my  inky  cloak,  good  mother, 
Nor  customary  suits  of  solemn  black, 
Nor  windy  suspiration  of  forc'd  breath, 
No,  nor  the  fruitful  river  in  the  eye, 
Nor  the  dejected  'haviour  of  the  visage, 
Together  with  all  forms,  moods,  shows  of  grief, 
That  can  denote  me  truly :  these,  indeed,  seem ; 
For  they  are  actions  that  a  man  might  play : 
But  I  have  that  within  which  passeth  show ; 
These  but  the  trappings  and  the  suits  of  woe. 

King.  'Tis  sweet  and  commendable  in  your 

nature,  Hamlet, 

To  give  these  mourning  duties  to  your  father : 
But,  you  must  know,  your  father  lost  a  father ; 
That  father  lost,   lost  his;    and   the  survivor 

bound, 

In  filial  obligation,  for  some  term 
To  do  obsequious  sorrow :  but  to  persevere 
In  obstinate  condolement  is  a  course 
Of  impious  stubbornness ;  'tis  unmanly  grief: 
It  shows  a  will  most  incorrect  to  heaven ; 
A  heart  unfortified,  a  mind  impatient; 
An  understanding  simple  and  unschool'd : 
For  what  we  know  must  be,  and  is  as  common 
As  any  the  most  vulgar  thing  to  sense, 


Why  should  we,  in  our  peevish  opposition, 
Take  it  to  heart?     Fie  !  'tis  a  fault  to  heaven, 
A  fault  against  the  dead,  a  fault  to  nature, 
To  reason  most  absurd ;  whose  common  theme 
Is  death  of  fathers,  and  who  still  hath  cried, 
From  the  first  corse  till  he  that  died  to-day, 
This  must  be  so.     We  pray  you,  throw  to  earth 
This  unprevailing  woe ;  and  think  of  us 
As  of  a  father :  for  let  the  world  take  note 
You  are  the  most  immediate  to  our  throne ; 
And  with  no  less  nobility  of  love 
Than  that  which  dearest  father  bears  his  son 
Do  I  impart  toward  you.     For  your  intent 
In  going  back  to  school  in  Wittenberg, 
It  is  most  retrograde  to  our  desire : 
And  we  beseech  you  bend  you  to  remain 
Here,  in  the  cheer  and  comfort  of  our  eye, 
Our  chiefest  courtier,  cousin,  and  our  son. 
Queen.  Let  not  thy  mother  lose  her  prayers, 

Hamlet : 

I  pray  thee,  stay  with  us ;  go  not  to  Wittenberg. 
Ham.  I  shall  in  all  my  best  obey  you,  madam. 
King.  Why,  'tis  a  loving  and  a  fair  reply : 
Be  as  ourself  in  Denmark. — Madam,  come; 
This  gentle  and  unforc'd  accord  of  Hamlet 
Sits  smiling  to  my  heart :  in  grace  whereof, 
No  jocund  health  that  Denmark  drinks  to-day 
But  the  great  cannon  to  the  clouds  shall  tell ; 
And  the  king's  rouse  the  heavens  shall  bruit 

again, 
Re-speaking  earthly  thunder.     Come  away. 

[Exettnt  all  but  HAMLET. 
Ham.  O,  that  this  too  too  solid  flesh  would 

melt, 

Thaw,  and  resolve  itself  into  a  dew ! 
Or  that  the  Everlasting  had  not  fix'd       [God ! 
His  canon  'gainst  self-slaughter !     O  God !  O 
How  weary,  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable 
Seem  to  me  all  the  uses  of  this  world  ! 
Fie  on 't !     O  fie!  'tis  an  unweeded  garden, 
That  grows  to  seed ;  things  rank  and  gross  in 

nature 

Possess  it  merely.     That  it  should  come  to  this ! 
But  two  months  dead ! — nay,  not  so  much,  not 

two: 

So  excellent  a  king ;  that  was,  to  this, 
Hyperion  to  a  satyr :  so  loving  to  my  mother, 
That  he  might  not  beteem  the  winds  of  heaven 
Visit  her  face  too  roughly.     Heaven  and  earth ! 
Must  I  remember?  why,  she  would  hang  on  him 
As  if  increase  of  appetite  had  grown 
By  what  it  fed  on :  and  yet,  within  a  month, — 
Let  me  not  think  on 't, — Frailty,  thy  name  is 

woman ! — 

A  little  month ;  or  ere  those  shoes  were  old 
With  which  she  follow'd  my  poor  father's  body, 
Like  Niobe,  all  tears ; — why  she,  even  she, — 


SCENE  II.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


1131 


0  God !  a  beast,  that  wants  discourse  of  reason, 
Would   have   mourn'd   longer, — married  with 

mine  uncle,  [father 

My  father's   brother;    but   no   more  like   my 
Than  I  to  Hercules :  within  a  month ; 
Ere  yet  the  salt  of  most  unrighteous  tears 
Had  left  the  flushing  in  her  galled  eyes, 
She  married : — O,  most  wicked  speed,  to  post 
With  such  dexterity  to  incestuous  sheets ! 
It  is  not,  nor  it  cannot  come  to  good ;     [tongue ! 
But  break,   my  heart, — for  I  must   hold   my 

Enter  HORATIO,  MARCELLUS,  and 
BERNARDO. 

Hor.  Hail  to  your  lordship! 

Ham.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  well : 

Horatio, — or  I  do  forget  myself.        [vant  ever. 

Hor.  The  same,  my  lord,  and  your  poor  ser- 

Harn.  Sir,  my  good  friend  ;  I  '11  change  that 
name  with  you  :  [tio? — 

And  what  make  you  from  Wittenberg,  Hora- 
Marcellus? 

Mar.  My  good  lord, — 

Ham.  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you. — Good 

even,  sir. — 
But  what,  in  faith,  make  you  from  Wittenberg? 

Hor.  A  truant  disposition,  good  my  lord. 

Ham.   I  would  not  hear  your  enemy  say  so ; 
Nor  shall  you  do  mine  ear  that  violence, 
To  make  it  truster  of  your  own  report 
Against  yourself:  I  know  you  are  no  truant. 
But  what  is  your  affair  in  Elsinore? 
We  '11  teach  you  to  drink  deep  ere  you  depart. 

Hor.  My  lord,  I  came  to  see  your  father's 
funeral.  [student ; 

Ham.  I  pray  thee,  do  not  mock  me,  fellow- 

1  think  it  was  to  see  my  mother's  wedding. 
Hor.  Indeed,  my  lord,  it  follow'd  hard  upon. 
Ham.  Thrift,    thrift,  Horatio!   the  funeral- 

bak'd  meats 

Did  coldly  furnish  forth  the  marriage  tables. 
Would  I  had  met  my  dearest  foe  in  heaven 
Ere  I  had  ever  seen  that  day,  Horatio  ! — 
My  father, — methinks  I  see  my  father. 

Hor.  Where,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  In  my  mind's  eye,  Horatio. 

Hor.  I  saw  him  once ;  he  was  a  goodly  king. 

Ham.  He  was  a  man,  take  him  for  all  in  all, 
I  shall  not  look  upon  his  like  again. 

Hor.  My  lord,  I  think  I  saw  him  yesternight. 

Ham.  Saw  who? 

Hor.  My  lord,  the  king  your  father. 

Ham.  The  king  my  father ! 

Hor.   Season  your  admiration  for  awhile 
With  an  attent  ear,  till  I  may  deliver, 
Upon  the  witness  of  these  gentlemen, 
This  marvel  to  you. 


Ham.  For  God's  love,  let  me  hear. 

Hor.  Two  nights  together  had  these  gentle- 
men, 

Marcellus  and  Bernardo,  on  their  watch, 
In  the  dead  vast  and  middle  of  the  night, 
Been  thus  encounter'd.  A  figure  like  your 

father, 

Arm'd  at  all  points  exactly,  cap-a-pe, 
Appears  before  them,  and  with  solemn  march 
Goes  slow  and  stately  by  them :  thrice  he  walk'd 
By  their  oppress'd  and  fear-surprised  eyes, 
Within  his  truncheon's  length ;    whilst   they, 

distill'd 

Almost  to  jelly  with  the  act  of  fear, 
Stand  dumb,  and  speak  not  to  him.    This  to  me 
In  dreadful  secrecy  impart  they  did  ; 
And  I  with  them  the  third  night  kept  the  watch: 
Where,  as  they  had  deliver'd,  both  in  time, 
Form  of  the  thing,  each  word  made  true  and 

good, 

The  apparition  comes:  I  knew  your  father; 
These  hands  are  not  more  like. 

Ham.  But  where  was  this? 

Mar.  My  lord,  upon  the  platform  where  we 
watch'd. 

Ham.  Did  you  not  speak  to  it? 

Hor.  My  lord,  I  did  ; 

But  answer  made  it  none  :  yet  once  methought 
It  lifted  up  its  head,  and  did  address 
Itself  to  motion,  like  as  it  would  speak  : 
But  even  then  the  morning  cock  crew  loud, 
And  at  the  sound  it  shnmk  in  haste  away, 
And  vanish'd  from  our  sight. 

Ham.  'Tis  very  strange. 

Hor.  As  I  do  live,  my  honour'd  lord,  'tis 

true; 

And  we  did  think  it  writ  down  in  our  duty 
To  let  you  know  of  it.  [me. 

Ham.  Indeed,  indeed,  sirs,  but  this  troubles 
Hold  you  the  watch  to-night  ? 

Mar.  and  Ber.  We  do,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Arm'd,  say  you  ? 

Mar.  and  Ber.  Arm'd,  my  lord. 

Ham.  From  top  to  toe  ? 

Mar.  and  Ber.    My  lord,  from  head  to  foot. 

Ham.  Then  saw  you  not  his  face? 

Hor.  O  yes,  my  lord ;  he  wore  his  beaver  up. 

Ham.  What,  look'd  he  frowningly  ? 

Hor.  A  countenance  more  in  sorrow  than  in 
anger. 

Ham.  Pale  or  red  ? 

Hor.  Nay,  very  pale. 

Ham.  And  fix'd  his  eyes  upon  you  ? 

Hor.  Most  constantly. 

Ham.  I  would  I  had  been  there. 

Hor.   It  would  have  much  amaz'd  you. 

Ham.  Very  like,  very  like.     StayM  it  long? 


1 132 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[ACT  I. 


Hor.  While  one  with  moderate  haste  might 
tell  a  hundred. 

Mar.  and  Ber.   Longer,  longer. 

Hor.  Not  when  I  saw  \. 

Ham.  His  beard  was  grizzled, — no  ? 

Hor.  It  was,  as  I  have  seen  it  in  his  life, 
A  sable  silver'd. 

Ham.  I  will  watch  to-night ; 

Perchance  'twill  walk  again. 

Hor.  I  warrant  it  will. 

Ham.   If  it  assume  my  noble  father's  person 
I  '11  speak  to  it,  though  hell  itself  should  gape 
And  bid  me  hold  my  peace.     I  pray  you  all, 
If  you  have  hitherto  conceal'd  this  sight, 
Let  it  be  tenable  in  your  silence  still ; 
And  whatsoever  else  shall  hap  to-night, 
Give  it  an  understanding,  but  no  tongue : 
I  will  requite  your  loves.     So,  fare  ye  well : 
Upon  the  platform,  'twixt  eleven  and  twelve, 
I  '11  visit  you. 

All.  Our  duty  to  your  honour. 

Ham.  Your  loves,  as  mine  to  you :  farewell. 
[Exeunt  HOR.,  MAR.,  and  BER. 
My  father's  spirit  in  arms !  all  is  not  well ; 
I  doubt  some  foul  play :  would  the  night  were 

come! 

Till  then  sit  still,  my  soul :  foul  deeds  will  rise, 

Though  all  the  earth  o'erwhelm  them,  to  men's 

eyes.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III. — A  Room  in  POLONIUS'S  House. 
Enter  LAERTES  and  OPHELIA. 

Laer.  My  necessaries  are  embark'd :  farewell : 
And,  sister,  as  the  winds  give  benefit, 
And  convoy  is  assistant,  do  not  sleep, 
But  let  me  hear  from  you. 

Oph.  Do  you  doubt  that  ? 

Laer.  For  Hamlet,   and  the  trifling  of  his 

favour, 

Hold  it  a  fashion  and  a  toy  in  blood : 
A  violet  in  the  youth  of  primy  nature, 
Forward,  not  permanent,  sweet,  not  lasting, 
The  pe'rfume  and  suppliance  of  a  minute  ; 
No  more. 

Oph.     No  more  but  so  ? 

Laer.  Think  it  no  more : 

For  nature,  crescent,  does  not  grow  alone 
In  thews  and  bulk  ;  but  as  this  temple  waxes, 
The  inward  service  of  the  mind  and  soul 
Grows  wide  withal.    Perhaps  he  loves  you  now ; 
And  now  no  soil  nor  cautel  doth  besmirch 
The  virtue  of  his  will :  but  you  must  fear, 
His  greatness  weigh'd,  his  will  is  not  his  own  ; 
For  he  himself  is  subject  to  his  birth: 
He  may  not,  as  unvalu'd  persons  do, 
Carve  for  himself;  for  on  his  choice  depends 


The  safety  and  the  health  of  the  whole  state  ; 
And  therefore  must  his  choice  be  circumscrib'd 
Unto  the  voice  and  yielding  of  that  body 
Whereof  he  is  the  head.     Then  if  he  says  he 

loves  you, 

It  fits  your  wisdom  so  far  to  believe  it 
As  he  in  his  particular  act  and  place 
May  give  his  saying  deed  ;  which  is  no  further 
Than  the  main  voice  of  Denmark  goes  withal. 
Then  weigh  what  loss  your  honour  may  sustain 
If  with  too  credent  ear  you  list  his  songs, 
Or  lose  your  heart,  or  your  chaste  treasure  open 
To  his  unmaster'd  importunity. 
Fear  it,  Ophelia,  fear  it,  my  dear  sister  ; 
And  keep  within  the  rear  of  your  affection, 
Out  of  the  shot  and  danger  of  desire. 
The  chariest  maid  is  prodigal  enough 
If  she  unmask  her  beauty  to  the  moon : 
Virtue  itself  scapes  not  calumnious  strokes  : 
The  canker  galls  the  infants  of  the  spring 
Too  oft  before  their  buttons  be  disclos'd  ; 
And  in  the  morn  and  liquid  dew  of  youth 
Contagious  blastments  are  most  imminent. 
Be  wary,  then  ;  best  safety  lies  in  fear : 
Youth  to  itself  rebels,  though  none  else  near. 
Oph.  I  shall  the  effect  of  this  good  lesson 

keep  [brother, 

As   watchman   to   my  heart.     But,   good  my 
Do  noi,  as  some  ungracious  pastors  do, 
Show  me  the  steep  and  thorny  way  to  heaven  ; 
Whilst  like  a  puff'd  and  reckless  libertine, 
Himself  the  primrose  path  of  dalliance  treads, 
And  recks  not  his  own  read. 

Laer.  O,  fear  me  not. 

I  stay  too  long: — but  here  my  father  comes. 

Enter  POLONIUS. 

A  double  blessing  is  a.  double  grace  ; 

Occasion  smiles  upon  a  second  leave,     [shame  ! 
Pol.  Yet  here,  Laertes!  aboard,  aboard,  for 

The  wind  sits  in  the  shoulder  of  your  sail, 

And  you  are  stay'd  for.     There, — my  blessing 
with  you ! 
[Laying  his  hand  on  LAERTES'S  head. 

And  these  few  precepts  in  thy  memory 

See   thou   character.      Give  thy  thoughts   nc 
tongue, 

Nor  any  unproportion'd  thought  his  act. 

Be  thou  familiar,  but  by  no  means  vulgar. 

The  friends  thou  hast,  and  their  adoption  tried; 

Grapple  them  to  thy  soul  with  hoops  of  steel ; 

But  do  not  dull  thy  palm  with  entertainment 

Of  each  new-hatch'd,  unfledg'd  comrade.     Be- 
ware 

Of  entrance  to  a  quarrel ;  but,  being  in, 

Bear 't  that  the  opposed  may  beware  of  thee. 

Give  every  man  thine  ear,  but  few  thy  voice : 


SCENE  III.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


"33 


Take  each  man's  censure,  but  reserve  thy  judg- 
ment. 

Costly  thy  habit  as  thy  purse  can  buy, 
But  not  express'd  in  fancy ;  rich,  not  gaudy : 
For  the  apparel  oft  proclaims  the  man  ; 
And  they  in  France  of  the  best  rank  and  station 
Are  most  select  and  generous  chief  in  that. 
Neither  a  borrower  nor  a  lender  be : 
For  loan  oft  loses  both  itself  and  friend  ; 
And  borrowing  dulls  the  edge  of  husbandry. 
This  above  all, — to  thine  ownself  be  true  ; 
And  it  must  follow,  as  the  night  the  day, 
Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any  man. 
Farewell :  my  blessing  season  this  in  thee ! 

Laer.   Most  humbly  do  I  take  my  leave,  my 
lord.  [tend. 

Pol.  The  time  invites  you ;  go,  your  servants 

Laer.  Farewell,  Ophelia;  and  remember  well 
What  I  have  said  to  you. 

Oph.  'Tis  in  my  memory  lock'd, 

And  you  yourself  shall  keep  the  key  of  it. 

Laer.   Farewell.  [Exit. 

Pol.  What  is't,  Ophelia,  he  hath  said  to  you? 

Oph.  So  please  you,  something  touching  the 
Lord  Hamlet. 

Pol.  Marry,  well  bethought : 
'Tis  told  me  he  hath  very  oft  of  late 
Given  private  time  to  you  ;  and  you  yourself 
Have  of  your  audience  been  most  free  and 

bounteous : 

If  it  be  so, — as  so  'tis  put  on  me, 
And  that  in  way  of  caution, — I  must  tell  you, 
You  do  not  understand  yourself  so  clearly 
As  it  behoves  my  daughter  and  your  honour. 
What  is  between  you  ?  give  me  up  the  truth. 

Oph.  He  hath,  my  lord,  of  late  made  many 

tenders 
Of  his  affection  to  me.  [girl, 

Pol.  Affection !  pooh !  you  speak  like  a  green 
Unsifted  in  such  perilous  circumstance. 
Do  you  believe  his  tenders,  as  you  call  them? 

Oph.  I  do  not  know,  my  lord,  what  I  should 
think.  [baby ; 

Pol.  Marry,  I  '11  teach  you :  think  yourself  a 
That  you  have  ta'en  these  tenders  for  true  pay, 
Which  are  not  sterling.  Tender  yourself  more 

dearly; 

Or, — not  to  crack  the  wind  of  the  poor  phrase, 
Wronging  it  thus, — you  '11  tender  me  a  fool. 

Oph.  My  lord ,  he  hath  importun'd  me  with  love 
In  honourable  fashion. 

Pol.  Ay,  fashion  you  may  call  it ;  go  to,  go  to. 

Oph.  And   hath   given   countenance   to  his 

speech,  my  lord, 
With  almost  all  the  holy  vows  of  heaven. 

Pol.  Ay,  springes  to  catch  woodcocks.     I 
do  know, 


When  the  blood  burns,  how  prodigal  the  soul 
Lends  the  tongue  vows :  these  blazes,  daughter, 
Giving  more  light  than  heat, — extinct  in  both. 
Even  in  their  promise,  as  it  is  a- making, — 
You  must  not  take  for  fire.     From  this  time 
Be  somewhat  scanter  of  your  maiden  presence ; 
Set  your  entreatments  at  a  higher  rate 
Than  a  command  to  parley.    For  Lord  Hamlet, 
Believe  so  much  in  him,  that  he  is  young; 
And  with  a  larger  tether  may  he  walk 
Than  may  be  given  you :  in  few,  Ophelia, 
Do  not  believe  his  vows ;  for  they  are  brokers, — 
Not  of  that  dye  which  their  investments  show, 
But  mere  implorators  of  unholy  suits, 
Breathing  like  sanctified  and  pious  bawds, 
The  better  to  beguile.     This  is  for  all, — 
I  would  not,  in  plain  terms,  from  this  time  forth, 
Have  you  so  slander  any  moment  leisure 
As  to  give  words  or  talk  with  the  Lord  Hamlet. 
Look  to 't,  I  charge  you  ;  come  your  ways. 
Oph.  I  shall  obey,  my  lord.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— The  Platform. 
Enter  HAMLET,  HORATIO,  and  MARCELLUS. 

Ham.  The  air  bites  shrewdly ;  it  is  very  cold. 

Hor.  It  is  a  nipping  and  an  eager  air. 

Ham.  What  hour  now  ? 

Hor.  I  think  it  lacks  of  twelve. 

Mar.  No,  it  is  struck. 

Hor.  Indeed  ?  I  heard  it  not :  then  it  draws 

near  the  season 
Wherein  the  spirit  held  his  wont  to  walk. 

\A  flourish  of  'trumpets ;  and  ordnance 

shot  off -within. 
What  does  this  mean,  my  lord? 

Ham.  The   king  doth  wake  to-night,  and 
takes  his  rouse,  [reels  ; 

Keeps  wassail,  and  the  swaggering  up-spring 
And,  as  he  drains  his  draughts  of  Rhenish  down, 
The  kettle-drum  and  trumpet  thus  bray  out 
The  triumph  of  his  pledge. 

Hor.  Is  it  a  custom  ? 

Ham.  Ay,  marry,  is  't : 
But  to  my  mind, — though  I  am  native  here, 
And  to  the  manner  born, — it  is  a  custom 
More  honour'd  in  the  breach  than  the  observ- 
ance. 

This  heavy-headed  revel  east  and  west 
Makes  us  traduc'd  and  tax'd  of  other  nations : 
They  clepe   us  drunkards,  and  with  swinish 

phrase 

Soil  our  addition  ;  and,  indeed,  it  takes 
From  our  achievements,  though  perform'd  at 

height, 

The  pith  and  marrow  of  our  attribute. 
So  oft  it  chances  in  particular  men 


"34 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[ACT  i. 


That,  for  some  vicious  mole  of  nature  in  them, 
As  in  their  birth, — wherein  they  are  not  guilty, 
Since  nature  cannot  choose  his  origin, — 
By  the  o'ergrowth  of  some  complexion, 
Oft  breaking  down  the  pales  and  forts  of  reason ; 
Or  by  some  habit,  that  too  much  o'er-leavens 
The   form   of  plausive   manners ; — that   these 

men, — 

Carrying,  I  say,  the  stamp  of  one  defect, 
Being  nature's  livery  or  fortune's  star, — 
Their  virtues  else, — be  they  as  pure  as  grace, 
As  infinite  as  man  may  undergo, — 
Shall  in  the  general  censure  take  corruption 
From  that  particular  fault :  the  dram  of  eale 
Doth  all  the  noble  substance  of  a  doubt 
To  his  own  scandal. 

Hor.  Look,  my  lord,  it  comes ! 

Enter  Ghost. 

Ham.  Angels  and  ministers  of  grace  defend 

us! — 

Be  thou  a  spirit  of  health  or  goblin  damn'd, 
Bring  with  thee  airs  from  heaven  or  blasts  from 

hell, 

Be  thy  intents  wicked  or  charitable, 
Thou  com'st  in  such  a  questionable  shape 
That  I  will  speak  to  thee :  I  '11  call  thee  Hamlet, 
King,  father,  royal  Dane :  O,  answer  me ! 
Let  me  not  burst  in  ignorance  ;  but  tell 
Why  thy  canoniz'd  bones,  hearsed  in  death, 
Have  burst  their  cerements ;  why  the  sepulchre, 
Wherein  we  saw  thee  quietly  in-urn'd, 
Hath  op'd  his  ponderous  and  marble  jaws 
To  cast  thee  up  again !     What  may  this  mean, 
That  thou,  dead  corse,  again  in  complete  steel, 
Revisit'st  thus  the  glimpses  of  the  moon, 
Making  night  hideous,  and  we  fools  of  nature 
So  horridly  to  shake  our  disposition 
With  thoughts  beyond  the  reaches  of  our  souls  ? 
Say,  why  is  this?  wherefore?  what  should  we 
do?  [Ghost  beckons  HAMLET. 

Hor.  It  beckons  you  to  go  away  with  it, 
As  if  it  some  impar^ment  did  desire 
To  you  alone. 

Mar.  Look,  with  what  courteous  action 

It  waves  you  to  a  more  removed  ground : 
But  do  not  go  with  it. 

Hor.  No,  by  no  means. 

Ham.  It  will  not  speak ;  then  will  I  follow  it. 

Hor.  Do  not,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Why,  what  should  be  the  fear  ? 

I  do  not  set  my  life  at  a  pin's  fee  ; 
And  for  my  soul,  what  can  it  do  to  that, 
Being  a  thing  immortal  as  itself? 
It  waves  me  forth  again  ; — I  '11  follow  it. 

Hor.  What  if  it  tempt  you  toward  the  flood, 
my  lord, 


Or  to  the  dreadful  summit  of  the  cliff 
That  beetles  o'er  his  base  into  the  sea, 
And  there  assume  some  other  horrible  form, 
Which  might  deprive  your  sovereignty  of  reason, 
And  draw  you  into  madness  ?  think  of  it : 
The  very  place  puts  toys  of  desperation, 
Without  more  motive,  into  every  brain 
That  looks  so  many  fathoms  to  the  sea 
And  hears  it  roar  beneath. 

Ham.  It  waves  me  still. — 

Go  on  ;  I  Ml  follow  thee. 

Mar.  You  shall  not  go,  my  lord. 
Ham.  Hold  off  your  hands. 

Hor.   Be  rul'd ;  you  shall  not  go. 
Ham.  My  fate  cries  out, 

And  makes  each  petty  artery  in  this  body 
As  hardy  as  the  Nemean  lion's  nerve. — 

[Ghost  beckons. 

Still  am  I  call'd ; — unhand  me,  gentlemen ; — 
[Breaking  from  them. 
By  heaven,  I  '11  make  a  ghost  of  him  that  lets 

me. 
I  say,  away ! — Go  on ;  I  '11  follow  thee. 

[Exeunt  Ghost  and  HAMLET. 
Hor.  He  waxes  desperate  with  imagination. 
Mar.   Let 's  follow  ;  'tis  not  fit  thus  to  obey 
him.  [come  ? 

Hor.   Have  after. — To  what  issue  will  this 
Mar.  Something  is  rotten   in   the  state   of 

Denmark. 

Hor.   Heaven  will  direct  it. 
Mar.  Nay,  let 's  follow  him. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — A  more  remote  part  of  the 
Platform. 

Enter  Ghost  and  HAMLET. 

Ham.  Where  wilt  thou   lead  me?   speak 
I  '11  go  no  farther. 

Ghost.  Mark  me. 

Ham.  I  will. 

Ghost.  My  hour  is  almost  come, 

When  I  to  sulphurous  and  tormenting  flames 
Must  render  up  myself. 

Ham.  Alas,  poor  ghost ! 

Ghost.  Pity  me   not,   but   lend   thy  serious 

hearing 
To  what  I  shall  unfold. 

Ham.  Speak ;  I  am  bound  to  hear. 

Ghost.  So  art   thou  to  revenge,  when  thou 
shall  hear. 

Ham.  What? 

Ghost.   I  am  thy  father's  spirit ; 
Doom'd  for  a  certain  term  to  walk  the  night, 
And,  for  the  day,  confin'd  to  waste  in  fires 
Till  the  foul  crimes  done  in  my  days  of  nature 


SCENE  V.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


"35 


Are  burnt  and  purg'd  away.     But  that  I  am 

forbid 

To  tell  the  secrets  of  my  prison-house, 
I  could  a  tale  unfold  whose  lightest  word 
Would  harrow  up  thy  soul ;  freeze  thy  young 
blood ;  [spheres  ; 

Make  thy  two  eyes,  like  stars,  start  from  their 
Thy  knotted  and  combined  locks  to  part, 
And  each  particular  hair  to  stand  on  end, 
Like  quills  upon  the  fretful  porcupine :  '^S 
But  this  eternal  blazon  must  not  be 
To  ears  of  flesh  and  blood.— List,  list,  O,  list ! — 
Tf  thou  didst  ever  thy  dear  father  love, — 

Ham.  O  God !  [murder. 

Ghost.   Revenge  his  foul  and  most  unnatural 

Ham.   Murder  ! 

Ghost.   Murder  most  foul,  as  in  the  best  it  is ; 
But  this  most  foul,  strange,  and  unnatural. 

Ham.  Haste   me  to  know't,  that  I,  with 

wings  as  swift 

As  meditation  or  the  thoughts  of  love, 
May  sweep  to  my  revenge. 

Ghost.  I  find  thee  apt ; 

And  duller  shouldst  thou  be  than  the  fat  weed 
That  rots  itself  in  ease  on  Lethe  wharf,  [hear: 
Wouldst  thou  not  stir  in  this.  Now,  Hamlet, 
'Tis  given  out  that,  sleeping  in  mine  orchard, 
A  serpent  stung  me ;  so  the  whole  ear  of  Den- 
mark 

Is  by  a  forged  process  of  my  death 
Rankly  abus'd  :  but  know,  thou  noble  youth, 
The  serpent  that  did  sting  thy  father's  life 
Now  wears  his  crown. 

Ham.  O  my  prophetic  soul !  mine  uncle ! 

Ghost.  Ay,  that  incestuous,  that  adulterate 
beast,  [gifts, — 

With   witchcraft   of   his   wit,    with   traitorous 
O  wicked  wit  and  gifts  that  have  the  power 
So  to  seduce ! — won  to  his  shameful  lust 
The  will  of  my  most  seeming  virtuous  queen : 

0  Hamlet,  what  a  falling-off  was  there  ! 
From  me,  whose  love  was  of  that  dignity 
That  it  went  hand  in  hand  even  with  the  vow 

1  made  to  her  in  marriage  ;  and  to  decline 
Upon  a  wretch  whose  natural  gifts  were  poor 
To  those  of  mine  ! 

But  virtue,  as  it  never  will  be  mov'd, 

Though  lewdness  court  it  in  a  shape  of  heaven; 

So  lust,  though  to  a  radiant  angel  link'd, 

Will  sate  itself  in  a  celestial  bed 

And  prey  on  garbage. 

But,  soft !  methinks  I  scent  the  morning  air ; 

Brief  let  me  be. — Sleeping  within  mine  orchard, 

My  custom  always  in  the  afternoon, 

Upon  my  secure  hour  thy  uncle  stole, 

With  juice  of  cursed  hebenon  in  a  vial, 

And  in  the  porches  of  mine  ears  did  pour 


The  leperous  distilment ;  whose  effect 
Holds  such  an  enmity  with  blood  of  man 
That,  swift  as  quicksilver,  it  courses  through 
The  natural  gates  and  alleys  of  the  body ; 
And  with  a  sudden  vigour  it  doth  posset 
And  curd,  like  eager  droppings  into  milk, 
The  thin  and  wholesome  blood  :  so  did  it  mine; 
And  a  most  instant  tetter  bark'd  about, 
Most  lazar-like,  with  vile  and  loathsome  crust, 
All  my  smooth  body. 

Thus  was  I,  sleeping,  by  a  brother's  hand, 
Of  life,  of  crown,  of  queen,  at  once  despatch'd: 
Cut  oft  even  in  the  blossoms  of  my  sin, 
Unhousel'd,  unanointed,  unanel'd ; 
No  reckoning  made,  but  sent  to  my  account 
With  all  my  imperfections  on  my  head  : 
O,  horrible !  O,  horrible  !  most  horrible  ! 
If  thou  hast  nature  in  thee,  bear  it  not ; 
Let  not  the  royal  bed  of  Denmark  be 
A  couch  for  luxury  and  damned  incest. 
But,  howsoever  thou  pursu'st  this  act, 
Taint  not  thy  mind,  nor  let  thy  soul  contrive 
Against  thy  mother  aught :  leave  her  to  heaven, 
And  to  those  thorns  that  in  her  bosom  lodge, 
To  prick  and  sting  her.    Fare  thee  well  at  once! 
The  glowworm  shows  the  matin  to  be  near, 
And  'gins  to  pale  his  uneffectual  fire : 
Adieu,  adieu  !  Hamlet,  remember  me.     [Exit. 
Ham.  O  all  you  host  of  heaven  !  O  earth  ! 
what  else  ?  [heart ; 

And  shall  I  couple  hell  ?— O,  fie  !— Hold,  my 
And  you,  my  sinews,  grow  not  instant  old, 
But  bear  me  stiffly  up. — Remember  thee  I 
Ay,  thou  poor  ghost,  while  memory  holds  a  seat 
In  this  distracted  globe.     Remember  thee ! 
Yea,  from  the  table  of  my  memory 
I  '11  wipe  away  all  trivial  fond  records, 
All  saws  of  books,  all  forms,  all  pressures  past, 
That  youth  and  observation  copied  there  ; 
And  thy  commandment  all  alone  shall  live 
Within  the  book  and  volume  of  my  brain, 
Unmix'd  with  baser  matter:  yes,  by  heaven. — 
O  most  pernicious  woman  ! 

0  villain,  villain,  smiling,  damned  villain  ! 
My  tables, — meet  it  is  I  set  it  down, 

That  one  may  smile,  and  smile,  and  be  a  villain; 
At  least,  I  am  sure,  it  may  be  so  in  Denmark : 

[  Writing. 

So,  uncle,  there  you  are.     Now  to  my  word  ; 
It  is,  Adieu,  adieu  !  remember  me : 

1  have  sworn 't. 

Hor.  [Within.]  My  lord,  my  lord, — 

Mar.  [Within.}     '  Lord  Hamlet,— 

Hor.  [Within.']  Heaven  secure  him  ! 

Mar.  [Within.}  So  be  it ! 

Hor.  [Within.}  Illo,  ho,  ho,  my  lord  ! 

Ham.  Hillo,  ho,  ho,  boy  1  come,  bird,  come. 


H36 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[ACT  II. 


Enter  HORATIO  and  MARCELLUS. 

Mar.  How  is 't,  my  noble  lord  ? 

Hor.  What  news,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  O,  wonderful ! 

Hor.  Good  my  lord,  tell  it. 

Ham.  No  ;  you  '11  reveal  it. 

Hor.  Not  I,  my  lord,  by  heaven. 

Mar.  Nor  I,  my  lord. 

Ham.  How  say  you,  then ;  would  heart  of 

man  once  think  it  ? — 
But  you  '11  be  secret  ? 

Hor.  and  Mar.       Ay,  by  heaven,  my  lord. 

Ham.  There 's  ne'er  a  villain  dwelling  in  all 

Denmark 
But  he 's  an  arrant  knave. 

Hor.  There  needs  no  ghost,  my  lord,  come 

from  the  grave 
To  tell  us  this. 

Ham.  Why,  right ;  you  are  i'  the  right ; 

And  so,  without  more  circumstance  at  all, 
I  hold  it  fit  that  we  shake  hands  and  part : 
You,  as  your  business  and  desire  shall  point 

you,— 

For  every  man  has  business  and  desire, 
Such  as  it  is ; — and  for  mine  own  poor  part, 
Look  you,  I  '11  go  pray.  [my  lord. 

Hor.  These  are  but  wild  and  whirling  words, 

Ham.  I  'm  sorry  they  ofiend  you,  heartily ; 
Yes,  faith,  heartily. 

Hor.  There  Js  no  offence,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Yes,  by  Saint  Patrick,  but  there  is, 
Horatio,  [here, — 

And  much  offence  too.     Touching  this  vision 
It  is  an  honest  ghost,  that  let  me  tell  you : 
For  your  desire  to  know  what  is  between  us, 
O'ermaster't  as  you  may.     And  now,  good 

friends, 

As  you  are  friends,  scholars,  and  soldiers, 
Give  me  one  poor  request. 

Hor.   What  is't,  my  lord?  we  will. 

Ham.  Never  make  known  what  you   nave 
seen  to-night. 

Hor.  and  Mar.  My  lord,  we  will  not. 

Ham.  Nay,  but  swear 't. 

Hor.  In  faith, 

My  lord,  not  I. 

Mar.  Nor  I,  my  lord,  in  faith. 

Ham.   Upon  my  sword. 

Mar.         We  have  sworn,  my  lord,  already. 

Ham.   Indeed,  upon  my  sword,  indeed. 

Ghost.  \_Beneath.\  Swear. 

Ham.  Ha,  ha,  boy!  say'st  thou  so?  art  thou 
there,  truepenny? —  [age, — 

Come  on, — you  hear  this  fellow  in  the  cellar- 
Consent  to  swear. 

Hor.  Propose  the  oath,  my  lord. 


Ham.  Never  to  speak  of  this  that  you  have 

seen, 
Swear  by  my  sword. 

Ghost.  [Beneath.]  Swear.  [ground. — 

Ham.  Hie  et  ubique?  then  we'll  shift  our 
Come  hither,  gentlemen, 
And  lay  your  hands  again  upon  my  sword : 
Never  to  speak  of  this  that  you  have  heard, 
Swear  by  my  sword. 

Ghost.  [Beneath.}  Swear.          [earth  so  fast? 

Ham.  Well  said,  old  mole  !  canst  work  i'  the 

A  worthy  pioneer ! — Once  more  remove,  good 

friends.  [strange ! 

Hor.  O  day  and  night,  but  this  is  wondrous 

Ham.  And  therefore  as  a  stranger  give  it 
welcome.  [Horatio, 

There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth, 
Than  are  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy. 
But  come; — 

Here,  as  before,  never,  so  help  you  mercy, 
How  strange  or  odd  soe'er  I  bear  myself, — 
As  I,  perchance,  hereafter  shall  think  meet 
To  put  an  antic  disposition  on, — 
That  you,  at  such  times  seeing  me,  never  shall, 
With  arms  encumber'd  thus,  or  this  head-shake, 
Or  by  pronouncing  of  some  doubtful  phrase, 
As,    Well,  well,  we  know; — or,  We  could,  an 
if  we  would; —  [they  might; — 

Or,  If  we  list  to  speak; — or,  There  be,  an  if 
Or  such  ambiguous  giving  out,  to  note 
That  you  know  aught  of  me:— this  not  to  do, 
So  grace  and  mercy  at  your  most  need  help  you, 
Swear. 

Ghost.  [Beneath.']  Swear. 

Ham.    Rest,    rest,    perturbed    spirit! — So, 

gentlemen, 

With  all  my  love  I  do  commend  me  to  you : 
And  what  so  poor  a  man  as  Hamlet  is 
May  do,  to  express  his  love  and  friending  to  you, 
God  willing,  shall  not  lack.     Let  us  go  in  to- 
gether ; 

And  still  your  fingers  on  your  lips,  I  pray. 
The  time  is  out  of  joint : — O  cursed  spite, 
That  ever  I  was  born  to  set  it  right ! — 
Nay,  come,  let 's  go  together.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — A  Room  in  POLONIUS'S  House. 
Enter  POLONIUS  am/ REYNALDO. 

Pol.  Give  him  this  money  and  these  notes, 

Reynaldo. 

Rey.   I  will,  my  lord.  [Reynaldo, 

Pol.  You  shall  do  marvellous  wisely,  good 

Before  you  visit  him,  to  make  inquiry 

Of  his  behaviour. 


SCENE  I.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


H37 


Rey.  My  lord,  I  did  intend  it. 

Pol.  Marry,  well  said ;  very  well  said.    Look 

you,  sir, 

Inquire  me  first  what  Danskers  are  in  Paris ; 
And  how,  and  who,  what  means,  and  where 

they  keep, 

What  company,  at  what  expense ;  and  finding, 
By  this  encompassment  and  drift  of  question, 
That  they  do  know  my  son,  come  you  more 

nearer 

Than  your  particular  demands  will  touch  it : 
Take  you,  as  'twere,  some  distant  knowledge 

of  him ; 

As  thus,  /  know  his  father  and  his  friends •, 
And  in  part  him  ; — do  you  mark  this,  Reynaldo  ? 

Rey.  Ay,  very  well,  my  lord.          \not  well: 

Pol.  And  in  part  him  ; — but,  you  may  say, 
But  ift  be  he  I  mean,  he 's  very  wild ; 
Addicted  so  and  so  ;  and  there  put  on  him 
What  forgeries  you  please ;  marry,  none  so  rank 
As  may  dishonour  him ;  take  heed  of  that ; 
But,  sir,  such  wanton,  wild,  and  usual  slips 
As  are  companions  noted  and  most  known 
To  youth  and  liberty. 

Rey.  As  gaming,  my  lord. 

Pol.  Ay,   or   drinking,    fencing,    swearing, 

quarrelling, 
Drabbing : — you  may  go  so  far. 

Rey.   My  lord,  that  would  dishonour  him. 

Pol.  Faith,  no  ;  as  you  may  season  it  in  the 

charge. 

You  must  not  put  another  scandal  on  him, 
That  he  is  open  to  incontinency ; 
That 's  not  my  meaning :  but  breathe  his  faults 

so  quaintly 

That  they  may  seem  the  taints  of  liberty ; 
The  flash  and  outbreak  of  a  fiery  mind ; 
A  savageness  in  unreclaimed  blood, 
Of  general  assault. 

Rey.  But,  my  good  lord, — 

Pol.  Wherefore  should  you  do  this  ? 

Rey.  Ay,  my  lord, 

I  would  know  that. 

Pol.  Marry,  sir,  here 's  my  drift ; 

And  I  believe  it  is  a  fetch  of  warrant : 
You  laying  these  slight  sullies  on  my  son, 
As  'twere  a  thing  a  little  soil'd  i'  the  working, 
Mark  you, 

Your  party  in  converse,  him  you  would  sound, 
Having  ever  seen  in  the  prenominate  crimes 
The  youth  you  breathe  of  guilty,  be  assur'd 
He  closes  with  you  in  this  consequence  ; 
Good  sir,  or  so  ;  or  friend,  or  gentleman,  — 
According  to  the  phrase  or  the  addition 
Of  man  and  country. 

Rey.  Very  good,  my  lord. 

Pol.  And  then,  sir,  does  he  this,— he  does, — 


What  was  I  about  to  say? — By  the  mass,  I  was 
About  to  say  something : — where  did  I  leave? 

Rey.  At  closes  in  the  consequence, 
At  friend  or  so,  and  gentleman.  [marry ; 

Pol.    At — closes  in   the    consequence, — ay, 
He  closes  with  you  thus : — I  know  the  gentleman; 
I  saw  him  yesterday,  or  f  other  day,     [you  say, 
Or  then,  or  then  ;  with  such,  or  such  ;  and,  as 
There  was  he  gaming;  there  overtook  in 's  rouse  ; 
There  falling  out  at  tennis :  or  perchance, 
/  saw  him  enter  such  a  house  of  sale )— 
Videlicet,  a  brothel, — or  so  forth. — 
See  you  now  j 

Your  bait  of  falsehood  takes  this  carp  of  truth: 
And  thus  do  we  of  wisdom  and  of  reach, 
With  windlaces,  and  with  assays  of  bias, 
By  indirections  find  directions  out : 
So,  by  my  former  lecture  and  advice,        [not  ? 
Shall  you  my  son.      You  have  me,  have  you 

Rey.   My  lord,  I  have, 

Pol.  God  b'  wi'  you  ;  fare  you  well. 

Rey.   Good  my  lord ! 

Pol.  Observe  his  inclination  in  yourself. 

Rey.  I  shall,  my  lord. 

Pol.  And  let  him  ply  his  music. 

Rey.  Well,  my  lord. 

Pol.  Farewell !  [Exit  REYNALDO. 

Enter  OPHELIA. 

How  now,  Ophelia!  what's  the  matter? 

Oph.  Alas,  my  lord,  I  have  been  so  affrighted  I 

Pol.  With  what,  i'  the  name  of  God  ? 

Oph.  My  lord,  as  I  was  sewing  in  my  chamber, 
Lord  Hamlet, — with  his  doublet  all  unbrac'd ; 
No  hat  upon  his  head  ;  his  stockings  foul'd, 
Ungarter'd,  and  down-gyved  to  his  ankle  ; 
Pale  as  his  shirt ;  his  knees  knocking  each  other ; 
And  with  a  look  so  piteous  in  purport 
As  if  he  had  been  loosed  out  of  hell 
To  speak  of  horrors,— he  comes  before  me. 

Pol.  Mad  for  thy  love  ? 

Oph.  My  lord,  I  do  not  know; 

But  truly  I  do  fear  it. 

Pol  What  said  he  ? 

Oph.  He  took  me  by  the  wrist,  and  held  me 

hard; 

Then  goes  he  to  the  length  of  all  his  arm  ; 
And  with  his  other  hand  thus  o'er  his  brow, 
He  falls  to  such  perusal  of  my  face 
As  he  would  draw  it. .   Long  stay'd  he  so  ; 
At  last, — a  little  shaking  of  mine  arm, 
And  thrice  his  head  thus  waving  up  and  down, — 
He  rais'd  a  sigh  so  piteous  and  profound 
That  it  did  seem  to  shatter. all  his  bulk 
And  end  his  being :  that  done,  he  lets  me  go : 
And,  with  his  head  over  his  shoulder  turn'd, 
He  seem'd  to  find  his  way  without  his  eyes ; 


1138 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[ACT  n. 


For  out  o'  doors  he  went  without  their  help, 
And  to  the  last  bended  their  light  on  me. 
Pol.  Come,  go  with  me :  I  will  go  seek  the 

king. 

This  is  the  very  ecstacy  of  love  ; 
Whose  violent  property  fordoes  itself, 
And  leads  the  will  to  desperate  undertakings, 
As  oft  as  any  passion  under  heaven 
That  does  afflict  our  natures.     I  am  sorry, — 
What,  have  you  given  him  any  hard  words  of 

late?  [command, 

Oph.  No,  my  good  lord ;  but,  as  you  did 
I  did  repel  his  letters,  and  denied 
His  access  to  me. 

Pol.  That  hath  made  him  mad. 

I  am  sorry  that  with  better  heed  and  judgment 
I  had  not  quoted  him :  I  fear'd  he  did  but  trifle, 
And  meant  to  wreck  thee ;  but,  beshrew  my 

jealousy ! 

It  seems  it  is  as  proper  to  our  age 
To  cast  beyond  ourselves  in  our  opinions 
As  it  is  common  for  the  younger  sort 
To  lack  discretion.     Come,  go  we  to  the  king : 
This  must  be  known  ;  which,  being  kept  close, 

might  move 
More  grief  to  hide  than  hate  to  utter  love. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  the  Castle. 


Enter  KING,   QUEEN,   ROSENCRANTZ, 
GUILDENSTERN,  and  Attendants. 

King.    Welcome,     dear    Rosencrantz    and 

Guildenstern ! 

Moreover  that  we  much  did  long  to  see  you, 
The  need  we  have  to  use  you  did  provoke 
Our  hasty  sending.     Something  have  you  heard 
Of  Hamlet's  transformation  ;  so  I  call  it, 
Since  nor  the  exterior  nor  the  inward  man 
Resembles  that  it  was.     What  it  should  be, 
More  than  his  father's  death,  that  thus  hath  put 

him 

So  much  from  the  understanding  of  himself, 
I  cannot  dream  of:  I  entreat  you  both, 
That  being  of  so  young  days  brought  up  with 

him,  [humour, 

And   since   so   neighbour'd  to  his   youth  and 
That  you  vouchsafe  your  rest  here  in  our  court 
Some  little  time :  so  by  your  companies 
To  draw  him  on  to  pleasures,  and  to  gather, 
So  much  as  from  occasion  you  may  glean, 
Whether  aught,  to  us  unknown,  afflicts  him  thus, 
That,  open'd,  lies  within  our  remedy. 

Queen.  Good  gentlemen,  he  hath  much  talk'd 

of  you ; 

And  sure  I  am  two  men  there  are  not  living 
To  whom  he  more  adheres.    If  it  will  please  you 


To  show  us  so  much  gentry  and  good-will 
As  to  expend  your  time  with  us  awhile, 
For  the  supply  and  profit  of  our  hope, 
Your  visitation  shall  receive  surh  thanks 
As  fits  a  king's  remembrance. 

Ros.  Both  your  majesties 

Might,  by  the  sovereign  power  you  have  of  us, 
Put  your  dread  pleasures  more  into  command 
Than  to  entreaty. 

Guil.  We  both  obey, 

And  here  give  up  ourselves,  in  the  full  bent, 
To  lay  our  service  freely  at  your  feet, 
To  be  commanded. 

King.  Thanks,  Rosencrantz  and  gentle  Guil- 
denstern. [Rosencrantz : 

Queen.   Thanks,    Guildenstern    and    gentle 
And  I  beseech  you  instantly  to  visit 
My  too-much-changed  son. — Go,  some  of  you, 
And  bring  these  gentlemen  where  Hamlet  is. 

Guil.  Heavens  make  our  presence  and  our 

practices 
Pleasant  and  helpful  to  him ! 

Queen.  Ay,  amen ! 

[Exeunt  Ros.,  GUIL.,  and  some  Attendants. 

Enter  POLONIUS. 

Pol.    The    ambassadors   from   Norway,    my 

good  lord, 
Are  joyfully  return'd. 

King.  Thou  still  hast  been  the  father  of  good 

news 
Pol.  Have  I,  my  lord?     Assure  you,  my  good 

liege, 

I  hold  my  duty,  as  I  hold  my  soul, 
Both  to  my  God  and  to  my  gracious  king: 
And  I  do  think, — or  else  this  brain  of  mine 
Hunts  not  the  trail  of  policy  so  sure 
As  it  hath  us'd  to  do, — that  I  have  found 
The  very  cause  of  Hamlet's  lunacy. 

King.   O,  speak  of  that ;  that  do  I  long  to 

hear. 

Pol.    Give  first  admittance  to  the  ambas- 
sadors ; 

My  news  shall  be  the  fruit  to  that  great  feast. 
King.  Thyself  do  grace  to  them,  and  bring 
them  in.  [Exit  POLONIUS. 

He  tells  me,  my  sweet  queen,  that  he  hath  found 
The  head  and  source  of  all  your  son's  distemper. 
Queen.  I  doubt  it  is  no  other  but  the  main, — 
His  father's  death  and  our  o'erhasty  marriage. 
King.  Well,  we  shall  sift  him. 

Re-enter  POLONIUS,  with  VOLTIMAND  and 
CORNELIUS. 

Welcome,  my  good  friends ! 

Say,  Voltimand,  what  from  our  brother  Norway? 

Volt.  Most  fair  return  of  greetings  and  desires. 


SCENE  II.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


"39 


Upon  our  first,  he  sent  out  to  suppress 
His  nephew's  levies  ;  which  to  him  appear'd 
To  be  a  preparation  'gainst  the  Polack  ; 
But,  better  look'cl  into,  he  truly  found 
It  was  against  your  highness :  whereat  griev'd, — 
That  so  his  sickness,  age,  and  impotence 
Was  falsely  borne  in  hand, — sends  out  arrests 
On  Fortinbras  ;  which  he,  in  brief,  obeys  ; 
Receives  rebuke  from  Norway;  and,  in  fine, 
Makes  vow  before  his  uncle  never  more 
To  give  the  assay  of  arms  against  your  majesty. 
Whereon  old  Norway,  overcome  with  joy, 
Gives  him  three  thousand  crowns  in  annual  fee ; 
And  his  commission  to  employ  those  soldiers, 
So  levied  as  before,  against  the  Polack : 
With  an  entreaty,  herein  further  shown, 

[Gives  a  paper. 

That  it  might  please  you  to  give  quiet  pass 
Through  your  dominions  for  this  enterprise, 
On  such  regards  of  safety  and  allowance 
As  therein  are  set  down. 

King.  It  likes  us  well ; 

And  at  our  more  consider'd  time  we  '11  read, 
Answer,  and  think  upon  this  business. 
Meantime  we   Lhank   you   for   your  well-took 

labour : 

Go  to  your  rest ;  at  night  we  '11  feast  together : 
Most  welcome  home ! 

[Exeunt  VOLT,  and  COR. 

Pol.  This  business  is  well  ended. — 

My  liege,  and  madam, — to  expostulate 
What  majesty  should  be,  what  duty  is, 
Why  day  is  day,  night  night,  and  time  is  time, 
Were  nothing  but  to  waste  night,  day,  and  time. 
Therefore,  since  brevity  is  the  soul  of  wit, 
And  tediousness  the  limbsand  outward  flourishes, 
I  will  be  brief : — your  noble  son  is  mad  : 
Mad  call  I  it ;  for  to  define  true  madness, 
What  is 't  but  to  be  nothing  else  but  mad  ? 
But  let  that  go. 

Queen.  More  matter  with  less  art. 

Pol.   Madam,  I  swear  I  use  no  art  at  all. 
That  he  is  mad,  'tis  true :  'tis  true  'tis  pity ; 
And  pity  'tis  'tis  true :  a  foolish  figure  ; 
But  farewell  it,  for  I  will  use  no  art. 
Mad  let  us  grant  him,  then :  and  now  remains 
That  we  find  out  the  cause  of  this  effect ; 
Or  rather  say,  the  cause  of  this  defect, 
For  this  effect  defective  comes  by  cause : 
Thus  it  remains,  and  the  remainder  thus. 
Perpend. 

I  have  a  daughter, — have  whilst  she  is  mine, — 
Who,  in  her  duty  and  obedience,  mark, 
Hath  given  me  this :  now  gather,  and  surmise. 

[Reads. 

To  the  celestial,  and  my  soul's  idol,  the  most 
beautified  Ophelia^— 


That 's  an  ill  phrase,  a  vile  phrase, — beautified 
is  a  vile  phrase :  but  you  shall  hear.     Thus : 

[Reads. 

In  her  excellent  white  bosom ,  these,  &c. 
Queen.  Came  this  from  Hamlet  to  her? 
Pol.  Good  madam,  stay  awhile ;  I  will  be 
faithful.  [Reads. 

Doubt  thou  the  stars  are  fire  ; 

Doubt  that  the  sun  doth  move  ; 
Doubt  truth  to  be  a  liar ; 
But  never  doubt  I  love. 

O  dear  Ophelia,  I  am  ill  at  these  numbers  ; 

I  have  not  art  to  reckon  my  groans :  but  that  I 

love  thee  best,  O  most  best,  believe  it.     Adieu. 

Thine  evermore,  most  dear  lady,  whilst  this 

machine  is  to  him,  HAMLET. 

This,  in  obedience,  hath  my  daughter  show'd 

me: 

And  more  above,  hath  his  solicitings, 
As  they  fell  out  by  time,  by  means,  and  place, 
All  given  to  mine  ear. 

King.  But  how  hath  she 

Receiv'd  his  love  ? 

Pol.  What  do  you  think  of  me? 

King.  As  of  a  man  faithful  and  honourable. 
Pol.   I  would  fain  prove  so.     But  what  might 

you  th?nk, 

When  I  had  seen  this  hot  love  on  the  wing, — 
As  I  perceiv'cl  it,  I  must  tell  you  that, 
Before  my  daughter  told  me, — what  might  you, 
Or  my  dear  majesty  your  queen  here,  think, 
If  I  had  play'd  the  desk  or  table-book  ; 
Or  given  my  heart  a  winking,  mute  and  dumb; 
Or  look'd  upon  this  love  with  idle  sight ; — 
What  might  you  think  ?    No,  I  went  round  to 

work, 

And  my  young  mistress  thus  I  did  bespeak : 
Lord  Hamlet  is  a  prince  out  of  thy  sphere  ; 
This  must  not  be:  and  then  I  precepts  gave  her, 
That  she  should  lock  herself  from  his  resort, 
Admit  no  messengers,  receive  no  tokens. 
Which  done,  she  took  the  fruits  of  my  advice ; 
And  he,  repulsed, — a  short  tale  to  make, — 
Fell  into  a  sadness  ;  then  into  a  fast ; 
Thence  to  a  watch ;  thence  into  a  weakness ; 
Thence  to  a  lightness;  and,  by  this  declension, 
Into  the  madness  wherein  now  he  raves 
And  all  we  wail  for. 

King.  Do  you  think  'tis  this? 

Queen.  It  may  be,  very  likely. 

Pol.  Hath  there  been  such  a  time, — I'd  fain 

know  that, — 

That  I  have  positively  said,  Tts  St;, 
When  it  prov'd  otherwise  ? 

King.  Not  that  I  know. 

Pol.  Take  this  from  this,  if  this  be  otherwise: 
[Pointing  to  his  head  and  sliouldcr. 


1 140 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[ACT  ii. 


If  circumstances  lead  me,  I  will  find 

Where  truth  is  hid,  though  it  were  hid  indeed 

Within  the  centre. 

King.  How  may  we  try  it  further  ? 

Pol.  You    know,    sometimes   he   walks   for 

hours  together 
Here  in  the  lobby. 

Queen.  So  he  does,  indeed. 

Pol.  At  such  a  time  I  '11  loose  my  daughter 

to  him : 

Be  you  and  I  behind  an  arras  then  ; 
Mark  the  encounter :  if  he  love  her  not, 
And  be  not  from  his  reason  fall'n  thereon, 
Let  me  be  no  assistant  for  a  state, 
But  keep  a  farm  and  carters. 

King.  We  will  try  it. 

Queen.  But  look,  where  sadly  the  poor  wretch 
comes  reading. 

Pol.  Away,  I  do  beseech  you,  both  away: 
I  '11  board  him  presently : — O,  give  me  leave. 
[Exeunt  KING,  QUEEN,  and  Attendants. 

Enter  HAMLET,  reading. 

How  does  my  good  Lord  Hamlet  ? 

Ham.  Well,  God-a-mercy. 

Pol.  Do  you  know  me,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Excellent,  excellent  well;  you're  a 
fishmonger. 

Pol.  Not  I,  my  lord.  [man. 

Ham.  Then  I  would  you  were  so  honest  a 

Pol.  Honest,  my  lord  ! 

Ham.  Ay,  sir ;  to  be  honest,  as  this  world 
goes,  is  to  be  one  man  picked  out  of  ten  thou- 
sand. 

Pol.  That 's  very  true,  my  lord. 

Ham.  For  if  the  sun  breed  maggots  in  a  dead 
dog,  being  a  god-kissing  carrion, — Have  you  a 
daughter  ? 

Pol.  I  have,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Let  her  not  walk  i'  the  sun:  con- 
ception is  a  blessing ;  but  not  as  your  daughter 
may  conceive: — friend,  look  to't. 

Pol.  How  say  you  by  that? — [Aside.]  Still 
harping  on  my  daughter : — yet  he  knew  me 
not  at  first ;  he  said  I  was  a  fishmonger  :  he  is 
far  gone,  far  gone :  and  truly  in  my  youth  I 
suffered  much  extremity  for  love;  very  near 
this.  I  '11  speak  to  him  again. — What  do  you 
read,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Words,  words,  words.  ^ 

Pol.  What  is  the  matter,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Between  who  ?  [lord. 

Pol.  I  mean,  the  matter  that  you  read,  my 

Ham.  Slanders,  sir :  for  the  satirical  slave 
says  here  that  old  men  have  gray  beards  ;  that 
their  faces  are  wrinkled ;  their  eyes  purging 
thick  amber  and  plum-tree  gum  ;  and  that  they 


have  a  plentiful  lack  of  wit,  together  with  most 
weak  hams :  all  which,  sir,  though  I  most 
powerfully  and  potently  believe,  yet  I  hold  it 
not  honesty  to  have  it  thus  set  down  ;  for  you 
yourself,  sir,  should  be  old  as  I  am,  if,  like  a 
crab,  you  could  go  backward. 

Pol.  [Aside.]  Though  this  be  madness,  yet 
there  is  method  in't. — Will  you  walk  out  of 
the  air,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.   Into  my  grave  ? 

Pol.  Indeed,  that  is  out  o'  the  air. — [Aside.] 
How  pregnant  sometimes  his  replies  are  !  a 
happiness  that  often  madness  hits  on,  which 
reason  and  sanity  could  not  so  prosperously  be 
delivered  of.  I  will  leave  him,  and  suddenly 
contrive  the  means  of  meeting  between  him 
and  my  daughter. — My  honourable  lord,  I  will 
most  humbly  take  my  leave  of  you. 

Ham.  You  cannot,  sir,  take  from  me  any- 
thing that  I  will  more  willingly  part  withal, — 
except  my  life,  except  my  life,  except  my  life. 

Pol.  Fare  you  well,  my  lord. 

Ham.  These  tedious  old  fools  ! 

Enter  ROSENCRANTZ  and  GUILDENSTERN. 

Pol.  You  go  to  seek  the  Lord  Hamlet ;  there 
he  is. 

Ros.  [To  POLONIUS.]  God  save  you,  sir  1 

[Exit  POLONIUS. 

Guil.  Mine  honoured  lord  ! 

Ros.  My  most  dear  lord  ! 

Ham.  My  excellent  good  friends  !  How  dost 
thou,  Guildenstern  ?  Ah,  Rosencrantz  !  Good 
lads,  how  do  ye  both  ? 

Ros.  As  the  indifferent  children  of  the  earth. 

Guil.  Happy  in  that  we  are  not  overhappy ; 
On  fortune's  cap  we  are  not  the  very  button. 

Ham.  Nor  the  soles  of  her  shoe  ? 

Ros.  Neither,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Then  you  live  about  her  waist,  or  in 
the  middle  of  her  favours  ? 

Guil.  Faith,  her  privates  we. 

Ham.  In  the  secret  parts  of  fortune?  O, 
most  true;  she  is  a  strumpet.  What's  the 
news  ?  [grown  honest. 

Ros.  None,  my  lord,  but  that  the  world's 

Ham.  Then  is  doomsday  near:  but  your 
news  is  not  true.  Let  me  question  more  in 
particular :  what  have  you,  my  good  friends, 
deserved  at  the  hands  of  fortune,  that  she  sends 
you  to  prison  hither  ? 

Guil.  Prison,  my  lord  ! 

Ham.  Denmark 's  a  prison. 

Ros.  Then  is  the  world  one. 

Ham.  A  goodly  one;  in  which  there  are 
many  confines,  wards,  and  dungeons,  Denmark 
being  one  o'  the  worst. 


SCENE  II.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


1141 


Ros.  We  think  not  so,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Why,  then,  'tis  none  to  you  ;  for  there 
is  nothing  either  good  or  bad,  but  thinking 
.makes  it  so  :  to  me  it  is  a  prison. 

Ros.  Why,  then,  your  ambition  makes  it 
one  ;  'tis  too  narrow  for  your  mind. 

Ham.  O  God,  I  could  be  bounded  in  a  nut- 
shell, and  count  myself  a  king  of  infinite  space, 
were  it  not  that  I  nave  bad  dreams. 

Guil.  Which  dreams,  indeed,  are  ambition ; 
for  the  very  substance  of  the  ambitious  is  merely 
the  shadow  of  a  dream. 

Ham.  A  dream  itself  is  but  a  shadow. 

Ros.  Truly,  and  I  hold  ambition  of  so  airy 
and  light  a  quality  that  it  is  but  a  shadow's 
shadow. 

Ham.  Then  are  our  beggars  bodies,  and  our 
monarchs  and  outstretched  heroes  the  beggars' 
shadows.  Shall  we  to  the  court?  for,  by  my 
fay,  I  cannot  reason. 

Ros.  and  Guil.  We  '11  wait  upon  you. 

Ham.  No  such  matter :  I  will  not  sort  you 
with  the  rest  of  my  servants ;  for,  to  speak  to 
you  like  an  honest  man,  I  am  most  dreadfully 
attended.  But,  in  the  beaten  way  of  friend- 
ship, what  make  you  at  Elsinore  ? 

Ros.  To  visit  you,  my  lord ;  no  other  occasion. 

Ham.  Beggar  that  I  am,  I  am  even  poor  in 
thanks ;  but  I  thank  you :  and  sure,  dear 
friends,  my  thanks  are  too  dear  a  halfpenny. 
Were  you  not  sent  for  ?  Is  it  your  own  inclin- 
ing ?  Is  it  a  free  visitation  ?  Come,  deal  justly 
with  me  :  come,  come  ;  nay,  speak. 

Guil.  What  should  we  say,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Why,  anything — but  to  the  purpose. 
You  were  sent  for  ;  and  there  is  a  kind  of  con- 
fession in  your  looks,  which  your  modesties 
have  not  craft  enough  to  colour :  I  know  the 
good  king  and  queen  have  sent  for  you. 

Ros.  To  what  end,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  That  you  must  teach  me.  But  let  me 
conjure  you,  by  the  rights  of  our  fellowship, 
by  the  consonancy  of  our  youth,  by  the  obliga- 
tion of  our  ever- preserved  love,  and  by  what 
more  dear  a  better  proposer  could  charge  you 
withal,  be  even  and  direct  with  me,  whether 
you  were  sent  for  or  no  ? 

Ros.  What  say  you?     [To  GUILDENSTERN. 

Ham.  [Aside.]  Nay,  then,  I  have  an  eye  of 
you. — If  you  love  me,  hold  not  off. 

Guil.  My  lord,  we  were  sent  for. 

Ham.  I  will  tell  you  why ;  so  shall  my 
anticipation  prevent  your  discovery,  and  your 
secrecy  to  the  king  and  queen  moult  no  feather. 
I  have  of  late, — but  wherefore  I  know  not, — 
lost  all  my  mirth,  forgone  all  custom  of  exer- 
cises ;  and,  indeed,  it  goes  so  heavily  with  my 


disposition  that  this  goodly  frame,  the  earth, 
seems  to  me  a  sterile  promontory ;  this  most 
excellent  canopy,  the  air,  look  you,  this  brave 
o'erhanging  firmament,  this  majestical  roof 
fretted  with  golden  fire, — why,  it  appears  no 
other  thing  to  me  than  a  foul  and  pestilent  con- 
gregation of  vapours.  What  a  piece  of  work 
is  man  !  How  noble  in  reason  !  how  infinite 
in  faculties  !  in  form  and  moving,  how  express 
and  admirable  !  in  action,  how  like  an  angel ! 
in  apprehension,  how  like  a  god  !  the  beauty 
of  the  world  !  the  paragon  of  animals  !  And 
yet,  to  me,  what  is  this  quintessence  of  dust  ? 
man  delights  not  me  ;  no,  nor  woman  neither, 
though  by  your  smiling  you  seem  to  say  so. 

Ros.  My  lord,  there  was  no  such  stuff  in  my 
thoughts. 

Ham.  Why  did  you  laugh,  then,  when  I 
said,  Man  delights  not  me  ? 

Ros.  To  think,  my  lord,  if  you  delight  not 
in  man,  what  lenten  entertainment  the  players 
shall  receive  from  you  :  we  coted  them  on  the 
way  ;  and  hither  are  they  coming,  to  offer  you 
service. 

Ham.  He  that  plays  the  king  shall  be  wel- 
come,— his  majesty  shall  have  tribute  of  me ; 
the  adventurous  knight  shall  use  his  foil  and 
target ;  the  lover  shall  not  sigh  gratis ;  the 
humorous  man  shall  end  his  part  in  peace ; 
the  clown  shall  make  those  laugh  whose  lungs 
are  tickled  o'  the  sere ;  and  the  lady  shall  say 
her  mind  freely,  or  the  blank  verse  shall  halt 
for't. — What  players  are  they? 

Ros.  Even  those  you  were  wont  to  take 
delight  in, — the  tragedians  of  the  city. 

Ham.  How  chances  it  they  travel?  their 
residence,  both  in  reputation  and  profit,  was 
better  both  ways. 

Ros.  I  think  their  inhibition  comes  by  the 
means  of  the  late  innovation. 

Ham.  Do  they  hold  the  same  estimation  they 
did  when  I  was  in  the  city?  Are  they  so 
followed  ? 

Ros.  No,  indeed,  they  are  not. 

Ham.  How  comes  it  ?  do  they  grow  rusty  ? 

Ros.  Nay,  their  endeavour  keeps  in  the 
wonted  pace :  but  there  is,  sir,  an  aery  of 
children,  little  eyases,  that  cry  out  on  the  top 
of  question,  and  are  most  tyrannically  clapped 
for 't :  these  are  now  the  fashion ;  and  so  be- 
rattle  the  common  stages, — so  they  call  them, 
— that  many  wearing  rapiers  are  afraid  of  goose- 
quills,  and  dare  scarce  come  thither. 

Ham.  What,  are  they  children  ?  who  main- 
tains 'em  ?  how  are  they  escoted  ?  Will  they 
pursue  the  quality  no  longer  than  they  can  sing? 
will  they  not  say  afterwards,  if  they  should 


1 142 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[ACT  n. 


grow  themselves  to  common  players, — as  it  is 
most  like,  if  their  means  are  no  better, — their 
writers  do  them  wrong,  to  make  them  exclaim 
against  their  own  succession  ? 

Ros.  Faith,  there  has  been  much  to  do  on 
both  sides ;  and  the  nation  holds  it  no  sin  to 
tarre  them  to  controversy  :  there  was  for  awhile 
no  money  bid  for  argument,  unless  the  poet 
and  the  player  went  to  cuffs  in  the  question. 

Ham.  Is 't  possible  ? 

Guil.  O,  there  has  been  much  throwing 
about  of  brains. 

Ham.  Do  the  boys  carry  it  away  ? 

Ros.  Ay,  that  they  do,  my  lord  ;  Hercules 
and  his  load  too. 

Ham.  It  is  not  strange;  for  mine  uncle  is 
king  of  Denmark,  and  those  that  would  make 
mouths  at  him  while  my  father  lived,  give 
twenty,  forty,  fifty,  an  hundred  ducats  a-piece 
for  his  picture  in  little.  'Sblood,  there  is  some- 
thing in  this  more  than  natural,  if  philosophy 
could  find  it  out. 

[Flourish  of  trumpets  within. 

Guil.  There  are  the  players. 

Ham.  Gentlemen,  you  are  welcome  to  Elsi- 
nore.  Your  hands,  come :  the  appurtenance 
of  welcome  is  fashion  and  ceremony:  let  me 
comply  with  you  in  this  garb ;  lest  my  extent 
to  the  players,  which,  I  tell  you,  must  show 
fairly  outward,  should  more  appear  like  enter- 
tainment than  yours.  You  are  welcome:  but 
my  uncle-father  and  aunt-mother  are  deceived. 

Guil.   In  what,  my  dear  lord  ? 

Ham.  I  am  but  mad  north-north-west :  when 
the  wind  is  southerly  I  know  a  hawk  from  a 
handsaw. 

Enter  POLONIUS. 

Pol.  Well  be  with  you,  gentlemen  ! 

Ham.  Hark  you,  Guildenstern ; — and  you 
too ; — at  each  ear  a  hearer :  that  great  baby 
you  see  there  is  not  yet  out  of  his  swathing- 
clouts. 

Ros.  Happily  he 's  the  second  time  come  to 
them ;  for  they  say  an  old  man  is  twice  a  child. 

Ham.  I  will  prophesy  he  comes  to  tell  me  of 
the  players;  mark  it. — You  say  right,  sir:  o' 
Monday  morning  ;  'twas  so  indeed. 

Pol.  My  lord,  I  have  news  to  tell  you. 

Ham.  My  lord,  I  have  news  to  tell  you. 
When  Roscius  was  an  actor  in  Rome, — 

Pol.  The  actors  are  come  hither,  my  lord. 

Ham.   Buzz,  buzz  ! 

Pol.   Upon  mine  honour, — 

Ham.  Then  came  each  actor  on  his  ass, — 

Pol.  The  best  actors  in  the  world,  either  for 
tragedy,  comedy,  history,  pastoral,  pastoral- 


comical,  historical -pastoral,  tragical-historical, 
tragical -comical -historical -pastoral,  scene  in- 
dividable,  or  poem  unlimited  :  Seneca  cannot 
be  too  heavy  nor  Plautus  too  light.  For  the 
law  of  writ  and  the  liberty,  these  are  the  only 
men. 

Ham.  O  Jephthah,  judge  of  Israel,  what  a 
treasure  hadst  thou  ! 

Pol.  What  a  treasure  had  he,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Why- 
One  fair  daughter,  and  no  more, 
The  which  he  loved  passing  well. 

Pol.  \_Aside.~}  Still  on  my  daughter. 
Ham.  Am  I  not  i'  the  right,  old  Jephthah  ? 
Pol.   If  you  call  me  Jephthah,  my  lord,   I 
have  a  daughter  that  I  love  passing  well. 
Ham.  Nay,  that  follows  not. 
Pol.  What  follows,  then,  my  lord  ? 
Ham.  Why— 

As  by  lot,  God  wot, 
and  then,  you  know, 

It  came  to  pass,  as  most  like  it  was, — 
the  first  row  of  the  pious  chanson  will  show  you 
more  ;  for  look  where  my  abridgment  comes. 

Enter  four  or  five  Players. 

You  are  welcome,  masters  ;  welcome,  all : — I 
am  glad  to  see  thee  well : — welcome,  good 
friends. — O,  my  old  friend!  Thy  face  is 
valanced  since  I  saw  thee  last ;  comest  thou  to 
beard  me  in  Denmark  ? — What,  my  young  lady 
and  mistress!  By'r  lady,  your  ladyship  is 
nearer  heaven  than  when  I  saw  you  last,  by  the 
altitude  of  a  chopine.  Pray  God,  your  voice, 
like  a  piece  of  uncurrent  gold,  be  not  cracked 
within  the  ring. — Masters,  you  are  all  welcome. 
We'll  e'en  to't  like  French  falconers,  fly  at 
anything  we  see :  we  '11  have  a  speech  straight : 
come,  give  us  a  taste  of  your  quality ;  come,  a 
passionate  speech. 

i  Play.  What  speech,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  I  heard  thee  speak  me  a  speech  once, 
— but  it  was  never  acted  ;  or,  if  it  was,  not 
above  once  ;  for  the  play,  I  remember,  pleased 
not  the  million  ;  'twas  caviare  to  the  general : 
but  it  was, — as  I  received  it,  and  others  whose 
judgments  in  such  matters  cried  in  the  top  of 
mine, — an  excellent  play,  well  digested  in  the 
scenes,  set  down  with  as  much  modesty  as 
cunning.  I  remember,  one  said  there  were  no 
sallets  in  the  lines  to  make  the  matter  savoury, 
nor  no  matter  in  the  phrase  that  might  indite 
the  author  of  affectation  ;  but  called  it  an 
honest  method,  as  wholesome  as  sweet,  and  by 
very  much  more  handsome  than  fine.  One 


SCENE  II.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


"43 


speech  in  it  I  chiefly  loved :  'twas  /Eneas'  tale 
to  Dido  ;  and  thereabout  of  it  especially  where 
he  speaks  of  Priam's  slaughter:  if  it  live  in 
your  memory,  begin  at  this  line  ; — let  me  see, 
let  me  see : — 

The  rugged  Pyrrhus,  like  the  Hyrcanian  beast, 
— it  is  not  so : — it  begins  with  Pyrrhus : — 

The  rugged  Pyrrhus, — he  whose  sable  arms, 
Black  as  his  purpose,  did  the  night  resemble 
When  he  lay  couched  in  the  ominous  horse, — 
Hath  now  this  dread  and  black  complexion 

smear'd 

With  heraldry  more  dismal  ;  head  to  foot 
Now  is  he  total  gules ;  horridly  trick'd 
With  blood  of  fathers,  mothers,  daughters, 

sons, 

Bak'd  and  impasted  with  the  parching  streets, 
That  lend  a  tyrannous  and  damned  light 
To  their  vile  murders :  roasted  in  wrath  and 

fire, 

And  thus  o'er-sized  with  coagulate  gore, 
With  eyes  like  carbuncles,  the  hellish  Pyrrhus 
Old  grandsire  Priam  seeks. — 

So  proceed  you. 

Pol.  'Fore  God,  my  lord,  well  spoken,  with 
good  accent  and  good  discretion. 

I  Play.  Anon  he  finds  him  [sword, 

Striking   too  short  at  Greeks  ;   his  antique 
Rebellious  to  his  arm,  lies  where  it  falls, 
Repugnant  to  command :  unequal  match'd, 
Pyrrhus  at  Priam  drives ;  in  rage  strikes  wide  ; 
But  with  the  whiff  and  wind  of  his  fell  sword 
The  unnerved  father  falls.     Then  senseless 

Ilium, 

Seeming  to  feel  this  blow,  with  flaming  top 
Stoops  to  his  base ;  and  with  a  hideous  crash 
Takes  prisoner  Pyrrhus'  ear :    for,   lo !   his 

sword, 

Which  was  declining  on  the  milky  head 
Of  reverend  Priam,  seem'd  i'  the  air  to  stick : 
So,  as  a  painted  tyrant,  Pyrrhus  stood  ; 
And,  like  a  neutral  to  his  will  and  matter, 
Did  nothing. 

But  as  we  often  see,  against  some  storm, 
A  silence  in  the  heavens,  the  rack  stand  still, 
The  bold  winds  speechless,  and  the  orb  below 
As  hush  as  death,  anon  the  dreadful  thunder 
Doth  rend  the  region ;  so,  after  Pyrrhus'  pause, 
A  roused  vengeance  sets  him  new  a-work  ; 
And  never  did  the  Cyclops'  hammers  fall 
On  Mars  his  armour,  forg'd  for  proof  eterne, 
With  less  remorse  than    Pyrrhus'  bleeding 

sword 

Now  falls  on  Priam. —  [gods, 

Out,  out,  thou  strumpet,  Fortune !     All  you 


In  general  synod,  take  away  her  power ; 
Break  all  the  spokes  and  fellies  from  her 
wheel,  [heaven, 

And  bowl  the  round  knave  down  the  hill  of 
As  low  as  to  the  fiends ! 

Pol.  This  is  too  long. 

Hani.  It  shall  to  the  barber's,  with  your 
beard. — Pr'ythee,  say  on. — He 's  for  a  jig,  or  a 
tale  of  bawdry,  or  he  sleeps : — say  on  ;  come 
to  Hecuba. 

i  Play.  But  who,  O,  who  had  seen  the 
mobled  queen, — 

Ham.    The  mobled  queen  ? 

Pol.  That 's  good  ;  mobled  queen  is  good. 

i   Play.    Run    barefoot    up    and    down, 

threatening  the  flames 

With  bisson  rheum  ;  a  clout  upon  that  head 
Where  late  the  diadem  stood ;  and,  for  a  robe, 
About  her  lank  and  all  o'er-teemed  loins, 
A  blanket,  in  the  alarm  of  fear  caught  up ; — 
Who  this  had  seen,  with  tongue  in  venom 

steep'd,  [pronounc'd : 

'Gainst  Fortune's  state  would  treason  have 
But  if  the  gods  themselves  did  see  her  then, 
When  she  saw  Pyrrhus  make  malicious  sport 
In  mincing  with  his  sword  her  husband's 

limbs, 

The  instant  burst  of  clamour  that  she  made, — 
Unless  things  mortal  move  them  not  at  all, — 
Would  have  made  milch  the  burning  eyes  of 

heaven, 
And  passion  in  the  gods. 

Pol.  Look,  whether  he  has  not  turn'd  his 
colour,  and  has  tears  in 's  eyes. — Pray  you,  no 
more. 

Ham.  'Tis  well ;  I  '11  have  thee  speak  out 
the  rest  soon. — Good  my  lord,  will  you  see  the 
players  well  bestowed  ?  Do  you  hear,  let  them 
be  well  used  ;  for  they  are  the  abstracts  and 
brief  chronicles  of  the  time ;  after  your  death 
you  were  better  have  a  bad  epitaph  than  their 
ill  report  while  you  live.  [their  desert. 

Pol.   My  lord,  I  will  use  them  according  to 

Ham.  Odd's  bodikin,  man,  better :  use  every 
man  after  his  desert,  and  who  should  scape 
whipping  ?  Use  them  after  your  own  honour 
and  dignity:  the  less  they  deserve  the  more 
merit  is  in  your  bounty.  Take  them  in. 

Pol.  Come,  sirs. 

Ham.  Follow  him,  friends:  we'll  hear  a 
play  to-morrow.  [Exit  POLONIUS  with  all  the 
Players  but  the  First.] — Dost  thou  hear  me,  old 
friend  ;  can  you  play  the  Murder  of  Gonzago  ? 

I  Play.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ham.  We  11   ha't  to-morrow  night.      You 


"44 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[ACT  in. 


could,  for  a  need,  study  a  speech  of  some 
dozen  or  sixteen  lines  which  I  would  set  down 
and  insert  in 't  ?  could  you  not  ? 

I  Play.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Very  well. — Follow  that  lord;  and 
look  you  mock  him  not.  [Exit  First  Player.] 
— My  good  friends  [to  Ros.  and  GUIL.],  I'll 
leave  you  till  night :  you  are  welcome  to 
Elsinore. 

Ros.  Good  my  lord ! 

[Exeunt  Ros.  aw^GuiL. 

Ham.  Ay,  so  God  b'  wi'  ye! — Now  I  am 

alone. 

O,  what  a  rogue  and  peasant  slave  am  I ! 
Is  it  not  monstrous  that  this  player  here, 
But  in  a  fiction,  in  a  dream  of  passion, 
Could  force  his  soul  so  to  his  own  conceit 
That  from  her  working  all  his  visage  wan'd  ; 
Tears  in  his  eyes,  distraction  in  's  aspect, 
A  broken  voice,  and  his  whole  function  suiting 
With  forms  to  his  conceit  ?    And  all  for  nothing ! 
For  Hecuba? 

What's  Hecuba  to  him  or  he  to  Hecuba,     [do, 
That  he  should  weep  for  her  ?    What  would  he 
Had  he  the  motive  and  the  cue  for  passion 
That  I  have?    He  would  drown  the  stage  with 

tears, 

And  cleave  the  general  ear  with  horrid  speech ; 
Make  mad  the  guilty,  and  appal  the  free  ; 
Confound  the  ignorant,  and  amaze,  indeed, 
The  very  faculties  of  eyes  and  ears. 
Yet  I, 

A  dull  and  muddy-mettled  rascal,  peak, 
Like  John-a-dreams,  unpregnant  of  my  cause, 
And  can  say  nothing  ;  no,  not  for  a  king 
Upon  whose  property  and  most  dear  life 
A  damn'd  defeat  was  made.     Am  I  a  coward  ? 
Who  calls  me  villain  ?  breaks  my  pate  across  ? 
Plucks  off  my  beard  and  blows  it  in  my  face  ? 
Tweaks  me  by  the  nose?  gives  me  the  lie  i'  the 

throat, 

As  deep  as  to  the  lungs?  who  does  me  this,  ha? 
'S wounds,  I  should  take  it :  for  it  cannot  be 
But  I  am  pigeon -liver'd,  and  lack  gall 
To  make  oppression  bitter  ;  or  ere  this 
I  should  have  fatted  all  the  region  kites 
With  this  slave's  offal : — bloody,  bawdy  villain ! 
Remorseless,   treacherous,  lecherous,  kindless 

villain ! 

O,  vengeance ! 

Why,  what  an  ass  am  I !     This  is  most  brave, 
That  I,  the  son  of  a  dear  father  murder'd, 
Prompted  to  my  revenge  by  heaven  and  hell, 
Must,  like  a  whore,  unpack  my  heart  with  words, 
And  fall  a-cursing  like  a  very  drab, 
A  scullion !  [heard 

Fie  upon 't !  foh ! — About,  my  brain !     I  have 


That  guilty  creatures,  sitting  at  a  play, 
Have  by  the  very  cunning  of  the  scene 
Been  struck  so  to  the  soul  that  presently 
They  have  proclaim'd  their  malefactions ; 
For  murder,  though  it  have  no  tongue,  will 
speak  [players 

With  most  miraculous  organ.     I  '11  have  these 
Play  something  like  the  murder  of  my  father 
Before  mine  uncle :  I  '11  observe  his  looks  ; 
I  '11  tent  him  to  the  quick :  if  he  but  blench, 
I  know  my  course.     The  spirit  that  I  have  seen 
May  be  the  devil :  and  the  devil  hath  power 
To  assume  a  pleasing  shape ;  yea,  and  perhaps 
Out  of  my  weakness  and  my  melancholy, — 
As  he  is  very  potent  with  such  spirits, — 
Abuses  me  to  damn  me  :  I  '11  have  grounds 
More  relative  than  this : — the  play 's  the  thing 
Wherein  I  '11  catch  the  conscience  of  the  king. 

[Exit. 

bns  rfi/nv:  ni  '*  oT 

1 ,1^  ACT  III. 

fn    •  ,;:•••    :,n/-. 

SCENE  I.-— A  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  KING,  QUEEN,  POLONIUS,  OPHELIA, 

ROSENCRANTZ,  and  GUILDENSTERN. 

King.  And  can  you,  by  no  drift  of  circum- 
stance, 

Get  from  him  why  he  puts  on  this  confusion, 
Grating  so  harshly  all  his  days  of  quiet 
With  turbulent  and  dangerous  lunacy? 

Ros.  He  does  confess  he  feels  himself  dis- 
tracted ;  [speak. 
But   from   what   cause   he  will   by  no  means 

Gul.  Nor  do  we  find  him   forward  to  be 

sounded ; 

But,  with  a  crafty  madness,  keeps  aloof 
When  we  would  bring  him  on  to  some  confession 
Of  his  true  state. 

Queen.  Did  he  receive  you  well  ? 

Ros.  Most  like  a  gentleman. 

Guil.  But  with  much  forcing  of  his  disposition. 

Ros.  Niggard  of  question ;  but,  of  our  demands, 
Most  free  in  his  reply. 

Queen.  Did  you  assay  him 

To  any  pastime  ? 

Ros.    Madam,   it  so   fell    out  that  certain 
players  [him ; 

We  o'er-raught  on  the  way:  of  these  we  told 
And  there  did  seem  in  him  a  kind  of  joy 
To  hear  of  it :  they  are  about  the  court ; 
And,  as  I  think,  they  have  already  order 
This  night  to  play  before  him. 

Pol.  'Tis  most  true  : 

And  he  beseech'd  me  to  entreat  your  majesties 
To  hear  and  see  the  matter.  [content  me 

King.  With  all  my  heart ;  and  it  doth  much 


SCENE  I.J 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK 


I I4S 


To  hear  him  so  inclin'd. — 

Good  gentlemen,  give  him  a  further  edge, 

And  drive  his  purpose  on  to  these  delights. 

Ros.  We  shall,  my  lord. 

{Exeunt  Ros.  and  GuiL. 

King.  Sweet  Gertrude,  leave  us  too ; 

For  we  have  closely  sent  for  Hamlet  hither 
That  he,  as  'twere  by  accident,  may  here 
Affront  Ophelia  : 

Her  father  and  myself, — lawful  espials, — 
Will  so  bestow  ourselves  that,  seeing,  unseen, 
We  may  of  their  encounter  frankly  judge  ; 
And  gather  by  him,  as  he  is  behav'd, 
If 't  be  the  affliction  of  his  love  or  no 
That  thus  he  suffers  for. 

Queen.  I  shall  obey  you : — 

And  for  your  part,  Ophelia,  I  do  wish 
That  your  good  beauties  be  the  happy  cause 
Of  Hamlet's  wildness:    so  shall  I  hope  your 

virtues 

Will  bring  him  to  his  wonted  way  again, 
To  both  your  honours. 

Oph.  Madam,  I  wish  it  may. 

{Exit  QUEEN. 

Pol.  Ophelia,  walk  you  here. — Gracious,  so 

please  you, 
We  will  bestow   ourselves.—  [To  OPHELIA.] 

Read  on  this  book  ; 

That  show  of  such  an  exercise  may  colour 
Your  loneliness. — We  are  oft  to  blame  in  this, — 
'Tis   too   much   prov'd, — that  with  devotion's 


And  pious  action  we  do  sugar  o'er 
The  devil  himself. 

King.  [Aside.'}  O,  'tis  too  true!        [science! 
How  smart  a  lash  that  speech  doth  give  my  con- 
The  harlot's  cheek,  beautied  with  plastering  art, 
Is  not  more  ugly  to  the  thing  that  helps  it 
Than  is  my  deed  to  my  most  painted  word : 
O  heavy  burden !  [lord. 

Pol.  I  hear  him  coming :  let 's  withdraw,  my 
[Exeunt  KING  and  POLONIUS. 

Enter  HAMLET. 

Ham.  To  be,  or  not  to  be, — that  is  the 

question : — 

Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune, 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 
And    by   opposing   end    them? — To   die, — to 

sleep, — 

No  more ;  and  by  a  sleep  to  say  we  end 
The  heart -ache  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to, — 'tis  a  consummation 
Pevoutly  to  be  wish'd.     To  die, — to  sleep ; — 
To  sleep!  perchance  to  dream: — ay,  there's 

the  rub; 


For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may 

come, 

When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil, 
Must  give  us  pause :  there 's  the  respect 
That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life ;         [time, 
For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of 
The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  con- 
tumely, 

The  pangs  of  despis'd  love,  the  law's  delay, 
The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 
That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes, 
When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 
With  a  bare  bodkin?  who  would  fardels  bear, 
To  grunt  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life, 
But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death, — 
The  undiscover'd  country,  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveller  returns,— puzzles  the  will, 
And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of? 
Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all ; 
And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 
Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought; 
And  enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment, 
With  this  regard,  their  currents  turn  awry, 
And  lose  the  name  of  action. — Soft  you  now! 
The  fair  Ophelia. — Nymph,  in  thy  orisons 
Be  all  my  sins  remember'd. 

Oph.  Good  my  lord, 

How  does  your  honour  for  this  many  a  day? 

Ham.  I. humbly  thank  you;  well,  well,  well. 

Oph.  My  lord,  I  have  remembrances  of  yours, 
That  I  have  longed  long  to  re-deliver ; 
I  pray  you,  now  receive  them. 

Ham.  No,  not  I ; 

I  never  gave  you  aught.  [you  did ; 

Oph.  My  honour'd  lord,  you  know  right  well 
And,  with  them,  words  of  so  sweet  breath  com- 
pos'd  [lost, 

As  made  the  things  more  rich :  their  perfume 
Take  these  again ;  for  to  the  noble  mind 
Rich  gifts  wax  poor  when  givers  prove  unkind. 
There,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Ha,  ha !  are  you  honest? 

Oph.  My  lord? 

Ham.  Are  you  fair? 

Oph.  What  means  your  lordship? 

Ham.  That  if  you  be  honest  and  fair,  your 
honesty  should  admit  no  discourse  to  your 
beauty. 

Oph.  Could  beauty,  my  lord,  have  better 
commerce  than  with  honesty? 

Ham.  Ay,  truly;  for  the  power  of  beauty 
will  sooner  transform  honesty  from  what  it  is  to 
a  bawd  than  the  force  of  honesty  can  translate 
beauty  into  his  likeness :  this  was  sometime  a 
paradox,  but  now  the  time  gives  it  proof.  I 
did  love  you  once. 


1146 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[ACT  in. 


Oph.  Indeed,  my  lord,  you  made  me  believe 
so. 

Ham.  You  should  not  have  believed  me; 
for  virtue  cannot  so  inoculate  our  old  stock  but 
we  shall  relish  of  it :  I  loved  you  not. 

Oph.  I  was  the  more  deceived. 

Ham.  Get  thee  to  a  nunnery :  why  wouldst 
thou  be  a  breeder  of  sinners?  I  am  myself  in- 
different honest ;  but  yet  I  could  accuse  me  of 
such  things  that  it  were  better  my  mother  had 
not  born  me :  I  am  very  proud,  revengeful,  am- 
bitious ;  with  more  offences  at  my  beck  than  I 
have  thoughts  to  put  them  in,  imagination  to 
give  them  shape,  or  time  to  act  them  in.  What 
should  such  fellows  as  I  do  crawling  between 
heaven  and  earth?  We  are  arrant  knaves,  all ; 
believe  none  of  us.  Go  thy  ways  to  a  nunnery. 
Where's  your  father? 

Oph.  At  home,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Let  the  doors  be  shut  upon  him,  that 
he  may  play  the  fool  nowhere  but  in's  own 
house.  Farewell. 

Oph.  O,  help  him,  you  sweet  heavens ! 

Ham.  If  thou  dost  marry,  I  '11  give  thee  this 
plague  for  thy  dowry, — be  thou  as  chaste  as 
ice,  as  pure  as  snow,  thou  shalt  not  escape 
calumny.  Get  thee  to  a  nunnery,  go:  fare- 
well. Or,  if  thou  wilt  needs  marry,  marry  a 
fool;  for  wise  men  know  well  enough  what 
monsters  you  make  of  them.  To  a  nunnery, 
go ;  and  quickly  too.  Farewell. 

Oph.  O  heavenly  powers,  restore  him ! 

Ham.  I  have  heard  of  your  paintings  too, 
well  enough ;  God  has  given  you  one  face  and 
you  make  yourselves  another:  you  jig,  you 
amble,  and  you  lisp,  and  nickname  God's  crea- 
tures, and  make  your  wantonness  your  ignor- 
ance. Go  to,  I  '11  no  more  on 't ;  it  hath  made 
me  mad.  I  say,  we  will  have  no  more  mar- 
riages :  those  that  are  married  already,  all  but 
one,  shall  live;  the  rest  shall  keep  as  they  are. 
To  a  nunnery,  go.  [Exit. 

Oph.  O,  what  a  noble  mind  is  here  o'erthrown ! 
The  courtier's,  soldier's,  scholar's  eye,  tongue, 

sword : 

The  expectancy  and  rose  of  the  fair  state, 
The  glass  of  fashion  and  the  mould  of  form, 
The  observ'd   of  all   observers, — quite,   quite 

down ! 

And  I,  of  ladies  most  deject  and  wretched 
That  suck'd  the  honey  of  his  music  vows, 
Now  see  that  noble  and  most  sovereign  reason, 
Like  sweet  bells  jangled,  out  of  tune  and  harsh ; 
That  unmatch'd  form  and  feature  of  blown  youth 
Blasted  with  ecstasy :  O,  woe  is  me, 
To  have  seen  what  I  have  seen,  see  what  I 
see! 


Re-enter  KING  and  POLONIUS. 
King.   Love !  his  affections  do  not  that  way 

tend ;  [little, 

Nor  what  he  spake,  though  it  lack'd  form  a 
Was  not  like  madness.     There 's  something  in 

his  soul 

O'er  which  his  melancholy  sits  on  brood ; 
And  I  do  doubt  the  hatch  and  the  disclose 
Will  be  some  danger :  which  for  to  prevent, 
I  have  in  quick  determination  [land 

Thus  set  it  down : — he  shall  with  speed  to  Eng- 
For  the  demand  of  our  neglected  tribute : 
Haply,  the  seas  and  countries  different, 
With  variable  objects,  shall  expel 
This  something-settled  matter  in  his  heart ; 
Whereon  his  brains  still  beating  puts  him  thus 
From  fashion  of  himself.    What  think  you  on  't  ? 

Pol.   It  shall  do  well :  but  yet  do  I  believe 
The  origin  and  commencement  of  his  grief 
Sprung    from     neglected     love. — How    now, 

Ophelia ! 

You  need  not  tell  us  what  Lord  Hamlet  said ; 
We  heard  it  all. — My  lord,  do  as  you  please; 
But  if  you  hold  it  fit,  after  the  play, 
Let  his  queen  mother  all  alone  entreat  him 
To  show  his  grief:  let  her  be  round  with  him ; 
And  I  '11  be  plac'd,  so  please  you,  in  the  ear 
Of  all  their  conference.     If  she  find  him  not, 
To  England  send  him ;  or  confine  him  where 
Your  wisdom  best  shall  think. 

King.  It  shall  be  so : 

Madness  in  great  ones  must  not  unwatch'd  go. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — A  Hall  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  HAMLET  and  certain  Players. 

Ham.  Speak  the  speech,  I  pray  you,  as  I 
pronounced  it  to  you,  trippingly  on  the  tongue: 
but  if  you  mouth  it,  as  many  of  your  players 
do,  I  had  as  lief  the  town-crier  spoke  my  lines. 
Nor  do  not  saw  the  air  too  much  with  your 
hand,  thus;  but  use  all  gently:  for  in  the  very 
torrent,  tempest,  and,  as  I  may  say,  the  whirl- 
wind of  passion,  you  must  acquire  and  beget  a 
temperance  that  may  give  it  smoothness.  O, 
it  offends  me  to  the  soul,  to  hear  a  robustious 
periwig-pated  fellow  tear  a  passion  to  tatters, 
to  very  rags,  to  split  the  ears  of  the  groundlings, 
who,  for  the  most  part,  are  capable  of  nothing 
but  inexplicable  dumb  shows  and  noise :  I 
could  have  such  a  fellow  whipped  for  o'erdoing 
Termagant  ;  it  out-herods  Herod :  pray  you, 
avoid  it. 

I  Play.   I  warrant  your  honour. 

Ham.  Be  not  too  tame  neither,  but  let  your 


SCENE  II.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


1147 


own  discretion  be  your  tutor :  suit  the  action  to 
the  word,  the  word  to  the  action;  with  this 
special  observance,  that  you  o'erstep  not  the 
modesty  of  nature :  for  anything  so  overdone  is 
from  the  purpose  of  playing,  whose  end,  both 
at  the  first  and  now,  was  and  is,  to  hold,  as 
'twere,  the  mirror  up  to  nature ;  to  show  virtue 
her  own  feature,  scorn  her  own  image,  and  the 
very  age  and  body  of  the  time  his  form  and 
pressure.  Now,  this  overdone  or  come  tardy 
off,  though  it  make  the  unskilful  laugh,  cannot 
but  make  the  judicious  grieve ;  the  censure  of 
the  which  one  must,  in  your  allowance,  o'er- 
weigh  a  whole  theatre  of  others.  O,  there  be 
players  that  I  have  seen  play, — and  heard 
others  praise,  and  that  highly, — not  to  speak 
it  profanely,  that,  neither  having  the  accent  of 
Christians,  nor  the  gait  of  Christian,  pagan,  nor 
man,  have  so  strutted  and  bellowed  that  I  have 
thought  some  of  nature's  journeymen  had  made 
men,  and  not  made  them  well,  they  imitated 
humanity  so  abominably. 

I  Play.  I  hope  we  have  reformed  that  in- 
differently with  us,  sir. 

Ham.  O,  reform  it  altogether.  And  let 
those  that  play  your  clowns  speak  no  more  than 
is  set  down  for  them :  for  there  be  of  them  that 
will  themselves  laugh,  to  set  on  some  quantity 
of  barren  spectators  to  laugh  too;  though,  in 
the  meantime,  some  necessary  question  of  the 
play  be  then  to  be  considered  :  that 's  villan- 
ous,  and  shows  a  most  pitiful  ambition  in  the 
fool  that  uses  it.  Go,  make  you  ready. 

[Exeunt  Players. 
Enter  POLONIUS,  ROSENCRANTZ,  ana 

GUILDENSTERN. 

How  now,  my  lord!  will  the  king  hear  this 
piece  of  work? 

Pol   And  the  queen  too,  and  that  presently. 
Ham.  Bid  the  players  make  haste. 

[Exit  POLONIUS. 

Will  you  two  help  to  hasten  them? 
JRos.  and  Guil.  We  will,  my  lord. 

[Exeunt  Ros.  and  GUIL. 
Ham.  What,  ho,  Horatio! 

Enter  HORATIO. 

Hor.  Here,  sweet  lord,  at  your  service. 

Ham,  Horatio,  thou  art  e'en  as  just  a  man 
As  e'er  my  conversation  cop'd  withal. 

Hor    O,  my  dear  lord, — 

Ham,  Nay,  do  not  think  I  flatter  ; 

For  what  advancement  may  I  hope  from  thee, 
That  no  revenue  hast,  but  thy  good  spirits, 
To  feed  and  clothe  thee  ?    Why  should  the  poor 
be  fiatter'd? 


No,  let  the  candied  tongue  lick  absurd  pomp ; 
And  crook  the  pregnant  hinges  of  the  knee 
Where  thrift  may  follow  fawning.     Dost  thou 

hear? 

Since  my  dear  soul  was  mistress  of  her  choice, 
And  could  of  men  distinguish,  her  election 
Hath  seal'd  thee  for  herself:  for  thou  hast  been 
As  one,  in  suffering  all,  that  suffers  nothing; 
A  man  that  Fortune's  buffets  and  rewards 
Hast  ta'en  with  equal  thanks :  and  bless'd  are 

those 

Whose  blood  and  judgment  are  so  well  com- 
mingled 

That  they  are  not  a  pipe  for  Fortune's  finger 
To  sound  what  stop  she  please.     Give  me  that 

man 

That  is  not  passion's  slave,  and  I  will  wear  him 
In  my  heart  s  core,  ay,  in  my  heart  of  heart, 
As  I  do  thee. — Something  too  much  of  this. — 
There  is  a  play  to-night  before  the  king ; 
One  scene  of  it  comes  near  the  circumstance 
Which  I  have  told  thee  of  my  father's  death  : 
I  pr'ythee,  when  thou  see'st  that  act  a-foot, 
Even  with  the  very  comment  of  thy  soul 
Observe  mine  uncle  :  if  his  occulted  guilt 
Do  not  itself  unkennel  in  one  speech, 
It  is  a  damned  ghost  that  we  have  seen  ; 
And  my  imaginations  are  as  foul 
As  Vulcan's  stithy.     Give  him  heedful  note : 
For  I  mine  eyes  will  rivet  to  his  face  ; 
And,  after,  we  will  both  our  judgments  join 
In  censure  of  his  seeming. 

Hor.  Well,  my  lord  : 

If  he  steal  aught  the  whilst  this  play  is  playing, 
And  scape  detecting,  I  will  pay  the  theft. 
Ham.  They  are  coming  to  the  play  ;  I  must 

be  idle : 
Get  you  a  place. 

Danish  march.  A  flourish.  Enter  KING, 
QUEEN,  POLONIUS,  OPHELIA,  ROSEN- 
CRANTZ, GUILDENSTERN,  and  others. 

King.   How  fares  our  cousin  Hamlet  ? 

Ham.  Excellent,  i'  faith;  of  the  chameleon's 
dish:  I  eat  the  air,  promise-crammed :  you 
cannot  feed  capons  so. 

King.  I  have  nothing  with  this  answer, 
Hamlet ;  these  words  are  not  mine. 

Ham.  No,  nor  mine  now. — My  lord,  you 
played  once  i'  the  university,  you  say?  [  To  POL. 

Pol.  That  did  I,  my  lord,  and  was  accounted 
a  good  actor. 

Ham.  And  what  did  you  enact  ? 

Pol.  I  did  enact  Julius  Caesar  :  I  was  killed 
i'  the  Capitol ;  Brutus  killed  me. 

Ham.  It  was  a  brute  part  of  him  to  kill  sc 
capital  a  calf  there. — Be  the  players  ready? 


1148 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[ACT  in. 


Ros.  Ay,  my  lord ;  they  stay  upon  your 
patience. 

Queen.  Come  hither,  my  good  Hamlet,  sit 
by  me. 

Ham.  No,  good  mother,  here's  metal  more 
attractive. 

Pol.  O,  ho !  do  you  mark  that? 

[To  the  KING. 

Ham.   Lady,  shall  I  lie  in  your  lap  ? 

{Lying  down  at  OPHELIA'S  feet. 

Oph.  No,  my  lord. 

Ham.   I  mean,  my  head  upon  your  lap? 

Oph.   Ay,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Do  you  think  I  meant  country  matters? 

Oph.   I  think  nothing,  my  lord. 

Ham.  That's  a  fair  thought  to  lie  between 
maids'  legs. 

Oph.   What  is,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Nothing. 

Oph.  You  are  merry,  my  lord. 

Ham.   Who,  I  ? 

Oph.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ham.  O,  your  only  jig-maker.  What 
should  a  man  do  but  be  merry?  for,  look  you, 
how  cheerfully  my  mother  looks,  and  my  father 
died  within 's  two  hours. 

Oph.  Nay,  'tis  twice  two  months,  ray  lord. 

Ham.  So  long?  Nay,  then,  let  the  devil 
wear  black,  for  I  '11  have  a  suit  of  sables.  O 
heavens  !  die  two  months  ago,  and  not  forgot- 
ten yet?  Then  there's  hope  a  great  man's 
memory  may  outlive  his  life  half  a  year  :  but, 
by  'r  lady,  he  must  build  churches,  then  ;  or 
else  shall  he  suffer  not  thinking  on,  with  the 
hobby-horse,  whose  epitaph  is,  For,  O,  far,  O, 
the  hobby-horse  is  forgot. 

Trumpets  sound.      The  dumb  show  enters. 

Enter  a  King  and  a  Queen,  very  lovingly ;  the 
Queen  embracing  him  and  he  her.  She 
kneels,  and  makes  show  of  protestation  unto 
him.  He  takes  her  up,  and  declines  his  head 
upon  her  neck:  lays  him  down  upon  a  bank 
of  flowers:  she,  seeing  him  asleep,  leaves  him. 
Anon  comes  in  a  fellow,  takes  off  his  crown, 
kisses  it,  and  pours  poison  in  the  King's  ears, 
and  exit.  The  Queen  returns ;  finds  the 
King  dead,  and  makes  passionate  action.  The 
Poisoner,  with  some  two  or  three  Mutes, 
comes  in  again,  seeming  to  lament  with  her. 
The  dead  body  is  carried  away.  The  Poisoner 
wooes  the  Queen  with  gifts :  she  seems  loth 
and  unwilling  awhile,  but  in  the  end  accepts 
his  love.  [Exeunt. 

Oph.  What  means  this,  my  lord  ? 
Ham.  Marry,  this  is  miching  mallecho;  it 

means  mischief. 


r.   Belike  this  show  imports  the  argument 
play. 

Enter  Prologue. 

Ham.  We  shall  know  by  this  fellow  :  the 
players  cannot  keep  counsel ;  they  '11  tell  all. 

Oph.   Will  he  tell  us  what  this  show  meant? 

Ham.  Ay,  or  any  show  that  you  '11  show 
him  :  be  not  you  ashamed  to  show,  he  '11  not 
shame  to  tell  you  what  it  means. 

Oph.  You  are  naught,  you  are  naught :  I  '11 
mark  the  play. 

Pro.     For  us,  and  for  our  tragedy, 

Here  stooping  to  your  clemency, 
We  beg  your  hearing  patiently . 

Ham.  Is  this  a  prologue,  or  the  posy  of  a  ring? 
Oph.  'Tis  brief,  my  lord. 
Ham.  As  woman's  love. 

Enter  a  King  and  a  Queen. 

P.  King.    Full  thirty  times  hath  Phoebus' 

cart  gone  round 

Neptune's  salt  wash  and  Tellus'  orbed  ground, 
And  thirty  dozen  moons  with  borrow'd  sheen 
About  the  world  have  times  twelve  thirties  been, 
Since  love  our  hearts,  and  Hymen  did  our  hands 
Unite  commutual  in  most  sacred  bands. 
P.  Queen.  So  many  journeys  may  the  sun 

and  moon 

Make  us  again  count  o'er  ere  love  be  done  J 
But,  woe  is  me,  you  are  so  sick  of  late, 
So  far  from  cheer  and  from  your  former  state, 
That  I  distrust  you.     Yet,  though  I  distrust, 
Discomfort  you,  my  lord,  it  nothing  must : 
For  women's  fear  and  love  holds  quantity ; 
In  neither  aught,  or  in  extremity. 
Now,  what  my  love  is,  proof  hath  made  you 

know ; 

And  as  my  love  is  siz'd,  my  fear  is  so  : 
Where  love  is  great,  the  littlest  doubts  are  fear  ; 
Where  little  fears  grow  great,  great  love  grows 

there.  [shortly  too ; 

P.  King.  Faith,  I  must  leave  thee,  love,  and 
My  operant  powers  their  functions  leave  to  do : 
And  thou  shalt  live  in  this  fair  world  behind, 
Honour'd,  belov'd  ;  and  haply  one  as  kind 
For  husband  shalt  thou, — 

P.  Queen.  O,  confound  the  rest ! 

Such  love  must  needs  be  treason  in  my  breast : 
In  second  husband  let  me  be  accurst ! 
None  wed  the  second  but  who  kill'd  the  first. 

Ham.  [Aside.}  Wormwood,  wormwood. 

P.  Queen.  The  instances  that  second  mar- 
riage move 
Are  base  respects  of  thrift,  but  none  of  love  : 


SCENE  II.  j 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


1149 


A  second  time  I  kill  my  husband  dead 
When  second  husband  kisses  me  in  bed. 

P.  King.   I  do  believe  you  think  what  now 

you  speak  ; 

But  what  we  do  determine  oft  we  break. 
Purpose  is  but  the  slave  to  memory  ; 
Of  violent  birth,  but  poor  validity  :          [tree  ; 
Which  now,   like  fruit    unripe,  sticks   on  the 
But  fall  unshaken  when  they  mellow  be. 
Most  necessary  'tis  that  we  torget 
To  pay  ourselves  what  fo  ourselves  is  debt : 
What  to  ourselves  in  passion  we  propose, 
The  passion  ending,  doth  the  purpose  lose. 
The  violence  of  either  grief  or  joy 
Their  own  enactures  with  themselves  destroy  : 
Where  joy  most  revels  grief  doth  most  lament; 
Grief  joys,  joy  grieves,  on  slender  accident. 
This  world  is  not  for  aye  ;  nor  'tis  not  strange 
That  even  our  loves  should  with  our  fortunes 

change ; 

For  'tis  a  question  left  us  yet  to  prove 
Whether  love  lead  fortune  or  else  fortune  love. 
The  great  man  down,  you  mark  his  favourite 

flies; 

The  poor  advanc'd  makes  friends  of  enemies. 
And  hitherto  doth  love  on  fortune  tend  : 
For  who  not  needs  shall  never  lack  a  friend  ; 
And  who  in  want  a  hollow  friend  doth  try, 
Directly  seasons  him  his  enemy. 
But,  orderly  to  end  where  I  begun, — 
Our  wills  and  fates  do  so  contrary  run 
that  our  devices  still  are  overthrown  ;     [own  : 
Our  thoughts  are  ours,  their  ends  none  of  our 
So  think  thou  wilt  no  second  husband  wed  ; 
But  die  thy  thoughts  when  thy  first  lord  is  dead. 
P.  Queen.  Nor  earth  to  me  give  food,  nor 

heaven  light ! 

Sport  and  repose  lock  from  me  day  and  night ! 
To  desperation  turn  my  trust  and  hope  ! 
An  anchor's  cheer  in  prison  be  my  scope ! 
Each  opposite,  that  blanks  the  face  of  joy, 
Meet  what  I  would  have  well,  and  it  destroy ! 
Both  here  and  hence,  pursue  me  lasting  strife, 
If,  once  a  widow,  ever  I  be  wife  ! 

Ham.  If  she  should  break  it  now  ! 

\To  OPHELIA. 

P.  King.  'Tis  deeply  sworn.     Sweet,  leave 

me  here  awhile ; 

My  spirits  grow  dull,  and  fain  I  would  beguile 
The  tedious  day  with  sleep.  {Sleeps. 

P.  Queen.  Sleep  rock  thy  brain, 

And  never  come  mischance  between  us  twain  ! 

{Exit. 

Ham.   Madam,  how  like  you  this  play? 

Queen.  The  lady  protests  too  much,  methinks. 

Ham.  O,  but  she  '11  keep  her  word. 


King.  Have  you  heard  the  argument?  Is 
there  no  offence  in 't  ? 

Ham.  No,  no,  they  do  but  jest,  poison  in 
jest ;  no  offence  i'  the  world. 

King.  What  do  you  call  the  play? 

Ham.  The  Mouse  -  trap.  Marry,  how  ? 
Tropically.  This  play  is  the  image  of  a  murder 
done  in  Vienna  :  Gonzago  is  the  duke's  name  ; 
his  wife,  Baptista  :  you  shall  see  anon  ;  'tis  a 
knavish  piece  of  work :  but  what  o'  that  ?  your 
majesty,  and  we  that  have  free  souls,  it  touches 
us  not :  let  the  galled  jade  wince,  our  withers 
are  unwrung. 

Enter  LuciANUS. 

This  is  one  Lucianus,  nephew  to  the  king. 

Oph.  You  are  a  good  chorus,  my  lord. 

Ham.  I  could  interpret  between  you  and 
your  love,  if  I  could  see  the  puppets  dallying. 

Oph.  You  are  keen,  my  lord,  you  are  keen. 

Ham.  It  would  cost  you  a  groaning  to  take 
off  my  edge. 

Oph.  Still  better,  and  worse. 

Ham.  So  you  must  take  your  husbands. — 
Begin,  murderer ;  pox,  leave  thy  damnable 
faces  and  begin.  Come : — The  croaking  raven 
doth  bellow  for  revenge. 

Luc.  Thoughts  black,  hands  apt,  drugs  fit, 

and  time  agreeing ; 

Confederate  season,  else  no  creature  seeing  ; 
Thou  mixture  rank,  of  midnight  weeds  collected, 
With  Hecate's  ban  thrice  blasted,  thrice  infected, 
Thy  natural  magic  and  dire  property 
On  wholesome  life  usurp,  immediately. 

{Pours  the  poison  into  the  sleeper's  ears. 

Ham.  He  poisons  him  i'  the  garden  for's 
estate.  His  name 's  Gonzago :  the  story  is 
extant,  and  writ  in  choice  Italian :  you  shall 
see  anon  how  the  murderer  gets  the  love  of 
Gonzago's  wife. 

Oph.  The  king  rises. 

Ham.  What,  frighted  with  false  fire  ! 

Queen.   How  fares  my  lord  ? 

Pol.  Give  o'er  the  play. 

King.  Give  me  some  light : — away  ! 

All.  Lights,  lights,  lights  ! 

{Exeunt  all  but  HAM.  and  HOR. 
Ham.  Why,  let  the  strucken  deer  go  weep, 

The  hart  ungalled  play;' 
For  some  must  watch,  while  some  must 

sleep : 

So  runs  the  world  away. — 
Would  not  this,  sir,  and  a  forest  of  feathers, — 
if  the  rest  of  my  fortunes  turn  Turk  with  me, — 
with  two  Proven  cial  roses  on  my  razed  shoes, 
get  me  a  fellowship  in  a  cry  of  players,  sir  ? 


1 150 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[ACT  in. 


Hor.   Half  a  share. 
Ham.  A  whole  one,  I. 

For  thou  dost  know,  O  Damon  dear, 

This  realm  dismantled  was 
Of  Jove  himself ;  and  now  reigns  here 

A  very,  very — pajock. 
Hor.  You  might  have  rhymed. 
Ham.  O  good  Horatio,  I  '11  take  the  ghost's 
word  for  a  thousand  pound.     Didst  perceive  ? 
Hor.  Very  well,  my  lord. 
Ham.  Upon  the  talk  of  the  poisoning, — 
Hor.  I  did  very  well  note  him. 
Ham.  Ah,  ha  ! — Come,  some  music !  come, 
the  recorders ! — 

For  if  the  king  like  not  the  comedy, 
Why,  then,  belike, — he  likes  it  not,  perdy. 
Come,  some  music  ! 

Re-enter  ROSENCRANTZ  and  GUILDENSTERN. 

Guil.  Good  my  lord,  vouchsafe  me  a  word 
with  you. 

Ham.  Sir,  a  whole  history. 

Guil.  The  king,  sir, — 

Ham.  Ay,  sir,  what  of  him  ?         [tempered. 

Guil.   Is,  in  his  retirement,  marvellous  dis- 

Ham.   With  drink,  sir  ? 

Guil.  No,  my  lord,  rather  with  choler. 

Ham.  Your  wisdom  should  show  itself  more 
richer  to  signify  this  to  his  doctor ;  for,  for  me 
to  put  him  to  his  purgation  would  perhaps 
plunge  him  into  far  more  choler. 

Guil.  Good  my  lord,  put  your  discourse 
into  some  frame,  and  start  not  so  wildly  from 
my  affair. 

Ham.  I  am  tame,  sir: — pronounce. 

Guil.  The  queen,  your  mother  in  most  great 
affliction  of  spirit,  hath  sent  me  to  you. 

Ham.  You  are  welcome. 

Guil.  Nay,  good  my  lord,  this  courtesy  is  not 
of  the  right  breed.  If  it  shall  please  you  to 
make  me  a  wholesome  answer,  I  will  do  your 
mother's  commandment :  if  not,  your  pardon 
and  my  return  shall  be  the  end  of  my  business. 

Ham.  Sir,  I  cannot. 

Guil.  What,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Make  you  a  wholesome  answer  ;  my 
wit 's  diseased  :  but,  sir,  such  answer  as  I  can 
make,  you  shall  command  ;  or,  rather,  as  you 
say,  my  mother :  therefore  no  more,  but  to  the 
matter :  my  mother,  you  say, — 

Ros.  Then  thus  she  says :  your  behaviour  hath 
struck  her  into  amazement  and  admiration. 

Ham.  O  wonderful  son,  that  can  so  astonish 
a  mother  ! — But  is  there  no  sequel  at  the  heels 
of  this  mother's  admiration  ? 

Ros.  She  desires  to  speak  with  you  in  her 
closet  ere  you  go  to  bed. 


Ham.  We  shall  obey,  were  she  ten  times  our 
mother.  Have  you  any  further  trade  with  us  ? 

Ros.  My  lord,  you  once  did  love  me. 

Ham.  So  I  do  still,  by  these  pickers  and 
steal  ers. 

Ros.  Good  my  lord,  what  is  your  cause  of 
distemper  ?  you  do,  surely,  bar  the  door  upon 
your  own  liberty  if  you  deny  your  griefs  to 
your  friend. 

Ham.  Sir,  I  lack  advancement. 

Ros.  How  can  that  be,  when  you  have  the 
voice  of  the  king  himself  for  your  succession  in 
Denmark  ? 

Ham.  Ay,  but  While  the  grass  grows, — the 
proverb  is  something  musty. 

Re-enter  the  Players,  with  Recorders. 

O,  the  recorders: — let  me  see  one. — To  with- 
draw with  you : — why  do  you  go  about  to 
recover  the  wind  of  me,  as  if  you  would  drive 
me  into  a  toil  ? 

Guil.  O,  my  lord,  if  my  duty  be  too  bold, 
my  love  is  too  unmannerly. 

Ham.  I  do  not  well  understand  that.  Will 
you  play  upon  this  pipe  ? 

Guil.   My  lord,  I  cannot. 

Ham.  I  pray  you. 

Guil.   Believe  me,  I  cannot. 

Ham.   I  do  beseech  you. 

Guil.  I  know  no  touch  of  it,  my  lord. 

Ham.  'Tis  as  easy  as  lying:  govern  these 
ventages  with  your  finger  and  thumb,  give  it 
breath  with  your  mouth,  and  it  will  discourse 
most  eloquent  music.  Look  you,  these  are  the 
steps. 

Guil.  But  these  cannot  I  command  to  any 
utterance  of  harmony ;  I  have  not  the  skill. 

Ham.  Why,  look  you  now,  how  unworthy  a 
thing  you  make  of  me  !  You  would  play  upon 
me  ;  you  would  seem  to  know  my  stops ;  you 
would  pluck  out  the  heart  of  my  mystery ;  you 
would  sound  me  from  my  lowest  note  to  the 
top  of  my  compass:  and  there  is  much  music, 
excellent  voice,  in  this  little  organ  ;  yet  cannot 
you  make  it  speak.  'Sblood,  do  you  think  that 
I  am  easier  to  be  played  on  than  a  pipe  ?  Call 
me  what  instrument  you  will,  though  you  can 
fret  me  you  cannot  play  upon  me. 

Enter  POLONIUS. 

•  ^f  "     ^.   "4^1 . 

God  bless  you,  sir ! 

Pol.  My  lord,  the  queen  would  speak  with 
you,  and  presently. 

Ham.  Do  you  see  yonder  cloud  that 's  almost 
in  shape  of  a  camel  ? 

Pol.  By  the  mass,  and  'tis  like  a  camel  indeed. 

Ham.  Methinks  it  is  like  a  weasel. 


SCENE  III.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


1151 


Pol.   It  is  backed  like  a  weasel. 

Ham.  Or  like  a  whale  ? 

Pol.  Very  like  a  whale. 

Ham.  Then  will  I  come  to  my  mother  by 
and  by. — They  fool  me  to  the  top  of  my  bent. 
— I  will  come  by  and  by. 

Pol.  I  will  say  so. 

Ham.  By  and  by  is  easily  said.  [Exit 
POLONIUS.] — Leave  me,  friends. 

[Exeunt  Ros.,  GUIL.,  HOR.,  and  Players. 
'Tis  now  the  very  witching  time  of  night, 
When  churchyards  yawn,  and  hell  itself  breathes 
out  [blood, 

Contagion  to  this  world  :  now  could  I  drink  hot 
And  do  such  bitter  business  as  the  day 
Would  quake  to  look  on.     Soft !  now  to  my 
mother. — 

0  heart,  lose  not  thy  nature  ;  let  not  ever 
The  soul  of  Nero  enter  this  firm  bosom : 
Let  me  be  cruel,  not  unnatural : 

1  will  speak  daggers  to  her,  but  use  none  ; 
My  tongue  and  soul  in  this  be  hypocrites,— 
How  in  my  words  soever  she  be  shent, 

To  give  them  seals  never,  my  soul,  consent ! 

[Exit. 

SCENE  III. — A  Room  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  KING,  ROSENCRANTZ,  and  GUILDEN- 
STERN. 

King.  I  like  him  not ;  nor  stands  it  safe  with 
us  [you ; 

To  let  his  madness  range.     Therefore  prepare 
I  your  commission  will  forthwith  despatch, 
And  he  to  England  shall  along  with  you  : 
The  terms  of  our  estate  may  not  endure 
Hazard  so  dangerous  as  doth  hourly  grow 
Out  of  his  lunacies. 

Guil.  We  will  ourselves  provide: 

Most  holy  and  religious  fear  it  is 
To  keep  those  many  many  bodies  safe 
That  live  and  feed  upon  your  majesty. 

Ros.  The  single  and  peculiar  life  is  bound, 
With  all  the  strength  and  armour  of  the  mind, 
To  keep  itself  from  'noyance  ;  but  much  more 
That  spirit  upon  whose  weal  depend  and  rest 
The  lives  of  many.     The  cease  of  majesty 
Dies  not  alone  ;  but  like  a  guif  doth  draw 
What 's  near  it  with  it :  it  is  a  massy  wheel, 
Fix'd  on  the  summit  of  the  highest  mount, 
To  whose  huge  spokes  ten  thousand  lesser  things 
Are  mortis'd  and  adjoin'd ;  which,  when  it  falls, 
Each  small  annexment,  petty  consequence, 
Attends  the  boisterous  ruin.     Never  alone 
Did  the  king  sigh,  but  with  a  general  groan. 

King.  Arm  you,  I  pray  you,  to  this  speedy 
voyage ; 


For  we  will  fetters  put  upon  this  fear, 
Which  now  goes  too  free-footed. 

Ros.  and  Guil.  We  will  haste  us. 

[Exeunt  Ros.  and  GUIL. 

Enter  POLONIUS. 

Pol.  My  lord,   he's  going  to  his   mother's 

closet  : 

Behind  the  arras  I  '11  convey  myself  [home : 
To  hear  the  process ;  I  '11  warrant  she  '11  tax  him 
And,  as  you  said,  and  wisely  was  it  said, 
'Tis meet  that  some  more  audience  thanamother, 
Since  nature  makes  them  partial,  should  o'erhear 
The  speech,  of  vantage.  Fare  you  well,  my 

liege: 

I  '11  call  upon  you  ere  you  go  to  bed, 
And  tell  you  what  I  know. 

King.  Thanks,  dear  my  lord. 

[Exit  POLONIUS. 

O,  my  offence  is  rank,  it  smells  to  heaven  ; 
It  hath  the  primal  eldest  curse  upon 't, — 
A  brother's  murder  ! — Pray  can  I  not, 
Though  inclination  be  as  sharp  as  will : 
My  stronger  guilt  defeats  my  strong  intent ; 
And,  like  a  man  to  double  business  bound, 
I  stand  in  pause  where  I  shall  first  begin, 
And  both  neglect.     What  if  this  cursed  hand 
Were  thicker  than  itself  with  brother's  blood,— 
Is  there  not  rain  enough  in  the  sweet  heavens 
To  wash  it  white  as  snow?    Whereto  serves 

mercy 

But  to  confront  the  visage  of  offence  ? 
And  what 's  in  prayer  but  this  twofold  force, — 
To  be  forestalled  ere  we  come  to  fall, 
Or  pardon'd  being  down  ?    Then  I  Ml  look  up; 
My  fault  is  past.     But,  O,  what  form  of  prayer 
Can   serve   my  turn?      Forgive   me   my   foul 

murder ! — 

That  cannot  be  ;  since  I  am  still  possess'd 
Of  those  effects  for  which  I  did  the  murder, — 
My  crown,  mine  own  ambition,  and  my  queen. 
May  one  be  pardon'd  and  retain  the  offence  ? 
In  the  corrupted  currents  of  this  world 
Offence's  gilded  hand  may  shove  by  justice  ; 
And  oft  'tis  seen  the  wicked  prize  itself 
Buys  out  the  law :  but  'tis  not  so  above  ; 
There  is  no  shuffling, — there  the  action  lies 
In  his  true  nature ;  and  we  ourselves  compell'd, 
Even  to  the  teeth  and  forehead  of  our  faults, 
To  give  in  evidence.     What  then?  what  rests? 
Try  what  repentance  can :  what  can  it  not  ? 
Yet  what  can  it  when  one  can  not  repent  ? 
O  wretched  state !     O  bosom  black  as  death ! 
O  limed  soul,  that,  struggling  to  be  free, 
Art  more  engag'd  !    Help,  angels !  make  assay : 
Bow,  stubborn  knees;  and,  heart,  with  strings 

of  steel, 


H52 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[ACT  in. 


Be  soft  as  sinews  of  the  new-born  babe  ! 

All  may  be  well.  [Retires  and  kneels. 

Enter  HAMLET. 

Ham.  Now  might  I  do  it  pat,   now  he  is 

praying  ; 

And  now  I  '11  do 't ; — and  so  he  goes  to  heaven ; 
And  so  am  I  reveng'd : — that  v/ould  be  scann'd : 
A  villain  kills  my  father  ;  and  for  that, 
I,  his  sole  son,  do  this  same  villain  send 
To  heaven. 

O,  this  is  hire  and  salary,  not  revenge. 
Me  took  my  father  grossly,  full  of  bread  ; 
With  all  his  crimes  broad  blown,  as  flush  as 

May ;  [heaven  ? 

And   how   his  audit  stands  who   knows   save 
But  in  our  circumstance  and  course  of  thought 
'Tis  heavy  with  him:  and  am  I,  then,  reveng'd, 
To  take  him  in  the  purging  of  his  soul, 
When  he  is  fit  and  season'd  for  his  passage  ? 
No. 

Up,  sword ;  and  know  thou  a  more  horrid  hent : 
When  he  is  drunk,  asleep,  or  in  his  rage  ; 
Or  in  the  incestuous  pleasure  of  his  bed  ; 
At  gaming,  swearing  ;  or  about  some  act 
That  has  no  relish  of  salvation  in 't ; — 
Then   trip  him,   that   his   heels  may  kick  at 

heaven ; 

And  that  his  soul  may  be  as  damn'd  and  black 

As  hell,  whereto  it  goes.     My  mother  stays : 

This  physic  but  prolongs  thy  sickly  days.   [Exit. 

[The  KING  rises  and  advances. 

King.  My  words  fly  up,  my  thoughts  remain 

below: 
Words  without  thoughts  never  to  heaven  go. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  IV. — Another  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  QUEEN  and  POLONIUS. 

Pol.  He  will  come  straight.     Look  you  lay 

home  to  him :  [with, 

Tell  him  his  pranks  have  been  too  broad  to  bear 

And  that  your  grace  hath  screen'd  and  stood 

between 

Much  heat  and  him.     I  '11  silence  me  e'en  here. 
Pray  you,  be  round  with  him. 

Ham.  [Within.']  Mother,  mother,  mother! 
Queen.  I  '11  warrant  you : 

Fear  me  not : — withdraw,  I  hear  him  coming. 
[POLONIUS  goes  behind  the  arras. 

Enter  HAMLET. 

Ham.  Now,  mother,  what 's  the  matter  ? 
Queen.  Hamlet,  thou  hast  thy  father  much 
offended.  [offended. 

Ham,.  Mother,   you  have  my  father  much 


Queen.  Come,   come,   you  answer  with  an 
idle  tongue.  [tongue. 

Ham.  Go,  go,  you  question  with  a  wicked 

Queen.  Why,  how  now,  Hamlet ! 

Ham.  What's  the  matter  now? 

Queen.  Have  you  forgot  me? 

Ham.  No,  by  the  rood,  not  so : 

You  are  the  queen,  your  husband's  brother's 

wife ;  [mother. 

And, — would   it  were   not   so  ! — you   are   my 

Queen.  Nay,  then,  I  '11  set  those  to  you  that 
can  speak. 

Ham.  Come,  come,  and  sit  you  down  ;  yoi; 

shall  not  budge  ; 

You  go  not  till  I  set  you  up  a  glass 
Where  you  may  see  the  inmost  part  of  you. 

Queen.   What  wilt  thou  do?   thou  wilt  not 

murder  me  ? — 
Help,  help,  ho ! 

Pol.  [Behind.'}  What,  ho!  help,  help,  help! 

Ham.  How  now  !  a  rat  ?     [Draws. 

Dead,  for  a  ducat,  dead  ! 

[Makes  a  pass  through  the  arras. 

Pol.  [Behind.'}  O,  I  am  slain! 

[Falls  and  dies. 

Queen.  O  me,  what  hast  thou  done  ? 

Ham.  Nay,  I  know  not : 

Is  it  the  king?  [Draws  forth  POLONIUS. 

Queen.  O,  what  a  rash  and  bloody  deed  is 
this !  [mother, 

Ham.  A  bloody  deed  ! — almost  as  bad,  good 
As  kill  a  king  and  marry  with  his  brother. 

Queen.  As  kill  a  king ! 

Ham.  Ay,  lady,  'twas  my  word. — 

Thou  wretched,  rash,  intruding  fool,  farewell ! 

[To  POLONIUS. 

I  took  thee  for  thy  better :  take  thy  fortune  ; 
Thou  find'st  to  be  too  busy  is  some  danger. — 
Leave  wringing  of  your  hands :  peace  ;  sit  you 

down, 

And  let  me  wring  your  heart:  for  so  I  shall, 
If  it  be  made  of  penetrable  stuff ; 
If  damned  custom  have  not  braz'd  it  so 
That  it  is  proof  and  bulwark  against  sense. 

Queen.  What  have  I  done,  that  thou  dar'st 

wag  thy  tongue 
In  noise  so  rude  against  me  ? 

Ham.  Such  an  act 

That  blurs  the  grace  and  blush  of  modesty ; 
Calls  virtue  hypocrite  ;  takes  off  the  rose 
From  the  fair  forehead  of  an  innocent  love, 
And  sets  a  blister  there  ;  makes  marriage-vows 
As  false  as  dicers'  oaths :  O,  such  a  deed 
As  from  the  body  of  contraction  plucks 
The  very  soul,  and  sweet  religion  makes 
A  rhapsody  of  words :  heaven's  face  doth  glow; 
Yea,  this  solidity  and  compound  mass, 


SCENE  IV.  J 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


"53 


With  tristful  visage,  as  against  the  doom, 
Is  thought-sick  at  the  act. 

Queen.  Ah  me,  what  act, 

That  roars  so  loud,  and  thunders  in  the  index? 
Ham.  Look  here  upon  this  picture  and  on 

this, — 

The  counterfeit  presentment  of  two  brothers. 
See  what  a  grace  was  seated  on  this  brow ; 
Hyperion's  curls;  the  front  of  Jove  himself; 
An  eye  like  Mars,  to  threaten  and  command ; 
A  station  like  the  herald  Mercury 
New-lighted  on  a  heaven-kissing  hill ; 
A  combination  and  a  form,  indeed, 
Where  every  god  did  seem  to  set  his  seal, 
To  give  the  world  assurance  of  a  man : 
This  was  your  husband. — Look  you  now,  what 

follows : 

Here  is  your  husband,  like  a  milldew'd  ear 
Blasting  his  wholesome   brother.     Have   you 

eyes? 

Could  you  on  this  fair  mountain  leave  to  feed, 
And  batten  on  this  moor?    Ha !  have  you  eyes? 
You  cannot  call  it  love;  for  at  your  age 
The  hey-day  in  the  blood  is  tame,  it 's  humble, 
And  waits  upon  the  judgment :  and  what  judg- 
ment [have, 
Would  step  from  this  to  this?     Sense,  sure,  you 
Else  could  you  not  have  motion :  but  sure  that 

sense 

Is  apoplex'd :  for  madness  would  not  err ; 
Nor  sense  to  ecstasy  was  ne'er  so  thrall'd 
But  it  reserv'd  some  quantity  of  choice 
To  serve  in  such  a  difference.    What  devil  was 't 
That  thus  hath  cozen'd  you  at  hoodman-blind? 
Eyes  without  feeling,  feeling  without  sight, 
Ears  without  hands  or  eyes,  smelling  sans  all, 
Or  but  a  sickly  part  of  one  true  sense 
Could  not  so  mope. 

O  shame !  where  is  thy  blush?    Rebellious  hell, 
If  thou  canst  mutine  in  a  matron's  bones, 
To  flaming  youth  let  virtue  be  as  wax, 
And  melt  in  her  own  fire :  proclaim  no  shame 
When  the  compulsive  ardour  gives  the  charge, 
Since  frost  itself  as  actively  doth  burn, 
And  reason  panders  will. 

Queen.  O  Hamlet,  speak  no  more : 

Thou  turn'st  mine  eyes  into  my  very  soul ; 
And  there  I  see  such  black  and  grained  spots 
As  will  not  leave  their  tinct. 

Ham.  Nay,  but  to  live 

In  the  rank  sweat  of  an  enseamed  bed, 
Stew'd  in  corruption,  honeying  and  making  love 
Over  the  nasty  sty, — 

Queen.  O,  speak  to  me  no  more ; 

These  words  like  daggers  enter  in  mine  ears ; 
No  more,  sweet  Hamlet. 
Ham,  A  murderer  and  a  villain ; 


A  slave  that  is  not  twentieth  part  the  tithe 
Of  your  precedent  lord ;  a  vice  of  kings ; 
A  cutpurse  of  the  empire  and  the  rule, 
That  from  a  shelf  the  precious  diadem  stole, 
And  put  it  in  his  pocket ! 

Queen.  No  more. 

Ham.  A  king  of  shreds  and  patches, — 

Enter  Ghost. 

Save  me,  and  hover  o'er  me  with  your  wings, 
You  heavenly  guards ! — What  would  your  gra- 
cious figure? 

Queen.  Alas,  he 's  mad !  [chide, 

Ham.  Do  you  not  come  your  tardy  son  to 
That,  laps'd  in  time  and  passion,  lets  go  by 
The  important  acting  of  your  dread  command? 
O,  say ! 

Ghost.  Do  not  forget :  this  visitation 
Is  but  to  whet  thy  almost  blunted  purpose. 
But,  look,  amazement  on  thy  mother  sils : 
O,  step  between  her  and  her  fighting  soul, — 
Conceit  in  weakest  bodies  strongest  works, — 
Speak  to  her,  Hamlet. 

Ham.  How  is  it  with  you,  lady? 

Queen.  Alas,  how  is 't  with  you, 
That  you  do  bend  your  eye  on  vacancy, 
And  with  the  incorporal  air  do  hold  discourse  ? 
Forth  at  your  eyes  your  spirits  wildly  peep; 
And,  as  the  sleeping  soldiers  in  the  alarm, 
Your  bedded  hair,  like  life  in  excrements, 
Starts  up  and  stands  on  end.     O  gentle  son, 
Upon  the  heat  and  flame  of  thy  distemper 
Sprinkle  cool  patience.    Whereon  do  you  look? 

Ham.  On  him,  on  him  !   Look  you,  how  pale 

he  glares !  [stones, 

His  form   and  cause  conjoin'd,   preaching  to 

Would  make  them  capable. — Do  not  look  upon 

me; 

Lest  with  this  piteous  action  you  convert 
My  stern  effects :  then  what  I  have  to  do 
Will   want   true   colour;    tears   perchance  for 
blood. 

Queen.  To  whom  do  you  s|  eak  this? 

Ham.  Do  you  see  nothing  there? 

Queen.  Nothing  at  all ;  yet  all  that  is  I  see. 

Ham.  Nor  did  you  nothing  hear? 

Queen.  No,  nothing  but  ourselves. 

Ham.  Why,  look  you  there !   look,  how  it 

steals  away ! 

My  father,  in  his  habit  as  he  liv'd ! 
Look,  where  he  goes,  even  now,  out  at  the 
portal !  [Exit  Ghost. 

Queen.  This  is  the  very  coinage  of  your  brain: 
This  bodiless  creation  ecstasy 
Is  very  cunning  in. 

Ham.  Ecstasy  I 

My  pulse,  as  yours,  doth  temperately  keep  time, 

2O 


"54 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[ACT  iv. 


And  makes  as  healthful  music:  it  is  not  madness 
That  I  have  utter'd :  bring  me  to  the  test, 
And  I  the  mater  will  re- word  ;  which  madness 
Would  gambol  from.    Mother,  for  love  of  grace, 
Lay  not  that  flattering  unction  to  your  soul, 
That  not  your  trespass,  but  my  madness  speaks : 
It  will  but  skin  and  film  the  ulcerous  place, 
Whilst  rank  corruption,  mining  all  within, 
Infects  unseen.     Confess  yourself  to  heaven ; 
Repent  what 's  past ;  avoid  what  is  to  come ; 
And  do  not  spread  the  compost  on  the  weeds, 
To  make  them  ranker.     Forgive  me  this  my 

virtue ; 

For  in  the  fatness  of  these  pursy  times 
Virtue  itself  of  vice  must  pardon  beg, 
Yea,  curb  and  woo  for  leave  to  do  him  good. 
Queen.  O  Hamlet,  thou  hast  cleft  my  heart 

in  twain. 

Ham.  O,  throw  away  the  worser  part  of  it, 
And  live  the  purer  with  the  other  half. 
Good-night :  but  go  not  to  mine  uncle's  bed ; 
Assume  a  virtue,  if  you  have  it  not. 
That  monster  custom,  who  all  sense  doth  eat, 
Of  habits  devil,  is  angel  yet  in  this, — 
That  to  the  use  of  actions  fair  and  good 
He  likewise  gives  a  frock  or  livery 
That  aptly  is  put  on.     Refrain  to-night ; 
And  that  shall  lend  a  kind  of  easiness 
To  the  next  abstinence  :  the  next  more  easy ; 
For  use  almost  can  change  the  stamp  of  nature, 
And  either  curb  the  devil,  or  throw  him  out 
With  wondrous  potency.     Once  more,  good- 
night: 

And  when  you  are  desirous  to  be  bless'd, 
I'll  blessing  beg  of  you. — For  this  same  lord 

[Pointing  to  POLONIUS. 
I  do  repent :  but  Heaven  hath  pleas'd  it  so, 
To  punish  me  with  this,  and  this  with  me, 
That  I  must  be  their  scourge  and  minister. 
I  will  bestow  him,  and  will  answer  well 
The  death  I  gave  him.    So,  again,  good-night.  — 
I  must  be  cruel  only  to  be  kind: 
Thus  bad  begin?  and  worse  remains  behind. — 
One  word  more,  good  lady. 

Queen.  What  shall  I  do? 

Ham.  Not  this,  by  no  means,  that  I  bid  you 

do: 

Let  the  bloat  king  tempt  you  again  to  bed ; 
Pinch  wanton  on  your  cheek ;  call  you  his  mouse; 
And  let  him,  for  a  pair  of  reechy  kisses, 
Or  paddling  in  your  neck  with  hisdamn'd  fingers, 
Make  you  to  ravel  all  this  matter  out, 
Thai  I  essentially  am  not  in  madness,     [know ; 
But  mad  in  craft.     'Twere  good  you  let  him 
For  who  that 's  but  a  queen,  fair,  sober,  wise, 
Would  from  a  paddock,  from  a  bat,  a  gib, 
Such  dear  concernings  hide  ?  who  would  do  so? 


No,  iu  despite  of  sense  and  secrecy, 

Unpeg  the  basket  on  the  house's  top, 

Let  the  birds  fly,  and,  like  the  famous  ape, 

To  try  conclusions,  in  the  basket  creep, 

And  break  your  own  neck  down.  [breath 

Queen.   Be  thou  assur'd,  if  words  be  made  of 
And  breath  of  life,  I  have  no  life  to  breache 
What  thou  hast  said  to  me. 

Ham.   I  must  to  England  ;  you  know  that? 

Queen.  Alack, 

I  had  forgot :  'tis  so  concluded  on. 

Ham.  There's  letters  seal'd:   and   my  two 

schoolfellows, — 

Whom  I  will  trust  as  I  will  adders  fang'd, — 
They  bear  the  mandate ;  they  must  sweep  my 

way, 

And  marshal  me  to  knavery.     Let  it  work  ; 
For  'tis  the  sport  to  have  the  engineer 
Hoist  with  his  own  petard :  and  \.  shall  go  hard 
But  I  will  delve  one  yard  below  their  mines, 
And  blow  them  at  the  moon :  O,  'tis  most  sweet, 
When  in  one  line  two  crafts  directly  meet. — 
This  man  shall  set  me  packing: 
I'll  lug  the  guts  into  the  neighbour  room. — 
Mother,  good-night. — Indeed,  this  counsellor 
Is  now  most  still,  most  secret,  and  most  grave, 
Who  was  in  life  a  foolish  prating  knave. 
Come,  sir,  to  draw  toward  an  end  with  you :— ' 
Good-night,  mother. 

[Exeunt  severally;  HAM.  dragging  out  POL. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — A  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  KING,  QUEEN,  ROSENCRANTZ,  and 

GUILDENSTERN. 

King.  There 's  matter  in  these  sighs,  these 
profound  heaves :  [them. 

You   must   translate:    'tis   fit   we    understand 
Where  is  your  son  ? 

Queen.  Bestow  this  place  on  us  a  little  while. 

[To  Ros.  andGuiL.,  who  go  out. 

Ah,  my  good  lord,  what  have  I  seen  to-night ! 

King.  What,  Gertrude?    How  does  Hamlet? 

Queen.  Mad  as  the  sea  and  wind,  when  both 

contend 

Which  is  the  mightier :  in  his  lawless  fit, 
Behind  the  arras  hearing  something  stir, 
He  whips  his  rapier  out,  and  cries,  A  rat,  a  rat! 
And,  in  this  brainish  apprehension,  kills 
The  unseen  good  old  man. 

King.  O  heavy  deed ! 

It  had  been  so  with  us  had  we  been  there : 
His  liberty  is  full  of  threats  to  all ; 
To  you  yourself,  to  us,  to  every  one. 
Alas,  how  shall  this  bloody  deed  be  answer'd  ? 


SCENE  II.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


"55 


It  will  be  laid  to  us,  whose  providence 
Should  have  kept  short,  restrain'd,  and  out  of 

haunt  [love, 

This  mad  young  man:  but  so  much  was  our 
We  would  not  understand  what  was  most  fit ; 
But,  like  the  owner  of  a  foul  disease, 
To  keep  it  from  divulging,  let  it  feed 
Even  on  the  pith  of  life.     Where  is  he  gone  ? 
Queen.  To   draw  apart  the   body  he  hath 

kill'd : 

O'er  whom  his  very  madness,  like  some  ore 
Among  a  mineral  of  metals  base, 
Shows  itself  pure ;  he  weeps  for  what  is  done. 

King.  O  Gertrude,  come  away ! 
The  sun  no  sooner  shall  the  mountains  touch 
But  we  will  ship  him  hence :  and  this  vile  deed 
We  must,  with  all  our  majesty  and  skill, 
Both  countenance  and  excuse. — Ho,  Guilden- 

stern ! 

Re-enter  ROSENCRANTZ  and  GuiLDENSTERN. 

Friends  both,  go  join  you  with  some  further 

aid: 

Hamlet  in  madness  hath  Polonius  slain, 
And  from  his  mother's  closet  hath  he  dragg'd 

him :  [body 

Go  seek  him  out;  speak  fair,  and  bring  the 
Into  the  chapel.     I  pray  you,  haste  in  this. 

{Exeunt  Ros.  and  GUIL. 

Come,  Gertrude,  we  '11  call  up  our  wisest  friends; 
And  let  them  know  both  what  we  mean  to  do 
And  what 's  untimely  done:  so  haply  slander, — 
Whose  whisper  o'er  the  world's  diameter, 
As  level  as  the  cannon  to  his  blank,       [name, 
Transports  his  poison'd  shot, — may  miss  our 
And  hit  the  woundless  air. — O,  come  away ! 
My  soul  is  full  of  discord  and  dismay. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Another  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  HAMLET. 

Ham.  Safely  stowed.  [Hamlet! 

Ros.  and  Gutl.    [Within.~\    Hamlet!    Lord 
Ham.  What  noise?   who  calls  on  Hamlet? 
O,  here  they  come. 

Enter  ROSENCRANTZ  and  GUILDENSTERN. 

Ros.  What  have  you  done,  my  lord,  with 
the  dead  body?  [kin. 

Ham.  Compounded  it  with  dust,  whereto  'tis 

Ros.  Tell  us  where  'tis,  that  we  may  take  it 

thence, 
And  bear  it  to  the  chapel. 

Ham.  Do  not  believe  it 

Ros.  Believe  what  ? 

Ham.  That  I  can  keep  your  counsel,  and 


not  mine  own.  Besides,  to  be  demanded  of  a 
sponge  ! — what  replication  should  be  made  by 
the  son  of  a  king? 

Ros.  Take  you  me  for  a  sponge,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Ay,  sir ;  that  soaks  up  the  king's 
countenance,  his  rewards,  his  authorities.  But 
such  officers  do  the  king  best  service  in  the  end : 
he  keeps  them,  like  an  ape,  in  the  corner  of  his 
jaw ;  first  mouthed,  to  be  last  swallowed : 
when  he  needs  what  you  have  gleaned,  it  is  but 
squeezing  you,  and,  sponge,  you  shall  be  dry 
again. 

Ros.  I  understand  you  not,  my  lord. 

Ham.  I  am  glad  of  it :  a  knavish  speech 
sleeps  in  a  foolish  ear. 

Ros.  My  lord,  you  must  tell  us  where  the 
body  is,  and  go  with  us  to  the  king. 

Ham.  The  body  is  with  the  king,  but  the 
king  is  not  with  the  body.  The  king  is  a 
thing,— 

Gut/.  A  thing,  my  lord  ! 

Ham.  Of  nothing :  bring  me  to  him.  Hide 
fox,  and  all  after.  {Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.—  Another  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  KING,  attended. 

King.  I  have  sent  to  seek  him,  and  to  find 

the  body. 

How  dangerous  is  it  that  this  man  goes  loose  ! 
Yet  must  not  we  put  the  strong  law  on  him  : 
He's  lov'd  of  the  distracted  multitude, 
Who  like  not  in  their  judgment,  but  their  eyes ; 
And  where  'tis  so,  the  offender's  scourge  is 

weigh'd,  [even, 

But  never  the  offence.     To  bear  all  smooth  and 
This  sudden  sending  him  away  must  seem 
Deliberate  pause  :  diseases  desperate  grown 
By  desperate  appliance  are  reliev'd, 
Or  not  at  all. 

Enter  ROSENCRANTZ. 

How  now  !  what  hath  befallen?  [lord, 

Ros.  Where  the  dead  body  is  bestow'd,  my 
We  cannot  get  from  him. 

King.  But  where  is  he  ? 

Ros.  Without,  my  lord ;  guarded,  to  know 
your  pleasure. 

King.  Bring  him  before  us. 

Ros.  Ho,  Guildenstern  !  bring  in  my  lord. 

Enter  HAMLET  and  GUILDENSTERN. 

King.  Now,  Hamlet,  where 's  Polonius  ? 
Ham.  At  supper. 
King.  At  supper  !  where  ? 
Ham.  Not  where  he  eats,  but  where  he  is 
eaten  :  a  certain  convocation  of  politic  worms 


1156 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK 


[ACT  iv. 


are  e'en  at  him.  Your  worm  is  your  only 
emperor  for  diet :  we  fat  all  creatures  else  to 
fat  us,  and  we  fat  ourselves  for  maggots  :  your 
fat  king  and  your  lean  beggar  is  but  variable 
service, — two  dishes,  but  to  one  table  :  that 's 
the  end. 

King.  Alas,  alas ! 

Ham.  A  man  may  fish  with  the  worm  that 
hath  eat  of  a  king,  and  eat  of  the  fish  that  hath 
fed  of  that  worm. 

King.  What  dost  thou  mean  by  this  ? 

Ham.  Nothing  but  to  show  you  how  a  king 
may  go  a  progress  through  the  guts  of  a  beggar. 

King.   Where  is  Polonius  ? 

Ham.  In  heaven ;  send  thither  to  see :  if 
your  messenger  find  him  not  there,  seek  him  i' 
the  other  place  yourself.  But,  indeed,  if  you 
find  him  not  within  this  month,  you  shall  nose 
him  as  you  go  up  the  stairs  into  the  lobby. 

King.  Go  seek  him  there. 

[  To  some  Attendants. 

Ham.  He  will  stay  till  ye  come. 

[Exeunt  Attendants. 

King.   Hamlet,  this  deed,  for  thine  especial 

safety, — 

Which  we  do  tender,  as  we  dearly  grieve 
For  that  which  thou  hast  done, — must  send 

thee  hence 

With  fiery  quickness :  therefore  prepare  thyself; 
The  bark  is  ready,  and  the  wind  at  help, 
The  associates  tend,  and  everything  is  bent 
For  England. 

Ham.          For  England  ! 

King.  Ay,  Hamlet. 

Ham.  Good. 

King.  So  is  it,  if  thou  knew'st  our  purposes. 

Ham.  I  see  a  cherub  that  sees  them. — But, 
come  ;  for  England  ! — Farewell,  dear  mother. 

King.  Thy  loving  father,  Hamlet. 

Ham.  My  mother :  father  and  mother  is  man 
and  wife ;  man  and  wife  is  one  flesh ;  and  so, 
my  mother. — Come,  for  England  !  [Exit. 

King.  Follow  him  at  foot ;  tempt  him  with 

speed  aboard ; 

Delay  it  not ;  I  '11  have  him  hence  to-night : 
Away !  for  everything  is  seal'd  and  done 
That  else  leans  on  the  affair:  pray  you,  make 
haste.  [Exeunt  Ros.  and  GUIL. 

And,    England,    if  my   love   thou   hold'st  at 

aught, — 

As  my  great  power  thereof  may  give  thee  sense, 
Since  yet  thy  cicatrice  looks  raw  and  red 
After  the  Danish  sword,  and  thy  free  awe 
Pays  homage  to  us, — thou  mayst  not  coldly  set 
Our  sovereign  process;  which  imports  at  full, 
By  letters  conjuring  to  that  effect, 
The  present  death  of  Hamlet.    Do  it,  England ; 


For  like  the  hectic  in  my  blood  he  rages, 
And  thou  must  cure  me :  till  I  know  'tis  done, 
Howe'er  my  haps,  my  joys  will  ne'er  begin. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  IV. — A  Plain  in  Denmark. 
Enter  FORTINBRAS,  and  Forces  marching. 

For.  Go,  captain,  from  me  greet  the  Danish 

king: 

Tell  him  that,  by  his  license,  Fortinbras 
Craves  the  conveyance  of  a  promis'd  march 
Over  his  kingdom.     You  know  the  rendezvous. 
If  that  his  majesty  would  aught  with  us, 
We  shall  express  our  duty  in  his  eye, 
And  let  him  know  so. 

Cap.  I  will  do 't,  my  lord. 

For.  Go  softly  on. 

[Exeunt  FOR.  and  Forces. 

Enter  HAMLET,  ROSENCRANTZ,  GUILDEN- 
STERN,  6-v. 

Ham.        Good  sir,  whose  powers  are  these? 

Cap.  They  are  of  Norway,  sir. 

Ham.   How  purpos'd,  sir,  I  pray  you? 

Cap.  Against  some  part  of  Poland. 

Ham.  Who  commands  them,  sir? 

Cap.  The  nephew  to  old  Norway,  Fortin- 
bras. [sir, 

Ham.  Goes  it- against  the  main  of  Poland, 
Or  for  some  frontier  ? 

Cap.  Truly  to  speak,  and  with  no  addition, 
We  go  to  gain  a  little  patch  of  ground 
That  hath  in  it  no  profit  but  the  name. 
To  pay  five  ducats,  five,  I  would  not  farm  it ; 
Nor  will  it  yield  to  Norway  or  the  Pole 
A  ranker  rate  should  it  be  sold  in  fee.     [fend  it. 

Ham.  Why,  then  the  Polack  never  will  de- 

Cap.  Yes,  it  is  already  garrison'd. 

Ham.  Two  thousand  souls  and  twenty  thou- 
sand ducats 

Will  not  debate  the  question  of  this  straw : 
This  is  the  imposthume  of  much  wealth  and 
peace,  [out 

That  inward  breaks,  and  shows  no  cause  with- 
Why  the  man  dies. — I  humbly  thank  you,  sir. 

Cap.  God  b'  wi'  you,  sir.  [Exit. 

Ros.  Will't  please  you  go,  my  lord? 

Ham.  I  '11  be  with  you  straight.     Go  a  little 
before.        [Exeunt  all  but  HAMLET. 
How  all  occasions  do  inform  against  me, 
And  spur  my  dull  revenge  !     What  is  a  man, 
If  his  chief  good  and  market  of  his  time 
Be  but  to  sleep  and  feed?  a  beast,  no  more. 
Sure  he  that  made  us  with  such  large  discourse, 
Looking  before  and  after,  gave  us  not 
That  capability  and  godlike  reason 


SCENE  V.j 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


1157 


To  fust  in  us  unus'd.     Now,  whether  it  be 
Bestial  oblivion  or  some  craven  scruple 
Of  thinking  too  precisely  on  the  event, — 
A  thought  which,  quarter'd,  hath  but  one  part 

wisdom 

And  ever  three  parts  coward, — I  do  not  know 
Why  yet  I  live  to  say,  This  thing's  to  do; 
Sith  I  have  cause,  and  will,  and  strength,  and 

means 

To  do 't.     Examples,  gross  as  earth,  exhort  me : 
Witness  this  army,  of  such  mass  and  charge, 
Led  by  a  delicate  and  tender  prince ; 
Whose  spirit,  with  divine  ambition  puff  d, 
Makes  mouths  at  the  invisible  event ; 
Exposing  what  is  mortal  and  unsure 
To  all  that  fortune,  death,  and  danger  dare, 
Even  for  an  egg-shell.     Rightly  to  be  great 
Is  not  to  stir  without  great  argument, 
But  greatly  to  find  quarrel  in  a  straw       [then, 
When  honour 's  at  the  stake.     How  stand  I, 
That  have  a  father  kill'd,  a  mother  stain'd, 
Excitements  of  my  reason  and  my  blood, 
And  let  all  sleep?  while,  to  my  shame,  I  see 
The  imminent  death  of  twenty  thousand  men, 
That,  for  a  fantasy  and  trick  of  fame, 
Go  to  their  graves  like  beds ;  fight  for  a  plot 
Whereon  the  numbers  cannot  try  the  cause, 
Which  is  not  tomb  enough  and  continent 
To  hide  the  slain?— O,  from  this  time  forth, 
My  thoughts  be  bloody,  or  be  nothing  worth  ! 

[Exit. 

SCENE  V. — ELSINORE.    A  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  QUEEN  and  HORATIO. 

Queen.   I  will  not  speak  with  her. 
Hor.  She  is  importunate ;  indeed,  distract: 
Her  mood  will  needs  be  pitied. 

Queen.  What  would  she  have? 

Hor.  She  speaks  much  of  her  father;  says 

she  hears 

There's  tricks  i'  the  world;  and  hems,  and 
beats  her  heart ;  [doubt, 

Spurns  enviously  at  straws;   speaks  things  in 
That  carry  but  half  sense :  her  speech  is  nothing, 
Yet  the  unshaped  use  of  it  doth  move 
The  hearers  to  collection ;  they  aim  at  it, 
And   botch   the   words   up   fit   to   their   own 

thoughts; 

Which,  as  her  winks,  and  nods,  and  gestures 
yield  them,  [thought, 

Indeed  would  make  one  think  there  might  be 
Though  nothing  sure,  yet  much  unhappily. 
'Twere  good  she  were  spoken  with  ;  for  she 

may  strew 

Dangerous  conjectures  in  ill-breeding  minds. 
Queen.  Let  her  come  in.     [Exit  HORATIO. 


To  my  sick  soul,  as  sin's  true  nature  is, 
Each  toy  seems  prologue  to  some  great  amiss : 
So  full  of  artless  jealousy  is  guilt, 
It  spills  itself  in  fearing  to  be  spilt. 

Re-enter  HORATIO  -with  OPHELIA. 

Oph.   Where  is   the   beauteous  majesty  of 

Denmark? 
Queen.  How  now,  Ophelia ! 


Oph.   How  should  I  your  true  love  know       \Sings. 

From  another  one  ? 
By  his  cockle  hat  and  staff, 
And  his  sandal  shoon. 

Queen.  Alas,  sweet  lady,  what  imports  this 

song? 
Oph.  Say  you?  nay,  pray  you,  mark. 

He  is  dead  and  gone,  lady,  \Sings. 

He  is  dead  and  gone  ; 
At  his  head  a  grass  green  turf, 

At  his  heels  a  stone. 

Queen.  Nay,  but,  Ophelia, — 

Oph.  Pray  you,  mark. 

White  his  shroud  as  the  mountain        {Sings. 
snow, 

Enter  KING. 


Queen.  Alas,  look  here,  my  lord. 

Oph.       Larded  with  sweet  flowers; 

Which  Lewept  to  the  grave  did  go 
With  true-love  showers 


\Sings. 


King.  How  do  you,  pretty  lady? 
Oph.  Well,  God    'ild  you!     They  say  the 
owl  was  a  baker's  daughter.     Lord,  we  know 
what  we  are,  but  know  not  what  we  may  be. 
God  be  at  your  table ! 

A  ing.  Conceit  upon  her  father. 
Oph.  Pray  you,  let's  have  no  words  of  this; 
but  when  they  ask  you  what  it  means,  say  you 
this: 

To-morrow  is  Saint  Valentine's  day     [Sittgs. 

All  in  the  morning  betime, 
And  I  a  maid  at  your  window, 
To  be  your  Valentine. 

Then  up  he  rose,  and  donn'd  his  clothes, 
And  dupp  d  the  chamber-door ; 

Let  in  the  maid,  that  out  a  maid 
Never  departed  more. 

King.  Pretty  Ophelia ! 
Oph.  Indeed,  la,  without  an  oath,  I  '11  make 
an  end  on 't : 
By  Gis  and  by  Saint  Charity,  [Sittgs. 

Alack,  and  fie  for  shame  ! 
Young  men  will  do  't,  if  they  come  to  't ; 
By  cock,  they  are  to  blame. 

Quoth  she,  before  you  tumbled  me, 

You  promis'd  me  to  wed. 
So  would  I  ha'  done,  by  yonder  sun. 

An  thou  hadst  not  come  to  my  bed. 

King.  How  long  hath  she  been  thus? 


1 158 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[ACT  iv. 


Oph.  I  hope  all  will  be  well.  We  must  be 
patient :  but  I  cannot  choose  but  weep,  to  think 
they  should  lay  him  i3  the  cold  ground.  My 
brother  shall  know  of  it:  and  so  I  thank  you 
for  your  good  counsel. — Come,  my  coach! — 
Good-night,  ladies;  good-night,  sweet  ladies; 
good-night,  good-night.  [Exit. 

King.    Follow  her  close ;    give  her    good 

watch,  I  pray  you.     [Exit  HORATIO. 
O,  this  is  the  poison  of  deep  grief;  it  springs 
All   from  her  father's   death.      O  Gertrude, 

Gertrude, 

When  sorrows  come,  they  come  not  single  spies, 
But  in  battalias  !     First,  her  father  slain : 
Next,  your  son  gone ;  and  he  most  violent  author 
Of  his  own  just  remove :  the  people  muddied, 
Thick  and  unwholesome  in  their  thoughts  and 

whispers 
For  good  Polonius'  death  ;  and  we  have  done 

but  greenly 

In  hugger-mugger  to  inter  him :  poor  Ophelia 
Divided  from  herself  and  her  fair  judgment, 
Without  the  which  we  are  pictures,  or  mere 

beasts : 

Last,  and  as  much  containing  as  all  these, 
Her  brother  is  in  secret  come  from  France  ; 
Feeds  on  his  wonder,  keeps  himself  in  clouds, 
And  wants  not  buzzers  to  infect  his  ear 
With  pestilent  speeches  of  his  father's  death  ; 
Wherein  necessity,  of  matter  beggar'd, 
Will  nothing  stick  our  person  to  arraign 
In  ear  and  ear.     O  my  dear  Gertrude,  this, 
Like  to  a  murdering  piece,  in  many  places 
Gives  me  superfluous  death.     [A  noise  within. 
Queen.  Alack,  what  noise  is  this  ? 

King.  Where  are  my  Switzers?   let  them 

guard  the  door. 

Enter  a  Gentleman. 

What  is  the  matter? 

Gent.  Save  yourself,  my  lord : 

The  ocean,  overpeering  of  his  list, 
Eats  not  the  flats  with  more  impetuous  haste 
Than  young  Laertes,  in  a  riotous  head, 
O'erbears  your  officers.     The  rabole  call  him 

lord; 

And,  as  the  world  were  now  but  to  begin, 
Antiquity  forgot,  custom  not  known, 
The  ratifiers  and  props  of  every  word, 
They  cry,  Choose  we  ;  Laertes  shall  be  king! 
Caps,  hands,  and  tongues  applaud  it  to  the 

clouds, 
Laertes  shall  be  kingy  Laertes  king! 

Queen.  How  cheerfully  on  the  false  trail  they 

cry! 

O,  this  is  counter,  you  false  Danish  dogs  ! 
King.  The  doors  are  broke.     [Noise  within. 


Enter  LAERTES,  armed;  "Danes  following. 

Loer.  Where  is  this  king  ?— Sirs,  stand  you 
all  without. 

Danes.  No,  let 's  come  in. 

Laer.  I  pray  yoh,  give  me  leave, 

Danes.  We  will,  we  will. 

[  They  retire  without  the  door. 

Laer.  I  thank  you : — keep  the  door. — O  thou 

vile  king, 
Give  me  my  father ! 

Queen.  Calmly,  good  Laertes. 

Laer.  That  drop  of  blood  that 's  calm  pro- 
claims me  bastard ; 

Cries  cuckold  to  my  father ;  brands  the  harlot 
Even  here,  between  the  chaste  unsmirched  brow 
Of  my  true  mother. 

King.  What  is  the  cause,  Laertes, 
That  thy  rebellion  looks  so  giant-like  ? — 
Let  him  go,  Gertrude ;  do  not  fear  our  person : 
There 's  such  divinity  doth  hedge  a  king, 
That  treason  can  but  peep  to  what  it  would, 
Acts  little  of  his  will. — Tell  me,  Laertes, 
Why  thou  art  thus  incens'd. — Let  him  go, 

Gertrude : — 
Speak,  man. 

Laer.  Where  is  my  father? 

King.  Dead. 

Queen.  But  not  by  him. 

King.  Let  him  demand  his  fill.  [with : 

Laer.  How  came  he  dead?  I '11  not  be  juggled 
To  hell,  allegiance !  vows,  to  the  blackest  devil ! 
Conscience  and  grace,  to  the  profoundest  pit ! 
I  dare  damnation : — to  this  point  I  stand, — 
That  both  the  worlds  I  give  to  negligence, 
Let  come  what  comes  ;  only  I  '11  be  reveng'd 
Most  throughly  for  my  father. 

King.  Who  shall  stay  you  ? 

Laer.  My  will,  not  all  the  world : 
And  for  my  means,  I  '11  husband  them  so  well, 
They  shall  go  far  with  little. 

King.  Good  Laertes, 

If  you  desire  to  know  the  certainty 
Of  your  dear  father's  death,  is 't  writ  in  your 
revenge  [and  foe, 

That,  sweepstake,  you  will  draw  both  friend 
Winner  and  loser  ? 

Laer.  None  but  his  enemies. 

King.  Will  you  know  them,  then? 

Laer.  To  his  good  friends  thus  wide  I  '11  ope 

my  arms ; 

And,  like  the  kind  life-rendering  pelican. 
Repast  them  with  my  blood. 

King.  Why,  now  you  speak 

Like  a  good  child  and  a  true  gentleman. 
That  I  am  guiltless  of  your  father's  death, 
And  am  most  sensible  in  grief  for  it, 


SCENE  V.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


"59 


It  shall  as  level  to  your  judgment  pierce 
As  day  does  to  your  eye. 

Danes.  {Within.}       Let  her  come  in. 

Laer.  How  now!  what  noise  is  that? 

Re-enter  OPHELIA,  fantastically  dressed  with 
straws  and  flowers. 

O  heat,  dry  up  my  brains !  tears  seven  times  salt, 
Burn  out  the  sense  and  virtue  of  mine  eye ! — 
By  heaven,  thy  madness  shall  be  paid  by  weight, 
Till  our  scale  turn  the  beam.     O  rose  of  May ! 
Dear  maid,  kind  sister,  sweet  Ophelia ! — 
O  heavens !  is 't  possible  a  young  maid's  wits 
Should  be  as  mortal  as  an  old  man's  life  ? 
Nature  is  fine  in  love  ;  and  where  'tis  fine 
It  sends  some  precious  instance  of  itself 
After  the  thing  it  loves. 

Oph.  They  bore  him  barefac'd  on  the  bier ;     {Sings. 
Hey  no  npnny,  nonny,  hey  nonny ; 
And  on  his  grave  rain'd  many  a  tear, — 

Fare  you  well,  my  dove  ! 

Laer.  Hadst  thou  thy  wits,  and  didst  per- 
suade revenge, 
It  could  not  move  thus. 

Oph.  You  must  sing,  Down  a-down,  an  you 
call  him  a-down-a.  O,  how  the  wheel  becomes 
it !  It  is  the  false  steward,  that  stole  his 
master's  daughter. 

Laer.  This  nothing 's  more  than  matter. 

Oph.  There's  rosemary,  that's  for  remem- 
brance ;  pray,  love,  remember :  and  there  is 
pansies,  that 's  for  thoughts. 

Laer.  A  document  in  madness, — thoughts 
and  remembrance  fitted. 

Oph.  There's  fennel  for  you,  and  colum- 
bines :— there 's  rue  for  you  ;  and  here 's  some 
for  me : — we  may  call  it  herb-grace  o'  Sundays : 
— O,  you  must  wear  your  rue  with  a  difference. 
— There's  a  daisy: — I  would  give  you  some 
violets,  but  they  withered  all  when  my  father 
died :— they  say,  he  made  a  good  end, — 

For  bonny  sweet  Robin  is  all  my  joy, —    \Sings. 
Laer.  Thought  and  affliction,  passion,  hell 

itself, 
She  turns  to  favour  and  to  prettiness. 

Oph.        And  will  he  not  come  again?  {.Sings. 

And  will  he  not  come  again? 
No,  no,  he  is  dead, 
Go  to  thy  death-bed, 
He  never  will  come  again. 

His  beard  was  as  white  as  snow 
All  flaxen  was  his  poll : 

He  is  gone,  he  is  gone, 

And  we  cast  away  moan  : 
God  ha'  mercy  on  his  soul  t 

And  of  all  Christian  souls,  I  pray  God. — God 
b'  wi'  ye.  [Exit. 


Laer.  Do  you  see  this,  O  God  ?  [.grief, 

King.  Laertes,  I  must  commune  with  your 
Or  you  deny  me  right.     Go  but  apart, 
Make  choice  of  whom  your  wisest  friends  you 
will,  [me : 

And  they  shall  hear  and  judge  'twixt  you  and 
If  by  direct  or  by  collateral  hand 
They  find  us  touch'd,  we  will  our  kingdom  give, 
Our  crown,  our  life,  and  all  that  we  call  ours, 
To  you  in  satisfaction  ;  but  if  not, 
Be  you  content  to  lend  your  patience  to  us, 
And  we  shall  jointly  labour  with  your  soul 
To  give  it  due  content. 

Laer.  Let  this  be  so  ; 

His  means  of  death,  his  obscure  burial, — 
No  trophy,  sword,  nor  hatchment  o'er  his  bones, 
No  noble  rite  nor  formal  ostentation, — 
Cry  to  be  heard,  as  'twere  from  heaven  to  earth, 
That  I  must  call 't  in  question. 

King.  So  you  shall ; 

And  where  the  offence  is,  let  the  great  axe  fall. 
I  pray  you,  go  with  me.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  \I.— Another  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  HORATIO  and  a  Servant. 

Hor.  What  are  they  that  would  speak  with 
me? 

Serv.  Sailors,  sir:  they  say  they  have  letters 
for  you. 

Hor.  Let  them  come  in. —     [Exit  Servant. 
I  do  not  know  from  what  part  of  the  world 
I  should  be  greeted,  if  not  from  Lord  Hamlet. 

Enter  Sailors. 

i  Sail.  God  bless  you,  sir. 

Hor.  Let  him  bless  thee  too. 

I  Sail.  He  shall,  sir,  an't  please  him. 
There 's  a  letter  for  you,  sir ;  it  comes  from 
the  ambassador  that  was  bound  for  England  ; 
if  your  name  be  Horatio,  as  I  am  let  to  know 
it  is. 

Hor.  [Reads. .]  Horatio,  when  thou  shalt 
have  overlooked  this,  give  these  fellows  some 
means  to  the  king:  they  have  letters  for  him. 
Ere  we  were  two  days  old  at  sea,  a  pirate  of 
very  warlike  appointment  gave  us  chase. 
Finding  ourselves  too  slow  of  sail,  we  put  on  a 
compelled  valour  ;  and  in  the  grapple  2  boarded 
them:  on  the  instant  they  got  clear  of  our  ship; 
so  1  alone  became  their  prisoner.  They  have 
dealt  with  me  like  thieves  of  mercy:  but  they 
knew  what  they  did ;  2  am  to  do  a  good  turn 
for  them.  Let  the  king  have  the  letters  2  have 
sent ;  and  repair  thou  to  me  with  as  much 
haste  as  thou  wouldst  fly  death.  2  have  words 
to  speak  in  thme  ear  will  make  thee  dumb  ;  yet 


ii6o 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[ACT  iv. 


are  they  much  too  light  for  the  bore  of  the 
matter.  These  good  fellows  will  bring  thee 
where  I  am.  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern 
hold  their  cottrse  for  England:  of  them  I  have 
much  to  tell  thee.  Farewell.  He  that  thou 
knowest  thine,  HAMLET. 

Come,  I  will  give  you  way  for  these  your  letters ; 
And  do 't  the  speedier,  that  you  may  direct  me 
To  him  from  whom  you  brought  them. 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII. — Another  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  KING  and  LAERTES. 

King.  Now  must  your  conscience  my  acquit- 
tance seal, 

And  you  must  put  me  in  your  heart  for  friend, 
Sith  you  have  heard,  and  with  a  knowing  ear, 
That  he  which  hath  your  noble  father  slain 
Pursu'd  my  life. 

Laer.  It  well  appears : — but  tell  me 

Why  you  proceeded  not  against  these  feats, 
So  crimeful  and  so  capital  in  nature, 
As  by  your  safety,  wisdom,  all  things  else, 
You  mainly  were  stirr'd  up. 

King.  O,  for  two  special  reasons  ; 

Which  may  to  you,  perhaps,  seem  much  un- 

sinew'd, 
But  yet  to  me  they  are  strong.     The  queen  his 

mother 

Lives  almost  by  his  looks  ;  and  for  myself, — 
My  virtue  or  my  plague,  be  it  either  which, — 
She 's  so  conjunctive  to  my  life  and  soul, 
That,  as  the  star  moves  not  but  in  his  sphere, 
I  could  not  but  by  her.     The  other  motive, 
Why  to  a  public  count  I  might  not  go, 
Is  the  great  love  the  general  gender  bear  him  ; 
Who,  dipping  all  his  faults  in  their  affection, 
Would,  like  the  spring  that  turneth  wood  to 

stone, 

Convert  his  gyves  to  graces ;  so  that  my  arrows, 
Too  slightly  timber'd  for  so  loud  a  wind, 
Would  have  reverted  to  my  bow  again, 
And  not  where  I  had  aim'd  them. 

Laer.  And  so  have  I  a  noble  father  lost ; 
A  sister  driven  into  desperate  terms, — 
Whose  worth,  if  praises  may  go  back  again, 
Stood  challenger  on  mount  of  all  the  age 
For  her  perfections : — but  my  revenge  will  come. 
King.  Break  not  your  sleeps  for  that:  you 

must  not  think 

That  we  are  made  of  stuff  so  flat  and  dull 
That  we  can  let  our  beard  be  shook  with  danger, 
And  think  it  pastime.     You  shortly  shall  hear 

more- 

\  lov'd  your  father,  and  we  love  ourself ; 
And  that,  I  hope,  will  teach  you  to  imagine,— 


Enter  a  Messenger. 

How  now  !  what  news  ? 

Mess.  Letters,  my  lord,  from  Hamlet  : 

This  to  your  majesty;  this  to  the  queen. 

King.   From  Hamlet!     Who  brought  them? 

Mess.  Sailors,  my  lord,  they  say ;  I  saw  them 
not :  [them 

They  were  given  me  by  Claudio, — he  receiv'd 
Of  him  that  brought  them. 

King.  Laertes,  you  shall  hear  them. — 

Leave  us.  \Exit  Messenger. 

[Reads. ~\  High  and  mighty, —  You  shall  know 
I  am  set  naked  on  your  kingdom.  To-morrow 
shall  I  beg  leave  to  see  your  kingly  eyes :  when 
I  shal^  first  asking  your  pardon  thereunto, 
recount  the  occasions  of  my  sudden  and  more 
strange  return.  HAMLET. 

What  should  this  mean  ?    Are  all  ihe  rest  come 

back  ? 
Or  is  it  some  abuse,  and  no  such  thing  ? 

Laer.  Know  you  the  hand  ? 

King.     'Tis  Hamlet's  character : — Naked, — 
And  in  a  postscript  here,  he  says,  alone. 
Can  you  advise  me  ?  [come  ; 

Laer.  I  am  lost  in  it,  my  lord.     But  let  him 
It  warms  the  very  sickness  in  my  heart, 
That  I  shall  live,  and  tell  him  to  his  teeth, 
Thus  diddest  thou. 

King.  If  it  be  so,  Laertes, — 

As  how  should  it  be  so  ?  how  otherwise  ? — 
Will  you  be  rul'd  by  me? 

Laer.  Ay,  my  lord  ; 

So  you  will  not  o'errule  me  to  a  peace. 

King.  To  thine  own  peace.     If  he  be  now 

return'd, — 

As  checking  at  his  voyage,  and  that  he  means 
No  more  to  undertake  it, — I  will  work  him 
To  an  exploit,  now  ripe  in  my  device, 
Under  the  which  he  shall  not  choose  but  fall : 
And   for   his  death   no  wind   of  blame  shall 

breathe ; 

But  even  his  mother  shall  uncharge  the  practice, 
And  call  it  accident. 

Laer.  My  lord,  I  will  be  rul'd  ; 

The  rather  if  you  could  devise  it  so 
That  I  might  be  the  organ. 

King.  It  falls  right. 

You  have  been  talk'd  of  since  your  travel  much, 
And  that  in  Hamlet's  hearing,  for  a  quality 
WTierein  they  say  you  shine :  your  sum  of  parts 
Did  not  together  pluck  such  envy  from  him 
As  did  that  one  ;  and  that,  in  my  regard, 
Of  the  unworthiest  siege. 

Laer.  What  part  is  that,  my  lord? 

King.  A  very  riband  in  the  cap  of  youth, 
Yet  needful  too ;  for  youth  no  less  becomes 


SCENE  VII.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


1161 


The  light  and  careless  livery  that  it  wears 
Than  settled  age  his  sables  and  his  weeds, 
Importing  health  and  graveness. — Two  months 

since, 

Here  was  a  gentleman  of  Normandy, — 
I  've  seen  myself,  and  serv'd  against,  the  French, 
And   they  can  well  on   horseback :    but   this 

gallant 

Had  witchcraft  in  't  ;  he  grew  unto  his  seat ; 
And  to  such  wondrous  doing  brought  his  horse, 
As  he  had  been  incorps'd  and  demi-natur'd 
With  the  brave  beast :    so  far  he  topp'd  my 

thought, 

That  I,  in  forgery  of  shapes  and  tricks, 
Come  short  of  what  he  did. 

Laer.  A  Norman  was 't  ? 

King,  A  Norman. 

Laer.   Upon  my  life,  Lamond. 

King.  The  very  same. 

Laer.   I  know  him  well :  he  is  the  brooch, 

indeed, 
And  gem  of  all  the  nation. 

King.   He  made  confession  of  you  ; 
And  gave  you  such  a  masterly  report 
For  art  and  exercise  in  your  defence, 
And  for  your  rapier  most  especially, 
That  he  cried  out,  'twould  be  a  sight  indeed 
If  one  could  match  you :  the  scrimers  of  their 

nation, 

He  swore,  had  neither  motion,  guard,  nor  eye, 
If  you  oppos'd  them.     Sir,  this  report  of  his 
Did  Hamlet  so  envenom  with  his  envy, 
That  he  could  nothing  do  but  wish  and  beg 
Your  sudden  coming  o'er,  to  play  with  him. 
Now,  out  of  this, — 

Laer.  What  out  of  this,  my  lord  ? 

King.   Laertes,  was  your  father  dear  to  you  ? 
Or  are  you  like  the  painting  of  a  sorrow, 
A  face  without  a  heart  ? 

Laer.  Why  ask  you  this? 

King.  Not  that  I  think  you  did  not  love  your 

father ; 

But  that  I  know  love  is  begun  by  time ; 
And  that  I  see,  in  passages  of  proof, 
Time  qualifies  the  spark  and  fire  of  it. 
There  lives  within  the  very  flame  of  love 
A  kind  of  wick  or  snuff  that  will  abate  it ; 
And  nothing  is  at  a  like  goodness  still ; 
For  goodness,  growing  to  a  pleurisy, 
Dies  in  his  own  too  much  :  that  we  would  do 
We  should  do  when  we  would  ;  for  this  would 

changes, 

And  hath  abatements  and  delays  as  many 
As  there  are  tongues,  are  hands,  are  accidents  ; 
And  then  this  should  is  like  a  spendthrift  sigh 
That  hurts  by  easing.     But  to  the  quick  o'  the 
ulcer :— 


Hamlet  comes  back  :  what  would  you  under- 
take 

To  show  yourself  your  father's  son  in  deed 
More  than  in  words? 

Laer.  To  cut  his  throat  i'  the  church. 

King.  No  place,  indeed,  should  murder  sane- 
tuarize ;  [Laertes, 

Revenge  should  have  no  bounds.     But,  good 
Will  you  do  this,  keep  close  within  your  cham- 
ber. 

Hamlet  return'd  shall  know  you  are  come  home: 
We  '11  put  on  those  shall  praise  your  excellence, 
And  set  a  double  varnish  on  the  fame     [gether, 
The  Frenchman  gave  you ;  bring  you,  in  fine,  to- 
And  wager  on  your  heads  :  he,  being  remiss, 
Most  generous,  and  free  from  all  contriving, 
Will  not  peruse  the  foils  ;  so  that,  with  ease, 
Or  with  a  little  shuffling,  you  may  choose 
A  sword  unbated,  and,  in  a  pass  of  practice, 
Requite  him  for  your  father. 

Laer.  I  will  do 't : 

And,  for  that  purpose,  I  '11  anoint  my  sword. 
I  bought  an  unction  of  a  mountebank, 
So  mortal  that  but  dip  a  knife  in  it, 
Where  it  draws  blood  no  cataplasm  so  rare, 
Collected  from  all  simples  that  have  virtue 
Under  the  moon,  can  save  the  thing  from  death 
That  is  but  scratch'd  withal :    I  '11  touch  my 

point 

With  this  contagion,  that,  if  I  gall  him  slightly, 
It  may  be  death. 

King.  Let 's  further  think  of  this  ; 

Weigh  what  convenience  both  of  time  and  means 
May  fit  us  to  our  shape  :  if  this  should  fail, 
And  that  our  drift  look  through  our  bad  per- 
formance, 

'Twere  better  not  assa/d  :  therefore  this  project 
Should  have  a  back  or  second,  that  might  hold 
If  this  should  blast  in  proof.  Soft !  let  me 

see: — 

We  '11  make  a  solemn  wager  on  your  cunnings, — • 
I  ha't: 

When  in  your  motion  you  are  hot  and  dry, — 
As  make  your  bouts  more  violent  to  that  end, — 
And  that  he  calls  for  drink,  I  '11  have  prepar'd 

him 

A  chalice  for  the  nonce  ;  whereon  but  sipping. 
If  he  by  chance  escape  your  venom'd  stuck 
Our  purpose  may  hold  there. 

Enter  QUEEN. 

How  now,  sweet  queen  ! 

Queen.  One  woe  doth  tread  upon  another's 

heel,  [Laertes. 

So  fast   they  follow  : — your  sister 's  drown'd, 

Laer.  Drown'd  !     O,  where  ? 

Queen.  There  isa  willow  grows  aslant  a  brook, 


1162 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[ACT  V. 


That  shows  his  hoar  leaves  in  the  glassy  stream ; 
There  with  fantastic  garlands  did  she  come 
Of   crowflowers,    nettles,    daisies,    and    long 

purples, 

That  liberal  shepherds  give  a  grosser  name, 
But  our  cold  maids  do  dead  men's  fingers  call 

them. 

There,  on  the  pendant  boughs  her  coronet  weeds 
Clambering  to  hang,  an  envious  sliver  broke  ; 
When  down  her  weedy  trophies  and  herself 
Fell  in  the  weeping  brook.     Her  clothes  spread 

wide ; 

And,  mermaid-like,  awhile  they  bore  her  up  : 
Which  time  she  chanted  snatches  of  old  tunes  ; 
As  one  incapable  of  her  own  distress, 
Or  like  a  creature  native  and  indu'd 
Unto  that  element :  but  long  it  could  not  be 
Till  that  her  garments,  heavy  with  their  drink, 
Pull'd  the  poor  wretch  from  her  melodious  lay 
To  muddy  death. 

Laer.  Alas,  then,  she  is  drown'd  ? 

Queen.  Drown'd,  drown'd.  [Ophelia, 

Laer.  Too  much  of  water  hast   thou,  poor 
And  therefore  I  forbid  my  tears  :  but  yet 
It  is  our  trick  ;  nature  her  custom  holds, 
Let  shame  say  what  it  will :  when  these  are 

gone, 

The  woman  will  be  out.— -Adieu,  my  lord  : 
I  have  a  speech  of  fire,  that  fain  would  blaze, 
But  that  this  folly  douts  it.  [Exit. 

King.  Let 's  follow,  Gertrude  ; 

How  much  I  had  to  do  to  calm  his  rage  ! 
Now  fear  I  this  will  give  it  start  again  ; 
Therefore  let 's  follow.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — A  Churchyard. 
Enter  two  Clowns  with  spades,  &c. 

1  Clo.  Is  she  to  be  buried  in  Christian  burial 
that  wilfully  seeks  her  own  salvation  ? 

2  Clo.  I  tell  thee  she  is  ;  and  therefore  make 
her  grave  straight:    the  crowner  hath  sat  on 
her,  and  finds  it  Christian  burial. 

1  Clo.  How  can  that  be,  unless  she  drowned 
herself  in  her  own  defence  ? 

2  Clo.  Why,  'tis  found  so. 

I  Clo.  It  must  be  se  offendendo;  it  cannot  be 
else.  For  here  lies  the  point :  if  I  drown  my- 
self wittingly,  it  argues  an  act :  and  an  act  hath 
three  branches  ;  it  is  to  act,  to  do,  and  to  per- 
form : 


good  :  here  stands  the  man  ;  good  :  if  the  man 
go  to  this  water  and  drown  himself,  it  is,  will 


he,  nill  he,  he  goes, — mark  you  that :  but  if 
the  water  come  to  him  and  drown  him,   he 
drowns  not  himself :  argal,  he  that  is  not  guilty 
of  his  own  death  shortens  not  his  own  life. 
2  Clo.  But  is  this  law  ? 

1  Clo.  Ay,  marry,  is 't ;  crowner's  quest  law. 

2  Clo.  Will  you  ha'  the  truth  on 't  ?     If  this 
had  not  been  a  gentlewoman  she  should  have 
been  buried  out  of  Christian  burial. 

1  Clo.  Why,  there  thou  say'st :  and  the  more 
pity  that  great  folk  should  have  countenance  in 
this  world  to  drown  or  hang  themselves  more 
than  their  even  Christian. — Come,  my  spade. 
There  is  no  ancient  gentlemen  but  gardeners, 
ditchers,    and    grave-makers :    they   hold    up 
Adam's  profession. 

2  Clo.  Was  he  a  gentleman  ? 

1  Clo.  He  was  the  first  that  ever  bore  arms. 

2  Clo.  Why,  he  had  none. 

1  Clo.  What,   art  a  heathen?     How  dost 
thou  understand  the  Scripture  ?    The  Scripture 
says,  Adam  digged :  could  he  dig  without  arms? 
I  '11  put  another  question  to  thee  :  if  thou  an- 
swerest  me  not  to  the  purpose,  confess  thyself,— 

2  Clo.  Go  to. 

1  Clo.  What  is  he  that  builds  stronger  than 
either  the  mason,  the  shipwright,  or  the  car- 
penter ? 

2  Clo.  The  gallows-maker ;  for  that  frame 
outlives  a  thousand  tenants. 

1  Clo.  I  like  thy  wit  well,  in  good  faith  :  the 
gallows  does  well ;   but  how  does  it  well  ?  it 
does  well  to  those  that  do  ill :  now  thou  dost 
ill  to  say  the  gallows  is  built  stronger  than  the 
church  :  argal,  the  gallows  may  do  well  to  thee. 
To't  again,  come. 

2  Clo.  Who  builds  stronger  than  a  mason,  a 
shipwright,  or  a  carpenter  ? 

1  Clo.  Ay,  tell  me  that,  and  unyoke. 

2  Clo.   Marry,  now  I  can  tell. 

1  Clo.  To't. 

2  Clo.  Mass,  I  cannot  tell. 

Enter  HAMLET  and  HORATIO,  at  a  distance. 

I  Clo.  Cudgel  thy  brains  no  more  about  it, 
for  your  dull  ass  will  not  mend  his  pace  with 
beating  ;  and  when  you  are  asked  this  question 
next,  say  a  grave-maker ;  the  houses  that  he 
makes  last  till  doomsday.  Go,  get  thee  to 
Yaughan  ;  fetch  me  a  stoup  of  liquor. 

[Exit  Second  Clown. 

In  youth,  when  I  did  love,  did  love,  [Digs  and  sings. 

Methought  it  was  very  sweet, 
To  contract,  O,  the  time,  for,  ah,  my  behove, 

O,  methought  there  was  nothing  meet. 

Ham.  Has  this  fellow  no  feeling  of  bis 
business,  that  he  sings  at  grave-making  ? 


*C£NB  I.j 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


1163 


Hor.  Custom  hath  made  it  in  him  a  pro- 
perty of  easiness. 

Ham.  'Tise'enso:  the  hand  of  little  employ- 
ment hath  the  daintier  sense. 

I  Clo.      But  age,  with  his  stealing  steps,       [Sings. 

Hath  claw'd  me  in  his  clutch, 
And  hath  shipp'd  me  intil  the  land, 
As  if  I  had  never  been  such. 

[Throws  tip  a  skull. 

Ham.  That  skull  had  a  tongue  in  it,  and 
coi  Id  sing  once  :  how  the  knave  jowls  it  to  the 
ground,  as  if  it  were  Cain's  jawbone,  that  did 
the  first  murder  !  This  might  be  the  pate  of  a 
politician,  which  this  ass  now  o'erreaches ;  one 
that  would  circumvent  God,  might  it  not  ? 

Hor.   It  might,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Or  of  a  courtier ;  which  could  say, 
Good-morrow,  sweet  lord!  How  dost  thou, 
good  lord  ?  This  might  be  my  lord  such-a-one, 
that  praised  my  lord  such-a-one's  horse,  when 
he  meant  to  beg  it, — might  it  not  ? 

Hor.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Why,  e'en  so:  and  now  my  Lady 
Worm's ;  chapless,  and  knocked  about  the 
mazard  with  a  sexton's  spade:  here's  fine 
revolution,  an  we  had  the  trick  to  see 't. 
these  bones  cost  no  more  the  breeding  but  t  -> 
play  at  loggats  with  'em  ?  mine  ache  to  think 
on  it. 

I  Clo.  A  pick-axe  and  a  spade,  a  spade,         [Sings. 

For  and  a  shrouding  sheet : 
O,  a  pit  of  clay  for  to  be  made 
For  such  a  guest  is  meet. 

[Throws  up  another 

Ham.  There  's  another  :  why  may  not  that 
be  the  skull  of  a  lawyer  ?  Where  be  his  quid- 
dits  now,  his  quillets,  his  cases,  his  tenures,  and 
his  tricks  ?  why  does  he  suffer  this  rude  knave 
now  to  knock  him  about  the  sconce  with  a 
dirty  shovel,  and  will  not  tell  him  of  his  action 
of  battery?  Hum  !  This  fellow  might  be  in  's 
time  a  great  buyer  of  land,  with  his  statutes,  his 
recognizances,  his  fines,  his  double  vouchers, 
his  recoveries :  is  this  the  fine  of  his  fines,  and 
the  recovery  of  his  recoveries,  to  have  his  fine 
pate  full  of  fine  dirt?  will  his  vouchers  voudi 
him  no  more  of  his  purchases,  and  double  ones 
too,  than  the  length  and  breadth  of  a  pair  of 
indentures  ?  The  very  conveyances  of  his  lands 
will  hardly  lie  in  this  lx>x ;  and  must  the  in- 
heritor himself  have  no  more,  ha  ? 

Hor.  Not  a  jot  more,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Is  not  parchment  made  of  sheep-skins? 

Hor.  Ay,  my  lord,  and  of  calf-skins  too. 

Ham.  They  are  sheep  and  calves  which  seek 
out  assurance  in  that.  I  will  speak  to  this 
fellow. — Whose  grave's  this,  sir? 


I  Clo.  Mine,  sir. — 

O,  a  pit  of  clay  for  to  be  made         [Sings. 
For  such  a  guest  is  meet. 

Ham.  I  think  it  be  thine  indeed  ;  for  thou 
liest  in 't. 

i  Clo.  You  lie  out  on 't,  sir,  and  therefore  it 
is  not  yours :  for  my  part,  I  do  not  lie  in  }t,  and 
yet  it  is  mine. 

Ham.  Thou  dost  lie  in 't,  to  be  in't,  and  say 
it  is  thine  :  'tis  for  the  dead,  not  for  the  quick; 
therefore  thou  liest. 

I  Clo.  'Tis  a  quick  lie,  sir ;  't  will  away  again 
from  me  to  you. 

Ham.  What  man  dost  thou  digit  for? 

I  Clo.  For  no  man,  sir. 

Ham.  What  woman,  then  ? 

i  Clo.  For  none,  neither. 

Ham.  Who  is  to  be  buried  in 't  ? 

I  Clo.  One  that  was  a  woman,  sir;  but,  rest 
her  soul,  she 's  dead. 

Ham.  How  absolute  the  knave  is  !  we  must 
speak  by  the  card,  or  equivocation  will  undo 
us.  By  the  Lord,  Horatio,  these  three  years  I 
have  taken  note  of  it ;  the  age  is  grown  so 
picked  that  the  toe  of  the  peasant  comes  so  near 
the  heel  of  the  courtier,  he  galls  his  kibe. — 
How  long  hast  thou  been  a  grave-maker  ? 

I  Clo.  Of  all  the  days  i'  the  year,  I  came 
to 't  that  day  that  our  last  King  Hamlet  o'er- 
came  Fortinbras- 

Ham.  How  long  is  that  since  ? 

i  Clo.  Cannot  you  tell  that?  every  fool  can 
tell  that:  it  was  the  very  day  that  young 
Hamlet  was  born, — he  that  is  mad,  and  sent 
into  England.  [England? 

Ham.    Ay,  marry,  why  was  he  sent  into 

I  Clo.  Why,  because  he  was  mad  :  he  shall 
recover  his  wits  there ;  or,  if  he  do  not,  it 's  no 
great  matter  there. 

Ham.  Why? 

i  Clo.  'Twill  not  be  seen  in  him  there ;  there 
the  men  are  as  mad  as  he. 

Ham.  How  came  he  mad  ? 

i  Clo.  Very  strangely,  they  say. 

Ham.  How  strangely? 

i  Clo.  Faith,  e'en  with  losing  his  wits. 

Ham.  Upon  what  ground  ? 

I  Clo.  Why,  here  in  Denmark  :  I  have  been 
sexton  here,  man  and  boy,  thirty  years. 

Ham.  How  long  will  a  man  lie  i'  the  earth 
ere  he  rot  ? 

I  Clo.  Faith,  if  he  be  not  rotten  before  he 
die, — as  we  have  many  pocky  corses  now-a- 
days,  that  will  scarce  hold  the  laying  in, — he 
will  last  you  some  eight  year  or  nine  year :  a 
tanner  will  last  you  nine  year. 

Ham.  Why  he  more  than  another  ? 


1164 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[ACT  v. 


I  Clo.  Why,  sir,  his  hide  is  so  tanned  with 
his  trade  that  he  will  keep  out  water  a  great 
while  ;  and  your  water  is  a  sore  decayer  of  your 
whoreson  dead  body.  Here  's  a  skull  now  ; 
this  skull  has  lain  in  the  earth  three-and-twenty 
years. 

Ham.  Whose  was  it  ? 

I  Clo.  A  whoreson  mad  fellow's  it  was : 
whose  do  you  think  it  was  ? 

Ham.  Nay,  I  know  not. 

I  Clo.  A  pestilence  on  him  for  a  mad  rogue ! 
'a  poured  a  flagon  of  Rhenish  on  my  head  once. 
This  same  skull,  sir,  was  Yorick's  skull,  the 
king's  jester. 

Ham.  This? 

i  Clo.  E'en  that. 

Ham.  Let  me  see.  [Takes  the  skull.] — Alas, 
poor  Yorick  ! — I  knew  him,  Horatio  ;  a  fellow 
of  infinite  jest,  of  most  excellent  fancy :  he  hath 
borne  me  on  his  back  a  thousand  times ;  and 
now,  how  abhorred  in  my  imagination  it  is ! 
my  gorge  rises  at  it.  Here  hung  those  lips 
that  I  have  kissed  I  know  not  how  oft.  Where 
be  your  gibes  now?  your  gambols?  your  songs? 
your  flashes  of  merriment,  that  were  wont  to 
set  the  table  on  a  roar?  Not  one  now,  to 
mock  your  own  grinning?  quite  chap-fallen? 
Now  get  you  to  my  lady's  chamber,  and  tell 
her,  let  her  paint  an  inch  thick,  to  this  favour 
she  must  come ;  make  her  laugh  at  that. — 
Pr'ythee,  Horatio,  tell  me  one  thing. 

Hor.  What 's  that,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Dost  thou  think  Alexander  looked  o' 
this  fashion  i'  the  earth  ? 

Hor,  E'en  so. 

Ham.  And  smelt  so  ?  pah ! 

[  Throws  down  the  skull. 

Hor.  E'en  so,  my  lord. 

Ham.  To  what  base  uses  we  may  return, 
Horatio !  Why  may  not  imagination  trace  the 
noble  dust  of  Alexander  till  he  find  it  stopping 
a  bung-hole  ? 

Hor.  'Twere  to  consider  too  curiously  to 
consider  so. 

Ham.  No,  faith,  not  a  jot ;  but  to  follow 
him  thither  with  modesty  enough,  and  likelihood 
to  lead  it :  as  thus ;  Alexander  died,  Alexander 
was  buried,  Alexander  returneth  into  dust ;  the 
dust  is  earth ;  of  earth  we  make  loam ;  and 
why  of  that  loam  whereto  he  was  converted 
might  they  not  stop  a  beer-barrel  ? 

Imperious  Caesar,  dead  and  turn'd  to  clay, 

Might  stop  a  hole  to  keep  the  wind  away : 

O,  that  that  earth  which  kept  the  world  in  awe 

Should  patch  a  wall  to  expel  the  winter's  flaw ! — 
Hut  solt  1    but    soft!   aside. — Here  comes  the 
king. 


Enter  Priests,  &c.,  in  procession ;  the  Corpse  of 
OPHELIA,  LAERTES  and 'Mourners  following; 
KING,  QUEEN,  their  Trains,  6rv. 

The  queen,  the  courtiers:  who  is  that  theyfoliow? 
And  with  such  maimed  rites  ?  This  doth  betoken 
The  corse  they  follow  did  with  desperate  hand 
Fordo  its  own  life :  'twas  of  some  estate. 
Couch  we  awhile  and  mark. 

[Retiring  with  HOR. 

Laer.  What  ceremony  else  ? 

Ham.  That  is  Laertes, 

A  very  noble  youth :  mark. 

Laer.  What  ceremony  else  ? 

I  Priest.  Her  obsequies  have  been  as  far 

enlarg'd  [ful ; 

As  we  have  warrantise :  her  death  was  doubt- 

And,  but  that  great  command  o'ersways  the 

order, 

She  should  in  ground  unsanctified  have  lodg'd 
Till  the  last  trumpet ;  for  charitable  prayers, 
Shards,  flints,  and  pebbles,  should  be  thrown 

on  her, 

Yet  here  she  is  allowed  her  virgin  rites, 
Her  maiden  strewments,  and  the  bringing  home 
Of  bell  and  burial. 

Laer.  Must  there  no  more  be  done  ? 

I  Priest.  No  more  be  done : 

We  should  profane  the  service  of  the  dead 
To  sing  a  requiem,  and  such  rest  to  her 
As  to  peace-parted  souls. 

Laer.  Lay  her  i'  the  earth  ; — 

Ami  from  her  fair  and  unpolluted  flesh 
May  violets  spring ! — I  tell  thee,  churlish  priest, 
A  ministering  angel  shall  my  sister  be 
When  thou  liest  howling. 

Ham.  What,  the  fair  Ophelia! 

Queen.  Sweets  to  the  sweet :  farewell ! 

[Scattering flowers. 

I  hop'd  thou  shouldst  have  been  my  Hamlet's 
wife ;  [maid, 

I  thought  thy  bride-bed  to  have  deck'd,  sweet 
And  not  have  strew'd  thy  grave. 

Laer.  O,  treble  woe 

Fall  ten  times  treble  on  that  cursed  head 
Whose  wicked  deed  thy  most  ingenious  sense 
Depriv'd  thee  of ! — Hold  off  the  earth  awhile. 
Till  I  have  caught  her  once  more  in  mine  arms : 
[Leaps  into  the  grave. 

Now  pile  your  dust  upon  the  quick  and  dead, 
Till  of  this  flat  a  mountain  you  have  made, 
To  o'er-top  old  Pelion  or  the  skyish  head 
Of  blue  Olympus. 

Ham.  [Advancing.]  What  is  he  whose  grief 

Bears  such  an  emphasis?    whose    phrase  of 

sorrow  [stand 

Conjures  the  wandering  stars,  and  makes  them 


SCENE  I.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


1163 


Like  wonder- wounded  hearers  ?  this  is  I, 
Hamlet  the  Dane.  \_Leaps  into  the  grave. 

Laer.  The  devil  take  thy  soul ! 

[Grappling with,  him. 

Ham.  Thou  pray'st  not  well. 
I  pr'ythee,  take  thy  fingers  from  my  throat ; 
For,  though  I  am  not  splenetive  and  rash, 
Yet  have  I  in  me  something  dangerous, 
Which  let  thy  wkeriess  fear :  away  thy  hand. 

King.   Pluck  them  asunder. 

Queen.  Hamlet !  Hamlet ! 

AH.  Gentlemen, — 

Hor.  Good  my  lord,  be  quiet. 

[The  Attendants  part  them,  aiid  they 
come  out  of  the  grave. 

Ham.  Why,  I  will  fight  with  him  upon  this 

theme 
Until  my  eyelids  will  no  longer  wag. 

Queen.  O  my  son,  what  theme? 

Ham.  I  lov'd  Ophelia ;  forty  thousand  brothers 
Could  not,  with  all  their  quantity  of  love, 
Make  up  my  sum. — What  wilt  thou  do  for  her? 

King.  O,  he  is  mad,  Laertes. 

Queen.  For  love  of  God,  forbear  him. 

Ham.  'Swounds,  show  me  what  thou  'It  do : 
Woul  't  weep?  woul  't  fight?  woul  'tfast?  woul  't 

tear  thyself? 

Woul 't  drink  up  eisel  ?  eat  a  crocodile  ? 
I  '11  do 't. — Dost  thou  come  here  to  whine? 
To  outface  me  with  leaping  in  her  grave? 
Be  buried  quick  with  her,  and  so  will  I: 
And,  if  thou  prate  of  mountains,  let  them  throw 
Millions  of  acres  on  us,  till  our  ground, 
Singeing  his  pate  against  the  burning  zone, 
Make  Ossa  like  a  wart !  Nay,  an  thou  'It  mouth, 
I  Ml  rant  as  well  as  thou. 

Queen.  This  is  mere  madness : 

And  thus  awhile  the  fit  will  work  on  him  ; 
Anon,  as  patient  as  the  female  dove, 
When  that  her  golden  couplets  are  disclos'd, 
His  silence  will  sit  drooping. 

Ham.  Hear  you,  sir ; 

What  is  the  reason  that  you  use  me  thus? 
I  lov'd  you  ever :  but  it  is  no  matter ; 
Let  Hercules  himself  do  what  he  may, 
The  cat  will  mew,  and  dog  will  have  his  day. 

[Exit. 

King.   I  pray  thee,  good  Horatio,  wait  upon 
him.  —  [Exit  HORATIO. 

Strengthen  your  patience  in  our  last  night's 
speech;  [ To  LAERTES. 

We'll  put  the  matter  to  the  present  push. — 
Good  Gertrude,  set  some  watch  over  your  son. — 
This  grave  shall  have  a  living  monument : 
An  hour  of  quiet  shortly  shall  we  see  ; 
Till  then,  in  patience  our  proceeding  be. 

\Mxeunt. 


SCLNE  II.— A  Hall  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  HAMLET  and  HORATIO. 

Ham.  So  much  for  this,  sir :  now  let  me  see 

the  other ; 
You  do  remember  all  the  circumstance? 

Hor.   Remember  it,  my  lord  I  [fighting 

Ham.  Sir,  in  my  heart  there  was  a  kind  of 
That  would  not  let  me  sleep :  methought  I  lay 
Worse  than  the  routines  in  the  bilboes.     Rashly, 
And  prais'd  be  rashness  for  it, — let  us  know, 
Our  indiscretion  sometimes  serves  us  well, 
When  our  deep  plots  do  fail :  and  that  should 

teach  us 

There's  a  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends, 
Rough-hew  them  how  we  will. 

Hor.  That  is  most  certain, 

Ham.  Up  from  my  cabin, 
My  sea-gown  scarf'd  about  me,  in  the  dark 
Grop'd  I  to  find  out  them :  had  my  desire  ; 
Finger'd  their  packet ;  and,  in  fine,  withdrew 
To  mine  own  room  again :  making  so  bold, 
My  fears  forgetting  manners,  to  unseal 
Their    grand   commission ;    where    I    found, 
Horatio, 

0  royal  knavery !  an  exact  command, — 
Larded  with  many  several  sorts  of  reasons, 
Importing  Denmark's  health  and  England's  too, 
With,  ho  !  such  bugs  and  goblins  in  my  life, — 
That,  on  the  supervise,  no  leisure  bated, 

No,  not  to  stay  the  grinding  of  the  axe, 
My  head  should  be  struck  off. 

Hor.  Is 't  possible  ? 

Ham.  Here's  the  commission:   read  it  at 

more  leisure. 
But  wilt  thou  hear  me  how  I  did  proceed  ? 

Hor.  I  beseech  you.  [villanies, — 

Ham.    Being     thus    benetted    round    with 
Ere  I  could  make  a  prologue  to  my  brains, 
They  had  begun  the  play, — I  sat  me  down; 
Devis'd  a  new  commission  ;  wrote  it  fair : 

1  once  did  hold  it,  as  our  statists  do, 

A  baseness  to  write  fair,  and  labour'd  much 
How  to  forget  that  learning ;  but,  sir,  now 
It  did  me  yeoman's  service.     Wilt  thou  know      , 
The  effect  of  what  I  wrote  ?  I 

Hor.  Ay,  good  my  lord.     * 

Ham.    An    earnest    conjuration    from    the 

king,— 

As  England  was  his  faithful  tributary  ; 
As  love  between  them  like  the  palm  might 

flourish  ; 

As  peace  should  still  her  wheaten  garland  wear 
And  stand  a  comma  'tween  their  amities ; 
And  many  such  like  as 's  of  great  charge, — 
That,  on  the  view  and  know  of  these  contents, 


ii66 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[ACT  v. 


Without  debatement  further,  more  or  less, 
He  should  the  bearers  put  to  sudden  death, 
Not  shriving-time  allow'd. 

Hor.  How  was  this  seal'd  ? 

Ham.  Why,  even  in   that  was  heaven  or- 

dinant. 

I  had  my  father's  signet  in  my  purse, 
W.uch  was  the  model  of  that  Danish  seal : 
Folded  the  writ  up  in  form  of  the  other  ; 
Subscrib'd  it ;  gave 't  the  impression  ;  plac'd  it 
saiely,  [day 

The  changeling  never  known.  Now,  the  next 
Was  our  sea- fight;  and  what  to  this  was  sequent 
Thou  know'st  already.  [to 't. 

Hor.  So  Guildenstern  and  Rosencrantz  go 

ffiim.   Why,  man,  they  did  make  love  to  this 

employment ; 

They  are  not  near  my  conscience  ;  their  defeat 
Does  by  their  own  insinuation  grow  : 
'Tis  dangerous  when  the  baser  nature  comes 
Between  the  pass  and  fell  incensed  points 
Of  mighty  opposites. 

Hor.  Why,  what  a  king  is  this! 

Ham.  Does  it  not,  think'st  thee,  stand  me 

now  upon, —  [mother; 

He  that  hath  kill'd  my  kirg  and  whor'd  my 

Popp'd  in  between  the  election  and  my  hopes ; 

Thrown  out  his  angle  for  my  proper  life, 

And  with  such   cozenage, — is't    not    perfect 

conscience  [damn'd, 

To  quit  him  with  this  arm  ?  and  is 't  not  to  be 

To  let  this  canker  of  our  nature  come 

In  further  evil  ?  [England 

Hor.  It  must  be  shortly  known  to  him  from 
What  is  the  issue  of  the  business  there. 

Ham.   It  will  be  short:  the  interim  is  mine; 
And  a  man's  life  's  no  more  than  to  say  One. 
But  I  am  very  sorry,  good  Horatio, 
That  to  Laertes  I  forgot  myself ; 
For  by  the  image  of  my  cause  I  see 
The  portraiture  of  his  :  I  '11  court  his  favours  : 
But,  sure,  the  bravery  of  his  grief  did  put  me 
Into  a  towering  passion. 

Hor.  Peace ;  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  OSRIC. 

Osr.  Your  lordship  is  right  welcome  back  to 
Denmark. 

Ham.  I  humbly  thank  you,  sir. — Dost  know 
this  water-fly  ? 

Hor.  No,  my  good  lord. 

Hani.  Thy  state  is  the  more  gracious ;  for 
'tis  a  vice  to  know  him.  He  hath  much  land, 
and  fertile  :  let  a  beast  be  lord  of  beasts,  and 
his  crih  shall  stand  at  the  king'-,  mess :  'tis  a 
chough  ;  but,  as  I  say,  spacious  in  the  posses- 
sion of  dirt. 


Osr.  Sweet  lord,  if  your  lordship  were  at 

leisure, 
I  should  impart  a  thing  to  you  from  his  majesty. 

Ham.  I  will  receive  it  with  all  diligence  of 

spirit. 

Put  your  bonnet  to  his  right  use ;  'tis  for  the 
head. 

Osr.  I  thank  your  lordship,  'tis  very  hot. 

Ham.  No,  believe  me,  'tis  very  cold ;  the 
wind  is  northerly. 

Osr.  It  is  indifferent  cold,  my  lord,  indeed. 

Ham.  Methinks  it  is  very  sultry  and  hot  for 
my  complexion. 

Osr.  Exceedingly,  my  lord  ;  it  is  very  sul- 
try,— as 'twere, — I  cannot  tell  how. — But,  my 
lord,  his  majesty  bade  me  signify  to  you  that 
he  has  laid  a  great  wager  on  your  head.  Sir, 
this  is  the  matter, — 

Ham.   I  beseech  you,  remember, — 

[HAMLET  moves  him  to  put  on  his  hat. 

Osr.  Nay,  in  good  faith  ;  for  mine  ease,  in 
good  faith.  Sir,  here  is  newly  come  to  court 
Laertes ;  believe  me,  an  absolute  gentleman, 
full  of  most  excellent  differences,  of  very  soft 
society  and  great  showing :  indeed,  to  speak 
feelingly  of  him,  he  is  the  card  or  calendar  of 
gentry,  for  you  shall  find  in  him  the  continent 
of  what  part  a  gentleman  would  see. 

Ham.  Sir,  his  definement  suffers  no  perdi- 
tion in  you  ; — though,  I  know,  to  divide  him 
inventorially  would  dizzy  the  arithmetic  of 
memory,  and  it  but  yaw  neither,  in  respect  of 
his  quick  sail.  But,  in  the  verity  of  extolment, 
I  take  him  to  be  a  soul  of  great  article  ;  and 
his  infusion  of  such  dearth  and  rareness  as,  to 
make  true  diction  of  him,  his  semblable  is  his 
mirror ;  and  who  else  would  trace  him,  his 
umbrage,  nothing  more.  [him. 

Osr.  Your  lordship  speaks  most  infallibly  of 

Ham.  The  concernancy,  sir?  why  do  we 
wrap  the  gentleman  in  our  more  rawer  breath? 

Osr.  Sir? 

Hor.  Is't  not  possible  to  understand  in 
another  tongue  ?  You  will  do 't  .ar,  really. 

Ham.  What  imports  the  nomination  of  this 
gentleman  ? 

Osr.  Of  Laertes? 

Hor.  His  purse  is  empty  already;  all's 
golden  words  are  spent. 

Ham.  Of  him,  sir. 

Osr.  I  know,  you  are  not  ignorant, — 

Ham.  I  would  you  did,  sir  ;  yet,  in  faith,  if 
you  did,  it  would  not  much  approve  me. — 
Well,  sir. 

Osr.  You  are  not  ignorant  of  what  excel- 
lence Laertes  is, — 

Ham.  I  dare  not  confess  that,  lest  I  should 


SCENE  II.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


1167 


compare  wilh  him  in  excellence  ;  but  to  know 
a  man  well  were  to  know  himself. 

Osr.  I  mean,  sir,  for  his  weapon;  but  in  the 
imputation  laid  on  him  by  them,  in  his  meed 
he 's  unfellowed. 

Ham.  What 's  his  weapon  ? 

Osr.  Rapier  and  dagger. 

Ham.  That 's  two  of  his  weapons :  but,  well. 

Osr.  The  king,  sir,  hath  wagered  wilh  him 
six  Barbary  horses :  against  the  which  he  has 
imponed,  as  I  take  it,  six  French  rapiers  ana 
poniards,  with  their  assigns,  as  girdle,  hangers, 
and  so:  three  of  the  carriages,  in  faith,  are 
very  dear  to  fancy,  very  responsive  to  the  hilts, 
most  delicate  carriages,  and  cf  very  liberal 
conceit. 

Ham.  What  call  you  the  carriages  ? 

Hor.  I  knew  you  must  be  edified  by  the 
margent  ere  you  had  done. 

Osr.  The  carriages,  sir,  are  the  hangers. 

Ham.  The  phrase  would  be  more  german  t^ 
the  matter  if  we  could  carry  cannon  by  our 
sides:  I  would  it  might  be  hangers  till  then. 
But,  on:  six  Barbary  horses  against  six  French 
swords,  their  assigns,  and  three  liberal  con- 
ceited carriages ;  that 's  the  French  bet  against 
the  Danish:  why  is  this  imponed,  as  you  call 
it? 

Osr.  The  king,  sir,  hath  laid,  that  in  a  dozen 
passes  between  you  and  him  he  shall  not  ex- 
ceed you  three  hits :  he  hath  laid  on  twelve  for 
nine ;  and  it  would  come  to  immediate  trial  if 
your  lordship  would  vouchsafe  the  answer. 

Ham.   How  if  I  answer  no? 
-  Osr.  I  mean,  my  lord,  the  opposition  of  your 
person  in  trial. 

Ham.  Sir,  I  will  walk  here  in  the  hall :  if  it 
please  his  majesty,  it  is  the  breathing  time  of 
day  with  me:  let  the  foils  be  brought,  the 
gentleman  willing,  and  the  king  hold  his  pur- 
pose, I  will  win  for  him  if  I  can  ;  if  not,  I  will 
gain  nothing  but  my  shame  and  the  odd  hits. 

Osr.  Shall  I  re-deliver  you  e'en  so? 

Ham.  To  this  effect,  sir ;  after  what  flourish 
your  nature  will. 

Osr.  I  commend  my  duty  to  your  lordship. 

Ham.  Yours,  yours.  [Exit  OSRIC.] — He 
does  well  to  commend  it  himself ;  there  are  no 
tongues  else  for 's  turn.  [on  his  head. 

Hor.  This  lapwing  runs  away  with  the  shell 

Ham.  He  did  comply  with  his  dug  before  he 
sucked  it.  Thus  has  he, — and  many  more  of 
the  same  bevy,  that  I  know  the  drossy  age 
dotes  on, — only  got  the  tune  of  the  time,  and 
outward  habit  of  encounter;  a  kind  of  yesty 
collection,  which  carries  them  through  and 
through  the  most  fanned  and  winnowed  opin- 


ions; and  do  but  blow  them  to  their  trial,  the 
bubbles  are  out. 

Enter  a  Lord. 

Lord.  My  lord,  his  majesty  commended  him 
to  you  by  young  Osric,  who  brings  back  to  him 
that  you  attend  him  in  the  hall:  he  sends  to 
know  if  your  pleasure  hold  to  play  with 
Laertes,  or  that  you  will  take  longer  time. 

Ham.  I  am  constant  to  my  purposes ;  they 
follow  the  king's  pleasure:  if  his  fitness  speaks, 
mine  is  ready ;  now  or  whensoever,  provided  I 
be  so  able  as  now.  [down. 

Lord.  The  king  and  queen  and  all  are  coming 

Ham,   In  happy  time. 

Lord.  The  queen  desires  you  to  use  some 
gentle  entertainment  to  Laertes  before  you  fall 
to  play. 

Ham.  She  well  instructs  me.      [Exit  Lord. 

Hor.  You  will  lose  this  wager,  my  lord. 

Ham.  I  do  not  think  so ;  since  he  went  into 
France  I  have  been  in  continual  practice:  I 
shall  win  at  the  odds.  But  thou  wouldst  not 
think  how  ill  all's  here  about  my  heart:  but 
it  is  no  matter. 

Hor.  Nay,  good  my  lord, — 

Ham.  It  is  but  foolery ;  but  it  is  such  a  kind 
of  gain -giving  as  would  perhaps  trouble  a 
woman. 

Hor.  If  your  mind  dislike  anything,  obey 
it :  I  will  forestall  their  repair  hither,  and  say 
you  are  not  fit. 

Ham.  Not  a  whit,  we  defy  augury  :  there  's 
a  special  providence  in  the  fall  of  a  sparrow. 
If  it  be  now,  'tis  not  to  come ;  if  it  be  not  to 
come,  it  will  be  now;  if  it  be  not  now,  yei  it 
will  come :  the  readiness  is  all :  since  no  man 
has  aught  of  what  he  leaves,  what  is 't  to  leave 
betimes? 

Enter  KING,  QUEEN,  LAERTES,  Lords, 
OSRIC,  and  Attendants  with  foils,  &c. 

King.  Come,  Hamlet,  come,  and  take  this 
hand  from  me. 

[The  KING/W/J  LAERTES'S  hand 

into  HAMLET'S. 
Ham.  Give  me  your  pardon,  sir:    I  have 

done  you  wrong: 

But  pardon 't,  as  you  are  a  gentleman. 
This  presence  knows,  and  you  must  needs  have 

heard, 

How  I  am  punish'd  with  sore  distraction. 
What  I  have  done, 

That  might  your  nature,  honour,  and  exception 
Roughly  awake,  I  here  proclaim  was  madness. 
Was  't    Hamlet    wrongM    Laertes  ?      Nevei 
Hamlet : 


1168 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[ACT  V, 


If  Hamlet  from  himself  be  ta'en  away, 
And  when  he 's  not  himself  does  wrong  Laer- 
tes, 

Then  Hamlet  does  it  not,  Hamlet  denies  it. 
Who  does  it,  then?     His  madness  :  if't  be  so, 
Hamlet  is  of  the  faction  that  is  wrong'd  ; 
His  madness  is  poor  Hamlet's  enemy. 
Sir,  in  this  audience, 
Let  my  disclaiming  from  a  purpos'd  evil 
Free  me  so  far  in  your  most  generous  thoughts 
That  I  have  shot  mine  arrow  o'er  the  house 
And  hurt  my  brother. 

Laer.  I  am  satisfied  in  nature, 

Whose  motive,  in  this  case,  should  stir  me  most 
To  my  revenge  :  but  in  my  terms  of  honour 
I  stand  aloof ;  and  will  no  reconcilement 
Till  by  some  elder  masters  of  known  honour 
I  have  a  voice  and  precedent  of  peace 
To  keep  my  name  ungor'd.     But  till  that  time 
I  do  receive  your  offer'd  love  like  love, 
And  will  not  wrong  it. 

Ham.  I  embrace  it  freely  ; 

And  will  this  brother's  wager  frankly  play. — 
Give  us  the  foils ;  come  on. 

Laer.  Come,  one  for  me. 

Ham.  I'll  be  your  foil,  Laertes;  in  mine 

ignorance 

Your  skill  shall,  like  a  star  in  the  darkest  night, 
Stick  fiery  off  indeed. 

Laer.  You  mock  me,  sir. 

Ham.  No,  by  this  hand. 

King.  Give   them    the   foils,  young   Osric. 

Cousin  Hamlet, 
You  know  the  wager  ? 

Ham.  Very  well,  my  lord  ; 

Your  grace  hath  laid  the  odds  o'  the  weaker 
side. 

King.  I  do  not  fear  it ;  I  have  seen  you  both ; 
But  since  he 's  better'd,  we  have  therefore  odds. 

Laer.  This  is  too  heavy,  let  me  see  another. 

Ham.  This  likes  me  well.     These  foils  have 
all  a  length  ?     [  They  prepare  to  play. 

Osr.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

King.  Set  me  the  stoups  of  wine  upon  that 

table,— 

If  Hamlet  give  the  first  or  second  hit, 
Or  quit  in  answer  of  the  third  exchange, 
Let  all  the  battlements  their  ordnance  fire  ; 
The  king  shall  drink  to  Hamlet's  better  breath ; 
And  in  the  cup  an  union  shall  he  throw, 
Richer  than  that  which  four  successive  kings 
In  Denmark's  crown  have  worn.     Give  me  the 

cups; 

And  let  the  kettle  to  the  trumpet  speak, 
The  trumpet  to  the  cannoneer  without, 
The  cannons  to  the  heavens,  the  heavens  to 
earth, 


Now    the    king    drinks    to    Hamlet. — Come, 

begin  ;— 

And  you,  the  judges,  bear  a  wary  eye. 
Ham.  Come  on,  sir. 
Laer.  Come,  my  lord. 

\_Theyplay. 

Ham.  One. 

Laer.  No. 

Ham.  Judgment. 

Osr.  A  hit,  a  very  palpable  hit. 
Laer.  Well ; — again. 

King.  Stay,  give  me  drink. — Hamlet,  this 

pearl  is  thine ; 
Here's  to  thy  health.— 

[  Trumpets  sound,  and  cannon  shot 

off -within. 

Give  him  the  cup.  [awhile. — 

Ham.   I'll  play  this  bom  first;    set  it  by 
Come. — Another  hit ;  what  say  you? 

[They  play. 

Laer.  A  touch,  a  touch,  I  do  comess. 
King.  Our  son  shall  win. 
Queen.          He 's  fat,  and  scant  of  breath. — 
Here,  Hamlet,  take  my  napkin,  rub  thy  brows  : 
The  queen  carouses  to  thy  fortune,  Hamlet. 
Ham.  Good  madam ! 

King.  Gertrude,  do  not  drink. 

Queen.  I  will,  my  lord  ;  I  pray  you,  pardon 
me.  [late. 

King.  \ Aside.]  It  is  the  poison'd  cup;  it  is  too 
Ham.   I  dare  not  drink  yet,  madam ;  by  and 

by. 

Queen,  Come,  let  me  wipe  thy  face. 
Laer.  My  lord,  I  ?11  hit  him  now. 
King.  I  do  not  think 't. 

Laer.   [Aside.]    And  yet  'tis  almost  'gainst 

my  conscience. 
Ham.  Come,   for   the   third,   Laertes:    you 

but  dally ; 

I  pray  you,  pass  with  your  best  violence : 
I  am  afeard  you  make  a  wanton  of  me. 

Laer.  Say  you  so ?  come  on.        [They play. 
Osr.  Nothing,  neither  way. 
Laer.  Have  at  you  now ! 

[LAER.  wounds  HAM.  ;  then,  in  scuffling,  they 
change  rapiers,  and  HAM.  wounds  LAER. 
King.  Part  them  ;  they  are  incens'd. 

Ham.  Nay,  come,  again.    [7^QuEEN/a//j. 
Osr.  Look  to  the  queen  there,  ho ! 

Hor.  They  bleed  on  both  sides. — How  is  it, 

my  lord  ? 

Osr.  How  is 't,  Laertes  ? 
Laer.    Why,   as  a   woodcock    to   my   own 

springe,  Osric; 

I  am  justly  kill'd  with  mine  own  treachery. 
Ham.  How  does  the  queen  ? 
King.  She  swoons  to  see  them  bleed. 


SCENE  II.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


1169 


Queen.  No,  no,  the  drink,  the  drink, — O  my 

dear  Hamlet, — 

The  drink,  the  drink ! — I  am  poison'd.     [Dies. 

Ham.  O  villany ! — I  lo!  let  the  door  be  lock'd : 

Treachery!  seek  it  out.  [  LAERTES  falls. 

Laer.  It  is  here,  Hamlet :  Hamlet,  thou  art 

slain  ; 

No  medicine  in  the  world  can  do  thee  good  ; 
In  thee  there  is  not  half  an  hour  of  life  ; 
The  treacherous  instrument  is  in  thy  hand, 
Unbated  and  envenom'd :  the  foul  practice 
Hath  turn'd  itself  on  me  ;  lo,  here  I  lie, 
Never  to  rise  again  :  thy  mother 's  poison'd : 
I  can  no  more : — the  king,  the  king 's  to  blame. 

Ham.  The  point  envenom'd  too ! — 
Then  venom  to  thy  work.         [Stabs  the  KING. 
Osr.  and  Lords.  Treason  !  treason  ! 
King.   O,  yet  defend  me,  friends  ;  I  am  but 

hurt. 
Ham.    Here,    thou   incestuous,    murderous, 

damned  Dane, 

Drink  off  this  potion. — Is  thy  union  here? 
Follow  my  mother.  [KiNG  dies. 

Laer.   He  is  justly  serv'd  ; 
It  is  a  poison  tempered  by  himself. — 
Exchange  forgiveness  with  me,  noble  Hamlet : 
Mine  and  my  father's  death  come  not  upon 

thee, 

Nor  thine  on  me  !  [Dies. 

Ham.  Heaven  make  thee  free  of   it!      I 

follow  thee. — 

lam  dead,  Horatio. — Wretched  queen, adieu! — 
You  that  look  pale  and  tremble  at  this  chance, 
That  are  but  mutes  or  audience  to  this  act, 
Had  I  but  time, — as  this  fell  sergeant,  death, 
Is  strict  in  his  arrest,— O,  I  could  tell  you, — 
But  let  it  be. — Horatio,  I  am  dead  ; 
Thou  liv'st ;  report  me  and  my  cause  aright 
To  the  unsatisfied. 

Hor.  Never  believe  it: 

I  am  more  an  antique  Roman  than  a  Dane, — 
Here 's  yet  some  liquor  left- 

Ham.  As  thou  'rt  a  man, 

Give  me  the  cup;    let  go;   by  heaven,   I'll 

have't— 

O  good  Horatio,  what  a  wounded  name, 
Things    standing    thus    unknown,    shall    live 

behind  me ! 

If  thou  didst  ever  hold  me  in  thy  heart, 
Absent  thee  from  felicity  awhile, 
And  in  this  harsh  world  draw  thy  breath  in 

pain, 
To  tell  my  story. — 

[March  afar  off,  and  shot  within. 
What  warlike  noise  is  this? 
Osr.  Young  Fortinbras,  with  conquest  come 
from  Poland, 


To  the  ambassadors  of  England  gives 
This  warlike  volley. 

Ham.  O,  I  die,  Horatio ; 

The  potent  poison  quite  o'er-crows  my  spirit: 
I  cannot  live  to  hear  the  news  from  England ; 
But  I  do  prophesy  the  election  lights 
On  Fortinbras :  he  has  my  dying  voice  ; 
So  tell  him,  with  the  occurrents,  more  and  less, 
Which  have  solicited. — The  rest  is  silence. 

[Dies. 

Hor.    Now  cracks  a  noble  heart. — Good- 
night, sweet  prince, 

And  flights  of  angels  sing  thee  to  thy  rest ! 
Why  does  the  drum  come  hither  ? 

[March  within. 

Enter  FORTINBRAS,  the  English  Ambassadors, 
and  others. 

Fort.  Where  is  this  sight  ? 

Hor.  What  is  it  you  would  see  ? 

If  aught  of  woe  or  wonder,  cease  your  search. 

Fort.  This  quarry  cries  on  havoc. — O  proud 

death, 

What  feast  is  toward  in  thine  eternal  cell, 
That  thou  so  many  princes  at  a  shot 
So  bloodily  hast  struck  ? 

I  Amb.  The  sight  is  dismal ; 

And  our  affairs  from  England  come  too  late : 
The  ears  are   senseless   that  should  give  us 

hearing, 

To  tell  him  his  commandment  is  fulfill'd, 
That  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern  are  dead : 
Where  should  we  have  our  thanks  ? 

Hor.  Not  from  his  mouth. 

Had  it  the  ability  of  life  to  thank  you : 
He  never  gave  commandment  for  their  death. 
But  since,  so  jump  upon  this  bloody  question, 
You   from   the    Polack   wars,   and  you  from 

England, 

Are  here  arriv'd,  give  order  that  these  bodies 
High  on  a  stage  be  placed  to  the  view ; 
And  let  me  speak  to  the  yet  unknowing  world 
How  these  things  came  about :  so  shall  you  hear 
Of  carnal,  bloody,  and  unnatural  acts  ; 
Of  accidental  judgments,  casual  slaughters ; 
Of  deaths  put  on  by  cunning  and  forc'd  cause ; 
And,  in  this  upshot,  purposes  mistook 
Fall'n  on  the  inventors'  heads:  all  this  can  I 
Truly  deliver. 

Fort.  Let  us  haste  to  hear  it, 

And  call  the  noblest  to  the  audience. 
For  me,  with  sorrow  I  embrace  my  fortune  : 
I  have    some  rights  ot  memory  in  this  king- 
dom, 

Which  now  to  claim  my  vantage  doth  invite 
me. 

Hor,  Of  that  I  shall  have  also  cause  to  speak. 


1170 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[ACT  V. 


And  from  his  mouth  whose  voice  will  draw  on 

more: 

But  let  this  same  be  presently  pe/form'd, 
Even  while  men's  minds  are  wild :  lest  more 

mischance 
On  plots  and  errors  happen. 

Fort.  Let  four  captains 

Bear  Hamlet  like  a  soldier  to  the  stage  ; 
For  he  was  likely,  had  he  been  put  on, 


To  have   prov'd   most  royally:  and,  for  his 

passage, 

The  soldier's  music  and  the  rites  of  war 
Speak  loudly  for  him.  — 
Take  up  the  bodies.  —  Such  a  sight  as  this 
Becomes  the  field,  but  here  shows  much  amiss. 
Go,  bid  the  soldiers  shoot.         [A  dead  march. 
[Exeunt,  bearing  off  the  dead  bodies  ;  aftet 
which  a  peal  o  ordnance  is  shot  o. 


bhow 


«  bnA 


:.:-,  ...,:.    «.-,.,-.,?    i         I  -        - 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE, 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


DUKE  OF  VENICE. 

BRABANTIO,  a  Senator. 

Oiher  Senators. 

GRATIANO,  Brother  to  BRABANTIO. 

LODOVICO,  Kinsman  to  BRABANTIO. 

OTHELLO,  a  noble  Moor,  in  the  service  of  Venice. 

CASSIO,  his  Lieutenant. 

IAGO,  his  Ancient. 

RODERIGO,  a  Venetian  Gentleman. 

MONTANO,    OTHELLO'S    predecessor    in    the 


government  of  Cyprus. 


Clown,  Servant  to  OTHELLO. 
Herald. 

DESDEMONA,  Daughter  to  BRABANTIO,  and 

Wife  to  OTHELLO. 
EMILIA,  Wife  to  IAGO. 
BIANCA,  Mistress  to  CASSIO. 

Officers,  Gentlemen,  Messenger,  Musicians, 
Herald,  Sailor,  Attendants,  &c. 


SCENE,— The  First  Act  in  VENICE;  during  the  rest  of  the  Play  at  a  Seaport  in  CYPRUS. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.— VENICE.     A  Street. 

Enter  RODERIGO  and  IAGO. 
Rod.  Never  tell  me  ;  I  take  it  much  unkindly 
That  thou,  lago,  who  hast  had  my  purse 
As  if  the  strings  were  thine,  shouldst  know  of 

this,— 

lago.  'Sblood,  but  you  will  not  hear  me : — 
If  ever  I  did  dream  of  such  a  matter, 
Abhor  me. 

Rod.  Thou  told'st  me  thou  didst  hold  him  in 

thy  hate. 
lago.  Despise  me  if  I  do  not.     Three  great 

ones  of  the  city, 

In  personal  suit  to  make  me  his  lieutenant, 
Off-capp'd  to  him : — and,  by  the  faith  of  man, 
I   know  my   price,  I  am  worth  no  worse  a 

place : — 

But  he,  as  loving  his  own  pride  and  purposes, 
Evades  them,  with  a  bombast  circumstance 
Horribly  stuff'd  with  epithets  of  war: 
And,  in  conclusion,  nonsuits 
My  mediators ;  for,  Certes>  says  he, 
/  have  already  chose  my  officer. 
And  what  was  he  ? 
Forsooth,  a  great  arithmetician, 
One  Michael  Cassio,  a  Florentine, 
A  fellow  almost  damn'd  in  a  fair  wife ; 
That  never  set  a  squadron  in  the  field, 
Nor  the  division  of  a  battle  knows 
More    than  a  spinster;    unless    the  bookish 

theoric, 

Wherein  the  toged  consuls  can  propose 
As    masterly  as    he:    mere    prattle,   without 

practice, 


Is  all  bis  soldiership.     But  he,  sir,  had  the 

election : 

And  I, — of  whom  his  eyes  had  seen  the  proof 
At  Rhodes,  at  Cyprus,  and  on  other  grounds, 
Christian  and  heathen, — must  be  be-lee'd  and 

calm'd 

By  debitor  and  creditor,  this  counter-caster  ; 
He,  in  good  time,  must  his  lieutenant  be, 
And  I,  God  bless  the  mark!  his  Moorship's 

ancient.  [his  hangman. 

Rod.  By  heaven,  I  rather  would  have  been 
lago.  Why,   there's  no    remedy;    'tis    the 

curse  of  service, 

Preferment  goes  by  letter  and  affection, 
And  not  by  old  gradation,  where  each  second 
Stood  heir  to  the  first.     Now,  sir,  be  judge 

yourself 

Whether  I  in  any  just  tenn  am  affin'd 
To  love  the  Moor. 

Rod.  I  would  not  follow  him,  then. 

lago.  O,  sir,  content  you  ; 
I  follow  him  to  serve  my  turn  upon  him : 
We  cannot  all  be  masters,  nor  all  masters 
Cannot  be  truly  follow'd.     You  shall  mark 
Many  a  duteous  and  knee-crooking  knave 
That,  doting  on  his  own  obsequious  bondage, 
Wears  out  his  time,  much  like  his  master's  ass, 
For  naught  but  provender ;  and  when  he 's  old, 

cashierd : 

Whip  me  such  honest  knaves.    Others  there  are 
Who,  trimm'd  in  forms  and  visages  of  duty, 
Keep  yet  their  hearts  attending  on  themselves  ; 
And,  throwing  but  shows  of  service  on  their 

lords, 
Do  well  thrive  by  them,  and  when  they  have 

lin'd  their  coats, 


1172 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE, 


[ACTL 


Do  themselves  homage :   these  fellows  have 

some  soul; 

And  such  a  one  do  I  profess  myself. 
For,  sir, 

It  is  as  sure  as  you  are  Roderigo, 
Were  I  the  Moor  I  would  not  be  lago: 
In  following  him  I  follow  but  myself; 
Heaven  is  my  judge,  not  I  for  love  and  duty, 
But  seeming  so  for  my  peculiar  end : 
For  when  my  outward  action  doth  demonstrate 
The  native  act  and  figure  of  my  heart 
In  compliment  extern,  'tis  not  long  after 
But  I  will  wear  my  heart  upon  my  sleeve 
For  daws  to  peck  at :  I  am  not  what  I  am. 
Rod.  What  a  full  fortune  does  the  thick  lips 

owe, 
If  he  can  carry 't  thus ! 

lago.  Call  up  her  father. 

Rouse  him : — make  after  him,  poison  hisdelight, 
Proclaim  him  in  the  streets  ;  incense  her  kins- 
men, 

And,  though  he  in  a  fertile  climate  dwell, 
Plague  him  with  flies :  though  that  his  ioy  be 

j°y» 

Yet  throw  such  changes  of  vexation  on 't 
As  it  may  lose  some  colour.  [aloud. 

Rod.  Here   is  her  father's  house :    I  '11  call 
lago.   Do  ;  with  like  timorous  accent  and  dire 

yell 

As  when,  by  night  and  negligence,  the  fire 
Is  spied  in  populous  cities.  [tio,  ho  ! 

Rod.  What,  ho,  Brabantio  !  Signior  Braban- 
lago.  Awake !  what,  ho,  Brabantio !  thieves ! 
thieves  !  thieves  !  [bags  ! 

Look  to  your  house,  your  daughter,  and  your 
Thieves !  thieves ! 

BRABANTIO  appears  above  at  a  window. 

Bra.  What  is  the  teason  of  this  terrible  sum- 
mons? 
What  is  the  matter  there  ? 

Rod.  Signior,  is  all  your  family  within  ? 

lago.  Are  your  doors  locked  ? 

Bra.  Why,  wherefore  ask  you  this  ? 

lago.  Zounds,  sir,  you  're  robb'd  ;  for  shame, 
put  on  your  gown ;  [soul ; 

Your  heart  is  burst,  you  have  lost  half  your 
Even  now,  now,  very  now,  an  old  black  ram 
Is  tupping  your  white  ewe.     Arise,  arise  ; 
Awake  the  snorting  citizens  with  the  bell, 
Or  else  the  devil  will  make  a  grandsire  of  you : 
Arise,  I  say. 

Bra.         What,  have  you  lost  your  wits  ? 

Rod.  Most  reverend  signior,  do  you  know  my 
voice  ? 

Bra.  Not  I ;  what  are  you? 

Rod.  My  name  is  Roderigo. 


Bra.  The  worser  welcome  i 

I  have  charg'd  thee  not  to  haunt  about  my 

doors ; 

In  honest  plainness  thou  hast  heard  me  say 
My  daughter  is  not  for  thee  ;  and  now,  in  mad- 
ness, 

Being  full  of  supper  and  distempering  draughts, 
Upon  malicious  bravery  dost  thou  come 
To  start  my  quiet. 

Rod.  Sir,  sir,  sir, — 

Bra.  But  thou  must  needs  be  sure, 

My  spirit  and  my  place  have  in  them  power 
To  make  this  bitter  to  thee. 

Rod.  Patience,  good  sir. 

Bra.  What  tell'st  thou  me  of  robbing  ?  this 

is  Venice ; 
My  house  is  not  a  grange. 

Rod.  Most  grave  Brabantio, 

In  simple  and  pure  soul  I  come  to  you. 

lago.  Zounds,  sir,  you  are  one  of  those  that 
will  not  serve  God  if  the  devil  bid  you.  Be- 
cause we  come  to  do  you  service,  and  you  think 
we  are  ruffians,  you'll  have  your  daughter 
covered  with  a  Barbary  horse ;  you  '11  have 
your  nephews  neigh  to  you  ;  you  '11  have  cour- 
sers for  cousins  and  gennets  for  germans. 

Bra.  What  profane  wretch  art  thou  ? 

lago.  I  am  one,  sir,  that  comes  to  tell  you 
your  daughter  and  the  Moor  are  now  making 
the  beast  with  two  backs. 

Bra.  Thou  art  a  villain. 

lago.  You  are— a  senator. 

Bra.  This  thou  shalt  answer  ;  I  know  thee, 
Roderigo.  [seech  you, 

Rod.  Sir,  I  will  answer  anything.    But  I  be- 
If 't  be  your  pleasure  and  most  wise  consent, — 
As  partly  I  find  it  is, — that  your  fair  daughter, 
At  this  odd-even  and  dull  watch  o'  the  night, 
Transported  with  no  worse  nor  better  guard 
But  with  a  knave  of  common  hire,  a  gondolier, 
To  the  gross  clasps  of  a  lascivious  Moor, — 
If  this  be  known  to  you,  and  your  allowance, 
We  then  have  done  you  bold  and  saucy  wrongs; 
But  if  you  know  not  this,  my  manners  tsll  me 
We  have  your  wrong  rebuke.     Do  not  believe 
That,  from  the  sense  of  all  civility, 
I  thus  would  play  and  trifle  with  your  reverence: 
Your  daughter, — if  you   have  not  given  her 

leave, — 

I  say  again,  hath  made  a  gross  revolt ; 
Tying  her  duty,  *beauty,  wit,  and  fortunes 
In  an  extravagant  and  wheeling  stranger    [self: 
Of  here  and  everywhere.     Straight  satisfy  your- 
If  she  be  in  her  chamber  or  your  house 
Let  loose  on  me  the  justice  of  the  state 
For  thus  deluding  you. 

Bra.  Strike  on  the  tinder,  bo  J 


SCENE  I.] 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


"73 


Give  me  a  taper  ! — call  up  all  my  people  ! — 
This  accident  is  not  unlike  my  dream  : 
Belief  of  it  oppresses  me  already. — 
Light,  I  say  !  light !  [Exit  front  above, 

lago.  Farewell ;  for  I  must  leave  you : 

It  seems  not  meet  nor  wholesome  to  my  place 
To  be  produc'd, — as  if  I  stay  I  shall, — 
Against  the  Moor :  for  I  do  know  the  state, — 
However  this  may  gall  him  with  some  check, — 
Cannot  with  safety  cast  him  ;  for  he 's  embark'd 
With  such  loud  reason  to  the  Cyprus  wars, — 
Which  even  now  stand  in  act, — that,  for  their 

souls, 

Another  of  his  fathom  they  have  none 
To  lead  their  business  :  in  which  regard, 
Though  I  do  hate  him  as  I  do  hell  pains, 
Yet,  for  necessity  of  present  life, 
I  must  show  out  a  flag  and  sign  of  love, 
Which   is   indeed   but  sign.     That   you  shall 

surely  find  him, 

Lead  to  the  Sagittary  the  raised  search  ; 
And  there  will  I  be  with  him.     So,  farewell. 

[Exit. 

Enter  below,  BRABANTIO,  and  Servants  with, 
torches. 

Bra.  It  is  too  true  an  evil :  gone  she  is  ; 
And  what 's  to  come  of  my  despised  time 
Is  naught  but  bitterness. — Now,  Roderigo, 
Where  didst  thou  see  her  ? — O  unhappy  girl ! — 
With  the  Moor,  say'st  thou  ? — Who  would  be 
a  father  !  [ceives  me 

How  didst  thou  know  'twas  she  ? — O,  she  de- 
Past  thought. — What  said  she  to  you? — Get 

more  tapers ; 
Raise  all  my  kindred. — Are  they  married,  think 

you  ? 

Rod.  Truly,  I  think  they  are. 
Bra.  O  heaven  ! — How  got   she    out  ? — O 

treason  of  the  blood  ! — 
Fathers,  from  hence  trust  not  your  daughters' 

minds 
By  what  you  see  them  act. — Are   there  not 

charms 

By  which  the  property  of  youth  and  maidhood 
May  be  abused  ?  Have  you  not  read,  Roderigo, 
Of  some  such  thing  ? 

Rod.  Yes,  sir,  I  have  indeed. 

Bra.  Call   up  my  brother. — O,  would   you 

had  had  her  ! — 

Some  one  way  some  another. — Do  you  know 
Where  we  may  apprehend  her  and  the  Moor  ? 
Rod.  I  think  I  can  discover  him,  if  you  please 
To  pet  good  guard,  and  go  along  with  me. 
Bra.   Pray  you,  lead  on.     At  every  house 

I  '11  call ; 
I  may  command  at  most. — Get  weapons,  ho  ! 


And  raise  some  special  officers  of  night. — 
On,  good  Roderigo  : — I  '11  deserve  your  pains. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — VENICE.     Another  Street. 

Enter  OTHELLO,  IAGO,  and  Attendants  with 
torches. 


>.  Though  in  the  trade  of  war  I  have 

slain  men, 

Yet  do  I  hold  it  very  stuff  o'  the  conscience 
To  do  no  contriv'd  murder :  I  lack  iniquity 
Sometimes  to  do  me  service :  nine  or  ten  times 
I  had  thought  to  have  yerk'd  him  here  under 

the  ribs. 

Otk.  'Tis  better  as  it  is. 
lago.  Nay,  but  he  prated, 

And  spoke  such  scurvy  and  provoking  terms 
Against  your  honour, 
That,  with  the  little  godliness  I  have, 
I  did  full  hard  forbear  him.     But,  I  pray  you, 

sir, 

Are  you  fast  married  ?     Be  assured  of  this, 
That  the  magnifico  is  much  beloved  ; 
And  hath,  in  his  effect,  a  voice  potential 
As  double  as  the  duke's  :  he  will  divorce  you  ; 
Or  put  upon  you  what  restraint  and  grievance 
The  law, — with  all  his  might  to  enforce  it  on, — 
Will  give  him  cable. 

Oth.  Let  him  do  his  spite  : 

My  services  which  I  have  done  the  signiory 
Shall  out-tongue  his  complaints.     'Tis  yet  to 

know, — 

Which,  when  I  know  that  boasting  is  an  honour, 
I  shall  promulgate, — I  fetch  my  life  and  being 
From  men  of  royal  siege  ;  and  my  demerits 
May  speak  unbonneted  to  as  proud  a  fortune 
As  this  that  I  have  reach'd  :  for  know,  lago, 
But  that  I  love  the  gentle  Desdemona, 
I  would  not  my  unhoused  free  condition 
Put  into  circumscription  and  confine 
For  the  sea's  worth.     But,  look  !  what  lights 

come  yond  ? 
lago.  Those  are   the  raised  father  and  his 

friends  : 
You  were  best  go  in. 

Oth.  Not  I ;  I  must  be  found : 

My  parts,  my  title,  and  my  perfect  soul 
Shall  manifest  me  rightly.     Is  it  they  ? 
lago.  By  Janus,  I  think  no. 

Enter  CASSIO  and  certain  Officers  with  torches* 

Oth.  The  servants  of  the  duke  and  my  lieu- 

tenant. — 

The  goodness  of  the  night  upon  you,  friends  ! 
What  is  the  news  ? 

COLS.          The  duke  does  greet  you,  general ; 


1 174 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  i. 


And  he  requires  your  haste-post-haste  appear- 
ance 
Even  on  the  instant. 

Oth.  What  is  the  matter,  think  you  ? 

Cos.  Something   from   Cyprus,    as    I    may 

divine : 

It  is  a  business  of  some  heat :  the  galleys 
Have  sent  a  dozen  sequent  messengers 
This  very  night  at  one  another's  heels  ; 
And  many  of  the  consuls,  rais'd  and  met, 
Are  at  the  duke's  already :  you  have  been  hotly 

call'd  for ; 

When,  being  not  at  your  lodging  to  be  found, 
The  senate  hath  sent  about  three  several  quests 
To  search  you  out. 

Oth.  'Tis  well  I  am  found  by  you. 

I  will  but  spend  a  word  here  in  the  house, 
And  go  with  you.  [Exit. 

Cas.  Ancient,  what  makes  he  here  ? 

lago.  Faith,  he  to-night  hath  boarded  a  land 

carack : 
If  it  prove  lawful  prize,  he 's  made  for  ever. 

Cas.  I  do  not  understand. 

lago.  He 's  married. 

Cas.  To  who  ? 

Re-enter  OTHELLO. 

lago.  Marry,  to — Cotoe,  captain,  will  you  go? 
Oth.  Have  with  you. 

Cas.  Here  comes  another  troop  to  seek  for 

you. 

lago.  It  is  Brabantio. — General,  be  advis'd ; 
He  comes  to  bad  intent. 

Enter  BRABANTIO,  RODERIGO,  and  Officers 
with  torches  and  weapons. 

Oik.  Holla  !  stand  there  ! 

Rod.  Signior,  it  is  the  Moor. 

Bra.  Down  with  him,  thief ! 

[They  draw  on  both  sides. 

Iag9.  You,  Roderigo !  come,  sir,  I  am  for  you. 

Oth.  Keep  up  your  bright  swords,  for  the 
dew  will  rust  them. —  [years 

Good  signior,  you  shall  more  command  with 
Than  with  your  weapons. 

Bra.  O   thou  foul   thief,   where  hast  thou 

stow'd  my  daughter  ? 

Damn'd  as  thou  art,  thou  hast  enchanted  her ; 
For  I  '11  refer  me  to  all  things  of  sense, 
If  she  in  chains  of  magic  were  not  bound, 
Whether  a  maid  so  tender,  fair,  and  happy, 
So  opposite  to  marriage  that  she  shunn'd 
The  wealthy  curled  darlings  of  our  nation, 
Would  ever  have,  to  incur  a  general  mock, 
Run  from  her  guaidage  to  the  sooty  bosom 
Of  such  a  thing  as  thou, — to  fear,  not  to  delight. 
Judge  me  the  world,  if  'tis  not  gross  in  sense 


That  thou    hast  practis'd  on   her  with  foul 

charms ; 
Abus'd    her    delicate    youth    with    drugs    or 

minerals 

That  weaken  motion : — I  '11  have 't  disputed  on; 
'Tis  probable,  and  palpable  to  thinking. 
I  therefore  apprehend  and  do  attach  thee 
For  an  abuser  of  the  world,  a  practiser 
Of  arts  inhibited  and  out  of  warrant. — 
Lay  hold  upon  him  :  if  he  do  resist, 
Subdue  him  at  his  peril. 

Oth.  Hold  your  hands, 

Both  you  of  my  inclining  and  the  rest : 
Were  it  my  cue  to  fight,  I  should  have  known  it 
Without  a  prompter. — Where  will  you  that  I  go 
To  answer  this  your  charge  ? 

Bra.  To  prison  ;  till  fit  time 

Of  law  and  course  of  direct  session 
Call  thee  to  answer. 

Oth.  What  if  I  do  obey? 

How  may  the  duke  be  therewith  satisfied, 
Whose  messengers  are  here  about  my  side, 
Upon  some  present  business  of  the  state, 
To  bring  me  to  him. 

I  Off.  'Tis  true,  most  worthy  signior  ; 

The  duke 's  in  council,  and  your  noble  self, 
I  am  sure,  is  sent  for. 

Bra.  How  !  the  duke  in  council ! 

In  this  time  of  the  night ! — Bring  him  away  : 
Mine 's  not  an  idle  cause  :  the  duke  himself, 
Or  any  of  my  brothers  of  the  state, 
Cannot  but  feel  this  wrong  as  'twere  their  own ; 
For  if  such  actions  may  have  passage  free, 
Bond-slaves  and  pagans  shall  our  statesmen  be. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — VENICE.     A  Council-chamber. 

The  DUKE  and  Senators  sitting  at  a  table; 
Officers  attending. 

Duke.  There  is  no  composition  in  these  newg 
That  gives  them  credit. 

1  Sen.         Indeed,  they  are  disproportion^ ; 
My  letters  say  a  hundred  and  seven  galleys. 

Duke.  And  mine  a  hundred  and  forty. 

2  Sen.  And  mine  two  hundred  : 
But  though  they  jump  not  on  a  just  account, — 
As  in  these  cases,  where  the  aim  reports, 

'Tis  oft  with  difference,— yet  do  they  all  confirm 
A  Turkish  fleet,  and  bearing  up  to  Cyprus. 

Duke.  Nay,  it  is  possible  enough  to  judgment : 
I  do  not  so  secure  me  in  the  error, 
But  the  main  article  I  do  approve 
In  fearful  sense. 

Sailor.    [Within.}  What,   ho!    what,  hoi 
what,  ho  ! 

i  Off.  A  messenger  from  the  galleys. 


SCENE  III.] 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


1175 


Enter  a  Sailor. 

Duke.  Now,— what 's  the  business  ? 

Sail.  The   Turkish   preparation  makes  for 

Rhodes; 

So  was  I  bid  report  here  to  the  state 
By  Signior  Angelo. 

Ditke.  How  say  you  by  this  change  ? 

I  Sen.  This  cannot  be, 

By  no  assay  of  reason  :  'tis  a  pageant 
To  keep  us  in  false  gaze.     When  we  consider 
The  importancy  of  Cyprus  to  the  Turk  ; 
And  let  ourselves  again  but  understand 
That,  as  it  more  concerns  the  Turk  than  Rhodes, 
So  may  he  with  more  facile  question  bear  it, 
For  that  it  stands  not  in  such  warlike  brace, 
But  altogether  lacks  the  abilities  [of  this, 

That  Rhodes  is  dress'd  in  :  if  we  make  thought 
We  must  not  think  the  Turk  is  so  unskilful 
To  leave  that  latest  which  concerns  him  first ; 
Neglecting  an  attempt  of  ease  and  gain 
To  wake  and  wage  a  danger  profitless. 

Duke.  Nay,  in  all  confidence,  he  's  not  for 
Rhodes. 

I  Off.  Here  is  more  news. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  The  Ottomites,  reverend  and  gracious, 
Steering  with  due  course  toward  the  isle  of 

Rhodes, 

Have  there  injointed  them  with  an  after  fleet. 
I  Sen.  Ay,  so  I  thought. — How  many,  as 
you  guess  ?  [stem 

Mess.  Of  thirty  sail :  and  now  do  they  re- 
Their   backward   course,   bearing   with   frank 
appearance  [tano, 

Their  purposes  toward  Cyprus. — Signior  Mon- 
Your  trusty  and  most  valiant  servitor, 
With  his  free  duty  recommends  you  thus, 
And  prays  you  to  believe  him. 

Duke.  'Tis  certain,  then,  for  Cyprus. — 
Marcus  Luccicos,  is  not  he  in  town  ? 
I  Sen.  He 's  now  in  Florence. 
Duke.  Write  from  us  to  him ;  post-post-haste 
despatch.  [Moor. 

I  Sen.  Here  comes  Brabantio  and  the  valiant 

Enter  BRABANTIO,  OTHELLO,  IAGO, 
RODERIGO,  and  Officers. 

Duke.  Valiant   Othello,   we  must    straight 

employ  you 

Against  the  general  enemy  Ottoman. — 
I  did  not  see  you  ;  welcome,  gentle  signior  ; 

[To  BRABANTIO. 

Wdtlack'd  your  counsel  and  your  help  to-night. 
hra.  So  did  I  yours.      Good  your  grace, 
pardon  me ; 


Neither  my  place,  nor  aught  I  heard  of  business 
Hath  rais'd  me  from  my  bed ;  nor  doth  the 

general  care 

Take  hold  on  me  ;  for  my  particular  grief 
Is  of  so  flood-gate  and  o'erbearing  nature 
That  it  engluts  and  swallows  other  sorrows, 
And  it  is  still  itself. 

Duke.  Why,  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Bra.  My  daughter  !  O,  my  daughter  ! 
Duke  and  Senators.  Dead  ? 

Bra.  Ay,  to  me  ; 

She  is  abus'd,  stol'n  from  me,  and  corrupted 
By  spells  and  medicines  bought  of  mountebanks; 
For  nature  so  preposterously  to  err, 
Being  not  deficient,  blind,  or  lame  of  sense, 
Sans  witchcraft  could  not.  [ceeding, 

Duke.  Whoe'er  he  be  that,  in  this  foul  pro- 
Hath  thus  beguil'd  your  daughter  of  herself, 
And  you  of  her,  the  bloody  book  of  law 
You  shall  yourself  read  in  the  bitter  letter 
After  your  own  sense  ;  yea,  though  our  proper 

son 
Stood  in  your  action. 

Bra.  Humbly  I  thank  your  grace. 

Here  is  the  man,  this  Moor ;  whom  now,  it 

seems, 

Your  special  mandate  for  the  state  affairs 
Hath  hither  brought. 

Duke  and  Senators.  We  are  very  sorry  for 't. 
Duke.  What,  in  your  own  part,  can  you  say 

to  this?  [To  OTHELLO. 

Bra.  Nothing,  but  this  is  so.  [iprs, 

Oth.  Most  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  sign- 
My  very  noble  and  approv'd  good  masters, — 
That  I  have  ta'en  away  this  old  man's  daughter, 
It  is  most  true  j  true,  I  have  married  her : 
The  very  head  and  front  of  my  offending 
Hath  this  extent,  no  more.     Rude  am  I  in  my 

speech, 

And  little  bless' d  with  the  soft  phrase  of  peace ; 
For  since  these  arms  of  mine  had  seven  years' 

pith,  [us'd 

Till  now  some  nine  moons  wasted,  they  have 
Their  dearest  action  in  the  tented  field  ; 
And  little  of  this  great  world  can  I  speak, 
More  than  pertains  to  feats  of  broil  and  battle; 
And  therefore  little  shall  I  grace  my  cause 
In  speaking  for  myself.     Yet,  by  your  gracious 

patience, 

I  will  a  round  unvarnish'd  tale  deliver 
Of  my  whole  course  of  love ;  what  drugs,  what 

charms, 

What  conjuration,  and  what  mighty  magic, — 
For  such  proceeding  I  am  charg'd  withal, — 
I  won  his  daughter. 

Bra.  A  maiden  never  bold  : 

Of  spirit  so  still  and  quiet  that  her  motion 


1 176 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  !. 


Blush'd  at  herself ;  and  she, — in  spite  of  nature, 
Of  years,  of  country,  credit,  everything, — 
To  fall  iti  love  with  what  she  fear'd  to  look  on  ! 
It  is  a  judgment  maim'd  and  most  imperfect 
That  will  confess  perfection  so  could  err 
Against  all  rules  of  nature ;  and  must  be  driven 
To  find  out  practices  of  cunning  hell, 
Why  this  should  be.     I  therefore  vouch  again, 
That  with  some  mixtures   powerful  o'er  the 

blood, 

Or  with  some  dram  conjur'd  to  this  effect, 
He  wrought  upon  her. 

Duke.  To  vouch  this  is  no  proof ; 

Without  more  wider  and  more  overt  test 
Than  these  thin  habits  and  poor  likelihoods 
Of  modern  seeming  do  prefer  against  him. 

I  Sen.   But,  Othello,  speak  : 
Did  you  by  indirect  and  forced  courses 
Subdue  and  poison  this  young  maid's  affections? 
Or  came  it  by  request,  and  such  fair  question 
As  soul  to  soul  arfordeth  ? 

Oth.  I  do  beseech  you, 

Send  for  the  lady  to  the  Sagittary, 
And  let  her  speak  of  me  before  her  father 
If  you  do  find  me  foul  in  her  report, 
The  trust,  the  office  I  do  hold  of  you, 
Not  only  take  away,  but  let  your  sentence 
Even  fall  upon  my  life. 

Duke.  Fetch  Desdemona  hither. 

Oth.  Ancient,  conduct  them  ;  you  best  know 
the  place. — 

{Exeunt  IAGO  and  Attendants. 
And,  till  she  come,  as  truly  as  to  heaven 
I  do  confess  the  vices  of  my  blood, 
So  justly  to  your  grave  ears  I  '11  present 
How  I  did  thrive  in  this  fair  lady's  love, 
And  she  in  mine. 

Duke.  Say  it,  Othello. 

Oth.  Her  father  lov'd  me  ;  oft  invited  me ; 
Still  question'd  me  the  story  of  my  life, 
From  year  to  year, — the  battles,  sieges,  fortunes, 
That  I  have  pass'd. 

I  ran  it  through,  even  from  my  boyish  days 
To  the  very  moment  that  he  bade  me  tell  it : 
Wherein  I  spake  of  most  disastrous  chances, 
Of  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field  ; 
Of  hairbreadth  scapes  i'  the  imminent  deadly 

breach  ; 

Of  being  taken  by  the  insolent  foe, 
And  sold  to  slavery ;  of  my  redemption  thence, 
And  portance  in  my  travel's  history : 
Wherein  of  antres  vast  and  deserts  idle, 
Rough  quarries,  rocks,  and  hills  whose  heads 

touch  heaven, 

It  was  my  hint  to  speak, — such  was  the  process ; 
And  of  the  Cannibals  that  each  other  eat, 
The  Anthropophagi,  and  men  whose  heads 


Do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders.    This  to  hear 

Would  Desdemona  seriously  incline  : 

But  still   the   house   affairs  would  draw  her 

thence ; 

Which  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  despatch, 
She  'd  come  again,  and  with  a  greedy  ear 
Devour  up  my  discourse  :  which  I  observing, 
Took  once  a  pliant  hour ;  and  found  good  means 
To  draw  from  her  a  prayer  of  earnest  heart 
That  I  would  all  my  pilgrimage  dilate, 
Whereof  by  parcels  she  had  something  heard, 
But  not  intentively :  I  did  consent ; 
And  often  did  beguile  her  of  her  tears, 
When  I  did  speak  of  some  distressful  stroke 
That  my  youth  suffer'd.     My  story  being  done, 
She  gave  me  for  my  pains  a  world  of  sighs : 
She  swore, — in  faith,  'twas  strange,  'twas  pass- 
ing strange ; 

'Twas  pitiful,  'twas  wondrous  pitiful : 
She  wish'd  she  had  not  heard  it ;  yet  she  wish'd 
That  heaven  had  made  her  such  a  man :  she 

thank'd  me ; 

And  bade  me,  if  I  had  a  friend  that  lov'd  her, 
I  should  but  teach  him  how  to  tell  my  story, 
And  that  would  woo  her.     Upon  this  hint  I 


She  lov'd  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  pass'd ; 
And  I  lov'd  her  that  she  did  pity  them. 
This  only  is  the  witchcraft  I  have  us'd  : — 
Here  comes  the  lady;  let  her  witness  it. 

Enter  DESDEMONA,  IAGO,  and  Attendants. 

Duke.    I    think   this  tale   would   win    my 

daughter  too. — 
Good  Brabantio, 

Take  up  this  mangled  matter  at  the  best . 
Men  do  their  broken  weapons  rather  use 
Than  their  bare  hands. 

Bra.  I  pray  you,  hear  her  speak : 

If  she  confess  that  she  was  half  the  wooer, 
Destruction  on  my  head  if  my  bad  blame 
Light  oh  the  man  ! — Come  hither,  gentle  mis- 
tress : 

Do  you  perceive  in  all  this  noble  company 
Where  most  you  owe  obedience  ? 

Des.  My  noble  father 

I  do  perceive  here  a  divided  duty : 
To  you  I  am  bound  for  life  and  education; 
My  life  and  education  both  do  learn  me 
How  to  respect  you ;  you  are  the  lord  of  duty, — 
I  am  hitherto  your  daughter :  but  here 's  my 

husband ; 

And  so  much  duty  as  my  mother  show'd 
To  you,  preferring  you  before  her  father, 
So  much  I  challenge  that  I  may  profess 
Due  to  the  Moor,  my  lord. 

Bra,        God  be  with  you  ! — I  have  done.— 


fc*. 


k 


SCENE  III.j 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


1177 


Please  it  your  grace,  on  to  the  state  affairs : 
I  had  rather  to  adopt  a  child  than  get  it. — 
Come  hither,  Moor  : 

I  here  do  give  thee  that  with  all  my  heart, 
Which,  but  thou  hast  already,  with  all  my  heart 
I  would  keep  from  thee. — For  your  sake,  jewel, 
I  am  glad  at  soul  I  have  no  other  child ; 
For  thy  escape  would  teach  me  tyranny, 
To  hang  clogs  on  them. — I  have  done,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Let  me  speak  like  yourself;  and  lay 

a  sentence, 

Which,  as  a  grise  or  step,  may  help  these  lovers 
Into  your  favour. 

When  remedies  are  past,  the  griefs  are  ended 
By  seeing   the  worst,    which    late  on  hopes 

depended. 

To  mourn  a  mischief  that  is  past  and  gone 
Is  the  next  way  to  draw  new  mischief  on. 
What  cannot  be  preserv'd  when  fortune  takes, 
Patience  her  injury  a  mockery  makes. 
The  robb'd  that  smiles  steals  <*>mething  from 

the  thief; 
He  robs  himself  that  spends  a  lx>otless  grief. 

Bra.  So  let  the  Turk  of  Cyprus  us  beguile  ; 
We  lose  it  not  so  long  as  we  can  smile ; 
He  bears  the  sentence  well  that  nothing  bears 
But  the  free  comfort  which  from  thence  he  hears; 
But  he  bears  both  the  sentence  and  the  sorrow 
That,  to  pay  grief,  must  of  poor  patience  borrow. 
These  sentences,  to  sugar  or  to  gall. 
Being  strong  on  both  sides,  are  equivocal : 
But  words  are  words  ;  I  never  yet  did  hear 
That  the  bruis'd  heart  was  pierced  through  the 
ear. —  [state. 

I  humbly  beseech  you,  proceed  to  the  affairs  of 

Duke.  The  Turk  with  a  most  mighty  pre- 
paration makes  for  Cyprus. — Othello,  the  forti- 
tude of  the  place  is  best  known  to  you ;  and 
though  we  have  there  a  substitute  of  most 
allowed  sufficiency,  yet  opinion,  a  sovereign 
mistress  of  effects,  throws  a  more  safer  voice 
on  you :  you  must  therefore  be  content  to  slub- 
ber the  gloss  of  your  new  fortunes  with  this 
more  stubborn  and  boisterous  expedition. 

Oth.  The  tyrant  custom,  most  grave  senators, 
Hath  made  the  flinty  and  steel  couch  of  war 
My  thrice-driven  bed  of  down  :  I  do  agnize 
A  natural  and  prompt  alacrity 
I  find  in  hardness  ;  and  do  undertake 
These  present  wars  against  the  Ottomites. 
Most  humbly,  therefore,  bending  to  your  state, 
I  crave  fit  disposition  /or  my  wife  ; 
Due  reference  of  place  and  exhibition  ; 
With  such  accommodation  and  besort 
As  levels  with  her  breeding. 

Dtike.  If  you  please, 

Be 't  at  her  father's. 


Bra.  I  '11  not  have  it  so. 

Oth.  Nor  I. 

Des.  Nor  I ;  I  would  not  there  reside, 

To  put  my  father  in  impatient  thoughts, 
By  being  in  his  eye.     Most  gracious  duke, 
To  my  unfolding  lend  a  gracious  ear  ; 
And  let  me  find  a  charter  in  your  voice 
To  assist  my  simpleness. 

Duke.  What  would  you,  Desdemona? 

Des.  That  I  did  love  the  Moor  to  live  with 

him, 

My  downright  violence  and  scorn  of  fortunes 
May  trumpet  to  the  world :  my  heart 's  subdu'd 
Even  to  the  very  quality  of  my  lord : 
I  saw  Othello's  visage  in  his  mind  ; 
And  to  his  honours  and  his  valiant  parts 
Did  I  my  soul  and  fortunes  consecrate. 
So  that,  dear  lords,  if  I  be  left  behind, 
A  moth  of  peace,  and  he  go  to  the  war, 
The  rites  for  which  I  love  him  are  bereft  me, 
And  I  a  heavy  interim  shall  support 
By  his  dear  absence.     Let  me  go  with  him. 

Oth.   Let  her  have  your  voices. 
Vouch  with  me,  heaven,  I  therefore  beg  it  not 
To  please  the  palate  of  my  appetite  ; 
Nor  to  comply  with  heat, — the  young  affects 
In  me  defunct, — and  proper  satisfaction  ; 
But  to  be  free  and  bounteous  to  her  mind : 
And  heaven  defend  your  good  souls,  that  you 

think 

I  will  your  serious  and  great  business  scant 
For  she  is  with   me :   no,  when  light-wing'd 

toys 

Of  feather'd  Cupid  seel  with  wanton  dullness 
My  speculative  and  offic'd  instruments, 
That  my  disports  corrupt  and  taint  my  business, 
Let  housewives  make  a  skillet  of  my  helm, 
And  all  indign  and  base  adversities 
Make  head  against  my  estimation ! 

Duke.  Be  it  as  you  shall  privately  determine, 
Either  for  her  stay  or  going:  the  affair  cries 

haste, 
And  speed  must  answer  it. 

i  Sen.  You  must  away  to-night. 

Oth.  With  all  my  heart. 

Duke.  At  nine  i'  the  morning  here  we'll 

meet  again. — 

Othello,  leave  some  officer  behind, 
And  he  shall  our  commission  bring  to  you  ; 
With  such  things  else  of  quality  and  respect 
As  doth  import  you. 

Oth.         So  please  your  grace,  my  ancient, — 
A  man  he  is  of  honesty  and  trust, — 
To  his  conveyance  I  assign  my  wife, 
With  what  else  needful  your  good  grace  shall 

think 
To  be  sent  after  me. 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  I. 


Duke.  Let  it  be  so. — 

Good-night  to  every  one. — And,  noble  signior, 
[To  BRABANTIO. 

If  virtue  no  delighted  beauty  lack, 
Your  son-in-law  is  far  more  fair  than  black. 

I  Sen.  Adieu,  brave  Moor ;  use  Desdemona 
well.  [to  see : 

Bra.  Look  to  her,  Moor,  if  thou  hast  eyes 
She  has  deceiv'd  her  father,  and  may  thee. 

[Exeunt  DUKE,  Senators,  Officers,  &c. 

Oth.  My  life  upon  her  faith ! — Honest  lago, 
My  Desdemona  must  I  leave  to  thee  : 
I  pr'ythee,  let  thy  wife  attend  on  her ; 
And  bring  them  after  in  the  best  advantage. — 
Come,  Desdemona,  I  have  but  an  hour 
Of  love,  of  worldly  matters  and  direction, 
To  spend  with  thee :  we  must  obey  the  time. 
[Exeunt  OTHELLO  and  DESDEMONA. 

Rod.  lago, — 

lago.  What  say's!  thou,  noble  heart  ? 

Rod.  What  will  I  do,  thinkest  thou  ? 

lago.  Why,  go  to  bed  and  sleep. 

Rod.  I  will  incontinently  drown  myself. 

logo.  If  thou  dost,  I  shall  never  love  thee 
after.  Why,  thou  silly  gentleman ! 

Rod.  It  is  silliness  to  live  when  to  live  is 
torment ;  and  then  have  we  a  prescription  to 
die  when  death  is  our  physician. 

lago.  O  villanous !  I  have  looked  upon  the 
world  for  four  time?  seven  years ;  and  since  I 
could  distinguish  betwixt  a  benefit  and  an 
injury,  I  never  found  man  that  knew  how  to 
love  himself.  Ere  I  would  say  I  would  drown 
myself  for  the  love  of  a  Guinea-hen,  I  would 
change  my  humanity  with  a  baboon. 

Rod.  What  should  I  do  ?  I  confess  it  is  my 
shame  to  be  so  fond  ;  but  it  is  not  in  my  virtue 
to  amend  it. 

lago.  Virtue !  a  fig !  'tis  in  ourselves  that  we 
are  thus  or  thus.  Our  bodies  are  gardens,  to 
the  which  our  wills  are  gardeners-;  so  that  if 
we  will  plant  nettles  or  sow  lettuce,  set  hyssop 
and  weed  up  thyme,  supply  it  with  one  gender 
of  herbs  or  distract  it  with  many,  either  to 
have  it  sterile  with  idleness  or  manured  with 
industry;  why,  the  power  and  corrigible 
authority  of  this  lies  in  our  wills.  If  the 
balance  of  our  lives  had  not  one  scale  of  reason 
to  poise  another  of  sensuality,  the  blood  and 
baseness  of  our  natures  would  conduct  us  to 
most  preposterous  conclusions:  but  we  have 
reason  to  cool  our  raging  motions,  our  carnal 
stings,  our  unbitted  lusts  ;  whereof  I  take  this, 
that  you  call  love,  to  be  a  sect  or  scion. 

Rod.  It  cannot  be. 

lago.  It  is  merely  a  lust  of  the  blood  and  a 
permission  of  the  will.  Come,  be  a  man: 


drown  thyself  1  drown  cats  and  blind  puppies. 
I  have  professed  me  thy  friend,  and  I  confess 
me  knit  to  thy  deserving  with  cables  of  per- 
durable toughness ;  I  could  never  better  stead 
thee  than  now.  Put  money  in  thy  purse ; 
follow  thou  the  wars ;  defeat  thy  favour  with 
an  usurped  beard ;  I  say,  put  money  in  thy 
purse.  It  cannot  be  that  Desdemona  should 
long  continue  her  love  to  the  Moor, — put 
money  in  thy  purse, — nor  he  his  to  her:  it  was 
a  violent  commencement,  and  thou  shalt  see 
an  answerable  sequestration  ; — put  but  money 
in  thy  purse. — These  Moors  are  changeable  in 
their  wills ;— fill  thy  purse  with  money:  the 
food  that  to  him  now  is  as  luscious  as  locusts 
shall  be  to  him  shortly  as  bitter  as  coloquintida. 
She  must  change  for  youth :  when  she  is  sated 
with  his  body  she  will  find  the  error  of  her 
choice :  she  must  have  change,  she  must : 
therefore  put  money  in  thy  purse. — If  thou 
wilt  needs  damn  thyself,  do  it  a  more  delicate 
way  than  drowning.  Make  all  the  money  thou 
canst :  if  sanctimony  and  a  frail  vow  betwixt  an 
erring  barbarian  and  a  supersubtle  Venetian  be 
not  too  hard  for  my  wits  and  all  the  tribe  of 
hell,  thou  shalt  enjoy  her ;  therefore  make 
money.  A  pox  of  drowning  thyself!  it  is  clean 
out  of  the  way :  seek  thou  rather  to  be  hanged 
in  compassing  thy  joy  than  to  be  drowned  and 
go  without  her. 

Rod.  Wilt  thou  be  fest  to  my  hopes  if  I 
depend  on  the  issue  ? 

lago.  Thou  art  sure  of  me: — go,  make 
money: — I  have  told  thee  often,  and  I  re-tell 
thee  again  and  again,  I  hate  the  Moor:  my 
cause  is  hearted;  thine  hath  no  less  reason. 
Let  us  be  conjunctive  in  our  revenge  against 
him :  if  thou  canst  cuckold  him,  thou  dost  thy- 
self a  pleasure,  me  a  sport.  There  are  many 
events  in  the  womb  of  time  which  will  be 
delivered.  Traverse ;  go  ;  provide  thy  money. 
We  will  have  more  of  this  to-morrow.  Adieu. 

Rod.  Where  shall  we  meet  i'  the  morning  ? 

lago.  At  my  lodging. 

Rod.  I  '11  be  with  thee  betimes.     [Roderigo? 

lago.    Go    to ;    farewell.      Do    you    hear, 

Rod.  What  say  you  ? 

lago.  No  more  of  drowning,  do  you  hear  ? 

Rod.  I  am  changed :  I  '11  go  sell  all  my  land. 

[Exit. 

lago.  Thus  do  I  ever  make  my  fool  my  purse ; 
For  I  mine  own  gain'd  knowledge  should  profane 
If  I  would  time  expend  with  such  a  snipe 
But  for  my  sport  and  profit.  I  hate  the  Moor ; 
And  it  is  thought  abroad  that  'twixt  my  sheets 
He  has  done  my  office :  I  know  not  if 't  be  true ; 
But  I,  for  mere  suspicion  in  that  kind, 


SCENE  III.] 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


1179 


Will  do  as  if  for  surety.     He  holds  me  well ; 
The  better  shall  my  purpose  work  on  him. 
Cassio  's  a  proper  man :  let  me  see  now ; 
To  get  his  place,  and  to  plume  up  my  will 
In  double  knavery, — How,  how? — Let 's  see : — 
After  some  time  to  abuse  Othello's  ear 
That  he  is  too  familiar  with  his  wife : — 
He  hath  a  person,  and  a  smooth  dispose, 
To  be  suspected  ;  fram'd  to  make  women  false. 
The  Moor  is  of  a  free  and  open  nature, 
That  thinks  men  honest  that  but  seem  to  be  so ; 
And  will  as  tenderly  be  led  by  the  nose 
As  asses  are. 

I  have 't ; — it  is  engenderM :— hell  and  night 
Must  bring  this  monstrous  birth  to  the  world's 
light.  [Exit. 

yd*  ••-•  viT-  -V/£3ft^Aft9tjppP  ,1'iSsi- 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — A  Seaport  Town  in  Cyprus.     A 
Platform. 

Enter  MONTANO  and  two  Gentlemen. 

Mon.  What  from  the  cape  can  you  discern 
at  sea  ?  [flood  ; 

1  Gent.  Nothing  at  all :  it  is  a  high-wrought 
I  cannot,  'twixt  the  heaven  and  the  main, 
Descry  a  sail.  [land  ; 

Mon.  Methinks  the  wind  hath  spoke  aloud  at 
A  fuller  blast  ne'er  shook  our  battlements : 
If  it  hath  ruffian'd  so  upon  the  sea, 
What  ribs  of  oak,  when  mountains  melt  on 
them,  [this? 

Can  hold  the  mortise?    What  shall  we  hear  of 

2  Gent.  A  segregation  of  the  Turkish  fleet : 
For  do  but  stand  upon  the  foaming  shore, 
The  chidden  billow  seems  to  pelt  the  clouds ; 
The  wind-shak'd  surge,  with  high  and  monstrous 

main, 

Seems  to  cast  water  on  the  burning  Bear, 
And  quench  the  guards  of  the  ever-fixed  pole : 
I  never  did  like  molestation  view 
On  the  enchafed  flood. 

Mon.  If  that  the  Turkish  fleet 

Be  not   enshelter'd    and    embay'd,   they  are 

drown'd ; 
It  is  impossible  to  bear  it  out. 

Enter  a  third  Gentleman. 

3  Gent.  News,  lads !  our  wars  are  done. 
The  desperate  tempest  hath  so  bangtt  the  Turks 
That  their  designment  halts:  a  noble  ship  of 

Venice 

Hath  seen  a  grievous  wreck  and  sufferance 
On  most  part  of  their  fleet. 

Mon.  How !  is  this  true  ? 

3  Gent.  The  ship  is  here  put  in, 


A  Veronessa ;  Michael  Cassio, 
Lieutenant  to  the  warlike  Moor  Othello, 
Is  come  on  shore :  the  Moor  himself 's  at  sea, 
And  is  in  full  commission  here  for  Cyprus. 

Mon.  I  am  glad  on 't ;  'tis  a  worthy  governor. 

3  Gent.  But  this  same  Cassio, — though  he 

speak  of  comfort 

Touching  the  Turkish  loss, — yet  he  looks  sadly, 
And  prays  the  Moor  be  safe ;  for  they  were 

parted 
With  foul  and  violent  tempest. 

Mon.  Prey  heavens  he  be  ; 

For  I  have  serv'd  him,  and  the  man  commands 
Like  a  full  soldier.     Let 's  to  the  sea-side,  ho ! 
As  well  to  see  the  vessel  that 's  come  in 
As  to  throw  out  our  eyes  for  brave  Othello, 
Even  till  we  make  the  main  and  the  aerial  blue 
An  indistinct  regard. 

3  Gent.  Come,  let 's  do  so ; 
For  every  minute  is  expectancy 

Of  more  arrivance. 

Enter  CASSIO. 

Cos.  Thanks  you,  the  valiant  of  this  warlike 

isle, 

That  so  approve  the  Moor !     O,  let  the  heavens 
Give  him  defence  against  the  elements, 
For  I  have  lost  him  on  a  dangerous  sea ! 

Mon.  Is  he  well  shipp'd?  [pilot 

Cos.  His  bark  is  stoutly  timber'd,  and  his 
Of  very  expert  and  approv'd  allowance  ; 
Therefore  my  hopes,  not  surfeited  to  death, 
Stand  in  bold  cure. 

\_Within.\  A  sail,  a  sail,  a  sail ! 

Enter  a  fourth  Gentleman. 
Cas.  What  noise  ?  [the  sea 

4  Gent.  The  town  is  empty;  on  the  brow  o* 
Stand  ranks  of  people,  and  they  cry,  A  sail! 

Cas.  My  hopes  do  shape  him  for  the  governor. 

[Guns  within. 

2  Gent.   They  do  discharge   their  shot  of 

courtesy : 
Our  friends  at  least. 

Cas.  I  pray  you,  sir,  go  forth, 

And  give  us  truth  who  'tis  that  is  arriv'd. 
2  Gent.  I  shall.  [Exit. 

Mon.  But,  good  lieutenant,  is  your  general 
wiv'd?  [maid 

Cas.  Most  fortunately:   he  hath  achiev'd  a 
That  paragons  description  and  wild  fame  ; 
One  that  excels  the  quirks  of  blazoning  pens, 
And  in  the  essential  vesture  of  creation 
Does  tire  the  ingener. — 

Re-enter  second  Gentleman. 

How  now !  who  has  put  in  ? 
2  Gent.  'Tis  one  lago,  ancient  to  the  general 


n8o 


OTHBLLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  ii. 


Cos.  Has  had  most  favourable  and  happy 
speed :  [winds, 

Tempests  themselves,  high  seas,  and  howling 
The  gutter'd  rocks,  and  congregated  sands, — 
Traitors  ensteep'd  to  clog  the  guiltless  keel, — 
As  having  sense  of  beauty,  do  omit 
Their  mortal  natures,  letting  go  safely  by 
The  divine  Desdemona. 

Man.  What  is  she? 

Cas.  She  that  I  spake  of,  our  great  captain's 

captain, 

Left  in  the  conduct  of  the  bold  lago ; 
Whose  footing  here  anticipates  our  thoughts 
A  se'nnight's    speed. — Great    Jove,    Othello 
guard,  [breath, 

And  swell  his  sail  with  thine  own  powerful 
That  he  may  bless  this  bay  with  his  tall  ship, 
Make  love's  quick  pants  in  Desdemona's  arms, 
Give  renew'd  fire  to  our  extincted  spirits, 
And  bring  all  Cyprus  comfort ! — O,  behold, 

Enter  DESDEMONA,  EMILIA,  IAGO,  RODE- 
RIGO,  and  Attendants. 

The  riches  of  the  ship  is  come  on  shore  ! 
Ye  men  of  Cyprus,  let  her  have  your  knees. — 
Hail  to  thee,  lady  !  and  the  grace  of  heaven, 
Before,  behind  thee,  and  on  every  hand, 
Enwheel  thee  round  ! 

Des.  I  thank  you,  valiant  Cassio. 

What  tidings  can  you  tell  me  of  my  lord  ? 

Cas.  He  is  not  yet  arriv'd :  nor  know  I  aught 
But  that  he 's  well,  and  will  be  shortly  here. 

Des.  O,  but  I  fear — How  lost  you  company? 

Cas.  The  great  contention  of  the  sea  and  skies 
Parted  our  fellowsnip : — but,  hark  !  a  sail. 

[Within.']  A  sail,  a  sail !          [Guns  within. 

2  Gent.  They  give  their  greeting  to  the  cita- 
del: 
This  likewise  is  a  friend. 

Cas.  See  for  the  news. — 

[Exit  Gentlemen. 

Good  ancient,  you  are  welcome : — welcome, 
mistress : —  [  73?  EMILIA. 

Let  it  not  gall  your  patience,  good  lago, 
That  I  extend  my  manners  ;  'tis  my  breeding 
That  gives  me  this  bold  show  of  courtesy. 

[Kissing  her. 

lago.  Sir,  would  she  give  you  so  much  of  her 

lips 

As  of  her  tongue  she  oft  bestows  on  me, 
You  'd  have  enough. 

Des.  Alas,  she  has  no  speech. 

lago.  In  faith,  too  much  ; 
I  find  it  still  when  I  have  list  to  sleep : 
Marry,  before  your  ladyship,  I  grant, 
She  puts  her  tongue  a  little  in  her  heart, 
And  chides  with  thinking. 


Emil.  You  have  little  cause  to  say  so. 

lagc.  Come  on,  come  on ;  you  are  pictures 
out  of  doors,  [kitchens, 

Bells  in    your    parlours,    wild   cats    in    your 
Saints  in  your  injuries,  devils  being  offended, 
Players  in  your  housewifery,  and  housewives  in 
your  beds. 

Des.  O,  fie  upon  thee,  slanderer  ! 

lago.  Nay,  it  is  true,  or  else  I  am  a  Turk  : 
You  rise  to  play,  and  go  to  bed  to  work. 

Emil.  You  shall  not  write  my  praise. 

lago.  No,  let  me  not. 

Des.  What  wouldst  thou  write  of  me  if  thou 
shouldst  praise  me  ? 

lago.  O  gentle  lady,  do  not  put  me  to 't ; 
For  I  am  nothing  if  not  critical.          [harbour  ? 

Des.  Come  on,  assay — There 's  one  gone  to  the 

lago.  Ay,  madam. 

Des.  I  am  not  merry  ;  but  I  do  beguile 
The  thing  I  am,  by  seeming  otherwise. — 
Come,  how  wouldst  thou  praise  me  ?  [tion 

lago.   I  am  about  it ;  but,  indeed,  my  inven- 
Comes  from  my  pate  as  birdlime  does  from 
frize, —  [labours, 

It  plucks  out  brains  and  all :    but  my  muse 
And  thus  she  is  deliver'd. 
If  she  be  fair  and  wise, — fairness  and  wit, 
The  one 's  for  use,  the  other  useth  it.      [witty  ? 

Des.  Well  prais'd  !    How  if  she  be  black  and 

lago.  If  she  be  black,  and  thereto  have  a  wit, 
She  '11  find  a  white  that  shall  her  blackness  fit. 

Des.  Worse  and  worse. 

Emil.   How  if  fair  and  foolish  ? 

lago.  She  never  yet  was  foolish  that  was  fair ; 
For  even  her  folly  help'd  her  to  an  heir. 

Des.  These  are  old  fond  paradoxes  to  make 
fools  laugh  i'  the  alehouse.  What  miserable 
praise  hast  thou  for  her  that 's  foul  and  foolish? 

lago.  There 's  none  so  foul,  and  foolish  there- 
unto, 

But  does  foul  pranks  which  fair  and  wise  ones 
do. 

Des.  O  heavy  ignorance  ! — thou  praisest  the 
worst  best.  But  what  praise  couldst  thou  be- 
stow on  a  deserving  woman  indeed, — one  that, 
in  the  authority  of  her  merit,  did  justly  put  on 
the  vouch  of  very  malice  itself? 

lago.  She  that  was  ever  fair,  and  never  proud; 
Had  tongue  at  will,  and  yet  was  never  loud  ; 
Never  lack'd  gold,  and  yet  went  never  gay ; 
Fled  from  her  wish,  and  yet  said,  Now  /  may; 
She  that,  being  anger'd,  her  revenge  being  nigh, 
Bade  her  wrong  stay  and  her  displeasure  fly  ; 
She  that  in  wisdom  never  was  so  frail 
To  change  the  cod's  head  for  the  salmon's  tail ; 
She  that  could  think,  and  ne'er  disclose  her 
mind ; 


SCENE  I.j 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


1181 


Bee  suitors  following,  and  not  look  behind  ; 
She  was  a  wight,  if  ever  such  wight  were, — 

Des.  To  do  what?  [beer. 

lago.  To  suckle  fools   and  chronicle  small 

Des.  O  most  lame  and  impotent  conclusion  ! 
— Do  not  learn  of  him,  Emilia,  though  he  be 
thy  husband. — How  say  you,  Cassio?  is  he  not 
a  most  profane  and  liberal  counsellor  ? 

Cas.  He  speaks  home,  madam :  you  may 
relish  him  more  in  the  soldier  than  in  the 
scholar. 

lago.  [Asz'de.]  He  takes  her  by  the  palm : 
ay,  well  said,  whisper  :  with  as  little  a  web  as 
this  will  I  ensnare  as  great  a  fly  as  Cassio. 
Ay,  smile  upon  her,  do ;  I  will  gyve  thee  in 
thine  own  courtship.  You  say  true  ;  'tis  so, 
indeed  :  if  such  tricks  as  these  strip  you  out  of 
your  lieutenantry,  it  had  been  better  you  had 
not  kissed  your  three  fingers  so  oft,  which  now 
again  you  are  most  apt  to  play  the  sir  in. 
Very  good;  well  kissed!  an  excellent  courtesy! 
'tis  so,  indeed.  Yet  again  your  fingers  to  your 
lips?  would  they  were  clyster-pipes  for  your 
sake !  [Trumpet  within.'}— The  Moor !  I  know 
his  trumpet. 

Cas.  'Tis  truly  so. 

Des.  Let's  meet  him,  and  receive  him. 

Cas.  Lo,  where  he  comes  ! 

Enter  OTHELLO  and  Attendants. 

Oth.  O  my  fair  warrior  ! 

Des.  My  dear  Othello  ! 

Oth.  It  gives  me  wonder  great  as  my  content 
To  see  you  here  before  me.     O  my  soul's  joy  ! 
If  after  every  tempest  come  such  calms, 
May  the  winds   blow  till   they  have  waken'd 

death  ! 

And  let  the  labouring  bark  climb  hills  of  seas 
Olympus-high,  and  duck  again  as  low 
As  hell 's  from  heaven  !    If  it  were  now  to  die, 
'Twere  now  to  be  most  happy  ;  for,  I  fear, 
My  soul  hath  her  content  so  absolute 
That  not  another  comfort  like  to  this 
Succeeds  in  unknown  fate. 

Des.  The  heavens  forbid 

But  that  our  loves  and  comforts  should  increase 
Even  as  our  days  do  grow  ! 

Oth.  Amen  to  that,  sweet  powers  ! — 

I  cannot  speak  enough  of  this  content ; 
It  stops  me  here  ;  it  is  too  much  of  joy : 
And  this,  and  this,  the  greatest  discords  be 

\_Kissing  her. 
That  e'er  our  hearts  shall  make  ! 

lugo.  [Aside.]  O,  you  are  well  tun'd  now  ! 
But  I '11  set  down  the  pegs  that  make  this  music, 
As  honest  as  I  am. 

OfL  Come,  let  us  to  the  castle.— 


News,  friends ;  out  wars  are  done,  the  Turks 

are  drown'd. 

How  does  my  old  acquaintance  of  this  isle  ? 
Honey,  you  shall  be  well  desir'd  in  Cyprus  ; 
I  have  found  great  love  amongst  them.  O  my 

sweet, 

I  prattle  out  of  fashion,  and  I  dote 
In  mine  own  comforts. — I  pr'ythee,  good  lago, 
Go  to  the  bay,  and  disembark  my  coffers : 
Bring  thou  the  master  to  the  citadel ; 
He  is  a  good  one,  and  his  worthiness     [mona, 
Does  challenge  much  respect. — Come,  Desde- 
Once  more  well  met  at  Cyprus. 

[Exeunt  OTH.,  DES.,  and  Attend. 

lago.  Do  thou  meet  me  presently  at  the  har- 
bour. Come  hither.  If  thou  be'st  valiant, — 
as,  they  say,  base  men  being  in  love  have  then 
a  nobility  in  their  natures  more  than  is  native 
to  them, — list  me.  The  lieutenant  to-night 
watches  on  the  court  of  guard  :  first,  I  must 
tell  thee  this — Desdemona  is  directly  in  love 
with  him. 

Rod.  With  him  !  why,  'tis  not  possible. 

lago.  Lay  thy  finger  thus,  and  let  thy  soul  be 
instructed.  Mark  me  with  what  violence  she 
first  loved  the  Moor,  but  for  bragging,  and 
telling  her  fantastical  lies :  and  will  she  love 
him  still  for  prating  ?  let  not  thy  discreet  heart 
think  it.  Her  eye  must  be  fed  ;  and  what  de- 
light shall  she  have  to  look  on  the  devil  ?  When 
the  blood  is  made  dull  with  the  act  of  sport, 
there  should  be,  -again  to  inflame  it,  and  to 
give  satiety  a  fresh  appetite, — loveliness  in 
favour  ;  sympathy  in  years,  manners,  and  beau- 
ties ;  all  which  the  Moor  is  defective  in  :  now, 
for  want  of  these  required  conveniences,  her 
delicate  tenderness  will  find  itself  abused,  begin 
to  heave  the  gorge,  disrelish  and  abhor  the 
Moor  ;  very  nature  will  instruct  her  in  it,  and 
compel  her  to  some  second  choice.  Now,  sir, 
this  granted,— as  it  is  a  most  pregnant  and  un- 
forced position, — who  stands  so  eminently  in 
the  degree  of  this  fortune  as  Cassio  does?  a 
knave  very  voluble  ;  no  further  conscionable 
than  in  putting  on  the  mere  form  of  civil  and 
humane  seeming,  for  the  better  compassing  of 
his  salt  and  most  hidden  loose  affection  ?  why, 
none ;  why,  none :  a  slippery  and  subtle  knave ; 
a  finder  of  occasions  ;  that  has  an  eye  can  stamp 
and  counterfeit  advantages,  though  true  advan- 
tage never  present  itself:  a  devilish  knave  J 
besides,  the  knave  is  handsome,  young,  and 
hath  all  those  requisites  in  him  that  folly  and 
green  minds  look  after:  a  pestilent  complete 
knave ;  and  the  woman  hath  found  him  already. 

Rod.  I  cannot  believe  that  in  her  j  she  is  full 
of  most  blessed  condition. 


1 1 82 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT 


logo.  Blessed  fig's  end  !  the  wine  she  drinks 
is  made  of  grapes  :  if  she  had  been  blessed,  she 
would  never  have  loved  the  Moor :  blessed 
pudding  !  Didst  thou  not  see  her  paddle  with 
the  palm  of  his  hand  ?  didst  not  mark  that  ? 

Rod.  Yes,  that  I  did ;  but  that  was  but 
courtesy. 

lago.  Lechery,  by  this  hand ;  an  index  and 
obscure  prologue  to  the  history  of  lust  and 
foul  thoughts.  They  met  so  near  with  their 
lips  that  their  breaths  embraced  together. 
Villanous  thoughts,  Roderigo !  when  these 
mutualities  so  marshal  the  way,  hard  at  hand 
comes  the  master  and  main  exercise,  the  incor- 
porate conclusion  :  pish  ! — But,  sir,  be  you 
ruled  by  me  :  I  have  brought  you  from  Venice. 
Watch  you  to-night ;  for  the  command,  I  '11 
lay 't  upon  you :  Cassio  knows  you  not : — I  '11 
not  be  far  from  you  :  do  you  find  some  occasion 
to  anger  Cassio,  either  by  speaking  too  loud, 
or  tainting  his  discipline,  or  from  what  other 
course  you  please,  which  the  time  shall  more 
favourably  minister. 

Rod.  Well. 

lago.  Sir,  he  is  rash,  and  very  sudden  in 
choler,  and  haply  with  his  truncheon  may  strike 
at  you :  provoke  him  that  he  may ;  for  even 
out  of  that  will  I  cause  these  of  Cyprus  to 
mutiny,  whose  qualification  shall  come  into  no 
true  taste  again  but  by  the  displanting  of  Cassio. 
So  shall  you  have  a  shorter  journey  to  your  de- 
sires by  the  means  I  shall  th  .n  have  to  prefer 
them ;  and  the  impediment  most  profitably 
removed,  without  the  which  there  were  no 
expectation  of  our  prosperity. 

Rod.  I  will  do  this,  if  1  can  bring  it  to  any 
opportunity. 

lago.  I  warrant  thee.  Meet  me  by  and  by 
at  the  citadel :  I  must  fetch  his  necessaries 
ashore.  Farewell. 

Rod.  Adieu.  [Exit. 

lago.  That  Cassio  loves  her,  I  do  well  be- 
lieve it ; 

That  she  loves  him,  'tis  apt,  and  of  great  credit: 
The  Moor, — howbeit  that  I  endure  him  not, — 
Is  of  a  constant,  loving,  noble  nature  ; 
And,  I  dare  think,  he  '11  prove  to  Desdemona 
A  most  dear  husband.    Now,  I  do  love  her  too; 
Not  out  of  absolute  lust, — though,  peradventure, 
I  stand  accountant  for  as  great  a  sin, — 
But  partly  led  to  diet  my  revenge, 
For  that  I  do  suspect  the  lusty  Moor 
Hath  leap'd  into  my  seat :  the  thought  whereof 
Doth,  like  a  poisonous  mineral,  gnaw  my  in- 
wards ; 

And  nothing  can  or  shall  content  my  soul 
Till  I  am  even'd  with  him,  wife  for  wife ; 


Or,  failing  so,  yet  that  I  put  the  Moor 

At  least  into  a  jealousy  so  strong 

That  judgment  cannot  cure.     Which  thing  to 

If  this  poor  trash  of  Venice,  whom  I  trash 
For  his  quick  hunting,  stand  the  putting  on, 
I  '11  have  our  Michael  Cassio  on  the  hip ; 
Abuse  him  to  the  Moor  in  the  rank  garb, — 
For  I  fear  Cassio  with  my  night-cap  too  ; 
Make  the  Moor  thank  me,  love  me,  and  re- 
ward me 

For  making  him  egregiously  an  ass, 
And  practising  upon  his  peace  and  quiet 
Even  to  madness.     'Tis  here,  but  yet  confus'd : 
Knavery's  plain  face  is  never  seen  till  us'd. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  II.— A  Street. 

Enter  a  Herald  with  a  proclamation  ;  People 
following. 

Her.  It  is  Othello's  pleasure,  our  noble  and 
valiant  general,  that,  upon  certain  tidings  now 
arrived,  importing  the  mere  perdition  of  the 
Turkish  fleet,  every  man  put  himself  into 
triumph ;  some  to  dance,  some  to  make  bon- 
fires, each  man  to  what  sport  and  revels  his 
addiction  leads  him  :  for,  besides  these  bene- 
ficial news,  it  is  the  celebration  of  his  nuptial : — 
so  much  was  his  pleasure  should  be  proclaimed. 
All  offices  are  open ;  and  there  is  full  liberty 
of  feasting  from  this  present  hour  of  five  till 
the  bell  have  told  eleven.  Heaven  bless  the 
isle  of  Cyprus  and  our  noble  general  Othello  ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— A  Hall  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  OTHELLO,  DESDEMONA,  CASSIO,  and 
Attendants. 

Oth.  Good  Michael,  look  you  to  the  guard 

to-night : 

Let 's  teach  ourselves  that  honourable  stop, 
Not  to  out-sport  discretion. 

Cos.   lago  hath  direction  what  to  do  ; 
But,  notwithstanding,  with  my  personal  eye 
Will  I  look  to 't. 

Oth.  lago  is  most  honest. 
Michael,  good -night:    to-morrow  with   your 

earliest 

Let  me  have  speech  with  you. — Come,  my  dear 
love, —  [To  DESDEMONA. 

The  purchase  made,  the  fruits  are  to  ensue  ; 
That  profit 's  yet  to  come  'tween  me  and  you. — 
Good-night. 

[Exeunt  OTH.,  DBS.,  and  Attend. 


SCENE  III.] 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


1183 


Enter  IAGO. 

Cas.  Welcome,  lago ;  we  must  to  the  watch. 

lago.  Not  this  hour,  lieutenant ;  'tis  not  yet 
ten  o'  the  clock.  Our  general  cast  us  thus 
early  for  the  love  of  his  Desdemona ;  who  let 
us  not  therefore  blame  :  he  hath  not  yet  made 
wanton  the  night  with  her ;  and  she  is  sport 
for  Jove. 

Cas.  She 's  a  most  exquisite  lady. 

lago.  And,  I  Ml  warrant  her,  full  of  game. 

Cas.  Indeed,  she  is  a  most  fresh  and  delicate 
creature. 

lago.  What  an  eye  she  has  !  methinks  it 
sounds  a  parley  to  provocation.  [modest. 

Cas.  An  inviting  eye ;  and  yet  methinks  right 

lago.  And  when  she  speaks,  is  it  not  an 
alarm  to  love? 

Cas.  She  is,  indeed,  perfection. 

lago.  Weil,  happiness  to  their  sheets ! 
Come,  lieutenant,  I  have  a  stoup  of  wine  ;  and 
here  without  are  a  brace  of  Cyprus  gallants 
that  would  fain  have  a  measure  to  the  health 
of  black  Othello. 

Cas.  Not  to-night,  good  lago :  I  have  very 
poor  and  unhappy  brains  for  drinking  :  I  could 
well  wish  courtesy  would  invent  some  other 
custom  of  entertainment. 

lago.  O,  they  are  our  friends  ;  but  one  cup  : 
I  '11  drink  for  you. 

Cas.  I  have  drunk  but  one  cup  to-night,  and 
that  was  craftily  qualified  too,  and,  behold, 
what  innovation  it  makes  here :  I  am  unfortu- 
nate in  the  infirmity,  and  dare  not  task  my 
weakness  with  any  more. 

logo.  What,  man  !  'tis  a  night  of  revels :  the 
gallants  desire  it. 

Cas.  Where  are  they  ?  [them  in. 

lago.   Here  at  the  door ;    I  pray  you,  call 

Cas.  I  '11  do 't ;  but  it  dislikes  me.        [Exit. 

lago.  If  I  can  fasten  but  one  cup  upon  him, 
With  that  which  he  hath  drunk  to-night 

already, 

He  '11  be  as  full  of  quarrel  and  offence 
As  my  young  mistress'  dog.     Now,  my  sick 
fool  Roderigo,  [out, 

Whom  love  hath  turn'd  almost  the  wrong  side 
To  Desdemona  hath  to-night  carous'd 
Potations  pottle  deep  ;  and  he 's  to  watch  : 
Three  lads  of  Cyprus, — noble  swelling  spirits, 
That  hold  their  honours  in  a  wary  distance, 
The  very  elements  of  this  warlike  isle. — 
Have  I  to-night  fluster'd  with  flowing  cups, 
And  they  watch  too.     Now,  'mongst  this  flock 

of  drunkards, 

Am  I  to  put  our  Cassio  in  some  action 
That  may  offend  the  isle :— but  here  they  come : 


If  consequence  do  but  approve  my  dream, 
My  boat  sails  freely,  both  with  wind  and  stream. 

Re-enter  CASSIO,  with  him  MONTANO  and 
Gentlemen,  followed  by  Servant  with  wine. 

Cas.  'Fore  heaven,  they  have  given  me  a 
rouse  already. 

Mon.  Good  faith,  a  little  one;  not  past  a 
pint,  as  I  am  a  soldier. 

lago.  Some  wine,  ho  ! 

\Singt, 


And  let  me  the  canakin  clink,  clink ; 
And  let  me  the  canakin  clink  : 

A  soldier  's  a  man ; 

O,  man's  life 's  but  a  span ; 
Why,  then,  let  a  soldier  drink. 


Some  wine,  boys. 

Cas.  'Fore  heaven,  an  excellent  song. 

lago.  I  learned  it  in  England,  where,  indeed, 
they  are  most  potent  in  potting :  your  Dane, 
your  German,  and  your  swag-bellied  Hollander, 
— Drink,  ho  ! — are  nothing  to  your  English. 

Cas.  Is  your  Englishman  so  expert  in  his 
drinking  ? 

lago.  Why,  he  drinks  you,  with  iacility, 
your  Dane  dead  drunk  ;  he  sweats  not  to  over- 
throw your  Almain  ;  he  gives  your  Hollander 
a  vomit  ere  the  next  pottle  can  be  filled. 

Cas.  To  the  health  of  our  general ! 

Mon.  I  am  for  it,  lieutenant ;  and  I  '11  do 
you  justice. 

lago.  O  sweet  England  ! 

King  Stephen  was  and  a  worthy  peer,       \Sings. 

His  breeches  cost  him  but  a  crown  ; 
He  held  them  sixpence  all  too  dear, 

With  that  he  call'd  the  tailor  lown. 
He  was  a  wight  of  high  renown, 

And  thou  art  but  of  low  degree  : 
'TLs  pride  that  pul.s  the  country  down ; 

Then  take  thine  auld  cloak  about  thee. 

Some  wine,  ho  ! 

Cas.  Why,  this  is  a  more  exquisite  song 
than  the  other. 

lago.  Will  you  hear  it  again  ? 

Cas.  No  ;  for  I  hold  him  to  be  unworthy  of 
his  place  that  does  those  things. — Well, — 
heaven 's  above  all ;  and  there  be  souls  must 
be  saved,  and  there  be  souls  must  not  be  saved. 

lago.  It 's  true,  good  lieutenant. 

Cas.  For  mine  own  part, — no  offence  to  the 
general,  nor  any  man  oi  quality, — I  hope  to  be 
saved. 

lago.  And  so  do  I  too,  lieutenant 

Cas.  Ay,  but,  by  your  leave,  not  before  me ; 
the  lieutenant  is  to  be  saved  before  the  ancient. 
Let 's  have  no  more  of  this ;  let 's  to  our  affairs. 
— Forgive  us  our  sins  ! — Gentlemen,  let 's  look 
to  our  business.  Do  not  think,  gentlemen,  I 
am  drunk:  this  is  my  ancient; — this  is  my 


1 184 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE, 


[ACT  ii. 


right  hand,  and  this  is  my  left  hand : — I  am 
not  drunk  now  ;  I  can  stand  well  enough,  and 
speak  well  enough. 

All,  Excellent  well. 

Cas.  Why,  very  well,  then :  you  must  not 
think,  then,  that  I  am  drunk.  [Exit. 

Man.  To  the  platform,  masters  ;  come,  let 's 
set  the  watch.  [before  ; — 

lago.    You    see    this    fellow  that    is    gone 
He  is  a  soldier  fit  to  stand  by  Caesar 
And  give  direction :  and  do  but  see  his  vice  ; 
'Tis  to  his  virtue  a  just  equinox, 
The  one  as  long  as  the  other :  'tis  pity  of  him. 
I  fear  the  trust  Othello  puts  him  in, 
On  some  odd  time  of  his  infirmity, 
Will  shake  this  island. 

Mon.  But  is  he  often  thus  ? 

lago.  'Tis  evermore  the  prologue  to  his  sleep : 
He  '11  watch  the  horologe  a  double  set 
If  drink  rock  not  his  cradle. 

Mon.  It  were  well 

The  general  were  put  in  mind  of  it. 
Perhaps  he  sees  it  not ;  or  his  good  nature 
Prizes  the  virtue  that  appears  in  Cassio, 
And  looks  not  on  his  evils :  is  not  this  true? 

Enter  RODERIGO. 

lago.  How,  now,  Roderigo !     [Aside  to  him. 
I  pray  you,  after  the  lieutenant ;  go. 

[Exit  ROD. 

Mon.  And  'tis  great  pity  that  the  noble  Moor 
Should  hazard  such  a  place  as  his  own  second 
With  one  of  an  ingraft  infirmity : 
It  were  an  honest  action  to  say 
So  to  the  Moor. 

lago.  Not  I,  for  this  fair  island  ; 

I  do  love  Cassio  well ;  and  would  do  much 
To  cure  him  of  this  evil. — But,  hark!  what 
noise?    [Cry  within, — "Help!  help!" 

Re-enter  CASSIO,  driving  in  RODERIGO. 

Cas.  You  rogue !  you  rascal ! 

Mon.  What 's  the  matter,  lieutenant  ? 

Cas.  A  knave  teach  me  my  duty ! 
I  '11  beat  the  knave  into  a  twiggen  bottle. 

Rod.  Beat  me ! 

Cas.  Dost  thou  prate,  rogue  ? 

[Striking  RODERIGO. 

Mon.  Nay,  good  lieutenant ; 

[Staying  him. 
I  pray  you,  sir,  hold  your  hand. 

Cas.  Let  me  go,  sir, 

Or  I  '11  knock  you  o'er  the  mazard. 

Mon.  Come,  come,  you  're  drunk. 

Cas.  Drunk!  [They fight. 

lago.  Away,  I  say !  go  out,  and  cry  a  mutiny  ! 
\Aszde  to  ROD.,  who  goes  out. 


Nay,  good  lieutenant, — alas,  gentlemen  ; — 
Help,    ho  !  —  Lieutenant,  —  sir, —  Montano,— 

sir: — 

Help,  masters ! — Here 's  a  goodly  watch  indeed ! 

[Bell  rings. 

Who 's  that  which  rings  the  bell? — Diablo,  ho  ! 
The  town  will  rise :  God's  will,  lieutenant,  hold 
You  will  be  sham'd  for  ever. 

Re-enter  OTHELLO  and  Attendants. 

Oth.  What  is  the  matter  here  ? 

Mon.  Zounds,  I  bleed  still ;   I  am  hurt  to 

the  death. 

Oth.  Hold,  for  your  lives !     [ — gentlemen, — 
lago.  Hold,  ho  !  lieutenant, — sir, — Montano, 
Have  you  forgot  all  sense  of  place  and  duty  ? 
Hold!  the  general  speaks  to  you;  hold,  for 
shame !  [this  ? 

Oth.  Why,  how  now,  ho !  from  whence  ariseth 
Are  we  turn'd  Turks,  and  to  ourselves  do  that 
Which  Heaven  hath  forbid  the  Ottomites? 
For  Christian  shame,   put   by  this  barbarous 

brawl : 

He  that  stirs  next  to  carve  for  his  own  rage 
Holds  his  soul  light ;  he  dies  upon  his  motion. — 
Silence  that  dreadful  bell !  it  frights  the  isle 
From   her   propriety. — What    is    the    matter, 

masters  ? — 

Honest  lago,  that  look'st  dead  with  grieving, 
Speak,  who  began  this  ?  on  thy  love,  I  charge 
thee.  [even  now, 

lago.  I  do  not  know : — friends  all  but  now, 
In  quarter,  and  in  terms  like  bride  and  groom 
Divesting  them  for  bed ;  and  then,  but  now, — 
As  if  some  planet  had  unwitteil  rren, — 
Swords  out,  and  tilting  one  at  other's  breast 
In  opposition  bloody.     I  cannot  speak 
Any  beginning  to  this  peevish  odds ; 
And  would  in  action  glorious  I  had  lost 
Those  legs  that  brought  me  to  a  part  of  it ! 
Oth.  How  comes  it,  Michael,  you  are  thus 

forgot? 

Cas.  I  pray  you,  pardon  me ;  I  cannot  speak. 
Oth.   Worthy  Montano,  you  were  wont  to  be 

civil ; 

The  gravity  and  stillness  of  your  youth 
The  world  hath  noted,  and  your  name  is  great 
In  mouths  of  wisest  censure :  what 's  the  matter, 
That  you  unlace  your  reputation  thus, 
And  spend  your  rich  opinion  for  the  name 
Of  a  night-brawler  ?  give  me  answer  to  it. 

Mon.   Worthy  Othello,  I  am  hurt  to  danger: 
Your  officer,  lago,  can  inform  you, — 
While  I  spare  speech,  which  something  now 

offends  me, — 

Of  all  that  I  do  know :  nor  know  I  aught 
By  me  that 's  said  or  done  amiss  this  night  s 


SCENE  III.] 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


1185 


Unless  self-charky  be  sometimes  a  vice, 
And  to  defend  ourselves  it  be  a  sin 
When  violence  assails  us. 

Oth.  Now,  by  heaven, 

My  blood  begins  my  safer  guides  to  rule  ; 
And  passion,  having  my  best  judgment  collied, 
Assays  to  lead  the  way.     If  I  once  stir, 
Or  do  but  lift  this  arm,  the  best  of  you 
Shall  sink  in  my  rebuke.     Give  me  to  know 
How  this  foul  rout  began,  who  set  it  on  ; 
And  he  that  is  approv'd  in  this  offence, 
Though  he  had  twinn'd  with  me,  both  at  a  birth, 
Shall  lose  me. — What !  in  a  town  of  war 
Yet  wild,  the  people's  hearts  brimful  of  iear, 
To  manage  private  and  domestic  quarrel, 
In  night,  and  on  the  court  and  guard  of  safety ! 
'Tis  monstrous. — lago,  who  began 't? 

Man.   If  partially  affin'd,  or  leagu'd  in  office, 
Thou  dost  deliver  more  or  less  than  truth, 
Thou  art  no  soldier. 

lago.  Touch  me  not  so  near : 

I  had  rather  have  this  tongue  cut  from  my 

mouth 

Than  it  should  do  offence  to  Michael  Cassio ; 
iTet,  I  persuade  myself,  to  speak  the  truth 
Shall  nothing  wrong  him. — Thus  it  is,  general. 
Montano  and  myself  being  in  speech, 
There  comes  a  fellow  crying  out  for  help ; 
And  Cassio  followinghim  with  determin'd  sword, 
To  execute  upon  him.     Sir,  this  gentleman 
Steps  in  to  Cassio,  and  entreats  his  pause: 
Myself  the  crying  fellow  did  pursue, 
Lest  by  his  clamour, — as  it  so  fell  out, — 
The  town  might  tall  in  fright :  he,  swift  of  foot, 
Outran  my  purpose  ;  and  I  return'd  the  rather 
For  that  I  heard  the  clink  and  fall  of  swords, 
And  Cassio  high  in  oath  ;  which  till-to-night 
I  ne'er  might  say  before.    When  I  came  back, — 
For  this  was  brief, — I  found  them  close  together 
At  blow  and  thrust ;  even  as  again  they  were 
When  you  yourself  did  part  them. 
More  of  this  matter  cannot  I  report; — 
But  men  are  men  ;  the  best  sometimes  forget : — 
Though  Cassio  did  some  little  wrong  to  him, — 
As  men  in  rage  strike  those  that  wish   them 

best,— 

Yet  surely  Cassio,  I  believe,  receiv'd 
From  him  that  fled  some  strange  indignity 
Which  patience  could  not  pass. 

Oth.  I  know,  lago, 

Thy  honesty  and  love  doth  mince  this  matter, 
Making  it  light  to  Cassio.     Cassio,  I  love  thee ; 
But  never  more  be  officer  of  mine. — 

Re-enter  DESDEMONA,  attended. 

Look,  if  my  gentle  love  be  not  rais'd  up ! — 
I  '11  make  thee  an  example. 


Des.  What 's  the  mailer  ? 

Oth.  All 's  well  now,  sweeiing  ;  come  away 

to  bed. 

Sir,  for  your  hurts,  myself  will  be  your  surgeon: 
Lead  him  off.      [To  MONTANO,  who  is  ted  off. 
lago,  look  with  care  about  the  town, 
And  silence  those  whom  this  vile  brawl  dis- 
tracted.— 

Come,  Desdemona :  'tis  the  soldier's  life 
To  have  their  balmy  slumbers  wak'd  with  strife. 
[Exeunt  all  bttt  IAGO  and  CASSIO. 

lago.  What,  are  ycu  hurt,  lieutenant? 

Cas.  Ay,  past  all  surgery. 

lago.   Marry,  heaven  forbid ! 

Cas.  Reputation,  reputation,  reputation  !  O, 
I  have  lost  my  reputation !  I  have  lost  the 
immortal  part  of  myself,  and  what  remains  is 
bestial. — My  reputation,  lago,  my  reputation! 

lago.  As  I  am  an  honest  man,  I  thought  you 
had  received  some  bodily  wound  ;  there  is  more 
sense  in  that  than  in  reputation.  Reputation 
is  an  idle  and  most  false  imposition  ;  oft  got 
without  merit,  and  lost  without  deserving :  you 
have  lost  no  reputation  at  all,  unless  you  repute 
yourself  such  a  loser.  What,  man !  there  are 
ways  to  recover  the  general  again :  you  are  but 
now  cast  in  his  mood,  a  punishment  more  in 
policy  than  in  malice ;  even  so  as  one  would 
beat  his  offenceless  dog  to  affright  an  imperious 
lion :  sue  to  him  again,  and  he  is  yours. 

Cas.  I  will  rather  sue  to  be  despised  than  to 
deceive  so  good  a  commander  with  so  slight,  so 
drunken,  and  so  indiscreet  an  officer.  Drunk? 
and  speak  parrot?  and  squabble?  swagger? 
swear?  and  discourse  fustian  with  one's  own 
shadow? — O  thou  invisible  spirit  of  wine,  if 
thou  hast  no  name  to  be  known  by,  let  us  call 
thee  devil ! 

lago.  What  was  he  that  you  followed  with 
your  sword  ?  What  had  he  done  to  you  ? 

Cas.  I  know  not. 

lago.   Is 't  possible  ? 

Cas.  I  remember  a  mass  of  things,  but  no- 
thing distinctly ;  a  quarrel,  but  nothing  where- 
fore.— O  God,  that  men  should  put  an  enemy 
in  their  mouths  to  steal  away  their  brains !  that 
we  should,  with  joy,  pleasance,  revel,  and 
applause,  transform  ourselves  into  beasts ! 

lago.  Why,  but  you  are  now  well  enough : 
how  come  you  thus  recovered  ? 

Cas.  It  hath  pleased  the  devil  drunkenness  to 
give  place  to  the  devil  wrath:  one  unperfectness 
shows  me  another,  to  make  me  frankly  despise 
myself. 

lago.  Come,  you  are  too  severe  a  moraler : 
as  the  time,  the  place,  and  the  condition  of 
this  country  stands,  I  could  heartily  wish  this 

2  P 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  in. 


bad  not  befallen ;  but,  since  it  is  as  it  is,  mend 
it  for  your  own  good. 

Cas.  I  will  ask  him  for  my  place  again, — he 
shall  tell  me  I  am  a  drunkard !  Had  I  as  many 
mouths  as  Hydra,  such  an  answer  would  step 
them  all.  To  be  now  a  sensible  man,  by  and 
by  a  fool,  and  presently  a  beast !  O  strange  ! — 
Every  inordinate  cup  is  unbless'd,  and  the 
ingredient  is  a  devil. 

lago.  Come,  come,  good  wine  is  a  good 
familiar  creature  if  it  be  well  used :  exclaim  no 
more  against  it.  And,  good  lieutenant,  I  think 
you  think  I  love  you. 

Cas.  I  have  well  approved  it,  sir. — I  drunk  ! 

lago.  You,  or  any  man  living,  may  be  drunk 
at  a  time,  man.  I  '11  tell  you  what  you  shall 
do.  Our  general's  wife  is  now  the  general ; — I 
may  say  so  in  this  respect,  for  that  he  hath 
devoted  and  given  up  himself  to  the  contempla- 
tion, mark,  and  denotement  of  her  parts  and 
graces : — confess  yourself  freely  to  her  ;  im- 
portune her  help  to  put  you  in  your  place 
again:  she  is  of  so  free,  so  kind,  so  apt,  so 
blessed  a  disposition,  she  holds  it  a  vice  in  her 
goodness  not  to  do  more  than  she  is  requested : 
this  broken  joint  between  you  and  her  husband 
entreat  her  to  splinter ;  and,  my  fortunes  against 
any  lay  worth  naming,  this  crack  of  your  love 
shall  grow  stronger  than  it  was  before. 

Cas.  You  advise  me  well. 

lago.  I  protest,  in  the  sincerity  of  love  and 
honest  kindness. 

Cas.  I  think  it  freely;  and  betimes  in  the 
morning  I  will  beseech  the  virtuous  Desdemona 
to  undertake  for  me:  I  am  desperate  of  my 
fortunes  if  they  check  me  here. 

lago.  You  are  in  the  right.  Good-night, 
lieutenant ;  I  must  to  the  watch. 

Cas.  Good -night,  honest  lago.  [Exit. 

lago.  And  what's  he,  then,  that  says  I  play 

the  villain  ? 

When  this  advice  is  free  I  give  and  honest, 
Probal  to  thinking,  and,  indeed,  the  course 
To  win  the  Moor  again  ?     For  'tis  most  easy 
The  inclining  Desdemona  to  subdue 
In  any  honest  suit :  she 's  fram'd  as  fruitful 
As  the  free  elements.     And  then  for  her 
To  win  the   Moor, — were't  to  renounce  his 

baptism, 

All  seals  and  symbols  of  redeemed  sin, — 
His  soul  is  so  enfetter'd  to  her  love 
That  she  may  make,  unmake,  do  what  she  list, 
Even  as  her  appetite  shall  play  the  god 
With  his  weak  function.     How  am  I,  then,  a 

villain 

To  counsel  Cassio  to  this  parallel  course, 
Directly  to  his  good  ?    Divinity  of  hell  1 


When  devils  will  their  blackest  sins  put  on, 
They  do  suggest  at  first  with  heavenly  shows, 
As  I  do  now :  for  whiles  this  honest  fool 
Plies  Desdemona  to  repair  his  fortunes, 
And  she  for  him  pleads  strongly  to  the  Moor, 
I  '11  pour  this  pestilence  into  his  ear, — 
That  she  repeals  him  for  her  body's  lust ; 
And  by  how  much  she  strives  to  do  him  good 
She  shall  undo  her  credit  with  the  Moor. 
So  will  I  turn  her  virtue  into  pitch  ; 
And  out  of  her  own  goodness  make  the  net 
That  shall  enmesh  them  all. 

Enter  RODERIGO. 

How  now,  Roderigo ! 

Rod.  I  do  follow  here  in  the  chase,  not  like 
a  hound  that  hunts,  but  one  that  fills  up  the 
cry.  My  money  is  almost  spent ;  I  have  been 
to-night  exceedingly  well  cudgelled ;  and  I 
think  the  issue  will  be — I  shall  have  so  much 
experience  for  my  pains  :  and  so,  with  no 
money  at  all,  and  a  little  more  wit,  return 
again  to  Venice.  [patience! 

lago.  How   poor   are   they   that    have    not 
What  wound  did  ever  heal  but  by  degrees  ? 
Thou  know'st  we  work   by  wit,  and   not   by 

witchcraft ; 

And  wit  depends  on  dilatory  time. 
Does 't  not  go  well  ?     Cassio  hath  beaten  thee, 
And  thou,  by  that  small  hurt,  hast  cashier'd 

Cassio  ; 

Though  other  things  grow  fair  against  the  sun, 
Yet  fruits  that  blossom  first  will  first  be  ripe: 
Content    thyself   awhile. — By  the   mass,   'tis 

morning ; 
Pleasure    and   action   make    the   hours  seem 

short. — 

Retire  thee  ;  go  where  thou  art  billeted  : 
Away,  I  say;  thou  shalt  know  more  hereafter: 
Nay,  get  thee  gone.    [Exit  ROD.] — Two  things 

are  to  be  done, — 

My  wife  must  move  for  Cassio  to  her  mistress ; 
I  '11  set  her  on  ; 

Myself  the  while  to  draw  the  Moor  apart, 
And  bring  him  jump  when  he  may  Cassio  find 
Soliciting  his  wife.     Ay,  that's  the  way; 
Dull  not  device  by  coldness  and  delay.     [Exit 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — CYPRUS.     Before  the  Castle. 
Enter  CASSIO  and  some  Musicians. 

Cas.   Masters,   play  here, — I   will    content 

your  pains, 

Something  that 's  brief;  and  bid  good-morrow, 
general, 


SCENE  T.] 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


1187 


Enter  Clown. 


Clo.  Why,  masters,  have  your  instruments 
been  in  Naples,  that  they  speak  i'  the  nose 
thus? 

I  Mus.  How,  sir,  how! 

Clo.  Are  these,  I  pray  you,  wind  instruments? 

i  Mus.  Ay,  marry,  are  they,  sir. 

Clo.  O,  thereby  hangs  a  tale. 

I  Mus.  Whereby  hangs  a  tale,  sir  ? 

Clo.  Marry,  sir,  by  many  a  wind  instrument 
that  I  know.  But,  masters,  here 's  money  for 
you :  and  the  general  so  likes  your  music  that 
he  desires  you,  for  love's  sake,  to  make  no 
more  noise  with  it. 

i  Mus.  Well,  sir,  we  will  not. 

Clo.  If  you  have  any  music  that  may  not  be 
heard,  to't  again:  but,  as  they  say,  to  hear 
music  the  general  does  not  greatly  care. 

I  Mus.  We  have  none  such,  sir. 

Clo.  Then  put  up  your  pipes  in  your  bag,  for 
I  '11  away :  go  ;  vanish  into  air  ;  away. 

[Exeunt  Musicians. 

Cas.  Dost  thou  hear,  mine  honest  friend? 

Clo.  No,  I  hear  not  your  honest  friend  ;  I 
hear  you. 

Cas.  Pr'ythee,  keep  up  thy  quillets.  There 's 
a  poor  piece  of  gold  for  thee:  if  the  gentle- 
woman that  attends  the  general's  wife  be 
stirring,  tell  her  there 's  one  Cassio  entreats 
her  a  little  favour  of  speech :  wilt  thou  do  this? 

Clo.  She  is  stirring,  sir;  if  she  will  stir 
hither  I  shall  seem  to  notify  unto  her. 

Cas.  Do,  good  my  friend.         [Exit  Clown. 

Enter  lAGO. 

In  happy  time,  lago. 

lago.  You  have  not  been  a-bed,  then  ? 

Cas.  Why,  no  ;  the  day  had  broke 
Before  we  parted.     I  have  made  bold,  lago, 
To  send  in  to  your  wife :  my  suit  to  her 
Is,  that  she  will  to  virtuous  Desdemona 
Procure  me  some  access. 

lago.  I  '11  send  her  to  you  presently ; 

And  I  '11  devise  a  mean  to  draw  the  Moor 
Out  of  the  way,  that  your  converse  and  business 
May  be  more  free. 

Cas.  I  humbly  thank  you  for 't.    [Exit  I  AGO.  ] 

I  never  knew 
A  Florentine  more  kind  and  honest. 

Enter  EMILIA. 

Emil.  Good-morrow,  good  lieutenant :  I  am 

sorry 

For  your  displeasure;  but  all  will  soon  be  well. 
The  general  and  his  wife  are  talking  of  it ; 
And  she  speaks  for  you  stoutly :  the  Moor  replies 


That  he  you  hurt  is  of  great  fame  in  Cyprus, 
And   great   affinity,  and  that,  in   wholesome 
wisdom,  [he  loves  you, 

He  might  not  but  refuse  you  ;  but  he  protests 
And  needs  no  other  suitor  but  his  likings 
To  take  the  saf 'st  occasion  by  the  front 
To  bring  you  in  again. 

Cas.  Yet,  I  beseech  you, — 

If  you  think  fit,  or  that  it  may  be  done, — 
Give  me  advantage  of  some  brief  discourse 
With  Desdemon  alone. 

Emil.  Pray  you,  come  in : 

I  will  bestow  you  where  you  shall  have  time 
To  speak  your  bosom  freely. 

Cas.  I  am  much  bound  to  you. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— CYPRUS.     A  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  OTHELLO,  IAGO,  and  Gentlemen. 

Oth.  These  letters  give,  lago,  to  the  pilot ; 
And  by  him  do  my  duties  to  the  senate : 
That  done,  I  will  be  walking  on  the  works ; 
Repair  there  to  me. 

lago.  Well,  my  good  lord,  I  '11  do't. 

Oth.  This  fortification,  gentlemen, — shall  we 

see 't  ? 
Gent.  We  '11  wait  upon  your  lordship. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— CYPRUS.     The  Garden  of  the 
Castle. 

Enter  DESDEMONA,  CASSIO,  and  EMILIA. 

Des.  Be  thou  assur'd,  good  Cassio,  I  will  do 
All  my  abilities  in  thy  behalf.         [my  husband 

Emil.  Good  madam,  do :  I  warrant  it  grieves 
As  if  the  case  were  his.  [doubt,  Cassio, 

Des.  O,  that's  an  honest  fellow. — Do  not 
But  I  will  have  my  lord  and  you  again 
As  friendly  as  you  were. 

Cas.  Bounteous  madam, 

Whatever  shall  become  of  Michael  Cassio, 
He 's  never  anything  but  your  true  servant. 

Des.   I  know 't, — I  thank  you.     You  do  love 
my  lord  :  [assur'd 

You  have  known  him  long ;  and  be  you  well 
He  shall  in  strangeness  stand  no  further  off 
Than  in  a  politic  distance. 

Cas.  Ay,  but,  lady, 

That  policy  may  either  last  so  long, 
Or  feed  upon  such  nice  and  waterish  diet, 
Or  breed  itself  so  out  of  circumstance, 
That,  I  being  absent,  and  my  place  supplied, 
My  general  will  forget  my  love  and  service. 

Des.  Do  not  doubt  that ;  before  Emilia  here 
I  give  thee  warrant  of  thy  place  :  assure  thee, 


u88 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  in. 


If  I  do  vow  a  friendship,  I  '11  perform  it 

To  the  last  article  :  my  lord  shall  never  rest ; 

I  '11  watch   him   tame,   and  talk   him   out   of 

patience ; 

His  bed  shall  seem  a  school,  his  board  a  shrift ; 
I  '11  intermingle  everything  he  does 
With  Cassio's  suit :  therefore  be  merry,  Cassio; 
For  thy  solicitor  shall  rather  die 
Than  give  thy  cause  away. 

Emil.  Madam,  here  comes 

My  lord. 

Cos.  Madam,  I  '11  take  my  leave. 

Des.  Why,  stay, 

And  hear  me  speak, 

Cos.  Madam,  not  now :  I  am  very  ill  at  ease, 
Unfit  for  mine  own  purposes. 

Des.  Well,  do  your  discretion. 

[Exit  CASSIO. 

Enter  OTHELLO  and  IAGO. 

lago.  Ha  !  I  like  not  that. 

Oth.  What  dost  thou  say  ?  [what. 

lago.  Nothing,  my  lord :  or  if — I  know  not 

Oth.  Was  not  that  Cassio  parted  from   my 
wife  ?  [think  it, 

lago.  Cassio,  my  lord  !    No,  sure,  I  cannot 
That  he  would  steal  away  so  guilty-like, 
Seeing  you  coming. 

Oth.  I  do  believe  'twas  he. 

Des.  How  now,  my  lord  ! 
I  have  been  talking  with  a  suitor  here, 
A  man  that  languishes  in  your  displeasure. 

Oth.  Who  is 't  you  mean  ?  [lord, 

Des.  Why,  your  lieutenant,  Cassio.  Good  my 
If  I  have  any  grace  or  power  to  move  you, 
His  present  reconciliation  take  ; 
For  if  he  be  not  one  that  truly  loves  you, 
That  errs  in  ignorance,  and  not  in  cunning, 
I  have  no  judgment  in  an  honest  face  : 
I  pr'ythee,  call  him  back. 

Oth.  Went  he  hence  now  ? 

Des.  Ay,  sooth  ;  so  humbled 
That  he  hath  left  part  of  his  grief  with  me, 
To  sufter  with  him.     Good  love,  call  him  back. 

Oth.  Not    now,    sweet    Desdemon ;    some 
other  time. 

Dei.  But  shall't  be  shortly  ? 

Oth.  The  sooner,  sweet,  for  you. 

Des.  Shall 't  be  to-night  at  supper  ? 

Oth.  No,  not  to-night. 

Des.  To-morrow  dinner,  then  ? 

Oth.  I  shall  not  dine  at  home  ; 

I  meet  the  captains  at  the  citadel. 

Des.  Why,  then,  to-morrow  night ;  or  Tues- 
day morn  ;  [morn  : — 
On  Tuesday  noon,  or  night ;  on  Wednesday 
I  pr'ythee,  name  the  time  ;  but  let  it  not 


Exceed  three  days  :  in  faith,  he's  penitent ; 
And  yet  his  trespass,  in  our  common  reason,— 
Save  that,  they  say,  the  wars  must  make  ex^ 

amples 

Out  of  the  best, — is  not  almost  a  fault 
To  incur  a  private  check.    When  shall  he  come? 
Tell  me,  Othello :  I  wonder  in  my  soul 
What  you  would  ask  me  that  I  should  deny, 
Or  stand  so  mammering  on.     What !  Michael 
Cassio,  [time, 

That  came  a-wooing  with  you  ;  and  so  many  a 
When  I  have  spoke  of  you  dispraisingly, 
Hath  ta'en  your  part ;  to  have  so  much  to  do 
To   bring  him  in !      Trust  me,    I   could   do 
much, —  [he  will ; 

Oth.  Pr'ythee,  no  more  ;  let  him  come  when 
I  will  deny  thee  nothing. 

Des.  Why,  this  is  not  a  boon  ; 

'Tis  as  I  should  entreat  you  wear  your  gloves, 
Or  feed  on  nourishing  dishes,  or  keep  you  warm, 
Or  sue  to  you  to  do  a  peculiar  profit 
To  your  own  person  :  nay,  when  I  have  a  suit 
Wherein  I  mean  to  touch  your  love  indeed, 
It  shall  be  full  of  poise  and  difficult  weight, 
And  fearful  to  be  granted. 

Oth.  I  will  deny  thee  nothing : 

Whereon,  I  do  beseech  thee,  grant  me  this, 
To  leave  me  but  a  little  to  myself. 

Des.  Shall  I  deny  you  ?  no :  farewell,  my  lord 

Oth.  Farewell,  my  Desdemona :  I  '11  come 
to  thee  straight.  [you  ; 

Des   Emilia,  come. — Be  as  your  fancies  teach 
Whate'er  you  be,  I  am  obedient. 

[Exit  -with  EMILIA. 

Oth.  Excellent  wretch  !     Perdition  catch  my 

soul, 

But  I  do  love  thee  !  and  when  I  love  thee  not 
Chaos  is  come  again. 

lago.  My  noble  lord, — 

Oth.  What  dost  thou  say,  lago  ? 

lago.  Did  Michael  Cassio,  when  you  woo'd 

my  lady, 
Know  of  your  love  ?  [thou  ask  ? 

Oth.  He  did,  from  first  to  last :    why  dost 

lago.  But  for  a  satisfaction  of  my  thought ; 
No  further  harm. 

Oth.  Why  of  thy  thought,  lago  ? 

lago.  I  did  not  think  he  had  been  acquainted 
with  her. 

Oth.  O,  yes  ;  and  went  between  us  very  oft. 

lago.  Indeed  ! 

Oth.  Indeed  !   ay,  indeed : — discern'st  thou 

aught  in  that  ? 
Is  he  not  honest  ? 

lago.  Honest,  my  lord  ! 

Oth.  Honest !  ay,  honest. 

lago.  My  lord,  for  aught  I  know. 


SCENE  III.] 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


1189 


Of  A.  What  dost  thou  think  ? 

logo.  Think,  my  lord  ! 

Oth.  Think,  my  lord  ! 

By  heaven,  he  echoes  me, 
As  if  there  were  some  monster  in  his  thought 
Too  hideous  to  be  shown. — Thou  dost  mean 
something :  [that, 

I  heard  thee  say  even  now, — thou  lik'dst  not 
When  Cassio  left  my  wife  :  what  didst  not  like? 
And  when  I  told  thee  he  was  of  my  counsel 
In  my  whole  course  of  wooing,  thou  criedst, 
Indeed!  [gether, 

And  didst   contract  and   purse  thy  brow  to- 
As  if  thou  then  hadst  shut  up  in  thy  brain 
Some  horrible  conceit :  if  thou  dost  love  me, 
Show  me  thy  thought. 

/ago.  My  lord,  you  know  I  love  you. 

Oth.  I  think  thou  dost ; 

And,— for  I  know  thou'rt  full  of  love  and 

honesty,  [breath, — 

And  weigh'st  thy  words  before  thou  giv'st  them 

Therefore  these  stops  of  thine  fright  me   the 

more  : 

For  such  things  in  a  false  disloyal  knave 
Are  tricks  of  custom  ;  but  in  a  man  that 's  just 
They  're  close  delations,  working  from  the  heart, 
That  passion  cannot  rule. 

lago.  For  Michael  Cassio, 

I  dare  be  sworn  I  think  that  he  is  honest. 

Oth.  I  think  so  too. 

lago.  Men  should  be  what  they  seem  ; 

Or  those  that  be  not,  would  they  might  seem 
none  ! 

Oth.  Certain,  men  should  be  what  they  seem. 

lago.  Why,  then, 

I  think  Cassio 's  an  honest  man. 

Oth.  Nay,  yet  there 's  more  in  this  : 
I  pr'ythee,  speak  to  me  as  to  thy  thinkings, 
As  thou  dost  ruminate ;  and  give  thy  worst  ot 

thoughts 
The  worst  of  words. 

/ago.  Good  my  lord,  pardon  me  : 

Though  I  am  bound  to  every  act  of  duty, 
I  am  not  bound  to  that  all  slaves  are  free  to. 
Utter  my  thoughts?    Why,  say  they  are  vile 

and  false, — 

As  where 's  that  palace  whereunto  foul  things 
Sometimes  intrude  not?  who  has  a  breast  so  pure 
But  some  uncleanly  apprehensions 
Keep  leets  and  law-days,  and  in  session  sit 
With  meditations  lawful  ?  [lago, 

Oth.  Thou  dost  conspire  against  thy  friend, 
If  thou  but  think'st  him  wrong'd,  and  mak'st 

his  ear 
A  stranger  to  thy  thoughts. 

lago.  I  do  beseech  you,— 

Though  I  perchance  am  vicious  in  my  guess, 


As,  I  confess,  it  is  my  nature's  plague 
To  spy  into  abuses,  and  of  my  jealousy      [yet, 
Shape  faults  that  are  not, — that  your  wisdom 
From  one  that  so  imperfectly  conceits, 
Would  take  no  notice ;   nor  build  yourself  a 

trouble 

Out  of  his  scattering  and  unsure  observance  : — 
It  were  not  for  your  quiet  nor  your  good, 
Nor  for  my  manhood,  honesty,  or  wisdom, 
To  let  you  know  my  thoughts. 

Oth.  What  dost  thou  mean  ? 

lago.  Good  name  in  man  and  woman,  dear 

my  lord, 

Is  the  immediate  jewel  of  their  souls  : 
Who  steals  my  purse  steals  trash  ;  'tis  some- 
thing, nothing ;  [thousands ; 
''Twas  mine,  'tis  his,  and  has  been  slave  to 
But  he  that  filches  from  me  my  good  name 
Robs  me  of  that  which  not  enriches  him, 
And  .nakes  me  poor  indeed. 

Oth.  By  heaven,  I  '11  know  thy  thoughts. 

lago.  You  cannot,  if  my  heart  were  in  your 

hand; 
Nor  shall  not,  whilst  'tis  in  my  custody. 

Oth.  Ha! 

lago.         O,  beware,  my  lord,  of  jealousy  ; 
It  is  the  green-ey'd  monster  which  doth  mock 
The  meat  it  feeds  on  :  that  cuckold  lives  hi  bliss 
Who,  certain  of  his  fate,  loves  not  his  wronger ; 
But,  O,  what  damned  minutes  tells  he  o'er 
Who  dotes,  yet  doubts,  suspects,  yet  strongly 
loves ! 

Oth.  O  misery  !  [enough  ; 

lago.  Poor  and   content  is  rich,  and   rich 
But  riches  fineless  is  as  poor  as  winter 
To  him  that  ever  fears  he  shall  be  poor  : — 
Good  heaven,  the  souls  of  all  my  tribe  defend 
From  jealousy ! 

Oth.  Why,  why  is  this  ? 

Think'st  thou  I'd  make  a  life  of  jealousy, 
To  follow  still  the  changes  of  the  moon 
With  fresh  suspicions?     No;   to  be  once  in 

doubt 

Is  once  to  be  resolv'd :  exchange  me  for  a  goat 
When  I  shall  turn  the  business  of  my  soul 
To  auch  exsufflicate  and  blown  surmises, 
Matching  thy  inference.     'Tis  not  to  make  me 

jealous, 

To  say  my  wife  is  fair,  feeds  well,  loves  company, 
Is  free  of  speech,  sings,  plays,  and  dances  well; 
Where  virtue  is,  these  are  more  virtuous : 
Nor  from  mine  own  weak  merits  will  I  draw 
The  smallest  fear  or  doubt  of  her  revolt ; 
For  she  Lad  eyes,  and  chose  me.     No,  lago  ; 
I  '11  see  before  I  doubt ;  when  I  doubt,  prove  ; 
And,  on  the  proof,  there  is  no  more  but  this,— 
Away  at  once  with  love  or  jealousy  ! 


1190 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  in. 


lago.  I  am  glad  of  it ;  for  now  I  shall  have 

reason 

To  show  the  love  and  duty  that  I  bear  you 
With  franker  spirit :  therefore,  as  I  am  bound, 
Receive  it  from  me  : — I  speak  not  yet  of  proof. 
Look   to  your  wife ;   observe  her  well   with 

Cassio ; 

Wear  your  eye  thus,  not  jealous  nor  secure  : 
I  would  not  have  your  free  and  noble  nature, 
Out  of  self-bounty,  be  abus'd  ;  look  to 't : 
I  know  our  country  disposition  well ; 
In  Venice  they  do  let  heaven  see  the  pranks 
They  dare  not  show  their  husbands  ;  their  best 

conscience 
Is  not  to  leave  undone,  but  keep  unknown. 

Oth.  Dost  thou  say  so  ?  [you  ; 

lago.  She  did  deceive  her  father,  marrying 
And  when  she  seem'd  to  shake  and  fear  your 

looks, 
She  lov'd  them  most. 

Oth.  And  so  she  did. 

lago.  Why,  go  to,  then  ; 

She  that,  so  young,  could  give  out  such  a 

seeming, 

To  seal  her  father's  eyes  up  close  as  oak, — 
He  thought  'twas  witchcraft, — But  I  am  much  j 

to  blame ; 

I  humbly  do  beseech  you  of  your  pardon 
For  too  much  loving  you. 

Oth.  I  am  bound  to  thee  for  ever. 

lago.  I  see  this  hath  a  little  dash'd  your 
spirits. 

Oth.  Not  a  jot,  not  a  jot. 

lago.  Trust  me,  I  fear  it  has. 

I  hope  you  will  consider  what  is  spoke 
Comes  from  my  love;   but  I  do  see  you're 

mov'd : — 

I  am  to  pray  you  not  to  strain  my  speech 
To  grosser  issues  nor  to  larger  reach 
Than  to  suspicion. 

Oth.  I  will  not. 

lago.  Should  you  do  so,  my  lord, 

My  speech  should  fall  into  such  vile  success 
WThich  my  thoughts  aim'd  not.     Cassio 's  my 

worthy  friend  : — 
My  lord,  I  see  you  're  mov'd. 

Oth.  No,  not  much  mov'd  : 

I  do  not  think  but  Desdemona  's  honest. 

lago.  Long  live  she  so  !  and  long  live  you 
to  think  so  !  [self, — 

Oth.  And  yet,  how  nature  erring  from  it- 

lago.  Ay,    there 's   the   point : — as, — to    be 

bold  with  you, — 

Not  to  affect  many  proposed  matches 
Of  her  own  clime,  complexion,  and  degree, 
Whereto  we  see  in  all  things  nature  tends, — 
Foh  !  one  may  smell  in  such  a  will  most  rank, 


Foul  disproportion,  thoughts  unnatural : — 
But  pardon  me  :  I  do  not  in  position 
Distinctly  speak  of  her  ;  though  I  may  fear 
Her  will,  recoiling  to  her  better  judgment, 
May  fall  to  match  you  with  her  country  forms, 
And  happily  repent. 

Oth.  Farewell,  farewell : 

If  more  thou  dost  perceive,  let  me  know  more  ; 
Set  on  thy  wife  to  observe  :  leave  me,  lago. 

lago.   My  lord,  I  take  my  leave.         [Going. 

Oth.  Why  did  I  marry? — This  honest  creature 

doubtless  [unfolds. 

Sees  and  knows  more,  much  more,  than  he 

lago.  [Returning.]  My  lord,  I  would  I  might 

entreat  your  honour 

To  scan  this  thing  no  further ;  leave  it  to  time : 
Although  'tis  fit  that  Cassio  have  his  place, — 
For,  sure,  he  fills  it  up  with  great  ability, — 
Yet,  if  you  please  to  hold  him  off  awhile, 
You  shall  by  that  perceive  him  and  his  means: 
Note  if  your  lady  strain  his  entertainment 
With  any  strong  or  vehement  importunity ; 
Much  will  be  seen  in  that.     In  the  meantime 
Let  me  be  thought  too  busy  in  my  fears, — 
As  worthy  cause  I  have  to  fear  I  am, — 
And  hold  her  free,  I  do  beseech  your  honour. 

Oth.  Fear  not  my  government. 

lago.   I  once  more  take  my  leave.        [Exit. 

Oth.  This  fellow 's  of  exceeding  honesty, 
And  knows  all  qualities,  with  a  learned  spirit, 
Of  human  dealings.     If  I  do  prove  her  haggard , 
Though  that  her  jesses  were  my  dear  heart- 
strings, 

I  'd  whistle  her  off,  and  let  her  down  the  wind 
To  prey  at  fortune.     Haply,  for  I  am  black, 
And  have  not  those  soft  parts  of  conversation 
That  chamberers  have  ;  or,  for  I  am  declin'd 
Into  the  vale  of  years, — yet  that 's  not  much, — 
She 's  gone  ;  I  am  abus'd  ;  and  my  relief 
Must  be  to  loathe  her.     O  curse  of  marriage, 
That  we  can  call  these  delicate  creatures  ours, 
And  not  their  appetites !  I  had  rather  be  a  toad, 
And  live  upon  the  vapour  of  a  dungeon, 
Than  keep  a  corner  in  the  thing  I  love 
For  others'  uses.     Yet  'tis  the  plague  of  great 

ones ; 

Prerogativ'd  are  they  less  than  the  base  ; 
'Tis  destiny  unshunnable,  like  death : 
Even  then  this  forked  plague  is  fated  to  us 
When  we  do  quicken.     Desdemona  comes : 
If  she  be  false,  O,  then  heaven  mocks  itself ! — 
I  '11  not  believe 't. 

Re-enter  DESDEMONA  and  EMILIA. 

Des.  How  now,  my  dear  Othello! 

Your  dinner,  and  the  generous  islanders 
By  you  invited,  do  attend  your  presence. 


SCBNE  III. 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


1191 


Oth,  I  am  to  blame. 

Des.  Why  do  you  speak  so  faintly? 

Are  you  not  well  ? 

Oth.   I  have  a  pain  upon  my  forehead  here. 
Des.    Faith,    that's   with   watching;    'twill 

away  again : 

Let  me  but  bind  it  hard,  within  this  hour 
It  will  be  well. 

Oth.  Your  napkin  is  too  little  ; 

[He  puts  the  handkerchief  from  him, 

and  she  drops  it. 

Let  it  alone.     Come,  I  '11  go  in  with  you. 
Des.  I  am  very  sorry  that  you  are  not  well. 
[Exeunt  OTH.  and  DES. 
Emil.   I  am  glad  I  have  found  this  napkin : 
This  was  her  first  remembrance  from  the  Moor : 
My  wayward  husband  hath  a  hundred  times 
Woo'd  me  to  steal  it ;  but  she  so  loves  the 

token, — 

For  he  conjur'd  her  she  should  ever  keep  it, — 
That  she  reserves  it  evermore  about  her 
To  kiss  and  talk  to.     I  '11  have  the  work  ta'en 

out, 

And  give 't  lago : 

What  he  '11  do  with  it  heaven  knows,  not  I ; 
I  nothing  but  to  please  his  fantasy. 

Re-enter  IAGO. 

lago.  How  now  !  what  do  you  here  alone  ? 

Emil.   Do  not  you  chide  ;  I  have  a  thing  for 
you. 

lago.  A  thing  for  me ! — it  is  a  common  thing. 

Emil.   Ha! 

lago.  To  have  a  foolish  wife.  [now 

Emil.  O,  is  that  all  ?  What  will  you  give  me 
For  that  same  handkerchief? 

lago.  What  handkerchief? 

Emil.  What  handkerchief ! 
Why,  that  the  Moor  first  gave  to  Desdemona ; 
That  which  so  often  you  did  bid  me  steal. 

lago.   Hast  stol'n  it  from  her  ? 

Emil.  No,  faith;  she  let  it  drop  by  negligence, 
And,  to  the  advantage,  I,  being  here,  took 't  up. 
Look,  here  it  is. 

lago.  A  good  wench  ;  give  it  me. 

Emil.  What  will  you  do  with't,   that  you 

have  been  so  earnest 
To  have  me  filch  it  ? 

lago.  Why,  what 's  that  to  you  ? 

[Snatching  it. 

Emil.  If  it  be  not  for  some  purpose  of  import, 
Give 't  me  again  :  poor  lady,  she  '11  run  mad 
When  she  shall  lack  it.  [it. 

lago.  Be  not  acknown  on 't ;  I  have  use  for 
Go,  leave  me.  [Exit  EMILIA. 

I  will  in  Cassio's  lodging  lose  this  napkin, 
And  let  him  find  it.     Trifles  light  as  air 


Are  to  the  jealous  confirmations  strong 
As  proofs  of  holy  writ :  this  may  do  something. 
The  Moor  already  changes  with  my  poison : 
Dangerous  conceits  are  in  their  natures  poisons, 
Which  at  the  first  are  scarce  found  to  distaste, 
But,  with  a  little  act  upon  the  blood, 
Burn  like  the  mines  of  sulphur. — I  did  say 
so  : —  [dragora, 

Look,  where  he  comes  !  Not  poppy,  nor  man- 
Nor  all  the  drowsy  syrups  of  the  world, 
Shall  ever  medicine  thee  to  that  sweet  sleep 
Which  thou  ow'dst  yesterday. 

Re-enter  OTHELLO. 

Oth.  Ha!  ha!  false  to  me? 

lago.  Why,  how  now,  general !  no  more  of 
that.  [the  rack  :— 

Oth.  Avaunt !  be  gone  !  thou  hast  set  me  on 
I  swear  'tis  better  to  be  much  abus'd 
Than  but  to  know 't  a  little. 

lago.  How  now,  my  lord  ! 

Oth.  What  sense  had  I  of  her  stol'n  hours 

of  lust  ? 

I  saw  it  not,  thought  it  not,  it  harm'd  not  me  : 
I  slept  the  next  night  well,  was  free  and  merry; 
I  found  not  Cassio's  kisses  on  her  lips : 
He  that  is  robb'd,  not  wanting  what  is  stol'n, 
Let  him  not  know 't,  and  he 's  not  robb'd  at  all. 

lago.   I  am  sorry  to  hear  this. 

Oth.   I  had  been  happy  if  the  general  camp, 
Pioneers  and  all,  had  tasted  her  sweet  body, 
So  I  had  nothing  known.     O,  now,  for  ever 
Farewell  the  tranquil  mind  !  farewell  content ! 
Farewell  the  plumed  troop  and  the  big  wars 
That  make  ambition  virtue  !     O,  farewell ! 
Farewell  the  neighing  steed  and  the  shrill  trump, 
The  spirit-stirring  drum,  the  ear-piercing  fife, 
The  royal  banner,  and  all  quality, 
Pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war ! 
And,  O  you  mortal  engines,  whose  rude  throats 
The  immortal  Jove's  dread  clamours  counterfeit, 
Farewell !  Othello's  occupation 's  gone ! 

lago.  Is't  possible,  my  lord? — 

Oth.  Villain,  be  sure  thou  prove  my  love  a 
whore, —     [  Taking  him  by  the  throat. 
Be  sure  of  it ;  give  me  the  ocular  proof ; 
Or,  by  the  worth  of  mine  eternal  soul, 
Thou  hadst  been  better  have  been  born  a  dog 
Than  answer  my  wak'd  wrath ! 

lago.  Is 't  come  to  this  ? 

Oth.  Make  me  to  see 't ;  or,  at  the  least,  so 

prove  it 

That  the  probation  bear  no  hinge  nor  loop 
To  hang  a  doubt  on  ;  or  woe  upon  thy  life ! 

lago.  My  noble  lord, — 

Uth.  If  thou  dost  slander  her  and  torture  me, 
Never  pray  more  ;  abandon  all  remorse  ; 


1 192 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  III. 


On  horror's  head  horrors  accumulate  ; 

Do  deeds  to  make   heaven  weep,  all   earth 

amaz'd ; 

For  nothing  canst  thou  to  damnation  add 
Greater  than  that. 

lago.  O  grace !  O  heaven  forgive  me ! 

Are  you  a  man?  have  you  a  soul  or  sense? — 
God  b'  wi'  you;  take  mine  office. — O  wretched 

fool, 
That  liv'st  to  make  thine  honesty  a  vice ! — 

0  monstrous  world !    Take  note,  take  note,  O 

world, 
To  be  direct  and  honest  is  not  safe. — 

1  thank  you  for  this  profit ;  and  from  hence 

I  '11  love  no  friend,  sith  love  breeds  such  offence. 

Of  A.  Nay,  stay : — thou  shouldst  be  honest. 

lago.  I  should  be  wise ;  for  honesty 's  a  fool, 
And  loses  that  it  works  for. 

Oth.  By  the  world, 

I  think  my  wife  be  honest,  and  think  she  is  not ; 
I  think  that  thou  art  just,  and  think  thou  art 
not :  [fresh 

I  '11  have  some  proof :  her  name,  that  was  as 
As  Dian's  visage,  is  now  begrim'd  and  black 
As  mine  own  face. — If  there  be  cords  or  knives, 
Poison,  or  fire,  or  suffocating  streams, 
I  '11  not  endure  't.— Would  I  were  satisfied ! 

lago.  I  see,  sir,  you  are  eaten  up  with  passion : 
I  do  repent  me  that  I  put  it  to  you. 
Vou  would  be  satisfied  ? 

Oth.  Would!  nay,  I  will. 

logo.  And  may:    but  how?   how  satisfied, 

my  lord  ? 

Would  you,  the  supervisor,  grossly  gape  on,— 
Behold  her  tupp'd  ? 

Oth.  Death  and  damnation !  O ! 

lago.  It  were  a  tedious  difficulty,  I  think, 
To  bring  them  to  that  prospect :  damn  them, 

then, 

If  ever  mortal  eyes  do  see  them  bolster 
More  than  their  own !     What  then?  how  then? 
What  shall  I  say?    Where 's  satisfaction  ? 
It  is  impossible  you  should  see  this, 
Were  they  as  prime  as  goats,  as  hot  as  monkeys, 
As  salt  as  wolves  in  pride,  and  fools  as  gross 
As  ignorance  made  drunk.     But  yet,  I  say, 
If  imputation  and  strong  circumstances, — 
Which  lead  directly  to  the  door  of  truth, — 
Will  give  you  satisfaction,  you  may  have 't. 

Oth.  Give  me  a  living  reason  she 's  disloyal. 

lago.  I  do  not  like  the  office : 
But,  sith  I  am  enter'd  in  this  cause  so  far, — 
Prick'd  to  it  by  foolish  honesty  and  love, — 
I  will  go  on.     I  lay  with  Cassio  lately ; 
And,  being  troublea  with  a  raging  tooth, 
I  could  not  sleep. 
There  are  a  kind  of  men  so  loose  of  soul 


That  in  their  sleeps  will  mutter  their  affairs : 

One  of  this  kind  is  Cassio : 

In  sleep  I  heard  him  say,  Sweet  Desdenwna, 

Let  us  be  wary,  let  us  hide  our  loves ; 

And  then,  sir,  would  he  gripe  and  wring  my 

hand, 

Cry,  O  sweet  creature  !  and  then  kiss  me  hard. 
As  if  he  pluck'd  up  kisses  by  the  roots, 
That  grew  upon  my  lips :  then  laid  his  leg 
Over  my  thigh,  and  sigh'd,  and  kiss'd ;  and  then 
Cried,  Cursed  fate  that  gave  thee  to  the  Moor  ! 

Oth.  O  monstrous !  monstrous ! 

lago.  Nay,  this  was  but  his  dream. 

Oth.  But  this  denoted  a  foregone  conclusion : 
'Tis  a  shrewd  doubt,  though  it  be  but  a  dream. 

lago.  And  this  may  help  to  thicken  other 

proofs 
That  do  demonstrate  thinly. 

Oth.  I  '11  tear  her  all  to  pieces. 

lago.  Nay,  but  be  wise :  yet  we  see  nothing 

done; 

She  may  be  honest  yet.  Tell  me  but  this,— 
Have  you  not  sometimes  seen  a  handkerchief 
Spotted  with  strawberries  in  your  wife's  hand  ? 

Oth.  I  gave  her  such  a  one ;  'twas  my  first 
gift.  [chief,— 

lago.  I  know  not  that :  but  such  a  handker- 
I  am  sure  it  was  your  wife's, — did  I  to-day 
See  Cassio  wipe  his  beard  with. 

Oth.  If  it  be  that,— 

lago.  If  it  be  that,  or  any  that  was  hers, 
It  speaks  against  her  with  the  other  proofs. 

Oth.  O,  that  the  slave  had  forty  thousand 

lives, — 

One  is  too  poor,  too  weak  for  my  revenge ! 
Now  do  I  see  'tis  true. — Look  here,  lago  ; 
All  my  fond  love  thus  do  I  blow  to  heaven : 
'Tis  gone. — 

Arise,  black  vengeance,  from  the  hollow  hell ! 
Yield  up,  O  love,  thy  crown  and  hearted  throne 
To  tyrannous  hate!  swell,  bosom,  with  thy 

fraught, 
For  'tis  of  aspics'  tongues ! 

lago.  Yet  be  content. 

Oth.  O,  blood,  lago,  blood ! 

lago.  Patience,  I  say;  your  mind  perhaps 
may  change. 

Oth.  Never,  lago.     Like  to  the  Pontic  sea, 
Whose  icy  current  and  compulsive  course 
Ne'er  feels  retiring  ebb,  but  keeps  due  on 
To  the  Propontic  and  the  Hellespont ; 
Even  so  my  bloody  thoughts,  with  violent  pace, 
Shall  ne'er  look  back,  ne'er  ebb  to  humble  love, 
Till  that  a  capable  and  wide  revenge     [heaven, 
Swallow  them  up. — Now,   by    yond  marble 
In  the  due  reverence  of  a  sacred  vow     {Kneels. 
I  here  engage  my  words. 


SCENE  IV.] 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


H93 


logo.  Do  not  rise  yet.— [Kneels. 

Witness,  you  ever-burning  lights  above, 
You  elements  that  clip  us  round  about, — 
Witness  that  here  lago  doth  give  up 
The  execution  of  his  wit,  hands,  heart, 
To    wrong'd    Othello's    service !       Let    him 

command, 

And  to  obey  shall  be  in  me  remorse, 
What  bloody  business  ever. 

Oth.  I  greet  thy  love, 

Not  with   vain  thanks,  but  with  acceptance 

bounteous, 

And  will  upon  the  instant  put  thee  to't: 
Within  these  three  days  let  me  hear  thee  say 
That  Cassio  's  not  alive.  [request : 

lago.  My  friend  is  dead ;  'tis  done  at  your 
But  let  her  live. 

Oth.     Damn  her,  lewd  minx !  O,  damn  her  ! 
Come,  go  with  me  apart ;  I  will  withdraw 
To  furnish  me  with  some  swift  means  of  death 
For  the  fair  devil.     Now  art  thou  my  lieutenant. 

lago.  I  am  your  own  for  ever.         [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— CYPRUS.     Before  the  Castle. 
Enter  DESDEMONA,  EMILIA,  and  Clown. 

Des.  Do  you  know,  sirrah,  where  Lieutenant 
Cassio  lies  ? 

Clo.  I  dare  not  say  he  lies  anywhere. 

Des.  Why,  man? 

Clo.  He 's  a  soldier ;  and  for  one  to  say  a 
soldier  lies  is  stabbing. 

Des.  Go  to :  where  lodges  he  ? 

Clo.  To  tell  you  where  he  lodges  is  to  tell 
you  where  I  lie. 

Des.  Can  anything  be  made  of  this  ? 

Clo.  I  know  not  where  he  lodges ;  and  for 
me  to  devise  a  lodging,  and  say  he  lies  here  or 
tie  lies  there  were  to  lie  in  mine  own  throat. 

Des.  Can  you  inquire  him  out,  and  be  edified 
by  report  ? 

Clo.  I  will  catechize  the  world  for  him ;  that 
is,  make  questions,  and  by  them  answer. 

Des.  Seek  him,  bid  him  come  hither:  tell 
him  I  have  moved  my  lord  on  his  behalf,  and 
hope  all  will  be  well. 

Clo.  To  do  this  is  within  the  compass  of 
man's  wit ;  and  therefore  I  will  attempt  the 
doing  it.  [Exit. 

Des.  Where  should  I  lose  that  handkerchief, 
Emilia? 

Emil.  I  know  not,  madam.  [purse 

Des.  Believe  me,  I  had  rather  have  lost  my 
Full  of  crusadoes :  and,  but  my  noble  Moor 
Is  true  of  mind,  and  made  of  no  such  baseness 
As  jealous  creatures  are,  it  were  enough 
To  put  him  to  ill  thinking. 


Emil.  Is  he  not  jealous  ? 

Des.  Who,  he?     I  think  the  sun  where  he 

was  born 
Drew  all  such  humours  from  him. 

EmJl.  Look,  where  he  comes. 

Des.  I  will  not  leave  him  now  till  Cassio 
Be  call'd  to  him. 

Enter  OTHELLO. 

How  is 't  with  you,  my  lord  ? 

Oth.    Well,    my  good    lady.—  [Aside.'}    O, 

hardness  to  dissemble ! — 
How  do  you,  Desdemona  ? 

Des.  Well,  my  good  lord. 

Oth.  Give  me  your  hand :  this  hand  is  moist, 
my  lady.  [sorrow. 

Des.  It  yet  hath  felt  no  age  nor  known  no 

Oth.  This  argues   fruitfulness    and    liberal 
heart : —  [quires 

Hot,  hot,  and  moist :  this  hand  of  yours  re- 
A  sequester  from  liberty,  fasting  and  prayer, 
Much  castigation,  exercise  devout ; 
For  here  's  a  young  and  sweating  devil  here 
That  commonly  rebels.     'Tis  a  good  hand, 
A  frank  one. 

Des.  You  may  indeed  say  so ; 
For  'twas  that  hand  that  gave  away  my  heart. 

Oth.  A  liberal  hand :  the  hearts  of  old  gave 

hands ; 
But  our  new  heraldry  is  hands,  not  hearts. 

Des.  I  cannot  speak  of  this.     Come  now, 
your  promise. 

Oth.  What  promise,  chuck  ? 

Des.  I  have  sent  to  bid  Cassio  come  speak 
with  you. 

Oth.  I  have  a  salt  and  sorry  rheum 
Lend  me  thy  handkerchief. 

Des.  Here,  my  lord. 

Oth.  That  which  I  gave  you. 

Des.  I  have  it  not  about  me. 

Oth.  Not? 

Des.  No,  indeed,  my  lord. 

Oth.  That  is  a  fault. 

That  handkerchief 
Did  an  Egyptian  to  my  mother  give  ; 
She  was  a  charmer,  and  could  almost  read 
The  thoughts  of  people:  she  told  her,  while 
she  kept  it,  [father 

'Twould  make  her  amiable,  and  subdue  my 
Entirely  to  her  love  ;  but  if  she  lost  it, 
Or  made  a  gift  of  it,  my  father's  eye 
Should  hold  her  loathed,  and  his  spirits  should 

hunt 

After  new  fancies:  she,  dying,  gave  it  me  ; 
And  bid  me,  when  my  fate  would  have  me  wive, 
To  give  it  her.     I  did  so :  and  take  heed  on 't ; 
Make  it  a  darling  like  your  precious  eye ; 


1 194 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  III. 


To  lose 't  or  give 't  away  were  such  perdition 
As  nothing  else  could  match. 

Des.  Is 't  possible? 

Oth.  'Tis  true :  there 's  magic  in  the  web  of  it : 
A  sibyl,  that  had  number'd  in  the  world 
The  sun  to  course  two  hundred  compasses, 
In  her  prophetic  fury  sew'd  the  work  ;      [silk  ; 
The  worms  were  hallow'd  that  did  breed  the 
And  it  was  dy'd  in  mummy  which  the  skilful 
Conserv'd  of  maidens'  hearts. 

Des.  Indeed !  is 't  true  ? 

Oth.  Most  veritable ;  therefore  look  to 't  well. 

Des.  Then  would  to  God  that  I  had  never 
seen 't ! 

Oth.  Ha!  wherefore? 

Des.  Why  do  you  speak  so  startingly  and 
rash?  [the  way? 

Oth.  Is 't  lost  ?  is 't  gone  ?  speak,  is  it  out  of 

Des.  Heaven  bless  us ! 

Oth.  Say  your 

Des.  It  is  not  lost ;  but  what  an  if  it  were  ? 

Oth.  How! 

Des.  I  say,  it  is  not  lost. 

Oth.  Fetch 't,  let  me  see 't. 

Des.  Why,  so  I  can,  sir,  but  I  will  not  now. 
This  is  a  trick  to  put  me  from  my  suit : 
Pray  you,  let  Cassio  be  receiv'd  again. 

Oth.  Fetch  me  the  handkerchief:  my  mind 
misgives. 

Des.  Come,  come ; 
]fou  '11  never  meet  a  more  sufficient  man. 

Oth.  The  handkerchief ! 

Des.  I  pray,  talk  me  of  Cassio. 

Oth.  The  handkerchief ! 

Des.  A  man  that  all  his  time 

Hath  founded  his  good  fortunes  on  your  love, 
Shar'd  dangers  with  you, — 

Oth.  The  handkerchief ! 

Des.  In  sooth,  you  are  to  blame. 

Oth.  Away!  [Exit. 

Emit.  Is  not  this  man  jealous? 

Des.  I  ne'er  saw  this  before. 
Sure  there 's  some  wonder  in  this  handkerchief: 
I  am  most  unhappy  in  the  loss  of  it. 

Emil.  'Tis  not  a  year  or  two  shows  us  a  man : 
They  are  all  but  stomachs,  and  we  all  but  food : 
They  eat  us  hungerly,  and  when  they  are  full, 
They  belch  us. — Look  you, — Cassio  and  my 
husband. 

Enter  CASSIO  and  IAGO. 

lago.  There  is  no  other  way ;  'tis  she  must 

do't: 

And,  lo,  the  happiness !  go  and  importune  her. 
Des.  How  now,  good  Cassio!   what's  the 

news  with  you  ?  [you 

Cas.  Madam,  my  former  suit :  I  do  beseech 


That  by  your  virtuous  means  I  may  again 
Exist,  and  be  a  member  of  his  love, 
Whom  I,  with  all  the  office  of  my  heart, 
Entirely  honour :  I  would  not  be  delay' d. 
If  my  offence  be  of  such  mortal  kind 
That  nor  my  service  past,  nor  present  sorrows, 
Nor  purpos'd  merit  in  futurity, 
Can  ransom  me  into  his  love  again, 
But  to  know  so  must  be  my  benefit ; 
So  shall  I  clothe  me  in  a  forc'd  content, 
And  shut  myself  up  in  some  other  course, 
To  fortune's  alms. 

Des.  Alas,  thrice-gentle  Cassio ! 

My  advocation  is  not  now  in  tune  ; 
My  lord  is  not  my  lord ;  nor  should  I  know  him, 
Were  he  in  favour  as  in  humour  alter'd. 
So  help  me  every  spirit  sanctified, 
As  I  have  spoken  for  you  all  my  best, 
And  stood,  within  the  blank  of  his  displeasure 
For   my  free  speech !     You   must   awhile   be 

patient : 

What  I  can  do  I  will ;  and  more  I  will 
Than  for  myself  I  dare :  let  that  suffice  you. 
lago.   Is  my  lord  angry? 
Emil.  He  went  hence  but  now, 

And  certainly  in  strange  unquietness. 

lago.  Can  he  be  angry?    I   have  seen  the 

cannon, 

When  it  hath  blown  his  ranks  into  the  air, 
And,  like  the  devil,  from  his  very  arm 
Puff'd  his  own  brother  ; — and  can  he  be  angry? 
Something  of  moment,  then :  I  will  go  meet 

him : 

There 's  matter  in 't  indeed  if  he  be  angry. 
Des.  I  pr'ythee,  do  so.    [Exit  IAGO.  ]    Some- 
thing, sure,  of  state, — 

Either  from  Venice,  or  some  unhatch'd  practice 
Made  demonstrable  here  in  Cyprus  to  him, — 
Hath  puddled  his  clear  spirit,  and  in  such  cases 
Men's  natures  wrangle  with  inferior  things, 
Though  great  ones  are  their  object.     'Tis  even 

so; 

For  let  our  finger  ache,  and  it  endues 
Our  other  healthful  members  even  to  that  sense 
Of  pain :  nay,  we  must  think  men  are  not  gods, 
Nor  of  them  look  for  such  observancy 
As  fits  the  bridal. — Beshrew  me  much,  Emilia, 
I  was, — unhandsome  warrior  as  I  am, — 
Arraigning  his  unkindness  with  my  soul ; 
But  now  I  find  I  had  suborn'd  the  witness, 
And  he 's  indicted  falsely.  [you  think, 

Emil.  Pray  heaven  it  be  state  matters,  as 
And  no  conception  nor  no  jealous  toy 
Concerning  you. 

Des.  Alas  the  day,  I  never  gave  him  cause ! 
Emil.  But  jealous  souls  will  not  be  answer'd 
so; 


SCENE  IV.] 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


"95 


They  are  not  ever  jealous  for  the  cause, 
But  jealous  for  they  are  jealous:  'tis  a  monster 
Begot  upon  itself,  born  on  itself.  [mind  ! 

Des.  Heaven  keep  that  monster  from  Othello's 
Emil.  Lady,  amen.  [about : 

Des.  I  will  go  seek  him. — Cassio,  walk  here- 
If  I  do  find  him  fit,  I  '11  move  your  suit, 
And  seek  to  effect  it  to  my  uttermost. 
Cos.  I  humbly  thank  your  ladyship. 

[Exeunt  DESDEMONA  and  EMILIA. 

Enter  BlANCA. 

Bian.  Save  you,  friend  Cassio ! 
Cas.  What  make  you  from  home  ? 

How  is  it  with  you,  my  most  fair  Bianca? 
I'  faith,  sweet  love,  I  was  coming  to  your  house. 
Bian.   And  I   was  going  to   your  lodging, 

Cassio. 
What,  keep  a  week  away?  seven   days  and 

nights  ? 
Eight  score  eight  hours?  and  lovers'  absent 

hours, 
More  tedious  than  the  dial  eight  score  times  ? 

0  weary  reckoning ! 

Cas.  Pardon  me,  Bianca: 

1  have  this  while  with  leaden  thoughts  been 

press'd  ; 

But  I  shall  in  a  more  continuate  time 
Strike  off  this  score  of  absence.     Sweet  Bianca, 
[Giving  her  DESDEMONA'S  handkerchief. 
Take  me  this  work  out. 

Bian.  O  Cassio,  whence  came  this  ? 

This  is  some  token  from  a  newer  friend : 
To  the  felt  absence  now  I  feel  a  cause : 
Is 't  come  to  this  ?    Well,  well. 

Cas.  Go  to,  woman ! 

Throw  your  vile  guesses  in  the  devil's  teeth, 
From  whence  you  have  them.  You  are  jealous 

now 

That  this  is  from  some  mistress,  some  remem- 
brance : 
No,  in  good  troth,  Bianca. 

Bian.  Why,  whose  is  it  ? 

Cas.  I  know  not  neither :  I  found  it  in  my 

chamber. 

I  like  the  work  well :  ere  it  be  demanded, — 
As  like  enough  it  will, — I  'd  have  it  copied : 
Take  it,  and  do 't ;  and  leave  me  for  this  time. 

Bian.  Leave  you !  wherefore  ? 

Cas.  I  do  attend  here  on  the  general ; 
And  think  it  no  addition,  nor  my  wish, 
To  have  him  see  me  woman'd. 

Bian.  Why,  I  pray  you  ? 

Cas.  Not  that  I  love  you  not. 

Bian.  But  that  you  do  not  love  me 

I  pray  you,  bring  me  on  the  way  a  little  ; 
And  say  if  I  shall  see  you  soon  at  night. 


Cas.  'Tis  but  a  little  way  that  I  can  bring 

you, 

For  I  attend  here :  but  I  '11  see  you  soon. 
Bian.  'Tis  very  good ;   I  must  be  circum- 
stanc'd.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.— CYPRUS.     Be/ore  the  Castle. 
Enter  OTHELLO  and  IAGO. 

lago.  Will  you  think  so  ? 

Oth.  Think  so,  lago  ? 

What, 


_ 
To  kiss  in  private  ? 

Oth.  An  unauthoriz'd  kiss. 

lago.  Or  to  be  naked  with  her  friend  in  bed 
An  hour  or  more,  not  meaning  any  harm  ? 

Oth.  Naked  in  bed,  lago,  and  not  mean  harm  ! 
It  is  hypocrisy  against  the  devil : 
They  that  mean  virtuously,  and  yet  do  so, 
The  devil  their  virtue  tempts,  and  they  tempt 
heaven. 

lago.  So  they  do  nothing,  'tis  a  venial  slip : 
But  if  I  give  my  wife  a  handkerchief, — 

Oth.  What  then  ?  [being  hers, 

lago.  Why,  then,  'tis  hers,  my  lord ;  and. 
She  may,  I  think,  bestow 't  on  any  man. 

Oth.  She  is  protectress  of  her  honour  too : 
May  she  give  that  ?  [seen  ; 

lago.  Her  honour  is  an  essence  that's  not 
They  have  it  very  oft  that  have  it  not : 
But,  for  the  handkerchief, —  [forgot  it : — 

Oth.  By  heaven,  I  would  most  gladly  have 
Thou  said'st, — O,  it  comes  o'er  my  memory 
As  doth  the  raven  o'er  the  infected  house, 
Boding  to  all, — he  had  my  handkerchief. 

lago.  Ay,  what  of  that  ? 

Oth.  That 's  not  so  good  now. 

lago.  What, 

If  I  had  said  I  had  seen  him  do  you  wrong  ? 
Or  heard  him  say, — as  knaves  be  such  abroad, 
Who  having,  by  their  own  importunate  suit, 
Or  voluntary  dotage  of  some  mistress, 
Convinced  or  supplied  them,  cannot  choose 
But  they  must  blab, — 

Oth.  Hath  he  said  anything  ? 

lago.  He  hath,  my  lord ;  but  be  you  well 

assur'd, 
No  more  than  he  '11  unswear. 

Oth.  What  hath  he  said  ? 

lago.  Faith,  that  he  did, — I  know  not  what 
he  did. 

Oth.  What?  what? 

lago.  Lie, — 

Oth.  With  her? 

lago.          With  her,  on  her  ;  what  you  wilL 


1196 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  iv. 


Oth.  Lie  with  her  !  lie  on  her  1 — We  say  lie 
on  her  when  they  belie  her. — Lie  with  her ! 
that 's  fulsome. — Handkerchief, — confessions, 
— handkerchief! — To  confess,  and  be  hanged 
for  his  labour ; — first,  to  be  hanged,  and  then 
to  confess. — I  tremble  at  it.  Nature  would 
not  invest  herself  in  such  shadowing  passion 
without  some  instruction.  It  is  not  words  that 
shake  me  thus : — pish  ! — noses,  ears,  and  lips. 
—Is 't  possible  ?— Confess,— handkerchief !— O 
devil ! —  [Falls  in  a  trance. 

lago.  Work  on,  [caught ; 

My  medicine,  work  !  Thus  credulous  fools  are 
And  many  worthy  and  chaste  dames  even  thus, 
All  guiltless,  meet  reproach. — What,  ho  !  my 

lord  ! 
My  lord,  I  say  !  Othello  1 

Enter  CASSIO. 

How  now,  Cassio  ! 

Cas.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

lago.  My  lord  is  fallen  into  an  epilepsy  : 
This  is  his  second  fit ;  he  had  one  yesterday. 

Cas.  Rub  him  about  the  temples. 

lago.  No,  forbear ; 

The  lethargy  must  have  his  quiet  course  : 
If  not,  he  foams  at  mouth,  and  by  and  by 
Breaks  out  to  savage  madness.    Look,  he  stirs : 
Do  you  withdraw  yourself  a  little  while, 
He  will  recover  straight :  when  he  is  gone, 
I  would  on  great  occasion  speak  with  you. 

[Exit  CASSIO. 

How  is  it,  general?  have  you  not  hurt  your 
head? 

Oth.  Dost  thou  mock  me? 

lago.  I  mock  you  !  no,  by  heaven. 

Would  you  would  bear  your  fortune  like  a  man  ! 

Oth.  A  horned  man 's  a  monster  and  a  beast. 

lago.  There 's  many  a  beast,  then,  in  a  popu- 
lous city, 
And  many  a  civil  monster. 

Oth.  Did  he  confess  it? 

lago.  Good  sir,  be  a  man  ; 

Think  every  bearded  fellow  that 's  but  yok'd 
May  draw  with  you  :  there 's  millions  now  alive 
That  nightly  lie  in  those  unproper  beds 
Which  they  dare  swear  peculiar  :  your  case  is 

better. 

O,  'tis  the  spite  of  hell,  the  fiend's  arch-mock, 
To  lip  a  wanton  in  a  secure  couch, 
And  to  suppose  her  chaste  !  No,  let  me  know; 
And  knowing  what  I  am,  I  know  what  she 
shall  be. 

Oth.  O,  thou  art  wise  ;  'tis  certain. 

lago.  Stand  you  awhile  apart ; 

Confine  yourself  but  in  a  patient  list,  [grief, — 
Whilst  you  were  here  o'erwhelmed  with  your 


A  passion  most  unsuiting  such  a  man,  — 
Cassio  came  hither  :  I  shifted  him  away, 
And  laid  good  'scuse  upon  your  ecstasy  ; 
Bade  him  anon  return,  and  here  speak  with  me  ; 
The  which  he  promis'd.     Do  but  encave  your- 
self, [scorns, 

And  mark  the  fleers,  the  gibes,  and  notable 
That  dwell  in  every  region  of  his  face  ; 
For  I  will  make  him  tell  the  tale  anew,  — 
Where,  how,  how  oft,  how  long  ago,  and  when 
He  hath,  and  is  again  to  cope  your  wife  : 
I  say,  but  mark  his  gesture.     Marry,  patience  ; 
Or  I  shall  say  you  are  all  in  all  in  spleen, 
And  nothing  of  a  man. 

Oth.  Dost  thou  hear,  lago? 

I  will  be  found  most  cunning  in  my  patience  ; 
But,  —  dost  thou  hear  ?  —  most  bloody. 

lago.  That  's  not  amiss  ; 

But  yet  keep  time  in  all.    Will  you  withdraw  ? 
[OTHELLO  withdraws. 
Now  will  I  question  Cassio  of  Bianca, 
A  housewife  that,  by  selling  her  desires, 
Buys  herself  bread  and  clothes  :  it  is  a  creature 
That  dotes  on  Cassio,  —  as  'tis  the  strumpet's 


plague 
ile  man 


To  beguile  many  and  be  beguil'd  by  one  :  — 
He,  when  he  hears  of  her,  cannot  refrain 
From  the  excess  of  laughter  :  —  here  he  comes  :  — 
As  he  shall  smile  Othello  shall  go  mad  ; 
And  his  unbookish  jealousy  must  construe 
Poor  Cassio's  smiles,  gestures,  and  light  be- 

haviour 
Quite  in  the  wrong. 

Re-enter  CASSIO. 

How  do  you  now,  lieutenant  ? 
Cas.  The  worser  that  you  give  me  the  ad- 

dition 

Whose  want  even  kills  me.  [on  't. 

lago.  Ply  Desdemona  well,  and  you  are  sure 
Now,  if  this  suit  lay  in  Bianca's  power, 

[Speaking  lower. 
How  quickly  should  you  speed  ! 

Cas.  Alas,  poor  caitiff  ! 

Oth.  [Aside.'}  Look,  how  he  laughs  already  ! 
lago.  I  never  knew  woman  love  man  so. 
Cas.  Alas,  poor  rogue  !     I  think,  i'  faith, 

she  loves  me. 
Oth.  [Aside.}  Now  he  denies  it  faintly,  and 

laughs  it  out. 

lago.  Do  you  hear,  Cassio  ? 
Oth.  [Aside.  ]  Now  he  importunes  him 

To  tell  it  o'er  :  —  go  to  ;  well  said,  well  said. 
lago.  She  gives  it  out  that  you  shall  marry 

her: 
Do  you  intend  it  ? 

Cas.  Ha,  ha,  ha  I 


SCENE  I.] 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


"97 


Oth.  [As6k.]Do  you  triumph,  Roman?  do 
you  triumph  ? 

Cas.  I  marry  her  ! — what,  a  customer  1  I 
pr'ythee,  bear  some  charity  to  my  wit ;  do  not 
think  it  so  unwholesome  : — ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Oth.  [Aside.]  So,  so,  so,  so:  they  laugh 
that  win.  [marry  her. 

logo.  Faith,    the   cry   goes   that    you   shall 

Cas.  Pr'ythee,  say  true. 

lago.  I  am  a  very  villain  else. 

Oth.  [Aside.]  Have  you  scored  me?     Well. 

Cas.  This  is  the  monkey's  own  giving  out : 
she  is  persuaded  I  will  marry  her,  out  of  her 
own  love  and  flattery,  not  out  of  my  promise. 

Oth.  [Aside.]  lago  beckons  me ;  now  he 
begins  the  story. 

Cas.  She  was  here  even  now  ;  she  haunts  me 
in  every  place.  I  was  the  other  day  talking  on 
the  sea-bank  with  certain  Venetians,  and  thither 
comes  the  bauble,  and  falls  thus  about  my 
neck, — 

Oth.  [Aside.]  Crying,  O  dear  Cassiol  as  it 
were  :  his  gesture  imports  it. 

Cas.  So  hangs,  and  lolls,  and  weeps  upon 
me  ;  so  hales,  and  pulls  me  : — ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Oth.  [Aside.]  Now  he  tells  how  she  plucked 
him  to  my  chamber.  O,  I  see  that  nose  of 
yours,  but  not  that  dog  I  shall  throw  it  to. 

Cas.  Well,  I  must  leave  her  company. 

lago.  Before  me  !  look  where  she  comes. 

Cas.  'Tis  such  another  fitchew  !  marry,  a 
perfumed  one, 

Enter  BlANCA. 

What  do  you  mean  by  this  haunting  of  me  ? 

Bian.  Let  the  devil  and  his  dam  haunt  you  i 
What  did  you  mean  by  that  same  handkerchief 
you  gave  me  even  row  ?  I  was  a  fine  fool  to 
take  it.  I  must  take  out  the  work  ? — A  likely 
piece  of  work  that  you  should  find  it  in  your 
chamber,  and  not  know  who  left  it  there ! 
This  is  some  minx's  token,  and  I  must  take  out 
the  work  ?  There, — give  it  your  hobby-horse: 
wheresoever  you  had  it,  I  '11  take  out  no  work 
on 't.  [how  now  ! 

Cas.  How  now,  my  sweet  Bianca !  how  now ! 

Oth.  [Aside.]  By  heaven,  that  should  be  my 
handkerchief ! 

Bian.  An  you  '11  come  to  supper  to-night, 
you  may  ;  an  you  will  not,  come  when  you  are 
next  prepared  for.  [Exit. 

lago.  After  her,  after  her.  [else. 

Cas.   Faith,  I  must;  she'll  r?il  in  the  street 

lago.  Will  you  sup  there  ? 

Cas.  Faith,  I  intend  so. 

lago.  Well,  I  may  chance  to  see  you  ;  for  I 
would  very  fain  speak  with  you. 


Cas.  Pr'ythee,  come  ;  will  you  ? 

lago.  Go  to  ;  say  no  more.      [Exit  CASSIO. 

Oth.  [Coming  forward.]  How  shall  I  murder 
him,  lago?  [vice? 

lago.  Did  you  perceive  how  he  laughed  at  his 

Oth.  O  lago  ! 

lago.  And  did  you  see  the  handkerchief? 

Oth.  Was  that  mine  ? 

lago.  Yours,  by  this  hand  :  and  to  see  how 
he  prizes  the  foolish  woman  your  wife  !  she 
gave  it  him,  and  he  hath  given  it  his  whore. 

Oth.  I  would  have  him  nine  years  a-kiiling. 
— A  fine  woman  !  a  fair  woman  !  a  sweet 
woman  ! 

lago.  Nay,  you  must  forget  that. 

Oth.  Ay,  Lmt  her  rot,  and  perish,  and  be 
damned  to-night ;  for  she  shall  not  live :  no, 
my  heart  is  turned  to  stone ;  I  strike  it,  and 
it  hurts  my  hand. — O,  the  world  hath  not 
a  sweeter  creature :  she  might  lie  by  an 
emperor's  side,  and  command  him  tasks. 

lago.   Nay,  that 's  not  your  way. 

Oth.  Hang  her  !  I  do  bul  say  what  she  is  : — 
so  delicate  with  her  needle  ! — an  admirable 
musician  !  O,  she  will  sing  the  savageness  out 
of  a  bear  ! — Of  so  high  and  plenteous  wit  and 
invention  ! — 

lago.  She 's  the  worse  for  all  this. 

Oth.  O,  a  thousand  thousand  times : — and 
then  of  so  gentle  a  condition  ! 

lago.  Ay,  too  gentle. 

Oth.  Nay,  that 's  certain  : — but  yet  the  pity 
of  it,  lago  !  O  lago,  the  pity  of  it,  lago  ! 

lago.  If  you  are  so  fond  over  her  iniquity, 
give  her  patent  to  onvnd ;  for,  if  it  touch  not 
you,  it  comes  near  nobody. 

Oth.  I  will  chop  her  iuio  messes. — Cuckold 
me  ! 

lago.  O,  'tis  foul  in  her. 

Oth.  With  mine  officer  ! 

lago.  That 's  fouler. 

Oth.  Get  me  some  poison,  lago ;  this  night. 
— I  '11  not  expostulate  with  her.  lest  her  body 
and  beauty  unprovide  my  mind  again  : — this 
night,  lago. 

lago.  Do  it  not  with  poison  ;  strangle  her  in 
her  bed,  even  the  bed  she  hath  contaminated. 

Oth.  Good,  good  :  the  justice  of  it  pleases  : 
very  good. 

lago.  And  for  Cassio, — let  me  be  his  under- 
taker :  you  shall  hear  more  by  midnight. 

Jth.  Excellent  good.     [A  trumpet  within.] 
What  trumpet  is  that  same? 

lago.  Something  from   Venice,  sure.     'Tis 

Lodovico 

Come  from  the  duke:  and,  see,  your  wife  is 
with  him. 


1 198 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  iv. 


Enter  LODOVICO,  DESDEMONA,  and 
Attendants. 

Lod.  Save  you,  worthy  general ! 

Oth.  With  all  my  heart,  sir. 

Lod.  The  duke  and  senators  of  Venice  greet 
you.  [Gives  him  a  packet. 

Oth.  I  kiss  the  instrument  of  their  pleasures. 
[Opens  the  packet  and  reads. 

Des.  And   what's  the    news,   good   cousin 
Lodovico  ? 

lago.   I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  signior  ; 
Welcome  to  Cyprus.  [Cassio  ? 

Lod.  I   thank   you.     How  does  Lieutenant 

lago'.  Lives,  sir.  [my  lord 

Des.  Cousin,  there 's  fall'n  between  hint  and 
An  unkind  breach  :  but  you  shall  make  all  well. 

Oth.  Are  you  sure  of  that  ? 

Des.  My  lord?  [will, — 

Oth.  [Reads.']  This  fail  you  not  to  do  as  you 

Lod.  He  did  not  call ;  he 's  busy  in  the  paper. 
Is  there  division  'twixt  my  lord  and  Cassio  ? 

Des.  A  most  unhappy  one :  I  would  do  much 
To  atone  them,  for  the  love  I  bear  to  Cassio. 

Oth.  Fire  and  brimstone  ! 

Des.  My  lord? 

Oth.  Are  you  wise  ? 

Des.  What,  is  he  angry  ? 

Lod.  May  be  the  letter  mov'd  him  ; 

For,  as  I  think,  they  do  command  him  home, 
Deputing  Cassio  in  his  government. 

Des.  Trust  me,  I  am  glad  on 't. 

Gih.  Indeed ! 

Des.  My  lord  ? 

Oth.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  mad. 

Des.  Why,  sweet  Othello,— 

Oth.  Devil !  [Striking  her. 

Des.  I  have  not  deserv'd  this. 

Lod.  My  lord,  this  would  not  be  believ'd  in 

Venice, 

Though  I  should  swear  I  saw 't :  'tis  very  much : 
Make  her  amends  ;  she  weeps. 

Oth.  O  devil,  devil ! 

If  that  the  earth  could  teem  with  woman's  tears, 
Each  drop  she  falls  would  prove  a  crocodile. — 
Out  of  my  sight ! 

Des.   I  will  not  stay  to  offend  you.     [Going. 

Lod.  Truly,  an  obedient  lady : — 
I  do  beseech  your  lordship,  call  her  back. 

Oth.  Mistress ! 

Des.  My  lord  ? 

Oth.  What  would  you  with  her,  sir? 

Lod.  Who,  I,  my  lord  ?  [her  turn : 

Oth.  Ay ;  you  did  wish  that  I  would  make 
Sir,  she  can  turn,  and  turn,  and  yet  go  on, 
And  turn  again  ;  and  she  can  weep,  sir,  weep; 
And  she 's  obedient,  as  you  say,  —obedient, — 


Very  obedient. — Proceed  you  in  your  tears. — 
Concerning  this,  sir, — O  well-painted  passion  ! 
I  am  commanded  home. — Get  you  away  ; 
I'll  send  for  you  anon. — Sir,  I  obey  the  man- 
date, 
And  will  return  to  Venice. — Hence,  avaunt ! 

[Exit  DESDEMONA. 

Cassio  shall  have  my  place.    And,  sir,  to-night, 

I  do  entreat  that  we  may  sup  together : 

You  are  welcome,  sir,  to  Cyprus. — Goats  and 

monkeys !  [Exit. 

Lod.  Is  this  the  noble  Moor  whom  our  full 

senate 

Call  all-in-all  sufficient  ? — Is  this  the  nature 
Whom  passion  could  not  shake?  whose  solid 

virtue 

The  shot  of  accident  nor  dart  of  chance 
Could  neither  graze  nor  pierce  ? 

lago.  He  is  much  chang'd. 

Lod.  Are  his  wits  safe?  is  he  not  light  of 

brain  ? 

lago.   He  is  that  he  is :  I  may  not  breathe  my 

censure.  [not, — 

What  he  might  be, — if  what  he  might  he  is 

I  would  to  heaven  he  were ! 

Lod.  What,  stvike  his  wife  ! 

lago.  Faith,  that  was  not  so  well ;  yet  would 

I  knew 
That  stroke  would  prove  the  worst ! 

Lod.  Is  it  his  use  ? 

Or  did  the  letters  work  upon  his  blood, 
And  new-create  this  fault  ? 

logo.  Alas,  alas ! 

It  is  not  honesty  in  me  to  speak 
What  I  have  seen   and   known.      You   shall 

observe  him ; 

And  his  own  courses  will  denote  him  so 
That  I  may  save  my  speech:  do  but  go  after, 
And  mark  how  he  continue^ 

Lod.  I  am  sorry  that  I  am  deceiv'd  in  him. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — CYPRUS.     A  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  OTHELLO  and  EMILIA. 

Oth.  You  have  seen  nothing,  then  ? 

Emil.  Nor  ever  heard,  nor  ever  did  suspect. 

Oth.  Yes,  you  have  seen  Cassio  and  she  to- 
gether. 

Emil.  But  then  I  saw  no  harm,  and  then  I 

heard  [them. 

Each  syllable  that  breath  made  up  between 

Oth.  What,  did  they  never  whisper  ? 

Emil.  Never,  my  lord. 

Oth.  Nor  send  you  out  o'  the  way? 

Emil.  Never.  [nor  nothing? 

Oth.  To  fetch  her  fan,  her  gloves,  her  mask, 


SCENE  II.] 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


1199 


EmiL  Never,  my  lord. 

Oik.  That 's  strange.  [honest, 

EmiL  I  durst,   my  lord,   to   wager   she   is 

Lay  down  my  soul  at  stake :  if  you  think  other, 

Remove  your  thought, — it  doth  abuse   your 

bosom. 

If  any  wretch  hath  put  this  in  your  head, 
Let  heaven  requite  it  with  the  serpent's  curse ! 
For,  if  she  be  not  honest,  chaste,  and  true, 
There's  no   man  happy;  the  purest  of  their 

wives 
Is  foul  as  slander. 

Oth.  Bid  her  come  hither.  — Go. 

{Exit  EMILIA. 

She  says  enough  ; — yet  she 's  a  simple  bawd 
That  cannot  say  as  much.     This  is  a  subtle 

whore, 

A  closet-lock-and-key  of  villanous  secrets : 
And  yet  she'll  kneel  and  pray;  I  have  seen 
her  do  't. 

Re-enter  EMILIA  with  DESDEMONA. 

Des.  My  lord,  what  is  your  will  ? 

Oth.  Pray,  chuck,  come  hither. 

Des.  What  is  your  pleasure  ? 

Oth.  Let  me  see  your  eyes  ; 

Look  in  my  face. 

Des.  What  horrible  fancy 's  this  ? 

Oth.  Some  of  your  function,  mistress  ; 

[  To  EMIT.. 

Leave  procreants  alone,  and  shut  the  door ; 
Cough,  or  cry  hem,  if  any  body  come: 
Your -mystery,  your  mystery; — nay,  despatch. 
[Exit  EMILIA. 

Des.  Upon  my  knees,  what  doth  your  speech 

import  ? 

I  understand  a  fury  in  your  words, 
But  not  the  words. 

Oth.  Why,  what  art  thou  ? 

Des.  You  wife,  my  lord  ;  your  true 

And  loyal  wife. 

Oth.  Come,  swear  it,  damn  thyself; 

Lest,   being  like  one  of  heaven,   the  devils 
themselves  [damn'd. — 

Should  fear  to  seize  thee :  therefore  be  double- 
Swear  thou  art  honest. 

Des.  Heaven  doth  truly  know  it. 

Oth.   Heaven  truly  knows  that  thou  art  false 
as  hell.  [am  I  false  ? 

Des.  To  whom,  mv  lord?  with  whom?    How 

Oth.  Ah,  Desdemona  ! — away  !  away  !  away ! 

Des.  Alas  the  heavy  day! — Why  do  you  weep? 
Am  I  the  motive  of  these  tears,  my  lord  ? 
If  haply  you  my  father  do  suspect 
An  instrument  of  this  your  calling  back,     [him, 
Lay  not  your  blame  on  me :  if  you  have  lost 
Why,  I  have  lost  him  too. 


Oth.  Had  it  pleas'd  heaven 

To  try  me  with  affliction  ;  had  they  rain'd 
All  kinds  of  sores  and  shames  on  my  bare  head ; 
Steep'd  me  in  poverty  to  the  very  lips  ; 
Given  to  captivity  me  and  my  utmost  hopes  ; 
I  should  have  found  in  some  place  of  my  soul 
A  drop  of  patience :  but,  alas,  to  make  me 
The  fixed  figure  of  the  time,  for  scorn 
To  point  his  slow  and  moving  finger  at ! — 
Yet  could  I  bear  that  too  ;  well,  very  well : 
But  there,  where  I  have  garner'd  up  my  heart ; 
Where  either  I  must  live,  or  bear  no  life, — 
The  fountain  from  the  which  my  current  runs, 
Or  else  dries  up  ;  to  be  discarded  thence ! 
Or  keep  it  as  a  cistern  for  foul  toads        [there, 
To  knot  and  gender  in ! — turn  thy  complexion 
Patience,  thou  young  and  rose-lipp'dcherubin, — 
Ay,  there,  look  grim  as  hell ! 

Des.  I   hope  my  noble    lord    esteems  me 
honest. 

Oth.  O,   ay;    as  summer   flies  are    in   the 

shambles, 
That  quicken   even  with   blowing.      O   thou 

weed, 

Who  art  so  lovely  fair,  and  smell'st  so  sweet, 
That   the   sense  aches  at  thee, — would   thou 
hadst  ne'er  been  born ! 

Des.  Alas,  what  ignorant  sin  have  I  com- 
mitted ? 

Oth.  Was  this  fair  paper,  this  most  goodly 

book, 

Made  to  write  whore  upon  ?    What  committed ! 
Committed ! — O  thou  public  commoner  1 
I  should  make  very  forges  of  my  cheeks, 
That  would  to  cinders  burn  up  modesty, 
Did  I  but  speak  thy  deeds. — What  committed  ! 
Heaven  stops  the  nose  at  it,  and  the  moon 

winks ; 

The  bawdy  wind,  that  kisses  all  it  meets, 
Is  hush'd  within  the  hollow  mine  of  earth, 
And  will  not  hear  it. — What  committed ! — 
Impudent  strumpet ! 

Des.  By  heaven,  you  do  me  wrong. 

Oth.  Are  not  you  a  strumpet  ? 

Des.  No,  as  I  am  a  Christian : 

If  to  preserve  this  vessel  for  my  lord 
From  any  other  foul  unlawful  touch 
Be  not  to  be  a  stnimpet,  I  am  none. 

Oth.  What,  not  a  whore  ? 

Des.  No,  as  I  shall  be  sav'd. 

Oth.  Is 't  possible  ? 

Des.  O,  heaven  forgive  us ! 

Oth.  I  cry  you  mercy,  then : 

I  took  you  for  that  cunning  whore  of  Venice 
That  married  with  Othello.— You,  mistress, 
That  have  the  office  opposite  te  Saint  Petei., 
And  keep  the  gate  of  hell ! 


1200 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  iv. 


Re-enter  EMILIA. 

You,  you,  ay  you  ! 
We  have  done  our  course  ;  there 's  money  for 

your  pains : 

I  pray  you,  turn  the  key,  and  keep  our  counsel. 

[Exit. 

Emil.  Alas,  what  does  this  gentleman  con- 
ceive?—  [lady? 
How  do  you,  madam  ?  how  do  you,  my  good 
Des.  Faith,  half  asleep.                   [my  lord? 
Emil.  Good  madam,  what 's  the  matter  with 
Des.  With  who? 

Emil.  Why,  with  my  lord,  madam. 
Des.  Who  is  thy  lord  ? 
Emil.  lie  that  is  yours,  sweet  lady. 

Des.  I  have  none :  do  not  talk  to  me,  Emilia ; 
I  cannot  weep  ;  nor  answer  have  I  none, 
But  what  should  go  by  water.  Pr'ythee,  to- 
night [her ; — 
Lay  on  my  bed  my  wedding  sheets, — remem- 
And  call  thy  husband  hither. 

Emil.         Here 's  a  change  indeed  1    [Exit. 
Des.  'Tis  meet  I  should  be  us'd  so,  very  meet. 
How  have  I  been  behav'd,  that  he  might  stick 
The  small'st  opinion  on  my  least  misuse  ? 

Re-enter  EMILIA  with  IAGO. 

lago.  What  is  your  pleasure,  madam  ?     How 
is 't  with  you  ?  [young  babes 

Des.  I  cannot  tell.     Those  that  do  teach 
Do  it  with  gentle  means  and  easy  tasks  : 
He  might  have  chid  me  so  ;  for,  in  good  faith, 
I  am  a  child  to  chiding. 

lago.  What 's  the  matter,  lady  ? 

Emil.  Alas,  lago,  my  lord  hath  so  bewhor'd 

her, 

Thrown  such  despite  and  heavy  terms  upon  her 
As  true  hearts  cannot  bear. 

Des.  Am  I  that  name,  lago  ? 

lago.  What  name,  fair  lady? 

Des.  Such  as  she  says  my  lord  did  say  I  was. 

Emil.  lie  call'd  her  whore:  a  beggar  in  his 

drink 
Could  not  have  laid  such  terms  upon  his  callat. 

lago.  Why  did  he  so  ?  [such. 

Des.  I  do  not  know  ;  I  am  sure  I  am  none 

lago.  Do  not  weep,  do  not  weep: — alas,  the 
day !  [matches, 

Emil.    Hath    she   forsook   so   many   noble 
Her  father,  and  her  country,  and  her  friends, 
To  be  call'd  whore?  would  it  not  make  one 
weep? 

Des.  It  is  my  wretched  fortune. 

lago.  Beshrew  him  for 't ! 

How  comes  this  trick  upon  him  ? 

Des.  Nay,  heaven  doth  know. 


Emil.  I  will  be  hang'd  if  some  eternal  villain, 

Some  busy  and  insinuating  rogue, 

Some  cogging,  cozening  slave,  to  get  some  office, 

Have  not  devis'd  this  slander ;  I  11  be  hang'd 

else.  [possible. 

lago.  Fie,  there  is  no  such  man ;  it  is  im- 

Des.  If  any  such  there  be,  heaven  pardon 

him !  [his  bones ! 

Emil.  A  halter  pardon  him  !  and  hell  gnaw 

Why  should  he  call  her  whore?  who  keeps  her 

company  ? 

What  place?  what  time?  what  form?  what  likeli- 
hood ? 
The  Moor's  abus'd  by  some  most  villanous 

knave, 

Some    base    notorious    Lnave,    some    scurvy 
fellow : — 

0  heaven,  that  such  companions  thou  'dst  unfold, 
And  put  in  every  honest  hand  a  whip 

To  lash  the  rascals  naked  through  the  world 
Even  from  the  east  to  the  west ! 

lago.  Speak  within  door. 

Emil.  O,  fie  upon  him !   some  such  squire 

he  was 

That  turn'd  your  wit  the  seamy  side  without, 
And  made  you  to  suspect  me  with  the  Moor. 

lago.  You  are  a  fool ;  go  to. 

Des.  Alas,  lago, 

What  shall  I  do  to  win  my  lord  again  ? 
Good  friend,  go  to  him ;  for,  by  this  light  of 
heaven, 

1  know  not  how  I  lost  him.     Here  I  kneel : — 
If  e'er  my  will  did  trespass  'gainst  his  love, 
Either  in  discourse  of  thought  or  actual  deed ; 
Or  that  mine  eyes,  mine  ears,  or  any  sense, 
Delighted  them  in  any  other  form  ; 

Or  that  I  do  not  yet,  and  ever  did, 
And  ever  will, — though  he  do  shake  me  off 
To  beggarly  divorcement, — love  him  dearly, 
Comfort  forswear  me!      Unkindness  may  do 

much ; 

And  his  unkindness  may  defeat  my  life, 
But  never  taint  my  love.    I  cannot  say  whore, — 
It  does  abhor  me  now  I  speak  the  word  ; 
To  do  the  act  that  might  the  addition  earn, 
Not  the  world's  mass  of  vanity  could  make  me. 

lago.  I  pray  you,  be  content;   'tis  but  his 

humour : 

The  business  of  the  state  does  him  offence, 
And  he  does  chide  with  you. 

Des.  If  'twere  no  other, — 

lago.  It  is  but  so,  I  warrant. 

[  Trumpets  within. 

Hark,  how  these  instruments  summon  to  supper ! 
1'he  messengers  of  Venice  stay  the  meat : 
Go  in,  and  weep  not ;  all  things  shall  be  well. 
[Exeunt  DESDKMONA  and  EMILIA. 


SCENE  II. J 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


1 20 1 


Enter  RODERIGO. 

How  now,  Roderigo ! 

Rod.  I  do  not  find  that  thou  dealest  justly 
with  me. 

lago.  What  in  the  contrary? 

Rod.  Every  day  thou  daffest  me  with  some 
device,  lago ;  and  rather,  as  it  seems  to  me 
now,  keepest  from  me  all  conveniency  than 
suppliest  me  with  the  least  advantage  of  hope. 
I  will,  indeed,  no  longer  endure  it ;  nor  am  I 
yet  persuaded  to  put  up  in  peace  what  already 
I  have  foolishly  suffered. 

lago.   Will  you  hear  me,  Roderigo? 

Rod.  Faith,  I  have  heard  too  much ;  for  your 
words  and  performances  are  no  kin  together. 

lago    You  charge  me  most  unjustly. 

Rod.  With  naught  but  truth.  1  have  wasted 
myself  out  of  my  means.  The  jewels  you  have 
had  from  me  to  deliver  to  Desdemona  would 
half  have  corrupted  a  votarist:  you  have  told 
me  she  hath  received  them,  and  returned  me 
expectations  and  comforts  of  sudden  respect 
and  acquaintance  ;  but  I  find  none. 

lago.   Well ;  go  to  ;  very  well. 

Rod.  Very  well !  go  to !  I  cannot  go  to,  man ; 
nor  'tis  not  very  well :  nay,  I  think  it  is  scurvy, 
and  begin  to  find  myself  fobbed  in  it. 

lago.  Very  well. 

Rod.  I  tell  you  'tis  not  very  well.  I  will 
make  myself  known  to  Desdemona :  if  she  will 
return  me  my  jewels,  I  will  give  over  my  suit, 
and  repent  my  unlawful  solicitation ;  if  not, 
assure  yourself  I  will  seek  satisfaction  of  you. 

lago.  You  nave  said  now. 

Rod.  Ay,  and  said  nothing  but  what  I  protest 
intendment  ot  doing. 

lago.  Why,  now  I  see  there 's  mettle  in  thee ; 
and  even  from  this  instant  do  build  on  thee  a 
better  opinion  than  ever  before.  Give  me  thy 
hand,  Roderigo:  thou  hast  taken  against  me  a 
most  just  exception  ;  but  yet,  I  protest,  I  have 
dealt  most  directly  in  thy  affair. 

Rod.  It  hath  not  appeared. 

lago.  I  grant,  indeed,  it  hath  not  appeared  ; 
and  your  suspicion  is  not  without  wit  and  judg- 
ment. But,  Roderigo,  if  thou  hast  that  in  thee 
indeed,  which  I  have  greater  reason  to  believe 
now  than  ever, — I  mean  purpose,  courage,  and 
valour,— this  night  show  it :  if  thou  the  next 
night  following  enjoy  not  Desdemona,  take  me 
from  this  world  with  treachery,  and  devise 
engines  for  my  life. 

Rod.  Well,  what  is  it?  is  it  within  reason 
and  compass? 

lago.  Sir,  there  is  especial  commission  come 
from  Venice  to  depute  Cassio  in  Othello's  place. 


Rod.  Is  that  true?  why,  then  Othello  and 
Desdemona  return  again  to  Venice. 

Ia<?o.  O,  no  ;  he  goes  into  Mauritania,  and 
takes  away  with  him  the  fair  Desdemona, 
unless  his  abode  be  lingered  here  by  some 
accident :  wherein  none  can  be  so  determinate 
as  the  removing  of  Cassio. 

Rod.  How  do  you  mean  removing  of  him  ? 

lago.  Why,  by  making  him  uncapable  of 
Othello's  place, — knocking  out  his  brains. 

Rod.  And  that  you  would  have  me  to  do  ? 

lago.  Ay,  if  you  dare  do  yourself  a  profit 
and  a  right.  He  sups  to-night  with  a  harlotry, 
and  thither  will  I  go  to  him  : — he  knows  not 
yet  of  his  honourable  fortune.  If  you  will 
watch  his  going  thence, — which  I  will  fashion 
to  fall  out  between  twelve  and  one, — you  may 
take  him  at  your  pleasure  :  I  will  be  near  to 
second  your  attempt,  and  he  shall  fall  between 
us.  Come,  stand  not  amazed  at  it,  but  go 
along  with  me  ;  I  will  show  you  such  a 
necessity  in  his  death  that  you  shall  think 
yourself  bound  to  put  it  on  him.  It  is  now 
high  supper-time,  and  the  night  grows  to 
waste :  about  it. 

Rod.  I  will  hear  further  reason  for  this. 

lago.  And  you  shall  be  satisfied.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — CYPRUS.     Another  Room  in 
the  Castle. 

Enter  OTHELLO,  LODOVICO,  DESDEMONA, 
EMILIA,  and  Attendants. 

Lod.  I  do  beseech  you,  sir,  trouble  yourself 

no  further.  [walk. 

Oth.  O,  pardon  me ;  'twill  do  me  good  to 

Lod.  Madam,  good-night ;  I  humbly  thank 

your  ladyship. 

Des.  Your  honour  is  most  welcome. 
Oth.  Will  you  walk,  sir  ?— 

O, —Desdemona, — 
Des.  My  lord? 

Oth.  Get  you  to  bed  on  the  instant ;  I  will 
be  returned  forthwith  :  dismiss  your  attendant 
there  :  look 't  be  done. 
Des.  I  will,  my  lord. 

[Exeunt  OTH.,  LOD.,  and  Attendants. 
Emil.  How  goes  it  now?  he  looks  gentler 

than  he  did. 

Des.  He  says  he  will  return  incontinent : 
He  hath  commanded  me  to  go  to  bed, 
And  bade  me  to  dismiss  you. 

Emil.  Dismiss  me ! 

Des.  It  was  his  bidding;    therefore,  good 

Emilia, 

Give  me  my  nightly  wearing,  and  adieu : 
We  must  not  now  displease  him. 


1202 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  IV. 


Emil.  I  would  you  had  never  seen  him  ! 

Des.  So  would  not  I :  my  love  doth  so  ap- 
prove him,  [frowns, — 
That  even  his  stubbornness,  his  checks,  his 
Pr'ythee,  unpin  me, — have  grace  and  favour  in 
them.                                   [on  the  bed. 

Emil.  I  have  laid  those  sheets  you  bade  me 

Des.  All 's  one. — Good  faith,  how  foolish  are 

our  minds  ! — 

If  I  do  die  before  thee,  pr'ythee,  shroud  me 
In  one  of  those  same  sheets. 

Emil.  Come,  come,  you  talk. 

Des.  My  mother  had  a  maid  call'd  Barbara  : 
She  was  in  love  ;  and  he  she  lov'd  prov'd  mad, 
And  did  forsake  her :  she  had  a  song  of  willow  ; 
An  old  thing  'twas,  but  it  express'd  her  fortune, 
And  she  died  singing  it :  that  song  to-night 
Will  not  go  from  my  mind  ;  I  have  much  to  do, 
But  to  go  hang  my  head  all  at  one  side, 
And    sing  it   like    poor    Barbara. — Pr'ythee, 
despatch. 

Emil.  Shall  I  go  fetch  your  night-gown  ? 

Des.  No,  unpin  me  here. — 

This  Lodovico  is  a  proper  man. 

Emil.  A  very  handsome  man. 

Des.  He  speaks  well. 

Emil.  I  know  a  lady  in  Venice  would  have 
walked  barefoot  to  Palestine  for  a  touch  of  his 
nether  lip. 

Des.   The  poor  soul  sat  sighing  by  a  sycamore  tree, 

[Sings. 

Sing  all  a  green  willow ; 
Her  hand  on  her  bosom,  her  head  on  her  knee. 

Sing  willow,  willow,  willow  : 

The  fresh  streams  ran  by  her,  and  murmur'd  her 
moans ; 

Sing  willow,  willow,  willow  ; 
Her  salt  tears  fell  from  her  and  soften'd  the  stones  ;— 

Lay  by  these  : — 

Sing  willow,  willow,  willow  ;—          {Sings. 
Pr'ythee,  hie  thee  ;  he  '11  come  anon  : — 

Sing  all  a  green  willow  must  be  my  garland. 
[Sings. 
Let  nobody  blame  him ;  his  scorn  I  approve, — 

Nay,  that's  not  next. — Hark!   who  is't  that 

knocks  ? 
Emil.  It 's  the  wind. 

Des.    I  call  d  my  love  false  love  ;  but  what  said  he 
then?  [Sings. 

Sing  willow,  willow,  willow  : 
If  I  court  mo  women,  you  '11  couch  with  mo  men. — 

So,  get  thee  gone  ;  good-night.     Mine  eyes  do 

itch; 

Doth  that  bode  weeping? 
Emil.  'Tis  neither  here  nor  there. 

Des.  I  have  heard  it  said  so. — O,  these  men, 
these  men  !- 


Dost    thou    in    conscience    think, — tell    me, 

Emilia, — 

That  there  be  women  do  abuse  their  husbands 
In  such  gross  kind  ? 

Emil.         There  be  some  such,  no  question. 

Des.  Wouldst  thou  do  such  a  deed  for  all  the 
world  ? 

Emil.  Why,  would  not  you  ? 

Des.  No,  by  this  heavenly  light ! 

Emil.  Nor  I  neither  by  this  heavenly  light ; 
I  might  do 't  as  well  i'  the  dark.  [world  ? 

Des.  Wouldst  thou  do  such  a  deed  for  all  the 

Emil.  The  world 's  a  huge  thing :    it  is  a 

great  price 
For  a  small  vice. 

Des.          In  troth,  I  think  thou  wouldst  not. 

Emil.  In  troth,  I  think  I  should  ;  and  un- 
do 't  when  I  had  done.  Marry,  I  would  not  do 
such  a  thing  for  a  joint-ring,  nor  for  measures 
of  lawn,  nor  for  gowns,  petticoats,  nor  caps, 
nor  any  petty  exhibition ;  but  for  the  whole 
world, — why,  who  would  not  make  her  hus- 
band a  cuckold  to  make  him  a  monarch?  I 
should  venture  purgatory  for 't. 

Des.  Beshrew  me,  if  I  would  do  such  a 
wrong  for  the  whole  world. 

Emil.  Why,  the  wrong  is  but  a  wrong  i'  the 
world  ;  and  having  the  world  for  your  labour, 
'tis  a  wrong  in  your  own  world,  and  you  might 
quickly  make  it  right. 

Des.  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  such  woman. 

Emil.  Yes,  a  dozen ;  and  as  many  to  the 
vantage  as  would  store  the  world  they  play'd  for. 
But  I  do  think  it  is  their  husbands'  faults 
If  wives  do  fall :  say  that  they  slack  their  duties, 
And  pour  our  treasures  into  foreign  laps  ; 
Or  else  break  out  in  peevish  jealousies,        [us, 
Throwing  restraint  upon  us  ;  or  say  they  strike 
Or  scant  our  former  having  in  despite  ; 
Why,  we  have  galls ;   and  though  we  have 

some  grace, 

Yet  have  we  some  revenge.    Let  husbands  know 
Their  wives  have  sense  like  them  :  they  see  and 

smell, 

And  have  their  palates  both  for  sweet  and  sour, 
As  husbands  have.     What  is  it  that  they  do 
When  they  change  us  for  others  ?     Is  it  sport  ? 
I  think  it  is  :  and  doth  affection  breed  it  ? 
I  think  it  doth  :  is't  frailty  that  thus  errs? 
It  is  so  too.     And  have  not  we  affections, 
Desires  for  sport,  and  frailty,  as  men  have  ? 
Then  let  them  use  us  well :  else  let  them  know 
The  ills  we  do  their  ills  instruct  us  to. 

Des.  Good-night,   good-night :    heaven  me 

such  usage  send, 
Not  to  pick  bad  from  bad,  but  by  bad  mend  J 


/  SCENE  I.] 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


1203 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — CYPRUS.     A  Street. 
Enter  IAGO  and  RODERIGO. 

lago.  Here,  stand  behind  this  bulk ;  straight 

will  he  come : 

Wear  thy  good  rapier  bare,  and  put  ir  home  : 
Quick,  quick ;    fear  nothing ;    I  '11  be  at  thy 

elbow : 

It  makes  us  or  it  mars  us  ;  think  on  that, 
And  fix  most  firm  thy  resolution. 

Rod.  Be  near  at  hand  ;  I  may  miscarry  in 't. 
lago.   Here,  at  thy  hand  :  be  bold,  and  take 

thy  stand.     [Retires  to  a  little  distance. 

Rod.  I  have  no  great  devotion  to  the  deed  ; 

And  yet  he  hath  given  me  satisfying  reasons  : — 

'Tis  but  a  man  gone. — Forth,  my  sword  ;  he 

dies.  [Goes  to  his  stand, 

lago.  I  have  rubb'd  this  young  quat  almost 

to  the  sense,  [Cassio 

And  he  grows  angry.     Now,  whether  he  kill 
Or  Cassio  him,  or  each  do  kill  the  other, 
Every  way  makes  my  gain  :  live  Roderigo, 
He  calls  me  to  a  restitution  large 
Of  gold  and  jewels  that  I  bobb'd  from  him 
As  gifts  to  Desdemona  ; 
It  must  not  be :  if  Cassio  do  remain, 
He  hath  a  daily  beauty  in  his  life 
That  makes  me  ugly  ;  and,  besides,  the  Moor 
May  unfold  me  to  him  ;  there  stand  I  in  much 

peril  °. 
No,  he  must  die. — But,  so,  I  hear  him  coming. 

Enter  CASSIO. 

Rod.  I  know  his  gait,  'tis  he. — Villain,  thou 

diest ! 

[Rushes  out,  and  makes  a  pass  at  CASSIO. 
Cas.  That  thrust  had  been  mine  enemy  in- 
deed, 

But  that  my  coat  is  better  than  thou  know'st : 
I  will  make  proof  of  thine. 

[Draws,  and  wounds  RODERIGO. 
Rod.  O,  I  am  slain  ! 

[IAGO  rushes  from  his  post,  cuts  CASSIO 

behind  in  the  leg,  and  exit. 
Cas.  I  am  maim'd  for  ever. — Help,  ho  !  mur- 
der !  murder !  [Falls. 

Enter  OTHELLO  at  a  distance. 

Oth.  The  voice  of  Cassio  : — lago  keeps  his 

word. 

Rod.  O,  villain  that  I  am  ! 
Oth.  It  is  even  so. 

Cas.  O,  help,  ho  !  light !  a  surgeon  ! 
Oth.  'Tis  he : — O  brave  lago,  honest  and  just 


That  hath  such  noble  sense  of  thy  friend's 

wrong ! 

Thou  teachest  me, — minion,  your  dear  lies  dead, 
And   your  unbless'd  fate  hies. — Strumpet,   I 

come  !  [blotted ; 

Faith  of  my  heart  those  charms,  thine  eyes,  are 
Thy  bed.  lust-stain'd,  shall  with  lust's  blood  be 

spotted.  [Exit. 

Enter  LODOVICO  and  GRATIANO  at  a  distance. 

Cas.  What,    ho !    no   watch  ?    no   passage  ? 

murder  !  murder  !  [direful. 

Gra.  JTis  some  mischance  ;  the  voice  is  very 
Cas.  O,  help ! 
Lod.  Hark! 

Rod.  O  wretched  villain  !  [night : 

Lod.  Two  or  three  groan : — it  is  a  heavy 

These  may  be  counterfeits  :  let 's  think 't  unsafe 

To  come  in  to  the  cry  without  more  help. 

Rod.  Nobody  come?  then  shall  I  bleed  to 

death. 

Lod.  Hark! 
Gra.  Here's  one  comes  in  his  shirt,  with 

light  and  weapons. 

Re-enter  IAGO  with  a  light. 

lago.  Who 's  there  ?  whose  noise  is  this  that 
cries  on  murder  ? 

Lod.  We  do  not  know. 

lago.  Did  not  you  hear  a  cry  r 

Cas.  Here,  here  !  for  heaven's  sake,  help  me  ! 

lago.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

Gra.  This  is  Othello's  ancient,  as  I  take  it. 

Lod.  The  same  indeed  ;  a  very  valiant  fellow. 

lago.  What  are  you  here  that  cry  so  griev- 
ously ?  [villains ! 

Cas.  lago?    O,   I   am   spoil'd,  undone   by 
Give  me  some  help.  [done  this  ? 

lago.  O  me,  lieutenant !  what  villains  have 

Cas.  I  think  that  one  of  them  is  hereabout, 
And  cannot  make  away. 

lago.  O  treacherous  villains  ! — 

What  are  you  there  ?  come  in,  and  give  some 

help.   [To  LODOVICO  and  GRATIANO. 

Rod.  O,  help  me  here  ! 

Cas.  That 's  one  of  them. 

lago.  O  murderous  slave  !  O  villain  ! 

[Stabs  RODERIGO. 

Roa.  O  damn'd  lago  !  O  inhuman  dog  ! 

lago.  Kill  men  i'  the  dark  !— Where  be  these 

bloody  thieves  ? — 

How  silent  is  this  town  ! — Ho  !  murder  !  mur- 
der !— 
What  may  you  be  ?  are  you  of  good  or  evil  ? 

Lod.  As  you  shall  prove  us,  praise  us. 

lago.  Signior  Lodovico? 

Lod.  He,  sir. 


1204 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


[ACTV. 


lago.  I  cry  you  mercy.     Here 's  Cassio  hurt 

by  villains. 
Gra.  Cassio! 
logo.  How  is 't,  brother  ? 
Cos.  My  leg  is  cut  in  two. 
lago.  Marry,  heaven  forbid  !— 

Light,  gentlemen : — I  '11  bind  it  with  my  shirt. 

Enter  BIANCA. 

Bian.  What  is  the  matter,  ho?  who  is't 

that  cried  ? 

lago.  Who  is 't  that  cried ! 
Bian.  O  my  dear  Cassio !  my  sweet  Cassio ! 
O  Cassio,  Cassio,  Cassio ! 

lago.  O  notable  strumpet ! — Cassio,  may  you 

suspect  [you  ? 

Who  they  should  be  that  have  thus  mangled 

Cas.  No. 

Gra.  I  am  sorry  to  find  you  thus:  I  have 

been  to  seek  you. 

lago.  Lend  me  a  garter : — so. — O,  for  a  chair, 
To  bear  him  easily  hence !  [Cassio  ! 

Bian.  Alas,  he  faints! — O  Cassio,  Cassio, 
lago.  Gentlemen  all,  I  do  suspect  this  trash 
To  be  a  party  in  this  injury. — 
Patience  awhile,  good  Cassio. — Come,  come  ; 
Lend  me  a  light. — Know  we  this  face  or  no? 
Alas,  my  friend  and  my  dear  countryman 
Roderigo?  no: — yes,  sure ;  O  heaven  1  Roderigo. 
Gra.  What,  of  Venice  ? 
lago.  Even  he,  sir :  did  you  know  him  ? 
Gra.  Know  him  I  ay. 

lago.  Signior  Gratiano?    I  cry  you  gentle 

pardon ; 

These  bloody  accidents  must  excuse  my  manners, 
That  so  neglected  you. 

Gra.  I  am  glad  to  see  you. 

lago.  How  do  you,  Cassio? — O,  a  chair,  a 

chair  1 

Gra.  Roderigo ! 

lago.  He,  he,  'tis  he.— O,  that's  well  said ; 

— the  chair  : —    [A  chair  brought  in. 

Some  good  man  bear  him  carefully  from  hence ; 

I'll  fetch   the  general's  surgeon. — For    you, 

mistress,       •  [To  BiANCA. 

Save  you  your  labour. — He  that  lies  slain  here, 

Cassio,  [you  ? 

Was  my  dear  friend  :  what  malice  was  between 

Cas.  None  in  the  world    nor  do  I  know  the 

man. 

Togo.    [To  BIAN.]  What,  look  you  pale?— 
O,  bear  him  out  o'  the  air. — 

[CAS.  and  ROD.  are  borne  off. 
Stay  you,  good  gentlemen. — Look  you  pale, 

mistress  ? — 

Do  you  perceive  the  gastness  of  her  eye?— 
Nay,  if  you  stare,  we  shall  hear  more  anon.— 


Behold  her  well ;  I  pray  you,  look  upon  her : 
Do  you  see,  gentlemen?  nay,  guiltiness  will 

speak 
Though  tongues  were  out  of  use. 

Enter  EMILIA. 

Emil.  'Las,  what 's  the  matter  ?  what 's  the 

matter,  husband? 

lago.  Cassio  hath  here  been  set  on  in  the  dark 
By  Roderigo,  and  fellows  that  are  'scap'd : 
He 's  almost  slain,  and  Roderigo  dead. 
Emil.  Alas,   good  gentleman !    alas,   good 
Cassio  !  [thee,  Emilia, 

lago.  This  is  the  fruit  of  whoring. — Pr'y- 
Go  know  of  Cassio  where  he  supp'd  to-night. — 
What,  do  you  shake  at  that  ? 
Bian.  He  supp'd  at  my  house ;  but  I  there- 
fore shake  not. 

lago.  O,  did  he  so?  I  charge  you,  go  with  me. 
Emil.  Fie,  fie  upon  thee,  strumpet ! 
Bian.  I  am  no  strumpet ;  but  of  life  as  honest 
As  you  that  thus  abuse  me. 
Emil.  As  I !  foh  !  fie  upon  thee  ! 

lago.  Kind  gentlemen,    let's   go  see  poor 

Cassio  dress'd. — 

Come,  mistress,  you  must  tell 's  another  tale. — 
Emilia,  run  you  to  the  citadel, 
And  tell  my  lord  and  lady  what  hath  happ'd. — 
Will  you  go  on  afore ?--\Aside.}   This  is  the 

night 
That  either  makes  me  or  fordoes  me  quite. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — CYPRUS.  A  Bedchamber  in  the 
Castle:  DESDEMONA  in  bed  asleep;  a  light 
burning. 

Enter  OTHELLO. 

Oth.  It  is  the  cause,  it  is  the  cause,  my  soul, — 
Let  me  not  name  it  to  you,  you  chaste  stars  ! — 
It  is  the  cause. — Yet  I  '11  not  shed  her  blood  ; 
Nor  scar  that  whiter  skin  of  hers  than  snow, 
And  smooth  as  monumental  alabaster. 

[Takes  off  his  sword. 

Yet  she  must  die,  else  she  '11  betray  more  men,, 
Put  out  the  light,  and  then  put  out  the  light : 
If  I  quench  thee,  thou  flaming  minister, 
I  can  again  thy  former  light  restore,         [light, 
Should  I  repent  me: — but  once  put  out  thy 
Thou  cunning'st  pattern  of  excelling  nature, 
I  know  not  where  is  that  Promethean  heat 
That  can   thy   light   relume.     When   I  have 

pluck'd  thy  rose, 

I  cannot  give  it  vital  growth  again, 
It  needs  must  wither: — I'll  smell  it  on  the 

tree. —  [Kissing  her. 

O  balmy  breath,  that  dost  almost  persuade 


SCENE  II.  J 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


1205 


Justice  to  break  her  sword ! — One  more,  one 

more. —  [thee, 

Be  thus  when  thou  art  dead,  and  I  will  kill 

And  love  thee  after.— One  more,  and  that's 

the  last : 

So  sweet  was  ne'er  so  fatal.     I  must  weep, 
But  they  are  cruel  tears :  this  sorrow's  heavenly; 
It  strikes  where  it  doth  love. — She  wakes. 

Des.  Who's  there?    Othello? 

Oth.  Ay,  Desdemona. 

Des.  Will  you  come  to  bed,  my  lord  ? 

Oth.  Have  you  prayM  to-night,  Desdemon  ? 

Des.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Oth.  If  you  bethink  yourself  of  any  crime 
Unreconcil'd  as  yet  to  heaven  and  grace, 
Solicit  for  it  straight.  [that  ? 

Des.  Alack,  aiy  lord,  what  may  you  mean  by 

Oth.  Well,  do  it,  and  be  brief ;  I  will  walk 

by: 

I  would  not  kill  thy  unprepared  spirit ;     [soul. 
No, — heaven  forfend  ! — I  would  not  kill  thy 

Des.  Talk  you  of  killing  ? 

Oth.  Ay,  I  do. 

Des.  Then  heaven 

Have  mercy  on  me  ! 

Oth.  Amen,  with  all  my  heart ! 

Des.  If  you  say  so,  I  hope  you  will  not  kill 
me. 

Oth.  Hum!  [then 

Des.  And  yet  I  fear  you ;  for  you  are  fatal 

When  your  eyes  roll  so :  why  I  should  fear  I 

know  not,  [fear. 

Since  guiltiness  I  know  not ;  but  yet  I  feel  I 

Oth.  Think  on  thy  sins. 

Des.  They  are  loves  I  bear  to  you. 

Oth.  Av,  and  for  that  thou  diest.     [loving. — 

Des.  Taat  death's  unnatural  that  kills  for 
Alas,  why  gnaw  you  so  your  nether  lip  ? 
Some  bloody  passion  shakes  your  very  frame  : 
These  are  portents  ;  but  yet  I  hope,  I  hope, 
They  do  not  point  on  me. 

Oth.  Peace,  and  be  still  ! 

Des.  I  will  so.     What 's  the  matter  ? 

Oth.  That  handkerchief  which  I  so  lov'd  and 

gave  thee 
Thou  gav'st  to  Cassio. 

Des.  No,  by  my  life  and  soul ! 

Send  for  the  man  and  ask  him. 

Oth.  Sweet  soul,  take  heed, 

Take  heed  of  perjury ;  thou  'rt  on  thy  death-bed. 

Des.  Ay,  but  not  yet  to  die. 

Oth.  Yes,  presently : 

Therefore  confess  thee  freely  of  thy  sin  ; 
For  to  deny  each  article  with  oath 
Cannot  remove  nor  choke  the  strong  conception 
That  I  do  groan  withal.     Thou  art  to  die. 

•Des.  Then,  Lord  have  mercy  on  me  1 


Oth.  I  say,  amen. 

Des.  And  have  you  mercy  too  ! — I  never  did 
Offend  you  in  my  life  ;  never  lov'd  Cassio 
But  with  such  general  warranty  of  heaven 
As  I  might  love  :  I  never  gave  him  token. 

Oth.  By  heaven,  I  saw  my  handkerchief  in 's 
hand. 

0  perjur'd  woman  !  thou  dost  stone  my  heart, 
And  mak'st  me  call  what  I  intend  to  do 

A  murder,  which  I  thought  a  sacrifice  : 

1  saw  the  handkerchief. 

Des.  He  found  it,  then ; 

I  never  gave  it  him  : — send  for  him  hither ; 
Let  him  confess  a  truth. 

Oth.  He  hath  confess'd. 

Des.  What,  my  lord  ? 

Oth.  That  he  hath  us'd  thee. 

Des.  How?  unlawfully? 

Oth.  Ay. 

Des.  He  will  not  say  so. 

Oth.  No,  his  mouth  is  stopp'o  : 

Honest  lago  hath  ta'en  order  for 't.         [dead  i 

Des.  O,  my  fear  interprets  ! — What,  is  he 

Oth.  Had  all  his  hairs  been  lives,  my  great 

revenge 
Had  stomach  for  them  all. 

Des.  Alas,  he  is  betray 'd,  and  I  undone ! 

Oth.  Out,  strumpet !     Weep'st  thou  for  him 
to  my  face  ? 

Des.  O,  banish  me,  my  lord,  but  kill  me  not ! 

Oth.  Down,  strumpet  I 

Des.  Kill  me  to-morrow ;  let  me  live  to-night! 

Oth.  Nay,  if  you  strive, — 

Des.  But  half  an  hour  ! 

Oth.  Being  done,  there  is  no  pause. 

Des.  But  while  I  say  one  prayer  ! 

Oth.  It  is  too  late.  {Smothers  her. 

Emil.  [Within.}  My  lord,  my  lord !  what, 
ho  !  my  lord,  my  lord  ! 

Oth.  What   noise  is  this? — Not  dead?  not 

yet  quite  dead  ? 

I  that  am  cruel  am  yet  merciful ; 
I  would  not  have  thee  linger  in  thy  pain  : — 
So,  so.  [lord ! 

Emil.  [Within.}  What,  ho!  my  lord,   my 

Oth.  Who's  there? 

Emil.  \Within.~\  O,  good  my  lord,  I  would 
speak  a  word  with  you  !         [dead. — 

Oth.  Yes  : — 'tis  Emilia  : — by  and  by. — She 's 
'Tis  like  she  comes  to  speak  of  Cassio's  death  ; 
The  noise  was  high. — Ha  !  no  more  moving? 
Still  as  the  grave. — Shall  she  come  in? — Were 't 
good  ? —  [do  ? 

I  think  she  stirs  again  :  no. — What's  best  to 
If  she  come  in  she  '11  sure  speak  to  my  wife : 
My  wife!  my  wife!  what  wife?  I  have  no  wife* 
O,  insupportable  1  O  heavy  hour  1 


1206 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE, 


[ACT  v. 


Methinks  it  should  be  now  a  huge  eclipse 

Of  sun  and  moon,  and  that  the  affrighted  globe 

Should  yawn  at  alteration. 

Emil.  [Within.']  I  do  beseech  you 

That  I  may  speak  with  you,  O,  good  my  lord ! 

Oth.  I  had  forgot  thee :  O,  come  in,  Emilia: — 
Soft, — by  and  by: — let  me  the  curtains  draw. — 
Where  art  thou?  [Unlocks  the  door. 

Enter  EMILIA. 

What's  the  matter  with  thee  now? 

Emit.  O,  my  good  lord,  yonder 's  foul  mur- 
ders done ! 

Oth.  What,  now? 

Emil.  But  now,  my  lord. 

Oth.  It  is  the  very  error  of  the  moon ; 
She  comes  more  nearer  earth  than  she  was  wont, 
And  makes  men  mad.  [Venetian 

Emil.  Cassio,  my  lord,  hath  kill'd  a  young 
Call'd  Roderigo. 

Oth.  Roderigo  kill'd ! 

And  Cassio  kill'd ! 

Emil.  No,  Cassio  is  not  kill'd. 

Oth.  Not  Cassio  kill'd !  then  murder 's  out 

of  tune, 
And  sweet  revenge  grows  harsh. 

Des.  O,  falsely,  falsely  murder'd  ! 

Emil.  Alas,  what  cry  is  that? 

Oth.  That!  what!  [voice.— 

Emil.  Out  and  alas!  that  was  my  lady's 
Help !  help,  ho !  help  ! — O  lady,  speak  again  ! 
Sweet  Desdemona !  O  sweet  mistress,  speak ! 

Des.  A  guiltless  death  I  die. 

Emil.  O,  who  hath  done  this  deed? 

Des.  Nobody;  I  myself.     Farewell: 
Commend  me  to  my  kind  lord :  O,  farewell ! 

[Dies. 

Oth.  Why,  how  should  she  be  murder'd  ? 

Emil.  Alas,  who  knows  ? 

Oth.  You  heard  her  say  herself  it  was  not  I. 

Emil.  She  said  so :  I  must  needs  report  the 
truth. 

Oth.  She 's,  like  a  liar,  gone  to  burning  hell : 
'Twas  I  that  kill'd  her. 

Emil.  O,  the  more  angel  she, 

And  you  the  blacker  devil ! 

Oth.  She  turn'd  to  folly,  and  she  was  a  whore. 

Emil.  Thou  dost  belie  her,  and  thou  art  a 
devil. 

Oth.  She  was  false  as  water. 

Emil.  Thou  art  rash  as  fire,  to  say 

That  she  was  false :  O,  she  was  heavenly  true  ! 

Oth.  Cassio  did  tup  her ;  ask  thy  husband  else. 
O,  I  were  damn'd  beneath  all  depth  in  hell, 
But  that  I  did  proceed  upon  just  grounds 
To  this  extremity.     Thy  husband  knew  it  all, 

EmiL  My  husband! 


Oth.  Thy  husband. 

Emil.  That  she  was  false  to  wedlock? 

Oth.  Ay,  with  Cassio.     Nay,  had  she  been 

true, 

If  heaven  would  make  me  such  another  world 
Of  one  entire  and  perfect  chrysolite, 
I  'd  not  have  sold  her  for  it. 

Emil.  My  husband ! 

Oth.  Ay,  'twas  he  that  told  me  first: 

An  honest  man  he  is,  and  hates  the  slime 
That  sticks  on  filthy  deeds. 

Emil.  My  husband ! 

Oth.  What  needs  this  iterance,  woman?  I  say 
thy  husband.  [with  love  ! — 

Emil.  O  mistress,  villany  hath  made  mocks 
My  husband  say  that  she  was  false ! 

Oth.  He,  woman  ; 

I  say  thy  husband :  dost  understand  the  word  ? 
My  friend,  thy  husband,  honest,  honest  lago. 

Emil.   If  he  say  so,  may  his  pernicious  soul 
Rot  half  a  grain  a  day !  he  lies  to  the  heart : 
She  was  too  fond  of  her  most  filthy  bargain. 

Oth.  Ha! 

Emil.  Do  thy  worst : 

This  deed  of  thine  is  no  more  worthy  heaven 
Than  thou  wast  worthy  her. 

Oth.  Peace,  you  were  best. 

Emil.  Thou  hast  not  half  that  power  to  do 

me  harm 

As  I  have  to  be  hurt.     O  gull !  O  dolt ! 
As  ignorant  as  dirt !  thou  hast  done  a  deed, — 
I  care  not  for  thy  sword ;  I  '11  make  thee  known, 
Though  I  lost  twenty  lives. — Help!  help,  ho! 
help !  [murder  ! 

The  Moor  hath  kill'd  my  mistress  !   murder ! 

Enter  MoNTANO,  GRATIANO,  and  IAGO. 

Mon.    What    is    the    matter? — How    now, 
general !  [well, 

EmiL  O,  are  you  come,  lago  ?  you  have  done 
That  men  must  lay  their  murders  on  your  neck. 

Gra.  What  is  the  matter  ?  [man : 

Emil.  Disprove  this  villain,  if  thou  be'st  a 
He  says  thou  told'st  him  that  his  wife  was  false  : 
I  know  thou  didst  not,  thou  'rt  not  such  a  villain  : 
Speak,  for  my  heart  is  full.  [no  more 

lago.  I  told  him  what  I  thought ;  and  told 
Than  what  he  found  himself  was  apt  and  true. 

EmiL  But  did  you  ever  tell  him  she  was  false? 

lago.  I  did. 

EmiL  You  told  a  lie ;   an  odious,  damned 

lie; 

Upon  my  soul,  a  lie  ;  a  wicked  lie : — 
She  false   with   Cassio! — Did    you  say  with 

Cassio  ? 

•  lago.  With  Cassio,  mistress.     Go  to,  charm 
your  tongue. 


SCENE  II.] 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


1207 


Emit.  I  will  not  eharm  my  tongue  ;  I  am 

bound  to  speak : 

My  mistress  here  lies  murder'd  in  her  bed, — 
AIL  O  heavens  forfend  ! 
EmiL  And  your  reports  have  set  the  murder 

on.    '  [indeed. 

Oth.  Nay,    stare  not,  masters:   it  is  true, 
Gra.  'Tis  a  strange  truth. 
Man.  O  monstrous  act ! 
EmiL  Villany,  villany,  villany ! — 

f   think    upon 't,— I    think,— I    smell 't ;— O 
villany! —  [grief: — 

I    thought    so    then; — I'll     kill    myself    for 

0  villany,  villany ! 

lago.  What,  are  you  mad?     I  charge  you, 
get  you  home.  [speak  : 

EmiL  Good  gentlemen,  let  me  have  leave  to 
'Tis  proper  I  obey  him,  but  not  now. — 
Perchance,  lago,  I  will  ne'er  go  home. 

Oth.  O  !  O  !  O  !       {Hanging  over  his  wife. 

Emit.  Nay,  lay  thee  down  and  roar  ; 

For  though  hast  kill'd  the  sweetest  innocent 
That  e'er  did  lift  up  eye. 

Oth.  O,  she  was  foul  ! — 

[Rising. 

1  scarce  did  know  you,  uncle:  there  lies  your 

niece, 
Whose  breath,  indeed,  these  hands  have  newly 

stopp'd : 
I  know  this  act  shows  horrible  and  grim. 

Gra.  Poor    Desdemona!    I    am    glad    thy 

father 's  dead : 

Thy  match  was  mortal  to  him,  and  pure  grief 
Shore  his  old  thread  in  twain :  did  he  live  now, 
This  sight  would  make  him  do  a  desperate  turn, 
Yea,  curse  his  better  angel  from  his  side, 
And  fall  to  reprobance. 

Oth.  'Tis  pitiful ;  but  yet  lago  knows 
That  she  with  Cassio  hath  the  act  of  shame 
A  thousand  times  committed  ;  Cassio  confess'd 

it: 

And  she  did  gratify  his  amorous  works 
With  that  recognizance  and  pledge  of  love 
Which  I  first  gave  her  ;  I  saw  it  in  his  hand  : 
It  was  a  handkerchief,  an  antique  token 
My  father  gave  my  mother. 

EmiL  O  heaven  !  O  heavenly  powers  ! 

lago.  Come,  hold  your  peace. 

EmiL  'Twill  out,  'twill  out: — I  peace  ! 

No,  I  will  speak  as  liberal  as  the  north : 
Let  heaven  and  men  and  devils,  let  them  all, 
All,  all,  cry  shame  against  me,  yet  I  '11  speak. 

lago.  Be  wise,  and  get  you  home. 

EmiL  I  will  not. 

[!AGO  offers  to  stab  his  wife. 

Gra.  Fie ! 

Your  sword  upon  a  woman? 


EmiL  O  thou  dull  Moor  !  that  handkerchief 

thou  speak 'st  of 

I  found  by  fortune,  and  did  give  my  husband  ; 
For  often,  with  a  solemn  earnestness, — 
More  than,  indeed,  belong' d  to  such  a  trifle, — 
He  begg'd  of  me  to  steal  it. 

lago.  Villanous  whore  ! 

EmiL  She  give  it  Cassio !  no,  alas,  I  found  it, 
And  I  did  give 't  my  husband. 

lago.  Filth,  thou  liest ! 

EmiL  By  heaven,  I  do  not,  I  do  not,  gentle- 
men.— 

O  murderous  coxcomb  1  what  should  such  a  fool 
Do  with  so  good  a  wife  ? 

[lAGO  stabs  EMILIA,  and  then  runs  out. 

Oth.  Are  there  no  stones  in  heaven 

But   what  serve   for    the   thunder? — Precious 

villain !  [wife. 

Gra.  The  woman  falls ;  sure  he  hath  kill'd  his 

EmiL  Ay,  ay  : — O,  lay  me  by  my  mistress' 

side. 

Gra.  He 's  gone,  but  his  wife 's  kill'd. 
Mon.  'Tis  a  notorious  villain.     Take  you  this 

weapon, 

Which  I  have  here  recover'd  from  the  Moor : 
Come,  guard  the  door  without ;  let  him  not  pass, 
But  kill  him  rather.    I  '11  after  that  same  villain, 
For  'tis  a  damned  slave. 

{Exeunt  MON.  and  GRA. 
Oth.  I  am  not  valiant  neither, 

But  every  puny  whipster  gets  my  sword  : — 
But  why  should  honour  outlive  honesty  ? 
Let  it  go  all. 

EmiL        What  did  thy  song  bode,  lady  ? 
Hark,  canst  thou  hear  me?     I  will  play  the 

swan, 

And  die  in  music  : — Willow,  willow,  willow. — 

[Sings. 
Moor,  she  was  chaste ;  she  lov'd  thee,  cruel 

Moor ; 

So  come  my  soul  to  bliss,  as  I  speak  true ; 
So  speaking  as  I  think,  I  die, — I  die.      [Dies. 
Oth.  I  have  another  weapon  in  this  chamber ; 
It  is  a  sword  of  Spain,  the  ice-brook's  temper: — 
O,  here  it  is. — Uncle,  I  must  come  forth. 
Gra.  [Within.1\i   thou  attempt  it,  it  will 

cost  thee  dear : 

Thou  hast  no  weapon,  and  perforce  must  suffer. 
Oth.  Look  in  upon  me,  then,  and  speak  with 

me, 
Or,  naked  as  I  am,  I  will  assault  thee. 

Re-enter  GRATIANO. 

:   ,i?r>v  !!ivV 

Gra .  What  is  the  matter  ? 

Oth.  Behold,  I  have  a  weapon  ; 

A  better  never  did  itself  sustain 
Upon  a  soldier's  thigh  :  I  have  seen  the  day 


1208 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


[ACT  v. 


That,  with  this  little  arm  and  this  good  sword, 
I  have  made  my  way  through  more  impediments 
Than  twenty  times  your  stop : — but,  O  vain 

boast ! 

Who  can  control  his  fate?  'tis  not  so  now. — 
Be  not  afraid  though  you  do  see  me  weapon'd ; 
Here  is  my  journey's  end,  here  is  my  butt, 
And  very  sea-mark  of  my  utmost  sail. 
Do  you  go  back  dismay'd  ?  'tis  a  lost  fear  ; 
Man  but  a  rush  against  Othello's  breast, 
And  he  retires  : — where  should  Othello  go  ? — 
Now,  how  dost  thou  look  now?  O  ill-starr'd 

wench !  [compt, 

Pale  as  thy  smock  !  when  we  shall  meet  at 
This  look  of  thine  will  hurl  my  soul  from  heaven, 
And  fiends  will  snatch  at  it.  Cold,  cold,  my 

girl! 

Even  like  thy  chastity. — 
O  cursed,  cursed  slave ! — Whip  me,  ye  devils, 
From  the  possession  of  this  heavenly  sight ! 
Blow  me  about  in  winds !  roast  me  in  sulphur ! 
Wash  me  in  steep-down  gulfs  of  liquid  fire  ! — 
O  Desdemon  !  dead,  Desdemon  !  dead  !  O  1 

Enter  LODOVICO,  MONTANO,  CASSIO,  carried 
in  a  chair i  and  Officers,  with  IAGO  prisoner. 

Lod.  Where  is  this  rash  and  most  unfortun- 
ate man  ? 

Oth.  That 's  he  that  was  Othello ; — here  I  am. 
Lod.  Where  is  that  viper  ?  bring  the  villain 

forth. 
Oth.  I   look  down  towards  his  feet, — but 

that's  a  fable.— 
If  that  thou  be'st  a  devil,  I  cannot  kill  thee. 

[  Wounds  IAGO, 

Lod.  Wrench  his  sword  from  him. 
logo.  I  bleed,  sir  ;  but  not  kill'd. 

Oth.  I  am  not  sorry  neither  :  I  'd  have  thee 

live; 
For,  in  my  sense,  'tis  happiness  to  die. 

Lod.  O  thou  Othello,  that  wert  once  so  good, 
Fall'n  in  the  practice  of  a  damned  slave, 
What  shall  be  said  to  thee  ? 

Oth.  Why,  anything : 

An  honourable  murderer,  if  you  will ; 
For  naught  I  did  in  hate,  but  all  in  honour. 
Lod.  This  wretch   hath   part  confess'd  his 

villany : 

Did  you  and  he  consent  in  Cassio's  death  ? 
Oth.  Ay. 

Cos.  Dear  general,  I  never  gave  you  cause. 
Oth.  I  do  believe  it,  and  I  ask  your  pardon. 
Will  you,  I  pray,  demand  that  demi-devil 
Why  he  hath  thus  ensnar'd  my  soul  and  body  ? 
logo.  Demand  me  nothing :  what  you  know, 

you  know : 
From  this  time  forth  I  never  will  speak  word. 


Lod.  What,  not  to  pray  ? 

Gra.  Torments  will  ope  your  lips. 

Oth.  Well,  thou  dost  best.  [falrn, 

Lod.  Sir,  you  shall  understand  what  hath  be- 
Which,  as  I  think,  you  know  not.     Here  is  a 

letter 

Found  in  the  pocket  of  the  slain  Roderigo ; 
And  here  another  :  the  one  of  them  imports 
The  death  of  Cassio  to  be  undertook 
By  Roderigo. 

Oth.  O  villain! 

Cos.  Most  heathenish  and  most  gross  ! 

Lod.  Now  here 's  another  discontented  paper, 
Found  in  his  pocket  toe  ;  and  this,  it  seems, 
Roderigo  meant    to  have  sent  this  damned 

villain ; 

But  that,  belike,  lago  in  the  interim 
Came  in  and  satisfied  him. 

Oth.  O  the  pernicious  caitiff ! — 

How  came  you,  Cassio,  by  that  handkerchief 
That  was  my  wife's  ? 

Cas.  I  found  it  in  my  chamber : 

And  he  himself  confess'd  but  even  now 
That  there  he  dropp'd  it  for  a  special  purpose 
Which  wrought  to  his  desire. 

Oth.  O  fool !  fool  $  fool ! 

Cas.  There  is  besides  in  Roderigo's  letter, — 
How  he  upbraids  lago  that  he  made  him 
Brave  me  upon  the  watch  ;  whereon  it  came 
That  I  was  cast :  and  even  but  now  he  spake, 
After  long  seeming  dead, — lago  hurt  him, 
lago  set  him  on. 

Lod.  You  must  forsake  this  room,  and  go  with 

us: 

Your  power  and  your  command  is  taken  off, 
And  Cassio  rules  in  Cyprus.     For  this  slave, — 
If  there  be  any  cunning  cruelty 
That  can  torment  him  much  and  hold  him  long, 
It  shall  be  his.     You  shall  close  prisoner  rest 
Till  that  the  nature  of  your  fault  be  known 
To  the  Venetian  state. — Come,  bring  away. 

Oth.  Soft  you ;  a  word  or  two  before  you  go. 
I  have  done  the  state  some  service,  and  they 

know  \ ; — 

No  more  of  that. — I  pray  you,  in  your  letters, 
When  you  shall  these  unlucky  deeds  relate, 
Speak  of  me  as  I  am  ;  nothing  extenuate, 
Nor  set  down  aught  in  malice :  then  must  you 

speak 

Of  one  that  lov'd  not  wisely,  but  too  well ; 
Of  one  not  easily  jealous,  but,  being  wrought, 
Perplex'd  in  the  extreme  ;  of  one  whose  hand, 
Like  the  base  Judean,  threw  a  pearl  away 
Richer  than  all  his  tribe ;  of  one  whose  subdu'd 

eyes, 

Albeit  unused  to  the  melting  mood, 
Drop  tears  as  fast  as  the  Arabian  trees 


SCENE  II.  j 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


1209 


Their  medicinal  gum.     Set  you  down  this ; 
And  say,  besides, — that  in  Allepo  once, 
Where  a  malignant  and  a  turban'd  Turk 
Beat  a  Venetian  and  traduc'd  the  state, 
I  took  by  the  throat  the  circumcised  dog. 
And  smote  him — thus.  [Stabs  himself. 

Lod.  O  bloody  period ! 

Gra.  All  that 's  spoke  is  marr'd. 

Oth.  I  kiss'd  thee  ere  I  kill'd  thee : — no  way 

but  this,    [Falling  upon  DESDEMON  A. 

Killing  myself,  to  die  upon  a  kiss.  [Dies. 

Cos.  This  did  I  fear,  but  thought  he  had  no 

weapon ; 
For  he  was  great  of  heart. 


Lod.  [To  IAGO.]  O  Spartan  dog, 

More  fell  than  anguish,  hunger,  or  the  sea! 
Look  on  the  tragic  loading  of  this  bed  ; 
This  is  thy  work : — the  ooject  poisons  sight ; 
Let  it  be  hid— Gratiano,  keep  the  house, 
And  seize  upon  the  fortunes  of  the  Moor, 
For    they  succeed    on    you. — To    you,    lord 

governor, 

Remains  the  censure  of  this  hellish  villain  ; 
The  time,  the  place,  the  torture, — O,  enforce 

it! 

Myself  will  straight  aboard  ;  and  to  the  state 
This  heavy  act  with  heavy  heart  relate 

[Extunt. 


wolf 


»jtfs>qq...  u 


«tt  A 
>H 


VENUS   AND   ADONIS, 

*  Vilia  miretur  vulgus,  mihi  flavus  Apollo 
Pocula  Castalia  plena  ministret  aqua.' — OVID. 


*rfl  o} 


TO   THE 

RIGHT  HONOURABLE  HENRY  WRIOTHESLY, 

EARL  OF  SOUTHAMPTON,  AND  BARON  OF  TITCHFIELD. 


iriJ  Jttd 


RIGHT  HONOURABLE, 

I  KNOW  not  how  I  shall  offend  in  dedicating  my  unpolished  lines  to  your  lordship,  nor 
how  the  world  will  censure  me  for  choosing  so  strong  a  prop  to  support  so  weak  a  burthen  : 
only  if  your  honour  seem  but  pleased,  I  account  myself  highly  praised,  and  vow  to  take  advan- 
tage of  all  idle  hours  till  I  have  honoured  you  with  some  graver  labour.  But  if  the  first  heir  of 
my  invention  prove  deformed,  I  shall  be  sorry  it  had  so  noble  a  godfather,  and  never  after  ear  so 
barren  a  land,  for  fear  it  yield  me  still  so  bad  a  harvest  I  leave  it  to  your  honourable  survey, 
and  your  honour  to  your  heart's  content ;  which  I  wish  may  always  answer  your  own  wish,  and 
the  world's  hopeful  expectation. 

Your  Honour's  in  all  duty, 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


EVEN  as  the  sun  with  purple-colour'd  face 
Had  ta'en  his  last  leave  of  the  weeping  morn, 
Rose-cheek'd  Adonis  hied  him  to  the  chase  ; 
Hunting  he  lov'd,  but  love  he  laugh'd  to  scorn ; 
Sick-thoughted  Venus  makes  amain  unto  him, 
And  like  a  bold-fac'd  suitor  'gins  to  woo  him. 

*  Thrice  fairer  than  myself,'  thus  she  began, 

*  The  field's  chief  flower,  sweet  above  compare, 
Stain  to  all  nymphs,  more  lovely  than  a  man, 
More  white  and  red  than  doves  or  roses  are  ; 

Nature  that  made  thee,  with  herself  at  strife, 
Saith  that  the  world  hath  ending  with  thy  life. 

*  Vouchsafe,  thou  wonder,  to  alight  thy  steed, 
And  rein  his  proud  head  to  the  saddle-bow ; 
If  thou  wilt  deign  this  favour,  for  thy  meed 
A  thousand  honey-secrets  shall  thou  know  : 

Here  come  and  sit,  where  never  serpent  hisses, 
And  being  set  I  '11  smother  thee  with  kisses ; 

*  And  yet  not  cloy  thy  lips  with  loath'd  satiety, 
But  rather  famish  them  amid  their  plenty, 
Making  them  red  and  pale  with  fresh  variety, 
Ten  kisses  short  as  one,  one  long  as  twenty  : 

A  summer's  day  will  seem  an  hour  but  short, 
Being  wasted  in  such  time-beguiling  sport.' 

With  this  she  seizeth  on  his  sweating  palm. 
The  precedent  of  pith  and  livelihood, 


And,  trembling  in  her  passion,  calls  it  balm, 
Earth's  sovereign  salve  to  do  a  goddess  good  : 
Being  so  enrag'd,  desire  doth  lend  her  force, 
Courageously  to  pluck  him  from  his  horse. 

Over  one  arm  the  lusty  courser's  rein, 
Under  her  other  was  the  tender  boy, 
Who  blush'd  and  pouted  in  a  full  disdain, 
With  leaden  appetite,  unapt  to  toy  ; 

She  red  and  hot  as  coals  of  glowing  fire, 
He  red  for  shame,  but  frosty  in  desire. 

The  studded  bridle  on  a  ragged  bough 
Nimbly  she  fastens  ;  (O  how  quick  is  love  ! ) 
The  steed  is  stalled  up,  and  even  now 
To  tie  the  rider  she  begins  to  prove  : 

Backward  she  push'd  him,  as  she  would  be 

thrust, 

And  govern'd  him  in  strength,  though  not  in 
lust. 

So  soon  was  she  along,  as  he  was  down, 
Each  leaning  on  their  elbows  and  their  hips  : 
Now  doth  she  stroke  his  cheek,  now  doth  he 

frown, 
And   'gins  to  chide,  but  soon  she  stops  his 

lips; 
And  kissing  speaks,  with   lustful  language 

broken, 
*  If  thou  wilt  chide,  thy  lips  shall  never  open,' 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


I2II 


He  burns  with  bashful  shame ;  she  with  her  tears 
Doth  quench  the  maiden  burning  of  his  cheeks : 
Then  with  her  windy  sighs,  and  golden  hairs, 
To  fan  and  blow  them  dry  again  she  seeks  : 

He  saith  she  is  immodest,  blames  her  'miss  ; 

What  follows  more  she  murders  with  a  kiss. 

Even  as  an  empty  eagle,  sharp  by  fast, 
Tires  with  her  beak  on  feathers,  flesh,  and  bone, 
Shaking  her  wings,  devouring  all  in  haste, 
Till  either  gorge  be  stuff'd,  or  prey  be  gone  ; 
Even  soshekiss'd  his  brow,  his  cheek,  his  chin, 
And  where  she  ends  she  doth  anew  begin. 

Forc'd  to  content,  but  never  to  obey, 
Panting  he  lies,  and  breatheth  in  her  face ; 
She  feedeth  on  the  steam,  as  on  a  prey, 
And  calls  it  heavenly  moisture,  air  of  grace, 

Wishing  her   cheeks  were   gardens  full   of 
flowers,  [showers. 

So  they   were   dew'd   with   such   distilling 

Look  how  a  bird  lies  tangled  in  a  net, 
So  fastened  in  her  arms  Adonis  lies  ; 
Pure  shame  and  aw'd  resistance  made  him  fret, 
Which  bred  more  beauty  in  his  angry  eyes  j 
Rain  added  to  a  river  that  is  rank, 
Perforce  will  force  it  overflow  the  bank. 

Still  she  entreats,  and  prettily  entreats, 
For  to  a  pretty  ear  she  tunes  her  tale  ; 
Still  is  he  sullen,  still  he  low'rs  and  frets, 
'Twixt  crimson  shame,  and  anger  ashy  pale ; 
Beingred,she  loves  him  best;  and  being  white, 
Her  best  is  better'd  with  a  more  delight. 

Look  how  he  can,  she  cannot  choose  but  love; 
And  by  her  fair  immortal  hand  she  swears 
From  his  soft  bosom  never  to  remove, 
Till  he  take  truce  with  her  contending  tears, 

Which  long  have  rain'd,  making  her  cheeks 
all  wet ;  [debt. 

And  one  sweet  kiss  shall  pay  this  countless 

Upon  this  promise  did  he  raise  his  chin, 
Like  a  dive-dapper  peering  through  a  wave, 
Who,  being  looted  on,  ducks  as  quickly  in  ; 
So  offers  he  to  give  what  she  did  crave'; 
But  when  her  lips  were  ready  for  his  pay, 
He  winks,  and  turns  his  lips  another  way. 

Never  did  passenger  in  summer's  heat     [turn : 
More  thirst  for  drink,  than  she  for  this  good 
Her  help  she  sees,  but  help  she  cannot  get ; 
She  bathes  in  water,  yet  her  fire  must  burn  : 


O,  pity,'  'gan  she  cry,  '  flint-hearted  boy  1 
but  a  kiss  I  beg  ;  why  art  thou -coy? 


'Tis 


'  I  have  been  woo'd,  as  I  entreat  thee  now, 
Even  by  the  stern  and  direful  god  of  war, 
Whose  sinewy  neck  in  battle  ne'er  did  bow, 
Who  conquers  where  he  comes,  in  every  jar  ; 
Yet  hath  he  been  my  captive  and  my  slave, 
And  begg'd  for  that  which  thou  unask'd  shalt 
have. 

'  Over  my  altars  hath  he  hung  his  lance, 
His  batter'd  shield,  his  uncontrolled  crest, 
And  for  my  sake  hath  learn'd  to  sport  and  dance, 
To  toy,  to  wanton,  dally,  smile,  and  jest ; 
Scorning  his  churlish  drum  and  ensign  red, 
Making  my  arms  his  field,  his  tent  my  bed. 

VJru4?  oiW  >.:T*oi;.$as;,'j:>«'~>  -j^dT 

*  Thus  he  that  overrul'd  I  oversway'd, 
Leading  him  prisoner  in  a  red-rose  chain : 
Strong-temperd  steel    his    stronger    strength 

*  obey'd, 
Yet  was  he  servile  to  my  coy  disdain. 

O,  be  not  proud,  nor  brag  not  of  thy  might, 
For  mastering  her  that  foil'd  the  god  of  fight ! 

*  Touch  but  my  lips  with  those  fair  lips  of  thine, 
(Though  mine  be  not  so  fair,  yet  are  they  red. ) 
The  kiss  shall  be  thine  own  as  well  as  mine  :— 
What  seest  thou  in  the  ground?  hold  up  thy 

head; 

Look  in  mine  eyeballs,  there  thy  beauty  lies : 
Then  why  not  lips  on  lips,  since  eyes  in  eyes? 

'  Art  thou  asham'd  to  kiss?  then  wink  again, 
And  I  will  wink,  so  shall  the  day  seem  night : 
Love  keeps  his  revels  where  there  are  but  twain ; 
Be  bold  to  play,  our  sport  is  not  in  sight : 
These  blue-vein'd  voilets  whereon  we  lean 
Never  can  blab,  nor  know  not  what  we  mean. 

'  The  tender  spring  upon  thy  tempting  lip 

Shows  thee  unripe ;   yet  mayst  thou  well  be 
tasted ; 

Make  use  of  time,  let  not  advantage  slip  ; 

Beauty  within  itself  should  not  be  wasted  : 
Fair  flowers  thatare  notgather'd  in  their  prime 
Rot  and  consume  themselves  in  little  time. 

*  Were  I  hard-favour'd,  foul,  or  wrinkled-old, 
Ill-nurtur'd,  crooked,  churlish,  harsh  in  voice, 
O'er-worn,  despised,  rheumatic,  and  cold, 
Thick-sighted,  barren,  lean,  and  lacking  juice, 

Then  mightst  thou  pause,  for  then  I  were 

not  for  thee ; 
But  having  no  defects,  why  dost  abhor  me  ? 

1  Thou  canst  not  see  one  wrinkle  in  my  brow  ; 
Mine  eyes  are  grey,  and  bright,  and  quick  in 
turning; 


1212 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


His  lowering  brows  o'erwhelming  his  fair  sight, 
Like  misty  vapours  when  they  blot  the  sky, 

Souring  his  cheeks,  cries,  '  Fie,  no  more  of 
love! 

The  sun  doth  burn  my  face  ;  I  must  remove.' 

'Ah  me,'  quoth  Venus,  'young,  and  so  unkind ! 
What  bare  excuses  mak'st  thou  to  begone  ! 
I  '11  sigh  celestial  breath,  whose  gentle  wind 
Shall  cool  the  heat  of  this  descending  sun  ; 

I  '11  make  a  shadow  for  thee  of  my  hairs  ; 

If  they  burn  too,  I  '11  quench  them  with  my 
tears. 

'  The  sun  that  shines  from  heaven  shines  but 

warm, 

And  lo,  I  lie  between  that  sun  and  thee  : 
The  heat  I  have  from  thence  doth  little  harm. 
Thine  eye  darts  forth  the  fire  that  burneth  me : 
And  were  I  not  immortal,  life  were  done, 
Between  this  heavenly  and  earthly  sun. 

'  Art  thou  obdurate,  flinty,  hard  as  steel, 
Nay,  more  than  flint,  for  stone  at  rain  relenteth? 
Art  thou  a  woman's  son,  and  canst  not  feel 
What  'tis  to  love?  how  want  of  love  tormenteth  ? 
O  had  thy  mother  borne  so  hard  a  mind, 
She  had  not   brought  forth  thee,  but  died 
unkind. 

'  What  am  I,  that  thou  shouldst  contemn  me  this  ? 

Or  what  great  danger  dwells  upon  my  suit  ? 

What  were  thy  lips  the  worse  for  one  poor  kiss ; 

Speak,  fair;  but  speak  fair  words,  or  else  be  mute: 
Give  me  one  kiss,  I  '11  give  it  thee  again, 
And  one  for  interest,  if  thou  wilt  have  twain. 

'  Fie,  lifeless  picture,  cold  and  senseless  stone, 
Well-painted  idol,  image  dull  and  dead, 
Statue  contenting  but  the  eye  alone, 
Thing  like  a  man,  but  of  no  woman  bred  ; 

Thou  art  no  man,  though  of  a  man's  com- 
plexion, 

For  men  will  kiss  even  by  their  own  direction.' 

This   said,    impatience    chokes  her   pleading 

tongue, 

And  swelling  passion  doth  provoke  a  pause  ; 
Red  cheeks  and  fiery  eyes  blaze  forth  her  wrong; 
Being  judge  in  love,  she  cannot  right  her  cause : 
And  now  she  weeps,  and  now  she  fain  would 

speak, 
And  now  her  sobs  do  her  intendments  break. 

Sometimes  she  shakes  her  head,  and  then  his 

hand, 
Now  gazeth  she  on  him,  now  on  the  ground ; 


My  beauty  as  the  spring  doth  yearly  grow, 
My  flesh  is  soft  and  plump,  my  marrow  burning ; 

My  smooth  moist  hand,  were  it  with  thy  hand 
felt, 

Would  in  thy  palm  dissolve,  or  seem  to  melt. 

'  Bid  me  discourse,  I  will  enchant  thine  ear, 
Or,  like  a  fairy,  trip  upon  the  green, 
Or,  like  a  nymph,  with  long  dishevell'd  hair, 
Dance  on  the  sands,  and  yet  no  footing  seen  : 
Love  is  a  spirit  all  compact  of  fire, 
Not  gross  to  sink,  but  light,  and  will  aspire. 

'  Witness  this  primrose  bank  whereon  I  lie  ! 
These  forceless  flowers  like  sturdy  trees  sup- 
port me ; 
Two  strengthless  doves  will  draw  me  through 

the  sky, 
From  morn  to  night,  even  where  I  list  to  sport 

me : 

Is  love  so  light,  sweet  boy,  and  may  it  be 
That  thou  shouldst  think  it  heavy  unto  thee? 

'  Is  thine  own  heart  to  thine  own  face  affected? 

Can  thy  right  hand  seize  love  upon  thy  left  ? 

Then  woo  thyself,  be  of  thyself  rejected, 

Steal  thine  own  freedom,  and  complain  on  theft. 
Narcissus  so  himself  himself  forsook, 
And  died  to  kiss  his  shadow  in  the  brook. 

'  Torches  are  made  to  light,  jewels  to  wear, 
Dainties  to  taste,  fresh  beauty  for  the  use, 
Herbs  for  their  smell,  and  sappy  plants  to  bear ; 
Things  growing  to  themselves  are  growth's 

abuse : 
Seeds  spring  from  seeds,  and  beauty  breedeth 

beauty, 
Thou  wast  begot, — to  get  it  is  thy  duty. 

*  Upon  the  earth's  increase  why  shouldst  thou 
feed, 

Unless  the  earth  with  thy  increase  be  fed  ? 

By  law  of  Nature  thou  art  bound  to  breed, 

That  thine  may  live,  when  thou  thyself  art  dead ; 
And  so  in  spite  of  death  thou  dost  survive, 
In  that  thy  likeness  still  is  left  alive.' 

By  this  the  love-sick  queen  began  to  sweat, 
For,  where  they  lay,  the  shadow  had  forsook 

them, 

And  Titan,  'tired  in  the  mid-day  heat, 
With  burning  eye  did  hotly  overlook  them  ; 
Wishing  Adonis  had  his  team  to  guide, 
So  he  were  like  him,  and  by  Venus'  side. 

And  now  Adonis,  with  a  lazy  spright, 
And  with  a  heavy,  dark,  disliking  eye, 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


1213 


Sometimes  her  arms  infold  him  like  a  band  ; 

She  would,  he  will  not  in  her  arms  be  bound ; 
And  when  from  thence  he  struggles  to  be  gone, 
She  locks  her  lily  fingers  one  in  one. 

*  Fondling,'  she  saith,  *  since  I  have  hemm'd 
thce  here, 

Within  the  circuit  of  this  ivory  pale, 

I  '11  be  a  park,  and  thou  shall  be  my  deer ; 

Feed  where  thou  wilt,  on  mountain  or  in  dale: 
Graze  on  my  lips;  and  if  those  hills  be  dry, 
Stray  lower,  where  the  pleasant  fountains  lie. 


*  Within  this  limit  is  relief  enough, 
Sweet  bottom -grass,  and  high  delightful  plain, 
Round  nsing  hillocks,  brakesobscure  and  rough, 
To  shelter  thee  from  tempest  and  from  rain  ; 

Then  be  my  deer,  since  I  am  such  a  park  ; 

No  dog  shall  rouse  thee,  tho'  a  thousand  bark. ' 

At  this  Adonis  smiles  as  in  disdain, 
That  in  each  cheek  appears  a  pretty  dimple : 
Love  made  those  hollows,  if  himself  were  slain, 
He  might  be  buried  in  a  tomb  so  simple ; 
Foreknowing  well  if  there  he  came  to  lie, 
Why  there  Love  liv'd  and  there  he  could  not 
die. 

These   lovely  caves,   these  round  enchanting 

pits, 

Open'd  their  mouths  to  swallow  Venus'  liking : 
Being  mad  before,  how  doth  she  now  for  wits? 
Struck  dead  at  first,  what  needs  a  second 

striking  ? 

Poor  queen  of  love,  in  thine  own  law  forlorn, 
To  love  a  cheek  that  smiles  at  thee  in  scorn ! 

Now  which  way  shall  she  turn?  what  shall  she 

say? 

Her  words  are  done,  her  woes  the  more  increas- 
ing, 

The  time  is  spent,  her  object  will  away, 
And  from  her  twining  arms  doth  urge  releasing  : 
'  Pity ' — she  cries, — '  some  favour — some  re- 
morse— ' 
Away  he  springs,  and  hasteth  to  his  horse. 

But  lo,  from  forth  a  copse  that  neighbours  by, 
A  breeding  jennet,  lusty,  young,  and  proud, 
Adonis'  trampling  courser  doth  espy, 
And  forth  she  rushes,  snorts,  and  neighs  aloud : 

The  strong-neck'd  steed,  being  tied  unto  a 
tree, 

Breaketh  his  rein,  and  to  her  straight  goes  he. 

Imperiously  he  leaps,  he  neighs,  he  bounds, 
And  now  his  woven  girths  he  breaks  asunder  ; 


The  bearing  earth  with  his  hard  hoof  he  wounds, 
Whose  hollow  womb  resounds  like  heaven's 

thunder ; 

The  iron  bit  he  crushes  'tween  his  teeth, 
Controlling  what  he  was  controlled  with. 

His  ears  up-prick'd ;  his  braided  hanging  mane 
Upon  his  compass'd  crest  now  stand  on  end  ; 
His  nostrils  drink  the  air,  and  forth  again, 
As  from  a  furnace,  vapours  doth  he  send : 
His  eye,  which  scornfully  glisters  like  fire, 
Shows  his  hot  courage  and  his  high  desire. 

Sometimes  he  trots,  as  if  he  told  the  steps, 
With  gentle  majesty,  and  modest  pride ; 
Anon  he  rears  upright,  curvets,  and  leaps, 
As  who  should  say,  lo!  thus  my  strength  is 

tried  ; 

And  this  I  do  to  captivate  the  eye 
Of  the  fair  breeder  that  is  standing  by. 

;  '  ^  •  *  "i.'ii 

What  recketh  he  his  rider's  angry  stir, 
His  flattering  '  holla,'  or  his  '  Stand,  I  say '? 
What  cares  he  now  for  curb,  or  pricking  spur  ? 
For  rich  caparisons,  or  trapping  gay  ? 

He  sees  his  love,  and  nothing  else  he  sees, 
Nor  nothing  else  with  his  proud  sight  agrees. 

Look,  when  a  painter  would  surpass  the  life, 
In  limning  out  a  well-proportion  d  steed, 
His  art  with  nature's  workmanship  at  strife, 
As  if  the  dead  the  living  should  exceed  ; 
So  did  this  horse  excel  a  common  one, 
In  shape,  in  courage,  colour,  pace,  and  bone. 

Round-hooPd,  short -jointed,  fetlocks  shag  and 
long,  [wide, 

Broad  breast,  full  eye,  small  head,  and  nostril 

High  crest,  short  ears,  straight  legs,  and  pass- 
ing strong, 

Thin  mane,  thick  tail,  broad  buttock,  tender 

hide: 
Look  what  a  horse  should  have,  he  did  not 

lack, 
Save  a  proud  rider  on  so  proud  a  back. 

Sometime  he  scuds  far  off,  and  there  he  stares  ; 
Anon  he  starts  at  stirring  of  a  feather  ; 
To  bid  the  wind  a  base  he  now  prepares, 
And  whe'r  he  run,  or  fly,  they  knew  not  whether ; 
For  thro'  his  mane  and  tail  the  high  wind 

sings, 

Fanning  the  hairs,  who  wave  like  feather'd 
wings. 

He  looks  upon  his  love  and  neighs  unto  her  ; 
She  answers  him  as  if  she  knew  his  mind  : 


1214 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS- 


Being  proud,  as  females  are,  to  see  him  woo  her, 

She  puts  on  outward  strangeness,  seems  unkind ; 

Spurns  at  his  love,  and  scorns  the  heat  he  feels, 

Beating  his  kind  embracements  with  her  heels. 

Then,  like  a  melancholy  malecontent, 
He  vails  his  tail,  that,  like  a  falling  plume, 
Cool  shadow  to  his  melting  buttock  lent ; 
He  stamps,  and  bites  the  poor  flies  in  his  fume  : 
His  love,  perceiving  how  he  is  enrag'd, 
Grew  kinder,  and  his  fury  was  assuag'd. 

His  testy  master  goeth  about  to  take  him  ; 
When  lo,  the  unback'd  breeder,  full  of  fear, 
Jealous  of  catching,  swiftly  doth  forsake  him, 
With  her  the  horse,  and  left  Adonis  there  : 
As  they  were  mad  unto  the  wood  they  hie  them, 
Out-stripping  crows  that  strive  to  over-fly  them. 

All  swoln  with  chasing,  down  Adonis  sits, 
Banning  his  boisterous  and  unruly  beast ; 
And  now  the  happy  season  once  more  fits, 
That  love-sick  Love  by  pleading  may  be  blest; 
For  lovers  say  the  heart  hath  treble  wrong, 
When  it  is  barr'd  the  aidance  of  the  tongue. 

An  oven  that  is  stopp'd,  or  river  stay'd, 
Burneth  more  hotly,  swelleth  with  more  rage : 
So  of  concealed  sorrow  may  be  said  ; 
Free  vent  of  words  love's  fire  doth  assuage  ; 
But  when  the  heart's  attorney  once  is  mute, 
The  client  breaks,  as  desperate  in  his  suit. 

He  sees  her  coming,  and  begins  to  glow, 
Even  as  a  dying  coal  revives  with  wind, 
And  with  his  bonnet  hides  his  angry  brow  ; 
Looks  on  the  dull  earth  with  disturbed  mind, 
Taking  no  notice  that  she  is  so  nigh, 
For  all  askaunce  he  holds  her  in  his  eye. 

O  what  a  sight  it  was,  wistly  to  view 

How  she  came  stealing  to  the  wayward  boy  ! 

To  note  the  fighting  conflict  of  her  hue  ! 

How  white  and  red  each  other  did  destroy  ! 
But  now  her  cheek  was  pale,  and  by  and  by 
It  flash'd  forth  fire,  as  lightning  from  the  sky. 

Now  was  she  just  before  him  as  he  sat, 
And  like  a  lowly  lover  down  she  kneels ; 
With  one  fair  hand  she  heaveth  up  his  hat, 
Her  other  tender  hand  his  fair  cheek  feels  : 

His  tenderer  cheek  receives  her  soft  hand's 
print 

As  apt  as  new-fallen  snow  takes  any  dint. 

O  what  a  war  of  looks  was  then  between  them  J 
Her  eyes,  petitioners,  to  his  eyes  suing : 


His  eyes  saw  her  eyes  as  they  had  not  seen  them; 
Her  eyes  woo'd  still,  his  eyes  disdain'd   the 

wooing  : 

And  all  this  dumb  play  had  his  acts  made  plain 
With  tears,  which,  chorus-like,  her  eyes  did 
rain. 

Full  gently  now  she  takes  him  by  the  hand, 

A  lily  prison'd  in  a  gaol  of  snow, 

Or  ivory  in  an  alabaster  band  ; 

So  white  a  friend  engirts  so  white  a  foe  : 
This  beauteous  combat,  wilful  and  unwilling, 
Show'd  like  two  silver  doves  that  sit  a-billing. 

Once  more  the  engine  of  her  thoughts  began  : 
'  O  fairest  mover  on  this  mortal  round, 
Would  thou  wert  as  I  am,  and  I  a  man, 
My  heart  all  whole  as  thine,  thy  heart  my  wound; 
For  one  sweet  look  thy  help  I  would  assure 

thee, 

Though  nothing  but  my  body's  bane  would 
cure  thee.' 

4  Give  me  my  hand,'  saith  he,  '  why  dost  thou 

feel  it  ? ' 
'  Give  me  my  heart,'  saith  she,  *  and  thou  shalt 

have  it ; 

0  give  it  me  lest  thy  hard  heart  do  steel  it, 
And  being  steel'd,  soft  sighs  can  never  grave  it ; 

Then  love's  deep  groans  I  never  shall  regard, 
Because  Adonis  heart  hath  made  mine  hard.' 

'  For  shame,'  he  cries,  '  let  go,  and  let  me  go  ; 
My  day's  delight  is  past,  my  horse  is  gone, 
And  't  is  your  fault  I  am  bereft  him  so  ; 

1  pray  you  hence,  and  leave  me  here  alone  : 
For  all  my  mind,  my  thought,  my  busy  care, 
Is  how  to  get  my  palfrey  from  the  mare.' 

Thus  she  replies  :  c  Thy  palfrey,  as  he  should, 
Welcomes  the  warm  approach  of  sweet  desire. 
Affection  is  a  coal  that  must  be  cool'd  ; 
Else,  suffer'd,  it  will  set  the  heart  on  fire  : 

The  sea  hath  bounds,  but  deep  desire  hath 
none, 

Therefore  no  marvel  though  thy  horse  begone. 

'  How  like  a  jade  he  stood,  tied  to  the  tree, 
Servilely  master'd  with  a  leathern  rein  ! 
But  when  he  saw  his  love,  his  youth's  fair  fee, 
He  held  such  petty  bondage  in  disdain  ; 

Throwing  the  base  thong  from  his  bending 
crest, 

Enfranchising  his  mouth,  his  back,  his  breast. 

1  Who  sees  his  true  love  in  her  naked  bed, 
Teaching  the  sheets  a  whiter  hue  than  white, 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


1215 


But,  when  his  glutton  eye  so  full  hath  fed, 
His  other  agents  aim  at  like  delight  ? 
Who  is  so  faint  that  dare  not  be  so  bold 
To  touch  the  fire,  the  weather  being  cold  ? 

*  Let  me  excuse  thy  courser,  gentle  boy ; 
And  learn  of  him,  I  heartily  beseech  thee, 

To  take  advantage  on  presented  joy  ;        [thee. 

Though  I  were  dumb,  yet  his  proceedings  teach 
O  learn  to  love  ;  the  lesson  is  but  plain, 
And,  once  made  perfect,  never  lost  again.' 

'  I  know  not  love,'  quoth  he,  *  nor  will  not  know 

it, 

Unless  it  be  a  boar,  and  then  I  chase  it : 
'Tis  much  to  borrow,  and  I  will  not  owe  it ; 
My  love  to  love  is  love  but  to  disgrace  it ; 
For  I  have  heard  it  is  a  life  in  death, 
That  laughs,  and  weeps,  and  all  but  with  a 
breath. 

*  Who  wears  a  garment  shapeless  and  unfinish'd? 
Who  plucks  the  bud  before  one  leaf  put  forth  ? 
If  springing  things  be  any  jot  diminish'd, 
They  wither  in  their  prime,  prove  nothing  worth: 

The  colt  that 's  back'd  and  burthen'd  being 

young 
Loseth  his  pride,  and  never  waxeth  strong. 

'  You  hurt  my  hand  with  wringing ;  let  us  part, 
And  leave  this  idle  theme,  this  bootless  chat : 
Remove  your  siege  from  my  unyielding  heart ; 
To  love's  alarm  it  will  not  ope  the  gate. 

Dismiss  your  vows,  your  feigned  tears,  your 

flattery ; 

For  where  a  heart  is  hard,  they  make  no 
battery.' 

1  What !  canst  thou  talk,'  quoth  she,  « hast  thou 
a  tongue  ? 

0  would  thou  hadst  not,  or  I  had  no  hearing  ! 
Thy  mermaid's  voice   hath  done   me   double 

wrong  ; 

1  had  my  load  before,  now  press'd  with  bearing: 

Melodious    discord,    heavenly    tune    harsh 

sounding,  [wounding. 

Ear's  deep-sweet  music,  and  heart's  deep-sore 

*  Had  I  no  eyes,  but  ears,  my  ears  would  love 
That  inward  beauty  and  invisible : 

Or,  were  I  deaf,  thy  outward  parts  would  move 
Each  part  in  me  that  were  but  sensible : 

Though  neither  eyes  nor  ears,  to  hear  nor  see, 
Yet  should  I  be  in  love,  by  touching  thee. 

'  Sav  that  the  sense  of  feeling  were  bereft  me, 
And  that  I  could  not  see,  nor  hear,  nor  touch, 


And  nothing  but  the  very  smell  were  left  me, 
Yet  would  my  love  to  thee  be  still  as  much ; 
For  from  the  still'tory  of  thy  face  excelling 
Comes  breath  perfum'd,  that  breedeth  love 
by  smelling. 

'  But  O,  what  banquet  wert  thou  to  the  taste, 
Being  nurse  and  feeder  of  the  other  four  ! 
Would  they  not  wish  the  feast  might  ever  last, 
And  bid  Suspicion  double-lock  the  door  ? 
Lest  Jealousy,  that  sour  unwelcome  guest, 
Should,  by  his  stealing  in,  disturb  the  feast. 

Once  more  the  ruby-colour'd  portal  open'd, 
Which  to  his  speech  did  honey  passage  yield  ; 
Like  a  red  morn,  that  ever  yet  betoken'd 
Wreck  to  the  seaman,  tempest  to  the  field, 
Sorrow  to  shepherds,  woe  unto  the  birds, 
Gusts  and  foul  flaws  to  herdmen  and  to  herds. 

This  ill  presage  advisedly  she  marketh : 
Even  as  the  wind  is  hush'd  before  it  raineth, 
Or  as  the  wolf  doth  grin  before  it  barketh, 
Or  as  the  berry  breaks  before  it  staineth, 
Or  like  the  deadly  bullet  of  a  gun, 
His  meaning  struck  her  ere  his  words  begun. 

And  at  his  look  she  flatly  falleth  down, 
For  looks  kill  love,  and  love  by  looks  reviveth: 
A  smile  recures  the  wounding  of  a  frown, 
But  blessed  bankrupt,  that  by  love  so  thriveth  ! 

The  silly  boy,  believing  she  is  dead,      [red  ; 

Claps  her  pale  cheek,  till  clapping  makes  it 
rudm:\i-r/  '.'»rfj  «•£ 

And  all-amaz'd  brake  off  his  late  intent, 
For  sharply  he  did  think  to  reprehend  her, 
Which  cunning  love  did  wittily  prevent : 
Fair  fall  the  wit  that  can  so  well  defend  her  ! 

For  on  the  grass  she  lies  as  she  were  slain, 

Till  his  breath  breatheth  life  in  her  again. 

He  wrings  her  nose,  he  strikes  her  on  the  cheeks, 
He  bends  her  fingers,  holds  her  pulses  hard  ; 
He  chafes  her  lips,  a  thousand  ways  he  seeks 
To  mend  the  hurt  that  his  unkindness  marr'd  ; 
He  kisses  her  ;  and  she,  by  her  good  will, 
Will  never  rise  so  he  will  kiss  her  still. 

The  night  of  sorrow  now  is  turn'd  to  day : 
Her  two  blue  windows  faintly  she  upheaveth, 
Like  the  fair  sun,  when  in  his  fresh  array 
He  cheers  the  morn,  and  all  the  world  relieveth : 
And  as  the  bright  sun  glorifies  the  sky, 
So  is  her  face  illumin'd  with  her  eye  : 

Whose  beams  upon  his  hairless  face  are  fix'd, 
As  if  from  thence  they  borrow'd  all  their  shine. 


I2l6 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


Were  never  four  such  lamps  together  mix'd, 
Had  not  his  clouded  with  his  brows'  repine  ; 

But  hers,  which  thro'  the  crystal  tears  gave 
light, 

Shone  like  the  moon  in  water  seen  by  night. 

'O,  where  am  I?'  quoth  she,   'in  earth  or 

heaven, 

Or  in  the  ocean  drench'd,  or  in  the  fire  ? 
What  hour  is  this?  or  morn,  or  weary  even? 
Do  I  delight  to  die,  or  life  desire  ? 

But  now  I  liv'd,  and  life  was  death's  annoy ; 

But  now  I  died,  and  death  was  lively  joy. 

*  O  thou  didst  kill  me  ; — kill  me  once  again  : 
Thy  eyes'  shrewd  tutor,  that  hard  heart  of  thine, 
Hath  taught  them  scornful  tricks,  and  such  dis- 
dain [mine  ; 

That  they  have  murder'd  this  poor  heart  of 
And  these  mine  eyes,  true  leaders  to  their 

queen, 
But  for  thy  piteous  lips  no  more  had  seen. 

*  Long  may  they  kiss  each  other,  for  this  cure ! 
O  never  let  their  crimson  liveries  wear  ! 

And  as  they  last,  their  verdure  still  endure, 
To  drive  infection  from  the  dangerous  year  ! 
That  the  star-gazers,  having  writ  on  death, 
May  say  the  plague  is  banished  by  thy  breath. 

*  Pure  lips,  sweet  seals  in  my  soft  lip  imprinted, 
What  bargains  may  I  make,  still  to  be  sealing  ? 
To  sell  myself  I  can  be  well  contented, 

So  thou  wilt  buy,  and  pay,  and  use  good  deal- 
ing; 

Which  purchase  if  thou  make,  for  fear  of  slips, 
Set  thy  seal-manual  on  my  wax-red  lips. 

'  A  thousand  kisses  buys  my  heart  from  me  ; 
And  pay  them  at  thy  leisure,  one  by  one. 
What  is  ten  hundred  touches  unto  thee  ? 
Are  they  not  quickly  told,  and  quickly  gone  ? 

Say,  for  non-payment  that  the  debt  should 
double, 

Is  twenty  hundred  kisses  such  a  trouble  ? ' 

'  Fair  queen/  quoth  he,  '  if  any  love  you  owe 

me, 

Measure  my  strangeness  with  my  unripe  years; 
Before  I  know  myself  seek  not  to  know  me ; 
No  fisher  but  the  ungro-vn  fry  forbears  : 

The  mellow  plum  doth  fall,  the  green  sticks 

fast, 
Or  being  early  pluck'd  is  sour  to  taste. 

*  Look,  the  world's  comforter,  with  weary  gait, 
His  day's  hot  task  hath  ended  in  the  west : 


The  owl,  night's  herald,  shrieks, — 'tis  very  late; 
The  sheep  are  gone  to  fold,  birds  to  their  nest ; 

And  coal-black  clouds  that  shadow  heaven's 
light 

Do  summon  us  to  part,  and  bid  good  night. 

'  New  let  me  say  "good  night,"  and  so  say  you; 
If  you  will  say  so,  you  shall  have  a  kiss.' 
'Good  night,'  quoth  she;   and,  ere  he  says 

*  adieu,' 
The  honey  fee  of  parting  tender'd  is  : 

Her  arms  do  lend  his  neck  a  sweet  embrace; 

Incorporate  then  they  seem ;  face  grows  to  face. 

Till,  breathless,  he  disjoin'd,  and  backward 

drew 

The  heavenly  moisture,  that  sweet  coral  mouth, 

Whose  precious  taste  her  thirsty  lips  well  knew, 

Whereon  they  surfeit,  yet  complain  on  drouth  : 

He  with  her  plenty  press'd,  she  faint  with 

dearth, 
(Their  lips  together  glued,)  fall  to  the  earth. 

Now  quick  Desire  hath  caught  the  yielding  prey, 
And  glutton-like  she  feeds,  yet  never  filleth  ; 
Her  lips  are  conquerors,  his  lips  obey, 
Paying  what  ransom  the  insulter  willeth  ; 

Whose  vulture  thought  doth  pitch  the  price 
so  high, 

That  she  will  draw  his  lips'  rich  treas'.t»2  dry. 

And  having  felt  the  sweetness  of  the  spoil, 
With  blindfold  fury  she  begins  to  forage  ; 
Her  face  doth  reek  and  smoke,  her  blood  doth 

boil, 

And  careless  lust  stirs  up  a  desperate  courage ; 
Planting  oblivion,  beating  reason  back, 
Forgetting  shame's  pure  blush,  and  honour's 
wrack. 

Hot,  faint,  and  weary,  with  her  hard  embracing, 
Like  a  wild  bird  being  tam'd  with  too  much 

handling, 

Or  as  the  fleet-foot  roe  that 's  tir'd  with  chasing, 
Or  like  the  froward  infant  still'd  with  dandling, 
He  now  obeys,  and  now  no  more  resisteth, 
While  she  takes  all  she  can,  not  all  she  listeth. 

What  wax  so  frozen  but  dissolves  with  temper- 
ing* 

And  yields  at  last  to  every  light  impression  ? 
Things  out  of  hope  are  compass'd  oft  with  ven- 
turing, 

Chiefly  in  love,  whose  leave  exceedscommission: 
Affection  faints  not  like  a  pale-fac'd  coward, 
But  then  wooes  best  when  most  his  choice  is 
froward, 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS, 


1217 


When  he  did  frown,  O,  had  she  then  gave  over, 
Such  nectar  from  his  lips  she  had  not  suck'd. 
Foul  words  and  frowns  must  not  repel  a  lover; 
What  though  the  rose  have  prickles,  yet  'tis 

pluck'd  : 

Were  beauty  under  twenty  locks  kept  fast, 
Yet  love  breaks  through,  and  picks  them  all 
at  last. 

For  pity  now  she  can  no  more  detain  him  ; 

The  poor  fool  prays  her  that  he  may  depart : 

She  is  resolv'd  no  longer  to  restrain  him  ; 

Bids  him  farewell,  and  look  well  to  her  heart, 
The  which,  by  Cupid's  bow  she  doth  protest, 
He  carries  thence  incaged  in  his  breast. 

'  Sweet  boy,'  she  says,  *  this  night  I  '11  waste  in 

sorrow, 

For  my  sick  heart  commands  mine  eyes  to  watch. 
Tell  me,  love's  master,  shall  we  meet  to-morrow? 
Say,  shall  we?  shall  we?  wilt  thou  make  the 

match  ? ' 

He  tells  her,  no  ;  to-morrow  he  intends 
To  hunt  the  boar  with  certain  of  his  friends. 

'  The  boar  ! '  quoth  she,  whereat  a  sudden  pale, 
Like  lawn  being  spread  upon  the  blushing  rose, 
Usurps  her  cheeks  ;  she  trembles  at  his  tale, 
And  on  his  neck  her  yoking  arms  she  throws  : 
She  sinketh  down,  still  hanging  by  his  neck, 
He  on  her  belly  falls,  she  on  her  back. 

Now  is  she  in  the  very  lists  of  love, 

Her  champion  mounted  for  the  hot  encounter  : 

All  is  imaginary  she  doth  prove, 

He  will  not  manage  her,  although  he  mount  her; 
That  worse  than  Tantalus'  is  her  annoy, 
To  clip  Elysium,  and  to  lack  her  joy. 

Even  as  poor  birds,  deceiv'd  with  painted  grapes, 
Do  surfeit  by  the  eye,  and  pine  the  maw, 
Even  so  she  languisheth  in  her  mishaps, 
As  those  poor  birds  that  helpless  berries  saw  : 

The  warm   effects  which  she  in   him  finds 
missing, 

She  seeks  to  kindle  with  continual  kissing. 

But  all  in  vain  ;  good  queen,  it  will  not  be  : 
She  hath  assay'd  as  much  as  may  be  prov'd  ; 
Her  pleading  hath  deserv'd  a  greater  fee  ; 
She 's  Love,  she  loves,  and  yet  she  is  not  lov'd. 

'  Fie,  fie,'  he  says,  '  you  crush  me ;  let  me  go; 

You  have  no  reason  to  withhold  me  so.' 

'Thou  hadst  been  gone,'  quoth  she,  'sweet  boy, 

ere  this,  [boar. 

But  that  thou  told'st  me  thou  wouldst  hunt  the 


O  be  advis'd  !  thou  know'st  not  what  it  is 
With  javelin's  point  a  churlish  swine  to  gore, 
Whose  tushes  never  sheath'd  he  whetteth  still, 
Like  to  a  mortal  butcher,  bent  to  kill. 

'  On  his  bow-back  he  hath  a  battle  set 

Of  bristly  pikes,  that  ever  threat  his  foes ; 

His  eyes  like  glowworms  shine  when  he  doth 
fret: 

His  snout  digs  sepulchres  where'er  he  goes  ; 
Being  mov'd,  he  strikes  whate'er  is  in  his  way, 
And  whom  he  strikes  his  cruel  trshes  slay. 

'  His  brawny  sides,  with  hairy  bristles  arm'd, 
Are  better  proof  than  thy  spear's  point  can 

enter ; 

His  short  thick  neck  cannot  be  easily  harm'd ; 
Being  ireful  on  the  lion  he  will  venture : 

The  thorny  brambles  and  embracing  bushes, 
As  fearful  of  him,  part ;  through  whom  he 
rushes. 

'  Alas,  he  nought  esteems  that  face  ot  thine, 
To  which  Love's  eyes  pay  tributary  gazes  ; 
Nor  thy  soft  hands,  sweet  lips,  and  crystal  eyne, 
Whose  full  perfection  all  the  world  amazes  ; 
But  having  thee  at  vantage,  (wondrous  dread !) 
Would  root   these  beauties  as  he  roots  the 
mead. 

'  O,  let  him  keep  his  loathsome  cabin  still ! 
Beauty  hath  nought  to  do  with  such  foul  fiends: 
Come  not  within  his  danger  by  thy  will : 
They  that  thrive  well  take  counsel  of  their  friends. 

When  thou  didst  name  the  boar,  not  to  dis- 
semble, [ble. 

I  fear'd  thy  fortune,  and  my  joints  did  trem^ 

'  Didst  thou  not  mark  my  face  ?     Was  it  not 

white  ? 

Saw'st  thou  not  signs  of  fear  lurk  in  mine  eye  ? 
Grew  I  not  faint  ?     And  fell  I  not  downright  ? 
Within  my  bosom,  whereon  thou  dost  lie, 
My  boding  heart  pants,  beats,  and  takes  no 

rest, 

But,  like  an  earthquake,  shakes  thee  on  my 
breast. 

'  For  where  Love  reigns,  disturbing  Jealousy 
Doth  call  himself  Affection's  sentinel ; 
Gives  false  alarms,  suggesteth  mutiny, 
And  in  a  peaceful  hour  doth  cry,  "  kill,  kill ; " 
Distempering  gentle  Love  in  his  desire, 
As  air  and  water  do  abate  the  fire. 

*  This  sour  informer,  this  bate-breeding  spy, 
This  canker  that  eats  up  love's  tender  spring, 

2Q 


1218 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


This  carry-tale,  dissentious  Jealousy, 

That  sometime  true  news,  sometime  false  doth 

bring, 

Knocks  at  my  heart,  and  whispers  in  mine  ear, 
That  if  I  love  thee  I  thy  death  should  fear  : 

'  And,  more  than  so,  presenteth  to  mine  eye 
The  picture  of  an  angry-chafing  hoar, 
Under  whose  sharp  fangs  on  his  back  doth  lie 
An  image  like  thyself,  all  stain'd  with  gore  ; 
Whose  blood  upon  the  fresh  flowers  being 

shed 

Doth  make  them  droop  with  grief,  and  hang 
the  head. 

*  What  should  I  do,  seeing  thee  so  indeed, 
That  tiemble  at  the  imagination? 

The  thought  of  it  doth  make  my  faint  heart 
bleed, 

And  fear  doth  teach  it  divination  : 

I  prophesy  thy  death,  my  living  sorrow, 
If  thou  encounter  with  the  boar  to-morrow. 

'  But  if  thou  needs  will  hunt,  be  rul'd  by  me  ; 
Uncouple  at  the  timorous  flying  hare, 
Or  at  the  fox,  which  lives  by  subtilty, 
Or  at  the  roe,  which  no  encounter  dare  : 
Pursue  these  fearful  creatures  o'er  the  downs, 
And  on  thy  well-breath'd  hon>e  keep  with 
thy  hounds. 

*  And  when  thou  hast  on  foot  the  purblind  hare, 
Mark  the  poor  wretch,  to  overshoot  his  troubles, 
How  he  outruns  the  wind,  and  with  what  care 
He  cranks  and  crosses,  with  a  thousand  doubles: 

The  many  musits  through  the  which  he  goes 
Are  like  a  labyrinth  to  amaze  his  foes. 

'  Sometime  he  runs  among  a  flock  of  sheep, 
To  make  the  cunning  hounds  mistake   their 

smell, 

And  sometime  where  earth-delving  conies  keep, 
To  stop  the  loud  pursuers  in  their  yell ; 

And  sometime  sorteth  with  a  herd  of  deer  ; 

Danger  deviseth  shifts ;  wit  waits  on  fear  : 

*  For  there  his  smell  with  others  being  mingled, 
The  hot  scent-snuffing  hounds  are  driven  to 

doubt, 

Ceasing  their  clamorous  cry  till  they  have  singled 
With  much  ado  the  cold  fault  cleanly  out ; 
Then   do   they  spend  their  mouths :  Echo 

replies, 
As  if  another  chase  were  in  the  skies. 

*  By  this,  poor  Wat,  far  off  upon  a  hill, 
Stands  on  his  hinder  legs  with  listening  ear, 


To  hearken  if  his  foes  pursue  him  still ; 

Anon  their  loud  alarums  he  doth  hear  ; 
And  now  his  grief  may  be  compared  well 
To  one  sore  sick  that  hears  the  passing  bell. 

'  Then  shalt  thou  see  the  dew -bedabbled  wretch 
Turn,  and  return,  indenting  with  the  way  ; 
Each  envious  briar  his  weary  legs  doth  scratch, 
Each  shadow  makes  him  stop,  each  murmur  stay : 
For  misery  is  trodden  on  by  many, 
And  being  low  never  reliev'd  by  any. 

'  Lie  quietly,  and  hear  a  little  more  ; 
Nay,  do  not  struggle,  for  thou  shalt  not  rise : 
To  make  thee  hate  the  hunting  of  the  boar, 
Unlike  myself  thou  hear'st  me  moralize, 

Applying  this  to  that,  and  so  to  so  ; 

For  love  can  comment  upon  every  woe. 

'Where  did    I  leave?'— 'No   matter  where,' 

quoth  he ; 

*  Leave  me,  and  then  the  story  aptly  ends  : 
The  night  is  spent.' — 'Why,  what  of  that?' 

quoth  she. 

'  I  am,'  quoth  he,  '  expected  of  my  friends  ; 
And  now  'tis  dark,  and  going  I  shall  fall.' 
*  In  night,'  quoth  she,  '  desire  sees  best  of  all. 

4  But  if  thou  fall,  O  then  imagine  this, 
The  earth  in  love  with  thee  thy  footing  trips, 
And  all  is  but  to  rob  thee  of  a  kiss.  [lips 

Rich  preys  make  true  men  thieves  :  so  do  thy 
Make  modest  Dian  cloudy  and  forlorn, 
Lest  she  should  steal  a  kiss,  and  die  forsworn. 

'  Now  of  this  dark  night  I  perceive  the  reason: 
Cynthia  for  shame  obscures  her  silver  shine, 
Till  forging  nature  be  condemn'd  of  treason, 
For  stealing  moulds  from   heaven  that  were 
divine,  [despite, 

Wherein  she  fram'd  thee  in  high  heaven's 
To  shame  the  sun  by  day,  an3  her  by  night. 

1  And  therefore  hath  she  brib'd  the  Destinies, 
To  cross  the  curious  workmanship  of  nature, 
To  mingle  beauty  with  infirmities, 
And  pure  perfection  with  impure  defeature  ; 
Making  it  subject  to  the  tyranny 
Of  mad  mischances  and  much  misery  ; 

1  As  burning  fevers,  agues  pale  and  faint, 
Life-poisoning  pestilence,  and  frenzies  wood, 
The  marrow-eating  sickness,  whose  attaint 
Disorder  breeds  by  heating  of  the  blood  : 

Surfeits,    imposthumes,    grief,    and   damn'd 
despair, 

Swear  Nature's  death  for  framing  thee  so  fair. 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


1219 


'  And  not  the  least  of  all  these  maladies, 
But  in  one  minute's  fight  brings  beauty  under  : 
Both  favour,  savour,  hue,  and  qualities, 
Whereat  the  impartial  gazer  late  did  wonder, 
Are  on  the  sudden  wasted,  thaw'd  and  done, 
As  mountain-snow  melts  with  the  midday  sun. 

*  Therefore,  despite  of  fruitless  chastity, 
Love-lacking  vestals,  and  self-loving  nuns, 
That  on  the  earth  would  breed  a  scarcity 
And  barren  dearth  of  daughters  and  of  sons, 

Be  prodigal :  the  lamp  that  burns  by  night 
Dries  up  his  oil  to  lend  the  world  his  light. 

*  What  is  thy  body  but  a  swallowing  grave, 
Seeming  to  bury  that  posterity  [have, 
Which  by  the  rights  of  time  thou  needs  must 
If  thou  destroy  them  not  in  dark  obscurity  ? 

If  so,  the  world  will  hold  thee  in  disdain, 
Sith  in  thy  pride  so  fair  a  hope  is  slain. 

*  So  in  thyself  thyself  art  made  away  ; 

A  mischief  worse  than  civil  home-bred  strife, 
Or  theirs  whose  desperate  hands  themselves  do 

slay 

Or  butcher-sire,  that  reaves  his  son  of  life. 
Foul  cankering  rust  the  hidden  treasure  frets, 
But  gold  that 's  put  to  use  more  gold  begets.3 

'  Nay,  then,'  quoth  Adon,  '  you  will  fall  again 
Into  your  idle  over-handled  theme  ; 
The  kiss  I  gave  you  is  bestow'd  in  vain, 
And  all  in  vain  you  strive  against  the  stream  ; 

For  by  this  black-fac'd  night,  desire's  foul 
nurse,  [worse. 

Your  treatise  makes  me  like  you  worse  and 

*  If  love  have  lent  you  twenty  thousand  tongues, 
And  every  tongue  more  moving  than  your  own, 
Bewitching  like  the  wanton  mermaid's  songs, 
Yet  from  mine  ear  the  tempting  tune  is  blown; 

For  know,  my  heart  stands  armed  in  mine  ear, 
And  will  not  let  a  false  sound  enter  there  ; 

*  Lest  the  deceiving  harmony  should  run 
Into  the  quiet  closure  of  my  breast ; 

And  then  my  little  heart  were  quite  undone, 
In  his  bedchamber  to  be  barr'd  of  rest. 

No,  lady,  no  ;  my  heart  longs  not  to  groan, 
But  soundly  sleeps,  while  now  it  sleeps  alone. 

'  What  have  you  urg'd  that  I  cannot  reprove  ? 
The  path  is  smooth  that  leadeth  on  to  danger  ; 
I  hate  not  love,  but  your  device  in  love, 
That  lends  embracements  unto  every  stranf  ?r. 

You  do  it  for  increase ;  O  strange  excuse  ! 

When  reason  is  the  bawd  to  lust's  abuse. 


'  Call  it  not  love,  for  love  to  heaven  is  fled, 
Since  sweating  lust  on  earth  usurp'd  his  name ; 
Under  whose  simple  semblance  he  nath  fed 
Upon  fresh  beauty,  blotting  it  with  blame  ; 
Which  the  hot  tyrant  stains,  and  soon  bereaves, 
As  caterpillars  do  the  tender  leaves. 

'  Love  comforteth  like  sunshine  after  rain, 
But  lust's  effect  is  tempest  after  sun ; 
Love's  gentle  spring  doth  always  fresh  remain, 
Lust's  winter  comes  ere  summer  half  be  done. 
Love  surfeits  not;  lust  like  a  glutton  dies  : 
Love  is  all  truth  ;  lust  full  of  forged  lies. 

*  More  I  could  tell,  but  more  I  dare  not  say ; 

The  text  is  old,  the  orator  too  green. 

Therefore,  in  sadness,  now  I  will  away ; 

My  face  is  full  of  shame,  my  heart  of  teen  ; 
Mine  ears  that  to  your  wanton  talk  attended, 
Do  burn  themselves  for  having  so  offended.' 

With  this  he  breaketh  from  the  sweet  embrace 
Of  those  fair  arms  which  bound  him  to  her 
breast,  [apace ; 

And  homeward  through  the  dark  laund  runs 
Leaves  Love  upon  her  back  deeply  distress'd. 
Look  how  a  bright  star  shooteth  from  the  sky, 
So  glides  he  in  the  night  from  Venus'  eye  ; 

Which  after  him  she  darts,  as  one  on  shore 
Gazing  upon  a  late-embarked  friend, 
Till  the  wild  waves  will  have  him  seen  no  more, 
Whose  ridges  with  the  meeting  clouds  contend ; 
So  did  the  merciless  and  pitchy  nifht 
Fold  in  the  object  that  did  feed  her  sight. 

Whereat  amaz'd,  as  one  that  unaware 
Hath  dropp'd  a  precious  jewel  in  the  flood, 
Or  'stonish'd  as  night-wanderers  often  are, 
Their  light  blown  out  in  some  mistrustful  wood ; 
Even  so  confounded  in  the  dark  she  lay, 
Having  lost  the  fair  discovery  of  her  way. 

And  now  she  beats  her  heart,  whereat  it  groans, 

That  all  the  neighbour-caves,  as  seeming 
troubled, 

Make  verbal  repetition  of  her  moans  ; 

Passion  on  passion  deeply  is  redoubled :  [woe  V 
'Ah  me!'  she  cries,  and  twenty  times,  'woe, 
And  twenty  echoes  twenty  times  cry  so. 

She,  marking  them,  begins  a  wailing  note, 
And  sings  extemp'rally  a  woeful  ditty;     [dote; 
How  love  makes  young  men  thrall,  and  old  men 
How  love  is  wise  in  folly,  foolish-witty  : 
Her  heavy  anthem  still  concludes  in  woe, 
And  still  the  choir  of  echoes  answer  so. 


1220 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


Her  song  was  tedious,  and  outwore  the  night, 

For  lovers'  hours  are  long,  though  seeming  short: 

If  pleas'd  themselves,  others,  they  think,  delight 

In  such  like  circumstance,  with  such  like  sport : 

Their  copious  stories,  oftentimes  begun, 

End  without  audience,  and  are  never  done. 

For  who  hath  she  to  spend  the  night  withal, 

But  idle  sounds  resembling  parasites, 

Like   shrill-tongued  tapsters   answering  every 

call, 
Soothing  the  humour  of  fantastic  wits  ? 

She  says,  '  'tis  so  : '  they  answer  all, '  'tis  so;' 
And  would  say  after  her,  if  she  said  *  no.' 

Lo  !  here  the  gentle  lark,  weary  of  rest, 
From  his  moist  cabinet  mounts  up  on  high , 
And  wakes  the   morning,  from  whose  silver 

breast 
The  sun  ariseth  in  his  majesty ; 

Who  doth  the  world  so  gloriously  behold, 
The  cedar-tops  and  hills  seem  burnish'd  gold. 

Venus  salutes  him  with  this  fair  good-morrow : 
'  O  thou  clear  god,  and  patron  of  all  light, 
From  whom  each  lamp  and  shining  star  doth 

borrow 

The  beauteous  influence  that  makes  him  bright, 
There  lives  a  son,  that  suck'd  an  earthly 

mother, 
May  lend  thee  light,  as  thou  dost  lend  to  other.' 

This  said,  she  hasteth  to  a  myrtle  grove, 
Musing  the  morning  is  so  much  o'erworn, 
And  yet  she  hears  no  tidings  of  her  love  : 
She  hearkens  for  his  hounds,  and  for  his  horn : 
Anon  she  hears  them  chant  it  lustily, 
And  all  in  haste  she  coasteth  to  the  cry. 

And  as  she  runs,  the  bushes  in  the  way 

Some  catch  her  by  the  neck,  some  kiss  her 
face, 

Some  twine  about  her  thigh  to  make  her  stay; 

She  wildly  breaketh  from  their  strict  embrace, 
Like  amilchdoe,  whose  swelling  dugs  do  ache, 
Hasting  to  feed  her  fawn,  hid  in  some  brake. 

By  this  she  hears  the  hounds  are  at  a  bay, 
Whereat  she  starts,  like  one  that  spies  an  adder 
Wreath'd  up  in  fatal  folds,  just  in  his  way, 
The  fear  whereof  doth  make  him  shake  and 

shudder ; 

Even  so  the  timorous  yelping  of  the  hounds 
Appals  her  senses,  and  her  spright  confounds. 

For  now  she  knows  it  is  no  gentle  chase , 
But  the  blunt  boar,  rough  bear,  or  lion  proud, 


Because  the  cry  remaineth  in  one  place, 
Where  fearfully  the  dogs  exclaim  aloud  : 

Finding  their  enemy  to  be  so  curst,       [first. 

They  all  strain  court'sy  who  shall  cope  him 

This  dismal  cry  rings  sadly  in  her  ear, 
Through  which  it  enters  to  surprise  her  heart, 
Who,  overcome  by  doubt  and  bloodless  fear, 
With  cold-pale  weakness  numbs  each  feeling 
part :  [yield, 

Like  soldiers,  when  their  captain  once  doth 
They  basely  fly,  and  dare  not  stay  the  field. 

Thus  stands  she  in  a  trembling  ecstasy ; 
Till,  cheering  up  her  senses  sore-dismay'd, 
She  tells  them  'tis  a  causeless  fantasy, 
And  childish  error  that  they  are  afraid  ; 

Bids  them  leave  quaking,  bids  them  fear  no 
more  ; —  [boar  ; 

And  with  that  word  she  spied  the  hunted 

Whose  frothy  mouth,  bepainted  all  with  red, 
Like  milk  and  blood  being  mingled  both  together, 
A  second  fear  through  all  her  sinews  spread, 
Which  madly  hurries  her  she  knows  not  whither: 
This  way  she  runs,  and  now  she  will  no  further. 
But  back  retires,  to  rate  the  boar  for  murther. 

A  thousand  spleens  bear  her  a  thousand  ways  ; 

She  treads  the  path  that  she  untreads  again  ; 

Her  more  than  haste  is  mated  with  delays, 

Like  the  proceedings  of  a  drunken  brain, 
Full  of  respect,  yet  nought  at  all  respecting, 
In  hand  with  all  things,  nought  at  all  effecting. 

Here  kennell'd  in  a  brake  she  finds  a  hound, 
And  asks  the  weary  caitiff  for  his  master  ; 
And,  there  another  licking  of  his  wound, 
'Gainst  venom'd  sores  the  only  sovereign  plaster; 
And  here  she  meets  another  sadly  scowling, 
To  whom  she  speaks,  and  he  replies  with 
howling. 

When  he  hath  ceas'd  his  ill -resounding  noise, 
Another  flap-mouth'd  mourner,  black  and  grim. 
Against  the  welkin  volleys  out  his  voice  ; 
Another  and  another  answer  him, 

Clapping   their   proud  tails   to   the   ground 
below,  [go. 

Shaking  their  scratch'd  ears,  bleeding  as  they 

Look,  how  the  world's  poor  people  are  amaz'd 
At  apparitions,  signs,  and  prodigies, 
Whereon  with  fearful  eyes  they  long  have  gaz'dt 
Ir  Busing  them  with  dreadful  prophecies  : 
So  she  at  these  sad  signs  draws  up  her  breath, 
And,  sighing  it  again,  exclaims  on  Death. 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


1221 


'  Hard-favour'd  tyrant,  ugly,  meagre,  lean, 
Hateful  divorce  of  love,'  (thus  chidesshe  Death, ) 

*  Grim-grinning  ghost,  earth's  worm,  what  dost 

thou  mean 
To  stifle  beauty,  and  to  steal  his  breath, 

Who  when  he  liv'd,  his  breath  and  beauty  set 
Gloss  on  the  rose;  smell  to  the  violet  ? 

'  If  he  be  dead, — O  no,  it  cannot  be, 
Seeing  his  beauty,  thou  shouldst  strike  at  it — 
O  yes,  it  may  ;  thou  hast  no  eyes  to  see, 
But  hatefully  at  random  dost  thou  hit. 

Thy  mark  is  feeble  age  ;  but  thy  false  dart 
Mistakes  that  aim,  and  cleaves  an  infant's 
heart. 

'  Hadst  thou  but  bid  beware,  then  he  had  spoke, 

And  hearing  him  thy  power  had  lost  his  power. 

The  Destinies  will  curse  thee  for  this  stroke  ; 

They  bid  thee  crop  a  weed,  thoupluck'sta  flower : 
Love's  golden  arrow  at  him  should  have  fled, 
And  not  Death's  ebon  dart,  to  strike  him  dead. 

*  Dost  thou  drink  tears,   that  thou   provok'st 

such  weeping? 

What  may  a  heavy  groan  advantage  thee  ? 
Why  hast  thou  cast  into  eternal  sleeping 
Those  eyes  that  taught  all  other  eyes  to  see  ? 
Now  Nature  cares  not  for  thy  mortal  vigour, 
Since  her  best  work  is  ruin'd  with  thy  rigour.' 

Here  overcome,  as  one  full  of  despair, 
She  vail'd  her  eyelids,  who,  like  sluices,  stopp'd 
The  crystal  tide  that  from  her  two  cheeks  fair 
In  the  sweet  channel  of  her  bosom  dropp'd ; 

But  through  the  floodgates  breaks  the  silver 
rain, 

And  with  his  strong  course  opens  them  again. 

O  how  her  eyes  and  tears  did  lend  and  borrow  ! 
Her  eyes  seen  in  the  tears,  tears  in  her  eye  ; 
Both  crystals,  where  they  view'd  each  other's 

sorrow, 

Sorrow,  that  friendly  sighs  sought  still  to  dry ; 
But  like  a  stormy  day,  now  wind,  now  rain, 
Sighs  dry  her  cheeks,  tears  make  them  wet 
again. 

Variable  passions  throng  her  constant  woe, 
As  striving  who  should  best  become  her  grief; 
All  entertain'd,  each  passion  labours  so 
That  every  present  sorrow  seemeth  chief, 
But  none  is  best ;  then  join  they  all  together, 
Like  many  clouds  consulting  for  foul  weather. 

By  this,  far  off  she  hears  s^me  huntsmen  hollo : 
A  nurse's  song  ne'er  pleas'd  her  babe  so  well : 


The  dire  imagination  she  did  follow 
This  sound  of  hope  doth  labour  to  expel ; 
For  now  reviving  joy  bids  her  rejoice, 
And  flatters  her  it  is  Adonis'  voice. 

Whereat  her  tears  began  to  turn  their  tide, 
Being  prison'd  in  her  eye,  like  pearls  in  glass ; 
Yet  sometimes  falls  an  orient  drop  beside, 
Which  her  cheek  melts,  as  scorning  it  should 

pass, 

To  wash  the  foul  face  of  the  sluttish  ground, 
Who   is   but   drunken    when    she    seemeth 
drown'd. 

0  hard-believing  love,  how  strange  it  seems 
Not  to  believe,  and  yet  too  credulous  ! 

Thy  weal  and  woe  are  both  of  them  extremes, 
Despair  and  hope  make  thee  ridiculous  : 

The  one  doth  flatter  thee  in  thoughts  unlikely, 
In  likely  thoughts  the  other  kills  thee  quickly. 

Now  she  unweaves   the   web   that  she  hath 

wrought ; 

Adonis  lives,  and  Death  is  not  to  blame  ; 
It  was  not  she  that  called  him  all -to  naught : 
Now  she  adds  honours  to  his  hateful  name  ; 
She  clepes  him  king  of  graves,  and  grave  for 

kings, 
Imperious  supreme  of  all  mortal  things. 

'  No,  no,'  quoth  she,  '  sweet  Death,  I  did  but 

jest; 

Yet  pardon  me,  I  felt  a  kind  of  fear, 
When  as  I  met  the  boar,  that  bloody  beast, 
Which  knows  no  pity,  but  is  still  severe  ; 
Then,  gentle  shadow  (truth  I  must  confess), 
I  rail'd  on  thee,  fearing  my  love's  decease. 

'  'Tis   not   my  fault :    the   boar   provok'd  my 

tongue  ; 

Be  wreak'd  on  him,  invisible  commander ; 
'Tis   he,  foul   creature,   that   hath  done   thee 

wrong ; 

1  did  but  act,  he 's  author  of  thy  slander  : 

Grief  hath  two  tongues,  and  never  woman  yet 
Could  rule  them  both,  without  ten  women's 
wit. ' 

Thus,  hoping  that  Adonis  is  alive, 
Her  rash  suspect  she  doth  extenuate  ; 
And  that  his  beauty  may  the  better  thrive, 
With  Death  she  humbly  doth  insinuate ;  [stories 
Tells  him  of  trophies,  statues,  tombs ;  and 
His  victories,  his  triumphs,  and  his  glories. 

'  O  Jove,'  quoth  she.  '  how  much  a  fool  was  I, 
To  be  of  such  a  weak  and  silly  mind, 


1222 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


To  wail  his  death  who  lives,  and  must  not  die, 
Till  mutual  overthrow  of  mortal  kind  ! 

For  he  being  dead,  with  him  is  beauty  slain, 
And,  beauty  dead,  black  chaos  comes  again. 

'  Fie,  fie,  fond  love,  thou  art  so  full  of  fear 
As    one  with   treasure    laden,   hemm'd  with 

thieves, 

Trifles,  unwitnessed  with  eye  or  ear, 
Thy  coward  heart  with  false  bethinking  grieves. ' 
Even  at  this  word  she  hears  a  merry  horn, 
Whereat  she  leaps  that  was  but  late  forlorn. 

As  falcon  to  the  lure  away  she  flies ; 

The  grass  stoops  not,  she  treads  on  it  so  light ; 

And  in  her  haste  unfortunately  spies 

The  foul  boar's  conquest  on  her  fair  delight ; 

Which  seen,  her  eyes,  as  murder'd  with  the 
view,  [drew. 

Like  stars  asham'd  of  day,  themselves  with- 

Or,  as  the  snail,  whose  tender  horns  being  hit, 
Shrinks  backward  in  his  shelly  cave  with  pain, 
And  there,  all  smother'd  up,  in  shade  doth  sit, 
Long  after  fearing  to  creep  forth  again  ; 
So,  at  his  bloody  view,  her  eyes  are  fled 
Into  the  deep  dark  cabins  of  her  head ; 

Where  they  resign  their  office  and  their  light 

To  the  disposing  of  her  troubled  brain  ; 

Who  bids  them  still  consort  with  ugly  night, 

And  never  wound  the  heart  with  looks  again  ; 

Who,  like  a  king  perplexed  in  his  throne, 

By  their  suggestion  gives  a  deadly  groan. 

Whereat  each  tributary  subject  quakes  : 
As  when  the  wind,  imprison'd  in  the  ground, 
Struggling    for     passage,    earth's    foundation 
shakes,  [found, 

Which  with  cold  terror  doth  men's  minds  con- 
The  mutiny  each  part  doth  so  surprise, 
That  from  their  dark  beds  once  more  leap 
her  eyes ; 

And,  being  open'd,  threw  unwilling  light 
Upon  the  wide   wound   that    the    boar    had 

trench'd 

In  his  soft  flank  ;  whose  wonted  lily  white 
With  purple  tears,  that  his  wound  wept,  was 

drench'd  : 

No  flower  was  nigh,  no  grass,  herb,  leaf,  or 

weed,  [bleed. 

But  stole  his  blood,  and  seem'd  with  him  to 

This  solemn  sympathy  poor  Venus  noteth  ; 
Over  one  shoulder  doth  she  hang  her  head  ; 
Dumbly  she  passions,  franticly  she  doteth  ; 
She  thinks  he  could  not  die,  he  is  not  dead. 

Her  voice  is  stopp'd,  her  joints  forget  to  bow; 

Her  eyes  are  mad  that  they  have  wept  till  now. 


Upon  his  hurt  she  looks  so  steadfastly, 

That  her  sight  dazzling  makes  the  wound  seem 

three ; 

And  then  she  reprehends  her  mangling  eye 
That   makes    more   gashes   where   no   breach 

should  be : 

His  face  seems  twain,  each  several  limb  is 

doubled ;  [troubled. 

For  oft  the  eye  mistakes,  the  brain  being 

'  My  tongue  cannot  express  my  grief  for  one, 
And  yet,'  quoth  she,  'behold  two  Adons  dead  ! 
My  sighs  are  blown  away,  my  salt  tears  gone, 
Mine  eyes  are  turn'd  to  fire,  my  heart  to  lead  ; 

Heavy  heart's  lead  melt  at  mine  eyes'  red 
fire  ! 

So  shall  I  die  by  drops  of  hot  desire. 

'  Alas,  poor  world,  what  treasure  hast  thou  lost! 
What  face  remains  alive  that 's  worth  the  view- 
ing ?  [boast 
Whose  tongue  is  music  now  ?  what  canst  thou 
Of  things  long  since,  or  anything  ensuing  ? 
The  flowers  are  sweet,  their  colours  fresh  and 

trim  ; 
But  true-sweet  beauty  liv'd  and  died  with  him. 

'  Bonnet  nor  veil  henceforth  no  creature  wear  ! 

Nor  sun  nor  wind  will  ever  strive  to  kiss  you : 

Having  no  fair  to  lose,  you  need  not  fear ; 

The  sun  doth  scorn  you,  and  the  wind  doth  hiss 

you: 

But  when  Adonis  liv'd,  sun  and  sharp  air 
Lurk'd  like  two  thieves  to  rob  him  of  his  fair; 

'  And  therefore  would  he  put  his  bonnet  on, 
Under  whose  brim  the  gaudy  sun  would  peep ; 
The  wind  would  blow  it  off,  and,  being  gone, 
Play  with  his  locks;  then  would  Adonis  weep: 
And  straight,  in  pity  of  his  tender  years, 
They  both  would  strive  who  first  should  dry 
his  tears. 

'  To  see  his  face  the  lion  walk'd  along      [him : 
Behind  some  hedge,  because  he  would  not  fear 
To  recreate  himself,  when  he  hath  sung, 
The  tiger  would  be  tame  and  gently  hear  him : 
If  he  had  spoke  the  wolf  would  leave  his  prey, 
And  never  fright  the  silly  lamb  that  day. 

'  When  he  beheld  his  shadow  in  the  brook, 
The  fishes  spread  on  it  their  golden  gills  ; 
When  he  was  by,  the  birds  such  pleasure  took 
That  some  would  sing,  some  other  in  their  bills 

Would  bring  him  mulberries,  and  ripe-red 
cherries ;  [berries. 

He  fed  them  with  his  sight,  they  him  with 

'  But  this  foul,  grim,  and  urchin-snouted  boar, 
Whose  downward  eye  still  looketh  for  a  grave^ 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


1223 


Ne'er  saw  the  beauteous  livery  that  he  wore  ; 

Witness  the  entertainment  that  he  gave  ; 
If  he  did  see  his  face,  why  then  I  know 
He  thought  to  kiss  him,  and  hath  kill'd  him  so. 

*  'Tis  true,  'tis  true  ;  thus  was  Adonis  slain  ; 
He  ran  upon  the  boar  with  his  sharp  spear, 
Who  did  not  whet  his  teeth  at  him  again, 
But  by  a  kiss  thought  to  persuade  him  there  ; 

And  nuzzling  in  his  flank  the  loving  swine 
Sheath'd,  unaware,  the  tusk  in  his  soft  groin. 

*  Had  I  been  tooth'd  like  him,  I  must  confess, 
With  kissing  him  I  should  have  kill'd  him  first ; 
But  he  is  dead,  and  never  did  he  bless 

My  youth  with  his  ;  the  more  am  I  accurst.' 
With  this  she  falleth  in  the  place  she  stood, 
And  stains  her  face  with  his  congealed  blood. 

She  looks  upon  his  lips,  and  they  are  pale  ; 

She  takes  him  by  the  hand,  and  that  is  cold  ; 

She  whispers  in  his  ears  a  heavy  tale, 

As  if  they  heard  the  woeful  words  she  told  : 
She  lifts  the  coffer-lids  that  close  his  eyes, 
Where,  lo  !  two  lamps,  burnt  out,  in  dark- 
ness lies : 

Two  glasses  where  herself  herself  beheld 
A  thousand  times,  and  now  no  more  reflect ; 
Their  virtue  lost,  wherein  they  late  excell'd, 
And  every  beauty  robb'd  of  his  effect : 

'Wonder  of  time,'  quoth  she,  'this  is  my  spite, 
That  you  being  dead  the  day  should  yet  be 
light. 

*  Since  thou  art  dead,  lo  !  here  I  prophesy, 
Sorrow  on  love  hereafter  shall  attend  ; 

It  shall  be  waited  on  with  jealousy, 

Find  sweet  beginning  but  unsavoury  end  ; 

Ne'er  settled  equally,  but  high  or  low  ;    [woe. 

That  all  love's  pleasure  shall  not  match  his 

'  It  shall  be  fickle,  false,  and  full  of  fraud  ; 

Bud  and  be  blasted  in  a  breathing  while  ; 

The  bottom  poison,  and  the  top  o'erstraw'd 

With  sweets  that  shall  the  truest  sight  beguile: 
The  strongest  body  shall  it  make  most  weak, 
Strike  the  wise  dumb,  and  teach  the  fool  to 
speak. 

'  It  shall  be  sparing,  and  too  full  of  riot, 
Teaching  decrepit  age  to  tread  the  measures  ; 
The  staring  ruffian  shall  it  keep  in  quiet, 
Pluck  dov/n   the  rich,   enrich  the   poor  with 

treasures : 

It  shall  be  raging  mad,  and  silly  mild, 
Make  the  young  old,  the  old  become  a  child. 


*  It  shall  suspect  where  is  no  cause  of  fear ; 
It  shall  not  fear  where  it  should  most  mistrust; 
It  shall  be  merciful,  and  too  severe, 
And  most  deceiving  when  it  seems  most  just ; 

Perverse  it  shall   be  where   it   shows   most 
toward, 

Put  fear  to  valour,  courage  to  the  coward. 

'  It  shall  be  cause  of  war  and  dire  events, 
And  set  dissension  'twixt  the  son  and  sire ; 
Subject  and  servile  to  all  discontents, 
As  dry  combustious  matter  is  to  fire  ; 

Sith  in  his  prime  death  doth  my  love  destroy, 
They  that  love  best  their  love  shall  not  enjoy.' 

By  this,  the  boy  that  by  her  side  lay  kill'd 
Was  melted  like  a  vapour  from  her  sight, 
And  in  his  blood  that  on  the  ground  lay  spill'd, 
A  purple  flower  sprung  up,  chequer'd  with  white, 
Resembling  well  his  pale  cheeks,  and  the  blood 
Which  in  round  drops  upon  their  whiteness 
stood. 

She  bows  her  head,  the  new-sprung  flower  to 

smell, 

Comparing  it  to  her  Adonis'  breath  ; 
And  says,  within  her  bosom  it  shall  dwell, 
Since  he  himself  is  reft  from  her  by  death  : 
She  crops  the  stalk,  and  in  the  breach  appears 
Green  dropping  sap,  which  she  compares  to 
tears. 

'  Poor  flower,'  quoth  she,  '  this  was  thy  father's 

guise, 

(Sweet  issue  of  a  more  sweet-smelling  sire,) 
For  every  little  grief  to  wet  his  eyes  : 
To  grow  unto  himself  was  his  desire, 

And  so  'tis  thine  ;  but  know,  it  is  as  good 
To  wither  in  my  breast  as  in  his  blood. 

'  Here  was  thy  father's  bed,  here  in  my  breast; 
Thou  art  the  next  of  blood,  and  'tis  thy  right : 
Lo  !  in  this  hollow  cradle  take  thy  rest, 
My  throbbing  heart  shall  rock  thee  day  and 

night : 

There  shall  not  be  one  minute  in  an  hour 
Wherein  I  will  not  kiss  my  sweet  love's  flower.' 

Thus  weary  of  the  world,  away  she  hies, 
And  yokes  her  silver  doves  ;  by  whose  swift  aid 
Their  mistress,  mounted,  through  the  empty 

skies 
In  her  light  chariot  quickly  is  convey'd, 

Holding  their  course  to  Paphos,  where  their 

queen 
Means  to  immure  herself,  and  not  be  seen. 


-,-      .    -.-/ 


THE    RAPE   OF    LUCRECE. 


RIGHT   HONOURABLE   HENRY  WRIOTHESLY, 

EARL  OF  SOUTHAMPTON,   AND  BARON  OF  TITCHFIELD. 

THE  love  I  dedicate  to  your  Lordship  is  without  end  ;  whereof  this  pamphlet,  without  begin- 
ning, is  but  a  superfluous  moiety.  The  warrant  I  have  of  your  honourable  disposition,  not  the 
worth  of  my  untutored  lines,  makes  it  assured  of  acceptance.  What  I  have  done  is  yours,  what 
I  have  to  do  is  yours ;  being  part  in  all  I  have,  devoted  yours.  Were  my  worth  greater  my 
duty  would  show  greater :  meantime,  as  it  is,  it  is  bound  to  your  Lordship,  to  whom  I  wish 
long  life,  still  lengthened  with  all  happiness. 

Your  Lordship's  in  all  duty, 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

THE  ARGUMENT. 

Lucius  TARQUINIUS  (for  his  excessive  pride  surnamed  Superbus),  after  he  had  caused  his  own 
father-in-law,  Servius  Tullius,  to  be  cruelly  murdered,  and,  contrary  to  the  Roman  laws  and 
customs,  not  requiring  or  staying  for  the  people's  suffrages,  had  possessed  himself  of  the  king- 
dom, went,  accompanied  with  his  sons  and  other  noblemen  of  Rome,  to  besiege  Ardea.  Dur- 
ing which  siege,  the  principal  men  of  the  army  meeting  one  evening  at  the  tent  of  Sextus 
Tarquinius,  the  king's  son,  in  their  discourses  after  supper,  every  one  commended  the  virtues  of 
his  own  wife  ;  among  whom,  Collatinus  extolled  the  incomparable  chastity  of  his  wife  Lucretia. 
In  that  pleasant  humour  they  all  posted  to  Rome  ;  and  intending  by  their  secret  and  sudden 
arrival  to  make  trial  of  that  which  every  one  had  before  avouched,  only  Collatinus  finds  his 
wife  (though  it  were  late  in  the  night)  spinning  amongst  her  maids  :  the  other  ladies  were  all 
found  dancing  and  revelling,  or  in  several  disports.  Whereupon  the  noblemen  yielded  Colla- 
tinus the  victory,  and  his  wife  the  fame.  At  that  time  Sextus  Tarquinius,  being  inflamed  with 
Lucrece's  beauty,  yet  smothering  his  passions  for  the  present,  departed  with  the  rest  back  to 
the  camp ;  from  whence  he  shortly  after  privily  withdrew  himself,  and  was  (according  to  his 
estate)  royally  entertained  and  lodged  by  Lucrece  at  Collatium.  The  same  night  he  treacher- 
ously stealeth  into  her  chamber,  violently  ravished  her,  and  early  in  the  morning  speedeth  away. 
Lucrece,  in  this  lamentable  plight,  hastily  despatcheth  messengers,  one  to  Rome  for  her  father, 
another  to  the  camp  for  Collatine.  They  came,  the  one  accompanied  with  Junius  Brutus,  the 
other  with  Publius  Valerius  ;  and,  finding  Lucrece  attired  in  mourning  habit,  demanded  the 
cause  of  her  sorrow.  She,  first  taking  an  oath  of  them  for  her  revenge,  revealed  the  actor  and 
whole  manner  of  his  dealing,  and  withal  suddenly  stabbed  herself.  Which  done,  with  one  con- 
sent they  all  vowed  to  root  out  the  whole  hated  family  of  the  Tarquins ;  and,  bearing  the  dead 
body  to  Rome,  Brutus  acquainted  the  people  with  the  doer  and  manner  of  the  vile  deed,  with 
a  bitter  invective  against  the  tyranny  of  the  king  ;  wherewith  the  people  were  so  moved,  that 
with  one  consent  and  a  general  acclamation  the  Tarquins  were  all  exiled,  and  the  state  govern- 
ment changed  from  kings  to  consuls. 


FROM  the  besieged  Ardea  all  in  post, 
Borne  by  the  trustless  wings  of  false  desire, 
Lust  -  breathed    Tarquin    leaves    the    Roman 

host, 

And  to  Collatium  bears  the  lightless  fire 
Which,  in  pale  embers  hid,  lurks  to  aspire, 
And  girdle  with  embracing  flames  the  waist 
Of  Collatine's  fair  love,  Lucrece  the  chaste. 


Haply  that  name  of  chaste  unhapp'ly  set 
This  bateless  edge  on  his  keen  appetite  ; 
When  Collatine  unwisely  did  not  let 
To  praise  the  clear  unmatched  red  and  white 
Which  triumph'd  in  that  sky  of  his  delight, 

Where  mortal  stars,   as  bright  as  heaven's 
beauties, 

With  pure  aspects  did  him  peculiar  duties. 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


1225 


For  he  the  night  before,  in  Tarquin's  tent, 
Unlock'd  the  treasure  of  his  happy  state, 
What  priceless  wealth  the  heavens  had  him  lent 
In  the  possession  of  his  beauteous  mate  ; 
Reckoning   his    fortune    at    such    high-proud 

rate, 

That  kings  might  be  espoused  to  more  fame, 
But  king  nor  peer  to  such  a  peerless  dame. 

O  happiness  enjoy'd  but  of  a  few  ! 
And,  if  possess'd,  as  soon  decay'd  and  done 
As  is  the  morning's  silver-melting  dew 
Against  the  golden  splendour  of  the  sun  ! 
An  expir'd  date,  cancell'd  ere  well  begun  : 
Honour  and  beauty,  in  the  owner's  arms, 
Are  weakly  fortress'd  from  a  world  of  harms. 

Beauty  itself  doth  of  itself  persuade 
The  eyes  of  men  without  an  orator  ; 
What  needeth  then  apologies  be  made 
To  set  forth  that  which  is  so  singular  ? 
Or  why  is  Collatine  the  publisher 

Of  that  rich^jewel  he  should  keep  unknown 
From  thievish  ears,  because  it  is  his  own  ? 

Perchance  his  boast  of  Lucrece'  sovereignty 
Suggested  this  proud  issue  of  a  king  ; 
For  by  our  ears  our  hearts  oft  tainted  be  : 
Perchance  that  envy  of  so  rich  a  thing, 
Braving  compare,  disdainfully  did  sting 

His  high-pitch'd  thoughts,  that  meaner  men 
should  vaunt, 

That  golden  hap  which  their  superiors  want. 

But  some  untimely  thought  did  instigate 
His  all-too-timeless  speed,  if  none  of  those  : 
His  honour,  his  affairs,  his  friends,  his  state, 
Neglected  all,  with  swift  intent  he  goes 
To  quench  the  coal  which  in  his  liver  glows. 
O  rash  false  heat,  wrapp'd  in  repentant  cold, 
Thy  hasty  spring  still  blasts,  and  ne'er  grows 
old  ! 

When  at  Collatium  this  false  lord  arriv'd, 
Well  was  he  welcom'd  by  the  Roman  dame, 
Within  whose  face  beauty  and  virtue  striv'd 
Which  of  them  both  should  underprop  her  fame : 
When  virtue  bragg'd,  beauty  would  blush  for 

shame ; 

When  beauty  boasted  blushes,  in  despite 
Virtue  would  stain  that  or  with  silver  white. 

But  beauty,  in  that  white  intituled, 
From  Venus'  doves  doth  challenge  that  fair  field : 
Then  virtue  claims  from  beauty  beauty's  red, 
Which  virtue  gave  the  golden  age,  to  gild 
Their  silver  cheeks,  andcall'd  it  then  their  shield ; 


Teaching  them  thus  to  use  it  in  the  fight, — 
When  shame  assail'd,  the  red  should  fence  the 
white. 

This  heraldry  in  Lucrece'  face  was  seen, 
Argued  by  beauty's  red,  and  virtue's  white  : 
Of  cither's  colour  was  the  other  queen, 
Proving  from  world's  minority  their  right : 
Yet  their  ambition  makes  them  still  to  fight ; 
The  sovereignty  of  either  being  so  great, 
That  oft  they  interchange  each  other's  seat. 

This  silent  war  of  lilies  and  of  roses 
Which  Tarquin  view'd  in  her  fair  face's  field, 
In  their  pure  ranks  his  traitor  eye  encloses  ; 
Where,  lest  between  them  both  it  should  be 

kill'd, 

The  coward  captive  vanquished  doth  yield 
To  those  two  armies  that  would  let  him  go, 
Rather  than  triumph  in  so  false  a  foe. 

Now  thinks  he  that  her  husband'?  shallow  tongue 
(The  niggard  prodigal  that  prais'd  her  so) 
In  that  high  task  hath  done  her  beauty  wrong, 
Which  far  exceeds  his  barren  skill  to  show : 
Therefore  that  praise  which  Collatine  doth  owe, 
Enchanted  Tarquin  answers  with  surmise, 
In  silent  wonder  of  still-gazing  eyes. 

This  earthly  saint,  adored  by  this  devil, 
Little  suspecteth  the  false  worshipper  ; 
For  unstain'd  thoughts  do  seldom  dream  on 

evil ; 

Birds  never  lim'd  no  secret  bushes  fear  : 
So  guiltless  she  securely  gives  good  cheer 
And  reverend  welcome  to  her  princely  guest, 
Whose  inward  ill  no  outward  harm  express'd : 

For  that  he  colour'd  with  his  high  estate, 
Hiding  base  sin  in  plaits  of  majesty  ; 
That  nothing  in  him  seem'd  inordinate, 
Save  sometime  too  much  wonder  of  his  eye, 
Which,  having  all,  all  could  not  satisfy  ; 
But,  poorly  rich,  so  wanteth  in  his  store 
That  cloy'dwith  much  he  pineth  still formore. 

But  she,  that  never  cop'd  with  stranger  eyes, 
Could  pick  no  meaning  from  their  parling  looks, 
Nor  read  the  subtle-shining  secrecies 
Writ  in  the  glassy  margents  of  such  books  ; 
She  touch'd  no  unknown  baits,  nor  fear'd  no 

hooks ; 

Nor  could  she  moralize  his  wanton  sight, 
More  than  his  eyes  were  open'd  to  the  light. 

He  stories  to  her  ears  her  husband's  fame, 
Won  in  the  fields  of  fruitful  Italy  ; 


1226 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


And  decks  with  praises  Collatine's  high  name, 
Made  glorious  by  his  manly  chivalry, 
With  bruised  arms  and  wreaths  of  victory  ; 
Her  joy  with  heav'd-up  handshedoth  express, 
And,  wordless,  so  greets  heaven  for  his  success. 

Far  from  the  purpose  of  his  coming  thither 
He  makes  excuses  for  his  being  there. 
No  cloudy  show  of  stormy  blustering  weather 
Doth  yet  in  his  fair  welkin  once  appear  ; 
Till  sable  Night,  mother  of  Dread  and  Fear, 
Upon  the  world  dim  darkness  doth  display, 
And  in  her  vaulty  prison  stows  the  day. 

For  then  is  Tarquin  brought  unto  his  bed, 
Intending  weariness  with  heavy  spright ; 
For,  after  supper,  long  he  questioned 
With  modest  Lucrece,  and  wore  out  the  night : 
Now  leaden  slumber  with  life's  strength  doth 

fight; 

And  every  one  to  rest  themselves  betake, 
Save  thieves?  and  cares,  and  troubled  minds, 
that  wake. 

As  one  of  which  doth  Tarquin  lie  revolving 
The  sundry  dangers  of  his  will's  obtaining  ; 
Yet  ever  to  obtain  his  will  resolving,    [staining  • 
Though  weak-built  hopes  persuade  him  to  ab- 
Despair  to  gain  doth  traffic  oft  for  gaining  ; 
And  when  great  treasure  is  the  meedpropos'd, 
Though  death  be  adjunct,  there's  no  death 
suppos'd. 

•  [ jyaj          \ '    ' 

Those  that  much  covet  are  with  gain  so  fond 
That  what  they  have  not,  that  which  they  possess 
They  scatter  and  unloose  it  from  their  bond, 
And  so,  by  hoping  more,  they  have  but  less  ; 
Or,  gaining  more,  the  profit  of  excess 
Is  but  to  surfeit,  and  such  griefs  sustain, 
That  they  prove  bankrupt  in  this  poor-rich 
gain. 

The  aim  of  all  is  but  to  nurse  the  life 
With  honour,  wealth,  and  ease,  in  waning  age ; 
And  in  this  aim  there  is  such  thwarting  strife, 
That  one  for  all,  or  all  for  one  we  gage  ; 
As  life  for  honour  in  fell  battles'  rage ;        [cost 
Honour  for  wealth ;  and  oft  that  wealth  doth 
The  death  of  all,  and  all  together  lost. 

So  that  in  vent' ring  ill  we  leave  to  be 

The  things  we  are,  for  that  which  we  expect ; 

And  this  ambitious  foul  infirmity, 

In  having  much,  torments  us  with  defect 

Of  that  we  have  :  so  then  we  do  neglect 

The  thing  we  have,  and,  all  for  want  of  wit, 
Make  something  nothing,  by  augmenting  it. 


Such  hazard  now  must  doting  Tarquin  make. 
Pawning  his  honour  to  obtain  his  lust ; 
And  for  himself  himself  he  must  forsake  : 
Then  where  is  truth  if  there  be  no  self-trust  ? 
When  shall  he  think  to  find  a  stranger  just, 
When  he  himself  himself  confounds,  betrays 
To  slanderous  tongues,  and  wretched  hateful 
days? 

Now  stole  upon  the  time  the  dead  of  night, 
When  heavy  sleep  had  clos'd  up  mortal  eyes  ; 
No  comfortable  star  did  lend  his  light,     [cries  ; 
No  noise  but  owls'  and  wolves'  death-boding 
Now  serves  the  season  that  they  may  surprise 

The  silly  lambs ;  pure  thoughts  are  dead  and 
still, 

While  lust  and  murder  wake  to  stain  and  kill. 

And  now  this  lustful  lord  leap'd  from  his  bed, 

Throwing  his  mantle  rudely  o'er  his  arm  ; 

Is  madly  toss'd  between  desire  and  dread  ; 

Th'  one  sweetly  flatters,  th'  other  feareth  harm ; 

But  honest  Fear,  bewitch'd  with  lust's  foul  charm, 
Doth  too  too  oft  betake  him  to  retire, 
Beaten  away  by  brain-sick  rude  Desire. 

His  falchion  on  a  flint  he  softly  smiteth, 
That  from  the  cold  stone  sparks  of  fire  do  fly, 
Whereat  a  waxen  torch  forthwith  he  lighteth, 
Which  must  be  lode-star  to  his  lustful  eye  ; 
And  to  the  flame  thus  speaks  advisedly : 
'  As  from  this  cold  flint  I  enforc'd  this  fire, 
So  Lucrece  must  I  force  to  my  desire.' 

Here  pale  with  fear  he  doth  premeditate 
The  dangers  of  his  loathsome  enterprise, 
And  in  his  inward  mind  he  doth  debate 
What  following  sorrow  may  on  this  arise  ; 
Then  looking  scornfully,  he  doth  despise 
His  naked  armour  of  still-slaughter'd  lust, 
And  justly  thus  controls  his  thoughts  unjust : 

'  Fair  torch,  burn  out  thy  light,  and  lend  it  not 
To  darken  her  whose  light  excelleth  thine  ! 
And  die,  unhallow'd  thoughts,  before  you  blot 
With  your  uncleanness  that  which  is  divine  ! 
Offer  pure  incense  to  so  pure  a  shrine  : 

Let  fair  humanity  abhor  the  deed         [weed. 

That  spots  and  stains  love's  modest  snow-white 

'  O  shame  to  knighthood  and  to  shining  arms  ! 

O  foul  dishonour  to  my  household's  grave  ! 

O  impious  act,  including  all  foul  harms  ! 

A  martial  man  to  be  soft  fancy's  slave  ; 

True  valour  still  a  true  respect  should  have  ; 
Then  my  digression  is  so  vile,  so  base, 
That  it  will  live  engraven  in  my  face. 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


1227 


'  Yea,  though  I  die,  the  scandal  will  survive, 
And  be  an  eyesore  in  my  golden  coat ; 
Some  loathsome  dash  the  herald  will  contrive, 
To  cipher  me  how  fondly  I  did  dote  ; 
That  my  posterity,  sham'd  with  the  note, 
Shall  curse  my  bones,  and  hold  it  for  no  sin 
To  wish  that  I  their  father  had  not  been. 

*  What  win  I  if  I  gain  the  thing  I  seek  ? 

A  dream,  a  breath,  a  froth  of  fleeting  joy: 

Who  buys  a  minute's  mirth  to  wail  a  week  ? 

Or  sells  eternity  to  get  a  toy? 

For  one  sweet  grape  who  will  the  vine  destroy? 
Or  what  fond  beggar,  but  to  touch  the  crown, 
Would  with  the  sceptre  straight  be  strucken 
down? 

'  If  Collatinus  dream  of  my  intent, 
Will  he  not  wake,  and  in  a  desperate  rage 
Post  hither,  this  vile  purpose  to  prevent  ? 
This  siege  that  hath  engirt  his  marriage, 
This  blur  to  youth,  this  sorrow  to  the  sage, 
This  dying  virtue,  this  surviving  shame, 
Whose  crime  will  bear  an  ever-during  blame? 

'  O  what  excuse  can  my  invention  make 

When  thou  shalt charge  me  with  so  black  a  deed? 

Will  not  my  tongue  be  mute,  my  frail  joints 
shake? 

Mine  eyes  forego  their  light,  my  false  heart  bleed  ? 

The  guilt  being  great,  the  fear  doth  still  exceed  ; 
And  extreme  fear  can  neither  fight  nor  fly, 
But,  coward-like,  with  trembling  terror  die. 

'  Had  Collatinus  kill'd  my  son  or  sire, 
Or  lain  in  ambush  to  betray  my  life, 
Or  were  he  not  my  dear  friend,  this  desire 
Might  have  excuse  to  work  upon  his  wife  ; 
As  in  revenge  or  quittal  of  such  strife  : 

But  as  he  is  my  kinsman,  my  dear  friend. 

The  shame  and  fault  finds  no  excuse  nor  end. 

'  Shameful  it  is ; — ay,  if  the  fact  be  known  : 
Hateful  it  is ; — there  is  no  hate  in  loving  ; 
I  '11  beg  her  love ; — but  she  is  not  her  own  ; 
The  worst  is  but  denial,  and  reproving  : 
My  will  is  strong,  past  reason's  weak  removing. 
Who  fears  a  sentence  or  an  old  man's  saw 
Shall  by  a  painted  cloth  be  kept  in  awe.' 

Thus,  graceless,  holds  he  disputation 
'Tween  frozen  conscience  and  hot -burning  will, 
And  with  good  thoughts  makes  dispensation, 
Urging  the  worser  sense  for  vantage  still ; 
Which  in  a  moment  doth  confound  and  kill 
All  pure  effects,  and  doth  so  far  proceed, 
That  what  is  vile  shows  like  a  virtuous  deed. 


Quoth  he,  '  She  took  me  kindly  by  the  hand, 
And  gaz'd  for  tidings  in  my  eager  eyes, 
Fearing  some  hard  news  from  the  warlike  band 
Where  her  beloved  Collatinus  lies. 
O  how  her  fear  did  make  her  colour  rise  ! 
First  red  as  roses  that  on  lawn  we  lay, 
Then  white  as  lawn,  the  roses  took  away. 

'  And  how  her  hand,  in  my  hand  being  lock'd, 
Forc'd  it  to  tremble  with  her  loyal  fear ; 
Which  struck  her  sad,  and  then  it  faster  rock'd, 
Until  her  husband's  welfare  she  did  hear  ; 
Whereat  she  smiled  with  so  sweet  a  cheer, 
That  had  Narcissus  seen  her  as  she  stood, 
Self-love  had  never  drown'd  him  in  the  flood. 

'  Why  hunt  I  then  for  colour  or  excuses  ? 

All  orators  are  dumb  when  beauty  pleadeth  ; 

Poor  wretches  have  remorse  in  poor  abuses ; 

Love  thrives  not  in  the  heart   that  shadows 
dreadeth  : 

Affection  is  my  captain,  and  he  leadeth  ; 
And  when  his  gaudy  banner  is  display'd, 
The  coward  fights,  and  will  not  be  dismayed 

'  Then,  childish  fear,  avaunt !  debating,  die  ! 
Respect  and  reason  wait  on  wrinkled  age  ! 
My  heart  shall  never  countermand  mine  eye  j 
Sad  pause  and  deep  regard  beseem  the  sage  ; 
My  part  is  youth,  and  beats  these  from  the  stage  : 

Desire  my  pilot  is,  beauty  my  prize  ; 

Then  who  fears  sinking  where  such  treasure 
lies?' 

As  corn  o'ergrown  by  weeds,  so  heedful  fear 
Is  almost  chok'd  by  unresisted  lust. 
Away  he  steals  with  opening,  listening  ear, 
Full  of  foul  hope,  and  full  of  fond  mistrust ; 
Both  which,  as  servitors  to  the  unjust, 

So  cross  him  with  their  opposite  persuasion, 
That  now  he  vows  a  league,  and  now  invasion. 

Within  his  thought  her  heavenly  image  sits, 
And  in  the  selfsame  seat  sits  Collatine  : 
That  eye  which  looks  on  her  confounds  his  wits; 
That  eye  which  him  beholds,  as  more  divine, 
Unto  a  view  so  false  will  not  incline ; 

But  with  a  pure  appeal  seeks  to  the  heart, 
Which  once  corrupted  takes  the  worser  part; 

And  therein  heartens  up  his  servile  powers, 
Who,  flatter'd  by  their  leader's  jocund  show, 
Stuff  up  his  lust,  as  minutes  fill  up  hours ; 
And  as  their  captain,  so  their  pride  doth  grow, 
Paying  more  slavish  tribute  than  they  owe. 
By  reprobate  desire  thus  madly  led, 
The  Roman  lord  marcheth  to  Lucrece'  bed. 


1228 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


The  locks  between  her  chamber  and  his  will, 
Each  one  by  him  enforc'd  retires  his  ward  ; 
But  as  they  open  they  all  rate  his  ill, 
Which  drives  the  creeping  thief  to  some  regard, 
The  threshold  grates  the  door  to  have  him  heard ; 

Night-wand'ring  weasels  shriek  to  see  him 
there ; 

They  fright  him,  yet  he  still  pursues  his  fear. 

As  each  unwilling  portal  yields  him  way, 
Through  little  vents  and  crannies  of  the  place 
The  wind  wars  with  his  torch,  to  make  him 

stay, 

And  blows  the  smoke  of  it  into  his  face, 
Extinguishing  his  conduct  in  this  case  ; 

But  his  hot  heart,  which  fond  desire  doth 

scorch, 
Puffs  forth  another  wind  that  fires  the  torch : 

And  being  lighted,  by  the  light  he  spies 
Lucretia's  glove,  wherein  her  needle  sticks ; 
He  takes  it  from  the  rushes  where  it  lies, 
And  griping  it,  the  neeld  his  finger  pricks : 
As  who  should  sayr  this  glove  to  wanton  tricks 

Is  not  inur'd ;  return  again  in  haste  ; 

Thou  seest  our  mistress'  ornaments  are  chaste, 

But  all  these  poor  forbiddings  could  not  stay 

him  ; 

He  in  the  worst  sense  construes  their  denial : 
The  doors,  the  wind,  the  glove  that  did  delay 

him, 

He  takes  for  accidental  things  of  trial ; 
Or  as  those  bars  which  stop  the  hourly  dial, 
Who  with  a  lingering  stay  his  course  doth 

let, 
Till  every  minute  pays  the  hour  his  debt. 

*  So,  so,'  quoth  he,  '  these  lets  attend  the  time, 
Like  little  frosts  that  sometime  threat  the  spring, 
To  add  a  more  rejoicing  to  the  prime, 
And  give  the  sneaped  birds  more  cause  to  sing. 
Pain  pays  the  income  of  each  precious  thing  ; 

Huge    rocks,    high   winds,    strong    pirates, 
shelves  and  sands, 

The  merchant  fears,  ere  rich  at  home  he  lands.' 

Now  is  he  come  unto  the  chamber  door 
That  shuts  him  from  the  heaven  of  his  thought, 
Which  with  a  yielding  latch,  and  with  no  more, 
Hath  barr'd  him  from  the  blessed  thing  he  sought. 
So  from  himself  impiety  hath  wrought, 
That  for  his  prey  to  pray  he  doth  begin, 
As  if  the  heaven  should  countenance  his  sin. 

But  in  the  midst  of  his  unfruitful  prayer, 
Having  solicited  the  eternal  power, 


That  his  foul  thoughts  might  compass  his  fair 

fair, 

That  they  would  stand  auspicious  to  the  hour, 
Even  there  he  starts  : — quoth  he,  '  I  must  de- 
flower ; 

The  powers  to  whom  I  pray  abhor  this  fact, 
How  can  they  then  assist  me  in  the  act  ? 

'  Then  Love  and  Fortune  be  my  gods,  my  guide! 
My  will  is  back'd  with  resolution  :  [tried, 

Thoughts  are  but  dreams  till  their  effects  be 
The  blackest  sin  is  clear'd  with  absolution ; 
Against  love's  fire  fear's  frost  hath  dissolution. 
The  eye  of  heaven  is  out,  and  misty  night 
Covers  the  shame  that  follows  sweet  delight.' 

This  said,  his  guilty  hand  pluck'd  up  the  latch, 
And  with  his  knee  the  door  he  opens  wide : 
The  dove  sleeps  fast  that  this  night-owl  will  catch ; 
Thus  treason  works  ere  traitors  be  espied. 
Who  sees  the  lurking  serpent  steps  aside  : 
But  she,  sound  sleeping,  fearing  no  such  thing, 
Lies  at  the  mercy  of  his  mortal  sting. 

Into  the  chamber  wickedly  he  stalks, 
And  gazeth  on  her  yet  unstained  bed. 
The  curtains  being  close,  about  he  walks, 
Rolling  his  greedy  eyeballs  in  his  head  : 
By  their  high  treason  is  his  heart  misled  ; 

Which  gives  the  watchword  to  his  hand  full 
soon, 

To  draw  the  cloud  that  hides  the  silver  moon. 

Look,  as  the  fair  and  fiery-pointed  sun, 
Rushing  from  forth  a  cloud,  bereaves  our  sight ; 
Even  so,  the  curtain  drawn,  his  eyes  begun 
To  wink,  being  blinded  with  a  greater  light  : 
Whether  it  is  that  she  reflects  so  bright, 

That  dazzleth   them,   or   else   some   shame 
supposed ;  [closed. 

But  blind  they  are,  and  keep  themselves  en- 

O,  had  they  in  that  darksome  prison  died, 
Then  had  they  seen  the  period  of  their  ill ! 
Then  Collatine  again  by  Lucrece'  side 
In  his  clear  bed  might  have  reposed  still : 
But  they  must  ope,  this  blessed  league  to  kill ; 
And  holy-thoughted  Lucrece  to  their  sight 
Must  sell  her  joy,  her  life,  her  world's  delight. 

Her  lily  hand  her  rosy  cheek  lies  under, 
Cozening  the  pillow  of  a  lawful  kiss  ; 
Who  therefore  angry,  seems  to  part  in  sunder, 
Swelling  on  either  side  to  want  his  bliss  ; 
Between  whose  hills  her  head  entombed  is : 
Where,  like  a  virtuous  monument,  she  lies, 
To  be  admir'd  of  lewd  unhallow'd  eyes. 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


1229 


Without  the  bed  her  other  fair  hand  was, 
On  the  green  coverlet ;  whose  perfect  white 
Show'd  like  an  April  daisy  on  the  grass, 
With  pearly  sweat,  resembling  dew  of  night. 
Her  eyes,  like  marigolds,  had  sheath'd  their 

light, 

And  canopied  in  darkness  sweetly  lay, 
Till  they  might  open  to  adorn  the  day. 

Her  hair,  like  golden  threads,  play'd  with  her 

breath ; 

O  modest  wantons  !  wanton  modesty  ! 
Showing  life's  triumph  in  the  map  of  death, 
And  death's  dim  look  in  life's  mortality  : 
Each  in  her  sleep  themselves  so  beautify, 
As  if  between  them  twain  there  were  no  strife, 
But  that  life  liv'd  in  death,  and  death  in  life. 

Her  breasts,  like  ivory  globes  circled  with  blue, 
A  pair  of  maiden  worlds  unconquered, 
Save  of  their  lord  no  bearing  yoke  they  knew, 
And  him  by  oath  they  truly  honoured. 
These  worlds  in  Tarquin  new  ambition  bred  : 
Who  like  a  foul  usurper  went  about 
From  this   fair  throne  to  heave  the  owner 
out. 

What  could  he  see  but  mightily  he  noted  ? 

What  did  he  note  but  strongly  he  desir'd? 

What  he  beheld  on  that  he  firmly  doted, 

And  in  his  will  his  wilful  eye  he  tir'd. 

With  more  than  admiration  he  admir'd 
Her  azure  veins,  her  alabaster  skin, 
Her  coral  lips,  her  snow-white  dimpled  chin. 

As  the  grim  lion  fawneth  o'er  his  prey, 

Sharp  hunger  by  the  conquest  satisfied, 

So  o'er  this  sleeping  soul  doth  Tarquin  stay, 

His  rage  of  lust  by  gazing  qualified  ; 

Slack'd,  not  suppress'd ;  for  standing  by  her 

side, 

H;s  eye,  which  late  this  mutiny  restrains, 
Unto  a  greater  uproar  tempts  his  veins  : 

And    they,   like   straggling  slaves  for   pillage 

fighting, 

Obdurate  vassals,  fell  exploits  effecting, 
In  bloody  death  and  ravishment  delighting, 
Nor  children's  tears,  nor  mother's  groans  re- 
specting, 

Swell  in  their  pride,  the  onset  still  expecting  : 
Anon  his  beating  heart,  alarum  striking, 
Gives  the  hot  charge,  and  bids  them  do  their 
liking. 

His  drumming  heart  cheers  up  his  burning  eye, 
His  eye  commends  the  leading  to  his  hand  ; 


His  hand,  as  proud  of  such  a  dignity,  [stand 
Smoking  with  pride,  march'd  on  to  make  his 
On  her  bare  breast,  the  heart  of  all  her  land  ; 

Whose  ranks  of  blue  veins,  as  his  hand  did 
scale, 

Left  their  round  turrets  destitute  and  pale. 

They,  mustering  to  the  quiet  cabinet 
Where  their  dear  governess  and  lady  lies, 
Do  tell  her  she  is  dreadfully  beset, 
And  fright  her  with  confusion  of  their  cries  : 
She,  much  amaz'd,  breaks  ope  her  lock'd-up 

eyes, 

Who,  peeping  forth  this  tumult  to  behold, 
Are  by  his  flaming  torch  dimm'd  and  con- 
troll'd. 

Imagine  her  as  one  in  dead  of  night 
From  forth  dull  sleep  by  dreadful  fancy  waking, 
That  thinks  she  hath  beheld  some  ghastly  sprite, 
Whose  grim  aspect  sets  every  joint  a  shaking  ; 
What  terror  'tis  !  but  she,  in  worser  taking, 
From  sleep  disturbed,  needfully  doth  view 
The  sight  which  makes  supposed  terror  true. 

Wrapp'd  and  confounded  in  a  thousand  fears, 
Like  to  a  new-kill'd  bird  she  trembling  lies  ; 
She  dares  not  look  ;  yet,  winking,  there  appears 
Quick-shifting  antics,  ugly  in  her  eyes  : 
Such  shadows  are  the  weak  brain's  forgeries  : 
WTho,  angry  that  the  eyes  fly  from  their  lights, 
In  darkness  daunts  them  with  more  dreadful 
sights. 

His  hand,  that  yet  remains  upon  her  breast, 
(Rude  ram,  to  batter  such  an  ivory  wall  !) 
May  feel  her  heart,  poor  citizen,  distress'd, 
Wounding  itself  to  death,  rise  up  and  fall, 
Beating  her  bulk,  that  his  hand  shakes  withal. 
This  moves  in  him  more  rage,  and  lesser  pity, 
To  make  the  breach,  and  enter  this  sweet  city. 

First,  like  a  trumpet,  doth  his  tongue  begin 
To  sound  a  parley  to  his  heartless  foe, 
Who  o'er  the  white  sheet  peers  her  whiter  chin, 
The  reason  of  this  rash  alarm  to  know, 
Which  he  by  dumb  demeanour  seeks  to  show  ; 
But  she  with  vehement  prayers  urgeth  still 
Under  what  colour  he  commits  this  ill. 

Thus  he  replies  :  '  The  colour  in  thy  face 
(That  even  for  anger  makes  the  lily  pale, 
And  the  red  rose  blush  at  her  own  disgrace) 
Shall  plead  for  me,  and  tell  my  loving  tale  : 
Under  that  colour  am  I  come  to  scale 

Thy  never-conquer'd  fort :  the  fault  is  thine, 
For  those  thine  eyes  betray  thee  unto  mine. 


1230 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


4  Thus  I  forestall  thee,  if  thou  mean  to  chide  : 
Thy  beauty  hath  ensnar'd  thee  to  this  night, 
Where  thou  with  patience  must  my  will  abide, 
My  will  that  marks  thee  for  my  earth's  delight, 
Which  I  to  conquer  sought  with  all  my  might ; 
But  as  reproof  and  reason  beat  it  dead, 
By  thy  bright  beauty  was  it  newly  bred, 

'  I  see  what  crosses  my  attempt  will  bring  ; 
I  know  what  thorns  the  growing  rose  defends  ; 
I  think  the  honey  guarded  with  a  sting  : 
All  this,  beforehand,  counsel  comorehends  : 
But  will  is  deaf,  and  hears  no  heedful  friends ; 
Only  he  hath  an  eye  to  gaze  on  beauty, 
And  dotes  on  what  he  looks,  'gainst  law  or 
duty. 

'  I  have  debated,  even  in  my  soul, 

What  wrong,  what  shame,  what  sorrow  I  shall 

breed ; 

But  nothing  can  Affection's  course  control, 
Or  stop  the  headlong  fury  of  his  speed. 
I  know  repentant  tears  ensue  the  deed, 

Reproach,  disdain,  and  deadly  enmity ; 

Yet  strive  I  to  embrace  mine  infamy/ 

This  said,  he  shakes  aloft  his  Roman  blade, 
Which,  like  a  falcon  towering  in  the  skies, 
Coucheth  the  fowl  below  with  his  wing's  shade, 
Whose  crooked  beak  threats  if  he  mount  he 

dies  : 
So  under  his  insulting  falchion  lies 

Harmless  Lucretia,  marking  what  he  tells 
With  trembling  fear,  as  fowl  hear   falcon's 
bells. 

*  Lucrece,'  quoth  he,  *  this  night  I  must  enjoy 

thee  : 

If  thou  deny,  then  force  must  work  my  way, 
For  in  thy  bed  I  purpose  to  destroy  thee  ; 
That  done,  some  worthless  slave  of  thine  I  '11 

slay, 

To  kill  thine  honour  with  thy  life's  decay  ; 
And  in  thy  dead  arms  do  I  mean  to  place 

him, 
Swearing  I  slew  him,  seeing  thee  embrace  him. 

*  So  thy  surviving  husband  shall  remain 
The  scornful  ,nark  of  every  open  eye  ; 

Thy  kinsmen  hang  their  heads  at  this  disdain, 
Thy  issue  blnrr'd  with  nameless  bastardy  : 
And  thou,  the  author  of  their  obloquy, 

Shalt  have  "ny  trespass  cited  up  in  rhymes, 
And  sung  by  children  in  succeeding  times. 

'  But  if  thou  yield  I  rest  thy  secret  friend  : 
The  fault  unknown  is  as  a  thought  unacted ; 


A  little  harm,  done  to  a  great  good  end, 

For  lawful  policy  remains  enacted. 

The  poisonous  simple  sometimes  is  compacted 

In  a  pure  compound  ;  being  so  applied, 

His  venom  in  effect  is  purified. 

'  Then,  for  thy  husband  and  thy  children's  sake, 
Tender  my  suit :  bequeath  not  to  their  lot 
The  shame  that  from  them  no  device  can  take, 
The  blemish  that  will  never  be  forgot ; 
Worse  than  a  slavish  wipe,  or  birth-hour's  blot : 
For  marks  descried  in  men's  nativity 
Are  nature's  faults,  not  their  own  infamy.' 

Here  with  a  cockatrice'  dead-killing  eye 
He  rouseth  up  himself,  and  makes  a  pause  ; 
While  she,  the  picture  of  pure  piety, 
Like  a  white  hind  under  the  grype's  sharp  claws, 
Pleads  in  a  wilderness,  where  are  no  laws, 

To  the  rough  beast  that  knows  no  gentle 
right, 

Nor  aught  obeys  but  his  foul  appetite  : 

But  when  a  black -fac'd  cloud  the  world  doth 

threat, 

In  his  dim  mist  the  aspiring  mountains  hiding, 
From  earth's  dark  womb  some  gentle  gust  doth 

get, 
Which  blows  these  pitchy  vapours  from  their 

biding, 

Hindering  their  present  fall  by  this  dividing  ; 
So  his  unhallow'd  haste  her  words  delays, 
And  moody  Pluto  winks  while  Orpheus  plays. 

Yet,  foul  night- waking  cat,  he  doth  but  dally, 
While  in  his  holdfast  foot  the  weak   mouse 

panteth  ; 

Her  sad  behaviour  feeds  his  vulture  folly, 
A  swallowing  gulf  that  even  in  plenty  wanteth  : 
His   ear   her  prayers  admits,    but   his    heart 

granteth 

No  penetrable  entrance  to  her  plaining  : 
Tears  harden  lust,  though  marble  wear  with 

raining. 

Her  pity-pleading  eyes  are  sadly  fix'd 
In  the  remorseless  wrinkles  of  his  face  ; 
Her  modest  eloquence  with  sighs  is  mix'd, 
Which  to  her  oratory  adds  more  grace. 
She  puts  the  period  often  from  his  place, 
And  'midst  the  sentence  so  her  accent  breaks, 
That   twice   she   doth   begin  ere  once   she 
speaks. 

She  conjures  him  by  high  almighty  Jove, 
By  knighthood,  gentry,  and  sweet  friendship's 
oath* 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


1231 


By  her  untimely  tears,  her  husband's  love, 
By  holy  human  law,  and  common  troth, 
By  heaven  and  earth,  and  all  the  power  of  both, 
That  to  his  borrow'd  bed  he  make  retire, 
And  stoop  to  honour,  not  to  foul  desire. 

Quoth  she,  '  Reward  not  hospitality    [tended  ; 

With  such  black  payment  as  thou  hast  pre- 

Mud  not  the  fountain  that  gave  drink  to  thee  ; 

Mar  not  the  thing  that  cannot  be  amended  ; 

End  thy  ill  aim,  before  thy  shoot  be  ended  : 
He  is  no  woodman  that  doth  bend  his  bow 
To  strike  a  poor  unseasonable  doe. 

'  My  husband  is  thy  friend,  for  his  sake  spare 

me ; 

Thyself  art  mighty,  for  thine  own  sake  leave  me; 
Myself  a  weakling,  do  not  then  ensnare  me  ; 
Thou  look'st  not  like  deceit ;  do  not  deceive  me; 
My  sighs,  like  whirlwinds,   labour  hence   to 

heave  thee. 

If  ever  man  were  mov'd  with  woman's  moans, 
Be  moved  with  my  tears,  my  sighs,  my  groans : 

*  All  which  together,  like  a  troubled  ocean, 
Beat  at  thy  rocky  and  wreck-threatening  heart ; 
To  soften  it  with  their  continual  motion  ; 

For  stones  dissolv'd  to  water  do  convert. 
O,  if  no  harder  than  a  stone  thou  art, 

Melt  at  my  tears,  and  be  compassionate  ! 

Soft  pity  enters  at  an  iron  gate. 

*  In  Tarquin's  likeness  I  did  entertain  thee  ; 
Hast  thou  put  on  his  shape  to  do  him  shame  ? 
To  all  the  host  of  heaven  I  complain  me, 
Thou  wrong' st  his  honour,  wound'st  his  princely 

name. 

Thou  art  not  what  thou  seem'st ;  and  if  the  same, 
Thou  seem'st  not  what  thou  art,  a  god,  a  king  j 
For  kings  like  gods  should  govern  everything. 

*  How  will  thy  shame  be  seeded  in  thine  age, 
When  thus  thy  vices  bud  before  thy  spring  ! 
If  in  thy  hope  thou  dar'st  do  such  outrage, 
What  dar'st  thou  not  when  once  thou  art  a  king! 
O  be  remember'd,  no  outrageous  thing 

From  vassal  actors  Can  be  wip'd  away  ; 
Then  kings'  misdeeds  cannot  be  hid  in  clay. 

'  This  deed  will  make  thee  only  lov'd  for  fear, 
But  happy  monarchs  still  are  fear'd  for  love  : 
With  foul  offenders  thou  perforce  must  bear, 
When  they  in  thee  the  like  offences  prove : 
If  but  for  fear  of  this  thy  will  remove  ; 

For  princes  are  the  glass,  the  school,  the 
book,  [look. 

Where  subjects'  eyes  do  learn,  do  read,  do 


'  And  wilt  thou  be  the  school  where  Lust  shall 

learn  ? 

Must  he  in  thee  read  lectures  of  such  shame : 
Wilt  thou  be  glass,  wherein  it  shall  discern 
Authority  for  sin,  warrant  for  blame, 
To  privilege  dishonour  in  thy  name  ? 

Thou  back'st  reproach  against  long-lived  laud, 
And  mak'st  fair  reputation  but  a  bawd. 

'  Hast  thou  command  ?  by  him  that  gave  it  thee, 
From  a  pure  heart  command  thy  rebel  will : 
Draw  not  thy  sword  to  guard  iniquity, 
For  it  was  lent  thee  all  that  brood  to  kill. 
Thy  princely  office  how  canst  thou  fulfil, 

When,  pattern'd  by  thy  fault,  foul  Sin  may 
say,  [way? 

He  learn'd  to  sin,  and  thou  didst  teach  the 

'  Think  but  how  vile  a  spectacle  it  were 
To  view  thy  present  trespass  in  another. 
Men's  faults  do  seldom  to  themselves  appear  ; 
Their  own  transgressions  partially  they  smother: 
This  guilt  would   seem  death-worthy  in   thy 

brother, 

O  how  are  they  wrapp'd  in  with  infamies, 
That  from  their  own  misdeeds  askaunce  their 
eyes  ! 

'  To  thee,  to  thee,  my  heav'd-up  hands  appeal, 
Not  to  seducing  lust,  thy  rash  rel'er  ; 
I  sue  for  exil'd  majesty's  repeal  ; 
Let  him  return  and  flattering  thoughts  retire  : 
His  true  respect  will  'prison  false  desire, 
And  wipe  the  dim  mist  from  thy  doting  eyne, 
That  thou  shalt  see  thy  state,  and  pity  mine.' 

*  Have  done,'  quoth  he  ;  '  my  uncontrolled  tide 
Turns  not,  but  swells  the  higher  by  this  let. 
Small  lights  are  soon  blown  out,  huge  fires 

abide, 

And  with  the  wind  in  greater  fury  fret : 
The  petty  streams  that  pay  a  daily  debt 

To  their  salt  sovereign,  with  their  fresh  falls' 

haste, 
Add  to  his  flow,  but  alter  not  his  taste.' 

'  Thou  art,'  quoth  she,  '  a  sea,  a  sovereign  king; 
And  lo,  there  falls  into  thy  boundless  flood 
Black  lust,  dishonour,  shame,  misgoverning, 
Who  seek  to  stain  the  ocean  of  thy  blood. 
If  all  these  petty  ills  chall  change  thy  good, 
Thy  sea  within  a  puddle's  womb  is  hears'd, 
And  not  the  puddle  in  thy  sea  dispers'd. 

'  So  shall  these  slaves  be  king,  and  thou  their 

slave ; 
Thou  nobly  base,  they  basely  dignified  ; 


1232 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


Thou  their  fair  life,  and  they  thy  fouler  grave ; 

Thou  loathed  in  their  shame,  they  in  thy  pride  : 

The  lesser  thing  should  not  the  greater  hide  ; 

The  cedar  stoops  not  to  the  base  shrub's  foot, 

But  low  shrubs  wither  at  the  cedar's  root. 

*  So  let  thy  thoughts,  low  vassals  to  thy  state ' — 
' No  more,'  quoth  he ;  'by  heaven,  I  will  not 

hear  thee  : 

Yield  to  my  love  ;  if  not,  enforced  hate, 
Instead  of  love's  coy  touch,  shall  rudely  tear 

thee ;  s 

That  done,  despiteful  ly  I  mean  to  bear  thee 
Unto  the  base  bed  of  some  rascal  groom, 
To  be  thy  partner  in  this  shameful  doom.' 

This  said,  he  sets  the  foot  upon  the  light, 
For  light  and  lust  are  deadly  enemies  ; 
Shame  folded  up  in  blind  concealing  night, 
When  most  unseen,  then  most  doth  tyrannize. 
The  wolf  hath  seiz'd  his  prey,  the  poor  lamb 

cries 
Till  with  her  own  white  fleece  her  voice  con- 

troll'd 
Entombs  her  outcry  in  her  lips'  sweet  fold  : 

For  with  the  nightly  linen  that  she  wears 
He  pens  her  piteous  clamours  in  her  head  ; 
Cooling  his  hot  face  in  the  chastest  tears 
That  ever  modest  eyes  with  sorrow  shed. 
O,  that  prone  lust  should  stain  so  pure  a  bed  ! 
The  spots  whereof  could  weeping  purify, 
Her  tears  should  drop  on  them  perpetually. 

But  she  hath  lost  a  dearer  thing  than  life, 
And  he  hath  won  what  he  would  lose  again. 
This  forced  league  doth  force  a  further  strife, 
This  momentary  joy  breeds  months  of  pain, 
This  hot  desire  converts  to  cold  disdain  : 
Pure  Chastity  is  rifled  of  her  store, 
And  Lust,  the  thief,  far  poorer  than  before. 

Look,  as  the  full-fed  hound  or  gorged  hawk, 
Unapt  for  tender  smell  or  speedy  flight, 
Make  slow  pursuit,  or  altogether  balk 
The  prey  wherein  by  nature  they  delight ; 
So  surfeit-taking  Tarquin  fares  this  night : 
His  taste  delicious,  in  digestion  souring, 
Devours  his  will  that  liv'd  by  foul  devouring. 

O  deeper  sin  than  bottomless  conceit 
Can  comprehend  in  still  imagination  ! 
Drunken  desire  must  vomit  his  receipt, 
Ere  he  can  see  his  own  abomination. 
While  lust  is  in  his  pride  no  exclamation 
Can  curb  his  heat,  or  rein  his  rash  desire, 
Till,  like  a  jade,  self-will  himself  doth  tire. 


And  then  with  lank  and  lean  discolour'd  cheek, 
With  heavy  eye,  knit  brow,  and  strengthless 

pace, 

Feeble  desire,  all  recreant,  poor,  and  meek, 
Like  to  a  bankrupt  beggar  wails  his  case  : 
The  flesh  being  proud,  desire  doth  fight  with 

grace, 

For  there  it  revels  ;  and  when  that  decays, 
The  guilty  rebel  for  remission  prays. 

So  fares  it  with  this  faultful  lord  of  Rome, 
Who  this  accomplishment  so  hotly  chas'd  ; 
For  now  against  himself  he  sounds  this  doom, 
That   through  the  length  of  times   he   stands 

disgrac'd  : 

Besides,  his  soul's  fair  temple  is  defac'd  ; 
To  whose  weak  ruins  muster  troops  of  cares, 
To  ask  the  spotted  princess  how  she  fares. 

She  says,  her  subjects  with  foul  insurrection 
Have  batter' d  down  her  consecrated  wall, 
And  by  their  mortal  fault  brought  in  subjection 
Her  immortality,  and  make  her  thrall 
To  living  death,  and  pain  perpetual  ; 

Which  in  her  prescience  she  controlled  still, 
But  her  foresight  could  not  forestall  their  will. 

Even  in  this  thought  through  the  dark  night  he 

stealeth, 

A  captive  victor  that  hath  lost  in  gain  ; 
Bearing  away  the  wound  that  nothing  healeth, 
The  scar  that  will,  despite  of  cure,  remain, 
Leaving  his  spoil  perplex'd  in  greater  pain. 
She  bears  the  load  of  lust  he  left  behind, 
And  he  the  burthen  of  a  guilty  mind. 

He  like  a  thievish  dog  creeps  sadly  thence  ; 
She  like  a  wearied  lamb  lies  panting  there  j 
He  scowls,  and  hates  himself  for  his  offence  ; 
She,  desperate,  with  her  nails  her  flesh  doth  tear; 
He  faintly  flies,  sweating  with  guilty  fear  ; 

She  stays,  exclaiming  on  the  direful  night ; 

He   runs,  and  chides   his  vanish'd,  loath'd 
delight. 

He  thence  departs  a  heavy  convertite  ; 

She  there  remains  a  hopeless  castaway  : 

He  in  his  speed  looks  for  the  morning  light ; 

She  prays  she  never  may  behold  the  day  ; 

'  For  day,'  quoth  she,  '  night's  scapes  doth  open 

lay; 

And  my  true  eyes  have  never  practis'd  how 
To  cloak  offences  with  a  cunning  brow. 

*  They  think  not  but  that  every  eye  can  see 
The    same    disgrace   which    they   themselves 
behold ; 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


1233 


And  therefore  would  they  still  in  darkness  be, 
To  have  their  unseen  sin  remain  untold  ; 
For  they  their  guilt  with  weeping  will  unfold, 
And  grave,  like  water,  that  doth  eat  in  steel, 
Upon  my  cheeks  what  helpless  shame  I  feel.' 

Here  she  exclaims  against  repose  and  rest, 
And  bids  her  eyes  hereafter  still  be  blind. 
She  wakes  her  heart  by  beating  on  her  breast, 
And  bids  it  leap  from  thence,  where  it  may  find 
Some  purer  chest,  to  close  so  pure  a  mind. 

Frantic  with  grief  thus  breathes  she  forth  her 
spite 

Against  the  unseen  secrecy  of  night : 

*  O  comfort-killing  night,  image  of  hell ! 
Dim  register  and  notary  of  shame  ! 
Black  stage  for  tragedies  and  murders  fell ! 
Vast  sin-concealing  chaos  !  nurse  of  blame  ! 
Blind  muffled  bawd !  dark  harbour  for  defame  ! 

Grim  cave  of  death,  whispering  conspirator, 
With  close-tongued  treason  and  the  ravisher  ! 

*  O  hateful,  vaporous,  and  foggy  night, 
Since  thou  art  guilty  of  my  cureless  crime, 
Muster  thy  mists  to  meet  the  eastern  light, 
Make  war  against  proportioned  course  of  time ! 
Or  if  thou  wilt  permit  the  sun  to  climb 

His  wonted  height,  yet  ere  he  go  to  bed, 
Knit  poisonous  clouds  about  his  golden  head. 

'  With  rotten  damps  ravish  the  morning  air  ; 
Let  their  exhal'd  unwholesome  breaths  make  sick 
The  life  of  purity,  the  supreme  fair, 
Ere  he  arrive  his  weary  noontide  prick  ; 
And  let  thy  misty  vapours  march  so  thick, 
That  in  their  smoky  ranks  his  smother'd  light, 
May  set  at  noon,  and  make  perpetual  night. 

'WereTs 

The  silver- 

Her  twinkli: 

Through  night's  black  bosom' should  not  peep 
again  ; 

So  should  I  have  copartners  in  my  pain  : 
And  fellowship  in  woe  doth  woe  assuage, 
As  palmers' chat  makesshort  their  pilgrimage. 

*  Where  now  I  have  no  one  to  blush  with  me, 
To  cross  their  arms,  and  hang  their  heads  with 

mine, 

To  mask  their  brows,  and  hide  their  infamy ; 
But  I  alone  alone  must  sit  and  pine, 
Seasoning  the  earth  with  showers  of  silver  brine, 
Mingling  my  talk  with  tears,  my  grief  with 

groans, 
Poor  wasting  monuments  of  lasting  moans. 


1  O  night,  thou  furnace  of  foul -reeking  smoke, 
Let  not  the  jealous  day  behold  that  face 
Which  underneath  thy  black  all-hiding  cloak 
Immodestly  lies  martyr'd  with  disgrace  ! 
Keep  still  possession  of  thy  gloomy  place, 
That  all  the  faults  which  in  thy  reign  are  made. 
May  likewise  be  sepulchred  in  thy  shade  ! 

'  Make  me  not  object  to  the  tell-tale  day  ! 
The  light  will  show,  character'd  in  my  brow, 
The  story  of  sweet  chastity's  decay, 
The  impious  breach  of  holy  wedlock  vow  : 
Yea,  the  illiterate,  that  know  not  how 
To  'cipher  what  is  writ  in  learned  books, 
Will  quote  my  loathsome  trespass  in  my  looks. 

'  The  nurse,  to  still  her  child,  will  tell  my  story, 
And  fright  her  crying  babe  with  Tarquin's  name  ; 
The  orator,  to  deck  his  oratory, 
Will  couple  my  reproach  to  Tarquin's  shame : 
Feast-finding  minstrels,  tuning  my  defame, 
Will  tie  the  hearers  to  attend  each  line, 
How  Tarquin  wronged  me,  I  Collatine. 

'  Let  my  good  name,  that  senseless  reputation, 
For  Collatine's  dear  love  be  kept  unspotted  : 
If  that  be  made  a  theme  for  disputation, 
The  branches  of  another  root  are  rotted, 
And  undeserv'd  reproach  to  him  allotted, 
That  is  as  clear  from  this  attaint  of  mine, 
As  I,  ere  this,  was  pure  to  Collatine. 

'  O  unseen  shame  !  invisible  disgrace  ! 
O  unfelt  sore  !  crest-wounding,  private  scar  ! 
Reproach  is  stamp' d  in  Collatinus'  face, 
And  Tarquin's  eye  may  read  the  mot  afar, 
How  he  in  peace  is  wounded,  not  in  war. 
Alas,  how  many  bear  such  shameful  blows, 
Which  not  themselves  but  he  that  gives  them 
knows  ! 

*  If,  Collatine,  thine  honour  lay  in  me, 
From  me  by  strong  assault  it  is  bereft. 
My  honey  lost,  and  I,  a  drone-like  bee, 
Have  no  perfection  of  my  summer  left, 
But  robb'd  and  ransack'd  by  injurious  theft : 

In  thy  weak  hive  a  wandering  wasp  hath 
crept,  [kept. 

And  suck'd  the  honey  which  thy  chaste  bee 

'  Yet  am  I  guilty  of  thy  honour's  wrack, — 
Yet  for  thy  honour  did  I  entertain  him  ; 
Coming  from  thee,  I  could  not  put  him  back, 
For  it  had  been  dishonour  to  disdain  him  : 
Besides  of  weariness  he  did  complain  him, 
And  talk'd  of  virtue  : — O,  unlook'd  for  evil, 
When  virtue  is  profan'd  in  such  a  devil  J 


1234 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


*  Why  should  the  worm  intrude  the  maiden  bud? 
Or  hateful  cuckoos  hatch  in  sparrows'  nests  ? 
Or  toads  infect  fair  founts  with  venom  mud  ? 
Or  tyrant  folly  lurk  in  gentle  breasts  ? 

Or  kings  be  breakers  of  their  own  behests  ? 
JBut  no  perfection  is  so  absolute, 
That  some  impurity  doth  not  pollute. 

'  The  aged  man  that  coffers  up  his  gold     [fits, 
Is  plagued  with  cramps,  and  gouts,  and  painful 
And  scarce  hath  eyes  his  treasure  to  behold, 
But  like  still-pining  Tantalus  he  sits, 
And  useless  barns  the  harvest  of  his  wits  ; 
Having  no  other  pleasure  of  his  gain 
But  torment  that  it  cannot  cure  his  pain. 

'  So  then  he  "hath  it,  when  he  cannot  use  it, 
And  leaves  it  to  be  master'd  by  his  young  ; 
Who  in  their  pride  do  presently  abuse  it : 
Their  father  was  too  weak,  and  they  too  strong, 
To  hold  their  cursed-blessed  fortune  long, 
The  sweets  we  wish  for  turn  to  loathed  sours, 
Even  in  the  moment  that  we  call  them  ours. 

*  Unruly  blasts  wait  on  the  tender  spring ; 
Unwholesome  weeds  take  root  with   precious 

flowers ; 

The  adder  hisses  where  the  sweet  birds  sing  ; 
What  virtue  breeds  iniquity  devours  : 
We  have  no  good  that  we  can  say  is  ours, 
But  ill-annexed  Opportunity 
Or  kills  his  life,  or  else  his  quality. 

*  O  Opportunity  !  thy  guilt  is  great : 

'Tis  thou  that  execut'st  the  traitor's  treason  ; 
Thou  sett'st  the  wolf  where  he  the  lamb  may  get; 
Whoever  plots  the  sin,  thou  'point'st  the  season; 
'Tis  thou  that  spurn'st  at  right,  at  law,  at  reason; 

And  in  thy  shady  cell,  where  none  may  spy 
him, 

Sits  Sin,  to  seize  the  souls  that  wander  by  him. 

'  Thou  mak'st  the  vestal  violate  her  oath  ; 

Thou  blow'stthe  fire  when  temperance  10  thaw'd ; 

Thou  smother'st  honesty,  thou  murther'st  troth; 

Thou  foul  abettor  !  thou  notorious  bawd  ! 

Thou  plantest  scandal,  and  displaces!  laud  : 
Thou  ravisher,  thou  traitor,  thou  false  thief, 
Thy  honey  turns  to  gall,  thy  joy  to  grief ! 

*  Thy  secret  pleasure  turns  to  open  shame, 
Thy  private  feasting  to  a  public  fast ; 
Thy  smoothing  titles  to  a  ragged  name  ; 

Thy  sugar'd  tongue  to  bitter  wormwood  taste  : 

Thy  violent  vanities  can  never  last. 
How  comes  it  then,  vile  Opportunity, 
Being  so  bad,  such  numbers  seek  for  thee  ? 


'  When  wilt  thou  be  the  humble  suppliant's  friend, 
And  bring  him  where  his  suit  may  be  obtain'd? 
When  wilt  thou  sort  an  hour  great  strifes  to  end? 
Or  free  that  soul  which  wretchedness  hath 

chain'd  ? 

Give  physic  to  the  sick,  ease  to  the  pain'd  ? 
The  poor,  lame,  blind,  halt,  creep,  cry  out 

for  thee; 
But  they  ne'er  meet  with  Opportunity, 

'  The  patient  dies  while  the  physician  sleeps ; 
The  orphan  pines  while  the  oppressor  feeds ; 
Justice  is  feasting  while  the  widow  weeps  ; 
Advice  is  sporting  while  infection  breeds  ; 
Thou  grant'st  no  time  for  charitable  deeds  : 

Wrath,  envy,  treason,   rape,   and  murder's 
rages, 

Thy  heinous  hours  wait  on  them  astheir  pages. 

'  When  truth  and  virtue  have  to  do  with  thee, 
A  thousand  crosses  keep  them  from  thy  aid  ; 
They  buy  thy  help  :  but  Sin  ne'er  gives  a  fee, 
He  gratis  comes  ;  and  thou  art  well  appay'd 
As  well  to  hear  as  grant  what  he  hath  saioU 
My  Collatine  would  else  have  come  to  fiae 
When  Tarquin  did,  but  he  was  stay'd  by  thee. 

*  Guilty  thou  art  of  murder  and  of  theft ; 

Guilty  of  perjury  and  subornation  5 

Guilty  of  treason,  forgery,  and  shift  j 

Guilty  of  incest,  that  abomination  : 

An  accessary  by  thine  inclination 

To  all  sins  past,  and  all  that  are  to  come) 
From  the  creation  to  the  general  doom. 

'  Mis-shapen  Time,  copesmate  of  ugly  night> 
Swift  subtle  post,  carrier  of  grisly  Care, 
Eater  of  youth,  false  slave  to  false  delight, 
Base  watch  of  woes,  sin's  packhorse,  virtue's 

snare ; 
Thou  nursest  all,  and  murtherest  all  that  are. 

O  hear  me  then,  injurious,  shifting  Time  ! 

Be  guilty  of  my  death,  since  of  my  crime. 

'  Why  hath  thy  servant,  Opportunity, 
Betray'd  the  hours  thou  gav  st  me  to  repose  ? 
Cancell'd  my  fortunes  and  enchained  me 
To  endless  date  of  never-ending  woes  ? 
Time's  office  is  to  fine  the  hate  of  foes  ; 
To  eat  up  errors  by  opinion  bred, 
Not  spend  the  dowry  of  a  lawful  bed. 

'  Time's  glory  is  to  calm  contending  kings, 
To  unmask  falsehood,  and  bring  truth  to  light, 
To  stamp  the  seal  of  time  in  aged  things, 
To  wake  the  morn,  and  sentinel  the  night, 
To  wrong  the  wronger  till  he  render  right ; 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


"35 


To  ruinate  proud  buildings  with  thy  hours, 
And  smear  with  dust  their  glittering  golden 


'  To  fill  with  worm-holes  stately  monuments, 
To  feed  oblivion  with  decay  of  things, 
To  blot  old  books,  and  alter  their  contents, 
To  pluck  the  quills  from  ancient  ravens'  wings, 
To  dry  the  old  oak's  sap,  and  cherish  springs  ; 
To  spoil  antiquities  of  hammer'd  steel, 
And  turn  the  giddy  round  of  Fortune's  wheel ; 

*  To  show  the  beldame  daughtersof  her  daughter, 
To  make  the  child  a  man,  the  man  a  child, 
To  slay  the  tiger  that  doth  live  by  slaughter, 
To  tame  the  unicorn  and  lion  wild, 
To  mock  the  subtle,  in  themselves  beguil'd  ; 
To  cheer  the  ploughman  with  increaseful  crops, 
And  waste  huge  stones  with  little  water-drops. 

'  Why  work'st  thou  mischief  in  thy  pilgrimage, 
Unless  thou  couldst  return  to  make  amends  ? 
One  poor  retiring  minute  in  an  age 
Would    purchase    thee  a  thousand    thousand 

friends, 

Lending  him  wit  that  to  bad  debtors  lends  : 
O,  this  dread  night,  wouldst  thou  one  hour 

come  back, 
I  could  prevent  thisstorm,  and  shun  thy  wrack  ! 

'Thou  ceaseless  lackey  to  eternity, 
With  some  mischance  cross  Tarquin  in  his  flight : 
Devise  extremes  beyond  extremity, 
To  make  him  curse  this  cursed  crimeful  night : 
Let  ghastly  shadows  his  lewd  eyes  affright, 
And  the  dire  thought  of  his  committed  evil 
Shape  every  bush  a  hideous  shapeless  devil. 

'  Disturb  his  hours  of  rest  with  restless  trances, 
Afflict  him  in  his  bed  with  bedrid  groans ; 
Let  there  bechance  him  pitiful  mischances, 
To  make  him  moan,  but  pity  not  his  moans  : 
Stone  him  with  hardened  hearts,  harder  than 

stones ; 

And  let  mild  women  to  him  lose  their  mildness, 
Wilder  to  him  than  tigers  in  their  wildness. 

'  Let  him  have  time  to  tear  his  curled  hair, 
Let  him  have  lime  against  himself  to  rave, 
Let  him  have  time  of  Time's  help  to  despair, 
Let  him  have  time  to  live  a  loathed  slave, 
Let  him  have  time  a  beggar's  orts  to  crave  ; 
And  time  to  see  one  that  by  alms  doth  live 
Disdain  to  him  disdained  scraps  to  give. 

1  Let  him  have  time  to  see  his  friends  his  foes, 
And  merry  fools  to  mock  at  him  resort ; 


Let  him  have  time  to  mark  how  slow  time  goes 
In  time  of  sorrow,  and  how  swift  and  short 
His  time  of  folly  and  his  time  of  sport : 
And  ever  let  his  unrecalling  crime 
Have  time  to  wail  the  abusing  of  his  time. 

'  O  Time,  thou  tutor  both  to  good  and  bad, 
Teach  me  to  curse  him  that  thou  taught' st  this 

ill! 

At  his  own  shadow  let  the  thief  run  mad  ! 
Himself  himself  seek  every  hour  to  kill ! 
Such    wretched    hands   such   wretched    blood 

should  spill : 

For  who  so  base  would  such  an  office  have 
As  slanderous  death's-man  to  so  base  a  slave? 

'  The  baser  is  he,  coming  from  a  king, 
To  shame  his  hope  with  deeds  degenerate. 
The  mightier  man,  the  mightier  is  the  thing 
That  makes  him  honour'd,  or  begets  him  hate ; 
For  greatest  scandal  waits  on  greatest  state. 
The  moon  being  clouded  presently  is  miss'd, 
But  little  stars  may  hide  them  when  they  list. 

'  The  crow  may  bathe  his  coal-black  wings  in 

mire, 

And  unperceiv'd  fly  with  the  filth  away, 
But  if  the  like  the  snow-white  swan  desire, 
The  stain  upon  his  silver  down  will  stay. 
Poor  grooms  are  sightless  night,  kings  glorious 

day. 

Gnats  are  unnoted  wheresoe'er  they  fly, 
But  eagles  gaz'd  upon  with  every  eye. 

'  Out,  idle  words,  servants  to  shallow  fools ! 

Unprofitable  sounds,  weak  arbitrators! 

Busy  yourselves  in  ski  11 -con  ten  ding  schools, 

Debate  where  leisure  serves  with  dull  debaters; 

To  trembling  clients  be  you  mediators : 
For  me,  I  force  not  argument  a  straw, 
Since  that  my  case  is  past  the  help  of  law. 

'  In  vain  I  rail  at  Opportunity, 
At  Time,  at  Tarquin,  and  uncheerful  night ; 
In  vain  I  cavil  with  my  infamy, 
In  vain  I  spurn  at  my  confirm'd  despite  : 
This  helpless  smoke  of  words  doth  me  no  right 
The  remedy  indeed  to  do  me  good, 
Is  to  let  forth  my  foul,  defiled  blood. 

'  Poor  hand,  why  quiver'st  thou  at  this  decree? 
Honour  thyself  to  rid  me  of  this  shame  ; 
For  if  I  die  my  honour  lives  in  thee, 
But  if  I  live  thou  liv'st  in  my  defame  : 
Since  thou  couldst  not  defend  thy  loyal  dame, 
And  was  afear'd  to  scratch  her  wicked  foe, 
Kill  both  thyself  and  her  for  yielding  so.' 


1236 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


This  said,  from  her  betumbled  couch  she  starteth, 
To  find  some  desperate  instrument  of  death  : 
But  this  no-slaughter-house  no  tool  imparteth, 
To  make  more  vent  for  passage  of  her  breath, 
Which  thronging  through  her  lips  so  vanisheth 
As  smoke  from  ^Etna,  that  in  air  consumes, 
Or  that  which  from  discharged  cannon  fumes. 

'  In  vain,'  quoth  she,  *  I  live,  and  seek  in  vain 
Some  happy  mean  to  end  a  hapless  life. 
I  fear'd  by  Tarquin's  falchion  to  be  slain, 
Yet  for  the  self- same  purpose  seek  a  knife  : 
But  when  I  fear'd  I  was  a  loyal  wife  ; 

So  am  I  now : — O  no,  that  cannot  be  ; 

Of  that  true  type  hath  Tarquin  rifled  me. 

*  O  !  that  is  gone  for  which  I  sought  to  live, 
And  therefore  now  I  need  not  fear  to  die. 
To  clear  this  spot  by  death,  at  least  I  give 
A  badge  of  fame  to  slander's  livery  ; 
A  dying  life  to  living  infamy  ; 


Poor  helpless  help,  the  treasure  stolen  away, 
To  burn  the  guiltles 


less  casket  where  it  lay  ! 


*  Well,  well,  dear  Collatine,  thou  shall  not  know 
The  stained  taste  of  violated  troth  ; 

I  will  not  wrong  thy  true  affection  so 
To  flatter  thee  with  an  infringed  oath  ; 
This  bastard  graff  shall  never  come  to  growth  : 
He  shall  not  boast  who  did  thy  stock  pollute 
That  thou  art  doting  father  of  his  fruit. 

'  Nor  shall  he  smile  at  thee  in  secret  thought, 
Nor  laugh  with  his  companions  at  thy  state  ; 
But  thou  shalt  know  thy  interest  was  not  bought 
Basely  with  gold,  but  stolen  from  forth  thy  gate. 
For  me,  I  am  the  mistress  of  my  fate, 

And  with  my  trespass  never  will  dispense, 
Till  life  to  death  acquit  my  forc'd  offence. 

*  I  will  not  poison  thee  with  my  attaint, 
Nor  fold  my  fault  in  cleanly-coin'd  excuses  ; 
My  sable  ground  of  sin  I  will  not  paint, 

To  hide  the  truth  of  this  false  night's  abuses  : 
My  tongue  shall  utter  all ;  mine  eyes  like  sluices, 
As  from  a  mountain-spring  that  feeds  a  dale, 
Shall  gush  pure  streams  to  purge  my  impure 

By  this,  lamenting  Philomel  had  ended 
The  well-tun'd  warble  of  her  nightly  sorrow, 
And  solemn  night  with  slow-sad  gait  descended 
To  ugly  hell ;  when  lo,  the  blushing  morrow 
Lends  light  to  all  fair  eyes  that  light  will  borrow  : 
But  cloudy  Lucrece  shames  herself  to  see, 
And  therefore  still  in  night  would  cloister'd 
be. 


Revealing  day  through  every  cranny  spies, 
And  seems  to  point  her   out  where   she   sits 

weeping, 

To  whom  she  sobbing  speaks :  '  O  eye  of  eyes, 
Why  pryest  thou  through  my  window?    leave 

thy  peeping ; 
Mock  with  thy  tickling  beams  eyes  that   are 

sleeping : 

Brand  not  my  forehead  with  thy  piercing  light, 
For  day  hath  nought  to  do  what 's  done  by 

night.' 

Thus  cavils  she  with  everything  she  sees  : 

True  grief  is  fond  and  testy  as  a  child, 

Who   wayward  once,   his   mood  with  nought 

agrees. 

Old  woes,  not  infant  sorrows,  bear  them  mild  ; 
Continuance  tames  the  one  ;  the  other  wild, 
Like  an  unpractis'd  swimmer  plunging  still 
With  too  much  labour  drowns  for  want  of 
skill. 

So  she,  deep-drenched  in  a  sea  of  care, 
Holds  disputation  with  each  thing  she  views, 
And  to  herself  all  sorrow  doth  compare  ; 
No  object  but  her  passion's  strength  renews  ; 
And  as  one  shifts,  another  straight  ensues  : 
Sometime  her  grief  is  dumb  and  hath  no  words  j 
Sometime  'tis  mad,  and  too  much  talk  affords. 

The  little  birds  that  tune  their  morning's  joy 
Make  her  moans  mad  with  their  sweet  melody. 
For  mirth  doth  search  the  bottom  of  annoy  ; 
Sad  souls  are  slain  in  merry  company : 
Grief  best  is  pleas'd  with  griefs  society  : 
True  sorrow  then  is  feelingly  suffic'd 
When  with  like  semblance  it  is  sympathiz'd. 

'Tis  double  death  to  drown  in  ken  of  shore  ; 
He  ten  times  pines  that  pines  beholding  food  ; 
To  see  the  salve  doth  make  the  wound  ache 

more  ; 

Great  grief  grieves  most  at  that  would  do  it  good ; 
Deep  woes  roll  forward  like  a  gentle  flood, 
Who,  being  stopp'd,  the  bounding  banks  o'er- 

flows: 
Grief  dallied  with  noi  law  nor  limit  knows. 

'You  mocking  birds/ quoth  she,  'your  tunes 

entomb 

Within  your  hollow-swelling  feather'd  breasts, 
And  in  my  hearing  be  you  mute  and  dumb  ! 
(My  restless  discord  loves  no  stops  nor  rests  ; 
A  woeful  hostess  brooks  not  merry  guests  :) 
Relish  your  nimble  notes  to  pleasing  ears  ; 
Distress  like  dumps  when  time  is  kept  with 
tears. 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


1237 


'  Come,  Philomel,  that  sing'st  of  ravishment, 
Make  thy  sad  grove  in  my  dishevell'd  hair. 
As  the  dank  earth  weeps  at  thy  languishment, 
So  I  at  each  sad  strain  will  strain  a  tear, 
And  with  deep  groans  the  diapason  bear  : 
For  burthen-wise  I  '11  hum  on  Tarquin  still, 
While  thou  on  Tereus  descant'st  better  skill. 

*  And  whiles  against  a  thorn  thou  bear'st  thy  part, 
To  keep  thy  sharp  woes  waking,  wretched  I, 
To  imitate  thee  well,  against  my  heart 

Will  fix  a  sharp  knife,  to  affright  mine  eye ; 

Who,  if  it  wink,  shall  thereon  fall  and  die. 
These  means,  as  frets  upon  an  instrument, 
Shall  tune  our  heartstrings  to  true  languish- 
ment. 

'  And  for,  poor  bird,  thou  sing'st  not  in  the  day, 
As  shaming  any  eye  should  thee  behold, 
Some  dark  deep  desert,  seated  from  the  way, 
That  knows  nor  parching  heat  nor  freezing  cold, 
We  will  find  out ;  and  there  we  will  unfold 

To  creatures  stern  sad  tunes,  to  change  their 
kinds:  [minds.' 

Since  men  prove  beasts,  let  beasts  bear  gentle 

As  the  poor  frighted  deer,  that  stands  at  gaze, 
Wildly  determining  which  way  to  fly, 
Or  one  encompass'd  with  a  winding  maze, 
That  cannot  tread  the  way  out  readily  ; 
So  with  herself  is  she  in  mutiny, 

To  live  or  die  which  of  the  twain  were  better, 
When  life  is  sham'd,  and  Death  reproach's 
debtor. 

'To  kill  myself,' quoth  she,  *alack!  whatwereit, 
But  with  my  body  my  poor  soul's  pollution  ? 
They  that  lose  half  with  greater  patience  bear  it 
Than  they  whose  wholeis  swallow'd  in  confusion. 
That  mother  tries  a  merciless  conclusion 

Who,  having  two  sweet  babes,  when  death 
takes  one, 

Will  slay  the  other,  and  be  nurse  to  none. 

*  My  body  or  my  soul,  which  was  the  dearer? 
When  the  one  pure,  the  other  made  divine. 
Whose  love  of  either  to  myself  was  nearer  ? 
When  both  were  kept  for  heaven  and  Collatine. 
Ah,  me  !  the  bark  peel'd  from  the  lofty  pine, 

His  leaves  will  wither,  and  his  sap  decay  ; 
So  must  my  soul,  her  bark  being  peel'd  away. 

'Her  house  is  sack'd,  her  quiet  interrupted, 

Her  mansion  batter'd  by  the  enemy ; 

Her  sacred  temple  spotted,  spoil'd,  corrupted, 

Grossly  engirt  with  daring  infamy: 

Then  let  it  not  be  call'd  impiety 


If  in  this  biemish'd  fort  I  make  some  hole 
Through  which  I  may  convey  this  troubled 
soul. 

'  Yet  die  I  will  not  till  my  Collatine 
Have  heard  the  cause  of  my  untimely  death  ; 
That  he  may  vow,  in  that  sad  hour  of  mine, 
Revenge  on  him  that  made  me  stop  my  breath. 
My  stained  blood  to  Tarquin  I  '11  bequeath, 
Which  by  him  tainted  shall  for  him  be  spent, 
And  as  his  due  writ  in  my  testament. 

'  My  honour  I  '11  bequeath  unto  the  knife 
That  wounds  my  body  so  dishonoured. 
'Tis  honour  to  deprive  dishonour'd  life  ; 
The  one  will  live,  the  other  being  dead  : 
So  of  shame's  ashes  shall  my  fame  be  bred  ; 
For  in  my  death  I  murther  shameful  scorn  : 
My  shame  so  dead,  mine  honour  is  new-born. 

'  Dear  lord  of  that  dear  jewel  I  have  lost, 
What  legacy  shall  I  bequeath  to  thee  ? 
My  resolution,  Love,  shall  be  thy  boast, 
By  whose  example  thou  reveng'd  mayst  be. 
How  Tarquin  must  be  used,  read  it  in  me  : 

Myself,  thy  friend,  will  kill  myself,  thy  foe  ; 

And,  for  my  sake,  serve  thou  false  Tarquin  so. 

'  This  brief  abridgment  of  my  will  I  make  : 

My  soul  and  body  to  the  skies  and  ground; 

My  resolution,  husband,  do  thou  take  ; 

Mine   honour   be  the  knife's  that  makes   my 
wound  ; 

My  shame  be  his  that  did  my  fame  confound  ; 
And  all  my  fame  that  lives  disbursed  be 
To  those  that  live,  and  think  no  shame  of  me. 

'  Thou,  Collatine,  shalt  oversee  this  will ; 
How  was  I  overseen  that  thou  shalt  see  it  ! 
My  blood  shall  wash  the  slander  of  mine  ill ; 
My  life's  foul  deed  my  life's  fair  end  shall  free  it. 
Faint  not,  faint  heart,  but  stoutly  say, "  so  be  it." 

Yieid  to  my  hand  ;  my  hand  shall  conquer  thee ; 

Thou  dead,  both  die,  and  both  shall  victors  be.' 

This  plot  of  death  when  sadly  she  had  laid, 
And  wip'd  the  brinish  pearl  from  her  bright  eyes, 
With  untun'd  tongue  she  hoarsely  call'd  her  maid, 
Whose  swift  obedience  to  her  mistress  hies  ; 
For  fleet-wing'd  duty  with  thought's  feathers 

flies. 

Poor  Lucrece'  cheeks  unto  her  maid  seem  so 
As  winter  meads  when  sun  doth  melt  their 


Her  mistress  shedoth  give  demure  good-morrow, 
With  soft-slow  tongue,  true  mark  of  modesty, 


1238 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


And  sorts  a  sad  look  to  her  lady's  sorrow, 
(For  why?  her  face  wore  sorrow's  livery,) 
But  durst  not  ask  of  her  audaciously 

Why  her  two  suns  were  cloud-eclipsed  so, 
Nor  why  her  fair  cheeks  over- wash'd  with  woe. 

But  as  the  earth  doth  weep,  the  sun  being  set, 
Each  flower  moisten'd  like  a  melting  eye  ; 
Even  so  the  maid  with  swelling  drops  'gan  wet 
Her  circled  eyne,  enforc'd  by  sympathy 
Of  those  fair  suns,  set  in  her  mistress'  sky, 
Who  in  a  salt-wav'd  ocean  quench  their  light, 
Which  makes  the  maid  weep  like  the  dewy 
night. 

A  pretty  while  these  pretty  creatures  stand, 
Like  ivory  conduits  coral  cisterns  filling : 
One  justly  weeps  ;  the  other  takes  in  hand 
No  cause,  but  company,  of  her  drops  spilling  : 
Their  gentle  sex  to  weep  are  often  willing  ; 
Grieving  themselves  to  guess  at  others'  smarts, 
And  then  they  drown  their  eyes,  or  break 
their  hearts. 

For  men  have  marble,  women  waxen  minds, 
And  therefore  are  they  form'd  as  marble  will ; 
The  weak  oppress'd,  the  impression  of  strange 

kinds 

Is  form'd  in  them  by  force,  by  fraud,  or  skill : 
Then  call  them  not  the  authors  of  their  ill, 
No  more  than  wax  shall  be  accounted  evil, 
Wherein  is  stamp'd  the  semblance  of  a  devil. 

Their  smoothness,  like  a  goodly  champaign 

plain, 

Lays  open  all  the  little  worms  that  creep ; 
In  men,  as  in  a  rough-grown  grove,  remain 
Cave-keeping  evils  that  obscurely  sleep  : 
Through  crystal  walls  each  little  mote  will  peep: 
Though  men   can  cover  crimes  with   bold 

stern  looks, 
Poor   women's   faces  are   their  own  faults' 

books. 

No  man  inveigh  against  the  wither'd  flower, 
But  chide  rough  winter  that  the  flower  hath 

kiird  » 

Not  that  devour'd,  but  that  which  doth  devour 
Is  worthy  blame.     O,  let  it  not  be  hild 
Poor  women's  faults  that  they  are  so  fulfill'd 
With  men's  abuses  !  those  proud  lords,  to 

blame, 
Make  weak-made  women   tenants   to  their 

shame. 

The  precedent  whereof  in  Lucrece  view, 
Assail'd  by  night  with  circumstances  strong 


Of  present  death,  and  shame  that  might  ensue 
By  that  her  death,  to  do  her  husband  wrong  : 
Such  danger  to  resistance  did  belong, 

That  dying  fear  through  all  her  body  spread  ; 

And  who  cannot  abuse  a  body  dead  ? 

By  this,  mild  Patience  bid  fair  Lucrece  speak 
To  the  poor  counterfeit  of  her  complaining  : 
'  My  girl,'  quoth  she,  'on  what  occasion  break 
Those  tears  from  thee,  that  down  thy  cheeks 

are  raining  ? 

If  thou  dost  weep  for  grief  of  my  sustaining, 
Know,    gentle   wench,    it  small   avails   my 

mood : 
If  tears  could  help,  mine  own  would  do  me 

good. 

'But  tell  me,  girl,  when  went' — (and  there  she 

stay'd 

Till  after  a  deep  groan)  'Tarquin  from  hence?' 
'  Madam,  ere  I  was  up,'  replied  the  maid, 
'  The  more  to  blame  my  sluggard  negligence  : 
Yet  with  the  fault  I  thus  far  can  dispense  ; 
Myself  was  stirring  ere  the  break  of  day, 
And,  ere  I  rose,  was  Tarquin  gone  away. 

'  But,  lady,  if  your  maid  may  be  so  bold, 
She  would  request  to  know  your  heaviness.' 
'  O  peace  ! '  quoth  Lucrece ;  '  if  it  should  be 

told, 

The  repetition  cannot  make  it  less  ; 
For  more  it  is  than  I  can  well  express  : 
And  that  deep  torture  may  be  call'd  a  hell, 
When  more  is  felt  than  one  hath  power  to  tell. 

'  Go,  get  me  hither  paper,  ink,  and  pen — 
Yet  save  that  labour,  for  I  have  them  here. 
What  should  I  say? — One  of  my  husband's  men 
Bid  thou  be  ready,  by  and  by,  to  bear 
A  letter  to  my  lord,  my  love,  my  dear  ; 
Bid  him  with  speed  prepare  to  carry  it : 
The  cause  craves  haste,  and  it  will  soon  be 
writ.' 

Her  maid  is  gone,  and  she  prepares  to  write, 
First  hovering  o'er  the  paper  with  her  quill : 
Conceit  and  grief  an  eager  combat  fight ; 
What  wit  sets  down  is  blotted  straight  with  will; 
This  is  too  curious-good,  this  blunt  and  ill : 
Much  like  a  press  of  people  at  a  door, 
Throng  her  inventions,  which  shall  be  before. 

At  last  she  thus  begins  : — '  Thou  worthy  lord 
Of  that  unworthy  wife  that  greeteth  thee, 
Health  to  thy  person !  next  vouchsafe  to  afford 
(If  ever,  love,  thy  Lucrece  thou  wilt  see) 
Some  present  speed  to  come  and  visit  me  : 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


1239 


So  I  commend  me  from  our  house  in  grief; 
My  woes  are  tedious,  though  my  words  are 

brief.' 

Here  folds  she  up  the  tenor  of  her  woe, 
Her  certain  sorrow  writ  uncertainly. 
By  this  short  schedule  Collatine  may  know 
Her  grief,  but  not  her  griefs  true  quality  ; 
She  dares  not  thereof  make  discovery, 

Lest  he  should  hold  it  her  own  gross  abuse, 
Ere  she  with  blood  had  stain'd  her  stain'd 


Besides,  the  life  and  feeling  of  her  passion 
She  hoards,  to  spend  when  he  is  by  to  hear  her ; 
When  sighs,  and  groans,  and  tears  may  grace 

the  fashion 

Of  her  disgrace,  the  better  so  to  clear  her 
From  that  suspicion  which  the  world  might 

bear  her. 
To  shun  this  blot,  she  would  not  blot  the 

letter  [better. 

With  words,  till  action  might  become  them 

To  see  sad  sights  moves  more  than  hear  them 

told; 

For  then  the  eye  interprets  to  the  ear 
The  heavy  motion  that  it  doth  behold, 
When  every  part  a  part  of  woe  doth  bear. 
'Tis  but  a  part  of  sorrow  that  we  hear  : 

Deep  sounds  make  lesser  noise  than  shallow 

fords,  [words. 

And  sorrow  ebbs,  being  blown  with  wind  of 

Her  letter  now  is  seal'd,  and  on  it  writ, 
*  At  Ardea  to  my  lord  with  more  than  haste ; ' 
The  post  attends,  and  she  delivers  it, 
Charging  the  sour-fac'd  groom  to  hie  as  fast 
As  lagging  fowls  before  the  northern  blast. 

Speed  more  than  speed  but  dull  and  slow 
she  deems : 

Extremity  still  urgeth  such  extremes. 

The  homely  villain  court'sies  to  her  low  ; 
And  blushing  on  her,  with  a  steadfast  eye 
Receives  the  scroll,  without  or  yea  or  no, 
And  forth  with  bashful  innocence  doth  hie. 
But  they  whose  guilt  within  their  bosoms  He 

Imagine  every  eye  beholds  their  blame  ; 

For  Lucrece  thought  he  blusb'd  to  see  her 
shame ; 

When,  silly  groom  !  God  wot,  it  was  defect 
Of  spirit,  life,  and  bold  audacity. 
Such  harmless  creatures  have  a  true  respect 
To  talk  in  deeds,  while  others  saucily 
Promise  more  speed,  but  do  it  leisurely  : 


Even  so,  this  pattern  of  the  worn-out  age 
Pawn'd  honest  looks,  but  laid  no  words  to  gage. 

His  kindled  duty  kindled  her  mistrust, 
That  two  red  fires  in  both  their  faces  blaz'd  ; 
She  thought  he  blush'd  as  knowing  Tarquin's 

lust, 

And,  blushing  with  him,  wistly  on  him  gaz'd  ; 

Her  earnest  eye  did  make  him  more  amaz'd  : 

The  more   she   saw   the  blood  his  cheeks 

replenish,  [blemish. 

The  more  she  thought  he  spied  in  her  some 

But  long  she  thinks  till  he  return  again, 
And  yet  the  duteous  vassal  scarce  is  gone. 
The  weary  time  she  cannot  entertain, 
For  now  'tis  stale  to  sigh,  to  weep,  and  groan : 
So  woe  hath  wearied  woe,  moan  tired  moan, 
That  she  her  plaints  a  little  while  doth  stay, 
Pausing  for  means  to  mourn  some  newer  way. 

At  last  she  calls  to  mind  where  hangs  a  piece 
Of  skilful  painting,  made  for  Priam's  Troy  ; 
Before  the  which  is  drawn  the  power  of  Greece, 
For  Helen's  rape  the  city  to  destroy, 
Threat'ning  cloud-kissing  Ilion  with  annoy ; 
Which  the  conceited  painter  drew  so  proud, 
As  heaven  (itseem'd)  to  kiss  the  turrets  bow'd. 

A  thousand  lamentable  objects  there, 
In  scorn  of  Nature,  Art  gave  lifeless  life  : 
Many  a  dry  drop  seem'd  a  weeping  tear, 
Shed  for  the  slaughter'd  husband  by  the  wife : 
The  red  blood  reek'd  to  show  the  painter's  strife; 
And  dying  eyesgleam'd  forth  their  ashy  lights, 
Like  dying  coals  burnt  out  in  tedious  nights. 

There  might  you  see  the  labouring  pioneer 
Begrim'd  with  sweat,  and  smeared  all  with  dust; 
And  from  the  towers  of  Troy  there  would  appear 
The  very  eyes  of  men  through  loopholes  thrust, 
Gazing  upon  the  Greeks  with  little  lust : 

Such  sweet  observance  in  this  work  was  had, 
That  one  might  see  those  far-off  eyes  look  sad. 

In  great  commanders  grace  and  majesty 
You  might  behold,  triumphing  in  their  faces  ; 
In  youth,  quick  bearing  and  dexterity  ; 
And  here  and  there  the  painter  interlaces 
Pale  cowards,    marching   on   with   trembling 

paces ; 

Which  heartless  peasants  did  so  well  resemble, 
That  one  would  swear  he  saw  them  quake 
and  tremble. 

In  Ajax  and  Ulysses,  O  what  art 
Of  physiognomy  might  one  behold  ! 


I240 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


The  face  of  either  'cipher'd  cither's  heart ; 
Their  face  their  manners  most  expressly  told  : 
In  Ajax'  eyes  blunt  rage  and  rigour  roll'd  ; 
But  the  mild  glance  that  sly  Ulysses  lent 
Show'd  deep  regard  and  smiling  government. 

There  pleading  might  you  see  grave  Nestor 

stand, 

As  't  were  encouraging  the  Greeks  to  fight ; 
Making  such  sober  action  with  his  hand 
That  it  beguil'd  attention,  charm'd  the  sight : 
In  speech,  it  seem'd,  his  beard  all  silver  white 
Wagg'd  up  and  down,  and  from  his  lips  did 

fly 
Thin  winding  breath,  which  purl'd  up  to  the 

sky. 

About  him  were  a  press  of  gaping  faces, 
Which  seem'd  to  swallow  up  his  sound  advice ; 
All  jointly  listening,  but  with  several  graces, 
As  if  some  mermaid  did  their  ears  entice  ; 
Some  high,  some  low,  the  painter  was  so  nice : 
The  scalps  of  many,  almost  hid  behind, 
To  jump  up  higher  seem'd  to  mock  the  mind. 

Here  one  man's  hand  lean'd  on  another's  head, 
His  nose  being  shadow'd   by  his  neighbour's 

ear ; 
Here  one  being  throng'd  bears  back,  all  boll'n 

and  red ; 

Another  smother'd  seems  to  pelt  and  swear  ; 
And  in  their  rage  such  signs  of  rage  they  bear, 
As,  but  for  loss  of  Nestor's  golden  words, 
It   seem'd   they   would   debate  with   angry 

swords. 

For  much  imaginary  work  was  there ; 
Conceit  deceitful,  so  compact,  so  kind, 
That  for  Achilles'  image  stood  his  spear, 
Grip'd  in  an  armed  hand  ;  himself,  behind, 
Was  left  unseen,  save  to  the  eye  of  mind : 
A  hand,  a  foot,  a  face,  a  leg,  a  head, 
Stood  for  the  whole  to  be  imagined. 

And  from  the  walls  of  strong-besieged  Troy 
When  their  brave  hope,  bold  Hector,  march'd 

to  field, 

Stood  many  Trojan  mothers,  sharing  joy 
To  see  their  youthful  sons  bright  weapons  wield; 
And  to  their  hope  they  such  odd  action  yield, 


That  through  their  light  joy  seemed  to  appear 
(Like  bright  things  stain'd)  a  kind  of  " 


fear. 


heavy 


And,  from  the  strond  of  Dardan  where  they 

fought, 
To  Simois  reedy  banks,  the  red  blood  ran, 


Whose  waves  to  imitate  the  battle  sought 
With  swelling  ridges  ;  and  their  ranks  began 
To  break  upon  the  galled  shore,  and  than 
Retire  again,  till  meeting  greater  ranks 
They  join,  and  shoot  their  foam  at  Simois' 
banks. 

t  ysrri -onthBiLcQ ^in.Lp'TM  UQ;'-  .-• 
To  this  well-painted  piece  is  Lucrece  come, 
To  find  a  face  where  all  distress  is  stell'd. 
Many  she  sees  where  cares  have  carved  some, 
But  none  where  all  distress  and  dolour  dwell'd, 
Till  she  despairing  Hecuba  beheld, 

Staring  on  Priam's  wounds  with  her  old  eyes, 
Which  bleeding  under  Pyrrhus'  proud  foot 
lies. 

KW.-I3  VfUU  •  ?-H:3j"  i  boi   ,-dgiri    fWif/ 

In  her  the  painter  had  anatomiz'd 

Time's  ruin,  beauty's  wrack,  and  grim  care's 

reign ; 
Her  cheeks  with  chaps  and  wrinkles  were  dis- 

guis'd ; 

Of  what  she  was  no  semblance  did  remain  : 
Her  blue  blood,  chang'd  to  black  in  every  vein, 
Wanting  the  spring  that  those  shrunk  pipes 

had  fed, 
Show'd  life  imprison'd  in  a  body  dead. 

...?  'j.'.i  oj  o>.'-.''':!r9y;j  ->.a'.  S-^'  <K>/iJ 
On  this  sad  shadow  Lucrece  spends  her  eyes, 
And  shapes  her  sorrow  to  the  beldame's  woes, 
Who  nothing  wants  to  answer  her  but  cries, 
And  bitter  words  to  ban  her  cruel  foes  : 
The  painter  was  no  god  to  lend  her  those  ; 
And  therefore  Lucrece  swears  he  did  her 

wrong, 
To  give  her  so  much  grief,  and  not  a  tongue. 

'  Poor  instrument,'  quoth  she,  *  without  a  sound, 
I  '11  tune  thy  woes  with  my  lamenting  tongue  : 
And  drop  sweet  balm  in  Priam's  painted  wound, 
And  rail  on  Pyrrhus  that  hath  done  him  wrong, 
And  with  my  tears  quench  Troy  that  burns  so 

long; 

And  with  my  knife  scratch  out  the  angry  eyes 
Of  all  the  Greeks  that  are  thine  enemies. 

'  Show  me  the  strumpet  that  began  this  stir, 
That  with  my  nails  her  beauty  I  may  tear. 
Thy  heat  of  lust,  fond  Paris,  did  incur 
This  load  of  wrath  that  burning  Troy  doth 

bear; 

Thy  eye  kindled  the  fire  that  burneth  here  : 
And  here  in  Troy,  for  trespass  of  thine  eye, 
The  sire,  the  son,  the  dame,  and  daughter, 
die. 

'  Why  should  the  private  pleasure  of  some  one 
Become  the  public  plague  of  many  mo  ? 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


1241 


Let  sin,  alone  committed,  light  alone 
Upon  his  head  that  hath  transgressed  so. 
Let  guiltless  souls  be  freed  from  guilty  woe  : 
For  one's  offence  why  should  so  many  fall, 
To  plague  a  private  sin  in  general  ? 

'  Lo,  here  weeps  Hecuba,  here  Priam  dies, 
Here    manly    Hector    faints,     here     Troilus 

swounds ; 

Here  friend  by  friend  in  bloody  channel  lies, 
And  friend  to  friend  gives  unadvised  wounds, 
And  one  man's  lust  these  many  lives  confounds : 
Had  doting  Priam  check'd  his  son's  desire, 
Troy  had  been  bright  with  fame,  and  not 
with  fire. 

Here  feelingly  she  weeps  Troy's  painted  woes : 
For  sorrow,  like  a  heavy-hanging  bell, 
Once  set  on  ringing,  with  his  own  weight  goes ; 
Then  little  strength  rings  out  the  doleful  knell : 
So  Lucrece  set  a- work  sad  tales  doth  tell 

To  pencill'd  pensiveness  and  colour'd  sorrow ; 

She  lends  them  words,  and  she  their  looks 
doth  borrow. 

She  throws  her  eyes  about  the  painting  round, 

And  whom  she  finds  forlorn  she  doth  lament : 

At  last  she  sees  a  wretched  image  bound, 

That  piteous  looks  to  Phrygian  shepherds  lent ; 

His  face,  though  full  of  cares,  yet  show'd  content : 

Onward  to  Troy  with  the  blunt  swains  hegoes, 

So  mild  that  Patience  seem'd  to  scorn  his  woes. 

In  him  the  painter  labour'd  with  his  skill 
To  hide  deceit,  and  give  the  harmless  show 
An  humble  gait,  calm  looks,  eyes  wailing  still, 
A  brow  unbent,  that  seem'd  to  welcome  woe  ; 
Cheeks  neither  red  nor  pale,  but  mingled  so 
That  blushing  red  no  guilty  instance  gave, 
Nor  ashy  pale  the  fear  that  false  hearts  have. 

But,  like  a  constant  and  confirmed  devil, 
He  entertain'd  a  show  so  seeming  just, 
And  therein  so  ensconc'd  his  secret  evil, 
That  jealousy  itself  could  not  mistrust 
False-creeping  craft  and  perjury  should  thrust 
Into  so  bright  a  day  such  black-fac'd  storms, 
Or  blot  with  hell  -born  sin  such  saint-like  forms. 

The  well-skill'd  workman  this  mild  image  drew 
For  perjur'd  Sinon,  whose  enchanting  story 
The  credulous  old  Priam  after  slew  ;         [glory 
Whose  words,  like  wildfire,  burnt  the  shining 
Of  rich-built  Ilion,  that  the  skies  were  sorry, 
And  little  stars  shot  from  their  fixed  places, 
When  their  glass  fell  wherein  they  view'd 
their  faces. 


This  picture  she  advisedly  perus'd, 
And  chid  the  painter  for  his  wondrous  skill ; 
Saying,  some  shape  in  Sinon's  was  abus'd, 
So  fair  a  form  lodg'd  not  a  mind  so  ill ; 
And  still  on  him  she  gaz'd,  and  gazing  still. 
Such  signs  of  truth  in  his  plain  face  she  spied, 
That  she  concludes  the  picture  was  belied. 

'  It  cannot  be,'  quoth  she,  'that  so  much  guile' — 
(She  would  have  said)  '  can  lurk  in  such  a  look ;' 
But  Tarquin's  shape  came  in  her  mind  the 

while, 
And  from  her  tongue  *  can  lurk '  from  '  cannot ; 

took  ; 

'  It  cannot  be '  she  in  that  sense  forsook, 
And  turn'd  it  thus  :   '  It  cannot  be,  I  find, 
But  such  a  face  should  bear  a  wicked  mind  : 

'  For  even  as  subtle  Sinon  here  is  painted, 
So  sober-sad,  so  weary,  and  so  mild, 
(As  if  with  grief  or  travail  he  had  fainted,) 
To  me  came  Tarquin  armed ;  so  beguil'd 
With  outward  honesty,  but  yet  defil  d 

With  inward  vice  :  as  Priam  him  did  cherish, 
So  did  I  Tarquin  ;  so  my  Troy  did  perish. 

'  Look,  look,  how  listening  Priam  wets  his  eyes, 
To  see  those  borrow'd  tears  that  Sinon  sheds. 
Priam,  why  art  thou  old,  and  yet  not  wise  ? 
For  every  tear  he  falls  a  Trojan  bleeds  ; 
His  eye  drops  fire,  no  water  thence  proceeds  ; 

Those  round  clear  pearls  of  his  that  move  thy 
pity 

Are  balls  of  quenchless  fire  to  burn  thy  city. 

'  Such  devils  steal  effects  from  lightless  hell ; 
For  Sinon  in  his  fire  doth  quake  with  cold, 
And  in  that  cold  hot-burning  fire  doth  dwell ; 
These  contraries  such  unity  do  hold 
Only  to  flatter  fools,  and  make  them  bold  ; 
So    Priam's   trust   false   Sinon's   tears  doth 

flatter, 

That  he  finds  means  to  burn  his  Troy  with 
water.' 

Here,  all  enrag'd,  such  passion  her  assails, 
That  patience  is  quite  beaten  from  her  breast. 
She  tears  the  senseless  Sinon  with  her  nails, 
Comparing  him  to  that  unhappy  guest 
Whose  deed  hath  made  herself  herself  detest ; 

At  last  she  smilingly  with  this  gives  o'er  ; 

'  Fool !  fool  ! '  quoth  she,  '  his  wounds  will 
not  be  sore.' 

Thus  ebbs  and  flows  the  current  of  her  sorrow, 
And  time  doth  weary  time  with  her  complain- 
ing. 


1242 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


She  looks  for  night,  and  then  she  longs  for 

morrow, 

And  both  she  thinks  too  long  with  her  remain- 
ing : 

Short  time  seems  long  in  sorrow's  sharp  sustain- 
ing. 

Though  woe  be  heavy,  yet  it  seldom  sleeps  ; 
And  they  that  watch  see  time  how  slow  it 


Which  all  this  time  hathoverslipp'd  her  thought, 
That  she  with  painted  images  hath  spent ; 
Being  from  the  feeling  of  her  own  grief  brought 
By  deep  surmise  of  others'  detriment ; 
Losing  her  woes  in  shows  of  discontent. 
It  easeth  some,  though  none  it  ever  cur'd, 
To  think  their  dolour  others  have  endur'd. 

But  now  the  mindful  messenger,  come  back, 
Brings  home  his  lord  and  other  company  ; 
Who  finds  his  Lucrece  clad  in  mourning  black ; 
And  round  about  her  tear-distained  eye 
Blue  circles  stream'd,  like  rainbows  in  the  sky. 
These  water-galls  in  her  dim  element 
Foretell  new  storms  to  those  already  spent. 

Which  when  her  sad-beholding  husband  saw, 

Amazedly  in  her  sad  face  he  stares  : 

Her  eyes,  though  sod  in  tears,  look'd  red  and 

raw, 

Her  lively  colour  kill'd  with  deadly  cares. 
He  hath  no  power  to  ask  her  how  she  fares, 
But  stood  like  old  acquaintance  in  a  trance, 
Met  far  from  home,  wondering  each  other's 
chance. 

At  last  he  takes  her  by  the  bloodless  hand, 
And  thus  begins  :  *  What  uncouth  ill  event 
Hath  thee  befallen,  that  thou  dost  trembling 

stand  ? 
Sweet  love,   what  spite  hath  thy  fair  colour 

spent  ? 

Why  art  thou  thus  attir'd  in  discontent  ? 
Unmask,  dear  dear,  this  moody  heaviness, 
And  tell  thy  grief,  that  we  may  give  redress.' 

Three  times  with  sighs  she  gives  her  sorrow 

fire, 

Ere  once  she  can  discharge  one  word  of  woe  : 
At  length  address'd  to  answer  his  desire, 
She  modestly  prepares  to  let  them  know 
Her  honour  is  ta'en  prisoner  by  the  foe  ; 
While  Collatine  and  his  consorted  lords 
With  sad  attention  long  to  hear  her  words. 

And  now  this  pale  swan  in  her  watery  nest 
Begins  the  sad  dirge  of  her  certain  ending : 


'  Few  words,'  quoth  she,  '  shall  fit  the  trespass 

best, 

Where  no  excuse  can  give  the  fault  amending  : 
In  me  more  woes  than  words  are  now  depend- 
ing ;  [long, 
And  my  laments  would  be  drawn  out  too 
To  tell  them  all  with  one  poor  tired  tongue. 

*  Then  be  this  all  the  task  it  hath  to  say  : — 
Dear  husband,  in  the  interest  of  thy  bed 

A  stranger  came,  and  on  that  pillow  lay 
Where  thou  wast  wont  to  rest  thy  weary  head; 
And  what  wrong  else  may  be  imagined 
By  foul  enforcement  might  be  done  to  me, 
From  that,  alas  !  thy  Lucrece  is  not  free. 

*  For  in  the  dreadful  dead  of  dark  midnight, 
With  shining  falchion  in  my  chamber  came 
A  creeping  creature,  with  a  flaming  light, 
And  softly  cried,  Awake,  thou  Roman  dame, 
And  entertain  my  love  ;  else  lasting  shame 

On  thee  and  thine  this  night  I  will  inflict, 
If  thou  my  love's  desire  do  contradict. 

'For  somehard-favour'dgroom  of  thine,quoth  he, 
Unless  thou  yoke  thy  liking  to  my  will, 
I  '11  murder  straight,  and  then  I  '11  slaughter  thee, 
And  swear  I  found  you  where  you  did  fulfil 
The  loathsome  act  of  lust,  and  so  did  kill 
The  lechers  in  their  deed  :  this  act  will  be 
My  fame,  and  thy  perpetual  infamy. 

'  With  this  I  did  begin  to  start  and  cry, 
And  then  against  my  heart  he  set  his  sword, 
Swearing,  unless  I  took  all  patiently, 
I  should  not  live  to  speak  another  word  : 
So  should  my  shame  still  rest  upon  record, 
And  never  be  forgot  in  mighty  Rome 
The  adulterate  death  of  Lucrece  and  her 
groom. 

'  Mine  enemy  was  strong,  my  poor  self  weak, 
And  far  the  weaker  with  so  strong  a  fear  : 
My  bloody  judge  forbade  my  tongue  to  speak  ; 
No  rightful  plea  might  plead  for  justice  there  : 
His  scarlet  lust  came  evidence  to  swear 

That  my  poor  beauty  had  purloin'd  his  eyes, 
And  when  the  judge  is  robb'd,  the  prisoner  dies. 

'  O  teach  me  how  to  make  mine  own  excuse  ! 

Or,  at  the  least,  this  refuge  let  me  find  ; 

Though  my  gross  blood  be  stain'd  with   this 
abuse, 

Immaculate  and  spotless  is  my  mind  ; 

That  was  not  forc'd  ;  that  never  was  inclin'd 
To  accessary  yieldings,  but  still  pure 
Doth  in  her  poison'd  closet  yet  endure.' 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


1243 


Lo  here,  the  hopeless  merchant  of  this  loss, 
With  head  declin'd,  and  voice  damm'd  up  with 

woe, 

With  sad-set  eyes,  and  wretched  arms  across, 
From  lips  new-waxen  pale  begins  to  blow 
The  grief  away  that  stops  his  answer  so  : 
But  wretched  as  he  is  he  strives  in  vain ; 
What  he  breathes  out  his  breath  drinks  up 
again. 

As  through  an  arch  the  violent  roaring  tide 
Outruns  the  eye  that  doth  behold  his  haste ; 
Yet  in  the  eddy  boundeth  in  his  pride 
Back  to  the  strait  that  forc'd  him  on  so  fast ; 
In  rage  sent  out,  recall'd  in  rage,  being  past : 
Even  so  he  sighs,  his  sorrows  make  a  saw. 
To  push  grief  on,  and  back  the  same  grief 
draw. 

Which  speechless  woe  of  his  poor  she  attendeth, 
And  his  untimely  frenzy  thus  awaketh  : 

*  Dear  lord,  thy  sorrow  to  my  sorrow  lendeth 
Another  power  ;  no  flood  by  raining  slaketh. 
My  woe  too  sensible  thy  passion  maketh 

More  feeling-painful :  let  it  then  suffice 
To  drown  one  woe,  one  pair  of  weeping  eyes. 

*  And  for  my  sake,  when  I  might  charm  thee  so, 
For  she  that  was  thy  Lucrece, — now  attend  me; 
Be  suddenly  revenged  on  my  foe,         [fend  me 
Thine,  mine,  his  own  ;  suppose  thou  dost  de- 
From  what  is  past:  the  help  that  thou  shalt 

lend  me 

Comes  all  too  late,  yet  let  the  traitor  die ; 
For  sparing  justice  feeds  iniquity. 

'But  ere  I  name  him,  you,  fair  lords,'  quoth 

she, 
(Speaking  to  those  that  came  with  Colktine) 

*  Shall  plight  your  honourable  faiths  to  me, 
With  swift  pursuit  to  venge  this  wrong  of  mine  ; 
For  'tis  a  meritorious  fair  design 

1  o  chase  injustice  with  revengeful  arms : 
Knights,  by  their  oaths,  should  right  poor 
ladies'  harms.' 

At  this  request,  with  noble  disposition 
Each  present  lord  began  to  promise  aid, 
As  bound  in  knighthood  to  her  imposition, 
Longing  to  hear  the  hateful  foe  bewray'd. 
But  she,  that  yet  her  sad  task  hath  not  said, 

The  protestation  stops.     'O  speak,'  quoth 
she,  [me  ? 

4  How  may  this  forced  stain  be  wip'd  from 

1  What  is  the  quality  of  mine  offence, 

Being  constrain'd  with  dreadful  circumstance  ? 


May  my  pure  mind  with  the  foul  act  dispense, 

My  low-declined  honour  to  advance  ? 

May  any  terms  acquit  me  from  this  chance  ? 

The  poison'd  fountain  clears  itself  again  ; 

And  why  not  I  from  this  compelled  stain  ? ' 

With  this,  they  all  at  once  began  to  say, 
Her  body's  stain  her  mind  untainted  clears  ; 
While  with  a  joyless  smile  she  turns  away 
The  face,  that  map  which  deep  impression  bears 
Of  hard  misfortune,  carv'd  in  it  with  tears. 

4  No,  no,'   quoth  she,  '  no  dame,  hereafter 
living, 

By  my  excuse  shall  claim  excuse's  giving.' 

Here  with  a  sigh,  as  if  her  heart  would  break, 
She  throws  forth  Tarquin's  name  :  '  He,  he/ 
she  says,  [speak  ; 

But  more  than  '  he '  her  poor  tongue  could  not 
Till  after  many  accents  and  delays, 
Untimely  breathings,  sick  and  short  assays, 
She  utters  this  :  '  He,  he,  fair  lords,  'tis  he, 
That  guides  this  hand  to  give  this  wound  to 
me.' 

Even  here  she  sheathed  in  her  harmless  breast 
A  harmful   knife,   that   thence  her  soul  un- 

sheath'd : 

That  blow  did  bail  it  from  the  deep  unrest 
Of  that  polluted  prison  where  it  breath'd  : 
Her  contrite  sighs  unto  the  clouds  bequeath'd 
Her  winged  sprite,  and  through  her  wounds 

doth  fly 
Life's  lasting  date  from  canceli'd  destiny. 

Stone-still,  astonish'd  with  this  deadly  deed, 
Stood  Collatine  and  all  his  lordly  crew ; 
Till  Lucrece'  father  that  beholds  her  bleed, 
Himself  on  her  self-slaughter'd  body  threw ; 
And  from  the  purple  fountain  Brutus  drew 
The  murderous  knife,  and  as  it  left  the  place, 
Her  blood,  in  poor  revenge,  held  it  in  chase  ; 

And  bubbling  from  her  breast,  it  doth  divide 
In  two  slow  rivers,  that  the  crimson  blood 
Circles  her  body  in  on  every  side, 
Who  like  a  late-sack'd  island  vastly  stood 
Bare  and  unpeopled,  in  this  fearful  flood.  ^ 
Some  of  her  blood  still  pure  and  red  remain'd, 
And  some  look'd  black,  and  that  false  Tar- 
quin  stain'd. 

About  the  mourning  and  congealed  face 
Of  that  black  blood  a  watery  rigol  goes, 
Which  seems  to  weep  upon  the  tainted  place : 
And  ever  since,  as  pitying  Lucrece'  woes, 
Corrupted  blood  some  watery  token  shows ; 


1244 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


And  blood  untainted  still  doth  red  abide, 
Blushing  at  that  which  is  so  putrefied. 

'  Daughter,  dear  daughter,'  old  Lucretius  cries, 
'  That  life  was  mine  which  thou  hast  here  de- 

priv'd. 

If  in  the  child  the  father's  image  lies, 
Where  shall  I  live  now  Lucrece  is  unliv'd  ? 
Thou  wast  not  to  this  end  from  me  deriv'd. 
If  children  predecease  progenitors, 
We  are  their  offspring,  and  they  none  of  ours. 

'  Poor  broken  glass,  I  often  did  behold 
In  thy  sweet  semblance  my  old  age  new  born  ; 
But  now  that  fair  fresh  mirror,  dim  and  old, 
Shows  me  a  barebon'd  death  by  time  outworn; 
O,  from  thy  cheeks  my  image  thou  hast  torn  ! 
And  shiver'd  all  the  beauty  of  my  glass, 
That  I  no  more  can  see  what  once  I  was. 

*  O  time,  cease  thou  thy  course,  and  last  no 
longer, 

If  they  surcease  to  be  that  should  survive. 

Shall  rotten  death  make  conquest  of  the  stronger, 

And  leave  the  faltering  feeble  souls  alive  ? 

The  old  bees  die,  the  young  possess  their  hive  : 
Then  live,  sweet  Lucrece,  live  again,  and  see 
Thy  father  die,  and  not  thy  father  thee  ! ' 

By  this  starts  Collatine  as  from  a  dream, 
And  bids  Lucretius  give  his  sorrow  place  ; 
And  then  in  key-cold  Lucrece'  bleeding  stream 
He  falls,  and  bathes  the  pale  fear  in  his  face, 
And  counterfeits  to  die  with  her  a  space  ; 
Till  manly  shame  bids  him  possess  his  breath, 
And  live,  to  be  revenged  on  her  death. 

The  deep  vexation  of  his  inward  soul 
Hath  serv'd  a  dumb  arrest  upon  his  tongue  ; 
Who,  mad  that  sorrow  should  his  use  control, 
Or  keep  him  from  heart-easing  words  so  long, 
Begins  to  talk  ;  but  through  his  lips  do  throng 

Weak  words,   so   thick  come,  in  his  poor 
heart's  aid, 

That  no  man  could  distinguish  what  he  said. 

Yet  sometime  Tarquin  was  pronounced  plain, 
But  through  his  teeth,  as  if  the  name  he  tore. 
This  windy  tempest,  till  it  blow  up  rain, 
Held  back  his  sorrow's  tide,  to  make  it  more  ; 
At  last  it  rains,  and  busy  winds  give  o'er  : 
Then  son  and  father  weep  with  equal  strife, 
Who  should  weep  most  for  daughter  or  for 
wife. 

The  one  doth  call  her  his,  the  other  his, 
Yet  neither  may  possess  the  claim  they  lay, 


The  father  says,  '  She 's  mine,'  '  O,  mine  she 

is,' 

Replies  her  husband  :   '  do  not  take  away 
My  sorrow's  interest ;  let  no  mourner  say 
He  weeps  for  her,  for  she  was  only  mine, 
And  only  must  be  wail'd  by  Collatine.' 

'  O,'  quoth  Lucretius,  '  I  did  give  that  life 
Which  she  too  early  and  too  late  hath  spill'd.' 
'Woe,    wos,'  quoth  Collatine,   'she  was  my 

wife, 

I  ow'd  her,  and  'tis  mine  that  she  hath  kill'd.' 
'  My  daughter  ! '  and  '  My  wife  ! '  with  clamours 

fill'd 

The  dispers'd  air,  who,  holding  Lucrece'  life, 
Answer'd  their  cries,   '  My  daughter  ! '  and 
'  My  wife  ! ' 

Brutus,  who  pluck'd  the  knife  from  Lucrece' 

side, 

Seeing  such  emulation  in  their  woe, 
Began  to  clothe  his  wit  in  state  and  pride, 
Burying  in  Lucrece'  wound  his  folly's  show. 
He  with  the  Romans  was  esteemed  so 
As  silly  jeering  idiots  are  with  kings, 
For    sportive   words,    and    uttering  foolish 
things. 

But  now  he  throws  that  shallow  habit  by, 

Wherein  deep  policy  did  him  disguise  ; 

And  arm'd  his  long-hid  wits  advisedly, 

To  check  the  tears  in  Collatinus'  eyes. 

'  Thou   wronged    lord   of    Rome,'   quoth    he, 

'  arise  ; 

Let  my  unsounded  self,  suppos'd  a  fool, 
Now  set  thy  long-experienc'd  wit  to  school. 

'  Why,  Collatine,  is  woe  the  cure  for  woe  ? 

Do  wounds  help  wounds,  or  grief  help  grievous 
deeds? 

Is  it  revenge  to  give  thyself  a  blow, 

For  his  foul  act  by  whom  thy  fair  wife  bleeds  ? 

Such  childish  humour  from  weak  minds  pro- 
ceeds : 

Thy  wretched  wife  mistook  the  matter  so, 
To  slay  herself,  that  should  have  slain  her 
foe. 

'  Courageous  Roman,  do  not  steep  thy  heart 
In  such  relenting  dew  of  lamentations, 
But  kneel  with  me,  and  help  to  bear  thy  part, 
To  rouse  our  Roman  gods  with  invocations, 
That  they  will  suffer  these  abominations, 
(Since  Rome  herself  in  them  doth  stand  dis- 

grac'd,) 

By  our  strong  arms  from  forth  her  fair  streets 
chas'd. 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


1245 


'Now  by  the  Capitol  that  we  adore, 

And  by  this  chaste  blood  so  unjustly  stain'd, 

By  heaven's  fair  sun  that  breeds  the  fat  earth's 

store, 

By  all  our  country  rights  in  Rome  maintain'd, 
And  by  chaste  Lucrece'soul  that  late  complain'd 
Her  wrongs  to  us,  and  by  this  bloody  knife, 
We  will  revenge  the  death  of  this  true  wife.' 

This  said,  he  struck  his  hand  upon  his  breast, 
And  kiss'd  the  fatal  knife  to  end  his  vow  ; 
And  to  his  protestation  urg'd  the  rest. 


Who,  wondering  at  him,  did  his  words  allow  ; 

Then  jointly  to  the  ground  their  knees  they  bow ; 
And  that  deep  vow  which  Brutus  made  before, 
He  doth  again  repeat,  and  that  they  swore. 

When  they  had  sworn  to  this  advised  doom, 
They  did  conclude  to  bear  dead  Lucrece  thence ; 
To  show  her  bleeding  body  thorough  Rome, 
And  so  to  publish  Tarquin's  foul  offence  : 
Which  being  done  with  speedy  diligence, 
The  Romans  plausibly  did  give  consent 
To  Tarquin's  everlasting  banishment. 


SONNETS. 


TO    .     THE    .     ONLIE    .     BEGETTER    .     OP 

THESE  .  INSUING  .  SONNETS  . 

MR.     W.     H.     ALL    .     HAFPINESSE    . 

AND  .  THAT  .  ETERNITIE  . 

PROMISED  . 

BY  . 
OUR    .     EVER -LIVING    .     POET    .^} 

WISHETH    . 

THE    .     WELL  -  WISHING    . 

ADVENTURER     .     IN    . 

SETTING    . 

FORTH    . 

T,T. 


FROM  fairest  creatures  we  desire  increase. 
That  thereby  beauty's  rose  might  never  die, 
But  as  the  riper  should  by  time  decrease, 
His  tender  heir  might  bear  his  memory  : 
But  thou,  contracted  to  thine  own  bright  eyes, 
Feed's!  thy  light's  flame  with  self-substantial  fuel, 
Making  a  famine  where  abundance  lies, 
Thyself  thy  foe,  to  thy  sweet  self  too  cruel. 
Thou  that  art  now  the  world's  fresh  ornament, 
And  only  herald  to  the  gaudy  spring, 
Within  thine  own  bud  buriest  thy  content, 
And,  tender  churl,  mak'st  waste  in  niggard  ing. 
Pity  the  world,  or  else  this  glutton  be, 
To  eat  the  world's  due,  by  the  grave  and  thee. 

II. 

When  forty  winters  shall  besiege  thy  brow, 
And  dig  deep  trenches  in  thy  beauty's  field, 
Thy  youth's  proud  livery,  so  gaz'd  on  now, 
Will  be  a  tatter'd  weed,  of  small  worth  held  : 
Then  being  ask'd  where  all  thy  beauty  lies, 
Where  all  the  treasure  of  thy  lusty  days  ; 
To  say,  within  thine  own  deep  sunken  eyes, 
Were  an  all-eating  shame  and  thriftless  praise. 
How  much  more  praise  deserv'd  thy  beauty's  use, 
If  thou  couldst  answer — c  This  fair  child  of  mine 
Shall  sum  my  count,  and  make  my  old  ex- 
cuse— ' 

Proving  his  'beauty  by  succession  thine  ! 
This  were  to  be  new-made  when  thou  art  old, 
And  see  thy  blood  warm  when  thou  feel'st  it 
cold 


in. 

Look  in  thy  glass,  and  tell  the  face  thou  viewest, 
Now  is  the  time  that  face  should  form  another ; 
Whose  fresh  repair  if  now  thou  not  renewest, 
Thou   dost  beguile  the  world,  unbless  some 

mother. 

For  where  is  she  so  fair  whose  unear'd  womb 
Disdains  the  tillage  of  thy  husbandry  ? 
Or  who  is  he  so  fond  will  be  the  tomb 
Of  his  self-love,  to  stop  posterity  ? 
Thou  art  thy  mother's  glass,  and  she  in  thee 
Calls  back  the  lovely  April  of  her  prime  : 
So  thou  through  windows  of  thine  age  shalt 

see, 

Despite  of  wrinkles,  this  thy  golden  time. 
But  if  thou  live,  remember'd  not  to  be, 
Die  single,  and  thine  image  dies  with  thee. 

IV. 

Unthrifty  loveliness,  why  dost  thou  spend 
Upon  thyself  thy  beauty's  legacy  ? 
Nature's  bequest  gives  nothing,  but  doth  lend, 
And,  being  frank,  she  lends  to  those  are  free. 
Then,  beauteous  niggard,  why  dost  thou  abuse 
The  bounteous  largess  given  thee  to  give  ? 
Profitless  usurer,  why  dost  thou  use 
So  great  a  sum  of  sums,  yet  canst  not  live  ? 
For  having  traffic  with  thyself  alone, 
Thou  of  thyself  thy  sweet  self  dost  deceive. 
Then  how,  when  nature  calls  thee  to  be  gone, 
What  acceptable  audit  canst  thou  leave  ? 
The  nnus'd  beauty  must  be  tomb'd  with  thee, 
Which,  used,  lives  th'  executor  to  be. 


SONNETS. 


1247 


Those  hours  that  with  gentle  work  did  frame 
The  lovely  gaze  where  every  eye  doth  dwell, 
Will  play  the  tyrants  to  the  very  same, 
And  that  unfair  which  fairly  doth  excel ; 
For  never- resting  time  leads  summer  on 
To  hideous  winter,  and  confounds  him  there  ; 
Sap  check'd  with  frost,  and  lusty  leaves  quite 

gone, 

Beauty  o'ersnow'd.  and  bareness  everywhere  : 
Then,  were  not  summer's  distillation  left, 
A  liquid  prisoner  pent  in  walls  of  glass, 
Beauty's  effect  with  beauty  were  bereft, 
Nor  it,  nor  no  remembrance  what  it  was. 

But  flowers  distill'd,  though  they  with  winter 
meet,  [sweet. 

Leese  but  their  show  j  their  substance  still  lives 

VI. 

Then  let  not  winter's  ragged  hand  deface 
In  thee  thy  summer,  ere  thou  be  distill'd  : 
Make  sweet  some  phial  j  treasure  thou  some 

place 

With  beauty's  treasure,  ere  it  be  self-kill'd. 
That  use  is  not  forbidden  usury, 
Which  happies  those  that  pay  the  willing  loan ; 
That 's  for  thyself  to  breed  another  thee, 
Or  ten  times  happier,  be  it  ten  for  one  ; 
Ten  times  thyself  were  happier  than  thou  art, 
If  ten  of  thine  ten  times  rehgur'd  thee  : 
Then  what  could  Death  do  if  thou  shouldst 

depart, 

Leaving  thee  living  in  posterity? 
Be  not  self-will'd,  for  thou  art  much  too  fair 
To  be  Death's  conquest  and  make  worms  thine 

heir. 

VII. 

Lo,  in  the  orient  when  the  gracious  light 
Lifts  up  his  burning  head,  each  under  eye 
Doth  homage  to  his  new-appearing  sight, 
Serving  with  looks  his  sacred  majesty  ; 
And  having  climb'd  the  steep-up  heavenly  hill, 
Resembling  strong  youth  in  his  middle  age, 
Yet  mortal  looks  adore  his  beauty  still, 
Attending  on  his  golden  pilgrimage  ; 
But  when  from  high-most  pitch,  with  weary  car, 
Like  feeble  age,  he  reeleth  from  the  day, 
The  eyes,  'fore  duteous,  now  converted  are 
From  his  low  tract,  and  look  another  way : 
So  thou,  thyself  outgoing  in  thy  noon, 
Unlook'd  on  diest,  unless  thou  get  a  son. 

VIII. 

Music  to  hear,  why  hear'st  thou  music  sadly? 
Sweets  with  sweets  war  not,  joy  delights  in  joy, 


Why  lov'st  thou  that  which  thou  receiv'st  not 

gladly? 

Or  else  receiv'st  with  pleasure  thine  annoy? 
If  the  true  concord  of  well-tuned  sounds 
By  unions  married,  do  offend  thine  car, 
They  do  but  sweetly  chide  thee  who  confounds 
In  singleness  the  parts  that  thcu  shouldst  bear. 
Mark  how  one  string,  sweet  husband  to  another  5 
Strikes  each  in  each  by  mutual  ordering ; 
Resembling  sire  and  child  and  happy  mother, 
Who,  all  in  one,  one  pleasing  note  do  sing  : 
Whose  speechless  song,  being  many,  seeming 

one, 
Sings  this  to  thee, '  thou  single  wilt  prove  none.* 

IX. 

Is  it  for  fear  to  wet  a  widow's  eye 
That  thou  consum'st  thyself  in  single  life  ? 
Ah  !  if  thou  issueless  shalt  hap  to  die, 
The  world  will  wail  thee,  like  a  makeless  wife ; 
The  world  will  be  thy  widow,  and  still  weep 
That  thou  no  form  of  thee  hast  left  behind, 
When  every  private  widow  well  may  keep, 
By  children's  eyes,  her  husband's  shape,  in  mind. 
Look,  what  an  unthrift  in  the  world  doth  spend 
Shifts  but  his  place,  for  still  the  world  enjoys  it : 
But  beauty's  waste  hath  in  the  world  an  end, 
And  kept  unus'd,  the  user  so  destroys  it. 
No  love  toward  others  in  that  bosom  sits, 
That  on  himself  such  murderous  shame  com- 
mits. 


For  shame  !  deny  that  thou  bear'st  love  to  any, 
Who  for  thyself  art  so  unprovident. 
Grant  if  thou  wilt  thou  art  belovM  of  many, 
But  that  thou  none  lov'st  is  most  evident  j 
For  thou  art  so  possess'd  with  murderous  hate, 
That  'gainst  thyself  thou  stick'st  not  to  conspire, 
Seeking  that  beauteous  roof  to  ruinate, 
Which  to  repair  should  be  thy  chief  desire. 
O  change  thy  thought,  that  I  may  change  my 

mind  ! 

Shall  hate  be  fairer  lodg'd  than  gentle  love  ? 
Be,  as  thy  presence  is,  gracious  and  kind, 
Or  to  thyself,  at  least,  kind-hearted  prove  ; 
Make  thee  another  self,  for  love  of  me, 
That  beauty  still  may  live  in  thine  or  thee. 

XI. 

As  fast  as  thou  shalt  wane,  so  fast  thou  grow'st 
In  one  of  thine,  from  that  which  thou  departest ; 
And    that    fresh  blood   which  youngly  thou 
bestow'st,  [convertest. 

Thou  mayst  call  thine,  when  thou  from  youth 
Herein  lives  wisdom,  beauty,  and  increase : 
Without  this  folly,  age,  and  cold  decay. 


I248 


SONNETS. 


If  all  were  minded  so  the  times  should  cease, 
And  threescore  years  would  make  the  world 

away. 

Let  those  whom  Nature  hath  not  made  for  store, 
Harsh,  featureless,  and  rude,  barrenly  perish  : 
Look  whom  she  best  endow'd,  she  gave  the 

more  ;  [cherish ; 

Which  bounteous  gift  thou  shouldst  in  bounty 

She  carv'd  thee  for  her  seal,  and  meant  thereby 

Thou  shouldst  print  more,  nor  let  that  copy 

die. 

>2  8S3 

When  I  do  count  the  clock  that  tells  the  time, 
And  see  the  brave  day  sunk  in  hideous  night ; 
When  I  behold  the  violet  past  prime, 
And  sable  curls,  all  silver'd  o'er  with  white  ; 
When  lofty  trees  I  see  barren  of  leaves, 
Which  erst  from  heat  did  canopy  the  herd, 
And  summer's  green  all  girded  up  in  sheaves, 
Borne  on  the  bier  with  white  and  bristly  beard ; 
Then  of  thy  beauty  do  I  question  make, 
That  thou  among  the  wastes  of  time  must  go, 
Since  sweets  and  beauties  do  themselves  forsake, 
And  die  as  fast  as  they  see  others  grow  ; 

And  nothing  'gainst  Time's  scythe  can  make 
defence  [hence. 

Save  breed,  to  brave  him  when  he  takes  thee 

XIII. 

O  that  you  were  yourself:  but,  love,  you  are 
No  longer  yours  than  you  yourself  here  live  : 
Against  this  coming  end  you  should  prepare, 
And  your  sweet  semblance  to  some  other  give. 
So  should  that  beauty  which  you  held  in  lease 
Find  no  determination  :  then  you  were 
Yourself  again,  after  yourself  s  decease, 
When  your  sweet  issue  your  sweet  form  should 

bear. 

Who  lets  so  fair  a  house  fall  to  decay, 
Which  husbandry  in  honour  might  uphold 
Against  the  stormy  gusts  of  winter's  day, 
And  barren  rage  of  death's  eternal  cold? 

O !  none  but  unthrifts : — Dear  my  love,  you 
know 

You  had  a  father ;  let  your  son  say  so. 

XIV. 

Not  from  the  stars  do  I  my  judgment  pluck  ; 
And  yet  methinks  I  have  astronomy, 
But  not  to  tell  of  good  or  evil  luck, 
Of  plagues,  of  dearths,  or  season's  quality : 
Nor  can  I  fortune  to  brief  minutes  tell, 
Pointing  to  each  his  thunder,  rain,  and  wind, 
Or  say  with  princes  if  it  shall  go  well, 
By  oft  predict  that  I  in  heaven  find  : 


But  from  thine  eyes  my  knowledge  I  derive, 
And  (constant  stars)  in  them  I  read  such  art, 
As  truth  and  beauty  shall  together  thrive, 
If  from  thyself  to  store  thou  wouldst  convert ; 
Or  else  of  thee  this  I  prognosticate, 
Thy  end  is  truth's  and  beauty's  doom  and  date, 

_/-.:  Vrr-v 
XV. 

When  I  consider  every  thing  that  grows 
Holds  in  perfection  but  a  little  moment, 
That  this  huge  state  presenteth  nought  but  shows 
Whereon  the  stars  in  secret  influence  comment ; 
When  I  perceive  that  men  as  plants  increase, 
Cheered  and  check'd  even  by  the  self-same  sky ; 
Vaunt  in  their  youthful  sap,  at  height  decrease, 
And  wear  their  brave  state  out  of  memory ; 
Then  the  conceit  of  this  inconstant  stay 
Sets  you  most  rich  in  youth  before  my  sight, 
Where  wasteful  time  debateth  with  decay, 
To  change  your  day  of  youth  to  sullied  night ; 
And,  all  in  war  with  Time,  for  love  of  you, 
As  he  takes  from  you,  I  engraft  you  new. 

XVI. 

But  wherefore  do  not  you  a  mightier  way 

Make  war  upon  this  bloody  tyrant,  Time  ? 

And  fortify  yourself  in  your  decay 

With  means  more  blessed  than  my  barren  rhyme? 

Now  stand  you  on  the  top  of  happy  hours  ; 

And  many  maiden  gardens,  yet  unset, 

With   virtuous  wish   would   bear  your  living 

flowers, 

Much  liker  than  your  painted  counterfeit : 
So  should  the  lines  of  life  that  life  repair, 
Which  this.  Time's  pencil,  or  my  pupil  pen, 
Neither  in  inward  worth,  nor  outward  fair, 
Can  make  you  live  yourself  in  eyes  of  men. 

To  give  away  yourself  keeps  yourself  still ; 

And  you  must  live,  drawn  by  your  own  sweet 
skill. 

XVII. 

Who  will  believe  my  verse  in  time  to  come, 
If  it  were  fill'd  with  your  most  high  deserts  ? 
Though  yet,  Heaven  knows,  it  is  but  as  a  tomb 
Which  hides  your  life,  and  shows  not  half  your 

parts. 

If  I  could  write  the  beauty  of  your  eyes, 
And  in  fresh  numbers  number  all  your  graces, 
The  age  to  come  would  say,  this  poet  lies, 
Such  heavenly  touches  ne'er  touch'd   earthly 

faces. 

So  should  my  papers,  yellow'd  with  their  age, 
Be  scorn'd,  like  old  men  of  less  truth  than 

tongue ; 

And  your  true  rights  be  term'd  a  poet's  rage, 
And  stretched  metre  of  an  antique  song : 


SONNETS. 


1249 


But  were  some  child  of  yours  alive  that  time, 
You  should  live  twice; — in  it,  and  in   my 
rhyme. 

XVIII. 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day  ? 
Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  temperate  : 
Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of  May, 
And  summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a  date  : 
Sometime  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines, 
And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimm'd  ; 
And  every  fair  from  fair  sometime  declines, 
By  chance,  or  nature's  changing  course,  un 

trimm'd ; 

But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade, 
Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  thou  owest ; 
Nor  shall  Death  brag  thou  wander'st  in  his 

shade, 

When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  growest ; 
So  long  as  men  can  breathe,  or  eyes  can  see, 
So  long  lives  this,  and  this  gives  life  to  thee. 

XIX. 

Devouring  Time,  blunt  thou  the  lion's  paws, 
And  make  the  earth  devour  her  own  sweet 

brood ; 

Pluck  the  keen  teeth  from  the  fierce  tiger's  jaws, 
And  burn  the  long-liv'd  phoenix  in  her  blood  ; 
Make  glad  and  sorry  seasons,  as  thou  fleets, 
And  do  whatever  thou  wilt,  swift-footed  Time, 
To  the  wide  world,  and  all  her  fading  sweets  ; 
But  I  forbid  thee  one  most  heinous  crime  : 
O  carve  not  with  thy  hours  my  love's  fair  brow, 
Nor  draw  no  lines  there  with  thine  antique  pen ; 
Him  in  thy  course  untainted  do  allow, 
For  beauty's  pattern  to  succeeding  men. 
Yet,  do  thy  worst,  old  Time :  despite  thy  wrong, 
My  love  shall  in  my  verse  ever  live  young. 

XX. 

A  woman's  face,  with  nature's  own  hand  painted, 
Hast  thou,  the  master-mistress  of  my  passion ; 
A  woman's  gentle  heart,  but  not  acquainted 
With   shifting   change,   as    is    false   woman's 

fashion ;  [rolling, 

An  eye  more  bright  than  theirs,  less  false  in 
Gilding  the  object  whereupon  it  gazeth ; 
A  man  in  hue,  all  hues  in  his  controlling. 
Which  steals  men's  eyes,  and  women's  souls 

amazeth. 

And  for  a  woman  wert  thou  first  created ; 
Till  Nature,  as  she  wrought  thee,  fell  a-doting, 
And  by  addition  me  of  thee  defeated, 
By  adding  one  thing  to  my  purpose  nothing. 
But  since  she  prick'd  thee  out  for  women's 

pleasure,  [treasure. 

Mine  be  thy  love,  and  thy  love's  use  their 


XXI. 

So  is  it  not  with  me  as  with  that  muse, 
Stirr'd  by  a  painted  beauty  to  his  verse  ; 
Who  heaven  itself  for  ornament  doth  use, 
And  every  fair  with  his  fair  doth  rehearse  ; 
Making  a  couplement  of  proud  compare. 
With  sun  and  moon,  with  earth  and  sea's  rich 
gems,  [rare 

With  April's  first-born  flowers,  and  all  things 
That  heaven's  air  in  this  huge  rondure  hems. 
O  let  me,  true  in  love,  but  truly  write, 
And  then  believe  me,  my  love  is  as  fair 
As  any  mother's  child,  though  not  so  bright 
As  those  gold  candles  fix'd  in  heaven's  air  : 

Let  them  say  more  that  like  of  hearsay  well ; 

I  will  not  praise,  that  purpose  not  to  sell. 

XXII. 

My  glass  shall  not  persuade  me  I  am  old, 
So  long  as  youth  and  thou  are  of  one  date  ; 
But  when  in  thee  time's  furrows  I  behold, 
Then  look  I  death  my  days  should  expiate. 
For  all  that  beauty  that  doth  cover  thee 
Is  but  the  seemly  raiment  of  my  heart, 
Which  in  thy  breast  doth  live,  as  thine  in  me  j 


How  can  I  then  be  elder  than  thou  art  ? 


O  therefore,  love,  be  of  thyself  so  wary, 
As  I  not  for  myself  but  for  thee  will ; 
Bearing  thy  heart,  which  I  will  keep  so  chary 
As  tender  nurse  her  babe  from  faring  ill. 

Presume  not  on  thy  heart  when  mine  is  slain ; 

Thou  gav'st  me  thine,  not  to  give  back  again. 

XXIII. 

r\oire  •:  fcyn:  vriT 

As  an  imperfect  actor  on  the  stage, 
Who  with  his  fear  is  put  besides  his  part, 
Cr  some  fierce  thing  replete  with  too  much  rage, 
Whose  strength's  abundance  weakens  his  own 

heart ; 

So  I,  for  fear  of  trust,  forget  to  say 
The  perfect  ceremony  of  love's  rite, 
And  in  mine  own  love's  strength  seem  to  decay, 
O'ercharg'd  with  burthen  of  mine  own  love's 

might. 

O  let  my  books  be,  then,  the  eloquence 
And  dumb  presagers  of  my  speaking  breast ; 
Who  plead  for  love,  and  look  for  recompense 
More  than  that  tongue  that  more  hath  more 

express'd. 

O  learn  to  read  what  silent  love  hath  writ : 
To  hear  with  eyes  belongs  to  love's  fine  wit. 

XXIV. 

Mine  eye  hath  play'd  the  painter,  and  hath 

stell'd 
Thy  beauty's  form  in  table  of  my  heart ; 

•  E 


1250 


SONNETS. 


My  body  is  the  frame  wherein  'tis  held, 
And  perspective  it  is  best  painter's  art. 
For  through  the  painter  must  you  see  his  skill, 
To  find  where  your  true  image  pictur'd  lies, 
Which  in  my  bosom's  shop  is  hanging  still, 
That  hath  his  windows  glazed  with  thine  eyes. 
Now  see  what  good  turns  eyes  for  eyes  have 

done  : 
Mine  eyes  have  drawn  thy  shape,  and  thine  for 

me  [sun 

Are  windows  to  my  breast,  where-through  the 

Delights  to  peep,  to  gaze  therein  on  thee  ; 

Yet  eyes  this  cunning  want  to  grace  their  art, 

They  draw  but  what  they  see,  know  not  the 

heart. 

xxv.rf)  ,*»! 

Let  those  who  are  in  favour  with  their  stars, 
Of  public  honour  and  proud  titles  boast, 
Whilst  I,  whom  fortune  of  such  triumph  bars, 
Unlook'd  for  ioy  in  that  I  honour  most. 
Great  princes  favourites  their  fair  leaves  spread 
But  as  the  marigold  at  the  sun's  eye  ; 
And  in  themselves  their  pride  lies  buried, 
For  at  a  frown  they  in  their  glory  die. 
The  painful  warrior  famoused  for  fight, 
After  a  thousand  victories  once  foil'd, 
Is  from  the  book  of  honour  razed  quite, 
And  all  the  rest  forgot  for  which  he  toil'd  : 
Then  happy  I,  that  love  and  am  belov'd 
Where  I  may  not  remove,  nor  be  remov'd. 

XXVI. 

Lord  of  my  love,  to  whom  in  vassalage 
Thy  merit  hath  my  duty  strongly  knit, 
To  thee  I  send  this  written  embassage, 
To  witness  duty,  not  to  show  my  wit. 
Duty  so  great,  which  wit  so  poor  as  mine 
May  make  seem  bare,   in  wanting  words  to 

show  it ; 

But  that  I  hope  some  good  conceit  of  thine 
In  thy  soul's  thought,  all  naked,  will  bestow  it : 
Till  whatsoever  star  that  guides  by  moving, 
Points  on  me  graciously  with  fair  aspect, 
And  puts  apparel  on  my  tatter'd  loving, 
To  show  me  worthy  of  thy  sweet  respect : 
Then  may  I  dare  to  boast  how  I  do  love  thee, 
Till  then,  not  show  my  head  where  thou  mayst 
prove  me. 

XXVII. 

Weary  with  toil,  I  haste  me  to  my  bed, 
The  dear  repose  for  limbs  with  travel  tir'd  ; 
But  then  begins  a  journey  in  my  head, 
To  work  my  mind,  when  body's  work 's  expir'd  : 
For  then  my  thoughts  (from  far  where  I  abide) 
Intend  a  zealous  pilgrimage  to  thee, 


And  keep  my  drooping  eyelids  open  wide, 
Looking  on  darkness  which  the  blind  do  see : 
Save  that  my  soul's  imaginary  sight 
Presents  thy  shadow  to  my  sightless  view, 
Which,  like  a  jewel  hung  in  ghastly  night, 
Makes  black  night  beauteous,  and  her  old  faee 

new. 

Lo.  thus,  by  day  my  limbs,  by  night  my  mind 
For  thee,  and  for  myself,  no  quiet  find. 

."ooirir! -n-r'f >;:•;' "  ri  ooj  rw'Jonior:! 

XXVIII. 

How  can  I  then  return  in  happy  plight, 
That  am  debarr'd  the  benefit  of  rest  ? 
When  day's  oppression  is  not  eas'd  by  night, 
But  day  by  night  and  night  by  day  oppress'd  ? 
And  each,  though  enemies  to  cither's  reign, 
Do  in  consent  shake  hands  to  torture  me, 
The  one  by  toil,  the  other  to  complain 
How  far  I  toil,  still  farther  off  from  thee. 
I  tell  the  day,  to  please  him,  thou  art  bright, 
And  dost  him  grace  when  clouds  do  blot  the 

heaven  : 

So  flatter  I  the  swart-complexion'd  night ; 
When  sparkling  stars  twire  not,  thou  gild'iit 

the  even. 

But  day  doth  daily  draw  my  sorrows  longer, 
And  night  doth  nightly  make  griefs  strength 

seem  stronger. 

XXIX. 

When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 
I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state,         [cries, 
And  trouble  deaf  Heaven  with   my  bootless 
And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate, 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 
Featur'd  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  pos- 

sess'd, 

Desiring  this  man's  art,  and  that  man's  scope, 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least ; 
Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 
Haply  I  think  on  thee, — and  then  my  state 
(Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth)  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate; 

For  thy  sweet  love  remember'd  such  wealth 
brings, 

That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with 
kings. 

XXX. 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 
I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 
And  with  old  woes  new  wail  ray  dear  times' 

waste  : 

Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unus'd  to  flow, 
For  precious  friends  hid   in   death's  dateless 

night, 


SONNETS. 


1251 


And  weep  afresh  love's  long-since  cancell'd  woe, 
And    moan  ihe  expense  of  many  a  vanish'd 

sight. 

Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 
The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 
Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before. 
But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 
All  losses  are  restor'd,  and  sorrows  end. 

XXXI. 

Thy  bosom  is  endeared  with  all  hearts, 
Which  I  by  lacking  have  supposed  dead  ; 
And  there  reigns  love  and  all  love's  loving  parts, 
And  all  those  friends  which  I  thought  buried. 
How  many  a  holy  and  obsequious  tear 
Hath  dear  religious  love  stolen  from  mine  eye, 
As  interest  of  the  dead,  which  now  appear 
But  things  remov'd,  that  hidden  in  thee  lie  ! 
Thou  art  the  grave  where  buried  love  doth  live, 
Hung  with  the  trophies  of  my  lovers  gone, 
Who  all  their  parts  of  me  to  thee  did  give  ; 
That  due  of  many  now  is  thine  alone  : 
Their  images  I  lov'd  I  view  in  thee, 
And  thou  (all  they)  hast  all  the  all  of  me. 

XXXII. 

If  thou  survive  my  well -contented  day, 

When  that  churl  Death  my  bones  with  dust 

shall  cover, 

And  shalt  by  fortune  once  more  re-survey 
These  poor  rude  lines  of  thy  deceased  lover, 
Compare  them  with  the  bettering  of  the  time ; 
And  though  they  be  outstripp'd  by  every  pen, 
Reserve  them  for  my  love,  not  for  their  rhyme, 
Exceeded  by  the  height  of  happier  men. 
O  then  vouchsafe  me  but  this  loving  thought ! 
'  Had  my  friend's  muse  grown  with  this  grow- 
ing age, 

A  dearer  birth  than  this  his  love  had  brought, 
To  march  in  ranks  of  better  equipage  : 
But  since  he  died,  and  poets  better  prove, 
Theirs  for  their  style  I  '11  read,  his  for  his  love.' 


Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flatter  the  mountain-tops  with  sovereign  eye, 
Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows  green, 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchymy  ; 
Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 
With  ugly  rack  on  his  celestial  face, 
And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide, 
Stealing  unseen  to  west  with  this  disgrace  : 
Even  so  my  sun  one  early  morn  did  shine 
With  all  triumphant  splendour  on  my  brow  ; 
But  out !  alack  !  he  was  but  one  hour  mine, 
The  region  cloud  hath  mask'd  him  from  me  now. 


Yet  him  for  this  my  love  no  whit  disdaineth  ; 
Suns  of  the  world  may  stain,  when  heaven's 
sun  staineth. 

xxxiv. 

Why  didst  thou  promise  such  a  beauteous  day, 
And  make  me  travel  forth  without  my  cloak, 
To  let  base  clouds  o'ertake  me  in  my  way, 
Hiding  thy  bravery  in  their  rotten  smoke? 
'Tis  not  enough  that  through  the  cloud  thou 

break, 

To  dry  the  rain  on  my  storm-beaten  face, 
For  no  man  well  of  such  a  salve  can  speak, 
That  heals  the  wound,  and  cures  not  the  dis- 
grace : 

Nor  can  thy  shame  give  physic  to  my  grief ; 
Though  thou  repent,  yet  I  have  still  the  loss : 
The  offender's  sorrow  lends  but  weak  relief 
To  him  that  bears  the  strong  offence's  cross, 

Ah  !  but  those  tears  are  pearl  which  thy  love 
sheds,     ' 

And  they  are  rich,  and  ransom  all  ill  deeds. 

xxxv. 

No  more  be  griev'd  at  that  which   thou  hast 

done : 

Roses  have  thorns,  and  silver  fountains  mud  ; 
Clouds  and  eclipses  stain  both  moon  and  sun, 
And  loathsome  canker  lives  in  sweetest  bud. 
All  men  make  faults,  and  even  I  in  this, 
Authorising  thy  trespass  with  compare, 
Myself  corrupting,  salving  thy  amiss, 
Excusing  thy  sins  more  than  thy  sins  are  : 
For  to  thy  sensual  fault  I  bring  in  sense, 
(Thy  adverse  party  is  thy  advocate,) 
And  'gainst  myself  a  lawful  plea  commence  : 
Such  civil  war  is  in  my  love  and  hate, 
That  I  an  accessary  needs  must  be 
To  that  sweet   thief  which  sourly  robs  from 


XXXVI. 

Let  me  confess  that  we  two  must  be  twain, 
Although  our  undivided  loves  are  one  : 
So  shall  those  blots  that  do  with  me  remain, 
Without  thy  help,  by  me  be  borne  alone. 
In  our  two  loves  there  is  but  one  respect, 
Though  in  our  lives  a  separable  spite, 
Which  though  it  alter  not  love's  sole  effect, 
Yet   dotn   it   steal   sweet    hours    from    love's 

delight. 

I  may  not  evermore  acknowledge  thee, 
Lest  my  bewailed  guilt  should  do  thee  shame  ,• 
Nor  thou  with  public  kindness  honour  me, 
Unless  thou  take  that  honour  from  thy  name  : 
But  do  not  so  ;  I  love  thee  in  such  sort,},  ^7^ 
As,  thou  being  mine,  mine  is  thy  good  report 


1252 


SONNETS. 


XXXVII. 

As  a  decrepit  father  takes  delight 
To  see  his  active  child  do  deeds  of  youth, 
So  I,  made  lame  by  fortune's  dearest  spite, 
Take  all  my  comfort  of  thy  worth  and  truth  ; 
For  whether  beauty,  birth,  or  wealth,  or  wit, 
Or  any  of  these  all,  or  all,  or  more, 
Entitled  in  thy  parts  do  crowned  sit, 
I  make  my  love  engrafted  to  this  store  : 
So  then  I  am  not  lame,  poor,  nor  despis'd, 
Whilst  that  this  shadow  dost  such  substance  give, 
That  I  in  thy  abundance  am  suffic'd, 
And  by  a  part  of  all  thy  glory  live. 

Look  what  is  best,  that  best  I  wish  in  thee  ; 

This  wish  I  have  ;  then  ten  times  happy  me  ! 

XXXVIII. 

How  can  my  muse  want  subject  to  invent, 
While  thou  dost  breathe,  that  pour'st  into  my 

verse 

Thine  own  sweet  argument,  too  excellent 
For  every  vulgar  pap^r  to  rehearse? 
O,  give  thyself  the  thanks,  if  aught  in  me 
Worthy  perusal  stand  against  thy  sight ; 
For  who's  so  dumb  that  cannot  write  to  thee, 
When  thou  thyself  dost  give  invention  light  ? 
Be  thou  the  tenth  muse,  ten  times  more  in 

worth 

Than  those  old  nine  which  rhymers  invocate ; 
And  he  that  calls  on  thee,  let  him  bring  forth 
Eternal  numbers  to  outlive  long  date.      [days, 
If  my  slight  muse  do  please   these  curious 
The  pain  be  mine,  but  thine  shall  be  the 

praise. 

XXXIX. 

O,  how  thy  worth  with  manners  may  I  sing, 
When  thou  art  all  the  better  part  of  me  ? 
What  can  mine  own  praise  to  mine  own  self 

bring  ? 

And  what  is 't  but  mine  own,  when  I  praise  thee? 
Even  for  this  let  us  divided  live, 
And  our  dear  love  lose  name  of  single  one, 
That  by  this  separation  I  may  give 
That  due  to  thee,  which  thou  deserv'st  alone. 
O  absence,  what  a  torment  wouldst  thou  prove, 
Were  it  not  thy  sour  leisure  gave  sweet  leave 
To  entertain  the  time  with  thoughts  of  love, 
(Which   time   and   thoughts   so   sweetly   doth 

deceive,) 

And  that  thou  teachest  how  to  make  one  twain, 
By  praising  him  here,  who  doth  hence  remain  ! 

XL. 

Take  all  my  loves,  my  love,  yea,  take  them  all ; 
What  hast  tho>i  then  more  than   thou   hadst 
before? 


No  love,  my  love,  that  thou  mayst  true  love  call; 
All  mine  was  thine,  before  thou  hadst  this  more. 
Then  if  for  my  love  thou  my  love  receivest, 
I  cannot  blame  thee  for  my  love  thou  usest ; 
But  yet  be  blam'd,  if  thou  thyself  deceivest 
By  wilful  taste  of  what  thyself  refusest. 
I  do  forgive  thy  robbery,  gentle  thief, 
Although  thou  steal  thee  all  my  poverty ; 
And  yet,  love  knows,  it  is  a  greater  grief 
To  bear  love's  wrong,  than  hate's  known  in- 
jury. 

Lascivious  grace,  in  whom  all  ill  well  shows, 
j    Kill  me  with  spites;  yet  we  must  not  be  foes. 

XLI. 

Those  pretty  wrongs  that  liberty  commits 
When  I  am  sometime  absent  from  thy  heart, 
Thy  beauty  and  thy  years  full  well  befits, 
For  still  temptation  follows  where  thou  art. 
Gentle  thou  art,  and  therefore  to  be  won, 
Beauteous  thou  art,  therefore  to  be  assail'd  ; 
And  when  a  woman  wooes,  what  woman's  son 
Will  sourly  leave  her  till  she  have  prevail'd  ? 
Ah  me  !  but  yet  thou  mightst  my  seat  forbear, 
And  chide  thy  beauty  and  thy  straying  youth, 
Who  lead  thee  in  their  riot  even  there 
Where  thou  art  forc'd  to  break  a  twofold  truth; 
Hers,  by  thy  beauty  tempting  her  to  thee, 
Thine,  by  thy  beauty  being  false  to  me. 

XLI  I. 

That  thou  hast  her,  it  is  not  all  my  grief, 
An^.  yet  it  may  be  said  I  lov'd  her  dearly ; 
That  she  hath  thee,  is  of  my  wailing  chief, 
A  loss  in  love  that  touches  me  more  nearly. 
Loving  offenders,  thus  I  will  excuse  ye : — 
Thou  dost  love  her,  because  thou  knew'st  I 

love  her ; 

And  for  my  sake  even  so  doth  she  abuse  me, 
Suffering  my  friend  for  my  sake  to  approve  her, 
If  I  lose  thee,  my  loss  is  my  love's  gain, 
And,  losing  her,  my  friend  hath  found  that  loss  j 
Both  find  each  other,  and  I  lose  both  twain, 
And  both  for  my  sake  lay  on  me  this  cross : 

But  here 's  the  joy  ;  my  friend  and  I  are  one; 

Sweet  flattery !  then  she  loves  but  me  alone. 

XLIII. 

When  most  I  wink,  then  do  mine  eyes  best  see, 
For  all  the  day  they  view  things  unrespected  ; 
But  when  I  sleep,  in  dreams  they  look  on  thee, 
And,  darkly  bright,  are  bright  in  dark  directed; 
Then  thou  whose  shadow  shadows  doth  make 

bright, 

How  would  thy  shadow's  form  form  happy  show 
To  the  clear  day  with  thy  much  clearer  light, 
When  to  unseeing  eyes  thy  shade  shines  so  J 


SONNETS. 


"53 


How  would  (I  say)  mine  eyes  be  blessed  made 
By  looking  on  thee  in  the  living  day, 
When  in  dead  night  thy  fair  imperfect  shade 
Through   heavy  sleep  on  sightless   eyes  doth 

stay  ? 

All  days  are  nights  to  see,  till  I  see  thee, 
And   nights,   bright   days,   when  dreams  do 
show  thee  me. 

XLIV. 

If  the  dull  substance  of  my  flesh  were  thought, 
Injurious  distance  should  not  stop  my  way ; 
For  then,  despite  of  space,  I  would  be  brought 
From  limits  far  remote,  where  thou  dost  stay. 
No  matter  then,  although  my  foot  did  stand 
Upon  the  farthest  earth  remov'd  from  thee, 
For  nimble  thought  can  jump  both  seaand  land, 
As  soon  as  think  the  place  where  he  would  be. 
But  ah  !  thought  kills  me,  that  I  am  not  thought, 
To  leap  large  lengths  of  miles  when  thou  art 

gone, 

But  that,  so  much  of  earth  and  water  wrought, 
I  must  attend  time's  leisure  with  my  moan  ; 
Receiving  nought  by  elements  so  slow 
But  heavy  tears,  badges  of  cither's  woe  : 

XLV. 

The  other  two,  slight  air  and  purging  fire, 
Are  both  with  thee,  wherever  I  abide  ; 
The  first  my  thought,  the  other  my  desire, 
These  present -absent  with  swift  motion  slide. 
For  when  these  quicker  elements  are  gone 
In  tender  embassy  of  love  to  thee, 
My  life,  being  made  of  four,  with  two  alone 
Sinks  down  to  death,  oppress'd  with  melan- 
choly ; 

Until  life's  composition  be  recur'd 
By  those  swift  messengers  return'd  from  thee, 
Who  even  but  now  come  back  again,  assur'd 
Of  thy  fair  health,  recounting  it  to  me : 
This  told,  I  joy  ;  but  then  no  longer  glad, 
I  send  them  back  again,  and  straight  grow  sad. 

XLVI. 

Mine  eye  and  heart  are  at  a  mortal  war, 
How  to  divide  the  conquest  of  thy  sight ; 
Mine  eye  my  heart  thy  picture's  sight  would 

My  heart  mine  eye  the  freedom  of  that  right. 
My  heart  doth  plead  that  thou  in  him  dost  lie, 
(A  closet  never  pierc'd  with  crystal  eyes,) 
But  the  defendant  doth  that  plea  deny, 
And  says  in  him  thy  fair  appearance  lies. 
To  'cide  this  title  is  impannelled 
A  quest  of  thoughts,  all  tenants  to  the  heart ; 
And  by  their  verdict  is  determined  [part : 

The  clear  eye's  moiety,  and  the  dear  heart's 


As  thus ;  mine  eye's  due  is  thine  outward  part, 
And  my  heart's  right  thine  in  ward  love  of  heart 


XLVII. 


u'T 


Betwixt  mine  eye  and  heart  a  league  is  took, 
And  each  doth  good  turns  now  unto  the  other: 
When  that  mine  eye  is  famish'd  for  a  look, 
Or  heart  in  love  with  sighs  himself  doth  smother, 
With  my  love's  picture  then  my  eye  doth  feast, 
And  to  the  painted  banquet  bids  my  heart ; 
Another  time  mine  eye  is  my  heart's  guest, 
And  in  his  thoughts  of  love  doth  share  a  part : 
So,  either  by  thy  picture  or  my  love, 
Thyself  away  art  present  still  with  me  ; 
For  thou  not  farther  than  my  thoughts  canst 

move, 

And  I  am  still  with  them,  and  they  with  thee  ; 
Or  if  they  sleep,  thy  picture  in  my  sight 
Awakes  my  heart  tc  heart's  and  eye's  delight. 

XLVI  1 1. 

How  careful  was  I  when  I  took  my  way, 
Each  trifle  under  truest  bars  to  thrust, 
That,  to  my  use,  it  might  unused  stay 
From  hands  of  falsehood,  in  sure  wards  of  trust! 
But  thou,  to  whom  my  jewels  trifles  are, 
Most  worthy  comfort,  now  my  greatest  grief, 
Thou,  best  of  dearest,  and  mine  only  care, 
Art  left  the  prey  of  every  vulgar  thief. 
Thee  have  I  not  lock'd  up  in  any  chest, 
Save  where  thou  art  not,  though  I  feel  thou  art, 
Within  the  gentle  closure  of  my  breast, 
From  whence  at  pleasure  thou  mayst  come  and 

part; 

And  even  thence  thou  wilt  be  stolen  I  fear, 
For  truth  proves  thievish  for  a  prize  so  dear. 

XLIX. 

Against  that  time,  if  ever  that  time  come, 
When  I  shall  see  thee  frown  on  my  defects, 
Whenas  thy  love  hath  cast  his  utmost  sum, 
Call'd  to  that  audit  by  advis'd  respects  ; 
Against  that  time,  when  thou  shalt  strangely 

pass, 

And  scarcely  greet  me  with  that  sun,  thine  eye, 
When  love,  converted  from  the  thing  it  was, 
Shall  reasons  find  of  settled  gravity  ; 
Against  that  time  do  I  ensconce  me  here 
Within  the  knowledge  of  mine  own  desert, 
And  this  my  hand  against  myself  uprear, 
To  guard  the  lawful  reasons  on  thy  part : 
To  leave  poor  me  thou  hast  the  strength  of  laws, 
Since,  why  to  love,  I  can  allege  no  cause. 


How  heavy  do  I  journey  on  the  way, 
When  what  I  seek — my  weary  travel's  end — 


1254 


SONNETS. 


Doth  teach  that  ease  and  that  repose  to  say, 
*Thus  far   the   miles  are  measur'd  from   thy 

friend  ! ' 

The  beast  that  bears  me,  tired  with  my  woe, 
Plods  dully  on,  to  bear  that  weight  in  me, 
As  if  by  some  instinct  the  wretch  did  know 
His  rider  lov'd  not  speed,  being  made  from 

thee : 

The  bloody  spur  cannot  provoke  him  on 
That  sometimes  anger  thrusts  into  his  hide, 
Which  heavily  he  answers  with  a  groan, 
More  sharp  to  me  than  spurring  to  his  side  ; 
For  that  same  groan  doth  put  this  in  my  mind, 
My  grief  lies  onward,  and  my  joy  behind. 

LI. 

Thus  can  my  love  excuse  the  slow  offence 
Of  my  dull  bearer,  when  from  thee  I  speed  : 
From  where  thou  art  why  should  I  haste  me 

thence  ? 

Till  I  return,  of  posting  is  no  need. 
O  what  excuse  will  my  poor  beast  then  find, 
When  swift  extremity  can  seem  but  slow  ? 
Then  should  I  spur,  though  mounted  on  the 

wind ; 

In  winged  speed  no  motion  shall  I  know  : 
Then  can  no  horse  with  my  desire  keep  pace  ; 
Therefore  desire,  of  perfect'st  love  being  made, 
Shall  neigh  (no  dull  flesh)  in  his  fiery  race  ; 
But  love,  for  love,  thus  shall  excuse  my  jade  ; 
Since  from  thee  going  he  went  wilful  slow, 
Towards  thee  I  '11  run,  and  give  him  leave  to 

go- 

LIT. 

So  am  I  as  the  rich,  whose  blessed  key 
Can  bring  him  to  his  sweet  up-locked  treasure, 
The  which  he  will  not  every  hour  survey, 
For  blunting  the  fine  point  of  seldom  pleasure. 
Therefore  are  feasts  so  solemn  and  so  rare, 
Since  seldom  coming,  in  the  long  year  set, 
Like  stones  of  worth  they  thinly  placed  are, 
Or  captain  jewels  in  the  carcanet. 
So  is  the  time  that  keeps  you,  as  my  chest, 
Or  as  the  wardrobe  which  the  robe  doth  hide, 
To  make  some  special  instant  special-blest, 
By  new  unfolding  his  imprison' d  pride. 
Blessed  are  you,  whose  worthiness  gives  scope, 
Being  had,  to  triumph,  being  lack'd,  to  hope. 

Lin. 

What  is  your  substance,  whereof  are  you  made, 
That  millions  of  strange  shadows  on  you  tend? 
Since  every  one  hath,  every  one,  one's  shade, 
And  you,  but  one,  can  every  shadow  lend. 
Describe  Adonis,  and  the  counterfeit 
Is  poorly  imitated  after  you  ; 


On  Helen's  cheek  all  art  of  beauty  set, 
And  you  in  Grecian  tires  are  painted  new  : 
Speak  of  the  spring,  and  foison  of  the  year  ; 
The  one  doth  shadow  of  your  beauty  show, 
The  other  as  your  bounty  doth  appear, 
And  you  in  every  blessed  shape  we  know. 
In  all  external  grace  you  have  some  part, 
But  you  like  none,  none  you,  for  constant 
heart. 

LIV. 

O  how  much  more  doth  beauty  beauteous  seem, 
By  that  sweet  ornament  which  truth  doth  give! 
The  rose  looks  fair,  but  fairer  we  it  deem 
For  that  sweet  odour  which  doth  in  it  live. 
The  canker-blooms  have  full  as  deep  a  dye 
As  the  perfumed  tincture  of  the  roses, 
Hang  on  such  thorns,  and  play  as  wantonly 
When  summer's  breath  their  masked  buds  dis- 
closes : 

Butv  for  their  virtue  only  is  their  show, 
They  live  unwoo'd,  and  unrespected  fade  ; 
Die  to  themselves.     Sweet  roses  do  not  so  ; 
Of  their  sweet  deaths  are  sweetest  odours  made: 
And  so  of  you,  beauteous  and  lovely  youth, 
When  that  shall  fade,  by  verse  distils  your 
truth. 

LV. 

Not  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments 
Of  princes,  shall  outlive  this  powerful  rhyme; 
But  you  shall  shine  more  bright  in  these  contents 
Than  unswept  stone,  besmear'd  with  sluttish 

time. 

When  wasteful  war  shall  statues  overturn, 
And  broils  root  out  the  work  of  masonry, 
Nor  Mars  his  sword  nor  war's  quick  fire  shall 

burn 

The  living  record  of  your  memory. 
'Gainst  death  and  all-oblivious  enmity 
Shall  you  pace  forth  ;  your  praise  shall  still  find 

room, 

Even  in  the  eyes  of  all  posterity 
That  wear  this  world  out  to  the  ending  doom. 
So,  till  the  judgment  that  yourself  arise, 
You  live  in  this,  and  dwell  in  lovers'  eyes. 

LVI. 

Sweet  love,  renew  thy  force  ;  be  it  not  said, 
Thy  edge  should  blunter  be  than  appetite, 
Which  but  to-day  by  feeding  is  allay'd, 
To-morrow  sharpen'd  in  his  former  might  : 
So,  love,  be  thou  ;  although  to-day  thou  fill 
Thy  hungry   eyes,   even  till   they  wink   with 

fulness, 

To-morrow  see  again,  and  do  not  kill 
The  spirit  of  love  with  a  perpetual  dulness. 


SONNETS. 


1255 


Let  this  sad  interim  like  the  ocean  be 
Which  parts  the  shore,  where  two  contracted-new 
Come  daily  to  the  banks,  that,  when  they  see 
Return  of  love,  more  blest  may  be  the  view  ; 
Or  call  it  winter;  which,  being  full  of  care, 
Makes  summer's  welcome  thrice  more  wish'd, 


more  rare. 


LVIJ. 


Being  your  slave,  what  should  I  do  but  tend 
Upon  the  hours  and  times  of  your  desire  ? 
I  have  no  precious  time  at  all  to  spend, 
Nor  services  to  do,  till  you  require. 
Nor  dare  I  chide  the  world- without-end  hour, 
Whilst  I,  my  sovereign,  watch  the  clock  for  you, 
Nor  think  the  bitterness  of  absence  sour, 
When  you  have  bid  your  servant  once  adieu  ; 
Nor  dare  I  question  with  my  jealous  thought 
Where  you  may  be,  or  your  affairs  suppose, 
But,  like  a  sad  slave,  stay  and  think  of  nought, 
Save,   where   you  are  how  happy  you    make 

those  : 

So  true  a  fool  is  love,  that  in  your  will 
(Though  you  do  anything)  he  thinks  no  ill. 

LVIII. 

That  God  forbid,  that  made  me  first  your  slave, 
I   should   in   thought   control    your   times    of 

pleasure, 

Or  at  your  hand  the  account  of  hours  to  crave. 
Being  your  vassal,  bound  to  stay  your  leisure  ! 
O,  let  me  suffer  (being  at  your  beck) 
The  imprison'd  absence  of  your  liberty, 
And  patience,  tame  tosufferance,  bide  each  check 
Without  accusing  you  of  injury. 
Be  where  you  list ;  your  charter  is  so  strong, 
That  you  yourself  may  privilege  your  time  : 
Do  what  you  will,  to  you  it  doth  belong 
Yourself  to  pardon  of  self-doing  crime. 

I  am  to  wait,  though  waiting  so  be  hell  ; 

Not  blame  your  pleasure,  be  it  ill  or  well. 

L1X. 

If  there  be  nothing  new,  but  that  which  is 
Hath  been  before,  how  are  our  brains  beguil'd, 
Which  labouring  for  invention  bear  amiss 
The  second  burthen  of  a  former  child  ! 
O,  that  record  could  with  a  backward  look, 
Even  of  five  hundred  courses  of  the  sun, 
Show  me  your  image  in  some  antique  book, 
Since  mind  at  first  in  character  was  done  ! 
That  I  might  see  what  the  old  world  could  say 
To  this  composed  wonder  of  your  frame  ; 
Whether  we  are  mended,  or  whe'r  better  th^y, 
Or  whether  revolution  be  the  same. 
O  !  sure  I  am,  the  wits  of  former  days 
To  subjects  worse  have  given  admiring  praise. 


LX. 

Like  as  the  waves  make  towards  the  pebbled 

shore, 

So  do  our  minutes  hasten  to  their  end ; 
Each  changing  place  with  that  which  goes  before, 
In  sequent  toil  all  forwards  do  contend. 
Nativity,  once  in  the  main  of  light, 
Crawls  to  maturity,  wherewith  being  crown'd, 
Crooked  eclipses  'gainst  his  glory  fight, 
And  Time,  that  gave,  doth  now  his  gift  confound. 
Time  doth  transfix  the  flourish  set  on  youth, 
And  delves  the  parallels  in  beauty's  brow  ; 
Feeds  on  the  rarities  ot  nature's  truth, 
And  nothing  stands  but  for  his  scythe  to  mow. 
Andyet,  to  times  in  hope,  my  verse  shall  stand, 
Praising  thy  worth,  despite  his  cruel  hand. 

LXI. 

Is  it  thy  will  thy  image  should  keep  open 
My  heavy  eyelids  to  the  weary  night  ? 
Dost  thou  desire  my  slumbers  should  be  broken, 
While  shadows,  like  to  thee,  do  mock  my  sight  ? 
Is  it  thy  spirit  that  thou  send'st  from  thee 
So  far  from  home,  into  my  deeds  to  pry  ; 
To  find  out  shames  and  idle  hours  in  me, 
The  scope  and  tenor  of  thy  jealousy  ? 
O  no  !  thy  love,  though  much,  is  not  so  great ; 
It  is  my  love  that  keeps  mine  eye  awake  ; 
Mine  own  true  love  that  doth  my  rest  defeat, 
To  play  the  watchman  ever  for  thy  sake : 

For  thee  watch  I,  whilst  thou  dost  wake  else- 
where, 

From  me  far  off,  with  others  all-too-near. 

LXII. 

Sin  of  self-love  possesseth  all  mine  eye, 
And  all  my  soul,  and  all  my  every  part ; 
And  for  this  sin  there  is  no  remedy, 
It  is  so  grounded  inward  in  my  heart. 
Methinks  no  face  so  gracious  is  as  mine, 
No  shape  so  true,  no  truth  of  such  account, 
And  for  myself  mine  own  worth  to  define, 
As  1  all  other  in  all  worths  surmount. 
But  when  my  glass  shows  me  myself  indeed, 
Beated  and  chopp'd  with  tann'd  antiquity, 
Mine  own  self-love  quite  contrary  I  read, 
Self  so  self-loving  were  iniquity. 
'Tis  thee  (myself)  that  for  myself  I  praise, 
Painting  my  age  with  beauty  of  thy  day;. 

LXIII. 

Against  my  love  shall  be,  as  I  am  now, 

With  Time's  injurious  hand  crush'd  and  o'er  worn ; 

When  hours  have  drain'd  his  blood,  and  fill'd  his 

brow 
With  lines  and  wrinkles;  when  his  youthful  morn 


1256 


SONNETS. 


Hath  travell'd  on  to  age's  steepy  night ; 
And  all  those  beauties,  whereof  now  he 's  king, 
Are  vanishing  or  vanish'd  out  of  sight, 
Stealing  away  the  treasure  of  his  spring  ; 
For  such  a  time  do  I  now  fortify 
Against  confounding  age's  cruel  knife, 
That  he  shall  never  cut  from  memory 
My  sweet  love's  beauty,  though  my  lover's  life. 
His  beauty  shall  in  these  black  lines  be  seen, 
And  they  shall  live,  and  he  in  them,  still  green. 

LXIV. 

When  I  have  seen  by  Time's  fell  hand  defac'd 
The  rich-proud  cost  of  outworn  buried  age  ; 
When  sometime  lofty  towers  I  see  down-ras'd, 
And  brass  eternal,  slave  to  mortal  rage  ; 
When  I  have  seen  the  hungry  ocean  gain 
Advantage  on  the  kingdom  of  the  shore, 
And  the  firm  soil  win  of  the  wat'ry  main, 
Increasing  store  with  loss,  and  loss  with  store  ; 
When  I  have  seen  such  interchange  of  state, 
Or  state  itself  confounded  to  decay  ; 
Ruin  hath  taught  me  thus  to  ruminate- 
That  Time  will  come  and  take  my  love  away, 
This  thought  is  as  a  death,  which  cannot  choose 
But  weep  to  have  that  which  it  fears  to  lose. 

LXV. 

Since  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  earth,  nor  boundless 

sea, 

But  sad  mortality  o'ersways  their  power, 
How  with  this  rage  shall  beauty  hold  a  plea, 
Whose  action  is  no  stronger  than  a  flower  ? 
O,  how  shall  summer's  honey  breath  hold  out 
Against  the  wreckful  siege  of  battering  days, 
When  rocks  impregnable  are  not  so  stout, 
Nor  gates  of  steel  so  strong,  but  time  decays  ? 
O  fearful  meditation  !  where,  alack  ! 
Shall  Time's  best  jewel  from  Time's  chest  lie  hid? 
Or  what  strong  hand  can  hold  hisswift  foot  back? 
Or  who  his  spoil  of  beauty  can  forbid  ? 
O  none,  unless  this  miracle  have  might, 
That  in  black  ink  my  love  maystill  shinebright. 

LXVI. 

Tir'd  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I  cry, — 
As,  to  behold  desert  a  beggar  born, 
And  needy  nothing  trimm'd  in  joiiity, 
And  purest  faith  unhappily  forsworn, 
And  gilded  honour  shamefully  misplac'd, 
And  maiden  virtue  rudely  strumpeted, 
And  right  perfection  wrongfully  disgrac'd, 
And  strength  by  limping  sway  disabled, 
And  art  made  tongue-tied  by  authority, 
And  folly  (doctor-like)  controlling  skill, 
And  simple  truth  miscall'd  simplicity, 
And  captive  good  attending  captain  ill : 


Tir'd  with  all  these,  from  these  would  I  be 

gone, 
Save  that,  to  die,  I  leave  my  love  alone. 

LXVIl. 

Ah  !  wherefore  with  infection  should  he  live, 
And  with  his  presence  grace  impiety, 
That  sin  by  him  advantage  should  achieve, 
And  lace  itself  with  his  society  ? 
Why  should  false  painting  imitate  his  cheek, 
And  steal  dead  seeing  of  his  living  hue  ? 
Why  should  poor  beauty  indirectly  seek 
Roses  of  shadow,  since  his  rose  is  true  ? 
Why  should  he  live  now  Nature  bankrupt  is, 
Beggar3  d  of  blood  to  blush  through  lively  veins? 
For  she  hath  no  exchequer  now  but  his, 
And,  proud  of  many,  lives  upon  his  gains. 

O,  him  she  stores,  to  show  what  wealth  she 
had 

In  days  long  since,  before  these  last  so  bad. 

LXVIII. 

Thus  is  his  cheek  the  map  of  days  outworn, 
When  beauty  liv'd  and  died  as  flowers  do  now, 
Before  these  bastard  signs  of  fair  were  born, 
Or  durst  inhabit  on  a  living  brow  5 
Before  the  golden  tresses  of  the  dead, 
The  right  of  sepulchres,  were  shorn  away, 
To  live  a  second  life  on  second  head, 
Ere  beauty's  dead  fleece  made  another  gay: 
In  him  those  holy  antique  hours  are  seen, 
Without  all  ornament,  itself,  and  true, 
Making  no  summer  of  another's  green, 
Robbing  no  old  to  dress  his  beauty  new ; 
And  him  as  for  a  map  doth  Nature  store, 
To  show  false  Art  what  beauty  was  of  yore. 

LXIX. 

Those  parts  of  thee  that  the  world's  eye  doth  view 
Want  nothing  that  the  thought  of  hearts  can 

mend : 

All  tongues  (the  voice  of  souls)  give  thee  that  due, 
Uttering  bare  truth,  even  so  as  foes  commend. 
Thine  outward  thus  with  outward  praise  is 

crown'd  ; 
But  those  same  tongues  that  give  thee  so  thine 

own, 

In  other  accents  do  this  praise  confound, 
By  seeing  farther  than  the  eye  hath  shown. 
They  look  into  Ae  beauty  of  thy  mind, 
And  that,  in  guess,  they  measure  by  thy  deeds ; 
Then  (churls)  their  thoughts,  although  their  eyes 

were  kind, 

To  thy  fair  flower  add  the  rank  smell  of  weeds : 
But  why  thy  odour  matcheth  not  thy  show, 
The  sol  ve  is  this, — that  thou  dost  common  grow. 


SONNETS. 


1257 


That  thou  art  blam'd  shall  not  be  thy  defect. 
For  slander's  mark  was  ever  yet  the  fair ; 
The  ornament  of  beauty  is  suspect, 
A  crow  that  flies  in  heaven's  sweetest  air. 
So  thou  be  good,  slander  doth  but  approve 
Thy  worth  the  greater,  being  woo'd  of  time  ; 
For  canker  vice  the  sweetest  buds  doth  love, 
And  thou  present's!  a  pure  unstained  prime. 
Thou  hast  pass'd  by  the  ambush  of  young  days, 
Either  not  assail'd,  or  victor  being  charg'd  ; 
Yet  this  thy  praise  cannot  be  so  thy  praise, 
To  tie  up  envy,  evermore  enlarg'd  : 
If  some  suspect  of  ill  mask'd  not  thy  show, 
Then  thou  alone  kingdoms  of  hearts  shouldst 
owe. 

LXXI. 

No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead 
Than  you  shall  hear  the  surly  sullen  bell 
Give  warning  to  the  world  that  I  am  fled 
From  this  vile  world,  with  vilest  worms  to 

dwell : 

Nay,  if  you  read  this  line,  remember  not 
The  hand  that  writ  it ;  for  I  love  you  so, 
That  I  in  your  sweet  thoughts  would  be  forgot, 
If  thinking  on  me  then  should  make  you  woe. 
O,  if  (I  say)  you  look  upon  this  verse, 
When  I  perhaps  compounded  am  with  clay, 
Do  not  so  much  as  my  poor  name  rehearse  ; 
But  let  your  love  even  with  my  life  decay : 
Lest  the  wise  world  should  look  into  your  moan, 
And  mock  you  with  me  after  I  am  gone. 

LXXII. 

O,  lest  the  world  should  task  you  to  recite 
What  merit  liv'd  in  me,  that  you  should  love 
After  my  death, — dear  love,  forget  me  quite, 
For  you  in  me  can  nothing  worthy  prove  ; 
Unless  you  would  devise  some  virtuous  He, 
To  do  more  for  me  than  mine  own  desert, 
And  hang  more  praise  upon  deceased  I 
Than  niggard  truth  would  willingly  impart : 
O,  lest  your  true  love  may  seem  false  in  this, 
That  you  for  love  speak  well  of  me  untrue, 
My  name  be  buried  where  my  body  is, 
And  live  no  more  to  shame  nor  me  nor  you. 
For  I  am  sham'd  by  that  which  I  bring  forth, 
And  so  should  you,  to  love  things  nothing 
worth. 

LXXIII. 

That  time  of  year  thou  mayst  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds 
sang. 


In  me  thou  seest  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west, 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest. 
In  me  thou  seest  the  glowing  of  such  fire, 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie, 
As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 
Consum'd  with  that  which  it  was  nourish'd  by. 

This  thou  perceiv'st  which  makes  thy  love 
more  strong, 

To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere 
long: 

LXXIV. 

But  be  contented  :  when  that  fell  arrest 
Without  all  bail  shall  carry  me  away, 
My  life  hath  in  this  line  some  interest, 
Which  for  memorial  still  with  thee  shall  stay. 
When  thou  reviewest  this,  thou  dost  review 
The  very  part  was  consecrate  to  thee. 
The  earth  can  have  but  earth,  which  is  his  due  ; 
My  spirit  is  thine,  the  better  part  of  me  : 
So  then  thou  hast  but  lost  the  dregs  of  life, 
The  prey  of  worms,  my  body  being  dead  ; 
The  coward  conquest  of  a  wretch's  knife, 
Too  base  of  thee  to  be  remembered. 
The  worth  of  that,  is  that  which  it  contains, 
And  that  is  this,  and  this  with  thee  remains. 

LXXV. 

So  are  you  to  my  thoughts,  as  food  to  life, 
Or  as  sweet-season'd  showers  are  to  the  ground, 
And  for  the  peace  of  you  I  hold  such  strife 
As  'twixt  a  miser  and  his  wealth  is  found  : 
Now  proud  as  an  enjoyer,  and  anon 
Doubting  the  filching  age  will  steal  his  treasure ; 
Now  counting  best  to  be  with  you  alone, 
Then   better'd    that    the   world   may  see   my 

pleasure : 

Sometime  all  full  with  feasting  on  your  sight, 
And  by  and  by  clean  starved  for  a  look  ; 
Possessing  or  pursuing  no  delight, 
Save  what  is  had  or  must  from  you  be  took. 

Thus  do  I  pine  and  surfeit  day  by  day. 

Or  gluttoning  on  all,  or  all  away. 

LXXVI. 

Why  is  my  verse  so  barren  of  new  pride  ? 
So  far  from  variation  or  quick  change  ? 
Why,  with  the  time,  do  I  not  glance  aside 
To  new-found   methods    and    to  compounds 

strange  ? 

Why  write  I  still  all  one,  ever  the  same, 
And  keep  invention  in  a  noted  weed, 
That  every  word  doth  almost  tell  my  name, 
Showing  their  birth,  and  where  they  did  pro- 
ceed? 


I258 


SONNETS. 


O  know,  sweet  love,  I  always  write  of  you, 
And  you  and  love  are  still  my  argument ; 
So  all  my  best  is  dressing  old  words  new, 
Spending  again  what  is  already  spent ; 
For  as  the  sun  is  daily  new  and  old, 
So  is  my  love  still  telling  what  is  told. 

LXXVII. 

Thy  glass  will  show  thee  how  thy  beauties  wear, 
Thy  dial  how  thy  precious  minutes  waste  ; 
The  vacant  leaves  thy  mind's  imprint  will  bear, 
And  of  this  book  this  learning  mayst  thou  taste. 
The  wrinkles  which  thy  glass  will  truly  show, 
Of  mouthed  graves  will  give  thee  memory ; 
Thou  by  thy  dial's  shady  stealth  mayst  know 
Time's  thievish  progress  to  eternity. 
Look  what  thy  memory  cannot  contain, 
Commit  to  these  waste  blanks,  and  thou  shaltfind 
Those  children  nurs'd,  deliver'd  from  thy  brain, 
To  take  a  new  acquaintance  of  thy  mind. 
These  offices,  so  oft  as  thou  wilt  look, 
Shall  profit  thee,  and  much  enrich  thy  book. 


So  oft  have  I  invok'd  thee  for  my  muse, 

And  found  such  fair  assistance  in  my  verse, 

As  every  alien  pen  hatli  got  my  use, 

And  under  ihee  their  poesy  disperse. 

Thine  eyes,  that  taught  the  dumb  on  high  to 

sing, 

And  heavy  ignorance  aloft  to  fly, 
Have  added  feathers  to  the  learned's  wing, 
And  given  grace  a  double  majesty. 
Yet  be  most  proud  of  that  which  I  compile, 
Whose  influence  is  thine,  and  born  of  thee  : 
In  others'  works  thou  dost  but  mend  the  style, 
And  arts  with  thy  sweet  graces  graced  be  ; 
But  thou  art  all  my  art,  and  dost  advance 
As  high  as  learning  my  rude  ignorance. 

LXXIX. 

Whilst  I  alone  did  call  upon  thy  aid, 
My  verse  alone  had  all  thy  gentle  grace  ; 
But  now  my  gracious  numbers  are  decay'd, 
And  my  sick  muse  doth  give  another  place. 
I  grant,  sweet  love,  thy  lovely  argument 
Deserves  the  travail  of  a  worthier  pen  ; 
Yet  what  of  thee  thy  poet  doth  invent, 
He  robs  thee  of,  and  pays  it  thee  again. 
He  lends  thee  virtue,  and  he  stole  that  word 
From  thy  behaviour  ;  beauty  doth  he  give, 
And  found  it  in  thy  cheek  ;  he  can  afford 
No  praise  to  thee  but  what  in  thee  doth  live. 
Then  thank  him  not  for  that  which  he  doth  say, 
Since  what  he  owes  thee   thou  thyself  dost 

pay. 


LXXX. 

O,  how  I  faint  when  I  of  you  do  write, 
Knowing  a  better  spirit  doth  use  your  name, 
And  in  the  praise  thereof  spends  all  his  might, 
To  make  me  tongue-tied,  speaking  of  your  fame  1 
But  since  your  worth  (wide  as  the  ocean  is) 
The  humble  as  the  proudest  sail  doth  bear, 
My  saucy  bark,  inferior  far  to  his, 
On  your  broad  main  doth  wilfully  appear. 
Your  shallowest  help  will  hold  me  up  afloat, 
Whilst  he  upon  your  soundless  deep  doth  ride ; 
Or,  being  wreck'd,  I  am  a  worthless  boat, 
He  of  tall  building,  and  of  goodly  pride  : 
Then  if  he  thrive,  and  I  be  cast  away, 
The  worst  was  this  ; — my  love  was  my  decay. 

|  LXXXI. 

Or  I  shall  live  your  epitaph  to  make, 
Or  you  survive  when  I  in  earth  am  rotten  ; 
From  hence  your  memory  death  cannot  take, 
Although  in  me  each  part  will  be  forgotten. 
Your  name  from  hence  immortal  life  shall  have, 
Though  I,  once  gone,  to  all  the  world  must  die : 
The  earth  can  yield  me  but  a  common  grave, 
When  you  entombed  in  men's  eyes  shall  lie. 
Your  monument  shall  be  my  gentle  verse, 
Which  eyes  not  yet  created  shall  o'er-read  ; 
And  tongues  to  be,  your  being  shall  rehearse, 
When  all  the  breathers  of  this  world  are  dead ; 
You  still  shall  live  (such  virtue  hath  my  pen) 
Where   breath   most    breathes, — even  in  the 
mouths  of  men. 

LXXXI1. 

I  grant  thou  wert  not  married  to  my  muse, 
And  therefore  mayst  without  attaint  o'erlook 
The  dedicated  words  which  writers  use 
Of  their  fair  subject,  blessing  every  book. 
Thou  art  as  fair  in  knowledge  as  in  hue, 
Finding  thy  worth  a  limit  past  my  praise  ; 
And  therefore  art  enforc'd  to  seek  anew 
Some  fresher  stamp  of  the  time-bettering  days. 
And  do  so,  love  ;  yet  when  they  have  devis'd 
What  strained  touches  rhetoric  can  lend, 
Thou  truly  fair  wert  truly  sympathiz'd 
In  true  plain  words,  by  thy  true-telling  friend , 
And  their  gross  painting  might  be  better  us'd 
Where  cheeks  need  blood ;  in  thee  it  is  abus'd. 


I  never  saw  that  you  did  painting  need, 
And  therefore  to  your  fair  no  painting  set. 
I  found,  or  thought  1  found,  you  did  exceed 
The  barren  tender  of  a  poet's  debt : 
And  therefore  have  I  slept  in  your  report 
That  you  yourself,  being  extant,  well  might  show 


SONNETS. 


1259 


How  far  a  modern  quill  doth  come  too  short, 
Speaking  of  worth,  what  worth  in  you  doth  grow. 
This  silence  for  my  sin  you  did  impute, 
Which  shall  be  most  my  glory,  being  dumb  ; 
For  I  impair  not  beauty  being  mute, 
When  others  would  give  life,  and  bring  a  tomb, 
There  lives  more  life  in  one  of  your  fair  eyes 
Than  both  your  poets  can  in  praise  devise. 

LXXXIV. 

Who  is  it  that  says  most  ?  which  can  say  more 
Than  this  rich  praise, — that  you  alone  are  you  ? 
In  whose  confine  immured  is  the  store 
Which  should  example  where  your  equal  grew  ? 
Lean  penury  within  that  pen  doth  dwell, 
That  to  his  subject  lends  not  some  small  glory ; 
But  he  that  writes  of  you,  if  he  can  tell 
That  you  are  you,  so  dignifies  his  story, 
Let  him  but  copy  what  in  you  is  writ, 
Not  making  worse  what  nature  made  so  clear, 
And  such  a  counterpart  shall  fame  his  wit, 
Making  his  style  admired  everywhere. 
You  to  your  beauteous  blessings  add  a  curse, 
Being   fond  on   praise,   which  makes    your 
praises  worse. 

LXXXV. 

My  tongue-tied  muse  in  manners  holds  her  still, 
While  comments  of  your  praise x richly  compil'd, 
Reserve  their  character  with  golden  quill, 
And  precious  phrase  by  all  the  muses  fil'd. 
I  think  good  thoughts,  while  others  write  good 

words, 

And,  like  unlettered  clerk,  still  cry  '  Amen ' 
To  every  hymn  that  able  spirit  affords, 
In  polish'd  form  of  well-refined  pen. 
Hearing  you  prais'd,  I  say,  '  'Tis  so,  'tis  true,' 
And  to  the  most  of  praise  add  something  more ; 
But  that  is  in  my  thought,  whose  love  to  you, 
Though  words  come  hindmost,  holds  his  rank 

before. 

Then  others  for  the  breath  of  words  respect, 
Me  for  my  dumb  thoughts,  speaking  in  effect. 

LXXXVI. 

Was  it  the  proud  full  sail  of  his  great  verse, 
Bound  for  the  prize  of  all-too-precious  you, 
That  did  my  ripe  thoughts  in  my  brain  in- 
hearse,  [grew  ? 

Making  their  tomb  the  womb  wherein  they 
Was  it  his  spirit,  by  spirits  taught  to  write 
Above  a  mortal  pitch,  that  struck  me  dead  ? 
No,  neither  he,  nor  his  compeers  by  night 
Giving  him  aid,  my  verse  astonished. 
He,  nor  that  affable  familiar  ghost 
Which  nightly  gulls  him  with  intelligence, 


As  victors,  of  my  silence  cannot  boast ; 

I  was  not  sick  of  any  fear  from  thence. 
But  when  your  countenance  fil'd  up  his  line, 
Then  lack'd  I  matter ;  that  enfeebled  mine. 

LXXXVII. 

Farewell !  thou  art  too  dear  for  my  possessing, 
And  like  enough  thou  know'st  thy  estimate  : 
The  charter  of  thy  worth  gives  thee  releasing  ; 
My  bonds  in  thee  are  all  determinate. 
For  how  do  I  hold  thee  but  by  thy  granting  ? 
And  for  that  riches  where  is  my  deserving  ? 
The  cause  of  this  fair  gift  in  me  is  wanting, 
And  so  my  patent  back  again  is  swerving. 
Thyself  thou  gav'st,  thy  own  worth  then  not 

knowing, 

Or  me,  to  whom  thou  gav'st  it,  else  mistaking; 

So  thy  great  gift,  upon  misprision  growing, 

Comes  home  again,  on  better  judgment  making. 

Thus  have  I  had  thee,  as  a  dream  doth  flatter, 

In  sleep  a  king,  but,  waking,  no  such  matter. 

LXXXVIII. 

When  thou  shalt  be  dispos'd  to  set  me  light, 
And  place  my  merit  in  the  eye  of  scorn, 
Upon  thy  side  against  myself  I  '11  fight, 
And  prove  thee  virtuous,  though  thou  art  for. 

sworn  : 

With  mine  own  weakness  being  best  acquainted. 
Upon  thy  part  I  can  set  down  a  story 
Of  faults  conceal'd,  wherein  I  am  attainted  ; 
That  thou,  in  losing  me,  shall  win  much  glory : 
And  I  by  this  will  be  a  gainer  too ; 
For  bending  all  my  loving  thoughts  on  thee, 
The  injuries  that  to  myself  I  do, 
Doing  thee  vantage,  double-vantage  me. 
Such  is  my  love,  to  thee  I  so  belong, 
That  for  thy  right  myself  will  bear  all  wrong. 

LXXXIX. 

Say  that  thou  didst  forsake  me  for  some  fault, 
And  I  will  comment  upon  that  offence : 
Speak  of  my  lameness,  and  I  straight  will  halt ; 
Against  thy  reasons  making  no  defence. 
Thou  canst  not,  love,  disgrace  me  half  so  ill, 
To  set  a  form  upon  desired  change, 
As  I  '11  myself  disgrace  :  knowing  thy  will, 
I  will  acquaintance  strangle,  and  look  strange ; 
Be  absent  from  thy  walks  ;  and  in  my  tongue 
Thy  sweet-beloved  name  no  more  shall  dwell  ; 
Lest  I  (too  much  profane)  should  do  it  wrong, 
And  haply  of  our  old  acquaintance  tell. 
For  thee,  against  myself  I  '11  vow  debate, 
For  I  must  ne'er  love  him  whom  thou  dost  hate. 

xc. 

Then  hate  me  when  thou  wilt ;  if  ever,  now  ; 
Now  while  the  world  is  bent  my  deeds  to  cross, 


1260 


SONNETS. 


Join  with  the  spite  of  fortune,  make  me  bow, 

And  do  not  drop  in  for  an  after-loss  : 

Ah !  do  not,  when  my  heart  hath  scap'd  this 

sorrow, 

Come  in  the  rearward  of  a  conquer'd  woe  ; 
Give  not  a  windy  night  a  rainy  morrow, 
To  linger  out  a  purpos'd  overthrow. 
If  thou  wilt  leave  me,  do  not  leave  me  last, 
When  other  petty  griefs  have  done  their  spite, 
But  in  the  onset  come ;  so  shall  I  taste 
At  first  the  very  worst  of  fortune's  might ; 

And  other  strains  of  woe,  which  now  seem 
woe, 

Compar'd  with  loss  of  thee  will  not  seem  so. 

xci. 

Some  glory  in  their  birth,  some  in  their  skill, 
Some  in  their  wealth,  some  in  their  body's 

force ; 
Some  in  their  garments,  though  new-fangled 

ill ;  [horse  ; 

Some  in  their  hawks  and  hounds,  some  in  their 
And  every  humour  hath  his  adjunct  pleasure, 
Wherein  it  finds  a  joy  above  the  rest ; 
But  these  particulars  are  not  my  measure, 
All  these  I  better  in  one  general  best. 
Thy  love  is  better  than  high  birth  to  me, 
Richer  than  wealth,  prouder  than  garments' 

cost, 

Of  more  delight  than  hawks  and  horses  be  ; 
And,  having  thee,  of  all  men's  pride  I  boast. 
Wretched  in  this  alone,  that  thou  mayst  take 
All  this  away,  and  me  most  wretched  make. 

xci  I. 

But  do  thy  worst  to  steal  thyself  away, 
For  term  of  life  thou  art  assured  mine  ; 
And  life  no  longer  than  thy  love  will  stay, 
For  it  depends  upon  that  love  of  thine. 
Then  need  I  not  to  fear  the  worst  of  wrongs, 
When  in  the  least  of  them  my  life  hath  end. 
I  see  a  better  state  to  me  belongs 
Than  that  which  on  thy  humour  doth  depend: 
Thou  canst  not  vex  me  with  inconstant  mind, 
Since  that  my  life  on  thy  revolt  doth  lie. 
O  what  a  happy  title  do  I  find, 
Happy  to  have  thy  love,  happy  to  die  ! 
But  what 's  so  blessed-fair  that  fears  no  b^t? — 
Thou  mayst  be  false,  and  yet  I  know  it  not : 

xcnr. 

So  shall  I  live,  supposing  thou  art  true, 
Like  a  deceived  husband  ;  so  love's  face 
May  still  seem  love  to  me,  though  alter'd  new ; 
Thy  looks  with  me,  thy  heart  in  other  place  : 
For  there  can  live  no  hatred  in  thine  eye, 
Therefore  in  that  I  cannot  know  thy  change. 


In  many's  looks  the  false  heart's  history 

Is  writ,  in   moods  and   frowns  and  wrinkles 

strange  ; 

But  heaven  in  thy  creation  did  decree 
That  in  thy  face  sweet  love  should  ever  dwell ; 
Whate'er  thy  thoughts  or  thy  heart's  workings 
be,     '  [tell. 

Thy  looks  should  nothing  thence  but  sweetness 
How  like  Eve's  apple  doth  thy  beauty  grow, 
If  thy  sweet  virtue  answer  not  thy  show  ? 

xciv. 

They  that  have  power  to  hurt  and  will  do  none, 
That  do  not  do  the  thing  they  most  do  show, 
Who,  moving  others,  are  themselves  as  stone, 
Unmoved,  cold,  and  to  temptation  slow  ; 
They  rightly  do  inherit  Heaven's  graces, 
And  husband  nature's  riches  from  expense  ; 
They  are  the  lords  and  owners  of  their  faces, 
Others  but  stewards  of  their  excellence. 
The  summer's  flower  is  to  the  summer  sweet 
Though  to  itself  it  only  live  and  die  ; 
But  if  that  flower  with  base  infection  meet, 
The  basest  weed  outbraves  his  dignity  : 

For  sweetest   things    turn  sourest  by  their 
deeds : 

Lilies  that  fester  smell  far  worse  than  weeds. 

XCV. 

How  sweet  and  lovely  dost  thou  make  the  shame, 
Which,  like  a  canker  in  the  fragrant  rose, 
Doth  spot  the  beauty  of  thy  budding  name  ! 
O,  in  what  sweets  dost  thou  thy  sins  enclose  ! 
That  tongue  that  tells  the  story  of  thy  days, 
Making  lascivious  comments  on  thy  sport, 
Cannot  dispraise  but  in  a  kind  of  praise : 
Naming  thy  name  blesses  an  ill  report. 
O,  what  a  mansion  have  those  vices  got 
Which  for  their  habitation  chose  out  thee  ! 
Where  beauty's  veil  doth  cover  every  blot, 
And  all  things  turn  to  fair,  that  eyes  can  see  ! 

Take  heed,  dear  heart,  of  this  large  privilege ; 

The  hardest  knife  ill-used  doth  lose  his  edge. 

xcvr. 

Some  say  thy  fault  is  youth,  some  wantonness ; 
Some  say  thy  grace  is  youth  and  gentle  sport ; 
Both  grace  and  faults  are  lov'd  of  more  and 

less: 

Thou  mak'st  faults  graces  that  to  thee  resort. 
As  on  the  finger  of  a  throned  queen 
The  basest  jewel  will  be  well  esteem'd  ; 
So  are  those  errors  that  in  thee  are  seen 
To  truths  translated,  and  for  true  things  deem'd. 
How  many  lambs  might  the  stern  wolf  betray, 
If  like  a  lamb  he  could  his  looks  translate  ! 


SONNETS. 


1261 


How  many  gazers  mightst  thou  lead  away, 
If  thou  wouldst  use  the  strength  of  all  thy  state  ! 
But  do  not  so ;  I  love  thee  in  such  sort, 
As,  thou  being  mine,  mine  is  thy  good  report. 

xcvu. 

How  like  a  winter  hath  my  absence  been 
From  thee,  the  pleasure  of  the  fleeting  year  ! 
What  freezings   have  I  felt,    what  dark  days 

seen  ! 

What  old  December's  bareness  everywhere  ! 
And  yet  this  time  remov'd  was  summer's  time, 
The  teeming  autumn,  big  with  rich  increase, 
Bearing  the  wanton  burden  of  the  prime, 
Like  widow'd  wombs  after  their  lords'  decease ; 
Yet  this  abundant  issue  seem'd  to  me 
But  hope  of  orphans,  and  unfather'd  fruit ; 
For  summer  and  his  pleasures  wait  on  thee, 
And,  thou  away,  the  very  birds  are  mute  j 
Or,  if  they  sing,  'tis  with  so  dull  a  cheer, 
That  leaves  look  pale,  dreading  the  winter 's 
near. 

XCVIII. 

From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring, 
When  proud-pied  April,  dress'd  in  all  his  trim, 
Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  everything, 
That  heavy  Saturn  laugh'd  and  leap'd  with  him. 
Yet  nor  the  lays  of  birds,  nor  the  sweet  smell 
Of  different  flowers  in  odour  and  in  hue, 
Could  make  me  any  summer's  story  tell, 
Or  from  their  proud  lap  pluck  them  where  they 

grew: 

Nor  did  I  wonder  at  the  lilies  white, 
Nor  praise  the  deep  vermilion  in  the  rose  ; 
They  were  but  sweet,  but  figures  of  delight, 
Drawn  after  you,  you  pattern  of  all  those. 
Yet  seem'd  it  winter  still,  and  you,  away, 
As  with  your  shadow  I  with  these  did  play : 

xcix. 

The  forward  violet  thus  did  I  chide  ; — 
Sweet  thief,  whence  didst  thou  steal  thy  sweet 

that  smells, 

If  not  from  my  love's  breath  ?    The  purple  pride 
Which  on  thy  soft  cheek  for  complexion  dwells, 
In  my  love's  veins  thou  hast  too  grossly  dy'd 
The  lily  I  condemned  for  thy  hand, 
And  buds  of  marjoram  had  stolen  thy  hair  : 
The  roses  fearfully  on  thorns  did  stand, 
One  blushing  shame,  another  white  despair  ; 
A  third,  nor  red  nor  white,  had  stolen  of  both, 
And  to  his  robbery  had  annex'd  thy  breath  ; 
.But  for  his  theft,  in  pride  of  all  his  growth 
A  vengeful  canker  eat  him  up  to  death. 
More  flowers  I  noted,  yet  I  none  could  see, 
But  sweet  or  colour  it  had  stolen  from  thee. 


c. 

Where  art  thou,  Muse,  that  thou  forgett'st  so 

long 

To  speak  of  that  which  gives  thee  all  thy  might? 
Spend'st  thou  thy  fury  on  some  worthless  song, 
Darkening  thy  power,  to  lend  base  subjects 

light  ? 

Return,  forgetful  Muse,  and  straight  redeem 
[n  gentle  numbers  time  so  idly  spent ; 
Sing  to  the  ear  that  doth  thy  lays  esteem, 
And  gives  thy  pen  both  skill  and  argument. 
Rise,  resty  Muse,  my  love's  sweet  face  survey, 
tf  Time  have  any  wrinkle  graven  there  ; 
If  any,  be  a  satire  to  decay, 
And  make  Time's  spoils  despised  everywhere. 

Give  my  love  fame  faster  than  Time  wastes  life ; 

So  thou  prevent'st  his  scythe  and  crooked  knife. 

Cl. 

O  truant  Muse,  what  shall  be  thy  amends 
For  thy  neglect  of  truth  in  beauty  dy'd  ? 
Both  truth  and  beauty  on  my  love  depends ; 
So  dost  thou  too,  and  therein  dignified. 
Make  answer,  Muse  :  wilt  thou  not  haply  say, 
'  Truth  needs  no  colour  with  his  colour  fix'd, 
Beauty  no  pencil,  beauty's  truth  to  lay ; 
But  best  is  best,  if  never  intermix' d  ?  ' — 
Because  he  needs  no  praise,  wilt  thou  be  dumb? 
Excuse  not  silence  so  ;  for  it  lies  in  thee 
To  make  him  much  outlive  a  gilded  tomb, 
And  to  be  prais'd  of  ages  yet  to  be. 
Then  do  thy  office,  Muse ;  I  teach  thee  how 
To  make  him  seem  long  hence  as  he  shows 
now. 

cn. 
My  love  is  strengthen'd,  though  more  weak  in 

seeming ; 

I  love  not  less,  though  less  the  show  appear ; 
That  love  is  merchandiz'd  whose  rich  esteeming 
The  owner's  tongue  doth  publish  everywhere. 
Our  love  was  new,  and  then  but  in  the  spring, 
When  I  was  won't  to  greet  it  with  my  lays  ; 
As  Philomel  in  summer's  front  doth  sing, 
And  stops  her  pipe  in  growth  of  riper  days : 
Not  that  the  summer  is  less  pleasant  now 
Than  when  her  mournful  hymns  did  hush  the 

night, 

But  that  wild  music  burthens  every  bough, 
And  sweets  grown  common  lose  their  deaf 

delight. 

Therefore,  like  her,  I  sometime  hold  my  tongue, 
Because  I  would  not  dull  you  with  my  song. 

cm. 

Alack  1  what  poverty  my  Muse  brings  forth, 
That  having  such  a  scope  to  show  her  pride, 


1262 


SONNETS. 


The  argument,  all  bare,  is  of  more  worth, 
Than  when  it  hath  my  added  praise  beside. 
O  blame  me  not  if  I  no  more  can  write  ! 
Look  in  your  glass,  and  there  appears  a  face 
That  over-goes  my  blunt  invention  quite, 
Dulling  my  lines,  and  doing  me  disgrace. 
Were  it  not  sinful,  then,  striving  to  mend, 
To  mar  the  subject  that  before  was  well  ? 
For  to  no  other  pass  my  verses  tend, 
Than  of  your  graces  and  your  gifts  to  tell ; 
And  more,  much  more,  than  in  my  verse  can  sit, 
Your  own  glass  shows  you,  when  you  look  in  it. 

civ. 

To  me,  fair  friend,  you  never  can  be  old, 
For  as  you  were  when  first  your  eye  I  eyed, 
Such  seems  your  beauty  still.     Three  winters' 
cold  [pride ; 

Have  from  the  forests  shook  three  summers' 
Three  beauteous  springs  toyellowautumnturn'd 
In  process  of  the  seasons  have  I  seen ; 
Three  April  perfumes  in  three  hot  Junes  burn'd, 
Since  first  I  saw  you  fresh,  which  yet  are  green. 
Ah  !  yet  doth  beauty,  like  a  dial-hand, 
Steal  from  his  figure,  and  no  pace  perceiv'd  ; 
So  your  sweet  hue,  which  methinks  still  doth 

stand, 

Hath  motion,  <5  nd  mine  eye  may  be  deceiv'd. 
For  fear  of  wh  ich,  hear  this,  thou  age  unbred, 
Ere  you  were  born,  was  beauty's  summer  dead. 


Let  not  my  love  be  call'd  idolatry, 
Nor  my  beloved  as  an  idol  show, 
Since  all  alike  my  songs  and  praises  be, 
To  one,  of  one,  still  such,  and  ever  so. 
Kind  is  my  love  to-day,  to-morrow  kind, 
Still  constant  in  a  wondrous  excellence  ; 
Therefore  my  verse,  to  constancy  confin'd, 
One  thing  expressing,  leaves  out  difference. 
Fair,  kino,  and  true,  is  all  my  argument, 
Fair,  kind,  and  true,  varying  to  other  words ; 
And  in  this  change  is  my  invention  spent, 
Three  themes  in  one,  which  wondrous  scope 

affords. 

Fair,  kind,  and  true,  have  often  liv'd  alone, 
Which  three,  till  now,  never  kept  seat  in  one. 

cvi. 

When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 
I  see  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights, 
And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rhyme, 
In  praise  of  ladies  dead  and  lovely  knights, 
Then  in  the  blazon  of  sweet  beauty's  best, 
Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 
I  see  their  antique  pen  would  have  express'd 
Even  such  a  beauty  as  you  master  now. 


So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 
Of  this  our  time,  all  you  prefiguring  ; 
And,  for  they  look'd  but  wkh  divining  eyes, 
They  had  not  skill  enough  your  worth  to  sing  : 
For  we,  which  now  behold  these  present  days, 
Have   eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack  tongues  to 
praise. 


Not  mine  own  fears,  nor  the  prophetic  soul 
Of  the  wide  world  dreaming  on  things  to  come, 
Can  yet  the  lease  of  my  true  love  control, 
Suppos'd  as  forfeit  to  a  confin'd  doom. 
The  mortal  moon  hath  her  eclipse  endur'd, 
And  the  sad  augers  mock  their  own  presage ; 
Incertainties  now  crown  themselves  assur'd, 
And  peace  proclaims  olives  of  endless  age. 
Now  with  the  drops  of  this  most  balmy  time 
My  love  looks  fresh,  and  Death  to  me  subscribes, 
Since  spite  of  him  I  '11  live  in  this  poor  rhyme, 
While  he  insults  o'er  dull  and  speechless  tribes. 
And  thou  in  this  shalt  find  thy  monument, 
When  tyrants'  crests  and  tombs  of  brass  are 
spent. 

CVIII. 

What 's  in  the  brain  that  ink  may  character, 
Which  hath  not  figur'd  to  thee  my  true  spirit  ? 
What's  new  to  speak,  what  new  to  register, 
That  may  express  my  love,  or  thy  dear  merit  ? 
Nothing,  sweet  boy ;  but  yet,  like  prayers  divine, 
I  must  each  day  say  o'er  the  very  same  ; 
Counting  no  old  thing  old,  thou  mine,  I  thine, 
Even  as  when  first  I  hallow'd  thy  fair  name. 
So  that  eternal  love  in  love's  fresh  case 
Weighs  not  the  dust  and  injury  of  age, 
Nor  gives  to  necessary  wrinkles  place, 
But  makes  antiquity  for  aye  his  page  ; 
Finding  the  first  conceit  of  love  there  bred, 
Where  time  and  outward  form  would  show  it 
dead. 

cix. 

O,  never  say  that  I  was  false  of  heart, 
Though  absence  seem'd  my  flame  to  qualify  ! 
As  easy  might  I  from  myself  depart, 
As  from  my  soul,  which  in  thy  breast  doth  lie : 
That  is  my  home  of  love  :  if  I  have  rang'd, 
Like  him  that  travels,  I  return  again  ; 
Just  to  the  time,  not  with  the  time  exchang'd,— 
So  that  myself  bring  water  for  my  stain. 
Never  believe,  though  in  my  nature  reign'd 
All  frailties  that  besiege  all  kinds  of  blood, 
That  it  could  so  preposterously  be  stain'd, 
To  leave  for  nothing  all  thy  sum  of  good  ; 
For  nothing  this  wide  universe  I  call, 
Save  thou,  my  rose  ;  in  it  thou  art  my  all. 


SONNETS. 


1263 


ex. 

Alas,  'tis  true,  I  have  gone  here  and  there, 
And  made  myself  a  motley  to  the  view, 
Gor'd  mine  own  thoughts,  sold  cheap  what  is 

most  dear, 

Made  old  offences  of  affections  new. 
Most  true  it  is,  that  I  have  look'd  on  truth 
Askance  and  strangely  ;  but,  by  all  above, 
These  blenches  gave  my  heart  another  youth, 
And  worst  essays  prov'd  thee  my  best  of  love. 
Now  all  is  done,  have  what  shall  have  no  end : 
Mine  appetite  I  never  more  will  grind 
On  newer  proof,  to  try  an  older  friend, 
A  God  in  love,  to  whom  I  am  confin'd. 

Then  give  me  welcome,  next  my  heaven  the 
best, 

Even  to  thy  pure  and  most  most  loving  breast. 

D  '.:'•'.*       i:(!9.  O  fnti  :i.  KOI  VOW  ^O  jfl/gur  Int)  JSHJ  U 
CXI. 

O,  for  my  sake  do  you  with  Fortune  chide, 
The  guilty  goddess  of  my  harmful  deeds, 
That  did  not  better  for  my  life  provide, 
Than    public  means,   which   public  manners 

breeds. 

Thence  comes  it  that  my  name  receives  a  brand, 
And  almost  thence  my  nature  is  subdued 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  hand  : 
Pity  me  then,  and  wish  I  were  renew'd  ; 
Whilst,  like  a  willing  patient,  I  will  drink 
Potions  of  eysell,  'gainst  my  strong  infection  ; 
No  bitterness  that  I  will  bitter  think, 
Nor  double  penance,  to  correct  correction. 
Pity  me  then,  dear  friend,  and  I  assure  ye, 
Even  that  your  pity  is  enough  to  cure  me. 

CXII. 

Your  love  and  pity  doth  the  impression  fill 
Which  vulgar  scandal  stamp'd  upon  my  brow  ; 
For  what  care  I  who  calls  me  well  or  ill, 
So  you  o'ergreen  my  bad,  my  good  allow  ? 
You  are  my  all-the-world,  and  I  must  strive 
To  know  my  shames  and  praises  from   your 

tongue ; 

None  else  to  me.  nor  I  to  none  alive, 
That  my  steel'd  sense  or  changes,  right  or  wrong. 
In  so  profound  abysm  I  throw  all  care 
Of  other's  voices,  that  my  adder's  sense 
To  critic  and  to  flatterer  stopped  are. 
Mark  how  with  my  neglect  I  do  dispense  ; — 
You  are  so  strongly  in  my  purpose  bred, 
That  all  the  world  besides  methinks  are  dead. 

CXIII. 

Since  I  left  you,  mine  eye  is  in  my  mind  ; 
And  that  which  governs  me  to  go  about 
Doth  part  his  function,  and  is  partly  blind, 
Seems  seeing,  but  effectually  is  out ; 


For  it  no  form  delivers  to  the  heart 
Of  bird,  of  flower,  or  shape,  which  it  doth  latch  [ 
Of  his  quick  objects  hath  the  mind  no  part, 
Nor  his  own  vision  holds  what  it  doth  catch  ; 
For  if  it  see  the  rud'st  or  gentlest  sight, 
The  most  sweet  favour,  or  deformed'st  creature, 
The  mountain  or  the  sea,  the  day  or  night, 
The  crow,  or  dove,  it  shapes  them  to  your 

feature. 

Incapable  of  more,  replete  with  you, 
My  most  true  mind  thus  maketh  mine  untrue. 

cxiv. 

Or  whether  doth  my  mind  being  crown'd  with 

you, 

Drink  up  the  monarch's  plague,  this  flattery, 
Or  whether  shall  I  say  mine  eye  saith  true, 
And  that  your  love  taught  it  this  alchymy, 
To  make  of  monsters  and  things  indigest 
Such  cherubins  as  your  sweet  self  resemble, 
Creating  every  bad  a  perfect  best, 
As  fast  as  objects  to  his  beams  assemble  ? 
O,  'tis  the  first ;  'tis  flattery  in  my  seeing, 
And  my  great  mind  most  kingly  drinks  it  up  t 
Mine  eye  well  knows  what  with  his  gust  is 

'greeing, 

And  to  his  palate  doth  prepare  the  cup  : 
If  it  be  poison'd,  'tis  the  lesser  sin 
That  mine  eye  loves  it,  and  doth  first  begin. 

cxv. 

Those  lines  that  I  before  have  writ,  do  lie  ; 
Even  those  that  said  I  could  not  love  you  dearer; 
Yet  then  my  judgment  knew  no  reason  why 
My  most  full  flame   should  afterwards  burn 

clearer. 

But  reckoning  time,  whose  million'd  accidents 
Creep  in  'twixt  vows,  and  change  decrees  of 

kings, 

Tan  sacred  beauty,  blunt  the  sharp'st  intents, 
Divert  strong  minds  to  the  course  of  altering 

things ; 

Alas  !  why,  fearing  of  Time's  tyranny, 
Might  I  not  then  say,  '  Now  I  love  you  best,' 
When  I  was  certain  o'er  incertainty, 
Crowning  the  present,  doubting  of  the  rest  ? 
Love  is  a  babe  ;  then  might  I  not  say  so, 
To  give  full  growth  to  that  which  still  doth 

grow? 

CXV1. 

.:  :.•;;, .  OJ  <5tpqc{l:  i#ir,  ;te3qtjii  i)j  IBP**  SM1  •   ^'^ 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 

Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 

Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 

Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove : 

O  no  ;  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark, 

That  looks  on  tempests,  and  is  never  shaken  ; 


1264 


SONNETS. 


It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 
Whose  worth 's  unknown,  although  his  height 

be  taken. 
Love 's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and 

cheeks 

Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come  ; 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 
But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 
If  this  be  error,  and  upon  me  prov'd, 
I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  lov'd. 

cxvu. 

Accuse  me  thus  ;  that  I  have  scanted  all 
Wherein  I  should  your  great  deserts  repay ; 
Forgot  upon  your  dearest  love  to  call, 
Whereto  all  bonds  do  tie  me  day  by  day ; 
That  I  have  frequent  been  with  unknown  minds, 
And  given  to  time  your  own  dear-purchas'd 

right ; 

That  I  have  hoisted  sail  to  all  the  winds 
Which  should  transport  me  farthest  from  your 

sight. 

Book  both  my  wilfulness  and  errors  down, 
And  on  just  proof  surmise  accumulate, 
Bring  me  within  the  level  of  your  frown, 
But  shoot  not  at  me  in  your  waken'd  hate  : 
Since  my  appeal  says,  I  did  strive  to  prove 
The  constancy  and  virtue  of  your  love. 

CXVIII. 

Like  as,  to  make  our  appetites  more  keen, 
With  eager  compounds  we  our  palate  urge ; 
As,  to  prevent  our  maladies  unseen, 
We  sicken  to  shun  sickness,  when  we  purge  ; 
Even  so,  being  full  of  your  ne'er-cloying  sweet- 
ness, 

To  bitter  sauces  did  I  frame  my  feeding, 
And,  sick  of  welfare,  found  a  kind  of  meetness 
To  be  diseas'd,  ere  that  there  was  true  need- 
ing. 

Thus  policy  in  love,  to  anticipate 
The  ills  that  were  not,  grew  to  faults  assured, 
And  brought  to  medicine  a  healthful  state, 
Which,  rank  of  goodness,  would  by  ill  be  cured. 
But  thence  I  learn,  and  find  the  lesson  true, 
Drugs  poison  him  that  so  fell  sick  of  you. 

cxix. 

What  potions  have  I  drunk  of  Siren  tears, 
Distill'd  from  limbecs  foul  as  hell  within, 
Applying  fears  to  hopes,  and  hopes  to  fears, 
Still  losing  when  I  saw  myself  to  win  ! 
What  wretched  errors  hath  my  heart  committed, 
Whilst  it  hath  thought  itself  so  blessed  never  ! 
How  have  mine  eyes  out  of  their  spheres  been 

fitted, 
In  the  distraction  of  this  madding  fever  ! 


O  benefit  of  ill !  now  I  find  true 
That  better  is  by  evil  still  made  better  ; 
And  ruin'd  love,  when  it  is  built  anew, 
Grows  fairer  than  at  first,  more  strong,  far 

greater. 

So  I  return  rebuk'd  to  my  content, 
And  gain  by  ill  thrice  more  than  I  have  spent. 

cxx. 

That  you  were  once  unkind,  befriends  me  now. 
And  for  that  sorrow,  which  I  then  did  feel, 
Needs  must  I  under  my  transgression  bow, 
Unless  my  nerves  were  brass  or  hammer'd  steel. 
For  if  you  were  by  my  unkindness  shaken, 
As  I  by  yours,  you  have  pass'd  a  hell  of  time  ; 
And  I,  a  tyrant,  have  no  leisure  taken 
To  weigh  how  once  I  suffer'd  in  your  crime. 

0  that  our  night  of  woe  might  have  remember'd 
My  deepest  sense,  how  hard  true  sorrow  hits, 
And  soon  to  you,  as  you  to  me,  then  tender' d 
The  humble  salve  which  wounded  bosoms  fits! 

But  that  your  trespass  now  becomes  a  fee  ; 
Mine  ransoms  yours,  and  yours  must  ransom  me. 

CXXI. 

'Tis  better  to  be  vile  than  vile  esteem'd. 
When  not  to  be  receives  reproach  of  being, 
And  the  just  pleasure  lost,  which  is  so  deem'd 
Not  by  our  feeling,  but  by  others'  seeing. 
For  why  should  others'  false  adulterate  eyes 
Give  salutation  to  my  sportive  blood  ? 
Or  on  my  frailties  why  are  frailer  spies, 
Which  in  their  wills  count  bad  what  I  think 

good? 

No. — I  am  that  I  am ;  and  they  that  level 
At  my  abuses,  reckon  up  their  own  :      [bevel ; 

1  may  be  straight,  though  they  themselves  be 
By  their  rank  thoughts  my  deeds  must  not  be 

shown ; 

Unless  this  general  evil  they  maintain,— 
All  men  are  bad,  and  in  their  badness  reign 

cxx  1 1. 

Thy  gift,  thy  tables,  are  within  my  brain 
Full,  character'd  with  lasting  memory 
Which  shall  above  that  idle  rank  remain, 
Beyond  all  date,  even  to  eternity  : 
Or  at  the  least  so  long  as  brain  and  heart 
Have  faculty  by  nature  to  subsist ; 
Till  each  to  raz'd  oblivion  yield  his  part 
Of  thee,  thy  record  never  can  be  miss'd. 
That  poor  retention  could  not  so  much  hold, 
Nor  need  I  tallies  thy  dear  love  to  score  ; 
Therefore  to  give  them  from  me  was  I  bold, 
To  trust  those  tables  that  receive  thee  more  : 
To  keep  an  adjunct  to  remember  thee, 
Were  to  import  forgetfulness  in  me. 


SONNETS. 


1265 


CXXIII. 

No  !    Time,  thou  shalt  not   boast  that  I  do 

change : 

Thy  pyramids  built  up  with  newer  might 
To  me  are  nothing  novel,  nothing  strange  ; 
They  are  but  dressings  of  a  former  sight. 
Our  dates  are  brief,  and  therefore  we  admire 
What  thou  dost  foist  upon  us  that  is  old  ; 
And  rather  make  iihem  born  to  our  desire, 
Than  think  that  we  before  have  heard  them 

told. 

Thy  registers  and  thee  I  both  defy, 
Not  wondering  at  the  present  nor  the  past ; 
For  thy  records  and  what  we  see  do  lie, 
Made  more  or  less  by  thy  continual  haste  t 
This  I  do  vow,  and  this  shall  ever  be, 
I  will  be  true,  despite  thy  scythe  and  thee  : 

CXXIV. 

If  my  dear  love  were  but  the  child  of  state, 
It  might  for  Fortune's  bastard  be  unfather'd, 
As  subject  to  Time's  love,  or  to  Time's  hate, 
Weeds  among  weeds,  or  flowers  with  flowers 

gathered. 

No,  it  was  builded  far  from  accident ; 
It  suffers  not  in  smiling  pomp,  nor  falls 
Under  the  blow  of  thralled  discontent, 
Whereto  the  inviting  time  our  fashion  calls  : 
It  fears  not  policy,  that  heretic, 
Which  works  on  lease?  of  short-number'd  hours, 
But  all  alone  stands  hugely  politic,     [showers. 
That  it  nor  grows  with  heat,  nor  drowns  with 
To  this  I  witness  call  the  fools  of  time, 
Which  die  for  goodness,  who  have  liv'd  for 
crime, 

cxxv. 

Were  it  aught  to  me  I  bore  the  canopy, 
With  my  extern  the  outward  honouring, 
Or  laid  great  bases  for  eternity, 
Which  prove  more  short  than  waste  or  ruining? 
Have  I  not  seen  dwellers  on  form  and  favour 
Lose  all,  and  more,  by  paying  too  much  rent, 
For  compound  sweet  foregoing  simple  savour, 
Pitiful  thrivers,  in  their  gazing  spent  ? 
No  ; — let  me  be  obsequious  in  thy  heart, 
And  take  thou  my  oblation,  poor  but  free, 
Which  is  not  mixM  with  seconds,  knows  no  art, 
But  mutual  render,  only  me  for  thee. 
Hence,  thou  suborn'd  informer  !  a  true  soul, 
When  most   impeach'd,   stands  least  in  thy 
control. 

CXXVI. 

O  thou,  my  Lovely  boy,  who  in  thy  power 
Dost  hold  Time's  fickle  glass,  his  sickle,  hour  ; 


Who  hast  by  waning  grown,  and  therein  show'st 
Thy  lovers  withering,  as  thy  sweet  self  grow'st! 
If  Nature,  sovereign  mistress  over  wrack, 
As  thou  goest  onwards,  still  will   pluck  thee 

back, 

She  keeps  thee  to  this  purpose,  that  her  skill 
May  time  disgrace,  and  wretched  minutes  kill. 
Yet  fear  her,  O  thou  minion  of  her  pleasure  ; 
She  may  detain,  but  not  still  keep  her  treasure  : 

Her  audit,  though  delay'd,  answer'd  must  be, 

And  her  quietus  is  to  render  thee. 

cxxv  1 1. 

In  the  old  age  black  was  not  counted  fair, 
Or  if  it  were,  it  bore  not  beauty's  name  ; 
But  now  is  black  beauty's  successive  heir, 
And  beauty  slanderM  with  a  bastard  shame  : 
For  since  each  hand  hath  put  on  nature's  power, 
Fairing  the  foul  with  art's  false  borrow*  d  face, 
Sweet  beauty  hath  no  name,  no  holy  hour, 
But  is  profan'd,  if  not  lives  in  disgrace. 
Therefore  my  mistress'  eyes  are  raven  black, 
Her  eyes  so  suited  ;  and  they  mourners  seem 
At  such,  who,  not  born  fair,  no  beauty  lack, 
Slandering  creation  with  a  false  esteem  : 
Yet  so  they  mourn,  becoming  of  their  woe, 
That  every  tongue  says,  beauty  should  look 


CXXVIII. 

How  oft,  when  thou,  my  music,  music  play'st, 
Upon  that  blessed  wood  whose  motion  sounds 
With  thy  sweet  fingers,  when  thou  gently 

sway'st 

The  wiry  concord  that  mine  ear  confounds, 
Do  I  envy  those  jacks,  that  nimble  leap 
To  kiss  the  tender  inward  of  thy  hand, 
Whilst  my  poor  lips,  which  should  that  harvest 

reap, 

At  the  wood's  boldness  by  thee  blushing  stand! 
To  be  so  tickled,  they  would  change  their  state 
And  situation  with  those  dancing  chips, 
O'er  whom  thy  fingers  walk  with  gentle  gait, 
Making  dead  wood  more  bless'd  than  living  lips. 
Since  saucy  jacks  so  happy  are  in  this, 
Give  them  thy  fingers,  me  thy  lips  to  kiss. 

cxxix. 

The  expense  of  spirit  in  a  waste  of  shame 
Is  lust  in  action  ;  and  till  action,  lust 
Is  perjur'd,  murderous,  bloody,  full  of  blame, 
Savage,  extreme,  rude,  cruel,  not  to  trust ; 
Enjoy'd  no  sooner,  but  despised  straight  j 
Past  reason  hunted  ;  and  no  sooner  had, 
Past  reason  hated,  as  a  swallow'd  bait, 
On  purpose  laid  to  make  the  taker  mad : 


1266 


SONNETS. 


Mad  in  pursuit,  and  in  possession  so  ; 
Had,  having,  and  in  quest  to  have,  extreme  ; 
A  bliss  in  proof, — and  prov'd,  a  very  woe ; 
Before,  a  joy  propos'd  ;  behind,  a  dream  : 

All  this  the  world  well  knows ;  yet  none  knows 
well 

To  shun  the  heaven  that  leads  men  to  this  hell. 

cxxx. 

My  mistress'  eyes  are  nothing  like  the  sun  ; 
Cpral  is  far  more  red  than  her  lips'  red  : 
If  snow  be  white,  why  then  her  breasts  are  dun; 
If  hairs  be  wires,  black  wires  grow  on  her  head. 
I  have  seen  roses  damask'd,  red  and  white, 
But  no  such  roses  see  I  in  her  cheeks  ; 
And  in  some  perfumes  is  there  more  delight 
Than  in  the  breath  that  from  my  mistress  reeks. 
I  love  to  hear  her  speak, — yet  well  I  know 
That  music  hath  a  far  more  pleasing  sound  ; 
I  grant  I  never  saw  a  goddess  go, — 
My  mistress  when  she  walks,  treads  on  the 

ground ; 

And  yet,  by  heaven,  I  think  my  love  as  rare 
As  any  she  belied  with  false  compare. 

cxxxi. 

Thou  art  as  tyrannous,  so  as  thou  art, 

As  those  whose  beauties  proudly  make  them 

cruel ; 

For  well  thou  know'st  to  my  dear  doting  heart 
Thou  art  the  fairest  and  most  precious  jewel, 
Yet,  in  good  faith,  some  say  that  thee  behold, 
Thy  face  hath  not  the  power  to  make  love 

groan  : 

To  say  they  err,  I  dare  not  be  so  bold, 
Although  I  swear  it  to  myself  alone, 
And,  to  be  sure  that  is  not  false  I  swear, 
A  thousand  groans,  but  thinking  on  thy  face, 
One  on  another's  neck,  do  witness  bear 
Thy  black  is  fairest  in  my  judgment's  place. 
In  nothing  art  thou  black,  save  in  thy  deeds, 
And  thence  this  slander,  as  I  think,  proceeds. 

CXXXII. 

Thine  eyes  I  love,  and  they,  as  pitying  me, 

Knowing  thy  heart  torments  me  with  disdain, 

Have  put  on  black,  and  loving  mourners  be, 

Looking  with  pretty  ruth  upon  my  pain. 

And  truly  not  the  morning  sun  of  heaven 

Better  becomes  the  grey  cheeks  of  the  east, 

Nor  that  full  star  that  ushers  in  the  even 

Doth  half  that  glory  to  the  sober  west, 

As  those  two  mourning  eyes  become  thy  face  : 

O,  let  it  then  as  well  beseem  thy  heart 

To  mourn  for  me,  since  mourning  doth  thee 

grace, 
And  suit  thy  pity  like  in  every  part. 


Then  will  I  swear  beauty  herself  is  black, 
And  all  they  foul  that  thy  complexion  lack. 

CXXXIII. 

Beshrew  that   heart  that   makes  my  heart   to 
groan  [me ! 

For  that  deep  wound  it  gives  my  friend  and 
Is 't  not  enough  to  torture  me  alone, 
But  slave  to  slavery  my  sweet'st  friend  must  be? 
Me  from  myself  thy  cruel  eye  hath  taken, 
And  my  next  self  thou  harder  hast  engross'd  ; 
Of  him,  myself,  and  thee,  I  am  forsaken  ; 
A  torment  thrice  three-fold  thus  to  be  cross'd. 
Prison  my  heart  in  thy  steel  bosom's  ward, 
But  then  my  friend's  heart  let  my  poor  heart 

bail; 

Who  e'er  keeps  me,  let  my  heart  be  his  guard; 
Thou  canst  not  then  use  rigour  in  my  gaol : 
And  yet  thou  wilt ;  for  I,  being  pent  in  thee 
Perforce  am  thine,  and  all  that  is  in  me. 

CXXXIV. 

So  now  I  have  confess'd  that  he  is  thine, 
And  I  myself  am  mortgag'd  to  thy  will ; 
Myself  I  '11  forfeit,  so  that  other  mine 
Thou  wilt  restore,  to  be  my  comfort  still : 
But  thou  wilt  not,  nor  he  will  not  be  free, 
For  thou  art  covetous,  and  he  is  kind  ; 
He  learn'd  but,  surety-like,  to  write  for  me, 
Under  that  bond  that  him  as  fast  doth  bind. 
The  statute  of  thy  beauty  thou  wilt  take, 
Thou  usurer,  that  putt'st  forth  all  to  use, 
And  sue  a  friend,  came  debtor  for  my  sake  ; 
So  him  I  lose  through  my  unkind  abuse. 

Him  have  I  lost ;  thou  hast  both  him  and  me; 

He  pays  the  whole,  and  yet  am  I  hot  free. 

cxxxv. 

Whoever  hath  her  wish,  thou  hast  thy  will, 
And  will  to  boot,  and  will  in  over-plus ; 
More  than  enougn  am  I  that  vex  thee  still, 
To  thy  sweet  will  making  addition  thus. 
Wilt  thou,  whose  will  is  large  and  spacious, 
Not  once  vouchsafe  to  hide  my  will  in  thine  ? 
Shall  will  in  others  seem  right  gracious, 
And  in  my  will  no  fair  acceptance  shine  ? 
The  sea,  all  water,  yet  receives  rain  still, 
And  in  abundance  addeth  to  his  store  ; 
So  thou,  being  rich  in  will,  add  to  thy  will 
One  will  of  mine,  to  make  thy  large  will  more- 
Let  no  unkind,  no  fair  beseechers  kill ; 
Think  all  but  one,  and  me  in  that  one  Will. 

cxxxvi. 

If  thy  soul  check  thee  that  I  come  so  near, 
Swear  to  thy  blind  soul  that  I  was  thy  Will, 


SONNETS. 


1267 


And  will,  thy  soul  knows,  is  admitted  there  ; 
Thus  far  for  love,  my  love-suit,  sweet,  fulfil. 
Will  will  fulfil  the  treasure  of  thy  love, 
Ay,  fill  it  full  with  wills,  and  my  will  one, 
In  things  of  great  receipt  with  ease  we  prove  ; 
Among  a  number  one  is  reckon'd  none. 
Then  in  the  number  let  me  pass  untold, 
Though  in  thy  stores'  account  I  one  must  be  ; 
For  nothing  hold  me,  so  it  please  thee  hold 
That  nothing  me,  a  something  sweet  to  thee  ; 

Make  but  my  name  thy  love,  and  love  that 
still,  [Will. 

And  then  thou  lov'st  me, — for  my  name  is 

CXXXVII. 

Thou  blind  fool,  Love,  what  dost  thou  to  mine 

eyes, 

That  they  behold,  and  see  not  what  they  see  ? 
They  know  what  beauty  is,  see  where  it  lies, 
Yet  what  the  best  is,  take  the  worst  to  be. 
If  eyes,  corrupt  by  over-partial  looks, 
Be  anchor'd  in  the  bay  where  all  men  ride, 
Why  of  eyes'  falsehood  hast  thou  forged  hooks, 
Whereto  the  judgment  of  my  heart  is  tied? 
Why  should  my  heart  think  that  a  several  plot, 
Which  my  heart  knows  the  wide  world's  com- 
mon place  ? 

Or  mine  eyes,  seeing  this,  say  this  is  not, 
To  put  fair  truth  upon  so  foul  a  face? 
In  things  right  true  my  heart  and  eyes  have 
err'd,  [ferr'd. 

And  to  this  false  plague  are  they  now  trans- 

CXXXVIII. 

When  my  love  swears  that  she  is  made  of  truth, 
I  do  believe  her,  though  I  know  she  lies  ; 
That  she  might  think  me  some  untutor'd  youth, 
Unlearned  in  the  world's  false  subtleties. 
Thus  vainly  thinking  that  she  thinks  me  young, 
Although  she  knows  my  days  are  past  the  best, 
Simply  I  credit  her  false-speaking  tongue  ; 
On  both  sides  thus  is  simple  truth  supprest, 
But  wherefore  says  she  not  she  is  unjust? 
And  wherefore  say  not  I  that  I  am  old  ? 
O,  love's  best  habit  is  in  seeming  trust, 
And  age  in  love  loves  not  to  have  years  told  : 
Therefore  I  lie  with  her,  and  she  with  me, 
And  in  our  faults  by  lies  we  flatter'd  be. 

CXXXIX. 

O,  call  not  me  to  justify  the  wrong 
That  thy  unkindness  lays  upon  my  heart ; 
Wound  me  not  with  thine  eye,  but  with  thy 

tongue ; 

Use  power  with  power,  and  slay  me  not  by  art. 
Tell  me  thou  lov'st  elsewhere ;  but  in  my  sight, 
Dear  heart,  forbear  to  glance  thine  eye  aside. 


What  need'st  thou  wound  with  cunning,  when 

thy  might 

Is  more  than  my  o'erpress'd  defence  can  'bide? 
Let  me  excuse  thee  :  ah  !  my  love  well  knows 
Her  pretty  looks  have  been  mine  enemies ; 
And  therefore  from  my  face  she  turns  my  foes, 
That  they  elsewhere  might  dart  their  injuries : 
Yet  do  not  so :  but  since  I  am  near  slain, 
Kill  me  outright  with  looks,  and  rid  my  pain. 

CXL. 

Be  wise  as  thou  art  cruel ;  do  not  press 
My  tongue-tied  patience  with  too  much  disdain ; 
Lest  sorrow  lend  me  words,  and  words  express 
The  manner  of  my  pity- wanting  pain. 
If  I  might  teach  thee  wit,  better  it  were, 
Though  not  to  love,  yet,  love,  to  tell  me  so ; 
(As  testy  sick  men,  when  their  deaths  be  near, 
No  news  but  health  from  their  physicians  know;) 
For,  if  I  should  despair,  I  should  grow  mad, 
And  in  my  madness  might  speak  ill  of  thee  : 
Now  this  ill-wresting  world  is  grown  so  bad, 
Mad  slanderers  by  mad  ears  believed  be. 
That  I  may  not  be  so,  nor  thou  belied, 
Bear  thine  eyes  straight,  though  thy  proud 
heart  go  wide. 

.iiibSwoIo-j  tfii:rr '.;•#•£  uha-x  loeiow- odT 
CXLI. •[  o.' 

\  «  i**»   •    nwrc~vi*    •*  T* 

In  faith  I  do  not  love  thee  with  mine  eyes, 
For  they  in  thee  a  thousand  errors  note  ; 
But  'tis  my  heart  that  loves  what  they  despise, 
Who  in  despite  of  view  is  pleased  to  dote. 
Nor  are   mine  ears   with    thy  tongue's  tune 

delighted ; 

Nor  tender  feeling,  to  base  touches  prone, 
Nor  taste  nor  smell,  desire  to  be  invited 
To  any  sensual  feast  with  thee  alone  : 
But  my  five  wits,  nor  my  five  senses  can 
Dissuade  one  foolish  heart  from  serving  thee. 
Who  leaves  unsway'd  the  likeness  of  a  man, 
Thy  proud  heart's  slave  and  vassal  wretch  to 

be: 

Only  my  plague  thus  far  I  count  my  gain, 
That  she  that  makes  me  sin,  awards  me  pain. 

CXLI  I. 

Love  is  my  sin,  and  thy  dear  virtue  hate, 
Hate  of  my  sin,  grounded  on  sinful  loving  : 
O,  but  with  mine  compare  thou  thine  own  state, 
And  thou  shalt  find  it  merits  not  reproving  ; 
Or,  if  it  do,  not  from  those  lips  of  thine, 
That  have  profan'd  their  scarlet  ornaments, 
And  seal'd  false  bonds  of  love  as  oft  as  mine  ; 
Robb'd  others'  beds'  revenues  cf  their  rents. 
Be  it  lawful  I  love  thee,  as  thou  lov'st  those 
Whom  thine  eyes  woo  as  mine  importune  thee : 


1268 


SONNETS. 


Root  pity  in  thy  heart,  that,  when  it  grows, 

Thy  pity  may  deserve  to  pitied  be. 
If  thou  dost  seek  to  have  what  thou  dost  hide, 
By  self-example  mayst  thou  be  denied  ! 

CXLIII. 

Lo,  as  a  careful  housewife  runs  to  catch 
One  of  her  feather'd  creatures  broke  away, 
Sets  down   her   babe,   and    makes    all    swift 

despatch 

In  pursuit  of  the  thing  she  would  have  stay  ; 
Whilst  her  neglected  child  holds  her  in  chace, 
Cries  to  catch  her  whose  busy  care  is  bent 
To  follow  that  which  flies  before  her  face, 
Not  prizing  her  poor  infant's  discontent ; 
So  runn'st  thou  after  that  which  flies  from  thee, 
Whilst  I  thy  babe  chase  thee  afar  behind ; 
But  if  thou  catch  thy  hope,  turn  back  to  me, 
And  play  the  mother's  part,  kiss  me,  be  kind  : 
So  will  I  pray  that  thou  mayst  have  thy  Will, 
If  thou  turn  back,  and  my  loud  crying  still. 

CXLIV. 

Two  loves  I  have  of  comfort  and  despair, 
Which  like  two  spirits  do  suggest  me  still ; 
The  better  angel  is  a  man  right  fair, 
The  worser  spirit  a  woman,  colour' d  ill. 
To  win  me  soon  to  hell,  my  female  evil 
Tempteth  my  better  angel  from  my  side. 
And  would  corrupt  my  saint  to  be  a  devil, 
Wooing  his  purity  with  her  foul  pride. 
And  whether  that  my  angel  be  turn'd  fiend, 
Suspect  I  may,  yet  not  directly  tell ; 
But,  being  both  from  me,  both  to  each  friend, 
I  guess  one  angel  in  another's  hell. 
Yet  this  shall  I  ne'er  know,  but  live  in  doubt, 
Till  my  bad  angel  fire  my  good  one  out. 

CXLV. 

Those  lips  that  Love's  own  hand  did  make 
Breath'd  forth  the  sound  that  said,  '  I  hate,' 
To  me  that  languish'd  for  her  sake  : 
But  when  she  saw  my  woeful  state, 
Straight  in  her  heart  did  mercy  come, 
Chiding  that  tongue,  that  ever  sweet 
Was  used  in  giving  gentle  doom  ; 
And  taught  it  thus  anew  to  greet : 
'  I  hate  '  she  alter'd  with  an  end, 
That  follow'd  it  as  gentle  day 
Doth  follow  night,  who  like  a  fiend 
From  heaven  to  hell  is  flown  away. 
'  I  hate '  from  hate  away  she  threw, 
And  savM  my  life,  saying — '  not  you.' 

CXLV  I. 

Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth, 
Fool'd  by  these  rebel  powers  that  thee  array, 


Why  dost  thou  pine  within,  and  suffer  dearth, 
Painting  thy  outward  walls  so  costly  gay? 
Why  so  large  cost,  having  so  short  a  lease, 
Dost  thou  upon  thy  fading  mansion  spend  ? 
Shall  worms,  inheritors  of  this  excess, 
Eat  up  thy  charge  ?     Is  this  thy  body's  end  ? 
Then,  soul,  live  thou  upon  thy  servant's  loss, 
And  let  that  pine  to  aggravate  thy  store  ; 
Buy  terms  divine  in  selling  hours  of  dross ; 
Within  be  fed,  without  be  rich  no  more  : 

So  shalt  thou  feed  on  Death,  that  feeds  on 
men,  [then. 

And,  Death  once  dead,  there 's  no  more  dying 

CXLVII. 

My  love  is  as  a  fever,  longing  still 
For  that  which  longer  nurseth  the  disease  ; 
Feeding  on  that  which  doth  preserve  the  ill, 
The  uncertain  sickly  appetite  to  please. 
My  reason,  the  physician  to  my  love, 
Angry  that  his  prescriptions  are  not  kept, 
Hath  left  me,  and  I  desperate  now  approve 
Desire  is  death,  which  physic  did  except. 
Past  cure  I  am,  now  reason  is  past  care, 
And  frantic  mad  with  evermore  unrest ; 
My  thoughts  and  my  discourse  as  mad  men's 

are, 
At  random  from  the  truth  vainly  expressed  ; 

For  I  have  sworn  thee  fair,  and  thought  thee 
bright, 

Who  art  as  black  as  hell,  as  dark  as  night. 

CXLVIII. 

O  me  !  what  eyes  hath  love  put  in  my  head, 
Which  have  no  correspondence  with  true  sight ! 
Or,  if  they  have,  where  is  my  judgment  fled, 
That  censures  falsely  what  they  see  aright  ? 
If  that  be  fair  whereon  my  false  eyes  dote, 
What  means  the  world  to  say  it  is  not  so? 
If  it  be  not,  then  love  doth  well  denote 
Love's  eye  is  not  so  true  as  all  men's  :  no, 
How  can  it  ?    O  how  can  Love's  eye  be  true, 
That  is  so  vex'd  with  watching  and  with  tears? 
No  marvel  then  though  I  mistake  my  view  ; 
The  sun  itself  sees  not  till  heaven  clears. 

O  cunning  Love  1  with  tears  thou  keep'st  me 
blind, 

Lest  eyes  well-seeing  thy  foul  faults  should  find. 

CXLIX. 

Canst  thou,  O  cruel !  say  I  love  thee  not, 
When  I,  against  myself,  with  thee  partake? 
Do  I  not  think  on  thee,  when  I  forgot 
Am  of  myself,  all  tyrant,  for  thy  sake? 
Who  hateth  thee  that  I  do  call  my  friend  ? 
On  whom  frown'st  thou  that  I  do  fawn  upon  ? 


;    ' 


SONNETS. 


1269 


Nay  if  thou  low'rst  on  me,  do  I  not  spend 
Revenge  upon  myself  with  present  moan  ? 
What  merit  do  I  in  myself  respect,  ^ 
That  is  so  proud  thy  service  to  despise, 
When  all  my  best  doth  worship  thy  defect, 
Commanded  by  the  motion  of  thine  eyes  ? 

But,  love,  hate  on,  for  now  I  know  thy  mind ; 

Those  that  can  see  thou  lov'st,  and  I  am  blind, 

CL. 

O,  from  what  power  hast  thou  this  powerful 

might, 

With  insufficiency  my  heart  to  sway  ? 
To  make  me  give  the  lie  to  my  true  sight, 
And  swear  that  brightness  doth  not  grace  the 

day? 

Whence  hast  thou  this  becoming  of  things  ill, 
That  in  the  very  refuse  of  thy  deeds 
There  is  such  strength  and  warrantise  of  skill, 
That  in  my  mind,  thy  worst  all  best  exceeds  ? 
Who  taught  thee  how  to  make  me  love  thee 

more, 

The  more  I  hear  and  see  just  cause  of  hate  ? 
O,  though  I  love  what  others  do  abhor, 
With  others  thou  shouldst  not  abhor  my  state ; 
If  thy  unworthiness  rais'd  love  in  me, 
More  worthy  I  to  be  belov'd  of  thee. 


Love  is  too  young  to  know  what  conscience  is : 
Yet  who  knows  not,  conscience  is  born  of  love  ? 
Then,  gentle  cheater,  urge  not  my  amiss, 
Lest  guilty  of  my  faults  thy  sweet  self  prove. 
For  thou  betraying  me,  I  do  betray 
My  nobler  part  to  my  gross  body's  treason  ; 
My  soul  doth  tell  my  body  that  he  may 
Triumph  in  love ;  flesh  stays  no  farther  reason ; 
But,  rising  at  thy  name,  doth  point  out  thee 
As  his  triumphant  prize.     Proud  of  this  pride, 
He  is  contented  thy  poor  drudge  to  be, 
To  stand  in  thy  affairs,  fall  by  thy  side, 
No  want  of  conscience  hold  it  that  I  call 
Her — love,  for  whose  dear  love  I  rise  and  fall. 

GUI. 

In  loving  thee  thou  know'st  I  am  forsworn, 
But  thou  art  twice  forsworn,  to  me  love  swear- 
ing ; 


In    act   thy  bed-vow  broke,   and    new  faith 

torn, 

In  vowing  new  hate  after  new  love  bearing. 
But  why  of  two  oaths'  breach  do  I  accuse  thee, 
When  I  break  twenty  ?     I  am  perjur'd  most ; 
For  all  my  vows  are  oaths  but  to  misuse  thee, 
And  all  my  honest  faith  in  thee  is  lost : 
For  I  have  sworn  deep  oaths  of  thy  deep  kind- 
ness, 

Oaths  of  thy  love,  thy  truth,  thy  constancy  ; 
And,  to  enlighten  thee,  gave  eyes  to  blindness, 
Or  made  them  swear  against  the  thing  they 

see ; 

For  I  have  sworn  thee  fair  :  more  perjur'd  I, 
To  swear,  against  the  truth,  so  foul  a  lie  ! 

CL1II. 

Cupid  lay  by  his  brand,  and  fell  asleep : 
A  maid  of  JDian's  this  advantage  found, 
And  his  love-kindling  fire  did  quickly  steep 
In  a  cold  valley-fountain  of  that  ground  ; 
Which  borrow'd  from  this  holy  fire  of  love 
A  dateless  lively  heat,  still  to  endure, 
And  grew  a  seething  bath,  which  yet  men  prove 
Against  strange  maladies  a  sovereign  cure. 
But  at  my  mistress'  eye  Love's  brand  new-fir'd, 
The  boy  for  trial  needs  would  touch  my  breast ; 
I,  sick  withal,  the  help  of  bath  desir'd, 
And  thither  hied,  a  sad  distempered  guest, 
But  found  no  cure :  the  bath  for  my  help  lies 
Where  Cupid  got  new  fire, — my  mistress  eyes. 

CLIV. 

The  little  love-god,  lying  once  asleep 
Laid  by  his  side  his  heart-inflaming  brand, 
Whilst  many  nymphs  that  vow'd  chaste  life  to 

keep 

Came  tripping  by  ;  but  in  her  maiden  hand 
The  fairest  votary  took  up  that  fire 
Which  many  legions  of  true  hearts  had  warm'd ; 
And  so  the  general  of  hot  desire 
Was  sleeping  by  a  virgin  hand  disarm'd. 
This  brand  she  quenched  in  a  cool  well  by, 
Which  from  Love's  fire  took  heat  perpetual, 
Growing  a  bath  and  healthful  remedy 
For  men  diseas'd  ;  but  I,  my  mistress'  thrall, 
Came  there  for  cure,  and  this  by  that  I  prove, 
Love's  fire  heats  water,  water  cools  not  love. 


A  LOVER'S  COMPLAINT. 


,!»"idri 


FROM  off  a  hill  whose  concave  womb  re-worded 
A*  plaintful  story  from  a  sistering  vale, 
My  spirits  to  attend  this  double  voice  accorded, 
And  down  I  laid  to  list  the  sad-tun'd  tale  ; 
Ere  long  espied  a  fickle  maid  full  pale, 
Tearing  of  papers,  breaking  rings  a-twain, 
Storming  her  world  with  sorrow's  wind  and  rain. 

Upon  her  head  a  platted  hive  of  straw, 
Which  fortified  her  visage  from  the  sun, 
Whereon  the  thought  might  think  sometime  it 

saw 

The  carcase  of  a  beauty  spent  and  done. 
Time  had  not  scythed  all  that  youth  begun, 
Nor  youth  all  quit ;  but,  spite  of  Heaven's  fell 

rage,  [age. 

Some  beauty  peep'd  through  lattice  of  sear'd 

Oft  did  she  heave  her  napkin  to  her  eyne, 
Which  on  it  had  conceited  characters, 
Laund'ring  the  silken  figures  in  the  brine 
That  season'd  woe  had  pelleted  in  tears, 
And  often  reading  what  contents  it  bears  ; 
As  often  shrieking  undistinguish'd  woe, 
In  clamours  of  all  size,  both  high  and  low. 

Sometimes  her  levell'd  eyes  their  carriage  ride  ; 
As  they  did  battery  to  the  spheres  intend  ; 
Sometimes  diverted  their  poor  balls  are  tied 
To  ths  orbed  earth  :  sometimes  they  do  extend 
Their  view  right  on  ;  anon  their  gazes  lend 
To  every  place  at  once,  and  nowhere  fix'd, 
The  mind  and  sight  distractedly  commix'd. 

Her  hair,  nor  loose,  nor  tied  in  formal  plat, 
Proclaim'd  in  her  a  careless  hand  of  pride  ; 
For  some,  untuck'd,  descended  her  sheav'd  hat, 
Hanging  her  pale  and  pined  cheek  beside  ; 
Some  in  her  threaden  fillet  still  did  bide, 
And,  true  to  bondage,  would  not  break  from 

thence, 
Though  slackly  braided  in  loose  negligence. 

A  thousand  favours  from  a  maund  she  drew 
Of  amber,  crystal,  and  of  bedded  jet, 
Which  one  by  one  she  in  a  river  thiew, 
Upon  whose  weeping  margent  she  was  set ; 
Like  usury,  applying  wet  to  wet, 
Or  monarch's  hands,  that  let  not  bounty  fall 
Where  want  cries  *  some,'  but  where  excess  begs 
all. 


Of  folded  schedules  had  she  many  a  one, 
Which  she  perus'd,  sigh'd,  tore,  and  gave  the 

flood; 

Crack'd  many  a  ring  of  posied  gold  and  bone, 
Bidding  them  find  their  sepulchres  in  mud  ; 
Found  yet  mo  letters  sadly  penn'd  in  blood, 
With  sleided  silk  feat  and  affectedly 
Enswath'd,  and  seal'd  to  curious  secresy. 

These  often  bath'd  she  in  her  fluxive  eyes, 
And  often  kiss'd,  and  often  gave  to  tear  ; 
Cried,  '  O  false  blood,  thou  register  of  lies, 
What  unapproved  witness  dost  thou  bear  ! 
Ink  would  have  seem'd  more  black  and  damned 

here  ! ' 

This  said,  in  top  of  rage  the  lines  she  rents, 
Big  discontent  so  breaking  their  contents. 

A  reverend  man  that  graz'd  his  cattle  nigh, 

Sometime  a  blusterer,  that  the  ruffle  knew 

Of  court,  of  city,  and  had  let  go  by 

The  swiftest  hours,  observed  as  they  flew, 

Towards  this  afflicted  fancy  fastly  drew  ; 

And,  privileg'd  by  age,  desires  to  know 

In    brief,   the    grounds   and   motives  of    her 


So  slides  he  down  upon  his  grained  bat, 
And  comely-distant  sits  he  by  her  side ; 
When  he  again  desires  her,  being  sat, 
Her  grievance  with  his  hearing  to  divide  : 
If  that  from  him  there  may  be  aught  applied 
Which  may  her  suffering  ecstasy  assuage, 
'Tis  promis'd  in  the  charity  of  age. 

'  Father,'  she  says,  '  though  in  me  you  behold 
The  injury  of  many  a  blasting  hour, 
Let  it  not  tell  your  judgment  I  am  old  ; 
Not  age,  but  sorrow,  over  me  hath  power  : 
I  might  as  yet  have  been  a  spreading  flower, 
Fresh  to  myself,  if  I  had  self- applied 
Love  to  myself,  and  to  no  love  beside. 

'  But  woe  is  me  !  too  early  I  attended 
A  youthful  suit  (it  was  to  gain  my  grace) 
Of  one  by  nature's  outwards  so  cpmmended, 
That  maiden's  eyes  stuck  over  all  his  face  : 
Love  lack'd  a  dwelling,   and   made  him   her 

place ; 

And  when  in  his  fair  parts  she  did  abide, 
She  was  new  lodg'd,  and  newly  deified. 


A  LOVER'S  COMPLAINT. 


1271 


*  His  browny  locks  did  hang  in  crooked  curls  ; 
And  every  light  occasion  of  the  wind 

Upon  his  lips  their  silken  parcels  hurls. 
What 's  sweet  to  do,  to  do  will  aptly  find : 
Each  eye  that  saw  him  did  enchant  the  mind  ; 
For  on  his  visage  was  in  little  drawn, 
What  largeness  thinks  in  paradise  was  sawn. 

'  Small  show  of  man  was  yet  upon  his  chin  ; 
His  phcenix  down  began  but  to  appear, 
Like  unshorn  velvet,  on  that  termless  skin, 
Whose  bare  out-bragg'd  the  web  it  seem'd  to 

wear  ; 

Yet  show'd  his  visage  by  that  cost  more  dear ; 
And  nice  affections  wavering  stood  in  doubt 
If  best  'twere  as  it  was,  or  best  without. 

*  His  qualities  were  beauteous  as  his  form, 
For  maiden-tongued  he  was,  and  thereof  free  ; 
Yet,  if  men  mov'd  him,  was  he  such  a  storm 
As  oft  'twixt  May  and  April  is  to  see,          [be. 
When  winds  breathe  sweet,  unruly  though  they 
His  rudeness  so  with  his  authoriz'd  youth 

Did  livery  falseness  in  a  pride  of  truth. 

'  Well  could  he  ride,  and  often  men  would  say 
That  horse  his  mettle  from  his  rider  takes : 
Proud  of  subjection,  noble  by  the  sway, 
What  rounds,  what  bounds,  what  course,  what 

stop  he  makes  ! 

And  controversy  hence  a  question  takes, 
Whether  the  horse  by  him  became  his  deed, 
Or  he  his  manage  by  the  well-doing  steed. 

'  But  quickly  on  this  side  the  verdict  went ; 
His  real  habitude  gave  life  and  grace 
To  appertainings  and  to  ornament, 
Accomplish'd  in  himself,  not  in  his  case  : 
All  aids,  themselves  made  fairer  by  their  place, 
Can  for  additions  ;  yet  their  purpos'd  trim 
Piec'd  not  his  grace,  but  were  all  grac'd  by  him. 

'  So  on  the  tip  of  his  subduing  tongue 
All  kind  of  arguments  and  question  deep, 
All  replication  prompt,  and  reason  strong, 
For  his  advantage  still  did  wake  and  sleep : 
To  make  the  weeper  laugh,  the  laugher  weep, 
He  had  the  dialect  and  different  skill, 
Catching  all  passions  in  his  craft  of  will ; 

'  That  he  did  in  the  general  bosom  reign 
Of  young,  of  old  ;  and  sexes  both  enchanted, 
To  dwell  with  him  in  thoughts,  or  to  remain 
In  personal  duty,  following  where  he  haunted : 
Consents  bewitch'd,  ere  hedesire,  have  granted ; 
And  dialogued  for  him  what  he  would  say, 
Ask'd  their  own  wills,  and  made  their  wills  obey. 


'  Many  there  were  that  did  his  picture  get, 
To  serve  their  eyes,  and  in  it  put  their  mind  ; 
Like  fools  that  in  the  imagination  set 
The  goodly  objects  which  abroad  they  find 
Of  lands  and  mansions,  theirs  in  thought  as- 

sign'd; 

And  labouring  in  mo  pleasures  to  bestow  them, 
Than  the  true  gouty  landlord  which  doth  owe 

them  : 

'  So  many  have,  that  never  touch'd  his  hand, 
Sweetly  suppos'd  them  mistress  of  his  heart. 
My  woeful  self,  that  did  in  freedom  stand, 
And  was  my  own  fee-simple,  (not  in  part,) 
What  with  his  heart  in  youth,  and  youth  in  art, 
Threw  my  affections  in  his  charmed  power, 
Reserv'd  the  stalk,  and  gave  him  all  my  flower, 
.>rtii  **•»  nwo  9nlta  i«J  .^havil  ni  gj^Drf  ;q^ 
'  Yet  did  I  not,  as  some  my  equals  did, 
Demand  of  him,  nor  being  desired  yielded  ; 
Finding  myself  in  honour  so  forbid, 
With  safest  distance  I  mine  honour  shielded  : 
Experience  for  me  many  bulwarks  builded 
Of  proofs  new-bleeding,  which  remain'd  the  foil 
Of  this  false  jewel,  and  his  amorous  spoil. 

*  But  ah  !  who  ever  shunn'd  by  precedent 

The  destin'd  ill  she  must  herself  assay? 

Or  forc'd  examples,  'gainst  her  own  content, 

To  put  the  by-pass'd  perils  in  her  way? 

Counsel  may  stop  a  while  what  will  not  stay; 

For  when  we  rage,  advice  is  often  seen 

By  blunting  us  to  make  our  wits  more  keen. 

'  Nor  gives  it  satisfaction  to  our  blood, 
That  we  must  curb  it  upon  others'  proof, 
To  be  forbid  the  sweets  that  seem  so  good, 
For  fear  of  harms  that  preach  in  our  behoof. 
O  appetite,  from  judgment  stand  aloof ! 
The  one  a  palate  hath  that  needs  will  taste, 
Though  reason  weep,  and  cry  It  is  thy  last. 

:  bn-jifijs  ob  son^iLKi  vfosDiL  liarfj  ^iiijii^  >!/:v// 
'  For  further  I  could  say,  This  man  's  untrue, 
And  knew  the  patterns  of  his  foul  beguiling ; 
Heard  where  his  plants  in  others' orchards  grew, 
Saw  how  deceits  were  gilded  in  his  smiling  ; 
Knew  vows  were  ever  brokers  to  defiling  ; 
Thought  characters  and  words,  merely  but  art, 
And  bastards  of  his  foul  adulterate  heart. 

'  And  long  upon  these  terms  I  held  my  city, 
Till  thus  he  'gan  besiege  me  :  Gentle  maid, 
Have  of  my  suffering  youth  some  feeling  pity, 
And  be  not  of  my  holy  vows  afraid  : 
That 's  to  you  sworn,  to  none  was  ever  said  ; 
For  feasts  of  love  I  have  been  call'd  unto, 
Till  now  did  ne'er  invite,  nor  never  vow. 


1275 


A  LOVER'S  COMPLAINT. 


'  All  my  offences  that  abroad  you  see 
Are  errors  of  the  blood,  none  of  the  mind  ; 
Love  made  them  not ;  with  acture  they  may 

be, 

Where  neither  party  is  nor  true  nor  kind  : 
They  sought  their  shame  that  so  their  shame  did 

find; 

And  so  much  less  of  shame  in  me  remains, 
By  how  much  of  me  their  reproach  contains. 

*  Among  the  many  that  mine  eyes  have  seen, 
Not  one  whose  flame  my  heart  so  much  as 

warm'd, 

On  my  affection  put  to  the  smallest  teen, 
Or  any  of  my  leisures  ever  charm'd  : 
Harm  have  I  done  to  them,   but  ne'er  was 

harm'd ; 

Kept  hearts  in  liveries,  but  mine  own  was  free, 
And  reign'd,  commanding  in  his  monarchy. 

'  Look  here  what  tributes  wounded  fancies  sent 

me, 

Of  paled  pearls,  and  rubies  red  as  blood  ; 
Figuring  that  they  their  passions  likewise  lent 

me 

Of  grief  and  blushes,  aptly  understood 
In  bloodless  white  and  the  encrimson'd  mood  ; 
Effects  of  terror  and  dear  modesty, 
Encamp'd  in  hearts,  but  righting  outwardly. 

*  And  lo  !  behold  the  talents  of  their  hair, 
With  twisted  metal  amorously  impleach'd, 
I  have  receiv'd  from  many  a  several  fair, 
(Their  kind  acceptance  weepingly  beseech'd,) 
With  the  annexions  of  fair  gems  enrich'd, 
And  deep-brain'd  sonnets  that  did  amplify 
Each  stone's  dear  nature,  worth,  and  quality. 

'  The  diamond,  why  'twas  beautiful  and  hard, 
Whereto  his  invis'd  properties  did  tend  ; 
The  deep-green  emerald,  in  whose  fresh  regard 
Weak  sights  their  sickly  radiance  do  amend  ; 
The  heaven-hued  sapphire  and  the  opal  blend 
With  objects  manifold  ;  each  several  stone, 
With  wit  well  blazon'd,  smil'd  or  made  some 
moan. 

*  Lo  !  all  these  trophies  of  affections  hot, 
Of  pensiv'd  and  subdued  desires  the  tender, 
Nature  hath  charg'd  me  that  I  hoard  them  not, 
But  yield  them  up  where  I  myself  must  render, 
That  is,  to  you,  my  origin  and  ender  : 

For  these,  of  force,  must  your  oblations  be, 
Since  I  their  altar,  you  enpatron  me. 

*  O  then  advance  of  yours  that  phraseless  hand, 
Whose  white  bears  down  the  airy  scale  of  praise ; 


Take  all  these  similes  to  your  own  command, 
Hallow'dwith  sighs  that  burning  lungs  did  raise; 
What  me  your  minister,  for  you  obeys, 
Works  under  you  ;  and  to  your  audit  comes 
Their  distract  parcels  in  combined  sums. 

*  Lo  !  this  device  was  sent  me  from  a  nun, 
Or  sister  sanctified  of  holiest  note  ; 
Which  late  her  noble  suit  in  court  did  shun, 
Whose  rarest  havings  made  the  blossoms  dote ; 
For  she  was  sought  by  spirits  of  richest  coat, 
But  kept   cold   distance,  and   did  thence  re- 
move, 
To  spend  her  living  in  eternal  love. 

'  But  O,  my  sweet,  what  labour  is  't  to  leave 
The  thing  we  have  not,   mastering  what  not 

strives  ? 

Paling  the  place  which  did  no  form  receive, 
Playing  patient  sports  in  unconstrained  gyves: 
She  that  her  fame  so  to  herself  contrives, 
The  scars  of  battle  'scapeth  by  the  flight, 
And  makes  her  absence  valiant,  not  her  might. 

'  O  pardon  me,  in  that  my  boast  is  true  ; 
The  accident  which  brought  me  to  her  eye, 
Upon  the  moment  did  her  force  subdue, 
And  now  she  would  the  caged  cloister  fly: 
Religious  love  put  out  religion's  eye  : 
Not  to  be  tempted,  would  she  be  immur'd, 
And  now,  to  tempt  all,  liberty  procur'd. 

'  How  mighty  then  you  are,  O  hear  me  tell ! 
The  broken  bosoms  that  to  me  belong 
Have  emptied  all  their  fountains  in  my  well, 
And  mine  I  pour  your  ocean  all  among  : 
I  strong  o'er   them,  and  you   o'er   me  being 

strong, 

Must  for  your  victory  us  all  congest, 
As  compound  love  to  physic  your  cold  breast. 

'  My  parts  had  power  to  charm  a  sacred  sun, 
Who,  disciplin'd  and  dieted  in  grace, 
Believ'd  her  eyes  when  they  to  assail  begun, 
All  vows  and  consecrations  giving  place. 
O  most  potential  love  !  vow,  bond,  nor  space, 
In  thee  hath  neither  sting,  knot,  nor  confine, 
For  thou  art  all,  and  all  things  else  aie  thine. 

'  When  thou  impresses!,  what  are  precepts  worth 
Of  stale  example  ?    When  thou  wilt  inflame, 
How  coldly  those  impediments  stand  forth, 
Of  wealth,  of  filial  fear,  law,  kindred,  fame  ! 
Love's  arms  are  peace,  'gainst  rule,  'gainst  sense, 

'gainst  shame, 

And  sweetens,  in  the  suffering  pangs  it  bears, 
The  aloes  of  all  forces,  shocks,  and  fears. 


A  LOVER'S  COMPLAINT. 


1273 


'  Now  all  these  hearts  that  do  on  mine  depend, 
Feeling  it   break,  with   bleeding  groans   they 

pine, 

And  supplicant  their  sighs  to  you  extend, 
To  leave  the  battery  that   you  make  'gainst 

mine, 

Lending  soft  audience  to  my  sweet  design, 
And  credent  soul  to  that  strong-bonded  oath, 
That  shall  prefer  and  undertake  my  troth. 

c  This  said,  his  watery  eyes  he  did  dismount, 
Whose  sights  till  then  were  levell'd  on  my  face; 
Each  cheek  a  river  running  from  a  fount 
With  brinish  current  downward  flow'd  apace  : 
O  how  the  channel  to  the  stream  gave  grace  ! 
Who,  glaz'd  with  crystal,  gate  the  glowing  roses 
That   flame    through   water   which    their   hue 
encloses. 

*  O  father,  what  a  hell  of  witchcraft  lies 
In  the  small  orb  of  one  particular  tear  ! 
But  with  the  inundation  of  the  eyes 
What  rocky  heart  to  water  will  not  wear  ? 
What  breast  so  cold  that  is  not  warmed  here  ? 
O  cleft  effect !  cold  modesty,  hot  wrath, 
Both  fire  from  hence  and  chill  extincture  hath! 

'  For  lo  !  his  passion,  but  an  art  of  craft, 
Even  there  resolv'd  my  reason  into  tears ; 
There  my  white  stole  of  chastity  I  daff 'd, 
Shook  off  my  sober  guards,  and  civil  fears  ; 
Appear  to  him,  as  he  to  me  appears,        [bore, 
All  melting ;  though  our  drops  this  difference 
His  poison'd  me,  and  mine  did  him  restore. 


'  In  him  a  plenitude  of  subtle  matter, 

Applied  to  cautels,  all  strange  forms  receives, 

Of  burning  blushes  or  of  weeping  water, 

Or  swooning  paleness  ;  and  he  takes  and  leaves, 

In  cither's  aptness,  as  it  best  deceives, 

To  blush  at  speeches  rank,  to  weep  at  woes, 

Or  to  turn  white  and  swoon  at  tragic  shows ; 

'  That  not  a  heart  which  in  his  level  came 
Could  scape  the  hail  of  his  all-hurting  aim, 
Showing  fair  nature  is  both  kind  and  tame ; 
And,  veil'd  in  them,  did  win  whom  he  would 

maim : 

Against  the  thing  he  sought  he  would  exclaim; 
When  he  most  burn'd  in  heart-wish'd  luxury, 
He  preach'd  pure  maid,  and  prais'd  cold  chas- 
tity. 

'  Thus  merely  with  the  garment  of  a  Grace 
The  naked  and  concealed  fiend  he  cover'd, 
That  the  unexperienc'd  gave  the  tempter  place, 
Which,  like  a  cherubin,  above  them  hover'd. 
Who,   young  and  simple,   would   not  be  so 

lover'd  ? 

Ah  me  !  I  fell ;  and  yet  do  question  make 
What  I  should  do  again  for  such  a  sake. 

nuno  MCI 

'  O,  that  infected  moisture  of  his  eye, 
O,  that  false  fire  which  in  his  cheek  so  glow'd, 
O,  that  forc'd  thunder  from  his  heart  did  fly, 
O,  that  sad  breath  his  spongy  lungs  bestow'd, 
O,  all  that  borrow'd  motion,  seeming  ow'd, 
Would  yet  again  betray  the  fore-betray'd, 
And  new  pervert  a  reconciled  maid  ! ' 


tod  t>nin|  03  eqil 


5  3801  OH 

un  970!  tl 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 


- 

I. 

DID  not  the  heavenly  rhetoric  of  thine  eye, 
'Gainst  whom  the  world  could  not  hold  argu- 
ment, 

Persuade  my  heart  to  this  false  perjury  ? 
Vows  for  thee  broke  deserve  not  punishment. 
A  woman  I  forswore  ;  but  I  will  prove, 
Thou  being  a  goddess,  I  forswore  not  thee  : 
My  vow  was  earthly,  thou  a  heavenly  love  ; 
Thy  grace  being  gain'd  cures  all  disgrace  in  me. 
My  vow  was  breath,  and  breath  a  vapour  is  ; 
Then,  thou  fair  sun,  that  on  this  earth  doth 

shine, 

Exhale  this  vapour  vow  ;  in  thee  it  is  : 
If  broken,  then  it  is  no  fault  of  mine. 
If  by  me  broke,  what  fool  is  not  so  wise 
To  lose  an  oath,  to  win  a  paradise  ? 

II. 

Sweet  Cytherea,  sitting  by  a  brook 
With  young  Adonis,  lovely,  fresh,  and  green, 
Did  court  the  lad  with  many  a  lovely  look, 
Such  looks  as  none  could  look  but  beauty's 

queen. 

She  told  him  stories  to  delight  his  ear  ; 
She  show'd  him  favours  to  allure  his  eye  ; 
To  win  his  heart,  she  touch'd  him  here  and 

there : 

Touches  so  soft  still  conquer  chastity. 
But  whether  unripe  years  did  want  conceit, 
Or  he  refus'd  to  take  her  figur'd  proffer, 
The  tender  nibbler  would  not  touch  the  bait, 
But  smile  and  jest  at  every  gentle  offer  : 
Then  fell  she  on  her  back,  fair  queen,  and 

toward ; 
He  rose  and  ran  away  ;  ah,  fool  too  froward  ! 

in. 

If  love  make  me  forsworn,  how  shall  I  swear 
to  love  ? 

O  never  faith  could  hold,  if  not  to  beauty  vow'd: 

Though  to  myself  forsworn,  to  thee  I  '11  con- 
stant prove;  [osiers  bow'd. 

Those  thoughts,  to  me  like  oaks,  to  thee  like 

Study  his  bias  leaves,  and  makes  his  book  thine 
eyes, 

Where  all  those  pleasures  live  that  art  can  com- 
prehend. 

If  knowledge  be  the  mark,  to  know  thee  shall 
suffice ;  [commend  ; 

Well  learned  is  that  tongue  that  well  can  thee 


All  ignorant  that  soul  that  sees  thee  without 

wonder ;  [admire : 

Which  is  to  me  some  praise,  that  I  thy  parts 

Thine  eye  Jove's  lightning  seems,  thy  voice  his 

dreadful  thunder,  [fire. 

Which  (not  to  anger  bent)  is  music  and  sweet 

Celestial  as  thou  art,  O  do  not  love  that  wrong, 

To   sing   the   heavens'  praise  with  such   an 

earthly  tongue. 


Scarce  had  the  sun  dried  up  the  dewy  morn, 
And  scarce  the  herd  gone  to  the  hedge  for 

shade, 

When  Cytherea,  all  in  love  forlorn, 
A  longing  tarriance  for  Adonis  made, 
Under  an  osier  growing  by  a  brook, 
A  brook  where  Adon  used  to  cool  his  spleen. 
Hot  was  the  day ;  she  hdtter  that  did  look 
For  his  approach,  that  often  there  had  been. 
Anon  he  comes,  and  throws  his  mantle  by, 
And  stood  stark  naked  on  the  brook's  green 

brim  ; 


The  sun  look'd  on  the  world  with  glorious  eye, 
Yet  not  so  wistly  as  this  queen  on  him  : 

He,  spying  her,  bounc'd  in,  whereas  he  stood; 

O  Jove,  quoth  she,  why  was  not  I  a  flood  ? 

V. 

Fair  is  my  love,  but  not  so  fair  as  fickle  ; 

Mild  as  a  dove,  but  neither  true  nor  trusty ; 

Brighter  than  glass,  and  yet,  as  glass  is,  brittle; 

Softer  than  wax,  and  yet,  as  iron,  rusty  : 
A  lily  pale,  with  damask  die  to  grace  her, 
None  fairer,  nor  none  falser  to  deface  her. 

Her  lips  to  mine  how  often  hath  she  join'd, 
Between  each  kiss  her  oaths  of  true  love  swear- 
ing ! 

How  many  tales  to  please  me  hath  she  coin'd, 
Dreading  my  love,  the  loss  thereof  still  fearing ! 
Yet  in  the  midst  of  all  her  pure  pretestings, 
Her  faith,  her  oaths,  her  tears,  and  all  were 
jestings. 

She  burn'd  with  love,  as  straw  with  fire  flameth, 
She  burn'd  out  love,  as  soon  as  straw  out 
burneth ;  [framing, 

She  fram'd  the  love,  and  yet  she  foil'd  the 
She  bade  love  last,  and  yet  she  fell  a  turning. 

Was  this  a  lover,  or  a  lecher  whether  ? 

Bad  in  the  best,  though  excellent  in  neither. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


1275 


VI. 

If  music  and  sweet  poetry  agree, 

As  they  must  needs,  the  sister  and  the  brother, 

Then  must  the  love  be  great  'twixt  thee  and 

me, 

Because  thou  lov'st  the  one,  and  I  the  other. 
Dowland  to  thee  is  dear,  whose  heavenly  touch 
Upon  the  lute  doth  ravish  human  sense  ; 
Spencer  to  me,  whose  deep  conceit  is  such, 
As,  passing  all  conceit,  needs  no  defence. 
Thou  lov'st  to  hear  the  sweet  melodious  sound 
That  Phoebus'  lute,  the  queen  of  music,  makes; 
And  I  in  deep  delight  am  chiefly  drown'd, 
Whenas  himself  to  singing  he  betakes. 

One  god  is  god  of  both,  as  poets  feign  ; 

One   knight   loves   both,   and    both   in   thee 
remain. 


Fair  was  the  morn,  when  the  fair  queen  of  love, 
*  *     .      *  *  *  * 

Paler  for  sorrow  than  her  milk-white  dove, 
For  Adon's  sake,  a  youngster  proud  and  wild  ; 
Her  stand  she  takes  upon  a  steep-up  hill : 
Anon  Adonis  comes  with  horn  and  hounds  ; 
She,  silly  queen,  with  more  than  love'sgood  will, 
Forbade   the   boy  he   should   not   pass   those 

grounds ; 

Once,  quoth  she,  did  I  see  a  fair  sweet  youth 
Here  in   these  brakes  deep-wounded  with   a 

boar, 

Deep  in  the  thigh,  a  spectacle  of  ruth  ! 
See   in   my   thigh,  quoth   she,  here   was   the 

sore  : 
She  showed  hers  ;  he  saw  more  wounds  than 

one, 
And  blushing  fled,  and  left  her  all  alone. 

VIII. 

Sweet  rose,  fair  flower,  untimely  pluck'd,  soon 

vaded, 

Pluck'd  in  the  bud,  and  vaded  in  the  spring  ! 
Bright  orient  pearl,  alack  !  too  timely  shaded  ! 
Fair  creature,  kill'd  too  soon  by  death's  sharp 

sting ! 

Like  a  green  plum  that  hangs  upon  a  tree, 
And  falls,  through  wind,  before  the  fall  should 
be. 

I  weep  for  thee,  and  yet  no  cause  I  have  ; 
For  why  ?  thou  left'st  me  nothing  in  thy  will. 
And  yet  thou  left'st  me  more  than  I  did  crave; 
For  why  ?  I  craved  nothing  of  thee  still : 

O  yes,  dear  friend,  I  pardon  crave  of  thee ; 

Thy  discontent  thou  didst  bequeath  to  me. 


Venus,  with  Adonis  sitting  by  her, 
Under  a  myrtle  shade,  began  to  woo  him  : 
She  told  the  youngling  how  god  Mars  did  try 

her, 

And  as  he  fell  to  her,  she  fell  to  him. 
Even  thus,  quoth  she,  the  warlike  god  embrac'd 

me ; 

And  then  she  clipp'd  Adonis  in  her  arms  : 
Even  thus,  quoth  she,  the  warlike  god  unlac'd 

me; 

As  if  the  boy  should  use  like  loving  charms. 
Even  thus,  quoth  she,  he  seized  on  my  lips, 
And  with  her  lips  on  his  did  act  the  seizure  ; 
And  as  she  fetched  breath,  away  he  skips, 
And   would   not   take  her  meaning  nor  her 

pleasure. 

Ah  !  that  I  had  my  lady  at  this  bay, 
To  kiss  and  clip  me  till  I  run  away  J 

x. 

Crabbed  age  and  youth 

Cannot  live  together ; 
Youth  is  full  of  pleasance, 

Age  is  full  of  care  : 
Youth  like  summer  morn, 

Age  like  winter  weather  ; 
Youth  like  summer  brave, 

Age  like  winter  bare. 
Youth  is  full  of  sport, 
Age's  breath  is  short, 

Youth  is  nimble,  age  is  lame : 
Youth  is  hot  and  bold, 
Age  is  weak  and  cold  ; 

Youth  is  wild,  and  age  is  tame. 
Age,  I  do  abhor  thee, 
Youth,  I  do  adore  thee  ; 

O,  my  love,  my  love  is  young  ! 
Age,  I  do  defy  thee  ; 
O  sweet  shepherd,  hie  thee, 

For  methinks  thou  stay'st  too  long. 

XI. 

Beauty  is  but  a  vain  and  doubtful  good, 

A  shining  gloss,  that  vadeth  suddenly  ; 

A  flower  that  dies,  when  first  it  'gins  to  bud  ; 

A  brittle  glass,  that 's  broken  presently  : 
A  doubtful  good,  a  gloss,  a  glass,  a  flower, 
Lost,  vaded,  broken,  dead  within  an  hour. 

And  as  goods  lost  are  seld  or  never  found, 
As  vaded  gloss  no  rubbing  will  refresh, 
As  flowers  dead  lie  wither'd  on  the  ground, 
As  broken  glass  no  cement  can  redress, 
So  beauty,  blemish'd  once,  for  ever 's  lost, 
In  spite  of  physic,  painting,  pain,  and  cost. 


1276 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


Good  night,  good  rest     Ah !  neither  be  my 

share: 

She  bade  good  night,  that  kept  my  rest  away  ; 
And  daff'd  me  to  a  cabin  hang'd  with  care, 
To  descant  on  the  doubts  of  my  decay. 
Farewell,   quoth  she,  and  come    again  to- 
morrow ; 
Fare  well  I  could  not,  for  I  supp'd  with  sorrow. 

Yet  at  my  parting  sweetly  did  she  smile, 
In  scorn  or  friendship,  nill  I  construe  whether : 
'T  may  be,  she  joy'd  to  jest  at  my  exile, 
'T  may  be,  again  to  make  me  wander  thither  : 
Wander^  a  word  for  shadows  like  myself, 
As  take  the  pain,  but  cannot  pluck  the  pelf. 

XIII. 

Lord,  how  mine  eyes  throw  gazes  to  the  east ! 
My  heart  doth  charge  the  watch  ;  the  morning 
rise 


Doth  cite  each  moving  sense  from  idle  rest. 

Not  daring  trust  the  office  of  mine  eyes, 
While  Philomela  sits  and  sings,  I  sit  and  mark, 
And  wish  her  lays  were  tuned  like  the  lark  ; 

For  she  doth  welcome  daylight  with  her  ditty, 
And  drives  away  dark  dismal-dreaming  night : 
The  night  so  pack'd,  I  post  unto  my  pretty  ; 
Heart  hath  his  hope,  and  eyes  their  wished 
sight ;  [sorrow ; 

Sorrow  chang'd  to  solace,  solace  mix'd  with 
For  why  ?  she  sigh'd,  and  bade  me  come  to- 
morrow. 

•  •>  :^   fl{   L    bill: 

.ao^Jsd.srf  T>abf^a"cJ  ll&mid  g^narfW 
Were  I  with  her,  the  night  would  post  too  soon; 
But  now  are  minutes  added  to  the  hours  ; 
To  spite  me  now.  each  minute  seems  a  moon ; 
Yet  not  for  me,  shine  sun  to  succour  flowers  ! 
Pack  night,  peep  day ;  good  day,  of  night  now 
borrow ;  [morrow. 

Short,  night,  to-night,  and  length  thyself  to- 


T9H 


rt?H 


uodi  a^fnirfism  'l 


>nA 


•••&3rto%  Y-HO 


*rV  •       1-iVfi-J  '  6f   '      9f<W 

SONNETS  TO  SUNDRY  NOTES  OF 

MUSIC 


ft  was  a  lording's  daughter,  the  fairest  one  of 

three,  [be. 

That  liked  of  her  master  as  well  as  well  might 

Till  looking  on  an  Englishman,  the  fairest  that 

eye  could  see, 
Her  fancy  fell  a  turning. 
Long  was  the  combat  doubtful,  that  love  with 
love  did  fight,  [knight ; 

To  leave  the  master  loveless,  or  kill  the  gallant 
To  put  in  practice  either,  alasjfcwas  a  spite 

Unto  the  silly  damsel.  [pain, 

But  one  must  be  refused,  more  mickle  was  the 

That  nothing  could  be  used,  to  turn  them  both 

to  gain,  •  [with  disdain  : 

For  of  the  two  the  trusty  knight  was  wounded 

Alas,  she  could  not  help  it !  [the  day, 

Thus  art,  with  arms  contending,  was  victor  of 

Which  by  a  gift  of  learning  did  bear  the  maid 

away ; 
Then  lullaby,  the  learned  man  hath  got  the  lady 

^^  -  A    A 

For  now  my  song  is  ended. 
II. 

On  a  day  (alack  the  day  !), 
Love,  whose  month  was  ever  May, 
Spied  a  blossom  passing  fair, 
Playing  in  the  wanton  air  : 
Through  the  velvet  leaves  the  wind, 
All  unseen,  'gan  passage  find  ; 
That  the  lover,  sick  to  death, 
Wish'd  himself  the  heaven's  breath. 
Air,  quoth  he,  thy  cheeks  may  blow  ; 
Air,  would  I  might  triumph  so  ! 
But,  alas,  my  hand  hath  sworn 
Ne'er  to  pluck  thee  from  thy  thorn : 
Vow,  alack,  for  youth  unmeet, 
Youth,  so  apt  to  pluck  a  sweet, 
Thou  for  whom  Jove  would  swear 
Juno  but  an  Ethiope  were  ; 
And  deny  himself  for  Jove, 
Turning  mortal  for  thy  love. 

in. 

My  flocks  feed  not, 

My  ewes  breed  not, 

My  rams  speed  not, 

All  is  amiss : 


Love  is  dying, 
Faith  's  defying, 
Heart  's  denying, 

Causer  of  this. 

All  my  merry  jigs  are  quite  forgot, 
All  my  lady's  love  is  lost,  God  wot  : 
Where  her  faith  was  firmly  fix'd  in  love, 
There  a  nay  is  plac'd  without  remove. 
One  silly  cross 
Wrought  all  my  loss  ; 

O  frowning  Fortune,  cursed,  fickle  dame  ! 
For  now  I  see, 
Inconstancy 

More  in  women  than  in  men  remain. 


1021    r*  : 
In  black  mourn  I, 

All  fears  scorn  I, 
Love  hath  forlorn  me, 

Living  in  thrall  : 
Kf^  is  bleeding, 
All  help  needing, 
(O  cruel  speeding  !) 


i  norfJ  bnA 


Fraughted  with  gall. 
My  shepherd's  pipe  can  sound  no  deal, 
My  wether's  bell  rings  doleful  knell  ; 
My  curtail  dog,  that  wont  to  have  play'd, 
Plays  not  at  all,  but  seems  afraid  ; 
With  sighs  so  deep, 
Procures  to  weep, 

In  howling-wise,  to  see  my  doleful  plight. 
How  sighs  resound 
Through  heartless  ground,  [fight  ! 

Like  a  thousand  vanquish'd  men  in  bloody 

Clear  wells  spring  not, 
Sweet  birds  sing  not, 
Green  plants  bring  not 

Forth  ;  they  die  : 
Herds  stand  weeping, 
Flocks  all  sleeping, 
Nymphs  back  peeping 

Fearfully. 

All  our  pleasure  known  to  us  poor  swains, 
All  our  merry  meetings  on  the  plains, 
All  our  evening  sport  from  us  is  fled, 
All  our  love  is  lost,  for  Love  is  dead. 
Farewell,  sweet  lass, 
Thy  like  ne'er  was 

For  a  sweet  content,  the  cause  of  all  my  moans 


vadT 


1278 


SONNETS  TO  SUNDRY  NOTES  OF  MUSIC. 


Poor  Coridon 
Must  live  alone, 
Other  help  for  him  I  see  that  there  is  none. 

IV. 

Whenas  thine  eye  hath  chose  the  dame, 
And  stall'd  the   deer  that   thou   shouldst 

strike, 

Let  reason  rule  things  worthy  blame, 
As  well  as  fancy,  partial  might : 
Take  counsel  of  some  wiser  head, 
Neither  too  young,  nor  yet  unwed. 

And  when  thou  com'st  thy  tale  to  tell, 
Smooth  not  thy  tongue  with  filed  talk, 
Lest  she  some  subtle  practice  smell ; 
(A  cripple  soon  can  find  a  halt :) 
But  plainly  say  thou  lov'st  her  well, 
And  set  her  person  forth  to  sell. 

What  though  her  frowning  brows  be  bent, 
Her  cloudy  looks  will  calm  ere  night ; 
And  then  too  late  she  will  repent. 
That  thus  dissembled  her  delight ; 
And  twice  desire,  ere  it  be  day, 
That  which  with  scorn  she  put  away. 

What  though  she  strive  to  try  her  strength, 
And  ban  and  brawl,  and  say  thee  nay, 
Her  feeble  force  will  yield  at  length, 
When  craft  hath  taught  her  thus  to  say  : 
'  Had  women  been  so  strong  as  men, 
In  faith  you  had  not  had  it  then.' 

And  to  her  will  frame  all  thy  ways  ; 

Spare  not  to  spend, — and  chiefly  there 

Where  thy  desert  may  merit  praise, 

By  ringing  in  thy  lady's  ear  : 
The  strongest  castle,  tower,  and  town, 
The  golden  bullet  beats  it  down. 

Serve  always  with  assured  trust, 
And  in  thy  suit  be  humble,  true  ; 
Unless  thy  lady  prove  unjust, 
Press  never  thou  to  choose  anew  : 
When  time  shall  serve,  be  thou  not  slack 
To  proffer,  though  she  put  thee  back. 

The  wiles  and  guiles  that  women  work, 
Dissembled  with  an  outward  show, 
The  tricks  and  toys  that  in  them  lurk, 
The  cock  that  treads  them  shall  not  know. 
Have  you  not  heard  it  said  full  oft, 
A  woman's  nay  doth  stand  for  nought  ? 

Think  women  still  to  strive  with  men, 
To  sin,  and  never  for  to  saint : 


There  is  no  heaven,  by  holy  then, 
When  time  with  age  shall  them  attaint. 
Were  kisses  all  the  joys  in  bed, 
One  woman  would  another  wed. 

But  soft ;  enough, — too  much  I  fear, 
Lest  that  my  mistress  hear  my  song  ; 
She  '11  not  stick  to  round  me  i'  th'  ear, 
To  teach  my  tongue  to  be  so  long : 
Yet  will  she  blush,  here  be  it  said, 
To  hear  her  secrets  so  bewray'd. 

v. 

Live  with  me,  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  hills  and  valleys,  dales  and  fields, 
And  all  the  craggy  mountains  yields. 

There  will^e  sit  upon  the  rocks, 
And  see  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks. 
By  shallow  rivers,  by  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

There  will  I  make  thee  a  bed  of  roses, 
With  a  thousand  fragrant  posies, 
A  cap  of  flowers  and  a  kirtle 
Embroider'd  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle. 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds, 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs  ; 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move? 
Then  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 


LOVE'S  ANSWER. 


If  that  the  world  and  love  were  young, 
And  truth  in  eveiy  shepherd's  tongue, 
These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love. 

,dli»9b  oJ  jbia  tiovol  <nfJ  JsdT 
VI. 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day, 
In  the  merry  month  of  May, 
Sitting  in  a  pleasant  shade 
Which  a  grove  of  myrtles  made, 
Beasts  did  leap,  and  birds  did  sing, 
Trees  did  grow,  and  plants  did  spring  : 
Everything  did  banish  moan, 
Save  the  nightingale  alone  : 
She,  poor  bird,  as  all  forlorn, 
Lean'd  her  breast  up-till  a  thorn, 
And  there  sung  the  dolefull'st  ditty 
That  to  hear  it  was  great  pity  : 
Fie,  fie,  fie,  now  would  she  cry, 
Teru,  Teru,  by  and  by  : 
That  to  hear  her  so  complain, 
Scarce  I  could  from  tears  refrain  ; 


>nA 


vM 


SONNETS  TO  SUNDRY  NOTES  OF  MUSIC. 


1279 


For  her  griefs  so  lively  shown, 

Made  me  think  upon  mine  own. 

Ah  thought  1,  thou  mourn'st  in  vain ; 

None  take  pity  on  thy  pain  : 

Senseless  trees,  they  cannot  hear  thee  ; 

Ruthless  bears,  they  will  not  cheer  thee. 

King  Pandion,  he  is  dead  ; 

All  thy  friends  are  lapp'd  in  lead  ; 

All  thy  fellow-birds  do  sing, 

Careless  of  thy  sorrowing. 

Even  so,  poor  bird,  like  thee, 

None  alive  will  pity  me. 

Whilst  as  fickle  fortune  smil'd, 

Thou  and  I  were  both  beguil'd. 

Every  one  that  flatters  thee 

Is  no  friend  in  misery. 

Words  are  easy  like  the  wind  ; 

Faithful  friends  are  hard  to  find. 

Every  man  will  be  thy  friend, 

Whilst  thou  hast  wherewith  to  spend ; 

But  if  store  of  crowns  be  scant, 


No  man  will  supply  thy  want. 
If  that  one  be  prodigal, 
Bountiful  they  will  him  call : 
And  with  such-like  flattering 
'  Pity  but  he  were  a  king.' 
If  he  be  addict  to  vice, 
Quickly  him  they  will  entice  ; 
If  to  women  he  be  bent, 
They  have  him  at  commandement ; 
But  if  fortune  once  do  frown, 
Then  farewell  his  great  renown  : 
They  that  fawn'd  on  him  before, 
Use  his  company  no  more. 
He  that  is  thy  friend  indeed, 
He  will  help  thee  in  thy  need  ; 
If  thou  sorrow,  he  will  weep  ; 
If  thou  wake,  he  cannot  sleep  : 
Thus  of  every  grief  in  heart 
He  with  thee  doth  bear  a  part. 
These  are  certain  signs  to  know 
Faithful  friend  from  flattering  foe. 


Atll  vbuni 


bnr,  esrrr 


n«r»,"t  n   ;>vo 
.;  MIO  ni  jiid  sfOrt»<*3  aril 
:-SMion  noh.'vib  ,, 
.aisle  -g«w  ovol-n;  of;>rfj 


di  js! 


ovol  ftis;! 
as?.  slftv} 


THE  PHOENIX  AND  THE  TURTLE. 


LET  the  bird  of  loudest  lay, 

On  the  sole  Arabian  tree, 

Herald  sad  and  trumpet  be, 

To  whose  sound  chaste  wings  obey. 

But  thou,  shrieking  harbinger, 
Foul  pre-currer  of  the  fiend, 
Augur  of  the  fever's  end, 
To  this  troop  come  thou  not  near. 

From  this  session  interdict 
Every  fowl  of  tyrant  wing, 
Save  the  eagle,  feather'd  king : 
Keep  the  obsequy  so  strict. 

Let  the  priest  in  surplice  white, 
That  defunctive  music  can, 
Be  the  death-divining  swan, 
Lest  the  requiem  lack  his  right. 

And  thou,  treble-dated  crow, 
That  thy  sable  gender  mak'st 
With  the  breath  thou  giv'st  and  tak'st, 
'Mongst  our  mourners  shalt  thou  go. 

Here  the  anthem  doth  commence  : 
Love  and  constancy  is  dead  ; 
Phoenix  and  the  turtle  fled 
In  a  mutual  flame  from  hence. 


So  they  lov'd,  as  love  in  twain 
Had  the  essence  but  in  one  ; 
Two  distincts,  division  none  : 
Number  there  in  love  was  slain. 

Hearts  remote,  yet  not  asunder ; 
Distance,  and  no  space  was  seen 
'Twixt  the  turtle  and  his  queen  ; 
But  in  them  it  were  a  wonder. 

So  between  them  love  did  shine, 
That  the  turtle  saw  his  right 


Flaming  in  the  phoenix'  sight : 
Either  was  the  other's  mine. 

Property  was  thus  appall'd, 
That  the  self  was  not  the  same  ; 
Single  nature's  double  name 
Neither  two  nor  one  was  call'd. 

Reason,  in  itself  confounded, 
Saw  division  grow  together ; 
To  themselves  yet  either-neither, 
Simple  were  so  well  compounded 

That  it  cried  how  true  a  twain 
Seemeth  this  concordant  one  ! 
Love  hath  reason,  reason  none 
If  what  parts  can  so  remain. 

Whereupon  it  made  this  threne 
To  the  phoenix  and  the  dove, 
Co-supremes  and  stars  of  love  ; 
As  chorus  to  their  tragic  scene. 

THRENOS. 

Beauty,  truth,  and  rarity, 
Grace  in  all  simplicity, 
Here  enclos'd  in  cinders  lie. 

Death  is  now  the  phoenix'  nest : 
And  the  turtle's  loyal  breast 
To  eternity  doth  rest, 

Leaving  no  posterity  : — 
'Twas  not  their  infirmity, 
It  was  married  chastity. 

Truth  may  seem,  but  cannot  be : 
Beauty  brag,  but  'tis  not  she  ; 
Truth  and  beauty  buried  be. 


To  this  urn  let  those  repair 
That  are  either  true  or  fair ; 
For  these  dead  birds  sigh  a  prayer. 


INDEX  TO  THE  CHARACTERS 


IN 


SHAKESPEARE'S   DRAMATIC  WORKS, 


Aaron,   ... 

Abbot  of  Westminster, 
Abergavenny,  Lord, 
Abhor  son,        .         ,  .'• 
Abram,  .         .     ... 
Achilles,      "  .    ^    ' 
Adam,    .         :•}&>•<£,  . 
Adrian,.         .     .  ,1T.-  ,  :' 
Adriana,         *.;..  7.r. 


Emilia, 


lius  Lepidus,  .? 


Agamemnon,  ^,".vr->j;j  ^rff} 
Agrippa,         H  ^  jteVflo' 
Agrippa,  Menenius, 
Ague-Cheek,  Sir  Andrew, 
Ajax,     .         .        ..       .,,; 
Alar  bus,          .         ...  v»^ 
Albany,  Duke  of,    . 
Alcibiades, 

Ale  neon,  Duke  of,  .  '       .'*' 
Alexander,      .         f  ./"..,.  < 
Alexander  Iden, 
Alexas,  .... 


Alonso,  .         .         .  • 
Amiens,. 

Andromache,  .  -o     .,- 
Andronicus,  Marcus, 
Andronicus,  Titus, 
Angelo,  ... 
Angela 


Anne,  Lady,  . 

Anne  Bull&n,          . 

Antenor, 

Antigonus, 

Antiochus, 

Antiochus,  Daughter  of, 

Antiphohis  of  Ephestts, 

Antipholus  of  Syracuse, 

Antonio, 

Antonio  \ 

Antonio,         , 

Antonio, 


A  Moor,  beloved  by  Tamora, 


An  Exeeu tioner,    '  r.  .  ' ; .""  J  | ' ' '.,;,'  V 
Servant  of  Montague,     ,,",'.  ."  '•  -j 
A  Grecian  Commander,      .       .•  / 
Servant  to  Oliver,       .        V      ,  •  / 
A  Lord  of  Naples,      .         .-       . 
Wife  of  Antipholus  of  Ephesus,  . 
A  Merchant  of  Syracuse,     .         .  ' 
An  Abbess  at  Ephesus,       .        YT, 
A  Noble  Roman,         .     \,    \   '.'/ 
A  Roman  Triumvir,   .         .      ""» 
A  Trojan  Commander, 
A  Grecian  General,    .     "..,*.,  T..-  j  .-> 
A  Friend  of  Caesar,     .         '..'      "/.  . 
Friend  of  Coriolanus,        ',' «,   .'.'.'v*  '•-• 

A  Grecian  Commander,      .     *  '.'_' 
Son  of  Tamora, .         /    «  /,    "  •  V.. 

An  Athenian  General,      p.«T  -  •  -•  / 

Servant  to  Cressida,    .        V     -.-,. , 

A  Kentish  Gentleman,    "*   ^ ','   ... 

Attendant  on  Cleopatra,      .      t    .  [ 

Attendant  on  Princess  Katharine, 

King  of  Naples, 

A  Lord  attendant  on  the  Exiled  Duke, 

Wife  of  Hector, 

Tribune,  Brother  of  Titus, . 

General  against  the  Goths, . 

A  Goldsmith,     .         .         .   "  ,.  ..;.' 

Deputy  of  Duke  of  Vienna,     ' ..,« ' ' 

A  Scottish  Nobleman, 

Widow  of  Edward  Prince  of  Wales, 

Afterwards  Queen,      .         ... 

A  Trojan  Commander,     _. ;  T.V, 

A  Sicilian  Lord,          .     %  .     !."'»T 

King  of  Antioch,        .. :  .^Y  '-' .'". 


/"Twin   Brothers ;   Sons  of  ^Egeon,  \ 
\     but  unknown  to  each  other,     .      ) 

The  Merchant  of  Venice,    .      ,   .. 

Usurping  Duke  of  Milan,   . 

A  Sea  Captain,  .         .   '  %J-':''  !l. 

Brother  of  Leonato,    . 


Titus  Andronicus. 
Richard  II. 
King  Henry  VIII. 
Measure  for  Measure, 
Romeo  and  Juliet. 
Troilus  and  Cressida. 
As  You  Like  It. 
Tempest. 

Comedy  of  Errors. 
Comedy  of  Errors. 
Comedy  of  Errors. 
Titus  Andronicus. 
Julius  Csesar. 
Troilus  and  Cressida. 
Troilus  and  Cressida. 
Antony  and  Cleopatra. 
Coriolanus. 
Twelfth  Night. 
Troilus  and  Cressida. 
Titus  Andronicus. 
King  Lear. 
Timon  of  Athens. 
King  Henry  VI.,  Parti. 
Troilus  and  Cressida. 
King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 
Antony  and  Cleopatra. 
King  Henry  V. 
Tempest. 
As  You  Like  It. 
Troilus  and  Cressida. 
Titus  Andronicus. 
Titus  Andronicus. 
Comedy  of  Errors. 
Measure  for  Measure. 
Macbeth. 

King  Richard  III. 
King  Henry  VIII. 
Troilus  and  Cressida. 
Winter's  Tale. 
Pericles. 
Pericles. 

Comedy  of  Errors. 

Merchant  of  Venice. 

Tempest. 

Twelfth  Night. 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 


1282 


INDEX  TO  THE  CHARACTERS  IN 


Antonio,         .         ;     "  . 
Antony r,  Marc,        .      *•*- 
Apemantus,    . 
Apothecary,  An, 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury, 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury, 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury, 
Archbishop  of  York, 
Archbishop  of  York, 
Archduke  of  Austria,       .  • 
Archibald,      . 
Archidamus,  .         . 
Ariel,     .... 
Armado,  Don  Adrtano  de, 
Arragon,  Prince  of, 
Arthur,  .         .         , 

Artimidorus,  .         .         , 
ArviraguSi 

Audrey, .... 
Aufidius,  Tullus,    .      .", 
Aumerle,  Duke  of, . 
Aittolycus, 
Auvergne,  Countess  oft    . 


Bagot,    . 

Balthazar,  .  L  *  . 

Balthazar,  .         . 
Balthazar, 

Balthazar,  ,         . 
Banquo, 

Banished  Duke,      . 
Baptista, 

Bardolph,  .    %    . 

Bardolph,  .'    v  /V 
Bardolph, 
Bardolph,  Lord, 

Bamardine,  .     '  '^ 

Basset,   .  v.  ,.-;-.'' 

JSassanio,  .         . 

Bassianus,      . 
Bastard  of  Orleans  ^ 
Bates,     . 
Beatrice, 
Beau,  Le^ 
Beaufort,  Cardinal, 
Beaufort,  Henry,    . 
Beaufort,  John,       , 
Beaufort,  Thomas, 
Bedford,  Duke  of,   . 
Bedford,  Duke  of,   . 
Belarius, 

Belch,  Sir  Toby,      . 
Benedick, 

Benvolio,         .  ..J  ~ 
Berkley,  Earl, 
Bernardo^ 


Father  of  Proteus, 

A  Triumvir, 

A  Churlish  Philosopher, 

•  ™" 

Cranmer,   .         ,    •     .    - 
Cardinal  Bouchier, 


Scroop, 

Thomas  Rotherham,  . 


Earl  of  Douglas,          .    i<J  Vu 

A  Bohemian  Lord, 

An  Airy  Spine,  . 

A  Fantastical  Spaniard, 

Suitor  to  Portia, 

Elder  Brother  of  King  John, 

A  Sophist  of  Cnidos,  . 

Son  of  Cymbeline,      .         ^ 

A  Country  Wench,     .      '  . 

Volscian  General, 

Son  of  Duke  of  York, 

A  Rogue,  .... 


"  Creature"  of  Richard  II., 

A  Merchant, 

Servant  to  Portia, 

Servant  to  Don  Pedro, 

Servant  to  Romeo, 

A  General.  ''  . 


A  Rich  Gentleman  of  Padua, 
Soldier  in  King's  Army,      .   •     . 
A  Follower  of  Falstaff, 
Follower  of  Sir  John  Falstaff,      . 
Enemy  to  the  King,    . 
A  dissolute  Prisoner, . 
Of  the  Red  Rose  Faction,  . 
Friend  of  Antonio,  the  Merchant 
of  Venice,        .... 
Brother  of  Satuminus, 

Soldier  in  King's  Army, 
Niece  of  Leonato, 
A  Courtier,  « 

Bishop  of  Winchester,        .         . 
Bishop  of  Winchester, 
Earl  of  Somerset,        .         . 
Duke  of  Exeter,      ;.-1V  •  ^^    ;I'  »f 
Brother  of  Henry  V. ,      [*  1  :\3ff;' 
Regent  of  France,       ..      ^  '    .".„ 
A  Banished  Lord,       .         .    .::J  )'• ' 
Uncle  of  Olivia,          .         .         * 
A  Young  Lord  of  Padua,    .         * 
Friend  of  Romeo, 


An  Officer, 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

Timon  of  Athens. 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 

King  Henry  VIII. 

King  Richard  III. 

King  Henry  II. 

King  Henry  I  V.,Pts.  I.,  1 1, 

King  Richard  III. 

King  John 

King  Henry  IV., Pts.  I.,  II. 

Winter's  Tale. 

Tempest. 

Love's  Labour's  Lost. 

Merchant  of  Venice. 

King  John. 

Julius  Caesar. 

Cymbeline. 

As  You  Like  It. 

Coriolanus. 

King  Richard  II. 

Winter's  Tale. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  I. 

King  Richard  II. 
Comedy  of  Errors. 
Merchant  of  Venice. 
Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 
Romeo  and  Juliet. 
Macbeth. 
As  You  Like  It. 
Taming  of  the  Shrew. 
King  Henry  II. 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 
King  Henry  IV.,  Pts.  I. ,11. 
King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 
Measure  for  Measure. 
King  Henry  VI.,  Part  I. 


Merchant  of  Venice. 

Titus  Andronicus. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  I. 

King  Henry  V. 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

As  You  Like  It. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  I. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  I. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  I. 

King  Henry  V. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Parti. 

Cymbeline. 

Twelfth  Night. 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 

King  Richard  II. 

Hamlet. 


i 


SHAKESPEARE'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS. 


.1283 


All's  Well  that  Ends  Well. 

Othello. 

Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

King  John. 

Taming  of  the  Shrew. 


Bertram,  .  *f  I  ^:ii»  Count  of  Rousil Ion,  .  wKiKt 
Bianca,  .  . ;/  ;*  nornD"  Mistress  of  Cassio,  .  w;.'T>3. 
Bianca,  .  .  n.".»H  ^rv/i  Sister  of  Katharine,  .  **«Jfc 
Bigot,  Robert,  «n»  o-:jji*  Earl  of  Norfolk,  -iti.v  :.,->rw::iav.^, 
Biondello,  .;?*fi>fi*-o:>:jf '  Servant  of  Lucentio,  . 
Biron,  .  !ri ^-»rr^r  •  -rk  A  Lord  Attendant  xjn  the  King 

of  Navarre,     .  Love's  Labour 's  Lost. 

Bishop  of  Carlisle, King  Richard  IL 

Bishop  of  Ely, King  Henry  V. 

Bishop  of  Ely,         .         .         John  Morton,     ....  King  Richard  HI. 

Bishop  of  Lincoln, King  Henry  VIIL 

Bishop  of  Winchester,      .         Gardiner,  .         .        i*V «  ,w.        .  King  Henry  VIIL 

Blanch,.         .      r;;»  ••>:.:>».         Niece  of  King  John,  .         »         .  King  John. 

B  hunt,  Sir  James,      ;  <tn. •  King  Richard  III. 

.5/ww/,  Ar  #fcter,          .         Friend  of  Henry  IV.,      )  ,»..*       ,  King  Henry  IV.,  Pts,  L,  IL 

Bolingbroke,  in* •'••*;!  vJ>"      A  Conjuror,        ....  King  Henry  VIM  Part  II. 

Bolingbroke,   .      y£)  /u:L'.       Afterwards  Henry  IV.,     ;..   >.    %  King  Richard  II. 

^»a,     .        i.a-JiJ.yoY*/      Sister  of  the  French  Quteen,         .  King  Henry  V.I. ,  Part  III, 

Borachio,        ,^t*i /« -jl ' -j«("l      Follower  of  Don  John,        .ftiq->.'  Much  Ado  About  Nothing* 

Bottom,.         .        .         .         The  Weaver,      «/r->  :€?.''  .SK..1.A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

j&>«#,     ....         A  Servant,         .         .       !;^-./;./  Pericles. 

Bourbon,  Duke  of, King  Henry  V. 

Bouchier,  Cardinal,        .         Archbishop  of  Canterbury, .         .  King  Richard  III. 
Boyet,     ....         A  Lord  attending  on  the  Princess 

of  France,       .     :  \l  -'h^gai?*  Love's  Labour's  Lost 

Brabantio,       .         .         .         A  Senator,          .         .         T^o:i»V  Othello. 

Brakenbury,  Sir  Robert, .         Lieutenant  of  the  Tower,    *Vl  Kir/  King  Richard  III. 

Brandon, .twru'l./  King  Henry  VIIL 

Brutus,  Junius,      .         .         Tribune  of  the  People,       .;>-jh'l. .  Coriolattus. 

Brutus,  Marcus,     .         .         A  Roman  Conspirator,       -g^"--'-l.  '  Julius  Caesar. 

Buckingham,  Duke  of, King  Richard  III. 

Buckingham,  Duke  of,    .         Of  the  King's  Party,  *;'.)  ^a:      .  King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 

Buckingham,  Duke  of , fc.:l  W".     .  King  Henry  VIIL 

Bullcalf,         .         .         .         A  Recruit,          .         ,;..;•  U  ifw-  King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 

Bullen,  Anne,         .         .         Afterwards  Queen,     ^.M'.' ami*   /. ,  King  Henry  VIIL 

Burgundy,  Duke  of, u":f  ;inuo\'.>.  King  Henry  V. 

Burgimdy,  D^^ke  of,        .         .         ...         .         .         .  King  Henry  VI. ,  Part  I. 

Burgimdy,  Duke  of, King  Lear. 

Bushy,  .  "Creature"  of  Richard  II.,        .  King  Richard  II. 

Butts,  Dr.      .         .<-;bii-^      Physician  to  Henry  VIIL,      !-'-vc*r  King  Henry  VIIL 

Cade,Jack^     .  A  Rebel,   .         .         .- -  :  ^  -':,^;  King  Henry  VI.,  Part  IL 

Cadwal,          .     <<i^H  jia         Arviragus  in  Disguise,         .         .  Cymbeline. 

Ccesar,  Octavius,  A  Triumvir,        .         .       :>.in.r.'v  Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

Caithness,       .     -n  W/raf        A  Scottish  Nobleman,        :  '  lo  »¥><^  Macbeth. 

Caz'w^,  Dr.,    .  A  French  Physician,  .      -••'  .vifivv^  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

Caius,  Lucius,  General  of  Roman  Forces,  .  Cymbeline. 

Caius  Marcius  Coriolanu  ,       A  Noble  Roman,        .  .  Coriolanus. 

Calchas,          .  .'  y;vX     A  Trojan  Priest,         .  -r:    *  M  Troilus  and  Cressida. 

Caliban,          .  A  Savage  and  Deformed  S  ave,  .  The  Tempest. 

Calphumia,    .  Wife  of  Caesar,  .       --U  Jo  w»v      .  Julius  Caesar. 

Cambridge,  Earl  of  A  Conspirator,  .         .  .  King  Henry  V. 

Camilla,         .  A  Sicilian  Lord,     .-.-VA  Vxv^i r-y:'  Winter's  Tale. 

Campeitis,  Cardinal, King  Henry  VIIL 

Canidius,       .         .         .         Lieutenant-General  of  Antony,   .  Antony  and  Cleopatra* 

Canterbury,  Archbishop  of,        Cardinal  Bouchier,     c*j-.;H  alrfoVi/  King  Richard  III. 

Canterbury,  Archbishopof, »  King  Henry  V. 


1284 


INDEX  TO  THE  CHARACTERS  IN 


Canterbury,  Archbishopof, 

Cranmer,  .     .-•-  *rff  :•.•'!  i^-.'/I  jc  Jr^-J 

King  Henry  VIII. 

Caphis,  .... 

A  Servant,          .         .         .  ori^f/. 

Timon  of  Athens. 

Capucius,        ,  -•  KV-iuJfryi'T 

Ambassador  from  Charles  V.  , 

King  Henry  VIII. 

Capulet,           ,        »i^I.  3?J^ 

At  variance  with  Montague,  ••'  lv:  i 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 

Capulet,  Lady,     K>.£uarys.T 

Wife  of  Capulet,         .         .  .uvj^ 

Romeo  and  [uliet. 

Cardinal  Beaufort, 

Bishop  of  Winchester,    'A  .fcwJ.  A 

King  Henry"  VI.,  Part  II. 

Cardinal  Bouchier,      ':,  '•'*.  \  1 

Archbishop  of  Canterbury, 

King  Richard  III. 

King  Henry  VIII. 

Cardinal  Paiidulph  ,     .  .;  i;i  >I 

The  Pope's  Legate,    . 

King  John. 

Cardinal  Wolsey,    .        i.i/. 

'     .            .            .            .        h(}M  :itf-/; 

King  Henry  VIII. 

Carlisle,  Bishop  of,        '••;  '^ 

King  Richard  II. 

Casca,     .         .         .       "i-yi 
Cassandra,      .        i;  r.  y;;*-- 

A  Roman  Conspirator,        .    :':>•.;.. 
Daughter  of  Priam,     . 

Julius  Caesar. 
Troilus  and  Cressida. 

Cassio,    .         .     .:",.  -^  .v'^.i 

Lieutenant  to  Othello, 

Othello. 

Cassius, 

A  Roman  Conspirator,        .  'V/ji-i  -.; 

Julius  Caesar. 

Catesby,  Sir  William,     . 

.         .                   .  {  to's  if  tried  A 

King  Richard  III. 

Cato,  Young,.      bj^'  grjJM 

Friend  of  Brutus  and  Cassius,      . 

Julius  Caesar. 

Cfe//a,     .         .       tall  a1^- 

Daughter  of  Frederick, 

As  You  Like  it. 

Cmtf,  /-  f;;o4>.  ofaA  rbu'  ' 

A  Spirit,    .         .         .         .    .ofu/'l 

The  Tempest. 

Cerimon,      "£  »iHpinabiM 

A  Lord  of  Ephesus,    .    s  -•.;«;»//  o;.'T 

Pericles. 

Charles,          .         .^br^l 

A  Wrestler,        .... 

As  You  Like  it. 

Charles,          .      -;;»H  >v>; 

The  Dauphin,    .... 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  I. 

Charles  VI.,  .      ^iM.  £ojX 

King  of  France,      3  U>  qoci«;tfnatA 

King  Henry  V. 

Charmian, 

Attendant  on  Cleopatra}      .   toJ.A 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

Chatillon,      'iyocf/TtJ  219V<?»1 

Ambassador  from  France,  .   i  "IQ- 

King  John. 

Chiron,  .         .         »->ri^iv;O 

Son  of  Tamora,  .... 

Titus  Andronicus. 

CJiorus,  .         .       'oi/I  >'v  >• 
Christopher  Sly,      .       .iv7 

As  a  Prologue,  .  .-:•  ^    :  ,     •(  .ijf.">Jt/^vI 
A  Drunken  Tinker,    . 

King  Henry  V. 
Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

Christopher  Urswick,    '..»>'.- 

A  Priest,    .         .         .  .  V>£»nn:'s.;^ 

King  Richard  III. 

Cicero,    .         .        -O  tr  •!«:•[ 

A  Roman  Senator,      .  3  nsirro  LA 

Julius  Caesar. 

Cinna,    .        v'^iii-i^-L  ;,•'«  -• 

A  Poet,     

Julius  Caesar. 

Cinna,   .         .         .        .*  -; 

A  Roman  Conspirator,        .    ;;[;.• 

Julius  Caesar. 

Clarence,  Duke  of, 

Brother  of  Edward  IV.,      . 

King  Richard  III. 

Clarence,  Thomas,  Duke  of 

Son  of  Henry  IV.,     .         .   ;.>>C  A 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II., 

Claudia,     [1'jC  •••!•,  '^j  !  ;•*.. 

A  Young  Gentleman,      gbjuv.-istfA 

Measure  for  Measure. 

Claudia,       .T^vi;..l;      w  -i 

A  Young  Florentine  Lord, 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

Claudius,       ;  vi:"<u'  >}•*  -  ' 

King  of  Denmark, 

Hamlet. 

Claudiiis,        .       Hi".  i  'jujyt 

Servant  of  Brutus, 

Julius  Caesar. 

Cleomenes,    I  ins:'-^^-  _,,.•  „•( 

A  Sicilian  Lord,    >i  \-j  :'  i-»i?Ti--5-j  ±  " 

Winter's  Tale. 

Cleon,    .      IV  in/t^i  ^«-: 

Governor  of  Tharsus,      •!  ivi'.  .,v»li 

Pericles. 

Cleopatra, 
Clifford,  Lord,    .  »,!!  7^r/i 

Queen  of  Egypt, 
Of  the  King's  Party,  . 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 
Henry  VI.,  Parts  II.  &  III. 

Clifford,  Young,  :a\-*^.  ..,  •-.., 

Son  of  Lord  Clifford,      i  r^ginn-sA 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 

Clitus,    .         .       ;r,  v  -..  •«  / 

Servant  of  Brutus,      .  ^ivcfit/iill  A 

Julius  Caesar. 

Cloten,   .         .        .sl^dD^*/. 

Son  of  the  Queen,       .  1  il?iJJo^.  A 

Cy  mbeline  . 

Clown,  .       {3.S3&V&-  -\  .  :i  1  •' 

Servant  to  Mrs.  Overdone,     i  ri  A 

Measure  for  Measure. 

Clown,  .         .     .  niiaL:;.,/  > 

Servant  to  Olivia,       .         .  ,isni>O 

Twelfth  Night. 

Cobweb,           .         .       '**;..'_.) 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 

Colville,  Sir  John,  .      4^'x' 

Enemy  to  the  King,   .    1  -rui^oiT.  A 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 

Cominius,       .       jivT  s^;T 

General  against  the  Volscians, 

Coriolanus. 

Conrade,          .      -f»v)  ,  ^?ii;i 

Follower  of  Don  John,        .  •>  oliyJ/ 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing, 

Constable  of  France, 

.    rftiqanc'*  A 

King  Henry  V. 

Constance,      .»j'jiT  gVjiniW 

Mother  of  Arthur,      .  _{  niiibiS  A 

King  John. 

Cordelia,      ('•£  viiT^H  j.-vvt 

Daughter  of  Lear,       .    «     ...     ^ 

King  Lear. 

Corin,    .         .   nq&^aoia^ 

A  Shepherd,       .   -  ;V'  1  -. 

As  You  Like  it. 

Coriolanus,     .         i>i  ^;  i>i 

A  Noble  Roman, 

Coriolanus. 

Cornelius,     •*  '{in.kil  grtC$ 

A  Courtier,         .         .         »  ».     ' 

I  lamlet. 

SHAKESPEARE'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS. 


1285 


Cornelius  ,       .         .  -  *  • 
Cornwall,  Duke  of, 
Costard^  .         i£" 

Count  of  Rousillon, 
Countess  of  Auvergne, 
Countess  of  Rousillon, 


A  Physician, 


Cranmer, 
Cressida, 
Cromwell^ 
Cur  an)  . 


Curtis,  . 


Dame  Quickly, 
DardaniuS)     .         .'* 
Dauphin)  The) 
Davy)     .         .         /'' 
Decius  Brutus  )       .-'^ 
DeiphobuS)      .         .'-* 
DemetiiuS) 
Demetrius, 
Demetrius  )      ;•    1T''»'; 
Dennis  )  .         .         <H 
Denny  )  Sir  Anthony) 
DercetaS) 


Diana)  . 
Diana,  . 


A  Clown, 


Mother  to  Bertram,    . 

Soldier  in  King's  Army, 

Archbishop  of  Canterbury, 

Daughter  to  Calchas, 

Servant  to  Wolsey,     . 

A  Courtier,         .... 

Attendant  on  the  Duke  of  Illyria, 

Servant  to  Petruchio, . 

King  of  Britain, .         .         .  •  -j •'•  '.1 


Hostess  of  a  Tavern, .  4  <-i  j: 
Servant  to  Brutus,      .  -'i  c;- 
Louis,        .         .  >^crt5  -i.;'-;: 
Servant  to  Shallow,    . 
A  Roman  Conspirator, 
Son  to  Priam,    . 
Friend  to  Antony, 
In  Love  with  Hermione,    . 
Son  to  Tamora,      :°  .  ^  'ii 
Servant  to  Oliver, 

Friend  to  Antony,  .  2-;'3 
Wife  to  Othello,  us'U^ni^ 
Daughter  to  Widow,  .  Jjn'^ 


DiomedeS) 

DiomedeS) 

Dion,      .        >s(''r;-;i-  .-  v 

Dionyza,         .         *>-  .=  •«-> 

Doctor  Butts  ) 

Doctor  CaiuS)         V  • 

Dogberry) 

Doll  Tearsheet)        .'  '  -  V- 

Dolabella, 

Domitius  EnobarbuS) 

Don  Adriano  de  ArmadO) 

Don  John, 

Don  Pedro,     . 


DorcaS)  .         . 
Dorset)  Marquis  of) 
Douglas  )  Earl  of  )    . 
Dromio  of  EphesuS) 
Droniio  of  Syracuse  ) 
Duchess  of  Gloster) 
Dtichess  of  York)     . 
Duress  of  York,     . 
Duke)  The)    . 
Duke  of  Albany  •,     . 
Duke  of  AlencoH)    . 
Dnke  of  Aumerle,  . 


A  Follower  of  Jack  Cade,  . 
A  Grecian  Commander, 
Attendant  on  Cleopatra, 
A  Sicilian  Lord,  - •"•'.'>:'j  <V  r 
Wife  to  Cleon,  .          .         ;>*  i 
Physician  to  Henry  VIII., 
A  French  Physician,  .   .>.:a'v?n 
A  Foolish  Officer,       .    -Ji:  ^ic 
A  Bawd,    .         .         .    :  ;.vX 
Friend  to  Caesar,    arrsfcteo^Ho 
Friend  to  Antony, 
A  Fantastical  Spaniard, 
Bastard  Brother  to  Don  Pedro, 
Prince  of  Arragon,      .    .'.bijsdi 
Son  to  King  Duncan,     :  i  ipi 
A  Shepherdess,  .         .    -     .    • 


Cymbeline. 

King  Lear. 

Love's  Labour's  Lost. 

All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well. 

King  Henry  VI. ,  Part  I. 

All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well. 

King  Henry  V. 

King  Henry  VIII. 

Troilus  and  Cressida. 

King  Henry  VIII. 

King  Lear. 

Twelfth  Night. 

Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

Cymbeline. 


Archibald,          .        ryioM.nj.' 
/Twin  Brothers  :    Attendants  on 
\     two  Antipholuses,   . 


Mother  to  King  Edward  IV. , 
Living  in  Exile,      •     .-   •     . 


Son  to  Duke  of  York,          .   . 


King  Henry  IV.,  Pts.  I.,  II. 

Julius  Caesar. 

King  John. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 

Julius  Caesar. 

Troilus  and  Cressida. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 
.  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

Titus  Andronicus. 

As  You  Like  it. 

King  Henry  VIII. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

Othello. 

All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well. 

Pericles. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 

Troilus  and  Cressida. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 
i<v>    Winter's  Tale. 
£^ '     Pericles. 

King  Henry  VIII. 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

Love's  Labour 's  Lost. 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing, 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing, 

Macbeth. 

Winter's  Tale. 

King  Richard  III. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  I. 

the  |  Comedy  of  Errors. 

King  Richard  II. 
King  Richard  II. 
King  Richard  III. 
As  You  Like  it. 
King  Lear. 

JO     King  Henry  VI.,  Part  I. 
King  Richard  II. 


1286 


INDEX  TO  THE  CHARACTERS  IN 


Duke  of  Bedford,    . 
Duke  of  Bedford,    . 
Duke  of  Bourbon,   .      '-  v 
Duke  of  Buckingham,     '. 
Duke  of  Buckingham,  ^ 
Duke  of  Buckingham,   s,\ 
Duke  of  Burgundy,       3« 
Duke  of  Burgundy, 
Duke  of  Burgundy,        l 
Duke  of  Clarence,  . 
Duke  of  Clarence,  Thomas, 
Duke  of  Cornwall,  . 
Duke  of  Exeter^    \& 
Duke  of  Exeter,    ;>v* 
Z>w£tf  of  Florence,    . 
Duke  of  Gloster,      . 
Duke  of  Gloster, 
Duke  of  Gloster  *    , 


Z>w^  0^  Lancaster,  . 
Z>w>&  of  Milan,  a« 
Z>«&?  of  Norfolk,  . 
Z>«&?  of  Norfolk,  . 
Duke  of  Norfolk,  . 
Z>«&?  ofNorfolk^.\ 
Duke  of  Orleans,  . 
Z>«/k  ^  Oxford,  a* 
Duke  of  Somerset,  . 
Duke  of  Suffolk,  . 
Z>w&?  of  Suffolk, 
Duke  of  Surrey,  ,rt» 
Z>#/&  <?/"  Venice,  n* 
Zto/fe  ^/"  Venice, 
Duke  of  York, 
Duke  of  York,  . 


Brother  to  King  Henry  V., 
Regent  of  France, 


H 


Duntain, 
Duncan, 


Earl  Berkley,  .iVs* 
Earl  of  Cambridge, 
Earl  of  Douglas,  ,A,  b^ 
Earl  of  Essex, 
Earl  of  Gloster,  &•* ;n* 
Earl  of  Kent, 
Earl  of  March,  *H  ^i 
Earl  of  Marcht  .  r-^. 
Earl  of  Northumberland, 
Earl  of  Northumberland, 
Earl  of  Northumberland, 
Earl  of  Northumberland, 
Earl  of  Oxford,  :..  i»o*/"«« 
Earl  of  Pembroke^  *>J  poi 
Earl  of  Pembroke ,  »H  gni 
Earl  of  Richmond^ . 


Of  the  King's  Party,  . 


Brother  to  King  Edward  IV., 
Son  to  King  Henry  IV. ,     . 


Uncle  to  King  Henry  V.,  . 
Of  the  King's  Party,  .      HJ 


Afterwards  King  Richard 
Brother  to  King  Henry  V. 
Uncle  and  Protector  to 

Henry  VI.,     . 
Uncle  to  King  Richard  II 
Father  to  Silvia, 
Thomas  Mowbray, 


III.,   . 
'King 


Of  the  Duke's  Party, 


Of  the  King's  Party,  . 
Of  the  King's  Party,  . 
Of  the  King's  Party,  . 


Cousin  to  the  King,   .        .  ; \-'-'\ 
Uncle  to  King  Richard  II.,  .   -V 
Son  to  King  Edward  IV.,  . 
A  Constable,      .... 
A  Lord  attendant  on  the  King 
of  Navarre,     .... 
King  of  Scotland,       .  ,:>  s>>  bntjii 


A  Conspirator,  .   :  -  .-*-: 

Archibald, . 

Geoffrey  Fitz- Peter,    . 


Edward  Mortimer,     .         . 
Afterwards  King  Edward  IV., 

Henry  Percy,     ,    .    .  .     .    ; 

Enemy  to  the  King,   .  -   .    . 

Of  the  King's  Party,  .  0J.  •? .;. 

William  Mareshall,    !  .'  '!''  * 

Of  the  Duke's  Party, .  . 


King  Henry  V. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  I. 

King  Henry  V. 

King  Richard  III. 

King  Henry  VI. ,  Parti. 

King  Henry  VIII. 

King  Lear. 

King  Henry  V. 

King  Henry  VI. ,  Parti. 

King  Richard  III. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 

King  Lear. 

King  Henry  V. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 

All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well. 

King  Richard  III. 

King  Henry  V. 

King  Henry  VI. ,  Part  HI. 

King  Richard  II. 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 

King  Richard  II. 

King  Richard  III. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II L 

King  Henry  VIII. 

King  Henry  V. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  IIL 

Henry  VI. ,  Parts  II. ,  III. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 

King  Henry  VIII. 

King  Richard  II. 

Merchant  of  Venice. 

Othello. 

King  Henry  V. 

King  Richard  II. 

King  Richard  III. 

Love's  Labour's  Lost. 

Love's  Labour 's  Lost. 
Macbeth. 

King  Richard  II. 

King  Henry  V. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  I. 

King  John. 

King  Lear. 

King  Lear. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  I. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 

King  Richard  II. 

KingHenryIV.,Pts.I.,Il 

King  Henry  IV. ,  Part  II. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 

King  Richard  III. 

King  John. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 

King  Richard  III. 


SHAKESPEARE'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS. 


1287 


Earl  of  Salisbury,  . 
Earl  of  Salisbury,  . 
Earl  of  Salisbury,  .         '. 
Earl  of  Salisbury,  .         . 
Earl  of  Suffolk, 
Earl  of  Surrey,       .    .^» 
Earl  of  Surrey, 
Earl  of  Warwick,  . 
Earl  of  Warwick,  . 
Earl  of  Warwick,  . 
Earl  of  Westmoreland,    . 
Earl  of  Westmoreland,    . 
Earl  of  Westmoreland,    . 
Earl  of  Worcester  •,  j  Uj;. 
Earl  River  s  t  ."^V"".'"'  ''    '*' 
Edgar,    .         ^'/'>  'vr|' 
Edm  und,         P"7  !  *  y.  '£P$1 
Edmund,         .         .i"rf  -:J~ 
Edmund  Mortimer, 
Edmund  Mortimer, 
Edmund  of  Langley, 
Edward, 
Edward, 

Edward  Prime  of  Wales, 
Edward  I  V.  ,  King, 
Edward  Earl  of  March,  . 
Egeus,  .  '  '''•  "I  '  "f':."'  '  •'»-.' 
Eglamour,  .  •  -r  vI>;i';i;J' 
Elbow,  .... 
Eleanor,  .  •  •  r  '  *  .  r$£ 
Elinor,  .... 
Elizabeth,  .  .":  ,-  •%•' 


William  Longsword,  . 


Of  the  York  Faction, . 
Son  to  Duke  of  Norfolk, 
Of  the  King's  Party,  . 


Of  the  York  Faction,  . 
Friend  to  King  Henry  IV., 

Of  the  King's  Party,  .    '  ly  •« 
Thomas  Percy,  .         .      -T.T-* 

Son  to  Gloster,  .   Cl'ojfcawijii: 
Earl  of  Rutland,         .  - 
Bastard  Son  to  Gloster, 
Earl  of  March,  . 
Earl  of  March,  . 
Duke  of  York,  . 
Prince  of  Wales, 
Son  to  Plantagenet,    . 
Son  to  King  Henry  VI.  ,     . 

Afterwards  King  Edward  IV. 
Father  to  Hermia,      .     ^^tt 
Agent  for  Silvia,         .         w  * 
A  Simple  Constable,  . 
Duchess  of  Gloster, 


Ely,  Bishop  of,       *.'^ 
Emilia,.         --"  -''  '  -»-    •"•'•••• 
Emilia,  .          .         J  r-"/" 
Enobarbus,  Domitius, 
Eros,      .... 
Erpingham,  Sir  Thomas, 
Escalus, 

Escalus,          .         . 
Escanes, 
Essex,  Earl  of, 
Eitphronius,  .         ,.  _     . 
Evans,  Sir  Hugh,  . 
Exeter,  Duke  of,     . 
Exeter,  Duke  of,     . 
Exiled  Duke, 


Mother  to  King  John, 
Queen  to  King  Edward  IV., 
John  Morton,     .         .    ~   7  • 


Wife  to  lago,     .       >(.  w<4 
A  Lady,     .         .      ;  ^ -;..•' X 
Friend  to  Antony, 
Friend  to  Antony,      .    *  ;'i 
Officer  in  the  King's  Army, 
A  Lord  of  Vienna, 
Prince  of  Verona, 
A  Lord  of  Tyre, 
Geoffrey  Fitz-Peter,    •  r   '  ~l 
An  Ambassador,  •'  '  '•.  f>«*» 
A  Welsh  Parson,        .  "   (j 
Uncle  to  Henry  V.,   .  «i''i 
Of  the  King's  Party,  . 


Fabian, ....         Servant  to  Olivia,       .         .--"j'S 
Falconbridge,  Lady,         .         Mother  to  Robert  and  Philip, 
Falconbridge,  Philip,       .         Bastard  Son  to  King  Richard  L, 
Falconbridge,  Robert,       .         Son  to  Sir  Robert  Falconbridge, 

Falstaff,  Sir  John, 

Falstaff,  Sir  John,  . 

Fang,     . 

Fastolfe,  Sir  John, . 


"A  Sheriffs  Officer,     . 


King  John. 

King  Richard  II. 

King  Henry  V. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Pts.  I.,  II. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Parti. 

King  Richard  III. 

King  Henry  VIII. 

King  Henry  IV. ,  Part  II. 

King  Henry  V. 

Henry  VI.,  Pts.  I.,  II.,  III. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Pts.  I.,  II. 

King  Henry  V. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Pts.  L,  II. 

King  Richard  III. 

King  Lear. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 

King  Lear. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  I. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Parti. 

King  Richard  II. 

King  Richard  III. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 

King  Richard  III. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 

Measure  for  Measure. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 

King  John. 

King  Richard  III. 

King  Richard  III. 

King  Henry  V. 

Othello. 

Winter's  Tale. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

King  Henry  V. 

Measure  for  Measure. 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 

Pericles. 

King  John. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

King  Henry  V. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  IIL 

As  You  Like  It. 

Twelfth  Night. 

King  John. 

King  John. 

King  John. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Pts.  I.,  II. 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  I. 


1288 


INDEX  TO  THE  CHARACTERS  IN 


Feeble,    .         .  .':»fwl 

King  Henry  IV.  ,  Part  II. 

Fenton,  .         .      :,•». 
Ferdinand^  '  r.  (    :  .  •  -  , 
Ferdinand, 
Fitz-Peter,  Geoffrey, 

.;iJ'i       A  Young  Gentleman, 
ij.'iwl      King  of  Navarre, 
Son  to  the  King  of  Naples,     ;l!  "»O 
SniX  ;  Earl  of  Essex,    .... 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 
Love's  Labour  's  Lost. 
The  Tempest. 
King  John. 
King  Richard  II. 

Flaminius,  "  .  r.:'-..-li 
Flavius,       71.  ;:.,..  'I 
Flavins,       ."/.  ./-'  :_>JI  ; 
Fleance,  .         .       VI  71 
Florence,  Duke  of,  . 

:;riivL      Servant  to  Timon, 
gfliX      A  Roman  Tribune,     .     ;'>],  sd  VO 
inLX      Steward  to  Timon,     .     '    . 
nail      Son  to  Banquo,  .   ji;  .'.    x-'<L  s  •;  j:  > 

Timon  of  Athens. 
Julius  Caesar. 
Timon  of  Athens. 
Macbeth. 
All's  Well  that  Ends  Well. 
All  's  Well  that  Ends  Well. 

Florizel,  . 
Fluellen,       J\p&&\ 
Flute,     .        -nfiihiSL  ; 
^br^,  J/r.,     .      -jj  ^ 
/^«/,  ^/rj-.,    .       sH  j 
Fortinbras,     .       t*I  j 
France,  King  of  ,  >\\  * 
France,  King  of  ,     . 

jfiw!       Son  to  Polixenes,        .   .  ?>i  .;.;['  k  » 
£pt>I       Officer  in  King's  Army, 
ulfai-i       The  Bellowsmender,  . 
jni/i       A  Gentleman  Dwelling  at  Windsor, 

jd^      Prince  of  Norway,      .     '-   *   .;-.'•: 

Winter's  Tale. 
King  Henry  V. 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 
Hamlet. 
All  's  Well  that  Ends  Well. 
King  Lear. 
Love's  Labour  's  Lost. 

Francisca,     Ix/:;-^!  ; 
Francisco,     '  .  ^  noil  ^ 
Francisco,     t  .-nrtaH  J 
Frederick,        .     .jjf]  r 
Friar  John,     .       /s,[  ; 
Friar  Lawrence,   •.,.-.. 
Froth,     .      )fW9lift.V)< 

A  Nun,      .         .  .,.^7/--J.  ,„;,-, 
|0i#       A  Soldier,  .         .         *:.jjf5J.oi  n«8 
•  .  v;       A  Lord  of  Naples,      .         .    ,  ;  »- 
i:aiJ£      Brother  to  the  Exiled  Duke, 
jfiKtf      A  Franciscan,    .   <  .;r!'»r  f:^j  ^./,.<>W. 
f;if/[      A  Franciscan,     .    .ii'i^H.  r.-j«-f.>ri;»'-i 
,vjbT      A  Foolish  Gentleman,     ^  j:.  ,-./_ 

Measure  for  Measure. 
Hamlet. 
The  Tempest. 
As  You  Like  It. 
Romeo  and  Juliet. 
Romeo  and  Juliet. 
Measure  for  Measure. 

Gadshill,        .  .{•If:.^i  oni;-{ 

Galhis,  .         .  .nil->T  gm*£ 

Gardiner, 

Gargrave,  Sir  Thomas,  . 

Geoffrey  Fitz-Peter, 

George,  .... 

George,  .         .N.T  fh^c.iJf 

George,  .         .  i  rapport*  A 

Gertrude, 

Ghost  of  Hamlets  Father, 

Glansdale,  Sir  William, 

Glendower,  Owen, .,  ^ra^/L 

Gloster,  Duchess  of, . 

Gloster,  Duke  of,     »[  ^nr^ 

Gloster,  Duke  of,    ,/ao j  •>/. 

Gloster,  Duke  of,     . 

Gloster,  Earl  of,     . 

Gloster,  Prince  Htimphrey 

Gobbo,  Launcelot,    . 

Gobbo,  Old,     . 

Gonerili 

Gonzalo, 

Gower,  .... 

Gower,   . 

Cower,   .         .         .yivjl/I 

Grandpree,      .         •i\\:1JI 

Gratiano,        .         .         , 


Follower  of  Sir  John  Falsiaff, 
Friend  to  Caesar,  j.;.;1  -C:  *j  >d 
Bishop  of  Winchester,  c>  . 

Earl  of  Essex,    . 

A  Follower  of  Cade,  . 

Duke  of  Clarence,      .        ,v; .,. 

Duke  of  Clarence,      .         »;; 

Queen  of  Denmark,    .    ,.o>^i 


Brother  to  King  Henry  V. , 
Uncle   and    Protector    to    King 

Henry  VI 

Afterwards  King  Richard  III.,    . 

of,  Son  to  King  Henry  IV.,     . 
Servant  to  Shylock,    . 
Father  to  Launcelot  Gobbo, 
Daughter  to  King  Lear,      .^'/Wl 
Councillor  of  Naples,. :   -,  rf\z\r.ti 
As  Chorus,         .         .         .-     ,  v 
Of  the  King's  Party,  T,      '. .  %: 
Officer  in  King's  Army       .  ^      ', 
A  French  Lord, 
Brother  to  Brabantio, 


King  Henry  IV.,  Part  I. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

King  Henry  VIII. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Parti. 

King  John. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 

King  Richard  III. 

Hamlet. 

Hamlet. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Parti. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  I. 

King  Richard  II. 

King  Henry  V. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 

King  Richard  III. 

King  Lear. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 

Merchant  of  Venice. 

Merchant  of  Venice. 

King  Lear. 

The  Tempest. 

Pericles. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 

King  Henry  V. 

King  Henry  V. 

Othello. 


SHAKESPEARE'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS. 


1289 


Gratiano,        c      •">£'•'      r,..- 

Friend  to  Antonio  and  Bassanio, 

Merchant  of  Venice. 

Green,    .         .',     .     ;   •  ••"''- 

"  Creature  "  to  King  Richard  II., 

King  Richard  II. 

Gregory,        ''/''T*'.    •  "'*•  '  • 

Servant  to  Capulet,     .         .     •  ~1  / 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 

. 
Gremio,  .         .         .         J/S 

Suitor  to  Bianca, 

Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

Grey,  Lady,    .         .      ;;*"/• 

Queen  to  King  Edward  IV.  , 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 

Grey,  I^ord,    . 

King  Richard  III. 

Grey,  Sir  Thomas, 

A  Conspirator,   .... 

King  Henry  V. 

Griffith,       '«*•»'    ••':»    "'  v--' 

Gentleman-  Usher  to  Queen  Katharine 

,King  Henry  VIII. 

Grumio, 

Servant  to  Petruchio, 

Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

Guiderius,      .         .         »-•' 

Son  to  Cymbeline,      .         .    -"•'•j  '1. 

Cymbeline. 

Guildenstern  ,           .        >'-'* 

A  Courtier,   '-'~    ,  *  '{i*sJ  «H  3  ;irvj!>r 

Hamlet. 

Gttildford,  Sir  Henry,  ^y*. 

.   •".*/•.  :  £'sA  yi  '-"j  'jtflC' 

King  Henry  VIII. 

Gurney,  James, 

Servant  to  Lady  Falconbridge,    . 

King  John. 

Hamlet,       .'l^'.il     .*'.>./• 

Prince  of  Denmark,    .    "'.-*  hio.1  "A 

Hamlet. 

Harcourt,        .         .         i  »f  ' 

Of  the  King's  Party,  .    "J  iyjHgurf 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  11. 

Hastings,  Lord,      .       j>-"-'; 

Enemy  to  the  King,    .   ,  o/.  1  -  iy«j! 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 

Hastings,  Lord,      '.M  ;;yi^ 

Of  the  Duke's  Party,  .    r  ;    !  o'i  /. 

Kfng  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 

King  Richard  III. 

Hecate,  .                ~t  o^r  :;.•>;•' 

A  Witch,   .         .         .    •  .;,^n/n''l7, 

Macbeth. 

Hector,  .                ••'.''''•;,;- 

Son  to  Priam,    .... 

Troilus  and  Cressida. 

Helen,    .                  .        ;»:'*; 

Woman  to  Imogen,    .   u;.l.lo  -br-UCt 

Cymbeline. 

Helen 

Wife  to  Menelaus,      .   -rii>l  o?  e*? 

Troilus  and  Cressida. 

Helena,  .           '    ,^'v   •  '?•"•'  -'^ 

A  Gentlewoman,    fi  ';   !TI  --JT  <  J  tor 

All  's  Well  that  Ends  Well. 

Helena,  .       T  /   /-  .-;  >  ^r^i 

In  Love  with  Demetrius,    .     •"  '*  1. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

Helenus,         •  rrrabgbO    .,.'] 

Son  to  Priam,     .   *.;    ^    '  :  4  /bn  I  7 

Troilus  and  Cressida. 

Helicanus,     -  ••':  *>.-'.*  i-.--?:.^}/ 

A  Lord  of  Tyre,          .         ... 

Pericles. 

Henry,  .                 •  r  •'•••:;i"V-! 

Earl  of  Richmond, 

King  Richard  III. 

Henry  Bolingbroke, 

Afterwards  King  Henry  IV., 

King  Richard  II. 

Henry,  Earl  of  Richmond, 

A  Youth,  

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 

Henry  Percy,           .        v  f': 

Son  to  Earl  of  Northumberland, 

King'  Richard  II. 

Henry  Percy  (Hotspur), 

Son  to  Earl  of  Northumberland, 

King  Henry  IV.,  Pts.  I.,  II. 

Henry  Percy, 

Earl  of  Northumberland,     . 

King  Henry  IV.,  Pts.  I.,  II. 

Henry,  Prince,        .       .!»"-- 
Henry,  Prince  of  Wales, 

Son  to  King  John,      .         .    "•'•*"'. 
Son  to  King  Henry  IV.,     .  "foU  A 

King  John. 
King  Henry  IV.,  Pts.  I.,  1  1. 

Henry  IV.,  King,  .         r  J 

King  Henry  IV.,  Pts.  I.,  II. 

King  Henry  V. 

Henry  VI.,  King,  .        I0L-I 

King  Henry  VI.,  Pts.  I.,  II. 

Henry  VIII.,  King,       ;'-  : 

..... 

King  Henry  VIII. 

Herbert,  Sir  Walter, 

King  Richard  III. 

Hermia,                   .         ^  - 

Daughter  to  Egeus,    . 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

Hermione,                .      ;-> 

Queen  to  Sicilia, 

Winter's  Tale. 

Hero, 

Daughter  to  Leonato, 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

Hippolyta, 
Holofernes, 

Queen  of  the  Amazons, 
A  Schoolmaster, 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 
Love's  Labour's  Lost. 

Horatio, 

Friend  to  Hamlet, 

Hamlet. 

Horner,  Thomas,    . 

An  Armourer,    .... 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 

Hortensio, 

Suitor  to  Bianca, 

Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

Hortensius,               .       :'i£/1 

Timon  of  Athens. 

Hostess,  . 

Character  in  the  Induction, 

Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

Hostess  Quickly,      . 

Hostess  of  a  Tavern,  .         .       ^  '/*/ 

King  Henry  IV.,  Pts.  I.,  II. 

Hotspur  (Henry  Percy), 

Son  to  Earl  of  Northumberland, 

King  Henry  IV.,  Pts.  I.,  II. 

Hubert  de  Burgh,   . 

Chamberlain  to  King  John,  :'jd:»7.f 

King  John. 

Hume,    .         .         «.'-". 

A  Priest,    ....   inui> 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 

Humphrey,  Duke  of  Gloster,    Uncle  to  King  Henry  VI., 
Humphrey,  Prince  o/  Gfaster,Son  to  Henry  IV.,      .        .-'.  c 
Huntsmen^     .         .        .         Characters  in  the  Induction, 


King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 
King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 
Taming  of  the  Shrew. 


1 290 


INDEX  TO  THE  CHARACTERS  IN 


lachimo, 

lago, 

Iden,  Alexander, 

Imogen, .       •  »  < 

Iras, 

Iris,       .       IJ>ij 

Isabel,    . 

Isabella,       '> . .   v 


Friend  to  Philario, 
Ancient  to  Othello,    . 
A  Kentish  Gentleman, 
Daughter  to  Cymbeline, 
Attendant  on  Cleopatra, 
A  Spirit,    . 
Queen  of  France, 
Sister  to  Claudio, 


Katharine,  Princess, 
Katharine,  Queen, 
Kent,  Earl  of, 
King  Edward  IV. , 
King  Henry  IV.,   . 
King  Henry  V., 
King  Henry  VI.,   . 
King  Henry  VI II., 
King  John,     . 
King  of  France,     .«.! 
King  of  France, 
King  Richard  II. , . 
King  Richard  III. , 


Lady  Anne,  4T  v^-nj 
Lady  Capulet, 
Lady  Fakonbridge, 

Lady  Grey,    /  \\\\\ 
Lady  Macbeth, 
Lady  Macduff, 


Cymbeline. 

Othello. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 

Cymbeline. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

The  Tempest. 

King  Henry  V. 

Measure  for  Measure. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 

King  John. 

King  Henry  V. 

Love's  Labour 's  Lost. 

As  You  Like  It. 

As  You  Like  It. 

Merchant  of  Venice. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Parti. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 

King  John. 

King  Richard  II. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Pts.  I.,  II. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  I. 

King  Henry  VI. ,  Part  II. 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 

Measure  for  Measure. 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 

Julius  Caesar. 

Coriolanus. 

The  Tempest. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 

Taming  of  the  Shrew. 


of  France,       ....         Love's  Labour 's  Lost. 
Daughter  to  Chas.  VI.,  King  of  France,  King  Henry  V. 
Wife  to  King  Henry  VIII.,         .         King  Henry  VIII. 

King  Lear. 

King  Richard  III. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Pts.  I.,  II. 

King  Henry  V. 

Henry  VI.,  Pts.  I.,  II.,  III. 

King  Henry  VIII. 

King  John. 

All's  Well  that  Ends  Well. 

King  Lear. 

King  Richard  II. 
.         King  Richard  III. 

Widow  to  Edward  Prince  of  Wales,  King  Richard  III. 

Wife  to  Capulet,         .         .         .  Romeo  and  Juliet. 
Mother  to  Robert  and  Philip  Fal- 

conbridge,       ....  King  John. 
Afterwards  Queen  to  King  Edward  IV.,  King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 

Wife  to  Macbeth,       .         .         ,  Macbeth. 

Wife  to  Macduff,        .        .        .  Macbeth. 


J  CtC  /V      \s  U'W'C'  9                 .                        •                        • 

James  Gurney,       ,.  .telrriel  1 

Servant  to  Lady  Falconbridge,   . 

Jamy,     .         .      fns>[(  v*M 

Officer  in  King's  Army, 

Jaquenetta,     .      grfo{  ,  ^sDi 

A  Country  Wench,     .         .  inavjis? 

Jaques,  .         .         .        '. 

Son  to  Sir  Rowland  de  Bois, 

Jaques,  .         .         .Jufmell 

A  Lord  attendant  on  Exiled  Duke, 

Jessica,  .         .      >!-*iJ  i^,,1 

Daughter  to  Shylock, 

Joan  la  Puce  lie,     ru.-H  ;:>-./? 

Joan  of  Arc,       .         .   f|j  oi  vm*n!: 

John,      .       <  Y  <->'tt>fl  jj*'V 

A  Follower  of  Cade,  .         .    brfiH 

John,  Don,     .        .«    '  j%iii; 

Bastard  Brother  to  Don  Pedro,   . 

John,  Friar,  . 

A  Franciscan,     .... 

John,  King,    .      •'*•.  x  •  :»VJ 

....    -IJUtJl  Ol  iHOr 

John  of  Gaunt,        .      ':«•/'"< 

Duke  of  Lancaster,     .    ;.M;n»m*)'/« 

John,  Prince  of  Lancaster, 

Son  to  King  Henry  IV.,     .    3  sti'f. 

John  Talbot,  . 

Son  to  Lord  Talbot,  . 

Jourdain,  Margery,       ->&i!/! 

A  Witch,  .         .         .    r,-.?v<    I  n 

Julia,     .         .         .      <!ifc-..'i 

A  Lady  of  Verona,     . 

Juliet,    .... 

Juliet,    .         .       rfviifl  S0LH 

Daughter  to  Capulet,      i-urV  !  »  ?*«' 

Julius  Ctzsar, 

.  -.""•*  t  y!:'i^J.  '  •.:>iA^v.ji'-vh'^}':t 

Junius  Brutus,    •(;«!•{  £«(>' 

Tribune  of  the  People,        .     j-.'*  / 

Juno,      .         .      <<ii/l'3«i;H 

A  Spirit,    .         .     /  i-    i-;  .;rf{  o  j  io< 

Justice  Shallow, 

A  Country  Justice,      .    ia.it  o:  *oc 

Katharina,     .     .'irio"!  f'jit>A 

The  Shrew,        .         .         .      ;  *<_' 

Katharine,      .      :  n*  H  '  ga  '  >f 

A  Lady  attending  on  the  Princess 

SHAKESPEARE'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS. 


1291 


Lady  Montague,      «  •'•>•    »• 
Lady  Mortimer,      .        v 
Lady  Northumberland,    . 
Lady  Percy.    . 
Laertes,  .... 
Lafeu,    .         .         J!-:-i    lr 
Lancaster,  Duke,  of 
Lancaster,  Prince  John  of 
Launce,  .... 
Launcelot  Gobbo,     .-  r.mfi 
Lawrence,  Friar,    .ftoBtigl 
Lavinia,         .  -;  i  a  s  ^  »  3><  vi 


Le  Beau,        •*iwaqHi 

Lennox,  .         .>: 

Leonardo, 

Leonato,          .         .  ' 
Leonatus^Posthunius, 
Leonine,          .         .' 
Leontes,  ... 
Lepidus,  M. 
Ligarius, 

Lincoln,  Bishop  of, 
' 


Wife  to  Montague,     .  O'V^.i 
Daughter  to  Glendower,     . 

Wife  to  Hotspur, 
Son  to  Polonius, 
An  Old  Lord,    . 
Uncle  to  King  Richard  II., 
Son  to  King  Henry  IV.,     . 
Servant  to  Proteus,    .  i  f  '  . 
Servant  to  Shylock,   ,      :  !. 
A  Franciscan,    .         .  *   '  i- 
Daughter  to  Titus, 
King  of  Britain,         -v-'^  '-* 
A  Courtier,         .  ^    J  "'•'-'  4'- 
A  Scottish  Nobleman,  •->  '-if 
Servant  to  Bassanio,  . 
Governor  of  Messina,      -••>  ^ 
Husband  to  Imogen,  ,    r'  *. 
Servant  to  Dionyza,    .     ••  V 
King  of  Sicilia,  .  PwjDJiM  e 
A  Triumvir,        ,        »  <  '>* 
A  Roman  Conspirator, 


Lodovico, 
Longaville, 


Romeo  and  Juliet. 

King  Henry  IV.,  PartL 

King  Henry  IV.,,  Part  II. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  I. 

Hamlet 

All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well. 

King  Richard  II. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Pts,Ly  II. 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona, 

Merchant  of  Venice. 

Romeo  and  Juliet 

Titus  Andronicus. 

King  Lear. 

As  You  Like  It 

Macbeth. 

Merchant  of  Venice. 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

Cymbeline. 

Pericles. 

Winter's  Tale. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

Julius  Caesar. 

King  Henry  VIIL 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

Othello. 


A  Character  in  the  Interlude 

Kinsman  to  Brabantio, 

A  Lord  attendant  on  the  King  of 

Navarre,      •  -JO •"'-'•;'        .         .  Love's  Labour's  Lost 

Longsivord,  William,      .         Earl  of  Salisbury,     ^>n<\<o      .  King  John. 

Lord,  A,         .       -/      J1;'        Character  in  the  Induction,          .  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

Lord  Abergavenny,      M\\\}\       ....      .         .       ;.jT  *.%v!rj;l./'  King  Henry  VIIL 

Lord  Bardolph,       .         .         Enemy  to  the  Kingr  Y~>  r^        ,  King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 

Lord  Chief-Justice, .         .         Of  the  King's  Bench,       §O«foi<iHA  King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 

Lord  Clifford,      ui% I  , ;.  y !       Of  the  King's  Party,  iwy  I^o  h^'i  King  Henry VI.,  Pts.  II.,  III. 

Lord  Fitzwater,      .  ;  ^  .  ^i;<t»^  pujje-v'  King  Richard  1 1. 

Lord  Grey,      .         .         .         Son  to  Lady  Grey,    \ fv"  ^i'^:> -v  King  Richard  III. 

Lord  Hastings  r    •  *\.\  -:\±\ ^;nf?.:j  King  Richard  III. 

Lord  Hastings,       •'»'  ; ;- 'vi       Enemy  to  the  King,  '&  o«. wo'   <;V  King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 

Zprfl?  Hastings,      •  U  ;  ^  v  •       Of  the  Duke's  Party, .         .         .  King  Henry  VI.,  Part  IIL 

LordLovel,     .        v      ;'-» King  Richard  III. 

Lord  Mewbray^       U  ^u1^       Enemy  to  the  King,   .       .  **\?1  j:-  King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 

Lord  Rivers,  .         .         .         Brother  to  Lady  Grey,        «    -  I/-  King  Henry  VI.,  Part  IIL 

Lord  Ross, .  King  Richard  II. 

Lord  Sands, ,  King  Henry  VIIL 

Lord  Say,       .        %  ?.'  Itf.       .  ,     % King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 

Z0r<a?  5«z/^,    .  -oi  t>/inas»V-       Governor  of  the  Tower,      ^C  sii'i"  King  Henry  VL,  Part  II. 

Lord  Scroop,  .         &3ni£f       A  Conspirator,   ....  King  Henry  V. 

Lord  Stajford,         <$  yni/I       Of  the  Duke's  Party, .         .  •:  .«jfc  King  Henry  VLT  Psart  IIL 

Lord  Stanley,         -U  a^'       .  •' •  -    "^ s  King  Richard  III. 

Zord?  Talbet,  .         :      ••»-.       Afterwards  Earl  of  Shrewsbury,  .  King  Henry  VTM  Part  I. 

Lord  Wilkughby,   ......         ^Ji'J.o;  rtqe  King  Richard  II. 

Lorenzo,.         .         .         .         The  Lover  of  Jessica .         .         ,  Merchant  of  Venice. 

Louis,  the  Dauphin, *3&  oj^ooiv  King  John. 

Z<wzV,  ^<?  Dauphin, King  Henry  V. 

Louis  XL,     .         .         .         King  of  France,       sroQ^  oj>ni)ivl  King  Henry  VL,  Part  IIL 

Lovel,  Lord, ij^sq^C^  oj>i3ivi  King  Richard  III. 

Lovell,  Sir  Thomas,        .         .         .         .         .       y/.  oJ^flJo^  King  Henry  VIIL 

.         Servant  to  Luciana,  QJ  o3  jMiaixl  Comedy  of  Errors. 


1292 


INDEX  TO  THE  CHARACTERS  IN 


Lucentio,    ".j[  or:;-.?-    mvi 
Lucetta,      '/I.TpcfslI  ;,ntX 
Luciana,        I.'/i-n^tl  ^n!vl 
Lucilius,        I.     <•  ,  •:••  1  1  gni/f 
Lucilitts,         .        .a'gim.&ri 
Lucio,     .        v  !</£/  ?.MIA 

Son  to  Vincentio,        .    M  *.•'  ott"*Y 
Waiting-  woman  to  Julia,     .    ^    »-;  { 
Sister  to  Adriana, 
Friend  to  Brutus  and  Cassius, 
Servant  to  Timon,      ,    V.-H-ot  fK*fJ 
A  Fantastic,        .         .         .  Q  ;V. 
A  Lord  :  Flatterer  of  Timon 

Taming  of  the  Shrew. 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona, 
Comedy  of  Errors. 
Julius  Caesar. 
Timon  of  Athens. 
Measure  for  Measure. 

Lucius  ,  .       ''  L  vinr»H  yriH 

A  Servant,          .         .     -  '. 

Timon  of  Athens. 

Lucius,  .       •;?•»••  :  ;•;*>'»  i:r«T 
Lucius,  .       7.K,  jfw;ff--::C  : 
Luculhis,        .         .    .na£I 
Lucy,  Sir  William,      vii'T 

Servant  to  Brutus, 
Son  to  Titus,      .         .          tris-nrt 
A  Lord  .•  Flatterer  of  Timon, 

Julius  Caesar. 
Titus  Andronicus. 
Timon  of  Athens. 
King  Henry  VI     Part  I 

Lychorida, 
Ly  sander,     r  *>>ILf  *;oY  aA 
Lysimachus,  .       .''tteijoaM 

Macbeth,        .'A  obA  rkn/l/T 
Macbeth,  Lady,    -rUaJm/) 
Macduff,         .        .asbiWf 
Macduff,  Lady,      ^tainii'Y 
Macmorris,     .       •  -,  .vr;-  ->  rr»  A 
Malcolm,         .       :i)  ^i/r(tj^ 
Malvolio,      /.vin^II  ijiiiH 
Mamillius, 
Marc  Antony,        '*oil-  diO 

Nurse  to  Marina,    .    •*      f  }<;  V  -vi 
In  Love  with  Hermione,     .      'j  ./ 

Governor  of  Mitylene,     •;  -.;*,,,  --;>../.. 

General  of  the  King's  Army, 
Wife  to  Macbeth,        .      fourl-iiU 
A  Scottish  Nobleman,    .  ;  .         *- 
Wife  to  Macduff,         .  n-:  k-  gnfcH 
Officer  in  King's  Army,       .    iT^x 
Son  to  King  Duncan,       fomt/A  «\ 
Steward  to  Olivia,       .         .         .  . 
Son  to  Leontesj       m-rtJ-jjw^riO^. 

Pericles. 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream 
Pericles. 

Macbeth. 
Macbeth. 
Macbeth. 
Macbeth. 
King  Henry  V. 
Macbeth. 
Twelfth  Night. 
Winter's  Tale. 
Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

Marcellus, 

An  Officer,          .         .   •  =  ,  •  i  <,   ]  %- 

Hamlet. 

March,  Earl  of,     j.  >V/c*I 
MarciuSf   Young, 
Marcus  Andronicits,      .fj»T 
Marcus  Antonius,  . 
Marcus  Brutus,  •  -\\  [  yfeA 
Mardictn,        .       ,\\  ^r.'»~/l 
Mareshall,  William,     aVA 
Margarelon,    .       >\X  ^tri'l 
Margaret,        .       j'tirl  v'fft>j; 
Margaret,       r*:  ,rf-)i-.i  -jifriX 
Margaret,       .       -^H  :?  -v-r 
Margaret,  Queen,   .        :l>. 
Margaret,       .       -)i^{  ^ifi/L 
Margery  Jourdain, 
Maria,  .      "/,7Tn3iI  paii/r 

Edward  Mortimer,      .    g.-sc/K/l* 
Son  to  Coriolanus,      .       x  .     h  s»:i 
Tribune:  Brother  to  Titus,    .ir.iilJ 
A  Roman  Triumvir,   . 
A  Roman  Conspirator,    oj^/.-notki 
Attendant  on  Cleopatra,      .     'j  V 
Earl  of  Pembroke,      .    .;iTt  y:-'j  V 
Bastard  Son  to  Priam, 
Daughter  to  Reignier,          .    :  &+--. 
Queen  to  King  Henry  VI., 
Widow  to  King  Henry  VI.,      rj>i 

Attendant  on  Hero,    . 
A  Witch,    ....   ru,;*! 
A  Lady  attending  on  the  Princess 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  I. 
Coriolanus. 
Titus  Andronicus. 
Julius  Caesar. 
Julius  Caesar. 
Antony  and  Cleopatra. 
King  John. 
Troilus  and  Cressida. 
King  Henry  VI.,  Parti. 
King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 
King  Richard  III. 
King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 
Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 
King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 

Love's  Labour  's  Lost. 

Maria,   .      'f.'pa-jll  ^n'&l 
Mariana,        .       ,>II  ptri/T 
Mariana,      /Vn;MH^:::i'i 
Marina,       ~  f.  ^a^lT  •  -ni/f 
Marquis  of  Dorset,      ijw-1 
Marquis  of  Montague, 
Martext,  Sir  Oliver, 

Attendant  on  Olivia,  . 
Neighbour  to  Widow  of  Florence, 
The  Betrothed  of  Angelo,   .      /  _^  > 
Daughter  to  Pericles,  .    nicmoO  *'. 
Son  to  Lady  Grey,      .  -IjjCku/fi  V> 
Of  the  Duke's  Party,  .  .       .... 

Twelfth  Night. 
All  's  Well  that  Ends  Well. 
Measure  for  Measure. 
Pericles. 
King  Richard  III. 
King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III- 
As  You  Like  It. 

Martius, 

Son  to  Titus,      .         .      '~l.\      . 

Titus  Andronicus. 

Marullus,    '7  ^  jrrjfffoaeJ/! 
Mecaenas,        .         .       -i»  [ 
Melun,  .          .         .       :ii{ 
Menas,   .... 
Menecrates,   f.-r-'ilif  gnijf 
Menelatts,       .        .if  ;jr^vi 
Menenius  Agrippa,       -^ 

A  Roman  Tribune, 
Friend  to  Caesar,          .        ...    '    .  . 
A  French  Lord,           .  .  j«  .  .    ^  .  , 
Friend  to  Pompey, 
Friend  to  Pompey, 
Brother  to  Agamemnon, 
Friend  to  Coriolanus,. 

Julius  Caesar. 
Antony  and  Cleopatra. 
King  John. 
Antony  and  Cleopatra. 
Antony  and  Cleopatra. 
Troilus  and  Cressida. 
Coriolanus. 

SHAKESPEARE'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS. 


1293 


Menteith,        ...         A  Scottish  Nobleman, 
Mercadc,                                     A  Lord  attending  on  the  Princes 
of  France, 
Merctitio,        .         .         .         Friend  to  Romeo, 
Messala,          .         .         .         Friend  to  Brutus  and  Cassius, 
Metellus  Cimber,     .         .         A  Roman  Conspirator, 
Michael,          ...         A  Follower  of  Cade,   . 
Michael,  Sir,          ,         .         Friend  to  Archbishop  of  York, 
Milan,  Duke  of,      .         .         Father  to  Silvia,     i*i*>l 
Miranda,        .         .         .         Daughter  to  Prospero, 
Mr.  Ford,       .         .         .         A  Gentleman  dwellmgat  Windsor 
Mrs.  Ford,     .raca  ';"    :«-  t    . 

Macbeth. 
lA 

Love's  Labour  's  Lost. 
Romeo  and  Juliet. 
Julius  Caesar. 
Julius  Caesar. 
King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 
King  Henry  IV.  ,  Parts  I.  ,  It 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 
The  Tempest, 
i.  :      Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

Mrs.  Overdone,       .         .         A  Bawd,    .... 

Measure  for  Measure. 

Mr.  Page,       ...         A  Gentleman  dwelling  at  Wind 

Meriy  Wives  of  Windsor. 

Mrs.  Page,      .1  !-•.<«'•  -•!•••;,•  >.•••• 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

Mrs.  Anne  Page,    . 
Mrs.  Quickly, 
Mrs.  Quickly,         J-J  gtai 
Mrs.  Quickly,          Ji  ^lu! 
Montague, 

Montague,  Marquis  of,    . 
Montague,  Lady, 
Montana, 

Montgomery,  Sir  John,    . 
Moonshine,     .z^.'ivy  \riai 
Mopsa,  .... 
Morgan,     •     .    ..f;t\&\  .ytni. 
Morocco,  Prince  of, . 
Mortimer,  Edmund, 
Mortimer,  Edmund, 
Mortimer,  Lady,     . 
Mortimer,  Sir  Hugh, 
Mortimer,  Sir  John, 
Morton,  John,         t  v:  J; -iV 
Morton, .         .         t/fn&h£| 
Moth,     .        V.Tiuij/vrn*' 


Mouldy,          .         .  ^  ;<>;iiJ. 
Mount  joy,      -'.  \ -, ; :  -  J ;   .: .  jj; 
Mowbray,  Thomas, 
Mowbray,  Lord, 
Mtistardseed,  . 
Mutius,          ..-.  ••    . 

Nathaniel,  Sir,       -hy.aiy 
Nerissa,  .         *sbh*c 

Nestor,  .  .  *rjzBa& 
Norfolk,  Duke  of,  .  .v 
Norfolk,  Duke  of,  .  ;; 
Norfolk,  Duke  of,  . 
Northumberland,  Lady,  . 
Northumberland,  Ear  I  of, 
Northumberland,  Ear  I  of, 
Northumberland,  Ear  I  of, 
Northumberland,  Ear  I  of, 
Nurse  of  Juliet, 


Daughter  to  Mrs.  Page, 

Hostess  of  a  Tavern, . 

A  hostess  :  Wife  to  Pistol, 

Servant  to  Dr.  Caius, 

At  variance  with  Capulet,  . 

Of  the  Duke's  Party, 

Wife  to  Montague, 

Othello's  Predecessor  in  Office, 

A  Character  in  the  Interlude, 
A  Shepherdess, . 
Belarius  in  disguise,    . 
Suitor  to  Portia,  .        ...:nj 

Earl  of  March,    .         .     .IvLoj 
Earl  of  March,    .         .     ,  T^ 
Daughter  to  Glendower, 
Uncle  to  Duke  of  York, 
Uncle  to  Duke  of  York, 
Bishop  of  Ely,    . 
Servant  to  Northumberland, 
A  Fairy,     .         .         .     ;iiv,,r- 
Page  to  Armado,    r^aiA    * 
A  Recruit,  .        >v  M  fnu 

A  French  Herald,       .     V*  •» 
Duke  of  Norfolk,  .y^>:.  '.'_. . 
Enemy  to  the  King,   .    -^  <-••« 
A  Fairy,      .... 
Son  to  Titus, 


A  Curate,  . 

Waiting-maid  to  Portia, 
A  Grecian  Commander, 

Of  the  Duke's  Party,  . 


Enemy  to  the  King,   . 

Henry  Percy, 

Of  the  King's  Party,  . 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

King  Henry  IV. ,  Parts  I. ,  II. 

King  Henry  V. 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 

Othello. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

Winter's  Tale. 

Cymbeline. 

Merchant  of  Venice. 

King  Henry  IV.    Part  I. 

King  Henry  VI.    Part  I. 

King  Henry  IV.    Part  I. 

King  Henry  VI.    Part  III. 

King  Henry  VI.    Part  III. 

King  Richard  III. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

Love's  Labour 's  Lost. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 

King  Henry  V. 

King  Richard  II. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

Titus  Andronicus. 

Love 's  Labour 's  Lost. 
Merchant  of  Venice. 
Troilus  and  Cressida. 
King  Richard  II.  and  III. 
King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 
King  Henry  VIII. 
King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 
King  Richard  II. 
King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 
King  Henry  IV. ,  Parts  I. ,  IL 
King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 
Romeo  and  Juliet. 


1394 


INDEX  TO  THE  CHARACTERS  IN 


Nym,     .        .      4J->cb,pJ-* 
Nym,     .        .   ,    .   ,v-» 

Oberon,  .         .         .     fl|^ 
Octavia,  .         .       S:V  ^jjifl 
Octavius  Cccsar-,    !v  BU1»%1 
Octavius  Ccesar, 
Old  Go&fo,  -v.l  on^HsnjX 
Oliver,  .         .    >Ja^O  07/T 
Olivia,  .        ^oqapf  stfT 

Orl&nao^          . 

Orleans,  Duke  of,    . 
Orsino,  .... 

Osric,  •  '  '•  j  i  "*  •'  '  /  -1  vi  Vj  y  n  4!  /. 
Oswald,       lo/i'jvfV/  YJ-'-^V 

Soldier  in  King's  Army, 
A  Follower  of  Falstaff,        .  icx  :.  '. 

King  of  the  Fairies,    . 
Wife  to  Antony,     ttrtin3  oj  La*jji'%[ 
A  Roman  Triumvir,  .    ;  riji^'t  ;I.A 
A  Roman  Triumvir,   .    ir-j'Afr.  .K-.'i.  A 
Father  to  Lamicelot  Gobbo,  Dnay'i 
Son  to  Sir  Rowland  de  Bois, 
A  Rich  Countess,        .     ^  i^uI^i^'J 
Daughter  to  Polonius,         .  '.-.•:  •-'«  ' 
Son  to  Sir  Rowland  de  Bois, 

Duke  of  Illy  ria,  .         .   .  '  1  1  ui  J  no  i  A  /  : 
A  Courtier,         .         .         .    ,104 

King  Henry  V. 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream 
Antony  and  Cleopatra. 
Julius  Caesar. 
Antony  and  Cleopatra. 
Merchant  of  Venice. 
As  You  Like  It. 
Twelfth  Night. 
Hamlet. 
As  You  Like  It. 
King  Henry  V.. 
Twelfth  Night. 
Hamlet. 
King  Lear. 

Othello,  .       '-»^sr/r// 
Overdone,  Mrs.    '  •'-•*'  r:'V/; 

The  Moor,         .         .     i  v.'f^ii^I 
A  Bawd,    .         .         .  iV.^.,   :,,.)• 

Othello. 
Measure  for  Measure. 

0w£«  Glendower,    . 
Oxford,  Duke  of,     . 
Oxford,  Earl  of,   •'  V  '•  •  "  :  V;( 

/V*»  ^»   '•il>r»i0'-'"V>r 

Of  the  King's  Party,  .      oi.Jncviaa 
A  Gentleman  dwellingat  Windsor, 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  I. 
King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III 
King  Richard  III. 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

/fc^,  /J^rj.  Anne,   . 
Page,  William, 
Pandarus,       .      '   gSirtniW 
Pandulph,  Cardinal,      (y  -* 
Panthino,     '•-     V>  !<j£fhr;k 
Paris,     .      •'!  'i?  «'-'«"  I  8*4? 

Parolles,       1  \  {inaj  {  v  :;  .  -i 
Patience,         4  vin-^I  ;^ry>i 
Patroclus,       •  vinaji  ^;f4^ 
Paulina^     ''     ".A-ii^J  gf^X 
Peasblossom,         ifrsyrt  ^(^A 
Pedant,  . 

Daughter  to  Mrs.  Page, 
Son  to  Mr.  Page,              ;  •*  i»;rf  \  i 
Uncle  to  Cressida,            .  'i    -ii''.  ^ 
The  Pope's  Legate,          tjLe0hsbH 
Servant  to  Antonio,                  ,o»u/^ 
Son  to  Priam,     .    -    tjvu;f'4  lo  !T^>! 
A  Young  Nobleman,      if-!^  ^>  fw  '1 
A  Follower  of  Bertram, 
Woman  to  Queen  Katharine, 
A  Grecian  Commander,      .    ^Io.c(j 
Wife  to  Antigonus,     .    T  \g  ''.io;i'<{ifl 
A  P'airy,     .         .         .  \oJjnBvvc: 
Personating  Vincentio,  •  {.  ^n's'i.A 
Prince  of  Arsagon,      .  tiA/xt  asju*! 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 
Troilus  and  Cressida. 
King  John. 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 
Troilus  and  Cressida. 
Romeo  and  Juliet. 
All  's  Well  that  Ends  Well 
King  Henry  VIIL 
Troilus  and  Cressida. 
Winter's  Tale. 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 
Taming  of  the  Sluew. 
Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

PembvoJte,  Earl  of  , 
Pembroke,  Earl  of, 
Percy,  Hemy, 
Percy,  Henry, 
Percy,  Henry  (Hotspur), 
Percy,  Lady,  . 
Percy,  Thomas, 
Perdtia,.         .        ^X  '>'-''.-* 
Pericles^. 
Peter,     .... 

/V/<?^  of  Pomfrst;    . 
Peto,       .... 

William  Mareshall,     .     ^v^H.  A 
Of  the  Duke's  Pajty,  .    i  itoTi.A 
Earl  of  Northumberland,    .    uJy»'r" 
Son  to  Earl  of  Northumberland, 
Son  to  Earl  of  Northumberland, 
Wife  to-  Hotspur,        »  miT,  o;  ;iv^ 
Earl  of  Worcester, 
Daughter  to  Hermione,       .    t/XA 
Prince  of  Tyre,  .    «t  ^J«an-^mif4^/ 
A  Friar,     .         .    ^ry  1  n  yrmO.A 
Horner's  Man,   *  - 
A  Prophet,         .         . 
A  Follower  of  Sir  John  Falstaff, 

King  John. 
King  Henry  VI.,,  Part  III. 
King  Henry  IV.,  Pts.  L,  II. 
King  Richard  II. 
King  Henry  IV.r  Pts.  L,  II. 
King  Henry  IV.,  Part  I. 
King  Henry  IV.,  Pts.  I.,II- 
Winter's  Tale. 
Pericles. 
Measure  for  Measure. 
King  Henry  VL,.  Part  II. 
King  John. 
King  Henry  IV.,  Pts.  L,  IL 

Petruchio, 

Philario       -Vj 
Philemon, 
Philip,   .         0         .       i«i>i 

A  Gentleman  of  Verona,  Suitor 
to  Katharina,  .         .  •      .  •     f  •. 
A  Shepherdess  
Friend  to  Posthumus» 
Servant  to  Cerimon,   . 
King  of  France,          .         . 

Taming  of  the  Shrew. 
As  You  Like  It. 
Cymbeline. 
Pericles, 
King  John. 

SHAKESPEARE'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS. 


1295 


Philip  Falconbridge, 
Philo,     .         .         .        -{'jj/1 
Philostrate,     .         .      .nr,.ll 

Philotus          .       '->»  '      -a  *  •'• 

Bastard  Son  to  King  Richard  I.., 
Friend  to  Antony,       .    aA.io  5>iwO 
Master  of  the  Revels,          .      -vjfoc 

King  John. 
Antony  and  Cleopatra. 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 
Timon  of  Athens. 

Phrynia, 

Mistress  to  Alcibiades, 

Timon  of  Athens. 
King  Richard  II 

Pinch     .... 

A  Schoolmaster  and  Conjurer, 

Comedy  of  Errors. 

Pindarus,       .         .         . 
Pisanio,.         •         . 
Pistol,    .         .         .       ••*>: 
/Yjto/,     .          .          .        4*i/i 

/&/<?/,      .            .            i         *«;/] 

Plantagenet,  Richard,    .»  • 
Players,. 

Servant  to  Cassius, 
Servant  to  Posthumus, 
A  Follower  of  Sir  John  Falstaff,  . 
A  Follower  of  Sir  John  Falstaff,. 
A  Soldier  in  King's  Army,  . 
Duke  of  York,   .         .         .    -./«  «<  t 
Characters  in  the  Induction, 
Characters  in 

Julius  Csesar. 
Cymbeline. 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 
King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 
King  Henry  V. 
Henry  VI.,  Pts.  I.,  IL,  IIL 
Taming  of  the  Shrew. 
Hamlet. 

Poins,     .         .       :-'J,-      ;.«  r  "/ 
Polixenes,       .         .       ••*»;.' 
Polonius,         .         .       -ait"' 
Polydore,         .         .        *«" 
Pompeius  Sextus,    .       T»>J:» 
Popilius  Lena, 
Portia,   .... 

Posthitmus  Leonatus,    •  ••»»}  f 
Priam,  .       <  w     ••  >k  >«  ^:«t  .•! 
Prince  Henry,         .         »  >; 
Prince  Humphrey  ofGloster, 
Prince  John  of  Lancaster, 
Prince  of  Arragon,  . 
Prince  of  Morocco,  .        i*>iv 
Prince  of  Wales,     .       _&£ 
Prince  of  Wales,  Henry, 
Princess  Katharine, 

A  Follower  of  Sir  John  Falstaff,  . 
King  of  Bohemia,       .         .  .'i*i  / 
Lord  Chamberlain,     .         .    -/•:  I  J 
Guiderius  in  Disguise,         .    :i-'i£  / 
Friend  to  Antony, 
A  Roman  Senator,      .        .   .•"'v.-yAJ 
A  Rich  Heiress,          .        .  /{•  ^  t 
Wife  to  Brutus,  .         .         .    i  ;* 
Husband  to  Imogen,  .        •**•.>'  i  / 
King  of  Troy,     .... 
Son  to  King  John,      .         .    ->..<i  r 
Son  to  King  Henry  IV.,     . 
Son  to  King  Henry  IV.,     .    >>  u 
Suitor  to  Portia,          .         .  ---^4  ••' 
Suitor  to  Portia,          .         .    -ir-jy. 
Son  to  King  Edward  IV.,  .  -•    ,**• 
Afterwards  King  Henry  V., 
Daughter  to  King  Charles  VI.,  . 

King  Henry  IV.,  Pts.  I.,  II. 
Winter's  Tale. 
Hamlet. 
Cymbeline. 
Antony  and  Cleopatra. 
Julius  Caesar. 
Merchant  of  Venice. 
Julius  Caesar. 
Cymbeline. 
Troilus  and  Cressida. 
King  John. 
King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 
King  Henry  IV.,  Part  IL 
Merchant  of  Venice. 
Merchant  of  Venice. 
King  Richard  III. 
King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 
King  Henry  V. 
Love's  Labour  's  Lost. 

Proculeius,      .         .         *-iv 
Prophetess,      .       -.3>-i  -.a;/; 
Prospero,         .       ••*'  ^tfi'/i 
Proteus,       :  .  jiV  v  •  .  *  :  !  '  '(»•  i  ,/i 
Publius,     .»!.'  isil^M    -^^J 
Publius,          .        .«,  .   -j.-i,,;-' 
Pucelle,  Joan  la,      .       -i«t>i 

Friend  to  Caesar,        .    -?\,/t>^  'T;  j 
Cassandra,          .         .  ;'fr  /U  iniii;*".^ 
Rightful  Duke  of  Milan,     . 
A  Gentleman  of  Verona,     .    -:-;ij.  ! 
A  Roman  Senator, 
Son  to  Marcus,  .    :-''s.<^'J  -~;  '/mv.f; 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 
Troilus  and  Cressida. 
The  Tempest. 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 
Julius  Caesar. 
Titus  Andronicus. 
King  Henry  VI.,  Part  I. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

Pyramus,        .         .       iJ»L>l 

A  Character  in  the  Interlude, 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

Queen,    .... 

Queen  Elizabeth,     . 

Queen  Katharine,  . 

Queen  Margaret, 

Queen  of  King  Richard  II. , 

Quickly,  Mrs.,        .        v^T 

Quickly,  Mrs., 

Quickly,  Mrs., 

Quince,  .... 

Quintus, 

Rambures, 

Ratdiff,  Sir  Richard,      . 


Wife  to  Cymbeline,  . 
Queen  to  King  Edward  IV 
Wife  to  King  Henry  VIII. 
Wife  to  King  Henry  VI., 

Hostess  of  a  Tavern,  . 
A  Hostess  :  Wife  to  Pistol 
Servant  to  Dr.  Caius, 
The  Carpenter,  .     *••  itnT 
Son  to  Titus,      .      n<yo/ 

A  French  Lord, 


Cymbeline. 

King  Richard  III. 

King  Henry  VIII. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  IIL 

King  Richard  II. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Pts.  I.,  II. 

King  Henry  V. 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 

Titus  Andronicus. 

King  Henry  V. 
King  Richard  III. 


1296 


INDEX  TO  THE  CHARACTERS  IN 


Regan,   . 

Reignier, 

Reynaldo, 

Richard, 

Richard, 

Richard,  Duke  of  Gloster, 

Richard,  Duke  of  York,  . 

Richard  Plantagenet, 

Richard  II.,  King,     -:lm'-( 

Richard  III.,  King, 

Richmond,  Earl  of, 

Rivers,  Earl, 

Rivers,  Lord,       , .  \.  1  y  t  a-.»  I 

Robert  Bigot,      •  t<* ;.;  n  r  < .« a 

Robert  Falconbridge, 

Robin,    .... 

&?£m  Goodfellow  (Ptick), 

Roderigo, 

Rogero,  . 

Romeo,  . 

Rosalind, 

Rosaline, 

Rosencrantz,  . 


. 

Rotheram,  Thomas, 
Rousillon,  Count  of, 
Rousillon,  Countess  of, 
Rugby,  . 
Rumour, 


Daughter  to  King  Lear, 
Duke  of  Anjou, .         . 
Servant  to  Polonius,  .     •.:  tp  i: 
Son  to  Plantagenet,    .      »•»££¥' 
Afterwards  Duke  of  Gloster, 
Afterwards  King  Richard  III., 
Son  to  King  Edward  IV.,  . 
Duke  of  York,   .         .      o;,a 


Afterwards  King  Henry  VII.,     . 
Brother  to  Lady  Grey, 
Brother  to  Lady  Grey,        .      y$f» 
Earl  of  Norfolk,          .         .-Jo/.-usr! 
Son  to  Sir  Robert  Falconbridge, 
A  Page  to  Sir  John  Falstaff, 
A  Fairy,     .         .   jfiirye'i.  ;. '.    ;:>•; 
A  Venetian  Gentleman,      .,  j  r  ;o 
A  Sicilian  Gentleman,   ni  ?j«^f:>v; 
Son  to  Montague,       .         .   briryi 
Daughter  to  the  Banished  Duke, 
A  Lady  attending  on  the  Princess 
of  France,       .... 
A  Courtier,         .         . .  «•;  trui-^ 

A  Scottish  Nobleman, 
Archbishop  of  York,  .  .-.•><; 
Bertram,  .  .  ;:.  :  i  ;,K^  o!  or 
Mother  to  Bertram,  .  M  y;  ;o'«. 
Servant  to  Dr.  Caius,  /I  oJ  io^r 
As  a  Prologue,  .  .  ^nl^L  CJ  «c 


Salanio,         ,TT  -nn#H  gai/1 
Salarino,       '•  n;oi  IsoJ  t  :'-3  A  --1 
Salerio,  .               ,n«  vaofe:/ 
Salisbury,  Earl  of,      wfifcil 

Friend  to  Antonio  and  Bassanio, 
Friend  to  Antonio  and  Bassanio, 
A  Messenger  from  Venice, 
William  Longsword,  . 

Salisbury,  Earl  of,      "j  t  *,-.'"' 

Of  the  York  Faction, 

Sampson,        .         ,      -,^.'. 

Servant  to  Capulet,    ^rmsM  «j  % 

Saturninus,    . 

Emperor  of  Rome,      .     .    ,(yiii~J 

Scales,  Lord,  ,         .         . 
Scarus,  .         ,     .caffcJn*-r*" 
Scroop,    .         .         .       r,flf.i 
Scroop,  Lord,  . 
Scroop,  Sir  Stephen, 
Sebastian, 
Sebastian, 
Seleucus, 
Sempronius,   . 
Servilius, 
Sextus  Pompeitis,    . 
Seyton,  .... 
Shadow,          ~tf  YiT»IT  -nm} 

Governor  of  the  Tower, 
Friend  to  Antony,      .fr-T.Ooloi 
Archbishop  of  York,  .         /.>]  r^ 
A  Conspirator,  .u^K  ^niy|  o?  ^i 

Brother  to  the  King  of  Naples,    . 
Brother  to  Viola,        ,;~  r.  fo^oja: 
Attendant  on  Cleopatra, 
A  Lord  :  Flatterer  of  Timon, 
Servant  to  Timon,      ^JfWcruO  •' 
Friend  to  Antony,      .  ,?«JiTT  o?  a 
Officer  attending  on  Macbeth,     . 
A  Recruit,  .         .         .         .         . 

Shallow,         . 

A  Country  Justice, 

King  Lear. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  I. 

Hamlet. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III, 

King  Richard  III. 

King  Richard  III. 

HenryVI.,Pts.I.,  II. ,  III 

King  Richard  II. 

King  Richard  III. 

King  Richard  III. 

King  Richard  III. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 

King  John. 

King  John. 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

Othello. 

Winter's  Tale. 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 

As  You  Like  It. 

Love's  Labour's  Lost. 

Hamlet. 

King  Richard  II. 

Macbeth. 

King  Richard  III. 

All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well. 

All's  Well  that  Ends  Well. 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 

Merchant  of  Venice. 

Merchant  of  Venice. 

Merchant  of  Venice. 

King  John. 

King  Henry  V. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Pts.  I.,  II. 

King  Richard  II. 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 

King  Henry  VIII. 

Titus  Andronicus. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

King  Henry  I V.,Pts.  I.,  II. 

King  Henry  V. 

King  Richard  II. 

The  Tempest. 

Twelfth  Night. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

Timon  of  Athens. 

Timon  of  Athens. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

Macbeth. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 


SHAKESPEARE'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS. 


1297 


Shalloiv,  gi  A  Country  Justice,      .        J.-  i/lA  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

Shylock,.  ;f>;;'-  vi/ovT     A  Jew,       .         .         «•  'i- .*  '  \' I '.  Merchant  of  Venice. 

Sicinius  Vein  us,  Tribune  of  the  People,       ••*'      I!J  Coriolanus. 

Silence,  .  fm-lf  7:  v,     A  Country  Justice,      .         .  King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 

Silius,    .      '     7  f '  M  y*        An  Officer  of  Ventidius's  Army,  Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

Silvia,   .          .v?.'' K  Daughter  to  the  Duke  of  Milan,  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 

Silvius,          v.   '     •  :  A  Shepherd,       ...  As  You  Like  It. 

Simonides,  King  of  Pentapolis,    ..         .Vi ' -jtfi'l  Pericles. 

Simpcox,  An  Impostor,     .         .         .  King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 

Simple,  .  Servant  to  Slender,     .         .  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

Sir  Andrew  Apuecheek,  itn     .  ^  ;  ;Vo:. Twelfth  Night. 

Sir  Anthony  Denny,       ....        ^n.f:'i  i\     .         .  King  Henry  VIII. 

&>  J7*«ry  Guildford, King  Henry  VIII. 

Sir  Hugh  Evans,  il:  '  <  '^      A  Welsh  Parson,         .  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

&V  /&£/*  Mortimer,  Uncle  to  Duke  of  York,  King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 

Sir  Humphrey  Stafford,  .         ,-r;     •*>>?  King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 

Sir  fames  Blount,  .  ...  King  Richard  III. 

Sir  James  Tyrrel,  .  ...  King  Richard  III. 

Sir  John  Coleville, .  Enemy  to  the  King,  *     ;  .      .  King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 

Sir  John  Falstaff,  *:,  .         .         .        i    •.'•vwviiriA  King  Henry  IV.,  Pts.  I.,  I L 

Sir  John  Falstaf,  .  ...  >  n'-.at-f  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

Sir  John  Fastolfe,  .  .-«    ;^>  r-Hsaaro  T).Jn*«o:uv"i  King  Henry  VI.,  Part  I. 

Sir  John  Montgomery,  ....         *>•/,. .a  A  King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 

Sir  John  Mortimer,  Uncle  to  Duke  of  York,      oj.tl^»{\  King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 

Sir  John  Somerville,  .         .         .         .         .         .  King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 

Sir  John  Stanley,   ;  ?KI5 av&j.  *  King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 

Sir  Michael,  .        vr^l  f  •'      Friend  to  Archbishop  of  York,  King  Henry  IV.,  Pts.  I.,  IL 

Sir  Nathaniel,        .  A  Curate,  .         .         .         4.1}-.:^  ,  Love's  Labour 's  Lost. 

Sir  Nicholas  Vaux ,15  iV-i  ;  King  Henry  VIII. 

Sir  Oliver  Martext,         .         A  Vicar,    ^.VI  ^i ::oii  ;ini.«  o;    .  As  You  Like  It. 

Sir  Pierce  of  Exton, ^-vir:.*""'  *i  King  Richard  II. 

Sir  Richard  Ratdiff, King  Richard  III. 

Sir  Richard  Vernon, k^A/OJ  I*vjJ  King  Henry  IV.,  Part  I. 

Sir  Robert  Brakenbury,  .         Lieutenant  of  the  Tower,    rf  bwxi'-  King  Richard  III. 

Sir  Stephen  Scroop, King  Richard  II. 

Sir  Thomas  Erpingham,          Officer  in  King's  Army,       .  =  -. :j '  >^/.  King  Henry  V. 

Sir  Thomas  Gargrave King  Henry  VI.,  Part  I. 

Sir  Thomas  Grey,  .-      •.         A  Conspirator,  , :?  ••"•], *\i\'  .«•  :     .  King  Henry  V. 

Sir  Thomas  Lovell,         .         .         .        *o  ;  ^     ; «.  :;  ^  }  ;-..  King  Henry  VIII. 

Sir  Thomas  Vaughan,  -,         .         .         *'}<  ')4V     %  '--•  ••?.rr>riel  King  Richard  III. 

Sir  Toby  Belch,      .         .         Uncle  to  Olivia,        4.         .;. -•--.  Twelfth  Night. 

Sir  Walter  Blunt,  .         .         Friend  to  King  Henry  IV.,         .  King  Henry  IV.,  Pts.  L,  II 

Sir  Walter  Herbert, King  Richard  III. 

Sir  William  Catesby,      .         .         .  .;.r:*h.s>     .:•;„:' ;  >:r:    »  King  Richard  III. 

Sir  William  Glansdale,  .         .         .-        .<,;•..;  .w<««  ;v  /  King  Henry  VI.,  Part  I. 

Sir  William  Lticy,      r  ^{       .    .     .    .    .    .    .    .'    .    .    ^\^\  /.  King  Henry  VI.,  Part  I. 

Sir  William  Stanley, ^ffifiha  o;  ao5  King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 

Siward,          V  "  •••  >r.&rfo\aV     Earl  of  Northumberland,    .         ,  /•  Macbeth. 

Si-ward,  Young,  ..         Son  to  Siward,  .         *ff*O*i.s' vli,Y  Macbeth. 

Slender,          .  •  — v.       Cousin  to  Justice  Shallow, .         .  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

Smith  the  Weaver,  .         A  Follower  of  Cade,  .         .         .  King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 

.SVfcm?,    .         .  .         A  Sheriff  s  Officer,      .,     -..        .  King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 

Snout,    .        .  .         The  Tinker Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

Snug,     .        .  .         The  Joiner,         ....  Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 

Solinus,          .  .         Duke  of  Ephesus,       .    •    V  "oa-i  1  Comedy  of  Errors. 

Somerset,  Duke  of,  .         Of  the  King's  Party,  .  ,-.„. ,ft-T ,>•*  /  Henry  VI.,  Pts.  IL,  III. 

Somerville,  Sir  fohn<      .         .        ,        ,       i^£  erihno  JrtebndWA  King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 


1298 


INDEX  TO  THE  CHARACTERS  IN 


Soutkwellt      •      :W  v 
Speed,    .        .       t*.-;:i 
Stafford,  Lord,        ukioh 
Stafford,  Sir  Humphrey  ', 

A  Priest,    .         .         .      vu«»)' 

King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 
King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 
»  /      King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 
Kin^  Richard  III. 
f.U     King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 
King  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. 
t:        Midsuinmer  Night's  Dream. 
rA     The  Tempest. 
Merchant  of  Venice. 
Julius  Caesar. 
King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 
King  Henry  VIII. 
King  Henry  VI.,  Part  I. 
King  Richard  II, 
King  Richard  III. 
King  Henry  VIIL 

King  Henry  VL,  Part  I. 
King  Henry  VI.,  Part  I. 
Titus  Andronicus,. 
Antony  and  Cleopatra. 
King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II, 
Pericles. 
Pericles. 
-    Troilus  and  Cressida. 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 
Measure  for  Measure. 
King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 
King  Henry  VI.,  Part  H. 
Macbeth. 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Veronsu 
Antony  and  Cleopatra. 
Timon  of  Athens. 
Winter's  Tale, 
.    Timon  of  Athens. 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 
Julius  Caesar. 
.    Titus  Andronicus. 
Coriolanus. 
As  You  Like  It. 
Taming  of  the  Shrew. 
King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 
Julius  Caesar, 
The  Tempest. 
Troilus  and  Cressida. 
Merchant  of  Venice. 
Coriolanus. 
Romeo  and  Juliet. 
King  Richard  III. 

Troilus  and  Cressida. 
Much  Ado  About  Nothing-. 
King  Richard  III. 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verofia, 
,        Twelfth  Night 

A  Clownish  Servant,  . 
Of  the  Duke's  Party,  .        ..sn  >.i 

Hartley,  Sir  John, 
Stanley,  Sir  Willie 
Starveling^      . 
Stephana,      \  I  y 
Stephana,      -\<-, 
Strata,    .       .iii^r 
Suffolk  t  Duke  of, 
Suffolk,  Diike  of, 
Stiffolk,  Earl  of, 
Surrey,  Duke  of, 
Surrey,  Earl  of  , 
Surrey,  Earl  of  , 

Talbot,  John,       i; 
Talbot,  Lord, 
Tamora,          ..«:/•••  ;" 
Taurus,      .i'£  ^n 
Tearsheet,  Doll, 
Thaisa,  .         »'  ^tn 
Thaliard, 
Thersites, 
Theseus, 
Thisbe,  .         .   •  ' 
Thomas, 
Thomas,  Duke  of  C 
Thomas  Horner, 
Three  Witches, 
Thurio,       -VJ  vm 
Thyreus,         ^\&\\:4 
Timandra,     Jufrti- 
Time,     .      .  £  'p'Tq 
Timon,  '3  ,.r;  xiry 
Titania.,          . 
Titinius,         i  v'£v 
7>V«j  Andronicus, 
Titus  Lartius, 
Touchstone,     .1  'ru? 
Tranio,  . 
Trovers,         £***£ 
Trebonius,      »    , 
Trinculo,        . 
Troilus, 
Tubal,    . 
Tullus  Aufidius, 
Tybalt,  . 
Tyrrel,  Sir  Jamts, 

Ulysses,          . 
Ursula,  . 
Urswick,  Christoph 

Valentine, 
Valentine^ 

',nt, 
laren 

er, 

The  Tailor,         .        t^Jnt^Uo 

A  Drunken  Butler,     ..TOtegqrrfl 
Servant  to  Portia,      \*\'<?  ci  'ri>  / 
Servant  to  Brutus, 
Of  the  King's  Party,  . 

.         KWlJjfi   4'  T./' 

Son  to  Duke  of  Norfolk,     . 

Son  to  Lord  Talbot,  .       •*  '('n^ 
Afterwards  Earl  of  Shrewsbury, 
Queen  of  the  Goths,   . 
Lieutenant-  General  to  Caesar, 
A  Bawd,    .... 
Daughter  to  Simonides,      »•-   (1  < 
A  Lord  of  Antioch,    . 
A  Deformed  Grecian, 
Duke  of  Athens, 
A  Character  in  the  Interlude, 
A  Friar,     .... 
fe?      Son  to  King  Henry  IV.,     %iB3tV 
An  Armourer,    . 

Rival  to  Valentine,     .    .    .  '  '• 
Friend  to  Caesar, 
Mistress  to  Alcibiades, 
As  Chorus,         .       ,-:?'/'  f-j  "'  •-' 
A  Noble  Athenian,     . 
Queen  of  the  Fairies,  .        itpn< 
Friend  to  Brutus  and  Cassius, 
General  against  the  Goths, 
General  against  the  Volscians, 

Servant  to  Lucentio,  . 
Servant  to  Northumberland, 
A  Roman  Conspirator, 
A  Jester,    . 
Son  to  Priam,     .                  .    *" 
A  Jew,  Friend  to  Shylock,      >  h 
Volscian  General,      .  >t«y/45  *>j  f| 
Nephew  to  Capulet,           -y  frit*.; 

A  Grecian  Commander, 
Attendant  on  Hero,    . 

A  Gentleman  of  Verona,     . 
Attendant  on  the  Duke  of  Illyria 

SHAKESPEARE'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS. 


1299 


Valeria,          .         .         .         Friend  to  Virgilia,      .     >  •  T     *~\ 
Varrius,          ,         .         .         Friend  to  Pompey,      .         „  i.    \J 

Varrius,         .         .  '   '  %v'.         Servant  to  Duke  of  Vienna, 
Varro,    ....         Servant  to  Brutus,       .         . 
Vaughan,  Sir  Thomas,   .          .         .         .         .         .         „         «  ,. 
Vaux     .          .         -          

Coriolanus. 
Antony  and  Cleopatra. 
Measure  for  Measure. 
Julius  Caesar. 
King  Richard  III. 
King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 
King  Henry  VIII. 
Coriolanus. 
Ottello. 
Merchant  of  Venice. 
Timon  of  Athens. 
Antony  and  Cleopatra. 
Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 
King  Henry  VI.,  Part  I. 
King  Henry  IV.,  Part  I. 
Measure  for  Measure. 
Taming  of  the  Shrew. 
Twelfth  Night. 
All  's  Well  that  Ends  WeH. 
Coriolanus. 
Hamlet 
Coriolanus. 
Julius  Caesar. 

King  Henry  IV.,  Pts.  I.,  II. 
King  Richard  III. 
King  Henry  VI.  >  Part  II. 
King  Henry  IV.,  Part  IL 
King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 
King  Henry  V. 
Henry  VI.,  Parts  I.,  IL,  III. 
King  Richard  U. 
King  Henry  V. 
King  Henry  IV.  ,  Pis.  1.  1  11  . 
King  Henry  VL,  Part  III. 
King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 
As  You  Like  It. 
King  John. 
King  Jobo, 
Meriy  Wives  of  Windsor, 
King  Henry  V.. 
King  Richard  IL 
King  Henry  VUL 
King  Henry  VHL 
King  Henry  VI.,  Part  L 
KiogHenrylV^Pts.!.,!!, 

King  Henry  IV.,  Pts.  I.,  U. 
King  Richard  III. 
King  Richard  II. 
King  Richard  III. 
King  FTenry  V. 
King  Richard  II. 
King  Richard  III. 
Julius  Caesar. 
King  Henry  VI.,  Part  II. 
Coriolanus. 
Macbeth. 

Vaux,  Sir  Nichola, 
Velutus,  Siciniits, 
Venice,  Duke  of, 
Venice^  Duke  of, 
Ventidius, 
Ventidius, 
Verges,  , 
Vernon, 
Vernon,  Sir  Richa 
Vicentio, 
Vincent  io,        yi" 
Viola,     . 
Violenta, 
Virgilia, 
Voltimand,        *j** 
Volumnia, 
Volumnius, 

Wales,  Henry,  P-n 
Wales,  Prince  of, 
Walter  Whitmore, 

Tribune  of  the  People,        .    iv  ..   } 

A  False  Friend,           .         .         . 
.         Friend  to  Antony,       .        -^';wj  ,-' 
A  Foolish  Officer, 
>n.         Of  the  White-Rose  Faction, 
d,      ........ 
'  (.         Duke  of  Vienna, 
'.         An  Old  Gentleman  of  Pisa, 
!    .         In  love  with  the  Duke  of  Illyria, 
Neighbour  to  Widow  of  Florence, 
Wife  to  Coriolanus,     . 
1  '  ,         A  Courtier,         .... 

Mother  to  Coriolanus,         .       *jp* 
Friend  to  Brutus  and  Cassius, 

tee  of,         Son  to  King  Henry  IV.  ,     . 
Son  to  Kiog  Edward  IV.,  . 

Wart,     .         .                  .A  Recruit,.          .... 
Warwick,  Earl  of,      •,  J&        Of  the  King's  Party,  . 
Warwick,  Earl  of  ",           *i.  ;  •  v        
Warwick,  Earl  of,           .         Ot  the  York  Faction,  . 
Westminster,  Abbot  of  ,    .       '.tfpqifw.  iw*:'.1-^  »         »    •    ^ 
Westmoreland^  Earl  of,  .         .                  
Westmoreland,  Earl  of,  .         Friead  to  King  Henry  IV., 
Westmoreland,  Earl  of,  .         Of  the  King's  Party,  .         .        *  -  - 
Whitmore,   Walter,        .-.*;..-?*•,..,-..«.        .         .         .         .*:;«.•., 
William,                                   A  Country  Fellow,     . 
William  Longsword,       .         Earl  of  Salisbury, 
William  Mareshall,         .,         Eari  of  Pembroke,      . 
William  Page,       ....         .         Son  to  Mrs.  Page,      .         .    --.  ii,  ^ 
Williams,       .         .         .         Soldier  in  King's  Army,      . 
Willoughby,  Lord,  .... 

Winchester,  Bishop 
Wolsey,  Cardinal. 
Woodville,       . 
Worcester,  Earl  of  , 

York,  Archbishop  3 
York,  Archbishop  4 
York,  Duchess  of, 
York,  Duchess  of, 
York,  Duke  of, 
York,  Duke  of, 
York,  Duke  of, 
Young  Cato,  . 
Young  Clifford, 
Young  Marcius, 
Young  Siward, 

Lieutenant  of  the  Tower,    . 
.-.         Thomas  Percy,  .         .         .     •;  toa 

£        .         Thomas  Rotheram,     . 

Mother  to  King  Edward  IV.,      . 
Cousin  to  the  King,    .         .      i'fj"  " 
Uncle  to  King  Richard  II.,         .1IO! 
Son  to  King  Edward  IV.,  . 
Friend  to  Brutus  and  Cassius,      . 
^       .         Son  to  Lord  Clifford, 
^  '  .         Son  to  Coriolanus,      .         .         *>1rl 
*-     .         Son  to  Siward,  .         . 

GLOSSARY. 


ABATE,  to  depress,  sink,  subdue 

ABC-book,  a  catechism 

Able,  to  qualify  or  uphold 

Absolute,  highly  accomplished,  perfect 

Aby,  to  pay  retribution  for 

Abysm,  abyss 

Action,  direction  by  mute  signs,  charge  or  accu- 
sation 

Action-taking',  litigious 

Additions,  titles  or  descriptions 

Address,  to  make  ready 

Addressed  or  addrest,  ready 

Adversity,  contrariety 

Advertisement,  admonition 

Advertising,  attentive 

Advise,  to  consider,  recollect 

Advised,  not  precipitant,  cautious 

Affect,  love 

Affection,  affectation,  imagination,  disposition, 
quality 

Affections,  passions,  desires 

Affeered,  confirmed 

Affied,  betrothed 

Affined,  joined  by  affinity 

Affront,  to  meet  or  face 

Affy,  to  betroth  in  marriage 

Aglet-baby,  a  diminutive  being 

Agnize,  acknowledge,  confess 

A-good,  in  good  earnest 

Aim,  guess,  encouragement,  suspicion 

Alder-liefest,  most  dear  of  all  things 

Ale,  a  merry  meeting 

Allow,  to  approve 

Allowance,  approbation 

Ames-ace,  lowest  chance  of  the  dice 

Amort,  sunk  and  dispirited 

Anchor,  anchoret 

Ancient,  an  ensign 

Anight,  in  the  night 

Answer,  retaliation 

Antick,  the  fool  of  the  old  farces 

Antiquity,  old  age 

Antres,  caves  and  dens 

Appeal,  to  accuse 

Appointment,  preparation 

Apprehensive,  quick  to  understand 

Approbation,  entry  on  probation 

Approof,  proof,  approbation 

Approve,  to  justify,  to  make  good,  to  establish, 
to  recommend  to  approbation 

Approved,  felt,  convicted  by  proof 

Approvers,  persons  who  try 


Aqua-vita,  brandy,  eau-de-vie 

Arch,  chief 

Argentine,  silvery 

Argier,  Algiers 

Argosies,  great  ships,  galleons 

Argument,  subject  for  conversation,  evidence, 

proof 

Arm,  to  take  up  in  the  arms 
Aroint,  avaunt,  begone 
A -row,  successively,  one  after  another 
Articulate,  to  enter  into  articles 
Articulated,  exhibited  in  articles 
Artificial,  ingenious,  artful 
Aspersion,  sprinkling 
Assinego,  a  he-ass 
Assurance,  conveyance  or  deed 
Assured,  affianced 
Astringer,  a  falconer 
Ates,   instigation    from  Ale,    the   mischievous 

goddess  that  incites  bloodshed 
Atomies,    minute    particles    discernable    in    a 

stream    of    sunshine    that    breaks   into  a 

darkened  room,  atoms 
Attasked,  reprehended,  corrected 
Attended,  waited  for 
Attent,  attentive 
Attorney,  deputation 
Attorneyship,     the     discretional     agency     of 

another 

Attornied,  supplied  by  substitution  of  embassies 
Avaunt,  contemptuous  dismission 
Audacious,  spirited,  animated 
Audrey,  a  corruption  of  Etheldreda 
Authentic,  an  epithet  applied  to  the  learned 

Baccare,  stand  back,  give  place 

Bale,  misery,  calamity 

Bateful,  baneful 

Balked,  bathed  or  piled  up 

Balm,  the  oil  of  consecration 

Band,  bond 

Bank,  to  sail  along  the  banks 

Bar,  barrier 

Barbed,  caparisoned  in  a  warlike  manner 

Barful,  full  of  impediments 

Barn  or  bairn,  a  child 

Base,  a  rustic  game,  called  prison-base 

Bases,  a  kind  of  dress   used   by   knights  on 

horseback 

Basilisks,  a  species  of  cannon 
Basta,  Spanish,  'tis  enough 
Bastard,  raisin  wine 


GLOSSARY. 


1301 


Bat,  a  club  or  staff 

Bate,  strife,  contention 

Bate,  to  flutter  as  a  hawk 

Batlet,  an  instrument  used  by  washers  of  clothes 

Battle,  army 

Bavin,  brushwood 

Ba-wcock,  a  jolly  cock 

Bay,  the  space  between  the  main  beams  of  a 

roof 

Beak,  the  forecastle,  or  the  boltsprit 
Beard,  to  oppose  in  a  hostile  manner,  to  set  at 

defiance 

Bearing-cloth,  a  mantle  used  at  christenings 
Beat,  in  falconry,  to  flutter 
Beetle,  to  hang  over  the  base 
Being,  abode 
Belongings,  endowments 
Be-mete,  be-measure 
Be-moiled,  be-draggled,  be-mired 
Bending,  unequal  to  the  weight 
Benefit,  beneficiary 

Bent,  the  utmost  degree  of  any  passion 
Best,  bravest 

Bestowed,  left,  stowed,  or  lodged 
Bestraught,  distraught  or  distracted 
Beteem,  to  give,  to  pour  out,  to  permit  or  suffer 
Bewray,  betray,  discover 
Bezonian,  a  term  of  reproach 
Biding,  place,  abiding 
Bigging,  a  kind  of  cap 

Bilbo,  a  Spanish  blade  of  peculiar  excellence 
Bilboes,  a  species  of  fetters 
Bill,  a  weapon  carried  by  watchmen 
Bird-bolt^  a  species  of  arrow 
Bisson,  blind 
Blank,  the  white  mark  at  which  an  arrow  is 

shot 

Blast,  burst 
Blear,  to  deceive 
Blench,  to  start  off 
Blent,  blended,  mixed 
Blood-boltered,  daubed  with  blood 
Blows,  swells 
Blunt,  stupid,  insensible 
Board,  to  accost,  to  address 
Bobb,  to  trick,  to  make  a  fool  of 
Bodged,  boggled,  made  bungling  work 
Bolting-hatch,  the  receptacle  in  which  the  meal 

is  bolted 

Bombard,  or  bunibard,  a  barrel 
Bombast,  the  stuffing  of  clothes 
Bona-robas,  strumpets 
Bond,  bounden  duty 
Book,  paper  of  conditions 
Bore,  demeaned 
Boret  the  calibre  of  a  gun 
Bores,  stabs  or  wounds 


Bosom,  wish,  heart's  desire 

Bots,  worms  in  the  stomach  of  a  horse 

Bourn,  boundary,  rivulet 

Bow,  yoke 

Brace,  armour  for  the  arm,  state  of  defence 

Brack,  a  species  of  hound 

Braid,  crafty  or  deceitful 

Bravery,  showy  dress 

Brawl,  a  kind  of  dance 

Breach,  of  the  sea,  breaking  of  the  sea 

Breast,  voice,  surface 

Breathed,  inured  by  constant  practice 

Breathing,  complimentary 

Breeched,  sheathed 

Breeching,  liable  to  school-boy  punishment 

Brize,  the  gad  or  horse-fly 

Broached,  spitted,  transfixed 

Broke,  to  deal  with  a  pander 

Broken,  toothless 

Broker,  a  matchmaker,  a  procuress  or  pimp 

Brow,  height 

Bruited,  reported  with  clamour 

Brush,  detrition,  decay 

Buckle,  to  bend,  to  yield  to  pressure 

Bugs,  bugbears,  terrors 

Bulk,  the  body 

Bunting,  a  bird  like  a  skylark 

Burgonet,  a  kind  of  helmet 

Bush,  the  sign  of  a  public-house 

Butt-shaft,  an  arrow  to  shoot  at  butts 

Btucom*,  obedient,  under  command 

By^rlakin,  by  our  ladykin,  or  little  lady 

Caddis,  a  narrow  worsted  galloon 

Cade,  a  barrel 

Cadent,  falling 

Cage,  a  prison 

Cain-coloured,  yellow 

Caliver,  a  species  of  musket 

Callet,  a  lewd  woman 

Calling,  appellation 

Calm,  qualm 

Canary,  a  sprightly  nimble  dance 

Candle-wasters,  those  who  sit  up  all  night  to 

drink 

Canker,  the  dog-rose 
Canstick,  candlestick 
Cantle,  a  piece  of  anything 
Cantons,  cantos 
Cap,  the  top,  the  principal 
Cap,  to  salute  by  taking  off  the  cap 
Capitulate,  to  make  head 
Capon,  metaphor  for  a  letter 
Capricious,  lascivious 
Captious,  capacious  or  recipient 
Carack,  a  ship  of  great  bulk 
Carbonadoed,  scotched  like  meat  for  the  gridiron 


1302 


GLOSSARY. 


Care,  inclination 

Careires,  the  motion  of  a  horse 

Carkanet,  necklace  or  chain 

Carl,  clown  or  husbandman 

Carlot,  peasant 

Carren,  a  critic 

Carpet-consideration,  on  a  carpet,  a  festivity 

Carriage,  import 

Carry,  to  prevail  over 

Case,  skin,  outside  garb 

Case,  to  strip  naked 

Cast,  to  empty,  to  dismiss  or  reject 

Castilian,  an  opprobrious  term 

Castiliano  vulgo,  a  term  of  contempt 

Catalan,  some  kind  of  sharper 

Catling,  a  lute-string  made  of  catgut 

Catitelous,  insidious,  cautious 

Cavaleroes,  airy,  gay  fellows 

Caviare,  a  delicacy  made  of  the  roe  of  sturgeon 

Cease,  decease,  die,  to  stop 

Censure,  to  judge 

Centuries,  companies  of  an  hundred 

Ceremonies,    honorary    ornaments,    tokens    of 

respect 

Ceremonious,  superstitious 
Cess,  measure 
Chace,  a  term  at  tennis 
Chair,  throne 

Chamber,  ancient  name  for  Londbn 
Chamber,  a  species  of  great  gun 
Chamberers,  men  of  intrigue 
Character,  to  wrke,  to  infix  strongly 
Charactery,  the  matter  with  which  letters  are 

made 

Chares,  taskwork 
Charge-house,  the  free-school 
Charitable,  dear,  endearing 
Charneco,  a  sort  of  sweet  wine 
Chaudron,  entrails 
Cheater,  escheator,  an  officer  in  the  exchequer, 

a  gamester 

Check,  command,  control 
Cheer,  countenance 
Chevry-pit,  a  play  with  cherry-stones 
Cheveril,  soft  or  kid  leather 
Chew,  to  ruminate,  consider 
Chewet,  a  noisy  chattering  biret 
Chide,  to  resound,  to  echo 
Chiding,  sound 

Childing,  unseasonably  pregnant 
Chopin,  a  nagh  shoe  or  dog 
Christom,  the  white  cloth  put  on  a  new- baptized 

child 

Chrystals,  eyes 

Chuck,  chicken,  a  term  of  endearment 
Chuff,  rich,  avaricious 
€itey  to  incite,  to  show,  to  prove 


Civil,  grave  or  solemn 

Civil,  human  creature,  anything  human 

Clack-dish,  a  beggar's  dish 

Claw,  to  flatter 

Clinquant,  glittering,  shining 

Clip,  to  embrace,  to  infold 

Clout,  the  mark  archers  aim  at 

Coach-fellow,  one  who  draws  with  a  confederate 

Coasting,  conciliatory,  inviting 

Cobloaf,  a  crusty,  uneven  loaf 

Cotk,  cock-boat 

Cockle,  a  weed 

Cockled,  inshelled  like  a  cockle 

Cockshut-time ,  twilight 

Codling,  anciently  an  immature  apple 

Coffin,  the  cavity  of  a  raised  pie 

Cog,  to  falsify,  to  lie.  to  defraud 

Coigne,  corner 

Coil,  bustle,  stir 

Collect,  to  assemble  by  observation 

Collection,  corollary,  consequence 

Collied,  black,  smutted  with  coal 

Collier,  a  term  of  the  highest  reproach 

Colt,  to  fool,  to  trick 

Co-mart,  a  joint  bargain 

Combinate,  betrothed 

Comforting,  aiding 

Commended,  committed 

Commonty,  a  comedy 

Compact,  made  up  of 

Company,  companion 

Comparative,  a  dealer  in  comparisons 

Compassed,  round 

Compliments,  accomplishments 

Complexion,  humour 

Comply,  to  compliment 

Compose,  to  come  to  a  composition 

Composition,  contract  or  bargain,  consistency, 

concordancy 

Composture,  composition,  cowipost 
Comptible,  submissive 
Con,  to  know 
Conclusions,  experiments 
Concupy,  concupiscence 
Condolement,  sorrow 
Coney -catched,  cheated 
Coney -catcher i  a  cheat,  or  sharper 
Confession,  profession 
Conject,  conjecture 

Confound,  to  destroy,  to  expend  to  consume 
Confounded,  worn  or  wasted 
Consigned,  sealed 
Consist,  to  stand  upon 
Continent,  the  thing  which  contains 
Continents,  banks  of  rivers 
Contraction,  marriage  contract 
Contrive,  to  spend  and  wear  out 


GLOSSARY. 


I3<>3 


Control,  to  confute 

Convent,  to  serve  or  agree 

Convented,  cited,  summoned 

Converse,  interchange 

Convey,  to  perform  sleight-of-hand 

Conveyance,  theft,  fraud 

Convince,  to  overpower,  subdue,  convict 

Convive,  to  feast 

Cope,  covering 

Copped,  rising  to  a  cope,  or  head 

Copy,  theme 

Coragio,  a  word  of  encouragement 

Corinthian,  a  wencher 

Corky,  dry,  withered,  husky 

Corollary,  surplus 

Corrigible,  corrected 

Costard,  the  head 

Coster-monger,  meanly,  mercenary 

Cote,  to  overtake 

Coted,  quoted,  observed,  or  regarded 

Cotsale,  Cotswold  in  Gloucestershire 

Covered,  hollow 

Count  Confect,  a  specious  nobleman 

Countenance,  false  appearance,  hypocrisy 

Counterpoints,  counterpanes 

Cotmty,  count,  earl 

Cower,  to  sink  by  bending  the  hams 

Cowl-staff,  a  staff  for  carrying  a  tub 

Coy,  to  soothe  or  stroke 

Coyed,  condescended  unwillingly  [fellow 

Coystril,  a  coward  cock,  a  mean  or  drunken 

Cozier,  a  tailor  or  botcher 

Crack,  dissolution 

Crack,  a  boy,  or  child,  a  boy-child 

Cranks,  windings 

Grants,  chants 

Crare,  a  small  trading  vessel 

Create,  compounded,  or  made  up 

Credit,  a  light  set  upon  a  beacon 

Cressive,  increasing 

Crestless,  having  no  right  to  arms 

Crisp,  curling,  winding,  curled,  bent 

Critic,  cynic 

Crosses,  money  stamped  with  a  cross 

Crow-keeper,  a  scarecrow 

Crown,  to  conclude 

Crowned,  dignified,  adorned 

Crownet,  last  purpose 

Cry,  a  troop  or  pack 

Cue,  in  stage  cant,  the  last  words  of  the  preced- 
ing speech 

Cuisses,  armour  for  the  thighs 

Cullion,  a  despicable  fellow 

Cunning,  sagacity,  knowledge 

Curb,  to  bend  or  truckle 

Curiosity,  finical  delicacy,  scrupulousness  or 
captiousness 


Curious,  scrupulous 

Curled,  ostentatiously  dressed 

Currents,  occurrences 

Curst,  crabbed,  shrewish,  angry 

Curtail,  a  cur  of  little  value 

Curtal,  a  docked  horse 

Curtle-axe,  or  cutlass,  a  short  sword 

Custard-coffin,  the  crust  of  a  pie 

Customer,  a  common  woman 

Cut,  a  horse 

Cyprus,  a  transparent  stuff 

Daff,  or  doff,  to  do  off,  to  put  aside 

Danger,  reach  or  control 

Danskers,  natives  of  Denmark 

Dark-house,  a  house  made  gloomy  by  discon- 
tent 

Darraign,  to  arrange,  put  in  order 

Daub,  to  disguise 

Daubery,  falsehood  and  imposition 

Day-bed,  a  couch 

Day-woman,  dairy-maid 

Dear,  best,  important,  dire 

Dearn,  lonely,  solitary 

Death-tokens,  spots  appearing  on  those  infected 
by  the  plague 

Decay j  misfortunes 

Deck,  to  cover,  a  pack 

Decline,  to  run  through  from  first  to  last 

Deem,  opinion,  surmise 

Defeat,  destruction 

Defence,  art  of  fencing 

Defend,  to  forbid 

Defiance,  refusal 

Delay,  to  let  slip 

Demise,  to  grant 

Denay,  denial 

Denier,  the  twelfth  part  of  a  French  sous 

Denotements,  indications  or  discoveries 

Depend,  to  be  in  service 

Deracinate,  to  force  up  by  the  roots 

Derogate,  degraded,  blasted 

Descant,  a  term  in  music 

Dick,  dit  or  do  it 

Dickon,  familiarly  for  Richard 

Die,  gaming 

Diffused,  extravagant,  irregular 

Digression,  transgression 

Dint,  impression 

Direction,  judgment,  skill 

Disable,  to  undervalue 

Disappointed,  unprepared 

Disclose,  to  hatch 

Discontenting,  discontented 

Discourse,  reason 

Disease,  uneasiness,  discontent 

Diseases,  sayings 


GLOSSARY. 


Disgrace,  hardship,  injury 

Dis  limns,  'unpaints,  obliterates 

Dispose,  to  make  terms,  to  settle  matters 

Distaste,  to  corrupt,  to  change  to  a  worse 
state 

Distemper,  intoxication 

Distemper ature,  perturbation 

Distractions,  detachments,  separate  bodies 

Division,  the  pauses  or  parts  of  musical  com- 
position 

Doctrine,  skill 

Dole,  lot,  allowance 

Dolphin,  the  Dauphin  of  France 

Don,  to  do  on,  to  put  on 

Dotant,  dotard 

Dout,  to  do  out,  extinguish 

Dowle,  a  feather 

Down-gyved,  hanging  down  like  what  confines 
the  fetters  round  the  ankles 

Drab,  whoring 

Drawn,  embowelled,  exenterated 

Dread,  epithet  applied  to  kings 

Drew,  assembled 

Dribbling,  a  term  of  contempt 

Drive,  to  fly  with  impetuosity 

Drollery,  a  show  performed  by  puppets 

Drugs,  drudges 

Drumblt,  to  act  lazily  and  stupidly 

Ducdame,  due  ad  me,  bring  him  to  me 

Dudgeon,  the  handle  of  a  dagger 

Due,  to  endue,  to  deck,  to  grace 

Dump,  a  mournful  elegy 

Dup,  to  do  up,  to  lift  up 

Eager,  sour,  sharp,  harsh 

Eanlings,  lambs  just  dropped 

Ear,  to  plough 

Easy,  slight,  inconsiderable 

EC  he,  to  eke  out 

Ecstasy,  alienation  of  mind,  madness 

Effects,  affects,  actions,  deeds  effected 

Eftest,  deftest,  readiest 

Egypt,  a  gipsy 

Eld,  old  time  or  persons 

Element,  initiation,  previous  practice 

Embossed,  enclosed,  swollen,  puffy 

Embowelkd,  exhausted 

Embraced,  indulged  in 

Empery,  dominion,  sovereign  command 

Emulous,  jealous  of  higher  authority 

Encave,  to  hide 

Engross,  to  fatten,  to  pamper 

Engrossments,  accumulations 

Enmew,  to  coop  up 

Ensconce,  to  protect  as  with  a  fort 

Enseamed,  greasy 

Entertain,  to  retain  in  service 


Entertainment,  the  pay  of  an  army,  admission 

to  office 

Ephesian,  a  cant  term  for  a  toper 
Equipage,  stolen  goods 
Erring,  wandering 
Escoted,  paid 

Esil,  a  river  so  called,  or  vinegar 
Esperance,  the  motto  of  the  Percy  family 
Essential,  existent,  real 
Estimate,  price 
Estimation,  conjecture 
Excrement,  the  beard 

Excrements,  the  hair,  nails,  feathersof  birds,  etc. 
Execute,  to  employ,  to  put  to  use 
Execution,  employment  of  exercise 
Executors,  executioners 
Exercise,  exhortation,  lecture,  or  confession 
Exhale,  hale  or  lug  out 
Exhibition,  allowance 
Exigent,  end 
Expedient,  expeditious 
Expiate,  fully  completed 
Expostiire,  exposure 
Express,  to  reveal 
Expulsed,  expelled 

Exsufflicate,  contemptible,  abominable 
Extend,  to  seize 

Extent,  in  law,  violence  In  general 
Extravagant,  wandering 
Eyases,  young  nestlings 
Eyas  musket,  infant  lilliputian 
Eye,  a  small  shade  of  colour 
Eyliads,  glances,  looks.     See  Oeiliads 
Eyne,  eyes 

Face,  to  carry  a  foolish  appearance 

Facinorous,  wicked 

Fact,  guilt 

Factious,  active 

Faculties,  medicinal  virtues,  office,  exercise  of 

power 

Fadge,  to  suit  or  fit 
Fading,  the  burthen  of  a  song 
Faithful,  not  an  infidel 
Faitors,  traitors,  rascals 
Fall,  an  ebb 
Falsing,  falsifying 
Fancy,  love 
Fans,  ancient 
Fap,  drunk 
Far,  extensively 
Farced,  stuffed 
Fashions,  farcens  or  farcy 
Fast,  determined,  fixed 
Fat,  dull 
Favour,    countenance,    features,,    indulgence 

pardon,  appearance 


GLOSSARY. 


Feat)  ready,  dexterous 

Feated,  formed,  made  neat 

Federary,  a  confederate 

Fee-grief,  a  peculiar  sorrow 

Feeder,  an  eater,  a  servant 

Feere,  or  Pheere,  a  companion,  a  husband 

Feet,  footing 

Fell,  skin 

Fell-feats,  savage  practices 

Feodary,  an  accomplice,  a  confederate 

Festinately ,  hastily 

Festival  term,  splendid  phraseology 

Fet,  fetched 

Fico,  a  fig 

Fielded,  in  the  field  of  battle 

Fig,  to  insult 

Fights,  clothes  hung  round  a  ship  to  conceal 

the  men  from  the  enemy 
Filed,  gone  an  equal  pace  with 
Fills,  the  shafts 
Filths,  common  sewers 
Fine,  full  of  fineness,  artful 
Fine,  to  make  showy  or  specious 
Fire-new,  bran-new,  new  from  the  forge 
Fir  A,  to  chastise 
Fit,  a  division  of  a  song 
Fitchew,  a  pole -cat 
Fives,  a  distemper  in  horses 
Flap-dragon,    a  small   inflammable   substance 

which  topers  swallow  in  a  glass  of  wine 
Flap-jacks,  pancakes 
Fleet,  to  float 

Fleshment,  first  act  of  military  service 
Flewed,  having  the  flews  or  chaps  of  a  hound 
Flight,  a  sort  of  shooting 
Flourish,  ornament 
Flote,  wave 
Flush,  mature,  ripe 
Foin,  to  thrust  in  fencing 
Poison,  plenty 
Folly,  depravity  of  mind 
Fond,  foolish,  or  prized  by  folly 
Fonder,  more  weak  or  foolish 
Fondly,  foolishly 

Fools'  zanies,  baubles  with  the  head  of  a  fool 
Foot-cloth,  a  housing  covering  the  body  of  the 

horse,  and  almost  reaching  to  the  ground 
Forced,  false 
Fordid,  destroyed 
Fordo,  to  undo,  to  destroy 
Foredone,  overcome 
Foreslow,  to  be  dilatory,  to  loiter 
Forgetive,  inventive,  imaginative 
Forked,  horned 
Former,  foremost 

For  spoke,  contradicted,  spoken  against 
Forthcoming,  in  custody 


Foul,  homely,  not  fair 

Fox,  a  cant  word  for  a  sword 

Foxship,  mean,  cunning 

Frampold,  peevish,  fretful,  or  cross 

Frank,  a  sty 

Franklin,  a  little  gentleman  or  freeholder 

Fret,  the  stop  of  a  musical  instrument,  which 

regulates  the  vibration  of  the  string 
Frippery,  a  shop  where  old  clothes  were  sold 
Prize,  a  cloth  made  in  Wales 
Frontier,  forehead 
Frush,  to  break  or  bruise 
Fulfilling,  filling  till  there  be  no  room  for  more 
Fullams,  loaded  dice 
Fumiter,  fumitory 

Gabardine,  a  loose  felt  cloak 

Gain-giving,  misgiving 

Galliard,  an  ancient  dance 

Galliasses,  a  species  of  galleys 

Gallowglasses,  heavy  armed  foot 

Callow,  to  scare  or  frighten 

Gallymawfry,  a  medley 

Gamester,  a  frolicsome  person,  a  wanton 

Garboils,  commotion,  stir 

Gasted,  frightened 

Gaudy,  a  festival  day 

Gawds,  baubles,  toys 

Geek,  a  fool 

Generosity,  high  birth 

Generous,  most  noble 

Gentility,  urbanity 

Gentle,  noble,  high-mindeo 

Gentry,  complaisance 

German,  akin 

Gest,  a  stage  or  journey 

Gib,  a  cat 

Giglot,  a  wanton  wench 

Gilder,  a  coin  valued  at  is.  6d.  or  2s 

Gild,  gilding,  golden  money 

Gimmal,  a  ring  or  engine 

Ging,  a  gang 

Gird,  a  sarcasm  or  gibe,  emotion 

Gleek,  to  joke  or  scoff,  to  beguile 

Gloze,  to  expound,  to  comment  upon 

Good-deed,  indeed,  in  very  deed 

Good-den,  good -evening 

Good-life,  of  a  moral  or  jovial  turn 

Good-jer,  gougere,  morbus  gallicus 

Gorbellied,  fat  and  corpulent 

Government,  evenness  of  temper,  decency  of 

manners 

Gourds,  a  species  of  dice 
Gouts,  drops 

Gramercy,  grand  mercy,  great  thanks 
Grange,  the  farm-house  of  a  monastery 
Gratillily,  gratuity 


1306 


GLOSSARY. 


Grave,  to  entomb 

Graves,  of  greaves,  armour  for  the  legs 

Greasily,  grossly 

Greek,  a  bawd  or  pander 

Greenly,  awkwardly,  unskilfully 

Greets,  pleases 

Grise,  a  step 

Grossly,  palpably  [playhouse 

Groundlings,  the  frequenters  of  the  pit  in  the 

Growing,  accruing 

Guard,  to  fringe  or  lace 

Guarded,  ornamented 

Guards,  badges  of  dignity 

Guinea-hen,  a  prostitute 

Gules,  red,  a  term  in  heraldry 

Gulf,  the  swallow,  the  throat 

Gun-stones,  cannon-balls      •woo 

Gust,  taste,  rashness 

Gyve,  to  catch,  to  shackle 

Haggard,  a  species  of  hawk 
Hair,  complexion  or  character 
Hardiment,  bravery,  stoutness 
Harlocks,  wild  mustard 
Harlot,  a  cheat 

Harrow,  to  conquer,  to  subdue 
Harry,  to  use  roughly,  to  harass 
Having,  estate  or  fortune 
Haunt,  company 
Hay,  a  term  in  the  fencing-school 
Head,  body  of  forces 
Heart,  the  most  valuable  part 
Heat,  violence  of  resentment 
Heavy,  slow 
Hebenon,  henbane 
Hefted,  heaved 
Hefts,  heavings 

Hell,  an  obscure  dungeon  in  a  prison 
Helmed,  steered  through 
Hent,  seized  or  taken  possession  of 
Hereby,  as  it  may  happen 
Hermits,  beadsmen 
Hest,  behest,  command 
Hight,  called 

Hilding,  a  paltry  cowardly  fellow 
Hiren,  a  harlot 
His,  often  used  for  its 
Hit,  to  agree 
Hold,  to  esteem 
Holla,  a  term  of  the  manege 
Holy,  faithful 

Home,  completely,  in  full  extent 
Honey-stalks,  clover  flowers 
Hoop,  a  measure 
Hox,  to  hamstring 

Hull,  to  drive  to  and  fro  upon  the  water  with- 
out sails  or  rudder 


Humorous,  changeable,  humid,  moist 
Hitngry,  sterile,  unprolific 
Himt-counter,  base  tyke,  worthless  dog 
Hunt-stip,  the  name  of  a  tune 
f&trly,  noise 

Hurtling,  merry  with  impetuosity 
Husbandry,  thrift,  frugality 
Huswife,  a  jilt 

Images,  children,  representatives 

Imbare,  to  lay  open  or  display  to  view 

Immunity,  barbarity,  savageness 

Immediacy,  close  connection 

Imp,  to  supply 

Imp,  progeny 

Impair,  unsuitable 

Impartial,  sometimes  used  for  partial 

Imperious,  imperial 

Impeticos,  to  impetticoat  or  impocket 

Importance,  importunacy 

Importance,  the  thing  imported 

Impress,  a  device  or  motto 

Incapable,  unintelligent 

Incarnardine,  to  stain  of  a  red  colour 

Incensed,  incited,  suggested 

Inclip,  to  embrace 

Include,  to  shut  up,  to  conclude 

Incony,  or  kony,  fine,  delicate 

Incorrect,  ill- regulated 

Indent,  to  bargain  and  article 

Index,  something  preparatory  to 

Indifferent,  sometimes  for  different,  impartial 

Indite,  to  convict 

Induction,  entrance,  preparations 

Indurarue,  delay,  procrastination 

Iti&aged,  sometimes  for  unengaged 

Inkhorn-mate,  a  book-mate 

Inkle,  tape,  crewel,  or  worsted 

Inland,  civilized,  not  rustic 

Insconce,  to  fortify 

Insuit,  solicitation 

Intend,  to  pretend 

Intending,  regarding 

Intendment,  intention  or  disposition 

Intenible.,  incapable  of  retaining 

Intention,  eagerness  of  desire 

Interessed,  interested 

Intrenchant,  that  which  cannot  be  cut 

intrinse,  intrinsicate 

Inwardness,  intimacy,  confidence 

Iron,  clad  in  armour 

Irregulous,  lawless,  licentious 

Jack,  a  term  of  contempt 

Jack-a-lent,  a  puppet  thrown  at  in  Lent 

Jack  guardant,  a  jack  in  office 

Jaded,  treated  with  contempt,  worthless 


GLOSSARY. 


Jar,   the  noise  made  by  the  pendulum  of  a 

clock 

Jatmcing,  jaunting 
Jesses,  straps  of  leather  by  which  the  hawk  is 

held  on  the  fist 
Jest,  to  play  a  part  in  a  mask 
Jet,  to  strut 

Jovial,  belonging  to  Jove 
Journal,  daily 

Jump,  to  agree  with,  to  agitate 
Jump,  hazard,  to  venture  at 
Jump,  just 

Kam,  awry,  crooked 

Keech,  a  solid  lump  or  mass 

Keel,  to  cool 

Keisar,  Caesar 

Kerns,  light-armed  Irish  foot 

Key,  the  key  for  tuning 

Kicksy-ivicksy,  a  wife 

Kiln-hole,   a  place  into  which  coals  are  put 

under  a  stove 

Kind,  nature,  species,  child 
Kindless,  unnatural 
Kindly,  naturally 
Kindly,  kindred 
Kinged,  ruled  by 
Kirtle,  part  of  a  woman's  dress 
Knave,  servant 
Knots,  figures  planted  in  box 
Know  of,  to  consider 

Labras,  lips 

Laced  mutton,  a  woman  of  the  town 

Lackeying,  moving  like  a  lackey  or  page 

Lag,  the  meanest  persons 

Land-damn,  to  destroy  in  some  way 

Lands,  landing-places 

Large,  licentious 

Latch,  to  lay  hold  of 

Latched*  or  letcked,  licked  over 

Latten,  thin  as  a  lath 

Lavoltas,  a  kind  of  dances 

Laund,  lawn 

Lay,  a  wager 

Leather-coats,  a  species  of  apple 

Leave,  to  part  with,  to  give  away 

Leech,  a  physician 

Leer^  feature,  complexion 

Leet,  court-leet,  or  court  of  the  manor 

Legerity,  lightness,  nimbleness 

Leges,  alleges 

Leiger,  resident 

Lenten^  short  and  spare 

V envoy,  moral,  or  conclusion  of  a  poem 

Lei,  to  hinder 

Lethe,  death 


Libbard,  or  Ittbbar^  a  leopard 

Liberal,  licentious  or  gross  in  language 

Liberty,  libertinism 

License,  an  appearance  of  licentiousness 

Liefest,  dearest 

Lifter,  a  thief 

Light  o'  love,  a  dance  tune 

Livelihood,  appearance  of  life 

Lodged,  laid  by  the  wind 

Loffe,  to  laugh 

Loggats,  a  game  played  with  pias  of  wood 

Longiy,  longingly 

Loof,  to  bring  a  vessel  close  to  the  wind 

Lop,  the  branches 

Lot,  a  prize 

Lottery,  allotment 

Lowted,  treated  with  contempt 

Lowts,  clowns 

Lozel,  worthless,  dishonest 

Lullaby,  sleeping-house,  i.e.,  cradle 

Lunes,  lunacy,  frenzy 

Lurch,  to  win 

Lustick,  lusty,  cheerful,  pleasant 

Lymt  a  species  of  dog 

Madtt  enriched 

Magnificent,  glorying,  boasting 

Make,  to  bar,  to  shut 

Makest,  dost 

Mall,  Mrs.  alias  Mary  Frith,  or  Moil  Cutpurse 

Mallecho,  mischief 

Mammock,  to  cut  in  pieces 

Man,  to  tame  a  hawk 

Marchpane,  a  species  of  sweetmeat 

Martial-hand,  a  careless  scrawl 

Martlemas,  the  latter  spring 

Match,  an  appointment,  a  compact 

Mate,  to  confound 

Mated,  amated,  dismayed 

Meacock,  a  dastardly  creature 

Mean,  the  tenor  in  music 

Means,  interest,  pains 

Measure,  the  reach  •.  ,.**;• 

Measure,  means 

Meazels,  lepers 

Medicine,  a  she-physician 

Meet,  a  match 

Meiny,  people,  domestics 

Mephistophilus,  the  name  of  a  spirit  or  familiar 

Mercatante,  a  merchant 

Mered,  mere 

Mermaid,  syren 

Messes,  degrees  about  court 

Micher,  a  truant,  a  lurking  thief 

Misery ,  avarice 

Mistress,  the  jack  in  bowling 

or  mabledt  vailed,  grossly  covered 


1308 


GLOSSARY. 


Modern,  trite,  common,  meanly  pretty 

Modesty,  moderation 

Moe,  to  make  mouths 

Mome,  a  blockhead,  a  dolt 

Month's  mind,  a  popish  anniversary 

Mortal-staring,  that  which  stares  fatally 

Motion,  a  kind  of  puppet-show 

Motion,  divinatory  agitation 

Motions,  indignation 

Moiise-hunt,  a  weasel 

Mousing,  gorging,  devouring 

Moy,  a  piece  of  money  or  a  measure  of  corn 

Much,  an  expression  of  disdain 

Much,  strange,  wonderful 

Muleters,  muleteers 

Mummy,  balsamic  liquor 

Mure,  a  wall 

Musit  or  Muset,  a  gap  in  a  hedge 

Muss,  a  scramble 

Nay-word,  a  watchword  or  by-word 

Neat,  finical 

Neeld,  needle 

Neglection,  neglect 

Neif,  fist 

Nephew,  a  grandson,  or  any  lineal  descendant 

Nether-stocks,  stockings 

Nicely,  scrupulously 

Nick,  reckoning  or  count 

Nick,  to  set  a  mark  of  folly  on 

Nicked,  emasculated 

Night-rule,  frolic  of  the  night 

Nill,  will  not 

Nine  men's  morris,  a  game 

Noble,  a  coin 

Noddy,  a  game  at  cards  ;  also,  a  noodle 

Noise,  music 

Nonce,  on  purpose,  for  the  turn 

Nook-shotten,  that  which  shoots  into  capes 

Northern  man,  vir  borealis,  a  clown 

Novum,  some  game  at  dice 

Nowl,  a  head 

Nuthook,  a  thief 

Ob,  obolum,  a  halfpenny 

Obidicut,  a  fiend 

Obsequious,   serious,  as   at   funeral  obsequies, 

careful  of 

Observing,  religiously  attentive 
Obstacle,  obstinate 
Oddly,  unequally 
Odds,  quarrel 

Ocfs  pittikins,  God  me  pity 
Oe,  a  circle 

Oeiliad,  a  cast  or  glance  of  the  eye 
O*  er-r aught,  over-reached 
Of,  through 


Offering,  the  assailant 

Old,  frequent,  more  than  enough 

Oneyers,  accountants,  bankers, 

Opinion,  obstinacy,  conceit,  character 

Opposition,  combat 

Or,  before 

Orbs,  circles  made  by  the  fairies  on  the  ground 

Order,  to  take,  to  adapt  measures 

Orient,  pellucid,  lustrous 

Ordinance,  rank 

Orgulous,  proud,  disdainful 

Orts,  scraps 

Ostent,  show,  ostentation 

Ousel-cock,  the  blackbird 

Overblow,  to  drive  away,  to  keep  off 

Overlook,  to  bewitch 

Oversee,  to  execute,  to  superintend 

Ouph,  fairy,  goblin 

Out,  full,  complete  -    .  -.'•< 

Outlook,  to  face  down 

Outvied,  a  term  at  the  game  of  gleek 

Outward,  not  in  the  secret  of  affairs 

Owches,  bosses  of  gold  set  in  diamonds 

Packed,  confederate 

Paddock,  a  toad 

Pagan,  a  loose  vicious  person 

Paid,  punished 

Pajock,  peacock 

Palabras,  words 

Pale,  to  empale,  encircle  with  a  crown 

Palliament,  a  robe 

Palter,  to  juggle  or  shuffle 

Pantaloon,  the  Italian 

Paper,  to  write  down,  or  appoint  by  writing 

Paper,  written  securities 

Parcel,  reckon  up 

Parcel-gilt,  gilt  only  on  certain  parts 

Parish-top,  a  large  top  formerly  kept  in  every 

village  to  be  whipped  for  exercise 
Paritor,  an  apparitor,  an  officer  of  the  bishop's 

court 

Parle,  speech 
Parlous,  keen,  shrewd 
Partake,  to  impart,  to  participate 
Parted,  endowed  with  parts 
Partisan,  a  pike 
Parts,  party 
Pash,  a  head 

Pash,  to  strike  with  violence 
Pashed,  bruised,  crushed 
Pass,  to  decide,  to  assure  or  convey 
Passed,  excelling,  past  all  expression  or  bounds 
Passes,  what  has  passed 
Passing,  eminent,  egregious 
Passionate,  a  prey  to  mournful  sensations 
Passioning,  being  in  a  passion 


GLOSSARY. 


1309 


Passy-measure,  a  dance 

Pastry,  the  room  where  pastry  was  made 

Patch,  a  term  of  reproach 

Patchery,  roguery,  villany 

Patine,  a  dish  used  in  the  Eucharist 

Pavin,  a  dance 

Paucas,  few 

Pay,  to  beat,  to  hit 

Peat,  a  pet 

Pedant,  a  schoolmaster 

Pedascuk,  a  pedant 

Peize,  to  balance,  to  keep  in  suspense 

Pelting,  paltry,  petty,  inconsiderable 

Penthesilea,  Amazon 

Perfections,  liver,  brain,  and  heart 

Periapts,  charms  worn  about  the  neck 

Perjure,  a  perjurer 

Pestered,  impeded 

Pheeze,  to  teaze,  comb,  or  curry 

Philip,  a  name  for  the  sparrow 

Physical,  medicinal 

Pick,  to  pitch 

Pickers,  the  hands 

Picking,  piddling,  insignificant 

Pickt-hatch,  a  place  noted  for  brothels 

Pied  ninny,  a  jester,  a  fool 

PieFd,  shaven 

Pight,  pitched,  fixed 

Pilcher,  an  outer  garment  of  leather 

Pin  and  web,  disorders  of  the  eye 

Placket,  a  petticoat 

Plain  song,  the  chant,  in  piano  cantu 

Planched,  made  of  brands 

Plant,  the  foot 

Plantage,  the  moon's  influence  over  plants 

Plates,  silver  coin 

Platforms,  plans,  schemes 

Pleached,  folded  together 

Plurisy,  repletion 

Point,  hook  for  the  hose  or.  breeches 

Point-device,  with  the  utmost  exactness 

Poize,  weight  or  moment 

Polacks,  Polanders 

Pomander,  a  ball  of  perfume 

Pomewater,  a  species  of  apple 

Porpentine,  porcupine 

Port,  show,  state,  appearance 

Portage,  portholes 

Portance,  carriage,  behaviour 

Patch,  to  push  violently 

Poulter,  a  poulterer 

Pouncet-box,  a  small  box  for  perfumes 

Powder,  to  salt 

*Praiset  to  appraise 

Prank,  to  dress  ostentatiously,  to  plume 

Precedent,  original  draft 

Precepts,  warrants 


Pregnancy,  readiness 

Pregnant,  ready,  evident,  apposite 

Pregnant  enemy,  the  enemy  of  mankind 

Premised,  sent  before  the  time 

Prenominate,  forenamed 

Presence,  the  presence-chamber 

Prest,  ready 

Pretence,  design,  device 

Pretty,  petty,  little 

Prevent,  to  anticipate 

Pricks,  prickles,  skewers 

Prime,  prompt 

Primero,  a  game  at  cards 

Principality,  first  or  principal  of  women 

Principals,  rafters  of  a  building 

Princox,  a  coxcomb,  or  spoiled  child 

Prize,  privilege 

Preface,  much  good  may  it  do  you 

Profession,  end  and  purpose  of  coming 

Project,  to  shape 

Prompture,  suggestion,  temptation 

Prone,  sometimes  humble 

Proof,  confirmed  state  of  manhood 

Proper-false,  fair,  false,  deceitful 

Propertied,  taken  possession  of 

Property,  due  performance 

Prorogue,  to  deaden  or  benumb 

Prune,  to  plume 

Pugging,  thievish 

Pun,  to  pound 

Purchase,  stolen  goods 

Purchased,  acquired  by  unjust  methods 

Quaint-mazes,  a  game  running  the  figure  of 

eight 

Quaintly,  clever,  adroit 
Quality,  confederates 
Quarry,  a  pile  of  slaughtered  game 
Quart  (fecu,  fourth  of  a  French  crown 
Quat,  a  pimple 
Quell,  to  murder,  to  destroy 
Question,  to  converse 
Questrist,  one  who  seeks  for  another 
Quests,  reports 

Quick,  alive,  quickening,  quick-witted 
Quiddits,  subtilties 
Quillets,  law  chicane 
Quilt,  a  flock  bed 

Quintain,  post  for  various  exercises 
Quit,  to  requite 

Quittance,  requital,  to  make  requital 
Quiver,  nimble,  active 

Rabalo,  an  ornament  for  the  neck 
Rack,  to  exaggerate 
Rack,  the  fleeting  away  of  the  clouds 
Racking,  in  rapid  motion 


GLOSSARY. 


Rag,  a  term  of  contempt 

Rank,  rate  or  pace 

Rapture^  a  fit 

Rascal,  applied  to  lean  deer 

Raught,  reached 

Ravined,  glutted  with  prey 

Rayed,  bewrayed 

Razed,  slashed,  opened 

Razes,  roots 

Rear-mouse,  a  bat 

Reason,  to  discourse 

Rebeck,  an  old  musical  instrument 

Receiving,  ready  apprehension 

RecheatCy  a  sound  to  call  back  dogs 

Reck,  to  care  for,  to  mind,  to  attend  to 

Record,  to  sing 

Recorder,  a  kind  of  flute  or  flageolet 

Recure,  to  recover 

Rede,  counsel,  advice 

Red-lattice,  the  sign  of  an  alehouse 

Reduce,  to  bring  back 

Reechy,  discoloured  by  smoke,  greasy 

Refell,  to  refute 

Regard,  reflection 

Regret,  exchange  of  salutation 

Reguerdon,  recompense,  return 

Remembered,  reminded 

Remotion,  removal  or  remoteness 

Removed,  remote,  private 

Render,  a  confession,  an  account 

Renege,  to  renounce 

Repeal,  to  recall  from  exile 

Reports,  reporters 

Reproof,  confutation 

Repugn,  to  resist 

Reputing,  boasting  of 

Resolve,  to  dissolve 

Respective,  cool,  considerate 

'Rest,  arrest 

Retire,  to  withdraw 

Reword,  to  echo 

Rib,  to  enclose 

Rigol,  a  circle 

Rim,  a  part  of  the  intestines 

Rivage,  the  bank  or  shore 

Rivality,  equal  rank 

Rivals,  partners 

Romage,  rummage 

Ronyon,  a  scurvy  woman 

Rook,  to  squat  down 

Ropery,  roguery 

Rope-tricks,  abusive  language 

Rounded,  whispered 

Roundel,  a  country  dance 

Rondure,  circle 

Rouse,  a  draught  of  jollity 

Roynish,  mangy  or  scabby 


Ruddock,  the  redbreast 
Rudesby,  blusterer,  swaggerer 
Ruff,  the  folding  of  the  tops  of  boots 
Ruffle,  to  riot,  to  create  disturbance 
Ruth,  pity,  compassion 

Sacred,  accursed 

Sag,  or  swagg,  to  sink  down 

Sallet,  a  helmet 

Saltiers,  corruption  of  satyrs 

Saucy,  lascivious 

Saw ,  the  whole  tenor  of  any  discourse 

Say,  silk,  a  sample,  a  taste,  or  relish 

Scaffoldage,  gallery  of  the  theatre 

Scald,  a  word  of  contempt,  poor>  filthy 

Scaling,  weighing 

Scall,  an  old  word  of  reproach 

Scamels,  or  sea-mells,  sea-birds 

Scotched,  cut  slightly 

Scrimers,  fencers 

Scroyles,  scabby  fellows 

Sculls,  numbers  of  fish  together 

Scutched,  whipped,  carted 

Seam,  lard 

Sear,  to  stigmatize,  to  close 

Sect,  a  cutting  in  gardening 

Secure,  to  assure 

Seeling,  blinding 

Septentrion,  the  north 

Sequester,  a  separation 

Serpigo,  a  kind  of  tetter 

Serve,  to  accompany 

Set,  a  term  in  music 

Setebos,  a  species  of  devil 

Shale,  a  case,  a  shell 

Shard-borne,  borne  by  scaly  wings 

Shards,  broken  pots,  a  beetle's  wings 

Sheer,  pellucid,  transparent 

Shent,  ruined,  rebuked,  ashamed 

Shot,  shooter 

Shoughs,  shocks,  a  species  of  dog 

Siege,  stool,  seat,  rank 

Sightless,  unsightly 

Single,  weak,  small,  void  of  guile 

Sink-a-pace,  cinque-pace,  a  dance 

Sir-reverence,  save-your-reverence 

Sithence,  thence 

Sizes,  allowances  of  victuals 

Skains-mates,  loose  companions 

Skill,  cunning,  design,  reason 

Skills  not,  is  of  no  importance 

Skirr,  to  scour,  to  ride  hastily 

Sledded,  riding  in  a  sled  or  sledge 

Sliver,  to  cut  a  piece  or  slice 

Slower,  more  serious 

Smoke,  to  discover 

Smoothed,  fawned  on 


GLOSSARY. 


Sneap,  to  check  or  rebuke,  a  rebuke 

Sneaping,  nipping 

Sneck-up,  cant  phrase,  "  go  hang  yourself' 

Snipe,  a  fool,  a  blockhead 

Snuffs,  tiffs 

Solicit,  to  excite 

Solidares,  ancient  coin 

Sooth,  sweetness 

Sort,  the  lot 

Sort  and  suit,  figure  and  rank 

Sot,  a  fool 

Sow  I,  to  pull  by  the  ears 

Speak  to,  to  aspire  or  lay  claim  to 

Sped,  done,  settled 

Speed,  event 

Sperr,  to  shut  up,  defend  by  bars,  etc. 

Spotted,  wicked 

Sprag  or  spackt,  apt  to  learn 

Sprighted,  haunted 

Sprightly,  ghostly 

Square,  to  quarrel 

Squash,  an  immature  peascod 

Squire,  a  square  or  rule 

Stale,  a  bait  or  decoy  to  catch  birds 

Standing  bowls,  bowls  elevated  on  feet 

Stannyel,  a  kind  of  hawk 

Star,  a  scar  of  that  appearance 

Starve,  to  perish 

Station,  the  act  of  standing 

Sternage,  steerage,  course 

Sticking-place,  the  stop  in  a  machine 

Sticklers,  arbitrators,  judges,  sidesmen 

Sttgmatic,  one  on  whom  nature  has  set  a  mark 

of  deformity 

Still,  constant  or  continual 
Stoup,  somewhat  more  than  half  a  gallon 
Stover,  a  kind  of  thatch 
Strachy,  a  kind  of  domestic  office 
Strain,  lineage,  difficulty,  doubt 
Stratagem,  great  or  dreadful  event 
Stuck,  a  thrust  in  fencing 
Subscribe,  to  yield,  to  surrender 
Sur-reined,  over-worked,  or  ridden 
Swashing,  noisy,  bullying 
Swath,  the  dress  of  a  new-born  child 
Sway,  the  whole  weight,  momentum 
Sweeting,  a  species  of  apple 
Swinge-bucklers,  rakes,  rioters 

Table,  the  palm  of  the  hand  extended 

Table,  a  picture 

Tables,  table-books,  memoranda 

Tabourines,  drums 

Take,  to  strike  with  a  disease,  to  blast 

Take-iip,  to  contradict,  call  to  account 

Take-up,  to  levy 

Talents ;  riches 


Tallow  keech,  the  fat  of  an  ox  or  cow 
Tarre,  to  stimulate,  to  excite,  provoke 
Tartar,  Tartarus,  the  fabled   place  of  future 

punishment 

Task,  to  keep  busied  with  scruples 
Taurus,  heart  in  medical  astrology 
Taxation,  censure  or  satire 
Teen,  sorrow,  grief 
Tent,  to  take  up  residence 
Tercel,  the  male  hawk 
Testern,  to  gratify  with  a  sixpence 
Tharborough,  a  peace-officer 
Thick-pleached,  thickly  interwoven 
Thozight,  melancholy 
Thrasonical,  boastful,  bragging 
Three-man-beetle,  for  driving  piles 
Thrummed,  made  of  coarse  woollen  cloth 
Tib,  a  strumpet 

Tickle-brain,  some  strong  liquor 
Tightly,  briskly,  promptly 
Tilly-valley,  an  interjection  of  contempt 
Tire,  to  fasten,  to  fix  the  talons  on 
Tod,  to  yield  a  tod,  or  28  pounds 
Tokened,  spotted  as  in  the  plague 
Touch,  exploit,  particle,  touchstone 
Touches,  features 
Touched,  tried 

Toys,  rumours,  idle  reports,  fancies 
Toze,  to  pull  or  pluck 
Tranect,  a  ferry 
Tray-trap,  some  kind  of  game 
Treachers,  treacherous  persons 
Trick,  peculiarity  of  voice,  face,  etc. 
Trick,  smeared,  painted,  in  heraldry 
Tricking,  dress 
Trojan,  cant  word  for  a  thief 
Troll-my -dames,  a  game 
Turleygood,  or  turlupin,  a  gipsy 
Turn,  to  become  sour 
Twangling,  an  expression  of  contempt 
Twigging,  wickered 

Umbered,  discovered  by  gleam  of  fire 

Unbolt,  to  explain 

Unaccustomed,  unseemly,  indecent 

Unaneled,  without  extreme  unction 

Unbarbed,  untrimmed,  unshaven 

Unbatedy  not  blunted 

Unbolted,  coarse 

Uncoined,  real,  unrefined,  unadorned 

Under-generation,  the  antipodes 

Under-skinker,  a  tapster 

Undertaker,  one  who  takes  upon  himself  the 

quarrel  of  another 
Uneath,  scarcely,  not  easily 
Unhappy,  waggish,  unlucky 
Unhoused,  free  from  domestic  cares 


1312 


GLOSSARY* 


Unhouseled,    not   having   received   the    sacra- 
ment 

Union,  a  species  of  pearl 
Unmastered,  licentious 
Unproper,  common 
Unqualified,  disarmed  of  his  faculties 
Unrough,  smooth-faced,  unbearded 
Unsisted,  untried 

Unsisting,  always  opening,  never  at  rest 
Unsquared,  unadapted  to  their  subject 
Unstanched.  incontinent 
Undented,  unsearchable 
Untraced,  singular,  not  in  common  use 
Utis,  a  merry  festival 
Utterance,  a  phrase  in  combat 

Valanced,  fringed  with  a  beard 

Vantbrace,  armour  for  the  arm 

Vaunt,  the  avaunt,  what  went  before 

Velure,  velvet 

Venew,  a  bout,  a  term  in  fencing 

Venies,  hits  in  fencing 

Via,  a  cant  phrase  of  exultation 

Virtue,  the  most  efficacious  part,  valour 

Virtuous,  salutiferous 

Vixen,  or  fixen,  a  female  fox 

Vozaments,  advisements 

Wannion,  vengeance 
Warden,  a  species  of  pears 
Watch,  a  watch-light 
Water-work,  water  colours 
Way  of  life,  periphrasis  for  life 
Weet,  to  know 

Wheel,  refrain,  burden  of  a  ballad 
Whelked,  having  protuberances 
Whiffler,  the  first  in  processions 
Whiles,  until 


Whip,  the  crack,  the  best 

Whipping-cheer,  flogging 

Whist,  silent,  at  peace,  hushed 

White  death,  the  chlorosis 

Whiting-time,  bleaching  time,  spring 

Whitsters,  the  bleachers  of  linen 

Whoobub,  hubbub 

Whooping,  measure  or  reckoning 

Wilderness,  wildness 

Windows,  eye-lids 

Winter  Aground,  to  protect  from  winter 

Wish,  to  recommend 

Wistly,  wistfully 

Wit-snapper,  one  who  affects  repartee 

Wittol,  knowing,  conscious  of 

Woman-tired,  henpecked 

Wondered,  able  to  perform  wonders 

Wood,  crazy,  frantic 

Woodcock,  a  simpleton 

Woolward,  a  phrase  appropriated  to  pilgrims 

and  penitentiaries 
Workings,  labours  of  thought 
World,  to  go  to  the,  to  be  married 
Worm,  a  serpent 

Wrest,  an  instrument  for  tuning  the  harp 
Writhled,  wrinkled 
Wroth,  misfortune 

Yarely,  readily,  nimbly 

Yeild,  inform,  condescend,  reward 

Yellowness,  jealousy 

Yeoman,  a  sheriff's  officer 

Yerk,  to  jerk,  to  thrust  with  a  quick  motion 

Yexen,  or  waxen,  to  hiccough 

Yield,  to  report 

Zany,  a  fool  or  gull 
Zealous,  pious 


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